generously made available by the internet archive/canadian libraries) _barbara weinstock lectures on the morals of trade_ higher education and business standards. by willard eugene hotchkiss. creating capital: money-making as an aim in business. by frederick l. lipman. is civilization a disease? by stanton coit. social justice without socialism. by john bates clark. the conflict between private monopoly and good citizenship. by john graham brooks. commercialism and journalism. by hamilton holt. the business career in its public relations. by albert shaw. creating capital money-making as an aim in business by frederick l. lipman boston and new york houghton mifflin company _the riverside press cambridge_ copyright, , by the regents of the university of california all rights reserved _published march _ _the riverside press_ cambridge · massachusetts u · s · a barbara weinstock lectures on the morals of trade this series will contain essays by representative scholars and men of affairs dealing with the various phases of the moral law in its bearing on business life under the new economic order, first delivered at the university of california on the weinstock foundation. creating capital money-making as an aim in business the object of this paper is to discuss money-making; to examine its prevalence as an aim among people generally and the moral standards which obtain among those who consciously seek to make money. the desire to make money is common to most men. stronger or weaker, in some degree it is present in the mind of nearly every one. now, how far does this desire grow to be an aim or object in our lives, and to what extent is such an aim a worthy one? the typical money-maker as commonly pictured in our imagination is a narrow, grasping, selfish individual who has chosen to follow lower rather than higher ideals and who often is tempted, and always may be tempted, to employ illegitimate means for the attainment of his ends. the aims he has adopted are made to stand in opposition to the practice of certain virtues. thus we contrast profits and patriotism; enriching one's self and philanthropy; getting all the law allows and justice; taking advantage of the other fellow and honesty; becoming engrossed in acquisition and love of family. now, such contrasts obviously prove nothing more than that money-making is and would be a vicious aim if pursued regardless of these virtues, and it could well be replied that consideration of patriotism, philanthropy, love of family, etc., must in themselves impel one to earn and to save. "the love of money is the root of all evil" implies an exclusive devotion to acquisition that may well be criticized. but aside from this there is no doubt that amid the confused ideas held on the subject, aiming to make money is commonly regarded as in some sort of antagonism to the social virtues. that there are other sides to the picture is recognized, however, even by the loose thought of the day. the man who earns his living, for instance, it views as one who in so far is performing a fundamental duty. indeed, the world scorns him who cannot or will not support himself and his family. but this is only to say that one must work to-day to meet the expenditures of to-day. is this the limit? is it a virtue for him to work in order to spend, but a vice for him to work in order to save? what are the considerations to be observed by a man in deciding whether or not he should adopt money-making--that is, the acquisition of a surplus beyond his current needs--as one of his definite aims in life? one consideration relates to our country. the united states is now understood to be spending about $ , , per day in carrying on the war. in the last analysis this amount must be paid out of the past savings and the savings from current earnings of the people of the united states. the wealth of the nation consists mainly of the sum of the wealth of its citizens. we are therefore told to seek increased earnings and to economize in our expenditures in order to enhance the national wealth. the duty here is perfectly clear, but even if we did not have war conditions to teach us as a patriotic responsibility the necessity of earning and saving a surplus, the obligation would still be there. we owe a similar debt to our state and to our city or district. and nearer still comes the duty to one's family and to one's own future, the duty of providing for the rainy day, for old age. and it will be observed that money-making in this sense is directed to the acquisition of _net_ income, it relates to that portion of one's earnings which is saved from current expenditure and becomes capital. then we must also consider the duty to society. as we look out upon the surrounding evidences of civilization--buildings and railroads and highly cultivated fields, the machinery of production and distribution, the shops full of useful commodities--and then cast our thought backward to a time not very many years ago when all this country was a natural wilderness, we may begin to realize the magnitude of the wealth, the capital, that has come into being since then, every particle of which is due to the earnings and savings of somebody, to the surplus not consumed by the workers of the past, their unexpended and unwasted net balances year by year. universities, churches, libraries, parks, are included in the wealth thus handed down to us. our lives to-day may be richer and broader through this inheritance created by the industry and abstinence of our forefathers. their business careers, now closed, we regard as the more successful in that they earned and saved a surplus, that they had a _net_ income to show as the result of their work. but these savings of the past were accumulated, after all, by comparatively few of the workers; not by the many, who lived from hand to mouth, happy-go-lucky, spending and enjoying in time of abundance, suffering in time of poverty and stress, making no provision even for their own future, still less recognizing any duty to their country or to posterity to produce economically and regulate their expenditure wisely so as to carry forward a surplus. as far as this majority is concerned we might yet be living among rocks and trees, without shelter, lacking sure supplies of food, with fig leaves to cover our nakedness. and to-day the same conditions obtain. how many persons are to be found among one's acquaintance who feel and act upon any responsibility for doing their "bit" in the creation of capital? very few. rather than exert himself to work with this in view, on the one hand, and to abstain from unnecessary consumption, on the other hand, the ordinary man will make to himself every excuse. he will contemn money-making as a sordid aim, readily exaggerating itself into a vice; he will dwell upon the obligations and other considerations of a higher life, this being defined as something generous and noble, a something compared with which money-making cannot be regarded as a worthy object but must be included in the class of unpleasant necessities, not to say indecencies, which ought to be relegated to the background of life; he will summon up pictures of extreme poverty, where any money received must be expended forthwith to meet urgent needs, as justifying that which in his case is the gratification of shiftless indulgence. above all, this typical individual will not accept and act upon the idea that his affairs, his small income and expenditure, have any bearing upon the prosperity and progress of his country. the most he will keep before him is that he should pay his bills, and perhaps in some few cases, will extend the notion to the future to include provision for the bills and possible emergencies then to be met by himself and his family. nor is this improvident attitude confined to the young, to the professional and the other non-business classes. in the business world we see it all around us; among those who "work for a living," among clerks and employees and among the so-called laboring classes it appears to be the normal attitude. people who work for salaries or wages seem characteristically to use up all their earnings in their current expenditure, to live up to their incomes without any serious attempt to save. if they pride themselves upon trying to keep out of debt, it is as much as they expect of themselves, and among them the man who attempts to go beyond this in his money affairs is certainly the exception. one of the effects of a world-wide war is an enormously increased demand for labor at high and advancing wages, a condition that we might suppose would be greatly to the advantage of the laborer. but that will depend upon his own attitude and policy. from england, and from american towns here and there, we hear stories of the wage-earner on whom increasing income has had the effect of lessening the effort to work; who stops during the week when the higher wage scale has paid him the amount he is accustomed to regard as a week's earnings. now, would it not seem natural to expect that any man encountering improved market conditions for his output, whether of commodity or service, would seek to turn the situation to advantage by increasing that output as largely as lay in his power? if, for instance, i can manufacture shoes to sell for $ . a pair and a change in market conditions is such that i can obtain $ . a pair, i would endeavor to produce more shoes in order to profit by the favorable market; and if thereafter the price should rise to $ . and $ . and $ . a pair, at each increment my efforts would be still further intensified. that, indeed, is the normal economic attitude. fluctuations in the price level due to changes in the demand for a commodity are expected to affect, and do affect, the market supply. at a higher price, production is stimulated and more units of the commodity are brought to the market, both from new sources and from old sources. under falling prices, on the other hand, the supply offered in the market would become automatically diminished. this is an elementary commonplace in economics, yet the laborer to whom we have just referred does not seem to recognize it. he may find that he can earn in, say four days, an amount equal to his former earnings in six days and, therefore, at the end of the fourth day he quits work for the week. now, obviously under such increasing wage scale, he might do one of three things: he could quit at the end of the fourth day, having received a week's income. he could continue working for the six days and use his surplus earnings for comforts, pleasures, and luxuries which previously he had been unable to afford. he might work for the six days and save as much as possible of his excess earnings. now, what is the wise choice for the laborer? leaving out of account special cases where he has a large family, or sickness at home, or is under some other disability which in his individual case would reduce his earning power or increase his minimum expenses, ought he not to work for the six days, putting aside all he could of the excess as savings for the future? it will be generally conceded that this is self-evident. if, viewing the narrow conditions under which the workman ordinarily lives, it should be claimed that during a period of unusual earnings self-gratification would be not only natural but measurably justifiable, the reply could be made that this is merely specious, involving assumption not in accord with the facts. excuses of this kind we often make for ourselves in the endeavor to justify our indulgence in present pleasure rather than perform the irksome duty of self-restraint. the laborer whose ideals are such that he quits at the end of the fourth day is not the type of man who is going to spend the two holidays in pursuing higher aims in life; he is going to pass them in inaction, quite likely at the grog-shop. the man who fails to take advantage of the security for the future offered him and his family through the opportunity of saving from extraordinary earnings is one who is adding to the abnormal demand for such things as phonographs, jewelry, spirits, and tobacco. and this helps to explain the tremendous market for luxuries during wartime. doubtless there are many workmen who follow a more rational course, who are reaping and storing the harvest for the comfort and security of themselves and their families during the winter of life. could any one think that this policy involved an aim that was sordid, tending to draw them down, and away from higher considerations of life? certainly a course of careful planning in one's affairs would be in so far a better course and on a higher plane than indulgence in idleness or shiftless expenditure of surplus for present luxuries, regardless of future need. this case of the workmen under conditions of abnormal wages seems exceptional; yet the choice so presented to him is not very different fundamentally from the choice normally presented to all the rest of us. the young man starting out in life may be as negligent of his opportunities as the workman who quits at the end of the fourth day. or if he devotes himself properly to his vocation he may consume his earnings in current self-gratification. if, however, he will both concentrate on his work and practice self-restraint with the purpose of creating a saved surplus, all will agree in considering him as so far headed on the road towards success. in the case of the beginner this seems clear enough, but, after all, the same considerations apply to everybody else, whether in business or profession, beginners or experienced, young or old; to all of us is the same choice presented daily, and at our peril we must make it wisely. the physician, for instance, although he cannot afford to pay more attention to money-making than to the welfare of his patients, to his studies, to his professional ideals, must not, on the other hand, leave out of account these business duties and considerations which belong to him as an economic member of society. he must produce and must consume with his family, reasonably, decently and thriftily. he must aim at a surplus to store away for the future. these aims are, as a matter of course, secondary to his professional ideals, but there need be no conflict of duty. the point is that there exists a department of his activity devoted, and to be devoted, by him to his business affairs. in any event, as a man, a husband, a father, a citizen, he cannot escape from the responsibility of these business affairs. they must be conducted in some way. shall it be well or ill? if he fails herein it may involve failure in any or all these relations--as a man, husband, father, citizen. and obviously these same considerations apply to all other men and women, whatever may be their professions, occupations, or major interests in life. why do so many allow themselves to be dragged along, living from hand-to-mouth, in fear of the knock of the bill collector at the door? why do we associate money questions with that which is unhappy, unfortunate, down-at-the-heel, with fear and misery? barring mere accidents, it is because we are careless, shiftless; because we do not face the problem manfully, practice reasonable self-restraint, consider the subject in its complexity and decide upon, and carry out, a constructive programme. even if one happens to possess wealth, he is not exempt. indeed, large wealth involves still greater necessity for care in the conduct of one's pecuniary affairs. the rich man is said to have perplexities and responsibilities which are unknown to those in moderate circumstances. in fine, everyone must face these money questions or be driven by them. those who live on fixed incomes, whether from salary or investment, may find it impossible to make any direct attempt to make money; for them the problem is to be confronted and mastered on its other side, the side of spending and saving, that the income may be apportioned as wisely as possible for the purposes of living. but during the last few years a new factor has entered into the money problems of the individual, often adding to his trials, often adding to his self-made excuses, and especially burdensome to the man on fixed income. we refer to the high cost of living. here it is, however, that the wage earner can do something in self-protection, for the level of prices may be in some measure affected by his policy in handling his earnings. a period of high wages is accompanied by and is in some sense an incident of a high level of prices. now we recognize high wages, considered in itself, as beneficial to the community, for it gives opportunity, at least, for comforts in life and a provision for the future that otherwise would be lacking. but if prices have advanced as much as wages, the apparent improvement to the laborer is merely in nominal wages, while that which alone can benefit him is higher real wages. now let us see what the workman could do to advance real wages as contrasted with nominal wages. what will be the effect on prices of the use of surplus earnings during a period of high wages? if the surplus earnings are expended, they will be used either in meeting the higher prices of customary commodities, or in meeting these advanced prices and also in purchasing additional commodities. the first case will occur only if, and when, the advance in price equals the advance in wages, for only in that event will the new wages just cover the new cost of customary commodities. then this expenditure of the entire income in customary commodities tends to keep up the price level and any benefit from higher wages disappears. in the second case, so far as the worker spends his surplus earnings in meeting advanced prices for customary commodities, he tends to maintain prices at the higher level, and so far as he buys additional commodities, he increases the demand for them and tends further to advance the price level. if, on the other hand, the worker will save from his surplus earnings, he will increase the community's capital, and this will tend, directly or indirectly, to cause the production of further commodities, so increasing the supply of commodities and therefore tending to reduce prices. in any case, the worker should save as much as possible, as this tends to reduce the price level and so to better his condition. or, putting it more simply, in time of high wages the worker ought to produce as much as possible and consume as little as possible, both influences tending to increase the stock of commodities for his ultimate gain and for that of the community. in fact, a high level of prices may be due measurably to some wasting of the world's capital--as in war, for instance--and then the only antidote is to restore the capital, a movement that would doubtless occur anyway in time but which could be greatly accelerated through a general adoption of habits of thrift and saving throughout a community. this then, though small, is something definite that we can contribute to the material advancement of mankind and, like the duty in this connection to our nation, to our families and ourselves, it consists in creating capital; that is, earning as much as we can and, in any event, even if our earnings are fixed, managing the income thriftily, and carrying forward as large a net result as possible. we turn now from the mass of mankind, on the whole so singularly neglectful of these responsibilities, to the few in number who constitute the creators of capital, to whom are due so much of the comforts, the conveniences, and the material advantages that go to make civilized life possible. now these few are found in every rank in life. they may be rich or poor, professional or business men, employer or employee, old or young, male or female. the characteristic is their habit of thrift, of definitely adopting money-making as an aim, of spending less than they earn. it is astonishing what a small percentage of mankind they are. the income tax returns in the united states for showed that out of a population of , , people those with taxable incomes aggregated only , , about one in three hundred. but whatever be the rank of the individual practicing this thrift he is headed in the right direction and he tends to reach the point of relative competence, of independence in his pecuniary affairs. preëminent in the class of the thrifty we think of the man of affairs; the business enterprise indeed is supposed to be the money-maker, _par excellence_. money-making is in fact considered as its _raison d'être_; it is as a money-maker that the business man is contemned by some and envied by many. now money-making and money values occupy a special place in business enterprise, due to the fact that on economic principles such money value becomes the best test--perhaps the only true test--of the workableness and success of business efforts. in the complicated activities of the world's work, where each man, each undertaking, each business unit, respectively, is striving primarily for its own advantage, how is it, among all this pulling and pushing, this competition, that the social income is distributed so nearly in accordance with the individual contribution? even if we admit that many persons fail to get a fair share, that there is gross inequality here and there, still after all, a student of mankind's activities in production, distribution, and consumption must marvel at the extent to which the rewards approximate the value of contribution. now this is made possible by money considered as a measure of relative values, by the standard or test of fitness embodied in the thought, will it pay, and to what extent will it pay? if i have in mind some new invention that will perhaps confer benefits on mankind, the best test of its practicability and utility will be, will it pay, will people buy it, pay money for it? if an improvement in process is proposed, the question is, will it pay? if the young man starts out in life with high ideals and a reasonably good opinion of his own abilities, an opinion fostered perhaps by fond parents and admiring friends, the question is, will these abilities fit in with the world's needs? will they supply a real demand, will they be serviceable? the best means of ascertaining this, although it may be only a rough estimate and although errors occasionally creep in is, will they pay? can he sell these services for real money? this criterion is practically omnipresent in the world of affairs. it is based on economic necessity, and although here and there it may be charged with cruelties, with serious blunders, it is, on the whole, a remarkably accurate standard. we see this more clearly where we attempt to substitute some other criterion for ranking the soldiers in the battle of life. we can note, for instance, the inferior type and character, generally speaking, of men elected to office by the suffrages of their fellow citizens, compared with men who reach positions of authority in business and other enterprises through the pressure of these economic principles. again, consider the nation that has attempted to improve on economic distribution of power by evolving a government which places the power in the hands of those best fitted to govern, a ruling class which aims directly at efficiency, a select class but necessarily self-selected, thus supplanting an economic régime by a military régime--successful truly in certain forms of economic efficiency through a more rigid and compact organization, but destructive of the initiative, the evolutionary growth, the fundamental development, the liberties of the people. contrast this with the freedom, happiness, and progress of a nation of shop-keepers. now this economic régime, with its individual instances of cruelty, like the cruelties of nature, does on the whole tend to develop men, to require their best efforts, to make them come forward and upward. thus, in this interplay of economic forces, wealth, or money, or profits stands out as a primary object of attainment, and becomes the incentive to the complex efforts which tend to benefit the individual, the community, and the nation. the business enterprise then directs its attention to profits, because, from mere economic necessity, profits are the criterion of the true success of the enterprise, that is, its serviceability to mankind. here we distinguish between the shortsighted man, who aims at immediate returns, and the farsighted man, whose eye is fixed on the future, who verily desires the profits, but desires them in the long run. but this is only a manifestation of human nature as we find it in every field. we always note a deficiency in the man whose life is lived for the present, for immediate enjoyment: in him we see the typical pleasure-seeker, peculiarly prone to temptation, to break the rules of life, to indulge himself at the expense of others or of his own future. he is characteristically the weakling, the wrongdoer. and we contrast him with the man of character, who stands superior to an immediate environment, who will not disregard the distant future, the absent neighbor, the invisible god. and so in the economic world it is the whole life period which is to be regarded when aims are chosen. profits as a goal for the long run do not antagonize moral principles. "honesty is the best policy" and "do unto others as you would have others do unto you" are maxims of good business; and that economic principles do not conflict with them is shown by the fact that they tend towards profits in the long run. this is not to assert that mankind in business is perfect. in every period of economic advance into a new environment, men try new experiments, as during the development of the great modern corporation in the period following the civil war in this country and, earlier than that, in the era of railroad building. they have tried new experiments in ethics as they have in physics, in chemistry, in economics. they have attempted to replace honesty by camouflage, the golden rule by self-aggrandizement. but these attempts are not successful and so they become discredited; they do not work because inherently they cannot last, and inability to endure is fatal to the purposes of any economic undertaking. we are emphasizing the fact that business is necessarily conducted for the long run, the very nature of success implying permanence. a man may take some criminal advantage of an opportunity: he may abscond with money entrusted to him; he may abuse the confidence reposed in him by an employer, by a customer; he may obtain an immediate profit by misrepresentation. but no one could expect such things to last; he could not possibly be building an enduring structure; such a course could not in the end promise him profits, or any other kind of success. a properly conducted business enterprise then is concerned with making profits in the long run; that is to say, in accordance with accepted notions of business conduct; in short, according to rules of the game, and this involves conformity with a standard, a standard of giving good value for what one gets. we must next distinguish between gross profits and net profits. the merchant or manufacturer naturally desires to do a large business, he points with pride to the increase in his sales this year over last year. the larger his turnover the smaller the proportionate amount of his overhead expenses that must be borne per unit of product, and other economies follow large-scale production or distribution. he may occasionally be desirous of increasing his output even when it entails a disproportionate increase in his expenditures, with the idea that he can later occupy himself with reducing these expenses and in the meanwhile the goodwill of his enterprise will have gained from the larger circle of customers. such is the case with a new enterprise that often starts out with the expectation of little or no profits during its early years, when it is gathering a clientèle and learning to distribute its product with economy. all these, however, are special cases. the normal situation is that the business enterprise is aiming at net profits, having an interest in large sales, heavy transactions and gross profits only so far as these are expected to lead finally to net profits, the real goal. now these net profits are, of course, the remainder of earnings left on hand after providing for all costs and expenses, for depreciation and every other factor causing loss, destruction, and deterioration during the business period under consideration. in short, the business capital as it was at the beginning of the period is first fully restored and made intact at the end of the period before a net profit emerges. this net profit therefore becomes in a true sense a creation of new capital and may indeed be retained in the business as an addition to capital funds. even when it is paid out in dividends, partly or wholly, it becomes new capital in the hands of the individual stockholders who then in their private capacity may of course spend it, but by proper investment may keep it permanently stored as capital. it is the creation of capital then, that is in reality the ultimate money-making aim of the business enterprise. we can now summarize the attitude and policy of the typical business man in his money-making aim as follows: in seeking profits he is actuated by economic necessity. his goal is profits in the long run, which involves conformity with economic and ethical standards, and net profits, which implies the creation of capital. the creation of capital we cannot fail to recognize as a worthy aim. it has given mankind much of all that mankind possesses and constitutes the foundation upon which civilization largely rests. the advancement in the arts and sciences has been in no small degree stimulated by the demands of business enterprise for new methods of creating capital and we may believe that should the time arrive when this motive should fail, when men should grow to be indifferent in their attitude towards profits, the ensuing stagnation would affect every department of human endeavor. of this we may be assured even when we remember that money-making, and what goes with it, is not the only aim in life. after cataloguing so much that is virtuous in the pursuit of money-making the suggestion is inevitable that there must be some other side to it, that the common views of the rapacity of the money-maker cannot be wholly unfounded. what then are the vices of the money-making aim? in examining this question we shall first brush aside some things to which we have already referred. the pathological cases of mere crime, of sharp practice, of taking advantage of others, while mounting up into distressingly high figures considered absolutely, are much less important relatively; that is, they are infrequent and scarce enough to avoid obscuring the rule which they violate, the rule that honesty is indispensable in economics as well as in ethics. what we must now investigate is any vicious tendencies that may be found in the money-making aim when followed normally and according to its own accepted principles. of such degenerative tendencies we seem to find two: first, the tendency to that excess which becomes a vice; and second, the tendency to a disregard of other considerations in life through too exclusive a devotion to acquisitiveness. but upon further thought we must see that these two tendencies flow together and become one, for too much devotion to money-getting and too little attention to the other purposes of life are, after all, expressions of the same thing. perhaps a man may err in excessive devotion to any object of life but we must admit that in the pursuit of gain the evil tendency to exaggerated absorption in the one aim is promoted through a coöperation with his natural selfishness. of all the fields of human endeavor, here is one that peculiarly fits in with self-seeking, with disregard for others, which may drag a man downward, making him small and mean, unhappy and uncharitable, while apparently attaining the goal at which he has aimed. not every man, while concentrating upon money-making, is consciously seeking his country's welfare, the amelioration of life for the many, the uplift of posterity, even if he rigidly adheres to the accepted rules of the game, to the code of business honor. this brings us back to the popular picture of the money-maker, grasping, sordid, narrow-minded. there are such people. i believe them to be rare, but whether there are many of them to-day or not, it is a type tending to disappear in the environment of modern business which offers its inducements and rewards to him who does, who becomes, who renders service, not to the sordid seeker for gain. barring an occasional exception, such an exclusive aim is not that of the man of large affairs, the business leader, the conspicuously successful man. it is not harriman, nor edison, nor weinstock, nor marshall field, nor peabody, nor is it the heads of our big corporations of to-day. such men are money-makers, creators of capital, builders of large enterprise, but their aim at profits while genuine is only incidental to their main purpose of doing, of becoming better able to achieve, of rendering service. when the beginner in business approaches an experienced friend for advice, he is told to work as hard and as faithfully as possible, to study his business, to seek to improve himself--in other words, to concentrate his whole strength on the giving of service, for his wages or salary will take care of itself. the experienced man knows well that this holds just as truly for all ranks in the business world and that the higher one ascends in responsibilities, the more he must give and do; indeed the leading positions in the business world are occupied by men who produce tremendously, whose value to themselves and others lies in what they accomplish, and this--not what they get--is the criterion of success among men of experience, among those in charge of enterprises, who are on the lookout for leaders of this type. here we have the remedy for the tendency backed by natural selfishness towards undue devotion to gain: such narrowness simply does not work, it is crowded out by competition with the superior efficiency of broader motives. and while, here and there, the type continues to exist, its development in new cases is discouraged by every instance illustrating the relative success--in all senses--attained by those who make it their chief aim to produce, to render service. just as the physician bestows his first thought upon his patient, these superior business men give first consideration to their profession, for so they regard it, and this tends to assure their success, just as it does that of the physician, and to become the standardized ideal for lesser men. it is indeed clearly self-evident that on many accounts the man in business must give attention primarily to the service he is trying to render. the clerk in the store must devote himself mainly to his customers, to his merchandise, to his other duties, not to his salary. and so with the department manager, and so with the general manager, whether of a store, a railroad company, or other activity; the immediate daily problem for all lies in the rendering of a service, the producing of a commodity, or the doing of the thing for which the business enterprise exists. this concentration upon output is furthermore required by competition which whips the producer into line and often makes it a matter of business life and death that one should make progress in method and quality. that his shoes wear is a matter of pride to the shoe manufacturer. "blank tires are good tires" is not to be regarded as merely a boastful advertisement. if it was it would not pay the advertising cost. money-making as an aim thus becomes subsidiary to the characteristic activities of the enterprise, it is in a sense a by-product. but the money-making aim is there, although perhaps in the background. it is furnishing the power under which the enterprise operates. more than that, it is the gauge indicating the prosperity or lack of prosperity of the enterprise, its progress, its fitting in with the needs of life. in short, the money-making aim spurs on the business enterprise, just as the weekly or monthly pay spurs on the humble worker; but in each case the main attention is given, and necessarily given, to the work to be performed. let us now consider some of the implications of this concentration on rendering service. the directed effort of each man to the production of the utility characteristic of his business, tends to result in his learning to conduct that specific activity with a high degree of skill, and with an increasingly valuable fund of experience. so highly specialized does he become that it will be quite impossible for any one hitherto a stranger in that sphere to conduct it as well. therefore in an age of coördinated effort the more a man has of accumulated knowledge and facility in handling a certain kind of affair and the better fitted, therefore, he is to continue and to progress along that line, the less relatively he is able to undertake the affairs of some other kind with which he is not familiar. we commonly feel free to criticize a railroad, a newspaper, a large business house, perhaps a university, with which we may have casual contact, but the fact is there are few competent critics outside of the ranks of the enterprise itself or of those carrying on activities that are directly similar. in a word, through this focusing of attention, a man will come to be exhaustively familiar with his own occupation, while possessing a merely superficial acquaintance with the theories, customs, and responsibilities of those of others. the wise man therefore argues the necessity of confining himself to the field in which he has become expert and will avoid taking chances in some outside direction wherein he is not familiar. one of the most common and disheartening experiences in the money-making and money-saving of the thrifty is that after having both worked hard and practiced self-restraint, the resultant savings are often put into some enterprise that turns out badly, and the whole effort is thus thrown away. generally this happens because he has violated the rule we have just stated; he has ventured his savings in unfamiliar fields, ignorantly he has rushed in where the better informed would have feared to tread. such so-called investments are in reality highly speculative. they involve risks which are unknown and altogether to be avoided. now no one speculates in his own legitimate business, for there he is acquainted with the hazards which, he has learned, require the best of knowledge and the greatest of prudence. it is the allurement of the unknown that tempts him to seek unearned profits through speculation in outside regions where, in the nature of the case, the chances must be against him. now speculation has its proper place in business: there are certain inherent hazards that must be undertaken, mainly to be found in the risk of the seasons in the production of crops, and the risk of the future in undeveloped enterprise. these risks must be carried by somebody, but clearly they constitute an activity for specialists who study conditions, becoming relatively expert in determining how and when to act. these specialists are drawn principally from two classes: first, the professional speculator, who knows his markets and makes a business of buying and selling future risks; such men perform a great service in handling our seasonal crops and in other directions, and are entitled to a reasonable profit. second, the man of wealth who may use part of his surplus in the risks of undeveloped enterprise; although it is probable that in the end his losses and expenses will outweigh his gains, he can afford to take chances of such experiments in the hope that success will follow in some of them; furthermore, he can regard the outlay as a contribution to the advancement of mankind. for the rest of us, however, outside of these two classes, it is our business to keep away from speculation whether in oil wells, flying machines, in new factories, or in real estate: in the long run, we cannot get something for nothing and money-making efforts that are ethically valid thus coincide with those that are selfishly desirable, namely, the efforts to obtain the payment, the profit, that arises from a valuable service performed or commodity produced. too often men who follow this rule in their regular occupation depart from it in the use of their saved surplus funds. they feel that their savings ought to make them money, as they say. now savings can be employed in one of three ways: they may be used as capital by the owner; or they may be put out in investments--that is, used or utilized as capital in the business of another; or, third, they may be wasted in gambling or speculation. as a matter of course, the employment as additional capital in one's own enterprise is generally the most desirable wherever applicable, but this is a use of limited scope, relating to but few of the people engaged in productive activity who earn and save a surplus. the main resource for such accumulations is in safe investments, in the bonds and securities of our own country and those of well established enterprises. not many among our embryo capitalists possess the experience or skill requisite for the safe and proper investment of their funds, they must rely upon the advice of others. but whom can they trust? the demand for investment advice has not failed to call forth a supply of advisers, and elaborate are the schemes designed to lure the unwary. but, generally speaking, the man who falls into the clutches of these birds of prey has himself to blame, for the reason that the temptations they offer are appeals to the illegitimate desire to get something for nothing or to the foolish notion that one can get-rich-quick in some way whispered about by a stranger, and out of sheer benevolence. the fact is that the wise man will dismiss all thought of making money out of his investments; he will seek only the moderate return which alone is consistent with safety; and with this policy, will turn a deaf ear to any so-called opportunity which promises big profits. we can summarize the matter by saying that concentration upon one's business and service implies that one should not attempt to make money elsewhere. this concentration on one's affairs therefore grows into a sort of practical system in which each member of the business community is looking after some function or activity to the exclusion of other things. and so the world's work is carried on to the best advantage, each function being filled by those particular men who have become relatively expert therein. from this system arises a business habit or method not always understood by the young and inexperienced, by the non-business person. we refer to the practice in trade of leaving to each individual, to each enterprise, to each organization, the responsibility for looking out for its own interests when having dealings with others. _caveat emptor_--let the buyer beware--expresses an extreme development of this, and in its common signification, that each side is to be permitted and expected to take any advantage of the other side that it may be able to secure, it describes a state of warfare rather than of business. in buying and selling, in aiming to obtain the most favorable terms for each line of his activity, in meeting conditions of competition, in all these relations, the business man is endeavoring to better himself and may doubtless be tempted here and there to forget the interests of the other party to the transaction. but to yield to such temptation would merely be to abuse a principle which on the whole is sanctioned by the requirements of economic efficiency. this principle is that the nearest approximation to effective justice in business transactions is reached when on each side the parties devote themselves to their respective interests and points of view. if _a_ has a house for sale and _b_ is a prospective buyer, the essence of the possible transaction between the two is that _a_'s idea of the value of the property is different from _b_'s idea of that value; or at any rate that _a_ sees less value in it to him than does _b_ to _b_. this is of course typical of all business transactions--the seller desires the money above the commodity, the buyer prefers the commodity to the money. the seller and the buyer each dwells naturally upon his own idea of value. this is altogether desirable, not to say indispensable, and is characteristic of every relation of business, wherever two men buy and sell, employ one another, or have other dealings together. the situation is somewhat the same as in a law suit where the duty of the attorney for the plaintiff is to make every point that fairly can be made for the plaintiff, while the attorney on the other side must correspondingly make every point that can properly be made for the defendant. each side is supposed to look after the interest of that side. similarly, in a business organization, say a railroad, when some new project is under consideration it will be submitted to the engineer, to the chemist, to the attorney, to the practical transportation man, and in each of these departments it is expected that the wisdom born of experience in the particular function will be brought to bear. the engineer speaks with authority on engineering questions, the lawyer on legal questions, the transportation man on the practical working out of the project; and, normally, the criticisms and contribution of each are confined to his own function. in short, the régime of economic self-interest results in leaving to each the responsibility which he is most competent to assume, that in which he is most expert, which thereby receives the best attention that generally speaking it could have. nor are correctives lacking for the abuses which may enter in through an overdevelopment of self-interest. _caveat emptor_ becomes discredited as an unmodified basis of human action. the golden rule is increasingly seen to constitute a foundation demanded by economics as well as by ethics. the trend to-day is away from indifference to the interests of those with whom we deal. the successful merchant will not attempt to make a profit through sales which he knows would not benefit the purchaser, for that would not measure up to the test, will it pay? the value of a business depends largely on its goodwill and too much money and effort are spent in advertising and other means of building up a clientèle to make men conceive it to be to their interest to deal sharply with their customers. in the efforts of scientists to seek out and establish new methods, new principles, the success of an experiment is to be determined, i suppose, by the test, will it work? does it yield effective results? similarly, in economics, the science of mankind in its production, distribution and consumption of material things, the test of utility and efficiency is, will it pay? that being the standard of workableness in the application of that science. we have attempted, therefore, in this analysis of money-making to apply this test, because the practice or habit or influence that pays is that which is in accord so far with the principles underlying this branch of social science. we have seen, according to this standard, that it is the duty of all to adopt money-making as a conscious aim; that the money is to be economically used, the final object being net profit, that balance or remainder which is carried forward as created capital. inability to increase a fixed income does not absolve one from the duty of doing one's part in the creation of capital through thrift and saving. the business enterprise, moreover, is required by economic necessity to aim at money-making--meaning, however, profits in the long run rather than immediate or temporary gains. such permanent returns can only be sought through adherence to ethical principles and although this aim at profits becomes the power plant which drives the business machine, the latter gives its energies and attention more directly to the rendering of service. concentration upon service tends to make a man relatively efficient therein, but argues a relative unfamiliarity with the field of others, from which we infer the advisability of confining one's activity to the thing he has learned to do best. as an example of this, he should avoid placing his surplus capital or savings in outside enterprises where they will partake of risks that are unknown to him, nor should he attempt to employ his savings at all with the purpose of making money, unless, indeed, he can use them as capital in his own business. the focusing of attention on one's own function also implies and explains the custom of placing upon participants in a business transaction the responsibility each for his own side, a custom which is economically justified but which must be kept within proper limits, as is fully recognized by the business men who are successful and who therefore become models or examples for the guidance of other men, influencing the latter towards high ideals. we have found, on the other hand, that apart from men in charge of business enterprise, the burden of providing thus for man's welfare and development is assumed by very few, the vast majority, whether in professional or business employment, treating it with neglect and contempt. they think, perhaps, that they are aiming at higher things, or that their efforts would not sufficiently count, or they do not give the matter any sturdy thought; while the underlying motive, often unconscious, is simply an unwillingness to practice self-restraint. it is self-indulgence, we must conclude, that is to be overcome if we are to meet this responsibility in a manly way, visualizing it with sufficient clearness to see that thrift, the creation of capital for one's self and for the race, comes into no necessary conflict with any other proper aim in life, but on the contrary constitutes a fundamental duty to society, to the state, to one's family, to his own future, to his self-respect. [illustration: "raise him up!" skip shouted, and in another instant fred was suspended over the old shaft.] down the slope by james otis _author of "telegraph tom's venture," "messenger no. ," "toby tyler," "the boy captain," "silent peter," etc., etc._ _illustrated_ [illustration] m. a. donohue & company - dearborn street chicago copyright by the werner company m. a. donohue & company printers and binders - dearborn street chicago contents pages chapter i--the breaker boy - chapter ii--the warning - chapter iii--in the shaft - chapter iv--the barrier - chapter v--the mob - chapter vi--on duty - chapter vii--the struggle - chapter viii--the pursuit - chapter ix--joe brace - chapter x--the rescue - chapter xi--billings and skip - chapter xii--a singular accident - chapter xiii--buried alive - chapter xiv--precautions - chapter xv--a discovery - chapter xvi--good samaritans - chapter xvii--down the slope - chapter xviii--shut down - chapter xix--the consultation - chapter xx--the accused - chapter xxi--amateur detectives - chapter xxii--unexpected news - chapter xxiii--a misadventure - chapter xxiv--bill's mishap - chapter xxv--joe's interview - chapter xxvi--turning the tables - chapter xxvii--an unlooked-for denial - chapter xxviii--opinions - chapter xxix--a question of title - chapter xxx--a suit at law - chapter xxxi--skip - chapter xxxii--acquitted - chapter xxxiii--victorious - chapter xxxiv--the new mine - list of illustrations "raise him up!" skip shouted, and in another instant fred was suspended over the old shaft _frontispiece_ fred set off at full speed, and almost immediately a shout went up from the rioters: "the sneaks are sending for help! stop that boy!" "you four are to act as sentinels," said the superintendent. "study this map and you will hit upon a scheme" "please don't drag me off," skip said, piteously. "i'll never hurt you or anybody else again" down the slope chapter i the breaker boy "jest moved here, eh?" "came last friday." "and you are going into the breaker?" "yes." "for thirty-five cents a day?" "that is all the company pays, and a green hand can't expect to get more." "were you ever in a mine before?" "i never even saw one." "a trip down the slope will be enough to make you wish such a place in which to earn a living never existed. why don't you try something else before it is too late?" "what do you mean by 'too late'?" "when a fellow is in debt to the company's store he can't afford to be independent, and it is about the same as selling yourself outright for enough to eat and drink." "i won't get into debt." "wait a week, and see if you can say the same thing then." "i mustn't get trusted. i'm the only one to whom mother can look for support. we hadn't any money with which to go to the city, and so came here. it isn't likely i shall be obliged to stay in the breaker forever, and after a while it will be possible to get a better job. where are you working?" "i'm bill thomas' butty." "what's that?" "his helper. he's a miner, and i'll have the same kind of a lay after being with him a while." "were you ever in the breaker?" "i sorted slate from coal most three years, an' got more dust than money; but i'm tough, you see, an' didn't wear out my lungs." "what's your name?" "sam thorpe; but if you ever want anybody to help you out of a scrape, an' i reckon that'll happen before many days, ask for bill's butty." "i am fred byram, and mother has hired the new house near the store." "i'm sorry for you; but as it can't be helped now, keep your eyes peeled, for the boys are a tough lot. when you want a friend come to me. i like your looks, and wish you'd struck most any other place than farley's, 'cause it's the worst to be found in the middle field." with this not very encouraging remark sam went toward the mouth of the slope, and the new breaker boy was left to his own devices. it was six o'clock in the morning. the underground workers were coming singly or in groups to begin the day's work for which each would be paid in accordance with the amount of coal taken out, and no one could afford to remain idle many moments. fred knew he must report to the breaker boss before seven o'clock, and approached the grimy old building wondering if it would be necessary for him to work three years, as sam thorpe had done, before earning more than thirty-five cents per day. entering the breaker, which was thickly coated both inside and out with coal-dust, he reported to donovan, the boss, by saying: "i have come to work. here is my ticket." "green?" "yes, sir." "here, chunky, take this new hand alongside of you, and see that there is no skylarking." the boy referred to as chunky made no reply; but looked up from beside the long chute at which he was sitting, as if the task of breaking in a new hand was very welcome. a fat, good-natured fellow he apparently was, and fred fancied he would be an agreeable task-master. he, like the others, was curious to know if his companion had been in a mine before, and on receiving the information, remarked sagely: "you'll be mighty sick of the whole thing before night, but it's safer than down in the galleries." "what must i do?" "at seven o'clock the coal will be dumped in at the other end of the chute, an' while it's runnin' past you must pick out the slate." "is that all?" "by the time your hands are cut into mince-meat you'll think it's enough," was the grim reply, and before fred could speak again the day's labor had begun. the black fragments came through the chute with a roar which was deafening, and the "green hand" was at a loss to distinguish coal from slate. "take out the dull, grayish stuff," chunky shouted, as he seized from the moving mass sufficient fragments to serve as specimens, and in a short time fred began to have a general idea of his duties. before the forty minutes "nooning" had come around his hands were cut and bleeding; but the thought of his mother, who looked to him for support, was enough to keep him busily at work, and when the whistle sounded he had most assuredly earned half of the thirty-five cents. a short rest, a lunch eaten amid the sooty vapor, which caused one to fancy he was gazing through a veil whenever he glanced across the building, and then the fatiguing labor was recommenced, to be ended only at the stroke of six, when miners, buttys, mule drivers and bosses hastened to the surface of the earth once more after having been deprived of sunlight for nearly twelve hours. without paying any especial attention to the fact, fred noticed that although he was among the last to leave the breaker, the majority of the boys followed close behind as he started toward home. in order to reach the company's store it was necessary to traverse a mirey road on which were no habitations for nearly fifty yards, and when fred was half this distance from the breaker, a voice from behind shouted: "hi! hold on a bit, you new feller!" fred turned to see a dozen of those who had been at work near him, advancing threateningly. "what do you want?" he asked, regretting now that he had not hurried on ahead as chunky suggested shortly before the whistle sounded. "we've got a word to say, an' you're wanted very pertic'lar." "i can't stop now." "that's too bad, for there's a little business to be settled right away," and the largest of the party stepped so near in front of fred that it would have been impossible for him to have advanced, except at the risk of an encounter. "won't it do just as well in the morning?" "i'm afraid not." "but i promised to come straight home." "you can't go till our 'count has been fixed." "i don't owe you anything." "don't eh?" "no. i never even saw one of your crowd until i came to work this morning." "what of that?" "it shows there can be no account between us." "you're makin' a big mistake, young feller. ain't this your first day in the breaker?" "of course it is." "then what about payin' your footing?" "my footing?" "every feller who comes here has got to make things square with us by standin' treat." "well i'm one who can't do it." "oh, yes you can," and here the bully looked at his companions, who echoed his words, crowding yet closer around fred, until it was literally impossible for him to make the slightest movement. "i haven't got a penny, and what i earn is for mother." "you can get an advance at the store." "do you suppose i'll run in debt for the purpose of treating you?" "that's about the size of it." "then you're making a big mistake, for i won't do anything of the kind," and fred made one desperate attempt to force his way through the crowd. "look out for him!" the leader shouted, as he struck fred a blow on the cheek which would have sent him headlong but for the others who acted as a sort of brace. the new breaker boy was not disposed to submit tamely, and struck out blindly but vigorously drawing blood from more than one nose before borne to the earth by press of numbers. while he was thus helpless every fellow who could get near enough dealt him one or more blows, and not until they were tired of the sport did the young ruffians cease. "now let up," the leader cried, in a tone of authority. "he's had a dose that shows what we can do, an' will git it ten times as bad to-morrer, if he don't come down with the treat." the disciplining party ran swiftly toward the settlement when these words had been spoken, probably because a dozen or more miners were approaching, and fred was left to make his way home as best he could. he had just staggered to his feet when the men arrived upon the scene; but no one paid any particular attention to him, save as one miner remarked with a laugh: "i reckon here's a lad who didn't know the rules; but it won't take him long to find them out." fred was too sore both in mind and body to make any retort, and he limped down the road believing this first attempt to earn a living was already a dismal failure. he would have kept the story of the attack a secret from his mother, but for the marks of the conflict which could not be hidden, and when questioned represented the affair as of no especial importance. mrs. byram had a fairly good idea of the case, however, when he said despondently: "i believe it would be better to try some other kind of work. why can't we go to the city?" "because our capital is so limited. to come here it was only necessary to move our furniture three miles, and the promise of needle-work from the superintendent's family assured us sufficient income to meet the absolute cost of living. but you need not go to the breaker again; it may be possible to find employment elsewhere." "there's little chance of that in this town, mother," fred replied with a brave attempt at cheerfulness. "i should be worse than a loafer to remain idle while you were working, and by keeping my eyes open that crowd can't do very much mischief." "wouldn't it be better to pay your 'footing' as they call it? once that has been done there can be no excuse for troubling you." "i won't give them the value of a penny, and i'll stick to my job. perhaps, by flogging the bully i can teach them to let me alone." "but you musn't fight, fred," mrs. byram said, in alarm. "it's better to have one regular battle than to get such a drubbing as this every night. if they make any more fuss i shall take care of myself." now that the first sense of injury had passed away, fred felt as if he had been at fault to allow himself to be so easily overcome, and, distasteful as was the work in the breaker, he had fully resolved to remain and assert his rights in a manly way. chapter ii the warning on the second morning fred did not present himself at the dingy old building until nearly time for the whistle to sound, and those whom he had good cause to look upon as enemies were already at their places by the chute. "i heard some of the fellers served you out last night," chunky said, much as if such proceedings were a matter of course. "they'd better not try it on again," fred replied, in a tone of determination. "are you goin' to fight?" "i'll protect myself, if nothing more." "it won't do any good to try." "why not?" "because there are too many of 'em, an' skip miller can down any feller in this breaker." "who is skip miller?" "the boss of the crowd who laid for you." "then i'll settle matters with him, and when he gets the best of me it will be time to pay my footing; but not before." "he'll chew you all up." "i ain't so sure of that. did you know what they were going to do?" "i had a mighty strong s'picion." "why didn't you tell me?" "then i'd got a thumping. i wanted you to hurry out with me?" by this time the work had begun, and the noise was so great that conversation could be indulged in only at the expense of considerable shouting. fred's hands, sore from the previous day's labor, were cut anew in many places, and more than one piece of slate was marked with his blood as he threw it among the refuse. the "gang," as fred termed his enemies, gave no sign of carrying the threat previously made into execution. the watchful eyes of the breaker boss prevented them from idling, and nothing occurred to arouse the new boy's suspicions until just before the noon-day whistle sounded, when a piece of board, thrown while donovan was not looking, fell at fred's feet. at first he believed the intention was to hit him with the missile; but when the stream of coal ceased to flow through the chute, chunky said as he picked up the board: "the warnin' has come." "what do you mean by that?" for reply chunky handed his mate the piece of lumber on which was printed in scrawling characters with red chalk: "pay or skip. we mean bisness. no sneaks lowed hear. tonite is the last chance. the breaker regulaters." "so they call themselves regulators, eh?" fred said, half to himself, as he deciphered the message after considerable difficulty. "that's some of skip's doings. he's started a reg'lar s'ciety, an' fellers what don't join have to step round mighty lively sometimes." "do you belong?" chunkey hesitated an instant as if ashamed of the fact, and then replied: "it don't pay to keep out, 'cause they run things to suit therselves, an' a feller can't hold his job very long when they're down on him." "according to that i shan't be here a great while unless this command is obeyed?" "that's what i'm afraid of. why not come up with a little treat, an' settle the whole thing that way? you can't do anything by fightin', for there are so many." fred hesitated an instant as if considering the matter, and then replied angrily: "i won't be forced into anything of the kind! if you belong to the gang tell them that i shall protect myself the best i know how, and somebody will get hurt when there's another row." chunky had an opportunity to repeat the message at once, for fred had but just ceased speaking when skip beckoned for him to come to the other side of the building, and a command from the chief of the regulators was not to be disobeyed with impunity. fred was watching the movements of his enemies narrowly when donovan approached on his way to the water casks. "have the boys been tryin' to make you pay your footing?" the breaker boss asked. "yes, sir, and it looks as if they didn't intend to let me stay very long," fred replied, as he held up the notification to quit. "what are you going to do about it?" and the man looked curiously at the boy. "stay where i am until they get the upper hand. i can't treat, for i haven't the money, and i may be able to show that the regulators are not the bosses here." "i like your pluck, my lad, and can, perhaps, give you a lift. skip shall have a flea in his ear before the whistle sounds again; but, of course, it's none of my business what happens after working hours." "i don't expect any assistance, sir, and if they down me it can't be helped." "you've taken a pretty big contract; but between us both i reckon it can be carried out." then donovan continued on, and, looking up, fred saw that all his enemies had been watching the interview closely. "they may conclude it isn't best to tackle me, if he is going to take a hand," he thought, and at this moment chunky returned. "now you have got yourself in a scrape!" "how so?" "skip and all the fellers saw you talkin' to donovan, an' they know you showed him the message from the regulators." "what of that?" "they don't 'low anything of the kind, an' you've got to take a thumpin', even if you do treat." "so i'm to get a double dose, eh?" "that's about the size of it. skip says you'll be laid up for a week when the s'ciety gets through with you." "i'm much obliged for the promise; but don't believe quite all he says." chunky shook his head as if to intimate that the case was a desperate one, and then the nooning had come to an end. the clouds of coal dust which had but just settled rose again as the machinery was put in motion, and all was activity once more. although fred had spoken so bravely he felt seriously disturbed, and during the remainder of the day his mind was fully occupied with thoughts of how he might successfully resist his enemies. when night came he had arrived at no satisfactory conclusion, and at the signal to cease work chunky ran swiftly away thus showing that while he would not join with the society as against his mate, he did not intend to take sides with him. donovan's promise of assistance was not a vain one. when fred emerged from the breaker a few paces behind chunky he saw the boss waiting for him, and the latter said in a friendly tone: "it don't do you much good to be seen talkin' to me, for both men an' boys hate what are called bosses' pets; but we'll stave off this row till you get used to the ropes, when it's a case of taking care of yourself." under the protection of donovan, fred walked to his home, feeling a bit ashamed of thus avoiding the meeting with the regulators, and more than one jeering cry did he hear before reaching the house. "be careful of yourself now," donovan said, as they arrived at the cottage. "this won't make the lads any better disposed toward you, an' it isn't safe to move 'round very much in the dark." "i'll come home alone to-morrow an' have it out." "don't be rash. wait for a chance, an' if skip gets hurt pretty bad nobody here'll feel sorry." then fred entered the house, and after a bath, a hot supper, during which his mother spoke many encouraging words, and a long consultation to his best course, he felt little fear of the regulators. mrs. byram had good news for her son. the wife of the superintendent had introduced her to several other ladies who promised to give her employment, and the prospect of earning money seemed better than was anticipated when the question of moving to the settlement had been under discussion. "we shall get along famously," she said, "and, perhaps, it won't be many months before it will be possible to get enough ahead so we can venture to the city. i am going to open an account at the store in your name, for what little cash we had is very nearly exhausted." "when are you going?" "now. i shall be busy to-morrow, and you must have a hearty supper." "i'll go; the store isn't the nicest place possible during the evening." "but the boys who are watching for you?" "they won't dare to do anything when the men are around," fred replied, carelessly, and taking the memorandum which his mother had prepared, he left the house. the one street of the settlement was almost deserted, for it was yet too early to see the toilers who would spend the short time of rest in the open air near the store, and fred's business was soon transacted. the desired credit was readily granted, and with his arms filled with packages he started toward home once more. for the first time in the past twenty-four hours he had forgotten the existence of the regulators, and the fact that skip miller with half a dozen companions was waiting for him never came into his mind until a hand was suddenly pressed over his mouth, as a hoarse voice whispered: "catch hold his legs an' arms, fellers! never mind the stuff now." in a twinkling fred was lifted from the ground by a boy at each limb, while the one who had spoken kept a firm hold upon his mouth, and in this fashion he was carried swiftly along in the direction of the breaker, as he thought. "we'll have to fetch them bundles so's to make it look as if he fell in," some one said, and a voice, which he recognized as skip's, replied: "that's so. you fellers what ain't doing anything pick 'em up." "who's got the rope?" "i have." "why not throw him in an' run the chances? it's too bad to lose what cost half a dollar." "there's time enough to fix that after we've got him to the shaft." "hold your tongues, or somebody will hear us!" skip whispered, angrily, as his companions thus discussed the preliminaries. then came a long time of silence broken by the footsteps of the party, or the loud breathing of those who were carrying the burden. several times fred tried to give an alarm; but his mouth was held so firmly that not a sound could escape his lips, and after a while he contented himself with simply trying to form some idea of the direction in which he was being taken. when the party had carried him for ten or fifteen minutes a halt was made, and then his captors took the precaution of enveloping his head in a coat, which shut out every sound, save the loudly uttered remarks of the regulators. he heard skip berating one of the party, because some reference was made to their destination, and then ensued a noisy discussion as to what should be done with him. "if he don't turn up to-morrer mornin' old donovan will swear we took him off, an' there'll be a heap of trouble for all hands," one of the boys suggested. "what of that? nobody can say we did it, an' after he's had one night of it, i reckon he'll be willin' to do as we say." "but how'll he get out?" "that's for him to say. we'll show him what it is to go agin our crowd, an' the rest is his business." then fred was borne forward again until it seemed as if fully half a mile had been traversed, when the regulators halted for the second time. the wrappings were removed from his head, and as nearly as the prisoner could tell he was some distance from the breaker; at the mouth of what appeared to be an abandoned shaft. "now, look here," skip miller said, as he stood before his prisoner. "you've taken it into your head that us reg'lators don't 'mount to nothin'; but by to-morrer mornin' you'll think different. what we say we mean an' don't you forget it. if you'd been man enough to do like every other feller it would 'a been all right; but instead of that you go babyin' to old donovan, an' we don't 'low sich funny business." "what are you going to do now?" "show what the reg'lators 'mount to. when you come out of this i reckon you'll be willin' to pay up like a man, an' join us." "it will have to be a pretty stiff dose to make me do anything of the kind," fred said, angrily. "that's jest what this is goin' to be. we're lettin' you off of a poundin' so's to show what can be done, an' if you say so much as a word to old donovan we'll pretty near kill you." "i shall talk to whoever i please." "not after you come out of this. don't think we'll allers let you off so cheap, an' at the first show of tellin' what's been done to-night we'll give you another lesson." fred realized that it was useless to bandy words with those who held him so completely in their power, and understanding also that he could do nothing to better his condition, held his peace. skip showed himself to be an adept in the business of subduing refractory breaker boys, by giving his orders promptly, and in such a manner as would soonest accomplish the work. under his energetic directions fred's hands were soon tied behind his back, a gag was fastened in his mouth, and the rope placed under his arms. "now raise him up, an' you needn't be careful about lettin' him drop. the sooner he gets to the bottom the quicker we can go back to the store. put the bundles near the mouth of the shaft, an' in a couple of days somebody will find him." "it'll go rough with us if he tells who left him here," one of the party suggested. "there's no danger of that. before he gets out he'll know what it means to fool with us." fred remained passive. he could not believe these boys would dare to do anything very serious. and to attempt resistance would accomplish no possible good. "raise him up!" skip shouted, and in another instant fred was hanging over what appeared to be a deep hole, to be dropped with a suddenness and force which, for the time being, deprived him of consciousness. while he lay at the bottom of the shaft the regulators placed the parcels taken from the store, in such a manner as to make it appear that he had fallen in by accident, and when this had been done they went swiftly toward the settlement, regardless of whether their victim lived or died. chapter iii in the shaft mrs. byram had no suspicion that her son might be exposed to any danger until after he had been absent an hour, and then the remembrance of the threats made by skip miller and his friends caused her the deepest anxiety. fred would not have staid at the store longer than was absolutely necessary, and the fear of foul play had hardly gained possession of her mind before she was on her way to search for him. the company's clerk had but just finished explaining that the new breaker boy left there with his purchases some time previous, when donovan entered in time to hear the widow say: "i do not understand why he should remain away so long, for he must know i would be troubled concerning him." "didn't your boy stay in the house after i left him at the gate, mrs. byram?" the breaker boss asked. mrs. byram explained why fred ventured out, and the man appeared to be disturbed in mind. "this is just the time when he oughter kept his nose inside. them young ruffians are likely to do any mischief." "then you believe something serious has happened." "i didn't say quite that; but it won't do much harm to have a look for him. you go home, an' i'll call there in an hour." then turning to some of the loungers, he asked, "has anybody seen skip miller lately?" "you're allers tryin' to make out that he's at the bottom of everything that goes wrong," skip's father, who entered at this moment, said in a surly tone. "if he ain't, it's not for lack of willingness. do you know where he is?" "home, where he's been for an hour or more." donovan looked hard at the speaker, and miller retorted: "if you don't believe me, it won't take long to find out for yourself." "that's exactly what i'm going to do. mrs. byram, i will see you again in less than an hour." with these words the breaker boss left the store, and fred's mother walked slowly home, the anxiety in her heart growing more intense each moment. two hours passed before donovan returned and announced his inability to find the missing boy. "i did think skip might have had a hand in it," he said; "but i reckon he's innocent this time. i found him near his own home with a crowd of cronies, and according to all accounts he's been there since supper." "but what has become of fred?" mrs. byram asked, preserving a semblance of calmness only after the greatest difficulty. "i hope nothing serious has happened. the superintendent has been notified, and promises to send men out in search of him at once. it is just possible he went down the slope to see the night shift at work." there was nothing in these words to afford the distressed mother any relief, and the sorrow which would not be controlled took complete possession of her, as donovan hurried away to join those who were examining every place where an accident might have occurred. meanwhile the subject of all this commotion remained where the regulators had left him. it was a long time before he recovered consciousness, and then several moments were spent in trying to decide where he was and what had happened. the fragments of conversation heard while the boys were carrying him told that he was in an abandoned shaft, and, unacquainted though he was with mines in general, it did not require much thought to convince him how nearly impossible it would be to escape unaided. the bonds which fastened his limbs, as well as the gag, had not been tied firmly, and in a short time he was free to begin such an examination of the place as was possible in the profound darkness. here and there he could feel the timbers left when the shaft was deserted, and, after groping about some moments, discovered a tunnel-like opening ten or twelve feet across. the roof or top of this place was beyond his reach, and he knew it must be a drift from which all the coal had been taken. "it may lead for miles under the hill, and i would be no better off by following it," he thought. "unless there is a slope which communicates with it, i'd be in a worse fix than now, because the chances of being lost or suffocated must be about even." then in his despair he shouted at the full strength of his lungs, until it was impossible to speak louder than a whisper. nothing less than the booming of a cannon could have been heard from the shaft by any one in the settlement, and with the night shift in the working mine there would hardly be any one in the vicinity. after giving full sway to his grief for half an hour or more, anger replaced sorrow, and he rushed into the tunnel with no other thought than to escape from that particular place. stumbling on over decaying timbers, rocks, and mounds of earth which had fallen from the roof, he pushed straight ahead until the decided inclination told that this drift tended upward. there was now reason to believe it might communicate with another which, in turn, was reached by a slope, and hope grew strong once more. how long he had traveled when the sound of voices caused him to halt it was impossible to form any idea; but it seemed as if several hours elapsed, and the first thought was to shout for help. "i won't do it," he said, checking himself. "this tunnel may have led me back to the other mine, and if the people ahead are some of the night shift they'll be likely to have considerable sport at my expense." walking cautiously in the direction of the voices he was suddenly brought to a standstill by an apparently solid wall of earth. he groped around until there was no question but that he had reached the end of the drift, and when this discovery had been made he found a small aperture which opened into a gallery or chamber where were a dozen men, the lamps in their hats illumining the place sufficiently for fred to distinguish the party. he had reached the limit of the abandoned drift, and was looking in upon a portion of the new mine. even now he made no appeal for help. the conversation of the men caused him to listen with no thought of his own condition. "unless we do the job to-morrow night there's little chance of gettin' through with it all right," one of the party was saying, and another replied with an oath: "there's no reason why we should wait. to-night would suit me." "i don't believe in it," a third man said. "what's to be gained by floodin' the mine, an' turnin' ourselves out of a chance to earn a living?" "you allers was chicken-hearted, joe brace. haven't we put up with enough from the mine owners an' bosses? we work for starvation wages, while they can barrel money." "would you say that if you hadn't been thrown out of a job?" "that's my business. here's a crowd of us who have sworn to stick together, no matter what happens, an' five have been warned out. are we goin' peaceable, not liftin' a finger agin them as have got rich while we starved?" "but how are we helpin' ourselves by floodin' the mine?" "three or four of sich bosses as donovan may be in the drift when with one stroke of a pick i let the water into the lower level, and that'll show the others we're men, even if they do treat us like brutes." "you will drown some of your own mates." "them as are on the level must take their chances." "it's murder, that's what it is, an' i'll have none of it!" brace cried, as he leaped to his feet, and in another instant the whole party were facing him who dared dispute their right to do wrong. for some moments our hero could not distinguish a word, so great was the confusion; but when the tumult subsided in a measure two men were holding brace, while he who appeared to be leader stood before him in a threatening attitude. "you've sworn to go with the crowd, and know the penalty for traitors." "i know that i'll blow the whole business if i get the chance. i've got a brother in the lower level; do you think i'll stand by while he is bein' murdered?" "better do that than turn agin us. we'll give you one chance; swear to hold your tongue, an' we'll do no more than make sure you can't betray us." "an' if i don't choose to swear?" "then we'll leave you here lashed hand an' foot. when the mine is flooded this drift will be cut off, an' it don't need a lawyer to say what'll happen then." "so to spite them as have done you a bad turn you're willin' to murder me?" "that's about the size of it." "listen to me, cale billings. i promised to stand by you fellers when the agreement was to help each other agin the bosses; but now it's murder you mean. i'd rather be on the lower level when the deed is done than have part or parcel with them as are willin' to make widows an' orphans." "then we know what to do," billings cried angrily, as he rushed toward brace, and for several moments fred had only a confused idea of what was taking place. brace was fighting against the entire party, and, under such circumstances, the struggle could not be prolonged. when the watcher could next distinguish the occupants of the chamber brace laid on his back bound hand and foot, while the others were on the point of departure. billings remained behind his companions to say: "we gave you all the chance we could, an' now it's only yourself you've got to thank for what'll happen before forty-eight hours go by." "i'd die twice over rather than put the stain of blood on my hands." "well, you've got the chance to try it once, an' i reckon you'll wish things was different before long. we'll take good care nobody comes this way too soon." then the party filed out of the room, one or two glancing back with undisguised pity, and as they passed along the drift the place was wrapped in profound darkness, with nothing to break the silence save the doomed man's heavy breathing. fred waited until believing the would-be murderers were beyond the sound of his voice, and then he called softly: "brace! brace!" "who's there?" "a breaker boy who came into the mine yesterday." "where are you?" fred explained to the best of his ability, and added: "do you know of any way i can get out of here?" "no; that part of the mine has been closed a good many years, an' it would take a week to work up through the old slope. before then the water on the lower level is bound to flood this end of the workings." "and we shall be drowned." "i don't see any help for it." "but we can't stay here and be killed!" fred cried in an agony of fear. "it's tough, but there's no way out of it unless----" "what? speak quickly, for time mustn't be lost if we're to do anything toward helping ourselves." "how large a cut is there through the wall where you are standing?" "it's only a small one--perhaps four or five inches across." "couldn't you make it large enough to crawl through?" "it wouldn't take long if i had a shovel; but without one it will be hard." "set about it, lad; work is better than idleness when a fellow is in this kind of a scrape." fred obeyed instantly, tearing away the earth regardless of the injury done his hands; but making very slow progress. the wall was composed of slate and gravel, and a pick would have been necessary to effect a speedy entrance. meanwhile brace strove to cheer the boy by talking of the possibility that they might yet escape, and hour after hour fred continued at the task until the moment arrived when it was possible, by dint of much squeezing, to make his way through the aperture. "do you think it is near the time when the men are to flood the mine?" he asked, groping around until his outstretched hands touched brace's prostrate body, when he began feverishly to untie the ropes. "no, lad, we must have half a dozen hours before us." "then we are all right!" fred cried joyfully. "you know the way out, and billings' plot can be made known in time to prevent the mischief." "don't fool yourself with the idea that matters have been straightened because i'm free," brace replied, as he rose to his feet when fred's task had been finished. "but what is to prevent our leaving here?" "did you catch what billings said when he left?" "yes." "then there's no need of sayin' anything more. some of the murderin' crowd will be on guard at the entrance to the drift, and, knowing what we do of their plans, every means will be used to prevent our ever seeing daylight again." "don't you intend to do anything toward trying to escape?" "of course. i'm not quite a fool." "shall you go back with me, or try to find the shaft?" "that would be useless. we will go straight through this drift." "but if billings' crowd are watching for you?" "it's simply a case of fighting for life. there ain't much hope of overpowerin' them; the job will be child's play compared with tryin' to hold our own agin the flood that's sure to come soon." brace groped around for something which would serve as a weapon, but finding nothing, he said grimly: "we'll have to go as we are, lad, an' remember that if we don't get through the drift you'll never see the breaker again." chapter iv the barrier brace did not so much as ask if fred was willing to join him in the struggle which must surely ensue, if they met those who intended to work such great injury to the mine. he walked straight on without speaking until five minutes had elapsed, and then said in a whisper: "it wouldn't be safe for any of that crowd to be found loafin' near the entrance to the drift, so we may expect to run across them before long. if they get the best of me, an' you can slip past while they are doin' it, don't wait, but make the most of your time." "i wouldn't leave you to fight alone." "why not? my life don't count for anything when there are so many to be saved. run if you can, and tell what billings intends to do. the superintendent is the one who should hear it first, but if the time is short speak to any of the bosses." up to this moment fred had thought only that he and brace might insure their own safety; but now personal welfare seemed insignificant as compared with what might be done for others. following closely behind brace, that there might be no possibility of an involuntary separation, he walked on in silence until the leader suddenly halted with a cry of dismay. "what's the matter?" fred whispered. "the villains have taken good care we sha'n't escape. the drift has been filled up this side of the doors." "can't we dig our way through? they haven't had time to bring much stuff in here." "more than likely two or three loads of coal have been dumped, and then the doors were fastened. the drift has been worked out, and none of the bosses would come here in time to suspect mischief." "what can we do?" "wait a bit till i make sure what's before us." brace clambered upon the barrier, assured himself there was too much to be removed in the limited time at their disposal, and then came back to where fred was waiting in painful suspense. "it must be the old shaft or nothing. walk fast now for the minutes are going mighty quick." alone, fred would have had difficulty in retracing his steps, but brace pushed forward as if it was possible to see every foot of the way, and when the chamber was reached immediately began forcing his body through the aperture which had seemed hardly large enough for fred. neither gave any heed to possible injuries, and the man's clothes were in tatters when they emerged on the opposite side of the wall to make their way with all speed along the tunnel. for a while the inclination of the path told fred the proper direction was being pursued, and then it seemed as if they traveled an unusually long time over a road which appeared to be perfectly level. "are you sure we are right?" he asked at length, seizing brace by the arm to force him to halt. "i don't know anything about it. this part of the mine was closed before i ever heard of such a place as farley's." "we should have continued going down hill until the shaft was gained." "then we are off the track sure; but it can't be helped now, and there is little chance of finding our way back. the air isn't bad, and we'll keep on; it may be there is another slope beside the one about which i have heard." "we must be on the lower level." "i reckon we are." "and it can't be long before billings will do as he threatened." "you're right." "then we are certain to be drowned unless we can find a higher drift." "yes, an' it'll be a clear case of luck if we strike one. don't stop to talk now. we must go at full speed while the air is good." seizing fred by the hand, brace started once more, and for the time being both forgot fatigue in this struggle for life. on with feverish energy they pressed, yet no glimmer of light broke the profound darkness. more than once each fell over the litter of timbers, but only to rise and struggle on again, until finally brace halted. "it's no use," he said with a moan. "each step now is carrying us lower. i remember hearing some of the old hands say the abandoned drifts were a hundred feet or so farther down the hill. we must be considerably below the deepest shaft." "have you given up all hope?" fred asked in a whisper, for while surrounded by the dense blackness the full tones of his voice sounded fearsome. "ay, lad, all hope." "try once more. there surely is a way out if we could only strike it!" "we may as well meet the water here. i've been in the mines long enough to know that this runnin' at random is worse than standin' quiet. when a man's time has come there's no use to fight." fred could not urge him farther. the numbness of fear was upon him, brought by this sudden surrender of the man whom he had believed would be able to extricate them from the precarious position, and now he thought only of his mother. how long the two remained there silent and motionless neither ever knew. to fred it seemed as if hours passed before brace seized him by the arm as he cried at the full strength of his lungs: "hello! mate! this way!" then he ran forward at full speed, dragging fred with him, and shouting like an insane man all the while until finally the boy could see a tiny spark of light far in the distance. "it's some one looking for us," fred cried. "whether he's come for us, or is on business of his own, matters little since his light is burning." then, as brace ceased speaking, fred heard a familiar voice shouting, and an instant later sam thorpe had grasped him by the hand. "why, it's bill's butty! what are you doing here?" "i came to look for the new breaker boy; i thought skip's crowd had done him some mischief." "so they did, an' another set of scoundrels would have drowned us all out but for your coming." "what do you mean?" "there's no time for talkin' now. how did you get here?" "by an old slope that i stumbled across the other day. i found fred's bundles near the shaft, and believed he had been let down there." "go on the best you know how; i'll give you a bit of an idea about ourselves while we're walking." the gleam of the lamp sam wore in his cap was sufficient to show the way, and by the time the entrance to the slope had been reached the butty boy knew the whole story. "billings' gang won't be able to do anything till after the day shift go on, an' i think it would be a good idea to let the superintendent know what has happened. why not stay here till i tell him part of the story?" "go ahead," brace replied. "we'll wait for you." "will you tell my mother that i am all right?" fred asked. "she shall hear of it first," sam said, as he stole out into the open air, as if fearful of being seen. "why didn't we go with him?" fred asked when he was alone with brace. "because nobody knows how far the plan to flood the mine may have gone, and by showing ourselves the villains may begin the job too soon to be prevented." it was yet dark. instead of having been imprisoned in the tunnels twenty-four hours, as fred had believed, less than eight were passed there. that mr. wright believed the news sam brought to be of vital importance was shown by his coming with the boy with the utmost speed, and on entering the shaft he said to brace: "tell me all you know about the plan to flood the mine." the story was given in detail, and at its conclusion mr. wright asked: "how do you happen to know so much about this thing?" "because i belonged to the party till i found they meant murder." "are you acquainted with all the members?" "no, sir; wasn't allowed. billings allers let us understand there was a big crowd, but wouldn't let any besides the officers know about it; he said the men might give themselves away by talkin' if they found who was members." "why do they wish to throw all hands out of employment by flooding the mine?" "some of the bosses are too hard on 'em, sir, an' a good many think it's like sellin' theirselves to deal at the company store." "they should have come to me with their grievances; but it is too late to talk of that now, and immediate steps must be taken to prevent the mischief. it won't be policy for you to show yourself until my plans have been perfected, otherwise they would take alarm. the boy can go home, and i want him to be in the breaker this morning as if nothing had happened. where can you remain in hiding for a few days?" "i don't know, sir, unless i leave town." "that will not do, for i may wish to talk with you again." "he can come with me," fred said quickly. "we do not know any one here, and there's no danger of his being discovered." "it's a good idea. go with the boy, brace, and i can let you know when it will be safe to venture out." "very well, sir; but don't deal harshly with billings' crowd. they've tried to do me the most harm one man can work another; but yet, for the sake of their wives an' children, i'd not feel easy in mind if they was turned away without warning." "i promise to be as lenient as is consistent with the safety of others," mr. wright replied, as fred and the miner left the slope, walking rapidly lest they should be observed, and a few moments later mrs. byram was clasping to her bosom the son whom she had feared was lost to her forever on this earth. it was not long that fred could remain at home. he had promised to go to the breaker, and after he and brace partook of a hearty meal, at the conclusion of which the latter was shown to a room where there was no chance of his being seen, he started out, with the promise to his mother that he would be very careful. by some channel of information the news had been spread that the missing boy returned home during the night, and no one paid any particular attention to him as he walked down the street, but on entering the breaker skip miller and his friends were decidedly disturbed. the leader of the regulators glanced from fred to donovan, as if expecting he would be called upon to give an account of his misdeeds; but chunky, who had evidently not been let into the secret, greeted his mate as if the latter's return was something he had expected. "where was you last night?" he asked. "i went out near the old shaft," fred replied, and skip, who overheard the words, appeared to be very much relieved. "i thought you'd run away." "why should i do anything like that?" "i dunno, 'cept that you wanted to get clear of the thumpin' that the regulators promised." "i'm not such a fool as that," fred replied carelessly, and then the outpouring of coal put an end to further conversation. chapter v the mob fred could not prevent himself from glancing now and then in the direction of skip miller and his friends during the forenoon, and on each occasion he found one or more of the party gazing at him as if in wonderment. they failed to understand how he succeeded in leaving the shaft, and this surprise was less than that called forth by the fact of his remaining silent regarding their ill-treatment. one, two, three hours passed much as usual, and then something happened which caused the oldest worker in the mines unbounded astonishment. the machinery suddenly stopped, and from all the bosses came the orders that every laborer should return home without delay. no explanations were given, and when the vast army were on the outside they stood in groups around the works discussing the cause of this very strange state of affairs. "i never knew anything like this to happen at farley's before," an old miner said. "and they don't even tell us why we are cheated out of a day's work." "the engineer says there is nothing the matter with the machinery." "yes, an' he, like us, has been ordered to go home." these and a dozen other remarks fred heard as he left the breaker, and while loitering for an instant to learn if any one suspected the true state of affairs he became conscious that skip and his friends were regarding him with mingled anger and consternation written on their faces. "you'd better get out of here, or there may be trouble," chunky whispered. "why?" "'cause skip has got plenty of time now to serve you out, an' he looks like somethin' was goin' to be done." "he'd better not try any more games. i can take care of myself in the daylight." "what do you mean? did he do somethin' last night?" before fred could reply the captain of the regulators came up, and chunky lost no time in moving away from this very important personage. "say," skip began, as he stepped threateningly in front of fred, "what's the meanin' of all this?" "do you mean the shutting down of the machinery?" "of course i do." "why should i know anything about it?" "don't try to play off innocent to me. you've been blowin' about what the regulators did, an' that's why all hands can suck their thumbs to-day." "don't you think that is a foolish idea?" fred asked, with a feeble effort at a smile. "do you fancy you, the regulators, or i, are so important that the whole force is laid off because of anything which may have happened between us?" skip was staggered by this reply, and after thinking the matter over for a moment, he said in a surly tone: "all i've got to say is that things will be too hot for you in this town, if a word is told about what was done last night." "you said pretty near the same before throwing me down the shaft." "well, i'm sayin' it again, for it stands you in hand to remember it." "i won't forget." skip turned quickly as if the tone offended him, and after glaring fiercely at the breaker boy, walked slowly toward his friends. "what's in the wind now? is he making any more threats?" looking around quickly fred saw sam thorpe, who had just come up the slope with bill thomas. "skip is afraid the shutting down has some connection with the doings of the regulators. isn't it queer to stop the machinery so soon when mr. wright was anxious to keep everything a secret?" "i heard him say that the pumps were out of order. one set got choked this morning, and it wouldn't be safe for the miners to stay in the lower level till they were repaired." sam winked meaningly as if he thought the matter had been arranged very skillfully; but fred was yet at a loss to understand how anything could be gained by this move. "why were all hands thrown out?" "there are some general repairs to be made, and it was better to do the whole at the same time." "then there's no reason why brace should hide any longer." "he mustn't so much as show his nose. come over by the slope and watch billings and his crowd. they are in a peck of trouble, expecting that brace will be found, and since no one is allowed to enter the mine matters begin to look tough for them." fred followed his friend and saw those who had intended to cause a terrible disaster clustered around the mouth of the slope in a feverish state of excitement. "this is a nice way to treat honest men," billings was saying as the two approached. "we work for starvation wages, an' then get laid off whenever the bosses like, without so much as a notice. it's time we did something to show we're men." "i'm told the pumps are choked," an old miner said, "an' if that's the case mr. wright oughter shut down. farley's never has had a very good name; but one or two stoppages like this'll show it's worked on the square." "what a fool you are!" billings cried angrily. "haven't you got sense enough to see that this thing has been done so's we'll run deeper in debt at the store, an' have to submit to a cut down when wright gets ready to put the screws on?" several of the bystanders loudly expressed their belief in the correctness of billings' theory, and instantly the greatest excitement prevailed. the group increased in numbers each moment, and billings took upon himself the office of spokesman. one proposed they march in a body to the superintendent's house and demand that the machinery be started again. another insisted on forcing their way into the mine to ascertain the true cause of the stoppage, and in this last speaker fred recognized one of the men who had helped make joe brace a prisoner. "they want to find him before mr. wright orders an examination," he whispered to sam, and the latter replied: "in less than an hour they'll have force enough to do as they please. it's time we were out of this; you go home to tell joe, and i'll see mr. wright if possible." fred was all the more willing to follow this advice because skip and his party were in the immediate vicinity, and the lawlessness of the men might render them bold enough to administer the promised flogging then and there. the streets of the little town were crowded with knots of miners, some of whom seemed to think the superintendent had acted for their good, while others were indulging in the most extravagant threats. mrs. byram was standing in the doorway when her son arrived, and it could readily be seen by her face how relieved she was to have him with her once more. "you mustn't leave the house again to-day," she said in a tremulous voice. "go up stairs and tell mr. brace what has happened." the miner was impatient to learn the cause of the excitement, for he could hear the hum of voices on the street; but did not care to look out of the window for fear of being seen. fred's story was not a long one, and he had to repeat it several times before brace was satisfied. "i s'pose wright knows his own business best; but it looks mighty dangerous to shut down so sudden." "perhaps it was the only course to pursue," fred suggested. "billings' crowd may have been so near carrying their plot into operation that there was no time for anything different." "that might be; but take my word for it, there's going to be trouble at farley's before this fuss is settled." "do you think billings would dare to force his way into the mine?" "he'd dare do anything with men enough at his back." "suppose they got in and didn't find you?" "i ain't thinkin' of myself, for it would be easy to get out of town." "if they have an idea you've escaped from the drift all hands will be on the watch, knowing you could expose their plot." "everything is correct so long as they don't find out where i am, an' when it's time to move i'll agree to give 'em the slip. go down stairs so you can see if the trouble is about to begin." before fred could obey, sam thorpe burst into the room. "there's a regular mob on the way to mr. wright's house. they threaten to burn it if the works are not opened in an hour." "where is the superintendent?" brace asked. "in the mine i think; he's not at home, for i just came from there." "is billings leadin' them?" "yes." "how many of the company's men are on guard at the slope?" "about a dozen." "who are they?" sam repeated the names, and brace said musingly: "there are one or two that i'm doubtful of. they've been too thick lately with billings." "it can't be helped now, for mr. wright wouldn't dare show himself long enough to make any change." at this moment a loud cry from the street caused the boys to run quickly down the stairs, and brace ventured to look out from between the folds of the curtain. the mob, in a spirit of bravado and to gain recruits, were parading the streets before making their demands, and had halted in front of the company's store that billings might harangue those near by. he was dilating upon the wrongs inflicted on honest workingmen, and calling for everyone to join in the struggle for their rights, when, to the astonishment of all, mr. wright appeared, coming from the direction of the slope. the superintendent would have passed the mob and entered the store, but that the men barred his way, forcing him to halt directly in front of mrs. byram's home. "we was lookin' for you," billings said insolently, as he stepped close to mr. wright. "well, now that you have found me speak quickly, for there is very much that i must do before night." "open the works!" a voice shouted. "give us a chance at the bosses!" "tell us what's the matter. why are we thrown out of a job?" "hold on!" billings cried, "i'll do the talking." it was several moments before the tumult ceased sufficiently for the leader to make himself understood, and meanwhile the superintendent stepped on the threshold as mrs. byram opened the door. "in the first place," billings began, "we want to know why the works have been shut down?" "because the pumps in the lower level are choked, and there is every danger that portion will be flooded." "but why are us miners barred out?" "it is evident someone has been trying to work mischief, and i do not care to run the risk of allowing the same party free access to the place until all the damage is repaired." "do you mean to accuse us of tryin to drown each other?" one of the throng asked. "i shall make no accusations until everything can be proven; but meanwhile all must remain out of the works that the guilty parties may not be able to do worse mischief." "that is only a trick to keep us idle so the store bills put us more completely in your power," billings cried insolently. "you know the company must lose a great deal of money by taking the men out." it was impossible for mr. wright to make himself heard further. the miners began to speak, each one for himself, and little could be distinguished save the threats to burn the houses belonging to the officers of the works, if the machinery was not started immediately. after this threat had been made the men grew more bold, and before those in the cottage had time to screen themselves a shower of stones were flung at the superintendent, who barely succeeded in protecting himself by jumping behind the door. fred and sam, the latter of whom had an ugly cut on the cheek, closed the door quickly, bolting and barricading it with the furniture nearest at hand, and the riot had begun. the angry men pelted the house with such missiles as could be most easily procured, and during two or three minutes it seemed as if the building must be wrecked. mr. wright would have run into the street as the only way by which the widow's property could be saved; but fred and sam prevented him by force, and brace, who came down stairs at the first alarm, said decidedly: "you mustn't think of such a thing. your life would be taken." "it is cowardly to remain here." "it is foolhardy to face, single handed, two or three hundred brutes like those who are yelling." "but the widow's property?" "the building belongs to the company, and you can easily pay her for what may be destroyed." during this brief conversation the front windows had been shattered, and the mob appeared to be on the point of carrying the place by storm when a voice cried: "i ain't here to fight agin women who are in the same box with ourselves. what's to prevent our smashin' the windows of his own house?" "that's the way to talk," another replied. "come on; we'll attend to his case later." as if by magic the mob vanished; but the hoots and yells told of the direction in which they had gone. "something must be done at once, or there is no knowing where this thing will end. fred, you and sam get some boards up at these windows, and i'll learn how many of the men can be trusted to stand by us. keep out of sight a while longer brace." mr. wright left the building by the rear entrance, the boys watching until he disappeared within the company's store, and then sam proceeded to obey the orders. nearly every pane of glass in the front of the house had been broken, and there was not lumber enough to close more than one. "we shall have to go to the yard for boards; do you dare to try it, fred?" "why not? skip's crowd are most likely with the men." mrs. byram was afraid to have her son leave the house at such a time; but joe brace made light of her fears, and she gave a reluctant consent. "we sha'nt be away more than half an hour, and the mob will pay no attention to us while they have so much mischief on hand," fred said as he followed sam. chapter vi on duty in order to reach the yard where the lumber was to be found it was necessary that the boys should pass near the store, and at a point where mr. wright's house could be seen plainly. the mob which now surrounded it was in full view, and the angry shouts, mingled with breaking glass, came to their ears with great distinctness. "it doesn't seem right for us to stay here when we might be of some service there," fred said as he pointed in the direction of the building. "i don't know what we could do if we were on the spot. it isn't likely those men would stop because we asked them to do so, and, so far as i can judge, it is very much better to stay at a respectful distance." "and let them destroy the buildings?" "what can you do to prevent it?" "nothing that i know of, and yet it is wicked to let this thing be done without some protest." "mr. wright would attend to that matter if a protest would amount to anything. our duty is to protect your mother, and that must be attended to before anything else." "i realize that fact fully; but----" at this moment mr. wright called from the rear of the store: "boys, come here!" obeying the summons they were led to a rear room where were assembled the principal officers of the mine, all looking more or less frightened, and the superintendent said as they entered: "is there anything to prevent your doing as i wish during the next few hours." "not that i know of, sir," fred replied. "we were about to fasten up the broken windows at home; but that is of little consequence in case you require our services." "the force of men on guard at the slope is too small if the rioters try to effect an entrance. it is in the highest degree important that billings' crowd be prevented from getting in, until all our arrangements have been made. will you go on duty there until troops can be summoned?" "we are willing to do everything in our power." "then arm yourselves with these guns." mr. wright pointed to a number of muskets as he spoke, and sam did not delay in selecting a weapon. "i must tell mother where i have gone or she will be worried," fred said, as he started toward the door. "i will call upon her at once, and you need not delay." "how long are we likely to remain on duty?" "only until troops arrive. we have telegraphed to the governor, and a company should be here within the next twenty-four hours." "it isn't probable the sentinels will take our word for it that you have sent us." "here is a line to donovan, and you had better start at once, for there's no saying how soon the rioters may get tired of destroying dwellings. tell donovan that we hope to send him a larger force soon." the boys felt very much like soldiers as they marched toward the slope, each armed with a gun and half a dozen cartridges, and the tumult which could be heard distinctly, heightened the illusion. "they have set fire to some building," sam said, as he pointed to a column of smoke which rose from the direction of the superintendent's home. "if that kind of work has begun there's little chance of its being ended while billings' crowd hold the town." "i ought to have staid with mother. there's no reason why i should help fight the company's quarrels while she may be in danger." "you could be of no assistance, and it is better to be out of the way, for skip and his gang will not remain quiet while it is possible to do mischief." "at the same time i should be with her," fred replied; but making no motion to return. upon arriving at the entrance to the slope they were stopped by a sentinel who cried as he leveled his gun: "halt! what do you want?" "we have been sent by mr. wright with a note to donovan," sam replied. "stay where you are, and i will call him." "this looks like fighting," sam said, as the sentinel shouted for the breaker boss. "if they are afraid to let the boys come nearer than hailing distance, what'll be done when the mob get here?" "if the soldiers arrive things will be worse than they are now," fred said with a sigh, and then donovan interrupted the mournful conversation by calling as he came up the slope: "oh, it's you, eh? well, get in here quick. i thought mr. wright had sent some one to help us." "so he has," and sam handed the breaker boss the superintendent's letter. "we're to go on duty here till help arrives in the shape of soldiers." "i s'pose you two will count for one man; but we need a good many more by the looks of things. go into the first level an' stay there till you're wanted." obeying these instructions the boys found a dozen men lounging about the chamber, some lying on the empty trucks, and others moving to and fro restlessly; but all well armed. each one was most eager to know what was being done in the village, and the story had but just been told when the first alarm came. "get up to the mouth of the slope," donovan shouted from above. "there's a small crowd comin' this way, an' it's best to be prepared for 'em." the command was promptly obeyed, and all watched the score of men who were approaching. instead of nearing the sentinels they turned off to the left before arriving within hailing distance, and one of the party said in a tone of satisfaction: "that's all right; they're only lookin' around to see if our eyes are open." "they are going in the direction of the shaft into which skip's crowd threw me," fred whispered to sam. "yes." "and in that way it would be possible to get into this portion of the mine." "i s'pose so; but they ain't likely to make such a long trip as that." "why not, if by so doing the lower level could be flooded without any risk to themselves?" "now don't get frightened, fred, there isn't one chance in a hundred that any of the crowd know about the old gallery." "but if they do all of us might easily be driven out by the water." "since it troubles you so much, speak to donovan. he's the boss, and will know if anything should be done." "you tell him." "not much; i'm not going to be laughed at." fred hesitated only a moment; he believed that it was of the utmost importance this possible means of entering the mine should be guarded, and calling donovan aside told him of his escape from the shaft; but refrained from mentioning joe brace's name. "i reckon you're more frightened than hurt, lad; but at the same time i don't want to run any risks. since sam thorpe knows the way through, take him an' start. one of you could keep a hundred from comin' in at such a small hole as you tell about." "are we to stay there?" "half an hour'll be long enough; if they don't show theirselves by then we'll know there's nothin' to be feared from that quarter." fred repeated to sam what donovan had said, and the orders were not received in a cheerful spirit. "that's all you get for bein' scared. it ain't any joke to travel through the lower level, an' we can count on stayin' there till midnight." "it's better than being flooded out." "i'm not so sure of that." "then you won't go?" "of course i will. do you think i'm such a fool as to act dead against orders. come on, an' let's get through with it as soon as possible." by using an empty car, allowing it to run down the grade by its own weight, they were soon at the heavy doors which marked the termination of the first level. here a halt was made, because even the boys whose duties it was to open the barriers were absent, and from this point the remainder of the journey was made on foot. at the lower level five miners were found repairing the pumps, and the boys were forced once more to tell what had occurred in the village. "men what want to work don't go round kickin' up sich a row as this," one of the party said, as fred and sam passed on. "give some of that billings' crowd a chance an' the slope never'd be opened agin." "there's a miner who won't join the mob," fred said. "yes; but for every man like that a dozen can be found to fight against their own interests." now the boys no longer walked side by side. sam led the way, watching narrowly the lamp in his companion's cap to discover the first signs of fire-damp, and guarding well the flame which served to show him the proper course. "be careful of your matches," he said warningly. "they may be worth a good deal before we get back from this wild goose chase." "how much farther must we go?" "half an hour of fast traveling should bring us to where you found the tunnel choked with coal, an' i don't reckon you count on tryin' to get any farther." "we couldn't do it, no matter how much we might want to." "oh, yes; when the doors are opened that pile will come down mighty quick; but while it stays as it is the passage is blocked better than if a dozen men were on guard." another time of silence, during which the boys walked rapidly, and then sam uttered an exclamation of surprise. "some one has been working here. half the coal is pulled away, an' it won't be much of a job to get into the chamber." "who could have done it?" "perhaps billings' gang worked a spell after the order to quit was given?" "what could they have gained by reaching joe again?" "taken him through the old drift to the shaft. but let's work our way over this pile, an' then start back before our oil gives out." ten minutes of sharp labor and the boys were in the chamber where brace had been left to die, sam throwing himself on the hard floor, as he said: "we'll take a breathin' spell before leaving. you see now there was no use in comin'." "so it seems; but i couldn't help thinking some of that crowd which passed the slope knew how to get here." "it ain't possible--hark! what was that?" a low hum as of conversation could be heard from the other side of the wall, and sam sprang to the aperture made by fred and joe brace. "i'll never yip again about you're being scared," he whispered after one glance. "here come the whole crowd, an' we're in a fix." "they won't dare to crawl through, if we threaten to shoot." "let's first find out exactly what they are here for. it may be they are only looking for joe." standing either side the aperture the boys watched the approach of the men whose movements were revealed by the miner's lamp each carried. it was impossible to distinguish the conversation until the party was very near the break in the wall, and then one shouted: "hello joe! how are you?" "we've come to pull you out of this scrape," another said, after waiting a few seconds for a reply. then a lamp was pushed through, fred and sam crouching close against the wall to avoid observation, and its owner cried in a tone of astonishment: "he isn't here! the place is empty!" a deep silence reigned for a moment, and then some one said in an angry tone. "it ain't hard to understand the whole thing now. he slipped the ropes, an' come out this way. wright has heard the story, an' that's why the works were shut down so suddenly." "but what's become of him? he ain't in the town." "of course he is, an' hidin' somewhere. jim, you run back an' tell billings so's he can hunt the sneak out." "are you goin' on alone?" "why not? them fools are guardin' the slope, an' we can flood the place before they so much as think any one has got in behind them. tell the boys we'll be back by sunset." sam touched fred, to warn him that the time for action had arrived, and, slight as was the movement, it caught the attention of the man on the opposite side. "hold on," he cried. "there's somebody in here, an' we must know who it is." before he could thrust his lamp through, sam shouted: "stand back, or there'll be trouble. two of us are here, both armed, and we shall fire at the first one who so much as shows the tip of his nose." chapter vii the struggle recognizing at once that the voice they had just heard did not belong to the man for whom they were looking the rioters remained silent with surprise, and during this short interval sam brought the butt of his gun to the floor with unnecessary force in order that there might be no question about his being armed. "who is inside?" one of the party finally asked, and sam replied: "it does not make any difference so long as you don't attempt to come through." "we shall do it just the same, an' it'll be so much the worse for you if a finger is raised to stop us." "there's no need of very much talk. we're here to keep you out. at the first movement both will shoot, and we've got ammunition to hold the place 'till the others come." this bold assertion caused the rioters no little uneasiness, as could be told from the fact that the entire party retreated down the drift, where they apparently began a consultation as to the best course to be pursued under the circumstances. "come on this side," sam whispered. "if we stand opposite each other and are obliged to shoot we shall get the worst of it." "do you really mean to kill them?" fred asked as he changed his position. "i intend to hit whoever comes through if i can, an' they'll have to run the risk of the killin' part." "if we could only send word to donovan." "well, we can't, an' it looks as if we might have to stay here a long while, unless they get the best of us. nobody will think of coming to look for us for a good many hours, an' that's why i said we were in a fix." neither of the boys cared to prolong the conversation. their situation was desperate, and to state it in words seemed like making it worse, but, as fred afterward said, "they kept up a terrible thinking," until the rioters began operations by approaching the aperture once more, keeping close to the wall on either side to prevent giving the defenders an opportunity of using their weapons. "see here," the spokesman began, "we've come to give you a chance of actin' square. you know who we are, an' that what we do will help all hands who work here. let us through peaceably, an' we'll allers be your friends, but if we're obliged to fight for it there'll be nothin' left of you." "we'll take our chances rather than have such as you call us friends; but it strikes me that a fight, with all the weapons on our side, is too big a contract for you to tackle." "put out your lamps, boys, an' we'll show these fools what can be done." in an instant the tunnel was plunged in profound darkness, and the lights worn by the boys served to reveal their whereabouts clearly. both realized how great would be the disadvantages under such circumstances, and in the least possible time the tiny flames were extinguished. even while this was being done the rioters attempted to effect an entrance; but, without exposing himself to a blow, sam discharged his weapon, paying little regard to accuracy of aim. the noise of the report echoed and reëchoed through the passages, and the chamber was filled with smoke, during which time fred fancied he saw a form leaning half through the aperture, and he also fired. "that makes two cartridges, an' now we've only got ten left," sam said in a half whisper. "at this rate we can't keep the battle goin' a great while, an' when the thing is ended we shall have to take whatever they choose to give." "donovan may send some one before the ammunition is exhausted." "he won't think of such a thing for a good many hours yet. could you find your way back to where the men are at work on the pumps?" "and leave you alone?" "one of us must go, or else these fellows will soon be where a great amount of mischief can be done." "i am willing to do whatever you think best." "then go, and tell whoever you meet, of the pickle i am in. i'll stay because i'll most likely make a better fist at fighting than you." "do you want the cartridges?" "yes, and the gun." fred placed the weapon against the wall near his companion, and turned to go. "don't light your lamp until you are so far away that the flame can't be seen, for it won't do to let them know we have divided forces." a silent handshake and sam was alone. "it's goin' to be a tough job, an' most likely i'll get the worst of it," he said to himself, as he leaned toward the aperture in a listening attitude. five minutes passed, and then came a shower of missiles, causing a choking dust to arise; but doing no further injury. immediately afterward the boy fancied another attempt was being made to crawl through, and he discharged both weapons in rapid succession. "now we've got him!" a voice shouted, and before sam could reload the guns two or three men were in the chamber. he crouched in the further corner hoping to slip the cartridges in the barrel, while they should be hunting for him; but one of the party ignited a match, and an instant later he was held as if by bands of iron. "light your lamps, an' be lively about it, for there's another one here!" sam made one violent effort to release himself; but in vain. when the chamber was illuminated he saw a crowd of men peering in every direction for fred. "it's bill thomas' butty," one of the party said in surprise. "i didn't know he was a bosses' pet." "neither will he be very long. where's the other fellow?" and sam's captor tried to choke the answer from him. "if he don't speak quick strangle him. we can't spend much time on a kid," some one suggested, and the question was repeated. sam knew that the men were in no humor to be trifled with, and there was little doubt but the strangling would follow unless he obeyed. it was possible to delay the explanations for a few seconds, and thus give fred so much more time to reach the lower level. with this view he coughed and struggled after the vice-like pressure upon his throat was removed, to make it appear as if it was only with the greatest difficulty he could breathe, and fully a moment was thus gained when his captor kicked him two or three times as he said: "none of that shamming. speak quick, or i'll give you something to cough for." "the fellow who was with me went back to the slope." "how long ago?" "when we first knew you were here." "that's a lie, for we heard you talking." "what makes you ask any questions if you know better than i?" "when did he leave?" "i told you before. of course he waited long enough to find out how many there were of you." at least five minutes had passed from the time sam was first questioned, and this must have given fred a safe start. "go after him, zack, and take jake with you," the spokesman said, sharply. "travel the best you know how, for everything depends on overtakin' him." the two men started at full speed, and the leader asked sam: "where is joe brace?" "brace?" sam repeated, as if in bewilderment, "why he didn't come with us." "wasn't he in this place when you got here?" "of course not. i'm most certain i saw him in the village just after the works were shut down." there was a ring of truth in the boy's tones which could not be mistaken, and the rioters appeared satisfied. "abe, go an' tell billings that brace got out of here in time to warn wright, an' let him know what we've struck. don't waste any time now." when the messenger had departed the leader beckoned to another member of the party, and said as he pointed to sam: "take care of him. the whole thing would soon be up if he should get away." "what'll i do with the cub?" the man asked in a surly tone. "anything so that you keep him safe. a thump on the head will help straighten matters, if he tries to kick up a row." "where are you going?" "we'll foller up zack an' jake, an' if they catch the boy there'll be nothin' to prevent our finishin' the business we came for." after a brief consultation, which was carried on in such low tones that sam could not distinguish a word, the men started down the drift, leaving the prisoner and his captor alone. sam knew the man was named bart skinner, and that he was an intimate friend of billings'. he had the reputation of being quarrelsome and intemperate, and was exactly the sort of person one would expect to see among such a party as were now committing lawless deeds. "i don't count on wastin' much time with you," bart said when the footsteps of his companions had died away in the distance. "i'll leave you in a safe place pervidin' you behave; but let me hear one yip, an' i'll try the weight of my fist. come along." no attempt had been made to fetter sam. the rioters understood that it was impossible for him to escape, and probably looked upon it as a clear waste of labor. when bart spoke he seized the boy by each arm, forcing him through the aperture, and then retaining his hold as he followed. once in the tunnel the two pressed on at a rapid gait toward the shaft, sam being obliged to walk a few paces in advance, until they arrived at a point where a tunnel had been run at right angles with the drift; but which was shut off by stout wooden doors. "we'll stop here a bit," bart said, as he tried to unfasten the rusty bolts which had not been used for many years. believing that he might as well accept his capture with a good grace instead of sulking over it, sam did what he could to assist in opening the doors. when the task was finally accomplished bart motioned for the boy to enter first, and after assuring himself by the flame of his lamp that the air was pure, he obeyed. "go on a bit, an' see if it is a drift, or only a stable." "they've exhausted the vein after following it about thirty feet," sam replied, as he walked the full length, and when on the point of turning to retrace his steps the doors were closed with a clang, while from the outside could be heard the mocking voice of bart as he shoved the bolts into their sockets: "it's deep enough for what i want to use it. you'll do no mischief while here, an' i reckon the bosses will hunt a long time before findin' you." then sam heard the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps, and thought to himself as he vainly shook the timbers: "if those fellows overtook fred i'm likely to stay here till the mine is flooded." chapter viii the pursuit when fred left sam to defend the breach in the wall he fully realized the necessity of giving the alarm quickly, and did not stop to light his lamp until after scrambling over the barrier of coal. once this had been done he ran at his best pace, guided by the wooden tracks on which the cars were hauled, until he was obliged to halt from sheer lack of breath. a dull sound in the rear caused him to push on again very quickly, for he believed sam had found it necessary to discharge his weapons. on making the second halt a few moments later, he detected a certain scurrying noise which at first he fancied might have been caused by the rats; but immediately came the voice of a man, and he knew the rioters were pursuing him. "i'll get a pretty heavy dose if they catch me," he muttered, hurrying once more, and when the journey was half finished it became apparent that the pursuers were gaining upon him. the lives of others beside his own might be sacrificed, if he did not win the race, and he bent all his energies to the undertaking. once he stumbled, almost fell; but luckily recovered his balance, and darted on, forced to run upon the ties because the space either side was so narrow. nearer and nearer came the men until he could hear their heavy breathing, and one of them shouted: "halt, or we'll shoot!" knowing that they might have gotten possession of his gun he had reason to believe the threat would be carried into execution; but he said to himself: "it's better to be killed by a bullet than take what they choose to give," and the command only served to quicken his pace. minute after minute passed; no shot was fired, his breath came in quick gasps, and it seemed impossible to continue the flight many seconds longer. the pursuers were now within a few yards, and nothing could be seen ahead. whether the lower level was close at hand or a mile away he could not decide; but in his despair he shouted for help. "pick up some chunks of slate an' see if you can't hit him. at this rate we shall soon have to turn back." one of the men stopped long enough to gather an armful of fragments, and as he continued the pursuit threw them with murderous intent at the fugitive. two passed very near the almost exhausted boy's head; but none inflicted any injury, and he shouted again and again for those who were working at the pumps. at the very moment when fred lost all hope a tiny ray of light appeared from out the gloom, and he cried for help once more; then fell headlong to the ground. when he next realized anything he was surrounded by miners, who had evidently been running, and one asked, impatiently: "can you tell us what happened, lad, an' how them sneaks managed to get in here?" "have they gone back?" "indeed they have; we chased them the matter of half a mile, an' then concluded it was time we got the story from you, for it might not have been safe to pass the first drift." in a few words fred told his story, adding as it was ended: "there is a big crowd of them, and all hands are bent on flooding the mine." "we don't care to have them drown us out like rats, so i reckon there'll have to be some fightin' done before that little game is played." "but what about sam?" "they've got hold of him for sure; but he'll have to take his chances with the crowd, for we can't help him now." "they'll kill him!" "i don't reckon there's much chance of that, lad; but if there was we couldn't do a thing. i'd go farther than most anybody, for he was my butty, an' a right good boy; but he's in the hole to stay 'till the company get the upper hand of them as would kill their best friends to injure the bosses." fred knew it was bill thomas who spoke in such a tone of utter helplessness, and there could be no doubt as to the correctness of his statements. "i'd go back alone if i had the gun." "then it's lucky you left it behind. best go up the slope an' tell donovan what has happened here, so's he can send men to the old shaft. say to him that we'll be through in a couple of hours more, an' want him to start the pumps, for we're workin' in four feet of water." after stationing one of their number as guard the miners resumed their labor, and fred started toward the slope, bent on inducing donovan to take some steps for the relief of sam. wearied by the previous exertions he made but slow progress, and when he reached the breaker at least half an hour had elapsed. those who had been left to guard the mine were on duty in positions where their bodies would be sheltered in case of an attack with fire-arms, and in a group outside were forty or fifty of the rioters. "bill thomas wants to know if you will start the pumps? they are working in four feet of water," fred said, as he approached donovan. "it can't be done now if the whole level is flooded. these fellows have made two rushes, and are gettin' ready for another." "don't you suppose this is to prevent you from discovering that a portion of the rioters are getting in through the old shaft?" and fred told of what had occurred in the drift. "that's jest the size of it; but what can be done? we can't spare a man from here." "there are surely more at the store who would help us." "very likely; but they won't come while this crowd is here." "if mr. wright knew what was going on he could send a party to the shaft." "yes, if he knew it." "why not send him word?" "how?" this was a question. fred did not answer, and donovan continued: "there's no chance by which any one could get from here to the store, while that gang of murderers keep watch over all our movements." "it is nearly night. in an hour it will be too dark for them to see what is going on." "who will take the risk of trying to slip past them?" "i will." "you'll be in a worse box than sam is, if they catch you." "something must be done, and since you can't spare anybody to go to the poor fellow's assistance i'm ready to take my chances while trying to help him." donovan did not reply until after looking carefully around as if calculating the probabilities of success, and then he said: "i've a mind to let you attempt it. if the soldiers don't arrive before morning, and billings' crowd are coming through the old shaft as you say, we must have help soon, or give up the fight. there is a chance you will get past all right, and i'm certain we can expect no one to come unless we say it is impossible to hold out longer." "i am ready to go." "very well; wait until it is dark, an' then you may make a try for it." it would have pleased fred better, if he could have been actively employed at once, for the knowledge that sam was in the power of the rioters troubled him more than personal danger would have done; but nothing remained save to wait as donovan said, and he tried to be patient. from the men on guard he learned that mr. wright's house had been attacked; but the mob contented themselves with destroying the windows and setting fire to the stable. the building itself yet remained intact, and there was reason to believe no more outrages, except such as might be committed near the mine, would be committed. "them as are standin' in with billings don't really know what they want, except as he tells them," fred's informant said, "an' that's what makes things of this kind dangerous. if the men understood exactly the cause of such rows, there'd be little trouble." "but since they don't, what will be the result of this one?" fred asked. "that's more'n i can tell. the mob may quiet down, an' then again they may grow worse, so there's no sayin' what'll happen. anyhow, you don't want to take many chances on your way to the store." "i've got to help sam." "right you are; but at the same time you ain't called on to take too big risks. don't start unless things look favorable for gettin' through all right, 'cause cale billings ain't a nice sort of a man to meet when he's on the top of the heap." "sam is in his power." "how do you know?" "it is only reasonable to suppose so." "then all the more cause for you to keep away from him. i'd like to have some one to see the boss; but i haven't got the nerve to send a boy instead of goin' myself." since this was a direct reflection upon donovan, fred refrained from making any reply, and the conversation ceased. twice before dark the rioters made a demonstration in front of the slope, as if bent on effecting an entrance, and each time fred fancied more men were sent in the direction of the old shaft. it was not for him to make any suggestions, however, and with a heavy heart he watched the maneuvers, believing that each moment saw sam in more peril. a messenger was sent to the miners in the lower level telling them that the pumps could not be started, and urging all hands to hold the drift against the rioters; but that was everything which could be done under the circumstances, and the most vulnerable point was virtually left unguarded. when night came the lawless party built several fires between the slope and the shaft, very much as if they wished to show that they were on guard, and donovan motioned to fred as he walked a few paces down the drift. "i didn't want the others to hear what i said, for it's just as well they shouldn't know what a scrape we're in. if you can get to the store, tell mr. wright that he mustn't wait for the soldiers; there's no question but bill thomas' party have got their hands full keepin' back them as come in by the shaft, and it can't be long before we'll be snowed under. it's about twenty to one now, an' in case of a rush the matter would be settled mighty quick." "if i can leave the mouth of the slope without being seen there'll be no trouble." "half a dozen of us will go out a short bit, an' you shall follow on behind. there ought to be a chance of slippin' off, an' if there isn't we'll have to give it up, for i'm not willin' you should take too big risks." fred threw off his coat and vest that he might be in good condition for running, and then as the men marched out of the slope he crouched in the rear. the rioters made no demonstration; but stood ready to repel an attack, watching closely all the maneuvers, and donovan whispered to the boy: "it won't do to try it, lad. they are scattered around in such a way that you couldn't get a dozen yards before bein' seen." "i'm going to try it." "don't, lad, don't," several said quickly, and, fearing he might be forcibly detained, fred started. he went straight back from the slope, bending low in the vain hope of escaping observation, and having gained a distance of an hundred feet set off at full speed, forced to run in a half circle to reach the road. to those who were watching it seemed as if hardly a second elapsed before a great shout went up from the rioters. "the sneaks are sendin' for help!" "stop that boy!" "don't let him get away!" these and a dozen other orders were given at the same time, and those rioters who were nearest fred began the pursuit. "he'll never reach the store," donovan said sadly, as he led the way back to the slope when fred was swallowed up by the darkness. "even if these fellows don't overtake him there are plenty between here and there who'll hear the alarm." chapter ix joe brace during the first five minutes after he was locked in the short drift, sam thorpe gave himself up to unreasoning anger. he threw himself again and again upon the timbers as if believing it would be possible to force them apart, and shouted at the full strength of his lungs until he was literally unable to speak louder than a whisper. then recognizing the uselessness of such proceedings, he sat down to think over the matter calmly. "if fred succeeded in giving the alarm, i'm not in very much danger of being drowned out," he said to himself; "but if he was caught i can count on dying in about two hours." with this mental speech came the assurance that he had yet a hundred and twenty minutes in which to fight for life, and he resolved not to waste a single second. the lamp in his cap gave sufficient light for a thorough examination of his prison, and it was soon made. a solid wall of earth and slate surrounded him, the only outlet was through the doors, which were of planks and thickly studded with nails that they might be strong enough to resist a heavy pressure of water. his only weapon was a stout pocket knife; but even with a saw he could not have cut his way through. the hinges were next examined. they were fastened to large joists which in turn had been set firmly into the strata of slate. the only weak point he could find was where the two doors came together, and the flat bolt was exposed. its entire width and about an inch of its length could be seen thickly covered with rust, and here sam decided to direct his efforts. "there isn't much chance i can cut it through in two hours," he said; "but it's better to work than lay still thinking of what may happen." breaking the stoutest blade of his knife he began with the jagged surface to scratch at the iron. while cutting through the rust his progress was reasonable rapid; but on firm metal was very much like filing a boiler plate with a pin. then the blade of his knife was worn smooth, and he broke off another piece, repeating the operation until the steel had been used to the hilt. the bolt was cut nearly half through; but as he judged, two hours must have passed. "if they succeed in flooding the mine i shall still be a prisoner when the water comes," he muttered, and at that moment he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. two or more had come from the direction of the shaft, and halted near the door. "it's no use to try and fight our way into the drift through the hole," he heard one of the new-comers say, and recognized the voice as that of cale billings. "are you goin' to give up beat!" "not much. inside of an hour we'll have fifty men here, and while the fools think we are trying to get in by the slope a tunnel can be made from one of the smaller cuttings." "what good will that do?" "if i ain't mistaken we shall come out on the second level where it'll be no more than child's play to get the best of both crowds." "but suppose wright has sent for soldiers? i heard he telegraphed to the governor." "we'll be in possession of the mine, an' i reckon they'll be willin' to make terms with us, for a regiment couldn' drive us out." "well, what are you stoppin' here for?" "i want to see where that boy is. we mustn't lose him yet awhile." "he's in here." "an' i reckon he'll stay till we want him," billings replied with a laugh, after apparently examining the bolt. then the two men passed on, and sam began his slow task again. hope was strong in his breast, for he knew from the conversation that fred had succeeded in warning the miners. he used the small blade, and it wore away so quickly that there could be no chance it would last to complete the work. "if i could get a purchase on the door it might be broken open now the bolt is cut so much," he said, looking around once more. near the uprights was an extra piece of joist standing on end as if forming a portion of the side. the floor of the cutting was full of irregularities where the slate had been broken or taken out, and this gave him the opportunity to get the required purchase. with one end of the joist pressed firmly against a slight elevation, and the other on the doors just over the bolt, he clambered up until near the top, when all his weight and strength were brought into play. once, twice, he swayed up and down, and then inch by inch the metal yielded until the heavy timbers swung outward, and he was free so far as liberty of movement in the drift was concerned. at the moment when he emerged there was no one in the passage, and he hurriedly re-closed the doors that his escape might not be discovered by those who should pass. after some difficulty he succeeded in pushing the broken piece of iron into the sockets in such a manner that a casual observer would hardly notice anything wrong, and then, extinguishing the light in his cap, he went swiftly toward the shaft, arriving there just as half a dozen men were on the point of descending. crouching against the wall at one corner the new-comers failed to notice him; but it was impossible to ascend the rope ladder which had been let down, without attracting attention, because of the numbers who continued to arrive at irregular intervals. during an hour he waited, shrouded from view by the gloom, and then came the desired opportunity. two men returned from the further end of the drift, and ascended the ladder. "i'll follow them and run the risk of being recognized," he said to himself, and suiting the action to the words he climbed the network of rope immediately behind the second rioter. it was twilight when he arrived at the surface, and billings' forces were building a row of fires directly in front of the slope. to start toward the village immediately would be to take too many chances of detection, and sam loitered on the outskirts of the crowd watching for the desired opportunity, which came when fred left the slope to carry donovan's message to mr. wright. instantly the alarm was given sam started in pursuit, accompanied by a dozen others, and only by outstripping the rioters could he hope to make his escape. fred ran as he had never done before, with the howling mob at his heels, and foremost among them was sam. two men were in advance of the escaping prisoner; but by an apparent misstep while he ran alongside the second, the rioter was overturned, and but one remained; the others being so far in the rear as not to count in the chase. fred glanced over his shoulder now and then; but the darkness prevented him from recognizing his friend until the latter deliberately threw himself in front of the pursuer, and a tumble was the result. "keep on it's me--sam!" the butty boy shouted, as he scrambled to his feet before the man had fully recovered his senses, and with a cry of glad surprise, fred asked: "how did you get away?" "it's too long a story to tell now when we need all our breath. are you trying to reach home?" "no; the store." "then you know what billings' crowd are intendin' to do." "yes, and help is needed at once." sam made no reply. both the men he had over-thrown were on their feet again, and, with a dozen others, were close in the rear, making every effort to overtake the fugitives. the race was virtually won, however, unless other rioters were met on the road. the boys yet had thirty or forty yards the advantage, and before this could be overcome they were within sight of the store, from which, attracted by the shouts, came mr. wright and a number of employees. all of these latter were armed, and the pursuers halted at a respectful distance, while the boys dashed into the building breathless and nearly exhausted. it was several moments before fred could repeat the message donovan had sent, and this was hardly done when a message from the governor arrived, stating that no troops could be sent until the following day. "i'm afraid those at the mine will have to take care of themselves," mr. wright said, when he learned of the condition of affairs there. "if we should leave here, or even divide our force, the store as well as the offices might be sacked." "but the mine will be flooded if billings succeeds with the tunnel." "it can't be helped now. we should need, at least, fifty men to effect an entrance, and eighteen is the full number who can be trusted." "those who are there may be drowned." "there is no danger of that since all hands are on the alert for the first signs of trouble." "then sam and i may as well go home." "it would be a good idea to tell brace that he must try to get here unobserved. the men already believe he is in town, and i am afraid they may discover his hiding place, when there's bound to be mischief done." disheartened, because after incurring all the danger no real good had been done, fred motioned to sam, and left the store. the streets of the village presented an unusual appearance. nearly every house was open and lighted as if for a general illumination, while the sidewalks were crowded with throngs of excited women and children. "this would be a good time for skip to pay you off," sam said, as they walked swiftly along. "while so much is goin' on they could do pretty near as they pleased without fear of being stopped." "what he might do seems to be of little consequence compared with the danger which threatens the poor fellows at the mine. if the lower level should be flooded while they were guarding the drift there's every chance all would be drowned." "it don't do to think of such things when there's nothing which can be done to help them. it might be worse, an' there's some comfort in that." "i fail to see anything very cheering in such an idea," fred replied, and then the two were at mrs. byram's home. the door was locked; but the lightest of taps sufficed to attract the widow's attention, and the visitor received no less warm a reception than did the son. brace was so impatient to learn what had been done by the rioters that he descended the stairs immediately upon hearing the boys' voices, and while mrs. byram prepared supper, fred and sam gave an account of their own adventures, as well as all which was known concerning the mob. "so i'm to sneak over to the store, eh?" the miner asked, as the recital was concluded. "that was what mr. wright said." "i'll do nothin' of the kind." "why not?" "because i've had enough of hidin' like a fellow who had done somethin' wrong." "but it isn't safe to show yourself." "i'll take the chances, an' see what billings' gang can do." "don't think of such a thing," mrs. byram cried in alarm. "you might be killed." "a fellow who has worked a matter of half a dozen years at farley's can't be knocked out so easy." "are you going into the street?" "yes, an' to the mine if i take the notion." "what could you do alone against two or three hundred men?" "show that there is one fellow who ain't afraid of the whole murderin' gang." "that would be the height of foolishness." "i can't help it," was the dogged reply, and brace rose to his feet as if to leave the house. both sam and fred sprang up to detain him; but before a word could be spoken by either, angry shouts and cries were heard in the distance. "they are up to fresh mischief," sam exclaimed, as he cautiously pulled back the curtains to look out. "there are a dozen of the rioters on the sidewalk," he cried, "and they are evidently watching us." brace ran to sam's side, and the instant he showed himself some of the men shouted: "here's the traitor! we've got him caged!" "string him up!" "yank him out so's the bosses can see how we treat spies!" these cries were echoed by the body of men who were approaching on a run, and mrs. byram said, as she drew brace from the window: "they have learned you are here, and in their mad excitement murder may be committed." then came from the street as if to give emphasis to her words: "hang him! hang him! he's worse than the bosses!" "you must go to the store now," sam cried. "what's the good? they will get in there as easily as here." "mr. wright and his men are well armed and can protect you." "there has been no shootin' done yet, an' i'll not be the cause of the first bullet. it is better to give myself up at once." "you shall not," and sam clasped the miner around the waist. "try the back door; it will be possible to give them the slip if you hurry." brace hesitated a moment as if unwilling to display anything which might be mistaken for cowardice, and then fred and sam literally forced him toward the door. "while you run i will attract the attention of the men," mrs. byram said, as she showed herself at the window, and the miner sprang out at the very instant when half a dozen of the rioters entered the gate. "tryin' to give us the slip, eh?" one of the party cried, as all rushed forward. it was too late for brace to return; in a twinkling the men had surrounded him. fred and sam saw a short but sharp struggle, and before they could so much as make a move toward going to his assistance he was overpowered. attracted by the cries of their companions, those at the front of the house came around swiftly, and brace was half carried, half forced into the street. mrs. byram tried to plead with the mob; but they pushed her aside without ceremony as they shouted: "we'll show them at the store how we deal with spies and traitors." "we've got the rope and the sneak, now we only need two or three of the bosses to fix the thing up brown." "do you suppose they really mean to hang him?" fred asked in a tone of awe, and sam replied sadly: "i'm afraid they will. billings always was down on him, and the men are so excited as to hardly know what they are about, so anything is possible." chapter x the rescue the capture of brace seemed to inflame the passions of the mob, and not even while the buildings were being sacked was the town in such a state of excitement. by the time the prisoner had reached the vacant lot in front of the store it appeared as if every man, woman, and child in the village were on the street. sam and fred felt impelled to follow the howling, shrieking mob, although it was not probable they could aid the unfortunate man, and both pressed as near as possible. "billings' gang haven't got possession of the mine yet," sam whispered. "how do you know?" "because if that had happened we would see bill thomas or donovan around here somewhere." "perhaps they have been made prisoners." "it isn't likely. even if they couldn't hold their own it would be possible to retreat in good order, armed as they were." "don't you suppose mr. wright will try to do something if these fellows really mean to hang brace?" "they are bound to help him; but i don't see what can be done against so many." owing to the crowd around him it was impossible for the boys to see the prisoner. the men swayed to and fro as if fighting among themselves, and after a time the reason of these movements was made plain. two long pieces of timber had been lashed together at one end, and set up like the letter v inverted. these were held in place by some of the mob, and drove through the fastenings at the top was a long rope. billings was on hand acting as master of ceremonies, and when this portion of the work had been finished, he shouted: "half a dozen of you take hold of the rope, an' when i count three, string him up." in an agony of apprehension fred looked toward the store. no one appeared at the door; it seemed as if the bosses had abandoned joe brace. "stand ready, boys!" billings shouted. "we'll soon show 'em how we serve out spies." there was a moment of painful silence, during which more than one of the mob acted as if frightened because of the terrible crime about to be committed, and then an old miner cried: "hold on! this thing has gone far enough!" "what do you mean?" billings asked angrily. "just this: i joined your crowd to stand up for my rights not to commit murder. there's been mischief done already, an' the most of us will be sorry when we've had time to think the matter over." "hold your tongue and go home like the rest of the old women." "i'll stay where i am, an' you'll be the one to go home if the boys take my advice." then continuing, the old man reminded the throng that he had worked at farley's longer than the majority could remember. he spoke of the fact, that until this day, there had been no mob rule; intimated that they were blindly following one in whom very few ever reposed confidence, and asked if they were willing to hang a friend simply because billings commanded it. the speech was a long one, and before twenty words were spoken as many determined-looking men gathered around brace to prevent any harm from being done. "don't listen to the old fool," billings cried, in a voice hoarse with rage; but now very few paid any attention to him, and, when the prisoner's friend finished his appeal there was no danger a human life would be taken. some of those who had been most eager to drag brace away unloosened his bonds, and at least a hundred stood ready to defend him. at this juncture mr. wright came from the store, and the mob were in the proper frame of mind to listen. he explained the true condition of affairs, told exactly why the works had been shut down, and finished by promising to let the matter be forgotten, regardless of the amount of property destroyed, in case the mob should disperse. "and if we go home, what then?" billings asked, sneeringly. "we'll starve to please you, eh?" "those who attempted to flood the mine will not starve at farley's, for all in the plot must leave. not one of that party can work here; but the others shall be treated as before." "so we're to be driven out?" "certainly. it isn't probable any honest miner would care to work with those who may succeed in drowning their fellows simply to gratify a spite against the officers of the company." "it will take more than you to drive us away." "i can at least prevent you from entering the mine, and that i shall do even if it is necessary to station guards entirely around the property. are you willing to go home now, men, with the assurance that work shall be resumed in the morning." "ay, that we are, an' glad of the chance. it was out of the fryin'-pan into the fire when we left one set of bosses to take up with cale billings an' his cronies," a miner shouted and immediately the mob dispersed, leaving the leaders standing in the lot, evidently consulting as to how their lost power might be regained. when brace was at liberty he joined sam and fred, and the three walked to the latter's home, neither speaking until they were inside. "do you think the strike is really over?" mrs. byram asked, after fred told her of what had occurred. "it is so far as the majority of the miners are concerned," brace replied; "but there's no telling what billings may contrive to do between now and morning." "i suppose those men are still in the mine trying to overpower donovan's party." "most likely; but now that wright has got the upper hand there's little chance they'll be allowed to stay very long." despite the excitement on every hand the occupants of mrs. byram's cottage were glad to retire at the first opportunity, and before the tumult in the street had died away they sought the needed repose. it had been decided that brace should remain for a while, since it might be dangerous to meet billings and his friends while they were smarting under the sting of defeat. at the usual hour next morning the whistle sounded, summoning the miners to work, and every one responded save those who had been warned to leave the town. mr. wright was at the entrance to the slope, and had a pleasant greeting for each man and boy, causing more than one to look ashamed because of the part taken in the wanton destruction of his property. joe brace and sam went into the drift, leaving fred with chunky, and that young fellow said, as he seated himself at the chute: "things have been pretty lively 'round here, eh?" "i should say so. were you out with the regulators?" "i saw 'em once or twice." "if you'll take my advice you'll leave that crowd. skip miller's as bad as billings." "don't speak so loud; he's lookin' over this way, an' may make things hot for you if much is said." "if he didn't do anything yesterday i guess he ain't dangerous." "he couldn't find you." "then he was lookin' for me?" "that's what i heard some of the fellers say." "i should think he'd seen enough of such business; but if he hasn't i'll have to take care of myself." "be careful," chunky whispered. "he an' some of the other fellers think you are more of a spy than joe brace was." "and they mean to flog me for it?" "skip says you told mr. wright about their droppin' you in the shaft." "hadn't i the right to? do you suppose i'll let them try to kill me, and never open my mouth about it?" "well, it ain't safe, for he's got a big crowd." "then he hasn't had enough of the riot?" "it ain't that; but he says the regulators have got to stand up for their rights, an' you haven't paid your footin' yet." "and i don't intend to. if any of them try to make me it'll go hard with them." at this point the machinery was started, the stream of coal and slate began to flow through the chute, and the breaker boys were forced to attend to their work. several times during the morning donovan spoke to fred as he passed, and at twelve o'clock, when all hands were indulging in the forty minutes "nooning," and chunky had crossed over to speak with skip, the breaker boss ate his lunch by the new boy's side. "you didn't come back again last night," he said. "no, sir. after brace got away from the mob he and sam went home with me. we didn't think you'd need us when the trouble was nearly settled." "neither did we. as soon as the men found their senses mr. wright brought a lot of them up here, an' we soon got rid of billings' friends." "had they begun to dig a tunnel?" "bless you, yes, an' were within a dozen feet of bill thomas' party when we found them. if the row had lasted two hours longer we couldn't be workin' here to-day, an' some of the boys would be under water." "do you think the whole matter is finished?" "yes, so far as the majority of the men are concerned; but billings swears he won't be driven out of town, an' he may manage to do more mischief." "why don't mr. wright have him arrested?" "because he gave his word that nothin' should be done to them as went home peaceably, an' he couldn't jump on billings without bringing all hands into the scrape. 'cordin' to my way of thinkin' we've got off cheap." "was mr. wright's house damaged very much?" "it'll take a good many hundred dollars to put it in the same condition it was before; but money doesn't count when there's been no blood spilled." "do you think there is any chance the men will try to hurt brace now?" "that's hard to say. you're in as much danger as he is, for they know that you and sam stood in with us, an' it's just possible some dirty trick will be played. you an' bill thomas' butty are to stop at the office to-night; mr. wright wants to see you." "what for?" "he'll have to explain that. it's time to go to work again; be careful of yourself." donovan walked away as the whistle sounded, and chunky came back looking very stern. "you'll get into more trouble by standin' in with the bosses," he said, in what sounded like a threatening tone. "does skip miller think he can say who i shall talk with?" "whether he does or not none of the fellers like bosses' pets." "even if i was a 'pet,' as you call it, i can't see how it concerns any one but myself; almost anything is better than being a regulator." "i've told you what the fellers think, an' that ends it; look out for yourself after this." "i can't accuse you of ever looking out for me, not even when a hint might have saved me from a pounding." chunky made no reply, and fred understood that, although the riot was ended, his position in the community had not been bettered. one sample of mob rule evidently pleased the regulators, and they were prepared to assert their alleged rights more strongly than ever. when the day's work was finished joe brace and sam came for fred, and he walked out of the breaker in their company, while skip and his adherents stood near the building ready to take advantage of the first opportunity for mischief. "don't think we shan't get a whack at you," the leader cried. "them fellers won't allers be 'round, an' when our time does come things'll be worse than they was in the shaft." "if i ever hear of your touchin' fred i'll take a hand in the row myself," brace said threateningly. "oh, yes, you will," skip replied with a leer, and then led his followers down the road, each one making some insulting remark as he passed. "i'll straighten that fellow out," joe said angrily. "he's got the will to do most anything, an' we must take him down a peg before it'll be safe for you to move around." "don't say anything to them, for it will only make matters worse. i'll see to it that they don't get another chance at me. sam, mr. wright wants to see us at the store. will you wait for us, joe?" "indeed, i will. till things get settled i want to keep my eye on both you boys." the superintendent was in his office, at one end of the building, when the party entered, and he beckoned them to join him. "don't hang back, brace, for i wish to see you as well. i want to take your butty away, and give you fred instead. how would you like that?" "first class, sir." "i wish to have a few whom i can trust, on the lower level. i don't ask for any spying: but expect to be informed if there is any serious mischief brewing. there may yet be some who will aid billings to gain his revenge. sam is to remain with thomas; but will work near you." "very well, sir," and brace rose to go, thinking the interview was at an end; but mr. wright detained him. "the most important matter is concerning the old shaft and drifts, from which points very much mischief might be done. sit down while we talk of it." at this moment skip miller entered unobserved by those in the office, and, seeing the occupants of the little room, made his way behind a pile of goods where he could hear very much of what the superintendent said. chapter xi billings and skip joe brace did not appear to think there was much to fear from the late rioters, so far as the possibility of their making an entrance through the old shaft was concerned. "this end of the gallery is pretty well filled up already," he said, "an' with a few loads of slate it can be shut off entirely, more especially after the doors are barred." "it is not from that portion of the mine that i apprehend any trouble. look here," and mr. wright spread on the desk before him a plan of the workings. "at this point you can see that an old drift runs parallel with, and not more than three yards from our lower cut. the veins probably come together farther on." "it wouldn't take a man very long to work his way through," joe said, reflectively. "and not knowing where an attempt may be made, it will be very difficult to prevent mischief." "unless the old shaft should be guarded." "to do that we should be obliged to station men entirely around our works, for here is the abandoned slope, and farther down the hill two or three places where an entrance could be effected." "but billings an' his crowd don't know all this." "possibly not; yet there are many of the older men who could tell the story." joe shook his head in perplexity. [illustration: "you four are to act as sentinels," said the superintendent. "study this map and you will hit upon a scheme."] "i am not warranted in hiring a large force of men as guards," mr. wright continued, "and we must do that from the inside. you and thomas, with these boys as helpers, shall work on the lower level, and i will take care that none but true men are near by." "how will that mend matters?" "you four are to act as sentinels. it makes little difference how many loads you take out, for the company will pay day wages." "even then i don't see how we can do anything." "you and thomas must form some plan. study this map, and i am confident you will hit upon a scheme." "is there any chance that the drift's choked with gas?" "very little." joe was thoroughly puzzled, and after several moments of silence mr. wright said: "get your supper now, and then talk the matter over with thomas." at this intimation that the interview was at an end, the miner left the office followed by the two boys, and when they were out of the store skip miller came from his hiding place without having been seen by the superintendent or his clerks. the leader of the regulators lounged carelessly toward the door until satisfied no one was paying any particular attention to him, when he stepped briskly out, and walked rapidly to a groggery situated at the farther end of the town. here, as he had anticipated, was cale billings and a select party of friends, all of whom were discussing their late defeat. skip did not care to state the reason for his coming in the presence of the entire party, and waited patiently in one corner of the room until it should be possible to beckon the leader out of doors. "wright may think we're whipped," billings was saying; "but that's where he makes a big mistake. he can't drive us out of this town, no matter how much he may blow, an' it won't be many days before we'll show what's what." "there's little chance for us the way things look now," one of the party said, with a laugh. "how do you know? the folks 'round here have seen what i can do, an' they'll soon find out that there's a good deal of fight left." as he said this billings looked first at one and then another to note the effect of his bold words, and in doing so chanced to see skip, who immediately made a series of what he intended should be mysterious gestures. "what's the matter with you?" the man asked, angrily; but instead of replying, skip placed his finger on his lips and quickly left the room. it was several moments before the leader understood he was wanted, and when this fact dawned upon him he followed, meeting the boy a few yards from the entrance. "was you cuttin' up them monkey shines for me?" he asked in a surly tone. "of course." "well, what's wanted?" "you jest said as how you'd like to get square with the company." "s'posen i did? does that concern you?" "p'raps i heard somethin' 'round to the store you'd want to know." "say, if you've got anything to tell, out with it, for i can't fool away my time with you." "first i've got a trade to make." "talk quick." "do you know the new breaker boy? the one what's so thick with wright an' joe brace?" "yes." "i want to get square with him, an' if you'll help me do it i'll tell what i heard a lot of 'em saying." "was it anything i'd like to know?" "it'll show jest how you can get the best of the whole crowd." "then i'll do what i can, an' be glad of the chance, 'cause i've got a little score to settle with him myself." skip no longer hesitated; but repeated in detail all he had heard while hiding in the store, billings listening with closest attention. "that's the best piece of news i've heard for a year, my boy," the latter said, "an' you sha'n't be the loser by tellin' me. if you've got the nerve to do a little work after everything is ready, both the breaker boss an' this new feller shall be where they can't help themselves." the leader of the regulators felt exceedingly proud that the rioter should ask him to participate in the plot, and promised, without the least show of hesitation, to do anything which might be required of him. "how long before you'll be ready?" he asked. "it may be a week; but you drop in here for a minute every evenin' so's i can talk about the thing if the plans don't work. there's no use to be in a hurry over sich a job as this." "i'll show up reg'lar," skip cried gleefully, and then, as billings re-entered the groggery, he hurried away to tell the good news to some of his chums. during this plotting joe brace and bill thomas were at fred's home discussing the best means of following mr. wright's instructions. the plan of the works was studied carefully; but in it was found no solution to the problem, and when they retired that evening nothing definite had been decided upon. the night shift went to work as usual, and but for the evidences of wanton destruction a stranger would hardly have mistrusted that farley's had lately been a scene of rioting. on the following morning fred passed through the breaker to speak to donovan before entering the slope, and skip miller displayed the greatest excitement on seeing him. "i don't know how it could have happened," the breaker boss said, "for i haven't told even my own wife that you was to be joe's butty; but these young villains know all about it. i've heard skip tellin' his cronies, an' i'm sure they're up to some mischief. be careful, an' don't go outside alone, leastways, not till the business of the riot has blown over." "i'll look to it that they haven't a chance to do much harm," fred replied, laughingly, as he passed on to learn the first duties of a miner. joe, bill, and sam accompanied fred to his new working place, and the former said as they were being let down the incline: "i hear billings swears he won't leave town." "i passed him on my way home last night," bill added, "and he warned me agin keepin' sam as my butty." "why?" "he says he is a spy, hand in glove with you, an' that all who work with them as give information to the bosses will catch it rough." bill thomas laughed as he said this; but joe looked serious. "i don't like this way of working. the lower level is bad enough without thinkin' all the time that somebody is tryin' to do a fellow up." "nonsense. barkin' dogs don't often bite, an' so long as we know he means mischief there ain't much chance of trouble. the thing to be figgered out is, how're we goin' to fix this job?" again the two men discussed the situation, walking along the drift with the plans before them, while the boys were forced to be content with listening to the conversation. it was finally decided that they should work here and there along the entire cut, trusting that it would be possible to hear if any one began to dig on the opposite side. "it's a case of keepin' quiet an' listenin' for suspicious sounds," bill said. "we won't try to get out coal to-day, an', perhaps, by night mr. wright will have a better plan." "by watchin' billings we could get some kind of an idea as to when he was likely to begin operations." "donovan promised to see to that part of it." "then we'll kinder lay 'round till we get the hang of the place. you boys go on to the end of the drift an' come back. don't make any noise." the forenoon was spent in what was little more than patrol duty, and when mr. wright came below he approved of their plans. nothing better was suggested, and until night-fall all four paced to and fro, the other miners having been withdrawn from the drift. when evening came skip did not wait to see if fred came out; but hurried off to the groggery where he was made happy by billings' extreme friendliness. "the leader of the mob arose immediately upon seeing him, and led the way outside, saying when they were some distance from the building: "i've been thinkin' over what you told me, an' am certain we can work this thing all right." "when?" "in a day or two. if you could manage to get hold of that paper the job might be done in a jiffy." "but joe an' bill have got it." "s'posen they have. a smart lad like you oughter find some way to get at it, an' it would be worth your while to try." "it couldn't be done." "p'raps not by you; but i know of some, no older than you, who'd have it before morning. of course, i don't blame a boy for not tryin' when he hasn't the nerve----" "see here," skip cried, impatiently, "haven't i showed grit enough to do most anything?" "if you have, prove it by gettin' hold of that paper." "i can't see what you want it for?" "because it shows us all the levels. with it we can tell jest where to begin work." "i'll make a try for it anyhow; but i can't figger any way to get at it." "watch for a chance. they won't keep it in their hands all the time, and, by knockin' off work now an' then, loafin' 'round near where they are, you'll soon have your hands on it." "you won't go back on me if i get into trouble?" "don't worry about that; i never shake a friend." with this assurance skip walked away feeling very happy because of the manner in which billings spoke; but sadly perplexed as to the best course to accomplish the desired end. chapter xii a singular accident two trustworthy men had been selected from the night shift to keep guard on the lower level during the time between sunset and sunrise, and about an hour before the relieving whistle sounded, not having heard any suspicious noises, they lounged down toward the slope where the miners were at work. here, paying but little attention to what was going on around them, they conversed with the laborers, or smoked pipes as black as their faces, in order to while away the moments which must elapse before the labor was ended. men were passing and re-passing on every hand, and in the darkness no one saw a small figure, in whose cap the lamp was not lighted, run swiftly from the foot of the slope up the drift where the sentinels should have been. on either side of the passage shallow cuttings had been made that the miners might step aside to avoid the cars as they were drawn to and fro. into one of these the figure with the unlighted cap glided, and, crouching in the farthest corner was screened from view unless a careful search should be made. when the day shift came on duty chunky reported to the breaker boss that skip miller could not come to work on this day. "why not?" donovan asked sharply. "'cause he's got to do somethin' at home. he told me to tell you." "when did you see him?" "last night." "where?" "over by taylor's." "what were you doin' at that grogshop?" "nothin'. i was jest walkin' around, an' met him." "look here, chunky, it will be best for you to keep away from that place. no decent man or boy would go there, an' i'd be sorry to know you trained with the regulators. i've got my eye on them fellers, an' when trade is dull they'll be the first to get their walkin' papers." "if father don't care what i do, it ain't any business of yours, so long as i work from whistle to whistle." "that's very true; but i shall make it my business to see what your father has to say about it." this threat had the effect of checking the almost insolent air chunky had begun to display, and he went to his place at the chute very meekly. while this brief conversation was being held joe and bill, with their helpers, entered the lower level where the careless sentinels reported matters as being quiet. "we haven't heard more'n a rat since you left," one of them said. "i don't believe billings has got the nerve to try any funny business, an' in this case mr. wright is more frightened than hurt." "that's a good fault, matey," bill replied gravely. "it's better to have half a dozen of us nosin' around for a week or two, than run the risk of what cale an' his friends may do." "oh, i ain't kickin'; but it don't seem reasonable they could get into the old drift, for it must be choked with gas." "by findin' that out we might save a good deal of work," joe replied, quickly. "it wouldn't take long to cut through where the wall is thinnest." "you're right mate, an' we'll get at it now. boys, go over to the blacksmith's for four shovels," bill added as he pulled the plans from his pocket. sam and fred obeyed, and while they were absent the two men studied the drawing for at least the hundredth time. save for those who were seated on a block of coal poring over the paper, the drift was deserted, and the one who had secreted himself in the cutting crept silently forward until it was possible to see what the miners were doing. as a matter of course this party was skip miller, and he said to himself, with a chuckle of satisfaction: "with all day before me it'll be queer if i can't get what billings wants." when sam and fred returned bill had decided at which point the excavation should be made, and he said, designating a spot hardly more than a dozen yards from where skip was hidden: "if the plan is co'rect this oughter be our place. we'll try it anyhow. you boys tell one of the drivers to bring up a car, for we don't want to choke the drift with dirt." then bill stuck his pick in the wall, which was made up of earth and slate. skip, who sat directly opposite, had a full view of all that was done. when the car had been brought into position bill told sam and fred to shovel into it what he and joe threw from the cutting, and soon all four were working industriously. before the time for "nooning" arrived it became necessary to shore up the top of the tunnel lest the mass of earth should fall and bury the laborers, and when this was done both the men entered the excavation, which was now twelve feet in length. in this confined space the air was oppressively warm, and the miners threw off their blouses, leaving them in the drift near the entrance. skip knew that in the pocket of the one worn by bill was the paper he had been instructed to steal, and he watched eagerly for an opportunity to creep up unobserved. while sam and fred were at work it was impossible to do this; but the car had been nearly filled, and in a short time it would be necessary to get another. the men could no longer throw the dirt from where they were working to the entrance, and fred had been ordered to stand midway the cutting that he might pass it on to sam. "i'll run this car down, an' get another if you'll give me a lift at starting it," sam finally shouted, and fred came out. the incline was sufficient to carry the rude vehicle to the switches at the foot of the slope after it was once set in motion, and, using a crowbar as a lever, this was soon accomplished. sam ran behind it a few paces, and then clambered up to the brake where he could control the movements of the heavy load. fred watched him until the tiny flame in his cap was lost to view in the distance, and then he returned to the tunnel, unconscious that skip had glided from his hiding-place to follow closely behind. it was necessary the leader of the regulators should work with the utmost celerity, for if fred turned he would distinguish the dark form even in the gloom. skip had already formed a plan. he crept close behind the boy whom he hated, until the latter entered the tunnel. then stooping he picked up the crowbar, and raised it for a blow. in this position he waited until fred was in the middle of the tunnel clambering over the pile of dirt to get at his shovel. the time had come. swinging the heavy bar once around he struck the bottom of the joist which supported the shoring over head, and the heavy timbers, put up insecurely because they were to be used but temporarily, fell with a crash. the jar disturbed the earth at the top, and large masses fell, completely filling the entrance, burying alive those who were on the inside. "that settles them, i reckon," skip cried, gleefully, as, unmindful of the blinding dust, he sprang toward bill's blouse. to find the plan of the mine was but the work of a moment, and then, with the precious document thrust in the bosom of his shirt, he started at full speed toward the entrance to the slope. the crash of the timbers and earth was by no means an unusual sound in the mine, where heavy masses of coal were constantly being detached by blasts, and the leader of the regulators had good reason to believe it would be unnoticed. his only care was to avoid sam, in case he should return sooner than might be expected, and to this end he darted from one cutting to another, until having reached a point from which, at the proper moment, he could gain the slope. here he remained partially screened from view until the empty car, which sam was to send to the new cutting, had passed on its way up the drift. now he listened intently, and in a few moments came the cry: "a break! a break, and three men buried! help on the lower level!" those who were near enough to hear this appeal sent the alarm from drift to drift up the slope, until the entire mine seemed to be ringing with the words: "help is needed on the lower level!" in view of all that happened, together with the knowledge that if any attack was made by the billings' gang it would be on the lower level, every workman ran with all speed to the bottom of the slope, and among the foremost was mr. wright. "what has happened?" he asked of a blacksmith, who was darting toward the chamber in which the tools were stored. "bill thomas, joe brace, and a butty are buried in a cutting the fools were makin' up there a piece." "go back," mr. wright cried to the swarm of men which came down the slope like a living stream. "not more than twelve can work to advantage, and we have that number here." "but we want to do our share," an old miner replied. "you shall have a chance if we do not find them soon. it is not safe to have so many here at once." all hands understood the reason for this caution, and as the crowd turned to ascend skip miller slipped from his hiding place and joined them. he did not fear detection while every one was in such a state of excitement, and even if he should be recognized it would be only natural for him to have followed the men at the first alarm. it was necessary, however, that he should avoid donovan, and with the utmost caution he emerged from the slope, running as fast as his legs would carry him on reaching the open air. not until taylor's groggery was near at hand did he slacken speed, and then, assuming as best he could an air of composure, he opened the door cautiously to peep in. cale billings was the only customer, and on seeing skip, he cried: "come in, lad. i reckon you're here to see me." struggling hard to prevent his heavy breathing from being observed by the proprietor, the leader of the regulators entered, and whispered: "there's been an accident on the lower level, an' two or three shut in." "explosion?" "the top of the cuttin' fell in, an' it won't be a easy job to dig em out." "was you there?" sam nodded his head in a triumphant manner. "you're a lad after my own heart," billings said, approvingly, as he extended a huge, grimy hand for the boy to shake. "if half the men here had your spunk wright wouldn't have got the best of us so easy. did you fix that thing i told you about?" skip nodded his head, and again billings shook his hand. "that's what i call business. let's have it." the leader of the regulators was about to draw the dearly-earned document from his pocket when the proprietor of the place interfered. "none of that," he said sharply. "there's somethin' goin' on what ain't straight, an' i won't have it in my shop." "do you mean to go back on a friend?" billings asked in an injured tone. "not a bit of it; but the company are lookin' after you mighty sharp, cale, an' i don't want to get in trouble. there's plenty room out of doors." "all right, the shop belongs to you; but it may be the losin' of a good customer," and billings walked out with skip close at his heels. "now give me the paper." when the document was delivered the man glanced at it to make sure it was the one wanted, and then said in a fatherly tone: "i reckon you've fixed things to suit yourself if the new breaker boy was in the cuttin' when the roof fell." "they're diggin' for him now; but i'm goin' to get the worst of this job." "how so?" "taylor will blow the whole thing, an' then wright will know it was me." "ain't i here to protect yer?" "yes; but----" "don't worry, my son. go into the breaker as if nothin' had happened." "i can't 'cause i sent word i wouldn't come to-day." "then keep out of sight till night, and meet me on the railroad track after dark. we'll have this job mighty nigh done before morning." billings was walking toward the slope, and not daring to follow him any farther, skip ran swiftly in the opposite direction, wondering where he could hide until sunset. for the first time he began to fear the consequences of his cruel deed, and the thought that the officers of the law might soon be in search of him was by no means reassuring. he sought the shelter of the thicket farther up the hill where a view of the slope could be had, and there he waited, expecting each moment to see lifeless bodies brought from the mine. chapter xiii buried alive at the moment when skip miller knocked away the joist which supported the timbers at the top of the tunnel, fred had stooped to pick up his shovel, and this position saved him from being instantly killed. one end of the shoring plank was yet held by the upright placed in the center of the cutting, and it remained at an angle, although pinning him down, while the earth covered him completely. for a moment he was at a loss to know what had happened, and then he heard, as if from afar off, joe calling him by name. "here i am under the timber," he replied. "are you hurt much?" "i think not; but i shall stifle to death if the dirt isn't taken away soon." "it ain't a sure thing that you won't stifle even then," he heard bill say sharply. "take hold, mate, an' let's get him from beneath while we have a chance to breathe." then the grating of the shovels was distinguished, and pound by pound the weight was removed until nothing save the timber held him down. "can you get out now?" joe asked, and his voice sounded strangely indistinct. "not till the joist is pulled away." "when that is done it's safe to say tons of the roof will follow," bill muttered, and joe asked: "does it hurt you much, lad?" "the edges are cutting into my back terribly." "grin an' bear it as long as you can. our only chance for life is to break through the wall into the old tunnel; but if that timber is taken away it's good-bye for all hands." "then don't bother about me. it's better one died than three." there was no reply to this. the men were digging at the barrier of earth with feverish energy, and each instant respiration became more difficult. the slight amount of air which filtered through the bank of slate and sand was no more than sufficient for one pair of lungs. the darkness was profound. the lamps had been extinguished by the shock, and five minutes later it was impossible to re-light them. the oxygen had become so nearly exhausted that a match would not burn. fred bit his lips to prevent an outcry. the huge timber was crushing him slowly but surely, and the pain was intense. each instant the blows of the men grew fainter. strength and even the power of movement was rapidly succumbing to the noxious vapor. joe was the first to give up, and as the pick fell from his nerveless hands he said faintly: "it's all over, lads. we might as well pull the timber from fred, and die at the same moment." "don't weaken, mate," bill said, imploringly. "who knows but we're within a few inches of the other drift." "even if that's true, the chances are we'll be stifled by the gas." "the alarm may be given in time to save us from the entrance." "sam can't have come back yet, an' before any one knows what has happened we shall be dead." joe had lost all courage and the apathy of despair was upon him. his words robbed fred of the last hope, and as it fled consciousness deserted him. bill delivered a few more feeble blows with the pick, and then he in turn sank to the ground. the hand of death was very nearly upon them, and the agonies of dissolution already passed. within a few feet of where the unconscious men lay, willing hands were working at the obstruction. no more than three could labor at once, but these were relieved every two minutes, in order that their energy might not be impaired by weariness, and meanwhile others shoveled the slate and earth into cars, that the drift might be kept clear. mr. wright personally assisted in the labor, and it was he who began the cheering which ensued when an aperture was made in the barrier. "at it with a will, boys," he shouted, "but be careful about removing the timber, for some of the poor fellows may be beneath it." the foul air rushing out nearly overcame the laborers, but the eager rescuers heeded not their own peril, and the moment finally came when the unconscious ones were fully exposed to view. "pass out the men, and then dig beneath the boy; he must be released in that manner, otherwise we may all share their fate," and mr. wright shoveled the earth carefully away from fred, while the others carried joe and bill into the drift. from his place of concealment on the hillside skip miller saw a party of men come out of the slope bearing an ominous looking burden. "one of them is dead," he whispered to himself, as his face paled. then came another party, and a few seconds later the third, each carrying a similar load, marched down the road leading to the village. the sight nearly overpowered skip; he shook as if in an ague fit, and after staring at the sad spectacle until the men had passed from view, he turned and ran through the grove, believing the officers were close upon him. the news that two miners and a boy had probably been killed spread through the village rapidly, and cale billings was in taylor's groggery when one of the late rioters brought the intelligence. "it's a wonder they don't accuse us of havin' somethin' to do with the accident," the newcomer added, and the proprietor said sternly: "i don't want to drive customers away, but if any who come here have had a hand in murder, they'd better not show their heads 'round this place again." billings looked disturbed, but made no reply. although having had no direct share in the crime, he knew he was really an accomplice, and the knowledge that taylor might inform against him was by no means pleasant. it was eight o'clock in the evening when skip ventured to come down from the hillside, and he looked like a boy who had been very ill. even at this late hour he did not dare to walk through the village, but skulked around the outskirts until he saw chunky, whom he hailed in a whisper. "where have you been?" fred's chute mate asked in surprise. "i had some work on the other side of the hill." "have you been there all day?" "yes. jest got back. are those fellows dead!" ordinarily chunky was not quick to arrive at conclusions, but now he asked in a suspicious tone: "how did you know anything about it if you've jest got back?" "oh, i heard from some of the fellows." "who?" "never mind," and skip spoke sharply. "did they all get killed?" "none of 'em; but the doctor says fred won't be over it for three or four days. joe an' bill are both in bed, though they'll be out in the morning." "does wright know who did it?" "did what?" "why, knock--whatever was done." "i thought the roof of a cuttin' fell in 'cause it wasn't shored up enough." "i s'pose that was the reason," skip replied in a nervous way. "it seems to me you know more about this thing than anybody else." "you'd better not say that again," and skip stepped forward a few paces with clenched fists. "you can get the best of me, so i'll have to hold my tongue; but i reckon i've had all i want of the regulators. tryin' to kill a feller who never did much of anything to you is a mean trick." "shut up or i'll knock your head off. you can't back out of our s'ciety, an' if you ever say i tried to kill anybody i'll pound you till there won't be an inch of skin left." chunky did not wait to hear more. he started at full speed toward his own home, and skip was more alarmed than before. "now i'm in a worse scrape than ever, for he's jest fool enough to tell what he knows, an' then there will be trouble. i'd better go to meet billings, an' perhaps he can help me out." he could reach the rendezvous without going through the village, and greatly to his relief the leader of the rioters was waiting to receive him. "now this is somethin' like business," and billings patted the boy on the head. skip stepped back; the touch of the man's hand now, when through him he had gotten into so much trouble, was disagreeable. "what am i to do?" he asked fiercely. "help me finish what you've begun." "i won't do it. they'll have me arrested, an' you must get me through the scrape." "so i will after i've served the company out. we'll go off somewhere together." "and i'm to leave home?" "there's nothin' for it if wright gets the idea that you knocked the timber away." "if he doesn't know it already there are them who will tell him. chunky thinks i did somethin' to help the thing along." "he does, eh?" and now billings began to look disturbed. "is he likely to go to any of the bosses?" "he might tell some one else who would do it." "that's true. what with him an' taylor, things begin to seem kinder scarey for me." "i'm in worse trouble." "you're right, an' that shows we two must keep together." "but i don't want to leave home." "you can't help yourself. once in the scrape, it's bad to back out." skip had good evidence that the way of the transgressor is hard. he felt a decided repugnance to becoming billings' constant companion, but he dared not go home, and it seemed as if there was no other course left open. "it won't do to stay here very long, for folks might see us, and it wouldn't be hard to guess we were up to mischief. will you go with me, or take the chances of bein' arrested?" "i'll have to do what you say," skip replied with a groan, and billings started straight across the hill toward the abandoned shaft. "where are you going?" "we'll hide for a while. it ain't safe to loaf 'round here much longer. here's a dollar. go to taylor's an' get somethin' to eat. tell him i want cooked food, 'cause i'm bound on a tramp." "i don't dare show up there." "move on, or i'll break every bone in your body! you've got to toe the mark now if you don't want to go to jail." billings used the tone of a master, and skip understood that his crime had brought him to slavery of the most degrading kind. the groggery was filled with men when he arrived, and in the number he found safety. all were excitedly discussing the accident, some intimating that billings had a hand in it, and no one paid any particular attention to the frightened boy who crept cautiously in, as if to avoid being seen. "wants grub, eh?" taylor asked, when skip made known his errand. "what's he up to? afraid they'll nab him for what was done to-day?" "i don't know." "now, look here, skip miller, i ain't got any too much love for you, but it don't seem right to let a boy go on as you've begun. go home now, an' leave billings to take care of his own business." "if i don't carry back the stuff he'll say i stole his money." "well, take the grub, an' then get back as soon as you know how." "all right," skip replied meekly. "if you're not home in half an hour i'll see your father to-night." "i wish i dared to go," skip said to himself as he hurried away with the bundle. "workin' in the breaker ain't a marker to what it'll be runnin' around with cale billings." chapter xiv precautions not until two days had elapsed were the victims of the "accident" able to leave their rooms, and then they met sam and mr. wright at mrs. byram's home. "we'll be ready for work in the morning," bill said in reply to the superintendent's inquiries. "what troubles me is that i've lost the plan of the old mine. it was in my blouse when the timber fell, an'----" "how that joist could have got away without some one to help it is what worries me," joe interrupted. "i set it, an' know the weight from above could not have any effect." "there is no chance of foul play. the level has been guarded night and day, therefore, unless our trusted men are at fault, it was purely an accident." "i'm not sayin' it wasn't; but yet the whole business looks queer," and with this remark joe dismissed the subject from his mind. mr. wright had come to learn when the guardians of the level would be ready to return to duty, and bill's answer sufficed. "the men who have been there during the past twenty-four hours shall be given other work in the morning, and once more i can rely on you. thus far nothing suspicious has been seen or heard," he said, "and i begin to believe billings has given up his thoughts of revenge. the only strange thing is that miller's boy has disappeared, and his father can think of no reason why he should run away." "farley's won't be the loser if he never comes back," joe replied. "that boy is a bad one, an' it wouldn't take much to make me believe he an' billings are firm friends." "there is no necessity of talking about him; we are not afraid of boys. the question is whether we are warranted in guarding the lower level much longer." "that's for you to say, sir. we had rather be at our regular work." "well, we'll try it a day or two more. perhaps you'd better break through into the old drift, and then we shall know whether it is possible for evil-disposed persons to find a hiding place there." this closed the interview so far as mr. wright was concerned, and on his leaving the house the others discussed the work to be done the following day; but skip miller's disappearance had little place in the conversation. bill mourned the loss of the plan, which was supposed to be the only guide to the old mine, but joe did not think it was of such very great importance. "all we care to know is whether the air's foul, an', of course, the best way is to finish the tunnel which came so near finishin' us. that work can be done without any guide." "but we may want to follow up the drift, which will be a long job if we have to go on blindly." "there's no use fussin' over what can't be helped. the paper got trampled into the dirt, most likely, otherwise them as have been lookin' would 'a found it before this." "i don't feel like givin' over the search so easy; s'pose we four have a reg'lar hunt in the morning?" "sam and i will go now," fred said. "we shall feel better for a little exercise after being cooped up in the house so long." "very well. take a turn at it this afternoon, an' if you don't succeed joe an' i'll try to-night." the boys set off without delay, but they were a long while reaching the slope, for every person on the street thought it necessary to congratulate them upon having escaped a terrible death, and at the breaker donovan delayed the search by making minute inquiries as to the condition of affairs in the drift just prior to the accident. "any one would think from all these questions that you believed somebody was responsible for the trouble," sam said with a laugh. "p'rhaps i do. billings an' skip miller disappeared on the same day, an' that looks suspicious to me, though mr. wright won't listen to anything of the kind." "it's a big satisfaction to know they have left," fred added, "and we have gotten rid of them cheaply. do you know where they went?" "out of the village somewhere; harvey saw them walking up the track." "then we can reckon that there'll be no more mischief done for a while. come on, fred, let's get down the slope." the boys left the breaker without noticing that chunky was trying to attract their attention, and were soon in the lower level making a systematic search. shoveling over the loose dirt along the track, they continued on until the cutting which had so nearly been a grave for fred was passed, and then sam said as he halted: "it's no use to hunt here. it couldn't have got up this way." "the draught may have carried it quite a distance." "there isn't air enough stirrin' to move it a foot; but it won't do much harm to look." they were nearly at the chamber where sam was taken prisoner before fred abandoned the hunt, and as he turned to retrace his steps both came to a sudden halt. as if from beneath their feet arose a muffled cry of distress. the boys looked at each other in alarm, and as they stood motionless the mysterious sound was repeated. "what can it mean?" fred asked in a whisper. "that's more'n i can tell. there's no drift below this." "that was surely a human being, and in trouble of some kind." "perhaps the cry comes from the end of the drift which has been closed." "it sounds under the ground right here," and fred stamped with his foot just as the noise was heard for the third time. "there's no question about it's being a man. come on; let's bring some of the miners to help find him." the boys ran down the drift at full speed, and half an hour later returned with two of the miners. "it was right here that we heard it," sam said, as he pointed to the shovels they had left behind, in order to mark the spot. the party listened intently, but no sound save their own breathing could be distinguished. "i thought you'd been frightened about nothing," one of the miners said with a laugh. "you might as well tell us the mine was haunted as to give out such a yarn. i'll guarantee that nothin' larger'n a mouse could hide here." "but we surely heard a cry," fred insisted. "and it seemed to come from beneath our feet." "nonsense. it's foolish to make such talk when we know the thing's impossible," and the men turned away as if angry at having been brought so far on a useless errand. "we know whether----" sam ceased speaking very suddenly, for at that moment the sound of distress came with great distinctness. the men looked around, each trying to hide his fear, and then a regular search was begun. the noise could not have come from the old drift, and the level was examined thoroughly, but without success. "it beats me," one of the miners said at length. "i'm sure there's nothing beneath here but the solid earth." "let the boys tell wright," the other suggested, and his companion assented. "we'll hang around here till he comes or you get back; but don't stay very long, for i don't like the looks of things." "why not?" "it may be a warnin' for some of us. i've heard tell of such." fred laughed heartily, and the man replied impatiently: "when you've been in a mine as long as i have, you won't think there's any fun to be made of warnin's. before the explosion of fire damp in the old workings, i've been told the miners heard all kinds of queer noises." "go on," the second man said fretfully, "an' don't waste time chinnin' here when p'rhaps we oughter be gettin' out to save our lives." the boys started, feeling a trifle disturbed because of the unexplainable cries, and arrived at the store as the whistle sounded for the night shift to begin work. the superintendent was surprised by the information brought, and insisted, as had the miners, that the sounds could not have been made by a human being. "i will go down the slope at once, however," he said, and the boys accompanied him on what proved to be a useless errand. every portion of the lower level was searched. a party descended the old shaft, traversing the abandoned passages to the chamber connecting with the new portion of the workings, but nowhere could be seen any signs of life. joe and bill, alarmed because the boys had not returned, came to look for them in time to join the exploring parties, and the latter was decidedly uneasy when mr. wright ordered the useless labor to be stopped. he, in common with several others, believed the mysterious noises to be warnings, and there was every evidence of a panic until mr. wright spoke at considerable length on the subject, intimating that the cries were due to natural causes. then those who were off duty went home, and among them were joe, bill, and their helpers. these last discussed the subject without arriving at any definite conclusion when the time to separate arrived. on the following morning work was resumed in the cutting. the loose earth having been cleared away, a reasonably solid roof was put up, and once more the tunneling operations were pushed forward vigorously. all hands were on the alert for a repetition of the mysterious cries, but nothing was heard save the noise of the picks and shovels, with now and then a muffled crash as fragments of the vein were detached by blasts. during the "nooning" lunch was eaten in the cutting, and while they were sitting quiet a singular vibration of the earth could be felt. "it seems as if some one was digging directly beneath us," fred said, when the little party ceased eating to gaze at each other in surprise. "most likely there's a line of slate just under our feet, an' brings the sound from the other drift," joe replied promptly. "that's about the size of it," bill added; but the boys noticed that both the men listened from time to time as if in great perplexity. the peculiar tapping continued without interruption, and before the time of rest had more than half expired joe said, as he arose to his feet: "come on, lads. we're close to the old drift, an' after that's been opened we'll have another look around, for i want to find out what these queer noises mean." each one worked with the utmost rapidity, and when another hour had been spent bill's pick broke through the barrier of earth. "that ends the job, an' now to see how the air is." the miner had hardly ceased speaking when a huge volume of gas burst through the aperture, nearly suffocating the party and extinguishing the lamps instantly. "jump to it lively, boys!" joe cried hoarsely, as he began shoveling back the earth. "when you can't work any longer get a breath of fresh air in the drift." there was every danger that the lower level might be so filled with the noxious vapor as to cause an explosion, and both men and boys labored manfully. all were working blindly, but the general direction of the aperture was known, and the greater portion of the earth could be thrown with a fair degree of accuracy. ten minutes passed and the flow of foul air was partially checked. twice had each person been forced to retreat to the main drift, and fred was about to go for the third time when it seemed as if the flooring of dirt gave way beneath his feet. half suffocated by the gas, and overwhelmed by the falling fragments, he hardly realized what had occurred until finding himself in what was unmistakably another and yet lower tunnel or drift. chapter xv a discovery after the first alarm passed away, fred understood that he had fallen but a few yards, and the earth which covered him represented only a very small portion of the upper tunnel's floor. scrambling to his feet he fancied for a moment that the sound of scurrying footsteps could be heard, and while listening, joe said: "hello! are you hurt?" "not a bit." "where are you?" "it seems like a regular cutting, and the air is pure." "light your lamp an' look around." obeying this command, fred found his suspicions correct, and so reported. "can you get back?" "not unless you pull me up." "we'll attend to that in a minute." the rush of air from below had so far checked the gas, now partially shut off, that the men could also light the lamps in their caps, and the remainder of the task was quickly accomplished. with a couple of timbers as braces the aperture to the old mine was closed securely, and then the attention of the men was turned to the boy. "look out down there!" bill shouted. "i'm goin' to drop a couple of joists so's we can come back." "let them go." "now drag 'em out of the way, an' we'll follow." when this had been done the men and sam descended, all completely mystified by this new discovery. "here's somethin' that i reckon mr. wright didn't know about," bill said, as he surveyed the scene, and then he added with great emphasis as a sudden thought occurred to him. "now we can come pretty nigh guessing what them noises meant. some one has been tryin' to get into the other level, an' when a big hole was made fred put an end to the work by fallin' through." this could be told by the mound of earth a short distance away, as well as by the marks of a pick around the edges of the aperture; but further proof was found in the shape of a shovel which sam stumbled over. "this belongs to the company," he cried, pointing to the brand. "yes, an' a blind man can figger who's been here. cale billings didn't leave town as he tried to make folks believe." "then let's have him. this cuttin' can't be so long but that we'll get all over it before sunset," joe cried, as he wrenched the shovel handle from the iron work to serve as a weapon. "i thought i heard somebody running in that direction when i first fell," fred said, pointing toward the quarter in which it was reasonable to suppose the old shaft might be found. joe led the way, the others following close behind until, when half a mile had been traversed, they arrived at two slopes or inclined tunnels, running at right angles from the level. "it won't do to pass these," bill cried. "we'll take one, while the boys search out the other." he darted into the right-hand opening as he spoke; but returned before joe could join him, saying: "that was a false cutting. it only runs a dozen yards, an' there's nothin' in it. sam, you an' fred look into the other one while we keep on." the idea of coming upon cale billings while they were unarmed was not a pleasant idea for the boys; but they would have braved considerably greater danger rather than show signs of fear, and both obeyed promptly. this slope ran at an inclination of nearly forty-five degrees for about fifty yards when it turned sharply to the right, terminating in a small chamber where the vein had probably came to an end. as sam and fred entered the place a figure darted from one corner and attempted to rush past them; but the flight was checked very suddenly. "why it's skip miller!" sam cried, as he lowered his lamp that the rays might fall upon the prisoner's face. "yes, it's me," skip said, piteously. "please don't drag me off." [illustration: "please don't drag me off," skip said, piteously. "i'll never hurt you or anybody else again."] "how did you come here?" "with billings; he made me do jest what he said, an' i didn't dare to show up in town." "why not?" "'cause i knew mr. wright would have me 'rested on account of pretty nigh killin' you." "what?" fred cried, in surprise. "then it wasn't an accident?" skip literally groveled on the ground in his fear. he understood now that his share in that business had not been known until he himself betrayed the fact. "don't lug me off," he screamed. "i'd have to go to jail." "you wouldn't so long as we kept the thing a secret," fred replied, with a feeling of mingled pity and contempt because of the abject terror displayed. "we must take you with us; but needn't tell about your villainy." "then father would just about beat me to death for runnin' away. why not let me stay here? i'll never hurt you or anybody else again." although skip had tried to kill them, the boys felt a certain sense of aversion to dragging him away while he pleaded so piteously, and in order to gain time in which to think the matter over, sam said: "tell us how you got into the lower level." in a faltering voice skip gave a truthful account of all his movements on that particular day. "have you been here ever since?" "yes." "and billings, too?" "he went out twice for whisky an' some water." "what have you been doing?" "billings made me dig an' shovel all day, an' most of the night." "trying to get into the lower level, eh?" "yes, an' when i got played out he pretty near pounded my head off." "i reckon we heard you yelling. where is billings now?" "he ran ahead of me when the earth began to cave in, an' that's the last i've seen of him. say, it won't hurt you a bit to let me stay here, an' i'll do the square thing if i ever get out of the scrape." "you'd starve to death." "i'd rather take the chances of that than go to jail, or let father get hold of me." "but what good will it be to stay here?" fred asked. "hiding won't mend matters, and you'll have to come out some time." "that may be; but i don't want to go now," and once more skip fell on his knees in front of those whom he had wronged. "what do you think about it, fred?" sam asked, in a whisper. "i don't like to yank him out, no matter what he tried to do to me." "nor i." "then why not let him stay? he'll get punishment enough by hiding here alone in the darkness with nothing to eat." "but we shall have to give him a little grub. we can't think he's hungry when we're got plenty." "i'll agree to whatever you say." sam was silent for a moment, and then turning to the kneeling boy, he asked: "could you find your way out of here?" "i might if i had a lamp; but the oil has all been burned in mine." "how long do you count on staying?" "jest as many days as i can." "well, see here, we're going off, an' leave you to take the dose in your own way; but it's on the agreement that you try to be a decent fellow after gettin' out." "i'll promise anything, an' won't so much as say the name regulators agin." "if it's possible, fred an' i'll bring you some grub; but you mustn't count on it." "don't take any risks," skip replied, humbly. "i can live on wind a couple of days if that villain of a billings don't come back." "you needn't worry about that. if he went up the drift bill an' joe will most likely nab him. come, fred, we mustn't stay any longer, or they'll think something is wrong." as the boys turned to go skip tried to thank them for the mercy shown; but did not make a great success at it. he had been literally trembling with fear, and now his gratitude rendered him almost incapable of speech. "that's all right, skip. we'll see whether you mean it or not after you get out." "i'll be square as a brick if i ever get through with this scrape," he replied, and then as the boys turned the angle of the slope he was hidden from view in the darkness. "i don't know as we're actin' very sensible," sam said, slowly, when they were in the drift once more; "but it's better than draggin' the poor beggar off to be arrested." "a good idea, sam, and i'm sure skip will be a decent fellow after this. we must try to get back here to-night with food and oil." "unless joe and bill keep us at work we'll have plenty of time, for--hello! here they come now!" the two miners could be seen in the distance, or, rather, the light of their lamps was visible, and when they were within speaking distance, fred asked: "did you find him?" "no; we've followed up the drift as far as we dared, an' are now goin' back to see if any of the day crew know these old works. where did that slope lead to?" "it ends about fifty yards from here." "didn't see anything of the villains, eh?" "billings isn't there, that's certain," fred replied after a brief hesitation. the men did not appear to notice the equivocal answer, and bill suggested that they return to the workings without further delay. "we'll have a guard set at the shaft, so he can't give us the slip in that way, an' if any of the boys know these drifts it won't be a long job to smoke him out." "he may get off before we can reach the top of the slope," fred suggested, hoping by this means to prevent the conversation from reverting to their long delay. "then so much the better, lad," bill replied, in a tone of satisfaction. "all we want is to be rid of such trash, an' if he leaves town that's enough." if at this moment either of the party had turned it would not have been difficult to distinguish even in the gloom the form of cale billings, as he followed ready to work further mischief, or escape as might be most convenient. unsuspicious of the nearness of their enemy, the little party continued on to the hole through which fred had fallen, and as they clambered up the joists the leader of the rioters muttered: "don't think you can smoke me out so easy. i'll leave my mark on this mine before bein' run down, or know the reason why." neither sam nor fred gave so much as a passing thought to the man who was responsible for all the damage which had been done; they were so engrossed with the desire to aid skip without being discovered by those who might call him to an account for his crime that all else seemed as trifles. "i'll tell mother, and she will cook for us what may be needed," fred whispered, after they were in the lower level walking rapidly toward the slope. "that part of it don't trouble me so much as how we're to come back to the mine without bein' seen by some of the men," sam replied, and, turning sharply bill asked: "what are you fellers chinnin' about?" "there's no harm in talkin', eh?" and sam assumed an air of impudence such as the men had never seen before. "i don't reckon there is, lad; but seein' as how we've hung together so long, it wasn't strange to ask." "i didn't mean to be too fresh, bill," sam replied, understanding that he had spoken in a disagreeable manner. "fred and i were only figuring about coming back to make sure billings didn't get into the level while you were outside." "that part of it can be fixed easy. joe shall go to the store while i see if anybody here knows about the old drift, and with three on guard i don't reckon he can do much mischief." "then you can stay with him while i run home for some provisions," fred whispered, and during this conversation cale billings was clambering up the joist which led to the last level. chapter xvi good samaritans knowing that joe and bill were in mr. wright's confidence donovan had no hesitation about placing guards as desired, and immediately after they ascended from the slope every exit was closely watched. "now you boys can see we've fixed things in proper shape," bill said, in a tone of triumph. "do whatever you choose until to-morrow, an' joe an' me'll attend to mr. billings' case." "but he might get into the lower level by the same way we did," sam ventured to suggest. "there are plenty below to take care of that." "then there's no reason why we should come back?" "not unless you want to see the game played out." "we'll run down to fred's house, and then have a look at the place where he went through." "suit yourselves about that," was the careless reply, as bill started toward the store to confer with the superintendent. "now is our chance," sam whispered. "it won't take us more than ten minutes to run over to your house, and we can get back before bill comes." fred started at a rapid pace, and by the time the miners had finished telling their story to mr. wright, mrs. byram knew of the interview with skip. "of course i will give you some food," she said, readily. "it may prove to be the best possible thing for him that he should be so thoroughly frightened. can you carry oil enough in a bottle?" "as much as will be needed until to-morrow. it won't do any harm if he scrapes along on short rations for a while," sam replied, with a laugh. "the only thing is to get him something before joe an' bill go back." a generous package of food, a small quantity of oil, the whole in a paper parcel, and the good samaritans started for the slope once more, noting with satisfaction as they passed that the miners had not yet left the store. no particular attention was paid to them as they entered the slope, and screening the package as much as possible from view, the boys went with all speed to the repentant regulator's hiding place. so far as could be seen, the cutting through which fred had fallen remained as when they ascended, and after letting themselves down this the task was well nigh accomplished. skip was most extravagant in his demonstrations of gratitude when they entered the chamber and displayed the supplies. "it'll take me a mighty long while to straighten this thing up; but i'll do it somehow," he said, and sam replied, roughly: "we'll talk about that later. jest now there's a chance others will find out where you are, for joe and bill have gone after men to help search for billings." "then they didn't find him?" "no." "i reckon he has gone to taylor's." "that won't do him much good unless he walks out of town, for now it is known he's near by, all hands are bound to hunt him down." "then they'll be sure to find me." "we'll hold on in the old drift till they get back, an' try to prevent them from coming up here by saying we've searched this slope," fred said, after a moment's thought. "that's the only way i know of to keep the secret." "it won't do any harm to make the attempt," sam added. "don't light your lamp, and keep perfectly quiet." skip retreated once more to the farther corner of the chamber, and the boys walked slowly down to the drift, halting a short distance from the mouth of the slope as sam picked up a shovel. "here's another tool belonging to the company. it must have been thrown away by billings or skip when you dropped on their heads." "keep it to show we've been hunting; it can't be long now before the men come, and we'll need some good excuse for loafing here." "let's sit down till we hear them. i'm tired enough to want a rest." seated on the decaying timbers of the car track the boys discussed in whispers the possibility of aiding skip to escape from his unenviable position, with never a thought of the deed with which billings was to crown his villainous career. the leader of the mob had immediately begun to look about for a chance to wreak his vengeance on the company, when joe and bill with their helpers left the level, and he was yet at the farther end of the passage when the boys returned with supplies for skip. their desire to avoid attracting the attention of the workmen caused them to move noiselessly, consequently he was ignorant of the fact that they were in the mine. it was hardly five minutes after they descended to the old drift when he came back to the cutting, and the odor of gas brought him to a stop. "them fools broke through after all," he said, examining the earth piled up at one end, "an' i reckon they found out it wasn't safe to work much farther on that course." one of the shovels was standing against the side of the excavation, and with this he dug a portion of the dirt from the hole made by bill's pick. the foul air rushed through with such force as to nearly suffocate him; but instead of being disappointed he appeared overjoyed. "i couldn't a' fixed things better in a week's solid work, an' i'll take the chances of gettin' out." enlarging the aperture by pushing the earth through between the braces while he covered his mouth and nose with his blouse, he crept back to the drift, unfastened his cap-lamp, removed the safety screen, and placed the light in the passage after raising the wick a trifle. just as these preparations had been completed the faint sound of the whistle could be heard from above. "it's astonishin' what luck i'm having," he muttered. "i can get out while the day shift are leavin', an' ten minutes will be enough to fill this level so full of gas that no power can prevent an explosion." the air was heavy with the noxious vapor as he went rapidly toward the slope up which crowds of miners were passing, and as some of the men loitered behind the others it became necessary he should hide in the drift to escape detection. "why don't the fools move faster," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "it can't be many seconds before the thing comes, an' there'll be no chance for me. there'd be a lynchin' sure if i should show up jest ahead of an explosion." big drops of perspiration stood on his brow as he realized that the trap he had set for others might close upon himself, and for an instant he resolved to run back and extinguish the lamp. "it won't do," he said, half turning and then moving nearer the slope. "there's gas enough in the drift to choke me before i'd get ten yards. why don't the idiots move faster!" only the absolute conviction that he would be lynched if caught at such a time prevented billings from rushing out. each second the vapor became denser, and he wondered why the miners did not perceive it. the catastrophe must be very near at hand, and he was exposed to the greatest danger. when it seemed as if an hour had passed, the last man went up the slope, and he started at full speed to gain a higher level. the incline was almost reached; half a dozen steps more and he would be partially sheltered by the jutting point of slate. "luck is still with me," he cried, so loud that those above must have heard him, and at that instant the earth seemed to rock to and fro; there was a flash of blinding light, and the air was filled with flying fragments. where had been the lower level was now an apparently solid mass of earth, coal, and slate, covering the body of him who had wreaked his vengeance upon the company. joe and bill were returning from the store when the noise of the explosion was heard, and they, as well as everyone in the vicinity, knew from sad experience what had occurred. "we're responsible for this!" bill cried, his face paling. "the gas has burst through from the old drift." "thank god it came when most of the poor fellows were quittin' work," and joe started on a run, followed by every person in the village. at the mouth of the slope a vast crowd had gathered. women were calling their husbands and children by name, and as each learned her loved ones were safe, shouts of joy mingled with the wailings of those whose cries remained unanswered. even after mr. wright arrived the utmost confusion prevailed. all knew it would be certain death to make a descent, while the deadly vapor was so dense, and a second explosion might be expected at any moment. bill and joe stood near the mouth of the slope ready to respond to the first call for volunteers, when mrs. byram came up. "where is fred?" she asked, with a brave attempt controlling her fears. "he went to your house with sam, so there's no need to worry about them." "they were not there more than ten minutes." "then both are in the crowd somewhere, for they wouldn't go down the slope till we got back." the almost distracted mother had no thought of keeping skip's secret at such a time, and when the two miners heard her story all hope for the safety of the boys fled. "they must have been in the old drift underneath the explodin' gas," joe exclaimed, involuntarily. "it isn't sure the trouble began where we think," bill said, quickly, with a warning glance at his companion. "i've known of men who were shut in a drift for a week, an' then brought out none the worse for wear, so don't despair, mrs. byram." "but why isn't something done to aid them?" "we shall set to work the very minute it is safe to venture into the next level. go home, an' joe or i will bring you the first news." "do you think i could remain there knowing my boy is dying, or--or--dead?" the women near by endeavored to console the sorrowing mother with words of encouragement they themselves believed to be false, and bill whispered to his mate: "there's a mighty slim show for the poor lads, an' it's through helpin' him as tried to murder 'em that they've been caught." mr. wright was doing his utmost to ascertain how many were yet in the mine, and after a long while succeeded in learning that at least a dozen men had been overpowered while some distance up the slope. those who reached the surface told of a number whom they had seen fall, and some were certain one or two did not have time to gain the slope. "who will go with me?" the superintendent asked, as a car was made ready. "i don't want the married men to volunteer, for they are needed at home, and none of us may come back alive." "then why not stay here yourself?" a woman cried. "your wife an' children need you as much as ours need their fathers." "because it is my duty," was the calm reply. "now who will come? i only want two." "then the car is full," bill said, as he and joe took their places in the box-like vehicle. "we're willin' to go alone, if you'll stay behind." "no man shall encounter dangers from which i shrink. lower away slowly, boys," he added to those who were fastening a rope to the car, "and keep a sharp look-out for our signals." "an' it was his house my jim helped try to burn!" the woman who had spoken before said in a whisper. "make haste," mr. wright cried, impatiently. "remember that every second is precious." the miners crowded around the car to shake its brave occupants by the hand as if they were never to return, and it was absolutely necessary to push them away in order that the terrible journey might be begun. with their safety lamps held so that the condition of the air might be ascertained at each stage of the descent, the men slowly disappeared from view, and at the mouth of the slope the crowd surged to and fro in painful suspense; but not a sound could be heard, save as some wife or mother gave vent to a sob of distress. chapter xvii down the slope during the time that billings was making his preparations for the last act of his life, sam and fred remained seated a short distance from the cut which led to skip's hiding place. both were listening intently for the first sound which should betoken the coming of the miners, and the falling earth which was displaced by billings' feet as he worked in the cutting attracted their attention. "there's some one in the tunnel we made," sam whispered. "let's creep up and find out who it is." "that won't do, for there's no chance billings would come back if he once got out, and we should arouse suspicions." despite this warning sam advanced a short distance, and on becoming convinced that the tunnel really had an occupant rejoined fred, as he whispered: "we'd better sneak further along. i reckon somebody is on guard up there, and we musn't be seen so far down." he had held the shovel during this excursion, and still retained it as they walked noiselessly along the drift until arriving at the mouth of the short slope. here the two halted at the moment when the confined gas, ignited by the open lamp, burst its bonds, and the shock sent them headlong up the incline. huge masses of earth were detached on every hand, except directly in the narrow way leading to skip's hiding place, and on scrambling to their feet a solid wall shut them out from the drift. "what was that?" fred cried in alarm, as he assured himself his lamp was uninjured. "an explosion, an' we're penned in here to starve to death," sam replied, in a trembling voice. "can't we dig through this bank and reach the hole in the roof?" "there is no longer any lower level, as we knew it, and unless we could make a new drift there'd be no use working." "but this part of the mine seems to be all right." "yes, unless there's another explosion i reckon we can stay here 'til--" "'till what?" "we shall starve to death after a while." this mournful conversation was interrupted by skip, who came running down the slope with the most abject fear written on every feature of his face. familiar as he was with the mine he had no need to ask for the cause of the noise, and understood as well as sam the little hope there was for life. "are you shut in, too?" he cried. "we're here," sam replied, grimly. "an' you'd been outside if i hadn't wanted to stay rather than take a flogging." "you're right, skip, but this ain't the time to find fault. all three are in the same box, an' we might as well be friendly." "won't they try to get us out?" fred asked, faintly. "nobody knows where we are," skip replied, bitterly. "we told mother about you, and she'll be sure to repeat it to joe and bill now we're in such danger." skip's face brightened for an instant, and then he said, in a despairing tone: "they don't know where this place is. billings is certain the oldest miners never heard of the drift; he thinks it was made years before the workings were opened at farley's." "joe and bill have been down here." "even they wouldn't know where to start in. how long will the air hold out, sam?" "i don't know, but there's no need of usin' it any faster than's necessary. we'll put out two of the lamps; one is enough, an' we may be mighty glad to drink the oil." fred was very nearly incapable of action. the knowledge that his companions had lost hope literally dazed him, and he could not even follow sam's suggestion. two of the lamps were extinguished, and since fred was the only one retaining the means of dispelling the darkness, sam and skip forced him on ahead as they went still further into the tunnel where the air would be more pure. "this is the only point from which we may expect aid," sam said, "an' seein' that we can do nothin' it's better to stay here." "won't joe and bill try to help us?" fred asked. "they'll try, but whether it'll be possible to do anything is another matter." "can't we begin to dig? we've got one shovel." "neither of us knows in which direction to start, an' when workin' more food would be needed, therefore, to keep alive as long as possible we'd better stay quiet." skip threw himself on the floor close to the end of the cutting, as if reconciled to whatever might happen, and sam sat down beside him. "do you think there is any chance that we can get out of here?" fred asked after a long silence, and sam replied, gravely: "we may as well look the matter straight in the face. it's possible they can strike us without much trouble, but that ain't likely." during half an hour the boys remained silent and motionless, as if each was trying to reconcile himself to the terrible doom which threatened, and then fred said, with a feeble attempt at cheerfulness: "it must be near supper time. suppose we have one square meal?" "because a man knows he's slowly drowning there's no reason why he should try to keep his head under water more than is necessary," sam replied, sternly. "what do you mean?" "we are not suffering with hunger now, but soon will be, so it's wise to wait till grub is absolutely needed to keep us alive." "then let's do something; this sitting still thinking of what is to come seems worse than the reality can ever be." "very well, we've got a shovel; we'll decide in which direction it's best to dig, an' begin operations." "there surely is a chance of striking another drift." "yes, there's a chance," sam replied, as if the conversation wearied him. "each one shall say which course he thinks most likely to bring us out." skip wished to continue up the slope, arguing that each inch gained would carry them so much nearer the surface, while fred believed it best to work through the mass of earth that had fallen, because there a pick would not be necessary. "we'd better try skip's plan," sam finally said. "by making our way along the old drift a chamber of gas might be struck, when all hands would be suffocated. come on, and i'll start it." he wielded the shovel until tired, the others carrying the earth back to the foot of the slope in their hats, and then fred tried his hand at the labor. in this manner each did a certain amount of the work, but at the expense of no slight suffering. in the confined space it was very warm, and this exercise brought with it an intense thirst, which, of course, could not be quenched. skip drank a little oil now and then, but fred could not force himself to taste the ill-smelling stuff. there was no way by which the passage of time could be measured. when all were sleepy they laid down to rest, and on awakening a small quantity of food was dealt out. after the scanty meal had been eaten they continued what every one now believed was useless labor, ceasing only when the desire for slumber became overpowering again. reckoning these periods of work and rest as days and nights, seventy-two hours had elapsed when the supply of food was exhausted, and they realized that the final struggle was at hand. the air remained reasonably pure, probably because a vent had been left somewhere in the choked drift, but there were moments when the odor of gas was perceptible, thus causing sam to believe efforts were still being made to reach them by those on the outside. but little work was done when the food had been consumed. now and then one or the other would use the shovel in a listless way for a few moments at a time, but each had become so weak that any prolonged exertion was out of the question. they slept as much as possible, and refrained from discussing the terrible situation. fred no longer listened for the sounds which would tell that help was near at hand, and the odor of the oil did not prevent him now from taking his share when the scanty allowance was doled out. finally the hour came when the last drop had been drank. the tiny flame of the lamp seemed to have been the only link which connected them with the outer world, and then without any means of dispelling the profound darkness the bitterness of death came upon them. fred was the first to sink into a stupor from which he awakened only at rare intervals. then skip yielded to despair, and sam was virtually alone. all three were half sitting, half lying in the excavation they had made, and the moments passed unheeded. to fred it seemed as if he had been unconscious for many days when he became aware that sam was shouting wildly. in a dazed way he raised his head, and after a while understood that his companion was saying in an incoherent tone: "they're coming! they're coming!" "who? who?" skip asked, feebly, trying in vain to rise to his feet. "the miners! can't you hear the sound of their picks?" when they could bring themselves to understand the meaning of sam's words both the sufferers were revived by the excitement sufficiently to stagger to an upright position, but as only at intervals was the cheering sound heard, fatigue soon overpowered them again, and once more sam alone remained conscious. he made every effort to preserve all his faculties, and after another long, painful time of suspense he was rewarded by hearing a faint hail. "hello! lads, are you near?" "yes! yes! in the end of a short slope." "how many are there?" "three." "all well?" "two are pretty near gone. hurry as fast as possible." "don't fret, lad, we're workin' the best we know how, an' have been these four days, though not allers on the right track." then from time to time the laborers shouted in order that they might not deviate from the right course, and sam answered each call at the full strength of his lungs, which at the best was faint. nearer and nearer came the sound of shovels and picks until the trembling of the wall told that life, liberty, and food were near at hand. sam remained leaning close against the barrier that he might hear every hail, until he saw the face of a man appear from amid a shower of falling earth, and then, knowing the rescue was accomplished he lost consciousness. around the mouth of the shaft stood a great crowd when the inanimate boys were brought out. during the nights as well as days this throng remained waiting to see those known to be in the half-ruined mine. these anxious watchers, sympathizing with the three grief-stricken mothers, had left their posts only so long as was absolutely necessary, and had seen each lifeless body as it was sent to the surface, the last coming from the slope being the mangled remains of cale billings. each morning the newspapers had printed long articles regarding the disaster at farley's, and in the list of those known to be dead were four names, the number of victims sacrificed that billings might avenge a fancied wrong. with the rescue of the boys the work was finished, and in the rear of the bearers all the watchers and laborers followed to the village, remaining in the streets until word was sent that no injuries had been sustained. then, perhaps for the first time, came the question of what was to be done now that farley's was in such a condition as to preclude any possibility that the works could be opened for several months. "it's a hard look-out for all of us," one old miner said to a mate, "but thank god that villain of a billings has no more than four lives to answer for." chapter xviii shut down food and rest were all that was needed to restore the boys who had been rescued to their normal condition once more, and since the works were necessarily shut down they had ample opportunity for the latter remedy. fred learned from his mother that bill and joe had remained foremost among the laborers nearly every moment of the time they were imprisoned in the drift; but the full story of the rescue was not told until on the second day, when joe called. "it looked pretty blue one spell," the latter said in reply to fred's questions. "the first attempt to get down the slope was a failure. when we reached the upper level all three were so nearly overcome by the foul air that mr. wright could hardly make the signal for the car to be pulled back. late at night we tried it agin, an' brought out the four poor fellows who were caught on the slope. next mornin' billings' body was found, an' then it wasn't hard to tell what caused the trouble." "did you spend any time there looking for us?" "no, for bill and me calculated that if you hadn't got to skip before the explosion come it would be a month's work to find the bodies. we went down the old shaft, an' began from there, workin' at guess till both of us began to believe we'd gone wrong. if sam hadn't yelled jest as he did the gang would have started in from the old drift that runs to the chamber." "in that case we wouldn't have been found in time." "you're right; but seein' as we did find you all secure, there's no use speculatin' about the other side of the matter." "have you seen skip?" "he was down to the store this mornin' tellin' what he knew of billings' movements, for the coroner is investigatin' the affair." "and sam?" "he's lively as a cricket, an' counts on comin' here this afternoon." "how long will it be before the works can be opened again?" "two or three months for the whole gang, but some can begin in half that time, i reckon. it's goin' to be rough on them as haven't anything laid by for a rainy day." "and mother and i can be counted among those," fred said, with a sigh. "don't worry about that my son," mrs. byram replied cheerily. "it is sufficient for me that your life has been spared, and i am certain we shall be able to provide for the future, but you are not to go into the mine again. the four terrible days spent at the slope, fearing each instant that the rescuing party would reach the drift too late, caused me to resolve that you should not be exposed to any more such dangers." "but it don't stand to reason he'll have another experience like the last," joe said, promptly. "he's already gone through more'n the majority of us fellers, an' lightning don't often strike twice in the same place." mrs. byram shook her head to signify that the decision was final, but before she could add words to the gesture mr. wright knocked at the door. "i have come to make some arrangements with fred about working in the store," he said, as his summons was answered, and entering, continued, after a nod to the invalid and joe, "we shall need more help there for a while, and will pay three dollars per week." there could be no hesitation about accepting the proposition, and before the superintendent left it was decided fred should begin next morning, provided he felt sufficiently strong. "sam thorpe is to work with you," mr. wright said as he turned to leave the house, "and i expect good service from my new clerks." "i'll go bail that you get it," joe said, with a laugh, "an' now, if it ain't askin' too much, i'd like to know what chance there is for the rest of us." "we can use about a hundred men, among whom will be you and bill. the pumps have been choked so long that it will be some time before even the upper level can be put into working shape, but employment shall be given to all at the earliest possible moment." then mr. wright returned to the office, and during the remainder of the day fred had quite as many callers as could be entertained in the little house. among these were sam and skip, and the latter renewed the promises made in the mine. "i've backed out from the regulators, an' while the shut down lasts am goin' to see what i can do in the way of workin' the garden. father's let me off from a floggin' if i go straight after this." on the following morning fred was at his new place of business at a very early hour, and both he and sam found plenty with which to occupy their time until sunset, when they were at liberty to do as they chose. during the next week nothing of particular interest to the young clerks transpired. at the mine the largest force, which could be worked to advantage, was employed, and those who were forced to remain idle were given credit for food and rent. when the labor had become systematized to such a degree as to allow the superintendent a little leisure, and while fred was copying some letters in the private office, mr. wright watching him several moments in silence, asked: "do you never expect to do anything but work in a mine, fred?" "oh, yes, sir; if mother and i can get some money laid by i want to go to the city." "what will you do there?" "i don't know, sir, but there should be plenty of chances for a fellow who is willing to work." "there are, but since it may be some time before you are in a condition to leave here, why not make yourself familiar with this branch of mining?" "how could that be done, sir?" "by hard study. you may use any of my books, and after getting a smattering of the business you might decide to take up civil engineering, a profession which would suit you admirably." "if i only could." "there is nothing to prevent. here is a work which you can understand, and after mastering its contents i'll guarantee you're ready to hold your own against any engineer's assistant in the middle field." on that very day fred began his studies, and sam joined him with the understanding that not less than two hours of each evening should be devoted to the work. both the boys were astonished at discovering how little they really knew about mining, even though well acquainted with many of the details, and rapid progress was made during the fortnight that followed. "if you keep on at this rate we'll be lookin' for new buttys," bill said one evening when the students had explained to him the principles of hydraulics. "you won't need any for some time, and then, perhaps, we shall have learned how ignorant we are, and give up in despair." "there'll be a good many called for to-morrow. the upper level is in workin' order, an' a hundred men are to be put on in the morning." this was, indeed, good news. the inhabitants of farley's had been anxiously awaiting the day when it would be possible to earn something toward the household expenses, and this first evidence that the works were really to be opened caused a great amount of pleasurable excitement. nearly every one in the village was at the mouth of the slope to see the workmen go in, and there sam and fred met skip. "mr. donovan has promised to take me into the breaker as soon as there is any coal to come out," he said, gleefully, "an' my garden is lookin' fine." "i don't reckon you've sold many vegetables yet," sam replied, laughingly. "the plants are only just up, an' the stuff will be late; but the first that is ripe i'm going to send you fellers, an' bill and joe." the miners entered, while the spectators cheered loudly, and then the idle ones dispersed, well content to know their time would soon come. skip returned to his garden, while sam and fred resumed their duties at the store, but were interrupted an hour later by mr. wright, who said: "it is important that a message be delivered in blacktown before noon, and there will be no train until late this afternoon. do you boys feel in trim for a ten mile tramp across the mountain?" "yes, sir, an' double the distance if necessary," sam replied, promptly. "very well; wrap up some crackers and cheese while i write a letter." ten minutes later the two were on their way with no slight task before them, for it would be necessary to travel over a rough country the entire distance, since the journey by the road around the mountain could not be performed in a day. it was an agreeable change after having been confined to the store so long, and they trudged on merrily, resolved to return in a more leisurely fashion because mr. wright had said no more work would be required of them until morning. in three hours the message had been delivered, and they were on their way home. little time was spent in the valley, but on ascending the mountain once more a halt was made for lunch. they were midway between blacktown and farley's. not a dwelling could be seen in either direction, and the boys speculated as to what the country looked like before coal was found in the vicinity. "i wonder what caused the first man to come here lookin' for it?" sam said, musingly. "most likely some one well up in geology was hunting for specimens, and found an out-cropping vein." "it must have been a mighty pleasant surprise." "and one that i would like to experience. just fancy poking around in this way till you struck what could be easily turned into gold." as he spoke fred dug up the earth here and there with a stick, playing the part, as he supposed, of the first discoverer, and at the same time slowly ascending the mountain. "hold on; don't leave so soon. i'm just getting ready to rest in proper style." fred turned around to return when he struck his toe against what appeared to be a projecting rock, and fell headlong. "that's what you get for tryin' your hand at prospecting," sam said, with a laugh, and fred arose to his feet with a rueful look on his face, which caused his companion yet more mirth. "it may be sport for you, but i don't see anything so funny about knocking all the skin off----hello! what a queer looking rock i tumbled over!" he had turned, and was gazing at the projecting point, a fragment of which was broken, when sam came up to learn the cause of his companion's astonishment. "why, it looks like coal!" he exclaimed, taking a piece from the ground to examine it more closely, and an instant later fred was startled by hearing him shout, "it is coal! the vein at farley's must run straight through the hill!" "then this belongs to the company." "not a bit of it. the one who owns the land can work here, and if we could raise money enough to buy ten or fifteen acres on this side of the hill, byram and thorpe would be mighty rich fellows." chapter xix the consultation it is not to be wondered at that the boys were in a perfect fever of excitement because of their startling discovery. they uncovered the spurs of pure coal sufficiently to learn that it was a true vein, and, judging from the indications, there could be no question but it extended over a large area just below the surface. "is it as good as that taken out at farley's?" fred asked, when they ceased digging for a moment. "i can't see any difference. why, you and i alone could mine enough to make us pretty near rich, for there's neither shaft nor slope to be made." "do you suppose this land is valuable?" "for farming purposes it isn't worth a cent, and unless the owner knows what is here it could be bought for a song." "what is the price of a song according to that estimate?" "well, say a thousand dollars for a hundred acres." "but you wouldn't need as much in order to get at this vein." "buildings would be necessary after a while, an' you'd want a track to get the coal into market." "don't you suppose we could manage to get a thousand dollars?" "if you count on doin' it by workin' at farley's, it would take about a thousand years. all the money i can earn has to be used by the family now that father isn't working." "but can we do nothin'?" "it does seem kinder tough to find a fortune, and not be able to take advantage of it, but i can't figure out how we can turn it to account." "let's fill our pockets with these pieces, and tell mr. wright what we've struck." "yes, an' before to-morrow night he'd own this whole tract. it would be wiser to see what bill an' joe think about the chances of raisin' money." "very well, we'll talk with them. it won't do to leave this uncovered, an' i'm in a hurry to get back." the earth was scraped, and above this the boys strewed branches and leaves until one might have searched a long while without discovering the secret. then, walking at their best pace, the successful prospectors continued on toward farley's, trying in vain to suppress their excitement. those whom they wished to consult were at the mine, and without even stopping to tell mrs. byram of their discovery they went directly to the slope. bill and joe were in the second level, at some distance from the other workmen when the boys arrived. "what do you think of that?" fred asked, excitedly, as he held out one of his specimens. bill, supposing he was to see a rare sight, brought his cap-lamp close to the object for a second, and then said angrily: "haven't you boys got anything better to do than bring coal in here for us to look at? we see enough of that stuff without luggin' it around in our pockets." "but this didn't come from farley's." "well, s'posin it didn't, what of that?" and bill threw the coal far down the drift. "not much, except that sam and i found a vein three miles from any settlement." "what?" both the miners cried in the same breath, and bill ran to pick up what he had thrown away so contemptuously. fred began and sam ended the story of the "find," and while they were talking bill turned the specimen over and over, saying when they concluded: "if as good coal as that shows at the surface it must be a big vein." "it is, but how can we take advantage of the discovery? sam thinks the land could be bought for a thousand dollars." "then you must buy it." "how could we raise so much money?" "people don't allers pay cash for what they buy. you might get it for two or three hundred dollars down, with a mortgage for the balance." "even then i don't see how it can be done." "nor i jest now, but we'll figure the thing out to-night at your house. joe an' me will be there after supper. don't tell anyone except your mother, 'nd when you boys are rich i speak for the job of breaker boss." then bill and joe, hardly less excited than their younger companions, resumed the interrupted labor, and the amateur prospectors went to tell the wonderful news to mrs. byram. fred's mother was not as elated as the boys thought the occasion demanded, but when the miners arrived, and appeared to be so sanguine that the discovery would be of great pecuniary benefit to those who made it she became greatly interested. the main question was how to raise the necessary money with which to purchase the land, and this had not been answered when the party broke up at a late hour. "we'll figger it out somehow," bill said as the visitors arose to depart. "it's been sprung so sudden like that we haven't had time. joe an' me will learn who owns the land first, an' then some of us'll get a bright idee." with these cheering words the meeting was adjourned, and sam and fred went to bed to dream of becoming millionaires through the accident which befell the latter as he fell over the spur of coal. next morning, however, they awoke to the fact that the day's provisions depended upon their labors in the store, and as this was also the first step toward earning sufficient money with which to buy the land, both were on hand at an unusually early hour. "i want you to go over to blacktown bank," mr. wright said to sam when he entered the building. "the train leaves in half an hour, and since you can return by the same conveyance there is no reason why i should give two boys a holiday, as i did yesterday." "i will be ready in time, sir," sam replied, and fred whispered: "why not walk home, and see if anybody has been fooling around the spur we found." "that's jest what i'll do, providin' it is possible to get back before the train is due. there can't be any kickin' if i'm here an hour or two ahead of time." a package of papers and a bank book was given to sam by the cashier, who said, warningly: "here are two thousand dollars in checks, and you are to bring back eight hundred dollars in change. be careful what you do, and come home on the first train after the business has been done." "i don't reckon any one would kick if i walked instead of waitin' until afternoon for the cars," sam said as he took the documents. "it isn't very safe to come across the mountains with so much cash; but i don't suppose there is any danger," the man replied, and sam glanced meaningly at fred as he left the building. "i wish i hadn't said anything to him about looking at the vein," fred muttered to himself as his companion disappeared from view. "it would be better if he came directly back without thinking of what will never bring us in a cent of money." it was too late now, however, to regret the words which had been spoken, and fred found plenty with which to busy himself during the remainder of the day. at noon a telegram came for mr. wright, and in response to what was probably an imperative summons, he started for the city on the next train; the one on which sam would have returned had he not determined to walk across the mountain. an hour passed, and yet the messenger was absent. "that boy has had time to travel twice the distance from blacktown here," the cashier said impatiently to fred, and the latter could make no reply, but he in turn was growing very anxious. "how would it do for me to go and meet him?" he asked finally. "that is foolish talk," was the petulant reply. "if he doesn't come soon it will be best to send a sheriff's officer." this remark was well calculated to make fred yet more nervous. not for a moment did he believe sam would do anything dishonest, and yet he should have been back, even in case he had walked home, several hours before. it was after sunset when the messenger finally made his appearance, and fred was about to greet him with words of jest, but the expression on sam's face caused him decided alarm. "what is the matter?" he asked, anxiously. "i have been robbed," was the reply, in a hoarse whisper. "how?" "i don't know. coming across the mountain i laid down on the land we wanted to buy, an' i fell asleep. when i awakened the money was gone, an' that is all i know about it." "money gone, eh?" the bookkeeper cried. "what did you want to buy land for?" "that has nothing to do with the loss of the cash," sam replied as he looked the man full in the face. "i lost the package which was given me at the bank, and have been hunting for it since noon." "it will make considerable difference, as you'll find out before this thing is cleared up," and the cashier moved toward the door as if to prevent the boy from leaving the building. "why not tell the truth, and say you stole the money?" "because i didn't do anything of the kind." "tell that to the marines, for you can't make me believe it. thieves don't loaf around the mountain." "they must have done so in this case, for i walked nearly back to blacktown, and should have found the package if it had fallen from my pocket." "then where is it?" "i don't know." "fred, go for a constable." the cashier yet remained by the door, and now he held it open a few inches that his order might be obeyed. "please don't do a thing like that," fred cried, while sam stood near the desk pale as death, but every action breathing defiance. "do you think i'll let a boy steal eight hundred dollars, and do nothing toward recovering it?" "wait until mr. wright comes back and see what he thinks." "and in the meantime he or his accomplice will have had plenty of time in which to carry the cash beyond our reach." "but i am sure that what he tells is the truth." "i don't believe a word of it. such a thing never happened before, and the thief sha'nt go free now if i can prevent it." fred was about to plead yet further for his friend, but the cashier checked him by saying: "another word in his behalf and i shall believe you know something of this very mysterious robbery. will you go for the constable?" "no, i won't move a step from this place until mr. wright comes back." this show of friendship was not sufficient to save sam from the ignominy of an arrest. the cashier had hardly ceased speaking when one of the miners made an attempt to enter the store, and the angry official sent him for the guardian of the peace. "you'll have a chance to go back to blacktown, and it may be that you will find the money on the way," he said, in a tone of irony. sam made no reply. silent and motionless he awaited the coming of the officer. chapter xx the accused not for a moment did fred believe it possible sam had done anything dishonest in regard to the money, and yet it seemed very singular that he could have been robbed without knowing when the deed was committed. he had no opportunity to speak privately to the accused boy, because of the strict watch maintained by the cashier, but he remained very near him, as if eager to show confidence in his innocence. from the time the miner had been sent in search of an officer not a word was spoken. now and then sam glanced at his friend as if to ask that his story be credited, and the accuser kept a strict watch over every movement. there was no parley when the officer arrived, his duty was to take the prisoner away, and he did so in a matter-of-fact manner which aroused all of fred's anger. "it wouldn't do him any harm to say he knows you ain't a thief," he whispered, "but never mind, old fellow, bill an' joe shall come to see you." "believe i've told the truth, an' that is enough for me," sam replied, with a choking sob. "tell the folks at home about it, but try to make 'em know i never stole a dollar." fred promised to do this, and would have accompanied his friend to the depot but for the cashier, who said, sternly: "i insist on your remaining here. a large amount of money is missing; you boys have got a secret between you, and it may have some connection with the robbery. i will not allow you to talk with the prisoner." "do as he says, an' don't have any row," sam added. "i'll stay here," was the reply, "and when mr. wright gets back we'll see what he's got to say about it." "it's time for the train," the constable interrupted. "go on quickly, sam, before a crowd gathers." fred gazed after the accused until he was lost to view in the distance, and then turned away with a heavy heart. the cashier had nothing more to say about the robbery, but he found plenty of work for the boy to do, much as if wishing to keep him in sight until mr. wright came home. it was half-past eight when the last train arrived and the superintendent was not on it. fred should have been home two hours before, and his mother, always in fear of an accident since the explosion, came in search of him. to her the story of sam's misfortune was told, and she at once demanded a private interview with the cashier. "don't tell him why we wanted to buy land," fred whispered, and his mother promised to keep the secret for a short time at least. ten minutes' conversation with the angry official sufficed, and then the two went to sam's home, where the sad news was told. not until ten o'clock did fred and his mother reach the little cottage where bill and joe were impatiently awaiting their arrival. "we've heard something about the trouble," the former said, "and want to know all the perticlars." fred repeated what has already been told, and added: "what he said concerning the land we talked of buying has made the cashier more suspicious than he would have been. it's too bad to give the secret away, but it must be done unless the money can be found." "there's no reason why we can't wait a while," joe said after some thought. "i'll go to blacktown to-morrow, an' see him." "you surely can't think he took it?" "of course not, an' yet i don't understand how it could 'a been stole." "he must have lost the money." "it wouldn't be a bad plan for us to walk to blacktown over the same path he took," bill said. "fred can show us the way." "i don't believe they'll let me leave. the cashier seems to think i'm concerned in the robbery." "it won't take me long to tell him he don't run this place. i'll go to mr. wright's house, find out when he's likely to be back, an' then tend to the other matter. joe, wait here." the miner was not absent more than an hour, and when he returned the others had come to the conclusion that sam had lost the money before reaching the coal vein. "mr. wright has jest telegraphed that he's on his way to new york, so we may not see him for two or three days. i've told the folks at the store what's to be done, an' though there's some kickin' about fred's leavin', they don't dare to say very much." then the sad visaged party separated to get as much rest as possible, and at early dawn the miners were at mrs. byram's again. believing sam had traveled over nearly the same course as that taken by he and fred, the latter did his best to guide the searchers correctly. "there's no use to hunt round very much till we strike the vein, for there's where he missed the money, so we'd better travel at our best gait to that place," joe said, as he led the way with fred by his side. the sun had been above the horizon but a few moments when they reached the scene of the discovery, and despite sam's dangerous position bill insisted on viewing the out-cropping of coal. "it's a true vein, there's no question of that," he said, after a careful examination, "an' we must hustle to get the cash what's needed to buy the property." "i'd be willin' to give up my share if sam was out of his scrape." "you won't do any such foolish thing. we'll help the lad an' ourselves at the same time, for there's a chance to get rich here which mustn't be lost," and bill covered the spur once more. now the search was begun. fred led the way slowly, the others following a short distance behind, and all three scrutinized the ground carefully. not a word was spoken by either until they were on the highway near blacktown, and then bill said sadly: "if it was lost somebody has found it, an' in case thieves run him down it ain't likely they're going to be so foolish as to give us a chance to get on their track." "where are we to go now?" fred asked. "we'll see a lawyer if there's one in the place, an' then have a talk with sam." there was no trouble about getting legal advice, and in the company of a kindly-faced gentleman the party were ushered into the jail where sam, in the lowest depths of despair, was found. "oh, i'm so glad you've come!" he cried, seizing fred by both hands. "it has been terrible here." "don't be downhearted, lad," bill said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "we'll stick by you no matter what happens." "i want you to tell me the whole story," the lawyer interrupted. "describe every little particular of the journey." "there isn't much to tell. i got the money, an' walked as fast as i could to a place on the mountain, where i laid down to rest, an' fell asleep. when i woke up the package was gone." "did you see anyone who might be following you?" "no sir." "whom did you meet after leaving the town?" "not a single person." "are you certain the money was in your pocket when you laid down?" "i felt of it a little while before that." the lawyer continued to question sam for a long while, but without gaining any new information, and even the boy's friends were forced to admit that the story was a strange one. "i'd say it was thin if i didn't know sam so well," bill mused as the party left the jail after promising the prisoner they would return at the earliest opportunity. "the boy couldn't 'a took the money, that's certain; but how he contrived to get rid of it beats me." "it is possible we may learn something to our advantage before the trial can be held," the lawyer suggested in a tone which to fred sounded the reverse of cheerful; "but i think it very important you should see mr. wright without delay." "joe shall go to new york." "how could i find him there?" "fred and me'll get right back to farley's, ask for his address, an' send it to you by telegraph." "that is a very good idea. a train leaves in less than an hour," the lawyer said approvingly. "decide where the message shall be sent, and it will be there before he arrives." joe was unwilling to take so much responsibility upon himself, and urged that he did not look fit to visit the city; but bill overruled all his objections. "you're the one to go, so that settles it," the miner said as he pulled out his wallet. "here's what money i've got, an' if more's needed let me know." "what am i to say to the superintendent if i see him?" "urge that no further steps be taken against the boy. after what you say he did during the riot the officers of the company should be lenient." "but that kind of talk sounds as if you believed he'd stole the money," bill exclaimed in surprise. "the case looks very bad for him, and if it should be called up before we found some evidence in his favor he would most certainly be convicted." sam's friends gazed at each other in astonishment. that the lawyer employed to defend him should thus intimate he was guilty almost shook their faith in the boy's innocence. "you must go all the same," bill said, after a long pause, "an' me an' fred will toddle back home." the adieus consisted only of the words "good-bye," and then the miner and the boy turned their faces toward farley's once more. "it seems as if finding the coal was bad luck for us," fred said when they were on the mountain. "if it hadn't been for that, poor sam never would have thought of walking home." "i don't go very much on what folks call luck, lad. the thing was bound to come whether you saw the vein or not, so we must buck agin it." "the lawyer thinks sam stole the money." "an' more'n he'll believe the same if somethin' don't turn up." "i can't fancy what could happen to help him unless the thief himself came forward to tell the whole story." "it does look kinder black, but we mustn't lose heart." "of course this settles our chances of buying the land." "nothin' of the kind. my day is broke up now, an' i'll spend the rest of it lookin around a bit." "sam will need all the money we've got to spend." "i've a little laid by for a rainy day, an' with what joe can raise we oughter pull through on both jobs." on arriving at the spur another search was made with the same result as before, and then the two hurried on, sending a telegram to joe immediately after reaching the town. chapter xxi amateur detectives fred was forced to attend to his duties at the store immediately after the return from black town, and while so engaged could not fail to hear the many comments upon the case. the news of the alleged robbery had spread with wonderful rapidity, and the majority of the miners believed sam to be guilty. twice during the afternoon the cashier questioned fred closely as to what the prisoner meant when he spoke of their desire to buy land, but despite the coaxing and even threats he refused to divulge the secret. "if it can't be helped i'll tell mr. wright, but nobody else," the boy repeated, and further than this he positively refused to speak. "then it's time you went home," the official finally said, in an angry tone. "you know so much about this thing that i don't believe it's safe to have you where there are many valuable things which might be stolen." "if you think i'm a thief, why not send me to jail with sam?" "i shall suggest to mr. wright that you be arrested, and i fancy he'll follow my advice." fred walked out of the store knowing that several of the clerks had overheard the latter portion of the conversation, and believing those whom he met on the street already looked upon him as a thief. "it can't be helped, my boy," his mother said. "you have the satisfaction of knowing the accusation is false, and that must suffice until the time when the whole affair is brought to light." "i'm afraid that never will be. everybody thinks sam is lying, and if we should tell of the coal we discovered the folks would say for sure he stole the money." during the remainder of the day fred staid in the house, not so much as showing his face at the window, and shortly after sunset bill called. "i've found out who owns the land," he cried triumphantly. "i wish we'd never walked across the mountain." "now don't be foolish, lad." "how can i help it when people call me a thief." "i heard the cashier had kinder turned you out: but that don't 'mount to anything. wait till the superintendent comes back." "he'll believe as the others do." "then wait till i catch the real thief." "you?" "i'm going to try it." "but you can't leave the mine." "that's jest what i have done." "what? have you thrown up the job?" "me an' the cashier had a little tiff a few minutes ago, an' i've closed accounts with farley's." "i hope you didn't take up what he said to me." "well, i kinder had a row on my own account, but that ain't neither here nor there. we're both loafin' now, an' i want you to take a trip with me." "where?" "i ain't jest sure, but we'll strike blacktown first, an' then go wherever things look most promisin'." "have you heard anything?" mrs. byram asked, as she gazed at the man sharply. "i can't say i have, an' i can't say i haven't. skip give me a idee that's worth workin' up even if it comes to nothin', so we'll have a vacation." "tell me what you've heard?" fred cried, excitedly. "it ain't so very much, only jest enough to set me thinkin'. one of skip's regulators was over here this noon, an' flashed up considerable money for a boy like him." "and you think he stole the package from sam?" "i don't say anything of the kind, but skip heard 'bout the trouble sam was in, an' thought it wouldn't do a bit of harm if we found out where this feller got so much cash." "when are you going?" "in the mornin', but don't get your hopes up, for it may all end in smoke." regardless of this warning fred did grow excited, and before bill took his departure he felt quite confident that the thief would soon be discovered. his spirits fell considerably next morning when joe returned from new york, having come home on the night train. "it's no use," he said sadly, as he entered mrs. byram's home just as fred and bill were making ready to set out for blacktown. "won't mr. wright do anything to help sam?" "no; he says if the boy is innocent it will be much better to have the matter settled in court, when everybody will know he was wrongfully accused." "does he believe him guilty?" "i'm afraid so, though he didn't say very much." "when is he coming home?" "day after to-morrow. he got a long letter from the cashier yesterday, an' i reckon that made the case look pretty tough agin sam." "well," bill said, speaking for the first time since the arrival of his mate, "we've spent the money for nothin', but it can't be helped now. we thought it would be best to see him, an' since it's turned out wrong all we can do is to push the other plan for what it's worth." "what's the other plan?" joe asked. bill explained, and concluded by saying: "it will be a good idee to have you here to post us on what happens while we're away. keep your eyes peeled, an' if anything pertic'lar turns up come over." then, without waiting to hear whether joe was pleased with the idea, bill started, calling sharply to fred as he left the house: "it won't do to loaf, lad, if we've got to get sam out of the scrape with all the officers of the company agin us." a hurried good-bye to joe, a kiss from his mother, and fred followed, bent on proving his friend's innocence in order that the suspicion of crime might also be removed from him. during the walk to blacktown hardly a word was spoken, but bill said when they were within sight of the village: "we'd best separate here an' to-night i'll meet you over by the hotel." "ain't we going to see sam?" "not to-day." "but what am i to do?" "walk 'round 'till you run across skip, an' then make friends with the feller what's with him." "is skip here?" fred asked in surprise. "of course, else how could we find the boy? i gave him money last night, an' reckon he come over on the first train." "did he say where he'd be?" "no, but you'll sure run across him. then hang 'round till it's time to meet me. it don't stand to reason well find out anything to-day, but we'll get our pipes laid." bill turned away as if fearing to prolong the interview lest he be seen by the boy whom he fancied knew something about the case, and fred walked aimlessly to and fro for nearly an hour, when he was accosted by skip. "when did you come?" the latter asked, as if in surprise as he glanced meaningly toward a rather disreputable looking boy at his side. fred told the exact truth, and added that he was "laying off" from work for a day or two because of an invitation of bill thomas' to see the sights in blacktown. skip's friend at once proposed that fred spend the day with them, and the two strangers in the village were soon pretending to enjoy the lavish hospitality of the fellow who was known by the name of gus dobson. only once, before it was time to meet bill did skip have a chance to speak privately with fred. their host had left them while he talked in whispers for several moments with a friend of about the same age and general appearance, and skip said: "i'd like mighty well to help sam out of his scrape, 'cause it would kinder square off what i did to hurt you an' him." "do you think this fellow knows anything about the money?" "he ain't givin' himself away; but jest see how much cash he's got. as many as three dollars were spent yesterday at farley's, and he's still slingin' it out." "perhaps this is some he's been saving." "gus dobson hasn't worked any to speak of since the regulators was started, an' i know he hadn't a cent at the time of the fuss over to farley's." "has he said anything about sam?" "yesterday he asked a good many questions." "i don't see how we're going to find out where the money comes from unless he wants to tell us," fred said, with a sigh, and then gus, looking considerably disturbed, joined them. "when are you fellers goin' home?" he asked, abruptly. "i'll start pretty soon," skip replied, "but fred don't have to leave till bill thomas gives the word. what's up?" "nothin' much 'cept i won't see you agin." "why not?" "i promised to take a trip with the feller what was jest here, an' it's time we was off." "what's that for?" "i don't know as it's any business of yours," and gus looked at his guests suspiciously. "of course not," skip replied quickly, "but we've had such a good time that a feller can't help feelin' sorry you've got to go." this explanation did not appear to be entirely satisfactory. the boy alternately gazed at one and then the other for several moments in silence, and finally said in a threatening tone: "a good many fellers have tried to get the best of me, but i allers made 'em sick before the job was finished." "now what are you drivin' at?" skip asked, in well simulated surprise. "if you don't know i won't waste time talking," was the reply, as gus walked hurriedly away, and the boys saw him join his friend a short distance off. "he's tumbled to our game," skip said sadly, "an' i'd like to knock the head off the feller what put him up to it." "that shows he knows something about the money." "he may think we're on another racket; but there's no use loafin' 'round here. i'll go to the depot an' you find bill." fred had no difficulty in following this last suggestion. the miner was already at the rendezvous, and when the details of the apparent failure had been given, he exclaimed angrily: "it's all my fault, an' instead of helpin' sam i've done him a power of harm." "what do you mean?" "i was in too much of a hurry, and thought myself mighty smart, so told the lawyer what we suspicioned. he ain't much less of a fool than i am, for he sent out to find a friend of gus', and asked him all kinds of questions. now we've driven 'em away, an' may as well go ourselves." "are we to give up working?" "there's no use in stayin' here any longer, an' we'll strike across the mountain. come on, so's it'll be possible to get home before dark." chapter xxii unexpected news fred was opposed to leaving blacktown without seeing sam; but bill, smarting under the sense of having brought about his own defeat, insisted upon an immediate departure. "it ain't likely we could get into the jail now the day is so far spent, an' if we did, what would be the use? there's nothing that could be said to cheer the boy." "i promised." "you can keep it the next time we come," and bill put an end to the discussion by starting toward the mountain. fred followed with a heavy heart, and the two trudged on in silence until they were within a short distance of the newly-discovered coal vein, when bill exclaimed in surprise: "i'm blest if there isn't joe! what's up now, i wonder?" this question was soon answered. the approaching miner cried while yet some distance away: "what are you comin' back so soon for?" "there was no reason why we should stay longer," and without sparing himself in the slightest, bill explained what a blunder had been committed. "well, you'd better go to blacktown agin, or else take the train for new york." "why?" "the cashier has been swearin' out a warrant for fred's arrest, an' it'll be served the minute he gets back." "a warrant for me?" fred cried in alarm. "what have i done?" "the fool thinks you know where the money is, an' that you made the arrangements with sam, before he left, to get away with it." "mr. wright won't allow such a thing." "the letter he wrote seems to have made the cashier's neck stiffer than it was yesterday, an' i don't reckon it would do much good to depend on any officer of the company." "i'll give that feller a piece of my mind," bill cried angrily, and joe replied: "don't do it yet a while. he told donovan this noon that you'd gone with fred to put the cash in a safe place, so it may be that the constable would like to see you by this time." "why, where does he think it was?" "buried on the mountain somewhere, an' if he sends men out to see if any diggin' has been done lately, the vein will surely be found." "i'll go back any way!" bill cried after a short pause. "such as him shan't call me a thief." "now, look here, matey, what will be the good of gettin' yourself in jail? i've told fred's mother jest how the matter stands, an' she believes as i do, that it'll be better to hang off a while in the hope something will turn up." "an' have the constables chasin' us all over the country." "it ain't certain they'll do that." "but it may never be known positively who took the money," fred added. "if you're both so anxious to go to jail, wait till it is proved sam is a thief, an' then show up to the constable. things can't be worse for holdin' on a few days." "'cordin' to your own figgerin' there's a chance the coal will be found." "i'll take care of that business while you an' fred keep out of sight. with what i had, an' what could be borrowed, i've got two hundred an' twenty dollars. you shall take the odd money, an' the balance i'll plank down as a first payment on the land." "do you know who owns it?" "a farmer who lived five or six miles the other side of blacktown." "that's correct, an' the sooner you see him the better." "will you agree to keep away from farley's?" "yes," bill said slowly, as if angry with himself for making the promise. "fred an' me'll sneak 'round 'till the trade's made for this side the mountain, an' then figger up what it's best to do." "where can i see you to-morrow?" "right here. we'll stay in the woods a night or two." "have you got anything to eat?" "no; but it's an easy matter to buy all we want." "take this money in case it is necessary to leave on the jump, an' i'll go on." handing his mate the twenty dollars, joe went at a sharp gait toward blacktown, and bill said, with a shrug of the shoulders: "so we're both thieves 'cordin' to the cashier's ideas; but wait 'till we get the land secured, an' i'll give that young man a lesson such as won't be very pleasant." "do you really mean to sleep in the woods?" "why not? it's warm weather, an' we'll be pretty nigh as well off there as at home." "then we'd better be looking for a good place. if mother hadn't sent word that i was to stay away, i'd go to farley's this minute an' let them arrest me, for it seems as if we act guilty by running off." "that's jest my idee, lad; but we'll obey orders a day or two." a short distance to the right was a thickly-wooded grove, and here the two soon found what would serve very well as a camp. a small cleared space, almost entirely screened from view by bushes, afforded all the protection which might be needed, and bill threw himself on the ground. "i reckon we can go without supper," he said, with forced cheerfulness, "an' there'll be no bother about lockin' the doors." "it won't be long before i'm asleep. walking around so much has tired me more than a full day's work in the breaker." "don't keep awake on my account. the sooner your eyes are closed the sooner you'll forget that there's a chance of bein' sent to jail." with his head pillowed on some dry leaves fred had no difficulty in summoning slumber; but bill tossed to and fro on the hard bed without the slightest desire for sleep. the boy was dreaming of the frightful hours spent in the short slope after the explosion, when he was awakened by the pressure of a hand on his mouth. it was dark, save for the twinkling stars, and silent, except when the leaves were swayed by the gentle wind. "don't speak," bill whispered as he removed his hand. "i can see the light of a fire over there to the right, an' it's well for us to know who are campin' so near." "what do you want me to do?" "follow me. we'll creep up far enough to see what's goin' on, an' then come back, unless there's reason for changin' our lodgings." "i'll keep close behind you," and fred rose to his feet, bill parting the bushes with both hands to avoid the slightest noise. the glow of flames could be seen a long distance away, evidently on the opposite edge of the grove, and the two approached it as rapidly as was consistent with silence. soon the hum of voices was heard, and after a short time bill stopped suddenly, gripped fred by the hand, and pointed ahead. around a camp-fire, over which pieces of meat were being cooked, sat gus dobson and the friend who had caused him to distrust fred and skip. "there may be a chance for us to find out a good deal of what we want to know," bill whispered, and once more he advanced, moving with the utmost caution. it was possible for the spies to creep within five yards of the encampment, thanks to the bushes, and when this had been accomplished the boys were eating supper. "i don't believe in stayin' here too long," gus was saying when fred and bill were near enough to distinguish the conversation. "nobody 'd think of huntin' for us in this place," his companion replied, "an' it ain't safe to take the cars yet a while, for them boys from farley's have got men to back 'em." "s'pposen they have? how can anybody find us if we walk up the track to the next station?" "it's easy enough to send word all around, an' then we'd be nabbed the minute we showed our noses in a town." "it will be jest as bad if they come here huntin' for us." "you're a reg'lar fool, gus dobson. so long as we can keep the stuff where it is, what'll be gained by arrestin' us? we've got to take it with us when we leave, an' then whoever catches us will have the thing down fine." "but we can't stay here forever." "a couple of weeks won't hurt us, an' by that time folks will give up lookin' so sharp. they'll think we got away." "we're too near farley's." "then make a move. we can keep on a dozen miles or so through the woods, an' bury the stuff agin." "i wanter get to new york." "there's plenty of time for that, an' it'll be nothing more'n fun to camp out two or three weeks." gus made no reply, and after supper had been eaten his companion lay down beside the fire, saying as he did so: "i'm goin' to sleep; you can figger the thing out between now and mornin', and say what you're willin' to do." "it'll have to be as you say, i s'pose," gus replied, sulkily; "but we must leave here." "all right, we'll start to-morrow, an' when a good place is found, put up a reg'lar camp." as he said this the boy rolled over as if to end the conversation, and gus laid down beside him. bill waited until the heavy breathing of both told that they were asleep, and then, with a motion to fred, he began to retreat. not until he was an hundred yards from the camp-fire did the miner halt, and said in a low whisper: "it was a mighty good thing for us that warrant had been sworn out for you. if the cashier had waited a day or so we'd gone home without an idee of where them young scoundrels were." "it seems certain they've got the money." "not a doubt of it." "why don't we jump right in on them? perhaps they'd tell where it was buried." "if they didn't we'd be worse off than before, for either one is smart enough to know nothin' can be done to 'em while the cash is hid. the only way for us is to keep an eye on the little villains, 'till they get ready for a move. then we'll do our work." "it'll be pretty hard to watch in the daytime without being seen ourselves." "we must manage to do it somehow, for this is, perhaps, our last chance to help sam." chapter xxiii a misadventure neither fred nor bill had any desire to sleep, now that the solution of the mystery seemed so near. they remained in the same place where the halt was made until the blackness of night gave way before the pale threads of light. "it's gettin' pretty nigh time to begin our work," bill said, "an' this heat we mustn't make any mistake." "i'm afraid we can't get near enough to see whether they take the money or not. perhaps it isn't anywhere around here." "then we'll follow 'em, if it takes a week, to find out what we're after. my idee is that we'd better separate, so's to make sure of knowin' what's goin' on. you stay here, an' i'll creep over to the other side, then we shall be doublin' our chances." "but what is to be done in case we don't see them dig up the money?" "foller, no matter how long a chase they lead us. we shall come together somewhere on the road; but it won't be a bad plan for you to take a little of this money. if we had only bought some grub last night things would be in better shape." "i can get along without food for a week if there is any hope of helping sam." "the whole thing will be cleared up providin' we don't loose sight of them. here's the money, an' now i'll be off. you'd best crawl nearer before the sun rises." with a pressure of the hand bill started, making a wide detour around the encampment, and fred was alone, trying hard to repress a tremor of excitement which was causing him to tremble as if in an ague fit. after waiting half an hour, and assuring himself that bill was well off, fred began an advance, working his way from bush to bush until convinced he could approach no nearer with safety. by this time the sun had risen, and his rays falling upon the faces of the sleepers, awakened them. both sprang to their feet, and gus began building the fire while his companion was busily engaged at something among the bushes--preparing food for cooking, as fred thought. "then you still think we oughter leave here?" gus said, interrogatively. "yes, an' the sooner the better. there's no knowin' when that feller's friends may come sneakin' around agin. we'll hurry up with the breakfast, an' start when it's over." the boys had quite an outfit, as fred could now see. a frying-pan, coffee-pot, tin cups, plates, and a bag well filled with provisions. gus acted the part of cook, and soon the odor of hot coffee was wafted in the direction of the watcher, causing him to feel the need of something to eat. but little conversation was indulged in during the preparations for the meal. gus' companion did not show himself until everything was ready, and then he ate hurriedly as if time was too precious to admit of talking. "now let's divide the load," the boy said, as he leaped to his feet and began tying the cooking utensils together. "if you'll see to the grub, i'll take care of these." fred gazed intently, expecting to see the money exposed to view; but no mention was made of it. gus shouldered the bag; his companion swung the remainder of the baggage over his shoulder, and the two started, walking rapidly around the mountain on a course which would carry them to the eastward at right angles with the railroad track. fred followed, remaining as far in the rear as was possible to keep them within view, and at such a distance that he could no longer overhear the conversation. beyond a doubt bill was also in pursuit; but he did not show himself, and fred fancied he was well over to the left travelling on a parallel line with the boys. during an hour these relative positions were maintained, and then gus threw down the bag as if to make a halt. "now they're going to dig up the money," fred said to himself, and he pressed forward that he might see all which occurred. in this he was mistaken, however. the two had simply stopped to rest, and such of the conversation as could be overheard only had reference to the location for a permanent camp, gus insisting they were far enough away from the villages, while his companion urged that twice this distance should be covered. "it's plain they have no idea of digging," fred muttered. "it begins to look as if we had made a big mistake; but if that is so, what was the meaning of the talk they made last night?" it was an enigma which he could not solve. although believing they were on the wrong track, he did not feel at liberty to abandon the search until after consulting with bill, and as yet no signs had been seen of that gentleman. the halt was continued for half an hour, and then the two boys pushed on again, walking at a leisurely pace until the forenoon was well nigh spent, when they came to a full stop at the bank of a small brook. they were now, as nearly as fred could judge, eight or nine miles from the starting point, and that this was the end of the journey could be told by the preparations made. from the bag a new hatchet was produced, and both set about hewing small trees and bushes with which to build a camp. not until this shelter was put up did fred dare to move near enough to hear what was said, and then he found a hiding-place in the thicket twenty paces in the rear of the rude dwelling. even though two hours had been spent in this work, bill did not show himself. it was possible, however, that he believed it dangerous to move about in the daytime, but would join his companion after dark. such conversation as the boys indulged in had no especial interest to the listener, since it referred almost entirely to the length of time they would remain in the camp. when the day came to an end fred had not heard anything of importance, and he resolved to advise an immediate return to farley's when bill should join him. during the evening gus and his companion appeared to be very jolly; they told stories, sang, and laughed as if there was nothing in connection with this "camping out" to be concealed, and the watcher in the bushes wondered why the miner did not come. half a dozen men might have walked around the encampment without being observed by the boys, and bill's delay seemed very singular. fred did not dare to leave his place of concealment, and even if it had been perfectly safe to do so, he knew not in which direction to look for his friend, therefore nothing could be done save exercise patience. the hours passed without any change in the condition of affairs. the camp-fire burned itself out. the supposed culprits retired to rest, and fred, who had slept but a short time during the previous night, found it absolutely impossible to prevent his eyes from closing. lower and lower his head drooped upon his breast until slumber came, and he remained unconscious for many hours. the glare of the sunlight aroused him after the occupants of the camp were astir, and he sprang to his feet in alarm. the noise made by this sudden movement startled those whom he had been detailed to watch, and before fred could collect his scattered senses both the boys were upon him. for a single instant the three stood surveying each other, and then gus and his companion seized the bewildered spy by the arms, rendering useless his frantic struggles to defend himself. "can you hold him, tim, while i get something to tie his hands?" gus cried, and tim replied: "i can take care of three or four jest like him. get the rope outer the bag; that'll be strong enough." with a quick movement the boy clasped fred around the waist and held him firmly until gus returned. when the prisoner's hands had been lashed to his side he was led to the camp, where his legs were also bound, and the captors seated themselves in front of him. "now tell us where that man is?" tim said, sternly. "what man?" "you know who i mean; the feller what come over to blacktown with you an' skip." "i wish i knew," fred replied with a sigh. "don't lie to us," and gus shook his fist in the helpless boy's face. "that miner went to a lawyer an' told him i had a hand in stealin' the money what sam thorpe lost. then you an' skip tried to pump me. now give us the whole yarn, or things will be mighty hot." fred remained silent. "he's been follerin' us ever since we left the town," tim said after a moment's thought, "an' it stands us in hand to get outer this lively, or the rest of his gang will be on us." "have we got to do more trampin' jest on account of a sneak like this?" gus asked fretfully. "do you want to stay an' run the chance of bein' carried back to blacktown?" "of course not; but travelin' all the time when we mighter got on the cars in the first place is more'n i bargained for." "if you'd had your way we'd been pulled in before this. get the stuff in shape, an' i reckon we'll fix things right now. let him carry the load, an' we'll take the tramp kinder easy." gus obeyed with a very ill grace, and while he was getting the cooking utensils together tim walked along the bank of the brook to where a flat stone lay half submerged in the water. fred watched his every movement as he overturned this, and dug with a pointed stick until a small, square package had been exposed to view. there was no question in the prisoner's mind but that the wrappings of cloth covered the money sam was accused of stealing, and now the secret had really been discovered, all else seemed trifling in comparison. "i wonder how it happened that i didn't see that when they left the last camp?" he thought, as tim put the bundle carefully in the inside pocket of his coat. "so you've found out what you come for, eh?" the boy cried, angrily. "well, it won't do any good, for when we get through with sneaks they can't do much harm. pick up that load, an' if you don't walk lively i'll find a way to make you." "how can i pick up anything while my legs are tied?" tim unfastened the ropes from fred's ankles; loosened one of his arms, and threw the cooking utensils over his shoulder. "come on gus," he said, impatiently. "we'll take turns carryin' the grub 'till we've given the slip to whoever may be follerin', and then he can tote the whole load." fred was faint from lack of food; but he mentally braced himself to perform the task, and gus cried as he struck him a blow full in the face: "step out now, an' when we make camp to-night you'll get a taste of how we serve spies. it'll be a worse dose than the regulators ever gave you, an' don't forget it." "there's no time for foolishness," tim said, impatiently. "his gang may be close behind, an' we can't afford to pay him off yet a while." with this sage remark he took up the provision bag, and led the way across the base of the hill, at right angles with the course pursued on the previous day, while gus remained in the rear to urge the prisoner on in case he faltered. chapter xxiv bill's mishap joe brace returned to farley's on the morning after he warned bill and fred of what the cashier intended to do, and went directly to mrs. byram's. "i've bought the land!" he cried, exultantly. "the farmer was mighty glad of a chance to sell for five hundred dollars, an' if i'd had more time the price could have been whittled down to four. there's a mortgage of three hundred to be paid in a year, an' that'll be jest the same as nothin' after we show up what's there." "did you see fred?" the widow asked, anxiously, paying but little attention to the good news. "met him an' bill last night; told 'em what was up, and they'll keep shady 'till things can be fixed." "then nothing was accomplished by their going to blacktown?" joe explained why that excursion had been a failure, and added: "they're on the right track, so we can count on everything comin' out right before long." "are you intending to stay here?" "no; i only came to tell you what had been done, an' shall go back on the train to make sure my deed is recorded. i bought in the name of byram, thorpe, thomas & brace. how does that strike you for a firm?" "although you and mr. thomas are so sure the discovery will be a source of great wealth, i can't feel much interest in it while fred is in danger. i wish they would go to some city, rather than remain so near home." "i shall see 'em this afternoon an' now that the business of the land is settled, will advise them to take a little pleasure trip." "please see to it that they do not suffer for food." "i'll tend to everything in great shape. have you heard whether mr. wright has got back?" "he sent word that he would be home to-night." "then, perhaps, i'd better wait an' have another talk with him." "no, no; i will see him myself. it is more important you care for those who are hiding in the woods." joe had no further time for conversation. the train by which he intended to return to blacktown was already due and he hurried away after repeating confidently: "i'll see'em to-night, ma'am, an' you can rest easy. they shall live on the fat of the land now we own a coal mine." there was barely time for the miner to leap on board the cars, and as they were whirled away by the puffing engine, the constable who had arrested sam accosted him. "where you bound, joe?" "to blacktown," was the gruff reply. "what are you up to? servin' warrants for that fool of a cashier?" "yes, i reckon that's about the size of it." "got one for me?" "of course not; what makes you talk such nonsense?" "i heard that bill was goin' to be 'rested, 'cause he'd tried to help sam, an' seem's he's a mate of mine i didn't know but you'd planned to pull in the whole family." "but now be honest, an' admit that the case looks pretty black for the two boys." "that's all nonsense. sam lost the money, an' it was the fault of the company, not his." "how do you make that out?" "easy enough. they'd no business to send him with so much stuff. it was the cashier's duty, an' that's what makes him so sore, 'cause mr. wright's bound to blame such slip-shod ways of shirkin' work." "allowin' you're right, it don't help sam thorpe's case any." "we'll see about it before the world's many days older. i ain't quite a fool, an' when i get through your precious cashier will feel sick." after this threat joe refused to indulge in further conversation, and the constable left him to seek more agreeable company. the words of the officer had aroused a new train of thought in the miner's mind, he fancied the lawyer whom bill had consulted should be informed of what had happened. with this idea he visited the legal gentleman, immediately after the train arrived in blacktown, and not only told him all which had happened relative to the robbery; but divulged the secret of the vein. the knowledge that his clients were in a fair way to be rich, and, consequently, influential, caused a very decided change in the lawyer's manner, and he displayed more zeal than joe had expected. "we can easily get bail for your friends in case they are arrested," he said, "and in the meanwhile i will attend to the deeds. it is necessary the titles should be searched before the discovery is known by the public, and if you need any money i shall be glad to advance it." "if the farmer can't back out of his trade, we've got all that'll be wanted yet awhile," joe replied "but the most important thing jest now is to get bill an' the boys out of their scrape." "can you find mr. thomas?" "i reckon so." "then tell him to come here at once. perhaps it will be well for the boy to remain in hiding a day or two longer, and i shall make it my business to ascertain what evidence there is against him." "i'll go for bill now," and joe left the office, after having been again assured by the lawyer that the transfer of the property would be attended to without delay. the miner prepared for his walk by buying a small stock of provisions, and then he set off in the direction of the mountain, believing it would be possible to find his mate with but little difficulty. an hour's tramp brought him to the famous vein on which he had already built many air-castles; but neither bill nor fred could be seen. satisfying himself that there were no strangers in the vicinity he called them loudly by name; but without receiving any reply. then he trudged on around the mountain, shouting alternately for one and the other, until afar off in the distance it seemed as if an answering hail could be heard. now he ran with all speed in that direction, and soon he heard bill's voice crying: "joe! is it you, joe?" "indeed it is, my hearty. where are you?" "here in the bushes with what come mighty nigh bein' a broken leg." joe was soon by the side of his mate, whom he found lying on the ground apparently in the last stages of exhaustion. "what's the matter, old man? are you hurt?" bill told of what he and fred had seen, and about the proposed chase, concluding by saying: "when the little villains started around the mountain i follered, as the boy an' me had agreed on; but after a two-hour's tramp i fell into a hole, an' reckon my leg is broke." "i don't see any hole," joe said, as he looked about him. "it happened a long bit back. i didn't want to break up the game by lettin' fred know what was wrong, an' so tried to crawl toward the vein, thinkin' if folks were sent out to look for the money they'd find me; but this is as far as i could get. it would 'a been a case of starvin' if you hadn't come along." "if you're hungry i can fix that part of it all right," and joe produced the package of provisions. "have a good time with this while i take a look at the leg." only the most superficial examination was necessary. the broken bones could be plainly felt, and the limb was so swollen that it seemed essential, that the boot and trousers should be cut from it. "i don't see my way clear in this job," joe exclaimed, as he removed the garments. "it ain't safe to leave you here alone, an' yet help must be had to carry you to farley's." "now that i've got a mouthful i can lay here a few hours longer. go on, i'll keep till you get back." "if there was some water near by i could tie you up more comfortable like." "never mind that, but leave at once, so to be the sooner here." joe hesitated no longer, but set off across the mountain at a speed which brought him to farley's in less than half an hour. here it was only necessary to state what had happened in order to find plenty of volunteers for the task of bringing bill home, and as the party set out mrs. byram followed a short distance by joe's side, in order to say: "i've seen mr. wright, and he evidently believes both sam and fred are guilty." "won't he let up till we can run down them fellers what bill was follerin'?" "he says to me, as he did to you, that the law must take its course, and will not even do anything to prevent bill's arrest." "we're goin' to bring the poor feller home, an' this company what think they own farley's an' every soul in it had better let him alone." "take him to my house, where he can have more care than at a boarding-place." "all right, an' thank ye, ma'am." "but what about fred? where is he?" "there's no call to worry because of him. as soon as bill is off my hands i'll hunt the boy up, an' p'rhaps the two of us will bring home the real thieves." the widow could go no farther, and joe took his place at the head of the party, walking at his best pace. bill was suffering a great deal of pain when his friends arrived, but not a word of complaint escaped his lips, and some pleasant word was exchanged for every greeting. "it'll be a hard pull to get me over the mountain, but i'll not see farley's for many a long day if you can't hold out." "we'll have you there, old man, an' not spend any too much breath over the job," joe said cheerily, as he began to build a litter. several of the party were curious to learn why bill had come into that out-of-the-way place, but he refused to make any explanations, and joe pretended not to hear the many questions. it was nearly dark before the injured man arrived at mrs. byram's home, and then nature had so far asserted her rights that he lay unconscious until after the physician arrived. "i reckon i've done all that's possible," joe said to the widow, "an' now i'll start back." "you won't think of searching through the woods in the night." "no; but i'll trudge over to where i found bill, so's the hunt can be begun bright an' early. it ain't likely i'll bring fred home till after i've seen the lawyer agin." "if he isn't in trouble it will be better to remain away a few days longer." "i'll answer for it that he's all right, ma'am, an it sha'n't be many hours now 'till he can hold his head up with the best of 'em." with these cheering words joe left the house, intending to go home for supper before continuing his task; but on arriving opposite the store mr. wright stopped him by saying sternly: "i would like to have a few words with you, mr. brace." "my time has come," joe muttered to himself; "but i'll show these smart fellows that they can't haul up everybody in town jest because it pleases 'em." chapter xxv joe's interview joe brace had a very good idea of why the superintendent wished to see him, and he entered the office prepared to speak his mind plainly. "i understand that you have not been working for the past day or two," mr. wright began. "that's correct." "have you left our employ?" "it amounts to pretty much that." "has thomas quit also?" "when a man knows that he's to be arrested, he ain't likely to hang 'round so's the warrant can be served without much trouble to the constable. but jest now bill isn't in a condition to work for anybody." "what's the matter?" "he broke his leg, an' a lot of the boys have brought him to the widder byram's house." "i hadn't heard of that." "it'll come kinder rough on the constable." "i understand to what you refer, brace, and am not pleased to hear you speak in such a manner." "it can't be helped, sir. when a feller sees them as risked everything to do the company a good turn while billings had full sway, run down an' chucked into jail for nothin', it makes him feel sore." "there was good reason for the arrest of sam thorpe." "even admittin' that's so, which i don't, why should fred byram an' bill be pulled into the fuss? there's nothin' to connect them with it." "they have acted very suspiciously ever since the money was said to have been lost." "that's where you are makin' a big mistake, mr. wright. i've had a hand in all their maneuvers, an' so has the widder, consequently if one is guilty the whole crowd are." "what do you mean?" "i can't explain yet awhile; but it'll come out before long, when you'll see everything was square an' above board." "look here, brace," mr. wright said, in a friendly tone: "i called you in here to have a confidential chat upon the subject, and it is not right to keep from me anything which may have a bearing on the matter." "what i know can't be told for a while; but i'll give you the particulars of what we've already found out," and without further questioning joe related the events of the past three days, save so far as they were connected with the discovery of the vein. "it surely looks suspicious," the superintendent said, musingly; "but i fail to understand how those boys could have gotten the money from sam's pocket, unless he remained in town skylarking with them." "that's somethin' i can't explain; but when i find fred we'll know a good deal more about the matter." "do you think anything could be accomplished by my visiting sam?" "i'm certain of it, for one talk with him is bound to convince you he isn't a thief." the superintendent remained silent several moments, and it seemed very much as if this second conversation with joe had caused a change of opinion. "very well," he said finally, "i will think the matter over. shall you be here in the morning?" "i'm goin' to leave farley's as soon as i get a bite to eat, an' it ain't likely i'll be back 'till fred can come with me." mr. wright arose to intimate that the interview was at an end, and joe left the store with a gesture of defiance and anger toward the cashier. while all this was taking place fred occupied anything rather than an enviable position. when the march was begun he found it extremely difficult to make his way through the woods, loaded down as he was and with one arm tied to his side; but gus had no mercy. at every opportunity he spurred the prisoner on, using a stout stick for the purpose, and more than once was fred on the point of open rebellion. he felt confident the boys would not dare do more than give him a cruel flogging, after which they must leave him behind; but this would be to lose sight of the thieves, and almost anything was preferable to being thus defeated in his purpose. "i'll stick it out," he said to himself, "and wait for the time when i can tell the story to some one who will help make them prisoners." during an hour the boys traveled straight ahead, and then gus insisted upon a halt. tim agreed, because his breakfast had not been perfectly satisfactory, and he wanted a second meal now they were, as he believed, free from pursuit. the provisions were brought out from the bag, and as the two boys began to eat fred's hunger returned with such a force that he could not resist the impulse to ask for food. "say, if you'll give me some of that bread i'll carry all the load when we start again. i haven't had a mouthful since i left blacktown." "an' you'll go without two or three days longer," gus replied with malicious pleasure. "you'll have the whole load, an' no trade about it either, so hold your tongue or i'll use the stick again." tim laughed as if he thought it great sport to hear the prisoner begging for food, and fred threw himself upon the ground, resolving not to give them another opportunity for mirth. "if there's a chance to get hold of the bag to-night i'll help myself," he thought. "it can't be stealing, for i'm surely entitled to a share when they force me to stay with them." gus amused himself for a while by thrusting food close to the prisoner's face and then withdrawing it, but he tired of this when fred made no effort to take what he knew was not intended for him. the halt continued about an hour, and then, as gus had threatened, both packages were placed on fred's shoulders. "now step out livelier than you did before, for we don't want to make another halt until we are ready to build a camp," tim said, as he began the advance. "treat me decent an' i'll travel as fast as you can." "you ain't gettin' it half as bad as you deserve, an' it'd be a good idea to keep your mouth shut." as during the first portion of the journey, gus amused himself by prodding the prisoner with a stick, but as the day lengthened and tim refused to halt, the boy grew too weary to indulge in such pleasantries. in order that fred might carry all the burden, it was necessary to unloosen both his hands, and, without being observed by his companions, he contrived to transfer several crackers from the bag to his pocket. the second stage of the journey lasted nearly two hours, and then tim decided the camp should be erected on the bank of a small stream. they were now, according to fred's belief, not more than twenty miles from blacktown, and a trifle less than that distance from farley's. as far away as the eye could reach was a town, but no one knew its name. "we might have stayed nearer home if the camp is to be made so close to a settlement," gus said fretfully. "while we keep out of sight nobody'll know we're here, an' in case we want to leave suddenly on the cars, it won't be far to walk. i'd like to get hold of a boat, an' then we could run down the stream without much trouble." "why not buy one?" "after a day or two we'll find out if there is any near. just now we must get the camp built, an' then take things comfortable for awhile." fred watched tim's every movement in order to learn where the money would be hidden; but failed to see any attempt at burying it. the protuberance just over his breast served to show the treasure was yet in his possession, and gus seemed well content it should remain there. the prisoner was ordered to hew the materials for the camp while the others put them together, and during this work he contrived to eat the stolen crackers. the shelter was a rude affair, hardly more than sufficient to protect them from the rays of the sun, and when completed all hands lay down to rest, fred being bound hand and foot again to prevent any attempt at escape. not until night was the prisoner given food, and then gus doled out two crackers, an amount which would have been little more than an aggravation if he had not previously ministered to his own wants. during the hours of darkness no watch was kept; but fred remained awake nearly all the time, straining his ears in the vain hope that he might hear something of bill. the second and third days were but repetitions of the first, and then it became necessary to visit the village in order to procure food. "i'll walk up the stream 'till a place to cross is found," tim said, "an' if i don't see a boat before then, will strike out for the town. keep your eye on the sneak, an' don't give him a chance to get away." "help me fix the ropes around his legs a little tighter, an' i'll answer for it that he won't go far." tim complied with this request, and when fred was trussed up like a chicken, he took from his pocket the stolen money. "it won't do to carry all this, so you'd better take care of it a while. ten dollars will be enough for me, even if i should happen to come across the boat." subtracting this amount from the total, he gave the remainder to gus, who put it carelessly in his pocket as if accustomed to handling large sums of money. then he started along the bank of the stream, his companion accompanying him a short distance, and fred realized that the time had come when he must make one desperate attempt to take his jailer prisoner. "gus has got nearly all the money," he said to himself, "and if i could manage to slip the ropes it would only be a question of a fight, in which i'm almost certain to get the upper hand." he had been left seated with his back against the trunk of a tree, and the first move necessary was to release his arms. to do this he struggled desperately, regardless of the pain; but the bonds remained firm until gus returned, when, as a matter of course, he did not dare to make any further movement. "now tim is so far away that he can't interfere, i'm going to pay you off for playin' the sneak," gus said, as he took up his station directly in front of the prisoner. "if i had my way you shouldn't have a bite to eat from now out, an' by the time we get ready to leave you couldn't do much mischief." "if you're afraid, why not kill me? that's the safest plan." "i'd like to," was the savage reply, "an' would if i was sure of not bein' pulled up for murder. i can give you a lively time for the next two or three hours, though." gus began to fulfill his promise by tickling fred's nose with a twig, and the prisoner was by no means averse to the cruel sport, since it gave him a good excuse to struggle. he writhed and twisted as if to move beyond reach of his tormentor; but all the while his sole aim was to release his hands, and gus was so deeply engrossed with the efforts to cause pain that he failed to understand what his victim might succeed in doing. chapter xxvi turning the tables the constant straining caused fred to perspire freely, and after many vain efforts he succeeded in catching the rope which was around his wrists, under the point of a projecting limb of the tree. now he had a purchase, and by a mighty effort at the moment when gus made a more than usually vicious lunge, slipped one of his hands from the bonds, thanks to the perspiration which moistened the strands. he did not take immediate advantage of his freedom. it was essential to await a favorable opportunity, and this came when gus knelt before him for the purpose of pricking the apparently helpless boy with the blade of his knife. fred could not arise; but he flung both arms around his tormentor's neck, hugging him so close as to prevent the latter from using his hands. for an instant his surprise was so great that he remained motionless; but before fred could take any advantage of his inactivity gus recovered from the shock to exert all his strength, and began to free himself. under ordinary circumstances fred would have been no match for his captor; but now the knowledge of what was to be gained lent him great energy, and he clung to him with desperation. "let go, or i'll stab you with this knife," gus shouted; but fred was too careful of his wind to make any reply. over and over they rolled, one trying to use his weapon, while the other did his best to prevent it, and but for an accident the battle might have been continued until the smaller boy was exhausted. it was not possible to control the direction of their bodies, and suddenly both were precipitated into the stream. fred was a good swimmer, while his adversary knew but little of the art, and he succeeded in holding gus' head under water until he was nearly strangled. the tables were now turned. it only remained for fred to drag the half-unconscious boy to the shore, and there transfer the rope from one pair of legs to the other. when gus again had a clear idea of matters he was securely tied, and fred had put into his own pocket the package of money which sam was accused of stealing. to pack in small compass the remaining store of provisions, cut a stout stick, and place the hatchet in a belt improvised from a piece of the rope, occupied but a few moments, and then fred said, sternly: "i'm going to slacken up on your legs a bit, so's you can walk, and now it's your turn to step out lively." "when tim comes back you shall pay for this." "i intend to be a long distance from here before that time arrives." "he can catch you." "to do it he'll have to be smarter than i think he is." "wait an' see." "that's just what i don't propose doin'. i understand your purpose now; you're trying to keep me here as long as possible. get up." "i won't an' you can't make me." fred struck the prisoner several severe blows; but he did not so much as cry out. "i'll beat you black and blue, if you don't stand up and walk." "pound away, i can bear a good deal of that rather than go to jail." again fred used the stick; but in vain. gus shut his teeth firmly, and took the punishment with a stoicism worthy a better cause. it was important that no time should be lost. tim might find a boat and return to the camp before going to the town. fred stood still in perplexity for an instant, and then throwing aside the stick raised gus in his arms. it was a heavy burden; but he staggered on with all possible speed. as soon as gus began to understand that he might be carried away despite his refusal to walk, he set up a series of the most terrific yells, and fred was forced to come to a halt. "i'll soon put an end to that kind of fun," he said, angrily, while whittling a piece of soft wood. "with this in your mouth there won't be much screaming." now gus began to fancy he might be finally beaten, and then tried new tactics. "see here, all you want is the money, an' now you've got it i'll agree that neither tim nor me'll chase or try in any way to catch you, if i'm left here. there's no need even to take off the ropes; but let me stay where he'll see me." fred shook his head. "i need you quite as much as i do the money, and i am bound to take you along." "what good will it do to have me put in jail?" "it'll be the means of freeing a better fellow than you ever dared to be." "i'll kill you some day." "possibly, but that don't let you out of this scrape." by this time fred had the gag ready, and a stout pressure on the prisoner's cheeks caused him to open his mouth. the wood was thrust between gus' teeth, and fred tied his handkerchief over it to prevent it from slipping. "now when you're willing to walk i'll take that out," he said. "once in every few minutes, when we have to stop to rest i'll look at your eyes. if you wink, it means you're ready to do as i say." gus glared at him savagely; but was careful to keep his eyes wide open. again fred shouldered his burden, realizing, meanwhile that he could never reach farley's if his prisoner remained obstinate. when an hundred yards had been traversed he was forced to rest. gus' eyes stared at him. a second and a third time was this repeated. at each interval the distance was shorter, and fred knew he could not travel much farther. "if he don't give in pretty soon i shall," he muttered to himself as he threw his burden to the ground for the third time. to his great relief gus winked violently when fred pulled the handkerchief down to gain a view of his eyes and the gag was removed without loss of time. "will you agree to walk now?" he asked. "yes, yes; it wouldn't take a feller long to stifle with that thing in his mouth." "i don't care what happens so long as i get you to farley's." once more gus tried to beg off; but fred would not listen. "walk fast," he said, "and if you don't do your best, in goes the gag again." there was no necessity of emphasizing the demand. the prisoner moved with alacrity; but his captor was by no means certain as to which was the proper course. tim had made so many turns in his flight that fred's ideas regarding the points of the compass were very hazy. both the boys were suffering from lack of water, and no halt was made until two or three hours past noon, when they were at the edge of a swamp. quenching their thirst with the ill-tasting liquid, they lay down on the ground to rest, and did not continue their journey for some time. "why not stay here all night?" gus asked. "because we haven't traveled far enough yet." "but i can't hold out much longer, no matter how hard i try." "you'll have to go as far as i do." "wait till mornin', an' then i'll walk twice as fast to make up for the time spent now." "we must get in another hour's tramp before sunset," fred replied, determinedly, and although gus pleaded very hard the decision was not changed. but little was accomplished during the last portion of the traveling. both were thoroughly tired, and when the shadows of night shrouded the recesses of the forest in gloom the welcome word was given. "here's a little stream, and we'd better stop here, there's a chance for a drink." "it's about time," gus added, sulkily as he threw himself on the ground. fred divided half of the food into two portions; but did not dare to loosen the prisoner's arms sufficiently to admit of his eating unaided. "i'll feed you first, and then take my share," he said, and gus devoured the food ravenously, after which he quenched his thirst, when fred bound him securely to a tree. the prisoner slept soundly; but to his captor the night was the longest he had ever known. he did not dare give himself wholly up to slumber lest tim should be on their track, and attempt to effect a rescue, while the fear that the money might be lost, this time beyond recovery, rendered him very nervous. "it's going to be tough lines before we get to farley's," he said to himself; "but i ought to hold out if for no other reason than to clear sam beyond a doubt." when the morning finally came fred fed gus again; both took large drinks of water, and their journey was resumed. now gus neither begged nor made comments. he marched just ahead of his captor in a sullen manner, as if having decided upon a certain course of action, and fred remained continually on the alert, fearing lest he meditated an attack. at noon the two halted, and while eating the last of the provisions, knowing that after this they must go hungry until arriving at a settlement, fred fancied he heard a noise as of someone approaching. his first thought was that tim had succeeded in following their trail, and he hurriedly made ready a gag to prevent an alarm from being given. gus heard the same noise, and before fred could prevent him he began to shout loudly for help. it was several seconds before the outcries could be checked, and then the mischief had been done. the noise of a heavy body forcing its way through the underbrush sounded more clearly, and fred sprang to his feet, hatchet in hand, ready to defend himself to the utmost. gus looked triumphant, and again shouted loudly; but the expression of his eye was changed to despair as the stranger burst through the foliage. "why joe! joe!" fred cried, as he leaped forward and caught brace by the hands. "how did you happen to get here just when you were most needed?" "i reckon i'd gone right past without knowin' you was anywhere near, if it hadn't been for your wild yells." "it was gus who did that," fred replied, glancing with a smile toward the discomfited prisoner. "he thought as i did, that it was tim." "do you mean his partner?" "yes." "have you got the best of both?" in the fewest words possible fred explained how the capture had been made, and joe actually leaped for joy when the stolen money was displayed. chapter xxvii an unlooked-for denial "you've done a big thing, my boy," brace said, approvingly, when fred's story was concluded, "an' it won't be long before we can bring sam back to farley's with not so much as a suspicion against him. besides that, we own the land that'll make all hands rich." "how did you do it?" joe gave him all the details, and concluding with the interview between himself and mr. wright, said: "i didn't leave that night as i decided on; but went back to see poor bill, an' your mother insisted i stay till mornin'. the sun wasn't up when i started out, an' a mighty blind hunt it proved to be till the first camp was struck. that kinder livened me a bit; but i couldn't get onto the trail, an' from then till gus yelled i hadn't any idea which way to go." "how far do you suppose we are from farley's?" "i reckon it'll take smart walkin' for the rest of this day, an' the best part of to-morrow before we see the works." "and the provisions i took from tim and gus are all gone." "i've got enough for supper, if we don't eat too hearty, and the balance of the time we can suck our thumbs." "then we'd better make another start. it must be three o'clock." "do you know the straight cut?" "i'm not even certain we're heading right." "by keeping on the high land we are bound to come out somewhere near farley's or blacktown." when the journey was continued gus took good care to give his captors no trouble, for he understood that joe would show but little mercy, if there was any attempt to cause delay. at a reasonably rapid pace the three marched until darkness forced a halt, and then the small amount of provisions brace had brought was consumed without satisfying the hunger of either member of the party. gus was tied between his captors, where he could stretch himself at full length, and the night passed quietly. there was no longer any fear tim could effect a rescue, even though he might be near at hand, and fred enjoyed a most refreshing rest. what all hoped would prove to be the last day's journey was begun without breakfast, and the advance was by no means rapid. at ten o'clock fred declared he could go no farther without a rest, and the party sought shelter from the sun under a wide spreading tree, where a view could be had of a depression in the land for some distance ahead. joe and fred were facing this open stretch, and had but just begun to discuss the subject which was ever uppermost in their minds--the coal vein--when a figure carrying a heavy burden emerged from the thicket on the lower side, evidently bent on ascending the mountain. "now, what can that fellow be doing?" joe asked, as he arose to his feet. "it's a boy, an' we'd be in big luck if it should turn out to be that precious tim." "but it isn't; he wears a cap, and this one has a hat. it looks something like----why it is! it's skip!" "skip?" joe repeated in amazement. "what's he doin' out here, an' with such a load?" "in order to answer that question i shall have to ask him," and fred shouted the boy's name. skip started as if alarmed at being summoned, and then, waving his hat in triumph, he came toward the party at his best pace. "i knew i'd find you if i hunted long enough," he exclaimed as he came within speaking distance, and added when he finally reached the tree and threw down the burden. "it's mighty heavy, an' i thought one spell yesterday i'd have to give up the job. reckon you're glad to get it, eh?" "what have you there?" "grub, of course. when joe didn't turn up, an' there was no sign of fred, i figured that you'd both want somethin' to eat, so took out my wages in what was handiest to eat. mrs. byram said i'd never find you, but it wouldn't do any harm to try, so here we are." "did you spend your money to buy us food?" fred asked. "why not? it'll take a good deal more'n that to straighten things between us, an' i'd like to get the 'count squared some time." "you've done it already, skip. it was you who first put us on the track of the thieves, and now you've helped the cause along wonderfully, for it has been a good while since i had all i could eat." "well, fill yourself up right now. there's no need to hurry, for you can't get to farley's to-night, an'----hello, gus! got through with your trip so soon?" "you'll wish i hadn't before this thing is ended," was the surly reply, and then the prisoner turned his back on the ex-chief of the regulators. quite naturally skip was eager to hear the result of the chase, and while joe and fred were eating they gave him the full particulars. "do you know the way home?" brace asked when the story was told. "of course. i've been out here half a dozen times. was you calculatin' to keep straight ahead?" "yes." "then you'd gone six miles the other side of farley's." "if that is the case, it's lucky you found us. let's make another start; now i've filled up it seems possible to travel without stopping again until we are at mother's door." with a guide and provisions in plenty, the long tramp yet to be endured seemed but a trifling affair, and the party, with the single exception of gus, were in the best of spirits. the night was spent near a small water course in the valley, and at three o'clock all hands entered the company's store at farley's. both mr. wright and the cashier were in the building, and they listened in undisguised astonishment as joe told the story of the capture. "here is the money, except what they have spent," fred said when joe concluded the recital, and he handed the package to the superintendent. an examination showed that but fifty-three dollars were missing, and then mr. wright turned to gus, who was wearing a look of mingled indignation and innocence. "how did you get this money from thorpe?" "who is he, sir?" "the boy who was bringing it from the bank." "i never saw him." "then how did you get these notes?" "i never had 'em sir." "why, i took them out of his pocket," fred cried, in surprise. "explain yourself," mr. wright said to the prisoner. "me an' tim sanger was goin' to camp out on the mountains while work was slack," gus began with an air of truthfulness. "we had a shanty built, an' tim went off fishin' when this feller," here he pointed to the astonished fred, "jumped in on me. i'd seen him in blacktown, so didn't think anything was out of the way till he knocked me down." "why did he strike you?" "that's jest what i don't know. he tied me all up like this, an' i had to do as he said till we met joe brace. then i heard one of 'em say to the other: 'this will get sam out of the scrape, for we can say gus dobson had the money what was stole, in his pocket.' that's all i know about it, an' i never saw them bills till this very minute." "it was a good scheme for sam to give up the money in this way when he found the case was so dead against him," the cashier said in a low tone, as if speaking to himself; but he took care that mr. wright should hear distinctly. "what do you mean?" joe cried fiercely. "nothing, nothing, i must have been thinking aloud." "you intended we should hear every word," the miner added, excitedly. "be quiet, brace, while we get the facts of this strange story," mr. wright said, sharply. "you have got the facts already sir. i told you before i left town that this fellow was one of the thieves." "that doesn't prove anything," the cashier replied, with a malicious smile. "i'll prove more than that to you, if you dare show your nose out doors." "either leave the office, brace, or hold your tongue," and now the superintendent spoke in an angry tone. "fred, what have you got to say in answer to this boy's story?" "not a word, sir. what joe has told you is true, and if it ain't believed you can serve the warrant which was issued for me, as soon as you please." "he can't say anything," gus added, triumphantly. "if tim was here he could tell you jest why we left blacktown; but, of course, he don't know about the job this feller is try in' to put up on me." "where is tim?" "i dunno. he'll likely come home when he can't find me." "are you willing to stay here until he returns?" "sure; there ain't any reason why i'd want to run off, if you tell my folks where i am." joe could contain himself no longer. "do you mean to put his word agin ours?" he cried fiercely. "why not?" the cashier asked, softly. "it looks to me very much as if his having been brought here was an outrage." "if you speak to me agin i'll spoil the whole of your face, you cur! after arestin' a boy for meetin' with an accident in doin' what you oughter done, an' gettin' out warrants for others what couldn't have had a hand in the matter, it's easy to see why you want to believe this little villain's story. when the truth is known you understand blessed well that the town will be too hot to hold you." "that will do," mr. wright cried, sternly. "i shall have no such language used here. leave this moment, brace, and when you are more calm we'll discuss the matter." joe looked in silence first at the cashier, and then at the superintendent, after which he said to fred and skip: "come, lads, this is no place for us. we've saved the company's money, an' now are likely to be treated as we were for standin' by 'em at the time of the riot." with this reminder he walked out of the building followed by both the boys. chapter xxviii opinions the three who had entered the store in such high spirits left it in a maze of bewilderment and anger. that gus could concoct so plausible a story was none the less astonishing than that mr. wright should give it credence, so far as to refrain from ordering the boy's immediate arrest. joe was so enraged that during the walk to fred's home he did nothing but inveigh in the strongest terms against the company, and more especially these two of its servants who had insulted both himself and fred by refusing to believe their united statements. "i'll pound that cashier 'till he can't say beans," he cried, shaking his fist in impotent rage. "what good will that do? people won't believe our story any quicker because of it." "i'll be satisfied, an' that's enough." "don't make such threats," fred said, imploringly. "if he hears of them it will only give him a chance to make trouble for you." "i'll not only make 'em; but carry out every one. it won't take much more talk to coax me into servin' wright the same way." several of the miner's acquaintances hailed him as he passed; but his heart was so full of anger that he paid not the slightest attention, and fred felt a sense of most profound relief when they were inside the house, where the wild threats could not be heard by those who might report them at the store. after the greetings with mrs. byram the travelers went to the chamber where bill lay helpless, his fractured limb bound in splints and bandages. here the different stories were told again, and the invalid's astonishment was not less than that of his companions. "it don't hardly seem reasonable," he muttered, after a long pause. "i reckon the best thing would be for you an' fred to see the lawyer right away. there's no knowin' what kind of a scrape may grow out of this." "it'll do jest as well if we go in the mornin' on the first train," joe replied. "after the tramp we've had it comes kinder natural to hanker for a bed." "i s'pose it would be tough; but don't waste any time to-morrow." "wright can't do much between now an' then, so rest easy, mate. they won't be able to take the land from us, an' in another year we'll be among the big-bugs ourselves." "are you sure the trade can't be backed out of?" "i've left everything with the lawyer, and he'll fix matters about right." bill closed his eyes as if in thought; fred went down stairs to talk with his mother, and skip took his departure, joe saying as he accompanied him to the door: "we won't forget what you've done, lad, an' before long us four--that's countin' sam--will be in condition to pay off our scores." "i'll have all i want when the fellers i buried in the mine promise to forget what's been done." "then you can rest easy, for the matter was settled yesterday when you brought the grub." after skip left joe went out to see his friends, and an hour later he returned in a perfect rage. "that villain of a cashier has taken good care to tell his side of the story," he exclaimed, bursting into the invalid's room, "an' more'n half the men i've seen believe we got the money from sam to stick the robbery on that thievin' gus. mr. wright has taken the boy up to his house, an' is pettin' him like a prince, i s'pose, to square off for what we did to him. why, even donovan says old man dobson oughter prosecute us for the outrage, as he calls it." "i can't believe it!" bill cried, trying in vain to rise to a sitting posture. "i'm tellin' the truth, all the same. there's a big excitement in town, an' i wouldn't be surprised if fred was arrested in the mornin', spite of what he's done." "don't the folks know what kind of a boy that dobson feller is?" "i reckon they do; but the cashier keeps talkin' about destroyin' one feller's character to help another, an' the blind fools here swallow all he says." "what makes him so down on our crowd?" "'cause he had no business to make the arrests, an' if it was proved gus an' tim stole it, he'd be in a bad mess with all hands." "look here, joe"--and bill spoke very earnestly--"it don't make any difference how tired you an' fred are, you must go to blacktown this very night. that lawyer will tell us jest what oughter be done, an' we've got to fight this thing tooth an' nail, now all hands are agin us." joe realized that this was good advice, and went at once to confer with mrs. byram and fred. the result of this last interview was that an hour after midnight the miner and the boy left the house quietly, and walked at a rapid pace directly across the mountain. "this is pretty tough, lad," joe said, when they were some distance from the town. "it seems as if i'd done nothin' but tramp for the last month." "i won't grumble if this matter is straightened out finally, but just now it looks as though all hands would have been better off to let things go as they might." "don't get downhearted. when our mine is open you can afford to laugh at this little fracas." although joe spoke so cheerily he was far from feeling comfortable in mind, as was apparent when they visited the lawyer's house at a very early hour next morning. the mental anxiety could be plainly read on his face as he waited to receive the legal opinion after telling his story. "i don't think you need fear any serious trouble, although matters may be very disagreeable for a while," that gentleman said. "it will be well for us to make complaint against the dobson boy, and by causing his arrest be certain of having him here when he is wanted. i will attend to it at once." "how much money do you want?" "we won't speak of that now. when i do business for a firm as rich as yours, i am not afraid of losing my fees." "it would be hard to find any poorer concern." "there's where you make a mistake, mr. brace. your title is clear; an expert, whom i sent, reports that there can be no question as to the presence of coal in large quantities, and i shall be only too glad to purchase stock when the company is formed." "do you mean the whole of that?" joe asked, his eyes glistening with delight. "to prove it i will advance on your joint note any reasonable amount of money which may be needed. in fact, i think it would be a good idea to give mr. wright a hint of your discovery, when i'm quite sure he'd view this whole affair in a different light." "we'll keep the secret a while longer. i'd rather get out of the scrape before folks know what we've found, an' then settle old scores. now, fred, s'pose we go to see sam?" "i'll walk to the jail with you, and you can wait until i have despatched an officer to farley's for the dobson boy." the fact that lawyer hunter had come with the visitors insured them every facility for seeing their friend, and the three met in the turnkey's room with the knowledge that they might be together the entire day. poor sam looked forlorn, indeed, when he entered the apartment. it had been so long since his friend's last visit that he fancied they were deserting him. his appearance changed decidedly when they explained the reason for their absence, and two hours were spent in giving a detailed account of all that had happened since his departure from farley's. then, forgetting the present troubles, the three talked of the day when they would be mine owners instead of laborers, and built so many air castles that neither heeded the passage of time until mr. hunter returned with the information that an officer had visited farley's only to find the superintendent looking anxiously for gus. "it seems that mr. wright took the boy home last night, and, believing in his protestations of innocence despite your testimony, left him unguarded. as might have been expected, he took advantage of this credulity to make his escape, and now i fancy it will be many days before he re-visits this part of the country." "then all we have done goes for nothing," fred said, mournfully. "in that you are very greatly mistaken. thorpe will be acquitted beyond a doubt, and it is not likely mr. wright dare press any charge against you at present. i shall go with you to farley's, after sam is released on bail, and guarantee matters will be set right." "am i to go out?" sam asked in surprise. "as soon as it can be arranged. your friends are to accompany me, and the matter can be accomplished very quickly." fred was amazed at the ease with which all this was done. he and joe went before a magistrate, and repeated under oath the story they had told so often; two friends of mr. hunter's signed a paper to which the other's names had already been affixed, and, ten minutes later, sam was with them, looking radiantly happy at being in the open air once more. it was too late to return home, unless joe and fred were willing to take another tramp across the mountain, and all three went to the hotel, where they formed a very jolly party. on the first train next morning the partners, accompanied by mr. hunter, arrived at farley's, and found public sentiment greatly changed. the flight of gus had caused very many to believe he really was the guilty party, although no one could guess how he gained possession of the money, and the walk to mrs. byram's was something like an ovation. chapter xxix a question of title it was as if each person who had doubted sam's honesty felt it necessary to call at mrs. byram's and congratulate him upon what now appeared to be good proof of his innocence. fred and the miners also came in for their share of attention, and even bill, whose limb was paining him severely, joined his partners in celebrating their victory, which now seemed certain. before returning home mr. hunter called to consult with his clients relative to making a stock company of the new mine, and, when he left, it was with full authority to do whatever he believed their interests demanded. among the visitors in the evening was donovan, and he had no hesitation in calling himself very severe names for having been so stupid as to think it possible his old friends could have been engaged in any questionable transaction. "the cashier is about as sore a man as can be found in town," he said, "an' if i ain't way off in my reckonin' he'll be lookin' for another job mighty soon." "does he say anything against us?" bill asked. "he's glum as a fish. every feller who goes in wants to know where gus is, an' he keeps out of sight all that's possible." "have you seen mr. wright to-day?" "no; but i heard he an' that lawyer of yours had a long chin about the business. say, bill, by the time you get out of this scrape you'll owe a pretty penny for law, i reckon. why don't you try to make the company pay it?" "we can stand the racket, an' won't ask a soul to help us." "somebody must have died an' left you a pile, for men that work at farley's don't often have enough to pay big lawyers for runnin' around." "it'll be all right, donovan, so don't worry about that." but the mine boss did worry. he failed to understand how bill and joe could incur such expense with any prospect of paying it, and when he left the house it was to discuss the matter in all it's bearings with a select few of his particular friends. the superintendent did not consider it worth his while to call; but on the following morning joe received a note to the effect that if he intended to return to the mine, it would be to his advantage to resume his work at once. "tell mr. wright that i've got through with his company, an' he can put a man in my place whenever it suits him," the miner said to the messenger, and the latter had hardly reached the store before a workman from blacktown arrived with the startling intelligence that the four who had been accused of the robbery had purchased a large tract of land on the mountain, and were about to open a mine. this news was so wonderful that one of the loungers volunteered to walk to the town for the sole and only purpose of learning if it was really true. an hour later it was rumored that fred received the following telegram from blacktown: "have opened books for subscriptions, and already received pledges to the full amount necessary for beginning the work. arthur hunter." the lounger returned in hot haste with information that the people there were in the highest state of excitement regarding the new company which was being formed by some of the most influential men in the county, and related with many embellishments of his own, the story of how the vein had been discovered by sam and fred. this was sufficient to cause another stream of callers to mrs. byram's house, and, learning that the secret had been made known, the four owners had no hesitation in giving all the particulars. now the cashier was more unpopular than ever. even those who refrained from censuring him on the day previous, had nothing but hard words for the man who could make such an error as to charge with theft those who were wealthy in the possession of such a rich vein as the new one was reported to be. fully one-third of all those in the company's works took a half holiday to see the new mine, and some of the most sanguine started out to prospect for other evidences of coal. in six hours land in the immediate vicinity of the mountain increased in price, until it would hardly have paid to buy it, unless gold could be found in large quantities, and the entire county was in a ferment of excitement. it is needless to say that the four partners were very happy; but even in the midst of the great joy they found time to wonder why skip had not called to congratulate them. nearly every other one of their friends and acquaintances visited the house at some time during the day and evening; but the ex-chief of the regulators was conspicuous by his absence. "i wonder what the matter is with him?" fred asked, when, at a late hour, the partners were alone. "do you suppose he thinks we don't want to see him just because we have been fortunate?" "if he does it's the biggest mistake of his life. i like the little rascal, although he did play us a bad trick, an' if he don't show up before noon to-morrow, i'll hunt him out," joe said, laughingly. but skip did not put in an appearance before the time set, and, true to his word, joe went in search of him. the information he brought back to his partners was mystifying. skip had not been at home since the day on which sam was liberated, and his father fancied he was absent on some work for the firm. this singular disappearance troubled fred greatly, and during the remainder of the day he spoke more often of the boy than regarding the mine. "he'll turn up before long," joe said, after all had tried in vain to conjecture where he might be; but fred fancied that the miner did not speak very confidently. nothing was heard personally from mr. wright; but it was common gossip about town that he had visited the newly-discovered vein several times, and spent one entire day at blacktown. another twenty-four hours passed, and skip had not returned home. his parents were now beginning to feel alarmed; but the majority of the townspeople, not trusting in the sincerity of his repentance, intimated that he had joined gus, preferring to run away rather than lead an industrious life. "i won't believe anything of the kind," fred replied, hotly, when donovan reported the general feeling regarding the disappearance. "he never would have done so much to help us, unless meaning exactly what he said." "i reckon hard work didn't agree with him," the breaker boss answered, with a laugh. "when bill gets a little better joe and i will go after him." "where?" "i don't know; but it won't do any harm to look around, and i am----" fred was interrupted by a knock at the door, and on answering it was handed a telegram. "somebody is beggin' to be let in to the new company, i reckon," donovan said, laughingly; but his smile vanished very quickly as he saw the look which came over the boy's face. "what's the matter, lad?" joe cried, and instead of replying fred handed him the telegram, which read as follows: "mr. fred byram:--superintendent wright has served an injunction restraining our company from taking further steps, on the plea that the land purchased belongs to him. his case, so far as i can learn, is very strong. it is advisable that you and brace come here at once." "arthur hunter." "wha--wha--what does it mean?" joe stammered. "i should say things were gettin' serious," donovan replied, as he read the message over joe's shoulder, "mr. wright is a hard man to fight, an' the chances are he'll get the best of you." then he left the house as if in great haste to spread this additional news, and the partners looked at each other in dismay. "that is why we've heard nothin' from the superintendent since our secret leaked out," bill said, grimly. "you two had better tramp across to save time. you can get there three hours ahead of the next train." "come on," fred cried, as he aroused from the daze caused by the startling intelligence. "let's learn the worst quickly." "it's pretty tough to lose the thing after swellin' as we have for the last couple of days," joe added, gloomily, but without rising from his seat. "don't whine 'till we're sure it's gone," and bill tried very hard to speak cheerily. at this point mrs. byram entered the invalid's room to say: "mr. wright has sent over to ask fred and mr. brace to call at his office." "matters are beginning to look brighter already," bill cried, and joe asked gruffly: "how do you make that out?" "if he was so sure of provin' we had no claim to the land, he wouldn't have a word to say. now he's tryin' to make a trade." "he can't with me. unless you, fred an' sam insist, it'll be the whole or nothing." "now that's the way to talk," bill replied. "if we can raise the money to fight there won't be any bargain made." "don't you intend to call upon the superintendent?" mrs. byram asked. "not a bit of it, ma'am. tell whoever he sends that fred an' joe are too busy just now, but if he wants to make a 'pointment some time next week, they'll try to see him." "but it can't do any harm to talk with mr. wright." "it won't do any good, an' they'd better see the lawyer first." mrs. byram left the room to deliver the message, and bill delayed his partners that they might know exactly how he felt regarding the matter before starting on the journey. chapter xxx a suit at law "don't give in an inch," bill said, in conclusion to his remarks concerning the validity of the title. "get over there as quick as you can, and don't let the lawyer weaken." "it'll take big money to carry on a fight in law." "we'll try to raise it somehow." after promising to send him word as to the progress of affairs before night, in case they were detained more than one day, joe and fred went down stairs, and at that moment mrs. byram opened the door to admit mr. wright. he was particularly pleasant in his greetings, and asked, as he observed that they were on the point of going out: "did you finally conclude to come to the office?" "we were on our way to blacktown," joe replied gruffly. "but we have plenty of time for a chat, since the train does not leave for two hours of more." "we are going to walk," fred explained. "then you can surely spare me half an hour." "what for?" joe asked sharply. "i wish to see if we can't arrive at some amicable settlement of the suit which i have been forced to bring." "wouldn't it been better to have talked first, an' then begun the law business?" "in regard to that i had no alternative. the company ordered me to proceed exactly as i did." "i'd like to hear what's goin' on down there," bill shouted from above, and fred said: "it's no more than fair that we should go upstairs. he's got the right to know what mr. wright proposes." "yes, i prefer to speak with all the partners, though perhaps there is no necessity of sending for thorpe." "we haven't got the time to do that," joe replied. "come on, an' let's get through with the business as soon as we can, for we're due in blacktown mighty soon." the miner led the way to the invalid's chamber, and bill greeted his former superintendent with the curtest of nods. "i have come in the hope that we can arrange matters without having recourse to the law," mr. wright began. "if, immediately after discovering the vein, you had advised me, i could have told you that our company owns the entire mountain, by purchase from the heirs of the original owner." "but mr. hunter told us the title was perfect," fred interrupted. "lawyers cannot always be depended upon. there is no question as to the truth of what i say, and here is a true copy of our deed." he handed bill a legal looking document; but the miner motioned it away. "i don't want to see it," he said. "neither of us could understand it in a week's study. the only thing for us to do is listen to what you propose." "in view of the services you all have rendered in the past, i should be sorry to see you lose the money already paid on this property, and more so to have you involved in an expensive lawsuit. now i am empowered to make this offer: the company will return the money paid, settle with your attorney, and allow you a reasonable compensation for the labour performed. in addition, it may be that we can give you a few shares in case it is decided to open new works." as mr. wright paused bill raised his head, and looking fixedly at the visitor, asked: "if the property is yours beyond a question, what makes you offer to give us anything?" "because you have acted in such a friendly manner toward us. i am not one who forgets a friend." "you came mighty near doin' so when sam was arrested, an' warrants sworn out for fred an' me." "that was a matter in which it was to your interest that the law should take its course. a large majority of the people believed you knew something about the robbery, and the only way to settle it absolutely was to have the case decided in court." "then we ought to thank you, i s'pose," and bill leaned forward, despite the pain caused by the movement. "if we conclude to take the offer we'll let you know to-morrow." "i am sorry to say that we can agree to no delay. if the terms are accepted at once, well and good; but they will not be held open for a lawyer to interfere." "then i'll speak for myself, an' say no," bill cried, angrily. "the others can act as they please; but if all this is to be done jest on account of your friendship, then where's the harm of waitin' till next week, if we want to?" "i have only repeated the stipulations made by the company." "well, we don't want anything to do with 'em," joe added. "what bill says goes with me, an' i reckon fred'll stick by us." "i believe as they do, mr. wright." "then you refuse the generous proposition?" "we do, but have our own idea as to how generous it is," bill replied, grimly. "do you think it will be possible to fight successfully a company as rich as ours?" "we'll try it for a while, anyhow, an' won't give in till we're whipped." "i don't like to make any threats; but feel it my duty to warn you of the consequences, if we press the charge of theft. the evidence is strongly against you, and more particularly so since you returned the money." "i reckon that about winds up this 'ere interview," and joe arose to his feet with a menacing air. "go ahead with the suit; but there's such a thing as collectin' damages, an', rich as your company is, i don't believe they can get out of payin' 'em." "that is child's talk. if you refuse what is little less than a present, i will go." "an' it's pretty nigh time." joe added, as he opened the door. "don't try to make us any more such presents, or we may not keep our temper." it could be plainly told that the superintendent had already lost his temper, for he went down stairs rapidly, slamming the street door behind him with a force which literally caused the cottage to tremble. "he ain't so sure of his case, as he would have us believe," bill said, when they were alone. "it's jest possible he may try to make things hotter for us by servin' the warrant on fred, so you'd better not come back from blacktown, till the widder sends word. get over as quick as you can, an' don't forget to tell the lawyer about the generous proposition." the two started without further delay, and the reception met with by those whom they passed on the street told how rapidly the bad news had travelled. on the day previous every person was very cordial, as if trying to establish his or her position as friend; but now they were greeted even less pleasantly than before the riot, and joe said, savagely: "they're a set of curs. i did believe some of the things we heard yesterday; but now soft words won't go down with me, no matter how the property turns out." "it can't make any difference what is done or said, all i ask is that we get sam out of his troubles." "you an' me are about as deep in the mire as he is if the case goes agin us. we'll try not to borrer trouble till there's better reason. where do you s'pose skip is keepin' himself all this time?" "i wish i knew. nobody can make me believe he went off with gus." "he's got a different game than that, an' i'm thinkin' we'll hear from him mighty soon." "why?" "no partic'lar reason, i only jest think so." having changed the topic of conversation, which was the sole cause of his mentioning skip's name, joe relapsed into a silence which was not broken until the two arrived at the newly-discovered vein. here a party of surveyors were running imaginary lines and measuring distances, as they referred from time to time to several formidable looking documents, and joe said, bitterly: "wright is gettin' ready for the fight. if we had plenty of money i wouldn't feel so bad; but unless the lawyer can borrow some for us, we're likely to come out the little end of the horn." "we shall soon know all about it," and fred continued the journey at a swift pace. mr. hunter was in his office when the partners arrived, and the expression on his face was not such as to inspire courage. "i didn't expected you so soon," he said, motioning them to be seated. "we walked over rather than wait for the cars," fred replied. "i was sorry to summon you on such sorry business but superintendent wright has begun a fight for the possession of the land, and some of our prospective stockholders are alarmed by the attack." "has he really got any hold on the property?" "he claims that the company's deeds give them title to the entire mountain." "then how did it happen that the farmer could sell?" "it all hinges upon the question of survey. if the lines run twenty years ago are incorrect, as he claims, then the land you bought is located in the valley, and in that event not worth half you paid for it." "what does the farmer say?" joe asked. "i fancy mr. wright has bribed him to forget where his property was. two days ago he had a very clear idea of the location, but this morning he thinks mr. wright is correct. in fact, he is almost ready to swear he owned land only in the valley." "he told me exactly where it was situated, an' we bought with the positive understandin' that he was sellin' a tract on the mountain," joe said. "that is one of the questions i wanted to decide. if he made those representations, we may force him to tell the truth rather than stand a suit for obtaining money under false representations." fred thought it was time to tell of mr. wright's proposition, and when he had finished the story the lawyer said with a look of positive relief: "i'm glad to hear that. we will force them to show their hands by asking an immediate trial for thorpe." "but suppose he should be convicted?" fred cried. "skip is not at home, and we need his evidence." "we must take that risk, rather than allow them time to work up a worse plot." chapter xxxi skip it seemed to fred as if they were about to sacrifice sam in order to aid in confirming the title of the land, and it required no slight amount of mr. hunter's eloquence to persuade him differently. "by pressing for trial we have a better chance of proving his innocence. under ordinary circumstances i would be certain of the result; but where so much property is a stake i do not like to trust the superintendent too implicitly." "but what effect can his innocence or guilt have on the other question?" "it might prejudice our case if he went before a jury. every point must be guarded against, and this is the first to be settled." "can we raise money enough to carry the thing through?" joe asked. "i think so; but will tell you better to-morrow after i have had time to see some of the subscribers with whom i have not yet spoken." "do you think we've got any chance of winning?" "i wish it were possible to say yes; but under the circumstances it seems to me that the odds are in the favor of the company represented by mr. wright." "yet you don't advise us to accept his proposition," fred said. "certainly not. even if i was in favor of making a compromise, the amount offered would be no temptation. i should advise you to refuse ten thousand dollars, for it will cost the company much more than that if we can raise sufficient to carry on the suit." "is there anything for us to do?" fred asked. "very much. it is necessary to remain here, and send for thorpe. i will first attend to pressing for trial, and then have an interview with the farmer for the purpose of frightening him into telling nothing but the truth. i fancy we can restore his memory by threatening him with a criminal suit." "i'll run over for sam," joe said, as if a walk of five miles across the mountain was nothing more than a pleasure trip. "it won't do for you to come," he added, as fred was about to speak, "because i'm afraid wright might use that warrant." "yes, it is much better you should remain here," mr. hunter said quickly. "isn't it possible to find the boy who first suggested dobson was the thief?" "i'm afraid not; it looks very much as if he'd run away." "it won't do any harm to walk around town while i'm gone," joe suggested. "you may come across some feller who has seen him." "i shall expect to meet all three this afternoon," the lawyer said, as his clients rose to go. "do not talk with any one regarding either case, and, above all, make no promises without first consulting me." joe and fred left the office, the former saying when they were out of doors: "keep a stiff upper lip, lad, an' if the company gets the best of us, remember that farley's isn't the only colliery in the middle field. when bill is on his pins again we can pull up stakes an' look for another job." "i am worrying about sam rather than ourselves. it would be terrible if he was convicted of a crime he never committed." "better that than to be guilty; but we won't look at it in such a bad light yet awhile. i'm off now; when it's time for me to be back, hang around the hotel." then joe started at a brisk pace, and with a heavy heart fred walked aimlessly through the town. the idea that by so doing he might learn something regarding skip seem preposterous, and he hardly gave it a thought after joe made the suggestion, therefore he was startled by hearing a familiar voice crying: "hi! fred! hold on a minute!" turning quickly he saw skip coming toward him at full speed, and looking as if he had been on a long, rough journey. "where have you been?" he asked, in surprise. "trying' to find that feller tim." "tim? what did you want of him?" "nothing'; but i thought you might. when things turned out at farley's as they did it seemed to me that by gettin' hold of him the truth would come out." "have you been at that work all this time?" "yes." "of course you couldn't find him." "of course i could, an' if you want him i'll go straight to where he's hiding." fred looked at his friend in astonishment for an instant, and he cried: "come to the lawyer's with me this minute. you're the very fellow he's been wanting to see." five minutes later the two were closeted with mr. hunter, who appeared very well pleased with the news brought by skip. "how did you chance to find the boy?" he asked. "it was a good deal like luck. fred told about he an' gus campin' by the river, an' i snooped up that way. a lot of us fellers stayed a week in the same place, so it was handy to get around. it was two days before i saw any signs of him, an' then i come mighty nigh tumblin' over his camp." "how long since you left him?" "yesterday noon." "have you been traveling all this time?" "pretty much; but it don't make any difference if you want to send after him." "that is exactly what i want to do, and as soon as possible." "i'm ready now," and skip started toward the door. "i didn't mean quite as soon as this. go for something to eat, while i make the necessary arrangements. come back here when you've had dinner." "it'll be two or three dinners in one," skip muttered, as he followed fred down stairs. "didn't you take any provisions?" "some; but not enough to last a great while. it don't make any difference, though, so long as i found tim." skip was not so excited but that he could eat a hearty meal, and when it was finished the two boys returned to mr. hunter's office just as that gentleman entered, accompanied by a constable. the official questioned skip very minutely as to tim's whereabouts, and when the boy had explained the situation to the best of his ability, the former said: "i reckon we won't have to walk all the way. by riding up the valley road eight or ten miles it is possible to cut off a good bit of the distance." "very well, adopt any method which will insure your return to-morrow noon, for the trial is to come off at twelve o'clock. go with him, skip, and see to it that there is no loitering by the way." "are you intending to hire a team?" fred asked the constable. "yes." "then i'll go with you to the stables." the constable walked rapidly ahead leaving the boys to follow more leisurely, and fred had time for a brief conversation. "you've been a good friend, skip, and none of us will ever forget what you've done." "i don't want you to remember what happened while i was boss of the regulators." "we never think of it. now do you believe it is possible to go to the camp and back by noon?" "it'll be a tight squeeze, even allowin' that we ride a good part of the way; but we'll pull through somehow." "then if tim has run off, all your work will have been for nothing." "it can't be helped if things turn that way; but i think he's too much frightened by the disappearance of gus to leave a good hiding-place." at this moment the officer emerged from the stable in an open wagon drawn by a powerful-looking horse, and skip shouted, as he clambered in: "we'll be back by noon." then the two were whirled rapidly away, and fred walked slowly to mr. hunter's office depressed by a sense of impending evil. the lawyer was absent, and, not caring to stroll around the town where he might meet acquaintances from farley's, the boy remained alone until late in the afternoon, when joe and sam arrived. "the trial is to come off to-morrow," he cried, mentioning first that subject which was nearest his heart. "and you couldn't find skip," joe added, mournfully; but his face lighted up wonderfully on being told of what had occurred during his absence. "we'll come out of the scrape all right, if one of the young scoundrels can be produced, so you an' sam may as well look cheerful." "is there anything new at farley's?" fred asked. "wright is goin' around like a bear with a sore head; but i didn't hear anything about his servin' the warrant on you. i reckon neither him nor that blessed cashier fancy havin' the trial come off so soon." "how is bill?" "chipper as a chicken. your mother has sent some clean clothes, an' we'd better mosey over to the hotel to make ourselves comfortable like." before any objection could be offered to this plan mr. hunter entered; but he did not delay the partners very long. after asking a few questions and jotting down the answers, he dismissed them with the caution to be at the office by eleven o'clock next morning. during the evening joe tried very hard to appear jolly and perfectly at ease; but the boys could not simulate cheerfulness, and the hours passed wearily despite their companion's efforts. at an early hour fred and sam were on the road down which skip had driven, waiting for his return; but when the appointed time for them to go to mr. hunter's office arrived, they had watched in vain. now the suspense was positively painful. the lawyer exhibited the utmost impatience, because the constable did not come, while his clients were on the verge of despair. at half-past eleven when the train from farley's arrived, the boys saw mr. wright and the cashier pass on their way to the court-room, and a few moments later mr. hunter said: "we can't wait any longer. very likely tim had left his hiding-place when the officer got there, and the latter is so foolish as to try to find him. i should have warned them that skip must return at all hazards, for by sending him away we lose a most important witness." the boys arose to their feet in silence, and joe was positively despondent in the face of what seemed very like defeat. on arriving at the court the partners were given seats within the enclosure reserved for attorneys, and very near the superintendent; but he paid no attention to them. the cashier glared fiercely at sam for an instant, and then turned to look steadily in another direction. the court was occupied with another case, and in answer to sam's question mr. hunter said that his trial would not begin until it was finished. "if it'll hold on 'till to-morrow so's to give skip a fair chance of gettin' here, i'll be willin' to sit in this chair all night," joe whispered to fred. "it can't be delayed very long, or mr. hunter would tell us," was the mournful reply. "s'pose i slip out an' watch for him? he won't know where to come if there's nobody in the office." this fred thought was a very good idea, and he suggested it to the lawyer, who said: "the constable knows that he is needed here, therefore they will put in an appearance immediately after arriving." five minutes later sam was called upon to plead, and he answered firmly: "not guilty." then the cashier was summoned to the stand, and told his story correctly, except as to the latter portion, when he said that fred appeared very nervous during the time his friend was absent. he also declared that the two boys made mysterious signs to each other, and in a variety of ways appeared guilty. the teller of the bank, mr. wright, the constable who made the arrest, and one or two others gave evidence, and when the prosecution closed matters looked very black for the prisoner. then sam himself was called to the stand, and for half an hour underwent a most searching examination. he described very minutely the journey to blacktown; related every particular connected with his receiving the money, and explained why he chose to walk home, when, by waiting a short time, it would have been possible to ride on the cars. that he had the money two or three moments before reaching the newly-discovered vein he was very positive. he had not intended to go to sleep when he laid down to rest. on awakening it was several moments before the loss was discovered, and then he searched in every direction. over and over again he told what is already known, and when the testimony was finished, it could be seen from the faces of those around, that the story was not generally believed. then fred was called upon to tell of the chase and capture, after which joe took the stand. had skip been there the prisoner's case would have been strengthened just so much; but he yet remained absent, and even mr. hunter looked disheartened. the miner was kept on the stand as long as possible, in the hope the missing one might come, and then the defense had been exhausted. unless skip appeared within a few seconds sam would be deprived of his liberty. chapter xxxii acquitted if skip had been an actor in a pantomime, and rehearsed the scene every day for a week, he could not have arrived more precisely, than when he made his appearance at the very moment mr. hunter was about to declare the defense closed. sam and fred sprang to their feet as he entered the door, and joe actually shouted, so great was his joy and relief; but he was speedily made to understand by the officers that another breach of decorum as flagrant would result in his expulsion from the court-room. following skip came the constable leading tim, who looked frightened and pale. mr. hunter at once called the prisoner to the witness stand. not knowing that gus had denied having seen the money, tim soon said enough to convict himself, and in a few moments was ready to confess his share in the matter. "i didn't take it," he said, whiningly. "gus showed me the money here in town an' told as how he'd sneaked it out of the pocket of a feller what he found asleep on the mountain. he agreed that i could have half if i'd go off somewhere with him." "where is he now?" mr. hunter asked. "i don't know. when i went for some grub he was watchin' fred byram what we caught followin' us." "what had been done with the money?" "he had all that was left but ten dollars, an' i was goin' to spend that." "what had fred byram done to you?" "tried to get the stuff, so's his chum wouldn't be sent to jail." "how did he know you had the bills?" "that's what puzzles me, 'less gus give himself away to skip miller." "have you seen your friend since you left him to go in search of provisions?" "if i had he'd been used up pretty bad for runnin' off with the cash after coaxin' me to leave town with him." very little more in the way of evidence was needed, and in a short time sam was told by the judge that there was nothing to show he was at fault in the matter, except so far as being careless in lying down to sleep, while having such an amount of money in his pocket. with this slight reprimand he was discharged from custody, and tim sent to jail. when the partners were in the street once more joe found it almost impossible to keep his joy within bounds. he acted in the most extravagant manner until fred reminded him that the people might think he was intoxicated. "we'll telegraph to bill, anyhow," he cried, and straightway the following message was sent: "william thomas, farley's, pa.: "skip miller has fixed everything. sam is free. hurrah for skip. joe." "there," he said, after writing the telegram, a task of no mean magnitude for him, "that puts the credit jest where it belongs. i ain't sayin' the lawyer didn't do his share; but he'd been snowed under if tim hadn't been brought in the nick of time." skip was radiant with delight, as he had every reason to be, since now he felt certain his past misdeeds were atoned for, and the partners repeated over and over again that they owed him a debt which could never be repaid. mr. hunter insisted that the owners of the mine should remain in blacktown until he learned whether sufficient money could be raised with which to defend the suit brought against them; but joe was bent on going to the depot for the purpose of witnessing mr. wright's departure. "i want to see how he an' and his precious cashier look after failin' in convictin' an innocent boy of stealin' what never oughter been put in his charge." fred did not care to indulge in such questionable triumph; but the miner was so persistent that he could not well refuse, and the three stood on the platform when their accusers boarded the cars. neither of the men glanced toward the little group; but a bystander who had been present at the trial, said loud enough to be heard by both: "it looks like pretty poor business for a big corporation to try to send a boy to jail in order that he may be robbed of his property." "you're a sensible man," joe cried, approvingly, as he insisted on shaking hands with the stranger, "an' if the time ever comes when me or my mate can do you a good turn we'll be glad." after this the four walked to the hotel, for skip was sadly in need of food, and joe said, in a tone of satisfaction: "i'm willin' to bet considerable that when we get back to farley's we'll find as how wright has gone somewhere on business, an' the cashier is takin' a vacation. bill will show my telegram to everybody what comes in, and the whole town will be agin 'em." "if the company wins the suit, mr. wright won't care very much about what is said, for with two mines he will be the boss of this section," sam replied. "i don't bother with anything at farley's jest now; the company can run matters to please themselves, if they fail to cheat us out of our property." now that one cause for anxiety was removed the partners devoted more time to discussing the question of title, and before night-fall had succeeded in making themselves feel decidedly uncomfortable. during the evening mr. hunter called with cheering news. "among the subscribers i have found four gentlemen of means, who will advance the funds necessary for defending the suit, provided they are allowed a certain additional amount of stock in case of success. the four owners of the property must sign an agreement to that effect, and the business is settled." "how will that affect our interest?" fred asked. "i think an equitable arrangement would be to give you jointly one-half the amount of stock issued, and with the remainder there will be no difficulty in raising sufficient to open and operate the mine." "is that a fair division? we know very little about such things." "if there had been no trouble your share would be larger; but, under the circumstances, i think the proposition a generous one." "then we are satisfied," joe replied. "bring on your documents so we can sign 'em, for i want to get back to-morrow." "i will write the agreement, and go to farley's with you on the first train. money for your personal expenses is to be advanced, and here is an installment. when it is gone come to me for more." "a hundred dollars!" joe exclaimed, as he counted the bills. "we can't complain but that your subscribers are doing the thing in good style." "so they should since a large amount of money is to be made, if we are successful with the suit." then mr. hunter left the partners, and skip, who was already looked upon as a member of the new company, and they found ample material for conversation until it was time to retire. next morning the party started for farley's in company with the lawyer and one of the gentlemen who proposed to advance the capital. there were only a few people at the depot; but from them sam received a most cordial welcome. men whom he had never spoken to before congratulated him upon the happy result of the trial, and many were the harsh words spoken against the superintendent and cashier. after he ran home to see his mother for a moment the four partners assembled in bill's chamber, and there the necessary documents were drawn up. "i have already applied for a charter," mr. hunter said, when all had signed, "and it only remains to win the case before opening the mine." "you'll keep us posted about what is goin' on?" bill asked, and the lawyer replied in the affirmative, when he and the prospective stockholder took their departure, leaving the boys and joe to gratify the invalid's curiosity concerning the happenings at blacktown. on this day fred saw chunky for the first time since the discovery of the vein, and the breaker boy expressed his satisfaction at the result of the trial. "i knowed sam wouldn't steal money," he said, emphatically; "but it looked one spell as if they'd prove it on him." "if it hadn't been for skip matters never would have been made so plain, and even if he was acquitted, some folks might have thought him guilty." "yes, skip did a good job there," chunky said, reflectively. "it's funny he made such great friends with you fellers after bein' so wild to serve you out. he's left the regulators, too, an' now i can be captain, if i want to." "why, i thought that foolish business had all been done away with." "not much it ain't. we can get along without skip, an' not half try." "don't have anything to do with such fellows, chunky. you'll only get into trouble, and the time is sure to come when, like skip, you'll be sorry for ever having had any connection with them." "he didn't run the concern same's i'm goin' to do, if i get to be captain," chunky replied, with a mysterious gesture, and then he hurried away in the direction of the breaker. during the week which followed sam's acquittal nothing of especial interest occurred. bill was getting along as well as could have been expected; but both he and his partners were decidedly dejected as to the result of mr. wright's claim. as the days passed they grew more despondent, until mrs. byram insisted that nothing more be said about the suit in the presence of the invalid, because his extreme nervousness tended to excite fever. then came the day on which a telegram was received from mr. hunter, requesting one or more of the partners to call at his office, and joe and fred made ready to answer the summons. "don't keep me waiting for the news," bill said sharply. "i can't help thinkin' wright will spring some kind of a game on us, if he thinks there's any chance this scheme might fail." "if we're wanted on that business you shall hear the minute we know about it," joe replied, and then he and fred started, preferring to walk rather than wait for the train. contrary to brace's belief, both mr. wright and the cashier had remained at farley's after the trial. it is possible they heard a few unwelcome truths; but, as a rule, those who were forced to work under them did not dare to speak too plainly. neither joe nor fred had seen the gentlemen since they stepped on board the cars at blacktown, but now they were met face to face when the travelers arrived at the out-cropping vein. the superintendent nodded carelessly, much as he would have done toward a stranger, while his companion deliberately turned his back upon the new-comers. joe whistled as he passed on, to show how little concern he felt at meeting the two whom he considered enemies, but he whispered to fred when they were farther down the mountain: "i want to know what them fellers are doin' out here. it looks as if some crooked work was goin' on." "they can't run away with the vein," fred replied laughingly, "and i don't see how their being in this vicinity can hurt us." "nor i; but it won't do any harm to watch 'em. they're none too honest to play any kind of a mean trick." "it's too late to turn now, for they'd surely know what we were up to." "we can keep on a little farther, an' then double back under cover of the trees." "all right. i don't suppose it will make much difference if we loaf a bit." joe walked straight ahead until they were within shelter of a line of foliage, and then turning sharply to the left, circled around the side of the mountain to a point just above the vein, where the two men could be plainly seen, while the watchers were hidden among the bushes. mr. wright and the cashier at first sight appeared to be walking aimlessly to and fro, as if calculating the width of the coal mine, and now and then the former stooped to pull up a stake, which he placed in another position. "it looks as if they was figgerin' how wide the slope would have to be," joe whispered. "i reckon we've wasted our time sneakin' over here." "they are moving the stakes driven by the surveyors!" fred exclaimed, after a brief pause. "but what good will that do 'em?" "i don't know; of course, the lines can be run again by any one; but there must be a scheme in it, for mr. wright wouldn't be out here unless something could be gained by it." "they've got no right on our land, an' i'll warn them off," joe said, as he arose excitedly to his feet. "don't so much as show yourself. we'll hurry on to see mr. hunter; he'll know what is up." "come on, then, an' be quick about it, for there's no tellin' when these tricks are dangerous." the miner and the boy literally ran down the hill, slackening not the pace until forced to do so, and both were nearly breathless when they neared the lawyer's office. before mr. hunter could speak joe told what had been seen, and that gentleman grew quite as excited as were the others. "i learned yesterday that wright had bought a strip of land near yours, regardless of the fact that he claims to own this side of the mountain, and has ordered a force of workmen there immediately. we now know he is changing the surveyor's stakes in order to erect buildings on our tract, and thus force us to become plaintiffs instead of defendants. "how would that benefit him?" "in several ways which i have not time to explain. wait here until i return." then mr. hunter left the office in great haste, and fred and joe looked at each other in dismay. chapter xxxiii victorious the lawyer did not return for several hours, and then he said: "i have sent for surveyors, and we will run our own lines early to-morrow morning, after which an officer shall be stationed there to warn him from encroaching. you must be on the spot as early as possible to attend to matters." "he'll find us when the sun comes up. was this why you sent the telegram?" "i wanted to discover what he meant by the hiring of carpenters and the ordering of lumber; but that you have already done." "when will the case be tried?" "next week i think; but that is of minor importance just now. the supposed location of the purchase is to be pointed out to the surveyors, therefore one of you must remain here until they arrive. "when do you expect them?" "on the first train to-morrow." "fred can wait for 'em, an' i'll leave in time to get there by daylight." "very well; make your preparations to stay until i send word that it is no longer necessary." joe and fred left the office to purchase such provisions as might be needed while holding possession of the disputed property, and when this had been done the question arose as to how word could be sent to bill. "the story is too long for a telegram," fred said, "so suppose we say by wire that there is nothing particularly new, and write a letter?" "go ahead. i ain't much of a fist with a pen, so while you're tellin' the yarn i'll send the message." joe retired early in order to be in readiness for the journey, and fred was not awake when, shortly after midnight, he slipped out of the house. it was not an easy matter to find his way in the darkness; but he finally succeeded after straying from the right course several times, and was thoroughly astonished at finding half a dozen men already in possession. a small amount of lumber was scattered here and there, as if placed in readiness to be used, and a temporary camp had been erected close beside the coal vein. the men had but just awakened when he arrived, and in reply to his angry question of why they were there, one of them asked impudently: "what business is it of yours?" "i happen to own a quarter of this land, an' it'll be hot for all hands if there's any attempt at puttin' up a building." "it'll take us about two minutes to clean you out, an' we'll do it, if you so much as yip again." joe was literally trembling with rage. he fancied a portion of his title to the tract would be lost, if he did not drive the intruders away, and before the spokesman had time to defend himself against an attack, the miner knocked him headlong with one well-directed blow. then, picking up an axe which lay near by, he made such a furious onslaught upon the remainder of the party that they scattered in every direction. instead of following, he chopped and tore at the camp until it was demolished, and then destroyed all the provisions it had contained, in addition to pounding into shapeless masses the tin cooking utensils. by this time the carpenters got their scattered forces together and were marching in a body against the man who had put them to flight. in the immediate vicinity of the camp were stored nearly all the tools, and, standing over these, joe shouted: "as true as my name's brace i'll kill the first man who comes here," and he brandished the axe above his head. "don't be a fool!" some one cried. "what can you do against the crowd?" "split open the head of the first who comes within strikin' distance. after that has been done you may manage to get the best of me; but one is sure to go down--which shall it be?" none of the party cared to prove the truth of joe's threat, and they fell back a short distance, giving him an opportunity to intrench himself behind the fragments of the camp. the miner took care to gather the tools around him so they could not be seized in case a sudden rush was made, and then, as he afterward said, "read the riot act" to the trespassers. matters were in this condition when fred and the surveyors arrived. the carpenters were seated on the ground a short distance away, while joe remained perched on the ruins of the hut calmly smoking his pipe; but prepared for any attack, however sudden. "go back to blacktown and tell the lawyer to send some officers," the miner cried, "these beauties are countin' on buildin' a house right here, i'll hold 'em off till they can be arrested." "oh, yes you will," one of the party shouted. "wait till the crowd get here from farley's, an' then we'll see who runs this place." joe brandished his axe, as an intimation of what he was prepared to do, and cried to fred who stood in silent astonishment a few paces away: "hurry on, lad, there's no time to be lost!" this roused fred to a sense of the necessity for immediate action, and he started off at full speed. the surveyors thinking quite naturally that they were not included in the hostilities, made ready to perform the work for which they had been engaged; but no sooner were the instruments set up than the carpenters made a dash at them, crying: "if we have to lay still you shall do the same. stand back an' wait till mr. wright comes." "stick to your job, an' if one will help me, i'll get rid of the whole boiling," joe cried as he advanced. "look here, my friend," the elder of the surveying party said in a low tone, "i understand something about this fight, and don't propose to get mixed up in what isn't really any of my business. we'll run the lines, if nobody molests us; but won't put ourselves out to do it." "then i can't count on you?" "not at all; this is too serious business for us to be involved in. if you want to buy a good revolver, though, i'll sell one cheap, and take my pay when we meet in blacktown. "you're a brick," joe cried, enthusiastically. "give me the shooter, an' i'll guarantee to pay any price for it." the weapon was delivered, and the miner left his fortification, marching directly toward the enemy. "i give you a fair warnin' to clear out," he said, leveling the revolver. "this is my land, an' i order every one to leave. these surveyors are here to run the lines for my partners an' me. the first who interferes with em' will get a ball. i ain't talkin' foolish, for you know the law will uphold me in defendin' my own. now begin the job," he added, to the surveying party, "an' we'll see who wants to have trouble." this argument was understood by mr. wright's adherents, and they kept at a respectful distance, while the others did their work. new stakes were set up without any regard to those already in position, and the labor had but just been completed when the superintendent and two members of his company arrived. "why are you not at work?" he asked one of the carpenters. for reply the man pointed toward joe, who was pacing to and fro on what he believed to be the boundary line of his property. "get those timbers up," mr. wright cried angrily. "you may drag them off; but the first one who dares so much as raise a joist for any other purpose, shall suffer!" joe shouted. "knock that fellow down! what business has he here?" and the superintendent's voice trembled with suppressed fury. "i'm where i belong, an' seein's how your men don't dare do the knockin' down, s'pose you take a hand at it." mr. wright advanced as if to act upon the suggestion; but before he reached the imaginary line the miner shouted: "if you put a foot on this land i'll shoot. send your crowd home, and then if you want to tackle me i'll throw the revolver down, an' meet you half way." the superintendent paid no attention to this remark, save to halt on the safe side of the danger line, where he whispered a few words to one of his men, and the latter started at full speed for farley's. "i reckon my jig is about up," joe muttered to himself. "he's sent for help, an' they're bound to bring what'll be of more service than this revolver." the surveyors, evidently believing there was no especial reason why they should stay, now matters were nearing a crisis, took their departure, and the miner was once more left alone to defend his rights. ten minutes later fred appeared from among the trees, followed by five determined looking men, and joe's cheers were not ended when mr. hunter came in view. the lawyer shook hands with the miner as he said: "you've saved us what might have been a bad mess. now we have a reasonably large force, and can hold out until an injunction is procured." "are you likely to get one soon?" "a clerk will bring it in a short time. the application has been granted, and the only delay is while the papers can be made out." "i'm glad of that, for wright has sent after more help, an' when it comes things are likely to be hot." mr. hunter now advanced and held a long conversation with the superintendent and his friends, at the conclusion of which he ordered joe to have the lumber dragged from the tract staked out by the surveyors. in this work fred assisted, while the miner stood guard with his revolver to prevent any interference, and when the task was finished the former whispered to his partner: "did they scare you, joe?" "well, i don't mind ownin' to you that they did; but not one in the gang knew it. i was bound to stick as long as i could, an' a big lot of bluff helped me through." "mr. hunter says that if the injunction can be served on mr. wright before the men begin work, it will be all right." "is that the only thing he knows of to stop matters?" "it will be enough." "i'd rather trust to my fist than any paper that was ever written." after a time fred succeeded in making the miner understand what kind of a document it was they depended upon to prevent the superintendent from trespassing, and the explanation had but just been made as mr. hunter's clerk arrived with the important document. when this had been served on mr. wright the matter was settled temporarily, and the lawyer said to fred and joe: "you can return home, and the next summons will be for the trial. this move of wright's has been a foolish one, and will, i think, prejudice his case." chapter xxxiv the new mine it is unnecessary to give the details of the long trial to establish the title of that certain tract of land known as "louder's slope." suffice it to say that all the claimants were there with the exception of bill thomas, and the case was finally settled in favor of the defendants. the farmer who sold the property to joe was literally frightened into telling the truth, and although the company showed a deed for the land, no record could be found for the same. the general opinion of those who understood the case was that mr. wright had attempted to play a desperate game, and failed because it was impossible to corrupt certain parties in the recorder of deeds' office. in fact, a very ugly rumor gained circulation immediately after the trial, to the effect that a large sum of money had been offered a clerk, if he would change a number of figures on the books to correspond with the deed which was exhibited in court. when joe, fred, and sam returned home absolute owners of the valuable tract, the walk from the depot to mrs. byram's house was a regular ovation. those who rejoiced when it seemed certain the boys would not benefit by the discovery, were apparently as well pleased as the partners' warmest friends, and during the evening following the announcement of the verdict, farley's was in a high state of excitement. among the last who called to offer congratulations was skip, and he said emphatically as he and fred stood by the side of bill's bed: "i'm as glad as if some of the luck was mine. you say i've squared accounts, an' that's enough to make me feel mighty good. of course, you'll have to hire breaker boys, an' i'd like a job at the new mine, 'cause it ain't likely things here'll be very pleasant for me." "fred an' me have figgered out a place for you, lad," the old miner replied, as he took skip's hand in his. "our mine won't be open for two or three months, an' durin' that time the firm are goin' to send you to school. when the store is opened--for, of course, we'll need one--you're to go into it, an' the day skip miller can take hold of the accounts he's goin' to have full charge." the ex-captain of the regulators looked from one to the other in silence several seconds, and then he asked, in a hesitating way: "you ain't makin' fun of a feller, eh?" "not a bit of it, lad, an' if you run over to blacktown to-morrow an' ask mr. hunter he'll show that the money has been paid for your schooling." skip did not trust himself to reply, but after shaking each of his friends by the hand he hurriedly left the house, and chunky, who entered a few moments later, said to fred: "i reckon skip wishes he was you. i met him jest now, an' he was cryin' reg'lar tears, an' wouldn't stop to listen when i told him the fellers had chose me for captain." nothing was seen of either mr. wright or his cashier until nearly two weeks after the case had been ended, and then the former called at mrs. byram's cottage to offer his "congratulations." "it is not well that there should be any hard feelings between us since we are to be neighbors," he said. "what i did was in the interests of the company which i represent, and any other course would have been impossible." to this remark fred made no reply; but he was willing to be on apparently friendly terms with the superintendent, which was more than can be said of the elder partners. bill bluntly told mr. wright what he thought of his conduct, and expressed the hope in very plain words, that it would not be necessary for the new firm to have any business relations with the old company. four months later the byram-thorpe works were formally opened, with bill as mine boss, fred and sam as superintendents, and joe in charge of the shipments. it must not be understood that the two boys were fully qualified for their responsible positions; bill and joe acted as advisers, and if one year's work is any criterion the quartette have administered the affairs most wisely, for in all the middle field there are no better or more contented miners than can be found at the byram-thorpe works. in one year skip was pronounced competent to take full charge of the store, and to-day it would be difficult to select a fellow better liked than he. on the blacktown side of the mountain every one speaks of him in the most flattering terms, and at farley's he is held up to breaker boys as an example of how one may live down a bad reputation. chunky still works under donovan; he could not make up his mind to resign from the regulators, and to-day his record is by no means as good as it should be. neither fred nor sam cared to take him with them, for both knew by bitter experience the aim of his association, and did not wish to introduce anything of the kind at the new mine. gus dobson was arrested about a month after sam had been pronounced innocent. on running away from mr. wright's house he hid in the woods near where tim was found; but four weeks of this kind of a life was sufficient. he presented a most deplorable appearance when he returned home one morning. his clothes were in tatters, the shoes literally hanging from his feet, and the pangs of hunger printed on his face. imprisonment was a far less severe punishment than starvation, and as he said, "the judge couldn't give him any sentence worse than sneaking around the mountains without food or shelter." the new mine has only been in operation about a year; but that is time enough to show that the vein is much richer than the one at farley's. instead of being forced to spend money making a shaft or slope, coal of good quality has been taken out from the first, and already do the original owners consider themselves wealthy. it is true the united amount in bank would not be thought large by many; but their income is considerably in excess of all necessary expenses and, what is better yet, perfect content dwells with them. * * * * * [illustration] the young hunters series by captain ralph bonehill gun and sled young hunters of porto rico price c, postpaid [illustration] _the young sportsman series_ _by captain ralph bonehill_ young oarsman of lake view leo, the circus boy rival cyclists _price c post paid_ [illustration] works of james otis down the slope messenger teddy telegraph tom's venture price cents, postpaid. 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[illustration] there are few books that contain such a fund of valuable information on the everyday affairs of life. in addition to every conceivable form of business and social correspondence, there are letters of condolence, introduction, congratulation, felicitation, advice and favor; letters accompanying presents; notes on love, courtship and marriage; forms of wedding anniversaries, socials, parties, notes, wills, deeds, mortgages; tables, abbreviations, classical terms, common errors, selections for autograph albums; information concerning rates on foreign and domestic postage, together with a dictionary of nearly , synonyms and other valuable information which space will not admit of mention. the book is printed from new plates, on a superior quality of paper and bound in substantial and durable manner. mo. paper covers, c. cloth, c. cloth, pages, price $ . for sale by all book and newsdealers, or sent to any address in the u. s., canada or mexico, postage prepaid on receipt of price in currency, money order or stamps. m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn st. chicago white lilac, by amy walton ________________________________________________________________ mrs white had had several children before the birth of this one, but they had all died. this makes her quite determined to make sure that this one survives. she was telling a visitor that she thought of calling the baby annie, in honour of the visitor, but she had just been saying how much she loved white lilacs, and her husband had brought a branch of it over from a nearby village. so the visitor said, call her lilac white, as there were already too many annie whites in the village. unfortunately the father dies shortly after, and the mother has to bring the child up on her own. now she is twelve, and a pretty child. a visiting artist asks if he may put her in one of his pictures. lilac goes off with her cousin agnetta, who believes she needs a new hair-do. needless to say, the result is not attractive to the artist, who now refuses to put her in the picture. other characters in the story are uncle joshua, who is a good and well-loved man, and peter, probably in his late teens, who is a farm worker, well-intentioned but clumsy. a big event in the village is may day, and there is rivalry among the girls about which of them shall be queen of the may. it is lilac. yet that very day her mother is taken ill and dies. she is taken to their home by a farmer and his wife, and taught the dairymaid arts such as butter and cheese making. in those days a girl such as lilac would hope to be taken into domestic service and trained up to such high levels as house-keeper or cook. lilac has some opportunities--will she or won't she take them up? a lovely book that takes us back to long-gone days in the pastoral england of the s. nh ________________________________________________________________ white lilac, by amy walton chapter one. a bunch of lilac. "what's in a name?"--_shakespeare_. mrs james white stood at her cottage door casting anxious glances up at the sky, and down the hill towards the village. if it were fine the rector's wife had promised to come and see the baby, "and certainly," thought mrs white, shading her eyes with her hand, "you might call it fine--for april." there were sharp showers now and then, to be sure, but the sun shone between whiles, and sudden rays darted through her little window strong enough to light up the whole room. their searching glances disclosed nothing she was ashamed of, for they showed that the kitchen was neat and well ordered, with bits of good substantial furniture in it, such as a long-bodied clock, table, and dresser of dark oak. these polished surfaces smiled back again cheerfully as the light touched them, and the row of pewter plates on the high mantelshelf glistened so brightly that they were as good as so many little mirrors. but beside these useful objects the sunlight found out two other things in the room, at which it pointed its bright finger with special interest. one of these was a large bunch of pure white lilac which stood on the window sill in a brown mug, and the other was a wicker cradle in which lay something very much covered up in blankets. after a last lingering look down the hill, where no one was in sight, mrs white shut her door and settled herself to work, with the lilac at her elbow, and the cradle at her foot. she rocked this gently while she sewed, and turned her head now and then, when her needle wanted threading, to smell the delicate fragrance of the flowers. her face was grave, with a patient and rather sad expression, as though her memories were not all happy ones; but by degrees, as she sat there working and rocking, some pleasant thought brought a smile to her lips and softened her eyes. this became so absorbing that presently she did not see a figure pass the window, and when a knock at the door followed, she sprang up startled to open it for her expected visitor. "i'd most given you up, ma'am," she said as the lady entered, "but i'm very glad to see you." it was not want of cordiality but want of breath which caused a beaming smile to be the only reply to this welcome. the hill was steep, the day was mild, and mrs leigh was rather stout. she at once dropped with a sigh of relief, but still smiling, into a chair, and cast a glance full of interest at the cradle, which mrs white understood as well as words. bending over it she peeped cautiously in amongst the folds of flannel. "she's so fast, it's a sin to take her up, ma'am," she murmured, "but i _would_ like you to see her." mrs leigh had now recovered her power of speech. "don't disturb her for the world," she said, "i'm not going away yet. i shall be glad to rest a little. she'll wake presently, i dare say. what is it," she continued, looking round the room, "that smells so delicious? oh, what lovely lilac!" as her eye rested on the flowers in the window. mrs white had taken up her sewing again. "i always liked the laylocks myself, ma'am," she said, "partic'ler the white ones. it were a common bush in the part i lived as a gal, but there's not much hereabouts." "where did you get it?" asked mrs leigh, leaning forward to smell the pure-white blossoms; "i thought there was only the blue in the village." "why, no more there is," said mrs white with a half-ashamed smile; "but jem, he knows i'm a bit silly over them, and he got 'em at cuddingham t'other day. you see, the day i said i'd marry him he gave me a bunch of white laylocks--and that's ten years ago. sitting still so much more than i'm used lately, with the baby, puts all sorts of foolishness into my head, and when you knocked just now it gave me quite a start, for the smell of the laylocks took me right back to the days when we were sweetheartin'." "how _is_ jem?" asked mrs leigh, glancing at a gun which stood in the chimney corner. "he's _well_, ma'am, thank you, but out early and home late. there's bin poaching in the woods lately, and the keepers have a lot of trouble with 'em." "none of _our_ people, i _hope_?" said the rector's wife anxiously. "oh dear, no, ma'am! a gipsy lot--a cruel wild set, to be sure, from what jem says, and fight desperate." there was a stir amongst the blankets in the cradle just then, and presently a little cry. the baby was _awake_. very soon she was in mrs leigh's arms, who examined the tiny face with great interest, while the mother stood by, silent, but eager for the first expression of admiration. "what a beautifully fair child!" exclaimed mrs leigh. "everyone says that as sees her," said mrs white with quiet triumph. "she features my mother's family--they all had such wonderful white skins. but," anxiously, "you don't think she looks weakly, do you, ma'am?" "oh, no," answered mrs leigh in rather a doubtful tone. she stood up and weighed the child in her arms, moving nearer the window. "she's a little thing, but i dare say she's not the less strong for that." "it makes me naturally a bit fearsome over her," said mrs white; "for, as you know, ma'am, i've buried three children since we've bin here. ne'er a one of 'em all left me. it seems when i look at this little un as how i _must_ keep her. i don't seem as if i _could_ let her go too." "oh, she'll grow up and be a comfort to you, i don't doubt," said mrs leigh cheerfully. "fair-complexioned children are very often wonderfully healthy and strong. but really," she continued, looking closely at the baby's face, "i never saw such a skin in my life. why, she's as white as milk, or snow, or a lily, or--" she paused for a comparison, and suddenly added, as her eye fell on the flowers, "or that bunch of lilac." "you're right, ma'am," agreed mrs white with a smile of intense gratification. "and if i were you," continued mrs leigh, her good-natured face beaming all over with a happy idea, "i should call her `lilac'. that would be a beautiful name for her. lilac white. nothing could be better; it seems made for her." mrs white's expression changed to one of grave doubt. "it do _seem_ as how it would fit her," she said; "but that's not a christian name, is it, ma'am?" "well, it would make it one if you had her christened so, you see." "i was thinking of making so bold as to call her `annie', and to ask you to stand for her, ma'am." "and so i will, with pleasure. but don't call her annie; we've got so many annies in the parish already it's quite confusing--and so many whites too. we should have to say `annie white on the hill' every time we spoke of her. i'm always mixing them up as it is. _don't_ call her annie, mrs white, lilac's far better. ask your husband what he thinks of it." "oh! jem, he'll think as i do, ma'am," said mrs white at once; "it isn't _jem_." "who is it, then? if you both like the name it can't matter to anyone else." "well, ma'am," said mrs white hesitatingly, as she took her child from mrs leigh, and rocked it gently in her arms, "they'll all say down below in the village, as how it's a fancy sort of a name, and maybe when she grows up they'll laugh at her for it. i shouldn't like to feel as how i'd given her a name to be made game of." but mrs leigh was much too pleased with her fancy to give it up, and she smilingly overcame this objection and all others. it was a pretty, simple, and modest-sounding name, she said, with nothing in it that could be made laughable. it was short to say, and above all it had the advantage of being uncommon; as it was, so many mothers had desired the honour of naming their daughters after the rector's wife, that the number of "annies" was overwhelming, but there certainly would not be two "lilac whites" in the village. in short, as mrs white told jem that evening, mrs leigh was "that set" on the name that she had to give in to her. and so it was settled; and wonderfully soon afterwards it was rumoured in the village that mrs james white on the hill meant to call her baby "lilac." this could not matter to anyone else, mrs leigh had said, but she was mistaken. every mother in the parish had her opinion to offer, for there were not so many things happening, that even the very smallest could be passed over without a proper amount of discussion when neighbours met. on the whole they were not favourable opinions. it was felt that mrs white, who had always held herself high and been severe on the follies of her friends, had now in her turn laid herself open to remark by choosing an outlandish and fanciful name for her child. lilies, roses, and even violets were not unknown in danecross, but who had ever heard of lilac? mrs greenways said so, and she had a right to speak, not only because she lived at orchards farm, which was the biggest in the parish, but because her husband was mrs white's brother. she said it at all times and in all places, but chiefly at "dimbleby's", for if you dropped in there late in the afternoon you were pretty sure to find acquaintances, eager to hear and tell news; and this was specially the case on saturday, which was shopping day. dimbleby's was quite a large shop, and a very important one, for there was no other in the village; it was rather dark, partly because the roof was low-pitched, and partly because of the wonderful number and variety of articles crammed into it, so that it would have puzzled anyone to find out what dimbleby did not sell. the air was also a little thick to breathe, for there floated in it a strange mixture, made up of unbleached calico, corduroy, smockfrocks, boots, and bacon. all these articles and many others were to be seen piled up on shelves or counters, or dangling from the low beams overhead; and, lately, there had been added to the stock a number of small clocks, stowed away out of sight. their hasty ceaseless little voices sounded in curious contrast to the slowness of things in general at dimbleby's: "tick-tack, tick-tack,--time flies, time flies", they seemed to be saying over and over again. without effect, for at dimbleby's time never flew; he plodded along on dull and heavy feet, and if he had wings at all he dragged them on the ground. you had only to look at the face of the master of the shop to see that speed was impossible to him, and that he was justly known as the slowest man in the parish both in speech and action. this was hardly considered a failing, however, for it had its advantages in shopping; if he was slow himself, he was quite willing that others should be so too, and to stand in unmoved calm while mrs jones fingered a material to test its quality, or mrs wilson made up her mind between a spot and a sprig. it was therefore a splendid place for a bit of talk, for he was so long in serving, and his customers were so long in choosing, that there was an agreeable absence of pressure, and time to drink a cup of gossip down to its last drop of interest. "i don't understand myself what mary white would be at," said mrs greenways. she stood waiting in the shop while dimbleby thoughtfully weighed out some sugar for her; a stout woman with a round good-natured face, framed in a purple-velvet bonnet and nodding flowers; her long mantle matched the bonnet in stylishness, and was richly trimmed with imitation fur, but the large strong basket on her arm, already partly full of parcels, was quite out of keeping with this splendid attire. the two women who stood near, listening with eager respect to her remarks, were of very different appearance; their poor thin shawls were put on without any regard for fashion, and their straight cotton dresses were short enough to show their clumsy boots, splashed with mud from the miry country lanes. the edge of mrs greenways' gown was also draggled and dirty, for she had not found it easy to hold it up and carry a large basket at the same time. "i thought," she went on, "as how mary white was all for plain names, and homely ways, and such-like." "she _do say_ so," said the woman nearest to her, cautiously. "then, as i said to greenways this morning, `it's not a consistent act for your sister to name her child like that. accordin' to her you ought to have names as simple and common as may be.' why, think of what she said when i named my last, which is just a year ago. `and what do you think of callin' her?' says she. `why,' says i, `i think of giving her the name of agnetta.' `dear me!' says she; `whyever do you give your girls such fine names? there's your two eldest, isabella and augusta; i'd call this one betsy, or jane, or sarah, or something easy to say, and suitable.'" "_did_ she, now?" said both the listeners at once. "and it's not only that," continued mrs greenways with a growing sound of injury in her voice, "but she's always on at me when she gets a chance about the way i bring my girls up. `you'd a deal better teach her to make good butter,' says she, when i told her that bella was learning the piano. and when i showed her that screen gusta worked-- lilies on blue satting, a re'lly elegant thing--she just turned her head and says, `i'd rather, if she were a gal of mine, see her knit her own stockings.' those were her words, mrs wishing." "ah, well, it's easy to talk," replied mrs wishing soothingly, "we'll be able to see how she'll bring up a daughter of her own now." "i'm not saying," pursued mrs greenways, turning a watchful eye on mr dimbleby's movements, "that mary white haven't a perfect right to name her child as she chooses. i'm too fair for that, i _hope_. what i do say is, that now she's picked up a fancy sort of name like lilac, she hasn't got any call to be down on other people. and if me and greenways likes to see our girls genteel and give 'em a bit of finishing eddication, and set 'em off with a few accomplishments, it's our own affair and not mary white's. and though i say it as shouldn't, you won't find two more elegant gals than gusta and bella, choose where you may." during the last part of her speech mrs greenways had been poking and squeezing her parcel of sugar into its appointed corner of her basket; as she finished she settled it on her arm, clutched at her gown with the other hand, and prepared to start. "and now, as i'm in a hurry, i'll say good night, mrs pinhorn and mrs wishing, and good night to you, mr dimbleby." she rolled herself and her burden through the narrow door of the shop, and for a moment no one spoke, while all the little clocks ticked away more busily than ever. "she's got enough to carry," said mrs pinhorn, breaking silence at last, with a sideway nod at her neighbour. "she have _so_," agreed mrs wishing mildly; "and i wonder, that i do, to see her carrying that heavy basket on foot--she as used to come in her spring cart." mrs pinhorn pressed her lips together before answering, then she said with meaning: "they're short of hands just now at orchards farm, and maybe short of horses too." "you don't say so!" said mrs wishing, drawing nearer. "my ben works there, as you know, and he says money's scarce there, very scarce indeed. one of the men got turned off only t'other day." "lor', now, to think of that!" exclaimed mrs wishing in an awed manner. "an' her in that bonnet an' all them artificials!" "there's a deal," continued mrs pinhorn, "in what mrs white says about them two greenways gals with their fine-lady ways. it 'ud a been better to bring 'em up handy in the house so as to help their mother. as it is, they're too finnicking to be a bit of use. you wouldn't see either of _them_ with a basket on their arm, they'd think it lowering themselves. and i dare say the youngest 'll grow up just like 'em." "there's a deal in what mrs greenways's just been saying too," remarked the woman called mrs wishing in a hesitating voice, "for mrs james white _is_ a very strict woman and holds herself high, and `lilac' is a fanciful kind of a name; but _i_ dunno." she broke off as if feeling incapable of dealing with the question. "i can't wonder myself," resumed mrs pinhorn, "at mrs greenways being a bit touchy. you heard, i s'pose, what mrs white up and said to her once? you didn't? well, she said, `you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and you'll never make them girls ladies, try all you will,' says she. `useless things you'll make 'em, fit for neither one station or t'other.'" "that there's plain speaking!" said mrs wishing admiringly. mr dimbleby had not uttered a word during this conversation, and was to all appearance entirely occupied in weighing out, tying up parcels, and receiving orders. in reality, however, he had not lost a word of it, and had been getting ready to speak for some time past. neither of the women, who were well acquainted with him, was at all surprised when he suddenly remarked: "it were mrs leigh herself as had to do with the name of mrs james white's baby." "re'lly, now?" said mrs wishing doubtfully. "an' it were mrs leigh herself as i heard it from," continued dimbleby ponderously, without noticing the interruption. "well, that makes a difference, don't it now?" said mrs pinhorn. "why ever didn't you name that afore, mr dimbleby?" "and," added dimbleby, grinding on to the end of his speech regardless of hindrance, like a machine that has been wound up; "and mrs leigh herself is goin' to stand for the baby." "lor'! i do wish mrs greenways could a heard that," said mrs pinhorn; "that'll set mrs white up more than ever." "it will so," said mrs wishing; "she allers did keep herself _to_ herself did mrs white. not but what she's a decent woman and a kind. seems as how, if mrs leigh wished to name the child `lilac', she couldn't do no other than fall in with it. but _i_ dunno." "and how does the name strike you, mr snell?" said mrs pinhorn, turning to a newcomer. he was an oldish man, short and broad-shouldered, with a large head and serious grey eyes. not only his leather apron, but the ends of his stumpy fingers, which were discoloured and brown, showed that he was a cobbler by trade. when mrs pinhorn spoke to him, he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, took off his hat, and passed his hand over his high bald forehead. "what name may you be alludin' to, ma'am?" he enquired very politely. "the name `lilac' as mrs james white's goin' to call her child." "lilac--eh! lilac white. white lilac," repeated the cobbler musingly. "well, ma'am, 'tis a pleasant bush and a homely; i can't wish the maid no better than to grow up like her name." "why, you wouldn't for sure wish her to grow up homely, would you now, mr snell?" said mrs wishing with a feeble laugh. "i _would_, ma'am," replied mr snell, turning rather a severe eye upon the questioner, "i _would_. for why? because to be homely is to make the common things of home sweet and pleasant. she can't do no better than that." mrs wishing shrank silenced into the background, like one who has been reproved, and the cobbler advanced to the counter to exchange greetings with mr dimbleby, and buy tobacco. the women's voices, the sharp ticking of the clocks, and the deeper tones of the men kept up a steady concert for some time undisturbed. but suddenly the door was thrown violently back on its hinges with a bang, and a tall man in labourer's clothes rushed into their midst. everyone looked up startled, and on mrs wishing's face there was fear as well as surprise when she recognised the newcomer. "why, dan'l, my man," she exclaimed, "what is it?" daniel was out of breath with running. he rubbed his forehead with a red pocket handkerchief, looked round in a dazed manner at the assembled group, and at length said hoarsely: "mrs greenways bin here?" "ah, just gone!" said both the women at once. "there's trouble up yonder--on the hill," said daniel, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and speaking in a strange, broken voice. "mary white's baby!" exclaimed mrs pinhorn. "fits!" added mrs wishing; "they all went off that way." "hang the baby," muttered daniel. he made his way past the women, who had pressed up close to him, to where the cobbler and dimbleby stood. "i've fetched the doctor," he said, "and she wants the greenways to know it; i thought maybe she'd be here." "what is it? who's ill?" asked the cobbler. "tain't anyone that's ill," answered daniel; "he's stone dead. they shot him right through the heart." "who? who?" cried all the voices together. "i found him," continued daniel, "up in the woods; partly covered up with leaves he was. smiling peaceful and stone dead. he was always a brave feller and done his dooty, did james white on the hill. but he won't never do it no more." "poachers!" exclaimed dimbleby in a horror-struck voice. "poachers it was, sure enough," said daniel; "an' he's stone dead, james white is. they shot him right through the heart. seems a pity such a brave chap should die like that." "an' him such a good husband!" said mrs wishing. "an' the baby an' all as we was just talking on," said mrs pinhorn; "well, it's a fatherless child now, anyway." "the family ought to allow the widder a pension," said mr dimbleby, "seeing as james white died in their service, so to speak." "they couldn't do no less," agreed the cobbler. the idea of fetching mrs greenways seemed to have left daniel's mind for the present: he had now taken a chair, and was engaged in answering the questions with which he was plied on all sides, and in trying to fix the exact hour when he had found poor james white in the woods. "as it might be here, and me standing as it might be there," he said, illustrating his words with the different parcels on the counter before him. it was not until all this was thoroughly understood, and every imaginable expression of pity and surprise had been uttered, that mrs pinhorn remembered that the "greenways ought to know. and i don't see why," she added, seizing her basket with sudden energy, "i shouldn't take her up myself; i'm goin' that way, and she's a slow traveller." "an' then dan'l can go straight up home with me," said mrs wishing, "and we can drop in as we pass an' see mrs white, poor soul. she hadn't ought to be alone." before nightfall everyone knew the sad tidings. james white had been shot by poachers, and daniel wishing had found him lying dead in the woods. as the days went on, the excitement which stirred the whole village increased rather than lessened, for not even the oldest inhabitant could remember such a tragical event. apart from the sadness of it, and the desolate condition of the widow, poor jem's many virtues made it impressive and lamentable. everyone had something to say in his praise, no one remembered anything but good about him; he was a brave chap, and one of the right sort, said the men, when they talked of it in the public-house; he was a good husband, said the women, steady and sober, fond of his wife, a pattern to others. they shook their heads and sighed mournfully; it was strange as well as pitiful that jem white should a been took. "there might a been _some_ as we could mention as wouldn't a been so much missed." then came the funeral; the bunch of white lilac, still fresh, which he had brought from cuddingham, was put on jem's newly-made grave, and his widow, passing silently through the people gathered in the churchyard, toiled patiently back to her lonely home. they watched the solitary figure as it showed black against the steep chalky road in the distance. "yon's an afflicted woman," said one, "for all she carries herself so high under it." "she's the only widder among all the whites hereabouts," remarked mrs pinhorn. "we needn't call her `mrs white on the hill' no longer, poor soul." "it's a mercy she's got the child," said another neighbour, "if the lord spares it to her." "the christening's to be on sunday," added a third. "i do wonder if she'll call it that outlandish name _now_." there was not much time to wonder, for sunday soon came, and the widow white, as she was to be called henceforth, was at the church, stern, sad, and calm, with her child in her arms. it was an april morning, breezy and soft; the uncertain sunshine darted hither and thither, now touching the newly turned earth of jem's grave, and now peering through the church window to rest on the tiny face of his little daughter in the rector's arms at the font. all the village had come to see, for this christening was felt to be one of more than common interest, and while the service went on there was not one inattentive ear. foremost stood mrs greenways, her white handkerchief displayed for immediate use, and the expression in her face struggling between real compassion and an eager desire to lose nothing that was passing; presently she craned her neck forward a little, for an important point was reached-- "name this child," said the rector. there was such deep silence in the church that the lowest whisper would have been audible, and mrs leigh's voice was heard distinctly in the farthest corner, when she answered "lilac." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "not that it matters," said mrs greenways on her way home afterwards, "what they call the poor little thing--lilac white, or white lilac, or what you will, for she'll never rear it, never. it'll follow its father before we're any of us much older. you mark my words, greenways: i'm not the woman to discourage mary white by naming it to her now she's so deep in trouble, but you mark my words, she'll _never_ rear that child." chapter two. the cousins. "for the apparel oft proclaims the man."--shakespeare. but mrs greenways was wrong. twelve more springs came and went, cold winds blew round the cottage on the hill, winter snow covered it, summer sun blazed down on its unsheltered roof, but the small blossom within grew and flourished. a weak tender-looking little plant at first, but gathering strength with the years until it became hardy and bold, fit to face rough weather as well as to smile in the sunshine. it was twelve years since james white's death, twelve years since he had brought the bunch of lilac from cuddingham which had given his little daughter her name--that name which had once sounded so strangely in mrs white's ears. it had come to mean so much to her now, so many memories of the past, so much sweetness in the present, that she would not have changed it for the world, and indeed no one questioned its fitness, for as time went on it seemed to belong naturally to the child; it was even made more expressive by putting the surname first, so that she was often called "white lilac." for the distinguishing character of her face was its whiteness--"a wonderful white skin", as her mother had said, which did not tan, or freckle, or flush with heat, and which shone out in startling contrast amongst the red and brown cheeks of her school companions. this small white face was set upon a slender neck, and a delicately-formed but upright little figure, which looked all the straighter and more like the stalk of a flower, because it was never adorned with any flounces or furbelows. lilac was considered in the village to be very old-fashioned in her dress; she wore cotton frocks, plain in the skirt with gathers all round the waist, long pinafores or aprons, and sunbonnets. this attire was always spotless and freshly clean, but garments of such a shape and cut were lamentably wanting in fashion to the general eye, and were the subject of constant ridicule. not in the hearing of the widow, for most people were a good deal in awe of her, but lilac herself heard quite enough about her clothes to be conscious of them and to feel ashamed of looking "different." and this was specially the case at school, for there she met agnetta greenways every day, and agnetta was the object of her highest admiration; to be like her in some way was the deep and secret longing in her mind. it was, she knew well, a useless ambition, but she could not help desiring it, agnetta was such a beautiful object to look upon, with her red cheeks and the heavy fringe of black hair which rested in a lump on her forehead. on sundays, when she wore her blue dress richly trimmed with plush, a long feather in her hat, and a silver bangle on her arm, lilac could hardly keep her intense admiration silent; it was a pain not to speak of it, and yet she knew that nothing would have displeased her mother so much, who was never willing to hear the greenways praised. so she only gazed wistfully at her cousin's square gaily-dressed figure, and felt herself a poor washed-out insignificant child in comparison. this was very much agnetta's own view of the case; but nevertheless there were occasions when she was glad of this insignificant creature's assistance, for she was slow and stupid at her lessons, books were grief and pain to her, and lilac, who was intelligent and fond of learning, was always ready to help and explain. this service, given most willingly, was received by agnetta as one to whom it was due, and indeed the position she held among her schoolfellows made most of them eager to call her friend. she lived at orchards farm, which was the biggest in the parish; her two elder sisters had been to a finishing school, and one of them was now in a millinery establishment in london, where she wore a silk dress every day. this was sufficient to excuse airs of superiority in anyone. it was natural, therefore, to repay lilac's devotion by condescending patronage, and to look down on her from a great height; nevertheless it was extremely agreeable to agnetta to be worshipped, and this made her seek her cousin's companionship, and invite her often to orchards farm. there she could display her smart frocks, dwell on the extent of her father's possessions, on her sister bella's stylishness, on the last fashion gusta had sent from london, while lilac, meek and admiring, stood by with wonder in her eyes. orchards farm was the most beautiful place her imagination could picture, and to live there must be, she thought, perfect happiness. there was a largeness about it, with its blossoming fruit trees, its broad green meadows, its barns and stacks, its flocks of sheep and herds of cattle; even the shiny-leaved magnolia which covered part of the house seemed to lilac to speak of peace and plenty. it was all so different from her home; the bare white cottage on the hillside where no trees grew, where all was so narrow and cold, and where life seemed to be made up of scrubbing, sweeping, and washing. she looked longingly down from this sometimes to the valley where the farm stood. but other eyes, and mrs white's in particular, saw a very different state of things when they looked at orchards farm. she knew that under this smiling outside face lay hidden care and anxiety; for her brother, farmer greenways, was in debt and short of money. folks shook their heads when it was mentioned, and said: "what could you expect?" the old people remembered the prosperous days at the farm, when the dairy had been properly worked, and the butter was the best you could get anywhere round. there was the pasture land still, and a good lot of cows, but since the greenways had come there the supply of butter was poor, and sometimes the whole quantity sent to market was so carelessly made that it was sour. whose fault was it? mrs greenways would have said that molly, the one overworked maid servant, was to blame; but other people thought differently, and mrs white was as usual outspoken in her opinions to her sister-in-law: "it 'ull never be any different as long as you don't look after the dairy yourself, or teach bella to do it. what does molly care how the butter turns out?" but bella tossed her head at the idea of working, as she expressed it, "like a common servant", or indeed at working at all. she considered that her business in life was to be genteel, and to be properly genteel was to do nothing useful. so she studied the fashion books which gusta sent from london, made up wonderful costumes for herself, curled her hair in the last style, and read the stories about dukes and earls and countesses which came out in the _family herald_. the smart bonnets and dresses which mrs greenways and her daughters wore on sundays in spite of hard times and poor crops and debt were the wonder of the whole congregation, and in mrs white's case the wonder was mixed with scorn. "peter's the only one among 'em as is good for anything," she sometimes said, "an' he's naught but a puzzle-headed sort of a chap." peter was the farmer's only son, a loutish youth of fifteen, steady and plodding as his plough horses and almost as silent. it was april again, bright and breezy, and all the cherry trees at the farm were so white with bloom that standing under them you could scarcely see the sky. the grass in the orchard was freshly green and sprinkled with daisies, amongst which families of fluffy yellow ducklings trod awkwardly about on their little splay feet, while the careful mother hens picked out the best morsels of food for them. this food was flung out of a basin by agnetta greenways, who stood there squarely erect uttering a monotonous "chuck, chuck, chuck," at intervals. agnetta did not care for the poultry, or indeed for any of the creatures on the farm; they were to her only troublesome things that wanted looking after, and she would have liked not to have had anything to do with them. just now, however, there was a week's holiday at the school, and she was obliged to use her leisure in helping her mother, much against her will. agnetta had a stolid face with a great deal of colour in her cheeks; her hair was black, but at this hour it was so tightly done up in curl papers that the colour could hardly be seen. she wore an old red merino dress which had once been a smart one, but was now degraded to what she called "dirty work", and was covered with patches and stains. her hands and wrists were very large, and looked capable of hard work, as indeed did the whole person of agnetta from top to toe. "chuck, chuck, chuck," she repeated as she threw out the last spoonful; then, raising her eyes, she became aware of a little figure in the distance, running towards her across the field at the bottom of the orchard. "lor'!" she exclaimed aloud, "if here isn't lilac white!" it was a slight little figure clothed in a cotton frock which had once been blue in colour, but had been washed so very often that it now approached a shade of green; over it was a long straight pinafore gathered round the neck with a string, and below it appeared blue worsted stockings, and thick, laced boots. her black hair was brushed back and plaited in one long tail tied at the end with black ribbon, and in her hand she carried a big sunbonnet, swinging it round and round in the air as she ran. as she came nearer the orchard gate, it was easy to see that she had some news to tell, for her small features worked with excitement, and her grey eyes were bright with eagerness. agnetta advanced slowly to meet her with the empty basin in her hand, and unlatched the gate. "whatever's the matter?" she asked. lilac could not answer just at first, for she had been running a long way, and her breath came in short gasps. she came to a standstill under the trees, and agnetta stared gravely at her with her mouth wide open. the two girls formed a strong contrast to each other. lilac's white face and the faded colour of her dress matched the blossoms and leaves of the cherry trees in their delicacy, while about the red-cheeked agnetta there was something firm and positive, which suggested the fruit which would come later. "i came--" gasped lilac at last, "i ran--i thought i must tell you--" "well," said agnetta, still staring at her in an unmoved manner, "you'd better fetch your breath, and then you'll be able to tell me. come and sit down." there was a bench under one of the trees near where she had been feeding the ducks. the two girls sat down, and presently lilac was able to say: "oh, agnetta, the artist gentleman wants to put me in a picture!" "whatever do you mean, lilac white?" was agnetta's only reply. her slightly disapproving voice calmed lilac's excitement a little. "this is how it was," she continued more quietly. "you know he's lodging at the `three bells?' and he comes an' sits at the bottom of our hill an' paints all day." "of course i know," said agnetta. "it's a poor sort of an object he's copyin', too--old joe's tumble-down cottage. i peeped over his shoulder t'other day--'taint much like." "well, i pass him every day comin' from school, and he always looks up at me eager without sayin' nothing. but this morning he says, `little gal,' says he, `i want to put you into my picture.'" "lor'!" put in agnetta, "whatever can he want to paint _you_ for?" "so i didn't say nothing," continued lilac, "because he looked so hard at me that i was skeert-like. so then he says very impatient, `don't you understand? i want you to come here in that frock and that bonnet in your hand, and let me paint you, copy you, take your portrait. you run and ask mother.'" "i never did!" exclaimed agnetta, moved at last. "whatever can he want to do it for? an' that frock, an' that silly bonnet an' all! he must be a crazy gentleman, i should say." she gave a short laugh, partly of vexation. "but that ain't all," continued lilac; "just as i was turning to go he calls after me, `what's yer name?' and when i told him he shouts out, `_what_!' with his eyes hanging out ever so far." "well, i dare say he thought it was a silly-sounding sort of a name," observed agnetta. "he said it over and over to hisself, and laughed right out--`lilac white! white lilac!' says he. `what a subjeck! what a name! splendid!' an' then he says to me quieter, `you're a very nice little girl indeed, and if mother will let you come i'll give you sixpence for every hour you stand.' so then i went an' asked mother, and she said yes, an' then i ran all the way here to tell you." lilac looked round as she finished her wonderful story. agnetta's eyes were travelling slowly over her cousin's whole person, from her face down to the thick, laced boots on her feet, and back again. "i can't mek out," she said at length, "whatever it is that he wants to paint you for, and dressed like that! why, there ain't a mossel of colour about you! now, if you had my sunday blue!" "oh, agnetta!" exclaimed lilac at the mention of such impossible elegance. "and," pursued agnetta, "a few artificials in yer hair, like the ladies in our _book of beauty_, that 'ud brighten you up a bit. bella's got some red roses with dewdrops on 'em, an' a caterpillar just like life. she'd lend you 'em p'r'aps, an' i don't know but what i'd let you have my silver locket just for once." "i'm afraid he wouldn't like that," said lilac dejectedly, "because he said quite earnest, `_mind_ you bring the bonnet'." she saw herself for a moment in the splendid attire agnetta had described, and gave a little sigh of longing. "i must go back," she said, getting up suddenly, "mother'll want me. there's lots to do at home." "i'll go with you a piece," said agnetta; "we'll go through the farmyard way so as i can leave the basin." this was a longer way home for lilac than across the fields, but she never thought of disputing agnetta's decision, and the cousins left the orchard by another gate which led into the garden. it was not a very tidy garden, and although some care had been bestowed on the vegetables, the flowers were left to come up where they liked and how they liked, and the grass plot near the house was rank and weedy. nevertheless it presented a gay and flourishing appearance with its masses of polyanthus in full bloom, its tulips, and turk's head lilies, and lilac bushes. there was one particular bed close to the gate which had a neater appearance than the rest, and where the flowers grew in a well-ordered manner as though accustomed to personal attention. the edges of the turf were trimly clipped, and there was not a weed to be seen. it had a mixed border of forget-me-not and london pride. "how pretty your flowers grow!" said lilac, stopping to look at it with admiration. "oh, that's peter's bed," said agnetta carelessly, snapping off some blossoms. "he's allays mucking at it in his spare time--not that he's got much, there's so much to do on the farm." the house was now in front of them, and a little to the left the various, coloured roofs of the farm buildings, some tiled with weather-beaten bricks, some thatched, some tarred, and the bright yellow straw ricks standing here and there. between these buildings and the house was a narrow lane, generally ankle-deep in mud, which led into the highroad. lilac was very fond of the farmyard and all the creatures in it. she stopped at the gate and looked over at a company of small black pigs routing about in the straw. "oh, agnetta!" she exclaimed, "you've got some toiny pigs; what peart little uns they are!" "i can't abide pigs," said agnetta with a toss of her curl-papered head; "no more can't bella, we neither of us can't. nasty, vulgar, low-smelling things." lilac felt that hers must be a vulgar taste as agnetta said so, but still she _did_ like the little pigs, and would have been glad to linger near them. it was often puzzling to her that agnetta called so many things common and vulgar, but she always ended by thinking that it was because she was so superior. "here, peter!" exclaimed agnetta suddenly. a boy in leather leggings and a smock appeared at the entrance of the barn, and came tramping across the straw towards them at her call. "just take this into the kitchen," said his sister in commanding tones. "now," turning to lilac, "we can go t'other way across the fields. the lane's all in a muck." peter slouched away with the basin in his hand. he was a heavy-looking youth, and so shy that he seldom raised his eyes from the ground. "no one 'ud think," said agnetta as the girls entered the meadow again, "as peter was bella's and gusta's and my brother. he's so dreadful vulgar-lookin' dressed like that. he might be a common ploughboy, and his manners is awful." "are they?" said lilac. "pa won't hear a word against him," continued agnetta, "cause he's so useful with the farm work. he says he'd rather see peter drive a straight furrow than dress himself smart. but bella and me we're ashamed to be seen with him, we can't neither of us abide commoners." common! there was the word again which seemed to mean so many things and yet was so difficult to understand. common things were evidently vulgar. the pigs were common, peter was common, perhaps lilac herself was common in agnetta's eyes. "and yet," she reflected, lifting her gaze from the yellow carpet at her feet to the flowering orchards, "the cherry blossoms and the buttercups are common too; would agnetta call them vulgar?" she had not long to think about this, for her cousin soon introduced another and a very interesting subject. "who's goin' to be queen this year, i wonder?" she said; "there'll be a sight of flowers if the weather keeps all on so fine." "it'll be you, agnetta, for sure," answered lilac; "i know lots who mean to choose you this time." "i dessay," said agnetta with an air of lofty indifference. "don't you want to be?" asked lilac. the careless tone surprised her, for to be chosen queen of the may was not only an honour, but a position of importance and splendour. it meant to march at the head of a long procession of children, in a white dress, to be crowned with flowers in the midst of gaiety and rejoicing, to lead the dance round the maypole, and to be first throughout a day of revelry and feasting. to lilac it was the most beautiful of ceremonies to see the queen crowned; to join in it was a delight, but to be chosen queen herself would be a height of bliss she could hardly imagine. it was impossible therefore, to think her cousin really indifferent, and indeed this was very far from the case, for agnetta had set her heart on being queen, and felt tolerably sure that she should get the greatest number of votes this year. "i don't know as i care much," she answered; "let's sit down here a bit." they sat down one each side of a stile, with their faces turned towards each other, and agnetta again fixed her direct gaze critically on her cousin's figure. lilac twirled her sunbonnet round somewhat confusedly under these searching glances. "it's a pity you wear your hair scrattled right off your face like that," said agnetta at last; "it makes you look for all the world like daisy's white calf." "does it?" said lilac meekly; "mother likes it done so." "i know something as would improve you wonderful, and give you a bit of style--something as would make the picture look a deal better." "oh, what, agnetta?" "well, it's just as simple as can be. it's only to take a pair of scissors and cut yer hair like mine in front so as it comes down over yer face a bit. it 'ud alter you ever so. you'd be surprised." lilac started to her feet, struck with the immensity of the idea. a fringe! it was a form of elegance not unknown amongst the school-children, but one which she had never thought of as possible for herself. there was agnetta's stolid rosy face close to her, as unmoved and unexcited as if she had said nothing unusual. "oh, agnetta, _could_ i?" gasped lilac. "whyever not?" said her cousin calmly. lilac sat down again. "i dursn't," she said. "i couldn't ever bear to look mother in the face." "has she ever told you not?" "n-no," answered lilac hesitatingly; "leastways she only said once that the girls made frights of themselves with their fringes." "frights indeed!" said agnetta scornfully; "anyhow," she added, "it 'ull grow again if she don't like it." so it would. that reflection made the deed seem a less daring one, and lilac's face at once showed signs of yielding, which agnetta was not slow to observe. warming with her subject, she proceeded to paint the improvement which would follow in glowing colours, and in this she was urged by two motives--one, an honest desire to smarten lilac up a little, and the other, to vex and thwart her aunt, mrs white; to pay her out, as she expressed it, for sundry uncomplimentary remarks on herself and bella. "and supposing," was lilac's next remark, "as how i _was_ to make up my mind, i couldn't never do it for myself. i should be scared." this difficulty the energetic agnetta was quite ready to meet. _she_ would do it. lilac had only to run down to the farm early next morning, and, after she was made fashionable, she could go straight on to the artist. "and won't he just be surprised!" she added with a chuckle. "i don't expect he'll hardly know you." "you're _quite_ sure it'll make me look better?" said lilac wistfully. she had the utmost faith in her cousin, but the step seemed to her such a terribly large one. "ain't i?" was agnetta's scornful reply. "why, gusta says all the ladies in london wears their hair like that now." after this last convincing proof, for gusta's was a name of great authority, lilac resisted no longer, and soon discovered, by the striking of the church clock, that it was getting very late. she said good-bye to agnetta, therefore, and, leaving her to make her way back at her leisure, ran quickly on through the meadows all streaked and sprinkled with the spring flowers. after these came the dusty high-road for a little while, and then she reached the foot of the steep hill which led up to her home. the artist gentleman was there as usual, a pipe in his mouth, and a palette on his thumb, painting busily: as she hurriedly dropped a curtsy in passing, lilac's heart beat quite fast. "me in a picture with a fringe!" she said to herself; "how i do hope as mother won't mind!" that afternoon, when she sat quietly down to her sewing, this great idea weighed heavily upon her. it would be the very first step she had ever taken without her mother's approval, and away from the influence of agnetta's decided opinion it seemed doubly alarming--a desperate and yet an attractive deed. now and then for a moment she thought it would be better to tell her mother, but when she looked up at the grave, rather sad face, bent closely over some needlework, she lacked courage to begin. it seemed far removed from such trifles as fringes and fashions; and though, as lilac knew well, it could have at times a smile full of love upon it, just now its expression was thoughtful, and even stern. she kept silence, therefore, and stitched away with a mind as busy as her fingers, until it was time to boil the kettle and get the tea ready. this was just done when mrs wishing, who lived still farther up the hill, dropped in on her way home from the village. she was an uncertain, wavering little woman, with no will of her own, and a heavy burden in the shape of a husband, who, during the last few years, had taken to fits of drinking. the widow white acknowledged that she had a good deal to bear from dan'l, and when times were very bad, often supplied her with food and firing from her own small store. but she did not do so without protest, for in her opinion the fault was not entirely on dan'l's side. "maybe," she said, "if he found a clean hearth and a tidy bit o' supper waitin' at home, he'd stay there oftener. an' if he worked reg'lar, and didn't drink his wages, you'd want for nothin', and be able to put by with only just the two of you to keep. but i can't see you starve." mrs wishing fluttered in at the door, and, as she thought probable, was asked to have a dish of tea. lilac bustled round the kitchen and set everything neatly on the table, while her mother, glancing at her now and then, stood at the window sewing with active fingers. "well, you're always busy, mrs white," said the guest plaintively as she untied her bonnet strings. "i will say as you're a hard worker yourself, whatever you say about other folks." "an' i hope as when the time comes as i can't work that the lord 'ull see fit to take me," said mrs white shortly. "dear, dear, you've got no call to say that," said mrs wishing, "you as have got lilac to look to in your old age. now, if it was me and dan'l, with neither chick nor child--" she shook her head mournfully. mrs white gave her one sharp glance which meant "and a good thing too", but she did not say the words aloud; there was something so helpless and incapable about mrs wishing, that it was both difficult and useless to be severe with her, for the most cutting speeches could not rouse her from the mild despair into which she had sunk years ago. "i dessay you're right, but _i_ dunno," was her only reply to all reproaches and exhortations, and finding this, mrs white had almost ceased them, except when they were wrung from her by some unusual example of bad management. "an' so handy as she is," continued mrs wishing, her wandering gaze caught for a moment by lilac's active little figure, "an' that's all your up-bringing, mrs white, as i was saying just now to mrs greenways." mrs white, who was now pouring out the tea, looked quickly up at the mention of mrs greenways. she would not ask, but her very soul longed to know what had been said. "she was talkin' about lilac as i was in at dimbleby's getting a bunch of candles," continued mrs wishing, "sayin' how her picture was going to be took; an' says she, `it's a poor sort of picture as she'll make, with a face as white as her pinafore. now, if it was agnetta,' says she, `as has a fine nateral bloom, i could understand the gentleman wantin' to paint _her_.'" "i s'pose the gentleman knows best himself what he wants to paint," said mrs white. "lor', of course he do," mrs wishing hastened to reply; "and, as i said to mrs greenways, `red cheeks or white cheeks don't make much differ to a gal in life. it's the upbringing as matters.'" mrs white looked hardly so pleased with this sentiment as her visitor had hoped. she was perfectly aware that it had been invented on the spot, and that mrs wishing would not have dared to utter it to mrs greenways. moreover, the comparison between lilac's paleness and agnetta's fine bloom touched her keenly, for in this remark she recognised her sister-in-law's tongue. the rivalry between the two mothers was an understood thing, and though it had never reached open warfare, it was kept alive by the kindness of neighbours, who never forgot to repeat disparaging speeches. mrs white's opinions of the genteel uselessness of bella and gusta were freely quoted to mrs greenways, and she in her turn was always ready with a thrust at lilac which might be carried to mrs white. when the widow had first heard of the artist's proposal, her intense gratification was at once mixed with the thought, "what'll mrs greenways think o' that?" but she did not express this triumph aloud. even lilac had no idea that her mother's heart was overflowing with pleasure and pride because it was _her_ child, _her_ lilac, whom the artist wished to paint. so now, though she bit her lip with vexation at mrs wishing's speech, she took it with outward calmness, and only replied, with a glance at her daughter: "lilac never was one to think much about her looks, and i hope she never will be." both the look and the words seemed to lilac to have special meaning, almost as though her mother knew what she intended to do to-morrow; it seemed indeed to be written in large letters everywhere, and all that was said had something to do with it. this made her feel so guilty, that she began to be sure it would be very wrong to have a fringe. should she give it up? it was a relief when mrs wishing, leaving the subject of the picture for one of nearer interest, proceeded to dwell on dan'l and his failings, so that lilac was not referred to again. this well-worn topic lasted for the rest of the visit, for dan'l had been worse than usual. he had "got the neck of the bottle", as mrs wishing expressed it, and had been in a hopeless state during the last week. her sad monotonous voice went grinding on over the old story, while lilac, washing up the tea things, carried on her own little fears, and hopes, and wishes in her own mind. no one watching her would have guessed what those wishes were: she looked so trim and neat, and handled the china as deftly as though she had no other thought than to do her work well. and yet the inside did not quite match this proper outside, for her whole soul was occupied with a beautiful vision--herself with a fringe like agnetta! it proved so engrossing that she hardly noticed mrs wishing's departure, and when her mother spoke she looked up startled. "yon's a poor creetur as never could stand alone and never will," she said. "it was the same when she was a gal--always hangin' on to someone, always wantin' someone else to do for her, and think for her. well! empty sacks won't never stand upright, and it's no good tryin' to make 'em." lilac made no reply, and mrs white, seizing the opportunity of impressing a useful lesson, continued: "lor'! it seems only the other day as hepzibah was married to daniel wishing. a pretty gal she was, with clinging, coaxing ways, like the suckles in the hedge, and everyone she come near was ready to give her a helping hand. and at the wedding they all said, `there, now, she's got the right man, hepzibah has. a strong, steady feller, and a good workman an' all, and one as'll look after her an' treat her kind.' but i mind what i said to mrs pinhorn on that very day: `i hope it may be so,' i says, `but it takes an angel, and not a man, to bear with a woman as weak an' shiftless as hepzibah, and not lose his temper.' and now look at 'em! there's dan'l taken to drink, and when he's out of himself he'll lift his hand to her, and they're both of 'em miserable. it does a deal o' harm for a woman to be weak like that. she can't stand alone, and she just pulls a man down along with her." the troubles of the wishings were very familiar to lilac's ears, and, though she took her knitting and sat down on her little stool close to her mother, she did not listen much to what she was saying. mrs white, quite ignorant that her words of wisdom were wasted, continued admonishingly: "so as you grow up, lilac, and get to a woman, that's what you've got to learn--to trust to yourself; you won't always have a mother to look to. and what you've got to do now is, to learn to do your work jest as well as you can, and then afterwards you'll be able to stand firm on yer own two feet, and not go leaning up against other folk, or be beholden to nobody. that's a good thing, that is. there's a saying, `heaven helps them as helps themselves'. if that poor hepzibah had helped herself when she was a gal, she wouldn't be such a daundering creetur now, and dan'l, he wouldn't be a curse instead of a blessin'." when lilac went up to her tiny room in the roof that night, her head felt too full of confusing thoughts to make it possible to go to bed at once. she knelt on a box that stood in the window, fastened back the lattice, and, leaning on the sill, looked out into the night. the greyness of evening was falling over everything, but it was not nearly dark yet, so that she could see the windings of the chalky road which led down to the valley, and the church tower, and even one of the gable windows in orchards farm, where a light was twinkling. generally this last object was a most interesting one to her, but to-night she did not notice outside things much, for her mind was too busy with its own concerns. she had, for the first time in her life, something quite new and strange to think of, something of her own which her mother did not know; and though this may seem a very small matter to people whose lives are full of events, to lilac it was of immense importance, for until now her days had been as even and unvaried as those of any daisy that grows in a field. but to-morrow, two new things were to happen--she was to have her hair cut, and to have her picture painted. "a poor sort of picture," mrs greenways had said it would be, and, no doubt, lilac agreed in her own mind agnetta would make a far finer one--agnetta, who had red cheeks, and a fringe already, and could dress herself so much smarter. would a fringe really improve her? agnetta said so. and yet--her mother--was it worth while to risk vexing her? but it would grow. yes, but in the picture it would never grow. the more she thought, the more difficult it was to see her way clear; as the evening grew darker and more shadowy, so her reflections became dimmer and more confused; at last they were suddenly stopped altogether, for a bat which had come forth on its evening travels flapped straight against her face under the eaves. thoroughly roused, lilac drew in her head, shut her window, and was very soon fast asleep in bed. night is said to bring counsel, and perhaps it did so in some way, although she slept too soundly to dream, for punctually at eleven o'clock the next morning she was at the meeting-place appointed by agnetta at the farm. this was a loft over the cows' stables, the only place when, at that hour, they could be sure of no interruption. "the proper place 'ud be my bedroom," agnetta had said, "where there's a mirror an' all; but it's bella's too, you see, an' just now she's making a new bonnet, and she's forever there trying it on. but i'll bring the scissors and do it in a jiffy." and here was agnetta armed with the scissors, and a certain authority of manner she always used with her cousin. "tek off yer bonnet and undo yer plaits," she said, opening and shutting the bright scissors with a snap, as though she longed to begin. lilac stood with her back against a truss of hay, rather shrinking away, for now that the moment had really come she felt frightened, and all her doubts returned. she had the air of a pale little victim before her executioner. "come," said agnetta, with another snap. "oh, agnetta, do you really think they'll like it?" faltered lilac. "what i really think is that you're a ninny," said the determined agnetta; "an' i'm not agoin' to wait here while you shilly-shally. is it to be off or on?" "oh off, i suppose," said lilac. with trembling fingers she took off her bonnet, and unfastened her hair from its plait. it fell like a dark silky veil over her shoulders. "lor'!" said agnetta, "you have got a lot of it." she stood for a second staring at her victim open-mouthed with the scissors upraised in one hand, then advanced, and grasping a handful of the soft hair drew it down over lilac's face. "oh, agnetta," cried an imploring voice behind the screen thus formed, "you'll _be_ careful! you won't tek off too much." "come nearer the light," said agnetta. still holding the hair, she drew her cousin towards the wide open doors of the loft. "now," she said, "i can see what i'm at, an' i shan't be a minute." the steel scissors struck coldly against lilac's forehead. it was too late to resist now. she held her breath. grind, grind, snip! they went in agnetta's remorseless fingers, and some soft waving lengths of hair fell on the ground. it certainly did not take long; after a few more short clips and snips agnetta had finished, and there stood lilac fashionably shorn, with the poor discarded locks lying at her feet. it was curious to see how much agnetta's handiwork had altered her cousin's face. lilac's forehead was prettily shaped, and though she had worn her hair "scrattled" off it, there were little waving rings and bits which were too short to be "scrattled", and these had softened its outline. but now the pure white forehead was covered by a lump of hair which came straight across the middle of it, and the small features below looked insignificant. the expression of intelligent modesty which had made lilac look different from other girls had gone; she was just an ordinary pale-faced little person with a fringe. "there!" exclaimed agnetta triumphantly as she drew a small hand-glass from her pocket; "now you'll see as how i was right. you won't hardly know yerself." lilac took it, longing yet fearing to see herself. from the surface of the glass a stranger seemed to return her glance--someone she had never seen before, with quite a different look in her eyes. certainly she was altered. was it for the better? she did not know, and before she could tell she must get more used to this new lilac white. at present she had more fear than admiration for her. "clump! clump!" came the sound of heavy feet up the loft ladder. lilac let the glass fall at her side, and turned a terrified gaze on agnetta. "oh, what's that?" she cried. "let me hide--don't let anyone see me!" agnetta burst into a loud laugh. "well, you _are_ a ninny, lilac white. are you goin' to hide from everyone now you've got a fringe? you as are goin' to have your picture took. an' after all," she added, as a face and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. "it's only peter." peter's rough head and blunt, uncouth features were framed by the square opening in the floor of the loft. there they remained motionless, for the sight of agnetta and lilac where he had been prepared to find only hay and straw brought him to a standstill. his face and the tips of his large ears got very red as he saw lilac's confusion, and he went a step lower down the ladder, but his eyes were still above the level of the floor. "well," said agnetta, still giggling, "we'll hear what peter thinks of it. don't she look a deal better with her hair cut so, peter?" peter's grey-green eyes, not unkindly in expression, fixed themselves on his cousin's face. in her turn lilac gazed back at them, half-frightened, yet beseeching mutely for a favourable opinion; it was like looking into a second mirror. she waited anxiously for his answer. it came at last, slowly, from peter's invisible mouth. "no," he said, "i liked it best as it wur afore." as he spoke the head disappeared, and they heard him go clumping down the ladder again. the words fell heavily on lilac's ears. "best as it wur afore." perhaps everyone would think so too. she looked dismally first at the locks of hair on the ground and then at agnetta's unconcerned face. "well, you've no call to mind what _he_ says anyhow," said the latter cheerfully. "he don't know what's what." "i most wish," said lilac, as she turned to leave the loft, "that i hadn't done it." as she spoke, the distant sound of the church clock was heard. there was only just time to get to the foot of the hill, and she said a hurried good-bye to agnetta, tying on her bonnet as she ran across the fields. she generally hated the sun-bonnet, but to-day for the first time she found a comfort in its deep brim, which sheltered this new lilac white a little from the world. she almost hoped that the artist would change his mind and let her keep it on, instead of holding it in her hand. chapter three. "uncle joshua." "let each be what he is, so will he be good enough for man himself, and god."--_lavater_. whilst all this was going on at the farm, mrs white had been busy as usual in the cottage on the hill--her mind full of lilac, and her hands full of the rectory washing. it was an important business, for it was all she and her child had to depend on beside a small pension allowed her by jem's late employers; but quite apart from this she took a pride in her work for its own sake. she felt responsible not only for the unyielding stiffness of the rector's round collars, but also for the appearance of the choristers' surplices; and any failure in colour or approach to limpness was a real pain to her, and made it difficult to fix her attention on the service. this happened very seldom, however; and when it did, was owing to an unfortunate drying day or other accident, and never to want of exertion on her own part. there was nothing to complain of in the weather this morning--a bright sun and a nice bit of wind, and not too much of it. mrs white wrung out the surplices in a very cheerful spirit, and her grave face had a smile on it now and then, for she was thinking of lilac. lilac sweetened all her life now, much in the same way that the bunch of flowers from which she took her name had sweetened the small room with its fragrance twelve years ago. as she grew up her mother's love grew too, stronger year by year; for when she looked at her she remembered all the happiness that her life had known--when she spoke her name, it brought back a thousand pleasant memories and kept them fresh in her mind. and she looked forward too, for lilac's sake, and saw in years to come her proudest hope fulfilled--her child grown to be a self-respecting useful woman, who could work for herself and need be beholden to no one. she had no higher ambition for her; but this she had set her heart on, she should not become lazy, vain, helpless, like her cousins the greenways. that was the pitfall from which she would strain every muscle to hold lilac back. there were moments when she trembled for the bad influence of example at orchards farm. she knew lilac's yielding affectionate nature and her great admiration for her cousins, and kept a watchful eye for the first unsatisfactory signs. but there were none. no one could accuse lilac of untidy ways, or want of thoroughness in dusting, sweeping, and all branches of household work, and even mrs white could find no fault. "after all," she said to herself, "it's natural in young things to like to be together, and there's nothing worse nor foolishness in agnetta and bella." so she allowed the visits to go on, and contented herself by many a word in season and many a pointed practical lesson. the greenways were seldom mentioned, but they were, nevertheless, very often in the minds of both mother and daughter. this morning she was thinking of a much more pleasant subject. "how was the artist gentleman getting along with lilac's picture? he must be well at it now," she thought, looking up at the loud-voiced american clock, "an' her looking as peart and pretty as a daisy. white-faced indeed! i'd rather she were white-faced than have great red cheeks like a peony bloom. what will he do with the picture afterwards?" joshua snell, through reading the papers so much, knew most things, and he had said that it would p'r'aps be hung up with a lot of others in a place in london called an exhibition, where you could pay money and go to see 'em. "if he's right," concluded mrs white, wringing out the last surplice, "i do really think as how i must give lilac a jaunt up to london, an' we'll go and see it. the last holiday as ever i had was fifteen years back, an' that was when jem and me, we went--why, i do believe," she said aloud, "here she is back a'ready!" there was a sound of running feet, which she had heard too often to mistake, then the click of the latch, and then lilac herself rushed through the front room. "mother, mother," she cried, "he won't paint me!" mrs white turned sharply round. lilac was standing just inside the entrance to the back kitchen, with her bonnet on, and her hands clasped over her face. to keep her bonnet on a moment after she was in the house struck her mother at once as something strange and unusual, and she stared at her for an instant in silence, with her bands held up dripping and pink from the water. "whatever ails you, child?" she said at length. "what made him change his mind?" "he said as how i was the wrong one," murmured lilac under her closed hands. "the _wrong_ one!" repeated her mother. "why, how could he go to say such a thing? you told him you was lilac white, i s'pose. there's ne'er another in the village." "he didn't seem as if he knew me," said lilac. "he looked at me very sharp, and said as how it was no good to paint me now." "why ever not? you're just the same as you was." "i ain't," said lilac desperately, taking away her hands from her face and letting them fan at her side. "i ain't the same. i've cut my hair!" it was over now. she stood before her mother a disgraced and miserable lilac. the black fringe of hair across her forehead, the bonnet pushed back, the small white face quivering nervously. but though she knew it would displease her mother, she had very little idea that she had done the thing of all others most hateful to her. a fringe was to mrs white a sort of distinguishing mark of the greenways family, and of others like it. not only was it ugly and unsuitable in itself, but it was an outward sign of all manner of unworthy qualities within. girls who wore fringes were in her eyes stamped with three certain faults: untidiness, vanity, and love of dressing beyond their station. beginning with these, who could tell to what other evils a fringe might lead? and now, her own child, her lilac whom she had been so proud of, and thought so different from others, stood before her with this abomination on her brow. bitterest of all, it was the influence of the greenways that had triumphed, and not her own. all her care and toil had ended in this. it had all been in vain. if lilac "took pattern" by her cousins in one way she would in another--"a straw can tell which way the wind blows." she would grow up like bella and agnetta. swiftly all this rushed into mrs white's mind, as she stood looking with surprise and horror at lilac's altered face. finding her voice as she arrived at the last conclusion, she asked coldly: "what made yer do it?" lilac locked her hands tightly together and made no answer. she would not say anything about agnetta, who had meant kindly in what she had done. "i know," continued her mother, "without you sayin' a word. it was one of them greenways. but i did think as how you'd enough sense and sperrit of yer own to stand out agin' their foolishness--let alone anything else. it's plain to me now that you don't care for yer mother or what she says. you'll fly right in her face to please any of them at orchards farm." still lilac did not speak, and her silence made mrs white more and more angry. "an' what do you think you've got by it?" she continued scornfully. "do those silly things think it makes 'em look like ladies to cut their hair so and dress themselves up fine? then you can tell 'em this from me: vulgar they are, and vulgar they'll be all their lives long, and nothing they can do to their outsides will change 'em. but they might a left you alone, lilac, for you're but a child; only i did think as you'd a had more sense." lilac was crying now. this scolding on the top of much excitement and disappointment was more than she could bear, but still she felt she must defend the greenways from blame. "it was my fault," she sobbed. "i thought as how it would look nicer." "the many and many times," pursued mrs white, drying her hands vigorously on a rough towel, "as i've tried to make you understand what's respectable and right and fitting! and it's all been no good. well, i've done. go to your greenways and let them teach you, and much profit may you get. i've done with you--you don't look like my child no longer." she turned her back and began to bustle about with the linen, not looking towards lilac again. in reality her eyes were full of tears and she would have given worlds to cry heartily with the child, for to use those hard words to her was like bruising her own flesh. but she was too mortified and angry to show it, and lilac, after casting some wistful glances at the active figure, turned and went slowly out of the room with drooping head. pulling her bonnet forward so that her forehead and the dreadful fringe were quite hidden, she wandered down the hill, hardly knowing or caring where she went. all the world was against her. no one would ever look pleasantly at her again, if even her mother frowned and turned away. one by one she recalled what they had all said. first, peter: "i liked it best as it wur afore." then the artist--he had been quite angry. "you stupid little girl," he had said, "you've made yourself quite commonplace. you're no use whatever. run away." and now mother--that was worst of all: "you don't look like my child." lilac's tears fell fast when she remembered that. how very hard they all were upon her! she strayed listlessly onwards, and presently came to a sudden standstill, for she found that she was getting near the bottom of the hill, where the artist was no doubt still sitting. that would never do. at her right hand there branched off a wide grass-grown lane, one of the ancient roads of the romans which could still be traced along the valley. it was seldom used now, for it led nowhere in particular; but here and there at long distances there were some small cottages in it, and in one of these lived the cobbler, joshua snell. now, uncle joshua, as she called him, though he was no relation to her, was a great friend of lilac's, and the thought of him darted into her forlorn little mind like a ray of comfort. he would perhaps look kindly at her in spite of her fringe. there was no one else to do it except agnetta, and to reach her the artist must be passed, which was impossible. lilac could not remember that joshua had ever been cross to her, even in the days when she had played with his bits of leather and mislaid his tools--those old days when she was a tiny child, and mother had left her with him "to mind" when she went out to work. and besides being kind he was wise, and would surely find some way to help her in her present distress. perhaps even he would speak to mother, who thought a deal of what he said, and that would make her less angry. a little cheered by these reflections lilac turned down the lane, quickened her pace, and made straight for the cobbler's cottage. it was a very small abode, with such a deep thatch and such tiny windows that it looked all roof. at right angles there jutted out from it an extra room, or rather shed, and in this it was possible, by peering closely through a dingy pane of glass, to make out the dim figure of joshua bending over his work. this dark little hole, in which there was just space enough for joshua, his boots and tools and leather, had no door from without, but could only be approached through the kitchen. as he sat at work he could see the fire and the clock without getting up, which was very convenient, and he was proud of his work-shed, though in the winter it was both chilly and dark. joshua lived quite alone. he had come to danecross twenty years ago from the north, bringing with him a wife, a collection of old books, and a clarionet. the wife, whose black bonnet still hung behind the kitchen door, had now been dead ten years, and he had only the books and the clarionet to bear him company. but these companions kept him from being dull and lonely, and gave him besides a position of some importance in the village. for by dint of reading his books many times over, and pondering on them as he sat and cobbled, he had gained a store of wisdom, or what passed for such, and a great many long words with which he was fond of impressing the neighbours. he was also considered a fine reader, and quite a musical genius; for although he now only played the clarionet in private, there had been a time, he told them, when he had performed in a gallery as one of the church choir. it was now about four o'clock in the afternoon, and he sat earnestly intent on making a good job of a pair of boots which had been brought to him to sole. he was also anxious to make the most of the bright spring sunshine, a stray beam of which had found its way in at his little window and helped him greatly by its cheerful presence. all at once a shadow flitted across it, and glancing up he saw a well-known figure run hurriedly in at the cottage door. "it's white lilac," he said to himself with a smile but without ceasing his work, for lilac was a frequent visitor, and he could not afford to waste his time in welcoming his guests. he did not even look round, therefore, but listened for her greeting white his hammer kept up a steady tack, tack, tack. it did not come. joshua stopped his work, raised his head, and listened more intently. the kitchen was as perfectly silent as though it were empty. "i cert'nly did see her," said he, almost doubting his eyesight; "maybe she's playing off a game." he got up and looked cautiously round the entrance, quite expecting lilac to jump out from some hiding-place with a laugh; but a very different sight met his eyes. lilac had thrown herself into a large chair which stood on the hearth, her head was bent, her face buried in her hands, and she was crying bitterly. "my word!" exclaimed joshua, suddenly arrested on the threshold. he rubbed his hands in great perplexity on his leather apron. it was quite a new thing to see lilac in tears, and they fell so fast that she could neither control herself nor tell him the cause of her distress. in vain he tried to coax and comfort her: she would not even raise her head nor look at him. joshua looked round the room as if for counsel and advice in this difficulty, and fixed his eyes thoughtfully on the tall clock for some moments; then he winked at it, and said softly, as though speaking in confidence: "best let her have her cry out; then she'll tell me." "see here," he continued, turning to lilac and using his ordinary voice. "you've come to get uncle's tea ready for him, i know, and make him some toast; that's what you've come for. an' i've got a job as i must finish afore tea-time, 'cause the owner's coming for 'em. so i'll go and set to and do it, and you'll get the tea ready like a handy maid as you are, and then we'll have it together, snug and cosy." when he had settled himself to his work again, and the sound of his hammer mingled with the ticking of the tall clock as though they were running a race, lilac raised her head and rubbed her wet eyes. there was something very soothing and peaceful in uncle joshua's cottage, and his kind voice seemed to carry comfort with it. she had a strong hope that he would help her in some way, though she could not tell how, for he had never failed to find a remedy for all the little troubles she had brought to him from her earliest years. her faith in him, therefore, was entire, and even if he had proposed to make her hair long again at once, she would have believed it possible, because he knew so much. gradually, as she remembered this, she ceased crying altogether, and began to move about the room to prepare the tea, a business to which she was well used, for she had always considered it an honour to get uncle joshua's tea and make toast for him. the kettle already hung on its chain over the fire, and gave out a gentle simmering sound; by the time the toast was ready the water would boil. lilac got the bread from the corner cupboard and cut some stout slices. uncle liked his toast thick. then she knelt on the hearth, and shielding her face with one hand chose out the fiercest red hollows of the fire. it was an anxious process, needing the greatest attention; for lilac prided herself on her toast, and it was a matter of deep importance that it should be a fine even brown all over--neither burnt, nor smoked, nor the least blackened. while she was making it she was happy again, and quite unconscious of the fringe, for the first time since she had felt agnetta's cold scissors on her brow. it was soon quite ready on a plate on the hearth, so that it might keep hot. uncle joshua was ready also, for he came in just then from his shed, carrying his completed job in his hand: a pair of huge hobnailed boots, which he placed gently on the ground as though they were brittle and must be handled with care. "them's peter greenways' boots," he said, looking at them with some triumph, "and a good piece of work they be!" it was a great relief to lilac that neither then nor during the meal did uncle joshua look at her with surprise, or appear to notice that there was anything different about her. everything went on just as usual, just as it had so often done before. she sat on one side of the table and poured out the tea, and uncle joshua in his high-backed elbow chair on the other, with his red-and-white handkerchief over his knees, his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, and a well-buttered slice of toast in his hand. he never talked much during his meals; partly because he was used to having them alone, and partly because he liked to enjoy one thing at a time thoroughly. he was fond of talking and he was fond of eating, and he would not spoil both by trying to do them together. so to-night, as usual, he drank endless cups of tea in almost perfect silence, and at last lilac began to wish he would stop, for although she feared she yet longed for his opinion. she felt more able to face it now that she had eaten something, for without knowing it she had been hungry as well as miserable, and had quite forgotten that she had had no dinner. she watched uncle joshua nervously. would he ask for more tea. no. he wiped his mouth with the red handkerchief, looked straight at lilac, and suddenly spoke: "and how's the picture going forrard then?" after this question it was easy to tell the whole story, from its beginning to its unlucky end. during its progress the cobbler listened with the deepest attention, gave now a nod, and now a shake of the head or a muttered "humph!" and when it was finished he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, and said: "and so he wouldn't paint you--eh? and mother was angry?" "she's dreadful angry," sighed lilac. "did you think it 'ud please her, now?" asked uncle joshua. "n-no," answered lilac hesitatingly; "but i never thought as how she'd make so much fuss. and after all no one don't like it. do you think as how it looks _very_ bad, uncle?" the cobbler put his spectacles carefully straight and studied lilac's face with earnest attention. "what i consider is this here," he said as he finished his examination and leant back in his chair. "it makes you look like lots of other little gells, that's what it does. not so much like white lilac as you used to. i liked it best as it wur afore." "peter, he said that too," said lilac. "no one likes it except agnetta." "ah! and what made agnetta and all of 'em cut their hair that way?" asked uncle joshua. "because gusta greenways told bella as how all the ladies in london did it," answered lilac simply. "that's where it is," said uncle joshua. "my little maid, there's things as is fitting and there's things as isn't fitting. perhaps it's fitting for london ladies to wear their hair so. very well, then let them do it. but why should you and agnetta and the rest copy 'em? you're not ladies. you're country girls with honest work to do, and proud you ought to be of it. as proud every bit as the grandest lady as ever was, who never put her hand to a useful thing in her life. i'm not saying you're better than her. she's got her own place, an' her own lessons to learn, an' she's got to do the best she can with her life. but you're different, because your life's different, an' you'll never look like her whatever you put on your outside. if a thing isn't fit for what it's intended, it'll never look well. now, here's peter's boots--i call 'em handsome." he lifted one of them as he spoke and put it on the table, where it seemed to take up a great deal of room. lilac looked at it with a puzzled air; she saw nothing handsome in it. it was enormously thick and deeply wrinkled across the toes, which were turned upwards as though with many and many a weary tramp. "i call 'em handsome," pursued joshua. "because for why? because they're fit for ploughin' in the stiffest soil. because they'll keep out wet and never give in the seams. they're fit for what they're meant to do. but now you just fancy," he went on, raising one finger, "as how i'd made 'em of shiny leather, and put paper soles to 'em, and pointed tips to the toes. how'd they look in a ploughed field or a muddy lane? or s'pose peter he went and capered about in these 'ere on a velvet carpet an' tried to dance. how'd he look?" the idea of the loutish peter capering anywhere, least of all on a velvet carpet, made lilac smile in spite of uncle joshua's great gravity. "why, he'd look silly," he continued; "as silly as a country girl, who's got to scrub an' wash an' make the butter, dressed out in silks an' fandangoes. she ought to be too proud of being what she is, to try and look like what she isn't. give me down that big brown book yonder an' i'll read you something fine about that." lilac reached the book from the shelf with the greatest reverence; it was the only one amongst joshua's collection that she often begged to look at, because it was full of curious pictures. it was lavater's physiognomy; having found the passage he wanted, joshua read it very slowly aloud: "in the mansion of god there are to his glory vessels of wood, of silver, and of gold. all are serviceable, all profitable, all capable of divine uses, all the instruments of god: but the wood continues wood, the silver silver, the gold gold. though the golden should remain unused, still they are gold. the wooden may be made more serviceable than the golden, but they continue wood. let each be what he is, so will he be sufficiently good, for man himself, and god. the violin cannot have the sound of the flute, nor the trumpet of the drum." he had just finished the last line, and still held one knotty brown finger raised to mark the important words, when there was a low knock at the door, and immediately afterwards it opened a little way and a head appeared, covered by a rusty-black wideawake. it was the second time that day that lilac had seen it, for it was peter greenways' head. in a moment all the events of the unlucky morning came back to her, and his gruffly unfavourable opinion. why had he come? this awkward peter was always turning up when he was not wanted, and thrusting that large uncouth head in at unexpected places. she turned her back towards the door in much vexation, and peter himself remained stationary, with his eyes fixed where he had first directed them--on his own boot, which still stood on the table by joshua's elbow. his first intention had evidently been to come in, but suddenly seized with shyness he was now unable to move. "why, peter, lad," said the cobbler, "come in then; the boots is ready for you." thus invited peter slowly opened the door a very little wider and squeezed himself into the room. he was indeed a very awkward-looking youth, and though he was broad-shouldered and strongly made, he was so badly put together that he did not seem to join properly anywhere, and moved with effort as though he were walking in a heavy clay soil. everything about peter, and even the colour of his clothes, made you think of a ploughed field, and he generally kept his eyes fastened on the ground as though following the course of a furrow. this was a pity, for his eyes were the only good features in his broad red face, and had the kindly faithful expression seen in those of some dogs. as he stood there, ill at ease, with his enormous hands opening and shutting nervously, lilac thought of agnetta's speech: "peter's so common." if to be common was to look like peter, it was a thing to be avoided, and she was dismayed to hear uncle joshua say: "well, now, if you're not just in time to go home with lilac here, seein' as how we've done our tea, and her mother'll be looking for her." "oh, uncle, i'd rather not," said lilac hastily. then she added, "i want you to play me a tune before i go." joshua was always open to a compliment about his playing. "ah!" he said, "you want a tune, do you? well, and p'r'aps peter he'd like to hear it too." as he spoke he gave the boots to peter, who was now engaged in dragging up a leather purse from some great depth beneath his gaberdine. this effort, and the necessity of replying, flushed his face to a deeper red than ever, but he managed to say huskily as he counted some coin into joshua's hand: "no, thank you, mr snell. can't stop tonight." nevertheless it was some moments before he could go away: he stood clasping his boots and staring at joshua. "the money's all right, my lad," said the latter. "well," said peter, "i must be goin'." but he did not move. "well, good night, peter," said joshua, encouragingly. "good night, mr snell." "good night, peter," said lilac at length, nodding to him, and this seemed to rouse him, for with sudden energy he hurled himself towards the door and disappeared. "yon's an honest lad and a fine worker," remarked the cobbler, "but he do seem a bit tongue-tied now and then." and now, after the tune was played, there was no longer any excuse to put off going home. for the first time in her life lilac dreaded it, for instead of a smile of welcome she had only a frown of displeasure to expect from her mother. it was such a new thing that she shrank from it with fear, and found it almost as difficult to say goodbye as peter had done. if only uncle joshua would go with her! her face looked so wistful that he guessed her unspoken desire. "now i shouldn't wonder," he said, carefully thrusting the clarionet into its green baize bag, "as how you'd like me to go up yonder with you. and it do so happen as how i've got a job to take back to dan'l wishing, so i shall pass yours without goin' out of my way." accordingly, the door of the cottage being locked, the pair set out together a few moments later, lilac walking very soberly by the cobbler's side, with one hand in his. joshua's hand was rough with work, so that it felt like holding the bough of a gnarled elm tree, but it was so full of kindness that there was great comfort and support in it. how would mother receive them? lilac hardly dared to look up when they got near the gate and saw her standing there, and hardly dared to believe her own ears when she heard her speak. for what she said was: "run in, child, and get yer tea. i've put it by." she stayed a long time at the gate talking to uncle joshua, and lilac, watching them through the window, felt little doubt that they were talking of her. when her mother came in, and was quite kind and gentle, and behaved just as usual, she felt still more sure that it was uncle joshua's wonderful wisdom that had done it all. but if she could have heard the conversation she would have been surprised, for they dwelt entirely on the cobbler's rheumatics and the chances of rain, and said no word of either lilac or her fringe. mrs white had had time to repent of her harsh words, and when the hours went by, and lilac did not come back, she had pictured her receiving comfort and encouragement from the greenways--the very people she wished her to avoid. now she had driven her to them. "i could bite my tongue out for talking so foolish," she said to herself as she ran out to the gate, over and over again. when at last she saw the two well-known figures approaching, she could only just restrain herself from rushing out to meet lilac and covering her with kisses. the relief was almost too great to bear. in her own home, therefore, lilac heard nothing further on the unlucky subject. but this was not by any means the case in the village, where nothing was too small to be important. the fact of the widow white's lilac wearing a fringe was quite enough to talk of, and more than enough to stare at, for it was something new. unfortunately everyone knew lilac, and lilac knew everyone, so there was no escape. her acquaintances would draw up in front of her and gaze steadily for an instant, after which the same remarks always came: "my! you have altered yerself. i shouldn't never have known you, i do declare! and so you didn't have yer picter done after all?" lilac wished she could hide somewhere until her hair had grown long again. and worst of all, when mrs leigh next saw her in school, she looked quite startled and said: "i'm so sorry you've cut your hair, lilac; it looked much nicer before." it was the same thing over and over again, no one approved the change but agnetta, and lilac's faith in her cousin was by this time a little bit shaken. she should not be so ready, she thought, the next time to believe that agnetta must know best. one drop of comfort in all this was that the artist gentleman no longer sat painting at the bottom of the hill. he had packed up all his canvases and brushes and gone off to the station, so that lilac saw him no more. she was very glad of this, for she felt that it would have been almost impossible to pass him every day and to see his keen disapproving glance fixed upon her. slowly the picture that was to have been painted was forgotten, and lilac white's fringe became a thing of custom. there were more important matters near at hand; may day was approaching, an event of interest and excitement to both young and old. chapter four. who will be queen? "when daisies pied and violets blue and lady-smocks all silver-white and cuckoo-buds of yellow hue do paint the meadows with delight."--_shakespeare_. on the top of the ridge of hills which rose behind mrs white's cottage there was a great beech wood, which could be reached in two ways. one was by following a rough stony road which got gradually steeper and was terribly hard for both man and beast, and the other was to take a chalky track which led straight across the rounded shoulder of the downs. this last was considerably shorter, and by active people was always preferred to the road, although in summer it was glaring and unshaded. but the scramble was soon over, and in the deep quiet shelter of the woods it was cool on the hottest day, for the trees held their leaves so thickly over your head that it was better than any roof. the sun could not get through to scorch or dazzle, but it lit up the flickering sprays on the low boughs, so that looking through them you saw a silvery shimmering dance always going on. in the valley there had not perhaps been a breath of air, but up here a little ruffling breeze had its home, and was ready to fan you gently and hospitably directly you arrived. under your feet a red-and-brown carpet of last year's leaves was spread, stirred now and then with sudden mysterious rustlings as the small wild creatures darted away at the sound of your step. these and the birds shared the woods in almost complete solitude, disturbed now and again by the woodcutters, or boys from the village. but there was one day in the year when this quiet kingdom was strangely invaded, when its inhabitants fled to their most retired corners and peeped out with terrified eyes upon a very altered scene--and this was the first of may. then everything was changed for a little while. instead of the notes of the birds there were human voices calling to each other, laughing, singing, shouting, and the music of a band; instead of great silent spaces, there were many brightly-coloured figures which ran and danced. in the midst, where a clearing had been made and the oldest trees stood solemnly round, there appeared the slim form of a maypole decked with gay ribbons; near it a throne covered with hawthorn boughs, on which, dressed in white with garland and sceptre, was seated the queen of the may. there with great ceremony she was crowned by her court, and afterwards led the dance round the maypole. songs and feasting followed until the sun went down, and then the gay company marched away to the sounds of "god save the queen." quietness reigned in the woods again, and once more the wild creatures which lived there could roam and fly at their pleasure until next may day. now this holiday, which was fast approaching again, was not only looked forward to with interest and excitement by the children, but was an event of importance to everyone in the village. the very oldest made shift somehow to get up to the woods and join in the rejoicing, and the most careworn and sorrowful managed to struggle out of their gloom for that one day, and to leave behind the dulness of their daily toil. many, coming from distant parts of the parish, met for the only time throughout the year in the woods on may day, and found the keenest pleasure in comparing the growth of their children, and talking of their neighbours' affairs. it was a source of pride and satisfaction, too, to fathers as well as mothers, to point out some child in the procession so bedecked with flowers that the real johnnie was hardly visible, and say with a grin of delight: "why, it's our johnnie, i do declare! shouldn't never a known him." as the time came round again, therefore, it was more or less in everyone's mind in some way. for one thing: would it be fine? that affected everyone's comfort, for a cold wet may day could be nothing but a miserable failure. mr dimbleby at the shop had his own anxieties, for it was his business to provide tea, bread and butter, and cake for the whole assembly, and to get it all up to the top of the hill--no small matter. to do this it was necessary to keep his mind steadily fixed on may day for a whole week beforehand, and not to allow it to relax for an instant. the drum-and-fife band, who felt themselves the pride and ornament of the occasion, had to practise new tunes and polish up "god save the queen" to a great pitch of perfection, and the children thought themselves busier than anyone. not only had they to wonder who would be queen, but they must meet in the vicarage garden and learn how to dance round the maypole, singing at the same time. not only must they present themselves at all sorts of odd hours to have some wonderful costume "tried on" by miss ellen and miss alice, but above all they had to gather the flowers for the wreaths and garlands. sometimes, if the season were cold and backward, it was difficult to get enough; but this year, as lilac had noticed with delight, it had been so bright and mild that the meadows were thick with blossoms and there was no fear of any scarcity. she was always amongst the children chosen "to gather"; and there was more in this office than might at first appear, for there were good gatherers and bad gatherers. it might be done carelessly and in a half-hearted manner, or with full attention and earnest effort, and these results were evident when each child brought her own collection to the school room on may morning. the contents of the baskets were very different, for some showed plainly that as little trouble as possible had been taken. these flowers were picked anyhow, with short stalks or long stalks, in bud or too fully blown, faded or fresh, just as they happened to grow and could be most easily got. others, again, you could see at the first glance, had been gathered with care and thought, the finest specimens chosen just at the right stage of blossoming, and tied in neat bunches with the stalks all of one length. you might be sure that the flowers in these baskets were quite as good at the bottom as those on the top. now, lilac white was a gatherer on whom you might depend, and the ladies at the rectory who made the wreaths, and dressed the queen, and arranged the festivities, considered her their best support in the matter of flowers. for, by reason of having had her eye upon them for weeks beforehand, she knew every spring where the finest grew, whether they were early or late, and whether they would be ready for the great occasion. when they had to be gathered she spared no trouble, but would get up at any hour so that they might be picked before the sun scorched them, walk any distance or climb the steepest hills to get the very finest possible. she was always appealed to when any question arose about the flowers. "we must ask lilac white whether the king-cups are out," miss ellen would say; and lilac was always able to tell. she filled, therefore, a very pleasant and important post at these times, and took great pride in it; but her cousin agnetta looked at this part of the affair differently. to her there was neither pleasure nor profit in "mucking" about in the damp fields, as she said, getting her feet wet, and spoiling her frock in stooping about after the flowers. she wished mrs leigh would let them wear artificials, which were quite as pretty to look at, and did not fade or get messy, and were no bother at all. you could wear 'em time after time. agnetta felt quite sure she should be queen this year, and although she did not like the trouble beforehand she looked forward to the event itself very much indeed. there were many agreeable things about it: the white dress, the crown, the crowd of people looking on, and the fact of being first amongst her companions. it was a little vexing that lilac was quicker to learn the steps of the dance miss ellen was teaching them, and could sing the may-day song better than she could. agnetta always sang out of tune, and tumbled over her own feet in the dance; but she consoled herself by remembering how well she should look as queen dressed all in white, with her red cheeks and frizzy black hair. meanwhile the queen was not yet chosen, but would be voted for in the school a week beforehand. who would be chosen? it was a question which occupied a good many minds just then, and amongst them one which was not supposed to trouble itself about such matters, or to have anything to do with merry-making. this was peter greenways' mind. he was so dull and silent, and worked so very hard all the year, that it was an ever fresh surprise to see him appear with the rest on may day, and came natural to say, "what, you here, peter!" although he had never missed a single occasion. he expressed no pleasure, and showed no outward sign of enjoyment; but he always went, to the great vexation of his sisters, who were heartily ashamed of him. his face was red, his figure was loutish--it was impossible to smarten him up or make him look like other folks; he continued, in spite of all their efforts, to be just plain peter--"dreadful vulgar" in his appearance. and the worst of it was, that you could not overlook him in the crowd. this might have been the case if he had been allowed to wear his ordinary working-clothes, but peter in his "best" was an object which seemed to stand out from all others, and to be present wherever the eye turned. on the day which was to decide the important question, peter had been ploughing in a part of his father's land called the high field. all the rest lay level on the plain round about the farm, but this one field was on the shoulder of the downs, so that from it you looked far over the distant valley, with its little clusters of villages dotted here and there. immediately below was the grey church of danecross, the rectory, the school-house, and a group of cottages all nestling sociably together; farther on, orchards farm peeped out from amongst the trees, which were still white with blossom, and above all this came the cold serious outline of the chalk hills, broken here and there by the beech woods. peter never felt so happy as when he was looking at this from the high field, with his dinner in his pocket and the prospect of a long day's work before him. it was so far away from all that disturbed and worried; no one to scold, no one to call him clumsy, no one to look angrily at him, no sounds of dispute. only the voice of the wind, which blew so freshly up here and seemed to cheer him on, and the song of the larks high above his head, and for companions his good beasts with no reproof in their patient eyes, but only obedience and kindness. peter was master in the high field. no one could do a better day's work or drive a straighter furrow, and he was proud of it, and proud of his team--three iron-greys, with white manes and tails, called "pleasant", "old pleasant", and "young pleasant." yet though he did his ploughing well, it by no means occupied all his mind. as he trudged backwards and forwards with bent head, and hands grasping the handles, with now and then a shout to his horses, and now and then a pause for rest, his thoughts were free as the wind, flying about to an sorts of subjects. for this silent peter had always something to wonder about. he never asked questions now as he had done at school: he had been laughed at so much then, that he knew well enough by this time that he only wondered so much because he was more stupid than other folks; it must be so, for the most common things which he saw every day, and which wise people took as a matter of course, were enough to puzzle him and fill his mind with wonder. the stars, the flowers, the sunset, the sound of the wind, the very pebbles turned up by the ploughshare, gave him strange feelings which he did not understand and which he carefully hid. they would have been explained, he knew, if he had expressed them, by the sentence, "peter's not all there"; and he was sometimes quite inclined to think that this was really the case. to-day his thoughts had been fixed on the approaching holiday, and on all the delights of the past one. it was to him a most beautiful and even solemn occasion, and he could recall the very smallest detail of it from year to year: even the uncertain squeaks and flourishes of the drum and fife band were something to be remembered with pleasure. as his eye rested on the school-house, a small red dot in the distance, he wondered if they had settled on the queen yet, and whether agnetta would be chosen. "she'll be rarely vexed if she ain't," he thought seriously. so the day went by, and after five o'clock had sounded from the church tower peter and his beasts left off work and went leisurely down the hill towards home; two of the pleasants in front with their harness clanking and flapping loosely about them, and their master following, seated sideways on the back of the third. peter had done a long day's work and was hungry, but he did not go into the house till he had seen his horses attended to by ben pinhorn, who was in the yard when they arrived. even after this he was further delayed, for as he was crossing the lane which separated the farm buildings from the house an ugly cat ran to meet him, rubbed against his legs, and mewed. "jump, then, tib," said peter encouragingly; and tib jumped, arriving with outspread claws on the front of his waistcoat and thence to his shoulder. thus accompanied he went to the kitchen window and tapped softly, which signal brought molly the servant girl with a saucer of skim milk. "there's your supper, tib," said peter as he set it on the ground, and stood looking heavily down at the cat till she had lapped up the last drop. and in this there was reason; for sober the sheepdog, lying near, had his eye on the saucer, and only waited for tib to be undefended to advance and finish the milk himself. being now quite ready for his own refreshment peter made his way through the back kitchen into the general living-room of the family, which also, much to bella's disgust, had the appearance of a kitchen. it was large and comfortable, with three windows in it, looking across the garden to the orchard, but, alas! it had a great fireplace and oven, where cooking often went on, and an odious high settle sticking out from one corner of the chimney. this was enough to deprive it of all gentility, without mentioning the long deal table at which in former times the farmer had been used to dine with his servants. they were banished now to the back kitchen, but this was the only reform bella and gusta had been able to make. nothing would induce their father to sit in the parlour, where there was a complete set of velvet-covered chairs, a sofa, a piano, a photograph-book, and a great number of anti-macassars and mats. all these elegances were not enough to make him give up his warm corner in the settle, where he could stretch out his legs at his ease and smoke his pipe. mrs greenways herself, though she was proud of her parlour, secretly preferred the kitchen, as being more handy and comfortable, so that except on great occasions the parlour was left in chilly loneliness. when peter entered there were only his mother and bella in the room. the latter stood at the table with a puzzled frown on her brow, and a large pair of scissors in her hand; before her were spread paper patterns, fashion-books, and some pieces of black velveteen, which she was eyeing doubtfully, and, placing in different ways so that it might be cut to the best advantage. bella was considered a fine young woman. she had a large frame like all the greenways, and nature had given her a waist in proportion to it. she had, however, fought against nature and conquered, for her figure now resembled an hour-glass--very wide at the top, and suddenly very small in the middle. like agnetta she had a great deal of colour, frizzy black hair, and a good-natured expression, but her face was just now clouded by some evident vexation. "lor', bella," said her mother, turning round from the hearth, "put away them fal-lals--do. here's peter wanting his tea, and your father'll be along from market directly." bella did not answer, partly because her mouth was full of pins, and mrs greenways continued: "you might hurry and get the tea laid just for once. i'm clean tired out." "where's molly?" muttered bella indistinctly. "molly indeed!" exclaimed her mother impatiently. "it's molly here and molly there. one 'ud think she had a hundred legs and arms for all you think she can do. molly's scrubbing out the dairy, which she ought to a done this morning." "it won't run to it after all!" exclaimed bella, dashing her scissors down on the table; "not by a good quarter of a yard." "an' you've been and wasted pretty nigh all the afternoon over it," said mrs greenways. "i do wish gusta wouldn't send you them patterns, that i do." "i've cut up the skirt of my velveteen trying to fashion it," said bella, looking mournfully at the plate in myra's journal, "so now i'm ever so much worse off than i was afore. lor', peter!" she added, as her eye fell on her brother, "do go and take off that horrid gaberdine and them boots. you look for all the world like ben pinhorn, there ain't a pin to choose between you." "you oughtn't to speak so sharp," said her mother, as peter slouched out of the room. "i know what it is to feel spent like that after a day's work. you just come in and fling down where you are and as you are, boots or no boots." as she spoke the rattle of wheels was heard outside, and then the click of a gate. "there now!" she exclaimed, starting up; "there _is_ yer father. back already, and a fine taking he'll be in to see all this muss about and no tea ready. he's short enough always when he's bin to market, without anything extry to vex him." she swept bella's scraps, patterns, and books unceremoniously into a heap, and directly afterwards the tramp of heavy feet sounded in the passage, and the farmer entered. his first glance as he threw himself on the settle was at the table, where bella was hurriedly clearing away her confused mass of working materials. "be off with all that rubbish and let's have tea," he said crossly. "why can't it be ready when i come in?" "you're a bit earlier than usual, richard," said his wife; "but you'll have it in no time now. the kettle's on the boil." she made anxious signs to bella to quicken her movements, for she saw that the farmer was in a bad humour. things had not gone well at market. "and what did you see at lenham?" she asked, as she began to put the cups and saucers on the table. "nawthing," answered mr greenways, staring at the fire. "what did you hear then?" persisted his wife. "nawthing," was the answer again. mother and daughter exchanged meaning looks. the farmer jerked his head impatiently round. "what i want to see is summat to eat, and what i want to hear is no more questions till i've got it. so there!" he thrust out his legs, pushed his hands deep down in his pockets, and with his chin sunk on his breast sat there a picture of moody discontent. after a good deal of clatter and bustle, and calls for molly, the tea was ready at last--a substantial meal, but somewhat untidily served--and peter, having changed the offensive gaberdine for a shiny black cloth coat, having joined them, the party sat down. it was a very silent one, for no one dared to address another remark to the farmer until he had satisfied his appetite, which took some time. at last, however, as he handed his cup to his wife to be refilled, he asked: "who made the butter this week?" "why, molly, as always makes it," answered mrs greenways. "wasn't it good. i thought it looked beautiful." "well, all i know is," said the farmer moodily, "that benson told me to-day that if this lot was like the last he wouldn't take no more." "lor', richard, you don't really mean it!" said mrs greenways, setting down the teapot with a thump. "whatever shall we do if benson won't take the butter?" "you can't expect him to take it if it ain't good," answered the farmer. "i don't blame him; he's got to sell it again." "it's that there good-for-nothing molly," said mrs greenways. "i'm always after her about the dairy, yet if my head's turned a minute she'll forget to scald her pans, and that gives the butter a sour taste." "all i know is, it's a hard thing, that with good pasture and good cows, and three women indoors, the butter can't be made so as it's fit to sell," said mr greenways, hitting the table with his fist. "what's the use of bella and agnetta, i should like to know?" bella tossed her head and smiled. "lor', pa, how you talk!" she said mincingly. "they've never been taught nothing of such things," said mrs greenways; "and besides, agnetta's got her schooling yet awhile." "fancy me," said bella with a giggle, "making the butter with my sleeves tucked up like molly. i hope i'm above that sort of thing. i didn't go to lenham finishing school to _learn_ that." "i can't find out what it was you did learn there," growled her father, "except to look down on everything useful. i'll not have agnetta sent there, i know. not if i had the money, i wouldn't. it's bad enough to have bad seasons and poor crops to do with out-of-doors, without having a set of dressed-up lazy hussies in the house, who mar more than they make. where to turn for money i don't know, and there's going on for three years' rent owing to mr leigh." he got up as he spoke and left the room, followed by peter. bella continued her tea placidly. father was always cross on market days, and it did not impress her in the least to be called lazy; she was far more interested in the fate of her velveteen dress than in the quality of the butter. but this was not the case with mrs greenways. to hear that benson had threatened not to take the butter was a real as well as a new trouble, and alarmed her greatly. the rent owing and the failing crops were such a very old story that she had ceased to heed it much, but what would happen if the butter was not sold? the dairy was one of their largest sources of profit, and, as the farmer had said, the pasture was good and the cows were good. there was no fault out-of-doors. whose fault was it? molly's without doubt. "but then," reflected mrs greenways, "she have got a sight to do, and you can't hurry butter; you must have care and time." she sighed as she glanced at bella's strong capable form. perhaps it would have been better after all, as mrs white had so often said, to bring up her girls to understand household matters, instead of being stylishly idle. "i did it for their good," thought poor mrs greenways; "and anyhow, it's too late to alter 'em now. they'd no more take to it than ducks to flying." she was startled out of these reflections by the sudden entrance of agnetta, who burst into the room with a hot excited face, and flung her bag of books into a corner. "well," said bella, looking calmly at her, "i s'pose you're to be queen, ain't you?" "no!" exclaimed agnetta angrily, "i ain't queen; and it's a shame, so it is." "why, whoever is it, then?" asked bella, open-mouthed. "they've been and chosen lilac white; sneaking little thing!" said agnetta. "well, now, surely, i am surprised," said her mother. "i made sure they'd choose you, agnetta; being the oldest, and the best lookin', and all. i do call it hard." "it's too bad," continued agnetta, thus encouraged; "after i've been such a friend to her, and helped her cut her hair. it's ungrateful. she might have told me." "why, i don't suppose she knew it, did she?" said bella. "she went all on pretending she wanted me queen," said agnetta, "as innocent as you please. and she must a known there were a lot meant to vote for her. i call it mean." "never you mind, agnetta," said her mother soothingly; "come and get yer tea, and here's a pot of strawberry jam as you're fond of. she'll never make half such a good queen as you, and i dessay you'll look every bit as fine now, when you're dressed." "i don't want no strawberry jam," said agnetta sullenly, kicking at the leg of the table. "mercy me!" said poor mrs greenways with a sigh, "everything do seem to go crossways today." chapter five. may day. "but i must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, for i'm to be queen of the may, mother, i'm to be queen of the may!" --_tennyson_. agnetta had been quite wrong in saying that lilac had any idea of being queen. at the school that afternoon, when amidst breathless silence the mistress had counted up the votes and said: "lilac white is chosen queen", it had been such a surprise to her that she had stood as though in a dream. her companions nudged her on either side. "it's you that's queen," they whispered; and at length she awoke to the wonderful fact that it was not agnetta or anyone else who had the most votes, but she herself, lilac white. she was queen! looking round, still half-puzzled to believe such a wonderful thing, she saw a great many pleased faces, and heard mrs leigh say: "i think you have chosen very well, and i am glad lilac will be queen this year." it was, then, really true. "how pleased mother'll be!" was her first thought; but her second was not so pleasant, for her eye fell on agnetta. it was the only sullen face there; disappointment and vexation were written upon it, and there was no answering glance of sympathy from the downcast eyes. lilac was an impulsive child, and affection for her friend made her forget everything else for the moment. she left her place, went up to mrs leigh, who was talking to the schoolmistress, and held one arm out straight in front of her. "well, lilac," said mrs leigh kindly, "what is it?" "please, ma'am," said lilac, dropping a curtsy, "if they don't mind, i'd rather agnetta greenways was queen." "oh, that's quite out of the question," said mrs leigh decidedly; "when the queen's been once chosen it can't be altered. why, i should have thought you would have been pleased." lilac hung her head, and went back to her place rather abashed. she was pleased, and she did not like mrs leigh to think she did not care. her whole heart was full of delight at receiving such an honour, but at the same time it was hard for agnetta, who had so set her mind on being queen. if only she could be queen too! that being impossible, lilac had done her best in offering to give it up, and it was disappointing to find that her friend, far from being grateful, was cross and sulky with her and quite out of temper. when the other children crowded round lilac with pleased faces agnetta held back, and had not one kind word to say, but refusing an advances flung herself away from her companions and rushed home full of wrath. lilac looked after her wistfully; it hurt her to think that agnetta could behave so. "after all," she said to herself, "i couldn't help them choosing me, and i did offer to give it up." everyone else was glad that she was queen, and ready with a smile and a nod when they met her. if agnetta had only been pleased too lilac's happiness would have been perfect, but that was just the one thing wanting. however, even with this drawback there was a great deal of pleasure to look forward to, and when she went to the rectory to have the white dress fitted on she was almost as excited as though it was really a royal robe. "it's a pity about the fringe, lilac," said miss ellen as she pinned and arranged the long train; "it's not nearly so becoming." then seeing the excited face suddenly downcast she added: "never mind; i dare say the crown will partly hide it." her arrangements finished, she called her sister, and they both surveyed lilac gravely, who, a little abashed by such business-like observation, stood before them shyly in her straight white gown, with the train fastened on her shoulders. "i think she'll do very nicely," said miss alice, "when she gets the flowers on. they make all the difference. what will she wear?" miss ellen's opinion was decided on that point. "it ought to be white lilac, and plenty of it," she said, "nothing would suit the queen so well." then came a difficulty: there was none nearer than cuddingham. could it be got in time? lilac was doubtful, for cuddingham was a long way off, but she promised to do her best, and miss ellen's last words to her were: "bring moon daisies if you can't get it, but remember i should like white lilac much the best." lilac herself thought the moon daisies would be prettier, with their bright yellow middles; but miss ellen's word was law, and as she had set her heart on white lilac, some way of going to cuddingham must be found since it was too far to walk. there were only two days now to the great event, and during them lilac did her best to make her wants known everywhere. in vain, however. no one was going to or coming from that place; always the same disappointing answers: "cuddingham! no, thank goodness; i was there last week. i don't want to see that hill again yet a while." or, "well now, if i'd known yesterday i might a suited you." and so on. lilac began to despair. she thought of orchards farm, but she had not courage to ask any favour there while agnetta was so vexed with her. even uncle joshua, who had always helped her at need, had nothing to suggest now, and did not even seem to think it of much importance. he dropped in to see mrs white on the evening before may day, and with her usual faith in him lilac at once began to place her difficulty before him. but for once he was not ready to listen, and she was obliged to wait impatiently while he carried on a long conversation with her mother. they had a great deal to talk of, and it was most uninteresting to lilac, for it was all about things of the past in which she had had no share. she might have liked it at another time, but just now she was full of the present, and she became more and more impatient as uncle joshua went on. he had to call back the first celebration of may day which he "minded", and the smallest event connected with it; and when he had done mrs white took up the tale, dwelling specially on jem's musical talent, and how he had been the very soul of the drum-and-fife band. "they're all at sixes and sevens now, to my thinking," she said. "jem, he kep' 'em together and made 'em do their best." "aye, that's where it is," said the cobbler with an approving nod; "that's what we've all on us got to do." his eye rested as he spoke on lilac's eager face, and seizing the opportunity of a pause she rushed in with what she had so much on her mind: "oh, uncle joshua! to-morrow's the day, and i can't get no white lilac for miss ellen to make my garland with. what shall i do?" but joshua was in a moralising mood, and though lilac's question gave him another subject to discourse on, he was more bent on hearing himself talk than in getting over her difficulty. he raised one finger and began to speak slowly, and when mrs white saw that, she paused with the kettle in her hand and stood quite still to listen. joshua was going to say something "good." "it don't matter a bit," he said, "what you make your garland of. flowers is all perishin' things and they'll be dead next day, and wear what you will, they won't make you into a real queen. but there's things as will always make folks bow down when they see 'em, may day or no may day, and them's the things you ought to seek for, early and late till you find 'em. you take a lot of pains to get flowers to deck your outsides, but you don't care much for the plants i'm thinking of; you leave 'em to chance, and so sometimes they're choked out by the weeds. an' yet they're worth takin' trouble for, and if you once get 'em to take root and grow they're fit to crown the finest queen as ever was; and they won't die either, but the more you use 'em the fresher and sweeter they'll be. there's love now; you can't understand anyone, not the smallest child, without that. there's truth; you can't do anything with folks unless they trust you. there's obedience; you can't rule till you know how to serve. there's three plants for you, and there's a whole lot more, but that's enough for you to bear in mind, and i must be going along." joshua departed much satisfied with his eloquence, leaving mrs white equally impressed. "lor'!" she exclaimed, "there's a gifted man. it's every bit as good as being in church to hear him. and i hope, lilac, as how you'll lay it to heart and mind it when you get to be a woman." but lilac did not feel in the least inclined to lay it to heart. she was vexed with uncle joshua, who had not been the least help in her perplexity; for once he had failed her, and she was glad he had gone away so that she could think over a plan for to-morrow. it was of no use evidently to reckon on white lilac any longer, the only thing to be done now was to get up very early the next morning and pick the best moon daisies she could find for miss ellen. this determination was so strong within her when she fell asleep, that she woke with a sudden start next morning as the daylight was just creeping through her lattice. had she overslept herself? no, it was beautifully early, it must be an hour at least before her usual time. she dressed herself quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb her mother in the next room, and then pushing open her tiny window gave an anxious look at the weather. would it be fine? at present a thin misty grey veil was spread over everything, but she could see the village below, which looked fast, fast asleep, with no smoke from its chimneys and nothing stirring. there was such a stillness everywhere that it seemed wrong to make a noise, as though you were in church. and the birds felt it too, for they twittered in a subdued manner, keeping back their full burst of song to greet someone who would come presently. lilac knew who that was. she knew as well as the birds that very soon the sun would thrust away the misty veil and show his beaming face to the valley. it would be fine. it was may day, and she was queen! she drew a deep breath of delight, went downstairs on tiptoe, found a basket and a knife, tied on her bonnet, and unlatched the door; but there she stopped short, checked on the threshold by a sight so surprising that for a moment she could not move. for at her feet, on the doorstep, lying there purely white as though it had fallen from the clouds, was a great mass of white lilac. there were branches and branches of it, so that the air was filled with its gentle delicate scent, and it was so fresh that all its leaves were moist with dew. someone had been up earlier even than herself. the question was--who? uncle joshua of course; he had not failed after all, though how even such a very clever man could have got to cuddingham and back since last night was more than lilac could tell. that did not matter. there it was, and what a fine lot of it! "he must have brought away nigh a whole bush," she said to herself. "miss ellen will be rare and pleased, surely." she gathered up the sweet-smelling boughs at last, and put them into one of her mother's washing-baskets. there was no need to pick moon daisies now, and as she swept and dusted the room and lit the fire she gave many looks of admiration at her treasure, and many grateful thoughts to uncle joshua. mrs white also had no doubt that he had managed it somehow; and she was so moved by the fact of his kindness, and by lilac being queen, and by a hundred past memories, that her usual composure left her, and she threw her apron over her head and had a good cry. "there!" she said when it was over, "i can't think what makes me so silly. but jem he would a been proud to have seen you--he always liked the laylocks." but now came the question as to how it was to be carried down the hill to the school room. lilac could not lift the great basket, and it was at last found best to pile up the branches in her long white pinafore, which she held by the two corners. when all was ready she looked seriously across the fragrant burden, which reached up to her chin, and said: "you'll be sure and be up there in time, won't you, mother, or you won't see me crowned?" "no fear," said mrs white as she held the gate open. "mind and walk steady or you'll drop some, and you can't pick it up if you do." lilac nodded. she was almost too excited to speak. if it felt like this to be queen of the may, she wondered what it must be like to be a real queen! it was a glorious morning. the mist had gone, the sun had come, and all the birds were singing their best tunes to welcome him. to lilac they sounded more than usually gay, as though they were telling each other all sorts of pleasant things. "the sun is here--it is may day--lilac is queen." all the trees too, as they bent in the breeze, seemed to talk together with busy murmurs and whisperings: they tossed their heads and threw up their hands as if in surprise at some news, and then bowed low and gracefully before her, for what they had heard was--"lilac white is queen!" her heart danced so to listen to them that it was quite difficult to keep her feet to a measured step, but when she reached the turn of the hill something made her feel that she must look back. she turned slowly round. there was mother waving her hand at the gate. when they next met it would be up in the woods, and lilac would wear crown and garland. she could not wave her hand or even nod in return, but she made a sort of little curtsy and went on her way. at the bottom of the hill she met mrs wishing, who, bent nearly double by a heavy bundle, was crawling up from the village. "well, you look happy anyhow, lilac white," she said mournfully. "and you haven't forgotten to bring enough flowers with you either." "i can't stop," said lilac, "i've got to go and put these on father first. it's so far for mother to come." she gave a movement of her chin towards the primrose wreath which mrs white had added at the last moment to the heap of flowers. "ah! well," sighed mrs wishing, "in the midst of life we are in death. i haven't much heart for junketing myself, but i shall be up yonder this afternoon if i'm spared." lilac passed quickly on, nodding and smiling in return to the greetings which met her. at the door of the shop stood mr dimbleby, his face heavier than usual with importance, and a little farther on she saw her uncle greenways' wagon and team waiting in charge of ben, who leant lazily against one of the horses. mr greenways always lent a wagon on may day so that the very old people and small children might drive up the worst part of the hill. certainly it was there in plenty of time, for it would not be wanted till the afternoon; but it is always well not to be hurried on such occasions, and many of the people had to walk from outlying hamlets. lilac laid her primroses on her father's grave, and turned back towards the school-house just as the clock struck twelve. there were now many other little figures hurrying in the same direction with businesslike step, and all carrying flowers. primroses, daisies, buttercups, cowslips, and honeysuckle were to be seen, but there was nothing half so beautiful as the heap of white lilac. agnetta saw it as she passed into the school room, and gave an astonished stare and a sniff of displeasure: she had only brought a basket of small daisies, and had taken no trouble about them, so that her offering was not noticed or praised at all. then lilac advanced, and dropping her little curtsy stood silently in front of miss ellen and miss alice holding out her pinafore to its widest extent. there were exclamations of admiration and surprise from everyone, and agnetta stamped her foot with vexation to hear them. "it's _exquisite_!" said miss ellen at last. "where did you get such a beautiful lot of it?" "please, ma'am, i don't know," said lilac. "i found it on the doorstep." agnetta's wrath grew higher every moment. no one paid her any attention, and here was her insignificant cousin lilac the centre of everyone's interest. she overheard a whisper of miss alice's: "she'll make far the loveliest queen we've ever had." what could it be they admired in lilac? agnetta stood with a pout on her lips, idle, while all round the busy work and chatter went on. "now, agnetta," said miss ellen, bustling up to her, "there's plenty to do. get me some twine and some wire, and if you're very careful you may help me with the queen's sceptre." it was a hateful office, but there was no help for it, and agnetta had to humble herself in the queen's service for the rest of the morning. to kneel on the floor, pick off small sprays from the bunches of lilac, and hand them up to miss ellen as she wove them into garland and sceptre. while she did it her heart was hot within her, and she felt that she hated her cousin. the work went on quickly but very silently inside the schoolroom. there was no time to talk, for the masses of flowers which covered table, benches, and floor had all to be changed into wreaths and garlands before one o'clock, for the queen and her court. outside it was not so quiet. an eager group had gathered there long ago, composed of the drum-and-fife band, which broke out now and then into fragments of tunes, the boy with the maypole on his shoulder, and bearers of sundry bright flags and banners. to these the time seemed endless, and they did their best to shorten it by jokes and laughter; it was only the close neighbourhood of the schoolmaster which prevented the boldest from climbing up to the high window and hanging on by his hands to see how matters were going on within. but at last the latch clicked, the door opened wide: there stood the smiling little white queen with her gaily dressed court crowding at her back. there was a murmur of admiration, and the band, gazing open-mouthed, almost forgot to strike up "god save the queen." for there was something different about this queen to any they had seen before. she was so delicately white, so like a flower herself, that looking out from the blossoms which surrounded her she might have been the spirit of a lilac bush suddenly made visible. the white lilac covered her dress in delicate sprays, it bordered the edge of her long train, it twined up the tall sceptre in her hand, it was woven into the crown which was carried after her. at present the queen's head was bare, for she would not be crowned till she reached her throne in the woods. then the procession began its march, band playing, banners fluttering bravely in the wind, through the village first, so that all those who could not get up the hill might come to their doors and windows to admire. then leaving the highroad it came to the steep ascent, and here the wind blowing more freshly almost caught away the queen's train from the grasp of her two little pages. the band, in spite of gallant struggles, became short of breath, so that the music was wild and uncertain; and the smaller courtiers straggled behind unable to keep up with the rest. it made its way, however, notwithstanding these difficulties, and from the top of the hill where crowds of people had now gathered it was watched by eager and interested eyes. first it looked in the distance like a struggling piece of patchwork on the hillside, then it took shape and they could make out the maypole and the flags, then, nearer still, the sounds of the three tunes which the band played over and over again were wafted to their ears, and at last the small white figure of the queen herself could plainly be distinguished from the rest. it did not take long after this to reach level ground, and as the procession moved along with recovered breath and dignity to the music of "god save the queen", it was followed by admiring remarks from all sides: "see my johnnie! him in the pink cap. bless his 'art, how fine he looks!" or "there's polly ann with the wreath of daisies!" "well now," said mrs pinhorn, "i will say lilac looks as peart and neat as a little bit of waxworks." "she wants colour, to my thinking," said mrs greenways, to whom this was addressed. the greenways stood a little aloof from the general crowd, dressed with great elegance. bella rather looked down on the whole affair. "it's so mixed," she said; "but we have to go, because papa don't wish to offend mr leigh." "i call that a real pretty sight," said joshua snell, turning to his neighbour, who happened to be peter greenways. "they've dressed her up very fitting in all them lilac blooms. but wherever did they get such a sight of 'em?" peter had been forced into a shiny black suit of clothes, a stiff collar, and a bright blue necktie, that he might not disgrace the stylish appearance of his mother and sisters. in this attire he felt even less at his ease than usual, and his arms hung before him as helplessly as those of a stuffed figure. perhaps it was owing to this state of discomfort that he made no other answer to joshua's remark than a nervous grin. "i don't see the widder white anywheres," continued joshua, looking round; "but there's such a throng one can't tell who's who." lilac, too, had been looking in vain for her mother amongst the groups of people she had passed through, and as she took her seat on the hawthorn-covered throne she gazed wistfully to right and left. no, mother was not there. plenty of well-known faces, but not the one she wanted most to see. "she _promised_ to be in time," she said to herself, "and now she'll miss the crowning." it was a dreadful pity, for lilac could only be queen once in her life, and it seemed to take away the best part of the pleasure for mother not to be there. she had been looking forward to it for so long. what could have kept her away? the queen's eyes filled with tears of disappointment, and through them the form of peter greenways seemed to loom unnaturally large, his face redder than ever above his blue neckcloth, his mouth and eyes wide open. lilac checked her tears and remembered her exalted position. she must not cry now; but directly the crowning and the dance were over she resolved to search for her mother, and if she were not there to go home and see what had prevented her coming. this determination enabled her to bear her honours with becoming dignity, and to put aside her private anxiety for the time like other royal personages. she danced round the maypole with her court, and led the may-day song as gaily as if her pleasure had been quite perfect. but it was not; for all the while she was wondering what could possibly have become of her mother. at last, her public duties over, the queen found herself at liberty. the crowd had dispersed now, and was broken up into little knots of people chatting together and waiting for the next excitement--tea-time. through these lilac passed with always the same question: "have you seen mother?" sometimes in the distance she fancied she saw a shawl of a pattern she knew well, but having pursued it, it turned out to belong to someone quite different. she had just made up her mind to go home, when one of her companions ran up to her with an excited face: "come along," she cried; "they're just agoin' to start the races." lilac hesitated. "i can't," she said; "i've got to go and look after mother." "well, it'll be on your way," said the other; "and you needn't stop no longer nor you like. come along." she seized lilac's arm and they ran on together to the flat piece of ground on the edge of the wood, where the races were to take place. the steep side of the down descended abruptly from this, and lilac knew that by taking that way, which was quite an easy one to her active feet, she could very quickly reach home. so she stayed to look first at one race and then at another, and they all proved so amusing that the more she saw the more she wanted to see, though she still said to herself: "i'll go after this one." she was laughing at the struggling efforts of the boys in a sack race, when suddenly, amidst the noise of cheers and shouting which surrounded her, she heard her own name spoken in an urgent entreating voice: "lilac--lilac white!" "who is it wants me!" she said, starting up and trying to force her way through the crowd. "i'm here; what is it?" the people stood back to let her pass. "it's mrs leigh wants you," said a woman. "she's standing back yonder." it was strange to see mrs leigh's beaming face look so grave and troubled, and it gave lilac a sense of fear when she reached her. "is mother here, ma'am?" was her first question. "does she want me, please?" mrs leigh did not answer quite at once, then she said very seriously: "your mother is at home, lilac. you must go with me at once. she is ill." self-reproach darted through lilac's heart. why had she put off going home? but she must do the best she could now, and she said at once: "hadn't i best send someone for the doctor first, ma'am?" "he is there," answered mrs leigh. "he was sent for some time ago; daniel wishing went." the next thing was to get back to mother as quickly as possible, and lilac turned without hesitation to the way she had meant to take-- straight down the side of the hill. but mrs leigh stopped aghast. "you're not going down there, surely?" she said. "it's as nigh again as going round, ma'am," said lilac eagerly; "and it's not to say difficult if you do it sideways." mrs leigh still hesitated. it was very steep; the smooth turf was slippery. there was not even a shrub or anything to cling to, and a slip would certainly end in an awkward tumble. at another time she would have turned from it with horror, but she looked at lilac's upturned anxious face and was touched with pity. "after all," she said, grasping her umbrella courageously, "if you can help me a little, perhaps it won't be so bad as it looks." so they started, hand in hand, lilac a little in front carefully leading the way; but she was soon sorry that they had not gone round by the road. this was a short distance for herself, but it proved a long one now that she had mrs leigh with her. a slip, a stop, a slide, another stop--it was a very slow progress indeed. as they went jerking along the flowers fell off lilac's dress one by one and left a white track behind her. she had taken off her crown and held it in her hand; its blossoms were drooping already, and its leaves folded up and limp. how short a time it was since they had been fresh and fair, and she had marched up the hill so bravely, full of delight. now, poor little discrowned queen, she was leaving her kingdom of mirth and laughter behind her with every step, and coming nearer to the shadowy valley where sadness waited. after many a sigh and gasp mrs leigh and her guide reached the bottom in safety. they were on comparatively level ground now, with gently sloping fields in front of them and the sharp shoulder of the hill rising at their back. there, within a stone's throw stood the wishings' cottage, and a little farther on lilac's own home. how quiet, how very still it all looked! now and then there floated in the calm air a shout or a sudden burst of laughter from the distant merry-makers, but here, below, it was all utterly silent. the two little white cottages had no light in their windows, no smoke from their chimneys, no sign of life anywhere. "mother's let the fire out," said lilac. mrs leigh came to a sudden standstill. "lilac," she said, "my poor child--" lilac looked up frightened and bewildered. mrs leigh's eyes were full of tears, and she could hardly speak. she took lilac's hand in hers and held it tightly. "my poor child," she repeated. "oh, please, ma'am," cried lilac, "let's be quick and go to mother. what ails her?" "nothing ails her," said mrs leigh solemnly; "nothing will ever ail her any more. you must be brave for her sake, and remember that she loves you still; but you will not hear her speak again on earth." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the revels on the hill broke up sooner than usual that night, and those who had to pass the cottage on their way home trod softly and hushed their children's laughter. for ill news travels fast, and before nightfall there was no one who did not know that the widow white was dead. and thus lilac's may-day reign held in its short space the greatest happiness and the greatest sorrow of her life. joy and smiles and freshly-blooming flowers in the morning; sadness and tears and a withered crown at night. chapter six. alone. "the spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can bear?"--_proverbs_. a few days after this lilac sat on her little stool in her accustomed corner, listening in a dreamy way to the muffled voices of mrs pinhorn and mrs wishing. they spoke low, not because they did not wish her to hear, but because, having just come from her mother's funeral, they felt it befitted the occasion. as they talked they stitched busily at some "black" which they were helping her to make, only pausing now and then to glance round at her as though she were some strange animal, shake their heads, and sigh heavily. lilac had not cried much since her mother's death, and was supposed by the neighbours to be taking it wonderful easy-like. for the twentieth time mrs wishing was entering slowly and fully into every detail connected with it--of all the doctor had said of its having been caused by heart disease, of all she had said herself, of all mr leigh had said; and if she paused a moment mrs pinhorn at once asked another question. for it was mrs wishing, who, running in as usual to borrow something, had found mrs white on may morning sitting peacefully in her chair, quite dead. "and it do strike so mournful," she repeated, "to think of the child junketing up on the hill, and may queen an' all, an' that poor soul an alone." "it's a thing one doesn't rightly understand, that is," said mrs pinhorn, "why both lilac's parents should have been took so sudden." she gave a sharp glance round the room--"i suppose," she added, "the greenways'll have the sticks. there's a goodish few, and well kep'. mary white was always one for storing her things." "i never heard of no other kin," said mrs wishing. "lilac's lucky to get a home like orchards farm. but there! some is born lucky." the conversation continued in the same strain until mrs wishing discovered that she must go home and get dan'l's supper ready. "an' it's time i was starting too," added mrs pinhorn. "i've got a goodish bit to walk." they both looked hesitatingly at lilac. "you'll come alonger me and sleep, won't you, dearie?" said mrs wishing coaxingly. "it's lonesome for you here." but lilac shook her head. "i'd rather bide here, thank you," was all she said; and after trying many forms of persuasion the two women left her unwillingly and took their way. lilac stood at the open door and watched them out of sight, but she was not thinking of them at all, though she still seemed to hear mrs wishing's words: "it's lonesome for you here." her head felt strange and dizzy, almost as though she had been stunned, and it was stranger still to find that she could not cry although mother was dead. she knew it very well, everyone had talked of it to her. mr leigh had spoken very kind, and mrs leigh had given her a black frock, and all the neighbours at the church that morning had groaned and cried and pitied her; but lilac herself had hardly shed a tear, though she felt it was expected of her, and saw that people were surprised to see her so quiet. she tried every now and then to get it into her head, and to understand it, but she could not. it seemed to be someone else that folks spoke of, and not mother. as she stood by the open door, each thing her eye rested on seemed to have something to do with her and to promise her return. there was the hill she had toiled up so often: surely she would come again with a tired footstep, but always a smile for lilac. there was the little garden and the sweet-peas she had sown, just showing green above the earth: would she never see them bloom? there on the window sill were her knitting-pins and a half-finished stocking: was it possible that lilac would never hear them click again in her busy fingers? there, most familiar object of all, was the clothes line. lilac could almost fancy she saw her mother's straight active figure, as she had done scores of times, stretching up her arms to fasten the clothes with wooden pegs, her skirt tucked up, her arms bare, her sunbonnet tilted over her eyes. no--it was quite impossible to feel that she would really never come back; it seemed much more likely that by and by she would walk in at the door and sit down by the window in her high-backed windsor chair, and take up the unfinished knitting. as lilac was thinking thus, a figure did really appear at the top of the hill, a short square figure with a gaily trimmed hat on its head--her cousin agnetta. for the first time in all her life agnetta was feeling not superior to lilac as usual, but shy of her. she did not know what to say to her nor even whether she should be welcome, for she was conscious of having been very ill-tempered lately. now that lilac was in trouble, cast down from her high position as queen, she no longer felt angry with her, and would even have liked to make herself pleasant--if she could. as she came near, however, and stood staring at her cousin, she felt that somehow there was a great difference in her, something which she could not understand. there was a look in lilac's small white face which made it impossible to speak to her in the old patronising tone; it was as though she had been somewhere and seen something to which agnetta was a stranger, and which could never be explained to her. it made her uncomfortable, and almost afraid to say anything; and yet, she remembered, lilac was very low down in the world now--there was less reason than ever to stand in awe of her. she was only poor little lilac white, with nothing in the world she could call her own, an orphan, and dependent for a home on agnetta's father. so after these reflections she took courage and spoke: "mamma said i was to tell you that she'll be up to-morrow morning to look at the furniture, and you must be ready in the afternoon to come down alonger ben when he brings the cart." lilac nodded, and the two girls stood silently on the doorstep for a moment; then agnetta spoke again: "i s'pose you're glad you're coming to live at the farm, ain't ye?" "no," answered lilac, "i don't know as i be. i'd rather bide here." agnetta had recovered her courage with her voice. she stepped uninvited past lilac into the room and cast a curious look round. "lor'!" she said, "don't it look mournful! i should think you'd be glad to get away." lilac did not answer. "what's this?" asked agnetta, pouncing on the needlework which the two women had left on the table. "it's a frock for me," said lilac. "mrs leigh give it to me." agnetta held the skirt out at arm's length and looked at it critically. "well!" she exclaimed with some scorn in her voice, "i should a thought you'd a had it made different now." "different?" said lilac enquiringly. "why, there's no reason you shouldn't have it cut more stylish, is there, now there's no one to mind?" no one to mind! lilac looked at her cousin with dazed eyes for a moment, as if she hardly understood--then she took the stuff out of her hand. "i'll never have 'em made different," she cried with a sudden flash in her eyes; "i never, never will." and then to agnetta's great surprise she suddenly burst into tears. agnetta stood staring at her, puzzled. she was sorry, only what had made lilac cry just now when she had been quite calm hitherto? "don't take on so," she ventured to say presently; "and you'll spoil your black. it'll stain dreadful." but lilac took no more notice than if she had not been there, and soon, feeling that she could do nothing, agnetta left her and took her way home. she had accomplished something by her visit, though she did not know it, for she had made lilac feel now that it really was true. mother would not come back. she was alone in the world. there was no one, as agnetta had said, "to mind." she began to understand it now, and the clearer it was the harder it was to bear. so she bowed her head on the table, amongst the black stuff in spite of agnetta's caution, and cried on. and presently another thing, which she had not realised till now, stood out plainly before her. she was to go away to-morrow and live at orchards farm. orchards farm, which she had always fancied the most beautiful place in the world, and beside which her own home had seemed poor and small! now all that had changed, and the more she thought of it the more she felt that she did not want to leave the cottage. it had suddenly become dear and precious; for all the things in it, even the meanest and smallest, seemed full of her mother's voice and presence. orchards farm was a strange country now, with nothing in it that her mother had loved or that loved her, and to go there would be like going still farther from her. raising her eyes she looked round at the familiar room, at her mother's chair, at her own little stool, at the plants in the window. they all seemed to say: "don't go, lilac. it is better to stay here." must she go? then suddenly she caught sight of the lilac crown lying dusty and withered in a corner. it reminded her of a friend. "i'll ask uncle joshua," she said to herself; "i'll go early to-morrow morning and ask him. _he'll_ know." joshua had a very decided opinion on the question placed before him next day: could lilac live alone at the cottage and take in the washing as her mother used to do? "i can reach the line quite easy if i stand on a stool," she said anxiously; "and mrs wishing, she'd help me wring." "bless you, my maid," he said, "you're not old enough to make a living, or strong enough, or wise enough yet. the proper place for you is your uncle greenways' house, till such time as you come to be older." "mother, she always said, `don't be beholden to no one. stand on your own feet.' that's what she said ever so often," faltered lilac. the cobbler smiled as he looked at the slight little figure. "well, you must wait a bit. if mother could speak to you now, she'd say as i do. and you won't be no farther from her at the farm; wherever and whenever you think of her and mind what she said, and how she liked you to act, that's her voice talking to you still. you listen and do as she bids, and that'll make her happier and you too." joshua set to work again with feverish haste as he finished. he did not like parting with lilac, and it was difficult to say goodbye. she lingered, looking wistfully at him. "you'll come and see me down yonder, won't you, uncle joshua?" "why, surely, surely," replied joshua hastily; "and you'll come and see me. it ain't so far after all. bless me!" he added with a testy glance at the dusty pane in front of him, "what ails the window this morning? it don't give no light whatever." in a moment lilac had fetched a duster and rubbed the little window bright and clear. it was a small office she had often performed for the cobbler. "it wasn't, not to say very dirty," she said; "but you'll have to do it yourself next time, uncle joshua." when she got back to the cottage, she felt a little comforted by the cobbler's words, although he had not fallen in with her plan. what could she do at once, she wondered, that would please her mother? she looked round the room. it had a forlorn appearance. the doorstep, trodden by so many feet lately, was muddy, there was dust on the furniture, and the floor had not been swept for days. mother certainly would not like that, and lilac felt she could not leave it so another minute. with new energy she seized broom, brushes, and pail and went to work, going carefully into all the corners, and doing everything just as she had been taught. very soon it all looked like itself again, bright and orderly, and with a sigh of satisfaction she went upstairs to put herself "straight" before her aunt came. when there another idea struck her, for the moment she looked at the glass she remembered how mother had hated the fringe. surely she could brush it back now that her hair had grown longer. no, brush as hard as she would it fell obstinately over her forehead again. but lilac was not to be conquered. she scraped it back once more, and tied a piece of ribbon firmly round her head; then she nodded triumphantly at herself in the glass. it was ugly, but anyhow it was neat. she had just finished this arrangement when a noise in the room below warned her of mrs greenways' approach, and running downstairs she found her seated breathless in the high-backed chair. one foot was stretched out appealingly in front of her, and she was so fatigued that at first she could only nod speechlessly at lilac. "i'm fairly spent," she said at last, "with that terr'ble hill. i can't wonder myself that your poor mother was taken so sudden with her heart, though she was always a spare figure." lilac said nothing; the old feeling came back to her that it was someone else and not mother who was spoken of. mrs greenways looked thoughtfully round the room; her eye rested on each piece of furniture in turn. "they're good solid things, and well kept," she said. "i will say for mary white as she knew how to keep her things. we can do with a good many of 'em at the farm," she went on after a pause; "but i don't want to be cluttered up with furniture, and the rest we must sell as it stands." lilac's heart sank. she could not bear to think of any of mother's things being sold, but she was too much in awe of her aunt to say anything. "so i've come up this morning," pursued mrs greenways, producing an old envelope and a stumpy pencil; "just to jot down what i want to keep. and when i've done here, and fetched my breath a little, i'll go upstairs and have a look round." mrs greenways made her list, and then with a businesslike air tied pieces of tape on all the things she had chosen. lilac saw with dismay that her own little stool and the high-backed chair were left out. it was almost like leaving two old friends behind. "have you packed your clothes?" asked mrs greenways. "no, aunt, not yet," said lilac. "well, i shall have to send ben up with the cart this afternoon for your box, so you may as well come alonger him. and mind this, lilac. don't you go bringin' any litter and rubbish with you. jest your clothes and no more, and your bible and prayer book. and now i'll go upstairs." mrs greenways went upstairs, followed meekly by lilac. she watched passively while her aunt punched all the mattresses, placed a searching finger beneath every sheet and blanket, sat down in the chairs, and finally examined every article of mrs white's wardrobe. "'tain't any of it much good to me," she said, holding up a cotton gown to the light. "they're all cut so antiquated, and she was never anything of a figure. you may as well keep 'em, lilac, and they'll come in for you later." it made lilac's heart ache sorely to see her mother's clothes in mrs greenways' hands turned about and talked over. there was one gown in particular, with a blue spot. mrs white had worn it on that last may morning when she had stood at the gate, and it seemed almost a part of her. when her aunt dropped it carelessly on the ground after her last remark, lilac picked it up and held it closely to her. "and her sunday bonnet now," continued mrs greenways discontentedly. "all the ribbons is fresh and it's a good straw, but i don't suppose i shall look anything but a scarecrow in it." she perched it on her head as she spoke, and turned about before the glass. "'tain't so bad," she murmured, with a glance at lilac for approval. there was no answer; for to her great surprise mrs greenways found that her niece had hidden her face in the blue cotton gown she held to her breast, and was sobbing quietly. mrs greenways was a kind-hearted woman in spite of her coarse nature. she could not exactly see what had made lilac cry just now, but she went up to her and spoke soothingly. "there, there," she said, "it's natural to take on, but you'll be better soon, when you get down to the farm alonger agnetta. you must think of all you've got to be thankful for. and now i should relish a cup o' tea, for i started away early; so we'll go down and you'll get it for me, i dessay. i brought a little in my pocket in case you should be out of it. i shouldn't wonder if bella was able to give this a bit of style,"--taking off the bonnet. "she's wonderful clever with her fingers." mrs greenways drank her tea, made lilac take some and eat some bread and butter, which she wished to refuse but dared not. "now you feel better, don't you?" she said good-naturedly. "and before i start off home, lilac, i've got a word to say, and that is that i hope you're proper and thankful for all your uncle's going to do for you." "yes, aunt," said lilac. "if it wasn't for him, you know, there'd only be the house for you to go to. just think o' that! what a disgrace it 'ud be! it's a great expense to have an extry mouth to feed and a growing girl to clothe in these bad times, but we must put up with it." "i can work, aunt," said lilac. "i can do lots of things." "well, i hope you'll do what you can," replied mrs greenways. "because, as you haven't a penny of your own, you ought to do summat in return for your uncle's charity. that's only fair and right, isn't it?" her mother's words came into lilac's mind: "don't be beholden to no one." "i don't mind work, aunt," she repeated more boldly. "i'd rather work. mother, she always taught me to." "well, that's a good thing," said mrs greenways. "because, now you're left so desolate, you've got nothing to look to but your own hands and feet. but as to being any help--you're small and young, you see, and you can't be anything but a burden to us for years to come." a burden! that was a new idea to lilac. "and so," finished mrs greenways, rising, "i hope as how you'll be a good gal, and grateful, and always remember that if it wasn't for us you'd be on the parish, instead of at orchards farm." she made her way out of the door, and stopped at the garden gate to call back over her shoulder: "mind and bring no rubbish along with you. nothing but clothes." lilac's tears dropped fast into the painted deal box as she packed her small stock of clothes. but she felt that she must not wait to cry; she must be ready by the time ben came, and her aunt's visit had been so long that it was already late. when she had finished she went downstairs to take a last look round. there stood all the well-known pieces of furniture, dumb, yet full of speech; they had seen and heard so much that was dear to her, that it seemed cruel to leave them to strangers. above all she looked wistfully at a small twisted cactus in a pot standing on the window ledge. mrs white had been fond of it, and had given it much care and attention. might she venture to take it with her? how pleased mother had been, she remembered, when the cactus had once rewarded her by producing two bright-red blossoms. that was long ago, and it had never done anything so brilliant again. content with its one effort it had since remained unadorned, yet as it stood there, with its fat green leaves and little bunches of prickles, it had the air of saying to itself, "i have done it once, and if i liked i could do it a second time." even now as she bent tenderly over it lilac thought she could make out the faint beginning of a bud. "i do wish i could take it," she said to herself. "if it was only in bloom maybe they'd like it." but the cactus was very far from blooming, and perhaps had no intention of doing so; in its present condition it would certainly be considered "rubbish" at orchards farm. lilac turned from it with a sigh, and glancing through the window was startled to see that the cart with ben sitting in it was already at the gate. ben looked as though he might have been waiting there for some hours, and was content to wait for any length of time. she ran out in alarm. "oh, ben!" she cried, "i never heard you. have you been here long?" "not i," said ben; "on'y just come. missus she give orders as how i was to fetch down some cheers alonger you, so as to lighten the next load a bit." by the time he had slowly stacked the chairs together, and disposed them round lilac's box in the cart, which cost him much painful thought, there was not much room left. "now then, missie," he said at length, "that's the lot, ain't it?" "where am i to sit, ben?" asked lilac doubtfully. ben took off his hat to scratch his head. he had a perfectly round, foolish face, with short dust-coloured whiskers. "that's so," he said. "i clean forgot you was to go too." a corner was at last found amongst the chairs, and ben having hoisted himself on to the shaft they started slowly on their way. lilac kept her eyes fixed on the cottage until a turn of the road hid it from her sight. it was just there she had turned to look at mother on may day. what a long, long time ago, and what a different lilac she felt now! grave and old, with all manner of cares and troubles waiting for her, and no one to mind if she were glad or sorry. no one to want her much or to be pleased at her coming. a burden instead of a blessing. she clung to the hope that agnetta at least would not think her so, but would welcome her to her new home and be kind to her; but she was the only one of whom she thought without shrinking. her aunt and uncle, bella and peter, above all the last, were people to be afraid of. "here's the young master," said ben, suddenly turning his face round to look at her. "he be coming up to fetch the rest of the sticks." lilac peeped out through the various legs of chairs which surrounded her; towards her, crawling slowly up the hill, came a wagon drawn by three iron-grey horses, and by their side a broad-shouldered, lumbering figure. it was her cousin peter. of course it was peter, she thought impatiently, turning her head away. no one else would walk up the hill instead of riding in the empty wagon. the descent now becoming easier ben whipped up his horse, and they soon jolted past peter and his team. "there's been a sight o' deaths lately in the village," he resumed cheerfully, having once broken the silence. "i dunno as i can ever call to mind so many. the bell's forever agoin'. it's downright mournful." he was kindly disposed towards lilac, and having hit upon this lucky means of entertaining her he dwelt on it for the rest of the way, fortunately requiring no answering remarks. it seemed long before they reached the farm, and lilac was cramped and tired in her uneasy position when they had at last driven in at the yard gate. there was no one to be seen; but presently molly, the servant girl, having spied the arrival from the back kitchen, came and stood at the door. when she discovered lilac almost hidden by the chairs, she hastened out and held up a broad red hand to help her down from the cart. "you've brought yer house on yer back like a hoddy-dod," she said with a grin. lilac clambered down with difficulty, and stood by the side of the cart uncertain where to go. a forlorn little figure in her straight black frock, clasping her mother's large old cotton umbrella. she wished she could see agnetta, but she did not appear. soon her aunt and bella came into the yard, but their attention was immediately fixed on the chairs, which ben had now unloaded and placed in a long row by lilac's side. "where were they to go?" asked molly. in the living-room, mrs greenways thought, where they were short of chairs. "in the bedrooms," said bella contemptuously. "common-looking things like them." "we could do with 'em in the kitchen," added molly. the dispute continued for some time, but in the end bella carried the day, and mrs greenways found time to notice the newcomer. "well, here you are, lilac," she said. "come along in, and agnetta shall show where you've got to sleep." agnetta led the way up the steep stairs to the top of the house. she had rather a condescending manner as she threw open the door of a small attic in the roof. "this is it," she said; "and mamma says you've got to keep it clean yerself." "i'd rather," said lilac hastily. "i've always been used to." she looked round the room. it was very like her old one at the cottage, and its sloping ceiling and bare white walls seemed familiar and homelike; it was a comfort, too, to see that its tiny window looked towards the hills. as she observed all this she took off her bonnet, and was immediately startled by a loud laugh from agnetta. "well!" she exclaimed, "you have made a pretty guy of yourself." lilac put her hand quickly up to her head. "oh, i forgot--my hair," she said. "whatever made you do it?" asked agnetta, planting herself full in front of her cousin and staring at her. "it's neater," said lilac, avoiding the hard gaze. "i shall wear it so till it gets longer. i'm not agoin' to have a fringe no more." "well!" repeated agnetta, lost in astonishment; then she added: "you do look comical! just like a general servant. if i was you i'd wear a cap!" with this parting thrust she clattered downstairs giggling. so this was lilac's welcome. she went to the window, leant her arms on the broad sill, and looked forlornly up at the hill. there was not a single person who wanted her here, or who had taken the trouble to say a kind word. how could she bear to live here always? "li-lack!" shrieked a voice up the stairs, "you're to come to tea." through the meal that followed lilac sat shyly silent, feeling that every morsel choked her, and listening to the clatter of voices and teacups round her but hardly hearing any words. the farmer had noticed her presence by a nod, and then resumed his newspaper. he meant to do his duty by mary's girl until she was old enough to go to service, but no one could expect him to be glad of her arrival. another useless member of the family to support, where there were already too many. peter was not there at first, but when the meal was nearly over lilac heard the wagon roll heavily into the yard, and soon afterwards its master came almost as heavily into the room and took his place at the table. when there he eat largely and silently, taking huge draughts of tea out of a great mug. this was one of his many vulgarities, which bella deplored but could not alter, for he required so much tea that a cup was a ridiculous and useless thing to him, and had to be filled so often that it gave a great deal of trouble--in this therefore he was allowed to have his way. when lilac got into her attic that night she found that her deal box had been carried up and placed in one corner, and as she began to undress in the half-light she caught sight of something else which certainly had not been there before. something standing in the window twisted and prickly, but to her most pleasant to look upon. could it really be the cactus? she went up to it, half afraid to find that she was mistaken. no, it was not fancy, the cactus was there, and lilac was so pleased to see its ugly friendly face that tears came into her eyes. she had found a little bit of kindness at last at orchards farm, and it no longer felt quite so cold and strange. peter no doubt had brought the plant down from the cottage, but who had told him to do it? her aunt, or agnetta, or perhaps after all it was uncle joshua as usual. whoever it was lilac felt very grateful, and went to sleep comforted with the thought that there was something in the room which had lived her old life and known her mother's care, though it was only a cactus plant. chapter seven. orchards farm. "for a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal where there is no love."--_bacon_. "i like this one best," said lilac. she was looking in at the shed where ben was milking the cows at orchards farm. inside it was dusky and cool. there was a sweet smell of hay and new milk, and it was very quiet, the silence only disturbed when an impatient cow stamped her foot or swished her tail at the flies, and was reproved by ben's deep-toned, "woa then, stand still." but outside it was very different, for the afternoon sun was still hot and dazzling, and all the farmyard creatures were conversing cheerfully together in many keys and voices. a tall white cock had perched himself tiptoe on a gate, crowing in a shrilly triumphant manner, the ducks were quacking in a sociable chorus, and chummy, the great black sow, lying stretched on her side in the sun, kept up an undertone of deeply comfortable grunts. lilac leant against the doorpost, now looking in at ben and his cows, and now at the sunshiny strawyard. she felt tired and languid, as she very often did at the end of the day, although the work at orchards farm was no harder than she had always been used to at home. there, however, it had been done in peace and quietness, here all was hurry and confusion. it was a new and distracting thing to live in the midst of wrangling disputes, to be called here, shouted after there, to do bits of everyone's business, and to be scolded for leaving undone what she had never been told to do. altogether a heavy change from her old peaceful life, and she could not settle her mind to it with any comfort. "'tain't the work, it's the worry i mind," she said once to agnetta; but agnetta only stared and laughed. there was no consolation at all to be found in her, and all lilac's hopes concerning her were disappointed as time went on. she was the same and orchards farm was the same as they had been in the old days when lilac had worshipped them from a distance; but somehow, seen quite near this glory vanished, and though the stylish sunday frocks and bangles remained, they were worth nothing compared to a little sympathy and kindness. alas! these were not to be had. lilac must stand on her own feet now, as her mother had told her: everyone was too full of their own troubles and interests and enjoyments to have any thought for her. what could she need beyond a roof over her head, food to eat, and clothes to wear? mrs greenways and all the neighbours thought her a lucky child, and told her so very often; but lilac did not feel lucky, she felt sad and very lonely. after one or two attempts to talk to agnetta, she resolved, however, to keep her troubles to herself, for agnetta did not "understand." who was there now to understand? none in the wide world but uncle joshua, and from him she felt as far distant as though he were in another country. she became in this way, as time went on, more silent, graver, and more what her cousins called "old-fashioned"; and though at heart she was far more childlike than they, she went about her work with serious application like one of twice her years. mrs greenways did not disapprove of this, and though she lost no occasion of impressing upon lilac her smallness and uselessness, she soon began to find her valuable in the house: it was a new thing to have someone there who was steady and thorough in her work, and might be depended on to do it without constant reproof. she was satisfied, too, that lilac had quite got over her grief, and did not seem to miss her mother so much as might have been expected. it would be troublesome to see the child fret and pine, and as no sign of this appeared she concluded it was not there. mrs greenways was accustomed to the sort of sorrow which shows itself in violent tears and complaints, and she would have been surprised if she could have known how lilac's lonely little heart ached sometimes for the sound of her mother's voice or the sight of her face; how at night, when she was shut safely into her attic, she would stretch out her arms towards the cottage on the hill, and long vainly for the days to come back which she had not loved half well enough while they were passing. but no one knew this, and amidst the turmoil and bustle of the day no one guessed how lonely she was or thought of her much in any way. she was only little lilac white, an orphan who had been fortunate enough to get a good home. so she lived her own life, solitary, although surrounded by people; and while she worked her mind was full of her mother's memory--sometimes she even seemed to hear her words again, and to see her smile of pleasure when she had done anything particularly well. she was careful, therefore, not to relax her efforts in the least, and though she got no praise for the thoroughness of her work, it was a little bit of comfort at the end of the day to think that she had "pleased mother." it began soon to be a pleasure, too, when work was finished, to go out amongst the creatures in the farmyard. here she forgot her troubles and her loneliness for a little while, and made many satisfactory friendships in which there were no disappointments. true, there was plenty of noise and bustle here as well as indoors, and family quarrels were not wanting amongst the poultry; but unlike the sharp speeches of bella and agnetta they left no bad feeling behind, and were soon settled by a few pecks and flaps. lilac was sure of a welcome when she appeared at the gate to distribute the small offerings she had collected for her various friends during the day; bits of bread, sugar, or crusts--nothing came amiss, and even the great lazy chummy would waddle slowly across to her from the other end of the yard. by degrees lilac began to look forward to the end of the day, when she should meet these friends, and found great comfort in the thought that they expected her and looked out for her coming. especially she liked to be present at milking-time, and as often as she possibly could she stole out of the house at this hour to spend a few quiet moments with ben and his cows. on this particular afternoon she saw that there was one among them she had not noticed before--a little cream-coloured alderney, with slender black legs and dark eyes. "i like that one best of all," she said, pointing to it. ben's voice sounded hollow as he answered, and seemed to come out of the middle of the cow, for his head was pressed firmly against her side. "ah, she's a sort of a little fancy coo, she is," he said; "she belongs to the young master. he thinks a lot of her. `we'll call this one none-so-pretty,' says he, when he brung her home." "why does it belong to him," asked lilac, "more than the other cows?" "well, it were like this 'ere," said ben, who was fond of company and always willing to talk. "this is how it wur. none-so-pretty she caught cold when she'd bin here a couple of weeks, and the master he sent for coo-doctor. and coo-doctor come and says: `she's in a pretty plight,' says he; `information of the lungs she's got, and you'll never get her through it. a little dillicut scrap of a animal like that,' he says; 'she ain't not to say fit for this part of the country! an' so he goes away, and the coo gets worse, so as it's a misery to see her." ben stopped so long in his story to quiet none-so-pretty, who wanted to kick over the pail, that lilac had to put another question. "how did she get well?" "it wur along of the young master," answered ben, "as sat up with her a week o' nights, and poured her drink down her throat, and poletissed her chest, and cockered her up like as if she'd bin a human christian. and he brung her through. like a skilliton she wur at fust, but she picked up after a bit and got saucy again. an' ever sin that she'll foller him and rub her head agin' him, and come to his whistle like a dog. an' so the old master, he says: `the little cow's yer own now, peter, to do as you like with,' he says; `no one else'd a had the patience to bring her through. an' if you'll take my advice you'll sell her, for she'll never be much good to us.'" "but peter wouldn't sell her, i suppose?" asked lilac eagerly. "no fear," replied ben's muffled voice; "he's martal fond of none-so-pretty." lilac looked with great interest at the little cow. an odd pair of friends--she and peter--and as unlike as they could possibly be, for none-so-pretty was as graceful and slender in her proportions as he was clumsy and awkward-limbed. it was a good thing that there was someone to admire and like peter, even if it were only a cow; for lilac had not been a month at the farm without beginning to feel a little pity for him. he was uncouth and stupid, to be sure, but it was hard, she thought, that he should be so incessantly worried and jeered at. from the moment he entered the house to the moment he left it, there was something wrong in what he said or did. if he sat down on the settle and wearily stretched out his long legs, someone was sure to tumble over them: "peter, how stupid you are!" if he opened his mouth to speak he said something laughable, and if to eat, there was something vulgar in his manners which called down a sharp reproof from bella, who considered herself a model of refinement and good taste. he took all this in unmoved silence, and seldom said a word except to talk to his father on farming matters; but lilac, looking on from her quiet corner, often felt sorry for him, as she would have done to see any large, patient animal ill-treated and unable to complain. "anyhow," she said to herself as she stood with her eyes fixed on none-so-pretty after ben had done his story, "if he is common he's kind." her reflections were disturbed by ben's voice making another remark, which came from the side of a large red cow named cherry: "there's not a better lot of coos, nor richer milk than what they give, this side lenham." lilac made no answer. "an' if so be as the dairy wur properly worked they'd most pay the rent of this 'ere farm, with the poultry thrown in." lilac glanced at the various feathered families outside; they were supposed to be bella's charge, she knew, but she generally gave them over to agnetta, who looked after them when she was inclined, and often forgot to search for the eggs altogether. "they wants care," continued ben, "as well as most things. i don't name no names, but the young broods had ought to be better looked after in the spring. and they're worth it. there's ducks now--chancy things is early ducks, but they pay well. git 'em hatched out early. feed 'em often. keep 'em warm and dry at fust. let 'em go into the water at the right time. kill 'em and send 'em up to lunnon, and there you are--a good profit. why, you'll git shillings the couple for ducklings in march! that's not a price to sneeze at, that isn't. i name no names," he repeated mysteriously, "but them as don't choose to take the pains can't expect the profit." at supper that night lilac remembered this conversation with ben, and examined peter's countenance curiously as he sat opposite to her with his whole being apparently engrossed by the meal. she could not, however, discover any kind or pleasant expression upon it. if it were there at all, it was unable to struggle through the thick dull mask spread over it. bella meanwhile had news to tell. she had heard at dimbleby's that afternoon that there was to be a grand fete in lenham next week. fireworks and a balloon, and perhaps dancing and a band. charlotte smith said it would be splendid, and she was going to have a new hat on purpose. "well, i haven't got no money to throw away on new hats and suchlike," said mrs greenways, "but i s'pose you and agnetta'll want to go too." "how'll we get over there?" asked bella, looking fixedly at peter, who did not raise his eyes from his plate. mrs greenways turned her glance in the same direction, and said presently: "well, perhaps peter he could drive you over in the spring cart." "hay harvest," muttered peter, deep down in his mug; "couldn't spare time." "oh, bother," said bella. "then we must do with ben." "couldn't spare him neither," was peter's answer. "heavy crop. want all the hands we can get." bella pouted and agnetta looked on the edge of tears. mrs greenways, anxious to settle matters comfortably, made another suggestion. "well, you must just drive yourselves then, bella. the white horse is quiet. i've drove him often." "couldn't spare the horse neither," said peter, "nor yet the cart," and having finished both his meal and the subject he got up and went out of the room. the farmer, roused by the sound of the dispute from a nap in the window seat, now enquired what was going on, and was told of the difficulty. "what's to prevent 'em walking?" he asked; "it's only five miles. if they're too proud to walk they'd better stop at home," and then he too left the room. "you don't catch _me_ walking!" exclaimed bella; "if i can't drive i shan't go at all. getting all hot and dusty, and charlotte smith driving past us on the road with her head held up ever so high." "no more shan't i," said agnetta, with a toss of her head. "well, there, we'll see if we can't manage somehow," said mrs greenways coaxingly. "if the weather's good for the hay harvest your father'll be in a good temper, and we'll see what we can do. lilac!" she added, turning sharply to her niece, "molly's left out some bits of washing in the orchard, jest you run and fetch 'em in." lilac picked up her sunbonnet and went out, glancing at agnetta to see if she were coming too, but she did not move. it was a cool, still evening after a very hot day, and all the flowers in the garden were holding up their drooping heads again, and giving out their sweetest scent as if in thankfulness for the change. there were a great many in bloom now, for it was june, more than a whole month since that happy, miserable day when lilac had been queen, and as she passed peter's own little bit of ground she stopped to look admiringly at them. they seemed to grow here better than in other places--with a willing luxuriance as though in return for the affection and care which was evidently spent on them. pansies, columbines, white-fringed pinks, and sweet-peas all mixed up together, and yet keeping a certain order and not allowed to intrude upon each other. lilac passed on through a little gate which led into the kitchen garden, and as she did so became aware that the owner of the flowers was quite near. she paused and considered within herself as to whether she should speak to him. he was sitting on the stump of a cherry tree, which had been cut down to a convenient height from the ground; on this was placed a square piece of turf, so that it formed a cushion, and was evidently a customary seat. near him was a row of beehives, under a slanting thatch, and their busy inhabitants, returning in numbers from their day's labour, hummed and buzzed around him, much to the annoyance of sober, the old sheep dog, who lay stretched at his feet. tib, the ugly cat, had taken up a discreet position at a little distance from the hives, and sat very wide awake, with the only eye she possessed on the alert for any stray game that might pass that way. neither peter nor his companions saw lilac; they all appeared absorbed in their own reflections, and the former had fixed his gaze vacantly on the copse beyond the orchard. a little while ago she would have passed quickly on without a moment's hesitation, but now she felt a sort of sympathy with peter. she was lonely, and he was lonely; besides, he had been kind to none-so-pretty. so presently she made a little rustle, which roused sober from his slumbers. he raised his head, and finding that it was a friend wagged his bushy tail and resumed his former position; but this roused peter too, and he slowly turned his eyes upon lilac and stared silently. knowing that it would be useless to wait for him to speak, she said timidly: "how pretty your pinks grow!" peter got up from his seat and looked seriously over the railing at the pinks. "they're well enough," he said; "but the slugs and snails torment 'em so." "i think they're as pretty as can be," said lilac; "and that sweet you can smell 'em ever so far. we had some up yonder," she added, with a nod towards the hills, "but they never had such blooms as yours." "maybe you'd like a posy," said peter, suddenly blurting out the words with a great effort. receiving a delighted answer in the affirmative he fumbled for some time in his pocket, and having at last produced a large clasp knife bent over his flower bed. the conversation having got on so far, lilac felt encouraged to continue it, and looked round her for a subject. "this is a nice, pretty corner to sit in," she said; "but don't the bees terrify you?" peter straightened himself up with the flowers he had cut in one hand, and stared in surprise. "the bees!" he repeated. he strode up to the hives, took up a handful of bees and let them crawl about him, which they did without any sign of anger. "why ever don't they sting yer?" asked lilac, shrinking away. "they know i like 'em," answered peter, returning to his flowers. "they know a lot, bees do." "i s'pose they're used to see you sitting here?" said lilac. peter nodded. "they're rare good comp'ny too," he said, "when you can follow their carryings on, and know what they're up to." lilac watched him thoughtfully as his large hand moved carefully amongst the flowers, cutting the best blossoms and adding them to the nosegay, which now began to take the shape of a large fan. while he had been talking of the bees his face had lost its dullness; he had not looked stupid at all, and scarcely ugly. she would try and make him speak again. "the blossoms is over now," she remarked, looking at the trees in the orchard; "but there's been a rare sight of 'em this year." "there has so," answered peter. "it'll be a fine season for the fruit if so be as we get sun to ripen it. the birds is the worst," he went on. "i've seen them old jaypies come out of the woods yonder as thick as thieves into the orchard. i don't seem to care about shootin' 'em, and scarecrows is no good." what a long sentence for peter! "do they now?" said lilac sympathisingly. "an' i s'pose," stroking tib on the head, "they don't mind tib neither?" "not they," said peter, with something approaching a chuckle. "they're altogether too many for _her_." "she's not a _pretty_ cat," said lilac doubtfully. "well, n-no," said peter, turning round to look at tib with some regret in his tone. "she ain't not to say exactly pretty, but she's a rare one for rats. ain't ye, tib?" as if in reply tib rose, fixed her front claws in the ground, and stretched her long lean body. she was not pretty, the most favourable judge could not have called her so. her coat was harsh and wiry, her head small and mean, with ears torn and scarred in many battles. her one eye, fiercely green, seemed to glare in an unnaturally piercing manner, but this was only because she was always on the lookout for her enemies--the rats. to complete her forlorn appearance she had only half a tail, and it was from this loss that her friendship with peter dated, for he had rescued her from a trap. he seemed now to feel that her character needed defence, for he went on after a pause: "she'll sit an' watch for 'em to come out of the ricks by the hour, without ever tasting food. better nor any tarrier she is at it." "ben says the rats is awful bad," said lilac. "they're that bold they'll steal the eggs, and scare off the hens when they're setting." "they do that," replied peter, shaking his head. "the poultry wants seeing to badly; but bella she don't seem to take to it, nor yet agnetta, and our hands is full outside." "i like the chickens and ducks and things," said lilac. "i wish aunt'd let me take 'em in hand." peter reared himself up from his bent position, and holding the big nosegay in one hand looked gravely down at his cousin. it was a good long distance from his height to lilac, and she seemed wonderfully small and slender and delicately coloured as she stood there in her straight black frock and long pinafore. she had taken off her sun bonnet, so that her little white face with all the hair fastened back from it was plainly to be seen. it struck peter as strange that such a small creature should talk of taking any more work "in hand" besides what she had to do already. "you hadn't ought to do hard work," he said at length; "you haven't got the strength." "i don't mind the work," said lilac, drawing up her little figure. "i'm stronger nor what i look. 'taint the work as i mind--" she stopped, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. peter saw them with the greatest alarm. somehow with his usual stupidity he had made his cousin cry. all he could do now was to take himself away as quickly as possible. he went up to sober and touched him gently with his foot. "come along, old chap," he said. "we've got to look after the lambs yonder." without another word or a glance at lilac he rolled away through the orchard with the dog at his heels, his great shoulders plunging along through the trees, and lilac's gay bunch of flowers swinging in one hand. he had quite forgotten to give it to her. she looked after him in surprise, with the tears still in her eyes. then a smile came. "he's a funny one surely," she said to herself. "why ever did he make off like that?" there was no one to answer except tib, who had jumped up into a tree and looked down at her with the most complete indifference. "anyway, he means to be kind," concluded lilac, "and it's a shame to flout him as they do, so it is." chapter eight. only a child! "who is the honest man? he who doth still and strongly good pursue, to god, his neighbour and himself most true, whom neither force nor fawning can unpin or wrench from giving all his due." _g. herbert_. joshua snell had by no means forgotten his little friend lilac. there were indeed many occasions in his solitary life when he missed her a great deal, and felt that his days were duller. for on her way to and from school she had been used to pay him frequent visits, if only for a few moments at a time, dust his room, clean the murky little window, and bring him a bunch of flowers or a dish of gossip. in this way she was a link between him and the small world of danecross down below; and in spite of his literary pursuits joshua by no means despised news of his neighbour's affairs, though he often received it with a look of indifference. besides this, her visits gave him an opportunity for talking, which was a great pleasure to him, and one in which he was seldom able to indulge, except on saturdays when he travelled down to the bar of the "three bells" for an hour's conversation. he was also fond of lilac for her own sake, and anxious to know if she were comfortable and happy in her new home. he soon began, therefore, to look out eagerly for her as he sat at work; but no little figure appeared, and he said to himself, "i shall see her o' sunday at church." but this expectation was also disappointed, and he learned from bella greenways that lilac and agnetta were to go in the evenings, it was more convenient. joshua could not do that; it had been his settled habit for years to stay at home on sunday evening, and it was impossible to alter it. so it came to pass that a whole month went by and he had not seen her once. then he said to himself, "if so be as they won't let her come to me, i reckon i must go and see her." and he locked up his cottage one evening and set out for the farm. joshua was a welcome guest everywhere, in spite of his poverty and lowly station; even at the greenways', who held their heads so high, and did not "mix", as bella called it, with the "poor people." this was partly because of his learning, which in itself gave him a position apart, and also because he had a certain dignity of character which comes of self-respect and simplicity wherever they are found. mrs greenways was indeed a little afraid of him, and as anxious to make the best of herself in his presence as she was in that of her rector and landlord, mr leigh. "why, you're quite a stranger, mr snell," she said when he appeared on this occasion. "now sit down, do, and rest yourself, and have a glass of something or a cup of tea." joshua being comfortably settled with a mug of cider at his elbow she continued: "greenways is over at lenham, and peter's out on the farm somewheres, but i expect they'll be in soon." the cobbler waited for some mention of lilac, but as none came he proceeded to make polite enquiries about other matters, such as the crops and the live stock, and the chances of good weather for the hay. he would not ask for her yet, he thought, because it might look as though he had no other reason for coming. "and how did you do with your ducks this season, mrs greenways, ma'am?" he said. "why, badly," replied mrs greenways in a mortified tone; "i never knew such onlucky broods. a cow got into the orchard and trampled down one. fifteen as likely ducklings as you'd wish to see. and the rats scared off a hen just as she'd hatched out; and we lost a whole lot more with the cramp." "h'm, h'm, h'm," said the cobbler sympathisingly, "that was bad, that was. and you ought to do well with your poultry in a fine place like this too." "well, we don't," said mrs greenways, rather shortly; "and that's all about it." "they want a lot of care, poultry does," said joshua reflectively; "a lot of care. i know a little what belongs to the work of a farm. years afore i came to these parts i used to live on one." "then p'r'aps you know what a heart-breaking, back-breaking, wearing-out life it is," burst out poor mrs greenways. "all plague an' no profit, that's what it is. it's drive, drive, drive, morning, noon, and night, and all to be done over again the next day. you're never through with it." "ah! i dessay," said joshua soothingly; "but there's your daughters now. they take summat off your hands, i s'pose? and that reminds me. there's little white lilac, as we used to call her,--you find her a handy sort of lass, don't you?" "she's well enough in her way," said mrs greenways. "i don't never regret giving her a home, and i know my duty to greenways' niece; but as for use--she's a child, mr snell, and a weakly little thing too, as looks hardly fit to hold a broom." "well, well, well," said joshua, "every little helps, and i expect you'll find her more use than you think for. even a child is known by its doings, as solomon says." mrs greenways interposed hastily, for she feared the beginning of what she called joshua's "preachments." "you'd like to have seen her, maybe; but she's gone with agnetta to the vicarage to take some eggs. mrs leigh likes to see the gals now and then." joshua made his visit as long as he could in the hope of lilac's return, but she did not appear, and at last he could wait no longer. "well, i'll go and have a look round for peter," he said; "and p'r'aps you'll send lilac up one day to see me. she was always a favourite of mine, was lilac white. and i'd a deal of respect for her poor mother too. any day as suits your convenience." "oh, she can come any day as for that, mr snell," replied mrs greenways with a little toss of her head. "it doesn't make no differ in a house whether a child like that goes or stays. she's plenty of time on her hands." "that's settled then, ma'am," said joshua, "and i shall be looking to see her soon." he made his farewell, leaving mrs greenways not a little annoyed that no mention had been made of agnetta in this invitation. "not that she'd go," she said to herself, "but he might a asked her as well as that little bit of a lilac." it was quite a long time before she found it possible to allow lilac to make this visit, for although she was small and useless and made no differ in the house, there were a wonderful number of things for her to do. lilac's work increased; other people beside mrs greenways discovered the advantage of her willing hands, and were glad to put some of their own business into them. thus the care of the poultry, which had been shuffled off bella's shoulders on to agnetta, now descended from her to lilac, the number of eggs brought in much increasing in consequence. lilac liked this part of her daily task; she was proud to discover the retired corners and lurking-places of the hens, and fill her basket with the brown and pink eggs. day by day she took more interest in her feathered family, and began to find distinguishing marks of character or appearance in each, she even made plans to defeat the inroads of the rats by coaxing her charges to lay their eggs in the barn, where they were more secure. "hens is sillier than most things," said ben, when she confided her difficulties to him; "what they've done once they'll do allers, it's no good fightin' with 'em." he consented, however, to nail some boards over the worst holes in the barn, and by degrees, after infinite patience, lilac succeeded in making some of the hens desert their old haunts and use their new abode. all this was encouraging. and about this time a new interest indoors arose which made her life at orchards farm less lonely, and was indeed an event of some importance to her. it happened in this way. ever since her arrival she had watched the proceedings of molly in the dairy with great attention. she had asked questions about the butter-making until molly was tired of answering, and had often begged to be allowed to help. this was never refused, although molly opened her eyes wide at the length of time she took to clean and rinse and scour, and by degrees she was trusted with a good deal of the work. the day came when she implored to be allowed to do it all--just for once. molly hesitated; she had as usual a hundred other things to do and would be thankful for the help, but was such a bit of a thing to be trusted? on the whole, from her experience of lilac she concluded that she was. "you won't let on to the missus as how you did it?" she said. and this being faithfully promised, lilac was left in quiet possession of the dairy. she felt almost as excited about that batch of butter as if her life depended on it. suppose it should fail? "but there!" she said to herself, "i won't think of that; i will make it do," and she set to work courageously. and now her habits of care and neatness and thoroughness formed in past years came to her service, as well as her close observation of molly. nothing was hurried in the process, every small detail earnestly attended to, and at last trembling with excitement and triumph she saw the result of her labours. the butter was a complete success. as she stood in the cool dark dairy with the firm golden pats before her, each bearing the sharply-cut impression of the stamp, lilac clasped her hands with delight. she had not known such a proud moment in all her life, except on the day when she had been queen. and this was a different sort of pride, for it was joy in her own handiwork-- something she herself had done with no one to help her. "oh," she said to herself, "if mother could but see that, how rare an' pleased she'd be!" maybe she did, but how silent it was without her voice to say "well done", and how blank without her face to smile on her child's success. there was no one to sympathise but molly, who came in presently with loud exclamations of surprise. "so you've got through? lor'-a-mussy, what a handy little thing it is! and you won't ever let on to missus or any of 'em?" lilac never did "let on." she kept molly's secret faithfully, and saw her butter packed up and driven off to lenham without saying a word. and from this time forward the making up of the butter, and sometimes the whole process, was left in her hands. it was not easy work, for all the things she had to use were too large and heavy for her small hands, and she had to stand on a stool to turn the handle of the big churn. but she liked it, and what she lacked in strength she made up in zeal; it was far more interesting than scrubbing floors and scouring saucepans. molly, too, was much satisfied with this new arrangement, for the dairy had always brought her more scolding from her mistress than any part of her work, and all now went on much more smoothly. lilac wondered sometimes that her aunt never seemed to notice how much she was in the dairy, or called her away to do other things; she always spoke as if it were molly alone who made the butter. in truth mrs greenways knew all about it, and was very content to let matters go on as they were; but something within her, that old jealousy of lilac and her mother, made it impossible for her to praise her niece for her services. she could not do it without deepening the contrast between her own daughters and lilac, which she felt, but would not acknowledge even to herself. so lilac got no praise and no thanks for what she did, and though she found satisfaction in turning out the butter well for its own sake, this was not quite enough. a very small word or look would have contented her. once when her uncle said: "the butter's good this week," she thought her aunt must speak, and glanced eagerly at her, but mrs greenways turned her head another way and no words come. lilac felt hurt and disappointed. it was a busier time than usual at the farm just now, though there was always plenty for everyone to do. it was hay harvest and there were extra hands at work, extra cooking to do, and many journeys to be made to and from the hayfield. lilac was on the run from morning till night, and even bella and agnetta were obliged to bestir themselves a little. in the big field beyond the orchard where the grass had stood so tall and waved its flowery heads so proudly, it was now lying low on the ground in the bright hot sun. the sky was cloudless, and the farmer's brow had cleared a little too, for he had a splendid crop and every chance of getting it in well. "to-morrow's lenham fete," said agnetta to lilac one evening. "it's a pity but what you can go," answered lilac. "we are going," said agnetta triumphantly, "spite of peter and father being so contrary; and we ain't a-going to walk there neither!" "how are you goin' to get there, then?" asked lilac. "mr buckle, he's goin' to drive us over in his gig," said agnetta. "my i shan't we cut a dash? bella, she's goin' to wear her black silk done up. we've washed it with beer and it rustles beautiful just like a new one. and she's got a hat turned up on one side and trimmed with gobelin." "what's that?" asked lilac, very much interested. "it's the new blue, silly," answered agnetta disdainfully. then she added: "my new parasol's got lace all round it, ever so deep. i expect we shall be about the most stylish girls there. won't charlotte smith stare!" "i s'pose it's summat like a fair, isn't it?" asked lilac. "lor', no!" exclaimed agnetta; "not a bit. not near so vulgar. there's a balloon, and a promnarde, and fireworks in the evening." all these things sounded mysteriously splendid to lilac's unaccustomed ears. she did not know what any of them meant, but they seemed all the more attractive. "you've got to be so sober and old-fashioned like," continued agnetta, "that i s'pose you wouldn't care to go even if you could, would you? you'd rather stop at home and work." "i'd like to go," answered lilac; "but molly couldn't never get through with the work to-morrow if we was all to go. there's a whole lot to do." "oh, of course you couldn't go," said agnetta loftily. "bella and me's different. we're on a different footing." agnetta had heard her mother use this expression, and though she would have been puzzled to explain it, it gave her an agreeable sense of superiority to her cousin. in spite of soberness and gravity, lilac felt not a little envious the next day when mr buckle drove up in his high gig to fetch her cousins to the fete. she could hear the exclamations of surprise and admiration which fell from mrs greenways as they appeared ready to start. "well," she said with uplifted hands, "you do know how to give your things a bit of style. that i _will_ say." bella had spent days of toil in preparing for this occasion, and the result was now so perfect in her eyes that it was well worth the labour. the silk skirt crackled and rustled and glistened with every movement; the new hat was perched on her head with all its ribbons and flowers nodding. she was now engaged in painfully forcing on a pair of lemon-coloured gloves, but suddenly there was the sound of a crack, and her smile changed to a look of dismay. "there!" she exclaimed, "if it hasn't gone, right across the thumb." "lor', what a pity," said her mother. "well, you can't stop to mend it; you must keep one hand closed, and it'll never show." agnetta now appeared. she was dressed in the sunday blue, with bella's silver locket round her neck and a bangle on her wrist. but the glory of her attire was the new parasol; it was so large and was trimmed with such a wealth of cotton lace, that the eye was at once attracted to it, and in fact when she bore it aloft her short square figure walking along beneath it became quite a secondary object. lilac watched the departure from the dairy window, which, overgrown with creepers, made a dark frame for the brightly-coloured picture. there was mr buckle, a young farmer of the neighbourhood, in a light-grey suit with a blue satin tie and a rose in his buttonhole. there was bella, her face covered with self-satisfied smiles, mounting to his side. there was agnetta carrying the new parasol high in the air with all its lace fluttering. how gay and happy they all looked! mrs greenways stood nodding at the window. she had meant to go out to the gate, but bella had checked her. "lor', ma," she said, "don't you come out with that great apron on--you're a perfect guy." when the start was really made, and her cousins were whirled off to the unknown delights of lenham, leaving only a cloud of dust behind them, lilac breathed a little sigh. the sun was so bright, the breeze blew so softly, the sky was so blue--it was the very day for a holiday. she would have liked to go too, instead of having a hard day's work before her. "where's lilac?" called out mrs greenways in her high-pitched worried voice. "what on earth's got that child? here's everything to do and no one to do it. ah! there you are," as lilac ran out from the dairy. "now, you haven't got no time to moon about to-day. you must stir yourself and help all you can." "bees is swarmin'!" said ben, thrusting his head in at the kitchen door, and immediately disappearing again. "bother the bees!" exclaimed mrs greenways crossly. but on molly the news had a different effect. it was counted lucky to be present at the housing of a new swarm. she at once left her occupation, seized a saucepan and an iron spoon, and regardless of her mistress rushed out into the garden, making a hideous clatter as she went. "there now, look at that!" said mrs greenways with a heated face. "she's off for goodness knows how long, and a batch of loaves burning in the oven, and your uncle wanting his tea sent down into the field. why ever should they want to go swarmin' now in that contrairy way?" she opened the oven door and took out the bread as she spoke. "now, don't you go running off, lilac," she continued. "there's enough of 'em out there to settle all the bees as ever was. you get your uncle's tea and take it out, and peter's too. they won't neither of 'em be in till supper. hurry now." the last words were added simply from habit, for she had soon discovered that it was impossible to hurry lilac. what she did was well and thoroughly done, but not even the example which surrounded her at orchards farm could make her in a bustle. the whole habit of her life was too strong within her to be altered. mrs greenways glanced at her a little impatiently as she steadily made the tea, poured it into a tin can, and cut thick hunches of bread and butter. "i could a done it myself in, half the time," she thought; but she was obliged to confess that lilac's preparations if slow were always sure, and that she never forgot anything. lilac tilted her sunbonnet well forward and set out, walking slowly so as not to spill the tea. how blazing the sun was, though it was now nearly four o'clock. in the distance she could see the end of her journey, the big bare field beyond the orchard full of busy figures. as she passed the kitchen garden, molly, rushing back from her encounter with the bees, almost ran against her. "there was two on 'em," she cried, her good-natured face shining with triumph and the heat of her exertions; "and we've housed 'em both beautiful. lor'! ain't it hot?" she stood with her iron weapons hanging down on each side, quite ready for a chat to delay her return to the house. molly was always cheerfully ready to undertake any work that was not strictly her own. lilac felt sorry, as they went on their several ways, to think of the scolding that was waiting for her; but it was wasted pity, for molly's shoulders were broad, and a scolding more or less made no manner of difference to them. there were all sorts and sizes of people at work in the hayfield as lilac passed through it. machines had not yet come into use at danecross, so that the services of men, women, and children were much in request at this busy time. the farmer, remembering the motto, was determined to make his hay while the sun shone, and had collected hands from all parts of the neighbourhood. lilac knew most of them, and passed along exchanging greetings, to where her uncle sat on his grey cob at the end of the field. he was talking to peter, who stood by him with a wooden pitchfork in his hand. lilac thought that her uncle's face looked unusually good-tempered as she handed up his meal to him. he sat there eating and drinking, and continued his conversation with his son. "well, and what d'ye think of buckle's offer for the colt?" "pity we can't sell him," answered peter. "_can't_ sell him!" repeated the farmer; "i'm not so sure about that. maybe he'd go sound now. he doesn't show no signs of lameness." "wouldn't last a month on the roads," said peter. the farmer's face clouded a little. "well," he said hesitatingly, "that's buckle's business. he can look him over, and if he don't see nothing wrong--" "we hadn't ought to sell him," said peter in exactly the same voice. "he's not fit for the roads. take him off soft ground and he'd go queer in a week." "he might or he mightn't," said the farmer impatiently; "all i know is i want the cash. it'd just pay that bill of jones's, as is always bothering for his money. i declare i hate going into lenham for fear of meeting that chap." peter had begun to toss the hay near him with his pitchfork. he did not look at his father or change his expression, but he said again: "knowing what we do, we hadn't ought to sell him." the farmer struck his stirrup-iron so hard with his stick that even the steady grey pony was startled. "i wish," he said with an oath, "that you'd never found it out then. i'd like to be square and straight about the horse as well as anyone. i've always liked best to be straight, but i'm too hard up to be so particular as that comes to. it's easy enough," he added moodily, "for a man to be honest with his pockets full of money." "i could get the same price for none-so-pretty," said peter after a long pause. "mrs grey wants her--over at cuddingham. took a fancy to her a month ago." "i'll not have her sold," said the farmer quickly. "what's the good of selling her? she's useful to us, and the colt isn't." "she ain't not exactly so _useful_ to us as the other cows," said peter. "she's more of a fancy." "well, she's yours," answered the farmer sullenly. "you can do as you like with her of course; but i'm not going to be off my bargain with buckle whatever you do." he shook his reins and jogged slowly away to another part of the field, while peter fell steadily to work again with his pitchfork. lilac was packing the things that had been used into her basket, and glanced at him now and then with her thoughts full of what she had just heard. her opinion of peter had changed very much lately. she had found, since her first conversation with him, that in many things he was not stupid but wise. he knew for instance a great deal about all the animals on the farm, their ways and habits, and how to treat them when they were ill. there were some matters to be sure in which he was laughably simple, and might be deceived by a child, but there were others on which everyone valued his opinion. his father certainly deferred to him in anything connected with the live stock, and when peter had discovered a grave defect in the colt he did not dream of disputing it. so lilac's feeling of pity began to change into something like respect, and she was sure too that peter was anxious to show her kindness, though the expression of it was difficult to him. since the day when he had gone away from her so suddenly, frightened by her tears, they had had several talks together, although the speech was mostly on lilac's side. she shrank from him no longer, and sometimes when the real peter came up from the depths where he lay hidden, and showed a glimpse of himself through the dull mask, she thought him scarcely ugly. would he sell none-so-pretty? she knew what it would cost him, for since ben's history she had observed the close affection between them. there were not so many people fond of peter that he could afford to lose even the love of a cow--and yet he would rather do it than let the colt be sold! as she turned this over in her mind lilac lingered over her preparations, and when peter came near her tossing the hay to right and left with his strong arms, she looked up at him and said: "i'm sorry about none-so-pretty." peter stopped a moment, took off his straw hat and rubbed his hot red face with his handkerchief. "thank yer," he answered; "so am i." "is it _certain sure_ you'll sell her?" asked lilac. peter nodded. "she'll have a good home yonder," he said; "a rare fuss they'll make with her." "she'll miss you though," said lilac, shaking her head. "well," answered peter, "i shouldn't wonder if she did look out for me a bit just at first. i've always been foolish over her since she was ill." "but if uncle sells the colt i s'pose you won't sell her, will you?" continued lilac. "he _won't_ sell him," was peter's decided answer, as he turned to his work again. now, nothing could have been more determined than mr greenways' manner as he rode away, but yet when lilac heard peter speak so firmly she felt he must be right. the colt would not be sold and none-so-pretty would have to go in his place. she returned to the farm more than ever impressed by peter's power. quiet, dull peter who seemed hardly able to put two sentences together, and had never an answer ready for his sisters' sharp speeches. that evening when bella and agnetta returned from lenham, lilac was at the gate. she had been watching for them eagerly, for she was anxious to hear all about the grand things they had seen, and hoped they would be inclined to talk about it. as they were saying goodbye to mr buckle with a great many smiles and giggles, the farmer came out. "stop a bit, buckle," he said, "i want a word with you about the colt. i've changed my mind since the morning." lilac heard no more as she followed her cousins into the house; but there was no need. peter had been right. during supper nothing was spoken of but the fete--the balloon, the band, the fireworks, and the dresses, charlotte smith's in particular. lilac was intensely interested, and it was trying after the meal was over to have to help molly in taking away the dishes, and lose so much of the conversation. this business over she drew near agnetta and made an attempt to learn more, but in vain. agnetta was in her loftiest mood, and though she was full of private jokes with bella, she turned away coldly from her cousin. they had evidently some subject of the deepest importance to talk of which needed constant whispers, titters from bella, and even playful slaps now and then. lilac could hear nothing but "he says--she says," and then a burst of laughter, and "go along with yer nonsense." it was dull to be left out of it all, and she wished more than ever that she had gone to the fete too. "lilac," said her aunt, "just run and fetch your uncle's slippers." she was already on her way when the farmer took his pipe out of his mouth and looked round. he had been moody and cross all supper-time, and now he glanced angrily at his two daughters as they sat whispering in the corner. "it's someone else's turn to run, it seems to me," he said; "lilac's been at it all day. you go, agnetta." and as agnetta left the room with an injured shrug, he continued: "seems too as if lilac had all the work and none of the fun. you'd like an outing as well as any of 'em--wouldn't you, my maid?" lilac did not know what to make of such unexpected kindness. as a rule her uncle seemed hardly to know that she was in the house. she did not answer, for she was very much afraid of him, but she looked appealingly at her aunt. "i'm sure, greenways," said the latter in an offended tone, "you needn't talk as if the child was put upon. and your own niece, and an orphan besides. i know my duty better. and as for holidays and fetes and such, 'tisn't nateral to suppose as how lilac would want to go to 'em after the judgment as happened to her directly after the last one. leastways, not yet awhile. there'd be something ondacent in it, to my thinking." "well, there! it doesn't need so much talking," replied the farmer. "i'm not wanting her to go to fetes. but there's mr snell--he was asking for her yesterday when i met him. let her go tomorrow and spend the day with him." "if there is a busier day than another, it's thursday," said mrs greenways fretfully. "why, as to that, she's only a child, and makes no differ in the house, as you always say," remarked the farmer; "anyhow, i mean her to go to-morrow, and that's all about it." lilac went to bed that night with a heart full of gratitude for her uncle's kindness, and delight at the promised visit; but her last thought before she slept was: "i'm sorry as how none-so-pretty has got to be sold." chapter nine. common things. "...find out men's wants and will and meet them there, all earthly joys grow less to the one joy of doing kindnesses." _george herbert_. lilac could hardly believe her own good fortune when nothing happened the next morning to prevent her visit, not even a cross word nor a complaint from her aunt, who seemed to have forgotten her objections of last night and to be quite pleased that she should go. mrs greenways put a small basket into her hand before she started, into which she had packed a chicken, a pot of honey, and a pat of fresh butter. "there," she said, "that's a little something from orchards farm, tell him. the chick's our own rearing, and the honey's from peter's bees, and the butter's fresh this morning." she nodded and smiled good-naturedly; joshua should see there was no stint at the farm. "be back afore dusk," she called after lilac as she watched her from the gate. so there was nothing to spoil the holiday or to damp lilac's enjoyment in any way, and she felt almost as merry as she used to be before she came to live in the valley, and had begun to have cares and troubles. for one whole day she was going to be white lilac again, with no anxieties about the butter; she would hear no peevish voices or wrangling disputes, she would have kindness and smiles and sunshine all round her, and the blue sky above. in this happy mood everything along the well-known road had new beauties, and when she turned up the hill and felt the keener air blow against her face, it was like the greeting of an old friend. the very flowers in the tall overgrown hedges were different to those which grew in the valley, and much sweeter; she pulled sprays of them as she went along until she had a large straggling bunch to carry as well as her basket, and so at last entered joshua's cottage with both hands full. "now, uncle joshua," she said, when the first greetings over he had settled to his work again, "i've come to dinner with you, and i've brought it along with me, and until it's ready you're not to look once into the kitchen. you couldn't never guess what it is, so you needn't try; and you mustn't smell it more nor you can help while it's cooking." it was a proud moment for lilac when, the fowl being roasted to a turn, the table nicely laid, and the bunch of flowers put exactly in the middle, she led the cobbler up to the feast. even if joshua had smelt the fowl he concealed it very well, and his whole face expressed the utmost astonishment, while lilac watched him in an ecstasy of delight. "my word!" he exclaimed, "its fit for a king. i feel," looking down at his clothes, "as if i ought to have on my sunday best." lilac was almost too excited to eat anything herself, and presently, when she saw joshua pause after his first mouthful, she enquired anxiously: "isn't it good, uncle?" "fact is," he answered, "it's _too_ good. i don't really feel as how i ought to eat such dillicate food. not being ill, or weak, or anyway picksome in my appetite." "i made sure you'd say that," said lilac triumphantly; "and i just made up my mind i'd cook it without telling what it was. you've got to eat it now, uncle joshua. you couldn't never be so ungrateful as to let it spoil." "there's mrs wishing now," said joshua, stilt hesitating, "a sickly ailing body as 'ud relish a morsel like this." it was not until lilac had set his mind at rest by promising to take some of the fowl to mrs wishing before she returned, that he was able to abandon himself to thorough enjoyment. lilac knew then by his silence that her little feast was heartily appreciated, and she would not disturb him by a word, although there were many things she wanted to say. but at last joshua had finished. "a fatter fowl nor a finer, nor a better cooked one couldn't be," he said, as he laid down his knife and fork. "not a bit o' dryness in the bird: juicy all through and as sweet as a nut." ready now for a little conversation, he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe while lilac stood near washing the dishes and plates. "it's thirty years ago," he said, speaking in a jerky voice so as not to interfere with the comfort of his pipe, "since i had a fowl for dinner-- and i mind very well when it was. it was my wedding-day. away up in the north it was, and parson gave the feast." "was that when you used to play the clar'net in church, uncle?" asked lilac. joshua nodded. "we was a clar'net and a fiddle and a bass viol," he said reflectively. "never kept time--the bass viol didn't. couldn't never get it into his head. he wasn't never any shakes of a player--and he was a good feller too." "did they play at your wedding?" asked lilac. "they did that," he answered; "in church and likewise after the ceremony. lor'! to hear how the bass viol did tag behind in _rockingham_. i can hear him now. 'twas like two solos being played, as one might say. no unity at all. i never hear that tune now but what it carries me back to my wedding-day and the bass viol; and the taste of that fowl's done the same thing. it's a most pecooliar thing, is the memory." lilac liked to hear joshua talk about old days, but she was eager too to tell her own news. there was so much that he did not know: all about hay-harvest, and her butter-making, about lenham fete, and her cousins, and, finally, all about none-so-pretty and peter. "i do think," she added, "as how i like him best of any of 'em, for all they say he's so common." "common or uncommon, they'd do badly without him," muttered joshua. "he's the very prop and pillar of the place, is peter; if a wall's strong enough to hold the roof up, you don't ask if it's made of marble or stone." "are common things bad things?" asked lilac suddenly. joshua took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at her in some surprise. "common things--eh?" he repeated. "yes, uncle," said lilac hesitatingly, and trying to think of how to make it clear. but she could only add: "they call the pigs common too." "well, as to pigs," said joshua, "i wish they was commoner still. i don't despise a bit of bacon myself. i call that a good thing anyhow. when one comes to look at it," he continued after a few puffs at his pipe, "the best things of all is common. the things as is under our feet and nigh to our hand and easy to be got. there's the flowers now-- the common ones which grow so low as any child can pick 'em in the fields, daisies and such. there's the blue sky as we can all see, poor as well as rich. there's rain and sunshine and air and a heap else as belongs to all alike, and which we couldn't do without. the common things is the best things, don't you make any mistake about that. there's your own name now--lilac. it's a common bush lilac is; it grows every bit as well in a little bit of garden nigh the road as in a grand park, and it hasn't no rare colours to take the eye. and yet on a sunshiny day after rain the folks passing'll say, `whatever is it as smells so beautiful?' why it's just the common lilac bush. you ought to be like that in a manner of speaking--not to try and act clever and smart so as to make folks stare, but to be good-tempered and peaceful and loving, so as they say when you leave 'em, `what made the place so pleasant? why, it was lilac white. she ain't anything out of the common, but we miss her now she's gone--'" the frequent mention of her name reminded lilac of something she wanted to say, and she broke in suddenly: "why, i've never thought to thank you, uncle, for all that bloom you got me on may day. what a long way back it do seem!" joshua looked perplexed. "what's the child talking on?" he said. "i didn't get no flowers." "whoever in all the world could it a been then?" said lilac slowly. "you're sure you haven't forgotten, uncle joshua?" "sartain sure!" "you didn't ask no one to get it?" "never mentioned a word to a livin' bein'." lilac stared thoughtfully at the cobbler, who had now gone back to his little shed and was hard at work. "p'r'aps, then," she said, "'twarn't you neither who sent mother's cactus down to the farm?" "similarly," replied he, "it certainly was _not_; so you've got more friends than you reckoned for, you see." lilac stood in the doorway, her bonnet dangling in one hand, her eyes fixed absently on joshua's brown fingers. "i made sure," she said, "as how it was you. i couldn't think as there was anybody else to mind." it was getting late. without looking at the clock she knew that her holiday would soon be over, because through joshua's little window there came a bright sun beam which was never there till after five. she tied on her bonnet, prepared a choice morsel of chicken for mrs wishing, and set out on her further journey after a short farewell to the cobbler. joshua never liked saying goodbye, and did it so gruffly that it might have sounded sulky to the ear of a stranger, but lilac knew better. she had a "goodish step" before her, as she called it to herself, and if she were to get back to the farm before dusk she must make haste. so she hurried on, and soon in the distance appeared the two little white cottages side by side, perched on the edge of the steep down. the one in which she had lived with her mother was empty, and as she got close to it and stopped to look over the paling into the small strip of garden, she felt sorry to see how forlorn and deserted it looked. it had always been so trim and neat, and its white hearthstone and open door had invited the passer-by to enter. now the window shutters were fastened, the door was locked, the straggling flowers and vegetables were mixed up with tall weeds and nettles--it was all lifeless and cold. it was a pity. mother would not have liked to see it. lilac pushed her hand through the palings and managed to pick some sweet-peas which were trailing themselves helplessly about for want of support, then she went on to the next gate. poor mrs wishing was very lonely now that her only neighbour was gone; very few people passed over that way or came up so far from danecross. sometimes when dan'l had a job on in the woods he was away for days and she saw no one at all, unless she was able to get to the cobbler's cottage, and that was seldom. lilac knocked gently at the half-open door, and hearing no answer went in. mrs wishing was there, sitting asleep in a chair by the hearth with her head hanging uncomfortably on one side; her dress was untidy, her hair rough, and her face white and pinched. lilac cast one glance at her and then looked round the room. there were some white ashes on the hearth, a kettle hanging over them by its chain, and at mrs wishing's elbow stood an earthenware teapot, from which came a faint sickly smell; and when lilac saw that she nodded to herself, for she knew what it meant. the next moment the sleeper opened her large grey eyes and gazed vacantly at her visitor. "it's me," said lilac. "it's lilac white." mrs wishing still gazed without speaking; there was an unearthly flickering light in her eyes. at last she muttered indistinctly: "you're just like her." not in the least alarmed or surprised at this condition, lilac glanced at the teapot and said reproachfully: "you've been drinking poppy tea, and you promised mother you wouldn't do it no more." mrs wishing struggled feebly against the drowsiness which overpowered her, and murmured apologetically: "i didn't go to do it, but it seemed as if i couldn't bear the pain." lilac set down her basket, and opened the door of a cupboard near the chimney corner. "where's your kindlin's?" she asked. "i'll make you a cup of real tea, and that'll waken you up a bit. and uncle joshua's sent you a morsel of chicken." "ha'n't got no kindlin's and no tea," murmured mrs wishing. "give me a drink o' water from the jug yonder." no tea! that was an unheard-of thing. as lilac brought the water she said indignantly: "where's mr wishing then? he hadn't ought to go and leave you like this without a bit or a drop in the house." mrs wishing seemed a little refreshed by the water and was able to speak more distinctly. she sat up in her chair and made a few listless attempts to fasten up her hair and put herself to rights. "'tain't dan'l's fault this time," she said; "he's up in the woods felling trees for a week. they're sleeping out till the job's done. he did leave me money, and i meant to go down to the shop. but then i took bad and i couldn't crawl so far, and nobody didn't pass." "and hadn't you got nothing in the house?" asked lilac. "only a crust a' bread, and i didn't seem to fancy it. i craved so for a cup a' tea. and i had some dried poppy heads by me. so i held out as long as i could, and nobody didn't come. and this morning i used my kindlin's and made the tea. and when i drank it i fell into a blessed sleep, and i saw lots of angels, and their harps was sounding beautiful in my head all the time. when i was a gal there was a hymn--it was about angels and golden crownds and harps, but i can't put it rightly together now. so then i woke and there was you, and i thought you was a sperrit. seems a pity to wake up from a dream like that. but _i_ dunno." she let her head fall wearily back as she finished. lilac was not in the least interested by the vision. she was accustomed to hear of mrs wishing's angels and harps, and her mind was now entirely occupied by earthly matters. "what you want is summat to eat and drink," she said, "and i shall just have to run back to uncle joshua's for some bread and tea. but first i'll get a few sticks and make you a blaze to keep you comp'ny." mrs wishing's eyes rested an her like those of a child who is being comforted and taken care of, as having collected a few sticks she knelt on the hearth and fanned them into a blaze with her pinafore. "you couldn't bide a little?" she said doubtfully, as lilac turned towards the door. "i'll be back in no time," said lilac, "and then you shall have a nice supper, and you mustn't take no more of this," pointing to the teapot. "you know you promised mother." "i didn't _go to_," repeated mrs wishing submissively; "but it seemed as if i couldn't bear the gnawing in my inside." it did not take long for lilac, filled with compassion for her old friend, to run back to the cobbler's cottage; but there she was delayed a little, for joshua had questions to ask, although he was ready and eager to fill her basket with food. the return was slower, for it was all uphill and her burden made a difference to her speed, so that it was long past sunset when she reached mrs wishing for the second time. then, after coaxing her to eat and drink, lilac had to help her upstairs and put her to bed like a child, and finally to sit by her side and talk soothingly to her until she dropped into a deep sleep. her duties over, and everything put ready to. mrs wishing's hand for the next morning, she now had time to notice that it was quite dusk, and that the first stars were twinkling in the sky. with a sudden start she remembered her aunt's words: "be back afore dusk," and clasped her hands in dismay. it was no use to hurry now, for however quickly she went the farm would certainly be closed for the night before she reached it. should she stay where she was till the morning? no, it would be better to take the chance of finding someone up to let her in. mrs wishing would be all right now that joshua knew about her; "and anyway, i'm glad i came," said lilac to herself, "even if aunt does scold a bit." with this thought to console her, she stepped out into the cool summer night, and began her homeward journey. it was not very dark, for it was midsummer--near saint barnabas day, when there is scarcely any night at all-- "barnaby bright all day and no night!" lilac had often heard her mother say that rhyme, and she remembered it now. it was all very, very still, so that all manner of sounds too low to have been noticed amongst the noises of the day were now plainly to be heard. a soft wind went whispering and sighing to itself in the trees overhead, carrying with it the sweetness of the hayfields and the honeysuckle in the hedges, owls hooted mysteriously, and the frogs croaked in some distant pond. creatures never seen in the daytime were now awake and busy. as lilac ran along, the bats whirred close past her face, and she saw in the grass by the wayside the steady little light of the glow-worms. it was certainly very late; there was hardly a glimmer of hope that anyone would be up at the farm. it was equally certain that, if there were, a scolding waited for lilac. either way it was bad, she thought. she wanted to go to bed, for she was very tired, but she did not want to be scolded to-night; she could bear that better in the morning. when she reached the house, therefore, and found it all silent and dark, with no light in any window and no sound of any movement, she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. but presently, as she stood there forlornly, with only the sky overhead full of stars blinking their cold bright eyes at her, she began to long to creep in somewhere and rest. her limbs ached, her head felt heavy, and her hard little bed seemed a luxury well worth the expense of a scolding. should she venture to knock at the door? she had almost determined on this bold step, when quite suddenly a happy idea came to her. there would perhaps be some door open in the outbuildings, either in the loft or the barn or the stables, where she could get in and find shelter for the night. it was worth trying at any rate. with renewed hope she ran across the strawyard and tried the great iron ring in the stable door. it was not locked. here were shelter and rest at last, and no one to scold! she crept in, and was just closing the heavy door when towards her, across the rickyard, came the figure of a man. his head was bent so that she could not see his face, but she thought from his lumbering walk that it must be peter, and in a moment it flashed across her mind that he had just got back from cuddingham. while she stood hesitating just within the door the man came quite close, and before she could call out the key rattled in the lock and heavy footsteps tramped away again. then it was peter. but surely he must have seen her, and if so why had he locked her in? anyhow here she was for the night, and the next thing to do was to find a bed. she groped her way past the stalls of the three pleasants, whose dwelling she had invaded, to the upright ladder which led to the loft. the horses were all lying down after their hard day's work, and only one of them turned his great head with a rattle of his halter, to see who this small intruder could be. lilac clambered up the ladder and was soon in the dark fragrant-smelling loft above, where the trusses of hay and straw were mysteriously grouped under the low thick beams. there was no lack of a soft warm nest here, and the close neighbourhood of the pleasants made it feel secure and friendly; nothing could possibly be better. she took off her shoes, curled herself up cosily in the hay, and shut her weary eyes. presently she opened them drowsily again, and then discovered that her lodging was shared by a companion, for on the rafters just above her head, her single eye gleaming in the darkness, sat peter's cat tib. lilac called to her, but she took no notice and did not move, having her own affairs to conduct at that time of night. lilac watched her dreamily for a little while, and then her thoughts wandered on to peter and became more and more confused. he got mixed up with joshua, and the cactus and none-so-pretty and heaps of white flowers. "the common things are the best things," she seemed to hear over and over again. then quite suddenly she was in mrs wishing's cottage, and the loft was filled with the heavy sickly smell of poppy tea: it was so strong that it made her feel giddy and her eyelids seemed pressed down by a firm hand. after that she remembered nothing more that night. chapter ten. the credit of the farm. "many littles make a mickle."--_scotch proverb_. she was awakened the next morning by trampling noises in the stable below, and starting up could not at first make out where she was. the sun was shining through a rift in the loft door, tib was gone, cocks were crowing outside, all the world was up and busy. she could hear ben's gruff voice and the clanking of chains and harness, and soon he and the three horses had left the stable and gone out to their day's work. it must be late, therefore, and she must lose no time in presenting herself at the house. perhaps it might be possible, she thought, to get up to her attic without seeing anyone, and tidy herself a bit first; she should then have more courage to face her aunt, for at present with her rough hair and pieces of hay and straw clinging to her clothes, she felt like some little stray wanderer. she approached the house cautiously and peeped in at the back door before entering, to see who was in the kitchen. bella was there talking to molly, whose broad red face was thrust eagerly forward as though she were listening to something interesting. they were indeed so deeply engaged that lilac felt sure they would not notice her, and she took courage and went in. "it's a mercy she wasn't killed," molly was saying. "she's no light weight to fall, isn't the missus." "it's completely upset me," said bella in a faint voice, with one hand on her heart. "i tremble all over still." "and to think," said molly, "as it was only yesterday i said to myself, `i'll darn that carpet before i'm an hour older'." "well, it's a pity you didn't," said bella sharply; "just like your careless ways." molly shook her head. "'twasn't to _be_," she said. "'twasn't for nothing that i spilt the salt twice, and dreamt of water." "the doctor says it's a bad sprain," continued bella; "and it's likely she'll be laid up for a month. perfect rest's the only thing." "_i_ had a cousin," said molly triumphantly, "what had a similar accident. a heavy woman she was, like the missus in build. information set in with _her_ and she died almost immediate." lilac did not wait to hear more; she made her escape safely to her attic, and soon afterwards found agnetta and learnt from her the history of the accident. mrs greenways had had a bad fall; she had caught her foot in a hole in the carpet and twisted her ankle, and the doctor said it was a wonder she had not broken any bones. everyone in the house had so much to say, and was so excited about this misfortune, that lilac's little adventure was passed over without notice, and the scolding she had dreaded did not come at all. poor mrs greenways had other things to think of as she lay groaning on the sofa, partly with pain and partly at the prospect before her. to be laid up a month! it was easy for the doctor to talk, but what would become of things? who would look after molly? who would see to the dairy? it would all go to rack and ruin, and she must lie here idle and look on. her husband stood by trying to give comfort, but every word he said only seemed to make matters worse. "why, there's bella now," he suggested; "she ought to be able to take your place for a bit." "and that just shows how much you know about the indoors work, greenways," said his wife fretfully; "to talk of bella! why, i'd as soon trust the dairy to peter's cat as bella--partikler now she's got that young buckle in her head. she don't know cream from buttermilk." "why, then, you must just leave the butter to molly as usual, and let the girls see after the rest," said mr greenways soothingly. "oh, it's no use talking like that," said his wife impatiently; "it's only aggravating to hear you. i suppose you think things are done in the house without heads or hands either. girls indeed! there's agnetta, knows no more nor a baby, and only that little bit of a lilac as can put her hand to anything." finding his efforts useless, mr greenways shrugged his shoulders and went out, leaving his wife alone with her perplexities. the more she thought them over the worse they seemed. to whom could she trust whilst she was helpless? who would see that the butter was ready and fit for market? not bella, not agnetta, and certainly not molly. really and truly there was only that little bit of a lilac, as she called her, to depend on--she would do her work just as well whether she were overlooked or not, mrs greenways felt sure. it was no use to shut her eyes to it any longer, lilac white was not a burden but a support, not useless but valuable, only a child, but more dependable than many people of twice her years. it was bitter to poor mrs greenways to acknowledge this, even to herself, for the old jealousy was still strong within her. "i s'pose," she said with a groan, "there was something in mary white's upbringing after all. i'm not agoin' to own up to it, though, afore other folks." when a little later lilac was told that her aunt wanted her, she thought that the scolding had come at last, and went prepared to bear it as well as she could. it was, however, for a surprisingly different purpose. "look here, lilac," said mrs greenways carelessly, "you've been a good deal in the dairy lately, and you ought to have picked up a lot about it." "i can make the butter all myself, aunt," replied lilac, "without molly touching it." "well, i hope you're thankful for such a chance of learning," said mrs greenways; "not but what you're a good child enough, i've nothing to say against you. but what i want to say is this: molly can't do everything while i'm laid by, and i think i shall take her from the dairy-work altogether, and let you do it." lilac's eyes shone with delight. her aunt spoke as though she were bestowing a favour, and she felt it indeed to be such. "oh! thank you, aunt," she cried. "i'm quite sure as how i can do it, and i like it ever so much." "with agnetta to help you i dessay you'll get through with it," said mrs greenways graciously, and so the matter was settled. lilac was dairymaid! no longer a little household drudge, called hither and thither to do everyone's work, but an important person with a business and position of her own. what an honour it was! there was only one drawback--there was no mother to rejoice with her, or to understand how glad she felt about it. lilac was obliged to keep her exultation to herself. she would have liked to tell peter of her advancement, but just now he was at work on some distant part of the farm, and she saw him very seldom, for her new office kept her more within doors than usual. the good-natured molly was, however, delighted with the change, and full of wonder at lilac's cleverness. "it's really wonderful," she said; "and what beats me is that it allus turns out the same." with this praise lilac had to be content, and she busied herself earnestly in her own little corner with increasing pride in her work. sometimes, it is true, she looked enviously at agnetta, who seemed to have nothing to do but enjoy herself after her own fashion. since lenham fete bella and she had had some confidential joke together, which they carried on by meaning nods and winks and mysterious references to "charlie." they were also more than ever engaged in altering their dresses and trimming their hats, and although lilac was kept completely outside all this, she soon began to connect it with the visits of young mr buckle. she thought it a little unkind of agnetta not to let her into the secret, and it was dull work to hear so much laughter going on without ever joining in it; but very soon she knew what it all meant. "heard the news?" cried agnetta, rushing into the dairy, then, without waiting for an answer, "bella's goin' to get married. guess who to?" "young mr buckle," said lilac without a moment's hesitation. "as soon as ever ma's about again the wedding's to be," said agnetta exultingly. "i'm to be bridesmaid, and p'r'aps charlotte smith as well." lilac, who had stopped her scrubbing to listen, now went on with it, and agnetta looked down at her kneeling figure with some contempt. "what a lot of trouble you take over it!" she said. "molly used to do it in half the time." "if i ain't careful," answered lilac, "the butter'd get a taste." "i'll help you a bit," said her cousin condescendingly. "i'll rinse these pans for you." lilac was glad to have agnetta's company, for she wanted to hear all about bella's wedding; but agnetta's help she was not so anxious for, because she usually had to do the work all over again. agnetta's idea of excellence was to get through her work quickly, to make it look well outside, to polish the part that showed and leave the rest undone. speed and show had always been the things desired in the household at orchards farm--not what _was_ good but what _looked_ good, and could be had at small expense and labour. beneath the smart clothing which mrs greenways and her daughters displayed on sundays, strange discoveries might have been made. rents fastened up with pins, stains hidden by stylish scarves and mantles, stockings unmended, boots trodden down or in holes. a feather in the hat, a bangle on the arm, and a bunched-up dress made up for these deficiencies. "if it don't show it don't matter," bella was accustomed to say. agnetta paused to rest after about two minutes. "bella won't have nothing of this sort to do after she's married," she said. "charlie says she needn't stir a finger, not unless she likes. she'll be able to sit with her hands before her just like a lady." "i shouldn't care about being a lady if that's what i had to do," said lilac. "i should think it would be dull. i'd rather see after the farm, if i was bella." "you don't mean to tell me you _like work_?" said agnetta, staring. "you wouldn't do it, not if you weren't obliged? 'tain't natural." "i like some," said lilac. "i like the dairy work and i like feeding the poultry. and i want to learn to milk, if ben'll teach me. and in the spring i mean to try and get ever such a lot of early ducks." "well, i hate all that," said agnetta. "now, if i could choose i wouldn't live on a farm at all. i'd have lots of servants, and silk gownds and gold bracelets and broaches, and satting furniture, and a carridge to drive in every day. an' i'd lie in bed ever so late in the mornings and always do what i liked." time went on and mrs greenway's ankle got better, so that although still lame she was able to hobble about with a stick, and find out molly's shortcomings much as usual. during her illness she had relied a good deal on lilac and softened in her manner towards her, but now the old feeling of jealousy came back, and she found it impossible to praise her for the excellence of the dairy-work. "i can't somehow bring my tongue to it," she said to herself; "and the better she behaves the less i can do it." one day the farmer came back from lenham in a good humour. "benson asked if we'd got a new dairymaid," he said to his wife; "the butter's always good now. which of 'em does it?" "oh," said mrs greenways carelessly, "the girls manage it between 'em, and i look it over afore it goes." lilac heard it, for she had come into the room unnoticed, and for a second she stood still, uncertain whether to speak, fixing a reproachful gaze on her aunt. what a shame it was! was this her reward for all her patience and hard work? never a word of praise, never even the credit of what she did! on her lips were some eager angry words, but she did not utter them. she turned and ran upstairs to her own little attic. her heart was full; she could see no reason for this injustice: it was very, very hard. what would they do, she went on to think, if she left the butter to bella and agnetta to manage between them? what would her aunt say then? trembling with indignation she sat down on her bed and buried her face in her hands. at first she was too angry to cry, but soon she felt so lonely, with such a great longing for a word of comfort and kindness, that the tears came fast. after that she felt a little better, rubbed her eyes on her pinafore, and looked up at the small window through which there streamed some bright rays of the afternoon sun. what was it that lighted the room with such a glory? not the sunshine alone. it rested on something in the window, which stood out in gorgeous splendour from the white bareness of its surroundings--the cactus had bloomed! yes, the cactus had really burst into two blossoms, of such size and brilliancy that with the sunlight upon them they were positively dazzling to behold. lilac sat and blinked her red eyes at them in admiration and wonder. she had watched the two buds with tender interest, and feared they would never unfold themselves. now they had done it, and how beautiful they were! how mother would have liked them! her next thought was, as she went closer to examine them, that she must tell peter. she remembered now, that, occupied with her own affairs and interests, she had never thanked him for two kind things he had done. she was quite sure that he had got the flowers for her on may day, and had brought the cactus down from the cottage, yet she had said nothing. how ungrateful she had been! she knew now how hard it was not to be thanked for one's services. did peter mind? he must be pretty well used to it, for certainly no one ever thanked him for anything, and as for praise that was out of the question. if, as uncle joshua had said, he was the prop of the house, it was taken for granted, and no one thought of saying, "well done, peter!" yet he never complained. he went patiently on in his dull way, keeping his pains and troubles to himself. how seldom his face was brightened by pleasure, and yet lilac remembered when he had been talking to her about his animals or farming matters, that she had seen it change wonderfully. some inner feeling had beamed out from it, and for a few minutes peter was a different creature. it was a pity that he did not always look like that; no one at such times could call him stupid or ugly. "anyway," concluded lilac, "he's been kind, and i'll thank him as soon as ever i can." her sympathy for peter made her own trouble seem less, and she went downstairs cheerfully with her mind bent on managing a little talk with him as soon as possible. supper-time would not do, because bella and agnetta were there, and afterwards peter was so sleepy. it must be to-morrow. as it happened things turned out fortunately for lilac, and required no effort on her part, for mrs greenways discovered the next day that someone must do some shopping in lenham. there were things wanted that dimbleby did not keep, and the choice of which could not be trusted to a man. "i wonder," she said, "if i could make shift to get into the cart--but if i did i couldn't never get in and out at the shops." she looked appealingly at her elder daughter. "the cart's _going_ in with the butter," she added. but bella was not inclined to take the hint. "you don't catch me driving into lenham with the cart full of butter and eggs and such," she said. "whatever'd charlie say? why shouldn't lilac go? she's sharp enough." there seemed no reason against this, and it was accordingly settled that lilac should be entrusted with mrs greenways' commissions. as she received them, her mind was so full of the dazzling prospect of driving into lenham with the butter that it was almost impossible to bring it to bear on anything else. it would be like going into the world. only once in her whole life had she been there before, and that was when her mother had taken her long ago. she was quite a little child then, but she remembered the look of it still, and what a grand place she had thought it, with its broad market square and shops and so many people about. when her aunt had finished her list, which was a very long one, bella was ready with her wants, which were even more puzzling. "i want this ribbon matched," she said, "and i want a bonnet shape. it mustn't be too high in the crown nor yet too broad in the brim, and it mustn't be like the one charlotte smith's got now. if you can't match the ribbon exactly you must get me another shade. a kind of a sap green, i think--but it must be something uncommon. and you might ask at jones's what's being worn in hats now--feathers or artificials. oh, and i want some cream lace, not more than sixpence a yard, a good striking pattern, and as deep as you can get for the money." agnetta having added to this two ounces of coconut rock and a threepenny bottle of scent, lilac was allowed to get ready for her expedition. the cart was waiting in the yard with the baskets packed in at the back, and ben was buckling the last strap of the harness. she expected that he was going with her, and it was quite a pleasant surprise when peter came out of the house with a whip in his hand and took the reins. nothing could have happened more fortunately, she thought to herself as they drove out of the gate, for now there would be no difficulty at all in saying what she had on her mind. this and the excitement of the journey itself put her in excellent spirits, so that though some people might have called the road to lenham dull and flat, it was full of charms to lilac. it was indeed more lively than usual, for it was market day, and as they jogged along at an easy pace they were constantly greeted by acquaintances all bent in the same direction. some of these were on foot and others in all kinds of vehicles, from a wagon to a donkey cart. mr buckle presently dashed by them in a smart gig, and called out, "how's yourself, peter?" as he passed; and farther on they overtook mrs pinhorn actively striding along in her well-known checked shawl. peter answered all greetings in the same manner--a wag of the head towards the right shoulder--but lilac felt so proud and pleased to be going to lenham with her own butter that she sat up very straight, and smiled and nodded heartily to those she knew. it seemed a wonderfully short journey, and she saw the spire of lenham church in the distance before she had said one word to peter, or he had broken silence except to speak to his horse. this did not disturb her, for she was used to his ways now, and she made up her mind that she would put off any attempt at conversation until their return. and here they were at lenham, rattling over the round stones with which the marketplace was paved. it was full of stalls, crowded together so closely that there was scarcely room for all the people passing up and down between them. they struggled along, jostling each other, pushing their way with great baskets on their arms, and making a confusion of noises. scolding, laughter, shouting filled the air, mixed up with the clatter of crockery, cracking of whips, and the shrill cries of the market women. such a turmoil lilac had never heard, and it was almost a relief when peter turned a little away from it and drew up at the door of benson's shop, where the butter was to be left. it was a large and important shop, and though the entrance was down a narrow street it had two great windows facing the market square, and there was a constant stream of people bustling in and out. lilac's heart beat fast with excitement. if she had known that the butter was to be displayed in such a grand beautiful place as this, and seen by so many folks, she would hardly have dared to undertake it. sudden fear seized her that it might not be so good as usual this time: there was perhaps some fault in the making-up, some failure in the colour, although she had thought it looked all right when she packed up at the farm. she followed peter into the shop with quite a tremor, and was glad when she saw mr benson could not attend to them just yet, for he and his boy were both deeply engaged in attending to customers. lilac had plenty of time to look round her. her eye immediately fell on some rolls of butter on the counter, and she lifted a corner of the cloth which covered her own and gave an anxious peep at it, then nudged peter and looked up at him for sympathy. "it's a better colour nor that yonder," she whispered. peter stood stolidly unconscious of her excitement, but he turned his quiet eyes upon the eager face lifted to his, and nodded kindly. mr benson caught sight of him and bustled up. "morning, peter," he said briskly. "how's your mother?" "middling, thank you," said peter, and without any further words he pointed at the basket on the counter. "butter--eh?" said the grocer. "well, i hope it's as good as the last." he unpacked the basket and proceeded to weigh the butter, talking all the time. "it's an odd thing to me how your butter varies. now, the last month it's been as good again as it used to be. of course in the winter there will be a difference because of the feed, i can understand that; but i can't see why it shouldn't be always the same in the summer. i don't mind telling you," he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential tone, "that i'd made up my mind at one time to give it up. people won't buy inferior butter, and i don't blame 'em." "it's good this time, anyhow," said peter. "it's prime," said mr benson. "is it the cows now, that you've got new, or is it the dairymaid?" "the cows isn't new, nor yet the dairymaid," said peter. "well, whichever it is," said the grocer, "the credit of the farm's coming back. orchards farm always had a name for its dairy in the old days. i remember my father talking of it when i was a boy." mrs pinhorn, who had been standing near during this conversation, now struck sharply in: "they _do_ say there was a brownie at the farm in those days, but when it got into other hands he was angered and quitted." "that's a curious superstition, ma'am," said the grocer politely. "there's folks in danecross who give credit to it still," continued mrs pinhorn. "old grannie dunch'll tell you ever so many tales about the brownie and his goings-on." "well, if we didn't live, so to say, within the pale of civilisation," said the grocer, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, "we might think you'd got him back again at the farm. what do you say to that, peter?" everyone knew that peter believed in all sorts of crazy things, and when mr benson put this jocular question to him several people turned to see how he took it. lilac looked eagerly up at him also, for she had a faint hope that he might somehow know that she was dairymaid, and would tell them so. that would be a triumph indeed. at any rate he would stop all this silly talk about the brownie. she had heard grannie dunch's stories scores of times, and they were very interesting, but as to believing them--lilac felt far above such folly, and held them all in equal contempt, whether they were of charms, ghosts, brownies, or other spirits. it was therefore with dismay that she saw peter's face get redder and redder under the general gaze, and heard him instead of speaking up only mutter, "i don't know nothing about it." moved by indignation at such foolishness, and at the mocking expression an mr benson's round face, she ventured to give peter's sleeve a sharp pull. no more words came, he only shuffled his feet uneasily and showed an evident desire to get out of the shop. "well, well," said the grocer, turning his attention to some money he was counting out of a drawer, "never you mind, peter. if you've got him you'd better keep him, for he knows how to make good butter at any rate." everyone laughed, as they always did at mr benson's speeches, and in the midst of it peter gathered up his money and left the shop with lilac. she felt so ruffled and vexed by what had passed, that she could hardly attend to his directions as he pointed out the different shops she had to go to. they were an ironmonger's, a linendraper's, and a china shop, and in the last he told her she must wait until he came to fetch her with the cart in about an hour's time. lilac stood for a moment looking after him as he drove away to put up his horse at the inn. she was angry with mr benson, angry with the people who had laughed, and angry with peter. no wonder folks thought him half-silly when he looked like that. and yet he knew twice as much as all of 'em put together. only that morning when sober had cut his foot badly with broken glass, it was peter with his clumsy-looking gentle fingers who had known how to stop the bleeding and bind up the wound in the best way. but in spite of all this he could stand like a gaby and let folks make a laughing-stock of him? it was so provoking to remember how silly he had looked, that it was only by a determined effort that lilac could get it out of her head, and bend her attention on bella's ribbons and her aunt's pots and pans. when she had once began her shopping, however, she found it took all her thoughts, and it was not till she was seated in the china shop, her business finished, and her parcels disposed round her, that the scene came back to her again. could it be possible that peter put any faith in such nonsensical tales? grannie dunch believed them; but then she was very ignorant, over ninety years old, and had never been to school. when grannie dunch was young perhaps folks did believe such things, and she had never been taught better; there were excuses for her. on one point lilac was determined. peter's mind should be cleared up as to who made the butter. what had mr benson said about it? "the credit of the farm's coming back." she repeated the words to herself in a whisper. what a grand thing if she, lilac white, had helped to bring back the credit of the farm! at this point in her reflections the white horse appeared at the door, and lilac and all her belongings were lifted up into the cart. very soon they were out of the noisy stony streets of lenham, and on the quiet country road again. she took a side glance at her companion. he looked undisturbed, with his eyes fixed placidly on the horse's ears, and had evidently nothing more on his mind than to sit quietly there until they reached home. it made lilac feel quite cross, and she gave him a sharp little nudge with her elbow to make him attend to what she had to say. "why ever did you let 'em go on so silly about the brownie?" she said. "you looked for all the world as if you believed in it." peter flicked his horse thoughtfully. "there's a many cur'ous things in the world," he said; "cur'ouser than that." "there ain't no such things as brownies, though," said lilac, with decision; "nor yet ghosts, nor yet witches, nor yet any of them things as grannie dunch tells about." peter was silent. "_is_ there?" she repeated with another nudge of the elbow. "i don't says as there is," he answered slowly. "of course not!" exclaimed lilac triumphantly. "and i don't say as there isn't," finished peter in exactly the same voice. this unexpected conclusion quite took lilac's breath away. she stared speechlessly at her cousin, and he presently went on in a reflective tone with his eyes still fixed on the horse's ears: "it's been a wonderful lucky year, there's no denying. hay turned out well, corn's going to be good. more eggs, more milk, better butter, bees swarmed early." "but," put in lilac, "aunt sprained her ankle, and the colt went lame, and you had to sell none-so-pretty. that wasn't lucky. why didn't the brownie hinder that?" peter shook his head. "i don't say as there _is_ a brownie at the farm," he said. "but you think he helps make the butter," said lilac scornfully. peter turned his eyes upon his companion; her face was hidden from him by her sunbonnet, but her slender form and the sound of her voice seemed both to quiver with indignation and contempt. "well, then, who _does_?" he asked. but lilac only held her head up higher and kept a dignified silence; she was thoroughly put out with peter, and if he was so silly it really was no use to talk to him. conscious that he was in disgrace, peter fidgeted uneasily with his reins, whipped his horse, and cast some almost frightened glances over his shoulder at the silent little figure beside him, then he coughed several times, and finally, with an effort which seemed to make his face broader and redder every minute, began to speak: "i'd sooner plough a field than talk any day, but but i'll tell you something if i can put it together. words is so hard to frame, so as to say what you mean. maybe you'll only think me stupider after i'm done, but this is how it was--" he stopped short, and lilac said gently and encouragingly, "how was it, peter?" "i've had a sort of a queer feeling lately that there's something different at the farm. something that runs through everything, as you might say. the beasts do their work as well again, and the sun shines brighter, and the flowers bloom prettier, and there's a kind of a pleasantness about the place. i can't set it down to anything, any more than i know why the sky's blue, but it's there all the same. so i thought over it a deal, and one day i was up in the high field, and all of a sudden it rapped into my head what grannie dunch says about the brownie as used to work at the farm. `maybe,' i says to myself, `he's come back.' so i didn't say nothing, but i took notice, and things went on getting better, and i got to feel there was someone there helping on the work--but i wasn't not to say _certain_ sure it was the brownie, till one night--" "when?" said lilac eagerly as peter paused. "it was last saint barnaby's, and i'd been up to cuddingham with none-so-pretty. it was late when i got back, and i remembered i hadn't locked the stable door, and i went across the yard to do it--" "well?" said lilac with breathless interest. "so as i went, it was most as light as day, and i saw as plain as could be something flit in at the stable door. 'twasn't so big as a man, nor so small as a boy, and its head was white. so then i thought, `surely 'tis the brownie, for night's his working time,' and i'd half a mind to take a peep and see him at it. but they say if you look him in the face he'll quit, so i just locked the door and left him there. when benson talked that way about the credit of the farm, i knew who we'd got to thank. howsomever," added peter seriously, "you mustn't thank him, nor yet pay him, else he'll spite you instead of working for you." as he finished his story he turned to his cousin a face beaming with the most childlike faith; but it suddenly clouded with disappointment, for lilac, no longer gravely attentive, was laughing heartily. "i thought maybe you'd laugh at me," he said, turning his head away ashamed. lilac checked her laughter. "here's a riddle," she said. "the brownie you locked into the stable that night always makes the butter. he isn't never thanked nor yet paid, but you've looked him in the face scores of times." peter gazed blankly at her. "you're doing of it now!" she cried with a chuckle of delight; "you're looking at the brownie now! why, you great goose, it's me as has made the butter this ever so long, and it was me as was in the stable on saint barnaby's!" it was only by very slow degrees that peter could turn his mind from the brownie, on whom it had been fixed for weeks past, to take in this new and astonishing idea. even when lilac had told her story many times, and explained every detail of how she had learnt to be dairymaid, he broke out again: "but how _could_ you do it? you didn't know before you came, and there's bella and agnetta was born on the farm, and doesn't know now. wonderful quick you must be, surely. and so little as you are--and quiet," he went on, staring at his cousin. "you don't make no more clatter nor fuss than a field-mouse." "'tisn't only noisy big things as is useful," said lilac with some pride. "it's harder to believe than the brownie," went on peter, shaking his head; "a deal more cur'ous. i thought i had got hold of him, but i don't seem to understand this at all." he fell into deep thought, shaking his head at intervals, and it was not until the farm was in sight that he broke silence again. "the smallest person in the farm," he said slowly, "has brought back the credit of the farm. it's downright amazing. i'm not agoin' to say `thank you,' though," he added with a smile as they drove in at the gate. a sudden thought flashed into lilac's mind. "oh, peter," she cried, "the flowers was lovely on may day, and the cactus is blooming beautiful! was it the brownie as sent 'em, do you think?" peter made no reply to this, and his face was hidden, for he was plunging down to collect the parcels in the back of the cart. lilac laughed as she ran into the house. what a funny one he was surely, and what a fine day's holiday she had been having! chapter eleven. the concert. "but i will wear my own brown gown and never look too fine." months came and went. august turned his beaming yellow face on the waving cornfields, and passed on leaving them shorn and bare. then came september bending under his weight of apples and pears, and after him october, who took away the green mantle the woods had worn all the summer, and gave them one of scarlet and gold. he spread on the ground, too, a gorgeous carpet of crimson leaves, which covered the hillside with splendour so that it glowed in the distance like fire. here and there the naked branches of the trees began to show sharply against the sky--soon it would be winter. already it was so cold, that although it was earlier than usual miss ellen said they must begin to think of warming the church, and to do this they must have some money, and therefore the yearly village concert must be arranged. "it was the new curate as come to me about it," said the cobbler to mr dimbleby one evening. "`you must give us a solo on the clar'net, mr snell,' says he." "he's a civil-spoken young feller enough," remarked mr dimbleby, "but he's too much of a boy to please me. the last was the man for my money." "time'll mend that," said joshua. "and what i like about him is that he don't bear no sort of malice when he's worsted in argeyment. we'd been differing over a passage of scripture t'other day, and when he got up to go, `ah, mr snell,' says he, `you've a deal to learn.' `and so have you, young man,' says i. bless you, he took it as pleasant as could be, and i've liked him ever since." he turned to bella greenways, who had just entered. "and what's _your_ place in the programme, miss greenways?" bella always avoided speaking to the cobbler if she could, for while she despised him as a "low" person, she feared his opinion, and knew that he disapproved of her. she now put on her most mincing air as she replied: "agnetta and me's to play a duet, the `edinburgh quadrilles,' and mr buckle accompanies on the drum and triangle." "why, you'd better fall in too with the clar'net, mr snell," suggested mr dimbleby. "that'd make a fine thing of it with four instruments." joshua shook his head solemnly. "mine's a solo," he said. "a sacred one: `sound the loud timbrel o'er egypt's dark sea.' that'll give a variety." "mr buckle's going to recite a beautiful thing," put in bella: "`the dream of eugene aram'. he's been practising it ever so long. he's going to do it with action." "i don't know as i can make much of that reciting," said joshua doubtfully. "now a good tune, or a song, or a bit of reading, i can take hold of and carry along, but it's poor sport to see a man twist hisself, and make mouths, and point about at nothing at all. i remember the first time the curate did it. he stares straight at me for a second, and then he shakes his fist and shouts out suddenly: `wretch!' or `villain!' or summat of that sort. i was so taken aback i nearly got up and went out. downright uncomfortable i was." "it's all the fashion now. but of course," said bella disdainfully, "it isn't everybody as is used to it. i'm sure it's beautiful to hear charlie! it makes your blood run cold. there's a part where he has to speak it in a sort of a hissing whisper. he's afraid the back seats won't hear." "and a good thing for 'em," muttered joshua. "it's bad enough to see a man make a fool of hisself without having to hear him as well." "but after all," continued bella, without noticing this remark, "it's only the gentry as matter much, and they'll be in the two front rows. mrs leigh's going to bring some friends." "and what's lilac white going to do?" said joshua, turning round with sudden sharpness. "she used to sing the prettiest of 'em all at school." "oh, i dare say she'll sing in the part songs with the other children," said bella carelessly. "they haven't asked her for a solo." but although this was the case lilac felt quite as interested and pleased as though she were to be the chief performer at the concert. when the programme was discussed at the farm, which was very often, she listened eagerly, and was delighted to find that mrs leigh wished her to sing in two glees which she had learnt at school. the concert would be unusually good this year, everyone said, and each performer felt as anxious about his or her part as if its success depended on that alone. mr buckle, next to his own recitation, relied a good deal on the introduction of a friend of his from lenham, who had promised to perform on the banjo and sing a comic song--if possible. "if you can get busby," he repeated over and over again, "it'll be the making of the thing, and so i told mrs leigh." "what did she say?" enquired bella. "well, she wanted to know what he would sing. but, as i said to her, you can't treat busby as you would the people about here. he moves in higher circles and he wouldn't stand it. you can't tie him down to a particular song, he must sing what he feels inclined to. after all, i don't suppose he'll come. he's so sought after." "well, it is awkward," said bella, "not being certain--because of the programme." "oh, they must just put down, _song, mr busby_, and leave a blank. it's often done." each time mr buckle dropped in at the farm just now he brought fresh news relating to mr busby. he could, or could not come to the concert, so that an exciting state of uncertainty was kept up. as the day grew nearer the news changed. busby would certainly _come_, but he had a dreadful cold so that it was hardly probable he would be able to sing. lilac heard it all with the greatest sympathy. the house seemed full of the concert from morning till night. as she went about her work the strains of the "edinburgh quadrilles" sounded perpetually from the piano in the parlour. sometimes it was agnetta alone, slowly pounding away at the bass, and often coming down with great force and determination on the wrong chords; sometimes bella and agnetta at the same time, the treble dashing along brilliantly, and the bass lumbering heavily in the distance but contriving to catch it up at the end by missing a few bars; sometimes mr buckle arriving with his drum and triangle there was a grand performance of all three, when lilac and molly, taking furtive peeps at them through the half-open door, were struck with the sincerest admiration and awe. it was indeed wonderful as well as deafening to hear the noise that could be got out of those three instruments; they seemed to be engaged in a sort of battle in which first one was triumphant and then another. "it's a _little_ loud for this room," observed mr buckle complacently, "but it'll sound very well at the concert." bella felt sure that it would be far the best thing in the programme, not only because the execution was spirited and brilliant but on account of the stylish appearance of the performers. mr buckle had been persuaded to wear his volunteer uniform on the occasion, in which, with his drum slung from his shoulders and the triangle fastened to a chair, so that he could kick it with one foot, he made a very imposing effect. agnetta and bella had coaxed their mother into giving them new dresses of a bright blue colour called "electric", which, being made up by themselves in the last fashion, were calculated to attract all eyes. these preparations, whilst they excited and interested lilac, also made her a little envious. she began to wish she had something pretty to put on in honour of the concert, and even to have a faint hope that her aunt might give her a new dress too. but this did not seem even to occur to mrs greenways, and lilac soon gave up all thoughts of it with a sigh. her sunday frock was very shabby, but after all just to stand up amongst the other children it would not show much. she took it out of her box and looked at it: perhaps there was something she could do to smarten it up a little. it certainly hung in a limp flattened manner across the bed, and was even beginning to turn a rusty colour; nothing would make it look any different. would one of her cottons be better, lilac wondered anxiously. but none of the children would wear cottons, she knew--they all put on their sunday best for the concert. the black frock must do. she could put a clean frill in the neck, and brush her hair very neatly, but that was all. there was no one she remembered to take much notice what she wore, so it did not matter. the evening came. everyone had practised their parts and brought them to a high pitch of perfection; and except mr busby, whose appearance was still uncertain, everyone was prepared to fill their places in the programme. "you won't find two better-looking girls than that," said mrs greenways to her husband, looking proudly at her two daughters. "that blue does set 'em off, to be sure!" "la!" said bella with a giggle, "i feel that nervous i know i shall break down. i'm all of a twitter." "well, it's no matter how you _play_ as long as you look well," said mrs greenways; "with charlie making all that noise on the drum, you only hear the piano now and again. but where's lilac!" she added. "it's more than time we started." lilac had been ready long ago, and waiting for her cousins, but just before they came downstairs she had caught sight of peter looking into the room from the garden, and making mysterious signs to her to come out. when she appeared he held towards her a bunch of small red and white chrysanthemums. "here's a posy for you," he said. "stick it in your front. they're a bit frost-bitten, but they're better than nothing." lilac took the flowers joyfully; after all she was not to be quite unadorned at the concert. "you ain't got a new frock," he continued, looking at her seriously when she had fastened them in her dress. "you look nice, though." "ain't you coming?" asked lilac. she felt that she should miss peter's friendly face when she sang, and that she should like him to hear her. "presently," he said. "got summat to see to first." when the party reached the school-house it was already late. the greenways were always late on such occasions. the room was full, and mr martin, the curate, who had the arrangement of it all, was bustling about with a programme in his hand, finding seats for the audience, greeting acquaintances, and rushing into the inner room at intervals to see if the performers had arrived. "all here?" he said. "then we'd better begin. drum and fife band!" the band, grinning with embarrassment and pleasure, stumbled up the rickety steps on to the platform. the sounds of their instruments and then the clapping and stamping of the audience were plainly heard in the green room, which had only a curtain across the doorway. "lor'!" said bella, pulling it a little on one side and peeping through at the audience, "there _is_ a lot of people! packed just as close as herrings. there's a whole row from the rectory. how i do palpitate, to be sure! i wish charlie was here!" mr buckle soon arrived with vexation on his brow. no sign of busby! he was down twice in the programme, and there was hardly a chance he would turn up. it was too bad of busby to throw them over like that. he might at least have _come_. "well, if he wasn't going to sing i don't see the good of that," said bella; "but it _is_ a pity." "it just spoils the whole thing," said mr buckle, and the other performers agreed. but to lilac nothing could spoil the concert. it was all beautiful and glorious, and she thought each thing grander than the last. uncle joshua's solo almost brought tears to her eyes, partly of affection and pride and partly because he extracted such lovely and stirring sounds from the clar'net. it made her think of her mother and the cottage, and of so many dear old things of the past, that she felt sorrowful and happy at once. next she was filled with awe by mr buckle's recitation, which, however, fell rather flat on the rest of the assembly; and then came the "edinburgh quadrilles", in which the performers surpassed themselves in banging and clattering. lilac was quite carried away by enthusiasm. she stood as close to the curtain as she could, clapping with all her might. the programme was now nearly half over, and mr busby's first blank had been filled up by someone else. mr martin came hurriedly in. "who'll sing or play something?" he said. "we must fill up this second place or the programme will be too short." his glance fell upon lilac. "why, you're the little girl who was queen? you can sing, i know. that'll do capitally--come along." lilac shrank back timidly. it was an honour to be singled out in that way, but it was also most alarming. she looked appealingly at her cousin bella, who at once came forward. "i don't think she knows any songs alone, sir," she said; "but i'll play something if you like." "oh, thank you, miss greenways," said mr martin hastily, "we've had so much playing i think they'd like a song. i expect she knows some little thing--don't you?" to lilac. lilac hesitated. there stood mr martin in front of her, eager and urgent, with outstretched hand as though he would hurry her at once to the platform; there was bella fixing a mortified and angry gaze upon her; and, in the background, the other performers with surprise and disapproval on their faces. she felt that she _could_ not do it, and yet it was almost as impossible to disoblige mr martin, the habit of obedience, especially to a clergyman, was so strong within her. suddenly there sounded close to her ear a gruff and friendly voice: "give 'em the `last rose of summer', lilac. you can sing that very pretty." it came from uncle joshua. "the very thing!" exclaimed mr martin. "couldn't possibly be better, and i'll play it for you. come along!" without more words lilac found herself hurried out of the room, up the steps, and on to the platform, with mr martin seated at the piano. breathless and frightened she stood for a second half uncertain whether to turn and run away. there were so many faces looking up at her from below, and she felt so small and unprotected standing there alone in front of them. her heart beat fast, her lips were as though fastened together, how could she possibly sing? suddenly in the midst of that dim mass of heads she caught sight of something that encouraged her. it was peter's round red face with mouth and eyes open to their widest extent, and it stood out from all the rest, just as it had done on may day. then it had vexed her to see it, now it was such a comfort that it filled her with courage. instead of running away she straightened herself up, folded her hands neatly in front of her, and took a long breath. when mr martin looked round at her she was able to begin, and though her voice trembled a little it was sweet and clear, and could be heard quite to the end of the room. very soon she forgot her rears altogether, and felt as much at her ease as though she were singing in uncle joshua's cottage as she had done so often. the audience kept the most perfect silence, and gazed at her attentively throughout. it was a very simple little figure in its straight black frock, its red and white nosegay, and thick, laced boots, and it looked all the more so after the ribbons and finery of those which had come before it; yet there was a certain dignity about its very simplicity, and the earnest expression in the small face showed that lilac was not thinking of herself, but was only anxious to sing her song as well as she could. she finished it, and dropped the straight little curtsy she had been taught at school. "after all it had not been so bad," she thought with relief, as she turned to go away in the midst of an outburst of claps and stamps from the audience. but she was not allowed to go far, for it soon became evident that they wanted her to sing again; nothing in the whole programme had created so much excitement as this one little simple song. they applauded not only in the usual manner but even by shouts and whistling, and through it all was to be heard the steady thump, thump, thump of a stick on the floor from the middle of the room where peter sat. lilac looked round half-frightened at mr martin as the noise rose higher and higher, and made her way quickly to the steps which led from the platform. "they won't leave off till you sing again," he said, following her, "though we settled not to have any encores. you'd better sing the last verse." so it turned out that lilac's song was the most successful performance of the evening; it was impossible to conceal the fact that it had won more applause than anything, not even excepting the "edinburgh quadrilles." this was felt to be most unjust, for she had taken no trouble in preparing it, and was not even properly dressed to receive such an honour. "i must own," said mrs greenways in a mortified tone, "that i did feel disgraced to see lilac standing up there in that old black frock. i can't think what took hold of the folks to make so much fuss with her. but there! 'tain't the best as gets the most praise." "i declare," added bella bitterly, "it's a thankless task to get up anything for the people here. they're so ignorant they don't know what's what. to think of passing over charley's recitation and encoring a silly old song like lilac's. it's a good thing mr busby _didn't_ come, i think--he wouldn't 'a been appreciated." "'twasn't only the poor people though," said agnetta. "i saw those friends of mrs leigh's clapping like anything." "ah, well," said mrs greenways, "lilac's parents were greatly respected in the parish, and that's the reason of it. she hasn't got no cause to be set up as if it was her singing that pleased 'em." lilac had indeed very little opportunity of being "set up." after the first glow of pleasure in her success had faded, she began to find more reason to be cast down. her aunt and cousins were so jealous of the applause she had gained that they lost no occasion of putting her in what they called her proper place, of showing her that she was insignificant, a mere nobody; useless they could not now consider her, but she had to pay dearly for her short triumph at the concert. the air just now seemed full of sharp speeches and bitterness, and very often after a day of unkind buffets she cried herself to sleep, longing for someone to take her part, and sore at the injustice of it all. "'tain't as if i'd wanted to sing," she said to herself. "they made me, and now they flout me for it." but her unexpected appearance in public had another and most surprising result. about a week after the concert, when the excitement was lessening and the preparations for bella's wedding were beginning to take its place, mrs greenways was sent for to the rectory--mrs leigh wished to speak to her. "i shouldn't wonder," she said to her husband before she started, "if it was to ask what bella'd like for a present. what'd you say?" "i shouldn't wonder if it was nothing of the kind," replied mr greenways. "more likely about the rent." but mrs greenways held to her first opinion. it would not be about the rent, for mrs leigh never mentioned it to her. no. it was about the present; and very fitting too, when she called to mind how long her husband had been mr leigh's tenant. to be sure he had generally owed some rent, but the greenways had always held their heads high and been respected in spite of their debts. on her way to the rectory, therefore, she carefully considered what would be best to choose for bella and charlie. should it be something ornamental--a gilt clock, or a mirror with a plush frame for the drawing-room? they would both like that, but she knew mrs leigh would prefer their asking for something useful; perhaps a set of tea-things would be as good as anything. these reflections made the distance short, yet an hour later, when, her interview over, mrs greenways reappeared at the farm, her face was lengthened and her footstep heavy with fatigue. what could have happened? something decidedly annoying, for she snapped even at her darling agnetta when she asked questions. "don't bother," she said, "let's have tea. i'm tired out." during the meal her daughters cast curious glances at her and at each other, for it was a most unusual thing for their mother to bear her troubles quietly. as a rule the more vexed she was the more talkative she became. it must therefore be something out of the common, they concluded; and before long it appeared that it was the presence of lilac that kept mrs greenways silent. she threw angry looks at her, full of discontent, and presently, unable to control herself longer, said sharply: "when you've finished, lilac, i want you to run to dimbleby's for me. i forgot the starch. if you hurry you'll be there and back afore dusk." chapter twelve. lilac's choice. "a stone that is fit for the wall will not be left in the way."--_old proverb_. as the door closed on lilac, the news burst forth from mrs greenways in such a torrent that it was difficult at first to follow, but at length she managed to make clear to her astonished hearers all that had passed between herself and mrs leigh. it was this: a lady staying at the rectory had seen lilac at the concert, and asked whom she was. whereupon, hearing her history and her present occupation at orchards farm, she made the following suggestion. she wanted a second dairymaid, and was greatly pleased with lilac's appearance and neat dress. would mrs leigh find out whether her friends would like her to take such a situation? she would give her good wages, and raise them if she found her satisfactory. "it's a great opportunity for a child like lilac," mrs leigh had said to mrs greenways; "but i really think from what i hear of her that she is quite fit to take such a place." "well, as to that," said mr greenways slowly when his wife paused for breath, "i suppose she is. if she can manage the dairy alone here, she can do it with someone over her there." "now i wonder who _could_ 'a told mrs leigh that lilac made our butter," said mrs greenways; "somehow or other that child gets round everyone with her quiet ways." "most likely that interfering old joshua snell," said bella, "or peter maybe, or ben. they all think no end of lilac." "well, i don't see myself what they find in her," said mrs greenways; "though she's a good child enough and useful in her way. i should miss her now i expect; though, of course," with a glance at her husband, "she wouldn't leave us, not so long as we wanted her." "that's for _her_ to say," said the farmer. "i'm not going to take a chance like that out of her mouth. she's a good little gal and a credit to her mother, and it's only fair and right she should choose for herself. go or stay, i won't have a word said to her. 'tain't every child of her age as has an offer like that, and she's deserved it." "and who taught her all she knows?" said mrs greenways wrathfully. "who gave her a home when she wanted one, and fed and kep' her? and now as she's just beginning to be a bit of use, she's to take herself off at the first chance! i haven't common patience with you, greenways, when you talk like that. it's all very well for you; and i s'pose you're ready to pay for a dairymaid in her place. but i know this: if lilac's got a drop of gratitude in her, and a bit of proper feeling, she'll think first of what she owes to her only relations living." "well, you ought to 'a told her how useful she was if you wanted her to know it," said mr greenways. "you've always gone on the other tack and told her she was no good at all. i shouldn't blame her if she wanted to try if she could please other folks better." there was so much truth in this, that in spite of mrs greenways' anger it sank deeply into her mind. why had she not made more of lilac? what should she do, if the child, with the consent of her uncle and encouraged by mrs leigh, were to choose to leave the farm? it was not unlikely, for although she had not been actively unkind to lilac she had never tried to make her happy at the farm; her jealousy had prevented that. and then, the money--that would be a great temptation; and the offer of it seemed to raise lilac's value enormously. in short, now that someone else wanted her, and was willing to pay for her services, she became twice as important in mrs greenways' eyes. one by one the various duties rose before her which lilac fulfilled, and which would be left undone if she went away. she sat silent for a few minutes in moody thought. "i didn't say nothing certain to mrs leigh," she remarked at length, "but i did mention as how we'd never had any thought of lilac taking service, no more nor agnetta or bella." "lor', ma!" said bella, "the ideer!" "all the same," said the farmer, "when we first took lilac we said we'd keep her till she was old enough for a place. the child's made herself of use, and you don't want to part with her. that's the long and the short of it. but i stand by what i say. she shall settle it as she likes. she shall go to mrs leigh and hear about it, and then no one shan't say a word to her, for or against. when's she got to decide?" "in a week," answered his wife. "but you're doing wrong, greenways, you hadn't ought to put it on the child's shoulders; it's us as ought to decide for her, us as are in the place of her father and mother. she's too young to know what's for her good." "i stand by what i say," repeated the farmer, and he slapped the table with his hand. mrs greenways knew then that it was useless to oppose him further, and the conversation came to an end. now, when the matter was made known to lilac, it seemed more like a dream than anything real. she had become so used to remain in the background, and go quietly on at her business without notice, that she could not at first believe in the great position offered to her. she was considered worth so much money a year! it was wonderful. after she had seen mrs leigh, and heard that it really was true and no dream, another feeling began to take the place of wonder, and that was perplexity. the choice, they told her, was to remain in her own hands, and no one would interfere with it. what would be best? to go or stay? it was very difficult, almost impossible, to decide. never in her short life had she yet been obliged to choose in any matter; there had always been a necessity which she had obeyed: "do this," "go there." the habit of obedience was strong within her, but it was very hard to be suddenly called to act for herself. and the worst of it was that no one would help her; even mrs leigh only said: "i shan't persuade you one way or the other, lilac, i shall leave it to you and your relations to consider." uncle joshua had no counsel either. "you must put one against the other and decide for yourself, my maid," he said; "there'll be ups and downs wherever you go." she studied her aunt's face wistfully, and found no help there. mrs greenways kept complete and gloomy silence on the question. thrown back upon herself, lilac's perplexity grew with each day. if she went to sleep with her mind a little settled to one side of the matter, she woke up next morning to see many more advantages on the other. to leave orchards farm, and the village, and all the faces she had known since she could remember anything, and go to strangers! that would be dreadful. but then, there was the money to be thought of, and perhaps she might find the strangers kinder than her own relations. "it's like weighing out the butter," she said to herself; "first one side up and then t'other." if only someone would say you _must_ go, or you _must_ stay. during this week of uncertainty many things at the farm looked pleasanter than they had ever done before, and she was surprised at the interest everyone in the village took in her new prospects. they all had something to say about them, and though this did not help her decision but rather hindered it, she was pleased to find that they cared so much for her. "and so you're goin' away," said poor mrs wishing, fluttering into the farm one day and finding lilac alone. "seems as if i was to lose the on'y friend i've got. but i dunno. there was your poor mother, she was took, and now i shan't see you no more. 'tain't as i see you often, but i know you might drop in anywhen and there's comfort in that. lor'! i shouldn't be standing here now if you hadn't come in that night--i was pretty nigh gone home that time. might a been better p'r'aps for me and dan'l too if i had. but you meant it kind." "maybe i shan't go away after all," said lilac soothingly. "you're one of the lucky ones," continued mrs wishing. "i allers said that. fust you get taken into a beautiful home like this, and then you get a place as a gal twice your age would jump at. some gets all the ups and some gets all the downs. but _i_ dunno!" she went on her way with a weary hitch of the basket on her arm, and a pull at her thin shawl. then bella's voice sounded beseechingly on the stairs: "oh, _do_ come here a minute, lilac." bella was generally to be found in her bedroom just now, stitching away at various elegancies of costume. she turned to her cousin as she entered, and said with a puzzled frown: "i'm in ever such a fix with this skirt. i can't drape it like the picture do what i will, it hangs anyhow. and agnetta can't manage it either." agnetta stood by, her face heated with fruitless labour, and her mouth full of pins. lilac examined the skirt gravely. "you haven't got enough stuff in it," she said. "you'll have to do it up some other way." "pin it up somehow, then, and see what you can do," said bella. "i'm sick and tired of it." lilac was not quite without experience in such things, for she had often helped her cousins with their dressmaking, and she now succeeded after a few trials in looping up the skirt to bella's satisfaction. "_that's_ off my mind, thank goodness!" she exclaimed. "you're a neat-fingered little thing; i don't know what we shall do without you." it was a small piece of praise, but coming from bella it sounded great. lilac's affairs, her probable departure from the farm and how she would be much missed there, were much talked of in the village just now. the news even reached lenham, carried by the active legs and eager tongue of mrs pinhorn, who, with many significant nods, as of one who could tell more if she chose, gave mr benson to understand that he might shortly find a difference in the butter. it was not for _her_ to speak, with ben working at the farm since a boy, but--so even the great and important mr benson was prepared to be interested in lilac's choice. she often wondered, as day after day went by so quickly and left her still undecided, what her mother would have advised her to do. but then, if her mother had been alive, all this would not have happened. she tried nevertheless to imagine what she would have said about it, and to remember past words which might be of help to her now. "stand on your own feet and don't be beholden to anyone." certainly by taking this situation she would follow that advice, and child though she was, she knew it might be the beginning of greater things. if she filled this place well she might in time get another, and be worth even more money. but then, could she leave the farm? the home which had sheltered her when she had been left alone in the world. who would take her place? no one could deny now that she would leave a blank which must be filled up. she could hardly bear to think of a stranger standing in her accustomed spot in the dairy, handling the butter, looking out of the little ivy-grown window, taking charge of the poultry. "they'll feed 'em different, maybe," she thought; "and they won't get half the eggs, i know they won't." how hard it would be, too, to leave the faces she had known from childhood, all so familiar, and some of them so dear: not human faces alone, but all sorts of kind and friendly ones, belonging to the dumb animals, as she called them. she would miss the beasts sorely, and they would miss her: the cows she was learning to milk, the great horses who jingled their medals and bowed their heads so gently as she stood on tiptoe to feed them, the clever old donkey who could unfasten any gate and let all the animals out of a field: the pigs, even the sheep, who were silliest of all, knew her well and showed pleasure at her coming. she looked with affection, too, at the bare little attic, out of whose window she had gazed so often with eyes full of tears at the white walls of her old home on the hillside. how hard it had been to leave it, and now it made her almost as sad to think of going away from the farm. but then--there was the money, and although mrs leigh said nothing in favour of her going to this new place, lilac had a feeling that she really wished it, and would be disappointed if she gave it up. everyone said it was such a chance! it was not altogether a fancy on lilac's part that everyone at the farm looked at her kindly just now, for the idea of losing her made them suddenly conscious that she would be very much missed. mrs greenways watched her with anxiety, and there was a new softness in her way of speaking; her old friends, molly and ben, were eager in showing their goodwill, and agnetta, in spite of the approaching excitement of bella's wedding, found time to enquire many times during the day if lilac "had made up her mind." "of course you meant to go from the first," she said at length. "well, i don't blame you, but you might 'a said so to an old friend like me." the only person at the farm who was sincerely indifferent to lilac's choice was bella. "it won't make any matter to me whether you're here or there," she said candidly; "but there's no doubt it'll make a difference to ma. there's some as would call it demeaning to go out to service, but i don't look at it like that. of course if it was me or agnetta it wouldn't be thought of; but i agree with pa that it's right you should choose for yourself." so no one helped lilac, and the days passed and the last one came, while she was still as far as ever from deciding. escaping from the chatter and noises inside the house she went out towards evening into the garden for a little peace and quietness. she wanted to be alone and think it over for the last time; after that she would go to mrs leigh and tell her what she meant to do, and then all the worry would be over. she strolled absently along, with the same tiresome question in her mind, through the untidy bushy garden, past peter's flower bed, gay with chrysanthemums and michaelmas daisies, until she came to the row of beehives, silent, deserted-looking dwellings now with only one or two languid inhabitants to be seen crawling torpidly about the entrances. lilac sat down on the cherry-tree stump opposite them, and, for a moment leaving the old subject, her mind went back to the spring evening when peter had cut the bunch of flowers for her, and let the bees crawl over his fingers. she smiled to herself as she remembered how suddenly he had gone away without giving her the nosegay at all. poor peter! she understood him better now. as she thought this there was a click of the gate leading into the field, she turned her head, and there was peter himself coming towards her with his dog sober at his heels. during this past week peter as well as lilac had been turning things over a great deal in his mind. not that he was troubled by uncertainty, for he felt sure from the first that she would go away from the farm. and it was best she should. from outward ill-treatment he could have defended her: he was strong in the arm, but with his tongue he was weaker than a child. many a time he had sat in silence when hard or unkind speeches had been cast at her, but none the less he had felt it sorely. after the concert, when she had sung as pretty as a bird, how they had flouted her. it was a hard thing surely, and it was best she should go away to folks as would value her better. but he felt also that he must tell her he was sorry. that was a trial and a difficulty. how should he frame it? though he could talk more easily to lilac than anyone else in the world, speech was still terribly hard, and when he suddenly came upon her this evening his first instinct was to turn and go back. sober, however, pricked his ears and ran forward when he saw a friend, and this example encouraged peter. "as like as not," he said to himself, "i shall say summat quite different the minute i begin, but i'll have a try at it;" so he went on. there was a touch of frost in the air, and the few remaining leaves, so few that you could count them, were falling every minute or so gently from the trees. a scarlet one from the cherry tree overhead had dropped into lilac's lap, and lay there, a bright red spot on her white pinafore. as peter's eye fell on it it occurred to him to say gruffly: "the leaves is nearly all gone." "pretty nigh," said lilac, looking up into the bare branches of the cherry tree. "we'll soon have winter now." there was silence. peter took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with his coat sleeve. "there's lots will be sorry when you go," he burst out suddenly. "the beasts'll miss you above a bit." lilac did not answer. she saw that he wanted to say something more, and knew that it was best not to confuse his mind by remarks. "not but what," he went on, "you're in the right. why should you work for nothing here and get no thanks? you're worth your wages, and there you'll get 'em. there's justice in that. only--the farm'll be different." "there's only the dairy," said lilac. "someone else'll have to do that if i go. and i should miss the beasts too." she put her hand on sober's rough head as he sat by her. "it's a queer thing," said peter after another pause, "what a lot i get in my head sometimes and yet i can't speak it out. you remember about the brownie, and me saying the farm was pleasanter and that? well, what i want to say now is, that when you're gone all that'll be gone--mostly. it'll be like winter after summer. anyone as could use language could say a deal about that, but i can't. i don't want you to stay, but i've had it in my mind to tell you that i shall miss you as well as the beasts--above a bit. that's all." sober now seemed to think he must add something to his master's speech, for he raised one paw, placed it on lilac's knee, and gazed with a sort of solemn entreaty into her face. she knew at once what he wanted, for though he could not "use language" any more than peter, he was quite able to make his meaning clear. in the course of many years' faithful attention to business he had become rheumatic, and this paw, in particular was swollen and stiff at the joint. lilac had found that it gave him ease to rub it, and sober had got into the habit of calling her attention to it in this way at all times and seasons. now as she took it in her hand and looked into his wise affectionate eyes, it suddenly struck her that here were two people who would really miss her, and want her if she were far away. no one would rub sober's paw, no one would take much notice of her other dumb friend, peter. she could not leave them. she placed the dog's foot gently on the ground and stood up. "i'm not going away," she said, "i'm going to bide. and i shall go straight in and tell aunt, and then it'll be settled." indoors, meanwhile, the same subject had been discussed between different people. in the living room, where tea was ready on the table, mrs greenways and her two daughters waited the coming of the farmer, agnetta eyeing a pot of her favourite strawberry jam rather impatiently, and bella, tired with her stitching, leaning languidly back in her chair with folded arms. "lilac ain't said nothing to either of you, i s'pose?" began mrs greenways. "i know she means to go, though," said agnetta. "well, i must look about for a girl for the dairy, i s'pose," said mrs greenways sadly. "i won't give it to molly again. and a nice set they are, giggling flighty things with nothing but their ribbons and their sweethearts in their heads." "lor'! ma, don't fret," said bella consolingly; "you got along without lilac before, and you'll get along without her again." "i shan't ever replace her," continued her mother in the same dejected voice; "she doesn't care for ribbons, and she's not old enough for sweethearts. i do think it's not acting right of mrs leigh to go and entice her away." "if here isn't mr snell coming in alonger pa," said agnetta, craning her neck to see out of the window. "he's sure to stay to tea." she immediately drew her chair up to the table and helped herself largely to jam. "and of all evenings in the week i wish he hadn't chosen this," said mrs greenways. "poking and meddling in other folks' concerns. now mind this, girls,--don't you let on as if i wanted to keep lilac, or was sorry she's going. do you hear?" it did not at first appear, however, that this warning was necessary, for joshua said no word of lilac or her affairs; he seemed fully occupied in drinking a great deal of tea and discussing the events of the neighbourhood with the farmer, and it was not till the end of his meal that he looked round the table enquiringly, and asked the dreaded question. "and what's lilac settled to do about going?" "you know as much about that as we do, mr snell," replied mrs greenways loftily. "there's no doubt," continued the cobbler, fixing his eye upon her, "as how mrs leigh's friend is going to get a prize in lilac white. she's only a child, as you once said, ma'am, but i know what her upbringing was: `as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined'. there's the making of a thorough good servant in her. well worth her wages she'll be." "she's been worth more to us already than ever i knew of, or counted on, till lately," put in the farmer. "just now, i met benson, and says he: `you're losing your dairymaid by what i hear, and i can but wish you as good a one.'" "that's not so easy," said joshua, shaking his head. "good workers don't grow on every bush. it's a pity, too, just when your butter was getting back its name." "i'd half a mind," said the farmer, "to offer the child wages to stop, but then i thought it wouldn't be acting fair. she ought to have the chance of bettering herself in a place like that. if she goes she's bound to rise, and if she stays she won't, for i can't afford to give her much." "and what's your opinion, ma'am?" asked joshua politely of mrs greenways. "oh, it isn't worth hearing, mr snell," she replied with a bitter laugh; "its too old-fashioned for these days. i should 'a thought lilac owed summat to us, but my husband don't seem to take no count of that at all. not that it matters to me." as she spoke, with the colour rising in her face and a voice very near tears, the door opened and lilac came quickly in. the conversation stopped suddenly, all eyes were fixed on her; perhaps never since she had been queen had her presence caused so much attention: even agnetta paused in her repast, and looked curiously round to see what she would do or say. without giving a glance at anyone else in the room, lilac walked straight up to where mrs greenways sat at the head of the table: "aunt," she said rather breathlessly, "i've come to say as i've made up my mind." mrs greenways straightened herself to receive the blow. she knew what was coming, and it was hard to be humiliated in the presence of the cobbler, yet she would put a brave face upon it. with a great effort she managed to say carelessly: "it don't matter just now, lilac. sit down and get your tea." but mr greenways quite spoilt the effect of this speech. "no, no," he called out. "let her speak. let's hear what she's got to say. here's mr snell'd like to hear it too. speak out, lilac." thus encouraged, lilac turned a little towards her uncle and joshua. "i've made up my mind as i'd rather bide here, please," she said. the teapot fell from mrs greenways' hands with such a crash on the tray that all the cups rattled, the air of indifference which she had struggled to keep up vanished, her whole face softened, and as she looked at the modest little figure standing at her side tears of relief came into her eyes. uncle joshua and her old feelings of jealousy and pride were forgotten for the moment as she laid her broad hand kindly on the child's shoulder: "you're a good gal, lilac, and you shan't repent your choice," she said; "take my word, you shan't." "and that's your own will, is it, lilac?" said her uncle. "and you've thought it well over, and you won't want to be altering it again?" "no, uncle," said lilac. "i'm quite sure now." her aunt's kind manner made her feel more firmly settled than before. "it's a harassing thing is a choice," said mr greenways. "i know what it is myself with the roots and seeds. well, i won't deny that i'm glad you're going to stop, but i hope you've done the best for yourself, my maid." "lor', greenways, don't worry the child," interrupted his wife, who had recovered her usual manner. "she knows her own mind, and i'm glad she's shown so much sense. you sit down and get your tea, lilac, and let's be comfortable and no more about it." lilac slipped into the empty place between the cobbler and agnetta, rather abashed at so much notice. agnetta pushed the pot of jam towards her. "i'm glad you're going to stop," she said. "have some jam." joshua had not spoken since lilac's entrance, but mrs greenways, eyeing him nervously, felt sure he was preparing to "preachify." she went on talking very fast and loud in the hope of checking this eloquence, but in vain; joshua, after a few short coughs, stood upright and looked round the table. "friends," he said, "i knew lilac's mother well, and i call to mind this evening what she often said to me: `i want my child to grow up self-respecting and independent. i want to teach her to stand alone and not to be a burden on anyone.' and then, poor soul, she died sudden, and the child was left on your hands. and she couldn't but be a burden at first, seeing how young she was and how little she knew. and now look at it! how it's all changed. 'tain't long ago, and she isn't much bigger to speak of, and yet she's got to be something as you value and don't want to part with. she's made her own place, and she stands firm in it on her own feet, and no one would fill it as well. it's wonderful that is, how small things may help big ones. look at it!" said joshua, spreading out the palms of his hands. "you take a little weak child into your house and think she's of no count at all, either to help or to hinder; she's so small and the place is so big you hardly know she's there. and then one day you wake up to find that she's gone quietly on doing her best, and learning to do better, until she's come to be one of the most useful people on the farm. because for why? it's her mother's toil and trouble finding their fruit; we oughtn't to forget that. when folks are dead and gone it's hard on 'em not to call to mind what we owe 'em. they sowed and we reap. lilac's come to be what she is because her mother was what she was, and i expect mary white's proud and pleased enough to see how her child's valued this day. and so i wish the farm luck, and all of you luck, and we'll all be glad to think as we're not going to lose our little bit of white lilac as is growing up amongst us." lilac's eyes had been fixed shyly on her plate. it was like being queen a second time to have everyone looking at her and talking of her. as joshua finished there was a sound at the door of gruff assent, and she looked round. it came from peter, who stood there with all his features stretched into a wide smile of pleasure. "they're all glad i'm going to bide," she said to herself, "and so am i." [transcriber's note: this is the first of a series of four novels by susan warner, all of which are in the project gutenberg collection: . what she could . opportunities . the house in town . trading] what she could. by the author of "the wide wide world," &c. london: james nisbet & co., berners street. mdccclxxi. "what she could." chapter i. "girls, there's a band!" "a what?" "a band--in the sunday-school." "i am sure there is a careless girl in the house," put in another speaker. "go and wipe your feet, maria; look at the snow you have brought in." "but, mamma----" "go and get rid of that snow before you say another word. and you too, matilda; see, child, what lumps of snow are sticking to your shoes. was there no mat at the door?" "there was a cold wind there," muttered maria, as she went to obey orders. "what harm does a little snow do?" but while she went to the door again, her sister, a pretty, delicate child of fewer years, stood still, and adroitly slipped her feet out of the snowy shoes she had brought in, which she put in the corner of the fireplace to thaw and dry off; the little stocking feet standing comfortably on the rug before the blaze. it was so neatly done, the mother and elder sisters looked on and could not chide. neatness suited the place. the room was full of warm comfort; the furniture in nice order; the work, several kinds of which were in as many hands, though lying about also on chairs and tables, had yet the look of order and method. you would have said at once that there was something good in the family. the child in front of the fire told more for it. her delicate features, the refined look and manner with which she stood there in her uncovered feet, even a little sort of fastidious grace which one or two movements testified, drew the eyes of mother and sisters, and manifestly stopped their tongues; even called forth a smile or two. "what is all this maria is talking about, matilda?" "why, we have been to the sunday-school meeting, mamma." "i know that; and it was not a night fit for you to go. what ever possessed you and maria?" remarked one of the sisters. "why, mr. richmond wanted to see all the sunday-school," said matilda, thoughtfully. "he wanted you too, i suppose; and you were not there." "there is no use in having a meeting such a night. of course, a great many people could not be there. it ought to have been put off." "well, it was not put off," said matilda. "what did he want? what was maria talking about?" "she is the best one to ask," said the child. at the same moment maria came in from getting rid of the snow, and enquired if tilly had told them everything? finding all was right, she sat down contentedly before the fire and stretched out her feet towards it. "we've had a splendid time, i can tell you," she began. "what was done in particular?" asked one of the older girls, who was making a bonnet. "more than usual?" "a great many things in particular, and one in general. we've made a band." "i have made several since you have been away," the other sister remarked. "you know we cannot understand that unless you explain," said the bonnet-maker. "you must let maria take her own manner," said their mother. "well, now, i'll tell you all about it," said maria. "there weren't a great many people there, to begin with." "of course not! such a night." "so there were plenty of empty benches, and it didn't look like a meeting at all, at first; and i wondered if it would come to anything; but then mr. richmond came in, and i saw _he_ meant something." "mr. richmond always does mean something," interrupted matilda. "you hush, tilly! well, there were prayers first, of course; and then mr. richmond stood up in the aisle, and said he wanted to know how many of us all there were willing to be really good." "the servants of christ, he said," matilda explained. "yes, the servants of christ, of course; and he said he didn't know any better way to get at it than that we should all stand up." a burst of laughter from all maria's audience a little confused her. only matilda looked gravely at her sister, as if she were making bad work of it. maria coloured, stammered, and began again. "you all know what i mean! you know what i mean, mamma? mr. richmond did not say that we should _all_ stand up." "then why did you say it?" "i thought you would understand. he said that all those should stand up, so that he might see who they were, who were willing to be real workers for christ; those who were willing to give themselves to the lord, and to do everything or anything he gave them to do for him. so we stood up, and mr. richmond went round and took our names down." "everybody who was there?" "why, no!--those who were willing to do as mr. richmond said." "did _you_ stand up?" asked one of her sisters. "yes; i did." "who else?" after a pause---- "oh, a great many people! all the members of the church, of course; and then a good many more that aren't. esther trembleton rose, and ailie swan, and mattie van dyke, and frances barth, and mrs. rice. and little mary edwards, she was there, and she rose, and willie edwards; and mr. bates got up and said he was happy to see this day. i think he was ready to cry, he was so glad." "and is this the 'band' you spoke of?" "this is the sunday-school working band; that is what mr. richmond called it." "what work are you going to do?" "i don't know! mr. richmond said he could not tell just yet; but we are to have meetings and all sorts of things. and then mr. richmond talked." "what about?" "oh, i can't tell. you know how he talks." "he said what the band were to do," remarked matilda. "i told what that was." "you did not tell what he said." "why, yes, i did; he said they were to do all the work for christ that they could; and they were to pray a great deal, and pray for each other a great deal; and they were to live right." "uncompromising christian lives, he said. mamma, what does 'uncompromising' mean?" "why, you know!" put in her sister. "tell, then, maria," said the mother. "matilda must know, mamma; for mr. richmond explained it enough." "then certainly you must." "i can't talk like mr. richmond, though," said maria. "letty, you'll spoil that bonnet if you put red flowers in." "that's as _you_ think," said letty. "blue would be very dull." "mamma, what is uncompromising?" pursued matilda, a pair of large, serious brown eyes fastening on her mother's face to await the answer. "did not mr. richmond tell you?" "if he did, i did not understand, mamma." "then he ought to use words you _can_ understand; that is all i have to say. i cannot undertake to be mr. richmond's dictionary. uncompromising means different things at different times. it isn't a word for you, tilly," the mother added, with a smile at the child. "there is only one thing tilly will ever be uncompromising about," her oldest sister remarked. "what is that?" the little one asked quick. "girls, stop talking and go to bed," said their mother. "letitia and anne, put up work; i am tired. maria, you and tilly go at once and be out of the way." "i can't see how i am in the way," remarked maria. "letty has not done her bonnet yet, and she will not go till she has." "letty, i am not going to wait for that bonnet." "no, ma'am; there is no need." "i am not going to leave you up, either. i know how that works. the bonnet can be finished to-morrow. and, anne, roll up your ruffles. come, girls!" "what a lovely mantilla that is going to be; isn't it, mamma?" said maria. "won't anne look nice when she gets it on? i wish you'd let me have one just like it, mamma." "i do not care about your having one just like it," said anne. "what would be the use of that?" "the same use, i suppose----" "maria, go to bed!" said her mother "and matilda. look what o'clock it is." "i can't go, mamma, unless somebody will bring me some shoes. mine are wet." "maria, fetch tilly a pair of shoes. and go, children." the children went; but maria grumbled. "why couldn't you come up-stairs in your stocking feet? _i_ should." "it isn't nice," said the little one. "nice! you're so terribly nice you can't do anything other people do. there is no use in our coming to bed now; anne and letty will sit up till eleven o'clock, i shouldn't wonder; and we might just as well as not. mamma can't get them to bed. letty and anne ought to have been at the meeting to-night. i wonder if they would have risen? why did not you rise, matilda?" "i had not thought about it." "can't you do anything without thinking about it first?" "i do not understand it yet." "understand! why, nothing is easier than to understand. of course, we are all to be as good as we can be, that's all." "you don't think that is much," said the little one, as she began slowly to undress herself. the work of undressing and dressing was always slow with tilly. every article of clothing taken off was to be delicately folded and nicely laid away at night; and taken out and put on with equal care and punctiliousness in the morning. maria's stockings went one way and her shoes another; while tilly's were put exactly ready for use under her chair. and maria's clothes presently lay in a heap on the floor. but not till some time after matilda's neat arrangements had been made and she herself was safe in bed. maria had dallied while the other was undressing. "i think you are very curious, matilda!" she exclaimed, as she followed her sister into bed. "i shouldn't think it required much _thinking_, to know that one ought to be good." "you haven't put out the candle, maria." maria bounced from her bed, and bounced in again. "o maria!" said matilda in a moment or two, plaintively; "you've _blown_ it out! and the room is all filled with smoke." "it doesn't make any difference," said maria. "it is very disagreeable." "it will be gone in a minute." "no, it won't, for i can see the red spark on the end of the candle now." "you are so particular, tilly!" said her sister. "if _you_ ever take a notion to be good, you'll have to leave off some of your ways, i can tell you. you needn't mind a little smell of candle-smoke. go to sleep, and forget it." "don't good people mind disagreeable things?" said matilda. "no, of course, they don't. how could they get along, you know? don't you remember what mr. richmond said?" "i don't remember that he said _that_. but then, maria, would you mind getting up to snuff out that candle? it's dreadful!" "nonsense! i shan't do it. i've just got warm." another minute or two gave tokens that maria was past minding discomfort of any sort. she was fast asleep. tilly waited, panted, looked at the glimmering red end of the candle snuff; finally got out of bed and crept to the dressing-table where it stood, and with some trouble managed to put a stop to smoke for that night. chapter ii. the house in which these things happened was a brown house, standing on the great high-road of travel which ran through the country, and just where a considerable village had clustered round it. from the upper windows you caught a glimpse of a fine range of blue mountains, lying miles away, and with indeed a broad river flowing between; but the river was too far off to be seen, and hidden behind intervening ground. from the lower windows you looked out into the village street; clean and wide, with comfortable houses standing along the way, not crowded together; and with gardens between and behind them, and many trees shielding and overhanging. the trees were bare now; the gardens a spread of snow; the street a white way for sleigh-runners; nevertheless, the aspect of the whole was hopeful, comfortable, thriving, even a little ambitious. within this particular house, if you went in, you would see comfort, but little pretension; a neat look of things, but such things as had been mended and saved, and would not be rashly replaced. it was very respectable, therefore, and had no look of poverty. so of the family gathered around the breakfast-table on the morning after the sunday-school meeting. it was a fair group, healthy and bright; the four girls and their mother. they were nicely dressed; and good appetites spoke of good spirits; and the provision on the table was abundant though plain. maria asked if letty had finished her bonnet last night. letty said she had. "and did you put those red flowers in?" "certainly." "that will be gay." "not too gay. just enough. the bonnet would be nothing if it had not flowers." maria's spoon paused half way to mouth. "i wonder," she said, gravely, "if mr. richmond likes red flowers?" "he has nothing to do with _my_ bonnet," said letitia. "and no more have you. you need not raise the question. i shall wear what becomes me." "what is the difference whether one wears red or blue, maria?" said her mother. "do you think one colour is more religious than another?--or more wicked? what do you mean?" "nothing, ma'am," maria answered, a little abashed. "i was only thinking." "i think mr. richmond likes flowers everywhere," said matilda; "and all colours." "people that are very religious do not wear flowers in their bonnets though, do they?" said maria. "mr. richmond did not say any such thing!" said matilda, indignantly. "what did he say? what was all this last night's talk about?" said anne. "i did not understand half of it. was it against red flowers, or red anything?" "i did not understand any of it," said mrs. englefield. "why, mamma, i told you all, as plain as could be," said maria. "i told you he made a band----" "he didn't," interrupted matilda; "the band made themselves." but at this, the shout that went round the breakfast-table threatened to endanger the dishes. "it's no use trying to talk," said maria, sullenly, "if you laugh so. i told you there was a band; ever so many of us rose up and agreed that we would belong to it." "matilda, are you in it too?" the mother asked. "no, mamma." "why not? how comes that?" "she wasn't ready," her sister said. "why not, tilly?" "mamma, i want to understand," said the child. "quite right; so do i." "wouldn't you do what mr. richmond says, whether you understand or not?" inquired maria, severely. "i would rather know what it is, first," said matilda, in her way, which was a compound of cool and demure, but quite natural. "and when is the next meeting?" said letitia. "i guess i'll go." "it won't be for a week," said matilda. "and will you join the band, letty?" maria asked somewhat eagerly. "how, join it?" "why, rise up, when you are asked." "what does 'rising up' mean, maria? what do you rise for?" "why, it means just that you promise to be good, you know." "but i have heard you promise that a number of times, it seems to me; without 'rising up,' as you call it. will the promise not better, if you make it on your feet instead of sitting?" "now, mamma," said maria, flushing, "isn't that just wicked in letitia?" "my dear, i do not understand one word at present of what this is all about," her mother answered. perhaps matilda was in the same mood, for she was a thoughtful little child all the way to school that morning. and at the close of the school day, when the children were going home, she went slowly and demurely along the icy street, while her sister and companions made a merry time. there had been a little thaw in the middle of the day, and now it had turned cold again, and the sidewalks were a glare of ice. matilda was afraid, and went cautiously; maria and the others took the opportunity for a grand slide, and ran and slipped and slid and sailed away homewards, like mad things. one after another, they passed her and rushed along, till matilda was left the last, slowly shuffling her little feet over the track the feet of the others had made doubly slippery; when quick steps came up behind her, and a pleasant voice spoke-- "are you afraid you are going to tumble down?" matilda started, but lifted her eyes very contentedly then to the face of the speaker. they had a good way to go, for he was a tall young man. but he was looking down towards her with a bright face, and two good, clear blue eyes, and a smile; and his hand presently clasped hers. matilda had no objection. "where is everybody else? how come you to be all alone?" "they have gone ahead, sliding on the ice." "and you do not practise sliding?" "i am always afraid i shall fall down." "the best way is not to be afraid; and then you don't fall down. see; no! hold fast. i shall not let you slip!" and the gentleman and matilda slid along the street for half a block. "how do you like that?" "very well, mr. richmond, with you holding me." "it doesn't give you courage, eh? well, we will walk on soberly together. i didn't see you stand when maria did last night?" "mr. richmond, i did not know just what it all meant; and so i sat still." "you did not know just what it all meant?" "no, sir." "then you were perfectly right to sit still. but that means that i did not speak so that you could understand me? was it so?" "i did not understand----" said matilda. "it comes to that, i suppose. it is my fault. well, i shall remember and be very careful what i say the next time. i will speak so that you will understand. but in that case, i want you to do one thing for me, tilly; will you?" "if i can, mr. richmond." "do you think i would ask something you could not do?" matilda looked up to the blue eyes again; they were fastened upon her gravely, and she hesitated. "mr. richmond--i don't know. you might." "i hope not," he said, smiling. "i will try not. you won't promise me?" "if i can i will, mr. richmond." "i am only going to ask you, when you hear what i have to say next time, if you understand it, will you do what you think you ought to do?" there fell a silence upon that. mr. richmond's firm step on the icy ground and matilda's light footfall passed by house after house, and still the little one's tongue seemed to be tied. they turned the corner, and went their way along matilda's own street, where the light of afternoon was now fading, and the western sky was throwing a reflection of its own. past the butcher's shop, and the post-office, and house after house; and still matilda was silent, and her conductor did not speak, until they stopped before the little gate leading to the house, which was placed somewhat back from the road. at the gate mr. richmond stood still. "what about my question, matilda?" he said, without loosing his hold of the little hand which had rested so willingly in his all the way. "aren't you coming in, mr. richmond?" "not to-night. what about my question?" "mr. richmond," said the child, slowly,--"i do not always do the things i ought to do." "no; i know you do not. but will you do _that_ thing, which you will think you ought to do, when you have heard me, and understood what i say, the next time the band has a meeting?" matilda stood silent, her hand still in mr. richmond's. "what's the matter?" "perhaps i shall not want to do it," she said, looking up frankly. "i ask you to do it all the same." matilda did not move, and now her face showed great perplexity. "well?" said mr. richmond, smiling at last. "perhaps i _cannot_ do it, mr. richmond?" "then, if you think you cannot do it, will you come and tell me?" matilda hesitated and pondered and hesitated. "do you wish it very much, mr. richmond?" she said, looking up appealingly into his face. "i do wish it very much." "then i will!" said matilda, with a sigh. he nodded, shook her hand, and turned away with quick steps. matilda went in and climbed the stairs to the room she and maria shared together. "what were you talking to mr. richmond so long about?" said maria. "i wasn't talking to mr. richmond. he was talking to me." "what's the difference? but i wish he would talk to ailie swan; she wants it, i know. that girl is too much!" "what has she done?" "oh, _you_ don't know; she isn't in your set. _i_ know. she's just disagreeable. i think people ought to be civil, if they are ever so good." "i thought good people were civil always." "shows you don't know much." "isn't ailie swan civil?" "i do not call it civility. what do you think, tilly? i asked her if my south america wasn't good? and she said she thought it was not. isn't that civility?" "what did you ask her for?" "because! i knew my south america was good." "let me see it." "nonsense! you do not know the first thing about it." but she gave her little sister the sheet on which the map was drawn. matilda took it to a table under the window, where the dying light from the western sky fell brightest; and putting both elbows on the table and her head in her hands, studied the map. "where is the atlas?" "what do you want of the atlas?" "i want to see if it is like." "it is like, of course, child." "i can't tell without seeing," matilda persisted. and maria grumblingly brought the atlas, open at the map in question. matilda took it and studied anew. "it is getting dark," said she at length. "but your south america is crooked, maria." "it isn't!" said maria, vehemently. "how should it be crooked, when we angle it on, just according to the rules?" "angle it on?" repeated matilda, looking at her sister. "yes. oh, you don't understand, child; how should you? i told you you didn't know anything about it. of course, we have rules and things to go by; and my south america was put on just right." "it is not straight, though," said matilda. "why, no, it isn't straight; it is not meant to be straight; it is all crookly crawly, going in and out, all round." "but it don't stand straight," said matilda; "and it looks _thin_, too, maria; it don't puff out as much as the real south america does." "puff out!" maria repeated. "it's as good as ailie's, anyhow; and a great deal better than frances barth's. frances got a great blot on hers; she's so careless. george van dyke is making a nice one; and ben barth is doing a splendid map; but then ben does everything----" here there was a great call to tea from below, and the girls went down. down-stairs there was excitement. a letter had come from mrs. candy, mrs. englefield's sister, saying that she herself with her daughter clarissa would be with them the beginning of the week. . "to stay, mamma? o mamma, is aunt candy coming to stay? do tell me. is she coming to stay?" maria exclaimed and questioned. "she will stay a night with us, maria. don't be so eager." "only a night, mamma? won't she be here longer?" "she is coming to stay till summer, maria," said her eldest sister. "do be reasonable." "i think it is reasonable to want to know," said maria. "_you_ knew; so you didn't care about it." "i care a great deal; what do you mean?" said anne. "i mean you didn't care about knowing. o mamma, can't i have my dress finished before they come?" "what dress, maria?" her sister went on; for mrs. englefield was busy with the letter. "my new merino. it is almost done; it only wants finishing." "there's all the braid to put on, isn't there?" "well, that isn't much. mamma, cannot i have my red merino finished before they come? i have got nothing to wear." "what can you mean, maria? you have everything you want. that is only for your best dress." "but, mamma, it is just when i should want it, when they come; you'll be having everybody to tea. won't you have it done for me? please, mamma?" "i think you can do it for yourself, maria. i have no objection to your finishing it." "i cannot put on that braid--in that quirlicue pattern, mamma; i never did such work as that; and i haven't time, besides." "nor inclination," said letitia, laughing. "come, maria, it is time you learned to do something for yourself. matilda, now, might plead inexperience, and have some reason; but you are quite old enough." the dispute would have gone on, but mrs. englefield desired silence, and the family drew round the tea-table. other plans for the following weeks filled every tongue. mrs. candy was well off; a widow with one child, her daughter clarissa; she had been in europe for several years; coming back now to her own country, she was bending her steps first of all to her sister's house and family. "we shall have the new fashions, straight from paris," anne remarked. "has aunt candy been in paris? i thought she was in scotland, mamma?" "people may go to paris, if they have been in scotland, maria. it is not so far as around the world." "but has she been in paris?" "lately." "mamma, what is aunt candy going to do with herself when summer comes? she says, 'till summer.'" "when she tells us, i shall know, letty. at present i am as ignorant as you." "do you think she will buy a house here, and make her home here?" "that depends on how well she likes shadywalk, i imagine." "i hope she will!" "i would like to see, first, what she is," said maria. "we shall have time enough for that, if they stay with us till summer. how old, mamma, is clarissa candy?" "over your age, maria, by a year or so." "will she go to school with us, do you suppose, mamma?" "i really cannot tell, maria. i think it very likely." "is aunt candy very rich?" "you talk like a foolish girl. why do you want to know?" "i was thinking whether clarissa would be dressed a great deal better than we are." "and what if she is?" "nothing. i was thinking. that's all." "i don't think it signifies," said matilda. "oh! matilda has found her tongue! i was waiting to see when she would speak," cried anne. "what don't signify, little one?" "it don't signify, i think, whether any one is dressed better than another; anybody--clarissa or anybody else." "well, you are mistaken then," said anne; "for it does signify. all the world knows it; and what is more, all the world feels it." "i don't think i do," said matilda. "your time has not come." "_your_ time had come, though, before you were as old as she," said her mother; "and maria's and letty's." "i know matilda is a wonderful child," said anne, "but her time will come too, mamma; and _she_ will find it makes a difference whether she is dressed one way or another." "i think _that_ now," observed matilda. "anybody that has to fasten tilly's dresses knows that," laughed maria. "i don't make half so much fuss." "i wish you did," said her mother. "you are not near careful enough in putting on your things. now putting on is half the battle." the argument lasted till tilly and maria went back to the consideration of south america, which was brought down-stairs to the lamp. "you haven't got the amazon right," said matilda; "and rio janeiro is too far down; and it's all crooked--don't you see?" "no!" said maria; "and if it is, ailie swan needn't have said hers was better." "you asked her." "well, if i did?" "what could she say?" "i don't care; it was awfully rude; and people ought to be polite, if they're ever so good." "what is all that?" said mrs. englefield. "that is not tilly's map?" "oh no, mamma; she can't draw maps; she is only setting up for a judge." "she would do it as well as that, if she would try," said her mother. "i wish you would love your studies, matilda. you could do so well if you pleased." "clarissa candy will make you both ashamed," said anne. "she has learned everything, and is terribly smart; 'going on to learn everything else,' her mother says." "mamma," said maria, "i have only my green silk and my blue delaine for nice dresses; and the silk is old-fashioned, you know, and the delaine is too short; and i want my merino finished." "finish it, then." maria pouted. "i cannot afford every indulgence to you, as your aunt can to clarissa; you must make it up by your own industry." "but can i, mamma?" "can you what?" "if i am very smart, can you give me things, if i make them up, that i can be as well dressed as clarissa candy?" "let us see the merino made first," said her mother. chapter iii. there was great interest now at shadywalk, at least in one house, to know when the liverpool steamer, _city of pride_, would be in. conjectures proving unsatisfactory and uncertain, the whole family took to studying the marine lists in the daily papers; and when everybody else had looked them over, the last one of the family did it again with extra care; lest by some singular coincidence the letters forming the _city of pride_ might have escaped the eyes so keen set to find them. the paper grew better than a novel. it furnished a great deal of matter for conversation, besides; for all the steamers which had got in were talked over, with their dates of sailing, and number of days on the passage; with each of which the times, certain and probable, of the _city of pride_ were compared. then there was the question, whether aunt candy might have changed her mind at the last minute, and waited for another steamer; and the reports of the weather lately experienced at sea were anxiously read and put alongside of the weather lately experienced at shadywalk. preparations in the house went on diligently; whatever might help it to make a better impression, or afford greater comfort to the expected guests, was carefully done. mrs. englefield even talked of getting a new stair-carpet, but contented herself with having the old one taken up and put down again, the stairs washed, and the stair-rods brightened; the spare room, the large corner chamber looking to the north and west, was scrupulously swept and dusted; furniture rubbed; little white knitted mats laid on the dressing-table; the chintz curtains taken down and put up again; a new nice chamber set of white china was bought, for the pitcher of the old set had an ugly nick in it and looked shabby; the towel rack was filled with white napery; the handsomest marseilles quilt was spread on the bed; the stove was blackened and polished. it looked "very respectable," anne said, when all was done. what private preparations went on, besides, on the part of the girls, it would be hard to say. maria worked hard at her braiding--that was open to anybody's observation; but there were less obvious flutings and ironings down in the kitchen, and adjusting of ribbons and flowers in secret consultations up-stairs. and one piece of care was made public by maria, who announced that letty had trimmed her old bonnet three times over before she would be suited. "very well," said letty, contentedly. "i should like to know who would wear an old thing when he could have a new; and mine is like new now." "things can't be new always," said matilda. "what then?" her sisters asked, laughing. "then it must be respectable for them to be old, sometimes." "respectable! not very pleasant, when they are to be set alongside of things as new and nice as they can be. i like to be as good as anybody, for my part." "mamma," said matilda, "do you know there is a great hole in the door mat?" "it is worn out a great deal too soon," said mrs. englefield; "i shall tell mr. hard that his goods do not last; to be sure, you children do kick it to pieces with the snow." "but, mamma, i should think you might get another, and let that one go to the kitchen." "and then, wouldn't you like me to buy a new hall cloth? there is very nearly a hole in that." "oh yes, mamma!" "i cannot do it, children. i am not as rich as your aunt candy. you must be contented to let things be as they are." the girls seemed to take it as a grave fact, to judge by their faces. "and i think all this is very foolish talking and feeling. people are not any better for being rich." "but they are a great deal happier," said letitia. "i don't know, i am sure. i never was tried. i think you had better put the thought out of your heads. i should be sorry if you were not as happy as your cousin, and with as much reason." "mamma's being sorry doesn't help the matter," said letitia, softly. "i know i should be happier if i had what i want. it is just nonsense to say i should not. and mamma would herself." that evening, the end of the week it was, the newspaper rewarded the first eyes that looked at its columns, with the intelligence that the _city of pride_ had been telegraphed. she would be in that night. and the list of passengers duly showed the names of mrs. candy and daughter. the family could hardly wait over sunday now. monday morning's train, they settled it, would bring the travellers. sunday was spent in a flutter. but, however, that monday, as well as that sunday, was a lost day. the washing was put off, and a special dinner cooked, in vain. the children stayed at home and did not go to school, and did nothing. nobody did anything to speak of. to be sure, there was a great deal of running up and down stairs; setting and clearing tables; going to and from the post-office; but when night came, the house and everything in it was just where the morning had found them; only, all the humanity in it was tired with looking out of windows. "that's the worst of expecting people!" mrs. englefield observed, as she wearily put herself in an arm-chair, and letitia drew the window curtains. "you never know what to do, and the thing you do is sure to be the wrong thing. here judith might as well have done her washing as not; and now it's to do to-morrow, when we don't want it in the way, and it will be in the way." "don't you think they will come to-night, mamma?" said matilda. "i don't know, i am sure. i know no more than you do. how can i tell? only don't ask me any more questions." "would you have tea yet, mamma?" said letitia. "there's a question, now! i tell you, don't ask me. just when you like." "there's no train due for a good while, mamma; they _couldn't_ come for two or three hours. i think we had better have tea." so she went off to prepare it, just as matilda who had put her face outside of the window curtain, proclaimed that somebody was coming to the door. "only one person though, mamma. mamma! it's miss redwood--mr. richmond's miss redwood." "it wanted but that!" mrs. englefield exclaimed, with a sort of resigned despair. "let her in, matilda. i locked the door." the person who followed matilda to the sitting-room was a slim woman, in black costume, neither new nor fashionable. indeed, it had no such pretensions; for the fashion at that time was for small bonnets, but miss redwood's shadowed her face with a reminiscence of the coal-scuttle shapes, once worn many years before. the face under the bonnet was thin and sharp-featured; yet a certain delicate softness of skin saved it from being harsh; there was even a little peachy bloom on the cheeks. the eyes were soft and keen at once; at least there was no want of benevolence in them, while their glance was swift and shrewd enough, and full of business activity. "miss redwood, how do you do? i am glad to see you. do sit down," was mrs. englefield's salutation, made without rising. "how do you do, mis' englefield? why--seems as if you was expectin' folks here?" "just what we are doing; and it is some of the hardest work one can do." "depends on who you expect, seems to me. and i guess 'tain't harder work than what i've been doing to-day. i've been makin' soap. got it done, too. and 'tain't to do agin till this time next year comes round." "can you make enough at once for the whole year? i cannot." "'spects you use a passel, don't ye?" "of course--in so large a family. but you're a great hand for soap, miss redwood, if folks say true?" "cellar ain't never out of it," said miss redwood, shaking her head. "it's strong, mine is; that's where it is. you see i've my own leach sot up, and there's lots o' ashes; the minister, he likes to burn wood, and i like it, for it gives me my ley; and i don't have no trouble with it; the minister, he saws it and splits it and chops it, and then when all's done he brings it in, and he puts it on. all i have to do is to get my ashes. i did think, when i first come, and the minister he told me he calculated to burn wood in his room, i did think i should give up. 'why sir,' says i, 'it'll take a load o' wood a day, to fill that ere chimney; and i hate to see a chimney standin' empty with two or three sticks a makin' believe have a fire in the bottom of it. besides,' says i, 'stoves is a sight cleaner and nicer, mr. richmond, and they don't smoke nor nothin', and they're always ready.' 'i'll take care of the fire,' says he, 'if you'll take care of the ashes.' well, it had to be; but i declare i thought i should have enough to do to take care of the ashes; a-flyin' over everything in the world as they would, and nobody but my two hands to dust with; but i do believe the minister's wood burns quieter than other folks', and somehow it don't fly nor smoke nor nothin', and the room keeps decent." "your whole house is as neat as a pin. but you have no children there to put it out of order, miss redwood." "guess we do," said the minister's housekeeper quietly; "there ain't any sort o' thing in the village but the minister has it in there by turns. there ain't any sort o' shoes as walks, not to speak of boots, that don't go over my carpets and floors; little and big, and brushed and unbrushed. i tell you, mis' englefield, they're goin' in between them two doors all the week long." "i don't know how you manage them, i'm sure." "well, _i_ don't," said the housekeeper. "the back is fitted to the burden, they say; and i always _did_ pray that if i had work to do, i might be able to do it; and i always was, somehow. and it's a first-rate place to go and warm your feet, when the minister is out," she added after a pause. "what?" said mrs. englefield, laughing. "the minister's fire, to be sure, that i was talkin' about. of course, i have to go in to see it's safe, when he ain't there; and sometimes i think it's cheaper to sit down and watch it than to be always runnin'." "mr. richmond was a lucky man when he got you for a housekeeper," said mrs. englefield. "well, i don't know," said miss redwood, contemplatively, with rather a sweet look on her old face. "i 'spose i might as well say i was a lucky woman when i got his house to keep. it come all by chance, too, you may say----" "mamma, tea is ready," maria here interrupted. "miss redwood, will you come down and have tea with us?" "no; but what i come to ask was somethin' different. i was so taken up with my soap-kettle all day, i just forgot somethin' more important, and didn't make no new risin'; and i hain't got none to-night for the minister's bread. i know you're one of the folks that likes sweet bread, mis' englefield, and has it; and i've come to beg a cup o' your risin'." one of the girls was sent for the article, and mrs. englefield went on. "the minister's an easy man to live with, i suppose; isn't he?" "what sort do you mean by that, mrs. englefield?" "why! i mean he is easily suited, and don't give more trouble than can be helped, and don't take it hard when things go wrong. "things don't go wrong, fur's i know," said miss redwood. "not with him, nor with me." "easily pleased, isn't he?" "when folks do just what they'd ought to do, he _is_," said the housekeeper with some energy. "i have no sort of patience, for my part, with the folks that are pleased when they hadn't ought to be pleased." "but isn't that what mr. richmond preaches to us all the time? that we ought to be pleased with everybody?" "why, no, mamma!" said matilda. "i thought he did." "i take it t'other way," miss redwood observed. "it comes close, it does, some of the minister's talk; but i always think, if i had a right to be better pleased with myself, maybe other folks' onesidedness wouldn't worry me. i'll do as much for you, next time, miss letty," she said, rising to take what that young lady had brought her. and therewith away she went. "well, we have got off with our lives this time," said mrs. englefield. "now, girls, let us have tea." "mamma, i believe here they are this minute," said matilda. "the omnibus is stopping." it was declared to be impossible; but nevertheless found true. the omnibus was certainly at the door, backing down upon the side walk; and two figures did get out of it and came through the little courtyard to the house. and then all doubts were resolved; mrs. candy was in the arms of her sister, and the cousins were looking at each other. that is, as soon as people could get their wrappings off. letty and maria were assiduous in their endeavours to relieve miss clarissa of her hood and furs and the cloakings and mufflings which a night ride had rendered necessary; while anne waited upon her aunt; and impressions were forming and opinions taking ground, under all the confused chatter about the journey, the train, the omnibus, and the _city of pride;_ opinions and impressions which were likely enough to get turned topsy-turvy in another day or two; but for the present nobody knew that. "and here is somebody who says nothing!" mrs. candy remarked, stooping down to touch matilda's hair with a light finger. "tilly does the thinking for the family," said mrs. englefield. "now do come down and have some tea." "down? where are we going?" said mrs. candy. "your house stands on the ground level, i noticed." "oh, we have a very nice basement; and just for eating, you know, it does not make much difference where you are--and it is so much more convenient, being near the kitchen." "in germany we used to take our meals in the open air a great deal," mrs. candy went on, as the party filed down the narrow stairs. "in the open air! not at this season?" "well, not with the thermometer at zero," said mrs. candy, laughing a little. "nor at quite so high a temperature as you have here!" the room down-stairs was bright enough, and looked cheerful, with its well-spread table and tea-urn; but it was low, and full of close stove heat. the travellers got as far from the source of this as the limits of the table would let them, and presently begged for an open door. but mrs. englefield's tea was good; and very soon the family talk began to move naturally. mrs. candy pleased her nieces. a fine-looking and also a kind-looking woman, with a good figure, well clothed in a handsome travelling dress; a gold watch and chain; and an easy, good-humoured, and at the same time, sensible air and way of talking. it was not difficult to get acquainted with her; she met all advances more than half way; and her talk even that first evening was full of amusement and novelty for the young people. it was less easy to know what to think of clarissa. her cousins held a consultation about her that night before going to sleep. "she looks as old as letty." "but she isn't. oh, she don't, either." "she's well looking; don't you think so?" "i'll tell you what i think," said matilda. "she's beau-ti-ful." "i don't think _so_," said letty; "but she's an uncommon looking girl." "how old _is_ she?" "she is sixteen." "well! maria's only half a year younger than that." "she hasn't said three words yet; so i cannot tell what she is," anne remarked. "she didn't like going down into the basement," said letty. "how do you know?" "i know she didn't!" "i should like to know where she would go; there is no other place," said maria. "i suppose that is just what she didn't like," said letitia. "there might be, though," matilda began again. "if mamma would open the back room behind the parlour, and move the table and things up there,--i think it would be a great deal pleasanter." "that's like matilda!" the other girls exclaimed in chorus. "well, i _don't_ think that basement room is pleasant," said the girl. "i never did. i am always glad to get out of it." "and now, i suppose, you will be taking all clarissa's dainty ways, in addition to your own!" said letitia. "i wonder what will become of the rest of us." "what dainty ways has clarissa?" matilda inquired. "you can see for yourself. she doesn't like the heat of a stove; and she must look at her watch to see what time it is, though the clock was right opposite to her." "i am sure i would look at a watch, if i had it," matilda added. "and did you see what travelling gloves she wore?" "why not?" said matilda. "why not, of course! you will have no eyes for any one shortly but clarissa candy; i can see it. but she is a member of the church, isn't she?" "what if she is?" said matilda. "mamma read that in one of aunt candy's letters, i remember." "we'll see what mr. richmond will say to her. maria reports that he does not like red flowers; i wonder what he will think of some other things." "that is only maria's nonsense," matilda insisted. "i know mr. richmond likes red flowers; he has got a red lily in his room." "in his room--oh yes! but not in people's bonnets, you know; nor in their heads; if they are christians." "i can't imagine what people's being christians has to do with red flowers," said matilda. "besides, clarissa hadn't any flowers about her at all. i don't know what you are talking of." "didn't you see her gold chain, though, that hung round her neck?" "her watch was on that. mayn't christians wear gold chains? what nonsense you do talk, letitia!" "i shouldn't want to be a christian if i thought i couldn't wear anything," maria remarked. "nor would i," said letitia. "so i advise you, my dears, to be a little careful how you join bands and such things. you may find that mr. richmond is not just the sort of christian you want to be." the conclave broke up, having reached a termination of general dissatisfaction common to such conclaves. maria went to bed grumbling. matilda was as usual silent. the next day, however, found all the family as bright as itself. it was a cold day in january; snow on the ground; a clear, sharp sunshine glittering from white roofs and fence tops and the banks of snow heaped against the fences, and shining on twigs and branches of the bare trees; coming into houses with its cheery and keen look at everything it found, as if bidding the dark sides of things, and the dusty corners, to change their characters and be light and fair. in the basement the family gathered for breakfast in happy mood, ready to be pleased with each other; so pleasure was the order of the day. pleasure had a good deal to feed on, too; for after the long breakfast was over and the conversation had adjourned to the parlour, there came the bestowing of presents which clarissa had brought for her friends. and they were so many and so satisfactory, that the criticisms of the past night were certainly for the present forgotten; letitia forgave her cousin her daintiness, and maria overlooked the gold watch. matilda as usual said little, beyond the civil, needful words, which that little girl always spoke gracefully. "you are a character, my dear, i see," her aunt observed, drawing matilda to her side caressingly. "what is that, aunt candy?" "well, i don't know, my dear," her aunt answered, laughing; "you put me to define and prove my words, and you bring me into difficulty. i think, however, i shall be safe in saying, that a 'character' is a person who has his own thoughts." "but doesn't everybody?" "have his own thoughts? no, my dear; the majority have the thoughts of other people." "how can they, aunt candy?" "just by not thinking for themselves. it saves a great deal of trouble." "but we all think for ourselves," said matilda. "do we? reflect a little. don't _some_ of you think like other people? about ways of doing, and acting, and dressing, for instance?" "oh yes. but, aunt candy, if people think for themselves, _must_ they do unlike other people?" "if they follow out their thoughts, they must, child." "that suits matilda then," said her sister anne. "well, it is very nice for a family to have one character in it," said mrs. candy. "but, aunt candy, isn't clarissa a character too?" "i don't know, tilly; i really have not found it out, if she is. up to this time she always thinks as i think. now she has given you the tokens of remembrance she has brought home for you; what do you think _i_ have got?" "o aunt, nothing more!" exclaimed anne. "clarissa and i are two people, if neither of us is a character, however," said mrs. candy. "her gifts are not my gifts. but mine shall be different from hers. and if there is more than one character among us, i should like to find it out; and this will do it." so saying, she fetched out her purse and presented to each of her sister's children a bank-note for twenty-five dollars. mrs. englefield exclaimed and protested. but mrs. candy laid her hand on her sister's mouth, and declared she must please herself in her own way. "what do you want us to do with this, aunt candy?" matilda inquired in a sort of contemplative wonder. "just whatever will please you, will please each of you, best. only that. that is my condition, girls, if i may call it so. you are not to spend that money for any claims of duty or conscience; but simply in that way which will afford you the highest pleasure." thanks were warm and gratification very high; and in the best mood in the world the new relations sat down to talk to each other and study each other for the remainder of the day. clarissa pleased her cousins. she was undoubtedly extremely pretty, with big, brown, honest eyes, that gave a good full look into the face she was speaking to; beautiful hair a little lighter in colour, and great sweetness of outline and feature. yet she was reserved; very quiet; very self-possessed--to a degree that almost carried an air of superiority in the minds of her cousins. those large brown eyes of hers would be lifted swiftly to the face of some one speaking, and then go down again, with no sign of agreeing or disagreeing--indeed, with no sign of her thought at all; but she _had_ thoughts of course; why should she not show them, as her cousins did? it was almost supercilious, to the fancy of anne and letitia; matilda and maria were fascinated. then her hands were more delicate than those of mrs. englefield's children; and there were one or two costly rings on them. anne and letty did not understand their value, but nevertheless even they could guess that they belonged to a superior description of jewellery from that which was displayed beneath the glass cases of mr. kurtz the watchmaker of shadywalk. then clarissa's dress was of fine quality, and made beautifully, and her little gold watch with its chain "put a finish upon it," anne said. a little hair necklace with a gold clasp was round her neck besides; and her comb was real tortoise-shell. clarissa was dainty, there was no doubt; but her sweet mouth was grave and modest; her words were few; her manners were very kindly and proper; and her cousins on the whole were obliged to approve her. chapter iv. "what is all this hurry about?" clarissa inquired one evening, as they were going down-stairs in answer to the tea-bell; "why are we earlier than usual? anne says we are." "oh, because it is prayer-meeting night--no, not prayer meeting, it isn't either, but our band-meeting; and we have to be early for that, you know. oh, you don't know anything about our band; but you will, to-night. you'll join it, won't you, clarissa?" "i know something about bands," said clarissa; "but i never belonged to one. is it the custom here for ladies to do such things?" "what things? and do you know about bands? like ours?" "i daresay i shall find i have something to learn," said clarissa. "there is a great deal to learn from mr. richmond, i can tell you," said maria. "oh, you don't know mr. richmond, you haven't seen him, because sunday was so stormy. well, you'll see him to-night." "aunt englefield," said clarissa, when they were seated at the tea-table,--"is your mr. richmond band-master as well as clergyman?" "bands are a mystery to me, clarissa," said mrs. englefield; "i do not understand maria when she gets upon that subject. i hope you will be able to enlighten me some time. are you going to-night?--well, then, i shall hope to be wiser when you return." tea was hurried through, cloaks and furs and hoods and all sorts of wrappings were put on; and the party set forth, anne and letitia this time going along. it was pleasanter out than in. white streets and clear starlight, and still, cold, fine air. about the corner a few men and boys were congregated as usual; after passing them and turning into the other street, few passengers were to be seen. here and there one, or a group, making for the lecture-room; here and there somebody seeking a friend's house for pleasure; nobody was out on business at shadywalk in the evening, and no waggons or sleighs got belated in the darkness. it would have been very dark, but for the snow and the stars. there were no shop-windows illuminated, and no lamps along the street and no gas anywhere. past the shut-up houses and stores, in the dim, snowy street, the little cluster of girls went swiftly on. "you are in a great hurry," said clarissa. "oh, we want to get there before anything begins," maria said. "and it's cold, besides!" "what church is this we are passing?" "oh, this is our church. you haven't seen it. it is real nice inside." "not outside?" said clarissa. "well, i cannot see it in this light. and is that next place the one we are going to?" "yes, that's our lecture-room. that's _very_ nice." so it was. pleasant light from withinside streamed warm through the hanging window-blinds of the long windows, and promised welcome before they got in. at the door, under the projecting hood, a lamp shone bright upon the entrance steps. people were flocking in. the opening door let them into a cheerful room, not large, with long rows of seats on either hand of a wide, matted aisle; the view closed by a little desk at the farther end on a raised platform. right and left of the desk, two small transepts did somewhat to enlarge the accommodations of the place, which had a cosy, home look, comfortable and bright. "where do those doors lead to?" clarissa whispered;--"behind the desk?" "oh, those open to the infant class room. isn't it nice?" maria answered. "it is small," said clarissa. "it is large enough, though. _we_ shall not fill it to-night." and they did not. there was only a little company gathered, of various ages. some quite grown people; many who were younger. they had drawn towards the upper end of the room, and clustered near the platform. "there is mr. richmond," maria whispered presently; "do you see him? he is up there near the desk talking to mr. barker,--mr. barker is one of our teachers, but he has got nothing to do with the band. that is mrs. trembleton, isn't she pretty?--sitting down there in front; she always sits just there, if she can, and i have seen her ever so put out if she couldn't when somebody else had got it, you know. and there"---- "but, maria," whispered clarissa, gravely, "do you think it is quite proper to whisper so in church?" "this isn't church!" maria replied, with great readiness. "what then?" "why, it is only our sunday-schoolroom; and this is a band meeting." "it looks very like church to me," said clarissa. "hush! don't whisper any more." for the minister now took his stand at the little desk before mentioned; and even maria was quiet enough during the prayer with which he began the proceedings. but then mr. richmond came in front of the desk, and began to speak seriously indeed, but with an easy simplicity which clarissa thought was "not like church." "it may not be known to everybody present," mr. richmond began, "exactly what was done at our last meeting here thursday night. i wish it to be very well understood, that every one may join with us in the action we took, intelligently;--or keep away from it, intelligently. i wish it to be thoroughly understood. we simply pledged ourselves, some of us who were here thursday night, to live and work for christ to the best and the utmost of our ability, as he would give us grace to do. we pledged ourselves to each other and to our master; to the end that we might the better help each other, being so pledged; and that we might enter into some system and plan of work by which we might accomplish much more than we could hope to do without plan or system. i have a list in my hand of various kinds of work which it may be well for us to attempt; some kinds will suit some people, and other kinds will suit other people; but before we go into a consideration of these, i will read something else to you. we must do this thing--we must enter into this pledge to god and each other, those of us who enter into it,--knowing exactly what we do, and if possible, why we do it. i have drawn up in a few words what we mean, or what we ought to mean, in giving this pledge; and now i am going to read it to you; and after i have read it i shall ask all of you who have heard it and agreed to it, to rise up, without any regard to the question whether you were among those who rose last thursday or not. i wish no one to stand who does not fully and intelligently agree to every word of this covenant;--but i hope that will be the case with every one of you all. the children can understand it as well as the grown people. this is the covenant:-- "'we are the servants of christ. "'and as he died for all, that they which live should not live unto themselves but unto him; so we do not count ourselves to belong to ourselves. we are the lord's. "'we want to do all we can do, that would please him and honour him, whether it be in our own hearts or in the world. "'so we stand ready to do his will; in telling the good news to others; in showing how precious we hold it; in carrying help of every sort to our neighbour, upon every opportunity; walking as children of the light; if by any means we may advance our lord's kingdom and glory. "'and all this we will try to do, by his help,--trusting in his grace and resting in his promises, whose word cannot fail.' "now," said mr. richmond, when he had read this, which he read very slowly and deliberately, as if he wished that every one should weigh every word, "i am going to ask you to rise and so declare your agreement with this covenant--all of you who have heard and understood it, and who are ready to pledge yourselves to its responsibilities. every one whose own mind and wish this covenant expresses will please rise." the little stir which this request occasioned through the room, left few of the assembly in their seats. maria, as soon as she was upon her feet, looked to see how it was with her companions. to her great satisfaction, clarissa was standing beside her; but anne and letitia were sitting in their places, and so was matilda in hers beyond them. maria frowned and nodded at her, but mr. richmond had desired the people to sit down again before these signs could take any effect. "it is as i hoped," mr. richmond said in a satisfied voice. "i have no alteration to make in my lists, beyond the addition of one or two new names; and that sort of alteration i shall be glad to make whenever people will let me. i will receive new names at any time, of those who wish to join our band--our working band. i do not know what we shall call ourselves; but one thing is certain, we mean to be a working people. now, suppose we see what kinds of work we are prepared to undertake--each one of us in particular. of course, we are _all_ to do _all_ we can, and of _all_ kinds; but there are some kinds of work that each one can do better than he can do others; and to those particular lines of effort each one will pledge himself to give special attention. "the first thing on my list is-- "'_bringing new scholars to the school_. who will take this as his special work? observe, it is not meant that you should ask any children to come to our school who are already members of some other school. we do not wish that. but who will undertake to look out and bring in some of the children that go nowhere? all who want to do this, raise your hands." there was a show of hands. "we must have a secretary," said mr. richmond. "mr. van dyke, here is paper and ink; will you kindly come and write for us? we want to put down all the names that enlist in this department of work. this is number one. put down, opposite to number one, mattie van dyke, willie edwards, mary edwards, maria englefield." mr. richmond went on giving the names until some eight or ten were registered. the children looked delighted. it was great doings. the next thing on mr. richmond's list was the "_school-singing_." he explained that he wished the special attention of those who could give it to this matter; that they should always stand ready to help the singing in the sunday-school, and make it just as good as it could be, and keep it good; that they should not wait for others, if there was no one to lead, but start the hymn themselves and carry it through with spirit. there were not so many that pledged themselves to this work; but, as before, maria was one. the third thing, was "_welcoming strangers and new scholars_" in the church and in the school. here a breeze sprung up. mr. richmond had remarked upon the great importance of this duty and the common neglect of it; nevertheless there seemed to be some prospect that the neglect would continue. mrs. trembleton asked, "how were such strangers to be welcomed?" "what would you like yourself, mrs. trembleton? suppose you were to go to a strange church, where you knew nobody. would it be pleasant to have some one come up and take your hand and say you were welcome? and give you a greeting when you met in the street?--perhaps come to see you?" "i think," said mrs. trembleton, after a pause, "it would depend a good deal on who it was did it!" "whether it would be pleasant?" said mr. richmond, smiling. "but you do not doubt that it would be pleasant to any stranger to have _you_ come up and speak and shake hands, and do such offices of kindness?" "it might be pleasant to them," said mrs. trembleton. "i don't think i should like to do it to everybody." "what do you say, miss benyon?" mr. richmond asked. "oh, i couldn't, mr. richmond!" the young lady answered, shrinking. "i'll do it," spoke out one of the boys. "george lockwood will welcome strangers, mr. van dyke," said the minister. "and willie edwards holds up his hand,--and ben barth. but shall we have none but the boys to do the welcoming? the new scholars will not be all boys. ah! there is miss peach; ellen peach, mr. van dyke;--and maria englefield,--and sarah bent." "won't it make confusion in the school?" mr. van dyke suggested. "will not what make confusion?" "why, if half-a-dozen scholars are jumping up and leaving their classes, to receive somebody who is coming in?" "i did not say that they should choose lesson time--or school time at all--for their kind civilities. after school is over--or when meeting in the street--or going into church. opportunities will present themselves. it is rather the will that seems to be wanting than the way." "it seems to me," spoke out another lady, "this welcoming of strangers is everybody's business." "proverbially nobody's business, miss fitch," mr. richmond answered with a smile. "you will leave it for me to do; and i shall conclude that mrs. trembleton will attend to it; mrs. trembleton does not like the charge;--and there we are. esther, what do you say?" "oh, i should not like to do it, mr. richmond!" nobody seemed to like to do it. some were shy; some were humble, or thought they were; some fancied themselves of too little consequence; some of too much! mr. richmond went on to the next thing, which was "_temperance work_." here there was no want of volunteers. boys and girls and young ladies, and even men, were ready to pledge themselves to this cause. the names were many. it took some time to get them all down. then came what mr. richmond's list called "_aid and comfort;_" and which he explained to mean, the giving of all sorts of material and social aid that the cases of sick and poor and distressed might call for. anybody who would visit such cases, and provide or procure what they needed, or anybody unable to visit who would furnish the necessary supplies if called upon, might be enrolled on this committee. plenty of people were ready for this. "_visiting absent scholars_" found quite a number willing to engage in it. the cause of "_missionary collections_" and "_sunday-school prayer-meetings_" found but few; evidently those were not popular objects. "_promoting attendance upon church_" did not meet with much favour. the tenth department of work was "_carrying the message_". this mr. richmond explained to mean, the telling the good news of christ to all who have not heard or who do not accept it; to everybody we can reach, at home and abroad, wherever we may. there were not a few who were ready to pledge themselves to this; as also to "_bible reading_" in houses where sickness or poverty or ignorance made such work desirable. but "_tract distributing_," which one would have thought a very kindred effort with the two last, was much more cautiously undertaken. some boys were ready for it; a few girls; very few grown up people of either sex. the young people of mrs. englefield's family walked home more silently than they had come. to be sure, there was a little throng of persons going their way; they could not speak in private. so under the still, bright stars, they went home without telling any of their thoughts to each other. but perhaps the air was chilly after coming out of the heated lecture-room; for they all poured into the parlour to get warm, before going up-stairs to take off their things. "well, you are late," mrs. englefield said. "yes; but we had, oh, such a nice meeting!" maria answered. "what was it all about? now, i hope, we shall get at some light on the subject." but the light was not in a hurry to come. anne and letitia loosened their bonnet strings, and sat down; maria and matilda threw off their cloaks and hoods and sought the fire; nobody volunteered to be spokesman for the party. "what was done, clarissa?" her mother asked. "i can hardly tell, mamma. a sort of association formed, for doing parish work." "i do not think much of associations," mrs. candy said. "people can work just as well in private, if they would only be content. did _you_ join this association?" "what is _parish work_, clarissa?" matilda asked. "why, work in the parish, of course," mrs. englefield answered. "i don't know what the parish is, mamma?" "don't you? well,--all the people that mr. richmond has the care of, i suppose; isn't it, sister?" "but who has he the care of?" matilda persisted, looking up at her mother earnestly. "well, child," said mrs. englefield, half laughing, "in a sort, he has the care of all the people he preaches to." "does he?" said matilda. but at that the laugh became general. "why not, tilly?" said mrs. candy. "who gave him the care of us?" said matilda, thoughtfully. "a minister always has the care of a church when he has a church," said mrs. candy. "is this tilly's way of going into things in general, marianne?" "_but_," said matilda,--"can anybody take a church and take care of people, if he has a mind?" "no; only a man who has been properly educated and appointed." "then how comes he to have the _care_ of us?" "come here, tilly," said clarissa. and she began a whispered explanation, to which the little girl listened intently. "i do not hear yet what was the business done to-night?" mrs. englefield went on. "why, there were committees formed," said letitia, "for doing every sort of business under heaven." "committees!" said the two ladies who had stayed at home. "maria can tell you," said anne. "maria, on how many committees are you?" maria hugged the fire and did not answer. "on how many, maria?" "i don't know. i didn't count." "i lost count, too," her sister said. "let me see. mamma, maria has undertaken to find and bring in new scholars for the school." "i hope she will be punctual in going herself, then," said mrs. englefield. "she _hasn't_ been, this six months past, to my knowledge." "oh, but i am now, mamma," said maria. "she has undertaken to practise for the school singing." "i didn't," said maria. "i only said i would help in it." "your help will not be worth much without practising. she has promised to undertake temperance work, too. _how_ she will manage it, i do not know; unless she is going to begin upon us here at home. we are all such hard drinkers." "almost all the sunday-school are engaged to help in temperance work," said maria, standing on her defence. "how are _you_ going to do anything?" her mother asked. "you have neither brothers, nor father, nor cousins, in danger, that you can go to work upon them. what are you going to do, maria?" "that is but the beginning, mamma," anne went on. "maria is also engaged to visit the sick and afflicted, and make soup and give medicine for them." "why, i did not, anne!" maria exclaimed again. "what did you mean, then, by joining the 'aid and comfort' committee?" "i did not say i would make soup, or give medicine. everybody does not make soup." "no; and so i thought that is just what the 'aid and comfort' committee agreed to do." "and the doctors give the medicine," said matilda. "clarissa is on that committee too." "we can go together," said maria; "and we can find something to do." "something for somebody else to do," said anne. "you can find who would like some soup, can't you?" "there are next to no poor people in shadywalk," said mrs. englefield. "i don't believe there is anybody in the village who would like some soup better than i should." "there are several doctors," said anne; "so i am afraid there are sick people occasionally. else the doctors will soon be in want of soup. but, mamma, _that_ is not the whole of maria's engagements. she has pledged herself to 'carry the message,' read the bible, and distribute tracts." "don't you read the bible now, maria?" her mother asked. "oh yes, mamma," said matilda. "this means reading the bible to somebody who is blind, you know, or sick and can't read, or who doesn't know how." "there are no such people in shadywalk," said mrs. englefield, promptly. "shadywalk is a happy village then," said her sister. "when do you expect to find time for all these things, maria?" her mother continued. "do you know what a state your bureau drawers are in, at this minute? you told me you had been too busy to attend to them. and the frock that you spilt ink on, the week before last, at school, you have not mended; and you need it--and you said you could not get a minute." "i have been busy about something else, mamma," maria said. "that braiding. yes. but there is always 'something else.' there are other things that ought to begin at home besides charity. do _you_ belong to this association, matilda?" "no, mamma," came in a low voice from the child. "why not?" the answer was not ready. "have you joined it, clarissa?" her mother asked. "yes, mamma." "and what have you pledged yourself to do?" "i think nothing, mamma, that i was not properly pledged to before." "such as what?" "i gave my name for the visiting and helping sick and poor people; for the singing in the school;--i believe that is all, mamma." "i shall not let you go where there is sickness," said mrs candy. "when did you pledge yourself to that ever?" "when i took the vows of the church, mamma," clarissa said, with a little hesitation, "i suppose i engaged to do some of these things." "some of them; i have no objection to your singing as much as you like; but as to your going where there are fevers and bad air, and all that sort of thing, i should not be willing at all." "there will not be much occasion for it in shadywalk," said mrs. englefield. "we have few poor people; there are not many who have not friends of their own to take care of them." "anne and letitia, you have nothing to do with all this?" their aunt asked. "i have enough to do as it is, aunt candy," said anne. "and i don't like the new sorts of work, aunt erminia," said letitia. "i know you wanted to stand up with us this evening, though," said maria. "you felt bad because you didn't." this remark threatened to disturb the harmony of the party; so mrs. englefield broke it up, and sent everybody to bed. "how do you like our mr. richmond, clarissa?" she asked, as they were separating. "i don't know, aunt marianne; it struck me he was something of an enthusiast." "that is just what i think," said mrs. englefield. "those people are dangerous, marianne," said mrs. candy. chapter v. the next day but one, in the afternoon, a little figure set out from mrs. englefield's gate on a solitary expedition. she had left her sisters and cousin in high debate, over the various probabilities of pleasure attainable through the means of twenty-five dollars. matilda listened gravely for a while; then left them, put on her hood and cloak, and went out alone. it was rather late in the short winter afternoon; the slanting sunbeams made a gleam of cheer, though it was cold cheer too, upon the snowy streets. they stretched away, the white streets, heaped with banks of snow where the gutters should be, overhung with brown branches of trees, where in summer the leafy canopy made a pleasant shade all along the way. no shade was wanted now; the air was growing more keen already since the sun had got so far down in the west. tilly turned the corner, where by mr. forshew's hardware shop there was often a country waggon standing, and always a knot of loitering men and boys gathering or retailing the news, if there was any; when there was none, seeking a poorer amusement still in stories and jests, mingled with profanity and tobacco. tilly was always glad to have passed the corner; not that there was the least danger of incivility from any one lingering there, but she did not like the neighbourhood of such people. she turned up towards the church, which stood in one of the principal streets of the village. matilda herself lived in the other principal street. the two were at right angles to each other, each extending perhaps half a mile, with comfortable houses standing along the way; about the "corner" they stood close together, for that was the business quarter, and there were the stores. passing the stores and shops, there came next a succession of dwelling-houses, some of more and some of less pretension; in general it was _less_. the new houses of the successful tradesmen were for the most part in the street where matilda's mother lived. these were many of them old and low; some were poor. here there was a doctor's shop; there a heap of dingy sheep skins and brown calf hides cast down at a door, told of the leather store; here and there hung out a milliner's sign. a few steps further on the other side of the way, a great brick factory stood; matilda had no very distinct notion of what wares it turned out, but the children believed they were iron works of some sort. a cross street here led to side ways which extended parallel with the main thoroughfare, one on the north and one on the south of it, and which, though more scatteringly built up, were yet a considerable enlargement of the village. a little further on, and matilda had reached the church; in her language _the_ church, though only one of several in which the villagers delighted. a great creamy-brown edifice, of no particular style of architecture, with a broad porch upheld by a row of big pillars, and a little square tower where hung a bell, declared to be the sweetest and clearest of all in the neighbourhood. so, many thought, were the utterances inside the church. just beyond, matilda could see the lecture-room, with its transepts, and its pretty hood over the door, for all which and sundry other particulars concerning it she had a private favour; but matilda did not go so far this afternoon. short of the lecture-room, a gate in the fence of the church grounds stood open; a large gate, through which waggons and carriages sometimes passed; matilda turned in there, and picked her way over the ridgy snow down the lane that led to the parsonage. the parsonage sat thus quietly back from the sights and noises of the street; a little brown house, it looked, half hidden in summer by the sweeping foliage of the elms that overarched the little lane; half sheltered now in winter by a goodly pine-tree that stood in the centre of the little plot of grass round which swept the road to the front-door. wheels or runners had been there, for the road was tracked with them; but not many, for the villagers needed no such help to get to the minister, and there were few of the church people who lived at a distance and could leave their work and take their teams on a week-day to come a-pleasuring; and still fewer who were rich enough to do as they liked at all times. there were some; but matilda ran little risk of meeting them; and so mounted the parsonage steps and lifted the knocker with no more than her own private reasons for hesitation, whatever those might be. she knocked, however, and steps carne within, and miss redwood opened the door. "well!" she said, "here's the first one this blessed afternoon. i thought i was going to get along for once without any one; but such luck don't come to me. wipe the snow off, dear, will you, clean? for my hall's as nice as--well, i don't know what; as nice as it had ought to be. that will do. now, come in, for the air's growin' right sharp. what is it, my dear?" "is mr. richmond at home?" matilda asked. "well, i s'pose he is. i hain't hearn him nor seen him go out since noon. do ye want to see him, or is it a message?--ye want to see him, eh. well, i s'pose he'll see you--if he ain't too busy--and i don't know when he gets time for all he has to do, but he gets it; so i s'pose i had ought to be satisfied. _i_ don't, i know; but i s'pose men and women is different. some folks would say that's a reason why men was created the first and the best; but i don't think so myself. and here i am an old goose, a-talkin' to little tilly englefield about philosophy, instead o' lettin' her into the minister's room. well, come in, dear; round this way; the minister has taken a notion to keep that door shut up because of the cold." miss redwood had not been idle during the utterance of this speech. first she had been shaking the snow from the door mat on which matilda's feet had left it; then she seized a broom and brushed the white masses from the hall carpet out to the piazza, and even off the painted boards of that. finally came in, shut the door, and led matilda to the back of the hall, where it turned, and two doors, indeed three, confronted each other across a yard of intervening space. the housekeeper knocked at the one which led into the front room; then set it open for matilda to go in, and closed it after her. a pleasant room that was, though nothing in the world could be more unadorned. deal shelves all around were filled with books; a table or two were piled with them; one, before the fire, was filled as well with papers and writing materials. this fronted, however, a real blazing fire, the very thing miss redwood had once been so uneasy about; in a wide open chimney-place, where two great old-fashioned brass andirons with round heads held a generous load of oak and hickory sticks, softly snapping and blazing. the sweet smell of the place struck matilda's sense, almost before she saw the minister. it was a pure, quiet, scented atmosphere that the room held; where comfort and study seemed to lurk in the very folds of the chintz window-curtains, and to shine in the firelight, and certainly seemed to fill mr. richmond's arm-chair even when he was not in it. he rose out of it now to meet his little visitor, and laid study on the table. of one sort. "all's well at home, tilly?" he asked, as he put her into his own chair. "yes, sir." "and you do not come to me with any message but to see me yourself?" "yes, sir." "that's nice. now while you are talking to me, i will roast you an apple." matilda looked on with great curiosity and as great a sense of relief, while mr. richmond took out of a cupboard a plate of apples, chose a fine one with a good bit of stem, tied a long pack-thread to this, and then hung the apple by a loop at the other end of the string, to a hook in the woodwork over the fireplace. the apple, suspended in front of the blazing fire, began a succession of swift revolutions; first in one direction and then in the other, as the string twisted or untwisted. "did you ever roast an apple so?" "no, mr. richmond." "it is the best way in the world--when you haven't got any other." "we haven't got that way at our house," said matilda; "for we have no fires; nothing but stoves." "you speak as if you thought fires were the best plan of the two." "oh, i do, mr. richmond! i do _not_ like stoves at all. they're so close." "i always thought stoves were rather close," said mr. richmond. "now what did you come to see me roast apples for this afternoon? did you come to keep your promise?" "yes, sir," matilda answered, rather faintly. "are you sorry you made the promise?" mr. richmond inquired, looking at her. but the look was so pleasant, that matilda's could not keep its solemnity. she had come in with a good deal. "i don't know but i _was_ sorry," she said. "and you are not sorry now?" "i think not." "that is all the better. now what did you want to say to me, matilda?" "you know you made me say i would come, mr. richmond." "did i? i think not. i do not think i _made_ you say anything--do you think i did?" "well, you _asked_ me, mr. richmond." "just what did i ask you?" "you asked me, if i would come and tell you--you said you _wished_ i would come and tell you--if----" and matilda made a great pause. the eyes of her friend seemed only to be watching the apple, yet perhaps they knew that her little lips were unsteady and were trying to get steady. he left his seat to attend to the roast; got a plate and put on the hearth under it; arranged the fire; then came and with his own hands removed matilda's hood and loosened and threw back her cloak; and while he did this he repeated his question, in tones that were encouragement itself. "i wished you would come and tell me if--if what?" "yes, mr. richmond--if i thought i could not do something that i thought--i ought." "yes, i believe that was it, tilly. now, to begin with one thing at a time, what do you think you 'ought' to do?" "last night, i mean, mr. richmond; i mean, the night before last, at the meeting." "i know. well, what did you think then you ought to do?" "mr. richmond, i think, i thought that i ought to rise up when maria and the others did." "i knew you thought so. why did you not, then, matilda?" "i couldn't." "do you know why you could not?" again there was difficulty of speech on the child's part. mr. richmond's saying that "he knew" she had had such feelings, was an endorsement to her conscience; and matilda could not immediately get over a certain swelling in her throat, which threatened to put a stop to the conversation. the minister waited, and she struggled. "why could _you_ not do what the others did, matilda?" "mr. richmond--i didn't want to do the things." "what things? bringing new scholars to the sunday-school, for instance?" "oh no, sir, i wouldn't mind doing _that_, or some other things either. but----" "you mean, you do not want to pledge yourself to be a servant of the lord jesus christ?" "no, sir," after a pause, and low. "well, tilly," said the minister, "i can only be very sorry for you. you keep yourself out of a great joy." "but, mr. richmond," said matilda, down whose cheeks quiet tears were now running, one after another; "don't you think i am very young yet to be a member of the church?" "do you think jesus died for you, tilly?" "yes, sir." "do you believe he loves you now?" "yes, sir." "you understand all about that. does _he_ want you to be his obedient child and dear servant?" "yes, mr. richmond." "you know all about that, too. can you think of any reason why you should for another year refuse to love him, refuse to mind him, and do all that your example and influence can do to keep others from loving and minding him? when he so loves and has loved you?" tilly's little hands went up to her face now, and the room was very still; only the flames softly flickering in the fireplace, and the apple sputtering before the fire. mr. richmond did not say a word for several minutes. "mr. richmond," said matilda at last, "do you think anybody cares what i do?--when i am so little?" "i think the lord jesus cares. he said nobody was to hinder the little children from coming to him. and i would rather be in his arms and have him bless me, if i were you, than be anywhere else, or have anything else. and so would you, tilly." "but, mr. richmond--it is because i am not good." "yes, i know it. but that is a reason for giving yourself to the lord jesus. he will make you good; and there is no other way." but tilly's trouble at this got beyond management. she left her seat and came to mr. richmond, letting his arm draw her up to him, and dropping her head on his shoulder. "o mr. richmond," she said, "i don't know how!" "don't know how to give yourself to jesus? do it in your heart, tilly. he is there. tell him he may have you for his own child. he is at the door of your heart knocking; open the door and bid him come in. he will make it a glad place if you do." "mr. richmond," said the child, with great difficulty between her sobs--"won't you tell him that i will?" they kneeled down and the minister made a short prayer. but then he said-- "now, tilly, i want you to tell the lord yourself." "i can't, mr. richmond." "i think you can. and i want you to try." they waited and waited. tilly sobbed softly, but the minister waited still. at last tilly's tears ceased; then with her little hands spread before her face, she said very slowly-- "o lord, i am a naughty child. i want to be good. i will do everything that you tell me. please take my heart and make it all new, and help me to be strong and do right. amen." they rose up, but mr. richmond kept the child within his arm, where she had been standing. "now, tilly, how do we know that our prayers are heard?" "god has promised, hasn't he, mr. richmond?" "where? in what words?" tilly hesitated, and then repeated part of the verse, "ask, and it shall be given you. seek, and ye shall find." "and look here," said mr. richmond, half turning, so as to bring her and himself within reach of the bible that lay at his elbow on the table--"see here, matilda. read these words." "'if ye shall ask anything in my name, i will do it.'" "and here,"-- "'whatsover ye shall ask the father in my name, he will give it you.'" "does jesus ever break his promises?" "no, mr. richmond; he can't." "then remember that, whenever you think of to-day, and whenever you feel troubled or weak. _you_ are weak, but he is strong; and he cannot break his promises. so you and i are safe, as long as we hold to him." there was silence a little while, and mr. richmond set the apple to twirling again. it had untwisted its string and was hanging still. "i am to put your name now, i suppose, tilly, among the names of our band; am i?" "yes, mr. richmond." "what work would you like specially to do?" "i do not know, mr. richmond; i will think." "very well; that is right. and there is another place where your name ought to go--is there not?" "i don't know, sir." "yes; among those who desire to be members of the church; to tell the world they are christ's people." "oh no, mr. richmond." "why 'oh no, mr. richmond'?" "i am not good enough. i want to be better first." "how do you expect to get better?" silence. "i suppose your thought is, that jesus will make your heart new, as you asked him just now, and help you to be strong. is that it?--yes. and you do not expect to accomplish the change or grow strong by your own power?" "oh no, sir." "don't you think jesus loves you now as well as he will by and by, and is as ready to help you?" "yes, mr. richmond." "then, tilly, i call it just distrust of him, to hold off from what he commands you to do, for fear he will not help you to do it. i would be ashamed to offer such an excuse to him." "but--has he commanded _that_, mr. richmond?" "he has commanded us to confess openly that we are his servants, hasn't he? and to be baptized in token of the change he has wrought in us, and as a sign that we belong to him? how can we do either the one or the other without joining the church?" "i thought"--matilda began, but seemingly did not like to tell what she had thought. "let us have it, tilly," said her friend, drawing her closer to him. "you and i are talking confidentially, and it is best in those cases to talk all out. so what did you think?" "i thought there were people who were the servants of christ, and yet did not join any church," matilda said softly. "by not doing it, they as good as say to the world that they are not his servants. and the world judges accordingly. i have known people under such a delusion; but when they were honest, i have always known them to come out of it. if you give all you have to the lord jesus, you must certainly give your influence." "but, i thought i might wait," tilly said again. "till when?" "i don't know," she whispered. "wait for what?" "till i was more like what--i ought to be, mr. richmond." "till you were more like the lord jesus?" "yes, sir." "do you not think the quickest way to grow like him would be to do and obey every word he says?" matilda bowed her head a little. "you will be more likely to grow good and strong that way than any other; and i am sure the lord will be more likely to help you if you trust him, than if you do not trust him." "i think so too," matilda assented. "then we will do everything, shall we, that we think our lord would like to have us do? and we will trust him to help us through with it?" mr. richmond said, with an affectionate look at the child beside him; and matilda met the look and answered it with another. "but, mr. richmond----" "what is it?" "there is one question i should like to ask." "ask it." "why ought people to be baptized?" "because our lord commands it. isn't that a good reason?" "yes, sir; but--what does it mean, mr. richmond?" "it is a way of saying to the world, that we have left it, and belong to the lord jesus christ. it is a way of saying to the world, that his blood has washed away our sins and his spirit has made our hearts clean; or that we trust him to do both things for us. and it is the appointed way of saying all this to the world; _his_ appointed way. do you understand?" "yes, sir." "now, do you not think that those who love the lord jesus, ought to be glad to follow his will in this matter?" "yes, sir," matilda said again, raising her eyes frankly to mr. richmond's face. "would you be willing to be left out, when next i baptize some of those who wish to make it publicly known that they are christ's?" "no, sir." and presently she added. "when will that be, mr. richmond?" "i do not know," he answered, thoughtfully. "not immediately. you and i must have some more talks before that time." "you are very good to me, mr. richmond," matilda said, gratefully. "have we said all we ought to say this time? are there any more questions to bring up?" "_i_ haven't any to bring up," matilda said. "is all clear that we have been talking about?" "i think so." "now, will you be good to me, and stay and take supper with me? that knock at the door means that miss redwood would like to have me know that supper is ready. and you shall have this apple we have been roasting." "mr. richmond, i think mamma would be frightened if i did not go home." "she does not know where you are?" "nobody knows," said matilda. "then it won't do to let you stay. you shall come another time, and we will roast another apple, won't you?" "i should like to come," said matilda. "mr. richmond, didn't you say you were going to talk to the band and explain things, when we have our meetings?" "i did say so. what do you want explained?" "some time,--i would like to know just all it means, to be a servant of christ." "all it means," said mr. richmond. "well, it means a good deal, tilly. i think we had better begin there with our explanations. i shall not make it a lecture; it will be more like a class; so you may ask as many questions as you please." chapter vi. the light of day was darkening fast, as matilda ran home. even the western sky gave no glow, when she reached her own gate and went in. after all, she had run but a very little way, in her first hurry; the rest of the walk was taken with sober steps. when she came down-stairs, she found the lamp lit and all the young heads of the family clustering together to look at something. it was anne's purchase, she found; anne had spent her aunt's gift in the purchase of a new silk dress; and she was displaying it. "it is a lovely colour," said maria. "i think that shade of--what do you call it? is just the prettiest in the world. what _do_ you call it, clarissa? and where did you get it, anne?" "it is pearl gray," said clarissa. "i would have got blue, while i was about it," said letitia; "there is nothing like blue; and it becomes you, anne. you ought to have got blue. i would have had one dress that suited me, if i was you, if i never had another." "this will suit me, i think," said anne. "aren't you going to trim it with anything? dresses are so much trimmed now-a-days; and this colour will not be anything unless you trim it." anne replied by producing the trimming. the exclamations of delight and approval lasted for several minutes. "what are you going to get, letitia?" maria asked. "i have not decided." "i don't know, but i will have a watch," said maria. "you can get a very good silver watch, a really good one, you know for twenty-five dollars." "but a silver watch!" said anne. "i would not wear anything but a gold watch." "how am i going to get a gold watch, i should like to know?" said maria. "i think it would be splendid." "but what do you want of a watch, maria?" her little sister asked. "oh, here is matilda coming out! just like her! not a word about anne's dress; and now she says, what do i want with a watch. why, what other people want with one; i want to see the time of day." "i don't think you do," said matilda. "when do you?" "why, i should like to know in school, when it is recess time; and at home, when it is time to go to school." "but the bell rings," said matilda. "well, i don't always hear the bell, child." "but when you don't hear it, i tell you." "yes, and it's very tiresome to have you telling me, too. i'd rather have my own watch. but i don't know what i will have; sometimes i think i'll just buy summer dresses, and then for once i'd have a plenty; i do like to have plenty of anything. and there's a necklace and earrings at mr. kurtz's that i want. such lovely earrings!" "well, matilda, what are you thinking of?" letitia burst forth. "such a face! one would think it was wicked to wear earrings. what is it, you queer child?" but matilda did not say what she was thinking of. the elder ladies came in, and the party adjourned to the tea-table. a few hours later, when the girls had gone to their room, matilda asked-- "when are you going to look for new scholars, maria?" "_what?_" was maria's energetic and not very graceful response. "when are you going to look for some new scholars to bring to the school?" "the sunday-school!" said maria. "i thought you meant the school where we go every day. i don't know." "you promised you would try." "well, so i will, when i see any i _can_ bring." "but don't you think you ought to go and look for them?" "how can i, tilly? i don't know where to go; and i haven't got time, besides." "i think i know where we could go," said matilda, "and maybe we could get one, at any rate. don't you know the dows' house? on the turnpike road?--beyond the bridge ever so far?" "the dows'!" said maria. "yes, i know the dows' house; but who's there? nothing but old folks." "yes, there are two children; i have seen them; two or three; but they don't come to school." "then i don't believe they want to," said maria; "they could come if they wanted to, i am sure." "don't you think we might go and ask them? perhaps they would come if anybody asked them." "yes, we might," said maria; "but you see, tilly, i haven't any time. it'll take me every bit of time i can get between now and sunday to finish putting the braid on that frock; you have no idea how much time it takes. it curls round this way, and then twists over that way, and then gives two curls, so and so; and it takes a great while to do it. i almost wish i had chosen an easier pattern; only this is so pretty." "but you promised, maria." "i didn't promise to go and look up people, child. i only promised to do what i could. besides, what have _you_ got to do with it? you did not promise at all." "i will go with you, if you will go up to the dows'," said matilda. "oh, well!--don't worry, and i'll see about it." "but will you go? come, maria, let us go." "when?" "any afternoon. to-morrow." "what makes you want to go?" said maria, looking at her. "i think you _ought_ to go," matilda answered, demurely. "and i say, what have you got to do with it? i don't see what particular concern of mine the dows are, anyhow." matilda sat a long while thinking after this speech. she was on the floor, pulling off her stockings and unlacing her boots; and while her fingers moved slowly, drawing out the laces, her cogitations were very busy. what concern _were_ the dows of hers or maria's? they were not pleasant people to go near, she judged, from the look of their house and dooryard as she had seen it in passing; and the uncombed, fly-away head of the little girl gave her a shudder as she remembered it. they were not people that were often seen in church; they could not be good; maybe they used bad language; certainly they could not be expected to know how to "behave." slowly the laces were pulled out of matilda's boots, and her face grew into portentous gravity. "aren't you coming to bed?" said maria. "what can you be thinking of?" "i am thinking of the dows?" "what about them? i never thought about them three times in my life." "but oughtn't we to think about people, maria?" "nice people." "i mean, people that are not nice." "it will be new times when you do," said maria. "come! let the dows alone and come to bed." "maria," said her little sister as she obeyed this request, "i was thinking that jesus thought about people that were not nice." "well?" said maria. "do lie down! what is the use of getting into bed, if you are going to sit bolt upright like that and talk lectures? i don't see what has got into you." "maria, it seems to me, now i think of it, that those were the particular people he did care about." "don't you think he cared about good people?" said maria, indignantly. "but they were not good at first. nobody was good at first--till he made them good. he _said_ he didn't come to the good people; don't you remember?" "well, what do you mean by all that? are we not to care for anybody but the people that are not good? a nice life we should have of it?" "maria," said her little sister, very thoughtfully, "i wonder what sort of a life he had?" "tilly!" said maria, rising up in her turn, "what has come to you? what book have you been reading? i shall tell mamma." "i have not been reading any book," said matilda. "then lie down and quit talking. how do you expect i am going to sleep?" "let us go and see what we can do at the dows, maria, to-morrow, won't you?" but maria either did not or would not hear; so the matter passed for that night. but the next day matilda brought it up again. maria found excuses to put her off. matilda, however, was not to be put off permanently; she never forgot; and day after day the subject came up for discussion, until maria at last consented. "i am going because you tease me so, tilly," she said, as they set forth from the gate. "just for that and nothing else. i don't like it a bit." "but you promised." "i didn't." "to bring in new scholars?" "i did not promise i would bring the dow children; and i don't believe they'll come." the walk before the children was not long, and yet it almost took them out of the village. they passed the corner this time without turning, keeping the road, which was indeed part of the great high road which took shadywalk in its way, as it took many another village. the houses in this direction soon began to scatter further apart from each other. they were houses of more pretension, too, with grounds and gardens and fruit trees about them; and built in styles that were notable, if not according to any particular rule. soon the ground began to descend sharply towards the bed of a brook, which brawled along with impetuous waters towards a mill somewhere out of sight. it was a full, fine stream, mimicking the rapids and eddies of larger streams, with all their life and fury given to its smaller current. the waters looked black and wintry in contrast with the white snow of the shores. a foot-bridge spanned the brook, alongside of another bridge for carriages; and just beyond, the black walls of a ruin showed where another fine mill had once stood. that mill had been burnt. it was an old story; the girls did not so much as think about it now. matilda's glance had gone the other way, where the stream rushed along from under the bridge and hurried down a winding glen, bordered by a road that seemed well traversed. a house could be seen down the glen, just where the road turned in company with the brook and was lost to view. "i wonder who lives down there?" said matilda. "i don't know. yes, i do, too; but i have forgotten." "i wonder if they come to church." "i don't know _that;_ and i shall not go to ask them. why, matilda, you never cared before whether people went to church." "don't you care now?" was matilda's rejoinder. "no! i don't care. i don't know those people. they may go to fifty churches, for aught i can tell." "but, maria,"--said her little sister. "what?" "i do not understand you." "very likely. _that_ isn't strange." "but, maria,--you promised the other night--o maria, what things you promised!" "what then?" said maria. "what do you mean? what did i promise?" "you promised you would be a servant of christ," matilda said, anxiously. "well, what if i did?" said maria. "of course i did; what then. am i to find out whether everybody in shadywalk goes to church, because i promised that? it is not my business." "whose business is it?" "it is mr. richmond's business and mr. everett's business; and mr. schönflocker's business. i don't see what makes it mine." "then you ought not to have said that you would bring new scholars to the school, i think, if you did not mean to do it; and whom do you mean to carry the message to, maria? you said you would carry the message." "i don't know what carrying the message means," said maria. matilda let the question drop, and they went on their way in silence; rising now by another steep ascent on the other side of the brook, having crossed the bridge. the hill was steep enough to give their lungs play without talking. at the top of the hill the road forked; one branch turned off southwards; the high road turned east; the sisters followed this. a little way further, and both slackened their steps involuntarily as the house they were going to came full in view. it was like a great many others; brown with the weather, and having a certain forlorn look that a house gets when there are no loving eyes within it to care how it looks. the doors did not hang straight; the windows had broken panes; a tub here and a broken pitcher there stood in sight of every passer-by. a thin wreath of smoke curled up from the chimney, so it was certain that people lived there; but nothing else looked like it. the girls went in through the rickety gate. over the house the bare branches of a cherry tree gave no promise of summery bloom; and some tufts of brown stems standing up from the snow hardly suggested the gay hollyhocks of the last season. the two girls slackened their steps yet more, and seemed not to know very well how to go on. "i don't like it, tilly," maria said. "i have a mind to give it up." "oh, i wouldn't, maria," the little one replied; but she looked puzzled and doubtful. "well, suppose they don't want to see us in here? it don't look as if they did." "we can try, maria; it will do no harm to try." "i don't know that," said maria. "i'll never come such an errand again, matilda; never! i give you notice of that. what shall i do? knock?" "i suppose so." maria knocked. the next minute the upper half of the door was opened, and an oldish woman looked out. a dirty woman, with her hair all in fly-away order, and her dress very slatternly as well as soiled. "what do you want?" "are there some children here?" maria began. "children? yes, there's children here. there's my children." "do they go to school?" "has somebody been stealin' something, and you want to know if it's my children have done it?" said the woman. "'cos they don't go to no school that _you_ ever see." "i did not mean any such thing," said maria, quite taken aback. "well, what _did_ you mean?" the woman asked sharply. "we want to see the children," matilda put in. "may we come in and get warm, if you please?" the woman still held the door in her hand, and looked at the last speaker from head to foot; then half reluctantly opened the door. "i don't know as it'll hurt you to come in," she said; "but it won't do you much good; the place is all in a clutter, and it always is. come along in, if you want to! and shut the door; 'tain't so warm here you'll need the wind in to help you. want the children, did you say? what do you want of 'em?" matilda thought privately that the wind would have been a good companion after all; no sooner was the door shut, than all remembrance of fresh air faded away. an inexpressible atmosphere filled the house, in which frying fat, smoke, soapsuds, and the odour of old garments, mingled and combined in proportions known to none but such dwelling-places. yet it was not as bad as it might have been, by many degrees; the house was a little frame house, open at the joints; and it stood in the midst of heaven's free air; all the winds that came from the mountains and the river swept over and around it, came down the chimney sometimes, and breathed blessed breaths through every opening door and shackling window-frame. but to matilda it seemed as bad as could be. so it seemed to her eyes too. nothing clean; nothing comfortable; nothing in order; scraps of dinner on the floor; scraps of work under the table; a dirty cat in the corner by the stove; a wash tub occupying the other corner. the woman had her sleeves rolled up, and now plunged her arms into the tub again. "you can put in a stick of wood, if you want to," she said; "i guess the fire's got down. what did you come here for, hey? i hain't heard that yet, and i'm in a takin' to find out." "we thought maybe your children might like to go to sunday-school," said maria, with a great deal of trepidation; "and we just came to ask them. that's all." "how did ye know but they went already?" the woman asked, looking at maria from the corner of her eye. "i didn't know. i just came to ask them." "well, i just advise you not to mix yourself with people's affairs till you _do_ know a little about 'em. what business is it o' yourn, eh, whether my children goes to sunday-school? sunday-school! what a poke it is!" "they did not come to _our_ sunday-school," said matilda, for her sister was nonplussed; "and we would like to have them come; unless they were going somewhere else." "they may speak for themselves," said mrs. dow; and she opened an inner door, and called in a shrill voice--"araminty!--jemimy!--alexander!--come right along down, and if ye don't i'll whip ye." she went back to her washing-tub, and maria and matilda looked to see three depressed specimens of young human life appear at that inner door; but first tumbled down and burst in a sturdy, rugged young rascal of some eight or nine years; and after him a girl a little older, with the blackest of black eyes and hair, the latter hanging straight over her face and ears. the eyes of both fastened upon their strange visitors, and seemed as if they would move no more. "them girls is come to get you to their sunday-school," said the mother. "don't you want for to go?" no answer, and no move of the black eyes. matilda certainly thought they looked as if they feared the lifting of no mortal hand, their mother's or any other. "would you like to go to sunday-school?" inquired maria politely, driven to speak by the necessities of the silence. but she might as well have asked mrs. dow's wash-tub. the mother laughed a little to herself. "guess you might as well go along back the road ye come!" she said. "you won't get my araminty jemimy into no sunday-school o' yourn this time. maybe when she's growed older and wiser-like, she'll come and see you. she don' know what a sunday-school's like. she thinks it's some sort of a trap." "i ain't afraid!" spoke out black eyes. "i didn't say you was," said her mother. "i might ha' said you was cunnin' enough to keep your foot out of it." "it is not a trap," said matilda, boldly. "it is a pleasant place, where we sing, and learn nice things." "my children don't want to learn none o' your nice things," said the woman. "i can teach 'em to home." "but you don't!" said black eyes. "you don't _never_ learn us _nothing!_" there was not the slightest sweet desire of learning evidenced in this speech. it breathed nothing but defiance. "alexander, won't _you_ come?" said matilda, timidly, as her sister moved to the door. for maria's courage gave out. but at that question the young urchin addressed set up a roar of hoarse laughter, throwing himself down and rolling over on the floor. his mother shoved him out of her way with a push that was very like a kick, and his sister, seizing a wringing wet piece of clothes from the wash-tub, dropped it spitefully on his head. there was promise of a fight; and matilda and maria hurried out. they hastened their steps through the garden, and even out in the high road they ran a little to get away from mrs. dow's neighbourhood. "well!" said maria, "what do you think now, tilly? i hope you have got enough for once of this kind of thing. i promise you i have." "hush!" said matilda. "some one is calling." they stopped and turned. a shout was certainly sent after them from the gate they had quitted--"girls, hollo!--sunday-school girls, hollo!" "do you hear?" said matilda. "sunday-school girls!--come back!" "what can they want?" said maria. "we must go see," said matilda. so they went towards the gate again. by the gate they could soon see the shock head of alexander; he had got rid of the wash-tub and his mother and his sister--all three; and he was waiting there to speak to them. the girls hurried up again till they confronted his grinning face on the other side of the gate. "what do you want?" said maria. "what do you call us back for?" "i didn't call you," said the boy. "yes, you did; you called us back; and we have come back all this way. what do you want to say?" alexander's face was dull, even in his triumph. no sparkle or gleam of mischief prepared the girls for his next speech. "i say--ain't you green!" but another shout of rude laughter followed it; and another roll and tumble, though these last were on the snow. maria and her sister turned and walked away till out of hearing. "i never heard of such horrible people!" said maria; "never! and this is what you get, matilda, by your dreadful going after sunday-scholars and such things. i do hope you have got enough of it." but matilda only drew deep sighs, one after another, at intervals, and made no reply. "don't you see what a goose you are?" persisted maria. "don't you see?" "no," said matilda. "i don't see that." "well, you might. just look at what a time we have had, only because you fancied there were two children at that house." "well, there _are_ two children." "such children!" said maria, "i wish mr. richmond would go to see them," said matilda. "it would be no use for mr. richmond or anybody to go and see them," said maria. "they are too wicked." "but you cannot tell beforehand," said matilda. "and so i say, tilly, the only way is to keep out of such places. i hope you'll be content now." matilda was hardly content; for the sighs kept coming every now and then. so they went down the hill again, and over the bridge, past the glen and the burnt mill, and began to go up on the other side. now across the way, at the top of the bank that overhung the dell, there stood a house of more than common size and elegance, in the midst of grounds that seemed to be carefully planted. a fine brick wall enclosed these grounds on the roadside, and at the top of the hill an iron gate gave entrance to them. "o tilly," exclaimed maria, "the lardners' gate is open. look! suppose we go in." "i should not like to go in," said the little one. "why not? there's nobody at home; they haven't come yet; and it's such a good chance. you know, clarissa says that people have leave to go into people's great places and see them, in england, where she has been." "but this is not a great place, and we have not leave," urged matilda. "oh well, i'm going in. come! we'll just go in for a minute. it's no harm. come just for a minute." matilda, however, stopped at the gate, and stood there waiting for her sister; while maria stepped in cautiously and made her way as far as the front of the house. here she turned and beckoned to matilda to join her; but the little one stood fast. "what does she want of you?" a voice asked at her elbow. matilda started. two ladies were there. "she beckoned for me to go in where she is," said matilda. "well, why don't you go in?" the voice was kindly; the face of the lady was bending towards her graciously; but who it was matilda did not know. "we have no leave to go in," she said. "i do not like to be there." "i dare say the people would let you come in, if they knew you wished it." "they do not know," said matilda. "what a charming child!" said the lady apart to her companion. "my dear," she went on to matilda, "will you come in on my invitation? this is my house, and you are welcome. i shall be as glad to see you as you to see the place. come!" and she took matilda's hand and led her in. just at the crown of the bank the house stood, and from here the view was very lovely, even now in winter. over the wide river, which lay full in view with its ice covering, to the opposite shores and the magnificent range of mountains, which, from matilda's window at home, she could just see in a little bit. the full range lay here before the eye, white with snow, coloured and brightened by the sinking sun, which threw wonderful lights across them, and revealed beautiful depths and shadows. still, cold, high, far-off; their calm majesty held matilda's eye. "are you looking at the mountains?" said the lady. "yes, now come in and you shall look at my flowers. your sister may come too," she added, nodding kindly to maria; but she kept matilda's hand, and so led her first upon the piazza, which was a single step above the ground, then into the hall. an octagon hall, paved with marble, and with large white statues holding post around its walls, and a vase of flowers on the balustrade at the foot of the staircase. but those were not the flowers the lady had meant; she passed on to one of the inner rooms, and from that to another, and finally into a pretty greenhouse, with glass windows looking out to the mountains and the river, filled on this side of the windows with tropical bloom. while the girls gazed in wonder, the lady stepped back into the room they had left, and threw off her wrappings. when she came again to the girls in the greenhouse, they hardly knew which to look at, her or the flowers; her dress and whole appearance were so unlike anything they had ever seen. "which do you like best?" she said. "the roses, you know, of course; these are camellias,--and these--and these red ones too; all camellias. these are myrtle; these are heath; these are geraniums--all those are geraniums. this is eupatorium--those, yes, those are azaleas, and those,--and all those. yes, all azaleas. you like them? this is bigonia. what do you like best?" it was a long while before matilda could divide and define her admiration enough to tell what she liked best. carnations and heath were found at last to have her best favour. the lady cut a bouquet for her with plenty of carnations and heath, but a variety of other beauty too; then led the girls into the other room and offered them some rich cake and a glass of what matilda supposed to be wine. she took the cake and refused the cordial. "it is very sweet," said the lady. "you will not dislike it; and it will warm you, this cold afternoon." "i may not drink wine, ma'am, thank you," matilda answered. "it is not wine. does it make you sick, my dear? are you afraid to try it? your sister is not afraid. i think it will do you good." being thus reassured, matilda put the glass to her lips, but immediately set it down again. "you do not like it?" said the lady. "i like it; but--it is strong?" said matilda, inquiringly. "why, yes, it would not be good for anything if it were not strong. never mind that--if you like it. the glass does not hold but a thimbleful, and a thimbleful will not hurt you. why, why not, my dear?" matilda looked up, and coloured and hesitated. "i have promised not," she said. "so solemnly?" said the lady, laughing. "is it your mother you have promised?" "no, ma'am." "not your mother? you have a mother?" "oh yes, ma'am." "would she have any objection?" "no, ma'am--i believe not." "then whom have you made your promise to? is it a religious scruple that some one has taught you?" "i have promised to do all i could for helping temperance work," matilda said at last. she was answered with a little ringing laugh, not unkindly but amused; and then her friend said gravely-- "your taking a glass of cordial in this house would not affect anything or anybody, little one. it would do _me_ no harm. i drink a glass of wine every day with my dinner. i shall go on doing it just the same. it will not make a bit of difference to me, whether you take your cordial or not." but matilda looked at the lady, and did not look at her glass. "do you think it will?" said the lady, laughing. "no, ma'am." "then your promise to help temperance work does not touch the cordial." "no ma'am, but----" "but?--what 'but'?" "it touches me." "does it?" said the lady. "that is odd. you think a promise is a promise. here is your sister taking her cordial; she has not made the same promise, i suppose?" maria and matilda glanced at each other. "she has?" cried the lady. "yet you see she does not think as you do about it." the sisters did not look into each other's eyes again. their friend watched them both. "i should like to know whom you have made such a promise to," she said coaxingly to matilda. "somebody that you love well enough to make you keep it. won't you tell me? it is not your mother, you said. to whom did you make that promise, dear?" matilda hesitated and looked up into the lady's face again. "i promised--the lord jesus," she said. "good patience! she's religious!" the lady exclaimed, with a change coming over her face; matilda could not tell what it was, only it did not look like displeasure. but she was graver than before, and she pressed the cordial no more; and at parting she told matilda she must certainly come and see her again, and she should always have a bunch of flowers to pay her. so the girls went home, saying nothing at all to each other by the way. chapter vii. it was tea-time at home by the time they got there. all during the meal, maria held forth upon the adventures of the afternoon, especially the last. "mamma, those people are somebody," she concluded. "i hope i am somebody," said mrs. englefield. "oh but you know what i mean, mamma." "i am not clear that i do." "and i, maria,--am i not somebody?" her aunt asked. "well, we're all _somebody_, of course, in one sense. of course we're not _nobody_." "i am not so sure what you think about it," said mrs. candy. "i think that in your language, who isn't somebody is nobody." "oh, well, we're _somebody_," said maria. "but if you could see the splendid bunch of jewels that hung at mrs. laval's breast, you would know i say the truth." "now we are getting at maria's meaning," observed clarissa. "i have no bunch of jewels hanging at my breast," said mrs. englefield; "if _that_ is what she means by 'somebody.'" "how large a bunch was it, maria?" her aunt asked. "and is it certain that maria's eyes could tell the true from the false, in such a matter as a bunch of jewellery?" suggested clarissa. "they have not had a great deal of experience." maria fired up. "i just wish you could see them for yourself!" she said. "false jewels, indeed! they sparkle like flashes of lightning. all glittering and flashing, red and white. i never saw anything so beautiful in all my life. and if you saw the rest of the dress, you would know that they couldn't be false jewels." "what sort of a face had she?" "i don't know,--handsome." "the bunch of jewels dazzled maria's eyes," said clarissa, sipping her tea. "no, not handsome, maria," matilda said. "well, not handsome exactly, but pleasant. she had curls, and lightish hair; but her dress was so handsome, it made her look handsome. she took a _terrible_ fancy to matilda." "matilda is the youngest," said her mother. "it was thanks to matilda we got into the house at all; and matilda had the flowers. nobody spoke of giving me any flowers." "well, you know you do not care for them," interposed matilda. "mamma, those people are somebody--i can tell you!" "you speak as if there were nobody else in shadywalk, maria, that is anybody." "well, aunt candy, i don't know any people like these." "maria, you talk nonsense," said her mother. "mamma, it is just what aunt erminia would say herself, if she knew the people." "what makes anybody 'somebody,' i should like to know? and what do you mean by it? am i nobody, because i cannot wear red and white jewels at my throat?" "it wasn't at her throat at all, mamma; it was just here--on her waist." "a _bouquet de corsage_," said clarissa. "the _waist_, as you call it, is at the belt." "well, i am not a mantua-maker," said maria. "no more than we are somebody," said mrs. candy. "well, you know what i mean," said maria; "and you all think exactly the same. there is nobody else in shadywalk that dresses so, or that has such flowers, or that has such a house." "who are they, these people that she talks of?" mrs. candy asked. "they have lately bought the place. i know nothing about them. they were here for a little while in the summer; but only to turn everything upside down in the house and grounds, and make changes. i cannot imagine what has brought them here, to the country, in the depth of winter. they had nothing to do with anybody in shadywalk, that i know of. perhaps they will, now they have got in order. i believe they have lived out of america a good deal." "is that what you mean by 'somebody,' maria?" her aunt asked. "perhaps i am 'somebody,' according to that." maria's thoughts would not bear to be spoken, it seemed, for she did not speak them; and it must be a strong reason that kept maria's opinions to herself. however, the family found something else to talk about, and mrs. laval was not mentioned again till maria and matilda went up to bed. then matilda had something to say. "maria," she began with judicial gravity, "what was that mrs. laval gave us to drink?" "i don't know," said maria; "but it was the best thing i ever tasted in all my life. it was some sort of wine, i guess; it was strong enough. but it was sweet; oh, it was nice!" "and you drank it!" "i guess i did! i only wished there was more of it." "but, maria!----" "well, what, 'maria'?" "you promised, maria, that you would do all you could for temperance work." "what then? i could not do anything for temperance there, child. as mrs. laval said." "you needn't have drunk the wine." "why shouldn't i? mrs. laval gave it to me; i couldn't be rude." "but that is not keeping your promise." "i made no promise about it. i could do nothing in the world for temperance _there_, tilly. what would mrs. laval care for anything _i_ should say?" "but, maria!" said her little sister, looking puzzled and troubled at once--"you cannot drink wine in one place, and try to hinder people from drinking it in another place." "why can't i? it all depends on the place, tilly, and the people." "and the wine, i suppose," said matilda, severely. "yes!" said maria, boldly, "i dare say, if all wine was like that, mr. richmond would have no objection to it." "i don't see, maria," said her sister, "what you made those promises for the other night. i think you ought not to have got up at all; it was the same as speaking; and if you do not mean to keep promises, you should not make them." "and what have you got to do with it?" said maria in her turn. "you did not stand up with the rest of us; you have no business to lecture other people that are better than yourself. i am going to keep all the promises i ever made; but i did not engage to go poking into mrs. dow's wash kitchen, nor to be rude to mrs. laval; and i don't mean to do the one or the other, i give you notice." matilda drew another of the long breaths that had come so many times that afternoon, and presently remarked that she was glad the next meeting of the band would come in a few days. maria sharply inquired, "why?" "because," said matilda, "i hope mr. richmond will talk to us. i don't understand about things." "of course you don't!" said maria; "and if i were you i would not be so wise, till i did 'understand.'" matilda got into bed, and maria sat down to finish putting the braid on her dress. "tilly, what are you going to get with your twenty-five dollars?" "i don't know yet." "i don't know whether i shall get a watch, or a dress, like anne; or something else. what would you?" "i don't know." "what _are_ you going to get with your money, matilda?" "i can't tell, maria. i know what i am going to do with part; but i don't know what i am going to do with the other part." maria could get no more from her. nothing new happened in the family before the evening came for what maria called the "band meeting." matilda went about between home and the school extremely quiet and demure, and reserved rather more than ordinary; but reserve was matilda's way. only maria knew, and it irritated her, that her little sister was careful to lock herself up alone with her bible, or rather with somebody else's bible, for matilda had none of her own, for a good long time every morning and evening. maria thought sometimes she knew of her doing the same thing at the noon recess. she said nothing, but she watched. and her watching made her certain of it. matilda unlocked her door and came out always with a face of quiet seriousness and a spirit in armour. maria could not provoke her (and she tried); nor could any other temptations or difficulties, that she could see, shake a certain steady gentleness with which matilda went through them. matilda was never a passionate child, but she had been pleasure-loving and wayward. that was changing now; and matilda was giving earnest care to her school-work. the desired evening for the "band meeting" came, and the young people all went duly to the lecture-room; though maria reminded her sisters that they did not belong there. letitia and anne chose to go in spite of that fact. the room, though not full, was filled towards the upper end; so the party were divided, and it happened that matilda placed herself apart from her sisters, in the front, at the end of a seat near to mr. richmond. he was there already, standing by the little desk. after the prayer and singing, mr. richmond declared that they were come together for a talk; and he meant to make it a talk. he should ask questions when he chose, and everybody else might exercise the same liberty. "we are going to try to understand things," he said; "and by that somewhat vague expression i mean things connected with our covenant that we have made, and the work we have undertaken. our covenant begins with the words, 'we are the servants of christ.' let us know exactly what we mean. what is it to be a servant of christ? what is a servant, in the first place?" there was hesitation; then an answer from somewhere,--"he is somebody who does what he is told." "that would be a good servant," said mr. richmond, smiling; "but it will do. he is one who acts under the will of another, doing the work of another. a servant of christ--what does he do?--and how does he do it?" there was no answer this time. "let us look," said mr. richmond. "in the first verse of the first chapter of his epistle to the romans, paul calls himself a servant of jesus christ; and in the ninth verse he says that he serves 'with his spirit.' here is a mark. the service of christ, you see, is in the first instance, not outward but inward. not hand work, nor lip work, nor money giving; but service _in the spirit_. what is that? "it is having your will the same with god's will. "so now look and see. we all pledged ourselves the other night to do a great many sorts of outward service; good in themselves, and right and needful to do. but the first question is, are we ourselves the servants of christ? do we in heart love and obey and agree to his will? if we are not doing that, or trying to do it, our other service is no service at all. it is a lie, and no service at all. or it is service of ourselves." mr. richmond paused a little. "i have no reason to think that any of you did not mean true service, when the pledge was given the other night. so now let us see how this true service shows itself. "jesus said, you remember, 'if any man serve me, let him follow me.' all we have to ask is, how did the lord himself walk, that we should follow him? i recommend you to study the story of his life very carefully and very constantly, and be continually getting new lessons from it. but now let us look just at one or two points. "jesus said, 'as long as i am in the world, i am the light of the world.' has he commanded us to be anything like that?" one of the boys answered, "let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your father which is in heaven." "how can our light shine?" "doing good," another boy answered. "being good," said one of the girls. "very well; but what is there in doing and being good which has any resemblance to light? what does light do?" "it shows things," a boy said. "there's no darkness where the light comes," said a little girl. "quite true; but how does our doing good and being good, 'show things'? what does it show?" after a little hesitation a voice replied, "it shows what is right." "it shows what people ought to do," a boy said. "it shows what is the will of god about us," said mr. richmond; "and the more exactly we are obedient to that will and conformed to it, the more brightly do we give light. and do you see? our light-giving depends on what we _are_. we give no light, except just so far as we are ourselves what god wills us to be. and then it shines out in all sorts of ways. i knew a little girl whose eyes were like two pure lamps, always; they were so loving and clear and true. i have known several people whose voices gave light as much as harmony; they were so sweet with the tones of a glad heart and a conscience at peace. i have seen faces that shone, almost like angel faces, with the love of god and the joy of heaven and the love of their fellow-men. now this is the first thing the lord calls us to be in his service--his light-bearers. the light comes from him; we must get it from him; and then we must shine! and of course our actions give light too, if they are obedient to the will of god. a boy who keeps the sabbath holy is almost as good as a sermon to a boy who doesn't. one who refuses to touch the offered glass of wine, shows the light to another who drinks it. a loving answer shames a harsh spirit; and a child faithful to her duties at school is a beacon of truth to her fellows. "there is one thing more; and then i will talk to you no longer this evening. jesus said, 'the son of man is come to seek and to save that which is lost.' his servants must follow him. now, how much are you willing to do,--how far are you willing to go,--to accomplish what he came, and lived, and died for? and how will you set about it?" there was a long silence here; until mr. richmond urged that an answer should be given. then at last somebody suggested-- "bringing new scholars to school?" "that is one thing to be done, certainly; and a very good thing. what else can we attempt? remember,--it is to seek and to save the _lost!_" "we might carry tracts," another suggested. "you might; and if they are good tracts, and given with a kind word, and followed with a loving prayer, they will not be carried in vain. but to whom will you take them, frank?" "might take them to the boys in the school," frank thought. "where else?" "might drop 'era around the corner," mrs. rice said. "don't _drop_ them anywhere, where it is possible to give them," mr. richmond replied. "do not ever be, or seem, ashamed of your wares. give lovingly to almost anybody, and the gift will not be refused, if you choose the time and place wisely. take people when they are alone, as much as you can. but the _lost_, remember. who are the lost?" silence; then a voice spoke-- "people who don't come to church." "it is a bad sign when people do not come to church," said mr. richmond. "still we may not make that an absolute test. some people are sick and unable to come; some are deaf and unable to hear if they did come; some are so poor they have not decent clothes. some live where there are no churches. who are the _lost?_" "people who are not going to heaven," one little girl answered. "people who are not good," another said. "people who swear," said a boy. "those people who do not love jesus christ," was the answer of the fourth. "that sums it all up," said mr. richmond. "those who do not know the lord jesus. they are out of the way to heaven; they have never trusted in his blood for forgiveness; they are not good, for they have not got his help to make them good; and if they do not swear and do other dreadful things, it is only because the temptation is wanting. they are the lost. now, does not every one of you know some friend or acquaintance who is a lost one? some brother or sister perhaps; or mother or father, or cousin or neighbour, who does not love jesus the lord? those are the very first people for us to seek. then, outside of those nearest ones, there is a whole world lost. let us go after all, but especially those who have few to look after them." "it is harder to speak to those you know, than to those you don't know," mrs. trembleton said. "no matter. jesus said, 'he that taketh not his cross and followeth after me, cannot be my disciple.' let us go to the hardest cases." "are not tracts best to use with them?" mrs. swan asked. "use tracts or not, according to circumstances. your own voice is often better than a tract, if it has the right ring to it. when ''tis joy, not duty, to speak his beauty.' speak _that_ as often and wherever you can. and 'whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' now i have done asking questions, and you may ask me whatever you like. it is your turn." mr. richmond sat down. but the silence was unbroken. "i am here to answer questions, remember. has no one anything to ask? has no one found any difficulty to be met, and he does not know just how to meet it? has no one found something to be done, and he does not know just who is to do it? speak, and tell everything. now is the time." silence again, and then a little boy said-- "i have found a feller that would like, i guess, to come to sunday-school; but his toes is out o' his shoes." "cannot he get another pair?" mr. richmond asked gravely. "i guess not, sir." "then it is a case for the 'aid and comfort' committee," said mr. richmond. "who is the head of your department? who is chief of those who are looking up new scholars?" "john depeyster." "very well. tell john depeyster all about your little boy and his toes, and john will go to the head of the relief committee--that is, miss forshew--and she will see about it. very well, everett; you have made a good beginning. who is next?" "i would like to know," said miss forshew, in a small voice, "where the relief committee are to get supplies from? if new shoes are to be bought, there must be funds." "that is the very thing the relief committee undertook, i thought," said mr. richmond. "must there be some scheme to relieve _them_ first? your business abilities can manage that, miss forshew, or i am mistaken in them. but, dear friends, we are not going to serve christ with that which costs us nothing--are we?" "mr. richmond," said ailie swan, "may temperance people drink cider?" the laughter was universal now. "because," said ailie, unabashed, "i was talking to a boy about drinking it; and he said cider was nothing." "i have seen _some_ cider which was more than negative in its effects," said mr. richmond. "i think you were right ailie. cider is only the juice of apples, to be sure; but it gets so unlike itself once in a while, that it is quite safe to have nothing to do with it." "mr. richmond," said another girl, "what are you to do if people are rude?" "the bible says, 'a soft answer turneth away wrath,' mary." "but suppose they will not listen to you?" "be patient. people did not always listen to the master, you remember." "but would you try again?" "if i had the least chance. we must not be afraid of 'taking the wind on our face,' as an old writer says. i would try again; and i would pray more for them. did you try that, mary?" "no, sir." "don't ever hope to do anything without prayer. indeed, we must look to god to do all. _we_ are nothing. if anything is to be accomplished for the service of christ by our hands, it must be by god's grace working through us and with us; no other way. the power is his, always. so whatever you do, pray, and hope in god, not in yourself." "mr. richmond," said frances barth, "i do not understand about 'carrying the message.' what does it mean?" "you know what the message is? we are commanded to preach the gospel to every creature." "but how can we do it?--people who are not ministers?" "it is not necessary to get up into a pulpit to preach the gospel." "no, sir; but--any way, how is one to 'carry the message'?" "first, i would say, be sure that you have a message to carry." "i thought you just said, mr. richmond, that the gospel is the message?" said mrs. trembleton. "it is the material of the message; but you know it must be very differently presented to different people." "i know; but how can you tell?" "as i said, be sure that you have a message to carry. let your heart be full of some thought, or some truth, which you long to tell to another person, or long that another person should know. then ask the lord to give you the right word for that person; and ask him to let his power go along with it." "then one's own heart must be full first," said another lady, mrs. barth, thoughtfully. "it should be. and it may be." "one has so little time to give to these things," said mrs. trembleton. "shall we serve the lord with that which costs us nothing?" again said mr. richmond. but he did not prolong the conversation after that. he gave out a hymn and dismissed the assembly. matilda being quite in the front, was some distance behind her sisters in coming out. as she passed slowly down the aisle, she came near two of her little acquaintances in one of the seats, who were busily talking. "it would be so nice!" she heard the one say to the other. "where shall we do it?" "there's no place at our house." "no more there isn't at mine. there are so many people about all over. where can we go?" "i'll tell you. mr. ulshoeffer has this place nice and warm long before sunday-school time, on sundays; let us come here. we could come awhile before the time, you know; and it would be so nice. nobody would interrupt us. oh, there's matilda englefield--matilda, won't you come too? oh, i forgot; you are not one of the band." "yes, i am," said matilda. "why, you didn't rise the other night when we all rose. i looked over at you to see." "i gave mr. richmond my name afterwards." "oh, did you! oh, that's good. now, matilda, wouldn't you like to come with mary and me?" "what are you going to do?" "why, mary said she would like to begin and read the life of jesus, you know, to see how he did live; if we are to follow him, you know; and i said i would like it too; and we're going to do it together. and we're coming here sundays, before time for sunday-school, to have a good quiet place where nobody can trouble us. don't you want to come too, matilda?" "yes. but other people will find it out and come too." "we'll lock the door; till it is time for the people to come to sunday-school, you know." "but i don't believe _we_ can get in, ailie," said mary edwards. "i guess mr. ulshoeffer keeps the door locked himself." "i know he does; but i know regina ulshoeffer, and she'll get leave for us and get the key. i know she will. then we'll come, won't we? good-night! bring your testament, tilly!" the little group scattered at the lecture-room door, and matilda ran after her party. they were far ahead; and when she caught up with them they were deep in eager talk, which was almost altercation. matilda fell behind and kept out of it and out of hearing of it, till they got home. "well!" said mrs. candy, as they entered the parlour, "what now? you do not look harmonious, considering. what have you had to-night?" "an impossible sort of enthusiasm, mamma," said clarissa, as she drew off her handsome furs. "impossible enthusiasm!" repeated mrs. candy. "what has mr. richmond been talking about?" asked mrs. englefield. "why, mamma," said letitia, "we are all to spend our lives in feeding sick people, and clothing lazy people, and running after the society of wicked people, as far as i can make out; and our money of course goes on the same plan. i advise you to look after maria and matilda, for they are just wise enough to think it's all right; and they will be carrying it into practice before you know where you are." "it is not so at all!" began maria, indignantly. "it is nothing like that, mamma. you know mr. richmond better." "i think i know you better, too. look where your study books were thrown down to-day when you came from school. take them away, before you do anything else or say anything more." maria obeyed with a gloomy face. "do you approve of mr. richmond, aunt marianne?" clarissa asked. "if so, i will say no more; but i was astonished to-night. i thought he was a man of sense." "he _is_ a man of sense," said mrs. englefield; "but i always thought he carried his notions rather far." "why, aunt, he would make missionaries and colporteurs and sisters of charity of us all. sisters of charity are a magnificent institution, of course; but what would become of the world if we were _all_ sisters of charity? and the idea! that everybody is to spend his whole time and all his means in looking up vagrants and nursing fever cases! i never heard anything like it in my life. that, and doing the work of travelling methodists!" "i wonder what the ministry is good for," said mrs. candy, "if everybody is to do the same work." "i do not understand it," said mrs. englefield. "i was not brought up to these extreme theories myself; and i do not intend that my children shall be." "but, mamma," said maria, re-entering, "mr. richmond does not go into extreme theories." "did you eat an apple after dinner?" said her mother. "yes, ma'am." "you ate it up here, instead of in the dining-room?" "why, mamma, you know we often----" "answer me. you ate it up here?" "yes." "what did you do with the core and the peel?" "mamma, i--you know i had no knife----" "what did you do with it?" no answer, except that maria's cheeks grew bright. "you know what you did with it, i suppose. now bring it to me, maria." colouring angrily as well as confusedly, maria went to the mantelpiece where stood two little china vases, and took down one of them. "carry it to your aunt candy," said her mother. "look at it, erminia. now bring it here. take this vase away, and empty it, and wash it, and put it in its place again; and never use it to put apple peels in, as long as you live." maria burst into tears and went away with the vase. "just a little careless," said her aunt. "heedless--always was," said her mother. "now matilda is not so; and anne and letitia were neither of them so. it is a mystery to me, what makes one child so different from another child?" "matilda is a little piece of thoughtfulness," said her aunt, drawing the child to her side and kissing her. "don't you think a little too much, tilly?" matilda wondered whether her aunt thought quite enough. "now, maria," mrs. englefield went on as her other daughter came in, "are you purposing to enter into all mr. richmond's plans that clarissa has been talking about?" "yes, ma'am, of course," maria said. "well, i want you to take notice, that i expect in the first place that all your home and school duties shall be perfectly performed. religion, if it is good for anything, makes people do their duties. your lessons must be perfect; your drawers kept in order; your clothes mended; you must be punctual at school and orderly at home; do you hear? and if all this is not done, i shall take all your pretended religion for nothing but a sham, and shall pay no respect to it at all. now go to bed and act religion for a month before i hear you talk another word about it." maria went silently up-stairs, accompanied by her little sister; but once in their room, she broke out-- "mamma is real cross to-night! it is just clarissa's doing." "i'll tell you what it is, maria," her sister said; "she is not cross; she is worried. i know she is worried." "about mr. richmond?" said maria. "i don't know about what. no, i guess she was worried before we came back." "she was cross anyhow!" said maria. "how can one do everything _perfectly?_" "but that is just what mr. richmond said," matilda urged gently. "what?" "that we should be light-bearers, you know. that is the way to be a light-bearer; to do everything perfectly." "well, you may, if you can," said maria. "i can't." chapter viii. "tilly, that money burns my pocket," maria said the next morning. "then you had better put it somewhere else." "i suppose you think that is smart," said maria, "but it isn't; for that is just what i mean to do. i mean to spend it, somehow." "what for?" "that's just what i don't know. there are so many things i want; and i do not know what i want most. i have a good mind to buy a writing-desk, for one thing." "why, you have got one already." "i mean a handsome one--a real beauty, large, you know, and with everything in it. that lock of mine isn't good. anybody could open it." "but there is nobody to do that," said matilda. "nobody comes here but you and me." "that don't make any difference!" said maria, impatiently. "don't be so stupid. i would like to have a nice thing, anyhow. then sometimes i think i would rather have a gold chain--like clarissa's." "you could not get that for twenty-five dollars," said matilda. "how do you know?" "hers cost three or four times as much as that." "did it?--well, then i guess i will have the desk, or a whole lot of handsome summer dresses. i guess i will have that." "maria," said her little sister, facing round upon her, "how much are you going to give to the missionary fund?" "the missionary fund?" said maria. "yes. you promised to help that, you know." "not with my twenty-five dollars!" said maria, energetically. "i think you are crazy, matilda." "why?" "because! to ask me such a question as that. aunt candy's present!" "didn't you promise?" "i did not promise to give my money any more than i usually give. i put a penny in every sunday." "then i don't see how you are going to help the fund," said matilda. "i don't see why you promised, either." "i promised, because i wanted to join the band; and i am going to do everything i ought to do. i think i am just as good as you, matilda." matilda let the matter drop. it did not appear what _she_ was going to do with her money. she always said she had not decided. only, one day soon after the last meeting recorded, matilda was seen in one of the small bookstores of shadywalk. there was not reading enough in the village to support a bookstore proper; so the books crept into one corner of the apothecaries' shops, with supplies of stationery to form a connecting link between them and the toilet articles on the opposite counter. to one of these modest retreats of literature, matilda came this day and requested to look at bibles. she chose one and paid for it; but she took a long time to make her choice; was excessively particular about the goodness of the binding and the clearness of the type; detecting an incipient loose leaf in one that was given her to examine; and finally going away perfectly satisfied. she said nothing about it at home; but of course maria saw the new purchase immediately. "so you have been to get a bible!" she said. "did you get it with part of your twenty-five dollars?" "yes. i had no other money, maria, to get it with." "i think you are very foolish. what do you want a bible for?" "i had none." "you could always read mine." "not always. and maria, you know, if we are to follow jesus, we want to know very well, indeed, how he went and what he did and what he wants us to do; and we cannot know all that without a _great deal_ of study." "i have studying enough to do already, for my part," said maria. "but you must study this." "i haven't a minute of time, matilda--not a minute." "then how will you know what to do?" "just as well as you will, perhaps. i've got my map of south america to do all over, from the beginning." "and all the rest of the class?" "yes." "then you are no worse off than the others. and ailie swan reads her bible, i know." "i think i am just as good as ailie swan," said maria, with a toss of her head. "but, maria," said maria's little sister, leaning her elbows on the table and looking earnestly up at her. "well, what?" "is that the right way to talk?" "why not?" "i don't see what ailie has to do with your being good." "nor i, i am sure," said maria. "it was you brought her up." "because, if she has time, i thought you might have time." "well, i haven't time," said maria. "it is as much as i can do, to study my lesson for sunday-school." "then, maria, how _can_ you know how to be good?" "it is no part of goodness to go preaching to other people, i would have you know," said maria. matilda turned over the leaves of her new bible lovingly, and said no more. but her sister failing her, she was all the more driven to seek the little meetings in the corner of the sunday-school-room; and they grew to be more and more pleasant. at home nothing seemed to be right. mrs. englefield was not like herself. anne and letitia were gloomy and silent. the air was heavy. even clarissa's beautiful eyes, when they were slowly lifted up to look at somebody, according to her custom, seemed cold and distant as they were not at first. clarissa visited several sick people and carried them nourishing things; but she looked calm disapproval when maria proclaimed that tilly had been all up lilac lane to look for a stray sunday-school scholar. mrs. englefield laughed and did not interfere. "i would never let a child of mine go there alone," said mrs. candy. "there is no danger in shadywalk," said mrs. englefield. "you will be sorry for it, sister." "well; i am sorry for most things, sooner or later," said mrs. englefield. so weeks went by; until it came to be the end of winter, and something of spring was already stealing into the sunlight and softening the air; that wonderful nameless "something," which is nothing but a far-off kiss from spring's fingers. one sunday mrs. englefield had gone to bed with a headache; and hastening away from the dinner-table, matilda went off to her appointment. mr. ulshoeffer had been propitious; he let the little girls have the key on the inside of the schoolroom door; and an hour before it was time for the classes of the school to be gathering, the three friends met at the gate and went in. they always sat in a far-off corner of one of the transepts, to be as cozy as possible. they were all punctual to-day, ailie having the key of the door. "girls, don't you get confused sometimes, with the things you hear people say?" she asked, as she unlocked the door. "i do; and then sometimes i get real worried." "so do i get worried!" mary edwards assented. "and i don't know what to say--that's the worst of it." "now only to-day," ailie went on, as they walked up the matted aisle with a delicious sense of being free and alone and confidential, "i heard some one say it was no use for children to be christians; he said they didn't know their own minds, and don't know what they want, and by and by it will all be smoke. and when i hear such things, it affects me differently. sometimes i get mad; and then sometimes it takes the strength all out of me." "but if we have the right sort of strength," said matilda, "people can't take it from us, ailie." "well, mine seems to go," said ailie. "and then i feel bad." "we know what we want," said mary, "if we are children." "we know our own minds," said matilda. "we _know_ we do. it is no matter what people say." "i wish they wouldn't say it," said ailie. "or i wish i needn't hear it. but it is good to come here and read, isn't it? and i think our talk helps us; don't you?" "it helps me," said mary edwards. "i've got nobody at home to talk to." "let us begin, girls, or we shall not have time," said matilda. "it's the fourteenth chapter." "of luke?" said ailie. "here it is. but i don't like luke so well as matthew; do you? well, begin." they began and read on, verse by verse, until fourteen verses were read. there they paused. "what does this mean?" said matilda, knitting her small brows. "isn't it right to ask our friends to tea or anything? why, jesus went to dine with this pharisee," said mary, looking up. "yes; but that is another thing," said matilda. "you see, we must ask the people who have no friends." "but why not our friends too?" "perhaps it would cost too much to ask _everybody_," said ailie. "one would be giving parties all the time; and they cost, i can tell you." "but some people are rich enough," said mary. "those people don't make parties for the poor, though," said ailie. "catch them!" "but then, _can_ it mean that it is wrong to have our friends come and see us?" said matilda. "it cannot be wrong. don't you remember, martha and mary used to have jesus come to their house? and they used to make suppers for him." "but _he_ was poor," said matilda. "that is different, too, from having a party, and making a great fuss," said ailie. "and _that_ is done just to pay one's debts," said matilda, "for i have heard mother say so. people ask her, and so she must ask people. and that is what it means, girls, i guess. see, 'lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee.' that isn't making a feast for people that you love." "then it is wicked to ask people just that they may ask you," said mary edwards. "instead of that, we must ask people who _cannot_ ask us," said matilda. "but how queer we should be!" said ailie swan. "just think; we should not be like anybody else. and what should we do if people asked us?" "i don't care," said matilda. "see, girls;--'thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.'" "and is that what it means in the next verse?" said mary edwards. "but i don't understand that. 'blessed is he that shall eat bread in the kingdom of god.' do they eat bread there? i thought they didn't." "it is like what we read a little way back," said matilda, flirting over one or two leaves, "yes, here in the th chapter--'blessed are those servants whom the lord when he cometh shall find watching; verily i say unto you, that he shall gird himself, and make them to sit down to meat, and will come forth and serve them.'" "that means jesus," said mary edwards. "he will make them to sit down to meat!--and will serve them. what does it mean, i wonder?" "it means, that jesus will give them good things," said ailie. "i guess they will be blessed, then, that eat when he feeds them," said the other little girl. "i would like to be there." "there is a verse or two that my bible turns to," said matilda. "in the revelation. 'and he saith unto me, write, blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the lamb.' oh, don't you like to read in the revelation? but we are all called; aren't we?" "and here, in our chapter," said mary, "it goes on to tell of the people who were called and wouldn't come. so i suppose everybody is called; and some won't come." "some don't get the invitation," said matilda, looking up. "a good many don't, i guess," said ailie. "who do you think gets it in lilac lane?" "nobody, hardly, i guess," said mary edwards; "there don't many people come to church out of lilac lane." "but then, girls," said matilda, "don't you think we ought to take it there? the invitation, i mean?" "how can we? why, there are lots of people in lilac lane that i would be afraid to speak to." "i wouldn't be afraid," said matilda. "they wouldn't do us any harm." "but what would you say to them, tilly?" "i would just ask them to come, ailie. i would take the message to them. just think, ailie, of that time, of that supper--when jesus will give good things with his own hand;--and how many people would come if they knew. i would tell everybody. don't you think we ought to?" "i don't like to speak to people much," said ailie. "they would think i was setting myself up." "it is only carrying the message," said matilda. "and that is what jesus was doing _all the time_, you know; and he has told us to follow him." "then must we be telling it all the time too?" asked ailie. "we should do nothing else." "oh yes, we should. that would not hinder," said matilda. "it doesn't take so very long to say a word. here is another verse, girls; this is in the revelation too; listen. this must be what those other verses mean: 'they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. for the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'" as if a thrill from some chord of an angel's harp had reached them, the children were still for a moment. "i don't believe the people are happy in lilac lane," said matilda. "maybe they are," said ailie. "but i guess they can't be. people that are not good can't be happy." "and jesus has given us the message to take to everybody," said matilda; "and when we come up there to that supper, and he asks us if we took the message to the people in the lane, what shall we say? i know what i would like to say." "but there are other people, besides in the lane," said ailie. "we must take it to them too," said mary edwards. "we _can't_ take it to everybody." "no; only to _everybody that we can_," said matilda. "just think how glad some of those people will be, when they hear it. what should we do if mr. richmond had never told it to us?" ailie bit her lip. whether by design or not, mary edwards turned to her testament and read the next words that followed in course. "and there went great multitudes with him: and he turned, and said unto them, if any man come unto me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple." and seeing mr. ulshoeffer coming to open the door, the little conclave broke up. the children and teachers came pouring in for the sunday-school. going out after it was over, matilda noticed a face she had not seen; a boy older than herself, but not very old, standing near the door, looking at the small crowd that trooped along the aisle. the thought came to matilda that he was a new scholar, and if so, somebody ought to welcome him; but nobody did, that she could see. he stood alone, looking at the people as if they were strange to him; with a good, bright, wide-awake face, handsome and bold. matilda did not want to take the welcoming upon herself, but she thought somebody should do it; and the next minute she had paused in front of the stranger. "is this the first time you have been here?" she asked, with a kind of shy grace. the boy's bright eyes came down to her with a look of surprise as he assented. "i am very glad to see you in our sunday-school," she went on. "i hope it was pleasant." "it was pleasant enough," said the stranger. "there is a jolly fellow over there asked me to come--ben barth; are you his sister?" "oh no," said matilda. "ben has his own sisters. i am not one of them." "i thought maybe he told you to speak to me." "nobody told me," said matilda. by this time they had followed the crowd out at the door, and were taking their way down the street. "what did you speak to me then, for?" said the boy, with a roguish look at her. "i thought you were a stranger." "and what if i was?" "i think, if you are a stranger anywhere, it is pleasant to have somebody speak to you." "you're a brick!" was the stranger's conclusion. "am i?" said matilda. "why am i?" "you're a girl, i suppose, and don't understand things," said her companion. "boys know what a brick is--when they see it." "why, so do i," said matilda, "don't i?" but the boy only laughed; and then asked matilda where she lived, and if she had any brothers, and where she went to school. "i go to the other school, you see," said he; "that's how i've never seen you before. i wish you went to my school; and i'd give you a ride on my sled." "but you'll come to our sunday-school, won't you?" matilda asked. "to be sure i will; but you see, i can't take you on my sled on sunday. they'd have all the ministers out after me." "oh no!" said matilda. "i was not thinking of the sled; but you are very kind." "i should like it," said the boy. "yes, i am coming to the school; though i guess i've got an old fogy of a teacher. but the minister's a brick; isn't he?" "he isn't much like _me_," said matilda, laughing. "and the sort of bricks that i know, one is very much like another." the boy laughed too, and asked if she didn't want to know his name? matilda glanced again at the frank face and nice dress, and said yes. "my name's norton laval. what's yours?" "matilda englefield. i am going this way." "yes, you go that way and i go this way, but we shall see each other again. good-bye." so at the corner they parted; and matilda went home, thinking that in this instance at least the welcoming of strangers had paid well. for this was a pleasant new acquaintance, she was sure. she mounted the stairs with happy feet to her room; and there found maria in a flood of tears. maria had stayed at home from sunday-school to-day. "what is the matter, maria?" her little sister inquired. "how's mamma?" "i don't know! oh, nothing will ever be well again. o tilly, what will become of us!" and here a storm of sobs and tears came on, in the midst of which matilda's questions could get no attention. matilda knew her sister, however, and waited. "o tilly!--it's so dreadful!" "what?" said matilda calmly. "we haven't got anything to live upon. anne and letty have been telling me. we haven't. we are going to be as poor as--as poor as anybody. we have got nothing to buy anything with--nothing at all! anne says so." "did mamma say so?" "mother's sick. no, aunt candy told the girls. it's true. somebody or something that had mamma's money--to take care of--has gone off, or been ruined, or something; and we are ruined! there is nothing left at all for us to live upon. and that is what has been troubling mamma all these weeks; and now it is certain, and she knows all about it; and i guess it is that has made her sick. oh, what shall we do?" the turn of matilda's head was inimitable and indescribable. it was not arrogance or affectation; it was perfectly natural to the child; but to a bystander it would have signified that she was aware maria's views and statements were not to be relied upon and could not be made the basis of either opinion or action. she took off her things, and without another word made her way to the room of her elder sisters. they were both sitting there gloomily. "how is mamma?" "i don't know. i haven't seen her since dinner." it was with a little of the same half-graceful, half-competent gesture of the head that matilda applied herself to letitia. "what is all this story, letty, that maria has been telling me?" "how should i know? maria tells a great many stories." "i mean, about what has been troubling mamma." "maria had no business to tell you, and so trouble you with it." "but is it true, letty? anne, is it true?" "i suppose it is true--if you mean what she heard from me a little while ago. that is true." "and mamma has lost all her money?" "every cent." "when did you know it, anne and letty?" "we have known it a day or two. it is true. it is all true, tilly." "what is mamma going to do, then?" "get well, i hope. that is the first thing. aunt candy says she will pay for her board and clarissa's, and mamma and you can live on that. letty and i must go get our living--somehow." and here anne broke down. matilda wanted to ask about maria's fate in the general falling to pieces of the family; but her throat felt so full, she was afraid she could not. so she did not try; she turned and went down-stairs to her mother. mrs. englefield was dozing, flushed and uneasy; she hardly noticed who was with her; but asked for water, and then for cologne water. matilda brought the one and the other, and sat by the bedside wiping her mother's brow and cheeks with the cologne. nobody came to interrupt or relieve her for some time. the light of the afternoon began to fade, and the sunbeams came aslant from the western sky; and still the child sat there passing the handkerchief gently over her mother's face. and while she sat so, matilda was thinking what possible ways there might be by which she could make money. "tilly, is that you?" said mrs. englefield, faintly, as the sunbeams were just quitting the room. "yes, mamma. are you better?" "is there no one else here?" "no, mamma. aunt candy is out; and i suppose the girls thought you were sleeping. are you better, mamma? you have had a nice long nap." "it's been horrid!" said mrs. englefield. "i have dreamed of every possible dreadful thing." "but you feel better now?" "my head aches--no--oh, my head! tilly----" "what, mamma?" "i am going to be sick. i shan't be about again for a while, i know. i want you to do just what i tell you." "yes, mamma. what?" "anne and letty are going away." "yes, mamma. i know." "do you know why, dear?" the tone of tender, sorrowful sympathy in which this was said, overcame the child. as her mother's eyes with the question languidly sought her face, matilda burst into tears and threw herself upon her neck. "no, don't," said mrs. englefield, faintly,--"i can't bear it. don't, matilda! rise up and listen to me." matilda did as she was told. she forced back her tears; stopped her sobs; dashed away the drops from the corners of her eyes; and sat up again to hear what her mother had to say to her. "give me some more water first. anne and letty are going away, tilly; and i cannot be up and see to anything; and i can't hire a woman to do what's to be done. you tell maria, from me, she must stay home from school and take care of the house. you will do what you can, tilly--oh, my head!--you can put rooms in order and such things; and maria must go down into the kitchen and get the breakfast----" "must maria get the dinner too, mamma?" "yes, the dinner----" "but _can_ she, mamma?" "she _must;_ or else your aunt candy will hire somebody to do it; and that will come out of what she pays me, and we shall not have enough left. she _must_, tilly." "but aunt candy wouldn't mind, just while you are sick, mamma, would she?" "yes! i know. just you do as i tell you; promise me that you will." "i will, mamma." "promise me that maria will." "i guess she will, mamma. i'll try and make her. shall i bring her here, and you tell her yourself?" "no, indeed. don't bring maria here. she would make such a row she would kill me. anne and letty will see to things, till they go--oh, i can't talk any longer. give me some more water." she was presently dozing again; and matilda, clasping her small hands, sat and thought over what was before her. it began to feel like a weight on her somewhere--on her shoulders, she thought, and lying on her heart too; and the longer she thought about it, the heavier and harder it pressed. the family to be broken up; her mother to be straitened for money--matilda did not know very well what that meant, but it sounded disagreeable; her aunt suddenly presented in new and not pleasant colours; a general threatening cloud overshadowing all the future. matilda began to get, what her strong little heart was not accustomed to, a feeling of real discouragement. what could she do? and then a word of the afternoon's lesson in the sunday-school came freshly to mind. it had been quite new to matilda, and had seemed to her very beautiful; but it took on quite another sort of beauty now,--"cast thy burden upon the lord; he shall sustain thee." "will he?" thought matilda. "can he? may i tell him about all this? and will he help me to bear it, and help me to do all that work, and to make maria do hers? but he will, _for he has said so_." it was getting dusk in the room. matilda knelt down by her chair, and poured out all her troubles into the ear that would heed and could help her. "who's here?" said the voice of mrs. candy, coming in. "who is that? matilda? how did you come here, tilly?" "i have been taking care of my mother." "have you? how is she? well, you run down-stairs; i'll take care of her now. it is better for you not to be here. don't come in again, unless i give you leave. now you may go." "i wonder, must i mind her?" said matilda to herself. "i do not see why. she is not mother; and if mother is sick, that does not give everybody else a right to say what i shall do. i think it is very queer of aunt candy to take that way with me." and i am afraid matilda's head was carried a little with the air which was, to be sure, natural to her, and not unpretty, and yet which spoke of a good deal of conscious competency. it is no more than justice to matilda to say that she did not ever put the feeling into any ill-mannerly form. it hardly appeared at all, except in this turn of her head, which all her own family knew, laughed at, admired, and even loved. so she went down-stairs to the parlour. "how is aunt marianne?" was the question from clarissa. "letty told me where you were. but, little one, it is not good for you to go into your mother's sick-room; you can do nothing, and you are better out. so mamma wishes you not to go in there till aunt marianne is better--you understand?" "clarissa too!" thought matilda to herself. but she made no answer. she came by the fire to warm herself; for her mother's room had been cold. "you shouldn't go so near the fire; you'll burn your dress," clarissa remarked. "no," said matilda; and she said but that one word. "you will take the colour out, if you do not set it on fire; and that is what i meant. that is your best dress, tilly." it was true; and, sorely against her will, matilda stepped a little back. "you were a great while at sunday-school to-day," clarissa went on. "no," said matilda; "not longer than usual." "what do you learn there?" "why, cousin issa, what do you teach at _your_ sunday-school?" said matilda. for clarissa had sheered off from mr. richmond's church, and gone into a neighbouring one which belonged to the denomination in which she had been brought up. "that is not good manners to answer one question with another, little one." "i thought one answer might serve for both," said matilda. "i am afraid it would not. for in my sunday-school i teach the catechism." "don't the catechism tell about jesus?" "some things,--of course." "our lessons tell all things about him," said matilda; "and that is what i learn." "do you learn about yourself?" "what about myself?" "how you ought to behave, and how you ought not to behave." "why, i think learning about jesus teaches one _that_," said matilda. "i think there is nothing so good as coming home to learn about home," said clarissa. the talk did not run in a way to please matilda, and she was silent. presently they were called down to tea. everybody suffering from a fit of taciturnity. "maria, sit up straight," said mrs. candy. "i always sit so," was the answer. "_so_, is not very graceful. matilda does not sit so." "matilda was always straight; it's her way," said maria. "well, make it your way too. come! straighten up. what shoulders! one would think you were a boy playing at leap-frog." "i don't know what 'leap-frog' is," said maria, colouring; "and i don't think anybody would think i was anything but a girl anyhow. i get tired sitting up straight." "when?" asked clarissa. matilda's head was quite indescribable in the turn it gave at this moment. her supper was done; she was leaving the table. "you are not going into your mother's room?" said her aunt, catching her hand as she passed. "you said you wished i would not." "yes, my dear, i am going up there immediately. don't go out either, matilda." "i am going to church, aunt candy." "i think not. not to-night. i do not approve of so much church-going for little girls. you can study your lesson, you know, for next sunday. i do not want to have anybody else sick on my hands till your mother is well." matilda's face expressed none of her disappointment; her head was even carried a little higher than usual as she left the room. but outside the door her steps flagged; and she went slowly up the stairs, asking herself if she was bound to mind what her aunt said. she was not clear about it. in the abstract, matilda was well enough disposed to obey all lawful authority; just now a spirit of opposition had risen. was this lawful authority? mrs. englefield was sick, to be sure; but did that give mrs. candy any right to interfere with what was known to be mrs. englefield's will when she was not sick? matilda thought not. then, on the other hand, she did not wish to do anything to displease her aunt, who had always been kind to her; she did not wish to change the relations between them. slowly matilda mounted stair after stair till she got to her room. there she stood by the window a moment, thinking and sorrowing; for if she did not wish to anger her aunt, neither did she wish to lose her evening in church, her sight of mr. richmond, and his sermon. and just then, the clear, sweet sound of the church bell came, with its first note, to tell that the service would begin in a quarter of an hour. it sounded like a friend's voice calling her. her aunt candy's church bell joined in, and mr. everett's church, and mr. schönflocker's church; but that one which mr. ulshoeffer rang was the loudest of all to matilda's ear. she could hardly stand it. then maria burst in. "what are you going to do?" said matilda. "do? why, i am going to church, of course; and in a hurry." "and anne and letty?" "certainly; and issa too." matilda said no more, but hastily made herself ready, and went down with the rest. chapter ix. anne and letitia were to leave home in the afternoon of monday; and maria and matilda went to school that morning as usual. but when the noon hour came, matilda called her sister into a corner of the emptied schoolroom, and sat down with a face of business. "what is the matter?" said maria. "we must go home to dinner." "i should like to speak to you here first." "about what? say it and be quick; for i am ever so hungry. aunt candy cut my breakfast short this morning." "i wanted to say to you that we had better take home our books." "what for?" said maria, with opening eyes. "because, maria, mamma was talking to me last night about it. you know there will be no one at home now, after to-day, but you and me." "aunt erminia and clarissa?" "nobody to do anything, i mean." "can't they do anything? i don't know what you are talking of, matilda; but i know i want my dinner." "who do you think will get dinner to-morrow?" "well--mother's sick of course; and anne and letty are going. i should think aunt candy might." "no, she won't." "how do you know?" "because mother said so. she won't do anything." "then she'll have to get a girl to do things, i suppose." "but maria, that is just what mother wants she shouldn't do; because she'd have to pay for it." "who would have to pay for it?" "mamma." "why would she?" "she said so." "i don't see why she would, i am sure. if aunt erminia hires a girl, _she'll_ pay for her." "but that will come out of what aunt erminia pays to mamma; and what aunt erminia pays to mamma is what we have got to live upon." "who said so?" "mamma said so." matilda answered with her lip trembling; for the bringing facts all down to hard detail was difficult to bear. "well, i _do_ think," exclaimed maria, "if i had a sister sick and not able to help herself, i would not be so mean!" matilda sat still and cried and said nothing. "who _is_ going to do all the work then, tilly?" there would have been something comical, if it had not been sad, in the way the little girl looked up and said, "you and i." "i guess we will!" said maria, with opening eyes. "you and i! take care of the house, and wash the dishes, and cook the dinner, and everything! you know we couldn't, matilda; and what's more, _i_ know we won't." "yes, mamma wishes it. we must; and so we can, maria." "_i_ can't," said maria, taking down her school cloak. "but, maria! we must. mamma will be more sick if we do not; you heard what aunt candy said at breakfast, that she is fearfully nervous; and if she hears that there is a hired girl in the house, it will worry her dreadfully." "it will be aunt candy's fault then," said maria, fastening her cloak. "i never heard of anybody so mean in all my life!--never." "but that don't help anything, maria. and you and i _must_ do what mamma said. you know we shall have little enough to live on, as it is, and if you take the pay of a hired girl out of it, there will be so little left." "i've got my twenty-five dollars, that i can get summer dresses with; i am glad i haven't spent it," said maria. "come, tilly; i'm going home." "but, maria, you have not said what you ought to say yet." "what ought i to say?" "i will help and do my part. we can manage it. come, maria, say that you will." "your part," said maria. "what do you suppose your part would come to? what can such a child as you do?" "maria, now is the time to show whether you are really one of the band of workers." "i am, of course. i joined it." "that would not make you one of them, if you don't do what they promised to do." "when did i ever promise to be aunt candy's servant girl?" said maria, fiercely. "i should like to know." "but 'we are the servants of christ,'" said matilda, softly, her eyes glistening through. "what then?" "we promised to try to do whatever would honour him." "i don't know what all this affair has to do with it," said maria. "you say _we_ promised;--you didn't?" "yes, i did." "you didn't join the band?" "yes, i did." "when?" "a few days after you did." "why didn't you tell me? did you tell mr. richmond?" "yes." "i think it is mean, that you did not tell me." "i am telling you now. but now, maria, you know what you promised." "i did not promise this sort of thing at all, tilly." "yes, don't you know? 'we stand ready to do his will.' that's in the covenant." "but _this_ is not his will," insisted maria. "this is aunt erminia's meanness." "but it certainly is his will that we should do what mamma says, and please her; and this is the work he has given us to do." maria's answer this time was to sit down and cry for her part. matilda did not join her, but stood by, patiently waiting. maria cried and sobbed for several minutes; then she started up and set off homewards at a furious rate. matilda gathered together her books and followed her sister; trying to comfort herself with the thought that this _was_ certainly the work given them to do, and that she would try and make the best of it. the dinner was sorrowful enough. maria, indeed, ate it as if remembering it was the last dinner for some time to come that she would find ready prepared for her. but anne and letty were broken down with grief; and mrs. candy's endeavours to comfort them were either not the right sort, or fell upon unready ears. clarissa was composed as usual. "you were late from school, maria and matilda," their aunt remarked, finding anne and letty unmanageable. "what was the reason?" "tilly was talking to me," maria said. "you could talk on the way home, i should think. i dislike to have dinner eaten by stages; first one set coming, and then another. i am going to ask you to be punctual for the future. do not be in a hurry, maria; there is time enough, now you are here, to eat moderately." "i am hungry. i don't want to eat moderately, aunt erminia." "as much as you wish; but you can be moderate in manner, cannot you, even if not in quantity?" "nobody ever told me i eat too much, before," said maria. "there are a great many things that you have never been told, i suppose?" said clarissa, lifting her handsome eyes quietly. "i don't care about your telling me either," said maria. "my dear, that is not polite," interposed her aunt. "i am sorry to hear you speak so. would you not like to have issa, or any one, tell you things that you would be the better for. you would not wish to remain just as you are, to the end of your days?" "it don't hurt anybody but me," said maria. "i beg your pardon. everything that is not graceful and well-mannered, on the part of people in whose company we are, hurts me and clarissa. it hurts me to have you bolt down your food as you were doing just now--if i am sitting at the same table with you. and it hurts me to have you speak rudely. i hope you will mend in all these things." "it will not hurt you to have us say good-bye," said anne, rising. "i will do that now, if you please. letty, i will leave you to take care of these things, and i will finish the packing. we must be quick, too." the farewell greetings with her aunt and cousin were soon spoken; and maria and matilda tore up-stairs after their sister, to pour out tears and complaints together during the remaining moments of her being at home. matilda's tears, however, were quiet and her words very few. "ain't she too bad!" exclaimed maria. "you must try and hold your own the best you can," said anne, "until mamma gets up again. poor children! i am afraid she will be too much for you." "but, anne, did you think aunt candy was like that?" said maria. "she wasn't like that at first." "i guess she was. all she wanted was a chance. now she's got it. try and bear it the best you can till mamma is well. she cannot be worried now." "is mamma very sick, anne?" matilda ventured. "n-o," said anne, "but she might be, tilly, if she was worried. the doctor says she is very nervous, and must be kept quiet. she has been worrying so long, you see. so you must try and not do anything to fret her." the prospect was sad. when the omnibus came to take anne and letty to the station, and when the last kisses and hugs were over, and the omnibus bounced away, carrying with it all they had at the moment, the two girls left at home felt forlorn enough. the only thing to be done was to rush up-stairs to their room and cry their hearts out. and that was done thoroughly. but by and by, matilda's thoughts, in their very extreme need of comfort, began to take up the words again which she had once found so good: "cast thy burden upon the lord; he shall sustain thee." she left her sobbing, dried her eyes, sat down by the window, and found the place in her bible, that her eyes might have the comfort of seeing and reading the words there. the lord's words: tilly knew they were true. but maria sobbed on. at last her little sister called her. "what is it?" said she. "come here,--and i will show you something good." "good?--what?" said maria, approaching the window. "oh, words in the bible!" "read, maria." "i have read them before," said the other, sullenly, after she had glanced at the place. "but they are true, maria." "well; they don't help me." "but they help _me_," said matilda. "it's jesus' promise to help." "i don't believe it is for such things as this." "why not?" said matilda, a sudden chill coming over her heart. "it says just, 'cast thy burden'--it might be any burden; it does not signify what it is, maria." "yes, it does; it is not for such little things," said maria. "it is for great religious people and their affairs. oh dear! oh dear!" sorely troubled now at having her supports knocked away from under her, matilda eagerly sought further, if perchance she might find something that maria could not question. her bible had a few references in the margin; consulting these, she presently found what she had need of; but a feeling of want of sympathy between them forbade her to show the new words to her sister. matilda pored over them with great rest of heart; gave thanks for them; and might have used with truth david's language--"thy words were found, and i did eat them." the words were these:-- "be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto god. and the peace of god that passeth understanding shall keep your hearts and minds through christ jesus." matilda's eyes were dry and her voice was clear, when she reminded her sister that it was time to get tea. maria was accustomed to do this frequently, and made no objection now. so the two went down together. passing the parlour door, however, it opened, and mrs. candy called matilda in. "i want to speak a word to you, tilly," she said. "did you go out last evening?" "yes; i did, aunt erminia." "you went to church?" matilda assented; but though she had bowed her head, it seemed to be more erect than before. "and i had told you not to go, had i not? you understood that?" a silent assent was again all that the child gave. "i am accustomed to be obeyed," said mrs. candy. "that is my way. it may not be your mother's way; but all the same, i am mistress here while she is sick; mistress over you as well as the rest. you must obey me like all the rest. will you?" what was meant by "all the rest" matilda marvelled, seeing that nobody else but maria and her own daughter were left in the house. this time she gave no sign of answering; she only stood and listened. "will you obey me, tilly?" matilda was not sure whether she would. in her mind it depended on circumstances. she would obey, conditionally. but she would not compromise her dignity by words about it. she was silent. "i must be obeyed," mrs. candy went on, with mild tones, although a displeased face. "if not willingly, then unwillingly. i shall punish you, matilda, if you disobey me; and so severely that you will find it best not to do it again. but i should be very sorry to have you drive me to such disagreeable doings. we should both be sorry together. it is much best not to let things come to such extremity." matilda coloured high, but except that and the slight gesture of her head, she yet gave no reply. "that is enough upon that subject," the lady went on. "only, i should be glad to have you tell me that you will try to please me." "i wish to please everybody--as far as i can," matilda said at last. "then you will please me?" "i hope so." "she hopes so, issa," said mrs. candy, turning her head round towards where her daughter sat. "american children, mamma," was clarissa's comment. "there is another thing, matilda," mrs. candy resumed after a slight pause. "your mother has told me that maria is competent to do the work of the house until she gets well. is she? and will maria, do you think, try to please me as much as you do?" "yes, ma'am. i think she can--she and i. we will do it," matilda answered more readily. "she and you! what can you do?" "i can help a little." "well then, that is settled; and i need not look out for a girl?" "oh no, aunt candy. she and i can do it." "but mind, i must have things in order, and well done. it is my sister's choice, that maria should do it. but it is not mine unless i can have everything in good order. you may tell maria so, and let her understand what it is she is undertaking. i am to have no dusty stairs, and no half-set tables. if she wants instruction in anything, i am willing to give it; but i cannot have disorder. now you may go and tell her; and tell her to have tea ready in half an hour." "what did she want of you?" maria asked, when matilda rejoined her down-stairs. "she wanted to talk to me about my going out last evening." "oh! was she in a great fuss about it?" "and maria, she wants tea to be ready in half an hour." "i'll have it ready sooner than that," said maria, bustling about. "but you must not. she wants it in half an hour; you must not have it ready before." "why not?" said maria, stopping short. "why, she wants it _then_. she has a right to have tea when she likes." but matilda sighed as she spoke, for her aunt's likings were becoming a heavy burden to her, in the present and in the future. the two girls went gently round, setting the table, cutting the bread, putting out the sweetmeat, getting the teapot ready for the tea; then they stood together over the stove, waiting for the time to make it. "there's one comfort," matilda said with another sigh;--"we can do it all for christ." "what?" said maria, starting. "it is work he has given us to do, you know, maria; and we have promised to do everything we can to please him. so we can do this to please him." "i don't see how," said maria. "_this_ isn't band work;--do you think it is?" "it isn't sunday-school work; but, maria, you know, 'we are the servants of christ.' now he has given us this work to do." "that's just talking nonsense," said maria. "there is no religion in pots and kettles." matilda had to think her way out of that statement. "maria, in the covenant, you know, we say 'we stand ready to do his will;' and you _know_ it is his will that we should have these things to do." "i don't!" said maria; "that's a fact." "then how comes it that we have them?" "just because mamma is sick, and aunt erminia is too mean to live!" "you should not speak so," said matilda. "how comes mamma to be sick? and how comes it that we have got no money to hire a girl?" "because that man in new york was wicked, and ran away with mamma's money." "maria," said matilda, solemnly, "i don't see what you meant by joining the band." "i meant more than you did!" said maria, flaming out. "such children as you are too young to join it." "we are not too young to be christians." "you are too young to join the church and be baptized." "why?" said matilda. "oh, you are too young to _understand_. anybody that knows will tell you so. and if you are not fit to be baptized and join the church, you are not fit to join the band. now i can make the tea." matilda looked hard at the teapot, as it stood on the stove while the tea was brewing; but she let her sister alone after that. when the meal was over, and the dishes washed and everything done, she and maria went up to their own room, and maria at once went to bed. her little sister opened her bible, and read, over and over, the words that had comforted her. they were words from god; promises and commands straight from heaven. matilda took them so, and studied earnestly how she might do what they bade her. "cast her burden on the lord"--how was she to do that? clearly, she was not to keep it on her own heart, she thought; she must trust that the lord would take care of anything put into his hands. the words were very good. and the other words? "be careful for nothing"--that was the same thing differently expressed; and matilda felt very glad it had been written for her in both places and in both ways; and that she was ordered "in everything" to "make her requests known to god." she might not have dared, perhaps, in some little troubles that only concerned a child and were not important to anybody else; but now there could be no doubt--she might, and she must. she was very glad. but, "with thanksgiving?"--how could that be always? now, for instance? things were more disagreeable and sorrowful than in all her life she had ever known them; "give thanks"? must she? _now?_ and how could she? matilda studied over it a good while. finally took to praying over it. asked to be taught how she could give thanks when she was sorry. and getting quite tired, at last went to bed, where maria was already fast asleep. there is no denying that matilda was sorry to wake up the next morning. but awake she found herself, and broad awake too; and the light outside the window admonished her she had no time then to lie and think. she roused maria immediately, and herself began dressing without a moment's delay. "oh, what's the hurry!" said maria, yawning and stretching herself. "i'm sleepy." "but it isn't early, maria." "well; i don't want it to be early." "yes, you do, maria; you forget. we have a great deal on our hands. make haste, please, and get up. do, maria!" "what have we got to do so much?" said maria, with yawn the second. "everything. you are so sleepy, you have forgotten." "yes. i have forgotten," said maria, closing her eyes. "o maria, please do get up! i'm almost dressed; and i can't do the whole, you know. won't you get up?" "what's the matter, tilly?" said her sister, rolling over, and opening her eyes quietly at matilda. "i am going down, maria, in two minutes; and i cannot do everything, you know." "clarissa'll help." "if you expect that, maria, you will be disappointed. i wish you would come right down and make the fire." maria lay still. matilda finished her dressing, and then knelt down by the window. the burden upon her seemed rather heavy, and she went to her only source of help. maria lay and looked at the little kneeling figure, so still there by the window; glanced at the growing light outside the window, then at her scattered articles of clothing, lying where she had thrown them or dropped them last night; and at last rolled herself out of bed and was dressing in earnest when matilda rose up to go down-stairs. "oh now, you'll soon be ready!" she exclaimed. "make haste, maria; and come down to the kitchen. the fire is the first thing." then the little feet went with a light tread down the stairs, that she might disturb nobody, and paused in the hall. the light struggling in through the fanlights over the door; the air close; a smell of kerosene in the parlour; chairs and table in a state of disarrangement; the litter of clarissa's work on the carpet; the parlour stove cold. little matilda wished to herself that some other hands were there, not hers, to do all that must be done. but clearly maria would never get through with it. she stood looking a minute; then plunged into the work. she opened the shutters and the curtains, and threw up the windows. then picked up the litter. then she saw that the services of a broom were needed; and matilda fetched the broom, and brushed out the parlour and the hall. it tired her arms; she was not used to it. dusting the furniture was more in her line; and then matilda came to the conclusion that if a fire was to be kindled in time this morning, it must be done by herself; maria would be fully occupied in the kitchen. so down-stairs she went for billets of wood for kindling. there was maria, in trouble. "this stove won't draw, tilly." "what is the matter?" "why _that_. it won't draw. it just smokes." "it always does draw, maria." "well, it won't to-day." "did you put kindling enough in?" "there's nothing but kindling!--and smoke." "why, you've got the damper turned," said matilda, coming up to look; "see, that's the matter. it won't light with the damper turned." "stupid!" maria muttered; and matilda went off to make her own fire. happily that did not smoke. the parlour and hall were all in nice order; the books put in place, and everything ready for the comfort of people when they should come to enjoy it; and matilda went to join her sister in the kitchen. the fire was going there too, and the kitchen warm, and maria stood with her hands folded, in front of the stove. "i don't know what to get for breakfast," she said. "is the other room ready?" "i set the table," said maria; "but what is to go on it, i don't know." matilda went in to look at the state of things; presently called her sister. "maria, you didn't sweep the carpet." "no. of course i didn't. rooms don't want to be swept every day." "this one does. look at the muss under the table." "only some crumbs," said maria. "and a bone. letty was in a hurry yesterday, i guess. aunt candy won't like it, maria; it won't do." "i don't care whether she likes it." "but don't you care whether she scolds? because i do. and the room is not nice, maria. mother wouldn't have it so." "well, you may sweep it if you like." "i cannot. i am tired. you must make it nice, maria, won't you? and i'll see about the breakfast." "the table's all set!" maria remonstrated. "it won't take long to do it over, maria. but what have we got for breakfast?" "nothing--that i know." "did you look in the cellar?" "no." "why, where _did_ you look?" said matilda, laughing. "come; let us go down and see what is there." in the large, clean, light cellar there were hanging shelves which served the purposes of a larder. the girls peered into the various stores collected on them. "here's a dish of cold potatoes," said maria. "that will do for one thing," said matilda. "cold?" "why, no! fried, maria." "i can't fry potatoes." "why, yes, you can, maria; you have seen mamma do it hundreds of times." "here's the cold beefsteak that was left yesterday." "cold beefsteak isn't good," said matilda. "can't we warm it?" "how?" "i don't know; might put it in the oven; it would get hot there. there's a good oven." "i don't think mamma ever warms cold beefsteak," said matilda, looking puzzled. "what does she do with it? she don't throw it away. how do you know she doesn't warm it? you wouldn't know, when you saw it on the table, whether it was just fresh cooked, or only warmed up. how could you tell?" "well," said matilda, dubiously, "you can try. i wish i could ask somebody." "i shall not ask anybody up-stairs," said maria. "come--you take the potatoes and i will carry the beefsteak. then we will make 'the coffee and have breakfast. i'm as hungry as i can be." "so am i," said matilda. and she sighed a little, for she was tired as well as hungry. maria set the dish of beefsteak in the oven to get hot, and matilda made the coffee. she knew quite well how to do that. then she came to the table where maria was preparing the potatoes to fry. maria's knife was going chop, chop, very fast. "o maria! you should have peeled them," matilda exclaimed, in dismay. "peeled!" said maria, stopping short. "certainly. why, you knew that, maria. potatoe parings are not good to eat." "it takes ages to peel such little potatoes," said maria. "but you cannot eat them without being peeled," said matilda. "yes, you can; it won't make any difference. i will fry them so brown, nobody will know whether they have skins on or not." matilda doubted very much the feasibility of this plan; but she left maria and went off to make sure that the fires in the other rooms were burning right and everything in proper trim. then she sat down in a rocking-chair in the eating-room to rest; wishing very earnestly that there was somebody to help who knew more about business than either she or maria. how were they to get along? and she had promised her mother. and yet more, matilda felt sure that just this work had been given to her and maria to do by the lord himself. therefore they could do it for him. therefore, all the more, matilda wanted to do it in the very nicest and best way possible. she wished she had attended when she had seen her mother cooking different things; now she might have known exactly how to manage. and that reminded her, maria's beef and potatoes must be done. she ran into the kitchen. "there!" said maria. "can you see the skins now?" "they are brown enough," said matilda. "but, maria, they'll be very hard!" "never you mind!" said maria, complacently. "have you looked at your beefsteak?" "no; but it must be hot before now." maria opened the oven door; and then, with an exclamation, seized a cloth and drew out the dish of meat. the dish took their attention first. it was as brown as maria's potatoes. it had gone into the oven white. "it is spoiled," said matilda. "who would have thought the oven was so hot!" said maria. "won't it come all right with washing?" "you might as well wash your beefsteak," said matilda, turning away. if the dish had gone in white, the meat had also gone in juicy; and if the one was brown the other was a chip. "this will not do for breakfast," said maria, lugubriously. "it is like your potatoes," said matilda, with the ineffable little turn of her head. "don't, matilda! what shall we do? the coffee is ready." "we shall have a brown breakfast," said matilda. "the coffee will be the lightest coloured thing on the table." and the two girls relieved themselves with laughing. "but, matilda! what shall we _do?_ we must have something to eat." "we can boil some eggs," said matilda. "aunt erminia likes eggs; and the coffee will be good, and the bread. and the potatoes will do to look at." so it was arranged; and the bell was rung for breakfast only five minutes after the time. and all was in order. even mrs. candy's good eyes found no fault. and breakfast went forward better than matilda had dared to hope. "you have done your potatoes too much, maria," mrs. candy remarked. "yes, ma'am," maria said, meekly. "they want no more but a light colouring. and they should be cut thinner. these are so hard you can't eat them. and, maria, in future i will tell you what to get for breakfast. i did not know when you went to bed last night, or i should have told you then. you are not old enough to arrange things. now there was some beef left from dinner yesterday, that would have made a nice hash." maria ate bread and butter, and spoke not. "it will keep very well, and you can make it into hash for to-morrow morning. chop it as fine as you can, and twice as much potato; and warm it with a little butter and milk and pepper and salt, till it is nice and hot; and poach a few eggs, to lay round it. can you poach eggs, maria?" "yes, ma'am. but there is no beef, aunt erminia." "no beef? you are mistaken. there was a large piece that we did not eat yesterday." "there is none now," said maria. "it must be down-stairs in the cellar." "i am sure it is not, aunt erminia. i have been poking into every corner there; and there is no beef, i know." "maria, that is a very inelegant way of speaking. where did you get it?" "i don't know, ma'am, i'm sure. out of the truth, i suppose. that's what i _did_." "it is a very inelegant way of doing, as well as of speaking. _poking_ into every thing! what did you poke? your finger? or your hand?" "my nose, i suppose," said maria, hardily. "i think i need not tell you that _that_ is a very vulgar expression," said mrs. candy, with a lofty air; while clarissa's shoulders gave a little shrug, as much as to say her mother was wasting time. "don't you know any better, maria?" "yes, ma'am." "then i hope you will speak properly next time." "one gets so tired of speaking properly!" said maria. "_you?_" said clarissa, with a gentle intonation. "i don't care!" said maria, desperately. "people are as they are brought up. my mother don't care for such fidgety notions. i speak to please her, and that is enough." "no, maria, it is not enough," resumed mrs. candy. "your mother loves you, and so she is willing to overlook little things in you that she _can_ overlook because you are her child; but when you are grown up, you would wish to be liked by other nice people, wouldn't you? people of education, and taste, and elegant habits; and they do not like to have anything to do with people who 'poke their noses' into things, or who say that they do." "i'll keep in the kitchen then," said maria, hastily. the breakfast may be said to have ended here; for though a few more mouthfuls were eaten, no more words were said. mrs. candy and her daughter left the room and went up-stairs. maria and matilda began the work of clearing the table. "ain't she too much!" maria exclaimed. "but, maria," said her little sister, "i wish you _wouldn't_ say such things." "if i am going to be a kitchen maid," said maria, "i may as well talk kitchen maid." "oh, i don't think so, maria!" "i don't care!" said maria. "i would rather vex aunt candy than not; and she _was_ vexed this morning. she kept it in pretty well; but she was vexed." "but, maria, that isn't right, is it?" "nothing is right," said maria; "and nothing is going to be, i guess, while they are here." "then think, what would mamma do if they went away?" "i wish i could go away, then!" said maria, beginning to cry. "i can't bear to live so! 'why do you do so,' and 'why do you do _so;_' and clarissa sitting by with that little smile on her mouth, and lifting up her eyes to look at you--it just makes me _mad_. there! it is a pity aunt candy wasn't here to be shocked at american children." "but, maria," said matilda with her eyes swimming too, "you know the lord jesus has given us this work." "no, i don't!" said maria; "and what if he did?" "why, then, it would please him--you know, maria, it would please him--to have us do it just nicely and beautifully, and not like kitchen maids, but like his children. you know we said we were ready to do any work that he would give us." "i didn't," said maria, half crying, half pouting. "i didn't promise to do _this_ sort of thing." "but we mustn't choose," said matilda. "but we _did_ choose," said maria. "i said what i would do, and other people said what they would do; and nobody said anything about washing dishes and peeling potatoes. we were not talking of _that_." "the covenant says, 'we stand ready to do his will.' don't you know?" "i believe you know that covenant by heart," said maria. "i don't. and i don't care. matilda, i wish you would run down cellar with the butter, and the cream, and the bread--will you?" matilda did not run, but she made journey after journey down the cellar stairs, with feet that grew weary; and then she dried the china while her sister washed it. then they brushed up the kitchen and made up the fires. then maria seated herself on the kitchen table and looked at matilda. "i'm tired now, tilly." "so am i." "is there anything else to be done?" "why, there is the dinner, maria." "it isn't near dinner time. it is only ten o'clock." "how long will it take the potatoes to boil?" "oh, not long. it is not time to put them on for a great while." "but they are not ready, are they?" "no." "and what else, maria?" here came a call from the stair head. maria went to the foot of the stairs to hear what the business was, and came back with her mood nowise sweetened; to judge by the way she went about; filled an iron pot with water and set it on the stove, and dashed things round generally. matilda looked on without saying a word. "i've got my day's work cut out for me now," said maria at last. "there's that leg of mutton to boil, and turnips to be mashed; besides the potatoes. and the turnips have got to be peeled. come and help me, tilly, or i shall never get through. won't you?" now matilda had her own notions about things she liked and things she did not like to do; and one of the things she did not like to do was to roughen or soil her hands. to put her little hands into the pan of water, and handle and pare the coarse roots with the soil hanging to them, was very distasteful to her nicety. she looked a little dismayed. but there were the roots all to be pared and washed, and maria would have her hands full; and was not this also work given to matilda to do? at any rate, she felt that she could not refuse without losing influence over maria, and that she could not afford. so matilda's hands and her knife went into the pan. she thought it was very disagreeable, but she did it. after the potatoes and turnips were ready for the pot, maria demanded her help about other things; she must clean the knives, and set the table, and prepare the celery and rub the apples; while maria kept up the fire, and attended to the cookery. matilda did one thing after another; her weary little feet travelled out and in, from one room to the other room, and got things in order for dinner in both places. it was a pretty satisfactory dinner, on the whole. the mutton was well cooked and the vegetables were not bad, mrs. candy said; but matilda thought with dismay of the after dinner dishes. however, dinner gives courage sometimes; and both she and maria were stronger-hearted when they rose from table than when they had sat down. dishes, and pots, and kettles, and knives, and endless details beside, were in course of time got rid of; and then matilda put on her hat and cloak, and set forth on an errand she had been meditating. chapter x. it was a soft pleasant day late in march. the snow had all gone for the present. doubtless it might come back again; no one could tell; in shadywalk snow was not an unknown visitor even in april; but for the present no such reminder of winter was anywhere to be seen. the air was still and gentle; even the brown tree stems looked softer and less bare than a few weeks ago, though no bursting buds yet were there to make any real change. the note of a bird might be heard now and then; matilda had twice seen the glorious colour of a blue bird's wings as they spread themselves in the light. it was quite refreshing to get out of the house and the kitchen work, and smell the fresh, pure air, and see the sky, and feel that all the world was not between four walls anywhere. matilda went softly along, enjoying. at the corner she turned, and walked up butternut street--so called, probably, in honour of some former tree of that family, for not a shoot of one was known in the street now. on and on she went till her church was passed, and then turned down the little lane which led to the parsonage. the snow all gone, it was looking pretty here. on one side the old church, the new lecture-room on the other, and between them the avenue of elms, arching their branches over the way and making a vista, at the end of which was the brown door of the parsonage. always that was a pleasant view to matilda, for she associated the brown door with a great many things; however, this day she did not seek the old knocker which hung temptingly overhead, but sheered off and went round to the back of the house; and there entered at once, and without knocking, upon miss redwood's premises. they were in order; nobody ever saw the parsonage kitchen otherwise; and miss redwood was sitting in front of the stove, knitting. "well, if there ain't tilly englefield!" was her salutation. "may i come in, miss redwood?--if you are not busy." "suppos'n i _was_ busy, i guess you wouldn't do me no harm, child. come right in and sit down, and tell me how's all goin' on at your house. how's your mother, fust thing?" "aunt candy says she's not any better." "what does your mother say herself?" "i have not seen her to-day. aunt candy says she is nervous; and she wants me not to go into her room." "who wants you not to go in? not your mother?" "no; aunt candy." "i thought so. well; how do you get along without your sisters, eh? have you got a girl, or are you goin' to do without?" "we are going to do without." "i don't see how you kin, with your mother sick and wantin' somebody to tend her." "maria and i do what's to be done. mamma doesn't want us to get a girl." "maria and you!" said miss redwood, straightening up. "i want to know! you and maria. why, i didn't reckon maria was a hand at them kind o' things. what can she do, eh? i want to know! things is curious in this world." "maria can do a good deal," said matilda. "and you can, too, can't ye?" said miss redwood, with a benevolent smile at her little visitor, which meant all love and no criticism. "i wish i knew how to do more," said matilda. "i _could_, if i knew how. that's what i came to ask you, miss redwood; won't you tell me?" "tell you anything on arth," said the housekeeper. "what do you want to know, child?" "i don't know," said matilda, knitting her brow. "i want to know how to _manage_." miss redwood's lips twitched, and her knitting needles flew. "so there ain't no one but you to manage?" she said, at length. "aunt candy tells what is to be for breakfast and dinner. but i want to know how to _do_ things. what can one do with cold beefsteak, miss redwood?" "'tain't good for much," said the housekeeper. "have you got some on hand?" "no. we had, though." "and what _did_ you do with it?" "maria and i put it in the oven to warm; and it spoiled the dish, and the meat was all dried up; and then i thought i would come and ask you. and we tried to fry some potatoes this morning, and we didn't know how, i think. they were not good." "and so your breakfast all fell through; and there was a muss, i expect?" "no; we had eggs; nobody knew anything about the beefsteak and the dish. but i want to know how to do." "what ailed your potatoes?" "they were too hard and too brown." "i shouldn't wonder! i declare, i 'most think i've got into the middle of a fairy story somewhere. did you ever hear about cinderella, tilly, and her little glass slipper?" "oh yes." "some people's chariots and horses will find themselves turned into pun'kins some day; that is what _i_ believe." "but about the potatoes?" said matilda, who could not catch the connection of this speech. "well; she let 'em be in too long. that was the trouble. if you want to have things right, you must take 'em out when they are done, honey." "but how can we tell when they are done?" "why, you know by just lookin at 'em. there ain't no great trouble about it; anyhow, there ain't about potatoes. you just put some fat in a pan, and chop up your potatoes, and when the fat is hot clap 'em in, and let 'em frizzle round a spell; and then when they're done you take 'em up. did you sprinkle salt in?" "no." "you must mind and sprinkle salt in, while they're in the pan; without that they'll taste kind o' flat." "aunt erminia don't like them chopped up. she wants them cut in thin slices and browned on both sides." "laws a massy! why don't she do 'em so, then? what hinders her?" said the housekeeper, looking at matilda. "i thought she was one o' them kind o' folks as don't know nothing handy. why don't she do her own potatoes, and as brown as she likes, tilly?" "mamma wants us to take care of things, miss redwood." "won't let your aunt learn you, nother?" said miss redwood, sticking one end of her knitting-needle behind her ear, and slowly scratching with it, while she looked at matilda. "aunt candy does not like to do anything in the kitchen; and i would rather you would teach me, miss redwood--if you would." "and can you learn maria?" "oh yes." "well, come along; what do you want to know next?" "i wish you'd teach me some time how to make gingerbread. and pies." the housekeeper glanced at the clock, and then bade matilda take oft' her things. "now?" said matilda, hesitating. "you can't do nothing any time but now," said miss redwood, as she put away her work in its basket. "you can _think_ of doing it; but if you ever come to doing it, you will find it is _now_." "but is it convenient?" "la, child, i don't know what people mean by convenient. you look at it one way, and there is nothing convenient; and you look at it another way, and there is nothing but what is. hang your things over that chair; and i'll put an apron on you." "but which way does it look this afternoon, miss redwood?" the housekeeper laughed, and kissed tilly, whom she was arraying in a great check apron, big enough to cover her. "it is just how you choose to take it," she said. "i declare i'm sorry for the folks as is tied to convenience; they don't get the right good of their life. why, honey, what isn't my convenience is somebody else's convenience, maybe. i want it to be sunshine very often, so as i kin dry my clothes, when the farmers want it to be rain to make their corn and cabbages grow. it is sure to be convenient for somebody." "but i want it to be convenient for you, this afternoon," said matilda, wistfully. "well, 'tis," said the housekeeper. "there--wash your hands in that bowl, dear; and here's a clean towel for you. a body as wants to have things convenient, had better not be a minister's housekeeper. no, the place is nice enough," she went on, as she saw matilda's eye glance around the kitchen; "'tain't that; but i always think convenient means having your own way; and _that_ nobody need expect to do at the parsonage. just so sure as i make pot pie, mr. richmond'll hev to go to a funeral, and it's spiled or lost, for he's no time to eat it; and i never cleaned up that hall and steps yet, but an army of boots and shoes came tramping over it out of the dirt; when if it _wants_ cleaning, it'll get leave to be without a foot crossing it all the afternoon. and if it's bakin' day, i have visitors, and have to run between them and the oven, till i don't know which end is the parlour; and that's the way, tilly; and i don't know no better way but to conclude that somebody else's convenience is yourn--and then you'll live in clover. the minister had to preach to me a good while before i could see it, though. now, honey, sift your flour;--here it is. kin you do it?" matilda essayed to do it, and the housekeeper looked on. "the damper is turned," she said; "we'll have the oven hot by the time the cake is ready. now, dear, what's going into it?" "will that be enough?" said matilda, lifting her floury hand out of the pan. "_i_ want a piece," said the housekeeper; "so there had better go another bowlful. and the minister--_he_ likes a bite of hot gingerbread, when he can get it. so shake it in, dear. that will do. now, what are you going to put in it, tilly, besides flour?" "why, _i_ don't know," said matilda. "well, guess. what do you think goes into gingerbread?" "molasses?" "yes; but that goes one of the last things. ain't you going to put no shortening in?" "shortening? what is that?" said matilda. "well, it's whatever you've got. butter'll do, if it's nice and sweet--like this is--or sweet drippings'll do, or a little sweet lard, maybe. we'll take the butter to-day, for this is going to do you and me credit. now think--what else? put the butter right there, in the middle, and rub it into the flour with the flat of your hand, so. rub hard, dear; get the butter all in the flour, so you can't see it. what is to go in next?" "spice? i think mamma puts spice." "if you like it. what spice will you choose?" "i don't know, miss redwood." "well, it'd be queer gingerbread without ginger, wouldn't it?" "oh yes. i forgot the ginger, to be sure. how much?" "that's 'cordin' as you like it. _that_ won't hardly taste, dear; 'tain't just like red pepper; take a good cupful. now just a little bit of cloves!" "and cinnamon?" "it'll be spice gingerbread, sure enough," said the housekeeper. "and salt, tilly." "salt? must salt go in?" said matilda, who had got very eager now in her work. "salt's univarsal," said miss redwood. "'cept sweetmeats, it goes into everything. that's what makes all the rest good. i never could see what was the use o' salt, till one day the minister, he preached a sermon on 'ye are the salt of the earth,' and ever since that it seems to kind o' put me in mind. and then i asked mr. richmond if _everything_ meant something." "but what does that mean, that you said?" said matilda. "good people don't make the rest of the world good." "they give all the taste there is to it, though," said the housekeeper. "and i asked that very question myself of the minister; and what do you think he told me." "what?" "he said it was because the salt warn't of as good quality as it had ought to be. and _that_ makes me think, too. but la! look at your gingerbread standing still. now see, dear here's a bowl o' buttermilk for you; it's as rich as cream, a'most; and i take and put in a spoonful of--you know what this is?" "salaeratus?" "that's it." "we use soda at our house." "salaeratus is good enough for me," said miss redwood; "and i know what it'll do; so i'm never put out in my calculations. now when it foams up--see,--now mix your cake, dear, as quick as you like. stop--wait--let's get the molasses in. now, go on. i declare, having two pair o' hands kind o' puts one out. stir it up; don't be afraid." matilda was not afraid, and was very much in earnest. the gingerbread was quickly mixed, and for a few minutes there was busy work, buttering the pans and putting the mixture in them, and setting the pans in the oven. then matilda washed her hands; the housekeeper put the flour and spices away; and the two sat down to watch the baking. "it'll be good," said the housekeeper. "i hope it will," said matilda. "i know 'twill," said miss redwood. "you do your part right; and these sort o' things--flour, and butter, and meat, and potatoes, and that--don't never disapint you. that's one thing that is satisfactory in this world." "but mamma has her cake spoiled in the oven sometimes." "'twarn't the oven's fault," said miss redwood. "did ye think it was? ovens don't do that for me, never." "but sometimes the oven was too hot," said matilda; "and other times she said it was not hot enough." "of course!" said the housekeeper; "and then again other times she forgot to look at it, maybe, and left her cake in too long. the cake couldn't knock at the door of the oven to be let out; that'd be too much to ask. now look at yourn, dear." matilda opened the oven door and shut it again. "what's the appearance of it?" "it is coming up beautifully. but it isn't up in the middle yet." "the fire's just right," said the housekeeper. "but how can you _tell_, miss redwood?" said matilda, standing by the stove with a most careful set of wrinkles on her little brow. "tell?" said the housekeeper; "just as you tell anything else; after you've seen it fifty times, you know." matilda began a painful calculation of how often she could make something to bake, and how long it would be till fifty times had made her wise in the matter; when an inner door opened, and the minister himself came upon the scene. matilda coloured, and looked a little abashed; the housekeeper smiled. "i am very glad to see you here, tilly," mr. richmond said, heartily. "what are you and miss redwood doing here?" "we are getting ready for the business of life," said the housekeeper. "the minister knows there are different ways of doin' that." "just what way are you taking now?" said mr. richmond, laughing. "it seems to me, you think the business of life is eating--if i may judge by the smell of the preparation." "it is time you looked at your cake, tilly," said miss redwood; and she did not offer to help her; so, blushing more and more, matilda was obliged to open the oven door again, and show that she was acting baker. the eyes of the two older persons met in a way that was pleasant to see. "what's here, tilly?" said the minister, coming nearer and stooping to look in himself. "miss redwood has been teaching me how to make gingerbread. o miss redwood, it is beginning to get brown at the end." "turn the pans round then. it ain't done yet." "no, it isn't done, for it is not quite up in the middle. there is a sort of hollow place." "shut up your oven, child, and it will be all right in a few minutes." "then i think this is the night when you are going to stay and take tea with me," said mr. richmond. "i promised you a roast apple, i remember. are there any more apples that will do for roasting, miss redwood?" "o mr. richmond, i do not care for the apple!" matilda cried. "but if i don't have it, you will stay and take tea with me?" matilda looked wistful, and hesitated. her mother would not miss her; but could maria get the tea without her?-- "and i dare say you want to talk to me about something; isn't it so?" the minister continued. "yes, mr. richmond; i do." "that settles it. she will stay, miss redwood. i shall have some gingerbread, i hope. and when you are ready, tilly, you can come to me in my room." the minister quitted the kitchen in good time, for now the cakes were almost done and needed care. a little watchful waiting, and then the plumped up, brown, glossy loaves of gingerbread said to even an inexperienced eye that it was time for them to come out of the oven. miss redwood showed matilda how to arrange them on a sieve, where they would not get steamy and moist; and matilda's eye surveyed them there with very great satisfaction. "that's as nice as if i had made it myself," said the housekeeper. "now don't you want to get the minister's tea?" "what shall i do, miss redwood?" "i thought maybe you'd like to learn how to manage something else. he's had no dinner to-day--to speak of; and if eatin' ain't the business of life--which it ain't, i guess, with him--yet stoppin' eatin' would stop business, he'd find; and i'm goin' to frizzle some beef for his supper, and put an egg in. now i'll cut the beef, and you can stir it, if you like." matilda liked very much. she watched the careful shaving of the beef in paper-like fragments; then at the housekeeper's direction she put some butter in a pan on the fire, and when it was hot threw the beef in and stirred it back and forward with a knife, so as not to let it burn, and so as to bring all the shavings of beef in contact with the hot pan bottom, and into the influence of the boiling butter. at the moment of its being done, the housekeeper broke an egg or two into the pan; and then in another moment bade matilda take it from the fire and turn it out. meanwhile miss redwood had cut bread and made the tea. "now you can go and call the minister," she said. matilda thought she was having the rarest of pleasant times, as she crossed the little dining-room and the square yard of hall that came next, and went into the study. fire was burning in the wide chimney there as usual; the room was very sweet and still; mr richmond sat before the fire with a book. "i thought you were coming to talk to me, tilly?" he said, stretching out his hand to draw her up to him. "miss redwood was showing me how to do things, mr. richmond." "then you _do_ want to talk to me?" "oh yes, sir. but, mr. richmond, tea is ready." "we'll eat first then, and talk afterward. what is the talk to be about, tilly? just to give me an idea." "it is about--i do not know what is right about something, mr. richmond. i do not know what i ought to do." "have you looked in the bible to find out?" "no, sir. i didn't know where to look, mr. richmond." "have you prayed about it?" matilda hesitated, but finally said again, "no." "that is another thing you can always do. the lord understands your difficulties better than any one else can, and knows just what answer to give you." "but--an answer? will he give it always?" "always provided you are perfectly willing to take it, whatever it may be; and provided you do your part." "what is my part?" "if i sent you to find your way along a road you did not know, where there were guide posts set up; what would be your part to do?" "to mind the guide posts?" "yes, and go on as they bade you. that is not to prevent your asking somebody you meet on the road, if you are going right? now miss redwood has rung her bell, and you and i must obey it." "but, what are the guide posts, mr. richmond?" "we will see about that after tea. come." matilda gave one wondering thought to the question how maria and tea would get along without her at home; and then she let all that go, and resolved to enjoy the present while she had it. certainly it was very pleasant to take tea with mr. richmond. he was so very kind, and attentive to her wants; and so amusing in his talk; and the new gingerbread looked so very handsome, piled up in the cake basket; and miss redwood was such a variety after mrs. candy. matilda let care go. and when it came to eating the gingerbread, it was found to be excellent. mr. richmond said he wished she would come often and make some for him. "do you know there is a meeting of the band this evening?" "i had forgotten about it, mr. richmond; i have been so busy." "it is lucky you came to take tea with me, then," said he. "perhaps you would have forgotten it altogether. what is maria doing?" "she is busy at home, mr. richmond." "i am sorry for that. to-night is the night for questions; i am prepared to receive questions from everybody. have you got yours ready?" "about band work, mr. richmond?" "yes, about band work. though you know that is only another name for the lord's work, whatever it may be that he gives us to do. now we will go to my study and attend to the business we were talking about." so they left miss redwood to her tea-table; and the minister and his little guest found themselves alone again. "now, tilly, what is it?" he said, as he shut the door. "mr. richmond," said matilda, anxiously, "i want to know if i must mind what aunt erminia says?" "mrs. candy?" said mr. richmond, looking surprised. "yes, sir." "the question is, whether you must obey her?" "yes, sir." "i should say, if you doubt about any of her commands, you had better ask your mother, tilly." "but i cannot see my mother, mr. richmond; that is one of the things. mamma is sick, and aunt candy has forbidden me to go into her room. must i stay out?" "is your mother so ill?" "no, sir, i do not think she is; i don't know; but aunt candy says she is nervous; and i must not go in there without leave." and matilda raised appealing eyes to the minister. "that is hard, tilly. i am very sorry to hear it. but i am of opinion that the authority of nurses must not be disputed. i think if mrs. candy says stay out, you had better stay out." "and everything else?" said matilda. "must i mind what she says in everything else?" "are you under her orders, matilda?" "that is what i want to know, mr. richmond. she says so. she told me not to go out to church last sunday night; and all the others were going, and i went too; and she scolded about it and said i must mind her. must i? in everything? i can't ask mamma." mr. richmond turned a paper-weight over and over two or three times without speaking. "you know what the fifth commandment is, tilly." "yes, mr. richmond. but she is not my mother." "don't you think she is in your mother's place just now? would not your mother wish that your obedience should be given to your aunt for the present?" matilda looked grave, not to say gloomy. "i can tell you what will make it easy," said mr. richmond. "do it for the sake of the lord jesus. he set us an example of obedience to all lawful authorities; he has commanded us to live in peace with everybody as far as we possibly can; and to submit ourselves to one another in the fear of god. besides that, i must think, tilly, the command to obey our parents means also that we should obey whoever happens to stand in our parents' place to us. will it not make it easy to obey your aunt, if you think that you are doing it to please god?" "yes, mr. richmond," matilda said, thoughtfully. "i always feel that god's command sweetens anything," the minister went on. "do you feel so?" "i think i do," the little girl answered. "so if you stay at home for mrs. candy's command, you may reflect that it is for jesus' sake; and that will please him a great deal better than your going to church to please yourself." "yes, mr. richmond," matilda said, cheerfully. "was that all you had to talk to me about?" "yes, sir; all except about band work." "we will talk about that in the meeting. if you have a question to ask, write it here; and i will take it in and answer it." he gave matilda paper and pen, and himself put on his overcoat. then taking her little slip of a question, the two went together into the lecture-room. chapter xi. three was a good little gathering of the workers, many of whom were quite young persons. among them matilda was not a little surprised to see maria. but she warily sheered off from comments and questions, and took a seat in another part of the room. "we are here for a good talk to-night," said the minister, after they had sung and prayed. "i stand ready to meet difficulties and answer questions. all who have any more little notes to lay on the desk, please bring or send them up, or ask their questions by word of mouth. i will take the first of these that comes to hand." mr. richmond unfolded a paper and read it over to himself, in the midst of a hush of expectation. then he read it aloud. "if a member of the relief committee visits a sick person in want of help, and finds another member of some other committee giving the help and doing the work of the relief committee, which of them should take care of the case?" "it is almost as puzzling," said mr. richmond, "as that other question, what husband the woman should have in the other world who had had seven in this. but as we are not just like the angels in heaven yet, i should say in this and similar cases, that the one who first found and undertook the case should continue her care--or his care--if he or she be so minded. the old rule of 'first come, first served,' is a good one, i think. the relief committee has no monopoly of the joy of helping others. let us see what comes next. "'there are four people, i know, who go to read the bible to one blind person--and i know of at least two who are sick and unable to read, that nobody goes to.' "want of system," said mr. richmond, looking up. "the head of the bible-reading committee should be told of these facts." "she has been told," said a lady in the company. "then doubtless the irregularity will be set to rights." "no, it is not so certain; for the blind person lives where it is easy to attend her; and the sick people are in lilac lane--out of the way, and in a disagreeable place." "does the head of the bible-reading committee decline these cases, having nobody that she can send to them?" "she says she does not know whom to send." "i will thank you for the names of those two cases by and by, mrs. norris; i think i can get them supplied. the question of theory i will handle presently, before we separate." "here is another request," said mr. richmond, who knew matilda's handwriting,--"from a dear child, who asks to know 'what we shall do, when people will not hear the message we carry?' why, try again. go and tell them again; and never mind rebuffs if you get them. people did not listen to our master; it is no matter of wonder if they refuse to hear us. but he did not stop his labours for that; neither must we. 'let us not be weary in well-doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.' i give her that for her watchword;--' _if we faint not_, remember. "the next question in my hand is, 'what we are to do about welcoming strangers?' the writer states, that six new scholars have lately come to the school, and, to her certain knowledge, only two of them have received any welcome. "well," said mr. richmond, thoughtfully, "i must come to the words i had chosen to talk to you about. they answer a great many things. you all remember a verse in the epistle to the ephesians which speaks of 'redeeming the time, because the days are evil.' "i dare say it has puzzled some of you, as it used once to puzzle me. how are we to 'redeem the time'? another translation of the passage will perhaps be clearer and help us to understand. '_buying' up opportunities_.' the words are so rendered by a late great authority. i don't know but you will at first think it just as hard to comprehend. how are we to 'buy up opportunities'?" "i am sure i don't know," said mrs. swan, ailie's mother. "i always thought opportunities were given." "so they are. but the privilege of using them, we often must buy." "i don't see how." "let us come to facts, mrs. swan. here are four opportunities in the school, in the shape of new members added to it. how comes it these opportunities have not been used? there are two other grand opportunities in lilac lane." "are we to buy them?" said mrs. trembleton. "i do not see how else the difficulty can be met. they are worth buying. but the next question is, what will you pay?" there was a long silence, which nobody seemed inclined to break. "i think you see, my dear friends, what i mean. for welcoming those four strangers, somebody must give up his ease for a moment--must make a little sacrifice of comfort. it will be very little indeed, for these things pay as we go; we get our return promptly. the opportunities in lilac lane must be bought, perhaps, with some giving up of time; of pleasure, perhaps; perhaps we must pay some annoyance. it is so with most of our opportunities, dear friends. he who serves god with what costs him nothing, will do very little service, you may depend on it. christ did not so; who, 'though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor, that we through his poverty might be rich.' he 'pleased not himself.' and we, if we are his servants, must be ready to give _everything_, if need be, even our lives also, to the work he calls us to do. we must buy up opportunities with all our might, paying not only time and money, but love, and patience, and self-denial, and self-abasement, and labour, and pains-taking. we cannot be right servants of god or happy servants, and keep back anything. 'let a man so account of us, as ministers of christ, and stewards of the mysteries of god;' and let us see that all the grace he gives us we use to the very uttermost for his glory, in 'works, and love, and service, and faith, and patience, and works.' my dear friends, if we have only _love_ in our hearts, love will buy up opportunities as fast as they come; and always have the right money." mr. richmond said no more, but after another hymn and a prayer dismissed the assembly. maria and matilda presently found themselves side by side in the street. "maria," said the younger one, "don't you think you and i will go and read to those two poor people in the lane?" "i guess i will!" said maria, "when i get done being chief cook and bottle-washer to mrs. minny candy." "but before that, maria?" "when shall i go?" said maria, sharply. "when it is time to get breakfast? or when the potatoes are on for dinner? or when i am taking the orders for tea? don't be a goose, matilda, if you can help it." "we haven't much time," said matilda, sighing. "and i am not going to lilac lane, if i had it. there are enough other people to do that." "o maria!" "well, 'o maria,'--there are." "but they do not go." "that's their look out." "and, maria, you see what mr. richmond thinks about the dows." "i don't see any such thing." "you heard him to-night." "he didn't say a word about the dows." "but about trying again, he did. o maria, i've thought a great many times of that dows' house." "so have i," said maria; "what fools we were." "why?" "why, because it was no use." "mr. richmond doesn't think so." "he's welcome to go and try for himself. _i_ am not going again." "what is the matter, maria?" "nothing is the matter." "but, maria, ever since you joined the band, i cannot remember once seeing you 'buy up opportunities.' if you loved jesus, i think you would." "i wouldn't preach," said maria. "that is one thing i wouldn't do. if i was better than my neighbours, i'd let them be the ones to find it out." matilda was silent till they reached home. "where have you been, matilda?" said her aunt, opening the parlour door. "to see miss redwood, aunt candy." "ask me, next time, before going anywhere. here has maria had everything to do since five hours ago,--all alone." matilda shut her lips firmly,--if her head took a more upright set on her shoulders she did not know it,--and went up-stairs after her sister. "how is mamma, maria?" she asked, when she got there. "i don't know. just the same." the little girl sighed. "what is to be for breakfast?" "fish balls." "you do not know how to make them." "aunt erminia told me. but i shall want your help, tilly, for the fish has to be carefully picked all to pieces; and if we leave a bit as big as a sixpence, there'll be a row." "but the fish isn't soaked, maria." "it is in hot water on the stove now. it will be done by morning." matilda sighed again deeply, and knelt down before the table where her bible was open. "buying up opportunities" floated through her head; with "works, and love, and service, and faith, and patience, and works"* [*alford's translation.]--"christ pleased not himself"--and the little girl's head went down upon the open page. how much love she must have, to meet all the needs for it! to do all the works, have all the patience, buy up all the opportunities! tilly's one prayer was that she might be full of love, first to god and then to everybody. such prayers are apt to be answered; and the next morning saw her go through all the details of its affairs with a quiet patience and readiness which must have had a deep spring somewhere. she helped maria in the tedious picking out of the fish; she roasted her cheeks in frying the balls, while her sister was making porridge; she attended to the coffee; and she met her aunt and cousin at breakfast with an unruffled quiet sweetness of temper. it was just the drop of oil needed to keep things going smoothly; for maria was tired and out of humour, and mrs. candy disposed to be ill-pleased with both the girls for their being out at the band meeting. she did not approve of the whole thing, she said. however, the sunshine scattered the clouds away. and when, after a busy morning and a pretty well got-up dinner, matilda asked leave to go out and take a walk, she had her reward. mrs. candy gave permission. "won't you come too, maria?" she asked, when they went to their own room. "there's no fun in walking," maria answered, disconsolately. "i am going to lilac lane." "i hope you don't think there is any fun in _that_." "but, maria!----" "well, what?" "i think there is something a great deal better than fun." "you may have it all then, for me." "maria," said her little sister, gently, "i wish you wouldn't mind. mamma will get well by and by, and this will be all over; and we are getting along so nicely. aunt candy was quite pleased with the dinner." "there's another dinner to get to-morrow," said maria; "and i don't know what you mean by this being 'all over' when mamma gets well. what difference will her getting well make? she will help, to be sure; but we should have the same things to do--just the same." matilda had not reckoned on that, for she looked sober a minute or two. "well, maria," she said then, clearing up, "i don't care. if jesus has given us this to do, you know, i _like_ to do it; because he has given it to us to do." maria turned away impatiently. "maria," said her little sister, drawing nearer and speaking solemnly, "do you intend to ask mr. richmond to baptize you the next time he has the baptismal service?" "if i do," said maria, "_you_ need not trouble yourself about it." and matilda thought she had better let the subject and her sister both alone for the present. she had got herself ready, and now taking her bible she went out. it was but a little way to the corner. there she turned in the opposite direction from the one which would have taken her to church, and crossed the main street. in that direction, farther on, lay the way to lilac lane; but at the other corner of the street matilda found an interruption. somebody stopped her, whom she knew the next instant to be norton laval. "why, it is matilda englefield!" he said. "you are just the one i want to see." "am i?" said matilda. "i should think so. come along; our house lies that way; don't you recollect?" "oh, but i am not going that way now," said matilda. "oh yes, but you are! mamma says contradicting is very rude, but i can't help it sometimes. can you help it, matilda?" "people ought to be contradicted sometimes," matilda said, with an arch bridling of her head, which, to be sure, the child was quite unconscious of. "not i," said norton. "come!" "oh, but i cannot, norton. i wish i could. not this time." "where are you going?" "up that way." "nobody lives up that way." "nobody? just look at the houses." "nobody lives in those houses," said norton. "oh, very well; then i am going to see nobody." "no, matilda; you are coming to see mamma. and i have something to show you; a new beautiful game, which mamma has got for me; we are going to play it on the lawn, when the grass is in order, by and by; and i want you to come and see it now, and learn how to play. come, matilda, i want to show it to you." matilda hesitated. it did not seem very easy to get rid of norton; but what would become of the poor people in lilac lane? would another time do for them? here was norton waiting for her; and a little play would be so pleasant. as she stood irresolute, norton, putting his arm round her affectionately, and applying a little good-humoured force, gave her shoulders without much difficulty the turn he wished them to take. the two began to move down the street towards norton's home. but as soon as this was done, matilda began to have qualms about her dress. norton was in a brown suit that fitted him, fresh and handsome; his cap sat jauntily on his thick, wavy hair; he was nice from head to foot. and matilda had come out in the home dress she had worn while she and maria had been washing up the dinner dittoes. looking down she could see a little wet spot on the skirt now. that would dry. but then her boots were her everyday boots, and they were a little rusty; and she had on her common school hat. the only thing new and bright about her was her bible under her arm. as her eye fell upon it, so did her companion's eye. "what book have you got there?" he asked, and then put out his hand to take it. "a bible! where were you going with this, matilda?" "it is my bible," said the little girl. "yes; but you do not take your bible out to walk with you, do you, as babies do their dolls?" "of course not." "then what for, matilda?" "business." "what sort of business?" "why do you want to know, norton? it was private business." "i like that," said norton. "why do i want to know? because you are matilda englefield, and i like to know all about you." "you do not know much yet," said matilda, looking with a pleased look, however, up into her companion's face. it was smiling at her, with a complacent look to match. "i shan't know _much_ when i know all," he said. "how old are you? you can't make much history in ten years." "no, not much," said matilda. "but still--it may not be history to other people, but i think it is to one's self." "what?" "oh, one's life, you know." "but ten years is not a life," said norton. "it is, if one hasn't lived any longer." "i would like my life to be history to other people," said norton. "something worth while." "i wouldn't like other people to know my life, though," said matilda. "then could not help it, if it was something worth while," said norton. "why, yes, norton; one's life is what one thinks and feels; what nobody knows. not the things that everybody knows." "it is what one _does_," said norton; "and if you do anything worth while, people will know it. i wonder what there will be to tell of you and me fifty years from now?" "fifty years! why, then i should be sixty-one," said matilda; "and you would be a good deal more than that. but perhaps we shall not live to be so old." "yes, we shall," said norton. "_i_ shall; and you must, too." "why, norton, we can't _make_ ourselves live," said matilda, in great astonishment at this language. "we shall live to be old, though," said norton. "i know it. and i wish there may be something to be said of _me_. i don't think women ought to be talked of." "i do not see what good it would do anybody to be talked of, after he has gone away out of the world," said matilda. "except to be talked of in heaven. that would be good." "in heaven!" said norton. "talked of in heaven! where did you get that?" "i don't mean that exactly," said matilda. "but some people will." "who?" "why, a great many people, norton. abraham and noah, and david, and daniel, and the woman that put all she had into the lord's treasury, and the woman that anointed the head of jesus--the woman who, he said, had done what she could. i would like to have _that_ said of me, if it was jesus that said it." norton took hold of matilda and gave her a little good-humoured shake. "stop that!" he said; "and tell me, is that why you are carrying a bible out here in the streets?" "oh, i haven't any use for it here, norton." "then what have you got it here for?" "norton, there are some people in the village who are sick, or cannot read; and i was going to read to them." "where are they?" "in lilac lane." "where is that?" "you go up past the corner a good way, and just by mr. barth's foundry you turn down a few steps, and turn again at the baker's. then, a little way further on, you strike into the lane." "that's it, is it? i know. but do you know what sort of people live up that way?" "yes." "well, there's another thing you _don't_ know, and that's the mud. you'd never have got out again, if you had gone to lilac lane to-day. it is three feet deep; and it weighs twenty pounds a foot. after you set your shoe in it, you want a windlass to get it out again." "what is a windlass?" matilda asked. "don't you know? well, you _are_ a girl; but you are a brick. i'll teach you about a windlass, and lots of things." "i shouldn't think you would want to teach me, _because_ i am a girl," said matilda. they had reached the iron gate of mrs. laval's domain, walking fast as they had talked; and in answer to matilda's last remark, norton opened the gate for her, and took off his cap with an air as he held it for her to pass in. matilda looked, smiled, and stepped past him. "you are not like any boy i ever saw," she remarked, when he had recovered his cap and his place beside her. "i hope you like me better than any one you ever saw?" "yes," said matilda, "i do." the boy's answer was to do what most boys are too shy or too proud for. he put his arms round matilda and gave her a hearty kiss. matilda was greatly surprised, and bridled a little, as if she thought norton had taken a liberty; but on the whole seemed to recognise the fact that they were very good friends, and took this as a seal of it. norton led her into the house, got his croquet box, and brought her and it out again to the little lawn before the door. nobody else was visible. the day was still, dry, and sunny, and though the grass was hardly green yet and not shaven nor rolled nor anything that a croquet lawn ought to be, still it would do, as norton said, to look at. matilda stood by and listened intently, while he planted his hoops and showed his mallets, and explained to her the initial mysteries of the game. they even tried how it would go; and there was no doubt of one thing, the time went almost as fast as the croquet balls. "i must run home, norton," matilda said at last. "why? i don't think so." "i know i must." "well, do you like it?" he meant the game. "oh, it's delightful!" was matilda's honest exclamation. norton pushed back his cap and looked at her, pleased on his part. it came into matilda's head that she ought to tell him something. their two faces had grown to be so friendly to each other. "norton," she said, gravely, "i want you to know something about me." "yes," said norton. "i want to know it." "you don't know what it is." "that's the very thing. i _want_ to know it." "norton, did you ever see anybody baptized?" "babies," said norton, after a moment's recollection. "well, if you would like to see me baptized, come to our church sunday after next." "you?" said norton. "haven't you been baptized?" "not yet." "i thought everybody was. then if you have not been yet, why do you? whose notion is that?" "it is mine." "_your_ notion?" said norton, examining her. "what do you mean by that, matilda?" "i mean, i want to be baptized; and mr. richmond is going to do it for me." "what's it for? what's the use? i wouldn't if i were you." "it is joining the church. don't you understand, norton?" "not a bit. that is something i never did understand. do you understand it?" "why, yes, certainly." "let's hear, then," said norton, putting up his croquet balls. "mr. richmond has explained it so much, you know, i couldn't help but understand." "oh, it's mr. richmond, is it?" "no; it's the bible." "let's hear, then," said norton. "go on." matilda hesitated. she found a difficulty in saying all her mind to him; she did not know whether it was best; and with that she had a suspicion that perhaps she ought to do it. she glanced at him, and looked away, and glanced again; and tried to make up her mind. norton was busy putting up his croquet hoops and mallets; but his face looked so energetic and wide awake, and his eye was so quick and strong, that she was half afraid to say something that might bring an expression of doubt or ridicule upon it. then norton looked up at her again, a keen look enough, but so full of pleasure in her that matilda's doubts were resolved. he would not be unkind; she would venture it. "i want you to know about me, norton," she began again. "well," said norton, "so do i; but it seems difficult, somehow." "you do not think that, for you are laughing." norton gave her another look, laughing rather more; and then he came and stood close beside her. "what is it, matilda?" he asked. "i don't want you to think that i am good," she said, looking up earnestly and timidly, "for i am not; but i want to be; and being baptized is a sign of belonging to the lord jesus, so i want to be baptized." "it isn't a sign of anything good," said norton. "lots of people are baptized, that aren't anything else, i know. lots of them, matilda. that don't change them." "no, that don't change them, norton; but when they _are_ changed, then the bible says they must be baptized." "what for?" "it is just telling everybody what they believe, and what they are. it's a _sign_." "then when you are baptized, as you mean to be, that will be telling everybody what _you_ believe and what you are?" "yes." "it would not tell me," said norton, "be-cause i should not understand the sign. i wish you would tell me now in words, matilda." "i don't know if i can, but i'll try. you know water makes things clean, norton?" "sometimes." "well, if it is used it does," said matilda. "the water is a sign that i believe the lord jesus will take away my sins, and make me clean and good, if i trust him; that he will wash my heart, and that he has begun to do it. and it will be a sign that i am his servant, because that is what he has commanded his servants." "what?" "that; to be baptized, and join the church." "matilda, a great many people are baptized, and keep all their sins just the same." "oh, but those are make-believe people." "no, they are not; they are real people." "i mean, they are make-believe christians." "how do you know but you are?" "i _think_ i know," said matilda, looking down. "but other people won't know. your being baptized will not mean anything to them, only that somebody has coaxed you into it." "it will mean all that, norton; and if i am true they will _see_ it means all that." "they might see it all the same without your being baptized. what difference would that make?" "it is _obedience_," said matilda, firmly. "and not to do it would be disobedience. and it is profession of faith; and not to do it, would be to say that i don't believe." norton looked amused, and pleased, and a little puzzled. "you have not told me anything about you, after all," he said; "for i knew it all before." "how did you know it?" "not this about your being baptized, you know, but about _you_." "what about me?" "i say, matilda, when will you come and play croquet again?" "i don't know. but, o norton, i must go now. i forgot all about it. and there was something else i wanted to say. i wish you would be a servant of jesus too?" matilda gave this utterance a little timidly. but norton only looked at her and smiled, and finally closed the question by taking her in his arms and giving her two kisses this time. it was done without a bit of shamefacedness on his part, and with the energy and the tenderness too of affection. matilda was extremely astonished and somewhat discomposed; but the evident kindness excused the freedom, and on the whole she found nothing to object. norton opened the iron gate for her, and she hurried off homewards without another word. in a dream of pleasure she hurried along, feeling that norton laval was a great gain to her, and that croquet was the most delightful of amusements, and that all the weariness of the day's work was taken out of her heart. she only regretted, as she went, that those poor people in lilac lane had heard no reading; but she resolved she would go to them to-morrow. there is one time, however, for doing everything that ought to be done; and if that time is lost, no human calculation can make sure a second opportunity. matilda was to find this in the case of lilac lane. the next day weather kept her at home. the second day she was too busy to go on such an expedition. the third was sunday. and when monday came, all thoughts of what she had intended to do were put out of her head by her mother's condition. mrs. englefield was declared to be seriously ill. the doctor was summoned. her fever had taken a bad turn, he said. it was a very bad turn; for after a few days it was found to be carrying her swiftly to death's door. she was unable to see her children, or at least unable to recognise and speak to them, until the very last day; and then too feeble. and the sunday when matilda had expected to be baptized, saw her mother's funeral instead. anne and letitia came up from new york, but were obliged to return thither immediately after the funeral; and the two younger girls were left to their grief. it was well for them now that they, had plenty of business, plenty of active work on hand. it was a help to maria; after a little it diverted her thoughts and took her out of the strain of sorrow. and it was a help to matilda, but in a more negative way. it kept the child from grieving herself ill, or doing herself a mischief with violent sorrow; it was no relief. in every unoccupied moment, whenever the demands of household business left her free to do what she would, the little girl bent beneath her burden of sorrow. kneeling before her open bible, her tears flowed incessantly every moment when the luxury of indulgence could be allowed them. mrs. candy did not see the whole of this; she was rarely in the girls' room; yet she saw enough to become uneasy, and tried all that she knew to remedy it. clarissa was kind, to her utmost power of kindness. even maria was stirred to try some soothing for her little sister. but matilda could not be soothed. maria's instances and persuasions did, however, at last urge her to the point of showing a part of her thoughts and disclosing the thorn that pressed sharpest on her mind. it was, that she had not pleased her mother by doing her best in the studies she had pursued at school. matilda had always been a little self-indulgent; did not trouble herself with study; made no effort to reach or keep a good place in her classes. mrs. englefield had urged and commanded her in vain. not obstinately, but with a sort of gay carelessness, matilda had let these exhortations slip; had studied when she was interested, and lagged behind her companions in the pursuits she found dry. and now, she could not forgive herself nor cease her sorrowing on account of this failure. maria in despair at last took mrs. candy into her confidence, and besought her to comfort matilda, which mrs. candy tried her best to do. she represented that matilda had always been a good child; had loved and honoured her mother, and constantly enjoyed her favour. matilda heard, but answered with sobs. "i am sure, my dear," her aunt said, "you have nothing to reproach yourself with. we are none of us perfect." "i didn't do what i could, aunt candy!" was matilda's answer. "my dear, hardly anybody--the best of us--does all he might do." "i will," said matilda. chapter xii. this could not last always, and the days as they passed, after a while, brought their usual soothing. the quiet routine of the early spring began to come in again. mrs. candy was looking for a girl, she said, but had not found one yet; maria and matilda were not ready to go to school; they were better getting the breakfast and washing up the dishes than doing nothing. no doubt that was true. "tilly," said maria, one of these days, when the coffee cups were getting put in order, going out of maria's tub of hot water into matilda's hands and napkin,--"tilly! you know next sunday there is to be a baptism in the church?" "yes," said matilda. it was weeks after that other sunday, when the rite had not been administered. spring had come forward rapidly since then. trees were in full leaf; dandelions in the grass; flowers were in the woods, though the two sisters had not gone to see them this year; the apple orchards around shadywalk were in a cloud of pink blossoms; and the sun was warm upon flower and leaf everywhere. "who is going to be baptized?" maria went on. "i don't know. at least, i don't know all." "ailie swan is," remarked maria. "yes, i know ailie swan is." "and frances barth." matilda was silent. "and esther trembleton, and george rice, and mary and willie edwards." "i suppose so," said matilda. "you are not, are you?" "you know i _was_ going to be," said matilda. "i am now." "tilly, it would be no harm if you waited till another time." "why should i wait?" "_i_ am going to wait," said maria. "why?" "why, because i don't feel like it. not now." "i do not want to wait," said matilda. and probably she was going to say more, but her lip trembled and she stopped. "it would be no harm, tilly, if you waited. nobody would expect it of us now. _nobody_ would expect it, tilly." "i think one would," said matilda. "who?" "jesus." "but, tilly," said maria, uneasily, "i don't think so. it could not be pleasant for you and me, you know, to go forward and be baptized _now_. we might wait till another time; and then it would be more easy, wouldn't it?" "it is not hard now," said matilda. "it is pleasant now. i do not wish to put it off." "pleasant?" repeated maria. "yes," said her little sister, quietly, lifting her eyes to maria's face so steadily and gravely that the other changed her ground. "but at least it is not duty, matilda." matilda had dried all the cups, and she threw her napkin down and covered her face. "oh yes!" she said; "it is duty and pleasure too. i'll do what i can." "but what does it signify, your doing it?" said maria. "it isn't anything. and it will look so odd if you do and i don't." matilda took up her napkin again, and went to work at the plates. "matilda, i wish you would wait. i am not ready to go now." "but i am ready, maria." "if i was to tell aunt candy, i believe she would put a stop to it," said maria, sulkily. "i know she does not think much of such young people doing such things." "but jesus said, let them come." maria tossed her head. however she did not speak to mrs. candy. so it was with no notion of matilda's intention that her aunt that sunday took her seat in mr. richmond's church. she had heard that a number of people, most of them young people, were to be baptized in the evening; she had been to her own church duly in the morning, and thought she might gratify her curiosity now in seeing how these things are managed in a different communion. she and clarissa went alone, not supposing that the younger ones of the family were at that same moment getting ready to follow. "how are you going to dress yourself, matilda?" her sister inquired. "to dress myself!" said matilda, turning her eyes upon her sister in astonished fashion. "why, yes, child! you will go out there in sight of everybody, you know. aren't you going to put on a white frock? clarissa says they always do in 'her church.'" matilda looked down at her own black dress and burst into tears; only by a vigorous effort she kept the tears from falling, after the first one or two, and hurriedly and silently began to get herself ready. "but, matilda! why don't you speak?" said her sister. "are you going just so? and why don't you speak to me? there is no harm in a white frock." "i don't want a white frock," said matilda. "do _you_ mean to stay at home?" "i suppose i am going," said maria, beginning slowly her own preparations. "people would think odd if i didn't go. where are you going to sit?" "what do you mean?" "why, you are very stupid. i mean, where are you going to sit?" "where we always do, i suppose." "but then you would have so far to walk." "to walk?" matilda repeated, bewildered. "why, yes, child! when you are called to go up with the rest, you know; you would have so far to go." "oh!" said matilda. "what of it?" "don't you care?" "why, no. it don't make any difference." "well, i'd have a white frock if i were you," said maria. "being in black is no objection to that; for people do just the same, matilda, for a baptism." "you will be late, maria," was all the answer her little sister made. and they were late. matilda was ready and waiting, before maria's slow preparations were made. they walked quick; but service had begun in the church before they got there. they paused in the vestibule till a prayer should be ended. and here matilda was seized upon. "i thought you were not coming," said an earnest whisper. "what made you come so late?" it was norton laval. "i couldn't help it," said matilda. "and when you came, i all but missed you. they said all of you--you know--would be in white dresses; and i was looking out for white. aren't you going to be baptized, after all?" "oh yes, norton." "well, here's some flowers for you," said the boy, putting a bunch of white heath and lilies into matilda's hand. "mamma is here; up in the dawsons' pew; it was sold with the place, so we've got it. come there, matilda, it will be a good place for you; yours is farther back, you know. mamma told me to bring you." maria had gone in, after an impatient whisper to her sister. and matilda yielded to a secret inclination, and followed norton. the service of baptism was not entered into until the close of the evening. during one of the intervals of the usual service, which preceded the other, matilda questioned with herself if she really would have done better to put on a white dress? everybody seemed to expect it. she could not, from the daweon pew, which was a corner front one, see how her companions were dressed. but she presently recollected that the "fine linen," which mr. richmond had talked to them about, "is the righteousness of saints;" and she quieted herself with the assurance that the real attire of fitness is inward and not outward. and when the candidates for baptism were called to come forward, she quietly left her bunch of lilies with her hat on the cushion of the pew. "is that matilda!" whispered clarissa to her mother. "i never heard a word of it!" said mrs. candy. "you cannot stop her now." "no; if i could i would," answered mrs. candy. "this ought not to be. such a child!--does not know what she is doing. what a way!" but matilda knew what she was doing; and when the candidates were asked respecting their faith and profession, there was no voice among them all that answered more clear and free; none that promised with more calm distinctness to "keep god's holy will and commandments, and walk in the same all the days of her life." and it was a meek little face, without a cloud or a doubt upon it, that was raised towards mr. richmond when her turn came. there was a long line of candidates for baptism, reaching nearly from one end to the other of the communion rails. mr. richmond stood near one end, by the font, and did not change his place; so each one, as he or she received the rite, passed to one side, while the place was filled by another. without breaking the rank this was done; one set slowly edging along from left to right, while from right to left, one by one, the others came to take their turn. it was a pretty sight. so some thought; but there were varieties of opinion. one variety matilda had to encounter that night before she slept. going back to mrs. laval's pew to get her hat and flowers, naturally she walked home with her and norton, and had no annoyance until she got there. as she went through the hall the parlour door opened and she was called in. "i want to speak to you, matilda," said mrs. candy; "and i think it is proper to do it at once. i want to know about this. how long have you been preparing for this step you have taken to-night?" "ma'am?" said matilda. "how long have you been thinking of doing this?" "oh, a long while, aunt candy." "why did you not consult me?" her mother would have been the one to speak to about it, and her mother had been too ill. remembering this, matilda stood silent and her eyes filled. "you have been intending it for these two months past?" "yes, aunt candy; and before." "well, then, why did you not speak to me?" "i spoke to mr. richmond." "mr. richmond might have had the courtesy, himself." (which mr. richmond had meant to do, but various pressing matters had prevented.) "but _you_ ought to have spoken to me, matilda. you are too young a child to take such responsibility." matilda did not think of anything to say to this. "i do not think you understand what you have been doing." "i think i do, aunt candy." "what did you want to be baptized for?" "because jesus says we must." "yes, properly; but not improperly, without knowing what you do. what do you think it means, matilda?" "to be baptized, aunt erminia?" "yes." "it means," said the child steadily, and with the clear utterance of pleasure, "that i belong to the lord jesus christ." "there!" said clarissa, appealing to her mother. "i thought so," said mrs. candy. "that is not what it means, matilda." "it is what i mean, aunt candy." "it means a great deal more, my dear, which you cannot understand. and you ought to have had a white dress on." "i don't think god cares," said matilda. "did you ever hear such dreadful teaching as these people have?" said the mother, appealing to the daughter. "my dear, there is a propriety in things. and not one of the candidates this evening was dressed in white." "but the water means a clean heart," said matilda; "and if we have that, god will think we are dressed in white." "so you think you have a clean heart?" "i think jesus has begun to make it clean." "and what does it mean to renounce the devil and all his works?" "it means," said matilda, sighing, "to have nothing to do with anything that is wrong." "how is such a child as you to know what is wrong?" "why, the bible, aunt candy." "what is the vain pomp and glory of the world?" "i don't know," said matilda. "_all_ the glory, i suppose, except what god gives." "what does _he_ give, child?" said mrs. candy, with an odd expression on her face. "why, you know, aunt erminia," said matilda, a little wearily. "i should like to hear you tell." "i can't tell," said matilda. "i think it was glory, when he said of that poor woman, 'she hath done what she could.'" "my dear," said mrs. candy, after a pause, "i am very sorry you have taken this step without consulting me. your answers show that you have not the discrimination necessary for making such vows. however, it is too late now. you may go to bed." which matilda did, and speedily forgot all that had troubled her in her aunt's words. for she went to sleep making a pillow to her head of those other words-- "and white robes were given to every one of them." typographical errors silently corrected: chapter : =been doing to day= replaced by =been doing to-day= chapter : =than other folks= replaced by =than other folks'= chapter : =richmond?'"= replaced by =richmond'?"= chapter : =but?--what 'but?'"= replaced by =but?--what 'but'?"= chapter : =one to 'carry the message?'"= replaced by =one to 'carry the message'?"= chapter : =spend it somehow= replaced by =spend it, somehow= chapter : =only one day= replaced by =only, one day= chapter : =well what?= replaced by =well, what?= chapter : =band of workers= replaced by =band of workers= chapter : =to do his will?= replaced by =to do his will.= chapter : =give thanks?"= replaced by give thanks"?= chapter : =redeem the time?'= replaced by =redeem the time'?= chapter : =up opportunities?'"= replaced by =up opportunities'?"= chapter : =no fun in walking.= replaced by =no fun in walking."= transcribed from the whipple and damrell edition by david price, email ccx @pglaf.org rich enough; a tale of the times by the author of "three experiments of living." and while they were eating and drinking, there came a great wind from the wilderness, and smote the four corners of the house, and it fell upon them. third edition. boston: published by whipple & damrell, no. cornhill. new york:--samuel colman, no. fulton street. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by whipple and damrell, in the clerk's office of the district court of massachusetts. chapter i. "welcome," said mr. draper, the rich merchant, to his brother, who entered his counting-room one fine spring morning. "i am truly glad to see you--but what has brought you to the city, at this _busy country_ season, when ploughing and planting are its life and sinews?" "a motive," said howard, smiling, "that i am sure will need no apology with you--_business_! i have acquired a few hundreds, which i wish to invest safely, and i want your advice." "when you say safely, i presume you mean to include profitably." "ay, profitably and safely." "i am just fitting out a ship for canton; what do you think of investing the sum in articles of foreign merchandise?" "i confess," said howard, "i have great distrust of winds and waves." "suppose you invest it in eastern lands? many have made fortunes in this way." "i am not seeking to make a fortune," said howard, quietly;--"my object is to secure something for my family in case of accident, and i only want to invest what i do not require for present use in a manner that will bring compound interest. i hope not to be obliged to take up the interest for many years, but to be adding it to the principal, with such sums as i may be able to spare from our daily exertions." "i perceive, brother," replied mr. draper, a little scornfully, "you have not increased in worldly wisdom." "i have not been much in the way of it," said howard.--"mine is a still, peaceful life--i study the changes of the atmosphere more than the science of worldly wisdom." "we can get along, however, but poorly without it," replied mr. draper; "the harmlessness of the dove is no match for the cunning of the serpent." "true," said howard; "but if you mean me by the dove, there is no necessity for my venturing into the nest of serpents. i am well aware that my habits of thinking and modes of life are tame and dull, compared to your projects and success;--but we are differently constituted, and while i honor your spirit and enterprise, and do justice to the honest and intelligent business men of your city, i am contented with my own lot, which is that of a farmer, whose object is to earn a competency from his native soil, or, in other words, from ploughing and planting. i have no desire for speculation, no courage for it; neither do i think, with a family like mine, i have a right to _risk_ my property." "there you are wrong; every body has a right to do as he pleases with his own property." "to be honest, then," replied howard, "i have none that i call exclusively my own. property is given to us for the benefit of others; every man is accountable for his stewardship." "but can you do better than to double and treble it every year, or, by some fortunate speculation, convert ten thousand dollars into ten times ten thousand?" "i should say," replied howard, "if this were a certainty, it would cease to be _speculation_, and i should feel bound to do it, within honest means. but as the guardian of my family, i feel that i have no right to venture my little capital in a lottery." "it is lucky all men are not of your mind," said mr. draper, rather impatiently, and taking up his pen, which he had laid down;--"but really, brother, i am full of engagements, and though i am rejoiced to see you, i must defer further conversation till we meet at dinner; then we shall have time to talk over your affairs; just now, i am wholly engaged." near the dinner hour howard went to his brother's house. it was large, and elegantly furnished, and, what in the city is rather uncommon, surrounded by trees and pleasure-grounds, a fine yard in front, and a large garden in the rear. mr. draper purchased the place when real estate was low, and it had since risen to more than double its original value. howard was conducted to the dining-room, where he found his sister-in-law, mrs. draper. they met with much cordiality--but he perceived that she was thinner and paler than when they last met. "you are not well, i fear," said howard, anxiously. "i have a cold," replied she; and with that nervous affection which often follows inquiries after the health, she gave a half-suppressed cough. "have you seen my husband?" she asked. "yes, i left the stage at the corner of state street, and went directly to his counting-room; but i found him engrossed by business, and verily believe i should not have obtained a moment's conversation after the brotherly welcome that his heart gave me in spite of teas, silks, hides, stocks, and per centage, if i had not had a little business of my own,--a little money to invest." "are you, too, growing rich?" said mrs. draper, with a languid smile. "o no," replied howard; "we farmers have not much prospect of growing _rich_. if we earn a comfortable living, and lay by a little at the end of the year, we call ourselves thriving, and that is the most we can expect." "you have advantages," said mrs. draper, "that do not belong to those who are striving to grow rich; you have wealth that money seldom can buy,--_time_." "we have our seasons of leisure," returned howard, "and yet, i assure you, we have employment enough to prize those periods. you would be surprised to find how much constant occupation every season demands. spring is the great storehouse of our wealth, but we must toil to open its treasures; they are hid in the bowels of the earth." "you remind me," said mrs. draper, "of the story of the farmer who had two sons. to one he left a large sum of gold; to the other his farm, informing him he would find an equivalent portion hid in the earth. the one invested his money in merchandise, and made 'haste to grow rich;' the other dug every year with renewed hope of finding the gold, and continued planting and sowing as his father had done before him. at the end of fifteen years, they met on the same spot, the one a bankrupt, the other a thriving farmer. i suppose," added she, "i need not put the moral to the end of my tale, in imitation of aesop's fables; you will find it out." "it is so applicable," said howard, "to our present conversation, that i almost think it is an impromptu for my benefit." "not for yours," said she; "you do not want it. but now tell me a little about your fanning seasons. spring, i understand, must be a very busy one; but when you have ploughed and planted, what have you to do but sit down and wait?" "my dear sister," said howard, "you, who know so much better than i do how to carry out your comparisons, can well understand that there is no time given us for idleness; while we wait the result of one part of our labors, we have other works to accomplish. spring-time and harvest follow each other rapidly; we have to prepare our barns and granaries. our mowing season is always one of our busiest. we have our anxieties, too;--we watch the clouds as they pass over us, and our spirits depend much on sunshine and rain; for an unexpected shower may destroy all our labors. when the grass is cut, we must make it into hay; and, when it is properly prepared, store it in the barns. after haying-time, there are usually roads, fences, and stone walls to repair, apples to gather in, and butter to pack down. though autumn has come, and the harvest is gathered in, you must not suppose our ploughing is over. we turn up the ground, and leave it rough, as a preparation for the spring. a good farmer never allows the winter to take him by surprise. the cellars are to be banked up, the barns to be tightened, the cattle looked to,--the apples carefully barrelled, and the produce sent to market. we have long evenings for assorting our seeds, and for fireside enjoyment. winter is the season for adjusting the accounts of the past year, and finding out whether we are thriving farmers. depend upon it, we have no idle time." "how curiously we may follow out the cultivation of the earth with the striking analogy it bears to the human mind," said mrs. draper, "in sowing the seeds, in carefully plucking up the weeds without disturbing what ought to be preserved, in doing all we can by our own labors, and trusting to heaven for a blessing on our endeavors! a reflecting farmer must be a wise man." "i am afraid," said howard, "there are not many wise men amongst us, according to your estimation. in all employments we find hurry and engrossment; we do not stop to reason and meditate; many good agricultural men are as destitute of moral reflection as the soil they cultivate." "at least," said mrs. draper, "they have not the same temptation to become absorbed by business as merchants." "i believe we shall find human nature much the same in all situations," said howard. "there is one great advantage, however, in farming--that is, its comparative security:--we are satisfied with moderate gains; we have none of those tremendous anxieties that come with sudden failures, the fall of stocks, and obstructed currency." "and this is every thing," said mrs. draper, with enthusiasm. "nobody knows better than i do, how a noble and cultivated mind may be subjugated by the feverish pursuit of wealth--how little time can be spared to the tranquil pleasures of domestic life, to the home of early affection--" she stopped, and seemed embarrassed.--howard's color rose high; there was a pause. at length he said, "every situation has its trials; those who best support them are the happiest. but we are growing serious. i want to see your children--how they compare with mine in health and size, and whether we can build any theory in favor of a country life in this respect." the children were brought; they were both girls. the eldest was the picture of health, but the youngest seemed to have inherited something of the delicacy of her mother's constitution. "i can scarcely show one amongst my boys," said howard, "that gives evidence of more ruddy health than your eldest girl, frances; but my wife's little namesake, charlotte, looks more like a city-bred lady.--o, here comes my brother james." mr. draper entered. a close observer would have been struck with the difference of expression in the countenances of the two brothers, although they were marked by a strong resemblance. that of the eldest was eager and flushed; the brightness of his eye was not dimmed, but it was unsettled and flashing; there were many lines of care and anxiety, and his whole air marked him as a business man. howard's exterior was calm, and thoughtful;--the very hue of his sun-burnt complexion seemed to speak of the healthy influence of an out-of-door atmosphere. they were both men of education and talent; but circumstances early in life rendered them for a time less united. both had fixed their affections on the gentle being before them. james was the successful suitor. there are often wonderful proofs of st. pierre's proposition that 'harmony proceeds from contrast.' frances and howard had much the same tastes and pursuits. howard's attachment was deep and silent; james's, ardent and zealously expressed;--he won the prize. howard's taste led him to a country life. he was not rich enough to become a gentleman farmer; he therefore became a working one. for years, he did not visit his brother; but at length the wound was entirely healed by another of the fair creatures whom heaven has destined to become the happiness or misery of man. still the theory of contrast was carried through; his second love was unlike his first; she was full of gayety and life, and gave to his mind an active impulse, which it often wanted. frances, in the midst of society, drew her most congenial pleasures from books. charlotte, the wife of howard, though in comparative solitude, drew her enjoyment from society. there was not a family in the village near, that did not, in some way or other, promote her happiness. her information was gathered from intercourse with living beings--her knowledge from real life. if the two sisters had changed situations, the one might have become a mere bookworm; the other, from the liveliness of her disposition, and the warm interest she took in characters, a little of a gossip. as it was, they both admirably filled their sphere in life, and influenced and were influenced by the characters of their partners. "why did you not persuade charlotte to come with you?" said mrs. draper. "sisters ought to be better acquainted than we are." "i invited her," said howard, "but she laughed at my proposing that a farmer and his wife should leave the country at the same time. i have brought, however, a proposal from her, that you should transport yourself and children back with me; we have room enough in our barn-like house for any of your attendants that you wish to bring." for a moment mrs. draper seemed disposed to accept the invitation; but she immediately added,--"i do not like to take my children from their schools." "that is just the answer charlotte anticipated, and she desired me to combat it with all my book-learning opposed to yours, and now and then fill up the interstices with such plain matter-of-fact argument as she could offer; for instance, that they would improve more in one month passed in the country, at this fine season, than in a whole summer at school. 'tell her,' said she, 'to let them 'leave their books and come away, that boys and girls may join in play.'" "i really think, frances," said mr. draper, "this would be an excellent plan; you are not quite well, and the country air will be of service to you and charlotte." "we have so much more of country round us," said she, with an air of satisfaction, "than most of my city friends, that i scarcely feel it right to make trees or grass an excuse for emigration. i have as much pleasure in seeing spring return to unlock my treasures, as you can have, howard. i must show you some of my rare plants. i have, too, my grape and strawberry vines; and finer peach trees i do not think you can exhibit." "i sincerely hope," said howard, "you will enjoy this pleasure long, and eat fruit that you have cultivated yourself: i dare say, it is sweeter than any you can buy." "it ought to be," said mr. draper, a little seriously, "for it certainly costs about six times as much as the highest market price that we should pay. we live here at a most enormous rent; my conscience often twinges me on the subject." "and yet i have heard you say, that you bought this place lower," said howard, "than any which you would now occupy." "that is true; but by taking down this building, and cutting the land into lots, i might get a house clear." a slight flush passed over mrs. draper's cheek. "i have had applications," continued mr. draper, "for the whole estate as it stands; but really, it is such a source of pleasure to my wife to have her garden and her shrubbery, that i have not listened to them." "thank you," said mrs. draper. "i am doubtful, however, whether i am doing right to let so much property remain idle and useless." "not useless, brother," said howard, "if it gives so much enjoyment to your family. what can you do with money but purchase happiness in some form or other? the benevolent purchase it by relieving the wants of others, and are blessed in blessing; nor can i see why money may not as wisely be expended in the purchase of a fine house and garden, as by investing it in stocks, or ships and cargoes." "simply because the one is dead property, and brings no interest; the other is constantly accumulating." "is there no such thing as being rich enough?" said howard. "are we to be always striving to acquire, and never sitting quietly down to enjoy?" "no one can look forward to that time more earnestly than i do," said mr. draper. "every wise man will fix upon a certain sum, that his reason and experience tell him will be sufficient for his expenditures; and then he ought to retire from business, and hazard no more.--now, howard, as i must hurry through dinner, we may as well improve our time. i promised to aid you in the disposition of your surplus money. as you have a dread of adventure, and do not like to run any risk, i will take it myself, and give you compound interest." howard expressed his thanks. "you owe me none; it will be a matter of convenience to me to have the use of this additional money. i only feel some compunction in deriving that profit from it which you might yourself reap. however, as i take the risk, and you take none, it is according to your own plan;--and now i must be off; i have already overrun my time," said he, looking at his watch. "if possible, i shall be at home early, but it is a busy season; two east india cargoes have just arrived, and several consignments of cotton from the south; all are pressing upon us." "my brother," said howard, as he disappeared, "is the same active, enterprising man he always was. i rejoice to hear, however, that he has set some limits to his desire for wealth." "our desires grow proportionably to our increase of wealth, i believe," said mrs. draper. "when we began life, your brother said, if he was ever worth a hundred thousand dollars, he would retire from business; he now allows himself to be worth much more than that amount, and yet you perceive our homestead becomes too valuable for our own use, because it can be converted to money. all this, however, would be nothing, if i did not see this eager pursuit of gain robbing him of the pleasures of domestic life, of the recreation every father ought to allow himself to receive from the innocent conversation and sports of his children. he cannot spare time for travel--to become acquainted with the beautiful views of our own country. to you, who knew him, as i did, full of high and noble perceptions, this is a melancholy change." howard was silent; he remembered his brother's early restless desire of wealth, strikingly contrasted with his own indifference to it. frances judged of his character by that period of life when all that is imaginative or sentimental is called into action;--she judged him by the season of _first love_. she little supposed that the man who was contented to ramble with her over hill and dale, who could bathe in moonbeams, and talk of the dewy breath of evening and morning, as if it came from "araby the blest," would one day refuse to quit the bustle of state street, or the dark, noisy lumber of india wharf, to gaze on the falls of niagara, because it could not thunder money in his ear! that his excursions were to be confined to manufactories, coal-mines, rail-road meetings, and eastern lands. this development of character had been gradual, and she scarcely realized his entire devotion to business, till she saw his health affected by that scourge of our "pleasant vices," dyspepsy. she expressed her apprehensions to howard, and begged him to use all his influence to break the spell. "i can think of nothing that will have more effect," said howard, "than for you to accept my wife's invitation, to pass a few weeks with us in the country. this will occasionally withdraw my brother from the city, and it appears to me that your own health may be benefited by the change." he was struck with his sister's altered appearance, with the occasional flush, the short, low cough; yet she said she was well--"only a slight cold." at length she promised to be with them the ensuing week, provided her husband could make arrangements to go with her. "if he knows that i depend on him," said she, "it will be the strongest inducement for him to quit the city for a few days." mr. draper returned late in the evening, and had only time to complete his business affairs with his brother, who departed early the next morning. chapter ii. the spring had returned with its new-born beauty, its swelling buds, it tender grass; here and there a tree in the city anticipated the season of leaves, and put forth its verdant honors. "now, ma'am," said lucy, who had long been a faithful domestic in the family, "if you are going particular, and don't expose yourself by going into the garden, and will take the cough-drops regularly, morning and evening, you will get rid of your cold. this is just the season when every body gets well that got sick as you did." "how was that?" said mrs. draper. "why, when the sap was going down the trees in the autumn; but now it is going up." but whether the sap had already gone up, or for some other reason, which was as clear to human perception, francis did not shake off her wearing cough. mr. draper was not alarmed at it; it was very unobtruding, and he had become _used to it_. it was not one of those vulgar, hoarse coughs, that, till we connect danger with it, often excites indignation in those who are listening to an interesting narrative, or to a reader, who is obliged to wait till the impertinent paroxysm is over. mrs. draper's was quite a lady-like cough, low and gentle, and seemed rather like impeded respiration. visiters would sometimes observe, when they went away, "mrs. draper is still a handsome woman, though she has lost her bloom. what a pity she has that affected little cough! it really spoils her; it is nothing but a habit; she could easily break herself of it, if any body would be honest enough to tell her." this task rested with lucy alone; but it was all in vain. frances took the cough-drops morning and evening, and still the disagreeable habit remained. mr. draper was very little at home; and when he was, his mind was engaged by new projects. anxiety, however, did not rob him of sleep: he was too successful; he seemed to have the midas- like art of turning every thing to gold:--his thousands were rapidly accumulating, and half a million was now the point at which he determined to stop. mrs. draper's slight cough did not attract his attention; but if her appetite failed, he grew anxious, and feared she was not well. week after week passed, and still it was impossible for mr. draper to leave the city. at length, a letter arrived from charlotte, claiming the visit; and he substituted one of his clerks to conduct his family to his brother's residence. here, though not more than forty miles from the city, mrs. draper found the freshness and novelty of country life. the family were farmers, children and all. charlotte was acquainted with all the little details belonging to a farm, and took as much interest as her husband did in the growth of grain, the raising of pigs and poultry, and feeding cattle in the best and most economical manner. she displayed her dairy with its cheese arranged on shelves, her white pans of milk, and her newly-churned butter, which impregnated the air with its sweetness. it was with long-forgotten feelings of health that frances breathed the atmosphere around her; she perceived that her respiration was more free. "how ignorant i was," said she to howard, "to compare my city garden to the country! there is music in every accidental sound. how fresh is the air! how unlike the mornings to which i have been accustomed, where the voice of the teamster urging on his over-loaded horse, or the monotonous cry of the fishmonger, disturbed my slumbers!" her heart beat with pleasure as she saw her children go forth with their cousins to rural enjoyments: her tender bud, which she had often feared would never live to unfold its beauty, her little charlotte, she saw here as joyous and as active as her sister. new hopes and anticipations brightened the future. how does returning health change the prospect of external circumstances! the cough was much less constant, and charlotte, who professed to have wonderful skill in curing diseases, had undertaken to eradicate it. she did not approve of late slumbers, and every morning she brought her patient a tumbler of new milk, and challenged her to come out and breathe the fresh air. "do not wait," said she, "till its wings are clogged by the smoke of the city; come and win an appetite for our country breakfast, our new-laid eggs: the children are hunting for them amongst the hay, and here comes my little namesake with her prize: she has brought hers for your breakfast." mr. draper did not arrive at the time he appointed, and frances often felt the sickness of hope delayed. "deliver me from such excellent husbands," said charlotte to howard, "who are wasting the best years of their lives in acquiring wealth for their families, and yet never think themselves _rich enough_. here is poor frances, kept in a state of feverish anxiety, when rest and tranquillity are absolutely necessary for the restoration of her health." the saturday evening following, mr. draper arrived. he was delighted to see his wife and children, and thought they looked remarkably well. on sunday morning, he walked with his brother over the farm, and calculated the probable receipts of the year. away from the atmosphere of business, his mind seemed to recover its former freshness. "how beautiful this stillness is!" said he: "it reminds me of the mythology of the heathen world; the ancients used to say that when pan slept, all nature held its breath, lest it should awake him. you have made an enthusiast of frances; nothing will do for her now but the country." "my wife is anxious about the health of yours," said howard; "she thinks her cough an indication of weak lungs." "i know," said mr. draper, stopping short, "she is subject to a cough; ours is a miserable climate; i hope the warm weather will entirely banish it. i have a bad cough myself;"--and he coughed with energy. "i wish, brother," said howard, "that period had arrived, at which you have so long been aiming, that you thought yourself _rich enough_ to devote more time to your family." "no one can look forward to it more eagerly than i do," replied mr. draper; "but you can little understand the difficulty of withdrawing from business. however, i fully mean to do it, when i have secured to my wife and children an inheritance." howard smiled. "o," said mr. draper, in reply to the smile, "you must not suppose my wants can be measured by yours. your farm supplies you with the materials of life, and you get them at a cheap rate." "i give for them what you give," said howard, "time,--and a little more,--i give manual labor; you know i belong to the working class. in this money-making day, men despise small gains, and yet my own experience tells me they are sufficient for happiness. great wealth can add but little to our enjoyments; domestic happiness, you will allow, is cheaply bought, as far as money is concerned, and riches cannot add a great deal to our corporeal enjoyment. the pleasures of sense are wisely limited to narrow boundaries; the epicure has no prolonged gratification in eating; though he may wish for the throat of the crane, he cannot obtain it; neither does he enjoy his expensive delicacies more than the day-laborer does his simple fare. of all the sources of happiness in this world, overgrown wealth has the least that is real; and from my own observation, i should think it the most unproductive source of satisfaction to the possessor. i have heard of many very wealthy men that have tormented themselves with the fear of coming to actual want, but i never heard of one man in moderate circumstances that was afflicted with this monomania." "you talk like a philosopher," said mr. draper, laughing, "who means to live all his life in his tub. however, i assure you that i do not intend always to pursue this course of hurry and business; in a very short time, i expect to agree with you that i am _rich enough_; now, my only desire is to hasten that period, that i may devote myself to my family." "is it possible," said howard, "that this incessant toil is to purchase a blessing which is already within your grasp! at least i hope you mean to devote yourself to your family now, for a few days." "i regret to say," said mr. draper, "that i must be off early to-morrow morning. but i am thinking, as my wife and children enjoy the country so much, that it is an object for me to purchase a snug little place where they may pass the summer. do you know of any such near you?" "clyde farm is up for sale," replied howard. "i should like to ride over and see it," said mr. draper, musing. "not this morning," said howard. "this afternoon, then, will do as well." "no," said howard; "this is the only uninterrupted day i have with my family, and it is our regular habit to attend public worship. to-morrow morning we will ride over as early as you please, but to-day i hope you will accept as a day of rest from business." mr. draper had thought it quite impossible to give a part of the next morning to his family, but he always found time for business. accordingly, when the morning arrived, they rode over to clyde farm. "i remember that farm perfectly well," said mr. draper; "it was my favorite resort when i was a boy." "i remember those times too," replied howard, "when i used to lie stretched at full length by the side of the waterfall, getting my _amo, amas_, and only now and then roused by the distant sound of your gun, which put all the little birds to flight." "has it still that fine run of water?" asked mr. draper. "precisely the same," replied howard; "this very stream that flows through my pasture, and sparkles in the morning sun, comes from old clyde. look this way, and see what a leap it takes over those rocks." clyde farm was just such a spot as a romantic, visionary mind might choose for its vagaries,--such a spot as an elevated, contemplative one might select for its aspirations after higher hopes, which seldom come in the tumult of life. mr. draper felt at once that the place was congenial to the taste and habits of his wife; it awoke in his own mind the recollection of his boyish days, and from these he naturally reverted to the days of courtship, when he talked of scenery and prospect as eloquently as frances. with a light step he followed his brother along the stream that came leaping and bounding from the hills, till they arrived at the still little lake whence it took its course. the mists of the morning had dispersed, and the blue sky and white clouds were reflected from its glassy surface, while on its borders the deep, dark foliage of the woods lay inverted. both of the brothers stood silent when they reached the edge of the water; both were impressed with the beauty of the scene. "how delighted frances would be with this spot!" said howard. "it is like the calm, tranquil mirror of her own mind, which seems formed to reflect only the upper world, with its glorious firmament. i think we have before us two excellent prototypes of our wives:--while the clear, peaceful lake represents yours, this happy, joyous, busy little stream may be likened to my charlotte, who goes on her way rejoicing, and diffusing life and animation wherever she bends her course." "i wish frances had a little more of her gayety," said mr. draper. "depend upon it," said howard, "they will operate favorably on each other. i perceive already a mingling of character. i will venture to predict, charlotte will have a boat with its gay streamers winding the shore before long, and persuade her sister to become the 'lady of the lake.'" the matter was soon decided; the sisters visited the place, and were enchanted with it; and howard was authorized by his brother to make the purchase. the house had been built many years. it was irregular in its form, and certainly belonged to no particular order of architecture. there was a large dining-room, and doors that opened upon the green, and plenty of small rooms; in short, it was just such a house as frances fancied; it was picturesque, and looked, she said, "as if it had grown and shot out here and there like the old oaks around it." charlotte begged that on herself might devolve the care of furnishing it. "i know better than you," said she, "what will save trouble. banish brass and mahogany; admit nothing that requires daily labor to make it fine and showy. i do not despair of setting you up a dairy, and teaching you to churn your own butter." she truly loved and honored her sister-in- law, and trembled for her life, which she was persuaded she held by a frail tenure. she was eager to prevent her returning to the city during the warm season, and readily undertook to go herself and make all necessary arrangements. frances furnished her with a list, and left much discretionary power to her agent. in the course of a few days she returned.--"we must be at clyde farm to- morrow," said she, "to receive the goods and chattels of which i am only the precursor. your husband enters warmly into the furnishing of your country residence, and therefore we must let him have a voice in it. his taste is not so simple as ours, so we must admit some of the finery of the town house; pier and chimney glasses are to be sent from it. i did not make much opposition to this, for they will not only reflect our rustic figures within, but the trees and grass without. how i long to have haying-time come! you must ride from the fields with your children, as i do, on a load of hay, when the work of the day is over, and look down upon all the world. o frances," added she, "if we could only persuade your husband to turn farmer, our victory would be complete." "it will never be," said frances. "i don't know that," replied charlotte; "he seemed to set very little value on the city residence, and would fain have stripped his elegant rooms to dignify your rustic retreat; but i would not consent to the migration of a particle of gilding or damask, but told him he might send the marble slabs, with the mirrors,--and i speak for one of the slabs for the dairy. but i have been more thoughtful for you than you have for yourself: look at this list of books that i have ordered." frances was surprised; she had never seen charlotte with a book in her hand, and she candidly expressed her astonishment that, amidst all her hurry, she had remembered _books_. "where do you think i acquired all my knowledge," said charlotte, "if i never open a book? but you are half right; i certainly do not patronize book-making; and yet all summer i am reading the book of nature. i open it with the first snow-drop and crocus which peeps from under her white robe; and then, when she puts on her green mantle, strewed with 'the yellow cowslip and the pale primrose,' i study the lilies of the field. depend upon it, there is more wisdom without doors than we can find within,--more wisdom there than in books." "i believe it," said frances; "all nature speaks of the creator,--of the one great mind which formed this endless variety, and can give life to the most insignificant flower that grows by the way-side." "i should like to know what flower you call insignificant," said charlotte; "not this little houstonia, i hope; that has a perfection of organization in which many of your splendid green-house flowers are deficient. but that is the way with us: we call those things sublime which are on a large scale, because they are magnified to our narrow minds, and we can comprehend them without any trouble.--but i must not display all my wisdom to you at once--how, like solomon of old, i can speak of trees, from 'the cedar-tree that is in lebanon even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall.'--and now, fair sister, 'up, up, and quit your books,' and come with me to one of my studios--namely, my poultry-yard. i hear the bipeds clamorous for their supper." "this is the woman," thought frances, "that i have sometimes wondered howard, with his reflecting mind, could select as his partner for life! because i saw her, like the deity she worships, attending to the most minute affairs, i foolishly imagined she comprehended no others." from this time the two sisters resembled in union shakspeare's twin cherries growing on one stem. chapter iii. the furniture arrived, and the country residence was very soon in order. howard took the direction of the farming part. but it was no object to frances to have much ploughing or planting. she loved the "green pastures and still waters," and often repeated those beautiful lines of the hymn-- "to dewy vales and flowery meads, my weary, fainting steps he leads, where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, amid the verdant landscape flow." clyde farm was a singularly retired spot, notwithstanding its vicinity to a country village, which, on a straight line, was about two miles from it. but there was a high hill between, that belonged to the farm, and was crowned with oak and chestnut trees; while here and there was an opening which gave a perfect view of the village, with its church, academy, and square four-story tavern, with windows enough to give it the appearance of a huge lantern. the high road was a mile from the house, and no dwelling was nearer. the hill overlooked one of those new england landscapes that could not be wrought into a well-composed picture; objects were too abundant; it was dotted with farms and sheets of water; and beyond, the beautiful merrimac wound its way. on this spot, frances had a little open pavilion erected, and it was her resort at sunset. as her health improved, her mind opened to the impressions of happiness, and she grew almost gay. "there is but one thing more," said she to her brother and sister, "that i now desire in this world." "always one thing wanting for us poor mortals!" said charlotte; "but let us hear what it is." "that my husband, who is the liberal donor of my enjoyment, should partake of it." "pray be contented," replied she, "and let him enjoy himself in his own way." "i have a letter for you," said howard, "that came enclosed in one to me;" and, with an air of hesitation, he gave it to her. frances hastily took it; her color came and went as she read. it informed her, that the offers her husband had received for his estate in town had not only opened his eyes to its value, but had convinced him that, as a patriotic citizen, he had no right to retain it for his private use; he had therefore come to the conclusion to reap the benefit himself which other speculators had proposed to do. he should take down the house, make a street through the land, divide it into small lots, and erect a number of houses upon it, one of which he meant to reserve for himself. "i should regret what i conceive to be the necessity of this thing," he added, "if you were not so perfectly satisfied with your clyde residence. as you will always repair to it early in the spring, it matters little if you return to walls of brick and mortar in the autumn." we pass over the involuntary tears that followed this communication, as speculators would pronounce them unreasonable. it now became necessary for frances to visit the city to make arrangements, and take a last leave of her pleasant mansion. in justice, it must be said, she thought less of her own deprivation than of the new accession of care and toil that her husband was bringing upon himself.--when she returned to clyde, she had lost by fatigue nearly all the health she had previously gained. most people have witnessed the rapidity with which the work of destruction goes on in modern days. in a very short time the splendid mansion was a pile of ruins, a street laid open, and buildings erecting on the spot. mr. draper's visits to clyde had been hitherto confined to the sabbath, and generally terminated with it: but he now wrote to his wife that he intended to "pass a month with her. it was a comparative season of leisure; his vessels had sailed, his buildings were going on well, and he should be able to enjoy the quiet of the country." frances received this intelligence with new-born hope. she felt certain, that one month, passed amidst the tranquil pleasures of the country, would regenerate his early tastes. she talked eloquently of the corrupting atmosphere of the city, and was sanguine that now all would go well; that his inordinate engrossment in business would yield to the influences by which he would find himself surrounded. and so it turned out, for a few days. mr. draper was as happy as an affectionate husband and father must naturally be, reunited to the objects of his tenderness. he said that "he felt uncommonly well, had much less of the dyspepsy than he had experienced for years," followed his little girls to their favorite haunts, and seemed to realize the blessing of leisure. howard, with his family, passed the third day with them. towards evening, they all ascended the hill. mr. draper was struck with the extensive view, and the beauty of his wife's domain, for he scrupulously called it her own. "what a waste of water!" he exclaimed. "what a noble run for mills and manufactories!" poor frances actually turned pale; but, collecting her spirits, she said, "it is hardly right to call it a _waste_ of water." "liberal, not lavish, is kind nature's hand." in the mean time, mr. draper had taken his pencil, and on the back of a letter was making lines and dashes. "look here," said he to howard. "see how perfectly this natural ledge of rocks may be converted into a dam: it seems precisely made for it: then, by digging a canal to conduct the water a little to the left, there is a fine site for a cotton-manufactory, which, built of granite, would add much to the beauty of the prospect. just here, where that old tree is thrown across the stream, a bridge may be built, in the form of an arch, which also must be of stone. it will make the view altogether perfect." "i cannot think," said howard, "the view would be improved; you would have a great stone building, with its countless windows and abutments, but you would lose the still, tranquil effect of the prospect, and take much from the beauty of the stream." "not as i shall manage it," said mr. draper. "i am sure frances herself will agree with me that it adds fifty per cent. to the beauty of the prospect when she sees it completed." in vain frances protested she was satisfied with it as it was; the month that she had hoped was to be given to leisure was one of the busiest of her husband's life. contracts were made--an association formed. mr. draper was continually driving to the city, and mechanics were passing to and fro. clyde farm began to wear the appearance of a business place. a manufacturing company was incorporated under the title of the clyde mills. the stillness of the spot was exchanged for the strokes of the pickaxe, the human voice urging on oxen and horses, the blasting of rocks; the grass was trampled down, the trees were often wantonly injured, and, where they obstructed the tracks of wheels, laid prostrate. frances no longer delighted to walk at noon day under the thick foliage that threw its shadow on the grass as vividly as a painting. all was changed! it is true she now saw her husband, but she had but little more of his society; his mind and time were wholly engrossed; he came often, and certainly did not, as formerly, confine his visits to the sabbath. all went on with wonderful rapidity; story rose upon story, till it seemed as if the new manufactory, with its windows and abutments, was destined to become another babel. when charlotte came to clyde, she gazed with astonishment. "all this," said she to howard, "is the project of a speculator! grown men now-a-days remind me of the story of the boy who planted his bean at night, and went out in the morning to see how it grew; he found it had nearly reached the chamber windows; he went out the next morning, and it was up to the eaves of the house; on the third morning, it had shot up to the clouds, and he descried a castle, or a manufactory, i don't know which, on the top of it. then it was high time to scale it; so up, up, he went, and when he arrived at the building, he put his foot into it, and then he perceived it was made of vapor; and down came bean, castle, and boy, headlong, in _three seconds_, though it had taken _three whole days_ to complete the work." "you must tell your story to my brother," said howard. "no," replied charlotte; "he would not profit by it; but i will tell it to my children, and teach them to train their beans in the good old-fashioned way, near the ground." thus passed the autumn at clyde; that period which every reflecting mind enjoys as a season of contemplation; that period when our new england woods assume every variety of color, and shine forth with a splendor that indicates decay. still the two families had much enjoyment together; the health of frances and little charlotte had decidedly improved; but when the leaves began to fall, and the wind to whistle through the branches, they quitted clyde and returned to the city. their new house was not ready for them, and they were obliged to take lodgings at one of the hotels. mr. draper met dr. b., their friend and physician, in his walks, and begged him to call and see his wife. "i rejoice to say," said he, "that her health does not require any medical advice; she is quite well." probably dr. b. thought otherwise, for he suggested the advantage that both she and the little girl might derive from passing the winter in a warm climate. never was there a fairer opportunity; they had no home to quit, and their residence at a hotel was one of necessity, not of choice. but mr. draper said it was quite impossible. what! leave his counting- room, state street, india wharf, the insurance offices! leave all in the full tide of speculation, when he was near the el dorado for which he had so long been toiling! when eastern lands and western lands, rail-roads and steam-boats, cotton, and manufactories, were in all their glory; when his own clyde mills were just going into operation! it was impossible, wholly impossible; and frances would not go without him. the suggestion was given up, and she remained in the city almost wholly confined to the atmosphere of a small room with a coal fire. unfortunately the measles appeared among the children at the hotel, and mrs. draper's were taken sick before she knew that the epidemic was there. they had the best attendance, but nothing supersedes a mother's devotion. frances passed many a sleepless night in watching over them. with the eldest the disorder proved slight, but it was otherwise with the youngest; and when she began to grow better, the mother drooped. it was a dreary winter for poor mrs. draper, but not so for her husband. never had there been a season of such profits, such glorious speculations! some _croakers_ said it could not last; and some of our gifted statesmen predicted that an overwhelming blow must inevitably come. but all this was nothing to speculators; it certainly would not arrive till after _they_ had made their millions. spring approached, with its uncertainty of climate; sometimes, the streets were in rivers, and the next day frozen in masses; then came volumes of east wind. mrs. draper's cough returned more frequently than ever, and charlotte looked too frail for earth. the physician informed mr. draper that he considered it positively necessary to remove the invalids to a milder climate, and mentioned cuba. mr. draper, however, decided that an inland journey would be best, and, inconvenient as it was, determined to travel as far as some of the _cotton-growing_ states. after the usual busy preparations, they set off, the wife fully realizing that she was blighting in the bud her husband's projected speculations for a few weeks to come, and feeling that he was making what he considered great sacrifices. almost all invalids who have travelled on our continent in pursuit of uniformity of climate, have been disappointed. at new york they were detained a week by a flight of snow and rain, shut up in dreary rooms; then came a glimmering of sunshine, and philadelphia looked bright and serene; but at baltimore the rain again descended. they were so near washington, mr. draper thought it best to hurry on, with every precaution for the invalids. at washington, they found the straw mattings had superseded woollen carpets, and the fire-places were ornamented with green branches. they continued their journey south till they at length arrived at charleston. here they found a milder climate, and a few days of sunshine. mr. draper was no longer restless; he had full employment in shipping cargoes of cotton, and making bargains, not only for what was in the market, but for a proportion of that which was yet to grow, as confidently as if he had previously secured the rain and sunshine of heaven. there is a constant change of weather on our coast--another storm came on. the little invalid evidently lost rather than gained. discouraged and disheartened, frances begged they might return. "one week at clyde, where they might have the comforts of home, would do more for them," she said, "than all this fruitless search for a favorable climate." when mr. draper had completed his bargains, he was equally desirous to return to the city, and at the end of a tedious journey, over bad roads in some parts of it, rail-roads in others, and a tremendous blow round point judith, the travellers arrived at boston on one of those raw, piercing, misty days, that seemed to have been accumulating fogs for their reception. the physician hastened their departure to clyde, as it was inland and sheltered from the sea. this removal was made, and then they had nothing to do but to get well. howard and charlotte were rejoiced at the reunion, and the feeble little invalid tried to resume her former sports with her cousins. but all would not answer, and when june came on, with its season of roses, she slept at the foot of the mount. it was a retired spot that the mother selected for the remains, and only a temporary one, for they were to be removed to mount auburn at the close of autumn. it were well if we could receive the events of providence in the sublime simplicity with which they come, but the sensitive and tender-hearted often add to their poignancy by useless self-reproach. frances thought the journey had, perhaps, been the cause of the child's untimely death, and lamented that she had not opposed a measure which she had undertaken solely for its benefit. the death of friends is a calamity that few have not strength enough to bear, if they do not exaggerate their sufferings, by imagining that something was done, or left undone, for which they were responsible. to this nervous state of feeling frances was peculiarly liable, from her ill health; and it was many weeks before her excellent powers of mind obtained full exercise. yet they finally triumphed, and she became first resigned, then cheerful. the sorrow of the father was of a different character, and exhausted itself in proportion to its violence. it was followed by new projects and new anticipations; the manufactory had succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations. a discovery had been made that enabled them to afford their cloth a cent per yard cheaper than any other manufacturing establishment. bales of cotton poured in upon him from the south, and ships arrived from various parts of the world. how could he find time for grief! chapter iv. the first visit frances made to the lake after her return, discovered to her, that it was sadly changed. it was no longer full to overflowing, but swampy and low; the water was constantly drained off to supply the manufactory and mills which were erected at a distance. mr. draper had found out that the little stream could much more than earn its own living, and it was made to work hard. one thing, however, was wanting to complete his clyde speculations, and that was a rail-road. this had now become necessary. every thing afforded the greatest facility for it. laborers could be procured from the village and farms in the vicinity. yet how could he reconcile his wife to it? the road must pass through the hill, and near the house. he was aware that it would destroy the rural beauty of the place; but what an increase of wealth it would be! what a princely revenue! what a spirit of business and speculation it would spread through the country! every man would be able not only to make the most of his capital, but to get credit to ten times its real amount. he considered it a public benefit, and he was imperiously called to accomplish it; and so he stated the matter to his wife with as much tenderness towards her feelings as the case would admit. "i hoped," said she, "that the sum of your public benefits was completed by our sacrifice in the city." "that is not spoken with your usual generous feeling, frances," replied he. "when are patriotic exertions to cease? are we not called upon to be constantly making them?" "howard would say it is injuring the cause of the country to turn agriculturists into speculators," said frances. "howard is an excellent man," replied mr. draper; "he is born to be a farmer, and nothing else. i have no wish to change his vocation; he dignifies it by uniting intelligence with manual labor; but there are many who are toiling merely for money, and they can get much more by my method than his." "will their happiness be increased?" said mrs. draper. "certainly, inasmuch as wealth procures the means of happiness." "have _you_ found it so?" again asked frances. "not precisely. i am still toiling; my season for rest and enjoyment has not arrived." "and yet," said frances, "howard is _rich enough_ for enjoyment. you have already a great estate; let me ask, what advantage you derive from it beyond your daily meals? you take care of this immense property; you are continually increasing it, and all the compensation you get is a _bare living_. would any of the clerks you employ in your counting-room labor for such low wages?" "my dear frances," said mr. draper, affectionately, "i am always contented to admire your ingenuity without combating your arguments. perhaps it might be better, if you had cultivated a little more of the _rationale_ of life." "well," replied she, languidly smiling, "i am going to prove to you, that i have profited by your example, and am becoming a business wife. you call this farm _mine_, and tell me you bought it for me?" "certainly; all i have is yours." "i claim no title to any thing but this; but this i consider your gift, and as such accept it." mr. draper certainly did not look delighted at this unexpected statement, and began to tremble for his rail-road; but he remained silent. "you have undoubtedly greatly increased the actual value of clyde farm, by mills and manufactories?" "certainly i have; but all is in a manner useless without the rail-road as a means of transportation: that will put every thing into complete operation, and make the revenue princely." "then," said frances, "i can have no hesitation in making my offer. i will sell this place to you for what you gave for it. secure the sum to me outright, and i renounce my title to clyde farm. make it, if you please, wholly a manufacturing place; do not consult me whether there shall be rail-roads or mills." "upon my word," said mr. draper, "with an estate like mine, i should be mortified to make such a paltry purchase of my wife. it is for you and our only child that i am accumulating a fortune. have you ever found me sordid or tenacious of money, that you wish a certain sum secured to you?" "never," said she with emotion; "all that money can purchase, you have been most liberal in procuring me. would that you were as generous to yourself!" "we all have our own ideas of happiness," said mr. draper; "but since it is your wish, frances, i will close with your proposal, and secure to you twenty thousand dollars, which is a little more than i paid for clyde farm. legal instruments shall be immediately drawn up; and to convince you that i wish for no control over that sum, i will have it put in trust." "let the instrument be so worded," said frances, "that it shall revert to our child at my death." "as you please," said mr. draper, coldly; "it is all the same to me." chapter v.--conclusion. from this time, clyde farm became wholly a place of business. no regard was now paid to the beauty of the place. iron-manufactories, nail-manufactories, and saw-mills, were projected, and all was hurry and bustle. one more pang, however, remained for frances. the sequestered nook she had selected, where her little charlotte's remains were deposited,--that spot, so still, so tranquil, so shaded by trees, and so sheltered by valleys, so removed apparently from the tumult of business,--over that very spot, it was found necessary for the rail-road to pass! strange as it may seem, the worldly father appeared to feel more deeply this innovation than the mother. twice he repaired to the spot to give his directions for the removal of the remains, and twice an impetuous burst of sorrow drove him from it. "it is only a temporary resting-place, even for the body," said frances; "the spirit is not there." she looked calmly on, and gave those directions for which the father was unable. another winter was now advancing, and the house in the city was ready for occupancy. mrs. draper made her preparations to return, but they were often interrupted by a pain in her side. the cough had entirely changed its character; it was now deep and hollow. she certainly looked remarkably well; her complexion seemed to have recovered the delicacy and transparency of early youth, and her eyes their lustrous brightness. as for the color of her cheek, her husband sometimes playfully accused her of extracting rouge from her carnations. charlotte spoke to him doubtingly of his wife's health, and lucy said she "was afraid she would not stand the frosty nights when they came on." but mr. draper was sanguine that clyde had been her restoration. when she arrived at the city, there were arrangements to be made, and new furniture to be procured. her husband gave her full permission to do just as she pleased, only begged of her not to call upon him, for he had not one moment to spare. frances exerted all her strength, but it became evident that she drooped. her nights were restless; and though some thought it encouraging, that she coughed so much _stronger_, it was exhausting to her frame. mr. draper at length perceived that she had rather lost than gained; he went for her physician, and requested him to recommend quiet to her. "i think," said he, "she has over-fatigued herself." dr. b. came to see her, conversed with her, counted the throbbings of her pulse, and made a minute examination of her case. the conference was long; when he entered the parlor, he found mr. draper waiting. he received him with a smile; but there was no responsive smile on the doctor's face; it was solemn and thoughtful. mr. draper grew alarmed. "you do not think my wife very sick, i hope," said he. "her cough is troublesome; but you know she has long been subject to it. indeed, i think it is constitutional, like my own. you recommended the white mixture to her last year: it did her good." "i recommended a voyage and a warm climate," said the physician. "yes, i remember you did; but it was impossible for me to go away then. in the spring we took that unlucky journey; however, it was of benefit to her, and if you think it necessary, i will go the same route now." "i do not," replied dr. b. "i am glad of it; it would be particularly inconvenient to me just now to leave the city. times are perplexing: bills come back protested--bad news from england--sudden and unlooked-for failures--no one can tell where it will end. we have been obliged to stop our works at clyde farm, and there are from ninety to a hundred laborers thrown out of employment. this is peculiarly vexatious to me, as they made out before to earn a living in their own _humdrum_ way, and they now accuse me of having taken the bread from their children's mouths, to promote my own speculations, though, while i employed them, i gave them enormous wages. but this, sir, is the gratitude of the world." the doctor still remained silent. it seemed as if mr. draper began to tremble for something dearer than money, for he grasped the hand of the physician. "you do not think my wife dangerously ill, i trust," said he. the doctor replied, in a low voice, "i fear she is." "impossible!" exclaimed mr. draper; "she was remarkably well when we left clyde. but what do you prescribe? i will do any thing, every thing, say but the word. i will take her to europe--i will go to any part of the world you recommend." the physician shook his head. "my dear doctor, you must go with us. i will indemnify you a thousand times for all losses; you can save her life; you know her constitution. when shall we go? and where? i will charter a vessel; we can be off in three days;"--and he actually took his hat. dr. b. said impressively, "pray be seated, and prepare yourself to hear, like a man, what you must inevitably learn. it will not answer any useful purpose to go to a milder climate; it is now too late!" "you do not mean to say," said mr. draper, impetuously, "that if she had gone last year she would have been restored?" "no, i do not mean to say that; but then, there would have been a chance; now, there is none." "why did you not tell me so, sir?" said mr. draper, angrily. "i said all that i was authorized to say. when i urged the step as necessary, you replied that it was impossible." "it is too true!" exclaimed he, striking his forehead; "and yet she is dearer to me than my own life;"--and, unable to suppress his feelings, he burst into an agony of tears. suddenly starting up, he said, "doctor, i have the highest respect for your skill; but you are fallible, like all men. it is my opinion, that a sea voyage and change of climate will restore my wife. if you will go with us, so much the better; if not, i will seek some other physician to accompany her." "it is but right to inform you," said dr. b., "that there is no chance of restoration. i suggested to her, that there might be alleviation in a warm climate; but she positively declines seeking it, and says her only wish is to die quietly, at home. she fully estimates the strength of your affection, and entreats of you to spare her all superfluous agitation. 'tell him,' said she, 'there is but one thing that can unsettle the calmness of my mind; it is to see him wanting in christian resignation.'" it would be painful to dwell on the anguish that followed this communication. mr. draper realized, for the first time, the tenderness and watchfulness that a character and constitution like his wife's required. in the common acceptation of the word, he was an excellent husband; yet, in his eager pursuit of wealth, he had left her to struggle alone with many of the harassing cares of life. he had, by thinking himself unable to accompany her, denied her the necessary recreation of travelling; he had deprived her of her favorite residence in the city, and when she turned her affections to clyde, even there they found no resting-place. he recollected their unpropitious journey--the exposure to cold and rain--that he had hurried on the invalids, till he had accomplished his own purposes. one had already gone; the other was fast following. speculators have consciences and affections, and his were roused to agony. frances shrunk not from the hour of death, which rapidly approached. howard and charlotte were constantly with her. there was nothing gloomy in her views. she considered this life as a passage to another; and saw through the vista immortality and happiness. to charlotte, she bequeathed her daughter, and this faithful friend promised to watch over her with a mother's care. many and long were her conversations with her husband--not on the subject of her death, or arrangements after it should take place; but she was earnest that her serenity, her high hopes, might be transferred to his mind. she had often, in the overflowings of her heart, endeavored to communicate to him her animated convictions of a future life. those who live constantly in the present think but little of the future. mr. draper usually cut short the conversation, with the apparently devout sentiment,--"i am quite satisfied on this subject; 'whatever is, is right.'" now, however, when he realized that the being he most tenderly loved was fast retreating from his view, he felt that there was a vast difference between the reasonings of philosophy and the revelations of christianity; and, in the agony of his soul, he would have given worlds for the assurance of a reunion. on this subject frances dwelt; and he now listened patiently, without once looking at his watch, or being seized with one of his paroxysms of coughing. still, however, he doubted; for how could he trust without _bonds_ and _contracts_? no one had come back to tell him _individually_ the whole truth. "i acknowledge," said he, somewhat reproachfully, "that this conviction is earnestly to be desired. if saves you from the agony that at this moment rends my heart." "my dear friend," replied frances, in a voice interrupted by deep and solemn emotion, "religion is not given us for an opiate to be used at a last extremity, merely to lull the sense of pain. the views i express are not new to me; they have been for many years my daily food; they have supported me through hours of bodily anguish; . . . the human frame does not decay as gradually as mine without repeated warnings; . . . they will conduct me through the dark valley of death, when i can no longer lean upon your arm . . . their efficacy does not merely consist in soothing the bitterness of parting; they have a health giving energy that infuses courage and fortitude amidst the disappointments and evils of life." "henceforth," exclaimed mr. draper,--and at that moment he was sincere,--"every thing of a worldly nature is indifferent to me!" "all men," continued frances, without replying to his exclamation, "are subject to the reverses of life, but particularly men of extensive business connections. they are like the spider in his cobweb dwelling; touch but one of the thousand filaments that compose it, and it vibrates to the centre, and often the fabric is destroyed that has been so skilfully woven. there is a divine teaching in religion, which at such times restores equanimity to the mind, gives new aspirations, and proves that all in this life is not lost, and nothing for that to come." new scenes were opening upon mr. draper. it became evident that a dark cloud hung over the business atmosphere. unexpected failures every day took place. some attributed the thick-coming evils to the removal of the deposits, others to interrupted currency; some to overtrading, and some to extravagance. whatever was the cause, the distress was real. mr. draper's cotton became a drug in the market; manufactories stopped, or gave no dividends. eastern lands lost even their nominal value, and western towns became bankrupt. ships stood in the harbor, with their sails unbent and masts dismantled. day laborers looked aghast, not knowing where to earn food for their families. the whirlwind came; it made no distinction of persons. "it smote the four corners of the house," and the high-minded and honorable fell indiscriminately with the rest. well may it be asked, whence came this desolation upon the community? no pestilence visited our land; it was not the plague; it was not the yellow fever, or cholera. health was borne on every breeze; the earth yielded her produce, and peace still dwelt among us. mr. draper felt as if "his mountain stood strong," yet it began to totter. frances was ignorant of the state of public affairs. who would intrude the perplexities of the times into a dying chamber? softly and gently she sank to rest, her last look of affection beaming upon her husband. the next morning, the bankruptcy of mr. draper was announced. no blame was attached to him, though the sum for which he became insolvent was immense, and swallowed up many a hard-earned fortune. where was howard's little capital?--gone with the rest--principal and _compound interest_! "i am a ruined man!" said mr. draper to howard; "i have robbed you, and beggared my child; but one resource remains to me;"--and he looked around with the desperation of insanity. howard grasped his hand. "my dear brother," said he, "your wife, with an almost prophetic spirit, foresaw this hour. 'comfort him,' said she, 'when it arrives, and lead his mind to higher objects.' your child has an ample provision, by the sum settled on her mother. i have lost property which i did not use, and, with the blessing of god, may never want. come home with me; i have means for us both. you will have all the indulgences you ever coveted. no one has led a harder life than you have. you have labored like the galley-slave, without wages; come, and learn that, beyond what we can use for our own or others' benefit, wealth has only an imaginary value." perhaps it was an additional mortification to mr. draper, to find that, a few days after his failure, the banks concluded to issue no specie. many were kept along by this resolution; while others stopped, with the conviction, that, had they been contented with moderate gains, they might, in this day of trouble and perplexity, have been rich enough. finis [note of etext editor: this etext is based on the post- version published by m. a. donohue & co. it differs from etext , which is the a.l. burt publication of , in that it contains seven less chapters between chapter xxxi and the concluding chapter.] mark mason's victory by horatio alger, jr. author of "erie train boy," "slow and sure," "risen from the ranks," "julius, the street boy," etc., etc. m. a. donohue & company chicago new york printed bound by m. a. donohue & company chicago made in u. s. a. contents chapter i. two strangers from syracuse. chapter ii. where mark lived. chapter iii. an unexpected call. chapter iv. a night at daly's. chapter v. mark as a hero. chapter vi. "the evening globe." chapter vii. the great mr. bunsby. chapter viii. a scene in mrs. mack's room. chapter ix. an adventure in a fifth avenue stage. chapter x. an important commission. chapter xi. mr. hamilton schuyler is astonished. chapter xii. mr. schuyler has a bad time. chapter xiii. mark starts on a journey. chapter xiv. the telltale memorandum. chapter xv. a railroad incident. chapter xvi. mark as a detective. chapter xvii. mark makes a call on euclid avenue. chapter xviii. a midnight visit. chapter xix. at niagara falls. chapter xx. a newspaper paragraph. chapter xxi. mark returns home. chapter xxii. a crafty schemer. chapter xxiii. mark's good luck. chapter xxiv. the two sisters meet. chapter xxv. maud gilbert's party. chapter xxvi. an important commission. chapter xxvii. last instructions. chapter xxviii. mark at omaha. chapter xxix. nahum sprague and his orphan ward. chapter xxx. philip finds a friend. chapter xxxi. the mining stock is sold. chapter xxxii. conclusion. mark mason's victory. chapter i. two strangers from syracuse. "that is the city hall over there, edgar." the speaker was a man of middle age, with a thin face and a nose like a hawk. he was well dressed, and across his vest was visible a showy gold chain with a cameo charm attached to it. the boy, probably about fifteen, was the image of his father. they were crossing city hall park in new york and mr. talbot was pointing out to his son the public buildings which make this one of the noted localities in the metropolis. "shine?" asked a bootblack walking up to the pair. "i'd like to take a shine, father," said edgar. "what do you charge?" "five cents, but i don't object to a dime," replied the bootblack. "can i have a shine, father?" "why didn't you get one at the hotel?" "because they charged ten cents. i thought i could get it for less outside." "good boy!" said the father in a tone of approval. "get things as low as you can. that's my motto, and that's the way i got rich. here, boy, you can get to work." instantly the bootblack was on his knees, and signed for edgar to put his foot on the box. "what's your name, boy?" asked edgar with a condescending tone. "no, it ain't boy. it's tom." "well, tom, do you make much money?" "well, i don't often make more'n five dollars a day." "five dollars? you are trying to humbug me." "it's true though. i never made more'n five dollars in a day in my life, 'cept when i shined shoes for swells like you who were liberal with their cash." edgar felt rather flattered to be called a swell, but a little alarmed at the suggestion that tom might expect more than the usual sum. "that's all right, but i shall only pay you five cents." "i knew you wouldn't as soon as i saw you." "why?" "'cause you don't look like george w. childs." "who's he?" "the _ledger_ man from philadelphia. i once blacked his shoes and he gave me a quarter. general washington once paid me a dollar." "what!" ejaculated edgar. "do you mean to say that you ever blacked general washington's shoes?" "no; he wore boots." "why, my good boy, general washington died almost a hundred years ago." "did he? well, it might have been some other general." "i guess it was. you don't seem to know much about history." "no, i don't. i spent all my time studyin' astronomy when i went to school." "what's your whole name?" "tom trotter. i guess you've heard of my father. he's judge trotter of the supreme court?" "i am afraid you don't tell the truth very often." "no, i don't. it ain't healthy. do you?" "of course i do." this conversation was not heard by mr. talbot, who had taken a seat on one of the park benches, and was busily engaged in reading the morning _world_. by this time tom began to think it was his time to ask questions. "where did you come from?" he inquired. "how do you know but i live in the city?" "'cause you ain't got new york style." "oh!" said edgar rather mortified. then he added in a tone which he intended to be highly sarcastic: "i suppose you have." "well, i guess. you'd ought to see me walk down fifth avener sunday mornin' with my best girl." "do you wear the same clothes you've got on now?" "no, i guess not. i've got a little lord fauntleroy suit of black velvet, with kid gloves and all the fixin's. but you ain't told me where you live yet." "i live in syracuse. my father's one of the most prominent citizens of that city." "is it the man you was walkin' with?" "yes; there he is sitting on that bench." "he ain't much to look at. you look just like him." "really, i think you are the most impudent boy i ever met!" said edgar with asperity. "why, what have i said? i only told you you looked like him." "yes, but you said he wasn't much to look at!" "i guess he's rich, and that's better than good looks." "yes, my father is quite wealthy," returned edgar complacently. "i wish i was rich instead of good lookin'." "you good looking!" "that's what everybody says. i ain't no judge myself." tom looked roguishly at edgar, and his aristocratic patron was obliged to confess that he had a pleasant face, though it was marred by a black spot on each cheek, probably caused by the contact of his hands. "you're a queer boy," said edgar. "i don't know what to make of you." "make a rich man of me, and well go to europe together. my doctor says i ought to travel for my health." "edgar, haven't you got your shoes blacked yet?" asked his father from the bench. tom struck the box sharply with his brush to show that the job was completed. "just got done, governor," he said familiarly. "here is your money," said edgar, producing some pennies from his pockets. "there's only four," observed tom with a critical glance. "only four! haven't you dropped one?" "no. that's all you gave me." "father, have you got a cent?" mr. talbot's hand dived into his pocket, and he brought out a penny, but it was a canadian coin. "i don't know as i can pass this," said tom. "they're very particular at the windsor hotel, where i am boarding." "you can save it till you go traveling in canada," suggested edgar, with unusual brightness for him. "that's so," answered tom, who appreciated a joke. "i'll stop in syracuse on the way and pay you a visit." "how does he know about our living in syracuse?" asked mr. talbot. "i told him i lived there." "he said you was a big bug up there." "i hope you didn't use that expression, edgar," said his father. "oh well, that's what he meant. won't you have a shine yourself, governor?" "no; i don't think i shall need it." "where'd you get that shine you've got on?" "in syracuse." "tell 'em they don't understand shinin' boots up there." "hadn't you better go up there and give them some lessons?" suggested edgar. "well, i don't mind, if i can get free board at your house." "do you think we would have a bootblack living in our house?" "don't waste any time on him, edgar. he is a street boy, and his manners are fitted to his station." "thank you, governor. that's the biggest compliment i've had for a long time." mr. talbot laughed. "really, boy, you are very grotesque." "that's another compliment," said tom, taking off his hat and bowing with mock politeness. "hallo, tom!" tom turned to meet the smile of a district telegraph messenger, who was crossing the park to broadway. "how's yourself, mark?" he said. "i'd offer to shake hands, but i've been doin' a little business for these gentlemen, and my gloves ain't handy." no. , following the direction of tom's nod, glanced at mr. talbot and edgar, and instantly a look of surprise came over his face. "why, uncle solon, is that you?" he exclaimed. solon talbot looked embarrassed, and seemed in doubt whether to acknowledge his relationship to the humble telegraph boy. "are you mark mason?" he asked. "yes; don't you know me?" "i haven't seen you for two years, you know." "and this is edgar!" continued the telegraph boy. "you've grown so i would hardly know you." "i hope you are well," said edgar coldly. "thank you. uncle solon, where are you staying?" "ahem! i am stopping up town." "shall you be in the city long?" "i don't think so." "mother would like very much to see you. she would like to ask about grandfather's estate." "ah--um--yes! where do you live?" "no. st. mark's place, near first avenue." "we'll call if we can. edgar, we'll have to hurry away." as they walked toward the other side of the park at a brisk pace, tom asked: "you don't mean to say that's your uncle, mark?" "yes; that is, he married my mother's sister." "and that young swell is your cousin?" "yes." "he is rich, isn't he?" "i suppose so." "why don't he do something for you and your mother?" "he was always a very selfish man. but we don't ask any favors--mother and i don't. all we ask is justice." "what do you mean by that?" "my grandfather, that is mother's father and mrs. talbot's, died two years ago, and uncle solon was the administrator. we supposed he had left a good deal of money, but all we have received from his estate is seventy-five dollars." "do you think the old feller's been playin' any game on you?" "i don't know what to think." "i tell you what, mark, he deserves a good lickin' if he's cheated you, and i'd like to give it to him." "well, tom, i must be going. i can't stop talking here, or i'll get into trouble at the office." chapter ii. where mark lived. there is a large tenement house on st. mark's place, between third avenue and avenue a. the suites of rooms consist, as is the general new york custom in tenement houses, of one square apartment used as kitchen, sitting room and parlor combined, and two small bedrooms opening out of it. it was in an apartment of this kind on the third floor back, that mark mason's mother and little sister edith lived. it was a humble home, and plainly furnished, but a few books and pictures saved from the wreck of their former prosperity, gave the rooms an air of refinement not to be found in those of their neighbors. mrs. mason was setting the table for supper and edith was studying a lesson in geography when the door opened and mark entered. his mother greeted him with a pleasant smile. "you are through early, mark," she said. "yes, mother. i was let off earlier than usual, as there was an errand up this way that fortunately took very little time." "i'm glad you've come home, mark," said edith, "i want you to help me in my map questions." "all right, edie, but you will have to wait till after supper. i've got something to tell mother." "what is it, mark?" "i saw two old acquaintances of ours from syracuse, this forenoon." "who were they?" asked mrs. mason eagerly. "uncle solon and edgar." "is it possible? where did you see them?" "in city hall park. edgar had just been having his boots blacked by tom trotter." "did you speak to them?" "yes." "how did they appear?" "well, they didn't fall on my neck and embrace me," answered mark with a smile. "in fact they seemed very cool." "and yet solon talbot is my brother-in-law, the husband of my only sister." "and edgar is my own cousin. he's an awful snob, mother, and he looks as like his father as one pea looks like another." "then he is not very handsome. i wish i could see them. did you invite them to call?" "yes." "and what did solon--mr. talbot--say?" "he said he _might_ call; but he was in a great hurry." "did you remember to give him our address?" "yes, mother; i said you would like to see him about grandfather's estate." "i certainly would. it seems strange, very strange--that father should have left so little money." "we only got seventy-five dollars out of it." "when i expected at least five thousand." "i suspect there's been some dishonesty on the part of uncle solon. you know he is awfully fond of money." "yes, he always was." "and tom trotter says that edgar told him his father was very rich." "it seems strange the change that has taken place. when i first knew solon talbot i was a young lady in society with a high position, and he was a clerk in my father's store. he was of humble parentage, though that, of course, is not to his discredit. his father used to go about sawing wood for those who chose to employ him." "you don't mean it! you never told me that before." "no, for i knew that solon would be ashamed to have it known, and as i said before it is nothing to his discredit." "but it might prevent edgar from putting on such airs. he looked at me as if i was an inferior being, and he didn't care to have anything to say to me." "i hope you don't feel sensitive on that account." "sensitive? no. i can get along without edgar talbot's notice. i mean some time to stand as high or higher than uncle solon, and to be quite as rich." "i hope you will, mark, but as we are at present situated it will be hard to rise." "plenty of poor boys have risen, and why not i?" "it is natural for the young to be hopeful, but i have had a good deal to depress me. did you remember that the rent comes due the day after to-morrow?" "how much have you towards it, mother?" "only five dollars, and it's eight. i don't see where the other three dollars are coming from, unless,"--and here her glance rested on the plain gold ring on her finger. "pledge your wedding-ring, mother!" exclaimed mark. "surely you don't mean that?" "i would rather do it than lose our shelter, poor as it is." "there must be some other way--there must be." "you will not receive any wages till saturday." "no, but perhaps we can borrow something till then. there's mrs. mack up-stairs. she has plenty of money, though she lives in a poor way." "there isn't much hope there, mark. she feels poorer than i do, though i am told she has five thousand dollars out at interest." "never mind. i am going to try her." "eat your supper first." "so i will. i shall need all the strength i can get from a good meal to confront her." half an hour later mark went up-stairs and tapped at the door of the rooms above his mother's. "come in!" said a feeble quavering voice. mark opened the door and entered. in a rocking chair sat, or rather crouched, a little old woman, her face seamed and wrinkled. she had taken a comforter from the bed and wrapped it around her to keep her warm, for it was a chilly day, and there was no fire in her little stove. "good evening, mrs. mack," said mark. "how do you feel?" "it's a cold day," groaned the old lady. "i--i feel very uncomfortable." "why don't you have a fire then?" "it's gone out, and it's so late it isn't worth while to light it again." "but it is worth while to be comfortable," insisted mark. "i--i can keep warm with this comforter around me, and--fuel is high, very high." "but you can afford to buy more when this is burned." "no, mark. i have to be economical--very economical. i don't want to spend all my money, and go to the poor-house." "i don't think there's much danger of that. you've got money in the savings bank, haven't you?" "yes--a little, but i can't earn anything. i'm too old to work, for i am seventy-seven, and i might live years longer, you know." "don't you get interest on your money?" "yes, a little, but it costs a good deal to live." "well, if the interest isn't enough, you can use some of the principal. i can put you in the way of earning twenty-five cents." "can you?" asked the old woman eagerly. "how?" "if you'll lend me three dollars till saturday--i get my wages then--i'll pay you twenty-five cents for the accommodation." "but you might not pay me," said the old woman cautiously, "and it would kill me to lose three dollars." mark wanted to laugh, but felt that it would not do. "there isn't any danger," he said. "i get two weeks' pay on saturday. it will be as much as nine dollars, so you see you are sure of getting back your money." "i--i don't know. i am afraid." "what are you afraid of?" "you might get run over by the horse cars, or a truck, and then you couldn't get your money." "i will be careful for your sake, mrs. mack," said mark good-humoredly. "you'll get your money back, and twenty-five cents more." the old woman's face was a study--between avarice on the one hand and timidity on the other. "i--i'm afraid," she said. she rocked to and fro in her chair in her mental perturbation, and mark saw that his errand was a failure. "if you change your mind, let me know," he said. as he reached the foot of the stairs he was treated to a surprise. there just in front of his mother's door stood solon talbot and edgar. chapter iii. an unexpected call. "in what room does your mother live?" asked solon talbot. "this is our home," said mark, proceeding to open the door. edgar talbot sniffed contemptuously. "i don't see how you can live in such a mean place," he remarked. "it is not a matter of choice," returned mark gravely. "we have to live in a cheap tenement." by this time the door was opened. "mother," said mark, preceding the two visitors, "here are uncle solon and edgar come to call on you." mrs. mason's pale cheek flushed, partly with mortification at her humble surroundings, for when she first knew solon talbot he was only a clerk, as she had said, and she was a society belle. there was another feeling also. she had a strong suspicion that her brother-in-law had defrauded her of her share in her father's estate. "i am glad to see you, mr. talbot," she said, extending her hand. "and this is edgar! how you have grown, edgar." "yes, ma'am," responded edgar stiffly. both mrs. mason and mark noticed that he did not call her "aunt." her nephew's coldness chilled her. "i am sorry to see you in such a poor place," she said, smiling faintly. "i suppose rents are high in new york," said solon talbot awkwardly. "yes, and our means are small. how is my sister mary?" "quite well, thank you." "did she send me any message?" "she did not know i was going to call." "how long it seems since i saw her!" sighed mrs. mason. "i suppose you heard that i was in town." "yes; mark told me." "i was not sure whether i could call, as i am here on a hurried business errand." "i am glad you have called. i wished to ask you about father's estate." "just so! it is very surprising--i assure you that it amazed me very much--to find that he left so little." "i can't understand it at all, solon. only a year before he died he told me that he considered himself worth fifteen thousand dollars." "people are often deluded as to the amount of their possessions. i have known many such cases." "but i have only received seventy-five dollars, and there were two heirs--mary and myself. according to that father must have left only one hundred and fifty dollars." "of course he left more, but there were debts--and funeral expenses and doctor's bills." "i understand that, but it seems so little." "it _was_ very little, and i felt sorry, not only on your account, but on mary's. of course, as my wife, she will be provided for, but it would have been comfortable for her to inherit a fair sum." "you can imagine what it is to me who am not amply provided for. i thought there might be five thousand dollars coming to me." solon talbot shook his head. "that anticipation was very extravagant!" he said. "it was founded on what father told me." "true: but i think your father's mind was weakened towards the end of his life. he was not really responsible for what he said." "i disagree with you there, solon. father seemed to me in full possession of his faculties to the last." "you viewed him through the eyes of filial affection, but i was less likely to be influenced in my judgments." "five thousand dollars would have made me so happy. we are miserably poor, and mark has to work so hard to support us in this poor way." "i thought telegraph boys earned quite a snug income," said solon talbot, who looked uncomfortable. he was dreading every moment that his sister-in-law would ask him for pecuniary assistance. he did not understand her independent nature. her brother-in-law was about the last man to whom she would have stooped to beg a favor. "mark sometimes makes as high as five dollars a week," said mrs. mason in a tone of mild sarcasm. "i am sure that is very good pay for a boy of his age." "it is a small sum for a family of three persons to live upon, solon." "um, ah! i thought perhaps you might earn something else." "sometimes i earn as high as a dollar and a half a week making shirts." mr. talbot thought it best to drop the subject. "i am deeply sorry for you," he said. "it is a pity your husband didn't insure his life. he might have left you in comfort." "he did make application for insurance, but his lungs were already diseased, and the application was refused." "i may be able to help you--in a small way, of course," proceeded solon talbot. mark looked up in surprise. was it possible that his close-fisted uncle was offering to assist them. mrs. mason did not answer, but waited for developments. "i have already paid you seventy-five dollars from your father's estate," resumed mr. talbot. "strictly speaking, it is all you are entitled to. but i feel for your position, and--and your natural disappointment, and i feel prompted to make it a hundred dollars by paying you twenty-five dollars more. i have drafted a simple receipt here, which i will get you to sign, and then i will hand you the money." he drew from his wallet a narrow slip of paper, on which was written this form: "received from solon talbot the sum of one hundred dollars, being the full amount due me from the estate of my late father, elisha doane, of which he is the administrator." * * * * * mr. talbot placed the paper on the table, and pointing to a black line below the writing, said, "sign here." "let me see the paper, mother," said mark. he read it carefully. "i advise you not to sign it," he added, looking up. "what do you mean?" exclaimed solon talbot angrily. "i mean," returned mark firmly, "that mother has no means of knowing that a hundred dollars is all that she is entitled to from grandfather's estate." "didn't i tell you it was?" demanded talbot frowning. "uncle solon," said mark calmly, "i am only a boy, but i know that one can't be too careful in business matters." "do you dare to doubt my father's word?" blustered edgar. "our business is with your father, not with you," said mark. "what is it you want?" asked solon talbot irritably. "i want, or rather mother does, to see a detailed statement of grandfather's property, and the items of his debts and expenses." solon talbot was quite taken aback, by mark's demand. he had supposed the boy knew nothing of business. "really," he said, "this impertinence from my own nephew is something i was by no means prepared for. it is a poor return for my liberal offer." "your liberal offer?" "yes, the twenty-five dollars i offered your mother is out of my own pocket--offered solely out of consideration for her poverty. do i understand," he asked, addressing his sister-in-law, "that you decline my offer?" mrs. mason looked doubtfully at mark. twenty-five dollars in their present circumstances would be a boon, and, in addition to mark's earnings, would tide them over at least three months. was it right, or wise, to decline it? mark's face showed no signs of wavering. he was calm and resolute. "what do you think, mark?" asked his mother. "you know what i think, mother. we have no knowledge that the estate has been fairly administered, and you would be bartering away our rights." "i think i won't sign the receipt, solon," said mrs. mason. solon talbot looked very angry. "then," he replied, "i cannot give you the twenty-five dollars. edgar, we will go." "give my love to mary," faltered mrs. mason. solon talbot deigned no answer, but strode from the room with angry look. "mother, i am convinced that uncle solon was trying to swindle us," said mark. "i hope we have done right, mark," rejoined his mother doubtfully. "what is this, mother?" asked mark, as he picked up from the floor a letter partially torn. "it must have been dropped by solon talbot." chapter iv. a night at daly's. "i will read this letter to see if it is of any importance," said mark. "in that case i will forward it to syracuse." he read as follows: "wall street exchange. "dear sir: in reference to the mining stock about which you inquire, our information is that the mine is a valuable one, and very productive. the stock is held in few hands, and it is difficult to obtain it. you tell me that it belongs to an estate of which you are the administrator. i advise you to hold it awhile longer before you seek to dispose of it. we are about to send an agent to nevada to look after some mining interests of our own, and will authorize him also to look up the golden hope mine. "yours truly, "crane & lawton, "stock and mining brokers." mother and son looked at each other significantly. finally mark said, "this mining stock must have belonged to grandfather." "yes; i remember now his alluding to having purchased a hundred shares of some mine." "the brokers say they are valuable. yet uncle solon has never said anything about them. mother, he means to defraud us of our share in this property, supposing that we will hear nothing about it." "how shameful!" exclaimed mrs. mason indignantly. "i will sit right down and write him a letter taxing him with his treachery." "no, mother; i don't want you to do anything of the kind." "you don't want us to submit to imposition? that don't sound like you, mark." "i mean that he shall give us whatever is our due, but i don't want him to suspect that we know anything of his underhand schemes. he hasn't sold the mining stock yet." "what do you want me to do?" "leave the matter in my hands, mother. i will keep the letter, and it will always be evidence against him. he is shrewd, and will get full value for the stock. then we can make him hand you your share." "if you think that is best, mark," said mrs. mason doubtfully. "i haven't much of a head for business." "i think i have, mother. there is nothing i like better." "did you see mrs. mack about a loan? i didn't think to ask you, as your uncle came in with you when you returned from up-stairs." "yes, i saw her, but it was of no use." "then she won't lend us the money?" "no, she is afraid to, though i offered her twenty-five cents interest. i told her that i should have nine dollars coming in on saturday, but she thought something might prevent my getting it." "then i had better pawn my ring. the landlord won't wait even a day for his money." "don't be in a hurry, mother. the rent is not due till day after to-morrow, and something may happen between now and then to put me in funds." "perhaps you are right, mark." five minutes later there was a knock at the door. opening it, mark saw another telegraph boy in the entrance. he had a paper in his hand. "you're to go there," he said, handing mark a card. "put on your best clothes. it's a lady to take to the theater." "all right, jimmy. i'll be ready in a jiffy. do you know what theater?" "no, i don't. the lady will tell you." "mother, i'll be home late," said mark. "i must put on some clean clothes. is my collar dirty?" "yes, you had better put on a clean one. i don't like your being out so late. i thought you were through for the day." "i'll get extra pay, mother, and every little helps." "i say, mark," said jimmy, "you'd better wear your dress suit and diamond scarf-pin." "i would, jimmy, only i lent 'em both to a bootblack of my acquaintance who's going to attend a ball on fifth avenue to-night." jimmy laughed. "you've always got an answer ready, mark," he said. "well, so long! hope you'll have a good time." "where does the lady live, mark?" asked mrs. mason. "at no. west forty-fifth street. i haven't much time to spare. i must go as soon as i can get ready." it was half-past seven o'clock before mark rang the bell at a fine brown stone house on west forty-fifth street. the door was opened by a colored servant, who, without speaking to mark, turned his head, and called out: "the messenger's come, miss maud." "i'm _so_ glad," said a silvery voice, as a young lady of twenty, already dressed for the street, came out of a room on the left of the hall. mark took off his hat politely. "so you are the messenger boy?" she said. "you are to take me to daly's theater." "yes, miss. so i heard." "let us go at once. we will take the horse cars at sixth avenue, and get out at thirtieth street." before she had finished they were already in the street. "i must explain," she said, "that my uncle bought two tickets this morning and expected to accompany me, but an important engagement has prevented. i was resolved to go, and so i sent for a messenger. perhaps you had better take the tickets." "all right, miss----." "gilbert. as you are to be my escort i will ask your name." "mark mason." "shall i call you mark, or mr. mason?" she asked with a roguish smile. "i would rather you would call me mark." "perhaps, as you are taking the place of my uncle, it would be proper to call you uncle mark," she laughed. "all right, if you prefer it," said mark. "on the whole i won't. i am afraid you don't look the character. are you quite sure you can protect me?" "i'll try to, miss gilbert." "then i won't borrow any trouble." maud gilbert had carefully observed mark, and as he was an attractive-looking boy she felt satisfied with the selection made for her. "i am glad you didn't wear your uniform," she said. "i forgot to speak about that." "when i heard what i was wanted for i thought it would be better to leave off the uniform," said mark. "that was right. now i can pass you off as a young friend. if i meet any young lady friend, don't call me miss gilbert, but call me maud. perhaps you had better call me that at any rate." "i will--maud." "that's right, and i will call you--let me see, cousin mark. i don't want my friends to think i had to send for an escort to a telegraph office." when they entered daly's miss gilbert met an old school friend--louisa morton. "why, maud, are you here?" said her friend. "how delightful! and who is this young gentleman?" "my cousin, mark mason." "indeed! well, i congratulate you on having such a nice escort. if he were a few years older i might try to make you jealous." maud laughed gaily. "oh, you can't get him away. he is devoted to me. aren't you, cousin mark?" mark was about to say "you bet," but it occurred to him that this would not be _comme il faut_, so he only said, "you are right, maud." "where are your seats? i hope they are near ours." they proved to be in the same row, but on the other side of the center aisle. as mark and the young lady took seats two pairs of astonished eyes noted their entrance. these belonged to edgar and his father, who sat two rows behind. edgar was the first to catch sight of them. "look, father!" he said, clutching his father's arm. "there is mark mason and a beautiful girl just taking their seats. what does it mean?" "i don't know," returned mr. talbot. "she seems to be a fashionable young lady." "how in the world did he get acquainted with such people? she treats him as familiarly as if he were a brother or cousin." "it is very strange." "please take the opera-glass, mark," edgar heard miss gilbert say. "you know i must make you useful." for the rest of the evening the attention of edgar and his father was divided between the play and miss gilbert and mark. for the benefit chiefly of her friend, maud treated her young escort with the utmost familiarity, and quite misled solon talbot and edgar. when the play was over mark carefully adjusted miss gilbert's wraps. as he passed through the aisle he saw for the first time edgar and his father looking at him with astonished eyes. "good evening," he said with a smile. "i hope you enjoyed the play." "come, mark, it is growing late," said maud. mark bowed and passed on. "well, if that doesn't beat all!" ejaculated edgar. "they seemed very intimate." when mark bade miss gilbert good night after ringing the bell at her home, she pressed a bank note into his hand. "thank you so much," she said. "keep the change, and when i want another escort i will send for you." by the light of the street lamp mark inspected the bill and found it was a five. "that will give me over three dollars for myself," he said joyfully. "so the rent is secure." the next day about two o'clock he was in the office of a prominent banker to whom he had carried a message, when a wild-looking man with light brown hair and wearing glasses, rushed in, and exclaimed dramatically to the astonished banker, "i want a hundred thousand dollars! give it to me at once, or i will blow your office to atoms." he pointed significantly to a small carpet bag which he carried in his left hand. the broker turned pale, and half rose from his chair. he was too frightened to speak, while two clerks writing in another part of the office seemed ready to faint. chapter v. mark as a hero. the situation was critical. that the wild-eyed visitor was demented, there was hardly a doubt, but his madness was of a most dangerous character. the eyes of all were fixed with terror upon the innocent-looking valise which he held in his left hand, and in the mind of all was the terrible thought, dynamite! "well, will you give me the money?" demanded the crank fiercely. "i--i don't think i have as much money in the office," stammered the pallid banker. "that won't work," exclaimed the visitor angrily. "if you can't find it i will send you where you won't need money," and he moved his arm as if to throw the valise on the floor. "i--i'll give you a check," faltered luther rockwell, the banker. "and stop payment on it," said the crank with a cunning look. "no, that won't do." "give me half an hour to get the money," pleaded rockwell desperately. "perhaps twenty minutes will do." "you would send for a policeman," said the intruder. "that won't do, i must have the money now. or, if you haven't got it, bonds will answer." luther rockwell looked helplessly toward the two clerks, but they were even more terrified than he. there was one to whom he did not look for help, and that was the telegraph boy, who stood but three feet from the crank, watching him sharply. for a plan of relief had come into the mind of mark mason, who, though he appreciated the danger, was cooler and more self-possessed than any one else in the office. standing just behind the crank, so that he did not attract his attention, he swiftly signaled to the clerks, who saw the signal but did not know what it meant. mark had observed that the dangerous satchel was held loosely in the hands of the visitor whose blazing eyes were fixed upon the banker. the telegraph boy had made up his mind to take a desperate step, which depended for its success on rapid execution and unfaltering nerves. luther rockwell was hesitating what reply to make to his visitor's demand when mark, with one step forward, snatched the valise from the unsuspecting visitor and rapidly retreated in the direction of the two clerks. "now do your part!" he exclaimed in keen excitement. the crank uttered a howl of rage, and turning his fierce, bloodshot eyes upon mark dashed towards him. the two clerks were now nerved up to action. they were not cowards, but the nature of the peril had dazed them. one was a member of an athletic club, and unusually strong. they dashed forward and together seized the madman. mr. rockwell, too, sprang from his seat, and, though an old man, joined the attacking party. "quick!" he shouted to mark. "take that valise out of the office, and carry it where it will do no harm. then come back!" mark needed no second bidding. he ran out of the office and down-stairs, never stopping till he reached the nearest police station. quickly he told his story, and two policemen were despatched on a run to mr. rockwell's office. they arrived none too soon. the crank appeared to have the strength of three men, and it seemed doubtful how the contest between him and the three who assailed him would terminate. the two policemen turned the scale. they dexterously slipped handcuffs over his wrists, and at last he sank to the floor conquered. he was panting and frothing at the mouth. luther rockwell fell back into his seat exhausted. "you've had a trying time, sir!" said one of the policemen respectfully. "yes," ejaculated the banker with dry lips. "i wouldn't pass-through it again for fifty thousand dollars. i've been as near a terrible death as any man can be--and live! but for the heroism of that boy--where is he?" the question was answered by the appearance of mark mason himself, just returned from the police station. "but for you," said the banker gratefully, "we should all be in eternity." "i too!" answered mark. "let me get at him!" shrieked the crank, eying mark with a demoniac hatred. "but for him i should have succeeded." "was there really dynamite in the bag?" asked one of the policemen. "yes," answered mark. "the sergeant opened it in my presence. he said there was enough dynamite to blow up the biggest building in the city." "what is going to be done with it?" asked the banker anxiously. "the policemen were starting with it for the north river." "that's the only safe place for it." "if you have no further use for this man we'll carry him to the station-house," said one of the officers. "yes, yes, take him away!" ejaculated the banker with a shudder. struggling fiercely, the crank was hurried down the stairs by the two official guardians, and then mr. rockwell who was an old man, quietly fainted away. when he came to, he said feebly, "i am very much upset. i think i will go home. call a cab, my boy." mark soon had one at the door. "now, i want you to go with me and see me home. i don't dare to go by myself." mark helped the old gentleman into his cab, and up the stairs of his dwelling. mr. rockwell paid the cab driver adding. "take this boy back to my office. what is your name, my boy?" "mark mason, no. ." luther rockwell scribbled a few lines on a leaf torn from his memorandum book, and gave it to mark. "present that at the office," he said. "come round next week and see me." "yes, sir," answered mark respectfully, and sprang into the cab. as he was riding through madison avenue he noticed from the window his uncle solon and edgar walking slowly along on the left hand side. at the same moment they espied him. "look, father!" cried edgar in excitement "mark mason is riding in that cab." "so he is!" echoed mr. talbot in surprise. catching their glance, mark smiled and bowed. he could understand their amazement, and he enjoyed it. mechanically mr. talbot returned the salutation, but edgar closed his lips very firmly and refused to take any notice of his cousin. "i don't understand it," he said to his father, when the cab had passed. "doesn't it cost a good deal to ride in a cab in new york?" "yes. i never rode in one but once, and then i had to pay two dollars." "and yet mark mason, who is little more than a beggar, can afford to ride! and last evening he was at the theater in company with a fashionable young lady. telegraph boys must get higher pay than he said." "perhaps, edgar," suggested his father with an attempt at humor, "you would like to become a telegraph boy yourself." "i'd scorn to go into such a low business." "well, i won't urge you to do so." meanwhile mark continued on his way in the cab. as he passed city hall park tom trotter, who had just finished shining a gentleman's boots, chanced to look towards broadway. as he saw his friend mark leaning back in the cab, his eyes opened wide. "well, i'll be jiggered!" he exclaimed. "how's that for puttin' on style? fust thing you know mark mason will have his name down wid de four hundred!" it did not occur to mark to look at the paper given him by mr. rockwell till he got out of the cab. this was what he read: mr. nichols: give this boy ten dollars. luther rockwell. his eyes flashed with delight. "this is a lucky day!" he exclaimed. "it's worth while running the risk of being blown up when you're so well paid for it." nichols, the chief clerk, at once complied with his employer's directions. "you're a brave boy, ," he said. "if it hadn't been for you, we'd all have been blown higher than a kite. how did you leave mr. rockwell?" "he seems pretty well upset," answered mark. "no wonder; he's an old man. i don't mind saying i was upset myself, and i am less than half his age. you were the only one of us that kept his wits about him." "somehow i didn't think of danger," said mark. "i was considering how i could get the better of the crank." "you took a great risk. if the valise had fallen, we'd have all gone up," and he pointed significantly overhead. "i am glad mr. rockwell has given you something. if he had given you a hundred dollars, or a thousand, it wouldn't have been too much." "he told me to call at the office next week." "don't forget to do it. it will be to your interest." chapter vi. "the evening globe." while mark was passing through these exciting scenes mrs. mason went about her daily duties at home, anxiously considering how the rent was to be paid on the following day. mark had not told her of his gift from maud gilbert, intending it as a surprise. as she was washing the breakfast dishes, there was a little tap at the door. to her surprise, the visitor turned out to be mrs. mack, of the floor above, to whom mark had applied for a loan without success. as mrs. mack seldom left her room mrs. mason regarded her with surprise. "come in and sit down, mrs. mack," she said kindly. she had no regard for the old woman, but felt that she deserved some consideration on account of her great age. mrs. mack hobbled in and seated herself in a rocking-chair. "i hope you are well," said mrs. mason. "tollable, tollable," answered the old woman, glancing curiously about the room, as if making an inventory of what it contained. "can't i give you a cup of tea? at your age it will be strengthening." "i'm not so very old," said the old woman querulously. "i'm only seventy-seven, and my mother lived to be eighty-seven." "i hope you will live as long as you wish to. but, mrs. mack, you must make yourself comfortable. old people live longer if they live in comfort. will you have the tea?" "i don't mind," answered mrs. mack, brightening up at the prospect of this unwonted luxury. she did not allow herself tea every day, on account of its cost. there are many foolish people in the world, but among the most foolish are those who deny themselves ordinary comforts in order to save money for their heirs. the tea was prepared, and the old woman drank it with evident enjoyment. "your boy came up yesterday to borrow three dollars," she began then, coming to business. "yes, he told me so." "he said he'd pay me saturday night." "yes, he gets two weeks' pay then." "i--i was afraid he might not pay me back and i can't afford to lose so much money, i'm a poor old woman." "mark would have paid you back. he always pays his debts." "yes; i think he is a good boy. if i thought he would pay me back. i--i think i would lend him the money. he offered to pay me interest." "yes; he would pay you for the favor." "if--if he will pay me four dollars on saturday night i will lend him what he wants." "what!" ejaculated mrs. mason, "do you propose to ask him a dollar for the use of three dollars for two or three days?" "it's--it's a great risk!" mumbled mrs. mack. "there is no risk at all. to ask such interest as that would be sheer robbery. we are poor and we can't afford to pay it." "i am a poor old woman." "you are not poor at all. you are worth thousands of dollars." "who said so?" demanded mrs. mack in alarm. "everybody knows it." "it's--it's a-mistake, a great mistake. i--i can't earn anything, i'm too old to work. i don't want to die in a poor-house." "you would live a great deal better in a poor-house than you live by yourself. i decline your offer, mrs. mack. i would rather pawn my wedding ring, as i proposed to mark. that would only cost me nine cents in place of the dollar that you demand." the old woman looked disappointed. she had thought of the matter all night with an avaricious longing for the interest that she expected to get out of mark, and she had no thought that her offer would be declined. "never mind about business, mrs. mack!" said mrs. mason more kindly, as she reflected that the old woman could not change her nature. "won't you have another cup of tea, and i can give you some toast, too, if you think you would like it." an expression of pleasure appeared on the old woman's face. "if--it's handy," she said. "i don't always make tea, for it is too much trouble." it is safe to say that mrs. mack thoroughly enjoyed her call, though she did not effect the loan she desired to make. when she rose to go, mrs. mason invited her to call again. "i always have tea, or i can make it in five minutes," she said. "thank you kindly, ma'am; i will come," she said, "if it isn't putting you to too much trouble." "mother," said edith, after the visitor had hobbled up-stairs, "i wouldn't give tea to that stingy old woman." "my dear child, she is old, and though she is not poor, she thinks she is, which is almost as bad. if i can brighten her cheerless life in any way, i am glad to do so." about one o'clock a knock was heard at the door. mrs. mason answered it in person, and to her surprise found in the caller a brisk-looking young man, with an intelligent face. he had a note-book in his hand. "is this mrs. mason?" he inquired. "yes, sir." "your son is a telegraph boy?" "yes." "no. ?" "yes, sir. has anything happened to him?" she asked in quick alarm. "i bring no bad news," answered the young man with a smile. "have you a photograph or even a tintype of your son, recently taken?" "i have a tintype taken last summer at coney island." "that will do. will you lend it to me till to-morrow?" "but what can you possibly want with mark's picture?" asked the mother, feeling quite bewildered. "i represent the _daily globe_, mrs. mason. his picture is to appear in the evening edition." "but why should you publish mark's picture?" "because he has distinguished himself by a heroic action. i can't stop to give you particulars, for i ought to be at the office now, but i will refer you to the paper." with the tintype in his hand the reporter hurried to the office of the journal he represented, leaving mrs. mason in a state of wondering perplexity. within an incredibly short time hundreds of newsboys were running through the streets crying "extry! extra! a dynamite crank at the office of luther rockwell, the great banker!" mark mason was returning from a trip to brooklyn, when a newsboy thrust the paper in his face. "here, johnny, give me that paper!" he said. the boy peered curiously at him. "ain't you mark mason?" he asked. "yes; how did you know me?" "your picture is in the paper." mark opened the paper in natural excitement, and being a modest boy, blushed as he saw his picture staring at him from the front page, labeled underneath "the heroic telegraph boy." he read the account, which was quite correctly written with a mixture of emotions, among which gratification predominated. "but where did they get my picture?" he asked himself. there was also a picture of the dynamite crank, which was also tolerably accurate. "i must take this home to mother," said mark, folding up the paper, "won't she be surprised!" about the same time solon talbot and edgar were in the grand central depot on forty-second street. their visit was over, and mr. talbot had purchased the return tickets. "you may buy a couple of evening papers, edgar," said his father. one of them selected was the _evening globe_. edgar uttered an exclamation as he opened it. "what's the matter, edgar?" asked his father. "just look at this! here's mark mason's picture in the paper!" "what nonsense you talk!" said solon talbot. "no, i don't. here is the picture, and here is his name!" said edgar triumphantly. solon talbot read the account in silence. "i see," said another syracuse man coming up, "you are reading the account of the daring attempt to blow up banker rockwell's office!" "yes," answered solon. "that was a brave telegraph boy who seized the bag of dynamite." "very true!" said solon, unable to resist the temptation to shine by the help of the nephew whom he had hitherto despised. "that boy is my own nephew!" "you don't say so!" "yes; his mother is the sister of my wife." "but how does he happen to be a telegraph boy?" "a whim of his. he is a very independent boy, and he insisted on entering the messenger service." "be that as it may, you have reason to be proud of him." edgar said nothing, but he wished that just for this once he could change places with his poor cousin. "i'd have done the same if i'd had the chance," he said to himself. chapter vii. the great mr. bunsby. "so you have become quite a hero, mark," said his mother smiling, as mark entered the house at half-past six. "have you heard of it then, mother?" asked the messenger boy. "yes, a little bird came and told me." "i suppose you saw the _evening globe_." "yes, i sent edith out to buy a copy." "but how did you know it contained anything about me?" "because a reporter came to me for your picture." "that explains it. i couldn't understand how they got that." "it makes me shudder, mark, when i think of the risk you ran. how did you dare to go near that terrible man?" "i knew something must be done or we should all lose our lives. no one seemed to think what to do except myself." "you ought to have been handsomely paid. the least mr. rockwell could do was to give you five dollars." "he gave me ten, and told me to call at the office next week." "then," said his mother relieved, "we shall be able to pay the rent." "that was provided for already. the young lady i escorted to the theater last evening gave me three dollars over the regular charges for my services." "why didn't you tell me before, mark?" "i ought to have done so, but i wanted it to be an agreeable surprise. so you see i have thirteen dollars on hand." "it is a blessed relief. oh, i mustn't forget to tell you that mrs. mack came in this morning to offer to lend me three dollars." "what! has the old woman become kind-hearted all at once?" "as to that, i think there is very little kindness in offering three dollars at thirty-three per cent. interest for three days. she was willing to lend three dollars, but demanded four dollars in return." "it is lucky we shall not have to pay such enormous interest. now, mother, what have you got for supper?" "some tea and toast, mark." "we must have something better. i will go out and buy a sirloin steak, and some potatoes. we will have a good supper for once." at the entrance to the street mark found tom trotter. tom's honest face lighted up with pleasure. "i see you've got into de papers, mark," he said. "yes, tom." "i wouldn't believe it when jim sheehan told me, but i went and bought de _evening globe_, and there you was!" "i hope you'll get into the papers some time, tom." "there ain't no chance for me, 'cept i rob a bank. where you goin', mark?" "to buy some steak for supper. have you eaten supper yet?" "no." "then come along with me, and i'll invite you to join us." "i don't look fit, mark." "never mind about your clothes, tom. we don't generally put on dress suits. a little soap and water will make you all right." "what'll your mudder say?" "that any friend of mine is welcome." so tom allowed himself to be persuaded, and had no reason to complain of his reception. the steak emitted appetizing odors as it was being broiled, and when at length supper was ready no one enjoyed it more than tom. "how do you think my mother can cook, tom?" asked mark. "she beats beefsteak john all hollow. i just wish she'd open a eaten' house." "i'll think about it, tom," said mrs. mason smiling. "would you be one of my regular customers?" "i would if i had money enough." it is hard to say which enjoyed the supper most. the day before mrs. mason had been anxious and apprehensive, but to-day, with a surplus fund of thirteen dollars, she felt in high spirits. this may seem a small sum to many of our readers, but to the frugal little household it meant nearly two weeks' comfort. the table was cleared, and mark and tom sat down to a game of checkers. they had just finished the first game when steps were heard on the stairs and directly there was a knock at the door. "go to the door, mark," said his mother. mark opened the door and found himself in the presence of a stout man, rather showily dressed, and wearing a white hat. "is this mark mason?" asked the visitor. "yes, sir." the visitor took out a copy of the _evening globe_, and compared mark with the picture. "yes, i see you are," he proceeded. "you are the telegraph boy that disarmed the dynamite crank in mr. rockwell's office." "yes, sir." "allow me to say, young man, i wouldn't have been in your shoes at that moment for ten thousand dollars." "i wouldn't want to go through it again myself," smiled mark. all the while he was wondering why the stout man should have taken the trouble to come and see him. "perhaps you'll know me when i tell you that i'm bunsby," said the stout visitor drawing himself up and inflating his chest with an air of importance. "of bunsby's dime museum?" asked mark. "exactly! you've hit it the first time. most people have heard of me," he added complacently. "oh yes, sir, i've heard of you often. so have you, tom?" "yes," answered tom, fixing his eyes on mr. bunsby with awe-struck deference, "i've been to de museum often." "mr. bunsby," said mark gravely, "this is my particular friend, tom trotter." "glad to make your acquaintance, mr. trotter," said mr. bunsby, offering his hand. tom took it shyly, and felt that it was indeed a proud moment for him. to be called mr. trotter by the great bunsby, and to have his hand shaken into the bargain, put him on a pinnacle of greatness which he had never hoped to reach. "won't you walk in, mr. bunsby? this is my mother, mrs. mason, and this is my sister edith." "glad to meet you, ladies both! i congratulate you, mrs. mason, on having so distinguished a son." "he is a good boy, mr. bunsby, whether he is distinguished or not." "i have no doubt of it. in fact i am sure of it. you already know that i keep a dime museum, where, if i do say it myself, may be found an unrivaled collection of curiosities gathered from the four quarters of the globe, and where may be witnessed the most refined and recherché entertainments, which delight daily the élite of new york and the surrounding cities." "yes, sir," assented mrs. mason, rather puzzled to guess what all this had to do with her. "i have come here to offer your son an engagement of four weeks at twenty-five dollars a week, and the privilege of selling his photographs, with all the profits it may bring." "but what am i to do?" asked mark. "merely to sit on the platform with the other curiosities." "but i am not a curiosity." "i beg your pardon, my dear boy, but everybody will want to see the heroic boy who foiled a dynamite fiend and saved the life of a banker." somehow this proposal was very repugnant to mark. "thank you, mr. bunsby," he said, "but i should not like to earn money in that way." "i might say thirty dollars a week," continued mr. bunsby. "come, let us strike up a bargain." "it isn't the money. twenty-five dollars a week is more than i could earn in any other way, but i shouldn't like to have people staring at me." "my dear boy, you are not practical." "i quite agree with mark," said mrs. mason. "i would not wish him to become a public spectacle." chapter viii. a scene in mrs. mack's room. fifteen minutes before a stout, ill-dressed man of perhaps forty years of age knocked at the door of mrs. mack's room. "come in!" called the old lady in quavering accents. the visitor opened the door and entered. "who are you?" asked the old lady in alarm. "don't you know me, aunt jane?" replied the intruder. "i'm jack minton, your nephew." "i don't want to see you--go away!" cried mrs. mack. "that's a pretty way to receive your own sister's son, whom you haven't seen for five years." "i haven't seen you because you've been in jail," retorted his aunt in a shrill voice. "yes, i was took for another man," said jack. "he stole and laid it off on to me." "i don't care how it was, but i don't want to see you. go away." "look here, aunt jane, you're treating me awful mean. i'm your own orphan nephew, and you ought to make much of me." "an orphan--yes. you hurried your poor mother to the grave by your bad conduct," said mrs. mack with some emotion. "you won't find me so soft as she was." "soft? no, you're as hard as flint, but all the same you're my aunt, and you're rich, while i haven't a dollar to bless myself with." "rich! me rich!" repeated the old lady shrilly. "you see how i live. does it look as if i was rich?" "oh, you can't humbug me that way. you could live better if you wanted to." "i'm poor--miserably poor!" returned the old woman. "i'd like to be as poor as you are!" said jack minton grimly. "you're a miser, that's all there is about it. you half starve yourself and live without fire, when you might be comfortable, and all to save money. you're a fool! do you know where all your money will go when you're dead?" "there won't be any left." "won't there? i'll take the risk of that, for i shall be your heir. it'll all go to me!" said jack, chuckling. "go away! go away!" cried the terrified old woman wildly. "i want to have a little talk with you first, aunt," said jack, drawing the only other chair in the room in front of mrs. mack and sitting down on it. "you're my only relation, and we ought to have an understanding. why, you can't live more than a year or two--at your age." "what do you mean?" said mrs. mack angrily. "i'm good for ten years. i'm only seventy-seven." "you're living on borrowed time, aunt jane, you know that yourself. you've lived seven years beyond the regular term, and you can't live much longer." "go away! go away!" said the terrified old woman, really alarmed at her nephew's prediction. "i don't want to have anything to do with you." "don't forget that i'm your heir." "i can leave my money as i please--not that i've got much to leave." "you mean you'll make a will? well, go ahead and do it. there was a man i know made a will and he died the next day." this shot struck home, for the old woman really had a superstitious dread of making a will. "you're a terrible man!" she moaned. "you scare me." "come, aunt, be reasonable. you can leave part of your money away from me if you like, but i want you to help me now. i'm hard up. do you see this nickel?" and he drew one from his vest pocket. "yes." "well, it's all the money i've got. why, i haven't eaten anything to-day, and i have no money to pay for a bed." "i--i haven't any supper for you." "i don't want any _here_. i wouldn't care to board with you, aunt jane. why, i should soon become a bag of bones like yourself. i don't believe you've got five cents' worth of provisions in the room." "there's half a loaf of bread in the closet." "let me take a look at it." he strode to the closet and opened the door. on a shelf he saw half a loaf of bread, dry and stale. he took it in his hand, laughing. "why, that bread is three days' old," he said. "where's your butter?" "i--i don't eat butter. its too high!" "and you don't care to live high!" said jack, laughing at his own joke. "i don't care to rob you of this bread. aunt jane. it's too rich for my blood. don't you ever eat anything else?" "sometimes," she answered, hesitating. "i'd rather take my supper at the cheapest restaurant on the bowery. what i want is money." mrs. mack uttered a little cry of alarm. "oh, don't go into a fit, aunt! i only want a little, just to get along till i can find work. give me twenty-five dollars, and i won't come near you again for a month. i swear it." "twenty-five dollars!" ejaculated mrs. mack in dismay. "do you think i am made of money?" "i don't take you for an astor or a vanderbilt, aunt jane, but you've got a tidy lot of money somewhere--that i am sure of. i shouldn't wonder if you had five thousand dollars. now where do you keep it?" "have you taken leave of your senses?" asked the old woman sharply. "no, i haven't, but it looks to me as if you had. but i can't waste my time here all night. i'm your only relative, and it's your duty to help me. will you let me have twenty-five dollars or not?" "no, i won't," answered mrs. mack angrily. "then i'll take the liberty of helping myself if i can find where you keep your hoards." jack minton jumped up from his chair and went at once to a cheap bureau, which, however, was probably the most valuable article in the room, and pulling out the top drawer, began to rummage about among the contents. then it was that mrs. mack uttered the piercing shriek referred to at the end of the last chapter, and her nephew, tramping across the floor, seized her roughly by the shoulder. "what do you mean by this noise, you old fool?" he demanded roughly. "help! murder! thieves!" screamed the old woman. then the door opened, and mark mason burst into the room, followed by tom trotter. "what's the matter, mrs. mack?" asked mark. "this man is going to rob me," answered the old woman. "oh, save me!" "it's a lie!" said jack minton. "just ask this woman who i am. she knows." "who is he, mrs. mack?" "it is my nephew, jack minton. he----" "do you hear that? i'm her nephew, come in to make her a call after a long time." "what are you doing to her?" demanded mark suspiciously. "trying to stop her infernal racket. you'd think i was murdering her by the way she goes on." "what made you scream, mrs. mack?" "because he--he was going to rob me." "how is that?" demanded mark sternly. "none of your business, kid! you ain't no call to interfere between me and my aunt." "i have if she asks me to." "he was at my bureau drawers. he told me i must give him twenty-five dollars." "supposing i did? it's the least you can do for your own nephew that hasn't a cent to bless himself with." "oh, take him away, mark! hell rob me first and murder me afterwards, and i'm his mother's only sister." "you see she admits it. she's rolling in money----" "oh!" exclaimed mrs. mack, throwing up her hands. "you know i'm poor, mark mason." "no, i don't, mrs. mack. i think you've got all the money you need, but you have a right to keep it if you want to. mr. minton, you had better leave the room. your aunt is evidently afraid of you, and, old as she is, your staying here may make her sick." "it ain't much use living, the way she is. aunt jane, i ask you again will you lend me twenty-five dollars?" "no, no!" "will you lend me five dollars?" "no." "are you going to turn your own nephew out into the street without a cent to buy food or pay for a bed?" he glowered at his aunt so fiercely as he said this that mark was afraid he might strangle her. "mrs. mack," he said, "you had better give him something if he is in so much need. since he is really your nephew, you might give him a dollar on condition that he won't trouble you again." after long persuasion the old woman was induced to do this, though she declared that it would leave her destitute, and send her to the poor-house. "now, mr. minton," said mark, "i advise you not to come here again, or i may have to call in a policeman." "i've a great mind to throw you down-stairs," growled jack. "you'd have to throw me too!" put in tom trotter. "i'd do it with pleasure." jack left the room and steered his way to the nearest saloon, while mark and tom returned to the room beneath. chapter ix. an adventure in a fifth avenue stage. mark did not fail to call at mr. rockwell's office during the following week. nichols, the clerk, who had already shown a friendly interest in him, received him kindly. "mr. rockwell is still confined at his house," he said. "the affair of last week was a great shock to him, and, not being a strong man, he is quite prostrated." "i am sorry to hear it," said mark in a tone of sympathy, "but i am not surprised. that is what i read in the papers. still, as i was asked to call at the office, i have done so." "i am glad to see you. i hope you are getting along well." "oh yes, fairly well." "how do you like being a telegraph messenger?" "it will do very well for a boy, but it leads to nothing. i wish i could get into some position where i would be promoted." "that will come after a while, if you show yourself faithful and reliable." the next day mark had a surprise. walking past the metropolitan hotel, not far from houston street, he saw a boy just leaving the hotel whose face and figure were familiar. "edgar talbot!" he exclaimed in surprise. "oh, it's you, is it?" said edgar, turning at the call. "yes; how do you happen to visit new york again so soon?" "we are going to move to new york," answered edgar. "father feels that syracuse is too small a place for a man of his business ability," he added in a consequential tone. "are you going to live at the hotel?" "no. we shall live in a nice flat up town, near the park." this was news indeed. mark felt no interest in any of the family except in mrs. talbot, his mother's sister, who alone of all displayed a friendly regard for her poor relatives. "mother will be glad to hear of it," he said. "why?" "because your mother is her only sister, and she will like to call on her." "look here!" said edgar. "i hope you don't expect to be on visiting terms at our house." "why not? you are my own cousin, aren't you?" "yes, i suppose so," answered edgar, making the admission grudgingly, "but of course there is a great difference in our social positions." "you mean that you are rich and we are poor?" "yes, that's about the size of it." "i don't care a particle about seeing you, but my mother will be glad to see her sister." "oh, well! mother can call at your--tenement house, now and then, but it would be better that none of you should call on us." "why?" "because we wouldn't like to let the servants know that we have such poor relations." "do you say this on your own account, or did your father tell you this?" said mark indignantly. "i know that is the way he feels." "i don't believe aunt mary feels so." just then a boy approached whom edgar seemed to know. "good morning," he said hurriedly. "i have an engagement." mark felt that he was dismissed, and kept on his way. he hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that his uncle's family was coming to new york. he did not care for edgar's companionship, nor did he expect to get any of it, but he knew that his mother would like to meet her sister occasionally. about the middle of the afternoon he found himself riding in a fifth avenue stage. the stage was tolerably full. directly opposite mark sat an old lady richly dressed, whose means were evidently large. next to her sat a flashily dressed young man, on whose bosom glittered what might be a valuable diamond stud, conspicuous for its size. he had a diamond ring on his finger, and might easily be mistaken for a banker's son. all at once mark noticed some suspicious movements which led him to think that the young man might be quite different from what he appeared. a moment later he saw the young man's hand dive into the old lady's side pocket. directly afterwards he rose and pulled the strap for the stage to stop. mark realized that a robbery had taken place. he rose and placed himself between the young man and the door. "madam," he said to the old lady, "i think you have been robbed. feel in your pockets and see." the old lady, startled, followed mark's advice. "my pocketbook is gone!" she said nervously. "out of the way, boy!" cried the young man. "i have to get out here." "not yet," answered mark firmly. "give back the lady's pocketbook." "why, you insolent young rascal! what do you mean?" "i mean just what i say." "you have insulted me, and i will horsewhip you!" exclaimed the rogue in assumed virtuous indignation. he seized mark by the shoulder and was about to thrust him forcibly aside, when a stout, thick-set man rose and ranged himself by mark's side. "young man," he said, "give back the pocketbook as the boy tells you." "i have no pocketbook." as he spoke he dexterously dropped it to the floor of the stage. "here's your pocketbook, ma'am," said a nurse girl, picking it up. "thank you!" responded the old lady, relieved. "what did i tell you?" exclaimed the dude triumphantly. "boy, you're too fresh! i am a young man of high family. it is most ridiculous to charge me with stealing." "i saw you with your hand in the lady's pocket," said mark calmly. "it's a lie! but i ought not to be surprised. i know you now. you were sent to the island last summer for stealing. i remember seeing you on trial at jefferson market police court." suspicious glances were directed at mark, for most people are inclined to believe evil of their neighbors--but the stout man only laughed. "that is too thin, my friend!" he said. "of course your motive in bringing a charge against this boy is plain." "let me out, sir!" stormed the crook. "madam, do you wish to bring a charge against this man?" "no, let him go. i've got my pocketbook back, and that's all i want." the stout man turned aside, and the adventurer sprang out of the stage and dashed down thirty-ninth street in the direction of third avenue. "i'm very much obliged to you, boy," said the old lady. "did you really see that young man take my pocketbook?" "i saw him with his hand in your pocket." "i'm so sorry. he seemed so nicely dressed, too. i thought he belonged to a rich family." the stout man laughed. "my dear madam," he said, "the young men connected with our best families don't dress as flashily as your late companion. he is probably a professional pickpocket. did you have much money with you?" "over a hundred dollars. i was going down town to pay a bill." "then you ought to be much obliged to this boy for detecting the thief." "i am," said the old lady earnestly. "here, take this," she continued, and she drew a five-dollar bill from her pocketbook. mark hung back. "no, thank you!" he said. "i don't want any pay for that." "give me your name and address, then." mark had a business card in his pocket, and wrote his name and address upon it. "give me your name and address too," said the gentleman who had proved so valuable an ally. "i may need your services some time." "i don't think i have another card, sir." "then take one of mine." mark glanced at the card offered him. henry swan. watches, diamonds, jewelry. no. - / broadway. "were that young man's diamonds bought at your store," asked mark smiling. "they were only paste. they might deceive a novice, but i saw through them at once. but i must bid you good morning. i have to make a call at the fifth avenue hotel." a few blocks farther on the old lady got out. mark assisted her to the street. "you're a very polite boy," she said. "you've done me a great favor. you had better take the five dollars i offered you." "no, thank you, madam. i will wait till i have a chance to do you another service." he did not resume his seat in the stage, having an errand on eighteenth street. as he was passing lord & taylor's store, he heard his name called. turning in some surprise he saw maud gilbert, the young lady he had escorted to daly's theater, leaving the store. "how do you do, mark?" she said, extending her hand with a smile. "very well, thank you, miss gilbert." "didn't i see your picture in the _evening globe_ a short time since?" "yes, i believe so," answered mark, blushing. "in connection with mr. rockwell, the banker?" "yes." "you have become quite a hero. i concluded it was you and i felt quite proud to think i knew you. did i tell you that i had a brother about your age?" "no, miss gilbert." "i have, and he is home on a vacation from exeter academy. if you have no engagement on thursday evening call and i will introduce you." "i shall be delighted to do so miss----" "maud," suggested the young lady smiling. "miss maud. thank you for the invitation. i will come." chapter x. an important commission. "no. !" called the superintendent. mark mason came forward to receive his commission. he had been sitting on a bench with several other telegraph boys, awaiting a call. "do you know henry swan, jeweler?" asked the superintendent, referring to a paper in his hand. "yes, sir; that is, i met him lately in a fifth avenue stage." "he has sent for a telegraph boy, no. preferred." mark smiled with pleasure. "i am glad he remembers me," he said. "you may go there at once." mark put on his cap and went to the jeweler's store. as he entered, mr. swan, who was crossing from one side of the store to the other, recognized him. "you see i haven't forgotten you," he said. "i am glad of that, sir." "the boy in my employ has sent word that he is sick. it is necessary for me to supply his place. in my business fidelity and sharpness are requisite. i knew that you possess these traits, and as i don't want to experiment with a new boy of whom i know nothing, i sent for you." "i will try to meet your wishes, sir." "to begin with, have you another suit? i don't want you to wear the uniform of a telegraph boy while you are in my employ." "yes, sir. shall i go home and get it?" "on the whole, no. i will give you an order on a clothier in fulton street for a new suit." "you are very kind, mr. swan," said mark in astonishment. "i have done nothing to deserve such kindness." "not yet," answered the jeweler pleasantly; "but perhaps you may soon. take this note to knight brothers, and you will have no trouble." this was the note. "knight brothers, fulton street: "fit out this boy with a nice suit and send the bill to me. "henry swan." mark lost no time in visiting the clothiers. "what can i do for you, young man?" asked the salesman. "this note will explain," said mark. the salesman opened and read it. "it will be all right," he said. "mr. swan gets his clothes here, but he has them made to order. do you want one made to order or ready made?" "ready made. i want to put it on to-day." "come up-stairs then." in twenty minutes mark left the store attired in a nice eighteen dollar suit. he would have selected a cheaper one, but the salesman overruled him. "mr. swan never buys a cheap suit or inferior article," he said. "in the letter he wishes you to have a nice suit, and we must follow directions." "i don't want to abuse his generosity." "you won't. he is a very liberal man. he is teacher of a class of five poor boys in a mission sunday-school. last christmas he sent them all in here for new suits." "if that is the case," said mark, "i shall feel easier." when he reappeared at the jeweler's mr. swan regarded him with critical approval. "you have made a good selection," he said. "i hope i didn't go too high for the suit, mr. swan. i wanted to order a cheaper one, but the salesman wouldn't let me." "the salesman was right," said the jeweler smiling. "i am satisfied. and now to your work. i have a request from a lady up town to send her a couple of diamonds rings to select from. she professed to be on her way from brooklyn and to be in haste. she is, she says, staying at the house of a friend at no. west forty-seventh between seventh and eighth avenues. she is to go away to-morrow and would like to make choice of a ring to-day." mark was rather surprised to hear this full account from the jeweler. as he was only to take the part of an errand boy he didn't see the necessity for it. he was soon enlightened. "now," proceeded the jeweler, "i am of the opinion that this lady is a clever swindler. i believe she wants to get hold of the rings, and carry them off without paying for them." "then you won't send them to her, i suppose." "i would not if i were absolutely sure that she is a fraud, but this i don't know. she may be a _bona fide_ customer, and if so i should like to sell her a ring." "how can you find out, sir?" "i hope to do so with your help." chapter xi. mr. hamilton schuyler is astonished. the jeweler took from his case two diamond rings. they were large, brilliant, and showy. "how do you like the appearance of these rings?" he asked. "they are beautiful!" exclaimed mark admiringly. "don't you think the lady would admire them?" "i should think so, sir." "what should you think they are worth?" "a hundred dollars apiece," guessed mark. "if the diamonds were genuine, one would be worth three hundred and fifty dollars and the other four hundred." "are they not genuine?" asked mark in surprise. "paste, my boy, paste. the gold, however, is real. instead of being worth the sum mentioned, one is worth perhaps three dollars and a half, the other four dollars." "but i shouldn't think it would be worth your while to keep false diamond rings." "nor would it if all persons were honest. i never sell them. i only sell genuine jewelry. i will let you understand the use i mean to make of them. these two rings i mean to have you carry to mrs. montgomery on forty-seventh street." "but suppose she takes them for genuine?" "then i will make them so. in other words, i will take out the paste diamonds and replace them with real stones. if on the other hand any fraud is intended it won't benefit her much." "very well, sir. i think i understand." "you must to a certain extent exercise your own discretion. i judged from the observations i made the other afternoon that you are a boy who possesses that important quality." "thank you for the compliment." "i will tell you what made me suspect the woman of whom i have spoken. first, the name. she calls herself mrs. philip montgomery. it sounds like a fictitious name. again, she is a stout, rather common-looking woman, with a florid complexion and larger features. now montgomery is an aristocratic name. again, she says she is from buffalo. swindlers generally hail from some distant city. then again, it is rather suspicious that she should be in such haste. "the purchase is an important one, and the amount to be paid--she herself fixed the approximate value--is considerable. you would think she would wish to inspect my stock carefully before making a selection. instead of this she only asked to have two rings sent up to her of the value of three or four hundred dollars, and she would make choice of one of them." "it does look rather suspicious, sir." mr. swan gave mark some further directions, and the latter started up town on the eighth avenue horse cars, which he took on the lower side of the astor house. "this is new business to me," thought mark. "i feel an interest to see this mrs. montgomery. if she is planning to entrap me, she won't make as much as she anticipates." mark had the rings, each in a little morocco case, carefully laid away in the inside pocket of his coat. when they reached canal street, to mark's surprise, his cousin edgar entered the car. he did not recognize mark at first, the latter no longer wearing the messenger's uniform. "how do you do, cousin edgar?" said mark. edgar turned sharply around. "oh, it's you, is it?" he said. "please don't call me cousin." "i am just as much ashamed of the relationship as you are," responded mark with a comical smile. "that is impertinent. besides it isn't true. have you been discharged from the telegraph service?" "no; what makes you think so?" "because you are not wearing the uniform." "i am working for a party that doesn't want me to wear it while in his service." "who is it?" "i don't feel at liberty to tell." "oh, just as you like. isn't that a new suit?" "yes." "where did you get it?" "i bought it." "business seems to be pretty good with you. how much did it cost?" "eighteen dollars." "is it paid for?" "of course it is." "i didn't know but you might have bought it in installments." "i don't have to do that." "yet you pretended a little while since that you and your mother had hard work to get along." "business is looking up." edgar got out at twenty-third street. mark kept on till he reached forty-seventh street. he walked toward seventh avenue, and finally stood in front of the house in which the customer for the diamond rings was staying. it was a plain three-story residence with nothing peculiar about it. mark rang the bell, little suspecting what was in store for him. a boy of about seventeen, shabbily dressed, answered the bell. "is mrs. montgomery at home?" asked mark, referring to a card. "i guess so," answered the boy. "i should like to see her." "all right! i'll go up and ask." the boy left mark standing in the doorway, and went up-stairs. he returned in a very short time. "you're to come up," he said. mark followed him up the staircase and into a back room. it was scantily furnished. there was a lounge on one side of the room, and a cabinet bed on the other. these, with three chairs and a bureau, constituted the furniture. "just step in here," said the boy, "and i'll call mrs. montgomery." mark took a seat on the sofa and awaited the arrival of the lady. he did not have long to wait. the door opened, but the lady he expected did not appear. instead, a young man entered whom mark instantly recognized as the person who had left the fifth avenue stage under suspicious circumstances on the day when the old lady was robbed of her pocketbook. mark started and wondered if the recognition was mutual. it did not appear to be. "you're the jeweler's boy, i believe?" said the newcomer languidly. "i came from henry swan." "exactly, and you have brought two diamond rings with you?" "yes." "all right! you can show them to me." mark's suspicions were aroused and he felt that he had need of all his shrewdness. he was very glad now that the diamonds were paste and the rings of little value. "excuse me," he said, "but i was told to deliver the rings to mrs. philip montgomery." "yes, that's all right. mrs. montgomery is my aunt." "i should like to see her," persisted mark. "come, boy, you're too fresh. it'll be all the same if you hand the rings to me." "i don't think so. isn't mrs. montgomery at home?" "yes, but she has a severe headache and cannot see you at present." "then perhaps i had better call again." "no you don't. i am a gentleman and won't permit you to insult me." "what do you want to do?" "to take the rings up to my aunt. if she likes them, or either of them, she will send you down a check." mark reflected a moment. remembering that the rings were not valuable, he decided to show them. "here are the rings!" he said, producing them from his pocket. the young man opened the small caskets, and his eyes lighted up with satisfaction when he saw the glittering rings. "what is the price?" he asked, looking up. "that ring is three hundred and fifty dollars, the other is four hundred." "seven hundred and fifty together." "yes." "i will show them to my aunt. perhaps she may decide to keep both." "you won't be long?" asked mark, as the young man left the room. "no. i'll be back as soon as my aunt decides." left alone mark began to think over the situation. his recognition of his unprincipled acquaintance of the fifth avenue stage convinced him that some fraudulent scheme was being carried out. mrs. montgomery was probably a confederate of the young man who had just left the room. "is he going up-stairs or down?" thought mark. he listened, and thought he heard the front door open and shut. it occurred to him to open the door of the chamber and look down-stairs. he started to do this, but to his surprise found that the door was fastened in some way. he had not heard a key turned in the lock. possibly there was an outside bolt. "what object can they have in keeping me a prisoner?" he asked. should he ring the bell and summon a servant? if he did so, he would have to leave the house in a state of uncertainty. no! he decided to wait and let further events throw a light on the mystery. meanwhile the young man who had possessed himself of the rings left the house, for it was he who had descended the stairs and gone out into the street. he bent his steps to the nearest pawnshop on eighth avenue, and taking out one of the boxes, said in a nonchalant voice: "what will you loan me on this magnificent diamond ring?" the pawnbroker took the box, and drawing out the ring held it up in the best light. he examined it through a magnifying glass, and a gleam of intelligence flashed in his face. he returned to the counter, and scrutinizing the young man who had presented it asked in a matter-of-fact tone, "what do you want to borrow on the ring, my friend?" "two hundred dollars," answered the customer promptly. "humph!" said the pawnbroker with an amused smile, "two hundred dollars is a large sum of money." "yes, but the ring cost three hundred and fifty dollars. i am asking a little more than half price." "so! the ring cost three hundred and fifty dollars! did you pay that price for it?" "no, the ring does not belong to me." "then to whom does it belong?" "to my aunt, mrs. philip montgomery." "i do not know the lady. does she live in the city?" "no, she lives in buffalo." "and she sent the ring to you?" "yes, she sent it to me. she is in want of a little money, and did not like to ask her husband for it, for he might not be pleased. so she wants to borrow money on this ring which was given her by her brother at the time of her marriage." "so, so! and your aunt would like me to lend her two hundred dollars on the ring?" "yes, sir." "i think you will have to carry it to some other pawnbroker, my friend!" "i don't mind taking a little less," said the young man, who was anxious for more than one reason to realize on the ring at once. "how much now do you call a little less?" "well, say a hundred and seventy-five dollars. probably my aunt will be able to redeem it in a few weeks." "if i give you a hundred and seventy-five dollars," laughed the pawnbroker, "i think your aunt will let me keep it for good." "as to that," said the young man impatiently, "i can make no promises. how much will you give on it?" "i might give you a dollar and a half," answered the pawnbroker composedly. "a dollar and a half!" exclaimed the young man, clutching at the counter for support. "a dollar and a half on this magnificent diamond ring, for which my aunt paid three hundred and fifty dollars! what do you mean?" "i mean not to be cheated, my friend. how much do you think this _magnificent_ ring is worth?" "i have told you what it cost." "my friend, you are very much mistaken. the ring cost only three dollars or three and a half." "what do you mean?" gasped the visitor, turning pale. "i mean that it is not diamond, but paste." "but--it came from a jeweler of great reputation. surely you have heard of mr. henry swan." "yes, i have heard of mr. swan. if you will bring him here, and he will say that the diamond is real, i will see if i can't give you more." "wait!" said the customer hurriedly, drawing out the other casket. "look at this ring, and tell me what it is worth." the pawnbroker took it to the window and examined it attentively. "that may be worth four dollars," he answered, after a brief pause. "and is this stone false also?" "yes, my friend." "then i won't pawn either. here, give me back both rings." "here they are." "i am afraid you are not a good judge of diamonds. i am sure they are real." "go somewhere else, my friend, and satisfy yourself. if you can find any one in my line who will give you five dollars for either, you had better take it and call yourself a fortunate man. will you leave your name?" "my name is hamilton schuyler, and i live on second avenue." "it is a very good name, my friend. i think you must belong to the four hundred." "i do," answered schuyler haughtily. "it is a pity you should have to pawn your aunt's diamonds, and such diamonds!" chuckled the pawnbroker. but mr. schuyler had already left the shop, and was hurrying along the avenue to another of the same class at which he had occasionally had dealings. chapter xii. mr. schuyler has a bad time. "i shall have to stay here till i am let out," thought mark. he didn't worry particularly, as he knew that even if the rings were kept they would not involve his employer in any serious loss. in about half an hour he heard steps ascending the stairs, then he heard a bolt shoved back, and he was not surprised when the young man, whose name he did not know, entered the room. he noted, not without amusement, that his face betrayed dissatisfaction. "what does your aunt think of the rings?" asked mark ingenuously. "look here, young fellow!" said schuyler, sitting down and glaring at the messenger, "you've played a pretty trick on me!" "what kind of a trick?" asked mark, arching his eyebrows. "these rings are not diamond rings." "what are they, then?" asked mark in assumed surprise. "paste--bogus!" answered schuyler scornfully. "are you sure of that, mr.----?" "schuyler." "mr. schuyler." "yes. i took them round to a--jeweler, and had him test them." "it must be a mistake," murmured mark. "it is a very strange mistake, then, for a first-class house to make," rejoined schuyler in a tone of sarcasm. "so it is. they must have given me the wrong rings," said mark innocently. "my aunt is very much disappointed. she wanted to start this evening for buffalo." "i thought she lived in syracuse." "she is going to visit her son in buffalo," explained schuyler with ready wit. "i am really sorry. if she would go down to the jeweler's with me, or if you would, the matter could be set right at once." mr. hamilton schuyler thought over this suggestion, and on the whole regarded it favorably. "i will go down in about an hour," he said. "you can explain matters to mr. swan. just think if my aunt had taken the rings and paid full price for them, and not found out till she got to buffalo that they were not genuine!" "in that case mr. swan would have paid her the money or exchanged the rings." "i hope so." "perhaps you had better hand me back the caskets, and i will carry them back to the store." mr. schuyler returned the boxes to mark, who opened them to see if the rings were inside. "you will go down in an hour then?" he said. "yes, or--upon second thought you had better come right back with the genuine rings. i have an appointment at the windsor hotel, but will be back to receive them." mark understood why schuyler did not care to go to the jeweler's. he could not get possession of the genuine rings without paying for them, whereas, if mark should bring them, he could carry out his original plan and retain them by stratagem. schuyler accompanied mark to the front door. "now hurry down and back," he said. "my aunt is anxious to catch the evening train." "very well, mr. schuyler." at this moment schuyler noted for the first time a familiar look in mark's face. "haven't i seen you before?" he asked abruptly. "very likely," said mark with self-possession. "perhaps you have been in the store." "no; my aunt called there, but i did not. you look very much like some boy i saw recently," and schuyler wrinkled up his forehead in the vain endeavor to place mark. "i hope i remind you of a good-looking boy," he said, laughing. "i see it now. you look like a telegraph boy i recently met in a fifth avenue stage." "i should like to see him, but i shouldn't think you'd remember a common telegraph boy." "he was impertinent to me, that is why i remember him," frowned schuyler. "i hope to meet him alone some time. i will give him a lesson he won't be likely to forget." "then i'm glad i'm not the boy you mean. good day!" "good day. hurry back as fast as you can." when mark re-entered the jewelry store mr. swan advanced to meet him. "well," he said, "how did you make out?" "i've got the rings with me." "did you see mrs. montgomery?" "no, but i saw a young man who claimed to be her nephew." "what did he say about the rings?" "he left me alone in a back room on the second floor. when i went to the door i found that it was locked. but i didn't trouble myself. i concluded that he had gone out to pawn or sell the rings. he returned in half an hour quite angry, and told me he had ascertained that the diamonds were not genuine." "why did you think he went out to pawn or sell them?" "because i recognized him." "you recognized him?" "yes, as the young man in the fifth avenue stage who robbed an old lady of her wallet." "the day that we first met?" "yes, sir." the jeweler looked surprised. "didn't he recognize you?" "he asked if we hadn't met before. he said there was something familiar in my face. finally, he said i reminded him of an impudent telegraph boy he had fallen in with. he wants to meet that telegraph boy alone," added mark with a smile. "he has had his wish." "yes, but luckily for me he didn't recognize me." "how did you explain about the rings being false?" "i said you had probably made a mistake." "i see you are quick-witted. well, was that satisfactory?" "he expects me to bring back the genuine rings this afternoon, as his aunt wants to leave the city this evening." "i think he will have to wait. perhaps it may be as well to notify him that she needn't put off her journey on that account. i don't want to spare you to go there again, however." "there's a boy i know out on the street," suggested mark. "he would be glad to go." "who is it?" "tom trotter, a friend of mine. he's a good boy, though he's only a bootblack." "is he reliable?" "yes, sir; i will answer for him." "very well. call him in." mark went to the door and called "tom! tom trotter!" tom looked around and recognized mark. "you ain't left de telegraph, have you, mark?" he said. "no, but i'm working here for a day or two. would you like to go up town on an errand?" "yes," answered tom with alacrity. "will i be paid?" "of course. can't you leave your blacking box somewhere and get your face and hands washed?" "yes, mark; there's a small s'loon near by, where i hang out sometimes. just wait for me and i'll be back in a jiffy." tom reappeared in a very short time with his appearance greatly improved by the application of cold water and soap. "mr. swan," said mark, smiling, "this is mr. thomas trotter, the young gentleman i spoke to you about." "oh, stow that, mark!" expostulated tom; "i ain't mr. trotter. i'm tom." "mr. trotter," said the jeweler, smiling, for he had a sense of humor, "i have a letter here which i wish you to take to the address named." "and to walk, sir." "no; i will give you ten cents for car fare, and when you return and make your report you shall be paid for doing the errand." "all right, governor." tom started up town, and in due time reached the house on forty-seventh street. he rang the bell, and the door was opened by the hall boy already referred to. "is mr. schuyler at home?" asked tom. "i've got a letter for him." mr. schuyler, who was anxiously awaiting mark's return, came out of a room to the left of the hall. when he saw tom he looked disappointed. "i was expecting a boy from mr. swan's jewelry store." "that's where i come from." "did you bring the rings?" asked schuyler eagerly. "i don't know nothin' about no rings," answered tom. "i've brought you a letter." "give it to me quick." he opened the letter, and this is what he read with contracted brow. "mr. hamilton schuyler: "when i called here this morning i recognized you as the young man who stole an old lady's pocketbook in a fifth avenue stage not long since. of course i knew that this was another scheme of yours to get hold of money that did not belong to you. if you had been all right i would myself have brought back the real diamond rings which your aunt wished to buy. tell her not to put off her journey to buffalo, as mr. swan has made up his mind not to send them. "yours as ever, "a. d. t. ." "then it was the telegraph boy, after all!" ejaculated schuyler in a rage. "i only wish i had known it. are you a friend of--the telegraph boy?" "am i a friend of mark mason? i should smile." "step in a minute, then!" said schuyler, with an assumed friendliness. as the unsuspecting tom stepped inside the hall, the young man began to shower blows on his shoulders with a cane that he snatched from the hat rack. tom was for a minute dazed. then his wits returned to him. he lowered his head and butted schuyler in the stomach with such force that the latter fell over backwards with an ejaculation of pain. then tom darted through the open door, but paused on the steps to say, "with the compliments of tom trotter." schuyler picked himself up, uttering execrations, and looked for the boy, but he was gone! chapter xiii. mark starts on a journey. "shall you want me to-morrow, mr. swan?" asked mark, as the clock struck six, and the jeweler prepared to close up. "yes; i shall probably want you for a week." "very well, sir; i will so report at the office." the next morning about eight o'clock mark reported for duty and waited for orders. the jeweler looked up from a letter he had been reading. "how would you like to make a journey?" he asked. "very much, sir." "i shall probably send you to cleveland." "is cleveland in ohio?" asked mark, his eyes sparkling. "yes. do you think you can find your way there?" "i'll try." "you generally succeed in what you undertake to do. well, i will explain. i have a customer living in euclid avenue in cleveland, who used to be a new york society lady. she bought a good deal of jewelry, and always purchased of me. this is what she writes." the material part of the letter was this: "i want a diamond pin worth about one thousand dollars. my husband has agreed to give it to me for a birthday present, and left the selection to me. i can't find anything here that i want, and have been led to think of my old jeweler in new york. you know my taste. select what you think i will like and send me by private messenger. i might of course employ an express, but there have been some express robberies recently, and i am ready to pay the extra expense required by a special messenger. send at once. "arabella loring." "you see," said the jeweler, "that this is an important matter. the messenger will bear great responsibility on account of the value of what he has in charge." "do you think i am old enough for the commission, mr. swan?" said mark modestly. "it is not so much a matter of age as of shrewdness and reliability. i have been led to think that you possess these qualifications. of course there would be danger of your being robbed if it were known that you carried such a valuable parcel." "i am not afraid, sir." "of course, again, you must take care not to let it be known what you have in charge. make what statements you like as to your business. i can safely leave that to your own shrewdness." "when do you want me to start, mr. swan?" "there is a train this afternoon for buffalo on the new york central road. can you get ready to take that?" "yes, sir. may i go home and let my mother know? i am not quite sure whether i have a supply of clean clothes." "you can buy anything that you need on the way. have you a gripsack?" "yes, sir. my mother has one." "will it do?" "i think so." "so far so good then. now about money. i can't tell just how much you will need, but i will give you a certain amount, and if there is any over when you return you can account for it to me." mrs. mason was greatly surprised when mark came home and inquired for her traveling bag. "what do you want of it, mark?" she asked. "i am going to start for cleveland this afternoon." "you're only funning, mark," said edith. "no, i am not. i have agreed to go to cleveland on business." "what kind of business, mark?" asked his mother. "the gentleman who sends me, mr. swan, the jeweler, has asked me to keep my business secret." "how long will you be gone?" "i can't tell, but i will write you. mr. swan has told me i may stop over at niagara falls, but i shall not be very apt to do so till i am on my return." "this seems very sudden. i don't know how i shall ever get along without you." "you have money enough to last you, mother?" "yes." "then i think there won't be any trouble. if i stay away longer than i anticipate i will send you some more." "it seems strange that mr. swan should send a boy on an important errand." "the fact of the matter is, mother, that he has confidence in me." "i am sure he is justified in this, but boys are not usually selected for important missions." "that is the reason why i feel ambitious to succeed." "by the way, mark, mrs. mack's nephew called yesterday and tried to get some more money out of his aunt." "did you give him any?" "no. she was very much frightened, but i threatened to call a policeman, and the fellow went off grumbling." "she won't be safe till he gets into prison again." on his way back to the jeweler's mark met his friend tom trotter. "where are you goin'?" "out west." tom's eyes expanded like saucers. "you ain't jokin'?" "no." "when you're goin'?" "this afternoon." "goin' to be gone long?" "i expect to be back in a week." "i wish you'd take me with you." "i'd like to, tom, but i can't. traveling costs money." tom showed considerable curiosity as to the nature of mark's business, but on this point the telegraph boy was not communicative. he liked tom as a friend, but did not dare to trust him with so important a secret. mr. swan had already been to a ticket agent and procured a through ticket for mark. "your train starts at four-thirty," said the jeweler. "you can engage a sleeping berth at the grand central depot. you will travel all night." "i am sorry for that," said mark. "i shall miss some of the scenery." "you can arrange to travel over this part by day on your return." it was four o'clock when mark entered the depot. he thought it best to be on time. when the doors were opened he entered the station proper and sought the car containing his berth. there was an upper and a lower berth, his being the lower. the two were numbered and . he had scarcely taken his seat when a gentleman came in and sat down beside him. neither he nor mark had noticed each other particularly till the train had left the depot. then the gentleman exclaimed in surprise, "mark mason?" "uncle solon?" exclaimed the messenger in equal surprise. "what brings you here?" "a ticket," answered mark briefly. "you are in the wrong car. didn't you know that this is the limited western express?" "yes. i know it." "where are you going then?" "i shall stop at buffalo," answered mark, not caring to mention his further destination. solon talbot looked amazed. "what on earth carries you out there?" he asked. "this train," answered mark demurely. solon talbot frowned. "you know what i mean. why are you going to buffalo?" "a little matter of business." "what business can a boy like you possibly have, i'd like to know?" "it isn't my own business, uncle solon, and so i don't feel at liberty to tell." "it is very strange. have you a sleeping berth?" "yes." "what number?" "no. ." "that is the lower berth--just the one i wanted," exclaimed talbot in vexation. "mine is the upper. let me see your sleeping check." mark showed it. solon talbot regarded it enviously. "i will give you twenty-five cents to exchange," he said. "i will exchange without the twenty-five cents if you prefer the lower berth." "i do, but--i would rather pay." "i can't accept it. here is the check. give me yours in return." solon did so muttering his thanks rather ungraciously. he hated to be under any obligation to his nephew. "where is edgar?" asked mark. "i left him in new york. i am going back to syracuse to attend to a little business, and shall then return to new york." mr. talbot took out an evening paper and began to read. mark prepared to look around him. presently mr. talbot arose. "i am going into the smoking-car to smoke a cigar," he said. "have an eye on my grip while i am gone." "all right, uncle." hours passed. the two travelers retired to their respective berths. about two o'clock mark was startled by a severe shock that nearly threw him out of his berth. there was a confused shouting, and mark heard some one crying. "what's happened?" leaning out of the berth he saw solon talbot standing in the aisle, his face pale as a sheet. there was a swaying movement of the car, and a sudden lurch. the car had gone over an embankment. chapter xiv. the telltale memorandum. when mark came to himself he realized that he was lying on his back on the ground. it was a bright moonlight night, and he could see for some distance. first of all he moved his arms and legs to ascertain whether any of his limbs were broken. reassured on this point he felt next for the diamond pin. to his great relief it was safe. all about him was confusion. he was just thinking of getting up when a man came along with a lantern, and stooping over, began to feel in the pockets of a prostrate figure lying near by. instantly mark was on the alert, for he felt sure that this man must be a thief intent on robbing the victims of the disaster. he peered into the face of the robber who fancied himself unobserved, and with a thrill of excitement he recognized the man whom he had met twice before in new york, and who had called himself hamilton schuyler. at the same time, glancing at the upturned face of the recumbent figure he saw that it was his uncle, solon talbot, still insensible. schuyler had just drawn mr. talbot's watch from his pocket, when mark, putting a whistle to his mouth, blew a sharp note on it. schuyler started, let the watch drop, and rose in a state of nervous alarm. "what was that?" he cried. "mr. hamilton schuyler," said mark calmly, "that gentleman will have occasion for his watch. you had better let it alone." "i was only going to take care of it for him," muttered schuyler. "you'd take care of it well," retorted mark. "who are you?" demanded schuyler, and he stepped over to where mark lay and peered into his face. "by jingo, if it isn't the telegraph boy!" he exclaimed. "how came you here?" "by the train." "have you any more bogus diamonds about you?" inquired schuyler sarcastically. "i might have had if i had expected to meet you." "i'll see what i can find at any rate." as he spoke he leaned over and was about to feel in mark's pockets when the telegraph messenger blew another blast on his whistle so loud that a relief party came running up in haste. "what's the matter?" asked the leader. "the matter is that here is a thief, rifling the pockets of the passengers. he was just feeling in mine." schuyler started to run, but was quickly captured. "what are you about, you scoundrel?" asked his captor. "trying to relieve the victims of the disaster," answered schuyler. "on my honor that is all i was doing." "is this true?" asked his captor, turning to mark. "yes; he was trying to relieve us of our valuables. he had that gentleman's watch out of his pocket when i first whistled. as you came up, he was trying to rob me." "that's enough! take him along." two strong men tied schuyler's hands together and marched him away. "i'll get even with you for this, you young rascal!" he exclaimed in a rage, shaking his fist at mark. just then solon talbot recovered consciousness. "where am i?" he groaned. "there has been an accident, uncle solon," said mark, now on his feet. "we went over an embankment and were spilled out. are you all right? are any of your limbs broken?" "i--i don't think so, but i have had a shock, and my head is bruised." "you'll do!" said a surgeon, who was one of the relief party. "you'll be as good as new in a day or two." "is there a hotel near by? i want to be moved." "as soon as we can attend to the matter. we are looking for the bad cases." "i'll look after you, uncle solon," said mark. "see if you can't get up." with much ado mr. talbot arose, and leaning on mark's arm left the scene of the disaster. mark procured a carriage and directed the driver to take them to the nearest hotel. when they reached it the messenger ordered a room and helped his uncle up to it. "just look and see if you've lost anything," he suggested. "i saw a thief trying to relieve you of your watch, but i interrupted him and gave him in charge." with a look of alarm solon talbot examined his pockets, but ascertained to his relief that nothing was missing. "can't you stay with me, mark?" he asked almost imploringly, for the nervous alarm inspired by the accident had made him quite a different man for the time being. "there is another bed in the room, and you can lie there." "i will stay with you till morning, uncle solon, but i shall have to leave you then, as i have business to attend to." "what kind of business?" "i don't care to mention it just now. i am traveling for another party." "i had no idea there would be an accident," said mr. talbot. "good heavens, we might have been in eternity by this time," he added with a shudder. "i feel very much alive," said mark, laughing. "i suppose the accident will be in the new york morning papers." "so it will. i must telegraph that i am all right, or my mother will be frightened." "telegraph for me too," said solon talbot. "all right. tell me to whom to telegraph, uncle solon, and where." "to edgar, i think." few more words were spoken, as mark and his uncle were both dead tired. it was eight o'clock when mark opened his eyes. he dressed himself as quickly as possible and prepared to go down-stairs. as he was moving toward the door, mark espied a scrap of paper. it contained what appeared to be a memorandum in his uncle's handwriting. it was brief, and a single glance revealed its purpose to mark. it ran thus: "crane and lawton told me to-day that their agent writes them from nevada that the golden hope mine is developing great richness. i shouldn't wonder if it would run up to one hundred dollars per share. at this rate the shares i hold will make a small fortune. c. & l. advise holding on for at least six months." it may be imagined that mark read this memorandum with interest. he knew very well that the mining stock referred to belonged to his grandfather's estate, but hitherto had been ignorant of the number of shares held by the same. if there were four hundred, and the price ran up to one hundred dollars per share, this would make his mother's share twenty thousand dollars! this would be a fortune indeed, and it made his blood boil to think that his uncle proposed to cheat her out of it. the munificent sum of twenty-five dollars was all that he had offered for a receipt in full that would give him a title to the whole value of the golden hope shares. mark turned to the bed. his uncle was fast asleep. he was not a strong man, and the shock and fatigue of the night previous had quite exhausted him. "what shall i do with the memorandum?" thought mark. he felt that it was not quite the thing to keep a private paper belonging to his uncle, yet under the circumstances, considering that his uncle was deliberately seeking to defraud his mother and himself, he decided that he was justified in doing so. accordingly he put the memorandum carefully in his pocketbook, and opening the chamber door prepared to go down-stairs. just then solon talbot opened his eyes. "where am i?" he asked, in temporary bewilderment. "in the merchants' hotel," replied mark. "don't you remember the accident of last night?" "oh, yes," answered solon shuddering. "where are you going?" "out to telegraph to my mother." "you have my telegram?" "yes." mark went out and despatched two telegrams, one to his mother, and the second to mr. swan. the latter ran thus: "there has been a railroad accident, but i am all right. nothing lost." the last two words were intended to assure the jeweler of the safety of the diamond pin. mark ascertained that the next train westward would start at eleven o'clock, and so reported to his uncle. "i shall go by the next train," he said. as they went up to the office to pay their bills, the clerk asked mr. talbot, "do you pay for this young man as well as yourself?" solon talbot hesitated and looked confused. "no," answered mark promptly, "i pay for myself." he drew out a ten-dollar bill and tendered it to the clerk. "you seem to be well provided with money," said his uncle curiously. "yes, uncle solon, i can pay my way," replied mark. "it is very strange," thought mr. talbot, "how a common telegraph boy should have so much money." he did not seem to miss the memorandum. had he known that it was snugly reposing in mark's pocketbook he would have felt disturbed. chapter xv. a railroad incident. mark pushed on intent upon reaching cleveland. he decided not to stop off at niagara till he was on his return. he never for a moment forgot that a great responsibility rested upon him for the safe delivery of the valuable diamond pin intrusted to him by mr. swan. when it was safely out of his hands and in those of mrs. loring he would feel relieved. he was within a hundred miles of cleveland in a car well filled with passengers when his attention was called to a young lady sitting in the seat directly opposite him. she seemed lively and was particularly attractive. mark was too young to be deeply impressed by female beauty, but he experienced, like most persons, a greater pleasure in looking at a beautiful than at an ugly object. the young lady had been sitting alone, when a tall man of about forty came up the aisle and paused by her seat. "is this seat occupied?" he asked softly. "no, sir." "then i will presume to occupy it." "he must be a minister," thought mark. his clothes were of clerical cut, he wore a white necktie, and on his head was a brown straw hat with wide brim. he folded his hands meekly on his knees, and turned towards his young companion. "i am sorry to intrude upon you, young lady," mark heard him say. "it is no intrusion, sir," answered the girl pleasantly. "i have only paid for one seat, and cannot expect to monopolize two." "nevertheless i am sorry if in any way i have intruded upon you. i am, as you may perhaps have inferred from my appearance, a minister." "i thought you looked like one, sir." "i am going to make an exchange with a clerical brother." "yes, sir," returned the young lady, wondering what interest she could be expected to take in this circumstance. "i always like to get acquainted with young people. i may perhaps have an opportunity of influencing them for good." "just so, sir; but i think such advice is better suited for sunday, don't you?" "i am accustomed to drop words of counsel in season, and out of season." "i would rather listen to them when they are in season." "true! i stand reproved." the minister took from his pocket a small volume which he opened and began to read. "this volume," he said, "contains the sermons of the excellent dr. hooker. if i had another copy i should be glad to offer it to you." "thank you, i don't care to read just at present." half an hour passed. the minister put back his book into his pocket, and bowing politely, bade the young lady good morning. "i am pleased to have made your acquaintance," he said. "thank you, sir." five minutes later the young lady put her hand into her pocket. she uttered a cry of alarm. "what is the matter, miss?" asked mark. "my purse is gone!" exclaimed the young lady in a state of nervous excitement. "when did you last see it?" asked the messenger boy. "about an hour ago. i bought a copy of munsey's magazine of the train boy, and took out my purse to pay for it." "an hour ago? you were sitting alone at the time?" "yes." "did any one sit beside you except the old gentleman who has just left?" "no." "you are sure it hasn't fallen on the floor?" "i will look." the young lady rose and looked about under the seat, but the lost purse was not found. "i--i don't see how i could have lost it. i have been sitting here all the time." an idea flashed upon mark. "it must have been taken by the man who just left you," he said. "but that can't be! he was a minister." "i know he was dressed as a minister, but i don't believe he was one." "he looked just like one. besides he was reading a volume of sermons. i can't believe that he would rob me." "there was one thing that didn't look very ministerial." "what was that?" "his nose. do you not notice how red it was?" "yes, but i thought it might be some humor." "it was colored by whisky, i think. i know topers in new york who have noses exactly like his. you may depend upon it that he has your purse. i hope there wasn't much in it." "only about five dollars. generally the loss would not inconvenience me, but as it is--" and she looked anxious. "if--if i can be of any service," stammered mark, "i hope you won't mind saying so. i can lend you five dollars." the young lady looked grateful, but seemed in doubt as to whether she ought to accept the offer. "i don't know whether i ought to accept such an offer from a young gentleman--" she said hesitating. "i am a _very_ young gentleman," said mark smiling. "i am only sixteen!" "that is true, and it does make a difference. are you sure you can spare the money for a day or two." "quite so, miss--" "loring," prompted the young lady. "are you related to mrs. arabella loring of cleveland?" the young lady looked very much surprised. "she is my mother," she replied. "but how in the world do you know of her?" "i will tell you later," answered mark. he felt that it wouldn't be wise to mention the commission, or let any one know that he had a diamond ring in charge. "are you going directly to cleveland, miss loring?" "yes, but about thirty miles this side i have a young niece at a boarding school. she will join me on the train, and will expect me to pay her railroad fare. but for that, the loss of the money would have entailed no inconvenience." mark drew from his pocket book a five-dollar bill and passed it to miss loring. "but how can i return this to you?" she asked. "i will call at your house. i am going to cleveland also." "do so. here is my card." she took out a small card and tendered it to mark. on it was inscribed: miss florence loring. no. - / euclid avenue. "inquire for me when you call!" she said. "thank you." "it seems so strange that you should know my mother," she continued evidently feeling curious. mark smiled. "you will know in time," he said. "if we were alone i would tell you now." here there was a stop at some station, and a shabby and dirty-looking man entered the car. there was but one seat vacant, the one next to florence loring. mark hastily rose and sat down in it. "i thought," he said apologetically, "you might prefer me to the man who has just entered the car." "by all means," she answered with a bright smile. "i prefer you also to the clerical gentleman who rode with me earlier." "thank you. when your niece joins you i will vacate the seat in her favor." florence loring was perhaps nineteen, three years older than mark. she looked upon him quite as a boy, and therefore felt under no constraint. "do you come from new york?" she asked. "yes." "you seem young to travel alone." "i don't think you can be much older than i," said mark. "mercy! i feel ever so much older. i feel old enough to be your aunt." "i shouldn't mind having you for an aunt," returned mark. "on the whole, though, it might prove to be too much of a responsibility. you may be very hard to manage." "do you mind my calling you aunt?" "well, perhaps it might make me appear too venerable." "did you notice, miss loring, whether your clerical friend left the cars when he left the seat?" "no; i didn't feel any particular interest in him, and did not give him a second thought." "perhaps he may still be on the train. i have a great mind to go and see." "i don't think it would do any good. we could not prove that he took my purse." "if you will excuse me for five minutes i will make a search." mark went through the next car and entered the second one, which was a smoking car. he looked about him, and in a seat about the middle of the car he saw the man of whom he was in search. he recognized him by his white tie and his red nose. he was smoking a cigar and gazing out of the car window. the seat beside him being vacant mark went forward and sat down in it. the gentleman with the white tie glanced at him carelessly, but did not appear to think mark was worthy of attention. he changed his mind when mark said in a low voice: "please give me the purse which you took from a young lady in the second car back." chapter xvi. mark as a detective. the adventurer turned swiftly when he heard mark's startling question. he seemed astounded at the boy's audacity. "what did you say?" he demanded with hauteur. "i asked you to return the purse which you took from a young lady in the second car back," repeated mark calmly. "boy," said the false minister, "you must be insane or drunk." "i don't think i am either," returned mark. "what do you mean by such nonsense, then? are you aware that i am a minister of the gospel?" "where do you preach?" "it is of no consequence," said the other loftily. "i am not in habit of being insulted by whipper-snappers like you." "are you in the habit of taking young ladies' purses, mr.----" "rev. mr. buffington is my name, young man." "then, mr. buffington, will you answer my question?" "i shall be tempted to forget my sacred profession and throw you out of the car," said the pseudo minister, looking very unclerical as he spoke. "i have no doubt you would like to do so." "you ought to be thrashed for your impertinence." "suppose you call the conductor and complain of me. you may tell your story and i will tell mine." this suggestion seemed fair enough, but it did not appear to strike the rev. mr. buffington favorably. "i do not care to notice the foolish insolence of a half grown boy," and the pseudo clergyman, taking a paper from his lap, half turned away from mark, and began to read, or appeared to do so. mark, however, did not propose to be bluffed off in this manner. "mr. buffington," he said resolutely, "i am a boy, but i know what i am about. you took the young lady's purse. before you sat down beside her she had it in her pocket. when you left the car it was gone." "if i ever get you alone," said buffington in a low tone of concentrated rage. "if you do, i hope you won't forget your sacred profession." "i am a minister, but i am also a gentleman, and i shall resent an insult." "look here," said mark, getting out of patience, "either you give me back that purse for the young lady or i will call the conductor and lay the matter before him." "rev." mr. buffington tried to turn mark from his purpose by threats, but he was evidently alarmed. he was conscious of guilt, and he knew how such an appeal would end for him. mark saw him waver, and followed up his advantage. "there was only about five dollars in the purse," he said, "and it won't pay you to keep it. if you give it up without further trouble i won't expose you. what do you say?" mr. buffington looked in mark's resolute face and he saw that he was in serious earnest. he felt that he was in the boy's power, and much as it galled him, he decided that he must yield. "it is possible, of course, that the young lady in handling the purse, may have dropped it into my pocket," he said. "i will search for it, and if that is the case it shall be returned." he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out the purse. "i wouldn't have believed it," he murmured. "it is a most extraordinary incident. is this the young lady's purse?" mark took it, and opening it, saw that it contained three dollars in bills, and a dollar and seventy-five cents in silver. "yes, sir," he said; "this answers the description." "give it back to the young lady with my compliments," said buffington with unabashed assurance. "express my regrets at the unfortunate mistake. i now remember how it occurred. i saw the purse on the floor where she had doubtless dropped it, and supposing it to be my own put it into my pocket. i was so busily engaged, reading the volume of sermons which i carry with me that it made little impression on my mind." "i will tell her what you say, mr. buffington," said mark gravely. of course he might have expressed doubt of the accuracy of his companion's statement, but he had accomplished his purpose, and did not care to humiliate buffington farther. "good morning, young man," said buffington with christian forgetfulness of mark's errand. "good morning, sir." when mark had left the car buffington's face underwent a change. he looked absolutely ferocious. "to think i should have been trapped and worsted by a kid!" he said to himself. "the boy is about as cool and resolute as any i ever saw. i hope i shall some day have a chance to get even with him." mark returned to his own car and paused at miss loring's seat. "is this your purse?" he asked, holding it up. "yes. oh, where did you get it?" "from the party who took it." "is he on the smoking car still?" "yes he is on the smoking car." "but--didn't he object to surrendering it?" "he made a decided objection, but i succeeded in convincing him that it was for his interest to do so." "you are a remarkable boy," said florence loring admiringly. "thank you, miss loring. you will make me vain if you flatter me." "but i am quite in earnest. i am now able to return the money you so kindly lent me." "are you sure you will not need it?" "quite sure." the hours sped fast. soon they reached the station where miss loring expected to see her niece. she went to the door of the car, and from the platform signaled to a child of eight, who returned the greeting joyfully. "i was so afraid i should miss you, auntie," said the child. "i have been on the lookout for you, gertie. come in at once." of course mark vacated his seat, and aunt and niece were able to sit together. the messenger boy secured a seat a little nearer the door. he found the journey less interesting now that he was deprived of his fair companion's company. as they were leaving the train at the cleveland station, florence said, "gertie, this is mr. mason, who has been of great service to me during the journey." gertie surveyed mark attentively. she was an irrepressible young lady, given to plain speaking. "he ain't your beau, is he, aunt florence?" she asked. florence smiled and blushed. "no," she answered. "don't you see he is younger than i am. he is better suited to be your beau." "i've got a beau already," said the child unexpectedly. "indeed! that is news. what's his name?" "dan sillis. he is a nice boy." "how old is he?" "about fifteen." "isn't that too old for you?" "oh no. husbands always are older than their wives." both mark and florence laughed. "don't you think you could make room for another beau?" asked mark. "no; but if i get tired of dan i won't mind taking you," responded gertie with the most perfect gravity. "i will remember that. if we should get married your aunt florence would be my aunt too." "can i do anything for you, miss loring?" mark asked as they reached the exterior of the depot. "if you would be kind enough to call a cab." mark did so, and the two young ladies entered. "i suppose you will call if you have business with mother," said florence. "yes; i shall call to-morrow." mark was in doubt where to go, knowing nothing of the hotels in cleveland, but seeing a stage bearing the name "erie hotel," decided to go there. for obvious reasons i have not given the right name of the hotel. this name will answer so far as our story goes. he sprang in with his valise and in a few minutes was set down before a comfortable looking hotel of good size. he entered, and registering his name was assigned to room . "will you go up-stairs at once, mr. mason?" asked the clerk. "yes, sir." mark followed the hall boy to a room on the third floor. "will dinner be ready soon?" he asked. "it is on the table now, sir." mark washed his hands and face, combed his hair, and went down-stairs. he had but one flight to descend, the dining-room being on the second floor. even if the dinner had been an indifferent one mark would have appreciated it, for he was very hungry. when he had satisfied his appetite he had a chance to look around. what was his surprise when a little farther down the table, on the same side, he recognized his acquaintance of the smoking car, mr. buffington! chapter xvii. mark makes a call on euclid avenue. mark was not altogether pleased to find that he had not got rid of the railroad adventurer. he recognized him as a dangerous and unprincipled man. as long as mark had the diamond pin in his possession, the vicinity of such a fellow meant peril. he decided that he had better lose no time in delivering the pin to mrs. loring. he had told florence that he would call the next day, but really there was no reason why he should not deliver it at once. about three o'clock he called a cab and directed the driver to drive to no. - / euclid avenue. the distance was somewhat more than a mile, and in fifteen minutes he found himself at his destination. "shall i wait for you?" asked the hackman. "no; i may be in the house some time." he paid for the cab and rang the doorbell. "is mrs. loring at home?" asked mark of the servant who answered the bell. "yes, sir, but i don't know if she will see you?" "tell her that i come from mr. swan of new york." "she will see you," said the servant returning after a short absence. mark was ushered into the reception room, and in a few minutes a pleasant-looking woman of middle age entered. she seemed surprised when her glance rested upon mark. "surely you are not mr. swan's messenger?" she said. "yes, madam." "and you--have brought the pin?" "here it is," said mark, producing it from his pocket. mrs. loring eagerly opened the casket and uttered an exclamation of delight. "it is beautiful--just what i wanted," she said. "mr. swan said he thought he knew your taste." "did he mention the price?" "a thousand dollars. here is the bill." "i shall not dispute the price, for i have perfect confidence in mr. swan. but--isn't it strange that he should have selected so young a messenger?" she continued, regarding mark with curiosity. "i agree with you," said mark, smiling, "but i feel confidence in mr. swan's judgment and did not object to come." "you might have been robbed, if any evil-minded person had known what you carried." "that is true, but they would not be likely to think a boy would be intrusted with an article of great value." "that is certainly an important consideration. how long have you been in mr. swan's employ?" "about a week." "and he trusted you like this?" said the lady in astonishment. "i am really a telegraph boy. mr. swan had known me in that character." "he certainly paid you a great compliment, and his confidence does not seem to have been misplaced. shall i pay you for the pin?" "you can give me a check payable to mr. swan, and i will forward it to him by mail." "i will do so. can you wait?" "oh, yes, mrs. loring. i had no business in cleveland except to deliver this ring." at that moment florence loring entered the room, and to her mother's surprise went up to mark and offered her hand. "i am glad to see you, mr. mason," she said. "thank you, miss florence." "is this call made on me?" "partly," answered mark smiling, "but i had some business with your mother." "how in the world did you two get acquainted?" asked mrs. loring. "don't you remember, mama, what i told you about being robbed by a man who sat next to me, and having my purse returned by a boy--a young gentleman." "i don't mind being called a boy," said mark. "i shall be one for some time yet." "well?" "mr. mason is the one who recovered my purse. before that he kindly offered to loan me some money. but what possible business can he have with you?" "see what he has brought me from new york. he comes from mr. swan." "oh mama, how lovely! is it a present for me? you know my birthday comes in eight months." "my dear child, even if it came to-morrow i should hardly pay a thousand dollars for a birthday gift for you." "a thousand dollars? it seems even more lovely now that i know the price." "remain here, florence, and entertain mr. mason while i go to the library and write a check for the purchase money." "all right, mama! mr. mason, why didn't you tell me what business you had with mama?" "i shouldn't have minded telling you, but if some one else had heard, your clerical friend for instance, i might have been robbed." "that is true. i hope i shall never see him again." "perhaps you may. i have seen him." "you have seen him?" ejaculated florence in surprise. "where?" "at the dinner table at my hotel." "do you think he is staying there?" "i only know that i saw him at the table." "at what hotel are you staying?" "at the erie hotel." "i hope you will be cautious. he may do you an injury," said florence with flattering earnestness. "it was because i saw him that i was anxious to deliver the pin as soon as possible." "but he wouldn't know you had it." "he would suppose i had some money for traveling expenses." "true. and now you will have the large check my mother is to give you." "i shall not keep it in my possession. i shall go back to the hotel at once and inclose it in a letter to mr. swan." "you seem to be a remarkable boy--i mean you are remarkably sharp for your age." "telegraph boys have to be sharp." "so you are a telegraph boy. are there any telegraph girls?" "not that i know of." "i am afraid we poor girls would be too easily imposed upon." "well, have you entertained mr. mason?" asked mrs. loring re-entering the room. "i have done my best, mama. what do you think he tells me? that horrid man that stole my purse is staying at his hotel." "then i hope you won't send him an invitation to call here." "he would call fast enough," suggested mark, "if he knew what a valuable diamond pin you have in the house." "then i hope he won't find out. how did it happen, florence, you didn't watch him when he was sitting beside you?" "how could you expect me to watch a man who was engaged in reading a volume of sermons. they were the sermons of rev. dr. hooker." "perhaps that is where he learned _hooking_," laughed mark. "that's a good joke!" said florence. "by the way, mama, have you tickets for the theater this evening?" "yes, but one won't be used. louisa frost can't go." "then suppose you give it to mr. mason. i am sure he would enjoy the play." "well thought of, florence. won't you get one of the tickets? you will find them on my bureau, that is if our young friend has no other engagement." "i have none whatever," said mark promptly. "you are very kind, mrs. loring." "you must thank florence. if you were a few years older i should be afraid she had designs upon you. it is leap year, you know." "now, mama, what will mr. mason think of me? i am propriety personified." mark concluded his call and left the house, well pleased at having successfully carried out his instructions. he went back directly to the hotel, and sitting down in the reading room wrote the following letter to his employer: "henry swan, esq., "dear sir: i have delivered the diamond ring, and inclose mrs. loring's check for a thousand dollars in payment. she is very much pleased with it, and says it exactly suits her. i have had a pleasant journey, and expect to start on my return to-morrow. "yours respectfully, "mark mason." as he was writing the address some one passed behind his chair and looked over his shoulder at the superscription. it was the "rev." mr. buffington, as he called himself. his eye lighted up as he saw to whom the letter was addressed. "so this boy is traveling for a new york jeweler," he said to himself. "i am glad to know this. he probably carries a stock of jewelry with him, and if so, i shall cultivate his acquaintance." he passed out of the reading room without mark observing him. mr. buffington took care to keep out of the way, and mark supposed he had left the hotel. chapter xviii. a midnight visit. mark was confirmed in his belief that mr. buffington had left the hotel, because on looking over the book he found no such name. it did not occur to him that lawrence perkins was his railroad friend under another _alias_. mr. buffington was rich in names, and had masqueraded under at least a dozen. he, however, had seen mark's name in the register, and noted carefully the number of his room. the information seemed to him important, especially after he had looked over mark's shoulder and found that he represented a prominent jeweler in new york. mark did not fail to keep his appointment at the theater. he arrived first, but five minutes later mrs. loring, florence and a young man, cousin to the latter, made their appearance. florence smiled pleasantly, and arranged the party so that mark should sit beside her. "now, george," she said to her cousin, "make yourself agreeable to mama, and i will try to entertain mr. mason." "no flirting, florence," cautioned her cousin. "did you ever know me to flirt?" asked florence in mock indignation. "well, occasionally." "very well, if i have the reputation i may as well deserve it," and she proceeded to chat with mark. in the gallery, among the cheap seats, sat mr. buffington, who wanted to while away the evening in a pleasant but economical manner. he did not immediately discover mark below, but after a time recognized him. "it is just as well i came here," he reflected, "as the kid won't get to bed till late. wonder who his friends are. that young lady looks stylish." buffington took good care when the play was over to keep out of the way of the throng issuing from the main entrance. he made his way to the hotel by a devious course, and on arriving went up to his room. mark came in not long after him, and went up to bed at once. he felt quite tired, but was well pleased with his experiences thus far. he had got rid of his responsibility, having delivered the diamond ring, received pay therefor and forwarded the check to his principal in new york. "now i can have a comfortable night's rest," he reflected. he had nearly fifty dollars with him, but this seemed a trifle compared with the diamond pin. still he considered in what way he could secure this from chance of theft. there seemed, however, to be very little danger. he had locked the door inside, leaving the key in the lock. there was no door communicating with any other room. after some consideration he decided to hide the wallet containing his money, not under his pillow, but under the sheet at the lower part of the bed where he could feel it with his feet. "i guess i'll find it safe in the morning," he said to himself. now that he was relieved from all anxiety he composed himself to sleep, and in less than ten minutes he was unconscious of all around him. about an hour later mr. buffington in bare feet stood in front of mark's door. through the open transom he could hear the boy's peaceful breathing. "he is fast asleep," he said to himself with satisfaction. "i know how boys sleep, especially when they are tired. i don't think there will be much risk in carrying out my scheme." he had a skeleton key which would readily have opened the door had the key not been in the lock on the inside. this fact he soon ascertained. "it will make it harder for me," he reflected, "but there is the transom. i shall have to make use of that." mr. buffington, to use the name by which we first knew him, had some experience as a gymnast. he drew himself up to a level with the transom, and then with considerable difficulty managed to get through. the room was partially illuminated with moonlight. first of all, on descending on the other side, he turned the key in the lock so as to afford himself a way of easy escape in case of need. though he made some noise in landing mark was too sound asleep to be aware of it. "now where does the boy keep his valuables?" buffington asked himself. he searched all mark's pockets, even to the vest, but without finding anything. next he turned his attention to the gripsack, but that proved to contain only wearing apparel. but mr. buffington was sharp enough to understand the ways of wary travelers. he went to the bed, and gently slid his hand under the pillow. that is the most common hiding-place for watches and other valuables. but he made no discovery. buffington paused to reflect on the situation. "the kid has certainly got a pocketbook," he soliloquized. "he can't travel without money. now where is it? that is the question." he had searched everywhere else. he decided that it must be concealed somewhere about the bed. finally he made a correct guess. he approached the bed at the lower end, and raising the covering began to feel about in the neighborhood of mark's feet. now, as probably all my young readers know from personal experience, the feet are very sensitive, and there are few who are not "ticklish." mark who had been unconscious of the intruder's presence till now speedily became aware that some one was fumbling about his feet. on the impulse of the moment he drew one foot back and extended it suddenly in the act of kicking. mr. buffington withdrew his hand swiftly, and looked anxiously at the sleeper. mark's eyes did not open, and the burglar resolved after a suitable pause to continue his investigations. but mark's slumbers, since the interruption, were not as sound as before. when the visitor continued his manipulations he woke suddenly, and opening his eyes took in the situation. he recognized mr. buffington's features and at once was wide awake. but for the fact that the burglar was dangerously near the money he would have allowed him to keep on. as it was he thought it time to interfere. he gave a vigorous kick, and called out, "who's there?" buffington understood that his scheme was defeated. to rob mark when he was awake was to run too much risk. he sprang for the door which he had unlocked, as already noted, and opening it dashed out into the corridor. mark did not propose to facilitate his flight. he sprang from the bed and called out in a loud tone, "help! thieves!" now it so happened that the watchman attached to the hotel was just making his rounds and was not far off. he ran to the spot, caught sight of the flying figure of the departing burglar, and caught him by the shoulder. buffington was a strong man, and could have got away from a man of ordinary muscles. but the watchman was a man of more than average strength, having served as porter before he had been transferred to the post of watchman and detective. he gripped buffington in a vise-like grasp. "no, my man," he said, "you don't get away so easy. stand still, and give an account of yourself." "i am a guest of the hotel," said buffington sullenly. "then why are you not in bed?" "because i had a severe headache and thought i would take a little walk in the corridor." "what made you come into my room?" demanded mark, who now appeared on the scene. "i didn't know whose room it was. i thought it was my own." "how did you get in? the door was locked." "no, it wasn't," answered buffington boldly. "you thought you locked it, but you didn't. trying the knob it opened at once, and i supposed it was my own which i had left unlocked." "is that true?" asked the watchman, looking doubtfully at mark. "no, it isn't. i took special pains to lock the door, for i knew that there was a possibility of my room being entered." "then he must have got through the transom. we have had such cases before." "if you have finished asking foolish questions i will go back to bed," said buffington with remarkable assurance. "wait a minute. did you see this man in your room?" the question was addressed to mark. "yes. i woke up while he was there." "what was he doing?" "searching for my purse. he was fumbling about the bedclothes at the foot of the bed." "was your money there?" "yes." buffington's face contracted with disappointment. he had been on the brink of success, when mark, unfortunately for him, awoke. "and you spoke to him?" "yes." "what then?" "he sprang for the door, and would have escaped if you had not caught him." "did you ever see the man before?" "i saw him on the train coming here for the first time." "did anything happen on the train?" "yes. he stole a young lady's pocketbook. i made him give it up." buffington looked at mark menacingly. he would have liked to wreak his vengeance upon him. "do you know his name?" "he calls himself _rev._ mr. buffington." the watchman laughed grimly. "sorry to disturb you, reverend sir," he said, "but i shall be obliged to lock you in your room till morning." buffington shrugged his shoulders. "all right!" he said. "i shall at any rate secure a good night's sleep." the watchman did as he suggested. he shut the burglar in his room, and locked the door from the outside. "now," he said to mark, "you can sleep undisturbed for the balance of the night." chapter xix. at niagara falls. although mark was inclined to pity any man deprived of his liberty, he felt pleased to think that buffington's career was cut short for a time. there was little doubt that he would be imprisoned for a time more or less extended. "how much better it would be for him," thought mark, "if he had earned his living in some honest way!" stealing may seem an easy way of obtaining money, but the one who depends on it is likely to be brought up with a round term at last. when mark went down in the morning the clerk said to him, "so you had a little excitement in your room last night, the watchman tells me." "yes; i had a visitor, but fortunately he was caught without securing anything. he was about to take my pocketbook when i woke up. i was lucky, for i might have found myself unable to pay my bill here." "we would have given you time. we can tell by your face that you are honest." "thank you. has buffington been taken from his room yet?" "buffington? i don't know any such name." "that is what he gave me as his name." "he is down on our books as lawrence perkins." "he seems to have more than one name." "he may have a dozen. such gentry usually do. i will send you a couple of policemen and have him taken round to the station-house." two policemen were summoned and soon made their appearance. they went up-stairs, preceded by the clerk. he opened the door of the adventurer's room and entered. "he isn't here!" he exclaimed in surprise, turning to the two officers. "not here?" there was no need to ask how perkins, or buffington, whichever name he claimed, had escaped. he had made use of the fire-escape and had disappeared. "he seems to have slept here," remarked one of the policeman, pointing to the bed. "yes." "he must have escaped early this morning." "i wonder i did not think of the fire-escape." "he didn't call at the office and pay his bill, i suppose." "no. he was probably in too great a hurry." "if you will give us a description of him we can warn the public against him." "i didn't notice him particularly. i have to deal with so many that i don't scrutinize any one closely, unless there seems to be especial reason for doing so. this boy," pointing to mark, "saw him on the car, and can describe him to you." mark gave what information he could and then went to breakfast. "i hope i shan't meet him again," he reflected. "i am not anxious to keep up the acquaintance." about noon he took a train for niagara falls, and didn't leave it till he reached suspension bridge. he arrived too late to see the cataract, and proceeded at once to a modest hotel in the village where the price charged was two dollars per day. he might have gone to the international hotel, and would have been justified in doing so, but he thought it right to be careful of his employer's money. he looked over the book, half expecting to meet the name of buffington or perkins, but found neither. "i hope i have seen my last of him," he said to himself. he did not feel obliged to take any extra precautions, but slept peacefully and long. after breakfast he started out to see the falls. he was resolved to see them thoroughly no matter how much time might be required in the process. "i wish mother were here," he thought. "some time if i can afford it i will bring her here." this resolve gave him satisfaction, though there seemed little prospect of his soon being in a condition to carry out his wish. mark had no idea of meeting any one whom he knew. he was but a boy, and his acquaintance was limited. already, however, it included three persons whom he would have been glad to be assured he would never meet again. one of these was buffington, the other two were hamilton schuyler and jack minton, the nephew of old mrs. mack, who lived in the same tenement house in new york with his mother. he supposed jack to be in new york and therefore his surprise may be imagined when he heard a hoarse voice behind him saying, "well, i'll be blowed, if it isn't the kid! how are you, kid?" mark did not suppose that he was referred to, but with natural curiosity he turned to observe the speaker. he saw jack minton, rough and uncouth as when he last met him, advancing to meet him. "you're about the last bloke as i expected to see here, kid," observed jack, his face still betraying surprise. "what brought you here?" "business," answered mark briefly. "they don't send telegraph boys as far as this, do they?" "well, not often, but i was sent here, and i came." "what were you sent for?" "that is my employer's business, and i don't feel at liberty to tell." "oh well, i ain't at all partic'lar to know. but it seems good to meet a friend so far away." "how long have i been his friend?" thought mark. "i say, kid, we'll celebrate on that. come in and have a drink." they were passing a saloon, and minton turned his steps towards it. "no, thank you, mr. minton. i am not thirsty." "oh, hang it! who cares whether you are thirsty or not? you ain't goin' to turn against a friend, are you?" it was clear that jack minton had already satisfied his thirst two or three times, for his face was flushed and his step unsteady. mark saw that his refusal would make minton angry, and he accepted his invitation. "what will you have, kid?" asked jack, staggering to the counter. "a glass of sarsaparilla." "oh, don't have sarsaparilla? it's only fit for old women and young children. take whisky." "no; it must be sarsaparilla or nothing." "just as you say. barkeeper, give me some whisky straight, and give the kid sarsaparilla if he wants it." the orders were filled. jack tossed down a glass of fiery whisky, which made his face even redder than before, and then drawing from his pocket a roll of bills, settled for both drinks. mark was surprised at the abundance of money his companion seemed to have. when they met in new york jack was very hard up, and had only succeeded in obtaining twenty five-cents from his parsimonious aunt. after drinking the whisky jack sank into a chair, finding a sitting position more comfortable under the circumstances. "have you seen your aunt lately, mr. minton?" mark asked. "who's my aunt?" hiccoughed jack, "i ain't got no aunt." "i mean mrs. mack, the old lady who lives in st. mark's place." "i don't know anything about--'bout mrs. mack," answered minton with a cunning look. "what sh'd i know of miss--mrs. mack?" "she's your aunt, isn't she?" "she used to be, but she's a bad old woman. i don't want to see her again." "she would be very glad to hear that," thought mark. "when did you come to niagara?" "i d'n'ow, do you? don't ask me any more of your fool questions," answered jack with uncontrollable irritation. "did i pay you for the drinks?" he asked, turning to the barkeeper. "yes, you paid me." "thought i did--didn't know." as he spoke, jack minton's head fell forward on the table, and he closed his eyes. the last potation was too much for him. "you'd better take your friend away," said the barkeeper, eying jack without much favor. "i don't want him to go to sleep here!" "he's no friend of mine," answered mark. "didn't you come in with him? didn't he treat you?" "yes, but i only accepted because he looked quarrelsome, and i was afraid he might take offense if i refused." "if i let him stay here i shall charge him extra." "do as you like! i never saw him but once before, and i don't care to have anything to do with him. i wish you would let me pay for that sarsaparilla i had. i don't want to feel that he treated me." "he has paid, and i can't take pay twice." "then take the money and return it to him." mark without waiting to see if his proposal was accepted put a dime on the counter, and left the saloon. he met a newsboy with copies of a morning buffalo paper. he bought one, and turning to new york news, his eyes fell upon a paragraph which surprised and excited him. chapter xx. a newspaper paragraph. this was the paragraph that attracted mark's attention: "this morning mrs. rachel mack, an old woman over seventy years of age, living in an upper room at no. st. mark's place, was found insensible in her room, as the result of an attack made by some person unknown. when found she seemed very much frightened and was unable to give a coherent account of what had happened. "from marks upon her throat it was clear that her assailant had nearly strangled her. his intention was obvious. though living in a poor room amid squalid surroundings, neighbors testified that mrs. mack is comparatively rich, being in fact a female miser, and this was doubtless known to her assailant. the old woman testified that she kept one hundred dollars in bills in the bureau drawer. this sum was missing, having evidently been taken by the person who attacked her. "she was not in a condition to throw much light upon the affair, being dazed and confused. when she recovers from her temporary stupefaction she may be able to give the police a clew that will lead to the arrest of the man who robbed her." when mark read this paragraph he decided at once that jack minton, mrs. mack's nephew, was the old woman's assailant. jack had evidently left the city by the first outgoing train, considering that at niagara he would be safe. so indeed he might have been but for the chance that threw mark and himself together. so it happened that the telegraph boy held in his hand the clew to the mysterious attack. in his hand probably lay the liberty of minton. what should he do? while mark was not especially fond of the old woman, he felt indignant with her burly nephew for attacking her, and was clearly of the opinion that he ought to be punished. after a little consideration he decided to call at the office of the local police and put the matter in their hands. he inquired the way to the police office. a pleasant-looking man in the uniform of a sergeant was on duty. "well, young man, what can i do for you?" he asked. "please read this paragraph, sir, and then i will tell you." the sergeant read the newspaper notice attentively. "well?" he said inquiringly. "the man who i think committed the assault is in a saloon only a quarter of a mile distant." "who is it?" "a nephew of the old lady." "but what makes you think he is the guilty party?" "he has once before visited mrs. mack, and tried to extort money from her." "how do you know this?" "because i live in the same house with mrs. mack. she occupies the room directly over where my mother and myself live." "then you live in new york?" "yes, sir." "how do you happen to be here?" "i came on business for a new york jeweler." "what is the name of the party you suspect?" "jack minton." "do you know anything of his character or antecedents?" "he is a criminal. he has been confined at sing sing prison for a term of years." "that alone is a ground of suspicion. now how do you know he is here?" "i met him less than an hour since." "did you speak to him?" "yes." "state the particulars of your interview." "he recognized me and invited me into a saloon to take a drink." "and you accepted?" "yes, sir." "i hardly approve of a boy of your age accepting such an invitation." "i only drank a glass of sarsaparilla." "i am glad to hear it. i have a son about your age, and i should be sorry to have him drink whisky." "there is no danger of my doing that," said mark quietly. "i have a good mother. for her sake, if not for my own, i would not drink liquor." "that does you credit. now as to your information it may prove important. have you anything to corroborate your suspicion?" "yes, sir. jack minton seemed to have plenty of money. when he paid the barkeeper for our drinks i saw him pull out a roll of bills. when he was in new york he had no money at all, and succeeded in obtaining only twenty-five cents from his aunt." "this is an important bit of information. i could order the arrest of minton, however, on your information without orders from new york. i will telegraph to inspector byrnes, and will act in accordance with any orders i may receive from him." "shall you need to see me again?" "give me your name and address and i will communicate with you if necessary." "my name is mark mason, and i am staying at the international hotel." "if convenient, come here in about two hours." "all right, sir." two hours later mark returned to the police station. "oh, here you are!" said the sergeant with a friendly nod. "well, i have heard from new york." "have you, sir?" asked mark eagerly. "from inspector byrnes?" "yes." "what does he say?" "here is his telegram." mark took it in his hand and read these words: "hold the suspected party. ask the boy to remain. will send officer by next train. "byrnes." "you see that you are requested to remain. can you do so?" "yes, sir." "i am glad of it, as your testimony will be important. now i will send a couple of officers with you to the saloon that you may identify minton. we don't want to make any mistake." "all right, sir." of course there was a chance that minton might have left the saloon, or been turned out by the proprietor. but fortunately he was so stupefied that the latter had put him in an inner room, and kept him there till he was in a better condition to move. by direction of the officers mark entered the saloon alone. he did not wish to excite suspicion, and therefore going up to the bar ordered a glass of lemon soda. while he was drinking it he asked: "is the man i came in with a little while ago still here?" "yes, and i wish you would get him out." "where is he?" "inside. he has been snoring till my regular customers asked me who i had in there." "very well. if you will show me where he is i will get him out for you." the barkeeper opened a door leading to an inner room. on a settee lay jack minton breathing heavily. his eyes were closed and he was quite unconscious of his position. "i don't believe you can stir him," said the barkeeper. "i will call a friend then." mark went to the door and beckoned to the two officers. when they came in the barkeeper looked dismayed. "am i in trouble?" he asked. "no, but we want the man." "what has he done?" "committed a murderous assault on a party in new york." "well, he looks as if he were capable of it. you can take him. i shall offer no resistance." one of the officers went forward and shook jack minton vigorously. "wha's the matter?" muttered jack, not opening his eyes. "wake up and see." "i'm sleepy. le' me alone!" hiccoughed jack. "give a hand here," said the officer, signaling to to his companion. with no gentle hand they pulled jack from the settee, and stood him up on his feet. then for the first time he opened his eyes, and stupefied as he was, he realized that he was in the hands of policemen. "wha's all this?" he muttered. "what have i done?" "you're wanted in new york." "new york? never was there in my life." "do you know an old lady named mack?" "i--i didn't do it. i tell you i didn't do it. it was somebody else." mark and the officers looked at each other significantly. the drunken man had unintentionally given himself away. just then his glance fell on mark. "it's the kid," he said. "what's all this mean, kid?" "i'll tell you, mr. minton. your aunt, mrs. mack, has been attacked and robbed." "is she--dead?" asked jack eagerly. "no." "she is my aunt. if she dies i'll get all her money. take me to a good hotel. i'm sleepy." it was clear that jack did not fully realize the situation. next morning, however, when the two new york officers arrived, he realized it fully and charged mark with betraying him. they went to new york in the same train, jack wearing handcuffs. chapter xxi. mark returns home. "welcome home, mark!" exclaimed mrs. mason with radiant face as the telegraph boy opened the door of their humble apartment. "then you have missed me?" said mark smiling. "it has seemed a long time since you went away. did you have a successful trip?" "yes, indeed. mr. swan was so well satisfied that he gave me fifteen dollars besides paying the telegraph company for my services. i shall be paid my regular wages by them also." "poor mrs. mack has been attacked and robbed of a hundred dollars since you went away." "i read a paragraph about it copied from the new york papers. how is she now?" "she is confined to her bed. the villain, whoever he was, nearly choked her, and the shock was so great that it quite prostrated her." "were you at home when the attack took place?" "no; i had gone out on an errand. meanwhile the rascal escaped. i suppose it was her nephew." "i have brought him back to stand trial." "_you!_" exclaimed his mother in amazement. "yes; i met him at niagara, and on reading the paragraph i concluded that he was the thief, especially as he seemed to be well provided with money. on my information a telegram was sent to inspector byrnes, and he was brought back on the same train with me." "go up and tell mrs. mack. it will do her good." mark went up-stairs with his mother. the old lady, looking unusually feeble, was lying on the bed. "how do you feel, mrs. mack?" asked mark. "i'm almost dead," groaned the old woman. "i've been robbed and almost murdered since you went away, mark." "who did it?" "who but that rascal jack minton, and he my own nephew!" "are you sure it was he?" "yes, i saw him and talked with him." "tell me about it." "he come in while i was sitting in the rocking chair and asked me for some money. he begged and implored but i would give him nothing. then he began to threaten, and i said i would call you. 'if you do i'll kill the kid,' he said. then he put his hand around my throat and almost choked me. "i fainted away, and when i came to he was gone and a hundred dollars was taken from the bureau, all i had to keep me from the poor-house," added the old woman whimpering. "but i'll get even with him. he thinks he'll have the little i have to leave because he is my nephew. he'll find himself mistaken. i'll make a will--i'll----" "mrs. mack, i have something to tell you that will please you." "has my money been found?" asked the old woman eagerly. "your nephew has been arrested and he is now in the hands of the police." "heaven be praised! i don't mind the money now. and where was he found?" "i found him at niagara falls and had him arrested." "you're a good boy, mark, and you won't be sorry for helping a poor old woman; no, you won't be sorry. tell me all about it." mark told the story, and it so cheered up the old woman that she got up from her bed and the next day was as well as ever. she no longer complained of her loss of money. her satisfaction in the retribution which had overtaken her nephew was so great that it overcame every other feeling. when the trial came on she even succeeded in getting to the court room where she positively identified jack minton as her assailant, and her evidence procured his conviction. he was sentenced to seven years' imprisonment at sing sing. "he'll not trouble me again," said mrs. mack triumphantly as she walked out of court leaning on mark's arm. the prisoner glared at the pair and his hands were clenched. "if i could only get at 'em i'd kill 'em both!" he muttered, but in his position his threats were futile. two days afterwards mrs. mason was surprised by another call from solon talbot. he looked about him as he entered the room and his eyes lighted up with satisfaction as he noted the evidences of poverty. though mark was now better off no new furniture had been bought. he was waiting till he would feel justified in securing better apartments for his mother. mrs. mason looked surprised when her brother-in-law entered. "have you moved into the city yet, mr. talbot?" she asked. "yes; i arrived yesterday." "how is mary? is she with you?" "yes." "i should like to see her. where are you located?" "why, the fact is, we are not located yet." "i should be glad to see mary. it is so long since we have met." "i can't ask you to call as we are so unsettled. in a short time she will come and call upon you." "i hope so. it is tantalizing to think she is in the same city, and yet not to meet." "we all have our duties, and her duty is to her husband and son. i was surprised a few days since to meet mark on the central road." "yes; he went to cleveland on business." "indeed! has he returned yet?" "he returned two days since." "for whom was he traveling?" "i don't know that it is any secret. he had a business commission from mr. swan, a broadway jeweler." "he must be a strange business man to select a boy to travel for him." "he made no mistake in selecting mark. he professed himself well pleased with him." "humph! it may have turned out right in a single instance. when i select an agent i prefer to employ a man." "how is edgar?" "he is well. i am looking for a position for him. i have hopes of getting him into the office of a prominent broker on wall street." "i shall be glad to hear that he is doing well. he is about the age of mark." "true, but their paths will lie apart. my, ahem! position will secure for edgar an entrance into fashionable society, while your son, though doubtless a deserving boy, must necessarily associate with his equals." "mark has some excellent friends," said mrs. mason, nettled. "no doubt, no doubt. i have not a word to say derogatory of him except that he is inclined to be conceited." "i suppose edgar is quite free from that fault." "well no, perhaps not, but he has a social position to maintain. however, this is not what i came to talk about. you remember that when i was last here i asked your signature to a statement that you had received your rightful portion of your father's estate." "i remember it." "i offered you a small sum in consideration of this release. as the administrator i find it desirable to have it in order that i may render a final account." "i remember the circumstances." "i think you made some objection--a foolish one, to which you were instigated probably by your son mark." "i remember that too." "no doubt the boy was honest in his advice, but i need hardly suggest to you how incompetent a boy of his age is as an adviser in a serious business matter. well, i have come this morning on the same business, but i wish to be liberal. i think it only fair to take your circumstances into consideration. i am ready to give you a hundred dollars if you will sign the paper i have here." "let me see the paper, solon." mr. talbot took from his pocket a folded document which he placed before his sister-in-law. it ran thus: "i hereby acknowledge that i have received from solon talbot, administrator of the estate of my late father, elisha doane, my full share in that estate, and i hereby release him from all further claim on my part to said estate." "sign here, if you please," said solon suavely, "and i will give you the sum promised." as he spoke he drew from his wallet a roll of ten ten-dollar bills, which he judged would look tempting to a woman of mrs. mason's limited means. "if you will leave this paper here, solon," said the widow, "i will show it to mark when he gets home, and ask his advice." mr. talbot frowned and looked vexed. "ask advice of a boy of sixteen!" he sneered. "surely you are better able to judge what is best than he." "i am not sure about that. at any rate he is interested, and i prefer to wait till i see him." "then the offer of a hundred dollars is withdrawn." "just as you think best, solon. i shall not sign without consulting mark." "well, i will leave the paper, then," said talbot, finding it hard to conceal his chagrin. "i hope for your sake that mark will advise you sensibly." "i think he will. he is young, but he has always shown good judgment." "confound the woman!" muttered talbot, as he left the house. "it is most provoking to have her act in this way. should she hear of the golden hope mine it would be most disastrous. once let me obtain her release and i can sell it out for my own advantage." chapter xxii. a crafty schemer. "your uncle has been here, mark," said mrs. mason, when mark reached home. "i can tell you what business he came about, mother." "he wanted my signature to a paper acknowledging that i had received my full share of father's estate." "you didn't give it?" inquired mark anxiously. "no; i would not take such an important step without your knowledge." "i feel much relieved. i have not told you what i found on my journey to niagara." "what is it?" "that uncle solon is trying to cheat you out of a large sum of money." "is that possible? but father did not leave a fortune." "so we all supposed. what if i should tell you that he left you enough to make you comfortable for life on your share." mrs. mason looked incredulous. "here, read this memorandum, mother," and mark explained briefly how he came into possession of it. "tell me what it all means, mark. i have a poor head for business." "it means that grandfather owned four hundred shares of the golden hope mine in colorado. probably he bought it for a small sum. but it has proved unexpectedly rich, and it will probably soon be worth one hundred dollars a share. that means twenty thousand dollars for you, mother." "and solon talbot wants me to relinquish my claim for a hundred dollars!" exclaimed mrs. mason indignantly. "exactly so, mother." "then i will give him a piece of my mind when he comes here this afternoon." "don't do it, mother. it is our policy to make him think we are ignorant of the existence of this important item in grandfather's estate. only you must steadily refuse to sign a release." "i will. i hope you will be here when he calls." "i will get off for the afternoon. i wish to be here myself. i have a little headache, which will give me an excuse." when solon talbot called on his sister-in-law about three o'clock in the afternoon he was rather disgusted to find mark at home. he knew that mark was much more clear-sighted than his mother, and he feared that he would influence her to refuse her signature. "good afternoon, ellen," he said suavely. "take a seat, mr. talbot," said mrs. mason coldly. "how do you happen to be at home, mark?" asked solon, regarding mark with a slight frown. "i got excused for the afternoon. i have a headache." "perhaps you won't mind going out for a few minutes. i wish to speak to your mother on business." "do you wish me to go out, mother?" asked mark. "no. whatever affects you affects me. besides, i may want your advice." "i don't ask edgar for advice," returned solon talbot dryly. "i suppose not. you are a business man, and can judge better than he. i am not a business man." "you are older than mark." "i have always found mark a safe and good adviser." "you will spoil him by such flattery." "i am not afraid of it." "very well. i will humor your prejudices. mark may have more judgment than i give him credit for." this he said because he saw that it was necessary under the circumstances to propitiate mark. the telegraph boy understood his uncle's object very well and was amused, but remained outwardly grave. "thank you, uncle," he said briefly. "i will address myself, then, to both of you. you will remember that i offered you a hundred dollars in cash--i have the money with me," he added, tapping his pocket--"if you will sign acknowledgment that you have received your full share of your father's estate. it is a mere form, but i want to wind the whole business up and have it off my hands." "i can't sign such a paper at present, solon." "why not?" "because i am not sure that i have received my full share." "don't you believe my assurance to that effect?" said solon talbot impatiently. "it is an important matter, and i have no evidence but your word." "do you doubt my word?" "in this matter your interests and mine might clash." "then let me tell you that you are getting more than your share--that is, when i have paid you the hundred dollars. the fact is, your father left a very small estate. after paying his funeral expenses and debts there was scarcely anything over, and off that little you have already had your share. still i understand your position and sympathize with you in your poverty, and therefore i am willing to strain a point and give you a hundred dollars." if mr. talbot expected his sister-in-law to look grateful he was doomed to disappointment. "a hundred dollars," he continued, "is a good deal of money, especially in your circumstances. i am sure mark will agree with me in this." "it is more than all the money we have," replied mark. "precisely. it will make things easy for you for a year to come. by that time mark will probably be earning higher pay than at present, and so your mind will be quite at ease." "you are very considerate, solon, but i think i would rather not sign." "why, this is midsummer madness. i am sure mark will not advise you to refuse." "i quite agree with my mother," said mark. "well," returned talbot angrily, "i have heard of foolish people, but i must own that you two beat the record." "why are you so anxious that my mother should sign a release, uncle solon," asked mark quietly. "because i wish to have the whole matter settled and off my hands, as i have told you. i have business interests exclusively my own that demand my attention, and i don't want to be bothered by this small matter." "i have no doubt you have good reasons for wishing mother to sign," said mark. "what do you mean?" demanded solon suspiciously. "only that you are a good business man, and understand your own interests." "i wish i could say the same for you," retorted solon talbot sharply. "perhaps we do." "i ought not to be surprised at meeting opposition from a woman and a boy, both ignorant of business. as a rule those who know nothing think they know the most and are most suspicious. however, i can afford to overlook your unexpected obstinacy. i will do what i had no idea of doing when i entered the room. i will increase my offer to a hundred and twenty-five dollars. that is certainly handsome, and i shall not let mrs. talbot and edgar know how foolishly i have acted." as he spoke he laid the paper before mrs. mason. "here is a fountain pen," he said. "you can sign at once." "i don't care to sign, solon." "have you been talking to your mother, mark?" demanded talbot sharply. "have you put her up to this?" "we had a little talk together, but i think she is just as determined on the subject as i am." "then," said solon talbot, "i can only regard your refusal as an act of hostility. evidently you want to break with me and mine. it was my intention to invite you both to take dinner at my house to-morrow; but, as matters stand, we cannot receive you, and i shall forbid mrs. talbot to call upon you." "i shall be sorry to be separated from my sister," said mrs. mason in a pained tone, "but i cannot sign away my own and my children's rightful inheritance." "i don't know what you mean by this nonsense. i have offered you more than your share of your rightful inheritance, as you see fit to call it. if you choose to return my kindness with ingratitude, i can only leave you to the consequences of your own folly." he looked first at mark and then at his mother to see how this speech affected them, but both looked firm, and there seemed to be nothing to do but to leave them. he took his hat and strode to the door, his hands trembling with nervous anger. but at the door he paused. "if you come to your senses," he said, "and desire to accept my offer, mark can call on me. i hate to see you so blind to your own interests." after he had left the room mark and his mother looked at each other. "uncle solon seemed very much in earnest," said mark. "yes; i am now ready to believe that he is conspiring to cheat us. it is shameful! he is a rich man already, and we are so poor." "but we shan't be long, mother." "you must take good care of that memorandum, mark." "i shall carry it to a young lawyer whom i know well, and ask his advice about it. when the right time comes i shall bring it forward. i will ask him to keep it in his safe." "very well, mark. i think that will be wise." the next day mark received a letter at the office where he was employed. on the left-hand upper corner was the imprint: luther rockwell, broker and banker. "he is going to take you into partnership, ," said a. d. t. . "if he does i'll make you my office-boy," said mark in a jocular tone. "i hope the old gentleman has quite recovered from his dynamite scare." chapter xxiii. mark's good luck. mark presented himself at mr. rockwell's office at eleven o'clock. the letter which he had received was a simple invitation to call, signed by the banker himself. "is mr. rockwell in?" he asked. "yes," said the clerk smiling pleasantly, for mark was a favorite in the office. mark went over to the open door, and stood on the threshold with his hat in his hand. the banker looked up. "oh, it is my young friend the messenger boy!" he said cordially, holding out his hand. "i hope you are quite recovered, sir," said mark respectfully. "yes, i believe so. the visit of our dynamite friend was quite a shock to me, and at my age it takes longer to recover from the effects of such an incident than at yours. you must not think that i have forgotten what a service you rendered me." "i am very glad to have done you a service, sir, but i am afraid i must confess that i was thinking partly of myself." "i don't think any the less of you for your frankness. still i am sensible that your promptness and presence of mind saved me from a terrible death--i feel that i ought to do something to show my gratitude." "you have already repaid me, sir, by your kind words." "kind words are well enough, but they are not practical. i should like to take you into my employ but i have no vacancy, and i do not like to discharge any of my old and trusted employees." "i should not be willing to displace any of them, sir." "but there may be another way. are your parents living?" "my mother is living, and i have a little sister." "and i suppose they are dependent upon you partly for support." "yes, sir." "probably you are poor?" "yes, sir; our means are very limited." "so i suppose. what is your name?" "mark mason." mr. rockwell turned to his desk, and opening his check book, deliberately filled up a check. he tore it off and handed it to mark. mark read it in amazement. it was a check for one thousand dollars, payable to the order of mark mason. "a thousand dollars!" he ejaculated. "yes, does it seem to you a large amount? i assure you that i value my life a great deal higher than this sum, so i shall remain your debtor." "it seems a fortune to me, mr. rockwell. how can i thank you for your generous gift?" "my boy, generosity is a variable quality--i am blessed by fortune, and for me it is a small sum to bestow in return for the heroic act. would you like to have mr. nichols go with you to identify you at the bank?" "i don't think i should like to draw it all, sir. i should be afraid to have so much money in my possession." "then you can leave it with me as a deposit subject to your call. how much of it would you like to draw now?" "about fifty dollars, sir. i would like to buy a dress for my mother and sister and a new suit for myself." "well thought of. will you call mr. nichols?" the clerk made his appearance. "my young friend wishes to make a deposit with our house. let him indorse the check. then credit him with the entire amount, and he will draw what sum he wishes." "you are in luck, mark," said the clerk when mark accompanied him into the main office. "you are in luck, and i am heartily glad of it." "thank you, mr. nichols. i feel rich." "it is a good beginning at any rate. i am ten years older than you probably, but i haven't as much money as you. but i don't envy you, and i won't even ask for a loan." when mark left the office and reappeared on broadway his face was flushed with pleasure, and he walked with the elastic step of one whose spirits are light. just as he stepped into the street, he met his cousin edgar. "hello!" said edgar in a condescending tone. "so it's you, is it?" "to the best of my knowledge it is, my good cousin." "don't call me cousin," said edgar, hastily. "i wont," answered mark promptly. "i am just as much ashamed of the relationship as you are." "i suppose that is a joke!" responded edgar haughtily. "if it is, it is a poor one." "no joke at all!" "where have you been?" "to the office of mr. rockwell, my banker." "_your_ banker!" sneered edgar. "how long has he been your banker, i should like to know." "only since this morning. i have just deposited some money with him." "indeed! how much?" "a thousand dollars." "you are too funny altogether. if you are ever worth a thousand cents you will be lucky." "do you think so?" returned mark, smiling. "i shouldn't be satisfied with so small a fortune as that." "my father tells me you and your mother have made him a very poor return for a kind offer he made you yesterday." "that's a matter of business, edgar. we didn't look upon it in the same way. but i am afraid i must tear myself away from your company. i shall be expected at the office." "go by all means. it wouldn't do for you to be bounced. you might starve if you lost your place." "i am not very much afraid of that." "at any rate i ought not to be talking with you. father does not care to have me associate with you." "i hope he won't disinherit you. that would be serious for you. if he does, come round to our house, and we will take care of you." "you are too awfully funny. i think it would be better for you if you were not quite so fresh." mark laughed and went on his way. "wouldn't edgar be surprised," he thought, "if he knew how large a sum i had on deposit with mr. rockwell? he thought i was joking when i was only telling the truth." when mark went home to his supper he said: "mother, i want you to buy a new dress for yourself and one for edith." "there are a good many things we would like, mark, but you must remember that we are not rich." "perhaps not, but i think you can afford new dresses. how much would they cost?" "the material will cost from ten to twenty dollars. i could make them up myself." "all right, mother. here are twenty dollars." "but, mark, can you spare that amount? our rent comes due next week." "it is the last rent we shall pay here. we will move to better quarters." "really, mark, i am afraid you are forgetting your prudence." "that is because you don't know how rich i am mother. i have a thousand dollars on deposit with my banker, or rather nine hundred and fifty, for i drew fifty dollars this morning." mrs. mason surveyed her son with alarm. a terrible suspicion entered her mind. was he becoming mentally unbalanced? mark understood her thoughts and was amused. "don't think i am crazy, mother," he said. "the fact is, mr. rockwell made me a present of a thousand dollars this morning." "is this really true? you are not joking?" "i was never more serious in my life. he told me that i had saved his life, and he didn't think he was overpaying me in giving me a thousand dollars." "he was right, but i was afraid few men would have been so generous. so i really have a rich son." "and i shall have a rich mother when she gets her share of her father's estate." "oh, by the way, there is a letter for you. edith, get mark's letter." "i guess it's from a girl, mark," said his sister, as she handed the messenger boy a dainty epistle in a square envelope. mark opened it and read it aloud. miss maud gilbert asks the favor of mr. mark mason's company at her residence on the evening of thursday, sept. d. "an invitation to a party," said mark flushing with pleasure. "where, mark?" "at the house of miss maud gilbert." "shall you go?" "yes, i can go now, for i shall have a nice suit." "you are getting to be fashionable, mark. who knows but you will be counted among the four hundred some time?" chapter xxiv. the two sisters meet. solon talbot had two strong desires. one was to acquire wealth. the other was to get into good society. he had moved to the city of new york with the idea of helping himself in both these particulars. he took a house on an up-town street at a considerable rental. it was really beyond his means, but he felt that he must make a good appearance. he sent edgar to a fashionable school where he instructed him to be especially attentive to his wealthier schoolfellows. though edgar made himself disagreeable to his poor relations, he flattered and fawned upon the boys who he thought could help him socially, for he, like his father, was ambitious to "get into society." thus he contrived to get invited to the party given by maud gilbert. when he had compassed this he was greatly elated. "father," he said on his return home, "i am invited to miss gilbert's party next thursday evening." "do you mean the gilberts of west forty-fifth street?" "yes." "i am very much pleased, edgar. mr. gilbert is a wealthy merchant, and stands very high in society. how did you manage it?" "through stanley rayburn, who knows her brother." "have you made the acquaintance of miss gilbert?" "yes, i met her walking with stanley on fifth avenue. he introduced me." "i should hardly think she would have invited you on such short acquaintance." "i got stanley to make a personal request of her. she objected at first, but finally came round. stanley says she is very good-natured and obliging." "luckily for you. well, i am glad you have the invitation. it will be an entering wedge. you must try to get acquainted with as many of her guests as possible." "trust me for that, father. i know on which side my bread is buttered." "i know you are sensible. you quite accord with me in your views on this subject. as for your mother she has no proper pride. she would be contented to associate with persons in the same social position as mrs. mason and mark. this very morning she applied to me for permission to call upon her sister." "of course you refused." "of course. not but i would consent if your aunt, instigated by mark, had not acted in such an extraordinary way about signing a release to me as administrator to your grandfather's estate." "what is her reason?" "i suppose she thinks she ought to have more than she has received from it." "grandfather was very poor, wasn't he?" "i didn't think so when he lived, but he left next to nothing after his debts were paid." "some people are very unreasonable." "of course. i suppose mrs. mason and mark think i ought to make up for their disappointment." "but you won't, father?" "certainly not. i did offer them a hundred dollars out of pity for their poverty, but they are standing out for more." "it is quite disgusting." "it is human nature, i suppose," said mr. talbot leniently. "i don't know that i am surprised." mrs. talbot was very unlike her husband and son. she was sincerely attached to her sister, and her affection had not been diminished by mrs. mason's poverty. it was her desire to call on her as soon as she arrived in the city, but she stood somewhat in awe of her husband who had positively refused his consent. so she unwillingly gave up the plan for the present, hoping that the time would soon come when she and her sister could meet. it came two days before the party. with the money with which mark supplied her, mrs. mason went up town to the well-known store of arnold & constable, intending to get dress patterns there. she had made her purchases and received her bundle. "will you have it sent home?" asked the salesman courteously. "no, thank you." mrs. mason shrank from having the parcel brought to her humble abode in st. mark's place. she was turning to go when she heard her name called in glad and familiar accents. "why, ellen, do i meet you at last?" "lucy!" exclaimed mrs. mason, as she clasped hands warmly with her sister. "this is a delightful surprise." "to me also; i thought i should never see you again." "it is not my fault, lucy." "no, no. i know it," answered mrs. talbot. "mr. talbot is peculiar, as you know. he thinks everything of social rank. now tell me, how are you getting on?" "very poorly till lately, but now better." "you are not in want? solon doesn't allow me much money, but----" "no, lucy. i want for nothing. mark is a good boy, and he has been fortunate. you see i have just bought two dress patterns, one for edith, the other for myself." "i am glad indeed to hear it. mark is a telegraph messenger, is he not?" "yes." "i shouldn't think that would pay very well." "it does not, so far as wages go, but some who have employed him have been liberal." "come out with me for a walk. my purchases can wait. we will go to sixth avenue, as we are less likely to be seen together than on broadway." for an hour the two sisters talked, and it seemed delightful to both to be again together. "i must go home now," said mrs. mason, "as i left edith alone. besides it is time for me to prepare supper for mark. i wish you could go with me." "i would, ellen, but mr. talbot would be angry." "do you think he is justified in keeping you away from your only sister?" "no, but, ellen, i am ready to make a sacrifice for a quiet life." "can't we meet again?" "yes; i will go to arnold & constable's next week on the same day and at the same hour. i wish i could invite you to my house, but you know how matters stand." "yes i know. mr. talbot appears to have increased his property." "yes, i judge so, though i receive no larger allowance. but he tells me very little of his affairs. he is more confidential with edgar than myself." "i have seen edgar. he came to my rooms with his father some time since. he is about the age of mark." "yes; there is not over a month's difference between them." "if mr. talbot was different they would be company for each other. i believe mark meets edgar occasionally in the street. i hope edgar is a comfort to you." "he is my son, and of course i love him; but, ellen; i fear his father is not exercising a good influence upon him. he is making him proud and arrogant. i would not mention this except to you." at this moment mark, going up-town on an errand in a sixth avenue car, saw his mother and his aunt together on the sidewalk. he instantly left the car and joined them. "how do you do, aunt lucy?" he said, his face lighting up. "and this is mark!" said mrs. talbot equally pleased. "how you have grown and how well you look!" "thank you, aunt. i am tall enough to look over my mother's head." "as edgar is taller than i. your mother tells me you meet edgar sometimes." "yes, aunt lucy," returned mark smiling, "but he doesn't care to be very intimate with his poor relations." mrs. talbot looked grave. "you won't suspect me of the same feeling, mark?" she said. "no; you are too much like mother." "i am glad to hear that you are doing well." "yes; i have been fortunate." "i wish you were in a better position. perhaps mr. talbot might interest himself to get you a better place." "no, aunt, don't ask him. i have other friends who will help me when i wish to make a change. for the present i am content to remain as i am." mark excused himself and boarded the next car, as he did not wish to lose any time. the sisters separated and mrs. mason went home feeling cheered by her unexpected interview with mrs. talbot. when she returned to her humble home edith said, "mrs. mack wants to see you. i think she is very sick. a gentleman came to see her, but i don't know whether it was a doctor." mrs. mason went up stairs immediately. the old lady was lying on the bed, looking fatigued. "how do you do, mrs. mack?" said mrs. mason kindly. "i feel tired, but i am strong--oh, yes, i am very strong. i think i shall live ten years," and the old woman peered anxiously into mrs. mason's face hoping for a confirmation of her opinion. "i hope you will if you desire it. edith tells me you have had a visit from the doctor." "no, it was not the doctor; it was a lawyer. i have made my will." mrs. mason looked surprised. "not that i have much to leave, but i don't want my nephew to get anything. if anything happens to me--some years hence--i would like you to call on my lawyer and tell him. he has an office at nassau street. mr. page. you will remember?" "yes." "he has my will. i didn't want to leave it here. it might be stolen, or mislaid, and then jack minton would inherit. you'll put down the address?" "i will do it at once." "that is all. i think i will sleep now." "i wonder who will inherit the old lady's money," thought mrs. mason. "very probably she has left it to some charitable society. i know of no other relation except jack minton." chapter xxv. maud gilbert's party. edgar talbot looked forward with eager anticipation to the evening of maud gilbert's party. it was to be his introduction into new york society. he flattered himself that his appearance would win him favor. though far from handsome, he thought himself so--a delusion not uncommon among boys and men. he dressed himself very carefully, and at the proper time set out for the house where the party was to be held. he and stanley rayburn had agreed to go together. on reaching the house they were directed to the room set apart for gentlemen to arrange their toilet and leave their coats. the mansion was brilliantly decorated, and as edgar went up-stairs he felt a thrill of exultation at being a guest in such a house. he inwardly resolved that he would take advantage of his slight acquaintance with the gilberts and push himself into intimate friendship. in that way he would be in a position to extend his acquaintance among fashionable people. but a surprise and a shock were in store for him. as he entered the room he saw a boy standing in front of the mirror brushing his hair. he started in surprise. the figure looked familiar. could it be! yes, it was his cousin mark mason--mark mason, handsomely dressed in party costume, and with a rose in his button-hole. mark turned round to see who were the newcomers. "good evening, edgar," said mark. "_you_ here!" exclaimed edgar, in unqualified amazement. "yes; i did not expect to have the pleasure of meeting you," answered mark with an amused smile. he understood edgar's surprise, and the reason of it. meanwhile stanley rayburn stood by in silence. "introduce me to your friend, edgar," he said, for he was attracted by mark's frank, handsome face. "mark mason--stanley rayburn!" said edgar awkwardly. he would have liked to decline introducing stanley to his poor cousin, but there seemed to be no way of avoiding it. "i am glad to make your acquaintance, mr. mason," said stanley cordially. "thank you, but don't call me mr. mason." "i would rather say mark. any friend of edgar----" "mark mason and i are only acquaintances," said edgar hurriedly, and in the worst possible taste. "i hope that _we_ shall be friends," said stanley with emphasis, thinking that edgar was a cad. "i hope so too," rejoined mark earnestly, "if, after getting my 'character' from edgar," he added with a smile, "you still wish it." stanley was a little puzzled, not knowing how mark was regarded by his companion. "i think i shall go down at once," said stanley. "i don't think i require any finishing touches to my toilet." "be ready to go with me to miss gilbert," said edgar. "i will follow you in a minute." "very well." "now," said edgar, when he and his cousin were alone, "how do you happen to be here?" "by miss gilbert's invitation, of course. i suppose that is the case with you." "certainly. does she know that you are a telegraph boy?" "yes." "that's strange. did you ever meet her?" "oh, yes; i have spent the evening here two or three times." "that's queer. by the way, you seem to be very nicely dressed." "i am glad you like my suit." "yet you are as poor as poverty. it was a crazy idea to run into debt for an expensive suit." "i didn't run into debt. my suit is paid for." "yet your mother claims to be very poor." "we are getting along better now." "it would have been wiser for you to save the money you spent on this suit and keep it for rent and food." "your advice is very kind, edgar, but i really feel that i can manage my own business." "oh, well, if you choose to resent my good advice----" "i don't. i hope it springs from your interest in me." during this conversation edgar was brushing his hair carefully and "prinking" before the glass, for he was anxious to appear as fascinating as possible when he presented himself to miss gilbert. "shall we go down?" asked mark. "yes, perhaps we may as well. i suppose you would feel awkward entering the drawing-room alone." "perhaps so," said mark smiling. as the two presented themselves in the room below edgar looked about for stanley, but did not see him. "i wonder where stanley has disappeared to," he said in a tone of vexation. "he promised to go up with me to miss gilbert." "if he doesn't show up, edgar, i shall be glad to take his place. as you have only recently come to the city, i suppose you don't know her well." "i only met her once," edgar admitted, "and she may not remember me." "then come with me." almost against his wishes edgar found himself walking up to the other end of the room with his despised cousin. he would not have believed it possible if this had been predicted to him an hour earlier. "good evening, mark! i am glad to see you here," said maud gilbert, with a pleasant smile. "let me present mr. edgar talbot," said mark after a suitable acknowledgment. "i had the pleasure of meeting you when in company with stanley rayburn," explained edgar. "oh, yes, i remember. and so you are also acquainted with mark." "yes," answered edgar, rather awkwardly. "i expected mr. rayburn to present me." "you have found a sponsor equally good," returned maud. then the two walked on, giving place to others. "you seem to know miss gilbert very well," said edgar in a tone of curiosity. "yes." "it is strange. i don't understand it." edgar was relieved to find that mark did not claim him as a cousin, though to his surprise he saw that mark stood particularly well with the young hostess. "how do you, mark?" the speaker was a bright boy of sixteen, the brother of miss gilbert. "how well you are looking!" "thank you, charlie. if a young lady had told me that it would make me proud." "come along. i will introduce you to a couple of nice girls." "who is that?" asked edgar of rayburn, who had now come up. "don't you know? that is charlie gilbert, maud's brother." "so he knows mark, too." "why shouldn't he?" "because mark is--you will be surprised to hear it--a common telegraph boy." "he may be a telegraph boy, but he certainly is not a common one. he is a nice-looking fellow, and i am glad to know him." presently dancing began. in his earlier days, when his father was living, mark had taken lessons from a teacher, and though he was rather out of practise he ventured to go out on the floor, having as his partner one of the prettiest girls in the room. as there was space for but two sets of dancers, edgar was obliged to sit still and see the others dance. he felt very much dissatisfied especially as mark seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly. "society in new york seems to be very much mixed," he said to himself, "when telegraph boys can push in and make themselves so conspicuous in rich men's houses." edgar got a chance to dance once later on, but the girl he danced with was very small and insignificant in appearance. * * * * * "well, what kind of a time did you have?" asked solon talbot when his son returned home. "very good." "i suppose it was quite a brilliant affair," said solon talbot complacently. "i am glad to have you invited to such a swell house. did stanley rayburn take you up to miss gilbert?" "no; he promised to, but when i looked for him he was not to be found." "that was awkward." "no; i found a substitute, a boy whom you and i both know." "i have no idea whom you can mean." "no; you might guess all night, but without success. it was mark mason." "what! you don't mean to say that mark mason was a guest at the party?" "yes he was, and he seemed very well acquainted too." "was he in his telegraph uniform?" "no; he had on a nice new suit, as handsome as mine. he had a rose in his button-hole and looked quite like a dude." "how very extraordinary!" ejaculated solon. "i thought you would say so." "why, they are living from hand to mouth, steeped in poverty." "so i thought, but it doesn't seem like it." "the boy must be very cheeky, but even so, i can't account for his success. i shall have to call on his mother and ask what it means." chapter xxvi. an important commission. a week later mark received the following letter: "mark mason: please call at my office as soon as convenient. "d. gilbert." "this letter is from maud gilbert's father," said mark, addressing his mother. "i wonder what he wants." "nothing disagreeable, i am sure. of course you will go." "i will call to-morrow morning." mr. gilbert was a commission merchant, with an office in the lower part of the city, west of broadway. mark obtained leave of absence for an hour agreeing to pay the price usually charged to customers. he had seen mr. gilbert, a stout, portly man of fifty, during his call at the house in forty-fifth street. therefore when he was admitted to mr. gilbert's office, he addressed him not as a stranger but as an old acquaintance. "i received your note, mr. gilbert, and have called according to your request." "that is right, mark. sit down till i have finished looking over my letters. you will find the morning _herald_ on the table near you." in ten minutes the merchant had finished with his letters, and whirled round in his chair. "i believe you are a telegraph boy," he said. "yes, sir." "what pay do you receive?" "i don't average over six dollars a week." "how old are you?" "sixteen." "my daughter thinks you are unusually bright and intelligent." "i am very much obliged to miss maud for her good opinion," said mark, his face flushing with gratification. "how can you get along on six dollars a week? you have a mother partially dependent upon you, i believe." "i have lately had a present of a thousand dollars from mr. luther rockwell, the banker. i was in his office when a dynamite crank threatened to blow us all up." "i heartily congratulate you, mark. you deserved the gift for your coolness and courage, but it isn't every rich man who would make so generous an acknowledgment for your services." "that's true, sir. mr. rockwell has been very kind." "how do you like the position of telegraph boy?" "i would like to give it up. it doesn't lead to anything. but i don't want to throw myself out of work. six dollars a week is a small income, but it is better than nothing." "i approve your prudence, but i think other and better employment can be obtained for you. maud tells me that you were sent not long since to cleveland with some valuable jewelry." "yes, sir." "you succeeded in your mission?" "yes, sir." "did you meet with any adventures while you were gone?" "yes, sir." "tell me briefly what they were." mark did so. "don't think i am influenced by curiosity," said mr. gilbert. "the fact is, i have a still longer journey for you if you don't object, and i wished to assure myself that you were adequate to undertake it. it may take six weeks, or it may take two months. i should advise you to give up your position as messenger, and i will guarantee you an equally good place when you return." "thank you, sir. in that case i won't hesitate to give it up." "your week closes to-morrow, i suppose." "yes, sir." "then give notice at once." "where are you going to send me, sir?" asked mark, with pardonable curiosity. "to california." mark looked amazed. he knew that california was even further away than liverpool, and having the love of travel and adventure natural to boys of his age he felt that he should thoroughly enjoy the trip. "i should like very much to go," he said promptly. "now i must tell you why i send you. a cousin of mine has just died in california, leaving a young son of ten years of age. he wrote me a letter from his death-bed commending the boy to my care. i will gladly undertake the charge of the boy, as i had a strong regard for his father, who, by the way had died poor. "but a difficulty presented itself. the boy could not come east by himself, and there seemed no one to bring him. of course i can't leave my business, and there is no one else in my family who can be sent. under these circumstances maud has recommended me to send you." "i shall be glad to go, sir." "you are a rather young guardian for a young boy, but i think you possess the necessary qualification. your experience as a telegraph boy has made you sharp and self-reliant, and altogether i think you will acquit yourself to my satisfaction." "i will try to, sir." "i need no assurance of that." "how am i to go?" "by the union and central pacific road from omaha. i will supply you with a through ticket." "shall you wish me to return immediately?" "no; you can stay in california two or three weeks and get acquainted with the boy. i have never seen him, but i think you won't find him troublesome. are you fond of children?" "very, sir." "the poor boy will need a kind friend, having lost his father so recently. and now, there is one thing more to be spoken of--your compensation." "i shall be satisfied with whatever you think right." "then we will fix that after your return. but you will need to leave some money with your mother to pay expenses while you are away." "i can draw from mr. rockwell." "no; if you have money in his hands let it remain. i will advance you a hundred dollars to leave with your mother. i may as well do that now. on saturday evening, when you are released from your present position, call at the house and receive your ticket and final instructions." "thank you, sir." mr. gilbert rang a little bell, and a boy appeared. "go to the bank and get this check cashed," said the merchant. in a few minutes he returned with a roll of bills. "count them over and see if they are right, mark." "yes, sir; they are correct." "very good! remember that they are for your mother. tell her also that if you remain longer than i anticipate, and she gets short of money, she can call at my office and i will supply her with more." mark left the office in a state of joyful excitement. he was to make a long journey across the continent. he would see many states and cities, and become acquainted with places which he now knew only by hearsay. and after he returned his prospects would be brighter, for mr. gilbert had promised to find him a position at least equal to the one he resigned. in the afternoon as mark was returning from an errand in west fiftieth street, he saw edgar talbot in the neighborhood of bryant park. "hallo!" said edgar condescendingly. "are you on an errand?" "yes." "ho, ho! how you will look in a telegraph boy's uniform when you are a young man of twenty-five." "what makes you think i am going to be a telegraph boy so long?" "because you are not fit for any other business." mark smiled. "i am sorry for that," he said, "for as it happens i have tendered my resignation." "you don't mean that you are going to leave the messenger service?" "yes." "but how are you going to live? it won't be any use to ask father for money." "i presume not." "perhaps," suggested edgar hopefully, "you have been discharged." "i discharged myself." "have you got another position?" "i am going to travel for a while." edgar talbot was more and more perplexed. in fact he had always found mark a perplexing problem. "how can you travel without money?" "give it up. i don't propose to." "have you got any money?" mark happened to have with him the roll of bills given him for his mother. he drew it out. "do you mean to say that is yours? how much is there?" "a hundred dollars." "i don't believe it is yours." "it isn't. it belongs to my mother." "but father said she was very poor." "at any rate this money belongs to her." "where are you going to travel?" "out west." this was all the information mark would give. edgar reported the conversation to his father, who was also perplexed. "mark mason is a strange boy," he said. "i don't understand him." chapter xxvii. last instructions. mark had intended to find a new and more comfortable place for his mother, being dissatisfied with their humble rooms in st. mark's place, but the journey he was called upon so unexpectedly to make, led to a postponement of this plan. "you can move, mother, if you like," said mark, after placing the hundred dollars in her hands. "you'll have money enough." "that's true, mark, but you wouldn't know how to address me, and i might lose some of your letters. i shall be satisfied to stay here till you return. but do you think you had better go? you are very young to cross the continent alone." "i am nearly sixteen, mother, and i have been in the habit of looking out for myself. besides mr. gilbert thinks i am old enough, and if he has confidence in me i ought to have confidence in myself." "i suppose it is all right, but i shall miss you terribly." "it is for my good, and will be for yours, mother. i have long wanted to leave the messenger service and get into some steady position where i can push myself ahead, and this seems to me my chance." "you will write often, mark?" "i will be sure to do that. you don't think i will forget my mother?" on saturday evening mark went to mr. gilbert's to receive instructions. "i must tell you something about the boy of whom you are to be temporary guardian," said mr. gilbert. "perhaps it will be best for me to read you in the first place the letter i received from my poor cousin just before his death. it was written at his dictation, for he was already too weak to hold the pen." he drew from a desk this letter which he proceeded to read aloud: "gulchville, california, "oct. . "my dear cousin, "when this letter reaches you i shall in all probability be in a better world. i am dying of consumption. i leave behind me a boy of ten--my poor little philip. i leave him to the mercies of a cold world, for i am penniless. i had a little property once, but i speculated and lost all. poor philip will be an orphan and destitute. i know you are rich and prosperous. won't you, in your generosity, agree to care for my poor boy? he won't require much, and i shall be content to have him reared plainly, but i don't want him to suffer. "i am sick at the house of a cousin of my wife. he is a mean man, and his wife is also penurious and mean. they have made my sickness still more bitter by their taunts. they complain that i am an expense to them, and they would turn me out of doors, sick as i am, i am convinced, if they were not ashamed to do so. poor philip will be left to their tender mercies, but i hope only for a short time. i can bear to suffer myself, but i can't bear to think of his suffering. he is a sensitive boy, not over strong, and ill-fitted to bear the buffetings of a cold and unkind world. won't you send for him as soon as you can? in your hands i am sure he will be safe and kindly cared for. "i am getting very tired and must stop. god bless you! "your unfortunate cousin, "john lillis. "p. s. the man in whose house i am stopping is named nahum sprague." "you see, mark, your mission will be one of mercy. the sooner the poor boy is rescued from such people as mr. and mrs. sprague the better for him. by the way, i don't want them to say my cousin has been an expense to them. therefore i will authorize you to obtain from them an itemized account of what they have spent for him and the boy and pay it. you will see that they don't impose upon me by presenting too large a bill." "yes, sir. i will look sharply after your interests." "i shall give you more than enough to get you to san francisco, and i will give you a letter to a firm there, authorizing you to draw upon them for any sum you may require up to a thousand dollars." "but that will be a great deal more than i shall need." "i presume so, but i give you so large a credit to use in case of emergencies." "you are trusting me very far, mr. gilbert." "i am aware of that, but i feel entirely safe in doing so." "thank you, sir." other directions were given, and it was agreed that mark should start on his long journey on monday morning. chapter xxviii. mark at omaha. some days later mark found himself at omaha. here he was to transfer himself to the union pacific railroad; at that time the only pacific road built with the exception of the central pacific, which formed with it a continuous line to san francisco. mark decided to remain in omaha for a single day and then take the train for his destination. at the hotel mark found himself sitting next to a man with bronzed face and rough attire who embodied his ideas of a miner. the stranger during the meal devoted himself strictly to business, but going out of the dining-room at the same time with mark he grew sociable. "well, young pard.," he said, "what's your trail?" mark looked puzzled. "i mean which way are you going--east or west?" "i am going to san francisco." "ever been there before?" mark shook his head. "i never was as far west as this before," he answered. "i came from new york." "so i thought. you look like a tenderfoot. are you going out to stay?" "only a short time. i am going after a young boy. i am going to carry him back with me." "a kid, eh? you're not much more than a kid yourself." "i guess i can take care of myself," said mark with a smile. "shouldn't wonder. you look like it. nothing soft about you." "i hope i haven't got a soft head. as to my heart, i hope that isn't hard." "good for you. i reckon you're a likely kind of boy." "i suppose you have been to california," said mark, thinking it his turn to ask questions. "yes; i've been on the coast for three years, more or less." "how do you like it out there?" "well, i've had my ups and downs. a year ago, six months for that matter, i was dead broke." "did your luck change?" "not till i struck nevada. then i got a small interest in the golden hope mine----" "the golden hope mine?" exclaimed mark in excitement. "do you know anything of that mine, youngster?" "yes; i have a--a friend who owns some stock in it." "then your friend is in luck. why, do you know where the stock stands to-day?" "no, but i should like to know." "at ." mark's eyes sparkled with joyous excitement. "is it possible?" he exclaimed. "it's so. i've got a block of a hundred shares myself, which i bought eighteen months ago for a song. i give you my word i didn't think it worth more than a dollar or two a share--what i gave--when i learned not long since that they'd struck it rich, and i was no longer a pauper." "that's good news for me," said mark slowly. "why? have you got any of it?" "my mother is entitled to two hundred shares from her father's estate." "whew! have you come out to see about it?" "no; that was not my object, but i shall find what i can about it." "you're in luck." "well, perhaps so. but my uncle is trying to cheat my mother out of it." "then he must be a rascal. tell me about it." the man looked sympathetic and trustworthy, and mark without hesitation told him the story as it is already known to the reader. "do you think the stock has reached its highest point?" he asked anxiously. "no; it will probably rise to two hundred." "then my uncle probably won't close it out just at present." "no; he will hear how the matter stands, and if he is sharp he will hold on." "i am glad of that, for i want a little time to decide how to act." "i am going to stop at the mine on my way to 'frisco." "i will give you my address and ask you to write me a line to the care of my banker there, letting me know what you can about the mine." "all right, boy! i like you, and i'll do it. when do you start?" "to-morrow." "we'll start together, and i'll get off the train in nevada." chapter xxix. nahum sprague and his orphan ward. leaving mark on his way we will precede him, and carry the reader at once to gulchville, in california, where he was to find the young boy of whom mr. gilbert had requested him to take charge. in an unpainted frame house lived mr. nahum sprague. in new england such a building would hardly have cost over five hundred dollars, but here it had been erected at more than double the expense by the original owner. when he became out of health and left california it was bought for a trifling price by nahum sprague. the latter was a man of forty-five with small eyes and a face prematurely wrinkled. he was well-to-do, but how he had gained his money no one knew. he and his wife, however, were mean and parsimonious. they had one son, a boy of fifteen, who resembled them physically and mentally. he was named oscar, after a gentleman of wealth, in the hope that at his death the boy would be remembered. unfortunately for oscar the gentleman died without a will and his namesake received nothing. the disappointed parents would gladly have changed the boy's name, but oscar would not hear of it, preferring the name that had become familiar. this was the family whose grudging hospitality had embittered the last days of john lillis, and to them he was obliged to commit the temporary guardianship of his little son philip. in the field adjoining, philip lillis, a small pale boy, was playing when oscar sprague issued from the house. "come here, you little brat!" he said harshly. philip looked with a frightened expression. "what do you want of me?" he asked. "what do i want? come here and see." the little fellow approached. he was received with a sharp slap in the face. "why do you hit me, oscar?" philip asked tearfully. "because you didn't come quicker," answered the young tyrant. "i didn't know you were in a hurry." "well, you know it now." "you wouldn't have hit me when papa was alive," said philip with a flash of spirit. "well, he isn't alive, see?" "i know he isn't, and i am alone in the world." "well, don't snivel! if anything makes me sick at the stomach it is to see a boy snivel." "maybe you'd cry if your papa was dead." "there ain't much fear. the old man's too tough," responded oscar, who had no sentimental love for his father. indeed, it would have been surprising if he had shown any attachment to nahum sprague, who was about as unattractive in outward appearance as he was in character and disposition. "you didn't tell me what you wanted me to do." "just wait till i tell you, smarty. do you see this bottle?" "yes." "take it to the saloon and get it full of whisky." "papa didn't want me to go into a liquor saloon." "well, your papa ain't got nothing to do with you now. see? you just do as i tell you." philip took the bottle unwillingly and started for the saloon. "mind you don't drink any of it on the way home," called out oscar. "as if i would," said philip indignantly. "i don't drink whisky and i never will." "oh, you're an angel!" sneered oscar. "you're too good for this world. ain't you afraid you'll die young, as they say good boys do?" "i don't believe you'll die young, oscar." "hey? was that meant for an insult? but never mind! i don't pretend to be one of the goody-goody sunday-school kids. now mind you don't loiter on the way." oscar sat down on the doorstep and began to whittle. the door opened and his father came out. "why didn't you go to the saloon as i told you?" he asked hastily. "it's all the same. i sent philip." "you sent that boy? he ain't fit to send on such an errand." "why ain't he? he can ask to have the bottle filled, can't he?" "what did he say? was he willing to go?" "he said his papa," mimicked oscar, "didn't want him to go into a liquor saloon." "he did, hey? all the more reason for making him go. his poverty-stricken father can't help him now. why, i am keeping the boy from starving." "are you going to keep him always, dad?" "i ought to turn him over to the town, but folks would talk. there's a man in new york that his father said would send for him. i don't know whether he will or not. there's a matter of fifty dollars due to me for burying john lillis. that's the way i get imposed upon." philip kept on his way to the saloon. he was a timid, sensitive boy, and he shrank from going into the place which was generally filled with rough men. two miners were leaning against the front of the wooden shanty used for the sale of liquor when philip appeared. as he passed in one said to the other, "well, i'll be jiggered if here isn't a kid comin' for his liquor. i say, kid, what do you want?" "some whisky," answered philip timidly. "how old are you?" "ten." "i say, young 'un, you're beginnin' early." "i don't want it for myself," returned philip half indignantly. "oh, no, of course not. you won't take a sip yourself, of course not." "no, i won't. my papa never drank whisky, and he told me not to." "where is your papa?" "gone to heaven." the miner whistled. "then who sent you for whisky?" "mr. sprague." "old nahum?" "his name is nahum." "i thought he was too mean to buy whisky. do you live with him?" "yes, sir." "is he any kin to you?" "no," answered philip quickly. "does he treat you well?" "i don't like to answer such questions," said philip guardedly. "i suppose you are afraid to. did your father leave any money?" "no," answered philip sadly. "then i understand how it is. do you expect to keep on living with mr. sprague?" "papa wrote to a gentleman in new york. i expect he will send for me." "i hope he will for your sake, poor little chap. well, go on and get your whisky. i don't want to take up your time." as philip entered the first speaker remarked, "well, bill, i don't pretend to be an angel, but i wouldn't send a kid like that for whisky. i drink it myself, but i wouldn't want a boy like that to go for it. i'd go myself." "i agree with you," said bill. "that sprague ain't of much account any way. i'd lick him myself for a dollar. he's about as mean as they make 'em." chapter xxx. philip finds a friend. when the two unauthorized ministers of justice had departed oscar and his father looked at each other in anger and stupefaction. "it's an outrage!" exclaimed nahum sprague. "i'd like to shoot them!" returned oscar. "i'd like to see them flayed within an inch of their lives." "so would i. they are the most audacious desperadoes i ever encountered." "do you know them, dad?" "yes; they are bill murphy and joe hastings. they are always hanging round the drinking saloon." "we can lick philip at any rate!" said oscar, with a furious look at poor phil. "he brought it on us." but nahum sprague was more prudent. he had heard the threat of bill and joe to repeat the punishment if philip were attacked, and he thought it best to wait. "leave it to me," he said. "i'll flog him in due time." "ain't you going to do anything to him, dad?" asked oscar in disappointment. "yes. come here, you, sir!" phil approached his stern guardian with an uncomfortable sense of something unpleasant awaiting him. nahum sprague seized him by the collar and said, "follow me." he pushed the boy before him and walked him into the house, then up the stairs into an attic room, where he locked him in. just then the bell rang for dinner. poor phil was hungry, but nothing was said about dinner for him. a dread suspicion came to him that he was to be starved. but half an hour later the door opened, and oscar appeared with two thin slices of bread without butter. "here's your dinner," he said. it was a poor enough provision for a hungry boy, but phil ate them with relish, oscar looking on with an amused smile. "is that all i am to have?" asked phil. "yes; it is all you deserve." "i don't know what i have done." "you don't, hey? you broke the bottle and spilled the whisky." "i wouldn't have done it if you hadn't pushed me." "there you go, laying it off on me. you'd better not." "but it's true, oscar." "no, it isn't. you broke the bottle to spite pa." "i wouldn't have dared to do it," said philip. "you dared a little too much, anyway. didn't you get those men to follow you and interfere with what was none of their business?" "no, i didn't." "hadn't you spoken with them at the saloon?" "yes." "i thought so." "they asked me who sent me for the whisky and i told them." "you didn't need to tell them. if it hadn't been for that they wouldn't have come round to our place and assaulted pa and me. they'll catch it, pa says. shouldn't wonder if they'd be put in prison for five years." young as he was phil put no faith in this ridiculous statement, but he thought it best not to make any comment. "how long is your father going to keep me here?" he asked. "maybe a month." this opened a terrible prospect to poor phil, who thought mr. sprague quite capable of inflicting such a severe punishment. "if he does i won't live through it," he said desperately. "you don't mean to kill yourself!" said oscar, startled. "no, but i shall starve. i am awfully hungry now." "what, after eating two slices of bread?" "they were very thin, and i have exercised a good deal." "then i advise you to make it up with pa. if you get down on your knees and tell him you are sorry, perhaps he will forgive you, and let you out." phil did not feel willing to humiliate himself in that way, and remained silent. "there ain't any bed for me to sleep on," he said, looking around. "you will have to sleep on the floor. i guess you'll get enough of it." oscar locked the door on the outside and went down-stairs. disagreeable as he was phil was sorry to have him go. he was some company, and when left to himself there was nothing for him to do. if there had been any paper or book in the room it would have helped him tide over the time, but the apartment was bare of furniture. there was one window looking out on the side of the house. phil posted himself at this, and soon saw oscar and his father leave the premises and go down the street. nahum had a bottle in his hand, and phil concluded he was going to the drinking saloon to get a fresh bottle of whisky. phil continued to look out of the window. presently he saw a boy pass whom he knew--a boy named arthur burks. he opened the window and called out eagerly, "arthur!" arthur turned round and looking up espied philip. "hello!" he cried. "what are you doing up there?" "i am locked in." "what for?" "i accidentally dropped a bottle of whisky, and spilled it. mr. sprague got mad and locked me up here." "that's a shame. how long have you got to stay?" "oscar says he may keep me here a month." "he's only frightening you. old sprague wouldn't dare to do it." "that isn't all. i am half starved. he only gave me two small slices of bread for dinner." "he's a mean old hunks. i just wish you could come round to our house. we'd give you enough to eat." "i wish i were there now," sighed philip. "i've got an idea," said arthur, brightening up. "what time do mr. sprague and oscar go to bed?" "very early. about nine o'clock." "would you run away if you could?" "yes." "then i'll tell you what i'll do. at half-past nine albert frost and i will come around with a tall ladder--mr. frost has got one--and we'll put it up against your window. will you dare to get out of the window, and come down?" "yes, i'll do anything to get away. but can you get the ladder?" "yes; albert will manage it. do you think the old man will be likely to see or hear us?" "no; he sleeps on the other side of the house." "all right! you can expect us. i guess i had better go now, for fear i may be seen, and they might suspect something." "but where can i go when i leave here?" "come to our house. you can sleep with rob, my little brother." "thank you, arthur. i'll expect you." philip felt a good deal more cheerful after arthur had gone. he knew that in arthur's house he would be very differently treated from what he had been by nahum sprague. he did not feel it wrong to leave the spragues', as they were constantly complaining that he was a burden. "if mr. burks would only let me live with him," he thought, "i should be happy, and i would be willing to work hard." at half-past five oscar came up to the room again, this time accompanied by his father. "how do you like being locked up here?" asked nahum. "not very well." "get down on your knees and beg my pardon for your bad conduct, and i will let you out." "i would rather not, sir." "do you hear that, oscar? he would rather not." "i heard it, pa." "it is only right that he should suffer the penalty of his headstrong conduct. give him his supper and we will leave him to think of his sinfulness." oscar produced two more thin slices of bread and a cup of very weak tea. "you are not entitled to tea," said nahum. "it is only because we are kind-hearted that i permitted mrs. sprague to send up a cup. i have not put in milk or sugar because i refuse to pamper you." philip made no comment, but disposed of the tea and bread in a very short space of time. he felt ready to join in with oliver, in dickens's immortal story, when he asked for "more." but he knew it would be of no use. "now, we will go down, oscar." "all right, pa. i hope the house won't catch fire in the night," he added, with the laudable purpose of terrifying philip, "for we might not be able to come up and unlock the door." philip felt uncomfortable, but he reflected that before many hours, if arthur burks kept his promise, he would no longer be an inmate of mr. sprague's home. "he'll have a sweet time sleeping on the floor, pa," said oscar as they went down-stairs. "it will serve the little fool right," returned nahum sprague grimly. chapter xxxi. the mining stock is sold. "but i understood that you were poor," said mr. rockwell, surprised at mark's statement. "that we are so is because mr. talbot as executor has concealed from my mother the existence of the stock as a part of grandfather's estate." "how long since you grandfather died?" "nearly two years." "and the stock is only now to be sold?" "yes; my uncle had advices that it would be well to wait, as it was likely to go up." "and your mother's share is half--say, two hundred shares?" "yes, sir." "then she will be comfortable for life. at the price i am thinking of paying, this will amount to over fifty thousand dollars. now can you give me any information about the mine?" "yes, sir; i made it my business to inquire. it is confidently expected to go considerably higher. it is growing richer every day." "i shall rely upon your statements and buy the stock. after it is sold i advise you to take immediate steps to secure your share. have you consulted a lawyer?" "yes; a young man." "in a matter of this importance an older and more experienced lawyer will be better, i will give you a note to my own lawyer." "thank you, sir." "i am now going to the office of crane & lawton where i shall meet your uncle, and conclude the business. come here in less than two hours and i may be able to tell you the result." "i will do so." solon talbot was much elated when informed by crane & lawton that they had found a purchaser for his mining stock in the person of luther rockwell, the well-known banker. "do you think he would stand a higher price?" asked talbot. "it would not be wise to ask it." "he is very rich. he could afford to pay more." "true; but he became rich through prudence and shrewdness. sell to him and you won't have to wait for your money." "no doubt you are right. i will be guided by your advice." when solon talbot was introduced to mr. rockwell he made a deferential bow. "i am honored in making your acquaintance, mr. rockwell," he said. "thank you, sir." the banker would have been more cordial but for what he had heard from mark. "how long have you owned this stock, mr. talbot?" inquired mr. rockwell. "three years." "it is not held in your name." "no; it belongs to the estate of my late father-in-law, elisha doane." "i take it that you are the executor of the estate." "yes, sir." solon talbot would not have been so communicative if he had supposed that the banker was a friend to mark. he had forgotten mark's agency in protecting mr. rockwell from the dynamite fiend. "the stock was probably purchased at a very low figure." "i presume so, though i do not know what was paid for it. indeed i never heard of it until i came to examine the items of my father-in-law's estate. he didn't have much else." "it is fortunate for his heirs." "yes," answered talbot rather nervously. he was afraid mr. rockwell might inquire who were the other heirs. had he done so, he would have evaded the question or boldly declared that there was no other heirs except himself. after half an hour's conversation the purchase was made, and a check for one hundred and four thousand dollars was handed to mr. talbot. "i hope you will not have occasion to regret your purchase, mr. rockwell," said solon. "i think i shall not from advices i have received about increasing richness." at the time appointed mark called at mr. rockwell's office. "well, mark," said the lawyer, "i made the purchase." "at two hundred and sixty?" "yes. i congratulate you." "that is, if i succeed in getting our share from my uncle." "i will give you a letter to my lawyer, mr. gerrish. obtain a letter from him, as your counsel, and call to-morrow upon your uncle with a formal demand for your mother's share of the proceeds of the mining stock." chapter xxxii. conclusion. solon talbot went home in high spirits. it was only recently that he had become aware of the great value of the golden hope shares. it had come to him as an agreeable surprise. "with what i was worth before," he soliloquized, "i may now rate myself at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. that is very good--for a beginning. i can afford to buy the house in forty-seventh street, for i shall still have a hundred thousand dollars over, and in five years i mean to make it half a million." he paced up and down his library in a state of joyous excitement. no thought of giving his sister-in-law her rightful due entered his mind. "how can she find out?" he reflected. "old mr. doane never told any of us of his mining shares. i presume he looked upon them as rather a risky investment. it has proved to be a splendid speculation, but it was rather a lucky accident than a shrewd purchase." it was after breakfast on the morning succeeding the sale of stock. mr. talbot was preparing to go over to the house which he proposed to purchase for a last examination before making up his mind, when the servant entered the library. "there is a boy down-stairs wishes to see you, mr. talbot," he said. "perhaps a boy from crane & lawton," he reflected. "show him up." directly afterwards mark mason entered the room. "mark!" exclaimed talbot. "what brings you here!" "a matter of business, uncle solon." "then you will have to wait, for i am just going out." "the business is important," said mark significantly. "well, what is it?" "i understand you sold yesterday the shares in the golden hope mine belonging to grandfather's estate." "what!" exclaimed solon talbot, his face showing his surprise and dismay. "there were four hundred shares, and they were sold to luther rockwell, the banker." "who told you this? have you had any communication from crane & lawton?" "no; though i know the sale was made through them." solon talbot paused long enough to pull himself together. it would never do to surrender at discretion. he would brazen it out to the last. "your information is partly true," he said. "i did sell some shares of mining stock, but they belonged to me. you have nothing to do with them." "uncle solon," said mark composedly, "it is useless to try to deceive me. the four hundred shares were bought by my grandfather, and belonged to his estate. half of the proceeds rightfully belongs to my mother." spots of perspiration stood on solon talbot's brow. should he allow fifty thousand dollars to slip from his grasp? "you audacious boy!" he exclaimed. "how dare you make such an assertion?" "because i happen to know that the four hundred shares stood in the name of my grandfather, elisha doane." "that is a lie. may i ask where you got this information?" "from the purchaser of the stock, luther rockwell." "what do you know of luther rockwell?" demanded solon talbot, incredulous. "he is one of my best friends. before buying the shares of the golden hope mine he asked my advice." "do you expect me to believe such ridiculous stuff? what could you know about the mine?" "i have recently returned from california. on the way i stopped in nevada, and i have in my pocket a statement signed by the secretary of the company, that four hundred shares of the stock stood in the name of my grandfather." it was a series of surprises. solon talbot walked up and down the library in a state of nervous agitation. "what do you expect me to do?" he added finally. "this letter will inform you, uncle solon." "from whom is it?" "from my lawyer, george gerrish." mr. gerrish, as mr. talbot knew, was one of the leaders of the bar. he opened it with trembling hands, and read the following: "mr. solon talbot: "dear sir: "my client, mark mason, authorizes me to demand of you an accounting of the sums received by you as executor of the estate of his late grandfather, elisha doane, to the end that his mother, co-heiress with your wife, may receive her proper shares of the estate. an early answer will oblige, "yours respectfully, "george gerrish." "do you know mr. gerrish well, too?" asked talbot. "no, sir, but mr. rockwell gave me a note to him. i have had an interview with him." "say to him that he will hear from me." mark bowed and withdrew. within a week solon talbot had agreed to make over to his sister-in-law, mrs. mason, a sum of over fifty thousand dollars, representing her share of her father's estate. he reconsidered his purpose of buying the house in west forty-seventh street, and decided to remain in the flat which he then occupied. mrs. mason and mark took a handsome flat up town, and henceforth were able to live as well as their pretentious relatives. mark was advised by mr. rockwell as to the investment of his mother's money, and it has already increased considerably. he is himself taking a mercantile course at a commercial college, and will eventually enter the establishment of mr. gilbert, with whom he is as great a favorite as ever. it never rains but it pours. one morning mrs. mack, the aged miser, was found dead in bed. she left a letter directing mark to call on her lawyer. to his surprise he found that he was left sole heir to the old lady's property, amounting to about five thousand dollars. "what shall i do with it, mother?" he asked. "i have no rightful claim to it. she only left it to me that her nephew might not get it." "keep it till he gets out of prison, and then help him judiciously if he deserves it. meanwhile invest it and give the income to charity." mark was glad that he was able to follow this advice. jack minton is still in jail, and it is to be feared that his prison life will not reform him, but mark means to give him a chance when he is released. through mark's influence, his old friend, tom trotter, has been taken into a mercantile establishment where his natural sharpness is likely to help him to speedy promotion. mark has agreed to pay his mother's rent for the next three years, and has given tom a present of two hundred dollars besides. he is not one of those who in prosperity forget their humble friends. and now after some years of privation and narrow means mrs. mason and mark seem in a fair way to see life on its sunny side. i hope my readers will agree that they merit their good fortune. on the other hand, mr. talbot has lost a part of his money by injudicious speculation, and his once despised sister-in-law is now the richer of the two. edgar has got rid of his snobbishness and through mark's friendship is likely to grow up an estimable member of society. the end. by captain alan douglas scoutmaster the victory boy scouts stories from the pen of a writer who possesses a thorough knowledge of his subject. in addition to the stories there is an addenda in which useful boy scout nature lore is given, all illustrated. there are the following twelve titles in the series: . _the campfires of the wolf patrol._ . _woodcraft; or, how a patrol leader made good._ . _pathfinder; or, the missing tenderfoot._ . _great hike; or, the pride of khaki troop._ . _endurance test; or, how clear grit won the day._ . _under canvas; or, the search for the carteret ghost._ . _storm-bound; or, a vacation among the snow-drifts._ . _afloat; or, adventures on watery trails._ . _tenderfoot squad; or, camping at raccoon lodge._ . _boy scout electricians; or, the hidden dynamo._ . _boy scouts in open plains; or, the round-up not ordered._ . _boy scouts in an airplane; or, the warning from the sky._ eryxias by a platonic imitator (see appendix ii) translated by benjamin jowett appendix ii. the two dialogues which are translated in the second appendix are not mentioned by aristotle, or by any early authority, and have no claim to be ascribed to plato. they are examples of platonic dialogues to be assigned probably to the second or third generation after plato, when his writings were well known at athens and alexandria. they exhibit considerable originality, and are remarkable for containing several thoughts of the sort which we suppose to be modern rather than ancient, and which therefore have a peculiar interest for us. the second alcibiades shows that the difficulties about prayer which have perplexed christian theologians were not unknown among the followers of plato. the eryxias was doubted by the ancients themselves: yet it may claim the distinction of being, among all greek or roman writings, the one which anticipates in the most striking manner the modern science of political economy and gives an abstract form to some of its principal doctrines. for the translation of these two dialogues i am indebted to my friend and secretary, mr. knight. that the dialogue which goes by the name of the second alcibiades is a genuine writing of plato will not be maintained by any modern critic, and was hardly believed by the ancients themselves. the dialectic is poor and weak. there is no power over language, or beauty of style; and there is a certain abruptness and agroikia in the conversation, which is very un-platonic. the best passage is probably that about the poets:--the remark that the poet, who is of a reserved disposition, is uncommonly difficult to understand, and the ridiculous interpretation of homer, are entirely in the spirit of plato (compare protag; ion; apol.). the characters are ill-drawn. socrates assumes the 'superior person' and preaches too much, while alcibiades is stupid and heavy-in-hand. there are traces of stoic influence in the general tone and phraseology of the dialogue (compare opos melesei tis...kaka: oti pas aphron mainetai): and the writer seems to have been acquainted with the 'laws' of plato (compare laws). an incident from the symposium is rather clumsily introduced, and two somewhat hackneyed quotations (symp., gorg.) recur. the reference to the death of archelaus as having occurred 'quite lately' is only a fiction, probably suggested by the gorgias, where the story of archelaus is told, and a similar phrase occurs;--ta gar echthes kai proen gegonota tauta, k.t.l. there are several passages which are either corrupt or extremely ill-expressed. but there is a modern interest in the subject of the dialogue; and it is a good example of a short spurious work, which may be attributed to the second or third century before christ. introduction. much cannot be said in praise of the style or conception of the eryxias. it is frequently obscure; like the exercise of a student, it is full of small imitations of plato:--phaeax returning from an expedition to sicily (compare socrates in the charmides from the army at potidaea), the figure of the game at draughts, borrowed from the republic, etc. it has also in many passages the ring of sophistry. on the other hand, the rather unhandsome treatment which is exhibited towards prodicus is quite unlike the urbanity of plato. yet there are some points in the argument which are deserving of attention. ( ) that wealth depends upon the need of it or demand for it, is the first anticipation in an abstract form of one of the great principles of modern political economy, and the nearest approach to it to be found in an ancient writer. ( ) the resolution of wealth into its simplest implements going on to infinity is a subtle and refined thought. ( ) that wealth is relative to circumstances is a sound conception. ( ) that the arts and sciences which receive payment are likewise to be comprehended under the notion of wealth, also touches a question of modern political economy. ( ) the distinction of post hoc and propter hoc, often lost sight of in modern as well as in ancient times. these metaphysical conceptions and distinctions show considerable power of thought in the writer, whatever we may think of his merits as an imitator of plato. eryxias persons of the dialogue: socrates, eryxias, erasistratus, critias. scene: the portico of a temple of zeus. it happened by chance that eryxias the steirian was walking with me in the portico of zeus the deliverer, when there came up to us critias and erasistratus, the latter the son of phaeax, who was the nephew of erasistratus. now erasistratus had just arrived from sicily and that part of the world. as they approached, he said, hail, socrates! socrates: the same to you, i said; have you any good news from sicily to tell us? erasistratus: most excellent. but, if you please, let us first sit down; for i am tired with my yesterday's journey from megara. socrates: gladly, if that is your desire. erasistratus: what would you wish to hear first? he said. what the sicilians are doing, or how they are disposed towards our city? to my mind, they are very like wasps: so long as you only cause them a little annoyance they are quite unmanageable; you must destroy their nests if you wish to get the better of them. and in a similar way, the syracusans, unless we set to work in earnest, and go against them with a great expedition, will never submit to our rule. the petty injuries which we at present inflict merely irritate them enough to make them utterly intractable. and now they have sent ambassadors to athens, and intend, i suspect, to play us some trick.--while we were talking, the syracusan envoys chanced to go by, and erasistratus, pointing to one of them, said to me, that, socrates, is the richest man in all italy and sicily. for who has larger estates or more land at his disposal to cultivate if he please? and they are of a quality, too, finer than any other land in hellas. moreover, he has all the things which go to make up wealth, slaves and horses innumerable, gold and silver without end. i saw that he was inclined to expatiate on the riches of the man; so i asked him, well, erasistratus, and what sort of character does he bear in sicily? erasistratus: he is esteemed to be, and really is, the wickedest of all the sicilians and italians, and even more wicked than he is rich; indeed, if you were to ask any sicilian whom he thought to be the worst and the richest of mankind, you would never hear any one else named. i reflected that we were speaking, not of trivial matters, but about wealth and virtue, which are deemed to be of the greatest moment, and i asked erasistratus whom he considered the wealthier,--he who was the possessor of a talent of silver or he who had a field worth two talents? erasistratus: the owner of the field. socrates: and on the same principle he who had robes and bedding and such things which are of greater value to him than to a stranger would be richer than the stranger? erasistratus: true. socrates: and if any one gave you a choice, which of these would you prefer? erasistratus: that which was most valuable. socrates: in which way do you think you would be the richer? erasistratus: by choosing as i said. socrates: and he appears to you to be the richest who has goods of the greatest value? erasistratus: he does. socrates: and are not the healthy richer than the sick, since health is a possession more valuable than riches to the sick? surely there is no one who would not prefer to be poor and well, rather than to have all the king of persia's wealth and to be ill. and this proves that men set health above wealth, else they would never choose the one in preference to the other. erasistratus: true. socrates: and if anything appeared to be more valuable than health, he would be the richest who possessed it? erasistratus: he would. socrates: suppose that some one came to us at this moment and were to ask, well, socrates and eryxias and erasistratus, can you tell me what is of the greatest value to men? is it not that of which the possession will best enable a man to advise how his own and his friend's affairs should be administered?--what will be our reply? erasistratus: i should say, socrates, that happiness was the most precious of human possessions. socrates: not a bad answer. but do we not deem those men who are most prosperous to be the happiest? erasistratus: that is my opinion. socrates: and are they not most prosperous who commit the fewest errors in respect either of themselves or of other men? erasistratus: certainly. socrates: and they who know what is evil and what is good; what should be done and what should be left undone;--these behave the most wisely and make the fewest mistakes? erasistratus agreed to this. socrates: then the wisest and those who do best and the most fortunate and the richest would appear to be all one and the same, if wisdom is really the most valuable of our possessions? yes, said eryxias, interposing, but what use would it be if a man had the wisdom of nestor and wanted the necessaries of life, food and drink and clothes and the like? where would be the advantage of wisdom then? or how could he be the richest of men who might even have to go begging, because he had not wherewithal to live? i thought that what eryxias was saying had some weight, and i replied, would the wise man really suffer in this way, if he were so ill-provided; whereas if he had the house of polytion, and the house were full of gold and silver, he would lack nothing? eryxias: yes; for then he might dispose of his property and obtain in exchange what he needed, or he might sell it for money with which he could supply his wants and in a moment procure abundance of everything. socrates: true, if he could find some one who preferred such a house to the wisdom of nestor. but if there are persons who set great store by wisdom like nestor's and the advantages accruing from it, to sell these, if he were so disposed, would be easier still. or is a house a most useful and necessary possession, and does it make a great difference in the comfort of life to have a mansion like polytion's instead of living in a shabby little cottage, whereas wisdom is of small use and it is of no importance whether a man is wise or ignorant about the highest matters? or is wisdom despised of men and can find no buyers, although cypress wood and marble of pentelicus are eagerly bought by numerous purchasers? surely the prudent pilot or the skilful physician, or the artist of any kind who is proficient in his art, is more worth than the things which are especially reckoned among riches; and he who can advise well and prudently for himself and others is able also to sell the product of his art, if he so desire. eryxias looked askance, as if he had received some unfair treatment, and said, i believe, socrates, that if you were forced to speak the truth, you would declare that you were richer than callias the son of hipponicus. and yet, although you claimed to be wiser about things of real importance, you would not any the more be richer than he. i dare say, eryxias, i said, that you may regard these arguments of ours as a kind of game; you think that they have no relation to facts, but are like the pieces in the game of draughts which the player can move in such a way that his opponents are unable to make any countermove. (compare republic.) and perhaps, too, as regards riches you are of opinion that while facts remain the same, there are arguments, no matter whether true or false, which enable the user of them to prove that the wisest and the richest are one and the same, although he is in the wrong and his opponents are in the right. there would be nothing strange in this; it would be as if two persons were to dispute about letters, one declaring that the word socrates began with an s, the other that it began with an a, and the latter could gain the victory over the former. eryxias glanced at the audience, laughing and blushing at once, as if he had had nothing to do with what had just been said, and replied,--no, indeed, socrates, i never supposed that our arguments should be of a kind which would never convince any one of those here present or be of advantage to them. for what man of sense could ever be persuaded that the wisest and the richest are the same? the truth is that we are discussing the subject of riches, and my notion is that we should argue respecting the honest and dishonest means of acquiring them, and, generally, whether they are a good thing or a bad. very good, i said, and i am obliged to you for the hint: in future we will be more careful. but why do not you yourself, as you introduced the argument, and do not think that the former discussion touched the point at issue, tell us whether you consider riches to be a good or an evil? i am of opinion, he said, that they are a good. he was about to add something more, when critias interrupted him:--do you really suppose so, eryxias? certainly, replied eryxias; i should be mad if i did not: and i do not fancy that you would find any one else of a contrary opinion. and i, retorted critias, should say that there is no one whom i could not compel to admit that riches are bad for some men. but surely, if they were a good, they could not appear bad for any one? here i interposed and said to them: if you two were having an argument about equitation and what was the best way of riding, supposing that i knew the art myself, i should try to bring you to an agreement. for i should be ashamed if i were present and did not do what i could to prevent your difference. and i should do the same if you were quarrelling about any other art and were likely, unless you agreed on the point in dispute, to part as enemies instead of as friends. but now, when we are contending about a thing of which the usefulness continues during the whole of life, and it makes an enormous difference whether we are to regard it as beneficial or not,--a thing, too, which is esteemed of the highest importance by the hellenes:--(for parents, as soon as their children are, as they think, come to years of discretion, urge them to consider how wealth may be acquired, since by riches the value of a man is judged):--when, i say, we are thus in earnest, and you, who agree in other respects, fall to disputing about a matter of such moment, that is, about wealth, and not merely whether it is black or white, light or heavy, but whether it is a good or an evil, whereby, although you are now the dearest of friends and kinsmen, the most bitter hatred may arise betwixt you, i must hinder your dissension to the best of my power. if i could, i would tell you the truth, and so put an end to the dispute; but as i cannot do this, and each of you supposes that you can bring the other to an agreement, i am prepared, as far as my capacity admits, to help you in solving the question. please, therefore, critias, try to make us accept the doctrines which you yourself entertain. critias: i should like to follow up the argument, and will ask eryxias whether he thinks that there are just and unjust men? eryxias: most decidedly. critias: and does injustice seem to you an evil or a good? eryxias: an evil. critias: do you consider that he who bribes his neighbour's wife and commits adultery with her, acts justly or unjustly, and this although both the state and the laws forbid? eryxias: unjustly. critias: and if the wicked man has wealth and is willing to spend it, he will carry out his evil purposes? whereas he who is short of means cannot do what he fain would, and therefore does not sin? in such a case, surely, it is better that a person should not be wealthy, if his poverty prevents the accomplishment of his desires, and his desires are evil? or, again, should you call sickness a good or an evil? eryxias: an evil. critias: well, and do you think that some men are intemperate? eryxias: yes. critias: then, if it is better for his health that the intemperate man should refrain from meat and drink and other pleasant things, but he cannot owing to his intemperance, will it not also be better that he should be too poor to gratify his lust rather than that he should have a superabundance of means? for thus he will not be able to sin, although he desire never so much. critias appeared to be arguing so admirably that eryxias, if he had not been ashamed of the bystanders, would probably have got up and struck him. for he thought that he had been robbed of a great possession when it became obvious to him that he had been wrong in his former opinion about wealth. i observed his vexation, and feared that they would proceed to abuse and quarrelling: so i said,--i heard that very argument used in the lyceum yesterday by a wise man, prodicus of ceos; but the audience thought that he was talking mere nonsense, and no one could be persuaded that he was speaking the truth. and when at last a certain talkative young gentleman came in, and, taking his seat, began to laugh and jeer at prodicus, tormenting him and demanding an explanation of his argument, he gained the ear of the audience far more than prodicus. can you repeat the discourse to us? said erasistratus. socrates: if i can only remember it, i will. the youth began by asking prodicus, in what way did he think that riches were a good and in what an evil? prodicus answered, as you did just now, that they were a good to good men and to those who knew in what way they should be employed, while to the bad and the ignorant they were an evil. the same is true, he went on to say, of all other things; men make them to be what they are themselves. the saying of archilochus is true:-- 'men's thoughts correspond to the things which they meet with.' well, then, replied the youth, if any one makes me wise in that wisdom whereby good men become wise, he must also make everything else good to me. not that he concerns himself at all with these other things, but he has converted my ignorance into wisdom. if, for example, a person teach me grammar or music, he will at the same time teach me all that relates to grammar or music, and so when he makes me good, he makes things good to me. prodicus did not altogether agree: still he consented to what was said. and do you think, said the youth, that doing good things is like building a house,--the work of human agency; or do things remain what they were at first, good or bad, for all time? prodicus began to suspect, i fancy, the direction which the argument was likely to take, and did not wish to be put down by a mere stripling before all those present:--(if they two had been alone, he would not have minded):--so he answered, cleverly enough: i think that doing good things is a work of human agency. and is virtue in your opinion, prodicus, innate or acquired by instruction? the latter, said prodicus. then you would consider him a simpleton who supposed that he could obtain by praying to the gods the knowledge of grammar or music or any other art, which he must either learn from another or find out for himself? prodicus agreed to this also. and when you pray to the gods that you may do well and receive good, you mean by your prayer nothing else than that you desire to become good and wise:--if, at least, things are good to the good and wise and evil to the evil. but in that case, if virtue is acquired by instruction, it would appear that you only pray to be taught what you do not know. hereupon i said to prodicus that it was no misfortune to him if he had been proved to be in error in supposing that the gods immediately granted to us whatever we asked:--if, i added, whenever you go up to the acropolis you earnestly entreat the gods to grant you good things, although you know not whether they can yield your request, it is as though you went to the doors of the grammarian and begged him, although you had never made a study of the art, to give you a knowledge of grammar which would enable you forthwith to do the business of a grammarian. while i was speaking, prodicus was preparing to retaliate upon his youthful assailant, intending to employ the argument of which you have just made use; for he was annoyed to have it supposed that he offered a vain prayer to the gods. but the master of the gymnasium came to him and begged him to leave because he was teaching the youths doctrines which were unsuited to them, and therefore bad for them. i have told you this because i want you to understand how men are circumstanced in regard to philosophy. had prodicus been present and said what you have said, the audience would have thought him raving, and he would have been ejected from the gymnasium. but you have argued so excellently well that you have not only persuaded your hearers, but have brought your opponent to an agreement. for just as in the law courts, if two witnesses testify to the same fact, one of whom seems to be an honest fellow and the other a rogue, the testimony of the rogue often has the contrary effect on the judges' minds to what he intended, while the same evidence if given by the honest man at once strikes them as perfectly true. and probably the audience have something of the same feeling about yourself and prodicus; they think him a sophist and a braggart, and regard you as a gentleman of courtesy and worth. for they do not pay attention to the argument so much as to the character of the speaker. but truly, socrates, said erasistratus, though you may be joking, critias does seem to me to be saying something which is of weight. socrates: i am in profound earnest, i assure you. but why, as you have begun your argument so prettily, do you not go on with the rest? there is still something lacking, now you have agreed that (wealth) is a good to some and an evil to others. it remains to enquire what constitutes wealth; for unless you know this, you cannot possibly come to an understanding as to whether it is a good or an evil. i am ready to assist you in the enquiry to the utmost of my power: but first let him who affirms that riches are a good, tell us what, in his opinion, is wealth. erasistratus: indeed, socrates, i have no notion about wealth beyond that which men commonly have. i suppose that wealth is a quantity of money (compare arist. pol.); and this, i imagine, would also be critias' definition. socrates: then now we have to consider, what is money? or else later on we shall be found to differ about the question. for instance, the carthaginians use money of this sort. something which is about the size of a stater is tied up in a small piece of leather: what it is, no one knows but the makers. a seal is next set upon the leather, which then passes into circulation, and he who has the largest number of such pieces is esteemed the richest and best off. and yet if any one among us had a mass of such coins he would be no wealthier than if he had so many pebbles from the mountain. at lacedaemon, again, they use iron by weight which has been rendered useless: and he who has the greatest mass of such iron is thought to be the richest, although elsewhere it has no value. in ethiopia engraved stones are employed, of which a lacedaemonian could make no use. once more, among the nomad scythians a man who owned the house of polytion would not be thought richer than one who possessed mount lycabettus among ourselves. and clearly those things cannot all be regarded as possessions; for in some cases the possessors would appear none the richer thereby: but, as i was saying, some one of them is thought in one place to be money, and the possessors of it are the wealthy, whereas in some other place it is not money, and the ownership of it does not confer wealth; just as the standard of morals varies, and what is honourable to some men is dishonourable to others. and if we wish to enquire why a house is valuable to us but not to the scythians, or why the carthaginians value leather which is worthless to us, or the lacedaemonians find wealth in iron and we do not, can we not get an answer in some such way as this: would an athenian, who had a thousand talents weight of the stones which lie about in the agora and which we do not employ for any purpose, be thought to be any the richer? erasistratus: he certainly would not appear so to me. socrates: but if he possessed a thousand talents weight of some precious stone, we should say that he was very rich? erasistratus: of course. socrates: the reason is that the one is useless and the other useful? erasistratus: yes. socrates: and in the same way among the scythians a house has no value because they have no use for a house, nor would a scythian set so much store on the finest house in the world as on a leather coat, because he could use the one and not the other. or again, the carthaginian coinage is not wealth in our eyes, for we could not employ it, as we can silver, to procure what we need, and therefore it is of no use to us. erasistratus: true. socrates: what is useful to us, then, is wealth, and what is useless to us is not wealth? but how do you mean, socrates? said eryxias, interrupting. do we not employ in our intercourse with one another speech and violence (?) and various other things? these are useful and yet they are not wealth. socrates: clearly we have not yet answered the question, what is wealth? that wealth must be useful, to be wealth at all,--thus much is acknowledged by every one. but what particular thing is wealth, if not all things? let us pursue the argument in another way; and then we may perhaps find what we are seeking. what is the use of wealth, and for what purpose has the possession of riches been invented,--in the sense, i mean, in which drugs have been discovered for the cure of disease? perhaps in this way we may throw some light on the question. it appears to be clear that whatever constitutes wealth must be useful, and that wealth is one class of useful things; and now we have to enquire, what is the use of those useful things which constitute wealth? for all things probably may be said to be useful which we use in production, just as all things which have life are animals, but there is a special kind of animal which we call 'man.' now if any one were to ask us, what is that of which, if we were rid, we should not want medicine and the instruments of medicine, we might reply that this would be the case if disease were absent from our bodies and either never came to them at all or went away again as soon as it appeared; and we may therefore conclude that medicine is the science which is useful for getting rid of disease. but if we are further asked, what is that from which, if we were free, we should have no need of wealth? can we give an answer? if we have none, suppose that we restate the question thus:--if a man could live without food or drink, and yet suffer neither hunger nor thirst, would he want either money or anything else in order to supply his needs? eryxias: he would not. socrates: and does not this apply in other cases? if we did not want for the service of the body the things of which we now stand in need, and heat and cold and the other bodily sensations were unperceived by us, there would be no use in this so-called wealth, if no one, that is, had any necessity for those things which now make us wish for wealth in order that we may satisfy the desires and needs of the body in respect of our various wants. and therefore if the possession of wealth is useful in ministering to our bodily wants, and bodily wants were unknown to us, we should not need wealth, and possibly there would be no such thing as wealth. eryxias: clearly not. socrates: then our conclusion is, as would appear, that wealth is what is useful to this end? eryxias once more gave his assent, but the small argument considerably troubled him. socrates: and what is your opinion about another question:--would you say that the same thing can be at one time useful and at another useless for the production of the same result? eryxias: i cannot say more than that if we require the same thing to produce the same result, then it seems to me to be useful; if not, not. socrates: then if without the aid of fire we could make a brazen statue, we should not want fire for that purpose; and if we did not want it, it would be useless to us? and the argument applies equally in other cases. eryxias: clearly. socrates: and therefore conditions which are not required for the existence of a thing are not useful for the production of it? eryxias: of course not. socrates: and if without gold or silver or anything else which we do not use directly for the body in the way that we do food and drink and bedding and houses,--if without these we could satisfy the wants of the body, they would be of no use to us for that purpose? eryxias: they would not. socrates: they would no longer be regarded as wealth, because they are useless, whereas that would be wealth which enabled us to obtain what was useful to us? eryxias: o socrates, you will never be able to persuade me that gold and silver and similar things are not wealth. but i am very strongly of opinion that things which are useless to us are not wealth, and that the money which is useful for this purpose is of the greatest use; not that these things are not useful towards life, if by them we can procure wealth. socrates: and how would you answer another question? there are persons, are there not, who teach music and grammar and other arts for pay, and thus procure those things of which they stand in need? eryxias: there are. socrates: and these men by the arts which they profess, and in exchange for them, obtain the necessities of life just as we do by means of gold and silver? eryxias: true. socrates: then if they procure by this means what they want for the purposes of life, that art will be useful towards life? for do we not say that silver is useful because it enables us to supply our bodily needs? eryxias: we do. socrates: then if these arts are reckoned among things useful, the arts are wealth for the same reason as gold and silver are, for, clearly, the possession of them gives wealth. yet a little while ago we found it difficult to accept the argument which proved that the wisest are the wealthiest. but now there seems no escape from this conclusion. suppose that we are asked, 'is a horse useful to everybody?' will not our reply be, 'no, but only to those who know how to use a horse?' eryxias: certainly. socrates: and so, too, physic is not useful to every one, but only to him who knows how to use it? eryxias: true. socrates: and the same is the case with everything else? eryxias: yes. socrates: then gold and silver and all the other elements which are supposed to make up wealth are only useful to the person who knows how to use them? eryxias: exactly. socrates: and were we not saying before that it was the business of a good man and a gentleman to know where and how anything should be used? eryxias: yes. socrates: the good and gentle, therefore will alone have profit from these things, supposing at least that they know how to use them. but if so, to them only will they seem to be wealth. it appears, however, that where a person is ignorant of riding, and has horses which are useless to him, if some one teaches him that art, he makes him also richer, for what was before useless has now become useful to him, and in giving him knowledge he has also conferred riches upon him. eryxias: that is the case. socrates: yet i dare be sworn that critias will not be moved a whit by the argument. critias: no, by heaven, i should be a madman if i were. but why do you not finish the argument which proves that gold and silver and other things which seem to be wealth are not real wealth? for i have been exceedingly delighted to hear the discourses which you have just been holding. socrates: my argument, critias (i said), appears to have given you the same kind of pleasure which you might have derived from some rhapsode's recitation of homer; for you do not believe a word of what has been said. but come now, give me an answer to this question. are not certain things useful to the builder when he is building a house? critias: they are. socrates: and would you say that those things are useful which are employed in house building,--stones and bricks and beams and the like, and also the instruments with which the builder built the house, the beams and stones which they provided, and again the instruments by which these were obtained? critias: it seems to me that they are all useful for building. socrates: and is it not true of every art, that not only the materials but the instruments by which we procure them and without which the work could not go on, are useful for that art? critias: certainly. socrates: and further, the instruments by which the instruments are procured, and so on, going back from stage to stage ad infinitum,--are not all these, in your opinion, necessary in order to carry out the work? critias: we may fairly suppose such to be the case. socrates: and if a man has food and drink and clothes and the other things which are useful to the body, would he need gold or silver or any other means by which he could procure that which he now has? critias: i do not think so. socrates: then you consider that a man never wants any of these things for the use of the body? critias: certainly not. socrates: and if they appear useless to this end, ought they not always to appear useless? for we have already laid down the principle that things cannot be at one time useful and at another time not, in the same process. critias: but in that respect your argument and mine are the same. for you maintain if they are useful to a certain end, they can never become useless; whereas i say that in order to accomplish some results bad things are needed, and good for others. socrates: but can a bad thing be used to carry out a good purpose? critias: i should say not. socrates: and we call those actions good which a man does for the sake of virtue? critias: yes. socrates: but can a man learn any kind of knowledge which is imparted by word of mouth if he is wholly deprived of the sense of hearing? critias: certainly not, i think. socrates: and will not hearing be useful for virtue, if virtue is taught by hearing and we use the sense of hearing in giving instruction? critias: yes. socrates: and since medicine frees the sick man from his disease, that art too may sometimes appear useful in the acquisition of virtue, e.g. when hearing is procured by the aid of medicine. critias: very likely. socrates: but if, again, we obtain by wealth the aid of medicine, shall we not regard wealth as useful for virtue? critias: true. socrates: and also the instruments by which wealth is procured? critias: certainly. socrates: then you think that a man may gain wealth by bad and disgraceful means, and, having obtained the aid of medicine which enables him to acquire the power of hearing, may use that very faculty for the acquisition of virtue? critias: yes, i do. socrates: but can that which is evil be useful for virtue? critias: no. socrates: it is not therefore necessary that the means by which we obtain what is useful for a certain object should always be useful for the same object: for it seems that bad actions may sometimes serve good purposes? the matter will be still plainer if we look at it in this way:--if things are useful towards the several ends for which they exist, which ends would not come into existence without them, how would you regard them? can ignorance, for instance, be useful for knowledge, or disease for health, or vice for virtue? critias: never. socrates: and yet we have already agreed--have we not?--that there can be no knowledge where there has not previously been ignorance, nor health where there has not been disease, nor virtue where there has not been vice? critias: i think that we have. socrates: but then it would seem that the antecedents without which a thing cannot exist are not necessarily useful to it. otherwise ignorance would appear useful for knowledge, disease for health, and vice for virtue. critias still showed great reluctance to accept any argument which went to prove that all these things were useless. i saw that it was as difficult to persuade him as (according to the proverb) it is to boil a stone, so i said: let us bid 'good-bye' to the discussion, since we cannot agree whether these things are useful and a part of wealth or not. but what shall we say to another question: which is the happier and better man,--he who requires the greatest quantity of necessaries for body and diet, or he who requires only the fewest and least? the answer will perhaps become more obvious if we suppose some one, comparing the man himself at different times, to consider whether his condition is better when he is sick or when he is well? critias: that is not a question which needs much consideration. socrates: probably, i said, every one can understand that health is a better condition than disease. but when have we the greatest and the most various needs, when we are sick or when we are well? critias: when we are sick. socrates: and when we are in the worst state we have the greatest and most especial need and desire of bodily pleasures? critias: true. socrates: and seeing that a man is best off when he is least in need of such things, does not the same reasoning apply to the case of any two persons, of whom one has many and great wants and desires, and the other few and moderate? for instance, some men are gamblers, some drunkards, and some gluttons: and gambling and the love of drink and greediness are all desires? critias: certainly. socrates: but desires are only the lack of something: and those who have the greatest desires are in a worse condition than those who have none or very slight ones? critias: certainly i consider that those who have such wants are bad, and that the greater their wants the worse they are. socrates: and do we think it possible that a thing should be useful for a purpose unless we have need of it for that purpose? critias: no. socrates: then if these things are useful for supplying the needs of the body, we must want them for that purpose? critias: that is my opinion. socrates: and he to whom the greatest number of things are useful for his purpose, will also want the greatest number of means of accomplishing it, supposing that we necessarily feel the want of all useful things? critias: it seems so. socrates: the argument proves then that he who has great riches has likewise need of many things for the supply of the wants of the body; for wealth appears useful towards that end. and the richest must be in the worst condition, since they seem to be most in want of such things. scanned images of public domain material from the internet archive. [illustration: "i have brought my little daughter to you, my friend."--[page .]] the princess idleways _a fairy story_ by mrs. w. j. hays illustrated new york and london harper & brothers publishers entered according to act of congress, in the year , by harper & brothers, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. chapter i. you must not suppose that the princess idleways was a great, grand woman, for she was not: she was only a little lovely girl named laura. to be sure, she was of high birth; that is to say, her father and grandfather and great-grandfather, as well as all the fine lady grandmothers, were people who, not obliged to labor for themselves or others, having always had more time and wealth and pleasure than they knew what to do with, were something like the beautiful roses which grow more and more beautiful with planting and transplanting, and shielding from too hot a sun or too sharp a wind; but, for all that, roses, as you know, have thorns. little laura idleways was as bright and bewitching in appearance as any rosebud, but she had a few thorns which could prick. she lived in a great castle high up in the mountains, from the windows of which she could see hill after hill stretching far away up to the clouds, and eagles flapping their great wings over deep ravines, down which tumbled foaming cascades. the castle was a very ancient building, and part of it was nearly a ruin; indeed, it was so old that laura's father--who was a soldier, and not much at home--had decided not to repair it, but allowed the stones to fall, and would not have them touched; so the wild vines grew luxuriantly over them, and made a beautiful drapery. but the part of the castle in which laura lived was no ruin. the thick walls kept it cool in summer and warm in winter, and made nice deep seats for the windows, which were hung with heavy folds of crimson silk. the walls were covered with superb paintings, the wide rooms were beautiful with all manner of comforts and luxuries. low divans of rich and soft material, ottomans and rugs of persian and turkish wool, statues and statuettes of marble, graceful forms, filled the corners and the niches. birds of many colors sang in golden cages, and curious cuckoo-clocks chimed the hours. laura's mamma was a fine musician, and her harp and piano were always ready to yield sweet tones. the library shelves held books of all kinds and colors; and the cabinets of richly carved wood, before the glass doors of which laura often stood, contained rare shells, minerals, stuffed birds and insects, and strange foreign things that a child could only wonder about. of all places in which to play "hide-and-seek," this castle was the best--it had so many nooks and corners, such little cosy turns in the stairs, such odd cupboards, such doors in strange places, so many quaint pieces of furniture to hide behind--and yet laura never played hide-and-seek. there was a delicious garden, too, full of fragrant bushes and arbors and rustic seats, and two fountains rained liquid diamonds into marble basins. but laura did not play in the garden. the truth is, laura was a petted, spoiled, wayward little creature, always depending upon others for entertainment, too lazy to amuse herself, and much less inclined to study or to find happiness in being useful. she had nurses and governesses. she had toys and trinkets, and the latter were of about as much service as the former. her mother had always loved her fondly, but even she began to see that something was amiss with laura, and to think her little child needed something she could not buy for her. absorbed in her books, her music, and her embroidery, laura's mother was constantly occupied; but, strange to say, she seemed to forget that laura, too, might need occupation. one day laura's mamma went alone on an excursion into the woods. she had seemed very much distressed. her maid noticed that she had been intently regarding laura for several days, and had spoken of the child's unhappiness. when she returned from her excursion with tearful eyes, and bade laura be ready for a little journey on the following day, every one in the castle became alarmed. the nurses put their caps together and whispered. even polly on her perch screamed out, "what's the matter? what's the matter?" but no one took any notice of her. laura did not know whether to be pleased or displeased; but she was, of course, inclined to sulk about it, rather than to clap her hands with glee and shout for joy. [illustration: "they found her, curled up in a little heap, fast asleep."] she watched the preparations made for her departure with indifference, although her pretty frocks were taken down from their hooks in the closets, and her gay ribbons from their boxes, and a trunk of cedar-wood with silver bands was brought into the little pretty room, or _boudoir_, as it was called, which joined the bedrooms. almost any child would have been pleased to watch this getting ready to go away, and would have entered into the details with interest. many a one would have busied herself with packing her little treasures, her doll's clothes, or her playthings; but laura stood in a listless way in the door, leaning first upon one foot, then upon the other, wondering just a little where it might be that she was going, and teasing her little spaniel when he leaped to caress her, till, tired of watching the maids, she wandered off to gaze into the cabinet i have spoken of. and when evening came, there they found her, curled up in a little heap, fast asleep. fido, too, was asleep beside his little mistress, for, much as she teased him, he yet loved her. the morning dawned clear and cool, and laura's mamma bade the nurses put plenty of wraps in the travelling carriage; she also bade them give laura a cup of hot chocolate, which was an unusual luxury for the little damsel. laura's trunk was stowed away, and, to the surprise of all, hers was the only trunk visible, so that it looked very much as if the lady idleways meant to return sooner than the little princess--whose title, by-the-way, had been given by her papa in jest, when she was an infant, from some of her absurd little freaks of disdain. all through the light breakfast lady idleways never smiled, but watched her daughter anxiously. laura fed her spaniel and crumbled her rolls indifferently. her little face looked pale and her eyes dim, as if she might have cried, but there were no tears to be seen; and when she bade all the household "good bye," she seemed to be entirely unconcerned. and in this mood she stayed while the carriage rolled away down the hills, and over the stone bridges, and past the cottages, till they came to the woods. then her mother drew her to her bosom and said, "laura, darling, i am about to do something for your good which seems very harsh. it pains me, child, to do it; but you will thank me yet for it. in the forest of pines, towards which we are now journeying, lives an old friend of mine--a fairy friend--whom i have consulted in regard to you. she knows that i desire your happiness, and she understands me when i tell her that you seem drooping and unhappy; that it is more my misfortune than my fault (for, having but one child, i do not know the needs of children as well as those mothers who have many); and she has bidden me bring you to her, with the promise that she will make you the happy, loving little girl you ought to be. i shall feel the separation keenly, i shall miss you sadly, but knowing that my little daughter is to gain only good, i have made up my mind to let you make this visit." laura pouted a little, wept a little, and then, as the woods became denser, crept closer to her mother. "am i to stay long, mamma?" she asked. "that i do not know; it depends upon yourself." "and what is the fairy's name, mamma?" "she bade me not tell you her name; she wishes you to call her simple _motherkin_." "how very queer!" said laura. "i cannot do it." "you will do better to obey her, my child." "is she cross? is she ugly?" "you may think her plain, but she is neither cross nor ugly." the road here became almost blocked with bushes, and the wind in the tops of the tall pine-trees made strange music. "i would rather go home, mamma," said laura, in a coaxing voice. "that cannot be done, dearest," was the reply. "why not?--why cannot i return with you?" "because i have given my promise to the fairy, and a lady, my little laura, never breaks her word." laura knew that her mamma was not to be urged after speaking with so much decision; so she sank back on the cushions and tried to fall asleep. but her curiosity and anxiety were both aroused, and her eyelids would not stay shut. presently the carriage stopped. "i can go no farther, my lady," said the coachman. "then we must walk," said lady idleways; and she bade laura descend also from the carriage. "you can turn the horses and unstrap miss laura's trunk," she also said to the man; "there will be some one coming for it very soon, so have no hesitation in delivering it." the man bowed and obeyed, and laura, with her mother's hand in hers, plunged into the forest. chapter ii it was a new thing for laura to find her self on foot in the woods, to push her way through the brambles, and assist her mother in finding a path, and she fretted considerably at the necessity; but her mother, taking no notice of the child's complaints, went resolutely on, as if determined not to listen to anything that would make her unwilling to complete her errand. so, clambering over fallen trees green with moss, and slipping upon the pine needles, and occasionally getting a scratch from a brier, went lady idleways and laura, until they came to an opening in the forest where the blue sky again was visible; but so, also, was a great rock before them, too high for them to climb, and no way to get around it. pausing a moment, laura's mother picked up a little stick and rapped with it upon the rock. instantly from under the hanging vines a door, which no one could have supposed was there, flew open, and from it came forth a neat little old lady in black gown and white cap, leaning upon a gold-headed cane. she courtesied pleasantly and bade lady idleways enter; but lady idleways declined, saying, "i have brought my little daughter to you, my friend, as i promised. do all you can for me and for her. i have bidden her obey you, and i prefer leaving her now, lest my heart fail me. farewell, little laura, for a short time. you are in excellent hands, and must not be sad at parting. give me a pleasant smile and a nice good-bye kiss." and, clasping her in a close embrace, the mother whispered more tender words in her ears, bade the old lady take good care of her, and then turned hastily away, as if she feared to linger. laura beheld all this in quiet astonishment; then, as her mother left her, she flung herself upon the ground and wept passionately. but she was not allowed to do this very long, for the old lady, rapping her cane upon the rock, summoned to her assistance a funny old servant, as quaint and as curious as herself, a dwarf of kindly, smiling face, dressed in a gray blouse, with wooden shoes upon his feet, and a scarlet cap with a long tassel on his head. "hey, little missy!" said the old lady, "this will not do at all. grim, pick her up and take her to her own little bedroom in my cottage. if she wishes to, she may lie there, but not here upon the ground." as grim approached and was about lifting her, laura sprang up, and would have run from him, but his arms were of an extraordinary length, and he had her safely in them before she could get away; so she could only scream and sob to no purpose. grim whispered to her not to fear, that his mistress was very kind and good; and his own voice was so gentle, and she was so curious to see the interior of so strange an abode, that in a little while she ceased crying and looked about her. they went in under the hidden doorway, which led to a winding path through the rocks. here and there the sky could be seen through the foliage above, but the path was nearly all under a shelving mass of stone. at last they came to a little cottage, not much more than a hut, but it was neat and spotless; it looked as if it might be nothing but a bird's-nest built of grape-vines; but within were a tiled floor, a chimney-corner where hung a savory-smelling kettle of soup, and curiously carved chairs and shelves were against the walls. grim mounted a ladder in one corner, still with laura in his arms, and placed her in a tidy upper room, where were one window, a little stool, and a straw bed. "there, child; now do be good, and don't trouble the motherkin. she is used to children, and they all learn to love her; and if there is anything i can do for you, i am always ready; but no more of this angry sobbing, i beg of you." so saying, grim went off down the ladder, leaving laura alone. the child was bewildered. what could she do alone? never had she been alone at home; the nurses were always beside her, except when she purposely wandered away from them to frighten them. she looked about her--at the hard but white little bed, at the few pegs on the wall, at the strip of scarlet wool by the bedside, at the bare boards of the floor, at the ebony cross over the head of the bed--and she wondered if this humble little apartment was to be hers. then she heard the rushing voice of a brook, and she leaned out of the window to see it tumbling over the rocks in merry sport. tired, homesick, and perplexed, she turned from the window and lay down upon the bed, still listening to the brook, till sleep came and put an end to her wonderings. she slept heavily a long while, but was wakened by a rapping on the floor beneath. "come, child, come; it is time you were hungry. wash your face outside in the brook, and we will have some dinner," called the motherkin. she did not dare disobey, but sullenly crept down the ladder and went out to the brook, as she had been told. the pure cold stream refreshed her, and she could have dabbled in it willingly a longer time, but again came the call: "come, come; it is late. grim has to go on a journey, or i should have asked you to set the table and help me prepare the dinner; but he was in haste, and has done it all. "what will you have, child?--brown bread and cheese, good sweet milk, curds, and cream?" "peasant fare," thought laura; "such as our cowherds at home have. i will not eat;" and she drew disdainfully off; but the motherkin took no notice of her disdain, and placed some food before her. she was too hungry long to refuse, but she almost choked over the coarse brown bread. it was good, however, and so was all the rest, and in spite of herself she ate abundantly. the old lady smiled whimsically, and bade her, as soon as she had finished her meal, tie on a long apron and assist her in putting things in order. this was really unbearable. "no, i will not do it," said laura, firmly. "oh, my little damsel, do not be ungracious," said the motherkin. "i shall have to ask your assistance in many things, for my good, faithful grim has to be away; he has had to go in search of a wonderful herb which heals many ailments, and which is only found in a region far from here; and as it is to relieve poor sick people, i cannot refuse to allow him. his absence, however, obliges me to do his work, and i am sure you will not see an old friend of your mother making unnecessary exertions that a young pair of arms and legs can do so much better than old ones." at this laura opened her eyes in astonishment, and glancing down at her dress, murmured, "i am not allowed at home to soil my clothes or my hands; they will get too coarse and rough, nannette, my nurse, says." "no matter for nannette; you are too much of a lady not to assist me. come, we will arrange about the clothes afterwards. i have some pretty little gingham gowns which will fit you, and we will lay aside these fine feathers." thus appealed to, though in a very novel manner, on the score of her ladyhood, laura tied on the apron and obeyed the motherkin with less reluctance. she was awkward, and made mistakes. she placed cups where plates should go, and turned things upside down and downside up. and when the old lady told her she had done enough, she sat down and cried for vexation, she had done so badly. again came the whimsical little smile on the motherkin's face, and, opening the door, she said, "come, laura, and see my cow and my pig, and let me show you my garden." laura rose, but scorned the amusement, and soon found herself admiring both cow and pig, for both were white and clean as two roses; and when the motherkin showed her a corner which was to be her own garden, to dig in as she pleased, she no longer felt contemptuously as she had done. but the novelty of having a garden and being allowed to dig in it did not make her less homesick and dreary when bedtime came, and she had to creep off alone to the clean but hard little bed. she slept, though, soundly and well. chapter iii. the rushing of the brook wakened laura, and she gazed about her; slowly and dimly the sense of where she was came upon her, and she resolved that she would stay in bed. there was no nurse to dress her, no elegant toilet arrangements such as she was always in the habit of using: a little earthenware bowl and jug in the place of her luxurious bath, a good coarse towel instead of the snowy damask linen, and over the foot of the bed a common print dress and a checked apron, both spotlessly clean, had been placed. she looked at them and buried her face in her pillow. the motherkin called her in vain. after waiting a long while, she came up to her. "why are you not out of bed, my child?" she asked, most kindly. "it is a bright, clear morning. are you not well?" laura said nothing; ashamed of her own sulkiness, she yet was not prepared to acknowledge it. "come, shall i help you dress? do you need assistance?" still no reply. "ah, what a pity you are ill!" said the motherkin. "i had some nice chocolate ready for your breakfast, but i will have to go make some gruel. poor child! poor child!" and away she went, leaving laura with her head still buried in her pillow. in a short time she returned, bearing a large cup of gruel and a slice of bread, which she placed beside laura. then she bathed the child's face and brushed her hair, laura submitting in silence. when she had rearranged the bed and made it comfortable, she kissed her and left her. after a while laura tasted the gruel, making faces over it; but she emptied the cup. in the same way the bread disappeared; and then, getting very tired of lying in bed, she rose and went to the window. what a day it was! so sunny and bright! and how merrily ran the brook, and how she longed to see its drops sparkle between her fingers as they had done the day before! how velvety and soft was the grass, how yellow the buttercups! and she was sure she saw a humming-bird dipping down into the flowers in the motherkin's garden. a new idea came to her. why not dress and get out of the window, underneath which was a shed, and so drop down into the garden? the clothes were slipped on hurriedly; her little fingers were so eager that the buttons went in and out of their holes again. then softly on tiptoe she scrambled out. her skirts caught, her fingers were scratched, the skin was peeled from a spot on one little knee; but, ah! how delicious this liberty! her feet no sooner touched the earth than she ran swiftly to the brook, and the shoes and stockings were left to themselves while she waded in the clear, cool water. it was such an unknown delight, such happiness, that laura forgot she was laura and might have been any little wood-bird. out of the brook and on to the grass, off the grass and into the woods. flowers were here, and she gathered her hands and apron full; berries, too--sweet, red, wild strawberries, with a perfume so rare, so aromatic. she stained her fingers and stained her lips. hark! what was that? a rabbit, and down went flowers and berries for a hunt over the stones and briers. heeding nothing, she went after bunny, who suddenly popped into his burrow with a whisk of his little tail and a kick of his little legs for good-bye. then a loud chattering made her aware of mr. squirrel's presence, and she watched him jumping from bough to bough. wondering if he would come to her if she kept very still, she sat so motionless that by-and-by her little head began to nod, and, wearied with her unusual exercise, she fell fast asleep leaning against a tree. when she awoke she was still in the same posture; but her knee smarted, her legs were stiff, and she was very hungry. besides, she knew not which way to turn. she was lost--or thought herself so, which was nearly as bad. after all, it would be nice to see the motherkin's kind face and hear her pleasant voice. but how should she explain her naughtiness, her make-believe sickness; and how, above all, should she find her way back? a few tears of repentance and real sorrow rained down awhile, and then laura, who was no coward, made up her mind that she would tell the motherkin the truth, and that she was sorry and would try to do better. [illustration: "it was one of the motherkin's pigs."] a rustling in the bushes startled her, but she hoped it might be grim. it was not, however; but it was one of the motherkin's pigs; and, knowing that monsieur piggie had to go home some time or other, she thought the safest course would be to follow him. alas! mr. pig was no gallant; he had not even common courtesy. he did not so much as grunt agreeably, but squealed in the most piggish manner; for he, too, was hungry, and he led poor laura right through a swamp, covering her with mud. as they emerged from the swamp, laura thought she saw the cottage far away under the hill before them; and as piggie ran squealing on, she kept up the pursuit. into the woods again and out through the bushes, till a nice hedge showed they were near home; and now mr. piggie ran off to his sty, and laura, creeping through the hedge and up the garden-walk with downcast face, went up to the open door, longing to throw herself into the motherkin's arms and ask her pardon for all her bad behavior. no one was to be seen. not a sound came from the cottage. the door stood open, and on the table was a loaf of brown bread and a pitcher of milk. laura knew not what to do. she was ravenously hungry, but she was in too dirty a condition to touch food. she looked in and out and around, but no one was there. she mounted the ladder in hopes yet of finding the motherkin. her room was as she had left it, with the exception of a note pinned on the muslin curtain of the window. it read thus: "little lady laura,--necessary and urgent business compels me to leave home for a day or two. my good, kind, faithful grim has fallen and lamed himself, and i must attend to various matters which he always has done for me. you are quite safe here--no one can molest you; but you will be obliged to prepare your own food, feed the chickens and pigs, milk the cow, and keep the cottage tidy. do this bravely, little laura, and you will be rewarded. remember that a lady is none the less a lady for being able to take care of herself and others, and also remember that the faithful creatures who are dependent upon you will suffer if you neglect them. animals they are, but god made them and requires us to be kind to them." this was all the note said, except that "the motherkin" was written underneath as signature. chapter iv. if laura had been astonished before, she was still more so now, and so much so that she really could not collect her thoughts. she felt like crying, but she could not; she felt angry, but there was no way of venting anger; so she just sat still on the floor awhile and counted the nails in the boards. this had the happiest effect, for, after she had gone over and over the nails, a few quiet thoughts came to her. first she must make herself clean; so, dropping all her clothes, she gave herself, for the first time in her life, a good scrubbing. she made a great splashing, and succeeded in getting the floor very wet; but she also made herself very sweet and nice, and found plenty of clean clothes ready for her hanging on the pegs. then she went down below and ate a whole loaf of bread and drank about a quart of milk. this also had a good effect, for she began to face the situation, and determined to do her best. as she sat meditating, she heard a great noise among the fowls, and it reminded her of what she had to do. going to the cupboard in search of food for them, she found a slip of paper and a key; on the slip of paper was written: "this key opens a door in the rock; there you will find food for the chickens and pigs; hay and straw for the cow are in the barn. the key-hole is just this side of the vine that hangs beside the cottage door." her doubts were now dispelled, and, doing as the paper directed, she opened the door into a large, cool, rock cellar, full of provisions of all kinds. on the shelves were pots of butter and lard, pans of sweet milk and curds, empty pans shining, all ready for fresh milk, a milking-pail and stool. hams and tongues hung from the roof, with bunches of sweet herbs. barrels of flour and sugar, vinegar and molasses, were in another room off the large one. opening a closet, she found jars of clear jellies and delicious preserves. every fruit that one could think of was here, crystallized in the most inviting manner. nothing was wanting, not even cheeses or pickles, and on a shelf by itself was a chicken-pie as if for her immediate use when hungry. grain for the fowls stood ready in huge bags, and she knew, because nannette had told her, that sour milk was good for the pigs. after surveying all these goodly stores, she went out to the chickens, just in time to drive away a great hawk which was creating much fear among them. then mr. pig was attended to; but it was with much quaking that she carried the milking-stool into the barn where waited the patient cow. never in all her life had she attempted this. once or twice she had watched the cowherds at the castle, and she hardly dared to think of anything now in that dear home. mooly was very quiet and good, and glad to be relieved; but poor little laura's fingers ached when her duty was ended, and she was very tired by the time she had emptied the milk into the pans and locked the rock cellar. then she sat herself down in the cottage doorway, and had a little homesick cry, and wondered if her mother was playing on her harp in the great parlor of the castle, and if she longed to see her little daughter. the twilight lingered, the stars peeped out, and weary little laura still sat, listening to the crickets, watching the fire-flies as they flashed their tiny lamps in her face, and half humming the refrain of a song of her mother's which seemed to be in tune to the falling waters of the cascade. then to bed, and the sweetest slumber came to the lonely little maiden. thus passed two, three, four days. laura all alone, busy as a bee, finding always something to do, gathering berries, arranging flowers, living like a wild bird on what she could find--for she did not dare try any cooking. but bread and milk, cheese, and cold chicken-pie, and a dip into the jelly jars occasionally were very good fare, and the roses had come into her cheeks and a healthful glitter in her eyes. she was lonely, but she was not unhappy, and when, to her great surprise, the motherkin walked in one evening with grim hobbling behind, she gave a great shout of joy, and sprang into the motherkin's arms. "well done, little laura! think you i have not known how charmingly you have kept house for me?" "how could you, dear motherkin? and how can you ever forgive me for running off as i did?" "ah! we will let by-gones be by-gones; you have had all the punishment necessary; now we must see what we can do to entertain our little guest. poor grim has his herbs, but he has also a sprained ankle which we must nurse. how have you liked being my maid?" laura hung her head as she replied: "truly, i have enjoyed it. is it ladylike for me to have done so?" "surely it is, and, if you will have the patience to learn, i will make you proficient in many other homely duties, such as knitting and spinning." "but the peasants do those things." "well, the peasants are happy." "but i shall not live as they do." "no matter; it is well you should understand all things; they may serve you, they may not; they will teach you in many other ways. you will learn to have sympathy for all; you will learn to be patient and painstaking." "then i will try." [illustration: "after this she assisted the motherkin in dressing grim's ankle."] "that is all i ask. and now suppose i tell you all about these wonderful herbs?" picking up a sprig of each, the motherkin related its qualities, while laura, with a pencil and paper, wrote down her words; then she fastened each sprig in a slip of paper with its name attached. after this she assisted the motherkin in dressing grim's ankle, carrying warm water, and rolling the bandage, while grim looked on with a funny face, holding his cap with its scarlet tassel in one hand, and with the other supporting himself in his chair. then the fire had to be lighted and tea made, and laura no longer was awkward, but very alert, for now she had the willing spirit which makes everything so much easier to do than where there is reluctance. after tea, grim said he would tell her what he had seen on his little journey, so, drawing near the chairs upon which he was resting, the motherkin and laura listened to the old man's tale. chapter v. "i must explain to little lady laura," said grim, with a wave of his hand towards the motherkin, "if you will allow me, madam, that we fairies have the power of making ourselves unseen whenever we wish, though we seldom use the power except for some useful purpose." "ah," thought laura, "perhaps i was not so much alone in the motherkin's absence as i thought." "and thus it is," continued the dwarf, "that we see many strange things; but i have nothing very remarkable at present to relate, for my journey was an ordinary one but for my accident. i had to see the elves who had charge of healing herbs, and gain their permission to cull them, for they are very particular that they should be pulled in the right season, and they so cover their gardens up that one could easily think there was not a bit of motherwort or hoarhound to be found when they choose to conceal them. to see the chief gardener elf i had to go pretty far out of my way, for he was off superintending the planting of some tansy beds, and had quite an army of elves at work. i wish lady laura could have seen them. they are such an odd crew; but it is as well not to interfere with them while they are at work, for sometimes they are very troublesome; they have a spiteful way of scattering weed seed, right plump into a bed of roses or violets, that is very provoking. but they were too busy to take much notice of me, and when i had gained the permission i wanted, and was about to leave them, i thought i heard a child's cry. it attracted me at once, for, you know, my lady, we have an especial interest in children. "i listened, and again heard the cry; but the elves did not seem to hear it at all. concluding that it was best not to attract their attention to it, for they are very teasing to little children, and often give them a pinch which is supposed to come from a mosquito, and fearing that the cry might come from some little unhappy victim of their malevolence, i followed the sound until i came to a small house which looked as if it might be a forester's--a forester, lady laura, you know, is one who plants and trims the trees, and sees that the brushwood is cut properly, and in every way keeps the forest in order. well, as i said, the cry came from this little cottage, and i made bold to enter invisibly. all alone on a little bed of straw was lying a young child; it looked to me as if it were a cripple, for its little feet were all drawn up and its legs were bent. by its side was a stool on which had been some bread, for i saw the crumbs; a tin cup was there also, but no milk, no water. 'crying from hunger,' said i to myself; and, pulling out my luncheon, i laid a bit of bread beside the little creature. he did not see it at once, and kept on his sad little cry; but when he did notice the food, his eager grasp of it assured me i was right in my supposition. ah, my lady laura, it is a dreadful thing to be hungry--to feel that gnawing in one's stomach, as if one could almost swallow stones to stop it. well, the child ceased crying a moment and turned its little white, pinched face towards me; it was a pitiful sight, it looked so old, so wan, so wizened; but while i looked at it a bright smile came over it, just as you see a gleam of sunshine lighten up a cold, dark little pool of water, so this smile danced over the child's features. i was vain enough for an instant to think myself the cause of the little creature's pleasure, but, remembering i was invisible, i turned at some slight sound and saw that another child had entered the door--a girl not larger than yourself, lady laura, about eleven or twelve years of age, thin and poor-looking, but with the sweetest, tenderest of faces. her hair was a dark chestnut brown, brushed away from her temples and braided neatly, her eyes were the same color, and her skin was very white, but the expression of her face was its charm. she looked so calm, so resigned, so willing, so free from pettishness--but, oh! so much older and calmer than her years. coming in quickly, she lifted the little one from the bed and folded him in her arms, where he nestled as if he were a bird, and her embrace his warm, soft nest. "'ah, my little fritz,' she said, 'how tired you must be, how weary and hungry! and does the little leg ache to-day? see, sister has a cake for thee,' drawing from her pocket one poor little cake made of meal. "her gentleness was exquisite, but it made my heart ache. i knew this was all the food she had, and i was puzzled to know what to do. while i was pondering the girl hushed the little one to sleep, after she had rubbed his legs with her poor thin little hands. laying the child down, she brought in a few fagots and made a little blaze on the hearth, and with a handful of herbs brewed some sort of a tea from the water in the pot which hung over the blaze. it was a sorry sight, this poverty and wretchedness, but it was a beautiful sight also to behold this sisterly care and affection. evidently she had long nursed this poor little cripple. how could i relieve her? was my perplexity. i had not seen any houses near, no neighbors were at hand. i determined to try and enlist the sympathy of the chief gardener elf, and yet i also feared the result. just as i left the little hut i met a woodsman, and the happy thought came to me to whisper my wish in his ear; that is to say, i spoke in fairy fashion my plan of relief for these poor children, abandoned as they seemed to be by all human beings. i was rewarded by seeing the man enter the little abode. resolving to return as soon as i could, i was making my way through the forest when i fell, and was obliged to despatch the first herb elf who came in my way to gain assistance. to my great annoyance, the chief gardener elf had gone to south america for seeds. i could not follow him, and i would not intrust the lesser elves with a message to him, lest i should do the children more harm than good. relying, therefore, upon the little assistance which the poor woodsman i met would undoubtedly give after my suggestion, i was obliged, my dear madam, to return to you." "oh, my dear grim," cried laura, "how could you leave them to starve! let us go, dear motherkin--pray let us go to those poor little children. quick! quick! they must be suffering so much." she fell on her knees before the motherkin in her great anxiety and excitement, and the tears of pity rolled down from her blue eyes. grim nodded his head with satisfaction. "ay, my lady, do go; do not wait for my lame leg to get well. the way is rough and fatiguing, but by all means let lady laura go and do what she can for those suffering little ones." laura did not want to wait a moment; she begged the motherkin to start at once, that very night; but the old lady insisted upon the night's rest. "but i cannot sleep, dear motherkin-- i am sure i cannot sleep; pray let us go. i am so afraid they are suffering dreadfully." "we have to arrange matters a little, laura," urged the motherkin, pleased at the child's earnest desire to aid the little unfortunates. "i will go as early as we can to-morrow; and now let me see you show prudence as well as zeal by sleeping soundly, and so fitting yourself for the fatigue of a journey. come, dear, to bed, and hope that the good angels are caring for the little ones we are so sorry for." grim, too, assured laura that this plan was best, and that he felt confident the woodsman would do all he could until they reached the little sufferers. so laura went to bed, her heart stirred with very new emotions, that were both happy and painful; the desire to do good, the hope that she might relieve the poor little objects of her pity, made her glad, while the thought of their pain and poverty caused her real sorrow. her bed no longer seemed hard, nor her little room empty of any luxuries; and, as she looked out at the stars glittering in the sky and listened to the running of the brook, she prayed that she might be of use to the poor children of the forest. chapter vi. "i have decided not to go upon this journey, laura," were the first words the motherkin spoke after she had given her a morning embrace, as the child came briskly in haste to receive it, and hear the plans which she supposed grim and the motherkin had made after she had gone to bed the night previous. "oh, dear motherkin," exclaimed laura, "how can you forget those poor little suffering creatures! my heart has ached for them even in my dreams. all night i have been climbing rocks and wading brooks to get to them, and now you tell me i cannot go. oh, it is too, too hard!" "gently, gently, lady laura. i have not said _you_ could not go." "well, what do you mean, dear motherkin? is grim to go?" "no, grim cannot go either," said the motherkin, with a peculiar little smile upon her face; and grim twisted the scarlet tassel of his cap mysteriously. laura looked at one, then at the other: what did it mean? "are you sure you wish to befriend those children, laura?" asked the old lady. still more surprised, and not a little indignant, laura answered, quickly, "indeed i do; i long to aid them." "and you are willing to make some sacrifice, some unusual effort, to do this?" "yes," again answered laura, very quickly. "then, my child, you must go alone to their relief." laura's eyes opened very wide at this. "how can i? i do not know the way." "we will guide you, if you have resolution enough to undertake it." perplexed, laura knew not what to say. how could she go alone? all sorts of dangers rose before her--great gloomy forests to traverse, wild beasts to meet, perhaps. she stood irresolute, her hand on the motherkin's shoulder. the old lady took her hand in hers as she said, "i do not compel it, laura." "but the poor little children--how can i be of service to them? i do not know how." "i will instruct you; i will aid you. all i ask is for you to go alone: will you, or will you not?" a vision of the little lonely hut and the suffering child and the ministering sister rose before laura. "i will go," she said, no longer irresolute. "the blessing of the poor be upon you!" said grim, and the motherkin kissed her brow. "now, my child, have a good breakfast, and then i will tell you what you are to do." laura obeyed very willingly, no longer disdaining good substantial food or the simple manner of its preparation. after breakfast the motherkin opened her closets and chose a few garments for the poor children. these, with a small flask of wine and some oat-cakes, were packed in a basket which had leather straps attached to go over laura's shoulder. then she was arrayed in a flannel costume that her kind mother had sent with all her fineries. it was blue, with delicate traceries of silver, silver buttons, and a silver belt, from which depended a pocket, a fruit-knife, and a little drinking-cup. in the pocket the motherkin placed a few coins, and then assured laura that there was but one thing needed. "and what is that, dear motherkin?" asked laura. "i will show you," was the reply. "grim! grim!" called the motherkin to the dwarf, who was sunning himself out-of-doors. "yes, madam," said grim, hurriedly stirring himself. "do you think you can cut me a good stout staff for lady laura, without any injury to your lame ankle?" "of course, madam, of course. what wood shall it be?" "of wood that shall serve her well--you know their qualities even better than i; and whether it be ash or birch, you can get the elves to charm it, that it may have the power to guide her aright." grim hobbled off in haste, and was soon seen emerging from the forest with the charmed staff in his hand. it was a light, pretty stick, and the motherkin bade laura be very careful not to lose it, as it could not be replaced by any ordinary wood. "and now, my child, you are ready. i will conduct you to the path on which you set forth. you are to follow it all day, wherever it may lead; at night you are to sleep beneath the canopy of heaven; but have no fears: we guard you. in the morning place your staff in your hand, penetrate the forest by which you will be surrounded, and the staff will guide you to the bed of a mountain stream; follow it patiently until the rocks become precipitous, then climb the bank towards which your staff will incline; this will bring you to the summit of the hills, in one of the valleys of which dwell the children you seek. constantly allow yourself to be guided by your staff; it will very gently but very surely determine your path. let no song of birds or murmur of bees, no fragrance of flowers nor music of brooks, detain you; do not linger. hasten on, and you shall be guided going and coming." "and the children--what am i to do for them?" asked laura. "give them the clothes, food, and wine, and such assistance as your heart may suggest." "but am i to leave them alone to suffer again when that which i carry to them is gone?" "no; you are to do all in your power for the present, and leave the future to me." "ah, how i wish i could take them to my home in the castle, and share all my comforts and pleasures with them! i would teach them, and they should teach me, and we should be so happy together. ah, please, dear motherkin, let me; urge my mamma, beg her to let me take the little orphans home." "patience, dear child," said the motherkin, pleased at laura's kind wish. "yes, patience," reiterated grim, twirling his tassel, and looking the picture of delight. "she does you credit, dear lady," said grim, as laura, after embracing the motherkin, and pressing both grim's hands in her own, started out with her staff in hand. "yes," said the old lady, "i am well pleased." [illustration: "she turned from time to time and threw kisses to them."] they watched the child's retreating form, as she turned from time to time and threw kisses to them, till at last the glittering figure of silver and blue was merged in the green of the forest foliage. chapter vii. laura's step was light and brisk, for she carried a light heart, she was animated by a new purpose; the pleasure of doing good, or of only having the wish to do good, was a new happiness to her, and as she walked she trolled out a merry little song she had heard nannette sing in the nursery. when she grew weary, she sat down and made a wreath for her hat; when she was thirsty, she drank from the little cup at her girdle, for there was always a stream at hand, first on one side of the road, then on the other, and the babbling of the brook was like a pleasant voice telling her sweet stories. it seemed to whisper to her how glad her mother would be to hear that she was getting to be a better child. then again it sang to her of the woods and the mosses, the wild-flowers and the birds, and of its own busy life--how much it had to do to keep all these pretty things refreshed and alive, and how it suffered when the drought came, and the sun was scorching, and the little leaflets withered on its brink; and as its voice became sad, and tears welled in the child's eyes, it would suddenly seem to burst into a foam of laughter and toss itself in tiny cascades over the pebbles. then laura would laugh too, and forget all sadness. then she would take off her shoes and stockings and wade, and watch the flies dart hither and thither as she dashed the drops apart. so the day went on. her path grew wilder, the woods more difficult to go through. great masses of tangled vines interlaced and hung low, reaching out their tendrils as if to hinder her. clouds gathered, and the skies were dark. a storm seemed coming. the birds ceased twittering. low mutterings of thunder, far away, broke the stillness. laura's feet were aching, and her heart oppressed. doubts troubled her. why had they let her come alone on this long journey? it was cruel. she forgot the poor children, and, throwing herself down, she thought she would go no farther. her staff was still in her hand, and as she fell it seemed to draw her gently up again, just as a magnet picks up a needle; it led her to a little cave or grotto, merely a nook under great rocks, but in it was a heap of leaves which would serve her as a place of repose, and she would be sheltered from the approaching storm, which, now that the wind had arisen, was swaying the trees violently. crouching in a corner, she listened to the crashing of boughs, the peals of thunder, and the dash of the rain. but she was safe and unharmed. gradually the wind decreased, the vivid gleam of lightning stopped flashing in her frightened eyes, the thunder rolled farther and farther away; the birds began chirping softly; there was but a gentle plash of drops from the dripping leaves; long rays of sunshine stole in between the branches. the storm was over. laura took courage, ate her dinner, and started forth again. she was not so merry as in the early morning; nannette's song was forgotten; but in her graver face was an expression of determination. the poor children came again to her recollection, and she renewed her zeal. on and on she went, sometimes nearly falling, but her staff maintained her, and prevented that. she climbed, she waded, she slipped, she scrambled. sometimes on dizzy heights she looked down into chasms; then she would cross peaceful and lovely valleys; then the road would wind up to some high summit again, giving her pictures of mountain-peaks and clouds and all their many charms; and while on the crest of a high hill, with all the heavens in a glow, she saw the sun sink beneath the horizon, and knew that darkness would soon surround her. hurriedly descending, her staff led her to a group of oak-trees, whose wide and shadowy boughs seemed to offer her the protection of which she was in need. farther and farther sank the sun, leaving clouds of purple and gold to fade into the soft shades of twilight. the hush of evening fell upon nature; stars peeped out. laura watched the waning light until, too tired to keep her eyes open, she laid her head upon her little knapsack, and was soon in a deep slumber. whether or not wild beasts came prowling about, or owls hooted, or the night winds sighed in the tree-tops, laura knew not; she slept as soundly and as safely as if in her own carefully watched nest in the castle. when she awoke, the sun was rising, birds were singing, and every blade of grass twinkled with dew-drops. after her morning prayer of thanks for the night's rest, a dip into the brook close by, and a little shake and jump by way of dressing, she sat down to her breakfast of oat-cake. [illustration: "she saw a queer little figure making grimaces at her."] as she munched it in leisurely fashion, wishing for some honey, she thought she saw a queer little figure making grimaces at her. it was an odd little creature, with a rabbit-skin so thrown over him that she fancied it might, after all, be only a bunny out in search of breakfast. "good-morning, my dear, good-morning! so you wish you had some honey, do you?" said the queer little creature. laura laughed out in surprise. "how do you know?" she asked. "how do i know anything, miss rudeness? by my wits, to be sure." "oh, i beg your pardon," said laura, conscious at once of having offended; "but i did not know i had spoken aloud." "nor did i; we people of the woods do not wait to be spoken to--we are wiser than you. but do you really want some honey? if so, come with me and i will show you where you can find it." "but who are you? i never saw you before," said laura, forgetting that the little creature had already shown himself to be easily angered. "who am i? what difference is that to you?" said the queer little object. "honey is honey; if you want some, come with me; if you don't, stay where you are." "oh, really," said laura; "you are very kind. i do like honey, and it would be very nice with my dry oat-cake;" and, forgetting her staff, she followed the elf into the woods. he led her to a hollow tree, and, flinging his rabbit-skin away, clambered into the cavity, and came out with a great mass of glistening honey dripping from its white comb. "here; now let me see you eat it," said the elf, putting on his rabbit-skin again, and laying the honey-comb on a broad leaf at her feet. laura sat down and dipped her oat-cake into the honey. "it is delicious," said laura. "won't you have some?" "i? no, indeed," said the elf, standing off and gazing at her curiously from beneath his bushy little eyebrows. "don't you care for it?" "no; i'd rather sharpen my teeth on an acorn." "but that is so bitter." "it suits my digestion. i am a planter of bitter herbs." "are you? oh, then you must know my good friend grim?" "to be sure i do! he came to see me a few days ago." laura thought grim must be mistaken in his belief that the elves were fond of teasing children, for surely this one had been kind to her, when suddenly she remembered that she had not her staff with her. she jumped up hastily, crying out: "oh, my staff! my staff! i must go back and find it." "ha! ha!" laughed the elf, evidently amused at her alarm. "which way must i go?" asked laura, anxiously. "any way you please, my dear. is not the honey so good as it was?" "oh yes, yes, it is just as nice, and i thank you ever so much for it. now, please, dear mr. elf, let me go for my staff." "i am not keeping you, am i?" laughed the elf, beginning a strange sort of dance, rubbing his hands together, and giving a series of jerks to the rabbit-skin. laura was ready to cry with vexation and alarm, but something seemed to tell her that she must control herself and not let this mischievous creature know how she felt; so, springing to her feet, she said, "i, too, can dance--see," and she waltzed away as if she were in a ball-room. "hurrah!" shouted the elf; "that is capital." "shall i teach you how to do it?" asked laura, stopping to get breath. "yes; let me see the steps; go slowly. oh, your feet are so big and clumsy i cannot copy you." "but, mr. elf, you do it beautifully--really you do. now show me, please, where the oak-trees are, that i may find my staff." at this anxious request the elf started on a run, whooping and hallooing. laura could do nothing else than follow him, but she found it difficult, he was so small and sprightly. nimbly he leaped over the rocks, turning occasionally to make a queer grimace at poor laura's efforts to keep pace with him. when it pleased him, he stopped and waited for her to come up. a happy thought came to laura. "mr. elf," said she, "i have a fine knife here. you could use it for almost anything. see, it is nearly as long as your arm, and it has a very curiously ornamented case, all of silver." "let me see it closer," said the elf, reaching up for it. laura held it high out of his reach, but his eyes evidently danced with eagerness to get it. "a little closer--a little closer," said the elf. "not till i have my staff: give me that, and you shall have this," said laura, shutting the knife and holding it still over his head. "you have no fun in you. what do you want of your staff? stay here in the woods, and you'll not need one. but you have not told me where you are going." all the time he was speaking, the elf had his eyes on the knife; but laura was guarded. "i am going on an errand of charity, and i need my staff; please give it me. look what a knife this is"--and she sprung the blade open again; then, assuming to be weary of waiting, she said, "well, i must go without my staff, i suppose. i have lost too much time already. good-morning, mr. elf. your honey was very nice; i am much obliged. good-morning;" and she turned as if to go. "hoity-toity! you _are_ in haste. well, if you must go, good-bye. your staff is on your left-hand side, beneath the very trees before you. but how will i get the knife now?" "here," said laura, only too glad to regain her precious staff; and giving the knife a toss on the grass, she ran for her stick. the elf shouted and danced again, and, shouldering the knife as if it had been a great bludgeon, he disappeared in the forest, the rabbit-skin dangling behind his back. laura was greatly relieved, and started on her tramp with the resolve that nothing should hinder or detain her again. all day she kept in the bed of the brook, as the motherkin had told her to do, and as it grew afternoon and the rocks became precipitous it seemed to her that she could not go farther; but thoughts of the children inspired fresh courage. her feet were aching, but as she reached the top of the high bank which bordered the stream, she espied a little thin curl of blue smoke rising probably from the very cottage of which she was in search. pushing on through brambles and bushes, led by the gentle guidance of her valuable staff, she at last came to the cottage door, and, with her heart beating rapidly from excitement and fatigue, gently knocked for admittance. chapter viii. no answer coming to her knock, laura pushed the door open, and saw just the same poor little room grim had described. there were fagots burning on the hearth; but though it was so poor and bare, it had an air of neatness and order as if unused. even the forlorn little bed of straw looked as if no one had slept on it. laura was so disappointed that she knew not what to do; but, too tired to make any search, she was about turning away when a light footfall arrested her, and she saw the figure of a weeping child coming towards the hut. evidently this was the elder of the two children, for she had the same brown hair grim had spoken of, but she was so much overcome by sorrow that she did not see laura until she came quite to the door, and then she started as if with painful surprise. "do not be alarmed," said laura. "i have been walking a long way, and am very tired: can you let me rest here for the night?" "oh yes," said the girl, with a sweet, sad smile. "i am very lonely now, but"--and she hesitated, glancing at laura's embroidered dress--"i fear i cannot offer you anything so nice as you are used to having. i am very poor." "but see, i have enough for both of us," said laura, showing her flask of wine and her oat-cakes; "and i have nice warm clothing, too, which a kind friend sent to you. but where is little fritz?" a look of such deep pain came in the girl's pale face that laura was sorry she had asked. "how did you know anything about my little fritz?" responded the girl, in a low tone. "i will explain very soon," replied laura; "but first tell me your name--mine is laura." "and mine is kathinka, or kathie." "now we can get along nicely; but shall we not have more fire and some tea before i tell you my story?" said laura. "i have no tea, and since little fritz has been gone i have not cared to eat," said kathie, with the dulness of sorrow. "then i will make the fire burn better," said laura, "and make tea, too, for i am sure the motherkin packed some." "but your hands are too fine and white--no, i will do it," said kathie, more aroused; and she went out for a while, and came back with some sticks. presently there was a good blaze, and laura got out the tea and sugar and cakes, and set them down on the hearth, for there was no table. laura was hungry, and glad to eat, and, after looking somewhat curiously at her, kathie, too, joined in the simple repast. then laura told her all about herself, beginning at her mother's leaving her with the motherkin, all about her new and strange experiences, about grim, and lastly about her adventures in the woods coming to kathie's relief. kathie became so interested that she forgot for a moment her sorrow; but when laura related grim's account of little fritz, and kathie's own kindness to her young brother, about grim's whisper to the woodsman, and his regret at leaving the children alone, and laura's resolve to come to them, she could keep quiet no longer, but fell into such sobbing as laura had never heard nor seen before. though she had not seen the like, she knew by intuition that tenderness and patience would subdue it; so she drew kathie's head on her own shoulder, and softly smoothed the child's brown hair; then she bathed the poor tired eyes with her handkerchief, and forced a little wine upon the sorrowful girl, and at last kathie fell asleep. outside the wind was rising, the moonlight glittering; within, by the few smouldering brands, sat the two children. laura held kathie until her own head began to droop, and then, in each other's arms still resting, they slept the sound sleep of childhood. when the bright beams of morning penetrated the little hut, kathie awakened first, and rekindled the little fire. laura still slept; unaccustomed to so much fatigue, she needed the long rest, and as kathie looked at the pretty silver and blue of her dress, and at the golden hair and healthful flush of her young companion's fair face, she seemed to her an angel of mercy sent to comfort her in her loneliness. for little fritz was gone to the better land; hunger and want had been more than his poor little crippled body could bear, and kathie's kindness could not keep life any longer in so feeble a frame. the woodsman had made a little grave in the forest for him, and there poor kathie had gone every day, and was but returning from it the evening previous when she found laura waiting for her. [illustration: "with laura's hand clasped over hers, she felt no longer alone."] as soon as laura had wakened, and the two children had eaten, kathie led laura to the place where her brother had been laid. birds were singing gayly in the trees over his head, and kathie had made wreaths of wild-flowers and garlands of grasses and placed them over the spot so dear to her. together they stood silently listening to the birds' clear notes, and the morning was so bright and beautiful that kathie could not grieve as she had done the night before. with laura's hand clasped over hers, she felt that she was no longer alone; and when laura said, "now we will both go back to the dear motherkin," she did not refuse, but turned away to make her little preparations. this was soon done, and guided by laura's staff, they started out for their long tramp through the woods. "now, kathie," said laura, after they had walked far enough to need a little rest, "let us sit on this nice mossy rock, and you tell me, please, how you came to be living all alone here in the woods." kathie sat down, and, pushing back her hair, said to laura, "it is all so sad and sorrowful that i wonder you care to hear about it." "but i do--really i do; only if it makes you unhappy to tell me, perhaps you had better not." "it is not much to tell: we have not been long alone. i do not remember my mother; my father was a wood-cutter, and we were very happy till the war came, and he had to be a soldier, and leave little fritz and me all alone." "your father a soldier! so is mine. how nice!" said laura. "ah, but your father is an officer, of course, and can do almost as he pleases, while my poor father had hardly time to bid us good-bye when he went away; and i do not know whether he is alive or has been killed in some dreadful battle." "then we'll think he is alive and well, and soon coming home," said laura, springing up and dragging kathie with her for a race. "come, we will not talk any more, for your eyes are full of tears, and this is too lovely a day for us to be unhappy, my poor, poor kathie. come! i am sorry i asked you anything." the day was indeed lovely, and the soft, sweet air was full of delicious odors from the many buds and blossoms. soon the children forgot their sad talk, and were chasing butterflies, when again laura, in her glee, threw down her staff, and could not recollect the spot where it had fallen. "oh, kathie, my staff! my staff is lost again! where did i put it?" she exclaimed, when a little mocking voice was heard repeating her words, and skipping over the rocks was seen the well-remembered rabbit-skin of the herb elf. laura was very much provoked at her own carelessness, and annoyed at again seeing her teasing acquaintance of the woods reappear; but she had gained a little wisdom from her former encounter, and took care not to show her vexation. but kathie was very much alarmed, and clung close to laura. the herb elf, seeing this, brandished his bludgeon, and executed a fantastic series of capers. "afraid, are you?--ho! ho! he! he! a great big girl afraid of me!" he sung. "i am not afraid, mr. elf," said laura. "you and i have met before, and what nice honey you gave me! i am sure kathie would like some, and are you too busy to help me find my staff?" "lost it again, have you? oh, you're a nice one! i am busy pruning witch-hazels, and your knife has been very useful." "so much the more reason why you should find my staff again for me. please, mr. elf, do be as kind as you were before." "let me see you dance again." laura took kathie's hand and whirled her away in a waltz till they were both breathless, while kathie whispered, "what shall we do to get away from this strange little creature?" "he will find my staff if we are good-natured," replied laura, in a whisper, "and we never could get back to the motherkin without it." [illustration: "the herb elf came up behind kathie and gave a twitch to one of her brown braids."] suddenly the herb elf came up behind kathie, and, jumping up vigorously, gave a twitch to one of her brown braids. "they don't come off, then?" he said, as kathie winced. "no, they are not meant to," said laura, in some haste, fearing he might be disposed to cut one. "i was in china once, and saw all the men with pigtails--how do you think i would look with one?" "queer," answered laura, still fearing he might covet kathie's beautiful hair. "not at all queer," said the elf, angrily, stamping his foot and hitching his rabbit-skin from shoulder to shoulder. a bright thought just then came to kathie, but fearing to speak to the herb elf, she whispered it to laura. "oh, mr. elf," said laura, "kathie thinks you would be grand with a great long chinese queue, and she says she is sure she could make one for you." at this the elf looked greatly pleased, and cut a very curious caper. "but," continued laura, "she needs some flax to make it of, for her dark brown hair would not be at all becoming to you." the elf frowned at this, and asked, "why not?" "oh, it would be really ridiculous; instead of looking like a chinese mandarin, a splendid, elegant chinese, you would be exactly like an ugly old indian who had scalped somebody--indeed, it would not be nice," said laura, very earnestly, so afraid was she that the elf would insist upon having one of kathie's beautiful braids. "but if you would get us some lovely yellow flax, kathie would plait it, and we would fasten it on for you, and then you would find my staff for me, and we would be your friends forever." "ho! ho! he! he!" laughed the elf. "well, i'll get the flax;" and away he went, leaving the two girls again alone. laura squeezed kathie, and told her she was a jewel for thinking of the flax, for she certainly would have had to cut off her hair had she not been so shrewd. by this time they were hungry; so, opening their basket, they sat down to their dinner. birds hopped tamely near them for the crumbs, and squirrels leaped, chattering, from bough to bough. they finished their lunch, but still the elf did not return; they did not dare to go from the spot where he had left them, and their little hearts were full of anxiety, for if he should not return, how could they ever find their way through the woods without the precious staff? laura blamed herself for her giddiness, and wondered how she could for a moment have been so forgetful. kathie tried to comfort her, and suggested that if they found it again it would be well to tie or fasten it in some way to her girdle. chapter ix. just as the girls were thinking what they should do for the night in case they were obliged to remain in this place, they heard a little shout, and their eyes were gladdened by the welcome sight of the rabbit-skin, and trailing behind the elf was a large bunch of flax. he came slowly towards them, and flung the flax at their feet, saying, "i have had hard work to get this, i can tell you; this is something we have nothing to do with, and i have robbed a garden for it." "oh, how could you be so wicked?" exclaimed laura. the elf made one of his strange grimaces, and stood on his head a moment. "so you call that wicked, do you?" "yes; robbing is very wicked." "if i planted ever so much catnip in its place, what do you call that?" "oh, that was all fair, i suppose." "well, don't suppose anything more about it, but just go to work, if you want your stick." at this kathie began to plait most diligently, and laura, finding a bit of blue ribbon somewhere about her dress, tied the end of the long braid with it. the elf watched them closely--his little black beady eyes following every movement of kathie's dexterous fingers, while laura held the flax. when it was finished, laura proposed fastening it in the elf's cap as the easiest way for him to wear it, and then when he chose he could lay it aside. this suited exactly, and the little furry rabbit's head was soon adorned with this peculiar ornament. when the elf put it on he gave a shout of glee, but afterwards became very grave--whether the weight oppressed him, or whether he remembered that chinese sedateness and dignity would be appropriate, cannot be determined; but laura and kathie both assured him he looked very grand. "and now," said laura, "please be so good, mr. elf, as to give me my staff, for we have a long way to go, and have lost much time." the elf at this request began his queer capers again, but finding the long queue very much in his way, stopped short, and asked laura why she could not stay awhile in the woods with him, and said that he would get her more honey, and find her the prettiest red cup-moss and maidenhair ferns she had ever seen. laura declined very resolutely, saying that the motherkin and grim had charged her not to delay. then the elf made hideous faces, and blew a shrill whistle through his fingers, whereat a swarm of mosquitoes buzzed around the children most uncomfortably. "really, mr. elf," said laura, brandishing her handkerchief wildly about to keep off the stinging insects, "i thought you were more of a gentleman than this. a chinese mandarin would not vex us in this way. i have a pretty turquoise ring on my hand, which, if my staff were here, i might give you-- but, oh! oh! how these things do bite! come, kathie, let us run," she added; and, seizing kathie's hand, she started off. "hey! not so fast. here is your staff. the ring! the ring! where is it?" called the elf. "i cannot stay in that swarm of mosquitoes," replied laura, still running; but the elf was quicker than she, and, leaping before her, threw her staff across her path. "here is the ring," replied laura; "and next time you meet any children, i hope you will be kinder to them than you have been to us." "oh, you are too stupid to have any fun. just a little joke like that was nothing at all." [illustration: "they bathed their swollen and disfigured faces."] laura made no answer, but, seizing her staff, she and kathie hurried into the woods in search of a brook where they could bathe their swollen and disfigured faces. when they began their walk again, nothing was seen of the elf. "i do hope we shall now have no more to hinder us, kathie. see, i have tied my stick to my wrist." "and we had better keep very quiet the rest of the way; for if we talk, the elves may hear us, and contrive something new to stop us." "quite right, kathie. we'll play we are hunters in search of game, and not speak a word." so on they went till again the twilight made it necessary for them to seek a place of repose for the night. an overhanging rock surrounded by low bushes seemed an inviting spot, especially as the staff did not withhold them from it. kathie, more learned in woodland ways than laura, broke down branches of hemlock, and made a fragrant and spicy bed; and then, too tired to do more than say their prayers, they both were asleep in a few moments. it seemed to laura that she had not been long asleep when something wakened her. what it was she knew not. there was a soft stir in the tree-tops, as if a light breeze were blowing--an occasional chirp from some bird which had been disturbed, perhaps by a dream that its eggs were broken; but otherwise all was still. kathie was sleeping soundly, and laura closed her own eyes again, but again was aroused, and this time by a cold something poking in her hand. chapter x. the cold little nose of an animal it seemed; for it was followed by the lapping of a warm little tongue, and the cuddling of a muffy, furry little body against laura. still kathie slept soundly, and laura was too frightened to waken her. every moment she expected to hear a growl, and have an angry bite from a set of savage teeth; but no bite or growl coming, and the cuddling of the little creature seeming to be kindly, she became less fearful, and her heart stopped its hurried beating. "kathie!" she whispered--"kathie!" but kathie slept, and would not waken. [illustration: "kathie gazed at laura, sleeping with one hand on the neck of a young bear cub."] an owl hooted dismally, and laura shivered, which only made the little furry creature crowd nearer, as if for protection. she put out her hand and felt of the soft warm fur; again the warm tongue touched her hand, and reminded her of her spaniel fido. she patted the head, wondering if it were a dog. fido she knew it could not be, for his head was smaller, and he was every way more slender than this strange creature. as her fears abated, and she became more reconciled to the presence of this new-comer, she became drowsy again, and before long fell as soundly asleep as was kathie; and when morning came, with its bird-calls and tender flush of dawn, kathie was the first to waken; and she gazed with astonishment, not unmixed with fear, at laura, sleeping with one hand resting on the neck of a young bear cub. kathie had witnessed such strange and novel things in laura's company that she began to think laura too was a fairy, and had something in common with all the inhabitants of the woods; but so lovely was she in kathie's eyes, and so welcome had been her kindness and gentle sympathy, that kathie was disposed to think all that was good of laura, and that if she were a fairy, she was a very charming one. when laura aroused, however, her start of surprise and look of wonder at the little animal beside her, and then her dimly remembered experience of the night coming to her recollection taking off the edge of her fear, showed kathie that she was quite as much a human child as herself. the little bear had snuggled himself so close beside laura that she could not move without disturbing him. as yet he showed no signs of waking; his eyes were tightly shut, and he was almost a ball in shape. "it's a real baby bear, kathie. where do you suppose he came from?" "i cannot imagine," answered kathie. "but," she added, "i think we had better hurry away, for fear its mother may come in search of it." "oh, kathie, no; he is too cunning and pretty. i cannot give him up. see how he nestles up to me, and how affectionate he is." "but the mother, laura, would be very cruel to us. i have heard terrible tales of children hugged to death by bears." "i don't believe he has a mother," said laura, eagerly. "i think his mother has probably been killed, and that he has come to us to be taken care of. you need not look so doubtful, kathie. perhaps this was his home, this very nook of ours where we have been sleeping, and he has come seeking his mother, poor little cub, and not finding her, has lain down here for warmth and comfort. i mean to keep him and take him home with me. now, kathie, be good and help me, and you shall see what a dear pet he will make. i think he is just as cunning and pretty as he can be, and we will train him to do all sorts of funny things." still kathie looked anxious; but the cub wakened and whined, and ate some oat-cake from laura's hand, and when they rose to begin their walk he trotted after them, as if afraid they were about leaving him. but laura was too delighted with the idea of a new pet to think of leaving him, and kathie and she took turns in carrying the little creature when it appeared to be tired; for, now they were nearing home, laura's steps were quicker, and the way seemed far less difficult. "how glad i shall be to see the dear motherkin again!" said laura, as they rested for a while in the cool shadow of a great tree at whose roots babbled a clear brook. kathie looked sad and weary and homesick. "and how glad she will be to see you, kathie dear!" "do you think so, laura? i am so unused to strange faces, and so afraid, that i almost wish you had left me in the woods." "ah, don't speak that way, kathie; you might have starved there all alone." "i am not ungrateful, dear laura." "no, i know you are not, kathie; you only miss little fritz; but i am going to find your father for you, and then, if you want to, you shall go back to your own home, and my mamma and i will give you a great many nice things, and we will make it pleasant and comfortable for you." kathie's face brightened at these kind words. "and what can i do for you?" she asked. "oh, you shall teach me to spin and knit and plait, and do all sorts of things." and then they went on again, still followed by the little cub, around whose neck laura had hung a wreath of wild flowers, from which he munched occasionally, and which she had as frequently to renew. they had no more strange adventures, for the staff guided them safely on their way, and as the sun lowered, and the afternoon became cool, and the birds were less noisy, laura suddenly espied the gray figure and scarlet cap of grim, waiting on the edge of the wood to welcome the little wayfarers. when he saw them, he tossed his cap high in the air as a signal to the motherkin, whose pleasant face quickly appeared, and in a few moments laura was in her embrace. then followed the welcome to kathie, and even the cub came in for his share of attention; but as they neared the cottage, to laura's greater astonishment, her own dear mamma came out and took her in her arms. "my child! my own dear laura!" exclaimed her mother, tenderly, "how altered you are! how you have grown! and what a fine healthy brown is upon your cheeks! and, best of all, my dear friend tells me of the loving pilgrimage you have just finished, and what a good girl my laura has become." and the mother kissed and clasped laura, while tears of joy fell from her eyes. never had there been so charming a feast seen as the motherkin had prepared for the little pilgrims. all about the cottage in the trees were hung colored lanterns, which, as the evening grew darker, gave out brilliant sparkles of light; on the little lawn was a table laden with fruits and creams and cakes, and the white cloth was festooned with pink roses; rustic seats, dressed with flowers and canopied with boughs, were arranged on a carpet of richly woven colors; vases and jars of sweet-scented flowers adorned the tables, where glittered silver pitchers and crystal cups. lovely white dresses of thinnest muslin and coronets of white blossoms had been prepared for the children, who, having bathed and refreshed themselves, were led by grim to their seats beside lady idleways and the motherkin, who listened with attention to laura's account of her journey. grim listened, too, chuckling with pleasure as he moved about, waiting upon his mistress and her guests. "now, my dear lady idleways," said the motherkin, "i can let laura return to you with great satisfaction, for i am quite sure she has been much benefited by her visit to us. she came to me a spoiled, too much indulged child; she goes back to you a sensible, intelligent being, with a desire to be useful, and with sympathy for her fellow-creatures." "but, my dear motherkin," said laura, with tears, "am i to go home and never, never see you again, or grim, or kathie, or my dear little bear, or have any more happy days in the woods?" "why, no, my dear laura," said her mother, quickly. "you shall take kathie home with you, and your dear little bear, and all that you love; and you shall see the motherkin very often--as often as she will let you come to the forest of pines; and we will spend all our days in the woods if you wish, for i shall want you to go about with me among the cottages, and see what we can do for the poor people in them; besides, you forget that we are to find kathie's father for her, and make her home a happy one again." "and after all, dear laura, you need never suffer for want of my company," said the motherkin; "for though i asked your mother not to reveal my name before you came to me, i have no wish to make it any longer a secret. i am the fairy industry. be industrious, dear child, and i am always at your service." chapter xi. nothing more beautiful could well have been imagined than the day lady idleways, laura, and kathie started for idleways castle. towards morning there had been a shower, which freshened every leaf, and gave a glittering touch to every flower. it was a joyous, glad day, when even the birds seemed to be happier; and when laura bade farewell to her kind friends, sorry as she was to leave them, she could not be unhappy. the motherkin and grim escorted them through their woods and beyond the door in the rock where laura had first seen the fairy. at this point they exchanged good wishes and made their final adieux, the motherkin never venturing out of the confines of the forest of pines--at least to mortal vision she never went farther. [illustration: "laura thought she saw a familiar object behind a bush of sweetbrier."] as they reached the limit of the woods, where lady idleways's carriage was waiting, laura thought she saw a familiar object partly hiding behind a bush of sweetbrier. kathie's eyes also turned in the same direction, and she whispered to laura, "is that the herb elf, or is it only a rabbit?" "it is the elf. look at his queue. i wonder what he wants? he seems to be afraid of being noticed. look! he is waving his cap to us, and then he retreats behind the bush again." "what is it detains you, children?" asked lady idleways; for both kathie and laura lingered a little. "the herb elf, mamma," whispered laura. "i see nothing but a rabbit, my dear." "but it _is_ the elf, mamma. may i go speak to him? he may want to say good-bye." "are you not afraid of his mischievous tricks?" "he would not dare do any harm to me with you so near, mamma." "go, then; but do not let him urge you away out of my sight." laura ran to the bush of sweetbrier behind which the elf was hiding, at which he capered and frisked about as if highly pleased. "so you are going home, are you?" he asked. "yes, i am going, and kathie is going with me. how could you let those mosquitoes torment us so? the bites hurt yet. look!" and she held out a swollen finger. at this the elf fumbled in his pockets, and drew out a peculiar-looking ring. it seemed to be cut out of coral. "there," said he, "this will make you believe me somewhat your friend. let me put it on that finger. see, the swelling goes down. while you wear this, no insect can ever trouble you. had you been ugly with me, i should not have given you this. but you can have your choice between it and your own blue ring. which do you prefer?" "oh, yours, mr. elf, of course. why, it's a real treasure." "of course it is; it came from china. will you ever come to these woods again?" "i hope so. good-bye, mr. elf, good-bye." "good-bye. you are a real little lady. good-bye." and with any number of twists and jerks and queer contortions, the rabbit-skin and its owner disappeared in the forest. lady idleways and kathie looked at the elf's gift, and pronounced it a very useful and pretty trinket. then they all got in the carriage, and turned their thoughts towards home. it was late when they reached the castle; for the coachman lost his way, and they were detained. lights were gleaming from all the windows, and as they neared the broad steps a delightful strain of music welcomed their approach. servants were waiting to greet them, and laura was quite overwhelmed with all their kind attentions. she could not but remember how coldly and indifferently she had been in the habit of receiving kindness before she left home; for, child that she was, she had learned to think and reflect. thrown upon her own efforts to make herself comfortable and happy, and even to sustain her own life, she had grown out of the listless, dissatisfied, unhappy child into a rational and useful being, grateful and disposed to make others happy. "oh, miss laura, what a tall, lovely girl you are!" exclaimed nannette, looking at her affectionately and turning her around. "who dresses you, dear? and who brushes your beautiful hair? i have been lost without you." "i am my own maid, nannette, and you will have to wait upon mamma in future, or knit stockings for all the poor people. do i not look well dressed? ah! here is my dear fido. what a great big creature he has become! and, oh! my dear nannette, how are all the birds? and where is polly? "welcome! welcome!" screamed polly, in reply. laura took kathie about from room to room till the child was almost bewildered; but so modest and refined was she by nature, that the grandeur did not dazzle her. she was just the same simple, quiet child of the woods, with a heart-sick and homesick longing to return to her own poor home; and it was not many days before laura and lady idleways saw that the little wood-violet was drooping. kathie had been allowed a room next to laura's, and each day lady idleways gave them lessons together. they walked, they rode, they gathered flowers. kathie was teaching laura to knit, and laura was teaching kathie many little nice ways about herself; and laura was all brightness and energy--a veritable sunbeam, as all in the castle said; but kathie grew quieter and sadder, and one day laura found her unable to rise from her bed. in alarm she went to her mother. "mamma, kathie is ill; her head is hot, and she says strange things to me, and she moans as if in pain." lady idleways found the child truly ill, and she had to forbid laura's even seeing her, for she knew not but that her fever might prove to be contagious. nannette shook her head wisely, and took her place at the bedside, as if now she had indeed some thing to occupy her. laura was lost without her companion, but made fresh bouquets and sent them in every morning to her, and was always ready at the end of the long hall to wait upon nannette, that she might not leave her charge a moment. lady idleways sent for a physician, and his face looked grave when he came from kathie's bedside. "what is it, mamma?" asked laura, as, with her books and fido, she sat in the embrasure of the large hall window, waiting for the doctor's decision. "it is a low fever, my darling, and we must do something to cheer the child and make her hopeful. i am going now to write to your papa, to see if he can get permission for kathie's father to return. meanwhile we will get their cottage in order, cleaned, and made comfortable with all that they need, and then we will take the little wild bird back to its nest. these woodland creatures cannot live away from their haunts. do you understand, my laura?" "yes, mamma; but i am so sorry." "so am i, dear child." so it was decided. the letter was written, and a favorable answer came. day after day went by, and yet kathie could only take a little soup and a little wine, and laura was allowed to go beneath her window and talk to her a while. and lady idleways was very busy, driving out to the forest every day with a donkey-cart laden with many useful goods, going and returning with work-people, and coming home to bid laura hope that kathie would soon be very well and happy again. chapter xii. [illustration: "she was now allowed to sit beside kathie and read a little to her."] at last kathie was pronounced able to leave her room. the summer had ripened into autumn, and the leaves, which had turned crisp and brown, had fallen, making the branches bare. the air was sharp and frosty. great logs burned in the fireplaces, delighting laura with their cheerful blaze, and keeping her busy in the twilight finding pictures in the flames. she was now allowed to sit beside kathie and read a little to her, a few verses, a hymn, or a bible story. and to laura was given the pleasant task of telling kathie she was soon to see her father. it happened this way. kathie had been carried out for fresh air in nannette's arms, and was resting on cushions; it was the middle of the day, and the sunlight streamed through the broad windows. laura was roasting chestnuts, and as she drew them from the ashes she said, "kathie, if i were a fairy and you had a wish, what should i turn this nut into for you?--a pot of gold?" "no, dear laura. i do not want a pot of gold." "but i know what you do want, and what you shall have." "ah, laura, you are too good to me, and i am ashamed to say i want anything." "but it is not _anything_, it is _somebody_, you want; and there is mamma at the window, all wrapped up in a shawl, beckoning me out to see a soldier who has just gotten down from a horse, and he looks enough like you, kathie, to be your father." with which rather sudden announcement laura ran out of the room, and soon came back ushering in a tall man with bronzed cheeks and heavy mustache and a kind eye like kathie's; and kathie was next in his arms, and her face hidden on his breast. not many days after, with grateful words and kindest thanks, the soldier and his little girl went to their home in the woods. the forester had received his discharge from the army through laura's papa. laura often went to visit kathie in her own home, which lady idleways had made bright and sweet; and kathie could never do enough for laura to prove her gratitude. stockings of softest and whitest wool knit by kathie, with delicious cheeses and cakes she had made, were sent to the castle. the forester carved beautiful toys and footstools and picture-frames and crosses for the kind friends of his little girl. as a parting gift laura had bestowed upon kathie the young bear she had befriended in the woods, and which, chained in the stable-yard, had grown large and fat and tame. laura had found it a rather awkward pet, less tractable to her teachings than she had supposed it would be; but the forester promised that the animal should have the best of care, and be taught all that a tame bear ought to know. so many people settled in the villages near, and so many houses and factories were to be found after a while, that the good fairy and grim had to take their departure. the elves, too, disappeared, leaving behind them only their garden beds of bitter herbs. laura, however, lost none of the good lessons the fairy had taught her, and was never happier than when doing some kind act for those who had less to make them comfortable and thankful than had the princess idleways. the end. the querist by george berkley the querist containing several queries proposed to the consideration of the public part i query . whether there ever was, is, or will be, an industrious nation poor, or an idle rich? . qu. whether a people can be called poor, where the common sort are well fed, clothed, and lodged? . qu. whether the drift and aim of every wise state should not be, to encourage industry in its members? and whether those who employ neither heads nor hands for the common benefit deserve not to be expelled like drones out of a well-governed state? . qu. whether the four elements, and man's labour therein, be not the true source of wealth? . qu. whether money be not only so far useful, as it stirreth up industry, enabling men mutually to participate the fruits of each other's labour? . qu. whether any other means, equally conducing to excite and circulate the industry of mankind, may not be as useful as money. . qu. whether the real end and aim of men be not power? and whether he who could have everything else at his wish or will would value money? . qu. whether the public aim in every well-govern'd state be not that each member, according to his just pretensions and industry, should have power? . qu. whether power be not referred to action; and whether action doth not follow appetite or will? . qu. whether fashion doth not create appetites; and whether the prevailing will of a nation is not the fashion? . qu. whether the current of industry and commerce be not determined by this prevailing will? . qu. whether it be not owing to custom that the fashions are agreeable? . qu. whether it may not concern the wisdom of the legislature to interpose in the making of fashions; and not leave an affair of so great influence to the management of women and fops, tailors and vintners? . qu. whether reasonable fashions are a greater restraint on freedom than those which are unreasonable? . qu. whether a general good taste in a people would not greatly conduce to their thriving? and whether an uneducated gentry be not the greatest of national evils? . qu. whether customs and fashions do not supply the place of reason in the vulgar of all ranks? whether, therefore, it doth not very much import that they should be wisely framed? . qu. whether the imitating those neighbours in our fashions, to whom we bear no likeness in our circumstances, be not one cause of distress to this nation? . qu. whether frugal fashions in the upper rank, and comfortable living in the lower, be not the means to multiply inhabitants? . qu. whether the bulk of our irish natives are not kept from thriving, by that cynical content in dirt and beggary which they possess to a degree beyond any other people in christendom? . qu. whether the creating of wants be not the likeliest way to produce industry in a people? and whether, if our peasants were accustomed to eat beef and wear shoes, they would not be more industrious? . qu. whether other things being given, as climate, soil, etc., the wealth be not proportioned to the industry, and this to the circulation of credit, be the credit circulated or transferred by what marks or tokens soever? . qu. whether, therefore, less money swiftly circulating, be not, in effect, equivalent to more money slowly circulating? or, whether, if the circulation be reciprocally as the quantity of coin, the nation can be a loser? . qu. whether money is to be considered as having an intrinsic value, or as being a commodity, a standard, a measure, or a pledge, as is variously suggested by writers? and whether the true idea of money, as such, be not altogether that of a ticket or counter? . qu. whether the value or price of things be not a compounded proportion, directly as the demand, and reciprocally as the plenty? . qu. whether the terms crown, livre, pound sterling, etc., are not to be considered as exponents or denominations of such proportion? and whether gold, silver, and paper are not tickets or counters for reckoning, recording, and transferring thereof? . qu. whether the denominations being retained, although the bullion were gone, things might not nevertheless be rated, bought, and sold, industry promoted, and a circulation of commerce maintained? . qu. whether an equal raising of all sorts of gold, silver, and copper coin can have any effect in bringing money into the kingdom? and whether altering the proportions between the kingdom several sorts can have any other effect but multiplying one kind and lessening another, without any increase of the sum total? . qu. whether arbitrary changing the denomination of coin be not a public cheat? . qu. whether, nevertheless, the damage would be very considerable, if by degrees our money were brought back to the english value there to rest for ever? . qu. whether the english crown did not formerly pass with us for six shillings? and what inconvenience ensued to the public upon its reduction to the present value, and whether what hath been may not be? . qu. what makes a wealthy people? whether mines of gold and silver are capable of doing this? and whether the negroes, amidst the gold sands of afric, are not poor and destitute? . qu. whether there be any vertue in gold or silver, other than as they set people at work, or create industry? . qu. whether it be not the opinion or will of the people, exciting them to industry, that truly enricheth a nation? and whether this doth not principally depend on the means for counting, transferring, and preserving power, that is, property of all kinds? . qu. whether if there was no silver or gold in the kingdom, our trade might not, nevertheless, supply bills of exchange, sufficient to answer the demands of absentees in england or elsewhere? . qu. whether current bank notes may not be deemed money? and whether they are not actually the greater part of the money of this kingdom? . qu. provided the wheels move, whether it is not the same thing, as to the effect of the machine, be this done by the force of wind, or water, or animals? . qu. whether power to command the industry of others be not real wealth? and whether money be not in truth tickets or tokens for conveying and recording such power, and whether it be of great consequence what materials the tickets are made of? . qu. whether trade, either foreign or domestic, be in truth any more than this commerce of industry? . qu. whether to promote, transfer, and secure this commerce, and this property in human labour, or, in other words, this power, be not the sole means of enriching a people, and how far this may be done independently of gold and silver? . qu. whether it were not wrong to suppose land itself to be wealth? and whether the industry of the people is not first to be consider'd, as that which constitutes wealth, which makes even land and silver to be wealth, neither of which would have, any value but as means and motives to industry? . qu. whether in the wastes of america a man might not possess twenty miles square of land, and yet want his dinner, or a coat to his back? . qu. whether a fertile land, and the industry of its inhabitants, would not prove inexhaustible funds of real wealth, be the counters for conveying and recording thereof what you will, paper, gold, or silver? . qu. whether a single hint be sufficient to overcome a prejudice? and whether even obvious truths will not sometimes bear repeating? . qu. whether, if human labour be the true source of wealth, it doth not follow that idleness should of all things be discouraged in a wise state? . qu. whether even gold or silver, if they should lessen the industry of its inhabitants, would not be ruinous to a country? and whether spain be not an instance of this? . qu. whether the opinion of men, and their industry consequent thereupon, be not the true wealth of holland and not the silver supposed to be deposited in the bank at amsterdam? . qu. whether there is in truth any such treasure lying dead? and whether it be of great consequence to the public that it should be real rather than notional? . qu. whether in order to understand the true nature of wealth and commerce, it would not be right to consider a ship's crew cast upon a desert island, and by degrees forming themselves to business and civil life, while industry begot credit, and credit moved to industry? . qu. whether such men would not all set themselves to work? whether they would not subsist by the mutual participation of each other's industry? whether, when one man had in his way procured more than he could consume, he would not exchange his superfluities to supply his wants? whether this must not produce credit? whether, to facilitate these conveyances, to record and circulate this credit, they would not soon agree on certain tallies, tokens, tickets, or counters? . qu. whether reflection in the better sort might not soon remedy our evils? and whether our real defect be not a wrong way of thinking? . qu. whether it would not be an unhappy turn in our gentlemen, if they should take more thought to create an interest to themselves in this or that county, or borough, than to promote the real interest of their country? . qu. whether it be not a bull to call that making an interest, whereby a man spendeth much and gaineth nothing? . qu. whether if a man builds a house he doth not in the first place provide a plan which governs his work? and shall the pubic act without an end, a view, a plan? . qu. whether by how much the less particular folk think for themselves, the public be not so much the more obliged to think for them? . qu. whether cunning be not one thing and good sense another? and whether a cunning tradesman doth not stand in his own light? . qu. whether small gains be not the way to great profit? and if our tradesmen are beggars, whether they may not thank themselves for it? . qu. whether some way might not be found for making criminals useful in public works, instead of sending them either to america, or to the other world? . qu. whether we may not, as well as other nations, contrive employment for them? and whether servitude, chains, and hard labour, for a term of years, would not be a more discouraging as well as a more adequate punishment for felons than even death itself? . qu. whether there are not such things in holland as bettering houses for bringing young gentlemen to order? and whether such an institution would be useless among us? . qu. whether it be true that the poor in holland have no resource but their own labour, and yet there are no beggars in their streets? . qu. whether he whose luxury consumeth foreign products, and whose industry produceth nothing domestic to exchange for them, is not so far forth injurious to his country? . qu. whether, consequently, the fine gentlemen, whose employment is only to dress, drink, and play, be not a pubic nuisance? . qu. whether necessity is not to be hearkened to before convenience, and convenience before luxury? . qu. whether to provide plentifully for the poor be not feeding the root, the substance whereof will shoot upwards into the branches, and cause the top to flourish? . qu. whether there be any instance of a state wherein the people, living neatly and plentifully, did not aspire to wealth? . qu. whether nastiness and beggary do not, on the contrary, extinguish all such ambition, making men listless, hopeless, and slothful? . qu. whether a country inhabited by people well fed, clothed and lodged would not become every day more populous? and whether a numerous stock of people in such circumstances would? and how far the product of not constitute a flourishing nation; our own country may suffice for the compassing of this end? . qu. whether a people who had provided themselves with the necessaries of life in good plenty would not soon extend their industry to new arts and new branches of commerce? . qu. whether those same manufactures which england imports from other countries may not be admitted from ireland? and, if so, whether lace, carpets, and tapestry, three considerable articles of english importation, might not find encouragement in ireland? and whether an academy for design might not greatly conduce to the perfecting those manufactures among us? . qu. whether france and flanders could have drawn so much money from england for figured silks, lace, and tapestry, if they had not had academies for designing? . qu. whether, when a room was once prepared, and models in plaster of paris, the annual expense of such an academy need stand the pubic in above two hundred pounds a year? . qu. whether our linen-manufacture would not find the benefit of this institution? and whether there be anything that makes us fall short of the dutch in damasks, diapers, and printed linen, but our ignorance in design? . qu. whether those specimens of our own manufacture, hung up in a certain public place, do not sufficiently declare such our ignorance? and whether for the honour of the nation they ought not to be removed? . qu. whether those who may slight this affair as notional have sufficiently considered the extensive use of the art of design, and its influence in most trades and manufactures, wherein the forms of things are often more regarded than the materials? . qu. whether there be any art sooner learned than that of making carpets? and whether our women, with little time and pains, may not make more beautiful carpets than those imported from turkey? and whether this branch of the woollen manufacture be not open to us? . qu. whether human industry can produce, from such cheap materials, a manufacture of so great value by any other art as by those of sculpture and painting? . qu. whether pictures and statues are not in fact so much treasure? and whether rome and florence would not be poor towns without them? . qu. whether they do not bring ready money as well as jewels? whether in italy debts are not paid, and children portioned with them, as with gold and silver? . qu. whether it would not be more prudent, to strike out and exert ourselves in permitted branches of trade, than to fold our hands, and repine that we are not allowed the woollen? . qu. whether it be true that two millions are yearly expended by england in foreign lace and linen? . qu. whether immense sums are not drawn yearly into the northern countries, for supplying the british navy with hempen manufactures? . qu. whether there be anything more profitable than hemp? and whether there should not be great premiums for encouraging our hempen trade? what advantages may not great britain make of a country where land and labour are so cheap? . qu. whether ireland alone might not raise hemp sufficient for the british navy? and whether it would not be vain to expect this from the british colonies in america, where hands are so scarce, and labour so excessively dear? . qu. whether, if our own people want will or capacity for such an attempt, it might not be worth while for some undertaking spirits in england to make settlements, and raise hemp in the counties of clare and limerick, than which, perhaps, there is not fitter land in the world for that purpose? and whether both nations would not find their advantage therein? . qu. whether if all the idle hands in this kingdom were employed on hemp and flax, we might not find sufficient vent for these manufactures? . qu. how far it may be in our own power to better our affairs, without interfering with our neighbours? . qu. whether the prohibition of our woollen trade ought not naturally to put us on other methods which give no jealousy? . qu. whether paper be not a valuable article of commerce? and whether it be not true that one single bookseller in london yearly expended above four thousand pounds in that foreign commodity? . qu. how it comes to pass that the venetians and genoese, who wear so much less linen, and so much worse than we do, should yet make very good paper, and in great quantity, while we make very little? . qu. how long it will be before my countrymen find out that it is worth while to spend a penny in order to get a groat? . qu. if all the land were tilled that is fit for tillage, and all that sowed with hemp and flax that is fit for raising them, whether we should have much sheep-walk beyond what was sufficient to supply the necessities of the kingdom? . qu. whether other countries have not flourished without the woollen trade? . qu. whether it be not a sure sign or effect of a country's inhabitants? and, thriving, to see it well cultivated and full of; if so, whether a great quantity of sheep-walk be not ruinous to a country, rendering it waste and thinly inhabited? . qu. whether the employing so much of our land under sheep be not in fact an irish blunder? . qu. whether our hankering after our woollen trade be not the true and only reason which hath created a jealousy in england towards ireland? and whether anything can hurt us more than such jealousy? . qu. whether it be not the true interest of both nations to become one people? and whether either be sufficiently apprised of this? . qu. whether the upper part of this people are not truly english, by blood, language, religion, manners, inclination, and interest? . qu. whether we are not as much englishmen as the children of old romans, born in britain, were still romans? . qu. whether it be not our true interest not to interfere with them; and, in every other case, whether it be not their true interest to befriend us? . qu. whether a mint in ireland might not be of great convenience to the kingdom; and whether it could be attended with any possible inconvenience to great britain? and whether there were not mints in naples and sicily, when those kingdoms were provinces to spain or the house of austria? . qu. whether anything can be more ridiculous than for the north of ireland to be jealous of a linen manufacturer in the south? . qu. whether the county of tipperary be not much better land than the county of armagh; and yet whether the latter is not much better improved and inhabited than the former? . qu. whether every landlord in the kingdom doth not know the cause of this? and yet how few are the better for such their knowledge? . qu. whether large farms under few hands, or small ones under many, are likely to be made most of? and whether flax and tillage do not naturally multiply hands, and divide land into small holdings, and well-improved? . qu. whether, as our exports are lessened, we ought not to lessen our imports? and whether these will not be lessened as our demands, and these as our wants, and these as our customs or fashions? of how great consequence therefore are fashions to the public? . qu. whether it would not be more reasonable to mend our state than to complain of it; and how far this may be in our own power? . qu. what the nation gains by those who live in ireland upon the produce of foreign countries? . qu. how far the vanity of our ladies in dressing, and of our gentlemen in drinking, contributes to the general misery of the people? . qu. whether nations, as wise and opulent as ours, have not made sumptuary laws; and what hinders us from doing the same? . qu. whether those who drink foreign liquors, and deck themselves and their families with foreign ornaments, are not so far forth to be reckoned absentees? . qu. whether, as our trade is limited, we ought not to limit our expenses; and whether this be not the natural and obvious remedy? . qu. whether the dirt, and famine, and nakedness of the bulk of our people might not be remedied, even although we had no foreign trade? and whether this should not be our first care; and whether, if this were once provided for, the conveniences of the rich would not soon follow? . qu. whether comfortable living doth not produce wants, and wants industry, and industry wealth? . qu. whether there is not a great difference between holland and ireland? and whether foreign commerce, without which the one could not subsist, be so necessary for the other? . qu. might we not put a hand to the plough, or the spade, although we had no foreign commerce? . qu. whether the exigencies of nature are not to be answered by industry on our own soil? and how far the conveniences and comforts of life may be procured by a domestic commerce between the several parts of this kingdom? . qu. whether the women may not sew, spin, weave, embroider sufficiently for the embellishment of their persons, and even enough to raise envy in each other, without being beholden to foreign countries? . qu. suppose the bulk of our inhabitants had shoes to their feet, clothes to their backs, and beef in their bellies, might not such a state be eligible for the public, even though the squires were condemned to drink ale and cider? . qu. whether, if drunkenness be a necessary evil, men may not as well drink the growth of their own country? . qu. whether a nation within itself might not have real wealth, sufficient to give its inhabitants power and distinction, without the help of gold and silver? . qu. whether, if the arts of sculpture and painting were encouraged among us, we might not furnish our houses in a much nobler manner with our own manufactures? . qu. whether we have not, or may not have, all the necessary materials for building at home? . qu. whether tiles and plaster may not supply the place of norway fir for flooring and wainscot? . qu. whether plaster be not warmer, as well as more secure, than deal? and whether a modern fashionable house, lined with fir, daubed over with oil and paint, be not like a fire-ship, ready to be lighted up by all accidents? . qu. whether larger houses, better built and furnished, a greater train of servants, the difference with regard to equipage and table between finer and coarser, more and less elegant, may not be sufficient to feed a reasonable share of vanity, or support all proper distinctions? and whether all these may not be procured by domestic industry out of the four elements, without ransacking the four quarters of the globe? . qu. whether anything is a nobler ornament, in the eye of the world, than an italian palace, that is, stone and mortar skilfully put together, and adorned with sculpture and painting; and whether this may not be compassed without foreign trade? . qu. whether an expense in gardens and plantations would not be an elegant distinction for the rich, a domestic magnificence employing many hands within, and drawing nothing from abroad? . qu. whether the apology which is made for foreign luxury in england, to wit, that they could not carry on their trade without imports as well as exports, will hold in ireland? . qu. whether one may not be allowed to conceive and suppose a society or nation of human creatures, clad in woollen cloths and stuffs, eating good bread, beef and mutton, poultry and fish, in great plenty, drinking ale, mead, and cider, inhabiting decent houses built of brick and marble, taking their pleasure in fair parks and gardens, depending on no foreign imports either for food or raiment? and whether such people ought much to be pitied? . qu. whether ireland be not as well qualified for such a state as any nation under the sun? . qu. whether in such a state the inhabitants may not contrive to pass the twenty-four hours with tolerable ease and cheerfulness? and whether any people upon earth can do more? . qu. whether they may not eat, drink, play, dress, visit, sleep in good beds, sit by good fires, build, plant, raise a name, make estates, and spend them? . qu. whether, upon the whole, a domestic trade may not suffice in such a country as ireland, to nourish and clothe its inhabitants, and provide them with the reasonable conveniences and even comforts of life? . qu. whether a general habit of living well would not produce numbers and industry' and whether, considering the tendency of human kind, the consequence thereof would not be foreign trade and riches, how unnecessary soever? . qu. whether, nevertheless, it be a crime to inquire how far we may do without foreign trade, and what would follow on such a supposition? . qu. whether the number and welfare of the subjects be not the true strength of the crown? . qu. whether in all public institutions there should not be an end proposed, which is to be the rule and limit of the means? whether this end should not be the well-being of the whole? and whether, in order to this, the first step should not be to clothe and feed our people? . qu. whether there be upon earth any christian or civilized people so beggarly, wretched, and destitute as the common irish? . qu. whether, nevertheless, there is any other people whose wants may be more easily supplied from home? . qu. whether, if there was a wall of brass a thousand cubits high round this kingdom, our natives might not nevertheless live cleanly and comfortably, till the land, and reap the fruits of it? . qu. what should hinder us from exerting ourselves, using our hands and brains, doing something or other, man, woman, and child, like the other inhabitants of god's earth? . qu. be the restraining our trade well or ill advised in our neighbours, with respect to their own interest, yet whether it be not plainly ours to accommodate ourselves to it? . qu. whether it be not vain to think of persuading other people to see their interest, while we continue blind to our own? . qu. whether there be any other nation possess'd of so much good land, and so many able hands to work it, which yet is beholden for bread to foreign countries? . qu. whether it be true that we import corn to the value of two hundred thousand pounds in some years? . qu. whether we are not undone by fashions made for other people? and whether it be not madness in a poor nation to imitate a rich one? . qu. whether a woman of fashion ought not to be declared a public enemy? . qu. whether it be not certain that from the single town of cork were exported, in one year, no less than one hundred and seven thousand one hundred and sixty-one barrels of beef; seven thousand three hundred and seventy-nine barrels of pork; thirteen thousand four hundred and sixty-one casks, and eighty-five thousand seven hundred and twenty-seven firkins of butter? and what hands were employed in this manufacture? . qu. whether a foreigner could imagine that one half of the people were starving, in a country which sent out such plenty of provisions? . qu. whether an irish lady, set out with french silks and flanders lace, may not be said to consume more beef and butter than a hundred of our labouring peasants? . qu. whether nine-tenths of our foreign trade be not carried on singly to support the article of vanity? . qu. whether it can be hoped that private persons will not indulge this folly, unless restrained by the public? . qu. how vanity is maintained in other countries? whether in hungary, for instance, a proud nobility are not subsisted with small imports from abroad? . qu. whether there be a prouder people upon earth than the noble venetians, although they all wear plain black clothes? . qu. whether a people are to be pitied that will not sacrifice their little particular vanities to the public good? and yet, whether each part would not except their own foible from this public sacrifice, the squire his bottle, the lady her lace? . qu. whether claret be not often drank rather for vanity than for health, or pleasure? . qu. whether it be true that men of nice palates have been imposed on, by elder wine for french claret, and by mead for palm sack? . qu. do not englishmen abroad purchase beer and cider at ten times the price of wine? . qu. how many gentlemen are there in england of a thousand pounds per annum who never drink wine in their own houses? whether the same may be said of any in ireland who have even? one hundred pounds per annum. . qu. what reasons have our neighbours in england for discouraging french wines which may not hold with respect to us also? . qu. how much of the necessary sustenance of our people is yearly exported for brandy? . qu. whether, if people must poison themselves, they had not better do it with their own growth? . qu. if we imported neither claret from france, nor fir from norway, what the nation would save by it? . qu. when the root yieldeth insufficient nourishment, whether men do not top the tree to make the lower branches thrive? . qu. whether, if our ladies drank sage or balm tea out of irish ware, it would be an insupportable national calamity? . qu. whether it be really true that such wine is best as most encourages drinking, i.e., that must be given in the largest dose to produce its effect? and whether this holds with regard to any other medicine? . qu. whether that trade should not be accounted most pernicious wherein the balance is most against us? and whether this be not the trade with france? . qu. whether it be not even madness to encourage trade with a nation that takes nothing of our manufacture? . qu. whether ireland can hope to thrive if the major part of her patriots shall be found in the french interest? . qu. why, if a bribe by the palate or the purse be in effect the same thing, they should not be alike infamous? . qu. whether the vanity and luxury of a few ought to stand in competition with the interest of a nation? . qu. whether national wants ought not to be the rule of trade? and whether the most pressing wants of the majority ought not to be first consider'd? . qu. whether it is possible the country should be well improved, while our beef is exported, and our labourers live upon potatoes? . qu. if it be resolved that we cannot do without foreign trade, whether, at least, it may not be worth while to consider what branches thereof deserve to be entertained, and how far we may be able to carry it on under our present limitations? . qu. what foreign imports may be necessary for clothing and feeding the families of persons not worth above one hundred pounds a year? and how many wealthier there are in the kingdom, and what proportion they bear to the other inhabitants? . qu. whether trade be not then on a right foot, when foreign commodities are imported in exchange only for domestic superfluities? . qu. whether the quantities of beef, butter, wool, and leather, exported from this island, can be reckoned the superfluities of a country, where there are so many natives naked and famished? . qu. whether it would not be wise so to order our trade as to export manufactures rather than provisions, and of those such as employ most hands? . qu. whether she would not be a very vile matron, and justly thought either mad or foolish, that should give away the necessaries of life from her naked and famished children, in exchange for pearls to stick in her hair, and sweetmeats to please her own palate? . qu. whether a nation might not be consider'd as a family? . qu. whether other methods may not be found for supplying the funds, besides the custom on things imported? . qu. whether any art or manufacture be so difficult as the making of good laws? . qu. whether our peers and gentlemen are born legislators? or, whether that faculty be acquired by study and reflection? . qu. whether to comprehend the real interest of a people, and the means to procure it, doth not imply some fund of knowledge, historical, moral, and political, with a faculty of reason improved by learning? . qu. whether every enemy to learning be not a goth? and whether every such goth among us be not an enemy to the country? . qu. whether, therefore, it would not be an omen of ill presage, a dreadful phenomenon in the land, if our great men should take it in their heads to deride learning and education? . qu. whether, on the contrary, it should not seem worth while to erect a mart of literature in this kingdom, under wiser regulations and better discipline than in any other part of europe? and whether this would not be an infallible means of drawing men and money into the kingdom? . qu. whether the governed be not too numerous for the governing part of our college? and whether it might not be expedient to convert thirty natives-places into twenty fellowships? . qu. whether, if we had two colleges, there might not spring a useful emulation between them? and whether it might not be contrived so to divide the fellows, scholars, and revenues between both, as that no member should be a loser thereby? . qu. whether ten thousand pounds well laid out might not build a decent college, fit to contain two hundred persons; and whether the purchase money of the chambers would not go a good way towards defraying the expense? . qu. where this college should be situated? . qu. whether it is possible a state should not thrive, whereof the lower part were industrious, and the upper wise? . qu. whether the collected wisdom of ages and nations be not found in books, improved and applied by study? . qu. whether it was not an irish professor who first opened the public schools at oxford? whether this island hath not been anciently famous for learning? and whether at this day it hath any better chance for being considerable? . qu. whether we may not with better grace sit down and complain, when we have done all that lies in our power to help ourselves? . qu. whether the gentleman of estate hath a right to be idle; and whether he ought not to be the great promoter and director of industry among his tenants and neighbours? . qu. whether the real foundation for wealth must not be laid in the numbers, the frugality, and the industry of the people? and whether all attempts to enrich a nation by other means, as raising the coin, stock-jobbing, and such arts are not vain? . qu. whether a door ought not to be shut against all other methods of growing rich, save only by industry and merit? and whether wealth got otherwise would not be ruinous to the public? . qu. whether the abuse of banks and paper-money is a just objection against the use thereof? and whether such abuse might not easily be prevented? . qu. whether national banks are not found useful in venice, holland, and hamburg? and whether it is not possible to contrive one that may be useful also in ireland? . qu. whether any nation ever was in greater want of such an expedient than ireland? . qu. whether the banks of venice and amsterdam are not in the hands of the public? . qu. whether it may not be worth while to inform ourselves in the nature of those banks? and what reason can be assigned why ireland should not reap the benefit of such public banks as well as other countries? . qu. whether a bank of national credit, supported by public funds and secured by parliament, be a chimera or impossible thing? and if not, what would follow from the supposal of such a bank? . qu. whether the currency of a credit so well secured would not be of great advantage to our trade and manufactures? . qu. whether the notes of such public bank would not have a more general circulation than those of private banks, as being less subject to frauds and hazards? . qu. whether it be not agreed that paper hath in many respects the advantage above coin, as being of more dispatch in payments, more easily transferred, preserved, and recovered when lost? . qu. whether, besides these advantages, there be not an evident necessity for circulating credit by paper, from the defect of coin in this kingdom? . qu. whether the public may not as well save the interest which it now pays? . qu. what would happen if two of our banks should break at once? and whether it be wise to neglect providing against an event which experience hath shewn us not to be impossible? . qu. whether such an accident would not particularly affect the bankers? and therefore whether a national bank would not be a security even to private bankers? . qu. whether we may not easily avoid the inconveniencies attending the paper-money of new england, which were incurred by their issuing too great a quantity of notes, by their having no silver in bank to exchange for notes, by their not insisting upon repayment of the loans at the time prefixed, and especially by their want of manufactures to answer their imports from europe? . qu. whether a combination of bankers might not do wonders, and whether bankers know their own strength? . qu. whether a bank in private hands might not even overturn a government? and whether this was not the case of the bank of st. george in genoa? [footnote: see the vindication and advancement of our national constitution and credit. printed in london .] . qu. whether we may not easily prevent the ill effects of such a bank as mr law proposed for scotland, which was faulty in not limiting the quantum of bills, and permitting all persons to take out what bills they pleased, upon the mortgage of lands, whence by a glut of paper, the prices of things must rise? whence also the fortunes of men must increase in denomination, though not in value; whence pride, idleness, and beggary? . qu. whether such banks as those of england and scotland might not be attended with great inconveniences, as lodging too much power in the hands of private men, and giving handle for monopolies, stock-jobbing, and destructive schemes? . qu. whether the national bank, projected by an anonymous writer in the latter end of queen anne's reign, might not on the other hand be attended with as great inconveniencies by lodging too much power in the government? . qu. whether the bank projected by murray, though it partake, in many useful particulars, with that of amsterdam, yet, as it placeth too great power in the hands of a private society, might not be dangerous to the public? . qu. whether it be rightly remarked by some that, as banking brings no treasure into the kingdom like trade, private wealth must sink as the bank riseth? and whether whatever causeth industry to flourish and circulate may not be said to increase our treasure? . qu. whether the ruinous effects of mississippi, south sea, and such schemes were not owing to an abuse of paper money or credit, in making it a means for idleness and gaming, instead of a motive and help to industry? . qu. whether those effects could have happened had there been no stock-jobbing? and whether stock-jobbing could at first have been set on foot, without an imaginary foundation of some improvement to the stock by trade? whether, therefore, when there are no such prospects, or cheats, or private schemes proposed, the same effects can be justly feared? . qu. whether by a national bank, be not properly understood a bank, not only established by public authority as the bank of england, but a bank in the hands of the public, wherein there are no shares: whereof the public alone is proprietor, and reaps all the benefit? . qu. whether, having considered the conveniencies of banking and paper-credit in some countries, and the inconveniencies thereof in others, we may not contrive to adopt the former, and avoid the latter? . qu. whether great evils, to which other schemes are liable, may not be prevented, by excluding the managers of the bank from a share in the legislature? . qu. whether the rise of the bank of amsterdam was not purely casual, for the security and dispatch of payments? and whether the good effects thereof, in supplying the place of coin, and promoting a ready circulation of industry and commerce may not be a lesson to us, to do that by design which others fell upon by chance? . qu. whether the bank proposed to be established in ireland, under the notion of a national bank, by the voluntary subscription of three hundred thousand pounds, to pay off the national debt, the interest of which sum to be paid the subscribers, subject to certain terms of redemption, be not in reality a private bank, as those of england and scotland, which are national only in name, being in the hands of particular persons, and making dividends on the money paid in by subscribers? [footnote: see a proposal for the relief of ireland, &c. printed in dublin a. d. ] . qu. whether plenty of small cash be not absolutely necessary for keeping up a circulation among the people; that is, whether copper be not more necessary than gold? . qu. whether it is not worth while to reflect on the expedients made use of by other nations, paper-money, bank-notes, public funds, and credit in all its shapes, to examine what hath been done and devised to add to our own animadversions, and upon the whole offer such hints as seem not unworthy the attention of the public? . qu. whether that, which increaseth the stock of a nation be not a means of increasing its trade? and whether that which increaseth the current credit of a nation may not be said to increase its stock? . qu. whether it may not be expedient to appoint certain funds or stock for a national bank, under direction of certain persons, one-third whereof to be named by the government, and one-third by each house of parliament? . qu. whether the directors should not be excluded from sitting in either house, and whether they should not be subject to the audit and visitation of a standing committee of both houses? . qu. whether such committee of inspectors should not be changed every two years, one-half going out, and another coming in by ballot? . qu. whether the notes ought not to be issued in lots, to be let at interest on mortgaged lands, the whole number of lots to be divided among the four provinces, rateably to the number of hearths in each? . qu. whether it may not be expedient to appoint four counting-houses, one in each province, for converting notes into specie? . qu. whether a limit should not be fixed, which no person might exceed, in taking out notes? . qu. whether, the better to answer domestic circulation, it may not be right to issue notes as low as twenty shillings? . qu. whether all the bills should be issued at once, or rather by degrees, that so men may be gradually accustomed and reconciled to the bank? . qu. whether the keeping of the cash, and the direction of the bank, ought not to be in different hands, and both under public control? . qu. whether the same rule should not alway be observed, of lending out money or notes, only to half the value of the mortgaged land? and whether this value should not alway be rated at the same number of years' purchase as at first? . qu. whether care should not be taken to prevent an undue rise of the value of land? . qu. whether the increase of industry and people will not of course raise the value of land? and whether this rise may not be sufficient? . qu. whether land may not be apt to rise on the issuing too great plenty of notes? . qu. whether this may not be prevented by the gradual and slow issuing of notes, and by frequent sales of lands? . qu. whether interest doth not measure the true value of land; for instance, where money is at five per cent, whether land is not worth twenty years' purchase? . qu. whether too small a proportion of money would not hurt the landed man, and too great a proportion the monied man? and whether the quantum of notes ought not to bear proportion to the pubic demand? and whether trial must not shew what this demand will be? . qu. whether the exceeding this measure might not produce divers bad effects, one whereof would be the loss of our silver? . qu. whether interest paid into the bank ought not to go on augmenting its stock? . qu. whether it would or would not be right to appoint that the said interest be paid in notes only? . qu. whether the notes of this national bank should not be received in all payments into the exchequer? . qu. whether on supposition that the specie should fail, the credit would not, nevertheless, still pass, being admitted in all payments of the public revenue? . qu. whether the pubic can become bankrupt so long as the notes are issued on good security? . qu. whether mismanagement, prodigal living, hazards by trade, which often affect private banks, are equally to be apprehended in a pubic one? . qu. whether as credit became current, and this raised the value of land, the security must not of course rise? . qu. whether, as our current domestic credit grew, industry would not grow likewise; and if industry, our manufactures; and if these, our foreign credit? . qu. whether by degrees, as business and people multiplied, more bills may not be issued, without augmenting the capital stock, provided still, that they are issued on good security; which further issuing of new bills, not to be without consent of parliament? . qu. whether such bank would not be secure? whether the profits accruing to the pubic would not be very considerable? and whether industry in private persons would not be supplied, and a general circulation encouraged? . qu. whether such bank should, or should not, be allowed to issue notes for money deposited therein? and, if not, whether the bankers would have cause to complain? . qu. whether, if the public thrives, all particular persons must not feel the benefit thereof, even the bankers themselves? . qu. whether, beside the bank-company, there are not in england many private wealthy bankers, and whether they were more before the erecting of that company? . qu. whether as industry increased, our manufactures would not flourish; and as these flourished, whether better returns would not be made from estates to their landlords, both within and without the kingdom? . qu. whether we have not paper-money circulating among, whether, therefore, we might not as well have that us already which is secured by the public, and whereof the pubic reaps the benefit? . qu. whether there are not two general ways of circulating money, to wit, play and traffic? and whether stock-jobbing is not to be ranked under the former? . qu. whether there are more than two things that might draw silver out of the bank, when its credit was once well established, to wit, foreign demands and small payments at home? . qu. whether, if our trade with france were checked, the former of these causes could be supposed to operate at all? and whether the latter could operate to any great degree? . qu. whether the sure way to supply people with tools and materials, and to set them at work, be not a free circulation of money, whether silver or paper? . qu. whether in new england all trade and business is not as much at a stand, upon a scarcity of paper-money, as with us from the want of specie? . qu. whether paper-money or notes may not be issued from the national bank, on the security of hemp, of linen, or other manufactures whereby the poor might be supported in their industry? . qu. whether it be certain that the quantity of silver in the bank of amsterdam be greater now than at first; but whether it be not certain that there is a greater circulation of industry and extent of trade, more people, ships, houses, and commodities of all sorts, more power by sea and land? . qu. whether money, lying dead in the bank of amsterdam, would not be as useless as in the mine? . qu. whether our visible security in land could be doubted? and whether there be anything like this in the bank of amsterdam? . qu. whether it be just to apprehend danger from trusting a national bank with power to extend its credit, to circulate notes which it shall be felony to counterfeit, to receive goods on loans, to purchase lands, to sell also or alienate them, and to deal in bills of exchange; when these powers are no other than have been trusted for many years with the bank of england, although in truth but a private bank? . qu. whether the objection from monopolies and an overgrowth of power, which are made against private banks, can possibly hold against a national one? . qu. whether banks raised by private subscription would be as advantageous to the public as to the subscribers? and whether risks and frauds might not be more justly apprehended from them? . qu. whether the evil effects which of late years have attended paper-money and credit in europe did not spring from subscriptions, shares, dividends, and stock-jobbing? . qu. whether the great evils attending paper-money in the british plantations of america have not sprung from the overrating their lands, and issuing paper without discretion, and from the legislators breaking their own rules in favour of themselves, thus sacrificing the public to their private benefit? and whether a little sense and honesty might not easily prevent all such inconveniences? . qu. whether an argument from the abuse of things, against the use of them, be conclusive? . qu. whether he who is bred to a part be fitted to judge of the whole? . qu. whether interest be not apt to bias judgment? and whether traders only are to be consulted about trade, or bankers about money? . qu. whether the subject of freethinking in religion be not exhausted? and whether it be not high time for our freethinkers to turn their thoughts to the improvement of their country? . qu. whether any man hath a right to judge, that will not be at the pains to distinguish? . qu. whether there be not a wide difference between the profits going to augment the national stock, and being divided among private sharers? and whether, in the former case, there can possibly be any gaming or stock-jobbing? . qu. whether it must not be ruinous for a nation to sit down to game, be it with silver or with paper? . qu. whether, therefore, the circulating paper, in the late ruinous schemes of france and england, was the true evil, and not rather the circulating thereof without industry? and whether the bank of amsterdam, where industry had been for so many years subsisted and circulated by transfers on paper, doth not clearly decide this point? . qu. whether there are not to be seen in america fair towns, wherein the people are well lodged, fed, and clothed, without a beggar in their streets, although there be not one grain of gold or silver current among them? . qu. whether these people do not exercise all arts and trades, build ships and navigate them to all parts of the world, purchase lands, till and reap the fruits of them, buy and sell, educate and provide for their children? whether they do not even indulge themselves in foreign vanities? . qu. whether, whatever inconveniences those people may have incurred from not observing either rules or bounds in their paper money, yet it be not certain that they are in a more flourishing condition, have larger and better built towns, more plenty, more industry, more arts and civility, and a more extensive commerce, than when they had gold and silver current among them? . qu. whether a view of the ruinous effects of absurd schemes and credit mismanaged, so as to produce gaming and madness instead of industry, can be any just objection against a national bank calculated purely to promote industry? . qu. whether a scheme for the welfare of this nation should not take in the whole inhabitants? and whether it be not a vain attempt, to project the flourishing of our protestant gentry, exclusive of the bulk of the natives? . qu. whether, therefore, it doth not greatly concern the state, that our irish natives should be converted, and the whole nation united in the same religion, the same allegiance, and the same interest? and how this may most probably be effected? . qu. whether an oath, testifying allegiance to the king, and disclaiming the pope's authority in temporals, may not be justly required of the roman catholics? and whether, in common prudence or policy, any priest should be tolerated who refuseth to take it? . qu. whether there have not been popish recusants? and, if so, whether it would be right to object against the foregoing oath, that all would take it, and none think themselves bound by it? . qu. whether those of the church of rome, in converting the moors of spain or the protestants of france, have not set us an example which might justify a similar treatment of themselves, if the laws of christianity allowed thereof? . qu. whether compelling men to a profession of faith is not the worst thing in popery, and, consequently, whether to copy after the church of rome therein, were not to become papists ourselves in the worst sense? . qu. whether, nevertheless, we may not imitate the church of rome, in certain places, where jews are tolerated, by obliging our irish papists, at stated times, to hear protestant sermons? and whether this would not make missionaries in the irish tongue useful? . qu. whether the mere act of hearing, without making any profession of faith, or joining in any part of worship, be a religious act; and, consequently, whether their being obliged to hear, may not consist with the toleration of roman catholics? . qu. whether, if penal laws should be thought oppressive, we may not at least be allowed to give premiums? and whether it would be wrong, if the public encouraged popish families to become hearers, by paying their hearth-money for them? . qu. whether in granting toleration, we ought not to distinguish between doctrines purely religious, and such as affect the state? . qu. whether the case be not very different in regard to a man who only eats fish on fridays, says his prayers in latin, or believes transubstantiation, and one who professeth in temporals a subjection to foreign powers, who holdeth himself absolved from all obedience to his natural prince and the laws of his country? who is even persuaded, it may be meritorious to destroy the powers that are? . qu. whether, therefore, a distinction should not be made between mere papists and recusants? and whether the latter can expect the same protection from the government as the former? . qu. whether our papists in this kingdom can complain, if they are allowed to be as much papists as the subjects of france or of the empire? . qu. whether there is any such thing as a body of inhabitants, in any roman catholic country under the sun, that profess an absolute submission to the pope's orders in matters of an indifferent nature, or that in such points do not think it their duty to obey the civil government? . qu. whether since the peace of utrecht, mass was not celebrated and the sacraments administered in divers dioceses of sicily, notwithstanding the pope's interdict? . qu. whether every plea of conscience is to be regarded? whether, for instance, the german anabaptists, levellers, or fifth monarchy men would be tolerated on that pretence? . qu. whether popish children bred in charity schools, when bound out in apprenticeship to protestant masters, do generally continue protestants? . qu. whether a sum, which would go but a little way towards erecting hospitals for maintaining and educating the children of the native irish, might not go far in binding them out apprentices to protestant masters, for husbandry, useful trades, and the service of families? . qu. whether if the parents are overlooked, there can be any great hopes of success in converting the children? . qu. whether there be any instance, of a people's being converted in a christian sense, otherwise than by preaching to them and instructing them in their own language? . qu. whether catechists in the irish tongue may not easily be procured and subsisted? and whether this would not be the most practicable means for converting the natives? . qu. whether it be not of great advantage to the church of rome, that she hath clergy suited to all ranks of men, in gradual subordination from cardinals down to mendicants? . qu. whether her numerous poor clergy are not very useful in missions, and of much influence with the people? . qu. whether, in defect of able missionaries, persons conversant in low life, and speaking the irish tongue, if well instructed in the first principles of religion, and in the popish controversy, though for the rest on a level with the parish clerks, or the school-masters of charity-schools, may not be fit to mix with and bring over our poor illiterate natives to the established church? whether it is not to be wished that some parts of our liturgy and homilies were publicly read in the irish language? and whether, in these views, it may not be right to breed up some of the better sort of children in the charity-schools, and qualify them for missionaries, catechists, and readers? . qu. whether there be any nation of men governed by reason? and yet, if there was not, whether this would be a good argument against the use of reason in pubic affairs? . qu. whether, as others have supposed an atlantis or utopia, we also may not suppose an hyperborean island inhabited by reasonable creatures? . qu. whether an indifferent person, who looks into all hands, may not be a better judge of the game than a party who sees only his own? . qu. whether one, whose end is to make his countrymen think, may not gain his end, even though they should not think as he doth? . qu. whether he, who only asks, asserts? and whether any man can fairly confute the querist? . qu. whether the interest of a part will not always be preferred to that of the whole? finis errata. page . line . for inexhaustable r. inexhaustible p. l. . for helpless r. hopeless. p. l. ult for than r. as. part ii query . whether there be any country in christendom more capable of improvement than ireland? . qu. whether we are not as far before other nations with respect to natural advantages, as we are behind them with respect to arts and industry? . qu. whether we do not live in a most fertile soil and temperate climate, and yet whether our people in general do not feel great want and misery? . qu. whether my countrymen are not readier at finding excuses than remedies? . qu. whether it can be reasonably hoped, that our state will mend, so long as property is insecure among us? . qu. whether in that case the wisest government, or the best laws can avail us? . qu. whether a few mishaps to particular persons may not throw this nation into the utmost confusion? . qu. whether the public is not even on the brink of being undone by private accidents? . qu. whether the wealth and prosperity of our country do not hang by a hair, the probity of one banker, the caution of another, and the lives of all? . qu. whether we have not been sufficiently admonished of this by some late events? . qu. whether therefore it be not high time to open our eyes? . qu. whether a national bank would not at once secure our properties, put an end to usury, facilitate commerce, supply the want of coin, and produce ready payments in all parts of the kingdom? . qu. whether the use or nature of money, which all men so eagerly pursue, be yet sufficiently understood or considered by all? . qu. whether mankind are not governed by citation rather than by reason? . qu. whether there be not a measure or limit, within which gold and silver are useful, and beyond which they may be hurtful? . qu. whether that measure be not the circulating of industry? . qu. whether a discovery of the richest gold mine that ever was, in the heart of this kingdom, would be a real advantage to us? . qu. whether it would not tempt foreigners to prey upon us? . qu. whether it would not render us a lazy, proud, and dastardly people? . qu. whether every man who had money enough would not be a gentleman? and whether a nation of gentlemen would not be a wretched nation? . qu. whether all things would not bear a high price? and whether men would not increase their fortunes without being the better for it? . qu. whether the same evils would be apprehended from paper-money under an honest and thrifty regulation? . qu. whether, therefore, a national bank would not be more beneficial than even a mine of gold? . qu. whether private ends are not prosecuted with more attention and vigour than the public? and yet, whether all private ends are not included in the pubic? . qu. whether banking be not absolutely necessary to the pubic weal? . qu. whether even our private banks, though attended with such hazards as we all know them to be, are not of singular use in defect of a national bank? . qu. whether without them what little business and industry there is would not stagnate? but whether it be not a mighty privilege for a private person to be able to create a hundred pounds with a dash of his pen? . qu. whether the mystery of banking did not derive its original from the italians? whether this acute people were not, upon a time, bankers over all europe? whether that business was not practised by some of their noblest families who made immense profits by it, and whether to that the house of medici did not originally owe its greatness? . qu. whether the wise state of venice was not the first that conceived the advantage of a national bank? . qu. whether at venice all payments of bills of exchange and merchants' contracts are not made in the national or pubic bank, the greatest affairs being transacted only by writing the names of the parties, one as debtor the other as creditor in the bank-book? . qu. whether nevertheless it was not found expedient to provide a chest of ready cash for answering all demands that should happen to be made on account of payments in detail? . qu. whether this offer of ready cash, instead of transfers in the bank, hath not been found to augment rather than diminish the stock thereof? . qu. whether at venice, the difference in the value of bank money above other money be not fixed at twenty per cent? . qu. whether the bank of venice be not shut up four times in the year twenty days each time? . qu. whether by means of this bank the public be not mistress of a million and a half sterling? . qu. whether the great exactness and integrity with which this bank is managed be not the chief support of that republic? . qu. whether we may not hope for as much skill and honesty in a protestant irish parliament as in a popish senate of venice? . qu. whether the bank of amsterdam was not begun about one hundred and thirty years ago, and whether at this day its stock be not conceived to amount to three thousand tons of gold, or thirty millions sterling? . qu. whether besides coined money, there be not also great quantities of ingots or bars of gold and silver lodged in this bank? . qu. whether all payments of contracts for goods in gross, and letters of exchange, must not be made by transfers in the bank-books, provided the sum exceed three hundred florins? . qu. whether it be not true, that the bank of amsterdam never makes payments in cash? . qu. whether, nevertheless, it be not also true, that no man who hath credit in the bank can want money from particular persons, who are willing to become creditors in his stead? . qu. whether any man thinks himself the poorer, because his money is in the bank? . qu. whether the creditors of the bank of amsterdam are not at liberty to withdraw their money when they please, and whether this liberty doth not make them less desirous to use it? . qu. whether this bank be not shut up twice in the year for ten or fifteen days, during which time the accounts are balanced? . qu. whether it be not owing to this bank that the city of amsterdam, without the least confusion, hazard, or trouble, maintains and every day promotes so general and quick a circulation of industry? . qu. whether it be not the greatest help and spur to commerce that property can be so readily conveyed and so well secured by a compte en banc, that is, by only writing one man's name for another's in the bank-book? . qu. whether, at the beginning of the last century, those who had lent money to the public during the war with spain were not satisfied by the sole expedient of placing their names in a compte en banc, with liberty to transfer their claims? . qu. whether the example of those easy transfers in the compte en banc, thus casually erected, did not tempt other men to become creditors to the public, in order to profit by the same secure and expeditious method of keeping and transferring their wealth? . qu. whether this compte en banc hath not proved better than a mine of gold to amsterdam? . qu. whether that city may not be said to owe her greatness to the unpromising accident of her having been in debt more than she was able to pay? . qu. whether it be known that any state from such small beginnings, in so short a time, ever grew to so great wealth and power as the province of holland hath done; and whether the bank of amsterdam hath not been the real cause of such extraordinary growth? . qu. whether we are by nature a more stupid people than the dutch? and yet whether these things are sufficiently considered by our patriots? . qu. whether anything less than the utter subversion of those republics can break the banks of venice and amsterdam? . qu. whether at hamburgh the citizens have not the management of the bank, without the meddling or inspection of the senate? . qu. whether the directors be not four principal burghers chosen by plurality of voices, whose business is to see the rules observed, and furnish the cashiers with money? . qu. whether the book-keepers are not obliged to balance their accounts every week, and exhibit them to the controllers or directors? . qu. whether any besides the citizens are admitted to have compte en banc at hamburgh? . qu. whether there be not a certain limit, under which no sum can be entered into the bank? . qu. whether each particular person doth not pay a fee in order to be admitted to a compte en banc at hamburgh and amsterdam? . qu. whether the effects lodged in the bank of hamburgh are liable to be seized for debt or forfeiture? . qu. whether this bank doth not lend money upon pawns at low interest and only for half a year, after which term, in default of payment, the pawns are punctually sold by auction? . qu. whether the book-keepers of the bank of hamburgh are not obliged upon oath never to reveal what sums of money are paid in or out of the bank, or what effects any particular person has therein? . qu. whether, therefore, it be possible to know the state or stock of this bank; and yet whether it be not of the greatest reputation and most established credit throughout the north? . qu. whether the success of those public banks in venice, amsterdam and hamburg would not naturally produce in other states an inclination to the same methods? . qu. whether an absolute monarchy be so apt to gain credit, and whether the vivacity of some humours could so well suit with the slow steps and discreet management which a bank requires? . qu. whether the bank called the general bank of france, contrived by mr law, and established by letters patent in may, , was not in truth a particular and not a national bank, being in the hands of a particular company privileged and protected by the government? . qu. whether the government did not order that the notes of this bank should pass on a par with ready money in all payments of the revenue? . qu. whether this bank was not obliged to issue only such notes as were payable at sight? . qu. whether it was not made a capital crime to forge the notes of this bank? . qu. whether this bank was not restrained from trading either by sea or land, and from taking up money upon interest? . qu. whether the original stock thereof was not six millions of livres, divided into actions of a thousand crowns each? . qu. whether the proprietors were not to hold general assemblies twice in the year, for the regulating of their affairs? . qu. whether the accompts of this bank were not balanced twice every year? . qu. whether there were not two chests belonging to this bank, the one called the general chest containing their specie, their bills and their copper plates for the printing of those bills, under the custody of three locks, whereof the keys were kept by the director, the inspector and treasurer, also another called the ordinary chest, containing part of the stock not exceeding two hundred thousand crowns, under the key of the treasurer? . qu. whether out of this last mentioned sum, each particular cashier was not to be intrusted with a share not exceeding the value of twenty thousand crowns at a time, and that under good security? . qu. whether the regent did not reserve to himself the power of calling this bank to account, so often as he should think good, and of appointing the inspector? . qu. whether in the beginning of the year the french king did not convert the general bank of france into a banque royale, having himself purchased the stock of the company and taken it into his own hands, and appointed the duke of orleans chief manager thereof? . qu. whether from that time, all matters relating to the bank were not transacted in the name, and by the sole authority, of the king? . qu. whether his majesty did not undertake to receive and keep the cash of all particular persons, subjects, or foreigners, in his said royale banque, without being paid for that trouble? and whether it was not declared, that such cash should not be liable to seizure on any pretext, not even on the king's own account? . qu. whether the treasurer alone did not sign all the bills, receive all the stock paid into the bank, and keep account of all the in-goings and out-goings? . qu. whether there were not three registers for the enregistering of the bills kept in the banque royale, one by the inspector, another by the controller, and a third by the treasurer? . qu. whether there was not also a fourth register, containing the profits of the bank, which was visited, at least once a week, by the inspector and controller? . qu. whether, beside the general bureau or compter in the city of paris, there were not also appointed five more in the towns of lyons, tours, rochelle, orleans, and amiens, each whereof was provided with two chests, one of specie for discharging bills at sight, and another of bank bills to be issued as there should be demand? . qu. whether, in the above mentioned towns, it was not prohibited to make payments in silver, exceeding the sum of six hundred livres? . qu. whether all creditors were not empowered to demand payment in bank bills instead of specie? . qu. whether, in a short compass of time, this bank did not undergo many new changes and regulations by several successive acts of council? . qu. whether the untimely, repeated, and boundless fabrication of bills did not precipitate the ruin of this bank? . qu. whether it be not true, that before the end of july, , they had fabricated four hundred millions of livres in bank-notes, to which they added the sum of one hundred and twenty millions more on the twelfth of september following, also the same sum of one hundred and twenty millions on the twenty-fourth of october, and again on the twenty-ninth of december, in the same year, the farther sum of three hundred and sixty millions, making the whole, from an original stock of six millions, mount, within the compass of one year, to a thousand millions of livres? . qu. whether on the twenty-eighth of february, , the king did not make an union of the bank with the united company of the east and west indies, which from that time had the administration and profits of the banque royale? . qu. whether the king did not still profess himself responsible for the value of the bank bills, and whether the company were not responsible to his majesty for their management? . qu. whether sixteen hundred millions of livres, lent to his majesty by the company, was not a sufficient pledge to indemnify the king? . qu. whether the new directors were not prohibited to make any more bills without an act of council? . qu. whether the chests and books of the banque were not subjected to the joint inspection of a counsellor of state, and the prevot des marchands, assisted by two echevins, a judge, and a consul, who had power to visit when they would and without warning? . qu. whether in less than two years the actions or shares of the indian company (first established for mississippi, and afterwards increased by the addition of other compares and further? and whether this privileges) did not rise to near per cent must be ascribed to real advantages of trade, or to mere frenzy? . qu. whether, from first to last, there were not fabricated bank bills, of one kind or other, to the value of more than two thousand and six hundred millions of livres, or one hundred and thirty millions sterling? . qu. whether the credit of the bank did not decline from its union with the indian company? . qu. whether, notwithstanding all the above-mentioned extraordinary measures, the bank bills did not still pass at par with gold and silver to may, , when the french king thought fit, by a new act of council, to make a reduction of their value, which proved a fatal blow, the effects whereof, though soon retracted, no subsequent skill or management could ever repair? . qu. whether, what no reason, reflexion, or foresight could do, this simple matter of fact (the most powerful argument with the multitude) did not do at once, to wit, open the eyes of the people? . qu. whether the dealers in that sort of ware had ever troubled their heads with the nature of credit, or the true use and end of banks, but only considered their bills and actions as things, to which the general demand gave a price? . qu. whether the government was not in great perplexity to contrive expedients for the getting rid of those bank bills, which had been lately multiplied with such an unlimited passion? . qu. whether notes to the value of about ninety millions were not sunk by being paid off in specie, with the cash of the compagnie des indes, with that of the bank, and that of the hotels des monnoyes? whether five hundred and thirty millions were not converted into annuities at the royal treasury? whether several hundred millions more in bank bills were not extinguished and replaced by annuities on the city of paris, on taxes throughout the provinces, &c., &c? . qu. whether, after all other shifts, the last and grand resource for exhausting that ocean, was not the erecting of a compte en banc in several towns of france? . qu. whether, when the imagination of a people is thoroughly wrought upon and heated by their own example, and the arts of designing men, this doth not produce a sort of enthusiasm which takes place of reason, and is the most dangerous distemper in a state? . qu. whether this epidemical madness should not be always before the eyes of a legislature, in the framing of a national bank? . qu. whether, therefore, it may not be fatal to engraft trade on a national bank, or to propose dividends on the stock thereof? . qu. whether it be possible for a national bank to subsist and maintain its credit under a french government? . qu. whether it may not be as useful a lesson to consider the bad management of some as the good management of others? . qu. whether the rapid and surprising success of the schemes of those who directed the french bank did not turn their brains? . qu. whether the best institutions may not be made subservient to bad ends? . qu. whether, as the aim of industry is power, and the aim of a bank is to circulate and secure this power to each individual, it doth not follow that absolute power in one hand is inconsistent with a lasting and a flourishing bank? . qu. whether our natural appetites, as well as powers, are not limited to their respective ends and uses? but whether artificial appetites may not be infinite? . qu. whether the simple getting of money, or passing it from hand to hand without industry, be an object worthy of a wise government? . qu. whether, if money be considered as an end, the appetite thereof be not infinite? but whether the ends of money itself be not bounded? . qu. whether the mistaking of the means for the end was not a fundamental error in the french councils? . qu. whether the total sum of all other powers, be it of enjoyment or action, which belong to man, or to all mankind together, is not in truth a very narrow and limited quantity? but whether fancy is not boundless? . qu. whether this capricious tyrant, which usurps the place of reason, doth not most cruelly torment and delude those poor men, the usurers, stockjobbers, and projectors, of content to themselves from heaping up riches, that is, from gathering counters, from multiplying figures, from enlarging denominations, without knowing what they would be at, and without having a proper regard to the use or end or nature of things? . qu. whether the ignis fatuus of fancy doth not kindle immoderate desires, and lead men into endless pursuits and wild labyrinths? . qu. whether counters be not referred to other things, which, so long as they keep pace and proportion with the counters, it must be owned the counters are useful; but whether beyond that to value or covet counters be not direct folly? . qu. whether the public aim ought not to be, that men's industry should supply their present wants, and the overplus be converted into a stock of power? . qu. whether the better this power is secured, and the more easily it is transferred, industry be not so much the more encouraged? . qu. whether money, more than is expedient for those purposes, be not upon the whole hurtful rather than beneficial to a state? . qu. whether there should not be a constant care to keep the bills at par? . qu. whether, therefore, bank bills should at any time be multiplied but as trade and business were also multiplied? . qu. whether it was not madness in france to mint bills and actions, merely to humour the people and rob them of their cash? . qu. whether we may not profit by their mistakes, and as some things are to be avoided, whether there may not be others worthy of imitation in the conduct of our neighbours? . qu. whether the way be not clear and open and easy, and whether anything but the will is wanting to our legislature? . qu. whether jobs and tricks are not detested on all hands, but whether it be not the joint interest of prince and people to promote industry? . qu. whether, all things considered, a national bank be not the most practicable, sure, and speedy method to mend our affairs, and cause industry to flourish among us? . qu. whether a compte en banc or current bank bills would best answer our occasions? . qu. whether a public compte en banc, where effects are received, and accounts kept with particular persons, be not an excellent expedient for a great city? . qu. what effect a general compte en banc would have in the metropolis of this kingdom with one in each province subordinate thereunto? . qu. whether it may not be proper for a great kingdom to unite both expedients, to wit, bank notes and a compte en banc? . qu. whether, nevertheless, it would be advisable to begin with both at once, or rather to proceed first with the bills, and afterwards, as business multiplied, and money or effects flowed in, to open the compte en banc? . qu. whether, for greater security, double books of compte en banc should not be kept in different places and hands? . qu. whether it would not be right to build the compters and public treasuries, where books and bank notes are kept, without wood, all arched and floored with brick or stone, having chests also and cabinets of iron? . qu. whether divers registers of the bank notes should not be kept in different hands? . qu. whether there should not be great discretion in the uttering of bank notes, and whether the attempting to do things per saltum be not often the way to undo them? . qu. whether the main art be not by slow degrees and cautious measures to reconcile the bank to the public, to wind it insensibly into the affections of men, and interweave it with the constitution? . qu. whether the promoting of industry should not be always in view, as the true and sole end, the rule and measure, of a national bank? and whether all deviations from that object should not be carefully avoided? . qu. whether a national bank may not prevent the drawing of specie out of the country (where it circulates in small payments), to be shut up in the chests of particular persons? . qu. whether it may not be useful, for supplying manufactures and trade with stock, for regulating exchange, for quickening commerce, for putting spirit into the people? . qu. whether tenants or debtors could have cause to complain of our monies being reduced to the english value if it were withal multiplied in the same, or in a greater proportion? and whether this would not be the consequence of a nation al bank? . qu. if there be an open sure way to thrive, without hazard to ourselves or prejudice to our neighbours, what should hinder us from putting it in practice? . qu. whether in so numerous a senate, as that of this kingdom, it may not be easie to find men of pure hands and clear heads fit to contrive and model a public bank? . qu. whether a view of the precipice be not sufficient, or whether we must tumble headlong before we are roused? . qu. whether in this drooping and dispirited country, men are quite awake? . qu. whether we are sufficiently sensible of the peculiar security there is in having a bank that consists of land and paper, one of which cannot be exported, and the other is in no danger of being exported? . qu. whether it be not delightful to complain? and whether there be not many who had rather utter their complaints than redress their evils? . qu. whether, if 'the crown of the wise be their riches' (prov., xiv. ), we are not the foolishest people in christendom? . qu. whether we have not all the while great civil as well as natural advantages? . qu. whether there be any people who have more leisure to cultivate the arts of peace, and study the public weal? . qu. whether other nations who enjoy any share of freedom, and have great objects in view, be not unavoidably embarrassed and distracted by factions? but whether we do not divide upon trifles, and whether our parties are not a burlesque upon politics? . qu. whether it be not an advantage that we are not embroiled in foreign affairs, that we hold not the balance of europe, that we are protected by other fleets and armies, that it is the true interest of a powerful people, from whom we are descended, to guard us on all sides? . qu. whether england doth not really love us and wish well to us, as bone of her bone, and flesh of her flesh? and whether it be not our part to cultivate this love and affection all manner of ways? . qu. whether, if we do not reap the benefits that may be made of our country and government, want of will in the lower people, or want of wit in the upper, be most in fault? . qu. what sea-ports or foreign trade have the swisses; and yet how warm are those people, and how well provided? . qu. whether there may not be found a people who so contrive as to be impoverished by their trade? and whether we are not that people? . qu. whether it would not be better for this island, if all our fine folk of both sexes were shipped off, to remain in foreign countries, rather than that they should spend their estates at home in foreign luxury, and spread the contagion thereof through their native land? . qu. whether our gentry understand or have a notion of magnificence, and whether for want thereof they do not affect very wretched distinctions? . qu. whether there be not an art or skill in governing human pride, so as to render it subservient to the pubic aim? . qu. whether the great and general aim of the public should not be to employ the people? . qu. what right an eldest son hath to the worst education? . qu. whether men's counsels are not the result of their knowledge and their principles? . qu. whether an assembly of freethinkers, petit maitres, and smart fellows would not make an admirable senate? . qu. whether there be not labour of the brains as well as of the hands, and whether the former is beneath a gentleman? . qu. whether the public be more interested to protect the property acquired by mere birth than that which is the mediate fruit of learning and vertue? . qu. whether it would not be a poor and ill-judged project to attempt to promote the good of the community, by invading the rights of one part thereof, or of one particular order of men? . qu. whether the public happiness be not proposed by the legislature, and whether such happiness doth not contain that of the individuals? . qu. whether, therefore, a legislator should be content with a vulgar share of knowledge? whether he should not be a person of reflexion and thought, who hath made it his study to understand the true nature and interest of mankind, how to guide men's humours and passions, how to incite their active powers, how to make their several talents co-operate to the mutual benefit of each other, and the general good of the whole? . qu. whether it doth not follow that above all things a gentleman's care should be to keep his own faculties sound and entire? . qu. whether the natural phlegm of this island needs any additional stupefier? . qu. whether all spirituous liquors are not in truth opiates? . qu. whether our men of business are not generally very grave by fifty? . qu. whether there be really among us any parents so silly, as to encourage drinking in their children? . qu. whence it is, that our ladies are more alive, and bear age so much better than our gentlemen? . qu. whether all men have not faculties of mind or body which may be employed for the public benefit? . qu. whether the main point be not to multiply and employ our people? . qu. whether hearty food and warm clothing would not enable and encourage the lower sort to labour? . qu. whether, in such a soil as ours, if there was industry, there could be want? . qu. whether the way to make men industrious be not to let them taste the fruits of their industry? and whether the labouring ox should be muzzled? . qu. whether our landlords are to be told that industry and numbers would raise the value of their lands, or that one acre about the tholsel is worth ten thousand acres in connaught? . qu. whether our old native irish are not the most indolent and supine people in christendom? . qu. whether they are yet civilized, and whether their habitations and furniture are not more sordid than those of the savage americans? . qu. whether this be altogether their own fault? . qu. whether it be not a sad circumstance to live among lazy beggars? and whether, on the other hand, it would not be delightful to live in a country swarming, like china, with busy people? . qu. whether we should not cast about, by all manner of means, to excite industry, and to remove whatever hinders it? and whether every one should not lend a helping hand? . qu. whether vanity itself should not be engaged in this good work? and whether it is not to be wished that the finding of employment for themselves and others were a fashionable distinction among the ladies? . qu. whether idleness be the mother or the daughter of spleen? . qu. whether it may not be worth while to publish the conversation of ischomachus and his wife in xenophon, for the use of our ladies? . qu. whether it is true that there have been, upon a time, one hundred millions of people employed in china, without the woollen trade, or any foreign commerce? . qu. whether the natural inducements to sloth are not greater in the mogul's country than in ireland, and yet whether, in that suffocating and dispiriting climate, the banyans are not all, men, women, and children, constantly employed? . qu. whether it be not true that the great mogul's subjects might undersell us even in our own markets, and clothe our people with their stuffs and calicoes, if they were imported duty free? . qu. whether there can be a greater reproach on the leading men and the patriots of a country, than that the people should want employment? and whether methods may not be found to employ even the lame and the blind, the dumb, the deaf, and the maimed, in some or other branch of our manufactures? . qu. whether much may not be expected from a biennial consultation of so many wise men about the public good? . qu. whether a tax upon dirt would not be one way of encouraging industry? . qu. whether it may not be right to appoint censors in every parish to observe and make returns of the idle hands? . qu. whether a register or history of the idleness and industry of a people would be an useless thing? . qu. whether we are apprized, of all the uses that may be made of political arithmetic? . qu. whether it would be a great hardship if every parish were obliged to find work for their poor? . qu. whether children especially should not be inured to labour betimes? . qu. whether there should not be erected, in each province, an hospital for orphans and foundlings, at the expense of old bachelors? . qu. whether it be true that in the dutch workhouses things are so managed that a child four years old may earn its own livelihood? . qu. what a folly is it to build fine houses, or establish lucrative posts and large incomes, under the notion of providing for the poor? . qu. whether the poor, grown up and in health, need any other provision but their own industry, under public inspection? . qu. whether the poor-tax in england hath lessened or increased the number of the poor? . qu. why the workhouse in dublin, with so good an endowment, should yet be of so little use? and whether this may not be owing to that very endowment? . qu. whether that income might not, by this time, have gone through the whole kingdom, and erected a dozen workhouses in every county? . qu. whether workhouses should not be made at the least expense, with clay floors, and walls of rough stone, without plastering, ceiling, or glazing? . qu. whether the tax on chairs or hackney coaches be not paid, rather by the country gentlemen, than the citizens of dublin? . qu. whether it be an impossible attempt to set our people at work, or whether industry be a habit which, like other habits, may by time and skill be introduced among any people? . qu. whether all manner of means should not be employed to possess the nation in general with an aversion and contempt for idleness and all idle folk? . qu. whether it would be a hardship on people destitute of all things, if the public furnished them with necessaries which they should be obliged to earn by their labour? . qu. whether other nations have not found great benefit from the use of slaves in repairing high roads, making rivers navigable, draining bogs, erecting public buildings, bridges, and manufactures? . qu. whether temporary servitude would not be the best cure for idleness and beggary? . qu. whether the public hath not a right to employ those who cannot or who will not find employment for themselves? . qu. whether all sturdy beggars should not be seized and made slaves to the public for a certain term of years? . qu. whether he who is chained in a jail or dungeon hath not, for the time, lost his liberty? and if so, whether temporary slavery be not already admitted among us? . qu. whether a state of servitude, wherein he should be well worked, fed, and clothed, would not be a preferment to such a fellow? . qu. whether criminals in the freest country may not forfeit their liberty, and repair the damage they have done the public by hard labour? . qu. what the word 'servant' signifies in the new testament? . qu. whether the view of criminals chained in pairs and kept at hard labour would not be very edifying to the multitude? . qu. whether the want of such an institution be not plainly seen in england, where the disbelief of a future state hardeneth rogues against the fear of death, and where, through the great growth of robbers and housebreakers, it becomes every day more necessary? . qu. whether it be not easier to prevent than to remedy, and whether we should not profit by the example of others? . qu. whether felons are not often spared, and therefore encouraged, by the compassion of those who should prosecute them? . qu. whether many that would not take away the life of a thief may not nevertheless be willing to bring him to a more adequate punishment? . qu. whether there should not be a difference between the treatment of criminals and that of other slaves? . qu. whether the most indolent would be fond of idleness, if they regarded it as the sure road to hard labour? . qu. whether the industry of the lower part of our people doth not much depend on the expense of the upper? . qu. what would be the consequence if our gentry affected to distinguish themselves by fine houses rather than fine clothes? . qu. whether any people in europe are so meanly provided with houses and furniture, in proportion to their incomes, as the men of estates in ireland? . qu. whether building would not peculiarly encourage all other arts in this kingdom? . qu. whether smiths, masons, bricklayers, plasterers, carpenters, joiners, tilers, plumbers, and glaziers would not all find employment if the humour of building prevailed? . qu. whether the ornaments and furniture of a good house do not employ a number of all sorts of artificers, in iron, wood, marble, brass, pewter, copper, wool, flax, and divers other materials? . qu. whether in buildings and gardens a great number of day-labourers do not find employment? . qu. whether by these means much of that sustenance and wealth of this nation which now goes to foreigners would not be kept at home, and nourish and circulate among our own people? . qu. whether, as industry produced good living, the number of hands and mouths would not be increased; and in proportion thereunto, whether there would not be every day more occasion for agriculture? and whether this article alone would not employ a world of people? . qu. whether such management would not equally provide for the magnificence of the rich, and the necessities of the poor? . qu. whether an expense in building and improvements doth not remain at home, pass to the heir, and adorn the public? and whether any of those things can be said of claret? . qu. whether fools do not make fashions, and wise men follow them? . qu. whether, for one who hurts his fortune by improvements, twenty do not ruin themselves by foreign luxury? . qu. whether in proportion as ireland was improved and beautified by fine seats, the number of absentees would not decrease? . qu. whether he who employs men in buildings and manufactures doth not put life in the country, and whether the neighbourhood round him be not observed to thrive? . qu. whether money circulated on the landlord's own lands, and among his own tenants, doth not return into his own pocket? . qu. whether every squire that made his domain swarm with busy hands, like a bee-hive or ant-hill, would not serve his own interest, as well as that of his country? . qu. whether a gentleman who hath seen a little of the world, and observed how men live elsewhere, can contentedly sit down in a cold, damp, sordid habitation, in the midst of a bleak country, inhabited by thieves and beggars? . qu. whether, on the other hand, a handsome seat amidst well-improved lands, fair villages, and a thriving neighbourhood may not invite a man to dwell on his own estate, and quit the life of an insignificant saunterer about town for that of a useful country-gentleman? . qu. whether it would not be of use and ornament if the towns throughout this kingdom were provided with decent churches, townhouses, workhouses, market-places, and paved streets, with some order taken for cleanliness? . qu. whether, if each of these towns were addicted to some peculiar manufacture, we should not find that the employing many hands together on the same work was the way to perfect our workmen? and whether all these things might not soon be provided by a domestic industry, if money were not wanting? . qu. whether money could ever be wanting to the demands of industry, if we had a national bank? . qu. whether when a motion was made once upon a time to establish a private bank in this kingdom by public authority, divers gentlemen did not shew themselves forward to embark in that design? . qu. whether it may not now be hoped, that our patriots will be as forward to examine and consider the proposal of a public bank calculated only for the public good? . qu. whether any people upon earth shew a more early zeal for the service of their country, greater eagerness to bear a part in the legislature, or a more general parturiency with respect to politics and public counsels? . qu. whether, nevertheless, a light and ludicrous vein be not the reigning humour; but whether there was ever greater cause to be serious? finis. erratum qu. , for indulg'd, read ill judg'd. part iii query . whether the fable of hercules and the carter ever suited any nation like this nation of ireland? . qu. whether it be not a new spectacle under the sun, to behold, in such a climate and such a soil, and under such a gentle government, so many roads untrodden, fields untilled, houses desolate, and hands unemployed? . qu. whether there is any country in christendom, either kingdom or republic, depending or independent, free or enslaved, which may not afford us a useful lesson? . qu. whether the frugal swisses have any other commodities but their butter and cheese and a few cattle, for exportation; whether, nevertheless, the single canton of berne hath not in her public treasury two millions sterling? . qu. whether that small town of berne, with its scanty barren territory, in a mountainous corner, without sea-ports, without manufactures, without mines, be not rich by mere dint of frugality? . qu. whether the swisses in general have not sumptuary laws, prohibiting the use of gold, jewels, silver, silk, and lace in their apparel, and indulging the women only to wear silk on festivals, weddings, and public solemnities? . qu. whether there be not two ways of growing rich, sparing and getting? but whether the lazy spendthrift must not be doubly poor? . qu. whether money circulating be not the life of industry; and whether the want thereof doth not render a state gouty and inactive? . qu. but whether, if we had a national bank, and our present cash (small as it is) were put into the most convenient shape, men should hear any public complaints for want of money? . qu. whether all circulation be not alike a circulation of credit, whatsoever medium (metal or paper) is employed, and whether gold be any more than credit for so much power? . qu. whether the wealth of the richest nations in christendom doth not consist in paper vastly more than in gold and silver? . qu. whether lord clarendon doth not aver of his own knowledge, that the prince of orange, with the best credit, and the assistance of the richest men in amsterdam, was above ten days endeavouring to raise l , in specie, without being able to raise half the sum in all that time? (see clarendon's history, bk. xii) . qu. whether the whole city of amsterdam would not have been troubled to have brought together twenty thousand pounds in one room? . qu. whether it be not absolutely necessary that there must be a bank and must be a trust? and, if so, whether it be not the most safe and prudent course to have a national bank and trust the legislature? . qu. whether objections against trust in general avail, when it is allowed there must be a trust, and the only question is where to place this trust, whether in the legislature or in private hands? . qu. whether it can be expected that private persons should have more regard to the public than the public itself? . qu. whether, if there be hazards from mismanagement, those may not be provided against in the framing of a pubic bank; but whether any provision can be made against the mismanagement of private banks that are under no check, control, or inspection? . qu. whatever may be said for the sake of objecting, yet, whether it be not false in fact, that men would prefer a private security to a public security? . qu. whether a national bank ought to be considered as a new experiment; and whether it be not a motive to try this scheme that it hath been already tried with success in other countries? . qu. if power followeth money, whether this can be anywhere more properly and securely placed, than in the same hands wherein the supreme power is already placed? . qu. whether there be more danger of abuse in a private than in a public management? . qu. whether the proper usual remedy for abuses of private banks be not to bring them before parliament, and subject them to the inspection of a committee; and whether it be not more prudent to prevent than to redress an evil? . qu. supposing there had been hitherto no such thing as a bank, and the question were now first proposed, whether it would be safer to circulate unlimited bills in a private credit, or bills to a limited value on the public credit of the community, what would men think? . qu. whether experience and example be not the plainest proof; and whether any instance can be assigned where a national bank hath not been attended with great advantage to the public? . qu. whether the evils apprehended from a national bank are not much more to be apprehended from private banks; but whether men by custom are not familiarized and reconciled to common dangers, which are therefore thought less than they really are? . qu. whether it would not be very hard to suppose all sense, honesty, and public spirit were in the keeping of only a few private men, and the public was not fit to be trusted? . qu. whether it be not ridiculous to suppose a legislature should be afraid to trust itself? . qu. but, whether a private interest be not generally supported and pursued with more zeal than a public? . qu. whether the maxim, 'what is everybody's business is nobody's,' prevails in any country under the sun more than in ireland? . qu. whether, nevertheless, the community of danger, which lulls private men asleep, ought not to awaken the public? . qu. whether there be not less security where there are more temptations and fewer checks? . qu. if a man is to risk his fortune, whether it be more prudent to risk it on the credit of private men, or in that of the great assembly of the nation? . qu. where is it most reasonable to expect wise and punctual dealing, whether in a secret impenetrable recess, where credit depends on secrecy, or in a public management regulated and inspected by parliament? . qu. whether a supine security be not catching, and whether numbers running the same risk, as they lessen the caution, may not increase the danger? . qu. what real objection lies against a national bank erected by the legislature, and in the management of public deputies, appointed and inspected by the legislature? . qu. what have we to fear from such a bank, which may not be as well feared without it? . qu. how, why, by what means, or for what end, should it become an instrument of oppression? . qu. whether we can possibly be on a more precarious foot than we are already? whether it be not in the power of any particular person at once to disappear and convey himself into foreign parts? or whether there can be any security in an estate of land when the demands upon it are unknown? . qu. whether the establishing of a national bank, if we suppose a concurrence of the government, be not very practicable? . qu. but, whether though a scheme be never so evidently practicable and useful to the pubic, yet, if conceived to interfere with a private interest, it be not forthwith in danger of appearing doubtful, difficult, and impracticable? . qu. whether the legislative body hath not already sufficient power to hurt, if they may be supposed capable of it, and whether a bank would give them any new power? . qu. what should tempt the pubic to defraud itself? . qu. whether, if the legislature destroyed the public, it would not be felo de se; and whether it be reasonable to suppose it bent on its own destruction? . qu. whether the objection to a pubic national bank, from want of secrecy, be not in truth an argument for it? . qu. whether the secrecy of private banks be not the very thing that renders them so hazardous? and whether, without that, there could have been of late so many sufferers? . qu. whether when all objections are answered it be still incumbent to answer surmises? . qu. whether it were just to insinuate that gentlemen would be against any proposal they could not turn into a job? . qu. suppose the legislature passed their word for any private banker, and regularly visited his books, would not money lodged in his bank be therefore reckoned more secure? . qu. in a country where the legislative body is not fit to be trusted, what security can there be for trusting any one else? . qu. if it be not ridiculous to question whether the pubic can find cash to circulate bills of a limited value when private bankers are supposed to find enough to circulate them to an unlimited value? . qu. whether the united stock of a nation be not the best security? and whether anything but the ruin of the state can produce a national bankruptcy? . qu. whether the total sum of the public treasure, power, and wisdom, all co-operating, be not most likely to establish a bank of credit, sufficient to answer the ends, relieve the wants, and satisfy the scruples of all people? . qu. whether those hazards that in a greater degree attend private banks can be admitted as objections against a public one? . qu. whether that which is an objection to everything be an objection to anything; and whether the possibility of an abuse be not of that kind? . qu. whether, in fact, all things are not more or less abused, and yet notwithstanding such abuse, whether many things are not upon the whole expedient and useful? . qu. whether those things that are subject to the most general inspection are not the least subject to abuse? . qu. whether, for private ends, it may not be sometimes expedient to object novelty to things that have been often tried, difficulty to the plainest things, and hazard to the safest? . qu. whether some men will not be apt to argue as if the question was between money and credit, and not (as in fact it is) which ought to be preferred, private credit or public credit? . qu. whether they will not prudently overlook the evils felt, or to be feared, on one side? . qu. whether, therefore, those that would make an impartial judgment ought not to be on their guard, keeping both prospects always in view, balancing the inconveniencies on each side and considering neither absolutely? . qu. whether wilful mistakes, examples without a likeness, and general addresses to the passions are not often more successful than arguments? . qu. whether there be not an art to puzzle plain cases as well as to explain obscure ones? . qu. whether private men are not often an over-match for the public; want of weight being made up for by activity? . qu. if we suppose neither sense nor honesty in our leaders or representatives, whether we are not already undone, and so have nothing further to fear? . qu. suppose a power in the government to hurt the pubic by means of a national bank, yet what should give them the will to do this? or supposing a will to do mischief, yet how could a national bank, modelled and administered by parliament, put it in their power? . qu. whether even a wicked will entrusted with power can be supposed to abuse it for no end? . qu. whether it be not much more probable that those who maketh such objections do not believe them? . qu. whether it be not vain to object that our fellow-subjects of great britain would malign or obstruct our industry when it is exerted in a way which cannot interfere with their own? . qu. whether it is to be supposed they should take delight in the dirt and nakedness and famine of our people, or envy them shoes for their feet and beef for their belies? . qu. what possible handle or inclination could our having a national bank give other people to distress us? . qu. whether it be not ridiculous to conceive that a project for cloathing and feeding our natives should give any umbrage to england? . qu. whether such unworthy surmises are not the pure effect of spleen? . qu. whether london is not to be considered as the metropolis of ireland? and whether our wealth (such as it is) doth not circulate through london and throughout all england, as freely as that of any part of his majesty's dominions? . qu. whether therefore it be not evidently the interest of the people of england to encourage rather than to oppose a national bank in this kingdom, as well as every other means for advancing our wealth which shall not impair their own? . qu. whether it is not our interest to be useful to them rather than rival them; and whether in that case we may not be sure of their good offices? . qu. whether we can propose to thrive so long as we entertain a wrongheaded distrust of england? . qu. whether, as a national bank would increase our industry, and that our wealth, england may not be a proportionable gainer; and whether we should not consider the gains of our mother-country as some accession to our own? . qu. whether the protestant colony in this kingdom can ever forget what they owe to england? . qu. whether there ever was in any part of the world a country in such wretched circumstances, and which, at the same time, could be so easily remedied, and nevertheless the remedy not applied? . qu. what must become of a people that can neither see the plainest things nor do the easiest? . qu. be the money lodged in the bank what it will, yet whether an act to make good deficiencies would not remove all scruples? . qu. if it be objected that a national bank must lower interest, and therefore hurt the monied man, whether the same objection would not hold as strong against multiplying our gold and silver? . qu. but whether a bank that utters bills, with the sole view of promoting the public weal, may not so proportion their quantity as to avoid several inconveniencies which might attend private banks? . qu. whether there be any difficulty in comprehending that the whole wealth of the nation is in truth the stock of a national bank? and whether any more than the right comprehension of this be necessary to make all men easy with regard to its credit? . qu. whether any thing be more reasonable than that the pubic, which makes the whole profit of the bank, should engage to make good its credit? . qu. whether the prejudices about gold and silver are not strong, but whether they are not still prejudices? . qu. whether paper doth not by its stamp and signature acquire a local value, and become as precious and as scarce as gold? and whether it be not much fitter to circulate large sums, and therefore preferable to gold? . qu. whether, in order to make men see and feel, it be not often necessary to inculcate the same thing, and place it in different lights? . qu. whether it doth not much import to have a right conception of money? and whether its true and just idea be not that of a ticket, entitling to power, and fitted to record and transfer such power? . qu. whether the managers and officers of a national bank ought to be considered otherwise than as the cashiers and clerks of private banks? whether they are not in effect as little trusted, have as little power, are as much limited by rules, and as liable to inspection? . qu. whether the mistaking this point may not create some prejudice against a national bank, as if it depended on the credit, or wisdom, or honesty, of private men, rather than on the pubic, which is really the sole proprietor and director thereof, and as such obliged to support it? . qu. though the bank of amsterdam doth very rarely, if at all, pay out money, yet whether every man possess'd of specie be not ready to convert it into paper, and act as cashier to the bank? and whether, from the same motive, every monied man throughout this kingdom would not be cashier to our national bank? . qu. whether a national bank would not be the great means and motive for employing our poor in manufactures? . qu. whether money, though lent out only to the rich, would not soon circulate among the poor? and whether any man borrows but with an intent to circulate? . qu. whether both government and people would not in the event be gainers by a national bank? and whether anything but wrong conceptions of its nature can make those that wish well to either averse from it? . qu. whether it may not be right to think, and to have it thought, that england and ireland, prince and people, have one and the same interest? . qu. whether, if we had more means to set on foot such manufactures and such commerce as consists with the interest of england, there would not of course be less sheep-walk, and less wool exported to foreign countries? and whether a national bank would not supply such means? . qu. whether we may not obtain that as friends which it is in vain to hope for as rivals? . qu. whether in every instance by which we prejudice england, we do not in a greater degree prejudice ourselves? see part ii. qu. and . . qu. whether in the rude original of society the first step was not the exchanging of commodities; the next a substituting of metals by weight as the common medium of circulation; after this the making use of coin; lastly, a further refinement by the use of paper with proper marks and signatures? and whether this, as it is the last, so it be not the greatest improvement? . qu. whether we are not in fact the only people who may be said to starve in the midst of plenty? . qu. whether business in general doth not languish among us? whether our land is not untilled? whether its inhabitants are not upon the wing? . qu. whether there can be a worse sign than that people should quit their country for a livelihood? though men often leave their country for health, or pleasure, or riches, yet to leave it merely for a livelihood, whether this be not exceeding bad, and sheweth some peculiar mismanagement? . qu. whether our circumstances do not call aloud for some present remedy? and whether that remedy be not in our power? . qu. whether, in order to redress our evils, artificial helps are not most wanted in a land where industry is most against the natural grain of the people? . qu. whether, of all the helps to industry that ever were invented, there be any more secure, more easy, and more effectual than a national bank? . qu. whether medicines do not recommend themselves by experience, even though their reasons be obscure? but whether reason and fact are not equally clear in favour of this political medicine? . qu. whether, although the prepossessions about gold and silver have taken deep root, yet the example of our colonies in america doth not make it as plain as day-light that they are not so necessary to the wealth of a nation as the vulgar of all ranks imagine? . qu. whether it be not evident that we may maintain a much greater inward and outward commerce, and be five times richer than we are, nay, and our bills abroad be of far greater credit, though we had not one ounce of gold or silver in the whole island? . qu. whether wrongheaded maxims, customs, and fashions are not sufficient to destroy any people which hath so few resources as the inhabitants of ireland. . qu. whether it would not be a horrible thing to see our matrons make dress and play their chief concern? . qu. whether our ladies might not as well endow monasteries as wear flanders lace? and whether it be not true that popish nuns are maintained by protestant contributions? . qu. whether england, which hath a free trade, whatever she remits for foreign luxury with one hand, doth not with the other receive much more from abroad? whether, nevertheless, this nation would not be a gainer, if our women would content themselves with the same moderation in point of expense as the english ladies? . qu. but whether it be not a notorious truth that our irish ladies are on a foot, as to dress, with those of five times their fortune in england? . qu. whether it be not even certain that the matrons of this forlorn country send out a greater proportion of its wealth, for fine apparel, than any other females on the whole surface of this terraqueous globe? . qu. whether the expense, great as it is, be the greatest evil; but whether this folly may not produce many other follies, an entire derangement of domestic life, absurd manners, neglect of duties, bad mothers, a general corruption in both sexes? . qu. whether therefore a tax on all gold and silver in apparel, on all foreign laces and silks, may not raise a fund for the bank, and at the same time have other salutary effects on the public? . qu. but, if gentlemen had rather tax themselves in another way, whether an additional tax of ten shillings the hogshead on wines may not supply a sufficient fund for the national bank, all defects to be made good by parliament? . qu. whether upon the whole it may not be right to appoint a national bank? . qu. whether the stock and security of such bank would not be, in truth, the national stock, or the total sum of the wealth of this kingdom? . qu. whether, nevertheless, there should not be a particular fund for present use in answering bills and circulating credit? . qu. whether for this end any fund may not suffice, provided an act be passed for making good deficiencies? . qu. whether the sole proprietor of such bank should not be the public, and the sole director the legislature? . qu. whether the managers, officers, and cashiers should not be servants of the pubic, acting by orders and limited by rules of the legislature? . qu. whether there should not be a standing number of inspectors, one-third men in great office, the rest members of both houses, half whereof to go out, and half to come in every session? . qu. whether those inspectors should not, all in a body, visit twice a year, and three as often as they pleased? . qu. whether the general bank should not be in dublin, and subordinate banks or compters one in each province of munster, ulster, and connaught? . qu. whether there should not be such provisions of stamps, signatures, checks, strong boxes, and all other measures for securing the bank notes and cash, as are usual in other banks? . qu. whether these ten or a dozen last queries may not easily be converted into heads of a bill? . qu. whether any one concerns himself about the security or funds of the banks of venice or amsterdam? and whether in a little time the case would not be the same as to our bank? . qu. whether the first beginning of expedients do not always meet with prejudices? and whether even the prejudices of a people ought not to be respected? . qu. whether a national bank be not the true philosopher's stone in a state? . qu. whether it be not the most obvious remedy for all the inconveniencies we labour under with regard to our coin? . qu. whether it be not agreed on all hands that our coin is on very bad foot, and calls for some present remedy? . qu. whether the want of silver hath not introduced a sort of traffic for change, which is purchased at no inconsiderable discount to the great obstruction of our domestic commerce? . qu. whether, though it be evident silver is wanted, it be yet so evident which is the best way of providing for this want? whether by lowering the gold, or raising the silver, or partly one, partly the other? . qu. whether a partial raising of one species be not, in truth, wanting a premium to our bankers for importing such species? and what that species is which deserves most to be encouraged? . qu. whether it be not just, that all gold should be alike rated according to its weight and fineness? . qu. whether this may be best done, by lowering some certain species of gold, or by raising others, or by joining both methods together? . qu. whether all regulations of coin should not be made with a view to encourage industry, and a circulation of commerce, throughout the kingdom? . qu. whether the north and the south have not, in truth, one and the same interest in this matter? . qu. whether to oil the wheels of commerce be not a common benefit? and whether this be not done by avoiding fractions and multiplying small silver? . qu. but, whether a pubic benefit ought to be obtained by unjust methods, and therefore, whether any reduction of coin should be thought of which may hurt the properties of private men? . qu. whether those parts of the kingdom where commerce doth most abound would not be the greatest gainers by having our coin placed on a right foot? . qu. whether, in case a reduction of coin be thought expedient, the uttering of bank bills at the same time may not prevent the inconveniencies of such a reduction? . qu. but, whether any pubic expediency could countervail a real pressure on those who are least able to bear it, tenants and debtors? . qu. whether, nevertheless, the political body, as well as the natural, must not sometimes be worse in order to be better? . qu. whether, all things considered, a general raising the value of gold and silver be not so far from bringing greater quantities thereof into the kingdom that it would produce a direct contrary effect, inasmuch as less, in that case, would serve, and therefore less be wanted? and whether men do not import a commodity in proportion to the demand or want of it? . qu. whether the lowering of our gold would not create a fever in the state? and whether a fever be not sometimes a cure, but whether it be not the last cure a man would choose? . qu. what if our other gold were raised to a par with portugal gold, and the value of silver in general raised with regard to that of gold? . qu. whether the pubic ends may or may not be better answered by such augmentation, than by a reduction of our coin? . qu. provided silver is multiplied, be it by raising or diminishing the value of our coin, whether the great end is not answered? . qu. whether raising the value of a particular species will not tend to multiply such species, and to lessen others in proportion thereunto? and whether a much less quantity of cash in silver would not, in reality, enrich the nation more than a much greater in gold? . qu. whether, if a reduction be thought necessary, the obvious means to prevent all hardships and injustice be not a national bank? . qu. upon supposition that the cash of this kingdom was five hundred thousand pounds, and by lowering the various species each one-fifth of its value the whole sum was reduced to four hundred thousand pounds, whether the difficulty of getting money, and consequently of paying rents, would not be increased in the proportion of five to four? . qu. whether such difficulty would not be a great and unmerited distress on all the tenants in the nation? but if at the same time with the aforesaid reduction there were uttered one hundred thousand pounds additional to the former current stock, whether such difficulty or inconvenience would then be felt? . qu. whether, ceteris paribus, it be not true that the prices of things increase as the quantity of money increaseth, and are diminished as that is diminished? and whether, by the quantity of money is not to be understood the amount of the denominations, all contracts being nominal for pounds, shillings, and pence, and not for weights of gold or silver? . qu. whether in any foreign market, twopence advance in a kilderkin of corn could greatly affect our trade? . qu. whether in regard of the far greater changes and fluctuations of prices from the difference of seasons and other accidents, that small rise should seem considerable? . qu. whether our exports do not consist of such necessaries as other countries cannot well be without? . qu. whether upon the circulation of a national bank more land would not be tilled, more hands employed, and consequently more commodities exported? . qu. whether, setting aside the assistance of a national bank, it will be easy to reduce or lower our coin without some hardship (at least for the present) on a great number of particular persons? . qu. whether, nevertheless, the scheme of a national bank doth not entirely stand clear of this question; and whether such bank may not completely subsist and answer its ends, although there should be no alteration at all made in the value of our coin? . qu. whether, if the ill state of our coin be not redressed, that scheme would not be still more necessary, inasmuch as a national bank, by putting new life and vigour into our commerce, may prevent our feeling the ill effects of the want of such redress? . qu. whether men united by interest are not often divided by opinion; and whether such difference in opinion be not an effect of misapprehension? . qu. whether two things are not manifest, first, that some alteration in the value of our coin is highly expedient, secondly, that whatever alteration is made, the tenderest care should be had of the properties of the people, and even a regard paid to their prejudices? . qu. whether our taking the coin of another nation for more than it is worth be not, in reality and in event, a cheat upon ourselves? . qu. whether a particular coin over-rated will not be sure to flow in upon us from other countries beside that where it is coined? . qu. whether, in case the wisdom of the nation shall think fit to alter our coin, without erecting a national bank, the rule for lessening or avoiding present inconvenience should not be so to order matters, by raising the silver and depressing the gold, as that the total sum of coined cash within the kingdom shall, in denomination, remain the same, or amount to the same nominal value, after the change that it did before? . qu. whether all inconvenience ought not to be lessened as much as may be; but after, whether it would be prudent, for the sake of a small inconvenience, to obstruct a much greater good? and whether it may not sometimes happen that an inconvenience which in fancy and general discourse seems great shall, when accurately inspected and cast up, appear inconsiderable? . qu. whether in public councils the sum of things, here and there, present and future, ought not to be regarded? . qu. whether silver and small money be not that which circulates the quickest, and passeth through all hands, on the road, in the market, at the shop? . qu. whether, all things considered, it would not be better for a kingdom that its cash consisted of half a million in small silver, than of five times that sum in gold? . qu. whether there be not every day five hundred lesser payments made for one that requires gold? . qu. whether spain, where gold bears the highest value, be not the laziest, and china, where it bears the lowest, be not the most industrious country in the known world? . qu. money being a ticket which entitles to power and records the title, whether such power avails otherwise than as it is exerted into act? . qu. whether it be not evidently the interest of every state, that its money should rather circulate than stagnate? . qu. whether the principal use of cash be not its ready passing from hand to hand, to answer common occasions of the common people, and whether common occasions of all sorts of people are not small ones? . qu. whether business at fairs and markets is not often at a stand and often hindered, even though the seller hath his commodities at hand and the purchaser his gold, yet for want of change? . qu. whether beside that value of money which is rated by weight, there be not also another value consisting in its aptness to circulate? . qu. as wealth is really power, and coin a ticket conveying power, whether those tickets which are the fittest for that use ought not to be preferred? . qu. whether those tickets which singly transfer small shares of power, and, being multiplied, large shares, are not fitter for common use than those which singly transfer large shares? . qu. whether the public is not more benefited by a shilling that circulates than a pound that lies dead? . qu. whether sixpence twice paid be not as good as a shilling once paid? . qu. whether the same shilling circulating in a village may not supply one man with bread, another with stockings, a third with a knife, a fourth with paper, a fifth with nails, and so answer many wants which must otherwise have remained unsatisfied? . qu. whether facilitating and quickening the circulation of power to supply wants be not the promoting of wealth and industry among the lower people? and whether upon this the wealth of the great doth not depend? . qu. whether, without the proper means of circulation, it be not vain to hope for thriving manufacturers and a busy people? . qu. whether four pounds in small cash may not circulate and enliven an irish market, which many four-pound pieces would permit to stagnate? . qu. whether a man that could move nothing less than a hundred-pound weight would not be much at a loss to supply his wants; and whether it would not be better for him to be less strong and more active? . qu. whether the natural body can be in a state of health and vigour without a due circulation of the extremities, even? and whether the political body, any in the fingers and toes more than the natural, can thrive without a proportionable circulation through the minutest and most inconsiderable parts thereof? . qu. if we had a mint for coining only shillings, sixpences, and copper-money, whether the nation would not soon feel the good effects thereof? . qu. whether the greater waste by wearing of small coins would not be abundantly overbalanced by their usefulness? . qu. whether it be not the industry of common people that feeds the state, and whether it be possible to keep this industry alive without small money? . qu. whether the want of this be not a great bar to our employing the people in these manufactures which are open to us, and do not interfere with great britain? . qu. whether therefore such want doth not drive men into the lazy way of employing land under sheep-walk? . qu. whether the running of wool from ireland can so effectually be prevented as by encouraging other business and manufactures among our people? . qu. whatever commodities great britain importeth which we might supply, whether it be not her real interest to import them from us rather than from any other people? . qu. whether the apprehension of many among us (who for that very reason stick to their wool), that england may hereafter prohibit, limit, or discourage our linen trade, when it hath been once, with great pains and expense, thoroughly introduced and settled in this land, be not altogether groundless and unjust? . qu. whether it is possible for this country, which hath neither mines of gold nor a free trade, to support for any time the sending out of specie? . qu. whether in fact our payments are not made by bills? and whether our foreign credit doth not depend on our domestic industry, and our bills on that credit? . qu. whether, in order to mend it, we ought not first to know the peculiar wretchedness of our state? and whether there be any knowing of this but by comparison? . qu. whether there are not single market towns in england that turn more money in buying and selling than whole counties (perhaps provinces) with us? . qu. whether the small town of birmingham alone doth not, upon an average, circulate every week, one way or other, to the value of fifty thousand pounds? but whether the same crown may not be often paid? . qu. whether there be any woollen manufacture in birmingham? . qu. whether bad management may not be worse than slavery? and whether any part of christendom be in a more languishing condition than this kingdom? . qu. whether any kingdom in europe be so good a customer at bordeaux as ireland? . qu. whether the police and economy of france be not governed by wise councils? and whether any one from this country, who sees their towns, and manufactures, and commerce, will not wonder what our senators have been doing? . qu. what variety and number of excellent manufactures are to be met with throughout the whole kingdom of france? . qu. whether there are not everywhere some or other mills for many uses, forges and furnaces for iron-work, looms for tapestry, glass-houses, and so forth? . qu. what quantities of paper, stockings, hats; what manufactures of wool, silk, linen, hemp, leather, wax, earthenware, brass, lead, tin, &c? . qu. whether the manufactures and commerce of the single town of lyons do not amount to a greater value than all the manufactures and all the trade of this kingdom taken together? . qu. whether it be not true, that within the compass of one year there flowed from the south sea, when that commerce was open, into the single town of st. malo's, a sum in gold and silver equal to four times the whole specie of this kingdom? and whether that same part of france doth not at present draw from cadiz, upwards of two hundred thousand pounds per annum? . qu. whether, in the anniversary fair at the small town of beaucaire upon the rhone, there be not as much money laid out as the current cash of this kingdom amounts to? . qu. whether it be true that the dutch make ten millions of livres, every return of the flota and galleons, by their sales at the indies and at cadiz? . qu. whether it be true that england makes at least one hundred thousand pounds per annum by the single article of hats sold in spain? . qu. whether the very shreds shorn from woollen cloth, which are thrown away in ireland, do not make a beautiful tapestry in france? . qu. whether the toys of thiers do not employ five thousand families? . qu. whether there be not a small town or two in france which supply all spain with cards? . qu. whether there be not french towns subsisted merely by making pins? . qu. whether the coarse fingers of those very women, those same peasants who one part of the year till the ground and dress the vineyards, are not another employed in making the finest french point? . qu. whether there is not a great number of idle fingers among the wives and daughters of our peasants? . qu. whether, about twenty-five years ago, they did not first attempt to make porcelain in france; and whether, in a few years, they did not make it so well, as to rival that which comes from china? . qu. whether the french do not raise a trade from saffron, dyeing drugs, and the like products, which may do with us as well as with them? . qu. whether we may not have materials of our own growth to supply all manufactures, as well as france, except silk, and whether the bulk of what silk even france manufactures be not imported? . qu. whether it be possible for this country to grow rich, so long as what is made by domestic industry is spent in foreign luxury? . qu. whether part of the profits of the bank should not be employed in erecting manufactures of several kinds, which are not likely to be set on foot and carried on to perfection without great stock, public encouragement, general regulations, and the concurrence of many hands? . qu. whether our natural irish are not partly spaniards and partly tartars, and whether they do not bear signatures of their descent from both these nations, which is also confirmed by all their histories? . qu. whether the tartar progeny is not numerous in this land? and whether there is an idler occupation under the sun than to attend flocks and herds of cattle? . qu. whether the wisdom of the state should not wrestle with this hereditary disposition of our tartars, and with a high hand introduce agriculture? . qu. whether it were not to be wished that our people shewed their descent from spain, rather by their honour and honesty than their pride, and if so, whether they might not easily insinuate themselves into a larger share of the spanish trade? . qu. whether once upon a time france did not, by her linen alone, draw yearly from spain about eight millions of livres? . qu. whether the french have not suffered in their linen trade with spain, by not making their cloth of due breadth; and whether any other people have suffered, and are still likely to suffer, through the same prevarication? . qu. whether the spaniards are not rich and lazy, and whether they have not a particular inclination and favour for the inhabitants of this island? but whether a punctual people do not love punctual dealers? . qu. whether about fourteen years ago we had not come into a considerable share of the linen trade with spain, and what put a stop to this? . qu. whether we may not, with common industry and common honesty, undersell any nation in europe? . qu. whether, if the linen manufacture were carried on in the other provinces as well as in the north, the merchants of cork, limerick, and galway would not soon find the way to spain? . qu. whether the woollen manufacture of england is not divided into several parts or branches, appropriated to particular places, where they are only or principally manufactured; fine cloths in somersetshire, coarse in yorkshire, long ells at exeter, saies at sudbury, crapes at norwich, linseys at kendal, blankets at witney, and so forth? . qu. whether the united skill, industry, and emulation of many together on the same work be not the way to advance it? and whether it had been otherwise possible for england to have carried on her woollen manufacture to so great perfection? . qu. whether it would not on many accounts be right if we observed the same course with respect to our linen manufacture; and that diapers were made in one town or district, damasks in another, sheeting in a third, fine wearing linen in a fourth, coarse in a fifth, in another cambrics, in another thread and stockings, in others stamped linen, or striped linen, or tickings, or dyed linen, of which last kinds there is so great a consumption among the seafaring men of all nations? . qu. whether it may not be worth while to inform ourselves of the different sorts of linen which are in request among different people? . qu. whether we do not yearly consume of french wines about a thousand tuns more than either sweden or denmark, and yet whether those nations pay ready money as we do? . qu. whether they are not the swiss that make hay and gather in the harvest throughout alsatia? . qu. whether it be not a custom for some thousands of frenchmen to go about the beginning of march into spain, and having tilled the lands and gathered the harvest of spain, to return home with money in their pockets about the end of november? . qu. whether of late years our irish labourers do not carry on the same business in england to the great discontent of many there? but whether we have not much more reason than the people of england to be displeased at this commerce? . qu. whether, notwithstanding the cash supposed to be brought into it, any nation is, in truth, a gainer by such traffic? . qu. whether the industry of our people employed in foreign lands, while our own are left uncultivated, be not a great loss to the country? . qu. whether it would not be much better for us, if, instead of sending our men abroad, we could draw men from the neighbouring countries to cultivate our own? . qu. whether, nevertheless, we are not apt to think the money imported by our labourers to be so much clear gains to this country, but whether a little reflexion and a little political arithmetic may not shew us our mistake? . qu. whether our prejudices about gold and silver are not very apt to infect or misguide our judgments and reasonings about the public weal? . qu. whether it be not a good rule whereby to judge of the trade of any city, and its usefulness, to observe whether there is a circulation through the extremities, and whether the people round about are busy and warm? . qu. whether we had not, some years since, a manufacture of hats at athlone, and of earthenware at arklow, and what became of those manufactures? . qu. why we do not make tiles of our own, for flooring and roofing, rather than bring them from holland? . qu. what manufactures are there in france and venice of gilt-leather, how cheap and how splendid a furniture? . qu. whether we may not, for the same use, manufacture divers things at home of more beauty and variety than wainscot, which is imported at such expense from norway? . qu. whether the use and the fashion will not soon make a manufacture? . qu. whether, if our gentry used to drink mead and cider, we should not soon have those liquors in the utmost perfection and plenty? . qu. whether it be not wonderful that with such pastures, and so many black cattle, we do not find ourselves in cheese? . qu. whether great profits may not be made by fisheries; but whether those of our irish who live by that business do not contrive to be drunk and unemployed one half of the year? . qu. whether it be not folly to think an inward commerce cannot enrich a state, because it doth not increase its quantity of gold and silver? and whether it is possible a country should? not thrive, while wants are supplied, and business goes on? . qu. whether plenty of all the necessaries and comforts of life be not real wealth? . qu. whether lyons, by the advantage of her midland situation and the rivers rhone and saone, be not a great magazine or mart for inward commerce? and whether she doth not maintain a constant trade with most parts of france; with provence for oils and dried fruits, for wines and cloth with languedoc, for stuffs with champagne, for linen with picardy, normandy, and brittany, for corn with burgundy? . qu. whether she doth not receive and utter all those commodities, and raise a profit from the distribution thereof, as well as of her own manufactures, throughout the kingdom of france? . qu. whether the charge of making good roads and navigable rivers across the country would not be really repaid by an inward commerce? . qu. whether, as our trade and manufactures increased, magazines should not be established in proper places, fitted by their situation, near great roads and navigable rivers, lakes, or canals, for the ready reception and distribution of all sorts of commodities from and to the several parts of the kingdom; and whether the town of athlone, for instance, may not be fitly situated for such a magazine, or centre of domestic commerce? . qu. whether an inward trade would not cause industry to flourish, and multiply the circulation of our coin, and whether this may not do as well as multiplying the coin itself? . qu. whether the benefits of a domestic commerce are sufficiently understood and attended to; and whether the cause thereof be not the prejudiced and narrow way of thinking about gold and silver? . qu. whether there be any other more easy and unenvied method of increasing the wealth of a people? . qu. whether we of this island are not from our peculiar circumstances determined to this very commerce above any other, from the number of necessaries and good things that we possess within ourselves, from the extent and variety of our soil, from the navigable rivers and good roads which we have or may have, at a less expense than any people in europe, from our great plenty of materials for manufactures, and particularly from the restraints we lie under with regard to our foreign trade? . qu. whether commissioners of trade or other proper persons should not be appointed to draw up plans of our commerce both foreign and domestic, and lay them at the beginning of every session before the parliament? . qu. whether registers of industry should not be kept, and the pubic from time to time acquainted what new manufactures are introduced, what increase or decrease of old ones? . qu. whether annual inventories should not be published of the fairs throughout the kingdom, in order to judge of the growth of its commerce? . qu. whether there be not every year more cash circulated at the card tables of dublin than at all the fairs of ireland? . qu. whether the wealth of a country will not bear proportion to the skill and industry of its inhabitants? . qu. whether foreign imports that tend to promote industry should not be encouraged, and such as have a tendency to promote luxury should not be discouraged? . qu. whether the annual balance of trade between italy and lyons be not about four millions in favour of the former, and yet, whether lyons be not a gainer by this trade? . qu. whether the general rule, of determining the profit of a commerce by its balance, doth not, like other general rules, admit of exceptions? . qu. whether it would not be a monstrous folly to import nothing but gold and silver, supposing we might do it, from every foreign part to which we trade? and yet, whether some men may not think this foolish circumstance a very happy one? . qu. but whether we do not all see the ridicule of the mogul's subjects, who take from us nothing but our silver, and bury it under ground, in order to make sure thereof against the resurrection? . qu. whether he must not be a wrongheaded patriot or politician, whose ultimate view was drawing money into a country, and keeping it there? . qu. whether it be not evident that not gold but industry causeth a country to flourish? . qu. whether it would not be a silly project in any nation to hope to grow rich by prohibiting the exportation of gold and silver? . qu. whether there can be a greater mistake in politics than to measure the wealth of the nation by its gold and silver? . qu. whether gold and silver be not a drug, where they do not promote industry? whether they be not even the bane and undoing of an idle people? . qu. whether gold will not cause either industry or vice to flourish? and whether a country, where it flowed in without labour, must not be wretched and dissolute like an island inhabited by buccaneers? . qu. whether arts and vertue are not likely to thrive, where money is made a means to industry? but whether money without this would be a blessing to any people? . qu. whether therefore mississippi, south sea, and such like schemes were not calculated for pubic ruin? . qu. whether keeping cash at home, or sending it abroad, just as it most serves to promote industry, be not the real interest of every nation? . qu. whether commodities of all kinds do not naturally flow where there is the greatest demand? whether the greatest demand for a thing be not where it is of most use? whether money, like other things, hath not its proper use? whether this use be not to circulate? whether therefore there must not of course be money where there is a circulation of industry? . qu. whether all such princes and statesmen are not greatly deceived who imagine that gold and silver, any way got, will enrich a country? . qu. whether it is not a great point to know what we would be at? and whether whole states, as well as private persons, do not often fluctuate for want of this knowledge? . qu. whether gold may not be compared to sejanus's horse, if we consider its passage through the world, and the fate of those nations which have been successively possess'd thereof? . qu. whether the effect is not to be considered more than the kind or quantity of money? . qu. whether means are not so far useful as they answer the end? and whether, in different circumstances, the same ends are not obtained by different means? . qu. if we are a poor nation, abounding with very poor people, will it not follow that a far greater proportion of our stock should be in the smallest and lowest species than would suit with england? . qu. whether, therefore, it would not be highly expedient if our money were coined of peculiar values, best fitted to the circumstances and uses of our own country; and whether any other people could take umbrage at our consulting our own convenience, in an affair entirely domestic, and that lies within ourselves? . qu. whether every man doth not know, and hath not long known, that the want of a mint causeth many other wants in this kingdom? . qu. what harm did england sustain about three centuries ago, when silver was coined in this kingdom? . qu. what harm was it to spain that her provinces of naples and sicily had all along mints of their own? . qu. whether those who have the interests of this kingdom at heart, and are concerned in the councils thereof, ought not to make the most humble and earnest representations to his majesty, that he may vouchsafe to grant us that favour, the want of which is ruinous to our domestic industry, and the having of which would interfere with no interest of our fellow-subjects? . qu. whether it may not be presumed that our not having a privilege which every other kingdom in the world enjoys, be not owing to our want of diligence and unanimity in soliciting for it? . qu. whether his most gracious majesty hath ever been addressed on this head in a proper manner, and had the case fairly stated for his royal consideration, and if not, whether we may not blame ourselves? . qu. if his majesty would be pleased to grant us a mint, whether the consequences thereof may not prove a valuable consideration to the crown? . qu. whether it be not the interest of england that we should cultivate a domestic commerce among ourselves? and whether it could give them any possible jealousy, if our small sum of cash was contrived to go a little further, if there was a little more life in our markets, a little more buying and selling in our shops, a little better provision for the backs and bellies of so many forlorn wretches throughout the towns and villages of this island? . qu. whether great britain ought not to promote the prosperity of her colonies, by all methods consistent with her own? and whether the colonies themselves ought to wish or aim at it by others? . qu. whether the remotest parts from the metropolis, and the lowest of the people, are not to be regarded as the extremities and capillaries of the political body? . qu. whether, although the capillary vessels are small, yet obstructions in them do not produce great chronical diseases? . qu. whether faculties are not enlarged and improved by exercise? . qu. whether the sum of the faculties put into act, or, in other words, the united action of a whole people, doth not constitute the momentum of a state? . qu. whether such momentum be not the real stock or wealth of a state; and whether its credit be not proportional thereunto? . qu. whether in every wise state the faculties of the mind are not most considered? . qu. whether every kind of employment or business, as it implies more skill and exercise of the higher powers, be not more valued? . qu. whether the momentum of a state doth not imply the whole exertion of its faculties, intellectual and corporeal; and whether the latter without the former could act in concert? . qu. whether the divided force of men, acting singly, would not be a rope of sand? . qu. whether the particular motions of the members of a state, in opposite directions, will not destroy each other, and lessen the momentum of the whole; but whether they must not conspire to produce a great effect? . qu. whether the ready means to put spirit into this state, to fortify and increase its momentum, would not be a national bank, and plenty of small cash? . qu. whether private endeavours without assistance from the public are likely to advance our manufactures and commerce to any great degree? but whether, as bills uttered from a national bank upon private mortgages would facilitate the purchases and projects of private men, even so the same bills uttered on the public security alone may not answer pubic ends in promoting new works and manufactures throughout the kingdom? . qu. whether that which employs and exerts the force of a community deserves not to be well considered and well understood? . qu. whether the immediate mover, the blood and spirits, be not money, paper, or metal; and whether the soul or will of the community, which is the prime mover that governs and directs the whole, be not the legislature? . qu. supposing the inhabitants of a country quite sunk in sloth, or even fast asleep, whether, upon the gradual awakening and exertion, first of the sensitive and locomotive faculties, next of reason and reflexion, then of justice and piety, the momentum of such country or state would not, in proportion thereunto, become still more and more considerable? . qu. whether that which in the growth is last attained, and is the finishing perfection of a people, be not the first thing lost in their declension? . qu. whether force be not of consequence, as it is exerted; and whether great force without great wisdom may not be a nuisance? . qu. whether the force of a child, applied with art, may not produce greater effects than that of a giant? and whether a small stock in the hands of a wise state may not go further, and produce more considerable effects, than immense sums in the hands of a foolish one? . qu. whether as many as wish well to their country ought not to aim at increasing its momentum? . qu. whose fault is it if poor ireland still continues poor? finis errata. page . line for silklace, read silk, lace, p. l. r. prices. p. l. r. to be. p. , l. r. as mills. distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net nurse heatherdale's story by mrs molesworth illustrated by l leslie brooke macmillan & co london mdcccxci to my far-away but faithful friend gisÉla lindfield, _august_ , . [illustration: she was sitting in the dame's old-fashioned armchair, in the window of the little room; the bright summer sunshine streaming in behind her.--p. .] contents page chapter i love at first sight chapter ii an unexpected proposal chapter iii treluan chapter iv a nursery tea chapter v the shop in the village chapter vi the smugglers' caves chapter vii a rainy day chapter viii the old latin grammar chapter ix upset plans chapter x the new baby chapter xi in disgrace again chapter xii lost chapter xiii 'old sir david's' secret illustrations page 'hasn't her a nice face?' she was sitting in the dame's old-fashioned armchair, in the window of the little room; the bright summer sunshine streaming in behind her then there burst upon the view a wonderful surprise miss bess and master francis were talking eagerly with old prideaux 'poor f'ancie,' she said pitifully. 'so tired, baby wants to kiss thoo' 'auntie!' he said, smiling a very little; 'how pretty you look!' sir hulbert, holding master francis with one arm and the side of the ladder with the other, followed nurse heatherdale's story chapter i love at first sight i could fancy it was only yesterday! that first time i saw them. and to think how many years ago it is really! and how many times i have told the story--or, perhaps, i should say the _stories_, for after all it is only a string of simple day-by-day events i have to tell, though to me and to the children about me they seem so interesting and, in some ways, i think i may say, rather out of the common. so that now that i am getting old, or 'beginning to think just a tiny bit about some day getting old,' which is the only way miss erica will let me say it, and knowing that nobody else _can_ know all the ins and outs which make the whole just as i do, and having a nice quiet time to myself most days (specially since dear tiresome little master ramsey is off to school with his brothers), i am going to try to put it down as well as i can. my 'as well as i can' won't be anything very scholarly or fine, i know well; but if one knows what one wants to say it seems to me the words will come. and the story will be there for the dear children, who are never sharp judging of old heather--and for their children after them, maybe. i was standing at our cottage door that afternoon--a beautiful summer afternoon it was, early in june. i was looking idly enough across the common, for our cottage stood--stands still, perhaps--i have not been there for many a year--just at the edge of brayling common, where it skirts the pine-woods, when i saw them pass. quite a little troop they looked, though they were scarcely near enough for me to see them plainly. there was the donkey, old larkins's donkey, which they had hired for the time, with a tot of a girl riding on it, the page-boy leading it, and a nursemaid walking on one side, and on the other an older little lady--somewhere about ten years old she looked, though she was really only eight. what an air she had, to be sure! what a grand way of holding herself and stepping along like a little princess, for all that she and her sisters were dressed as simple as simple. pink cotton frocks, if i remember right, a bit longer in the skirts than our young ladies wear them now, and nice white cotton stockings,--it was long before black silk ones were the fashion for children,--and ankle-strap shoes, and white sun-bonnets, made with casers and cords, nice and shady for the complexions, though you really had to be close to before you could see a child's face inside of them. and some way behind, another little lady, a good bit shorter than miss bess--i meant to give all their names in order later on, but it seems strange-like not to say it--and looking quite three years younger, though there was really not two between them. and alongside of her a boy, thin and pale and darkish-haired--that, i could see, as he had no sun-bonnet of course, only a cap of some kind. he too was a good bit taller than miss ----, the middle young lady i mean, though short for his age, which was eleven past. they were walking together, these two--they were mostly always together, and i saw that the boy was a little lame, just a touch, but enough to take the spring out of his step that one likes to see in a young thing. and though i couldn't see her face, only some long fair curls, long enough to come below the cape of her bonnet, a feeling came over me that the child beside him was walking slow, keeping back as it were, on purpose to bear him company. there was something gentle and pitying-like in her little figure, in the way she went closer to the boy and took his hand when the nurse turned round and called back something--i couldn't hear the words but i fancied the tone was sharp--to the two children behind, which made them press forward a little. the other young lady turned as they came nearer and said something with a sort of toss-up of her proud little head to the nurse. and then i saw that she held out her hand to her younger sister, who kept hold all the same of the boy's hand on the other side. and that was how they were walking when they went in among the trees and were lost to my sight. but i still stood looking after them, even when there was nothing more of them to be seen. not even the dog--oh, i forgot about him--he was the very last of the party--a brisk, shortish haired, wiry-looking rough terrier, who, just as he got to the entrance of the wood, turned round and stood for a moment barking, for all the world as if he might be saying, 'my young ladies have gone a-walking in the wood now, and nobody's to come a-troubling of them. so i give you fair notice.' he did think, did fusser, that was _his_ name, that he managed all the affairs of the family. many a time we've laughed at him for it. 'dear me,' thought i to myself, 'i could almost make a story out of those young ladies and gentleman, though i've only seen them for a minute, or two at the most.' for i was very fond of children even then, and knew a good deal about their ways, though not so much--no, nor nothing like--what i do now! but i was in rather a dreamy sort of humour. i had just left my first place,--that of nursery-maid with the family where my mother had been before me, and where i had stayed on older than i should have done by rights, because of thinking i was going to be married. and six months before, my poor charles had died suddenly, or so at least it had seemed to us all. for he caught cold, and it went to his chest, and he was gone in a fortnight. the doctor said for all he looked strong, he was really sadly delicate, and it was bound to be sooner or later. it may have been true, leastways the doctor meant to comfort me by saying so, though i don't know that i found much comfort in the thought. not so much anyhow as in mother's simple words that it was god's will, and so it must be right. and in thinking how happy we had been. never a word or a coldness all the four years we were plighted. but it was hard to bear, and it changed all my life for me. i never could bring myself to think of another. still i was only twenty-one, and after i'd been at home a bit, the young ladies would have me back to cheer me up, they said. i travelled with them that spring; but when they all went up to london, and miss marian was to be married, and the two little ones were all day with the governess, i really couldn't for shame stay on when there was no need of me. so, though with many tears, i came home, and was casting about in my mind what i had best do--mother being hale and hearty, and no call for dress-making of a plain kind in our village--that afternoon, when i stood watching the stranger little gentry and old larkins's donkey and the dog, as they crossed the common into the firwood. it was mother's voice that woke me up, so to say. 'martha,' she called out in her cheery way, 'what's thee doing, child? i'm about tidied up; come and get thy work, and let's sit down a bit comfortable. i don't like to see thee so down-like, and such bright summer weather, though mayhap the very sunshine makes it harder for thee, poor dear.' and she gave a little sigh, which was a good deal for her, for she was not one as made much talk of feelings and sorrows. it seemed to spirit me up somehow. 'i wasn't like that just now, mother,' i said cheerfully. 'i've been watching some children--gentry--going over the common--three little young ladies and a boy, and larkins's donkey. they made me think of miss charlotte and miss marian when first i went there, though plainer dressed a good deal than our young ladies were. but real gentry, i should say.' 'and you'd say right,' mother answered. 'they are lodging at widow nutfold's, quite a party of them. their father's sir----; dear, dear, i've forgot the name, but he's a barrowknight, and the family's name is penrose. they come from somewhere far off, near by the sea--quite furrin parts, i take it.' 'not out of england, you don't mean, do you?' i asked. for mother, of course, kept all her old country talk, while i, with having been so many years with miss marian and her sisters, and treated more like a friend than a servant, and great pains taken with my reading and writing, had come to speak less old-fashioned, so to say, and to give the proper meaning to my words. 'foreign parts really means out of this country, where they talk french or italian, you know, mother.' but mother only shook her head. 'nay,' she said, 'i mean what i say. furrin parts is furrin parts. i wouldn't say as they come from where the folks is nigger blacks, or from old boney's country neither, as they used to frighten us about when i was a child. but these gentry come from furrin parts. why, i had it from sarah nutfold's own lips, last saturday as never was, at brayling market, and old neighbours of forty years; it's not sense to think she'd go for to deceive me.' mother was just a little offended, i could see, and i thought to myself i must take care of seeming to set her right. 'of course not,' i said. 'you couldn't have it surer than from mrs. nutfold. i daresay she's pleased to have them to cheer her up a bit. they seem nice little ladies to look at, though they're on the outside of plain as to their dress.' 'and more sense, too,' said mother. 'i always thought our young ladies too expensive, though where money's no consideration, 'tis a temptation to a lady to dress up her children, i suppose.' 'but they were never _over_-dressed,' i said, in my turn, a little ruffled. 'nothing could be simpler than their white frocks to look at.' 'ay, to look at, i'll allow,' said mother. 'but when you come to look _into_ them, martha, it was another story. embroidery and tucks and real walansian!' and she held up her hands. 'still they've got it, and they've a right to spend it, seein' too as they're generous to those who need. but these little ladies at sarah's are not rich, i take it. there was a deal of settlin' about the prices when my lady came to take the rooms. she and the gentleman's up in london, but one or two of the children got ill and needed country air. it's a heavy charge on sarah nutfold, for the nurse is not one of the old sort, and my lady asked sarah, private-like, to have an eye on her.' 'there now,' i cried, 'i could have said as much! the way she turned just now so sharp on the poor boy and the middle little lady. i could see she wasn't one of the right kind, though i didn't hear what she said. no one should be a nurse, or have to do with children, mother, who doesn't right down love them in her heart.' 'you're about right there, martha,' mother agreed. just then father came in, and we sat round, the three of us, to our tea. 'it's a pleasure to have thee at home again, my girl, for a bit,' he said. and the kind look in his eyes made me feel both cheered and sad together. it was the first day i had been with them at tea-time, for i had got home pretty late the night before. 'and i hope it'll be a longish bit this time,' he went on. i gave a little sigh. 'i'd like to stay a while; but i don't know that it would be good for me to stay very long, father, thank you,' i said. 'i'm young and strong and fit for work, and i'd like to feel i was able to help you and mother if ever the time comes that you're laid by.' 'please god we'll never need help of that kind, my girl,' said father. 'but it's best to be at work, i know, when one's had a trouble. the day'll maybe come, martha, when you'll be glad to have saved a little more for a home of your own, after all. so i'd not be the one to stand in your way, a few months hence--nor mother neither--if a good place offers.' 'thank you, father,' i said again; 'but the only home of my own i'll ever care for will be here--by mother and you.' and so it proved. i little thought how soon father's words about not standing in my way if a nice place offered would be put to the test. i saw the children who were lodging at mrs. nutfold's several times in the course of the next week or two. they seemed to have a great fancy for the pine-woods, and from where they lived they could not, to get to them, but pass across the common within sight of our cottage. and once or twice i met them in the village street. not all of them together--once it was only the two youngest with the nurse; they were waiting at the door of the post-office, which was also the grocer's and the baker's, while she was inside chattering and laughing a deal more than she'd any call to, it seemed to me. (i'm afraid i took a real right-down dislike to that nurse, which isn't a proper thing to do before one has any certain reason for it.) and dear little ladies they looked, though the elder one--that was the middle one of the three--had rather an anxious expression in her face, that struck me. the baby--she was nearly three, but i heard them call her baby--was a little fat bundle of smiles and dimples. i don't think even a cross nurse would have had power to trouble _her_ much. another time it was the two elder girls and the lame boy i met. it was a windy day, and the eldest missy's big flapping bonnet had blown back, so i had a good look at her. she was a beautiful child--blue eyes, very dark blue, or seeming so from the clear black eyebrows and thick long eyelashes, and dark almost black hair, with just a little wave in it; not so long or curling as her sister's, which was out-of-the-way beautiful hair, but seeming somehow just to suit her, as everything about her did. she came walking along with the proud springing step i had noticed that first day, and she was talking away to the others as if to cheer and encourage them, even though the boy was full three years older than she, and supposed to be taking charge of her and her sister, i fancy. 'nonsense, franz,' she was saying in her decided spoken way, 'nonsense. i won't have you and lally treated like that. and i don't care--i mean i can't help if it does trouble mamma. mammas must be troubled about their children sometimes; that's what being a mamma means.' i managed to keep near them for a bit. i hope it was not a mean taking-advantage. i have often told them of it since--it was really that i did feel such an interest in the dear children, and my mind misgave me from the first about that nurse--it did so indeed. 'if only----' said the boy with a tiny sigh. but again came that clear-spoken little voice, 'nonsense, franz.' i never did hear a child of her age speak so well as miss bess. it's pretty to hear broken talking in a child sometimes, lisping, and some of the funny turns they'll give their words; but it's even prettier to hear clear complete talk like hers in a young child. then came a gentle, pitiful little voice. 'it isn't nonsense, queen, darling. it's _howid_ for franz, but it wasn't nonsense he was going to say. i know what it was,' and she gave the boy's hand a little squeeze. 'it was only--if aunty _was_ my mamma, bess, but you know she isn't. and _aunts_ aren't forced to be troubled about not their own children.' 'yes they are,' the elder girl replied. 'at least when they're instead of own mammas. and then, you know, franz, it's not only you, it's lally too, and----' that was all i heard. i couldn't pretend to be obliged to walk slowly just behind them, for in reality i was rather in a hurry, so i hastened past; but just as i did so, their little dog, who was with them, looked up at me with a friendly half-bark, half-growl. that made the children smile at me too, and for the life of me, even if 'twas not good manners, i couldn't help smiling in return. 'hasn't her a nice face?' i heard the second little young lady say, and it sent me home with quite a warm feeling in my heart. [illustration: 'hasn't her a nice face?'] it was about a week after that, when one evening as we were sitting together--father, mother, and i--and father was just saying there'd be daylight enough to need no candles that night--we heard the click of the little garden gate, and a voice at the door that mother knew in a moment was widow nutfold's. 'good evening to you, mrs. heatherdale,' she said, 'and many excuses for disturbing of you so late, but i'm that put about. is your martha at home?--thank goodness, my dear,' as i came forward out of the dusk to speak to her. 'it's more you nor your good mother i've come after; you'll be thinking i'm joking when you hear what it is. can you slip on your bonnet and come off with me now this very minute to help with my little ladies? would you believe it--that their good-for-nothing girl is off--gone--packed up this very evening--and left me with 'em all on my hands, and miss baby beginning with a cold on her chest, and master francis all but crying with the rheumatics in his poor leg. and even the page-boy, as was here at first, was took back to london last week.' the good woman held up her hands in despair, and then by degrees we got the whole story--how the nurse had not been meaning to stay longer than suited her own convenience, but had concealed this from her lady; and having heard by a letter that afternoon of another situation which she could have if she went at once, off she had gone, in spite of all poor widow nutfold could say or do. 'she took a dislike to me seein' as i tried to look after her a bit and to stop her nasty cross ways, and she told me that impertinent, as i wanted to be nurse, i might be it now. she has a week or two's money owing her, but she was that scornful she said she'd let it go; she had been a great silly for taking the place.' 'but she might be had up and made to give back some of her wages,' said father. 'sir hulbert and my lady are not that sort, and she knows it,' said mrs. nutfold. 'the wages was pretty fair--it was the dulness of the life down in cornwall the girl objected to most, i fancy.' 'cornwall,' repeated mother. 'there now, martha, if that isn't furrin parts, i don't know what is.' but i hadn't time to say any more. i hurried on my shawl and bonnet, and rolled up an apron or two, and slipped a cap into a bandbox, and there i was. 'good-night, mother,' i said. 'i'll look round in the morning--and i don't suppose i'll be wanted to stay more than a day or two. my lady's sure to find some one at once, being in london too.' 'i should think so,' said old sarah, but there was something in her tone i did not quite understand. chapter ii an unexpected proposal we hurried across the common--it was still daylight though the sun had set some little time. the red and gold were still lingering in the sky and casting a beautiful glow on the heather and the gorse bushes. for brayling common is not like what the word makes most people think of--there's no grass at all--it's all heather and gorse, and here and there clumps of brambles, and low down on the sandy soil all sorts of hardy, running, clinging little plants that ask for nothing but sunshine and air. for of moisture there's but scanty supply; it no sooner rains than it dries up again. but oh it is beautiful--the colours of it i've never seen equalled--not even in italy or switzerland, where i went with my first ladies, as i said before. the heather seems to change its shade a dozen times a day, as well as with every season--according as the sky is cloudy or bright, or the sun overhead or on his way up or down. i cannot say it the right way, but i know that many far cleverer than me would feel the same; you may travel far before you'd see a sweeter piece of nature than our common, with its wonderful changefulness and yet always beautiful. there's little footpaths in all directions, as well as a few wider tracks. it takes strangers some time to learn their way, i can tell you. the footpaths are seldom wide enough for two, so it's a queer sort of backwards and forwards talking one has to be content with. and we walked too fast to have breath for much, only widow nutfold would now and then throw back to me, so to say, some odds and ends of explaining about the children that she thought i'd best know. 'they're dear young ladies,' she said, 'though miss elisabeth is a bit masterful and miss baby--augusta's her proper name--a bit spoilt. take them all together, i think miss lally's my favourite, or would be if she was a little happier, poor child! i can't stand whiney children.' i smiled to myself--i knew that the good woman's experience of children was not great--she had married late and never had one of her own. it was real goodness that made her take such an interest in the little penroses. 'poor child,' i said, 'perhaps the cross nurse has made her so,' at which sarah gave a sort of grunt. 'what is her real name--the middle young lady's, i mean?' 'oh, bless you, i couldn't take upon me to say it--it's too outlandish. miss lally we call her--' and i could hear that mrs. nutfold's breath was getting short--she was stout in her later years--and that she was a little cross. 'you must ask for yourself, martha.' so i said no more, though i had wanted to hear about the boy, who had spoken of their mother as his aunty, and how he had come to be so delicate and lame. and in a few minutes more we found ourselves at the door of clover cottage; that was mrs. nutfold's house, though 'bramble cottage' would have suited it better, standing where it did. she took the key out of her pocket. 'i locked them in,' she said, nodding her head, 'though they didn't know it.' 'gracious,' says i, 'you don't mean as the children are all alone?' 'to be sure--who'd be with them? i wasn't going to make a chatter all over the place about that impident woman a-goin' off. and bella, my girl, goes home at five. 'twas after she left there was all the upset.' i felt rather startled at hearing this. suppose they had set themselves on fire! but old sarah seemed quite easy in her mind, as she opened the door and went in, me following. 'twas a nice roomy cottage, and so clean. besides the large kitchen at one side, with a good back-kitchen behind it, and a tidy bedroom for mrs. nutfold, there was a fair-sized parlour, with casement windows and deep window-seats--all old-fashioned, but roomy and airy. and upstairs two nice bed-rooms and a small one. i knew it well, having been there off and on to help mrs. nutfold with her lodgers at the busy season before i went away to a regular place. so i was a little surprised when she turned to the kitchen, instead of opening the parlour door. and at first, what with coming out of the half-light and the red glow still in my eyes, and what with that there fusser setting upon me with such a barking and jumping--all meant for a welcome, i soon found--as never was, i scarce could see or hear. but i soon got myself together again. 'down fusser, naughty fuss,' said the children, and, 'he won't bite, it's only meant for "how do you do?"' said the eldest girl. and then she turned to me as pretty as might be. 'is this martha?' says she, holding out her little hand. 'i _am_ pleased to see you. it's very good of you, and oh, mrs. nutfold, i'm so glad you've come back. baby is getting so sleepy.' poor little soul--so she was. they had set her up on sarah's old rocking-chair near the fire as well as they could, to keep her warm because of her cold, and it was a chilly evening rather. but it was past her bed-time, and she was fractious with all the upset. i just was stooping down to look at her when she gave a little cry and held out her arms to me. 'baby so tired,' she said, 'want to go to bed.' 'and so you shall, my love,' i said. 'i'll have off my bonnet in a moment, and then martha will put miss baby to bed all nice and snug.' 'marfa,' said a little voice beside me. it was the middle young lady. 'i like that name, don't you, francie?' that was the boy--they were all there, poor dears. old sarah had thought they'd be cosier in the kitchen while she was out. i smiled back at miss lally, as they called her. she was standing by master francis; both looking up at me, with a kind of mixture of hope and fear, a sort of asking, 'will she be good to us?' in their faces, which touched me very much. master francis was not a pretty child like the others. he was pale and thin, and his eyes looked too dark for his face. he was small too, no taller than miss bess, and with none of her upright hearty look. but when he smiled his expression was very sweet. he smiled now, with a sort of relief and pleasure, and i saw that he gave a little squeeze to miss lally's hand, which he was holding. 'yes,' he said, 'it's a nice name. the other nurse was called "sharp;" it suited her too,' with a twinkle in his eyes i was pleased to see. 'lally can't say her "th's" properly,' he went on, as if he was excusing her a little, 'nor her "r's" sometimes, though bess and i are trying to teach her.' 'it's so babyish at _her_ age, nearly six, not to speak properly,' said miss bess, with her little toss of the head, at which miss lally's face puckered up, and the corners of her mouth went down, and i saw what sarah nutfold meant by saying she was rather a 'whiney' child. i didn't give her time for more just then. i had got miss baby up in my arms, where she was leaning her sleepy head on my shoulder in her pretty baby way. i felt quite in my right place again. 'come along, miss lally, dear,' i said. 'it must be your bed-time too, and if you'll come upstairs with miss baby and me, you'll be able to show me all the things--the baths, and the sponges, and everything--won't that be nice?' she brightened up in a moment--dear child, it's always been like that with her. give her a hint of anything she could do for others, and she'd forget her own troubles--fancy or real ones--that minute. 'the hot water's all ready,' said mrs. nutfold. 'i kep' the fire up, so as you shouldn't have no trouble i could help, martha, my dear.' and then the three of us went upstairs to the big room at the back, where i was to sleep with miss baby in her cot, and which we called the night nursery. miss lally was as bright as a child could be, and that handy and helpful. but more than once i heard a sigh come from the very depths of her little heart, it seemed. 'sharp never lettened me help wif baby going to bed, this nice way,' she said, and sighed again. 'never mind about sharp, my dear,' i said. 'she had her ways, and martha has hers. what are you sighing about?' 'i'm so fwightened her'll come back and you go, marfa,' she said, nestling up to me. baby was safe in bed by now, prayers said and all. 'and--i'm sleepy, but i don't like going to bed till queen comes.' 'who may she be, my dear?' i asked, and then i remembered their talking that day in the street. 'oh, it's miss bess, you mean.' 'yes--it's in the english hist_ory_,' said the child, making a great effort over the 'r.' 'there was a queen they called "good queen bess," so i made that my name for bess. but mamma laughed one day and said that queen wasn't "good." i was so sorry. so i just call bess "queen" for short. and i say "good" to myself, for my bess _is_ good; only i wish she wouldn't be vexed when i don't speak words right,' and again the little creature sighed as if all the burdens of this weary world were on her shoulders. 'it's that miss bess wants you to speak as cleverly as she does, i suppose. it'll come in time, no fear. when i was a little girl i couldn't say the letter "l," try as i might. i used to leave it out altogether--i remember one day telling mother i had seen such a sweet "ittie 'amb"--i meant "little lamb."' 'oh, how funny,' said miss lally laughing. she was always ready to laugh. 'it's a good thing i can say "l's," isn't it? my name wouldn't be--nothing--would it?--without the "l's."' 'but it's only a short, isn't it, missy?' i said. 'yes, my _weal_ name is "lalage." do you fink it's a pretty name?' she said. she was getting sleepy, and it was too much trouble to worry about her speaking. 'yes, indeed, i think it's a sweet name. so soft and gentle like,' i said, which pleased her, i could see. 'papa says so too--but mamma doesn't like it so much. it was francie's mamma's name, but she's dead. and poor francie's papa's dead too. he was papa's brother,' said miss lally, in her old-fashioned way. there was a funny mixture of old-fashionedness and simple, almost baby ways about all those children. i've never known any quite like them. no doubt it came in part from their being brought up so much by themselves, and having no other companions than each other. but from the first i always felt they were dear children, and more than common interesting. a few days passed--very quiet and peaceful, and yet full of life too they seemed to me. i felt more like myself again, as folks say, than since my great trouble. it _was_ sweet to have real little ones to see to again--if miss baby had only known it, that first evening's bathing her and tucking her up in bed brought tears of pleasure to my eyes. 'come now,' i said, to myself, 'this'll never do. you mustn't let yourself go for to get so fond of these young ladies and gentleman that you're only with for a day or two at most,' but i knew all the same i couldn't help it, and i settled in my own mind that as soon as i could i would look out for a place again. i wasn't afraid of what some would count a hardish place--indeed, i rather liked it. i've always been that fond of children that whatever i have to do for them comes right--what does try my temper is to see things half done, or left undone by silly upsetting girls who haven't a grain of the real nurse's spirit in them. my lady wrote at once on hearing from mrs. nutfold. she was very angry indeed about sharp's behaviour, and at first was by way of coming down immediately to see to things. but by the next day, when she had got a second letter saying how old sarah had fetched me, and that i was willing to stay for the time, she wrote again, putting off for a few days, and glad to do so, seeing how cleverly her good mrs. nutfold had managed. that was how she put it--my lady always had a gracious way with her, i will say--and i was to be thanked for my obligingness; she was sure her little dears would be happy with any one so well thought of by the dame. they were very busy indeed just then, she and sir hulbert, she said, and very gay. but when i came to know her better i did her justice, and saw she was not the butterfly i was inclined to think her. she was just frantic to get her husband forward, so to speak, and far more ambitious for him than caring about anything for herself. he had had a trying and disappointing life of it in some ways, had sir hulbert, and it had not soured him. he was a right-down high-minded gentleman, though not so clever as my lady, perhaps. and she adored him. they adored each other--seldom have i heard of a happier couple: only on one point was there ever disunion between them, as i shall explain, all in good time. a week therefore--fully a week--had gone by before my little ladies' mother came to see them. and when she did come it was at short notice enough--a letter by the post--and mayne, the postman, never passed our way much before ten in the morning. so the dame told as how she'd be down by the first train, and get to clover cottage by eleven, or soon after. we were just setting off on our morning walk when sarah came calling after us to tell. she was for us not going, and stopping in till her ladyship arrived; but when i put it to her that the children would get so excited, hanging about and nothing to do, she gave in. 'i'll bring them back before eleven,' i said. 'they'll be looking fresh and rosy, and with us out of the way you and the girl can get the rooms all tidied up as you'd like for my lady to find them.' and sarah allowed it was a good thought. 'you've a head on your shoulders, my girl,' was how she put it. so off we set--our usual way, over the common to the firwoods. there's many a pretty walk about brayling, and a great variety; but none took the young ladies' and master francie's fancy like the firwoods. they had never seen anything of the kind before, their home being by the seashore was maybe the reason--or one reason. for i feel much the same myself about loving firwoods, though, so to say, i was born and bred among them. there's a charm one can't quite explain about them--the sameness and the stillness and the great tops so high up, and yet the bareness and openness down below, though always in the shade. and the scent, and the feel of the crisp crunching soil one treads on, soil made of the millions of the fir needles, with here and there the cones as they have fallen. 'it's like fairy stories,' miss lally used to say, with her funny little sigh. but we couldn't linger long in the woods that morning, though a beautiful morning it was. miss bess and miss baby were in the greatest delight about 'mamma' coming, and always asking me if i didn't think it must be eleven o'clock. miss lally was pleased too, in her quiet way, only i noticed that she was a good deal taken up with master francie, who seemed to have something on his mind, and at last they both called to miss bess, and said something to her which i didn't hear, evidently asking her opinion. 'nonsense,' said miss bess, in her quick decided way; 'i have no patience with you being so silly. as if mamma would be so unjust.' 'but,' said master francis hesitatingly, 'you know, bess--sometimes----' 'yes,' put in miss lally, 'she might think it had been partly francie's fault.' 'nonsense,' said miss bess again; 'mamma knows well enough that sharp was horrid. i am sure francie has been as good as good for ever so long, and old mrs. nutfold will tell mamma so, even if possibly she did not understand.' their faces grew a little lighter after this, and by the time we had got home and i had tidied them all up, i really felt that my lady would be difficult to please if she didn't think all four looking as bright and well as she could wish. i kept myself out of the way when i heard the carriage driving up, though the children would have dragged me forward. but i was a complete stranger to lady penrose, and things having happened as they had, i felt that she might like to be alone with the children, at first, and that no doubt sarah nutfold would be eager to have a talk with her. i sat down to my sewing quietly--there was plenty of mending on hand, sharp's service having been but eye-service in every way--and i won't deny but that my heart was a little heavy thinking how soon, how very soon, most likely, i should have to leave these children, whom already, in these few days, i had grown to love so dearly. i was not left very long to my meditations, however; before an hour had passed there came a clear voice up the old staircase, 'martha, martha, come quick, mamma wants you,' and hastening out i met miss bess at the door. she turned and ran down again, i following her more slowly. how well i remember the group i saw as i opened the parlour door! it was like a picture. lady penrose herself was more than pretty--beautiful, i have heard her called, and i think it was no exaggeration. she was sitting in the dame's old-fashioned armchair, in the window of the little room; the bright summer sunshine streaming in behind her and lighting up her fair hair--hair for all the world like miss lally's, though perhaps a thought darker. miss baby was on her knee and miss bess on a stool at her feet, holding one of her hands. miss lally and master francie were a little bit apart, close together as usual. 'come in,' said my lady. 'come in, martha,' as i hesitated a little in the doorway. 'i am very pleased to see you and to thank you for all your kindness to these little people.' she half rose from her chair as i drew near, and shook hands with me in the pretty gracious way she had. 'i am sure it has been a pleasure to me, my lady,' i said. 'i've been used to children for so long that i was feeling quite lost at home doing nothing.' 'and you are very fond of children, truly fond of them,' my lady went on, glancing up at me with a quick observant look, that somehow reminded me of miss bess; 'so at least mrs. nutfold tells me, and i think i should have known it for myself even if she had not said so. i have to go back to town this afternoon--supposing you all run out into the garden for a few minutes, children; i want to talk to martha a little, and it will soon be your dinner time.' she got up as she spoke, putting miss baby down gently; the child began grumbling a little--but, 'no, no, baby, you must do as i tell you,' checked her in a moment. 'take her out with you, bess,' she added. i could see that my lady was not one to be trifled with. when they had all left the room she turned to me again. 'sit down, martha, for a minute or two. one can always talk so much more comfortably sitting,' she said pleasantly. 'and i have no doubt the children have given you plenty of exercise lately, though you don't look delicate,' she added, with again the little look of inquiry. 'thank you, my lady; no, i am not delicate; as a rule i am strong and well, though this last year has brought me troubles and upsets, and i haven't felt quite myself.' 'naturally,' she said. 'mrs. nutfold has told me about you. i was talking to her just now when i first arrived.' truly my lady was not one to let the grass grow under the feet. 'she says you will be looking for a situation again before long. is there any chance of your being able to take one at once, that is to say if mine seems likely to suit you.' she spoke so quick and it was so unexpected that i felt for a moment half stupid and dazed-like. 'are you sure, my lady, that i should suit you?' i managed to say at last. 'i have only been in one place in my life, and you might want more experience.' 'you were with mrs. wyngate, in ----shire, i believe? i know her sister and can easily hear any particulars i want, but i feel sure you would suit me.' she went on to give me a good many particulars, all in the same clear decided way. 'the wyngates are very rich,' she said, as she ended. 'you must have seen a great deal of luxury there. now we are not rich--not at all rich--though we have a large country place that has belonged to the family for many hundreds of years; but we are obliged to live plainly and the place is rather lonely. i don't want you to decide all at once. think it all over, and consult your parents, and let me have your answer when i come down again.' 'that will be the difficulty,' i replied; 'my parents wanted me to stay on some time with them. there is nothing about the work or the wages i should object to, and though mrs. wyngate was very kind, i have never cared for much luxury in the nursery--indeed, i should have liked plainer ways; and i love the country, and as for the young ladies and gentleman, my lady, if it isn't taking a liberty to say so, i love them dearly already. but it is father and mother----' 'well, well,' said my lady, 'we must see. the children are very happy with you, and i hope it may be arranged, but of course you must consult your parents.' she went back to london that same afternoon, and that very evening, when they were all in bed, i slipped on my bonnet and ran home to talk it over with father and mother. chapter iii treluan there were fors and againsts, as there are with most things in this world. father was sorry for me to leave so soon and go so far, and he scarce thought the wages what i might now look for. mother felt with him about the parting, but mother was a far-seeing woman. she thought the change would be the best thing for me after my trouble, and she thought a deal of my being with real gentry. not but that mrs. wyngate's family was all one could think highly of, but mr. wyngate's great fortune had been made in trade, and there was a little more talk and thought of riches and display among them than quite suited mother's ideas, and she had sometimes feared it spoiling me. 'the wages i wouldn't put first,' she said. 'a good home and simple ways among real gentlefolk--that's what i'd choose for thee, my girl. and the children are good children and not silly spoilt things, and straightforward and well-bred, i take it?' 'all that and more,' i answered. 'if anything, they've been a bit too strict brought up, i'd say. if i go to them i shall try to make miss lally brighten up--not that she's a dull child, but she has the look of taking things to heart more than one likes to see at her age. and poor master francis--i'm sure he'd be none the worse of a little petting--so delicate as he is and his lameness.' 'you'll find your work to do, if you go--no fear,' said mother. 'maybe it's a call.' i got to think so myself--and when my lady wrote that all she heard from mrs. wyngate was most satisfactory, i made up my mind to accept her offer, and told her so when she came down again for a few hours the end of the week. we stayed but a fortnight longer at brayling--and a busy fortnight it was. i had my own things to see to a little, and would fain have finished the set of shirts i had begun for father. the days seemed to fly. i scarce could believe it was not a dream when i found myself with all the family in a second-class railway carriage, starting from paddington on our long journey. it was a long journey, especially as, to save expense, we had come up from brayling that same morning. we were not to reach the little town where we left the railway till nearly midnight, to sleep there, i was glad for the poor children's sake to hear, and start again the next morning on a nineteen miles' journey by coach. 'and then,' said miss lally, with one of her deep sighs, 'we shall be at home.' i thought there was some content in her sigh this time. 'shall you be glad, dearie, to be at home again?' i said. 'i fink so,' she answered. 'and oh, i am glad you've comed wif us, 'stead of sharp. and francie's almost more gladder still, aren't you, dear old francie?' 'i should just think i was,' said the boy. 'sharp,'--and the little girl lowered her voice and glanced round; we were, so to speak, alone at one end of the carriage,--miss lally, her cousin and i, for miss baby was already asleep in my arms and miss bess talking, like a grown-up young lady, at the other end, with her papa and mamma--'sharp,' said miss lally, 'really _hated_ poor francie, because she thought he told mamma about her tempers. and she made mamma think he was naughty when he wasn't. francie and i were frightened when sharp went away that mamma would think it was his fault. but she didn't. queen spoke to her, and mrs. dame' (that was her name for old sarah) 'did too. and you didn't get scolded, did you, francie?' 'no,' said master francie quietly, 'i didn't.' he looked as if he were going to say more, but just then miss bess, who had had enough for the time, of being grown up--and indeed she was but a complete child at heart--got up from her seat and came to our end of the carriage. sir hulbert was reading his newspaper, and my lady was making notes in a little memorandum book. 'what are you talking about?' said the eldest little sister, sitting down beside me. 'you all look very comfortable, baby especially.' 'we are talking about sharp going away,' replied miss lally, 'and francie thinking he'd be scolded for it.' 'oh! do leave off about that and talk of something nicer. franz is really silly. if you'd only speak right out to mamma,' she went on, 'things would be ever so much better.' the boy shook his head rather sadly. 'now you know,' said miss bess, 'they would be. mamma is never unjust.' she was speaking in her clear decided way, and feeling a little afraid lest their voices should reach to the other end--i wouldn't have liked my lady to think i encouraged the children in talking her over--i tried to change the conversation. 'won't you tell me a little about your home?' i said. 'you know it'll all be quite new to me; i've only seen the sea once or twice in my life, and never lived by it.' 'treluan isn't quite close to the sea,' said master francis, evidently taking up my feeling. 'we can see it from some of the top rooms, and from one end of the west terrace at high tides, and we can hear it too when it's stormy. but it's really two miles to the coast.' 'there are such dear little bays, lots of them,' said miss bess. 'we can play robinson crusoe and smugglers and all sorts of things, for the bays are quite separated from each other by the rocks.' 'there's caves in some,' said miss lally, 'rather f'ightening caves, they're so dark;' but her eyes sparkled as if she were quite able to enjoy some adventures. 'we shall be at no loss for nice walks, i see; but how do you amuse yourselves on wet days?' 'oh! we've always plenty to do,' said miss bess. 'miss kirstin comes from the vicarage every morning for our lessons, and twice a week papa teaches franz and me latin in the afternoon, and the house is very big, you know. when we can't go out, we may race about in the attics over the nurseries. there's a stair goes up to the tower, just by the nursery door, and you pass the attics on the way. they're called the tower attics, because there are lots more over the other end of the house. francie's room is in the tower.' it was easy to see by this talk that treluan was a large and important place. 'i suppose the house is very, very old?' i said. 'oh yes! thousands--i mean hundreds--of years old. centuries mean hundreds, don't they, franz?' said she, turning to her cousin. 'yes, dear,' he answered gently, though i could see he was inclined to smile a little. 'if you know english history,' he went on to me, 'i could tell you exactly how old, treluan is. the first bit of it was built in the reign of king henry the third, though it's been changed ever so often since then. about a hundred years ago the penroses were very rich, very rich indeed. but when one of them died--our great, great grand-uncle, i think it was--and his nephew took possession, it was found the old man had sold a lot of the land secretly--it wasn't to be told till his death--and no one has ever been able to find out what he did with the money. it was the best of the land too.' 'and they were so surprised,' said miss bess, 'for he'd been a very saving old man, and they thought there'd be lots of money over, any way. wasn't it too bad of him--horrid old thing?' 'queen,' said miss lally gravely. 'you know we fixed never to call him that, 'cos he's dead. he was a--oh, what's that word?--something like those things in the hall at home--helmet--was it that? no--do tell me, queen.' 'you're muddling it up with crusaders, you silly little thing,' said miss bess. 'how could he have been a crusader only a hundred years ago?' 'no, no, it isn't that--i said it was _like_ it,' said miss lally, ready to cry. 'what's the other word for helmet?' 'i know,' said master francis, '_vizor_--and----' 'yes, yes--and the old man was a _miser_, that's it,' said the child. 'papa said so, and he said it's like a' illness, once people get it they can't leave off.' miss bess and master francis could not help laughing at the funny way the child said it, nor could i myself, for that matter. and then they went on to tell me more of the strange old story--how their great grandfather and their grandfather after him had always gone on hoping the missing money would sooner or later turn up, though it never did, till--putting what the children told me together with my lady's own words--it became clear that poor sir hulbert had come into a sadly impoverished state of things. 'perhaps the late baronet and his father were not of the "saving" sort,' i said to myself, and from what i came to hear afterwards, i fancy i was about right. after a while my lady came to our end of the carriage. she was afraid, she said, i'd find miss baby too heavy--wouldn't i lay her comfortably on the seat, there was plenty of room?--my lady was always thoughtful for others--and then when we had got the child settled, she sat down and joined in our talk a little. 'we've been telling martha about treluan and about the old uncle that did something with the money,' said miss bess. my lady did not seem to mind. 'it is a queer story, isn't it?' she said. 'worse than queer, indeed----' and she sighed. 'though even with it, things would not be as they are, if other people had not added their part to them.' she glanced round in a half impatient way, and somehow her glance fell on master francis, and i almost started as i caught sight of the expression that had come over her face--it was a look of real dislike. 'sit up, francis--do, for goodness' sake,' she said sharply; 'you make yourself into a regular humpback.' the boy's pale, almost sallow face reddened all over. he had been listening with interest to the talking, and taking his part in it. now he straightened himself nervously, murmuring something that sounded like, 'i beg your pardon, aunt helen,' and sat gazing out of the window beside him as if lost in his own thoughts. i busied myself with pulling the rugs better over miss baby, so that my lady should not see my face just then. but i think she felt sorry for her sharp tone, for when she spoke again it was even more pleasantly than usual. 'have you told nurse other things about treluan, children?' she said. 'it is really a dear old place,' she went on to me; 'it might be made _quite_ delightful if sir hulbert could spend a little more upon it. i had set my heart on new furnishing your room this year, bess darling, but i'm afraid it will have to wait.' 'never mind, dear,' said miss bess comfortingly, in her old-fashioned way, 'there's no hurry. if i could have fresh covers to the chairs, the furniture itself--i mean the _wood_ part--is quite good.' 'i did get some nice chintz in london,' said her mamma; 'there was some selling off rather cheap. but it's the getting things made--everything down with us is so difficult and expensive,' and my lady sighed. her mind seemed full of the one idea, and i began to think she should try to take a cheerier view of things. 'if you'll excuse me mentioning it,' i said, 'i have had some experience in the cutting out of chair-covers and such things. it would be a great pleasure to me to help to make the young ladies' rooms nice.' 'that would be very nice indeed,' said my lady; 'i really should like to do what we can to brighten up the old house. i expect it will look very gloomy to you, nurse, till you get used to it. i do want bess's room to look better. of course lally is in the nursery still, and won't need a room of her own for a long time yet.' miss lally was sitting beside me, and as her mamma spoke, i heard a very tiny little sigh. 'never mind, miss lally dear,' i whispered. 'we'll brighten up the nurseries too, nicely.' these little scraps of talk come back to my mind now, when i think of that first journey down to treluan so many years ago. i put them down such as they are, as they may help better than words of my own to give an idea of the dear children and all about them, as they then were. we reached treluan the afternoon of the next day. it was a dull day unfortunately, though the very middle of summer--rainy and gray. of course every one knows that there's much weather of that kind in the west country, but no doubt it added to the impression of gloom with which the first sight of the old house struck me, i must confess. gloom, perhaps, is hardly the word to use; it was more a feeling of desertedness, almost of decayed grandeur, quite unlike anything i had ever seen before. for in my former place everything had been bright and new, fresh and perfect of its kind. afterwards, when i came to see into things better, i found there was no neglect or mismanagement; everything that _could_ be done was done by sir hulbert outside, and my lady in her own department--uphill and trying work though it must often have been for them. but that first evening, when i looked round the great lofty hall into which my lady had led the way, dusky and dim already with the rain pattering against the high arched windows and a chilly feeling in the air, the half dozen servants or so, who had come out to meet us--evidently the whole establishment--standing round, i must own that in spite of the children's eager excitement and delight at finding themselves at home again, my heart went down. i did feel so very far away from home and father and mother, and everything i had ever known. the first thing to cheer me was when the old housekeeper--cook-housekeeper she really was--mrs. brent, came forward after speaking to my lady, and shook me kindly by the hand. 'welcome to treluan, nurse heatherdale,' she said. and here i should explain that as there was already a martha in the house, my lady had expressed her wish that i should be called 'nurse,' or 'heatherdale,' from which came my name of 'heather,' that i have always been called by. 'welcome to treluan, and don't go for to think that it's always as dull as you see it just now, as like as not to-morrow will be bright and sunny.' she was a homely-looking body with a very kind face, not cornish bred i found afterwards, though she had lived there many years. something about her made me think of mother, and i felt the tears rise to my eyes, though no one saw. 'shall i show nurse the way upstairs, my lady?' she said. for mrs. brent was like her looks, simple and friendly like. she had never known treluan in its grand days of course, though she had known it when things were a good deal easier than at present; and that evening, when the children were asleep, she came up to sit with me a bit, and, though with perfect respect to her master and mistress and no love of gossip in her talk (for of that she was quite free), she explained to me a few things which already had puzzled me a little. no praise was too high for sir hulbert with her, and my lady was a really good, high-minded woman. 'but she takes her troubles too heavy,' said mrs. brent; 'she's like to break her heart at having no son of her own, and that and other things make her not show her best self to poor little master francis, though, considering he's been here since he was four, 'tis a wonder he doesn't seem to her like a child of her own. and sir hulbert feels it; it's a real grief to him, for he loved master francis's father dearly through all the troubles he caused them, and anyway 'tis not fair to visit the father's sin on the innocent child.' then she told me how master francis's father had made things worse by his extravagance, half-breaking his young wife's heart and leaving debts behind him, when he was killed by an accident; and that sir hulbert, for the honour of the family, had taken these debts upon himself. 'his wife was a pretty young creature, half a foreigner. sir hulbert had her brought here with the boy, and here she died, not long before miss lalage was born, and so, failing a son, master francis is the heir, and a sweet, good young gentleman he is, though nothing as to looks. 'tis a pity he's so shy and timid in his ways; it gives my lady the idea he's not straightforward, though that i'm very sure he is, and most affectionate at heart, though he hasn't the knack of showing it.' 'except to miss lally, i should say,' i put in; 'how those two do cling together, to be sure.' 'he loves them all dearly, my lady too, though he's frightened of her. miss lally's the one he's most at home with, because she's so little, and none of miss bess's masterful ways about her. poor dear miss lally, many's the trouble she's got into for master francis's sake.' all this was very interesting to me, and helped to clear my mind in some ways from the first, which was, i take it, a good thing. mrs. brent said little about sharp, but i could see she had not approved of her; and she was so kind as to add some words about myself, and feeling sure i would make the children happy, especially the two whom it was easy to see were her own favourites, miss lally and her cousin. this made me feel the more earnest to do my very best in every way for the young creatures under my care. chapter iv a nursery tea writing down that talk with good mrs. brent made me put aside the account of our arrival at treluan, clearly though i remember it. even to this day i never go up the great staircase--of course it is not often that i pass that way--without recalling the feelings with which i stepped up it for the first time--mrs. brent in front, carrying a small hand-lamp, the passages being so dark, though it was still early in the evening; the children running on before me, except miss baby, who was rather sleepy and very cross, poor dear, so that half way up i had to lift her in my arms. all up the dark wainscoted walls, dead and gone penroses looked down upon us, in every sort of ancient costume. they used to give me a half eerie feeling till i got to know them better and to take a certain pride in them, feeling myself, as i came to do, almost like one of the family, though in a humble way. at the top of the great staircase we passed along the gallery, which runs right across one side of the hall below; then through a door on the right and down a long passage ending in a small landing, from which a back staircase ran down again to the ground floor. the nurseries in those days were the two large rooms beyond, now turned into a billiard-room, my present lady thinking them scarcely warm enough for the winter. it is handy too to have the billiard-room near the tower, where the smoking-room now is, and the spare rooms for gentlemen-visitors. a door close beside the nurseries opened on to the tower stair; some little way up this stair another door leads into the two or three big attics over the nurseries, which the children used as playrooms in the wet weather. master francis's room was the lowest door on the tower staircase, half way as it were, as to level, between the nurseries and the attics. the ground-floor rooms of the tower were entered from below, as the separate staircase only began from the nursery floor. all these particulars, of course, i learnt by degrees, having but a very general idea of things that first night; but plans of houses and buildings have always had an interest for me, and as a girl i think i had a quick eye for sizes and proportions. i do remember the first time i saw the ground-floor room of the tower, under master francis's, so to say, wondering to myself how it came to be so low in the ceiling, seeing that the floor of his room was several feet higher than that of the nurseries. no doubt others would have been struck by this also, had the lowest room in the tower been one in regular use, but as long as any one could remember it had only been a sort of lumber-room. it was only by accident that i went into it one day, months after i had come to treluan. the nurseries were nice airy rooms; the schoolroom was underneath the day nursery, down on the ground floor; and miss bess's room was off the little landing i spoke of before you came to the nursery passage. but all seemed dim and dusky in the half light, that first evening. it was long before the days of gas, of course, except in towns, though that, i am told, is now thought nothing of compared to this new electric light, which sir bevil is thinking of establishing here, to be made on the premises in some wonderful way. and even lamps at that time were very different from what they are now, when every time my lady goes up to town she brings back some beautiful new invention for turning night into day. i was glad, i remember, june though it was, to see a bright fire in the nursery grate--mrs. brent was always thoughtful--and the tea laid out nice and tidy on the table. miss baby brightened up at sight of it, and the others gathered round to see what good things the housekeeper had provided for them by way of welcome home. 'i hope there's some clotted cream,' said miss bess; 'yes, that's right! nurse has never seen it before, i'm sure. fancy, mrs. brent, mamma says the silly people in london call it devonshire cream, and i'm sure it's far more cornish. and honey and some of your own little scones and saffron cakes, that is nice! mayn't we have tea immediately?' 'i must wash my hands,' said master francis, 'they did get so black in the carriage.' 'and mine too,' said miss lally. 'oh, nurse, mayn't francis wash his for once in the night nursery, to be quick?' 'why didn't you both keep your gloves on, you dirty children?' said miss bess in her masterful way. 'my hands are as clean as clean, and of course francis mustn't begin muddling in the nursery. you'd never have asked sharp that, lally. it's just the sort of thing mamma doesn't like. i shall take my things off in my own room at once.' and she marched to the door as she spoke, stopping for a moment on the way to say to me--'heatherdale, you'll come into my room, won't you, as soon as ever you can, to talk about the new chair-covers?' 'i won't forget about them, miss bess,' i said quietly; 'but for a few days i am sure to be busy, unpacking and looking over the things that were left here.' the child said nothing more, but i saw by the lift of her head that she was not altogether pleased. 'now master francis,' i went on, 'perhaps you had better run off to your own room to wash your hands. it's always best to keep to regular ways.' the boy obeyed at once. i had, to tell the truth, been on the point of letting him do as miss lally had wanted, but miss bess's speech had given me a hint, though i was not sorry for her not to have seen it. i should be showing master francis no true kindness to begin by any look of spoiling him, and i saw by a little smile on mrs. brent's face that she thought me wise, even though it was not till later in the evening that i had the long talk with her that i have already mentioned. our tea was bright and cheery, miss baby's spirits returned, and she kept us all laughing by her funny little speeches. my lady came in when we had nearly finished, just to see how all the children were--perhaps too, for she was full of kind thoughtfulness, to make me feel myself more at home. she sat down in the chair by the fire, with a little sigh, and i was sorry to see the anxious, harassed look on her beautiful face. 'you all look very comfortable,' she said; 'please give me a cup of tea, nurse. i found such a lot of things to do immediately, that i've not had time to think of tea yet, and poor sir hulbert is off in the rain to see about some broken fences. oh dear! what a contrary world it seems,' she added half laughingly. 'how did the fences get broken, mamma?' said miss bess; 'and why didn't garth get them mended at once without waiting to tease papa the moment he got home?' 'some cattle got wild and broke them, and if they are not put right at once, more damage may be done. but all these repairs are expensive. it only happened two days ago; poor garth was obliged to tell papa before doing it. dear me,' she said again, 'it really does seem sometimes as if money would put everything in life right.' 'oh! my lady,' i exclaimed hastily, and then i got red with shame at my forwardness and stopped short. i felt very sorry for her; the one thought seemed never out of her mind, and bid fair to poison her happy home. i felt too that it was scarcely the sort of talk for the children to hear, miss bess being already in some ways so old for her years, and the two others scarce as light-hearted as they should have been. my lady smiled at me. 'say on, heatherdale; i'd like to hear what you think about it.' i felt my face getting still redder, but i had brought it on myself. 'it was only, my lady,' i began, 'that it seems to me that there are so many troubles worse than want of money. there's my last lady's sister, for instance, mrs. vernon,--everything in the world has she that money can give, but she's lost all her babies, one after the other, and she's just heart-broken. then there's young lady mildred parry, whose parents own the finest place near my home, and she's their only child; but she had a fall from her horse two years ago and her back is injured for life; she often drives past our cottage, lying all stretched-out-like, in a carriage made on purpose.' my lady was silent. suddenly, to my surprise, master francis looked up quickly. 'i don't think i'd mind that so very much,' he said, 'not if my back didn't hurt badly. i think it would be better than walking with your leg always aching, and i daresay everybody loves that girl dreadfully.' he stopped as suddenly as he had begun, giving a quick frightened glance round, and growing not red but still paler than usual, as was his way. 'poor little francie,' said miss lally, stretching her little hand out to him and looking half ready to cry. 'don't be silly, lally; if francis's leg hurts him he has only to say so, and it will be attended to as it has always been. if everybody loves that young lady mildred, no doubt it is because she is sweet and loving _to_ everybody.' then she grew silent again and seemed to be thinking. 'you are right, nurse,' she said. 'i am very grateful when i see my dear children all well and happy.' 'and _good_,' added miss bess with her little toss of the head. 'well, yes, of course,' said her mother smiling. it was seldom, if ever, miss bess was pulled up for anything she took it into her head to say, whether called for or not. 'but,' my lady went on in a lower voice, turning to me, as if she hardly wished the children to hear, 'want of money isn't my only, nor indeed my worst trouble.--i must go,' and she got up as she spoke; 'there are twenty things waiting for me to attend to downstairs. good-night, children dear; i'll come up and peep at you in bed if i possibly can, but i'm not sure if i shall be able. if not, nurse must do instead of me for to-night,' and she turned towards the door, moving in the quick graceful way she always did. 'franz!' said miss bess reprovingly; the poor boy was already getting off his chair, but he was too late to open the door. i doubt if his aunt noticed his moving at all. 'you're always so slow and clumsy,' said his eldest cousin. the words sounded unkind, but it was greatly that miss bess wanted him to please her mamma, for the child had an excellent heart. there was plenty to do after that first evening for all of us. i got sleepy miss baby to bed as soon as might be. the poor dear, she _was_ sleepy! i remember how, when she knelt down in her little white nightgown to say her prayers, she could only just get out, 't'ank god for b'inging us safe home;' as she had evidently been taught to say after a journey. 'baby thinks that's enough, when she's been ter-a-velling,' explained miss lally. then i set to work to unpack, and it was quite surprising how handy the two elder girls--and not they only, but master francis too--were in helping me, and explaining where their things were kept and all the nursery ways. then i had to be shown miss bess's room, and nearly offended her little ladyship by saying i hadn't time just then to settle about the new covers. for i was determined to give some attention to master francis also. his room was very plain, not to say bare; not that i hold with pampering boys, but he being delicate, it did seem to me he might have had a couch or easy-chair to rest his poor leg. he was very eager to make the best of things, telling me i had no idea what a beautiful view there was from his windows, of which there were three. 'i love the tower,' he said. 'i wouldn't change my room here for any other in the house.' and i must say i thought it was very nice of him to put things in that way, considering too the sharp tone in which i had heard his aunt speak to him that very evening. when i woke the next morning i found that mrs. brent's words had come true, for the sun was pouring in at the window, and when i drew up the blind and looked out i would scarce have known the place to be the same. the outlook was bare, to be sure, compared with the well-wooded country about my home; but the grounds just around the house were carefully kept, though in a plain way, no bedding-out plants or rare foreign shrubs, such as i had been used to see at mr. wyngate's country place. but all about treluan there was the charm which no money will buy--the charm of age, very difficult to put into words, though i felt it strongly. a little voice just then came across the room. 'nurse, dear.' it was miss lalage. 'it's a very fine day, isn't it? i have been watching the sun getting up ever so long. when i first wokened, it was nearly quite dark.' i looked at the child. she was sitting up in her cot; her face looked tired, and her large gray eyes had dark lines beneath them, as if she had not slept well. miss baby was still slumbering away in happy content--she was a child to sleep, to be sure! a round of the clock was nothing for her. 'my dear miss lally,' i said, 'you have never been awake since dawn, surely. is your head aching, or is something the matter?' she gave a little sigh. 'no, fank you, it's nothing but finking, i mean th-inking. oh! i wish i could speak quite right, bess says it's so babyish.' 'thinking! and what have you been thinking about, dearie? you should have none but happy thoughts. isn't it nice to be at home again? and this beautiful summer weather! we can go such nice walks. you've got to show me all the pretty places about.' 'yes,' said miss lally. 'i'd like that, but we'll be having lessons next week,--not all day long, we can go beautiful walks in the afternoons.' 'was it about lessons you were troubling your little head?' 'no,' she said, though not very heartily. 'i don't like them much, at least not those _very_ high up sums--up you know to the _very_ top of the slate--that won't never come right. but i wasn't finking of them; it was about poor mamma, having such ter-oubles. francie and i do fink such a lot about it. bess does too, but she's so clever, she's sure she'll do something when she's big to get a lot of money for papa and mamma. but i'm not clever, and francie has got his sore leg; we can't fink of anything we could do, unless we could find some fairies; but francie's sure there aren't any, and he's past ten, so he must know.' 'you can do a great deal, dear miss lally,' i said. 'don't get it into your head you can't. rich or poor, there's nothing helps papas and mammas so much as their children being good, and loving, and obedient; and who knows but what master francis may be a very clever man some day, whether his poor leg gets better or not.' the little girl seemed pleased. it needed but a kind word or two to cheer her up at any time. 'oh! i am so glad sharp has gone away and you comed,' she said. she was rather silent while i was dressing her, but when she had had her bath, and i was putting on her shoes and stockings, she began again. 'nurse,' she asked, 'do stockings cost a lot of money to buy?' 'pretty well,' i said. 'at my home, mother always taught us to knit our own. i could show you a pair i knitted before i was much bigger than you.' how the child's face did light up! 'i've seen a little girl knitting who's not much bigger than me. couldn't you show me how to make some stockings, and then mamma wouldn't have to buy so many?' 'certainly i could; i have plenty of needles with me, and i daresay we could get some wool,' i replied. 'i'll tell you what, miss lally; you might knit some for master francis; that would be pleasing him as well as your mamma. there's a village not far off, i suppose--you can generally buy wool at a village shop.' 'there's our village across the park, and there's two shops. i'll ask bess; she'll know if we could get wool. oh! nurse, how pleased i am; i wonder if we could go to-day. i've got some pennies and a shilling. i do like to have nice things to think of. i wish francie would be quick, i do so want to tell him, or do you think i should keep it a surprise for him?' and she danced about in her eager delight, which at last woke miss baby, who opened her eyes and stared about her, with a sleepy smile of content on her plump rosy face. she was a picture of a child, and so easy minded. it is wonderful, to be sure, how children brought up like little birds in one nest yet differ from each other. i began to feel very satisfied that i should never regret having come to treluan. chapter v the shop in the village before many days had passed i felt quite settled down. the weather was most lovely for some time just then, and this i think always helps to make one feel more at home in a strange place. that first day, and for two or three following, we could not go long walks, as i had really so much to see to indoors. miss bess had to make up her mind to wait as patiently as she could, till other things were attended to, for the doing up of her room, and, what i was more sorry for, poor miss lally had also to wait about beginning the knitting she had so set her heart on. i think it was the fourth day after our arrival that i began at last to feel pretty clear. all the nursery drawers and cupboards tidied up and neatly arranged; the children's clothes looked over and planned about for the rest of the summer. my lady went over them with me, and i could see that it was a comfort to her to feel assured that i understood the need for economy, and prided myself, thanks to my good old mother, on neat patches and darns quite as much as on skill on making new things. my poor lady--it went to my heart to see how often she would have liked to get fresh and pretty frocks and hats for the young ladies, for she had good taste and great love of order. but after all there is often a good deal of pleasure in contriving and making the best of what one has. 'you must take nurse a good walk to-day, children,' said my lady as she left the room. 'i shall be busy with your papa, but you might get as far as the sea, i think, if you took old jacob and the little cart for baby if she gets tired, and for francis if his leg hurts him. how has it been, by the by, for the last day or two, francis?' her tone was rather cold, but still i could see a little flush of pleasure come over the boy's face. 'oh! much better, thank you, auntie,' he said eagerly. 'it's only just after the day in the railway that it seems to hurt more.' 'then try to be bright and cheerful,' she said. 'remember you are not the only one in the world that has troubles to bear.' the boy didn't answer, but i could see his thin little face grow pale again, and i just wished that my lady had stopped at her first kindly inquiry. a deal of mischief is done, it seems to me, by people not knowing when it is best to stop. jacob, the donkey, was old and no mistake. larkins's 'peter' was young compared to him, and the cart was nothing but a cart such as light luggage might be carried in. it had no seats, but we took a couple of footstools with us, which served the purpose, and many a pleasant ramble we had with the shabby little old cart and poor jacob. 'which way shall we go?' said miss bess, as we started down the drive. 'you know, nurse, there's ever so many ways to the sea here. it's all divided into separate little bays. you can't get from one to the other except at low tide, and with a lot of scrambling over the rocks, so we generally fix before we start which bay we'll go to.' 'oh! do let's go to polwithan bay!' said miss lally. 'it's not nearly so pretty as trewan,' said miss bess, 'and there are the smugglers' caves at trewan. we often call it the smugglers' bay because of that. we've got names of our own for the bays as well as the proper ones.' 'there's one we call picnic bay,' said master francis, 'because there are such beautiful big flat stones for picnic tables. but i think the smugglers' bay is the most curious of all. i'm sure nurse would like to see it. why do you want to go to polwithan, lally? it is rather a stupid little bay.' 'can we go to the smugglers' bay by the village?' asked miss lally, and then i understood her, though i did not know that tightly clutched in her hot little hand were the shilling and the three or four pennies she had taken out of her money box on the chance of buying the wool for her stockings. 'it would be ever such a round,' said miss bess; but then she added politely--she was very particular about politeness, when she wasn't put out--'but of course if nurse wants to see the village that wouldn't matter. we've plenty of time. would you like to see it, nurse?' a glance at miss lally's anxious little face decided me. 'well, i won't say but what it would interest me to see the village,' i replied. 'of course it's just as well and might be handy for me to know my way about, so as to be able to find the post-office or fetch any little thing from the shop if it were wanted.' this was quite true, though i won't deny but that another reason was strongest and miss lally knew it, for she crept up to me and slid her little hand into mine gratefully. 'very well, then,' said miss bess, 'we'll go round by the village. but remember if you're tired, lally, you mustn't grumble, for it was you that first spoke of going that way.' 'there's the cart if miss lally's tired,' i said. 'three could easily get into it, and jacob can't be knocked up if only miss baby goes in it all the way there.' 'nurse,' said miss lally suddenly--i don't think she had heard what we were saying--'there's two shops in the village.' 'are there, my dear,' i said; 'and is one the post-office? and what do they sell?' 'yes, one is the post-office, but they sell other things 'aside stamps,' miss lally replied. 'they are both _everything_ shops.' 'but the _not_ the post-office one is much the nicest,' said master francis. 'it's kept by old prideaux--he's an old sailor and----' here the boy looked round, but there was no one in sight. still he lowered his voice. 'people do say that after he left off being a proper sailor he was a smuggler. it runs in the family, mrs. brent says,' he went on in the old-fashioned way i noticed in all the children. 'his father was a regular smuggler. brent says she's seen some queer transactions when she was a girl in the kitchen behind the shop.' 'i thought mrs. brent was a stranger in these parts by her birth and upbringing,' i said. 'so she is,' said master francis, 'but she came here on a visit when she was a girl to her uncle at the high meadows farm, and that's how she came first to treluan. grandfather was alive then, and papa and uncle hulbert were boys. even then prideaux was an old man. uncle hulbert says he knows lots of queer stories--he does tell them sometimes, but not as if they had happened here, and you have to pretend to think he and his father had nothing to do with them themselves.' 'it was he that told us first about the smugglers' caves, wasn't it?' said miss bess. 'fancy, nurse, some treasures were found in one of the caves, not so very long ago, hid away in a dark corner far in. there was lace and some beautiful fine silk stockings and some bottles of brandy----' 'and a lot of cigars and tobacco, but they had gone all bad, and some of the brandy hadn't any taste in it, though some was quite good. but grandpapa was a dreadfully honest man; he would send all the things up to london, just as they were found, for he said they belonged to the queen.' 'i wonder if the queen wored the silk stockings her own self?' said miss lally. 'if _we_ found some treasures,' said miss bess, 'do you think we'd have to send them to the queen too? it would be very greedy of her to keep them, when she has such lots and lots of everything.' 'that's just because she's queen; she can't help it. it's part of being a queen, and i daresay she gives away lots too. besides, you wouldn't care for brandy or cigars, bess?' said master francis. 'we could sell them,' answered miss bess, 'if they were good.' 'p'raps the queen would send us a nice present back,' said miss lally. 'fancy, if she sent us a whole pound, what beautiful things we could buy.' 'it would be great fun to find treasures, whatever they were,' said miss bess. 'if we see old prideaux to-day, i'll ask him if he thinks possibly there's still some in the caves. only it wouldn't do to go into his shop on purpose to ask him--he'd think it funny.' 'and you'll have to be very careful how you ask him,' said master francis. 'besides, i'm quite sure if there were any to be found, he'd have found them before this.' 'does he sell wool in his shop, do you think, miss bess?' i inquired, and i felt miss lally's hand squeeze mine. 'wool, or worsted for knitting stockings, i mean. i want to get some, and that would be a reason for speaking to him.' 'i daresay he does; at least his daughter's always knitting, and she must get wool somewhere. anyway we can ask,' answered miss bess, quite pleased with the idea. 'now, nurse,' said master francis suddenly, 'keep your eyes open. when we turn into the field at the end of this little lane--we've come by a short-cut to the village, for the cart can go through the field quite well--you'll have your first good view of the sea. we can see it from some of the windows at treluan and from the end of the terrace, but nothing like as well.' i was glad he had prepared me, for we had been interested in our talking, and i hadn't paid much attention to the way we were going. now i did keep my eyes open, and i was well rewarded. the field was a sloping one--sloping upwards, i mean, as we entered it--and till we got to the top of the rising ground we saw nothing but the clear sky above the grass, but then there burst upon the view a wonderful surprise. the coast-line lay before us for a considerable distance at each side. just below us were the rocky bays or creeks the children had told me of, the sand gleaming yellow and white in the sunshine, for the tide was half way out, though near enough still for us to see the glisten of the foam and the edge of the little waves, as they rippled in sleepily. and farther out the deep purple-blue of the ocean, softening into a misty gray, there, where the sky and the water met or melted into each other. a little to the right rose the smoke of several houses--lazily, for it was a very still day. these houses lay nestled in together, on the way to the shore, and seemed scarcely enough to be called a village; but as we left the field again to rejoin the road, i saw that these few houses were only the centre of it, so to speak, as others straggled along the road in both directions for some way, the church being one of the buildings the nearest to treluan house. [illustration: then there burst upon the view a wonderful surprise.] 'it is a beautiful view,' said i, after a moment's silence, as we all stood still at the top of the slope, the children glancing at me, as if to see what i thought of it. 'i've never seen anything approaching to it before, and yet it's a bare sort of country--many wouldn't believe it could be so beautiful with so few trees, but i suppose the sea makes up for a good deal.' 'and it's such a lovely day,' said master francis. 'i should say the sun makes up for a good deal. we've lots of days here when it's so gray and dull that the sea and the sky seem all muddled up together. i'm not so very fond of the sea myself. people say it's so beautiful in a storm, and i suppose it is, but i don't care for that kind of beauty, there's something so furious and wild about it. i don't think raging should be counted beautiful. shouldn't we only call good things beautiful?' he looked up with a puzzle in his eyes. master francis always had thoughts beyond his age and far beyond me to answer. 'i can't say, i'm sure,' i replied. 'it would take very clever people indeed to explain things like that, though there's verses in the bible that do seem to bear upon it, especially in the psalms.' 'i know there are, but when it tells of heaven, it says "there shall be no more sea,"' said master francis very gravely. 'and i think i like that best.' 'dear francie,' said miss lally, taking his hand, as she always did when she saw him looking extra grave, though of course she could not understand what he had been saying. we were out of the field by this time, and miss bess caught hold of jacob's reins, for up till now the old fellow had been droning along at his own pace. 'come along, jacob, waken up,' she said, as she tugged at him, 'or we'll not get to polwithan bay to-day, specially if we're going to gossip with old prideaux on the way.' we passed the church in a moment, and close beside it the vicarage. 'that's where miss kirstin lives,' said miss bess. 'come along quick, i don't want her to see us.' 'don't you like her, my dear?' i said, a little surprised. 'oh yes! we like her very well, but she makes us think of lessons, and while it is holidays we may as well forget them,' and by the way in which master francis and miss lally joined her in hurrying past mr. kirstin's house, i could see they were of the same mind. miss kirstin, when i came to know her, i found to be a good well-meaning young lady, but she hadn't the knack of making lessons very interesting. it wasn't perhaps altogether her fault; in those days books for young people, both for lessons and amusement, were very different from what they are now. school-books were certainly very dry and dull, and there was a sort of feeling that making lessons pleasant or taking to children would have been weak indulgence. the church was a beautiful old building. i am not learned enough to describe it, and perhaps after all it was more beautiful from age than from anything remarkable in itself. i came to love it well; it was a real grief to me and to others besides me when it had to be partly pulled down a few years ago, and all the wonderful growth of ivy spoilt. though i won't say but what our new vicar--the third from mr. kirstin our present one is--is well fitted for his work, both with rich and poor, and one whom it is impossible not to respect as well as love, though mr. kirstin was a worthy and kind old man in his way. a bit farther along the road we passed the post-office, which the children pointed out to me. the mistress came to the door when she saw us, and curtsied to the little ladies, with a smile and a word of 'welcome home again, miss penrose!' she took a good look at me out of the corner of her eye, i could see. for having lived so much in small country places, i knew how even a fresh servant at the big house will set all the village talking. miss lally glanced in at the shop window as we passed. there was indeed, as she had said, a mixture of 'everything,' from tin pails and mother-of-pearl buttons to red herrings and tallow-candles. 'nurse,' she whispered, '_in case_ we can't get the wool at prideaux', we might come back here, but i'm afraid bess wouldn't like to turn back. oh! i do hope'--with one of her little sighs--'they'll have it at the other shop.' and so they had, though when we got there a little difficulty arose. the two elder children both wanted to come in, having got their heads full of asking the old man about the smugglers' caves, and thinking it was for myself i wanted the wool. never a word said poor miss lally, when her sister told her to stay outside with miss baby and the cart; but i was getting to know the look of her little face too well by this time not to understand the puckers about her eyes, and the droop at the corners of her mouth. 'we may as well all go in,' i said, lifting miss baby out of the cart. 'there's no one else in the shop, and i want miss lally's opinion about the wool.' '_lally's!_' said miss bess rather scornfully; 'she doesn't know anything about wool, or knitting stockings, nurse.' 'ah! well, but perhaps she's going to know something about it,' i said. 'it's a little secret we've got, miss bess; you shall hear about it all in good time.' 'oh, well, if it's a secret,' said miss bess good-naturedly--she was a nice-minded child, as they all were--'franz and i will keep out of the way while you and lally get your wool. we'll talk to old prideaux.' he was in the shop, as well as his daughter, who was knitting away as the children had described her, and the old wife came hurrying out of the kitchen, when she heard it was the little gentry from treluan that were in the shop. they did make a fuss over the children, to be sure; it wasn't easy for miss lally and me to get our bit of business done. but sally prideaux found us just what we wanted--the same wool that she was knitting stockings of herself, only she had not much of it in stock, and might be some little time before she could get more. but i told miss lally there'd be enough for a short pair of socks for her cousin--boys didn't wear knickerbockers and long stockings in those days--adding that it was best not to undertake too big a piece of work for the first. the wool cost one-and-sixpence. it was touching to see the little creature counting over the money she had been holding tightly in her hand all the way, and her look of distress when she found it only came up to one and fourpence halfpenny. 'don't you trouble, my dear,' i said, 'i have some coppers in my pocket.' she thanked me as if i had given her three pounds instead of three halfpence, saying in a whisper--'i'll pay you back, nursie, when i get my twopence next saturday;' and then as happy as a little queen she clambered down off the high stool, her precious parcel in her hand. 'won't francie be pleased?' she said. 'they must be ready for his birthday, nurse. and won't mamma be pleased when she finds i can knit stockings, and that she won't have to buy any more?' chapter vi the smugglers' caves the others seemed to have been very well entertained while miss lally and i were busy. mrs. prideaux had set miss baby on the counter, where she was admiring her to her heart's content--miss baby smiling and chattering, apparently very well pleased. miss bess and master francis were talking eagerly with old prideaux; they turned to us as we came near. [illustration: miss bess and master francis were talking eagerly with old prideaux.] 'oh, nurse!' said miss bess, 'mr. prideaux says that he shouldn't wonder if there were treasures hidden away in the smugglers' caves, though it wouldn't be safe for us to look for them. he says they'd be so very far in, where it's quite, quite dark.' 'and one or two of the caves really go a tremendous way underground. didn't you say there's one they've never got to the end of?' asked master francis. 'so they say,' replied the old man, with his queer cornish accent. it did sound strange to me then, their talk--though i've got so used to it now that i scarce notice it at all. 'but i wouldn't advise you to begin searching for treasures, master francis. if there's any there, you'd have to dig to get at them. i remember when i was a boy a deal of talk about the caves, and some of us wasted our time seeking and digging. but the only one that could have told for sure where to look was gone. he met his death some distance from here, one terrible stormy winter, and took his secret with him. i have heard tell as he "walks" in one of the caves, when the weather's quite beyond the common stormy. but it's not much use, for at such times folk are fain to stay at home, so there's not much chance of any one ever meeting him.' 'then how has he ever been seen?' asked miss bess in her quick way; 'and who was he, mr. prideaux? do tell us.' but the old man didn't seem inclined to say much more. perhaps indeed miss bess was too sharp for him, and he did not know how to answer her first question. 'such things is best not said much about,' he replied mysteriously; 'and talking of treasures, by all accounts you'd have a better chance of finding some nearer home.' he smiled, as if he could have said more had he chosen to do so. the children opened their eyes in bewilderment. 'what do you mean?' exclaimed the two elder ones. miss lally's mind was running too much on her stockings for her to pay much attention. prideaux did not seem at all embarrassed. 'well, sir, it's no secret hereabouts,' he said, addressing master francis in particular, 'that the old, old squire, sir david, the last of that name--there were several david penroses before him, but never one since--it's no secret, as i was saying, that a deal of money or property of some kind disappeared in his last years, and it stands to reason that, being as great a miser as was ever heard tell of, he couldn't have spent it. why, more than half of the lands changed hands in his time, and what did he do with what he got for them?' 'that was our great, great grand-uncle,' said master francis to me; 'you remember i told you about him, but i never thought----' he stopped short. 'it _is_ very queer,' he went on again, as if speaking to himself. but just then, miss baby having had enough of mrs. prideaux' pettings, set up a shout. 'nurse, nurse,' she said, 'baby wants to go back to jacob. poor jacob so tired waiting. dood-bye, mrs. pideaux,' and she began wriggling to get off the counter, so that i had to hurry forward to lift her down. 'we'd best be going on,' i said, 'or we'll be losing the finest part of the afternoon.' i didn't feel quite sure that prideaux' talk was quite what my lady would approve of for the children. they had a way of taking things up more seriously than is common with such young creatures, and certainly they had got in the way--and i couldn't but feel but what my lady was to blame for this--of thinking too much of the family troubles, especially the want of wealth, which seemed to them a greater misfortune than it need have done. still, being quite a stranger, and them seeming at liberty to talk to the people about as they did, i didn't feel that it would have been my place to begin making new rules or putting a stop to things, as likely as not quite harmless. i resolved, however, to find out my lady's wishes in such matters at the first opportunity. another half hour brought us close to the shore; the road was a good one, being used for carting gravel and sea-weed in large quantities to the village and round about from the little bay--treluan bay, that is to say--it led directly to. but as we were bound for polwithan bay, where the smugglers' caves were, and had made a round for the sake of coming through the village, we had to cross several fields and follow a rough track instead of going straight down to the sands. jacob didn't seem to mind, i must say, nor miss baby neither, though she must have been pretty well jolted, but it was worth the trouble. 'isn't it lovely, nurse?' said miss bess, when at last we found ourselves in the bay on the smooth firm sand, the sea in front of us, and so encircled on three sides by the rocks that even the path by which we had come was hidden. 'this bay is so beautifully shut in,' said master francis. 'you could really fancy that there was no one in the world but us ourselves. i think it's such a nice feeling.' 'it's nice when we're all together,' said miss lally; 'it would be rather frightening if anybody was alone.' 'alone or not,' said miss bess, 'it wouldn't be at all nice when tea-time came if we had nothing to eat. and fancy, what _should_ we do at night--we couldn't sleep out on the sand?' 'we'd have to go into the caves,' said master francis. 'it would be rather fun, with a good fire and with lots of blankets.' 'and where would you get blankets from, or wood for a fire, you silly boy?' said miss bess. 'can we see the caves?' i asked, for having heard so much talk about them, i felt curious to see them. 'of course,' said master francis. 'we always explore them every time we come to this bay. do you see those two or three dark holes over there among the rocks, nurse? those are the caves; come along and i'll show them to you.' i was a little disappointed. i had never seen a cave in my life, but i had a confused remembrance of pictures in an old book at home of some caves--'the mammoth caves of kentucky,' i afterwards found they were--which looked very large and wonderful, and somehow i suppose i had all the time been picturing to myself that these ones were something of the same kind. i didn't say anything to the children though, as they took great pride in showing me all the sights. and after all, when we got to the caves, they turned out much more curious and interesting than i expected from the outside. the largest one, though its entrance was so small, was really as big as a fair-sized church, and narrowing again far back into a dark mysterious-looking passage, from which master francis told me two or three smaller chambers opened out. 'and then,' he said, 'after that the passage goes on again--ever so far. in the old days the smugglers blocked it up with pieces of rock, and it isn't so very long ago that this was found out. it was somewhere down along that passage that they found the things i told you of.' we went a few yards along the passage, but it soon grew almost quite dark, and we turned back again. 'i can quite see it wouldn't be safe to try exploring down there,' i said. 'yes, i suppose so,' said master francis, with a sigh. 'i wish i could find some treasure, all the same. i wonder----' he went on, then stopped short. 'nurse,' he began again, 'did you hear what old prideaux said of our great grand-uncle the miser? could it really be true, do you think, that he hid away money or treasures of some kind?' and he lowered his voice mysteriously. 'i shouldn't think it was likely,' i replied. for i had a feeling that it would not be well for the children to get any such ideas into their heads. it sounded to me like a sort of fairy tale. i had never come across anything so romantic and strange in real life. though for that matter, treluan itself, and the kind of old-world feeling about the place, was quite unlike anything i had ever known before. we were outside the cave again by this time; the sunshine seemed deliciously warm and bright after the chill and gloom inside. miss bess had been listening eagerly to what master francis was saying. 'i can't see but what old sir david _might_ have hidden treasures away, as he was a real miser,' she said. 'and you know that misers are so suspicious, that even when they're dying they won't trust anybody. i know i've read a story like that,' said the boy. 'oh! bess, just fancy if we could find a lot of money or diamonds! wouldn't uncle and aunt be pleased?' his whole face lighted up at the very idea. 'i daresay he hid it all away in a stocking,' put in miss lally, whose head was still full of her knitting. 'i've heard a story of an old woman miser that did that.' 'and where would the stocking be hid?' said miss bess. 'besides, if a stocking was ever so full, it couldn't hold enough money to be a real treasure.' 'it might be stuffed with bank notes,' said master francis. 'there's banknotes worth ever so much; aren't there, nurse?' 'i remember once seeing one of a thousand pounds,' i said. 'that was at my last place. mr. wyngate had to do with business in the city, and he once brought one home to show the young ladies.' 'well, then, you see, queen,' said miss lally, 'there might be a stocking with enough money to make papa and mamma as rich as rich.' 'i'm quite sure sir david's money wasn't put in a stocking,' said miss bess decidedly. 'you've got rather silly ideas, lally, considering you're getting on for six.' miss lally began to look rather doleful. she had been so bright and cheerful all day that i didn't like to see her little face overcast. we had left jacob outside the cave, of course; there was one satisfaction with him--he was not likely to run away. 'miss baby, dear,' i said, 'aren't you getting hungry? where's the basket you were holding in the cart?' 'nice cakes in basket,' said the little girl. 'baby looked, but baby didn't eaten them.' the basket was still in the cart, and i think they were all very pleased when they saw what i had brought for them. some of mrs. brent's nice little saffron buns and a bottle of milk. i remember that i didn't like the taste of the saffron buns at first, and now i might be cornish born and bred, i think it such an improvement to cakes! 'another time,' i said, 'we might bring our tea with us. i daresay my lady wouldn't object.' 'i'm sure she wouldn't mind,' said miss bess. 'we used to have picnic teas sometimes, when our _quite_, quite old nurse was with us--the one that's married over to st. iwalds.' 'bess,' said master francis, 'you should say "over at," not "over to."' 'thank you,' said miss bess, 'i don't want you to teach me grammar. _that_ isn't parson's business.' master francis grew very red. 'did you know, nurse,' said miss lally, 'francie's going to be a clergy-gentleman?' they couldn't help laughing at her, and the laugh brought back good humour. 'i want to be one,' said master francis, 'but i'm afraid it costs a great lot to go to college.' poor children, through all their talk and plans the one trouble seemed always to keep coming up. 'i fancy that's according a good deal to how young gentlemen take it. there's some that spend a fortune at college, i've heard, but some that are very careful; and i expect you'd be that kind, master francis.' 'yes,' he said, in his grave way. 'i wouldn't want to cost uncle hulbert more than i can help. i wish one could be a clergyman without going to college though.' 'you've got to go to school first,' said miss bess. 'you needn't bother about college for a long time yet.' miss lally sighed. 'i don't like francie having to go to school,' she said. 'and the boys are so rough there; i hope they won't hurt your poor leg, francie.' 'it isn't _that_ i mind,' said master francie--the boy had a fine spirit of his own though he was so delicate--'what i mind is the going alone and being so far away from everybody.' 'it's a pity,' i said without thinking, 'but what one of you young ladies had been a young gentleman, to have been a companion for master francis, and to have gone to school together, maybe.' 'oh!' said miss bess quickly, 'you must never say that to mamma, nurse. you don't know what a trouble it is to her not to have a boy. she'd have liked lally to be a boy most of all. she wanted her to be a boy; she always says so.' here master francis gave a deep sigh in his turn. 'oh! how i wish,' he said, 'that i could turn myself into a girl and lally into a boy. i wouldn't _like_ to be a girl at all, and i daresay lally wouldn't like to be a boy. but to please aunt helen i'd do it.' 'no,' said miss lally, 'i don't think i would--not even to please mamma. i couldn't bear to be a boy.' i was rather sorry i had led to this talk. 'isn't it best,' i said, 'to take things as they are? master francis is just like your brother--the same name and everything.' 'i'd like it that way,' said master francis, with a pleased look in his eyes. but i heard miss bess, who was walking close beside me, say in a low voice, 'mamma will never think of it that way!' this talk made some things clearer to me than before, and that evening, after the children were in bed, i went down to the housekeeper's room and eased my mind by telling her about it, i felt so afraid of having said anything uncalled for. but mrs. brent comforted me. 'it's best for you to know,' she said, 'that my lady does make a great trouble, too great a trouble, to my thinking, of not having a son. and no doubt it has to do with her coldness to master francis, though i doubt if she really knows this herself, for she's a lady that means to do right and justly to all about her; i will say that for her.' it was really something to be thankful for to have such a good and sensible woman to ask advice from, for a stranger, as i still was. the more i knew her, the more she reminded me of my good mother. plain and homely in her ways, with no love of gossip about her, yet not afraid to speak out her mind when she saw it right to do so. many things would have been harder at treluan, the poor dear children would have had less pleasure in their lives, but for mrs. brent's kind thought for them. that very evening i had had a reason, so to say, for paying a special visit to the housekeeper's room; for when we had got in from our long walk, rather tired and certainly very hungry, a nice surprise was waiting for us in the nursery. the tea-table was already set out most carefully. there was a pile of mrs. brent's hot scones and a beautiful dish of strawberries. 'oh, nurse!' cried miss bess, who had run on first, 'quick, quick, look what a nice tea. i'm sure it's mrs. brent! isn't it good of her?' 'it's like a birfday,' said miss lally. and miss baby, who had been grumbling a good deal and crying, 'i want my tea,' nearly jumped out of my arms--i had had to carry her upstairs--at the sight of it. for i'm afraid there's no denying that in those days breakfast, dinner, and tea filled a large place in miss augusta's thoughts. i hope she'll forgive me for saying so, if she ever sees this. chapter vii a rainy day that lovely weather lasted on for about a fortnight without a break, and many a pleasant ramble we had, for though lessons began again, miss kirstin always left immediately after luncheon, which was the children's dinner, for the three elder ones always joined sir hulbert and my lady in the dining-room. two afternoons in the week, as i think i have said, master francis and miss bess had latin lessons from sir hulbert. miss bess, by all accounts, did not take very kindly to the latin grammar, and but for master francis helping her--many a time indeed sitting up after his own lessons were done to set hers right--she would often have got into trouble with her papa. for indulgent as he was, sir hulbert could be strict when strictness was called for. miss bess was a curious mixture; to see her and hear her talk you'd have thought her twice as clever as miss lally, and so in some ways she was. but when it came to book learning, it was a different story. teaching miss lally--and i had something to do with her in this way, for i used to hear over the lessons she was getting ready for miss kirstin--was really like running along a smooth road, the child was so eager and attentive, never losing a word of what was said to her. miss bess used to say that her sister had a splendid memory by nature. but in my long life i've watched and thought about some things a great deal, and it seems to me that a good memory has to do with our own trying, more than some people would say,--above all, with the habit of really giving attention to whatever you're doing. and this habit miss bess had not been taught to train herself to; and being a lively impulsive child, no doubt it came a little harder to her. a dear child she was, all the same. looking back upon those days, i would find it hard to say which of them all seemed nearest my heart. the days of the latin lessons we generally had a short walk in the morning, as well as one after tea, so as to suit sir hulbert's time in the afternoon; and those afternoons were miss lally's great time for her knitting, which she was determined to keep a secret till she had made some progress in it and finished her first pair of socks. how she did work at it, poor dear! her little face all puckered up with earnestness, her little hot hands grasping the needles, as if she would never let them go. and she mastered it really wonderfully, considering she was not yet six years old! she had more time for it after a bit, for the beautiful hot summer weather changed, as it often does, about the middle of july, and we had two or three weeks of almost constant rain. thanks to her knitting, miss lally took this quite cheerfully, and if poor master francis had been left in peace, we should have had no grumbling from him either. a book and a quiet corner was all he asked, and though he said nothing about it, i think he was glad now and then of a rest from the long walks which my lady thought the right thing, whenever the weather was at all fit for going out. but dear, dear! how miss bess did tease and worry sometimes! she was a strong child, and needed plenty of exercise to keep her content. i remember one day, when things really came to a point with her, and, strangely enough,--it is curious on looking back to see the thread, like a road winding along a hill, sometimes lost to view and sometimes clear again, unbroken through all, leading from little things to big, in a way one could never have pictured,--strangely enough, as i was saying, the trifling events of that very afternoon were the beginning of much that changed the whole life at treluan. it was raining that afternoon, not so very heavily, but in a steady hopeless way, rather depressing to the spirits, i must allow. it was not a latin day--i think some of us wished it had been! 'now, bess!' said master francis, when the three children came up from their dinner, 'before we do anything else'--there had been a talk of a game of 'hide-and-seek,' or 'i spy,' to cheer them up a bit--'before we do anything else, let's get our latin done, or part of it, any way, as long as we remember what uncle corrected yesterday, and then we'll feel comfortable for the afternoon.' 'very well,' said miss bess, though her voice was not very encouraging. she was standing by the window, staring out at the close-falling rain, and as she spoke she moved slowly towards the table, where master francis was already spreading out the books. 'i don't think it's a good plan to begin lessons the very moment we've finished our dinner,' she added. 'it isn't the very minute after,' put in miss lally, not very wisely. 'you forget, queen, we went into the 'servatory with mamma, while she cut some flowers, for ever so long.' being put in the wrong didn't sweeten miss bess's temper. ''servatory--you baby!' said she. 'nurse, can't you teach lally to spell "constantinople"?' miss lally's face puckered up, and she came close to me. 'nursie,' she whispered, 'may i go into the other room with my knitting; i'm sure queen is going to tease me.' i nodded my head. i used to give her leave sometimes to go into the night nursery by herself, when she was likely to be disturbed at her work, and that generally by miss bess. for though master francis couldn't have but seen she had some secret from him, he was far too kind and sensible to seem to notice it. whereas miss bess, who had been taken into her confidence, never got into a contrary humour without teasing the poor child by hints about stockings, or wool, or something. and the contrary humour was on her this afternoon, i saw well. 'now, bess, begin, do!' said master francis. 'these are the words we have to copy out and learn. i'll read them over, and then we can write them out and hear each other.' he did as he said, but it was precious little attention he got from his cousin, though it was some time before he found it out. looking up, he saw that she had dressed up one hand in her handkerchief, like an old man in a nightcap, and at every word poor master francis said, made him gravely bow. it was all i could do to keep from laughing, though i pretended not to see. 'o bess!' said the boy reproachfully, 'i don't believe you've been listening a bit.' 'well, never mind if i haven't. i'd forget it all by to-morrow morning anyway. show me the words, and i'll write them out.' she leant across him to get the book, and in so doing upset the ink. the bottle was not very full, so not much damage would have been done if master francis's exercise-book had not been lying open just in the way. 'oh! bess,' he cried in great distress. 'just look. it was such a long exercise and i had copied it out so neatly, and you know uncle hates blots and untidiness.' miss bess looked very sorry. 'i'll tell papa it was my fault,' she said. but master francis shook his head. 'i must copy it out again,' i heard him say in a low voice, with a sigh, as he pushed it away and gave his attention to his cousin and the words she had to learn. she was quieter after that, for a while, and in half an hour or so master francis let her go. he set to work at his unlucky exercise again, and seeing this, should really have sobered miss bess. but she was in a queer humour that afternoon, it only seemed to make her more fidgety. 'you really needn't do it,' she said to master francis crossly. 'i told you i'd explain it to papa.' but the boy shook his head. he'd have taken any amount of trouble rather than risk vexing his uncle. 'it was partly my own fault for leaving it about,' he said gently, which only seemed to provoke miss bess more. 'you do so like to make yourself a martyr. it's quite true what mamma says,' she added in a lower voice, which i did think unkind. but in some humours children are best left alone for the time, so i took no notice. miss bess returned to her former place in the window. miss baby was contentedly setting out her doll's tea-things on the rug in front of the fire,--at treluan even in the summer one needs a little fire when there comes a spell of rainy weather. miss bess glanced at her, but didn't seem to think she'd find any amusement there. miss baby was too young to be fair game for teasing. 'what's lally doing?' she said suddenly, turning to me. 'has she hidden herself as usual? i hate secrets. they make people so tiresome. i'll just go and tell her she'd better come in here.' she turned, as she spoke, to the night nursery. 'now, miss bess, my dear,' i couldn't help saying, 'do not tease the poor child. i'll tell you what you might do. get one of your pretty books and read aloud a nice story to miss lally in the other room, till master francis is ready for a game.' 'i've read all our books hundreds of times. i'll tell her a story instead!' she replied. 'that would be very nice,' i could not but say, though something in her way of speaking made me feel a little doubtful, as miss bess opened the night nursery door and closed it behind her carefully. for a few minutes we were at peace. no sound to be heard, except the scratching of master francis's busy pen and miss augusta's pressing invitations to the dollies to have--'thome more tea'--or--'a bit of this bootiful cake,' and i began to hope that in her quiet way miss lally had smoothed down her elder sister, when suddenly--dear, dear! my heart did leap into my mouth--there came from the next room the most terrible screams and roars that ever i have heard all the long years i have been in the nursery! 'goodness gracious!' i cried, 'what can be the matter. there's no fire in there!' and i rushed towards the door. to my surprise master francis and miss baby remained quite composed. 'it's only lally,' said the boy. 'she does scream like that sometimes, though she hasn't done it for a good while now. i daresay it's only bess pulling her hair a little.' it was not even that. when i opened the door, miss bess, who was standing by her sister--miss lally still roaring, though not quite so loudly--looked up quietly. 'i've been telling her stories, nurse,' she said. 'but she doesn't like them at all.' miss lally ran to me sobbing. i couldn't but feel sorry for her, as she clung to me, and yet i was provoked, thinking it really too bad to have had such a fright for nothing at all. 'queen has been telling me such _howid_ things,' she said among her tears, as she calmed down a little. 'she said it was going to be such a pretty story and it was all about a little girl, who wasn't a little girl, weally. they tied her sleeves with green ribbons, afore she was christened, and so the naughty fairies stealed her away and left a howid squealing pertence little girl instead. and it was just, _just_ like me, and, queen says, they _did_ tie me in green ribbons. she knows they did, she can 'amember;' and here her cries began again. 'and queen says 'praps i'll never come right again, and i can't bear to be a pertence little girl. queen told it me once before, but i'd forgot, and now it's all come back.' she buried her face on my shoulder. i had sat down and taken her on my knees, and i could feel her all shaking and quivering, though through it all she still clutched her knitting and the four needles. 'miss bess,' i said, in a voice i don't think i had yet used since i had been with them, 'i _am_ surprised at you! come away with me, my dear,' i said to miss lally. 'come into the other room. miss bess will stay here till such time as she can promise to behave better, both to you and master francis.' miss bess had turned away when i began to speak, and i think she had felt ashamed. but my word about master francis had been a mistake. 'you needn't scold me about spilling the ink on francis's book!' she said angrily. 'you know that was an accident.' 'there's accidents and accidents,' i replied, which i know wasn't wise; but the child had tried my temper too, i won't deny. i took miss lally into a corner of the day nursery and talked to her in a low voice, not to disturb master francis, who was still busy writing. 'my dear,' i said, 'so far as i can put a stop to it, i won't have miss bess teasing you, but all the same i can't have you screaming in that terrible way for really nothing at all. your own sense might tell you that there's no such things as fairies changing babies in that way. miss bess only said it to tease.' she was still sobbing, but all the same she had not forgotten to wrap up her precious knitting in her little apron, so that her cousin shouldn't catch sight of it, and her heart was already softening to her sister. 'queen didn't mean to make me cry,' she said. 'but i can't bear that story; nobody would love me if i was only a pertence little girl.' 'but you're not that, my dear; you're a very real little girl,' i said. 'you're your papa's and mamma's dear little daughter and god's own child. that's what your christening meant.' miss lally's sobs stopped. 'i forgot about that,' she said very gravely, seeming to find great comfort in the thought. 'if i had been a pertence little girl, i couldn't have been took to church like baby was. could i? and i know i was, for i have got godfather and godmother and a silver mug wif my name on.' 'and better things than that, thank god, as you'll soon begin to understand, my dear miss lally,' i answered, as she held up her little face to be kissed. 'may i go back to queen now?' she asked, but i don't think she was altogether sorry when i shook my head. 'not just yet, my dear, i think,' i replied. 'only where am i to do my knitting?' she whispered. 'i can't do it here; francie would be sure to see,' and the corners of her mouth began to go down again. 'oh! i know,' she went on in another moment, brightening up. 'i could work so nicely in the attic, there's a little seat in the corner, by the window, where francie and i used to go sometimes when sharp told us to get out of the way.' 'wouldn't you be cold, my dear,' i said doubtfully. but i was anxious to please her, so i fetched a little shawl for her and we went up together to the attic. it did not feel chilly, and the corner by the window--the kind they call a 'storm window,' with a sort of little separate roof of its own--was very cosy. you have a peep of the sea from that window too. 'isn't it a good plan?' said miss lally joyfully. 'i can knit here _so_ nicely, and i have been getting on so well this afternoon. there's no stitches dropped, not one, nursie. mightn't i come here every day?' 'we'll see, my dear,' i said, thinking to myself that it might really be good for her--being a nervous child, and excitable too, for all she seemed so quiet--to be at peace and undisturbed now and then by herself. 'we'll see, only you must come downstairs at once if you feel cold or chilly.' i looked round me as i was leaving the attic. there was a big cupboard, or closet rather, at the end near the door. miss lally's window was at this end too. the closet door stood half open, but it seemed empty. 'that's where we wait when we're playing "i spy" up here,' said miss lally. 'mouses live in that cupboard. we've seen them running out of their holes; but i like mouses, they've such dear bright eyes and long tails.' i can't say that i agreed with miss lally's tastes. mice are creatures i've never been able to take to, still they'd do her no harm, that was certain, so seeing her quite happy at her work i went down to the nursery again. chapter viii the old latin grammar master francis was still writing busily when i went back to the nursery. he looked pale and tired, and once or twice i heard him sigh. i knew it was not good for him to be stooping so long over his lessons, especially as the children had not been out all that day. 'really,' i said, half to myself, but his ears were quick and he heard me, 'miss bess has done nothing but mischief this afternoon. i feel sometimes as if i couldn't manage her.' the boy looked up quickly. 'o nurse!' he said, 'please don't speak like that. i mean i wouldn't for anything have uncle or auntie think i had put her out, or that there had been any trouble. it just comes over her sometimes like that, and she's very sorry afterwards. i suppose lally and i haven't spirits enough for her, she is so clever and bright, and it must be dull for her, now and then.' 'i'm sure, master francis, my dear,' i said, 'no one could be kinder and nicer with miss bess than you; and as for cleverness, she may be quick and bright, but i'd like to know where she'd be for her lessons but for you helping her many a time.' i was still feeling a bit provoked with miss bess, i must allow. 'i'm nearly three years older, you know,' replied master francis, though all the same i could see a pleased look on his face. it wasn't that he cared for praise--boy or man, i have never in my life known any human being so out and out humble as mr. francis; it's that that gives him his wonderful power over others, i've often thought,--but he did love to think he was of the least use to any of those he was so devoted to. 'i'm so glad to help her,' he said softly. 'nurse,' he added after a little silence, 'i do feel so sad about things sometimes. if i had been big and strong, i might have looked forward to doing all sorts of things for them all, but now i often feel i can never be anything but a trouble, and such an expense to uncle and aunt. you really don't know what my leg costs,' he added in a way that made me inclined both to laugh and cry at once. 'dear master francis,' i said, 'you shouldn't take it so.' i should have liked to say more, but i felt i could scarcely do so without hinting at blame where i had no right to do so. he didn't seem to notice me. 'if it had to be,' he went on in the same voice, 'why couldn't i have been a girl, or why couldn't one of them have been a boy? that would have stopped it being quite so bad for poor auntie.' 'whys and wherefores are not for us to answer, my dear, though things often clear themselves up when least expected,' i said. 'and now i must see what miss bess is after, that's to say if you've got your writing finished.' 'it's just about done,' he said, 'and i'm sure bess won't tease any more. do fetch her in, nurse. why, baby! what is it, my pet?' he added, for there was miss augusta standing beside him, having deserted her toys on the hearthrug. for, though without understanding anything we had been saying, she had noticed the melancholy tone of her cousin's voice. 'poor f'ancie,' she said pitifully. 'so tired, baby wants to kiss thoo.' [illustration: 'poor f'ancie,' she said pitifully. 'so tired, baby wants to kiss thoo.'] the boy picked her up in his arms, and i saw the fair shaggy head and fat dimpled cheeks clasped close and near to his thin white face, and if there were tears in master francis's eyes i am sure it wasn't anything to be ashamed of. never was a braver spirit, and no one that knows him now could think him less a hero could they look back over the whole of his life. i found miss bess sitting quietly with the pincushion on her lap, by the window, making patterns with the pins, apparently quite content. she had not been crying, indeed it took a great deal to get a tear from that child, she had such a spirit of her own. still she was sorry for what she had done, and she bore no malice, that i could see by the clear look in her pretty eyes as she glanced up at me. 'nurse,' she said, though more with the air of a little queen granting a favour than a tiresome child asking to be forgiven, 'i'm not going to tease any more. it's gone now, and i'm going to be good. i'm very sorry for making lally cry, though she is a little silly--of course i wouldn't care to do it if she wasn't,--and i'm _dreadfully_ sorry for poor old franz's exercise. look what i have been doing to make me remember,' and i saw that she had marked the words 'bess sorry' with the pins. 'if you leave it there for a few days, and just say "pincushion" if you see me beginning again, it'll remind me.' it wasn't very easy for me to keep as grave as i wished, but i answered quietly-- 'very well, miss bess, i hope you'll keep to what you say,' and we went back, quite friendly again, to the other room. master francis and she began settling what games they would play, and i took the opportunity of slipping upstairs to the attic to call miss lally down. she came running out, as bright as could be, and gave me her knitting to hide away for her. 'nursie,' she said, 'i really think there's good fairies in the attic. i've got on so well. four whole rows all round and none stitches dropped.' so that rainy day ended more cheerfully than it had begun. unluckily, however, the worst of the mischief caused by miss bess's heedlessness didn't show for some little time to come. the next latin lesson passed off by all accounts very well, especially for miss bess. for, thanks to her new resolutions, she was in a most biddable mood, and quite ready to take her cousin's advice as to learning her list of words again, giving up half an hour of her playtime on purpose. she came dancing upstairs in the highest spirits. 'nursie,' she said,--and when she called me so i knew i was in high favour,--'i'm getting so good, i'm quite frightened at myself. papa said i had never known my lessons so well.' 'i am very glad, i am sure, my love; and i hope,' i couldn't help adding, 'that master francis got some of the praise of it.' for master francis was following her into the room, looking not quite so joyful. miss bess seemed a little taken aback. 'do you know,' she said, 'i never thought of it. i was so pleased at being praised.' and as the child was honesty itself, i was certain it was just as she said. 'i'll run down now,' she went on, 'and tell papa that it was franz who helped me.' 'no, please don't,' said the boy, catching hold of her. 'i am as pleased as i can be, bess, that you got praised, and it's harder for you than for me, or even for lally, to try hard at lessons, for you've always got such a lot of other things taking you up; and i wouldn't like,' he added slowly, 'for uncle to think i wanted to be praised. you see i'm older than you.' 'i'm sure you don't get too much praise ever, poor franz!' said miss bess. 'your exercise was as neat as neat, and yet papa wasn't pleased with it.' then i understood better why master francis looked a little sad. 'it was the one i had to copy over,' he said. all the same he wouldn't let miss bess go down to her papa. sir hulbert was busy, he knew; he had several letters to write, he had heard him say, so miss bess had to give in. 'i'll tell you what it is,' she said. 'people who are generally rather naughty, like me,'--miss bess was in a humble mood!--'get made a great fuss about when they're good. but people who are always good, like franz, never get any praise for it, and if ever they do the least bit wrong, they are far worse scolded.' this made master francis laugh. it was something, as miss bess said, among the children themselves. miss lally, who was always loving and gentle to her cousin, he just counted upon in a quiet steady sort of way. but a word of approval from flighty miss bess would set him up as if she'd been the queen herself. that was a friday. the next latin day was tuesday. of course i don't know much about such things myself, but the lessons were taken in turns. one day they'd words and writing exercises out of a book on purpose, and another day they'd have regular latin grammar, out of a thick old book, which had been sir hulbert's own when he was a boy, and which he thought a great deal of. lesson-books were still expensive too, and even in small things money was considered at treluan. it was on that tuesday then that, to my distress, i saw that master francis had been crying when he came back to the nursery. it was the first time i had seen his eyes red, and he had been trying to make them right again, i'm sure, for he hadn't come straight up from the library. miss bess was not with him; it was a fine day and she had gone out driving with her mamma, having been dressed all ready and her lesson shortened for once on purpose. i didn't seem to notice master francis, sorry though i felt, but miss lally burst out at once. 'francie, darling,' she said, running up to him and throwing her arms round him. 'what's the matter? it isn't your leg, is it?' 'i wouldn't mind that, you know, lally,' he said. 'but sometimes, when the pain's been dreadful bad, it squeezes the tears out, and you can't help it,' she said. 'no,' he answered, 'it isn't my leg. i think i'd better not tell you, lally, for you might tell it to bess, and i just won't have her know. everything's been so nice with her lately, and it just would seem as if i'd got her into trouble.' 'was papa vexed with you for something?' the child went on. 'you'd better tell me, francie, i really won't tell bess if you don't want me, and i'm sure nursie won't. i'm becustomed to keeping secrets now. sometimes secrets are quite right, nursie says.' i could scarcely help smiling at her funny little air. 'it wasn't anything _very_ much, after all,' said master francis. 'it was only that uncle said----,' and here his voice quivered and he stopped short. 'tell it from the beginning,' said miss lally in her motherly way, 'and then when you get up to the bad part it won't seem so hard to tell.' it was a relief to him to have her sympathy, i could see, and i think he cared a little for mine too. 'well,' he began, 'it's all about that latin grammar--no, not the lesson,' seeing that miss lally was going to interrupt him, 'but the book. uncle's fat old latin grammar, you know, lally. we didn't use it last friday, it wasn't the day, and we hadn't needed to look at it ourselves since last wednesday--that was the ink-spilling day. so it was not found out till to-day; and--and uncle was--so--so vexed when he saw how spoilt it was, and the worst of it was i began something about it having been bess, and that she hadn't told me, and that made uncle much worse----.' here master francis stopped, he seemed on the point of crying again, and he was a boy to feel very ashamed of tears, as i have said. 'i don't think miss bess could have known the book had got inked,' i said. 'and i scarce see how it happened, unless the ink got spilt on the table, and it may have been lying open--i've seen miss bess fling her books down open on their faces, so to speak, many a time,--and it may have dried in and been shut up when all the books were cleared away, and no one noticed.' 'yes,' said master francis eagerly, 'that's how it must have been. i never meant that bess had done it and hidden it. i said it in a hurry because i was so sorry for uncle to think i hadn't taken care of his book, and i was very sorry about the book too. but i made it far worse. uncle said it was mean of me to try to put my carelessness upon another, a younger child, and a girl; o lally! you never heard him speak like that; it was _dreadful_.' 'was it worse than that time when big jem put the blame on little pat about the dogs not being fed?' asked miss lally very solemnly. master francis flushed all over. 'you needn't have said that, lally,' he said turning away. 'i'm not so bad as that, any way.' it was very seldom he spoke in that voice to miss lally, and she hadn't meant to vex him, poor child, though her speech had been a mistake. 'come, come, master francis,' i said, 'you're taking the whole thing too much to heart, i think. perhaps sir hulbert was worried this morning.' 'no, no,' said master francis, 'he spoke quite quietly. a sort of cold, kind way, that's much worse than scolding. he said whatever bess's faults were, she was quite, quite open and honest, and of course i know she is; but he said that this sort of thing made him a little afraid that my being delicate and not--not like other boys, was spoiling me, and that i must never try to make up for not being strong and manly by getting into mean and cunning ways to defend myself.' young as she was, miss lally quite understood; she quite forgot all about his having been vexed with her a moment before. 'o francie!' she cried, running to him and flinging her arms round him, in a way she sometimes did, as if he needed her protection; 'how could papa say so to you? nobody could think you mean or cunning. it's only that you're too good. i'll tell bess as soon as she comes in, and she'll tell papa all about it, then he'll see.' 'no, dear,' said master francis, 'that's just what you mustn't do. don't you remember you promised?' miss lally's face fell. 'don't you see,' master francis went on, 'that _would_ look mean? as if i had made bess tell on herself to put the blame off me. and i do want everything to be happy with bess and me ourselves as long as i am here. it won't be for so very long,' he added. 'uncle says it will be a very good thing indeed for me to go to school.' this was too much for miss lally, she burst out crying, and hugged master francis tighter than before. i had got to understand more of her ways by now, and i knew that once she was started on a regular sobbing fit, it soon got beyond her own power to stop. so i whispered to master francis that he must help to cheer her up, and between us we managed to calm her down. that was just one of the things so nice about the dear boy, he was always ready to forget about himself if there was anything to do for another. miss bess came back from her drive brimming over with spirits, and though it would have been wrong to bear her any grudge, it vexed me rather to see the other two so pale and extra quiet, though master francis did his best, i will say, to seem as cheerful as usual. miss bess's quick eyes soon saw there had been something amiss. but i passed it off by saying miss lally had been troubled about something, but we weren't going to think about it any more. think about it i did, however, so far as it concerned master francis, especially. till now i had been always pleased to see that his uncle was really much attached to the boy, and ready to do him justice. but this notion, which seemed to have begun in sir hulbert's mind, that just because the poor child was delicate and in a sense infirm, he must be mean spirited and unmanly in mind, seemed to me a very sad one, and likely to bring much unhappiness. nor could i feel sure that my lady was not to blame for it. she was frank and generous herself, but inclined to take up prejudices, and not always careful enough in her way of speaking of those she had any feeling against. i did what i could, whenever i had any opportunity, to stand up for the boy in a quiet way, and with all respect to those who were his natural guardians. but, on the whole, much as i knew we should miss him in the nursery, i was scarcely sorry to hear not many weeks after the little events i have been telling about, that master francis's going to school was decided upon. it was to be immediately after the christmas holidays, and we were now in the month of october. chapter ix upset plans but, as everybody knows, things in this world seldom turn out as they are planned. there was a great deal of writing and considering about master francis's school, and i could see that both sir hulbert and my lady had it much on their minds. they would never have thought of sending him anywhere but of the best, but in those days schools, even for little boys, cost, i fancy, quite as much or more than now. and i can't say but what i think that the worry and the difficulty about it rather added to his aunt's prejudice against the boy. however, before long, all was settled, the school was chosen and the very day fixed, and in our different ways we began to get accustomed to the idea. master francis, i could see, had two quite opposite ways of looking at it: he was bitterly sorry to go, to leave the home and those in it whom he loved so dearly, more dearly, i think, than any one understood. and he took much to heart also the fresh expenses for his uncle. but, on the other hand, he was eager to get on with his learning; he liked it for its own sake, and, as he used to say to me sometimes when we were talking alone-- 'it's only by my mind, you know, nurse, that i can hope to be good for anything. if i had been strong and my leg all right, i'd have been a soldier like papa, i suppose.' 'there's soldiers and soldiers, you must remember, master francis,' i would reply. 'there's victories to be won far greater than those on the battlefield. and many a one who's done the best work in this world has been but feeble and weakly in health.' his eyes used to brighten up when i spoke like that. sometimes, too, i would try to cheer him by reminding him there was no saying but what he might turn out a fairly strong man yet. many a delicate boy got improved at school, i had heard. but alas!--or 'alas' at least it seemed at the time--everything was changed by what happened that winter. it was cold, colder than is usual in this part of the world, and i think master francis had got it in his head to try and harden himself by way of preparing for school life. my lady used to say little things sometimes, with a good motive, i daresay, about not minding the cold and plucking up a spirit, and what her brothers used to do when they were young, all of which master francis took to heart in a way she would not then have believed if she had been told it. dear me! it is strange to think of it, when i remember how perfectly in later years those two came to understand each other, and how nobody--after she lost her good husband--was such a staff and support to her, such a counsellor and comfort, as the nephew she had so little known--her 'more than son,' as i had often heard her call him. but i am wandering away from my story. i was just getting to master francis's illness. how it came about no one could really tell. it is not often one can trace back illnesses to their cause. most often i fancy there are more than one. but just after christmas master francis began with rheumatic fever. we couldn't at first believe it was going to be anything so bad. for my lady's sake, and indeed for everybody's, i tried to cheer up and be hopeful, in spite of the doctor's gloomy looks. it was a real disappointment to myself and took down my pride a bit, for i had done my best by the child, hoping to start him for school as strong and well as was possible for him. and any one less just and fair than my lady might have had back thoughts, such as damp feet, or sheets not aired enough, or chills of some kind, that a little care might have avoided. it was my belief that he had been feeling worse than usual for some time, but never a complaint had he made, perhaps he wouldn't own it to himself. it wasn't till two nights after christmas that, sitting by the nursery fire, just after miss augusta had been put to bed, he said to me-- 'nurse, i can't help it, my leg is so dreadfully bad, and not my leg only, the pain of it seems all over. i'm _all_ bad legs to-night,' and he tried to smile. 'may i go to bed now, and perhaps it will be all right in the morning?' i _was_ frightened! sir hulbert and my lady were dining out that evening, which but seldom happened, and when i got over my start a little i wasn't sorry for it, hoping that a good night might show it was nothing serious. we got him to bed as fast as we could. there was no going down to dessert that evening, so miss bess and miss lalage set to work to help me, like the womanly little ladies they were; one of them running downstairs to see about plenty of hot water for a good bath and hot bottles, and the other fetching the under housemaid to see to a fire in his room. i doubt if he had ever had one before. bedroom fires were not in my lady's rule, and i don't hold with them myself, except in illness or extra cold weather. he cheered up a little, and even laughed at the fuss we made. and before his uncle and aunt returned he was sound asleep, looking quiet and comfortable, so that i didn't think it needful to say anything to them that night. but long before morning, for i crept upstairs to his room every hour or two, i saw that it was not going off as i had hoped. he started and moaned in his sleep, and once or twice when i found him awake, he seemed almost lightheaded, and as if he hardly knew me. once i heard him whisper: 'oh! it hurts so,' as if he could scarcely bear it. about five o'clock i dressed myself and took up my watch beside him. my lady was an early riser; by eight o'clock, in answer to a message from me, she was with us herself in her dressing-gown. master francis was awake. 'o my lady!' i said, 'i'd no thought of bringing you up so early, and you were late last night too.' for they had had a long drive. 'it was only that i dursn't take upon me to send for the doctor without asking.' 'no, no, of course not,' she said. and indeed that was a liberty my lady would not have been pleased with any one's taking. 'do you really think it necessary?' the poor child was looking a little better just then, the pain was not so bad. he seemed quiet and dreamy-like, though his face was flushed and his eyes very bright. 'auntie!' he said, smiling a very little; 'how pretty you look!' [illustration: 'auntie!' he said, smiling a very little; 'how pretty you look!'] and so she did in her long white dressing-gown, with her lovely fair hair hanging about, for all the world like miss lally's. i think myself the fever was on his brain a little already, else he would scarce have dared speak so to his aunt. she took no notice, but drew me out of the room. 'what in the world's the matter with him?' she said, anxious and yet irritated at the same time. 'has he been doing anything foolish that can have made him ill?' i shook my head. 'it's seldom one can tell how illness comes, but i feel sure the doctor should see him,' i replied. so he was sent for, and before the day was many hours older, there was little doubt left--though, as i said before, i tried for a bit to hope it was only a bad cold--that master francis was in for something very serious. almost from the first the doctor spoke of rheumatic fever. there was a sort of comfort in this, bad as it was--the comfort of knowing there was no infection to fear. it was a great comfort to master francis himself, whenever he felt the least bit easier, now and then to see his cousins for a minute or two at a time, without any risk to them. for one of his first questions to the doctor was whether his illness was anything the others could catch. after that for a few days he was so bad that he could really think of nothing but how to bear the pain patiently. then when he grew a shade better, he began thinking about going to school. 'what was the day of the month? would he be well, _quite_ well, by the th, or whatever day school began? uncle would be _so_ disappointed if it had to be put off'--and so on, over and over again, till at last i had to speak, not only to the doctor, but to sir hulbert himself, about the way the boy was worrying in his mind. the doctor tried to put him off by saying he was getting on famously, and such-like speeches. a few quiet words from sir hulbert had far more effect. 'my dear boy,' he said gravely, 'what you have to do is to try to get well and not fret yourself. if it is god's will that your going to school should be put off, you must not take it to heart. you're not in such a hurry to leave us as all that, are you?' the last few words were spoken very kindly and he smiled as he said them. i was glad of it, for i had not thought his uncle quite as tender of the boy as he had used to be. they pleased master francis, i could see, and another thought came into his mind which helped to quiet him. 'anyway, nurse,' he said to me one day, 'there'll be a good deal of expense saved if i don't go to school till easter.' it never struck him that there are few things more expensive than illness, and as i had no idea till my lady told me that the term had to be paid for, whether he went to school or not, i was able to agree with him. i was deeply sorry for my lady in those days. some might be hard upon her, for not forgetting all else in thankfulness that the child's life was spared, and i know she tried to do so, but it was difficult. and when she spoke out to me one day, and told me about the schooling having to be paid all the same, i really did feel for her; knowing through mrs. brent, as i have mentioned, all the past history of the troubles brought about by poor master francis's father. 'i hope he'll live to be a comfort to you yet, if i may say so, my lady, and i've a strong feeling that he will,' i said (she reminded me of those words long after), 'and in the meantime you may trust to mrs. brent and me to keep all expense down as much as possible, while seeing that master francis has all he needs. i'm sure we can manage without a sick-nurse now.' for there had been some talk of having one sent for from london, though in those days it was less done than seems the case now. and after a while things began to mend. it was not a _very_ bad attack, less so than we had feared at first. in about ten days' time mrs. brent and susan the housemaid and i, who had taken it in turns to sit up all night, were able to go to bed as usual, only seeing to it that the fire was made up once in the night, so as to last on till morning, and the day's work grew steadily lighter. once they had finished their lessons, the little girls were always eager to keep their cousin company. he was only allowed to have them one at a time. miss bess used to take the first turn, but it was hard work for her, poor child, to keep still, though it grew easier for her when it got the length of his being able for reading aloud. but miss lally from the first was a perfect model of a little sick-nurse. mouse was no word for her, so still and noiseless and yet so watchful was she, and if ever she was left in charge of giving him his medicine at a certain time, i could feel as sure as sure that it wouldn't be forgotten. when he was inclined to talk a little, she knew just how to manage him--how to amuse him without exciting him at all, and always to cheer him up. the weather was unusually bad just then, though we did our best to prevent master francis feeling it, by keeping his room always at an even heat, but there were many days on which the young ladies couldn't get out. altogether it was a trying time, and for no one more than for my lady. i couldn't help thinking sometimes how different it would have been if master francis had been her own child, when the joy of his recovering would have made all other troubles seem nothing. i felt it both for her and for him, though i don't think he noticed it himself; and after all, now that i can look back on things having come so perfectly right, perhaps it is foolish to recall those shadows. only it makes the picture of their lives more true. through it all i could see my lady was trying her best to have none but kind and nice feelings. 'the doctor says that though francis will really be almost as well as usual in three or four weeks from now, there can be no question of his going to school for ever so long--perhaps not at all this year.' 'dear, dear,' i said. 'but you won't have to go on paying for it all the same, my lady?' she smiled at this. 'no, no, not quite so bad as that, only this one term, which is paid already. sir hulbert might have got off paying it if he had really explained how difficult it was. but that's just the sort of thing it would really be lowering for him to do,' and she sighed. 'the doctor says too,' she went on again, 'that by rights the boy should have a course of german baths, that might do him good for all his life; but how we _could_ manage that i can't see, though sir hulbert is actually thinking of it. i doubt if he would think of it as much if it were for one of our own children,' she added rather bitterly. 'he feels master francis a sort of charge, i suppose,' i said, meaning to show my sympathy. 'he is a charge indeed,' said his aunt. 'and to think that all this time he might have been really improving at school.' i could say nothing more, but i did grieve that she couldn't take things in a different spirit. 'it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.' miss lally had a fine time for her knitting just then, with master francis out of the way. of course if he had been at school there would have been no difficulty, and she had planned to have his socks ready to send him on his birthday, the end of march. now she had got on so fast--one sock finished and the heel of the other turned, though not without many sighs and even a few tears--that she hoped to have them as a surprise the first day he came down to the nursery. 'i'll have to begin working in the attic again, after that,' she said to me, 'for i'm going to make a pair for baby.' 'that's to say if the weather gets warmer,' i said to her. 'you certainly couldn't have sat up in the attic these last few weeks, miss lally.' chapter x the new baby the weather did improve. the winter having been so unusually severe was made up for, as i think often happens, by a bright and early spring. by the beginning of april master francis was able to be out again, though of course only for a little in the middle of the day, and we had to be very careful lest he should catch the least cold. i was exceedingly glad, really more glad than i can say, that his getting well went through without any backcasts. for himself he was really better than the doctor had dared to hope, but as he began to move about more freely i was grieved to see that the stiffness of his leg seemed worse than before his illness. i don't think it pained him much, at least he didn't complain. in the meantime i thought it would be best to say nothing about it, half hoping that he didn't notice it himself, but i heard no talk of his going to school. i shall never forget one morning in april--it was towards the end of the month, a most lovely sunny morning it was, as i went up the winding staircase leading to master francis's room in the tower. the sunshine came pouring in through the narrow windows as brilliant as if it had been midsummer, and the songs of the birds outside seemed to tell how they were enjoying it, yet it was only half-past six! the little ladies below were all sleeping soundly, but master francis, i knew, always woke very early, and somehow i had a feeling that he must be the first to hear the good news. as i knocked at the door i heard him moving inside. he had got up to open the window; the room seemed flooded with light as i went in. master francis was sitting up in bed reading, or learning some of his lessons more likely, for he was well enough now to have gone back to regular ways. he looked up very brightly. 'isn't it a most beautiful morning, nurse?' he said. 'the sunshine woke me even earlier than usual, so i'm looking over my latin. auntie doesn't mind my reading in bed in the morning. it isn't like at night with candles.' 'no, of course not,' i said. 'but, master francis, i want you to leave off thinking about your lessons for a minute. i rather fancy you'll have a holiday to-day. i've got a piece of news for you! i wonder if you can guess what has happened?' he opened his eyes wide in surprise. 'it must be something good,' he said, 'or you wouldn't look so pleased. what _can_ it be? it can't be that uncle hulbert's got a lot of money.' 'there are some things better than money,' i said. 'what would you think if a dear little baby boy had come in the night?' his whole face flushed pink with pleasure. 'nurse!' he said. 'is it really true? oh! how pleased i am. just the very thing auntie has wanted so--a little boy of her own. i may count him like a brother, mayn't i? won't bess and lally be pleased! do they know? mayn't i get up at once, and when do you think i may see him?' 'some time to-day, i hope,' i answered. 'no, the young ladies don't know yet. they're fast asleep. but i thought you'd like to know.' 'how good of you!' he said. 'i'm just _so_ pleased that i don't know what to do.' what a morning of excitement it was, to be sure! the children were all half off their heads with delight. all, that is to say, except miss baby, who burst out crying in the middle of her breakfast, sobbing that she 'wouldn't have no--something----' we couldn't make out what for ever so long, till we found it was her name she was crying about, as of course we were all talking of the new little brother as 'the baby.' we comforted her by saying that anyway he would not be 'miss baby'; and perhaps from that it came about that her old name clung to her till she was quite a big girl, and almost from the first master bevil got his real name. he was a great darling--so strong and hearty too--and so handsome even as an infant. everything seemed to go right with him from the very beginning. 'surely,' i often said to myself, 'he will bring a blessing with him. and now that my lady's great wish has been granted, i do hope she will feel more trustful and less anxious.' i hoped too that she would now have happier feelings to poor master francis, especially when she saw his devotion to the baby boy. for of all the children i must say he was the one who loved the little creature the most. and for a while all seemed tending in the right way, but when the baby was a few weeks old, i began to fear that something of the old trouble was in the air again. fresh money difficulties happened about that time, though of course i didn't know exactly what they were. but it was easy to see that my lady was fretted, she was not one to hide anything she was feeling. one day, it was in june, as far as i remember, my lady was in the nursery with miss lally and miss baby and the real baby. the two elder children were downstairs at their lessons with sir hulbert. master bevil was looking beautiful that afternoon. we had laid him down on a rug on the floor, and he was kicking and crowing as if he had been six months old, his little sisters chattering and laughing to him, while my lady sat by in the rocking-chair, looking for once as if she had thrown all her cares aside. 'he really is getting on beautifully,' she said to me. 'doesn't he look a great big boy?' i was rather glad of the remark, for it gave me a chance to say something that had been on my mind. 'we'll have to be thinking of short-coating him, before we know where we are, my lady,' i said with a smile. 'and there's another thing i've been thinking of. he's such a heavy boy to carry already, and as time gets on it would be a pity for our walks to be shortened in the fine weather. we had a beautiful basket for the donkey at mrs. wyngate's, it was made so that even a little baby could lie quite comfortably in it.' 'that would be very nice,' my lady answered. 'i'll speak to sir hulbert about it. only----,' and again a rather worried look came into her face. i could see that she had got back to the old thought, 'everything costs money.' 'we must do something about it before long,' she added. just then miss bess ran into the room, followed more slowly by her cousin. 'what are you talking about?' she said. 'about how dear fat baby is to go walks with us when he gets still fatter and heavier,' said miss lally. 'poor nurse couldn't carry him so very far, you know, and mamma says perhaps----' 'oh! nonsense,' interrupted miss bess; 'we'd carry him in turns, the darling.' my lady looked up quickly at this. 'don't talk so foolishly, child,' she said sharply. for, fond as she was of miss bess, she could put her down sometimes, and just now the little girl scarcely deserved it, it seemed to me. 'i won't allow anything of that kind,' she went on. 'you are far too young, all of you--francis especially, must never attempt to carry baby. do you hear, children? nurse, you must be strict about this.' 'certainly, my lady,' i replied. 'master francis and the young ladies have never done more than just hold master bevil in their arms for a moment, me standing close by.' then they went on to talk about getting a basket for the donkey, which they were very much taken up about. i didn't notice at the time that master francis had only looked in for an instant and gone off again; but that evening at tea time, when miss bess and miss lally said something about old jacob, master francis asked what they meant, which i remembered afterwards as showing that he had not heard his aunt's strict orders. it was a week or two after that, that one lovely afternoon we all set out on a walk together. we had planned to go rather farther than we had yet been with the baby, resting here and there on the way, it was so warm and sunny and he was not _yet_ so very heavy, of course. all went well, and we found ourselves close to home again in nice time. for of course i knew that if we stayed out too long it would be only natural for my lady to be anxious. 'it's rather too soon to go in and it's such a beautiful afternoon,' said miss bess as we were coming up the drive. 'do let us go into the little wood, for half an hour or so, nurse, and you might tell us a story.' the little wood skirts the drive at one side. it is a sweet place, in the early summer especially, so many wild flowers and ferns, and lots of squirrels overhead among the branches, and little rabbits scudding about down below. we found a cosy nook, where we settled ourselves. the little brother was fast asleep, the three elder ones sat round me, while miss baby toddled off a little way, busy about some of her own funny little plays by herself, though well within sight. i was in the middle of a long story of having been lost in the firwoods at home as a child, when a loud scream made us all start, and looking up i saw to my alarm that miss baby was no longer to be seen. 'dear, dear,' i cried, jumping up in a fright. 'she must have hurt herself. here, master francis, hold the baby for a moment, don't get up;' and i put his little cousin down safely in his arms. i meant him not to stir till i came back, but he didn't understand this. miss bess was already off after her little sister, and after a minute or two we found her, not hurt at all, but crying loudly at having fallen down and dirtied her frock in running away from what _she_ called a 'bear,' coming out of the wood--most likely only a branch of a tree swaying about. it took a little time to quiet her and to set her to rights again, and when we got back to the other children i was surprised to see that the baby was now in miss lally's arms, master francis kneeling beside them wiping something with his handkerchief. 'there's nothing wrong, i hope,' i said, rather startled again. 'oh no!' said miss lally. 'it's only that little brother cried and francie walked him up and down and somefing caught francie's foot and he felled, but baby didn't fall. francie held him tight, only a twig scratched baby's nose a tiny little bit. but he doesn't mind, he's laughing.' so he was, though sure enough there was a thin red line right across his plump little nose, and the least little mark of blood on the handkerchief with which his cousin had been tenderly dabbing it. master francis himself was so pale that i hadn't the heart to say more to him than just a word. 'i had meant you to sit still with him, my dear.' 'but he cried so,' said the boy. however, there was no harm done, though i thought to myself i'd be more careful than ever, but unluckily just as we were within a few steps of the house whom should we see but my lady coming to meet us. i'm never one for hiding things, but i did wish she had not happened to come just then. she noticed the scratch in a moment, as she stooped to kiss the baby, though really there was nothing to mind, seeing the dear child so rosy and happy looking. 'what's the matter with his nose?' she said quickly. 'you haven't any pins about you, nurse, surely?' pins were not in my way, certainly, but i could have found it in my heart to wish i could own to one just then, for master francis started forward. 'oh no! aunt helen,' he said, 'it was my fault. i was walking him about for a minute or two, while nurse went after baby, and my foot slipt, but i only came down on my knees and _he_ didn't fall. it was only a twig scratched his nose, a tiny bit.' my lady grew first red then white. 'he might have been killed,' she said; and she caught the baby from me and kissed him over and over again. then she turned to master francis, and i could see that she was doing her best to keep in her anger. 'francis, how dared you, after what i said the other day so very strongly about your _never_ carrying the baby? your own sense might have told you you are not able to carry him, but besides that, what i said makes it distinct disobedience. nurse, did you _know_ of it?' 'it was i myself gave master bevil to master francis to hold,' i said, flurried like at my lady's displeasure. 'i hadn't meant him to walk about with him.' 'of course not,' said my lady. 'there now, you see, francis, double disobedience! i must speak to your uncle. take back baby, nurse, he must have some _pomade divine_ on his nose when he gets in;' and before any of us had time to speak again she had turned and hurried back to the house. my lady had always a quick way with her, pleased or displeased. 'she's gone to tell papa,' said the young ladies, looking very distressed. master francis was quite white and shaking like. 'nurse,' he said at last, when he had got voice enough to speak, 'i really don't know what auntie meant about something she said the other day.' 'o franz! you can't have forgotten,' said miss bess, who often spoke sharply when she was really very sorry. 'mamma did say most plainly that none of us were to carry baby about.' but the boy still looked quite puzzled, and when we talked it over, we were all satisfied that he hadn't been in the room at the time. 'i must try to put it right with my lady,' i said, feeling that if any one had been to blame in the matter it was certainly me much more than master francis, for not having kept my eye better on miss baby in the wood. but we were a very silent and rather sad party as we made our way back slowly to the house. i couldn't see my lady till late that evening, and then, though i did my best, i didn't altogether succeed. she had already spoken to sir hulbert, and nothing would convince her that master francis had not heard at least some part of what she said. sir hulbert was always calm and just; he sent for the boy the next morning, and had a long talk with him. master francis came back to the nursery looking pale and grave, but more thoughtful than unhappy. 'uncle has been very good and kind,' was all he said. 'and i will try never to vex him and auntie again.' later that evening, when he happened to be alone with me, after the young ladies had gone to bed, he said a little more. i was sitting by the fire with master bevil on my knee. master francis knelt down beside me and kissed the little creature tenderly. then he stroked his tiny nose--the mark of the scratch had almost gone already. 'you darling!' he said. 'oh! how glad i am you weren't really hurt. nurse,' he went on, 'i'd do anything for this baby, i do _love_ him so. i only wish i could say it to auntie the way i can to you. if only i were big and strong, or very clever, and could work for him, to get him everything he should have, and then it would make up a little for all the trouble i've been always to them.' he spoke quite simply. there wasn't a thought of himself--as if he had anything to complain of, or put up with, i mean--in what he said. but all the more it touched me very much, and i felt the tears come into my eye, but i wouldn't have master francis see it, and i began laughing and playing with the baby. 'see his dear little feet,' i said. 'they're almost the prettiest part of him. he kicks so, he wears out his little boots in no time. it would be nice if miss lally could knit some for him.' master francis looked surprised. 'why,' he said, 'do you call those little white things boots? and are they made the same way as my socks? i've got them on now; aren't they splendid? i really think it was very clever of lally.' chapter xi in disgrace again he held out one foot to be admired. 'yes,' i said, 'they are very nice indeed, and miss lally was so patient about them. i'll have to think of some other knitting for her.' 'o nurse!' said master francis quickly, then he stopped. 'i must ask lally first,' he went on; and i heard him say, as if speaking to himself--'it would be nice to please auntie.' for a day or two after that i saw there was some mystery going on. master francis and miss lally were whispering together and looking very important, and one fine afternoon the secret was confided to me. miss bess was out with her mamma, and master francis had disappeared when we came in from our walk, a rather short one that day. suddenly, just as we were sitting down to tea, and i was wondering what had become of him, he hurried in, and threw a small soft white packet on to miss lally's lap. 'o francie!' she said, 'have you really got it?' then she undid the parcel and showed it to me; it was white wool. 'francie has bought it with his own money,' she said, 'for me to knit a pair of boots for baby, and oh! nursie, will you show me how? they're to be a present from francie and me; me the knitting and francie the wool, and we want it to be quite a secret till they're ready. it's so warm now i can knit up in the attic. won't mamma be pleased?' 'certainly, my dear,' i said. 'i'll do my best to teach you. they'll be rather difficult, for we'll have to put in some fancy stitches, but i think you can manage it now.' master francis stood by, looking as interested and pleased as miss lally herself. 'that was all the wool prideaux' daughter had,' he said. 'do you think there'll be enough, nurse? she'll have some more in a few days.' 'i doubt if there'll be enough,' i said, 'but i can tell better when we've got them begun.' begun they were, that very evening. miss lally and master francis set to work to wind the wool, having first spent some time at an extra washing of their hands, for fear of soiling it in the very least. 'it's so beautifully white,' said miss lally, 'like it says in the bible, isn't it, nursie? it would be a pity to dirty it.' dear me! how happy those two were over their innocent secret, and how little i thought what would come of master bevil's white wool bootikins! the knitting got on nicely, though there were some difficulties in the way. the weather was getting warmer, and it is not easy for even little ladies to keep their hands quite spotlessly clean. the ball of wool had to be tied up in a little bag, as it would keep falling on the floor, and besides this, miss lally spread out a clean towel in the corner where she sat to work in the attic. i gave miss bess a hint that there was a new secret and got her to promise not to tease the children, and she was really good about it, as was her way if she felt she was trusted. altogether, for some little time things seemed to be going smoothly. master francis was most particular to do nothing that could in the least annoy his uncle and aunt, or could seem like disobedience to them. after the long spell of fine weather, july set in with heavy rain. i had now been a whole year with the dear children. i remember saying so to them one morning when we were all at breakfast. it was about a week since the baby's boots had been in hand. one was already finished, in great part by miss lally herself, though i had had to do a little to it in the evenings after they were all in bed, setting it right for her to go on with the next day. with the wet weather there was less walking out, of course, and all the more time for the knitting. on the day i am speaking of the children came down from the attic in the afternoon with rather doleful faces. 'nursie,' said miss lally, 'i have been getting on so nicely,' and indeed i had not required to do more than glance at her work for two or three days. 'i thought i would have had it ready for you to begin the lace part round the top, only, just fancy the wool's done!' 'they'll have more at the shop by now,' said master francis. 'if only it would clear up i could go to the village for it.' 'it may be finer to-morrow,' i said, 'but there's no chance of you going out to-day; even if it left off raining, the ground's far too wet for you with your rheumatism. now, miss lally, my dear, don't you begin looking so doleful about it; you've got on far quicker than you could have expected.' she did look rather doleful all the same, and the worst of it was that though master francis would have given up anything for himself, he never could bear miss lally to be disappointed. 'i'm so much better now, nurse,' he said. 'i don't believe even going out in the rain would hurt me.' 'it's _possible_ it mightn't hurt you, but----' i was beginning, when i heard master bevil crying out in the other room. miss lally had now a little room of her own on the other side of the nursery, and we had saved enough of miss bess's chintz to smarten it up. this had been done some months ago. i hadn't too much time now, and the young girl who helped me was no hand at sewing at all. off i hurried to the baby without finishing what i was saying to master francis, and indeed i never gave another thought to what he'd said about fetching the wool till tea-time came, and he didn't answer when we called him, thinking he was in his own room. just then, unluckily, my lady came up to the nursery to say good-bye to the children, or good-night rather, for she and sir hulbert were going to dine at carris court, which is a long drive from treluan, and the roads were just then very heavy with the rain. she came in looking quite bright and cheery. i can see her now in her black lace dress--it was far from new--it was seldom my lady spent anything on herself--but it suited her beautifully, showing off her lovely hair and fair complexion. one little diamond star was her only ornament. i forget if i mentioned that as well as the strange disappearance of money at the death of old sir david, a great many valuable family jewels, worth thousands of pounds, were also missing, so it was but little that sir hulbert had been able to give his wife, and what money she had of her own she wouldn't have spent in such ways, knowing from the first how things were with him. she came in, as i said, looking so beautiful and bright that i felt grieved when almost in a moment her look changed. 'where is francis?' she asked quickly. 'he must be somewhere downstairs, my lady,' i said. 'he's not in his room, but no doubt he'll be coming directly.' esther, the nursery-maid, was just then coming in with some tea-cakes mrs. brent had sent us up. 'go and look for master francis, and tell him to come at once,' said my lady. 'surely he can't have gone out anywhere,' she added to me; 'it's pouring, besides he isn't allowed to go out without leave.' 'he'd never think of such a thing,' i said quickly, 'after being so ill too.' but even as i spoke the words, there came into my mind what the boy had said that afternoon, and i began to feel a little anxious, though of course i didn't let my lady see it, and i did my best to smooth things when esther came back to say that he was nowhere to be found. it was little use, however, my lady began to be thoroughly put out. she hurried off to sir hulbert, feeling both anxious and angry, and a good half-hour was spent in looking for the boy before sir hulbert could persuade her to start. he was vexed too, and no wonder, just when my lady had been looking so happy. 'really,' i thought to myself, 'master francis is tiresome after all.' and i was thankful when they at last drove off, there being no real cause for anxiety. no sooner had the sound of the carriage-wheels died away than the nursery door opened and master francis burst in, looking for once like a regular pickle of a boy. his eyes bright and his cheeks rosy, though he was covered with mud from head to foot, his boots really not to be thought of as fit to come up a tidy staircase. 'hurrah!' he cried, shaking a little parcel over his head. 'i've got it, lally. and i'm not a bit wet after all, nurse!' 'oh no!' said miss bess, who did love to put in her word, 'not at all. quite nice and dry and tidy and fit to sit down to tea, after worrying mamma out of her wits and nearly stopping papa and her going to carris.' master francis's face fell at once. i was sorry for him and yet that provoked i couldn't but join in with miss bess. 'go upstairs to your room at once, master francis, and undress and get straight into your bed. i'll come up in a few minutes with some hot tea for you. how you could do such a thing close upon getting better of rheumatic fever, and the trouble and worry it gave, passes me! and considering, too, what i said to you this very afternoon.' 'you didn't actually say i wasn't to go,' he said quickly. 'you know quite well why i went, and i'm not a _bit_ wet really. i'm all muffled up in things to keep me dry. i'm nearly suffocating.' 'all the worse,' i said. 'if you're overheated all the more certain you'll get a chill. don't stand talking, go at once.' he went off, and i was beginning to pour out the tea, which had been kept back all this time, when, as i lifted the teapot in my hand i almost dropped it, nearly scalding miss baby who was sitting close by me, so startled was i by a sudden terrible scream from miss lally; and, as i have said before, anything like miss lally's screams i never did hear in any nursery. besides which, once she was started, there was never any saying when she'd leave off. 'now, whatever's the matter with you, my dear?' i said, but it was little use talking quietly to her. she only sobbed something about 'poor francie and nursie scolding him,' and then went on with her screaming till i was obliged to put her in the other room by herself to get quiet. of all the party miss bess and miss baby were the only ones who did justice to mrs. brent's tea-cakes that evening. they did take miss lally's screaming fits quietly, i must say, which was a good thing, and even master bevil had strong nerves, i suppose, for he slept on sweetly through it all, poor dear. for myself, i was out and out upset for once, provoked and yet sorry too. i went up to master francis and did the best i could for him to prevent his taking cold. he was as sorry as could be by this time, and he had really not meant to be disobedient, but though i was ready to believe him, i felt much afraid that this new scrape wouldn't be passed over very lightly by his uncle and aunt. after a while miss lally quieted down, partly, i think, because i promised her she might go up to her cousin if she would leave off crying, and the two passed the evening together very soberly and sadly, winding the fresh skein of white wool which had been the cause of all the trouble. after all master francis did not take cold. he came down to breakfast the next morning looking pretty much as usual, though i could see he was uneasy in his mind. miss lally too was feeling rather ashamed of her screaming fit the night before, for she was growing a big girl now, old enough to understand that she should have more self-command. altogether it was a rather silent nursery that morning, for miss bess was concerned for her cousin too. i had quite meant to try to see my lady before anything was said to master francis. but she was tired and later of getting up than usual, and i didn't like to disturb her. sir hulbert, i found, had gone out early and would not be in till luncheon-time, so i hoped i would still have my chance. i hardly saw the elder children till their dinner time. it was an extra long morning of lessons with miss kirstin, for it was still raining, and on wet days she sometimes helped them with what they had to learn by themselves. the three hurried up together to make themselves tidy before going down to the dining-room, and i just saw them for a moment. master bevil was rather fractious, and i was feeling a little worried about him, so that what had happened the night before was not quite so fresh in my mind as it had been; but i did ask miss lally, who came to me to have her hair brushed, if she had seen her mamma, and if my lady was feeling rested. 'she's getting up for luncheon,' was the child's answer, 'but i haven't seen her. mrs. brent told us she was very tired last night. mrs. brent waited up to tell mamma francie had come in.' after luncheon the two young ladies came up together. i looked past them anxiously for master francis. 'no,' said miss lally, understanding my look, 'he's not coming. he's gone to papa's room, and papa and mamma are both there.' my heart sank at the words. 'mamma's coming up to see baby in a little while,' said miss bess. 'she was so tired, poor little mamma, she only woke in time to dress for luncheon, and papa said he was very glad.' miss lally came round and whispered to me. 'nurse,' she said, 'may i go up to the attic? i want to knit a great lot to-day, and if i stayed down here mamma would see.' 'very well, my dear,' i said. 'only be sure to come downstairs if you feel chilly.' there was really no reason, now that she had a room of her own, for her ever to sit in the attic, but she had taken a fancy to it, i suppose, and off she went. miss bess stood looking out of the window, in a rather idle way she had. 'oh dear!' she said impatiently; 'is it _never_ going to leave off raining? i am so tired of not getting out.' 'get something to do, my dear,' i said. 'then the time will pass more quickly. it won't stop raining for you watching it, you know. weren't you saying something about the schoolroom books needing arranging, and that you hadn't had time to do them?' miss bess was in a very giving-in mood. 'very well,' she said, moving off slowly. 'i suppose i may as well do them. but i need somebody to help me; where's lally?' 'don't disturb her yet awhile, poor dear,' i said. 'she does so want to get on with the work i've told you about.' miss bess stood looking uncertain. suddenly an idea struck her. 'may i have baby then?' she asked. 'she could hold up the books to me, and that's about all the help i need, really.' i saw no objection, and miss baby trotted off very proud, miss bess leading her by the hand. the nursery seemed very quiet the next half-hour or so, or maybe longer. i was beginning to wonder when my lady would be coming, and feeling glad that master bevil, who had just wakened up from a nice sleep, was looking quite like himself again before she saw him, when suddenly the door burst open and master francis looked in. he was not crying, but his face had the strained white look i could not bear to see on it. 'is there no one here?' he said. somehow i didn't like to question him, grieved though i felt at things going wrong again. 'no,' i replied. 'miss bess is in the schoolroom with----,' then it suddenly struck me that my lady might be coming in at any moment, and that it might be better for master francis not to be there. 'miss lally,' i went on quickly, 'is at her knitting in the attic, if you like to go to her there.' he turned and went. afterwards he told me that he caught sight of my lady coming along the passage as he left the room, and that he hurried upstairs to avoid her. he didn't find miss lally in the attic as he expected, but her knitting was there lying on the floor, thrown down hurriedly, and though she had not forgotten to spread out the clean towel as usual, in her haste she hadn't noticed that the newly-wound ball of white wool had rolled some distance away from the half-finished boot and the pins. afterwards i will tell what happened to master francis, up there by himself in the attic. to make all clear, i may here explain why he had not found miss lally in her nook. the book-tidying in the schoolroom had gone on pretty well, but after a bit, though miss baby did her best, miss bess found the want of some one who could read the titles, and she ran upstairs to beg miss lally to come for a few minutes. the few minutes turned into an hour or more, for the young ladies, just like children as they were, came across some old favourites in their tidying, and began reading out bits here and there to each other. and then to please miss baby they made houses and castles of the books on the floor, which she thought a beautiful new game, so that miss lally forgot about her knitting, while feeling, so to say, at the back of her mind quite easy about it, thinking she had left it safely lying on the clean cloth. they were both so much taken up with what they were about, that it never struck them to wonder what master francis was doing with himself all the afternoon. my lady and i meanwhile were having a long talk in the nursery. it had been as i feared, sir hulbert having spoken most severely to the boy, and my lady having said some bitter things, which already she was repenting, more especially when i was able to explain that master francis had really not been so distinctly disobedient as had seemed the case. 'we must try and put it right again, i suppose,' she said rather sadly, as she was leaving the room. 'i wish i didn't take up things so hotly at the time, but i was really frightened as well as angry. still sir hulbert would not have spoken so strongly if it hadn't been for me.' this was a great deal for my lady to say, and i felt honoured by her confidence. i began to be more hopeful again, and tried to set out the tea rather nicer than usual to cheer them up a little. chapter xii lost the three young ladies came in together, miss baby looking very important, but calling out for her tea. 'it's quite ready, my dear,' i said. 'but where's master francis?' '_i_ don't know,' said miss bess. 'i haven't seen him all the afternoon.' i turned to miss lally. 'he went up to sit with you, my dear, in the attic,' i said. 'i didn't see him,' said miss lally, and then she explained how miss bess had fetched her down ever so long ago. 'i daresay francie's in his own room,' she went on. 'i'll run up and see, and i'll look in the attic too, for i left my work lying about.' she ran off. 'nurse,' said miss bess, 'do you think francis got a very bad scolding? you saw him, didn't you? did he seem very unhappy?' 'i'm afraid so, my dear, but i think it will come all right again. i've seen your mamma since, and she quite sees now that he didn't really mean to be disobedient.' 'i wish you had told mamma that before they spoke to francis,' said miss bess, who i must say was rather a job's comforter sometimes. we waited anxiously till we heard miss lally's footsteps returning. she ran in alone, looking rather troubled. 'he's not there, not in his own room, or the attic, or nowhere, but he must have been in the attic, for my work's gone.' a great fear came over me. could the poor boy have run away in his misery at having again angered his uncle and aunt? for the look on his face had been strange, when he glanced in at the nursery door, asking for miss lally. was he meaning perhaps to bid her good-bye before setting off in some wild way? and what she said of the knitting having gone made me still more uneasy. had he perhaps taken it with him as a remembrance? for of all the queer mixtures of old-fashionedness and childishness that ever i came across, master francis was the strangest, though, as i have said, there was a good deal of this in all the children. i got up at miss lally's words. master bevil was asleep, luckily. 'you go on with your tea, my dears, there's good children,' i said. 'i must see about master francis, he must be somewhere about the house. he'd never have thought of going out again in such weather,' for it was pouring in torrents. i went downstairs, asking everybody i met if they had seen him, but they all shook their heads, and at last, after searching through the library and the big drawing-rooms, and even more unlikely places, i got so frightened that i made bold to knock at sir hulbert's study door, where he was busy writing, my lady working beside him. they had been talking of master francis just before i went in, and they were far more distressed than annoyed at my news, my lady growing quite pale. 'o hulbert!' she exclaimed, 'if he has run away it is my fault.' 'nonsense, helen,' he said, meaning to cheer her. 'the boy has got sense and good feeling, he'd never risk making himself ill again. and where would he run away to? he couldn't go to sea. but certainly the sooner we find him the better.' he went off to speak to some of the men, while my lady and i, mrs. brent and some of the others, started again to search through the house. we did search, looking in really impossible corners, where he couldn't have squeezed himself in. then the baby awoke, and i had to go to him, and miss bess and miss lally took their turn at this melancholy game of hide-and-seek, but it was all no use. the dull gray afternoon darkened into night, the rain still pouring down, and nothing was heard of the missing boy. sir hulbert at last left off pretending not to be anxious. he had his strongest horse put into the dog-cart, and drove away to the town to give notice to the police, stopping on the way at every place where it was the least likely the boy could have been seen. he didn't get back till eleven o'clock. my lady and mrs. brent and me were waiting up for him, for master bevil was sleeping sweetly, and i had put the nursery-maid to watch beside him. the young ladies, poor dears, were in bed too, and, as is happily the way with children, had fallen asleep in spite of their tears and sad distress. we knew the moment we saw sir hulbert that he had no good tidings to give us. his sunburnt face looked almost white, as he came into the hall soaking wet and shook his head. 'i have done everything, nelly,' he said, 'everything that can be done, and now we must try to be patient till some news comes. it is impossible, everybody says, that a boy like him, so well known in the neighbourhood too, could disappear without some one seeing him, or that he could remain in hiding for long. it is perfectly extraordinary that we have not found him already, and somehow i can scarcely believe he is doing it on purpose. he has such good feeling, and must know how anxious we should be.' sir hulbert was standing by the fire, which my lady had had lighted in the hall, as he spoke. he seemed almost thinking aloud. my lady crept up to him with a look on her face i could not bear to see. 'hulbert,' she said in a low voice, 'i said things to him enough to make him doubt our caring at all.' and then she broke down into bitter though silent weeping. we got her to bed with difficulty. there was really no use whatever in sitting up, and who knew what need for strength the next day might bring? then there were the other poor children to think of. so by midnight the house was all quiet as usual. i was thankful that the wind had fallen, for all through the evening there had been sounds of wailing and sobbing, such as stormy weather always brings at treluan, enough to make you miserable if there was nothing the matter--the rain pattering against the window like cold tiny hands, tapping and praying to be let in. sad as i was, and though i could scarcely have believed it of myself, i had scarcely laid my head down before i too, like the children, fell fast asleep. i was dreaming, a strange confused dream, which i never was able to remember clearly; but it was something about searching in the smugglers' caves for master francis, followed by an old man, who i somehow fancied was the miser baronet, sir david. his hair was snow white, and there was a confusion in my mind of thinking it like miss lally's wool. anyhow, i had got the idea of whiteness in my head, so that, when something woke me--afterwards i knew it was the sound of my own name--and i opened my eyes to see by the glimmer of the night-light what seemed at first a shining figure by my bed-side, i did not feel surprised. and the first words i said were 'white as wool.' 'no, no,' said miss lally, for it was she, in her little night-dress, her fair hair all tumbling over her shoulders, 'it isn't about my wool, nurse, please wake up quite. it's something so strange--such a queer noise. please get up and come to my room to see what it is.' miss lally's room was a tiny place at the side of the nursery nearest the tower, though not opening on to the tower stair. i got up at once and crossed the day nursery with her, lighting a candle on the way. but when we got into her room all was perfectly silent. 'what was it you heard, my dear?' i asked. 'a sort of knocking,' she said, 'and a queer kind of little cry, like a rabbit caught in a trap when you hear it a long way off.' 'it must have been the wind and rain again,' i was beginning to say, but she stopped me. 'hush, listen!' she said, holding up her little hand, 'there it is again.' it was just as she had said, and it seemed to come from the direction of the tower. 'isn't it like as if it was from francie's room?' said miss lally, shivering a little; 'and yet we know he's not there, nursie.' but something was there, or close by, and something _living_, i seemed to feel. 'put on your dressing-gown,' i said to the little girl, 'and your slippers, and we'll go up and see. you're not frightened, dear?' 'oh no!' she said. 'if only it was francie!' but she clung to my hand as we went up the stair, leaving the nursery door wide open, so as to hear master bevil if he woke up. master francis's room was all dark, of course, and it struck very chill as we went in, the candle flickering as we pushed the door open. it seemed so strange to see the empty bed, and everything unused about the room, just as if he was really quite away. we stood perfectly still. all was silent. we were just about leaving the room to go to the attic when the faintest breath of a sound seemed to come again, i couldn't tell from where. it was more like a sigh in the air. 'stop,' said miss lally, squeezing my hand, and then again we heard the muffled taps, much more clearly than downstairs. miss lally's ears were very sharp. 'i hear talking,' she whispered, and before i knew what she was about she had laid herself down on the floor and put her ear to the ground, at a part where there was no carpet. 'nursie,' she went on, looking up with a very white face and shining eyes, 'it is francie. he must have felled through the floor. i can hear him saying, "o lally! o bess! oh, somebody come."' i stooped down as she had done. it was silent again; but after a moment began the knocking and a sort of sobbing cry; my ears weren't sharp enough to make it into words, but i seized the first thing that came to hand, i think it was the candlestick, and thumped it on the floor as hard as ever i could, calling out, close down through the boarding, 'master francie, we hear you.' but there was nothing we could do by ourselves, and we were losing precious time. 'miss lally,' i said, 'you won't be frightened to stay here alone; i'll leave you the candle. go on knocking and calling to him, to keep up his heart, in case he can hear, while i go for your papa.' in less time than it takes to tell it, i had roused sir hulbert and brought him back with me, my lady following after. nothing would have kept her behind. we were met by eager words from miss lally. 'papa, nursie,' she cried, 'i've made him hear, and i can make out that he says something about the window.' without speaking sir hulbert strode across the room and flung it open. oh, how thankful we were that the wind had fallen and all was still. 'francis, my boy,' we heard sir hulbert shout--he was leaning out as far as ever he could--'francis, my boy, can you hear me?' something answered, but we inside the room couldn't distinguish what it said, but in another moment sir hulbert turned towards us. 'he says something about the cupboard in the attic,' he said. 'what can he mean? but come at once.' he caught up my lady's little hand-lamp and led the way, we three following. when we reached the attic he went straight to the big cupboard i have spoken of. the doors were standing wide open. sir hulbert went in, but came out again, looking rather blank. 'i can see nothing,' he said. 'i fancied he said the word "mouse," but his voice had got so faint.' 'if you knock on the floor,' i began, but miss lally stopped me by darting into the closet. 'papa,' she said, 'hold the light here. i know where the mouse-hole is.' what they had thought a mouse-hole was really a hole with jagged edges cut out in one of the boards, which you could thrust your hand into. sir hulbert did so, beginning to see what it was meant for, and pulled. a trap-door, cleverly made, for all that it looked so roughly done, gave way, and by the light of the lamp we saw a kind of ladder leading downwards into the dark. sir hulbert stooped down and leaned over the edge. 'francis,' he called, and a very faint voice--we couldn't have heard it till the door was opened--answered-- 'yes, i'm here. take care, the ladder's broken.' luckily there was another ladder in the attic. sir hulbert and i dragged it out, and managed to slip it down the hole, in the same direction as the other. we were so afraid it would be too short, but it wasn't. my lady and i held it steady at the top, while sir hulbert went down with the lamp, miss lally holding a candle beside us. sir hulbert went down very slowly, not knowing how or in what state master francis might be lying at the foot. our hearts were beating like hammers, for all we were so quiet. first we heard an exclamation of surprise. i rather think it was 'by jove!' though sir hulbert was a most particular gentleman in his way of speaking--then came a hearty shout-- 'all right, he's here, no bones broken.' 'shall i come down?' cried my lady. 'i think you may,' sir hulbert answered, 'if you're very careful. i'll bring the light to the foot of the ladder again.' when my lady got down, miss lally and i strained our ears to hear. i knew the child was quivering to go down herself, and it was like her to be so patient. strange were the words that first reached us. 'auntie, auntie!' we heard master francis say, in his poor weak voice. 'it's old sir david's treasure! you won't be poor any more. oh! i'm so glad now i fell down the hole, but i thought i'd die before i could tell any one.' miss lally and i stared at each other. could it be true? or was master francis off his head? we had not long to wait. they managed to get him up--after all it was not so very far to climb,--my lady coming first with the lamp, and sir hulbert, holding master francis with one arm and the side of the ladder with the other, followed, for the boy had revived wonderfully, once he knew he was safe. [illustration: sir hulbert, holding master francis with one arm and the side of the ladder with the other, followed.] my lady was crying, i saw it the moment the light fell on her face, and as soon as master francis was up beside us, she threw her arms round him and kissed him as never before. 'oh! my poor dear boy,' she said, 'i am so thankful, but do tell us how it all happened.' she must have heard, and indeed seen something of the strange discovery that had been made, but for the moment i don't think there was a thought in her heart except thankfulness that he was safe. before master francis could answer, sir hulbert interrupted. 'better not ask him anything for a minute or two,' he said. 'nurse, you will find my brandy-flask downstairs in the study. he'd better have a little mixed with water; and ring the bell as you pass to waken crooks, and some one must light the fire in francis's room.' i was back in five minutes with what was wanted; and then i found miss lally having her turn at petting her cousin. as soon as he had had a little brandy and water we took him down to the nursery, where the fire was still smouldering, sir hulbert carefully closing the trap-door as it had been before, and then following us downstairs. once in the nursery, anxious though we were to get him to bed, it was impossible not to let him tell something of what had happened. it began by a cry from miss lally. 'why, francie, you've got my knitting sticking out of your pocket. but two of the needles have dropped out,' she went on rather dolefully. 'they'll be lying down in that room,' said master francis. 'i was carrying it in my hand when i went down the ladder after the ball of wool, and when i fell i dropped it, and i found it afterwards. it was the ball of wool that did it all,' and then he went on to explain. he had not found miss lally in the attic, for miss bess had already called her down, but seeing her knitting lying on the floor, he had sat down to wait for her, thinking she'd be sure to come back. then he noticed that the ball of wool must have rolled away as she threw her work down, and disappeared into the cupboard. the door was wide open, and he traced it by the thread in his hand to the 'mouse-hole' in the corner, down which it had dropped, and putting his hand through to see if he could feel it, to his surprise the board yielded. pulling a little more, the trap-door opened, and he saw the steps leading downwards. it was not dark in the secret room in the day-time, for it had two narrow slits of windows hardly to be noticed from the outside, so, with a boy's natural curiosity, he determined to go down. he hadn't strength to lift the trap-door fully back, but he managed to stick it open enough to let him pass through; he had not got down many steps, however, before he heard it bang to above him. the shock may have jarred the ladder, which was a roughly-made rotten old thing. anyway, the next moment master francis felt it give way, and he fell several feet on to the floor below. he was bruised, and a little stunned for a few minutes, but he soon came quite to himself, and, still full of curiosity, began to look about him. the place where he was was only a sort of entrance to a larger room, which was really under his own bedroom, and lighted, as i have said, by narrow deep windows, without glass. and though there was no door between the two, the large room was on a much lower level, and another ladder led down to it. this time he was very careful, and got to the bottom without any accident. looking about him, he saw standing along one side of the room a collection of the queerest-shaped objects of all sizes that could be imagined, all wrapped up in some kind of linen or canvas, grown gray with age and dust. chapter xiii 'old sir david's' secret at first he thought the queer-looking things he saw must be odd-shaped pieces of stone, or petrifactions, such as you see in old-fashioned rockeries in gardens sometimes. but when he went close up to them and touched one, he found that the covering was soft, though whatever was inside it was hard. he pulled the cloth off it, and saw to his surprise that it was a heavy silver tea-urn, though so black and discoloured that it looked more like copper or iron. he examined two or three other things, standing by near it; they also proved to be large pieces of plate--great heavy dinner-table centres, candelabra, and such things,--and, child though he was, master francis could see they must be of considerable value. but this was not what struck him the most. like a flash of lightning it darted into his mind that there must be still more valuable things in this queer store-room. 'i do believe,' he said to himself, 'that this is old sir david's treasure!' he was right. it would take too long to describe how he went on examining into all these strange objects. several, that looked like well-stuffed sacks, were tied up so tightly that he couldn't undo the cord. he made a little hole in one of them with his pocket-knife, and out rolled, to his delight, ever so many gold pieces! 'then,' said master francis to us, 'i really felt as if i could have jumped with joy; but i thought i'd better fetch uncle hulbert before i poked about any more, and i went up the short ladder again, meaning to go back the way i'd come. i had never thought till that minute that i couldn't manage it, but the long ladder was broken away so high above my head that i couldn't possibly reach up to it, and the bits of it that had fallen on to the floor were quite rotten. and the trap-door seemed so close shut, that i was afraid no one would hear me however i shouted.' he did shout though, poor boy; it was the only thing he could do. the short ladder was a fixture and he couldn't move it from its place, even if it had been long enough to be of any use. after a while he got so tired of calling out, that he seemed to have no voice left, and i think he must have fallen into a sort of doze, for the next thing he remembered was waking up to find that it was quite dark. then he began to feel terribly frightened, and to think that perhaps he would be left there to die of hunger. 'and the worst of it was,' he said in his simple way, 'that nobody would ever have known of the treasure.' he called out again from time to time, and then a new idea struck him. he felt about for a bit of wood on the floor and set to work, knocking as hard as he could. most likely he fell asleep by fits and starts, waking up every now and then to knock and call out again, and when the house was all shut up and silent for the night, of course the sound he made seemed much louder, only unluckily we were all asleep and might never have heard it except for dear little miss lally. it was not till after master francis caught the sound of our knocking back in reply that it came into his head to make his way close up to the windows--luckily it was not a very dark night--and call through them, for there was no glass in them, as i have said. if he had done that before it is just possible we might have heard him sooner, as in our searching we had been in and out of his room, above where he was, several times. there is not much more for me to tell. master francis was ill enough to have to stay in bed for a day or two, and at first we were a little afraid that the cold and the terror, and the strange excitement altogether, might bring on another illness. but it was not so. i think he was really too happy to fall ill again! in a day or two sir hulbert was able to tell him all about the discovery. it was kept quite secret till the family lawyer could be sent for, and then he and my lady and sir hulbert all went down through the trap-door again with mr. crooks, the butler, to help them, and everything was opened out and examined. it was a real miser's hoard. besides the plate, which was really the least valuable, for it was so clumsy and heavy that a good deal of it was only fit to be melted down, there were five or six sacks filled with gold and some with silver coin. of course something was lost upon it with its being so old, but taking it all in all, a very large sum was realised, for a great many of the penrose diamonds had been hidden away also, _some_ of which--the most valuable, though not the most beautiful--were sold. altogether, though it didn't make sir hulbert into a millionaire, it made him a rich man, as rich, i think, as he cared to be. and, strangely enough, as the old proverb has it, 'it never rains but it pours,' only two or three years after, money came to my lady which she had never expected. so that to any one visiting treluan, as it now is, and seeing all that has been done by the family, not only for themselves, but for those about them,--the church, the schools, the cottages on the estate being perfect models of their kind--it would be difficult to believe there had ever been want of money to be wisely and generously spent. dear, dear, how many years ago it all is now! there's not many living, if any, to remember the ins and outs as i do, which is indeed my excuse for having put it down in my own way. miss bess,--miss penrose, as i should say,--miss lalage, and even miss augusta have been married this many a day; and lady helen, miss bess's eldest daughter, is sixteen past, and it is she that has promised to look over my writing and correct it. master bevil, sir bevil now, for sir hulbert did not live to be an old man, has two fine boys of his own, whom i took care of from their babyhood, as i did their father, and i'm feeling quite lost since master ramsey has gone to school. and of dear master francis. what words can i say that would be enough? he is the only one of the flock that has not married, and yet who could be happier than he is? he never thinks of himself, his whole life has been given to the noblest work. his writings, i am told, though they're too learned for my old head, have made him a name far and wide. and all this he has done in spite of delicate health and frequent suffering. he seems older than his years, and sir bevil is in hopes that before long he may persuade his cousin to give up his hard london parish and make his regular home where he is so longed for, in treluan itself, as our vicar, and indeed i pray that it may be so while i am still here to see it. above all, for my dear lady's sake, i scarcely like to own to myself that she is beginning to fail, for though i speak of myself as an old woman and feel it is true, yet i can't bear to think that her years are running near to the appointed threescore and ten, for she is nine years older than i. she has certainly never been the same, and no wonder, since sir hulbert's death, but she has had many comforts, and almost the greatest of them has been, as i think i have said before, master francis. * * * * * mother and my aunts want me to add on a few words of my own to dear old nurse's story. she gave it me to read and correct here and there, more than a year ago, and i meant to have done so at once. but for some months past i hardly felt as if i had the heart to undertake it, especially as i didn't like bringing back the remembrance of their old childish days to mother and my aunts, or to uncle bevil and uncle francis, as we always call him, just in the first freshness of their grief at dear grandmamma's death. and i needed to ask them a few things to make the narrative quite clear for any who may ever care to read it. but now that the spring has come back again, making us all feel bright and hopeful (we have all been at treluan together for uncle bevil's birthday), i have enjoyed doing it, and they all tell me that they have enjoyed hearing about the story and answering my questions. dear grandmamma loved the spring so! she was so gentle and sweet, though she never lost her quick eager way either. and though she died last year, just before the daffodils and primroses were coming out, somehow this spring the sight of them again has not made us feel sad about her, but _happy_ in the best way of all. perhaps i should have said before that i am 'nelly,' 'miss bess's' eldest daughter. aunt lalage has only one daughter, who is named after mother, and _i_ think very like what mother must have been at her age. there are five of _us_, and aunt augusta has two boys, like uncle bevil. what used to be 'the secret room,' where our miser ancestor kept the hoard so strangely discovered, has been joined, by taking down the ceiling, to what in the old days was uncle francis's room, and enters from a door lower down the tower stair, and uncle bevil's boys have made it into what they call their 'museum.' we are all very fond of showing it to visitors, and explaining how it used to be, and telling the whole story. uncle francis always maintains that aunt lally saved his life, and though she gets very red when he says so, i do think it is true. she really was very brave for such a little girl. if i heard knockings in the night, i am afraid i should hide my head under the clothes, and put my fingers in my ears. uncle francis and aunt lally always do seem almost more brother and sister to each other than any of the rest; and her husband, uncle geoffrey, whom next to uncle francis i think i like best of all my uncles, was one of _his_--i mean uncle francis's; what a confusion i'm getting into--best friends at college. when i began this, after correcting nurse's manuscript, i thought nothing would be easier than to write a story in the most beautiful language, but i find it so much harder than i expected that i am not sorry to think that there is really nothing more of importance to tell. and i must say my admiration for the way in which nurse has performed _her_ task has increased exceedingly! the end [transcriber's note: this is the second of a series of four novels by susan warner, all of which are in the project gutenberg collection: . what she could . opportunities . the house in town . trading] opportunities, a sequel to "what she could." by the author of "the wide wide world," &c. london: james nisbet & co., berners street. mdccclxxi. "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it." ecc. ix. . opportunities. chapter i. it was the morning after that sunday when matilda had been baptized. the girls came down to prepare breakfast as usual; maria in a very unsettled humour. she was cloudy and captious to a degree that matilda could not understand. the kitchen was hot; the butter was soft; the milk was turned; the bread was dry. all things went wrong. "it is no wonder the bread is dry," said matilda; "it has been baked ever since last friday." "thursday. i didn't say it was a wonder. aunt candy _will_ have the bread dry. i hate it!" "and it is no wonder the butter is soft, if you keep it up here in the kitchen. the kitchen must be hot, with this hot stove. but the milkman will be along directly." "no, he won't. we always have to wait for him; or take the old milk. and i can't be bothered to keep the butter down cellar and be running for it fifty times in an hour. i have enough to do as it is. whatever possessed aunt erminia to want corn bread this morning!" "does she want corn bread?" "yes." "well, corn bread is nice. i am glad of it." "you wouldn't be glad if you had to make it. there! i knew it would be so. there isn't a speck of soda. put on your bonnet, matilda, and run round to mr. sample's and get some soda, will you?--and be quick. we shall be late, and then there will be a row." "there won't be a _row_, maria. aunt candy is always quiet." "i wish she wouldn't, then. i hate people who are always quiet. i would rather they would flare out now and then. it's safer." "for what? _safer_, maria?" "do go along and get your soda!" exclaimed maria. "do you think it will be safe to be late with breakfast?" maria was so evidently out of order this morning, that her sister thought the best way was to let her alone; only she asked, "aren't you well, maria?" and got a sharp answer; then she went out. it was a delicious spring morning. the air stirred in her face its soft and glad breaths of sweetness; the sunlight was the very essence of promise; the village and the green trees, now out in leaf, shone and basked in the fair day. it was better than breakfast, to be out in the air. matilda went round the corner, into butternut street, and made for mr. sample's grocery store, every step being a delight. why could not the inside world be as pleasant as the outside? matilda was musing and wishing, when just before she reached mr. sample's door, she saw what made her forget everything else; even the mischievous little boy who belonged to mrs. dow. what was he doing here in butternut street? matilda's steps slackened. the boy knew her, for he looked and then grinned, and then bringing a finger alongside of his nose in a peculiar and mysterious expressiveness, he repeated his old words-- "ain't you green?" "i suppose so," said matilda. "i dare say i am. what then? green is not the worst colour." the boy looked at her, a little confounded. "if you would come to sunday-school," matilda went on, "_you_ would be a better colour than you are--by and by." "what colour be i?" said the boy. "you'd be a better colour," said matilda. "just come and see." "i ain't green," the boy remonstrated. matilda passed on, went into mr. sample's and got her soda. she had a few cents of change. a thought came into her head. peeping out, she saw that mrs. dow's boy was still lingering where she had left him. immediately matilda requested to have the worth of those cents in sugared-almonds; and with her little packages went into the street again. the boy eyed her. "what is your name?" said matilda. "hain't got none." "yes, you have. what does your mother call you at home?" "she calls me--the worst of all her plagues," said the fellow, grinning. "no, no; but when she calls you from somewhere--what does she call you?" "she calls me out of the garding and down from the attic." "look here," said matilda, showing a sugar-plum; "i'll give you that, if you will tell me." the boy eyed it, and her, and finally said-- "lem." "your name is lem?" he nodded. "there, lem, is a sugar-plum for you. now if you'll come to sunday-school next sunday, and stay and behave yourself, i'll give you three more." "three more?" said the boy. "yes. now come, and you'll like it." and matilda sped home with her soda. "i should think you had been making the soda," said maria; "you have been long enough. what kept you?" "how _do_ they make soda, i wonder?" said matilda, looking at it. "do you know, maria?" "i have enough to do to know how to get breakfast. tilly, run and grind the coffee and make it--quick, will you? now i am in a hurry." matilda thought maria might have done it herself, while she was waiting for the soda. but she said nothing of that. in ten minutes more the coffee was made, the corn bread was ready, and the ladies came down. matilda was in a mood as gentle as the morning, and almost as cloudless. her morning's work and walk and the meeting with lem dow had given her an appetite; and the work of the night before had left a harmony in her spirit, as if sweet music were sounding there. her little face was thus like the very morning itself, shining with the fair shining of inward beauty; in contrast with all the other faces at the table. for clarissa's features were coldly handsome and calm; mrs. candy's were set and purposeful; and poor maria's were sadly clouded and out of humour. matilda took little heed of them all; she was thinking of lemuel dow. "matilda," said her aunt, suddenly--"i wish you to come to me every morning to read. a person who has taken the step you took last night, is no longer a child, but deserves to be treated as a woman. it is necessary that you should fit yourself for a woman's place. come to me at ten o'clock. i will have you read to me some books that will make you better understand the things you have taken upon you, and the things you have done." "why, i am a child yet, aunt candy," matilda answered in some dismay. "you think so, do you?" "yes, ma'am,--i feel so; and i _am_." "i thought you considered yourself more than a child. but you have assumed a woman's place, and it is now necessary that you should be fitted for it. _i_ think the best way is to get the preparation first; but in your church, it seems, they prefer the other course. you are under my care in the house, at any rate, and i shall do my duty by you." "i do not understand you, aunt candy," matilda spoke, quite bewildered. "no, my dear, i suppose not. that is just what i think so objectionable. but we will do what we can to remedy it." "what do you want to prepare me for, aunt erminia?" "for your position, my dear, as a member of the church. that is not a child's position. you have placed yourself in it; and now the question is how to enable you to maintain it properly. i cannot treat you as a child any longer." matilda wondered very much how she was to be treated. however, silence seemed the wisest plan at present. "i suppose _i_ am a child still," remarked maria. "i have never observed anything inconsistent with that supposition, my dear," her aunt serenely answered. "and if i had been baptized last night, you would have more respect for me," went on poor maria. "my respect is not wholly dependent on forms, my dear. if it had been done in a proper way, of course, things would be different from what they are. i _should_ have more respect for you." "clarissa has done it in a proper way, i suppose?" "when she was of a proper age--yes; certainly." "and then, what did she promise? all that they promised last night?" "the vows are much the same." "well, people ought not to make vows till they are ready to keep them--ought they?" "certainly they should not." "well----" "my dear, it is a very bad habit to begin every sentence with a 'well.' you do it constantly." "well, aunt candy----" "there!" exclaimed clarissa. "again." "well, i don't care," said maria. "i can't help it. i don't know when i do it. i was going to ask--and you put everything out of my head.--aunt candy, do you think clarissa has given up, really, the pomps and vanities and all that, you know? she spent twenty-four dollars, i heard her say, on the trimming of that muslin dress; and she bought a parasol the other day for ten dollars, when one for three would have done perfectly well; and she pays always twelve dollars for her boots, twelve and ten dollars; when she could get nice ones for four and five. now what's that?" "it's impertinence," said clarissa. "and untruth; for the four and five dollar boots hurt my feet." "they are _exactly_ the same," said maria; "except the kid and the trimming and the beautiful making." "very well," said clarissa, "i have a right to wear comfortable shoes, if i can get them." "then you have a right to pomps and vanities," returned maria; "but i say you _haven't_ a right, after you have declared and sworn you would have nothing to do with them." "mamma," said clarissa, but with heightened colour, "is this a child?" "after the shadywalk pattern," mrs. candy answered. "girls in shadywalk have a _little_ sense, when they get to be as old as sixteen," maria went on. "where you have been, perhaps they do not grow up so fast." "people would put weights on their heads if they did," said clarissa. "it doesn't matter," said maria. "you can imagine that i am as old as you are; and i say that it is more respectable not to make promises and vows than to make them and not keep them." "do not answer her, my dear," said mrs. candy. "and that is the reason why i have _not_ been baptized, or whatever you call it----" "i never said so, maria," said her aunt. "the two things are not the same." "imagine it!" said clarissa. "well, you said just now--i don't know what you said!--but you said at any rate that if it had been done in a proper way, you would think more of me; and _i_ say, that it is better not to make vows till you are ready to keep them. i am not ready to give up dancing; and i would have expensive hats and dresses, and feathers, and watches, and chains, and everything pretty that money can buy, if i had the money; and i like them; and i want them." "i have not given up dancing," said clarissa. "nor other things either," retorted maria; "but they are pomps and vanities. that is what i say. you promised you would have nothing to do with them." "mamma!" said clarissa, appealingly. "yes, my dear," said her mother. "the amount of ignorance in maria's words discourages me from trying to answer them." "ignorance and superstition, mamma." "and superstition," said mrs. candy. "matilda thinks just the same way," clarissa went on, meeting the broad open astonished eyes of the little girl. "of course," said mrs. candy. "matilda is too much a child to exercise her own judgment on these matters. she just takes what has been told her." "have you given up dancing too, tilly?" clarissa went on. "i have never thought about it, cousin clarissa." "matilda all over!" exclaimed the young lady. "she has not thought about it, mamma. when she thinks about it, she will know what her part is." "very well," said mrs. candy. "she might do worse." "i suppose you think i can't think," said poor maria. "no, my dear; i only think you have not begun yet to use your power in that direction. when you do, you will see things differently." "it would take a good deal of thinking, to make me see that giving up the world and going into it were the same thing," said maria. "and i don't mean to promise to do it till i'm ready." "mamma, this is not very pleasant," said clarissa. "no, my dear. we will leave the field to maria. come to me at ten o'clock, matilda." the two ladies filed off up-stairs, and maria sat down to cry. matilda began to clear the table, going softly back and forth between the basement and the kitchen as if there were trouble in the house. maria sobbed. "ain't they mean?" she exclaimed, starting up at length. matilda was busy going in and out, and said nothing. "matilda! why don't you speak? i say, ain't they mean?" "there's no use in talking so, maria," said her little sister, looking sorrowful. "yes, there is. people ought to hear the truth." "but if you know what is right, why don't you _do_ it, maria?" "i do--as well as i can." "but, maria!--i mean, about what you were saying; giving up whatever is not right." "things are right for other people, that are not right for members of the church. that's why i want to wait awhile. i am not ready." "but, maria, what makes them right for other people?" "they have not promised anything about them. clarissa has _promised_, and she don't do." "you have not promised." "no, of course i haven't." "but if they are right things, maria, why _should_ you, or anybody, promise not to have anything to do with them?" "oh, you are too wise, matilda!" her sister answered impatiently. "there is no need for you to go to read with aunt candy; you know everything already." the rest of the morning was very silent between the sisters, till it came to the time for matilda to present herself in her aunt's room. there meanwhile a consultation had been held. "mamma, that girl is getting unendurable." "must wait a little while, my dear." "what will you do with her then?" "something. i can send her to school, at any rate." "but the expense, mamma?" "it is not much, at the district school. that is where she has been going." "matilda too?" "i suppose that will be the best place. i am not sure about sending matilda. she's a fine child." "she will be handsome, mamma." "she is very graceful now. she has a singular manner." "but she is spoiled, mamma!" "i shall unspoil her. tilly is very young yet, and she has not had enough to do. i shall give her something else to think of, and get these absurdities out of her head. she just wants something to do." "mamma, she is not an easy child to influence. she says so little and keeps her own counsel. i think you don't know her." "i never saw the child yet that was a match for me," said mrs. candy, complacently. "i like best one that has some stuff in her. maria is a wet sponge; you can squeeze her dry in a minute; no character, no substance. matilda is different. i should like to keep tilly." "if you could keep her out of mr. richmond's influence, mamma, it would be a help. that church ruins her. she will be fit for nothing." "i will take the nonsense out of her," said mrs. candy. "i cannot take her out of the church, while we remain here, for that would raise a hue and cry; but i will do as well. here she comes." a little soft knock at the door was followed by the little girl herself; looking demure and sweet, after her fashion lately. it used to be arch and sweet. but matilda had been very sober since her mother's death. the room into which she came had an air now very unlike all the rest of the house. mrs. englefield's modest preparations for the comfort of her guests were quite overlaid and lost sight of. it was as if some fairy had shaken her hand over the room, and let fall pleasant things everywhere. on the marseilles quilt a gorgeous silk coverlet lay folded. on the dressing-table a confusion of vases and bottles, in coloured glass and painted china, were mixed up with combs and brushes and fans and watch pockets and taper stands. the table in the middle of the floor was heaped with elegant books and trinkets and work-boxes and writing implements; and book stands and book shelves were about, and soft foot cushions were dropped on the carpet, and easy arm-chairs stood conveniently, and some faint perfume breathed all through the room. mrs. candy was in one arm-chair and clarissa in another. matilda was bidden to take a cricket, which she privately resented, and then her aunt placed in her hands a largish volume and pointed her to the page where she was to begin. glancing up and down, at the top of the page and the beginning of the book, matilda found it was a treatise, or a collection of advices, for the instruction of persons about to be received into the church. not a little dismayed by this discovery, no less than by the heavy look of the pages, matilda however began her reading. it was dragging work, as she expected. her thoughts wandered. what could her aunt think she wanted with _this_, when she had mr. richmond's instructions? what could these ponderous reasonings be expected to add to his words? the immediate effect of them certainly was not salutary to matilda's mind. "my dear, you do not read so well as usual," her aunt said at length. matilda paused, glad to stop even for a little. "your sentences come heavily from your tongue." "yes. they _are_ heavy, aunt candy." "my dear! those are the words of the rev. benjamin orderly--a very famous writer, and loved by all good people. those are excellent words that you have been reading." matilda said nothing further. "did you understand them?" "they did not interest me, aunt candy." "my dear, they ought to interest one who has just taken such a step as you have taken." matilda wondered privately whether being baptized ought properly to have any effect to change the natural taste and value of things; but she did not answer. "you understood what you read, did you?" matilda coloured a little. "aunt candy, it was not interesting, and i did not think about it." mrs. candy drew the book severely from matilda's hand. "after taking such a step as you took last night, you ought to try to be interested, if it were only for consistency's sake. do you see that you were hasty? a person who does not care about the privileges and duties of church membership most certainly ought not to be a church member." "but, aunt candy, i do care," said matilda. "so it seems." "i care about it as the bible speaks of it; and as mr. richmond talks about it." "you are very fond of mr. richmond, i know." matilda added nothing to that, and there was a pause. "do you want anything more of me, aunt candy?" "yes. i want to teach you something useful. here are a quantity of stockings of yours that need mending. i am going to show you how to mend them. go and get your work-box and bring it here." "couldn't you tell me what you want me to do, aunt candy, and let me go and do it where maria is?" "no. maria is busy. and i have got to take a good deal of pains to teach you, tilly, what i want you to know. go fetch your box and work things." matilda slowly went. it was so pleasant to be out of that perfumed room and out of sight of the rev. mr. orderly's writings. she lingered in the passages; looked over the balusters and listened, hoping that by some happy chance maria might make some demand upon her. none came; the house was still; and matilda had to go back to her aunt. she felt like a prisoner. "now i suppose you have no darning cotton," said mrs. candy. "here is a needleful. thread it, and then i will show you what next." "this is three or four needlefuls, aunt candy. i will break it. i cannot sew with such a thread." "stop. yes, you can. don't break it. i will show you. thread your needle." "i haven't one big enough." that want was supplied. "now you shall begin with running this heel," said mrs. candy. "see, you shall put this marble egg into the stocking, to darn upon. now look here. you begin down here, at the middle, so--and take up only one thread at a stitch, do you see? and skip so many threads each time----" "but there is no hole there, aunt erminia." "i know that. heels should always be run before they come to holes. there are half-a-dozen heels here, i should think, that require to be run. now, do you see how i do it? you may take the stocking, and when you have darned a few rows, come and let me see how you get on." matilda in a small fit of despair took the stocking to a little distance and sat down to work. the marble egg was heavy to hold. it took a long while to go up one side of the heel and down the other. she was tired of sitting under constraint and so still. and her aunt candy seemed like a jailer, and that perfumed room like a prison. the quicker her work could be done, the better for her. so matilda reflected, and her needle went accordingly. "i have done it, aunt erminia," she proclaimed at last. "done the heel?" "yes, ma'am." "you cannot possibly. come here and let me look at it. why, of course! that is not done as i showed you, tilly; these rows of darning should be close together, one stitch just in the middle between two other stitches; you have just gone straggling over the whole heel. that will have to come all out." "but there is no hole in it," said matilda. "always darn _before_ the holes come. that will not do. you must pick it all out, tilly." "now?" said matilda, despairingly. "certainly now. you make yourself trouble in that way. i am sorry. pick it all neatly out." matilda went at it impatiently; tugged at the thread; pulled the heel of her stocking into a very intricate drawn-up state; then had to smooth it out again with difficulty. "this is very hard to come out," she said. "yes, it is bad picking," said her aunt, composedly. matilda was very impatient and very weary besides. however, work did it, in time. "now see if you can do it better," said mrs. candy. "_now_, aunt erminia?" "certainly. it is your own fault that you have made such a business of it. you should have done as i told you." "but i am _very_ tired." "i dare say you are." matilda was very much in the mind to cry; but that would not have mended matters, and would have hurt her pride besides. she went earnestly to work with her darning needle instead. she could use it nicely, she found, with giving pains and time enough. but it took a great while to do a little. up one side and down the other; then up that side and down the first; threading long double needlefuls, and having them used up with great rapidity; matilda seemed to grow into a darning machine. she was very still; only a deep-drawn long breath now and then heaved her little breast. impatience faded, however, and a sort of dulness crept over her. at last she became very tired, so tired that pride gave way, and she said so. mrs. candy remarked that she was sorry. "aunt candy, i think maria may want me by this time." "yes. _that_ is of no consequence." "maria has got no one to help her." "she will not hurt herself," clarissa observed. "aunt erminia, wouldn't you just as lieve i should finish this by and by?" "i will think of that," said her aunt. "all you have to do, is to work on." "i am very tired of it!" "that is not a reason for stopping, my dear. rather the contrary. one must learn to do things after one is tired. that is a lesson i learned a great while ago." "i cannot work so well or so fast, when i am tired," said matilda. "and i cannot work at all while you are talking to me." matilda's slow fingers drew the needle in and out for some time longer. then to her great joy, the dinner bell rang. "what does maria mean?" said mrs. candy, looking at her watch. "it wants an hour of dinner-time. run and see what it is, matilda." matilda ran down-stairs. "do you think i have five pairs of hands?" inquired maria, indignantly. "it is nice for you to be playing up-stairs, and i working as hard as i can in the kitchen! i won't stand this, i can tell you." "playing!" echoed matilda. "well, maria, what do you want done?" "look and see. you have eyes. about everything is to be done. there's the castors to put in order, and the lettuce to get ready--i wish lettuce wouldn't grow!--and the table to set, and the sauce to make for the pudding. now hurry." it was absolutely better than play, to fly about and do all these things, after the confinement of darning stockings. matilda's glee equalled maria's discomfiture. only, when it was all done and the dinner ready, matilda stood still to think. "i am sorry i was so impatient this morning up-stairs," she said to herself. chapter ii. matilda's spirits were not quite used up by the morning's experience, for after dinner she put on her bonnet, and took her bible, and set off on an expedition, with out asking leave of anybody. she was bent upon getting to lilac lane. "if i do not get there to-day, i don't know when i shall," she said to herself. "there is no telling what aunt candy will do." she got there without any difficulty. it was an overcast, aprilish day, with low clouds, and now and then a drop of rain falling. matilda did not care for that. it was all the pleasanter walking. lilac lane was at some distance from home, and the sun had a good deal of power on sunny days now. the mud was all gone by this time; in its place a thick groundwork of dust. winter frost was replaced by soft spring air; but that gave a chance for the lane odours to come out--not the fragrance of hawthorn and primrose, by any means. nor any such pleasant sight to be seen. poor, straggling, forlorn houses; broken fences, or no courtyards at all; thick dust, and no footway; garbage, and ashes, and bones, but never even so much as a green potato patch to greet the eye, much less a rose or a pink; an iron shop, and a livery stable at the entrance of the lane, seeming dignified and elegant buildings by comparison with what came afterwards. few living things were abroad; a boy or two, and two or three babies making discomposure in the dust, were about all. matilda wondered if every one of those houses did not need to have the message carried to them? where was she to begin? "does mrs. eldridge live in this house, or in that?" matilda asked a boy in her way. "in nary one." "where _does_ she live?" "old sally eldridge? sam's grandmother?" "i don't know anything about sam," said matilda. "she lives alone." "well, _she_ lives alone. that's her door yonder--where the cat sits." "thank you." matilda thought to ask if the boy went to sunday-school; but she felt as if all the force she had would be wanted to carry her through the visit to mrs. eldridge. it was a forlorn-looking doorway; the upper half of the door swinging partly open; the cottage dropping down on one side, as if it was tired of the years when it had stood up; not a speck of paint to be seen anywhere, and little, bare, broken windows, not even patched with rags. matilda walked up to the door and knocked, sorely appalled at the view she got through the half-open doorway. no answer. she knocked again. then a weak, "who is it?" matilda let herself in. there was a worn and torn rag carpet; an unswept floor; boards and walls that had not known the touch of water or soap in many, many months; a rusty little stove with no fire in it; and a poor old woman, who looked in all respects like her surroundings; worn and torn and dusty and unwashed and neglected. to her matilda turned, with a great sinking of heart. what could _she_ do? "who's here?" said the old woman, who did not seem to have her sight clear. "matilda englefield." "i don't know no such a person." "maybe you would like to know me," said matilda. "i am come to see you." "what fur? i hain't sent for nobody. who told you to come?" "no, i know you didn't. but i wanted to come and see you, mrs. eldridge." "what fur? you're a little gal, bain't you?" "yes, ma'am; and i thought maybe you would like to have me read a chapter in the bible to you." "a _what?_" said the old woman with strong emphasis. "a chapter in the bible. i thought--perhaps you couldn't see to read it yourself." "read?" said the old creature. "never could. i never could see to read, for i never knowed how. no, i never knowed how; i didn't." "you would like to hear reading, now, wouldn't you? i came to read to you a chapter--if you'll let me--out of the bible." "a chapter?" the old woman repeated--"what's a chapter now? it's no odds; 'taint bread, nor 'taint 'baccy." "no, it is not tobacco," said matilda; "but it is better than tobacco." "couldn't ye get me some 'baccy, now?" said the old woman, as if with a sudden thought. but matilda did not see her way clear to that; and the hope failing, the failure of everything seemed to be expressed in a long-drawn "heigh-ho!" which ran wearily down all the notes of the gamut. matilda felt she was not getting on. the place and the woman were inexpressibly forlorn to her. "who sent ye fur to come here?" was next asked. "nobody sent me." "what fur did ye come?" "i thought you would like to hear a little reading." "'taint a song, is it? i used fur to hear songs oncet; they don't sing songs in this village. they sells good 'baccy, though. heigh-ho!" matilda grew desperate. she was not making any headway. as a last expedient, she opened her book, plunged into the work, and gave in the hearing of mrs. eldridge a few of its wonderful sentences. maybe those words would reach her, thought matilda. she read slowly the twenty-third psalm, and then went back to the opening verse and read it again. "'the lord is my shepherd; i shall not want.'" mrs. eldridge had been very still. "a shepherd," she repeated, when matilda had stopped;--"he used fur to be a shepherd." matilda wondered very much what the old lady was thinking of. her next words made it clearer. "he kept sheep fur mr.--mr.--him they called the judge; i don't mind who he was. he kept sheep for him, he did." "judge brockenhurst?" "that was it--i can't speak his name; he kept his sheep. it was a big place." "yes, i know judge brockenhurst's place," said matilda; "he has a great many sheep. _who_ kept them?" "he did, dear. my old man. he kept 'em. it's long sen." "well, didn't he take good care of them, the sheep?" "my old man? ay, did he. there warn't no better a shepherd in the country. he took care of 'em. the judge sot a great deal by him." "how did he take care of them?" matilda asked. "oh, i don' know. he watched 'em, and he took 'em round, and he didn't let no harm happen to 'em. he didn't." "well, this i read was about the good shepherd and _his_ sheep. he takes care of them, too. don't you think the lord jesus takes care of his sheep?" "he don't take no care o' me," said the poor old woman. "there ain't no care took o' me anywheres--neither in heaven nor in earth. no, there ain't." "but are you one of his sheep?" said matilda, doubtfully. "eh?" said the woman, pricking up her ears, as it were. "are you one of the lord's sheep, mrs. eldridge?" "am i one of 'em? i'm poor enough fur to be took care of; i am, and there ain't no care took o' me. neither in heaven nor on earth. no, there ain't." "but are you one of his sheep?" matilda persisted. "his sheep follow him. did you ever do that, ma'am? were you ever a servant of the lord jesus?" "a servant? i warn't no servant, nowheres," was the answer. "i had no need to do that. we was 'spectable folks, and we had our own home and lived in it, we did. i warn't never no servant o' nobody." "but we all ought to be god's servants," said matilda. "eh?--i hain't done no harm, i hain't. nobody never said as i done 'em no harm." "but the servants of jesus love him, and obey him, and do what he says," matilda repeated, growing eager. "they do just what he says, and they love him, and they love everybody, because he gives them new hearts." "i don't know as he never give me nothing," said mrs. eldridge. "did you ever ask him for a new heart? and did you ever try to please him? then you would be one of his sheep, and he would take care of you." "nobody takes no care o' me," said the poor woman, stolidly. "listen," said matilda. "this is what he says-- "'i am the good shepherd; the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.' he cared so much for you as that. 'i am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine. as the father knoweth me, even so know i the father: and i lay down my life for the sheep.' "he cared so much for you as that. he died that you might be forgiven and live. don't say he didn't care?" "i didn't know as he'd never done nothing fur me," said mrs. eldridge. "he did that. listen, now, please," "'my sheep hear my voice, and i know them, and they follow me: and i give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand. my father, which gave them me, is greater than all; and none is able to pluck them out of my father's hand. i and my father are one.'" matilda lifted her head and sought, in the faded blue eye over against her, if she could find any response to these words. she fancied there was a quieter thoughtfulness in it. "that has a good sound," was the old woman's comment, uttered presently. "but i'm old now, and i can't do nothing; and there ain't nobody to take care o' me. there ain't." matilda glanced over the desolate room. it was dusty, dirty, neglected, and poverty stricken. what if _she_ had been sent to "take care" of mrs. eldridge? the thought was exceedingly disagreeable; but once come, she could not get rid of it. "what do you want, mrs. eldridge?" she asked at length. "i don't want no more readin'. but it has a good sound--a good sound." "what would you like to have somebody do for you? not reading." "there was folks as cared fur me," said the old woman. "there ain't none no more. no more. there ain't no one as cares." "but if there _was_ some one--what would you tell her to do for you?--now, to-day?" "any one as cared would know," said mrs. eldridge. "there's 'most all to do. 'spect i'd have a cup o' tea for my supper--'spect i would." "don't you have tea? won't you have it to-night?" the feeble eye looked over at the little rusty stove. "there ain't no fire," she said; "nor nothing to make fire; it's cold; and there ain't nobody to go out and get it fur me--i can't go pick up sticks no more. an' if i had the fire, there ain't no tea. there ain't no one as cares." "but what will you have then?" said matilda. "what do you have for supper?" "go and look," said mrs. eldridge, turning her head towards a corner cupboard, the doors of which stood a little open. "if there's anything, it's there; if it ain't all eat up." matilda hesitated; then thought she had better know the state of things, since she had leave; and crossed to the cupboard door. it was a problem with her how to open it; so long, long it was since anything clean had touched the place; she made the end of her glove finger do duty and pulled the cupboard leaves open. she never forgot what she saw there, nor the story of lonely and desolate life which it told. two cups and saucers, one standing in a back corner, unused and full of cobwebs, the other cracked, soiled, grimy, and full of flies. something had been in it; what, matilda could not examine. on the bare shelf lay a half loaf of bread, pretty dry, with a knife alongside. a plate of broken meat, also full of flies, and looking, matilda thought, fit for the flies alone, was there; a cup half full of salt; an empty vinegar cruet, an old shawl, ditto hood; a pitcher with no water; an old muslin cap, half soiled; a faded bit of ribband, and a morsel of cheese flanked by a bitten piece of gingerbread. matilda came back sick at heart. "where do you sleep, mrs. eldridge? and who makes your bed? or can you make it?" "sleep?" said the old woman. "nobody cares. i sleep in yonder." matilda looked, doubted, finally crossed the room again and pushed a little inwards the door mrs. eldridge had looked at. she came back quickly. so close, so ill-smelling, so miserable to her nice senses, the room within was; with its huddled up bundle of dirty coverlets, and the soiled bed under them on the floor. not much of a bed either, and not much else in the room. a great burden was gathering on matilda's heart and shoulders; the burden of the wants of her neighbour, and her own responsibilities. the afternoon was now waning; what was to be done? matilda tried to think that somebody would come in and do what she herself was very unwilling to do; but conscience reminded her that it was very unlikely. did that neglected cupboard give much promise of kind attendance or faithful supply? or that rusty stove look like neighbourly care? but then matilda pleaded to herself that she had her own work, and not much time; and that such a dirty place was very unfit for her nice little hands. "good-bye, mrs. eldridge," she said, lingering. "i'll come and see you again." "'taint a pleasant place to come to," said the old woman. "'taint a pleasant place fur nobody. and nobody comes to it. nobody comes." "i'll come, though," said matilda. she could do so much as that, she thought. "good-bye. i must go home." she left the old woman and the house, and began her walk. the lane, she observed, looked as if other houses and other people in it might be as ill off as those she had been visiting. "she is not worse than a number of others, i dare say," thought matilda. "i could not visit them all, and i could not certainly take care of them all. it really makes little difference on the whole, whether or no i kindle mrs. eldridge's fire. it is delightful to get away from the place." and then matilda tried to think that in making her visit and reading to the old woman, she had really done a good deal; made a good afternoon's work. nobody else had done even so much as that; not even anybody in all shadywalk. the walk home was quite pleasant, under the soothing influence of these thoughts. nevertheless, a little secret point of uneasiness remained at matilda's heart. she did not stop to look at it, until she and maria went up to bed. then, as usual, while maria got ready for sleep, matilda knelt down before the table where her open bible lay under the lamp; and there conscience met her. and when conscience meets any one, it is the same thing as to say that the lord meets him. that was what matilda felt this night. for her reading fell upon the story of the woman who brought the precious ointment for the head of jesus, and poured it upon his feet also; whom the lord, when she was chidden, commended; saying, "ye have the poor with you always, and whensoever ye will ye may do them good: but me ye have not always. she hath done what she could." had matilda? and these poor whom we have always with us, she recollected that in another place the lord in a sort identifies himself with them, saying that what is done to his poor is done to himself. mrs. eldridge was not indeed one of the lord's children, but that did not help the matter. "for perhaps she will be," matilda said to herself. and what if the lord had sent matilda there now to be his messenger? the success of the message might depend on the behaviour of the messenger. but above all it pressed upon matilda's heart that she had not done what she _could;_ and that in declining to make a fire in mrs. eldridge's rusty little stove and in shrinking from waiting upon her, she had lost a chance of waiting upon, perhaps, the lord himself. "and it was such a good chance," thought matilda; "such a good afternoon; and there is no telling when i may get another. it was such a good opportunity. and i lost it." the pain of a lost opportunity was something she had not counted upon. it pressed hard, and was not easy to get rid of. the disagreeableness of the place and the service faded into nothing before this pain. matilda went to bed with a sore heart, resolving to watch for the very first chance to do what she had neglected to do this afternoon. but lilac lane looked very disagreeable to her thoughts the next day, and the sharp effect of the bible words had faded somewhat. "maria," she said as they were washing up the dishes after breakfast,--"i wish you would help me in something." "what?" "do you call yourself a member of the band yet?" "of course i do. what do you ask for?" "i did not know," said matilda, sighing. "you don't _do_ the things promised in the covenant. i didn't know but you had given it all up." "what don't i do?" inquired maria, fiercely. "don't be angry, please, maria. i do not mean to make you angry." "what don't i do, matilda?" "you know, the covenant says, 'we stand ready to do his will.' he has commanded that we should be baptized and join the church, and that we should follow him--you know how, maria. and you don't seem to like to do it." "is that all?" "that is all about that." "then, if you will mind your affairs, matilda, i will try and mind mine. and i will be much obliged to you." "then you will not help me?" "help in what?" "there is a poor woman, maria," said her little sister, lowering her voice, "a poor old woman, who has no one to take care of her, and hardly anything to live upon. she lives--you can't think how she lives!--in the most miserable little house, dirty and all; and without fire or anybody to sweep her room, or make her bed, or make a cup of tea for her. if you would help me, we might do something to make her comfortable." "where is she?" "in lilac lane." "have you been to see her?" "yes." "what do you think aunt candy would say if she knew it?" "will you help me, maria?" "help make her bed and sweep her room?" "yes, and get her a cup of tea sometimes, and a clean supper." "a clean supper!" exclaimed maria. "well! yes, i guess i'll help you, when i have nothing of my own to do. when the dinner gets itself, and the house stays swept and dusted, and aunt candy lives without cakes for breakfast." matilda was silent. "but i'll tell you what, matilda," said her sister, "aunt candy will never let you do this sort of work. you may as well give it up peaceably, and not worry yourself nor anybody else. she'll never let you go into lilac lane--not to speak of getting dirty people's dinners. you may as well quit it." "don't tell her, maria." "you'll tell her yourself, first thing," said maria, scornfully. matilda had to go up-stairs soon to her reading in her aunt's room. it was even more unintelligible, the reading, this time than before; because matilda's head was running so busily on something else. "you do not read well, child," said her aunt. "no, ma'am. i do not understand it." "but it is about what you have just done, matilda. it is about the ordinance of baptism, and the life proper to a person who has been received into the church. you ought to understand that." "i _do_ understand it, in the bible." "what does the bible say about it?" "it says,--'my sheep hear my voice: and i know them, and they follow me.'" "what do you mean by 'following him'?" "why, living the sort of life he lived, and doing what he tells us to do." "how do you propose to live the sort of life he lived? it's almost blasphemy." "why, no, aunt candy; he tells us to do it." "do what?" "live the sort of life he lived. he says we must follow him." "well, how, for instance? in what?" "you know how _he_ lived," said matilda. "he helped people, and he taught people, and he cured people; he was always doing good to people, and trying to make them good. especially poor, miserable people, that nobody cared for." "trying to make them good!" said mrs. candy. "as if his omnipotence could not have made them good in a minute." "then why didn't he?" said matilda, simply. "it _sounds_ as if he was trying to make them good." "well, child--it's no use talking; i wish i had had the training of you earlier," said mrs. candy. "you are so prepossessed with ideas that border on fanaticism, that it is a hard matter to get you into right habits of thinking. come here and take your darning." so matilda did. the darning was not wearisome at all to-day, so busy her thoughts were with the question of mrs. eldridge; how much or how little matilda ought to do for her, how much she _could_, and what were the best arrangements to be set on foot. so intent she was on these questions, that the darning was done with the greatest patience, and therefore with the greatest success. mrs. candy and her daughter even looked at each other and smiled over the demure, thoughtful little face of the workwoman; and matilda got praise for her work. she had made up her mind meanwhile that "she hath done what she could"--should be her rule to go by. so as the after noon was fair, and mrs. candy and her daughter both gone to make a visit at some miles' distance, matilda sallied forth. "did she give you leave?" maria asked, as she saw her sister getting ready. "no." "she wants you to ask leave always." "i never used to do that," said matilda. her voice choked before she could finish her sentence. "you will get into trouble." "one trouble is better than another, though," said matilda; and she went. she went first to mr. sample's, and asked how much a pound of tea cost. "the last i sent your aunt," said mr. sample, "was one fifty a pound; and worth it. don't she approve the flavour?" "i believe so. but i want a little of another kind, mr. sample--if you have any that is good, and not so high." "i have an excellent oolong here for a dollar. will you try that?" "please give me a quarter of a pound." "she will like it," said mr. sample, weighing the quantity and putting it up; "it really has as much body as the other sort, and i think it is very nearly as good. the other is fifty cents a pound more. tell mrs. candy i can serve her with this if she prefers." "i want a loaf of bread too, if you please." "baking failed?" said mr. sample. "here, jem, give this little girl a loaf." he himself went to attend another customer, so matilda paid for her purchases without any more questions being asked her. she went to another store for a little butter, and there also laid in a few herrings; and then, with a full basket and a light heart, took the way to lilac lane. chapter iii. mrs. eldridge was as she had left her yesterday; a trifle more forlorn, perhaps. the afternoon being bright and sunny, made everything in the house look more grimy and dusty for the contrast. matilda shrank from having anything to do with it. but yet, the consciousness that she carried a basket of comfort on her arm was a great help. "good morning, mrs. eldridge; how do you do?" she said, cheerily. "is it that little gal?" "yes, it is i, mrs. eldridge. i said i would come back. how do you do, to-day?" "i'm most dead," said the poor woman. matilda was startled; but looking again, could not see that her face threatened anything like it. she rather thought mrs. eldridge was tired of life; and she did not wonder. "you don't feel ill, do you?" "no," the woman said, with a long drawn sigh. "there ain't no sickness got hold o' me yet. there's no one as 'll care when it comes." "would you like a cup of tea this afternoon?" "tea?" said the poor woman, "i don't have no tea, child. tea's for the folks as has money, or somebody to care for 'em." "but i care for you," said matilda, gently. "and the lord jesus cares. and he gave me the money to get some tea, and i've got it. now i'm going to make a fire in the stove. is there any wood anywhere?" "fire?" said mrs. eldridge. "yes. to boil the kettle, you know. is there any wood anywhere?" "have you got some tea?" "yes, and now i want to make the kettle boil. where can i get some wood?" "kettle?" said the old woman. "i hain't no kettle." "no tea-kettle?" "no. it's gone. there ain't none." "what is there, then, that i can boil some water in?" "there's a skillet down in there," said mrs. eldridge, pointing to the under part of the corner cupboard which matilda had looked into the day before. she went now to explore what remained. the lower part had once been used, it seemed, for pots and kettles and stove furniture. at least it looked black enough; and an old saucepan and a frying-pan, two flat-irons very rusty, and a few other iron articles were there. but both saucepan and frying-pan were in such a state that matilda could not think of using them. days of purification would be needed first. so she shut the cupboard door, and came back to the question of fire; for difficulties were not going to overcome her now. and there were difficulties. mrs. eldridge could not help her to any firing. she knew nothing about it. none had been in the house for a long time. matilda stood and looked at the stove. then she emptied her basket; laying her little packages carefully on a chair; and went off on a foraging expedition. at a lumber yard or a carpenter's shop she could pick up something; but neither was near. the houses in lilac lane were too needy them selves to ask anything at them. matilda went down the lane, seeing no prospect of help, till she came to the iron shop and the livery stable. she looked hard at both places. nothing for her purpose was to be seen; and she remembered that there were children enough in the houses behind her to keep the neighbourhood picked clean of chips and brushwood. what was to be done? she took a bold resolve, and went into the iron shop, the master of which she knew slightly. he was there, and looked at her as she came in. "mr. swain, have you any little bits of wood that you could let me have? bits of wood to make a fire." "matilda englefield, ain't it?" said mr. swain. "bits o' wood? bits of iron are more in our way--could let ye have a heap o' _them_. bits o' wood to make a fire, did ye say? 'twon't be a big fire as 'll come out o' that 'ere little basket." "i do not want a big fire--just some bits of wood to boil a kettle." "i want to know!" said mr. swain. "you hain't come all this way from your house to get wood? what's happened to you?" "oh, not for _our_ fire! oh no. i want it for a place here in the lane." "these folks picks up their own wood--you hadn't no need for to trouble yourself about them." "no, but it is some one who cannot pick up her own wood, mr. swain, nor get it any other way; it is an old woman, and she wants a little fire to make a cup of tea." "i guess, if she can get the tea she can get the wood." "somebody brought her the tea," said matilda, who luckily was not in one way a timid child. "i will pay for the wood if i can get some." "oh, that's the game, eh?" said the man. "well, as it's mis' englefield's daughter--i guess we'll find you what will do you--how 'll this suit, if i split it up for you, eh?" he handled an old box cover as he spoke. matilda answered that it was the very thing; and a few easy blows of mr. swain's hatchet broke it up into nice billets and splinters. part of these went into matilda's basket, one end of them at least; the rest she took with great difficulty in her apron; and so went back up the lane again. it was good to see the glint of the old woman's eyes, when she saw the wood flung down on the floor. matilda went on to clear out the stove. it had bits of coal and clinker in the bottom of it. but she had furnished herself with a pair of old gloves, and her spirit was thoroughly up to the work now. she picked out the coal and rubbish, laid in paper and splinters and wood; now how to kindle it? matilda had no match. and she remembered suddenly that she had better have her kettle ready first, lest the fire should burn out before its work was done. so saying to mrs. eldridge that she was going after a match, she went forth again. where to ask? one house looked as forbidding as another. finally concluded to try the first. she knocked timidly and went in. a slatternly woman was giving supper to a half dozen children who were making a great deal of noise over it. the hurly-burly confused matilda, and confused the poor woman too. "what do you want?" she asked shortly. "i came to see if you could lend me a tea-kettle for half an hour." "what do you want of my tea-kettle?" "i want only to boil some water." "hush your noise, sam darcy!" said the woman to an urchin some ten years old who was clamouring for the potatoes--"who for?" "to boil some water for mrs. eldridge." "you don't live here?" "no." "well, my tea-kettle's in use, you see. the cheapest way 'd be for mrs. eldridge to get a tea-kettle for herself. sam darcy! if you lay a finger on them 'taters till i give 'em to you----" matilda closed the door and went over the way. here she found a somewhat tidy woman at work ironing. nobody else in the room. she made known her errand. the woman looked at her doubtfully. "if i let you take my kettle, i don't know when i'll see it agin. mis' eldridge don't have the use of herself so 's she kin come over the street to bring it back, ye see." "i will bring it back myself," said matilda. "i only want it for a little while." "is mis' eldridge sick?" "no. i only want to make her a cup of tea." "i hadn't heerd nothin' of her bein' sick. be you a friend o' hern?" "yes." "we've got sickness in _this_ house," the woman went on. "and everythin's wantin' where there's sickness; and hard to get it. it's my old mother. she lies in there"--nodding towards an inner room--"night and day, and day and night; and she'd like a bit o' comfort now and then as well as another; and 'tain't often as i kin give it to her. life's hard to them as hain't got nothin' to live on. i hadn't ought to complain, and i don't complain; but sometimes it comes over me that life's hard." here was another! "what does she want?" matilda asked. "is she very sick?" "she won't never be no better," her daughter answered; "and she lies there and knows she won't never be no better; and she's all as full of aches as she kin be, sometimes; and other times she's more easy like; but she lies there and knows she can't never get up no more in this world; and she wants 'most everythin'. i do what i kin." "do you think you can lend me your tea-kettle? i will be very much obliged." "well, if you'll bring it back yourself--i 'spose i will. it's all the kettle i've got." she fetched it out of a receptacle behind the stove, brushed the soot from its sides with a chicken's wing, and handed it to matilda. it was an iron tea-kettle, not very large to be sure, but very heavy to hold at arm's length; and so matilda was obliged to carry it, for fear of smutching her frock. she begged a match too, and hastened back over the street as well as she could. but matilda's heart, though glad at the comfort she was about to give, began to be wearily heavy on account of the comfort she could not give; comfort that was lacking in so many quarters where she could do nothing. she easily kindled her fire now; filled the tea-kettle at the pump--this was very difficult, but without more borrowing she could not help it--and at last got the kettle on, and had the joy of hearing it begin to sing. the worst came now. for that tea-cup and saucer and plate must be washed before they could be used; and matilda could not bear to touch them. she thought of taking the unused cup at the back of the shelf; but conscience would not let her. "you know those ought to be washed," said conscience; "and if you do not do it, perhaps nobody else will." matilda earnestly wished that somebody else might. she had no bowl, either, to wash them in, and no napkin to dry them. and here a dreadful thought suggested itself. did mrs. eldridge herself, too, do without washing? there were no towels to be seen anywhere. sick at heart, the little girl gathered up the soiled pieces of crockery in her basket--the basket had a paper in it--and went over the way again to mrs. rogers' cottage. as she went, it crossed her mind, could mrs. rogers perhaps be the other one of those two in lilac lane who needed to have the bible read to them? or were there still others? and how many christians there had need to be in the world, to do all the work of it. even in shadywalk. and what earnest christians they had need to be. "back again a'ready?" said the woman, as she let her in. matilda showed what she had in her basket, and asked for something to wash her dishes in. she got more than she asked for; sabrina rogers took them from her to wash them herself. "she has nobody to do anything for her," matilda observed of the poor old owner of the cup and saucer. "she ain't able to do for herself," remarked sabrina; "that's where the difference is. the folks as has somebody to do su'thin' for them, is lucky folks. i never see none o' that luck myself." "but your mother has you," said matilda, gently. "i can't do much for her, either," said sabrina. "poor folks must take life as they find it. and they find it hard." "can your mother read?" "she's enough to do to lie still and bear it, without readin'," said the daughter. "folks as has to get their livin' has to do without readin'." "but would she like it?" matilda asked. "i wonder when these things _was_ washed afore," said the woman, scrubbing at them. "like it? you kin go in and ask her." matilda pushed open the inner door, and somewhat reluctantly went in. it was decent, that room was; and this disabled old woman lay under a patchwork quilt, on a bed that seemed comfortable. but the window was shut, and the air was close. it was very disagreeable. "how do you do to-day, mrs. rogers?" matilda said, stepping nearer the bed. "who's that?" was the question. "matilda englefield." "who's 'tilda eggleford?" "i live in the village," said matilda. "are you much sick?" "laws, i be!" said the poor woman. "it's like as if my bones was on fire, some nights. yes, i be sick. and i'll never be no better." "does anybody ever come to read the bible to you?" "read the bible?" the sick woman repeated. her face looked dull, as if there had ceased to be any thoughts behind it. matilda wondered if it was because she had so little to think of. "what about reading the bible?" she said. "you cannot read lying there, can you?" "there ain't a book nowheres in the house." "not a bible?" "a bible? i hain't seen a bible in five year." "do you remember what is in the bible?" said matilda, greatly shocked. this _was_ living without air. "remember?" said the woman. "i'm tired o' 'membering. i'd like to go to sleep and remember no more. what's the use?" "what do you remember?" matilda asked in some awe. "i remember 'most everything," said the woman, wearily. "times when i was well and strong--and young--and had my house comfor'ble and my things respectable. them times was once. and i had what i wanted, and could do what i had a mind to. there ain't no use in remembering. i'd like to forget. now i lie here." "do you remember nothing else?" said matilda. "i remember it all," said the woman. "i've nothin' to do but think. when i was first married, and just come home, and thought all the world was"--she stopped to sigh--"a garden o' posies. 'tain't much like it--to poor folks. and i had my children around me--sabriny's the last on 'em. she's out there, ain't she?" "yes." "what's she doin'?" "she is ironing." "yes; she takes in. sabriny has it all to do. i can't do nothin'--this five year." "may i come and see you again, mrs. rogers? i must go now." "you may come if you like," was the answer. "i don't know what you should want to come for." matilda was afraid her fire of pine sticks would give out; and hurried across the lane again with her basket of clean things. the stove had fired up, to be sure; and mrs. eldridge was sitting crouched over it, with an evident sense of enjoyment that went to matilda's heart. if the room now were but clean, she thought, and the other room; and the bed made, and mrs. eldridge herself. there was too much to think of; matilda gave it up, and attended to the business in hand. the kettle boiled. she made the tea in the tea-cup; laid a herring on the stove; spread some bread and butter; and in a few minutes invited mrs. eldridge's attention to her supper spread on a chair. the old woman drank the tea as if it were the rarest of delicacies; matilda filled up her cup again; and then she fell to work on the fish and bread and butter, tearing them to pieces with her fingers, and in great though silent appreciation. meanwhile matilda brought the cupboard to a little order; and then filling up mrs. eldridge's cup for the third time, carried back the kettle to sabrina rogers and begged the loan of an old broom. "what do you want to do with it?" "mrs. eldridge's room wants sweeping very much." "likely it does! who's a going to sweep it, though, if i lend you my broom?" "there's nobody but me," said matilda. the woman brought the broom, and, as she gave it, asked, "who sent you to do all this?" "nobody." "what made you come, then? it's queer play for a child like you." "somebody must do it, you know," said matilda; and she ran away. but sabrina's words recurred to her. it was queer play. but then, who would do it? and it was not for mrs. eldridge alone. she brushed away with a good heart, while the poor old woman was hovering over the chair on which her supper was set, munching bread and herring with a particularity of attention which shewed how good a good meal was to her. matilda did not disturb her, and she said never a word to matilda; till, just as the little girl had brought all the sweepings of the floor to the threshold, where they lay in a heap, and another stroke of the broom would have scattered them into the street, the space outside the door was darkened by a figure, the sight of which nearly made the broom fly out of matilda's hand. nobody but mr. richmond stood there. the two faces looked mutual pleasure and surprise at each other. "mr. richmond!" "what _are_ you doing here, tilly?" "mr. richmond, can you step over this muss? i will have it away directly." mr. richmond stepped in, looked at the figure by the stove, and then back at matilda. the little girl finished her sweeping and came back, to receive a warm grasp of the hand from her minister; one of the things matilda liked best to get. "is all this your work, tilly," he whispered. "mr. richmond, nobody has given her a cup of tea in a long while." the minister stepped softly to the figure still bending over the broken herring; i think his blue eye had an unusual softness in it. the old woman pushed her chair back, and looked up at him. "it's the minister agin," said she. "are you glad to see me?" said mr. richmond, taking a chair that matilda had dusted for him. i am afraid she took off her apron to do it with, but the occasion was pressing. there was no distinct answer to the minister's question. "you seem to have had some supper here," he remarked. "it's a good cup o' tea," said mrs. eldridge;--"a good cup o' tea. i hain't seen such a good cup o' tea, not since ten year!" "i am very glad of that. and you feel better for it, don't you?" "a good cup o' tea makes one feel like folks," mrs. eldridge assented. "and it is pleasant to think that somebody cares for us," mr. richmond went on. "i didn't think as there warn't nobody," said mrs. eldridge, wiping her lips. "you see you were mistaken. here are two people that care for you." "she cares the most," said mrs. eldridge, with a little nod of her head towards matilda. "i will not dispute that," said the minister, laughing. "she has cared fire, and tea, and bread, and fish, hasn't she? and you think i have only cared to come and see you. don't you like that?" "i used fur to have visits," said the poor old woman, "when i had a nice place and was fixed up respectable. i had visits. yes, i had. there don't no one come now. there won't no more on 'em come; no more." "perhaps you are mistaken, mrs. eldridge. do you see how much you were mistaken in thinking that no one cared for you? do you know there is more care for you than hers?" "i don't know why she cares," said mrs. eldridge. "who do you think sent her, and told her to care for you?" "who sent her?" the woman repeated. "yes, who sent her. who do you think it was?" as he got but a lack-lustre look in reply, the minister went on. "this little girl is the servant of the lord jesus christ; and he sent her to come and see you, and care for you; and he did that because _he_ cares. he cares about you. he loves you, and sent his little servant to be his messenger." "he didn't send no one afore," the old woman remarked. "yes, he did," said mr. richmond, growing grave, "he sent others, but they did not come. they did not do what he gave them to do. and now, mrs. eldridge, we bring you a message from the lord--this little girl and i do,--that he loves you and wants you to love him. you know you never have loved, or trusted, or obeyed him, in all your life. and now, the goodness of god leadeth thee to repentance." "there ain't much as a poor old thing like i can do," she said, after a long pause. "you can trust the lord that died for you, and love him, and thank him. you can give yourself to the lord jesus to be made pure and good. can't you? then he will fit you for his glorious place up yonder. you must be fitted for it, you know. nothing that defileth or is defiled can go in; only those that havt washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the lamb. listen, now, while i read about that." mr. richmond opened his bible and read first the seventh chapter of the revelation, and then the twenty-second; and matilda, standing and leaning on the back of his chair, thought how wonderful the words were, that even so poor an old helpless creature as the one opposite him might come to have a share in them. perhaps the wonder and the beauty of them struck mrs. eldridge too, for she listened very silently. and then mr. richmond knelt down and prayed. after that, he and matilda together took the way home. the evening was falling, and soft and sweet the light and the air came through the trees, and breathed even over lilac lane. the minister and the little girl together drew fresh breaths. it was all so delicious after the inside of the poor house where they had been. "light is a pleasant thing!" said the minister, half to himself. "i think, matilda, heaven will seem something so, when we get there." "like this evening, mr. richmond?" "like this evening light and beauty, after coming out of mrs. eldridge's house." "and then, will this world seem like mrs. eldridge's house?" "i think it will, in the contrast. look at those dainty little flecks of cloud yonder, low down in the sky, that seem to have caught the light in their vaporous drapery and embodied it. see what brilliance of colour is there, and upon what a pure sky beyond!" "will _this_ ever seem like mrs. eldridge's house?" said matilda. "this is the world that god made," said the minister, smiling. "i was thinking of the world that man has made." "lilac lane, mr. richmond?" said matilda, glancing around her. they were hardly out of it. "lilac lane is not such a bad specimen," said the minister, with a sigh this time. "there is much worse than this, matilda. and the worst of lilac lane is what you do not see. you had to buy your opportunity, then?" he added, with a smile again, looking down at matilda. "i suppose i had, mr. richmond." "what did you pay?" "mr. richmond, it was not pleasant to think of touching mrs. eldridge's things." "no. i should think not. but you are not sorry you came? don't you find, that as i said, it pays?" "oh yes, sir! but----" "but what?" "there is so much to do." "yes!" said the minister, thoughtfully. and it seemed to have stopped his talk. "is mrs. rogers the other one?" matilda asked. "the other one?" repeated mr. richmond. "the other opportunity. you said there were two in lilac lane, sir." "i do not know mrs. rogers." "but she is another one that wants the bible read to her, mr. richmond. she lives just across the way; i found her out by going to borrow a tea-kettle." "you borrowed your tea-kettle?" "yes, sir. mrs. eldridge has none. she has almost nothing, and as she says, there is nobody that cares." "well, that will not do," said the minister. "we must see about getting a kettle for her." "then, mr. richmond, mrs. rogers is a _third_ opportunity. she has been sick a-bed for five years, and there is not a bible in the house." "there are opportunities starting up on every side, as soon as we are ready for them," said the minister. "but mr. richmond--i am afraid,--i am not ready for them." "why so, my dear child? i thought you _were_." "i am afraid i was sorry when i found out about mrs. rogers." "why were you sorry?" "there seemed so much to do, mr. richmond; so much disagreeable work. why, it would take every bit of time i have got, and more, to attend to those two; every bit." there came a rush of something that for a moment dimmed mr. richmond's blue eyes; for a moment he was silent. and for that moment, too, the language of gold clouds and sky was a sharp answer--the answer of light--to the thoughts of earth. "it is very natural," mr. richmond said. "it is a natural feeling." "but it is not right, is it?" said matilda, timidly. "is it like jesus?" "no, sir." "then it cannot be right. 'who being in the form of god, thought it not robbery to be equal with god; but made himself of no reputation, and took upon himself the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross.' "who 'pleased not himself.' who 'had not where to lay his head!' who, 'though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor.' 'he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay our lives down for the brethren.'" matilda listened, with a choking feeling coming in her throat. "but then what can i do, mr. richmond? how can i help feeling so?" "there is only one way, dear matilda," said her friend. "the way is, to love jesus so much, that you like his will better than your own; so much, that you would rather please him than please yourself." "how can i get that, mr. richmond?" "where we get all other good things. ask the lord to reveal himself in your heart, so that the love of him may take full possession." the walk was silent for the greater part of the remaining way--silent and pleasant. the colours of sunset faded away, but a cool, fair, clear heaven carried on the beauty and the wordless speech of the earlier evening. at matilda's gate mr. richmond stopped, and holding her hand still, spoke with a bright smile. "i will give you a text to think about and pray over, matilda." "yes, mr. richmond." "keep it, and think of it, and pray about it, till you understand it, and love it." "yes, mr. richmond. i will." "the words are these. you will find them in the fourth chapter of the second epistle to the corinthians." "in the fourth chapter of the second epistle to the corinthians. yes, sir." "these are the words. 'always bearing about in the body the dying of the lord jesus, that the life also of jesus might be made manifest in our body.' good night." chapter iv. matilda thought so much over lilac lane and the words mr. richmond had given her, that maria charged her with being unsociable. much matilda wished that she could have talked with her sister about those same words; but maria was in another line. "you are getting so wrapped up in yourself," she said, "there is no comfort in you. i might as well have no sister; and i guess aunt candy means i shan't. she gives you all the good times, up in her room, among the pretty things; i am only fit for washing dishes. well, it's her opinion; it isn't mine." "i don't have a good time up there, maria, indeed. i would a great deal rather be down here washing dishes, or doing anything." "what do you go there for, then?" "i have to go." "we didn't use to _have_ to do anything, when mamma was living. i wouldn't do it, if i were you, if i didn't like it." "i don't like it," said matilda; "but i think i ought to do what aunt candy wishes, as long as it is not something wrong." "she'll come to that," said maria; "or it'll be something you will think wrong; and then we shall have a time! i declare, i believe i shall be glad!" "what for, maria?" "why! then i shall have you again. you'll come on my side. it's lonely to have the dirty work all to myself. i don't suppose you mind it." "indeed, but i do," said matilda. "i don't like to sit up-stairs darning stockings." "and reading. and i don't know what." "the reading is worse," said matilda, sighing. "it is something i do not understand." "what does she make you do it for?" "i don't know," said matilda, with another sigh. "but i want to do something else dreadfully, all the time." the darning was very tedious indeed the morning after this talk. matilda had got her head full of schemes and plans that looked pleasant; and she was eager to turn her visions into reality. it was stupid to sit in her aunt's room, taking up threads on her long needle exactly and patiently, row after row. it had to be done exactly, or mrs. candy would have made her pick it all out again. "yes, that is very well; that is neat," said mrs. candy, when matilda brought her the stocking she had been at work on, with the heel smoothly run. "that will do. now you may begin upon another one. there they are, in that basket." "but, aunt candy," said matilda, in dismay, "don't you think i have learned now how to do it?" "yes, pretty well." "then, need i do any more?" "a little further practice will not hurt you. practice makes perfect, you know." "but do you mean that i must darn all those stockings." "aren't they yours?" "yes, ma'am; i believe they are." "who should darn them, then?" matilda very sorrowfully remembered the hand which did darn them once and thought it no hardship. her hand went swiftly up to her eyes before she spoke again. "i think it is right i should do them, and i will. may i take them away and do them in my own room?" "you may do exactly what i tell you, my dear." "does it make any difference, aunt candy?" "that is something you need not consider. all you have to do is to obey orders. the more promptly and quietly, the easier for you, matilda." matilda coloured, bridled, kept down the wish to cry, and began upon the second heel of her stockings. she was tired of that long needle and its long needleful of double thread. "matilda," said her aunt, "put down your stocking and look at me." which matilda did, much surprised. "when you wish to answer any thing i say, i prefer always that you should answer me in words." "ma'am?" said matilda. "you heard me." "but i did not understand you." "again!" said clarissa. "i do not like to be answered by gestures. do you understand that?" "no, ma'am; i do not know what you mean by saying it." "you do not know that you answered me by a toss of your head just now?" "no, ma'am; certainly not." "i am very glad to hear it. don't do it again." it would have been very like matilda to do it again just there; but bewilderment quite put down other emotions for the time, except the sense of being wronged, and that is a feeling very hard to bear. matilda had scarcely known it before in her little life; the sensation was as new as it was painful. she was utterly unconscious of having done anything that ought to be found fault with. the darning needle went very fast for the next half-hour; and matilda's cheek was bright. "they haven't got a fire up-stairs, have they?" maria questioned, when her little sister rejoined her. "no, not to-day. why?" "you look as if you had been somewhere where it was warm." but matilda did not say what sort of fire had warmed her. she forgot all about it, and about all other grievances, as soon as she was free to go out in the afternoon; for now some of her visions were to be realised. yesterday afternoon had been so pleasant, on the whole, that matilda determined to seek a renewal of the pleasure. and first and foremost, she had determined to get mrs. eldridge a tea-kettle. she had money enough yet; only her bible and yesterday's purchases had come out of her twenty-five dollars. "a tea-kettle--and what else?" thought matilda. "some towels? she does dreadfully want some towels. but then, i cannot get everything!" slowly going towards the corner, with her eyes on the ground, her two hands were suddenly seized by somebody, and she was brought to a stand-still. "norton!" cried matilda, joyously. "yes. what has become of you?" "oh, i have been so busy!" "school?" said norton. "oh no! i don't go to school. i have things to do at home." "things!" said norton. "why don't you speak straight? what things? your lessons?" "i don't have lessons, norton," said the child, patiently, lifting her eyes to norton's face. "my aunt gives me other things to do." "don't you have lessons at all?" said norton. "not now. i wish i did." "where are you going now, pink?" "pink!" echoed matilda. "yes, that's your name. where are you going? come home with me." "i have got business, norton." "you haven't got"--said norton, peering round--"yes, i declare she _has_ got--that bible tucked under her arm! are you going to see nobody again?" matilda nodded. "i'll go too," said norton, "and find out what it all means. give me the book, and i'll carry it." "but, norton!" said matilda, holding the bible fast, "i would like to have you, but i am afraid you wouldn't like it." "like what, pink? the bible?" "oh no. oh _yes_, i wish you did like that; but i mean, where i am going." "do you like it?" "i like to go. i don't like the place, norton, for the place is very disagreeable." "so i should think. but i might like to go too, you know. i'm going to try." matilda stood still and looked very dubious. "i'm going," norton repeated, laughing. "you want me to go, don't you?" "why, i would like it very much, if you would not"---- "what? no, i will not," said norton, shaking his head. "but, norton, i am going into mr. forshew's, first." "well; i can go into mr. forshew's too. i've been _there_ before." "i am going to buy a tea-kettle." "i shall not interfere with that," said norton. "but i am going to get a tea-kettle and take it along with me--to lilac lane." "what for? they'll send it if you want it." "i want it immediately, and mr. forshew's boy is never there when he is wanted, you know." "_you_ want the tea-kettle immediately. you are not going to make tea immediately, are you?" "exactly that, norton. that is one of the things i am going to do. and the poor old woman i am going to see has no tea-kettle." "then i don't believe she has tea." "oh yes, but i know she has tea, norton." "and bread and butter?" "yes, and bread and butter too," said matilda, nodding her little head positively. norton looked at her with a perfectly grave face. "it must be a very odd house," said he, "i don't see how you can be so sure of things." matilda began to walk on towards the corner. "who took her tea and bread and butter?" said norton. "i suppose you know, if you know the rest." "of course, somebody must have done it," said matilda, hesitating. "i wonder if there was a pink anywhere among the things," said norton. "did you see anything of it?" matilda could not help laughing, and they both laughed; and so they went into mr. forshew's shop. it was a little, low shop, just on the corner; but, to be sure, there was a great variety, and a good collection of things there. all sorts of iron things, and a great many sorts of tin things; with iron dust, and street dust, plentifully overlying the shop and everything in it. stoves were there in variety; chains, and brooms, and coal-skuttles; coffee-mills, and axes, and lamps; tin pails, and earthen batter jars; screws, and nails, and hinges, and locks; and a telegraph operator was at work in a corner. several customers were there too; matilda had to wait. "it is odd now," said norton. "i suppose, if i wanted to spend money here, i should buy everything else in the world _but_ a tea-kettle. that's what it is to be a girl." "nonsense!" said matilda, and the set of her head was inimitable. norton laughed. "that's what it is to be a pink," he said. "i forgot. i don't believe there is another girl in town wants a tea-kettle but you. what else do you want, pink?" "a great deal," said matilda; "but i can't get all i want." "you don't want an axe, for instance; nor a coffee-mill; nor a tin pail, nor an iron chain, nor a dipper; nor screws, nor tacks; nor a lamp, do you? nor a box of matches"---- "oh yes, norton! oh yes, that is just what i do want; a box of matches. i never should have thought of it." "how about stoves, pink? here are plenty." "she has a stove. don't be ridiculous, norton." and mr. forshew being just then at leisure, matilda purchased a little tin tea-kettle, and came out with it in triumph. "now is that all?" said norton. "how about the bread and butter? perhaps it has given out." "no, i think not. i guess there is enough. perhaps we had better take another loaf of bread, though. we shall pass the baker's on our way." "have you got money enough for every thing you want, pink? does your aunt give you whatever you ask for?" "oh, i never ask her for anything," said matilda. "take it without asking?" "i do not ask, and she does not give me, norton. but once she did, when she first came; she gave me, each of us, twenty-five dollars. i have got that, all that is left of it." "how much is left of it?" "why, i don't know exactly. i spent four dollars for something else; then eighty-five cents yesterday; and a dollar just, to-day. that makes"---- "five eighty-five," said norton. "and that out of twenty-five, leaves nineteen fifteen." "i've got that, then," said matilda. "and no hope of more? that won't do, pink. nineteen dollars won't last for ever at this rate. here's the baker's." the bread norton paid for and carried off, and the two stepped along briskly to lilac lane. matilda was very glad privately that she had swept mrs. eldridge's floor yesterday. the place looked so much the more decent; though as it was, norton cast his eyes around him whistling low, and matilda knew well enough that he regarded it as a very odd place for either himself or pink to find themselves in. "what's to be done now?" he inquired of her, as she was putting the bread and matches on a shelf of the cupboard. "the first thing is to make a fire, norton. i've got wood enough here. and the matches." "_you_ have got," said norton, stooping to fetch out the sticks from the lower cupboard where matilda had stowed them. "did you get it? where did you get it?" "mr. swain split it up for me,--at the iron shop, you know." "did you go to the iron shop for it? and bring it back yourself?" "there was nobody else to do it," said matilda. "you're a brick!" said norton. "that's what i said. but is this all, pink?" "it is plenty, norton." "plenty for to-day. it won't last for any more. what then?" "i don't know," said matilda. "o norton, are _you_ going to make the fire?" norton showed that such was his intention, and showed besides that he knew very well what he was about. matilda, after looking on admiringly, ran off to the pump with her kettle. the pump was at some distance; before she could fill her kettle and come back, norton overtook her. he quietly assumed the tea-kettle, as a matter of course. "oh, thank you, norton! how good you are," matilda exclaimed. "it was heavy." "look here. do you come here to do this sort of thing all by yourself?" said norton. "i cannot help that," said matilda. "and i like to do it, too." "you mustn't," said norton. "who will, then, norton? and the poor old woman cannot do anything for herself." "isn't there somebody in the world to take care of her?" "no; nobody." "that's a shame. and i don't believe it, either." "oh, but there is nobody, norton. she is quite alone. and if some one will not help her, she must go without everything." norton said no more, but he looked very much disgusted with this state of society. he silently watched what matilda was doing, without putting in any hinderance or hinting at any annoyance further, which, she thought, was very good of him. instead of that, he looked after the fire, and lifted the kettle when it was needful. matilda, as yesterday, made the tea, and spread bread and butter, and cooked a herring; and then had the satisfaction of seeing the poor old woman luxuriating over what was to her a delicious meal. she had said very little since their coming in, but eyed all they did, with a gradual relaxing of the lines of her face. something like pleasure, something like comfort, was stealing into her heart, and working to soften those hard lines. matilda waited now until the meal should be quite finished before she brought forward anything of different interest. "that's a new kettle," was the first remark, made while matilda was clearing away the remains of the supper. "how do you like it?" said norton. the old woman looked at him, she had done that a great deal already, and answered, "who be you?" "i'm the fellow that brought the kettle from the shop," said norton. "whose kettle is it?" "it ought to be your's--it's on your stove." "it is your's, mrs. eldridge," said matilda. "well, i hain't had a tea-kettle," said the old woman, meditatively, "since--i declare, i don't know when 'twas. i hain't had a tea-kettle, not since my old un fell down the well. i never could get it out. that one hadn't no kiver." "don't let this one get down in the well," said norton. "i shan't go to the well no more," said mrs. eldridge. "when i had a place, and a well, and a bucket, it was good times! that ain't my kettle." "yes, mrs. eldridge, it is," said matilda. "it is your's; and it just fits the stove hole." "a kettle's a good thing," said the old woman. "it looks good." "now would you like to have a little reading again?" matilda inquired, bringing out her bible. "have you got anything more about the--what was it? i don' know what 'twas." "about the shepherd? the good shepherd?" "you may read a bit about that," said the old woman. "there ain't no shepherds now, is there?" "plenty of 'em," said norton. "it don't seem as if there was no place for 'em to keep the sheep. _i_ don't see none. but he used for to be a shepherd; and he took good care of 'em, he did." "the lord jesus is the good shepherd; and he takes good care of his sheep," said matilda. "he cares for them always. he cares for you, mrs. eldridge." the old woman made no answer to this; but instead, sat with so meditative a look upon her face that matilda, though she had her book open to read, forbore, and waited. "did he send you?" said mrs. eldridge. norton glanced a quick look of amusement at matilda, but matilda simply answered. "yes." "i didn't know as there was any one as cared," she said, slowly. matilda began to read, upon that; giving her the twenty-third psalm again; then the tenth chapter of john; finishing with one or two passages in the revelation. norton stood in the doorway while she read, looking out and looking in, very quiet; and mrs. eldridge sat and listened and gave tremulous shakes of her old head, and was very quiet too. "i must go now," said matilda, when she had done and had paused a few minutes. "it has a good sound," said the old woman. "it's true," said matilda. and she and norton took their leave. then began a joyous walk home. "pink," said norton, when they were got a little way from the house, "you made your tea in a tea-cup." "yes; there is only a wretched little tin tea-pot there, not fit to be used; it is in such a state." "no spoons either?" "no, and no spoons. there is hardly anything there at all, norton." "i don't see how people come to be so poor," said norton. "no, _i_ don't," said matilda. "but she is old, you see, and cannot help herself, and has no one left that does care about her. nobody in the world, i mean." "that house is in a tremendous condition," said norton. "for dirt i mean." "yes, i know it." "i don't see why somebody hasn't cleaned it before now." "why, norton, who should do it? none of the neighbours care anything about her." "is she bad?" "no, norton, not bad at all; but they are poor too, and ill, some of them, and they have their own work to do, and their own things to get, and they haven't anything to spare for her." "she was glad of that tea-kettle." "wasn't she! i could see that." "but i say, pink! i don't see how people come to be so poor. there's money enough." "for some people," said matilda. "money enough for everybody." "perhaps, if it was divided," said matilda. "but, norton, it isn't. the rich people have got it almost all." "have they?" said norton. "then they ought to look out for such poor chaps as this." "so i think, norton," said matilda, eagerly. "but, pink, _you_ can't do it. you are only one, and you can't take care of all lilac lane, to begin with. that's what i am thinking about." "no, not all the lane. but i can do something. i can read to mrs. eldridge, and mrs. rogers." "you can't buy tea-kettles, though, for mrs. eldridge and mrs. rogers, with the tea, and the sugar, and the bread and butter, and the fish, and the mutton-chops they will all want. your nineteen dollars will soon be gone at that rate." "mutton-chops!" echoed matilda. "norton, they do not see anything so good as mutton-chops." "they ought to," said norton. "they have as much right as other folks." "but they _can't_, norton." "yes, they can, pink. we'll take 'em some for once. they shall know how mutton tastes." "o norton!" said matilda in a low voice of delight, "how good that would be!" "but what i _say_," continued the boy, with emphasis,--"you cannot go on doing this. your money will not last." "i can do what i can," said matilda, softly. "but what's the use, pink? all you can do will just touch one old woman, perhaps, a few times; and then lilac lane will not be any better off than it was. and anyhow, you only touch one. what's the use?" "why--the use of that one." "yes, but it don't really make any difference to speak of, when you think of all the people that you cannot help. the world won't be any better; don't you see?" "if i was the one to be helped, i should think it made a great deal of difference, norton." norton could not dispute that view of the case, though he whistled over it. "pink, will you come and play croquet to-morrow?" "to-morrow? i will see if i can," said matilda, with a brightening face. "what's to hinder you?" "i don't know that anything. if aunt candy will let me." "does _she_ hinder you?" "sometimes," matilda said, hesitating. "what for?" "i do not know. that puzzles me, norton." "_how_ does she hinder you?" said the boy, stopping short with a scowl upon his brow. "she won't let me go out, sometimes; i don't know why. then besides, i have to spend a good deal of time reading to her, and darning stockings; and i have a great many other things to do, norton." "well, come to-morrow, pink; or i shall come after you. hulloa! see that squirrel"---- and norton set off on such a race and chase after the squirrel, that matilda stopped to look on in sheer admiration. the race was not fruitful of anything, however, but admiration, and the rest of the way they hurried home. it was a trembling question with matilda, could she go to play croquet the next day? she could not go in her work dress; and she feared to change her dress and so draw attention, lest her aunt should put a stop to her going out at all. she debated the matter a good deal, and finally concluded to make an open affair of it and ask leave. "to go to mrs. laval's," said mrs. candy, meditating. "who is going to play croquet, besides you?" inquired clarissa. "i do not think anybody is to be there besides me," said matilda. "well," said mrs. candy, "i suppose you had better go, with my compliments and thanks to mrs. laval. put on your white dress, matilda, and i will tie a ribband round your waist." the white dress and the black ribband were duly put on, and matilda set out, very happy indeed, only sorry that maria was left behind. she got a glad welcome from norton, who was at the iron gate watching for her. and when she came to the door of the house, matilda was fain to stand still and look, everything was so beautiful. it was very different from last winter, when the snow covered all the world. now the grass was soft and green, cut short and rolled smooth, and the sunlight made it seem almost golden. the rose-bushes were heavy and sweet with great cabbage roses and delicate white roses, and gay yellow roses made an elegant variety. overhead, the golden clusters of a laburnum tree dropped as if to meet them. then there were pinks, and violets, and daisies; and locust trees a little way off, standing between the house and the sun, made the air sweet with their blossoms. every breath was charged with some delicious perfume or other. the house stood hospitably and gaily open in summer dress; the farm country lay rich in the sun towards the west; and the mountains beyond, having lost all their white coating of snow long ago, were clothed in a kind of drapery of purple mist. "what's the matter?" said norton. "it's so beautiful!" said matilda. "oh, is that all! come in. mamma wants to see you." in the house, over floors marble and matted, through rooms green with the light that came through the blinds, cool in shadow, but from which the world without looked like a glittering fairyland, so they went passing from one to another, till they found the mistress of the house. she was not in the house, but in a deep wicker chair on the shady side of the verandah. "here she is!" the lady exclaimed as she saw them, throwing aside the book which had been in her hands, and drawing matilda into her arms instead. "my dear child--so you've come. norton and i are very glad. how do you do? you are thin." "am i?" said matilda. "i am afraid you are. what are you going to do? play croquet? it's too warm yet. sit down here and have some strawberries first. norton, you get her some strawberries." she put matilda affectionately into a chair and took off her hat. "and how do you like croquet?" "oh, very much! but i do not know how to play yet," said matilda. "norton will teach you." "yes, ma'am," matilda said, with a happy look. "i think norton is making a little sister of you," mrs. laval said tenderly, drawing her hand down matilda's cheek. "do you know, norton once had a little sister as old as you?" the lady's tone had changed. matilda only looked, she dared not speak in answer to this. "i think he wants to make a sister of you," mrs. laval repeated wistfully, her hand dropping to matilda's hand and taking hold of that. "how would you like to be norton's sister?" "oh, i should like it very much!" matilda answered, half eagerly, but her answer touched with a soberness that belonged to the little sister and daughter that norton and mrs. laval had lost. there was a delicate, sensitive manner about both her face and her voice as she spoke, perfectly intelligible to the eyes that were watching her; and the response to it was startling, for mrs. laval suddenly took the child in her arms, upon her lap, though matilda never knew how she got there, and clasping her close, half smothered her with kisses, some of which matilda felt were wetted with tears. it was a passion of remembered tenderness and unsatisfied longing. matilda was astonished and passive under caresses she could not return, so close was the clasp of the arms that held her, so earnest the pressure of the lips that seemed to devour every part of her face by turns. in the midst of this, norton came with the strawberries, and he too stood still and offered no interruption. but when a pause in mrs. laval's ecstasy gave him a chance, he said low,-- "mrs. beechy, mamma, and miss beechys, are there." mrs. laval was quiet a moment, hiding her face in matilda's neck; then she put her gently down, rose up, and met some ladies who were coming round the corner of the verandah, with a tone and bearing so cool, and careless, and light, that matilda asked her ears if it was possible. the guests were carried off into the house; matilda and norton were left alone. it was matilda's turn then. she set down the plate of strawberries norton had given her, and hid her face in her hands. norton bore this for a minute, and no more. then one of his hands came upon one of matilda's, and the other upon the other, very gently but decidedly suggesting that they should come down. "pink!" said he, "this may do for mamma and you, but it is very poor entertainment for me. come! leave that, and eat your strawberries, and let us go on the lawn. the sun will do now." matilda felt that this was reasonable, and she put by her own gratification. nevertheless her eyes and eyelashes were all glittering when she lifted them up. "what has mamma done to you?" said norton, wondering. "here, pink, do you like strawberries?" "if you please, norton," said matilda, "couldn't i have them another time? i don't want them now." "then they may wait till we have done playing," said norton; "and then i'll have some too. now come." the great trees cast a flickering shadow on the grass before the house. norton planted his hoops and distributed colours, and presently matilda's sober thoughts were driven as many ways as the balls; and _they_ went very widely indeed. "you must take _aim_, matilda?" norton cried. "at what?" "why, you must learn at what; that's the game. you must fight; just as i fight you. you ought to touch my ball now, if you can. i don't believe you can. you might try." matilda tried, and hit it. the game went on prosperously. the sun got lower, and the sunbeams came more scattering, and the breeze just stirred over the lawn, not enough to bend the little short blades of grass. mrs. laval's visitors went away, and she came out on the verandah to look at the children; they were too much engaged to look at her. at last the hard-fought battle came to an end. norton brought out another plate of strawberries for himself along with matilda's, and the two sat down on the bank under the locust trees to eat them. the sun was near going down beyond the mountains by this time, and his setting rays changed the purple mist into a bath of golden haze. "how nice and cold these are," said matilda. "they have been in the ice. that makes things cold," observed norton. "and being warm one's self makes them seem colder," said matilda. "why, are you warm, pink?" "yes, indeed. i have had to fight you so hard, you know." "you did very well," said norton, in a satisfied tone. "norton, how pretty it all is to-night." norton ate strawberries. "very different from lilac lane," said matilda, looking at the china plate in her hand, on which the painting was very fine and delicate. "rather different," said norton. "norton,--i was thinking of what you said yesterday; how odd it is that some people should be rich and others poor." "i am glad i am one of the first sort," said norton, disposing of a very large strawberry. "but isn't it strange?" "that is what i said, pink." "it don't seem right," said matilda, thoughtfully "yes, it does." "it doesn't to me." "how can you help it?" "why _i_ cannot help it, norton; but if everybody that is rich chose, they could help it." "how?" "don't you think they ought?" "well how, pink? if people were industrious and behaved right, they wouldn't be poor, you see." "oh, but, norton, they would sometimes. there is mrs. eldridge, and there are the poor women at mrs. rogers', and a great many more like them." "well if _somebody_ hadn't behaved wrong," said norton, "they wouldn't be so hard up." "oh, but that does not help them." "not much." "and they ought to be helped," said matilda, slowly examining the painted flowers on the china in her hand, and remembering mrs. eldridge's cracked delf tea-cup. "that plate would buy up the whole concern where we were yesterday, wouldn't it?" matilda looked up suddenly, at norton's thus touching her thought; but she did not like to pursue it. norton, however, had no scruples. "yes; and these strawberries, i suppose, would feed her for a week--the old woman, i mean. and one of our drawing-room chairs would furnish her house, pretty near. yes, i guess it would. and i really think one week of the coal we burned a few months ago would keep her, and mrs. rogers too, warm all winter. and i am certain one of mamma's dresses would clothe her for a year. seems queer, don't it." "and she is cold, and hungry, and uncomfortable," said matilda. the two looked at each other. "but then, you know, if mamma gave one of her dresses to clothe this old woman, she would have to give another to clothe some other old woman; and the end would be, she would have no dresses for herself. and if she tried to warm all the cold houses, she wouldn't have firing to cook her own dinner. you see it has to be so, pink; some rich and some poor. and suppose these strawberries had been changed into some poor somebody's dinner, i couldn't have had them to give to you. do you see, pink?" "but, o norton!" matilda began, and stopped. "these strawberries are very nice." "but you would rather turn them into mutton-chops and give them away?" said norton. "i dare say you would! wouldn't you?" "norton," said matilda, cautiously, "do you think anything i _could_ have bought with that dollar would have given me so much pleasure as that tea-kettle yesterday?" "it was a good investment," said norton. "but it is right to eat strawberries, pink. where are you going to stop?" "i'll take mrs. eldridge some strawberries," said matilda, smiling, "when they get plenty." "well, agreed," said norton. "let us take her some other things too. i've got money. stop--let me put these plates in the house and fetch a piece of paper;--then we'll see what we'll take her." matilda sat while he was gone, looking at the golden mist on the mountains and dreaming. "now," said norton, throwing himself on the turf beside her, with his piece of paper, and thrusting his hand deep down in his pocket to get at his pencil, "now, let us see what we will do." "norton," said matilda, joyously, "this is better than croquet." norton looked up with those bright eyes of his, but his reply was to proceed to business. "now for it, pink. what shall we do for the old lady? what does she want? pooh! she wants everything; but what to begin with?" "strawberries, you said." "strawberries! not at all. that's the last thing. i mean we'll fix her up, pink. now what does she want to be comfortable. it is only one old woman; but we shall feel better if she is comfortable. or you will." "but what do you mean, norton? how much can we do?" "just as much as we've a mind to. i've got money, i tell you. come; begin. what goes down first?" "why, norton," said matilda, in an ecstasy, "it is like a fairy story." "what?" "this, that we are doing. it is like a fairy story exactly." "how is it like fairy stories?" said norton. "_i_ don't know." "did you never read fairy stories?" "never. what are they like?" "why some of them are just like this," said matilda. "people are rich, and can do what they please; and they set out to get things together for a feast, or to prepare a palace for some princess; and first one nice thing is got, and then another, and then some thing else; until by and by you feel as if you had been at the feast, or seen the palace, or had done the shopping. i do." "this isn't for a princess," said norton. "no, nor a palace," said matilda; "but it seems just as good." "go on, pink; let us quit princesses and get to the real business. what do you want to get, first thing?" "_first_ thing," said matilda, "i think would be to get somebody to clean the house. there are only two little rooms. it wouldn't be much. don't you think so, norton?" "as we cannot build a palace, and have it new, i should say the old one had better be cleaned." "sabrina rogers would do it, i dare say," matilda went on; "and maybe that would be something good for her." "teach her to clean her own?" said norton. "why no, norton; her own is clean. i meant, maybe she would be glad of the pay." "there's another princess, eh, that wants a palace?" said norton. "if we could, we would new build lilac lane, wouldn't we? but then, i should want to make over the people that live in it." "so should i, and that is the hardest. but perhaps, don't you think the people _would_ be different, if they had things different?" "i'm certain i should be different, if i lived where they do," said norton. "but go on, pink; let us try it on--what's her name. we have only cleaned her house yet." "the first thing, then, is a bedstead, norton." "a bedstead! what does she sleep on?" "on the floor; with rags and straw, and i think a miserable make-believe of a bed. no sheets, no blankets, nor anything. it is dreadful." "rags and straw," said norton. "then a bedstead wants a bed on it, pink; and blankets or coverlets or something, and sheets, and all that." matilda watched norton's pencil as it noted the articles. "then she wants some towels, and a basin of some sort to wash in." "h'm!" said norton. "herself, i hope?" "yes, i hope so. but she has nothing to make herself clean with." "then a stand, and basin, and towels; and a pitcher, pink, i suppose, to hold water." "yes, a pitcher, or jug, or something. we want to get the cheapest things we can. and soap." "let's have plenty of that," said norton, putting down soap. "now then--what next?" "a little wooden table, norton; she has nothing but a chair to set her tea on." "a table. and a carpet?" "oh, no, norton; that's not necessary. it is warm weather now. she does not want that. but she _does_ want a pail for water. i have to take the tea-kettle to the pump." norton at this laughed, and rolled over on the grass in his amusement. having thus refreshed himself, he came back to business. "has she got anything to go on her fire, except a tea-kettle?" "not much. a saucepan would be a very useful thing, and not cost much. i bought one the other day; so i know." "what's a saucepan?" said norton. "a pan to make sauce in?" it was matilda's turn to laugh. "poor mrs. eldridge don't have many puddings, i guess, to make sauce for," she said. "well, pink, now we come, don't we, to the eating line. we must stock her up." "put down a broom first, norton." "a broom! here goes." "yes, you can't think how much i have wanted a broom there. and a tea-pot. oh yes, and a little milk pitcher, and sugar bowl. can't we?" "i should think we could," said norton. "tea-cups?" "i guess not. she's got two; and three plates. now, norton--the eatables. what did you think of?" "i suppose there isn't anything in the house," said norton. "nothing at all, except what we took there." "then she wants everything." "but you see, norton, she can't do any thing herself; she couldn't use some things. there would be no use----" "no use in what?" "flour, for instance. she couldn't make bread." "i don't know anything about flour," said norton. "but she can use bread when she sees it, i will take my affidavit." "oh yes, bread, norton. we will take her some bread, and a little butter; and sugar; and tea. she has got some, but it won't last long." "and i said she should have a mutton-chop." "i dare say she would like it." "i wonder if a bushel of potatoes wouldn't be the best thing of all." "potatoes would be excellent," said matilda, delightedly. "i suppose she would be very glad of anything of that sort. let's take her some cheese, norton." "cheese. and strawberries. and cake, pink." "i am afraid we should be taking too much at once. we had better leave the cake to another time." "there's something we forgot," said norton. "mr. what's-his-name will not split up box covers for your fire every day; we must send in a load of firing. wood, i guess." "oh, how good!" said matilda. "you see, norton, she has had no wood to make a fire even to boil her kettle." "and no kettle to boil," added norton. "so that she went without even tea. i don't know how she lived. did you see how she enjoyed the tea yesterday?" "pink," said norton, "do you expect to go there to make her fire every day?" "no, norton, i cannot every day; i cannot always get away from home. but i was thinking--i know some other girls that i guess would help; and if there were several of us, you know, it would be very easy." "well," said norton, "we have fixed up this palace and princess now. what do you think of getting the princess a new dress or two?" "oh, it would be very nice, norton. she wants it." "mamma will do that. could _you_ get it, pink? would you know how? supposing your purse was long enough." "oh yes, norton. of course i could!" "then you shall do it. who will see to all the rest?" "to buy the things, do you mean?" "to buy them, and to choose them, and to get them to their place, and all that?" "why, you and i, norton. shan't we?" "i think that is a good arrangement. the next question is, when? when shall we send the things there?" "we must get the rooms cleaned. i will see about that. then, norton, the sooner the better; don't you think so?" "how is it in the fairy stories?" "oh, it's all done with a breath there; that is one of the delightful things about it. you speak, and the genie comes; and you tell him what you want, and he goes and fetches it; there is no waiting. and yet, i don't know," matilda added; "i don't wish this could be done in a breath." "what?" said a voice close behind her. the two looked up, laughing, to see mrs. laval. she was laughing too. "what is it, that is not to be done in a breath?" "furnishing a palace, mamma--(getting it cleaned first,) and setting up a princess." mrs. laval wanted to hear about it, and gradually she slipped down on the grass beside matilda, and drew an arm round her, while she listened to norton's story. norton made quite a story of it, and told his mother what matilda had been doing the day before in lilac lane, and what schemes they had presently on hand. mrs. laval listened curiously. "dear, is it quite safe for you to go to such a place?" she asked matilda then. "oh yes, ma'am." "but it cannot be pleasant." "oh yes, ma'am!" matilda answered, more earnestly. "how can it be?" "i thought it would not be pleasant, at first," said matilda; "but i found it was." "what made it pleasant, dear?" "if you saw the poor old woman, mrs. laval, and how much she wanted comfort, i think you would understand it." "would you come and see _me_, if i wanted comfort?" the lady inquired. matilda smiled at the possibility. then something in mrs. laval's face reminded her that even with such a beautiful house and so rich abundance of things that money can buy, there might be a sad want of something that money cannot buy; and she grew grave again. "would you?" mrs. laval repeated. and matilda said "yes." and mrs. laval again put her face down to matilda's face and pressed her lips upon hers, again and again, as if she drew some sweetness from them. not so passionately as the time before; yet with quiet earnestness. then with one hand she stroked the hair from matilda's forehead, and drew it forward, and passed her fingers through it, caressing it in a tender, thoughtful way. norton knelt on the grass beside them and looked on, watching and satisfied. matilda was happy and passive. "have you got money enough, love, for all you want to do?" mrs. laval asked at length. "_i_ haven't much," said matilda; "but norton is going to help." "have you got enough, norton?" "i guess so, mamma." mrs. laval put her hand in her pocket and drew out a little morocco pocket-book. she put it in matilda's hand. "norton shall not do it all," she said. "i don't know exactly how much is in this; you can use what you choose on this fairy palace you and norton are building." "oh, ma'am!" matilda began, flushing and delighted. mrs. laval stopped her mouth with a kiss. "but, ma'am, won't you please take out what you wish i should spend for mrs. eldridge." "spend just what you like." "i might take too much," said matilda. "it is all your's. do just what you like with it. spend what you like in lilac lane, and the rest for something else." "oh, ma'am!"--matilda began again in utter bewildered delight. "no, darling, don't say anything about it," mrs. laval answered, finding matilda's pocket and slipping the pocket-book in. "you shall talk to me about it another time. i wish you could give me your secret." "what secret, ma'am?" said matilda, who for the very delight that flushed her could hardly speak. "how to get so much satisfaction out of a little money." matilda wished she could give mrs. laval anything that would do her a pleasure, and she began to think, _could_ she let her into this secret? it seemed a simple secret enough to matilda; but she had a certain consciousness that for the great lady it might be more difficult to understand than it was for her. was it possible that elegant pocket-book was in _her_ pocket? but now came the summons to tea, and they got up off the grass and went in. so beautiful a table matilda had never seen, and more thorough petting no little girl ever had. no one else was there but those three, so she was quite at home. such a pleasant home it was, too. the windows all open, of the large, airy, pretty dining-room; the blue mountains seen through the windows at one side; from the others, the green of the trees and the gay colours of flowers; the evening air drew gently through the room, and flowers and fruit and all sorts of delicacies and all sorts of elegances on the table made matilda feel she was in fairyland. "when are you coming again?" said mrs. laval, taking her in her arms when she was about going. "whenever you will let me, ma'am." "could you learn to love me a little bit, some day?" matilda did not know how to answer. she looked into the handsome dark eyes that were watching her, and with the thought of the secret sympathy between the lady and herself, her own watered. "i see you will," said mrs. laval, kissing her. "now kiss me." she sat quite still while matilda did so; then returned it warmly, and bade norton take care of her home. chapter v. matilda found her aunt, cousin, and sister gathered in the parlour. "well!" said maria. "i suppose you have had a time." "a good time?" mrs. candy asked. matilda replied "yes." "you stayed late," observed clarissa. this did not seem to need an answer. "what have you been doing?" maria asked. "playing." "you sigh over it, as if there were some melancholy associations connected with the fact," said clarissa. so there were, taken with the contrast at home. matilda could not explain that. "any company there?" inquired mrs. candy. "no, ma'am." "you are wonderfully taciturn," said clarissa. "do tell us what you have been about, and whether you have enjoyed yourself." "i enjoyed myself," said matilda, repressing another sigh. "did you bring any message for me?" asked her aunt. "no, aunt candy." "did you deliver mine to mrs. laval?" "what, ma'am?" "my message. did you deliver it?" "no, aunt candy." "did you forget it, matilda?" "i did not forget it." both mother and daughter lifted up their heads at this. "why did you not give the message, then?" matilda was in sore difficulty. there was nothing she could think of to say. so she said nothing. "speak, child!" said her aunt. "why did you not give my message as i charged you?" "i did not like to do it, aunt candy." "you did not like to do it! please to say why you did not like to do it." it was so impossible to answer, that matilda took refuge in silence again. "it would have been civil in mrs. laval to have sent her message, whether or no," said clarissa. "go up-stairs, matilda," said her aunt; "and don't come down again to-night. no, maria," for maria rose, muttering that she would go too, "no, you do _not_ go now. sit down, till the usual time. go to bed, matilda. i will talk to you to-morrow." it was no punishment, the being sent off; though her aunt's words and manner were. in all her little life, till now, matilda had never known any but gentle and tender treatment. she had not been a child to require other; and though a more decided government might have been good, perhaps, the soft and easy affection in the midst of which she had grown up was far better for her than harshness, which indeed she never deserved. as she went up the stairs to-night, she felt like a person suddenly removed, in the space of an hour, from the atmosphere of some balmy, tropical clime, to the sharp rigours of the north pole. she shivered, mentally. but the effect of the tropics returned when she had closed the door of her room. the treasures of comfort and pleasure stored up that afternoon were not lost; and being a secret treasure, they were not within anybody's power. matilda kneeled down and gave thanks for it all; then took out her pocket-book and admired it; she would not count the money this evening, the outside was quite enough. she stowed it away in a safe place, and slowly undressed; her heart so full of pleasant things enjoyed and other pleasant things hoped for, that she soon utterly forgot mrs. candy, message and all. sweet visions of what was to be done in lilac lane rose before her eyes; what might _not_ be done, between norton and her, now? and with these came in other visions--of those kisses of mrs. laval, which had been such mother's kisses. matilda stood still to remember and feel them over again. nobody had ever kissed her so, but her mother. and so, in a little warm heart-glow of her own which enveloped everything, like the golden haze on the mountains that evening, matilda undressed leisurely, and read her bible, and prayed, and went to sleep. and her waking mood was like the morning light upon the mountains, so clear and quiet. maria, however, was in complete contrast. this was not very unusual. she was crusty, and ironical, and disposed to find fault. "i wonder how long this is going to last?" she said, in the interval between complaining and fault-finding. "what?" matilda asked. "this state of things. not going to school, nor learning anything; cooking and scrubbing for aunt candy; and you petted and taken up-stairs to be taught, and asked out to tea, and made much of. nobody remembers that i am alive." "dear maria, i have been asked out to tea just once." "you'll be asked again." "and i am sure people come to see you. frances barth was here yesterday; and sarah haight and esther trembleton two days ago; and esther asked you to tea too." "i couldn't go." "but people remember you are alive. o maria, they remember you too. mr. richmond don't forget you; and miss benton asked you to come to tea with her." "it is all very well talking," said maria. "i know what i know; and i am getting tired of it. you are the only one that has any really good times." it soon appeared that one of matilda's good times was not to be to-day. mrs. candy and clarissa looked on her coldly, spoke to her dryly, and made her feel that she was not in favour. matilda could bear this down-stairs pretty well; but when she found her self in mrs. candy's room for her morning hours of reading and darning, it became heavy. reading was not the first thing to-day. mrs. candy called matilda to stand before her, while she proceeded to give her a species of correction in words. "you were baptized a few weeks ago, matilda." "yes, ma'am." "and by so being, you became a member of the church;--of your church." "yes, ma'am." "what do you think are the duties of a member of the church?" a comprehensive question, matilda thought. she hesitated. "i ask you, what do you think are the duties of a member of the church? in any branch of it." "i suppose they are the same as anybody else's duties," matilda answered. "the same as anybody else's duties." "yes, aunt candy." "you think it makes no change in one's duties?" "what change does it make, aunt candy?" matilda spoke in all innocence; but mrs. candy flushed and frowned. it did not sweeten her mood that she could not readily find an answer for the child. "you allow, at least, that it is one of your duties to obey the fifth commandment?" "yes, aunt candy. i try to do it." "did you try last night?" matilda was silent. "you made me guilty of rudeness by not delivering the message i had charged you with; and you confessed it was not through forgetfulness. will you tell me now why it was?" it had been through a certain nice sense on matilda's part that the message was uncalled for, and even a little officious. she would have been mortified to be obliged to repeat it to mrs. laval. there had never been the least intercourse between the ladies, and mrs. laval had sought none. if mrs. candy sought it, matilda was unwilling it should be through her means. but she could not explain this to her aunt. "you did not choose it," that lady said again, with kindling anger. "i did not mean to offend you, aunt candy." "no, because you thought i would never hear of it. i have a great mind, as ever i had to eat, to whip you, matilda. you are not at all too old for it, and i believe it would do you a great deal of good. you haven't had quite enough of that sort of thing." whether matilda had or had not had enough of that sort of thing, it seemed to her that it was very far from mrs. candy's place to propose or even hint at it. the indignity of the proposal flushed the child with a sense of injury almost too strong to be borne. mrs. candy, in all her years of life, had never known the sort of keen pain that her words gave now to a sensitive nature, up to that time held in the most dainty and tender consideration. matilda did not speak nor stir; but she grew pale. "the next time you shall have it," mrs. candy went on. "i should have no hesitation at all, matilda, about whipping you; and my hand is not a light one. i advise you, as your friend, not to come under it. your present punishment shall be, that i shall refuse you permission to go any more to mrs. laval's." the child was motionless and gave no sign, further than the paleness of her cheeks; which indeed caught clarissa's observant eye, and made her uneasy. but she did not tremble nor weep. probably the rush of feeling made such a storm in her little breast that she could not accurately measure the value of this new announcement, or know fairly what it meant. perhaps, too, it was like some other things to her limited experience, too bad to be believed; and matilda did not really receive it as a fact, that her visits to mrs. laval had ceased. she realised enough, however, poor child, to make it extremely difficult to bear up and maintain her dignity; but she did that. nothing but the paleness told. matilda was quite erect and steady before her aunt; and when she was at last bidden to go to her seat and begin her reading, her graceful little head took a set upon her shoulders which was very incensing to mrs. candy. "i advise you to take care!" she said, threateningly. but matilda could not imagine what new cause of offence she had given. it was very hard to read aloud. she made two or three efforts to get voice, and then went stiffly on. "you are not reading well," her aunt broke in. "you are not thinking of what you are reading." matilda was silent. "why do you not speak? i say you do not read well. why don't you attend to your book?" "i never understand this book," said matilda. "of course not, if you do not attend. go on!" "she can't read, mamma," whispered clarissa. "she shall read," mrs. candy returned, in an answering whisper. and recognising that necessity, matilda put a force on herself and read on, at the imminent peril of choking every now and then, as one thought and another came up to grasp her. she put it by or put it down, and went on; obliged herself to go on; wouldn't think, till the weary pages were come to an end at last, and the hoarse voice had leave to be still, and she took up her darning. thoughts would have overcome her self-control then, in all nature; but that, happily for matilda's dignity as she wished to maintain it, mrs. candy was pleased to interrupt the darning of stockings to give matilda a lesson in patching linen--an entirely new thing to the child, requiring her best attention and care; for mrs. candy insisted upon the patch being straight to a thread, and even as a double web would have been. matilda had to baste and take out again, baste and take out again; she had enough to do without going back upon her own grievances; it was extremely difficult to make a large patch of linen lie straight on all sides and not pucker itself or the cloth somewhere. matilda pulled out her basting threads the third time, with a sigh. "you will do it, when you come to taking pains enough," said mrs. candy. now matilda knew that she was taking the utmost pains possible. she said nothing, but her hands grew more unsteady. "mamma, may i help her?" said clarissa. "no. she can do it if she tries," said mrs. candy. matilda queried within herself how it would do to throw up the work, and declare open rebellion; how would the fight go? she was conscious that to provoke a fight would be wrong; but passion just now had got the upper hand of wisdom in the child. she concluded, however, that it would not do; mrs. candy could hold out better than she could; but the last atom of goodwill was gone out of her obedience. "matilda," said mrs. candy. "yes, ma'am." "you have been an hour and a half trying to fix that patch." "isn't it long enough for one day?" said matilda, wearily, sitting back on her heels. she had got down on the floor the better to manage the work; a large garment with a large patch to be laid. "too long, by an hour; but not long enough, inasmuch as it is not yet done." "i am too tired to do it." "we will see that." matilda sat back on her heels, looking at the hopeless piece of linen. she was flushed, and tired, and angry; but she only sat there looking at the linen. "it has got to be done," said mrs. candy. "i must get rested first," said matilda. "you are not to say 'must' to me," said her aunt. "my dear, i shall make you do whatever i order. you shall do exactly what i tell you in everything. your times of having your own way are ended. you will do my way now. and you will put on that patch neatly before you eat." "maria will want me." "maria will do very well without." matilda looked at her aunt in equal surprise and dismay. mrs. candy had not seemed like this before. nothing had prepared her for it. but mrs. candy was a cold-natured woman, not the less fiery and proud when roused. she could be pleasant enough on the surface, and in general intercourse with people; she could have petted matilda and made much of her, and was, indeed, quite inclined that way. if only mrs. laval had not taken her up, and if matilda had not been so independent. the two things together touched her on the wrong side. she was nettled that the wish of mrs. laval was to see only matilda, of the whole family; and upon the back of that, she was displeased beyond endurance that matilda should withstand her authority and differ from her opinion. there was no fine and delicate nature in her to read that of the child; only a coarse pride that was bent upon having itself regarded. she thought herself disregarded. she was determined to put that down with a high hand. seeing or feeling dimly somewhat of all this, matilda sat on the floor in a kind of despair, looking at her patch. "you had better not sit so, but go about it," said mrs. candy. "yes. i am tired," said matilda. "you will not go down to dinner," said mrs. candy. could she stand it? matilda thought. could she bear it, and not cry? she was getting so tired and down-hearted. it was quite plain there would be no going out this afternoon to buy things for lilac lane. that delightful shopping must be postponed; that hope was put further in the distance. she sat moodily still. she ceased to care when the patching got done. "losing time," said mrs. candy at length, getting up and putting by her own basket. "the bell will ring in a few minutes, matilda; and i shall leave you here to do your work at your leisure." the child looked at her and looked down again, with what slight air of her little head it is impossible to describe, though it undoubtedly and unmistakably signified her disapproval. it was matilda's habitual gesture, but resented by mrs. candy. she stepped up to her and gave the side of her head a smart stroke with the palm of her hand. "you are not to answer me by gestures, you know i told you," she exclaimed. and she and clarissa quitting the room, the door was locked on the outside. matilda's condition at first was one of simple bewilderment. the indignity, the injury, the wrong, were so unwonted and so unintelligible, that the child felt as if she were in a dream. what did it mean? and was it real? the locked door was a hard fact, that constantly asserted itself; perhaps so did matilda's want of dinner; the linen patches on the floor were another tangible fact. and as matilda came to realise that she was alone and could indulge herself, at last a flood of bitter tears came to wash, they could not wash away, her hurt feeling and her despair. every bond was broken, to matilda's thinking, between her and her aunt; all friendship was gone that had been from one to the other; and she was in the power of one who would use it. that was the hardest to realise; for if matilda had been in her mother's power once, it had also been power never exercised. the child had been always practically her own mistress. was that ended? was mrs. candy her mistress now? her freedom gone? and was there no escape? it made matilda almost wild to think these thoughts, wild and frightened together; and with all that, very angry. not passionately, which was not her nature, but with a deep sense of displeasure and dislike. the patch and the linen to be patched lay untouched on the floor, it is need less to say, when mrs. candy came up from dinner. mrs. candy came up alone. she surveyed the state of things in silence. matilda had been crying, she saw. she left her time to recover from that and take up her work. but matilda sat despairing and careless, looking at it and not thinking of it. "you do not mean to do that, do you?" she said at last. "yes, ma'am--sometime," matilda answered. "not now?" "when i get a little rested." "you want something," said mrs. candy, looking at her; "and i know what it is. you want bringing down. you never were brought down in your life, i believe, or you would not dare me so now!" "i did not mean to dare you, aunt candy," said matilda, lifting her head. "you will not do it after to-day," said mrs. candy. "i am not going to give you what i threatened. i leave that for another time. i don't believe we shall ever come to that. but you want bringing down, all the same; and i know what will do it, too. cold water will do it." "what do you mean, aunt candy?" "i mean cold water. i have heard you say you don't like it; but it would be very good for you, in two ways. i am going to bathe you with it from your head to your feet. here is my bath-tub, and i'll have it ready in a minute. take off your clothes, matilda." it was with nothing less than horror that matilda now earnestly besought her aunt to think better of this determination. she did dislike cold water, and after a child's luxurious fashion had always been allowed to use warm water. but worse than cold water was the idea of her aunt, or anybody, presuming to apply it in the capacity of bather. matilda refused and pleaded, alternately; pleaded very humbly at last; but in vain. "i thought i knew something that would bring you down," mrs. candy said composedly and pleased; and in the same manner proceeded to strip off matilda's clothes, put her in the bath-tub, and make thorough application of the hated element as she had said, from head to foot; scrubbing and dousing and sponging; till if matilda had been in the sea she would not better have known how cold water felt all over her. it was done in five minutes, too; and then, after being well rubbed down, matilda was directed to put on her clothes again and finish her patching. "i fancy you will feel refreshed for it now," said her aunt. "this will be a good thing for you. i used to give it to clarissa always when she was a little thing; and now i will do the same by you, my love. every day, you shall come to me in the morning when you first get up." no announcement could have been more dismayful; but this time matilda said nothing. she bent herself to her patching, the one uppermost desire being to finish it and get out of the room. the cold water _had_ refreshed and strengthened her, much as she disliked and hated it; at the same time the sense of hunger, from the same cause, grew keener than ever. matilda tried her very best to lay the patch straight, and get it basted so. and so keen the endeavour was, so earnest the attention, that though laying a linen patch by the thread _is_ a nice piece of business, she succeeded at last. mrs. candy was content with the work, satisfied with its being only basted for that time, and let her go. matilda slowly made her way down to the lower regions, where maria was still at work, and asked for something to eat. maria looked very black, and demanded explanations of what was going on up-stairs. matilda would say nothing, until she had found something to satisfy her hunger, and had partially devoured a slice of bread and meat. in the midst of that she broke off, and wrapping her arms round her sister in a clinging way, exclaimed suddenly-- "o maria, keep me, keep me!" "keep you! from what? what do you mean, tilly?" said the astonished maria. "from aunt candy. _can't_ you keep me?" "what has she done?" maria asked, growing very wrathful. "can't you keep me from her, maria?" "and i say, what has she done to you, tilly? do hold up and answer me. how can i tell anything when you act like that? what has she done?" "she says she'll give me a cold bath every morning," matilda said, seeming to shrink and shiver as she said it. "a cold bath!" exclaimed maria. "yes. oh, can't you keep me from it?" "what has put the notion in her head?" "she used to do it to clarissa, she says; but i think she wants to do it to me because i don't like it. oh, i don't like it, maria!" "she's too mean for anything," said maria. "i never saw anything like her. but maybe it won't be so bad as you think, tilly. she and clarissa both take a cold bath every morning, you know; and they like it." "i don't like it!" said matilda, with the extremest accent of repugnance. "maybe it won't seem so bad when you've tried." "i have tried," said matilda, bursting into tears; "she gave me one to-day, and i don't like it; and i can't _bear_ to have her bathe me!" matilda's tears came now in a shower, with sobs of the most heartfelt trouble. maria looked black as a thunder-cloud. "o maria, can't you keep me from her?" "not without killing her," said maria. "i feel as if i would almost like to do that sometimes." "o maria, you mustn't speak so!" said matilda, shocked even in the midst of her grief. "well, and i don't mean it," said maria; "but what can i do, tilly? if she takes a notion in her head, she will follow it, you know; and it would take more than ever i saw to turn her. and you see, she thinks cold water is the best thing in the world." "yes, but i _can't_ bear to have her bathe me!" matilda repeated. "and i don't like cold water. she rubs, and she scrubs, and she throws the water over me, and the soap-suds, and she don't care at all whether i like it or not. i wish i could get away! i wish i could get away, maria! oh, i wish i could get away!" "so do i wish i could," said maria, gloomily eyeing her little sister's sobs. "we've got to stand it, tilly, for the present. i haven't anywhere to go to, and you haven't. come, don't cry. eat your bread and meat. i dare say you will get used to cold water." "i shall not get used to _her_," said matilda. however, a part of maria's prediction did come true. cold water is less terrible, the more acquaintance one has with it; and probably mrs. candy's assertion was also true, that it was capital for matilda. and matilda would not have much minded it at last, if only the administration could have been left to herself. but mrs. candy kept that in her own hands, knowing, probably, that it was one effectual means of keeping matilda herself in her hands. every morning, when mrs. candy's bell rang, matilda was obliged to run down-stairs and submit herself to her aunt's manipulations, which were pretty much as she had described them; and under those energetic unscrupulous hands, which dealt with her as they listed, and regarded her wishes in no sort nor respect, matilda was quite helpless; and she was subdued. mrs. candy had attained that end; she no longer thought of resisting her aunt in any way. it was the first time in matilda's life that she had been obliged to obey another. between her mother and herself the question had hardly arisen, except upon isolated occasions. she dared not let the question ever arise now with mrs. candy. she read, and darned, and patched, and grew skilful in those latter arts; she never objected now. she came to her bath, and never uttered now the vain pleadings which at first even her dignity gave way to make. mrs. candy had quite put down the question of dignity. matilda did not venture to disobey her any more in anything. she went no more to walk without asking leave; she visited no more at mrs. laval's; mrs. candy even took matilda in her triumph to her own church in the morning. matilda suffered, but submitted without a word. how much the child suffered, nobody knew or guessed. she kept it to herself. mrs. candy did not even suspect that there was much suffering in the case, beyond a little enforced submission, and a little disappointment now and then about going to see somebody. mrs. laval's house was forbidden, that was all; and for a few days matilda did not get time, or leave, to go out to walk. she was kept very busy. and she was pleasant about her work with maria, and gentle and well-behaved when at her work with her aunt. not gay, certainly, as she had begun to be sometimes lately, before this time; but maria was so far from gaiety herself that she did not miss it in her sister; and mrs. candy saw no change but the change she had wished for. nevertheless they did not see all. there were hours, when matilda could shut herself up in her room and be alone, and maria was asleep in her bed at night; when the little head bent over her bible, and tears fell like rain, and struggles that nobody dreamed of went on in the child's heart. the thing she lived on, was the hope of getting out and doing that beloved shopping; meeting norton, somehow, somewhere, as one does impossible things in a dream, and arranging with him to go to lilac lane together. the little pocket-book lay all safe and ready waiting for the time; and when matilda could let herself think pleasant thoughts, she went into rapturous fancies of the wonderful changes to be wrought in mrs. eldridge's house. she saw nothing meanwhile of lemuel dow. the sunday following her afternoon at mrs. laval's had been a little rainy in the latter part of it. perhaps the little dow boy, who minded rain no more than a duck on other days, might be afraid of a wetting on sunday. other people often are. but matilda meant to look for him next time, and have her sugared almonds in readiness. one of the days of that week, it happened that mrs. candy took matilda out with her for a walk. it was not at all agreeable to matilda; but she was learning to submit to what was not agreeable, and she made no objection. on the way they stopped at mr. sample's store; mrs. candy wanted to get some smoked salmon. mr. sample served her himself. "how did you like the tea i sent you?" he asked, while he was weighing the fish. "tea?" said mrs. candy. "you sent me no tea." "why, yes i did, last week; it was monday or tuesday, i think. you wanted to try another kind, i understood." "i wanted nothing of the sort. i have plenty of tea on hand, and am perfectly suited with it. you have made some mistake." "i am glad you are suited," mr. sample rejoined; "but i have made no mistake. this little girl came for it, and i weighed it out myself and gave it to her. and a loaf of bread at the same time." "it was not for you, aunt candy; it was for myself," said matilda. "i paid for it, mr. sample; it was not charged." "you did not pay me, miss matilda." "no, mr. sample; i paid patrick." "what did you buy tea and bread for?" her aunt inquired. "i wanted it," matilda answered. "what for?" "i wanted it to give away," matilda said, in a low voice, being obliged to speak. mrs. candy waited till they were out of the shop, and then desired to know particulars. for whom matilda wanted it; where she took it; when she went; who went with her. "is it a clean place?" was her inquiry at last. matilda was obliged to confess it was not. "don't go there again without my knowledge, matilda. do you hear?" "i hear. but aunt candy," said matilda, in great dismay, "it doesn't hurt me." "no; i mean it shall not. have you always gone wandering just where you liked?" "yes, always. shadywalk is a perfectly safe place." "for common children, perhaps. not for you. do not go near lilac lane again. it is a mercy you have escaped safe as it is." escaped from what, matilda wondered. even a little soil to her clothes might be washed off, and she did not think she had got so much harm as that. if she could only meet norton now, before reaching home; there would never be another chance. matilda longed to see him, with an intensity which seemed almost as if it must bring him before her; but it did not. in vain she watched every corner and every group of boys or cluster of people they passed; norton's trim figure was not to be seen; and the house door shut upon matilda in her despair. she went up to her room, and kneeling down, laid her head on the table. "it's almost tea-time," said maria. "what is the matter now?" but matilda was not crying; she was in despair. "come!" said maria. "come, what ails you? tired?--it is time to get tea, matilda, and i want your help. what _is_ the matter now?" matilda lifted a perfectly forlorn face to her sister. "i can't go anywhere!" she said. "i am in prison. i can't go to lilac lane any more. i cannot do anything any more. and they want me so!" down went matilda's head. maria stood, perhaps a little conscience struck. "_who_ wants you so much?" "the poor people there. mrs. eldridge and mrs. rogers. they want me so much." "what for, tilly?" said maria, a little more gently than her wont. "oh, for a great many things," said matilda, brushing away a tear or two; "and now i can go no more--i cannot do anything--oh dear!" the little girl broke down. "she's the most hateful, spiteful, masterful woman, that ever was!" maria exclaimed; "too mean to live, and too cunning to breathe. she's an old witch!" "oh don't, maria!" "i will," said maria. "i will talk. it is the only comfort i have. what is she up to now?" "just that," said matilda. "she found i had been to lilac lane, and she said i must not go again without her knowing; and she will never let me go. i needn't ask her. she doesn't like me to go there. and i wanted to do so much! if she could only have waited--only have waited----" "what made you let her know you had been there?" "she found out. i couldn't help it. now she will not let me go ever again. never, never!" "what did you want to do in lilac lane, tilly?" "oh, things. i wanted to do a great deal. things.--they'll never be done!" cried matilda, in bitter distress. "i cannot do them now. i cannot do anything." "she is as mean as she can live!" said maria again. "but tilly, i don't believe lilac lane is a good place for you, neither. what did you want to do there? what _could_ you do?" "things," said matilda, indefinitely. "you are not old enough to go poking about lilac lane by yourself." "i can't go any way," said matilda. she cried a long while to wash down this disappointment, and the effects of it did not go off in the tears. the child became very silent and sober. her duties she did, as she had done them, about the house and in mrs. candy's room; but the bright face and the glad ways were gone. in the secret of her private hours matilda had struggles to go through that left her with the marks of care upon her all the rest of the time. the next sunday she was made to go to church with her aunt. she went to her own sunday-school in the afternoon; but she was not allowed to get off early enough for the reading and talk with mary and ailie. lem dow, however, was on hand; that was one single drop of comfort. he looked for his sugared almonds and they were on hand too; and besides that, matilda was able to see that he was quite pleased with the place and the singing and the doings in his class, and making friends with the boys. "will you come next sunday?" matilda asked him, as they were going out. he nodded. "won't jemima come too, if you ask her?" "i won't ask her." "no? why not?" "i don't want her to come." "you don't want her to come? why it is a pleasant place, isn't it?" "it's a heap more jolly if she ain't here," said lem, knowingly. it was a difficult argument to answer, with one whose general benevolence was not very full grown yet. matilda went home thinking how many people wanted something done for them, and how she could touch nobody. she was not allowed to go to church in the evening. chapter vi. the days seemed to move slowly. they were such troublesome days to matilda. from the morning bath, which was simply her detestation, all through the long hours of reading, and patching, and darning in mrs. candy's room, the time dragged; and no sooner was dinner over, than she began to dread the next morning again. it was not so much for the cold water as for the relentless hand that applied it. matilda greatly resented having it applied to her at all by any hand but her own; it was an aggravation that her aunt minded that, and her, no more than if she had been a baby. it was a daily trial, and daily trouble; for matilda was obliged to conquer herself, and be silent, and submit where her whole soul rose and rebelled. she must not speak her anger, and pleadings were entirely disregarded. so she ran down in the morning when her aunt's bell rang, and was passive under all that mrs. candy pleased to inflict; and commanded herself when she wanted to cry for vexation, and was still when words of entreaty or defiance rose to her lips. the sharp lesson of self-control matilda was learning now. she had to practise it again when she took her hours of needlework. mrs. candy was teaching her now to knit, and now to mend lace, and then to make buttonholes; and she required perfection; and matilda was forced to be very patient, and careful to the extreme of carefulness, and docile when her work was pulled out, and persevering when she was quite tired and longed to go down and help maria in the kitchen. she was learning useful arts, no doubt, but matilda did not care for them; all the while the most valuable thing she was learning was the lesson of power over herself. well if that were all. but there were some things also down in the bottom of matilda's heart which it was not good to learn; and she knew it; but she did not know very well how to help it. several weeks had gone by in this manner, and now june was about over. matilda had not gone to lilac lane again, nor seen norton, nor made any of her purchases for mrs. eldridge. she had almost given all that up. she wondered that she saw nothing of norton; but if he had ever come to the house she had not heard of it. matilda was not allowed to go out in the evening now any more. no more band meetings, or prayer meetings, or church service in the evening for her. and in the morning of sunday mrs. candy was very apt to carry her off to her own church, which matilda disliked beyond all expression. but she went as quietly as if she had liked it. things were in this state, when one evening maria came up to bed and burst out as soon as she had got into the room,-- "think of it! they are going to new york to-morrow." matilda was bewildered, and asked who was going to new york. "_they_. aunt erminia and clarissa. to be gone all day! hurrah! we'll have just what we like for dinner, and i'll let the kitchen fire go out." "are they going down to new york to-morrow?" said matilda, standing and looking at her sister. "by the early train. don't you hear me tell you?" "i thought it was too good news to be true," said matilda, drawing a long breath. "it is, almost; but they are going. they are going to do shopping. that's what it's for. and i say, matilda, won't we have a great dinner to get!" "they will want dinner after they get home." "no, they won't. they will take dinner somehow down there. why they will not be home, tilly, till nine o'clock. they can't. the train don't get up till a quarter-past eight, that train they are going to take; and they will have to be an hour pretty near riding up from the station. hurrah! hurrah!" "hush! don't make so much noise. they will hear you." "no, they won't. they have come up to bed. we are to have breakfast at six o'clock. we shall have all the longer day." "then i hope aunt candy will not have time to give me my bath." "no, she won't; she told me to tell you. you are to be ever so early, and help me to get the breakfast. i shall not know what to do with the day, though, i shall want to do so much. that is the worst of it." matilda thought _she_ would be under no such difficulty, if only her way were not so hedged in. the things she would have liked to do were forbidden things. she might not go to lilac lane; she might not go to mrs. laval's. she half expected that her aunt would say she must not go out of the house at all. that misfortune, however, did not happen. the early breakfast and bustle and arrangements for getting off occupied mrs. candy so completely that she gave no commands whatever. the omnibus fairly drove away with her, and left maria and matilda unrestricted by any new restrictions. "it seems," said matilda, gravely, as they stood by the gate, "it seems as if i could see the sky again. i haven't seen it this great while." "seen the sky!" said maria; "what has ailed you? you have gone out often enough." "it didn't seem as if i could see the sky," said matilda, gazing up into the living blue depth above her. "i can see it now." "you are funny," said maria. "it don't seem to me as if i had seen anything, for weeks. dear me! to-day will be only too short." "it is half-past six now," said matilda. "between now and nine o'clock to-night there are--let me see; half-past twelve will be six hours, and half-past six will be twelve hours; six, seven, eight, nine,--nine will be two hours and a half more; that will be fourteen and a half hours." "fourteen," said maria, "that half we shall be expecting them." "well, we've got to go in and put the house in order, first thing," said matilda. "let's make haste." "then i'll let the kitchen fire go out," said maria; "and we'll dine on bread and butter, and cold potatoes. i like cold potatoes; don't you?" "no," said matilda; "but i don't care what we have. i'll have bread and butter and cold coffee, maria; let us save the coffee. that will do." with these arrangements made, the day began. the two girls flew round in a kind of glee to put the rooms up and get all the work done out of the way. work was a kind of play that morning. then they agreed to take their dinner early and dress themselves. maria was going out after that to see some friends and have some fun, she said. matilda on her part had a sort of faint hope that to-day, when it would be so opportune, it might happen that norton laval would come to see what had become of her. she was almost afraid to go out and lose the chance; though, to be sure, it was only the ghost of a chance. yet for that ghost of a chance she did linger and wait in the house for an hour or two after maria had gone out. then it began to press upon her that her aunt had ordered her to get some strawberries from mr. sample's for tea; she was uneasy till it was done, and at last took her hat and her basket and resolved to run round into butternut street and get that off her mind. she was standing in mr. sample's shop, patiently waiting until her turn should come to be served, when a hand was laid upon her shoulder. "how do you do, tilly? you are grown a stranger." "o mr. richmond!" was matilda's startled response. and it was more startled than glad. "what is the matter? you look as if i had frightened you,--almost," said the minister, smiling. matilda did not say what was the matter. "have you been quite well?" "yes sir." "you were not in your place on sunday." "no, sir." and matilda's tone of voice gave an unconscious commentary upon her very few words. "and you have not been to take tea with me in a great while." "no, mr. richmond." "suppose you come to-day." "oh, i cannot, sir." "why not? i think you can." "i don't know whether my aunt would let me." "we will go and ask her." "oh no, sir; she is not at home, mr. richmond. she has gone to new york." "for how long?" "only till nine o'clock to-night." "then there can be no possible harm in your coming to take tea at the parsonage." "i don't know whether she would let me," said matilda, with an evident intimation that the doubt was barrier enough. "you think she would not like it?" "i think--perhaps--she would not. thank you, mr. richmond!" "but, tilly, i want to talk to you. have you nothing to say to me?" "yes, sir. a great deal," said the child, with the look of slow meditation. the minister considered her for a moment. "i shall take the decision of the question upon myself, tilly, and i will make it all right with your aunt. come to the parsonage, or rather, go to the parsonage; and i will join you there presently. i have half an hour's business first to attend to. you must carry those strawberries home? very well; then go straight to the parsonage and wait there for me." and with an encouraging nod and smile, mr. richmond walked off. matilda took her basket home; carried the key of the house door to maria at mrs. trembleton's; and set her face up butternut street. she was very glad; it seemed like getting out of prison; though she was not altogether satisfied in her mind that mr. richmond might be able to make it all right with mrs. candy. she was obliged to risk that, for mr. richmond's invitation had had the force of an injunction. so she took the good of the moment, and turned in at the gate of the parsonage lane with something like a feeling of exultation and triumph. the shadow of the elms was sweet on the road; the smooth quiet of the grounds, railed off from worldly business and care, seemed proper only to the houses of peace which stood upon them. the old creamy-brown church on one side; on the other the pretty new sunday-school house; in front, at the end of the avenue of elms, the brown door of the parsonage. matilda felt as if her own life had got away from out of peaceful enclosures; and she walked up the avenue slowly; too slowly for such a young life-traveller. she had no need to knock this time, but just opened the door and went straight to mr. richmond's study. that was peace itself. it was almost too pleasant, to matilda's fancy. a cool matting was on the floor; the light softened by green hanging blinds; the soft gloom of books, as usual, all about; mr. richmond's table, and work materials, and empty chair telling of his habitual occupation; and on his table a jar of beautiful flowers, which some parishioner's careful hand had brought for his pleasure. the room was sweet with geranium and lily odours; and so still and pure-breathed, that the flowers in their depth of colour and wealth of fragrance seemed to speak through the stillness. matilda did not ask what they said, though maybe she heard. she came a little way into the room, stood still and looked about her a while; and then the child flung herself down on her knees beside a chair and burst into a passion of weeping. it lasted so long and was so violent that she never heard mr. richmond come in. and he on his part was astonished. at the first sound of his voice matilda stopped crying and let him raise her from the floor; but he did not put her into a chair. instead of that he sat down himself and drew her to his side. of course he asked what the matter was. also, of course, matilda could not tell him. mr. richmond found that out, and then took another road to his object. he let matilda get quite quiet; gave her a bunch of grapes to eat, while he seemed to busy himself among his books and papers; at last put that down, and took matilda's plate from her. "you do not come to church in the evening lately, i observe, tilly," he remarked. "no, sir. aunt candy does not like me to go." "and you have not been to the prayer meeting either, or to the meetings of our commission. the 'band' is called our 'christian commission,' now." "no, sir." and matilda's eyes watered. "for the same reason?" "yes, sir." "not because you have lost pleasure in such meetings?" "oh no, mr. richmond! did you think i had?" she asked, timidly. "i could not _know_, you know," said mr. richmond, "and i wanted to ask you. i am very glad to hear it is no bad reason that keeps you away." "i didn't say _that_, mr. richmond," matilda answered, slowly. "could it be a good reason?" "why, it might," said mr. richmond, cheerfully. "you might be not well enough; or you might have more important duties to do at home; or you might be unwilling to come alone; and all those might be good reasons for staying away." "it was no such reason," said matilda. there was silence. "you wanted to talk to me, you said," mr. richmond observed. "yes, mr. richmond, i do; if i only knew how." "is it so difficult? it never used to be very difficult, matilda." "no, sir; but things are--different." "_you_ are not different, are you?" "i don't know," said matilda, slowly; "i am afraid so. i feel very different." "in what way?" "mr. richmond," she went on, still slowly, and as if she were meditating her words,--"i don't see how i can do just right." "in what respect?" said the minister, very quietly. again matilda paused. "mr. richmond, is it always wrong to hate people?" "what things should make it right for us to hate people?" "i don't know," said matilda in the same considering way, "when there isn't the least thing you can love them for, or like them?" "what if the lord had gone by that rule in dealing with us?" "oh, but he is so good." "and has commanded us to be just as good, has he not?" "but can we, mr. richmond?" "what do you think, tilly, the lord meant when he gave us the order?" "he meant we should try." "do you think he meant that we should only _try?_ do you think he did not mean that we should be as he said?" "and love hateful people?" "what do you think, tilly?" "o mr. richmond, i think i'm not good." "what is the matter, my dear child?" mr. richmond said tenderly, as matilda burst into quiet tears again. "what troubles you?" "_that_, mr. richmond. i'm afraid i am not good, for i am not like that; and i don't see how i can be." "what is the hindrance? or the difficulty?" "because, mr. richmond, i am afraid i hate my aunt candy." mr. richmond was quite silent, and matilda sobbed awhile. "do i understand you aright?" he said, at last. "do you say that you hate your aunt?" "i am afraid i do." "why should you hate her? is she not very kind to you?" "i do not call her kind," said matilda. "in what respect is she not kind?" the child sobbed again, with the unspoken difficulty; stifled sobs. "she is not cruel to you?" said mr. richmond. "i think she is cruel," said matilda; "for she does not in the least care about doing things that i do not like; she does not care at all whether i like them or not. i think she likes it." "what?" "just to do things that i can't bear, mr. richmond; and she knows i can't bear them." "what is her reason for doing these things?" "i think the greatest reason is because she knows i can't bear them. i think i am growing wicked." "is it because you displease her in any way, that she does it for a punishment?" "i do not displease her in any way," said poor matilda. "and yet she likes to grieve you?" "she said i wanted putting down. and now, i suppose i am put down. i am just in prison. i can't do anything. i can't go to mrs. laval's house any more. i must not go to lilac lane any more. she won't let me. and o mr. richmond, we were going to do such nice things!" "who were going to do such nice things?" "norton laval and i." "what things were they?" "we were going to do _such_ nice things! mrs. laval gave me money for them, and norton, he has money always; and we were going to have mrs. eldridge's house cleaned, and get a bedstead, and towels, and a table, and ever so many things for her, to make her comfortable; and i thought it would be so pleasant to get the things and take them to her. and aunt candy says i am not to go again." "did you tell your aunt what you were going to do?" "oh no, sir; she thinks i have no business with such things; and she does not like anybody to go into very poor houses." "then you did not ask her leave?" "it never is any use to ask her anything. she won't let me go out to church now, except in the morning, and then sometimes she makes me go with her." mr. richmond was silent for some time. matilda grew quiet, and they both were still. "and the worst of it all is," resumed matilda, at last, "that it makes me hate her." "i do not like to hear you say that." "no, mr. richmond," said matilda, very sorrowfully. "do you think it is right?" "no, sir." "do you think you cannot help doing what is wrong." "i don't think i can like aunt candy." "we will pass that. but between not liking and hating, there is a wide distance. are you obliged to hate her?" matilda did not answer. "do you think anybody can be a child of god and have _hatred_ in his heart?" "how can i help it, mr. richmond?" said matilda, piteously. "how can you help anything? the best way is to be so full of love to jesus that you love everybody for his sake." "but people that are not good," said matilda. "it is easy to love people that are good. the wonder of the love of the lord jesus is, that it comes to people who are not good. and his children are like him. 'be ye followers of god,' he tells them, 'as dear children; and walk in love.'" "i am not like that, mr. richmond," matilda said, sadly. "didn't you love little lem dow? i am sure he is not very good." "but he never troubled me, much," said matilda. "he does not make me miserable all the day long." mr. richmond paused again. "our master knew what it was to be ill-treated by bad people, matilda." "yes, mr. richmond." "how did he feel towards them?" "oh, but i am not like that," said matilda again. "you must be, if you are his child." "must i?" said matilda, the tears dropping from her eyes quietly. "how can i? if you only knew, mr. richmond!" "no matter; the lord knows. tell him all about it, and pray to be made so like him and to love him so well that you may love even this unkind friend." "i don't think she is my friend," said matilda; "but it don't make any difference." "no, it does not make any difference." "mr. richmond," said matilda, timidly, after a moment, "won't you pray with me?" which the minister instantly did. matilda wept quietly all the time of his prayer, and after they rose from their knees, leaning her head on mr. richmond's shoulder, where she had poured out her troubles once before. her friend let her alone, keeping his arm round her kindly, till the child raised her head and wiped her eyes. "do you feel better?" he whispered then. matilda answered "yes," in an answering whisper. "but mr. richmond," she said, presently, "i am very sorry for lilac lane." "i am very sorry," he said. "there is the money in my purse, all ready, and our list of things. it would have been so pleasant." "very pleasant," mr. richmond answered. "and now i can't do band work any more," matilda went on. "i have no opportunities for anything any more. i cannot do anything at all." "there might be something to say about that," mr. richmond replied; "but i think you have had enough talk just now. is your sorrow on account of lilac lane because you have lost the pleasure? or because mrs. eldridge has lost it?" "why, both," said matilda. "i suppose so. would it be any comfort to you to know that the work was done, even though you did not see it?" "what, you mean the house cleaned and the things got, and mrs. eldridge fixed up as we meant to do it?" "i mean that." "oh yes," said matilda. "if i could know it was done, i would not be half so sorry about it. but norton can't manage alone; and maria has no time." "no, but somebody else might. now go off and talk to miss redwood; and make some more gingerbread or something; and after tea we will see about your lost opportunities if you like." "would miss redwood do all that for me?" said matilda. "you can consult her and find out." chapter vii. miss redwood was mopping up the yellow painted floor of her kitchen, as matilda softly pushed open the door and looked in. "who's that?" said the housekeeper. "floor's all wet; and i don't want no company till there's a place for 'em to be. stop! is that tilly englefield? why, i declare it is! come right in, child. you're the greatest stranger in town." "but i am afraid to come in, miss redwood." "then you're easy scared. come in, child. step up on that cheer, and sit down on my table. there! now i can look at you, and you can look at me, if you want to. i'll be through directly, and it won't take this paint no time to dry. how's all the folks at your house?" "gone to new york for the day; aunt candy and cousin clarissa are." "wouldn't ha' hurted 'em to have took you along. why didn't they?" "oh they were going shopping," said matilda. "well, had you any objections to go shopping?" said the housekeeper, sitting back on her feet and wringing her cloth, as she looked at matilda perched up on the table. "i hadn't any shopping to do, you know," said matilda. "i hain't no shopping to do, nother," said miss redwood, resuming her work vigorously; "but i always like to see other folks' goins on. it's a play to me, jest to go in 'long o' somebody else and see 'em pull down all the things, and turn over all the colours in the rainbow, and suit themselves with purchases i wouldn't look at, and leave my gowns and shawls high and dry on the shelf. and when i go out, i have bought as many dresses as they have, and i have kept my money for all." "but sometimes people buy what you would like too, miss redwood, don't they?" "well, child, not often; 'cause, you see, folks's minds is sot on different things; and somehow, folks's gowns have a way o' comin' out o' their hearts. i kin tell, pretty well, what sort o' disposition there is inside of a dress, or under a bonnet, without askin' nobody to give me a character. what's be come o' you all these days? ha' you made any more gingerbread?" "no." "i guess you've forgotten all about it, then. what's the reason, eh?" "i have been too busy, miss redwood." "goin' to school again?" "no, i've been busy at home." "but makin' gingerbread is play, child; _that_ ain't work." matilda was silent; and the housekeeper presently came to a pause again; sat back on her feet, wrung her mopping cloth, and considered matilda. "don't you want to make some this afternoon?" "if you please; yes, i should like it," said the little girl. "humph!" said the housekeeper. "what have you been tiring yourself with to-day?" "i am not tired," said matilda. "thank you, miss redwood." "if i was to get a good bowl o' sour cream now, and shew you how to toss up a short-cake--how would you like that?" "oh, i would like it very much--if i could." "sit still then," said the housekeeper, "till my floor's dry. why hain't you been to see me before, eh? everybody else in creation has been in at the parsonage door but you. you ain't beginnin' to take up with that french minister, air you?" "oh no, indeed, miss redwood! but he isn't a french minister." "i don't care what he is," said the housekeeper; "he takes airs; and a minister as takes airs had better be french, i think. what do you go to hear him for, then?" "aunt candy takes me." "then you don't go because you want to? that's what i am drivin' at." "oh no, indeed i don't, miss redwood. i would never go, if i could help myself." "what harm would happen to you if you didn't?" asked the housekeeper, dryly. but matilda was distressed and could not tell. "there is ministers as takes airs," continued the housekeeper sitting up and giving her mop a final wring, "but they can't kind o' help it; it's born with 'em, you may say; it's their natur. it's a pity, but so it is. that's one thing. i'm sorry for 'em, for i think they must have a great load to carry. but when a man goes to bowin' and curchying, outside o' society, and having a tailor of his own to make his coat unlike all other folks, i think i don't want to have him learn _me_ manners. folks always takes after their minister--more or less." "do you think so?" said matilda, dubiously. "why yes, child. i said _more_ or _less;_ with some of 'em it's a good deal less. don't you do what mr. richmond tells you?" "i try," said matilda. "so i try," said miss redwood, getting upon her feet. "la! we all do--a little. it's natur. don't your aunt, now, take after _her_ minister?" "i suppose so," said matilda, with a sigh. "don't you go gettin' into that frenchman's ways. mr. richmond's thumb is worth all there is o' _him_." "miss redwood," said matilda, "i want to ask you something." "well, why don't you?" "i want to know if you won't do something for me." "talk away," said the housekeeper. "i hear." she went meanwhile getting out the flour and things wanted for the short-cake. "there's a poor old woman that lives in lilac lane; mrs. eldridge, her name is." "sally eldridge," said miss redwood. "la! i know her. she's poor, as you say." "you know where she lives?" "course i do, child. i know where everybody lives." "you know she is very poor, and her house wants cleaning, and she hasn't a great many things to be comfortable." "how come you to know it?" asked the housekeeper. "i have been there. i have seen her. i know her very well." "who took you there?" "nobody took me there. i heard about her, and i went to see her." "you didn't learn that of the french minister." "but he is not french, miss redwood." "i wisht he was," said the housekeeper. "i say nothin' agin other country people, only to be sorry for 'em; but i get put out o' my patience when i see one of the right stock makin' a fool of himself. well, honey, what about mis' eldridge?" "i've got some money, miss redwood,--somebody gave me some money, to get things for her and do what i like; and norton laval and i were going to have her made nice and comfortable. but now aunt candy will not let me go there any more, and i can't do what i wanted to do; and i thought--mr. richmond thought--maybe you would see to it for me." "what's to be done?" said the housekeeper. "why, first of all, miss redwood, her house wants cleaning. it is not fit to put anything nice into it." "all lilac lane wouldn't be the worse of a cleanin'," said the housekeeper; "men and women and all; but i don't know who's to do the cleanin'." "i thought maybe sabrina rogers would do it,--if she was paid, you know. she lives just over the way, and she _is_ pretty clean." "kin try," said the housekeeper. "no harm in tryin'. i guess a dollar would fetch her round. supposin' it was cleaned; what's to do next?" "get things, miss redwood," said matilda, looking up at her eagerly. "you know she wants so much. i want to get a bedstead for her, and a decent bed; her bed isn't a bed, and it lies on the floor. and she has no way to wash herself; i want to send her a little washstand, and basin, and pitcher, and towels; and a table for the other room; and a saucepan to cook things in; and some bread, and meat, and sugar, and other things; for she hasn't comfortable things to eat. and one or two calico dresses, you know; she wants them so much." the child's face grew excitedly eager. there came a glitter in the housekeeper's faded blue eye as it looked down upon her. "but, honey, all these things'll cost a sight o' money." "i've got money." "it'll take all you've got." "but i want to do what i can, miss redwood." "i kind o' don't think it's right," said the housekeeper. "why should you go a-spendin' all your little savin's upon sally eldridge? and it's only one old woman helped, when all's done; there's lots more. it's somebody else that ought to do it; 'tain't your work, child." "but i want to do it, miss redwood. and i've got the money." "i wonder how much better she'll be at the end of six months," said the housekeeper. "well, you want me to take this job in hand, do you?" "if you can; if you would be so very good." "you make me feel as mean as water," said the housekeeper. "it'll take me a little while to get up any notion o' my goodness again. i suppose it'll come, with the old pride o' me. i know what the bible says, but i kind o' didn't think it meant it; and i've been a makin' myself comfortable all my days, or workin' for it, and consolin' my conscience with thinkin' it was no use to help _one;_ but now yours and mine would make two; and somebody else's would ha' been three. la! child, you make me ashamed o' myself." "but miss redwood," said matilda, in much surprise, "you are always doing something for somebody; i don't know what you mean." "not this way, child," said the housekeeper. "i kind o' thought my money was my own, after i had worked for it." "well, so it is." "and so is your'n your'n; but it looks like as if what was your'n was the lord's. and to be sure, that's what the minister is always a sayin'; but i kind o' thought it was because he was the minister, and that sarah redwood hadn't no call to be just exactly as good as him." and to matilda's bewilderment, she saw the corner of miss redwood's apron lifted to wipe off a tear. "come, child, make your short-cake!" she began with fresh vigour. "there's water to wash your hands. now we must be spry, or the minister 'll be wanting his tea, and i should feel cheap if it warn't ready. i've got my lesson, for to-day; and now you shall have your'n. i never did want many blows of the hammer to drive a nail into me. here's an apron for you. now sift your flour, just as you did for the gingerbread; and we'll have it baking in no time. short-cake must be made in five minutes, or it'll be heavy; and it must bake almost as quick. turn it up, dear, with the ends o' your fingers, while i pour the cream in--just toss it round--don't seem to take hold o' nothing--kind o' play with it; and yet you must manage to throw the mixin's together somehow. yes, that'll do very well, that'll do very well; you've got a real good hand, light and firm. now bring it together, dear, in one lump, and we'll cut it in two pieces and put it in the pans." this was done satisfactorily, and the pans were slipped into the hot oven. matilda washed her hands, and the housekeeper made neat and swift preparations for tea. everything was so nice about her, her kitchen and pantries were in such a state of order and propriety, and so well supplied too; it was a pleasure to see her go from one to the other and bring out what she wanted. matilda was allowed to take cups, and plates, and sugar, and butter from her hand, and found it a most enlivening kind of amusement; especially the placing her own plate and knife, and seeing it there on mr. richmond's tea-table. then came the excitement of taking out the short-cake, which had puffed itself up and browned in the most pleasant manner; and then the minister was called out to tea. it was an odd little room, between the study and the kitchen, where they took tea; not big enough for anything but the table and a convenient passage round it. two little windows looked out over a pleasant field, part of which was cultivated as the parsonage garden, and beyond that, to white palings and neat houses, clustering loosely in pretty village fashion. among them, facing on the street which bordered the parsonage and church grounds at the back, matilda could see the brown front of the academy, where norton laval went to school; and trees mingled their green tops with the house roofs everywhere. the sun was going down in the bright western sky, which was still beyond all this, and nothing disagreeable was within sight at all. "what are you thinking about, tilly, that you look so hard out of my windows?" the minister asked. "nothing, mr. richmond. at least--i was thinking, whether you knew norton. norton laval." "he comes to the sunday-school, i think. no, i do not know him very well. do you?" "oh yes." "is he a nice fellow?" "he is very nice, mr. richmond." "does he love the bible as well as you do?" "i don't think he knows much about it, mr. richmond," matilda answered, looking wistful. "if he is a friend of your's, cannot you help him?" "i do try," said matilda. "but, mr. richmond, you know a boy thinks he knows about things better than i do, or than any girl does." mr. richmond smiled. "besides, i can't see him now," matilda added. "i have no chance." and a cloud came over her face. "miss redwood," said the minister, "do you think you can manage a certain business in lilac lane which matilda had a mind to entrust to you? i suppose you have been consulting about it." "does mr. richmond think it'll do much good?" was the housekeeper's rejoinder. "do i think what will do good?" "gettin' a new bedstead and fixin's for sally eldridge." "i don't know what 'fixin's' are, in this connection," said the minister. "i have heard of 'light bread and chicken fixings,' at the south." "the bread and the chickens are comin' too, for all i know," said the housekeeper. "i mean sheets, and coverlets, and pillows, and decent things. she hain't none now." "i should think she would sleep better," said the minister, gravely. "had this child ought to spend her little treasures for to put that old house in order? it's just sheddin' peas into a basket that has got no bottom to it." "so bad as that?" said the minister. "well, mr. richmond knows," the housekeeper went on, "there ain't no end o' the troubles there is in the world, nor yet o' the poverty; and sally eldridge, she'll be the better maybe, as long as the things last; but there's all the rest o' lilac lane, without speaking of what there is beside in shadywalk; and the chilld 'll be without her dollars, and the world 'll be pretty much where it was." "i don't see but that reasoning would stop my preaching, miss redwood." "i don't mean it, sir, i'm sure." "i don't think you mean what you say. what is the use of giving me a good cup of tea, when so many other people cannot have one at all?" "the minister knows a cup o' good tea when he sees it," answered the housekeeper. mr. richmond laughed. "but don't you think sally eldridge, for instance, would know a good bed?" "there ain't no possibilities o' makin' some o' them folks keerful and thrivin'," said the housekeeper, firmly. "'tain't in 'em; and what's the use o' havin' things if folks ain't keerful? sally eldridge had her house respectable once; i mind her very well, when she kept the gate at judge brockenhurst's big place; and she had wages, and her man he had good wages; and now the peas is all out o' the basket. and is there any use, buyin' more to put in? the basket 'll never be mended. it'll let out as fast as it takes in." "the basket, as you put it, is out of sally's hands now," miss redwood. "she is one of the helpless ones. don't you think it would be a good thing to make her life more comfortable? i think we had better take her some of this short-cake, matilda. miss redwood, as for you, i shall expect to hear that you have lamed your arm doing something for her comfort, or half broken your back carrying a heavy basket to lilac lane, or something of that sort, judging by what i know of you already." "i'm willin'," said the housekeeper. "but it ain't this child's business. she hain't no call to give all she's got to sally eldridge." "i suppose," said the minister, with a look at matilda, which both she and the housekeeper read with their hearts,--"i suppose she is thinking of the word that will be spoken one day, 'inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these,'--'he that hath pity upon the poor, lendeth to the lord; and that which he hath given will he pay him again'!" "then mr. richmond thinks it would be a good use of her money?" "there might possibly be better; but if it is the best she knows, that is all she can do. i have a great opinion of doing what our hands find to do, miss redwood; if the lord gives other work, he will send the means too." "there's a frame bedstead lyin' up in the loft," said the housekeeper. "'tain't no good to any one, and it only wants a new rope to cord it up; perhaps the minister would let sally have that; and it would save so much." "by all means, let her have that; and anything else we can spare. now, matilda, you and i will go and attend to our other business." they went back to the study, where the light was growing soft. mr. richmond drew up the blinds of the west window and let in the glow and colour from a rich sunset sky. he stood looking at it, with the glow upon his face; and standing so, spoke-- "what was it, matilda?" matilda on her part sat down in a chair, and with a face of childish grave meditation, peered into the great bunch of asparagus with which miss redwood had filled the minister's chimney. she sat in shadow all over, and answered as if taking out the very secret burden of her heart for her friend's inspection. "mr. richmond, i can't do band work any more. i can't do anything. i can't do anything at all. you told us to buy up opportunities; but i have no opportunities now even to buy." "are you sure?" "yes, sir," said the child, slowly. "i am quite sure. i cannot do any work at all. and i would like it so much." "wait a bit," said the minister, still looking at the evening glow; "maybe you are too hasty." "no, sir. aunt candy will not let me go out, and i can see nobody." "whose servant are you?" "i am christ's servant," said the child, softly. "well. being his servant, do you want to do his will, or your own?" "why--i want to do his will," matilda answered, speaking a little slowly. "isn't it his will just now that you should be without your old liberty, and unable to do these things you want to do?" "yes, sir," matilda said, rather unwillingly. "i suppose it is." "are you willing his will should be done?" mr. richmond had faced round from the window now, and matilda met his look, and did not answer for a moment. "is it his will, mr. richmond, that i should have no opportunity to do anything?" "what do you think? if he had chosen to do it, he could have placed you in the midst of the fullest opportunity. he _has_ placed you under the rule of your aunt. are you willing his will should be done, and as long as he pleases?" matilda looked in her friend's face, but it put the question steadily; and she faltered and burst into tears. "that is a great question, tilly," said the minister, kindly. "is it yourself you want to please? or the lord jesus? he can have these outside things done by other people, even if you cannot help in them; but of _you_ the first thing he wants is an obedient child. will you be obedient? that is, will you agree to his will?" "mr. richmond--must i be _willing_ to do nothing?" matilda asked without uncovering her face. "if the lord bids you do nothing." "but i thought--he bade me--do so many things?" "so he does; and just now the very first and foremost of them is, that you should be content with his will." the daylight had faded sensibly when the next words were spoken, so many seconds went by before matilda was ready to speak them. "mr. richmond," she said, after that pause of hidden struggle, "isn't it very hard?" "it depends upon how much any one loves the lord, my dear child. the more you love him, the less you want your own will. but you were never more mistaken in your life, than just now, when you thought he had taken all your opportunities away." "why, what opportunities have i, mr. richmond?" said matilda, lifting up her face. "this, for one. opportunity to be obedient. the bible says that christ, coming here to stand in our place and save us, learned obedience by the things which he _suffered;_ and i don't know but we must, too." matilda looked very hard at her adviser; it was not easy for her to get at this new thought. "cannot you as truly obey, when god says you must be still, as when he says you must work?" "yes, sir." "and in either case, obedience is in the heart--not in the fingers or the tongue. isn't it so?" "yes, sir." "you see one opportunity, matilda." "yes, sir." the answers were very meek. "my dear child, is that the only one?" "i cannot go out, mr. richmond." "no, i understand. but in the house. have you no opportunities to be patient, for instance?" "yes, sir!" and a faint colour rose in matilda's cheek. "my child, patience is something that, when god's children show, they always honour him." "how, mr. richmond?" "it shows his grace and power in them; for they cannot be truly patient without his help. and then others see it and acknowledge that there is reality in religion, and that god's will is beautiful." "i never thought of that," said matilda. "have you no opportunity to forgive injuries, or unkindness?" "oh yes, mr. richmond!" the answer came from some deep place in matilda's heart. "do you use that opportunity well?" "i don't think i have, mr. richmond," said matilda, looking very sorrowful. "i think, instead, i have been hating my----" "yes. shall that be at an end now?" "but how can it?" said matilda. "i get so vexed"--and she wiped away a tear. "i get _so_ vexed, mr. richmond!" "i am very sorry you have occasion. but you cannot forgive people _unless_ you have occasion." "how can i then?" "by going to jesus, just as the sick people went to him in the old time, and getting cured, as they did. 'if thou canst believe; all things are possible to him that believeth.'" matilda steadied her trembling little lips, and stood listening. "haven't you opportunities to do kindnesses?" mr. richmond then said, softly. matilda looked up and bowed her head a little. perhaps lips were not ready. "do you use _them_ well?" "i think not, mr. richmond--lately." "you know, you can do kindness indoors as well as out of doors, and to disagreeable people as well as to nice people. we are commanded to be followers of god, as dear children." the tears gathered again. "see how much kindness you can do. no matter whether it is deserved or not. that is no part of the question. and have you not opportunity to learn something?" "i am not going to school," said matilda. "nor learning anything at home?" "not much. not much that is good for anything." "never mind. you can do that for god." "oh no, mr. richmond; it is not useful enough." "you do not know how useful it may be." "yes, sir, because it isn't that sort of thing. aunt candy is making me learn to mend lace. it is no use at all." "i'll tell you a secret," said mr. richmond. matilda looked up with fresh eagerness into his face. "whenever the lord puts you in the way of learning anything, you may be sure he means you to learn it. he knows the use; and if you neglect the chance, the next thing will be, you will find he will give you work to do which you cannot do, because you neglected to learn what he gave you to learn." "but mending lace?" said matilda. "i don't care what it is. yes, mending lace. i don't know what use you will find for that accomplishment, and you don't; all the same, you _will_ know, when the time comes; and then you will be very sorry and mortified to find yourself unable for the work given you, if you despised your opportunity of preparation. and then it will be too late to mend that, as well as the lace." "and is that true of all sorts of things, mr. richmond?" "of all sorts of things. whenever the lord puts a chance of learning something in your way, you may be quite sure he has a use and a meaning in it. he has given it to you to do." "then all my learning to cook, and do things about the house?" "yes," said mr. richmond, smiling. "it is not difficult to see a use for that; is it?" "no, sir--i suppose not," the child said, thoughtfully. "have you not opportunities for being thankful too, in the midst of all these other things?" "yes, mr. richmond." but the child stood looking at him with a wistful, intent face, and wide-open, thoughtful eyes; so sober, and so eager, and so pitiful, that it made an unconscious plea to the minister's heart. "come," said he; "we have so much to say to our lord, let us say it." and they kneeled down, and mr. richmond put all matilda's heart into a prayer for her, and some of his own. "i must go now, mr. richmond," matilda said presently after. but she said it with a much more cheerful tone. "i shall want to hear how you get on," said mr. richmond. "when will you take tea with me again?" "oh, i don't know, sir. aunt candy is always at home." "and keeps you there?" "yes, sir. lately. she didn't at first." "well, i must see about that. i think you must be allowed to come and see me, at all events. perhaps you do not know, matilda, that your mother in almost the last hour of her life asked me to take care of you." "did she?" matilda exclaimed, with a wonderful change of voice and manner. "yes. she did. in your aunt's presence." "and you will, mr. richmond?" said the child, a little timidly. "and i will--while i live myself." "then i _can_ come and see you, mr. richmond?" "i think you can. i will see about it." matilda gave her friend a good night which was almost joyous, and then ran out to the kitchen. "miss redwood," she said, "did you change your mind again about mrs. eldridge? i thought you agreed, and that you were going to do all that for me." "no, child; i hain't changed my mind. i changed it oncet, you know, to come over to you. i never did go both ways, like a crab." "but you said at tea----" "well, i wished the minister'd tell you to keep your money to hum. 'tain't _your_ work, as i can see, to fit out sally eldridge with notions; it's like enough it's mine, and i'm willin' to take it, and do it, and see to it. you put your money by, child, against a wet day. maybe you'll want it yet." "don't you remember, miss redwood, what mr. richmond repeated at tea?--'the lord will pay it again?'" "well," said the housekeeper, "let the pay come to me, then." "no," said matilda, "that won't do. it's my business, miss redwood, and i asked you to do it for me; and i'll give you the money. how much do you want?" "i hain't bought the things yet; i don' know; and some of 'em won't have to be bought, with a little contrivance. i'll spend the least i kin; and then we'll talk about it." matilda gave her an energetic kiss and hurried away. but i am afraid the housekeeper's apron went up to her eyes again. chapter viii. matilda went home with new strength, and full of the will to do the very best she could in her hard circumstances. but the next morning's dousing, and scrubbing, and rubbing down seemed more fierce than ever. if matilda ever ventured to say "oh don't!"--mrs. candy was sure to give her more of what she did not like. she had learned to keep her tongue still between her teeth. she had learned to wince and be quiet. but this morning she could hardly be quiet. "can i help hating aunt candy?" she thought to herself as she went down-stairs. then she found maria full of work for which she wanted more fingers than her own; and matilda's were very busy till breakfast time, setting the table, hulling strawberries, sweeping the hall, making coffee, baking the biscuit. both the girls busy, and maria cross. breakfast was not sociable; and matilda was summoned to go to her aunt's room as soon as the dishes were put away. "can i help it?" thought matilda. and as she went up the stairs she prayed for a loving heart, and that this feeling, which was like a sickness, might be taken away from her. "what makes you look so meek?" exclaimed clarissa, as she entered the room. mrs. candy lifted her face to see. "i like to see children look meek," she said. "that's the way they should look. matilda's cold bath is doing her good." "mamma, you are very severe with your cold baths!" said the young lady. "they did _you_ good once," said her mother. "you need not speak against them. matilda is a different child since she has been in my bath. here is your lace, matilda. i am too busy to hear you read this morning. take your seat over there, and see how well you can do this; it's rather a difficult piece." it was a very difficult piece. matilda's heart sank when she saw it; besides that her aunt's words seemed to have taken away all the meekness she had, and to have stirred up anew all her worst feelings. she put her hand to her face to hide her eyes, while she prayed afresh for help and a sweeter spirit. she seemed to be all on edge. "what's the matter?" said mrs. candy. "begin your work, child; you'll want all the time you have got, i warn you. don't waste your time idling." matilda tried to remember what mr. richmond had said the night before, of the uses of things; and tried to pray quietly while she was taking up threads in her lace. but remembering and praying made the tears come; and then she could not see the threads, and that would not do. by and by she became interested in what her aunt and cousin were saying. they were unfolding their yesterday's purchases, and talking about what they were going to do with them. gauzes, and muslins, and other stuffs new to matilda, were laid open on the bed and hung about over the backs of chairs, and the room looked like a mercer's shop. here was a delicate embroidered white muslin; there a rosy gauze; there a black tissue; here something else of elegant pattern; with ribbands, and laces, and rufflings, and a great variety of pretty articles. matilda thought her aunt and cousin were having a great deal more amusing time than she had. "what are you doing, matilda?" mrs. candy's voice said again. "looking at cousin issa's things, ma'am." "mind your work, child. you will not have that done by dinner-time." "why, i _can't_, aunt candy." "you could if you had been industrious. you cannot now, very likely. but you must finish it before you leave this room." "it is no use!" said matilda, throwing the lace down; "i can't _near_ get it done for dinner. it is very hard, and it will take a great while!" mrs. candy waited a moment. "pick up your work," she said, "and come here and stand before me, and beg my pardon." matilda felt as if it was impossible to do this. "do it, and quickly," said mrs. candy; "or your punishment will come to-morrow morning, child. do not be foolish. i shall give you something hot as well as cold, i warn you." it seemed to matilda that she could not humble herself to do as she was bidden; and the struggle was terrible for a minute or two. it shook the child's whole nature. but the consciousness of the indignity awaiting her in case of refusal fought with the keen sense of indignity now, and conquered in time. matilda picked up her work, came before mrs. candy, and asked her pardon. "very well," said that lady, tapping her cheek carelessly; "now go and sit down and behave yourself. the lace must be finished before you leave my room." it was a day of sharp trial to matilda, all the more, perhaps, that it came after a time of so much relief, and hope, and help. matilda was disappointed. she was not a passionate child; but for some hours a storm of passion filled her heart which she could not control. her lace needle went in and out, keeping time to the furious swayings of indignation and resentment and mortified pride and restless despair. she was in her aunt's hands; completely in her power; helpless to change anything; obliged even to swallow her feelings and hide her displeasure. for a while that morning, matilda felt as if she would have given almost anything for the freedom to show her aunt what she thought of her. she dared not do it, even so much as by a look. she was forced to keep a quiet face and sit obediently mending her difficult piece of lace; and the child's heart was in great turmoil. with that, by and by, there began to mingle whispers of conscience; little whispers that anger and hatred and ill-will were not right, nor becoming her profession, nor agreeing at all with that "walking in love" which mr. richmond had spoken of the night before. and sorrow took its part too among the feelings that were sweeping over and through her heart; but matilda could not manage them, nor rule herself, and she at last longed for the dinner-bell to ring, when her aunt and cousin would leave her and she would be alone. lace-mending got on very slowly; her eyes were often dim, and it hindered her; though she would not let the tears fall. when the bell rang, and the door was locked upon her, matilda's work dropped, and she too herself almost fell upon her knees in her eagerness to seek and get help. that was what she prayed for; not that her aunt might grow kind, nor that she might be somehow separated from her and taken from her rule; but that she might have help to be right; a heart to love, and bear, and forgive, and be gentle. matilda prayed and prayed for that; while her lace lay on the floor, and the dinner down-stairs was gloomily going on. "what's the matter with matilda to-day?" maria had inquired. "only a little impatience of her duties," mrs. candy had replied, quietly. "i don't see what duties she can have, to keep her shut up in your room," said maria, hotly. "no. my dear, there are a great many things you cannot see yet. and where you cannot see, it is rather wise not to give opinion." "i have a right to an opinion about my sister, though," said maria; "and she isn't getting any good with all your shutting her up." "there i think differently from you, maria. matilda can darn stockings now in a way i am not ashamed of; much better than you can, i assure you; and she is going on to learn lace-mending beautifully." "what use is that to her? i should like to know!" said maria, scornfully. "it may be some use to me," said mrs. candy. "you are doing matilda a great deal of mischief," said maria. "she is not the same child she was." "no, she is not," said clarissa. "she is a great deal better behaved." "yes. i have taught her to know her place," said mrs. candy. "it is a pity that is what _you_ never were taught, maria. you are too old now. i couldn't take a switch to you, and that's the only way." "you never did to her?" exclaimed maria, blazing with fury. "i never did," said mrs. candy; "but matilda knows i would, at a moment's notice, if necessity came. i may do it yet, but i rather think i shall have no occasion." "you are a horrid woman!" exclaimed maria. "_of use to you_. yes, that is just what you care about. you want matilda for a little drudge, to mend your stockings, i suppose, and darn your lace. you are too mean to live. if mamma had only known----" when people get so far as this in a burst of helpless rage, the next thing usually is tears; and maria broke down accordingly. mrs. candy and clarissa finished their dinner and went away. "one cannot stand much of this sort of thing, mamma," said clarissa, as they mounted the stairs. "i am not going to stand much of it," replied mrs. candy. "i am rather glad of this outburst. it gives me the opportunity i wanted." "what will you do, mamma?" "i have been thinking for some time what i would do. this just gives me the opening. i will get rid of this girl." "and what will you do with her?" "let her go learn her sisters' trade; or some other, if she likes. we do not suit each other, and i am tired of it." "yes, and mamma, though it is so good of you to keep her in this way, do you know you get no thanks for it?" "oh, i never looked for thanks," said mrs. candy. "no, but i mean, people do not give you credit for it, mamma. i know they do not." "like enough. well--i won't ask them." "and you will keep the little one?" "she's manageable. yes, i will keep her. i like the child. she's pretty, and clever too; and she'll be very nice when she grows up. i'll keep her. i shall want her some day, when you get married." "besides, i suppose people would say ill-natured things if you did not keep one of them," said clarissa. "matilda has a temper; but she minds you, mamma." "i have got her in hand pretty well," said mrs. candy, as she unlocked the door. "well, is that lace done? not? let me see. you have not done a dozen stitches while i have been away!" "i'll do it now," said matilda; so quietly and with a voice so cleared of all roughness or ill-temper, that mrs. candy after looking at her, passed on to her seat and said nothing further. but it cost matilda some hours yet of patient diligence, before her task was ended. then she brought it to her aunt for approval. no fault was found with it, and she was free to go down-stairs to maria. maria had got out of the weeping mood into dry fury again. "i am not going to stand it!" she said. "what are you not going to stand?" "this way of going on. i will not put up with it any longer." "what can you do, maria?" "i'll go away. i will! i declare i will. i will not be aunt candy's cook and waiter any longer. i am not going to stand it. she may get her own dinners--or get a girl." "but where can we go, maria? it is no use to talk so. we haven't any place." "she may keep you," said maria; "but i'll go. i can't stand it. i don't know where. somewhere! anywhere would be better than this." "i couldn't live here without you, maria, you know," said the little one. "don't talk so. what has made you angry to-day?" "why, the way you are served; and the way i am talked to." "me?" said matilda. "never mind. you and i have a good deal of time for ourselves, maria. i shall get along, and i shall not mind so much. don't you mind." "i won't stay and see it," said maria, stoutly; "nor i won't stay and bear my part of it." "i quite agree with you," said mrs. candy, walking in from the other room. the girls were in the kitchen. "i quite agree with you, maria. it is as unpleasant for me as it is for you, and you are doing no good to matilda. it will be much better for us to separate. i have been thinking so for some time. you may choose what you will do, and i will make arrangements. either you may join anne and letitia in town, and learn the business they are learning; or if you like any other business better, i will try and arrange it for you. let me know to-morrow morning what you decide upon, and i will finish up the matter at once. i am quite tired of the present state of things, as you say." mrs. candy finished her harangue and swept out by the other door. nobody had interrupted her, and when she was gone nobody spoke. the two girls looked at each other, maria with a face of consternation, matilda white with despair. you might have heard a pin fall in the kitchen, while mrs. candy's footsteps sounded in the hall and going up stair after stair. then matilda's head went down on the table. she had no words. "the old horrid old thing!" was maria's exclamation. "she came and listened in the other room!" but matilda did not answer, and there was no relief in the explanation. "i won't go!" said maria next. "i won't go, unless i'm a mind to. it's my mother's house, not hers." matilda had no heart to answer such vain words. she knew they were vain. "why don't you speak!" said maria, impatiently. "why do you sit like that?" "it's no use, maria," said the little one, without raising her head. "what is no use? i said i wouldn't go; and i will not, unless i choose. she can't make me." "she will!" said matilda, in a burst of despairing tears. and she did. before the week was over, maria was relieved at her post in the kitchen and established with a dressmaker, to learn her trade. but not in shadywalk. mrs. candy thought, she said, that maria would have a better chance in a larger town, where there was more work and a larger connection; so she arranged that she should go to poughkeepsie. and thither maria went, to live and learn, as her aunt remarked. the change in matilda's life was almost as great. she had no more now to do in the work of the house; mrs. candy had provided herself with a servant; and instead of cooking, and washing dishes, and dusting, and sweeping, matilda had studies. but she was kept as close as ever. she had now to write, and cipher, and study french verbs, and read pages of history. clarissa was her mistress in all these, and recitations went on under the eye of mrs. candy. matilda's life was even a more busy one than it had been before. her lessons were severe, and were required in perfection; she was forced to give many hours a day to the preparing of them; and these hours were always in the afternoon and evening. the mornings were spent still in mrs. candy's room. when the art of darning lace was mastered, her aunt decided that it was good for her to learn all kinds of sewing. clarissa and her mother were engaged in making up a quantity of dresses out of the materials they had purchased in new york; and matilda was set to run up breadths of skirts, till she could do that thoroughly; then she was made to cover cord, by the scores of yards, and to hem ruffles, and to gather them, and to sew on bindings, and then to sew on hooks and eyes; and then to make button-holes. the child's whole morning now was spent in the needle part of mantua-making. after dinner came arithmetic, and french exercises, and reading history; and the evening was the time for reciting. matilda was too tired when she went up to bed to do more than look at a verse or two in her bible, and make a very short prayer; she almost dropped asleep while she was doing that. however, in the morning she had a little time now, not having to go down to get breakfast; but the long lessons before her were a sore temptation to cut short her bible reading. nevertheless matilda would not cut it short. it was the child's one happy time in all the day. the rest was very heavy, except only as the sweetness of bible words and thoughts abode with her and came up to her, bringing comfort and giving energy. she was trying with all her might to buy up her opportunities. she studied her lessons as if that were the only thing in the world to do; and in the hours of sewing, mrs. candy found her a most excellent help; quick, and neat, and skilful, and very apt to learn. matilda was learning fast many things; but the most precious of all were, to be silent, to be patient, to be kind, and to do everything with an endeavour to please god in it. her little face grew pale with confinement and steady work; it grew fine also with love and truth. it grew gentle with the habit of gentleness, and sweet with the habit of forgiving. but all the while it grew pale. she was very lonely and unspeakably sad, for such a child. her aunt kept her too close; gave her no liberty at all; even on sundays she had put a stop to the little bible readings in the sunday-school, by not letting matilda go till the regular school time. she never went to lilac lane; never to mrs. laval's. she did go sometimes to the parsonage; for mr. richmond had managed it--matilda did not know how; and once she had met norton in the street and told him how things were with her, at which he was intensely and very gratifyingly displeased. but his displeasure could not help. the weeks went steadily on with a slow grinding power, as it felt to matilda. there seemed to be less and less of her every week, to judge by her own sensations. less spirit and spring; less hope and desire; less strength and pleasure. work was grinding her down, she thought--work and discipline. she was getting to be a little machine that her aunt managed at pleasure; and it did not seem to herself that it was really matilda englefield any longer. she was a different somebody. and that was in a measure true. yet the work doing was more and better than she knew. it was not all lace-mending, and mantua-making, and learning rules of arithmetic and french verbs. the child was growing pale, it is true; she was also growing strong-hearted in a new way. not in the way of passion, which is not strong; but in the way of patience. self-command was making her worth twice as much as she ever had been in her life before. matilda constantly did what she would rather not, and did it well. she sewed when she would have liked to do something else; she studied when she was tired; she obeyed commands that were hateful to her; she endured from her aunt what her child's heart regarded as unspeakable indignities and disagreeablenesses; and she bore them, she was forced to bear them, without a murmur, without a sign of what she felt. more than that. since her last recorded talk with mr. richmond, matilda had been striving to bear and to do without anger or impatience; she had prayed a great deal about it; and now it was getting to be a matter of course to oppose gentleness and a meek heart to all the trials that came upon her. in proportion as this was true, they grew easier to bear; far less hard and heavy; the sting seemed to be going out of them. nevertheless the struggle and the sorrow and the confinement made the child's face grow thin and pale. mrs. candy said it was the hot weather. july and august passed in this manner; and then september. this last month was the hardest of all; for mr. richmond was away from shadywalk, on some business which kept him nearly all the month. towards the end of it, matilda coming back one afternoon from doing an errand, was met suddenly near the corner by norton laval. "matilda!" he exclaimed, seizing both her hands. "now i have got you. where have you been?" "nowhere." "what have you been doing?" "a great many things, norton." "i should think you had! why haven't you been to see mamma? she has wanted to see you. come now." "oh no, i can't, norton! i can't. i must go right home." "come after you have gone home." "i cannot, norton." "why not?" "i can't get leave," matilda whispered. "leave?" said norton. "whose leave can't you get? that----" "oh, never mind, norton; i can't. i would come if i could." and matilda's eyes bore witness. "who hinders?" said norton. "aunt candy. hush! don't tell i said so." "don't tell!" said norton, in a very incensed tone. "why, are you afraid of her?" "i mustn't stop, norton. i must go home." "are you _afraid_ of anybody, pink?" he said, holding her fast. "is that why you can't get out?" matilda's face changed, and her lip quivered, and she did not answer. "and what has made you grow so thin? what ails you?" pursued the boy, impetuously. "you are thin and blue." "i don't know," said matilda. "aunt candy says it is the hot weather. o norton, dear, don't keep me!" "what have you got there?" "something aunt candy sent me to buy." "why didn't she send a cart to fetch it?" said the boy, taking the bundle out of matilda's hand. "where have you been after this?" "to mr. chester's." "why didn't you tell chester to send it home? he sends mamma's things. he'd have sent it." "i couldn't, norton. aunt candy told me to bring it myself." "what sort of a person is she? your aunt, who keeps you so close? she ain't much count, is she?" "oh hush, norton!" said matilda. "don't, somebody will hear you." "do you like her?" "i do not like to talk about her, norton." "is she good to you?" "don't ask me, norton, please. now we are almost there; please let me have the bundle. i don't want you to come to the house." matilda looked so earnest, norton gave her bundle up without another word, and stood looking after her till she had got into the house. then he turned and went straight to his mother and told her the whole story; all he knew, and all he didn't know. the end of which was, that the next day mrs. laval called to see mrs. candy. now this was particularly what mrs. candy had wished to bring about, and did not know how. she went to the parlour with secret exultation, and an anxious care to make the visit worth all it could be. no doubt mrs. laval had become convinced by what she had seen and heard, that mrs. candy and her daughter were not just like everybody else, and concluded them to be fit persons for her acquaintance. but yet the two confronted each other on unequal ground. mrs. candy was handsomely dressed, no doubt; from her cap to her shoe, everything had cost money enough; "why can't i throw it on like that?" was her uneasy mental reflection the minute after she was seated. she felt as if it clung about her like armour; while her visitor's silks and laces fell about her as carelessly as a butterfly's wings; as if they were part of herself indeed. and her speech, when she spoke, it had the same easy grace--or the carelessness of power; was it that? thought mrs. candy. she had come to ask a favour, mrs. laval said. mrs. candy had a little niece, whom her boy norton had become very fond of. mrs. laval had come to beg for the possession of this little niece as long at least as a good long visit might be made to extend. "three or four days, for instance?" said mrs. candy. "oh no! that would be nothing. three or four weeks." she is very much at her ease! thought mrs. candy. shall i let her have her will? mrs. candy was in a quandary. she did not like to refuse; she coveted mrs. laval's notice; and this visit of matilda's might be the means, perhaps, of securing it. then, also, she and her daughter had in contemplation a journey to philadelphia, and a visit there for their own part; and it had been a question what they should do with matilda. to take her along would make necessary a good deal of fitting up, as a preliminary; matilda's wardrobe being in no readiness for such a journey. truth to tell, it was not very proper for a visit to mrs. laval either; but mrs. candy reflected that it would cost much less on the whole to leave her than to take her, and be really very much a saving of trouble. any loss of discipline, she remembered, could be quickly made up; and the conclusion of the whole was that she accepted mrs. laval's invitation, with no more than a few minutes of hesitation during which all these thoughts passed through her mind. "thank you," said that lady. "may i have her to-morrow?" "to-morrow. h'm," said mrs. candy. "i am afraid not to-morrow. i should wish to make a little preparation, before the child goes to make such a visit. she has been nowhere but at home this summer." "let me beg that you will not wait for any such matter," said mrs. laval. "send her to me just as she is. i have particular reasons for liking her to come to me immediately. if she needs anything, trust me to supply it. shall she come to-morrow?" you _do_ take a good deal for granted very easily! thought mrs. candy. then aloud-- "i should like to fit her up a little first the child has not been away from home, and in mourning----" "won't you trust me to see that she does not want for anything? i assure you, i will not neglect my charge." "you are very kind," said mrs. candy; while she thought in her heart, you are very presuming! "then you will indulge me?" said mrs. laval, graciously. "if it must be so," said mrs. candy, doubtful. "thank you!" said her visitor. "my errand is my excuse for troubling you this morning--and so early!" mrs. candy felt a twinge. she had not thought it was early; she had not thought about it. "your place is looking beautiful," she said, as her visitor rose. "it is the prettiest place in shadywalk." "oh, i am not in shadywalk," said mrs. laval. "i am on the millbrook. yes, it is pretty; but it is terribly hard to get servants. they won't come from new york, and there are none here." "not many good ones," mrs. candy assented. "none that will do for me. i am in despair. i have engaged a swiss family at last. i expect them to arrive very soon." "from new york?" "in new york. they are coming to me from vevay. father, mother, and two daughters; and i believe a boy too. they will know nothing except farmwork, when they come; but they do make excellent servants, and so trustworthy." "will you want so many?" "i will find use for them. to-morrow then. thank you. good morning." mrs. candy stood, looking after her visitor. she was so elegantly dressed, and her veil was of such rich lace. she must want a goodly number of women in her household, mrs. candy allowed to herself, if she often indulged in dresses of fine muslin ruffled like that. and mrs. candy sighed. one must have money for those things, she reflected; and not a good deal of money, but a great deal. a good deal would not do. mrs. candy sighed again and went in, thinking that matilda's not going this journey with her would save her quite a pretty penny. matilda as yet knew nothing of what had been in her aunt's mind respecting philadelphia, or mrs. laval either. it had all the force of a surprise when mrs. candy called her and told her to pack up her clothes for leaving home. "all my clothes, aunt erminia?" "you will want them all. issa and i are going on a journey that will take us a little while--and i am going to leave you in somebody's care here; so put out whatever you will want for a couple of weeks." matilda wanted to ask with whom she was to be left; but that would come in time. it would be somebody not her aunt, at any rate; and she went to her room and began laying oat her clothes with fingers that trembled with delight. presently mrs. candy came in. she sat down and surveyed matilda's preparations. on one chair there was a neat little pile of underclothes; on two others were similar neat little piles of frocks; some things beside were spread over the bed. "those are all the dresses you have got, eh?" she said. "that's all, aunt candy. here are my calicoes for every day, and those are the rest; my blue spot, and my black gingham and my white. they are all clean." "yes," said mrs. candy. "well--i guess you don't want to take these calicoes; they are pretty well worn, and you haven't any work to do now-a-days. the others won't be too nice to wear, till i come home." "every day?" asked matilda. "yes, every day. there are not quite enough; but you must be careful and not soil them, and so make them do. there is not time to make any now, or i would get you one or two. i meant to do it." "when are you going, aunt candy?" "_you_ are going to-morrow. so make haste, and pack up everything you want, matilda. i do not know whether you can do with those three frocks?" "oh yes, i will keep them clean," said the child, in her joy. "well, i believe you can," said mrs. candy. "now make haste, matilda." it was such glad work. matilda made haste in her eagerness, and then pulled out things and packed them over again because it was not well done the first time. where was she going, she wondered? mr. richmond was away from home still, or she should have heard more about it. meanwhile her clothes went into the little trunk her aunt had made over to her, and her bible was packed in a secure corner; her best boots were wrapped up and put in, and her brush and comb. then matilda remembered she would want these yet, and took them out again. she hesitated over her book of french verbs and her arithmetic, but finally stuck them into the trunk. it was not near full when all was done; but matilda's heart had not a bit of spare room in it. chapter ix. the next day rose very bright and fair. matilda had been sadly afraid it would rain; but no such matter; the sun looked and smiled over the world as if slyly wishing her joy on her good prospects. matilda took it so, and got ready for breakfast with a heart leaping with delight. she had got no more news yet as to where she was going; but after breakfast mrs. candy made her dress herself in the gingham and put on her best boots, which made the little trunk all the emptier; and the trunk itself was locked. things were in this state, and matilda mending lace in her aunt's room; when mrs. candy's maid of all work put her head in. "the carriage has come, mum," she said. "what carriage?" said mrs. candy. "meself doesn't know, then. the bi says he's come fur to get the chilt." "what boy?" said mrs. candy, in growing astonishment. "sure, an' i haven't been here long enough fur to know all the bi's of the village. he's the bi that come wid the carriage, anyhow, an' it's the chilt he's wanting. an' it's the iligantest carriage you ever see in your life; and two iligant grey horses, an' a driver." mother and daughter looked at each other. the lace had fallen from matilda's hands to the ground. "did he give no name?" "it's just what he didn't, then. only he jumped down, and axed was the chilt ready. i tould him sure i didn't know, and he said would i go see. an' what 'll i say to him, thin? for he's waitin'." "i'll speak to him myself," said mrs. candy. "go on with your work, matilda." but in a few minutes she came back, and bade the trembling child put up her lace and put on her hat, and go. i am afraid the leave-taking was a short affair; for two minutes had hardly passed when matilda stood in the hall, and norton caught her by both hands. "norton!" she cried. "yes, i've come for you. come, matilda, your trunk's in." "where are we going?" matilda asked, as she let herself be led and placed in the carriage, which was a low basket phaeton. "where are we going!" echoed norton. "where is it likely we are going, with you and your trunk? where did you mean to go to-day, pink?" "i don't know. i didn't know anything about it. o norton, are we going to your house!" "if tom knows the road," said norton, coolly; "and i rather think the ponies do, if he don't. why, pink! do you mean to tell me you didn't know you were coming to us?" "i didn't know a word about it." "nor how mamma went to ask for you?" "aunt candy didn't tell me." "did she tell you you were going anywhere?" "yes. she made me pack up my clothes, but that's all." "didn't you ask her?" matilda shook her head. "i never do ask aunt candy anything." "why?" said norton, curiously. "i don't like to--and she don't like to have me." "she must be a nice woman to live with," said norton. "you'll miss her badly, i should say. aren't you sorry, pink?" he asked, suddenly, taking matilda's chin in his hand to watch the answer she would give. the answer, all smiling and blushing, contented norton; and the next instant the gray ponies swept in at the iron gate and brought them before the house door. matilda jumped out of the carriage with a feeling of being in an impossible dream. but her boot felt the rough gravel of the roadway; the sun was shining still and warm on the lawn and the trees; the mid-country, rich-coloured with hues of autumn, lay glittering in light; the blue hills were over against her sleeping in haze; the gray ponies were trotting off round the sweep, and had left her and norton standing before the house. it was all real and not a dream; and she turned to norton who was watching her, with another smile so warm and glad, that the boy's face grew bright to see it. and then there was mrs. laval, coming out on the verandah. "my dear child!" she exclaimed, folding matilda in her arms. "my dear child! i have had hard work to get you; but here you are." "mamma, she did not know she was coming," said norton, "till i came for her." "not know it?" said mrs. laval, holding her back to look at her. "why, child, you have grown thin!" "it's the hot weather, aunt candy says." "and pale!" said mrs. laval. "yes, you have; pale and thin. have you been ill?" "no, ma'am," said matilda; but her eyes were watering now in very gladness and tenderness. "not ill?" said the lady. "and yet you are changed,--i do not know how; it isn't all thinness, or paleness. what is the matter with you, dear?" "nothing--only i am so glad," matilda managed to say, as mrs. laval's arms again came round her. the eyes of mother and son met expressively. "i don't like to see people cry for gladness," whispered the lady. "that is being entirely too glad. let us go and see where you are to live while you are with me. norton, send york up with her box." matilda shook herself mentally, and went up-stairs with mrs. laval. such easy, soft-going stairs! and then the wide light corridor with its great end window; and then mrs. laval went into a room which matilda guessed was her own, and through that passed to another, smaller, but large enough still, where she paused. "you shall be here," she said; "close by me; so that you cannot feel lonely." "oh, i could not feel lonely," cried matilda. "i have a room by myself at home." "but not far away from other people, i suppose. your sister is near you, is she not?" "oh, maria is gone, long ago." "gone? what, entirely? not out of the village?" "she is in poughkeepsie. i have not seen her in a great many weeks." "was that her own wish?" "oh no, ma'am; she was very sorry to go." "well, you must have been very sorry too. now, dear, here are drawers for you; and see, here is a closet for hanging up things; and here is your washing closet with hot and cold water; the hot is the right hand one of these two faucets. and i hope you will be happy here, darling." she spoke very kindly; so kindly that matilda did not know how to answer. i suppose her face answered for her; for mrs. laval, instead of presently leading the way down-stairs again, sat down in a chair by one of the windows and drew matilda into her arras. she took off her hat, and smoothed away the hair from her forehead, and looked in her face, with eyes that were curiously wistful and noteful of her. and matilda's eyes, wondering, went over the mid-country to the blue mountains, as she thought what a new friend god had given her. "are you well, dear?" said the lady's voice in her ear softly. "quite well, ma'am." "what has changed you so since last june?" "i didn't know that i was changed," matilda said, wondering again. "are you happy, my love?" the question was put very softly, and yet matilda started and looked into mrs. laval's eyes to see what her thought was. "yes," said the lady, smiling; "i asked you if you were quite happy. how is it?" matilda's eyes went back to the blue mountains. how much ought she to tell? "i think--i suppose--i ought to be happy," she said at last. "i think you always try to do what you think you ought to do; isn't that so?" "i _try_," said matilda in a low voice. "how happens it, then, dear, that you do not succeed in being happy?" "i don't know," said matilda. "i suppose i should, if i were quite good." "if you were quite good. have you so many things to make you happy?" "i think i have." "tell them to me," said mrs. laval, pressing her cheek against matilda's hair in caressing fashion; "it is pleasant to talk of one's pleasant things, and i should like to hear of yours. what are they, love?" what did the lady mean? matilda hesitated, but mrs. laval was quietly waiting for her to speak. she had her arms wrapped round matilda, and her face rested against her hair, and so she was waiting. it was plain that matilda must speak. still she waited, uncertain how to frame her words, uncertain how they would be understood; till at last the consciousness that she had waited a good while, drove her to speak suddenly. "why, ma'am," she said, "the first thing is, that i belong to the lord jesus christ." the lady paused now in her turn, and her voice when she spoke was somewhat husky. "what is the next thing, dear?" "then, i know that god is my father." "go on," said the lady, as matilda was silent. "well--that is it," said matilda. "i belong to the lord jesus; and i love him, and i know he loves me; and he takes care of me, and will take care of me; and whatever i want i ask him for, and he hears me." "and does he give you whatever you ask for?" said the lady, in a tone again changed. "if he don't, he will give me something better," was the answer. maybe mrs. laval might have taken up the words from some lips. but the child on her lap spoke them so quietly, her face was in such a sweet rest of assurance, and one little hand rose and fell on the window-sill with such an unconscious glad endorsement of what she said, that the lady was mute. "and this makes you happy?" she said, at length. "sometimes it does," answered matilda. "i think it ought always." "but, my dear little creature, is there nothing else in all the world to make you feel happy?" matilda's words were not ready. "i don't know," she said. "sometimes i think there isn't. they're all away." the last sentence was given with an unconscious forlornness of intonation which went to her friend's heart. she clasped matilda close at that, and covered her with kisses. "you won't feel so here?" she said. but the child's answer was in pantomime. for she had clung to mrs. laval as the lady had clasped her; and matilda's head nestling in her neck and softly returning a kiss or two, gave assurance enough. "all away?" said mrs. laval. "well, i think that too sometimes. you and i ought to belong to each other." and then presently, as if she were shaking off all these serious reflections, she bade matilda arrange her things comfortably in closet and drawers; and then when she liked, come down to her. so she went out, and the man with the little trunk came in and set it in a corner. matilda felt in dreamland. it was only like dreamland, to take out her things, which a few hours ago she had packed in the dismal precincts of her aunt's house, and place them in such delightful circumstances as her new quarters afforded. the drawers of her dressing-table were a marvel of beauty, being of a pale sea-green colour, with rosebuds painted in the corners. her little bedstead was of the same colour and likewise adorned; and so the chairs, and a small stand which held a glass of flowers. the floor was covered with a pretty white mat, and light muslin curtains lined with rose, hung before the windows. the spread on her bed was a snow white marseilles quilt, matilda knew that; and the washing closet was sumptuous in luxury, with its ample towels and its pretty cake of sweet fragrant soap. every one of these things matilda took note of, as she was obeying mrs. laval's advice to put her things in some order before she came down-stairs. and she was thinking, also, what 'opportunities' she could possibly have here. there would be nothing to try her patience or her temper; nothing disagreeable, in fact, except the thought of going away again. how could she ever bear _that?_ and then it occurred to matilda that certainly she had opportunity and occasion to give thanks; and she knelt down and did it very heartily; concluding as she rose up, that she would leave the question of going away till it came nearer the time. she went with a light heart downstairs then; how odd it was to be at home in that house, going up and down with her hat off! she passed through one or two rooms, and found mrs. laval at last in a group of visitors, busy talking to half a dozen at once. matilda stole out again, wondering at the different mrs. laval down-stairs from the one who had sat with her in her little room half an hour ago. on the verandah she met norton. he greeted her eagerly, and drew her round the house to a shady angle where they sat down on two of the verandah chairs. "now what shall we do this afternoon?" said norton. "what would you like?" "i like everything. oh, i like everything!" said matilda. "yes, but _this_ is nothing," said norton. "shall we go take a long drive?" "if mrs. laval goes--i should like it very much." "if she don't go, we will," said norton. "the roads are in good order, and the ponies want exercise. i don't believe mamma will go, for she is expecting a whole shipload of servants, and francis will have to go to the station for them." "then he will want the horses, won't he?" "not the ponies. he will get somebody's great farm waggon, to bring up all their goods and things. you and i will go driving, pink." "will _you_ drive?" asked matilda. "certainly." matilda thought more than ever that she was in fairyland. she sat musing over her contentment, when norton broke in again. "you are very fond of that aunt of yours, aren't you?" it was a point blank question. matilda waited, and then softly said "no." "not?" said norton. "that's funny. hasn't she done everything in the world to make you love her?" "please, norton," said matilda, "i would rather not talk about her." "why not, pink?" said norton, showing his white teeth. "i don't enjoy it." "don't you?" said norton. "that's funny again. i should think you would." "why?" said matilda, curiously. "there's so much to say, that's one thing. and then she's so good to you." "who told you she was so good to me?" "i can see it in your face." matilda sat silent, wondering what he meant. "you can always tell," said norton. "people can't hide things. i can see she has been doing no end of kindnesses to you all summer long. that has made you so fond of her." matilda was puzzled and sat silent, not knowing what it was best to say; and norton watching her stealthily saw a wistful little face, tender and pure, and doubtful, that just provoked caresses. he dropped what was in his hands and fairly took possession of matilda, kissing the pale cheeks, as if she were his own particular plaything. it was unlike most boys, but norton laval was independent and manly above most boys. matilda was astonished. "drive? to be sure we will drive," said norton, as he let her go. "we will drive all over creation." the visitors went away just at this juncture, and the children were called in to dinner. and after dinner norton made some of his words good. mrs. laval was not going out; she gave leave to norton to do what he pleased, and he took matilda to drive in the basket phaeton. "norton," she said, as they were just setting forth. "well?" "if you would just as lieve, i wish you wouldn't, please, go past aunt candy's." "not go past?" said norton. "why, pink?" "if you would just as lieve, i would rather not." norton nodded, and they took another way. but now this was better than fairyland. fairyland never knew such a drive, surely. the afternoon was just right, as norton had said; there was no dust, and not too much sun; the roads were in fine order; and they bowled along as if the ponies had had nothing to do in a great while. now it was hardly within the memory of matilda to have seen the country around shadywalk as she saw it this afternoon. every house had the charm of a picture; every tree by the roadside seemed to be planted for her pleasure. the meadows and fields of stubble and patches of ploughed land, were like pieces of a new world to the long housed child. norton told her to whom these fields belonged, which increased the effect, and gave bits of family history, as he knew it, connected with the names. these meadows belonged to such a gentleman; his acres counted so many; were good for so much; taken capital care of. here were the fields and woods of such-a-one's farm; _he_ kept cows and sent milk to new york. that house among the trees was the homestead of one of the old county families; the place was beautiful; matilda would see it some day with mrs. laval; that little cottage by the gate was only a lodge. matilda desired to know what a lodge was; and upon the explanation, and upon many more details correlative and co-related, went into musings of her own. but the sky was so fair and blue; the earth was so rich and sunny; the touches of sear or yellow leaves here and there on a branch gave such emphasis to the deep hues still lingering on the vegetation; the phaeton wheels rolled so smoothly; that matilda's musings did not know very well what course to keep. "well what are you thinking of?" said norton after a silence of some time. "i was thinking of lilac lane, just then." "lilac lane! do you want to see it?" "very much, norton," said matilda, gleefully; "but not this afternoon. i haven't been there in a great, great while." "i should not think you would want to be ever there again. i can't see why." "but then what would become of the poor people?" "they do not depend upon you," said norton. "it is not _your_ look-out." "but--i suppose," matilda said, slowly, "i suppose, everybody depends upon somebody." "well?" said norton, laughing. "you needn't laugh, though, norton; because, if everybody depends upon somebody, _then_, everybody has somebody depending upon him, i suppose." "who depends upon you?" "i don't know," said matilda. "i wish i did." "not mrs. old-thing there, at any rate. and how can anybody tell, pink?" "i don't know," said matilda; "and so it seems to me the best way would be to act as if everybody depended on you; and then you would be sure and make no mistake." "you would be making mistakes the whole time," said norton. "it would be all one grand mistake." "ah, but it cannot be a mistake, norton,"--she stopped suddenly. "what cannot be a mistake?" "it cannot be a mistake, to do anything that god has given you to do." "how can you tell?" said norton. "it's all like a chinese puzzle. how can you tell which piece fits into which?" "but if every piece fitted, then the pattern would be all right," said matilda. "yes," said norton, laughing; "but that is what i say! how can you tell?" "mr. richmond says, that whenever we have an opportunity to do anything or to learn anything, the lord means that we should use it." "i have a nice opportunity to turn you over on these rocks and smash the carriage to pieces; but i don't mean to do it." "you know what i mean, norton; nobody has an opportunity to do wrong. i mean, you know, an opportunity to do anything good." "well now, pink," said norton, drawing the reins a little, and letting the ponies come to an easy walk,--"see what that would end in. as long as people have got money, they have got opportunities. i suppose that is what you mean?" "yes," said matilda. "that is part." "well. we might go on and help all the people in lilac lane, mightn't we? and then we could find plenty more to help somewhere else; and we could go on, using our opportunities, till we had nothing to live upon our selves. that is what it must come to, if you don't stop somewhere. we should have to sell the carriages and the ponies, and keep two or three servants instead of eight; and mamma would have to stop wearing what she wears now; and by and by we should want help ourselves. how would you like that? don't you see one must stop somewhere?" "yes," said matilda. "but what puzzles me is, where ought one to stop? mr. richmond says we ought to use all our opportunities." "if we can," said norton. "but, norton, what we _can't_, is not an opportunity." "that's a fact!" said norton, laughing. "i didn't know you were so sharp, pink." "i should like to ask mr. richmond more about it," said matilda. "ask common sense!" said norton. "well, you don't want to go to lilac lane to-day. is there anywhere you do want to go?" "no. oh yes, norton. i _should_ like to stop and see if mr. richmond has got home, and to ask miss redwood a question. if you would just as lieve." "where does miss redwood live?" "oh, she is mr. richmond's housekeeper." "all right," said norton. and then the gray ponies trotted merrily on, crossed a pretty bridge over a stream, and turned their faces westward. by and by the houses of the village began scatteringly to appear; then the road grew into a well-built up street; the old cream-coloured church with its deep porch hove in sight; and the ponies turned just short of it and trotted up the lane to the parsonage door. norton jumped down and tied the horses, and helped matilda out of the carriage. "are you going in?" she asked. but it appeared that norton was going in. so he pulled the iron knocker, and presently miss redwood came to the door. "yes, he's home," she said, almost before they could ask her; "but he ain't at home. i 'spect he'll take his meals now standin' or runnin' for the next six weeks. that's the way he has to pay for rest, when he gets it, which ain't often neither. it tires me, just to see him go; i'll tell him you called." "but mayn't we come in, miss redwood? just for a minute?" "la, yes, child," said the housekeeper, making way for them; "come in, both on ye. i didn't s'pose you was wantin' me; i've got out o' the way of it since the minister's been away; my callers has fell off somehow. it's odd, there don't one in twenty want to see me when i'm alone in the house, and could have time in fact to speak to 'em. that's the way things is in the world; there don't nothin' go together that's well matched, 'cept folks' horses; and they 're out o' my line. come in, and tell me what you want to say. where have ye come from?" "i have been having a delightful ride, miss redwood, ever so far, farther than ever i went before." "down by mr. james's place and the mill, and round by hillside," norton explained. the housekeeper opened her pantry and brought out a loaf of rich gingerbread, yet warm from the oven, which she broke up and offered to the children. "it's new times, i 'spect, ain't it?" "it's new times to have such good gingerbread," said norton. "this is prime." "have you ever made it since i showed ye?" miss redwood asked matilda. "no--only once--i hadn't time." "when a child like you says she hain't time to play, somebody has got something that don't belong to him," said the housekeeper. "o miss redwood, i wanted to know, what about lilac lane?" "well, what about it?" "did you do as you said you would? you know, last time i asked you, you hadn't got the things together." "yes, i know," said the housekeeper. "well, i've fixed it." "you did all as we said we would have it?" exclaimed matilda, eagerly. "as you said _you_ would have it. 'twarn't much of it my doing, child. yes; sally eldridge don't know herself." "was she pleased?" "well, 'pleased' ain't to say much. i got sabriny rogers to clean the house first. they thought i was crazy, i do believe. '_clean_ that 'ere old place?' says she. 'why, yes,' says i; 'don't it want cleanin'?' 'but what on airth's the use?' says she. 'well,' says i, 'i don't know; but we'll try.' so she went at it; and the first day she didn't do no more than to fling her file round, and you could see a spot where it had lighted; that's all. 'sabriny,' says i, 'that ain't what we call cleanin' in _my_ country; and if i pay you for cleanin' it's all i'll do; but i'll not pay nobody for just lookin' at it.' so next time it was a little better; and then i made her go over the missed places, and we got it real nice by the time i had done. and then sally looked like somethin' that didn't belong there, and we began upon _her_. she was wonderful taken up with seein' sabriny and the scrubbin' brush go round; and then she begun to cast eyes down on herself, as if she wished it could reform her. well, i did it all in one day. i had in the bedstead, and put it up, and had a comfortable bed fetched and laid on it; and i made it up with the new sheets. 'who's goin' to sleep there?' says sally eldridge, at last. 'you,' says i. '_me?_' says she; and she cast one o' them doubtful looks down at herself; doubtful, and kind o' pitiful; and i knew she'd make no objection to whatever i'd please to do with her, and she didn't. i got her into a tub o' water, and washed her and dressed her; and while i was doin' that, the folks in the other room had put in the table and the other things, and brought the flour and cheese, and that; and laid a little rag carpet on the floor, and when sally was ready i marched her out. and she sat down and looked round her, and looked round her; and i watched to see what was comin'. and then she begun to cry." "to cry!" matilda echoed. "the tears come drop, drop, down on her new calico; it fitted nice and looked real smart; and then, the first word she said was, 'i ain't a good woman.' 'i know you ain't,' says i; 'but you kin be.' so she looked round and round her at everything; and then, the next word she said was, 'the dominie kin come now.' well! i thought that was good enough for one day; so i give her her tea and come home to my own an ashamed woman." "why, miss redwood?" "'cause i hadn't done it ages ago, dear, but it was left for you to show me how." "and is mrs. eldridge really better?" "has twice as much sense as ever she showed when she was in all that muss. i am sure, come to think of it, i don't wonder. things outside works in, somehow. i believe, if i didn't keep my window panes clear, i should begin to grow deceitful--or melancholy. and folks can't have clean hands and a dirty house." "thank you, miss redwood," said matilda, rising. "well, you ain't goin' now? the minister 'll be in directly." "i'll come another time," said matilda. "i'm afraid mrs. laval would be anxious." "la, she don't mind when her horses come home, i'll engage." "but she might mind when _we_ come home," said matilda. "we have been out a great while." "out? why, you don't never mean _you_ come from mrs. laval's'?" "yes, she does," said norton. "we've got her." "hm! well, i just wish you'd keep her," said the housekeeper. "she's as poor as a peascod in a drouth." at which similitude norton laughed all the way home. chapter x. it is impossible to tell how pleasant matilda's room was to her that night. she had a beautiful white candle burning in a painted candlestick, and it shed light on the soft green furniture, and the mat, and the white quilt, and the pictures on the walls, till it all looked more fairylandish than ever; and matilda could hardly believe her own senses that it was real. and when the candle was covered with its painted extinguisher, and the moonlight streamed in through the muslin curtains, it was lovelier yet. matilda went to the window and gazed out. the fields and copses lay all crisp and bright in the cool moonbeams; and over beyond lay the blue mountains, in a misty indistinctness that was even more ensnaring than their midday beauty. and no bell of mrs. candy's could sound in that fairy chamber to summon matilda to what she didn't like. she was almost too happy; only there came the thought, how she would ever bear to go away again. that thought came in the morning too. but pleasure soon swept it away out of sight. she had a charming hour with mrs. laval in the greenhouse; after which they went up to matilda's room; and mrs. laval made some little examination into the state of that small wardrobe which had been packed up the day before, and now lay in the drawers of the green dressing-table. following which, mrs. laval carried matilda off into another room where a young woman sat sewing; and her she directed to take matilda's measure, and fit her with a dress from a piece of white cambrick which lay on the table. "it's getting pretty cool, ma'am, for this sort of thing," said the seamstress. "yes, but it will be wanted, and it is all i have got in the house just now. i will get something warmer to-day or to-morrow, or whenever i go out. and belinda, you may make a little sacque to wear with this; there is enough of that red cashmere left for it. that will do." two or three days saw the white frock done and the sacque. mrs. laval provided matilda with pretty slippers and a black sash; and furthermore, desired that she would put these things on and wear them at once. matilda did not know herself, in such new circumstances, but obeyed, and went down-stairs very happy. norton cast an approving glance at her as she met him. "come here," said he, stretching out his hand to her; "mamma's busy with her new people, and we will have another drive presently. come and sit down till it is time to go." they went on the verandah, where it was warm and yet shady; the october sun was so genial, and the winds were so still. "so they have come?" said matilda. "yes, a lot of them. look as if they had come from the other end of creation. pink, i think i'll cover all that bank with bulbs." "what are bulbs?" "you don't know much, if you _are_ a brick," said norton. "i mean tulips, and hyacinths, and crocuses, and ranunculuses, and--well, i don't know all, but those specially. wouldn't it be fine?" norton was a great gardener. "i know tulips," said matilda. "we have a bunch of red tulips in our garden. i think they are beautiful." "i do not mean red tulips. did you never see any but those?" "no." "then you do not know what i mean by tulips. they are everything else except plain red; i shall not have one of those." "yellow?" "well perhaps i may have two or three yellow ones. they are pretty;--clear lemon colour, you know; the colour of evening primroses." "are there blue tulips too?" "not that ever i heard," said norton. "no, there are red, and yellow, and yellow striped with red, and white striped with red, and white blotched with carmine, and yellow edged with brown or purple, and a thousand sorts; but never a blue." "that's odd, isn't it?" said matilda. "and nobody ever heard of a blue rose." "perhaps they will, though." said norton. "there are black roses, and green roses. but i don't believe either there _can_ be a blue rose; it is against nature." "but how many tulips will you have, norton? you said _two or three_ yellow ones; and there are a thousand sorts." "well, i will not have all the sorts," said norton; "but i tell you what i will do. i will fill all that bank with them and hyacinths, i shall want a hundred or so." "do they cost much?" "pretty well," said norton; "if you get the costly sorts. they are a dollar a-piece, some of them. but plenty are nice for fifty cents, and thirty cents." "your tulip bed will cost--a great deal, norton!" "and that bed over there," norton went on, pointing, "shall be your bed; and i will fill it with hyacinths for you. you shall choose what colours, pink. they will be beautiful in may. those shall be yours." "oh, thank you! but do _they_ cost much?" "you always ask that," said norton, laughing. "yes, some of them do. i will tell you what i will do, pink--and then you will be easy. i will spend twenty-five dollars on my tulip bed, and you shall spend twenty-five dollars on your hyacinth bed; and you shall say now what sorts you will have." "twenty-five dollars!" said matilda. "o norton, thank you. how nice! and i never saw a hyacinth in my life. what are they like?" norton was endeavouring to tell, when mrs. laval came upon the verandah. she came with business upon her lips, but stopped and her face changed when she saw matilda. "my dear child!" she said. "mamma," said norton, "isn't she a brick?" "a brick?" said mrs. laval, taking matilda in her arms, and sitting down with her. "a brick! this soft, sweet, fresh delight of mine!" and as she spoke she emphasised her words with kisses. "my darling! there is nothing rough, or harsh, or stiff about you, nor anything angular, nor anything coarse; and he calls you a brick!" "i think he means something good by it, ma'am," matilda said, laughing. "i don't know about the angles," said norton. "pink has a stiff corner now and then that i haven't been able to break off yet." "break off!" said mrs. laval, sitting with her arms round matilda. and then they all went off into a laugh together. "i had forgotten what i was going to say," mrs. laval resumed. "when you are out, norton, i wish you would stop and send the doctor here." "what's the matter?" "i don't know; but those poor people are in a state under the bank, and maybe the doctor could best tell what they want." "ill?" said norton. "no, not ill, but dull and spiritless. i don't know what is the matter. they are tired with their journey perhaps, and forlorn in a strange place. maybe they would feel better if they saw the doctor. i think such people often do." and then norton and matilda had another ride in the basket waggon. on their return, norton proposed that they should go down under the bank and see the new-comers. matilda was ready for anything. under the bank was the place for mrs. laval's farm-house, and dairy house, and barn, and stables; a neat little settlement it looked like. a pretty little herd of cows had come home to be milked, and a woman in a strange costume, never before known at shadywalk, had come out with a milking pail. to her norton marched up, and addressed her in french; matilda could not understand a word of it; but presently norton went off into the farm-house. here, in the kitchen, they found the rest of the family. a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman was busy with supper; a young pretty girl was helping her; and two men, travel-worn and bearing the marks of poverty, sat over the fire holding their heads. norton entered into conversation here again. it was very amusing to matilda, the play of face and interchange of lively words between him and these people, while yet she could not understand a word. even the men lifted up what seemed to be heavy heads to glance at the young master of the place; and the women looked at him and spoke with unbent brows and pleasant and pleased countenances. but the elder woman had a good deal to say; and norton looked rather thoughtful as he came out. "what is it all, norton?" matilda asked. "is all right?" "well, not exactly," said norton. "those two men are ill." "hasn't the doctor come yet?" "yes, and he says they want a few days of rest; but _i_ say they are ill." "but the doctor must know?" "perhaps," said norton. "perhaps he don't." the people under the bank were forgotten soon, in the warm luxury of the drawing-room and the bright tea-table, and the comfort of sugared peaches. and then matilda and norton played chess all the evening, talking to mrs. laval at intervals. the tulip bed and the hyacinth bed were proposed, and approved; a trip to poughkeepsie was arranged, to see maria; and norton told of miss redwood's doings in lilac lane. mrs. laval was much amused. "and you two children have done that!" she said. "you gave me the money for it, ma'am," said matilda. "it was yours after i had given it," said the lady. "i wonder how much good _really_ now, all that will amount to? or whether it is just a flash in the pan? that is the question that always comes to me." matilda looked up from the chess men, wondering what she could mean. "it is a real good to have the house cleaned; you would never doubt that, mamma, if you had seen it," norton remarked. "and it is a real good that the poor woman is ready to have mr. richmond come to see her now," said matilda. "mr. richmond," repeated mrs. laval. "that's your minister. you think a great deal of mr. richmond, don't you, matilda?" "everybody does," said matilda. mrs. laval smiled. "i don't know him, you know. but about your doings in the lane--there is no end to that sort of work. you might keep on for ever, and be no nearer the end. that is what always discourages me. there are always new old women to comfort, and fresh poor people to help. there is no end." "but then," said matilda. she began timidly, and stopped. "what then?" said mrs. laval, smiling. "yes, just hear pink, mamma," said norton. "what then, matilda?" said mrs. laval, still looking at her as at something pleasant to the eyes. "i was going to say," matilda began again, with a blush, "isn't it meant that we _should_ 'keep on for ever'?" "doing good to the poor? but then one would soon have nothing to do good with. one must stop somewhere." clearly, one must stop somewhere. a line must be found; inside or outside of her bed of hyacinths, matilda wondered? she did not press her doubts, though she did not forget them; and the talk passed on to other things. nothing could be more delightful than that evening, she thought. the next day there was charming work to be done. norton was to take her by the early train the morning after to go to poughkeepsie; and matilda was to prepare to-day a basket of fruit, and get ready some little presents to take to her sister. the day was swallowed up in these delights; and the next day, the day of the journey, was one long dream of pleasure. the ride to the station, the hour in the cars, or less than an hour; but the variety of new sights and sensations made it seem long; the view of a new place; the joyful visit to maria, and the uncommonly jolly dinner the three had together at a good restaurant, made a time of unequalled delight. only maria looked gloomy, matilda thought; even a little discomposed at so much pleasure coming to her little sister and missing _her_. and in this feeling, matilda feared, maria lost half the good of the play-day that had come to her. however, nothing could spoil it for the other two; and matilda came home in the cars towards nightfall again with a heart full of content. only a pang darted through her, as they were driving home under the stars, at the thought how many days of her fortnight were already gone. matilda did not know it was to be a month. they found mrs. laval in perplexity. "i wish, norton," she said, "that you would go and bring the doctor here immediately. the two women are ailing now, and the men are quite ill. i don't know what to do. york is gone to town, you know, to look after the interest on his bonds; and francis demanded permission this afternoon to go and see his father who is dying. i have no one to send for anything. i could not keep francis, and i do not believe he would have been kept." "who's to look after the horses, mamma?" "i don't know. you must find some one, for a day or so. you must do that too, to-night." norton went and came back, and the evening passed as gayly as ever; york's absence being made up by the services of the children, which, mrs. laval said, were much better. matilda made toast at the fire, and poured out tea; and norton managed the tea-kettle and buttered the toast, and fetched and carried generally; and they had a merry time. but the next morning showed a change in the social atmosphere. matilda came down-stairs, as she always did, the earliest of the family. in the hall she encountered the housemaid, not broom in hand as usual, but with her bonnet and shawl on. "i'm going out this way, miss, ye see, becaase it's shorter," she said with a certain smothered mystery of tone. "what is shorter? and where are you going, jane?" matilda asked, struck by something in the girl's air. "och, it's no lady wouldn't expict one to stop, whin it's _that's_ the matter." "when what is the matter? what do you mean? are you going away?" "faith, it's glad i be, to be off; and none too soon. i'd show 'em the back of me head, you, dear, if it was me, goin' out at the front door. the likes o' you isn't obleeged to stop no more nor meself." this advice was given in the same mysterious undertone, and puzzled matilda exceedingly. "but, jane," she said, catching the woman's shawl as she would have left her, "you know york is away; and there is nobody to do things. mrs. laval will want you." "she's welcome to want me," said the girl. "i didn't engage fur to serve in an hospital, and i won't do it. me life is as good to me, sure, as her own, or anybody's." "but what shall i tell mrs. laval? aren't you coming back?" "niver a bit, till the sickness is gone." and with that the girl would not be kept, but got away. matilda stood bewildered. yes, she saw the broom and duster had been nowhere that morning. everything was left. it was early yet. the sunbeams came slant and cool upon the white frost outside, as jane opened the door; and so when the door was shut they stole in upon the undusted hall and rooms. matilda softly made her way to the kitchen stairs and went down, fearing lest there might be more defaulters in the house hold. to her relief, she found the cook moving about preparing for some distant breakfast. but breakfast was never an early meal. "good morning, mrs. mattison," said the child. "i came down to see if there was anybody here. i met jane just now, going out." "i'm here yet," said mattison. "i'll get your breakfast, before i'm off." "are you going too?" "take my advice, and don't _you_ stop," said the woman. "you ain't a fixture so you can't get away. i'd go, fust thing, if i was you." "why?" said matilda; "and what for are you all going like this? it is using mrs. laval very badly, i think." "folks must take care of their own flesh and blood," said the woman. "wages don't pay for life, do they? i'm off as soon as i've got the breakfast. i'll do that, and give mrs. laval that much chance. she ain't a bad woman." "is the laundry-maid going too?" "o' course. she had her warning, weeks ago, and so had i mine. mrs. laval sent for them furriners to fill her house with them; and now she must make the best of 'em she can. it ain't my fault if they're no use to her." matilda went up-stairs again, pondering what was to be done. she went softly up to norton's door and knocked. it was not easy to rouse him; nothing stirred; and matilda was afraid of awaking his mother, whose door was not far off. at last she opened norton's door a bit and called to him. "what is it?" cried norton, as soon as the noise found a way to his brain. "is it you, pink? hold on,--i'll be there in less than no time! what's to pay?" matilda waited, till in another minute norton presented himself, half dressed, and with his hair all shaggy, outside his door. "o norton, can you be dressed very quickly?" "yes. what's the matter? i am going down to see to the horses. what do you want, pink?" "o norton--speak softly!--everybody's going away; and i thought, maybe you would come down and help me get things in order." "what _do_ you mean, pink?" said norton, opening his eyes at her. "hush! they are all going away." "who?" "the servants. all of them. jane is off, and the cook will only stay till after breakfast. the laundry woman is going too. francis is away, you know, and york. there is nobody but you and me in the house--to stay. i don't know what has got into all their heads." "you and me!" said norton. "the unconscionable fools! what are they afraid of?" "afraid of trouble, i suppose," said matilda. "afraid they will have nursing to do. i don't know what else." "they ought to be put into the penitentiary!" "yes; but norton, can you come down presently and help?" "help what?" "me. i want to set the table for breakfast, and i don't know where things are, you know. i am going to set the table, if you'll show me." "i should think you didn't know where things are! stop--i'll be there directly." norton disappeared, but matilda had no idea of stopping. she went down-stairs softly again, and opened the windows, such of them as she could manage; applied to the powers below-stairs for broom and duster, and went at her old work of putting rooms in order. but it seemed like play now, and here. she was almost glad the servants were going away, to give her the chance. "well, you _are_ a brick!" was norton's remark, when he came in. "i suppose you know what it means by this time?" "i wish you'd open those two windows for me, norton; i can't undo the fastenings. then perhaps you'd be a brick too?" "i don't know," said norton, laughing. "well--there, pink. what now?" "show me, norton, where the things are." "all at once, is rather too much," said norton, as he and matilda went into york's pantry. "all for nothing, too. nursing! nonsense! they wouldn't have to nurse those people. it's jealousy." "yes, i think they are jealous," said matilda, "from something the cook said." norton stood and looked on admiringly, while matilda found the tablecloth, and arranged cups and saucers, and plates, and spoons, and mats, and all the belongings of the breakfast-table. "have you got to go to the stables, norton?" "yes." "well, won't you go and get back, then? the breakfast will be ready, you know." "forgot all about that," said norton. while he was gone matilda finished her arrangements; and was watching for him from the verandah when mrs. laval came behind her. of course it had become necessary to tell her the state of affairs. mrs. laval set down in one of the verandah chairs as soon as matilda began to speak, and drew the child to her arms; wrapping them all round her, she sat thoughtfully caressing her, kissing her brow, and cheeks, and lips, and smoothing her hair, in a sort of fond reverie; so fond, that matilda did not stir to interrupt her, while she was so thoughtful, that matilda was sure she was pondering all the while on what was best to do. "who set the table?" "i did, ma'am. norton showed me where things were." "_ma'am_," repeated mrs. laval, drawing the child closer. "would it be very hard to call me 'mamma'--some time--when you know me better? i can't let you go." matilda flushed and trembled; and then norton came running up the bank. he smiled at the sight of his mother, with matilda in her arms and her face resting upon matilda's forehead. "what's the word down there this morning, norton?" "i don't know, mamma; i've only been to see the horses. _they_ are well." "to the stables, have you been? then do run and change your dress, norton." "yes, and breakfast's ready, norton," matilda called after him. she slid off mrs. laval's lap and rang for it, and when it came up on the dumb waiter, she did york's work in setting it on the table with a particular pleasure. she began to have a curious feeling of being at home in the house. "there is but one thing for me to do," said mrs. laval, as they sat at breakfast. "i must go down to the city and get a new houseful of servants, to do till these are well. but i'm in a great puzzle how to leave you two children. there will be nobody here; and i may very possibly be obliged to stay a night in town. it is not at all likely that i can do what i have to do, in time to take an evening train." "i can take care of pink, mamma." "who will take care of you?" "i'll try," said matilda. "what can _you_ do, to take care of _me?_" said norton. "you will want something to eat," said matilda. "i think you will--before to-morrow night." "if i do, i can get it," said norton. "he thinks dinner grows, like a cabbage," said mrs. laval; "or like a tulip, rather. his head is full of tulips. but i cannot go to-day to new york; i could not catch the train. i'll go down-stairs and see these people after breakfast, and make them stay." but when mrs. laval descended half an hour later to the regions of the kitchen, she found them deserted. nobody was there. the fire, in a sullen state of half life, seemed to bear witness to the fact; the gridiron stood by the side of the hearth with bits of fish sticking to it; the saucepan which had held the eggs was still half full of water on the hob; the floor was unswept, the tray of eggs stood on one table, a quantity of unwashed dishes on another, but silence everywhere announced that the hands which should have been busy with all these matters were no longer within reach of them. mrs. laval went up-stairs again. "every creature is gone," she said. "i am sure i do not know what we are to do. _jealousy_, norton, did you say?" "because you have sent for these swiss people, mamma." "is it possible? well--i don't know what we are to do, as i said. we shall have no dinner." "i can get the dinner," said matilda. at which there was some laughing; and then mrs. laval said she must go and see how the poor people were. norton was despatched to find some oysters if he could; and matilda quietly went down-stairs again, with her little head full. she was there still an hour later, when mrs. laval came home and called for her. matilda came running up, with red cheeks. "ah, there you are! what are you doing, matilda? you have got your face all flushed." "it's just the fire," said matilda. "fire? what are you doing, child?" "nothing, much. only trying to put things a little in order." "_you_," said mrs. laval. "leave that, my darling. you cannot. there will be somebody to do it by and by. but i wish i had somebody here now, to make gruel, or porridge, or something, for those poor people. they are without any comforts." mrs. laval looked puzzled. "are they better?" matilda asked. "two of them are unwell; indeed they are all ill, more or less; but the men are really bad, i think." "if i had some meal, i could make gruel," said matilda. "i know how. i have made it for--i have made it at home, often." "could you?" said mrs. laval. "there must be some meal here somewhere." she went down to search for it. but it was found presently that she did not know meal when she saw it; and matilda's help was needed to decide which barrel held the article. "i am a useless creature," mrs. laval said, as she watched matilda getting some meal out. "if you can manage that, darling, i will be for ever obliged to you, and so will those poor people. it is really good to know how to do things. why, what have you done with all the dishes and irons that were standing about here? you have got the place in order, i declare! what have you done with them, dear?" "they are put away. shall i put on a pot and boil some potatoes, mrs. laval? i can; and there is a great piece of cold beef in the pantry." "boil potatoes? no, indeed!" said mrs. laval. "norton will get us some oysters, and some bread and some cake at the baker's. no, dear, do not touch the horrid things; keep your hands away from them. we'll fast for a day or two, and enjoy eating all the better afterwards." matilda made her gruel, nicely; and mrs. laval carried it herself down to the farmhouse. she came back looking troubled. they could not touch it, she said, after all; not one of them but the young girl; they were really a sick house down there; and she would go to new york and get help to-morrow. so by the early morning train she went. it was rather a day of amusement to the two children left alone at home. they had a great sense of importance upon them, and some sense of business. matilda, at least, found a good deal for herself to do, up-stairs and down-stairs; then she and norton sat down on the verandah in the soft october light, and consulted over all the details of the tulip and hyacinth beds. "fifty dollars!" said matilda, at last. "yes?" said norton. "well?" "nothing. only--did you ever think, norton, how many other things one could do with fifty dollars? i wonder if it is right to spend so much just on a flower-bed?" "it isn't. it's on two flower-beds," said norton. "well, on two. it is the same thing." "that's a very loose way of talking," said norton. "two and one are not at all the same thing. they are three." "o norton! but you are twisting things all round, now. i didn't say anything ridiculous." "i am not so sure of that. pink, one would never spend money any way, if one stopped because one could spend it some other way." "but it ought to be always the best way." "you can't tell what the best way is," said norton. "i can't think of anything so good to do with this fifty dollars, as to make those two beds of bulbous roots." matilda sat thinking, not convinced, but longing very much to see the hyacinths and tulips, when a voice at the glass door behind her made her start. it was the doctor. "good morning. is nobody at home?" "nobody but us," said norton. "mrs. laval gone out, eh?" "gone to new york, sir." "to new york, eh? ah! well! unfortunate!" "what shall i tell her, sir, when she comes back?" "is there anybody in the house that can make beef tea?" "no, sir," said norton. "if you will tell me how, dr. bird, i will have some," matilda said. "you, eh? well, you do know something more than most girls. you can remember and follow directions, if i tell you, eh?" "yes, sir, i think i can." "then i'll tell you. you take a piece of juicy beef--he can see to that--juicy beef; not a poor cut, mind, nor fat; mustn't be any fat; and you cut it into dice; and when you have cut it all up fine, you put it in a bottle, and cork it up. understand?" "yes, sir. but i don't know what dice are." "don't, eh? well, little bits as big as the end of my finger, will do as well as dice. then when you have got your bottle corked, set it in a pot of water, and put the pot on the fire, and let it boil, till the juice of the beef comes out. then strain that juice. that's beef tea." "i mustn't put any water in with the beef, sir?--in the bottle?" "not a drop. keep the water all in the pot." "who is to have the beef tea, doctor, when it is made?" "those two frenchmen at the farmhouse. i told the women. they ought to have it now. and a nurse, too; the women are ill themselves." dr. bird went his way, and matilda persuaded norton to go at once in quest of some juicy beef. it would be a difficult job, he said, for the butchers' shops were shut up; but he would go and try. while he was gone matilda amused herself with getting a dinner for him and herself down in the kitchen; and there, when he came back, the two went, to eat their dinner and to set the beef tea a-going. they had rather a jolly time of it, to tell the truth; and were so very social, and discussed so many things besides their beef and bread, that the beef tea was ready to strain by the time matilda had cleared the things away. and then she and norton went down to the farmhouse to carry it. they could get nobody to come to the door, so they opened it for themselves. it was a sad house to see. in two rooms all the family were gathered; the men lying on beds in the inner room, one woman on the floor of the other, and one on a cot. all ill. the girl alone held her head up, and she complained it was hard to do even that. matilda and norton went from one room to another. the men lay like logs, stupid with fever; one of the women was light-headed; not any of them would touch what matilda had brought. the poor girl who was still on her feet was crying. there was no fire, no friend, no comfort or help of any sort. nor ton and his little companion made the rounds helplessly, and then went out to consult together. "norton, they are dreadfully ill," whispered matilda. "i know they are." "i guess you are right," said norton. "but you and i can't do anything." "i can," said matilda. "i can give them water, and i can give them beef tea. and you, norton, i will tell you what you can do. go for miss redwood." "miss redwood? who's she?" "don't you remember? mr. richmond's housekeeper. she'll come, i know." "she'll be very good if she does," said norton. "but i'll tell her you said so. do you think she would come?" "i'm certain of it." chapter xi. norton made his way to the brown door of the parsonage, and knocked; but the person that opened it was the minister himself. norton was a little confused now, remembering what his errand meant there. "norton laval, isn't it?" said mr. richmond. "you are very welcome, norton, at my house. will you come in?" "no, sir. if you please----" "what is it? something you would rather say to me here?" "no, sir. i was coming----" "to see me, i hope?" "no, sir," said norton, growing desperate and colouring, which he was very unapt to do. "if you please, mr. richmond, i was sent to speak to--i forget what her name is--the woman who lives here." "miss redwood?" "yes, sir." "who sent you?" "matilda englefield." "did she? pray why did not matilda come with you?" "she could not, sir; she was very busy. she asked me to come." "you can see miss redwood," said mr. richmond, smiling. "i believe she is always ready to receive visitors; at least i never saw a time when she was not. you have only to walk right in and knock at her door there. when are you coming to see _me_, norton? you and i ought to be better friends." "i don't know, sir," said norton. "i would not intrude." "ask your friend matilda if i do not like such intrusions. i shall have to invite you specially, i see. well, go in and find miss redwood. i will not detain you now." norton went in, glad to be released, for he did not exactly want to tell his errand to the minister, knocked at the kitchen door and was bade to enter. it was full, the kitchen was, of the sweet smell of baking bread; and miss redwood was busily peering into her stove oven. "who's there?" she asked, too much engaged in turning her loaves to give her eyes to anything else, even a visitor. norton told his name, and waited till the oven doors shut to with a clang; and then miss redwood, very pink in the face, rose up to look at him. "i've seen you before," was her remark. "yes. i brought matilda englefield here one day," norton answered. "h'm. i thought she brought you. what brings you now?" "matilda wanted me to come with a message to you." "well, you can sit down and tell it, if you're a mind to. why didn't the child come herself? that's the first idee that comes to me." "she is busy trying to nurse some sick folks, and they are more than she can manage, and she wants your help. at least, she sent me to ask you if you wouldn't come." "who's ill?" "some people just come from switzerland to be my mother's servants." "switzerland," repeated miss redwood. "i have heard o' switzerland, more than once in my life. i should like to know whereabouts it is. i never knew any one yet that could tell me." "mr. richmond knows, i suppose," said norton. "i suppose he knows greek," said miss redwood, "and ever so many other queer tongues too, i've no doubt; but i should like to see myself askin' him to learn me. no, i mean, as i never knew nobody that i'd ask. la! there's folks enough that knows. only i never had no chances for them things." "i could shew you where switzerland is, if you had a map," said norton. "i guess i know as much as that myself," said the housekeeper quietly, opening the stove door again for a peep at the oven. "but what does _that_ tell me? i see a little spot o' paper painted green, and a big spot along side of it painted some other colour; and the map is all spots; and somebody tells me that little green spot is switzerland. and i should like to know, how much wiser am i for that? that's paper and green paint; but what i want to know is, where is the _place_." "it's hard to tell," said norton, so much amused that he forgot his commission. "well, these folks come from switzerland, you say. how did they come?" "they came in a ship--part of the way." "how fur in a ship?" "three thousand miles." "three thousand," repeated miss red wood. "when you get up there, i don't know what miles mean, no more than if you spoke another language. i understand a hundred miles. it's nigh that to new york." "they came that hundred miles, over and above," said norton. "well, how long now, does it take a ship to go that fur? three thousand miles." "it depends on how fast the wind blows." "the wind goes awful fast sometimes," said miss redwood. "when it goes at that rate as will carry a chimney off a house, and pick up a tree by the roots as i would a baby under my arm, seems to me a ship would travel at a powerful speed." "it would certainly, if there was nothing to hinder," said norton; "but at those times, you see, the wind picks up the water, and sends such huge waves rolling about that it is not very safe to be where they can give you a slap. ships don't get along best at such times." "well, i'm thankful i'm not a sailor," said miss redwood. "i'd rather stay home and know less. how many o' these folks o' yourn is ill?" "all of them, pretty much," said norton. "two men and two women." "fever nagur?" "no, 'tisn't that. i don't know what it is. the doctor is attending them. he ordered beef tea to-day; and matilda made some; but they seem too ill to take it now they've got it." miss redwood dropped her towel, with which she was just going to open the oven again, and stood upright. "beef tea?" she echoed. "how long have these folks been ill?" "ever since they came ashore almost. they came straight up here, and began to be ill immediately. that was a few days ago; not a week." "beef tea!" said miss redwood again. "and just come to shore. how do they look? did you see them?" "yes, i saw them," said norton. "i went with matilda when she took the beef tea to them. how did they look? i can't tell; they looked bad. the men were mahogany colour, and one of the women was out of her head, i think." "and you two children going to see them!" exclaimed miss redwood, in a tone that savoured of strong disapprobation, not to say dismay. "because there was no one else," said norton. "mamma has gone to new york to get more people; for all ours went off when they knew of the sickness at the farmhouse." "why?" said miss redwood, sharply. "i don't know. i suppose they were jealous of these strangers." "h'm," said miss redwood, beginning now to take her bread out of the oven with a very hurried hand; "there's jealousy enough in the world, no doubt, and unreason enough; but it don't usually come like an epidemic neither. you go home, and tell matilda i'm a comin' as fast as ever i kin get my chores done and my hood and shawl on. and you tell her--will she do what you tell her?" "i don't know," said norton. "what is it?" "_where_ is it these folks are ill? not to your house?" "oh no. down at the farmhouse--you know our farmhouse--under the bank." "did you leave the child there?" "she was there when i came away." "well, you run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and fetch her out of that. bring her home, and don't you nor she go down there again. maybe it's no harm, but it's safe to do as i tell you. now go, and i'll come. don't let the grass grow under your feet." norton was not used to be ordered about quite so decidedly; it struck him as an amusing variety in his life. however he divined that miss redwood might have some deep reason for being so energetic, and he was not slow in getting back to briery bank; so his mother's place was called. the house was shut up, as he and matilda had left it, and he went on down to the home of the sick people. there he found matilda as he had left her. norton only put his head into the sick-room and called her out. "miss redwood is coming," he said. "i'm so glad! i knew she would," said matilda. "she will know what to do. they all seem stupid, norton, except the woman who is out of her head." "yes, she will know what to do," said norton; "and you had better come away now. you don't." "i can do something, though," said matilda. "i can give the medicine and the beef tea. why, there was nobody even to give the medicine, norton. i found it here with the doctor's directions; and nobody had taken it till i came, not one of these poor people. but oh, the rooms are so disagreeable with so many invalids in them! you can't think." "i can, for i've been in them," said norton. "and once is enough. they have got the medicine now, pink; you needn't stay any longer." "oh yes, but i must. i must till miss redwood comes. the medicine will have to be taken again in a little while." "it can wait till she gets here. you come away, pink. miss redwood said you should." "she didn't know what there was for me to do, or she wouldn't have said it. i can't go, norton." "but you _must_, pink. she said so. suppose these people should be ill with something dreadful? you can't tell." "i am sure they would want a nurse then." "but _you_ might get ill, you know." "well, norton, i'm not afraid." "you might get sick, all the same, if you're _not_ afraid," said norton, impatiently. "come, pink, you must come." "i can't, norton. i must go in and give them some more beef tea now, in a minute. they can't take but ever so little at a time. it would be very wrong to leave them as they are." "you might get ill, and die," said norton. "well, norton," said matilda, slowly, "i don't think i am afraid of that. i belong to jesus. he will take care of me." "i don't think you know what you are talking of!" said norton, very impatient, and very much at a loss how to manage matilda. "oh yes, i do!" she said, smiling. "now i must go in. _you_ needn't come, for there wouldn't be anything for you to do." matilda disappeared; and norton, wishing very much that he could lay hold of her and carry her away by force, did not, however, feel that it would exactly do. he sat down on the door stone of the house, he would not go further, and waited. there was a delicious calm sunlight over all the world that october afternoon; it puzzled norton how there could be a sick-house anywhere under such a sky. he heard the ponies stamping their idle hoofs against the barn floor; they were spoiling for exercise; why were he and matilda not out driving, instead of having this state of things? then some gaily disposed crows went flying overhead, calling a cheery reminder to each other as they went along; _they_ were having a good time. norton chafed against the barriers that hindered him. suddenly a swift footstep came over the grass, and mr. richmond stood before him. "is this the house?" he asked. "is matilda here?" "yes, sir; and i've tried to get her out. and i can't." mr. richmond went in without more words. a moment after matilda opened the door he had shut. "well! will you go now?" said norton. "i must. mr. richmond will not let me stay." mr. richmond himself came again to the door. "norton," said he, "i am going to ask you to take matilda to the parsonage. the best thing will be for you and her to make your home there, until mrs. laval gives further orders. you will both be heartily welcome. will you take her there and take care of her until i come home?" "thank you, sir," said norton, "it is not necessary----" "you must let my word go for that," said the minister, smiling. "if not necessary, i think it prudent. i wish it; and i invite both of you. it would be treating me very ill to refuse me, and i am sure you will not do that. i trust you to take care of matilda until i get home. the house will be quite alone when miss redwood leaves it. is anybody in the house on the bank?" "no, sir; nobody." "i will lock it up, then, and bring the key. go in and put up anything you will want for a day or two, and i will send it after you." with a nod and a smile at them mr. richmond went in again. the two children looked at each other, and then began to mount the bank. "you do what mr. richmond tells you," remarked norton. "of course," said matilda. "so do you." "it wouldn't be civil to do anything else," said norton. "but isn't it jolly, that you and i should go to make a visit at the parsonage! what is a parsonage like? it isn't like other houses, i suppose." "why, yes, it is," said matilda; "just like; only a minister lives in it." "that makes the difference," said norton. "don't you feel as if you were in church all the time? i shall, i know." "why, no, norton! what an idea. mr. richmond's house is not like a church." "isn't he like a minister?" "why, yes, of course!" said matilda, with some indignation. "he isn't like _your_ minister, norton." "why?" said norton, laughing. "i don't know. he isn't stiff. he don't dress unlike other people. he is just as pleasant as anybody else can be; and a _great_ deal pleasanter, i think." "what you call good people, generally are stiff," said norton. "oh no, norton, they are not. what makes you think so?" "you were very stiff just now," said norton. "oh, do you mean _that_ sort of stiffness? but, norton, i thought there was something i could do there, you know, and i didn't think i ought to come away." getting to the top of the bank broke off the discussion. matilda and norton each had things to get together to go to the parsonage; and it was necessary to change their dress. the sun was well on his westing way when they left the iron gate of briery bank, bag in hand; and in the little lane of the parsonage the elm trees cast broad and long shadows. as they came up on the piazza, miss redwood opened the door. her hood and shawl were on, and she had a basket in her hand. she stopped suddenly. "what is it now?" she said. "what's wanting?" "nothing," said matilda; "only mr. richmond has sent us here." "he has!" said the housekeeper. "you've come to stop?" "mr. richmond says so. he wished it." "well, what'll you do?" said miss redwood, coming to a sort of pause. "there ain't a living soul in the house, and there won't be, 'cept the minister himself; and how he'll get along i don't know. i can't be in two places at once." "can't i get the tea, miss redwood?" "la, i don't know but what you kin. come along in, and let me tell you. there's bread all baked, this afternoon--it ain't cold yet--enough to last a siege; it's in that pantry, matilda, in the bread box. you know there's all the cups; and saucers; and tea things, for you've seen me get 'em out; and the tea canister, and the sugar. and the milk is down cellar, in a pan, and there's cream onto it. can you skim it off and keep it cream yet, for the minister's tea?" "oh yes; i can do that, miss redwood." "then you'll get along for to-night; and i'll try and be round in the morning, if i kin. but you'll want sheets--there's the bed in the spare room off the hall; that's all ready for one of ye; i got it fixed up saturday for somebody that never come; 'tain't everybody as sticks to his word like the minister. la, i get weary with the folks that are like job's brooks; they say and don't do; and when you expect 'em they ain't there. i was put out, o' saturday, when i found out that was how it was with this man; but there's good in everything, if you can keep your patience; now the room's ready, and it wouldn't ha' been ready; for i had a lot o' apples there dryin', and a board full o' fresh turnpikes was on the bed; _they_ was gettin' finished; and i had a quilt in a corner that i had sot up on the sticks and it was a'most done quiltin'; and all them things i had to fly round and get rid of; and i've no time for anything now. so, dear, that room'll do for one of ye, and the other--you can put the sheets on the bed, can't ye? for the minister'll be playin' nurse till i come, and i wish i had jack's seven-mile boots to get to briery bank with." while this talk was going on, miss redwood had brought matilda up-stairs, and was taking out linen and coverlets from a press in one of the rooms. matilda said she could manage everything, with norton's help. "then i'll go," said miss redwood. "but if i shouldn't be able fur to run away in the morning and see to the breakfast!----" she stopped, thinking. "dear miss redwood, won't you trust me to do it? i think i can." "what sort of a breakfast will it be?" said the housekeeper, meditatively. "i'll _try_ to have it right." "la, yes, if it depended on your tryin'," said the housekeeper; "your will is as good as gold; but _will_ won't cook a beefsteak." "i'll try," said matilda again. "well," said miss redwood, "we must walk till we get out o' the woods, and then we'll run. the minister ain't accustomed to have his steak any way, but as he likes it; maybe it'll do him no harm. everything's down cellar, matilda, 'cept the things in the kitchen pantry; and you'll find out which is which. and i'll go." so she did. and as the door closed after her, the two children in the hall looked at each other. "nobody in the house?" said norton. "nobody but ourselves." "that's jolly," said norton. "pink, i have got that catalogue in my pocket; let us sit down somewhere and make out a list of those hyacinths." "o norton!--yes, i will in a little while. i must go get the table ready for tea; and i had better do it now before mr. richmond comes home." "you and i seem to have a great deal of getting tea to do," said norton, as he followed matilda into the little dining-room. "what do you want _me_ to do?" "o norton! if you would just look and see if the tea-kettle is on, and if not, put it on. will you?" "where, pink?" "just open that door. there is the kitchen." "i remember," said norton. "no, the kettle isn't on. here goes." there was a little busy, pleasant bustle, for a time; and then matilda, with norton's help, had got everything in order for the evening meal. the sun was near setting, and threw bright lines of light in at the two little west windows, filling the small dining-room with pure gold; then it went down, and the gold was gone, and only in the low western sky the brightness remained. "it's time for the minister to be at home," norton said. "he has a great deal to do," matilda answered. "what?" said norton. "i always thought the parsons had an easy time of it. i could write two themes a week, i think, if i tried hard." "norton!" matilda exclaimed, "it isn't that; and mr. richmond doesn't write themes, as you call it, to begin with." "that must be harder then," said norton; "to stand up and speak to people without anything to say." "why he doesn't!" said matilda. "mr. richmond always has plenty to say. i suppose he could talk all day, if he didn't get tired." "i mean preaching," said norton. "yes, and i mean preaching," said matilda. "where is it to come from?" said the boy, pursing his lips ready for a whistle. "why, out of his head, and out of his heart," said matilda. "where should it come from?" "i say, pink," said norton, "it's very funny for me to be here. i don't think i can stand it long." "stand what?" "this. being at the parsonage and getting talked to. i suppose i shall." "norton," said matilda, confidently, "you'll like it. it's just nice." "i don't know about that," said norton. "it feels queer. i believe i am afraid." matilda laughed at his very un-fear-like face; and then the front door opened and shut. mr. richmond had come. it was a jolly tea they had, norton confessed afterwards. mr. richmond went rummaging among miss redwood's stores and brought out a jar of sweetmeats; in honour, he said, of his guests. the sweetmeats were good, and so was miss redwood's fresh bread. and there was indeed plenty of talk at the table; but it was not in the least like preaching. from the sick swiss, and their voyage, mr. richmond and norton somehow got upon the subject of navigation and commerce, with ships ancient and modern, and a little touch here and there showing how much these things have had to do with the history of the world and the life of nations. mr. richmond and norton talked and talked; and matilda listened, and made the tea, and enjoyed it all very much, seeing too what a good time norton was having. after tea, they removed into the study. mr. richmond asked them to come there, saying he was going to play this evening. he built up a beautiful fire, and gave norton a book to look at; while he himself sat for awhile quite silent, looking into the blaze, and only moving now and then to take care that it was kept up. so matilda found the two, when she had put the tea things away and followed them to the study. the red curtains were drawn across the windows; the red light of the fire leaped and shone all through the room; in the glow of it norton sat brooding over his book, and before it mr. richmond sat thinking. but he held out his hand as matilda came in, and asked if his little housekeeper had got all things straight. matilda came to his outstretched hand, which drew her to his side; and the room was still again. matilda stood motionless. by and by norton glanced up at her from his book, and covertly smiled. it started matilda's thoughts. "are you not going to be busy, mr. richmond?" she ventured, gently. "not doing anything at all," said mr. richmond, rousing himself. "i have been busy all day, matilda. i am going to do nothing to-night. what is it?" "will it be doing anything to talk to norton and me?" "i can't say," mr. richmond replied, laughing a little. "perhaps you will find me work to do, but i'll risk it. what do you want to talk about?" "there was a question--norton and i could not tell what the answer ought to be. i believe he thought one way, and i thought another." "what was the question?" said mr. richmond; while norton's face looked up from his book, bright with the same query. "we were talking--it was about opportunities, you know, mr. richmond; the opportunities that having money gives people; and we couldn't tell, norton and i, how far one ought to go. norton said people must stop somewhere; and i suppose they must. where ought they to stop?" matilda's face looked very earnest. norton's, comical. "where ought they to stop in giving money, you mean?" "yes, sir. for doing good, you know, and making other people comfortable." "it is rather a large question. were you afraid of giving too much, or of giving too little?" "i think one of us was afraid of giving too much, and the other of giving too little." "the best way is to go to the bible and see what that says. may i trouble one of you to open it at the second epistle to the corinthians, and read what you find in the seventh verse of the ninth chapter?" norton dropped his book and sprang to do the service asked for. he read the words-- "'every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for god loveth a cheerful giver.'" norton read, and looked up, as much as to say, what now? how does this help? "i don't see how that tells, mr. richmond," said matilda. "it tells one or two things. you are to give out of your heart; not because somebody else asks you, or some other body says you ought. _that_ would not please god. you are to do what you _like_ to do; much or little, as you feel." "but ought it to be much or little?" "as you feel. as your heart says." "but then, mr. richmond, will the lord be just as well pleased whether it is much or little?" "norton will please read the sixth verse." "'but this i say, he which soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly; and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully.'" "but that don't tell either," said norton, when he had read. "i think it does," said matilda, slowly. "it tells one thing. mr. richmond, it doesn't tell _how much_ one ought to like to give. that was the very question between norton and me; and we could not settle it." "don't you see, matilda, that everybody's heart would give its own answer to that question?" "but, mr. richmond, surely there is a right and a wrong answer?" "i am afraid a good many wrong answers," said mr. richmond. norton looked as if he would like to say something, but modestly kept back before the minister. mr. richmond caught the look. "speak out, norton," said he, smiling. "truth will always bear to be looked at." "i don't know much about it, sir," said norton. "only it seems to me, that if one begins to help other people all one can, one will soon want helping himself." "ah!" said mr. richmond. "read the next verse now." "the next to the seventh, sir?--'and god is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work.'" "that does not sound as if matilda were in any danger of growing poor through helping mrs. eldridge, does it?" "but, sir!" said norton, "the more one gives away, the less one has for one's self?" "it does not always work so," said mr. richmond. "the bible says, 'there is that scattereth, and yet increaseth.'" norton did not know exactly how to fight for his opinions, and so was silent, like a well-bred boy as he was; but matilda's feeling was different. "i understand," she said; "at least i think i do; but, mr. richmond, this does not get norton and me out of our puzzle. you don't mean that people ought to keep nothing for themselves?" "'every man according as he purposeth in his heart,'" mr. richmond repeated. "that is the order. there have been people, matilda, who have given their all for the sake of the lord jesus, and kept, as you say, nothing for themselves. it was in their heart. i cannot blame them, for one. he did not." "but ought every one to do so?" "matilda, i dare not set any rule but the rule my master has set. _he_ said, 'he that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple.'" "people don't do that, sir," said norton, eagerly. "_ought_ they to do it, sir?" said matilda, timidly. "to give away all they have got?" "he did not say, 'give away,' but 'forsake.' the word means literally 'to take leave of.' they give up thinking that what they have is their own; and from that time stand ready to give it away entirely, if the master says so." "is that religion, sir?" norton asked. "but, mr. richmond," matilda said, in another tone, "that is the very thing. how are they to know when he does tell them to give these things away?" "we are coming to it now," said mr. richmond. "you want to know what religion is, norton. please turn to the fifth chapter of that same epistle to the corinthians, and read aloud the--let me see--i think it is the fourteenth and fifteenth verses." norton obeyed. "'for the love of christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then were all dead: and that he died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him which died for them and rose again.'" "that is your answer," said mr. richmond; "that is religion. now for matilda's answer--norton, turn to the epistle to the colossians, and the third chapter, and read the seventeenth verse." "'and whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the lord jesus, giving thanks to god and the father, by him.'" "there is your rule, matilda. it is carrying out the former words. you have only to apply that to everything you do." "what is doing all _in the name_ of the lord?" norton asked. "not in your own name; not as though you were your own master; not as seeking first your own pleasure or advancement; not as using your own things. correlatively, for the lord; for his pleasure, for his service, as belonging to him." "'in word or deed,'" said matilda. "that means giving and everything." "but then, in religion one would never be free," said norton. "how, never be free?" "why, one must act as if one never be longed to one's self." "we don't," said mr. richmond. "we are _not_ our own; we are bought with a price. and we never were free till now." "but, if i go to buy a coat----" said norton; and he stopped. "yes, if you go to buy a coat, you will remember that you and the coat are the lord's together; and you will buy that coat which you think is the one he would like you to wear, and in which you can best work for him; and not use his money for any other." norton was silent, not because he had no thoughts to speak. matilda was silent, but with a very different face. it was serious, sweet, meditative, and content. "i see how it is, mr. richmond," she said, at last, looking up to his face. "thank you, sir." "it is very nice to have people apply sermons for themselves, matilda," said the minister. chapter xii. miss redwood did not come back the next morning to get breakfast. no sign of her. mr. richmond and matilda managed it, between them. norton, i am afraid, was not up till matilda called him, and that was when the coffee was nearly ready. matilda learned how to get breakfast at the parsonage, and norton learned to be up and help her; for they made a long stay at the old brown house. mrs. laval's swiss servants were all down with ship fever; and the two children were forbidden to come even near the house. mrs. laval herself staid at home and did what she could for the sufferers; but she and miss redwood kept house alone together. not a servant would be hired to come within reach of the dreadful contagion; and not a friend thought it was any use to go there just then to see anybody. mrs. laval and miss redwood had it all to themselves, with no one to look at besides but mr. richmond and the doctor. mr. richmond came to them constantly. the flow of human sympathy went all to the house with the brown door. it was remarkable how many friends were eager to know how the children got on; and how many more were anxious to be allowed to come in to help matilda. "what shall i do, mr. richmond?" she would say. "there have been three this morning." "who were they, tilly?" "mrs. barth, and miss van dyke, and miss spenser--oh, there were four!--and ailie swan." "do you want ailie to help you?" "no, mr. richmond; i don't want anybody but norton." "well, i don't. you may tell them that we do not want anybody, matilda. i have seen mrs. pottenburg; she will come in to scrub floors and do the hard work." so for several weeks the two children and the minister kept house together; in a way highly enjoyed by matilda, and i think by mr. richmond too. even norton found it oddly pleasant, and got very fond of mr. richmond, who, he declared privately to matilda, was a brick of the right sort. all the while the poor swiss people at mrs. laval's farmhouse were struggling for life, and their two nurses led a weary, lonely existence. norton sometimes wished he and matilda could get at the gray ponies and have a good drive; but matilda did not care about it. she would rather not be seen out of doors. as the weeks went on, she was greatly afraid that her aunt would come back and reclaim her. and mrs. candy did come back; and meeting mr. richmond a day or two after her return, she desired that he would send matilda home to her. she had just learned where she was, she said. "you know that matilda has been exposed to ship fever?" said mr. richmond. "no. i heard she was at your house." "but not until she had been in the house with the fever patients, and nursing them, before any one knew what was the matter. had she not better stay where she is, at least until we can be certain that she has got no harm?" "well, perhaps," said mrs. candy, looking confused; "it is very perplexing; i cannot expose my daughter----" "she will stay where she is," said mr. richmond, "for the present. good morning." he never told matilda of this encounter. and before another week had gone, mrs. candy and clarissa had again left shadywalk. so week after week went by peacefully. the beautiful days of october were all past; november winds came, and the trees were bare, and the frosts at night began to be severe. the sick people were getting better, and terrible qualms of fear and sorrow now and then swept over matilda's heart. her aunt would surely want her back now, and she should never finish her visit at mrs. laval's! one day she was in mr. richmond's study, all alone, thinking so. there was a flurry of snow in the air, the first snow of the season, falling thickly on the grass, and eddying in windy circles through the pine trees. matilda had knelt in a chair at the window to watch it, with that spasm of fear at her heart. now it is winter! she thought. aunt candy _must_ be home soon. yet the whirling great flakes of snow were so lovely, that in a few minutes they half distracted her from her fear. it came back again when she saw mr. richmond appear from the end of the church porch and make his way across the snow towards the parsonage door. matilda watched him lovingly; then was possessed with a sudden notion that he was bringing her news. he walks as if he had something to say, she said to herself; and he will come in and say it. he came in and warmed his hands at the fire, without sitting down; certainly there _was_ an air of business about him, as she had thought. matilda stood watching and waiting; that fear at her heart. "where's norton?" said mr. richmond. "he went out a good while ago. i don't know, sir." "i suppose you have expected to hear of your aunt's coming home, before now, matilda?" "yes, sir," said the child. he watched her furtively. no curiosity, no question; her face settled rather into a non-expectant state, as if all were fixed for her for ever--a look mr. richmond did not like to see. "she has come home." he saw the colour flit on matilda's cheek; her mouth had quitted its lines of peace and gaiety and become firm; she said nothing. "you are not glad to hear of it, matilda." "no, sir." "it is no pleasure to tell you of it; but it is necessary. how do you feel towards her now?" "mr. richmond," said the child, slowly, "i think i don't hate her any more." "but you would like to be excused from living with her?" matilda did not reply; no answer was necessary to so self-evident a proposition; the child seemed to be gathering her forces, somehow, mentally. "take courage," said her friend. "i have concluded that you never shall live with her any more. that is at an end." he saw the lightning flash of delight come into matilda's eyes; a streak of red showed itself on her cheek; but she was breathless, waiting for more words to make her understand how this could be, or that she had heard right. "it's true," said mr. richmond. "but--how then?" said matilda. "mrs. laval wants you." "wants me?" matilda repeated, anxiously. "she wants you, to keep you for her own child. she lost a little daughter once. she wants you to be in that little daughter's place, and to live with her always." "but, aunt candy will not," said matilda, "she will not----" "your aunt candy has consented. i have arranged that. it is safely done, matilda. you are to live with mrs. laval, and be her child from henceforth." matilda still looked at mr. richmond for a minute or two, as if there must be words to follow that would undo the wonderful tale of these; but seeing that mr. richmond only smiled, there came a great change over the child's face. the fixedness broke up. yet she did not smile; she seemed for the instant to grow grave and old; and clasping her little hands, she turned away from mr. richmond and walked the breadth of the room and back. then she stood still again beside the table, sober and pale. she looked at mr. richmond, waiting to hear more. "it is all true," said her friend. "is it for _always?_" matilda asked, in a low voice. "yes. even so. mrs. laval was very earnest in wishing it. i judged you would not be unwilling, matilda." the child said nothing, but the streak of colour began again to come into her cheeks. "you are now to be mrs. laval's child. she adopts you for her own. in all respects, except that of memory, you are to be as if you had been born hers." "does norton know?" "i have not spoken to him. i really cannot tell." again silence fell. matilda stood with her eyes downcast, the colour deepening in each cheek. mr. richmond watched her. "have i done right?" he asked. "you, sir?" said matilda, looking up. "yes. have i done right? i have made no mistake for your happiness?" "did _you_ do it, sir?" "yes, in one way. mrs. laval wished it; i arranged it. you know your mother left me the power. have i done right?" "mr. richmond," said the child, slowly, "i am afraid to think." her friend smiled again, and waited till the power of speech should come back. "was aunt candy willing?" she said then. "no, i do not think she was willing. i think the plan was not agreeable to her. but she gave her consent to it. the reasons in favour of the plan were so strong that she could not help that." matilda privately wondered that any reasons could have had so much weight; and rather fancied that mr. richmond had been the strongest reason of them all. "and it is _all done?_" she said, lifting up her eyes. "all done. arranged and finished. but mrs. laval is afraid to have you come home before next week." "mr. richmond," said the child, coming close, and stealing her hand into his, "i am very much obliged to you!" her friend sat down and drew his arm around her; and matilda's other hand on his shoulder, they were both still, thinking, for some little time. "mr. richmond," matilda whispered, "i think i am somebody else." "i hope not, tilly." "everything in the world seems different." "very naturally; but you can keep your self yet, i trust. if i thought not, i should wish the whole thing undone." "i ought to be better," said matilda. "we ought always to be better. circumstances cannot change that. _nothing_ happens that the lord does not mean shall help us to be better. and yet, sometimes circumstances seem to make it more difficult." "these don't, mr. richmond; do they?" "i don't know, tilly. they may." "how?" "i will not forestall them, tilly. if you watch, you will soon find out, whether they do or not." "are you afraid i shall be different, mr. richmond? _not_ growing better, i mean." "i have not seen you tried, except in one way, you know." "i shall have more opportunities; shall i not, mr. richmond?" "different opportunities. you have had no lack of them so far, have you?" "of one sort, mr. richmond." "ah, but remember, my child, we are never without opportunities to do the lord's will; plenty of opportunities. what you are thinking of now, is opportunity to do your own will; isn't it?" "i was thinking of helping people, and doing things for those who have no money." "yes. and is not that a pleasure?" "oh yes, sir." "when the lord puts it out of our power to have this pleasure, it shows that those things are not his will for us just then, eh?" "yes, sir." "what is our opportunity then?" "i know what you mean, mr. richmond. you mean, that then we can be patient." "and content." "_content?_" "yes; if it is god's will. we must be content always to do that." "but i suppose," said matilda, "i _shall_, maybe, have more chance to do those things, mr. richmond." "if so, i hope you will do them. but i want you to be always ready to do all the will of god. it is easy to pick out a pleasant duty here and there, or an unpleasant duty even; and stand ready to be faithful in that. but i want you to watch and be faithful in all things, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of god." "i will try, mr. richmond." "in every change of circumstances, matilda, we find both new opportunities and new difficulties. god has something new for us in every change. the thing is, to be ready for it." "how can one always find out, mr. richmond, what it is?" "if you watch, and are obedient, the lord will show it to you." norton's step sounded on the piazza. mr. richmond loosened the hold of his arm, and matilda rushed off. not so fast but that she stopped midway between him and the door and said, soberly-- "thank you, mr. richmond. i think i understand. i will try." printed by ballantine and company edinburgh and london typographical errors silently corrected: chapter : =oh, i don't know= replaced by =oh, i don' know= chapter : =am i one of em= replaced by =am i one of 'em= chapter : =giveth his life for= replaced by =giveth his life for= chapter : =intelligible the reading this time= replaced by =intelligible, the reading, this time= chapter : =following him?'"= replaced by =following him'?"= chapter : =she wants most= replaced by =she wants 'most= chapter : =i don't know what 'twas= replaced by =i don' know what 'twas= chapter : =begin with. "that's= replaced by =begin with. that= chapter : =only a course pride= replaced by =only a coarse pride= chapter : =well we've got to go= replaced by =well, we've got to go= chapter : =because mr. richmond= replaced by =because, mr. richmond= chapter : ='cause you see= replaced by ='cause, you see= chapter : =where everybody lives?= replaced by =where everybody lives.= chapter : =making a fool of himself= replaced by =makin' a fool of himself= chapter : =sight of money= replaced by =sight o' money= chapter : =taint in 'em= replaced by ='taint in 'em= chapter : =she is one= replaced by ="she is one= chapter : =you are very presuming= replaced by =you are very presuming= chapter : =go on using= replaced by =go on, using= chapter : ="two or three= replaced by =two or three= chapter : =went on pointing= replaced by =went on, pointing= chapter : =at shadywalk had= replaced by =at shadywalk, had= chapter : =because it is shorter= replaced by =becaase it is shorter= chapter : =gruel nicely= replaced by =gruel, nicely= franzÖsische und englische schulbibliothek herausgegeben von otto e. a. dickmann reihe a: prosa band lxxvii englisch leipzig rengersche buchhandlung gebhardt & wilisch. little lord fauntleroy von frances hodgson burnett fÜr den schulgebrauch bearbeitet von g. wolpert siebente auflage leipzig rengersche buchhandlung gebhardt & wilisch. mit gütiger erlaubnis der verlagshandlung _bernhard tauchnitz_ in leipzig. druck von hugo wilisch in chemnitz. vorwort zur ersten auflage. bei der bearbeitung des vorliegenden auszugs aus _burnetts_[ ] fesselndem romane für die schule, lag mir nach den grundsätzen der französischen und englischen schulbibliothek zunächst die aufgabe ob, denselben so zu kürzen, daß der inhalt des bändchens in einem semester bewältigt werden kann. es wurden deshalb alle für die entwicklung der erzählung nicht unbedingt nötigen teile ausgeschieden, der übrige text aber noch soweit gekürzt, als es die rücksicht auf die klarheit der schilderung und die korrektheit des ausdrucks zuließ. dadurch ist es mir gelungen, das ganze auf etwa ein dritteil des ursprünglichen umfanges zu beschränken, ohne jedoch den zusammenhang zu stören und die feine zeichnung der charaktere der hauptpersonen zu verwischen. nur an einer stelle war eine etwas gewaltsame verschmelzung mehrerer seiten in wenige zeilen (s. , z. - ) nicht zu umgehen; aber auch da erwies sich gewissenhafte wahrung der von burnett selbst gebrauchten ausdrucksweise als möglich. sachliche anmerkungen brauchten nur in beschränktem maße gegeben zu werden, dagegen hielt ich es für angezeigt, mit den fußnoten nicht allzu sparsam zu sein, einmal weil verschiedene amerikanismen (store, boss, ranch u. a.), sowie eine große anzahl vulgärer oder familiärer ausdrücke eine erklärung erheischten, sodann weil gar manche stelle des textes für die Übersetzung in gutes deutsch nicht ohne schwierigkeit ist. häufiger in der umgangssprache erscheinende kürzungen, wie: i'd, he'd, i'll, he'll u. a., die in den meisten grammatiken angeführt sind, wurden als bekannt vorausgesetzt. bei dem s. vollständig abgedruckten briefe cedrics unterblieb der raumersparnis halber die wiedergabe in korrektes englisch, soweit nicht die rücksicht auf das verständnis es verlangte. möge dieses bändchen, das für die mittleren klassen aller anstalten eine anregende lektüre bieten wird, die freundliche aufnahme finden, die dem kleinen helden der erzählung in der alten wie in der neuen welt zu teil geworden ist. mÜnchen, im januar . [fußnote : _frances hodgson burnett_ wurde am . november zu manchester geboren und kam schon sehr jung nach amerika. aus der reihe der von ihr veröffentlichten romane und erzählungen verdienen neben »little lord fauntleroy«, zuerst erschienen in st. nicholas magazine ( ), besonders erwähnung: »that lass o' lowries«, »a fair barbarian«, »through one administration«, »sara crewe«, »editha's burglar«, »the pretty sister of josé« und die novellensammlung »vagabondia«. verschiedene derselben, auch »little lord«, wurden dramatisiert und mit großem erfolge in deutschland, amerika und england aufgeführt.] vorwort zur zweiten auflage. die günstige aufnahme, welche diese ausgabe des _little lord_ bei den herren fachgenossen und bei der kritik gefunden, hat schon nach verlauf von nicht ganz zwei jahren eine neue auflage nötig gemacht. in dieser ist der text mit ausnahme einer einzigen stelle (s. , z. ), wo ich sinnrichtiger _a_ statt _any_ setzte, unverändert geblieben; die früheren fußnoten sind nach der vorschrift der redaktion mit den sachlichen anmerkungen verbunden, letztere einer genauen durchsicht unterzogen und um einige vermehrt worden. mÜnchen, im januar . * * * * * für die in die vierte auflage aufgenommenen sprachlichen erläuterungen zu s. . z. und s. , z. bin ich herrn prof. dr. thiergen zu dank verpflichtet. mÜnchen, im dezember . * * * * * die vorliegende siebente auflage ist, wie die beiden vorhergehenden, ein unveränderter abdruck der vierten. mÜnchen, im februar . georg wolpert, k. professor. little lord fauntleroy. chapter i. a great surprise. cedric himself knew nothing whatever about it. it had never been even mentioned to him. he knew that his papa had been an englishman, because his mamma had told him so; but then his papa had died when he was so little a boy that he could not remember very much about him, except that he was big, and had blue eyes and a long moustache, and that it was a splendid thing to be carried around the room on his shoulder. since his papa's death, cedric had found out that it was best not to talk to his mamma about him. when his father was ill, cedric had been sent away, and when he had returned, everything was over; and his mother, who had been very ill, too, was only just beginning to sit in her chair by the window. she was pale and thin, and all the dimples had gone from her pretty face, and her eyes looked large and mournful, and she was dressed in black. he and his mamma knew very few people, and lived what might have been thought very lonely lives, although cedric did not know it was lonely until he grew older and heard why it was they had no visitors. then he was told that his mamma was an orphan, and quite alone in the world when his papa had married her. their marriage brought them the ill-will of several persons. the one who was most angry of all, however, was the captain's father, who lived in england, and was a very rich and important old nobleman, with a very bad temper, and a very violent dislike to america and americans. he had two sons older than captain cedric; and it was the law that the elder of these sons should inherit the family title and estates, which were very rich and splendid; if the eldest son died the next one would be heir; so though he was a member of such a great family, there was little chance that captain cedric would be very rich himself. but it so happened that nature had given to the younger son gifts which she had not bestowed upon his elder brothers. he had a beautiful face and a fine, strong, graceful figure; he had a bright smile and a sweet, gay voice; he was brave and generous, and had the kindest heart in the world, and seemed to have the power to make every one love him. but it was not so with his elder brothers; neither of them was handsome, or kind, or clever; they cared nothing for study, and wasted both time and money, and made few real friends. the old earl, their father, was constantly disappointed and humiliated by them; his heir was no honour to his noble name. it was very bitter, the old earl thought, that the son who was only third, should be the one who had all the gifts, and all the charms. sometimes he almost hated the handsome young man because he seemed to have the good things which should have gone with the stately title and the magnificent estates. it was in one of his fits of petulance that he sent him off to travel in america. but after about six months, he began to feel lonely, and longed in secret to see his son again, so he wrote to captain cedric and ordered him home. the letter he wrote crossed on its way a letter the captain had just written to his father telling of his love for the pretty american girl, and of his intended marriage; and when the earl received that letter, he was furiously angry. bad as his temper was, he had never given way to it in his life as he gave way to it when he read the captain's letter. for an hour he raged like a tiger, and then he sat down and wrote to his son, and ordered him never to come near his old home, nor to write to his father or brothers again. the captain was very sad when he read the letter; he was very fond of england, and he dearly loved the beautiful home where he had been born; he had even loved his ill-tempered old father; but he knew he need expect no kindness from him in the future. at first he scarcely knew what to do; he had not been brought up to work, and had no business experience, but he had courage and plenty of determination. so he sold his commission in the english army, and after some trouble found a situation in new york, and married. the change from his old life in england was very great, but he was young and happy and he hoped that hard work would do great things for him in the future. he had a small house in a quiet street, and his little boy was born there. though he was born in so quiet and cheap a little home, it seemed as if there never had been a more fortunate baby. in the first place, he was always well, and so he never gave any one trouble; in the second place he had so sweet a temper and ways so charming that he was a pleasure to every one; and in the third place he was so beautiful to look at that he was quite a picture. when he was old enough to walk out with his nurse, he was so handsome and strong and rosy that he attracted every one's attention, and his nurse would come home and tell his mamma stories of the ladies who had stopped their carriages to look at and speak to him, and of how pleased they were when he talked to them in his cheerful little way, as if he had known them always. his greatest charm was this cheerful, fearless, quaint little way of making friends with people. as he grew older, he had a great many quaint little ways which amused and interested people greatly. he was so much of a companion for his mother that she scarcely cared for any other. they used to walk together and talk together and play together. when he was quite a little fellow he learned to read; and after that he used to lie on the hearth-rug, in the evening, and read aloud--sometimes stories, and sometimes big books such as older people read, and sometimes even the newspaper; and often at such times mary, in the kitchen, would hear mrs. errol laughing with delight at the quaint things he said. mary was very fond of him, and very proud of him, too. she had been with his mother ever since he was born; and, after his father's death, had been cook and housemaid and nurse and everything else. "ristycratic, is it?" she would say. "it's like a young lord he looks." cedric did not know that he looked like a young lord; he did not know what a lord was. his greatest friend was the groceryman at the corner. his name was mr. hobbs, and cedric admired and respected him very much. he thought him a very rich and powerful person, he had so many things in his store--prunes and figs and oranges and biscuits,--and he had a horse and waggon. cedric was fond of the milkman and the baker and the apple-woman, but he liked mr. hobbs best of all, and was on terms of such intimacy with him that he went to see him every day, and often sat with him quite a long time discussing the topics of the hour. it was quite surprising how many things they found to talk about--the fourth of july, for instance. when they began to talk about the fourth of july there really seemed no end to it. mr. hobbs had a very bad opinion of "the british," and he told the whole story of the revolution, relating very wonderful and patriotic stories about the villainy of the enemy and the bravery of the revolutionary heroes, and he even generously repeated part of the declaration of independence. cedric was so excited that his eyes shone and he could hardly wait to eat his dinner after he went home, he was so anxious to tell his mamma. it was, perhaps, mr. hobbs who gave him his first interest in politics. mr. hobbs was fond of reading the newspapers, and so cedric heard a great deal about what was going on in washington; and mr. hobbs would tell him whether the president was doing his duty or not. when cedric was between seven and eight years old, the very strange thing happened which made so wonderful a change in his life. it was quite curious, too, that the day it happened he had been talking to mr. hobbs about england and the queen, and mr. hobbs had said some very severe things about the aristocracy, being specially indignant against earls and marquises. they were in the midst of their conversation, when mary appeared. cedric thought she had come to buy some sugar, perhaps, but she had not. she looked almost pale and as if she were excited about something. "come home, darlint," she said; "the mistress is wantin' yez." cedric slipped down from his stool. "does she want me to go out with her, mary?" he asked. "good morning, mr. hobbs. i'll see you again." when he reached his own house there was a coupé standing before the door, and some one was in the little parlour talking to his mamma. mary hurried him up stairs and put on his best summer suit of cream-coloured flannel with the red scarf around the waist, and combed out his curly locks. when he was dressed, he ran down stairs and went into the parlour. a tall, thin old gentleman with a sharp face was sitting in an arm-chair. his mother was standing near by with a pale face, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. "oh, ceddie!" she cried out, and ran to her little boy and caught him in her arms and kissed him in a little frightened, troubled way. "oh, ceddie, darling!" the tall old gentleman rose from his chair and looked at cedric with his sharp eyes. he rubbed his thin chin with his bony hand as he looked. he seemed not at all displeased. "and so," he said at last, slowly,--"and so this is little lord fauntleroy." chapter ii. cedric's friends. there was never a more amazed little boy than cedric during the week that followed; there was never so strange or so unreal a week. in the first place, the story his mamma told him was a very curious one. he was obliged to hear it two or three times before he could understand it. he could not imagine what mr. hobbs would think of it. it began with earls; his grandpapa, whom he had never seen, was an earl; and his eldest uncle, if he had not been killed by a fall from his horse, would have been an earl, too, in time; and after his death, his other uncle would have been an earl, if he had not died suddenly, in rome, of a fever. after that, his own papa, if he had lived, would have been an earl; but since they all had died and only cedric was left, it appeared that _he_ was to be an earl after his grandpapa's death--and for the present he was lord fauntleroy. he turned quite pale when he was first told of it. "oh! dearest!" he said, "i should rather not be an earl. none of the boys are earls. can't i _not_ be one?" but it seemed to be unavoidable. and when, that evening, they sat together by the open window looking out into the shabby street, he and his mother had a long talk about it. cedric sat on his footstool, clasping one knee in his favourite attitude and wearing a bewildered little face rather red from the exertion of thinking. his grandfather had sent for him to come to england, and his mamma thought he must go. "because," she said, looking out of the window with sorrowful eyes, "i know your papa would wish it to be so, ceddie. i should be a selfish little mother if i did not send you. when you are a man you will see why." ceddie shook his head mournfully. "i shall be very sorry to leave mr. hobbs," he said. when mr. havisham--who was the family lawyer of the earl of dorincourt, and who had been sent by him to bring lord fauntleroy to england--came the next day, cedric heard many things. but, somehow, it did not console him to hear that he was to be a very rich man when he grew up, and that he would have castles here and castles there, and great parks and deep mines and grand estates and tenantry. he was troubled about his friend, mr. hobbs, and he went to see him at the store soon after breakfast, in great anxiety of mind. he found him reading the morning paper, and he approached him with a grave demeanour. he really felt it would be a great shock to mr. hobbs to hear what had befallen him, and on his way to the store he had been thinking how it would be best to break the news. "hello!" said mr. hobbs. "mornin'!" "good-morning," said cedric. he did not climb up on the high stool as usual, but sat down on a biscuit-box and clasped his knee, and was so silent for a few moments that mr. hobbs finally looked up inquiringly over the top of his newspaper. "hello!" he said again. cedric gathered all his strength of mind together. "mr. hobbs," he said, "do you remember what we were talking about yesterday morning?" "well," replied mr. hobbs,--"seems to me it was england." "yes," said cedric; "but just when mary came for me, you know?" mr. hobbs rubbed the back of his head. "we _was_ mentioning queen victoria and the aristocracy." "yes," said cedric, rather hesitatingly, "and--and earls; don't you know?" "why, yes," returned mr. hobbs; "that's so!" "you said," proceeded cedric, "that you wouldn't have them sitting 'round on your biscuit barrels." "so i did!" returned mr. hobbs, stoutly. "mr. hobbs," said cedric, "one is sitting on this box now!" mr. hobbs almost jumped out of his chair. "what!" he exclaimed. "yes," cedric announced, with due modesty; "_i_ am one--or i am going to be. i shan't deceive you." mr. hobbs looked agitated. he rose up suddenly and went to look at the thermometer. "the mercury's got into your head!" he exclaimed, turning back to examine his young friend's countenance. "it _is_ a hot day! how do you feel?" he put his big hand on the little boy's hair. "thank you," said ceddie; "i'm all right. there is nothing the matter with my head. i'm sorry to say it's true, mr. hobbs. that was what mary came to take me home for. mr. havisham was telling my mamma, and he is a lawyer." mr. hobbs sank into his chair and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "_one_ of us has got a sunstroke!" he exclaimed. "no," returned cedric, "we have not. mr. havisham came all the way from england to tell us about it. my grandpapa sent him." mr. hobbs stared wildly at the innocent, serious little face before him. "who is your grandfather?" he asked. cedric put his hand in his pocket and carefully drew out a piece of paper, on which something was written in his own round, irregular hand. "i couldn't easily remember it, so i wrote it down on this," he said. and he read aloud slowly: "'john arthur molyneux errol, earl of dorincourt.' that is his name, and he lives in a castle--in two or three castles, i think. and my papa, who died, was his youngest son; and i shouldn't have been a lord or an earl if my papa hadn't died; and my papa wouldn't have been an earl if his two brothers hadn't died, and my grandpapa has sent for me to come to england." mr. hobbs seemed to grow hotter and hotter. he mopped his forehead and breathed hard. he began to see that something very remarkable had happened. "wha--what did you say your name was?" mr. hobbs inquired. "it's cedric errol, lord fauntleroy," answered cedric. "that was what mr. havisham called me." "well," said mr. hobbs, "i'll be--jiggered!" this was an exclamation he always used when he was very much astonished or excited. he could think of nothing else to say just at that puzzling moment. cedric looked at mr. hobbs wistfully. "england is a long way off, isn't it?" he asked. "it's across the atlantic ocean," mr. hobbs answered. "that's the worst of it," said cedric. "perhaps i shall not see you again for a long time. i don't like to think of that, mr. hobbs." "the best of friends must part," said mr. hobbs. "well," said cedric, "we have been friends for a great many years, haven't we?" "ever since you was born," mr. hobbs answered. "ah," remarked cedric, with a sigh, "i never thought i should have to be an earl then!" "you think," said mr. hobbs, "there's no getting out of it?" "i'm afraid not," answered cedric. "my mamma says that my papa would wish me to do it. but if i have to be an earl, i can try to be a good one. i'm not going to be a tyrant." his conversation with mr. hobbs was a long and serious one. once having got over the first shock, mr. hobbs endeavoured to resign himself to the situation, and before the interview was at an end he had asked a great many questions. as cedric could answer but few of them, he endeavoured to answer them himself, and explained many things in a way which would probably have astonished mr. havisham, could that gentleman have heard it. but then there were many things which astonished mr. havisham. he had known all about the old earl's disappointment in his elder sons and all about his fierce rage at captain cedric's american marriage, and he knew how he still hated the gentle little widow and would not speak of her except with bitter and cruel words. he insisted that she was only a common american girl, who had entrapped his son into marrying her because she knew he was an earl's son. the old lawyer himself had more than half believed this was all true. when he had been driven into the cheap street, and his coupé had stopped before the cheap small house, he had felt actually shocked. when mary handed him into the small parlour he looked around it critically. it was plainly furnished but it had a home-like look; the few adornments on the walls were in good taste, and about the room were many pretty things which a woman's hand might have made. the lawyer's experience taught him to read people's characters very shrewdly, and as soon as he saw cedric's mother he knew that the old earl had made a great mistake in thinking her a vulgar, mercenary woman. when he first told mrs. errol what he had come for, she turned very pale. "oh!" she said; "will he have to be taken away from me? we love each other so much! he is such a happiness to me! he is all i have." and her sweet young voice trembled, and the tears rushed into her eyes. "you do not know what he has been to me!" she said. the lawyer cleared his throat. "i am obliged to tell you," he said, "that the earl of dorincourt is not--is not very friendly toward you. he is an old man, and his prejudices are very strong. he has always especially disliked america and americans, and was very much enraged by his son's marriage. i am sorry to be the bearer of so unpleasant a communication, but he is very fixed in his determination not to see you. his plan is that lord fauntleroy shall be educated under his own supervision; that he shall live with him. the earl is attached to dorincourt castle, and spends a great deal of time there. lord fauntleroy will, therefore, be likely to live chiefly at dorincourt. the earl offers to you as a home, court lodge, which is situated pleasantly, and is not very far from the castle. he also offers you a suitable income. lord fauntleroy will be permitted to visit you; the only stipulation is, that you shall not visit him. you see you will not be really separated from your son." he felt a little uneasy lest she should begin to cry or make a scene. but she did not. she went to the window and stood with her face turned away for a few moments. "captain errol was very fond of dorincourt," she said at last. "he loved england, and everything english. it was always a grief to him that he was parted from his home. i know he would wish, that his son should know the beautiful old places, and be brought up in such a way as would be suitable to his future position." then she came back to the table and stood looking up at mr. havisham very gently. "my husband would wish it," she said. "it will be best for my little boy. i know--i am sure the earl would not be so unkind as to try to teach him not to love me; and i know--even if he tried--that my little boy is too much like his father to be harmed. i hope, that his grandfather will love ceddie. the little boy has a very affectionate nature; and he has always been loved." mr. havisham cleared his throat again. he could not quite imagine the gouty, fiery-tempered old earl loving any one very much; but he knew that if ceddie were at all a credit to his name, his grandfather would be proud of him. "lord fauntleroy will be comfortable, i am sure," he replied. "it was with a view to his happiness that the earl desired that you should be near enough to him to see him frequently." when the door opened and the child came into the room, he recognised in an instant that here was one of the finest and handsomest little fellows he had ever seen. his beauty was something unusual. he had a strong, lithe, graceful little body and a manly little face; he was so like his father that it was really startling; he had his father's golden hair and his mother's brown eyes. they were innocently fearless eyes; he looked as if he had never feared or doubted anything in his life. "he is the best-bred-looking and handsomest little fellow i ever saw," was what mr. havisham thought. what he said aloud was simply, "and so this is little lord fauntleroy." cedric did not know he was being observed, and he only behaved himself in his ordinary manner. he shook hands with mr. havisham in his friendly way when they were introduced to each other, and he answered all his questions with the unhesitating readiness with which he answered mr. hobbs. the next time mr. havisham met him, he had quite a long conversation with him--a conversation which made him smile, and rub his chin with his bony hand several times. mrs. errol had been called out of the parlour, and the lawyer and cedric were left together. mr. havisham sat in an arm-chair on one side of the open window; on the other side was another still larger chair, and cedric sat in that and looked at mr. havisham. there was a short silence after mrs. errol went out, and cedric seemed to be studying mr. havisham, and mr. havisham was certainly studying cedric. he could not make up his mind as to what an elderly gentleman should say to a little boy. but cedric relieved him by suddenly beginning the conversation himself. "do you know," he said, "i don't know what an earl is?" "don't you?" said mr. havisham. "no," replied ceddie. "and i think when a boy is going to be one, he ought to know. don't you?" "well--yes," answered mr. havisham, "an earl is--is a very important person." "so is a president!" put in ceddie. "an earl," mr. havisham went on, "is frequently of very ancient lineage----" "what's that?" asked ceddie. "of very old family--extremely old." "ah!" said cedric, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets. "i suppose that is the way with the apple-woman near the park. i dare say she is of ancient lin-lenage. she is so old it would surprise you how she can stand up." mr. havisham felt rather at a loss as he looked at his companion's innocent, serious little face. "i am afraid you did not quite understand me," he explained. "when i said 'ancient lineage' i did not mean old age; i meant that the name of such a family has been known in the world a long time; perhaps for hundreds of years persons bearing that name have been known and spoken of in the history of their country." "like george washington," said ceddie. "i've heard of him ever since i was born, and he was known about long before that. mr. hobbs says he will never be forgotten. that's because of the declaration of independence, you know, and the fourth of july. you see, he was a very brave man." "the first earl of dorincourt," said mr. havisham solemnly, "was created an earl four hundred years ago." "well, well!" said ceddie. "that was a long time ago! did you tell dearest that? it would int'rust her very much. she always likes to hear cur'us things. what else does an earl do besides being created?" "a great many of them have helped to govern england. some of them have been brave men and have fought in great battles in the old days." "i should like to do that myself," said cedric. "my papa was a soldier, and he was a very brave man--as brave as george washington. perhaps that was because he would have been an earl if he hadn't died. i am glad earls are brave. that's a great 'vantage--to be a brave man." "there is another advantage in being an earl, sometimes," said mr. havisham slowly. "some earls have a great deal of money." he was curious because he wondered if his young friend knew what the power of money was. "that's a good thing to have," said ceddie innocently. "i wish i had a great deal of money." "do you?" said mr. havisham. "and why?" "well," explained cedric, "there are so many things a person can do with money. you see there's the apple-woman. if i were very rich i should buy her a little tent to put her stall in, and a little stove, and then i should give her a dollar every morning it rained, so that she could afford to stay at home." "ahem!" said mr. havisham. "and what else would you do if you were rich?" "oh! i'd do a great many things. of course i should buy dearest all sorts of beautiful things, needle-books and fans and gold thimbles and rings, and an encyclopedia, and a carriage, so that she needn't have to wait for the street-cars. and then dick----" "who is dick?" asked mr. havisham. "dick is a boot-black," said his young lordship, quite warming up in his interest in plans so exciting. "he is one of the nicest boot-blacks you ever knew. he stands at the corner of a street down town. i've known him for years. once when i was very little, i was walking out with dearest and she bought me a beautiful ball that bounced, and i was carrying it, and it bounced into the middle of the street where the carriages and horses were, and i was so disappointed, i began to cry--i was very little. dick ran in between the horses and caught the ball for me and wiped it off with his coat and gave it to me and said; 'it's all right, young un.' so dearest admired him very much, and so did i, and ever since then, when we go down town, we talk to him." "and what would you like to do for him?" inquired the lawyer, rubbing his chin and smiling a queer smile. "well," said lord fauntleroy, settling himself in his chair with a business air; "i'd buy jake out." "and who is jake?" mr. havisham asked. "he's dick's partner, and he is the worst partner a fellow could have! dick says so. he isn't a credit to the business, and he isn't square. he cheats, and that makes dick mad. so if i were rich, i'd buy jake out and i'd get dick some new clothes and new brushes, and start him out fair." "what would you get for yourself, if you were rich?" asked mr. havisham. "lots of things!" answered lord fauntleroy briskly: "but first i'd give mary some money for bridget--that's her sister, with twelve children, and a husband out of work. and i think mr. hobbs would like a gold watch and chain to remember me by, and a meerschaum pipe." the door opened and mrs. errol came in. "i am sorry to have been obliged to leave you so long," she said to mr. havisham; "but a poor woman, who is in great trouble, came to see me." "this young gentleman," said mr. havisham, "has been telling me about some of his friends, and what he would do for them if he were rich." "bridget is one of his friends," said mrs. errol; "and it is bridget to whom i have been talking in the kitchen. she is in great trouble now because her husband has rheumatic fever." cedric slipped down out of his big chair. "i think i'll go and see her," he said, "and ask her how he is. he's a nice man when he is well, he once made me a sword out of wood." he ran out of the room, and mr. havisham rose from his chair. he seemed to have something in his mind which he wished to speak of. he hesitated a moment, and then said, looking down at mrs. errol: "before i left dorincourt castle i had an interview with the earl, in which he gave me some instructions. he said that i must let his lordship know that the change in his life would bring him money and the pleasures children enjoy; if he expressed any wishes i was to gratify them, and to tell him that his grandfather had given him what he wished. i am aware that the earl did not expect anything quite like this; but if it would give lord fauntleroy pleasure to assist this poor woman, i should feel that the earl would be displeased if he were not gratified." "oh!" mrs. errol said, "that was very kind of the earl; cedric will be so glad! he has always been fond of bridget and michael. they are quite deserving." mr. havisham put his thin hand in his breast pocket and drew forth a large pocket-book. there was a queer look in his keen face. the truth was, he was wondering what the earl of dorincourt would say when he was told what was the first wish of his grandson that had been granted. "i do not know that you have realised," he said, "that the earl of dorincourt is an exceedingly rich man. i think it would please him to know that lord fauntleroy had been indulged in any fancy. if you will call him back and allow me, i shall give him five pounds for these people." "that would be twenty-five dollars!" exclaimed mrs. errol. "it will seem like wealth to them. i can scarcely believe that it is true." "it is quite true," said mr. havisham, with his dry smile. "a great change has taken place in your son's life, a great deal of power will lie in his hands." "oh!" cried his mother. "and he is such a little boy--a very little boy. how can i teach him to use it well? it makes me half afraid. my pretty little ceddie!" the lawyer slightly cleared his throat. it touched his worldly, hard old heart to see the tender, timid look in her brown eyes. "i think, madam," he said, "that if i may judge from my interview with lord fauntleroy this morning, the next earl of dorincourt will think for others as well as for his noble self. he is only a child yet, but i think he may be trusted." then his mother went for cedric and brought him back into the parlour. his little face looked quite anxious when he came in. he was very sorry for bridget. "dearest said you wanted me," he said to mr. havisham. "i've been talking to bridget." mr. havisham looked down at him a moment. he felt a little awkward and undecided. as cedric's mother had said, he was a very little boy. "the earl of dorincourt----" he began, and then he glanced involuntarily at mrs. errol. little lord fauntleroy's mother suddenly kneeled down by him and put both her tender arms around his childish body. "ceddie," she said, "the earl is your grandpapa, your own papa's father. he is very, very kind, and he loves you and wishes you to love him, because the sons who were his little boys are dead. he wishes you to be happy and to make other people happy. he is very rich, and he wishes you to have everything you would like to have. he told mr. havisham so, and gave him a great deal of money for you. you can give some to bridget now, enough to pay her rent and buy michael everything. isn't that fine, ceddie? isn't he good?" and she kissed the child on his round cheek, where the bright colour suddenly flashed up in his excited amazement. he looked from his mother to mr. havisham. "can i have it now?" he cried. "can i give it to her this minute? she's just going." mr. havisham handed him the money. it was in fresh clean greenbacks and made a neat roll. ceddie flew out of the room. "bridget!" they heard him shout, as he tore into the kitchen. "bridget, wait a minute! here's some money. it's for you, and you can pay the rent. my grandpapa gave it to me. it's for you and michael!" "oh, master ceddie!" cried bridget, in an awestricken voice. "it's twinty-foive dollars is here. where's the mistress?" "i think i shall have to go and explain it to her," mrs. errol said. so she, too, went out of the room, and mr. havisham was left alone for a while. he went to the window and stood looking out into the street reflectively. he was thinking of the old earl of dorincourt, sitting in his great, splendid, gloomy library at the castle, gouty and lonely, surrounded by grandeur and luxury, but not really loved by any one, because in all his long life he had never really loved any one but himself. he could fill his castle with guests if he chose, but he knew that in secret the people who would accept his invitations were afraid of his frowning old face and sarcastic, biting speeches. mr. havisham knew his hard, fierce ways by heart, and he was thinking of him as he looked out of the window into the quiet, narrow street. and there rose in his mind, in sharp contrast, the picture of the cheery, handsome little fellow sitting in the big chair and telling his story of his friends, dick and the apple-woman, in his generous, innocent, honest way. and he thought of the immense income, the beautiful, majestic estates, the wealth, and power for good or evil, which in the course of time would lie in the small, chubby hands little lord fauntleroy thrust so deep into his pockets. "it will make a great difference," he said to himself. "it will make a great difference." cedric and his mother came back soon after. cedric was in high spirits. he was glowing with enjoyment of bridget's relief and rapture. "she cried!" he said. "she said she was crying for joy. i never saw any one cry for joy before. my grandpapa must be a very good man. i didn't know he was so good a man. it's more--more agreeable to be an earl than i thought it was. i'm almost glad--i'm almost _quite_ glad i'm going to be one." chapter iii. leaving home. cedric's good opinion of the advantages of being an earl increased greatly during the next week. it seemed almost impossible for him to realise that there was scarcely anything he might wish to do which he could not do easily; in fact i think it may be said that he did not fully realise it at all. but at least he understood, after a few conversations with mr. havisham, that he could gratify all his nearest wishes, and he proceeded to gratify them with a simplicity and delight which caused mr. havisham much diversion. in the week before they sailed for england, he did many curious things. the lawyer long after remembered the morning they went down together to pay a visit to dick, and the afternoon they so amazed the apple-woman of ancient lineage by stopping before her stall and telling her she was to have a tent, and a stove, and a shawl, and a sum of money which seemed to her quite wonderful. "for i have to go to england and be a lord," explained cedric, sweet-temperedly. "she's a very good apple-woman," he said to mr. havisham as they walked away, leaving the proprietress of the stall almost gasping for breath, and not at all believing in her great fortune. "once, when i fell down and cut my knee, she gave me an apple for nothing. i've always remembered her for it. you know you always remember people who are kind to you." it had never occurred to his honest, simple, little mind that there were people who could forget kindnesses. the interview with dick was quite exciting. dick had just been having a great deal of trouble with jake, and was in low spirits when they saw him. his amazement when cedric calmly announced that they had come to give him what seemed a very great thing to him, and would set all his troubles right, almost struck him dumb. lord fauntleroy's manner of announcing the object of his visit was very simple and unceremonious and the end of the matter was that dick bought jake out, and found himself the possessor of the business, and some new brushes and a most astonishing sign and outfit. he could not believe in his good luck any more easily than the apple-woman of ancient lineage could believe in hers. he scarcely seemed to realise anything until cedric put out his hand to shake hands with him before going away. "well, good-bye," he said; and though he tried to speak steadily, there was a little tremble in his voice and he winked his big brown eyes. "and i hope trade'll be good. i'm sorry i'm going away to leave you, but i wish you'd write to me, because we were always good friends. and here's where you must send your letter." and he gave him a slip of paper. "and my name isn't cedric errol any more; it's lord fauntleroy and--and good-bye, dick." dick winked his eyes also, and yet they looked rather moist about the lashes. "i wish ye wasn't goin' away," he said in a husky voice. then he winked his eyes again. then he looked at mr. havisham and touched his cap. "thanky, sir, for bringin' him down here an' fur wot ye've done." until the day of his departure, his lordship spent as much time as possible with mr. hobbs in the store. gloom had settled upon mr. hobbs; he was much depressed in spirits. when his young friend brought to him in triumph the parting gift of a gold watch and chain, mr. hobbs found it difficult to acknowledge it properly. he laid the case on his stout knee, and blew his nose violently several times. "there's something written on it," said cedric,--"inside the case. i told the man myself what to say. 'from his oldest friend, lord fauntleroy, to mr. hobbs. when this you see, remember me.' i don't want you to forget me." mr. hobbs blew his nose very loudly again. "i shan't forget you," he said, speaking a trifle huskily, as dick had spoken; "nor don't you go and forget me when you get among the british aristocracy." "i shouldn't forget you, whoever i was among," answered his lordship. "i've spent my happiest hours with you; at least, some of my happiest hours. i hope you'll come to see me some time." at last all the preparations were complete; the day came when the trunks were taken to the steamer, and the hour arrived when the carriage stood at the door. then a curious feeling of loneliness came upon the little boy. his mamma had been shut up in her room for some time; when she came down the stairs, her eyes looked large and wet, and her sweet mouth was trembling. cedric went to her, and she bent down to him, and he put his arms around her and they kissed each other. he knew something made them both sorry, though he scarcely knew what it was; but one tender little thought rose to his lips. "we liked this little house, dearest, didn't we?" he said. "we always will like it, won't we?" "yes--yes," she answered in a low, sweet voice. "yes, darling." and then they went into the carriage and cedric sat very close to her, and as she looked back out of the window, he looked at her and stroked her hand and held it close. and then, it seemed almost directly, they were on the steamer in the midst of the wildest bustle and confusion; carriages were driving down and leaving passengers; passengers were getting into a state of excitement about baggage which had not arrived and threatened to be too late; big trunks and cases were being bumped down and dragged about; sailors were uncoiling ropes and hurrying to and fro; officers were giving orders; ladies and gentlemen and children and nurses were coming on board--some were laughing and looked gay, some were silent and sad, here and there two or three were crying and touching their eyes with their handkerchiefs. cedric found something to interest him on every side; he looked at the piles of rope, at the furled sails, at the tall, tall masts which seemed almost to touch the hot blue sky; he began to make plans for conversing with the sailors and gaining some information on the subject of pirates. it was just at the very last, when he was leaning on the railing of the upper deck and watching the final preparations, that his attention was called to a slight bustle in one of the groups not far from him. some one was hurriedly forcing his way through this group and coming toward him. it was a boy, with something red in his hand. it was dick. he came up to cedric quite breathless. "i've run all the way," he said. "i've come down to see ye off. trade's been prime! i bought this for ye out o' what i made yesterday. ye kin wear it when ye get among the swells. it's a hankercher." he poured it all forth as if in one sentence. a bell rang and he made a leap away before cedric had time to speak. "good-bye!" he panted. "wear it when ye get among the swells." and he darted off and was gone. cedric held the handkerchief in his hand. it was of bright red silk, ornamented with purple horse-shoes and horses' heads, he leaned forward and waved it. "good-bye, dick!" he shouted, lustily. "thank you! good-bye, dick!" and the big steamer moved away, and the people cheered again, and cedric's mother drew the veil over her eyes, and on the shore there was left great confusion; but dick saw nothing save that bright, childish face and the bright hair that the sun shone on and the breeze lifted, and he heard nothing but the hearty childish voice calling "good-bye, dick!" as little lord fauntleroy steamed slowly away from the home of his birth to the unknown land of his ancestors. chapter iv. in england. it was during the voyage that cedric's mother told him that his home was not to be hers; and when he first understood it, his grief was so great that mr. havisham saw that the earl had been wise in making the arrangements that his mother should be quite near him, and see him often; for it was very plain he could not have borne the separation otherwise. but his mother managed the little fellow so sweetly and lovingly, and made him feel that she would be so near him, that, after a while, he ceased to be oppressed by the fear of any real parting. "my house is not far from the castle, ceddie," she repeated each time the subject was referred to--"a very little way from yours, and you can always run in and see me every day, and you will have so many things to tell me! and we shall be so happy together! it is a beautiful place. your papa has often told me about it. he loved it very much; and you will love it too." "i should love it better if you were there," his small lordship said, with a heavy little sigh. he could not but feel puzzled by so strange a state of affairs, which could put his "dearest" in one house and himself in another. the fact was that mrs. errol had thought it better not to tell him why this plan had been made. "i should prefer he should not be told," she said to mr. havisham. "he would not really understand; he would only be shocked and hurt; and i feel sure that his feeling for the earl will be a more natural and affectionate one if he does not know that his grandfather dislikes me so bitterly. it would make a barrier between them, even though ceddie is such a child." so cedric only knew that there was some mysterious reason for the arrangement, some reason which he was not old enough to understand, but which would be explained when he was older. he was puzzled; but after many talks with his mother, in which she placed before him the bright side of the picture, the dark side of it gradually began to fade out, though now and then mr. havisham saw him sitting in some queer little old-fashioned attitude, watching the sea, with a very grave face, and more than once he heard an unchildish sigh rise to his lips. the people who had been sea-sick had no sooner recovered from their sea-sickness, and come on deck to recline in their steamer-chairs and enjoy themselves, than every one seemed to know the romantic story of little lord fauntleroy, and every one took an interest in the little fellow, who ran about the ship or walked with his mother or the tall, thin old lawyer, or talked to the sailors. every one liked him, he made friends everywhere. he was ever ready to make friends. when the gentlemen walked up and down the deck, and let him walk with them, he stepped out with a manly, sturdy little tramp, and answered all their jokes with much gay enjoyment; when the ladies talked to him, there was always laughter in the group of which he was the centre; when he played with the children, there was always magnificent fun on hand. among the sailors he had the heartiest friends; he heard miraculous stories about pirates and shipwrecks and desert islands; he learned to splice ropes and rig toy ships, and gained an amount of information concerning "tops'les" and "mains'les," quite surprising. his conversation had, indeed, quite a nautical flavour at times. it was eleven days after he had said good-bye to his friend dick before he reached liverpool; and it was on the night of the twelfth day that the carriage, in which he and his mother and mr. havisham had driven from the station, stopped before the gates of court lodge. mary had come with them to attend her mistress, and she had reached the house before them. when cedric jumped out of the carriage mary stood in the doorway. lord fauntleroy sprang at her with a gay little shout. "did you get here, mary?" he said. "here's mary, dearest." "i am glad you are here, mary," mrs. errol said to her in a low voice. "it is such a comfort to me to see you. it takes the strangeness away." and she held out her little hand, which mary squeezed encouragingly. the english servants looked with curiosity at both the boy and his mother. they had heard all sorts of rumours about them both; they knew why mrs. errol was to live at the lodge and her little boy at the castle; but they did not know what sort of a little lord had come among them; they did not quite understand the character of the next earl of dorincourt. he pulled off his overcoat quite as if he were used to doing things for himself, and began to look about him. he looked about the broad hall, at the pictures and stags' antlers and curious things that ornamented it. they seemed curious to him because he had never seen such things before in a private house. "dearest," he said, "this is a very pretty house, isn't it? i am glad you are going to live here. it's quite a large house." it was quite a large house compared to the one in the shabby new york street, and it was very pretty and cheerful. mary led them into a big bright room; its ceiling was low, and the furniture was heavy and beautifully carved. there was a great tiger-skin before the fire, and an arm-chair on each side of it. a stately white cat had responded to lord fauntleroy's stroking and followed him down stairs, and when he threw himself down upon the rug, she curled herself up grandly beside him as if she intended to make friends. cedric was so pleased that he put his head down by hers, and lay stroking her, not noticing what his mother and mr. havisham were saying. they were, indeed, speaking in a rather low tone. mrs. errol looked a little pale and agitated. "he need not go to-night?" she said. "he will stay with me to-night?" "yes," answered mr. havisham in the same low tone; "it will not be necessary for him to go to-night. i myself will go to the castle as soon as we have dined, and inform the earl of our arrival." mrs. errol smiled faintly. "his lordship does not know all that he is taking from me," she said rather sadly. then she looked at the lawyer. "will you tell him, if you please," she said, "that i should rather not have the income he proposed to settle upon me. i am obliged to accept the house, and i thank him for it, because it makes it possible for me to be near my child; but i have a little money of my own and i should rather not take the other. as he dislikes me so much, i should feel a little as if i were selling cedric to him. i am giving him up only because i love him enough to forget myself for his good, and because his father would wish it to be so." mr. havisham rubbed his chin. "this is very strange," he said. "he will be very angry. he won't understand it, but i will deliver your message." and then the dinner was brought in and they sat down together, the big cat taking a seat on a chair near cedric's and purring majestically throughout the meal. when, later in the evening, mr. havisham presented himself at the castle, he was taken at once to the earl. he found him sitting by the fire in a luxurious easy-chair, his foot on a gout-stool. he looked at the lawyer sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows. "well," he said; "well, havisham, come back, have you? what's the news?" "lord fauntleroy and his mother are at court lodge," replied mr. havisham. "they bore the voyage very well and are in excellent health." the earl made a half-impatient sound and moved his hand restlessly. "glad to hear it," he said brusquely. "so far, so good. make yourself comfortable. have a glass of wine and settle down. what else?" "his lordship remains with his mother to-night. to-morrow i will bring him to the castle." the earl's elbow was resting on the arm of his chair; he put his hand up and shielded his eyes with it. "well?" he said; "go on. what kind of a lad is he? i don't care about the mother; what sort of a lad is he? healthy and well grown?" "apparently very healthy, and quite well grown," replied the lawyer. "straight-limbed and well enough to look at?" demanded the earl. a very slight smile touched mr. havisham's thin lips. "rather a handsome boy, i think, my lord, as boys go," he said, "though i am scarcely a judge, perhaps." there was a silence of a few moments. it was mr. havisham who broke it. "i have a message to deliver from mrs. errol," he remarked. "i don't want any of her messages!" growled his lordship; "the less i hear of her the better." "this is a rather important one," explained the lawyer. "she prefers not to accept the income you proposed to settle on her." the earl started visibly. "what's that?" he cried out. "what's that?" mr. havisham repeated his words. "she says it is not necessary, and that as the relations between you are not friendly----" "not friendly!" ejaculated my lord savagely; "i should say they were not friendly! i hate to think of her! a mercenary american! i don't wish to see her!" "my lord," said mr. havisham, "you can scarcely call her mercenary. she has asked for nothing. she does not accept the money you offer her." "all done for effect!" snapped his noble lordship. "she thinks i shall admire her spirit. i don't admire it! it's only american independence! i won't have her living like a beggar at my park gates. she shall have the money, whether she likes it or not!" "she won't spend it," said mr. havisham. "i don't care whether she spends it or not!" blustered my lord. "she shall have it sent to her. she wants to give the boy a bad opinion of me! i suppose she has poisoned his mind against me already!" "no," said mr. havisham. "i have another message, which will prove to you that she has not done that." "i don't want to hear it!" panted the earl, out of breath with anger and excitement and gout. but mr. havisham delivered it. "she asks you not to let lord fauntleroy hear anything which would lead him to understand that you separate him from her because of your prejudice against her. he is very fond of her, and she is convinced that it would cause a barrier to exist between you. she has told him that he is too young to understand the reason, but shall hear it when he is older. she wishes that there should be no shadow on your first meeting." the earl sank back into his chair. his deep-set fierce old eyes gleamed under his beetling brows. "come, now!" he said, still breathlessly. "come, now! you don't mean the mother hasn't told him?" "not one word, my lord," replied the lawyer coolly. "that i can assure you. the child is prepared to believe you the most amiable and affectionate of grandparents. and as i carried out your commands in every detail, while in new york, he certainly regards you as a wonder of generosity." "he does, eh?" said the earl. "i give you my word of honour," said mr. havisham, "that lord fauntleroy's impressions of you will depend entirely upon yourself. and if you will pardon the liberty i take in making the suggestion, i think you will succeed better with him if you take the precaution not to speak slightingly of his mother." "pooh, pooh!" said the earl. "the youngster's only seven years old!" "he has spent those seven years at his mother's side," returned mr. havisham; "and she has all his affection." chapter v. at the castle. it was late in the afternoon when the carriage containing little lord fauntleroy and mr. havisham drove up the long avenue which led to the castle. the earl had given orders that his grandson should arrive in time to dine with him, and for some reason best known to himself, he had also ordered that the child should be sent alone into the room in which he intended to receive him. as the carriage rolled up the avenue, lord fauntleroy sat leaning comfortably against the luxurious cushions, and regarded the prospect with great interest. he was, in fact, interested in everything he saw. he had been interested in the carriage, with its large, splendid horses and their glittering harness; he had been interested in the tall coachman and footman, with their resplendent livery; and he had been especially interested in the coronet on the panels, and had struck up an acquaintance with the footman for the purpose of inquiring what it meant. the carriage rolled on and on between the great, beautiful trees which grew on each side of the avenue and stretched their broad swaying branches in an arch across it. cedric had never seen such trees, they were so grand and stately, and their branches grew so low down on their huge trunks. he did not then know that dorincourt castle was one of the most beautiful in all england; that its park was one of the broadest and finest, and its trees and avenue almost without rivals. but he did know that it was all very beautiful. now and then they passed places where tall ferns grew in masses, and again and again the ground was azure with the bluebells swaying in the soft breeze. several times he started up with a laugh of delight as a rabbit leaped up from under the greenery and scudded away with a twinkle of short white tail behind it. once a covey of partridges rose with a sudden whir and flew away, and then he shouted and clapped his hands. "it's a beautiful place, isn't it?" he said to mr. havisham. "i never saw such a beautiful place. it's prettier even than central park." he was rather puzzled by the length of time they were on their way. "how far is it?" he said, at length, "from the gate to the front door?" "it is between three and four miles," answered the lawyer. it was not long after this that they saw the castle. it rose up before them stately and beautiful and grey, the last rays of the sun casting dazzling lights on its many windows. it had turrets and battlements and towers; a great deal of ivy grew upon its walls; all the broad open space about it was laid out in terraces and lawns and beds of brilliant flowers. "it's the most beautiful place i ever saw!" said cedric, his round face flushing with pleasure. "it reminds any one of a king's palace. i saw a picture of one once in a fairy-book." he saw the great entrance-door thrown open and many servants standing in two lines looking at him. he wondered why they were standing there, and admired their liveries very much. he did not know that they were there to do honour to the little boy to whom all this splendour would one day belong. at the head of the line of servants there stood an elderly woman in a rich plain black silk gown; she had grey hair and wore a cap. as he entered the hall she stood nearer than the rest, and the child thought from the look in her eyes that she was going to speak to him. mr. havisham, who held his hand, paused a moment. "this is lord fauntleroy, mrs. mellon," he said. "lord fauntleroy, this is mrs. mellon, who is the housekeeper." cedric gave her his hand, his eyes lighting up. "was it you who sent the cat?" he said. "i'm much obliged to you, ma'am." mrs. mellon's handsome old face looked very much pleased. "the cat left two beautiful kittens here," she said; "they shall be sent up to your lordship's nursery." mr. havisham said a few words to her in a low voice. "in the library, sir," mrs. mellon replied. "his lordship is to be taken there alone." * * * * * a few minutes later, the very tall footman in livery, who had escorted cedric to the library door, opened it and announced: "lord fauntleroy, my lord," in quite a majestic tone. cedric crossed the threshold into the room. it was a very large and splendid room, with massive carven furniture in it, and shelves upon shelves of books; the furniture was so dark, and the draperies so heavy, the diamond-paned windows were so deep, and it seemed such a distance from one end of it to the other, that, since the sun had gone down, the effect of it all was rather gloomy. for a moment cedric thought there was nobody in the room, but soon he saw that by the fire burning on the wide hearth there was a large easy-chair, and that in that chair some one was sitting--some one who did not at first turn to look at him. but he had attracted attention in one quarter at least. on the floor, by the arm-chair, lay a dog, a huge tawny mastiff, with body and limbs almost as big as a lion's; and this great creature rose majestically and slowly, and marched toward the little fellow with a heavy step. then the person in the chair spoke. "dougal," he called, "come back, sir." but there was no fear in little lord fauntleroy's heart. he put his hand on the big dog's collar and they strayed forward together, dougal sniffing as he went. and then the earl looked up. what cedric saw was a large old man with shaggy white hair and eyebrows, and a nose like an eagle's beak between his deep fierce eyes. what the earl saw was a graceful childish figure in a black velvet suit, with a lace collar, and with love-locks waving about the handsome, manly little face, whose eyes met his with a look of innocent good-fellowship. there was a sudden glow of triumph and exultation in the fiery old earl's heart as he saw what a strong beautiful boy this grandson was, and how unhesitatingly he looked up as he stood with his hand on the big dog's neck. cedric came quite close to him. "are you the earl?" he said. "i'm your grandson, you know, that mr. havisham brought. i'm lord fauntleroy." he held out his hand because he thought it must be the polite and proper thing to do even with earls. "i hope you are very well," he continued, with the utmost friendliness. "i'm very glad to see you." the earl shook hands with him, with a curious gleam in his eyes. "glad to see me, are you?" he said. "yes," answered lord fauntleroy, "very." there was a chair near him, and he sat down on it; it was a high-backed, rather tall chair, and his feet did not touch the floor when he had settled himself in it, but he seemed to be quite comfortable as he sat there and regarded his august relative intently and modestly. "any boy would love his grandfather," continued he, "especially one that had been as kind to him as you have been." another queer gleam came into the old nobleman's eyes. "oh!" he said, "i have been kind to you, have i?" "yes," answered lord fauntleroy brightly; "i'm ever so much obliged to you about bridget, and the apple-woman, and dick!" "bridget!" exclaimed the earl. "dick! the apple-woman!" "yes," explained cedric; "the ones you gave me all that money for--the money you told mr. havisham to give me if i wanted it." "ha!" ejaculated his lordship. "that's it, is it? the money you were to spend as you liked. what did you buy with it? i should like to hear something about that." he drew his shaggy eyebrows together and looked at the child sharply. he was secretly curious to know in what way the lad had indulged himself. "oh!" said lord fauntleroy, "perhaps you didn't know about dick, and the apple-woman and bridget. i forgot you lived such a long way off from them. they were particular friends of mine. and you see michael had the fever----" "who's michael?" asked the earl. "michael is bridget's husband, and they were in great trouble. and bridget used to come to our house and cry. and the evening mr. havisham was there, she was in the kitchen crying because they had almost nothing to eat and couldn't pay the rent; and i went in to see her, and mr. havisham sent for me and he said you had given him some money for me. and i ran as fast as i could into the kitchen and gave it to bridget; and that made it all right; and bridget could scarcely believe her eyes. that's why i'm so obliged to you." "oh!" said the earl in his deep voice, "that was one of the things you did for yourself, was it? what else?" "well, there was dick," cedric answered. "you'd like dick, he's so square." this was an americanism the earl was not prepared for. "what does that mean?" he inquired. lord fauntleroy paused a moment to reflect. he was not very sure himself what it meant. "i think it means that he wouldn't cheat any one," he exclaimed; "or hit a boy who was under his size, and that he blacks people's boots very well and makes them shine as much as he can. he's a professional boot-black." "and he's one of your acquaintances, is he?" said the earl. "he's an old friend of mine," replied his grandson. "not quite as old as mr. hobbs, but quite old. he gave me a present just before the ship sailed." he put his hand into his pocket and drew forth a neatly folded red object and opened it with an air of affectionate pride. it was the red silk handkerchief with the large purple horse-shoes and heads on it. "he gave me this," said his young lordship. "i shall keep it always. you can wear it round your neck or keep it in your pocket. it's a keepsake. i put some poetry in mr. hobbs' watch. it was, 'when this you see, remember me.' when this i see, i shall always remember dick." the sensation of the right honourable the earl of dorincourt could scarcely be described. he could not help seeing that the little boy took him for a friend and treated him as one, without having any doubt of him at all. it was quite plain as the little fellow sat there in his tall chair and talked in his friendly way that it had never occurred to him that this large, fierce-looking old man could be anything but kind to him, and rather pleased to see him there. and it was plain, too, that, in his childish way, he wished to please and interest his grandfather. cross, and hard-hearted, and worldly as the old earl was, he could not help feeling a secret and novel pleasure in this very confidence. so the old man leaned back in his chair, and led his young companion on to telling him still more of himself, and with that odd gleam in his eyes watched the little fellow as he talked. lord fauntleroy was quite willing to answer all his questions and chatted on in his genial little way quite composedly. he told him all about dick, and the apple-woman, and mr. hobbs. in the course of the conversation, he reached the fourth of july and the revolution, and was just becoming enthusiastic, when dinner was announced. cedric left his chair and went to his noble kinsman. he looked down at his gouty foot. "would you like me to help you?" he said politely. "you could lean on me, you know. once when mr. hobbs hurt his foot with a potato-barrel rolling on it, he used to lean on me." the earl looked his valiant young relative over from head to foot. "do you think you could do it?" he asked gruffly. "i _think_ i could," said cedric. "i'm strong. i'm seven, you know. you could lean on your stick on one side, and on me on the other." "well," said the earl, "you may try." cedric gave him his stick, and began to assist him to rise. usually the footman did this, and was violently sworn at when his lordship had an extra twinge of gout. but this evening he did not swear, though his gouty foot gave him more twinges than one. he chose to try an experiment. he got up slowly and put his hand on the small shoulder presented to him with so much courage. little lord fauntleroy made a careful step forward, looking down at the gouty foot. "just lean on me," he said, with encouraging good cheer. "i'll walk very slowly." if the earl had been supported by the footman he would have rested less on his stick and more on his assistant's arm. and yet it was part of his experiment to let his grandson feel his burden as no light weight. it was quite a heavy weight indeed, and after a few steps his young lordship's face grew quite hot, and his heart beat rather fast, but he braced himself sturdily. "don't be afraid of leaning on me," he panted. "i'm all right--if--if it isn't a very long way." it was not really very far to the dining-room, but it seemed rather a long way to cedric, before they reached the chair at the head of the table. when the hand was removed from his shoulder, and the earl was fairly seated, cedric took out dick's handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "it's a warm night, isn't it?" he said. "you have been doing some rather hard work," said the earl. "oh, no!" said lord fauntleroy, "it wasn't exactly hard, but i got a little warm. a person will get warm in summer time." and he rubbed his damp curls rather vigorously with the gorgeous handkerchief. his own chair was placed at the other end of the table, opposite his grandfather's. it was a chair with arms, and intended for a much larger individual than himself; indeed, everything he had seen so far--the great rooms, with their high ceilings, the massive furniture, the big footman, the big dog, the earl himself--were all of proportions calculated to make this little lad feel that he was very small indeed. but that did not trouble him. notwithstanding his solitary existence the earl chose to live in considerable state. he was fond of his dinner, and he dined in a formal style. cedric looked at him across a glitter of splendid glass and plate, which to his unaccustomed eyes seemed quite dazzling. a stranger looking on might well have smiled at the picture--the great stately room, the big liveried servants, the bright lights, the glittering silver and glass, the fierce-looking old nobleman at the head of the table and the very small boy at the foot. dinner was usually a very serious matter with the earl--and it was a very serious matter with the cook, if his lordship was not pleased or had an indifferent appetite. to-day, however, his appetite seemed a trifle better than usual, perhaps because his grandson gave him something to think of. he kept looking at him across the table. he did not say very much himself, but he managed to make the boy talk. he had never imagined that he could be entertained by hearing a child talk, but lord fauntleroy at once puzzled and amused him. cedric finished his dinner first, and then he leaned back in his chair and took a survey of the room. "you must be very proud of your house," he said, "it's such a beautiful house. i never saw anything so beautiful; but, of course, as i'm only seven, i haven't seen much." "and you think i must be proud of it, do you?" said the earl. "i should think any one would be proud of it," replied lord fauntleroy. "i should be proud of it, if it were my house. everything about it is beautiful." then he paused an instant and looked across the table rather wistfully. "it's a very big house for just two people to live in, isn't it?" he said. "it is quite large enough for two," answered the earl. "do you find it too large?" his little lordship hesitated a moment. "i was only thinking," he said, "that if two people lived in it who were not very good companions, they might feel lonely sometimes." "do you think i shall make a good companion?" inquired the earl. "yes," replied cedric, "i think you will. mr. hobbs and i were great friends. he was the best friend i had except dearest." the earl made a quick movement of his bushy eyebrows. "who is dearest?" "she is my mother," said lord fauntleroy, in a rather low, quiet little voice. perhaps he was a trifle tired, as his bed-time was nearing, and perhaps the feeling of weariness brought to him a vague sense of loneliness in the remembrance that to-night he was not to sleep at home, watched over by the loving eyes of that "best friend" of his. they had always been "best friends," this boy and his young mother. he could not help thinking of her, and the more he thought of her the less was he inclined to talk, and by the time the dinner was at an end the earl saw that there was a faint shadow on his face. but cedric bore himself with excellent courage, and when they went back to the library, though the tall footman walked on one side of his master, the earl's hand rested on his grandson's shoulder, though not so heavily as before. when the footman left them alone, cedric sat down upon the hearth-rug near dougal. for a few minutes he stroked the dog's ears in silence and looked at the fire. the earl watched him. the boy's eyes looked wistful and thoughtful, and once or twice he gave a little sigh. the earl sat still, and kept his eyes fixed on his grandson. "fauntleroy," he said at last, "what are you thinking of?" fauntleroy looked up with a manful effort at a smile. "i was thinking about dearest," he said; "and--and i think i'd better get up and walk up and down the room." he rose up, and put his hands in his small pockets, and began to walk to and fro. his eyes were very bright, and his lips were pressed together, but he kept his head up and walked firmly. dougal moved lazily and looked at him and then stood up. he walked over to the child, and began to follow him uneasily. fauntleroy drew one hand from his pocket and laid it on the dog's head. "he's a very nice dog," he said. "he's my friend. he knows how i feel." "how do you feel?" asked the earl. "i never was away from my own house before," said the boy, with a troubled look in his brown eyes. "it makes a person feel a strange feeling when he has to stay all night in another person's castle instead of in his own house. but dearest is not very far away from me. she told me to remember that--and--and i'm seven--and i can look at the picture she gave me." he put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a small violet velvet-covered case. "this is it," he said. "you see, you press this spring and it opens, and she is in there!" he had come close to the earl's chair, and, as he drew forth the little case, he leaned against the old man's arm. "there she is," he said, as the case opened; and he looked up with a smile. the earl knitted his brows; he did not wish to see the picture, but he looked at it in spite of himself; and there looked up at him from it such a pretty young face--a face so like the child's at his side--that it quite startled him. "i suppose you think you are very fond of her?" he said. "yes," answered lord fauntleroy, in a gentle tone, and with simple directness; "i do think so, and i think it's true. you see mr. hobbs was my friend, and dick and bridget and michael they were my friends too; but dearest--well she is my _close_ friend, and we always tell each other everything." his young lordship slipped down upon the hearth-rug, and sat there with the picture still in his hand. the earl did not speak again. he leaned back in his chair and watched him. a great many strange new thoughts passed through the old nobleman's mind. dougal had stretched himself out and gone to sleep with his head on his huge paws. there was a long silence. * * * * * in about half an hour's time mr. havisham was ushered in. the great room was very still when he entered. the earl was still leaning back in his chair. he moved as mr. havisham approached, and held up his hand in a gesture of warning--it seemed as if he had scarcely intended to make the gesture--as if it were almost involuntary. dougal was still asleep, and close beside the great dog, sleeping also, with his curly head upon his arm, lay little lord fauntleroy. chapter vi. the earl and his grandson. when lord fauntleroy wakened in the morning--he had not wakened at all when he had been carried to bed the night before,--the first sound he was conscious of were the crackling of a wood fire and the murmur of voices. he moved on his pillow, and turned over, opening his eyes. there were two women in the room. everything was bright and cheerful with gay-flowered chintz. there was a fire on the hearth, and the sunshine was streaming in through the ivy-entwined windows. both women came toward him, and he saw that one of them was mrs. mellon, the housekeeper, and the other a comfortable, middle-aged woman, with a face as kind and good-humoured as a face could be. "good-morning, my lord," said mrs. mellon. "did you sleep well?" his lordship rubbed his eyes and smiled. "good-morning," he said. "i didn't know i was here." "you were carried up-stairs when you were asleep," said the housekeeper. "this is your bedroom, and this is dawson, who is to take care of you." fauntleroy sat up in bed and held out his hand to dawson, as he had held it out to the earl. "how do you do, ma'am?" he said. "i'm much obliged to you for coming to take care of me." "you can call her dawson, my lord," said the housekeeper with a smile. "she is used to being called dawson.--she will do anything you ask her to." "that i will, bless him," said dawson, in her comforting, good-humoured voice. "he shall dress himself, and i'll stand by, ready to help him if he wants me." "thank you," responded lord fauntleroy; "it's a little hard sometimes about the buttons, you know, and then i have to ask somebody." when he went into the adjoining room to take his breakfast and saw what a great room it was, and found there was another adjoining it, which dawson told him was his also, the feeling that he was very small indeed came over him again so strongly that he confided it to dawson, as he sat down to the table on which the pretty breakfast service was arranged. "i am a very little boy," he said rather wistfully, "to live in such a large castle, and have so many big rooms--don't you think so?" "oh, come!" said dawson, "you feel just a little strange at first, that's all; but you'll get over that very soon, and then you'll like it here. it's such a beautiful place, you know." "it's a very beautiful place, of course," said fauntleroy, with a little sigh; "but i should like it better if i didn't miss dearest so. i always had my breakfast with her in the morning, and put the sugar and cream in her tea for her, and handed her the toast. that made it very sociable, of course." "oh, well!" answered dawson, comfortably, "you know you can see her every day, and there's no knowing how much you'll have to tell her. bless you! wait till you've walked about a bit and seen things--the dogs and the stables with all the horses in them. and, dear me, you haven't looked even into the very next room yet!" "what is there?" asked fauntleroy, "wait until you've had your breakfast, and then you shall see," said dawson. at this he naturally began to grow curious, and he applied himself assiduously to his breakfast. "now then," he said, slipping off his seat a few minutes later; "i've had enough. can i go and look at it?" dawson nodded and led the way. when she opened the door of the room, he stood upon the threshold and looked about him in amazement. he did not speak; he only put his hands in his pockets and stood there looking in. the room was a large one too, as all the rooms seemed to be, and it appeared to him more beautiful than the rest, only in a different way. the furniture was not so massive and antique as was that in the rooms he had seen down stairs; the draperies and rugs and walls were brighter; there were shelves full of books, and on the tables were numbers of toys--beautiful, ingenious things--such as he had looked at with wonder and delight through the shop windows in new york. "it looks like a boy's room," he said at last, catching his breath a little. "who do they belong to?" "go and look at them," said dawson. "they belong to you!" "to me!" he cried "to me! why do they belong to me? who gave them to me?" and he sprang forward with a gay little shout. it seemed almost too much to be believed. "it was grandpapa!" he said, with his eyes as bright as stars. "i know it was grandpapa!" "yes, it was his lordship," said dawson. it was a tremendously exciting morning. there were so many things to be examined, so many experiments to be tried; each novelty was so absorbing that he could scarcely turn from it to look at the next. the earl had passed a bad night and had spent the morning in his room; but at noon, after he had lunched, he sent for his grandson. fauntleroy answered the summons at once. he came down the broad staircase with a bounding step; the earl heard him run across the hall, and then the door opened and he came in with red cheeks and sparkling eyes. "i was waiting for you to send for me," he said. "i was ready a long time ago. i'm _ever_ so much obliged to you for all those things! i'm _ever_ so much obliged to you! i have been playing with them all the morning." "oh!" said the earl, "you like them, do you?" "i like them so much--well, i couldn't tell you how much!" said fauntleroy, his face glowing with delight. "there's one that's like base-ball. i tried to teach dawson, but she couldn't quite understand it just at first. but you know all about it, don't you?" "i'm afraid i don't," replied the earl. "it's an american game, isn't it? is it something like cricket?" "i never saw cricket," said fauntleroy; "but mr. hobbs took me several times to see base-ball. it's a splendid game. you get so excited! would you like me to go and get my game and show it to you? perhaps it would amuse you and make you forget about your foot. does your foot hurt you very much this morning?" "more than i enjoy," was the answer. "then perhaps you couldn't forget it," said the little fellow, anxiously. "perhaps it would bother you to be told about the game. do you think it would amuse you, or do you think it would bother you?" "go and get it," said the earl. it certainly was a novel entertainment this--making a companion of a child who offered to teach him to play games, but the very novelty of it amused him. there was a smile lurking about the earl's mouth when cedric came back with the box containing the game in his arms, and an expression of the most eager interest on his face. "may i pull that little table over here to your chair?" he asked. "ring for thomas," said the earl. "he will place it for you." "oh, i can do it myself," answered fauntleroy. "it's not very heavy." "very well," replied his grandfather. the lurking smile deepened on the old man's face as he watched the little fellow's preparations; there was such an absorbed interest in them. the small table was dragged forward and placed by his chair, and the game taken from its box and arranged upon it. "it's very interesting when you once begin," said fauntleroy. "you see, the black pegs can be your side and the white ones mine. they're men, you know, and once round the field is a home run and counts one--and these are the outs--and here is the first base and that's the second and that's the third and that's the home-base." he entered into the details of explanation with the greatest animation. he showed all the attitudes of pitcher and catcher and batter in the real game. when at last the explanations and illustrations were at an end and the game began in good earnest, the earl still found himself entertained. his young companion was wholly absorbed; he played with all his childish heart; his gay little laughs when he made a good throw, his enthusiasm over a "home run," his impartial delight over his own good luck or his opponent's would have given a flavour to any game. if, a week before, any one had told the earl of dorincourt that on that particular morning he would be forgetting his gout and his bad temper in a child's game, with a curly-headed small boy for a companion, he would without doubt have made himself very unpleasant; and yet he certainly had forgotten himself when the door opened and thomas announced a visitor. the visitor in question, who was an elderly gentleman in black, and no less a person than the clergyman of the parish, was so startled by the amazing scene which met his eye, that he almost fell back a pace, and ran some risk of colliding with thomas. there, was, in fact, no part of his duty that the reverend mr. mordaunt found so decidedly unpleasant as that part which compelled him to call upon his noble patron at the castle. his noble patron, indeed, usually made these visits as disagreeable as it lay in his lordly power to make them. he abhorred churches and charities, and flew into violent rages when any of his tenantry took the liberty of being poor and ill and needing assistance. during all the years in which mr. mordaunt had been in charge of dorincourt parish, the rector certainly did not remember having seen his lordship, of his own free will, do any one a kindness, or, under any circumstances whatever, show that he thought of any one but himself. judge then of his amazement when, as thomas opened the library door, his ears were greeted by a delighted ring of childish laughter. the earl glanced around, and when he saw who it was, mr. mordaunt was still more surprised to see that he looked almost as if he had forgotten for the moment how unpleasant he really could make himself when he tried. "ah!" he said in his harsh voice, but giving his hand rather graciously. "good morning, mordaunt. i've found a new employment, you see." he put his other hand on cedric's shoulder--perhaps deep down in his heart there was a stir of gratified pride that it was such an heir he had to present; there was a spark of something like pleasure in his eyes as he moved the boy slightly forward. "this is the new lord fauntleroy," he said. "fauntleroy, this is mr. mordaunt, the rector of the parish." fauntleroy looked up at the gentleman in the clerical garments, and gave him his hand. "i am very glad to make your acquaintance, sir," he said. mr. mordaunt held the small hand in his a moment as he looked down at the child's face, smiling involuntarily, he liked the little fellow from that instant--as in fact people always did like him. "i am delighted to make your acquaintance, lord fauntleroy," said the rector. "you made a long journey to come to us. a great many people will be glad to know you made it safely." "it _was_ a long way," answered fauntleroy; "but dearest, my mother, was with me and i wasn't lonely. of course you are never lonely if your mother is with you; and the ship was beautiful." "take a chair, mordaunt," said the earl. mr. mordaunt sat down. he glanced from fauntleroy to the earl. "your lordship is greatly to be congratulated," he said warmly. but the earl plainly had no intention of showing his feelings on the subject. "he is like his father," he said rather gruffly. "let us hope he'll conduct himself more creditably." and then he added: "well, what is it this morning, mordaunt? who is in trouble now?" this was not as bad as mr. mordaunt had expected, but he hesitated a second before he began. "it is higgins," he said; "higgins of edge farm. he has been very unfortunate. he was ill himself last autumn, and his children had scarlet fever. he is in trouble about his rent now. newick tells him if he doesn't pay it he must leave the place; and of course that would be a very serious matter. his wife is ill, and he came to me yesterday to beg me to see you about it, and ask you for time. he thinks if you would give him time he could catch up again." "they all think that," said the earl, looking rather black. fauntleroy made a movement forward. he had been standing between his grandfather and the visitor, listening with all his might. he had begun to be interested in higgins at once. he wondered how many children there were, and if the scarlet fever had hurt them very much. his eyes were wide open and were fixed upon mr. mordaunt with intense interest as that gentleman went on with the conversation. "higgins is a well-meaning man," said the rector, making an effort to strengthen his plea. "he is a bad enough tenant," replied his lordship. "and he is always behindhand, newick tells me." "he is in great trouble now," said the rector, "he is very fond of his wife and children, and if the farm is taken from him they may literally starve. he cannot give them the nourishing things they need. two of the children were left very low after the fever, and the doctor orders for them wine and luxuries that higgins cannot afford." at this fauntleroy moved a step nearer. "that was the way with michael," he said. the earl slightly started. "i forgot _you_!" he said. "i forgot we had a philanthropist in the room. who was michael?" and the gleam of queer amusement came back into the old man's deep-set eyes. "he was bridget's husband, who had the fever," answered fauntleroy; "and he couldn't pay the rent or buy wine and things. and you gave me that money to help him." the earl drew his brows together into a curious frown, which somehow was scarcely grim at all. he glanced across at mr. mordaunt. "i don't know what sort of a landed proprietor he will make," he said. "i told havisham the boy was to have what he wanted--and what he wanted, it seems, was money to give to beggars." "oh! but they weren't beggars," said fauntleroy eagerly. "michael was a splendid bricklayer! they all worked." "oh!" said the earl, "they were not beggars." he bent his gaze on the boy for a few seconds in silence. "come here," he said, at last. "what would _you_ do in this case?" it must be confessed that mr. mordaunt experienced for the moment a curious sensation. being a man of great thoughtfulness, and having spent so many years on the estate of dorincourt, he realised very strongly what power for good or evil would be given in the future to this one small boy standing there, his brown eyes wide open, his hands deep in his pockets; and the thought came to him also that a great deal of power might, perhaps, through the caprice of a proud, self-indulgent old man be given to him now, and that if his young nature were not a simple and generous one, it might be the worst thing that could happen, not only for others, but for himself. "and what would _you_ do in such a case?" demanded the earl. fauntleroy drew a little nearer, and laid one hand on his knee, with the most confiding air of good comradeship. "if i were very rich," he said "and not only just a little boy, i should let him stay, and give him the things for his children; but then, i am only a boy." then, after a second's pause, in which his face brightened visibly, "_you_ can do anything, can't you?" he said. "humph!" said my lord, staring at him. "that's your opinion, is it?" and he was not displeased either. "i mean you can give any one anything," said fauntleroy. "who's newick?" "he is my agent," answered the earl, "and some of my tenants are not over-fond of him." "are you going to write him a letter now?" inquired fauntleroy. "shall i bring you the pen and ink? i can take the game off this table." it plainly had not for an instant occurred to him that newick would be allowed to do his worst. the earl paused a moment, still looking at him. "can you write?" he asked. "yes," answered cedric, "but not very well." "move the things from the table," commanded my lord, "and bring the pen and ink, and a sheet of paper from my desk." mr. mordaunt's interest began to increase. fauntleroy did as he was told very deftly. in a few moments, the sheet of paper, the big inkstand, and the pen were ready. "there!" he said gaily, "now you can write it." "you are to write it," said the earl. "i!" exclaimed fauntleroy, and a flush overspread bis forehead. "will it do if i write it? i don't always spell quite right when i haven't a dictionary and nobody tells me." "it will do," answered the earl. "higgins will not complain of the spelling. i'm not the philanthropist; you are. dip your pen in the ink." fauntleroy took up the pen and dipped it in the ink-bottle, then he arranged himself in position, leaning on the table. "now," he inquired, "what must i say?" "you may say, 'higgins is not to be interfered with, for the present,' and sign it 'fauntleroy,'" said the earl. fauntleroy dipped his pen in the ink again, and resting his arm, began to write. it was rather a slow and serious process, but he gave his whole soul to it. after a while, however, the manuscript was complete, and he handed it to his grandfather with a smile slightly tinged with anxiety. "do you think it will do?" he asked. the earl looked at it, and the corners of his mouth twitched a little. "yes," he answered; "higgins will find it entirely satisfactory." and he handed it to mr. mordaunt. what mr. mordaunt found written was this:-- "dear mr. newik if you pleas mr. higins is not to be inturfeared with for the present and oblige "yours rispecferly "fauntleroy." "mr. hobbs always signed his letters that way," said fauntleroy; "and i thought i'd better say 'please.' is that exactly the right way to spell 'interfered'?" "it's not exactly the way it is spelled in the dictionary," answered the earl. "i was afraid of that," said fauntleroy. "i ought to have asked. you see, that's the way with words of more than one syllable; you have to look in the dictionary. it's always safest. i'll write it over again." and write it over again he did, making quite an imposing copy, and taking precautions in the matter of spelling by consulting the earl himself. "spelling is a curious thing," he said. "it's so often different from what you expect it to be. i used to think 'please' was spelled p-l-e-e-s, but it isn't, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled d-e-r-e, if you didn't inquire. sometimes it almost discourages you." when mr. mordaunt went away, he took the letter with him, and he took something else with him also--namely, a pleasanter feeling and a more hopeful one than he had ever carried home with him down that avenue on any previous visit he had made at dorincourt castle. when he was gone, fauntleroy, who had accompanied him to the door, went back to his grandfather. "may i go to dearest now?" he said. "i think she will be waiting for me." the earl was silent a moment. "there is something in the stable for you to see first," he said. "ring the bell." "if you please," said fauntleroy, with his quick little flush, "i'm very much obliged; but i think i'd better see it to-morrow. she will be expecting me all the time." "very well," answered the earl. "we will order the carriage." then he added dryly, "it's a pony." fauntleroy drew a long breath. "a pony!" he exclaimed. "whose pony is it?" "yours," replied the earl. "mine?" cried the little fellow. "mine--like the things up stairs?" "yes," said his grandfather. "would you like to see it? shall i order it to be brought round?" fauntleroy's cheeks grew redder and redder. "i never thought i should have a pony!" he said. "i never thought that! how glad dearest will be. you give me _everything_, don't you?" "do you wish to see it?" inquired the earl. fauntleroy drew a long breath. "i _want_ to see it," he said. "i want to see it so much i can hardly wait. but i'm afraid there isn't time." "you _must_ go and see your mother this afternoon?" asked the earl. "you think you can't put it off?" "why," said fauntleroy, "she has been thinking about me all the morning, and i have been thinking about her!" "oh!" said the earl. "you have, have you? ring the bell." as they drove down the avenue, under the arching trees, he was rather silent. but fauntleroy was not. he talked about the pony. what colour was it? how big was it? what was its name? what did it like to eat best? how old was it? how early in the morning might he get up and see it? "dearest will be so glad!" he kept saying. "she will be so much obliged to you for being so kind to me! she knows i always liked ponies so much, but we never thought i should have one." he leaned back against the cushions and regarded the earl with rapt interest for a few minutes and in entire silence. "i think you must be the best person in the world," he burst forth at last. "you are always doing good, aren't you?--and thinking about other people. dearest says that is the best kind of goodness; not to think about yourself, but to think about other people. that is just the way you are, isn't it?" his lordship was so dumfounded to find himself presented in such agreeable colours, that he did not know exactly what to say. fauntleroy went on, still regarding him with admiring eyes--those great, clear, innocent eyes! "you make so many people happy," he said. "there's michael and bridget and their ten children, and the apple-woman, and dick, and mr. hobbs, and mr. higgins and mrs. higgins and their children, and mr. mordaunt--because of course he was glad--and dearest and me, about the pony and all the other things. do you know, i've counted it up on my fingers and in my mind, and it's twenty-seven people you've been kind to. that's a good many--twenty-seven!" "and i was the person who was kind to them--was i?" said the earl. "why, yes, you know," answered fauntleroy. "you made them all happy. do you know," with some delicate hesitation, "that people are sometimes mistaken about earls when they don't know them? mr. hobbs was. i am going to write to him, and tell him about it." "what was mr. hobbs's opinion of earls?" asked his lordship. "well, you see, the difficulty was," replied his young companion, "that he didn't know any, and he'd only read about them in books. he thought--you mustn't mind it--that they were gory tyrants; and he said he wouldn't have them hanging around his store. but if he'd known _you_, i'm sure he would have felt quite different. i shall tell him about you." "what shall you tell him?" "i shall tell him," said fauntleroy, glowing with enthusiasm, "that you are the kindest man i ever heard of. and--and i hope when i grow up, i shall be just like you." "just like me!" repeated his lordship, looking at the little kindling face. "_just_ like you," said fauntleroy, adding modestly, "if i can. perhaps i'm not good enough but i'm going to try." the carriage rolled on down the stately avenue under the beautiful, broad-branched trees, through the spaces of green shade and lanes of golden sunlight. fauntleroy saw again the lovely places where the ferns grew high and the bluebells swayed in the breeze; he saw the deer, standing or lying in the deep grass, turn their large startled eyes as the carriage passed, and caught glimpses of the brown rabbits as they scurried away. he heard the whirr of the partridges and the calls and songs of the birds, and it all seemed even more beautiful to him than before. all his heart was filled with pleasure and happiness in the beauty that was on every side. but the old earl saw and heard very different things, though he was apparently looking out too. he saw a long life, in which there had been neither generous deeds nor kind thoughts; he saw years in which a man who had been young and strong and rich and powerful had used his youth and strength and wealth and power only to please himself and kill time as the days and years succeeded each other; he saw this man, when the time had been killed and old age had come, solitary and without real friends in the midst of all his splendid wealth; he saw people who disliked or feared him, and people who would flatter and cringe to him, but no one who really cared whether he lived or died, unless they had something to gain or lose by it. and the fact was, indeed, that he had never before condescended to reflect upon it at all, and he only did so now because a child had believed him better than he was. fauntleroy thought the earl's foot must be hurting him, his brows knitted themselves together so, as he looked out at the park; and thinking this, the considerate little fellow tried not to disturb him, and enjoyed the trees and the ferns and the deer in silence. but at last, the carriage, having passed the gates and bowled through the green lanes for a short distance, stopped. they had reached court lodge; and fauntleroy was out upon the ground almost before the big footman had time to open the carriage door. the earl wakened from his reverie with a start. "what!" he said. "are we here?" "yes," said fauntleroy. "let me give you your stick. just lean on me when you get out." "i am not going to get out," replied his lordship brusquely. "not--not to see dearest?" exclaimed fauntleroy with astonished face. "'dearest' will excuse me," said the earl dryly. "go to her and tell her that not even a new pony would keep you away." "she will be disappointed," said fauntleroy. "she will want to see you very much." "i am afraid not," was the answer. "the carriage will call for you as we come back.--tell jeffries to drive on, thomas." thomas closed the carriage door: and, after a puzzled look, fauntleroy ran up the drive. the earl had the opportunity--of seeing a pair of handsome, strong little legs flash over the ground with astonishing rapidity. evidently their owner had no intention of losing any time. the carriage rolled slowly away, but his lordship did not at once lean back; he still looked out. through a space in the trees he could see the house door; it was wide open. the little figure dashed up the steps; another figure--a little figure too, slender and young, in its black gown--ran to meet it. it seemed as if they flew together, as fauntleroy leaped into his mother's arms, hanging about her neck and covering her sweet young face with kisses. chapter vii. at church. on the following sunday morning, mr. mordaunt had a large congregation. indeed, he could scarcely remember any sunday on which the church had been so crowded. people appeared upon the scene who seldom did him the honour of coming to hear his sermons. there were even people from hazelton, which was the next parish. there were hearty, sunburned farmers, stout, comfortable, apple-cheeked wives in their best bonnets and most gorgeous shawls, and half a dozen children or so to each family. the doctor's wife was there, with her four daughters. mrs. kimsey and mr. kimsey, who kept the druggist's shop, and made pills, and did up powders for everybody within ten miles, sat in their pew; mrs. dibble in hers, miss smiff, the village dressmaker, and her friend miss perkins, the milliner, sat in theirs; the doctor's young man was present, and the druggist's apprentice; in fact, almost every family on the country side was represented, in one way or another. in the course of the preceding week, many wonderful stories had been told of little lord fauntleroy. the reverend mr. mordaunt had told the story of higgins at his own dinner table, and the servant who had heard it had told it in the kitchen, and from there it had spread like wildfire. and on market-day, when higgins had appeared in town, he had been questioned on every side, and newick had been questioned too, and in response had shown to two or three people the note signed "fauntleroy." and so the farmers' wives had found plenty to talk of over their tea and their shopping, and they had done the subject full justice and made the most of it. and on sunday they had either walked to church or had been driven in their gigs by their husbands, who were perhaps a trifle curious themselves about the new little lord who was to be in time the owner of the soil. it was by no means the earl's habit to attend church, but he chose to appear on this first sunday--it was his whim to present himself in the huge family pew, with fauntleroy at his side. there were many loiterers in the churchyard that morning. there were groups at the gates and in the porch, and there had been much discussion as to whether my lord would really appear or not. when this discussion was at its height, one good woman suddenly uttered an exclamation. "eh!" she said; "that must be the mother, pretty young thing." all who heard turned and looked at the slender figure in black coming up the path. the veil was thrown back from her face and they could see how fair and sweet it was, and how the bright hair curled as softly as a child's under the little widow's cap. she was not thinking of the people about; she was thinking of cedric, and of his visits to her, and his joy over his new pony, on which he had actually ridden to her door the day before, sitting very straight and looking very proud and happy. but soon she could not help being attracted by the fact that she was being looked at and that her arrival had created some sort of sensation. she first noticed it because an old woman in a red cloak made a bobbing curtsy to her, and then another did the same thing and said, "god bless you, my lady!" and one man after another took off his hat as she passed. for a moment she did not understand, and then she realised that it was because she was little lord fauntleroy's mother that they did so, and she flushed rather shyly, and smiled and bowed too and said, "thank you" in a gentle voice to the old woman, who had blessed her. she had scarcely passed through the stone porch into the church before the great event of the day happened. the carriage from the castle, with its handsome horses and tall liveried servants, bowled round the corner and down the green lane. "here they come!" went from one looker-on to another. and then the carriage drew up, and thomas stepped down and opened the door, and a little boy, dressed in black velvet, and with a splendid mop of bright waving hair, jumped out. every man, woman, and child looked curiously upon him. "he's the captain over again!" said those of the on-lookers who remembered his father. "he's the captain's self, to the life!" he stood there in the sunlight looking up at the earl, as thomas helped that nobleman out, with the most affectionate interest that could be imagined. the instant he could help, he put out his hand and offered his shoulder as if he had been seven feet high. it was plain enough to every one that however it might be with other people, the earl of dorincourt struck no terror into the breast of his grandson. "just lean on me," they heard him say. "how glad the people are to see you, and how well they all seem to know you!" "take off your cap, fauntleroy," said the earl. "they are bowing to you." "to me!" cried fauntleroy, whipping off his cap in a moment, baring his bright head to the crowd, and turning shining, puzzled eyes on them as he tried to bow to every one at once. "god bless your lordship!" said the curtsying, red-cloaked old woman who had spoken to his mother; "long life to you!" "thank you, ma'am," said fauntleroy. and then they went into the church, and were looked at there, on their way up the aisle to the square red-cushioned and curtained pew. when fauntleroy was fairly seated he made two discoveries which pleased him: the first was that, across the church where he could look at her, his mother sat and smiled at him; the second, that at one end of the pew against the wall knelt two quaint figures carven in stone, facing each other as they kneeled on either side of a pillar supporting two stone missals, their hands folded as if in prayer, their dress very antique and strange. on the tablet by them was written something of which he could only read the curious words: "here lyethe ye bodye of gregorye arthure fyrst earle of dorincourt allsoe of alisone hildegarde hys wyfe." "may i whisper?" inquired his lordship, devoured by curiosity. "what is it?" said his grandfather. "who are they?" "some of your ancestors," answered the earl, "who lived a few hundred years ago." "perhaps," said lord fauntleroy, regarding them with respect, "perhaps i got my spelling from them." and then he proceeded to find his place in the church service. when the music began, he stood up and looked across at his mother, smiling. he was very fond of music, and his mother and he often sang together, so he joined in with the rest, his pure, sweet, high voice rising as clear as the song of a bird. he quite forgot himself in his pleasure in it. the earl forgot himself a little too, as he sat in his curtain-shielded corner of the pew and watched the boy. his mother, as she looked at him across the church, felt a thrill pass through her heart, and a prayer rose in it too; a prayer that the pure, simple happiness of his childish soul might last, and that the strange, great fortune which had fallen to him might bring no wrong or evil with it. there were many soft anxious thoughts in her tender heart in those new days. "oh, ceddie!" she had said to him the evening before, as she hung over him in saying good-night, before he went away; "oh, ceddie, dear, i wish for your sake i was very clever and could say a great many wise things! but only be good, dear, only be brave, only be kind and true always, and then you will never hurt any one so long as you live, and you may help many, and the big world may be better because my little child was born." and on his return to the castle, fauntleroy had repeated her words to his grandfather. "and i thought about you when she said that," he ended; "and i told her that was the way the world was because you had lived, and i was going to try if i could be like you." "and what did she say to that?" asked his lordship, a trifle uneasily. "she said that was right, and we must always look for good in people and try to be like it." perhaps it was this the old man remembered as he glanced through the divided folds of the red curtain of his pew to where his son's wife sat. as they came out of the church, many of those who had attended the service stood waiting to see them pass. as they neared the gate, a man who stood with his hat in his hand made a step forward and then hesitated. he was a middle-aged farmer, with a careworn face. "well, higgins," said the earl. fauntleroy turned quickly to look at him. "oh!" he exclaimed; "is it mr. higgins?" "yes," answered the earl dryly; "and i suppose he came to take a look at his new landlord." "yes, my lord," said the man, his sunburned face reddening. "mr. newick told me his young lordship was kind enough to speak for me, and i thought i'd like to say a word of thanks, if i might be allowed." perhaps he felt some wonder when he saw what a little fellow it was who had innocently done so much for him, and who stood there looking up just as one of his own less fortunate children might have done--apparently not realising his own importance in the least. "i've a great deal to thank your lordship for," he said; "a great deal. i----" "oh," said fauntleroy; "i only wrote the letter. it was my grandfather who did it. but you know how he is about always being good to everybody. is mrs. higgins well now?" higgins looked a trifle taken aback. he also was somewhat startled at hearing his noble landlord presented in the character of a benevolent being, full of engaging qualities. "i--well, yes, your lordship," he stammered. "i'm glad of that," said fauntleroy. "my grandfather was very sorry about your children having the scarlet fever, and so was i." "you see, higgins," broke in the earl with a fine grim smile; "you people have been mistaken in me. lord fauntleroy understands me. get into the carriage, fauntleroy." and fauntleroy jumped in, and the carriage rolled away down the green lane, and even when it turned the corner into the high road, the earl was still grimly smiling. chapter viii. learning to ride. lord dorincourt had occasion to wear his grim smile many a time as the days passed by. indeed, as his acquaintance with his grandson progressed, he wore the smile so often that there were moments when it almost lost its grimness. there is no denying that before lord fauntleroy had appeared on the scene, the old man had been growing very tired of his loneliness and his gout and his seventy years, but when he saw the lad, fortunately for the little fellow, the secret pride of the grandfather was gratified at the outset. and then when he heard the lad talk, and saw what a well-bred little fellow he was, notwithstanding his boyish ignorance of all that his new position meant, the old earl liked his grandson more, and actually began to find himself rather entertained. it had amused him to give into those childish hands the power to bestow a benefit on poor higgins. then it had gratified him to drive to church with cedric and to see the excitement and interest caused by the arrival. my lord of dorincourt was an arrogant old man, proud of his name, proud of his rank, and therefore proud to show the world that at last the house of dorincourt had an heir who was worthy of the position he was to fill. the morning the new pony had been tried the earl had been so pleased that he had almost forgotten his gout. when the groom had brought out the pretty creature, which arched its brown glossy neck and tossed its fine head in the sun, the earl had sat at the open window of the library and had looked on while fauntleroy took his first riding lesson. he wondered if the boy would show signs of timidity. fauntleroy mounted in great delight. he had never been on a pony before, and he was in the highest spirits. wilkins, the groom, led the animal by the bridle up and down before the library window. after a few minutes fauntleroy spoke to his grandfather--watching him from the window. "can't i go myself?" he asked; "and can't i go faster?" his lordship made a sign to wilkins, who at the signal brought up his own horse and mounted it and took fauntleroy's pony by the leading-rein. "now," said the earl, "let him trot." the next few minutes were rather exciting to the small equestrian. he found that trotting was not so easy as walking, and the faster the pony trotted, the less easy it was. "it j-jolts a g-goo-good deal--do-doesn't it?" he said to wilkins. "d-does it j-jolt y-you?" "no, my lord," answered wilkins. "you'll get used to it in time. rise in your stirrups." "i'm ri-rising all the t-time," said fauntleroy. he was both rising and falling rather uncomfortably and with many shakes and bounces. he was out of breath, but he held on with all his might, and sat as straight as he could. the earl could see that from his window. when the riders came back within speaking distance, after they had been hidden by the trees a few minutes, fauntleroy's hat was off, his cheeks were like poppies, and his lips were set, but he was still trotting manfully. "stop a minute!" said his grandfather. "where's your hat?" wilkins touched his. "it fell off, your lordship," he said, with evident enjoyment. "wouldn't let me stop to pick it up, my lord." "tired?" said the earl to fauntleroy. "want to get off?" "it jolts you more than you think it will," admitted his young lordship frankly. "and it tires you a little too; but i don't want to get off. i want to learn how. as soon as i've got my breath i want to go back for the hat." the cleverest person in the world, if he had undertaken to teach fauntleroy how to please the old man who watched him, could not have taught him anything which would have succeeded better. as the pony trotted off again toward the avenue, a faint colour crept up in the fierce old face, and the eyes, under the shaggy brows, gleamed with a pleasure such as his lordship had scarcely expected to know again. and he sat and watched quite eagerly until the sound of the horses' hoofs returned. when they did come, which was after some time, they came at a faster pace. fauntleroy's hat was still off, wilkins was carrying it for him; his cheeks were redder than before, and his hair was flying about his ears, but he came at quite a brisk canter. "there!" he panted, as they drew up, "i c-cantered." he and wilkins and the pony were close friends after that. scarcely a day passed on which the country people did not see them out together, cantering gaily on the highroad or through the green lanes. the children in the cottages would run to the door to look at the proud little brown pony with the gallant little figure sitting so straight in the saddle, and the young lord would snatch off his cap and swing it at them, and shout, "hallo! good morning!" in a very unlordly manner, though with great heartiness. sometimes he would stop and talk with the children, and once wilkins came back to the castle with a story of how fauntleroy had insisted on dismounting near the village school, so that a boy who was lame and tired might ride home on his pony. "an' i'm blessed," said wilkins, in telling the story at the stables,--"i'm blessed if he'd hear of anything else! he wouldn't let me get down, because he said the boy mightn't feel comfortable on a big horse. an' ses he, 'wilkins,' ses he, 'that boy's lame and i'm not, and i want to talk to him too.' and up the lad has to get, and my lord trudges alongside of him with his hands in his pockets. and when we come to the cottage, an' the boy's mother comes out to see what's up, he whips off his cap an' ses he, 'i've brought your son home, ma'am,' ses he, 'because his leg hurt him, and i don't think that stick is enough for him to lean on; and i'm going to ask my grandfather to have a pair of crutches made for him.'" when the earl heard the story, he was not angry, as wilkins had been half afraid that he would be; on the contrary, he laughed outright, and called fauntleroy up to him, and made him tell all about the matter from beginning to end, and then he laughed again. and actually, a few days later, the dorincourt carriage stopped in the green lane before the cottage where the lame boy lived, and fauntleroy jumped out and walked up to the door, carrying a pair of strong, light, new crutches, and presented them to mrs. hartle (the lame boy's name was hartle) with these words: "my grandfather's compliments, and if you please, these are for your boy, and we hope he will get better." "i said your compliments," he explained to the earl when he returned to the carriage. "you didn't tell me to, but i thought perhaps you forgot. that was right, wasn't it?" and the earl laughed again, and did not say it was not. in fact, the two were becoming more intimate every day, and every day fauntleroy's faith in his lordship's benevolence and virtue increased. he had no doubt whatever that his grandfather was the most amiable and generous of elderly gentlemen. certainly, he himself found his wishes gratified almost before they were uttered; and such gifts and pleasures were lavished upon him, that he was sometimes almost bewildered by his own possessions. perhaps, notwithstanding his sweet nature, he might have been somewhat spoiled by it, if it had not been for the hours he spent with his mother at court lodge. that "best friend" of his watched over him very closely and tenderly. the two had many long talks together, and he never went back to the castle with her kisses on his cheeks without carrying in his heart some simple, pure words worth remembering. there was one thing, it is true, which puzzled the little fellow very much. he thought over the mystery of it much oftener than any one supposed; even his mother did not know how often he pondered on it; the earl for a long time never suspected that he did so at all. but being quick to observe, the little boy could not help wondering why it was that his mother and grandfather never seemed to meet. he had noticed that they never did meet. and yet, every day, fruit and flowers were sent to court lodge from the hot-houses at the castle. but the one virtuous action of the earl's which had set him upon the pinnacle of perfection in cedric's eyes, was what he had done soon after that first sunday when mrs. errol had walked home from church unattended. about a week later, when cedric was going one day to visit his mother, he found at the door, instead of the large carriage and prancing pair, a pretty little brougham and a handsome bay horse. "that is a present from you to your mother," the earl said abruptly. "she cannot go walking about the country. she needs a carriage. the man who drives will take charge of it. it is a present from _you_." fauntleroy's delight could but feebly express itself. he could scarcely contain himself until he reached the lodge. his mother was gathering roses in the garden. he flung himself out of the little brougham and flew to her. "dearest!" he cried, "could you believe it? this is yours! he says it is a present from me. it is your own carriage to drive everywhere in!" he was so happy that she did not know what to say. she could not have borne to spoil his pleasure by refusing to accept the gift, even though it came from the man who chose to consider himself her enemy. she was obliged to step into the carriage, roses and all, and let herself be taken for a drive, while fauntleroy told her stories of his grandfather's goodness and amiability. they were such innocent stories that sometimes she could not help laughing a little, and then she would draw her little boy closer to her side and kiss him, feeling glad that he could see only good in the old man who had so few friends. the very next day after that, fauntleroy wrote to mr. hobbs. he wrote quite a long letter, and after the first copy was written, he brought it to his grandfather to be inspected. "because," he said, "it's so uncertain about the spelling." these were the last lines: "i should like to see you and i wish dearest could live at the castle but i am very happy when i dont miss her too much and i love my granfarther every one does plees write soon "your afechshnet old friend "cedric errol. "do you miss your mother very much?" asked the earl when he had finished reading this. "yes," said fauntleroy, "i miss her all the time. and when i miss her very much, i go and look out of my window to where i see her light shine for me every night through an open place in the trees. it is a long way off, but she puts it in her window as soon as it is dark and i can see it twinkle far away, and i know what it says." "what does it say?" asked my lord. "it says, 'good-night, god keep you all the night!'--just what she used to say when we were together. every night she used to say that to me, and every morning she said, 'god bless you all the day!' so you see i am quite safe all the time----" "quite, i have no doubt," said his lordship dryly. and he drew down his beetling eyebrows and looked at the little boy so fixedly and so long that fauntleroy wondered what he could be thinking of. chapter ix. the poor cottages. the fact was, his lordship the earl of dorincourt thought in those days of many things of which he had never thought before, and all his thoughts were in one way or another connected with his grandson. his pride was the strongest part of his nature, and the boy gratified it at every point. through this pride he began to find a new interest in life. he began to take pleasure in showing his heir to the world. the world had known of his disappointment in his sons; so there was an agreeable touch of triumph in exhibiting this new lord fauntleroy, who could disappoint no one. he made plans for his future. sometimes in this new interest he forgot his gout, and after a while his doctor was surprised to find this noble patient's health growing better than he had expected it ever would be again. perhaps the earl grew better because the time did not pass so slowly for him, and he had something to think of besides his pains and infirmities. one fine morning, people were amazed to see little lord fauntleroy riding his pony with another companion than wilkins. this new companion rode a tall, powerful gray horse, and was no other than the earl himself. and in their rides together through the green lanes and pretty country roads, the two riders became more intimate than ever. and gradually the old man heard a great deal about "dearest" and her life. as fauntleroy trotted by the big horse he chatted gaily. there could not well have been a brighter little comrade, his nature was so happy. the earl often was silent, listening and watching the joyous, glowing face. sometimes he would tell his young companion to set the pony off at a gallop, and when the little fellow dashed off, sitting so straight and fearless, he would watch the boy with a gleam of pride and pleasure in his eyes; and fauntleroy, when, after such a dash, he came back waving his cap with a laughing shout, always felt that he and his grandfather were very good friends indeed. one thing that the earl discovered was that his son's wife did not lead an idle life. it was not long before he learned that the poor people knew her very well indeed. when there was sickness or sorrow or poverty in any house, the little brougham often stood before the door. it had not displeased the earl to find that the mother of his heir had a beautiful young face and looked as much like a lady as if she had been a duchess, and in one way it did not displease him to know that she was popular and beloved by the poor. and yet he was often conscious of a hard, jealous pang when he saw how she filled her child's heart and how the boy clung to her as his best beloved. the old man would have desired to stand first himself and have no rival. he felt it to be almost incredible that he, who had never really loved any one in his life, should find himself growing so fond of this little fellow,--as without doubt he was. at first he had only been pleased and proud of cedric's beauty and bravery, but there was something more than pride in his feeling now. he laughed a grim, dry laugh all to himself sometimes, when he thought how he liked to have the boy near him, how he liked to hear his voice, and how in secret he really wished to be liked and thought well of by his small grandson. it was only about a week after that ride when, after a visit to his mother, fauntleroy came into the library with a troubled, thoughtful face. he sat down in that high-backed chair in which he had sat on the evening of his arrival, and for a while he looked at the embers on the hearth. the earl watched him in silence, wondering what was coming. it was evident that cedric had something on his mind. at last he looked up "does newick know all about the people?" he asked. "it is his business to know about them," said his lordship. "been neglecting it--has he?" contradictory as it may seem, there was nothing which entertained and edified him more than the little fellow's interest in his tenantry. "there is a place," said fauntleroy, looking up at him with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes--"dearest has seen it; it is at the other end of the village. the houses are close together, and almost falling down; you can scarcely breathe: and the people are so poor, and everything is dreadful! the rain comes in at the roof! dearest went to see a poor woman who lived there. the tears ran down her cheeks when she told me about it!" the tears had come into his own eyes, but he smiled through them. "i told her you didn't know, and i would tell you," he said. he jumped down and came and leaned against the earl's chair. "you can make it all right," he said, "just as you made it all right for higgins. you always make it all right for everybody. i told her you would, and that newick must have forgotten to tell you." the earl looked down at the hand on his knee. newick had not forgotten to tell him; in fact, newick had spoken to him more than once of the desperate condition of the end of the village known as earl's court. mr. mordaunt had painted it all to him in the strongest words he could use, and his lordship had used violent language in response; and, when his gout had been at the worst, he had said that the sooner the people of earl's court died and were buried by the parish the better it would be--and there was an end of the matter. and yet, as he looked at the small hand on his knee, and from the small hand to the honest, earnest, frank-eyed face, he was actually ashamed both of earl's court and of himself. "what!" he said; "you want to make a builder of model cottages of me, do you?" and he positively put his own hand upon the childish one and stroked it. "those must be pulled down," said fauntleroy, with great eagerness. "dearest says so. let us--let us go and have them pulled down to-morrow. the people will be so glad when they see you! they'll know you have come to help them!" and his eyes shone like stars in his glowing face. the earl rose from his chair and put his hand on the child's shoulder. "let us go out and take our walk on the terrace," he said, with a short laugh; "and we can talk it over." and though he laughed two or three times again, as they walked to and fro on the broad stone terrace, where they walked together almost every fine evening, he seemed to be thinking of something which did not displease him, and still he kept his hand on his small companion's shoulder. chapter x. the earl alarmed. the truth was that mrs. errol had found a great many sad things in the course of her work among the poor of the little village that appeared so picturesque when it was seen from the moor-sides. everything was not as picturesque when seen near by, as it looked from a distance. she had found idleness and poverty and ignorance where there should have been comfort and industry. and she had discovered, after a while, that erlesboro was considered to be the worst village in that part of the country. as to earl's court, it was a disgrace, with its dilapidated houses and miserable, careless, sickly people. when first mrs. errol went to the place, it made her shudder. and a bold thought came into her wise little mother-heart. gradually she had begun to see, as had others, that it had been her boy's good fortune to please the earl very much, and that he would scarcely be likely to be denied anything for which he expressed a desire. "the earl would give him anything," she said to mr. mordaunt. "he would indulge his every whim. why should not that indulgence be used for the good of others? it is for me to see that this shall come to pass." she knew she could trust the kind, childish heart; so she told the little fellow the story of earl's court, feeling sure that he would speak of it to his grandfather, and hoping that some good results would follow. and strange as it appeared to every one, good results did follow. the fact was that the strongest power to influence the earl was his grandson's perfect confidence in him--the fact that cedric always believed that his grandfather was going to do what was right and generous. he could not quite make up his mind to let him discover that he had no inclination to be generous at all, and so after some reflection, he sent for newick, and had quite a long interview with him on the subject of the court, and it was decided that the wretched hovels should be pulled down and new houses should be built. "it is lord fauntleroy who insists on it," he said dryly; "he thinks it will improve the property. you can tell the tenants that it's his idea." of course, both the country people and the town people heard of the proposed improvement. at first, many of them would not believe it; but when a small army of workmen arrived and commenced pulling down the crazy, squalid cottages, people began to understand that little lord fauntleroy had done them a good turn again, and that through his innocent interference the scandal of earl's court had at last been removed. when the cottages were being built, the lad and his grandfather used to ride over to earl's court together to look at them, and fauntleroy was full of interest. he would dismount from his pony and go and make acquaintance with the workmen, asking them questions about building and bricklaying and telling them things about america. when he left them, the workmen used to talk him over among themselves, and laugh at his odd, innocent speeches; but they liked him, and liked to see him stand among them, talking away, with his hands in his pockets, his hat pushed back on his curls, and his small face full of eagerness. and they would go home and tell their wives about him, and the women would tell each other, and so it came about that almost every one talked of, or knew some story of, little lord fauntleroy; and gradually almost every one knew that the "wicked earl" had found something he cared for at last--something which had touched and even warmed his hard, bitter old heart. but no one knew quite how much it had been warmed, and how day by day the old man found himself caring more and more for the child, who was the only creature that had ever trusted him. he never spoke to any one else of his feeling for cedric; when he spoke of him to others it was always with the same grim smile. but fauntleroy soon knew that his grandfather loved him and always liked him to be near--near to his chair if they were in the library, opposite to him at table, or by his side when he rode or drove or took his evening walk on the broad terrace. "do you remember," cedric said once looking up from his book as he lay on the rug, "do you remember what i said to you that first night about our being good companions? i don't think any people could be better friends than we are, do you?" "we are pretty good companions, i should say," replied his lordship. "come here." fauntleroy scrambled up and went to him. "is there anything you want," the earl asked; "anything you have not?" the little fellow's brown eyes fixed themselves on his grandfather with a rather wistful look. "only one thing," he answered. "what is that?" inquired the earl. fauntleroy was silent a second. he had not thought matters over to himself so long for nothing. "what is it?" my lord repeated. fauntleroy answered. "it is dearest," he said. the old earl winced a little. "but you see her almost every day," he said. "is not that enough?" "i used to see her all the time," said fauntleroy. "she used to kiss me when i went to sleep at night, and in the morning she was always there, and we could tell each other things without waiting." the old eyes and the young ones looked into each other through a moment of silence. then the earl knitted his brows. "do you _never_ forget about your mother?" he said. "no," answered fauntleroy, "never; and she never forgets about me. i shouldn't forget about _you_, you know, if i didn't live with you. i should think about you all the more." "upon my word," said the earl, after looking at him a moment longer, "i believe you would!" the jealous pang that came when the boy spoke so of his mother seemed even stronger than it had been before--it was stronger because of this old man's increasing affection for the boy. but it was not long before he had other pangs, so much harder to face that he almost forgot, for the time, he had ever hated his son's wife at all. and in a strange and startling way it happened. one evening, just before the earl's court cottages were completed, there was a grand dinner party at dorincourt. there had not been such a party at the castle for a long time. a few days before it took place, sir harry lorridaile and lady lorridaile, who was the earl's only sister, actually came for a visit--a thing which caused the greatest excitement in the village and set mrs. dibble's shop-bell tinkling madly again, because it was well known that lady lorridaile had only been to dorincourt once since her marriage, thirty-five years before. she was a handsome old lady with white curls and dimpled, peachy cheeks, and she was as good as gold, but she had never approved of her brother any more than did the rest of the world, and having a strong will of her own and not being at all afraid to speak her mind frankly, she had, after several lively quarrels with his lordship, seen very little of him since her young days. not only the poor people and farmers heard about little lord fauntleroy; others knew of him. he was talked about so much and there were so many stories of him--of his beauty, his sweet temper, his popularity, and his growing influence over the earl his grandfather--that rumours of him reached the gentry at their country places and he was heard of in more than one county of england. and so by degrees lady lorridaile, too, heard of the child; she heard about higgins, and the lame boy, and the cottages at earl's court, and a score of other things,--and she began to wish to see the little fellow. and just as she was wondering how it might be brought about, to her utter astonishment, she received a letter from her brother inviting her to come with her husband to dorincourt. "it seems incredible!" she exclaimed. "i have heard it said that the child has worked miracles, and i begin to believe it. they say my brother adores the boy and can scarcely endure to have him out of sight. and he is so proud of him! actually, i believe he wants to show him to us." and she accepted the invitation at once. when she reached dorincourt castle with sir harry, it was late in the afternoon, and she went to her room at once before seeing her brother. having dressed for dinner she entered the drawing-room. the earl was there standing near the fire and looking very tall and imposing; and at his side stood a little boy in black velvet, and a large vandyke collar of rich lace--a little fellow whose round bright face was so handsome, and who turned upon her such beautiful, candid brown eyes, that she almost uttered an exclamation of pleasure and surprise at the sight. as she shook hands with the earl, she called him by the name she had not used since her girl-hood. "what, molyneux," she said, "is this the child?" "yes, constantia," answered the earl, "this is the boy. fauntleroy, this is your grand-aunt, lady lorridaile." "how do you do, grand-aunt?" said fauntleroy. lady lorridaile put her hand on his shoulder, and after looking down into his upraised face a few seconds, kissed him warmly. "i am your aunt constantia," she said, "and i loved your poor papa, and you are very like him." "it makes me glad when i am told i am like him," answered fauntleroy, "because it seems as if every one liked him,--just like dearest, eszackly,--aunt constantia," (adding the two words after a second's pause). lady lorridaile was delighted. she bent and kissed him again, and from that moment they were warm friends. "well, molyneux," she said aside to the earl afterwards, "it could not possibly be better than this!" "i think not," answered his lordship dryly. "he is a fine little fellow. we are great friends. he believes me to be the most charming and sweet-tempered of philanthropists. i will confess to you, constantia,--as you would find it out if i did not,--that i am in some slight danger of becoming rather an old fool about him." "what does his mother think of you?" asked lady lorridaile, with her usual straightforwardness. "i have not asked her," answered the earl, slightly scowling. "well," said lady lorridaile, "i will be frank with you at the outset, molyneux, and tell you i don't approve of your course, and that it is my intention to call on mrs. errol as soon as possible; so if you wish to quarrel with me, you had better mention it at once. what i hear of the young creature makes me quite sure that her child owes her everything. we were told even at lorridaile park that your poorer tenants adore her already." "they adore _him_," said the earl, nodding towards fauntleroy. "as to mrs. errol, you'll find her a pretty little woman. i'm rather in debt to her for giving some of her beauty to the boy, and you can go to see her if you like. all i ask is that she will remain at court lodge and that you will not ask me to go and see her," and he scowled a little again. "but he doesn't hate her as much as he used to, that is plain enough to me," her ladyship said to sir harry afterwards. "and he is a changed man in a measure, and, incredible as it may seem, harry, it is my opinion that he is being made into a human being, through nothing more or less than his affection for that innocent, affectionate little fellow." the very next day she went to call upon mrs. errol. when she returned, she said to her brother: "molyneux, she is the loveliest little woman i ever saw! she has a voice like a silver bell, and you may thank her for making the boy what he is. she has given him more than her beauty, and you make a great mistake in not persuading her to come and take charge of you. i shall invite her to lorridaile." "she'll not leave the boy," replied the earl. "i must have the boy too," said lady lorridaile, laughing. but she knew fauntleroy would not be given up to her, and each day she saw more clearly how closely those two had grown to each other, and how all the proud, grim old man's ambition and hope and love centred themselves in the child, and how the warm, innocent nature returned his affection with most perfect trust and good faith. she knew, too, that the prime reason for the great dinner party was the earl's secret desire to show the world his grandson and heir. perhaps there was not one person who accepted the invitation without feeling some curiosity about little lord fauntleroy, and wondering if he would be on view. and when the time came he was on view. "the lad has good manners," said the earl. "he will be in no one's way. he can actually answer when he's spoken to, and be silent when he is not." but he was not allowed to be silent very long. every one had something to say to him. the fact was they wished to make him talk. the ladies petted him and asked him questions, and the men asked him questions too, and joked with him, as the men on the steamer had done when he crossed the atlantic. but though he was talked to so much, as the earl had said, he was in no one's way. he could be quiet and listen when others talked, and so no one found him tiresome. mr. havisham had been expected to arrive in the afternoon, but, strange to say, he was late. such a thing had really never been known to happen before during all the years in which he had been a visitor at dorincourt castle. he was so late that the guests were on the point of rising to go in to dinner when he arrived. when he approached his host, the earl regarded him with amazement. he looked as if he had been hurried or agitated; his dry, keen old face was actually pale. "i was detained," he said, in a low voice to the earl, "by--an extraordinary event." it was as unlike the methodic old lawyer to be agitated by anything as it was to be late, but it was evident that he had been disturbed. at dinner he ate scarcely anything, and two or three times, when he was spoken to, he started as if his thoughts were far away. at dessert, when fauntleroy came in, he looked at him more than once, nervously and uneasily. fauntleroy noted the look and wondered at it. he and mr. havisham were on friendly terms, and they usually exchanged smiles. the lawyer seemed to have forgotten to smile that evening. he did not exactly know how the long, superb dinner ended. he sat through it as if he were in a dream, and several times he saw the earl glance at him in surprise. but it was over at last, and the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room. they found fauntleroy sitting on a sofa with miss vivian herbert,--the great beauty of the last london season; they had been looking at some pictures, and he was thanking his companion, as the door opened. "i'm ever so much obliged to you for being so kind to me!" he was saying; "i never was at a party before, and i've enjoyed myself so much!" he had enjoyed himself so much that his eyelids began to droop. he was quite sure he was not going to sleep, but there was a large, yellow satin cushion behind him and his head sank against it, and after a while his eyelids drooped for the last time. * * * * * no sooner had the last guest left the room, than mr. havisham turned from his place by the fire, and stepped nearer the sofa, where he stood looking down at the sleeping occupant. "well, havisham," said the earl's harsh voice behind him. "what is it? it is evident something has happened. what was the extraordinary event, if i may ask?" mr. havisham turned from the sofa, still rubbing his chin. "it was bad news," he answered, "distressing news, my lord--the worst of news. i am sorry to be the bearer of it." the earl had been uneasy for some time during the evening, as he glanced at mr. havisham, and when he was uneasy he was always ill-tempered. "why do you look so at the boy!" he exclaimed irritably. "you have been looking at him all the evening as if--. what has your news to do with lord fauntleroy?" "my lord," said mr. havisham, "i will waste no words. my news has everything to do with lord fauntleroy. and if we are to believe it--it is not lord fauntleroy who lies sleeping before us, but only the son of captain errol. and the present lord fauntleroy is the son of your son bevis, and is at this moment in a lodging-house in london." the earl clutched the arms of his chair with both his hands until the veins stood out upon them; the veins stood out on his forehead too; his fierce old face was almost livid. "what do you mean!" he cried out. "you are mad! whose lie is this?" "if it is a lie," answered mr. havisham, "it is painfully like the truth. a woman came to my chambers this morning. she said your son bevis married her six years ago in london. she showed me her marriage certificate. they quarrelled a year after the marriage, and he paid her to keep away from him. she has a son five years old. she is an american of the lower classes,--an ignorant person,--and until lately she did not fully understand what her son could claim. she consulted a lawyer, and found out that the boy was really lord fauntleroy and the heir to the earldom of dorincourt; and she, of course, insists on his claims being acknowledged." the handsome, grim old face was ghastly. a bitter smile fixed itself upon it. "i should refuse to believe a word of it," he said, "if it were not such a low, scoundrelly piece of business that it becomes quite possible in connection with the name of my son bevis. it is quite like bevis. he was always a disgrace to us. the woman is an ignorant, vulgar person, you say?" "i am obliged to admit that she can scarcely spell her own name," answered the lawyer. "she cares for nothing but the money. she is very handsome in a coarse way, but----" the fastidious old lawyer ceased speaking and gave a sort of shudder. the veins on the old earl's forehead stood out like purple cords. something else stood out upon it too--cold drops of moisture. he took out his handkerchief and swept them away. his smile grew even more bitter. "and i," he said, "i objected to--to the other woman, the mother of this child" (pointing to the sleeping form on the sofa); "i refused to recognize her. and yet she could spell her own name. i suppose this is retribution." suddenly he sprang up from his chair and began to walk up and down the room. fierce and terrible words poured forth from his lips. his rage and hatred and cruel disappointment shook him as a storm shakes a tree. "i might have known it," he said. "they were a disgrace to me from their first hour! i hated them both; and they hated me! bevis was the worse of the two. i will not believe this yet though! i will contend against it to the last. but it is like bevis--it is like him!" and then he raged again and asked questions about the woman, about her proofs, and pacing the room, turned first white and then purple in his repressed fury. when at last he had learned all that was to be told, and knew the worst, mr. havisham looked at him with a feeling of anxiety. he looked broken and haggard and changed. his rages had always been bad for him, but this one had been worse than the rest because there had been something more than rage in it. he came slowly back to the sofa, at last, and stood near it. "if any one had told me i could be fond of a child," he said, his harsh voice low and unsteady, "i should not have believed them. i always detested children--my own more than the rest. i am fond of this one; he is fond of me" (with a bitter smile). "i am not popular; i never was. but he is fond of me. he never was afraid of me--he always trusted me. he would have filled my place better than i have filled it. i know that. he would have been an honour to the name." he bent down and stood a minute or so looking at the happy, sleeping face. he put up his hand, pushed the bright hair back from the forehead, and then turned away and rang the bell. when the footman appeared, he pointed to the sofa. "take"--he said, and then his voice changed a little--"take lord fauntleroy to his room." chapter xi. anxiety in america. when mr. hobbs's young friend left him to go to dorincourt castle and become lord fauntleroy, and the grocery-man had time to realise that the atlantic ocean lay between himself and the small companion who had spent so many agreeable hours in his society, he began to feel very lonely indeed. at first it seemed to mr. hobbs that cedric was not really far away, and would come back again; that some day he would look up from his paper and see the lad standing in the doorway, in his white suit and red stockings, and with his straw hat on the back of his head, and would hear him say in his cheerful little voice: "hello, mr. hobbs! this is a hot day--isn't it?" but as the days passed on and this did not happen, mr. hobbs felt very dull and uneasy. he did not even enjoy his newspaper as much as he used to. he would take out his gold watch and open it and stare at the inscription; "from his oldest friend, lord fauntleroy, to mr. hobbs. when this you see, remember me." at night, when the store was closed, he would light his pipe and walk slowly along until he reached the house where cedric had lived, on which there was a sign that read, "this house to let"; and he would stop near it and look up and shake his head, and puff at his pipe very hard, and after a while walk mournfully back again. this went on for two or three weeks before a new idea came to him. he would go to see dick. he smoked a great many pipes before he arrived at the conclusion, but finally he did arrive at it. he would go to see dick. he knew all about dick. cedric had told him, and his idea was that perhaps dick might be some comfort to him in the way of talking things over. so one day when dick was very hard at work blacking a customer's boots, a short, stout man with a heavy face and a bald head, stared for two or three minutes at the bootblack's sign, which read: "professor dick tipton can't be beat." he stared at it so long that dick began to take a lively interest in him, and when he had put the finishing touch to his customer's boots, he said: "want a shine, sir?" the stout man came forward deliberately and put his foot on the rest. "yes," he said. then when dick fell to work, the stout man looked from dick to the sign and from the sign to dick. "where did you get that?" he asked. "from a friend o' mine," said dick,--"a little feller. he was the best little feller ye ever saw. he's in england now. gone to be one o' those lords." "lord--lord--" asked mr. hobbs, with ponderous slowness, "lord fauntleroy--goin' to be earl of dorincourt!" dick almost dropped his brush. "why, boss!" he exclaimed, "d'ye know him yerself?" "i've known him," answered mr. hobbs, wiping his warm forehead, "ever since he was born. we were lifetime acquaintances--that's what _we_ were." it really made him feel quite agitated to speak of it. he pulled the splendid gold watch out of his pocket and opened it, and showed the inside of the case to dick. "'when this you see, remember me,'" he read. "that was his parting keepsake to me. i'd ha' remembered him," he went on, shaking his head, "if he hadn't given me a thing. he was a companion as _any_ man would remember." it proved that they had so much to say to each other that it was not possible to say it all at one time, and so it was agreed that the next night dick should make a visit to the store and keep mr. hobbs company. this was the beginning of quite a substantial friendship. when dick went up to the store, mr. hobbs received him with great hospitality. he gave him a chair tilted against the door, near a barrel of apples, and after his young visitor was seated, he made a jerk at them with the hand in which he held his pipe, saying: "help yerself." then they read, and discussed the british aristocracy; and mr. hobbs smoked his pipe very hard and shook his head a great deal. he seemed to derive a great deal of comfort from dick's visit. before dick went home, they had a supper in the small back room; they had biscuits and cheese and sardines, and other things out of the store, and mr. hobbs solemnly opened two bottles of ginger ale, and pouring out two glasses, proposed a toast. "here's to _him_!" he said, lifting his glass, "an' may he teach 'em a lesson--earls an' markises an' dooks an' all!" after that night, the two saw each other often, and mr. hobbs was much more comfortable and less desolate. they read the _penny story gazette_, and many other interesting things, and gained a knowledge of the habits of the nobility and gentry which would have surprised those despised classes if they had realised it. one day mr. hobbs made a pilgrimage to a book-store down town, for the express purpose of adding to their library. he went to a clerk and leaned over the counter to speak to him. "i want," he said, "a book about earls." "what!" exclaimed the clerk. "a book," repeated the grocery-man, "about earls." "i'm afraid," said the clerk, looking rather queer, "that we haven't what you want." "haven't?" said mr. hobbs, anxiously. "well, say markises then--or dooks." "i know of no such book," answered the clerk. mr. hobbs was much disturbed. he looked down on the floor,--then he looked up. "none about female earls?" he inquired. "i'm afraid not," said the clerk, with a smile. "well," exclaimed mr. hobbs, "i'll be jiggered!" he was just going out of the store, when the clerk called him back and asked him if a story in which the nobility were chief characters would do. mr. hobbs said it would--if he could not get an entire volume devoted to earls. so the clerk sold him a book called _the tower of london_, written by mr. harrison ainsworth, and he carried it home. when dick came they began to read it. it was a very wonderful and exciting book, and the scene was laid in the reign of the famous english queen who is called by some people bloody mary. and as mr. hobbs heard of queen mary's deeds and the habit she had of chopping people's heads off, putting them to the torture, and burning them alive, he became very much excited. he took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at dick. "why, he ain't safe!" he said. "he ain't safe! if the women folks can sit up on their thrones an' give the word for things like that to be done, who's to know what's happening to him this very minute?" "well," said dick, though he looked rather anxious himself; "ye see this 'ere un isn't the one that's bossin' things now. i know her name's victory, an' this un here in the book,--her name's mary." "so it is," said mr. hobbs, still mopping his forehead; "so it is,--but still it doesn't seem as if 'twas safe for him over there with those queer folks. why, they tell me they don't keep the fourth o' july!" he was privately uneasy for several days; and it was not until he received fauntleroy's letter and had read it several times, both to himself and to dick, and had also read the letter dick got about the same time, that he became composed again. but they both found great pleasure in their letters. they read and re-read them, and talked them over and enjoyed every word of them. and they spent days over the answers they sent, and read them over almost as often as the letters they had received. one day they were sitting in the store doorway together, and mr. hobbs was filling his pipe, whilst dick told him all about his life and his elder brother, who had been very good to him after their parents had died. the brother's name was ben, and he had managed to get quite a decent place in a store. "and then," said dick, "blest if he didn't go an' marry a gal, a regular tiger-cat. she'd tear things to pieces, when she got mad. had a baby just like her; 'n' at last ben went out west with a man to set up a cattle ranch." "he oughtn't to 've married," mr. hobbs said solemnly, as he rose to get a match. as he took the match from its box, he stopped and looked down on the counter. "why!" he said, "if here isn't a letter! i didn't see it afore. the postman must have laid it down when i wasn't noticin', or the newspaper slipped over it." he picked it up and looked at it carefully. "it's from _him_!" he exclaimed. "that's the very one it's from!" he forgot his pipe altogether. he went back to his chair quite excited, and took his pocket-knife and opened the envelope. "i wonder what news there is this time," he said. and then he unfolded the letter and read as follows: "dorincourt castle. "my dear mr. hobbs. "i write this in a great hury becaus i have something curous to tell you i know you will be very mutch suprised my dear frend when i tel you. it is all a mistake and i am not a lord and i shall not have to be an earl there is a lady whitch was marid to my uncle bevis who is dead and she has a little boy and he is lord fauntleroy becaus that is the way it is in england and my name is cedric errol like it was when i was in new york and all the things will belong to the other boy i thought at first i should have to give him my pony and cart but my grandfarther says i need not my grandfarther is very sorry i am not rich now becaus when your papa is only the youngest son he is not very rich i am going to learn to work so that i can take care of dearest i have been asking wilkins about grooming horses preaps i might be a groom or a coachman. i thort i would tell you and dick right away becaus you would be intrusted so no more at present with love from "your old frend "cedric errol (not lord fauntleroy)." mr. hobbs fell back in his chair, the letter dropped on his knee, his penknife slipped to the floor, and so did the envelope. "well!" he ejaculated, "i am jiggered!" he was so dumfounded that he actually changed his exclamation. it had always been his habit to say, "i _will_ be jiggered," but this time he said, "i _am_ jiggered." perhaps he really _was_ jiggered. there is no knowing. "well," said mr. hobbs. "it's my opinion it's all a put-up job o' the british 'ristycrats to rob him of his rights because he's an american. they're trying to rob him! that's what they're doing, and folks that have money ought to look after him." and he kept dick with him until quite a late hour to talk it over, and when that young man left he went with him to the corner of the street; and on his way back he stopped opposite the empty house for some time, staring at the "to let," and smoking his pipe in much disturbance of mind. chapter xii. the rival claimants. a very few days after the dinner-party at the castle, almost everybody in england who read the newspaper at all knew the romantic story of what had happened at dorincourt. it made a very interesting story when it was told with all the details. there was the little american boy who had been brought to england to be lord fauntleroy, and who was said to be so fine and handsome a little fellow, and to have already made people fond of him; there was the old earl, his grandfather, who was so proud of his heir; there was the pretty young mother who had never been forgiven for marrying captain errol; and there was the strange marriage of bevis the dead lord fauntleroy, and the strange wife, of whom no one knew anything, suddenly appearing with her son, and saying that he was the real lord fauntleroy and must have his rights. all these things were talked about and written about, and caused a tremendous sensation. and then there came the rumour that the earl of dorincourt was not satisfied with the turn affairs had taken, and would perhaps contest the claim by law, and the matter might end with a wonderful trial. there never had been such excitement before in the county in which erlesboro was situated. on market-days, people stood in groups and talked and wondered what would be done; the farmers' wives invited one another to tea that they might tell one another all they had heard and all they thought and all they thought other people thought. in fact there was excitement everywhere; at the castle, in the library, where the earl and mr. havisham sat and talked; in the servants' hall, where mr. thomas and the butler and the other men and women servants gossiped and exclaimed at all times of the day; and in the stables, where wilkins went about his work in a quite depressed state of mind. but in the midst of all the disturbance there was one person who was quite calm and untroubled. that person was the little lord fauntleroy who was said not to be lord fauntleroy at all. when first the earl told him what had happened, he had sat on a stool holding on to his knee, as he so often did when he was listening to anything interesting; and by the time the story was finished, he looked quite sober. "it makes me feel very queer," he said; "it makes me--queer!" the earl looked at the boy in silence. it made him feel queer too--queerer than he had ever felt in his whole life. and he felt more queer still when he saw that there was a troubled expression on the small face which was usually so happy. "will they take dearest's house away from her--and her carriage?" cedric asked in a rather unsteady, anxious little voice. "_no!_" said the earl decidedly--in quite a loud voice in fact. "they can take nothing from her." "ah!" said cedric with evident relief. "can't they?" then he looked up at his grandfather, and there was a wistful shade in his eyes, and they looked very big and soft. "that other boy," he said rather tremulously--"he will have to--to be your boy now--as i was--won't he?" "_no!_" answered the earl--and he said it so fiercely and loudly that cedric quite jumped. "no?" he exclaimed, in wonderment. "won't he? i thought----" he stood up from his stool quite suddenly. "shall i be your boy, even if i'm not going to be an earl?" he said. "shall i be your boy, just as i was before?" and his flushed little face was all alight with eagerness. how the old earl did look at him from head to foot, to be sure! how his great shaggy brows did draw themselves together, and how queerly his deep eyes shone under them--how very queerly! "my boy!" he said "yes, you'll be my boy as long as i live; and, by george, sometimes i feel as if you were the only boy i had ever had." cedric's face turned red to the roots of his hair; it turned red with relief and pleasure. he put both his hands deep into his pockets and looked squarely into his noble relative's eyes. "do you?" he said. "well, then, i don't care about the earl part at all. i don't care whether i'm an earl or not. i thought--you see, i thought the one that was going to be the earl would have to be your boy too, and--and i couldn't be. that was what made me feel so queer." the earl put his hand on his shoulder and drew him nearer. "they shall take nothing from you that i can hold for you," he said, drawing his breath hard. "i won't believe yet that they can take anything from you. you were made for the place, and--well, you may fill it still. but whatever comes, you shall have all that i can give you--all!" it scarcely seemed as if he were speaking to a child, there was such determination in his face and voice; it was more as if he were making a promise to himself--and perhaps he was. he had never before known how deep a hold upon him his fondness for the boy and his pride in him had taken. he had never seen his strength and good qualities and beauty as he seemed to see them now. to his obstinate nature it seemed impossible--to give up what he had so set his heart upon. and he had determined that he would not give it up without a fierce struggle. within a few days after she had seen mr. havisham, the woman who claimed to be lady fauntleroy presented herself at the castle, and brought her child with her. she was sent away. the earl would not see her, she was told by the footman at the door; his lawyer would attend to her cause. mr. havisham had noticed, during his interviews with her, that she was neither so clever nor so bold as she meant to be. it was as if she had not expected to meet with such opposition. "she is evidently," the lawyer said to mrs. errol, "a person from the lower walks of life. she is uneducated and quite unused to meeting people like ourselves on any terms of equality. she does not know what to do. her visit to the castle quite cowed her. she was infuriated, but she was cowed. the earl would not receive her, but i advised him to go with me to the dorincourt arms, where she is staying. when she saw him enter the room, she turned white, though she flew into a rage at once, and threatened and demanded in one breath." the fact was that the earl had stalked into the room and stood, looking like a venerable aristocratic giant, staring at the woman and not condescending a word. he let her talk and demand until she was tired, without himself uttering a word, and then he said: "you say you are my eldest son's wife. if that is true, and if the proof you offer is too much for us, the law is on your side. in that case, your boy is lord fauntleroy. if your claims are proved, you will be provided for. i want to see nothing either of you or the child so long as i live." and then he turned his back upon her and stalked out of the room as he had stalked into it. not many days after that, a visitor was announced to mrs. errol, who was writing in her little morning room. the maid who brought the message looked rather excited. "it's the earl hisself, ma'am!" she said in tremulous awe. when mrs. errol entered the drawing-room, a very tall, majestic-looking old man was standing on the tiger-skin rug. he had a handsome, grim old face, with an aquiline profile, a long white moustache, and an obstinate look. "mrs. errol, i believe?" he said. "mrs. errol," she answered. "i am the earl of dorincourt," he said. he paused a moment, almost unconsciously, to look into her uplifted eyes. they were so like the big, affectionate, childish eyes he had seen uplifted to his own so often every day during the last few months, that they gave him a quite curious sensation. "the boy is very like you," he said abruptly. "it has been often said so, my lord," she replied, "but i have been glad to think him like his father also." as lady lorridaile had told him, her voice was very sweet, and her manner was very simple and dignified. she did not seem in the least troubled by his sudden coming. "yes," said the earl, "he is like--my son--too." he put his hand up to his big white moustache and pulled it fiercely. "do you know," he said, "why i have come here?" "i have seen mr. havisham," mrs. errol began, "and he has told me of the claims which have been made----" "i have come to tell you," said the earl, "that they will be investigated and contested, if a contest can be made. i have come to tell you that the boy shall be defended with all the power of the law. his rights----" the soft voice interrupted him. "he must have nothing that is _not_ his by right, even if the law can give it to him," she said. "unfortunately the law cannot," said the earl. "if it could, it should. this outrageous woman and her child----" "perhaps she cares for him as much as i care for cedric, my lord," said little mrs. errol. "and if she was your eldest son's wife, her son is lord fauntleroy, and mine is not." "i suppose," said the earl, "that you would much prefer that he should not be the earl of dorincourt?" her fair young face flushed. "it is a very magnificent thing to be the earl of dorincourt, my lord," she said. "i know that, but i care most that he should be what his father was--brave and just and true always." "in striking contrast to what his grandfather was, eh?" said his lordship sardonically. "i have not had the pleasure of knowing his grandfather," replied mrs. errol, "but i know my little boy believes----" she stopped short a moment, looking quietly into his face, and then she added, "i know that cedric loves you." "would he have loved me," said the earl dryly, "if you had told him why i did not receive you at the castle?" "no," answered mrs. errol; "i think not. that was why i did not wish him to know." "well," said my lord, brusquely, "there are few women who would not have told him." he suddenly began to walk up and down the room, pulling his great moustache more violently than ever. "yes, he is fond of me," he said, "and i am fond of him. i can't say i ever was fond of anything before. i am fond of him. he pleased me from the first. i am an old man, and was tired of my life. he has given me something to live for. i am proud of him. i was satisfied to think of his taking his place some day as the head of the family." he came back and stood before mrs. errol. "i am miserable," he said. "miserable!" he looked as if he was. even his pride could not keep his voice steady or his hands from shaking. for a moment it almost seemed as if his deep, fierce eyes had tears in them. "perhaps it is because i am miserable that i have come to you," he said, quite glaring down at her. "i used to hate you; i have been jealous of you. this wretched, disgraceful business has changed that. i have been an obstinate old fool, and i suppose i have treated you badly. you are like the boy and the boy is the first object in my life. i am miserable, and i came to you merely because you are like the boy, and he cares for you, and i care for him. treat me as well as you can, for the boy's sake." he said it all in his harsh voice, and almost roughly, but somehow he seemed so broken down for the time that mrs. errol was touched to the heart. she got up and moved an arm-chair a little forward. "i wish you would sit down," she said in a soft, pretty, sympathetic way. "you have been so much troubled that you are very tired, and you need all your strength." it was just as new to him to be spoken to and cared for in that gentle, simple way as it was to be contradicted. he was reminded of "the boy" again, and he actually did as she asked him. perhaps his disappointment and wretchedness were good discipline for him; if he had not been wretched he might have continued to hate her, but just at present he found her a little soothing. she had so sweet a face and voice, and a pretty dignity when she spoke or moved. very soon, by the quiet magic of these influences, he began to feel less gloomy, and then he talked still more. "whatever happens," he said, "the boy shall be provided for. he shall be taken care of, now and in the future." before he went away, he glanced around the room. "do you like the house?" he demanded. "very much," she answered. "this is a cheerful room," he said. "may i come here again and talk this matter over?" "as often as you wish, my lord," she replied. and then he went out to his carriage and drove away, thomas and henry almost stricken dumb upon the box at the turn affairs had taken. chapter xiii. dick to the rescue. of course, as soon as the story of lord fauntleroy and the difficulties of the earl of dorincourt were discussed in the english newspapers, they were discussed in the american newspapers. the story was too interesting to be passed over lightly, and it was talked of a great deal. there were so many versions of it that it would have been an edifying thing to buy all the papers and compare them. mr. hobbs used to read the papers until his head was in a whirl, and in the evening he and dick would talk it all over. they found out what an important personage an earl of dorincourt was, and what a magnificent income he possessed, and how many estates he owned, and how stately and beautiful was the castle in which he lived; and the more they learned the more excited they became. "seem's like somethin' orter be done," said mr. hobbs. but there really was nothing they could do but each write a letter to cedric, containing assurances of their friendship and sympathy. they wrote those letters as soon as they could after receiving the news. the very next morning, one of dick's customers was rather surprised. he was a young lawyer just beginning practice; as poor as a very young lawyer can possibly be, but a bright, energetic young fellow, with sharp wit and a good temper. he had a shabby office near dick's stand, and every morning dick blacked his boots for him. that particular morning, when he put his foot on the rest, he had an illustrated paper in his hand--an enterprising paper, with pictures in it of conspicuous people and things. he had just finished looking it over, and when the last boot was polished, he handed it to the boy. "here's a paper for you, dick," he said. "picture of an english castle in it and an english earl's daughter-in-law. you ought to become familiar with the nobility and gentry, dick. begin on the right honourable the earl of dorincourt and lady fauntleroy. hello! i say, what's the matter?" the pictures he spoke of were on the front page, and dick was staring at one of them with his eyes and mouth open, and his sharp face almost pale with excitement. he pointed to the picture, under which was written: "mother of claimant (lord fauntleroy)." it was the picture of a handsome woman, with large eyes and heavy braids of black hair wound around her head. "her!" said dick. "i know her better'n i know you! an' i've struck work for this mornin'." and in less than five minutes from that time he was tearing through the streets on his way to mr. hobbs and the corner store. mr. hobbs could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses when he looked across the counter and saw dick rush in with the paper in his hand. the boy was out of breath with running; so much out of breath, in fact, that he could scarcely speak as he threw the paper down on the counter. "look at it!" panted dick. "look at that woman in the picture! that's what you look at! _she_ aint no 'ristocrat, _she_ aint!" with withering scorn. "she's no lord's wife. you may eat me, if it aint minna--_minna!_ i'd know her anywheres, an' so'd ben. jest ax him." mr. hobbs dropped into his seat. "i knowed it was a put-up job," he said. "i knowed it; and they done it on account o' him bein' a 'merican!" "done it!" cried dick, with disgust. "_she_ done it, that's who done it. i'll tell yer wot come to me, the minnit i saw her pictur. there was one o' them papers we saw had a letter in it that said somethin' 'bout her boy, an' it said he had a scar on his chin. put them together--her 'n' that scar! why that boy o' hers aint no more a lord than i am! it's _ben's_ boy." professor dick tipton had always been a sharp boy, and earning his living in the streets of a big city had made him still sharper. he had learned to keep his eyes open and his wits about him, and it mast be confessed he enjoyed immensely the excitement and impatience of that moment. mr. hobbs was almost overwhelmed by his sense of responsibility, and dick was all alive and full of energy. he began to write a letter to ben, and he cut out the picture and inclosed it to him, and mr. hobbs wrote a letter to cedric and one to the earl. they were in the midst of this letter-writing when a new idea came to dick. "say," he said, "the feller that give me the paper, he's a lawyer. let's ax him what we'd better do. lawyers knows it all." mr. hobbs was immensely impressed by this suggestion and dick's business capacity. "that's so!" he replied. "this here calls for lawyers." and leaving the store in care of a substitute, he struggled into his coat and marched down town with dick, and the two presented themselves with their romantic story in mr. harrison's office, much to that young man's astonishment. if he had not been a very young lawyer, with a very enterprising mind and a great deal of spare time on his hands, he might not have been so readily interested in what they had to say, for it all certainly sounded very wild and queer; but he chanced to want something to do very much. "and," said mr. hobbs, "say what your time's worth an hour and look into this thing thorough, and _i'll_ pay the damage--silas hobbs, corner of blank street, vegetables and groceries." "well," said mr. harrison, "it will be a big thing if it turns out all right, and it will be almost as big a thing for me as for lord fauntleroy; and at any rate, no harm can be done by investigating. it appears there has been some dubiousness about the child. the woman contradicted herself in some of her statements about his age, and aroused suspicion. the first persons to be written to are dick's brother and the earl of dorincourt's family lawyer." and actually before the sun went down, two letters had been written and sent in two different directions--one speeding out of new york harbour on a mail steamer on its way to england, and the other on a train carrying letters and passengers bound for california. and the first was addressed to t. havisham, esq., and the second to benjamin tipton. and after the store was closed that evening, mr. hobbs and dick sat in the back room and talked together until midnight. chapter xiv. the exposure. it is astonishing how short a time it takes for very wonderful things to happen. it had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change all the fortunes of the little boy dangling his red legs from the high stool in mr. hobbs's store, and to transform him from a small boy, living the simplest life in a quiet street, into an english nobleman, the heir to an earldom and magnificent wealth. it had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change him from an english nobleman into a penniless little impostor, with no right to any of the splendours he had been enjoying. and, surprising as it may appear, it did not take nearly so long a time as one might have expected to alter the face of everything again and to give back to him all that he had been in danger of losing. it took the less time because, after all, the woman who had called herself lady fauntleroy was not nearly so clever as she was wicked; and when she had been closely pressed by mr. havisham's questions about her marriage and her boy, she had made one or two blunders which had caused suspicion to be awakened; and then she had lost her presence of mind and her temper, and in her excitement and anger had betrayed herself still further. there seemed no doubt that she had been married to bevis, lord fauntleroy, but mr. havisham found out that her story of the boy's being born in a certain part of london was false; and just when they all were in the midst of the commotion caused by this discovery, there came the letter from the young lawyer in new york, and mr. hobbs's letters also. what an evening it was when those letters arrived, and when mr. havisham and the earl sat and talked their plans over in the library! "after my first three meetings with her," said mr. havisham, "i began to suspect her strongly. our best plan will be to cable at once for these two tiptons, say nothing about them to her, and suddenly confront her with them when she is not expecting it. my opinion is that she will betray herself on the spot." and that was what actually happened. she was told nothing, but one fine morning, as she sat in her sitting-room at the inn called "the dorincourt arms," making some very fine plans for herself, mr. havisham was announced; and when he entered, he was followed by no leas than three persons--one was a sharp-faced boy and one was a big young man, and the third was the earl of dorincourt. she sprang to her feet and actually uttered a cry of terror. she had thought of these new-comers as being thousands of miles away, when she had ever thought of them at all, which she had scarcely done for years. she had never expected to see them again. it must be confessed that dick grinned a little when he saw her. "hello, minna!" he said, the big young man--who was ben--stood still a minute and looked at her. "do you know her?" mr. havisham asked, glancing from one to the other. "yes," said ben. "i know her and she knows me. i can swear to her in any court, and i can bring a dozen others who will. her father is a respectable sort of man, and he's honest enough to be ashamed of her. he'll tell you who she is, and whether she married me or not." then he clenched his hand suddenly and turned on her. "where's the child?" he demanded. "he's going with me! he is done with you, and so am i!" and just as he finished saying the words, the door leading into the bedroom opened a little, and the boy, probably attracted by the sound of the loud voices, looked in. he was not a handsome boy, but he had rather a nice face, and he was quite like ben, his father, as any one could see, and there was the three-cornered scar on his chin. ben walked up to him and took his hand, and his own was trembling. "tom," he said to the little fellow. "i'm your father; i've come to take you away. where's your hat?" the boy pointed to where it lay on a chair. it evidently rather pleased him to hear that he was going away. ben took up the hat and marched to the door. "if you want me again," he said to mr. havisham, "you know where to find me." he walked out of the room, holding the child's hand and not looking at the woman once. she was fairly raving with fury, and the earl was calmly gazing at her through his eyeglasses, which he had quietly placed upon his aristocratic eagle nose. "come, come, my young woman," said mr. havisham. "this won't do at all. if you don't want to be locked up, you really must behave yourself." and there was something so very business-like in his tones that, probably feeling that the safest thing she could do would be to get out of the way, she gave him one savage look and dashed past him into the next room and slammed the door. "we shall have no more trouble with her," said mr. havisham. and he was right; for that very night she left the dorincourt arms and took the train to london, and was seen no more. * * * * * when the earl left the room after the interview, he went at once to his carriage. "to court lodge," he said to thomas. "to court lodge," said thomas to the coachman as he mounted the box; "an' you may depend on it, things is taking a uniggspected turn." when the carriage stopped at court lodge, cedric was in the drawing-room with his mother. the earl came in without being announced. he looked an inch or so taller, and a great many years younger. his deep eyes flashed. "where," he said, "is lord fauntleroy?" mrs. errol came forward, a flush rising to her cheek. "is it lord fauntleroy?" she asked. "is it, indeed?" the earl put out his hand and grasped hers. "yes," he answered, "it is." then he put his other hand on cedric's shoulder. "fauntleroy," he said in his unceremonious, authoritative way, "ask your mother when she will come to us at the castle." fauntleroy flung his arms around his mother's neck. "to live with us!" he cried. "to live with us always!" the earl looked at mrs. errol, and mrs. errol looked at the earl. his lordship was entirely in earnest. he had made up his mind to waste no time in arranging this matter. he had begun to think it would suit him to make friends with his heir's mother. "are you quite sure you want me?" said mrs. errol, with her soft, pretty smile. "quite sure," he said bluntly. "we have always wanted you, but we were not exactly aware of it. we hope you will come." chapter xv. his eighth birthday. ben took his boy and went back to his cattle ranch in california, and he returned under very comfortable circumstances. just before his going, mr. havisham had an interview with him in which the lawyer told him that the earl of dorincourt wished to do something for the boy who might have turned out to be lord fauntleroy. and so when ben went away, he went as the prospective master of a ranch which would be almost as good as his own, and might easily become his own in time, as indeed it did in the course of a few years; and tom, the boy, grew up on it into a fine young man and was devotedly fond of his father; and they were so successful and happy that ben used to say that tom made up to him for all the troubles he had ever had. but dick and mr. hobbs--who had actually come over with the others to see that things were properly looked after--did not return for some time. it had been decided at the outset that the earl would provide for dick, and would see that he received a solid education; and mr. hobbs had decided that as he himself had left a reliable substitute in charge of his store, he could afford to wait to see the festivities which were to celebrate lord fauntleroy's eighth birthday. all the tenantry were invited, and there were to be feasting and dancing and games in the park, and bonfires and fireworks in the evening. "just like the fourth of july!" said lord fauntleroy. "it seems a pity my birthday wasn't on the fourth, doesn't it? for then we could keep them both together." what a grand day it was when little lord fauntleroy's birthday arrived, and how his young lordship enjoyed it! how beautiful the park looked, filled with the thronging people dressed in their gayest and best, and with the flags flying from the tents and the top of the castle! nobody had stayed away who could possibly come, because everybody was really glad that little lord fauntleroy was to be little lord fauntleroy still, and some day was to be the master of everything. every one wanted to have a look at him, and at his pretty, kind mother, who had made so many friends. what scores and scores of people there were under the trees, and in the tents, and on the lawns! farmers and farmers' wives in their sunday suits and bonnets and shawls; children frolicking and chasing about; and old dames in red cloaks gossiping together. at the castle, there were ladies and gentlemen who had come to see the fun, and to congratulate the earl, and to meet mrs. errol. lady lorridaile and sir harry were there, and mr. havisham, of course. everybody looked after little lord fauntleroy. and the sun shone and the flags fluttered and the games were played and the dances danced, and as the gaieties went on and the joyous afternoon passed, his little lordship was simply radiantly happy. the whole world seemed beautiful to him. there was some one else who was happy too,--an old man, who, though he had been rich and noble all his life, had not often been very honestly happy. perhaps, indeed, i shall tell you that i think it was because he was rather better than he had been that he was rather happier. he had not, indeed, suddenly become as good as fauntleroy thought him; but, at least, he had begun to love something, and he had several times found a sort of pleasure in doing the kind things which the innocent, kind little heart of a child had suggested,--and that was a beginning. and every day he had been more pleased with his son's wife. he liked to hear her sweet voice and to see her sweet face; and as she sat in his arm-chair, he used to watch her and listen as he talked to her boy; and he heard loving, gentle words which were new to him, and he began to see why the little fellow who had lived in a new york side street and known grocery-men and made friends with boot-blacks, was still so well-bred and manly a little fellow that he made no one ashamed of him, even when fortune changed him into the heir to an english earldom, living in an english castle. as the old earl of dorincourt looked at him that day, moving about the park among the people, talking to those he knew and making his ready little bow when any one greeted him, entertaining his friends dick and mr. hobbs, or standing near his mother listening to their conversation, the old nobleman was very well satisfied with him. and he had never been better satisfied than he was when they went down to the biggest tent, where the more important tenants of the dorincourt estate were sitting down to the grand collation of the day. they were drinking toasts; and, after they had drunk the health of the earl with much more enthusiasm than his name had ever been greeted with before, they proposed the health of "little lord fauntleroy." and if there had ever been any doubt at all as to whether his lordship was popular or not, it would have been settled that instant. such a clamour of voices and such a rattle of glasses and applause! little lord fauntleroy was delighted. he stood and smiled, and made bows, and flushed rosy red with pleasure up to the roots of his bright hair. "is it because they like me, dearest?" he said to his mother. "is it dearest? i'm so glad!" and then the earl put his hand on the child's shoulder and said to him: "fauntleroy, say to them that you thank them for their kindness." fauntleroy gave a glance up at him and then at his mother. "must i?" he asked just a trifle shyly, and she smiled, and nodded. and so he made a little step forward, and everybody looked at him--such a beautiful, innocent little fellow he was, too, with his brave, trustful face!--and he spoke as loudly as he could, his childish voice ringing out quite clear and strong. "i'm ever so much obliged to you!" he said, "and--i hope you'll enjoy my birthday--because i've enjoyed it so much--and--i'm very glad i'm going to be an earl--i didn't think at first i should like it, but now i do--and i love this place so, and i think it is beautiful--and--and--and when i am an earl, i am going to try to be as good as my grandfather." and amid the shouts and clamour of applause, he stepped back with a little sigh of relief, and put his hand into the earl's and stood close to him, smiling and leaning against his side. * * * * * and that would be the very end of my story; but i must add one curious piece of information, which is that mr. hobbs became so fascinated with high life and was so reluctant to leave his young friend that he actually sold his corner store in new york, and settled in the english village of erlesboro, where he opened a shop which was patronized by the castle and consequently was a great success. and about ten years after, when dick, who had finished his education and was going to visit his brother in california, asked the good grocer if he did not wish to return to america, he shook his head seriously. "not to live there," he said. "not to live there; i want to be near _him_. it's a good enough country for them that's young an stirrin'--but there's faults in it. there's not an auntsister among 'em--nor an earl!" anmerkungen. (vor den anmerkungen bezeichnen _fette_ zahlen die _seiten_, _magere_ die _zeilen_.) ¶ ¶, / . _fits of petulance_, zornesausbrüche. ¶ ¶, . _he sold his commission._ die commissions (patente) für offiziersstellen bis zum oberstleutnant waren bis zum jahre käuflich, konnten also auch verkauft werden. -- . _cheap_, schlicht, einfach. -- / . _this ... quaint little way_, diese drollige art und weise. -- / . _quaint little ways_, wunderliche einfälle. ¶ ¶, . _hearth-rug_, teppich vor dem kamin. der englische kamin ist eine offene in einer wandvertiefung befindliche feuerstelle; in besseren häusern ist er mit schönen fayenceplatten oder marmorwandungen bekleidet, deren oberen abschluß ein vorstehendes kamingesims bildet. auf diesem werden allerhand schmuckgegenstände (vasen, leuchter, uhren usw.) aufgestellt, darüber befindet sich häufig ein großer spiegel. -- . _ristycratic_ = aristocratic. -- . _store_ = shop, ist ein amerikanismus. -- . _the topics of the hour_, die tagesereignisse. -- / . _the fourth of july._ am . juli erfolgte die unabhängigkeitserklärung (declaration of independence [z. ]) der dreizehn englischen kolonien virginia, massachusetts, new-hampshire, conne(c)ticut, rhode island, new york, new jersey, pennsylvania, delaware, maryland, south carolina, north carolina, georgia vom mutterlande. schon im jahre vorher hatte der nordamerikanische freiheitskampf (the revolution [z. ]) mit der schlacht bei bunkershill ( . juni ), wo die engländer nur mit den größten verlusten siegten, begonnen. ¶ ¶, . _washington_, im distrikt columbia, ist die bundeshauptstadt der vereinigten staaten und seit sitz der regierung und des kongresses. die stadt erhielt ihren namen zur erinnerung an den ersten präsidenten und bundesfeldherrn george washington ( - ); vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _darlint_ = darling. -- . _wantin'_ = wanting; _yez_ = you. -- . _coupé_, zweisitziger wagen; das wort ist französisch zu sprechen. ¶ ¶, . _unreal_, unwahrscheinlich. ¶ ¶, / . _to break the news_, die nachricht mitzuteilen. -- . _hello_ = halloo! -- _mornin'_ = morning. -- . _we was_ ist vulgär für we were. ¶ ¶, . _mercury_ = heat. ¶ ¶, . _i'll be--jiggered_, etwa: mich soll der kuckuck holen. jigger ist die englische form für chigoe, chico der eingeborenen westindiens, und bedeutet einen sandfloh, der sich unter dem nagel des fußes eingräbt, dort eier legt und böse geschwüre hervorruft. -- . _you was_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . ¶ ¶, . _home like_, traulich, wohnlich. -- . _cleared his throat_, räusperte sich. ¶ ¶, . _fiery-tempered_, hitzig, aufbrausend. ¶ ¶, . _george washington_, geb. in virginien, ist der begründer der unabhängigkeit der vereinigten staaten. am . januar schlug er als obergeneral der kolonialtruppen den englischen general cornwallis bei princeton in new jersey und zwang die besatzung von new york zur Übergabe. er war der erste bundespräsident ( ), legte sein amt nieder und starb . -- . _int'rust_ = interest. -- . _cur'us_ = curious. -- . _'vantage_ = advantage. ¶ ¶, . _street-cars_, trambahnwagen. -- . _un_ = one. -- . _square_ = of an open, fair character, ehrlich. ¶ ¶, . _start ... out fair_, schön ausstatten. -- . _meerschaum_, spr. mèer-shoum. ¶ ¶, . _michael_, spr. mi-kl. -- . _that you have realised_, ob sie sich vergegenwärtigt haben. ¶ ¶, . _greenbacks_ werden die banknoten der vereinigten staaten nach der grünen farbe ihrer rückseite genannt. -- . _he tore_, er eilte. -- . _twinty-foive_ = twenty-five. -- _where's_ = where is. ¶ ¶, . _chubby_, rund. -- . _realise_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _his nearest wishes_, seine herzenswünsche. ¶ ¶, . _he proceeded to gratify them_, er ging an ihre befriedigung. -- . _cut_ = hurt. -- . _struck him dumb_, machte ihn sprachlos. ¶ ¶, . _ye wasn't goin'_; vgl. ¶ ¶, ; _ye_, vulgäre form für you. -- . _thanky_ = thank you; _fur_ = for; _wot_ = what. ¶ ¶, . _i made_ = i gained, ich verdiente. -- _kin_ = can. -- . _hankercher_ = handkerchief. -- . _he panted_, sagte er keuchend. ¶ ¶, . _tops'les_ = topsails, marssegel. -- _mains'les_ = mainsails, hauptsegel. -- . _a nautical flavour_, einen seemännischen anstrich. ¶ ¶, . _stags' antlers_, hirschgeweihe. -- . _shabby_, ärmlich. ¶ ¶, . _shaggy_, buschig. -- . _straight-limbed_, hat er seine geraden glieder? ¶ ¶, . _to settle on her_, ihr auszusetzen. -- . _ejaculated_, rief aus. -- . _snapped_, stieß heraus. -- . _blustered my lord_, polterte seine lordschaft heraus. ¶ ¶, . _deep-set_, tief liegend. -- . _beetling_, hier: buschig. ¶ ¶, . _had struck up an acquaintance_, hatte sich bekannt gemacht. -- . _greenery_, blätterwerk. -- . _central park_ ist der größte park new yorks und einer der großartigsten der welt. er wurde in angriff genommen und enthält auf einer fläche von ha herrliche gärtnerische anlagen mit großen künstlichen teichen, einem zoologischen garten, einem großen museum und der vom millionär vanderbilt der stadt geschenkten nadel der kleopatra, dem berühmten obelisken aus alexandria. ¶ ¶, . _fairy-book_, märchenbuch. -- . _rich_, schwer. -- _plain_, glatt. ¶ ¶, . _diamond-paned windows_, fenster mit butzenscheiben. -- . _sir_ wird häufig dem hunde gegenüber als drohender zuruf gebraucht, wenn er etwas unrechtes getan hat. -- . _love-locks_, lange locke. ¶ ¶, . _ever so much_, gar so sehr. ¶ ¶, . _square_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _professional_, von beruf. ¶ ¶, . _plain_, offenbar. -- . _worldly_, selbstsüchtig. -- . _genial_, munter, heiter. -- / . _was violently sworn at_, bekam einen derben fluch zu hören. -- / . _when his lordship had an extra twinge of gout_, wenn die gicht seiner herrlichkeit einen außergewöhnlichen schmerz bereitete. ¶ ¶, . _he panted_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _i'm all right_, ich kann es ganz gut. ¶ ¶, . _he kept looking at him_, er blickte ihn fortgesetzt an. -- . _wistfully_, nachdenklich. ¶ ¶, . _close_, innigste, vertrauteste. ¶ ¶, . _ivy-entwined_, efeuumrankt. ¶ ¶, . _there's no knowing_ = one can (does) not know. ¶ ¶, . _rugs_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _catching his breath a little_, schnell aufatmend. ¶ ¶, . _ever so much_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _base-ball_ ist ein amerikanisches ballspiel für personen, auf jeder seite. [illustration: o ii l . r /:\ / : \ / : \ s / : \ / : \ / : \ / : \ iii < :p. > i \ : / \ : / \ : / y \ : / x \ : / \ : / \:/ . h c ] es wird ein quadrat abgesteckt, welches _diamond_ (raute oder carreau) heißt und dessen seiten je fuß lang sind. an den ecken sind die _bases_ (male), welche _home_ (ziel) oder _home base_ _[h]_, _first base_ _[i]_, _second base_ _[ii]_ und _third base_ _[iii]_ heißen. die spieler stellen sich um das quadrat herum auf. hinter _h_ steht der _catcher_ (fänger) _[c]_; der _pitcher_ (werfer) _[p]_ steht auf der linie _h ii_ fuß von _h_ entfernt; die drei _basemen_ (malmänner) stehen neben _i_, _ii_, _iii_. der _shortstop_ _[s]_ (aufhalter) steht zwischen _ii_ und _iii_. ferner stehen noch _fielders_ d. h. mitglieder der nicht an der reihe befindlichen partei _r_ (right fielder), o (centre fielder), _l_ (left fielder) in einiger entfernung hinter und auf beiden seiten von _ii_. der _pitcher_ wirft den ball über das _home_ dem _catcher_ zu, während ein mann der partei, welche in (= am spiel) oder _at the bat_ (= am schlagholz) ist, neben dem _home_ steht und den vom _pitcher_ geworfenen ball, ehe er zum _catcher_ gelangt, mit seinem schlagholz zu treffen sucht. schlägt er denselben in die luft und fängt ihn einer der gegenpartei auf, bevor er zu boden fällt, so ist der schlagende _out_ oder _caught out_ (d. h. er muß den schlägel einem andern spieler seiner partei abtreten). fällt der geschlagene ball außerhalb der linien _h i_ oder _h iii_ oder ihrer verlängerung, z. b. nach _x_ oder _y_, so ist der schlag _foul_ (ungültig) und wird nicht gezählt, außer wenn der ball vor dem niederfallen aufgefangen wird, worauf der _striker_ oder _batter_ ebenfalls _out_ wird. wird aber der ball innerhalb der genannten linien d. h. in den _diamond_ geschlagen, so muß der schläger zunächst nach _i_, dann der reihe nach über _ii_ und _iii_ nach _h_ zurücklaufen. gelingt ihm dies, so wird ihm ein _run_ (lauf) angerechnet. wird aber der ball von einem bei _i_ stehenden spieler aufgefangen, bevor der schläger dahin gelangt, oder wird dieser während seines laufes von einem gegner mit dem ball berührt, so ist der schläger _out_. sind drei schläger derselben partei _out_ gemacht, so ist ein _inning_ (reihe) vorüber und die gegenpartei kommt an die reihe. das spiel besteht aus _innings_ für jede partei, und jene partei hat gewonnen, welche innerhalb ihrer _innings_ die meisten _runs_ gemacht hat. -- . _i'm afraid i don't_, ich fürchte, nein. -- . _there was a smile lurking_, es spielte ein lächeln. ¶ ¶, . _flavour_, einen besonderen reiz. -- . _on that particular morning_, gerade an jenem morgen. -- . _curly-headed_, lockenköpfig. -- / . _he almost fell back a pace_, er prallte fast einen schritt zurück. ¶ ¶, . _tenantry_, pachtleute. -- / . _there was a stir of gratified pride_, es regte sich ein gefühl befriedigten stolzes. ¶ ¶, . _plainly_, offenbar. -- . _rent_, pachtzins. -- . _catch up_, sich empor arbeiten. -- . _black_, finster. -- . _to strengthen his plea_, seine bitte zu unterstützen. ¶ ¶, . _low_, schwach, entkräftet. -- . _deep-set_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _he realised_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . ¶ ¶, . _higgins is not to be interfered with_, gegen higgins soll nicht eingeschritten werden. -- / . _the corners of his ... a little_, es zuckte ein wenig um seine mundwinkel. -- . _rispecferly_ = respectfully. -- . _that's the way with_, so geht es mit. ¶ ¶, . _pleasanter_ = more pleasant (umgangssprache). . _to be brought round_ = to be brought. ¶ ¶, . _he kept saying_, sagte er immer wieder. -- . _dumfounded_, verblüfft (familiär). ¶ ¶, . _startled_, erschrocken. -- . _they scurried away_, sie eilten davon. -- _the whirr_, das aufstreichen. ¶ ¶, . _bowled_, dahingerollt. -- . _brusquely_, kurz, barsch. ¶ ¶, . _flash over the ground_, über den boden hin eilen. -- . _dashed up_, sprang hinauf. -- . _apple-cheeked_, rotwangig. ¶ ¶, . _over their ... shopping_, bei ihrem tee und ihren einkäufen. ¶ ¶, . _curtsy_ = courtesy; _a bobbing curtsy_, ein schneller knix. . _mop_, büschel, fülle. -- . _over again_, vom scheitel bis zur sohle, von oben bis unten. ¶ ¶, . _aisle_ (spr. il), chor. -- _red-cushioned and curtained_, mit roten kissen und vorhängen versehen. -- . _across the church_, gegenüber in der kirche. -- . _lyethe_ = lies; _ye_ = the; _bodye_ = body. -- . _allsoe_ = also. -- . _devoured_, verzehrt, gequält. -- . _church service_, ergänze: book. seit dem jahre ist für die englische staatskirche (church of england) ein gemeinsames gebetbuch (the book of common prayer, common prayer book) eingeführt. -- . _curtain-shielded_, durch vorhänge geschützt, verborgen. ¶ ¶, . _careworn_, von kummer durchfurcht. ¶ ¶, . _a trifle taken aback_, ein wenig verblüfft. -- . _broke in_, unterbrach, fiel ein. ¶ ¶, . _arched_, bog. -- . _leading-rein_, leitzügel. ¶ ¶, . _set_, festgeschlossen. -- . _want_ = do you want? ¶ ¶, . _he panted_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _snatch off_, schnell abnehmen. -- . _an'_ = and. -- _i'm blessed_, hol' mich der kuckuck. -- . _ses_ = says. -- . _trudges_, schlendert. -- . _what's up_, was los ist, was es gibt. -- _he whips off_, er zieht schnell ab. ¶ ¶, . _closely_, treu, sorgsam. -- / . _which had set ... perfection_, welche ihn den gipfel der vollkommenheit hatte erreichen lassen. ¶ ¶, . _brougham_ (sprich: broù-am oder bròom), leichter, geschlossener, zwei- oder vierrädriger wagen, benannt nach lord brougham, einem berühmten staatsmann und redner. -- . _abruptly_, kurz. -- . _dont_ = don't. -- . _granfarther_ = grandfather. -- _plees_ = please. -- . _afechshnet_ = affectionate. ¶ ¶, . _dashed off_, dahinjagte. -- . _such a dash_, solch' ein schneller ritt. ¶ ¶, . _on his mind_, auf dem herzen. -- . _been ... he_ = has he been neglecting it? -- . _horror-stricken_, von schrecken erfüllt. ¶ ¶, . _crazy_, baufällig, elend. -- / . _to talk him over_, über ihn zu reden. ¶ ¶, . _scrambled up_, krabbelte in die höhe, erhob sich langsam. ¶ ¶, . _sir_ ist ein titel, welchen die baronets und knights (squires) vor ihrem vornamen führen; vgl. ¶ ¶, . . _and set mrs. dibble's ... madly again_, und der frau dibble ladenglocke immer wie toll klingeln ließ. -- . _dimpled peachy cheeks_, grübchen in den frischen roten wangen. ¶ ¶, . _vandyke collar_ wird ein ausgezackter spitzenhalskragen genannt, wie man sie auf den gemälden des niederländischen malers van dyck, welcher starb, sieht. -- . _eszackly_ = exactly. ¶ ¶, . _course_, vorgehen, handlungsweise. -- . _in a measure_ = in some measure, gewissermaßen. ¶ ¶, / . _how closely those ... to each other_, wie innige zuneigung die beiden zueinander gefaßt hatten. ¶ ¶, . _methodic_, steif, ruhig. -- . _ever so much_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . ¶ ¶, . _clutched_, faßte krampfhaft. -- . _chambers_, schreibstube, kanzlei. ¶ ¶, / . _a low, scoundrelly piece of business_, eine gemeine, schurkige geschichte. -- . _fastidious_, stolz, vornehm. -- . _drops of moisture_, schweißtropfen. ¶ ¶, . _that read_, auf dem zu lesen war. -- . _want a shine?_ stiefel wichsen? -- . _rest_, wichsbank. -- . _fell to work_, machte sich an die arbeit. -- . _feller_ = fellow. ¶ ¶, . _boss_ (o = a in all), herr, meister, ist ein amerikanismus. -- _yerself_ = yourself (vulgär). -- . _lifetime acquaintances_, freunde von jeher. -- . _ha'_ = have (vulgär). -- . _tilted_, gelehnt. -- . _he made a jerk at them with the hand_, deutete er mit der hand auf sie. -- . _ginger ale_ ist ein moussierendes getränk wie gingerbeer (ingwerbier), welches aus gärendem ingwer, cream-of-tartar (schaum einer kochenden weinsteinlösung) und zucker mit hefe und wasser bereitet wird. ¶ ¶, . _here's to him!_ dies auf sein wohl! -- . _markises_ = marquesses. -- _dooks_ = dukes. -- . _the nobility and gentry_. nobility ist der geburtsadel (duke, marquess, earl, viscount (spr. is = i), baron). die träger dieser adelstitel sind lords, ihre frauen ladies (anrede mylord oder your lordship, mylady). der nobility steht gegenüber die _gentry_ (niederer adel, auch landadel vgl. ¶ ¶, ) mit den klassen der baronets und knights (squires). man rechnet jedoch zur gentry im weiteren sinne alle gentlemen, d. h. alle gebildeten und in vornehmer lebensstellung befindlichen. -- . _realised_ = known. -- . _the tower of london_, nach welchem die erzählung von ainsworth betitelt ist, ist eine gruppe von gebäuden am nördlichen ufer der themse. im innern desselben erhebt sich der von wilhelm dem eroberer erbaute white tower, welcher in früheren zeiten als staatsgefängnis benutzt wurde. bis ins . jahrhundert war die burg zuweilen auch der sitz des königlichen hofes. -- . _ainsworth_, william harrison. geb. in manchester, gestorben , ist der erste vertreter der räuber- und schauerromane in der englischen literatur. seine zahlreichen romane (u. a. crichton, jack sheppard, old st. paul's) wurden viel gelesen. -- . _bloody mary_ wurde die königin maria i. von england ( - ) wegen ihrer blutigen und grausamen verfolgung der protestanten genannt. ¶ ¶, . _ain't_ = is not (vulgär). -- . _this 'ere un_ = this one (vulgär). -- _that's bossin'_, welche leitet, ist ein amerikanismus; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _gal_ = girl (vulgär). -- . _'n'_ = and. -- / . _to set up a cattle ranch_, um einen viehhandel zu beginnen; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _'ve_ = have. ¶ ¶, . _afore_ = before. -- / . _that's ... from_, von ihm und keinem andern kommt er (der brief). -- . _curous_ = curious. -- . _preaps_ = perhaps. -- . _thort_ = thought. -- . _right away_, sofort. -- _intrusted_ = interested. -- / . _there is no knowing_, das kann man nicht wissen. -- . _a put-up job_, eine abgekartete geschichte (familiär). -- _'ristycrats_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . ¶ ¶, . _exclaimed_, äußerten sich laut. -- . _holding on to his knee_, die hände um die kniee geschlungen. -- . _sober_, besonnen, ruhig. -- . _jumped_, aufsprang. ¶ ¶, / . _was all alight with eagerness_, leuchtete ganz vor spannung. -- . _by george_ ist eine in der englischen aristokratischen gesellschaft deshalb gebrauchte beteuerungsformel, weil der heilige ritter georg der patron des höchsten englischen ordens, des von eduard iii. gestifteten hosenbandordens (order of the garter), ist. -- . _drawing his breath hard_, mühsam atmend. -- . _how deep a hold upon him ... had taken_, wie tief ... wurzel gefaßt hatten. ¶ ¶, . _walks_, kreise, klassen. -- . _morning room_, boudoir. -- . _hisself_ = himself. -- _ma'am_ = madam. ¶ ¶, . _uplifted eyes_, auf ihn gerichteten augen. ¶ ¶, . _sardonically_, spöttisch. -- . _glaring down at her_, sie mit einem durchbohrenden blick ansehend. ¶ ¶, . _as it was to be_ = as it was new to him to be etc. -- / . _he found her a little soothing_, er fand in ihr einigen trost. -- . _almost stricken dumb_, fast sprachlos vor erstaunen. ¶ ¶, . _until his head was in a whirl_, bis ihm ganz wirr im kopfe war. -- . _seem's like_ = it seems as if. -- _orter_ = ought to. ¶ ¶, . _the right honourable_, ist eine bezeichnung, die den earls, viscounts und barons, sowie ihren frauen zukommt; ferner den mitgliedern des privy council (des geheimen staatsrates) d. h. den ministern in und außer dienst, erzbischöfen u. a. -- . _better'n_ = better than. -- . _aint_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _you may eat me_, ich lasse mich hängen. -- . _anywheres_ = any where. -- _so'd_ = so would. -- _jest ax_ = just ask. -- . _knowed_ = knew. -- . _they done it_ = they have done it. -- . _'merican_ = american. -- . _she done_ = she has done. -- . _i'll tell yer wot come to me_, ich will ihnen sagen, was mir eingefallen ist. -- . _minnit_ = minute. -- _pictur_ = picture. -- _o' them papers_ = of those papers. ¶ ¶, . _feller_ = fellow. -- _give_ = gave. -- . _knows_ = know. -- . _in care of_, unter der obhut. -- . _he struggled into his coat_, er schlüpfte eilig in seinen rock. -- . _spare_, frei, übrig. -- . _a big thing_, eine wichtige sache. ¶ ¶, . _esq._ = esquire entspricht heutzutage in england dem deutschen hochwohlgeboren und wird regelmäßig auf adressen dem namen eines gentleman (vgl. ¶ ¶, ) nachgesetzt, wenn nicht bei demselben schon m(iste)r oder ein titel (doctor, rev. = reverend u. a.) steht. ¶ ¶, . _to cable_, (durch das unterseeische kabel) telegraphieren. -- . _sharp faced_, mit pfiffigem gesichte. -- . _i can swear to her_, ich kann beschwören, daß sie es ist. ¶ ¶, . _he is done with you_, er ist mit dir fertig. -- . _fairly_ = completely. -- . _dashed past him_, stürzte an ihm vorbei. ¶ ¶, . _is_ = are. -- _a uniggspected_ = an unexpected. ¶ ¶, . _ranch_ (span. rancho, gesellschaft, kameradschaft) ist in amerika gebraucht für: ) leicht gebaute hütte der viehhirten, ) viehwirtschaft, wie hier. -- . _prospective_, voraussichtlich, zukünftig. -- / . _was devotedly fond of_, hing mit ganzem herzen an. -- . _made up to him_, entschädigte ihn. ¶ ¶, . _was simply radiantly happy_, strahlte einfach vor glück. ¶ ¶, . _settled_, entschieden. -- . _flushed rosy red_, wurde dunkelrot. ¶ ¶, . _that's_ = that are. -- _stirrin'_, rührig. -- . _auntsister_ = ancestor. verzeichnis zu den sachlichen anmerkungen. (die zahlen bezeichnen die seiten und zeilen im texte, zu denen eine anmerkung im anhang gegeben ist.) ainsworth , base-ball , bloody-mary , brougham , central park , church-service , commission , esquire , fourth of july , gentry , george, by , ginger ale , greenbacks , hearth , jiggered , nobility , ranch , right honourable , sir, sir , ; , tower (the) of london , vandyke collar , washington (stadt) , washington, george , die französische und englische schulbibliothek erscheint seit dem . oktober ; sie ist eine sammlung der besten französischen und englischen schriftsteller vom . bezw. . jahrhundert an bis in die neueste zeit. bezüglich der äußeren ausstattung sei folgendes bemerkt: a) die _schrift_ entspricht _allen von medizinisch-pädagogischen vereinen gestellten anforderungen_; sie ist groß, scharf und deutlich lesbar wegen des richtigen verhältnisses zwischen höhe der großen und kleinen buchstaben unter sich und zwischen buchstabenhöhe und entfernung der einzelnen zeilen. _selbst schwache augen dürften lange zeit ohne ermüdung diese schrift lesen können._ b) das _papier_ ist ein eigens hierzu angefertigter, kräftiger, nicht durchscheinender, guter stoff von gelblicher färbung, _die sehr wohltuend auf das auge des schülers wirkt_. c) der _einband ist biegsam und dauerhaft_. prospekt. die »¶französische und englische schulbibliothek¶«, aufgebaut auf den thesen der direktoren-versammlung in der provinz hannover ( ), ist den anforderungen _der lehrpläne und lehraufgaben für die höheren schulen vom jahre genau angepaßt_. sie bringt nicht nur die wichtigeren schriftwerke der letzten drei bezw. vier jahrhunderte und führt somit in die literatur, kultur- und volkskunde der beiden großen kulturvölker ein (lehrpläne und lehraufgaben von , s. u. ), sondern sie berücksichtigt auch die _technisch-wissenschaftliche lektüre_ und wird so _den weitgehendsten forderungen der gymnasien und realanstalten_ gerecht. folgende grundsätze sind für die gestaltung derselben maßgebend. . _die schulbibliothek_ bringt _prosa_ und _poesie_. die _prosa_bände enthalten den lesestoff für je ein _halbjahr_. mit ausnahme _der lebensbeschreibungen_ berühmter männer, welche, _ohne beeinträchtigung des gesamtbildes_, zweckentsprechend gekürzt erscheinen, _werden nur teile eines ganzen veröffentlicht, die, in sich aber eine art ganzes bildend_, eine hinreichende bekanntschaft mit den geisteswerken und deren verfassern ermöglichen. . vor _jedem_ bande erscheint eine dem gesichtskreis des schülers entsprechende _lebensbeschreibung_ des schriftstellers sowie eine kurze zusammenstellung _alles dessen, was zu seinem vollen verständnis zu wissen nötig scheint_. den _poetischen_ bänden gehen außerdem eine _metrische_ und eine _sprachliche_ einleitung voran, die sich streng an das betreffende stück anlehnen. . der _text_ ist bei den _prosaikern_ der Übersichtlichkeit halber in kürzere kapitel geteilt. . der _rechtschreibung_ in den _französischen_ bänden liegt die ausgabe des _dictionnaire de l'académie_ von _ _ zugrunde. . die _anmerkungen_ sind _deutsch_; sie stehen von band _ _ an und in den neuen auflagen früher erschienener bände _hinter_ dem texte. bei bänden, von denen auch oder nur _einsprachige ausgaben_ (französisch bezw. englisch) erschienen sind, ist dies im verzeichnis besonders angegeben. . die sachliche _erklärung_ bringt das _notwendige_ ohne _gelehrtes_ beiwerk. _sprachliche anmerkungen_ finden sich da, wo eine eigenheit in der ausdrucksweise des schriftstellers vorliegt; die _grammatik_ wird nur ganz _ausnahmsweise_ behandelt, wenn sich die schwierigkeit einer stelle durch die nicht leicht bemerkbare unterordnung unter eine grammatische regel heben läßt. auf eine bestimmte grammatik ist nicht hingewiesen. die _synonymik_ ist _nicht_ berücksichtigt. _soll dieselbe ihren zweck als formales bildungsmittel nicht verfehlen, so muß da, wo das verständnis des textes und die wahl des richtigen ausdrucks selbst eine synonymische aufklärung erheischen, diese gemeinschaftlich von den schülern gesucht und unter der unmittelbaren einwirkung des lehrers gefunden werden._ aus _gleichen_ gründen ist der _etymologie kein platz_ eingeräumt. . _Übersetzungen_, die nur der _trägheit_ des schülers vorschub leisten, sind ausgeschlossen. -- die herausgabe von _sonderwörterbüchern_ zu einzelnen bänden hat sich als eine _zwingende notwendigkeit_ erwiesen; denn abgesehen davon, daß die konkurrenzunternehmungen derartige wörterbücher veröffentlichen, welche die schüler _auf jeden fall_ sich zu verschaffen wissen, sind auch an die schriftleitung seitens zahlreicher amtsgenossen zuschriften gelangt, denen zufolge die namentlich für die _mittleren_ klassen bestimmten ausgaben nur _mit einem wörterbuche_ in gebrauch genommen werden können, weil _erst in den oberen klassen_ auf die anschaffung eines schulwörterbuches _gedrungen_ wird. da _jedoch die wörterbücher den betreffenden bänden nicht beigegeben sind, sondern erst auf verlangen nachgeliefert werden, so bedarf es nur eines antrages seitens der schule, wenn das sonderwörterbuch nicht geliefert werden soll_. . _aussprachebezeichnungen_ werden hinzugefügt, wo die schulwörterbücher den schüler im stiche lassen; _sie fehlen_ bei den _seltener_ vorkommenden _ausländischen eigennamen_, weil die _gebildeten engländer und franzosen_ bemüht sind, _dieselben so auszusprechen, wie sie im lande selbst ausgesprochen werden_. . den _geschichtlichen_ stoffen sind _abbildungen_, _karten_ und _pläne_ beigegeben; _verzeichnisse_ zu den anmerkungen erleichtern das zurechtfinden in einzelnen bänden. -- verlag der rengerschen buchhandlung in leipzig. im verlage der rengerschen buchhandlung gebhardt & wilisch in leipzig sind erschienen oder im erscheinen begriffen: buurmans kurze repetitorien für das einjährig-freiwilligen-examen nebst muster-prüfungen. buurmans repetitorien behandeln in bändchen alle prüfungsgegenstände. . bändchen: deutsch (erschienen) . " lateinisch . " griechisch . " französisch (erschienen) . " englisch " . " geschichte " . " geographie " . " mathematik " . " physik (erscheint im mai ) anhang: prüfungsbestimmungen. preis jedes bändchens in leinw. geb. mk. . diese bändchen eignen sich nicht bloß für die stufe des einjährigen-examens, sondern sind auch für die höheren prüfungen zweckmäßig zu benutzen, um sich eine bedeutende präsenz des wissens anzueignen. jedes bändchen ist einzeln im buchhandel zu beziehen. zum gebrauch in höheren schulen ist erschienen: monumentalplan von berlin. herausgeg. v. r. gebhardt. entworfen u. gezeichnet v. j. aescher. größe der zeichnung x cm. preis des in farben gedruckten planes: a) roh -- blätter in mappe mk. b) auf leinwand aufgezogen mit Ösen in mappe mk. c) " ringen und stäben mk. monumentalplan von berlin. auf x cm bildfläche verkleinerte ausgabe des wandplanes von berlin, in farben gedruckt, mit alphabetischem namensverzeichnis. mk. . . illustrated map of london. entworfen und herausgegeben von ludwig e. rolfs. größe der zeichnung x cm. preis des in fünf farben kolorierten planes: a) roh -- blätter in mappe mk. b) auf leinwand aufgezogen mit Ösen in mappe mk. c) " ringen und stäben mk. gleichzeitig ist eine für die hand des schülers bestimmte, auf x cm verkleinerte ausgabe dieses planes in mehrfachem farbendruck ausgeführt erschienen, deren einzelpreis einschl. eines alphabet. namensverzeichnisses pf. beträgt. plan pittoresque de la ville de paris. entworfen und herausgegeben von ludwig e. rolfs. größe der zeichnung x cm. preis des in fünf farben kolorierten planes: a) roh -- blätter in mappe mk. b) auf leinwand aufgezogen mit Ösen in mappe mk. c) " ringen und stäben mk. hiervon ist ebenfalls eine auf x cm verkleinerte, für den gebrauch der schüler bestimmte und in mehreren farben gedruckte ausgabe erschienen unter dem titel: plan monumental de la ville de paris. in umschlag mit alphabet. namensverzeichnis. preis pf. kommentar hierzu preis brosch. mk. pf. in ganzleinwand gebunden mk. französische und englische schulbibliothek herausgegeben von dr. otto e. a. dickmann, direktor der oberrealschule der stadt köln. nach den autoren alphabetisch geordnetes verzeichnis der bisher erschienenen bände. reihe a: prosa -- reihe b: poesie -- reihe c: für mädchenschulen. t. a.: sammlung französischer und englischer text-ausgaben zum schulgebrauch. zu den mit * bezeichneten bänden ist ein sonderwörterbuch erschienen. einsprachige ausgaben (französisch bezw. englisch) siehe unter barrau -- conteurs -- corneille, le cid -- daudet, tartarin -- english school life -- goerlich -- monod -- shakespeare, coriolanus. reihe. band a . addison, sir roger de coverley. [aus: the . . spectator.] (professor dr. h. fehse.) mit karte. t.a. * . aladdin or the wonderful lamp. . . a . arago, histoire de ma jeunesse. (prof. dr. o. . . klein.) a * . ascensions -- voyages aériens -- Évasions. . . (prof. dr. wershoven.) b . augier et sandeau, le gendre de m. poirier. . . (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) . aufl. a * . aymeric, dr. j., de leipsic à constantinople. . . journal de route. a . barante, jeanne darc. (dir. prof. dr. k. . . mühlefeld.) . aufl. mit kärtchen und plänen. a . barrau, scènes de la révolution française. . . (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) mit plänen und karte. . aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen . . c . bersier, mme, les myrtilles. stufe ii. (m. . . mühry.) a . boissonnas, une famille pendant la guerre . . / . (dr. banner.) a . the british isles. (dir. prof. j. leitritz.) .--. abbild. u. karte. a * . bruno, francinet. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) . .--. aufl. a * . bruno, le tour de la france. (dir. prof. . . rolfs.) mit karte. a * . burnett, little lord fauntleroy. (prof. g. . . wolpert.) . aufl. b . byron, childe harold's pilgrimage. [ausw.] . . (prof. dr. r. werner.) c * . candy, emily j., talk about engl. life or first . . days in england. stufe iv. c . carraud, mme j., contes. stufe ii. (dr. cl. . . klöpper.) a * . chambers's english history. mit karte. . . (oberl. a. v. roden.) b . chants d'Écoles. (dir. prof. ludw. e. rolfs u. .--. barthel müller.) a * . chaucer stories. (dr. cl. klöpper.) . . c . christie's old organ or home, sweet home by . . mrs. walton. -- daddy darwins dovecot by mrs. ewing. (a. bückmann). c . colomb, la fille de carilès. stufe iv. (m. . . mühry.) . aufl. a * . contes d'andersen, trad. par d. soldi. (dir. .--. prof. dr. e. penner.) c . contes, trois, pour les petites filles. stufe . . i. (dr. fr. lotsch.) a * . conteurs modernes. [jules simon, theuriet, .--. révillon, moret, richebourg.] (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) . aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen .--. c . coolidge, what katy did at school. stufe iv. .--. (dir. a. seedorf.) c . coolidge, what katy did. stufe iv. (e. . . merhaut.) a * . coppée, ausgew. erzählungen. (prof. dr. a. .--. gundlach.) . aufl. c . corbet-seymour, only a shilling. stufe ii. (dr. . . cl. klöpper.) b . corneille, le cid. (prof. dr. w. mangold.) . . . aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen . . b . corneille, cinna. (professor dr. p. schmid.) .--. b . corneille, horace. (professor dr. p. schmid.) . . a . cornish, life of oliver cromwell. [ karte.] . . (prof. dr. deutschbein.) c . dalgleish, life of queen victoria. stufe iv. . . (dr. cl. klöpper.) a * . daudet, ausgew. erzählungen. (dir. prof. dr. e. . . gropp.) . aufl. a * . daudet, tartarin de tarascon. (dr. j. aymeric.) . . . aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen . . a * . daudet, le petit chose. (dr. j. aymeric.) . . . aufl. a . daudet, lettres de mon moulin. (oberl. dr. . . hertel.) a * . day, the history of little jack.--the history . . of sandford and merton. (direktor dr. hugo gruber.) a * . defoe, robinson crusoe. (oberlehrer dr. k. .--. foth.) b . delavigne, louis xi. (direktor ph. plattner.) . . a * . deschaumes, journal d'un lycéen de ans. (dr. . . r. kron.) mit skizzen, plan und karte. a * . desèze, défense de louis xvi. (oberl. dr. o. . . klein.) a * . dhombres et monod, biographies historiques. .--. (oberlehrer h. bretschneider.) . aufl. a . dickens, sketches. (dir. prof. dr. e. penner.) .--. mit plan. a . dickens, the cricket on the hearth. (oberl. b. . . röttgers.) a * . dickens, david copperfield's schooldays. (prof. . . dr. h. bahrs.) . aufl. a . dickens, a christmas carol. (oberl. b. . . röttgers.) a * . dickmann u. heuschen, französisches lesebuch. . . a . duruy, histoire de france de / . (dir. . . prof. dr. a. g. meyer.) . aufl. mit kartenskizzen u. spezialkarte. a * . duruy, biographies d'hommes célèbres des temps . . anciens et modernes. (oberlehrer karl penner.) mit abbildungen. . aufl. a * . duruy, règne de louis xiv de -- . . . . aufl. (professor dr. h. müller.) mit karte. a * . duruy, règne de louis xvi et la révolution .--. française. (prof. dr. h. müller.) mit karte und plan. c . edgeworth, lacy lawrence. (oberl. dr. fr. . . lotsch). t.a. * . edgeworth, miss, popular tales. . . c . eliot, tom and maggie. stufe iv. (e. merhaut.) a * . english history. (prof. dr. wershoven.) [ . . karten, pläne.] . aufl. a . english letters. (prof. dr. ernst regel.) . . a * . english school life. (prof. dr. f. j. . . wershoven.) dasselbe. mit englischen anmerkungen . . a * . erckmann-chatrian, histoire d'un conscrit de . . . [im auszuge]. (dir. prof. dr. g. strien.) . aufl. mit karte. a * . erckmann-chatrian, waterloo. [im auszuge]. (dr. . . jos. aymeric.) . aufl. mit karte. t.a. * . erzählungen, ausgewählte (courier, toepffer, . . dumas, mérimée, souvestre). c . erzählungen, ausgew. (mlle cornaz, mme colomb, . . paul de musset) . c . erzählungen, ausgew. aus: voyage en france par . . deux soeurs par c. juranville et p. berger. stufe i. (dr. cl. klöpper.). c . erzählungen aus dem französischen schulleben. . . stufe iii u. iv. (prof. dr. f. j. wershoven.) a . erzählungen, franz. [souvestre, .--. erckm.-chatrian, reybaud]. (prof. wolpert.) c . ev.-green, the secret of the old house. stufe . . iii. (e. taubenspeck.) t.a. * . fénelon, aventures de télémaque. . . a . figuier, scènes et tableaux de la nature. (dir. . . prof. l. e. rolfs.) c . fleuriot, plus tard ou le jeune chef de . . famille. stufe iii. (dr. meyer.) t.a. * . florian, guillaume tell. . . a . forbes, my experiences of the war between . . france and germany. (dr. wilh. heymann.) c . françaises illustres. stufe iii u. iv. (prof. . . dr. f. j. wershoven.) a * . la france, anthologie géographique. (dir. prof. . . j. leitritz.) . aufl. mit abbildungen u. karte von frankreich. a . franklin, the life of franklin. (dir. f. . . wüllenweber.) . aufl. mit karte. a . frédéric le gr., correspond. avec voltaire. . . (prof. dr. hoffmann.) a * . gardiner, historical biographies. (prof. g. . . wolpert.) . aufl. b . gedichte. auswahl englischer gedichte. (dir. . . prof. dr. e. gropp und dir. prof. dr. e. hausknecht.) . aufl. bogen o. dazu »kommentar« von e. gropp u. e. hausknecht. . . teile. geb. b . gedichte. auswahl französ. gedichte (dir. prof. .--. dr. e. gropp und dir. prof. dr. e. hausknecht.) bgn. o. .- . tausend. dazu »kommentar« v. e. gropp u. e. hausknecht. . . . aufl. geb. a . géographie de la france. (dir. prof. dr. ew. . . goerlich.) ausgabe mit nur französischen anmerkungen. a . geography of the british empire. (dir. prof. . . dr. ew. goerlich.) ausgabe mit nur englischen anmerkungen. a . gibbon, history of the . and . crusades. . . (dir. dr. f. hummel.) mit plänen. c . girardin, récits de la vie réelle. stufe iv. . . (rektor k. zwerg.) b . gobineau, alexandre. (prof. dr. völcker.) . . t.a. * . goldsmith, the vicar of wakefield. . . a * . grimm frères, contes choisis. [ausw.] (dir. .--. prof. l. e. rolfs.) a * . grimm's and hauff's fairy tales. (dir. prof. . . dr. e. penner.) a * . gros, récits d'aventures et expéditions au pôle . . nord. (oberlehrer dr. l. hasberg.) mit karte. a . guizot, histoire de la révolution d'angleterre . . de - . (prof. dr. a. althaus.) mit karte. a . guizot, histoire de la civilisation. [auswahl.] . . (prof. dr. a. kressner.) . aufl. a . guizot, washington. (dr. cl. klöpper.) mit . . karte. a * . halévy, l'invasion. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) m. . . plänen. . aufl. c . hanson, stories of king arthur. stufe iii. (dr. .--. cl. klöpper.) a * . henty, when london burned. (professor g. . . wolpert.) a * . henty, yarns on the beach, a bundle of tales. . . [do your duty -- surly joe -- a fish-wife's dream]. (oberl. dr. eule.) a . d'hérisson, journal d'un officier d'ordonnance. . . (dr. u. cosack.) mit plänen. . aufl. a . d'hérisson, journal d'un interprète en chine. . . (prof. dr. a. krause.) c . hope, asc. r., stories of engl. girlhood. . . (prof. dr. j. klapperich.) a * . hume, the reign of queen elizabeth. (dir. prof. . . dr. a. fritzsche.) . aufl. mit karte. a . hume, history of charles i. and of the . . commonwealth. (prof. dr. f. j. wershoven.) mit karte. a . hume, the foundation of english liberty. (prof. . . bohne.) [ karten.] a . irving, christmas. (oberl. dr. g. tanger.) . . a * . irving, tales of the alhambra. (hofr. dir. dr. . . wernekke.) . aufl. a . irving, bracebridge hall or the humorists. . . (prof. dr. wolpert). c . king lear. -- grace darling by eva hope. -- . . some eminent women of our times by fawcett. -- florence nightingale. -- elizabeth fry. stufe iv. (b. mühry.) a . lamartine, captivité, procès et mort de louis . . xvi etc. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) . aufl. mit abbildung u. plänen. t.a. * . lamartine, nelson. . . t.a. * . lamartine, christophe colomb. . . t.a. * . lamartine, gutenberg et jacquard. . . a * . lamé-fleury, histoire de la découverte de . . l'amérique. (prof. dr. m. schmidt.) . aufl. a * . lamé-fleury, histoire de france de - . .--. (oberlehrer dr. j. hengesbach.) . aufl. a * . lamé-fleury, histoire de france de - . . . (oberlehrer dr. j. hengesbach.) mit karte. . aufl. a * . lanfrey, campagne de - . (professor dr. . . otto klein.) . aufl. mit karten und plänen. a * . lanfrey, campagne de . (prof. dr. otto . . klein.) . aufl. mit plänen. a * . lanfrey, campagne de . (prof. dr. otto . . klein.) . aufl. mit plänen. a * . lectures historiques. (prof. dr. f. j. . . wershoven.) . aufl. c . le petit paresseux. er voyage du petit louis . . d'après mme de witt née guizot. histoire d'une petite fille heureuse par mme bersier. stufe i. (m. mühry.) c . little susy's little servants by prentiss. -- . . story told etc. by bakewell. -- the true history etc. by brunefille. -- topo by brunefille stufe i. (b. mühry.) a . littré, comment j'ai fait mon dictionnaire. . . causerie. (prof. dr. imelmann.) c . livre de lecture pour les enfants de - ans. . . stufe!i. (oberlehrer dr. fr. lotsch.) a * . london and its environs. (direktor professor j. . . leitritz.) mit abbildungen und plänen. a . macaulay, state of england in . (professor . . dr. a. kressner.) . aufl. mit plan. a . macaulay, lord clive. (prof. dr. a. kressner.) . . . aufl. [karte.] a . macaulay, warren hastings. (prof. dr. . . kressner.) . aufl. [karte.] a . macaulay, the duke of monmouth. . . (kreisschulinsp. dr. o. werner.) . aufl. mit karte. a . macaulay, james ii. descent on ireland. (prof. . . dr. otto hallbauer.) c . macé, la france avant les francs. stufe iv. . . (rektor k. zwerg.) c . de maistre, la jeune sibérienne. stufe iv. .--. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) c . malot, h., romain kalbris. stufe iv. (m. . . mühry.) mit karte. a . marbot, retraite de la grande armée et bataille . . de leipzig. (prof. dr. stange.) a * . marryat, the children of the new forest. (prof. . . g. wolpert.) . aufl. a . marryat, masterman ready or the wreck of the . . pacific. (prof. adolf mager.) a . marryat, the three cutters. (dr. r. miller.) . . . aufl. mit karte. a * . marryat, the settlers in canada. (kgl. . . regierungs- u. schulrat jos. heuschen.) c . maxime du camp, deux petites nouvelles. aus: . . bons coeurs et braves gens u. mme léonie d'aunet, le spitzberg. aus: voyage d'une femme au spitzberg. stufe iv. (dr. cl. klöpper.) a . mérimée, colomba. (dir. prof. j. leitritz.) . . . aufl. a * . michaud, siège d'antioche et prise de . . jérusalem. (dir. dr. f. hummel.) . aufl. mit karten und abbild. a * . michaud, moeurs et coutumes des croisades. . . (dir. dr. f. hummel.) . aufl. a * . michaud, influence et résultats des croisades. . . (dir. dr. f. hummel.) . aufl. a * . michaud, histoire de la me croisade. (prof. . . dr. o. klein.) t.a. * . michaud, la troisième croisade. . . a * . mignet, histoire de la terreur. [aus: histoire . . de la révolution française]. (prof. a. ey.) . aufl. mit plan. a . mignet, essai sur la formation territoriale et . . politique de la france. (oberlehrer dr. a. korell.) mit karte. a . mignet, vie de franklin. (prof. h. voss.) mit .--. karte. a * . mirabeau, discours choisis. (prof. dr. o. .--. klein.) mit bild mirabeaus. b . molière, le misanthrope. (prof. dr. w. . . mangold.) . aufl. b . molière, l'avare. (prof. dr. w. mangold.) . . . aufl. b . molière, le bourgeois gentilhomme. (prof. dr. . . w. mangold.) . aufl. b . molière, les femmes savantes. (prof. dr. w. . . mangold.) . aufl. b . molière, les précieuses ridicules. (prof. dr. . . w. mangold.) a . molière et le théâtre en france. (prof. dr. f. . . j. wershoven.) a * . monod, allemands et français. (direktor dr. w. . . kirschten.) . aufl. mit kartenskizzen und karte. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen . . a . montesquieu, considérations sur les causes de . . la grandeur des romains, etc. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) a . nouvelles choisies [cladel, foley, normand]. . . (prof. dr. a. kressner.) c . oliphant mrs., agnes hopetoun's school and .--. holidays. -- the experiences of a little girl. (e. taubenspeck.) a * . paris et ses environs. (dir. prof. j. .--. leitritz.) . aufl. mit abbildungen, karte und stadtplan. dieser band ist von iib bis ia gleich nutzbringend zu verwenden. t.a. * . parley, the book of wonders. . . a . passy, le petit poucet du xixe siècle g. . . stephenson et la naissance des chemins de fer. (oberl. b. röttgers.) mit abbild. a * . perrault, contes de fées. (oberl. dr. a. .--. mohrbutter.) b . piron, la métromanie. (professor dr. a. . . kressner.) c . poor nelly. by the author of "mr. burke's . . nieces" etc. stufe ii. (b. mühry.) .- . tausend. a * . porchat, le berger et le proscrit. (kgl. .--. regierungs- und schulrat j. heuschen.) c . probable sons. stufe iii. (elisabeth dickmann.) . . t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts . . (mme de sévigné, le sage, montesquieu, voltaire). t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts. . . i. teil. t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts. . . ii. teil. t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts. . . iii. teil. t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts. . . iv. teil. b . racine, britannicus. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) .--. . aufl. b . racine, athalie. (direktor dr. f. hummel.) . . . aufl. b . racine, phèdre. (professor dr. a. kressner.) . . . aufl. a . recent travel and adventure. livingstone, .--. stanley, emin pasha, gordon, greely, nordenskjöld. (prof. dr. j. klapperich.) karten. a . reden, ausgewählte, englischer staatsmänner. i. . . [pitt d. Ä. u. d. j.] (prof. dr. j. c. a. winkelmann.) a . reden, ausgewählte, englischer staatsmänner. . . ii. [burke: ostind. bill des ch. j. fox.] (prof. dr. j. c. a. winkelmann.) a . reden, ausgewählte, französischer kanzelredner . . [bossuet, fléchier, massillon]. (professor dr. a. kressner.) b . regnard, le joueur. (oberlehrer dr. otto . . boerner.) a . robertson, charles v. and francis i. from . . - . (professor dr. h. bahrs.) a . saintine, picciola. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) . . b . sandeau, mlle de la seiglière. (prof. dr. j. . . sarrazin.) . aufl. a * . sarcey, le siège de paris. (dr. u. cosack.) mit . . karte. . aufl. a . scott, history of france from - . (prof. . . dr. h. fehse.) mit karte und plänen. a * . scott, sir william wallace and robert the . . bruce. [aus: tales of a grandfather]. (professor dr. h. fehse.) . aufl. a . scott, ivanhoe. [auszug], (dir. prof. dr. e. . . penner.) . aufl. a . scott, scenes from old-scottish life. [aus: the . . fair maid of perth]. (professor dr. h. bahrs.) mit karte. a * . scott, mary stuart. (direktor prof. dr. a. . . fritzsche.) a * . scott, kenilworth. [auszug.] (oberl. dr. . . mohrbutter.) a * . scott, quentin durward. (dr. felix pabst.) . . b . scott, the lady of the lake. (prof. dr. . . werner.) mit karte. b . scribe, le verre d'eau. (dir. prof. l. e. . . rolfs.) t.a. * . scribe et delavigne. le diplomate etc. . . a . ségur, napoléon á moscou und passage de la . . bérézina. (dir. prof. dr. a. hemme.) . aufl. mit plänen. c . sewell, anna, black beauty. stufe iii. (b. . . mühry.) seymour, siehe chaucer. b . shakespeare, macbeth. (dir. prof. dr. e. . . penner.) . aufl. b . shakespeare, julius cæsar. (dir. prof. dr. e. . . penner.) . aufl. b . shakespeare, the merchant of venice. (direktor . . dr. otto e. a. dickmann.) . aufl. b . shakespeare, coriolanus. (dir. prof. dr. e. . . penner.) ausgabe mit nur englischen anmerkungen. a . shakespeare and the england of shakespeare. . . (prof. dr. wershoven.) a . southey, the life of nelson. (prof. dr. w. . . parow.) mit skizzen, kärtchen und schiffsbild. . aufl. a . souvestre, confessions d'un ouvrier. (prof. o. . . josupeit.) . aufl. a * . souvestre, au coin du feu. (oberlehrer dr. a. . . mohrbutter.) t.a. * . souvestre, un philosophe sous les toits. . . c . sprachstoff für den anschauungs- u. . . sprachunterricht von f. strübing. i.b. [bauernhof, wald, ernte, herbst.] stufe iv. (m. altgelt.) c . sprachstoff f. d. anschauungs- u. . . sprachunterricht v. f. strübing. ii.b. [winter, hafen, mühle, gebirgsgegend.] stufe iv. (m. altgelt.) c . spyri, reseli aux roses. bastien et franceline. . . stufe ii. (dr. cl. klöpper.) c . stahl, maroussia. stufe iv. (m. mühry.) . . a . swift, gulliver's travels. i. (dir. dr. f. . . hummel.) a . swift, gulliver's travels. ii. (dir. dr. f. . . hummel.) a * . taine, les origines de la france contemporaine. . . (prof. dr. otto hoffmann.) . aufl. a * . tales and stories from modern writers. i. . . bändchen. (prof. dr. j. klapperich.) . aufl. a . theuriet, la princesse verte. (dir. prof. l. e. .--. rolfs.) a * . theuriet, ausgew. erzählungen. (prof. dr. a. . . gundlach.) . aufl. a . theuriet, les enchantements de la forêt. . . [auswahl.] (dir. prof. ludwig e. rolfs.) a . thierry, histoire d'attila. (prof. dr. . . wershoven.) [ karte.] . aufl. a . thierry, guillaume le conquérant. (dir. prof. . . j. leitritz.) mit karte und schlachtenplan. a * . thiers, expédition de bonaparte en Égypte. . . (prof dr. otto klein.) . aufl. mit karten. a . thiers, campagne d'italie en . (prof. dr. . . a. althaus.) . aufl. mit karte und plänen. c . traill, mrs., in the forest or pictures of life . . and scenery in the woods of canada. stufe ii. (dr. cl. klöpper.) a * . verne, christophe colomb. (dr. o. mielck.) .--. a . de vigny, cinq-mars ou une conjuration sous . . louis xiii. (direktor prof. dr. g. strien.) . aufl. a * . de vigny, la canne de jonc et le cachet rouge. . . (prof. dr. kasten.) a . villemain, hist. du protect. de cromwell. . . (prof. dr. a. gundlach.) a . voltaire, guerre de la succession d'espagne. . . [aus: siècle de louis xiv]. (geh. regierungsrat prof. dr. r. foss.) a * . voltaire, histoire de charles xii. (dir. prof. . . dr. k. mühlefeld.) . aufl. mit karte und plänen. b . voltaire, mérope. (dr. r. mahrenholtz.) .--. b . voltaire, zaïre. (dr. r. mahrenholtz.) .--. b . voltaire, tancrède. (dr. r. mahrenholtz.) .--. t.a. * . voltaire, pierre le grand. . . a . yonge, the book of golden deeds. (prof. g. .--. wolpert.) t.a. * . yonge, the book of golden deeds. . . anmerkungen zur transkription die kapitelüberschriften, die der buchvorlage als seitenüberschriften beigegeben waren, wurden an die kapitelanfänge verschoben. verlagsanzeigen wurden am ende des buches vereinigt. hervorhebungen, die im original g e s p e r r t oder kursiv sind, wurden mit unterstrichen wie _hier_ gekennzeichnet. fette schrift wurde ¶so¶ markiert. offensichtliche druckfehler wurden berichtigt wie hier aufgeführt (vorher/nachher): ... frances hodgsons burnett ... ... frances hodgson burnett ... [s. vi]: ... erscheinende kürzungen, wie: i'd, he'd, i'll, h'ell u. a., ... ... erscheinende kürzungen, wie: i'd, he'd, i'll, he'll u. a., ... [s. ]: ... is'nt, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled ... ... isn't, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled ... [s. ]: ... "why, boss!" he exlaimed, "d'ye know him yerself?" ... ... "why, boss!" he exclaimed, "d'ye know him yerself?" ... [s. ]: ... erfolgte die unabhängigkeitserklärung (declaration of independance ... ... erfolgte die unabhängigkeitserklärung (declaration of independence ... [s. ]: ... massachusetts, new-hampshire, conne(c)ticut, rode island, new ... ... massachusetts, new-hampshire, conne(c)ticut, rhode island, new ... [s. ]: ... york, new jersey, pensylvania, delaware, maryland, south ... ... york, new jersey, pennsylvania, delaware, maryland, south ... ... den schülern im stiche lassen; sie fehlen bei den ... ... den schüler im stiche lassen; sie fehlen bei den ... hildegarde's home [illustration: hildegarde and the china pots.--_frontispiece._] hildegarde's home by laura e. richards author of "queen hildegarde," "hildegarde's holiday," "captain january," etc. illustrated boston estes and lauriat publishers copyright, , by estes and lauriat. typography by j. s. cushing & co., boston. contents. chapter page i. the home itself ii. a dish of gossip iii. morning hours iv. a walk and an adventure v. uncle and nephew vi. cousin jack vii. miss agatha's cabinet viii. the poplars ix. the cousins x. bonny sir hugh xi. a call and a conspiracy xii. the second act xiii. a picnic xiv. over the jam-pots xv. at the brown cottage xvi. good-by! list of illustrations. page hildegarde and the china pots _frontispiece_ "it was very pleasant up in this airy bower" "jack ferrers appeared carrying a huge bunch of roses" "hildegarde had been making friends with merlin" hildegarde finding hugh and merlin by the brook hugh and colonel ferrers over the jam pots "he gave me a lunge in quart" hildegarde's home. chapter i. the home itself. it was a pleasant place. the house was a large, low, old-fashioned one, with the modern addition of a deep, wide verandah running across its front. before it was a circular sweep of lawn, fringed with trees; beside it stood a few noble elms, which bent lovingly above the gambrel roof. there were some flower-beds, rather neglected-looking, under the south windows, and there was a kitchen-garden behind the house. this was all that hildegarde grahame had seen so far of her new home, for she had only just arrived. she stood now on the verandah, looking about her with keen, inquiring eyes, a tall, graceful girl, very erect, with a certain proud carriage of the head. her dress of black and white shepherd's plaid was very simple, but it fitted to perfection, and there was a decided "air" to her little black felt hat. hildegarde's father had died about six months before the time our story opens. he had been very wealthy, but many of his investments had shrunk in value, and the failure of a bank whose cashier had proved dishonest entailed heavy losses upon him; so that, after his death, it was found that the sum remaining for his widow and only child, after all debts were paid, was no very large one. they would have enough to live on, and to live comfortably; but the "big luxuries," as hildegarde called them, the horses and carriages, the great new york house with its splendid furniture and troops of servants, must go; and go they did, without loss of time. perhaps neither hildegarde nor her mother regretted these things much. mrs. grahame had been for years an indefatigable worker, giving most of her time to charities; she knew that she should never rest so long as she lived in new york. hildegarde had been much in the country during the past two years, had learned to love it greatly, and found city life too "cabined, cribbed, confined," to suit her present taste. the dear father had always preferred to live in town; but now that he was gone, they were both glad to go away from the great, bustling, noisy, splendid place. so, when mrs. grahame's lawyer told her that an aged relative, who had lately died, had left his country house as a legacy to her, both she and hildegarde said at once, "let us go and live there!" accordingly, here they were! or to speak more accurately, here hildegarde was, for she and auntie (auntie was the black cook; she had been mrs. grahame's nurse, and had been cook ever since hildegarde was a baby) had come by an early train, and were to have everything as comfortable as might be by the time mrs. grahame and the little housemaid, who had stayed to help her pack the last trifles, should arrive in the afternoon. it was so pleasant on the wide verandah, with the great elms nodding over it, that hildegarde lingered, until a mellow "miss hildy, chile! you comin'?" summoned her in-doors. auntie had already put on her white jacket and apron, without which she never considered herself dressed, and her muslin turban looked like a snow-drift on an ebony statue. she had opened the door of a large room, and was peering into it, feather duster in hand. "'spose this is the parlour!" she said, with a glance of keen observation. "comicalest parlour ever i see!" hildegarde stepped lightly across the threshold. it _was_ a singular room, but, she thought, a very pleasant one. the carpet on the floor was thick and soft, of some eastern fabric, but so faded that the colours were hardly distinguishable. against the walls stood many chairs, delicate, spider-legged affairs, with cushions of faded tapestry. the curtains might once have been crimson, when they had any colour. a table in the exact centre of the room was covered with a worked cloth of curious and antique pattern, and on it were some venerable annuals, and "finden's tableaux," bound in green morocco. in a dim corner stood the great-grandmother of all pianos. it was hardly larger than a spinnet, and was made of some light-coloured, highly polished wood, cunningly inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. over the yellow keys was a painting, representing apollo (attired, to all appearance, like the "old man on a hill," in his grandmother's gown), capering to the sound of his lyre, and followed by nine young ladies in pink and green frocks. the last young lady carried a parasol, showing that the muses thought as much of their complexions as other people do. at sight of this venerable instrument hildegarde uttered a cry of delight, and, running across the room, touched a few chords softly. the sound was faint and tinkling, but not unmusical. auntie sniffed audibly. "reckon my kittle makes a better music 'an that!" she said; and then, relenting, she added, "might ha' been pooty once, i dassay. that's a pooty picture, anyhow, over the mankel-piece." hildegarde looked up, and saw a coloured print of a lady in the costume of the first empire, with golden ringlets, large blue eyes, particularly round rosy cheeks, and the most amiable simper in the world. beneath was the inscription, "madame récamier, napoleon's first love." "oh!" cried hildegarde, half-laughing, half-indignant, "how ridiculous! she wasn't, you know! and she never looked like that, any more than i do. but see, auntie! see this great picture of general washington, in his fine scarlet coat. i am sure you must admire that! why!--it cannot be--yes, it is! it is done in worsted-work. fine cross-stitch, every atom of it. oh! it makes my eyes ache to think of it." auntie nodded approvingly. "that's what i call work!" she said. "that's what young ladies used to do when i was a gal. don't see no sech work nowadays, only just a passel o' flowers and crooked lines, and calls it embr'idery." "oh! you ungrateful old auntie," cried hildegarde, "when i marked your towels so beautifully last week. here! since you are so fond of cross-stitch, take this dreadful yellow sofa-pillow, with pink roses worked on it. it will just fit your own beloved rocking-chair, with the creak in it, and you may have it for your very own." the pillow flew across the room, and auntie, catching it, disappeared with a chuckle, while hildegarde resumed her examination of the quaint old parlour. the "cross-stitch" was everywhere: on the deep, comfortable old sofa, where one leaned against a stag-hunt, and had a huntsman blowing his horn on either arm; on the chairs, where one might sit on baskets of flowers, dishes of fruit, or cherubs' heads, as one's fancy dictated; on the long fender-stool, where an appalling line of dragons, faintly red, on a ground that had been blue, gaped open-mouthed, as if waiting to catch an unwary foot. "oh! their _poor_ eyes!" cried hildegarde. "how _could_ their mothers let them?" she passed her hand compassionately over the fine lines of the stag-hunt. "were they girls, do you suppose?" she went on, talking to herself, as she was fond of doing. "girls like me, or slender old spinsters, like the chairs and the piano? mamma must have known some of them when she was a child; she said she had once made a visit here. i must ask her all about them. uncle aytoun! what a pity he isn't alive, to show us about his house! but if he were alive, we should not be here at all. so nice of you to leave the house to mamma, dear sir, just as if you had been her real uncle, instead of her father's cousin. you must have been a very nice old gentleman. i like old gentlemen." the girl paused, and presently gave an inquiring sniff. "what is it?" she said meditatively. "not exactly mould, for it is dry; not must, for it is sweet. the smell of this particular room, for it, suits it exactly. it is"--she sniffed again--"it is as if some aytoun ladies before the flood had made _pot-pourri_, and it had somehow kept dry. let us examine this matter!" she tiptoed about the room, and, going round the corner of the great chimney, found a cupboard snugly tucked in beside it. she opened it, with a delightful thrill of curiosity. hildegarde did love cupboards! of course, there might be nothing at all--but there was something! on the very first shelf stood a row of china pots, carefully covered, and from these pots came the faint, peculiar perfume which seemed so to form part of the faded charm of the room. the pots were of delicate white porcelain, one with gold sprigs on it, one with blue flowers, and one with pink. "belonging to three aytoun sisters!" said hildegarde. "of course! dear things! if they had only written their names on the jars!" she lifted the gold-sprigged jar with reverent hands. lo, and behold! on the cover was pasted a neat label, which said, "hester's recipe, june, --." she examined the other two jars eagerly. they bore similar legends, with the names "agatha" and "barbara." on all the writing was in minute but strongly marked characters; the three hands were different, yet there was a marked resemblance. hildegarde stood almost abashed, as if she had found herself in presence of the three ladies themselves. "the question is"--she murmured apologetically--and then she stooped and sniffed carefully, critically, at the three jars in turn. "there is no doubt about it!" she said at last. "hester's recipe is the best, for it has outlived the others, and given its character to the whole room. poor miss agatha and miss barbara! how disappointed they would be!" as she closed the cupboard softly and turned away, it almost seemed--almost, but not quite, for though hildegarde had a lively imagination, she was not at all superstitious--as though she heard a faint sigh, and saw the shadowy forms of the three aytoun sisters turning away sadly from the cupboard where their treasure was kept. the shadow was her own, the sigh was that of an evening breeze as it stole in between the faded curtains; but hildegarde had a very pretty little romance made up by the time she reached the other side of the long room, and when she softly closed the door, it was not without a whispered "good evening!" to the three ladies whom she left in possession. shaking off the dream, she ran quickly up the winding stairs, and turned into the pleasant, sunny room which she had selected as the best for her mother's bedchamber. it was more modern-looking than the rest of the house, in spite of its quaint chinese-patterned chintz hangings and furniture; this was partly owing to a large bow-window which almost filled one side, and through which the evening light streamed in cheerfully. hildegarde had already unpacked a trunk of "alicumtweezles" (a word not generally known, and meaning small but cherished possessions), and the room was a pleasant litter of down pillows, cologne-bottles, work-implements, photograph cases and odd books. now she inspected the chairs with a keen and critical eye, pounced upon one, sat down in it, shook her head and tried another. finding this to her mind, she drew it into the bow-window, half-filled it with a choice assortment of small pillows, and placed a little table beside it, on which she set a fan, a bottle of cologne, a particularly inviting little volume of wordsworth (hildegarde had not grown up to wordsworth yet, but her mother had), a silver bonbonnière full of marquis chocolate-drops, and a delicate white knitting-basket which was having a little sunset of its own with rose-coloured "saxony." "there!" said hildegarde, surveying this composition with unfeigned satisfaction. "if that isn't attractive, i don't know what is. she won't eat the chocolates, of course, bless her! but they give it an air, and i can eat them for her. and now i must put away towels and pillow-cases, which is not so interesting." at this moment, however, the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel, and tossing the linen on the bed, hildegarde ran down to welcome her mother. mrs. grahame was very tired, and was glad to come directly up to the pleasant room, and sink down in the comfortable chair which was holding out its stout chintz arms to receive her. "what a perfect chair!" she said, taking off her bonnet and looking about her. "what a very pleasant room! i know you have given me the best one, you dear child!" "i hope so!" said hildegarde. "i meant to, certainly-- oh, no!" she started forward and took the bonnet which mrs. grahame was about to lay on the table; "this table is to take things from, dear. i must give you another to put things on." "i see!" said her mother, surveying the decorated table with amusement. "this is a still-life piece, and a very pretty one. but how can i possibly take anything off it? i should spoil the harmony. the straw-covered cologne-bottle makes just the proper background for the chocolates, and though i should like to wet my handkerchief with it, i do not dare to disturb--" "take care!" cried hildegarde, snatching up the bottle and deluging the handkerchief with its contents. "you might hurt my feelings, mrs. grahame, and that would not be pleasant for either of us. and you know it is pretty, _quand même_!" "it is, my darling, very pretty!" said her mother, "and you are my dear, thoughtful child, as usual. the wordsworth touch i specially appreciate. he is so restful, with his smooth, brown covers. your white and gold shelley, there, would have been altogether too exciting for my tired nerves." "oh! i have nothing to say against mr. w.'s _covers_!" said hildegarde with cheerful malice. "they are charming covers. and now tell me what kind of journey you had, and how you got through the last agonies, and all about it." "why, we got through very well indeed!" said mrs. grahame. "janet was helpful and quick as usual, and hicks nailed up all the boxes, and took charge of everything that was to be stored or sold. sad work! but i am glad it is done." she sighed, and hildegarde sat down on the floor beside her, and leaned her cheek against the beloved mother-hand. "dear!" she said, and that was all, for each knew the other's thoughts. it was no light matter, the breaking up of a home where nearly all the young girl's life, and the happiest years of her mother's, had been passed. every corner in the new york house was filled with memories of the dear and noble man whom they so truly mourned, and it had seemed to them both, though they had not spoken of it, as if in saying good-by to the home which he had loved, they were taking another and a more final farewell of him. so they sat in silence for a while, the tender pressure of the hand saying more than words could have done; but when mrs. grahame spoke at last, it was in her usual cheerful tone. "so at last everything was ready, and i locked the door, and gave the keys to the faithful hicks" (hicks had been the grahames' butler for several years), "and then hicks came down to the station with me, and did everything that was possible to secure a comfortable journey for me--and janet." "poor hicks!" said hildegarde, smiling. "it must have been very hard for him to say good-by to you--and janet." "i think it was!" said mrs. grahame. "he asked me, very wistfully, if we should not need some one to take care of the garden, and said he was very fond of out-door work; but i had to tell him that we should only need a 'chore-man,' to do odds and ends of work, and should not keep a gardener. at this he put on a face like three days of rain, as your grimm story says, and the train started, and that was all. "and now tell me, sweetheart," she added, "what have been your happenings. first of all, how do you like the house?" "oh, it's a jewel of a house!" replied hildegarde with enthusiasm. "you told me it was pleasant, but i had no idea of anything like this. the verandah itself is worth the whole of most houses. then the parlour! such a wonderful parlour! i am sure you will agree with me that it would be sacrilege to put any of our modern belongings in it. i did give auntie one hideous sofa-pillow, but otherwise i have touched nothing. it is a perfect museum of cross-stitch embroidery, sacred to the memory of miss barbara, miss agatha, and miss hester." mrs. grahame smiled. "how did you discover their names?" she asked. "i was saving them for an after-supper 'tell' for you, and now you have stolen my thunder, you naughty child." "not a single growl of it!" cried hildegarde eagerly. "i am fairly prancing with impatience to hear about them. all i know is their names, which i found written on three bow-pots in the cupboard. i went mousing about, like little silver-hair, and instead of three porridge-pots, found these. miss hester's was the only pot that had any 'sniff' left to speak of; from which i inferred that she was the sprightliest of the three sisters, and perhaps the youngest and prettiest. now _don't_ tell me that she was the eldest, and lackadaisical, and cross-eyed!" "i will not!" said mrs. grahame, laughing. "i will not tell you anything till i have had my tea. i had luncheon at one o'clock, and it is now--" "seven!" cried hildegarde, springing up, and beating her breast. "you are starved, my poor darling, and i am a jew, turk, infidel, and heretic; i always was!" she ran out to call janet; when lo, there was janet just coming up to tell them that tea was ready. she was the prettiest possible janet, as scotch as her name, with rosy cheeks and wide, innocent blue eyes, and "lint-white locks," as a scotch lassie should have. "no wonder," thought hildegarde, "that hicks looked like '_drei tage regenwetter_' at parting from her." "tea is ready, you say, janet?" cried hildegarde. "that is good, for we are 'gay and ready,' as you say. come, my mother! let us go and see what auntie has for us." mother and daughter went down arm-in-arm, like two school-girls. they had to pick their way carefully, for the lamps had not been lighted, and there was not daylight enough to shed more than a faint glimmer on the winding stairs; but when they reached the dining-room a very blaze of light greeted them. there were no less than six candles on the table, in six silver candlesticks shaped like corinthian columns. (auntie had hidden these candlesticks in her own trunk, with a special eye to this effect.) on the table also was everything good, and hot blueberry cake beside; and behind it stood auntie herself, very erect and looking so solemn that mrs. grahame and hildegarde stopped in the doorway, and stood still for a moment. the black woman raised her head with a gesture of tenderness, not without majesty. "de lord bless de house to ye!" she said solemnly. "de lord send ye good victuals, and plenty of 'em! de lord grant ye never want for nothin', forever an' ever, give glory, amen!" and with an answering "amen!" on their lips, hildegarde and her mother sat down to their first meal in their new home. chapter ii. a dish of gossip. the evening was too lovely to spend in the house, so mrs. grahame and hildegarde went from the tea-table out on the verandah, where some low, comfortable straw chairs were already placed. it was june, and the air was full of the scent of roses, though there were none in sight. there was no moon, but it was hardly missed, so brilliant were the stars, flashing their golden light down through the elm-branches. they sat for some time, enjoying the quiet beauty of the night. then--"i think we shall be happy here, dear!" said hildegarde softly. "it feels like home already." "i am glad to hear you say that!" replied her mother. "surely the place itself is charming. i hope, too, that you may find some pleasant companions, of your own age. yes, i can see you shake your head, even in the dark; and of course we shall be together constantly, my darling; but i still hope you will find some girl friend, since dear rose (rose was hildegarde's bosom friend) cannot be with us this summer. now tell me, did you find mrs. lankton here when you arrived? we don't seem to have come down to details yet." hildegarde began to laugh. "i should think we did find her!" she said. "your coming put it all out of my head, you see. well, when auntie and i drove up, there was this funny little old dame standing in the doorway, looking so like mrs. gummidge that i wanted to ask her on the spot if mr. peggotty was at home. she began shaking her head and sighing, before we could get out of the wagon. 'ah, dear me!' she said. 'dear me! and this is the young lady, i suppose. ah! yes, indeed! and the housekeeper, i suppose. well, well! i'm proper glad to see you. ah, dear, dear!' all this was said in a tone of the deepest dejection, and she kept on shaking her head and sighing. auntie spoke up pretty smartly, 'i'm de cook!' she said. 'if you'll take dis basket, ma'am, we'll do de lamintations ourselves!' mrs. lankton didn't hear the last part of the remark, but she took the basket, and auntie and i jumped out. 'i suppose you are mrs. lankton, the care-taker,' i said, as cheerfully as i could. 'ah, yes, dear!' she said, mournfully. 'i'm mrs. lankton, the widow lankton, housekeeper to mr. aytoun as was, and care-taker since his dee-cease. i've took care, miss grahame, my dear. there ain't no one could keep things more car'ful nor i have. if i've had trouble, it hasn't made me no less car'ful. ah, dear me! it's a sorrowful world. perhaps you'd like to come in.' this seemed to be a new idea to her, though we had been standing with our hands full of bundles, only waiting for her to move. she led the way into the hall. 'this is the hall!' she said sadly; and then she stood shaking her head like a melancholy mandarin. 'i s'pose 'tis!' said auntie, who was quite furious by this time, and saw no fun in it at all. 'and i s'pose dis is a door, and i'll go t'rough it.' and off she flounced through the door at the back of the hall, where she found the kitchen for herself, as we could tell by the rattling of pans which followed. 'she's got a temper, ain't she?' said mrs. lankton sadly. 'most coloured people has. there! i had one myself, before 'twas took out of me by trouble. not that i've got any coloured blood in me, for my father was nova scoshy and my mother state of new york. shall i take you through the house, dear?'" "poor mrs. lankton!" said mrs. grahame, laughing. "she is the very spirit of melancholy. i believe she has really had a good deal of trouble. well, dear?" "well," resumed hildegarde, "i really could not have her spoil all the fun of going over the house for me; though of course she was great fun herself in a way. so i thanked her, and said i would not give her the trouble, and said i supposed she lived near, and we should often call on her when we wanted extra help. 'so do, dear!' she said, 'so do! i live right handy by, in a brown cottage with a green door, the only brown cottage, _and_ the only green door, so you can't mistake me. you've got beautiful neighbours, too,' she added, still in the depths of melancholy. 'beautiful neighbours! mis' loftus lives in the stone house over yonder. ah, dear me! she and her darter, they don't never set foot to the ground, one year's eend to the other.' 'dear me!' i said. 'are they both such invalids?' 'no, dear!' said she, sighing as if she wished they were. 'carriage folks; great carriage folks. then there's colonel ferrers lives in the brick house across the way. beautiful man, but set in his ways. never speaks to a soul, one year's eend to the other, in the way o' talk, that is. ah! dear me, yes!'" "it sounds like alice in wonderland!" exclaimed mrs. grahame. "in that direction lives a hatter, and in that direction lives a march hare. visit either you like! they're both mad." "oh, mammina, it is exactly like it!" cried hildegarde, clapping her hands. "you clever mammina! i wonder if colonel ferrers has long ears, and if his roof is thatched with fur." "hush!" said her mother, laughing. "this will not do. i know colonel ferrers, and he is an excellent man, though a trifle singular. well, dear, how did you part with your melancholy dame?" "she went away then," said hildegarde. "oh, no, she didn't. i forgot! she did insist upon showing me the room where uncle aytoun died; and--oh! mamma, it is almost too bad to tell, and yet it was very funny. she said he died like a perfect gentleman, and made a beautiful remains. then, at last, she said good-night and charged me to send for her if any of us should be ill in the night. 'comin' strange in,' she said, 'it's likely to disagree with some of you, and in spasms or anything suddint, i'm dretful knowin'.' so she went off at last, and it took me a quarter of an hour to get auntie into a good temper again." they laughed heartily at mrs. lankton's idea of "the parting word of cheer"; and then hildegarde reminded her mother of the "tell" she had promised her. "i want to know _all_ about the three ladies," she said. "they seem more real than dame lankton, somehow, for they belong here, and she never could have. so 'come tell me all, my mother, all, all that ever you know!'" "it is not so very much, after all," replied mrs. grahame, after a moment's thought. "i came here once with my father, when i was about ten years old, and stayed two or three days. miss hester was already dead; she was the youngest, the beauty of the family, and she was still young when she died. miss barbara was the eldest, a tall, slender woman, with a high nose; very kind, but a little stiff and formal. she was the head of the family, and very religious. it was saturday, i remember, when we came, and she gave me some lovely chinese ivory toys to play with, which filled the whole horizon for me. but the next morning she took them away, and gave me baxter's 'saint's rest,' which she said i must read all the morning, as i had a cold and could not go to church." "poor mammina!" said hildegarde. "not so poor," said her mother, smiling. "miss agatha came to the rescue, and took me up to her room, and let me look in the drawers of a wonderful old cabinet, full of what your dear father used to call 'picknickles and bucknickles.'" "oh! i know; i found the cabinet yesterday!" cried hildegarde in delight. "i had not time to look into it, but it was all drawers; a dark, foreign-looking thing, inlaid with ivory!" "yes, that is it," said her mother. "i wonder if the funny things are still in it? miss agatha was an invalid, and her room looked as if she lived in it a good deal. she told me bible stories in her soft, feeble voice, and showed me a very wonderful set of coloured prints illustrating the old testament. i remember distinctly that joseph's coat was striped, red, green, yellow, and blue, like a mattress ticking gone mad, and that the she-bear who came to devour the naughty children was bright pink." "oh! delightful!" cried hildegarde, laughing. "i must try to find those prints." "she told me, too, about her sister hester," mrs. grahame went on; "how beautiful she was, and how bright and gay and light-hearted. 'she was the sunshine, my dear, and we are the shadow, barbara and i,' she said. i remember the very words. and then she showed me a picture, a miniature on ivory, of a lovely girl of sixteen, holding a small harp in her arms. she had large grey eyes, i remember, and long fair curls. dear me! how it all comes back to me, after the long, long years. i can almost see that miniature now. why--why, hilda, it had a little look of you; or, rather, you look like it." the girl flushed rosy red. "i am glad," she said softly. "and she died young, you say? miss hester, i mean." "at twenty-two or three," assented her mother. "it was consumption, i believe. cousin wealthy bond once told me that hester had some sad love affair, but i know nothing more about it. i do know, however, that uncle aytoun (he was the only brother, you know, and spent much of his life at sea), i do know that he was desperately in love with dear cousin wealthy herself." "oh!" cried hildegarde. "poor old gentleman! she couldn't, of course; but i am sorry for him." "he was not old then," said mrs. grahame, smiling. "he knew of cousin wealthy's own trouble, but he was very much in love, and hoped he could make her forget it. one day--cousin wealthy told me this years and years afterward, _à prôpos_ of my own engagement--one day captain aytoun came to see her, and as it was a beautiful summer day, she took him out into the garden to see some rare lilies that were just in blossom. he looked at the lilies, but said little; he was a very silent man. presently he pulled out his card-case, and took from it a visiting-card, on which was engraved his name, 'robert f. aytoun.' he wrote something on the card, and handed it to cousin wealthy; and she read, 'robert f. aytoun's heart is yours.'" "mammina!" cried hildegarde. "can it be true? it is _too_ funny! but what could she say? dear cousin wealthy!" "i remember her very words," said mrs. grahame. "'captain aytoun, it is not my intention ever to marry; but i esteem your friendship highly, and i thank you for the honour you offer me. permit me to call your attention to this new variety of ranunculus.' but the poor captain said,--cousin wealthy could hardly bring herself to repeat this, for she thought it very shocking,--'confound the ranunculus!' and strode out of the garden and away. and cousin wealthy took the card into the house, and folded it up, and wound pearl-coloured silk on it. it may be in her work-basket now, for she never destroys anything." "oh! that was a most delightful 'tell'!" sighed hildegarde. "and now go on about miss agatha." "i fear that is all, dear," said her mother. "i remember singing some hymns, which pleased the kind cousin. then miss barbara came home from church; and i rather think her conscience had been pricking her about the 'saint's rest,' for she took me down and gave me some delicious jelly of rose leaves, which she said was good for a cold. we had waffles for tea, i remember, and we put cinnamon and sugar on them; i had never tasted the combination before, so i remember it. it was in a glass dish shaped like a pineapple. and after tea miss barbara tinkled 'jerusalem, the golden' on the piano, and we all sang, and i went to bed at nine o'clock. and that reminds me," said mrs. grahame, "that it must now be ten o'clock or after, and 'time for all good little constitutional queens to be in bed.'" "oh! must we go to bed?" sighed hildegarde. "it is so very particularly lovely here. well, i suppose we should have to go some time. good-night, dear stars! good-night, all beautiful things that i know are there, though i cannot see you!" hildegarde helped her mother to lock up the house, and then, after a parting word and caress, she took her candle and went to the room she had chosen for her own. it opened out of her mother's dressing-room, so that by setting the doors ajar, they could talk to each other when so minded; and it had a dressing-room of its own on the other side, from which a flight of narrow, corkscrew stairs descended to the ground floor. these stairs had attracted hildegarde particularly. it seemed very pleasant and important to have a staircase of one's own, which no one else could use. it is true that it was very dark, very crooked and steep, but that was no matter. the bedroom itself was large and airy; a little bare, perhaps, but hildegarde did not mind that. the white paint was very fresh and clean, and set off the few pieces of dark old mahogany furniture well,--a fine bureau, with the goddess aurora careering in brass across the front of the top drawer; a comfortable sofa, with cushions of the prettiest pale green chintz, with rosebuds scattered over it; a round table; a few spider-legged chairs; and a nondescript piece of furniture, half dressing-table, half chest of drawers, which was almost as mysteriously promising as the inlaid cabinet in miss agatha's room. the bed was large and solemn-looking, with carved posts topped by pineapples. the floor was bare, save for a square of ancient turkey carpet in the middle. hildegarde held the candle above her head, and surveyed her new quarters with satisfaction. "nice room!" she said, nodding her head. "the sort of room i have been thinking of ever since i outgrew flounces, and bows on the chairs. dear papa! when i was at the height of the flounce fever, he begged me to have a frock and trousers made for the grand piano, as he was sure it must wound my sensibilities to see it so bare. dear papa! he would like this room, too. it is a little strange-garrety to-night, but wait till i get the penates out to-morrow!" she nodded again, and then, putting on her wrapper, proceeded to brush out her long, fair hair. it was beautiful hair; and as it fell in shining waves from the brush, hildegarde began to think again of the dead hester, who had had fair hair, too, and whom her mother had thought she resembled a little. she hoped that this might have been hester's room. indeed, she had chosen it partly with this idea, though chiefly because she wished to be near her mother. it certainly was not miss agatha's room, for that was on the other side of the passage. her mother's room had been miss barbara's, she was quite sure, for "b" was embroidered on the faded cover of the dressing-table. another large room was too rigid in its aspect to have been anything but a spare room or a death chamber, and mr. aytoun's own room, where he had died like a gentleman and become a "beautiful remains," was on the ground floor. therefore, it was very plain, this must have been hester's room. here she had lived her life, a girl like herself, thought hildegarde, and had been gay and light-hearted, the sunshine of the house; and then she had suffered, and faded away and died. it was with a solemn feeling that the young girl climbed up into the great bed, and laid her head where that other fair head had lain. who could tell what was coming to her, too, in this room? and could she make sunshine for her mother, who had lost the great bright light which had warmed and cheered her during so many years? then her thoughts turned to that other light which had never failed this dear mother; and so, with a murmured "my times be in thy hand!" hildegarde fell asleep. chapter iii. morning hours. "the year's at the spring, and day's at the morn: morning's at seven; the hill-side's dew-pearled: the lark's on the wing; the snail's on the thorn; god's in his heaven-- all's right with the world!" these seemed the most natural words to sing, as hildegarde looked out of her window next morning; and sing them she did, with all her heart, as she threw open the shutters and let the glad june sunlight stream into the room. all sad thoughts were gone with the night, and now there seemed nothing but joy in the world. "where art thou, tub of my heart?" cried the girl; and she dived under the bed, and pulled out the third reason for her choosing this room. her mother, she knew, would not change for anything the comfortable "sitz," the friend of many years; so hildegarde felt at full liberty to enjoy this great white porcelain tub, shallow, three feet across, with red and blue fishes swimming all over it. she did not know that captain robert aytoun had brought it in the hold of his ship all the way from singapore, for his little hester, but she did know that it was the most delightful tub she had ever dreamed of; and as she splashed the crystal water about, she almost ceased, for the first time, to regret the blue river which had been her daily bathing-place the summer before. very fresh and sweet she looked, when at last the long locks were braided in one great smooth braid, and the pretty grey gingham put on and smoothed down. she nodded cheerfully to her image in the glass. it was, as dear cousin wealthy said, a privilege to be good-looking, and hildegarde was simply and honestly glad of her beauty. "now," she said, when the room was "picked up," and everything aërable hung up to air, "the question is, go out first and arrange the penates after breakfast, or arrange the penates now and go out later?" one more glance from the window decided the matter. "they must wait, poor dears! after all, it is more respectful to take them out when the room is made up than when it is having its sheet and pillow-case party, like this." she went down her own staircase with a proud sense of possession, and opening the door at its foot, found herself in a little covered porch, from which a flagged walk led toward the back of the house. here was a pleasant sort of yard, partly covered with broad flags, with a grassy space beyond. here were clothes-lines, well, and woodshed; and here was auntie, standing at her kitchen door, and looking well satisfied with her new quarters. "what a pleasant yard, auntie!" said hildegarde. "this is your own domain, isn't it?" "reckon 'tis!" replied the good woman, smiling. "jes' suits me, dis does. i kin have some chickens here, and do my washin' out-doors, and spread out some, 'stead o' bein' cooped up like a old hen myself." a high wall surrounded auntie's domain, and hildegarde looked round it wonderingly. "oh! there is a door," she said. "i thought mamma said there was a garden. that must be it, beyond there. call me when breakfast is ready, please, auntie." passing through the door, she closed it after her, and entered--another world. a dim, green world, wholly different from the golden, sunny one she had just left; a damp world, where the dew lay heavy on shrubs and borders, and dripped like rain from the long, pendent branches of the trees. the paths were damp, and covered with fine green moss. great hedges of box grew on either side, untrimmed, rising as high as the girl's head; and as she walked between them their cool glossy leaves brushed against her cheek. here and there was a neglected flower-bed, where a few pallid rosebuds looked sadly out, and pinks flung themselves headlong over the border, as if trying to reach the sunlight; but for the most part the box and the great elms and locusts had it their own way. hildegarde had never seen such locust-trees! they were as tall as the elms, their trunks scarred and rough with the frosts of many winters. no birds sang in their green, whispering depths; the silence of the place was heavy, weighted down with memories of vanished things. "i have no right to come here!" said hildegarde to herself. "i am sure they would not like it." something white glimmered between the bending boughs of box which interlaced across her path. she half expected to see a shadowy form confront her and wave her back; but, pushing on, she saw a neglected summer-house, entirely covered with the wild clematis called virgin's-bower. she peeped in, but did not venture across the threshold, because it looked as if there might be spiders in it. through the opposite door, however, she caught a glimpse of a very different prospect, a flash of yellow sunlight, a sunny meadow stretching up and away. skirting the summer-house carefully, she came upon a stone wall, the boundary of the garden, beyond which the broad meadow lay full in the sunlight. sitting on this wall, hildegarde felt as if half of her were in one world, and half in the other; for the dark box and the drooping elm-branches came to the very edge of the wall, while all beyond was rioting in morning and sunshine. "the new world and the old one, the green world and the gold one!" she murmured, and smiled to find herself dropping into poetry, like silas wegg. at this moment a faint sound fell on her ear, a far-away voice, which belonged wholly to the golden world, and had nothing whatever to do with the green. "hi-ya! miss hildy chile!" the mellow african voice came floating down through the trees with an imperious summons; and hildegarde jumped down from her stone perch, and came out of her dream, and went in to breakfast. "and what is to be done, mammina?" asked hildegarde, when the "eggs and the ham and the strawberry jam" were things of the past, and they were out on the piazza again. "do you realise, by the way, that we shall live chiefly on this piazza?" "it is certainly a most delightful place," said mrs. grahame. "and i do realise that while it would be quite out of the question to change anything in miss barbara's sacred parlour, it is not exactly the place to be cosy in. but, dear child, i shall have to be in my own room a good deal, as this arranging of your dear father's papers will be my chief work through the summer, probably." "oh, of course! and i shall be in my room a good deal, for there is sewing, and all that german i am going to read, and--oh, and quantities of things to do! but still we shall live here a great deal, i am sure. it is just a great pleasant room, with one side of it taken off. and it is very quiet, with the strip of lawn, and the ledge beyond. one cannot see the road, except just a bit through the gate. sometimes you can bring your writing down here, and i can grub in the flower-bed and disturb you." "thank you!" said her mother, laughing. "the prospect is singularly attractive. but, dear, you asked me a few minutes ago what was to be done. i thought it would be pleasant if we took out our various little belongings, and disposed them here and there." "just what i was longing to do!" cried hildegarde. "all my precious alicumtweezles are crying out from the trunk, and waiting for me. but don't you want me to see the butcher for you, love, or let auntie tell me what she is going to make for dessert, or perform any other sacred after-breakfast rites?" mrs. grahame shook her head, smiling, and hildegarde flew upstairs, like an arrow shot from a bow. in her room stood a huge trunk, already unlocked and unstrapped, and a box whose aspect said plainly that it contained books. all the dresses had been taken out the day before and hung in the roomy closet, pretty, simple gowns, mostly white or grey, for the dear father had disliked "mourning" extremely. now hildegarde took out her hats, the broad-brimmed straw with the white daisy wreath, the pretty white shirred mull for best, the black "rough and ready" sailor for common wear. these were laid carefully on a shelf in the closet, and covered with a light cloth to keep them from dust. this done as a matter of duty, the pleasant part began. one after another, a most astonishing array of things were taken from the trunk and laid on the bed, which spread a broad white surface to receive them: a trinket-box of ebony and silver; a plaster cast of the venus of milo, another of the pompeian psyche, both "treated" in some way that gave them the smooth lustre of old ivory; a hideous little indian idol, carved out of dark wood, with eyes of real carbuncle; a doll's tea-set of exquisite blue and white china, brought to hildegarde from pekin by a wandering uncle, when she was eight years old; a stuffed hawk, confidently asserted by its owner to be the original "jolly gosshawk" of the scottish ballad, which could "speak and flee"; a swiss cuckoo clock; several great pink-lipped shells; a butterfly net; a rattlesnake's skin; an exquisite statuette of carved wood, representing theodoric, king of the ostrogoths, a copy of the famous bronze statue at innsbruck; a large assortment of pasteboard boxes, of all sizes and shapes; three or four work-baskets; last of all, some framed photographs and engravings, and a number of polished pieces of wood, which were speedily put together into a bookcase and two or three hanging shelves. on these shelves and on the mantel-piece the various alicumtweezles were arranged and re-arranged, till at length hildegarde gave a satisfied nod and pronounced them perfect. "but now comes the hard part!" she said. "the pictures! who shall have the post of honour over the mantel-piece? come here, dear persons, and let me look at you!" she took up two engravings, both framed in gilt laurel leaves, and studied them attentively. one was the portrait of a man in cavalier dress, strikingly handsome, with dark, piercing eyes and long, curling hair. the expression of the face was melancholy, almost sombre; yet there was a strange fascination in its stern gaze. on the margin was written,-- "john grahame of claverhouse, "viscount dundee." the other portrait showed an older man, clad in a quaint dress, with a hat that would have been funny on any other head, but seemed not out of place here. the face was not beautiful, but calm and strong, with earnest, thoughtful eyes, and a firm mouth and chin. the legend bore, in curious black-letter, the words,-- "william of orange nassau, "hereditary grand stadt-holder of the netherlands." no one save hildegarde knew that on the back of this picture, turned upside down in perpetual disgrace and ridicule, was a hideous little photograph of philip ii. of spain. it was a constant gratification to her to know that it was there, and she occasionally, as now, turned it round and made insulting remarks to it. she hoped the great oranger liked to know of this humiliation of his country's foe; but william the silent kept his own counsel, as was always his way. and now the question was, which hero was to have the chief place? "you are the great one, of course, my saint!" said hildegarde, gazing into the calm eyes of the majestic dutchman, "and we all know it. but you see, he is an ancestor, and so many people hate him, poor dear!" she looked from one to the other, till the fixed gaze of the pictured eyes grew really uncomfortable, and she fancied that she saw a look of impatience in those of the scottish chieftain. then she looked again at the space above the mantel-piece, and, after measuring it carefully with her eyes, came to a new resolution. "you see," she said, taking up a third picture, a beautiful photograph of the sistine madonna, "i put _her_ in the middle, and you on each side, and then neither of you can say a word." this arrangement gave great satisfaction; and the other pictures, the correggio cherubs, kaulbach's "lili," the raphael "violin-player," and "st. cecilia," were easily disposed of on the various panels, while over the dressing-table, where she could see it from her bed, was a fine print of murillo's lovely "guardian angel." hildegarde drew a long breath of satisfaction as she looked round on her favourites in their new home. "so dear they are!" she said fondly. "i wish hester could see them. don't you suppose she had _any_ pictures? there are no marks of any on the wall. well, and now for the books!" hammer and screwdriver were brought, and soon the box was opened and the books in their places. would any girls like to know what hildegarde's books are? let us take a glance at them, as they stand in neat rows on the plain, smooth shelves. those big volumes on the lowest shelf are scudder's "butterflies," a highly valued work, full of coloured plates, over which hildegarde sighs with longing rapture; for, from collecting moths and butterflies for her friend, bubble chirk, she has become an ardent collector herself, and in one of the unopened cases downstairs is an oak cabinet with glass-covered drawers, very precious, containing several hundred "specimens." here is "robin hood," and gray's botany, and percy's "reliques," and a set of george eliot, and one of charles kingsley, and the "ingoldsby legends," and aytoun's "lays of the scottish cavaliers," which looks as if it had been read almost to pieces, as indeed it has. (there is a mark laid in at the "burial march of dundee," which hildegarde is learning by heart. this young woman has a habit of keeping a book of poetry open on her dressing-table when she is doing her hair, and learning verses while she brushes out her long locks. it is a pleasant habit, though it does not tend to accelerate the toilet.) on the next shelf is "cranford," also well thumbed, and everything that mrs. ewing ever wrote, and "betty leicester," and miss yonge's historical stories, and the "tales of a grandfather," and "lorna doone," and the dear old "days of bruce," and "scottish chiefs," side by side with the "last of the barons," and the "queens of england," and the beloved homer, in derby's noble translation, also in brown leather. here, too, is "sesame and lilies," and carlyle on hero-worship. the upper shelf is entirely devoted to poetry, and here are longfellow and tennyson, of course, and milton (_not_ "of course"), and scott (in tatters, worse off than aytoun), and shelley and keats, and the jacobite ballads, and allingham's ballad book, and mrs. browning, and "sir launfal," and the "golden treasury," and "children's garland." there is no room for the handy volume shakespeare, so he and his box must live on top of the bookcase, with his own bust on one side and beethoven's on the other. these are flanked in turn by photographs of sir walter, with maida at his feet, and edwin booth as hamlet, both in those pretty glass frames which are almost as good as no frame at all. "and if you are not a pleasant sight," said hildegarde, falling back to survey her work, and addressing the collection comprehensively, "then i never saw one, that's all. _isn't_ it nice, dear persons?" she continued, turning to the portraits, which from their places over the mantel-piece had a full view of the bookcase. but the persons expressed no opinion. indeed, i am not sure that william the silent could read english; and dundee's knowledge of literature was slight, if we may judge from his spelling. i should not, however, wish hildegarde to hear me say this. failing to elicit a response from her two presiding heroes, our maiden turned to sir walter, who always knew just how things were; and from this the natural step was to the "lay of the last minstrel" (which she had not read so _very_ lately, she thought, with a guilty glance at the trunk and box, which stood in the middle of the room, yawning to be put away), and there was an end of hildegarde till dinner-time. "and that is why i was late, dear love!" she said, as after a hasty explanation of the above related doings, she sank down in her chair at the dinner-table, and gave a furtive pat to her hair, which she had smoothed rather hurriedly. "you know you would have brained me with the hammer, if i had not put it away, and that the tacks would have been served up on toast for my supper. such is your ferocious disposition." mrs. grahame smiled as she helped hildegarde to soup. "suppose a stranger should pass by that open window and hear your remarks," she said. "a pretty idea he would have of my maternal care. after all, my desire is to keep tacks _out_ of your food. how long ago was it that i found a button in the cup of tea which a certain young woman of my acquaintance brought me?" "ungenerous!" exclaimed hildegarde with tragic fervour. "it was only a glove-button. it dropped off my glove, and it would not have disagreed with you in the least. i move that we change the subject." and at that moment in came janet with the veal cutlets. chapter iv. a walk and an adventure. one lovely afternoon, after they were well settled, and all the unpacking was done, hildegarde started out on an exploration tour. she and her mother had already taken one or two short walks along the road near which their house stood, and had seen the brand-new towers of mrs. loftus's house, "pricking a cockney ear" on the other side of the way, and had caught a glimpse of an old vine-covered mansion, standing back from the road and almost hidden by great trees, which her mother said was colonel ferrers's house. but now hildegarde wanted a long tramp; she wanted to explore that sunny meadow that lay behind the green garden, and the woods that fringed the meadow again beyond. so she put on a short corduroy skirt, that would not tear when it caught on the bushes, slung a tin plant-box over her shoulder, kissed her mother, who had a headache and could not go, and started off in high spirits. she was singing as she ran down the stairs and through auntie's sunny back yard, and the martial strains of "bonny dundee" rang merrily through the clear june air; but as she closed the garden door behind her, the song died away, for "one would as soon sing in a churchyard," she thought, "as in the ladies' garden." so she passed silently along between the box hedges, her footsteps making no sound on the mossy path, only the branches rustling softly as she put them aside. the afternoon sun sent faint gleams of pallid gold down through the branches of the great elm; they were like the ghosts of sunbeams. her ear caught the sound of falling water, which she had not noticed before; she turned a corner, and lo! there was a dusky ravine, and a little dark stream falling over the rocks, and flowing along with a sullen murmur between banks of fern. it was part of the green world. the mysterious sadness of the deserted garden was here, too, and hildegarde felt her glad spirits going down, down, as if an actual weight were pressing on her. but she shook off the oppression. "i will not!" she said. "i will not be enchanted to-day! another day i will come and sit here, and the stream will tell me all the mournful story; i know it will if i sit long enough. but to-day i want joy, and sunshine, and cheerful things. good-by, dear ladies! i hope you won't mind!" and grasping the hanging bough of a neighbouring elm, she swung herself easily down into the meadow. it was a very pleasant meadow. the grass was long, so long that hildegarde felt rather guilty at walking through it, and framed a mental apology to the farmer as she went along. it was full of daisies and sorrel, so it was not his best mowing-field, she thought. she plucked a daisy and pulled off the petals to see whether rose loved her, and found she did not, which made her laugh in a foolish, happy way, since she knew better. now she came to a huge sycamore-tree, a veritable giant, all scarred with white patches where the bark had dropped off. beside it lay another, prostrate. the branches had been cut off, but the vast trunk showed that it had been even taller than the one which was now standing. "baucis and philemon!" said hildegarde. "poor dears! one is more sorry for the one who is left, i think, than for the fallen one. to see him lying here with his head off, and not to be able to do anything about it! she cannot even 'tear her ling-long yellow hair'--only it is green. i wonder who killed him." and she went on, murmuring to herself,-- "they shot him dead on the nine-stane rigg, beside the headless cross. and they left him lying in his blood upon the moor and moss," as if barthram's dirge had anything to do with the story of baucis and philemon. but this young woman's head was very full of ballads and scraps of old songs, and she was apt to break into them on any or no pretext. she went on now with her favourite dirge, half reciting, half chanting it, as she mounted the sunny slope before her. "they made a bier of the broken bough, the sauch and the aspen grey, and they bore him to the lady chapel and waked him there all day. "a lady came to that lonely bower, and threw her robes aside. she tore her ling-long yellow hair, and knelt at barthram's side. "she bathed him in the lady-well, his wounds sae deep and sair, and she plaited a garland for his breast, and a garland for his hair. "they rowed him in a lily-sheet and bare him to his earth, and the grey friars sung the dead man's mass, as they passed the chapel garth. "they buried him at the mirk midnight, when the dew fell cold and still; when the aspen grey forgot to play, and the mist clung to the hill. "they dug his grave but a bare foot deep by the edge of the nine-stane burn, and they covered him o'er with the heather flower, the moss and the lady fern. "a grey friar stayed upon the grave and sung through the morning tide. and a friar shall sing for barthram's soul while headless cross shall bide." now she had reached the fringe of trees at the top of the slope, and found that it was the beginning of what looked like a considerable wood. "a pine wood!" said hildegarde, sniffing the spicy perfume with delight. "oh, pleasant place! no plants, but one cannot have everything. oh! how good it smells! and hark to the sound of the sea! i shall call this ramoth hill." she walked along, keeping near the edge of the wood, where it was still warm and luminous with sunshine. now she looked up into the murmuring cloud of branches above her, now she looked down at the burnished needles which made a soft, thick carpet under her feet; and she said again, "oh, pleasant place!" presently, in one of the upward glances, she stopped short. her look, from carelessly wandering, became keen and intent. on one of the branches of the tree under which she stood was a small, round object. "a nest!" said hildegarde. "the question is, what nest?" she walked round and round the tree, like a pointer who has "treed" a partridge; but no bird rose from the nest, nor could she see at all what manner of nest it was. finding this to be the case, she transferred her scrutiny from the nest to the tree. it was a sturdy pine, with strong, broad branches jutting out, the lowest not so very far above her head, a most attractive tree, from every point of view. hildegarde leaned against the trunk for a moment, smiling to herself, and listening to the "two voices." "you are seventeen years old," said one voice. "not quite," said the other. "not for a month yet. besides, what if i were?" "suppose some one should come by and see you?" said the first voice. "but no one will," replied the second. "and perhaps you can't do it, anyhow," continued the first; "it would be ridiculous to try, and fail." "just wait and see!" said the second voice. and when it had said that, hildegarde climbed the tree. i shall not describe exactly how she did it, for it may not have been in the most approved style of the art; but she got up, and seated herself on the broad, spreading branch, not so very much out of breath, all things considered, and with only two scratches worth mentioning. after a moment's triumphant repose, she worked her way upward to where the nest was firmly fixed in a crotch, and bent eagerly over it. a kingbird's nest! this was great joy, for she had never found one before. there were five eggs in it, and she gazed with delight at the perfect little things. but when she touched them gently, she found them quite cold. the nest was deserted. "bad little mother!" said hildegarde. "how could you leave the lovely things? such a perfect place to bring up a family in, too!" she looked around her. it was very pleasant up in this airy bower. great level branches stretched above and below her, roof and floor of soft, dusky plumes. the keen, exquisite fragrance seemed to fold round her like a cloud; she felt fairly steeped in warmth and perfume. sitting curled up on the great bough, her back resting against the trunk, the girl fell into a pleasant waking dream, her thoughts wandering idly here and there, and the sound of the sea in her ears. she was an enchanted princess, shut in a green tower by the sea. the sea loved her, and sang to her all day long the softest song he knew, and no angry waves ever came to make clamour and confusion. by and by a rescuer would come,-- "a fairy prince, with joyful eyes, and lighter-footed than the fox." [illustration: "it was very pleasant up in this airy bower."] he would stand beneath the green tower, and call to her:-- "hallo, there! you young rascal, come down! how dare you rob birds' nests in my woods?" the voice was deep and stern, and hildegarde started so violently that she nearly fell from her perch. she could not speak for the moment, but she looked down, and saw a fierce-looking old gentleman, clad in a black velvet coat and spotless white trousers, brandishing a thick stick, and peering with angry, short-sighted eyes up into the tree. "come down, i say!" he repeated sternly. "i'll teach you to rob my nests, you young vagabond!" this was really not to be endured. "i am _not_ robbing the nest, sir!" cried hildegarde, indignation overcoming her alarm. "i never did such a thing in my life. and i--i am not a boy!" "harry monmouth!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "i beg ten thousand pardons! what are you?" hildegarde's first impulse was to say that she lived in alaska (that being the most distant place she could think of), and was on her way thither; but fortunately the second thought came quickly, and she replied with as much dignity as the situation allowed:-- "i am the daughter of mrs. hugh grahame. i live at braeside" (i have forgotten to mention that this was the name of the new home), "and have wandered off our own grounds without knowing it. i am extremely sorry to be trespassing, but--but--i only wanted to see what kind of nest it was." she stopped suddenly, feeling that there was a little sob somewhere about her, and that she would die rather than let it get into her voice. the old gentleman took off his hat. "my dear young lady," he said, "the apologies are all on my side. accept ten thousand of them, i beg of you! i am delighted to make the acquaintance of mrs. grahame's daughter, under--a--any circumstances." (here he evidently suppressed a chuckle, and hildegarde knew it, and hated him.) "permit me to introduce myself,--colonel ferrers. "i have been annoyed lately," he added kindly, "by thieving boys, and, being near-sighted, did not distinguish between a persecutor and a protector of my birds." he bowed again. "and now i will continue my walk, merely remarking that i beg you to consider yourself entirely free of my grounds, in any and every part. i shall do myself the honour of calling on your mother very shortly. good-morning, my dear miss grahame!" and, with another bow, colonel ferrers replaced his felt wide-awake, and strode off across the meadow, flourishing his stick, and indulging in the chuckle which he had so long suppressed. "harry monmouth!" he said to himself, as he switched the daisy-heads off. "so we have a fair tomboy for a neighbour. well, it may be a good thing for jack. i must take him over and introduce him." now hildegarde was not in the least a tomboy, as we know; and the intuitive knowledge that the old gentleman would think her one made her very angry indeed. she waited till he was out of sight, and then slid down the tree, without a second glance at the kingbird's nest, the innocent cause of all the trouble. she had meant to take one egg, to add to her collection; but she would not touch one now, if there were a thousand of them. she ran down the long sunny slope of the meadow, her cheeks glowing, her heart still beating angrily. she was going straight home, to tell her mother all about it, and how horrid colonel ferrers had been, and how she should never come downstairs when he came to the house--never! "under any circumstances!" how dared he make fun of her? she sat down on the stone wall to rest, and thought how her mother would hear the tale with sympathetic indignation. but somehow--how was it?--when she conjured up her mother's face, there was a twinkle in her eye. mamma had such a fatal way of seeing the funny side of things. suppose she should only laugh at this dreadful adventure! perhaps--perhaps it _was_ funny, from colonel ferrers's point of view. in short, by the time she reached home, hildegarde had cooled off a good deal, and it was a modified version of the tragedy that mrs. grahame heard. she found this quite funny enough, however, and hildegarde was almost, but not quite, ready to laugh with her. that evening, mother and daughter were sitting on the broad verandah as usual, playing encyclopædics. this was a game of mrs. grahame's own invention, and a favourite resource with her and hildegarde in darkling hours like this. perhaps some of my readers may like to know how the game is played, and, as the dodo says of the caucus race, "the best way to explain it is to play it." they began with the letter "a," and had already been playing some time, turn and turn about. "aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty." "ahasuerus, king of persia, b.c. something or other, afflicted with sleeplessness." "alfred the great, unsuccessful tender of cakes." "Æneas, pious; from the flames of troy did on his back the old anchises bear; also deserted dido." "ananias, liar." "anacreon, greek poet." "allan-a-dale, minstrel and outlaw." "andromache, wife of hector." "astyanax, son of the same." "oh--don't you think it's time to go on to b?" asked hildegarde. "i have several more a's," replied her mother. "well, my initials are not 'b. u.,'" said the girl, "but perhaps i can manage one or two more." "b. u.?" "yes! biographic universelle, of course, dear. artaxerxes, also king of persia." "anne of geierstein." "arabella stuart." "ap morgan, ap griffith, ap hugh, ap tudor, ap rice, quoth his roundelay." "oh! oh! that was one of my reserves. azrael, the angel of death." "agamemnon, king of men." "alecto, fury." "agag, who came walking delicately." "addison, joseph, writer." "antony, mark, roman general, lover of cleopatra." "'amlet, prince of--" "hilda!" cried mrs. grahame. "for shame! it is certainly high time to go on to b, if you are going to behave in this way, and i shall put _e d_ after it." "oh, no!" said hildegarde, "i will be good. it isn't nine o'clock yet, i know. buccleugh, bold, duke of, warden here o' the scottish side. i was determined to get him first." "balaam, prophet." "beatrice, in 'much ado about nothing.'" "beatrix esmond." "bruce, robert, king of scotland." "burns, robert, king of scottish poets." "oh! oh! well, i suppose he is!" hilda admitted reluctantly. "but sir walter makes an admirable viceroy. i think--who is that? mamma, there is some one coming up the steps." "mrs. grahame?" said a deep voice, as two shadowy forms emerged from the darkness. "i am delighted to meet you again. you remember colonel ferrers?" "perfectly!" said mrs. grahame, cordially, advancing and holding out her hand. "i am very glad to see you. colonel ferrers,--though i hardly do see you!" she added, laughing. "hildegarde, here is colonel ferrers, whom you met this morning." "good evening!" said hildegarde, thinking that mamma was very cruel. "delighted!" said colonel ferrers, bowing again; and he added, "may i be allowed to present my nephew? mrs. grahame, miss grahame, my nephew, john ferrers." a tall figure bowed awkwardly, and a voice murmured something which might have been a greeting in english, choctaw, or pure polynesian, as it was wholly unintelligible. "it is too pleasant an evening to spend in the house," said mrs. grahame. "i think you will find chairs, gentlemen, by a little judicious groping. oh! i trust you are not hurt, mr. ferrers?" for mr. ferrers had tumbled over his chair, and was now sprawling at full length on the piazza. he gathered himself up again, apparently too much abashed to say a word. "oh! he's all right!" said colonel ferrers, laughing. "he's always tumbling about; just got his growth, you see, and hasn't learned what to do with it. well, many things have happened since we met, mrs. grahame; we won't say how many years it is." "many things, indeed!" said mrs. grahame with a sigh. "yes! yes!" said colonel ferrers. "poor grahame! met him last year in town; never saw him looking better. well, so it goes. changing world, my dear madame! poor aytoun, too! i miss him sadly. my only neighbour. we have been together a great deal since his sisters died. yes! yes! very glad i was to hear that he had left the property to you. not another soul to speak to in the neighbourhood." "who lives in the large new house across the way?" asked mrs. grahame. "i know the name of the family is loftus, but nothing more." "parcel of fools, i call 'em!" said colonel ferrers, contemptuously. "new people, with money. loftus, sharp business man, wants to be a gentleman farmer. as much idea of farming as my stick has. wife and daughters look like a parcel o' fools. don't know 'em! don't want to know 'em!" mrs. grahame, finding this not an agreeable subject, turned the conversation upon old friends, and they were soon deep in matters of twenty years ago. meanwhile hildegarde and the bashful youth had sat in absolute silence. at first hildegarde had been too much discomposed by her mother's allusion to the morning's adventure to speak, though she was able to see afterwards how much better it was to bring up the matter naturally, and then dismiss it as a thing of no consequence, as it was, than to let it hang, an unacknowledged cloud, in the background. as the moments went on, however, she became conscious that it was her duty to entertain mr. ferrers. he evidently had no idea of saying anything; her mother and colonel ferrers had forgotten the presence of either of them, apparently. the silence became more and more awkward. what could she say to this gawky youth, whose face she could not even see? "what a lovely day it has been!" she finally remarked, and was startled by the sound of her own voice, though she was not usually shy in the least. "yes," said mr. ferrers, "it has been a fine day." silence again. this would never do! "do you play tennis?" she asked boldly. "no--not much!" was the reply. "doesn't pay, in hot weather." this was not encouraging, but hildegarde was fairly roused by this time, and had no idea of being beaten. "what _do_ you do?" she said. mr. ferrers was silent, as if considering. "oh--i don't know!" he said finally. "nothing much. poke about!" then, after a pause, he added in explanation, "i don't live here. i only came a few days ago. i am to spend the summer with my uncle." apparently this effort was too much for him, for he relapsed into silence, and hildegarde could get nothing more save "yes!" and "no!" out of him. but now colonel ferrers came to the rescue. "by the way, mrs. grahame," he said, "i think this boy must be a relation of yours, a scotch cousin at least. his mother was a grahame, daughter of robert grahame of baltimore. his own name is john grahame ferrers." "is it possible?" cried mrs. grahame, greatly surprised. "if that is the case, he is much more than a scotch cousin. why, robert grahame was my dear husband's first cousin. their fathers were brothers. hugh often spoke of his cousin robert, and regretted that they never met, as they were great friends in their boyhood. and this is his son! is it possible? my dear boy, i must shake hands with you again. you _are_ a boy, aren't you, though you are so big?" "to be sure he is a boy!" said colonel ferrers, who was highly delighted with his discovery of a relationship. "just eighteen--a mere snip of a boy! going to college in the autumn." "hildegarde," continued mrs. grahame, "shake hands with your cousin john, and tell him how glad you are to find him." hildegarde held out her hand, and john ferrers tried to find it, but found a hanging-basket instead, and knocked it over, sending a shower of damp earth over the other members of the party. "i must take him home," exclaimed colonel ferrers, in mock despair, "or he will destroy the whole house. miss hildegarde," he added, in a very kind voice, "you probably thought me an ogre this morning. i am generally regarded as such. fact is, you frightened me more than i frightened you. we are not used to seeing young ladies here who know how to climb trees. harry monmouth! wish i could climb 'em myself as i used. best fun in the world! come, jack, i must get you home before you do any more mischief. good-night, mrs. grahame! i trust we shall meet often!" "i trust so, indeed!" said mrs. grahame heartily. "we shall count upon your being neighbourly, in the good old country sense; and as for john, he must do a cousin's duty by us, and shall in return receive the freedom of the house." "hum mum mum!" said john; at least, that is what it sounded like; on which his uncle seized him by the arm impatiently, and walked him off. "well, mammina!" said hildegarde, when the visitors were well out of hearing. "well, dear!" replied her mother placidly. "what a pleasant visit! the poor lad is very shy, isn't he? could you make anything out of him?" "why, mammina, he is a perfect goose!" exclaimed hildegarde, warmly. "_i_ don't think it was a pleasant visit at all. as to making anything out of that--" "fair and softly!" said mrs. grahame quietly. "in the first place, we will not criticise the guests who have just left us, because that is not pretty-behaved, as auntie would say. and in the second place--your dear father was just eighteen when i first met him, hildegarde; and he put his foot through the flounce of my gown, upset strawberries and cream into my lap, and sat down on my new ivory fan, all at one tea-party." "good-night, dear mamma!" said hildegarde meekly. "good-night, my darling! and don't forget that barn-door rent in your corduroy skirt, when you get up in the morning." chapter v. uncle and nephew. colonel ferrers and his nephew walked away together, the former with a quick, military stride, the latter shambling, as lads do whose legs have outgrown their understanding of them. "don't hunch, sir!" exclaimed the colonel, throwing his broad shoulders back and his chin to the position of "eyes front." "put your chin in and your chest out, and don't hunch! you have about as much carriage, my nephew jack, as a rheumatic camel. well!" (as poor jack straightened his awkward length and tried to govern his prancing legs). "so mrs. grahame is a connection, after all; and a very charming woman, too. and how did you find the young lady, sir? did she give you any points on tree-climbing? ho! ho! i was wrong, though, about her being a tomboy. she hasn't the voice of one. did you notice her voice, nephew? it is very sweet and melodious. it reminded me of--of a voice i remember." "i like her voice!" replied jack ferrers. by the way, his own voice was a very pleasant one, a well-bred and good-tempered voice. "i couldn't see her face very well. i can't talk to girls!" he added. "i don't know what to say to them. why did you tell them about mother, uncle tom? there was no need of their knowing." "why did i tell them?" exclaimed colonel ferrers. "harry monmouth! i told them, you young noodle, because i chose to tell them, and because it was the truth, and a mighty lucky thing for you, too. what with your poor mother's dying young, and your father's astonishing and supernatural wrong-headedness, you have had no bringing up whatever, my poor fellow! talk of your going to college next year! why, you don't know how to make a bow. i present you to two charming women, and you double yourself up as if you had been run through the body, and then stumble over your own legs and tumble over everything else. shade of chesterfield! how am i to take you about, if this is the way you behave?" "it was dark," said poor jack. "and--and i don't want to be taken about, uncle, thank you. can't i just keep quiet while i am here, and not see people? i don't know how to talk, really i don't." "pooh! pooh! sir," roared the colonel, smiting the earth with his stick. "have the goodness to hold your tongue! you know how to talk nonsense, and i request you'll not do it to me. you are my brother's son, sir, and i shall make it my business to teach you to walk, and to talk, and to behave like a rational christian, while you are under my roof. if your father had the smallest atom of common sense in his composition--" "please don't say anything against father, uncle tom," cried the lad. "i can't stand that!" and one felt in the dark the fiery flush that made his cheeks tingle. "upon my soul!" cried colonel ferrers (who did not seem in the least angry), "you are the most astounding young rascal it has ever been my good fortune to meet. are you aware, sir, that your father is my brother? that i first made the acquaintance of raymond ferrers when he was one hour old, a squeaking little scarlet wretch in a flannel blanket? are you aware of this, pray?" "i suppose i am," answered the lad. "but that doesn't make any difference. nobody body must say anything against him, even if it is his own brother." "who is saying anything against him?" demanded colonel ferrers, fiercely. "he is an angel, sir; every idiot knows that. a combination of angel and infant, raymond ferrers is, and always has been. but the combination does not qualify him for bringing up children. probatum est! here we are! now let me see if you can open the gate without fumbling, sir. if there is one thing i can_not_ endure, it is fumbling." thus adjured, jack ferrers opened the heavy wooden gate, and the two passed through a garden which seemed, from the fragrance, to be full of roses. the old house frowned dark and gloomy, with only one light twinkling feebly in a lower window. when they had entered, and were standing in the pleasant library, book-lined from floor to ceiling, colonel ferrers turned suddenly to his nephew, who was in a brown study, and dealt him a blow on the shoulder which sent him staggering half-way across the room, unexpected as it was. "you're right to stand up for your father, my lad," he said, with gruff heartiness. "it was unnecessary in this case, for i would be cut into inch pieces and served up on toast if it would do my brother raymond any good; but you are right all the same. if anybody else ever says he hasn't common sense, knock him down, do you hear? a blow from the shoulder, sir! that's the proper answer." "yes, uncle," said the boy demurely; but he looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "it's lucky for me that i _don't_ have to knock you down, sir," he added. "you're awfully strong, aren't you? i wish i were!" "you, sir!" rejoined the colonel. "you have the frame of an ox, if you had any flesh to cover it. exercise is what you need, nephew jack! fencing is what you want, sir! take that walking-stick! harry monmouth! i'll give you a lesson, now. on guard! so! defend yourself! ha! humph!" the last exclamation was one of disgust, for at the colonel's first thrust, jack's stick flew out of his hand, and knocked over a porcelain vase, shattering it in pieces, jack, meanwhile, standing rubbing his arm and looking very foolish. "humph!" repeated colonel ferrers, looking rather disconcerted himself, and all the more fierce therefore. "that comes of trying to instruct a person who has not been taught to hold himself together. you are a milksop, my poor fellow! a sad milksop! but we are going to change all that. there! never mind about the pieces. giuseppe will pick up the pieces. get your supper, and then go to bed." "i don't care about supper, thank you, uncle," said the lad. "pooh! pooh! don't talk nonsense!" cried the colonel. "you don't go to bed without supper." he led the way into the dining-room, a long, low room, panelled with dark oak. walls, table, sideboard, shone like mirrors, with the polish of many years. over the sideboard was the head of a gigantic moose, with huge, spreading antlers. on the sideboard itself were some beautiful pieces of old silver, shining with the peculiar blue lustre that comes from long rubbing, and from that alone. a tray stood on the table, and on it was a pitcher of milk, two glasses, and a plate of very attractive-looking little cakes. the colonel filled jack's glass, and stood by with grim determination till he had drunk every drop. "now, a cake, sir," he added, sipping his own glass leisurely. "a plummy cake, of mrs. beadle's best make. down with it, i insist!" in the matter of the plum cake, little insistence was necessary, and between uncle and nephew both plate and pitcher were soon empty. "there," said the good colonel, as they returned to the library, "now you have something to sleep on, my friend. no empty stomachs in this house, to distract people's brains and make mooncalves of them. ten minutes' exercise with the indian clubs--you have them in your room?--and then to bed. hand me the 'worthies of england,' will you? bookcase on the right of the door, third shelf from the bottom, fifth book from the left. thomas fuller. yes, thank you. good-night, my boy! don't forget the clubs, and _don't_ poke your head forward like a ritualist parson, because you are not otherwise cut out for one." leaving his uncle comfortably established with his book and reading-lamp, jack ferrers took his way upstairs. it was not late, but he had already found out that his uncle had nothing to say to him or any one else after the frugal nine o'clock supper, and his own taste for solitude prompted him to seek his room. as he passed along a dark corridor, a gleam of light shot out from a half-open door. "are you awake, biddy?" he asked. "yes, dear!" answered a kind, hearty voice. "come in, master jack, if you've a mind." the room was so bright that jack screwed up his eyes for a moment. the lamp was bright, the carpet was bright, the curtains almost danced on the wall from their own gayety, while the coloured prints, in shining gilt frames, sang the whole gamut of colour up and down and round and round. but brighter than all else in the gay little room was the gay little woman who sat by the round table (which answered every purpose of a mirror), piecing a rainbow-coloured quilt. her face was as round and rosy as a gravenstein apple. she had bright yellow ribbons in her lace cap, and her gown was of the most wonderful merino that ever was seen, with palm-leaves three inches long curling on a crimson ground. "how very bright you are in here, biddy!" said jack, sitting down on the floor, with his long legs curled under him. "you positively make my eyes ache." "it's cheerful, dear," replied the good housekeeper. "i like to see things cheerful, that i do. will you have a drop of shrub, master jack? there's some in the cupboard there, and 'twill warm you up, like, before going to bed." then, as jack declined the shrub with thanks, she continued, "and so you have been to call on the ladies at braeside, you and the colonel. ah! and very sweet ladies, i'm told." "very likely!" said jack absently. "do you mind if i pull the cat's tail, biddy?" he stretched out his hand toward a superb yellow angora cat which lay curled up on a scarlet cushion, fast asleep. "oh! my dear!" cried mrs. beadle. "don't you do it! he's old, and his temper not what it was. poor old sunshine! and why would you pull his tail, you naughty boy?" "oh! well--no matter!" said jack. "there's a fugue--that's a piece of music, biddy--that i am practising, called the 'cat's fugue,' and i thought i would see if it really sounded like a cat, that's all." "indeed, that's not such music as i should like your uncle to hear!" exclaimed mrs. beadle. "and what did you say to the young lady, master jack?" she added, as she placed a scarlet block against a purple one. "i'm glad enough you've found some young company, to make you gay, like. you're too quiet for a young lad, that you are." "oh, bother!" responded jack, shaking his shoulders. "tell me about my father, biddy. i don't believe he liked g--company, any better than i do. what was he like when he was a boy?" "an angel!" said mrs. beadle fervently. "an angel with his head in his pocket; that is what mr. raymond was like." "uncle tom called him an angel, too!" said the lad. "of course he is; a combination of angel and--why did you say 'with his head in his pocket,' biddy?" "well, dear, it wasn't on his shoulders," replied the housekeeper. "he was in a dream, like, all the time; oh, much worse than you are yourself, master jack." "thank you!" muttered jack. "and forgetful! well! well! he needed to be tied to some one, mr. raymond did. to see him come in for his luncheon, and then forget all about it, and stand with a book in his hand, reading as if there was nothing else in the world. and then mr. tom--dear! dear! would put his head down and run and butt him right in the stomach, and down they would go together and roll over and over; great big lads, like you, sir, and their father would take the dog-whip and thrash 'em till they got up. 'twas all in sport like, d'ye see; but mr. raymond never let go his book, only beat mr. tom with it. dear! dear! such lads!" "tell me about his running away," said jack. "after the fiddler, do you mean, dear? that was when he was a little lad. always mad after music he was, and playing on anything he could get hold of, and singing like a serup, that boy. so one day there came along an italian, with a fiddle that he played on, and a little boy along with him, that had a fiddle, too. well, and if mr. raymond didn't persuade that boy to change clothes with him, and he to stay here and mr. raymond to go with the fiddler and learn to play. of course the man was a scamp, and had no business; and mr. raymond gave him his gold piece to take him, and all! but when the old squire--that's your grandfather, dear!--when he came in and found that little black-eyed fellow dressed in his son's clothes, and crying with fright, and not a word of english--well, he was neither to hold nor to bind, as the saying is. luckily mrs. ferrers--that's your grandmother, dear! she came in before the child was frightened into a fit, though very near it; and she spoke the language, and with her quiet ways she got the child quiet, and he told her all about it, and how the fiddler beat him, and showed the great bruises. and when she told the squire, he got black in the face, like he used, and took his dog-whip and rode off on his big grey horse like mad; and when he came back with mr. raymond in front of him, the whip was all in pieces, and mr. raymond crying and holding the little fiddle tight. and the italian boy stayed, and the squire made a man of him, from being a papist outlandish-man. and that's all the story, master jack." "and he is giuseppe?" asked jack. "and he is jew seppy," mrs. beadle assented. "though it seems a hard name to give him, and no jew blood in him that any one can prove, only his eyes being black. but he won't hear to its being shortened. and now it is getting to be night-cap time, master jack," said the good woman, beginning to fold up her work, "and i hope you are going to bed, too, like a good young gentleman. but if you don't, you'll shut the door careful, won't you dear?" "never fear," said the boy, gathering himself up from the floor. "i'm sleepy to-night, anyhow; i may go straight to bed. good-night, biddy. you're quite sure you like me to call you 'biddy'?" "my dear, it makes me feel five-and-twenty years younger!" said the good woman; "and i seem to see your dear father, coming in with his curls a-shaking, calling his biddy. ah, well! good-night, master jack, dear! don't forget to look in when you go by." "good-night, biddy!" the lad went off with his candle, fairly stumbling along the corridor from sheer sleepiness; but when he reached his own room, which was flooded with moonlight, the drowsiness seemed to take wings and disappear. he sat down by the open window and looked out. below lay the garden, all black and silver in the intense white light. the smell of the roses came up to him, exquisitely sweet. he leaned his head against the window-frame, and felt as if he were floating away on the buoyant fragrance--far, far away, to the south, where his home was, and where the roses were in bloom so long that it seemed as if there were always roses. the silver-lit garden vanished from his sight, and he saw instead a long, low room, half garret, half workshop, where a man stood beside a long table, busily at work with some fine tools. the spare, stooping figure, the long, delicate hands, the features carved as if in ivory, the blue, near-sighted eyes peering anxiously at the work in his hands,--all these were as actually present to the boy as if he could put out his own hand and touch them. it was with a start that he came back to the world of tangible surroundings, as a sudden breath of wind waved the trees below him, and sent whisperings of leaf and blossom through his room. "daddy!" he said half to himself; and he brushed away something which had no possible place in the eyes of a youth who was to go to college next year. giving himself a violent shake, jack ferrers rose, and, going to a cupboard, took out with great care a long, black, oblong box. this he deposited on the bed; then took off his boots and put on a pair of soft felt slippers. his coat, too, was taken off; and then, holding the black box in his arms, as if it were a particularly delicate baby, he left the room, and softly made his way to the stairs which led to the attic. there was a door at the foot of the stairs, which he opened noiselessly, and then he stopped to listen. all was still. he must have been sitting for some time at the window, for the light in the hall was extinguished, which was a sign that his uncle had gone to bed. in fact, as he listened intently, his ear caught a faint, rhythmic sound, rising and falling at regular intervals, like the distant murmur of surf on the sea-shore; his uncle was asleep. closing the door softly after him, and clasping the black box firmly, jack climbed the attic stairs and disappeared in the darkness. chapter vi. cousin jack. the next day, as hildegarde was arranging flowers on the piazza, with a table before her covered with bowls and vases, and a great basket of many-coloured blossoms beside her, jack ferrers appeared, evidently in the depths of misery, carrying a huge bunch of roses. he stumbled while coming up the steps, and dropped half the roses, which increased his discomfort so much that hildegarde was really sorry for him. moreover, when seen by daylight, he was a very pleasant-looking fellow, with curly brown hair and great honest blue eyes very wide open. he was over six feet tall, and as awkward as a human being could be, but of course he could not help that. [illustration: "jack ferrers appeared carrying a huge bunch of roses."] "good-morning, cousin jack!" said hildegarde pleasantly. "what lovely roses! are they from colonel ferrers's garden?" "yes," replied jack ferrers. "uncle sends them with his compliments. i'm sorry i knocked over the basket last night. good-by." he was about to fling himself down the steps again, but hildegarde, controlling her desire to laugh, said cordially: "oh, don't go! sit down a moment, and tell me the names of some of these beauties." "thank you!" muttered the youth, blushing redder than the roses. "i--i think i must go back." "are you so very busy?" asked hildegarde innocently. "i thought this was your vacation. what have you to do?" "oh--nothing!" said the lad awkwardly. "nothing in particular." "then sit down," said hildegarde decidedly. and jack ferrers sat down. a pause followed. then hildegarde said in a matter-of-fact tone, "you have no sisters, have you, cousin jack?" "no," was the reply. "how did you know?" "because you are so shy," said hildegarde, smiling. "boys who have no sisters are apt to regard girls as a kind of griffin. there used to be a boy at dancing-school, two or three years ago, who was so shy it was really painful to dance with him at first, but he got over it after a while. and it was all because he had no sisters." "did you like dancing-school?" jack inquired, venturing to look up at her shyly. "yes, very much indeed!" replied hildegarde. "didn't you?" "no; hated it." then they both laughed a little, and after that things went a good deal better. jack came up on the piazza (he had been sitting on the steps, shuffling his feet in a most distressing manner), and helped to clip the long stems of the roses, and pulled off superfluous leaves. it appeared that he did not care much for flowers, though he admitted that roses were "pretty." he did not care for fishing or shooting; tennis had made his head ache ever since he began to grow so fast. did he like walking? pretty well, when it wasn't too hot. reading? well enough, when the book wasn't stupid. "wot are we to do with this 'ere 'opeless chap?" said hildegarde to herself, quoting from "pinafore." as a last resort she asked if he were fond of music. instantly his face lighted up. "awfully fond of it," he said with animation, and the embarrassed wrinkle disappeared as if by magic from between his eyebrows. "oh, i am so glad!" cried hildegarde. "i haven't had any music the last two summers. i had everything else that was nice, but still i missed it, of course. do you play, or sing?" "a little of both," said jack modestly. "oh, how delightful! we must make music together for mamma sometimes. my own piano has not come yet, but there is the dearest old funny thing here which belonged to the misses aytoun." "uncle tom has no piano," said jack, "but i have my violin, so i don't mind." "oh, a violin!" said hildegarde, opening her eyes wide. "have you been studying it long?" "ever since i was six years old," was the reply. "my mother would not let me begin earlier, though my father said that as soon as i could hold a knife and fork i could hold a bow. he's a little cracked about violins, my father. he makes them, you know." "i _don't_ know," cried hildegarde. "tell me about it; how very interesting!" "well--i don't mean that it's his business," said jack, who seemed to have forgotten his shyness entirely; "he's a lawyer, you know. but it's the only thing he really cares about. he has a workshop, and he has made--oh, ever so many violins! he went to cremona once, and spent a year there, poking about, and he found an old church that was going to be repaired, and bought the sounding-board. oh, it must have been a couple of hundred years old. then he moused about more and found an old fellow, a descendant of one of amati's workmen, and i believe he would have bought him, too, if he could; but, anyhow, they were great chums, and he taught my father all kinds of tricks. when he came home he made this violin out of a piece of the old sounding-board, and gave it to me on my birthday. it's--oh, it's no end, you know! and he made another for himself, and we play together. do you know the mozart concerto in f, for two violins? it begins with an allegro." and being fairly mounted on his hobby, jack ferrers pranced about on it as if he had done nothing but talk to hildegarde all his life. hildegarde, meanwhile, listened with a mixture of surprise, amusement, and respect. he did not look in the least like a musical genius, this long-legged, curly-haired lad, with his blue eyes and his simple, honest face. she thought of the lion front of beethoven, and the brilliant, exquisite beauty of mozart, and tried to imagine honest jack standing between them, and almost laughed in the midst of an animated description of the andante movement. then she realised that he was talking extremely well, and talking a great deal over her head. "i am afraid you will find me very ignorant," she said meekly, when her cousin paused, a little out of breath, but with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes. "i have heard a great deal of music, of course, and i love it dearly; but i don't know about it as you do, not a bit. i play the piano a little, and i sing, just simple old songs, you know, and that is all." hildegarde might have added that she had a remarkably sweet voice, and sang with taste and feeling, but that her cousin must find out for himself; besides, she was really over-awed by this superior knowledge in one whom the night before she had been inclined to set down as a booby. "shall i ever learn," she thought remorsefully, "not to make these ridiculous judgments of people, before i know anything about them?" just then mrs. grahame came out and asked her new-found nephew, as she called him, to stay to dinner; but at sight of her the lad's shyness returned in full force. his animation died away; he hung his head, and muttered that he "couldn't possibly, thank you! uncle tom--stayed too long already. good-by!" and, without even a farewell glance at hildegarde, went down all the steps at once with a breakneck plunge, and disappeared. "tragedy of the gorgon's head! medusa, mrs. grahame," said that lady, laughing softly. "has my hair turned to snakes, hilda, or what is there so frightful in my appearance? i heard your voices sounding so merrily i thought the ice was completely broken." "oh, i think it is," said hildegarde. "you came upon him suddenly, that was all." "next time," said her mother, "i will appear gradually, like the cheshire cat, beginning with the grin." hildegarde laughed, and went to pin a red rose on her mother's dress. then she said: "i was wrong, mammina, and you were right, as usual. it is a tiresome way you have, so monotonous! but really he is a very nice boy, and he knows, oh! ever so much about music. he must be quite a wonder." and she told her mother about the violin, and all the rest of it. mrs. grahame agreed with her that it would be delightful to have some musical evenings, and hildegarde resolved to practise two hours a day regularly. "but there are so few hours in the day!" she complained. "i thought getting up at seven would give me--oh! ever so much time, and i have none at all. here is the morning nearly gone, and we have had no reading, not a word." and she looked injured. "there is an hour before dinner," said mrs. grahame, "and the 'makers of florence' is lying on my table at this minute. come up, and i will read while you--need i specify the occupation?" "you need not," said hildegarde. "i really did mean to mend it this morning, love, but things happened. i had to sew on boot-buttons before breakfast, three of them, and then janet wanted me to show her about something. but now i will really be industrious." this was destined to be a day of visits. in the afternoon mrs. loftus and her daughter called, driving up in great state, with prancing horses and clinking harness. hildegarde, who was in her own room, meditated a plunge down her private staircase and an escape by way of the back door, but decided that it would be base to desert her mother; so she smoothed her waving hair, inspected her gown to make sure that it was spotless, and came down into the parlour. mrs. loftus was a very large lady, with a very red face, who talked volubly about "our place," "our horses," "our hot-houses," etc., etc. miss loftus, whose name was leonie, was small and rather pretty, though she did not look altogether amiable. she was inclined to patronise hildegarde, but that young person did not take kindly to patronage, and was a little stately, though very polite, in her manner. "yes, it is pretty about here," said miss loftus, "though one tires of it very quickly. we vegetate here for three months every summer; it's papa's" (she pronounced it "puppa") "whim, you see. how long a season do you make?" "none at all," said hildegarde quietly. "we are going to live here." miss loftus raised her eyebrows. "oh! you can hardly do that, i should think!" she said with a superior smile. "a few months will probably change your views entirely. there is no life here, absolutely none." "indeed!" said hildegarde. "i thought it was a very prosperous neighbourhood. all the farms look thrifty and well cared for; the crops are alive, at least." "oh, farmers and crops!" said miss loftus. "very likely. i meant social life." "i don't like social life," said hildegarde. this was not strictly true, but she could not help saying it, as she told her mother afterward. miss loftus passed over the remark with another smile, which made our heroine want to pinch her, and added, "you must consider us your only neighbours, as indeed we really are." "yes, indeed!" said mrs. loftus, who was now rising ponderously to depart. "we shall hope to see you often at the poplars, mrs. grahame. there is not another house within five miles where one can visit. of course i don't include that old bear, colonel ferrers, who never speaks a civil word to any one." hildegarde flushed and looked at her mother, but mrs. grahame said very quietly, "i have known colonel ferrers for many years. he was a friend of my husband's." "oh, i beg your pardon!" said mrs. loftus, looking scared. "i had no idea--i never heard of _any one_ knowing colonel ferrers. come, leonie, we must be going." they departed, first engaging hildegarde, rather against her will, to lunch with them the following friday; and the grand equipage rolled clinking and jingling away. "we seem to have fallen upon a montague and capulet neighbourhood," said mrs. grahame, smiling, as she turned to go upstairs. "yes, indeed!" said hildegarde. "shall we be tybalts or mercutios?" "neither, i hope," said her mother, "as both were run through the body. of course, however, there is no question as to which neighbour we shall find most congenial. and now, child, get your hat, and let us take a good walk, to drive the cobwebs out of our brains." "have with you!" said hildegarde, running lightly up the stairs; "only, darling, _don't_ be so--so--incongruous as to call mrs. loftus a cobweb!" chapter vii. miss agatha's cabinet. "mammina! i have found them! i have found them!" cried hildegarde, rushing like a whirlwind into her mother's room, and waving something over her head. "what have you found, darling?" asked mrs. grahame, looking up from her writing. "not your wits, for example? i should be so glad!" "one may not shake one's mother," said hildegarde, "but beware, lest you 'rouse an indian's indomitable nature.' i have found the keys of miss agatha's cabinet." "really!" cried mrs. grahame, laying down her pen. "are you sure? where were they?" "in that old secretary in uncle aytoun's room," said hildegarde. "you know you said i might rummage in it some day, and this rainy afternoon seemed to be the very time. they were in a little drawer, all by themselves; and see, they are marked, 'keys of the cabinet in my sister agatha's room, containing miniatures, etc.'" "this is indeed a discovery!" said mrs. grahame, rising. "we will examine the cabinet together, dear; as you say, it is just the day for it." hildegarde led the way, dancing with excitement and pleasure; her mother followed more slowly. there might be sadness, she thought, as well as pleasure, in looking over the relics of a family which had died out, leaving none of the name, so far as she knew, in this country at least. miss agatha's room did not look very cheerful in the grey light of a wet day. the prevailing tint of walls and ceiling was a greyish yellow; the faded curtains were held back by faded ribbons; the furniture was angular and high-shouldered. on the wall was a coloured print of "london in ," from which the metropolis would seem to have been a singular place. the only interesting feature in the room was the cabinet which they had come to explore, and this was really a beautiful piece of furniture. it stood seven feet high at least, and was apparently of solid ebony, inlaid with yellow ivory in curious spiral patterns. in the centre was a small door, almost entirely covered with the ivory tracery; above, below, and around were drawers, large and small, deep and shallow, a very wilderness of drawers. all had silver keyholes of curious pattern, and all were fast locked, a fact which had seriously interfered with hildegarde's peace of mind ever since they came to the house. now, however, that she actually stood before it with the "open sesame," this bunch of quaint silver keys in her hand, she shrank back, and felt shy and afraid. "you must open it, mamma," she said. "i dare not." mrs. grahame fitted a key to one of the larger drawers, and opened it. a faint perfume floated out, old roses and lavender, laid away one knows not how many years. under folds of silver paper lay some damask towels, fine and thick and smooth, but yellow with age. they were tied with a lilac ribbon, and on the ribbon was pinned a piece of paper, covered with writing in a fine, cramped hand. "lift them out carefully, dear," said mrs. grahame, "and read the label." hildegarde complied, and read aloud: "these towels were spun and woven by my grandmother grahame in scotland, before she came to this country. her maiden name was annot mcintosh." "what beautiful linen!" said mrs. grahame, smoothing the glossy folds with the hand of a housewife. "i always wished i had learned to spin and weave. linen that one buys has no feeling in it. lay it back reverently, degenerate daughter of the nineteenth century, and your degenerate mother will open another drawer." the next drawer contained several sets of baby-clothes, at sight of which hildegarde opened her eyes very wide indeed. her mother was an exquisite needle-woman, so was her cousin wealthy bond, and she herself had no need to be ashamed of the "fine seam" she could sew; but never had she seen such needlework as this: tiny caps, wrought so thick with flower and leaf that no spot of the plain linen could be seen; robes of finest lawn, with wonderful embroidered fronts; shawls of silk flannel, with deep borders of heavy "laid work." one robe was so beautiful that both hildegarde and her mother cried over it, and took it up to examine it more carefully. on the breast was pinned a piece of paper, with an inscription in the same delicate hand: "hester's christening-robe. we think it was in consequence of this fine work that our dear mother lost her eyesight." "i should think it highly probable," said mrs. grahame, laying the exquisite monument of folly back in the drawer. "i did not know that old madam aytoun was blind. what is written on that tiny cap, in the corner there? it must be a doll's cap; no baby could be so small." hildegarde read the inscription: "worn by our uncle hesketh, who weighed two pounds at birth. he grew to be six feet and six inches in height, and weighed three hundred pounds." "what a wonderful person miss agatha must have been!" said hildegarde. "who else would think of all these pleasant bits of information? and now for the next drawer!" she opened it, and gave a little shriek of delight. here truly were beautiful things, such as neither she nor her mother had ever seen before: three short aprons of white silk, trimmed with deep gold lace, and covered with silk-embroidered flowers of richest hues, one with tulips, another with roses, a third with carnations. folds of tissue paper separated them from each other, and the legend told that they had been worn by "our great-grandmother ponsonby, when she was maid of honour to queen caroline. she was an englishwoman." then came a tippet of white marabou feathers, buttoned into a silk case, and smelling faintly of camphor; a gown of rose-coloured satin, brocaded with green, and one of ruby-coloured velvet, which bore the inscription: "this was the gown on which our great-grandmother ponsonby wore the diamond buttons which have since been divided among her descendants. a sinful waste of money which might have been put to good purpose." "how _very_ frivolous great-grandmother ponsonby must have been!" said hildegarde. "i think miss agatha is rather hard on her, though. perhaps the buttons were wedding presents. i wonder what has become of them all! see, mammina, here are her red shoes--just like beatrix esmond's, aren't they? my foot would not begin to go into them. and here--oh! the lace! the lace!" for there was a whole drawer full of lace, all in little bundles neatly tied up and marked. here was madam aytoun's wedding veil, grandmother this one's mechlin tabs, aunt that one's venetian flounces. it would take pages to describe all the laces, and the pleasure that mother and daughter had in examining them. what woman or girl does not love lace? finally, in a corner of the drawer, was a morocco box containing a key, whose ivory label said: "central compartment. miniatures." "this will be the best of all!" cried hildegarde, eagerly. "perhaps we shall find great-grandmother ponsonby herself. who knows?" the ivory door flew open as the key turned, and revealed a space set round with tiny drawers. each drawer contained one or more miniatures, in cases of red or green morocco, and hildegarde and her mother examined them with delight. here, to be sure, was great-grandmother ponsonby; in fact, she appeared twice: first, as a splendid young matron, clad in the identical ruby velvet with the diamond buttons, her hair powdered high and adorned with feathers; and, again, as a not less superb old lady, with folds of snowy muslin under her chin, and keen dark eyes flashing from under her white curls, and a wonderful cap. here was grandfather aytoun, first as a handsome boy, with great dark eyes, and a parrot on his hand, then as a somewhat choleric-looking gentleman with a great fur collar. "how they do change!" said hildegarde. "i am not sure that i like to see two of the same person. let me see, now! he married--" "the daughter of great-grandmother ponsonby," replied mrs. grahame. "here she is! caroline regina ponsonby, _æt._ . named after the royal patroness, you see. what a sweet, gentle-looking girl! i fear her magnificent mother and her decided-looking husband may have been too much for her, for i see she died at twenty-three." "oh! and he married again!" cried hildegarde, opening another case. "see here! selina euphemia mckenzie, second wife of john aytoun. oh! and here is a slip of paper inside the frame. "'sweet flower, that faded soon in rapture's fervid noon. 'j. a.' "dear me! he must have written it himself!" she added. "it is not like miss agatha's handwriting. why, she only lived three months, poor dear! he makes very sure about the rapture, doesn't he?" "i think he does," said her mother, smiling, "considering that he married a third time, inside a year from the fading of the sweet flower. look at this aquiline dame, with the remarkably firm mouth, and the bird of paradise in her turban. 'adelaide mcleod, third wife of john aytoun. she survived him.' i'll warrant she did!" said mrs. grahame. "she carries conquest in her face. all the children were of the first marriage, and i fear she was not a gentle stepmother. i wonder who this may be!" she took up a heavy bracelet of dark hair, with a small miniature set in the clasp. "what a pretty, pretty child! good miss agatha has surely not left us in the dark concerning him. 'little john hesketh, .' that is all." "why hesketh?" asked hildegarde. "i have never heard of any heskeths." mrs. grahame was about to plunge into genealogical depths, when hildegarde, who had been opening a case of purple morocco, carefully secured with silver clasps, gave an exclamation of pleasure. "hester!" she cried. "this is hester, i know." her mother looked, and nodded; and they both gazed in silence at the lovely face, with its earnest grey eyes. "the dear!" murmured hildegarde. "how i should have loved her! i am sure we should have liked the same things. i wish she had not died." "you must remember that she would be a dear old lady now, were she alive, and not a young lassie. what does the slip say, darling? miss agatha's hand is rather trying for my eyes." "'our dearest hester,'" hildegarde read. "'a duplicate of the one painted for robert ferrers.' robert ferrers!" she repeated thoughtfully. "is that colonel ferrers? and do you suppose--" at this moment came a knock at the door, and janet informed them that mrs. lankton was in the hall, and would like to speak to one of the ladies. "i will go," said hildegarde, laying down the miniature reluctantly. "we will both go," said her mother. "the poor old dame! we have neglected her all these days." they locked the drawer of the treasure-cabinet, and hildegarde ran to put the precious keys in a safe place, while her mother went directly downstairs. by the time hildegarde appeared, mrs. lankton was launched on the full tide of her woes, and was sailing along with a good breeze. "and it's comin' in, mis' grahame--i'd say like a house afire, if 'twa'n't that 'twas wet. dreepin' all down the chimbley, and runnin' over the floor in streams. i stepped into a pool o' water with my bar' feet, gittin' out o' bed; likely i caught my death, but it's no great matter. ah! mis' grahame, i've seen trouble all my life. mr. aytoun, he was like a father to me. he wouldn't never ha' let me go bar'foot in water if he'd ben alive. i've ben a hard-workin' woman all my life, and he knowed it. i hope your own health is good, dear?" "what can i do for you, mrs. lankton?" asked mrs. grahame, kindly, as a moment's pause gave her a chance to get in a word. "does the roof need shingling?" "mr. aytoun was goin' to have it shingled for me last janooary," said mrs. lankton, with a sigh that was almost a groan; "and he was called on to die in febooary. jest afore he passed away, he was tryin' dretful hard to say somethin', and i ain't no manner o' doubt myself but what 'twas 'shingle!' he had it on his mind; they needn't tell me. but nobody seemed to feel a call after he was gone. ah, dear me! you don't know nothin' about it, mis' grahame. you ain't never stepped bar'foot out o' your bed into a pool o' water, and you all doubled up with neurology in your j'ints. ah, well, 'twon't be long now that i shall trouble anybody." "which is your house, mrs. lankton?" asked mrs. grahame. "i will try to have something done about the roof at once." "i know!" said hildegarde, quickly. "it is a brown cottage with a green door." "see how she knows!" exclaimed mrs. lankton, with a sad smile. "ain't that thoughtful? ah! she'll be a comfit to you, mis' grahame, if you've luck to raise her, but there's no knowin'. don't you set your heart on it, that's all. ah! i know what trouble is." "don't you think i am 'raised' already, mrs. lankton?" hilda asked, smiling down on the weazened face that did not reach to her shoulder. "so fur ye be, dear!" replied the widow, with a doleful shake of the head. "so fur ye be, but there's no knowin'. my phrony was jest like you, hearty and stout, and she's gone. ah! dear me! she had a store tooth, where she knocked out one of hers, slidin', and she swallered it one night, and she never got over it. lodged on her liver, the doctor said. he went down and tried to fetch it up, but 'twa'n't no use. she was fleshy, same as you be. yes, gals is hard to raise." at this, hildegarde retreated suddenly into the parlour, and mrs. grahame, in a voice which shook a little, expressed proper regret and sympathy, and repeated that she would have the roof attended to. "and now," she added, "go into the kitchen, and auntie shall give you a cup of hot tea. you must dry your feet, too, before you go out again." "the lord'll reward you, dear!" said mrs. lankton, turning with a faint gleam of cheerfulness toward the kitchen door. "it ain't long before i shall go the way of all, but it doos seem as if i mought go dry, 'stead o' dreepin'. but _you_'ll be rewarded, mis' grahame. i felt as if you'd be a mother to me, soon as i sot eyes on ye. _good_-mornin', dear!" and with a groan that ended in a half-chuckle, she disappeared. chapter viii. the poplars. punctually at half-past one on friday, hildegarde walked up the avenue which led to "the poplars." it was a broad avenue, and the steps to which it led were broad, and the whole house had an air of being spread out. "but mrs. loftus needs a good deal of room!" said hildegarde to herself, and then cuffed herself mentally for wickedness. very fair and sweet she looked, our hildegarde, in her white serge gown, with the pretty hat of white "chiffon" which "mammina" had made only the evening before. standing on the verandah, with eyes and cheeks brilliant from walking, she met the entire approval of a young gentleman who was reclining behind the hedge. he was a _very_ young gentleman. he wore corduroy knickerbockers, and he was lying flat on his stomach, with his heels in the air, sucking a large bull's-eye. the sudden apparition of a tall maiden in white, with shining eyes, nearly caused him to swallow the bull's-eye, but he recovered himself, and gazed steadfastly at her. when the door opened to admit her, the young gentleman sighed, and considered that it was not so fine a day as he had thought it. "she is a beautiful girl!" he said to himself with fervour; "she is a purple maid!" and then he rolled over on his back, to see if the bull's-eye would taste as good in that position. hildegarde, meanwhile, unconscious of the approving scrutiny of the infant connoisseur, was ushered by a stately butler through room after room, until she came to one where mrs. and miss loftus were waiting to receive her. they were both very cordial, one in a ponderous, the other in an airily patronising way. "but i did not hear you drive up," said mrs. loftus, "and we have been listening every moment; for i said to leonie, 'suppose she should not come, after all!' and so you must have driven up very quietly, you see." "i walked," said hildegarde, smiling; "so there were no wheels to hear, mrs. loftus." "walked! is it possible?" cried mrs. loftus, while her daughter raised her eyebrows and regarded hildegarde with languid curiosity. "my dear, you must be terribly heated. let me ring for some florida water. no, i insist!" as hildegarde made a gesture of protest. "it is _so_ dangerous to walk in the heat of the day. the brain, you know, becomes heated, and it does something to the spinal marrow. do you feel any dizziness? really, the best thing would be for you to lie down at once for half an hour. i will darken the room, and--" "nonsense, mamma!" said miss loftus, "i don't believe miss grahame wants to lie down." "oh, no, indeed!" cried hildegarde, thankful for the interruption. "i am used to walking, you know, mrs. loftus. i always walk, everywhere. i like it very much better than driving; besides," she added, "we have no horses, so i should have to walk in any case." "i think it so dangerous!" said mrs. loftus, with a compassionate shake of the head. "in the heat of the day, as i said, the spinal marrow; so important, my dear! and towards evening there is a chill in the air, malaria, all kinds of dreadful things. i shall make a point of picking you up whenever i am driving by--i drive by nearly every day--and taking you out." "oh--thank you!" cried poor hildegarde, an abyss opening at her feet. "you are very kind, but i could not! i am so busy--and walking is my delight." the announcement of lunch created a diversion, to the great relief of our heroine. mr. loftus appeared, a small, shrivelled man, with sharp eyes, whose idea of making himself agreeable was to criticise each article of food as it came on the table. "very weak bouillon, mrs. loftus" (he called it "bullion"). "very weak! greasy, too! not fit to put on the table. what's this? chicken? fowl, i should say! rooster, mrs. l.! is this your twelve-dollar cook? not a thing miss grahame can eat! she'll go and tell old ferrers how we gave her roast rooster, see if she don't! i hear you're very thick with old ferrers, miss grahame. old grizzly bruin, _i_ call him. good name, too! he! he!" hildegarde blushed scarlet, and wondered what her mother would say in her place. all she could do was to murmur that the chicken was very nice indeed, and to hope that she did not show more of her disgust than was proper. the luncheon was very fine, in spite of mr. loftus's depreciation; and when it came to the dessert, he changed his tune, and descanted on the qualities of "my peaches," "my nectarines," and "my gardener." "you don't eat enough, miss grahame!" was his comment. "no need to stint yourself here; plenty for all, and more where that came from." but here miss loftus came to the rescue, and with a "don't be tiresome, puppa!" changed the conversation, and began to talk of the worth gowns she had seen in new york, on her last visit. "which do you admire most, worth or felix?" she asked, after a graphic description of some marvellous gown which fitted the fortunate owner "as if she had been poured into it. absolutely _poured_, miss grahame!" "i--i really don't know," hildegarde confessed meekly. "i never can tell one dressmaker's style from another. if a gown is pretty, that is all i think about it." "oh! if you have never studied these things, of course!" said the fair leonie indulgently. "i went to madame vivien's school, you see, and we had a regular hour for studying fashions. i can tell a worth or a felix or a donovan gown as far as i can see it." "did you like madame vivien's school?" asked hildegarde. "she ought to!" exclaimed mr. loftus. "it cost enough, i can tell you." "oh, it is the best school in the city, of course," said leonie complacently. "we had a very good time, a set of us that were there. they called us the highflyers, and i suppose we had rather top-lofty notions. anyway, we were madame's favourites, because we had _the air_, she always said. she couldn't endure a dowdy girl, and she dressed beautifully herself. there were two or three girls that were regular digs, with their noses always in their books, and madame couldn't bear them. 'miss antrim,' she was always saving to one of them, 'it is true that you know your lesson, but your gown is buttoned awry, and it fits as if the miller had made it.' he! he!" "and--and did you care for study?" hildegarde asked, mentally sympathising with miss antrim, though conscious that she would never have been allowed to go to school with a gown buttoned awry. "oh! i liked french," said miss loftus, "and history pretty well, when it wasn't too poky. but you didn't have to study at madame vivien's unless you wanted to." "what leonie went most for was manners," explained mrs. loftus, taking a large mouthful of mayonnaise, and continuing her remarks while eating it. "elegant manners they teach at madame vivien's." "how to enter a room well,"--leonie enumerated the points on her taper fingers,--"how to salute and take leave of a hostess, how to order a dinner,--those were some of the most important things. we took turns in making up _menus_, and prizes were given for the best." "leonie took the prize for the best minew!" exclaimed mrs. loftus, triumphantly. "tell miss grahame your prize minew, leonie." nothing loth, leonie described the dinner at length, from little-neck clams to coffee; and a very fine dinner it was. "hm!" grunted mr. loftus, "better dinner than we ever get from your twelve-dollar cook, mrs. l. hm! fine dinners on paper, i dare say. hand me that salad! why don't you give miss grahame some more salad? she ain't eating anything at all." "then we had lectures on the art of dress," continued the fair student of madame vivien's. "those were very interesting." "well, dress does change, the most of anything!" exclaimed mrs. loftus. "to see the difference now from when i was a girl! why, when i was married i had thirty-five yards of silk in my wedding dress, and now nobody don't have more than ten or twelve. almost too scant to cover 'em, it seems sometimes." "thirty-five yards, mamma!" exclaimed her daughter. "you're joking!" "not a mite!" mrs. loftus said firmly. "thirty-five yards of white satin, and trimmed with four whole pieces of lace and three hundred and eighty-two bows." the two girls exclaimed in wonder, and mrs. loftus continued in high good-humour. "yes, a dress was a dress in those days. why, i had one walking dress, a brown silk it was, with fifty yards in it." "but how was it possible?" cried hildegarde. "did you wear crinoline?" "no," was the reply, "not a mite of hoop-skirt; but things were very full, you see, miss grahame. that brown dress, now; it had a deep side-plaiting all round, and an overskirt, very full too, and the back very deep, flounced, scalloped, and trimmed with narrow piping, looped in each corner with scallops. there was a deep fringe round the basque and overskirt, and coming up from the postilion (that was deep, too), to loop on the left shoulder." "well, it sounds _awful_!" said leonie frankly. "you must have been a perfect sight, mamma!" "she was better-looking than you are, or ever will be!" snarled mr. loftus. "are you goin' to sit here all day talkin' about women's folderols? i have to pay for 'em, and i guess that's all i want to know about 'em." glad enough was hildegarde when four o'clock came, and she could plead an appointment to meet her mother at a certain turn of the road, as they were going for a walk together. "more walking!" cried mrs. loftus. "you'll have a fever, i'm certain of it. i don't think girls ought _ever_ to walk, unless it's a little turn in the park while the horses are waiting, or something of that sort." she begged hildegarde to wait till the horses were harnessed, but our heroine was firm, and finally departed, leaving her good-natured hostess shaking her head in the doorway, like a mandarin in wine-coloured satin. as she turned the corner by the gilded iron gates, hildegarde was startled by the apparition of a small boy in brown corduroy, sitting on a post and swinging his legs. hildegarde was fond of boys. one of her two best friends was a boy, and she had a little sweetheart in maine, whose name was benny, and who loved her with all the ardour of four years old. this boy must be six or seven, she thought. he had red hair, a round, rosy, freckled face, and two eyes so blue and so bright that the very meeting them made her smile. her smile was answered by a flash, which lighted up the whole face, and subsided instantly, leaving preternatural gravity. "how do you do?" said hildegarde. "is it fun sitting there?" "no!" said the boy; and down he came. then shyness seized him; he hung his head and considered his toes attentively. "my name is hilda," continued our heroine. "do you think it is a nice name?" he nodded, still intent on the boots. "but i don't know what your name is," she went on sadly. "i should like to tell you about my puppy, if you would walk along by me, but you see i can't, because i don't know your name." "hugh allen," said the lad briefly. "hugh!" cried hildegarde, her cheek flushing and her eyes softening. "that was my dear father's name. we must be friends, hugh, for the name's sake. come along, laddie!" the boy came, and walked in silence by her side, occasionally stealing a glance at the kind, bright face so much higher up than his own. "well, my puppy," said hildegarde, as if she were continuing a conversation. "his name was patsy, and he was such a funny puppy,--all white, with a great big head, and paws almost as big, and a mouth large enough to swallow--oh! i don't know what! a watermelon, perhaps. i loved him very much. he used to gnaw my boots, and nibble the skirt of my dress; but, of course, i didn't mind, for i knew he was cutting his teeth, poor dear, and couldn't help it. but when he gnawed all the corners off the leather chairs in the dining-room, my mother dear didn't like it, and she said patsy must go. then my father said he would take him to his office every day, and keep him out of mischief, and then i could take the dear for a good walk in the afternoon, and have a comfortable time with him, and he could sleep in the shed. well, i thought this was a delightful plan, and the next day patsy went off with papa, as pleased and happy as possible. oh, dear! hugh, what do you think that puppy did?" "perhaps he bit his legs," suggested hugh, with a gleam of delight in his blue eyes. "oh, no!" said hildegarde. "he wouldn't have dared to do that, for he was a sad coward, my poor patsy. my father left him shut up in the office while he went to lunch; and as the day was mild (though it was winter), he left his new ulster on a chair, where he had laid it when he first came in. hugh, when he came back, he found the ulster--it was a stout heavy one--he found it all torn into little pieces, and the pieces piled in a heap, and patsy lying on top of them." "oh-ee!" cried the boy. "and _then_ what happened? did he smite him hip and thigh, even unto the going down of the sun?" hildegarde opened her eyes a little at this scriptural phrase, but answered: "yes, i am afraid papa gave him a pretty severe whipping. he had to, of course. and then he sent him away, and i never saw poor patsy again. don't you think that was sad, hugh?" "it was sad for you," replied the boy, "but sadder for patsy. would you like to be a dog?" he added, looking up suddenly into hildegarde's face. "i--think--not!" said that young woman meditatively. "i should have to eat scraps and cold bones, and that i could not endure. besides, you couldn't read, or play on the piano, or anything of that sort. no, i am quite sure i should not like it, hugh." "but you would have a tail!" cried the boy, with kindling eyes. "a tail to wag! and--and just think how you would _go_ with four legs!" he added, giving a jump with his two stout little limbs. "and never to have to sit up straight, except for fun sometimes; and no boots to lace, and not to have to cut up your dinner. oh! it would be such fun!" "yes, and never to be able to change your clothes when they are wet or muddy," replied the girl, "and to have to lie on the floor"--"i like to lie on the floor," put in hugh--"and to have unnatural people, who don't like dogs, say, 'there! there! get away, dog!' when you are trying to make yourself agreeable." "yes, that is bad!" hugh admitted. "aunt loftus beat merlin yesterday when he hadn't done anything, just not anything at all. just he wagged his tail to tell me something, and there was an old jug in the way, and it fell over and broke. and now he isn't to come into the house any more. i felt like 'many oxen come about me, fat bulls of basan compass me on every side,' when she glared at me and said that." hildegarde turned her face away, and was silent for a minute. "merlin is your dog?" she asked presently, with a suspicious quiver in her voice. "would you like to see him?" cried the lad joyfully. "he stayed behind with a bone, but i'll call him." he gave a long, clear whistle, and a superb collie came bounding down the avenue, and greeted his master with violent affection. "down, merlin!" said hugh allen gravely. "this is the purple maid i told you about, but her real name is hilda. a purple maid was what i called you when i saw you coming up the steps," he explained, turning to hildegarde. "i didn't know any other name, you see." "but why 'purple maid'?" asked hildegarde, feeling more and more that this was a very queer little boy. "i had been walking fast, but was i actually purple, hugh?" "oh, no!" said the boy. "it wasn't that at all. your cheeks were like the rosy eve. but 'purple' has a nice sound, don't you think so? a kind of rich sound. do you mind my calling you a purple maid?" hildegarde assured him that she did not, and then, from mere idle curiosity, as she afterwards assured herself, she added, "and what do you call your cousin leonie?" "a vinegar cruet!" replied hugh promptly. "and aunt loftus is a fat--" "oh, hush! hush! my dear little boy!" cried hildegarde hastily. "you must not say such things as that." "you asked me," replied hugh simply. "that is what i do call them when i think about them." "but it is not nice to think rude and unkind things," said the purple maid, reprovingly. "then i won't think about them at all," said the boy. "for they really are, you know. i'd rather think of you, anyhow, and mamma, and merlin." [illustration: "hildegarde had been making friends with merlin."] while this dialogue was going on, hildegarde had been making friends with merlin, who responded with cheerful cordiality to her advances. he was a beautiful creature, of true collie brown, with a black nose, and the finest white waistcoat in the world. his eyes were wonderful, clear, deep, and intelligent, in colour "like mountain water when it's flowing o'er a rock." "dear lad!" said hildegarde, taking his black paw and pressing it affectionately. "i know you are as good as you are handsome. will you be my friend, too? hugh is going to be my friend." "he will!" cried hugh eagerly. "we always like the same people, and _almost_ always the same things. he won't eat apples, and i don't chase cats; but those are nearly the only things we don't like together." at a turn in the road, hildegarde saw in the distance a black figure walking toward them. "there is my mother dear!" she exclaimed. "she said she would come and meet me. will you come and see her, hugh?--she is _very_ nice!" she added, seeing that the boy hung back. but hugh studied his boots again with rapt attention, and apparently read in them a summons back to the poplars. "i think i have to go back!" he said. "i love you, and you are my purple maid. may i come to see you once?" "you may come fifty times, dear little lad!" cried hildegarde warmly. "come as often as you like." but hugh allen shook his head sagely. "maybe once will be enough," he said. "come, merlin! good-by, purple maid!" and he and merlin disappeared in a cloud of legs and dust. chapter ix. the cousins. hildegarde and her cousin jack soon became fast friends. his fear of mrs. grahame vanished the first time he saw her smile, and he found, to his great amazement, that a girl was not necessarily either "dreadful" or stupid; moreover, that a girl's mother might be a very delightful person, instead of a mixture of harpy and gorgon. he was invited to come to tea and bring his violin. colonel ferrers was invited, too, but promptly declined. "a fiddling nephew, dear madam," he said, "is a dispensation to which i resign myself, but i do not wish to hear him fiddle." mrs. grahame suggested that the fiddle might be left at home. "no, no! let him bring it! by all means let him bring it! if you can really endure it without discomfort, that is. it will be the greatest pleasure to the lad, who is a good lad, though a deplorable milksop." so jack came with the precious black box under his arm. tea was set out on the verandah, a symphony in white and gold,--golden croquettes, butter, honey, snowy rolls, and cream cheese,--and hildegarde pouring the tea, in white with gold-coloured ribbons at waist and throat. jack ferrers had never seen anything of this sort. "daddy" and he had always been together, and neither of them had ever cared or thought how anything looked. he wondered if his cousin hildegarde was very frivolous. girls were, of course; and yet--she was certainly very pretty; and, if she really cared for music--and then, being eighteen and hungry, he gave his undivided attention to the croquettes, which truly deserved it. and after tea, when they had sat quiet in the twilight for a little, hildegarde said softly, "now, cousin jack!" and jack took his violin and began to play. at the first note mrs. grahame laid down her knitting; at the second, she and hildegarde exchanged glances; at the third, they forgot each other and everything else save the music. first came a few simple chords, melting into a soft harmony, a prelude as low and sweet as the notes of the mother-bird brooding over her nest; then, suddenly, from this soft cloud of peaceful harmony there leaped a wonderful melody, clear and keen as the same bird's song at daybreak,--a melody that mounted higher and higher, soaring as the lark breasts the blue morning, flight upon flight of golden notes pouring out as if the violin were a living thing, a breathing, singing creature, with heart and soul filled and brimming over with love and joy and beauty. on and on the boy played, while the two women listened spellbound, feeling that this was no ordinary playing; and as he played his whole aspect seemed to change. he straightened himself and stood erect, save for the loving bend of the head over the beloved instrument. his blue eyes flashed, his whole countenance grew luminous, intense. the gawky, listless, indolent lad was gone; and one saw only the musician rapt in his art. when it was over, they were all silent for a moment. then mrs. grahame held out her hand. "my dear boy!" she said. "my dear jack, you ought to be the happiest fellow in the world. to be able to give and to enjoy such pleasure as this, is indeed a great privilege." hildegarde could only look her thanks, for the music had moved her deeply; but her smile told jack all that he wanted to know, and it appeared that girls were not all frivolous; also that it must be very nice to have a mother. then he played again. indeed, they left him no choice,--the mozart concerto, of which he had spoken, and then one lovely thing after another, barcarolle and serenade and fairy dance, melting finally into the exquisite melody of an old gaelic lullaby. "oh!" said hildegarde, under her breath; and then, as her mother bade her, she sang softly the words she loved,-- "slumber sweetly, little donald." such a happy evening it was, on the wide verandah, with the moon shining down, softening everything into magical wonders of ivory and silver! it was the first of many such evenings, for soon jack came to spending half his time at braeside. at nine o'clock colonel ferrers would come striding up the gravel walk, swinging his big stick; and then the violin would be tenderly laid away, and half an hour of pleasant chat would follow, after which uncle and nephew would go off together, and the last the two ladies heard of them would be passionate adjurations from the former to "step out," and not to "poke your head forward like an army mule following a grain-cart, sir!" one day the two cousins were taking a walk together. at least they had been walking, and now had sat down to rest on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree,--in fact, of the same great sycamore which hildegarde had christened philemon, on the memorable day of the tree-climbing. they had been talking about everything and nothing, when suddenly jack shook his head and began earnestly, "did your mother mean that the other night?" hildegarde simply looked at him, and raised her eyebrows. "i mean about my being happy," the boy continued. "because i'm not happy, and i never expect to be." "what is it?" hildegarde asked, seeing that a confidence was coming. "there is only one thing in the world that i want," cried the boy, "and that is just what i cannot have. i want to go to leipsic, and uncle tom won't hear of it; calls it nonsense, and is going to send me to harvard. we are poor, you know; daddy doesn't know anything about money, and--and who cares about it, anyhow, except for--for things one wants? uncle tom says i can't make a bow, and--oh, all kinds of rubbish! what's the use of making a bow? i'm not going to be a dancing-master, hildegarde!" "indeed, you would not be a good one!" his cousin said; "but, considering that one must make bows, jack, isn't it just as well to do it well as to do it badly?" "who cares?" cried the boy, shaking his head wildly. "if a man is going to _be_ anything, who cares how he bows? and--oh, of course that is one item. i am to go to harvard, and learn to bow and to dance, and to be a classical scholar, and to play base-ball. i _hate_ base-ball, hilda! it's perfect idiocy, and it makes my head ache, and any one can see that i'm not cut out for athletics. are you laughing at me?" "indeed i am not!" said hildegarde, heartily. "but, tell me! you want to go to leipsic, to study music?" "of course!" was the reply. "and daddy wants me to go, and herr geigen is going over in the autumn, and he would place me, and all; but uncle tom hates music, you know, and if i speak of it he goes off in a rage, and talks about rascally dutch fiddlers, and says i walk like a giraffe with the palsy. at least, that was the animal this morning. yesterday i was a gouty ostrich, and i suppose we shall go through the whole menagerie." "you like him?" hildegarde said interrogatively. "he is _very_ kind, in his way," replied jack. "awfully kind, and he loves my father, and i know he wants to do things for me; but--it all has to be done in his way, don't you see? and--well, there isn't anything in me except music. i know that, you see, hildegarde. just nothing!" "i don't feel so sure of that!" hildegarde said. "perhaps you never tried to develop the other side of you. there must be other sides, you know." "no, there aren't!" said jack positively. "none at all!" "but that is nonsense!" cried hildegarde impatiently. "do you mean to say that you are a flat surface, like a playing-card, with 'music' painted on you?" "i didn't know i was flat!" rather stiffly. "you see, you are not! then why not try to care for something else _beside_ music, without caring any the less for that?" "what is there to care for? a parcel of musty old books, such as uncle tom is forever reading." "oh! oh! you goth! as if it were not a rapture simply to look at the outside of your uncle's books. to see my heart's own doctor in dark blue calf, with all that beautiful tooling--" "what doctor? what are you talking about, hildegarde?" "johnson, of course! is there another? as the man in _punch_ says about his hatter. and even in your own line, you foolish boy! have you never read that beautiful 'life of handel'? i looked into it the other day, and it seemed delightful." "no," said jack, looking blank. "where is it? i never saw it." "bookcase between the south windows, fourth shelf, about the middle; three fat volumes in green morocco. and you never saw it, because you never look at the books at all. what _do_ you look at, jack, except your music and your violin? for example, do you ever look in the glass? i know you don't." "how do you know?" and jack blushed hotly. "because--you won't mind? i am your cousin, you know!--because your necktie is so often crooked. it is crooked now; a little more to the right! that's it! and--and you ought to brush that spot off your coat. now, if you made it a point always to look in the glass before leaving your room--" "is that one of the sides you want me to develop?" asked jack slowly. "caring about dress, and looks, and that sort of thing? i didn't know you were of that kind, hildegarde." "of what kind?" cried our heroine, blushing furiously in her turn, and feeling that she was in great danger of losing her temper. "i certainly do care about my dress and looks, as every one ought to do. suppose the next time you came to tea, you found me with my hair tumbling down, and a great spot of ink on my gown, and my ruffles torn! is that the kind of person you like to see? i always thought herrick's julia was a most untidy young woman, with her shoe-strings, and her 'erring lace' and all." "i don't know who she is," said jack meekly. "but i beg your pardon if i was rude, hilda; and--and i will try to 'spruce up,' as uncle tom is always trying to make me. you see," he added shyly, "when _you_ look in the glass you see something nice, and i don't!" "nonsense!" said hildegarde, promptly. "and then, jack--that is only one thing, of course. but if you had the habit of using your eyes! oh! you don't know what a difference it would make. i know, because i used to be as blind as you are. i never looked at anything till about two years ago. and now--of course i am only learning still, and shall be learning all my life, i hope; but--well, i do see things more or less. for example, what do you see at our feet here?" "grass!" said jack, peering about. "green grass. do you think i don't know that?" hildegarde laughed, and clapped her hands. "just what i should have said two years ago!" she cried. "there are twelve different plants that i know--i've been counting them--and several more that are new to me." "well, they're all green, anyhow!" said jack. "what's the difference?" hildegarde scorned a direct reply, but went on, being now mounted on her own hobby. "and as for moths, jack, you can have no idea of what my ignorance was in regard to moths." "oh, come!" said jack. "every one knows about moths, of course. they eat our clothes, and fly into the lamps. that is one of the things one finds out when one is a baby, i suppose." "indeed!" cried hildegarde. "and that is all there is to find out, i suppose. why--" she stopped suddenly; then said in a very different tone, "oh, jack! this is a wonderful coincidence. look! oh, _will_ you look? oh! the beautiful, beautiful dear! get me something! anything! quick!" jack, who was not accustomed to feminine ways, wondered if his fair cousin was going out of her mind. she was gazing intently at a spot of lighter green on the "grass" at her feet. presently the spot moved, spread; developed two great wings, delicate, exquisite, in colour like a chrysoprase, or the pure, cold green one sometimes sees in a winter sunset. "what is it?" asked jack, in wonder. "a luna!" cried hildegarde. "hush! slip off on the other side, quietly! _fly_ to the house, and ask auntie for a fly-screen. _quick_, jack!" jack, greatly wondering, ran off none the less, his long legs scampering with irreverent haste through the ladies' garden. returning with the screen, which auntie gave him without question, being well used to the sudden frenzies of a moth-collector, he found hildegarde on her knees, holding her handkerchief over the great moth, which fortunately had remained quiet, being indeed stupid in the strong light. the girl's face was all aglow with triumph and delight. "a perfect specimen," she cried, as she skilfully conveyed the great moth under the screen. "i have two, but the tails are a little broken. isn't he glorious, jack? oh, happy day! come, good cousin, and let us take him home in a triumphal procession." jack looked rather blank. "are you going home now?" he asked. "of course, to put my beauty in the ammonia jar." "what is it?" she added, seeing that her cousin looked really vexed. "oh--nothing!" said jack. "nothing of any consequence. i am ready." "but _what_ is it?" hildegarde repeated. "you would a great deal better tell me than look like that, for i know i have done something to vex you." "well--i am not used to girls, you know, hildegarde, and perhaps i am stupid. only--well, i was going to ask you seriously what you thought about--my music, and all that; and first you tell me to look in the glass, and then you go to catching moths and forget all about me. i suppose it's all right, only--" he blushed, and evidently did not think it _was_ all right. hildegarde blushed, too, in real distress. "my _dear_ jack," she cried, "how shall i tell you how sorry i am?" she looked about for a suitable place, and then carefully set down the fly-screen with its precious contents. "sit down again," she cried, motioning her cousin to take his place on the fallen tree, while she did the same. "and you will not believe now how interested i really am," she said. "mamma would never have been so stupid, nor rose either. but you must believe me. i _was_ thinking about you till--till i saw the luna, and you don't know what a luna means when one hasn't a perfect specimen. but now, tell me, do you think it would be quite impossible to persuade your uncle? why, you _must_ go to leipsic, of course you must. he--has he ever heard you play, jack?" jack laughed rather bitterly. "once," he said. "he cried out that when he wanted to listen to cats with their tails tied together, he would tie them himself. since then i always go up into the garret to practise, and shut all the doors and windows." "what a pity! and he is so nice when one knows him. i wonder--do you know, jack, what i am thinking of?" her face was so bright that the boy's face brightened as he looked at it. "i hope it is what i was thinking of," he said; "but i didn't dare--" "mamma," cried hildegarde. he nodded in delight, colouring with pleasure. "she is just the person." "of course she is; but will she?" "of course she will. i am sure of it. your uncle shall come to tea some evening, and you shall stay at home. i will go away to write letters, and then--oh, you see, jack, no one can resist mamma." "what a good fellow you are, hildegarde! oh, i _beg_ your pardon!" "never mind!" cried hildegarde merrily. "i did climb the tree, you know. and now, come along. i must take my beauty, my love, my moonlight rapture, up to his death." chapter x. bonny sir hugh. meanwhile hildegarde had not lost sight of little hugh allen, the one link of interest which connected her with the poplars. he, too, had been won by mrs. grahame's smile, and had learned the way to braeside; and the more they saw of him, the more hildegarde and her mother felt that he was a very remarkable little boy. much of the time he seemed to be lost in dreams, wrapped in a cloud of silent thought; and, again, from this cloud would flash out the quaintest sayings, sudden outbursts of passionate feeling, which were startling to quiet, every-day people. when he had been walking with mrs. grahame, as he was fond of doing (sneaking out by the back gate from his prison-place, as he called it, and making a _détour_ to reach the road where she most often walked), and when she said, "now, dear, it is time to say good-by, and go home," he would throw himself on his knees, and hold up his clasped hands, crying, "how can i leave thee?" in a manner which positively embarrassed her. now it happened one day that hugh was sitting with merlin beside the brook that flowed at the foot of the ladies' garden. hildegarde had told him to come through the garden and wait for her, and it was his first visit to the lovely, silent place. the child went dreaming along between the high box hedges, stopping occasionally to look about him and to exchange confidences with his dog. merlin seemed to feel the influence of the place, and went along quietly, with bent head and drooping tail. when the murmur of the hidden streamlet first fell upon his ear, "it is like the fishpools of heshbon," said the boy dreamily. "isn't it, merlin? i never understood before." merlin put his cool black nose in his master's hand, and gave a little sympathetic shake. and now the pair were sitting on a bank of moss, looking down into the dark, clear water, which moved so swiftly yet so silently, with only a faint sound, which somehow seemed no louder than when they were at a distance. [illustration: hildegarde finding hugh and merlin by the brook.] "do you see that dark round place where it is deep, merlin?" said the child. "do you think that under there lives a fair woman with green hair, who takes a person by the hand, and kisses him, and pulls him down? do you think that, merlin?" but merlin sneezed, and shook his head, and evidently thought nothing of the kind. "then do you think about fishes?" the boy went on. "dark little fishes, with gleaming eyes, who are sad because they cannot speak. i wish i knew your thoughts, merlin." "wuff!" said merlin, in his voice of welcome, raising his head, and becoming instantly a living image of cheerfulness. hugh looked, and there was his purple maid, all bright and shining, standing among the green trees, and smiling at him. the child's face flushed with such vivid light that the place seemed brighter. he held out his arms with a passionate gesture that would have been theatrical if it had not been so real, but remained silent. "dear!" said hildegarde. "how quiet you are, you and merlin! i could not tell whether it was your voice or the brook, talking." the boy and dog made room for her between them, and she sat down. "aren't you going to speak to me, hugh?" she continued, as he still said nothing. "i spoke to myself," said the boy. "when i saw you stand there, angelic, in the green, 'blessed heart of woman!' i said to myself. do you like the sound of that?" "my bonny sir hugh!" said hildegarde, laying her hand caressingly on the red-gold hair. "i do like the sound of it. and do you like this place? i want you to care for it as i do." the boy nodded. "it is the place of dead people," he said. "we are too alive to be here." "i call it the ladies' garden," said hildegarde softly. "fair, sweet ladies lived here once, and loved it. they used to sit here, hugh, and wander up and down the green paths, and fill the place with sweet, gentle words. i don't believe they sang; hester may have sung, perhaps." "were they fair as the moon, clear as the sun?" asked the child. "where did you find those sweet words, sir hugh?" "in the bible. 'fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army with banners.' and 'thy neck is a tower of ivory.' were they terrible, do you think?" "oh, no! they were very gentle, i think, very soft and mild, like folds of old soft cashmere; only hester was blithe and gay, and she died, hugh, when she was just my age. think of it! to die so young and go away out of all the sunshine." the child looked at her with strange eyes. "why do you be sad?" he said. "don't you know about your mother dear jerusalem?" "a little," said hildegarde. "tell me what you are thinking, sir hugh." "it is greener there," said the child, "and brighter. don't you know, blessed heart? 'where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers as nowhere else are seen.' and more coloured words. don't you love coloured words?" the girl laid her hand on his lightly, but said nothing, and he went on as if in a dream. "'thy houses are of ivory, thy windows crystal clear, thy streets are laid with beaten gold-- there angels do appear.' "two of them are papa and mamma," he added after a pause. "do you think they mind waiting for me very much? at first i wanted to go to them--oh, so badly! because those people are devils, and i would rather die; but now i have you, purple maid, and your mother is like balm dropping in the valley, and i don't mind waiting, if only i thought _they_ didn't mind it too much." he looked up wistfully, and hildegarde bent to kiss him. "how long is it, dear?" she asked softly. "a year now, a very long year, only i had merlin. and uncle loftus took me out of charity, he said; but mamma said i was to go to aunt martha, so that makes me feel wrong, even if i wanted to stay with them, and it is the pains of hell to me." "aunt martha?" asked hildegarde, willing to ask more, yet dreading to rouse the boy's scriptural eloquence on the subject of his relatives at the poplars. hugh nodded. "mamma's aunt," he said. "she lives somewhere, not far from here, but i don't know where; and uncle loftus won't tell me, or let me see her, 'cause she is a menial. what is a menial, dearly beloved?" "did your uncle say that to you?" hildegarde asked, waiving the question. "he said it _at_ me!" was the reply. "at my back, but i heard it. she was a menial, and he wasn't going to have folks saying that his aunt was housekeeper to a stuck-up old bear, just because she was a fool and had no proper spirit. and the others said 'hush!' and i went away, and now they won't let me speak about her." "housekeeper to a--why!" began hildegarde; and then she was silent, and smoothed the child's hair thoughtfully. an old bear! that was what mr. loftus had vulgarly called colonel ferrers. could it be possible that--jack had told her about dear, good mrs. beadle, who had been nurse to his father and uncle, and who was so devoted to them all, and such a superior woman. she had been meaning to go to see her the next time she was at roseholme. was there a mystery here? was mrs. beadle the plump and comfortable skeleton in the loftus closet? she must ask jack. as she mused thus, the child had fallen a-dreaming again, and they both sat for some time silent, with the soft falling of the water in their ears, and all the dim, shadowy beauty of the place filling their hearts with vague delight. presently, "beloved," said hugh (he wavered between this and "purple maid" as names for hildegarde, wholly ignoring her own name), "beloved, there is an angel near me. did you know it?" "there might well be angels in this place," said hildegarde, looking at the boy, whose wide blue eyes wore a far-away, spiritual look. "i don't mean just here in this spot. i mean floating through the air at night. i hear him, almost every night, playing on his harp of gold." "dear hugh, tell me a little more clearly." "sometimes the moon shines in at my window and wakes me up, you know. then i get up and look out, for it is so like heaven, only silver instead of gold; and then--then i hear the angel play." "what does it sound like?" "sometimes like a voice, sometimes like birds. and then it sobs and cries, and dies away, and then it sounds out again, like 'blow up the trumpet in the new moon,' and goes up, up, up, oh, so high! do you think that is when the angel goes up to the gate, and then is sorry for people here, and comes back again? i have thought of that." "my bonny sir hugh!" said hildegarde gently. "would you care less about the lovely music if it was not really made by an angel? if it was a person like you and me, who had the power and the love to make such beautiful sounds?" the child's face lightened. "was it you?" he said in an awe-struck voice. "not i, dear, but my cousin, my cousin jack, who plays the violin most beautifully, hugh. he practises every night, up in the garret at roseholme, because--only think! his uncle does not like to hear him." "the ostrich gentleman!" cried hugh, bursting into merry laughter. "is it the ostrich gentleman?" hildegarde tried to look grave, with moderate success. "my cousin is tall," she said, "but you must not call names, little lad!" "never any more will i call him it," cried hugh, "if he is really the angel. but he does look like one. must we go?" he asked wistfully, as hildegarde rose, and held out her hand to him. "yes, dear, i am going to the village, you know. i thought we would come this way because i wanted you to see the ladies' garden. now we must go across the meadow, and round by the back of roseholme to find the road again." they crossed the brook by some mossy stepping-stones, and climbed the dark slope on the further side, thick-set with ferns and dusky hemlock-trees. then came the wall, and then the sudden break into the sunny meadow. hugh threw off his grave mood with the shadow, and danced and leaped in the sunshine. "shall i run with merlin?" he asked. "you have never seen us run, beloved!" hildegarde nodded, and with a shout and a bark the two were off. a pretty sight they were! the boy's golden head bobbing up and down in full energy of running, the dog bounding beside him with long, graceful leaps. they breasted the long, low hill, then swept round in a wide circle, and came rushing past hildegarde, breathless and radiant. this was more than our heroine could bear. with a merry "hark, follow!" she started in pursuit, and was soon running abreast of the others, with head thrown back, eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing. "hurrah!" cried hugh. "hurrah it is!" echoed the purple maid. "wow, _wow_!" panted merlin, ecstatically. as the chase swept round the hill the second time, two gentlemen came out of the woods, and paused in amazement at the sight. hildegarde's long hair had come down, and was flying in the wind; her two companions were frantic with delight, and bobbed and leaped, shouting, beside her. so bright was the sunshine, so vivid in colour, so full of life the three runners, they seemed actually to flash as they moved. "harry monmouth!" cried colonel ferrers. "here is a girl who knows how to run. look at that action! it's poetry, sir! it's rhythm and metre and melody. "'nor lighter does the swallow skim along the smooth lake's airy rim.' after her, master milksop, and let me see what your long legs can do!" jack ferrers needed no second bidding, and though his running was not graceful, being rather a hurling himself forward, as if he were catapult and missile in one, he got over the ground with great rapidity, and caught his cousin up as she came flying round the meadow for the third time. hildegarde stopped short, in great confusion. "jack!" she faltered, panting. "how--where did you come from? you must have started up out of the earth." turning to capture her flying tresses, she caught sight of colonel ferrers, and her confusion was redoubled. "oh!" she cried, the crimson mounting from her cheeks to her forehead, bathing her in a fiery tide. "oh! how could you? he--he will be _sure_ i am a tomboy now." "nothing of the kind, my fair atalanta!" exclaimed the colonel, who had the ears of a fox. he advanced, beaming, and flourishing his stick. "nothing of the kind!" he repeated. "he is delighted, on the contrary, to see a young creature who can make the free movements of nature with nature's grace and activity. harry monmouth! miss hildegarde, i wish i were twenty years younger, and i would challenge you to a race myself!" chapter xi. a call and a conspiracy. "and you really seriously intend passing the winter here?" asked miss leonie loftus. this young lady had come to make a parting call at braeside. it was near the end of august, and three months of country life were all that she could possibly endure, and she was going with her mother to long branch, and thence to saratoga. "you really mean it?" she repeated, looking incredulous. "assuredly!" replied hildegarde, smiling. "winter and summer, and winter again, miss loftus. this is our home now, and we have become attached to it even in these few months." "oh, you look at it in a sentimental light," said miss loftus, with a disagreeable smile. "the domestic hearth, and that sort of thing. rather old-fashioned, isn't it, miss grahame?" "possibly; i have never thought of it as a matter of fashion," was the quiet reply. "and how do you expect to kill time in your wilderness?" was the next question. "kill him?" hildegarde laughed. "we never can catch him, even for a moment, miss loftus. he flies faster at braeside than even in new york. i sometimes think there are only two days in the week, monday and saturday." "i hear you have a sewing-school in the village. i suppose that will take up some time." "i hope so! the children seem interested, and it is a great pleasure to me. then, too, i expect to join some of miss wayland's classes in the fall, and that will keep me busy, of course." "miss wayland, over in dorset? why, it is three miles off." "and even if so? i hear it is a delightful school, and miss wayland herself is very lovely. do you know her?" "no!" said miss loftus, who had been "dying" as she would have put it, to get into miss wayland's school three years before. "a country boarding-school isn't _my_ idea of education." "oh!" said hildegarde civilly. "but to go back for a moment, miss loftus. your speaking of the children reminds me to ask you, is little hugh going with you to long branch?" miss loftus coloured. "oh, dear, no!" she replied. "a child at such places, you know, is out of the question. he is to be sent to school. he is going next week." "but--pardon me! are not all schools in vacation now?" "i believe so! but these people--the miss hardhacks--are willing to take him now, and keep him." "poor little lad!" murmured hildegarde, regardless of the fact that it was none of her business. "will he not be very lonely?" "beggars must not be choosers, miss grahame!" was the reply, with another unamiable smile. miss loftus really would not have smiled at all, if she had known how she looked. no sooner was the visitor gone, than hildegarde flew up to her mother with the news. the loftuses were going away; they were going to send hugh to school. what was to be done? he could not go! he _should_ not go. she was greatly excited, but mrs. grahame's quiet voice and words restored her composure. "'can't' and 'shan't' never won a battle!" said that lady. "we must think and plan." hildegarde had lately discovered, beyond peradventure, from some chance words let fall by little hugh, that his mother had been the sister of mr. loftus; and she felt no doubt in her own mind that good mrs. beadle was aunt to both. the sister had been a school teacher, had married a man of some education, who died during the second year of their marriage, leaving her alone, in a western town, with her little baby. she had struggled on, not wishing to be a burden either on her rich brother (who had not approved her marriage) or her aunt, who had nothing but her savings and her comfortable berth at roseholme. at length, consumption laying its deadly hand on her, she sent for her brother, and begged him to take the boy to their good aunt, who, she knew, would care for him as her own. "but he didn't!" said hugh. "he did not do that. he said he would make a man of me, but i don't believe he could make a very good one, do you, beloved?" now the question was, how to bring about a meeting between the boy and his great-aunt, if great-aunt she were. no child was allowed to enter the sacred precincts of roseholme, for colonel ferrers regarded children, and especially boys, as the fountain-head of all mischief, flower-breaking, bird-nesting, turf-destroying. his own nephew had had to wait eighteen years for an invitation. how could it be possible to introduce little hugh, a boy and a stranger, into the charmed garden? if "mammina" could only take him! no one could resist her mother, hildegarde thought; certainly not colonel ferrers, who admired her so much. but this dear mother had sprained her ankle a week before, slipping on a mossy stone in the garden, and was only now beginning to get about, using a crutched stick. mrs. grahame and hildegarde put their heads together, and talked long and earnestly. then they sent for jack, and took counsel with him; and a plan was made for the first act of what hildegarde called the drama of the conspirators. a day or two after, when mrs. beadle drove to the town of whitfield, some miles off, on her weekly marketing trip, it was jack ferrers, instead of giuseppe, the faithful manservant, who held the reins and drove the yellow wagon with the stout brown cob. he wanted to buy some things, he said: a necktie, and some chocolate, and--oh, lots of things; and mrs. beadle was only too glad of his company. the good housekeeper was dressed, like villikins' dinah, in gorgeous array, her cashmere shawl being of the finest scarlet, her gown of a brilliant blue, while her bonnet nodded with blue and yellow cornflowers. not a tradesman in whitfield but came smiling to his door when he saw mrs. beadle's yellow cart; for she was a good customer, and wanted everything of the best for her colonel. when they at last turned chow-chow's head homeward, the wagon was nearly filled with brown-paper parcels, and jack's pockets bulged out in all directions. as they drove along the pleasant road, fringed with oaks and beeches, jack broke silence with, "biddy, did you ever have any children?" "bless me, master jack, how you startled me!" cried mrs. beadle, who was deep in a problem of jelly and roly-poly pudding. "no, dear! no jelly--i should say, no chick nor child had i ever. i wasn't good enough, i suppose." "nonsense. biddy!" said jack. "but you must have had some relations; some--nieces or nephews, or something of that sort." mrs. beadle sighed, and fell straightway into the trap. "i had, dear! i had, indeed, once upon a time. but they're no good to me now, and never will be." she sighed again. "how no good to you?" queried this artful jack. "oh, 'tis a long story, dear, and you wouldn't care for it at all. you would? well! well! there's no harm that i know of in speaking of it. i've nothing to be ashamed of. i had a niece, master jack, and a dearer one never was, nor married to a finer young man. but they went out west, and he died, and left her with a baby. i wrote again and again, begging her to come home, but she was doing well, she said, and felt to stay, and had friends there, and all. oh, dear! and last year--a year ago it is now, she died." mrs. beadle drew out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "she died, my dear; and--i didn't ought to speak of this, master jack, it do upset me so--i don't know where the child is to this day." "her child?" asked jack, with a guilty consciousness of his ears being red. "my own dear niece martha's child!" repeated the good woman sorrowfully. "a boy it was, as should be seven years old by this time. i've wrote, and i've wrote, but no answer could i get. and whether he is dead, too, or whether his father's people have him, or what, is darkness to me." "the brute!" exclaimed jack ferrers vehemently. "the cold-hearted, odious brute!" "what is it, my dear?" cried mrs. beadle, drying her tears, and looking with alarm at the pony. "his tail over the reins, is it? well, he will do that, but 'tis only play. he means no harm." "oh, i know!" cried jack in confusion. "i didn't mean--that is--and is that all the relatives you have, biddy?" "why, boys do love questions, don't they?" the good woman said. "i have a nephew living, master jack; and if you guessed from now till sunday week, you never would guess his name." "solomon grundy" rose to jack's lips, he could not in the least tell why. he did his best to look unconscious, but it was perhaps fortunate that mrs. beadle was so absorbed in her own troubled thoughts that she did not look at him. "who is it?" he asked. "do tell me. biddy! is it any one i ever heard of?" "hush, my dear! don't tell a soul that i mentioned it. i am not one to force myself on them as has got up in the world, and think honest service a disgrace. it's ephraim loftus!" "not mr. loftus at the poplars?" "mr. loftus at the poplars! the very same. my own sister's son, and little credit he is to either of us. don't ask me how he made his money, for i don't know, and don't want to know. when he was a little boy, his pockets were always full of pennies that he got from the other boys, trading and the like, and nobody had a kindness for him, though they loved martha. not a soul in the village but loved martha, and would do anything for her. so when ephraim was fourteen or so, he went away to new york, and we never heard anything more till he came back three or four years ago, a rich man, and built that great house, and lived there summers. i've never seen him but once; i don't go out, only just in the back garden, except when i drive to town. and that once he looked me all over, as if i was a waxwork in a glass case, and never stopped nor spoke a word. that's ephraim loftus! he needn't have been afraid of my troubling him or his, i can tell him. i wouldn't demean myself." mrs. beadle's face was red, and her voice trembled with angry pride. "and--" jack wished hildegarde were speaking instead of himself; she would know what to say, and he felt entirely at a loss. "do you--do you suppose he knows anything about--about his sister's little boy?" mrs. beadle looked as if some one had struck her a blow. "ephraim loftus!" she cried. "if i thought that, master jack, i'd--i'd--why, what's the matter, sir?" for jack had risen in his seat, and was waving the whip wildly round his head. "it's my cousin," he said. "don't you see her coming?" "oh, the dear young lady! yes, to be sure. walking this way, isn't she? never mind me. master jack!" said the good woman, striving for composure. "i was upset by what you said, that's all. it gave me a thought--who is the little boy with miss grahame, dear?" "he? oh--he's a boy," said jack, rather incoherently. "his name is hugh. good-morning, hildegarde! hallo, hugh! how are you?" "good-morning!" cried hildegarde, as the wagon drew up beside her. "good-morning, mrs. beadle. isn't it a lovely day? will the pony stand, jack?" "like a rock!" and jack, obeying the hint, leaped to the ground. mrs. beadle had turned very pale. she was gazing fixedly at hugh, who returned the look with wide blue eyes, shining with some strong emotion. "dear mrs. beadle," said hildegarde gently, taking the housekeeper's hand in hers as she leant against the wagon, "this is a very dear little friend of mine, whom i want you to know. his name is hugh; hugh allen; and he is staying with his uncle, mr. loftus." "i knew it!" cried mrs. beadle, clapping her hands together. "i knew it! and i am going to faint!" "no, don't do that!" said hugh, climbing up into the seat beside her. "don't do that. you must be calm, for you are my great-aunt, and i am your little nephew. how do you do? i am very glad to see you." "you are sure he will stand?" whispered hildegarde. "look at him! he is asleep already." "then come along!" and the two conspirators vanished among the trees. they pushed on a little way through the tangle of undergrowth, and paused, breathless and radiant, under a great beech-tree. "jack," said hildegarde, "you are a dear! how did you manage it?" "i didn't manage it at all. i am a stupid ninny. why, i've thrown her into a fit. do you think it's safe to leave her alone?" "nonsense! a joy fit does not hurt, when a person is well and strong. oh! isn't it delightful! and you have enjoyed it, too, jack, haven't you? i am sure you have. and--why, you have a new hat! and your necktie is straight. you look really very nice, _mon cousin_!" "_mille remerciments, ma cousine_!" replied jack, with a low bow, which, hildegarde noticed, was not nearly so like the shutting-up of a jackknife as it would have been a few weeks ago. "am i really improving? you have no idea what i go through with, looking in the glass. it is a humiliating practice. have some chocolates?" he pulled out a box, and they crunched in silent contentment. "now i think we may go back," said hildegarde, after her third bonbon. "but i must tell you first what hugh said. i told him the whole story as we walked along; first as if it were about some one else, you know, and then when he had taken it all in, i told him that he himself was the little boy. he was silent at first, reflecting, as he always does. then he said: 'i am like an enchanted prince, i think. generally it is fair ones with golden locks that take them out of prison, but at my age a great-aunt is better. don't you think so, beloved?' and i did think so." "but it _was_ a fair one with golden locks who planned it all!" jack said, with a shy look at his cousin's fair hair. "jack, you are learning to pay compliments!" cried hildegarde, clapping her hands. "i believe you will go to harvard after all, and be a classical scholar." "i would never pay another," said jack seriously, "if i thought it would have that effect." when they returned to the wagon, they found mrs. beadle still wiping away joyful tears, while hugh was apparently making plans for the future. his voice rang out loud and clear. "and we will dwell in a corner of the house-top, and have a dinner of herbs!" said the child. "they may have _all_ the stalled oxes themselves, mayn't they, great-aunt? and you will clothe us in scarlet and fine wool, won't you, great-aunt?" "bless your dear heart!" cried mrs. beadle. "is it red flannel you mean? don't tell me those heathen haven't put you into flannels!" and she wept again. chapter xii. the second act. colonel ferrers was taking his afternoon stroll in the garden. dinner was over; for at roseholme, as at braeside, country hours were kept, with early dinner, and seven o'clock tea, the pleasantest of all meals. with a fragrant manilla cigar between his lips, and his good stick in his hand, the colonel paced up and down the well-kept gravel paths, at peace with all mankind. the garden was all ablaze with geranium and verbena, heliotrope and larkspur. the pansies spread a gold and purple mantle in their own corner, while poppies were scattered all about in well-planned confusion. all this was giuseppe's work,--good, faithful giuseppe, who never rested, and never spoke, save to say "subito, signor!" when his master called him. he was at work now in a corner of the garden, setting out chrysanthemums; but no one would have known it, so noiseless were his motions, so silent his coming and going. the colonel, though pleasantly conscious of the lovely pomp spread out for his delight, was thinking of other things than flowers. he was thinking how his nephew jack had improved in the last two months. positively, thought the colonel, the boy was developing, was coming out of the animal kingdom, and becoming quite human. partly due to the indian clubs, no doubt, and to his, the colonel's, wholesome discipline and instructions; but largely, sir, largely to feminine influence. daily intercourse with women like mrs. grahame and her daughter would civilise a gorilla, let alone a well-intentioned giraffe who played the fiddle. he puffed meditatively at his cigar, and dwelt on a pleasant picture that his mind called up: hildegarde as he had seen her yesterday, sitting with a dozen little girls about her, and telling them stories while they sewed, under her careful supervision, at patchwork and dolls' clothes. how sweet she looked! how bright her face was, as she told the merry tale of the "midsummer night's dream." "harry monmouth, sir! she was telling 'em shakespeare! and they were drinking it in as if it had been mother goose." the colonel paused, and sighed heavily. "if hester had lived," he said, "if my little hester had lived--" and then he drew a long whiff of the fragrant manilla, and walked on. as he turned the corner by the great canna plant, he came suddenly upon mrs. beadle, who was apparently waiting to speak to him. the good housekeeper was in her state dress of black silk, with embroidered apron and lace mitts, and a truly wonderful cap; and colonel ferrers, if he had been observant of details, might have known that this portended something of a serious nature. being such as he was, he merely raised his hat with his grave courtesy, and said: "good-afternoon, mrs. beadle. is it about the yellow pickles? the same quantity as usual, ma'am, or perhaps a few more jars, as i wish to send some to mrs. grahame at braeside." mrs. beadle shivered a little. she had made the yellow pickles at roseholme for five and twenty years; and now,--"no, sir," she said faintly. "it is not the pickles." she plucked at the fringe of her shawl, and colonel ferrers waited, though with a kindling eye. women were admirable, but some of their ways were hard to bear. finally mrs. beadle made a desperate effort, and said, "do you think, sir, that you could find some one to take my place?" colonel ferrers fixed a look of keen inquiry on her, and instantly felt her pulse. "rapid!" he said, "and fluttering; elizabeth beadle, are you losing your mind?" "i have found my little boy, sir," cried mrs. beadle, bursting into tears. "my dear niece martha's own child, colonel ferrers. he is in the hands of heathen reprobates, if i do say it, and it is my duty to make a home for him. i never thought to leave roseholme while work i could, but you see how it is, sir." "i--see how it is?" cried the colonel, with a sudden explosion. then controlling himself by a great effort, he said with forced calmness, "i will walk over to the end of the garden, elizabeth beadle, and when i return i shall expect a sensible and coherent--do you understand?--_coherent_ account of this folderol. see how it is, indeed!" the colonel strode off, muttering to himself, and poor mrs. beadle wiped her eyes, and smoothed down her apron with trembling hands, and made up her mind that she would not cry, if she should die for it. when the grim-frowning colonel returned, she told her story with tolerable plainness, and concluded by begging that her kind friend and master would not be angry, but would allow her to retire to a cottage, where she could "see to" her niece's child, and bring him up in a christian way. "pooh! pooh! my good beadle!" cried the colonel. "stuff and nonsense, my good soul! i am delighted that you have found the child; delighted, i assure you. we will get him away from those people, never fear for that! and we will send him to school. a good school, ma'am, is the place for the boy. none of your hardhacks, but a school where he will be happy and well-treated. in vacation time--hum! ha!--you might take a little trip with him now and then, perhaps. but as to disturbing your position here-- pooh! pooh! stuff and nonsense! don't let me hear of it again!" mrs. beadle trembled, but remained firm. "no school, sir!" she said. "what the child needs is a home, colonel ferrers; and there's nobody but me to make one for him. no, sir! never, if i gave my life to it, could i thank you as should be for your kindness since first i set foot in this dear house, as no other place will ever be home to me! but go i must, colonel, and the sooner the better." then the colonel exploded. his face became purple; his eyes flashed fire, and, leaning upon his stick, he poured out volley upon volley of reproach, exhortation, argument. higher and higher rose his voice, till the very leaves quivered upon the trees; till the object of his wrath shook like an aspen, and even giuseppe, in the north corner of the garden, quailed, and murmured "santa maria!" over his chrysanthemums. how much more frightened, since theirs was the blame of all the mischief, were two guilty creatures who at this moment crouched, concealed behind a great laurel-bush, listening with all their ears! jack and hildegarde exchanged terrified glances. they had known that the colonel would be angry, but they had no idea of anything like this. he was in a white heat of rage, and was hurling polysyllabic wrath at the devoted woman before him, who stood speechless but unshaken, meekly receiving the torrent of invective. suddenly, there was a movement among the bushes; and the next moment a small form emerged from the shade, and stood in front of the furious old gentleman. "is your name saul?" asked hugh quietly. the two conspirators had forgotten the child. they had brought him with them, with some faint idea of letting the colonel see him as if by accident, hoping that his quaint grace might make a favourable impression; but in the stress of the occasion they had wholly forgotten his presence, and now--now matters were taken out of their hands. hildegarde clutched her parasol tight; jack clasped his violin, and both listened and looked with all their souls. "is your name saul?" repeated the boy, as the colonel, astonishment choking for an instant the torrent of his rage, paused speechless. "because if it is, the evil spirit from god is upon you, and you should have some one play with his hand." "what--what is this?" gasped the colonel. "who are you, boy?" "i am my great-aunt's little nephew," said hugh. "but no matter for me. you must sit down when the evil spirit is upon you. you might hurt some one. why do you look so at me, great-aunt? why don't you help mr. saul?" "come away, hughie, love!" cried mrs. beadle, in an agony of terror. "come, dear, and don't ever speak to the colonel so again. he's only a babe, sir, as doesn't know what he is saying." "go away yourself!" roared the colonel, recovering the power of speech. "depart, do you hear? remove yourself from my presence, or--" he moved forward. mrs. beadle turned and fled. "now," he said, turning to the child, "what do you mean, child, by what you said just now? i--i will sit down." he sank heavily on a garden seat and motioned the child before him. "what do you mean, about saul--eh?" "but you know," said hugh, opening wide eyes of wonder,--"are you so old that you forget?--how the evil spirit from god came upon king saul, and they sent for david, and he played with his hand till the evil spirit went away. now you remember?" he nodded confidently, and sat down beside the colonel, who, though still heaving and panting from his recent outburst, made no motion to repel him. "i said _mr._ saul," hugh continued, "because you are not a king, you see, and i suppose just 'saul' would not be polite when a person is as old as you are. and _what_ do you think?" he cried joyously, as a sudden thought struck him. "the ostrich gentleman plays most _beautifully_ with his hand. his name isn't david, but that doesn't matter. i am going to find him." "play, jack," whispered hildegarde. "play, _quick_! something old and simple. play 'annie laurie.'" obeying the girl's fleeting look, jack laid fiddle to bow, and the old love tune rose from behind the laurel-bush and floated over the garden, so sweet, so sweet, the very air seemed to thrill with tenderness and gentle melody. colonel ferrers sank back on the seat. "hester's song," he murmured. "hester's song. is it hester, or an angel?" the notes rose, swelled into the pathetic refrain,-- "and for bonny annie laurie, i'd lay me down and die." then they sank away, and left the silence still throbbing, as the hearts of the listeners throbbed. "_i_ thought it was an angel," cried hugh, "when i first heard him, mr. saul. but it isn't. it is the ostrich gentleman, and he has to play up in the attic generally, because his uncle is a poor person who doesn't know how to like music. i am _so_ sorry for his uncle, aren't you?" "yes," said colonel ferrers gruffly. "yes, i am. very sorry." a pause followed. then hugh asked cautiously: "how do you feel now, mr. saul? do you feel as if the evil spirit were going away?" "i've got him," said the colonel, in whose eyes the fire of anger was giving place to something suspiciously like a twinkle. "i've got him--bottled up. now, youngster, who told you all that?" "all what?" asked hugh, whose thoughts were beginning to wander as he gazed around the garden. "about the poor person who doesn't know how to--" "no, no," said the colonel hastily, "not that. about saul and david, and all that. who put you up to it? hey?" his keen eyes gazed intently into the clear blue ones of the child. hugh stared at him a moment, then answered gently, with a note of indulgence, as if he were speaking to a much younger child: "it is in the bible. it is a pity that you do not know it. but perhaps there are no pictures in your bible. there was a big one where i lived, all _full_ of pictures, so i learned to read that way. and i always liked the saul pictures," he added, his eyes kindling, "because david was beautiful, you know, and of a ruddy countenance; and king saul was all hunched up against the tent-post, with his eyes glaring just as yours were when you roared, only he was uglier. you are not at all ugly now, but then you looked as if you were going to burst. if a person _should_ burst--" colonel ferrers rose, and paced up and down the path, going a few steps each way, and glancing frequently at the boy from under his bushy eyebrows. hugh fell into a short reverie, and woke to say cheerfully:-- "this place fills me with heavenly joys. does it fill you?" "humph!" growled the colonel. "if you lived here, you would break all the flowers off, i suppose, and pull 'em to pieces to see how they grow; eh?" hugh contemplated him dreamily. "is that what you did when you were a little boy?" he answered. "i love flowers. i don't like to pick them, for it takes their life. i don't care how they grow, as long as they _do_ grow." "and you would take all the birds' eggs," continued the colonel, "and throw stones at the birds, and trample the flower-beds, and bring mud into the house, and tie fire-crackers to the cat's tail, and upset the ink. _i_ know you!" [illustration: hugh and colonel ferrers.] hugh rose with dignity, and fixed his eyes on the colonel with grave disapproval. "you do _not_ know me!" he said. "and--and if that is the kind of boy you were, it is no wonder that the evil spirit comes upon you. i shouldn't be a bit surprised if you did burst some day. good-by, mr. saul! i am going away now." "hold on!" cried the colonel peremptorily. "i beg your pardon! do you hear? shake hands!" hugh beamed forgiveness, and extended a small brown paw, which was shaken with right good will. "that's right!" said colonel ferrers, with gruff heartiness. "now go into the house and find your great-aunt, and tell her to give you some jam. do you like jam?" the boy nodded with all the rapture of seven years. "give you some jam, and a picture-book, and make up a bed in the little red room. can you remember all that?" "yes, mr. saul!" cried hugh, dancing about a little. "nice mr. saul! shall i bring you some jam? what kind of jam shall i say?" "what kind do you like best?" "damson." "damson it is! off with you now!" when the boy was gone, the colonel walked up and down for a few moments, frowning heavily, his hands holding his stick behind him. then he said quietly, "jack!" jack came forward and stood before him, looking half-proud, half-sheepish, with his fiddle under his arm. the colonel contemplated him for a moment in silence. then, "why in the name of all that is cacophonous, didn't you play me a tune at first, instead of an infernal german exercise? hey?" jack blushed and stammered. he had played for his uncle once only, a fugue by hummel, of which his mind had happened to be full; he felt that it had not been a judicious choice. "can you play 'the harp of tara'?" demanded the colonel; and jack played, with exquisite feeling, the lovely old tune, the colonel listening with bent head, and marking the time with his stick. "harry monmouth!" he said, when it was over. "because a man doesn't like to attend the violent ward of a cats' lunatic asylum, it doesn't follow that he doesn't care for music. music, sir, is melody, that's what it is!" jack shuddered slightly, and did silent homage to the shade of wagner, but knew enough to keep silence. "and--and where did you pick up this child?" his uncle continued. "i take it back about his having been put up to what he did. he is true blue, that child; i shouldn't wonder if you were, too, in milksop fashion. hey?" "skim-milk is blue, you know, uncle," said jack, smiling. "but i didn't discover hugh. isn't he a wonderful child, sir? hildegarde discovered him, of course. i believe hildegarde does everything, except what her mother does. come here, hildegarde! come and tell uncle tom about your finding hugh." but hildegarde was gone. chapter xiii. a picnic. "my dear colonel, i congratulate you most heartily! indeed, i had little doubt of your success, for this was a case in which reynard the fox was sure to have the worst of it. but i am very curious to know how you managed it." "nothing could be simpler, my dear madam. i went to the fellow's house yesterday morning. 'mr. loftus, your little nephew is at my house. your aunt, mrs. beadle, has taken charge of him, according to his mother's wish, and i undertook to inform you of the fact.' he turned all the colours of the rainbow, began to bluster, and said he was the boy's nearest relation, which is very true. 'i want him to grow up a gentleman,' said he. 'precisely,' said i. 'he shall have a chance to do so, mr. loftus.' the fellow didn't like that; he looked black and green, and spoke of the law and the police. 'that reminds me,' i said, 'of a story. about twenty-five years ago, or it may be thirty, a sum of money was stolen from my desk, in what i call my counting-room in my own house. am i taking up too much of your valuable time, sir?' he choked and tried to speak, but could only shake his head. 'the thief was a mere lad,' i went on, 'and a clumsy one, for he dropped his pocketknife in getting out of the window,--a knife marked with his name. for reasons of my own i did not arrest the lad, who left town immediately after; but i have the knife, ephraim, in my possession.' i waited a moment, and then said that i would send for the little boy's trunk; wished him good-day, and came off, leaving him glowering after me on the doorstep. you see, it was very simple." "i see," said mrs. grahame. "but is it possible that mr. loftus--" "very possible, my dear mrs. grahame. as i told him, i have the knife, with his name in full. one hundred dollars he stole; for elizabeth beadle's sake, of course i let it go. her peace of mind is worth more than that, for if she's thoroughly upset, the dinners she orders are a nightmare, positively a nightmare. that is actually one reason why i planned this picnic for to-day, because i knew i should have something with cornstarch in it if i dined at home. why cornstarch should connect itself with trouble in the feminine mind, i do not know; but such seems to be the case." mrs. grahame laughed heartily at this theory; then, in a few earnest words, she told colonel ferrers how deeply interested she and her daughter were in this singular child, and how happy they were in the sudden and great change in his prospects. "and i know you will love him," she said. "you cannot help loving him, colonel. he is really a wonderful child." "humph!" said the colonel thoughtfully. then after a pause, he continued: "i thought i had lost the power of loving, mrs. grahame; of loving anything but my flowers, that is, any living creature; lost it forty years ago. but somehow, of late, there has been a stirring of the ground, a movement among the old roots--yes! yes! there may be a little life yet. that child of yours--you never saw hester aytoun, mrs. grahame?" "never," said mrs. grahame softly. "she died the year before i came here as a child." "precisely," said colonel ferrers. "she was a--a very lovely person. your daughter is extremely like her, my dear madam." "i fancied as much," said mrs. grahame, "from the miniature i found in uncle aytoun's collection." "ah! yes! the miniature. i remember, there were two. i have the mate to it, mrs. grahame. yes! your daughter is very like her. there was a strong attachment between hester and myself. then came a mistake, a misunderstanding, the puff of a feather, a breath of wind; i went away. she was taken suddenly ill, died of a quick consumption. that was forty years ago, but it changed my life, do you see? i have lived alone. robert aytoun was a disappointed man. wealthy bond,--you know the old story,--agatha an invalid, barbara a rigorous woman, strict calvinist, and so forth. we all grew old together. the neighbours call me a recluse, a bear--i don't know what all; right enough they have been. but now--well, first the lad, there, came--my brother's son. duty, you know, and all the rest of it; father an unsuccessful genius, angel and saint, with an asinine quality added. that waked me up a little, but only made me growl. but that child of yours, and your own society, if you will allow me to say so--i see things with different eyes, in short. why, i am actually becoming fond of my milksop; a good lad, eh, mrs. grahame? an honest, gentlemanly lad, i think?" "indeed, yes!" cried mrs. grahame heartily. "a most dear and good lad, colonel grahame! i cannot tell you how fond hilda and i are of him." "that's right! that's right!" said the colonel, with great heartiness. "you have done it all for him, between you. holds up his head now, walks like a christian; and, positively, i found him reading 'henry esmond,' the other day; reading it of his own accord, you observe. said his cousin hilda said esmond was the finest gentleman she knew, and wanted to know what he was like. when a boy takes to 'henry esmond,' my dear madam, he is headed in the right direction. asked me about lord herbert, too, at dinner yesterday; really took an interest. got that from his cousin, too. how many girls know anything about lord herbert? tell me that, will you?" "hildegarde has always been a hero-worshipper!" said mrs. grahame, smiling, with the warm feeling about the heart that a mother feels when her child is praised. "you make me very happy, colonel, with all these kind words about my dear daughter. what she is to me, of course, i cannot tell. 'the very eyes of me!' you remember herrick's dear old song. but i think my good black auntie put it best, one day last week, when hildegarde had a bad headache, and was in her room all day. 'miss hildy,' said auntie, 'she's de salt in de soup, she is. 'tain't no good without her.' but hark! here they come back, with the water; and now, colonel, it is time for luncheon." the speakers were sitting under a great pine tree, one of a grove which crowned the top of a green hill. below them lay broad, sunny meadows, here whitening into silver with daisies, there waving with the young grain. in a hollow at a little distance lay a tiny lake, as if a giantess had dropped her mirror down among the golden fields; further off, dark stretches of woodland framed the bright picture. it was a scene of perfect beauty. mrs. grahame sat gazing over the landscape, her heart filled with a great peace. she listened to the young voices, which were coming nearer and nearer. she was so glad that she had made the effort to come. it had been an effort, even though colonel ferrers's thoughtfulness had provided the most comfortable of low phaetons, drawn by the slowest and steadiest of cobs, which had brought her with as little discomfort as might be to the top of the hill. but how well worth the fatigue it was to be here! "and do you love me, purple maid?" it was hugh's clear treble that thrilled with earnestness. "i love you very much, dear lad! what would you do if i did not, hugh?" "oh! i should weep, and weep, and be a _very_ melancholy jaques, indeed!" "melancholy jaques!" muttered colonel ferrers. "where on earth did he get hold of that? extraordinary youngster!" "he loves the shakespeare stories," said mrs. grahame. "hilda tells them to him, and reads bits here and there. oh, i assure you, colonel ferrers, hugh is a revelation. there never was a child like him, i do believe. but, hush! here he is!" the boy's bright head appeared, as he came up the hill, hand in hand with hildegarde. they were laden with ferns and flowers, while jack ferrers, a few steps behind, carried a pail of fresh water. "aha!" said the colonel, rubbing his hands. "here we are, eh? what! you have robbed the woods, hildegarde? scaramouche, how goes it, hey?" "it goes very well!" replied hugh soberly, but with sparkling eyes. "i am going to call him 'bonny dundee,' because his name is john grahame, you see; and she says, perhaps he _may_ be a hero, too, some day; that would be _so_ nice!" "come, hugh!" said hildegarde, laughing and blushing. "you must not tell our secrets. wait till he _is_ a hero, and then he shall have the hero's name." "what!" cried the colonel. "you young jacobite, are you instilling your pernicious doctrines into this child's breast? bonny dundee, indeed! marmalade is all that i want to know about dundee. bring the hamper, jack! here, under this tree! you are quite comfortable here, mrs. grahame?" "extremely comfortable," said that lady. "now, you gentlemen may unpack the baskets, while hilda and i lay the cloth." all hands went to work, and soon a most tempting repast was set out under the great pine tree. colonel ferrers's contribution was a triumph of mrs. beadle's skill, and resembled tennyson's immortal "pasty costly made, where quail and pigeon, lark and linnet lay, with golden yolks imbedded and injellied." indeed, the colonel quoted these lines with great satisfaction, as he set the great pie down in the centre of the "damask napkin, wrought with horse and hound." "that is truly magnificent!" exclaimed mrs. grahame. "and i can match it with 'the dusky loaf that smells of home,'" she added, taking out of her basket a loaf of graham bread and a pot of golden butter. "here is the smoked tongue," cried hildegarde; "here is raspberry jam, and almond cake. shall we starve, do you think, colonel ferrers?" "in case of extreme hunger, i have brought a few peaches," said the colonel; and he piled the rosy, glowing, perfect globes in a pyramid at a corner of the cloth. "cloth of gold shall be matched with cloth of frieze," said mrs. grahame, and in the opposite corner rose a pyramid of baked potatoes, hot and hot, wafting such an inviting smell through the air that the colonel seized the carving-knife at once. "are you ready?" he demanded. "why--where is jack? jack, you rascal! where have you got to?" "here!" cried a voice among the bushes; and jack appeared, flushed with triumph, carrying a smoking coffee-pot. "this is my contribution," he said. "if it is only clear! i think it is." hildegarde held out a cup, and he poured out a clear amber stream, whose fragrance made both potatoes and peaches retire from the competition. "you really made this?" colonel ferrers asked. "you, sir?" "i, sir," replied jack. "biddy taught me. i--i have been practising on you for a couple of days," he added, smiling. "you may remember that your coffee was not quite clear day before yesterday?" "clear!" exclaimed the colonel, bending his brows in mock anger. "i thought lethe and acheron had been stirred into it. so that is the kind of trick elizabeth beadle plays on me, eh? scaramouche!" addressing hugh, "you must look after this great-aunt of yours, do you hear?" "she made the pie," said hugh diplomatically. "she did! she did!" cried hildegarde, holding out her cup. "let no one breathe a word against her. fill up, fill up the festal cup! drop friendship's sugar therein! two lumps, my mother, if you love me!" "somebody should make a poem on this pie," said mrs. grahame. "there never was such a pie, i believe. hilda, you seem in poetic mood. can you not improvise something?" hildegarde considered for a few minutes, making meanwhile intimate acquaintance with the theme of song; then throwing back her head, she exclaimed with dramatic fervour:-- "i sing the pie! the pie sing i! and yet i do not sing it; why? because my mind is more inclined to eat it than to glorify." anything will make people laugh at a picnic, especially on a day when the whole world is aglow with light and life and joy. one jest followed another, and the walls of the pie melted away to the sound of laughter, as did those of jericho at the sound of the trumpet. merlin, who had stayed behind to watch a woodchuck, came up just in time to consume the last fragments, which he did with right good will. then, when they had eaten "a combination of keats and sunset," as mrs. grahame called the peaches, the colonel asked permission to light his cigar; and the soft fragrance of the manilla mingled with odours of pine and fir, while delicate blue rings floated through the air, to the delight of hugh and merlin. "this is the nose dinner," said the child. "it is almost better than the mouth dinner, isn't it?" "humph!" said the colonel, puffing meditatively. "if you hadn't had the mouth dinner first, young man, i think we should hear from you shortly. hest--a--hildegarde, will you give us a song?" so hildegarde sang one song and another, the old songs that the colonel loved: "ben bolt," and "the arethusa," and "a-hunting we will go"; and then, for her own particular pleasure and her mother's, she sang an old ballad, to a strange, lovely old air that she had found in an elizabethan song-book. "when shaws been sheene, and shraddes full faire, and leaves are large and long, it is merry walking in the fair forest, to hear the small birds' song. "the woodwele sang, and would not cease, sitting upon the spray, soe loud, he wakened robin hood, in the greenwood where he lay." it was the ballad of robin hood and guy of gisborne; and when she sang the second verse her mother's sweet alto chimed in; and when she sang the third verse, jack began to whistle a soft, sweet accompaniment, the effect of which was almost magical; and when she sang the fourth verse,--wonder of wonders! here was the colonel humming a bass, rather gruff, but in perfect tune. when the ballad was over, there was a chorus of surprise and congratulation. "colonel ferrers! why didn't you tell us you sang?" "i say, uncle tom, you've been regularly humbugging us. the idea of your turning out a _basso profundo_!" the colonel looked pleased and conscious. "saul among the prophets, eh?" he said. "this little rascal calls me saul, you know, mrs. grahame; caught me in a temper the other day, and set jack on me with his fiddle. ha! hum! why, i used to sing a little, duets and so forth, forty years ago. always fond of singing; fond of anything that has a tune to it, though i can't abide your dutch noises. where's your fiddle, jack?" jack had not brought his fiddle; but he whistled a scotch reel that colonel ferrers had not heard since before the flood, he said; and then hildegarde sang "young lochinvar," and so the pleasant moments went. by and by, when the dishes were burned (such a convenience are the paper dishes, removing the only unpleasant feature of a picnic, the washing of dishes or carrying home of dirty ones), and everything neatly packed away, hugh challenged hildegarde to a race down the hill and across the long meadow to the sunk wall beyond. jack claimed a place in the running, but the colonel insisted that he and merlin should give the others odds, as ostriches and quadrupeds had an unfair advantage over ordinary runners. mrs. grahame, after hunting in her reticule, produced a prize, a rouleau of chocolate; positions were taken, and colonel ferrers gave the signal--one, two, three, and away! away went hildegarde and the boy, jack holding merlin, who was frantic with impatience, and did not understand the theory of handicaps. as the first pair reached the bottom of the hill, the colonel again gave the signal, and the second two darted in pursuit. "away, away went auster like an arrow from the bow!" hildegarde was running beautifully, her head thrown back, her arms close at her sides; just behind her hugh's bright head bobbed up and down, as his little legs flew like a windmill. but jack ferrers really merited his name of the ostrich gentleman, as with head poked forward, arms flapping, and legs moving without apparent concert, he hurled himself down the hill at a most astonishing rate of speed. the colonel and mrs. grahame looked on with delight, when suddenly both uttered an exclamation and rose to their feet. what was it? from behind a clump of trees at a little distance beyond hildegarde, a large animal suddenly appeared. it had apparently been grazing, but now it stopped short, raised its head, and gazed at the two figures which came flying, all unconscious, towards it. "john bryan's bull!" cried mrs. grahame. "oh! colonel ferrers, the children! hildegarde!" "don't be alarmed, dear madam!" said the colonel hastily, seizing his stick. "remain where you are, i beg of you. i will have john bryan hanged to-morrow! meanwhile"--and he hastened down the hill, as rapidly as seventy years and a rheumatic knee would permit. but it was clear that whatever was to be done must be done quickly. hildegarde and hugh had seen the bull, and stopped. he was well known as a dangerous animal, and had once before escaped from his owner, a neighbouring farmer. mrs. grahame, faint with terror, saw little hugh, with a sudden movement, throw himself before hildegarde, who clasped her arms round him, and slowly and quietly began to move backwards. the bull uttered a bellow, and advanced, pawing the ground; at first slowly, then more and more rapidly as hildegarde increased her pace, till but a short distance intervened between him and the two helpless children. colonel ferrers was still a long way off. oh! for help! help! the bull bellowed again, lowered his huge head, and rushed forward. in a moment he would be upon them. suddenly--what was this? a strange object appeared, directly between the bull and his helpless victims. what was it? the bull stopped short, and glared at his new enemy. two long legs, like those of a man, but no body; between the legs a face, looking at him with fiery eyes. such a thing the bull had never seen. what was it? men he knew, and women, and children; knew and hated them, for they were like his master, who kept him shut up, and sometimes beat him. but this thing! what was it? the strange figure advanced steadily towards him; the bull retreated--stopped--bellowed--retreated again, shaking his head. he did not like this. suddenly the figure made a spring! turned upside down. the long legs waved threateningly in the air, and with an unearthly shriek the monster came whirling forward in the shape of a wheel. john bryan's bull turned and fled, as never bull fled before. snorting with terror, he went crashing through the woods, that wild shriek still sounding in his ears; and he never stopped till he reached his own barnyard, where john bryan promptly beat him and tied him up. hildegarde, pale and trembling, held out her hand as jack, assuming his normal posture, came forward. she tried to speak, but found no voice, and could only press his hand and look her gratitude. colonel ferrers, much out of breath, came up, and gave the lad's hand a shake that might almost have loosened his arm in the socket. "well done, lad!" he cried. "you are of the right stuff, after all, and you'll hear no more 'milksop' from me. where did you learn that trick? harry monmouth! the beast was frightened out of his boots! where did you learn it, boy?" "an englishman showed it to me," said jack modestly. "it's nothing to do, but it always scares them. how are you now, hildegarde? sit down, and let me bring you some water!" but hugh allen clasped the long legs of his deliverer, and cried joyously, "i knew he was a david! he is a double david now, isn't he, beloved?" "yes," said hildegarde, smiling again, as she turned to hasten up the hill to her mother, "but _i_ shall call him 'bonny dundee,' for he has won the hero's name." "it was the ostrich that won the day, though," said jack, looking at his legs. [illustration: over the jam pots.] chapter xiv. over the jam-pots. one bright september morning hildegarde was sitting in the dining-room, covering jam-pots. she had made the jam herself--peach marmalade it was, the best in the world, all golden-brown, like clear old amber--a day or two before, and now it was firm enough to cover. at her right hand was a pile of covers, thick white paper cut neatly in rounds, a saucer full of white of egg, another full of brandy, an inkstand and pen. at her left was an open book, and a large rosy apple. she worked away busily with deft fingers, only stopping now and then for a moment to nibble her apple. first a small cover wet in brandy, fitting neatly inside the jar; then a large cover brushed over with white of egg, which, when dry, would make the paper stiff, and at the same time fasten it securely round the jar. and all the time she was murmuring to herself, with an occasional glance at the volume beside her,-- "'sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting, under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, in twisted braids of lilies knitting the loose train of thy amber-dropping hair. listen for dear honour's sake, goddess of the silver lake, listen and save! listen and appear to us, in name of great oceanus.'" here she stopped to write on several jars the paper on which was dry and hard; a bite at her apple, and she continued,-- "'by the earth-shaking neptune's crook'--" "no," glancing at the book. "why do i always get that wrong? "'by the earth-shaking neptune's _mace_, and tethys' grave majestic pace; by hoary nereus' wrinkled look, and the carpathian'--" at this moment a shadow fell on the table, as of some one passing by the window, and the next moment jack entered. "what are you doing?" he asked, after the morning greetings, sitting down and scowling at the unoffending jam-pots. "can't you come out in the garden? it's no end of a day, you know!" "no end?" said hildegarde. "then i shall have plenty of time, and i must finish my jam-pots in any case, and my poetry." "poetry? are you making it?" "only learning it. i like to learn bits when i am doing things of this sort. "'by leucothea's lovely hands, and her son that rules the strands'-- "wait just a moment, jack. i think i know it all now. "'by thetis' tinsel-slippered feet, and the songs of sirens sweet'-- isn't that lovely, jack?" "oh, yes," answered jack absently. "what _have_ you been doing here, hilda?" he was studying the jars that were already marked, and now read aloud,-- "'william the conqueror, his jam, .' "'peach marmalade. put up by hamlet, prince of denmark, for his own use.' "what an extraordinary girl you are, hildegarde!" "not at all extraordinary!" cried hildegarde, laughing and blushing. "why shouldn't i amuse myself? it hurts no one, and it amuses me very much." jack laughed, and went on,-- "'marmaladus crabappulis. c. j. cæsar fecit. jam satis.' "'crab-apple jelly. macbeth, banquo & co., limited.' "'peach marmalade. made by john grahame, viscount dundee. gold medal.' "this ought to be mine." "it shall be yours, greedy viscount. get a spoon and eat it at once, if you like." "thank you so much. i would rather take it home, if i may. i say, what is that brown stuff out on the porch, with mosquito netting over it? nothing very valuable, i hope?" "oh, _jack_!" cried hildegarde, springing up, "my peach leather! what have you--did you fall into it? oh, and i thought you were improving so much! i must go--" "no, don't go," said her cousin. "i--i only knocked down one plate. and--merlin was with me, you know, and i don't believe you would find any left. i am very sorry, hilda. can i make some more for you?" "i think not, my cousin. but no matter, if it is only one plate, for there are a good many, as you saw. only, do be careful when you go home, that's a good boy." "what is it, anyhow?" "why--you cook it with brown sugar, you know." "cook what? leather?" "oh, dear! the masculine mind is _so_ obtuse--peaches, o sacred bird of juno!" "the eagle?" "the goose. you really _must_ study mythology, jack. you cook the peaches with brown sugar, and then you rub them through a sieve,--it's a horrid piece of work!--and then spread them on plates, just as you saw them, and cover them to keep the flies off." "and leave long ends trailing to trip up your visitors." "one doesn't expect giraffes to make morning calls. so after a few days it hardens, if it has the luck to be left alone, and then you roll it up." "plates and all?" "of course! and sprinkle sugar over it, and it is really delicious. i might have given you that plate you knocked over, but now--" "it was the smallest, i remember." "and, jack, i made it all myself. no one else touched it. and all this marmalade, and three dozen pots of currant jelly, and four dozen of crab-apple." "sacred bird of juno!" ejaculated her cousin. "do you dare call _me_ a goose, sir?" "she drove peacocks, didn't she? i do know a _little_ mythology. "but, hildegarde, be serious now, will you? i'm in a peck of trouble, as biddy says. i want consolation, or advice, or something." "sit down, and tell me," said hildegarde, full of interest at once. jack sat down and drummed on the table, a thing that hildegarde had never been allowed to do. "i got a letter from daddy, yesterday," he said, after a pause. "herr geigen is going to germany now, in a week, and daddy says i may go if uncle tom is willing." "and he isn't willing?" hilda said. "oh!" jack got up and moved restlessly about the room, laying waste the chairs as he went. "willing? he only roars, and says, 'stuff and nonsense!' which is no answer, you know, hilda. if he would just say 'no,' quietly, i--well, of course you can make up your mind to stand a thing, and stand it. but he won't listen to me for five minutes. if he could realise--one can get as good an education at leipsic as at harvard. but his idea of germany is a country inhabited by a crazy emperor and a 'parcel of dutch fiddlers,' and by no one else. i shall have to give it up, i suppose." "oh, no!" cried hildegarde hopefully. "don't give it up yet. you know when mamma spoke to him, he didn't absolutely say 'no.' he said he would think about it. perhaps--she might ask him if he had thought about it. wait a day or two, at any rate, jack, before you write to your father. can you wait?" "oh, yes! but it won't make any difference. i suppose it's good for me. you say all trouble is good in the end. have you ever had any trouble, i wonder, hilda?" "my father!" said hildegarde, colouring. "forgive me!" cried her cousin. "i am a brute! an idiotic brute! what shall i do?" he said in desperation, seeing the tears in the girl's clear eyes. "it would do no good if i went and shot myself, or i would in a minute. you will forgive me, hilda?" "my dear, there is nothing to forgive!" said hildegarde, smiling kindly at him. "nothing at all. i shouldn't have minded--but--it is his birthday to-morrow," and the tears overflowed this time, while jack stood looking at her in silent remorse, mentally heaping the most frantic abuse upon himself. the tears were soon dried, however, and hildegarde was her cheerful self again. "you must go now," she said, "for i have all these jam-pots to put away, and it is nearly dinner-time. see! this jar of peach marmalade is for hugh, because he is fond of it. of course mrs. beadle can make it a great deal better, but he will like this because his purple maid made it. isn't he a darling, jack?" "yes, he's a little brick, certainly. uncle tom calls him the phoenix, and is more delighted with him every day. now _there's_ a boy who ought to go to harvard." "he will," said hildegarde, nodding sagely. "good-by, jack dear!" "it is very early. i don't see why i have to go so soon! can't i help you to put away the jam-pots?" "you can go home, my dear boy. good-by! i sha'nt forget--" "oh, good-by!" and jack flung off in half a huff, as auntie would have said. hildegarde looked after him thoughtfully. "how young he is!" she said to herself. "i wonder if boys always are. and yet he is two years older than i by the clock, if you understand what i mean!" she addressed the jam-pots, in grave confidence, and began to put them away in their own particular cupboard. chapter xv. at the brown cottage. hildegarde's mind was still full of her cousin and his future, as she sat that afternoon in mrs. lankton's kitchen, with her sewing-school around her. the brown cottage with the green door had been found the most central and convenient place for the little class, and it was an object of absorbing interest to mrs. lankton herself. she hovered about hildegarde and her scholars, predicting disease and death for one and another, with ghoulish joy. "your ma hadn't ought to let you come out to-day, marthy skeat. you warn't never rugged from the time you was a baby; teethin' like to have carried you off, and 'tain't too late now. there's wisdom teeth, ye know. well, it's none o' my business, but i hope your ma's prepared. good-mornin', miss grahame! i'm tellin' marthy skeat she ain't very likely to see long skirts, comin' out in this damp air. you're peart, are ye? that's right! ah! they can look peart as ain't had no troubles yet. i was jist like you oncet, miss grahame. i've had a sight o' trouble! no one don't know what i've ben through; don't know nothin' about it. you've fleshed up some since ye came here, ain't ye? well, they do flesh up that way sometimes, but 'tain't no good sign. there's measles about, too, they say." "how bright and pretty your plants are, mrs. lankton!" said hilda, trying to make a diversion. "no, jack!--i mean jenny! you will have to take that out again. see those long stitches! they look as if they were all running after each other, don't they? take them out, dear, and make me some nice, neat little stitches, stepping along quietly, as you do when you have on those new shoes you were telling me about. lizzie, i wonder what turns your thread so dark? see how white my seam is! what do you suppose is the matter with yours?" lizzie giggled and hung her head. "forgot to wash my hands!" she muttered. "that was a pity!" said hildegarde. "it spoils the looks of it, you see. i am sure mrs. lankton will let you wash your hands in that bright tin basin. vesta philbrook, where is your violin?" "ma'am?" said vesta philbrook, opening her mouth as wide as her eyes. "your thimble i mean, of course!" said hildegarde, blushing violently, and giving herself a mental shake. "now go to work, like a good girl. mary, here is the patchwork i promised you, already basted. see, a pink square, a blue square, a white one, and a yellow one. they are all pieces of my dresses, the dresses i wore last summer; and i thought you would like to have them for your quilt." "oh, thank you!" cried the child, delighted. "oh, ain't them pretty?" "handsome!" said mrs. lankton, peering over the child's shoulder. "them is handsome. ah! i pieced a quilt once, with nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces into it. good goods they was; i had good things then; real handsome calico, just like them. ah, i didn't know what trouble was when i was your age, children. wait till you've had lumbago, an' neurology, an' cricks in your necks so's't you can't stand straight, not for weeks together you can't, and your roof leakin', an' dreepin' all over yer bed, an'--" "why, mrs. lankton!" exclaimed hildegarde. "surely the roof is not leaking again, when it was all shingled this summer!" "not yet it ain't, dear!" sighed the widow. "but i'm prepared for it, and i don't expect nothin' else, after what i've been through. i was fleshy myself, once, though no one wouldn't think it to look at me." "i wonder, mrs. lankton," began hildegarde gently. "you may wonder, dear!" was the reply. "folks do wonder when they think what i've bean through. fleshy was no name for it. there! i was fairly corpilent when i was your age." "oh!" said hildegarde, in some confusion. "i meant--i am very thirsty, mrs. lankton, and if you _could_ give me a glass of your delicious water--" "suttingly!" exclaimed the widow with alacrity. "suttingly, miss grahame! i'll go right out and pump ye some. it _is_ good water," she admitted, with reluctant pride. "i've been expectin' it would dry up, right along, lately!" and she hastened out into the yard. "now, children," said hildegarde hastily, "i will go on with the story i began last time. 'so robert bruce was crowned king of scotland; and no sooner was he king than'--" by the time mrs. lankton returned with the water, every child was listening spellbound to the wonderful tale of bruce at the ford, and no one had an eye or an ear for the doleful widow, save hildegarde, whose "thank you!" and quick glance of gratitude lightened for a moment the gloom of her hostess's countenance. so deep were teacher and pupils in bruce and patchwork that none of them heard the sound of wheels, or the sudden cessation of it outside the door, till mrs. lankton exclaimed with tragic unction: "it is colonel ferrers! driving hisself, and his hoss all of a sweat. i hope he ain't the bearer of bad news, but i should be prepared, if i was you, miss grahame. poor child! what would you do if your ma was took?" hildegarde hastened to the door, but was instantly reassured by the old gentleman's cheery smile. "why did you move?" he said. "i stopped on purpose to have a look at you, with your flock of doves around you. hilda and the doves, hey? you remember? 'marble faun!' yes, yes! but since you have moved, shall i drive you home, miss industry?" hildegarde glanced at the clock. "our time is over," she said to the children. "yes, colonel ferrers, thank you! i should enjoy the drive very much indeed. can you wait perhaps five minutes?" the colonel could and would; and hildegarde returned to see that all work was neatly folded and put away. "and, annie, here is the receipt i promised you. be sure to mix the meal thoroughly, and have a good hot oven, and you will find them very nice indeed, and your mother will be so pleased at your making them yourself!" "vesta, did you try the honey candy?" "yes, 'm! 'twas dretful good. my little brother, he like t'ha' died, he eat so much." "dear me!" exclaimed hilda, rather alarmed at this result of her neat little plan of teaching the children something about cookery, without their finding out that they were being taught. "but you must see to it, vesta, that he doesn't eat too much. that is one of the things an elder sister is for, you know. "now, whose turn is it to sweep up the threads and scraps? yours, euleta? well, see how careful you can be! not a thread must be left on mrs. lankton's clean floor, you know." soon all was in order, workbags put away, hats and bonnets tied on; and hildegarde came out with her doves about her, all looking as if they had had a thoroughly good time. with many affectionate farewells to "teacher," the children scattered in different directions, and colonel ferrers chirruped to the brown cob, which trotted briskly away over the smooth road. the colonel was deeply interested in the sewing-school. hester aytoun had had one for the village children, and there had been none from her death until now. he asked many questions, which hildegarde answered with right good will. they were dear children, she said. she was getting to know them very well, for she tried to see them in their homes once a fortnight, and found they liked to have her come, and looked forward to it. some of them were very bright; not all, of course, but they all _tried_, and that was the great thing. yes, she told them all the stories they wanted, and they wanted a great many. [illustration: "he gave me a lunge in quart."] "speaking of stories," said the colonel, "i find i have work laid out for the rest of _my_ life." "hugh?" said hildegarde, smiling. "most astonishing child i ever saw in my life!" the colonel cried. "most amazing child! to see how he flings himself on books is a wonder. i don't let him keep at 'em long, you understand. a brain like that needs play, sir, play! i've bought him a little foil, and--harry monmouth! he gave me a lunge in quart that almost broke my guard, last night. but stories! 'more about kings, please, sire!'--he's got a notion of calling me sire--ho! ho! can't get saul out of his head, d'ye see? i feel like charlemagne, or barbarossa, or some of 'em. 'more about kings when they were in battle.' he's learned 'agincourt' by heart, just from my reading it to him. 'fair stood the wind for france,' hey? finest ballad in the english language. says you read it to him, too. and if i am busy he goes to elizabeth beadle and frightens her out of her wits with sentences out of the lamentations of jeremiah. now this boy--mark me, hildegarde!--will turn out something very uncommon, if he has the right training. that scoundrelly knave, ephraim loftus, wanted to make a gentleman of him! ho! ephraim doesn't know how a gentleman's shoes look, unless he has been made acquainted with the soles of them. i kicked him myself once, i remember, for beating a horse unmercifully. this boy will be a great scholar, mark my words! and whatever assistance i can give him shall be cheerfully given. why, the lad has genius! positive genius!" "oh!" said hildegarde, her heart beating fast. "then you think, colonel ferrers, that a--a person should be educated for what seems to be his natural bent. do you think that?" "harry monmouth! of course i do! look at me! d'ye think i was fitted for a mercantile life, for example? never got algebra through my head, and hate figures. the army was what i was born for! born for it, sir! shouldered my pap-spoon in the cradle, and presented arms whenever i was taken up. ho! ho! ho!" hildegarde began to tremble, but her courage did not fail. "and--and jack, dear colonel ferrers," she said softly. "he was born for music, was he not?" the colonel turned square round, and gazed at her from under brows that met over his hooked nose. "what then?" he said slowly, after a pause. "if my nephew was born for a fiddler, what then, miss hildegarde grahame? is it any reason why he should not be trained for something better? i like the boy's playing very well, very well indeed, when he keeps clear of dutch discords. but you would not compare playing the fiddle with the glorious art of war, i imagine?" "not for an instant!" cried hildegarde, flushing deeply under the colonel's half-stern, half-quizzical gaze. "compare music, lovely music, that cheers and comforts and delights all the world, with fierce, cruel, dreadful war? look at jack, with his mind full of beautiful harmonies and--and 'airs from heaven'--they really are! making us laugh or cry, or dance or exult, just by the motion of his hand. look at him, and then imagine him in a red coat, with a gun in his hand--" "red is the british colour," said the colonel. "well, a blue coat, then. what difference does it make?--a gun in his hand, shooting people who never did him any harm, whose faces he had never even seen. oh, colonel ferrers, i would not have believed it of you!" "and who asked you to believe it of me, pray?" asked the colonel, as he drove up to the door of braeside. "to tell the truth, young lady, war is very much more in your line than in my nephew's. harry monmouth! bellona in person, i verily believe. my compliments to your mother, and say i shall call her madam althæa in future, for she has brought forth a firebrand." instantly hildegarde's ruffled plumes drooped, smoothed themselves down; instead of the flashing gaze of the eagle, a dove-like look now met the quizzical gaze of the old gentleman. "dear colonel ferrers!" this hypocritical girl murmured, as, standing on the verandah steps, she laid her hand gently on his arm. "thank you so _very_ much for driving me home. you are always so kind--to me! and--and--i want to ask one question. can you tell me the first lines of dryden's 'song for st. cecilia's day'?" "of course!" said the simple colonel. "'from harmony, from heavenly harmony, this universal frame began.' why do you--oh! you youthful circe! you infant medea, you--" he shook his whip threateningly. "good-by, dear colonel ferrers!" cried hildegarde. "i am so glad you remembered the lines. aren't they beautiful? good-by!" chapter xvi. good-by! "i have come to say good-by!" cried jack ferrers, rushing up the steps, as hildegarde was sitting on the piazza, with hugh curled up at her feet. "uncle tom will come for me with the wagon. oh, hilda, it doesn't seem possible, does it? it is too good to be true! and it is all your doing, every bit. i sha'n't forget it. i say! i wish you were coming too!" "oh, no, you don't!" said hildegarde, speaking lightly, though her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with real feeling. "you would send me back by express, labelled 'troublesome baggage.' "dear old jack! you know how glad i am, without my saying it. but, oh! how we shall miss you! your uncle--" "oh! hugh will take care of uncle tom, won't you, hugh? hugh suits him down to the ground--i beg pardon, i mean through and through, and they will have fine times together." "i will try!" said the child. "but we shall be like a pelican in the wilderness, i am afraid." "you go straight home now?" hildegarde asked. "straight home! five days with daddy--bless him! and then he goes to new york with me, and sees me off. oh! see here!" he began fumbling in his pockets. "i have a keepsake for you. i--of course you know i haven't any money, hilda, or i would have bought you something; but uncle tom gave it to me on purpose to give to you; so it's partly from him, too. here it is! it belonged to our great-grandmother, he says." such a lovely ring! a star of yellow diamonds set on a hoop of gold. hildegarde flushed with delight. "oh, jack! how kind of him! how dear of you! oh! what an exquisite thing! i shall wear it always." "and--i say! how well it looks on your hand! i never noticed before what pretty hands you have, hilda. you are the prettiest girl i ever saw, altogether." "and rose?" asked hildegarde, smiling. jack blushed furiously. he had fallen deeply in love with rose's photograph, and had been in the habit of gazing at it for ten or fifteen minutes every day for the past fortnight, ever since it arrived. "that's different!" he said. "she is an angel, if the picture is like her." "it isn't half lovely enough!" cried loyal hildegarde. "not half! you don't see the blue of her eyes, or her complexion, just like 'a warm white rose.' oh! you _would_ love her, jack!" "i--i rather think i do!" jack confessed. "you might let me have the photograph, hildegarde." but this hildegarde wholly refused to do. "i have something much more useful for you!" she said; and, running into the house, she brought out a handkerchief-case of linen, daintily embroidered, containing a dozen fine hemstitched handkerchiefs. "i hemstitched them myself," she said; "the peacock still spreads its tail, you observe. and--see! on one side of the case are forget-me-nots--that is my flower, you know; and on the other are roses. i take credit for putting the roses on top." "dear hilda!" cried her cousin, giving her hand a hearty shake. "what a good fel--what a jolly girl you are! you ought," he added shyly, "to marry the best man in the world, and i hope you will." "i mean to," said hildegarde, laughing, with a happy light in her eyes. hildegarde had never seen her "fairy prince, with joyful eyes, and lighter-footed than the fox"; but she knew he would come in good time. she knew, too, very much what he was like,--a combination of amyas leigh, sir richard grenville, dundee, and montrose, with a dash of the cid, and a strong flavour of bayard, the constancy of william the silent, the kindness of scott, and the eyes of edwin booth. some day he would come, and find his maiden waiting for him. meantime, it was so very delightful to have jack fall in love with rose. if--she thought, and on that "if" rose many a spanish castle, fair and lofty, with glittering pinnacle and turret. but she had not the heart to tell jack of the joyful news she had just received, dared not tell him of the letter in her pocket which said that this dearest rose was coming soon, perhaps this very week, to make her a long, long visit. if she could only have come earlier! but now jack was taking his violin out of his box. "where is your mother?" he said. "this is my own, this present for you both. it is 'farewell to braeside!'" hildegarde flew to call her mother, and met her just coming downstairs. "jack has composed a farewell for us," she cried. "all for us, mamma! come!" farewell! the words seemed to breathe through the lovely melody, as the lad played softly, sweetly, a touch of sadness underlying the whole. "farewell! farewell! parting is pain, is pain, but love heals the wound with a touch. love flies over land and sea, bringing peace, peace, and good tidings and joy." then the theme changed, and a strain of triumph, of exultation, made the air thrill with happiness, with proud delight. the girl and her mother exchanged glances. "this is his work, his life!" said their eyes. and the song soared high and higher, till one fine, exquisite note melted like a skylark into the blue; then sinking gently, gently, it flowed again into the notes of the farewell,-- "parting is pain, is pain, but love is immortal." both women were in tears when the song died away, and jack's own eyes were suspiciously bright. "my dear boy," said mrs. grahame, wiping her eyes, "i do believe you are going to a life of joy and of well-earned triumph. i do heartily believe it." "it is all hilda's doings," said jack, "and yours. all hilda's and yours, aunt mildred. i shall not forget." here hugh, who had been listening spellbound, asked suddenly, "what was the name of the boat which the gentleman who begins with o made to go swiftly over the sea when he played with his hand?" "the _argo_, dear," said hildegarde. "it is that boat _he_ should go in," nodding to jack. "it would leap like an unicorn, wouldn't it, if he played those beautiful things which he just played?" and now colonel ferrers drove up to the door, with the brown cob and the yellow wagon. the last words were said; the precious violin was carefully stowed under the seat. jack kissed mrs. grahame warmly, and exchanged with hildegarde a long, silent pressure of the hand, in which there was a whole world of kindness and affection and comradeship. boys and girls can be such _good_ friends, if they only know how! "boot and saddle!" cried the colonel. "good-by!" cried the lad, springing into the wagon. "good-by! don't forget the ostrich gentleman!" "good-by, dear jack!" "god bless you, my dear lad! good-by!" and the wheels went crashing over the gravel. at the end of the driveway the colonel checked his horse for a moment before turning into the main road. "look back, boy," he said. jack looked, and saw hildegarde and her mother standing on the verandah with arms entwined, gazing after them with loving looks. the girl's white-clad figure and shining locks were set in a frame of hanging vines and creepers; her face was bright with love and cheer. the slender mother, in her black dress, seemed to droop and lean towards her; on the other side the child clasped her hand with fervent love and devotion. "my boy," said colonel ferrers, "take that picture with you wherever you go. you will see many places and many people, good and bad, comely and ill-favoured; but you will see no sight so good as that of a young woman, lovely and beloved, shining in the doorway of the home she makes bright." * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors repaired. the "goldfish" being the confessions af a successful man edited by arthur train [illustration: arthur train from the drawing by s.j. woolf] "they're like 'goldfish' swimming round and round in a big bowl. they can look through, sort of dimly; but they can't get out?"--_hastings_, p. . contents myself my friends my children my mind my morals my future "we have grown literally afraid to be poor. we despise any one who elects to be poor in order to simplify and save his inner life. we have lost the power of even imagining what the ancient idealization of poverty could have meant--the liberation from material attachments; the unbribed soul; the manlier indifference; the paying our way by what we are or do, and not by what we have; the right to fling away our life at any moment irresponsibly--the more athletic trim, in short the moral fighting shape.... it is certain that the prevalent fear of poverty among the educated class is the worst moral disease from which our civilization suffers." william james, p. . chapter i myself "my house, my affairs, my ache and my religion--" i was fifty years old to-day. half a century has hurried by since i first lay in my mother's wondering arms. to be sure, i am not old; but i can no longer deceive myself into believing that i am still young. after all, the illusion of youth is a mental habit consciously encouraged to defy and face down the reality of age. if, at twenty, one feels that he has reached man's estate he, nevertheless, tests his strength and abilities, his early successes or failures, by the temporary and fictitious standards of youth. at thirty a professional man is younger than the business man of twenty-five. less is expected of him; his work is less responsible; he has not been so long on his job. at forty the doctor or lawyer may still achieve an unexpected success. he has hardly won his spurs, though in his heart he well knows his own limitations. he can still say: "i am young yet!" and he is. but at fifty! ah, then he must face the facts! he either has or has not lived up to his expectations and he never can begin over again. a creature of physical and mental habit, he must for the rest of his life trudge along in the same path, eating the same food, thinking the same thoughts, seeking the same pleasures--until he acknowledges with grim reluctance that he is an old man. i confess that i had so far deliberately tried to forget my approaching fiftieth milestone, or at least to dodge it with closed eyes as i passed it by, that my daughter's polite congratulation on my demicentennial anniversary gave me an unexpected and most unpleasant shock. "you really ought to be ashamed of yourself!" she remarked as she joined me at breakfast. "why?" i asked, somewhat resenting being thus definitely proclaimed as having crossed into the valley of the shadows. "to be so old and yet to look so young!" she answered, with charming _voir-faire_. then i knew the reason of my resentment against fate. it was because i was labeled as old while, in fact, i was still young. of course that was it. old? ridiculous! when my daughter was gone i gazed searchingly at myself in the mirror. old? nonsense! i saw a man with no wrinkles and only a few crow's-feet such as anybody might have had; with hardly a gray hair on my temples and with not even a suggestion of a bald spot. my complexion and color were good and denoted vigorous health; my flesh was firm and hard on my cheeks; my teeth were sound, even and white; and my eyes were clear save for a slight cloudiness round the iris. the only physical defect to which i was frankly willing to plead guilty was a flabbiness of the neck under the chin, which might by a hostile eye have been regarded as slightly double. for the rest i was strong and fairly well--not much inclined to exercise, to be sure, but able, if occasion offered, to wield a tennis racket or a driver with a vigor and accuracy that placed me well out of the duffer class. yes; i flattered myself that i looked like a boy of thirty, and i felt like one--except for things to be hereinafter noted--and yet middle-aged men called me "sir" and waited for me to sit down before doing so themselves; and my contemporaries were accustomed to inquire jocularly after my arteries. i was fifty! another similar stretch of time and there would be no i. twenty years more--with ten years of physical effectiveness if i were lucky! thirty, and i would be useless to everybody. forty--i shuddered. fifty, i would not be there. my room would be vacant. another face would be looking into the mirror. unexpectedly on this legitimate festival of my birth a profound melancholy began to possess my spirit. i had lived. i had succeeded in the eyes of my fellows and of the general public. i was married to a charming woman. i had two marriageable daughters and a son who had already entered on his career as a lawyer. i was prosperous. i had amassed more than a comfortable fortune. and yet-- these things had all come, with a moderate amount of striving, as a matter of course. without them, undoubtedly i should be miserable; but with them--with reputation, money, comfort, affection--was i really happy? i was obliged to confess i was not. some remark in charles reade's christie johnstone came into my mind--not accurately, for i find that i can no longer remember literally--to the effect that the only happy man is he who, having from nothing achieved money, fame and power, dies before discovering that they were not worth striving for. i put to myself the question: _were_ they worth striving for? really, i did not seem to be getting much satisfaction out of them. i began to be worried. was not this an attitude of age? was i not an old man, perhaps, regardless of my youthful face? at any rate, it occurred to me sharply, as i had but a few more years of effective life, did it not behoove me to pause and see, if i could, in what direction i was going?--to "stop, look and listen"?--to take account of stock?--to form an idea of just what i was worth physically, mentally and morally?--to compute my assets and liabilities?--to find out for myself by a calm and dispassionate examination whether or not i was spiritually a bankrupt? that was the hideous thought which like a deathmask suddenly leered at me from behind the arras of my mind--that i counted for nothing--cared really for nothing! that when i died i should have been but a hole in the water! the previous evening i had taken my two distinctly blasé daughters to see a popular melodrama. the great audience that packed the theater to the roof went wild, and my young ladies, infected in spite of themselves with the same enthusiasm, gave evidences of a quite ordinary variety of excitement; but i felt no thrill. to me the heroine was but a painted dummy mechanically repeating the lines that some jew had written for her as he puffed a reeking cigar in his rear office, and the villain but a popinjay with a black whisker stuck on with a bit of pitch. yet i grinned and clapped to deceive them, and agreed that it was the most inspiriting performance i had seen in years. in the last act there was a horserace cleverly devised to produce a convincing impression of reality. a rear section of the stage was made to revolve from left to right at such a rate that the horses were obliged to gallop at their utmost speed in order to avoid being swept behind the scenes. to enhance the realistic effect the scenery itself was made to move in the same direction. thus, amid a whirlwind of excitement and the wild banging of the orchestra, the scenery flew by, and the horses, neck and neck, raced across the stage--without progressing a single foot. and the thought came to me as i watched them that, after all, this horserace was very much like the life we all of us were living here in the city. the scenery was rushing by, time was flying, the band was playing--while we, like the animals on the stage, were in a breathless struggle to attain some goal to which we never got any nearer. now as i smoked my cigarette after breakfast i asked myself what i had to show for my fifty years. what goal or goals had i attained? had anything happened except that the scenery had gone by? what would be the result should i stop and go with the scenery? was the race profiting me anything? had it profited anything to me or anybody else? and how far was i typical of a class? a moment's thought convinced me that i was the prototype of thousands all over the united states. "a certain rich man!" that was me. i had yawned for years at dozens of sermons about men exactly like myself. i had called them twaddle. i had rather resented them. i was not a sinner--that is, i was not a sinner in the ordinary sense at all. i was a good man--a very good man. i kept all the commandments and i acted in accordance with the requirements of every standard laid down by other men exactly like myself. between us, i now suddenly saw, we made the law and the prophets. we were all judging ourselves by self-made tests. i was just like all the rest. what was true of me was true of them. and what were we, the crowning achievement of american civilization, like? i had not thought of it before. here, then, was a question the answer to which might benefit others as well as myself. i resolved to answer it if i could--to write down in plain words and cold figures a truthful statement of what i was and what they were. i had been a fairly wide reader in my youth, and yet i did not recall anywhere precisely this sort of self-analysis. confessions, so called, were usually amatory episodes in the lives of the authors, highly spiced and colored by emotions often not felt at the time, but rather inspired by memory. other analyses were the contented, narratives of supposedly poverty-stricken people who pretended they had no desires in the world save to milk the cows and watch the grass grow. "adventures in contentment" interested me no more than adventures in unbridled passion. i was going to try and see myself as i was--naked. to be of the slightest value, everything i set down must be absolutely accurate and the result of faithful observation. i believed i was a good observer. i had heard myself described as a "cold proposition," and coldness was a _sine qua non_ of my enterprise. i must brief my case as if i were an attorney in an action at law. or rather, i must make an analytical statement of fact like that which usually prefaces a judicial opinion. i must not act as a pleader, but first as a keen and truthful witness and then as an impartial judge. and at the end i must either declare myself innocent or guilty of a breach of trust--pronounce myself a faithful or an unworthy servant. i must dispassionately examine and set forth the actual conditions of my home life, my business career, my social pleasures, the motives animating myself, my family, my professional associates, and my friends --weigh our comparative influence for good or evil on the community and diagnose the general mental, moral and physical condition of the class to which i belonged. to do this aright, i must see clearly things as they were without regard to popular approval or prejudice, and must not hesitate to call them by their right names. i must spare neither myself nor anybody else. it would not be altogether pleasant. the disclosures of the microscope are often more terrifying than the amputations of the knife; but by thus studying both myself and my contemporaries i might perhaps arrive at the solution of the problem that was troubling me--that is to say, why i, with every ostensible reason in the world for being happy, was not! this, then, was to be my task. * * * * * i have already indicated that i am a sound, moderately healthy, vigorous man, with a slight tendency to run to fat. i am five feet ten inches tall, weigh a hundred and sixty-two pounds, have gray eyes, a rather aquiline nose, and a close-clipped dark-brown mustache, with enough gray hairs in it to give it dignity. my movements are quick; i walk with a spring. i usually sleep, except when worried over business. i do not wear glasses and i have no organic trouble of which i am aware. the new york life insurance company has just reinsured me after a thorough physical examination. my appetite for food is not particularly good, and my other appetites, in spite of my vigor, are by no means keen. eating is about the most active pleasure that i can experience; but in order to enjoy my dinner i have to drink a cocktail, and my doctor says that is very bad for my health. my personal habits are careful, regular and somewhat luxurious. i bathe always once and generally twice a day. incidentally i am accustomed to scatter a spoonful of scented powder in the water for the sake of the odor. i like hot baths and spend a good deal of time in the turkish bath at my club. after steaming myself for half an hour and taking a cold plunge, an alcohol rub and a cocktail, i feel younger than ever; but the sight of my fellow men in the bath revolts me. almost without exception they have flabby, pendulous stomachs out of all proportion to the rest of their bodies. most of them are bald and their feet are excessively ugly, so that, as they lie stretched out on glass slabs to be rubbed down with salt and scrubbed, they appear to be deformed. i speak now of the men of my age. sometimes a boy comes in that looks like a greek god; but generally the boys are as weird-looking as the men. i am rambling, however. anyhow i am less repulsive than most of them. yet, unless the human race has steadily deteriorated, i am surprised that the creator was not discouraged after his first attempt. i clothe my body in the choicest apparel that my purse can buy, but am careful to avoid the expressions of fancy against which polonius warns us. my coats and trousers are made in london, and so are my underclothes, which are woven to order of silk and cotton. my shoes cost me fourteen dollars a pair; my silk socks, six dollars; my ordinary shirts, five dollars; and my dress shirts, fifteen dollars each. on brisk evenings i wear to dinner and the opera a mink-lined overcoat, for which my wife recently paid seven hundred and fifty dollars. the storage and insurance on this coat come to twenty-five dollars annually and the repairs to about forty-five. i am rather fond of overcoats and own half a dozen of them, all made in inverness. i wear silk pajamas--pearl-gray, pink, buff and blue, with frogs, cuffs and monograms--which by the set cost me forty dollars. i also have a pair of pearl evening studs to wear with my dress suit, for which my wife paid five hundred and fifty dollars, and my cuff buttons cost me a hundred and seventy-five. thus, if i am not an exquisite--which i distinctly am not--i am exceedingly well dressed, and i am glad to be so. if i did not have a fur coat to wear to the opera i should feel embarrassed, out of place and shabby. all the men who sit in the boxes at the metropolitan opera house have fur overcoats. as a boy i had very few clothes indeed, and those i had were made to last a long time. but now without fine raiment i am sure i should be miserable. i cannot imagine myself shabby. yet i can imagine any one of my friends being shabby without feeling any uneasiness about it--that is to say, i am the first to profess a democracy of spirit in which clothes cut no figure at all. i assert that it is the man, and not his clothes, that i value; but in my own case my silk-and-cotton undershirt is a necessity, and if deprived of it i should, i know, lose some attribute of self. at any rate, my bluff, easy, confident manner among my fellow men, which has played so important a part in my success, would be impossible. i could never patronize anybody if my necktie were frayed or my sleeves too short. i know that my clothes are as much a part of my entity as my hair, eyes and voice--more than any of the rest of me. based on the figures given above i am worth--the material part of me--as i step out of my front door to go forth to dinner, something over fifteen hundred dollars. if i were killed in a railroad accident all these things would be packed carefully in a box, inventoried, and given a much greater degree of attention than my mere body. i saw napoleon's boots and waistcoat the other day in paris and i felt that he himself must be there in the glass case beside me. any one who at abbotsford has felt of the white beaver hat of sir walter scott knows that he has touched part--and a very considerable part--of sir walter. the hat, the boots, the waistcoat are far less ephemeral than the body they protect, and indicate almost as much of the wearer's character as his hands and face. so i am not ashamed of my silk pajamas or of the geranium powder i throw in my bath. they are part of me. but is this "me" limited to my body and my clothes? i drink a cup of coffee or a cocktail: after they are consumed they are part of me; are they not part of me as i hold the cup or the glass in my hand? is my coat more characteristic of me than my house--my sleeve-links than my wife or my collie dog? i know a gentlewoman whose sensitive, quivering, aristocratic nature is expressed far more in the russian wolfhound that shrinks always beside her than in the aloof, though charming, expression of her face. no; not only my body and my personal effects but everything that is mine is part of me--my chair with the rubbed arm; my book, with its marked pages; my office; my bank account, and in some measure my friend himself. let us agree that in the widest sense all that i have, feel or think is part of me--either of my physical or mental being; for surely my thoughts are more so than the books that suggest them, and my sensations of pleasure or satisfaction equally so with the dinner i have eaten or the cigar i have smoked. my ego is the sum total of all these things. and if the cigar is consumed, the dinner digested, the pleasure flown, the thought forgotten, the waistcoat or shirt discarded--so, too, do the tissues of the body dissolve, disintegrate and change. i can no more retain permanently the physical elements of my personality than i can the mental or spiritual. what, then, am i--who, the scriptures assert, am made in the image of god? who and what is this being that has gradually been evolved during fifty years of life and which i call myself? for whom my father and my mother, their fathers and mothers, and all my ancestors back through the gray mists of the forgotten past, struggled, starved, labored, suffered, and at last died. to what end did they do these things? to produce me? god forbid! would the vision of me as i am to-day have inspired my grandfather to undergo, as cheerfully as he did, the privations and austerities of his long and arduous service as a country clergyman--or my father to die at the head of his regiment at little round top? what am i--what have i ever done, now that i come to think of it, to deserve those sacrifices? have i ever even inconvenienced myself for others in any way? have i ever repaid this debt? have i in turn advanced the flag that they and hundreds of thousands of others, equally unselfish, carried forward? have i ever considered my obligation to those who by their patient labors in the field of scientific discovery have contributed toward my well-being and the very continuance of my life? or have i been content for all these years to reap where i have not sown? to accept, as a matter of course and as my due, the benefits others gave years of labor to secure for me? it is easy enough for me to say: no--that i have thought of them and am grateful to them. perhaps i am, in a vague fashion. but has whatever feeling of obligation i may possess been evidenced in my conduct toward my fellows? i am proud of my father's heroic death at gettysburg; in fact i am a member, by virtue of his rank in the union army, of what is called the loyal legion. but have i ever fully considered that he died for me? have i been loyal to him? would he be proud or otherwise--_is_ he proud or otherwise of me, his son? that is a question i can only answer after i have ascertained just what i am. now for over quarter of a century i have worked hard--harder, i believe, than most men. from a child i was ambitious. as a boy, people would point to me and say that i would get ahead. well, i have got ahead. back in the town where i was born i am spoken of as a "big man." old men and women stop me on the main street and murmur: "if only your father could see you now!" they all seem tremendously proud of me and feel confident that if he could see me he would be happy for evermore. and i know they are quite honest about it all. for they assume in their simple hearts that my success is a real success. yet i have no such assurance about it. every year i go back and address the graduating class in the high school--the high school i attended as a boy. and i am "exhibit a"--the tangible personification of all that the fathers and mothers hope their children will become. it is the same way with the faculty of my college. they have given me an honorary degree and i have given them a drinking fountain for the campus. we are a mutual-admiration society. i am always picked by my classmates to preside at our reunions, for i am the conspicuous, shining example of success among them. they are proud of me, without envy. "well, old man," they say, "you've certainly made a name for yourself!" they take it for granted that, because i have made money and they read my wife's name in the society columns of the new york papers, i must be completely satisfied. and in a way i _am_ satisfied with having achieved that material success which argues the possession of brains and industry; but the encomiums of the high-school principal and the congratulations of my college mates, sincere and well-meaning as they are, no longer quicken my blood; for i know that they are based on a total ignorance of the person they seek to honor. they see a heavily built, well-groomed, shrewd-looking man, with clear-cut features, a ready smile, and a sort of brusque frankness that seems to them the index of an honest heart. they hear him speak in a straightforward, direct way about the "old home," and the "dear old college," and "all our friends"--quite touching at times, i assure you--and they nod and say, "good fellow, this! no frills--straight from the heart! no wonder he has got on in the city! sterling chap! hurrah!" perhaps, after all, the best part of me comes out on these occasions. but it is not the _me_ that i have worked for half a century to build up; it is rather what is left of the _me_ that knelt at my mother's side forty years ago. yet i have no doubt that, should these good parents of mine see how i live in new york, they would only be the more convinced of the greatness of my success--the success to achieve which i have given the unremitting toil of thirty years. * * * * * and as i now clearly see that the results of this striving and the objects of my ambition have been largely, if not entirely, material, i shall take the space to set forth in full detail just what this material success amounts to, in order that i may the better determine whether it has been worth struggling for. not only are the figures that follow accurate and honest, but i am inclined to believe that they represent the very minimum of expenditure in the class of new york families to which mine belongs. they may at first sight seem extravagant; but if the reader takes the trouble to verify them--as i have done, alas! many times to my own dismay and discouragement--he will find them economically sound. this, then, is the catalogue of my success. i possess securities worth about seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars and i earn at my profession from thirty to forty thousand dollars a year. this gives me an annual income of from sixty-five thousand to seventy-five thousand dollars. in addition i own a house on the sunny side of an uptown cross street near central park which cost me, fifteen years ago, one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, and is now worth two hundred and fifty thousand. i could sell it for that. the taxes alone amount to thirty-two hundred dollars--the repairs and annual improvements to about twenty-five hundred. as the interest on the value of the property would be twelve thousand five hundred dollars it will be seen that merely to have a roof over my head costs me annually over eighteen thousand dollars. my electric-light bills are over one hundred dollars a month. my coal and wood cost me even more, for i have two furnaces to heat the house, an engine to pump the water, and a second range in the laundry. one man is kept busy all the time attending to these matters and cleaning the windows. i pay my butler eighty dollars a month; my second man fifty-five; my valet sixty; my cook seventy; the two kitchen maids twenty-five each; the head laundress forty-five; the two second laundresses thirty-five each; the parlor maid thirty; the two housemaids twenty-five each; my wife's maid thirty-five; my daughter's maid thirty; the useful man fifty; the pantry maid twenty-five. my house payroll is, therefore, six hundred and fifty dollars a month, or seventy-eight hundred a year. we could not possibly get along without every one of these servants. to discharge one of them would mean that the work would have to be done in some other way at a vastly greater expense. add this to the yearly sum represented by the house itself, together with the cost of heating and lighting, and you have twenty-eight thousand four hundred dollars. unforeseen extras make this, in fact, nearer thirty thousand dollars. there is usually some alteration under way, a partition to be taken out, a hall to be paneled, a parquet floor to be relaid, a new sort of heating apparatus to be installed, and always plumbing. generally, also, at least one room has to be done over and refurnished every year, and this is an expensive matter. the guest room, recently refurnished in this way at my daughter's request, cost thirty-seven hundred dollars. since we average not more than two guests for a single night annually, their visits from one point of view will cost me this year eighteen hundred and fifty dollars apiece. then, too, styles change. there is always new furniture, new carpets, new hangings--pictures to be bought. last season my wife changed the drawing room from empire to louis seize at a very considerable outlay. our food, largely on account of the number of our servants, costs us from a thousand to twelve hundred dollars a month. in the spring and autumn it is a trifle less--in winter it is frequently more; but it averages, with wine, cigars, ice, spring water and sundries, over fifteen thousand dollars a year. we rent a house at the seashore or in the country in summer at from five to eight thousand dollars, and usually find it necessary to employ a couple of men about the place. our three saddle-horses cost us about two thousand dollars for stabling, shoeing and incidentals; but they save me at least that in doctors' bills. since my wife and daughters are fond of society, and have different friends and different nightly engagements, we are forced to keep two motors and two chauffeurs, one of them exclusively for night-work. i pay these men one hundred and twenty-five dollars each a month, and the garage bill is usually two hundred and fifty more, not counting tires. at least one car has to be overhauled every year at an average expense of from two hundred and fifty to five hundred dollars. both cars have to be painted annually. my motor service winter and summer costs on a conservative estimate at least eight thousand dollars. i allow my wife five thousand dollars; my daughters three thousand each; and my son, who is not entirely independent, twenty-five hundred. this is supposed to cover everything; but it does not--it barely covers their bodies. i myself expend, having no vices, only about twenty-five hundred dollars. the bills of our family doctor, the specialists and the dentist are never less than a thousand dollars, and that is a minimum. they would probably average more than double that. our spring trip to paris, for rest and clothing, has never cost me less than thirty-five hundred dollars, and when it comes to less than five thousand it is inevitably a matter of mutual congratulation. our special entertaining, our opera box, the theater and social frivolities aggregate no inconsiderable sum, which i will not overestimate at thirty-five hundred dollars. our miscellaneous subscriptions to charity and the like come to about fifteen hundred dollars. the expenses already recited total nearly seventy-five thousand dollars, or as much as my maximum income. and this annual budget contains no allowance for insurance, books, losses at cards, transportation, sundries, the purchase of new furniture, horses, automobiles, or for any of that class of expenditure usually referred to as "principal" or "plant." i inevitably am obliged to purchase a new motor every two or three years--usually for about six thousand dollars; and, as i have said, the furnishing of our city house is never completed. it is a fact that for the last ten years i have found it an absolute impossibility to get along on seventy-five thousand dollars a year, even living without apparent extravagance. i do not run a yacht or keep hunters or polo ponies. my wife does not appear to be particularly lavish and continually complains of the insufficiency of her allowance. our table is not lucullan, by any means; and we rarely have game out of season, hothouse fruit or many flowers. indeed, there is an elaborate fiction maintained by my wife, cook and butler that our establishment is run economically and strictly on a business basis. perhaps it is. i hope so. i do not know anything about it. anyhow, here is the smallest budget on which i can possibly maintain my household of five adults: annual budget--minimum--for family of five persons taxes on city house $ , repairs, improvements and minor alterations , rent of country house--average , gardeners and stablemen, and so on servants' payroll , food supplies , light and heat--gas, electricity, coal and wood , saddle-horses--board and so on , automobile expenses , wife's allowance--emphatically insufficient , daughters' allowance--two , son's allowance , self--clubs, clothes, and so on , medical attendance--including dentist , charity , travel--wife's annual spring trip to paris , opera, theater, music, entertaining at restaurants, and so on , _____ total $ , a fortune in itself, you may say! yet judged by the standards of expenditure among even the unostentatiously wealthy in new york it is moderate indeed. a friend of mine who has only recently married glanced over my schedule and said, "why, it's ridiculous, old man! no one could live in new york on any such sum." any attempt to "keep house" in the old-fashioned meaning of the phrase would result in domestic disruption. no cook who was not allowed to do the ordering would stay with us. it is hopeless to try to save money in our domestic arrangements. i have endeavored to do so once or twice and repented of my rashness. one cannot live in the city without motors, and there is no object in living at all if one cannot keep up a scale of living that means comfort and lack of worry in one's household. the result is that i am always pressed for money even on an income of seventy-five thousand dollars. and every year i draw a little on my capital. sometimes a lucky stroke on the market or an unexpected fee evens things up or sets me a little ahead; but usually january first sees me selling a few bonds to meet an annual deficit. needless to say, i pay no personal taxes. if i did i might as well give up the struggle at once. when i write it all down in cold words i confess it seems ridiculous. yet my family could not be happy living in any other way. it may be remarked that the item for charity on the preceding schedule is somewhat disproportionate to the amount of the total expenditure. i offer no excuse or justification for this. i am engaged in an honest exposition of fact--for my own personal satisfaction and profit, and for what lessons others may be able to draw from it. my charities are negligible. the only explanation which suggests itself to my mind is that i lead so circumscribed and guarded a life that these matters do not obtrude themselves on me. i am not brought into contact with the maimed, the halt and the blind; if i were i should probably behave toward them like a gentleman. the people i am thrown with are all sleek and well fed; but even among those of my friends who make a fad of charity i have never observed any disposition to deprive themselves of luxuries for the sake of others. outside of the really poor, is there such a thing as genuine charity among us? the church certainly does not demand anything approximating self-sacrifice. a few dollars will suffice for any appeal. i am not a professing christian, but the church regards me tolerantly and takes my money when it can get it. but how little it gets! i give frequently--almost constantly--but in most instances my giving is less an act of benevolence than the payment of a tax upon my social standing. i am compelled to give. if i could not be relied upon to take tickets to charity entertainments and to add my name to the subscription lists for hospitals and relief funds i should lose my caste. one cannot be _too_ cold a proposition. i give to these things grudgingly and because i cannot avoid it. of course the aggregate amount thus disposed of is really not large and i never feel the loss of it. frankly, people of my class rarely inconvenience themselves for the sake of anybody, whether their own immediate friends or the sick, suffering and sorrowful. it is trite to say that the clerk earning one thousand dollars deprives himself of more in giving away fifty than the man with an income of twenty thousand dollars in giving away five thousand. it really costs the clerk more to go down into his pocket for that sum than the rich man to draw his check for those thousands. where there is necessity for generous and immediate relief i occasionally, but very rarely, contribute two hundred and fifty or five hundred dollars. my donation is always known and usually is noticed with others of like amount in the daily papers. i am glad to give the money and i have a sensation of making a substantial sacrifice in doing so. obviously, however, it has cost me really nothing! i spend two hundred and fifty dollars or more every week or so on an evening's entertainment for fifteen or twenty of my friends and think nothing of it. it is part of my manner of living, and my manner of living is an advertisement of my success--and advertising in various subtle ways is a business necessity. yet if i give two hundred and fifty dollars to a relief fund i have an inflation of the heart and feel conscious of my generosity. i can frankly say, therefore, that so far as i am concerned my response to the ordinary appeal for charity is purely perfunctory and largely, if not entirely, dictated by policy; and the sum total of my charities on an income of seventy-five thousand dollars a year is probably less than fifteen hundred dollars, or about two per cent. yet, thinking it over dispassionately, i do not conclude from this that i am an exceptionally selfish man. i believe i represent the average in this respect. i always respond to minor calls in a way that pleases the recipient and causes a genuine flow of satisfaction in my own breast. i toss away nickels, dimes and quarters with prodigality; and if one of the office boys feels out of sorts i send him off for a week's vacation on full pay. i make small loans to seedy fellows who have known better days and i treat the servants handsomely at christmas. i once sent a boy to college--that is, i promised him fifty dollars a year. he died in his junior term, however. sisters of mercy, the postman, a beggar selling pencils or shoelaces--almost anybody, in short, that actually comes within range--can pretty surely count on something from me. but i confess i never go out of my way to look for people in need of help. i have not the time. several of the items in my budget, however, are absurdly low, for the opera-box which, as it is, we share with several friends and which is ours but once in two weeks, alone costs us twelve hundred dollars; and my bill at the ritz--where we usually dine before going to the theater or sup afterward--is apt to be not less than one hundred dollars a month. besides, twenty-five hundred dollars does not begin to cover my actual personal expenses; but as i am accustomed to draw checks against my office account and thrust the money in my pocket, it is difficult to say just what i do cost myself. moreover, a new york family like mine would have to keep surprisingly well in order to get along with but two thousand dollars a year for doctors. even our dentist bills are often more than that. we do not go to the most fashionable operators either. there does not seem to be any particular way of finding out who the good ones are except by experiment. i go to a comparatively cheap one. last month he looked me over, put in two tiny fillings, cleansed my teeth and treated my gums. he only required my presence once for half an hour, once for twenty minutes, and twice for ten minutes--on the last two occasions he filched the time from the occupant of his other chair. my bill was forty-two dollars. as he claims to charge a maximum rate of ten dollars an hour--which is about the rate for ordinary legal services--i have spent several hundred dollars' worth of my own time trying to figure it all out. but this is nothing to the expense incident to the straightening of children's teeth. when i was a child teeth seemed to take care of themselves, but my boy and girls were all obliged to spend several years with their small mouths full of plates, wires and elastic bands. in each case the cost was from eighteen hundred to two thousand dollars. a friend of mine with a large family was compelled to lay out during the tooth-growing period of his offspring over five thousand dollars a year for several years. their teeth are not straight at that. then, semioccasionally, weird cures arise and seize hold of the female imagination and send our wives and daughters scurrying to the parlors of fashionable specialists, who prescribe long periods of rest at expensive hotels--a room in one's own house will not do--and strange diets of mush and hot water, with periodical search parties, lighted by electricity, through the alimentary canal. one distinguished medico's discovery of the terra incognita of the stomach has netted him, i am sure, a princely fortune. there seems to be something peculiarly fascinating about the human interior. one of our acquaintances became so interested in hers that she issued engraved invitations for a fashionable party at which her pet doctor delivered a lecture on the gastro-intestinal tract. all this comes high, and i have not ventured to include the cost of such extravagances in my budget, though my wife has taken cures six times in the last ten years, either at home or abroad. and who can prophesy the cost of the annual spring jaunt to europe? i have estimated it at thirty-five hundred dollars; but, frankly, i never get off with any such trifling sum. our passage alone costs us from seven hundred to a thousand dollars, or even more and our ten-days' motor trip--the invariable climax of the expedition rendered necessary by the fatigue incident to shopping--at least five hundred dollars. our hotel bills in paris, our taxicabs, theater tickets, and dinners at expensive restaurants cost us at least a thousand dollars, without estimating the total of those invariable purchases that are paid for out of the letter of credit and not charged to my wife's regular allowance. even in paris she will, without a thought, spend fifty dollars at reboux' for a simple spring hat--and this is not regarded as expensive. her dresses cost as much as if purchased on fifth avenue and i am obliged to pay a sixty per cent duty on them besides. the restaurants of paris--the chic ones--charge as much as those in new york; in fact, chic paris exists very largely for the exploitation of the wives of rich americans. the smart french woman buys no such dresses and pays no such prices. she knows a clever little modiste down some alley leading off the rue st. honoré who will saunter into worth's, sweep the group of models with her eye, and go back to her own shop and turn out the latest fashions at a quarter of the money. a french woman in society will have the same dress made for her by her own dressmaker for seventy dollars for which an american will cheerfully pay three hundred and fifty. and the reason is, that she has been taught from girlhood the relative values of things. she knows that mere clothes can never really take the place of charm and breeding; that expensive entertainments, no matter how costly and choice the viands, can never give equal pleasure with a cup of tea served with vivacity and wit; and that the best things of paris are, in fact, free to all alike--the sunshine of the boulevards, the ever-changing spectacle of the crowds, the glamour of the evening glow beyond the hôtel des invalides, and the lure of the lamp-strewn twilight of the champs elysées. so she gets a new dress or two and, after the three months of her season in the capital are over, is content to lead a more or less simple family life in the country for the rest of the year. one rarely sees a real parisian at one of the highly advertised all-night resorts of paris. no frenchman would pay the price. an acquaintance of mine took his wife and a couple of friends one evening to what is known as l'abbaye, in montmartre. knowing that it had a reputation for being expensive, he resisted, somewhat self-consciously, the delicate suggestions of the head waiter and ordered only one bottle of champagne, caviar for four, and a couple of cigars. after watching the dancing for an hour he called for his bill and found that the amount was two hundred and fifty francs. rather than be conspicuous he paid it--foolishly. but the american who takes his wife abroad must have at least one vicarious taste of fast life, no matter what it costs, and he is a lucky fellow who can save anything out of a bill of exchange that has cost him five thousand dollars. after dispassionate consideration of the matter i hazard the sincere opinion that my actual disbursements during the last ten years have averaged not less than one hundred thousand dollars a year. however, let us be conservative and stick to our original figure of seventy-five thousand dollars. it costs me, therefore, almost exactly two hundred dollars a day to support five persons. we all of us complain of what is called the high cost of living, but men of my class have no real knowledge of what it costs them to live. the necessaries are only a drop in the bucket. it is hardly worth while to bother over the price of rib roast a pound, or fresh eggs a dozen, when one is smoking fifty-cent cigars. essentially it costs me as much to lunch off a boiled egg, served in my dining room at home, as to carve the breast off a canvasback. at the end of the month my bills would not show the difference. it is the overhead--or, rather, in housekeeping, the underground--charge that counts. that boiled egg or the canvasback represents a running expense of at least a hundred dollars a day. slight variations in the cost of foodstuffs or servants' wages amount to practically nothing. and what do i get for my two hundred dollars a day and my seventy-five thousand dollars a year that the other fellow does not enjoy for, let us say, half the money? let us readjust the budget with an idea to ascertaining on what a family of five could live in luxury in the city of new york a year. i could rent a good house for five thousand dollars and one in the country for two thousand dollars; and i would have no real-estate taxes. i could keep eight trained servants for three thousand dollars and reduce the cost of my supplies to five thousand almost without knowing it. of course my light and heat would cost me twelve hundred dollars and my automobile twenty-five hundred. my wife, daughters and son ought to be able to manage to dress on five thousand dollars, among them. i could give away fifteen hundred dollars and allow one thousand for doctors' bills, fifteen hundred for my own expenses, and still have twenty-three hundred for pleasure--and be living on thirty thousand dollars a year in luxury. i could even then entertain, go to the theater, and occasionally take my friends to a restaurant. and what would i surrender? my saddle-horses, my extra motor, my pretentious houses, my opera box, my wife's annual spending bout in paris--that is about all. and i would have a cash balance of forty-five thousand dollars. revised budget rent--city and country $ , servants , supplies , light and heat , motor , allowance to family , charity , medical attendance , self , travel, pleasure, music and sundries , ______ total $ , in a smaller city i could do the same thing for half the money--fifteen thousand dollars; in rome, florence or munich i could live like a prince on half the sum. i am paying apparently forty-five thousand dollars each year for the veriest frills of existence--for geranium powder in my bath, for fifteen extra feet in the width of my drawing room, for a seat in the parterre instead of the parquet at the opera, for the privilege of having a second motor roll up to the door when it is needed, and that my wife may have seven new evening dresses each winter instead of two. and in reality these luxuries mean nothing to me. i do not want them. i am not a whit more comfortable with than without them. if an income tax should suddenly cut my bank account in half it would not seriously inconvenience me. no financial cataclasm, however dire, could deprive me of the genuine luxuries of my existence. yet in my revised schedule of expenditure i would still be paying nearly a hundred dollars a day for the privilege of living. what would i be getting for my money--even then? what would i receive as a _quid pro quo_ for my thirty thousand dollars? i am not enough of a materialist to argue that my advantage over my less successful fellow man lies in having a bigger house, men servants instead of maid servants, and smoking cigars alleged to be from havana instead of from tampa; but i believe i am right in asserting that my social opportunities--in the broader sense--are vastly greater than his. i am meeting bigger men and have my fingers in bigger things. i give orders and he takes them. my opinion has considerable weight in important matters, some of which vitally affect large communities. my astuteness has put millions into totally unexpected pockets and defeated the faultily expressed intentions of many a testator. i can go to the white house and get an immediate hearing, and i can do more than that with judges of the supreme court in their private chambers. in other words i am an active man of affairs, a man among men, a man of force and influence, who, as we say, "cuts ice" in the metropolis. but the economic weakness in the situation lies in the fact that a boiled egg only costs the ordinary citizen ten cents and it costs me almost its weight in gold. compare this de-luxe existence of mine with that of my forebears. we are assured by most biographers that the subject of their eulogies was born of poor but honest parents. my own parents were honest, but my father was in comfortable circumstances and was able to give me the advantages incident to an education, first at the local high school and later at college. i did not as a boy get up while it was still dark and break the ice in the horsetrough in order to perform my ablutions. i was, to be sure, given to understand--and always when a child religiously believed--that this was my father's unhappy fate. it may have been so, but i have a lingering doubt on the subject that refuses to be dissipated. i can hardly credit the idea that the son of the village clergyman was obliged to go through any such rigorous physical discipline as a child. even in there were such things as hired men and tradition declares that the one in my grandparents' employ was known as jonas, had but one good eye and was half-witted. it modestly refrains from asserting that he had only one arm and one leg. my grandmother did the cooking--her children the housework; but jonas was their only servant, if servant he can be called. it is said that he could perform wonders with an ax and could whistle the very birds off the trees. some time ago i came upon a trunkful of letters written by my grandfather to my father in , when the latter was in college. they were closely written with a fine pen in a small, delicate hand, and the lines of ink, though faded, were like steel engraving. they were stilted, godly--in an ingenuous fashion--at times ponderously humorous, full of a mild self-satisfaction, and inscribed under the obvious impression that only the writer could save my father's soul from hell or his kidneys from destruction. the goodness of the almighty, as exemplified by his personal attention to my grandfather, the efficacy of oil distilled from the liver of the cod, and the wisdom of solomon, came in for an equal share of attention. how the good old gentleman must have enjoyed writing those letters! and, though i have never written my own son three letters in my life, i suppose the desire of self-expression is stirring in me now these seventy-eight years later. i wonder what he would have said could he read these confessions of mine--he who married my grandmother on a capital of twenty-five dollars and enough bleached cotton to make half a dozen shirts! my annual income would have bought the entire county in which he lived. my son scraped through harvard on twenty-five hundred dollars a year. i have no doubt that he left undisclosed liabilities behind him. most of this allowance was spent on clothes, private commons and amusement. lying before me is my father's term bill at college for the first half year of . the items are: to tuition $ . room rent . use of university library . servants' hire, printing, and so on . repairs . damage for glass . commons bill, - / weeks at $ . a week . steward's salary . public fuel . absent from recitation without excuse--once . ------- total $ . the glass damage at nine cents and the three cents for absence without excuse give me joy. father was human, after all! economically speaking, i do not think that his clothes cost him anything. he wore my grandfather's old ones. there were no amusements in those days, except going to see the pickled curios in the old boston museum. i have no doubt he drove to college in the family chaise--if there was one. i do not think that, in fact, there was. on a conservative estimate he could not have cost my grandfather much, if anything, over a hundred dollars a year. on this basis i could, on my present income, send seven hundred and fifty fathers to college annually! a curious thought, is it not? undoubtedly my grandfather went barefoot and trudged many a weary mile, winter and summer, to and from the district school. he worked his way through college. he married and reared a family. he educated my father. he watched over his flock in sickness and in health, and he died at a ripe old age, mourned by the entire countryside. my father, in his turn, was obliged to carve out his own fate. he left the old home, moved to the town where i was born, and by untiring industry built up a law practice which for those days was astonishingly lucrative. then, as i have said, the war broke out and, enlisting as a matter of course, he met death on the battlefield. during his comparatively short life he followed the frugal habits acquired in his youth. he was a simple man. yet i am his son! what would he say could he see my valet, my butler, my french cook? would he admire and appreciate my paintings, my _objets d'art,_ my rugs and tapestries, my rare old furniture? as an intelligent man he would undoubtedly have the good taste to realize their value and take satisfaction in their beauty; but would he be glad that i possessed them? that is a question. until i began to pen these confessions i should have unhesitatingly answered it in the affirmative. now i am inclined to wonder a little. i think it would depend on how far he believed that my treasures indicated on my own part a genuine love of art, and how far they were but the evidences of pomp and vainglory. let me be honest in the matter. i own some masterpieces of great value. at the time of their purchase i thought i had a keen admiration for them. i begin to suspect that i acquired them less because i really cared for such things than because i wished to be considered a connoisseur. there they hang--my corots, my romneys, my teniers, my daubignys. but they might as well be the merest chromos. i never look at them. i have forgotten that they exist. so have the rest of my family. it is the same way with my porcelains and tapestries. of course they go to make up the _tout ensemble_ of a harmonious and luxurious home, but individually they mean nothing to me. i should not miss them if they were all swept out of existence tomorrow by a fire. i am no happier in my own house than in a hotel. my pictures are nothing but so much furniture requiring heavy insurance. it is somewhat the same with our cuisine. my food supply costs me forty dollars a day. we use the choicest teas, the costliest caviar and relishes, the richest sterilized milk and cream, the freshest eggs, the choicest cuts of meat. we have course after course at lunch and dinner; yet i go to the table without an appetite and my food gives me little pleasure. but this style of living is the concrete expression of my success. because i have risen above my fellows i must be surrounded by these tangible evidences of prosperity. i get up about nine o'clock in the morning unless i have been out very late the night before, in which case i rest until ten or later. i step into a porcelain tub in which my servant has drawn a warm bath of water filtered by an expensive process which makes it as clear and blue as crystal. when i leave my bath my valet hands me one by one the garments that have been carefully laid out in order. he is always hovering round me, and i rather pride myself on the fact that i lace my own shoes and brush my own hair. then he gives me a silk handkerchief and i stroll into my upstairs sitting room ready for breakfast. my daughters are still sleeping. they rarely get up before eleven in the morning, and my wife and i do not, as a rule, breakfast together. we have tried that arrangement and found it wanting, for we are slightly irritable at this hour. my son has already gone downtown. so i enter the chintz-furnished room alone and sit down by myself before a bright wood fire and glance at the paper, which the valet has ironed, while i nibble an egg, drink a glass of orange juice, swallow a few pieces of toast and quaff a great cup of fragrant coffee. coffee! goddess of the nerve-exhausted! sweet invigorator of tired manhood! savior of the american race! i could not live without you! one draft at your pyrenean fountain and i am young again! for a moment the sun shines as it used to do in my boyhood's days; my blood quickens; i am eager to be off to business--to do, no matter what. i enter the elevator and sink to the ground floor. my valet and butler are waiting, the former with my coat over his arm, ready to help me into it. then he hands me my hat and stick, while the butler opens the front door and escorts me to my motor. the chauffeur touches his hat. i light a small and excellent havana cigar and sink back among the cushions. the interior of the car smells faintly of rich upholstery and violet perfume. my daughters have been to a ball the night before. if it is fine i have the landaulette hood thrown open and take the air as far as washington square--if not, i am deposited at the subway. ten o'clock sees me at my office. the effect of the coffee has begun to wear off slightly. i am a little peevish with my secretary, who has opened and arranged all my letters on my desk. there are a pile of dividend checks, a dozen appeals for charity and a score of letters relating to my business. i throw the begging circulars into the waste-basket and dictate most of my answers in a little over half an hour. then come a stream of appointments until lunchtime. on the top floor of a twenty-story building, its windows commanding a view of all the waters surrounding the end of manhattan island, is my lunch club. here gather daily at one o'clock most of the men with whom i am associated--bankers, railroad promoters and other lawyers. i lunch with one or more of them. a cocktail starts my appetite, for i have no desire for food; and for the sake of appearances i manage to consume an egg benedictine and a ragout of lamb, with a dessert. then we wander into the smoking room and drink black coffee and smoke long black cigars. i have smoked a cigar or two in my office already and am beginning, as usual, to feel a trifle seedy. here we plan some piece of business or devise a method of escaping the necessity of fulfilling some corporate obligation. two or half-past finds me in my office again. the back of the day is broken. i take things more easily. later on i smoke another cigar. i discuss general matters with my junior partners. at half-past four i enter my motor, which is waiting at the wall street entrance of the building. at my uptown club the men are already dropping in and gathering round the big windows. we all call each other by our first names, yet few of us know anything of one another's real character. we have a bluff heartiness, a cheerful cynicism that serves in place of sincerity, and we ask no questions. our subjects of conversation are politics, the stock market, "big" business, and the more fashionable sports. there is no talk of art or books, no discussion of subjects of civic interest. after our cocktails we usually arrange a game of bridge and play until it is time to go home to dress for dinner. until this time, usually, i have not met my wife and daughters since the night before. they have had their own individual engagements for luncheon and in the afternoon, and perhaps have not seen each other before during the day. but we generally meet at least two or three times a week on the stairs or in the hall as we are going out. sometimes, also, i see my son at this time. it will be observed that our family life is not burdensome to any of us:--not that we do not wish to see one another, but we are too busy to do so. my daughters seem to be fond of me. they are proud of my success and their own position; in fact they go out in the smartest circles. they are smarter, indeed, than their mother and myself; for, though we know everybody in society, we have never formed a part of the intimate inner newport circle. but my daughters are inside and in the very center of the ring. you can read their names as present at every smart function that takes place. from friday until monday they are always in the country at week-end parties. they are invited to go to bermuda, palm beach, california, aiken and the glacier national park. they live on yachts and in private cars and automobiles. they know all the patter of society and everything about everybody. they also talk surprisingly well about art, music and international politics. they are as much at home in rome, paris and london as they are in new york, and are as familiar with scotland as long island. they constantly amaze me by the apparent scope of their information. they are women of the world in a sense unheard of by my father's generation. they have been presented at court in london, berlin and rome, and have had a social season at cairo; in fact i feel at a great personal disadvantage in talking with them. they are respectful, very sweet in a self-controlled and capable sort of way, and, so far as i can see, need no assistance in looking out for themselves. they seem to be quite satisfied with their mode of life. they do as they choose, and ask for no advice from either their mother or myself. my boy also leads his own life. he is rarely at home except to sleep. i see less of him than of my daughters. during the day he is at the office, where he is learning to be a lawyer. at wide intervals we lunch together; but i find that he is interested in things which do not appeal to me at all. just at present he has become an expert--almost a professional--dancer to syncopated music. i hear of him as dancing for charity at public entertainments, and he is in continual demand for private theatricals and parties. he is astonishingly clever at it. yet i cannot imagine daniel webster or rufus choate dancing in public even in their leisure moments. perhaps, however, it is better for him to dance than to do some other things. it is good exercise; and, to be fair with him, i cannot imagine choate or webster playing bridge or taking scented baths. but, frankly, it is a far cry from my clergyman grandfather to my ragtime dancing offspring. perhaps, however, the latter will serve his generation in his own way. it may seem incredible that a father can be such a stranger to his children, but it is none the less a fact. i do not suppose we dine together as a family fifteen times in the course of the winter. when we do so we get along together very nicely, but i find myself conversing with my daughters much as if they were women i had met casually out at dinner. they are literally "perfect ladies." when they were little i was permitted a certain amount of decorous informality, but now i have to be very careful how i kiss them on account of the amount of powder they use. they have, both of them, excellent natural complexions, but they are not satisfied unless their noses have an artificial whiteness like that of marble. i suspect, also, that their lips have a heightened color. at all events i am careful to "mind the paint." but they are--either because of these things or in spite of them--extraordinarily pretty girls--prettier, i am forced to admit, than their mother was at their age. now, as i write, i wonder to what end these children of mine have been born into the world--how they will assist in the development of the race to a higher level. for years i slaved at the office--early, late, in the evenings, often working sundays and holidays, and foregoing my vacation in the summer. then came the period of expansion. my accumulations doubled and trebled. in one year i earned a fee in a railroad reorganization of two hundred thousand dollars. i found myself on easy street. i had arrived--achieved my success. during all those years i had devoted myself exclusively to the making of money. now i simply had to spend it and go through the motions of continuing to work at my profession. my wife and i became socially ambitious. she gave herself to this end eventually with the same assiduity i had displayed at the law. it is surprising at the present time to recall that it was not always easy to explain the ultimate purpose in view. alas! what is it now? is it other than that expressed by my wife on the occasion when our youngest daughter rebelled at having to go to a children's party? "why must i go to parties?" she insisted. "in order," replied her mother, "that you may be invited to other parties." it was the unconscious epitome of my consort's theory of the whole duty of man. chapter ii my friends by virtue of my being a successful man my family has an established position in new york society. we are not, to be sure--at least, my wife and i are not--a part of the sacrosanct fifty or sixty who run the show and perform in the big ring; but we are well up in the front of the procession and occasionally do a turn or so in one of the side rings. we give a couple of dinners each week during the season and a ball or two, besides a continuous succession of opera and theater parties. our less desirable acquaintances, and those toward whom we have minor social obligations, my wife disposes of by means of an elaborate "at home," where the inadequacies of the orchestra are drowned in the roar of conversation, and which a sufficient number of well-known people are good-natured enough to attend in order to make the others feel that the occasion is really smart and that they are not being trifled with. this method of getting rid of one's shabby friends and their claims is, i am informed, known as "killing them off with a tea." we have a slaughter of this kind about once in two years. in return for these courtesies we are invited yearly by the élite to some two hundred dinners, about fifty balls and dances, and a large number of miscellaneous entertainments such as musicales, private theatricals, costume affairs, bridge, poker, and gambling parties; as well as in the summer to clambakes--where champagne and terrapin are served by footmen--and other elegant rusticities. besides these _chic_ functions we are, of course, deluged with invitations to informal meals with old and new friends, studio parties, afternoon teas, highbrow receptions and _conversaziones_, reformers' lunch parties, and similar festivities. we have cut out all these long ago. keeping up with our smart acquaintances takes all our energy and available time. there are several old friends of mine on the next block to ours whom i have not met socially for nearly ten years. we have definitely arrived however. there is no question about that. we are in society and entitled to all the privileges pertaining thereto. what are they? you ask. why, the privilege of going to all these balls, concerts and dinners, of course; of calling the men and women one reads about in the paper by their first names; of having the satisfaction of knowing that everybody who knows anything knows we are in society; and of giving our daughters and son the chance to enjoy, without any effort on their part, these same privileges that their parents have spent a life of effort to secure. incidentally, i may add, our offspring will, each of them--if i am not very much mistaken--marry money, since i have observed a certain frankness on their part in this regard, which seems to point that way and which, if not admirable in itself, at least does credit to their honesty. now it is undubitably the truth that my wife regards our place among the socially elect as the crowning achievement--the great desideratum--of our joint career. it is what we have always been striving for. without it we--both of us--would have unquestionably acknowledged failure. my future, my reputation, my place at the bar and my domestic life would have meant nothing at all to us, had not the grand cordon of success been thrown across our shoulders by society. * * * * * as i have achieved my ambition in this respect it is no small part of my self-imposed task to somewhat analyze this, the chief reward of my devotion to my profession, my years of industrious application, my careful following of the paths that other successful americans have blazed for me. i must confess at the outset that it is ofttimes difficult to determine where the pleasure ends and work begins. even putting it in this way, i fear i am guilty of a euphemism; for, now that i consider the matter honestly, i recall no real pleasure or satisfaction derived from the various entertainments i have attended during the last five or ten years. in the first place i am invariably tired when i come home at night--less perhaps from the actual work i have done at my office than from the amount of tobacco i have consumed and the nervous strain attendant on hurrying from one engagement to another and keeping up the affectation of hearty good-nature which is part of my stock in trade. at any rate, even if my body is not tired, my head, nerves and eyes are distinctly so. i often feel, when my valet tells me that the motor is ordered at ten minutes to eight, that i would greatly enjoy having him slip into the dress-clothes he has so carefully laid out on my bed and go out to dinner in my place. he would doubtless make himself quite as agreeable as i. and then--let me see--what would i do? i sit with one of my accordion-plaited silk socks half on and surrender myself to all the delights of the most reckless imagination! yes, what would i choose if i could do anything in the world for the next three hours? first, i think, i would like an egg--a poached egg, done just right, like a little snowball, balanced nicely in the exact center of a hot piece of toast! my mouth waters. aunt jane used to do them like that. and then i would like a crisp piece of gingerbread and a glass of milk. dress? not on your life! where is that old smoking-jacket of mine? not the one with japanese embroidery on it--no; the old one. given away? i groan aloud. well, the silk one will have to do--and a pair of comfortable slippers! where is that old brier pipe i keep to go a-fishing? now i want a book--full of the sea and ships--of pirates and coral reefs--yes, treasure island; of course that's it--and long john silver and the black spot. "beg pardon, sir, but madam has sent me up to say the motor is waiting," admonishes my english footman respectfully. gone--gone is my poached egg, my pipe, my dream of the southern seas! i dash into my evening clothes under the solicitous guidance of my valet and hastily descend in the electric elevator to the front hall. my wife has already taken her seat in the motor, with an air of righteous annoyance, of courteously suppressed irritation. the butler is standing on the doorstep. the valet is holding up my fur coat expectantly. i am sensible of an atmosphere of sad reproachfulness. oh, well! i thrust my arms into my coat, grasp my white gloves and cane, receive my hat and wearily start forth on my evening's task of being entertained; conscious as i climb into the motor that this curious form of so-called amusement has certain rather obvious limitations. for what is its _raison d'être_? it is obvious that if i know any persons whose society and conversation are likely to give me pleasure i can invite them to my own home and be sure of an evening's quiet enjoyment. but, so far as i can see, my wife does not invite to our house the people who are likely to give either her or myself any pleasure at all, and neither am i likely to meet such people at the homes of my friends. the whole thing is a mystery governed by strange laws and curious considerations of which i am kept in utter ignorance; in fact, i rarely know where i am going to dine until i arrive at the house. on several occasions i have come away without having any very clear idea as to where i have been. "the hobby-smiths," my wife will whisper as we go up the steps. "of course you've heard of her! she is a great friend of marie van duser, and her husband is something in wall street." that is a comparatively illuminating description. at all events it insures some remote social connection with ourselves, if only through miss van duser and wall street. most of our hosts are something in wall street. occasionally they are something in coal, iron, oil or politics. i find a small envelope bearing my name on a silver tray by the hatstand and open it suspiciously as my wife is divested of her wraps. inside is a card bearing in an almost illegible scrawl the words: mrs. jones. i hastily refresh my recollection as to all the joneses of my acquaintance, whether in coal, oil or otherwise; but no likely candidate for the distinction of being the husband of my future dinner companion comes to my mind. yet there is undoubtedly a jones. but, no! the lady may be a divorcée or a widow. i recall no mrs. jones, but i visualize various possible miss joneses--ladies very fat and bursting; ladies scrawny, lean and sardonic; facetious ladies; heavy, intelligent ladies; aggressive, militant ladies. my spouse has turned away from the mirror and the butler has pulled back the portières leading into the drawing room. i follow my wife's composed figure as she sweeps toward our much-beplumed hostess and find myself in a roomful of heterogeneous people, most of whom i have never seen before and whose personal appearance is anything but encouraging. "this is very _nice_!" says our hostess--accent on the nice. "so _nice_ of you to think of us!" answers my wife. we shake hands and smile vaguely. the butler rattles the portières and two more people come in. "this _is_ very nice!" says the hostess again--accent on the is. it may be here noted that at the conclusion of the evening each guest murmurs in a simpering, half-persuasive yet consciously deprecatory manner--as if apologizing for the necessity of so bald a prevarication--"good-night! we have had _such_ a good time! _so_ good of you to ask us!" this epilogue never changes. its phrase is cast and set. the words may vary slightly, but the tone, emphasis and substance are inviolable. yet, disregarding the invocation good-night! the fact remains that neither have you had a good time nor was your host in any way good or kind in asking you. returning to the moment at which you have made your entrance and been received and passed along, you gaze vaguely round you at the other guests, greeting those you know with exaggerated enthusiasm and being the conscious subject of whispered criticism and inquiry on the part of the others. you make your way to the side of a lady whom you have previously encountered at a similar entertainment and assert your delight at revamping the fatuous acquaintanceship. her facetiousness is elephantine, but the relief of conversation is such that you laugh loudly at her witticisms and simper knowingly at her platitudes--both of which have now been current for several months. the edge of your delight is, however, somewhat dulled by the discovery that she is the lady whom fate has ordained that you shall take in to dinner--a matter of which you were sublimely unconscious owing to the fact that you had entirely forgotten her name. as the couples pair off to march to the dining room and the combinations of which you may form a possible part are reduced to a scattering two or three, you realize with a shudder that the lady beside you is none other than mrs. jones--and that for the last ten minutes you have been recklessly using up the evening's conversational ammunition. with a sinking heart you proffer your arm, wondering whether it will be possible to get through the meal and preserve the fiction of interest. you wish savagely that you could turn on her and exclaim honestly: "look here, my good woman, you are all right enough in your own way, but we have nothing in common; and this proposed evening of enforced companionship will leave us both exhausted and ill-tempered. we shall grin and shout meaningless phrases over the fish, entrée and salad about life, death and the eternal verities; but we shall be sick to death of each other in ten minutes. let's cut it out and go home!" you are obliged, however, to escort your middle-aged comrade downstairs and take your seat beside her with a flourish, as if you were playing rudolph to her flavia. then for two hours, with your eyes blinded by candlelight and electricity, you eat recklessly as you grimace first over your left shoulder and then over your right. it is a foregone conclusion that you will have a headache by the time you have turned, with a sensation of momentary relief, to your "fair companion" on the other side. have you enjoyed yourself? have you been entertained? have you profited? the questions are utterly absurd. you have _suffered_. you have strained your eyes, overloaded your stomach, and wasted three hours during which you might have been recuperating from your day's work or really amusing yourself with people you like. this entirely conventional form of amusement is, i am told, quite unknown in europe. there are, to be sure, occasional formal banquets, which do not pretend to be anything but formal. a formal banquet would be an intense relief, after the heat, noise, confusion and pseudo-informality of a new york dinner. the european is puzzled and baffled by one of our combined talk-and-eating bouts. a nobleman from florence recently said to me: "at home, when we go to other people's houses it is for the purpose of meeting our own friends or our friend's friends. we go after our evening meal and stay as long as we choose. some light refreshment is served, and those who wish to do so smoke or play cards. the old and the young mingle together. it is proper for each guest to make himself agreeable to all the others. we do not desire to spend money or to make a fête. at the proper times we have our balls and _festas_. "but here in new york each night i have been pressed to go to a grand entertainment and eat a huge dinner cooked by a french chef and served by several men servants, where i am given one lady to talk to for several hours. i must converse with no one else, even if there is a witty, beautiful and charming woman directly opposite me; and as i talk and listen i must consume some ten or twelve courses or fail to do justice to my host's hospitality. i am given four or five costly wines, caviar, turtle soup, fish, mousse, a roast, partridge, pâté de fois gras, glacés, fruits, bonbons, and cigars costing two francs each. not to eat and drink would be to insult the friend who is paying at least forty or fifty francs for my dinner. but i cannot enjoy a meal eaten in such haste and i cannot enjoy talking to one strange lady for so long. "then the men retire to a chamber from which the ladies are excluded. i must talk to some man. perhaps i have seen an attractive woman i wish to meet. it is hopeless. i must talk to her husband! at the end of three-quarters of an hour the men march to the drawing room, and again i talk to some one lady for half an hour and then must go home! it may be only half-past ten o'clock, but i have no choice. away i must go. i say good-night. i have eaten a huge dinner; i have talked to one man and three ladies; i have drunk a great deal of wine and my head is very tired. "nineteen other people have had the same experience, and it has cost my host from five hundred to a thousand francs--or, as you say here, from one hundred to two hundred dollars. and why has he spent this sum of money? pardon me, my friend, if i say that it could be disbursed to much better advantage. should my host come to florence i should not _dare_ to ask him to dinner, for we cannot afford to have these elaborate functions. if he came to my house he would have to dine _en famille_. here you feast every night in the winter. why? every day is not a feast day!" i devote space and time to this subject commensurate with what seems to me to be its importance. dining out is the metropolitan form of social entertainment for the well-to-do. i go to such affairs at least one hundred nights each year. that is a large proportion of my whole life and at least one-half of all the time at my disposal for recreation. so far as i can see, it is totally useless and a severe drain on one's nervous centers. it has sapped and is sapping my vitality. during the winter i am constantly tired. my head aches a large part of the time. i can do only a half--and on some days only a third--as much work as i could at thirty-five. i wake with a thin, fine line of pain over my right eye, and a heavy head. a strong cup of coffee sets me up and i feel better; but as the morning wears on, especially if i am nervous, the weariness in my head returns. by luncheon time i am cross and upset. often by six o'clock i have a severe sick headache. when i do not have a headache i am usually depressed; my brain feels like a lump of lead. and i know precisely the cause: it is that i do not give my nerve-centers sufficient rest. if i could spend the evenings--or half of them--quietly i should be well enough; but after i am tired out by a day's work i come home only to array myself to go out to saw social wood. i never get rested! my head gets heavier and heavier and finally gives way. there is no immediate cause. it is the fact that my nervous system gets more and more tired without any adequate relief. the feeling of complete restedness, so far as my brain is concerned, is one i almost never experience. when i do wake up with my head clear and light my heart sings for joy. my effectiveness is impaired by weariness and overeating, through a false effort at recuperation. i have known this for a long time, but i have seen no escape from it. social life is one of the objects of living in new york; and social life to ninety per cent of society people means nothing but eating one another's dinners. men never pay calls or go to teas. the dinner, which has come to mean a heavy, elaborate meal, eaten amid noise, laughter and chatter, at great expense, is the expression of our highest social aspirations. thus it would seem, though i had not thought of it before, that i work seven or eight hours every day in order to make myself rather miserable for the rest of the time. "i am going to lie down and rest this afternoon," my wife will sometimes say. "we're dining with the robinsons." extraordinary that pleasure should be so exhausting as to require rest in anticipation! dining with these particular and other in-general robinsons has actually become a physical feat of endurance--a _tour de force_, like climbing the matterhorn or eating thirteen pounds of beefsteak at a sitting. is it a reminiscence of those dim centuries when our ancestors in the forests of the elbe sat under the moss-hung oaks and stuffed themselves with roast ox washed down with huge skins of wine? or is it a custom born of those later days when, round the blazing logs of canadian campfires, our indian allies gorged themselves into insensibility to the sound of the tom-tom and the chant of the medicine-man--the latter quite as indispensable now as then? if i should be called on to explain for what reason i am accustomed to eat not wisely but too well on these joyous occasions, i should be somewhat at a loss for any adequate reply. perhaps the simplest answer would be that i have just imbibed a cocktail and created an artificial appetite. it is also probable that, in my efforts to appear happy and at ease, to play my part as a connoisseur of good things, and to keep the conversational ball in the air, i unconsciously lose track of the number of courses i have consumed. it is also a matter of habit. as a boy i was compelled to eat everything on my plate; and as i grew older i discovered that in our home town it was good manners to leave nothing undevoured and thus pay a concrete tribute to the culinary ability of the hostess. be that as it may, i have always liked to eat. it is almost the only thing left that i enjoy; but, even so, my palate requires the stimulus of gin. i know that i am getting fat. my waistcoats have to be let out a little more every five or six months. anyhow, if the men did not do their part there would be little object for giving dinner parties in these days when slender women are the fashion. after the long straight front and the habit back, social usage is frowning on the stomach, hips and other heretofore not unadmired evidences of robust nutrition. temperance, not to say total abstinence, has become _de rigueur_ among the ladies. my dinner companion nibbles her celery, tastes the soup, waves away fish, entrée and roast, pecks once or twice at the salad, and at last consumes her ration of ice-cream with obvious satisfaction. if there is a duck--well, she makes an exception in the case of duck--at six dollars and a half a pair. a couple of hothouse grapes and she is done. it will be observed that this gives her all the more opportunity for conversation--a doubtful blessing. on the other hand, there is an equivalent economic waste. i have no doubt each guest would prefer to have set before her a chop, a baked potato and a ten-dollar goldpiece. it would amount to the same thing, so far as the host is concerned. * * * * * i had, until recently, assumed with some bitterness that my dancing days were over. my wife and i went to balls, to be sure, but not to dance. we left that to the younger generation, for the reason that my wife did not care to jeopardize her attire or her complexion. she was also conscious of the fact that the variety of waltz popular thirty years ago was an oddity, and that a middle-aged woman who went hopping and twirling about a ballroom must be callous to the amusement that followed her gyrations. with the advent of the turkey trot and the tango, things have changed however. no one is too stout, too old or too clumsy to go walking solemnly round, in or out of time to the music. i confess to a consciousness of absurdity when, to the exciting rhythm of très moutard, i back mrs. jones slowly down the room and up again. "do you grapevine?" she inquires ardently. yes; i admit the soft impeachment, and at once she begins some astonishing convolutions with the lower part of her body, which i attempt to follow. after several entanglements we move triumphantly across the hall. "how beautifully you dance!" she pants. aged roisterer that i am, i fall for the compliment. she is a nice old thing, after all! "fish walk?" asks she. i retort with total abandon. "come along!" so, grabbing her tightly and keeping my legs entirely stiff--as per instructions from my son--i stalk swiftly along the floor, while she backs with prodigious velocity. away we go, an odd four hundred pounds of us, until, exhausted, we collapse against the table where the champagne is being distributed. though i have carefully followed the directions of my preceptor, i am aware that the effect produced by our efforts is somehow not the same as his. i observe him in a close embrace with a willowy young thing, dipping gracefully in the distance. they pause, sway, run a few steps, stop dead and suddenly sink to the floor--only to rise and repeat the performance. so the evening wears gaily on. i caper round--now sedately, now deliriously--knowing that, however big a fool i am making of myself, we are all in the same boat. my wife is doing it, too, to the obvious annoyance of our daughters. but this is the smartest ball of the season. when all the world is dancing it would be conspicuous to loiter in the doorway. society has ruled that i must dance--if what i am doing can be so called. i am aware that i should not care to allow my clients to catch an unexpected glimpse of my antics with mrs. jones; yet to be permitted to dance with her is one of the privileges of our success. i might dance elsewhere but it would not be the same thing. is not my hostess' hoarse, good-natured, rather vulgar voice the clarion of society? did not my wife scheme and plot for years before she managed to get our names on the sacred list of invitations? to be sure, i used to go to dances enough as a lad; and good times i had too. the high school auditorium had a splendid floor; and the girls, even though they were unacquainted with all these newfangled steps, could waltz and polka, and do sir roger de coverley. good old days! i remember my wife--met her in that old hall. she wore a white muslin dress trimmed with artificial roses. i wonder if i properly appreciate the distinction of being asked to mrs. jones' turkey-trotting parties! my butler and the kitchen-maid are probably doing the same thing in the basement at home to the notes of the usefulman's accordion--and having a better time than i am. it is a pleasure to watch my son or my daughters glide through the intricacies of these modern dances, which the natural elasticity and suppleness of youth render charming in spite of their grotesqueness. but why should i seek to copy them? in spite of the fact that i am still rather athletic i cannot do so. with my utmost endeavor i fail to imitate their grace. i am getting old. my muscles are stiff and out of training. my wind has suffered. mrs. jones probably never had any. and if i am ridiculous, what of her and the other women of her age who, for some unknown reason, fatuously suppose they can renew their lost youth? occasionally luck gives me a débutante for a partner when i go out to dinner. i do my best to entertain her--trot out all my old jokes and stories, pay her delicate compliments, and do frank homage to her youth and beauty. but her attention wanders. my tongue is stiff, like my legs. it can wag through the old motions, but it has lost its spontaneity. one glance from the eye of the boy down the long table and she is oblivious of my existence. should i try to dance with her i should quickly find that crabbed middle-age and youth cannot step in time. my place is with mrs. jones--or, better, at home and in bed. apart, however, from the dubious delight of dancing, all is not gold that glitters socially. the first time my wife and i were invited to a week-end party at the country-house of a widely known new york hostess we were both much excited. at last we were to be received on a footing of real intimacy by one of the inner circle. even my valet, an imperturbable englishman who would have announced that the house was on fire in the same tone as that my breakfast was ready, showed clearly that he was fully aware of the significance of the coming event. for several days he exhibited signs of intense nervous anxiety, and when at last the time of my departure arrived i found that he had filled two steamer trunks with the things he regarded as indispensable for my comfort and well-being. my wife's maid had been equally assiduous. both she and the valet had no intention of learning on our return that any feature of our respective wardrobes had been forgotten; since we had decided not to take either of our personal servants, for the reason that we thought to do so might possibly be regarded as an ostentation. i made an early getaway from my office on friday afternoon, met my wife at the ferry, and in due course, but by no means with comfort, managed to board the train and secure our seats in the parlor car before it started. we reached our destination at about half-past four and were met by a footman in livery, who piloted us to a limousine driven by a french chauffeur. we were the only arrivals. in my confusion i forgot to do anything about our trunks, which contained our evening apparel. during the run to the house we were both on the verge of hysteria owing to the speed at which we were driven--seventy miles an hour at the least. and at one corner we were thrown forward, clear of the seats and against the partition, by an unexpected stop. an interchange of french profanity tinted the atmosphere for a few moments and then we resumed the trajectory of our flight. we had expected to be welcomed by our hostess; but instead we were informed by the butler that she and the other guests had driven over to watch a polo game and would probably not be back before six. as we had nothing to do we strolled round the grounds and looked at the shrubbery for a couple of hours, at the end of which period we had tea alone in the library. we had, of course, no sooner finished than the belated party entered, the hostess full of vociferous apologies. i remember this occasion vividly because it was my first introduction to that artificially enforced merriment which is the inevitable concomitant of smart gatherings in america. the men invariably addressed each other as old man and the women as my dear. no one was mentioned except by his or her first name or by some intimate diminutive or abbreviation. it seemed to be assumed that the guests were only interested in personal gossip relating to the marital infelicities of the neighboring countryside, who lost most at cards, and the theater. every remark relating to these absorbing subjects was given a feebly humorous twist and greeted with a burst of hilarity. even the mere suggestion of going upstairs to dress for dinner was a sufficient reason for an explosion of merriment. if noise was an evidence of having a good time these people were having the time of their lives. personally i felt a little out of my element. i had still a lingering disinclination to pretend to a ubiquity of social acquaintance that i did not really possess, and i had never learned to laugh in a properly boisterous manner. but my wife appeared highly gratified. delay in sending to the depot for our trunks--the fault of the butler, to whom we turned over our keys--prevented, as we supposed, our getting ready in time for dinner. everybody else had gone up to dress; so we also went to our rooms, which consisted of two huge apartments connected by a bathroom of similar acreage. the furniture was dainty and chintz-covered. there was an abundance of writing paper, envelopes, magazines and french novels. superficially the arrangements were wholly charming. the baggage arrived at about ten minutes to eight, after we had sat helplessly waiting for nearly an hour. the rooms were plentifully supplied with buttons marked: maid; valet; butler's pantry--and so on. but, though we pressed these anxiously, there was no response. i concluded that the valet was hunting or sleeping or otherwise occupied. i unpacked my trunks without assistance; my wife unpacked hers. but before i could find and assemble my evening garments i had to unwrap the contents of every tray and fill the room knee-high with tissue-paper. unable to secure any response to her repeated calls for the maid, my wife was nearly reduced to tears. however, in those days i was not unskillful in hooking up a dress, and we managed to get downstairs, with ready apologies on our lips, by twenty minutes of nine. we were the first ones down however. the party assembled in a happy-go-lucky manner and, after the cocktails had been served, gathered round the festive board at five minutes past nine. the dinner was the regulation heavy, expensive new york meal, eaten to the accompaniment of the same noisy mirth i have already described. afterward the host conducted the men to his "den," a luxurious paneled library filled with rare prints, and we listened for an hour to the jokes and anecdotes of a semiprofessional jester who took it on himself to act as the life of the party. it was after eleven o'clock when we rejoined the ladies, but the evening apparently had only just begun; the serious business of the day--bridge--was at hand. but in those days my wife and i did not play bridge; and as there was nothing else for us to do we retired, after a polite interval, to our apartments. while getting ready for the night we shouted cheerfully to one another through the open doors of the bathroom and, i remember, became quite jolly; but when my wife had gone to bed and i tried to close the blinds i discovered that there were none. now neither of us had acquired the art of sleeping after daylight unless the daylight was excluded. with grave apprehension i arranged a series of makeshift screens and extinguished the lights, wandering round the room and turning off the key of each one separately, since the architect had apparently forgotten to put in a central switch. if there had been no servants in evidence when we wanted them before dinner, no such complaint could be entered now. there seemed to be a bowling party going on upstairs. we could also hear plainly the rattle of dishes and a lively interchange of informalities from the kitchen end of the establishment. we lay awake tensely. shortly after one o'clock these particular sounds died away, but there was a steady tramp of feet over our heads until three. about this hour, also, the bridge party broke up and the guests came upstairs. there were no outside doors to our rooms. bells rang, water ran, and there was that curious vibration which even hairbrushing seems to set going in a country house. then with a final bang, comparative silence descended. occasionally still, to be sure, the floor squeaked over our heads. once somebody got up and closed a window. i could hear two distant snorings in major and minor keys. i managed to snatch a few winks and then an alarm-clock went off. at no great distance the scrubbing maid was getting up. i could hear her every move. the sun also rose and threw fire-pointed darts at us through the windowshades. by five o'clock i was ready to scream with nerves; and, having dug a lounge suit out of the gentlemen's furnishing store in my trunk, i cautiously descended into the lower regions. there was a rich smell of cigarettes everywhere. in the hall i stumbled over the feet of the sleeping night-watchman. but the birds were twittering in the bushes; the grassblades threw back a million flashes to the sun. not before a quarter to ten could i secure a cup of coffee, though several footmen, in answer to my insistent bell, had been running round apparently for hours in a vain endeavor to get it for me. at eleven a couple of languid younger men made their appearance and conversed apathetically with one another over the papers. the hours drew on. lunch came at two o'clock, bursting like a thunder-storm out of a sunlit sky. afterward the guests sat round and talked. people were coming to tea at five, and there was hardly any use in doing anything before that time. a few took naps. a young lady and gentleman played an impersonal game of tennis; but at five an avalanche of social leaders poured out of a dozen shrieking motors and stormed the castle with salvos of strident laughter. the cannonade continued, with one brief truce in which to dress for dinner, until long after midnight. _vox, et praeterea nihil!_ i look back on that house party with vivid horror. yet it was one of the most valuable of my social experiences. we were guests invited for the first time to one of the smartest houses on long island; yet we were neglected by male and female servants alike, deprived of all possibility of sleep, and not the slightest effort was made to look after our personal comfort and enjoyment by either our host or hostess. incidentally on my departure i distributed about forty dollars among various dignitaries who then made their appearance. it is probable that time has somewhat exaggerated my recollections of the miseries of this our first adventure into ultrasmart society, but its salient characteristics have since repeated themselves in countless others. i no longer accept week-end invitations;--for me the quiet of my library or the turkish bath at my club; for they are all essentially alike. surrounded by luxury, the guests yet know no comfort! after a couple of days of ennui and an equal number of sleepless nights, his brain foggy with innumerable drinks, his eyes dizzy with the pips of playing cards, and his ears still echoing with senseless hilarity, the guest rises while it is not yet dawn, and, fortified by a lukewarm cup of faint coffee boiled by the kitchen maid and a slice of leatherlike toast left over from sunday's breakfast, presses ten dollars on the butler and five on the chauffeur--and boards the train for the city, nervous, disgruntled, his digestion upset and his head totally out of kilter for the day's work. since my first experience in house parties i have yielded weakly to my wife's importunities on several hundred similar occasions. some of these visits have been fairly enjoyable. sleep is sometimes possible. servants are not always neglectful. discretion in the matter of food and drink is conceivable, even if not probable, and occasionally one meets congenial persons. as a rule, however, all the hypocrisies of society are intensified threefold when heterogeneous people are thrown into the enforced contact of a sunday together in the country; but the artificiality and insincerity of smart society is far less offensive than the pretentiousness of mere wealth. * * * * * not long ago i attended a dinner given on fifth avenue the invitation to which had been eagerly awaited by my wife. we were asked to dine informally with a middle-aged couple who for no obvious reason have been accepted as fashionable desirables. he is the retired head of a great combination of capital usually described as a trust. a canopy and a carpet covered the sidewalk outside the house. two flunkies in cockaded hats stood beside the door, and in the hall was a line of six liveried lackeys. three maids helped my wife remove her wraps and adjust her hair. in the salon where our hostess received us were hung pictures representing an outlay of nearly two million dollars--part of a collection the balance of which they keep in their house in paris; for these people are not content with one mansion on fifth avenue and a country house on long island, but own a palace overlooking the bois de boulogne and an enormous estate in scotland. they spend less than ten weeks in new york, six in the country, and the rest of the year abroad. the other male guests had all amassed huge fortunes and had given up active work. they had been, in their time, in the thick of the fray. yet these men, who had swayed the destinies of the industrial world, stood about awkwardly discussing the most trivial of banalities, as if they had never had a vital interest in anything. then the doors leading into the dining room were thrown open, disclosing a table covered with rosetrees in full bloom five feet in height and a concealed orchestra began to play. there were twenty-four seats and a footman for each two chairs, besides two butlers, who directed the service. the dinner consisted of hors-d'oeuvre and grapefruit, turtle soup, fish of all sorts, elaborate entrées, roasts, breasts of plover served separately with salad, and a riot of ices and exotic fruits. throughout the meal the host discoursed learnedly on the relative excellence of various vintages of champagne and the difficulty of procuring cigars suitable for a gentleman to smoke. it appeared that there was no longer any wine--except a few bottles in his own cellar--which was palatable or healthful. even coffee was not fit for use unless it had been kept for six years! his own cigars were made to order from a selected crop of tobacco he had bought up entire. his cigarettes, which were the size of small sausages, were prepared from specially cured leaves of plants grown on "sunny corners of the walls of smyrna." his rembrandts, his botticellis, his sir joshuas, his hoppners, were little things he had picked up here and there, but which, he admitted, were said to be rather good. soon all the others were talking wine, tobacco and botticelli as well as they could, though most of them knew more about coal, cotton or creosote than the subjects they were affecting to discuss. this, then, was success! to flounder helplessly in a mire of artificiality and deception to tales of hoffmann! if i were asked what was the object of our going to such a dinner i could only answer that it was in order to be invited to others of the same kind. is it for this we labor and worry--that we scheme and conspire--that we debase ourselves and lose our self-respect? is there no wine good enough for my host? will god let such arrogance be without a blast of fire from heaven? * * * * * there was a time not so very long ago when this same man was thankful enough for a slice of meat and a chunk of bread carried in a tin pail--content with the comfort of an old brier pipe filled with cut plug and smoked in a sunny corner of the factory yard. "sunny corners of the walls of smyrna!" it is a fine thing to assert that here in america we have "out of a democracy of opportunity" created "an aristocracy of achievement." the phrase is stimulating and perhaps truly expresses the spirit of our energetic and ambitious country; but an aristocracy of achievement is truly noble only when the achievements themselves are fine. what are the achievements that win our applause, for which we bestow our decorations in america? do we honor most the men who truly serve their generation and their country? or do we fawn, rather, on those who merely serve themselves? it is a matter of pride with us--frequently expressed in disparagement of our european contemporaries--that we are a nation of workers; that to hold any position in the community every man must have a job or otherwise lose caste; that we tolerate no loafing. we do not conceal our contempt for the chap who fails to go down every day to the office or business. often, of course, our ostentatious workers go down, but do very little work. we feel somehow that every man owes it to the community to put in from six to ten hours' time below the residential district. young men who have inherited wealth are as chary of losing one hour as their clerks. the busy millionaire sits at his desk all day--his ear to the telephone. we assume that these men are useful because they are busy; but in what does their usefulness consist? what are they busy about? they are setting an example of mere industry, perhaps--but to what end? simply, in seven cases out of ten, in order to get a few dollars or a few millions more than they have already. their exertions have no result except to enable their families to live in even greater luxury. i know at least fifty men, fathers of families, whose homes might radiate kindliness and sympathy and set an example of wise, generous and broad-minded living, who, already rich beyond their needs, rush downtown before their children have gone to school, pass hectic, nerve-racking days in the amassing of more money, and return after their little ones have gone to bed, too utterly exhausted to take the slightest interest in what their wives have been doing or in the pleasure and welfare of their friends. these men doubtless give liberally to charity, but they give impersonally, not generously; they are in reality utterly selfish, engrossed in the enthralling game of becoming successful or more successful men, sacrificing their homes, their families and their health--for what? to get on; to better their position; to push in among those others who, simply because they have outstripped the rest in the matter of filling their own pockets, are hailed with acclamation. it is pathetic to see intelligent, capable men bending their energies not to leading wholesome, well-rounded, serviceable lives but to gaining a slender foothold among those who are far less worthy of emulation than themselves and with whom they have nothing whatsoever in common except a despicable ambition to display their wealth and to demonstrate that they have "social position." in what we call the old world a man's social position is a matter of fixed classification--that is to say, his presumptive ability and qualifications to amuse and be amused; to hunt, fish and shoot; to ride, dance, and make himself generally agreeable--are known from the start. and, based on the premise that what is known as society exists simply for the purpose of enabling people to have a good time, there is far more reason to suppose that one who comes of a family which has made a specialty of this pursuit for several hundred years is better endowed by nature for that purpose than one who has made a million dollars out of a patent medicine or a lucky speculation in industrial securities. the great manufacturer or chemist in england, france, italy, or germany, the clever inventor, the astute banker, the successful merchant, have their due rewards; but, except in obvious instances, they are not presumed to have acquired incidentally to their material prosperity the arts of playing billiards, making love, shooting game on the wing, entertaining a house party or riding to hounds. occasionally one of them becomes by special favor of the sovereign a baronet; but, as a rule his so-called social position is little affected by his business success, and there is no reason why it should be. he may make a fortune out of a new process, but he invites the same people to dinner, frequents the same club and enjoys himself in just about the same way as he did before. his newly acquired wealth is not regarded as in itself likely to make him a more congenial dinner-table companion or any more delightful at five-o'clock tea. the aristocracy of england and the continent is not an aristocracy of achievement but of the polite art of killing time pleasantly. as such it has a reason for existence. yet it can at least be said for it that its founders, however their descendants may have deteriorated, gained their original titles and positions by virtue of their services to their king and country. however, with a strange perversity--due perhaps to our having the declaration of independence crammed down our throats as children--we in america seem obsessed with an ambition to create a social aristocracy, loudly proclaimed as founded on achievement, which, in point of fact, is based on nothing but the possession of money. the achievement that most certainly lands one among the crowned heads of the american nobility is admittedly the achievement of having acquired in some way or other about five million dollars; and it is immaterial whether its possessor got it by hard work, inheritance, marriage or the invention of a porous plaster. in the wider circle of new york society are to be found a considerable number of amiable persons who have bought their position by the lavish expenditure of money amassed through the clever advertising and sale of table relishes, throat emollients, fireside novels, canned edibles, cigarettes, and chewing tobacco. the money was no doubt legitimately earned. the patent-medicine man and the millionaire tailor have my entire respect. i do not sneer at honest wealth acquired by these humble means. the rise--if it be a rise--of these and others like them is superficial evidence, perhaps, that ours is a democracy. looking deeper, we see that it is, in fact, proof of our utter and shameless snobbery. most of these people are in society not on account of their personal qualities, or even by virtue of the excellence of their cut plug or throat wash which, in truth, may be a real boon to mankind--but because they have that most imperative of all necessities--money. the achievement by which they have become aristocrats is not the kind of achievement that should have entitled them to the distinction which is theirs. they are received and entertained for no other reason whatever save that they can receive and entertain in return. their bank accounts are at the disposal of the other aristocrats--and so are their houses, automobiles and yachts. the brevet of nobility--by achievement--is conferred on them, and the american people read of their comings and goings, their balls, dinners and other festivities with consuming and reverent interest. most dangerously significant of all is the fact that, so long as the applicant for social honors has the money, the method by which he got it, however reprehensible, is usually overlooked. that a man is a thief, so long as he has stolen enough, does not impair his desirability. the achievement of wealth is sufficient in itself to entitle him to a seat in the american house of lords. a substantial portion of the entertaining that takes place on fifth avenue is paid for out of pilfered money. ten years ago this rhetorical remark would have been sneered at as demagogic. to-day everybody knows that it is simply the fact. yet we continue to eat with entire unconcern the dinners that have, as it were, been abstracted from the dinner-pails of the poor. i cannot conduct an investigation into the business history of every man who asks me to his house. and even if i know he has been a crook, i cannot afford to stir up an unpleasantness by attempting in my humble way to make him feel sorrow for his misdeeds. if i did i might find myself alone--deserted by the rest of the aristocracy who are concerned less with his morality than with the vintage of his wine and the _dot_ he is going to give his daughter. the methods by which a newly rich american purchases a place among our nobility are simple and direct. he does not storm the inner citadel of society but at the start ingratiates himself with its lazy and easy-going outposts. he rents a house in a fashionable country suburb of new york and goes in and out of town on the "dude" train. he soon learns what professional people mingle in smart society and these he bribes to receive him and his family. he buys land and retains a "smart" lawyer to draw his deeds and attend to the transfer of title. he engages a fashionable architect to build his house, and a society young lady who has gone into landscape gardening to lay out his grounds. he cannot work the game through his dentist or plumber, but he establishes friendly relations with the swell local medical man and lets him treat an imaginary illness or two. he has his wife's portrait painted by an artist who makes a living off similar aspirants, and in exchange gets an invitation to drop in to tea at the studio. he buys broken-winded hunters from the hunting set, decrepit ponies from the polo players, and stone griffins for the garden from the social sculptress. a couple of hundred here, a couple of thousand there, and he and his wife are dining out among the people who run things. once he gets a foothold, the rest is by comparison easy. the bribes merely become bigger and more direct. he gives a landing to the yacht club, a silver mug for the horse show, and an altar rail to the church. he entertains wisely--gracefully discarding the doctor, lawyer, architect and artist as soon as they are no longer necessary. he has, of course, already opened an account with the fashionable broker who lives near him, and insured his life with the well-known insurance man, his neighbor. he also plays poker daily with them on the train. this is the period during which he becomes a willing, almost eager, mark for the decayed sport who purveys bad champagne and vends his own brand of noxious cigarettes. he achieves the stock exchange crowd without difficulty and moves on up into the banking set composed of trust company presidents, millionaires who have nothing but money, and the élite of the stockbrokers and bond men who handle their private business. the family are by this time "going almost everywhere"; and in a year or two, if the money holds out, they can buy themselves into the inner circles. it is only necessary to take a villa at newport and spend about one hundred thousand dollars in the course of the season. the walls of the city will fall down flat if the golden trumpet blows but mildly. and then, there they are--right in the middle of the champagne, clambakes and everything else!--invited to sit with the choicest of america's nobility on golden chairs--supplied from new york at one dollar per--and to dance to the strains of the most expensive music amid the subdued popping of distant corks. in this social arabian nights' dream, however, you will find no sailors or soldiers, no great actors or writers, no real poets or artists, no genuine statesmen. the nearest you will get to any of these is the millionaire senator, or the amateur decorators and portrait painters who, by making capital of their acquaintance, get a living out of society. you will find few real people among this crowd of intellectual children. the time has not yet come in america when a leader of smart society dares to invite to her table men and women whose only merit is that they have done something worth while. she is not sufficiently sure of her own place. she must continue all her social life to be seen only with the "right people." in england her position would be secure and she could summon whom she would to dine with her; but in new york we have to be careful lest, by asking to our houses some distinguished actor or novelist, people might think we did not know we should select our friends--not for what they are, but for what they have. in a word, the viciousness of our social hierarchy lies in the fact that it is based solely upon material success. we have no titles of nobility; but we have coal barons, merchant princes and kings of finance. the very catchwords of our slang tell the story. the achievement of which we boast as the foundation of our aristocracy is indeed ignoble; but, since there is no other, we and our sons, and their sons after them, will doubtless continue to struggle--and perhaps steal--to prove, to the satisfaction of ourselves and the world at large, that we are entitled to be received into the nobility of america not by virtue of our good deeds, but of our so-called success. we would not have it otherwise. we should cry out against any serious attempt, outside of the pulpit, to alter or readjust an order that enables us to buy for money a position of which we would be otherwise undeserving. it would be most discouraging to us to have substituted for the present arrangement a society in which the only qualifications for admittance were those of charm, wit, culture, good breeding and good sportsmanship. chapter iii my children i pride myself on being a man of the world--in the better sense of the phrase. i feel no regret over the passing of those romantic days when maidens swooned at the sight of a drop of blood or took refuge in the "vapors" at the approach of a strange young man; in point of fact i do not believe they ever did. i imagine that our popular idea of the fragility and sensitiveness of the weaker sex, based on the accounts of novelists of the eighteenth century, is largely a literary convention. heroines were endowed, as a matter of course, with the possession of all the female virtues, intensified to such a degree that they were covered with burning blushes most of the time. languor, hysteria and general debility were regarded as the outward indications of a sweet and gentle character. woman was a tendril clinging to the strong oak of masculinity. modesty was her cardinal virtue. one is, of course, entitled to speculate on the probable contemporary causes for the seeming overemphasis placed on this admirable characteristic. perhaps feminine honesty was so rare as to be at a premium and modesty was a sort of electric sign of virtue. i am not squeamish. i have always let my children read what they would. i have never made a mystery of the relations of the sexes, for i know the call of the unseen--the fascination lent by concealment, of discovery. i believe frankness to be a good thing. a mind that is startled or shocked by the exposure of an ankle or the sight of a stocking must be essentially impure. nor do i quarrel with woman's natural desire to adorn herself for the allurement of man. that is as inevitable as springtime. but unquestionably the general tone of social intercourse in america, at least in fashionable centers, has recently undergone a marked and striking change. the athletic girl of the last twenty years, the girl who invited tan and freckles, wielded the tennis bat in the morning and lay basking in a bathing suit on the sand at noon, is gradually giving way to an entirely different type--a type modeled, it would seem, at least so far as dress and outward characteristics are concerned, on the french demimondaine. there are plenty of athletic girls to be found on the golf links and tennis courts; but a growing and large minority of maidens at the present time are too chary of their complexions to brave the sun. big hats, cloudlike veils, high heels, paint and powder mark the passing of the vain hope that woman can attract the male sex by virtue of her eugenic possibilities alone. it is but another and unpleasantly suggestive indication that the simplicity of an older generation--the rugged virtue of a more frugal time--has given place to the sophistication of the continent. when i was a lad, going abroad was a rare and costly privilege. a youth who had been to rome, london and paris, and had the unusual opportunity of studying the treasures of the vatican, the louvre and the national gallery, was regarded with envy. americans went abroad for culture; to study the glories of the past. now the family that does not invade europe at least every other summer is looked on as hopelessly old-fashioned. no clerk can find a job on the rue de rivoli or the rue de la paix unless he speaks fluently the dialect of the customers on whose trade his employer chiefly relies--those from pennsylvania, new york and illinois. the american no longer goes abroad for improvement, but to amuse himself. the college freshman knows, at least by name, the latest beauty who haunts the folies bergères, and his father probably has a refined and intimate familiarity with the special attractions of ciro's and the trocadero. i do not deny that we have learned valuable lessons from the parisians. at any rate our cooking has vastly improved. epicurus would have difficulty in choosing between the delights of new york and paris--for, after all, new york is paris and paris is new york. the chef of yesterday at voisin's rules the kitchen of the ritz-carlton or the plaza to-day; and he cannot have traveled much who does not find a dozen european acquaintances among the head waiters of broadway. not to know paris nowadays is felt to be as great a humiliation as it was fifty years ago not to know one's bible. beyond the larger number of americans who visit paris for legitimate or semilegitimate purposes, there is a substantial fraction who go to do things they either cannot or dare not do at home. and as those who have not the time or the money to cross the atlantic and who still itch for the boulevards must be kept contented, broadway is turned into montmartre. the result is that we cannot take our daughters to the theater without risking familiarizing them with vice in one form or another. i do not think i am overstating the situation when i say that it would be reasonably inferred from most of our so-called musical shows and farces that the natural, customary and excusable amusement of the modern man after working hours--whether the father of a family or a youth of twenty--is a promiscuous adventuring into sexual immorality. i do not regard as particularly dangerous the vulgar french farce where papa is caught in some extraordinary and buffoonlike situation with the washerwoman. safety lies in exaggeration. but it is a different matter with the ordinary broadway show, where virtue is made--at least inferentially--the object of ridicule, and sexuality is the underlying purpose of the production. during the present new york theatrical season several plays have been already censored by the authorities, and either been taken off entirely or so altered as to be still within the bounds of legal pruriency. whether i am right in attributing it to the influence of the french music halls or not, it is the fact that the tone of our theatergoing public is essentially low. boys and girls who are taken in their christmas holidays to see plays at which their parents applaud questionable songs and suggestive dances, cannot be blamed for assuming that there is not one set of morals for the stage and another for ordinary social intercourse. hence the college boy who has kept straight for eight months in the year is apt to wonder: what is the use? and the débutante who is curious for all the experiences her new liberty makes possible takes it for granted that an amorous trifling is the ordinary incident to masculine attention. this is far from being mere theory. it is a matter of common knowledge that recently the most prominent restaurateur in new york found it necessary to lock up, or place a couple of uniformed maids in, every unoccupied room in his establishment whenever a private dance was given there for young people. boys and girls of eighteen would leave these dances by dozens and, hiring taxicabs, go on slumming expeditions and excursions to the remoter corners of central park. in several instances parties of two or four went to the tenderloin and had supper served in private rooms. this is the childish expression of a demoralization that is not confined simply to smart society, but is gradually permeating the community in general. from the ordinary dinner-table conversation one hears at many of the country houses on long island it would be inferred that marriage was an institution of value only for legitimatizing concubinage; that an old-fashioned love affair was something to be rather ashamed of; and that morality in the young was hardly to be expected. of course a great deal of this is mere talk and bombast, but the maid-servants hear it. i believe, fortunately--and my belief is based on a fairly wide range of observation--that the continental influence i have described has produced its ultimate effect chiefly among the rich; yet its operation is distinctly observable throughout american life. nowhere is this more patent than in much of our current magazine literature and light fiction. these stories, under the guise of teaching some moral lesson, are frequently designed to stimulate all the emotions that could be excited by the most vicious french novel. some of them, of course, throw off all pretense and openly ape the _petit histoire d'un amour_; but essentially all are alike. the heroine is a demimondaine in everything but her alleged virtue--the hero a young bounder whose better self restrains him just in time. a conventional marriage on the last page legalizes what would otherwise have been a liaison or a degenerate flirtation. the astonishingly unsophisticated and impossibly innocent shopgirl who--in the story--just escapes the loss of her honor; the noble young man who heroically "marries the girl"; the adventures of the debonaire actress, who turns out most surprisingly to be an angel of sweetness and light; and the johnny whose heart is really pure gold, and who, to the reader's utter bewilderment, proves himself to be a saint george--these are the leading characters in a great deal of our periodical literature. a friend of mine who edits one of the more successful magazines tells me there are at least half a dozen writers who are paid guaranteed salaries of from twelve thousand dollars to eighteen thousand dollars a year for turning out each month from five thousand to ten thousand words of what is euphemistically termed "hot stuff." an erotic writer can earn yearly at the present time more than the salary of the president of the united states. what the physical result of all this is going to be does not seem to me to matter much. if the words of jesus christ have any significance we are already debased by our imaginations. * * * * * we are dangerously near an epoch of intellectual if not carnal debauchery. the prevailing tendency on the part of the young girls of to-day to imitate the dress and makeup of the parisian cocotte is unconsciously due to this general lowering of the social moral tone. young women in good society seem to feel that they must enter into open competition with their less fortunate sisters. and in this struggle for survival they are apparently determined to yield no advantage. herein lies the popularity of the hobble skirt, the transparent fabric that hides nothing and follows the move of every muscle, and the otherwise senseless peculiarities and indecencies of the more extreme of the present fashions. and here, too, is to be found the reason for the popularity of the current style of dancing, which offers no real attraction except the opportunity for a closeness of contact otherwise not permissible. "it's all in the way it is done," says mrs. jones, making the customary defense. "the tango and the turkey trot can be danced as unobjectionably as the waltz." exactly! only the waltz is not danced that way; and if it were the offending couple would probably be put off the floor. moreover, their origin and history demonstrates their essentially vicious character. is there any sensible reason why one's daughter should be encouraged to imitate the dances of the apache and the negro debauchee? perhaps, after all, the pendulum has merely swung just a little too far and is knocking against the case. the feet of modern progress cannot be hampered by too much of the dead underbrush of convention. the old-fashioned prudery that in former days practically prevented rational conversation between men and women is fortunately a thing of the past, and the fact that it is no longer regarded as unbecoming for women to take an interest in all the vital problems of the day--municipal, political and hygienic--provided they can assist in their solution, marks several milestones on the highroad of advance. on the other hand the widespread familiarity with these problems, which has been engendered simply for pecuniary profit by magazine literature in the form of essays, fiction and even verse, is by no means an undiluted blessing--particularly if the accentuation of the author is on the roses lining the path of dalliance quite as much as on the destruction to which it leads. the very warning against evil may turn out to be in effect only a hint that it is readily accessible. one does not leave the candy box open beside the baby even if the infant has received the most explicit instructions as to the probable effect of too much sugar upon its tiny kidneys. moreover, the knowledge of the prevalence of certain vices suggests to the youthful mind that what is so universal must also be rather excusable, or at least natural. it seems to me that, while there is at present a greater popular knowledge of the high cost of sinning, there is at the same time a greater tolerance for sin itself. certainly this is true among the people who make up the circle of my friends. "wild oats" are regarded as entirely a matter of course. no anecdote is too broad to be told openly at the dinner table; in point of fact the stories that used to be whispered only very discreetly in the smoking room are now told freely as the natural relishes to polite conversation. in that respect things are pretty bad. one cannot help wondering what goes on inside the villa on rhode island avenue when the eighteen-year-old daughter of the house remarks to the circle of young men and women about her at a dance: "well, i'm going to bed--_seule_!" the listener furtively speculates about mama. he feels quite sure about papa. anyhow this particular mot attracted no comment. doubtless the young lady was as far above suspicion as the wife of caesar; but she and her companions in this particular set have an appalling frankness of speech and a callousness in regard to discussing the more personal facts of human existence that is startling to a middle-aged man like myself. i happened recently to overhear a bit of casual dinner-table conversation between two of the gilded ornaments of the junior set. he was a boy of twenty-five, well known for his dissipations, but, nevertheless, regarded by most mothers as a highly desirable _parti_. "oh, yes!" he remarked easily. "they asked me if i wanted to go into a bughouse, and i said i hadn't any particular objection. i was there a month. rum place! i should worry!" "what ward?" she inquired with polite interest. "inebriates', of course," said he. i am inclined to attribute much of the questionable taste and conduct of the younger members of the fast set to neglect on the part of their mothers. women who are busy all day and every evening with social engagements have little time to cultivate the friendship of their daughters. hence the girl just coming out is left to shift for herself, and she soon discovers that a certain _risqué_ freedom in manner and conversation, and a disregard of convention, will win her a superficial popularity which she is apt to mistake for success. totally ignorant of what she is doing or the essential character of the means she is employing, she runs wild and soon earns an unenviable reputation, which she either cannot live down or which she feels obliged to live up to in order to satisfy her craving for attention. many a girl has gone wrong simply because she felt that it was up to her to make good her reputation for caring nothing for the proprieties. as against an increasing looseness in talk and conduct, it is interesting to note that heavy drinking is clearly going out of fashion in smart society. there can be no question as to that. my champagne bills are not more than a third of what they were ten years ago. i do not attribute this particularly to the temperance movement. but, as against eight quarts of champagne for a dinner of twenty--which used to be about my average when we first began entertaining in new york--three are now frequently enough. i have watched the butler repeatedly at large dinner parties as he passed the wine and seen him fill only four or five glasses. women rarely drink at all. about one man in three takes champagne. of course he is apt to drink whisky instead, but by no means the same amount as formerly. if it were not for the convention requiring sherry, hock, champagne and liquors to be served the modern host could satisfy practically all the serious liquid requirements of his guests with a quart bottle of scotch and a siphon of soda. claret, madeira, sparkling moselles and burgundies went out long ago. the fashion that has taught women self-control in eating has shown their husbands the value of abstinence. unfortunately i do not see in this a betterment in morals, but mere self-interest--which may or may not be the same thing, according to one's philosophy. if a man drinks nowadays he drinks because he wants to and not to be a good fellow. a total abstainer finds himself perfectly at home anywhere. of course the fashionables, if they are going to set the pace, have to hit it up in order to head the procession. the fastness of the smart set in england is notorious, and it is the same way in france, russia, italy, germany, scandinavia--the world over; and as society tends to become unified mere national boundaries have less significance. the number of americans who rent houses in london and paris, and shooting boxes in scotland, is large. hence the moral tone of continental society and of the english aristocracy is gradually becoming more and more our own. but with this difference--that, as the aristocracy in england and continental europe is a separate caste, a well-defined order, having set metes and bounds, which considers itself superior to the rest of the population and views it with indifference, so its morals are regarded as more or less its own affair, and they do not have a wide influence on the community at large. even if he drinks champagne every night at dinner the liverpool pickle merchant knows he cannot get into the king's set; but here the pickle man can not only break into the sacred circle, but he and his fat wife may themselves become the king and queen. so that a knowledge of how smart society conducts itself is an important matter to every man and woman living in the united states, since each hopes eventually to make a million dollars and move to new york. with us the fast crowd sets the example for society at large; whereas in england looseness in morals is a recognized privilege of the aristocracy to which the commoner may not aspire. the worst feature of our situation is that the quasi-genteel working class, of whom our modern complex life supports hundreds of thousands--telephone operators, stenographers, and the like--greedily devour the newspaper accounts of the american aristocracy and model themselves, so far as possible, after it. it is almost unbelievable how intimate a knowledge these young women possess of the domestic life, manner of speech and dress of the conspicuous people in new york society. i once stepped into the waldorf with a friend of mine who wished to send a telephone message. he is a quiet, unassuming man of fifty, who inherited a large fortune and who is compelled, rather against his will, to do a large amount of entertaining by virtue of the position in society which fate has thrust on him. it was a long-distance call. "who shall i say wants to talk?" asked the goddess with fillet-bound yellow hair in a patronizingly indifferent tone. "mr.----," answered my companion. instantly the girl's face was suffused with a smile of excited wonder. "are you mr.----, the big swell who gives all the dinners and dances?" she inquired. "i suppose i'm the man," he answered, rather amused than otherwise. "gee!" she cried, "ain't this luck! look here, mame!" she whispered hoarsely. "i've got mr. ---- here on a long distance. what do you think of that!" one cannot doubt that this telephone girl would unhesitatingly regard as above criticism anything said or done by a woman who moved in mr. ---- 's circle. unfortunately what this circle does is heralded in exaggerated terms. the influence of these partially true and often totally false reports is far-reaching and demoralizing. the other day the young governess of a friend of my wife gave up her position, saying she was to be married. her employer expressed an interest in the matter and asked who was going to perform the ceremony. she was surprised to learn that the functionary was to be the local country justice of the peace. "but why aren't you going to have a clergyman marry you?" asked our friend. "because i don't want it too binding!" answered the girl calmly. so far has the prevalence of divorce cast its enlightening beams. * * * * * i have had a shooting box in scotland on several different occasions; and my wife has conducted successful social campaigns, as i have said before, in london, paris, rome and berlin. i did not go along, but i read about it all in the papers and received weekly from the scene of conflict a pound or so of mail matter, consisting of hundreds of diaphanous sheets of paper, each covered with my daughters' fashionable humpbacked handwriting. hastings, my stenographer, became very expert at deciphering and transcribing it on the machine for my delectation. i was quite confused at the number and variety of the titles of nobility with which my family seemed constantly to be surrounded. they had a wonderful time, met everybody, and returned home perfected cosmopolitans. what their ethical standards are i confess i do not know exactly, for the reason that i see so little of them. they lead totally independent lives. on rare occasions we are invited to the same houses at the same time, and on christmas eve we still make it a point always to stay at home together. really i have no idea how they dispose of their time. they are always away, making visits in other cities or taking trips. they chatter fluently about literature, the theater, music, art, and know a surprising number of celebrities in this and other countries--particularly in london. they are good linguists and marvelous dancers. they are respectful, well mannered, modest, and mildly affectionate; but somehow they do not seem to belong to me. they have no troubles of which i am the confidant. if they have any definite opinions or principles i am unaware of them; but they have the most exquisite taste. perhaps with them this takes the place of morals. i cannot imagine my girls doing or saying anything vulgar, yet what they are like when away from home i have no means of finding out. i am quite sure that when they eventually select their husbands i shall not be consulted in the matter. my formal blessing will be all that is asked, and if that blessing is not forthcoming no doubt they will get along well enough without it. however, i am the constant recipient of congratulations on being the parent of such charming creatures. i have succeeded--apparently--in this direction as in others. succeeded in what? i cannot imagine these girls of mine being any particular solace to my old age. recently, since writing these confessions of mine, i have often wondered why my children were not more to me. i do not think they are much more to my wife. i suppose it could just as well be put the other way. why are _we_ not more to _them_? it is because, i fancy, this modern existence of ours, where every function and duty of maternity--except the actual giving of birth--is performed vicariously for us, destroys any interdependence between parents and their offspring. "smart" american mothers no longer, i am informed, nurse their babies. i know that my wife did not nurse hers. and thereafter each child had its own particular french _bonne_ and governess besides. our nursery was a model of dainty comfort. all the superficial elegancies were provided for. it was a sunny, dustless apartment, with snow-white muslins, white enamel, and a frieze of grotesque noah's ark animals perambulating round the wall. there were huge dolls' houses, with electric lights; big closets of toys. from the earliest moment possible these three infants began to have private lessons in everything, including drawing, music and german. their little days were as crowded with engagements then as now. every hour was provided for; but among these multifarious occupations there was no engagement with their parents. even if their mother had not been overwhelmed with social duties herself my babies would, i am confident, have had no time for their parent except at serious inconvenience and a tremendous sacrifice of time. to be sure, i used occasionally to watch them decorously eating their strictly supervised suppers in the presence of the governess; but the perfect arrangements made possible by my financial success rendered parents a superfluity. they never bumped their heads, or soiled their clothes, or dirtied their little faces--so far as i knew. they never cried--at least i was never permitted to hear them. when the time came for them to go to bed each raised a rosy little cheek and said sweetly: "good night, papa." they had, i think, the usual children's diseases--exactly which ones i am not sure of; but they had them in the hospital room at the top of the house, from which i was excluded, and the diseases progressed with medical propriety in due course and under the efficient management of starchy trained nurses. their outdoor life consisted in walking the asphalt pavements of central park, varied with occasional visits to the roller-skating rink; but their social life began at the age of four or five. i remember these functions vividly, because they were so different from those of my own childhood. the first of these was when my eldest daughter attained the age of six years. similar events in my private history had been characterized by violent games of blind man's buff, hide and seek, hunt the slipper, going to jerusalem, ring-round-a-rosy, and so on, followed by a dish of ice-cream and hairpulling. not so with my offspring. ten little ladies and gentlemen, accompanied by their maids, having been rearranged in the dressing room downstairs, were received by my daughter with due form in the drawing room. they were all flounced, ruffled and beribboned. two little boys of seven had on eton suits. their behavior was impeccable. almost immediately a professor of legerdemain made his appearance and, with the customary facility of his brotherhood, proceeded to remove tons of débris from presumably empty hats, rabbits from handkerchiefs, and hard-boiled eggs from childish noses and ears. the assembled group watched him with polite tolerance. at intervals there was a squeal of surprise, but it soon developed that most of them had already seen the same trickman half a dozen times. however, they kindly consented to be amused, and the professor gave way to a punch and judy show of a sublimated variety, which the youthful audience viewed with mild approval. the entertainment concluded with a stereopticon exhibition of supposedly humorous events, which obviously did not strike the children as funny at all. supper was laid in the dining room, where the table had been arranged as if for a banquet of diplomats. there were flowers in abundance and a life-size swan of icing at each end. each child was assisted by its own nurse, and our butler and a footman served, in stolid dignity, a meal consisting of rice pudding, cereals, cocoa, bread and butter, and ice-cream. it was by all odds the most decorous affair ever held in our house. at the end the gifts were distributed--parisian dolls, toy baby-carriages and paint boxes for the girls; steam engines, magic lanterns and miniature circuses for the boys. my bill for these trifles came to one hundred and twelve dollars. at half-past six the carriages arrived and our guests were hurried away. i instance this affair because it struck the note of elegant propriety that has always been the tone of our family and social life. the children invited to the party were the little boys and girls whose fathers and mothers we thought most likely to advance their social interests later on. of these children two of the girls have married members of the foreign nobility--one a jaded english lord, the other a worthless and dissipated french count; another married--fifteen years later--one of these same little boys and divorced him within eighteen months; while two of the girls--our own--have not married. of the boys one wedded an actress; another lives in paris and studies "art"; one has been already accounted for; and two have given their lives to playing polo, the stock market, and elevating the chorus. * * * * * beginning at this early period, my two daughters, and later on my son, met only the most select young people of their own age in new york and on long island. i remember being surprised at the amount of theatergoing they did by the time the eldest was nine years old. my wife made a practice of giving a children's theater party every saturday and taking her small guests to the matinée. as the theaters were more limited in number then than now these comparative infants sooner or later saw practically everything that was on the boards--good, bad and indifferent; and they displayed a precocity of criticism that quite astounded me. their real social career began with children's dinners and dancing parties by the time they were twelve, and their later coming out changed little the mode of life to which they had been accustomed for several years before it. the result of their mother's watchful care and self-sacrifice is that these two young ladies could not possibly be happy, or even comfortable, if they married men unable to furnish them with french maids, motors, constant amusement, gay society, travel and paris clothes. without these things they would wither away and die like flowers deprived of the sun. they are physically unfit to be anything but the wives of millionaires--and they will be the wives of millionaires or assuredly die unmarried. but, as the circle of rich young men of their acquaintance is more or less limited their chances of matrimony are by no means bright, albeit that they are the pivots of a furious whirl of gaiety which never stops. no young man with an income of less than twenty thousand a year would have the temerity to propose to either of them. even on twenty thousand they would have a hard struggle to get along; it would mean the most rigid economy--and, if there were babies, almost poverty. besides, when girls are living in the luxury to which mine are accustomed they think twice before essaying matrimony at all. the prospects of changing newport, palm beach, paris, rome, nice and biarritz for the privilege of bearing children in a new york apartment house does not allure, as in the case of less cosmopolitan young ladies. there must be love--plus all present advantages! present advantages withdrawn, love becomes cautious. even though the rich girl herself is of finer clay than her parents and, in spite of her artificial environment and the false standards by which she is surrounded, would like to meet and perhaps eventually marry some young man who is more worth while than the "pet cats" of her acquaintance, she is practically powerless to do so. she is cut off by the impenetrable artificial barrier of her own exclusiveness. she may hear of such young men--young fellows of ambition, of adventurous spirit, of genius, who have already achieved something in the world, but they are outside the wall of money and she is inside it, and there is no way for them to get in or for her to get out. she is permitted to know only the _jeunesse dorée_--the fops, the sports, the club-window men, whose antecedents are vouched for by the social register. she has no way of meeting others. she does not know what the others are like. she is only aware of an instinctive distaste for most of the young fellows among whom she is thrown. at best they are merely innocuous when they are not offensive. they do nothing; they intend never to do anything. if she is the american girl of our plays and novels she wants something better; and in the plays and novels she always gets him--the dashing young ranchman, the heroic naval lieutenant, the fearless alaskan explorer, the tireless prospector or daring civil engineer. but in real life she does not get him--except by the merest fluke of fortune. she does not know the real thing when she meets it, and she is just as likely to marry a dissipated groom or chauffeur as the young stanley of her dreams. the saddest class in our social life is that of the thoroughbred american girl who is a thousand times too good for her de-luxe surroundings and the crew of vacuous la-de-da willies hanging about her, yet who, absolutely cut off from contact with any others, either gradually fades into a peripatetic old maid, wandering over europe, or marries an eligible, turkey-trotting nondescript--"a mimmini-pimmini, francesca da rimini, _je-ne-sais-quoi_ young man." the atlantic seaboard swarms in summertime with broad-shouldered, well-bred, highly educated and charming boys, who have had every advantage except that of being waited on by liveried footmen. they camp in the woods; tutor the feeble-minded sons of the rich; tramp and bicycle over swiss mountain passes; sail their catboats through the island-studded reaches and thoroughfares of the maine coast, and grow brown and hard under the burning sun. they are the hope of america. they can carry a canoe or a hundred-pound pack over a forest trail; and in the winter they set the pace in the scientific, law and medical schools. their heads are clear, their eyes are bright, and there is a hollow instead of a bow window beneath the buttons of their waistcoats. the feet of these young men carry them to strange places; they cope with many and strange monsters. they are our knights of the round table. they find the grail of achievement in lives of hard work, simple pleasures and high ideals--in college and factory towns; in law courts and hospitals; in the mountains of colorado and the plains of the dakotas. they are the best we have; but the poor rich girl rarely, if ever, meets them. the barrier of wealth completely hems her in. she must take one of those inside or nothing. when, in a desperate revolt against the artificiality of her existence, she breaks through the wall she is easy game for anybody--as likely to marry a jockey or a professional forger as one of the young men of her desire. one should not blame a rich girl too much for marrying a titled and perhaps attractive foreigner. the would-be critic has only to step into a fifth avenue ballroom and see what she is offered in his place to sympathize with and perhaps applaud her selection. better a year of europe than a cycle of--shall we say, narragansett? after all, why not take the real thing, such as it is, instead of an imitation? i believe that one of the most cruel results of modern social life is the cutting off of young girls from acquaintanceship with youths of the sturdy, intelligent and hardworking type--and the unfitting of such girls for anything except the marriage mart of the millionaire. i would give half of all i possess to see my daughters happily married; but i now realize that their education renders such a marriage highly difficult of satisfactory achievement. their mother and i have honestly tried to bring them up in such a way that they can do their duty in that state of life to which it hath pleased god to call them. but unfortunately, unless some man happens to call them also, they will have to keep on going round and round as they are going now. we did not anticipate the possibility of their becoming old maids, and they cannot become brides of the church. i should honestly be glad to have either of them marry almost anybody, provided he is a decent fellow. i should not even object to their marrying foreigners, but the difficulty is that it is almost impossible to find out whether a foreigner is really decent or not. it is true that the number of foreign noblemen who marry american girls for love is negligible. there is undoubtedly a small and distinguished minority who do so; but the transaction is usually a matter of bargain and sale, and the man regards himself as having lived up to his contract by merely conferring his title on the woman he thus deigns to honor. i should prefer to have them marry americans, of course; but i no longer wish them to marry americans of their own class. yet, unfortunately, they would be unwilling to marry out of it. a curious situation! i have given up my life to buying a place for my children that is supposed to give them certain privileges, and i now am loath to have them take advantage of those privileges. the situation has its amusing as well as its pathetic side--for my son, now that i come to think of it, is one of the eligibles. he knows everybody and is on the road to money. he is one of the opportunities that society is offering to the daughters of other successful men. should i wish my own girls to marry a youth like him? far from it! yet he is exactly the kind of fellow that my success has enabled them to meet and know, and whom fate decrees that they shall eventually marry if they marry at all. when i frankly face the question of how much happiness i get out of my children i am constrained to admit that it is very little. the sense of proprietorship in three such finished products is something, to be sure; and, after all, i suppose they have--concealed somewhere--a real affection for their old dad. at times they are facetious--almost playful--as on my birthday; but i fancy that arises from a feeling of embarrassment at not knowing how to be intimate with a parent who crosses their path only twice a week, and then on the stairs. my son has attended to his own career now for some fourteen years; in fact i lost him completely before he was out of knickerbockers. up to the time when he was sent away to boarding school he spent a rather disconsolate childhood, playing with mechanical toys, roller skating in the mall, going occasionally to the theater, and taking music lessons; but he showed so plainly the debilitating effect of life in the city for eight months in the year that at twelve he was bundled off to a country school. since then he has grown to manhood without our assistance. he went away undersized, pale, with a meager little neck and a sort of wistful nicholas nickelby expression. when he returned at the christmas vacation he had gained ten pounds, was brown and freckled, and looked like a small giraffe in pantalets. moreover, he had entirely lost the power of speech, owing to a fear of making a fool of himself. during the vacation in question he was reoutfitted and sent three times a week to the theater. on one or two occasions i endeavored to ascertain how he liked school, but all i could get out of him was the vague admission that it was "all right" and that he liked it "well enough." this process of outgrowing his clothes and being put through a course of theaters at each vacation--there was nothing else to do with him--continued for seven years, during which time he grew to be six feet two inches in height and gradually filled out to man's size. he managed to hold a place in the lower third of his class, with the aid of constant and expensive tutoring in the summer vacations, and he finally was graduated with the rest and went to harvard. by this time he preferred to enjoy himself in his own way during his leisure and we saw less of him than ever. but, whatever his intellectual achievements may be, there is no doubt as to his being a man of the world, entirely at ease anywhere, with perfect manners and all the social graces. i do not think he was particularly dissipated at harvard; on the other hand, i am assured by the dean that he was no student. he "made" a select club early in his course and from that time was occupied, i suspect, in playing poker and bridge, discussing deep philosophical questions and acquiring the art of living. he never went in for athletics; but by doing nothing in a highly artistic manner, and by dancing with the most startling agility, he became a prominent social figure and a headliner in college theatricals. from his sophomore year he has been in constant demand for cotillions, house parties and yachting trips. his intimate pals seem to be middle-aged millionaires who are known to me in only the most casual way; and he is a sort of gentleman-in-waiting--i believe the accepted term is "pet cat"--to several society women, for whom he devises new cotillion figures, arranges original after-dinner entertainments and makes himself generally useful. like my two daughters he has arrived--absolutely; but, though we are members of the same learned profession, he is almost a stranger to me. i had no difficulty in getting him a clerkship in a gilt-edged law firm immediately after he was admitted to the bar and he is apparently doing marvelously well, though what he can possibly know of law will always remain a mystery to me. yet he is already, at the age of twenty-eight, a director in three important concerns whose securities are listed on the stock exchange, and he spends a great deal of money, which he must gather somehow. i know that his allowance cannot do much more than meet his accounts at the smart clubs to which he belongs. he is a pleasant fellow and i enjoy the rare occasions when i catch a glimpse of him. i do not think he has any conspicuous vices--or virtues. he has simply had sense enough to take advantage of his social opportunities and bids fair to be equally successful with myself. he has really never done a stroke of work in his life, but has managed to make himself agreeable to those who could help him along. i have no doubt those rich friends of his throw enough business in his way to net him ten or fifteen thousand dollars a year, but i should hesitate to retain him to defend me if i were arrested for speeding. nevertheless at dinner i have seen him bullyrag and browbeat a judge of our supreme court in a way that made me shudder, though i admit that the judge in question owed his appointment entirely to the friend of my son who happened to be giving the dinner; and he will contradict in a loud tone men and women older than myself, no matter what happens to be the subject under discussion. they seem to like it--why, i do not pretend to understand. they admire his assurance and good nature, and are rather afraid of him! i cannot imagine what he would find to do in my own law office; he would doubtless regard it as a dull place and too narrow a sphere for his splendid capabilities. he is a clever chap, this son of mine; and though neither he nor his sisters seem to have any particular fondness for one another, he is astute at playing into their hands and they into his. he also keeps a watchful eye on our dinner invitations, so they will not fall below the properly exclusive standard. "what are you asking old washburn for?" he will ask. "he's been a dead one these five years!" or: "i'd cut out the becketts--at least if you're asking the thompsons. they don't go with the same crowd." or: "why don't you ask the peyton-smiths? they're nothing to be afraid of if they do cut a dash at newport. the old girl is rather a pal of mine." so we drop old washburn, cut out the becketts, and take courage and invite the hyphenated smiths. a hint from him pays handsome dividends! and he is distinctly proud of the family and anxious to push it along to still greater success. however, he has never asked my help or assistance--except in a financial way. he has never come to me for advice; never confided any of his perplexities or troubles to me. perhaps he has none. he seems quite sufficient unto himself. and he certainly is not my friend. it seems strange that these three children of mine, whose upbringing has been the source of so much thought and planning on the part of my wife and myself, and for whose ultimate benefit we have shaped our own lives, should be the merest, almost impersonal, acquaintances. the italian fruit-vender on the corner, whose dirty offspring crawl among the empty barrels behind the stand, knows far more of his children than do we of ours, will have far more influence on the shaping of their future lives. they do not need us now and they never have needed us. a trust company could have performed all the offices of parenthood with which we have been burdened. we have paid others to be father and mother in our stead--or rather, as i now see, have had hired servants to go through the motions for us; and they have done it well, so far as the mere physical side of the matter is concerned. we have been almost entirely relieved of care. we have never been annoyed by our children's presence at any time. we have never been bothered with them at meals. we have never had to sit up with them when they could not go to sleep, or watch at their bedsides during the night when they were sick. competent nurses--far more competent than we--washed their little dirty hands, mended the torn dresses and kissed their wounds to make them well. and when five o'clock came three dainty little dresden figures in pink and blue ribbons were brought down to the drawing room to be admired by our guests. then, after being paraded, they were carried back to the nursery to resume the even tenor of their independent existences. no one of us has ever needed the other members of the family. my wife has never called on either of our daughters to perform any of those trifling intimate services that bring a mother and her children together. there has always been a maid standing ready to hook up her dress, fetch her book or her hat, or a footman to spring upstairs after the forgotten gloves. and the girls have never needed their mother--the governess could read aloud ever so much better, and they always had their own maid to look after their clothes. when they needed new gowns they simply went downtown and bought them--and the bill was sent to my office. neither of them was ever forced to stay at home that her sister might have some pleasure instead. no; our wealth has made it possible for each of my children to enjoy every luxury without any sacrifice on another's part. they owe nothing to each other, and they really owe nothing to their mother or myself--except perhaps a monetary obligation. but there is one person, technically not one of our family, for whom my girls have the deepest and most sincere affection--that is old jane, their irish nurse, who came to them just after they were weaned and stayed with us until the period of maids and governesses arrived. i paid her twenty-five dollars a month, and for nearly ten years she never let them out of her sight--crooning over them at night; trudging after them during the daytime; mending their clothes; brushing their teeth; cutting their nails; and teaching them strange irish legends of the banshee. when i called her into the library and told her the children were now too old for her and that they must have a governess, the look that came into her face haunted me for days. "ye'll be after taking my darlin's away from me?" she muttered in a dead tone. "'t will be hard for me!" she stood as if the heart had died within her, and the hundred-dollar bill i shoved into her hand fell to the floor. then she turned quickly and hurried out of the room without a sob. i heard afterward that she cried for a week. now i always know when one of their birthdays has arrived by the queer package, addressed in old jane's quaint half-printed writing, that always comes. she has cared for many dozens of children since then, but loves none like my girls, for she came to them in her young womanhood and they were her first charges. and they are just as fond of her. indeed it is their loyalty to this old irish nurse that gives me faith that they are not the cold propositions they sometimes seem to be. for once when, after much careless delay, a fragmentary message came to us that she was ill and in a hospital my two daughters, who were just starting for a ball, flew to her bedside, sat with her all through the night and never left her until she was out of danger. "they brought me back--my darlin's!" she whispered to us when later we called to see how she was getting on; and my wife looked at me across the rumpled cot and her lips trembled. i knew what was in her mind. would her daughters have rushed to her with the same forgetfulness of self as to this prematurely gray and wrinkled woman whose shrunken form lay between us? poor old jane! alone in an alien land, giving your life and your love to the children of others, only to have them torn from your arms just as the tiny fingers have entwined themselves like tendrils round your heart! we have tossed you the choicest blessings of our lives and shouldered you with the heavy responsibilities that should rightfully have been our load. your cup has run over with both joy and sorrow but you have drunk of the cup, while we are still thirsty! our hearts are dry, while yours is green--nourished with the love that should belong to us. poor old jane? lucky old jane! anyhow god bless you! chapter iv my mind i come of a family that prides itself on its culture and intellectuality. we have always been professional people, for my grandfather was, as i have said, a clergyman; and among my uncles are a lawyer, a physician and a professor. my sisters, also, have intermarried with professional men. i received a fairly good primary and secondary education, and graduated from my university with honors--whatever that may have meant. i was distinctly of a literary turn of mind; and during my four years of study i imbibed some slight information concerning the english classics, music, modern history and metaphysics. i could talk quite wisely about chaucer, beaumont and fletcher, thomas love peacock and ann radcliffe, or kant, fichte and schopenhauer. i can see now that my smattering of culture was neither deep nor broad. i acquired no definite knowledge of underlying principles, of general history, of economics, of languages, of mathematics, of physics or of chemistry. to biology and its allies i paid scarcely any attention at all, except to take a few snap courses. i really secured only a surface acquaintance with polite english literature, mostly very modern. the main part of my time i spent reading stevenson and kipling. i did well in english composition and i pronounced my words neatly and in a refined manner. at the end of my course, when twenty-two years old, i was handed an imitation-parchment degree and proclaimed by the president of the college as belonging to the brotherhood of educated men. i did not. i was an imitation educated man; but, though spurious, i was a sufficiently good counterfeit to pass current for what i had been declared to be. apart from a little latin, a considerable training in writing the english language, and a great deal of miscellaneous reading of an extremely light variety, i really had no culture at all. i could not speak an idiomatic sentence in french or german; i had the vaguest ideas about applied mechanics and science; and no thorough knowledge about anything; but i was supposed to be an educated man, and on this stock in trade i have done business ever since--with, to be sure, the added capital of a degree of bachelor of laws. now since my graduation, twenty-eight years ago, i have given no time to the systematic study of any subject except law. i have read no serious works dealing with either history, sociology, economics, art or philosophy. i am supposed to know enough about these subjects already. i have rarely read over again any of the masterpieces of english literature with which i had at least a bowing acquaintance when at college. even this last sentence i must qualify to the extent of admitting that i now see that this acquaintance was largely vicarious, and that i frequently read more criticism than literature. it is characteristic of modern education that it is satisfied with the semblance and not the substance of learning. i was taught _about_ shakspere, but not shakspere. i was instructed in the history of literature, but not in literature itself. i knew the names of the works of numerous english authors and i knew what taine and others thought about them, but i knew comparatively little of what was between the covers of the books themselves. i was, i find, a student of letters by proxy. as time went on i gradually forgot that i had not, in fact, actually perused these volumes; and to-day i am accustomed to refer familiarly to works i never have read at all--not a difficult task in these days of handbook knowledge and literary varnish. it is this patent superficiality that so bores me with the affected culture of modern social intercourse. we all constantly attempt to discuss abstruse subjects in philosophy and art, and pretend to a familiarity with minor historical characters and events. now why try to talk about bergson's theories if you have not the most elementary knowledge of philosophy or metaphysics? or why attempt to analyze the success or failure of a modern post-impressionist painter when you are totally ignorant of the principles of perspective or of the complex problems of light and shade? you might as properly presume to discuss a mastoid operation with a surgeon or the doctrine of _cypres_ with a lawyer. you are equally qualified. i frankly confess that my own ignorance is abysmal. in the last twenty-eight years what information i have acquired has been picked up principally from newspapers and magazines; yet my library table is littered with books on modern art and philosophy, and with essays on literary and historical subjects. i do not read them. they are my intellectual window dressings. i talk about them with others who, i suspect, have not read them either; and we confine ourselves to generalities, with a careful qualification of all expressed opinions, no matter how vague and elusive. for example--a safe conversational opening: "of course there is a great deal to be said in favor of bergson's general point of view, but to me his reasoning is inconclusive. don't you feel the same way--somehow?" you can try this on almost anybody. it will work in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred; for, of course, there is a great deal to be said in favor of the views of anybody who is not an absolute fool, and most reasoning is open to attack at least for being inconclusive. it is also inevitable that your cultured friend--or acquaintance--should feel the same way--somehow. most people do--in a way. the real truth of the matter is, all i know about bergson is that he is a frenchman--is he actually by birth a frenchman or a belgian?--who as a philosopher has a great reputation on the continent, and who recently visited america to deliver some lectures. i have not the faintest idea what his theories are, and i should not if i heard him explain them. moreover, i cannot discuss philosophy or metaphysics intelligently, because i have not to-day the rudimentary knowledge necessary to understand what it is all about. it is the same with art. on the one or two isolated varnishing days when we go to a gallery we criticize the pictures quite fiercely. "we know what we like." yes, perhaps we do. i am not sure even of that. but in eighty-five cases out of a hundred none of us have any knowledge of the history of painting or any intelligent idea of why velasquez is regarded as a master; yet we acquire a glib familiarity with the names of half a dozen cubists or futurists, and bandy them about much as my office boy does the names of his favorite pugilists or baseball players. it is even worse with history and biography. we cannot afford or have not the decency to admit that we are uninformed. we speak casually of, say, henry of navarre, or beatrice d'este, or charles the fifth. i select my names intentionally from among the most celebrated in history; yet how many of us know within two hundred years of when any one of them lived--or much about them? how much definite historical information have we, even about matters of genuine importance? * * * * * let us take a shot at a few dates. i will make it childishly easy. give me, if you can, _even approximately_, the year of caesar's conquest of gaul; the invasion of europe by the huns; the sack of rome; the battle of châlons-sur-marne; the battle of tours; the crowning of charlemagne; the great crusade; the fall of constantinople; magna charta; the battle of crécy; the field of the cloth of gold; the massacre of st. bartholomew; the spanish armada; the execution of king charles i; the fall of the bastile; the inauguration of george washington; the battle of waterloo; the louisiana purchase; the indian mutiny; the siege of paris. i will look out of the window while you go through the mental agony of trying to remember. it looks easy, does it not? almost an affront to ask the date of waterloo! well, i wanted to be fair and even things up; but, honestly, can you answer correctly five out of these twenty elementary questions? i doubt it. yet you have, no doubt, lying on your table at the present time, intimate studies of past happenings and persons that presuppose and demand a rough general knowledge of american, french or english history. the dean of radcliffe college, who happened to be sitting behind two of her recent graduates while attending a performance of parker's deservedly popular play "disraeli" last winter, overheard one of them say to the other: "you know, i couldn't remember whether disraeli was in the old or the new testament; and i looked in both and couldn't find him in either!" i still pass socially as an exceptionally cultured man--one who is well up on these things; yet i confess to knowing to-day absolutely nothing of history, either ancient, medieval or modern. it is not a matter of mere dates, by any means, though i believe dates to be of some general importance. my ignorance is deeper than that. i do not remember the events themselves or their significance. i do not now recall any of the facts connected with the great epoch-making events of classic times; i cannot tell as i write, for example, who fought in the battle of the allia; why caesar crossed the rubicon, or why cicero delivered an oration against catiline. as to what subsequently happened on the italian peninsula my mind is a blank until the appearance of garibaldi during the last century. i really never knew just who garibaldi was until i read trevelyan's three books on the resorgimento last winter, and those i perused because i had taken a motor trip through italy the summer before. i know practically nothing of spanish history, and my mind is a blank as to russia, poland, turkey, sweden, germany, austria, and holland. of course i know that the dutch republic rose--assisted by one motley, of boston--and that william of orange was a hollander--or at least i suppose he was born there. but how holland came to rise i know not--or whether william was named after an orange or oranges were named after him. as for central europe, it is a shocking fact that i never knew there was not some interdependency between austria and germany until last summer. i only found out the contrary when i started to motor through the austrian tyrol and was held up by the custom officers on the frontier. i knew that an old emperor named william somehow founded the german empire out of little states, with the aid of bismarck and von moltke; but that is all i know about it. i do not know when the war between prussia and austria took place or what battles were fought in it. the only battle in the franco-prussian war i am sure of is sedan, which i remember because i was once told that phil sheridan was present as a spectator. i know gustavus adolphus was a king of sweden, but i do not know when; and apart from their names i know nothing of theodoric, charles martel, peter the hermit, lodovico moro, the emperor maximilian, catherine of aragon, catherine de' medici, richelieu, frederick barbarossa, cardinal wolsey, prince rupert--i do not refer to anthony hope's hero, rupert of hentzau--saint louis, admiral coligny, or the thousands of other illustrious personages that crowd the pages of history. i do not know when or why the seven years' war, the thirty years' war, the hundred years' war or the massacre of st. bartholomew took place, why the edict of nantes was revoked or what it was, or who fought at malplaquet, tours, soissons, marengo, plassey, oudenarde, fontenoy or borodino--or when they occurred. i probably did know most if not all of these things, but i have entirely forgotten them. unfortunately i manage to act as if i had not. the result is that, having no foundation to build on, any information i do acquire is immediately swept away. people are constantly giving me books on special topics, such as horace walpole and his friends, france in the thirteenth century, the holland house circle, or memoires of madame du barry; but of what use can they be to me when i do not know, or at least have forgotten, even the salient facts of french and english history? we are undoubtedly the most superficial people in the world about matters of this sort. any bluff goes. i recall being at a dinner not long ago when somebody mentioned conrad ii. one of the guests hazarded the opinion that he had died in the year . this would undoubtedly have passed muster but for a learned-looking person farther down the table who deprecatingly remarked: "i do not like to correct you, but i think conrad the second died in !" the impression created on the assembled company cannot be overstated. later on in the smoking room i ventured to compliment the gentleman on his fund of information, saying: "why, i never even _heard_ of conrad the second!" "nor i either," he answered shamelessly. it is the same with everything--music, poetry, politics. i go night after night to hear the best music in the world given at fabulous cost in the metropolitan opera house and am content to murmur vague ecstasies over caruso, without being aware of who wrote the opera or what it is all about. most of us know nothing of orchestration or even the names of the different instruments. we may not even be sure of what is meant by counterpoint or the difference between a fugue and an arpeggio. a handbook would give us these minor details in an hour's reading; but we prefer to sit vacuously making feeble jokes about the singers or the occupants of the neighboring boxes, without a single intelligent thought as to why the composer attempted to write precisely this sort of an opera, when he did it, or how far he succeeded. we are content to take our opinions and criticisms ready made, no matter from whose mouth they fall; and one hears everywhere phrases that, once let loose from the pandora's box of some foolish brain, never cease from troubling. in science i am in even a more parlous state. i know nothing of applied electricity in its simplest forms. i could not explain the theory of the gas engine, and plumbing is to me one of the great mysteries. last, but even more lamentable, i really know nothing about politics, though i am rather a strong party man and my name always appears on important citizens' committees about election time. i do not know anything about the city departments or its fiscal administration. i should not have the remotest idea where to direct a poor person who applied to me for relief. neither have i ever taken the trouble to familiarize myself with even the more important city buildings. of course i know the city hall by sight, but i have never been inside it; i have never visited the tombs or any one of our criminal courts; i have never been in a police station, a fire house, or inspected a single one of our prisons or reformatory institutions. i do not know whether police magistrates are elected or appointed and i could not tell you in what congressional district i reside. i do not know the name of my alderman, assemblyman, state senator or representative in congress. i do not know who is at the head of the fire department, the street cleaning department, the health department, the park department or the water department; and i could not tell, except for the police department, what other departments there are. even so, i do not know what police precinct i am living in, the name of the captain in command, or where the nearest fixed post is at which an officer is supposed to be on duty. as i write i can name only five members of the united states supreme court, three members of the cabinet, and only one of the congressmen from the state of new york. this in cold type seems almost preposterous, but it is, nevertheless, a fact--and i am an active practicing lawyer besides. i am shocked to realize these things. yet i am supposed to be an exceptionally intelligent member of the community and my opinion is frequently sought on questions of municipal politics. needless to say, the same indifference has prevented my studying--except in the most superficial manner--the single tax, free trade and protection, the minimum wage, the recall, referendum, or any other of the present much-mooted questions. how is this possible? the only answer i can give is that i have confined my mental activities entirely to making my legal practice as lucrative as possible. i have taken things as i found them and put up with abuses rather than go to the trouble to do away with them. i have no leisure to try to reform the universe. i leave that task to others whose time is less valuable than mine and who have something to gain by getting into the public eye. the mere fact, however, that i am not interested in local politics would not ordinarily, in a normal state of civilization, explain my ignorance of these things. in most societies they would be the usual subjects of conversation. people naturally discuss what interests them most. uneducated people talk about the weather, their work, their ailments and their domestic affairs. with more enlightened folk the conversation turns on broader topics--the state of the country, politics, trade, or art. it is only among the so-called society people that the subjects selected for discussion do not interest anybody. usually the talk that goes on at dinners or other entertainments relates only to what plays the conversationalists in question have seen or which of the best sellers they have read. for the rest the conversation is dexterously devoted to the avoidance of the disclosure of ignorance. even among those who would like to discuss the questions of the day intelligently and to ascertain other people's views pertaining to them, there is such a fundamental lack of elementary information that it is a hopeless undertaking. they are reduced to the commonplaces of vulgar and superficial comment. "'tis plain," cry they, "our mayor's a noddy; and as for the corporation--shocking!" the mayor may be and probably is a noddy, but his critics do not know why. the average woman who dines out hardly knows what she is saying or what is being said to her. she will usually agree with any proposition that is put to her--if she has heard it. generally she does not listen. i know a minister's wife who never pays the slightest attention to anything that is being said to her, being engrossed in a torrent of explanation regarding her children's education and minor diseases. once a bored companion in a momentary pause fixed her sternly with his eye and said distinctly: "but i don't give a --- about your children!" at which the lady smiled brightly and replied: "yes. quite so. exactly! as i was saying, johnny got a--" but, apart from such hectic people, who run quite amuck whenever they open their mouths, there are large numbers of men and women of some intelligence who never make the effort to express conscientiously any ideas or opinions. they find it irksome to think. they are completely indifferent as to whether a play is really good or bad or who is elected mayor of the city. in any event they will have their coffee, rolls and honey served in bed the next morning; and they know that, come what will--flood, tempest, fire or famine--there will be forty-six quarts of extra xxx milk left at their area door. they are secure. the stock market may rise and fall, presidents come and go, but they will remain safe in the security of fifty thousand a year. and, since they really do not care about anything, they are as likely to praise as to blame, and to agree with everybody about everything. their world is all cakes and ale--why should they bother as to whether the pothouse beer is bad? i confess, with something of a shock, that essentially i am like the rest of these people. the reason i am not interested in my country and my city is because, by reason of my financial and social independence, they have ceased to be my city and country. i should be just as comfortable if our government were a monarchy. it really is nothing to me whether my tax rate is six one-hundredths of one per cent higher or lower, or what mayor rules in city hall. so long as fifth avenue is decently paved, so that my motor runs smoothly when i go to the opera, i do not care whether we have a reform, tammany or republican administration in the city. so far as i am concerned, my valet will still come into my bedroom at exactly nine o'clock every morning, turn on the heat and pull back the curtains. his low, modulated "your bath is ready, sir," will steal through my dreams, and he will assist me to rise and put on my embroidered dressing gown of wadded silk in preparation for another day's hard labor in the service of my fellowmen. times have changed since my father's frugal college days. have they changed for better or for worse? of one thing i am certain--my father was a better-educated man than i am. i admit that, under the circumstances, this does not imply very much; but my parent had, at least, some solid ground beneath his intellectual feet on which he could stand. his mind was thoroughly disciplined by rigid application to certain serious studies that were not selected by himself. from the day he entered college he was in active competition with his classmates in all his studies, and if he had been a shirker they would all have known it. in my own case, after i had once matriculated, the elective system left me free to choose my own subjects and to pursue them faithfully or not, so long as i could manage to squeak through my examinations. my friends were not necessarily among those who elected the same courses, and whether i did well or ill was nobody's business but my own and the dean's. it was all very pleasant and exceedingly lackadaisical, and by the time i graduated i had lost whatever power of concentration i had acquired in my preparatory schooling. at the law school i was at an obvious disadvantage with the men from the smaller colleges which still followed the old-fashioned curriculum and insisted on the mental discipline entailed by advanced greek, latin, the higher mathematics, science and biology. in point of fact i loafed delightfully for four years and let my mind run absolutely to seed, while i smoked pipe after pipe under the elms, watching the squirrels and dreaming dreams. i selected elementary--almost childlike--courses in a large variety of subjects; and as soon as i had progressed sufficiently to find them difficult i cast about for other snaps to take their places. my bookcase exhibited a collection of primers on botany, zoölogy and geology, the fine arts, music, elementary french and german, philosophy, ethics, methaphysics, architecture, english composition, shakspere, the english poets and novelists, oral debating and modern history. i took nothing that was not easy and about which i did not already know a little something. i attended the minimum number of lectures required, did the smallest amount of reading possible and, by cramming vigorously for three weeks at the end of the year, managed to pass all examinations creditably. i averaged, i suppose, outside of the lecture room, about a single hour's desultory work a day. i really need not have done that. when, for example, it came time to take the examination in french composition i discovered that i had read but two out of the fifteen plays and novels required, the plots of any one of which i might be asked to give on my paper. rather than read these various volumes, i prepared a skeleton digest in french, sufficiently vague, which could by slight transpositions be made to do service in every case. i committed it to memory. it ran somewhat as follows: "the play"--or novel--"entitled ---- is generally conceded to be one of the most carefully constructed and artistically developed of all ----'s"--here insert name of author--"many masterly productions. the genius of the author has enabled him skilfully to portray the atmosphere and characters of the period. the scene is laid in ---- and the time roughly is that of the --th century. the hero is ----; the heroine, ----; and after numerous obstacles and ingenious complications they eventually marry. the character of the old ----"--here insert father, mother, uncle or grandparent, gardener or family servant--"is delightfully whimsical and humorous, and full of subtle touches. the tragic element is furnished by ----, the ----. the author touches with keen satire on the follies and vices of the time, while the interest in the principal love affair is sustained until the final dénouement. altogether it would be difficult to imagine a more brilliant example of dramatic--or literary--art." i give this rather shocking example of sophomoric shiftlessness for the purpose of illustrating my attitude toward my educational opportunities and what was possible in the way of dexterously avoiding them. all i had to do was to learn the names of the chief characters in the various plays and novels prescribed. if i could acquire a brief scenario of each so much the better. invariably they had heroes and heroines, good old servants or grandparents, and merry jesters. at the examination i successfully simulated familiarity with a book i had never read and received a commendatory mark. this happy-go-lucky frame of mind was by no means peculiar to myself. indeed i believe it to have been shared by the great majority of my classmates. the result was that we were sent forth into the world without having mastered any subject whatsoever, or even followed it for a sufficient length of time to become sincerely interested in it. the only study i pursued more than one year was english composition, which came easily to me, and which in one form or another i followed throughout my course. had i adopted the same tactics with any other of the various branches open to me, such as history, chemistry or languages, i should not be what i am to-day--a hopelessly superficial man. mind you, i do not mean to assert that i got nothing out of it at all. undoubtedly i absorbed a smattering of a variety of subjects that might on a pinch pass for education. i observed how men with greater social advantages than myself brushed their hair, wore their clothes and took off their hats to their women friends. frankly that was about everything i took away with me. i was a victim of that liberality of opportunity which may be a heavenly gift to a post-graduate in a university, but which is intellectual damnation to an undergraduate collegian. the chief fault that i have to find with my own education, however, is that at no time was i encouraged to think for myself. no older man ever invited me to his study, there quietly and frankly to discuss the problems of human existence. i was left entirely vague as to what it was all about, and the relative values of things were never indicated. the same emphasis was placed on everything--whether it happened to be the darwinian theory, the fall of jerusalem or the character of ophelia. i had no philosophy, no theory of morals, and no one ever even attempted to explain to me what religion or the religious instinct was supposed to be. i was like a child trying to build a house and gathering materials of any substance, shape or color without regard to the character of the intended edifice. i was like a man trying to get somewhere and taking whatever paths suited his fancy--first one and then another, irrespective of where they led. the why and the wherefore were unknown questions to me, and i left the university without any idea as to how i came to be in the world or what my duties toward my fellowmen might be. in a word the two chief factors in education passed me by entirely--(a) my mind received no discipline; (b) and the fundamental propositions of natural philosophy were neither brought to my attention nor explained to me. these deficiencies have never been made up. indeed, as to the first, my mind, instead of being developed by my going to college, was seriously injured. my memory has never been good since and my methods of reading and thinking are hurried and slipshod, but this is a small thing compared with the lack of any philosophy of life. i acquired none as a youth and i have never had any since. for fifty years i have existed without any guiding purpose except blindly to get ahead--without any religion, either natural or dogmatic. i am one of a type--a pretty good, perfectly aimless man, without any principles at all. they tell me that things have changed at the universities since my day and that the elective system is no longer in favor. judging by my own case, the sooner it is abolished entirely, the better for the undergraduate. i should, however, suggest one important qualification--namely, that a boy be given the choice in his freshman year of three or four general subjects, such as philosophy, art, history, music, science, languages or literature, and that he should be compelled to follow the subjects he elects throughout his course. in addition i believe the relation of every study to the whole realm of knowledge should be carefully explained. art cannot be taught apart from history; history cannot be grasped independently of literature. religion, ethics, science and philosophy are inextricably involved one with another. but mere learning or culture, a knowledge of facts or of arts, is unimportant as compared with a realization of the significance of life. the one is superficial--the other is fundamental; the one is temporal--the other is spiritual. there is no more wretched human being than a highly trained but utterly purposeless man--which, after all, is only saying that there is no use in having an education without a religion; that unless someone is going to live in the house there is not much use in elaborately furnishing it. i am not attempting to write a treatise on pedagogy; but, when all is said, i am inclined to the belief that my unfortunate present condition, whatever my material success may have been, is due to lack of education--in philosophy in its broadest sense; in mental discipline; and in actual acquirement. it is in this last field that my deficiencies and those of my class are superficially most apparent. a wide fund of information may be less important than a knowledge of general principles, but it is none the less valuable; and all of us ought to be equipped with the kind of education that will enable us to understand the world of men as well as the world of nature. it is, of course, essential for us to realize that the physical characteristics of a continent may have more influence on the history of nations than mere wars or battles, however far-reaching the foreign policies of their rulers; but, in addition to an appreciation of this and similar underlying propositions governing the development of civilization, the educated man who desires to study the problems of his own time and country, to follow the progress of science and philosophy, and to enjoy music, literature and art, must have a certain elementary equipment of mere facts. the oriental attitude of mind that enabled the shah of persia calmly to decline the invitation of the prince of wales to attend the derby, on the ground that "he knew one horse could run faster than another," is foreign to that of western civilization. the battle of waterloo is a flyspeck in importance contrasted with the problem of future existence; but the man who never heard of napoleon would make a dull companion in this world or the next. we live in direct proportion to the keenness of our interest in life; and the wider and broader this interest is, the richer and happier we are. a man is as big as his sympathies, as small as his selfishness. the yokel thinks only of his dinner and his snooze under the hedge, but the man of education rejoices in every new production of the human brain. advantageous intercourse between civilized human beings requires a working knowledge of the elementary facts of history, of the achievements in art, music and letters, as well as of the principles of science and philosophy. when people go to quarreling over the importance of a particular phase of knowledge or education they are apt to forget that, after all, it is a purely relative matter, and that no one can reasonably belittle the value of any sort of information. but furious arguments arise over the question as to how history should be taught, and "whether a boy's head should be crammed full of dates." nobody in his senses would want a boy's head crammed full of dates any more than he would wish his stomach stuffed with bananas; but both the head and the stomach need some nourishment--better dates than nothing. if a knowledge of a certain historical event is of any value whatsoever, the greater and more detailed our knowledge the better--including perhaps, but not necessarily, its date. the question is not essentially whether the dates are of value, but how much emphasis should be placed on them to the exclusion of other facts of history. "there is no use trying to remember dates," is a familiar cry. there is about as much sense in such a statement as the announcement: "there is no use trying to remember who wrote henry esmond, composed the fifth symphony, or painted the last supper." there is a lot of use in trying to remember anything. the people who argue to the contrary are too lazy to try. * * * * * i suppose it may be conceded, for the sake of argument, that every american, educated or not, should know the date of the declaration of independence, and have some sort of acquaintance with the character and deeds of washington. if we add to this the date of the discovery of america and the first english settlement; the inauguration of the first president; the louisiana purchase; the naval war with england; the war with mexico; the missouri compromise, and the firing on fort sumter, we cannot be accused of pedantry. it certainly could not do any one of us harm to know these dates or a little about the events themselves. this is equally true, only in a lesser degree, in regard to the history of foreign nations. any accurate knowledge is worth while. it is harder, in the long run, to remember a date slightly wrong than with accuracy. the dateless man, who is as vague as i am about the league of cambray or philip ii, will loudly assert that the trouble incident to remembering a date in history is a pure waste of time. he will allege that "a general idea"--a very favorite phrase--is all that is necessary. in the case of such a person you can safely gamble that his so-called "general idea" is no idea at all. pin him down and he will not be able to tell you within _five hundred years_ the dates of some of the cardinal events of european history--the invasion of europe by the huns, for instance. was it before or after christ? he might just as well try to tell you that it was quite enough to know that our civil war occurred somewhere in the nineteenth century. i have personally no hesitation in advancing the claim that there are a few elementary principles and fundamental facts in all departments of human knowledge which every person who expects to derive any advantage from intelligent society should not only once learn but should forever remember. not to know them is practically the same thing as being without ordinary means of communication. one may not find it necessary to remember the binomial theorem or the algebraic formula for the contents of a circle, but he should at least have a formal acquaintance with julius caesar, hannibal, charlemagne, martin luther, francis i, queen elizabeth, louis xiv, napoleon i--and a dozen or so others. an educated man must speak the language of educated men. i do not think it too much to demand that in history he should have in mind, at least approximately, one important date in each century in the chronicles of france, england, italy and germany. that is not much, but it is a good start. and shall we say ten dates in american history? he should, in addition, have a rough working knowledge of the chief personages who lived in these centuries and were famous in war, diplomacy, art, religion and literature. his one little date will at least give him some notion of the relation the events in one country bore to those in another. i boldly assert that in a half hour you can learn by heart all the essential dates in american history. i assume that you once knew, and perhaps still know, something about the events themselves with which they are connected. ten minutes a day for the rest of the week and you will have them at your fingers' ends. it is no trick at all. it is as easy as learning the names of the more important parts of the mechanism of your motor. there is nothing impossible or difficult, or even tedious, about it; but it seems herculean because you have never taken the trouble to try to remember anything. it is the same attitude that renders it almost physically painful for one of us to read over the scenario of an opera or a column biography of its composer before hearing a performance at the metropolitan. yet fifteen minutes or half an hour invested in this way pays about five hundred per cent. and the main thing, after you have learned anything, is not to forget it. knowledge forgotten is no knowledge at all. that is the trouble with the elective system as usually administered in our universities. at the end of the college year the student tosses aside his elements of geology and forgets everything between its covers. what he has learned should be made the basis for other and more detailed knowledge. the instructor should go on building a superstructure on the foundation he has laid, and at the end of his course the aspirant for a diploma should be required to pass an examination on his entire college work. had i been compelled to do that, i should probably be able to tell now--what i do not know--whether melancthon was a painter, a warrior, a diplomat, a theologian or a dramatic poet. i have instanced the study of dates because they are apt to be the storm center of discussions concerning education. it is fashionable to scoff at them in a superior manner. we all of us loathe them; yet they are as indispensable--a certain number of them--as the bones of a body. they make up the skeleton of history. they are the orderly pegs on which we can hang later acquired information. if the pegs are not there the information will fall to the ground. for example, our entire conception of the reformation, or of any intellectual or religious movement, might easily turn on whether it preceded or followed the discovery of printing; and our mental picture of any great battle, as well as our opinion of the strategy of the opposing armies, would depend on whether or not gunpowder had been invented at the time. hence the importance of a knowledge of the dates of the invention of printing and of gunpowder in europe. it is ridiculous to allege that there is no minimum of education, to say nothing of culture, which should be required of every intelligent human being if he is to be but a journeyman in society. in an unconvincing defense of our own ignorance we loudly insist that detailed knowledge of any subject is mere pedagogy, a hindrance to clear thinking, a superfluity. we do not say so, to be sure, with respect to knowledge in general; but that is our attitude in regard to any particular subject that may be brought up. yet to deny the value of special information is tantamount to an assertion of the desirability of general ignorance. it is only the politician who can afford to say: "wide knowledge is a fatal handicap to forcible expression." this is not true of the older countries. in germany, for instance, a knowledge of natural philosophy, languages and history is insisted on. to the german schoolboy, george washington is almost as familiar a character as columbus; but how many american children know anything of bismarck? the ordinary educated foreigner speaks at least two languages and usually three, is fairly well grounded in science, and is perfectly familiar with ancient and modern history. the american college graduate seems like a child beside him so far as these things are concerned. we are content to live a hand-to-mouth mental existence on a haphazard diet of newspapers and the lightest novels. we are too lazy to take the trouble either to discipline our minds or to acquire, as adults, the elementary knowledge necessary to enable us to read intelligently even rather superficial books on important questions vitally affecting our own social, physical intellectual or moral existences. if somebody refers to huss or wyclif ten to one we do not know of whom he is talking; the same thing is apt to be true about the draft of the hot-water furnace or the ball and cock of the tank in the bathroom. inertia and ignorance are the handmaidens of futility. heaven forbid that we should let anybody discover this aridity of our minds! my wife admits privately that she has forgotten all the french she ever knew--could not even order a meal from a _carte de jour_; yet she is a never-failing source of revenue to the counts and marquises who yearly rush over to new york to replenish their bank accounts by giving parlor lectures in their native tongue on _le xiiime siècle_ or madame lebrun. no one would ever guess that she understands no more than one word out of twenty and that she has no idea whether talleyrand lived in the fifteenth or the eighteenth century, or whether calvin was a frenchman or a scotchman. our clever people are content merely with being clever. they will talk tolstoi or turgenieff with you, but they are quite vague about catherine ii or peter the great. they are up on d'annunczio, but not on garibaldi or cavour. our ladies wear a false front of culture, but they are quite bald underneath. * * * * * being educated, however, does not consist, by any means, in knowing who fought and won certain battles or who wrote the novum organum. it lies rather in a knowledge of life based on the experience of mankind. hence our study of history. but a study of history in the abstract is valueless. it must be concrete, real and living to have any significance for us. the schoolboy who learns by rote imagines the greeks as outline figures of one dimension, clad in helmets and tunics, and brandishing little swords. that is like thinking of jeanne d'arc as a suit of armor or of theodore roosevelt as a pair of spectacles. if the boy is to gain anything by his acquaintance with the greeks he must know what they ate and drank, how they amused themselves, what they talked about, and what they believed as to the nature and origin of the universe and the probability of a future life. i hold that it is as important to know how the romans told time as that nero fiddled while his capital was burning. william the silent was once just as much alive as p.t. barnum, and a great deal more worth while. it is fatal to regard historical personages as lay figures and not as human beings. we are equally vague with respect to the ordinary processes of our daily lives. i have not the remotest idea of how to make a cup of coffee or disconnect the gas or water mains in my own house. if my sliding door sticks i send for the carpenter, and if water trickles in the tank i telephone for the plumber. i am a helpless infant in the stable and my motor is the creation of a frankenstein that has me at its mercy. my wife may recall something of cookery--which she would not admit, of course, before the butler--but my daughters have never been inside a kitchen. none of my family knows anything about housekeeping or the prices of foodstuffs or house-furnishings. my coal and wood are delivered and paid for without my inquiring as to the correctness of the bills, and i offer the same temptations to dishonest tradesmen that a drunken man does to pickpockets. yet i complain of the high cost of living! my family has never had the slightest training in practical affairs. if we were cast away on a fertile tropical island we should be forced to subsist on bananas and clams, and clothe ourselves with leaves,--provided the foliage was ready made and came in regulation sizes. these things are vastly more important from an educational point of view than a knowledge of the relationship of mary stuart to the duke of guise, however interesting that may be to a reader of french history of the sixteenth century. a knowledge of the composition of gunpowder is more valuable than of guy fawkes' gunpowder plot. if we know nothing about household economies we can hardly be expected to take an interest in the problems of the proletariat. if we are ignorant of the fundamental data of sociology and politics we can have no real opinions on questions affecting the welfare of the people. the classic phrase "the public be damned!" expresses our true feeling about the matter. we cannot become excited about the wrongs and hardships of the working class when we do not know and do not care how they live. one of my daughters--aged seven--once essayed a short story, of which the heroine was an orphan child in direst want. it began: "corrine was starving. 'alas! what shall we do for food?' she asked her french nurse as they entered the carriage for their afternoon drive in the park." i have no doubt that even to-day this same young lady supposes that there are porcelain baths in every tenement house. i myself have no explanation as to why i pay eighty dollars for a business suit any my bookkeepers seems to be equally well turned out for eighteen dollars and fifty cents. that is essentially why the people have an honest and well-founded distrust of those enthusiastic society ladies who rush into charity and frantically engage in the elevation of the masses. the poor working girl is apt to know a good deal more about her own affairs than the fifth avenue matron with an annual income of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. if i were doing it all over again--and how i wish i could!--i should insist on my girls being taught not only music and languages but cooking, sewing, household economy and stenography. they should at least be able to clothe and feed themselves and their children if somebody supplied them with the materials, and to earn a living if the time came when they had to do it. they have now no conception of the relative values of even material things, what the things are made of or how they are put together. for them hats, shoes, french novels and roast chicken can be picked off the trees. * * * * * this utter ignorance of actual life not only keeps us at a distance from the people of our own time but renders our ideas of history equally vague, abstract and unprofitable. i believe it would be an excellent thing if, beginning with the age of about ten years, no child were allowed to eat anything until he was able to tell where it was produced, what it cost and how it was prepared. if this were carried out in every department of the child's existence he would have small need of the superficial education furnished by most of our institutions of learning. our children are taught about the famines of history when they cannot recognize a blade of wheat or tell the price of a loaf of bread, or how it is made. i would begin the education of my boy--him of the tango and balkline billiards--with a study of himself, in the broad use of the term, before i allowed him to study about other people or the history of nations. i would seat him in a chair by the fire and begin with his feet. i would inquire what he knew about his shoes--what they were made of, where the substance came from, the cost of its production, the duty on leather, the process of manufacture, the method of transportation of goods, freight rates, retailing, wages, repairs, how shoes were polished--this would begin, if desired, a new line of inquiry as to the composition of said polish, cost, and so on--comparative durability of hand and machine work, introduction of machines into england and its effect on industrial conditions. i say i would do all this; but, of course, i could not. i would have to be an educated man in the first place. why, beginning with that dusty little pair of shoes, my boy and i might soon be deep in interstate commerce and the theory of malthus--on familiar terms with thomas a. edison and henry george! and the next time my son read about a tammany politician giving away a pair of shoes to each of his adherents it would mean something to him--as much as any other master stroke of diplomacy. i would instruct every boy in a practical knowledge of the house in which he lives, give him a familiarity with simple tools and a knowledge of how to make small repairs and to tinker with the water pipes. i would teach him all those things i now do not know myself--where the homeless man can find a night's lodging; how to get a disorderly person arrested; why bottled milk costs fifteen cents a quart; how one gets his name on the ballot if he wants to run for alderman; where the health department is located, and how to get vaccinated for nothing. by the time we had finished we would be in a position to understand the various editorials in the morning papers which now we do not read. far more than that, my son would be brought to a realization that everything in the world is full of interest for the man who has the knowledge to appreciate its significance. "a primrose by a river's brim" should be no more suggestive, even to a lake-poet, than a persian rug or a rubber shoe. instead of the rug he will have a vision of the patient afghan in his mountain village working for years with unrequited industry; instead of the shoe he will see king leopold and hear the lamentations of the congo. my ignorance of everything beyond my own private bank account and stomach is due to the fact that i have selfishly and foolishly regarded these two departments as the most important features of my existence. i now find that my financial and gastronomical satisfaction has been purchased at the cost of an infinite delight in other things. i am mentally out of condition. apart from this brake on the wheel of my intelligence, however, i suffer an even greater impediment by reason of the fact that, never having acquired a thorough groundwork of elementary knowledge, i find i cannot read with either pleasure or profit. most adult essays or histories presuppose some such foundation. recently i have begun to buy primers--such as are used in the elementary schools--in order to acquire the information that should have been mine at twenty years of age. and i have resolved that in my daily reading of the newspapers i will endeavor to look up on the map and remember the various places concerning which i read any news item of importance, and to assimilate the facts themselves. it is my intention also to study, at least half an hour each day, some simple treatise on science, politics, art, letters or history. in this way i hope to regain some of my interest in the activities of mankind. if i cannot do this i realize now that it will go hard with me in the years that are drawing nigh. i shall, indeed, then lament that "i have no pleasure in them." * * * * * it is the common practice of business men to say that when they reach a certain age they are going to quit work and enjoy themselves. how this enjoyment is proposed to be attained varies in the individual case. one man intends to travel or live abroad--usually, he believes, in paris. another is going into ranching or farming. still another expects to give himself up to art, music and books. we all have visions of the time when we shall no longer have to go downtown every day and can indulge in those pleasures that are now beyond our reach. unfortunately the experience of humanity demonstrates the inevitability of the law of nature which prescribes that after a certain age it is practically impossible to change our habits, either of work or of play, without physical and mental misery. most of us take some form of exercise throughout our lives--riding, tennis, golf or walking. this we can continue to enjoy in moderation after our more strenuous days are over; but the manufacturer, stock broker or lawyer who thinks that after his sixtieth birthday he is going to be able to find permanent happiness on a farm, loafing round paris or reading in his library will be sadly disappointed. his habit of work will drive him back, after a year or so of wretchedness, to the factory, the ticker or the law office; and his habit of play will send him as usual to the races, the club or the variety show. one cannot acquire an interest by mere volition. it is a matter of training and of years. the pleasures of to-day will eventually prove to be the pleasures of our old age--provided they continue to be pleasures at all, which is more than doubtful. as we lose the capacity for hard work we shall find that we need something to take its place--something more substantial and less unsatisfactory than sitting in the club window or taking in the broadway shows. but, at least, the seeds of these interests must be sown now if we expect to gather a harvest this side of the grave. what is more natural than to believe that in our declining years we shall avail ourselves of the world's choicest literature and pass at least a substantial portion of our days in the delightful companionship of the wisest and wittiest of mankind? that would seem to be one of the happiest uses to which good books could be put; but the hope is vain. the fellow who does not read at fifty will take no pleasure in books at seventy. my club is full of dozens of melancholy examples of men who have forgotten how to read. they have spent their entire lives perfecting the purely mechanical aspects of their existences. the mind has practically ceased to exist, so far as they are concerned. they have built marvelous mansions, where every comfort is instantly furnished by contrivances as complicated and accurate as the machinery of a modern warship. the doors and windows open and close, the lights are turned on and off, and the elevator stops--all automatically. if the temperature of a room rises above a certain degree the heating apparatus shuts itself off; if it drops too low something else happens to put it right again. the servants are swift, silent and decorous. the food is perfection. their motors glide noiselessly to and fro. their establishments run like fine watches. they have had to make money to achieve this mechanical perfection; they have had no time for anything else during their active years. and, now that those years are over, they have nothing to do. their minds are almost as undeveloped as those of professional pugilists. dinners and drinks, backgammon and billiards, the lightest opera, the trashiest novels, the most sensational melodrama are the most elevating of their leisure's activities. read? hunt? farm? not much! they sit behind the plate-glass windows and bet on whether more limousines will go north than south in the next ten minutes. if you should ask one of them whether he had read some book that was exciting discussion among educated people at the moment, he would probably look at you blankly and, after remarking that he had never cared for economics or history--as the case might be--inquire whether you preferred a "blossom" or a "tornado." poor vacuous old cocks! they might be having a green and hearty old age, surrounded by a group of the choicest spirits of all time. upstairs in the library there are easy-chairs within arm's reach of the best fellows who ever lived--adventurers, story-tellers, novelists, explorers, historians, rhymers, fighters, essayists, vagabonds and general liars--immortals, all of them. you can take your pick and if he bores you send him packing without a word of apology. they are good friends to grow old with--friends who in hours of weariness, of depression or of gladness may be summoned at will by those of us who belong to the brotherhood of educated men--of which, alas! i and my associates are no longer members. chapter v my morals the concrete evidence of my success as represented by my accumulated capital--outside of my uptown dwelling house--amounts, as i have previously said, to about seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. this is invested principally in railroad and mining stocks, both of which are subject to considerable fluctuation; and i have also substantial holdings in industrial corporations. some of these companies i represent professionally. as a whole, however, my investments may be regarded as fairly conservative. at any rate they cause me little uneasiness. my professional income is regular and comes with surprisingly little effort. i have as clients six manufacturing corporations that pay me retainers of twenty-five hundred dollars each, besides my regular fees for services rendered. i also represent two banks and a trust company. all this is fixed business and most of it is attended to by younger men, whom i employ at moderate salaries. i do almost no detail work myself, and my junior partners relieve me of the drawing of even important papers; so that, though i am constantly at my office, my time is spent in advising and consulting. i dictate all my letters and rarely take a pen in my hand. writing has become laborious and irksome. i even sign my correspondence with an ingenious rubber stamp that imitates my scrawling signature beyond discovery. if i wish to know the law on some given point i press a button and tell my managing clerk what i want. in an hour or two he hands me the authorities covering the issue in question in typewritten form. it is extraordinarily simple and easy. yet only yesterday i heard of a middle-aged man, whom i knew to be a peculiarly well-equipped all-around lawyer, who was ready to give up his private practice and take a place in any reputable office at a salary of thirty-five hundred dollars! most of my own time is spent in untangling mixed puzzles of law and fact, and my clients are comparatively few in number, though their interests are large. thus i see the same faces over and over again. i lunch daily at a most respectable eating club; and here, too, i meet the same men over and over again. i rarely make a new acquaintance downtown; in fact i rarely leave my office during the day. if i need to confer with any other attorney i telephone. there are dozens of lawyers in new york whose voices i know well--yet whose faces i have never seen. my office is on the nineteenth floor of a white marble building, and i can look down the harbor to the south and up the hudson to the north. i sit there in my window like a cliffdweller at the mouth of his cave. when i walk along wall street i can look up at many other hundreds of these caves, each with its human occupant. we leave our houses uptown, clamber down into a tunnel called the subway, are shot five miles or so through the earth, and debouch into an elevator that rushes us up to our caves. only between my house and the entrance to the subway am i obliged to step into the open air at all. a curious life! and i sit in my chair and talk to people in multitudes of other caves near by, or caves in new jersey, washington or chicago. louis xi used to be called "the human spider" by reason of his industry, but we modern office men are far more like human spiders than he, as we sit in the center of our webs of invisible wires. we wait and wait, and our lines run out across the length and breadth of the land--sometimes getting tangled, to be sure, so that it is frequently difficult to decide just which spider owns the web; but we sit patiently doing nothing save devising the throwing out of other lines. we weave, but we do not build; we manipulate, buy, sell and lend, quarrel over the proceeds, and cover the world with our nets, while the ants and the bees of mankind labor, construct and manufacture, and struggle to harness the forces of nature. we plan and others execute. we dicker, arrange, consult, cajole, bribe, pull our wires and extort; but we do it all in one place--the center of our webs and the webs are woven in our caves. i figure that i spend about six hours each day in my office; that i sleep nearly nine hours; that i am in transit on surface cars and in subways at least one hour and a half more; that i occupy another hour and a half in bathing, shaving and dressing, and an hour lunching at midday. this leaves a margin of five hours a day for all other activities. could even a small portion of this time be spent consecutively in reading in the evening, i could keep pace with current thought and literature much better than i do; or if i spent it with my son and daughters i should know considerably more about them than i do now, which is practically nothing. but the fact is that every evening from the first of november to the first of may the motor comes to the door at five minutes to eight and my wife and i are whirled up or down town to a dinner party--that is, save on those occasions when eighteen or twenty people are whirled to us. * * * * * this short recital of my daily activities is sufficient to demonstrate that i lead an exceedingly narrow and limited existence. i do not know any poor men, and even the charities in which i am nominally interested are managed by little groups of rich ones. the truth is, i learned thirty years ago that if one wants to make money one must go where money is and cultivate the people who have it. i have no petty legal business--there is nothing in it. if i cannot have millionaires for clients i do not want any. the old idea that the young country lawyer could shove a pair of socks into his carpetbag, come to the great city, hang out his shingle and build up a practice has long since been completely exploded. the best he can do now is to find a clerkship at twelve hundred dollars a year. big business gravitates to the big offices; and when the big firms look round for junior partners they do not choose the struggling though brilliant young attorney from the country, no matter how large his general practice may have become; but they go after the youth whose father is a director in forty corporations or the president of a trust. in the same way what time i have at my disposal to cultivate new acquaintances i devote not to the merely rich and prosperous but to the multi-millionaire--if i can find him--who does not even know the size of his income. i have no time to waste on the man who is simply earning enough to live quietly and educate his family. he cannot throw anything worth while in my direction; but a single crumb from the magnate's table may net me twenty or thirty thousand dollars. thus, not only for social but for business reasons, successful men affiliate habitually only with rich people. i concede that is a rather sordid admission, but it is none the truth. * * * * * money is the symbol of success; it is what we are all striving to get, and we naturally select the ways and means best adapted for the purpose. one of the simplest is to get as near it as possible and stay there. if i make a friend of a struggling doctor or professor he may invite me to draw his will, which i shall either have to do for nothing or else charge him fifty dollars for; but the railroad president with whom i often lunch, and who is just as agreeable personally, may perhaps ask me to reorganize a railroad. i submit that, selfish as it all seems when i write it down, it would be hard to do otherwise. i do not deliberately examine each new candidate for my friendship and select or reject him in accordance with a financial test; but what i do is to lead a social and business life that will constantly throw me only with rich and powerful men. i join only rich men's clubs; i go to resorts in the summer frequented only by rich people; and i play only with those who can, if they will, be of advantage to me. i do not do this deliberately; i do it instinctively--now. i suppose at one time it was deliberate enough, but to-day it comes as natural as using my automobile instead of a street car. we have heard a great deal recently about a so-called money trust. the truth of the matter is that the money trust is something vastly greater than any mere aggregation of banks; it consists in our fundamental trust in money. it is based on our instinctive and ineradicable belief that money rules the destinies of mankind. everything is estimated by us in money. a man is worth so and so much--in dollars. the millionaire takes precedence of everybody, except at the white house. the rich have things their own way--and every one knows it. ashamed of it? not at all. we are the greatest snobs in the civilized world, and frankly so. we worship wealth because at present we desire only the things wealth can buy. the sea, the sky, the mountains, the clear air of autumn, the simple sports and amusements of our youth and of the comparatively poor, pleasures in books, in birds, in trees and flowers, are disregarded for the fierce joys of acquisition, of the ownership in stocks and bonds, or for the no less keen delight in the display of our own financial superiority over our fellows. we know that money is the key to the door of society. without it our sons will not get into the polo-playing set or our daughters figure in the sunday supplements. we want money to buy ourselves a position and to maintain it after we have bought it. we want house on the sunny side of the street, with façades of graven marble; we want servants in livery and in buttons--or in powder and breeches if possible; we want french chefs and the best wine and tobacco, twenty people to dinner on an hour's notice, supper parties and a little dance afterward at sherry's or delmonico's, a box at the opera and for first nights at the theaters, two men in livery for our motors, yachts and thirty-footers, shooting boxes in south carolina, salmon water in new brunswick, and regular vacations, besides, at hot springs, aiken and palm beach; we want money to throw away freely and like gentlemen at canfield's, bradley's and monte carlo; we want clubs, country houses, saddle-horses, fine clothes and gorgeously dressed women; we want leisure and laughter, and a trip or so to europe every year, our names at the top of the society column, a smile from the grand dame in the tiara and a seat at her dinner table--these are the things we want, and since we cannot have them without money we go after the money first, as the _sine qua non_. we want these things for ourselves and we want them for our children. we hope our grandchildren will have them also, though about that we do not care so much. we want ease and security and the relief of not thinking whether we can afford to do things. we want to be lords of creation and to pass creation on to our descendants, exactly as did the nobility of the _ancien régime_. at the present time money will buy anything, from a place in the vestry of a swell church to a seat in the united states senate--an election to congress, a judgeship or a post in the diplomatic service. it will buy the favor of the old families or a decision in the courts. money is the controlling factor in municipal politics in new york. the moneyed group of wall street wants an amenable mayor--a tammany mayor preferred--so that it can put through its contracts. you always know where to find a regular politician. one always knew where to find dick croker. so the traction people pour the contents of their coffers into the campaign bags. until very recently the supreme court judges of new york bought their positions by making substantial contributions to the tammany treasury. the inferior judgeships went considerably cheaper. a man who stood in with the big boss might get a bargain. i have done business with politicians all my life and i have never found it necessary to mince my words. if i wanted a favor i always asked exactly what it was going to cost--and i always got the favor. no one needs to hunt very far for cases where the power of money has influenced the bench in recent times. the rich man can buy his son a place in any corporation or manufacturing company. the young man may go in at the bottom, but he will shoot up to the top in a year or two, with surprising agility, over the heads of a couple of thousand other and better men. the rich man can defy the law and scoff at justice; while the poor man, who cannot pay lawyers for delay, goes to prison. these are the veriest platitudes of demagogy, but they are true--absolutely and undeniably true. we know all this and we act accordingly, and our children imbibe a like knowledge with their mother's or whatever other properly sterilized milk we give them as a substitute. we, they and everybody else know that if enough money can be accumulated the possessor will be on easy street for the rest of his life--not merely the easy street of luxury and comfort, but of security, privilege and power; and because we like easy street rather than the narrow path we devote ourselves to getting there in the quickest possible way. we take no chances on getting our reward in the next world. we want it here and now, while we are sure of it--on broadway, at newport or in paris. we do not fool ourselves any longer into thinking that by self-sacrifice here we shall win happiness in the hereafter. that is all right for the poor, wretched and disgruntled. even the clergy are prone to find heaven and hell in this world rather than in the life after death; and the decay of faith leads us to feel that a purse of gold in the hand is better than a crown of the same metal in the by-and-by. we are after happiness, and to most of us money spells it. the man of wealth is protected on every side from the dangers that beset the poor. he can buy health and immunity from anxiety, and he can install his children in the same impregnable position. the dust of his motor chokes the citizen trudging home from work. he soars through life on a cushioned seat, with shock absorbers to alleviate all the bumps. no wonder we trust in money! we worship the golden calf far more than ever did the israelites beneath the crags of sinai. the real money trust is the tacit conspiracy by which those who have the money endeavor to hang on to it and keep it among themselves. neither at the present time do great fortunes tend to dissolve as inevitably as formerly. oliver wendell holmes somewhere analyzes the rapid disintegration of the substantial fortunes of his day and shows how it is, in fact, but "three generations from shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves." a fortune of two hundred thousand dollars divided among four children, each of whose share is divided among four grandchildren, becomes practically nothing at all--in only two. but could the good doctor have observed the tendencies of to-day he would have commented on a new phenomenon, which almost counteracts the other. it may be, and probably is, the fact that comparatively small fortunes still tend to disintegrate. this was certainly the rule during the first half of the nineteenth century in new england, when there was no such thing as a distinctly moneyed class, and when the millionaire was a creature only of romance. but when, as to-day, fortunes are so large that it is impossible to spend or even successfully give away the income from them, a new element is introduced that did not exist when doctor holmes used to meditate in his study on the back bay overlooking the placid charles. at the present time big fortunes are apt to gain by mere accretion what they lose by division; and the owner of great wealth has opportunities for investment undreamed of by the ordinary citizen who must be content with interest at four per cent and no unearned increment on his capital. this fact might of itself negative the tendency of which he speaks; but there is a much more potent force working against it as well. that is the absolute necessity, induced by the demands of modern metropolitan life, of keeping a big fortune together--or, if it must be divided, of rehabilitating it by marriage. there was a time not very long ago when one rarely heard of a young man or young woman of great wealth marrying anybody with an equal fortune. to do so was regarded with disapproval, and still is in some communities. to-day it is the rule instead of the exception. now we habitually speak in america of the "alliances of great families." there are two reasons for this--first, that being a multi-millionaire is becoming, as it were, a sort of recognized profession, having its own sports, its own methods of business and its own interests; second, that the luxury of to-day is so enervating and insidious that a girl or youth reared in what is called society cannot be comfortable, much less happy, on the income of less than a couple of million dollars. as seems to be demonstrated by the table of my own modest expenditure in a preceding article, the income of but a million dollars will not support any ordinary new york family in anything like the luxury to which the majority of our young people--even the sons and daughters of men in moderate circumstances--are accustomed. our young girls are reared on the choicest varieties of food, served with piquant sauces to tempt their appetites; they are permitted to pick and choose, and to refuse what they think they do not like; they are carried to and from their schools, music and dancing lessons in motors, and are taught to regard public conveyances as unhealthful and inconvenient; they never walk; they are given clothes only a trifle less fantastic and bizarre than those of their mothers, and command the services of maids from their earliest years; they are taken to the theater and the hippodrome, and for the natural pleasures of childhood are given the excitement of the footlights and the arena. as they grow older they are allowed to attend late dances that necessitate remaining in bed the next morning until eleven or twelve o'clock; they are told that their future happiness depends on their ability to attract the right kind of man; they are instructed in every art save that of being useful members of society; and in the ease, luxury and vacuity with which they are surrounded their lives parallel those of demi-mondaines. indeed, save for the marriage ceremony, there is small difference between them. the social butterfly flutters to the millionaire as naturally as the night moth of the tenderloin. hence the tendency to marry money is greater than ever before in the history of civilization. frugal, thrifty lives are entirely out of fashion. the solid, self-respecting class, which wishes to associate with people of equal means, is becoming smaller and smaller. if an ambitious mother cannot afford to rent a cottage at newport or bar harbor she takes her daughter to a hotel or boarding house there, in the hope that she will be thrown in contact with young men of wealth. the young girl in question, whose father is perhaps a hardworking doctor or business man, at home lives simply enough; but sacrifices are made to send her to a fashionable school, where her companions fill her ears with stories of their motors, trips to europe, and the balls they attend during the vacations. she becomes inoculated with the poison of social ambition before she comes out. unable by reason of the paucity of the family resources to buy luxuries for herself, she becomes a parasite and hanger-on of rich girls. if she is attractive and vivacious so much the better. like the shopgirl blinded by the glare of broadway, she flutters round the drawing rooms and country houses of the ultra-rich seeking to make a match that will put luxury within her grasp; but her chances are not so good as formerly. to-day the number of large fortunes has increased so rapidly that the wealthy young man has no difficulty in choosing an equally wealthy mate whose mental and physical attractions appear, and doubtless are, quite as desirable as those of the daughter of poorer parents. the same instinct to which i have confessed myself, as a professional man, is at work among our daughters and sons. they may not actually judge individuals by the sordid test of their ability to purchase ease and luxury, but they take care to meet and associate with only those who can do so. in this their parents are their ofttimes unconscious accomplices. the worthy young man of chance acquaintance is not invited to call--or, if he is, is not pressed to stay to dinner. "oh, he does not know our crowd!" explains the girl to herself. the crowd, on analysis, will probably be found to contain only the sons and daughters of fathers and mothers who can entertain lavishly and settle a million or so on their offspring at marriage. there is a constant attraction of wealth for wealth. poverty never attracted anything. if our children have money of their own that is a good reason to us why they should marry more money. we snarl angrily at the penniless youth, no matter how capable and intelligent, who dares cast his eyes on our daughter. we make it quite unambiguous that we have other plans for her--plans that usually include a steam yacht and a shooting box north of inverness. there is nothing more vicious than the commonly expressed desire of parents in merely moderate circumstances to give their children what are ordinarily spoken of as "opportunities." "we wish our daughters to have every opportunity--the best opportunities," they say, meaning an equal chance with richer girls of qualifying themselves for attracting wealthy men and of placing themselves in their way. in reality opportunities for what?--of being utterly miserable for the rest of their lives unless they marry out of their own class. the desire to get ahead that is transmitted from the american business man to his daughter is the source of untold bitterness--for, though he himself may fail in his own struggle, he has nevertheless had the interest of the game; but she, an old maid, may linger miserably on, unwilling to share the domestic life of some young man more than her equal in every respect. there is a subtle freemasonry among those who have to do with money. young men of family are given sinecures in banks and trust companies, and paid many times the salaries their services are worth. the inconspicuous lad who graduates from college the same year as one who comes from a socially prominent family will slave in a downtown office eight hours a day for a thousand dollars a year, while his classmate is bowing in the ladies at the fifth avenue branch--from ten to three o'clock--at a salary of five thousand dollars. why? because he knows people who have money and in one way or another may be useful sometime to the president in a social way. the remuneration of those of the privileged class who do any work at all is on an entirely different basis from that of those who need it. the poor boy is kept on as a clerk, while the rich one is taken into the firm. the old adage says that "kissing goes by favor"; and favors, financial and otherwise, are given only to those who can offer something in return. the tendency to concentrate power and wealth extends even to the outer rim of the circle. it is an intangible conspiracy to corner the good things and send the poor away empty. as i see it going on round me, it is a heartless business. society is like an immense swarm of black bees settled on a honey-pot. the leaders, who flew there first, are at the top, gorged and distended. round, beneath and on them crawl thousands of others thirsting to feed on the sweet, liquid gold. the pot is covered with them, layer on layer--buzzing hungrily; eager to get as near as possible to the honey, even if they may not taste it. a drop falls on one and a hundred fly on him and lick it off. the air is alive with those who are circling about waiting for an advantageous chance to wedge in between their comrades. they will, with one accord, sting to death any hapless creature who draws near. * * * * * frankly i should not be enough of a man to say these things if my identity were disclosed, however much they ought to be said. neither should i make the confessions concerning my own career that are to follow; for, though they may evidence a certain shrewdness on my own part, i do not altogether feel that they are to my credit. when my wife and i first came to new york our aims and ideals were simple enough. i had letters to the head of a rather well-known firm on wall street and soon found myself its managing clerk at one hundred dollars a month. the business transacted in the office was big business--corporation work, the handling of large estates, and so on. during three years i was practically in charge of and responsible for the details of their litigations; the net profit divided by the two actual members of the firm was about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. the gross was about one hundred and eighty thousand, of which twenty thousand went to defray the regular office expenses--including rent, stenographers and ordinary law clerks--while ten thousand was divided among the three men who actually did most of the work. the first of these was a highly trained lawyer about forty-five years of age, who could handle anything from a dog-license matter before a police justice to the argument of a rebate case in the united states supreme court. he was paid forty-five hundred dollars a year and was glad to get it. he was the active man of the office. the second man received thirty-five hundred dollars, and for that sum furnished all the special knowledge needed in drafting railroad mortgages and intricate legal documents of all sorts. the third was a chap of about thirty who tried the smaller cases and ran the less important corporations. the two heads of the firm devoted most of their time to mixing with bankers, railroad officials and politicians, and spent comparatively little of it at the office; but they got the business--somehow. i suppose they found it because they went out after it. it was doubtless quite legitimate. somebody must track down the game before the hunter can do the shooting. at any rate they managed to find plenty of it and furnished the work for the other lawyers to do. i soon made up my mind that in new york brains were a pretty cheap commodity. i was anxious to get ahead; but there was no opening in the firm and there were others ready to take my place the moment it should become vacant. i was a pretty fair lawyer and had laid by in the bank nearly a thousand dollars; so i went to the head of the firm and made the proposition that i should work at the office each day until one o'clock and be paid half of what i was then getting--that is, fifty dollars a month. in the afternoons an understudy should sit at my desk, while i should be free. i then suggested that the firm might divide with me the proceeds of any business i should bring in. my offer was accepted; and the same afternoon i went to the office of a young stockbroker i knew and stayed there until three o'clock. the next day i did the same thing, and the day after. i did not buy any stocks, but i made myself agreeable to the group about the ticker and formed the acquaintance of an elderly german, who was in the chewing-gum business and who amused himself playing the market. it was not long before he invited me to lunch with him and i took every opportunity to impress him with my legal acumen. he had a lawyer of his own already, but i soon saw that the impression i was making would have the effect i desired; and presently, as i had confidently expected, he gave me a small legal matter to attend to. needless to say it was accomplished with care, celerity and success. he gave me another. for six months i dogged that old german's steps every day from one o'clock in the afternoon until twelve at night. i walked, talked, drank beer and played pinochle with him, sat in his library in the evenings, and took him and his wife to the theater. at the end of that period he discharged his former attorney and retained me. the business was easily worth thirty-five hundred dollars a year, and within a short time the chicle trust bought out his interests and i became a director in it and one of its attorneys. i had already severed my connection with the firm and had opened an office of my own. among the directors in the trust with whom i was thrown were a couple of rich young men whose fathers had put them on the board merely for purposes of representation. these i cultivated with the same assiduity as i had used with the german. i spent my entire time gunning for big game. i went after the elephants and let the sparrows go. it was only a month or so before my acquaintance with these two boys--for they were little else--had ripened into friendship. my wife and i were invited to visit at their houses and i was placed in contact with their fathers. from these i soon began to get business. i have kept it--kept it to myself. i have no real partners to steal it away from me. i am now the same kind of lawyer as the two men who composed the firm for which i slaved at a hundred dollars a month. i find the work for my employees to do. i am now an exploiter of labor. it is hardly necessary for me to detail the steps by which i gradually acquired what is known as a gilt-edged practice; but it was not by virtue of my legal abilities, though they are as good as the average. i got it by putting myself in the eye of rich people in every way open to me. i even joined a fashionable church--it pains me to write this--for the sole purpose of becoming a member of the vestry and thus meeting on an intimate footing the half-dozen millionaire merchants who composed it. one of them gave me his business, made me his trustee and executor; and then i resigned from the vestry. i always made myself _persona grata_ to those who could help me along, wore the best clothes i could buy, never associated with shabby people, and appeared as much as possible in the company of my financial betters. it was the easier for me to do this because my name was not irish, german or hebraic. i had a good appearance, manners and an agreeable gloss of culture and refinement. i was tactful, considerate, and tried to strike a personal note in my intercourse with people who were worth while; in fact i made it a practice--and still do so--to send little mementos to my newer acquaintances--a book or some such trifle--with a line expressing my pleasure at having met them. i know a considerable number of doctors, as well as lawyers, who have built up lucrative practices by making love to their female clients and patients. that i never did; but i always made it a point to flatter any women i took in to dinner, and i am now the trustee or business adviser for at least half a dozen wealthy widows as a direct consequence. one reason for my success is, i discovered very early in the game that no woman believes she really needs a lawyer. she consults an attorney not for the purpose of getting his advice, but for sympathy and his approval of some course she has already decided on and perhaps already followed. a lawyer who tells a woman the truth thereby loses a client. he has only to agree with her and compliment her on her astuteness and sagacity to intrench himself forever in her confidence. a woman will do what she wants to do--every time. she goes to a lawyer to explain why she intends to do it. she wants to have a man about on whom she can put the blame if necessary, and is willing to pay--moderately--for the privilege. she talks to a lawyer when no one else is willing to listen to her, and thoroughly enjoys herself. he is the one man who--unless he is a fool--cannot talk back. another fact to which i attribute a good deal of my professional éclat is, that i never let any of my social friends forget that i was a lawyer as well as a good fellow; and i always threw a hearty bluff at being prosperous, even when a thousand or two was needed to cover the overdraft in my bank account. it took me about ten years to land myself firmly among the class to which i aspired, and ten years more to make that place impregnable. to-day we are regarded as one of the older if not one of the old families in new york. i no longer have to lick anybody's boots, and until i began to pen these memoirs i had really forgotten that i ever had. things come my way now almost of themselves. all i have to do is to be on hand in my office--cheerful, hospitable, with a good story or so always on tap. my junior force does the law work. yet i challenge anybody to point out anything dishonorable in those tactics by which i first got my feet on the lower rungs of the ladder of success. it may perhaps be that i should prefer to write down here the story of how, simply by my assiduity and learning, i acquired such a reputation for a knowledge of the law that i was eagerly sought out by a horde of clamoring clients who forced important litigations on me. things do not happen that way in new york to-day. should a young man be blamed for getting on by the easiest way he can? life is too complex; the population too big. people have no accurate means of finding out who the really good lawyers or doctors are. if you tell them you are at the head of your profession they are apt to believe you, particularly if you wear a beard and are surrounded by an atmosphere of solemnity. only a man's intimate circle knows where he is or what he is doing at any particular time. i remember a friend of mine who was an exceedingly popular member of one of the exclusive fifth avenue clubs, and who, after going to europe for a short vacation, decided to remain abroad for a couple of years. at the end of that time he returned to new york hungry for his old life and almost crazy with delight at seeing his former friends. entering the club about five o'clock he happened to observe one of them sitting by the window. he approached him enthusiastically, slapped him on the shoulder, extended his hand and cried: "hello, old man! it's good to see you again!" the other man looked at him in a puzzled sort of way without moving. "hello, yourself!" he remarked languidly. "it's good to see you, all right--but why make so much damned fuss about it?" the next sentence interchanged between the two developed the fact that he was totally ignorant that his friend had been away at all. this is by no means a fantastic illustration. it happens every day. that is one of the joys of living in new york. you can get drunk, steal a million or so, or run off with another man's wife--and no one will hear about it until you are ready for something else. in such a community it is not extraordinary that most people are taken at their face value. life moves at too rapid a pace to allow us to find out much about anybody--even our friends. one asks other people to dinner simply because one has seen them at somebody's else house. i found it at first very difficult--in fact almost impossible--to spur my wife on to a satisfactory cooperation with my efforts to make the hand of friendship feed the mouth of business. she rather indignantly refused to meet my chewing-gum client or call on his wife. she said she preferred to keep her self-respect and stay in the boarding-house where we had resided since we moved to the city; but i demonstrated to her by much argument that it was worse than snobbish not to be decently polite to one's business friends. it was not their fault if they were vulgar. one might even help them to enlarge their lives. gradually she came round; and as soon as the old german had given me his business she was the first to suggest moving to an apartment hotel uptown. for a long time, however, she declined to make any genuine social effort. she knew two or three women from our neighborhood who were living in the city, and she used to go and sit with them in the afternoons and sew and help take care of the children. she said they and their husbands were good enough for her and that she had no aspirations toward society. an evening at the theater--in the balcony--every two weeks or so, and a rubber of whist on saturday night, with a chafing-dish supper afterward, was all the excitement she needed. that was twenty-five years ago. to-day it is i who would put on the brakes, while she insists on shoveling soft coal into the social furnace. her metamorphosis was gradual but complete. i imagine that her first reluctance to essay an acquaintance with society arose out of embarrassment and bashfulness. at any rate she no sooner discovered how small a bluff was necessary for success than she easily outdid me in the ingenuity and finesse of her social strategy. it seemed to be instinctive with her. she was always revising her calling lists and cutting out people who were no longer socially useful; and having got what she could out of a new acquaintance, she would forget her as completely as if she had never made her the confidante of her inmost thoughts about other and less socially desirable people. it seems a bit cold-blooded--this criticism of one's wife; but i know that, however much of a sycophant i may have been in my younger days, my wife has outdone me since then. presently we were both in the swim, swept off our feet by the current and carried down the river of success, willy-nilly, toward its mouth--to a safe haven, i wonder, or the deluge of a devouring cataract? * * * * * the methods i adopted are those in general use, either consciously or unconsciously, among people striving for success in business, politics or society in new york. it is a struggle for existence, precisely like that which goes on in the animal world. only those who have strength or cunning survive to achieve success. might makes right to an extent little dreamed of by most of us. nobody dares to censure or even mildly criticize one who has influence enough to do him harm. we are interested only in safeguarding or adding to the possessions we have already secured. we are wise enough to "play safe." to antagonize one who might assist in depriving us of some of them is contrary to the laws of nature. our thoughts are for ourselves and our children alone. the devil take everybody else! we are safe, warm and comfortable ourselves; we exist without actual labor; and we desire our offspring to enjoy the same ease and safety. the rest of mankind is nothing to us, except a few people it is worth our while to be kind to--personal servants and employees. we should not hesitate to break all ten of the commandments rather than that we and our children should lose a few material comforts. anything, save that we should have really to work for a living! there are essentially two sorts of work: first--genuine labor, which requires all a man's concentrated physical or mental effort; and second--that work which takes the laborer to his office at ten o'clock and, after an easy-going administrative morning, sets him at liberty at three or four. the officer of an uptown trust company or bank is apt to belong to the latter class. or perhaps one is in real estate and does business at the dinner tables of his friends. he makes love and money at the same time. his salary and commissions correspond somewhat to the unearned increment on the freeholds in which he deals. these are minor illustrations, but a majority of the administrative positions in our big corporations carry salaries out of all proportion to the services rendered. these are the places my friends are all looking for--for themselves or their children. the small stockholder would not vote the president of his company a salary of one hundred thousand dollars a year, or the vice-president fifty thousand dollars; but the rich man who controls the stock is willing to give his brother or his nephew a soft snap. from what i know of corporate enterprise in these united states, god save the minority stockholder! but we and our brothers and sons and nephews must live--on easy street. we must be able to give expensive dinners and go to the theater and opera, and take our families to europe--and we can't do it without money. we must be able to keep up our end without working too hard, to be safe and warm, well fed and smartly turned out, and able to call in a specialist and a couple of trained nurses if one of the children falls ill; we want thirty-five feet of southerly exposure instead of seventeen, menservants instead of maid-servants, and a new motor every two years. we do not object to working--that is to say, we pride ourselves on having a job. we like to be moderately busy. we would not have enough to amuse us all day if we did not go to the office in the morning; but what we do is not _work_! it is occupation perhaps--but there is no labor about it, either of mind or body. it is a sinecure--a "cinch." we could stay at home and most of us would not be missed. it is not the seventy-five-hundred-dollar-a-year vice-president but the eight-hundred-and-fifty-dollar clerk for want of whom the machine would stop if he were sick. our labor is a kind of masculine light housework. we probably have private incomes, thanks to our fathers or great uncles--not large enough to enable us to cut much of a dash, to be sure, but sufficient to give us confidence--and the proceeds of our daily toil, such as it is, go toward the purchase of luxuries merely. because we are in business we are able to give bigger and more elegant dinner parties, go to palm beach in february, and keep saddle-horses; but we should be perfectly secure without working at all. hence we have a sense of independence about it. we feel as if it were rather a favor on our part to be willing to go into an office; and we expect to be paid vastly more proportionately than the fellow who needs the place in order to live: so we cut him out of it at a salary three times what he would have been paid had he got the job, while he keeps on grinding at the books as a subordinate. we come down late and go home early, drop in at the club and go out to dinner, take in the opera, wear furs, ride in automobiles, and generally boss the show--for the sole reason that we belong to the crowd who have the money. very likely if we had not been born with it we should die from malnutrition, or go to ward's island suffering from some variety of melancholia brought on by worry over our inability to make a living. i read the other day the true story of a little east side tailor who could not earn enough to support himself and his wife. he became half-crazed from lack of food and together they resolved to commit suicide. somehow he secured a small -caliber rook rifle and a couple of cartridges. the wife knelt down on the bed in her nightgown, with her face to the wall, and repeated a prayer while he shot her in the back. when he saw her sink to the floor dead he became so unnerved that, instead of turning the rifle on himself, he ran out into the street, with chattering teeth, calling for help. this tragedy was absolutely the result of economic conditions, for the man was a hardworking and intelligent fellow, who could not find employment and who went off his head from lack of nourishment. now "i put it to you," as they say in the english law courts, how much of a personal sacrifice would you have made to prevent this tragedy? what would that little east side jewess' life have been worth to you? she is dead. her soul may or may not be with god. as a suicide the church would say it must be in hell. well, how much would you have done to preserve her life or keep her soul out of hell? frankly, would you have parted with five hundred dollars to save that woman's life? five hundred dollars? let me tell you that you would not voluntarily have given up smoking cigars for one year to avoid that tragedy! of course you would have if challenged to do so. if the fact that the killing could be avoided in some such way or at a certain price, and the discrepancy between the cost and the value of the life were squarely brought to your particular attention, you might and probably would do something. how much is problematical. let us do you the credit of saying that you would give five hundred dollars--and take it out of some other charity. but what if you were given _another_ chance to save a life for five hundred dollars? all right; you will save that too. now a third! you hesitate. that will be spending fifteen hundred dollars--a good deal. still you decide to do it. yet how embarrassing! you find an opportunity to save a fourth, a fifth--a hundred lives at the same price! what are you going to do? we all of us have such a chance in one way or another. the answer is that, in spite of the admonition of christ to sell our all and give to the poor, and others of his teachings as contained in the sermon on the mount, you probably, in order to save the lives of persons unknown to you, would not sacrifice a single substantial material comfort for one year; and that your impulse to save the lives of persons actually brought to your knowledge would diminish, fade away and die in direct proportion to the necessity involved of changing your present luxurious mode of life. do you know any rich woman who would sacrifice her automobile in order to send convalescents to the country? she may be a very charitable person and in the habit of sending such people to places where they are likely to recover health; but, no matter how many she actually sends, there would always be eight or ten more who could share in that blessed privilege if she gave up her motor and used the money for the purpose. yet she does not do so and you do not do so; and, to be quite honest, you would think her a fool if she did. what an interesting thing it would be if we could see the mental processes of some one of our friends who, unaware of our knowledge of his thoughts, was confronted with the opportunity of saving a life or accomplishing a vast good at a great sacrifice of his worldly possessions! suppose, for instance, he could save his own child by spending fifty thousand dollars in doctors, hospitals and nurses. of course he would do so without a moment's hesitation, even if that was his entire fortune. but suppose the child were a nephew? we see him waver a little. a cousin--there is a distinct pause. shall he pauperize himself just for a cousin? how about a mere social acquaintance? not much! he might in a moment of excitement jump overboard to save somebody from drowning; but it would have to be a dear friend or close relative to induce him to go to the bank and draw out all the money he had in the world to save that same life. the cities are full of lives that can be saved simply by spending a little money; but we close our eyes and, with our pocket-books clasped tight in our hands, pass by on the other side. why? not because we do not wish to deprive ourselves of the necessaries of life or even of its solid comforts, but because we are not willing to surrender our _amusements_. we want to play and not to work. that is what we are doing, what we intend to keep on doing, and what we plan to have our children do after us. brotherly love? how can there be such a thing when there is a single sick baby dying for lack of nutrition--a single convalescent suffocating for want of country air--a single family without fire or blankets? suggest to your wife that she give up a dinner gown and use the money to send a tubercular office boy to the adirondacks--and listen to her excuses! is there not some charitable organization that does such things? has not his family the money? how do you know he really has consumption? is he a _good_ boy? and finally: "well, one can't send every sick boy to the country; if one did there would be no money left to bring up one's own children." she hesitates--and the boy dies perhaps! so long as we do not see them dying, we do not really care how many people die. our altruism, such as it is, has nothing abstract about it. the successful man does not bother himself about things he cannot see. do not talk about foreign missions to _him_. try his less successful brother--the man who is _not_ successful because you can talk over with him foreign missions or even more idealistic matters; who is a failure because he will make sacrifices for a principle. it is all a part of our materialism. real sympathy costs too much money; so we try not to see the miserable creatures who might be restored to health for a couple of hundred dollars. a couple of hundred dollars? why, you could take your wife to the theater forty times--once a week during the entire season--for that sum! poor people make sacrifices; rich ones do not. there is very little real charity among successful people. a man who wasted his time helping others would never get on himself. * * * * * it will, of course, be said in reply that the world is full of charitable institutions supported entirely by the prosperous and successful. that is quite true; but it must be remembered that they are small proof in themselves of the amount of real self-sacrifice and genuine charity existing among us. philanthropy is largely the occupation of otherwise ineffective people, or persons who have nothing else to do, or of retired capitalists who like the notoriety and laudation they can get in no other way. but, even with philanthropy to amuse him, an idle multi-millionaire in these united states has a pretty hard time of it. he is generally too old to enjoy society and is not qualified to make himself a particularly agreeable companion, even if his manners would pass muster at newport. politics is too strenuous. desirable diplomatic posts are few and the choicer ones still require some dignity or educational qualification in the holders. there is almost nothing left but to haunt the picture sales or buy a city block and order the construction of a french château in the middle of it. i know one of these men intimately; in fact i am his attorney and helped him make a part of his money. at sixty-four he retired--that is, he ceased endeavoring to increase his fortune by putting up the price of foodstuffs and other commodities, or by driving competitors out of business. since then he has been utterly wretched. he would like to be in society and dispense a lavish hospitality, but he cannot speak the language of the drawing room. his opera box stands stark and empty. his house, filled with priceless treasures fit for the metropolitan museum, is closed nine months in the year. his own wants are few. his wife is a plain woman, who used to do her own cooking and, in her heart, would like to do it still. he knows nothing of the esthetic side of life and is too old to learn. once a month, in the season, we dine at his house, with a mixed company, in a desert of dining room at a vast table loaded with masses of gold plate. the peaches are from south africa; the strawberries from the riviera. his chef ransacks the markets for pheasants, snipe, woodcock, egyptian quail and canvasbacks. and at enormous distances from each other--so that the table may be decently full--sit, with their wives, his family doctor, his clergyman, his broker, his secretary, his lawyer, and a few of the more presentable relatives--a merry party! and that is what he has striven, fought and lied for for fifty years. often he has told me of the early days, when he worked from seven until six, and then studied in night school until eleven; and of the later ones when he and his wife lived, like ourselves, in a fourteenth street lodging house and saved up to go to the theater once a month. as a young man he swore he would have a million before he died. sunday afternoons he would go up to the vanderbilt house on fifth avenue and, shaking his fist before the ornamental iron railing, whisper savagely that he would own just such a house himself some day. when he got his million he was going to retire. but he got his million at the age of forty-five, and it looked too small and mean; he would have ten--then he would stop! by fifty-five he had his ten millions. it was comparatively easy, i believe, for him to get it. but still he was not satisfied. now he has twenty. but apart from his millions, his house and his pictures, which are bought for him by an agent on a salary of ten thousand dollars a year, he has nothing! i dine with him out of charity. well, recently johnson has gone into charity himself. i am told he has given away two millions! that is an exact tenth of his fortune. he is a religious man--in this respect he has outdone most of his brother millionaires. however, he still has an income of over a million a year--enough to satisfy most of his modest needs. yet the frugality of a lifetime is hard to overcome, and i have seen johnson walk home--seven blocks--in the rain from his club rather than take a cab, when the same evening he was giving his dinner guests peaches that cost--in december--two dollars and seventy-five cents apiece. the question is: how far have johnson's two millions made him a charitable man? i confess that, so far as i can see, giving them up did not cost him the slightest inconvenience. he merely bought a few hundred dollars' worth of reputation--as a charitable millionaire--at a cost of two thousand thousand dollars. it was--commercially--a miserable bargain. only a comparatively few people of the five million inhabitants of the city of new york ever heard of johnson or his hospital. now that it has been built, he is no longer interested. i do not believe he actually got as much satisfaction out of his two-million-dollar investment as he would get out of an evening at the hippodrome; but who can say that he is not charitable? * * * * * i lay stress on this matter of charity because essentially the charitable man is the good man. and by good we mean one who is of value to others as contrasted with one who is working, as most of us are, only for his own pocket all the time. he is the man who is such an egoist that he looks on himself as a part of the whole world and a brother to the rest of mankind. he has really got an exaggerated ego and everybody else profits by it in consequence. he believes in abstract principles of virtue and would die for them; he recognizes duties and will struggle along, until he is a worn-out, penniless old man, to perform them. he goes out searching for those who need help and takes a chance on their not being deserving. many a poor chap has died miserably because some rich man has judged that he was not deserving of help. i forget what lazarus did about the thirsty gentleman in hades--probably he did not regard him as deserving either. with most of us a charitable impulse is like the wave made by a stone thrown into a pool--it gets fainter and fainter the farther it has to go. generally it does not go the length of a city block. it is not enough that there is a starving cripple across the way--he must be on your own doorstep to rouse any interest. when we invest any of our money in charity we want twenty per cent interest, and we want it quarterly. we also wish to have a list of the stockholders made public. a man who habitually smokes two thirty-cent cigars after dinner will drop a quarter into the plate on sunday and think he is a good samaritan. the truth of the matter is that whatever instinct leads us to contribute toward the alleviation of the obvious miseries of the poor should compel us to go further and prevent those miseries--or as many of them as we can--from ever arising at all. so far as i am concerned, the division of goodness into seven or more specific virtues is purely arbitrary. virtue is generic. a man is either generous or mean--unselfish or selfish. the unselfish man is the one who is willing to inconvenience or embarrass himself, or to deprive himself of some pleasure or profit for the benefit of others, either now or hereafter. by the same token, now that i have given thought to the matter, i confess that i am a selfish man--at bottom. whatever generosity i possess is surface generosity. it would not stand the acid test of self-interest for a moment. i am generous where it is worth my while--that is all; but, like everybody else in my class, i have no generosity so far as my social and business life is concerned. i am willing to inconvenience myself somewhat in my intimate relations with my family or friends, because they are really a part of _me_--and, anyway, not to do so would result, one way or another, in even greater inconvenience to me. once outside my own house, however, i am out for myself and nobody else, however much i may protest that i have all the civic virtues and deceive the public into thinking i have. what would become of me if i did not look out for my own interests in the same way my associates look out for theirs? i should be lost in the shuffle. the christian virtues may be proclaimed from every pulpit and the banner of the cross fly from every housetop; but in business it is the law of evolution and not the sermon on the mount that controls. the rules of the big game are the same as those of the roman amphitheater. there is not even a pretense that the same code of morals can obtain among corporations and nations as among private individuals. then why blame the individuals? it is just a question of dog eat dog. we are all after the bone. no corporation would shorten the working day except by reason of self-interest or legal compulsion. no business man would attack an abuse that would take money out of his own pocket. and no one of us, except out of revenge or pique, would publicly criticize or condemn a man influential enough to do us harm. the political saint george usually hopes to jump from the back of the dead dragon of municipal corruption into the governor's chair. we have two standards of conduct--the ostensible and the actual. the first is a convention--largely literary. it is essentially merely a matter of manners--to lubricate the wheels of life. the genuine sphere of its influence extends only to those with whom we have actual contact; so that a breach of it would be embarrassing to us. within this qualified circle we do business as "christians & company, limited." outside this circle we make a bluff at idealistic standards, but are guided only by the dictates of self-interest, judged almost entirely by pecuniary tests. i admit, however, that, though i usually act from selfish motives, i would prefer to act generously if i could do so without financial loss. that is about the extent of my altruism, though i concede an omnipresent consciousness of what is abstractly right and what is wrong. occasionally, but very rarely, i even blindly follow this instinct irrespective of consequences. there have been times when i have been genuinely self-sacrificing. indeed i should unhesitatingly die for my son, my daughters--and probably for my wife. i have frequently suffered financial loss rather than commit perjury or violate my sense of what is right. i have called this sense an instinct, but i do not pretend to know what it is. neither can i explain its origin. if it is anything it is probably utilitarian; but it does not go very far. i have manners rather than morals. fundamentally i am honest, because to be honest is one of the rules of the game i play. if i were caught cheating i should not be allowed to participate. honesty from this point of view is so obviously the best policy that i have never yet met a big man in business who was crooked. mind you, they were most of them pirates--frankly flying the black flag and each trying to scuttle the other's ships; but their word was as good as their bond and they played the game squarely, according to the rules. men of my class would no more stoop to petty dishonesties than they would wear soiled linen. the word lie is not in their mutual language. they may lie to the outside public--i do not deny that they do--but they do not lie to each other. there has got to be some basis on which they can do business with one another--some stability. the spoils must be divided evenly. good morals, like good manners, are a necessity in our social relations. they are the uncodified rules of conduct among gentlemen. being uncodified, they are exceedingly vague; and the court of public opinion that administers them is apt to be not altogether impartial. it is a "respecter of persons." one man can get away with things that another man will hang for. a jean valjean will steal a banana and go to the island, while some rich fellow will put a bank in his pocket and everybody will treat it as a joke. a popular man may get drunk and not be criticized for it; but the sour chap who does the same thing is flung out of the club. there is little justice in the arbitrary decisions of society at large. in a word we exact a degree of morality from our fellowmen precisely in proportion to its apparent importance to ourselves. it is a purely practical and even a rather shortsighted matter with us. our friend's private conduct, so far as it does not concern us, is an affair of small moment. he can be as much of a roue as he chooses, so long as he respects our wives and daughters. he can put through a gigantic commercial robbery and we will acclaim his nerve and audacity, provided he is on the level with ourselves. that is the reason why cheating one's club members at cards is regarded as worse than stealing the funds belonging to widows and orphans. so long as a man conducts himself agreeably in his daily intercourse with his fellows they are not going to put themselves out very greatly to punish him for wrongdoing that does not touch their own bank accounts or which merely violates their private ethical standards. society is crowded with people who have been guilty of one detestable act, have got thereby on easy street and are living happily ever after. i meet constantly fifteen or twenty men who have deliberately married women for their money--of course without telling them so. according to our professed principles this is--to say the least--obtaining money under false pretenses--a crime under the statutes. these men are now millionaires. they are crooks and swindlers of the meanest sort. had they not married in this fashion they could not have earned fifteen hundred dollars a year; but everybody goes to their houses and eats their dinners. there are others, equally numerous, who acquired fortunes by blackmailing corporations or by some deal that at the time of its accomplishment was known to be crooked. to-day they are received on the same terms as men who have been honest all their lives. society is not particular as to the origin of its food supply. though we might refuse to steal money ourselves we are not unwilling to let the thief spend it on us. we are too busy and too selfish to bother about trying to punish those who deserve punishment. on the contrary we are likely to discover surprising virtues in the most unpromising people. there are always extenuating circumstances. indeed, in those rare instances where, in the case of a rich man, the social chickens come home to roost, the reason his fault is not overlooked is usually so arbitrary or fortuitous that it almost seems an injustice that he should suffer when so many others go scot-free for their misdeeds. society has no conscience, and whatever it has as a substitute is usually stimulated only by motives of personal vengeance. it is easier to gloss over an offense than to make ourselves disagreeable and perhaps unpopular. we have not even the public spirit to have a thief arrested and appear against him in court if he has taken from us only a small amount of money. it is too much trouble. only when our pride is hurt do we call loudly on justice and honor. even revenge is out of fashion. it requires too much effort. few of us have enough principle to make ourselves uncomfortable in attempting to show disapproval toward wrongdoers. were this not so, the wicked would not be still flourishing like green bay trees. so long as one steals enough he can easily buy our forgiveness. honesty is not the best policy--except in trifles. chapter vi my future when i began to pen these wandering confessions--or whatever they may properly be called--it was with the rather hazy purpose of endeavoring to ascertain why it was that i, universally conceded to be a successful man, was not happy. as i reread what i have written i realize that, instead of being a successful man in any way, i am an abject failure. the preceding pages need no comment. the facts speak for themselves. i had everything in my favor at the start. i had youth, health, natural ability, a good wife, friends and opportunity; but i blindly accepted the standards of the men i saw about me and devoted my energies to the achievement of the single object that was theirs--the getting of money. thirty years have gone by. i have been a leader in the race and i have secured a prize. but at what cost? i am old--a bundle of undesirable habits; my health is impaired; my wife has become a frivolous and extravagant woman; i have no real friends: my children are strangers to me, and i have no home. i have no interest in my family, my social acquaintances, or in the affairs of the city or nation. i take no sincere pleasure in art or books or outdoor life. the only genuine satisfaction that is mine is in the first fifteen-minutes' flush after my afternoon cocktail and the preliminary course or two of my dinner. i have nothing to look forward to. no matter how much money i make, there is no use to which i can put it that will increase my happiness. from a material standpoint i have achieved everything i can possibly desire. no king or emperor ever approximated the actual luxury of my daily life. no one ever accomplished more apparent work with less actual personal effort. i am a master at the exploitation of intellectual labor. i have motors, saddle-horses, and a beautiful summer cottage at a cool and fashionable resort. i travel abroad when the spirit moves me; i entertain lavishly and am entertained in return; i smoke the costliest cigars; i have a reputation at the bar, and i have an established income large enough to sustain at least sixty intelligent people and their families in moderate comfort. this must be true, for on the one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month i pay my chauffeur he supports a wife and two children, sends them to school and on a three-months' vacation into the country during the summer. and, instead of all these things giving me any satisfaction, i am miserable and discontented. the fact that i now realize the selfishness of my life led me to-day to resolve to do something for others--and this resolve had an unexpected and surprising consequence. heretofore i had been engaged in an introspective study of my own attitude toward my fellows. i had not sought the evidence of outside parties. what has just occurred has opened my eyes to the fact that others have not been nearly so blind as i have been myself. james hastings, my private secretary, is a man of about forty-five years of age. he has been in my employ fifteen years. he is a fine type of man and deserves the greatest credit for what he has accomplished. beginning life as an office boy at three dollars a week, he educated himself by attending school at night, learned stenography and typewriting, and has become one of the most expert law stenographers in wall street. i believe that, without being a lawyer, he knows almost as much law as i do. gradually i have raised his wages until he is now getting fifty dollars a week. in addition to this he does night-work at the bar association at double rates, acts as stenographer at legal references, and does, i understand, some trifling literary work besides. i suppose he earns from thirty-five hundred to five thousand dollars a year. about thirteen years ago he married one of the woman stenographers in the office--a nice girl she was too--and now they have a couple of children. he lives somewhere in the country and spends an unconscionable time on the train daily, yet he is always on hand at an early hour. what happened to-day was this: a peculiarly careful piece of work had been done in the way of looking up a point of corporation law, and i inquired who was responsible for briefing it. hastings smiled and said he had done so. as i looked at him it suddenly dawned on me that this man might make real money if he studied for the bar and started in practice for himself. he had brains and an enormous capacity for work. i should dislike losing so capable a secretary, but it would be doing him a good turn to let him know what i thought; and it was time that i did somebody a good turn from an unselfish motive. "hastings," i said, "you're too good to be merely a stenographer. why don't you study law and make some money? i'll keep you here in my office, throw things in your way and push you along. what do you say?" he flushed with gratification, but, after a moment's respectful hesitation, shook his head. "thank you very much, sir," he replied, "but i wouldn't care to do it. i really wouldn't!" though i am fond of the man, his obstinacy nettled me. "look here!" i cried. "i'm offering you an unusual chance. you had better think twice before you decline such an opportunity to make something of yourself. if you don't take it you'll probably remain what you are as long as you live. seize it and you may do as well as i have." hastings smiled faintly. "i'm very sorry, sir," he repeated. "i'm grateful to you for your interest; but--i hope you'll excuse me--i wouldn't change places with you for a million dollars! no--not for ten million!" he blurted out the last two sentences like a schoolboy, standing and twisting his notebook between his fingers. there was something in his tone that dashed my spirits like a bucket of cold water. he had not meant to be impertinent. he was the most truthful man alive. what did he mean? not willing to change places with me! it was my turn to flush. "oh, very well!" i answered in as indifferent a manner as i could assume. "it's up to you. i merely meant to do you a good turn. we'll think no more about it." i continued to think about it, however. would not change places with me--a fifty-dollar-a-week clerk! hastings' pointblank refusal of my good offices, coming as it did hard on the heels of my own realization of failure, left me sick at heart. what sort of an opinion could this honest fellow, my mere employee--dependent on my favor for his very bread--have of me, his master? clearly not a very high one! i was stung to the quick--chagrined; ashamed. * * * * * it was saturday morning. the week's work was practically over. all of my clients were out of town--golfing, motoring, or playing poker at cedarhurst. there was nothing for me to do at the office but to indorse half a dozen checks for deposit. i lit a cigar and looked out the window of my cave down on the hurrying throng below. a resolute, never-pausing stream of men plodded in each direction. now and then others dashed out of the doors of marble buildings and joined the crowd. on the river ferryboats were darting here and there from shore to shore. there was a bedlam of whistles, the thunder of steam winches, the clang of surface cars, the rattle of typewriters. to what end? down at the curb my motor car was in waiting. i picked up my hat and passed into the outer office. "by the way, hastings," i said casually as i went by his desk, "where are you living now?" he looked up smilingly. "pleasantdale--up kensico way," he answered. i shifted my feet and pulled once or twice on my cigar. i had taken a strange resolve. "er--going to be in this afternoon?" i asked. "i'm off for a run and i might drop in for a cup of tea about five o'clock." "oh, will you, sir!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "we shall be delighted. mine is the house at the crossroads--with the red roof." "well," said i, "you may see me--but don't keep your tea waiting." as i shot uptown in my car i had almost the feeling of a coming adventure. hastings was a good sort! i respected him for his bluntness of speech. at the cigar counter in the club i replenished my case. then i went into the reception room, where i found a bunch of acquaintances sitting round the window. they hailed me boisterously. what would i have to drink? i ordered a "hannah elias" and sank into a chair. one of them was telling about the newest scandal in the divorce line: the president of one of our largest trust companies had been discovered to have been leading a double life--running an apartment on the west side for a haggard and _passée_ showgirl. "you just tell me--i'd like to know--why a fellow like that makes such a damned fool of himself! salary of fifty thousand dollars a year! big house; high-class wife and family; yacht--everything anybody wants. not a drinking man either. it defeats me!" he said. none of the group seemed able to suggest an answer. i had just tossed off my "hannah elias." "i think i know," i hazarded meditatively. they turned with one accord and stared at me. "there was nothing else for him to do," i continued, "except to blow his brains out." the raconteur grunted. "i don't just know the meaning of that!" he remarked. "i thought he was a friend of yours!" "oh, i like him well enough," i answered, getting up. "thanks for the drink. i've got to be getting home. my wife is giving a little luncheon to thirty valuable members of society." i was delayed on fifth avenue and when the butler opened the front door the luncheon party was already seated at the table. a confused din emanated from behind the portières of the dining room, punctuated by shouts of female laughter. the idea of going in and overloading my stomach for an hour, while strenuously attempting to produce light conversation, sickened me. i shook my head. "just tell your mistress that i've been suddenly called away on business," i directed the butler and climbed back into my motor. "up the river!" i said to my chauffeur. we spun up the riverside drive, past rows of rococo apartment houses, along the lafayette boulevard and through yonkers. it was a glorious autumn day. the palisades shone red and yellow with turning foliage. there was a fresh breeze down the river and a thousand whitecaps gleamed in the sunlight. overhead great white clouds moved majestically athwart the blue. but i took no pleasure in it all. i was suffering from an acute mental and physical depression. like hamlet i had lost all my mirth--whatever i ever had--and the clouds seemed but a "pestilent congregation of vapors." i sat in a sort of trance as i was whirled farther and farther away from the city. at last i noticed that my silver motor clock was pointing to half-past two, and i realized that neither the chauffeur nor myself had had anything to eat since breakfast. we were entering a tiny village. just beyond the main square a sign swinging above the sidewalk invited wayfarers to a "quick lunch." i pressed the button and we pulled to the gravel walk. "lunch!" i said, and opened the wire-netted door. inside there were half a dozen oilcloth-covered tables and a red-cheeked young woman was sewing in a corner. "what have you got?" i asked, inspecting the layout. "tea, coffee, milk--eggs any style you want," she answered cheerily. then she laughed in a good-natured way. "there's a real hotel at poughkeepsie--five miles along," she added. "i don't want a real hotel," i replied. "what are you laughing at?" then i realized that i must look rather civilized for a motorist. "you don't look as you'd care for eggs," she said. "that's where you're wrong," i retorted. "i want three of the biggest, yellowest, roundest poached eggs your fattest hen ever laid--and a schooner of milk." the girl vanished into the back of the shop and presently i could smell toast. i discovered i was extremely hungry. in about eight minutes she came back with a tray on which was a large glass of creamy milk and the triple eggs for which i had prayed. they were spherical, white and wabbly. "you're a prize poacher," i remarked, my spirits reviving. she smiled appreciatively. "going far?" she inquired, sitting down quite at ease at one of the neighboring tables. i looked pensively at her pleasant face across the eggs. "that's a question," i answered. "i can't make out whether i've been moving on or just going round and round in a circle." she looked puzzled for an instant. then she said shrewdly: "perhaps you've really been _going back_." "perhaps," i admitted. i have never tasted anything quite so good as those eggs and that milk. from where i sat i could look far up the hudson; the wind from the river swayed the red maples round the door of the quick lunch; and from the kitchen came the homely smells of my lost youth. i had a fleeting vision of the party at my house, now playing bridge for ten cents a point; and my soul lifted its head for the first time in weeks. "how far is it to pleasantdale?" "a long way," answered the girl; "but you can make a connection by trolley that will get you there in about two hours." "suits me!" i said and stepped to the door. "you can go, james; i'll get myself home." he cast on me a scandalized look. "very good, sir!" he answered and touched his cap. he must have thought me either a raving lunatic or an unabashed adventurer. a moment more and the car disappeared in the direction of the city. i was free! the girl made no attempt to conceal her amusement. behind the door was a gray felt hat. i took it down and looked at the size. it was within a quarter of my own. "look here," i suggested, holding out a five-dollar bill, "i want a wishing cap. let me take this, will you?" "the house is yours!" she laughed. over on the candy counter was a tray of corncob pipes. i helped myself to one, to a package of tobacco and a box of matches. i hung my derby on the vacant peg behind the door. then i turned to my hostess. "you're a good girl," i said. "good luck to you." for a moment something softer came into her eyes. "and good luck to you, sir!" she replied. as i passed down the steps she threw after me: "i hope you'll find--what you're looking for!" * * * * * in my old felt hat and smoking my corncob i trudged along the road in the mellow sunlight, almost happy. by and by i reached the trolley line; and for five cents, in company with a heterogeneous lot of country folks, italian laborers and others, was transported an absurdly long distance across the state of new york to a wayside station. there i sat on a truck on the platform and chatted with a husky, broad-shouldered youth, who said he was the "baggage smasher," until finally a little smoky train appeared and bore me southward. it was the best holiday i had had in years--and i was sorry when we pulled into pleasantdale and i took to my legs again. in the fading afternoon light it indeed seemed a pleasant, restful place. comfortable cottages, each in its own yard, stood in neighborly rows along the shaded street. small boys were playing football in a field adjoining a schoolhouse. presently the buildings became more scattered and i found myself following a real country road, though still less than half a mile from the station. ahead it divided and in the resulting triangle, behind a well-clipped hedge, stood a pretty cottage with a red roof--hastings', i was sure. i tossed away my pipe and opened the gate. a rather pretty woman of about thirty-five was reading in a red hammock; there were half a dozen straw easy chairs and near by a teatable, with the kettle steaming. mrs. hastings looked up at my step on the gravel path and smiled a welcome. "jim has been playing golf over at the club--he didn't expect you until five," she said, coming to meet me. "i don't care whether he comes or not," i returned gallantly. "i want to see you. besides, i'm as hungry as a bear." she raised her eyebrows. "i had only an egg or so and a glass of milk for luncheon, and i have walked--miles!" "oh!" she exclaimed. i could see she had had quite a different idea of her erstwhile employer; but my statement seemed to put us on a more friendly footing from the start. "i love walking too," she hastened to say. "isn't it wonderful to-day? we get weeks of such weather as this every autumn." she busied herself over the teacups and then, stepping inside the door for a moment, returned with a plate piled high with buttered toast, and another with sandwiches of grape jelly. "carmen is out," she remarked; "otherwise you should be served in greater style." "carmen?" "carmen is our maid, butler and valet," she explained. "it's such a relief to get her out of the way once in a while and have the house all to oneself. that's one of the reasons i enjoy our two-weeks' camping trip so much every summer." "you like the woods?" "better than anything, i think--except just being at home here. and the children have the time of their lives--fishing and climbing trees, and watching for deer in the boguns." the gate clicked at that moment and hastings, golf bag on shoulders, came up the path. he looked lean, brown, hard and happy. "just like me to be late!" he apologized. "i had no idea it would take me so long to beat colonel bogey." "your excuses are quite unnecessary. mrs. hastings and i have discovered that we are natural affinities," said i. my stenographer, quite at ease, leaned his sticks in a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea and a couple of sandwiches, which in my opinion rivaled my eggs and milk of the early afternoon. my walk had made me comfortably tired; my lungs were distended with cool country air; my head was clear, and this domestic scene warmed the cockles of my heart. "how is the chicopee & shamrock reorganization coming on?" asked hastings, striving to be polite by suggesting a congenial subject for conversation. "i don't know," i retorted. "i've forgotten all about it until monday morning. on the other hand, how are your children coming on?" "sylvia is out gathering chestnuts," answered mrs. hastings, "and tom is playing football. they'll be home directly. i wonder if you wouldn't like jim to show you round our place?" "just the thing," i answered, for i guessed she had household duties to perform. "of course you'll stay to supper?" she pressed me. i hesitated, though i knew i should stay, all the time. "well--if it really won't put you out," i replied. "i suppose there are evening trains?" "one every hour. we'll get you home by ten o'clock." "i'll have to telephone," i said, remembering my wife's regular saturday-night bridge party. "that's easily managed," said hastings. "you can speak to your own house right from my library." again i barefacedly excused myself to my butler on the ground of important business. as we strolled through the gateway we were met by a sturdy little boy with tousled hair. he had on an enormous gray sweater and was hugging a pigskin. "we beat 'em!" he shouted, unabashed by my obviously friendly presence. "eighteen to nothing!" "tom is twelve," said hastings with a shade of pride in his voice. "yes, the schools here are good. i expect to have him ready for college in five years more." "what are you going to make of him?" i asked. "a civil engineer, i think," he answered. "you see, i'm a crank on fresh air and building things--and he seems to be like me. this cooped-up city life is pretty narrowing, don't you think?" "it's fierce!" i returned heartily, with more warmth than elegance. "sometimes i wish i could chuck the whole business and go to farming." "why not?" he asked as we climbed a small rise behind the house. "here's my farm--fifteen acres. we raise most of our own truck." below the hill a cornfield, now yellow with pumpkins, stretched to the farther road. nearer the house was a kitchen garden, with an apple orchard beyond. a man in shirtsleeves was milking a cow behind a tiny barn. "i bought this place three years ago for thirty-nine hundred dollars," said my stenographer. "they say it is worth nearer six thousand now. anyhow it is worth a hundred thousand to me!" a little girl, with bulging apron, appeared at the edge of the orchard and came running toward us. "what have you got there?" called her father. "oh, daddy! such lovely chestnuts!" cried the child. "and there are millions more of them!" "we'll roast 'em after supper," said her father. "toddle along now and wash up." she put up a rosy, beaming face to be kissed and dashed away toward the house. i tried to remember what either of my two girls had been like at her age, but for some strange reason i could not. across the road the fertile countryside sloped away into a distant valley, hemmed in by dim blue hills, below which the sun had already sunk, leaving only a gilded edge behind. the air was filled with a soft, smoky haze. a church bell in the village struck six o'clock. "_the curfew tolls the knell of parting day, the lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, the plowman homeward plods his weary way_," i murmured. "for 'plowman' read 'golfer,'" smiled my host. "by george, though--it is pretty good to be alive!" the air had turned crisp and we both instinctively took a couple of deep breaths. "makes the city look like thirty cents!" he ejaculated. "of course it isn't like new york or southampton." "no, thank god! it isn't!" i muttered as we wandered toward the house. "i hope you don't mind an early supper," apologized mrs. hastings as we entered; "but jim gets absolutely ravenous. you see, on weekdays his lunch is at best a movable feast." our promptly served meal consisted of soup, scrambled eggs and bacon, broiled chops, fried potatoes, peas, salad, apple pie, cheese, grapes plucked fresh from the garden wall, and black coffee, distilled from a shining coffee machine. mrs. hastings brought the things hot from the kitchen and dished them herself. tom and sylvia, carefully spruced up, ate prodigiously and then helped clear away the dishes, while i produced my cigar case. then hastings led me across the hall to a room about twelve feet square, the walls of which were lined with books, where a wood fire was already crackling cozily. motioning me to an old leather armchair, he pulled up a wooden rocker before the mantel and, leaning over, laid a regiment of chestnuts before the blazing logs. i stretched out my legs and took a long pull on one of my carona-caronas. it all seemed too good to be true. only six hours before in my marble entrance hall i had listened disgustedly to the cackle of my wife's luncheon party behind the tapestry of my own dining room. after all, how easy it was to be happy! here was hastings, jolly as a clam and living like a prince on--what? i wondered. "hastings," i said, "do you mind telling me how much it costs you to live like this?" "not at all," he replied--"though i never figured it out exactly. let's see. five per cent on the cost of the place--say, two hundred dollars. repairs and insurance a hundred. that's three hundred, isn't it? we pay the hired man thirty-five dollars and carmen eighteen dollars a month, and give 'em their board--about six hundred and fifty more. so far nine hundred and fifty. our vegetables and milk cost us practically nothing--meat and groceries about seventy-five a month--nine hundred a year. "we have one horse; but in good weather i use my bicycle to go to the station. we cut our own ice in the pond back of the orchard. the schools are free. i cut quite a lot of wood myself, but my coal comes high--must cost me at least a hundred and fifty a year. i don't have many doctors' bills, living out here; but the dentist hits us for about twenty-five dollars every six months--that's fifty more. my wife spends about three hundred and the children as much more. of course that's fairly liberal. one doesn't need ballgowns in our village. "my own expenses are, railroad fare, lunches, tobacco--i smoke a pipe mostly--and clothes--probably about five hundred in all. we go on a big bat once a month and dine at a table-d'hôte restaurant, and take in the opera or the play. that costs some--about ten dollars a clip--say, eighty for the season; and, of course, i blow the kids to a camping trip every summer, which sets me back a good hundred and fifty. how does that come out?" i had jotted the items down, as he went along, on the back of an envelope. "thirty-three hundred and eighty dollars," i said, adding them up. "it seems a good deal," he commented, turning and gazing into the fire; "but i have usually managed to lay up about fifteen hundred every year--besides, of course, the little i give away." i sat stunned. thirty-three hundred dollars!--i spent seventy-two thousand!--and the man lived as well as i did! what did i have that he had not? but hastings was saying something, still with his back toward me. "i suppose you thought i must be an ungrateful dog not to jump at the offer you made me this morning," he remarked in an embarrassed manner. "it's worried me a lot all day. i'm really tremendously gratified at your kindness. i couldn't very well explain myself, and i don't know what possessed me to say what i did about my not being willing to exchange places with you. but, you see, i'm over forty. that makes a heap of difference. i'm as good a stenographer as you can find, and so long as my health holds out i can be sure of at least fifty dollars a week, besides what i earn outside. "i've never had any kink for the law. i don't think i'd be a success at it; and frankly, saving your presence, i don't like it. a lot of it is easy money and a lot of it is money earned in the meanest way there is--playing dirty tricks; putting in the wrong a fellow that's really right; aggravating misunderstandings and profiting by the quarrels people get into. you're a high-class, honorable man, and you don't see the things i see." i winced. if he only knew, i had seen a good deal! "but i go round among the other law offices, and i tell you it's a demoralizing profession. "it's all right to reorganize a railroad; but in general litigation it seems to me as if the lawyers spend most of their time trying to make the judge and jury believe the witnesses are all criminals. everything a man says on the stand or has ever done in his life is made the subject of a false inference--an innuendo. the law isn't constructive--it's destructive; and that's why i want my boy to be a civil engineer." he paused, abashed at his own heat. "well," i interjected, "it's a harsh arraignment; but there's a great deal of truth in what you say. wouldn't you like to make big money?" "big money! i do make big money--for a man of my class," he replied with a gentle smile. "i wouldn't know what to do with much more. i've got health and a comfortable home, the affection of an honest woman and two fine children. i work hard, sleep like a log, and get a couple of sets of tennis or a round of golf on saturdays and sundays. i have the satisfaction of knowing i give you your money's worth for the salary you pay me. my kids have as good teachers as there are anywhere. we see plenty of people and i belong to a club or two. i bear a good reputation in the town and try to keep things going in the right direction. we have all the books and magazines we want to read. what's more, i don't worry about trying to be something i'm not." "how do you mean?" i asked, feeling that his talk was money in my moral pocket. "oh, i've seen a heap of misery in new york due to just wanting to get ahead--i don't know where; fellows that are just crazy to make 'big money' as you call it, in order to ride in motors and get into some sort of society. all the clerks, office boys and stenographers seem to want to become stockbrokers. personally i don't see what there is in it for them. i don't figure out that my boy would be any happier with two million dollars than without. if he had it he would be worrying all the time for fear he wasn't getting enough fun for his money. and as for my girl i want her to learn to do something! i want her to have the discipline that comes from knowing how to earn her own living. of course that's one of the greatest satisfactions there is in life anyway--doing some one thing as well as it can be done." "wouldn't you like your daughter to marry?" i demanded. "certainly--if she can find a clean man who wants her. why, it goes without saying, that is life's greatest happiness--that and having children." "certainly!" i echoed with an inward qualm. "suppose she doesn't marry though? that's the point. she doesn't want to hang round a boarding house all her life when everybody is busy doing interesting things. i've got a theory that the reason rich people--especially rich women--get bored is because they don't know anything about real life. put one of 'em in a law office, hitting a typewriter at fifteen dollars a week, and in a month she'd wake up to what was really going on--she'd be _alive_!" "'_the world is so full of a number of things i'm sure we should all be as happy as kings_!'" said i. "what's sylvia going to do?" "oh, she's quite a clever little artist." he handed me some charming sketches in pencil that were lying on the table. "i think she may make an illustrator. heaven knows we need 'em! i'll give her a course at pratt institute and then at the academy of design; and after that, if they think she is good enough, i'll send her to paris." "i wish i'd done the same thing with my girls!" i sighed. "but the trouble is--the trouble is--you see, if i had they wouldn't have been doing what their friends were doing. they'd have been out of it." "no; they wouldn't like that, of course," agreed hastings respectfully. "they would want to be 'in it'" i looked at him quickly to see whether his remark had a double entendre. "i don't see very much of my daughters," i continued. "they've got away from me somehow." "that's the tough part of it," he said thoughtfully. "i suppose rich people are so busy with all the things they have to do that they haven't much time for fooling round with their children. i have a good time with mine though. they're too young to get away anyhow. we read french history aloud every evening after supper. sylvia is almost an expert on the duke of guise and the massacre of st. bartholomew." we smoked silently for some moments. hastings' ideas interested me, but i felt that he could give me something more personal--of more value to myself. the fellow was really a philosopher in his quiet way. "after all, you haven't told me what you meant by saying you wouldn't change places with me," i said abruptly. "what did you mean by that? i want to know." "i wish you would forget i ever said it, sir," he murmured. "no," i retorted, "i can't forget it. you needn't spare me. this talk is not _ex cathedra_--it's just between ourselves. when you've told me why, then i will forget it. this is man to man." "well," he answered slowly, "it would take me a long time to put it in just the right way. there was nothing personal in what i said this morning. i was thinking about conditions in general--the whole thing. it can't go on!" "what can't go on?" "the terrible burden of money," he said. "terrible burden of money!" i repeated. what did he mean? "the weight of it--that's bowing people down and choking them up. it's like a ball and chain. i meant i wouldn't change places with any man in the millionaire class--i couldn't stand the complexities and responsibilities. i believe the time is coming when no citizen will be permitted to receive an income from his inherited or accumulated possessions greater than is good for him. you may say that's the wildest sort of socialism. perhaps it is. but it's socialism looked at from a different angle from the platform orators--the angle of the individual. "i don't believe a man's money should be taken away from him and distributed round for the sake of other people--but for the protection of the man himself. there's got to be a pecuniary safety valve. every dollar over a certain amount, just like every extra pound of steam in a boiler, is a thing of danger. we want health in the individual and in the state--not disease. "let the amount of a man's income be five, ten, fifteen or twenty thousand dollars--the exact figure doesn't matter; but there is a limit at which wealth becomes a drag and a detriment instead of a benefit! i'd base the legality of a confiscatory income tax on the constitutionality of any health regulation or police ordinance. people shouldn't be permitted to injure themselves--or have poison lying round. certainly it's a lesson that history teaches on every page. "besides everybody needs something to work for--to keep him fit--at least that's the way it looks to me. nations--let alone mere individuals--have simply gone to seed, died of dry rot because they no longer had any stimulus. a fellow has got to have some idea in the back of his head as to what he's after--and the harder it is for him to get it, the better, as a rule, it is for him. good luck is the worst enemy a heap of people have. misfortune spurs a man on, tries him out and develops him--makes him more human." "ever played in hard luck?" i queried. "i? sure, i have," answered hastings cheerfully. "and i wouldn't worry much if it came my way again. i could manage to get along pretty comfortably on less than half i've got. i like my home; but we could be happy anywhere so long as we had ourselves and our health and a few books. however, i wasn't thinking of myself. i've got a friend in the brokering business who says it's the millionaires that do most of the worrying anyhow. naturally a man with a pile of money has to look after it; but what puzzles me is why anybody should want it in the first place." he searched along a well-filled and disordered shelf of shabby books. "here's what william james says about it: "'we have grown literally afraid to be poor. we despise any one who elects to be poor in order to simplify and save his inner life. we have lost the power of even imagining what the ancient idealization of poverty could have meant--the liberation from material attachments; the unbribed soul; the manlier indifference; the paying our way by what we are or do, and not by what we have; the right to fling away our life at any moment irresponsibly--the more athletic trim, in short the moral fighting shape.... it is certain that the prevalent fear of poverty among the educated class is the worst moral disease from which our civilization suffers.'" "i guess he's about right," i agreed. "that's my idea exactly," answered hastings. "as i look at it the curse of most of the people living on fifth avenue is that they're perfectly safe. you could take away nine-tenths of what they've got and they'd still have about a hundred times more money than they needed to be comfortable. they're like a whole lot of fat animals in an inclosure--they're fed three or four times a day, but the wire fence that protects them from harm deprives them of any real liberty. or they're like goldfish swimming round and round in a big bowl. they can look through sort of dimly; but they can't get out! if they really knew, they'd trade their security for their freedom any time. "perfect safety isn't an unmixed blessing by any means. look at the photographs of the wild indians--the ones that carried their lives in their hands every minute--and there's something stern and noble about their faces. put an indian on a reservation and he takes to drinking whisky. it was the same way with the chaps that lived in the middle ages and had to wear shirts of chainmail. it kept 'em guessing. that's merely one phase of it. "the real thing to put the bite into life is having a cause. people forget how to make sacrifices--or become afraid to. after all, even dying isn't such a tremendous trick. plenty of people have done it just for an idea--wanted to pray in their own way. but this modern way of living takes all the sap out of folks. they get an entirely false impression of the relative values of things. it takes a failure or a death in the family to wake them up to the comparative triviality of the worth of money as compared, for instance, to human affection--any of the real things of life. "i don't object to inequality of mere wealth in itself, because i wouldn't dignify money to that extent. of course i do object to a situation where the rich man can buy life and health for his sick child and the poor man can't. too many sick babies! that'll be attended to, all right, in time. i wouldn't take away one man's money for the sake of giving it to others--not a bit of it. but what i would do would be to put it out of a man's power to poison himself with money. "suicide is made a crime under the law. how about moral and intellectual suicide? it ought to be prevented for the sake of the state. no citizen should be allowed to stultify himself with luxury any more than he should be permitted to cut off his right hand. excuse me for being didactic--but you said you'd like to get my point of view and i've tried to give it to you in a disjointed sort of way. i'd sooner my son would have to work for his living than not, and i'd rather he'd spend his life contending with the forces of nature and developing the country than in quarreling over the division of profits that other men had earned." i had listened attentively to what hastings had to say; and, though i did not agree with all of it, i was forced to admit the truth of a large part. he certainly seemed to have come nearer to solving the problem than i had even been able to. yet it appeared to my conservative mind shockingly socialistic and chimerical. "so you really think," i retorted, "that the state ought to pass laws which should prevent the accumulation--or at least the retention--of large fortunes?" hastings smiled apologetically. "well," he answered, "i don't know just how far i should advocate active governmental interference, though it's a serious question. you're a thousand times better qualified to express an opinion on that than i am. "when i spoke about health and police regulations i was talking metaphorically. i suppose my real idea is that the moral force of the community--public opinion--ought to be strong enough to compel a man to live so that such laws would be unnecessary. his own public spirit, his conscience, or whatever you call it, should influence him to use whatever he has above a certain amount for the common good--to turn it back where he got it, or somebody else got it, instead of demoralizing the whole country and setting an example of waste and extravagance. that kind of thing does an awful lot of harm. i see it all round me. but, of course, the worst sufferer is the man himself, and his own good sense ought to jack him up. "still you can't force people to keep healthy. if a man is bound to sacrifice everything for money and make himself sick with it, perhaps he ought to be prevented." "jim!" cried mrs. hastings, coming in with a pitcher of cider and some glasses. "i could hear you talking all the way out in the kitchen. i'm sure you've bored our guest to death. why, the chestnuts are burned to a crisp!" "he hasn't bored me a bit," i answered; "in fact we are agreed on a great many things. however, after i've had a glass of that cider i must start back to town." "we'd love to have you spend the night," she urged. "we've a nice little guestroom over the library." the invitation was tempting, but i wanted to get away and think. also it was my duty to look in on the bridge party before it became too sleepy to recognize my presence. i drank my cider, bade my hostess good night and walked to the station with hastings. as we crossed the square to the train he said: "it was mighty good of you to come out here to see us and we both appreciate it. hope you'll forgive my bluntness this morning and for shooting off my mouth so much this evening." "my dear fellow," i returned, "that was what i came out for. you've given me something to think about. i'm thinking already. you're quite right. you'd be a fool to change places with anybody--let alone a miserable millionaire." * * * * * in the smoker of the accommodation, to which i retired, i sat oblivious of my surroundings until we entered the tunnel. so far as i could see, hastings had it on me at every turn--at thirty-three hundred a year--considerably less than half of what i paid out annually in servants' wages. and the exasperating part of it all was that, though i spent seventy-two thousand a year, i did not begin to be as happy as he was! not by a jugful. face to face with the simple comfort of the cottage i had just left, its sincerity and affection, its thrifty self-respect, its wide interests, i confessed that i had not been myself genuinely contented since i left my mother's house for college, thirty odd years before. i had become the willing victim of a materialistic society. i had squandered my life in a vain effort to purchase happiness with money--an utter impossibility, as i now only too plainly saw. i was poisoned with it, as hastings had said--sick _with_ it and _sick of_ it. i was one of hastings' chaingangs of prosperous prisoners--millionaires shackled together and walking in lockstep; one of his school of goldfish bumping their noses against the glass of the bowl in which they were confined by virtue of their inability to live outside the medium to which they were accustomed. i was through with it! from that moment i resolved to become a free man; living my own life; finding happiness in things that were worth while. i would chuck the whole nauseating business of valets and scented baths; of cocktails, clubs and cards; of an unwieldy and tiresome household of lazy servants; of the ennui of heavy dinners; and of a family the members of which were strangers to each other. i could and would easily cut down my expenditures to not more than thirty thousand a year; and with the balance of my income i would look after some of those sick babies hastings had mentioned. i would begin by taking a much smaller house and letting half the servants go, including my french cook. i had for a long time realized that we all ate too much. i would give up one of my motors and entertain more simply. we would omit the spring dash to paris, and i would insist on a certain number of evenings each week which the family should spend together, reading aloud or talking over their various plans and interests. it did not seem by any means impossible in the prospect and i got a considerable amount of satisfaction from planning it all out. my life was to be that of a sort of glorified hastings. after my healthy, peaceful day in the quiet country i felt quite light-hearted--as nearly happy as i could remember having been for years. it was raining when i got out at the grand central station, and as i hurried along the platform to get a taxi i overtook an acquaintance of mine--a social climber. he gave me a queer look in response to my greeting and i remembered that i had on the old gray hat i had taken from the quick lunch. "i've been off for a tramp in the country," i explained, resenting my own instinctive embarrassment. "ah! don't say! didn't know you went in for that sort of thing! well, good night!" he sprang into the only remaining taxi without asking me to share it and vanished in a cloud of gasoline smoke. i was in no mood for waiting; besides i was going to be democratic. i took a surface car up lexington avenue and stood between the distended knees of a fat and somnolent italian gentleman for thirty blocks. the car was intolerably stuffy and smelled strongly of wet umbrellas and garlic. by the time i reached the cross-street on which i lived it had begun to pour. i turned up my coat collar and ran to my house. somehow i felt like a small boy as i threw myself panting inside my own marble portal. my butler expressed great sympathy for my condition and smuggled me quickly upstairs. i fancy he suspected there was something discreditable about my absence. a pungent aroma floated up from the drawing room, where the bridge players were steadily at work. i confess to feeling rather dirty, wet and disreputable. "i'm sorry, sir," said my butler as he turned on the electric switch in my bedroom, "but i didn't expect you back this evening, and so i told martin he might go out." a wave of irritation, almost of anger, swept over me. martin was my perfect valet. "what the devil did you do that for!" i snapped. then, realizing my inconsistency, i was ashamed, utterly humiliated and disgusted with myself. this, then, was all that my resolution amounted to after all! "i am very sorry, sir," repeated my butler. "very sorry, sir, indeed. shall i help you off with your things?" "oh, that's all right!" i exclaimed, somewhat to his surprise. "don't bother about me. i'll take care of myself." "can't i bring you something?" he asked solicitously. "no, thanks!" said i. "i don't need anything that you can give me!" "very good, sir," he replied. "good night, sir." "good night," i answered, and he closed the door noiselessly. i lit a cigarette and, tossing off my coat, sank into a chair. my mere return to that ordered elegance seemed to have benumbed my individuality. downstairs thirty of our most intimate friends were amusing themselves at the cardtables, confident that at eleven-thirty they would be served with supper consisting of salads, ice-cream and champagne. they would not hope in vain. if they did not get it--speaking broadly--they would not come again. they wanted us as we were--house, food, trappings--the whole layout. they meant well enough. they simply had to have certain things. if we changed our scale of living we should lose the acquaintance of these people, and we should have nobody in their place. we had grown into a highly complicated system, in which we had a settled orbit. this orbit was not susceptible of change unless we were willing to turn everything topsy-turvy. everybody would suppose we had lost our money. and, not being brilliant or clever people, who paid their way as they went by making themselves lively and attractive, it would be assumed that we could not keep up our end; so we should be gradually left out. i said to myself that i ought not to care--that being left out was what i wanted; but, all the same, i knew i did care. you cannot tear yourself up by the roots at fifty unless you are prepared to go to a far country. i was not prepared to do that at a moment's notice. i, too, was used to a whole lot of things--was solidly imbedded in them. my very house was an overwhelming incubus. i was like a miserable snail, forever lugging my house round on my back--unable to shake it off. a change in our mode of life would not necessarily in itself bring my children any nearer to me; it would, on the contrary, probably antagonize them. i had sowed the seed and i was reaping the harvest. my professional life i could not alter. i had my private clients--my regular business. besides there was no reason for altering it. i conducted it honorably and well enough. yet the calm consideration of those very difficulties in the end only demonstrated the clearer to me the perilous state in which i was. the deeper the bog, the more my spirit writhed to be free. better, i thought, to die struggling than gradually to sink down and be suffocated beneath the mire of apathy and self-indulgence. hastings' little home--or something--had wrought a change in me. i had gone through some sort of genuine emotional experience. it seemed impossible to reform my mode of life and thought, but it was equally incredible that i should fall back into my old indifference. sitting there alone in my chamber i felt like a man in a nightmare, who would give his all to be able to rise, yet whose limbs were immovable, held by some subtle and cruel power. i had read in novels about men agonized by remorse and indecision. i now experienced those sensations myself. i discovered they were not imaginary states. my meditations were interrupted by the entrance of my wife, who, with an anxious look on her face, inquired what was the matter. the butler had said i seemed indisposed; so she had slipped away from our guests and come up to see for herself. she was in full regalia--elaborate gown, pearls, aigret. "there's nothing the matter with me," i answered, though i know full well i lied--i was poisoned. "well, that's a comfort, at any rate!" she replied, amiably enough. "where's tom?" i asked wearily. "i haven't any idea," she said frankly. "you know he almost never comes home." "and the girls?" "visiting the devereuxs at staatsburg," she answered. "aren't you coming down for some bridge?" "no," i said. "to tell you the truth i never want to see a pack of cards again. i want to cut the game. i'm sick of our life and the useless extravagance. i want a change. let's get rid of the whole thing--take a smaller house--have fewer servants. think of the relief!" "what's the matter?" she cried sharply. "have you lost money?" money! money! "no," i said, "i haven't lost money--i've lost heart!" she eyed me distrustfully. "are you crazy?" she demanded. "no," i answered. "i don't think i am." "you act that way," she retorted. "it's a funny time to talk about changing your mode of life--right in the middle of a bridge party! what have you been working for all these years? and where do i come in? you can go to your clubs and your office--anywhere; but all i've got is the life you have taught me to enjoy! tom is grown up and never comes near me. and the girls--why, what do you think would happen to them if you suddenly gave up your place in society? they'd never get married so long as they lived. people would think you'd gone bankrupt! really"--her eyes filled and she dabbed at them with a valenciennes handkerchief--"i think it too heartless of you to come in this way--like a skeleton at the feast--and spoil my evening!" i felt a slight touch of remorse. i had broached the matter rather roughly. i laid my hand on her shoulder--now so round and matronly, once so slender. "anna," i said as tenderly as i could, "suppose i _did_ give it all up?" she rose indignantly to her feet and shook off my hand. "you'd have to get along without me!" she retorted; then, seeing the anguish on my face, she added less harshly: "take a brandy-and-soda and go to bed. i'm sure you're not quite yourself." i was struck by the chance significance of her phrase--"not quite yourself." no; ever since i had left the house that morning i had not been quite myself. i had had a momentary glimpse--had for an instant caught the glint of an angel's wing--but it was gone. i was almost myself--my old self; yet not quite. "i didn't mean to be unkind," i muttered. "don't worry about me. i've merely had a vision of what might have been, and it's disgusted me. go on down to the bridge fiends. i'll be along shortly--if you'll excuse my clothes." "poor boy!" she sighed. "you're tired out! no; don't come down--in those clothes!" * * * * * i laughed a hollow laugh when she had gone. really there was something humorous about it all. what was the use even of trying? i did not seem even to belong in my own house unless my clothes matched the wall paper! i lit cigarette after cigarette, staring blankly at my silk pajamas laid out on the bed. i could not change things! it was too late. i had brought up my son and daughters to live in a certain kind of way, had taught them that luxuries were necessities, had neglected them--had ruined them perhaps; but i had no moral right now to annihilate that life--and their mother's--without their consent. they might be poor things; but, after all, they were my own. they were free, white and twenty-one. and i knew they would simply think me mad! i had a fixed place in a complicated system, with responsibilities and duties i was morally bound to recognize. i could not chuck the whole business without doing a great deal of harm. my life was not so simple as all that. any change--if it could be accomplished at all--would have to be a gradual one and be brought about largely by persuasion. could it be accomplished? it now seemed insuperably difficult. i was bound to the wheel--and the habits of a lifetime, the moral pressure of my wife and children, the example of society, and the force of superficial public opinion and expectation were spinning it round and round in the direction of least resistance. as well attempt to alter my course as to steer a locomotive off the track! i could not ditch the locomotive, for i had a trainload of passengers! and yet-- i groaned and buried my face in my hands. i--successful? yes, success had been mine; but success was failure--naught else--failure, absolute and unmitigated! i had lost my wife and family, and my home had become the resort of a crew of empty-headed coxcombs. i wondered whether they were gone. i looked at the clock. it was half-past twelve--sunday morning. i opened my bedroom door and crept downstairs. no; they were not gone--they had merely moved on to supper. my library was in the front of the house, across the hall from the drawing room, and i went in there and sank into an armchair by the fire. the bridge party was making a great to-do and its strident laughter floated up from below. by contrast the quiet library seemed a haven of refuge. here were the books i might have read--which might have been my friends. poor fool that i was! i put out my hand and took down the first it encountered--john bunyan's pilgrim's progress. it was a funny old volume--a priceless early edition given me by a grateful client whom i had extricated from some embarrassment. i had never read it, but i knew its general trend. it was about some imaginary miserable who, like myself, wanted to do things differently. i took a cigar out of my pocket, lit it and, opening the book haphazard, glanced over the pages in a desultory fashion. "_that is that which i seek for, even to be rid of this heavy burden; but get it off myself, i cannot; nor is there any man in our country that can take it off my shoulders_--" so the pilgrim had a burden too! i turned back to the beginning and read how christian, the hero, had been made aware of his perilous condition. "_in this plight therefore he went home, and refrained himself as long as he could, that his wife and children should not perceive his distress, but he could not be silent long, because that his trouble increased: wherefore at length he brake his mind to his wife and children; and thus he began to talk to them: 'oh, my dear wife,' said he, 'and you the children of my bowels, i, your dear friend, am in myself undone by reason of a burden that lieth hard upon me.' ... at this his_ _relations were sore amazed; not for that they believed that what he had said to them was true, but because they thought that some frenzy distemper had got into his head; therefore, it drawing toward night, and they hoping that sleep might settle his brains, with all haste they got him to bed: but the night was as troublesome to him as the day; wherefore, instead of sleeping, he spent it in sighs and tears_." surely this pilgrim was strangely like myself! and, though sorely beset, he had struggled on his way. "_hast thou a wife and children_? "_yes, but i am so laden with this burden that i cannot take that pleasure in them as formerly; methinks i am as if i had none_." tears filled my eyes and i laid down the book. the bridge party was going home. i could hear them shouting good-bys in the front hall and my wife's shrill voice answering good night! from outside came the toot of horns and the whir of the motors as they drew up at the curb. one by one the doors slammed, the glass rattled and they thundered off. the noise got on my nerves and, taking my book, i crossed to the deserted drawing room, the scene of the night's social carnage. the sight was enough to sicken any man! eight tables covered with half-filled glasses; cards everywhere--the floor littered with them; chairs pushed helter-skelter and one overturned; and from a dozen ash-receivers the slowly ascending columns of incense to the great god of chance. on the middle table lay a score card and pencil, a roll of bills, a pile of silver, and my wife's vanity box, with its chain of pearls and diamonds. fiercely i resolved again to end it all--at any cost. i threw open one of the windows, sat myself down by a lamp in a corner, and found the place where i had been reading. christian had just encountered charity. in the midst of their discussion i heard my wife's footsteps in the hall; the portières rustled and she entered. "well!" she exclaimed. "i thought you had gone to bed long ago. i had good luck to-night. i won eight hundred dollars! how are you feeling?" "anna," i answered, "sit down a minute. i want to read you something." "go ahead!" she said, lighting a cigarette, and throwing herself into one of the vacant chairs. "_then said charity to christian: have you a family? are you a married man_?" "christian: _i have a wife and_ ... _children_." "charity: _and why did you not bring them along with you_?" "_then christian wept and said: oh, how willingly would i have done it, but they were all of them utterly averse to my going on pilgrimage_." "charity: _but you should have talked to them, and_ _have endeavored to have shown them the danger of being behind_. "christian: _so i did, and told them also what god had shewed to me of the destruction of our city; but i seemed to them as one that mocked, and they believed me not_. "charity: _and did you pray to god that he would bless your counsel to them_? "christian: _yes, and that with much affection; for you must think that my wife and poor children were very dear unto me_. "charity: _but did you tell them of your own sorrow and fear of destruction?--for i suppose that destruction was visible enough to you_. "christian: _yes, over and over, and over. they might also see my fears in my countenance, in my tears, and also in my trembling under the apprehension of the judgment that did hang over our heads; but all was not sufficient to prevail with them to come with me_. "charity: _but what could they say for themselves, why they come not_? "christian: _why, my wife was afraid of losing this world, and my children were given to the foolish delights of youth; so, what by one thing and what by another, they left me to wander in this manner alone_." an unusual sound made me look up. my wife was weeping, her head on her arms among the money and débris of the card-table. "i--i didn't know," she said in a choked, half-stifled voice, "that you really meant what you said upstairs." "i mean it as i never have meant anything since i told you that i loved you, dear," i answered gently. she raised her face, wet with tears. "that was such a long time ago!" she sobbed. "and i thought that all this was what you wanted." she glanced round the room. "i did--once," i replied; "but i don't want it any longer. we can't live our lives over again; but"--and i went over to her--"we can try to do a little better from now on." she laid her head on my arm and took my hand in hers. "what shall we do?" she asked. "we must free ourselves from our burden," said i; "break down the wall of money that shuts us in from other people, and try to pay our way in the world by what we are and do rather than by what we have. it may be hard at first; but it's worth while--for all of us." she disengaged one hand and wiped her eyes. "i'll help all i can," she whispered. "that's what i want!" cried i, and my heart leaped. again i saw the glint of the angel's wing! [illustration: "i will knock. you are to say, 'please is mrs. robbins in?'"--page .] the little princess of tower hill. by l. t. meade, _author of "a sweet girl graduate," "the lady of the forest," "a world of girls," "polly", "the palace beautiful," etc._ six page illustrations. new york a. l. burt, publisher. [transcriber's note: this book contains the following stories as well: "tom, pepper, and trusty", "billy anderson and his troubles", "the old organ-man". the table of contents is only for the little princess of tower hill.] contents. page chapter i. her very young days chapter ii. father's short visitor chapter iii. snubbed chapter iv. the stable clock chapter v. the empty hutch chapter vi. jo's room chapter vii. in violet chapter viii. choosing her colors chapter ix. a jolly plan chapter x. a great fear chapter xi. going home chapter xii. in the wood chapter xiii. thank god for all the little princess of tower hill chapter i. her very young days. all the other children who knew her thought maggie a wonderfully fortunate little girl. she was sometimes spoken about as the "little princess of tower hill," for tower hill was the name of her father's place, and maggie was his only child. the children in the village close by spoke of her with great respect, and looked at her with a good deal of longing and also no slight degree of envy, for while they had to run about in darned and shabby frocks, maggie could wear the gayest and daintiest little dresses, and while they had to trudge sometimes even on little bare feet, maggie could sit by her mother's side and be carried rapidly over the ground in a most delicious and luxurious carriage, or, better still, she might ride on her white pony snowball, followed by a groom. the poor children envied maggie, and admired her vastly, and the children of those people who, compared to sir john ascot, maggie's father, might be considered neither rich nor poor, also thought her one of the most fortunate little girls in existence. maggie was nearly eight years old, and from her very earliest days there had been a great fuss made about her. at the time of her birth bonfires had been lit, and oxen killed and roasted whole to be given away to the poor people, and sir john and lady ascot did not seem at all disappointed at their baby being a girl instead of a son and heir to the old title and the fine old place. there was a most extraordinary fuss made over maggie while she was a baby; her mother was never tired of visiting her grand nurseries and watching her as she lay asleep, or smiling at her and kissing her when she opened her big, bright blue eyes. the eyes in question were very pretty, so also was the little face, and the father and mother quite thought that there never was such a baby as their little maggie. they had christened her margarita henrietta villiers; these were all old family names, and very suitable to the child of proud old county folk. at least so sir john thought, and his pretty young wife agreed with him, and she gave the servants strict directions that the baby was to be called miss margarita, and that the name was on no account whatever to be abridged or altered. this was very fine as long as the baby could only coo or make little inarticulate sounds, but that will of her own, which from the earliest minutes of her existence maggie had manifested, came fully into play as soon as she found the full use of her tongue. she would call herself mag-mag, and would not answer to margarita, or pay the smallest heed to any summons which came to her in this guise, and so, simply because they could not help themselves, sir john and lady ascot had almost virtually to rechristen their little daughter, and before she was two years old maggie was the only name by which she was known. years passed, and no other baby came to tower hill, and every year maggie became of a little more importance, and was made a little more fuss about, and as a natural consequence was a little more spoiled. she was a very pretty child; her hair was wavy and curly, and exquisitely fine; in its darkest parts it was nut-brown, but round her temples, and wherever the light fell on it, it was shaded off to the brightest gold; her eyes were large, and blue, and well open; her cheeks were pink, her lips rosy, and she had a saucy, never-me-care look, which her father and mother and the visitors who saw her thought wonderfully charming, but which now and then her nurse and her patient governess, miss grey, objected to. all things that money could buy, and all things that love could devise, were lavished at maggie's feet. her smallest wishes were instantly granted; the most expensive toys were purchased for her; the most valuable presents were given to her day by day. "surely," said the village children, "there can be no happier little girl in all the wide, wide world than our little princess. if there is a child who lives always, every day, in a fairy-land, it is miss maggie ascot." maggie had two large nurseries to play in, and two nurses to wait upon her, and when she was seven years old a certain gentle-faced, kind-hearted miss grey arrived at tower hill to superintend the little girl's education. then a schoolroom was added to her suit of apartments, and then also the troubles of her small life began. hitherto everything had gone for maggie ascot with such smoothness and regularity, with such an eager desire on the part of every one around her not only to grant her wishes, but almost to anticipate them, that although nurse, and especially grace, the under-nurse, strongly suspected that miss maggie had a temper of her own, yet certainly sir john and lady ascot only considered her a somewhat daring, slightly self-willed, but altogether charming little girl. with the advent, however, of miss grey things were different. maggie had taken the greatest delight in the furnishing and arranging of her schoolroom; she had laughed and clapped her hands with glee when she saw the pretty book-shelves being put up, and the gayly bound books arranged on them; and when miss grey herself arrived, maggie had fallen quite in love with her, and had sat on her knee, and listened to her charming stories, and in fact for the first day or two would scarcely leave her new friend's side; but when lessons commenced, maggie began to alter her mind about miss grey. that young lady was as firm as she was gentle, and she insisted not only on her little pupil obeying her, but also on her staying still and applying herself to her new duties for at least two hours out of every day. long before a quarter of the first two hours had expired, maggie had expressed herself tired of learning to read, and had announced, with her usual charming frankness, that she now intended to run into the garden and pick some roses. [illustration: "i want to pick those white roses."--page .] "i want to pick a great quantity of those nice white roses, and some of the prettiest of the buds, and when they are picked, i'll give them all to you, miss grey, darling," she continued, raising her fearless and saucy eyes to her governess' face. "here you go, you tiresome old book," and the new reading-book was flung to the other side of the room, and maggie had almost reached the door before miss grey had time to say: "pick up your book and return to your seat, maggie dear. you forget that these are lesson hours." "but i'm tired of lessons," said maggie, "and i don't wish to do any more. i don't mean to learn to read--i don't like reading--i like being read to. i shan't ever read, i have quite made up my mind. how many roses would you like, miss grey?" "not any, maggie; you forget, dear, that thompson, the gardener, told you last night you were not to pick any more roses at present, for they are very scarce just now." "well, what are they there for except for me to pick?" answered the spoiled child, and from that moment miss grey's difficulties began. maggie's hitherto sunshiny little life became to her full of troubles--she could not take pleasure in her lessons, and she failed to see any reason for her small crosses. miss grey was kind, and conscientious, and painstaking, but she certainly did not understand the spoiled but warm-hearted little girl she was engaged to teach, and the two did not pull well together. nurse petted her darling and sympathized with her, and remarked in a somewhat injudicious way to grace that miss maggie's cheeks were getting quite pale, and that she was certain, positive sure, that her brain was being forced into over-ripeness. "what's over-ripeness?" inquired maggie as she submitted to her hair being brushed and curled for dinner, and to nurse turning her about with many jerks as she tied her pink sash into the most becoming bow--"what's over-ripeness, nursey, and what has it to say to my brain? that's the part of me what thinks, isn't it?" "yes, miss maggie dear, and when it's forced unnatural it gets what i call over-ripe. i had a nephew once whose brain went like that--he died eventual of the same cause, for it filled with water." maggie's round blue eyes regarded her nurse with a certain gleam of horror and satisfaction. miss grey had now been in the house for three months, and certainly the progress maggie had made in her studies was not sufficiently remarkable to induce any one to dread evil consequences to her little brain. she trotted down to dinner, and took her usual place opposite her governess. in one of the pauses of the meal, her clear voice was heard addressing sir john ascot. "father dear, did you ever hear nurse talk of her nephew?" "no, mag-mag, i can't say i have. nurse does not favor me with much news about her domestic concerns, and she has doubtless many nephews." "oh, but this is the one who was over-ripe," answered maggie, "so you'd be sure to remember about him father." "what an unpleasant description, little woman!" answered sir john; "an over-ripe nephew! don't let's think of him. have a peach, little one. here is one which i can promise you is not in that state of incipient decay." maggie received her peach with a little nod of thanks, but she was presently heard to murmur to herself: "i'm over-ripe, too. i quite 'spect i'll soon fill with water." "what is the child muttering?" asked sir john of his wife; but lady ascot nodded to her husband to take no notice of maggie, and presently she and her governess left the room. "my dear," said lady ascot to sir john, when they were alone, "miss grey says that our little girl is determined to grow up a dunce--she simply won't learn, and she won't obey her; and i often see maggie crying now, and nurse is not at all happy about her." "miss grey can't manage her; send her away," pronounced the baronet shortly. "but, my dear, she seems a very nice, good girl. i have really no reason for giving her notice to leave us--and--and--john, even though maggie is our only little darling, i don't think we ought to spoil her." "spoil her! bless me, i never saw a better child." "yes, my dear, she is all that is good and sweet to us, but she ought to be taught to obey her governess; indeed, i think we must not allow her to have the victory in this matter. if we sent miss grey away, maggie would feel she had won the victory, and she would behave still more badly with the next governess." "tut! tut!" said sir john. "what a worry the world is, to be sure! of course the little maid must be taught discipline; we'd none of us be anywhere without it; eh, wife? i'll tell you what, maggie is all alone; she needs a companion. i'll send for ralph." "that is a good idea," replied lady ascot. "well, say nothing about it until i see if my sister can spare him. i'll go up to town to-morrow, and call and see her. ralph will mold maggie into shape better than twenty miss greys." chapter ii. father's short visitor. ralph's mother was a widow. she had traveled on the continent for a long time, but had at last taken a small house in london. sir john intended week after week to go and see his sister, and week after week put off doing so, until it suddenly dawned upon him that ralph's society might do his own little princess good. sir john told his wife to say nothing to maggie about her cousin's visit, as it was quite uncertain whether his mother would spare him, and he did not wish the little maid to be disappointed. maggie, however, was a very sharp child, and she was much interested in sundry mysterious preparations which were taking place in a certain very pretty bedroom not far from her own nurseries. a little brass bedstead, quite new and bright, was being covered with snowy draperies; and sundry articles which girls were not supposed to care about, but which, nevertheless, maggie looked at with eyes of the deepest veneration and curiosity, were being placed in the room; among these articles might have been seen some cricket-bats, a pair of boxing-gloves, a couple of racket-balls, and even a little miniature gun. the little gun was harmless enough in its way; it had belonged to sir john when a lad, but why was it placed in this room, and what did all these preparations mean? maggie eagerly questioned rosalie, the under-housemaid, but rosalie could tell her nothing, beyond the fact that she was bid to make certain preparations in the room, and she supposed one of master's visitors was expected. "he must be a very short man," said maggie, laying herself down at full length on the little white bed, and measuring the distance between her feet and the bright brass bars at the bottom; "he'll be about half a foot bigger than me," and then she scampered off to miss grey. "father's visitor's room is all ready," she said. "how tall should you think he'd be, miss grey?" "dear me, maggie, how can i tell? if the visitor is a man, he'll be sure to be somewhere between five feet and six feet; i can't tell you the exact number of inches." "no, you're as wrong as possible," answered maggie, clapping her hands. "there's a visitor coming to father, and of course he's a man, or he wouldn't be father's visitor, and he's only about one head bigger than me. he's very manly, too; he likes cricket, and racket, and boxing, and firing guns. his room is full of all those 'licious things. oh, i wish i was a man too. miss grey, darling, how soon shall i be growed up?" "not for a long, long time yet. now do sit straight, dear, and don't cross your legs. sit upright on your chair, maggie, like a little lady. here is your hemming, love; i have turned down a nice piece for you. now be sure you put in small stitches, and don't prick your finger." these remarks and these little injunctions always drew a deep frown between maggie's arched brows. "sewing isn't meant for rich little girls like me," she said. "i'm not going to sew when i grow up; i know what i'll do then. i know quite well; when i'm tired i'll sit in an easy-chair and eat lollipops, and when i'm not tired i'll ride on all the wildest horses i can find, and i'll play cricket, and fire guns, and fish, and--and--oh, i wish i was grown up." miss grey, who was by this time quite accustomed to maggie's erratic speeches, thought it best to take no notice whatever of her present remarks. maggie would have liked her to argue with her and remonstrate; she would have preferred anything to the calm and perfect stillness of the governess. she was allowed to talk a little while she was at her hemming, and she now turned her conversation into a different channel. "miss grey," she said, "which do you think are the best off, very rich little only children girls, or very poor little many children girls?" "maggie dear," replied her governess, "you are asking me, as usual, a silly question. the fact of a little girl being rich and an only child, or the fact of a little girl being poor and having a great many brothers and sisters, has really much less to do with happiness than people think. happiness is a very precious possession, and sometimes it is given to people who look very pale and suffering, and sometimes it is denied to those who look as if they wanted for nothing." "that's me," said maggie, uttering a profound sigh. "i'm rich and i want for nothing, and i'm the mis'rable one, and jim, the cripple in our village, is poor, and he hasn't got no nice things, and he's the happy one. oh, how i wish i was jim the cripple." "why, maggie, you would not surely like to give up your dear father and mother to be somebody else's child." "no, of course not. they'd have to be poor too. mother would have to take in washing and father--i'm afraid father would have to put on ragged clothes, and go about begging from place to place. i don't think jim, the cripple, has any father, but i couldn't do without mine, so he'd have to be a beggar and go about from place to place to get pennies for mother and me. we'd be darling and poor, and we couldn't afford to keep you, miss grey, and i wouldn't mind that at all, 'cause then i need never do reading and hemming, and i'd be as ignoram as possible all my days." just at this moment somebody called maggie, and she was told to put on her out-door things, and to go for a drive with her mother in the carriage. maggie was a very sharp little girl, and she could not help noticing a certain air of expectancy on lady ascot's face, and a certain brightening of her eyes, particularly when maggie, in her usual impetuous fashion, asked eager questions about the very short gentleman visitor who was coming to stay with father. "he's not four feet high," said maggie. "i am sure i shall like him greatly; he'll be a sort of companion to me, and i know he must be very brave." "why do you know that, little woman?" asked lady ascot in an amused voice "oh, 'cause, 'cause--his gun, and his fishing-tackle, and his boxing-gloves have been sent on already. of course he must be brave and manly, or father would have nothing to say to him. but as he's only three inches taller than me, i'm thinking perhaps he'll be tired keeping up with father's long steps, when they go out shooting together; and so perhaps he will really like to make a companion of me." "i should not be surprised, maggie--i should not be the least surprised, and now i'm going to tell you a secret. we are going at this very moment to drive to ashburnham station to meet father and his gentleman visitor." "oh, mother!" exclaimed maggie, "and do you know the visitor? have you seen him before? what is his name?" "his name is ralph, and though i have heard a great deal about him, it so happens i have never seen him." "mr. ralph," repeated maggie, softly; "it's a nice short name, and easy to remember. i think mr. ralph is a very good name indeed for father's little tiny gentleman visitor." all during their drive to ashburnham maggie chattered, and laughed, and wondered. her bright little face looked its brightest, and her merry blue eyes quite danced with fun and happiness. no wonder her mother thought her a most charming little girl, and no wonder the village children looked at the pretty and beautifully dressed child with eyes of envy and admiration! when they reached ashburnham station, lady ascot got out of the carriage, and taking maggie's hand in hers, went on the platform. they had scarcely arrived there before the train from london puffed into the station, and sir john ascot was seen to jump out of a first-class smoking carriage, accompanied by a brown-faced, slender-looking boy, whose hands were full of parcels, and who began to help sir john vigorously, and to indignantly disdain the services of the porter, and of sir john's own groom, who came up at that moment. "no, thank you; i wish to hold these rabbits myself," he exclaimed, "and my pigeons. uncle john, will you please hand me down that cage? oh, aren't my fantails beauties!" "mother," exclaimed maggie in a low, breathless voice, "is that the gentleman visitor?" "yes, darling, your cousin ralph grenville. ralph is your visitor, maggie, not your father's. come up and let me introduce you. ralph, my dear boy, how do you do? i am your aunt. i am very glad to see you. welcome to tower hill!" "are you aunt beatrice?" answered the brown-faced boy. "how do you do, aunt beatrice? oh, i do hope my fishing-tackle is safe." "and this is your cousin maggie," proceeded lady ascot. "you and maggie must be great friends." "do you like fantails?" asked ralph, looking full at his little cousin. "do you mean those darling white birds in the cage?" answered maggie, her cheeks crimsoning. [illustration: "i caught him my own self."--page .] "yes; i've got some pouters at home, but i only brought the fantails here. i hope you've got a nice pigeon-cote at tower hill. oh, my rabbits, my bunnies! help me, maggie; one of them has got loose; help me, maggie, to catch him." before either sir john or lady ascot could interfere, the two children had disappeared into a crowd of porters, passengers, and luggage. lady ascot uttered a scream of dismay, but sir john said coolly: "let them be. the little lad has got his head screwed on the right way; and if i don't mistake, my pretty maid can hold her own with anybody. don't agitate yourself, bee; they'll be back all right in a moment." so they were, maggie holding a huge white rabbit clasped against her beautiful embroidered frock. the rabbit scratched and struggled, but maggie held him without flinching, although her face was very red. "i caught him my own self," she screamed. "ralph couldn't, 'cause his hands were too full." "pop him into this cage now," exclaimed the boy. "uncle john, has a separate trap come for all the luggage? and if so, may i go home in it? i must watch my bunnies, and i should like to keep the fantails on my lap." "well, yes, ralph," replied sir john ascot in an amused voice. "i have no doubt the dog-cart has turned up by now. do you think you can manage to stick on, my boy? the mare is very fresh." "i stick on? rather!" answered ralph. "you may hold the cage with the bunnies, if you like, while i step up, jo--maggie, i mean." "i'd like to go up there, too, father," whispered little miss ascot's full round tones. "no, no, bairnie," answered the baronet. "i don't want your pretty little neck to be broken. there, hop into the carriage beside mother, and i'll get in the dog-cart to keep this young scamp out of mischief. now then, off we go. we'll all be at home in a twinkling." chapter iii. snubbed. when the children met next it was at tea-time. there was a very nice and tempting tea prepared in maggie's schoolroom, and miss grey presided, and took good care to attend to the wants of the hungry little traveler. ralph looked a very different boy sitting at the tea-table munching bread-and-butter, and disposing of large plates of strawberries and cream, from what he did when maggie met him at ashburnham station. he was no longer in the least excited; he was neatly dressed, with his hair well brushed, and his hands extremely clean and gentlemanly. he was polite and attentive to miss grey, and thanked her in quite a sweet voice for the little attentions which she lavished upon him. maggie was far too excited to feel hungry. she could scarcely take her round blue eyes off ralph, who, for his part, did not pay her the smallest attention. he was conversing in quite a proper and grown-up tone with the governess. "do you really like flat countries best?" he said. "ah! i suppose, then, you must suffer from palpitation. mother does very much--she finds sal volatile does her good; did you ever try that? when i next write to mother, i'll ask her to send me a little bottle, and when you feel an attack coming on, i'll measure some drops for you. if you take ten drops in a little water, and then lie down, you don't know how much better you'll get. thank you, yes, i'll have another cup of tea. i like a good deal of cream, please, and four or five lumps of sugar; if the lumps are small, i don't mind having six. well, what were we talking about? oh, scenery! i like hilly scenery. i like to get on the top of a hill, and race down as fast as ever i can to the bottom. sometimes i shout as i go--it's awfully nice shouting out loud as you're racing through the air. did you ever try that? oh, i forgot; you couldn't if you suffer from palpitation." "i like steep mountains, and flying over big precipices," here burst from maggie. "i hate flat countries, and i don't think much of running down little hills. give me the mountains and the precipices, and you'll see how i'll scamper." ralph raised his eyebrows a tiny bit, smiled at maggie with a gentle pity in his face, and then, without vouchsafing any comment to her audacious observations, resumed his placid conversation with the governess. "mother and i have been a good deal in switzerland, you know," he continued, "so of course we can really judge what scenery is like. i got tired of those great mountains after a bit. i'm very fond indeed of england, particularly since i have spent so much of my time with jo. do you know my little friend jo, miss grey?" "no, mr. ralph, i cannot say i do. is he a nice little boy? is he about your age?" ralph laughed, but in a very moderate "i beg your pardon," he exclaimed. "i hope you were not hurt when i laughed. mother says it's very rude to laugh at a grown-up lady, but it seemed so funny to hear you speak of jo as a boy. she's a girl, quite the very nicest girl in the world; her real name is joanna, but i call her jo." here maggie, who, after ralph's ignoring of her last audacious observation, had been getting through her tea in a subdued manner, brightened up considerably, shook back her shining curls, and said in a much more gentle voice than she had hitherto used: "i should like to see her." "you!" said ralph. "she's not the least in your style. well, i've done my tea. have you done your tea, miss grey? and may i leave the table, please? i should like to have a run around the place before it gets dark." "and may i come with you?" asked maggie. "oh, yes, mag! come along." ralph held out his hand, which maggie took with a great deal of gratitude in her heart, and the two children went out together into the sweet summer air. ralph first of all inspected his pigeons, and then his rabbits. he grumbled a good deal over the arrangements made for the reception of his pets, and informed maggie that the hutch for the rabbits was but small and close, and that the dove-cote must be altered immediately, and that he would take care to speak to his uncle john about it in the morning. maggie agreed with every word ralph said. she, too, pronounced the hutch small and dirty, and said the dove-cote must be altered, and while she echoed her cousin's sentiments, she felt herself quite big and important, and turned away from the rather smiling eyes of jim, the stable-boy, who was in attendance on the pair. the children then proceeded to the stable, where maggie's pretty snow-white pony was kept. "ah!" said ralph, "i wish you could see my horse. my horse is black, and rather bigger than this, and he has an eye of fire and such a beautiful glossy, arched neck. i can tell you it is worth something to see raven. yes, maggie, snowball is rather a nice little pony, and very well suited for you, i should imagine." "i don't like him much," said maggie, who until this moment had adored her pet. "i like flashy, frisky horses. i like them fresh, don't you, ralph?" "don't talk nonsense!" said ralph rather pertly. "now where shall we go?" "oh, ralph, i should like to show you my garden. i dare say father will give you a little garden near mine if we ask him. i'm building a rockery. i don't work in my garden very often, 'cause it's rather tiresome, but i like building my rockery, and when we go to the seaside, i shall gather lots of shells for it. come, ralph, this is the way." "never mind to-night," said ralph. "here is a nice seat on this little mossy bank. if you like to sit by me, maggie, we can talk." maggie was only too pleased. ralph stretched himself on the soft velvety grass, put his hands under his head, and gazed up at the sky; maggie took care to imitate his position in all particulars. she also put her hands under her head, and gazed through her shady hat up at the tall trees where the rooks were going to sleep. that night the rather spoiled little princess of tower hill lay awake for some time. it was very unusual for maggie to remain for an instant out of the land of dreams. the moment she laid her curly head on the pillow she entered that pleasant country, and, as a rule, she stayed there and enjoyed delightful times with other dream-children until the morning. on the present occasion, however, sleep did not visit her so quickly; she was disturbed by the events of the day. ralph was a very new experience in her little life; she thought of all he had said to her, of how he had looked, of his extreme manliness, his fearlessness, and his great politeness to miss grey. maggie owned with a half-sigh that there was nothing at all particularly gracious in ralph's manners to her. "but i like him all the better for that," she thought. "he treats me as an equal; most likely half the time he forgets that i'm a girl, and believes that i'm a boy like himself. i wish i were a boy! wouldn't it be jolly to climb trees, and fish, and go out shooting with father! i'd be a great comfort to ralph if i were a boy, but i'm not; that's the worst of it. how i do wish my pony was black, and was called raven! i think i'll ask father to sell snowball; he's rather a fat, stupid little horse. ralph's horse has an eye of fire. how splendid he must be! i wonder if jo has got a horse too, and if it is black, and if its eyes flash. jo must be a splendid girl. how ralph did look when he spoke of her! i wish i knew her! ralph talks of her as if she were as good as a boy. i dare say she climbs trees, and fishes, and shoots. i should like ralph to talk of me as he talks of jo." at this stage of maggie's meditations her bright eyes closed very gently, and she remembered nothing more until the morning. the sun shone brightly into her room when she awoke; she had been dreaming about jo. she sprang up instantly, and began to dress herself. this feat she had never accomplished before in her life. two servants, as a rule, waited on the little princess when she made her toilet, but now, with a vivid dream of the manly jo in her mind, and with some vague ideas that she would please ralph if she were up very bright and early, she proceeded to tumble into her cold bath, and then, after an untidy fashion, to scramble into her clothes. at last her dressing was completed, she knelt down for a moment by her bedside to utter a very hasty little childish prayer, and then ran softly out of her bedroom. she certainly did not know how early it was, but as there was no one stirring in the house, and as she did not wish nurse to find her and to call her back, and perhaps pop her once more into bed, she went on tiptoe along the passages until she reached her cousin ralph's bedroom door. she opened the door and went in. the large window of ralph's bedroom exactly faced his little white bed; the blind of the window was up to the top, and the full light of the morning sun shone directly on the little sleeper's face. oh, how delightful! thought maggie. ralph was still sound, sound asleep; she was the good one now, for ralph was decidedly lazy. she went softly to the bedside and gazed at her cousin. his arms were thrown up over his head; he was lying on his back, and breathing softly and easily. ralph had a handsome little face, and it looked gentle and sweet in his slumbers. the dauntless expression of his dark eyes, and the somewhat scornful and hard way in which he looked when he addressed himself to maggie, were no longer perceptible. maggie had a loving little heart, and it went out to her stranger cousin now. "i hope some day he'll like me as well as he does jo," she murmured, and then she bent down and printed the lightest of light kisses on his forehead. "bother those flies," muttered ralph, raising his hand to brush the offending kiss away. this remark caused maggie to burst into a peal of laughter, and of course her laugh aroused the young sleeper. "yes, i'm up," said maggie, dancing softly up and down. "i'm up, and i'm dressed, and i'm ready to go into the garden. don't you think it's very good of me to get up so early? don't you think i'm about as good as that jo of yours?" ralph had recovered from his first surprise, and now he gazed tranquilly at his little cousin. "what's the hour?" he asked. maggie said, "i don't know." "well, you'd better find out," responded ralph; "it feels very early. my watch is on the dressing-table. do you know the time by a watch yet? if you can read it, you may, and tell me the hour. how untidily you have dressed yourself!" maggie felt herself growing very red when ralph asked her if she could tell the hour by a watch. the fact was, she could not; she had always been too lazy to learn. she went in a faltering way to the dressing-table, feeling quite sure in her little heart that jo knew all about watches, and that if she revealed her ignorance to ralph, he would despise her for the rest of her life. just at this moment, however, relief came, for the stable clock was heard to strike very distinctly. it struck four times. "it's four o'clock," said maggie. "yes, and what a muff you are!" answered ralph. "four o'clock! why, it's the middle of the night. good-night, maggie. please go away, and shut the door after you." "then you're not getting up?" questioned the little cousin wistfully. "getting up? no, thank you, not for many an hour to come. good-night, maggie. i don't want to be rude, but you really are a little worry coming in and waking me in this fashion." chapter iv. the stable clock. it was rather desolate standing at the other side of ralph's door in the passage. there was plenty of light in the passage, but no sunshine, and maggie felt her excitement cooling down and her heart beating tranquilly again. all that delightful energy and zest which she had shown when dressing herself, which she had felt when she had danced into her cousin's room, had forsaken her. she walked slowly back to her own little chamber, wondering what she had better do now, and thinking how very disagreeable it was to be spoken of as "a muff." was it really only the middle of the night, and had she better just ignominiously undress herself and go back to bed? no; she would not do that. it was horrid to think of ralph sound and happily asleep, and of nurse asleep, and father and mother also in the land of dreams. maggie felt quite forlorn, and as if she were alone in the world. but at this moment a thrush perched itself on a bough of clematis just outside the window, and sang a delicious morning song. the little princess clapped her hands. "the birdies are up!" she exclaimed. "i expect lots of delightful creatures are up in the garden. i'll go into the garden. perhaps, after all, ralph is more of a muff than me." she swung her garden hat on her head, and ran softly and quickly downstairs. all the doors were barred and locked; the place felt intensely still and strange; but maggie found egress through a small side window, which she easily opened; and, once in the garden, her loneliness and sadness vanished like magic. she laughed aloud, and ran gayly hither and thither. the butterflies were out, the birds were having a splendid morning concert, and the flowers were opening their petals and taking their morning breakfast from the sunshine. "oh, dear! ralph is the muff, and i am the good one, after all!" exclaimed maggie aloud. she ran until she was tired, then went into an arbor at one end of a long grass walk, and sat down to rest herself. in a moment the most likely thing happened--she fell asleep. she slept in the arbor, with her head resting on the rustic table, until the stable clock struck six; that sound awoke her. she rubbed her drowsy eyes and looked around. jim, the boy who had smiled the night before when he saw maggie and ralph talking together, passed the entrance to the little arbor at this moment with a bag of tools slung over his shoulder. maggie called to him: "jim, come here; aren't you surprised? i'm up, you see." "why, miss maggie!" exclaimed the astonished stable-boy, "you a sitting in the arbor at this hour, miss! oh, dear! oh, dear! ain't you very cold, missie? and was you overtook with sleep, and did you spend the night here? why, i 'spect your poor pa and ma were in a fine fright about you, miss maggie." "oh, do, they are not," answered maggie, shaking herself, and running up to jim, and taking hold of one of his hands. "they know nothing at all about it, jim. they are all in their beds, every one of them, sound, fast asleep. even my new cousin ralph is asleep. he said i was a muff, but i 'spect he is. isn't it 'licious being up so bright and early, jim?" "well, no, missie, i don't think it is. i likes to lie in bed uncommon myself, so i do. i 'ates getting up of a morning, miss maggie; and whenever i gets a holiday, don't i take it out in my bed, that's all!" "oh, you poor jim!" said maggie in a very compassionate tone. "i didn't know bed was thought such a treat; i don't find it so. well, jim, i'm glad, anyhow, you're obliged to be up this morning, 'cause you and me, we can be company to one another. i'm going with you into the stable-yard now." "oh! but, missie, i has to clean out snowball's stable, and get another stable ready for master ralph's pony raven, and that's all work that a little lady could have no call to mix with. i think, missie, if i was you, i'd go straight back to my bed, and have another hour or two before sir john and her ladyship are up." but maggie shook her head very decidedly over this proposition. "no," she said, "i'm going to the stable-yard; i'm going to look at snowball. i don't think very much of snowball; i think he'll have to be sold." jim opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows a trifle at this proof of inconstancy on maggie's part, but he thought fit to offer no verbal objection, and the two walked together in the direction of the stables. here the large stable clock attracted the erratic little maid's attention; she suddenly remembered the dreadful feeling of shame which had swept over her when ralph had asked her to tell him the hour. she had earnestly wished at that moment that she had been a good child, and had learned how to tell the time when miss grey offered to teach her. it would never do for ralph to discover her deficiency in this matter. perhaps jim could teach her. she turned to him eagerly. "jim, do you know what o'clock it is?" "yes, missie, of course; it's a quarter-past six." "oh! how clever of you, jim, to know that. did you find it out by looking up at the stable clock?" "why, of course, miss maggie; there it is in front of us. you can see for yourself." maggie's face became very grave, and her eyes assumed quite a sad expression. "i want to whisper something to you, jim," she said. "stoop down; i want to say it very, very low. i don't know the clock time." jim received this solemn secret in a grave manner. he was silent for a moment; then he said slowly: "you can learn it, i suppose, miss maggie?" "oh, yes, dear jim; and you can teach me." jim began to rumple up his hair and to look perplexed. "i--oh! that's another thing," he said. "yes, you can, jim; and you must begin right away. there's a big, round white thing, and there are little figures marked on it; and there are two hands that move, 'cause i've watched them; and there's a funny thing at the bottom that goes tick-tick all the time." "that's the pend'lum, miss maggie." "yes, the pend'lum," repeated maggie glibly. "i'll remember that word; i won't forget. now, go on, jim. what's the next thing?" "well, there's the two 'ands, miss; the little 'and points to the hours, and the big 'un to the minutes." "it sounds very puzzling," said maggie. "so it is, miss; so it is. you couldn't learn the clock not for a score of days. i took a week of sundays over it myself, and i'm not to say dull. the clock's a puzzler, miss maggie, and can't be learned off in a jiffy, anyhow." "well, but, jim, ralph mustn't find out; he mustn't ever find out that i don't know it. it would be quite dreadful what ralph would think of me then; he wouldn't ever, ever believe that i could turn out as well as jo. you don't think jo such a wonderful girl, do you, jim?" "oh, no, miss maggie; i don't think nothing at all about her. i'd better get to my work now, miss." "yes, but you must teach me something about the old clock, just to make ralph s'pose i know about the hour." "well, miss, you can talk a little bit about the pend'lum, and the big 'and and the little 'un, and you can say that you think the stable clock is fast; it is that same, miss, and that will sound very 'cute. now i must go to my sweeping. william will be round almost immediately, and he'll be ever so angry if i have nothing done, so you'll please to excuse me, miss." maggie left the stable-yard rather discontentedly. it was not yet half-past six, and breakfast would not be on the table for two long hours. what should she do? after all, perhaps she was a muff to get up in the middle of the night; perhaps she was the silly one, and ralph, so snug and rosy and comfortable in his little bed, was the wise and good one. some things very like tears came to maggie's bright blue eyes as she turned back again to the garden, for she was beginning to feel a little tired, and oh! very, very hungry. she wondered if jo ever got up at four o'clock in the morning, and if ralph had ever called jo a muff; but of course he had not. jo was doubtless one of those unpleasant model little girls about whom nurse sometimes spoke to her on sunday: little girls who always did at once what their old nurses told them, who never rumpled their pinafores, nor made their hair untidy, nor soiled their clean hands, but walked instead of running, and smiled instead of laughing. nurse had spoken over and over of these dear little lady-like misses. these little girls delighted in doing plain needlework, and were intensely happy when they conquered a fresh word in their reading, and they always adored their governesses, and were rather sorry when holiday time came. when nurse spoke about these children, maggie usually interrupted her vehemently with the exclamation. "i hate that proper good little girl!" and then nurse's small twinkling brown eyes would grow full of suppressed fun, and she would passionately kiss her spoiled darling. maggie, as she walked through the garden, where the dew was still sparkling, quite made up her mind that jo belonged to this unpleasant order of little maids, and she determined to dislike her very much. as she was sauntering slowly along she passed a small narrow path which led into a shrubbery; directly through the shrubbery was another path, which branched out in the direction of maggie's neglected garden; suppose she went and did a little weeding in her garden; or no, suppose she did what would be much more enchanting, suppose she paid a visit to ralph's rabbits! ralph had complained the night before of the hutch where his pets had been put; he had grumbled at its not being bright enough, and large enough, and clean enough. suppose maggie went and furbished it up a little, and looked at ralph's pets, and gave them some lettuce leaves to eat. in a moment she had flown through the shrubbery, had passed the little neglected garden and the half-finished rockery, and was kneeling down by the hutch where ralph's rabbits had made for themselves a new home. there they were, two beautiful snow-white creatures, with long silky hair, and funny bright red eyes, and pink noses. they had not a black hair on either of their glossy coats. ralph had said they were very valuable rabbits, and because of the extreme purity of their coats he had called them lily and bianco. maggie, too, thought them lovely; she bent close to the bars of the hutch and called them to her, and tried to stroke their noses through the little round holes. bianco was very tame, but lily was a little shy, and kept in the background, and did not allow her nose to be rubbed. maggie showered endearing names on her; no pet she had ever possessed herself seemed equal to ralph's snow-white rabbits. after playing with them for a little she ran into the kitchen garden to fetch some lettuce leaves, and with a good bundle in her arms returned to the rabbit-hutch. at so tempting a sight even lily lost her shyness, and pressed her nose against the bars of her cage, and struggled to get at the tempting green food. "they shall come out and eat their breakfasts in peace and comfort, the darlings!" exclaimed maggie. "here, i'll make a nice pile of it just by this tree, and i'll open the door, and out they'll both come. while they are eating i can be cleaning the hutch. what a nice useful girl i am, after all! i expect ralph will think i'm quite as good as that stupid old jo of his. come along, bianco pet; here's your dear little breakfast ready for you. oh, you darling, precious lily! you need not be afraid of me. i would not hurt a hair of your lovely coat." open went the door of the hutch, and out scampered the two white rabbits. they bounded in rabbit fashion toward the green lettuces, and when maggie saw them happily feeding, she turned her attention to the hutch. "no, this is not a proper hutch," she said to herself. "it's not large enough, nor roomy enough, nor handsome enough. i don't wonder at poor ralph being put out--he felt he was treated shabby. i must speak to father about it. there must be a new hutch made as quick as possible. well, i had better clean this one while the dear bunnies are at their breakfast. i'll see if i can get some fresh straw. i'll run round to the yard and try if i can pull some straw out of one of the ricks. i really am most useful. good-by, bianco and lily; i'll be back with you in a moment, dear little pets." the rabbits did not pay the slightest heed to maggie's loving words. it is to be feared that, beautiful as they were in person, they possessed but small and selfish natures; they liked fresh lettuces very much, and when they had eaten enough they looked around somewhat shyly, after the manner of timid little creatures. the whole place represented a strange world to them, but as there was not a soul in sight, they thought they might explore this new land a little. bianco bounded on in front, and looked back at lily; lily scampered after her companion. in a short time they found themselves on the boundary of a green and shady and pleasant-looking wood. in this wood doubtless abounded those many good and tempting things to which rabbits as a race are partial. they went a little further, and lost themselves in the soft green herbage. when maggie returned to the rabbit-hutch, with her arms full of straw and her rosy cheeks much flushed, bianco and lily were nowhere to be seen. chapter v. the empty hutch. at breakfast that morning lady ascot noticed how tired maggie looked--her blue eyes were swollen as if she had been crying, her pretty cheeks were very red, and she did not come to table with at all her usual appetite. maggie always breakfasted with her father and mother. she also had her early dinner at their lunch, but her own lunch and tea she took in the schoolroom with miss grey. miss grey was now present at the breakfast-table, and so also was ralph. ralph was a very slight and thin boy, with a dark face and bright eyes. he looked uncommonly well this morning, remarkably neat in his person, and altogether a striking contrast to poor disheveled little maggie. maggie felt afraid to raise her eyes from her plate. when her mother noticed her fatigue and languor, she knew that ralph's quizzical and laughing gaze was upon her, and that his lips were softly moving to the inaudible words: "little muff, she got up in the middle of the night! she got up in the middle of the night!" maggie would have been quite saucy enough, and independent enough, to be indifferent to these remarks of ralph's, and perhaps even to pay him back in his own coin, but for the loss of the rabbits. bianco and lily were gone, however; the hutch was empty; it was all the little princess' fault, and, in consequence, her versatile spirits had gone down to zero. with all her faults--and she had plenty--maggie was far too honest a child to think of concealing what she had done from her cousin. she meant to tell him, but she had dreaded very much going through her revelation, and she felt that his contempt and anger would be very bitter and hard to bear. maggie always sat next her father at breakfast, and he now patted her on her hot cheeks, looked tenderly at her, and piled the choicest morsels on her plate. "the little maid does not look quite the thing," sir john called across the table to his wife. "i think we must give her a holiday. miss grey, you won't object to a holiday, i am sure, and ralph and maggie will have plenty to do with one another." "if you please, sir," here burst from ralph, "do you mind coming round with me after breakfast and seeing to the accommodation of the rabbits and pigeons? i think my rabbits want a larger and better hutch, if you please, uncle john." "all right, my boy, we'll see about them," replied the good-natured uncle. "hullo, little maid, what is up with you--where are you off to?" "i--i don't want any breakfast. i'm tired," said maggie, and before her father could again interrupt her she ran out of the room. her heart was full, there was a limit to her endurance; she could not go with sir john and her cousin ralph to look at the empty hutch. she wondered what she should do; she wished with all her heart at this moment that ralph had never come, that he had never brought those tiresome and beautiful rabbits to tempt her to open the door of their prison, and so unwittingly set them free. she ran once more into the garden, and went in a forlorn manner into the shrubbery; she had a kind of wild vain hope that bianco and lily might be tired of having run away, and might have returned to their new home. she approached the rabbit-hutch; alas! the truants were nowhere in sight; she stooped down and looked into the empty home; and just at this moment voices were heard approaching, the clear high voice of her boy cousin, accompanied by sir john's deeper tones. maggie had nothing for it but to hide, and the nearest and safest way for her to accomplish this feat was to climb into a large tree which partly over-shaded the rabbit-hutch. maggie could climb like any little squirrel, and sir john and ralph took no notice of a rustling in the boughs as they approached. her heart beat fast; she crouched down in the green leafy foliage, and hoped and trusted they would not look up. there was certainly no chance of their doing that. when ralph discovered that his pets were gone, he gave vent to something between a howl and a cry of agony, and then, dragging his uncle by the arm, they both set off in a vain search for the missing pets--bianco and lily. no one knew better than poor maggie did how slight was their chance of finding them. she wondered if she might leave her leafy prison, if she would have time to rush in to nurse or mother before ralph came back. she thought she might try. it would be such a comfort to put her head on mother's breast and tell the story to this sympathizing friend. she had just made the first rustling in the old tree, preparatory to her descent, when sir john's portly form was seen returning. he was coming back alone, and, after a fashion he had, was saying aloud: "very strange occurrence. 'pon my word, quite mysterious. whoever did open the door of the hutch? surely jim would not be so mischievous! i must question him, and if i think the young rascal is telling me a lie, he shall go--yes, he shall go. i won't be humbugged. and ralph, poor lad! it's a disgrace to have my sister's son annoyed in this way on the very first morning of his visit. why, hullo, maggie, little woman! what are you doing up there?" "i'm coming down if you'll just wait a minute, father," called down maggie. "oh, please, father, stand close under the tree, and don't let ralph see us. i'm coming down as hard as ever i can. there, please stretch up your hand, father; when i catch it i'll jump." "into my arms," said sir john, folding her tight in a loving embrace. "my darling, you are not well. you are all trembling. what is the matter, little woman?" "nothing, father; only i wanted to speak to you so badly, and i didn't want ralph to hear. i heard you say that perhaps jim did it, and you'd send him away. 'twasn't jim, 'twas me. i'm miserable about it--'twas all me, father." "all you? mag-mag, what do you mean?" "i let them out, father. i gave poor bianco and lily some nice lettuce leaves just here under the tree. see, they have not quite finished what i gave them. while they were feeding i thought i'd clean the hutch to please ralph, and i ran round to the hay-rick for some fresh hay, and when i came back bianco and lily were gone. i spent all the time before breakfast looking for them, but i couldn't see them anywhere. poor jim had nothing to do with it, father. i did see jim this morning. i think he's an awfully good boy. father, jim had nothing to do with opening the door of the hutch--it was all me." "yes, maggie, so it seems. ah! here comes ralph himself. now, my dear little maid, you really need not be frightened. i'll undertake to break the tidings to master ralph. you were a good child to tell me the truth, maggie." "i can't find them anywhere, uncle," called back ralph, in his high voice. "who could have been the mischievous person? don't you think it was very wicked, uncle john, for any one to open my hutch door? i expect some thief came and stole them. i suppose you are a magistrate, uncle john; i hope you are, and that you'll have a warrant issued immediately, so that the person who stole my bianco and lily may find themselves locked up in prison. why, if that is not maggie standing behind you. how very, very queer you look, maggie!" sir john laid his hand on ralph's shoulder. "the fact is, my lad," he said, "this poor dear little maid of mine has come to me with a sad confession. it seems that she is the guilty person. she gave your rabbits something to eat, and let them out in order that they might enjoy their meal the better. then it occurred to her to get some fresh hay for the hutch, and while she was away bianco and lily took it into their heads to play truants. you must forgive maggie, ralph; she meant no harm. if the rabbits are not found i can only promise to get you another pair as handsome as money can buy." while his uncle was speaking ralph's face had grown very white. "i don't want any other rabbits, thank you, uncle john," he said. "it was poor little jo gave me bianco and lily, and i was fond of them; other rabbits would not be the same." "i only hope, ralph, your pets will be found. i shall send a couple of men to search for them directly. in the mean time, you must promise me not to be angry with my poor little girl; she meant no harm." "oh, i'm not angry," said ralph; "most girls are muffs; jo isn't, but then she's not like other people." he turned on his heel and sauntered slowly away. it is difficult to say how the affair of the rabbits would have terminated, and how soon maggie would have been taken back into ralph's favor, but just then, on the afternoon of that very day in fact, an event occurred which turned every one's thoughts into a fresh channel. lady ascot received a telegram announcing the dangerous illness of her favorite and only sister--it was necessary that she and sir john should start that very night for the north to see her. the question then arose. what was to become of the two children? "send us to mother, of course," promptly said ralph. "hullo!" exclaimed sir john; "why, i declare if it isn't a good thought. violet wouldn't mind having you both on a visit for a fortnight or so, and miss grey could go with you, so that your mother need have no extra trouble. remember, ralph, you are bound to us for the summer, my boy, and we only lend you to your mother for a few days. you quite understand?" "lend me to mother; no, i'm sure i don't understand that," said ralph. "oh! maggie," he exclaimed suddenly, in all his old brightest manner, "if we go to london, you'll see jo!" "i'll go off this very moment and telegraph to my sister," said sir john; "the children and miss grey can start to-morrow morning. it's all arranged. it is a splendid plan." in five minutes the plan was made which was to exercise so large an influence over little maggie, which was, in short, completely to alter her life. sir john sent off his telegram, and in the course of the afternoon his sister, mrs. grenville, replied to it. she would be ready to receive ralph and maggie the next day, and would be pleased also to have miss grey, maggie's governess, accompany the children. maggie had never seen london; and ralph became eloquent with regard to its charms. "it will be delightful for you," he said; "of course i am rather tired of it, for i have been everywhere and seen all the sights, but it will really be very nice for you. you are young, you know, maggie, and you'll have to go to the places where quite the little children are seen; madame tussaud's is one, and the zoological gardens is another. oh, won't it be fun to see you jumping when the lions roar!" at these words of ralph's maggie turned rather pale, and perceiving that he had made an impression, he proceeded still further to work on her feelings, describing graphically the scene at the zoo when the lions are fed, the cruel glitter in the eyes of the hungry beasts, and the awful sound which they make when they crush the great bones of meat provided for them. "you mustn't go too near their cages," said ralph; "nobody knows how strong a lion is; and though the cages are made with very large bars of iron, yet still----" here ralph made an expressive pause. maggie opened her blue eyes, remained quite silent for a moment, for she did not wish ralph to suppose that she was really afraid of the lions, and then she said softly: "i'm not going to the zoo--at least not at first. i'm going to do my lessons with miss grey in the hours when the lions are fed. i know it's very good of me, but i'm going to be good, 'cause i am so sorry about your rabbits, ralph." "so you ought to be," said ralph, turning red; "but weeks and weeks of being sorry won't bring them back. when people do very careless and thoughtless things, being sorry doesn't mend matters. you ask mother, and she'll explain to you. but please don't say anything more about bianco and lily. i want to know what you mean by saying that you'll do your lessons at the hour the lions are fed. you do your lessons at the hour that most suits miss grey, don't you?" maggie nodded. "yes," she said, "i'm going to please poor miss grey too; i'm going to be very good." "well, miss grey won't like to be kept at home in the afternoons teaching you your lessons--she'll like to be out amusing herself in the afternoon. i call that more thoughtlessness. you'll have to do your lessons in the morning, and the lions are fed at three o'clock, so that excuse won't serve." "i'm not going to the zoo," continued maggie, who began to feel decidedly worried. "if miss grey wants to be out in the afternoon, i'll go to madame tussaud's then. i don't like that zoo, and i'm not fond of lions; but i expect madame tussaud's must be a nice sort of place." "oh--oh--oh," said ralph, beginning to jump about on one leg; "you see the chamber of horrors before you make up your mind whether it's a nice sort of place or not. why, at madame tussaud's you always have your heart in your mouth because you don't know whether the wax figures are alive or not; and you are always saying, 'i beg your pardon;' and you are always knocking up against people whom you think are alive and want to speak to you, when they are only big wax dolls; and whenever you give a little start and show by your face that you have made a mistake, the real live people laugh. i can tell you, maggie, you have to mind your p's and q's at madame tussaud's." "i won't go," said maggie; "i need not go unless i like;" and then she walked out of the room, beginning seriously to debate in her poor little mind on the joys of having a playmate, for ralph contrived at every turn to make her feel so very small. chapter vi. jo's room. it was well for maggie that ralph was a very different boy when with his mother and when without her. when the children arrived in london and found themselves in mrs. grenville's pretty bright house in bayswater, ralph flew to the sweet-looking young mother who came up to meet them, clasped his arms round her neck, laid his head on her shoulder, and instantly a softened and sweet expression came over his dark and somewhat hard little face. mrs. grenville was very much like her brother, so that prevented maggie being shy with her. she also petted the little girl a great deal, and, as a matter of course, took more notice of her than of ralph. mrs. grenville also spoke about the zoo and madame tussaud's, but she contrived to make these two places of entertainment sound quite delightful to her little visitor. instead of dwelling on their horrors she spoke of their manifold and varied charms, until maggie's eyes sparkled, and she said in her quick, excitable way: "i'll go there with you, aunt violet; i'd like to go to both of those places with you." aunt violet read between the lines here, and gave ralph a quick little glance which he pretended not to see. the next morning mrs. grenville asked miss grey to allow maggie to have a holiday. "to-morrow she will begin her lessons regularly," continued the lady. "of course by this time such a tall girl can read and write nicely, and i shall like to inclose a little letter from her to her mother; but to-day the children and i mean to be very busy together. ralph, as you are older, and as you know most about london, you shall choose what our amusement shall be." maggie felt herself turning first red and then white when mrs. grenville spoke of her reading and writing accomplishments, but miss grey was merciful and made no comment, and as ralph had not yet been made acquainted with the poor little princess' profound ignorance, she trusted that her secret was safe. "mother," here eagerly burst in ralph, "of course the very first thing we must do is to go and see jo. shall i go round to see jo this morning, mother, and may i take maggie with me? i think it would do maggie lots of good to see a girl like jo." "jo would do any one good," responded mrs. grenville. "it is a kind thought, ralph, and you may carry it out. if you and maggie like to run upstairs and get ready now, i will send waters round with you, and i will call for you myself at philmer's buildings at twelve o'clock. after all, i should like to take maggie myself to the zoo--i want her to see the monkeys and the birds, and she shall have a ride on one of the elephants if she likes. as to the lions, dear," continued mrs. grenville, looking kindly at the little girl, "you shall not see them feed unless you like." "i don't mind seeing them feed if you are with me," whispered back maggie; but just then ralph called to her imperiously, and she had to hurry out of the room. "aren't you glad that you are going at last to see my dear little jo?" exclaimed the boy. "now do hurry, mag; get yourself up nice and smart, for jo does so admire pretty things." maggie made no response, but went slowly into her little bedroom. in her heart of hearts she was becoming intensely jealous of this wonderful jo. she was putting her in the same category with those unpleasant little girls who liked needlework, and were exceedingly proper and good, and belonged to that tiresome class of little models of whom nurse was so fond of speaking. maggie had borne patiently all ralph's rhapsodies over this perfect little jo, but quite a pang went through her heart when she heard mrs. grenville also praise her. "i don't want to go," she said as miss grey helped her to put on her boots, and took out her neat little jacket and pretty shady hat from their drawers. "not want to go?" said the governess. "oh, surely you will like the walk with ralph this lovely morning, maggie?" "no, i won't," said maggie. "i don't want to see jo; i'm sure she's a horrid good little girl; she's like nurse's sunday go-to-meeting girls, and i never could bear them." miss grey could not help smiling slightly at maggie's eager words. "i remember," she said after a pause as she helped to put the little girl's sash straight, "when i was a child about your age, maggie, i often amused myself making up pictures of people before i had seen them. i generally found that the pictures were wrong, and that the people were not at all like what i had fancied them to be." maggie pondered over this statement; then she said solemnly: "but i know about jo--i'm quite sure that my picture of jo isn't wrong. she wears a white pinafore, and there are no spots on it, and her hair is so shiny--i 'spect there is vaseline on her hair--and her nails are neat, and her shoes are always buttoned, and--and--and--she's a horrid good little girl--and i don't like her--and i never will like her." "maggie! maggie!" shouted ralph from below, and maggie, with a nod at miss grey, and the parting words, "i know all about her," rushed out of the room, danced down the stairs, and holding her cousin's hand, and accompanied by the sedate waters, set out on their morning walk. it was maggie's first walk in london, and the children and maid soon found themselves crossing hyde park, coming out at one of the gates at the opposite side from mrs. grenville's pretty house, and then entering a crowded thoroughfare. here waters stepped resolutely between the little pair, took a hand of each, and hurried them along. ralph carried a small closed basket in his hand, and maggie wondered what it contained, and why ralph looked so grave and thoughtful, and why he so often questioned waters as to the contents of a square box which she also carried. "you took great care of that box while i was away, waters?" "well, yes, master ralph; it always stood on the mantelpiece in my mistress' room, and i dusted it myself most regularly." "and do you really think it's getting heavy, waters?" "well, sir, you were away exactly two nights and two days, and that means, by the allowance of one penny a day given to you, two pennies more in the money-box. it's two pennies heavier than it was, sir, when you left us, and that's all." ralph sighed profoundly. "time goes very slowly," he said. "how i wish i had more money, and that when i had it i didn't spend it so fast. well, perhaps jo has managed about the tambourine after all. if there is a good manager, jo is one. oh, here we are at last!" the children and waters had turned into a shabby-looking street, and were now standing before a block of buildings which looked new and tolerably clean. unlike any ordinary house maggie had ever seen, this one appeared to possess no hall door, but was entered at once by a flight of stone stairs. the children and the servant began to ascend the stairs, and maggie wondered how many they would have to go up before they reached the rooms where the little girl in the spotless pinafore with the white hands and the smoothly vaselined hair resided. maggie was rather puzzled and disconcerted by the bare look of the stone stairs, and also by the somewhat anxious and grave expression on ralph's face. she was unacquainted with that kind of look, and it puzzled her, and she began dimly to wonder if miss grey was right, and her picture of jo was untrue. at last they stopped at a door, which was shut, and which contained some writing in large black letters on its yellow paint. maggie could not read, but ralph pointed to the letters, and said joyfully: "here we are at last!" the words on the door where these: "mrs. aylmer, laundress and charwoman," but maggie, of course, was not enlightened by what she could not understand. waters knocked at the door; a quick, eager little voice said, "come in." there was the pattering of some small feet, the door was flung wide open, and maggie, ralph, and waters found themselves inside jo's room. that was the first impression the room gave; it seemed to belong to jo; jo's spirit seemed to pervade it all over. mrs. aylmer, laundress and charwoman, might own the room and pay the rent for it, but that made no difference--it was jo's. who was jo? maggie asked herself this question; then she turned red; then she felt her lips trembling; then she became silent, absorbed, fascinated. the picture she had conjured up faded never to return, and the real jo took its place. jo was the most beautiful little girl maggie had ever seen--she had fluffy, shining, tangled hair; her pale face was not thin, but round and smooth; each little feature was delicate and chiseled; the lips were little rosebuds; the eyes had that serene light which you never see except in the faces of those children who have been taught patience through suffering. jo was a sadly crippled little girl lying on a low bed. maggie, of course, had seen poor children in the village at home; but those children had not been ill; they were rosy and hearty and strong. this child looked fragile, and yet there was nothing absolutely weak about her. at the moment when ralph and maggie entered jo was keeping school; two twin boys were standing by her bedside, and listening eagerly to her instructions. "no, no, bob," she was saying, "you mustn't do it that way; you must do it more carefully, bob, and slower. now, shall we begin again?" bob tried to drone something in a monotonous sing-song, but just then the visitors' faces appeared, and all semblance of school vanished on the spot. ralph poured out a whole string of remarks. the contents of the money-box were emptied on jo's bed, and the exciting question of susy's tambourine came under earnest discussion. if susy had a proper tambourine she could use her rather sweet voice to advantage, and earn money by singing and dancing in the streets. susy was ten years old--a thick-set little girl with none of jo's transparent beauty. sixpence had been already collected for the coveted musical instrument; ralph's box contained eightpence, but, alas! the tambourine on which susy had set her heart could not be obtained for a smaller sum than half a crown. "they are not worth nothing for less than that," she exclaimed; "they makes no sound, and when you sings or dances with them, your voice don't seem to carry nohow. no, i'd a sight rayther wait and have a good one. them cheap 'uns cracks, too, when they gets wet. here's sixpence and here's eightpence; that makes one shilling and two pennies. oh! but it do seem as if it were a long way off afore we see our way to 'arf a crown." here susy, whose face had been radiant, became suddenly depressed, and maggie felt a lump in her throat, and an earnest, almost passionate, wish to get hold of her father's purse-strings. "now come and talk to jo," said ralph, drawing his little cousin forward. "we need not say any more about the tambourine to-day; i'm saving up all my money; i earn a penny every day that i'm good, and i'll give my penny to susy for the present, so she'll really have the half-crown by and by. now, jo, this is my cousin maggie; i've told her about you. she lives down in the country; she doesn't know much, but then that's not to be wondered at. she was very naughty and careless too about my rabbits; she has asked me to forgive her, and of course i haven't said much; it wouldn't be at all manly to scold a girl; but you are really the one to forgive her, jo, for the rabbits were yours before they were mine." "what, bianco and lily?" answered jo, the pink color coming into her little face. "oh, missie, wasn't they beautiful and white?" [illustration: "now, jo, this is my cousin maggie."--page .] "yes, and they're lost," said maggie; "'twas i did it. i opened the door of their little house, and they ran out, and went into a wood, and none of us could find them since. ralph said it was you gave them to him, and he doesn't really and truly forgive me, though he pretends he does. i was sorry, but i won't go on being sorry if he doesn't really and truly forgive me." to this rather defiant little speech of maggie's jo made a very eager reply. she looked into the pretty little country lady's face, right straight up into her eyes, and then she said ecstatically: "oh, ain't i happy to think as my beautiful darling white bianco and lily has got safe away into a real country wood! oh, missie, are there real trees there, and grass? and i hopes, oh, i hopes there's a little stream." "yes, there is," said maggie, "a sweet little stream, and it tinkles away all day and all night, and of course there are trees, and there's grass. it's just like any other country wood." "i'm so glad," said jo; "i can picter it. in course i has never seen it, but i can picter it. trees, grass, and the little stream a-tinkling, and the white bunnies ever and ever so happy. yes, missie, thank you, missie; it's real beautiful, and when i shuts my eyes i can see it all." jo had said nothing about forgiving maggie; on the contrary, she seemed to think her careless deed something rather heroic, ralph raised his dark brows, fidgeted a little, and began to look at his cousin with a new respect. at this moment mrs. grenville's footman came up to say that the carriage was waiting for the children; so maggie's first visit to jo was over. chapter vii. in violet. maggie and ralph spent a very happy afternoon at the zoo. the best of ralph always came to the surface when he was with his mother, and he was also impressed by jo's remarks about her rabbits. was it really true that maggie had done a beautiful deed by giving his white and pretty darlings their liberty in a country wood? how jo's eyes shone when she spoke, and how ecstatically she looked at the little princess! ralph was a great deal too much of a boy, and a great deal too proud to make any set speech of forgiveness to maggie, but he determined on the spot to restore her to his favor. he ceased to be condescending, and greeted her more as a little hail-fellow-well-met. maggie rejoiced in the change. mrs. grenville was her brightest and most agreeable self; the lions on near acquaintance proved more fascinating than dreadful, and on their way home maggie pronounced in favor of the zoo, said she would certainly like to go there again, and thought that on the whole it must be a nicer place than madame tussaud's, where, according to ralph's account, unless you visited the chamber of horrors there were only large and overgrown dolls to be seen. "i wonder," said maggie to her cousin as they sat in the most amiable manner side by side at their tea that evening, "i wonder why susy cares to go out into the streets and sing and play a funny little tambourine. she can't be at all shy to sing before a lot of people; can she, ralph?" ralph stared hard at maggie. "don't you really know what she does it for?" he asked. "i suppose for a kind of play," said maggie, opening her eyes a little. ralph stamped his foot impatiently. "a kind of play!" he repeated. "i was beginning to respect you. i forgot how ignorant you are, poor susy goes out and plays the tambourine and dances and sings because she wants pennies--pennies to buy bread for jo and for herself, and for ben and bob. no, of course you can't know! susy wants the tambourine not to play with, but because she's hungry." ralph spoke with great energy; maggie's little round sweet face became quite pale; she dropped the delicious bread-and-butter and marmalade which she was putting to her lips, and remained absolutely silent. "must the tambourine cost half a crown?" she asked presently. "yes," replied ralph; "didn't you hear her say so? she knows best what it ought to cost." maggie wished she were not such a dunce, that she could read a little and write a little, and that she had some slight knowledge of figures. hitherto she had been shy of revealing any of her great ignorance to ralph, but now her intense longing to know how many pennies were in half a crown made her ask her cousin the question. ralph assured her carelessly that there were thirty pennies in that very substantial piece of money. "it will take a long time to collect," he said, sighing deeply. "poor susy will have to have plenty of patience, for i know jo can't help her, and she'll have to depend on me. i earn a penny a day when i'm good. i generally am good when i'm with mother. it was quite different at tower hill, for you annoyed me a good deal, maggie, but i've made up my mind to say nothing more on that subject. i dare say you, too, will try to be a good girl when you're with mother. well, what was i saying? oh! about susy's pennies. with what i gave her and what jo collected she has got fourteen. take fourteen from thirty, how much is left, maggie? of course you know, so i need not tell you. all that number of days poor susy will have to wait, however hungry she is. there, we have finished our tea, let's go up to the drawing-room to mother now. isn't mother sweet? did you ever see any one--any one so nice?" "yes, i saw my own mother, and she's a lot nicer," said maggie. ralph's eyes flashed. "i like that," he said; "why, every one says the same thing about my mother, that she's the very, very nicest lady in the world. oh, i say, maggie, where are you----" but his little cousin had disappeared. the facts were these. the events of her first day in london had worked up poor little maggie's feelings to a crisis. she had been excited, she had been pleased, she had been greatly surprised. all the old tranquil life in the midst of which she had moved, knowing all the time that she was its center, that she, the little princess, was the beloved object for whom most things were done, for whom treats were prepared and delights got ready--all this old life had vanished, and maggie was nothing more than little maggie ascot, an ignorant child, a dunce who could not even reckon figures or read a word of the queen's english, or have any pennies in her purse. maggie was only the little cousin whom ralph rather despised, who was nobody at all in his estimation compared to jo--jo, who was so humble, and so very poor. maggie's feelings had been greatly moved about jo and susy; she had longed beyond words to put the necessary number of pennies into susy's hand, and to tell her to go out and buy that tambourine, on which her heart was set, without a moment's delay. she had wished this when she only supposed that susy wanted the tambourine to amuse herself. how much more now did she long to get it for her, when ralph had assured her that susy's need was so great that she wished for the tambourine in order that she might earn money to buy bread! when ralph said this maggie felt a lump rising in her throat, and her own healthy childish appetite failing her--even then she felt inclined to rush away and cry; but when ralph added to this his somewhat slighting remarks about the mother whose arms maggie did so long to feel round her, the little princess could bear her feelings no longer, and rushed upstairs to sob out her over-full heart. it was not miss grey who found maggie in the dark in her little room, but the good-natured waters, who after all knew far more about children than the somewhat inexperienced governess. waters wasted no time in asking the little girl what was the matter, but she lifted her into a very motherly embrace, and soothed and petted her with many loving words. maggie thought waters a most delicious person, and soon wiped away her tears, and began to smile once again. waters was judicious enough to ask no questions about the tears, and, when they were over, to forget that they ever existed. she took maggie into her mistress' room, and made her sit on the bed, and showed her some of ralph's childish toys. it occurred to maggie as she sat there that waters would not be nearly such a dreadful person as most others to confide in. she was intensely anxious to gain some information, and she resolved to trust waters. "may i tell you something as a great, tremendous secret?" she asked. "well, miss maggie, that's as you please," replied the servant. "i can only tell you one thing--that what's confided to me is a secret from that day forward, and no mistake. what's the color to keep a secret in, miss maggie? in violet. that's where i keeps it, and so it's sure to be safe." maggie laughed and clapped her hands. "waters, i think you're a darling!" she said, "and i will trust you. i don't suppose you ever heard of any one so ignorant as me. i'll be eight years old before very long, and i can't read, and i can't write, and i can't put figures together. i can't even tell the time, waters--i can't, really." while maggie was speaking, waters kept gazing at her with a most perfectly unmoved countenance. "bless the child!" she said presently. "well, miss maggie dear, where's the secret i'm to keep inviolate?" "why, that's it, waters; the secret is that i don't know nothing--nothing at all." "well, you'll learn, dearie," said waters; "you'll learn all in good time. you're nothing but a young child, and you has lots and lots of years before you." maggie did not at all consider herself very young. there were one or two babies in the village at home, just beginning to toddle, who were really juvenile; but she, maggie ascot, who could run and jump and skip, and even ride!--it was really rather silly to speak of her as a very young child. however, now she was so soothed by "waters' gentle words and waters' petting that she could find no fault with any remark made to her by that worthy person. on the contrary, she cuddled up to her and stroked her cheek, and felt relieved at the unburdening of her secret. "i didn't learn to read till i was a good bit older than you," said waters. "i don't mean that i'm an example for any dear little lady to follow, for i never could abide a bookworm. i don't take to it now. i only learned because my mother said it was a shame to have a great big girl who could neither spell nor write. my tastes always lay in the needlework line. since i was a little tot i was forever with a bit of sewing in my hand; i'd hem, and i'd back-stitch, and i'd top-sew whenever i had the chance. why, i mind me of the time when i unpicked one of my father's old shirts just for the pleasure of putting it together again, and didn't mother laugh when she saw what i was after! plain needlework was my line, miss maggie, and maybe it's yours too, dearie." "oh, no, it isn't!" said maggie, opening her blue eyes with quite a gleam of horror in them. "i hate plain sewing worser even than i do reading; i hate it even worser than my figures. plain sewing pricks, and it worries me. i hate it more than anything." "well, well, dearie, you're in the pricking stages yet; i went through that, same as another. you'll come to learn the comfort of it, for of all the soothers for poor worrited women, there's nothing at all in my opinion like needle and thread." maggie was beginning to find this turn in the conversation rather unintelligible, so she brought waters back to the subject which most interested her by asking if she had also found the study of figures very good for the worries, and if she would let her know how many pennies susy must have to make up the half-crown. "oh, is that little susy aylmer?" said waters. "i don't approve of no child going out to sing in the streets. however, it isn't for me to interfere, and mrs. aylmer is as honest and hard-working a body as ever walked, and that little jo is a real angel, and as the poor things must live somehow, why, i suppose susy had better sing. master ralph is saving up his pennies, and he'll give them all to her as sure as sure, so you has no call to put yourself out about it, miss maggie." "yes, but i don't want her to wait," said maggie. "she has nothing to eat, and she'll be so dreadfully, dreadfully hungry. she has got fourteen pennies, and she can't get anything to eat until she has thirty. oh, waters! if you do know figures, please tell me how many days poor susy must live without any food until she has got the thirty pennies." waters laughed. "things won't be as bad as that for susy aylmer," she said. "she is a sturdy little piece, and i don't believe she denies herself much; don't you fret about her, miss maggie darling." "yes, but what is the difference between fourteen and thirty?" insisted maggie. "ralph only gets a penny a day; how many days will have to pass before susy gets the thirty pennies?" "she has fourteen now," said waters; "well--well, it is something of a poser; i never had much aptitude in the figure line, miss maggie. fourteen in hand, thirty to make up; well--well, let's try it by our fingers. ten fingers first, five on each hand. bear that in your mind, miss maggie. add ten to fourteen, makes twenty-four; come now, i'm getting on, but that isn't thirty, is it, darling? try the fingers again; five more fingers makes twenty-nine, and one--why, there we are--thirty. ten, five, and one make sixteen. there, miss maggie, sixteen pennies more she'll have to get." just at this moment mrs. grenville entered the room, and maggie's conversation with the good-natured lady's maid was brought to an abrupt conclusion. the next morning maggie awoke out of a profound sleep, in which she had been dreaming of jo as turned into a real angel with wings, and of susy as playing on the most perfect tambourine that was ever invented. the little girl awoke out of this slumber to hear the unfamiliar london sounds, and to sit up in bed and rub her sleepy eyes. the hours kept at mrs. grenville's were not so early as those enjoyed at tower hill. maggie was tired of lying in bed; she was occupying a tiny room which led out of miss grey's, and she now jumped up and went to the window. what was her amazement to see just under the window, walking leisurely across the road, one of the objects of her last vivid dream, susy aylmer herself! susy's very stout little form was seen crossing the street and coming right up to the grenvilles' house. maggie was charmed to see her, and took not an instant in making up her mind to improve the occasion. she knocked violently on the pane, but her room was too high up for even susy's quick ears to discern this signal, and she then, in her little blue dressing-gown, rushed through miss grey's room, and ran as fast as her small feet would carry her down the stairs, down and down until she reached the front hall. there were no servants in the hall, but the chain had already been taken off the hall door, and maggie had no difficulty in slipping back the bolt. she opened the door and stood on the steps. "susy! susy! susy!" she screamed. susy at this moment was receiving what indeed she came for every morning--a good supply of broken bread and meat from mrs. grenville's cook. mrs. grenville allowed the cook to give these things to mrs. aylmer, and susy was generally sent to fetch them. she was much amazed to see the pretty little country lady calling to her so vehemently; she was also delighted, and came to the foot of the hall-door steps, and looked up at maggie with a very eager face. for a girl who was so dreadfully starved, maggie could not help thinking the said face rather round and full; however, she would not allow this passing reflection to spoil her interest. she beckoned to susy, and said in a whisper: [illustration: maggie stood in a contemplative attitude.--page .] "i'm most terrible sorry for you. if i had any money i'd give it to you--really and truly i would, but i haven't got nothing at all. father has--father's ever so rich, but he's not with me, he's far away, and i can't--oh! susy, can you write?" maggie stood in a contemplative attitude. susy posed herself on one leg, held her basket of broken meat in a careless manner, as though it did not account for anything at all, and kept her quick and intelligent eyes fixed on the little princess. "i do want to help you, very much," said maggie, at last. "i want to help you my own self, without any one knowing anything about it. i think i want to do this as much for jo as for you. once i didn't like jo at all, but now i do love her; she looks so beautiful and so sweet. i don't think you do; you have rather a cross face, and you are very red, and you've such fat cheeks; but maybe being hungry makes people look cross and red." "and--and--fat," continued susy eagerly. "i'm puffed out with being so holler inside. i am now, missie, really. it's an awfully empty feel, and it won't go, not a bit of it, till i gets that 'ere tambourine." "i wish i could help you!" continued maggie again. just then there were sounds inside the house, sounds of dustpans and brushes, and of industrious maids approaching, and susy knew that her opportunity was short. "i believe you, missie," she said, "i believe in your kind 'eart, missie. it do seem a shame as you shouldn't have no money, for you would know how to pervide for the poor and needy, missie; but--but it might be managed in other ways, miss maggie." "in other ways?" repeated maggie. "how, susy--how, dear, nice susy?" "why, now, you hasn't nothing as you could sell, i suppose?" "that i could sell?" repeated little miss ascot. "oh, dear, no, i haven't nothing at all to make a shop with, if that's what you mean." "i wasn't thinking of that, missie; i was wondering now if you had any little bit of dress as you didn't want. your clothes is very 'andsome, and something as you didn't greatly care for would fetch a few pence if it was sold, and so help on the tambourine." maggie's blue eyes began to sparkle. "why, there's my new hat," she said; "mother got it from london only a week ago, and i know it cost pounds--it has two long white feathers; i like it very much, but i could do without it, 'cause i've got my little common garden-hat to wear. do you think i'd get two or three pennies for my new best hat with the feathers and the lace, susy?" "oh, yes, missie--oh, yes, missie; i seed the hat yesterday, and i never clapped my two eyes on such a beauty. but it seems a pity to take it away from you, missie dear, and maybe the little common garden-hat would fetch enough to buy the tambourine." "oh, i wouldn't sell that at all," said maggie; "i am very fond of my garden-hat, 'cause father likes me in it; and 'sides, i've gathered strawberries in it, and i've had wild birds' eggs in it. i'd much, much rather sell the stupid new hat." susy was quite agreeable to the transfer, and it was finally arranged that the two little girls were to meet each other at the same hour on the following morning, and susy was to accompany maggie to the pawnbroker's, where the new hat might be disposed of. if there was a commonplace, ordinary, every-day london child, it was susy aylmer. she was the sister of two little brothers, who also belonged to a very easily found class of human beings; she was the daughter of an industrious, hard-working, every-day mother; and yet she was also sister to jo! how jo got into that home was a puzzle to all who knew her; she had innate refinement; she had heaven-born beauty. her ideas were above her class; her little flower-like face looked like some rare exotic among its ruder companions. mrs. aylmer alone knew why jo was different from her other children. jo represented a short, bright episode in the hard-working woman's life. she had been born in good days, in sweet, happy, country days. her father had been like her, refined in feature and poetic in temperament. shortly after jo's birth the aylmers had come to london, poverty and all its attendant ills had over-taken them, and after a few years aylmer had fallen a victim to consumption, and had left his wife with four young children on her hands, the three younger of whom altogether resembled her. mrs. aylmer had no time to grieve--she was a brave woman; there are many brave women in the world, thank god; among the working poor they are perhaps more the rule than the exception. she turned round, faced her position, and managed after a fashion to provide for her children. many visitors came to see her, for she was eminently respectable, and had an honest way about her which impressed people, and all these visitors pitied her when they saw jo. poor little jo was a cripple, a lovely cripple, but still unable to walk or move from her little sofa. the visitors congratulated mrs. aylmer on her strong boys and stalwart-looking little daughter, but they invariably pitied her about jo. nothing made that worthy woman so angry. "for jo is my brightest blessing," she would exclaim; "she's always like a bit of sunshine in the room. trouble, bless her! she a trouble! why, don't she take the trouble off my shoulders more than any one else ever did or ever will do? ask me who never yet spoke a cross word, and i'll tell you it's that little pale girl who can never lift herself off the sofa. ask me who keeps the peace with the others, and i'll tell you again it's little jo. and she don't preach, not she, for she don't know how, and she never looks reproachful for all the roughness and the wildness of the others; but her life's one sarmin, and, in short, we none of us could get on without her. jo my trouble indeed! i only wish them visitors wouldn't talk about what they knows nothing on." what mrs. aylmer felt for her little lame daughter was also, although perhaps in a slightly minor degree, acknowledged by the boys and susy. they clung to jo, and looked up to her. the boys, who were the two youngest of the family, had a habit of giving her their absolute confidence. they not only told her of their good deeds, but of their naughty ones. they had a habit of pouring out their little scrapes and misdemeanors with one of jo's thin hands clasped to their tearful faces, and when she forgave, and when she encouraged, the sunshine came out again on them. but susy was different from the boys, and of late she had kept the knowledge of more than one naughty little action from jo. the history of the tambourine, the history of the purchase of that redoubtable instrument which was to make susy's fortune and fill the aylmers' home with not only the necessaries, but also some of the dainties of life, was, of course, known by jo. no one had ever been more interested in the purchase of a musical instrument than she was in the collecting of that hoard which was to result in the buying of susy's tambourine. jo was a delightful and sympathizing listener, and susy liked nothing better than to kneel by her sofa and pour out her longings and dreams into so good a listener's ears; but susy had kept more than one secret to herself, and she said nothing to jo about her interview with little miss ascot, nor about the arrangement she had made with that little lady to purchase the tambourine out of the proceeds of the sale of her best hat. susy knew perfectly that jo would not approve of anything so underhanded, and she resolved to keep her own counsel. she returned home, however, in the wildest spirits, and indulged all day long in fantastic day-dreams. jo was having a bad day of much pain and suffering, but susy's brightness was infectious, and mrs. aylmer thought as she tidied up her place and made it straight, that surely there never were happier children than hers. "but we won't have the tambourine for many and many a day yet," said ben. "don't be too sure, susy; how can you tell but that master ralph'll get tired of saving up all his pennies for you? hanyhow," continued ben, with a profound sigh, "we has a sight of days to wait afore we gets 'arf a crown." "i knows what i knows," answered susan oracularly. "look here, jo, you're the one for making up real 'ticing pictures. i wants to make a day-dream, and you tell me what to do with it when we get it. s'pose now--oh, do be quiet, ben and bob--s'pose now i 'ad the tambourine, and it wor a beauty; well, s'pose as the day is fine, and the hair balmy, and every-body goes out, so to speak, with their pockets open, and they sees me--i'm dressed up smart and tidy--" "oh, my, and ain't you red about the face, just?" here interrupts bob. "well, don't interrupt; i can't help my 'plexion; i'm tidy enough--and i'm dancing round, and i'm playing the tambourine like anything, and i'm singing. well, maybe it's 'nelly bly,' or maybe it's the 'ten little nigger boys;' hanyhow i takes; i'm nothing but little susy aylmer, but i takes. the crowd collects, and they laugh, and they likes it, and then, the ladies and the gents, they go by, so they give me their pennies--lots of 'em; and one old gent, he have no change, and he throws me a shilling. well, now, that's my day-dream. i comes home, i gives the pennies to mother, but i keeps the shilling; i keeps the shilling for a treat for us four young 'uns. now, jo, speak up. what shall we do with our day-dream?" the boys were here wildly excited. to all intents and purposes the shilling was already in susy's possession. bob, to relieve his over-charged feelings, instantly stood on his head, and ben set to work to punch him; jo's eyes began to shine. "'tis a real beautiful day-dream, susy darlint," she said. "yes, ain't it, jo? a whole shilling; you mind that, jo. now make up what we'll do with it. let's all sit quiet, and shut our heyes, and listen to jo. you'll be sure to make up something oncommon, joey dear." jo, when she spoke, or at least when she made up what her brothers and sisters called day-dreams, always clasped her hands and gazed straight before her; her large violet-tinted eyes began to see visions, nowhere to be perceived within that commonplace, whitewashed room; the children who listened to her instinctively perceived this, and they usually closed their own eyes in order to follow her glowing words the better. on this occasion she spoke slowly, and after a pause. "a whole shilling," she began; "it's a sight of money, and it ought to do a deal. what i'm thinking is this: suppose we had a wan, a wan as would hold us all, mother, and susy, and ben, and bob, and there was lots of green grass in the bottom of the wan, so we all of us sat easy, and had no pain even when it moved. suppose there was two horses to the wan, and a kind driver, and we went werry quick; we went away from the houses, and the streets, and we left the noise ahind us, and the dust and the dirt ahind us, and we got out into fields. fields, with trees a-growing, and real yellow buttercups looking up at you saucy and perky like, and dear little white daisies, like bits of snow with yellow eyes. s'pose we all got out there, right in the fields, and we seed a little brook running and rushing past us, and we see the fishes leaping for joy out of the water; and if the sun was werry hot we got under a big tree, where it was shady, and we sat there; mother and i sat side by side, and you, susy, and you, ben and bob, just rolled about on the green, and picked the buttercups and the daisies. why, i can think of nothing better than that, unless, maybe, angels came and talked to us while we were there." here jo paused abruptly, and the three children who had sat absolutely motionless opened their eyes; the two boys sighed deeply, but susy after a time began to cut up the day-dream; while jo thought of angels as the only possible culmination to such intense joy, it occurred to practical susy to suggest a good substantial dinner to be eaten under the shade of the green trees. chapter viii. choosing her colors. maggie had found it very delightful to talk to susy on the doorstep of her aunt's house. the little mystery of the whole proceeding fascinated her, and as she was in reality a very romantic and imaginative child, she thought nothing could be finer than going off privately with susy, and sacrificing her best hat for the benefit of this young person. she had also a decidedly mixed and perhaps somewhat naughty desire to out-do ralph in this matter, and to be herself the person who was to rescue poor susy and her family from the depths of starvation. when susy went away, she crept upstairs and went softly into her little room, no one having heard her either leave it or return to it. there was one part, however, of the programme marked out by susy which was not quite so agreeable to little miss ascot. susy had adjured her, with absolute tears starting to her black eyes, to keep the whole thing a secret. maggie had not the smallest difficulty in promising this at the moment, but she had no sooner reached her little bedroom than she became possessed with a frantic desire to tell her little adventure to some one. she was not yet eight years old; she had never kept a secret in her life, and the moment she possessed this one it began to worry her. little maggie, however, was not without a certain code of morals; she knew that it would be very wrong indeed to tell a lie. she had given her word to susy; she must keep her poor little secret at any cost. miss grey, who of course knew nothing of all that had transpired, came in at her accustomed hour to assist her little pupil at her toilet. maggie capered about and seemed in excellent spirits while she was being dressed. she had no idea of betraying her secret, but she liked, so to speak, to play with it, to show little peeps of it, and certainly fully to acquaint those she was with, with the fact that she was the happy possessor of such a treasure. she remembered waters' remarks of the night before. waters had said how very faithfully she preserved anything told to her in confidence. waters kept her secrets in violet. maggie did not quite understand the double meaning of this expression; but, as she was being dressed, she became violently enamored of what she called the "secret" color. "no, no, i won't have my pink sash this morning, please, miss grey; i don't like pink; i mean it isn't the fit color for me to wear to-day. you don't know why; you'll never of course guess why, but pink isn't my color to-day anyhow." "well, maggie, you need not wear it," replied the patient governess; "here is a very pretty blue sash, dear; it will go quite nicely with your white frock; let me tie it on in a hurry, dear, for the breakfast gong has sounded." but maggie would not be satisfied with the blue sash, nor yet with the tartan, nor even with the pale gold. "i want a violet sash," she said; "i'll have nothing but a violet sash; i'm keeping something in violet; you'll never, never guess what." the breakfast gong here sounded a second time, and of course miss grey could not find any violet ribbons in maggie's box; fortunately she had a piece of the desired color among her own stores; so when the little princess was decked in it, she went downstairs, feeling very happy and proud. miss grey's violet sash did not happen to be of a pretty shade; it was an old ribbon, of a dark tint of color, and was a great deal too short for its present purpose. "what a hideous thing you have round your waist," whispered ralph to his little cousin; but here he caught his mother's eye; she did not allow him to make personal remarks, and although she herself was considerably surprised at lady ascot's allowing such a ribbon into maggie's wardrobe, nothing further was said on the subject. even the wearing of the violet sash, however, could scarcely keep the secret from bubbling to maggie's lips. mrs. grenville began to form her plans for the day. maggie and ralph were to employ themselves over their lessons until twelve o'clock and then mrs. grenville would take them both out with her, first to madame tussaud's, and later on for a drive in the park. "to-morrow," she continued, "you are both going with me to a children's garden party. mrs. somerville--you know mrs. somerville, ralph, and what nice children hers are--happened to hear that you and maggie were coming to me for a short time, and she sent an invitation for you both last night. we shall not return until quite late, as it will be hugh somerville's birthday; and they are going to have fireworks in the evening, and even a little dance." ralph rubbed his hands together with delight. "won't maggie jump when she hears the fireworks?" he said. "you never saw fireworks, did you, mag? oh, i say, what a jolly time we are going to have!" maggie felt her cheeks flushing, more particularly as she had seen a few rockets, and even some catharine wheels, and in consequence she had hitherto believed herself rather knowing on the subject of fireworks; but when ralph proceeded to enlighten her with regard to the style of fireworks likely to be exhibited at mrs. somerville's garden party; when he spoke about the fairy fountains, and the electric lights, and the golden showers of fire-drops, and last, but not least, the bouquet which was to end the entertainment, she felt she had better keep silent with regard to the rockets and catharine wheels which her father had once displayed for the amusement of the villagers. mrs. grenville here began to speak earnestly to miss grey. "i want maggie's dress to be quite suitable. is there anything we ought to get for her, miss grey?" "i think not," replied miss grey. "she has just had a beautifully worked indian muslin frock from perrett's, in bond street, which she has not yet worn; and i don't think anything could be more dressy than her new hat with the ostrich feathers." "oh, yes, it is a charming hat," replied mrs. grenville. "of course she must wear it to-day when she drives with me in the carriage, but that won't injure it for to-morrow. then i need not trouble about your wardrobe, my darling; you will accompany me to-morrow, quite the little princess your father is so fond of calling you." during this brief conversation, maggie's little face had been changing color. "i think," she said suddenly, "that perhaps i'd better have a new hat." "why so, my love? your hat is quite new and charming. it came from perrett's, too, did it not, miss grey?" "yes, mrs. grenville; it was sent in the same box as the muslin costume." "oh, it will answer admirably, maggie, dear. why, what is the matter, my child?" maggie's lips were quivering, and her eyes were fixed on her violet sash. "only perhaps--perhaps the new hat might get lost or something," she muttered incoherently. mrs. grenville looked at her for a moment, but as her remark was not very intelligible, she dismissed it from her mind. the rest of the day passed happily enough. in half an hour maggie ceased to fret about her hat. she comforted herself with the thought that her plain brown straw garden-hat, trimmed with a neat band of brown velvet, and a few daisies, would be after all just the thing for a garden party, and that in any case it did not greatly matter what she wore. what was of much more consequence was, that to-morrow susy would be capering about with her tambourine, and that pennies would be pouring in for the aylmer children, and for jo in particular. she was obliged to wear her best hat when she went out that afternoon, and she certainly was remarkably careful as to how she put it on, and she quite astonished miss grey, when she came home in the evening, by the extreme care with which she herself placed it back in its box. "waters," she said that night, when she suddenly met mrs. grenville's maid, "i am quite happy again; i have done just as you do, and i have kept it in violet all day long." "what, my darling?" asked the surprised servant. "oh, my secret; i have got such a darling secret. it would be very wrong of me to tell it, wouldn't it, waters?" waters looked dubious. "i don't approve of secrets for a little lady." "but, waters, how queer you are! you always keep your own secrets in violet, don't you?" "oh, yes, dear; yes. but i haven't many. they're sort of burdensome things; at least, i find them so. and in no case do i approve of secrets for little ladies, miss maggie; in no single case." maggie knit her brows, looked exceedingly perplexed, felt a great longing to pour the whole affair into waters' sympathizing ears, then remembered susy and refrained. "but i promised not to tell," she said; "i promised most solemn not to tell." "well, well; i s'pose it's something between you and master ralph," remarked the servant, who felt worried she scarcely knew why. maggie jumped softly up and down. "it isn't ralph's secret, but it's about ralph. he needn't save up his pennies no more. it's about ralph's pennies and the half-crown. i know what it is; i'll tell you exactly what it is, waters, and yet i know you won't never guess. it's add sixteen to fourteen makes thirty. my secret's the sixteen. you'll never, never, never guess, will you, waters?" here waters had to confess herself bamboozled, and maggie skipped off to bed with a very light heart. she had kept her secret all day long, and now all she had to do was to wake up quite early in the morning, and go off with susy to the pawnbroker's. chapter ix. a jolly plan. maggie, on the whole, was inclined to wake early; she was not a particularly sound sleeper, and on the summer mornings she always had an intense longing to be up and about. it occurred to her, however, as miss grey was helping her to undress that night, how very, very dreadful it would be if susy were to wait down in the street on the following morning, and she were all unconsciously to oversleep herself. she thought that such a thing ought not to be left to chance, and she cast about in her active little brain for some means of rousing herself. the little room she slept in used to be occupied by ralph; and among the rest of its furniture, it held a nice little book-shelf, full of gayly covered boy's books. maggie could not read, but ralph during the day had come up with her and told her the names of some of his favorite volumes. maggie now thought that these books might help her to wake; and accordingly, after miss grey had left her tucked up comfortably in her little white bed, she slipped on to the floor, and going to the book-case, selected a green and gayly bound volume, which ralph had called "robinson crusoe;" another, which he had entitled "swiss family robinson," and a book bound in brown, which he assured her was as heavy in its contents as in its exterior, and which bore the name of "sandford and merton." maggie carried these three books into her bed, and then arranged them with system. "i am sure to wake now," she said to herself. "and poor little susy shall not be disappointed of her tambourine. the green book is 'robinson crusoe,' he'll do to begin with; he's rather thick, and he'll make a good clatter. now i do call this a lovely plan." maggie now arranged herself in bed, and placed "robinson crusoe" on her feet. "i'll go sound asleep, and though he's rather weighty i don't mind him, and then when i turn, he'll go bang on the floor, and that'll wake me the first time," she said. "the other two books can stay handy until they're wanted under my pillow." then the little princess shut up her curly fringed eyes and went happily off into the land of dreams. it so happened that miss grey was getting into bed when the bump occasioned by "robinson crusoe's" fall occurred. she rushed into her little pupil's room to inquire what was wrong. maggie was sitting up in bed and rubbing her sleepy eyes. "he did come down with a bang," she said; "it's a jolly plan. please, miss grey, it's only 'robinson crusoe;' do you mind putting him on the shelf?" miss grey picked up the volume in great wonder, but concluding that maggie, who could not read a word, must have been amusing herself looking at the pictures, laid the book down and retired to rest. in the course of the night she had again to fly into the little princess' bedroom. this time maggie was very sleepy, and only murmured drowsily: "i think it's his 'family' that has got on the floor now." miss grey picked up the "swiss family robinson," and with a not unnatural reflection that there seldom was a more troublesome little girl than her pupil, once more sought her couch. the third bang was the loudest of all, and it came with daylight, and strange and unfortunate to say, awoke the pupil, and not the governess. maggie was out of bed in a moment, and approached the window, and was gazing out to see some sign of susy in the street. it was not yet five o'clock, and certainly susy was not likely to put in an appearance so early; but maggie determined not to risk going to sleep again, and she accordingly dressed herself, and then getting on the window-sill, which happened to be rather deep, curled herself up, and pressed her little face against the glass. the band-box containing the precious hat was by her side. the moment susy appeared, therefore, she was ready to start. six o'clock struck from a church tower hard by, but another hour had very nearly passed before a somewhat stout little figure was seen eagerly turning the corner and gazing right up to the window where maggie, cold and tired with waiting, sat. at the sight of susy, however, her spirits revived and her enthusiasm was once more kindled. with the band-box containing the new hat in her hand she rushed out of the room--she was too excited to be very prudent this morning--and dashed downstairs in a way which certainly would have aroused any one in the dead of the night, but was only mistaken now for a frantic housemaid's extra cleaning. once more she reached the hall without any one seeing her, and opening the street door, found susy aylmer waiting on the steps. "oh! here you are, miss--my heart was in my mouth for fear as you'd fail me. oh, not that band-box please, miss maggie, anybody would notice us with the band-box! i have brought round the little broken-victual basket, and we'll stuff the hat into that." maggie on this occasion was certainly not going to be particular, but she did feel a pang of some annoyance when she saw her lovely hat crushed and squeezed into a by no means clean basket. she concluded, however, that as the hat was now absolutely susy's, she need not trouble any further about it. "that's all right now," she said; "you'll be able to buy the tambourine now, won't you?" "well, i 'ope so, miss; that's if the 'at ain't a sham, and it don't look like a sham--it looks like a real good 'at. now, then, miss maggie, hadn't we better come along?--it's a good step from here to the pawnshop--we'll get there a little before eight, and they opens at eight. it's a good plan to be at the pawn bright and early, and then you get served first; come along, miss." "but i didn't know you wanted me to go with you to the shop," said maggie; "i thought you might do that by yourself; i have gived you the hat, and i thought you'd sell it by yourself. why, what is the matter susy?" susy aylmer's face had grown crimson, redder, indeed, than any face maggie had ever seen; she began opening the basket and pulling out the hat. "oh! oh!" she said, "and is that your kind? is it me that 'ud take this hat and sell it by myself? why, i'd be took for a thief, that's what i'd be took for, and i'd be put in the lock-up, that's where i'd be found. there, miss maggie, take back your hat, miss; it's better to be ever so hungry and holler, and have your bit of liberty. i must do without the tambourine, and jo's day dream won't come, that's all. good-morning to yer, miss." susy began to walk very slowly away, but maggie flew after her. "why, susy," she said, "i don't mind going with you; i think perhaps i'd rather like going, only i didn't know you wanted me. you shan't be put in the lock-up, susy, though i'm sure i don't know what the lock-up is, and you shall have your tambourine. but oh, susy, i hope they won't take me for a thief and put me into that funny place!" "oh, dear, no, missy darling--any one might see at a glance that you was the rightful owner of that 'ere pretty hat, and might well sell what was your own. come, missy dear, it's all right now, and i never thought as you'd be that real mean as to desert me." "we must be very quick, then, susy," said maggie; "for my aunt violet is going to have breakfast at half-past eight this morning and i have been up a long time--a very long time, and i never was so hungry in all my life. i had a very disturbed night, susy, for 'robinson crusoe' did bump so when he fell on the floor, and so did the 'family,' but none of them bumped quite so hard as 'sandford and merton.'" all the time the two little girls were talking they were going further and further away from mrs. grenville's door, and by the time maggie had quite made up her mind to accompany her little companion they had turned into a side street, and if she had wished it she could not now have found her way home. maggie, however, no longer wished to go back; it was great fun going with susy to the pawnbroker's, and she felt very important at having something of her own to sell. she was a strong, healthy little girl, and did not feel particularly tired when they at last reached the special pawnbroker's which susy had fixed upon as the best place for making their bargain. the doors of this shop were not yet open, but they were presently pushed back, the shutters were taken down, and a dirty-looking girl and a slovenly red-faced man entered the establishment. maggie had never seen such an unpleasant-looking pair, and she was very glad to shelter herself behind susy, and felt much inclined to refuse to enter the shop at all. susy, however, marched in boldly, and very soon the white hat was laid upon the counter, and a fierce haggling ensued between this young person and the red-faced man. the dirty girl also came and stared very hard at maggie, for certainly such a refined little face and such a lovely hat had not been seen in that pawnshop for many a day. the hat was new, and had cost several guineas, but maggie's eyes quite glistened when the red man presented her with seven shillings in exchange for it. she thought this a magnificent lot of money--her cheeks became deeply flushed, and she poured the silver into susy's hand with the delighted remark: "oh, now you can get a tambourine! this will more than make up the sixteen added to fourteen, won't it?" susy, too, thought seven shillings a splendid lot of money, and the two were leaving the pawnbroker's in a state of ecstasy, when susy suddenly felt even her florid complexion turning pale, and maggie exclaimed joyfully: "oh, it's dear waters! waters, where have you come from, and how did you learn my secret?" for answer to maggie's eager inquiries waters stooped down and lifted the little girl into her arms; she held her close, and even kissed her in a quite tremulous and agitated manner. "thank god, miss maggie!" she exclaimed; "thank god, my pretty innocent lamb, i'm in time. oh, what a bad, bad girl that susy must be! how could she tempt you to do anything so wicked? why, miss maggie, you might have been stolen yourself--you might have been--you might have been! oh, poor dear sir john! what a near escape he has had of having his heart broke!" here waters shed some tears and leaned up against the counter in her agitation. "susy was not to blame," said maggie, when she could speak in her utter astonishment. "poor susy wanted the tambourine, and i wanted to give it her, and i couldn't think of no other way, 'cause i'm a dunce and can't write, and so i couldn't send no letter to father to ask him to give me the money. don't you be frightened, susy; come here; poor susy you shall have your tambourine." but here the untidy-looking girl who served behind the counter raised her shrill voice. "ef you're looking for the red-faced young person what came with you into the shop, miss, she runned away some minutes since." "and i'm grieved to say taking the money with her," added the pawnbroker. "it seems provoking," he continued, "as of course if the money had been returned i might have given up the hat. as things now stands this here hat is mine." "not quite so," interposed waters; "you know quite well, sir, you had no right to buy a hat from a little lady like miss ascot. here's seven shillings from my purse, sir, and i'd be thankful to you to restore me the hat." of course the pawnbroker and waters had a rather sharp quarrel upon the spot, but in the end the pawnbroker was the better of that morning's transaction to the tune of several shillings, and waters rescued the pretty white hat, which, much bent out of shape, and with some black marks on its pure white trimmings, was carried home. "not that you shall wear it, my dear--not that you shall attempt to put it on your head again, for nobody knows what the hat may have contracted, so to speak, in so horrid and dirty a shop, but that i didn't wish that man to have more of a victory than i could help. oh, miss maggie, darling, you did give me a fright and no mistake!" "but how did you know where i was, waters? i kept my secret so well." "yes, my dearie; but somehow i got fidgety last night, and i kept thinking and thinking of your words, and the idea got hold of me that maybe the secret wasn't just between you and master ralph. this morning i woke earlier than my wont, and as i couldn't sleep, i got up. i had to put one or two little matters right with regard to my mistress' wardrobe, and then i thought i'd see, just when i had a quiet hour, whether you had everything right to go to the garden party. your new dress was hung up in my mistress' room, and i took it out and saw that the tucker was fastened round the neck, and that your gloves were neat, and your little white french boots wanted no buttons, and then it occurred to me that i'd just curl up the feathers of the hat. the hat was not with the dress, so i ran up to your room to fetch it, thinking of course to see you, dearie, like a little bird asleep in your nest. well, my dear, the poor little bird was flown, and the beautiful hat was nowhere, and, i must say, i was in a taking, and it flashed across me that was the secret. i put on my bonnet and flew into the street, only just in time to see you and susy talking very earnestly together, and turning the corner. the street, as you know, is a long one, and i couldn't get up with you, run as i might, but thank god, i kept you in sight, and at last overtook you at the pawnshop. oh, what a wicked girl susy aylmer is!" "she isn't," said maggie, "oh, poor susy isn't wicked. waters, i'm sorry you found us. i did want to do something for susy and for jo!" here maggie burst into such bitter weeping that waters found it absolutely impossible to comfort her. chapter x. a great fear. nothing could exceed the fuss which was made over maggie and her adventure. mrs. grenville turned quite pale when she heard of it--even ralph, who was tranquilly eating his breakfast, and who, as a rule, did not disturb himself about anything, threw down his spoon, ceased to devour his porridge, and gazed at maggie in some astonishment mingled with a tiny degree of envy and even a little shadow of respect. mrs. grenville took the little girl in her arms, and while she kissed and petted her, she also thought it necessary to chide her very gently. it was at this juncture that ralph did an astonishing thing; he upset his mug of milk, he tossed his spoon with a great clatter on the floor, and dashing in the most headlong style round the table, caught maggie's two hands and said impulsively: "she oughtn't to be scolded, really, mother. she didn't know anything about its being wrong, and i call it a downright plucky thing of her to do. she couldn't have done more even if she had been a boy--no, not even if she had been a boy," continued ralph, nodding his head with intense earnestness. "i can say nothing better than that, can i, mother?" "according to your code you certainly cannot, ralph," answered his mother. "now go back to your seat, my boy, and pick up the spoon you have thrown on the floor. see what a mess you have made on the breakfast-table. maggie, dear, you did not mean to do wrong, still you did wrong. but we will say nothing more on that subject for the present. now, my darling, you shall have some breakfast, and then i have a surprise for you." maggie could not help owning to her own little heart that ralph's words had cheered her considerably; she thought a great deal more of ralph's opinion than of any one else's, and it was an immense consolation to be compared to a boy, and to a plucky one. she accordingly ate her breakfast with considerable appetite, and was ready to receive the surprise which her aunt said awaited her at its close. this was no less joyful a piece of news than the fact that lady ascot's sister was much better, and that sir john intended to come up to london for a few days. "after all, maggie," said her aunt, "if you had shown a little patience, you could have asked your father for the money, instead of trying to sell your best hat. now, dear, you can go up to the schoolroom with ralph, and i hope that no bad consequences will arise from this morning's adventure." "i think, mother," here interrupted ralph, "it would be a good plan for maggie and me to go round and see how jo is. susy didn't act right, and i know jo will be very unhappy, and jo oughtn't to be blamed; ought she, mother?" "certainly not, ralph; jo has done nothing wrong. well, if waters can spare the time, i don't mind you two little people going to see jo, but remember, you must not stay long; for now i really must buy maggie a new hat for the garden party." "oh, auntie, but i brought my own hat back," exclaimed the little princess. "yes, my love, but it is much injured, and there are other reasons why i should not care to see you wear it again. now run away, children, and get your visit over, for we have plenty to do this afternoon." when maggie, with her heart beating high, and one of her hands held tightly in ralph's, entered mrs. aylmer's room, she was startled to find herself in a scene of much confusion. mrs. aylmer prided herself on keeping a very neat and orderly home, but there was certainly nothing orderly about that home to-day. mrs. aylmer herself was seated on a low, broken chair, her hands thrown down at her sides, her cap on crooked, and her face bearing signs of violent weeping. the two little boys stood one at each side of their mother: ben had his finger in his mouth, and bob's red hair seemed almost to stand on end. they kept gazing with solemn eyes at their mother, for tears on her face were a rare occurrence. susy was nowhere to be seen; and most startling fact of all, jo's little sofa was empty. it was jo's absence from the room which ralph first remarked. he rushed up to mrs. aylmer and clutched one of her hands. "what is the matter? where's jo? where's our darling little jo?" he exclaimed. "oh, master ralph grenville," exclaimed the poor woman, "you had better not come near me; you had better not, sir, it mightn't be safe. i'm just distraught with misery and terror. my little jo, my little treasure, is tuk away from me; she's tuk bad with the fever, sir, and they've carried her off to the hospital. she's there now; i 'as just come from seeing her there." by this time waters, panting and puffing hard, had reached the room, and had heard, with a sinking heart, the last of mrs. aylmer's words. she eagerly questioned the poor woman, who said that jo had not been well for days, and yesterday the doctor had pronounced her case one of fever and had ordered her, for the sake of the other children, to be moved at once to the nearest fever hospital. "she was werry willing to go herself," continued the mother; "she wouldn't harm no one, not in life, nor in death, would my little jo." "and susy knew of this!" exclaimed waters. "oh, was there ever such a bad girl? mrs. aylmer, you'll forgive me if i hurries these dear children out of this infected air! i'll come back later in the day, ma'am, and do what i can for you; and if susy comes home, you might do well to keep her in, for i can't help saying she is no credit to you. it sounds hard at such a moment, but i must out with my mind." "susy!" here exclaimed mrs. aylmer, "i ain't seen nothing of susy to-day." "no, ma'am, very like; but it's my duty to tell you she has been after no good. now come away, darlings. i'll look in again presently, mrs. aylmer." maggie could never make out why her aunt turned so pale and looked so anxiously at her when the news of jo's dangerous illness was told to her. the pity which should have been expended on the sick and suffering little girl seemed, in some inexplicable way, to be showered upon her. a doctor even was sent for, who asked maggie a lot of questions, and was particularly anxious to know if she held susy's hand when she walked with her, and how long she and ralph had been in the infected room. in conclusion, he said some words which seemed to maggie to have no sense at all. "there is nothing whatever for us to do, mrs. grenville. if the children have imbibed the poison it is too late to stop matters. we must only hope for the best, and watch them. nothing, of course, can be certainly known for several days." maggie could not understand the doctor, and both she and ralph thought mrs. grenville rather wanting in feeling not to let them go and inquire for jo at the hospital. under these circumstances the garden-party was a rather cheerless affair, and maggie was glad to return home and to lay a very tired little head on her pillow. she was awakened from her first sleep by her father bending over her and kissing her passionately. never had she seen sir john's face so red, and his eyes quite looked--only of course that was impossible--as if he had been crying. "oh, father, i am glad to see you," exclaimed maggie, "only i wish you had come last night, for then i wouldn't have tried to sell my hat, and you'd have given me the money for the tambourine. i wish you had come last night, father, dear." "so do i, mag-mag," answered poor sir john. "god knows it might have saved me from a broken heart." maggie could not understand either her father or aunt. she began, perhaps, to have a certain glimmering as to the meaning of it all when, a few days later, she felt very hot, and languid, and heavy, when her throat ached, and her head ached, and although it was a warm summer's day, she was glad to lie with a shawl over her on the sofa. then certain words of the doctor's, as he bent over her, penetrated her dull ears, and crept somehow down into her heart. "there is no doubt whatever that she has taken the fever from susy aylmer. well, all we have to do now is to pull her through as quickly as possible, and of course, mrs. grenville, as ralph is still quite well, and as he was not exposed to anything like the same amount of infection as maggie, you will send him away." mrs. grenville responded in rather a choking voice, and she and the doctor left the room together. a few moments later mrs. grenville came back and bent over the sick child. "is that you, auntie violet?" asked maggie. "yes, my darling," responded her aunt. "what's fever, auntie?" "an illness, dear." "and am i going to be very, very ill?" "i hope not very ill, maggie. we are going to nurse you so well that we trust that will not be the case; but i am afraid my poor little girl will not feel comfortable for some time." "and did i take the fever that's to make me so sick from susy--only susy wasn't sick, auntie?" "no, dearest; but she carried the infection on her clothes, and there is no doubt you took it from her." "then i'm 'fraid," continued maggie, "you're very angry with her still." "i cannot say that i'm pleased with her, darling." "oh, but, auntie, i want you to forgive her, and i want father to forgive her, 'cause she didn't know nothing about 'fection or fevers--and--and--do forgive her, auntie violet." here poor sick little maggie began to cry and mrs. grenville was glad to comfort her with any assurances, even of promises of forgiveness for the naughty susy. after this there came very dark and anxious days for the people who loved the little princess. ralph was sent back to tower hill, where he wandered about and was miserable, and thought a great deal about maggie, and found out that after all he was very fond of her. he did not take the fever himself, but he was full of anxieties about jo and maggie; for both the little girls, one in the fever hospital and the other in his mother's luxurious home, were having a hard fight for their little lives. lady ascot and sir john were always, day and night, one or another of them, to be found by maggie's sick-bed, and of course there were professional nurses, and more than one doctor; but with all this care the sick child in the home seemed to have as hard a time of it as the other sick child who was away from those she loved and who was handed over to the tender mercies of strangers. it was very curious how, through all her ravings and through all the delirium of her fever, maggie talked about jo. she had only seen jo once in her life, but although she mentioned her mother and her father, and her old nurse and ralph, there was no one at all about whom she spoke so frequently, or with so keen an interest, as the lame child of the poor laundress. from the moment she heard that susy was to be forgiven, that very mischievous little person seemed to have passed from her thoughts; but with jo it was different, until at last waters began to think that there was some mysterious link between the two sick children. this idea was confirmed, when one evening little maggie awoke, cool and quiet, but with a weakness over her which was beyond any weakness she could ever have dreamed of undergoing. her feeble voice could scarcely be heard, but her thoughts still ran on jo. "mother," she whispered, very, very low indeed in lady ascot's ear, "i thought jo had got her day-dream." "try not to talk, my precious one," whispered the mother back in reply. "but why not?" asked maggie. "jo often had day-dreams, susy told me, and so did ralph. she wanted to be in a cool place, where beautiful things are, in the country, or in--in heaven. and i want to be with jo in the country--or in--heaven." maggie looked very sweet as she spoke, and when the last words passed her pale little lips, she closed her eyes with their pretty curly lashes. the father and mother both felt, as they looked at her, that a very, very little more would take their darling away. "i wonder how the sick child in the hospital is," said sir john ascot to his wife. "i must own i have had no time to think about her, and she and hers have done mischief enough to us; but the little one's heart seems set on her--has been all through. it might be a good thing for our little maggie if i could bring her word that the other child is better." "it would be the best thing in all the world for maggie," answered lady ascot. "then i will go round to the fever hospital now, and make inquiries," said sir john. on his way downstairs he met mrs. grenville, and told her what he was doing. she said: "wait one moment, john, and i will put on my bonnet and go with you." it was a lovely evening toward the end of july. the day had been intensely hot, but now a soft breeze began to stir the heated atmosphere, a breeze with a little touch of health and healing about it. "this night will be cooler than the last," said mrs. grenville, "and that will be another chance in our little one's favor." at this moment the lady's dress was plucked rather sharply from behind, and looking round mrs. grenville saw, for the first time since all their trouble, the excited and rough little figure of susy aylmer. her first impulse was to shake herself free from the touch of so naughty a child, but then she remembered her promise to maggie, and looked again at the little intruder. a great change had come over poor susy; the confidence and assurance had all left her round face. it was round still, and was to a certain extent red still, but the eyes were so swollen with crying, and the poor face itself so disfigured by tear-channels, that only one who had seen her several times would have recognized her. "oh, ma'am," she exclaimed, "i has been waiting here for hours and hours, and nobody will speak to me nor tell me nothing. mrs. cook won't speak, nor the housemaid, nor mrs. waters, nor nobody, and i feel as if my heart would burst, ma'am. oh, mrs. grenville, how is miss maggie, and is she going away same as our little jo is going away?" "who is that child, violet?" inquired sir john. "does she, too, know some one of the name of jo, and what is she keeping you for? do let us hurry on." "she is little jo aylmer's sister," whispered back mrs. grenville. "susy, it is very hard to forgive you, for through your deceit we have all got into this terrible trouble; but i promised maggie i would try, and i can not go back from my word to the dear little one. maggie is a shade, just a shade better to-night, susy, but she is still very, very ill. pray for her, child, pray for that most precious little life. and now, what about jo? it is not really true what you said about jo, susy?" "yes, but it is, ma'am; they has just sent round a message to mother, and they say that our little jo won't live through the night. it's quite true as she's going away to god, ma'am." chapter xi. going home. sir john and mrs. grenville left poor susy standing with her apron to her eyes at the corner of the street, and went on in the direction of the fever hospital. their hearts had sunk very low at susy's words, and they began to share in waters' belief that there was a mysterious sympathy between the two sick children, and that if one went away perhaps the other would follow quickly. the fever hospital was some little distance off, but they both preferred walking to calling a cab. it was not the visiting hour when they got there, but mrs. grenville scribbled some words on a little card, and begged of the porter who admitted them into the cool stone hall to send a note with her card and sir john's at once to the lady superintendent. this little note had the desired effect, and in a few moments they were both admitted to the good lady's private sanctum. mrs. grenville in a few low words explained the nature of their errand. the good lady nurse was all sympathy and interest, but when they mentioned the name of the child they had come to see her face became very grave and sad. "that little one!" she remarked; "i fear that god is going to take that sweet child away to himself. she is the sweetest and prettiest child in the hospital--she has gone through a terrible illness, and i don't think i have once heard her murmur. poor little lamb! her sufferings are over at last, thank god; she is just quietly moment by moment passing away. it is a case of dying from exhaustion." "but, good madam, can nothing be done to rouse her?" asked sir john, his face turning purple with agitation. "has she the best and most expensive nourishment--can't her strength be supported? perhaps, ma'am, you are not aware that a good deal depends on the life of that little girl. it is not an ordinary case--no, no, by no means an ordinary case. my purse is at your command, ma'am; get the best doctors, the best nurses, the best care--save the child's life at any cost." while sir john was speaking the lady nurse looked sadder than ever. "we give of the best in this hospital," she said; "and there has been from the first no question of expense or money. perhaps the worst symptom in the case of little joanna aylmer is in the fact that the child herself does not wish to recover. i confess i have no hope whatever, but it is a well-known saying that, in fever, as long as there is life there is hope. would you like to see the child, mrs. grenville? it might comfort your own little darling afterward to know that you had gone to see her just at the end." mrs. grenville nodded in reply, but poor sir john, overcome by an undefined terror, sank down by the table, and covered his face with his hands. mrs. grenville followed the nurse into the long cool ward, passing on her way many sick and suffering children. the child by whose little narrow white bed they at last stopped was certainly now not suffering. her eyes were closed; through her parted lips only came the gentlest breathing; on her serene brow there rested a look of absolute peace. little jo aylmer was alive, but she neither spoke nor moved. mrs. grenville stooped down and kissed her, leaving what she thought was a tear of farewell on her sweet little face. as she was walking home by sir john's side, she said abruptly, after an interval of silence: "it is quite true, john--we must do what we can to keep maggie, but little jo is going home." "she must not die. we must keep her somehow," replied sir john. that night it seemed to several people that two little children were about to be taken away to their heavenly home, for maggie's feeble strength fluttered and failed, and, as the hours went by, the doctors shook their heads and looked very grave. she still talked in a half-delirious way about jo, and still seemed to fancy that she and jo were soon going somewhere away together. all through her illness no one had been more devoted in her attentions to the sick child than the faithful servant waters. when the day began to break, waters made up her mind to a certain line of action. her mistress had told her how very ill little jo aylmer was--she had described fully her visit to the hospital--had told waters that she herself had no hope whatever of jo, and had further added that the child herself did not wish to live. "that's not to be wondered at," commented waters. "what have she special to live for, pretty lamb? and there's much to delight one like her where she's going; but all the same, ma'am, it will be the death-knell of our little miss maggie if the other child is taken." when the morning broke, waters felt that she could bear her present state of inaction no longer, and accordingly she tied on her bonnet and went out. first of all she wended her steps in the direction of the aylmers' humble dwelling. she mounted the stairs to mrs. aylmer's door and knocked. the poor woman had not been in bed all night, and flew to the door now, fearing that waters' knock was the dreaded message which she had been expecting from the hospital. "'tis only me, ma'am," said waters, "and you has no call to be frightened. i want you just to put on your bonnet and shawl, and come right away with me to the hospital. we has got to be let in somehow, for i must see jo directly." "for aught i know," said mrs. aylmer, "little jo may be singing with the angels now." "we must hope not, ma'am, for i want that little jo of yours to live. she has got to live for our miss maggie's sake, and there is not a moment to lose; so come away, ma'am, at once." mrs. aylmer stared at waters; then, because she felt very weak, and feeble, and wretched herself, she allowed the stronger woman to guide her, and the two went out without another word being said on either side. it was, of course, against all rules for visitors to be admitted at five o'clock in the morning; but in the case of mothers and dying children such rules are apt to become lax, and the two women presently found themselves behind the screen which sheltered little jo from her companions. "she won't hear you now," said the nurse; "she has not noticed any one for many hours." waters looked round her almost despairingly--the poor mother had sunk down by the bedside, and had covered her face with her hands. waters, too, covered her face, and as she did so she prayed to her father in heaven with great fervor and strong faith and hope. after this brief prayer she knelt by the little white cot, and took the cold little hand of the child who was every moment going further away from the shore of life. "little jo," she said, "you have got to live. i don't believe god wishes you to die, and you mustn't wish it either. you have got your work to do, jo; do you hear me? look at me, pretty one--you have got to live." waters spoke clearly, and in a very decided voice. the little one's violet eyes opened for a brief instant and fixed themselves on the anxious, pleading woman; both the nurse and the mother came close to the bed in breathless astonishment. "have you got a cordial?" said waters, turning to the nurse. "give it to me, and let me put it between her lips." the nurse gave her a few drops out of a bottle, and waters wetted the parched lips of the child. "there's another little one, my pretty, and she's waiting for you. if you go i fear she'll go, but if you stay i think she'll stay. there are them who would break their hearts without her, and she ought to do a good work down on the earth. will you stay for her sake, little jo?" here the sick child moved restlessly, and waters continued. "send her a message, jo aylmer," she said. "tell her where you two are next to meet--in the country, where the grass is green, or in--heaven. oh, jo! do say you will meet miss maggie in the cool, shady, lovely country, and wait until by and by for heaven, my pretty lamb." whether god really heard waters' very earnest prayer, or whether little jo was at that moment about to take a turn for the better, she certainly opened her eyes again full and bright and wide, and quite intelligible words came from her pretty lips. "my day-dream," said little jo aylmer; "tell her--tell her to meet me where the grass is green." chapter xii. in the wood. the little princess of tower hill and the child of the poor laundress were both pronounced out of danger. death no longer with his terrible sickle hovered over these pretty flowers; they were to make beautiful the garden of earth for the present. waters felt quite sure in her own heart that she, under god, had been the means of saving maggie's life, for maggie had smiled so sweetly and contentedly when waters had brought her back the other child's message, and after that she had ceased to speak about meeting jo in heaven. when the scales were turned and the children were pronounced out of danger, they both grew rapidly better, and at the end of a fortnight maggie was able to sit up for a few moments at a time, and almost to fatigue those about her with her numerous inquiries about jo. every day waters went to the hospital, and came back with reports of the sick child, whose progress toward recovery was satisfactory, only not quite so rapid as maggie's. at last the doctor gave sir john and lady ascot permission to take their little darling back to tower hill. mrs. grenville accompanied her brother and sister and little niece; and of course in the country maggie would have the great happiness of meeting ralph again. ralph by this time had taken the hearts of miss grey and the numerous servants at tower hill by storm. he was thoroughly at home and thoroughly happy, assumed a good deal the airs of a little autocrat, and had more or less his own way in everything. he was delighted to see maggie, and immediately drew her away from the rest to talk to her and consult her on various subjects. [illustration: he put his arm around his little cousin.--page .] "you look rather white and peaky, mag, but you'll soon brown up now you've got into the real country. you must run about a great deal, and forget that you were ever ill. you mustn't even mind being a little tottery upon your legs at first. i know you must be tottery, because i've been consulting miss grey about it, and she once had rheumatic fever, and she used to totter about after it awfully; but the great thing is not to be sentimental over it, but to determine that you will get back your muscle. now what do you think i have found? come round with me into the shrubbery and you shall see." ralph's words were decidedly a little rough and tonicky, but his actions were more considerate, for he put his arm round his little cousin and led her quite gently away. maggie found the sweet country air delicious; she was also very happy to feel ralph's arm round her waist, and she could not help giving his little brown hand a squeeze. "i wish you'd kiss me, ralph," she said. "i have thought of you so often when i was getting better; i know you must think me not much of a playfellow, and i am so sorry that i began by vexing you about the rabbits." "i'll kiss you, of course, mag," said ralph. "i don't think kisses are at all interesting things myself, but i'd do a great deal more than that to make you happy, for i was really, really sorry when you were ill. i don't think you're at all a bad sort of playfellow, mag--i mean for a girl. and as to the rabbits, why, that was the best deed you ever did. you are coming to see my dear bunnies now." "oh, ralph, you don't mean bianco and lily?" "yes, i mean my darling white beauties that jo gave me. i found them again in the wood, and they have grown as friendly as possible. i don't shut them up in any hutch; they live in the wood and they come to me when i call them. yesterday i found that they had made a nest, and the nest was full of little bunnies, all snow white, and with long hair like the father and mother. i'm going to show you the nest now." at the thought of this delightful sight maggie's cheeks became very pink, her blue eyes danced, and she forgot that her legs were without muscle, and even tried to run in her excitement and pleasure. "don't be silly, mag!" laughed her cousin; "the bunnies aren't going to hide themselves, and we'll find them all in good time. you may walk with those tottery legs of yours, but you certainly cannot run. here, now we're at the entrance to the wood; now i'll help you over the stile." the children found the nest of lovely white rabbits, and spent a very happy half-hour sitting on the ground gazing at them. then maggie began to confide a little care, which rested on her heart about jo, to her cousin. "she has got well again, you know, ralph, and i promised she should meet me in the country somewhere where the grass is green, and yet i don't know how she's to come. i have got no money, and jo has got no money, and father and mother don't say any thing about it. it would be a dreadful thing for jo to stay away from heaven--for she was very, very near going to heaven, ralph--and then to find that i had broken my word to her, and that after all we were never to see each other where the grass is green." "it would be worse than dreadful," answered ralph, "it would be downright cruel and wicked. dear little jo! she'd like to come here and look at the bunnies, wouldn't she? well, i've got no money either, and she can't be got into the country without money; that i do know. perhaps i'd better speak to mother about it." but ralph, when he did question mrs. grenville on the subject, found her wonderfully silent, and in his opinion unsympathetic. she said that she could not possibly interfere with sir john and lady ascot in their own place, and that if she were ralph she would let things alone, and trust to the ascots doing what was right in the matter. but ralph was not inclined to take this advice. "i like maggie for being good about jo," he said, "and jo shan't be disappointed. i'll go myself to uncle john; he probably only needs to have the thing put plainly to him." sir john listened to the little boy's somewhat excited remarks with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "so the princess has sent you to me, my lad?" he said. "you tell her to keep her little mind tranquil, and to try to trust her old father." little jo aylmer came very slowly back to health and strength, but at last there arrived a day when the hospital nurse pronounced her cured, and when her mother arrived in a cab to take her away. the hospital nurse had tears in her eyes when she kissed jo, and the other sick children in the ward were extremely sorry to say good-by to her, for little jo, without making any extraordinary efforts, indeed without making any efforts at all, had a wonderful faculty for inspiring love. no doubt she was sympathetic, and no doubt also she was self-forgetful, and her ready tact prevented her saying the words which might hurt or doing the deeds which might annoy, and these apparently trivial traits in her character may have helped to make her popular. on that particular sunshiny afternoon the preparations made by certain excited little people in philmer's buildings were great. from the day jo was pronounced out of danger susy had begun to recover her spirits, and at any rate to forgive herself for her conduct in the matter of the tambourine. she had not spent any of the seven shillings which the pawnbroker had given for poor maggie's best hat; it had all been securely tucked away in her best white cotton pocket-handkerchief, and neither her mother nor the boys knew of its existence, for to purchase a tambourine while jo was so ill, and maggie supposed to be dying was beyond even thoughtless susy's desires. after her own fashion, this rather heedless little girl had suffered a good deal during the past weeks, and suffering did her good, as it does all other creatures. now, while the boys were very busy getting the room into a festive condition for jo, susy quietly and softly withdrew one shilling from her mysterious hoard, and went out to make purchases. a shilling means almost nothing to some people; they spend it on utter rubbish--they virtually throw it away. this was, however, by no means the case with susy aylmer; she knew a shilling's worth to the uttermost farthing, and it was surprising with what a number of parcels she returned home. "now, ben and bob, we'll lay the tea-table," she said, addressing her excited little brothers. "yere, put the cloth straight, do--you know as jo can't abide nothing crooked. now then, out comes the fresh loaf as mother bought; pop it on the cracked plate, and put it here, a little to one side--it looks more genteel--not right away in the very middle. here goes the teapot--oh, my! ain't it a pity as the spout is cracked off?--and here's the little yaller jug for the milk! here's butter, too--dosset, but not bad. now then, we begins on my purchases. a slice of 'am on this tiny plate for jo; red herrings, which we'll toast up and make piping hot presently; a nice little bundle of radishes, creases ditto. oh, my heyes! i do like creases, they're so nice and biting. now then, what 'ave we 'ere?--why, a big packet of lollipops; i got the second quality of lollipops, so i 'as quite a big parcel; and the man threw in two over, 'cause i said they was for a gal just out of 'ospital. shrimps is in this 'ere bag. now, boys, there ain't none of these 'ere for you, they're just for mother and jo, and no one else--don't you be greedy, ben and bob, for ef you are, i'll give you something to remember. yere's a real fresh egg, which must be boiled werry light--that's for jo, of course--and 'ere's a penn'orth of dandy-o-lions to stick in the middle of the table. yere they goes into this old brown cracked jug, and don't they look fine? well, i'm sure i never see'd a more genteel board." the boys thoroughly agreed with susy on this point, and while they were skipping and dancing about, and making many dives at the tempting eatables, and susy was chasing them with loud whoops, half of anger, half of mirth, about the room, mrs. aylmer and the little pale, spiritual-looking sister arrived. at the sight of jo the children felt their undue excitement subsiding--their happiness became peace, as it always did in her blessed little presence. there was no wrangling or quarreling over the tea-table--the look of pretty jo lying on her sofa once again kept the boys from being over-greedy, and reduced susy's excitement to due bounds. mrs. aylmer said several times, "i'm the werry happiest woman in london," and her children seemed to think that they were the happiest children. the pleasant tea-hour came, however, to an end at last, and susy was just washing up the cups and saucers and putting the remainder of the feast into the cupboard, when the whole family were roused into a condition of most alert attention by a sharp and somewhat imperative knock on the room door. "dear heart alive!" exclaimed mrs. aylmer. "whoever can that be? it sounds like the landlord, only i paid my bit of rent yesterday." "it's more likely to be some one after you as laundress, mother," remarked practical susy; and then ben flew across the room and, opening the door wide, admitted no less a person than sir john ascot himself. mrs. aylmer had never seen him, and of course did not know what an important visitor was now coming into her humble little room. susy, however, knew maggie's father, and felt herself turning very white, and took instant refuge behind jo's sofa. "now, which is little jo?" said sir john, coming forward and peering round him. "i've come here specially to-day to see a child whom my own little girl loves very much. i've something to say to that child, and also to her mother. my name is ascot, and i dare say you all, good folks, have heard of my dear little girl maggie." "miss maggie!" exclaimed jo, a delicate pink coming into her face, and her sweet violet eyes becoming, not tearful, but misty. "are you miss maggie's father, sir? i seems to be near to miss maggie somehow." "so you are, little lassie," said the baronet; and then he glanced from pretty jo to the other children, and from her again to her mother, as though he could not quite account for such a fragile and pure little flower among these plants of sturdy and common growth. "my little jo favors her father, sir john," said mrs. aylmer, dropping a profound courtesy and dusting a chair with her apron for the baronet. "will you be pleased to be seated, sir?" she went on. "we're all pleased to see you here--pleased and proud, and that's not saying a word too much. and how is the dear, beautiful little lady, sir john, and master ralph, bless him?" "my little girl is well again, thank god, mrs. aylmer, and ralph is as sturdy a little chap as any heart could desire. yes, i will take a seat near jo, if you please. i've a little plan to propose, which i hope she will like, and which you, mrs. aylmer, will also approve of. this is it." then sir john unfolded a deep-laid plot, which threw the aylmer family into a state of unspeakable rapture. to describe their feelings would be beyond any ordinary pen. chapter xiii. thank god for all. on a certain lovely evening in the beginning of september, when the air was no longer too warm, and the whole world seemed bathed in absolute peace and rest, little maggie ascot and her cousin ralph might have been seen walking, with their arms round each other, in very deep consultation. maggie was quite strong again, had got her roses back, and the bright light of health in her blue eyes. she and ralph were pacing slowly up and down a shady path not far from the large entrance gates. "i can't think what it means," exclaimed maggie; "it is the fourth time aunt violet has gone up there to-day, and susan the scullery-maid has gone with her now, carrying an enormous basket. susan let me peep into it, and it was full of all kinds of goodies. she said it was for the new laundress. i never knew such a fuss to make about a laundress." here ralph thought it well to administer a little reproof. "that's because you haven't been taught to consider the poor," he said. "why shouldn't a laundress have nice things done for her? and if this is a poor lonely stranger coming from a long way off, it's quite right for mother to welcome her. mother always thinks you can't do too much for lonely people, and she'll wash your dresses all the whiter if she thinks you're going to be kind and attentive. why, maggie, our little jo's mother is a laundress, you forget that. laundresses are most respectable people." at the mention of jo's name maggie sighed. "there's nothing at all been done about her, ralph," she said. "nobody seems to take any notice when i speak about her. she must be tired of waiting and watching by this time. she must be dreadfully sorry that she did not go away to heaven and god; for she must know now that i never meant anything when i wanted to meet her in the country--and yet i did, ralph, i did!" here maggie's blue eyes grew full of tears. "never mind, mag," replied her little cousin soothingly; "it is very odd, and i don't understand it a bit, but mother says things are sure to come right, and you know uncle john wished us to trust him." "but the time is going on," said maggie; "the summer days will go, and jo won't have seen the lovely country where the grass is green. oh! ralph, we must do something." "if only mrs. aylmer were the new laundress!" began ralph. "you can't think what a nice cottage that is, mag--four lovely rooms, and such a nice, nice kitchen, with those dear little lattice panes of glass in the window, and lots of jasmine and virginia creeper peeping in from outside, and a green field for the laundress to dry her clothes in, just beyond. poor laundress! she will like that field awfully, and it would be very unkind of us to wish to take it away from her and give it to mrs. aylmer, for of course mrs. aylmer knows nothing about it, and the new laundress has probably arrived, and set her heart on it by this time; and she may be a widow, too, with lots and lots of little children." "but none of the children could be like jo," said maggie. "well, perhaps not," answered ralph. "oh, here comes mother; let's run to meet her. mother darling, has the new laundress come?" "yes, ralph, she and her family arrived about an hour ago; they are settling down nicely into the cottage, and seem to be respectable people. they all think the cottage very comfortable." "and are you going to see them again to-night, auntie violet?" asked maggie with rather a sorrowful look on her little face. "why, yes, maggie; they are all strangers here, you know, and i fancy they rather feel that, so it might be nice to walk up presently and take a cup of tea with them. there are some children, so you and ralph might come too." "didn't i tell you how mother considered the poor?" here whispered ralph, poking the little princess rather violently in the side. "oh, yes, mother, we'd like to go to tea with the little laundresses. is there anything we could take them--anything they would like, to show that we sympathize with them for having come so far, and having left their old home?" "they don't seem at all melancholy, ralph," said mrs. grenville, smiling, "and when they have seen you and maggie, i fancy they will none of them have anything further to desire to-night. why, maggie dear, you look quite sad; what is the matter?" "i am thinking of little jo," whispered maggie. "her mother is a laundress, too, and she's poor. why couldn't you have considered the poor in the shape of jo's mother, aunt violet?" mrs. grenville stooped down and kissed maggie. "here come your father and mother," she said, "and i know they too want to see the new people who have come to the pretty cottage. now let us all set off. i told the laundress and her family that you were coming to have tea with them, maggie and ralph. suppose you two run on in front; you know the cottage and you know the way." "tell the good folks we'll look in on them presently," shouted sir john ascot, and then the children took each other's hands and ran across some fields to the laundress' cottage. they heard some sounds of mirth as they drew near, and saw two rather wild little boys tumbling about, turning somersaults and standing on their heads; they also heard a high-pitched voice, and caught a glimpse of a remarkably round and red face, and it seemed to maggie that the voice and the face were both familiar, although she could not quite recall where she had seen them before. "we must introduce ourselves quite politely," said ralph as they walked up the narrow garden path. "now here we are; i'll knock with my knuckles. i wish i knew the laundress' name. it seems rude to say, 'is the laundress in?' for of course she has got a name, and her name is just as valuable to her as ours are to us. how stupid not to have found out what she is really called. perhaps we had better inquire for mrs. robbins; that's rather a common name, and yet not too common. it would never do to call her mrs. smith or jones, for if she wasn't smith or jones, she wouldn't like it. now, maggie, i'll knock rather sharp, and when the new laundress opens the door you are to say, 'please is mrs. robbins the laundress in?'" all this time the girl with the red face was making little darts to the lattice window and looking out, and there were some stifled sounds of mirth from the boys with the high-pitched voices. "the laundress' family are in good spirits," remarked ralph, and then he gave a sharp little knock, and maggie prepared her speech. "please is the new--is mrs. rob--is, is--oh! ralph, why, it's mrs. aylmer herself!" nothing very coherent after this discovery was uttered by any one for several minutes. maggie found herself kneeling by jo, with her arms round jo's neck, and two little cheeks, both wet with tears, were pressed together, and two pair of lips kissed each other. that kiss was a solemn one, for the two little hearts were full. in different ranks, belonging almost to two extremes, the child of riches and the child of poverty knew that they possessed kindred spirits, and that their friendship was such that circumstances were not likely again to divide them. waters was right when she said there was a strong link between maggie and jo. that is the story, an episode, after all, in the life of the little princess, but an episode which was to influence all her future days. the end. tom, pepper, and trusty. "therefore, to this dog will i, tenderly, not scornfully, render praise and favor: with my hand upon his head is my benediction said, therefore, and forever." --e. b. browning. chapter i. the three friends. a child and a dog sat very close to the fast-expiring embers of a small fire in a shabby london attic. the dog was very old, with palsied, shaking limbs, eyes half-blind, and an appearance about his whole person of almost disreputable ugliness and decrepitude, he was a large white-and-liver-colored dog, of no particular breed, and certainly of no particular beauty. never, even in his best days, could this dog have been at all good-looking. the child who crouched close to him was small and thin. he was a pale child, with big, sorrowful eyes, and that shrunken appearance of the whole little frame which proclaims but too clearly that bread-and-milk have not sufficiently nourished it. he sat very close to the old dog, half-supporting himself against him; his head was bent forward on his little chest--he was half-asleep. a little apart from the dog and the sleepy child stood a very bright boy, a boy with rosy cheeks and sparkling eye. he poised himself for a moment on one leg, kicked off the snow from his ragged trousers with the other, then flinging his cap and an old broom into a corner of the attic, he sang out in a clear, ringing tone: "hillow! pepper and trusty, is that h'all the welcome yer 'ave to give to a feller?" at the first sound of his voice the dog feebly wagged his tail and the little child started to his feet. "hillow!" he answered with a pitiful attempt at the elder boy's cheerfulness; "i 'opes as yer 'ave brought h'in some supper, tom." "see yere," said tom, just turning back a morsel of his ragged jacket to show what really was still a pocket. this pocket bunched out now in a most suggestive manner, and pepper, thrusting in his tiny hand, pulled from it the following heterogeneous mixture: an old bone--very bare of even the pretense of meat; an orange; some nuts; a piece of moldy bread, and a nice little crisp loaf; also twopence and a halfpenny. "ain't it prime, pepper?" said the elder boy. "yere's the bone for old trusty, and the broken bread, and the pretty little loaf, and the nuts, and th' orange, for you and me." "oh, tom! where did you get the nuts?" "they were throwing 'em to a dancing monkey, and an old 'oman gave me a handful h'all to myself. i say, didn't i clutch 'em!" "well, let's crunch 'em up now," said pepper, whose face had grown quite bright with anticipation. "and give trusty his bone," said tom. "i picked it h'out o' the gutter, and washed it at the pump. 'tis a real juicy bone--full o' marrow. yere, old feller! don't he move his lazy h'old sides quickly now, pepper?" "yes," said pepper, clapping his tiny hands. chapter ii. why he was called trusty. the two little boys and the dog ate their supper in perfect silence, the only noise to be heard during the meal being the crunching of three sets of busy teeth. then, the fire being quite out, the children lay down on a dirty mattress in a corner of the room, and trusty curled himself up at their feet. however lazy trusty might be in the daytime while the fire was alight, at night he always assumed the character of a protector. let the slightest sound arise, above, around, or beneath him, and he raised a bay, cracked it is true, but still full of unspeakable consolation to the timid heart of little pepper. in the daytime pepper was often guilty of very wicked and treacherous thoughts about trusty. when he was so often hungry, and could seldom enjoy more than half a meal, why must tom, however little money or food he brought in after his day's sweeping, always insist on trusty having his full share? why must tom--on those rare occasions when he was a little cross and discontented--too cross and discontented to take much notice of him (pepper), yet still put his arms so lovingly round the old dog's neck? and why, why above all things must trusty be so very selfish about their tiny fire, sitting so close to it, and taking all its warmth into his own person, while poor little pepper shivered by his side? pepper was younger than trusty, and he never remembered the day when the dog was not a great person in his home; he never remembered the day when his mother, however poor and pinched, had not managed, with all the good-will in the world, to pay the dog-tax for him. and when that mother--six months ago--died, she had enjoined on tom, almost with her last breath, the necessity of continuing this, and whatever straits they were placed in, begged of them never to forsake the old dog in his need. of course pepper knew the reason of all this love and care for old trusty; and the reason, notwithstanding those treacherous and discontented thoughts in which he now and then found himself indulging, filled him with not a little pride and pleasure. it was because of him--of him, poor little insignificant pepper--that his mother and tom loved trusty so well. for when he was a baby trusty had saved his life. how pepper did love to hear that story! how he used to climb on his mother's knee, and curl in her arms, and get her to tell it to him over and over again; and then, as he listened, his big, dark eyes used to get bright and wondering, while he pictured to himself the country home with the roses growing about the porch; and the pretty room inside, and the cradle where he lay warm and sheltered. then, how his heart did beat when his mother spoke of that dreadful day when she went out and left him in charge of a neighbor's daughter, paying no heed to his real caretaker, the large strong dog--young then, who lay under the table. how often his cheek had turned pale, as his mother went on to tell him how the neighbor's daughter first built up the fire, and then, growing tired of her dull occupation, went away and left him alone with no companion but the dog. and then, how his father, returning from his day's work, had rushed in with a cry of horror, to find the cradle burned and some of the other furniture on fire; but the baby himself lying, smiling and uninjured, in a corner of the room; for the brave dog had dragged him from his dangerous resting-place, and had himself put out the flames as they began to catch his little night-shirt. trusty was severely burned, and for the rest of his days was blind of one eye and walked with a limp; but he earned the undying love and gratitude of the father and mother for his heroic conduct. after this adventure his name was changed from jack to trusty, and any member of the family would rather have starved than allow trusty to want. pepper never listened to this exciting tale without his chest beginning to heave, and a moisture of love and compunction filling his brown eyes. to-night, as he lay curled up as close as possible to tom, with trusty keeping his feet warm by lying on them, he thought of it all over again. as he thought, he felt even more than his usual sorrow, for he had certainly been very cross to trusty to-day. these feelings and recollections so occupied him that he forgot to chatter away as usual, until, looking up suddenly, he felt that his brother's eyes were closing--in short, that tom was going to sleep. now, of all the twenty-four hours that comprised pepper's day and night, there was none that compared with the hour when he lay in his brother's arms, and talked to him, and listened to his adventures. this hour made the remaining twenty-three endurable; in short, it was his golden hour--his hour marked with a red letter. "oh, tom!" he said now, rousing himself and speaking in a voice almost tearful, so keen was his disappointment, "yer never agoin' to get drowsy?" "not i," answered tom, awakened at once by the sorrowful tones, and half-sitting up. "wot is it, pepper? i'm as lively as a lark, i am." "yer h'eyes were shut," said pepper. "well, and your mouth wor shut, pepper, that wor wy i fastened h'up my h'eyes, to save time." "tom," said pepper, creeping very close to his big brother, "does yer really think as yer'll 'ave the money saved h'up for dear old trusty's tax, wen the man comes fur it?" "oh, yes! i 'opes so; there's three months yet." "'e's a dear old dog," said pepper, in an emphatic voice, "and i won't mind wot pat finnahan says 'bout 'im." "wot's that?" asked tom. "oh, tom! 'e comes h'in, some days, wen 'tis bitter cold, and trusty 'ave got hisself drawed in front o' the fire (trusty do take h'up h'all the fire, tom) and 'e says as trusty is h'eatin' us h'out o' 'ouse and 'ome, and ef you pays the tax fur 'im, wy, yer'll be the biggest fool h'out." "dear me," said tom, "'e must be a nice 'un, 'e must! why, trusty's a sight better'n him, and a sight better worth lookin' arter." this remark of tom's, uttered with great vehemence, startled pepper so much that he lay perfectly silent, staring up at his big brother. the moonlight, which quite filled the attic, enabled him to see tom's face very distinctly. a strongly marked face, and full of character at all times; it was now also so full of disgust that pepper quite trembled. "well, he is a mean 'un," continued tom. "see if i don't lay it on him the next time i catches of him coming spyin' in yere; and, pepper," he added, "i'm real consarned as yer should 'ave listened to such words." "'ow could i 'elp it?" answered pepper. "'e comed h'in, and 'e kicked at trusty. i didn't want fur h'old trusty not to be paid fur, tom." "i should 'ope not, indeed," replied tom; "that 'ud be a nice pass for us two boys to fursake trusty. but look yere, pepper. yer never goin' to be untrue to yer name, be yer?" "oh, tom! 'ow so?" "does yer know wy trusty was called trusty?" now, of course, pepper knew no story in the world half so well, but at this question of tom's he nestled close so him, raised beseeching eyes, and said: "tell us." "'e wor called trusty," continued tom, "'cause wen yer were a little 'un he wor faithful. trusty means faithful; it means a kind of a body wot won't fursake another body what-h'ever 'appens. that wor wy father and mother changed 'is name from jack to trusty, 'cause 'e wor faithful to you, pepper." "yes," answered pepper, half-sobbing, and feeling very gently with his toes the motion of trusty's tail; for trusty, hearing his name mentioned so often, was beating it softly up and down. "and does yer know wy you was called pepper?" continued tom, by no means intending to abate the point and the object of his lecture by the break in pepper's voice. "tell us," said the little child again. "you was christened hen-e-ry [henry]; but, lor! pepper, that wor no name fur yer. that name meant some 'un soft and h'easy. but, bless yer, young 'un! there wor nothink soft nor h'easy about yer. what a firebrand yer were--flying h'out at h'everybody--so touchy and sparky-like, that mother wor sure you 'ad got a taste o' the fire as poor trusty saved yer from, until, at last, there wor no name 'ud suit yer but pepper. lor, lad, wot a spirrit yer 'ad then!" with these words tom turned himself round on his pillow, and, having spoken his mind, and being in consequence quite comfortable, dropped quickly to sleep. but to poor little pepper, listening breathlessly for another word, that first snore of tom's was a very dreadful one. he knew then that there was no hope that night of any further words with tom. he must lie all night under the heavy weight of tom's displeasure; for, of course, tom was angry, or he would never have turned away with such despairing and contemptuous words on his lips. as pepper thought of this he could not quite keep down a rising sob, for the tom who he felt was angry with him meant father, mother, conscience--everything--to the poor little fellow. and tom had cause for his anger; this was what gave it its sting. there was no doubt that pepper was not at all the spirited little boy he had been during his mother's lifetime--the brave little plucky fellow, who was afraid of no one, and who never would stoop to a mean act. how well he remembered that scene a few months ago, when a rough boy had flung a stone at trusty--yes! and hit him, and made him howl with the cruel pain he had inflicted; and then how pepper had fought for him, and given his cowardly assailant a black eye, and afterward how his mother and tom had praised him. oh, how different he was now from then! his tears flowed copiously as he thought of it all. but the times were also different. since his mother's death he had spent his days so much alone, and those long days, spent in the old attic with no companion but trusty, had depressed his spirit and undermined his nerves. the unselfish, affectionate little boy found new and strange thoughts filling his poor little heart--thoughts to which, during his mother's lifetime, he was altogether a stranger. he wished he was strong and big like tom, and could go out and sweep a crossing. it was dreadful to stay at home all day doing nothing but thinking, and thinking, as he now knew, bad thoughts. for the idea suggested by that wild, queer irish boy downstairs would not go away again. that boy had said with contempt, with even cutting sarcasm, how silly, how absurd it was of two poor little beggars like himself and tom to have to support a great, large dog like trusty; how hard it was to have to pay trusty's tax; how worse than ridiculous to have to share their morsel of food with trusty; and pepper had pondered over these words so often that his heart had grown sour and bitter against the old dog who had once saved his life. but not to-night. to-night, as he lay in his bed and sobbed, that heart was rising up and saying hard things against itself. tom, with rough kindness, had torn the veil from his eyes, and he saw that he had gone down several pegs in the moral scale since his mother's death. could his mother come back to him now, would she recognize her own bright-spirited little pepper in this poor, weak, selfish boy? he could bear his own thoughts no longer; he must not wake tom, but he could at least make it up with trusty. he crept softly down in the bed until he reached the place where the old dog lay, and then he put his arms round him and half-strangled him with hugs and kisses. "oh, trusty!" he said, "i does love yer, and i 'opes as god 'ull always let me be a real sperrited little 'un. i means h'always to stand up fur yer, trusty; and i'll be as fiery as red pepper to any 'un as says a word agen yer, trusty." to this fervent speech trusty replied by raising a sleepy head and licking pepper's face. chapter iii tom at work. early the next morning, long before pepper was awake, tom got up, washed his face and hands in the old cracked hand-basin in one corner of the room, laid a small fire in the grate, and put some matches near it, ready for pepper to strike when he chose to rise. these preparations concluded, he thrust his hands into his ragged trousers pocket and pulled from thence twopence and a halfpenny. the pence he laid on the three-legged stool, by the side of the matches, the halfpenny he put for safety into his mouth. then, with a nod of farewell at the sleeping pepper, and a pat of trusty's head, he shouldered his broom and ran downstairs. the month was january, and at this early hour, for it was not yet eight o'clock, the outside world gave to the little sweeper no warm welcome. there was a fog and thaw, and tom, though he ran and whistled and blew his hot breath against his cold fingers, could not get himself warm. with his halfpenny he bought himself a cup of steaming coffee at the first coffee-stall he came to, then he ran to his crossing, and began to sweep away with all the good-will in the world. the day, dismal as it was, promised to be a good one for his trade, and tom hoped to have a fine harvest to carry home to pepper and trusty to-night. this thought made his bright face look still brighter. perhaps, in all london, there was not to be found a braver boy than this little crossing-sweeper. he was only twelve years old, but he had family cares on his young shoulders. for six months now--ever since his mother's death--he had managed, he scarcely himself knew how, to keep a home for his little brother, the old dog, and himself. he had proudly resolved that pepper--poor little tender pepper--should never see the inside of a workhouse. as long as he had hands, and wit, and strength, pepper should live with him. not for worlds would he allow himself to be parted from his little brother. in some wonderful way he kept his resolve. pepper certainly grew very white, and weak, and thin; old trusty's ribs stuck out more and more, his one remaining eye looked more longingly every day at the morsel of food with which he was provided; and tom himself knew but too well what hunger was. still they, none of them, quite died of starvation; and the rent of the attic in which they lived was paid week by week. this state of things had gone on for months, tom just managing, by the most intense industry, to keep all their heads above water. as he swept away now at his crossing, his thoughts were busy, and his thoughts, poor brave little boy! were anxious ones. how very ill pepper was beginning to look, and how strangely he had spoken the night before about trusty! was it possible that his poor life of semi-starvation was beginning to tell not only on pepper's weak body, but on his kind heart? was tom, while working almost beyond his strength, in reality only doing harm by keeping pepper out of the workhouse? would that dreadful workhouse after all be the best place for pepper? and would his fine brave spirit revive again if he had enough food and warmth? these questions passed often through tom's mind as he swept his crossing, but he had another thought which engrossed him even more. he had spoken confidently to pepper about his ability to pay the tax for trusty when the time came round, but in reality he had great anxiety on that point. the time when trusty's tax would be due was still three months away--but three months would not be long going by, and tom had not a penny--not a farthing toward the large sum which must then be demanded of him. it was beginning to rest like a nightmare on his bright spirit, the fact that he might have to break his word to his dying mother, that in three months' time the dear old dog might have to go. after all, he, not pepper, might be the one faithless to their dear old trusty. as he swept and cleaned the road so thoroughly that the finest lady might pass by without a speck on her dainty boots, he resolved, suffer what hunger he might, to put by one halfpenny a day toward the necessary money which much be paid to save trusty's life. with this resolve bright in his eyes and firm on his rosy lips, he touched his cap to many a passer-by. but what ailed the men and women, the boys and girls, who walked quickly over tom's clean crossing? they were all either too busy, or too happy, or too careless, to throw a coin, even the smallest coin, to the hungry, industrious little fellow. his luck was all against him; not a halfpenny did he earn. no one read his story in his eyes, no one saw the invisible arms of pepper round his neck, nor felt the melting gaze of trusty fixed on his face. no one knew that he was working for them as well as for himself. by noon the wind again changed and fresh snow began to fall. tom knew that now his chance was worse than ever, for surely now no one would stop to pull out a penny or a halfpenny--the cold was much too intense. tom knew by instinct that nothing makes people so selfish as intense cold. when he left home that morning he had only a halfpenny in his pocket, consequently he could get himself no better breakfast than a small cup of coffee. the cold, and the exercise he had been going through since early morning, had raised his healthy appetite to a ravenous pitch, and this, joined to his anxiety, induced him at last to depart from his invariable custom of simply touching his cap, and made him raise an imploring voice, to beseech for the coins which he had honestly earned. "please, sir, i'm h'awful cold and 'ungry--give us a penny--do, for pity's sake," he said, addressing an elderly gentleman who was hurrying quickly to his home in a square close by. would the gentleman stop, pause, look at him? would he slacken his pace the least morsel in the world, or would he pass quickly on like those cross old ladies whom he had last addressed? his heart, began to beat a trifle more hopefully, for the old gentleman certainly did pause, pushed back his hat, and gave him--not a penny, but a quick, sharp glance from under two shaggy brows. "i hate giving to beggars," he muttered, preparing to hurry off again. but tom was not to be so easily repressed. "please, sir, i ain't a beggar. i works real 'ard, and i'm h'awful 'ungry, please, sir." he was now following the old gentleman, who was walking on, but slowly, and as though meditating with himself. "that's a likely story!" he said, throwing his words contemptuously at poor tom: "you, hungry! go and feed. you have your pocket full of pennies this moment, which folks threw to you for doing nothing. i hate that idle work." "oh! h'indeed, sir, i ain't nothink in 'em--look, please, sir." a very soiled pocket, attached to a ragged trouser, was turned out for the old gentleman's benefit. "you have 'em in your mouth," replied the man. "i'm up to some of your dodges." at this remark tom grinned from ear to ear. his teeth were white and regular. they gleamed in his pretty mouth like little pearls; thus the heart-whole smile he threw up at the old gentleman did more for him than all the tears in the world. "well, little fellow," he said, smiling back, for he could not help himself, "'tis much too cold now to pull out my purse--for i know you have pence about you--but if you like to call at my house to-morrow morning,--russell square, you shall have a penny." "please, sir, mayn't i call to-day?" "no, i shan't be home until ten o'clock this evening." "give us a penny, please, now, sir, for i'm real, real 'ungry." this time poor tom very nearly cried. "well, well! what a troublesome, pertinacious boy! i suppose i'd better get rid of him--see, here goes----" he pulled his purse out of his pocket--how tom hoped he would give him twopence! "there, boy. oh, i can't, i say. i have no smaller change than a shilling. i can't help you, boy; i have not got a penny." "please, please, sir, let me run and fetch the the change." "well, i like that! how do i know that you won't keep the whole shilling?" "indeed, yer may trust me, sir. indeed, i'll bring the eleven-pence to--russell square to-morrer mornin'." the old gentleman half-smiled, and again tom showed his white teeth. if there was any honesty left in the world it surely dwelt in that anxious, pleading face. the old gentleman, looking down at it, suddenly felt his heart beginning to thaw and his interest to be aroused. "oh, yes; i'm the greatest, biggest fool in the world. still--no, i won't; i hate being taken in; and yet he's a pleasant little chap. well, i'll try it, just as an experiment. see here, young 'un; if i trust you with my shilling, when am i to see the change?" "at eight o'clock to-morrer mornin', sir." "well, i'm going to trust you. i never trusted a crossing-sweeper before." "h'all right, sir," answered tom, taking off his cap and throwing back his head. "there, then, you may spend twopence; bring me back tenpence. god bless me, what a fool i am!" as he hurried away. this was not the only favor tom got that day; but soon the lamps were lighted, sleet and rain began to fall, and no more business could be expected. chapter iv. in trouble. when tom returned home that night, he had not only the old gentleman's shilling unbroken in his pocket, but three pennies which had been given to him since then, and which jingled and made a very nice sound against the shilling. but though this was a pleasant state of affairs, there was nothing pleasant in poor little tom's face; its bright look had left it, it was white and drawn, and he limped along in evident pain and difficulty. the fact was, tom had fallen in the snow, and had sprained his ankle very badly. when he entered the house his pain was so great that he could scarcely hobble upstairs. on the first landing he was greeted by the rough, rude tones of pat finnahan, who stopped him with a loud exclamation, then shouted to his mother that tom had arrived. mrs. finnahan was tom's irish landlady, but as he did not owe her any rent he was not afraid of her. she called to him now, however, and he stood still to listen to what she had to say. "ah, then, wisha, tom, and when am i to see me own agen?" she demanded, with a very strong irish brogue. "wot does yer mean?" asked tom, staring at her. "i pays my rent reg'lar. i owes yer nothink." "oh, glory!" said mrs. finnahan, throwing up her hands, "the boy have the imperence to ax me to my face what i manes. i manes the shilling as i lent to yer mother, young man, and that i wants back agen; that's what i manes." at these words tom felt himself turning very pale. he remembered perfectly how, in a moment of generosity, mrs. finnahan had once lent his mother a shilling, but he was quite under the impression that it had been paid back some time ago. "i thought as my mother give it back to yer afore she died," he said, but a great fear took possession of his heart while he spoke. mrs. finnahan pushed him from her, her red face growing purple. "listen to the likes of him," she said; "he tells me to me face as 'tis lies i'm afther telling. oh, musha! but he's a black-hearted schoundrel. i must have me shilling to-morrow, young man, or out you goes." with these words mrs. finnahan retired into her private apartment, slamming the door behind her. "tom," whispered pat, who during this colloquy had stood by his side, "can yer give mother that 'ere shilling to-morrer?" "yer knows i can't," answered tom. "well, she'll turn yer h'out, as sure as i'm pat finnahan." "i can't help her," answered tom, preparing once more, as well as his painful ankle would allow him, to mount the stairs. "yes; but i say?" continued pat, "maybe i can do somethink." with these words the irish boy began fumbling violently in his pocket, and in a moment or two produced from a heterogeneous group a dull, battered shilling. this shilling he exhibited in the palm of his hand, looking up at tom as he showed it, with an expression of pride and cunning in his small, deep-set eyes. "look yere, tom. i really feels fur yer, fur mother's h'awful when she says a thing. there's no hope of mother letting of yer off, tom. no, not the ghost of a hope. but see yere--this is my h'own. i got it--no matter 'ow i got it, and i'll give it to yer fur yer h'old dog. the dog ain't nothink but a burden on yer, tom, and i'd like him. i'd give yer the shilling for h'old trusty, tom." but at these words all the color rushed back to tom's face. "take that instead of trusty," he said, aiming a blow with all his might and main at pat, and sending him and his shilling rolling downstairs. the false strength with which his sudden indignation had inspired him enabled him to get up the remaining stairs to his attic; but when once there, the poor little sweeper nearly fainted. chapter v. the temptation. perhaps on this dark evening there could scarcely be found in all london three more unhappy creatures than those who crouched round the empty grate in tom's attic. in truth, over this poor attic rested a cloud too heavy for man to lift, and good and bad angels were drawing near to witness the issues of victory or defeat. "we'll get into bed," said tom, looking drearily round the supperless, fireless room. "pepper," he continued as he pressed his arms round his little brother, "should yer mind werry much going to the work'us arter h'all?" "oh, yes, yes, tom! oh, tom! ef they took me from yer, i'd die." "but ef we both went, pepper?" "what 'ud come o' trusty?" asked pepper. "i doesn't know the ways of work'uses," said tom, speaking half to himself. "maybe they'll take h'in the h'old dog. ef you and i were to beg of 'em a little 'ard, they might take h'in old trusty, pepper." "but i doesn't want to go to no work'us," whispered pepper. "i only says perhaps, pepper," answered poor tom. "i'd 'ate to go." "well, don't let's think of it," said pepper, putting up his lips to kiss tom. "yer'll be better in the morning, tom; and, tom," he added, half-timidly, half-exultantly, "i've been real sperrited h'all day. pat came in and began to talk 'bout dear trusty, but i flew at him, i boxed im right up h'in the ear, tom." "did yer really?" answered tom, laughing, and forgetting the pain in his ankle for the moment. "yes, and 'e's nothink but a coward, tom, fur 'e just runned away. i'll never be a hen-e-ry to him no more," added the little boy with strong emphasis. "no; yer a real nice, peppery young 'un," said tom, "and i'm proud o' yer; but now go to sleep, young 'un, for i 'as a deal to think about." "'ow's the pain, tom?" "werry 'ot and fiery like; but maybe 'twill be better in the morning." "good-night, tom," said pepper, creeping closer into his arms. under the sweet influence of tom's praise, resting in peace in the delicious words that tom was proud of him, poor hungry little pepper was soon enjoying dreamless slumber. but not so tom himself. tom had gone through a hard day's work. he was tired, aching in every limb, but no kind sleep would visit that weary little body or troubled mind. his sprained ankle hurt him sadly, but his mental anxiety made him almost forget his bodily suffering. dark indeed was the cloud that rested on tom. his sprained ankle was bad enough--for how, with that swollen and aching foot, could he go out to sweep his crossing to-morrow? and if the little breadwinner was not at his crossing, where would the food come from for pepper and trusty? this was a dark cloud, but, dark as it was, it might be got over. tom knew nothing of the tedious and lingering pain which a sprain may cause; he quite believed that a day's rest in bed would make his foot all right, and for that one day while he was in bed, they three--he, pepper, and trusty--might manage not quite to starve, on the pence which were over from that day's earnings. yes, through this cloud could be seen a possible glimmer of light. but the cloud that rested behind it! oh, was there any possible loophole of escape out of that difficulty? tom had told nothing of this greater anxiety to pepper. nay, while pepper was awake he tried to push it away even from his own mental vision. but now, in the night watches, he pulled it forward and looked at it steadily. in truth, as the poor little boy looked, he felt almost in despair. since his mother's death he had managed to support his little household, and not only to support them, but to keep them out of debt. no honorable man of the world could keep more faithfully the maxim, "owe no man anything, but to love one another," than did this little crossing sweeper. but now, suddenly, a debt, a debt the existence of which he had never suspected, stared him in the face. his mother had borrowed a shilling from mrs. finnahan. mrs. finnahan required that shilling back again. if that enormous sum--twelve whole pennies--was not forthcoming by to-morrow, he and pepper and trusty would find themselves homeless--homeless in mid-winter in the london streets. tom knew well that mrs. finnahan would keep her word; that nothing, no pleading language, no entreating eyes, would induce mrs. finnahan to alter her cruel resolve. no; into the streets they three must go. tom did not mind the streets so very much for himself, he was accustomed to them, at least all day long. but poor little, tender, delicate pepper, and old broken-down trusty! very, very soon, those friendless, cold, desolate streets would kill pepper and trusty. as tom thought of it scalding drops filled his brave, bright eyes and rolled down his cheeks. it was a moonlight night, and its full radiance had filled the little attic for an hour or more; but now the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, and in the dark came to little tom the darker temptation. no way out of his difficulty? yes, there were two ways. he might sell trusty to pat finnahan for a shilling--it was far, far better to part with trusty than to let pepper die in the london streets; or he might keep the old gentleman's shilling and never bring him back the tenpence he had promised to return to-morrow morning. by one or other of these plans he might save pepper from either dying or going to the workhouse. as he thought over them both, the latter plan presented itself as decidedly the most feasible. both his pride and his love revolted against the first. part with trusty? how he had blamed pepper when he had even hinted at trusty being in the way! how very, very much his mother had loved trusty! how, even when she was dying, she had begged of them both never to forsake the faithful old dog! oh, he could not part with the dog! if for no other reason, he loved him too much himself. at this moment, as though to strengthen him in his resolve, trusty, who from hunger and cold was by no means sleeping well, left his place at the little boy's feet and came up close to tom; lying down by tom's side, he put his paws on his shoulders and licked his face with his rough tongue; and also, just then, as though further to help trusty in his unconscious pleading for his own safety, the moon came out from behind the cloud, shedding its white light full on the boy and the dog; and oh! how pleading, how melting, how full of tenderness did that one remaining eye of trusty's look to tom as he gazed at him. clasping his arms tightly round the old dog's neck, tom firmly determined that happen what would, he must never part from trusty. he turned his mind now resolutely to the other plan, the one remaining loophole out of his despair. need he give back that change to the old man? that was the question. the money he had pleaded so earnestly for still lay unbroken in his pocket; for immediately after it had been given to him, fortune seemed to turn in his favor, and other people had become not quite so stony-hearted, and a few pence had fallen to his share. with two or three pence he had bought himself some dinner, and he had brought threepence back, for pepper's use and his own. yes, the shilling was still unbroken--and that shilling, just that one shilling, would save them all. but--the old gentleman had trusted him--the old gentleman had said: "i never trusted a crossing-sweeper before. i am going to trust you." and tom had promised him. tom had pledged his word to bring him back tenpence to-morrow morning. strange as it may seem--incomprehensible to many who judge them by no high standard--here was a little crossing-sweeper who had never told a lie in his life. here, lying on this trundle-bed, in this poor room, rested as honorable a little heart as ever beat in human breast; he could not do a mean act; he could not betray his trust and break his word. what would his mother say could she look down from heaven and find out that her tom had told a lie? no, not even to save trusty and pepper would he do this mean, mean thing. but he was very miserable, and in his misery and despair he longed so much for sympathy that he was fain at last to wake pepper. "pepper," he said, "we never said no prayers to-night; fold yer 'ands, pepper, and say 'our father' right away." "our father chart heaven," began pepper, folding his hands as he was bidden, and gazing up with his great dark eyes at the moon, "hallowed be thy name ... thy kingdom come ... thy will be done in earth h'as 'tis in heaven ... give us this day h'our daily bread ... and furgive us h'our trespasses h'as we furgive ... h'and lead us not into temptation----" "yer may shut up there, pepper," interrupted tom; "go to sleep now, young 'un. i doesn't want no more." "yes," added tom, a few moments later, "that was wot i needed. i won't do neither o' them things. our father, lead us not inter temptation. our father, please take care on me, and pepper, and trusty." chapter vi. true to his name. it was apparently the merest chance in the world that brought the old gentleman, who lived in--russell square, to his hall-door the next morning, to answer, in his own person, a very small and insignificant-sounding ring. when he opened the door he saw standing outside a very tiny boy, and by the boy's side a most disreputable-looking dog. "well," said the old gentleman, for he hated beggars, "what do you want? some mischief, i warrant." "please, sir," piped pepper's small treble, "tom 'ud come hisself, but 'e 'ave hurt 'is foot h'awful bad, so 'e 'ave sent me and trusty wid the tenpence, please, sir.' "what tenpence?" asked the old man, who had really forgotten the circumstance of yesterday. "please, sir," continued pepper, holding out sixpence and four dirty pennies, "'tis the change from the shilling as yer lent to tom." at these words the old gentleman got very red in the face, and stared with all his might at pepper. "bless me!" he said suddenly; then he took hold of pepper's ragged coat-sleeve and drew him into the hall. "wife," he called out, "i say, wife, come here. bless me! i never heard of anything so strange. i have actually found an honest crossing-sweeper at last." but that is the story--for the old gentleman was as kind as he was eccentric--and he failed not quickly to inquire into all particulars with regard to tom, pepper, and trusty; and then as promptly to help and raise the three. yes, that is the story. but in the lives of two prosperous men--for tom and pepper are men now--there is never forgotten that dark night, when the little crossing-sweeper risked everything rather than tell a lie or break a trust. and trusty was true to his name to the last. billy andersen and his troubles. chapter i. billy's baby. billy was a small boy of ten; he was thin and wiry, had a freckled face, and a good deal of short, rather stumpy red hair. he was by no means young-looking for his ten years; and only that his figure was small, his shoulders narrow, and his little legs sadly like spindles, he might have passed for a boy of twelve or thirteen. billy had a weight of care upon his shoulders--he had the entire charge of a baby. the baby was a year old, fairly heavy, fairly well grown; she was cutting her teeth badly, and in consequence was often cross and unmanageable. billy had to do with her night and day, and no one who saw the two together could for a moment wonder at the premature lines of care about his small thin face. a year ago, on a certain january morning, billy had been called away from a delightful game of hop-scotch. a red-faced woman had come to the door of a tall house, which over-looked the alley where billy was playing so contentedly, and beckoned him mysteriously to follow her. "yer'd better make no noise, and take off those heavy clumps of shoes," she remarked. billy looked down at his small feet, on which some very large and much-battered specimens of the shoemaker's craft were hanging loosely. "i can shuffle of 'em off right there, under the stairs," he remarked, raising his blue eyes in a confident manner to the red-faced woman. she nodded, but did not trouble to speak further, and barefooted billy crept up the stairs; up and up, until he came to an attic room, which he knew well, for it represented his home. he was still fresh from his hop-scotch, and eager to go back to his game; and when a thin, rather rasping woman's voice called him, he ran up eagerly to a bedside. "wot is it, mother? i want to go back to punch tom jones." alas! for poor billy--his fate was fixed from that moment, and the wild bird was caged. "another time, billy," said his mother; "you 'as got other work to see to now. pull down the bedclothes, and look wot's under 'em." billy eagerly drew aside the dirty counterpane and sheet, and saw a very small and pink morsel of humanity--a morsel of humanity which greeted his rough intrusion on her privacy with several contortions of the tiny features, and some piercing screams. "why, sakes alive, ef it ain't a baby," said billy, falling back a step or two in astonishment. "yes, billy," replied his mother, "and she's to be your baby, for i can't do no charring and mind her as well, so set down by the fire, this minute and mind her right away." billy did not dream of objecting; he seated himself patiently and instantly, and thought with a very faint sigh of tom jones, whose head he so ached to punch. tom jones would be victorious at hop-scotch, and he would not be present to abate his pride. well, well, perhaps he could go to-morrow. chapter ii. more trouble. day after day passed, and month after month, and tom jones, the bully of aylmer's court, quite ceased to fear any assaults from a certain plucky and wiry little fellow, who used to fly at him when he knocked down the girls, and who made himself generally unpleasant to tom, when tom too violently transgressed the principle of right and justice. not that billy andersen knew anything of right and justice himself; he was mostly guided by an instinct which taught him to dislike everything that tom did, and perhaps he was also a wee bit influenced by a sentiment which made him dislike to see any thing weaker or smaller than himself bullied. since that january morning, however, billy's head and heart and hands were all too full for him to have any time to waste upon tom jones. the girls and the very little ones of the court crowded round billy the first time he went out with his charge. one of the biggest of them, indeed, carried the little thing right up into her own home, followed by a noisy crowd eager to make friends with the little arrival. billy was flattered by their attentions, but he preferred to keep his charge entirely to himself. at first, it was his head and hands alone which were occupied over the baby, but as she progressed under his small brotherly care, and wrinkled up her tiny features with an ugly attempt at a smile, and stretched out her limbs and cooed at him, he began gradually to discover that the baby was getting into his heart. from the moment he became certain on this point, all the irksomeness of his duties faded out of sight, and he did not mind what care or trouble he expended over sarah ann. mrs. andersen, true to her word, had given billy the entire charge of this last addition to her family. her husband had deserted her some months before the birth of the baby, and the poor woman had about as much as she could do, in earning bread to put into her own mouth and those of her two children. now, it is grievous to relate that notwithstanding all billy's devotion and good nature, sarah ann was by no means a nice baby. in the first place, she was very ugly--not even billy could see any beauty in her rather old and yellow face; in the next place, she had a temper, which the neighbors were fond of describing as "vicious." sarah ann seemed already to have studied human nature for the purpose of annoying it. she cried at the wrong moments, she cut her teeth at the most inopportune times, she slept by day and stayed awake at night, in a manner enough to try the patience of an angel; she tyrannized over any one who had anything to do with her, and in particular she tyrannized over billy. night after night had billy to pace up and down the attic, with sarah ann in his arms, for nothing would induce the infant to spend her waking moments except in a state of perpetual motion. in vain billy tried darkness, and his mother tried scolding. sarah ann, when placed in her cot, screamed so loud that all the neighbors were aroused. when once, however, this strange and wayward little child had got into billy's heart, he was wonderfully patient with all her caprices, and treasured the rare and far-between smiles she gave him, as worth going through a great deal to obtain. on fine days billy took sarah ann for a walk; and even once or twice he went with her as far as kensington gardens, where they both enjoyed themselves vastly, under the shadow of a huge elm tree. it was on the last of these occasions, just before the second winter of sarah ann's existence, that that small adventure occurred which was to land poor billy in such hot water and such perplexity. sarah ann was quite nice that afternoon; she cooed and smiled, and allowed her brother to stroke her face, and even to play tenderly with the tiny rings of soft flaxen hair which were beginning to show round her forehead. billy's heart and head were quite absorbed with her, when a harsh, mocking laugh and a loud "hulloa, you youngster," caused him to raise his head, and see, to his unutterable aversion, the well-remembered form of tom jones. "well, i never; and so that's the reason you've bin a-shunnin' of me lately; and so you've been obliged to go and turn nursemaid; well--well--and you call yourself a manly boy." "so i be manly," retorted billy, glaring angrily and defiantly at his adversary. "i don't want none of your cheek, tom jones, and i'd a sight rayther be taking care of a cute little baby like this than idling and loafing about and getting into trouble all day long--like yourself." "oh! we has turned nice and good," said tom jones, trying to affect a fine lady's accent; "ain't it edifying--ain't it delicious--to hear us speaking so well of ourselves? now then, billy, where's that punched head you promised me a year ago now? i ain't forgot it, and i'd like to see you at it; you're afeard, that's wot you are; you're a coward, arter all, billy andersen." "no, i ain't," said billy, "and i'll give it yer this 'ere blessed minute, if you like. yere, sarah ann darling, you set easy with yer back up agin' the tree, and i'll soon settle tom jones for him." sarah ann strongly objected to being removed from billy's lap to the ground; all her sunshiny good temper deserted her on the spot; she screamed, she wriggled, she made such violent contortions, and altogether behaved in such an excited and extraordinary manner, that tom, who by no means in his heart wished to test billy's powers, found a ready excuse for postponing the moment when his head must be punched, in her remarkable behavior. "well, i never did see such a baby," he began; "now, i likes that sort of a baby; why, she have a sperrit. no, no, billy, i ain't going to punch you; now, i'd like to catch hold of that 'ere little one"--but here billy frustrated his intention. "you shan't touch my baby; you shan't lay a hand on her," he exclaimed, snatching sarah ann up again in his arms, and covering her with kisses. "well, see if i don't some day," said tom; "you dare me, do you? well, all right, we'll see." as billy walked home that afternoon, he was a little troubled by tom's words; he knew how vindictive tom could be, and there was an ugly light in his green eyes when he, billy, had refused to give him the baby. tom was capable of mischief, of playing such a practical joke as might cause sad trouble and even danger to poor little sarah ann. hitherto billy had kept all knowledge of the baby's existence from tom jones. what evil chance had brought him to kensington gardens that day? troubles, however, were not to fall singly on poor billy andersen that day. he was greeted on his return to his attic by eager words and excited ejaculations. it was some time before his poor little dazed head could take in the fact that his mother had broken her leg, and was taken to the hospital. he must then for the time being turn the baby's breadwinner as well as her caretaker. chapter iii. tom jones' trick. the neighbors were full of suggestions to billy at this crisis of his fate. it was ascertained beyond all doubt that mrs. andersen would be six weeks, if not two months, away; and this being the case, the neighbors one and all declared roundly that there was nothing whatever for sarah ann but to become a workhouse baby. one of them would carry her to the house the very next morning, and of course she would be admitted without a moment's difficulty, and there would be an end of her. billy might manage to earn a precarious living by running messages, by opening cab-doors, and by the thousand-and-one things an active boy could undertake, and so he might eke out a livelihood till his mother came back; but there was no hope whatever for sarah ann--there was no loophole for her but the workhouse. to these admonitions on the part of his friendly neighbors, billy responded in a manner peculiar to himself. first of all, he raised two blue and very innocent eyes, and let them rest slowly and thoughtfully on each loquacious speaker's face; then he suddenly and without the slightest warning winked one of the said eyes in a manner that was so knowing as to be almost wicked, and then without the slightest word or comment he dashed into his attic and locked the door on himself and sarah ann. "sarah ann, darling," he said, placing the baby on the floor and kneeling down a few paces from her, "will yer go to the workhouse, or will yer stay with yer h'own billy?" sarah ann's response to this was to wriggle as fast as possible up to her affectionate nurse, and rub her little dirty face against his equally dirty trousers. "that's settled, then," said billy; "yer has chosen, sarah ann, and yer ain't one as could ever abear contradictions, so we 'as got to see how we two can live." this was a problem not so easily managed, for the neighbors took offense with billy not following their advice, and it was almost impossible for him to leave sarah ann long at home by herself. true to this terrible infant's character, she now refused to sleep by day, as she had hitherto done, thus cutting off poor billy's last loophole of earning his bread and her own with any comfort. billy had two reasons which made it almost impossible for him to leave the baby in the attic; the first was his fear that tom jones, who still hovered dangerously about, might find her and carry her off; the second was the undoubted fact that if sarah ann was left to enjoy her own solitary company, she would undoubtedly scream herself into fits and the neighbors into distraction. there was nothing whatever for it but for billy to carry the baby with him when he went in search of their daily bread. poor little brave man, he had certainly a hard time during those next two months, and except for the undoubted fact that he and the baby were two of the sparrows whom our father feeds, they both must have starved; but perhaps owing to a certain look in billy's eyes, which were as blue as blue could be, in the midst of his freckled face, and also, perhaps, to a certain pathetic turn which the baby's ugliness had now assumed, the two always managed to secure attention. with attention, came invariably a few pence--fourpence one day--sixpence and even eightpence another. the greater portion of the food thus obtained was given to sarah ann, but neither of the two quite starved. billy counted and counted and counted the days until his mother would be home again; and as, fortunately for him, mrs. andersen had paid the rent of their attic some weeks in advance, the children still had a shelter at night. all went tolerably well with the little pair until a certain bitter day in the beginning of november. billy was very hopeful on the morning of that day, for his mother's time of captivity in the hospital had nearly expired, and soon now she would be back to take the burden of responsibility off his young shoulders. sarah ann had hitherto escaped cold; indeed, her life in the open air seemed to agree with her, and she slept better at nights, and was really becoming quite a nice tempered baby. billy used to look at her with the most old fatherly admiration, and assured her that she was such a darling duck of a cherub that he could almost eat her up. no, sarah ann had never taken cold, but billy felt a certain amount of uneasiness on this particular morning, which was as sleety, as gusty, as altogether melancholy a day as ever dawned on the great london world. there was no help for it, however, the daily bread must be found; and he and the baby must face the elements. he wrapped an old woolen comforter several times round sarah ann's throat, and beneath the comforter secured a very thin and worn paisley shawl of his mother's, and then buttoning up his own ragged jacket, and shuffling along in his large and untidy boots, he set forth. whether it was the insufficient food he had lately partaken of or that the baby was really growing very heavy, poor billy almost staggered to-day under sarah ann's weight. he found himself obliged to lean for support against a pillar box, and then he discovered to his distress that the baby began to sneeze, that her tiny face was blue, and that her solemn black eyes had quite a weary and tearful look. "she's a-catchin' cold, the blessed, blessed babby," exclaimed poor billy; "oh, sairey ann, darlin', don't you go and take the brownchitis, and break the heart of your h'own billy. oh! lady, lady, give us a 'ap'enny, or a penny. give us a copper, please, kind lady." the lady so aprostrophized was good-natured enough to bestow a few pence on the starved-looking children, and after a certain miserable fashion the morning passed away. this was, however, billy's only money success, and he was just making up his mind to go home, and to prefer starvation in his attic to running the feeble chance of securing any more charities. sarah ann still continued to sneeze and her eyes still looked watery, and billy was sorrowfully giving up his hope of receiving any more coppers, when he came face to face with his old adversary and tormentor, tom jones. in the anxiety of these latter few weeks, billy had lost his old fear of tom, and he was now so spent and exhausted that he greeted him with almost pleasure. "oh! tom, do hold the babby just for one minute, just for me to get a wee bit of breath. i'm all blown like, and i'm afeard as sarah ann 'as taken cold; jest hold her for one minute--will yer?" tom, who was looking rather white and shaken himself, just glanced into billy's face, and some gibing words, which were on the tip of his tongue, were restrained. "why, yer does look bad, billy andersen," he said, and then, without another word, he lifted the baby out of the little lad's trembling arms, and held her in an awkward but not altogether untender fashion. "look you here, billy," he said, "ef yer likes to round quick this 'ere corner, there are two cabs coming up to a house as i passed, and they are sure to want a boy to help in with the boxes, and you maybe earn sixpence or a bob; run round this yere minute--quick, billy, quick." "i'd like to, awful well," said billy, "and the run will warm me, and wouldn't the bob be fine--but, oh! tom, will yer hold sairey ann? and will yer promise not to run away with her? will yer promise sure and faithful, tom?" "what in the world should i do that for?" said tom. "what good would yer sairey ann be to me? my h'eyes--i has work enough to get my h'own victuals. there, billy, i'll not deprive you of the babby; you jest run round the corner, or yer'll lose the chance. there, billy, be quick; you'll find sairey ann safe enough when yer comes back." the poor thin and cold baby gave a little cry as billy ran off, but the chance was too good for him to lose; and, after all, what earthly use could tom have with sairey ann? chapter iv. what it meant. poor billy! after all, tom had told him a story, for there was no cab whatever waiting in the long and dreary street, into which he ran so eagerly. he ran up and down its entire length, and even stopped at the very number tom had indicated. a little girl was coming slowly down the steps, and billy could not help saying to her, "oh, missy, am i too late, and have all the boxes been stowed away afore i come?" "there have been no boxes stowed away," said the little girl, stopping and staring in astonishment at the ragged boy. "oh, but, missy, out of the two cabs, yer knows." "there have been no cabs here for many a day," replied the child in a sorrowful, dull kind of tone, which seemed to say that she only wished anything half so nice and interesting would arrive. billy saw then that the whole thing had been a hoax, and he flew back down the long street, with a great terror in his heart. oh! what did tom mean, and was the baby safe? there was no tom anywhere in sight when the poor little boy returned to the more crowded thoroughfare; but a policeman was stooping down and looking curiously at something on the pavement, and one or two people were beginning to collect round him. billy arrived just in time to see the policeman pick up a little shivering, crying, half-naked baby. yes, this baby was his own sarah ann, but her woolen comforter, and mother's old paisley shawl, and even a little brown winsey frock had all disappeared. "oh! give her to me, give her to me," sobbed poor billy; "oh, sairey ann, sairey ann, yer'll have brownchitis and hinflammation now, sure and certain; oh, wot a wicked boy tom jones is." the policeman asked a few leading questions, and then finding that the baby was billy's undoubted property, he was only too glad to deliver her into his arms. the poor baby was quiet at once, and laid her little head caressingly against billy's cheek. billy tore off his own ragged jacket and wrapped it round her, and then flew home, with the energy and terror of despair. a pitiless sleet shower overtook him, however, and the two were wet to the skin when they arrived at their attic. chapter v. billy's illness. all that day billy anxiously watched the baby; he tore off her wet clothes, and wrapped the blanket and the sheet tightly round her, and then he coaxed a neighbor to expend one of his pennies on milk, which he warmed and gave with some broken bread to the little hungry creature. he forgot all about himself in his anxiety for sarah ann, and as the day passed on, and she did not sneeze any more, but sat quite warm and bright and chirrupy in his arms, he became more and more light-hearted, and more and more thankful. in his thankfulness he would have offered a little prayer to god, had he known how, for his mother was just sufficiently not a heathen to say to him, now and then, "don't go out without saying your prayers, billy, be sure you say your prayers," and once or twice she had even tried to teach him a clause out of our father. he only remembered the first two words now, and, looking at the baby, he repeated them solemnly several times. at last it was time to go to bed, and as sarah ann was quite nice and sleepy, billy hoped they would have a comfortable night. so they might have had, as far as the baby was concerned, for she nestled off so peacefully, and laid her soft head on billy's breast. but what ailed the poor little boy himself? his head ached, his pulse throbbed as he lay with the scanty blankets covering him; he shivered so violently that he almost feared he should wake sarah ann. yes, he, not the baby, had taken cold. he, not the baby, was going to have brownchitis or that hinflammation which he dreaded. the mischief had been done when he tore off his jacket and ran home, through the pitiless sleet, in his ragged shirt-sleeves. well, he was glad it was not sairey ann, and mother would soon be home now, and find her baby well, and not starved, and perhaps she would praise him a little bit, and tell him he was a good boy. he had certainly tried to be a good boy. all through the night--while his chest ached and ached, and his breath became more and more difficult, and the baby slumbered on, with her little downy head against his breast--he kept wondering, in a confused sort of way, what his mother would say to him, and if the our father, in the only prayer he ever knew, was anything like the father who had been cruel, and who had run away from him and his mother a year ago. all his thoughts, however, were very vague, and as the morning broke, and his suffering grew worse, he was too ill to think at all. chapter vi. the end of his troubles. tom jones, having secured the baby's comforter, the thin paisley shawl, and the little winsey frock, ran as fast as he could to a pawnbroker's hard by. there he received a shilling on the articles, and with this shilling jingling pleasantly in his pocket he entered an eating-house which he knew, and prepared to enjoy some pea pudding and pork. tom expended exactly the half of the shilling on his dinner; he ate it greedily, for he was very hungry indeed, and then he went back into the street, with sixpence still to the good in his trouser pocket. with sixpence in his pocket, and a comfortable dinner inside of him, tom felt that his present circumstances were delightfully easy. he might walk about the streets with quite fine gentlemanly airs for an hour or two, if he so willed. or he might flatten his nose against the shop windows, or he might play halfpenny pitch and toss. his circumstances were really affluent, and of course he ought to have been correspondingly happy. the odd thing was that he was not very happy; he could not get billy's white face out of his head, and he could not altogether forget the icy cold feel of the baby's little arms, when he slipped off that brown winsey frock. tom was as hard a boy as ever lived, and a year ago his conscience might not have troubled him, even for playing so wicked a prank as he had done that day. but since then he had met with a softening influence. tom jones had been very ill with a bad fever, and during that time had been taken care of in the london fever hospital. in that hospital, the wild, rough street boy had listened to many kind and gentle words and had witnessed many noble and self-denying actions. two or three children had died while tom was in the hospital, and the nurses had told the other children that this death only meant going home for the little ones, and that they were now safely housed, and free from any more sin and any more temptation. tom had listened to the gentle words of the kind sister nurse, without heeding them much. but the memory of the whole scene came back to him to-day, all mingled strangely with billy's pale face and the baby's cold little form, until he became quite compunctious and unhappy, and finally felt that he could not spend that remaining sixpence, but must let it burn a hole in his pocket, and do anything, in short, rather than provide him with food and shelter. tom was accustomed to spending his nights under archways and huddled up in any sheltered corner he could discover. this particular night he was lucky enough to find a cart half-full of hay, and here he would doubtless have had a delicious sleep, had not the baby and billy come into his dreams. the baby and billy between them managed to give poor tom a horrible time of it, and at last he felt that he could bear it no longer: he must go and give billy the sixpence which remained out of his shilling. he started tolerably early the next morning, and carefully turning his face away from the bakers' shops and coffee-stalls as he passed them, he found himself presently in aylmer's court. he had conquered himself in the matter of the bakers' shops and the coffee stalls, and in consequence he felt a good deal elated, his conscience became easier, and he began to say to himself that very few boys would restore even a stolen sixpence when they were starving. he ran up the stairs, calling out to a neighbor to know if billy andersen was within. "i believe yer," she replied; "jest listen to that 'ere blessed babby, a-screamin' of itself into fits; oh! bother her for as ill-mannered a child as ever i came across." tom ran up the remainder of the stairs, and entered billy's attic without knocking. there he saw a sight which made him draw in his breath with a little start of surprise and terror; the baby was sitting up in bed and crying lustily, and billy was lying with his back to her, quite motionless, and apparently deaf to her most piteous wails. billy's usual white face was flushed a fiery red, and his breathing, loud and labored, fell with solemn distinctness on tom's ears. tom knew these signs at a glance; he had seen them so often in the fever hospital. shutting the door softly behind him, and first of all taking the baby in his arms and thrusting a sticky lollipop, which he happened to have in his waistcoat pocket, into her mouth: "be yer werry bad, billy andersen?" he said, stooping down over the sick boy. "our father," replied billy, raising his blue eyes and fixing them in a pathetic manner on tom. "'tis our father i wants." "why, he were a bad'un," said tom; "he runned away from yer, he did; i wouldn't be fretting about him, if i was you, billy lad." "'tis the other one--'tis t'other one i means," said billy in a weak gasping voice. "i has 'ad the words afore me all night long--our father; tell us what it means, tom, do." "i know all about it," said tom in a tone of wisdom; "i larned about it in hospital. there, shut up, sairey ann, do; what a young 'un yer are for squallin'. our father lives in heaven, billy, and he'll--he'll--oh! i am sure i forgets--look yere, wouldn't yer like some breakfast, old chap?" "water," gasped billy, "and some milk for the babby." tom found himself, whether he wished it or not, installed as billy's nurse. he had to run out and purchase a penny-worth of milk, and he had also the forethought to provide himself with a farthing's worth of bull's eyes, one of which he popped into sarah ann's mouth whenever she began to howl. never had tom jones passed so strange a day. it did not occur to him that billy was in any danger, but neither did it come into his wild, untutored, hard little heart to desert his sick comrade. by means of the lollipops, he managed to keep sarah ann quiet, and then he kindled a tiny fire in the grate, and sat down by billy, and gave him plentiful drinks of cold water whenever he asked for them. billy shivered and flushed alternately, and his blue eyes had a glassy look, and his breath came harder and faster as the slow sad day wore away. tom, however, never deserted his post, satisfying his own hunger with a hunk of dry bread, and managing to keep sarah ann quiet. toward evening, billy seemed easier; the dreadful oppression of his breathing was not quite so intense, and the flush on his face had given way to pallor. tom lit a morsel of candle and placed it in a tin sconce, and then he once more sat down by his little comrade. for the first time then tom noticed that solemn and peculiar look which billy's well-known features wore. he puzzled his brain to recall where he had last seen such an expression; then it came back to him--it was in the fever hospital, and the little ones who had worn it had soon gone home. was billy going home? the baby lay asleep in tom's arms, and he looked from her to the sick child whose eyes were now closed, and whose breath was faint and light. "shall i fetch a doctor, old chap?" he whispered. billy shook his head. "tell us wot yer knows about our father," he said in a very low and feeble voice. "our father," began tom. "he lives in heaven, he do. he's kind and he gives lots of good things to the young 'uns as lives with him in heaven. it sounds real fine," continued tom, "the way as our father treats them young 'uns, only the worst of it is," he added with the air of a philosopher, "we 'as to die first." "to die," said billy, "yes, and wot then?" "i 'spect," continued tom, "as our father fetches us up 'ome somehow, but i'm very ignorant; i don't know nothing, but jest that there's a home and a father somewheres. look yere, billy, old chap, you ain't going to die, be yer?" "i 'spect i be," said billy; "a home somewheres, and our father there, it sounds werry nice." then he closed his eyes again, and his breath came a little quicker and a little weaker, and the solemn look grew and deepened on his white face. "give me my babby," he said an hour later; "lay her alongside o' me; oh! my darling, darling sairey ann; and i'll tell mother when she comes in." but mother never got her message, for when next billy spoke, it was in the safe home of our father. billy's baby grew up by and by, but no one ever loved her better than billy did. the old organ-man. "the world goes up and the world goes down, and the sunshine follows the rain." charles kingsley. chapter i. playing for love. he was always called old antonio, and though he doubtless possessed a surname of some sort, no one seemed to know anything about it. he had white hair, and a bronzed face, and kindly soft brown eyes, and he got his living by pacing up and down the streets and turning a hurdy-gurdy. this instrument was a rather good one of its class--it could play six different airs, and all the airs were italian, and even played by the hurdy-gurdy had a little of the sweet cadence and soft pathetic melody of that land of music. antonio lived in an attic all by himself, and the grown people wondered at him and asked each other what his history could be, but the children loved him and his music, and were to be seen about him wherever he went. he looked like a man with a story, but no one had ever troubled themselves to find it out or to ask him any questions. he did, however, receive stray pennies enough to keep him alive, and the street children loved him, and whenever they had a chance danced merrily to his music. one cold and snowy afternoon, about a week before christmas day, old antonio sat up in his attic and looked gloomily out at the snow-laden clouds. nothing but the fact that there was no oil for his stove, and no pennies in his pockets, would have induced the old italian to brave such inclement weather. but no fire and no food will make a man do harder things than antonio was now thinking about. he must get something to eat and some fire to warm himself by. he shouldered his hurdy-gurdy and went out. "poor marcia," he said to himself as he trudged along. "well, well, we of the south are mistaken in the generous land of england. the milk and honey-bah, they are nowhere. the inhabitants--they freeze like their frozen skies. poor marcia, no doubt she has long ceased to look for the footfall of her antonio." the old man, feeling very melancholy and depressed, walked down several streets without once pausing or attempting to commence his music. at last he stopped at the entrance of a very dull square. he had never yet received a penny in this square, and had often said to himself that its inhabitants had not a note of music among them. he took the square now as a short cut, meaning to strike out toward holborn and the neighborhood of the shops. half-way through the square he stopped. a house which used to be all over placards and notices to let presented a different appearance. it was no longer dead and lifeless. from its windows lights gleamed, and lie could see people flitting to and fro. he stopped for a moment to look at the house and comment on its changed appearance, then with a slight little start, and a look of pleased expectation, he put down his hurdy-gurdy and began softly to turn the handle and to bring out one by one his beloved italian melodies. the first, a well-known air from "il trovatore," was scarcely finished before a little dark head was popped up from behind a window-blind, and two soft eyes gazed eagerly across the street at the old organ-grinder. "bless her! what a depth of color, what eyes, what hair! she comes from the south, the pretty one." antonio nodded his head to her as he made these remarks, and the child, with her face pressed against the pane, gazed steadily back at him, now and then smiling in an appreciative manner. the six airs were all played out and repeated a second time, and then antonio, looking up at the sky, from which the snow was still steadily falling, began to think of moving on. in his pleasure at playing for the child he had forgotten all about the money part of his profession. he was indeed indulging in a happy dream, in which marcia, and a certain little marcia, who had long ago gone back to god, were again by his side. he threw a cloth over his hurdy-gurdy and prepared to mount it on his shoulder. the moment he did so the child disappeared from the window. there was a quick, eager patter of little feet in the hall, the front door was opened, and the next moment the little dark child was standing by his side. "here's sixpence of my very own, and you shall have it, poor man, and thank you for your lovely, lovely music." "you liked it, dearie?" said antonio, not touching the sixpence, but looking down at the pretty child with reverence. "oh! didn't i just? i used to hear those airs in italy, and they remind me of my dear mamma." "little missy has got eyes dark and long like almonds; perhaps she comes from our sunny south?" said antonio eagerly. "no, i am a little english girl; but my mamma was ill, and they took her to italy, and marcia nursed her. god has taken my mamma away, and now i am in england, and i don't like it; but i shall only stay here until my father comes home." "missy, you make my heart beat when you talk of italy and of marcia--but your marcia, was she young?--the name is a common one, and mine, if the good lord has not removed her, must be very old now." "my marcia was young and good," said the little girl. "i loved her, and i cry for her still. i am so sorry your marcia is old, poor man. thank you for the music. i must run in now, or janet will scold. good-by. here's your sixpence." "no, no, missy. i'll get some pence in the other streets. let me feel that i played the old airs for you only for love." chapter ii. a friend in need. antonio did not stay out much longer in the snow. this enterprise of his had not turned out a profitable one; no one on such a miserable day felt inclined to listen to his italian airs, the snow seemed to be locking up people's hearts, and he went back to his attic hungry and cold, and quite as penniless as when he started on his expedition. still there was a glow in his heart, and he was not at all sorry that he had played for the pretty child for love. he sat down in an old broken arm-chair and wrapped a tattered cloak about him, and indulged in what he called a reverie of italy and old times. this reverie, as he said afterward, quite warmed him and took away his desire for food. "the child has brought all back to me like a golden dream," he murmured. "poor, poor marcia! why do i think of her so much to-night? and there's no money in the little box, and no hope of going back to her, and it's fifteen years ago now." the next day antonio went back to the quiet square off bloomsbury, and played all his italian airs opposite the house where he had played them yesterday; but though he looked longingly from one window to another, he could not get any glimpse of the child who reminded him of italy. as he walked through the square on his way home he could see the people passing to the week-night service at the church, which stood in the center. but no trace of the little one could he catch. as far as money was concerned, he had had a much better day than yesterday, but he went home, nevertheless, disappointed and with quite a blank at his old heart. the next day he hoped he would see the child, and he again went slowly through the square, but he could not catch a glimpse of her, and after doing this every day in vain he soon came to the conclusion that she had gone. "her father has come for the pretty one, and she has gone back to the fair south," he murmured. "ah, well! i never saw such eyes as hers on an english maiden before." on christmas day antonio shouldered his organ, as usual, and went out. on this morning he made quite a little harvest; people were so merry and so bright and so happy that even those who did not want his italian airs gave him a penny to get rid of him. quite early in the afternoon he turned his steps homeward. on his way he bought half a pound of sausages and a small bottle of thin and sour claret. "now," he said to himself, "i shall have a feast worthy of my italy," and he trudged cheerfully back, feeling all the better for his walk through the pleasant frosty air. antonio never indulged in fires, but he had a small paraffin stove in his attic, and this he now lit, and spread out his thin hands before the poor little attempt at a fire. then he drank his claret and ate his sausages and bread, and tried to believe that he was having quite a bright little christmas feast. there were many voices in the room below, and cheerful sounds coming up now and then from the court, and altogether there was a festive air about everything, and antonio tried to believe himself one with a merry multitude. but, poor old man, he failed to do so. he was a lonely and very old man--he was an exile from his native country. no one in all this great world of london cared anything at all about him, and he was parted from his good wife marcia. fifteen years ago now they had agreed to part; they both supposed that this parting would be a matter of months, or a year at most. "the good land of england is paved with gold," said antonio. "i will go there and collect some of the treasure and then come back for you and little marcia." "and in the mean time the good god will give me money enough to keep on the little fruit stall and to support our little sweet one," said marcia, bravely keeping back her tears. antonio came to england, and quickly discovered that the streets paved with gold and the abundant wealth lived only in his dreams. the little money he had brought with him was quickly spent, and he had no means to enable him to return to italy. neither he nor his wife could write, and under these circumstances it was only too easy for the couple to lose sight of each other. once, a few years back, an italian had brought him word that little marcia was dead, and that his wife was having a very poor time of it. when antonio heard this he came home in a fit of desperation, and finding a small box, bored a hole in the lid, and into this hole he religiously dropped half of all he earned, hoping by this means to secure a little fund to enable him to return to naples and to marcia. the winter, however, set in with unusual severity, and the contents of the little box had to be spent, and poor antonio seemed no nearer to the only longing he now had in his old heart. on this particular christmas day, after his vain attempt at being merry and christmas-like, he dropped his head into his hands and gave way to some very gloomy thoughts. there was no hope now of his ever seeing his old wife again. how tired she must be of standing by that fruit stall and watching in vain for him to turn the corner of the gay and picturesque street! there she would stand day after day, with her crimson petticoat, and her tidy bodice, and the bright yellow handkerchief twisted round her head. her dark eyes would look out softly and longingly for the old man who was never coming back. yes, since the child had gone back to god, marcia must be a very lonely woman. after thinking thus for some time, until all the short daylight had faded and the lamps were lit one by one in the street below, antonio began to pace up and down his little attic. he was feeling almost fierce in his longing and despair; the patient submission to what he believed an inevitable fate, which at most times characterized him, gave place to passionate utterances, the natural outcome of his warm southern nature. "oh, god! give me back marcia--let me see my old wife marcia once again before i die," he pleaded several times. after a little he thought he would change the current of his sad musings, and go out into the street with his hurdy-gurdy. as i have said before, he was always a favorite with the children, and they now crowded round him and begged for that merry italian air to which they could dance. antonio was feeling too unhappy to care about money, and it afforded him a passing pleasure to gratify the children, so he set down his barrel-organ in the dirty crowded street, and began to turn the handle. the children, waiting for their own favorite air, collected closely round the old man; now it was coming, and they could dance, oh! so merrily, to the strains they loved. but--what was the matter? antonio was looking straight before him, and turning the handle slowly and mechanically. suddenly his whole face lit up with an expression of wonder, of pleasure, of astonishment. he let go the handle of the barrel organ, and the music went out with a little crash, and the next instant he was pushing his way through the crowd of dirty children, and was bending over a little girl, with dark hair and dark, sweet, troubled eyes, who was standing without either bonnet or jacket spell-bound by the notes of the old hurdy-gurdy. "why, my little one--my little sweet one from the south, however did you come to a dreadful place like this?" said old antonio. at the sound of his voice, the child seemed to be roused out of a spell of terror; she trembled violently, she clasped her arms round his knees, and burst into sobs and cries. "you are my organ-man--you are my own darling organ-man. oh! i knew it must be you, and now you will take me home to my father." "but however did you come here, my dear little missy?" "my name is mona. i am mona sinclair, and janet my maid--oh! how cruel she is; she was jealous of the dear marcia i used to have in italy, and she said she would punish me, and she would do it on christmas day. father has not come home yet, and i have been so unhappy waiting for him, and janet said she was tired of my always crying and missing my mamma, and she took me for a walk this afternoon, and she met some grandly dressed people, and they wanted her to go with them, and she said she would for a little, and she told me to stand at the street corner, and she would be back in ten minutes, but it seemed like hours and hours," continued the child excitedly, "and i was so cold, and so miserable, and i could not wait any longer, and i thought i would find my own way home, and i have been looking for it ever since, and i cannot find it. i asked one woman to tell me, but all she did was to hurry me into a corner and take off my fur cap and my warm jacket, and she looked so wicked, and i've been afraid to ask any one since; but now you will take me home, you won't be unkind to me, my dear organ-man." "yes, i will take you home, my darling," said antonio, and he lifted the little child tenderly into his arms. chapter iii. glad tidings. "i must not leave my barrel-organ in the street," said antonio to the child; "will you let me take it home first, missy? and then i can take you back to your father." little mona, holding antonio's hand, and walking by his side in the midst of the rabble, was a totally different child from mona, standing by herself under the street lamp. "i shall like to see your home, organ-man," she said in her sweet voice. "do you really live in an attic? marcia and her mother live in an attic in italy, too, and marcia likes it." then they walked through the streets together, and mona went upstairs with antonio. she seemed quite contented in the funny little place, and sat down on a low seat with a sigh of satisfaction. "i am so glad i met you, organ-man, and i like your home. i would much rather live here with you than go back to janet. i am dreadfully afraid of janet, and i sometimes think my father will never come. i wish i could live with you, organ-man," continued little mona in a piteous voice, "for you could talk to me about italy, where my dear mamma died, and oh! organ-man, you do remind me of marcia." "i once had two marcias," said old antonio in a grave and troubled voice; "the little one is with god, and the wife whom i love, i don't know what shelter she is finding for her gray hairs. it troubles me to hear you speak of marcia, missy. it brings back painful memories." the child had a thoughtful and serious face; she now fixed her eyes on old antonio, and did not speak. "and i must take you home," continued the old man. "i should like to keep you with me, my little bright missy, but suppose your good father has returned, fancy his agony." "if i could think my father had come, how glad i should be!" said little mona, and she went over to antonio and took his hand. it was not a very long way from antonio's attic to the house in b---- square. antonio was too old and too feeble to carry the little girl all the way. he would have liked to do so, for the feel of her little arms round his neck, and her soft brown cheek pressed to his, brought the strangest peace and comfort to his heart. antonio had not had such a good time since he left italy, and he could not help feeling, in some inexplicable way, that he was going back to marcia. at last they reached the house, and the old organ-man's ring was speedily answered. immediately there was a shout of delight and a great bustle, and little mona was almost torn from her companion and carried into a dining-room, which was very bright with firelight and gaslight. antonio, standing on the hall-door steps, heard some very tender and loving words addressed in a manly voice to the little girl. then he said to himself, "the dear little one's father has come and her heart will be at rest." and he began slowly to go down the steps, and to turn back to a world which was once more quite sunless and cold. but this was not to be, for little mona's voice arrested him, and both she and her father brought him into the house and into the warm dining-room. there mr. sinclair shook his hand, and thanked him many times, and tried to explain to him something of the agony he had undergone when he had listened to the terrified janet's confession, and had discovered that his only child was gone. "i too have lost a child," said old antonio. "i can sympathize with your feelings, sir." "but you have got to tell my father all that story of the marcia with gray hair," said little mona. she was a totally different child now, her timidity and fear were gone, she danced about, and put antonio into a snug chair, and insisted once more on his telling his story. when he had finished, mr. sinclair said a few words: "i believe god's providence sent you here to-night in a double sense, and i begin to see my way to pay you back in some measure for what you have done for me. the young girl who so devotedly nursed my wife during her long illness was called marcia. we wished to bring her to england, for my child loved her much, but we could not induce her to go away from an old mother of the same name. she often told us what hard times this mother had undergone, and how her heart was almost broken for her husband, who had gone away to england to seek his fortune, but had never come back. now, can it be possible that these two marcias are yours, and that the man who said your child was dead was mistaken?" "it may be so," said old antonio, whose face had grown very white. "oh! sir, if ever you go back to naples could you find out from that marcia with gray hairs if the husband she laments was one antonio, an old man, who played italian airs?" "my child and i are going back to naples next week," said mr. sinclair, "and suppose you come with us and find out for yourself, antonio." chapter iv. at last. there came a warm day, full of light, and life, and color; a day over which the blue sky of italy smiled. beside an artistically arranged fruit stall a slender and handsome italian girl stood. behind the stall, on a low seat, sat an old woman; she was knitting, but her restless eyes took eager count of every passer-by. "did you observe that old man, marcia?" she said in her rapid italian to the young girl. the girl turned her beautiful and pitying eyes full on the old woman. "he was not my father, mother. ah! dear mother, can you not rest content that the good god has taken my father to himself?" "fifteen years," muttered the old italian woman. "fifteen years, with the love growing stronger, and the heart emptier, and the longing sorer. no, i have not given him up. oh! my merciful father in heaven, what--who is that?" a little group was coming up to the fruit stall, a child who danced merrily, an old man with a bent white head, and a gentleman on whose arm he leaned. they came up close. the child flew to the younger marcia, the old couple gazed at each other with that sudden trembling which great and wonderful heart-joy gives, they came a little nearer, and then their arms were round each other's necks. "at last, marcia," said old antonio--"at last!" the end. * * * * * a. l. burt's publications for young people by popular writers. - duane street, new york. bonnie prince charlie: a tale of fontenoy and culloden. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the adventures of the son of a scotch officer in french service. the boy, brought up by a glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the french coast, reaches paris, and serves with the french army at dettingen. he kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of prince charlie, but finally settles happily in scotland. "ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'quentin durward.' the lad's journey across france, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. for freshness of treatment and variety of incident mr. henty has surpassed himself."--spectator. with clive in india; or, the beginnings of an empire. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the period between the landing of clive as a young writer in india and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. at its commencement the english were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. at its close they were masters of bengal and of the greater part of southern india. the author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "he has taken a period of indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_scotsman._ the lion of the north: a tale of gustavus adolphus and the wars of religion. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by john schÃ�nberg. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story mr. henty gives the history of the first part of the thirty years' war. the issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in germany. the army of the chivalrous king of sweden was largely composed of scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "the tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_times._ the dragon and the raven; or, the days of king alfred. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by c. j. staniland, r.i. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between saxon and dane for supremacy in england, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. the hero, a young saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by king alfred. he is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of paris. "treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_athenæum._ the young carthaginian: a story of the times of hannibal. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by c. j. staniland, r.i. mo, cloth, price $ . . boys reading the history of the punic wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. that it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of carthage, that hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the romans at trebia, lake trasimenus, and cannæ, and all but took rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. to let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world mr. henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "well constructed and vividly told. from first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. it bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_saturday review._ in freedom's cause: a story of wallace and bruce. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author relates the stirring tale of the scottish war of independence. the extraordinary valor and personal prowess of wallace and bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. the researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. the hero of the tale fought under both wallace and bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "it is written in the author's best style. full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--the schoolmaster. with lee in virginia: a story of the american civil war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the story of a young virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under lee and jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. he has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "one of the best stories for lads which mr. henty has yet written. the picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_standard._ by england's aid; or, the freeing of the netherlands ( - ) by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by alfred pearse, and maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . the story of two english lads who go to holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting veres." after many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the corsairs. he is successful in getting back to spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of cadiz. "it is an admirable book for youngsters. it overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. the illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_boston gazette._ by right of conquest; or, with cortez in mexico. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by w. s. stacey, and two maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . the conquest of mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. with this as the groundwork of his story mr. henty has interwoven the adventures of an english youth, roger hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship swan, which had sailed from a devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the spaniards in the new world. he is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an aztec princess. at last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the spaniards, and after the fall of mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming aztec bride. "'by right of conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that mr. henty has yet published."--_academy._ in the reign of terror: the adventures of a westminster boy. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by j. schÃ�nberg. mo, cloth, price $ . . harry sandwith, a westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a french marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to paris at the crisis of the revolution. imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. after hairbreadth escapes they reach nantes. there the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "harry sandwith, the westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat mr. henty's record. his adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... the story is one of mr. henty's best."--_saturday review._ with wolfe in canada; or, the winning of a continent. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in the present volume mr. henty gives an account of the struggle between britain and france for supremacy in the north american continent. on the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of north america, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. the fall of quebec decided that the anglo-saxon race should predominate in the new world; that britain, and not france, should take the lead among the nations of europe; and that english and american commerce, the english language, and english literature, should spread right round the globe. "it is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_illustrated london news._ true to the old flag: a tale of the american war of independence. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which american and british soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. the historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of lake huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "does justice to the pluck and determination of the british soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against american emancipation. the son of an american loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of hawkeye and chingachgook."--_the times._ the lion of st. mark: a tale of venice in the fourteenth century. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story of venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. the hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. he contributes largely to the victories of the venetians at porto d'anzo and chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of venice. "every boy should read 'the lion of st. mark.' mr. henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_saturday review._ a final reckoning: a tale of bush life in australia. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by w. b. wollen. mo, cloth, price $ . . the hero, a young english lad, after rather a stormy boyhood emigrates to australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. a few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "mr. henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_spectator._ under drake's flag: a tale of the spanish main. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story of the days when england and spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. the heroes sail as lads with drake in the pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. the historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "a book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_harper's monthly magazine._ by sheer pluck: a tale of the ashanti war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. his hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the english expedition on their march to coomassie. "mr. henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'by sheer pluck' will be eagerly read."--_athenæum._ by pike and dyke: a tale of the rise of the dutch republic by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by maynard brown, and maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story mr. henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an english boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--william the silent. edward martin, the son of an english sea-captain, enters the service of the prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. he ultimately settles down as sir edward martin. "boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--_st. james' gazette._ st. george for england: a tale of cressy and poitiers. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . no portion of english history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of edward iii. cressy and poitiers; the destruction of the spanish fleet; the plague of the black death; the jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "st. george for england." the hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a london apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the black prince. "mr. henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of sir walter scott in the land of fiction."--_the standard._ captain's kidd's gold: the true story of an adventurous sailor boy. by james franklin fitts. mo, cloth, price $ . . there is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. a vision arises before his eyes of swarthy portuguese and spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the spanish main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. there were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than capt. kidd. perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is mr. fitts' true story of an adventurous american boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. the document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of kidd's crew. the hero of this book, paul jones garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water new england ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. captain bayley's heir: a tale of the gold fields of california by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by h. m. paget. mo, cloth, price $ . . a frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. the former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves england for america. he works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with indians to the californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "mr. henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of john holl, the westminster dustman, dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_christian leader._ for name and fame; or, through afghan passes. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . an interesting story of the last war in afghanistan. the hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the malays, finds his way to calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the afghan passes. he accompanies the force under general roberts to the peiwar kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to cabul, whence he is transferred to candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of ayoub khan. "the best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the afghan people."--_daily news._ captured by apes: the wonderful adventures of a young animal trainer. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, $ . . the scene of this tale is laid on an island in the malay archipelago. philip garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of new york, sets sail for eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. the vessel is wrecked off the coast of borneo and young garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. the lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. the brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. mr. prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. the bravest of the brave; or, with peterborough in spain. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by h. m. paget. mo, cloth, price $ . . there are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the earl of peterborough. this is largely due to the fact that they were over-shadowed by the glory and successes of marlborough. his career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "mr. henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. lads will read 'the bravest of the brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_daily telegraph._ the cat of bubastes: a story of ancient egypt. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the egyptian people. amuba, a prince of the rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer jethro into slavery. they become inmates of the house of ameres, the egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of bubastes. in an outburst of popular fury ameres is killed, and it rests with jethro and amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "the story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. it is admirably illustrated."--_saturday review._ with washington at monmouth: a story of three philadelphia boys. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . three philadelphia boys, seth graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the british officers;" enoch ball, "son of that mrs. ball whose dancing school was situated on letitia street," and little jacob, son of "chris, the baker," serve as the principal characters. the story is laid during the winter when lord howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the american spies who make regular and frequent visits from valley forge. one reads here of home life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the british officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. the story abounds with pictures of colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. for the temple: a tale of the fall of jerusalem. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by s. j. solomon. mo, cloth, price $ . . mr. henty here weaves into the record of josephus an admirable and attractive story. the troubles in the district of tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of jotapata, of gamala, and of jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the temple, and after a brief term of slavery at alexandria, returns to his galilean home with the favor of titus. "mr. henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless jewish resistance to roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_graphic._ facing death; or, the hero of the vaughan pit. a tale of the coal mines. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . "facing death" is a story with a purpose. it is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. the hero of the story is a typical british boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "the tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. if any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_standard._ tom temple's career. by horatio alger. mo, cloth, price $ . . tom temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of nathan middleton, a penurious insurance agent. though well paid for keeping the boy, nathan and his wife endeavor to bring master tom in line with their parsimonious habits. the lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. as tom is heir to $ , , he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. he leaves plympton village to seek work in new york, whence he undertakes an important mission to california, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. the tale is written in mr. alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. maori and settler: a story of the new zealand war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by alfred pearse. mo, cloth, price $ . . the renshaws emigrate to new zealand during the period of the war with the natives. wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. he has for his friend mr. atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. in the adventures among the maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant new zealand valleys. "brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_schoolmaster._ julian mortimer: a brave boy's struggle for home and fortune. by harry castlemon. mo, cloth, price $ . . here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. there is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. the scene of the story lies west of the mississippi river, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. one of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of indians. our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young american in every sense of the word. he enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. harry castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of america regard him as a favorite author. "carrots:" just a little boy. by mrs. molesworth. with illustrations by walter crane. mo, cloth, price cents. "one of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_examiner._ "a genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate walter crane's illustrations."--_punch._ mopsa the fairy. by jean ingelow. with eight page illustrations. mo, cloth, price cents. "mrs. ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. it requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius miss ingelow has and the story of 'jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood."--_eclectic._ a jaunt through java: the story of a journey to the sacred mountain. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price $ . . the central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, hermon and eustace hadley, on their trip across the island of java, from samarang to the sacred mountain. in a land where the royal bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. there is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has mr. ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. the two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. they cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. wrecked on spider island; or, how ned rogers found the treasure. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . a "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. while in his bunk, seasick, ned rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on spider island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. while thus involuntarily playing the part of a crusoe, ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut, finds a considerable amount of treasure. raising the wreck; a voyage to havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. geoff and jim: a story of school life. by ismay thorn. illustrated by a. g. walker. mo, cloth, price cents. "this is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. both geoff and jim are very lovable characters, only jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_church times._ "this is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_schoolmaster._ "the story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_standard._ the castaways; or, on the florida reefs. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . this tale smacks of the salt sea. it is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. from the moment that the sea queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower new york bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. off marquesas keys she floats in a dead calm. ben clark, the hero of the story, and jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. they determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. they take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. as a writer for young people mr. otis is a prime favorite. his style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. in "the castaways" he is at his best. tom thatcher's fortune. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . like all of mr. alger's heroes, tom thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. he supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in john simpson's factory. the story begins with tom's discharge from the factory, because mr. simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. a few days afterward tom learns that which induces him to start overland for california with the view of probing the family mystery. he meets with many adventures. ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of john simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. the story is told in that entertaining way which has made mr. alger's name a household word in so many homes. birdie: a tale of child life. by h. l. childe-pemberton. illustrated by h. w. rainey. mo, cloth, price cents. "the story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_new york express._ popular fairy tales. by the brothers grimm. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "from first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_athenæum._ with lafayette at yorktown: a story of how two boys joined the continental army. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . the two boys are from portsmouth, n. h., and are introduced in august, , when on the point of leaving home to enlist in col. scammell's regiment, then stationed near new york city. their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in the colonial days. the lads, after no slight amount of adventure, are sent as messengers--not soldiers--into the south to find the troops under lafayette. once with that youthful general they are given employment as spies, and enter the british camp, bringing away valuable information. the pictures of camp-life are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of lafayette's character is thoroughly well done. the story is wholesome in tone, as are all of mr. otis' works. there is no lack of exciting incident which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of ben jaffreys and ned allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text-books has been forgotten. lost in the canon: sam willett's adventures on the great colorado. by alfred r. calhoun. mo, cloth, price $ . . this story hinges on a fortune left to sam willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. the vigilance committee of hurley's gulch arrest sam's father and an associate for the crime of murder. their lives depend on the production of the receipt given for money paid. this is in sam's possession at the camp on the other side of the cañon. a messenger is dispatched to get it. he reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful storm which floods the cañon. his father's peril urges sam to action. a raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to cross the torrent. they fail to do so, and a desperate trip down the stream ensues. how the party finally escape from the horrors of their situation and sam reaches hurley's gulch in the very nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps mr. calhoun as a master of his art. jack: a topsy turvy story. by c. m. crawley-boevey. with upward of thirty illustrations by h. j. a. miles. mo, cloth, price cents. "the illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children. jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find himself an inhabitant of waterworld, where he goes through wonderful and edifying adventures. a handsome and pleasant book."--_literary world._ search for the silver city: a tale of adventure in yucatan. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . two american lads, teddy wright and neal emery, embark on the steam yacht day dream for a short summer cruise to the tropics. homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. all hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon the coast of yucatan. they come across a young american named cummings, who entertains them with the story of the wonderful silver city, of the chan santa cruz indians. cummings proposes with the aid of a faithful indian ally to brave the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. pursued with relentless vigor for days their situation is desperate. at last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. mr. otis has built his story on an historical foundation. it is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. frank fowler, the cash boy. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . thrown upon his own resources frank fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister grace. going to new york he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. he renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman named wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. frank, after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a lonesome part of new jersey and held a prisoner. this move recoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to establish his real identity. mr. alger's stories are not only unusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson of pluck and manly independence. budd boyd's triumph; or, the boy firm of fox island. by william p. chipman. mo, cloth, price $ . . the scene of this story is laid on the upper part of narragansett bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor. owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, budd boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. chance brings budd in contact with judd floyd. the two boys, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. the scheme is successfully launched, but the unexpected appearance on the scene of thomas bagsley, the man whom budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to his father, leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the lad's ruin. his pluck and good sense, however, carry him through his troubles. in following the career of the boy firm of boyd & floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. snow-white; or, the house in the wood by laura e. richards author of "captain january," "melody," "three margarets," "queen hildegarde," etc. boston dana estes & company publishers _copyright, _ by dana estes & company colonial press: electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u.s.a. to e. a. r. with affectionate greeting contents. chap. page i. the house ii. the child iii. the man iv. asking questions v. phillips; and a story vi. milking the cow vii. the story viii. the key of the fields ix. restored to life x. good-bye snow-white; or, the house in the wood. chapter i. the house. the house was so well hidden, one might almost stumble against it before one became aware of it. all round the woods stood tall and dense, old woods of pine and hemlock, with here and there great smooth, squat beeches, and ragged, glistening yellow birches. for the most part they jostled one another so close that one almost fancied they must be uncomfortable; but in one spot they fell away from a steep, rocky bank or ledge, drawing back and standing in a circle at some little distance, leaving an open space of sunny green, at the foot of the rock. it was on this open space that the house looked; and as the house was built of stone, and leaned up against the ledge behind it, one could hardly tell where man's hand had begun, or where left off. the stones might almost have been flung together by a boy at play; yet, rough as they were, they fitted close, and kept the weather out. the roof was of bark; the whole thing was half-covered with creepers that made their way down in a leisurely fashion from the ledge above, not too inquisitive, but still liking to know what was going on. to this end they looked in at the windows, which stood open all summer long, and saw many things which must have surprised them. the squirrels went in boldly, several times a day; so did the birds, the braver of them; and all came out looking pleased with themselves and with things in general. so there was necessarily something or somebody pleasant inside the house. i said that the trees stood well back from the house in the wood. i ought to have excepted three, a stately pine, and two glorious yellow birches, which stood close to it, as close as might be. in fact, part of the hut seemed to be built round the bole of the pine, which disappeared for several feet, as if the stones had clasped it in a rough embrace, and refused to let go their hold. the birches were a few feet from the door, but near enough for one to lean out of window and pull off the satin fringes. their roots swelled out above the ground, and twisted themselves into curves that might make a delightful seat, under the green bending canopy, through whose waving folds the trunk glistened like a giant prince of rags and tatters. in the centre of the tiny glade stood a buttonwood-tree, whose vast girth seemed curiously out of proportion to its surroundings. the pine and the birches were noble trees; all the forest round was full of towering stems and knotted, powerful branches; but beside the great buttonwood, they seemed like sturdy dwarfs. if there had been any one to measure the trunk, he would have found a girth of twenty-five feet or more, near the base; while above the surrounding forest, it towered a hundred feet and more in air. at a height of twelve or fifteen feet appeared an opening, two or three feet in diameter. a hollow? surely! not so large as that in the lycian plane-tree, where licinius mucianus dined with nineteen companions,--yes, and slept too, and enjoyed himself immensely,--but large enough to hold two or three persons with all comfort, if not convenience. as for the number of squirrels it might hold, that was past counting; they were running in and out all day long, and made such a noise that they disturbed the woodpeckers, and made them irritable on a hot day. there never was such a wood for birds! partly from its great age, partly from favourable accidents of soil and aspect, it had accumulated an unusual variety of trees; and any bird, looking about for a good building site, was sure of finding just the particular tree he liked best, with building materials, food, and every other requisite to heart's desire. so the trees rustled and quivered with wings, and rang with song, all day long, except in the hot sleepy noons, when most respectable birds keep within nests, and only the woodthrush from time to time sends out his few perfect notes, to show that all times are alike to the true singer. not content with the forest itself, some families--i think they were ruby-crowned wrens and bluebirds--had made their nests in the creepers that matted the roof of the hut with green; and the great buttonwood was a positive metropolis, densely populated with titmice, warblers, and flycatchers of every description. if anybody lived in the stone hut, he would not want for company, what with the birds and the squirrels, and the woodchucks that came and went across the little green as unconcernedly as if it were their own front dooryard. decidedly, the inhabitant, if there were one, must be of kin to the wildwood creatures, for his dwelling and its surroundings evidently belonged as much to the forest people as to him. on the day when my story begins, the house in the wood was the only lifeless thing, or so it seemed, in the whole joyous little scene. it was a day in early may, and the world was so delighted with itself that it laughed and twinkled all over. the trees were hardly yet in full leaf, but had the gray-green misty look of spring, that makes one see erl-könig's daughters shimmering in every willow, and rustling out of sight behind the white birch-trunks. the great buttonwood had put out its leaves, covered with thick white down; the air was full of sweet smells, for it had rained in the night, and wet leaves, pine needles, new ferns, and a hundred other lovely awakening things, made the air a life-giving ether. the little green was starred with anemones and eyebrights; under the cool of the trees one might see other things glimmering, exquisite shadowy forms,--hepaticas, were they, or fairies in purple and gray fur? one felt the presence of mayflowers, though one could not see them unless one went close and pulled away the brown dry leaves; then the lovely rosy creatures would peep out and laugh, as only mayflowers can when they play at hide and seek. there seemed to be a robin party going on under the buttonwood-tree. a dozen of them or more were running and hopping and strutting about, with their breasts well forward, doing amazing things in the matter of worms. yes, it must surely have rained in the night, or there could not have been such a worm-harvest. there seemed almost to be enough for the robins, and any one who knows robins is aware that this is an extravagant statement. the titmice had apparently not been invited; they sat in the branches and looked on, or hopped and ran about their green leafy city. there was no need for them to travel all that distance to the ground; besides, they considered worms vulgar and coarse food. a self-respecting titmouse, who provides over two hundred grubs a day for himself and his family, may well be content to live in his own city, the murmuring, rustling place where grubs lie close on the bough and under the bark, and where flies are ready for the bill; he has no need to pierce the friendly earth, and drag up her unsightly creeping things, to swallow piecemeal. a titmouse has his opinion of robins, though he is on intimate terms with most birds in the forest. now and then some sudden wave of instinct or purpose would run through all the great army of birds,--those in the buttonwood city, the robins struggling on the green, and far in the dim forest depths thrush and song-sparrow and warbler. first a stray note here and there, setting the pitch, it might be; then, fuller and fuller, a chorus, rising high and higher, fluting, trilling, whistling, singing away like mad, every little ruffled throat of them all. praise, was it, or profession of belief, or simply of joy of being alive and able to sing under green leaves and summer sun? but even these outbursts of rapture did not rouse the house in the wood. it lay there in the morning glory, gray, silent, senseless, crouched against the wall of rock behind it. chapter ii. the child. the child had grown tired of the road. at first it had been delightful to patter along in the soft white dust, leaving the print of her feet so clear behind her. she might be a hundred little girls, she thought, instead of one. the prints reached away back, as far as she could see, hundreds and hundreds of little trotty feet, each with its toes marked as plain as if you drew them with a pencil. and the dust felt soft and smooth, and when you put your foot down it went up puff in the air, and made little clouds; only when it got in your throat it made you cough and sneeze, and it was gritty in your eyes, too. by and by, as i said, she grew tired of this, and it was a new joy to see the little river that came running along just then. "running and running, without any feet; running and running, and isn't it sweet!" that was what the child sang, for she had a way of singing when she was alone. without hesitating, she plumped into the river, and the water was cool and delicious to her hot little toes. she walked along, holding her petticoats high, though there was no need of that, as they were short enough before; splashing just enough to make silver sparkles at every step. the river did not seem to grow deeper; it was just precisely made to wade in, the child thought. for some way the banks were fringed with meadow-rue, and she had to stop every little while to admire the fluffy white blossoms, and the slender, graceful stems. then came alders, stubby and thick, with last year's berries still clinging here and there to the black twigs. then, somehow, all at once there began to be trees along by the river side. the child had been so absorbed in making sparkles and shouting at them, she had forgotten the banks for awhile; now, when she looked up, there was no more meadow-rue. trees came crowding down to the water's edge; trees were all about her, ranks upon ranks of them; wherever she looked, she saw only green rustling tents and waving curtains. "i am in a woods!" said the child. she laughed aloud at the idea, and looked round again, full of joy and wonder. it was pretty enough, surely. the woods were not so thick but that sunbeams could find their way down through the branches, dappling the green gloom with fairy gold. here and there the gold lay on the river, too, and that was a wonderful thing, handfuls of gold and diamonds flung down from the sky, shimmering and sparkling on a crystal floor; but in other places the water slept still and black in the shadow, only broken where a stone humped itself out, shining and mossy, with the silver breaking over it and running down with cheerful babblings into the soft blackness below. by and by there was a stone so big that its top stood out dry and brown above the water. it was a flat top, and the child sat down on it, and gathered her petticoats about her, and let her feet rest in the cool flowing. that was a great pleasure, to be really part of the brook, or of the rock. she laughed aloud, suddenly, and kicked a little; till the bright drops flew over her head; then she began to sing and talk, both together. "and i comed away, and i runned away, and i said i thought i did not _want_ to stay! "well, and if miss tyler won't be surprised! she will say 'oh, dear me! where _is_ that child?' and then she will look everywhere, and everywhere, _and_ everywhere, and i won't be nowhere!" she broke out into a funny little bubbling laugh, and the brook laughed in almost exactly the same way, so that the child nodded at it, and kicked up the sparkles again, to show her appreciation. "and then they will send out all over the village, and everybody will say, 'oh, yes, we seed that child. we seed her going into the store, and we seed her going into the house, and we seed her running about all over the place.' yes! but, nobody seed me run, and nobody seed me go, and nobody don't know nothing, and nothing don't nobody know!" and she bubbled again. this time a green frog came up out of the water and looked at her, and said "croak," in an inquisitive tone. "why did i?" said the child, looking at him sidewise. "well, if i tell, won't you tell anybody, never no more? honest injun? well, then, i won't tell you! i don't tell things to frogs!" she splashed a great splash, and the frog departed in anger. "huh!" said the child. "he was noffin but an old frog. he wasn't a fairy; though there _was_ the frog prince, you know." she frowned thoughtfully, but soon shook her head. "no, that wasn't him, i'm sure it wasn't. he'd have had gold spots on his green, and this frog hadn't a single one, he hadn't. he wasn't a prince; i'd know a frog that was a prince, minute i seed him, i 'spect. and he'd say: "'king's daughter youngest, open the door!' "and then i would, and he would come in, and--and--i'd put him in miss tyler's plate, and wouldn't she yellup and jump? and mamma--" here the child suddenly looked grave. "mamma!" she repeated, "mamma. well, she went away and left me first, and that was how it was. when you leave this kinds of child alone, it runs away, that's what it does; and miss tylers isn't any kind of persons to leave this kinds of child wiz, anyhow, and so i told them at first. "and i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said i thought i did not _want_ to stay! and they teared their hair, and they made despair, and--and-- and i said i thought perhaps i did not care! "that's a long one. when i come to some fairies i'll make more. when i am big, i'll talk that way all the time, wiz poetry in it." she was silent for a few minutes, watching the bubbles that came sailing down the stream. most of the way they were clear like glass, with a little rim of foam where they joined on, she thought; but when they came to a certain place, where a shaft of yellow light came down and made sparkles on the water, every bubble turned rainbow colour, most beautiful. only, some of them would go the wrong way, over into the shadow. "hi!" she shouted to them. "come over here and be rainbows! you are a stupid, you are! if i was a bubble, i would know enough to come to the right place, and be a rainbow, yes, i would. i'll kick you, old bubble, if you go there!" stretching out her foot, she stretched it a little too far, and sat down in the stream with a souse. she scrambled out hastily, but this time on the bank. she had had enough of the brook, and was red with anger. "you needn't have your old stones so slippery!" she said. "i needn't have sat on your old stone, anyhow, but i thought it might be pleased. and my feet was cold, and i won't stay there any more, not a single minute, so you can make all the noise you want to, and noffin but frogs will stay in you, and not prince frogs one bit, only just common ones, so now!" she shook her head at the brook, and turned away. then she turned back again, and her baby forehead clouded. "see here!" said the child. "i 'spect i'm lost." there seemed no doubt about that. there was no sign of a path anywhere. the still trees came crowding down to the water's edge, sometimes leaning far over, so that their drooping branches met across the still pools. on every side were green arcades, long reaches of shimmering leaves, cool deeps of fern; nothing else. the child had never known fear, and it did not come to her now. she reflected for a moment; then her brow cleared. "i must find a house in the wood!" she announced to the brook. she spoke with decision, and cheerfulness reigned in her mind. of course there was a house somewhere; there always was, in every wood. sometimes two children lived in it, and the brother was a white fawn all day, and turned into a boy at night; that would be fun! and sometimes it was an old woman--oh, dear, yes, but sometimes that old woman was a witch, and put you in a chicken-coop, and ate you up when you were fat. yes; but you would know that house, because it was all made of candy and pancakes and things, and you could just run round behind it, and pull off some pancakes from the shed, p'r'aps, and then run away as fast as ever you could, and old womans couldn't run half so fast as children, and so! but the best house, on the whole, would be the dwarf house. yes, that was the one to look for. the house where seven dwarfs lived, and they had the table all ready set when you came, and you took a little out of one bowl, and a little out of another cup; and then they came in and found you asleep, and said, "who is this sweet maiden?" and then you stayed and cooked for them, just like snow-white, and--and--it was just lovely! "well, i wish it would be pretty soon!" said the child. "i'm pretty hungry, i 'spect p'raps." she was a brave child; she was hungry, and her legs and feet ached; but she pushed on cheerfully, sometimes talking and singing, sometimes silent, making her way through the tangle of ferns and hanging branches; following the brook, because there was a little boy in the newspaper that her papa read, and he got lost, and just he followed the brook, and it brought him right along to where there were people, and he had blackberries all the way. she looked for blackberries, but they are hard to find in early may, except in the fairy books. there, as the child knew very well, you had only to go to the right place and take a broom and brush away the snow, and there you found strawberries, the finest that ever were seen, to take home to your sick sister. it was true that you had to be very good and polite to the proper old woman, or else you would never find the strawberries; but the child would be polite, she truly would. she would sweep the old woman's house, and give her half her own bread--only she had no bread! here a great pang of emptiness smote the child; she felt that there was a sob about somewhere, waiting to get into her throat. it should not come in; she shook her head, and pressed on. it was all right; god was close by, anyhow, and he had to take care of children, because he said he would. so it was all right, only-- suddenly the child stopped; for it _was_ all right. she had found the house in the wood. standing breast-high in ferns, she looked away from the brook; and there was a break in the trees, and beyond the break a space of sunny green, with a huge tree in the middle; and on the farther side the house itself. gray and silent; leaning against a great rock-face behind it; the door shut, but the windows standing wide open; the roof all green and blossoming, like a queer little garden place,--there it was, exactly the way it was in the fairy books. the child saw at once that there was no danger of cannibal old women here. this house was not made of pancakes, and the windows were not barley sugar at all, but plain glass. no, this was the house of the seven dwarfs; and she was really in a fairy story, and she was going to have the best time she had ever had in her life. the child stood quiet for a few minutes, looking in pure delight. perhaps one of the dwarfs would come out. she thought she might feel a little shy if one were to come out just this very minute. then she remembered that they must all be out at work in the forest, for they always were, and they did not come back till night. "well, i can't wait!" she said, decidedly. "first place, snow-white didn't, not a minute she didn't wait. and besides, i'm too hungry, and i s'pose everything is ready and waiting inside, and so i'll go." she advanced boldly across the green, but paused again at the door. no sound came from the house. the creepers waved on the roof, the birds made an amazed and amazing chatter in the great buttonwood-tree; but that was all. the child pushed the door, the latch yielded, and the door swung slowly open. two steps, and she stood inside. even the very bravest child may be excused for feeling a little strange in such a house as this. she felt her heart beating in her ears, and her throat was dry; but as she looked about her, everything was so perfectly right that her sense of fitness asserted itself once more, and she was content and glad. the room in which she stood was not large, except for dwarfs; for them it would be a great hall. it was floored and walled with clean, shining wood, and there were two doors, one at either end. there was an open fire-place, in which two black iron dogs with curly tails held up some logs of wood that were smouldering and purring in a comfortable way, as if they had been lighted more for pleasure than for warmth. near the fire stood an easy-chair, and another chair was drawn up by a table that stood in the window. it was on seeing this table that the child began to fear all was not quite right. it was a neat little table, just about high enough for dwarfs, if they were not very short dwarfs; it was laid with a snowy cloth, as they always are; but--where were the seven places? there was only one at this table. there was a plate, a knife and fork, a cup and saucer, a little loaf of bread and a little pat of butter, a pitcher of milk, and a comb of golden honey. what did this mean? "well, i can't help it," said the child, suddenly. "if they is gone away all but one of them, i can't help it; they shouldn't play that way, and i'm hungry. just i'll take a little bit, as snow-white did. just that's what i'll do!" she seated herself at the table, and poured some milk into the cup. oh, how good it was! she broke off a bit of bread, and nibbled it; her spirits rose, and she began to feel again that she was having the most splendid time that ever was. she broke out into her song-- "and i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said i thought i did not--" then she stopped, for the door of the further room opened quietly, and the dwarf came in. chapter iii. the man. the child's song broke off in a little scream, for things are sometimes startling even when you have been expecting them; but the scream bubbled into a laugh. "ah! i--i mean i'm laughing because you look so funny. i took some bread and milk because i was hungry." she stopped abruptly, feeling that sob somewhere about her again. the dwarf advanced toward her, and she held on to the back of the chair; but he held out his hand and smiled. "how do you do?" he said. "i am very glad to see you; pray sit down again and finish your supper." "it's your supper," said the child, who was honest. "i didn't mean to steal it; i don't know p'r'aps there isn't enough for both of us." she had a way of leaving out words in her sentences that sometimes confused people, but the dwarf seemed to understand. "there's plenty for both!" he said. "come! i'll sit down here, and you shall give me some milk. i am hungry, too. have some honey!" he nodded at her, and smiled again; he had the most delightful smile the child had ever seen. somebody once said you could warm yourself at it as at a fire. the child took a piece of bread, and looked at him over it as she nibbled. he was not a tiny dwarf, not one of the kind that get into flowers, and fight with grass-blades, and that sort of thing. no, indeed! he was just a little man; why, he was taller than she was, though not so very much taller. he had brown hair and a soft brown beard; his eyes were brown, too, and full of light. all brown and gray, for his dress was gray and soft, "kind of humplety velvet," the child said to herself, though it was really only corduroy. he seemed all of a piece with the house, and the gray rock behind it. now he looked at her, and smiled again. "you look as if you were wondering something very much," he said. "have some more milk! what are you wondering?" "partly i was wondering where the rest of you was!" said the child. "the rest of me?" said the man. "there isn't any more of me. this is all there is. don't you think it's enough?" he smiled still, but this time it was only his mouth, and his eyes looked dark, as if something hurt him. "i mean the others," the child explained. "the rest of the seven. i guess it's six, p'r'aps. there was seven of 'em where snow-white came to, you know." "seven what?" asked the man. "dwarfs!" said the child. "oh!" said the man. he was silent for a moment, as if he were thinking; then he laughed, and the child laughed, too. "isn't it funny?" she said. "what are you laughing at?" "yes, it is funny!" said the man. "why, you are just like snow-white, aren't you? but there aren't any more dwarfs. i'm the only one there is here." the child thought that was a pity. "you could have much more fun if there were seven of you," she said. "why don't you get some more?" then suddenly recollecting herself, she added, hastily, "i never did cook, but i can stir porridge, and dust i can, too, and i 'spect i could make your bed, 'cause it wouldn't be so big, you see. i tried to make beds, but i get all mixed up in the sheets, and the blankets are horrid, and i never know which is the wrong side of the spread. so you see!" "i see!" said the man. "but i 'spect i could make yours, don't you? should you mind if once i didn't get the spread right, you know?" "not a bit. besides, i don't like spreads. we'll throw it away." "oh, let's!" said the child. "hurrah! do you say hurrah?" "hurrah!" said the man. "do you mind if i smoke a pipe?" no, the child did not mind at all. so he brought a most beautiful pipe, and filled and lighted it; then he sat down, and looked at the child thoughtfully. "i suppose you ought to tell me where you came from," he said. "it isn't half so much fun, but i suppose they will be missing you at home, don't you? your mamma--" the child hastened to explain. her mamma was away, had gone quite away with her papa, and left her, the child, alone with miss tyler and the nurse. now miss tyler was no kinds of a person to leave a child wiz; she poked and she fussed, and she said it was shocking whenever you did anything, but just anything at all except sit still and learn hymns. "i hate hymns!" said the child. "so do i!" said the man, fervently. "it's a pity about miss tyler. where is it you came from, snow-white?" "oh! it's somewhere else; a long way off. i can't go back there. dwarfs never send people back there; they let them stay and do the work. and i'm almost as big as you are!" the child ended, with a little quaver. "so you are," said the man. "now we'll wash the dishes, and forget all about it for to-night, anyhow." it was glorious fun washing the dishes, such pretty dishes, blue and white, with houses and birds on them. they went into the kitchen through one of the doors, and there all the things were bright and shining, as if they were made of silver. the child asked the dwarf if they were really silver, but he said oh, dear, no, only britannia. that sounded like nonsense, because the child knew that britannia ruled the waves, her papa sang a song about it; but she thought perhaps dwarfs didn't understand about that, so she said nothing. the dwarf brought a little cricket, and she stood on that and wiped the dishes while he washed them; and he said he never liked washing them so much before, and she said she never liked wiping them so much. everything was as handy as possible. the dish-pan was as bright as the rest of the things, and there were plenty of clean towels, and when you shook the soap-shaker about, it made the most charming bubbles in the clean hot water. "do you ever make bubbles in your pipe?" said the child. "not in this one," said the dwarf. "i used to have a pipe for them; perhaps i can find one for you by and by." "i made bubbles in the river," she announced, polishing a glass vigorously. "there was a stone, and i sat on it, and bubbles i made wiz kicks, you know, in the water; and songs i made, too, and the river went bubble, too, all the time. there was a frog, too, and he came and said things to me, but i kicked at him. he wasn't the frog prince, 'cause he had no gold spots on him. do you know the frog prince? does he live here in this river? do you have gold balls when you play ball?" "i'll get one," said the dwarf, recklessly. "it's no fun playing ball alone, but now we'll have one, i shouldn't wonder. how far did you come along the river, snow-white?" "miles!" said snow-white. "and didn't you have shoes and stockings when you started?" yes, the child had had shoes and stockings, but she took them off to see her toes make dust-toes in the dust. did ever the dwarf do that? it was fun! she left them away back there, miles away, before she came to the river and the woods. and her hat-- she laughed suddenly. "did ever you put flowers in your hat and send it sailing for a boat?" "is that what you did, snow-white?" "yes! and it was fun. it went bob, bob, right along wiz the water and bubbles; and then it tipped against a stone, and then it went round the corner, and--and that's all i know," she ended, suddenly. "you are sleepy, snow-white," said the dwarf. "see! the dishes are all done; now we will put them away in the cupboard, and then we will see about putting you away to bed." the child objected that it was still daylight; she tried to look wide awake, and succeeded for a few minutes, while they were putting away the dishes in the most charming little hanging cupboard with glass doors; but after that her head grew heavy, and her eyelids, as she expressed it, kept flopping into her eyes. "where am i going to sleep?" she asked. "there ought to be little white beds, you know, and one would be too big, and the next would be too small, and--no, that's the three bears, isn't it? i don't see any beds at all in this place." she began to rub her eyes, and it was clear that there must be no further delay. "come in here," said the man. "here is your bed, all ready for you." he led her through the other door, and there was a tiny bedroom, all shining and clean, like the other rooms. the bed stood in one corner, white and smooth, with a plumpy pillow that seemed to be waiting for the child. she sighed, a long sigh of contented weariness, and put up her arms in a fashion which the man seemed to understand. he sat down in a low chair and took her in his arms, where she nestled like a sleepy kitten. he rocked her gently, patting her in an absent fashion; but presently she raised her eyes with an indignant gleam. "you aren't singing anything!" she said. "sing!" "hush!" said the man. "how can i sing unless you are quiet?" he hummed under his breath, as if trying to recall something; then he laughed, in a helpless sort of way, and said to the door, "look at this, will you?" but there was really nothing to look at; and after awhile he began to sing, in a soft, crooning voice, about birds, and flowers, and children, all going to sleep: such a drowsy song, the words seemed to nod along the music till they nodded themselves sound asleep. when he finished, the child seemed to be asleep too; but she roused herself once more. she sat up on his knee and rubbed her eyes. "does dwarfs know about prayers?" she said, drowsily. "do you know about them?" the man's eyes looked dark again. "not much," he said; "but i know enough to hear yours, snow-white. will you say it on my knee here?" but the child slipped down to the floor, and dropped her head on his knee in a business-like way. "'now i lay me down to sleep, i pray the lord my soul to keep.' "i don't say the rest, 'cause i don't like it. and god bless papa and mamma, and make me a goo'--l'--girl--amen. and god bless this dwarf," she added. "that's all." then she lifted her head, and looked at the dwarf; and something in her look, flushed as she was with sleep, the light in her eyes half veiled, made the man start and flinch, and turn very pale. "no!" he said, putting out his hands as if to push the child away. "no; leave me alone!" the child opened her eyes a little wider, and looked at him. "what is the matter of you, dwarf?" she said. "i wasn't touching you. are you cross?" "no," said the man; and he smiled again. "snow-white, if i don't put you to bed, you'll be going to sleep on my best floor, and i can't have that." he laid her in the little bed, and tucked the bed-clothes round her smoothly; she was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow. the man stood looking at her a long time. presently he took up one of her curls and examined it, holding it up to the fading light. it was a pretty curl, fine and soft, and of a peculiar shade of reddish brown. he went to a box and took out a folded paper. unfolding this, took out another curl of hair, and laid it beside the child's; they might have grown on the same head. "though i take the wings of the morning--" said the man. then he laid the curl back in the box, and went out and shut the door softly behind him. chapter iv. asking questions. "how many birds have you got, dwarf?" asked the child. they were sitting at breakfast the next morning. to look at the child, no one would have thought she had ever been sleepy in her life; she was twinkling all over with eagerness and curiosity. "how many?" repeated the man, absently. he hardly seemed to hear what the child said; he looked searchingly at her, and seemed to be trying to make out something that was puzzling him. "yes, how many?" repeated the child, with some asperity. "seems to me you are rather stupid this morning, dwarf; but perhaps you are like bats, and sleep in the daytime. are you like bats? are dwarfs like bats? can you hang up by your heels in trees? have you got claws on them?" her eyes dilated with awful joy; but the man shook his head and laughed. "no, no, snow-white. i wasn't sleepy at all; i was only thinking." "did you sleep last night?" asked the child, slightly disappointed. "i was in your bed, so you couldn't sleep. if you did sleep, where did you? please give me some more bread. i don't see where you get bread; and i don't see where you slept; and you didn't tell me how many birds you had. i shall be angry pretty soon, i don't wonder." "snow-white," said the dwarf, "if you talk so fast, your tongue will be worn out before you are seventy." "what is seventy?" said the child. "i hate it, anyway, and i won't be it." "hurrah!" said the man, "i hate it, too, and i won't be it, either. but as to the birds; how many should you think there were? have you seen any of them?" "i've seen lots and lots!" said the child, "and i've heard all the rest. when i woke up, they were singing and singing, as if they were seeing who could most. one of them came in the window, and he sat on my toe, and he was yellow. then i said, 'boo!' and then he flew away just as hard as he could fly. do you have that bird?" "yes," said the man. "that is my cousin goldfinch. i'm sorry you frightened him away, snow-white. if you had kept quiet, he would have sung you a pretty song. he isn't used to having people say 'boo!' to him. he comes in every morning to see me, and sing me his best song." "are they all your birds?" queried the child. "aren't you ever going to tell me how many you have? i don't think you are very polite. miss tyler says it's horrid rude not to answer questions." "miss tyler is not here!" said the man, gravely. "i thought you said we were not to talk about her." "so i did!" cried the child. "i say hurrah she isn't here, dwarf. do you say it, too?" "hurrah!" said the man, fervently. "now come, snow-white, and i'll show you how many birds i have." "before we wash the dishes? isn't that horrid?" "no, not at all horrid. wait, and you'll see." the man crumbled a piece of bread in his hand, and went out on the green before the house, bidding the child stay where she was and watch from the window. watching, the child saw him scatter the crumbs on the shining sward, and heard him cry in a curious kind of soft whistle: "coo! coo! coo!" immediately there was a great rustling all about; in the living green of the roof, in the yellow birches, but most of all in the vast depths of the buttonwood tree. in another moment the birds appeared, clouds and clouds of them, flying so close that their wings brushed each other; circling round and round the man, as he stood motionless under the great tree; then settling softly down, on his head, on his shoulders, on his outstretched arms, on the ground at his feet. he broke another piece from the loaf, and crumbled it, scattering the crumbs lavishly. the little creatures took their morning feast eagerly, gratefully; they threw back their tiny heads and chirped their thanks; they hopped and ran and fluttered about the sunny green space, till the whole seemed alive with swift, happy motion. standing still among them, the man talked to them gently, and they seemed to understand. now and then he took one in his hand and caressed it, with fingers as light as their own fluffy wings; and when he did that, the bird would throw back its head and sing; and the others would chime in, till the whole place rang with the music of them. it was a very wonderful thing, if any one had been there who understood about wonderful things; but to the child it seemed wholly natural, being like many other matters in the fairy books; only she wished she could do it, too, and determined she would, as soon as she learned a little more about the ways of dwarfs. by and by, when he had fed and caressed and talked to them, the man raised his arm; and the gray fluttering cloud rose in the air with merry cries, and vanished in the leafy gloom. the child was at the door in a moment. "how do you do that?" she asked, eagerly. "who telled you that? why can't i do it, too? what is their names of all those birds? why don't you answer things when i say them at you?" "snow-white," said the man, "i haven't yet answered the questions you asked me last night, and i haven't even begun on this morning's batch." "but you will answer them all?" cried the child. "yes, i will answer them all, if you give me time." "'cause i have to know, you know!" said the child, with a sigh of relief. "yes, you have to know. but first i must ask you some questions, snow-white. come and sit down here on the roots of the birch; see, it makes an arm-chair just big enough for you." the child came slowly, and seated herself as she was bid. but, though the seat was easy as a cradle, her brow was clouded. "i don't like to answer things," she announced. "only i like to ask them." "but we must play fair," said the man. "it wouldn't be fair for you to have all the fun." "no more it would. well, i'll answer a fewly, dwarf; not many i won't, 'cause when you're little you don't have to know things first; only you have to find out about them." "snow-white, why did you run away from home?" "last night i told you that, dwarf. i made a song, too. i'll sing it for you." she sat up, folded her hands, shut her eyes tight, and sang at the top of her voice: "and i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said i thought i did not _want_ to stay; and they tore their hair, and they made despair. and i said i thought perhaps i did not care." "do you like that song?" she said, opening her eyes wide at the man. yes, the man liked it very much, but she was not answering his question. "i sang it that way because that way miss tyler sings. she shuts her eyes and opens her mouth, and screeches horrid; but i don't screech, i truly sing. don't i truly sing? don't you think i was a bird if you didn't see me? don't you, dwarf?" the dwarf said he was not going to answer any more questions. the child fidgetted on her seat, sighed, said he was stupid, and finally resigned herself. "i told you that last night!" she said again. "my mamma went to new york, and my papa, too. they leaved me alone after i told them not to. and i told them; i said if they did, then i would; and they would, and so i did. and so you see!" she looked up suddenly at the man, and once more he winced and drew in his breath. "what's the matter?" asked the child, with quick sympathy. "have you got a pain? is it here? is it in your front? often i have them in my front. you take a tablet, and then you curl up wiz the hot-water bottle, and perhaps it goes away pretty soon. green apples makes it!" she nodded wisely. "dwarfs didn't ought to eat them, any more than children. where is the tree?" the man did not answer this time. he seemed to be trying to pull up a weight that lay on him, or in him and sat moodily looking on the ground. at last-- "what is your mother's name?" he said; and then one saw that he had got the weight up. "evelyn!" said the child. "yes, of course!" said the man. "what makes you say that?" asked the child. "did ever you see her?" "did ever you see a toad with three tails?" said the man. "aren't you funny? say, is all dwarfs funny? aren't there really any more of you? didn't there ever was? where did the rest of them go? why do you stay in this place alone? i want to know all those things." she settled herself comfortably, and looked at the man confidently. but he seemed still to be labouring with something. "would your mother--would she be very unhappy, if she should come home and find you gone, snow-white?" the child opened her eyes at him. "oh, i s'pose she'd go crazy distracted; but she isn't coming home, not a long time isn't she coming home; that's why i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said--what makes you look like that, dwarf?" "i suppose i ought to send you home, snow-white. i suppose you ought to go this very day, don't you?" he stopped abruptly, for the signs were ominous; the child's lower lip was going up in the middle and coming down at the corners; her eyes were growing wider and wider, rounder and rounder; now they began to glitter. "don't cry!" said the man, hastily. "don't cry, snow-white. the other snow-white never cried, you know." the child sniffed tearfully. "the other snow-white never was treated so!" she said. "never those dwarfs tried to send her away, never. she cooked their dinner, and she swept, and they liked her, and they never said noffin, and--i haven't any hanky!" she concluded suddenly, after a vain search in her pink calico pocket. the man handed her a great square of white cobweb linen, and she dried her eyes. "never i heard of dwarfs sending children away!" she said, in conclusion. "i don't believe p'r'aps you aren't the right kind. is you got any name? not ever dwarfs has names." "i'm afraid i have a kind of name!" the man admitted. "but it isn't much of one. you might call me mark, though, if you like." "that isn't no name at all. it's just you do it wiz a pencil. aren't you funny? truly is it your name? what made you have such a name?" but the man declared he had lost his way in the questions. "i haven't begun on this morning's yet," he protested, "and now you are asking me to-morrow's, snow-white. but we must do the dishes now, and then i'll show you where i slept last night. you asked me that the very first thing this morning, and you have not been still long enough yet for me to tell you." that would be great! the child thought. on the whole, she thought perhaps he was the right kind of dwarf, after all. why did he have a hump on his back, though? not in the snow-white picture they did. wasn't it funny, when she stood on the cricket she was just as tall as he? wasn't that nice? wasn't he glad he wasn't any taller? didn't he think he was made that way just for little girls? did ever he see any little girls before? did he think she looked like snow-white? why didn't he talk when she spoke to him? it was a merry time, the dish-washing. the man had put away whatever it was that kept his eyes dark, and was smiling again, and chatting cheerfully. it appeared that he was an extraordinary person, after all, and quite like the books. he lived here all alone. yes, always alone. no; he never had wanted any one else till now, but then he didn't know there were any snow-whites; that made a great difference, you see. did--she broke off to laugh--did he like snow-whites, honest and true, black and blue? did he think she was beautiful, more beautiful than wicked stepmothers if she had one, only she hadn't, only mamma was awfully beautiful; did he know that? how did he know that? did ever he see mamma? what made him look so queer in his eyes? did he get soap in them? poor dwarf! well, why weren't there any more dwarfs, anyhow? why didn't he get six more when he comed here the first time? it appeared that he did not want any more. it appeared that when he came away he never wished to see anybody again as long as he lived. the child thought this so funny that she bubbled quite over, and dropped the cup she was wiping back into the hot water. why didn't he want to see people? had they been horrid to him? yes, they had been very horrid. he came away into the woods to stay till he was tired, and then he was going farther away. where? oh, he did not know; to wherever he belonged; he was not sure where it was, but he knew the way to get there. no, not by the brook, that was too slow, he knew a quick way. show it to her? well, no, he thought not. how long had he been here? oh, a good while. at first, after they had been horrid to him--no, he could not stop to tell her now; sometime, perhaps, when they had nothing else to do; at first he had gone across the sea, oh, a long way across; yes, he would tell her all about that by and by. then, when he came back-- "why do you keep stopping like that?" asked the child. "do you forget what you was going to say? often i do! you said when you came back; did you go and tell them they was mean old things to be horrid to you, and never you wouldn't play wiz them no more?" "no," said the man, slowly. "no, snow-white, i didn't do that; it wouldn't have done any good, you see. i came here instead." "didn't you tell them at all that they was mean?" "no; where was the use?" "don't they know you are here, dwarf?" "no." the child grew red in the face. "well, i think you was dreadfully silly!" she said. "i would told 'em all about it, and stamped my foot at 'em, so! and--" but the stamp was too much for the composure of the cricket, which turned over at this point, bringing the child down suddenly, with her chin against the hot dish-pan. this was a grievous matter, and consolation was the only possible thing to be thought of. the man took her in his arms, and carried her out-of-doors; she was sobbing a little, but the sobs died away as he stood with her under the great buttonwood, and bade her look up into the rustling dome. "you asked where i slept last night, snow-white," he said. "i slept up there, in my tree-room. look! a good way up, just above that great branch, do you see a hole? well, in there is a hollow, big enough to sit in or lie down and sleep in. i often go up there and sit with the brother birds; and last night i slept there, and very well i slept, too." "did you"--the child hesitated between a sob and a chuckle--"did you have any bed?" "the finest bed in the world, moss and dry leaves. would you like to come up and see, snow-white? i think i can manage to get you up." "oh, what a nice dwarf you are!" cried the child, slipping down from his arms and dancing around him. "aren't you glad i came? i'm glad you were here. how i shall get up? stand on your hump? isn't it nice you have a hump, dwarf? was it made for little girls to stand up on? did you have them make it? did you think about little girls when you had it made? do you like to have it for me to stand on? can i jump up and down on it?" standing on the hump, which certainly made an excellent thing to stand on, she could grasp the lowest branch of the tree. could she put her arms round that and hang for just a moment? yes, she could, and did; and in an instant the active dwarf was beside her, and had her up on the branch beside him. from there it was easy to ascend, branch by branch, till they reached the black hole. the child caught her breath a moment as the man swung her in; then her laughter broke and bubbled up so loud and clear that the birds rose in a cloud from the murmuring depths of the tree, and then sank down again with chirp and twitter and gurgle of welcome, as if recognising one of their own kind. chapter v. phillips; and a story. "well, mr. ellery, here i am!" the dwarf had come down from the tree, leaving the child asleep in the tree-hollow, with cousin goldfinch to keep watch over her; now he was sitting in the root-seat of the yellow birch, looking up at a man who stood before him. "yes," said the dwarf; "here you are. anything new? it isn't a month since you came." the man said it was more than a month. "i've brought the papers," he said. "there are deeds to sign, and a lot of things to look over. hadn't we better come into the house, sir?" "presently!" said the dwarf, looking up at the tree. he was not absolutely sure that the child was sound asleep, and if she waked suddenly she might be frightened to find herself alone. "you are not looking well, phillips!" he remarked, easily. "i'm not well, mr. ellery," said the man, with some heat. "i'm worn out, sir, with all this business. how you can persist in such foolishness passes my comprehension. here are leases running out, petitions coming in, bills and letters and--the office looks like the dead letter office," he broke out, "and the clerks are over their heads in work, and i am almost broke down, as i tell you, and you are--" "by the way!" said the dwarf, settling himself comfortably, "where am i, phillips?" "in thibet!" replied the other, sulkily. "hunting the wild ass." "and a fine sport!" said the dwarf, musingly. "that shows invention, phillips. that really shows ingenuity, do you know? you grumble, my good fellow, but you don't seem to realise what this is doing for you. you have lived forty odd years without imagination; now you are developing one; against your will, it is true, but the effect is no less admirable. i admire you, phillips; i do indeed." he smiled up at the man, who regarded him gloomily, yet with a look of affection. "i wish you would give it up," he said, simply. "i wish to goodness you would give it up, mr. ellery, and come home. a man like you living this life--the life of an animal, sir--it's monstrous. think of your interests, think of your estate, of all the people who looked to you; of--" "by the way," said the dwarf again, "have you paid those legacies?" "i know nothing about any legacies," replied the man, peevishly. "i'll have nothing to do with any such talk as that. when i see you dead and in your coffin, mark ellery, it'll be time enough to talk about legacies." "i don't like coffins!" murmured the dwarf, looking up at the black hole in the great buttonwood tree. "i never intend--go on, phillips. you paid the money, did you say?" "yes, sir, i did; but i did not tell the old ladies you were dead, because you were not, and i am not engaged to tell lies of that description. professional fiction i must use, since you drive me to it; but lie to those old women i could not and did not!" "no," said the dwarf, soothingly, "surely not; i could not expect that, phillips. and you told them that i was--" "in thibet," said the man. "hunting the wild ass. i told you that before." "precisely," said the dwarf. "don't limit yourself too strictly, phillips. you might vary the place a little oftener than you do, and find it more amusing. it would have impressed the old ladies more, for instance, if you had said that i was in mashonaland, converting the wild ass--i mean the black man. the old ladies are well, i trust?" "pretty feeble, mr. ellery. they cried a good deal, and said you were the best and--" "et cetera!" said the dwarf. "suppose we skip that part, phillips. a--before i forget it, i want you to get me some things in town. let me see,"--he considered, and began to check off items on his fingers. "a doll, the handsomest doll that can be found, with a trunk full of clothes, or you might say two trunks, phillips. and--some picture-books, please, and a go-cart--no, i can make that myself. well, then, a toy dinner-set. you might get it in silver, if you find one; and some bonbons, a lot of bonbons, say ten pounds or so. and--get me a couple of new rugs, thick, soft ones, the best you can find; and--oh! cushions; get a dozen or so cushions, satin and velvet; down pillows, you understand. what's the matter?" the man whom he called phillips was looking at him in a kind of terror that sent the dwarf into a sudden fit of laughter. he gave way to it for a few minutes, then restrained himself, and wiped his eyes with a fine handkerchief, like the one he had given the child. "phillips, you certainly have the gift of amusing," he murmured. "i am not mad, my dear man; never was saner in my life, i assure you. observe my eye; feel my pulse; do. you see i am calm, if only you wouldn't make me laugh too much. far calmer than you are, phillips. now we'll come in and go over the papers. first, though,"--he glanced up at the tree again, and seemed to listen, but all was silent, save for the piping and trilling that was seldom still,--"first, is there any news? i don't mean politics. i won't hear a word of politics, you know. i mean--any--any news among--people i used to know?" the man brightened visibly; then seemed to search his mind. "mr. tenby is dead, sir; left half a million. you can have that place now for a song, if you want to invest. old mrs. vivian had a stroke the other day, and isn't expected to live. she'll be worth--" the dwarf made a movement of impatience. "old people!" he said. "why shouldn't they die? who cares whether they die or live, except themselves and their heirs? are there no--young people--left in the place?" phillips pondered. "no one that you'd be interested in, sir," he said. "there's been a great to-do about a lost child, yesterday. mr. valentine's little girl ran away from home, and can't be found. wild little thing, they say; given her governess no end of trouble. parents away from home. they're afraid the child has been kidnapped, but i think it's likely she'll turn up; she has run away before, they say. pretty little girl, six years old; image of her mother. mother was a miss--" here he stopped, for the dwarf turned upon him in a kind of fury and bade him be still. "what do i care about people's children?" he said. "you are an idle chatterer. come and let me see this business, whatever it is. curse the whole of it, deed and house, land and letter! come on, i tell you, and when you have done, begone, and leave me in peace!" * * * * * when the child woke, she was at first too much surprised to speak. she had forgotten things, for she had been sleeping hard, as children do in their noonday naps; and she would naturally have opened her eyes upon a pink nursery with gold trimmings. instead, here she was in--what kind of place? around her, on all sides save one, were brown walls; walls that felt soft and crumbly, and smelt queer; yet it was a pleasant queerness. on the one side where they were not, she looked out into a green sky; or perhaps--no, it wasn't a sky, it was woods, very thick woods, and there was no ground at all. she was lying on something soft, and partly it rustled, and partly it felt like thick cold velvet. now some of the rustling came alive, and two or three birds hopped down from somewhere and sat on her foot and sang. at that the child laughed aloud, instead of screaming, as she had just been beginning to think she might; and then in a moment there was the dwarf, looking in at the green entrance, smiling and nodding at her. "oh, you dear dwarf!" said the child. "i am glad to see you. i forgotted where i was in this funny place. isn't it a funny place, dwarf? how did you get here? what made you know about it? why don't you always live here all the time? what's that that's bright up there?" indeed, the hollow in the tree made a good-sized room enough, if a person were not too big. the walls were pleasant to sight, touch, and smell; their colours ran from deepest black-brown up to an orange so rich and warm that it glowed like coals. when you touched the surface, it crumbled a little, soft and sympathetic, as if it came away to please you. the cushion of moss was thicker than any mattress ever made by man; altogether, a delightful place--always supposing one to be the right size. now the dwarf and the child were exactly the right size, and there seemed no reason why they should not live here all their lives. this was evident to the child. in one place, a natural shelf ran part way round the tree-wall; and on this shelf lay something that glittered. "what is that that's bright?" the child repeated. "give it to me, please, dwarf!" she stretched out her hand with an imperious gesture. the man took the object down, but did not give it to her. "this," he said "is a key, snow-white." "huh!" said the child. "it looks like a pistol. what for a key is it to? where did you get it? is there doors like bluebeard? why don't you tell me, dwarf?" "yes, it does look like a pistol," the man assented, weighing the object in his hand. "but it is a key, snow-white, to--oh! all kinds of places. i don't know about the bluebeard chamber; you see, i haven't used it yet. but it is the key of the fields, you understand." he was speaking slowly, and for the time seemed to forget the child, and to be speaking to himself. "freedom and forgetfulness; the sting left behind, instead of carried about with one, world without end. the weary at rest--at rest!" "no wives?" asked the child. the man looked at her with startled eyes. "wives?" he repeated. "dead ones," said the child. "hanging up by their hairs, you know, dwarf, just heads of 'em, all the rest gone dead. isn't that awful? would you go in just the same? i would!" "no, no wives!" said the dwarf; and he laughed, not his pleasant laugh, but one that sounded more like a bark, the child told him. "no wives!" he repeated; "my own or other people's, snow-white. what should i have to do with wives, dead or alive?" the child considered him attentively. "i don't suppose you could get one, anyhow, do you?" she said. "always, you know, the dwarfs try to get the princesses, but never they do. you never was yellow, was you?" she asked, with a sudden note of apprehension in her voice. "no, snow-white, never yellow; only green." the child bubbled over. "was you truly green?" she cried. "isn't that funny, dwarf? and then you turned brown, didn't you? you don't suppose i'll turn brown, do you? because i ain't green, am i? but i was just thinking, suppose you should be the yellow dwarf, wouldn't it be awful?" "probably it would. he was a pretty bad sort of fellow, was he, snow-white? i--it's a good while since i heard anything about him, you see." "oh, he was just puffickly frightful! he--do you want me to tell you the story, dwarf?" yes, the dwarf wanted that very much indeed. "well, then, if i tell you that, you must tell me one about some dwarfs what you knew. i suppose you knew lots and lots of them, didn't you? was they different colours? was they blue and green and red? what made you turn brown when you was green? well! "once they was a queen, and she had twenty children, and they was all dead except the princess all-fair, and she wouldn't marry any of the kings what wanted to marry her, and so her mother went to ask the desert fairy what she should do wiz her. so she took a cake for the lions, and it was made of millet and sugar-candy and crocodiles' eggs, but she went to sleep and lost it. did ever you eat a cake like that? should you think it would be nasty? i should! well, and so there was the yellow dwarf sitting in the tree--why, just the way you are, dwarf. we might play i was the queen, and you was the yellow dwarf. let's play it." "but i don't want to be a horrid one," the man objected, "and i want to hear the story, besides." "oh, well, so i will. well, he said he would save her from the lion, if she would let him marry the princess, and she didn't want to one bit, but she said she supposed she'd have to, so he saved her, and she found herself right back there in the palace. well, and so then she was very unhappy all the time, and the princess didn't know what upon earth _was_ the matter wiz her, so she thought _she_ would go and ask the desert fairy. so she went just the same way what her mother went, but she ate so many oranges off the tree that she lost her cake, too. that was greedy, don't you think so?" "very greedy! she was old enough to know better." "why, yes! why, i'm only six, and i don't eat so many as all that, only till i feel queer in front, and then i _always_ stop. do always you stop when you feel queer in front? well! so then the yellow dwarf comed along, and he said her mother said she had to marry him, anyway. and the princess said, '_how!_ my mother promised me to you in marriage! _you_, such a fright as _you_!' "and he was puffickly horrid. he said, 'well, if you don't, the lions will get you, and eat you up every scrap, and i sha'n't care a bit.' wasn't he mean? so she said she s'posed she'd have to; and right off then she went to sleep, and there she was in her own bed, and all trimmed up wiz ribbons, and on her finger was a ring, and it was just one red hair, and she couldn't get it off. wasn't that puffickly awful, dwarf?" "it chills my marrow, snow-white. go on!" "what is your marrow? what does it look like? why do you have it, if it gets cold so easy as that? i wouldn't! well! so at last the princess said she guessed she would marry the king of the golden mines, 'cause he was puffickly beautiful, and most prob'ly the old dwarf wouldn't dare to say a word when he found how beautiful he was, and strong and big and rich and everything." "no!" said the dwarf, bitterly. "the poor dwarf would have no chance, certainly, against that kind of king. he might as well have given up in the beginning." "but, mark, this dwarf wasn't poor, or anything else but just as horrid as he could be. why, when the princess and the king was going to be married, all in gold and silver, wiz roses and candy and everything lovely, they saw a box coming along, and an old woman was on it and she said she was the desert fairy, and the yellow dwarf was her friend, and they shouldn't get married. so they said they didn't care, they would--oh, and she said if they did she would burn her crutch; and they said they didn't care one bit if she did. they were just as brave! and the king of the golden mines told her get out, or he would kill her; and then the top of the box comed off, and there was the yellow dwarf, and he was riding on a cat,--did ever you ride on a cat, mark?" "no, never." "well, he was; and he said the princess promised to marry him, and the king said he didn't care, she shouldn't do _noffing_ of the kind. so they had a fight, and while they were fighting that horrid old fairy hit the princess, and then the yellow dwarf took her up on the cat, and flewed away wiz her. that's all about the first part. don't you think it's time for luncheon?" "oh, but you are never going to stop there, snow-white! i want to know what became of them. even if the dwarf did carry off the princess, and even if she had promised to marry him,--for she did promise, you say,--still, of course he did not get her. dwarfs have no rights that anybody is bound to respect, have they, snow-white?" "well, i don't like the last part, because it doesn't end right. the desert fairy falled in love wiz the king, and she hoped he would marry her, but he said no indeed, he wouldn't have her in the same place wiz him at all; so he wouldn't stay in the house, but he went out to walk by the wall that was made of emeralds, and a mermaid came up and said she was sorry, and if he hit everything wiz this sword it would kill them, but he must never let go of it. so he thanked her very much, and he went along, and he killed lots of things, spinxes and nymps and things, and at last he came to the princess, but then he was so glad to see her that he let go of the sword _just a minute_, and what do you think that horrid dwarf did? why, he comed right along and took it, and said he shouldn't have it back unless he would give up the princess. 'no,' said the king, 'i scorn thy favour on such terms.' and then that mean old thing stabbed him to the heart, and so he was dead; and the princess said, 'you puffickly hideous old horrid thing, i won't marry you, anyway!' and then she fell down and perspired wizout a sigh. and that's all. and the mermaid turned them into palm-trees, because that was all she knew how to do, don't you know? and that's all. aren't you going to get me something to eat? can't we have it up here in this place? aren't you glad i'm here to keep you company and tell you stories? don't you say hurrah for us, dwarf? i do; hurrah!" chapter vi. milking the cow. "what let's do now?" said the child. they had had dinner; a most exciting dinner, all coming out of tin boxes and delightful china pots. it was almost as good as little two-eyes' feasts in "little kid milk, table appear," as the child preferred to call the story. the child shut her eyes and said what she wanted, and when she opened them, there it mostly was, standing on the table before her. at least, that was the way it happened when she said chicken, and jam, and albert biscuits; but when she said sponge cake, there was none, and the dwarf was mortified, and said he would tell the people they ought to be ashamed of themselves. "where all do you get them?" asked the child. "do you stamp your foot on the floor, and say, 'jam!' like that, hard, just as loud as you can? do you? does it come up pop through holes? will you do it now, this minute?" no, the dwarf could not do it now, he had not the right kind of shoes on. besides, there were other reasons. "well, then, what let's do?" asked the child again. "let us go and milk the cow," said the dwarf. oh, that _was_ exciting! was it a truly cow? did it turn into things all day, and be a cow at night, or the other way? what did it turn into? sometimes they were fawns and sometimes they were ducks, and sometimes--what would he like to be if he didn't have to be a dwarf? could he be things if he wanted to? was he only just playing dwarf, and by and by he would turn into a beautiful prince all gold and silver, wiz diamond clothes and a palace all made of candy? would he? "and then you could marry me, you know!" said the child. "i shall be grown up by that time--" "yes, i think you will!" said the dwarf. "and we will be married, and i will wear a dress like the sun, and we will go in a gold coach, wiz six black horses--or do you say white, mark?" "i say white." "so do i say! and fezzers on their heads; and--and--so--well, anyhow, you will show me all your treasures, you know, dwarf. you haven't showed me any yet, not any at all. where are they?" "i haven't but one," said the dwarf. "and that i stole." "really stole it? but stealing is wicked, don't you know that? can dwarfs do it? mans can't, unless they are bad. are dwarfs like mans at all much, mark?" "not much, snow-white. but, after all, i did not steal my treasure, i only found it." the child was greatly relieved. that made it all right, she assured him. always everybody could keep the things they found, though of course the wicked fairies and dragons tried to get the treasure away. she cited many cases from the fairy books, and the dwarf said he felt a great deal better. "tell me all about it," she urged. "tell me that story what you said you knew. you haven't told me any story at all yet, mark!" she looked at him with marked disapproval. "it isn't the way they do!" she explained. "why, when the bear came to snow-white and rosy red's house, he told them stories all the time till he turned into a prince." "yes, but i am not a bear," said the dwarf, "and i am not going to turn into a prince, you see. however, i will tell you a story, snow-white, i truly will; only, you see, that poor cow has to be milked." "all i forgot her!" cried the child. "now we will hurry, mark, and run. we will run all the way. you can't run much faster than me, 'cause your legs is short, too. are you glad? i am! 'most i wish i was a dwarf, to stay little like you." "come!" said the man. his voice sounded rough and harsh; but when the child looked up, startled, he took her in his arms, and kissed her very tenderly, and set her on his back. he would be her horse now, he said, and give her a good ride. and wasn't the hump comfortable to sit on? now she must hold on tight, and he would trot. he trotted gently through the green wood, and the child shouted with joy, and jumped up and down on the hump. it was a round, smooth hump, and made a good seat. they did not get on very fast, in spite of the trotting, there was so much to see by the way. little paths wound here and there through the forest, as if some one walked in it a great deal. the trees in this part were mostly pine and hemlock, and the ground was covered with a thick carpet of brown needles. the hermit thrush called them from deeper depths of woodland; close by, squirrels frisked and chattered among the branches, and dropped bits of pine-cone on the child's head. were they tame? she asked; the dwarf said she should judge for herself. they sat down, and he bade her keep still, and then gave a queer whistle. presently a squirrel came, then another, and another, till there were half a dozen of them, gray and red, with one little striped beauty. they sat up on the brown needles, and looked at the dwarf with bright, asking eyes. he took some nuts from his pocket, and then there was a scramble for his knee and his shoulder, and he fed them, talking to them the while, they whisking their tails and cocking their heads, and taking the nuts in their paws as politely as possible. one big gray fellow made a little bow, and that was charming to see. "good boy!" said the dwarf. "good old simeon! i taught him to do that, snow-white. you need not be afraid, sim. this is only snow-white. she has come to do my cooking and all my work, and she will not touch you. his name is simeon stylites, and he lives on a pillar--i mean a dead tree, with all the branches gone. simeon, if you are greedy, you'll get no more. consider the example you have to set!" "why is he named that?" asked the child. "because when he sits up straight on top of his tree, and folds his paws, he looks like an old gentleman of that name, who used to live on top of a pillar, a long time ago." "why did he? but why couldn't he get down? but how did he get up? what did he have to eat? why don't you tell me?" "i never thought much about his getting up," said the dwarf. "i suppose he must have shinned, don't you? and as for getting down, he just didn't. he stayed there. he used to let down a basket every day, or whenever he was hungry, and people put food in it, and then he pulled it up. what did they put? oh, figs, i suppose, and black bread, and honey. rather fun, don't you think, to see what would come up?" the child sprang up and clapped her hands. "mark," she cried, "i will be him!" "on a pillar?" said the dwarf. "see, you have frightened simeon away, and he hadn't had half enough; and you couldn't possibly climb his tree, snow-white." "in your tree! in the hole! it will be _just_ as good as little kid milk. not in _any_ of the stories a little girl did that; all mineself i will do it. i love you, mark!" she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him till he choked. when the soft arms loosened their hold, his eyes were dark. "you love me because i have a tree?" he said, "and because you like the things in the china pots?" "yes!" said the child, "and because you are a dwarf, and because you are nice. _most_ because you are nice, mark, when those other dwarfs is yellow and horrid and all kinds of things." "all right!" said the dwarf. "i love you, too. now soon we are coming to the cow. we must hurry, snow-white." but it was not easy to hurry. he had to look and see how the ferns were unrolling, and to say what they looked like. the child thought they were like the little brown cakes, only green, what you bought them at the cake-shop. didn't he know the cake-shop? but could he buy things? did they let dwarfs buy things just as if they were mans? could he have money, or did he have to dig up pearls and diamonds and rubies, out of the ground? was there a place here where he dug them up? when would he show it to her? then there were the anemones just out; and at sight of them the child jumped up and down, and had to be told what they were. the name was very funny, she thought. "i can make a song wiz that!" she said, and then she sang: "any money, ain't it funny? ain't it funny, any money? "it hasn't any money, this frower hasn't. all it's white, just like milk. do you like money, mark?" "no, i hate it!" "me, too!" cried the child, bubbling into a laugh. "in my bank, i had lots and lots of money; and the man with the black shirt said about the poor children, and so i took it out and gave it to him, and then they said i couldn't have it back!" "who said so?" asked the dwarf. "miss tyler! well, but so i said i would, and so she punished me, and so i beat her, and she said to stay in my room, and i runned away. are you glad i runned away, mark?" "very glad, to-day, snow-white; i don't know how it will be to-morrow. but tell me what you wanted to do with your money!" it appeared that the child wanted to buy candy, and a pony, and a watch, and a doll with wink-eyes and hair down to her feet, and a real stove, and a popgun, and--what was this place? the wood broke open suddenly, and there was a bit of pasture-land, with rocks scattered about, and a little round blue pond, and by the pond a brown cow grazing. at the sound of voices the cow raised her head, and seeing the dwarf, lowed gently and began to move leisurely toward him. the child clapped her hands and danced. "is she saying 'hurrah'?" she cried. "does she love you? do you love her? is she"--her voice dropped suddenly--"is she real, mark?" "real, snow-white? why, see her walk! did you think i wound her up? she's too big; and besides, i haven't been near her." the child brushed these remarks aside with a wave. "does she stay all the time a cow?" she whispered, putting her mouth close to the dwarf's ear. "or does she turn at night into a princess?" she drew back and pointed a stern finger at him. "tell me the troof, mark!" the dwarf was very humble. so far as he knew, he said, she was a real cow. she mooed like one, and she acted like one; moreover, he had bought her for one. "but you see," he added, "i don't stay here at night, so how can i tell?" they both looked at the cow, who returned the stare with unaffected interest, but with no appearance of any hidden meaning in her calm brown gaze. "i think," said the child, after a long, searching inspection, "i think--she's--only just a cow!" "i think so, too," said the dwarf, in a tone of relief. "i'm glad, aren't you, snow-white? i think it would be awkward to have a princess. now i'll milk her, and you can frisk about and pick flowers." the child frisked merrily for a time. she found a place where there were some brownish common-looking leaves; and stepping on them just to hear them crackle, there was a pink flush along the ground, and lo! a wonder of mayflowers. they lay with their rosy cheeks close against the moss, and seemed to laugh out at the child; and she laughed, too, and danced for joy, and put some of them in her hair. then she picked more, and made a posy, and ran to stick it in the dwarf's coat. he looked lovely, she told him, with the pink flowers in his gray coat; she said she didn't care much if he never turned into anything; he was nice enough the way he was; and the dwarf said it was just as well, and he was glad to hear it. "and you look _so_ nice when you smile in your eyes like that, mark! i think i'll kiss you now." "i never kiss ladies when i am milking," said the dwarf. and then the child said he was a horrid old thing, and she wouldn't now, anyhow, and perhaps she wouldn't at all ever in her life, and anyhow not till she went to bed. by and by she found a place where the ground was wet, near the edge of the pond, and she could go pat, pat with her feet, and make smooth, deep prints. this grew more and more pleasant the farther she went, till presently the water came lapping cool and clear over her feet. yes, but just then a butterfly came, a bright yellow one, and she tried to catch it, and in trying tripped and fell her length in the pond. that was sad, indeed; and it was fortunate the milking was ended just at that time, for at first she meant to cry hard, and the only thing that stopped her was riding home on the dwarf's hump, dripping water all over his gray velvet clothes. he didn't care, he said, so long as she did not drip into the milk. chapter vii. the story. "i aspect, mark," said the child,--"do you like better i call you mark all the time than dwarf? then i will. i do really aspect you'll have to get me a clean dress to put on." she held up her frock, and the dwarf looked at it anxiously. it was certainly very dirty. the front was entirely covered with mud, and matters had not been improved by her scrubbing it with leaves that she pulled off the trees as they came along. "dear me, snow-white!" said the dwarf. "that is pretty bad, isn't it?" "yes," said the child; "it is _too_ bad! you'll have to get me another. what kind will you get?" "well," said the dwarf, slowly; "you see--i hardly--wait a minute, snow-white." he went into the house, and the child waited cheerfully, sitting in the root-seat. of course he would find a dress; he had all the other things, and most prob'ly likely there was a box that had dresses and things in it. she hoped it would be blue, because she was tired of this pink one. there might be a hat, too; when you had that kind of box, it was just as easy to have everything as only something; a pink velvet hat with white feathers, like the lady in the circus. the child sighed comfortably, and folded her hands, and watched the robins pulling up worms on the green. but the dwarf went into the bedroom, and began pulling out drawers and opening chests with a perplexed air. piles of handkerchiefs, socks, underwear, all of the finest and best; gray suits like the one he had on--but never a sign of a blue dress. he took down a dressing-gown from a peg, and looked it over anxiously; it was of brown velvet, soft and comfortable-looking, but it had evidently been lived in a good deal, and it smelt of smoke; no, that would never do. he hung it up again, and looked about him helplessly. suddenly his brow cleared, and his eyes darkened. he laughed; not his usual melodious chuckle, but the short harsh note that the child compared to a bark. "why not?" he said. "it's all in the family!" he opened a deep carved chest that stood in a corner; the smell that came from it was sweet and old, and seemed to belong to far countries. he hunted in the corners, and presently brought out a folded paper, soft and foreign looking. this he opened, and took out, and shook out, a shawl or scarf of eastern silk, pale blue, covered with butterflies and birds in bright embroidery. he looked at it grimly for a moment; then he shut the chest, for the child was calling, "mark! where are you?" and hastened out. "never i thought you were coming," said the child. "see at that robin, mark. he ate all a worm five times as longer as him, and now he's trying to get away that other one's. i told him he mustn't, and he will. isn't he a greedy?" "he's the greediest robin on the place," said the dwarf. "i mean to put him on allowance some day. see here, snow-white, i'm awfully sorry, but i can't find a dress for you." the child opened great eyes at him. "can't find one, mark? has you looked?" "yes, i have looked everywhere, but there really doesn't seem to be one, you know; so i thought, perhaps--" "but not in all the boxes you've looked, mark!" cried the child. "why, you got everything, don't you 'member you did, for dinner?" yes; but that was different, the dwarf said. dresses didn't come in china pots, nor in tin cans either. no, he didn't think it would be of any use to stamp his foot and say to bring a blue dress this minute. but, look here, wouldn't this do? couldn't she wrap herself up in this, while he washed her dress? he held up the gay thing, and at sight of it the child clasped her hands together and then flung them out, with a gesture that made him wince. but it was the most beautiful thing in the world, the child said. but it was better than dresses, ever and ever so much better, because there were no buttons. and she might dress up in it? that would be fun! like the pictures she would be, in the japanesy book at home. did ever he see the japanesy book? but it was on the big table in the long parlour, and he could see it any time he went in, but any time, if his hands were clean. always he had to show his hands, to make sure they were clean. and she would be like the pictures, and he was a _very_ nice dwarf, and she loved him. in a wonderfully short time the child was enveloped in the blue silk shawl, and sitting on the kitchen-table cross-legged like a small idol, watching the dwarf while he washed the dress. he was handy enough at the washing, and before long the pink frock was moderately clean (some of the stains would not come out, and could hardly be blamed for it), and was flapping in the wind on a low-hanging branch. now, the child said to the dwarf, was the time for him to tell her a story. what story? oh, a story about a dwarf, any of the dwarfs he used to know, only except the yellow dwarf, or the seven ones in the wood, or the one in "snow-white and rosy red," because she knowed those herself. the dwarf smiled, and then frowned; then he lighted his pipe and smoked for a time in silence, while the child waited with expectant eyes; then, after about a week, she thought, he began. "once upon a time--" the child nodded, and drew a long breath of relief. she had not been sure that he would know the right way to tell a story, but he did, and it was all right. "once upon a time, snow-white, there was a man--" "not a man! a dwarf!" cried the child. "you are right!" said mark ellery. "i made a mistake, snow-white. not a man,--a dwarf! i'll begin again, if you like. once upon a time there was a dwarf." "that's right!" said the child. she drew the blue shawl around her, and sighed with pleasure. "go on, mark." "the trouble is," he went on, "he--this dwarf--was born a man-thing, a man-child; it was not till his nurse dropped him that it was settled that he was to be a dwarf-thing, and never a man. that was unfortunate, you see, for he had some things born with him that a dwarf has no business with. what things? oh, nothing much; a heart, and brains, and feelings; that kind of thing." "feelings? if you pinched him did it hurt, just like a man?" "just; you would have thought he was a man sometimes, if you had not seen him. the trouble was, his mother let him grow up thinking he was a man. she loved him very much, you see, and--she was a foolish woman. she taught him to think that the inside of a man was what mattered; and that if that were all right,--if he were clean and kind and right-minded, and perhaps neither a fool nor a coward,--people would not mind about the outside. he grew up thinking that." "was he quite stupid?" the child asked. "he must have been, i think, mark." "yes, he was very stupid, snow-white." "because he might have looked in the glass, you know." "of course he might; he did now and then. but he thought that other women, other people, were like his mother, you see; and they weren't, that was all. "he was very rich, this dwarf--" the child's eyes brightened. the story had been rather stupid so far, but now things were going to begin. did he live in a gold house? she asked. did he have chariots and crowns and treasure, bags and bags of treasure? was there a princess in it? when was he going to tell her about her? why didn't he go on? "i can't go on if you talk, snow-white. he was rich, i say, and for that reason everybody made believe that he was a man, and treated him like one. silly? yes, very silly. but he was stupid, as you say, and he thought it was all right; and everybody was kind, and his mother loved him; and so--he grew up." "but he still stayed a dwarf?" "yes, still a dwarf." "what like did he look? was he puffickly frightful, wiz great goggle eyes and a long twisty nose? was he green? you said once you was green, mark, before you turned brown." "yes, he was rather green; not a bright green, you understand; just a dull, blind sort of green." "wiz goggle eyes?" "n-no! i don't know that they goggled particularly, snow-white. i hope not. "well, when he was grown up,--only he never grew up!--his mother died." the child was trying hard to be good, but her patience gave out at last, the man was silent so long. "what is the matter wiz you, mark? i think this is a stupid story. didn't anything happen to him at all? why do you bark?" "yes, things happened to him. this is a slow story, snow-white, and you must have patience. you see, i never told it before, and the words don't come just as i want to have them." the child nodded sympathetically, and promised to be patient; she knew how it was herself sometimes, when she tried to tell a story what she didn't know it very well. didn't he know this one very well, perhaps? was there another he knowed better? "no, no other i know half so well, little girl. his mother died, i say and then--then he met the princess." the child beamed again. "was she beautiful as the day? did she live in a nivory tower, and let her hair down out of the window? was there dragons? did the dwarf fall in love wiz her right off that minute he seed her?" "the tower was brown," said the dwarf, "brown stone. no, she didn't let her hair down, and there were no dragons; quite the contrary, the door was always open--always open, and the way seemed clear. but she was beautiful, and he fell in love with her. oh, yes! she had soft clear eyes, and soft pale cheeks, and soft dark hair; everything about her was soft and sweet and-- "well, this dwarf fell in love with her, and wanted to marry her. yes, as you say, they always do. for a long time, a very long time, he did not dare to think of its being possible that she could love him. he would have been content--content and thankful--just to be her friend, just to be allowed to see her now and then, and take her hand, and feel her smile through and through him like wine. but--her eyes were so soft--and she looked at him so--that he asked her--" "mark, what for do you keep stopping like that? never you must, when you are telling a story; always they go right on." "what was i saying?" the dwarf looked at the child, with eyes that seemed not to see her, but something beyond her. "what was i saying, snow-white?" "he asked her would she marry him!" said the child, promptly. "and she said no indeed, she wouldn't do noffin of the kind, she was going to marry a beautiful prince, wiz--" "i beg your pardon, snow-white; you are wrong this time. she said she would marry him. she looked at him with her soft eyes, and said she loved him. she said--the kind of things his mother had said; and the dwarf, being stupid, believed her." the child bubbled over with laughter. "wasn't he silly? but of course she didn't, mark!" "of course not. but he thought she was going to; so he built a house,--well, we'll call it a palace if you like, snow-white; perhaps it was as good as some palaces. at any rate, it was the best he could build. and he filled it full of things,--what kind of things? oh, pictures and statues and draperies, and,--yes, silver and gold and jewels, any quantity of jewels; and he sent abroad for silks and satins and shawls,--" "like this what i've got on?" "very like it. he meant to have in the house everything that her heart could desire, so that when she wished for anything, he could say, 'here it is, ready for you, my beloved!' "well, and so the dwarf worked away, and heaped up treasures, the regular dwarf way, and saw the princess every day, and was happy; and she looked at him with her soft eyes, and told him she loved him; and so it came near the time of the wedding. then--one day--" "the prince came!" cried the child, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. "i know! let me tell a little bit now, mark. may i? well, the prince came, and he was tall and handsome, wiz golden hair and blue eyes, and he was ever and ever so much richer than the dwarf; and so the princess falled in love wiz him the minute she seed him, and he falled in love wiz her, too; and he said, 'this is my princess!' and she said, 'this is my prince!' isn't that the way, mark?" "precisely!" said the dwarf. "i couldn't have told it better myself, snow-white; perhaps not so well. the prince was richer, and handsomer, and younger, and that settled it. it always does, doesn't it?" "and then what became of the dwarf, mark?" "oh! it doesn't matter what became of the dwarf, does it? he was only a dwarf, you know. the story always ends when the prince and princess are married. 'they lived happily ever after.' that's the end, don't you remember?" the child reflected, with a puzzled look. "yes," she said, presently. "but you see, mark, this is a different kind of story. that other kind is when you begin wiz the princess, and tell all about her; and then the dwarf just comes in, and is puffickly horrid, and then the prince comes, and so--but this story began wiz the dwarf, don't you see?" "what difference does that make, snow-white? nobody cares what becomes of a dwarf." "but yes, but when it is his own story, mark. but aren't you stupid? and besides, them all was horrid, and this was a nice dwarf. was he like you, mark?" "a little--perhaps." "then he was _very_ nice, and i love him. like this." the child threw her arms around the dwarf, and gave him a strangling hug; then she drew back and looked at him. "it _seems_," she said, "as if most likely p'r'aps i loved you better than princes. do you s'pose could i?" the dwarf's eyes were very kind as he looked at her, but he shook his head, and loosed the little arms gently. "no, snow-white," he said, "i don't believe you could. but as to this other dwarf, there isn't very much to tell. he gave her back her freedom, as they call it in the books, and then he shut up the fine house and went away." "where did he go?" "oh, he went everywhere, or pretty near it. he travelled, and saw strange places and people. but nothing mattered much to him, and at last he found that there was only one country he really cared to see, and that was the country that has never been discovered." "then how did he know it was there, mark? but where was it? was it like 'east o' the sun and west o' the moon,' and old womans told him about it?" "yes, perhaps; at least, his mother used to tell him about it. but he never thought then--he didn't think much about it. but now he was tired, and nothing mattered, and so he thought he would go and see that country--if it were really there--and possibly he might find his mother, if the things she said were true. so--did i say his mother was dead? so i did! oh, well, never mind that now. so he bought a key that would open the door of that country--yes, something like that thing i called a key--and then he came to a place--well, it was something like this place, snow-white. he wanted to be quiet, you see, for some time, before he went away. he wanted to be alone, and think--think--gather up the threads and thoughts of his life and try to straighten them into something like an even skein. then, if he were allowed, if there should be any possibility that he might take them with him, he could say to his mother--he could excuse himself--he could tell her--" "mark," said the child, "do you know what i think?" the man started, and looked at her. "what you think, snow-white?" "yes! i think you are talking puffick foolishness. i don't know one word what you are saying, and i don't believe do you either." "no more i do, snow-white. i think this is enough story, don't you? you see i was right, it didn't matter what became of the dwarf. let us come out and feed the birds." "let's," said the child. chapter viii. the key of the fields. "the question before the court is, what next?" it was mark ellery who spoke. he was sitting on the green at the foot of the buttonwood-tree. it was noon, and the birds were all quiet, save one confidential titmouse, who had come to make a call, and was perched on the tip of the dwarf's shoe, cocking his bright eye at him expressively. "tweet-tweet," said the titmouse. "precisely," said the dwarf. "what next?" was he speaking to the bird, or was it merely that the sound of his own voice had grown friendly to him during these silent years? he went on. "how if i waited still a little longer, and took a little pleasure before i go? "but as in wailing there's naught availing, and death unfailing will strike the blow, then for that reason, and for a season, let us be merry before we go!" "do you agree, brother titmouse? see now. she--they--went away and left their treasure. i did not send them away, did i? no fault of mine in that, at least. fate--or something--call it god, if you like--brought the treasure to my door; have i no right to keep it, for a little, at least? the joy i might have! and i have not had too much, perhaps. they have each other. this is a solitary little creature, living in her fairy stories, left pretty much to nurse and governess; no mother touches to tell another kind of story. the prince and princess"--again his laugh sounded like a bark, the child would have said--"don't need her very much, if they can go off for two months and leave her, the little pearl, the little flower, the little piece of delight, alone with strangers. i could make her happy; i could fill her little hands full, full. she should have all the things that are waiting there shut up; those, and as many more, ten times over. we might have our play for a few weeks or a few months; and then, when she was tired--no, before she was tired, oh, surely before that!--i would give her back. give her back! and how should i do that? there are several ways." he moved his foot, tossing the bird up in the air. it fluttered, hovered a moment over his head, then settled on his wrist, and smoothed its feathers in absolute content. "well, brother, well," said mark ellery. "you like me pretty well, do you? you find me pleasant to live with? you think i could make a child happy?" the titmouse flirted its tail and looked at him; it seemed a pity it could not smile; but it rubbed its bill against his hand, and he understood all it wanted to say. "several ways," the dwarf repeated. "i could simply take the child in my hand and go to them; hobble up the steps,--i hear their house is twice as fine as the one i built,--and stand at the door humbly, asking admission. 'here is your child, madam; you left her to wander about uncared for, and she came to me. you took all else i had, take now this also, as a gift from the dwarf.' i think i could bring the trouble into her eyes, and the colour into her soft pale cheeks. if only she would not speak! if i should hear her speak-- "or i might send for her to come to me. that would be the dramatic thing to do! wait for her here, under the tree. it might be a time like this, the little one asleep up there. "'i sent for you, madam, to ask if you had lost anything. oh, i don't know how greatly you value it,--a child, a little girl, who wandered here some time ago. she was lost in the wood; it is a wonder she did not starve. she came to me barefoot and hungry, and i took her in. she is asleep now, up in her favourite chamber in yonder tree. it seems a pity to wake her; she sleeps very sweetly. oh, i would gladly keep her, and i think it might not be difficult; at least, she has never tried to run away; but we are old neighbours, and i thought it right to let you know that she was here.' "then to wake the child, and bring her down, flushed with her lovely sleep, clinging with both arms round my neck--no horror of the hateful dwarf, no shrinking; the little velvet cheek pressed against my brown, rough face, the sweet eyes looking at me--me, mark ellery--with love in them. yes, by heaven, love; no lying here! ah, yes, that would be the dramatic thing. the trouble is, i am not a dramatic figure; am i, brother titmouse? "well, then, there remains the third way, the easy, clear, blessed way, and i swear i believe i'll do it. just let things take their own course; let fate--or god, if you like--have right of way, do the work without me. why should i meddle? he is capable, surely? the child is here; very well, let them find her, since they lost her. keep my jewel, treasure it, make much of it, till they search far enough afield. they are sure to do that. they will send out search-parties--very likely they are afoot now. it would be a pity, if they could not find this bit of forest, only a few miles from the town. private property, belonging to the eccentric dwarf millionaire who threw over his life, and went abroad seven years ago? that will not hinder them from searching it. when i hear them coming, call my lamb, fill her hands with trinkets,--phillips can get me trinkets,--kiss her good-bye, push her into their arms. 'lost child? surely! here she is. how should i know whose child it was, living so retired? take her! make my apologies to the parents for saving her life, and feeding and caring for her these days, or weeks.' "then, when she is gone, and the house empty again, and dark--how dark it will be!--why, then, the key of the fields!" he whistled softly to the titmouse, which ruffled and cheeped in answer; then glanced upward at the tree, and repeated, "the key of the fields!" it was days since he had held it in his hands, his favourite toy, the smooth shining thing he had played with so long. he had been afraid the child might get hold of it, so had left it untouched on its shelf. he missed the habit that had grown upon him of taking it out every day, holding it in his hand, polishing it, pressing the cold circle of the barrel against his temple, and fancying how it would be. how often--he could not tell how often!--he had said, "it shall be to-day!" and had set things in decent order and looked forward to his journey. but always he had decided to wait a little, and again a little; till the young birds were fledged, till they were flown, till the autumn trees brightened, till the snow was gone and he could find the first mayflowers once more. the world was so fair, he still put off leaving it, since at any time he could go, since the key was in his hand, and rest under the crook of his finger. but when the child was gone, he would not stay behind alone. it would be different now; he must make haste to be gone on his journey--that is, if there were a journey! some flight of the spirit from the crumpled, unsightly chrysalis, some waking in new, unthinkable conditions; unthinkable, not unimaginable. he had no knowledge that he might not see his mother's face, and feel her hand on his head. there was no proof against it. then, if it might be, he would tell her all, as he had so often told her, alone here in the wood. how he had come near to what we call heaven, here on earth; how he had drunk the waters of hell,--six streams, were there? styx, acheron, phlegethon, lethe--only one never could get a taste of that! scraps of school latin ran together in his head; sleepy, was he? but as he was saying, he would tell his mother all--if she existed, if he should still exist; if-- or on the other hand, if it should be rest simple, rest absolute, no sound or sight for ever,--why, then,--all the more should the key be turned, since then could be no question of right or wrong, sin or virtue, heaven or hell. sleep! meantime, he was alive, on a day like this! no one could think of shutting his eyes for ever, or of starting on a pilgrimage,--or a wild-goose chase,--on a day like this. the sunlight of early may, softly brilliant, came sifting down through the branches of the great tree. the leaves rustled, and the sound was hardly rougher than if all the flocks that nestled in its deep, airy bowers should plume themselves at once. the birds slept their noonday sleep with the child; even the titmouse was gone now to his siesta; but other wildwood creatures came and went at their ease across the green, hardly even glancing at the familiar gray figure curled up at the foot of the tree. that was where he often sat. it seemed stupid, when there were branches to swing on, pleasant burrows under the forest-mould; since he even had his own nest, bigger than any fish-hawk's, up there in the tree itself; but it was his way. brother chipmunk, passing by on an errand, regarded him benignantly. he was a harmless monster, and often useful in the way of victual. if smoke came out of his mouth now and then, what did brother chipmunk care? that was the way the creature was made; the question of importance was, had he any nuts in his side-pouches? the pretty creature ran up the man's leg, and sat on his knee, looking at him with bright, expectant eyes; but he met no friendly answering glance; the brown eyes were closed, the man was asleep. yet, that was his kind of note, surely! was he speaking? no; the sound came from above. oh! listen, brother chipmunk; kind little forest brother, listen! and let the sound speak to you, and warn you to wake the slumbering figure here, ere it be too late, ere horror seize him, and despair take his heart for her own. what is that voice above? wake, wake, mark ellery, if there be life in you! * * * * * a sleepy babble at first, the waking murmur of a happy child; then a call, "mark! mark, where are you?" silence, and then a livelier prattle. "i guess most prob'ly p'r'aps he's getting dinner; that's what he is. well, then, i'll play a little till he comes; only there's noffin' here to play wiz. oh! yes, there is mark's silver key, what looks like a pistol. i believe it is a pistol, and he doesn't know, 'cause he's a dwarf. dwarfs has swords and daggers and things; never a dwarf had a pistol, not even the yellow one. well, mark said i mustn't; well, of course, i won't, only just i'll take it down and see what it is. you see, that can't possumbly do any harm, just to look and see what it is; and if it is a pistol, then he ought not to have it there, 'cause they go off and kill people dead. and when they aren't loaded, in the newspapers all the same they kill people; and--just i can reach it if i stand on my tippy-toe-toes--my tippy-toe-toes--and--" mark ellery woke. woke, staggering to his feet, with a crack shattering his ears, with a cry ringing through his soul. "mark! mark! it killed me!" then silence; and the man fell on his knees, and the pistol-smoke drifted down, and floated across his face like a passing soul. * * * * * was it a heart-beat, was it a lifetime, before that silence was broken? the forest held its breath; its myriad leaves hung motionless; there was no movement save the drifting of that blue cloud, that was now almost gone, only the ragged edges of its veil melting away among the tree-trunks. surely neither sound nor motion would come from that gray image kneeling under the tree, its hands locked together till the nails pierced the flesh, its eyes set and staring. is it death they are staring at? lo! this man has been playing with death; toying, coquetting, dallying with him, month after month, sure of his own power, confident that his own hand held both scythe and hour-glass. now death has laughed, and reached behind him and taken his own. o god! can this thing be? god of terror and majesty, working thine awful will in steadfastness while we play and fret and strut under thy silent heavens--has he sinned enough for this, this terrible damnation? is there no hope for him, now or hereafter through the ages? but hark! oh, hark! o god, once more! god of mercy and tenderness; god who givest sight to the blind, and bringest the dead heart into life again--is _this_ thy will, and has he won heaven so soon? what sound now from above? a bird, is it, waked from its sleep in fear? no! no bird ever sobbed in its throat; no bird ever cried through tears like this. "mark! i want you, mark! not killed i is, but i's frightened, and i want you, mark, my mark!" * * * * * when the child was going to bed that night the dwarf took her in his arms, and held her a long, long time, silent. then he said: "snow-white, i want you to say your prayer with me to-night." "wiz you, mark? i thought never dwarfs said prayers." "kneel down with me here, snow-white, little darling child. hold hands with me--so! now say after me the words i say." and wondering, the child repeated after him: "'whither shall i go from thy spirit? or whither shall i flee from thy presence? if i ascend up into heaven, thou art there; if i make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. if i take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea: even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. amen.'" "amen," said the child. "that's kind of a funny prayer, isn't it, mark? i like that prayer. i think i'll have that for mine, 'stead of 'now i lay me.' mark!" "yes, snow-white." "is you terrible glad i wasn't killed wiz that pistol key?" "yes, snow-white; terrible glad!" "is you glad enough not to be cross wiz me 'cause i took it? 'cause i was naughty, 'cause you told me not." "yes, snow-white." "not one single bit cross?" "not one single bit, my little darling child." the child drew a long sigh of content, and put up her arms. "here i want to go to sleep," she said. "your lap is so nice, mark; and your shoulder comes just right for my head. is you comfy so, mark?" "very comfy, snow-white." "do you love me?" "very much, little one; very, very much." "me too you. good-night, mark. i'm glad--you was--a dwarf, and--just right--for me!" through the long night those tender arms held her. her sweet head rested on his shoulder; he never moved; he timed his breathing so that it might come and go with hers, softly rising, softly falling, hour after hour. only toward morning, when the dawn chill came on, he laid the lax limbs and heavy head on the bed, and covered them tenderly, and sat and watched beside the bed till day. it was more than the child's mother had ever done, but why should she do it, when the nurses were always there? chapter ix. restored to life. so it came to pass that james phillips, driving in painful state toward the forest, met the third great surprise of his life. the first had been when, as a child, he was snatched from the hands of the brutal father whose lash still, whenever he thought of it, whistled its way down on his cringing body. he often recalled that moment; the centring of agony in one nerve and another of his tortured frame as the blows fell, the setting of his teeth to keep the screams back because that other should not have the pleasure of hearing him scream; then the sudden flash, the cry, the little figure, no bigger than his own, standing over him, ablaze with wrath, the hulking bully cowering abject, the lash dropped and never raised again. following this, the years of kindness without intermission; the watching, befriending, educating. phillips was not a man of expression, or he would have said that, if god almighty created him, mark ellery made him. and always so wise, so kind, with the light in his eyes, and the smile that people would turn in the street to look after. and on all this had come the second surprise. suddenly, with no reason given--or asked--the light gone out of his master's kind eyes, the smile coming no more, though he would still laugh sometimes, a harsh, unlovely laugh, in place of the mellow sound that used to warm the heart like wine. then--the life changed with the nature; the grave cares, the beneficent responsibilities cast aside, the ceaseless flow of cordial kindness checked, all business thrown into his own willing but timid hands. the wandering life abroad, of which a few random lines dropped now and then had told him; then the return, unguessed by any save himself alone; the seclusion in the bit of lonely forest that bordered the wide ellery domain, the life--or death-in-life--for to phillips it seemed that his master might as well be nailed in his coffin as living like this. so it had seemed, at least; but now, it appeared that yet worse might be. at least the man, mark ellery, had been there, alive and sane, however cruelly changed. but now, if his mind were indeed failing, if some obscure and terrible disease were depriving him of his faculties,--what would happen? what must happen? so far he, phillips, had simply obeyed every dictate, however whimsical and fantastic. here he was, for instance, the carriage filled with things which for very shame and grief he had hidden in boxes and baskets,--toys, cushions, frippery of every description. he had bought them with a sinking heart; he could have wept over every foolish prettiness, but he had bought sternly and faithfully, and every article was the best of its kind. what did it mean? his best hope was that some farmer's child, straying near the wood, had struck and pleased his master's wandering fancy; his worst--but when he thought of that, james phillips straightened his shoulders, and a dark flush crept over his sallow cheek. to him, thus riding in state and misery, came, i say, the third great surprise of his life. suddenly the coachman uttered an exclamation, and checked his horses. now the coachman, like all mark ellery's servants, was as near deaf and dumb as was possible for a man possessed of all his faculties. phillips raised his eyes, and beheld two figures advancing along the road toward him. his master, mark ellery, walking erect and joyful, as he used to walk, his eyes alight, his mouth smiling the old glad way; and holding his hand, dancing and leaping beside him, a child. no farmer's child, though its feet were bare, and bare its curly head, and though the pink frock fluttered in torn folds about it. the child who was now mourned as dead in the splendid house where till now careless pleasure had reigned prodigal and supreme. the child whose dainty hat, dripping and broken, but still half-filled with flowers, had this very day been brought to the distracted woman who now lay prone on her velvet couch, waking from one swoon only to shriek and moan and shudder away into another,--for in most women the mother nature wakes sooner or later, only sometimes it is too late. the child for whose drowned body the search-parties were fathoming every black pool and hidden depth in the stream that, flowing far through woodland and meadow, had brought the flower-laden hat to the very gates of the town, to the very feet of her father, as he rode out on his last frantic search. the same child, not dead, not stolen or lost or mazed, tripping and dancing and swinging by mark ellery's hand, talking and chattering like any squirrel, while her curls blew in the may wind. "they _is_ white! mark, the horses is white, just the way you said. oh, i do love you! who is that? is it a man? is he real? why like a doll does he look wiz his eyes? does he wind up behind? what for is his mouth open? can he speak?" "no, he can't speak!" said the dwarf, laughing. "at least, he'd better not. it isn't good for his health,--is it, phillips? see, snow-white, the carriage has stopped now, and we will get in and go home to mamma. oh! yes, you do want to go, very much indeed; and she'll have brought you something pretty from new york, i shouldn't wonder." "always she mostly sometimes does!" said the child. "but i am coming back here; very soon i am coming, mark? both together we are coming back to live parts of the times? because you know, mark!" "yes, i know, snow-white! yes, if mamma--and papa--are willing, we will come back now and then." "because the squirrels, you know, mark!" "yes, i know." "and the birds! do you think all day those crumbs will last them, do you? do you think cousin goldfinch understood when you asplained to him? do you think simeon is lonely? _poor_ simeon! why don't you speak and tell me, mark? _mark!_" "well, snow-white?" "_the cow!_" "what of her, my child?" "mark, who will milk her? you know--whisper!" she put her mouth to his ear. "you know _real_ cows _has_ to be milked; and we said she was real, both we did, mark!" "this man will milk her," said mark, smiling at the speechless image opposite him. "did you ever milk a cow, phillips?" but phillips did not speak, and the child said, openly, that he needed winding up. so they drove back to the town and through the streets, where people started at sight of them, and stared after them, and whispered to one another; to the splendid house where, above the marble steps, the white ribbons waved on the door, with white roses above them to show that a child was mourned as dead. the child wanted to know why the ribbons were there, and whether it was a party, and a party for her; but for once no one answered her. the carriage stopped, and she flung her arms around mark ellery's neck, and clung tight. "you will take me in, mark?" "yes, snow-white!" "you will carry me up the steps, and into the house?" "yes, snow-white." "because i love you! because i love you better as--" "hush, my child! hush, my little darling child!" * * * * * the white-faced butler tore down the ribbons and flung them behind him as he opened the door. he could not speak, but he looked imploringly at the stately gentleman who stood before him with the child in his arms. "yes," said mark ellery, "i am coming in, barton. take me to your mistress." * * * * * james phillips sat in the carriage outside, and faced the gathering crowd. the rumour spread like wildfire; men and women came running with eager questions, with wide incredulous eyes. was it true? could it be true? who had seen her? here was james phillips; what did phillips say? was the child found? was she alive? had mark ellery brought her back? they surged and babbled about the carriage. phillips, who had received his instructions in a few quiet words, turned an impassive face to the crowd. yes, he said, it was true. mr. ellery had found the little girl. yes, she was alive and well, had no hurt of any kind. yes, mr. ellery had taken her into the house; he was in the house now. he had come back; his own house was to be opened; he would be at the office to-morrow. "where has he been?" cried several eager voices. for here was a fresh wonder, almost as great as that of the dead restored to life. "where has mark ellery been, james phillips?" james phillips searched his mind for a painful instant; groped for some new light of imagination, but found none; could only make the old answer that he had made so many times before: "he has been in thibet--hunting the wild ass!" chapter x. good-bye. the birds did not know what to make of it. at first--for several days--they flew at the windows, as they were in the habit of doing when they felt that a little change from worms would be pleasant. it had come to be an understood thing that when they came to the places where the air was hard, they should flap and beat against it with wings and beak. then their friend would push up the hard air, or open his tree and come out, and would scatter food for them, food which they could not name, but which was easy and pleasant to eat, and did not wriggle. then they would flutter about him, and perch on head and hand and shoulder, and tell him all the news. he was always interested to hear how the nest was getting on, and how many eggs there were; and later, of the extraordinary beauty and virtue of the nestlings. he listened to all the forest gossip with evident pleasure, and often made noises as if he were trying to reply; though, having no bill, of course he only produced uncouth sounds. he meant so well, though, and was so liberal with his food, that all loved him, and not the youngest titmouse ever thought of making fun of him. now he was gone, and the birds did not know what to make of it. they flew and beat against the hard air spaces, but there was no movement within. they consulted the squirrels, and the squirrels went and told simeon stylites, who came down from his pillar in distress, and climbed down the hard red hollow tree that stood on top of the house. he was gone some time, and when he reappeared the squirrels and birds screamed and chattered in affright, for he had gone down a gray squirrel, and he came up black as a crow. but he soothed them, and explained that the inside of the tree was covered with black fur which came off on him. moreover, all was as usual in the place below where their friend lived; only, he was not there. he had found some nuts, but intended to keep them for his trouble; and so he departed. for a long time the birds called and sang and swooped about the house; but no friendly face appeared, no voice answered their call, no hand scattered the daily dole. the creepers rustled and swung their green tendrils down over the house, but it remained senseless, silent, crouched against the wall of gray rock behind it. * * * * * so it stands, and the forest blooms and fades and shrivels round it, year after year. only, once in every year, when the mayflowers are blossoming warm and rosy under the brown leaves, the owner of the house comes back to it. comes with weary step and careworn brow,--life being so full, and the rush of it bringing more work and thought and anxiety than the days can hold,--yet with serene countenance, and eves full of quiet peace, ready to break on the instant into light and laughter. in his hand he brings the child, growing every year into new beauty, new grace, and brightness. and there for a happy week they live and play, and wash the pretty dishes, and feed the birds, and milk the brown cow which is always mysteriously there in the pasture, ready to be milked. "do you know, mark?" said the child once, when they had patted the cow, and were turning away with their shining pail full--the child was a big girl now, but she had the same inconsequent way of talking-- "know what, snow-white?" "i really did think perhaps she was a princess, that first time. wasn't that funny?" she bubbled over with laughter, just the old way. "but we can play just as well now, can't we, mark?" "just as well, snow-white." "and i am not so horribly big, mark, am i?" "not yet, snow-white. not yet, my big little girl." "but you will love me just the same if i do get horribly big, mark?" "just the same, snow-white! a little more every year, to allow for growth." "because i can't help it, you know, mark." "surely not, my dear. surely mark would not have you help it." "but always i shall be the right size for you, mark, and always you will be my own dwarf?" "always and always, snow-white!" "because i love you!" says the child. so the two saunter back through the wood, and the ferns unroll beside their path, and the mayflowers peep out at them from under the leaves, and overhead the birds flit and the squirrels frisk, and all is as it has always been in the good green wood. only, when the milk is carefully set away, mark ellery comes out of the house, and stands under the great buttonwood-tree, silent, with bent head. and seeing him so, the girl comes out after him, and puts her arms around his neck, and leans her head on his breast, and is silent too; for she knows he is saying his prayer, the prayer that is now this long time his life, that she means shall guide and raise her own life, and bring it a little nearer his. "even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me!" the end. * * * * * _books by laura e. richards._ "mrs. richards has made for herself a little niche apart in the literary world, from her delicate treatment of new england village life."--_boston post._ the captain january series captain january. a charming idyl of new england coast life, whose success has been very remarkable. one reads it, is thoroughly charmed by it, tells others, and so its fame has been heralded by its readers, until to-day it is selling by the thousands, constantly enlarging the circle of its delighted admirers. melody. the story of a child. "had there never been a 'captain january,' 'melody' would easily take first place."--_boston times._ marie. "seldom has mrs. richards drawn a more irresistible picture, or framed one with more artistic literary adjustment."--_boston herald._ "a perfect literary gem."--_boston transcript._ narcissa, and a companion story, in verona. "each is a simple, touching, sweet little story of rustic new england life, full of vivid pictures of interesting character, and refreshing for its unaffected genuineness and human feeling."--_congregationalist._ jim of hellas; or, in durance vile, and a companion story, bethesda pool. rosin the beau. a sequel to "melody." snow-white; or the house in the wood. isla heron. a charming prose idyl of quaint new england life. nautilus. a very interesting story, with illustrations. five minute stories. a charming collection of short stories and clever poems for children. three margarets. one of the most clever stories for girls that the author has written. margaret montfort. the second volume in the series of which "three margarets" was so successful as the initial volume. peggy. the third volume in the series of which the preceding ones have been so successful. rita. the fourth volume in the series, being an account of rita, the cuban margaret, and her friends. love and rocks. a charming story of one of the pleasant islands that dot the rugged maine coast. with etching frontispiece by mercier. _dana estes & company, publishers, boston._ history of the great american fortunes by gustavus myers author of "the history of tammany hall," "history of public franchises in new york city," etc. vol. ii great fortunes from railroads i. the seizure of the public domain ii. a necessary contrast iii. the beginnings of the vanderbilt fortune iv. the onrush of the vanderbilt fortune v. the vanderbilt fortune increases manifold vi. the entailing of the vanderbilt fortune vii. the vanderbilt fortune in the present generation viii. further aspects of the vanderbilt fortune ix. the rise or the gould fortune x. the second stage of the gould fortune xi. the gould fortune bounds forward xii. the gould fortune and some antecedent factors xiii. further aspects of the vanderbilt fortune part iii the great fortunes from railroads chapter i the seizure of the public domain before setting out to relate in detail the narrative of the amassing of the great individual fortunes from railroads, it is advisable to present a preliminary survey of the concatenating circumstances leading up to the time when these vast fortunes were rolled together. without this explanation, this work would be deficient in clarity, and would leave unelucidated many important points, the absence of which might puzzle or vex the reader. although industrial establishments, as exemplified by mills, factories and shops, much preceded the construction of railroads, yet the next great group of fortunes to develop after, and along with, those from land were the fortunes plucked from the control and manipulation of railroad systems. the lagging factory fortunes. under the first stages of the old chaotic competitive system, in which factory warred against factory, and an intense struggle for survival and ascendency enveloped the whole tense sphere of manufacturing, no striking industrial fortunes were made. fortunate was that factory owner regarded who could claim $ , clear. all of those modern and complex factors offering such unbounded opportunities for gathering in spoils mounting into the hundreds of millions of dollars, were either unknown or in an inchoate or rudimentary state. invention, if we may put it so, was just blossoming forth. hand labor was largely prevalent. huge combinations were undreamed of; paper capitalization as embodied in the fictitious issues of immense quantities of bonds and stocks was not yet a part of the devices of the factory owner, although it was a fixed plan of the bankers and insurance companies. the factory owner was the supreme type of that sheer individualism which had burst forth from the restraints of feudalism. he stood alone fighting his commercial contests with persistent personal doggedness. beneath his occasional benevolence and his religious professions was a wild ardor in the checkmating or bankruptcy of his competitors. these were his enemies; he fought them with every mercantile weapon, and they him; and none gave quarter. apart from the destructive character of this incessant warfare, dooming many of the combatants, other intervening factors had the tendency of holding back the factory owners' quick progress-- obstacles and drawbacks copiously described in later and more appropriate parts of this work. might of the railroad owners. in contrast to the slow, almost creeping pace of the factory owners in the race for wealth, the railroad owners sprang at once into the lists of mighty wealth-possessers, armed with the most comprehensive and puissant powers and privileges, and vested with a sweep of properties beside which those of the petty industrial bosses were puny. railroad owners, we say; the distinction is necessary between the builders of the railroads and the owners. the one might construct, but it often happened that by means of cunning, fraud and corruption, the builders were superseded by another set of men who vaulted into possession. looking back and summing up the course of events for a series of years, it may be said that there was created over night a number of entities empowered with extraordinary and far-reaching rights and powers of ownership. these entities were called corporations, and were called into being by law. beginning as creatures of law, the very rights, privileges and properties obtained by means of law, soon enabled them to become the dictators and masters of law. the title was in the corporation, not in the individual; hence the men who controlled the corporation swayed the substance of power and ownership. the factory was usually a personal affair, owned by one man or in co-partnership; to get control of this property it was necessary to get the owner in a financial corner and force him to sell out, for, as a rule, he had no bond or stock issues. but the railroad corporation was a stock corporation; whoever secured control of a majority of the stock became the legal administrator of its policies and property. by adroit manipulation, intimidation, superior knavery, and the corrupt domination of law, it was always easy for those who understood the science of rigging the stock market, and that of strategic undermining, to wrest the control away from weak, or (treating the word in a commercial sense) incompetent, holders. this has been long shown by a succession of examples. the legalizing of cunning thus this situation, so singularly conflicting with the theoretical majesty of the law, was frequently presented: a band of men styling themselves a corporation received a perpetual charter with the most sweeping rights and properties. in turn, the law interposed no effective hindrance to the seizing of their possessions by any other group proving its power to grasp them. all of this was done under nominal forms of law, but differed little in reality from the methods during medieval times when any baron could take another baron's castle and land by armed force, and it remained his until a stronger man came along and proved his title likewise. long before the railroad had been accepted commercially as a feasible undertaking, the trading and land-owning classes, as has been repeatedly pointed out, had demonstrated very successfully how the forms of government could be perverted to enrich themselves at the expense of the working population. taxation laws, as we have seen, were so devised that the burden in a direct way fell lightly on the shipping, manufacturing, trading, banking and land-owning classes, while indirectly it was shoved almost wholly upon the workers, whether in shop, factory or on farm. furthermore, the constant response of government, municipal, state and national, to property interests, has been touched upon; how government loaned vast sums of public money, free of interest, to the traders, while at the same time refusing to assist the impoverished and destitute; how it granted immunity from punishment to the rich and powerful, and inflicted the most drastic penalties upon poor debtors and penniless violators of the law; how it allowed the possessing classes to evade taxation on a large scale, and effected summarily cruel laws permitting landlords to evict tenants for non- payment of rent. these and many other partial and grievously discriminative laws have been referred to, as also the refusal of government to interfere in the slightest with the commercial frauds and impositions constantly practiced, with all their resulting great extortions, upon the defenceless masses. of the long-prevailing frauds on the part of the capitalists in acquiring large tracts of public land, some significant facts have been brought out in preceding chapters. those facts, however, are only a few of a mass. when the united states government was organized, most of the land in the north and east was already expropriated. but immense areas of public domain still remained in the south and in the middle west. over much of the former colonial land the various legislatures claimed jurisdiction, until, one after another, they ceded it to the national government. with the louisiana purchase, in , the area of public domain was enormously extended, and consecutively so later after the mexican war. the land laws against the poor from the very beginning of the government, the land laws were arranged to discriminate against the poor settler. instead of laws providing simple and inexpensive ways for the poor to get land, the laws were distorted into a highly effective mechanism by which companies of capitalists, and individual capitalists, secured vast tracts for trivial sums. these capitalists then either held the land, or forced settlers to pay exorbitant prices for comparatively small plots. no laws were in existence compelling the purchaser to be a _bona fide_ settler. absentee landlordism was the rule. the capitalist companies were largely composed of northern, eastern and southern traders and bankers. the evidence shows that they employed bribery and corruption on a great scale, either in getting favorable laws passed, or in evading such laws as were on the statute books by means of the systematic purchase of the connivance of land office officials. by act of congress, passed on april , , the ohio land company, for example, received , acres, and in the same year it bought , acres for $ , . . but this sum was not paid in money. the bankers and traders composing the company had purchased, at a heavy discount, certificates of public debt and army land warrants, and were allowed to tender these as payment. [footnote: u. s. senate executive documents, second session, nineteenth congress, doc. no. .] the company then leisurely disposed of its land to settlers at an enormous profit. nearly all of the land companies had banking adjuncts. the poor settler, in order to settle on land that a short time previously had been national property, was first compelled to pay the land company an extortionate price, and then was forced to borrow the money from the banking adjuncts, and give a heavy mortgage, bearing heavy interest, on the land. [footnote: u. s. senate documents, first session, twenty-fourth congress, - , doc. no. : .] the land companies always took care to select the very best lands. the government documents of the time are full of remonstrances from legislatures and individuals complaining of these seizures, under form of law, of the most valuable areas. the tracts thus appropriated comprised timber and mineral, as well as agricultural, land. vast tracts secured by bribery. one of the most scandalous land-company transactions was that involving a group of southern and boston capitalists. in january, , the georgia legislature, by special act, sold millions of acres in different parts of the state of georgia to four land companies. the people of the state were convinced that this purchase had been obtained by bribery. it was made an election issue, and a legislature, comprising almost wholly new members, was elected. in february, , this legislature passed a rescinding act, declaring the act of the preceding year void, on the ground of its having been obtained by "improper influence." in the tracts in question were transferred by the georgia legislature to the united states government. the georgia mississippi land company was one of the four companies. in the meantime, this company had sold its tract, for ten cents an acre, to the new england mississippi land company. although committee after committee of congress reported that the new england mississippi land company had paid little or no actual part of the purchase price, yet that company, headed by some of the foremost boston capitalists, lobbied in congress for eleven years for an act giving it a large indemnity. finally, in , congress passed an indemnification act, under which the eminent bostonians, after ten years more lobbying, succeeded in getting an award from the united states treasury of $ , , . . the total amount appropriated by congress on the pretense of settling the claims of the various capitalists in the "yazoo claims" was $ , , . [footnote: senate documents, eighteenth congress, second session, - , vol. ii, doc. no. , and senate documents, twenty-fourth congress, - , vol. ii, no. . after the grants were secured, the companies attempted to swindle the state of georgia by making payments in depreciated currency. georgia refused to accept it. when the grant was rescinded, both houses of the georgia legislature marched in solemn state to the capitol front and burned the deed.] the ground upon which this appropriation was made by congress was that the supreme court of the united states had decided that, irrespective of the methods used to obtain the grant from the georgia legislature, the grant, once made, was in the nature of a contract which could not be revoked or impaired by subsequent legislation. this was the first of a long line of court decisions validating grants and franchises of all kinds secured by bribery and fraud. it was probably the scandal arising from the bribery of the georgia legislature that caused popular ferment, and crystallized a demand for altered laws. in congress declared its intention to abandon the prevailing system of selling millions of acres to companies or individuals. the new system, it announced, was to be one adapted to the interests of both capitalist and poor man. land was thereafter to be sold in small quantities on credit. could the mechanic or farmer demand a better law? did it not hold out the opportunity to the poorest to get land for which payment could be gradually made? but this law worked even better to the advantage of the capitalist class than the old. by bribing the land officials the capitalists were able to cause the choicest lands to be fraudulently withheld, and entered by dummies. in this way, vast tracts were acquired. apparently the land entries were made by a large number of intending settlers, but these were merely the intermediaries by which capitalists secured great tracts in the form of many small allotments. having obtained the best lands, the capitalists then often held them until they were in demand, and forced actual settlers to pay heavily for them. during all of this time the capitalists themselves held the land "on credit." some of them eventually paid for the lands out of the profits made from the settlers, but a great number of the purchasers cheated the government almost entirely out of what they owed. [footnote: on sept. , , "credit purchasers" owed the government: in ohio, $ , , . ; in indiana, $ , , . ; in illinois, $ , . ; in missouri, $ , . ; in alabama, $ , , . ; in mississippi, $ , . ; and in michigan, $ , . --a total of nearly $ , , . (executive reports, first session, eighteenth congress, , report no. .) most of these creditors were capitalist land speculators.] the capitalists of the period contrived to use the land laws wholly to their own advantage and profit. in , the illinois legislature memorialized congress to change the existing laws. under them, it recited, the best selections of land had been made by non-resident speculators, and it called upon congress to pass a law providing for selling the remaining lands at fifty cents an acre. [footnote: u. s. senate documents, second session, eighteenth congress, - , vol. ii, doc. no. .] other legislatures petitioned similarly. yet, notwithstanding the fact that united states officials and committees of congress were continually unearthing great frauds, no real change for the benefit of the poor settler was made. great extent of the land frauds. the land frauds were great and incessant. in a long report, the united states senate committee on public lands, reporting on june , , declared that the evidence it had taken established the fact that in ohio and elsewhere, combinations of capitalist speculators, at the public sales of lands, had united for the purpose of driving other purchasers out of the market and in deterring poor men from bidding. the committee detailed how these companies and individuals had fraudulently bought large tracts of land at $ . an acre, and sold the land later at exorbitant prices. it showed how, in order to accomplish these frauds, they had bought up united states land office registers and receivers. [footnote : u. s. senate documents, first session, twenty-third congress, - , vol. vi, doc. no. : - .] another exhaustive report was handed in by the united states senate committee on lands, on march , . many of the speculators, it said, filled high offices in states where public lands bought by them were located; others were people of "wealth and intelligence." all of them "naturally united to render this investigation odious among the people." the committee told how an attempt had been made to assassinate one of its members. "the first step," it set forth, "necessary to the success of every scheme of speculation in the public lands, is to corrupt the land officers, by a secret understanding between the parties that they are to receive a certain portion of the profits." [footnote: u. s. senate documents, second session, twenty-third congress, vol. iv, doc. no. : .] the committee continued: the states of alabama, mississippi and louisiana have been the principal theatre of speculations and frauds in buying up the public lands, and dividing the most enormous profits between the members of the different companies and speculators. the committee refers to the depositions of numerous respectable witnesses to attest the various ramifications of these speculations and frauds, and the means by which they have been carried into effect.... [footnote: ibid., ] describing the great frauds in louisiana, benjamin f. linton, u. s. district attorney for the western district of louisiana, wrote, on august , , to president jackson: "governments, like corporations, are considered without souls, and according to the code of some people's morality, should be swindled and cheated on every occasion." linton gave this picture of "a notorious speculator who has an immense extent of claims": he could be seen followed to and from the land office by crowds of free negroes, indians and spaniards, and the very lowest dregs of society, in the counties of opelousas and rapides, with their affidavits already prepared by himself, and sworn to before some justice of the peace in some remote county. these claims, to an immense extent, are presented and allowed. and upon what evidence? simply upon the evidence of the parties themselves who desire to make the entry! [footnote: u. s. senate documents, second session, twenty- fourth congress, - , vol. ii, doc. no. : .] the "credit" system was gradually abandoned by the government, but the auction system was retained for decades. in , the government was still selling large tracts at $ . an acre, nominally to settlers, actually to capitalist speculators or investors. more than two million acres had been sold every year for a long period. the house committee on public lands, reporting in , disclosed how most of the lands were bought up by capitalists. it cited the case of the milwaukee district where, although , land entries had been made, there were only forty actual settlers up to . "this clearly shows," the committee stated, "that those who claimed the land as settlers, are either the tools of speculators, to sequester the best lands for them... or the claim is made on speculation to sell out." [footnote: reports of committees, first session, thirtieth congress, - , vol. iii, report no. : .] the policy of granting enormous tracts of land to corporations was revived for the benefit of canal and railroad companies. the first railroad company to get a land grant from congress was the illinois central, in . it received as a gift , , acres of land in illinois. actual settlers had to pay the company from $ to $ an acre. large areas of land bought from the indian tribes by the government, almost at once became the property of canal or railroad corporations by the process of government grants. a congressional document in (senate document no. ) made public the fact that from the establishment of the federal government to , the indian tribes had ceded to the government a total of , , acres. the indian tribes were paid either by grants of land elsewhere, or in money and merchandise. for those , , acres they received exchange land valued at $ , , , and money and merchandise amounting to $ , , . the swaying of government. the trading, banking and landed class had learned well the old, all- important policy of having a government fully susceptible to their interests, whether the governing officials were put in office by them, and were saturated with their interests, views and ideals, or whether corruption had to be resorted to in order to attain their objects. at all events, the propertied classes, in the main, secured what they wanted. and, as fast as their interests changed, so did the acts and dicta of government change. while the political economists were busy promulgating the doctrine that it was not the province of government to embark in any enterprise other than that of purely governing--a doctrine precisely suiting the traders and borrowed from their demands--the commercial classes, early in the nineteenth century, suddenly discovered that there was an exception. they wanted canals built; and as they had not sufficient funds for the purpose, and did not see any immediate profit for themselves, they clamored for the building of them by the states. in fine, they found that it was to their interest to have the states put through canal projects on the ground that these would "stimulate trade." the canals were built, but the commercial classes in some instances made the blunder of allowing the ownership to rest in the people. never again was this mistake repeated. if it proved so easy to get legislatures and congress to appropriate millions of the public funds for undertakings profitable to commerce, why would it not be equally simple to secure the appropriation plus the perpetual title? why be satisfied with one portion, when the whole was within reach? true, the popular vote was to be reckoned with; it was a time when the people scanned the tax levy with far greater scrutiny than now; and they were not disposed to put up the public funds only that private individuals might reap the exclusive benefit. but there was a way of tricking and circumventing the electorate. the trading and land-owning classes knew its effectiveness. it was they who had utilized it; who from the year on had bribed legislatures and congress to give them bank and other charters. bribery had proved a signal success. the performance was extended on a much wider scale, with far greater results, and with an adroitness revealing that the capitalist class had learned much by experience, not only in reaching out for powers that the previous generation would not have dared to grant, but in being able to make plastic to its own purposes the electorate that believed itself to be the mainspring of political power. grants to canal corporations. the first great canal, built in response to the demands of the commercial class, was the erie canal, completed in . this waterway was constructed at public expense, and was owned by new york state. the commercial men could succeed in having it managed for their purposes and profit, and the politicians could often extract plunder from the successive contracts, but there was no opportunity or possibility for the exercise of the usual capitalist methods of fraudulent diversion of land, or of over-capitalization and exorbitant rates with which to pay dividends on fictitious stock. very significantly, from about the very time when the erie canal was finished, the era of the private canal company, financed by the government, began. one after another, canal companies came forward to solicit public funds and land grants. these companies neither had any capital of their own, nor was capital necessary. the machinery of government, both national and state, was used to supply them with capital. the chesapeake and ohio canal company received, up to , the sum of $ , , in funds appropriated by the united states government, and $ , , from the state of maryland. in the united states government began giving land grants for canal projects. the customary method was the granting by congress of certain areas of land to various states, to be expressly given to designated canal companies. the states in donating them, sometimes sold them to the canal companies at the nominal rate of $ . an acre. the commuting of these payments was often obtained later by corrupt legislation. from to , the wabash and erie canal company obtained land grants from the government amounting to , acres. the miami and dayton canal company secured from the government, in and , a total grant of , acres. the st. mary's falls ship canal company received , acres in ; the portage lake and lake superior ship canal company, , acres in - ; and the lac la belle ship canal company, , acres in . including a grant by congress in of , acres of public land for general canal purposes, the land grants given by the national government to aid canal companies, totalled , , . acres, mostly in indiana, ohio, illinois, wisconsin and michigan. whatever political corruption accompanied the building of such state- owned canals as the erie canal, the primary and fundamental object was to construct. in the case of the private canal companies, the primary and fundamental object was to plunder. the capitalists controlling these companies were bent upon getting rich quickly; it was to their interest to delay the work as long as possible, for by this process they could periodically go to legislatures with this argument: that the projects were more expensive and involved more difficulties than had been anticipated; that the original appropriations were exhausted, and that if the projects were to be completed, fresh appropriations were imperative. a large part of these successive appropriations, whether in money, or land which could be sold for money, were stolen in sundry indirect ways by the various sets of capitalist directors. the many documents of the maryland legislature, and the messages of the successive governors of maryland, do not tell the full story of how the chesapeake and ohio canal project was looted, but they give abundantly enough information. the grants fraudulently manipulated many of the canal companies, so richly endowed by the government with great land grants, made little attempt to build canals. what some of them did was to turn about and defraud the government out of incalculably valuable mineral deposits which were never included in the original grants. in his annual report for , commisioner sparks, of the united states general land office told (house executive documents, - , vol. ii) how, by , the portage lake "canal" was only a worthless ditch and a complete fraud. what had the company done with its large land grant? instead of accepting the grant as intended by congress, it had, by means of fraudulent surveys, and doubtless by official corruption, caused at least one hundred thousand acres of its grant to be surveyed in the very richest copper lands of wisconsin. the grants originally made by congress were meant to cover swamp lands--that is, lands not particularly valuable for agricultural uses, but which had a certain value for other purposes. mineral lands were strictly excluded. such was the law: the practice was very different. the facility with which capitalists caused the most valuable mineral, grazing, agricultural and timber lands to be fraudulently surveyed as "swamp" lands, is described at length a little later on in this work. commissioner sparks wrote that the one hundred thousand acres appropriated in violation of explicit law "were taken outside of legal limits, and that the lands selected both without and within such limits were interdicted lands on the copper range" (p. ). those stolen copper deposits were never recovered by the government nor was any attempt made to forfeit them. they comprise to-day part of the great copper mines of the copper trust, owned largely by the standard oil company. the st. mary's falls canal company likewise stole large areas of rich copper deposits. this fact was clearly revealed in various official reports, and particularly in the suit, a few years ago, of chandler vs. calumet and hecla mining company (u. s. reports, vol. , pp. - ). this suit disclosed the fact that the mines of the calumet and hecla mining company were located on part of the identical alleged "swamp" lands, granted by congress in . the plaintiff, chandler, claimed an interest in the mines. concluding the court's decision, favoring the calumet and hecla mining company, this significant note (so illustrative of the capitalist connections of the judiciary), appears: "mr. justice brown, being interested in the result, did not sit in this case and took no part in its decision." whatever superficial or partial writers may say of the benevolent origin of railroads, the fact is that railroad construction was ushered in by a widespread corruption of legislators that put to shame the previous debauchery in getting bank charters. in nearly every work on the subject the assertion is dwelt upon that railroad builders were regarded as public benefactors; that people and legislatures were only too glad to present them with public resources. there is just a slight substance of truth in this alleged historical writing, but nothing more. the people, it is true, were eager, for their own convenience, to have the railroads built, but unwilling to part with their hard-wrung taxes, their splendid public domain, and their rights only that a few men, part gamblers and part men of energy and foresight, should divert the entire donation to their own aggrandizement. for this attitude the railroad promoters had an alluring category of arguments ready. cash the great persuader through the public press, and in speeches and pamphlets, the people were assured in the most seductive and extravagant language that railroads were imperative in developing the resources of the country; that they would be a mighty boon and an immeasurable stimulant to progress. these arguments had much weight, especially with a population stretched over such a vast territory as that of the united states. but alone they would not have accomplished the ends sought, had it not been for the quantities of cash poured into legislative pockets. the cash was the real eloquent persuader. in turn, the virtuous legislators, on being questioned by their constituents as to why they had voted such great subsidies, such immense land grants and such sweeping and unprecedented privileges to private corporations, could fall back upon the justification (and a legitimate one it seemed) that to get the railroads built, public encouragement and aid were necessary. many of the projectors of railroads were small tradesmen, landlords, mill owners, merchants, bankers, associated politicians and lawyers. not infrequently, however, did it happen that some charters and grants were obtained by politicians and lawyers who, at best, were impecunious sharpers. their greatest asset was a devious knowledge of how to get something for nothing. with a grandiloquent front and a superb bluff they would organize a company to build a railroad from this to that point; an undertaking costing millions, while perhaps they could not pay their board bill. an arrangement with a printer to turn out stock issues on credit was easy; with the promise of batches of this stock, they would then get a sufficient number of legislators to vote a charter, money and land. after that, the future was rosy. bankers, either in the united states or abroad, could always be found to buy out the franchise or finance it. in fact, the bankers, who themselves were well schooled in the art of bribery and other forms of corruption, [footnote: "schooled in the art of bribery."--in previous chapters many facts have been brought out showing the extent of corrupt methods used by the bankers. the great scandal caused in pennsylvania in by the revelations of the persistent bribery carried on by the united states bank for many years, was only one of many such scandals throughout the united states. one of the most characteristic phases of the reports of the various legislative investigating committees was the ironical astonishment that they almost invariably expressed at the "superior class" being responsible for the continuous bribery. thus, in reporting in , that $ , had been used in bribery in pennsylvania by the united states bank, an investigating committee of the pennsylvania house of representatives commented: "it is hard to come to the conclusion that men of refined education, and high and honorable character, would wink at such things, yet the conclusion is unavoidable." [pa. house journal, , vol. ii, appendix, - .] were often outwitted by this class of adventurers, and were only too glad to treat with them as associates, on the recognized commercial principle that success was the test of men's mettle, and that the qualities productive of such success must be immediately availed of. in other instances a number of tradesmen and landowners would organize a company having, let us say, $ , among them. if they had proceeded to build a railroad with this sum, not many miles of rail would have been laid before they would have found themselves hopelessly bankrupt. their wisdom was that of their class; they knew a far better method. this was to use the powers of government, and make the public provide the necessary means. in the process of construction the $ , would have been only a mite. but it was quite enough to bribe a legislature. by expending this sum in purchasing a majority of an important committee, and a sufficient number of the whole body, they could get millions in public loans, vast areas of land given outright, and a succession of privileges worth, in the long run, hundreds upon hundreds of millions of dollars. a welter of corruption. so the onslaught of corruption began and continued. corruption in ohio was so notorious that it formed a bitter part of the discussion in the ohio constitutional convention of - . the delegates were droning along over insertions devised to increase corporation power. suddenly rose delegate charles reemelin and exclaimed: "corporations always have their lobby members in and around the halls of legislation to watch and secure their interests. not so with the people--they cannot act with that directness and system that a corporation can. no individual will take it upon himself to go to the capitol at his own expense, to watch the representatives of the people, and to lobby against the potent influences of the corporation. but corporations have the money, and it is to their interest to expend it to secure the passage of partial laws." [footnote: ohio convention debates, - , ii: .] two years later, at one of the sessions of the massachusetts constitutional convention, delegate walker, of north brookfield, made a similar statement as to conditions in that state. "i ask any man to say," he asked, "if he believes that any measure of legislation could be carried in this state, which was generally offensive to the corporations of the commonwealth? it is very rarely the case that we do not have a majority in the legislature who are either presidents, directors or stockholders in incorporated companies. this is a fact of very grave importance." [footnote: debates in the massachusetts convention, , iii: .] two-thirds of the property in massachusetts, delegate walker pointed out, was owned by corporations. in an acrimonious debate ensued in the iowa constitutional convention over an attempt to give further extraordinary power to the railroads. already the state of iowa had incurred $ , , in debts in aiding railroad corporations. "i fear," said delegate traer, "that it is very often the case that these votes (on appropriations for railroads) are carried through by improper influences, which the people, if left alone, would, upon mature reflection, never have adopted." [footnote: constitutional debates, iowa, , ii: .] impotence of the people. these are but a very few of the many instances of the debauching of every legislature in the united states. no matter how furiously the people protested at this giving away of their resources and rights, the capitalists were able to thwart their will on every occasion. in one case a state legislature had been so prodigal that the people of the state demanded a constitutional provision forbidding the bonding of the state for railroad purposes. the constitutional convention adopted this provision. but the members had scarcely gone to their homes before the people discovered how they had been duped. the amendment barred the state from giving loans, but (and here was the trick) it did not forbid counties and municipalities from doing so. thereupon the railroad capitalists proceeded to have laws passed, and bribe county and municipal officials all over the state to issue bonds and to give them terminal sites and other valuable privileges for nothing. in every such case the railroad owners in subsequent years sneaked legislation through in practically every state, or resorted to subterfuges, by which they were relieved from having to pay back those loans. hundreds of millions of dollars, exacted from the people in taxation, were turned over to the railroad corporations, and little of it was ever returned. as for the land grants to railroads, they reached colossal proportions. from to congress gave not less than , , . acres of the public domain either direct to railroad corporations, or to the various states, to be transferred to those corporations. much of this immense area was given on the condition that unless the railroads were built, the grants were to be forfeited. but the capitalists found no difficulty in getting a thoroughly corrupt congress to extend the period of construction in cases where the construction had not been done. of the , , acres, a considerable portion of it valuable mineral, coal, timber and agricultural land, only , acres were forfeited by act of congress, and even much of these were restored to the railroads by judicial decisions. [footnote: the principal of these decisions was that of the supreme court of the united states in the case of schluenberg vs. harriman (wallace's supreme court reports, xxi: ). in many of the railroad grants it was provided that in case the railroad lines were not completed within certain specified times, the lands unsold or unpatented should revert to the united states. the decision of the supreme court of the united states practically made these provisions nugatory, and indirectly legalized the crassest frauds. the original grants excluded mineral lands, but by a subsequent fraudulent official construction, coal and iron were declared not to be covered by the term mineral. commissioner sparks of the u. s. general land office estimated in that, in addition to the tens of millions of acres the railroad corporations had secured by fraud under form of law, they had overdrawn ten million acres, "which vast amount has been treated by the corporations as their absolute property, but is really public land of the united states recoverable to the public domain." (house executive docs., first session, forty-ninth congress, - , ii: .) it has never been recovered.] that congress, not less than the legislatures, was honeycombed with corruption is all too evident from the disclosures of many investigations--disclosures to which we shall have pertinent occasion to refer later on. not only did the railroad corporations loot in a gigantic way under forms of law, but they so craftily drafted the laws of both nation and the states that fraud at all times was easy. defrauding the nation of taxes. not merely were these huge areas of land obtained by fraud, but after they were secured, fraud was further used to evade taxation. and by donations of land is not meant only that for intended railroad use or which could be sold by the railroads. in some cases, notably that of the union pacific railroad, authority was given to the railroad by acts passed in and to take all of the material, such as stone, timber, etc., needed for construction, from the public lands. so, in addition to the money and lands, much of the essential material for building the railroads was supplied from the public resources. no sooner had they obtained their grants, than the railroad corporations had law after law passed removing this restriction or that reservation until they became absolute masters of hundreds of millions of acres of land which a brief time before had been national property. "these enormous tracts," wrote (in ) william a. phillips, a member of the committee on public lands of the forty-third congress, referring to the railroad grants, "are in their disposition subject to the will of the railroad companies. they can dispose of them in enormous tracts if they please, and there is not a single safeguard to secure this portion of the national domain to cultivating yeomanry." the whole machinery of legislation was not only used to exclude the farmer from getting the land, and to centralize its ownership in corporations, but was additionally employed in relieving these corporations from taxation on the land thus obtained by fraud. "to avoid taxation," phillips goes on, "the railroad land grant companies had an amendment enacted into law to the effect that they should not obtain their patents until they had paid a small fee to defray the expense of surveying. this they took care not to pay, or only to pay as fast as they could sell tracts to some purchasers, on which occasions they paid the surveying fee and obtained deeds for the portion they sold. in this way they have held millions of acres for speculative purposes, waiting for a rise in prices, without taxation, while the farmers in adjacent lands paid taxes." [footnote: "labor, land and law": - .] phillips passes this fact by with a casual mention, as though it were one of no great significance. it is a fact well worthy of elaboration. precisely as the aristocracies in the old world had gotten their estates by force and fraud, and then had the laws so arranged as to exempt those estates from taxation, so has the money aristocracy of the united states proceeded on the same plan. as we shall see, however, the railroad and other interests have not only put through laws relieving from direct taxation the land acquired by fraud, but also other forms of property based upon fraud. this survey, however, would be prejudicial and one-sided were not the fact strongly pointed out that the railroad capitalists were by no means the only land-graspers. not a single part of the capitalist class was there which could in any way profit from the theft of public domain that did not wallow in corruption and fraud. the very laws seemingly passed to secure to the poor settler a homestead at a reasonable price were, as henry m. teller, secretary of the interior, put it, perverted into "agencies by which the capitalists secures large and valuable areas of the public land at little expense." [footnote: report of the secretary of the interior for . reporting to secretary of the interior lamar, in response to a u. s. senate resolution for information, william a. j. sparks, commissioner of the general land office, gave statistics showing an enormous number of fraudulent land entries, and continued: "it was the ease with which frauds could be perpetrated under existing laws, and the immunity offered by a hasty issue of patents, that encouraged the making of fictitious and fraudulent entries. the certainty of a thorough investigation would restrain such practices, but fraud and great fraud must inevitably exist so long as the opportunity for fraud is preserved in the laws, and so long as it is hoped by the procurers and promoters of fraud that examinations may be impeded or suppressed." if, commissioner sparks urged, the preëmption, commuted-homestead, timber-land, and desert-land laws were repealed, then, "the illegal appropriation of the remaining public lands would be reduced to a minimum."--u. s. senate documents, first session, forty-ninth congress, - , vol. viii, doc. no. : .] the poor were always the decoys with which the capitalists of the day managed to bag their game. it was to aid and encourage "the man of small resources" to populate the west that the desert land law was apparently enacted; and many a pathetic and enthusiastic speech was made in congress as this act was ostentatiously going through. under this law, it was claimed, a man could establish himself upon six hundred and forty acres of land and, upon irrigating a portion of it, and paying $ . an acre, could secure a title. for once, it seemed, congress was looking out for the interests of the man of few dollars. vast thefts of land. but plaudits were too hasty. to the utter surprise of the people the law began to work in a perverse direction. its provisions had read well enough on a casual scrutiny. where lay the trouble? it lay in just a few words deftly thrown in, which the crowd did not notice. this law, acclaimed as one of great benefit to every man aspiring for a home and land, was arranged so that the capitalist cattle syndicates could get immense areas. the lever was the omission of any provision requiring _actual settlement_. the livestock corporations thereupon sent in their swarms of dummies to the "desert" lands (many of which, in reality, were not desert but excellent grazing lands), had their dummies get patents from the government and then transfer the lands. in this way the cattlemen became possessed of enormous areas; and to-day these tracts thus gotten by fraud are securely held intact, forming what may be called great estates, for on many of them live the owners in expansive baronial style. in numerous instances, law was entirely dispensed with. vast tracts of land were boldly appropriated by sheep and cattle rangers who had not even a pretense of title. enclosing these lands with fences, the rangers claimed them as their own, and hired armed guards to drive off intruders, and kill if necessary. [footnote: "within the cattle region," reported commissioner sparks, "it is notorious that actual settlements are generally prevented and made practically impossible outside the proximity of towns, through the unlawful control of the country, maintained by cattle companies."--u. s. senate docs., - , vol. viii, no. : and . acting commissioner harrison of the general land office, reporting on march , , to secretary of the interior teller, showed in detail the vast extent of the unlawful fencing of public lands. in the arkansas valley in colorado at least , , acres of public domain were illegally seized. the prairie cattle company, composed of scotch capitalists, had fenced in more than a million acres in colorado, and a large number of other cattle companies in colorado had seized areas ranging from , to , acres. "in kansas," harrison went on, "entire counties are reported as [illegally] fenced. in wyoming, one hundred and twenty-five cattle companies are reported having fencing on the public lands. among the companies and persons reported as having 'immense' or 'very large' areas inclosed . . . are the dubuque, cimarron and renello cattle [companies] in colorado; the marquis de morales in colorado; the wyoming cattle company (scotch) in wyoming; and the rankin live stock company in nebraska. "there is a large number of cases where inclosures range from , to , acres and upwards. "the reports of special agents show that the fraudulent entries of public land within the enclosures are extensively made by the procurement and in the interest of stockmen, largely for the purpose of controlling the sources of water supply."--"unauthorized fencing of public lands," u. s. senate docs., first session, forty-eighth congress, - , vol. vi, doc. no. : .] murder after murder was committed. in this usurpation the august supreme court of the united states upheld them. and the grounds of the decision were what? the very extraordinary dictum that a settler could not claim any right of preëmption on public lands in possession of another who had enclosed, settled upon and improved them. this was the very reverse of every known declaration of common and of statute law. no court, supreme or inferior, had ever held that because the proceeds of theft were improved or were refurbished a bit, the sufferer was thereby estopped from recovery. this decision showed anew how, while the courts were ever ready to enforce the law literally against the underlings and penniless, they were as active in fabricating tortuous constructions coinciding not always, but nearly always, with the demands and interests of the capitalist class. it has long been the fashion on the part of a certain prevalent school of writers and publicists to excoriate this or that man, this or that corporation, as the ringleader in the orgy of corruption and oppression. this practice, arising partly from passionate or ill- considered judgment, and in part from ignorance of the subject, has been the cause of much misunderstanding, popular and academic. no one section of the capitalist class can be held solely responsible; nor were the morals and ethics of any one division different from those of the others. the whole capitalist class was coated with the same tar. shipping merchants, traders in general, landholders, banking and railroad corporations, factory owners, cattle syndicates, public utility companies, mining magnates, lumber corporations--all were participants in various ways in the subverting of the functions of government to their own fraudulent ends at the expense of the whole producing class. while the railroad corporations were looting the public treasury and the public domain, and vesting in themselves arbitrary powers of taxation and proscription, all of the other segments of the capitalist class were, at the same time, enriching themselves in the same way or similar ways. the railroads were much denounced; but wherein did their methods differ from those of the cattle syndicates, the industrial magnates or the lumber corporations? the lumber barons wanted their predacious share of the public domain; throughout certain parts of the west and in the south were far-stretching, magnificent forests covered with the growth of centuries. to want and to get them were the same thing, with a government in power representative of capitalism. spoliation on a great scale. the "poor settler" catspaw was again made use of. at the behest of the lumber corporations, or of adventurers or politicians who saw a facile way of becoming multimillionaires by the simple passage of an act, the "stone and timber act" was passed in by congress. an amendment passed in made frauds still easier. this measure was another of those benevolent-looking laws which, on its face, extended opportunities for the homesteader. no longer, it was plausibly set forth, could any man say that the government denied him the right to get public land for a reasonable sum. was ever a finer, a more glorious chance presented? here was the way open for any individual homesteader to get one hundred and sixty acres of timber land for the low price of $ . an acre. congress was overwhelmed with outbursts of panegyrics for its wisdom and public spirit. soon, however, a cry of rage went up from the duped public. and the cause? the law, like the desert land law, it turned out, was filled with cunningly-drawn clauses sanctioning the worst forms of spoliation. entire trainloads of people, acting in collusion with the land grabbers, were transported by the lumber syndicates into the richest timber regions of the west, supplied with the funds to buy, and then each, after having paid $ . per acre for one hundred and sixty acres, immediately transferred his or her allotment to the lumber corporations. thus, for $ . an acre, the lumber syndicates obtained vast tracts of the finest lands worth, at the least, according to government agents, $ an acre, at a time, thirty-five years ago, when lumber was not nearly so costly as now. the next development was characteristic of the progress of onsweeping capitalism. just as the traders, bankers, factory owners, mining and railroad magnates had come into their possessions largely (in varying degrees) by fraud, and then upon the strength of those possessions had caused themselves to be elected or appointed to powerful offices in the government, state or national, so now some of the lumber barons used a part of the millions obtained by fraud to purchase their way into the united states senate and other high offices. they, as did their associates in the other branches of the capitalist class, helped to make and unmake judges, governors, legislatures and presidents; and at least one, russell a. alger, became a member of the president's cabinet in . under this one law,--the stone and timber act--irrespective of other complaisant laws, not less than $ , , has been stolen in the last seven years alone from the government, according to a statement made in congress by representative hitchcock, of nebraska, on may , . he declared that , , acres had been sold for $ , , , while the department of the interior had admitted in writing that the actual aggregate value of the land, at prevailing commercial prices, was $ , , . these lands, he asserted, had passed into the hands of the lumber trust, and their products were sold to the people of the united states at an advance of seventy per cent. this theft of $ , , simply represented the years from to ; it is probable that the entire thefts for , , . acres sold during the whole series of years since the stone and timber act was passed reaches a much vaster amount. stupendous as was the extent of the nation's resources already appropriated by , more remained to be seized. the government still owned , , acres of land in the south, mainly in alabama, louisiana, florida, arkansas and mississippi. much of this area was valuable timber land, and a part of it, especially in alabama, was filled with great coal and iron deposits,--a fact of which certain capitalists were well aware, although the general public did not know it. during the civil war nothing could be attempted in the war-ravaged south. that conflict over, a group of capitalists set about to get that land, or at least the valuable part of it. at about the time that they had their plans primed to juggle a bill through congress, an unfortunate situation arose. a rancid public scandal ensued from the bribery of members of congress in getting through the charters and subsidies of the union pacific railroad and other railroads. congress, for the sake of appearance, had to be circumspect. the "cash sales" act. by , however, the public agitation had died away. the time was propitious. congress rushed through a bill carefully worded for the purpose. the lands were ordered sold in unlimited areas for cash. no pretense was made of restricting the sale to a certain acreage so that all any individual could buy was enough for his own use. anyone, if he chose, could buy a million or ten million acres, provided he had the cash to pay $ . an acre. the way was easy for capitalists to get millions of acres of the coveted iron, coal and timber lands for practically nothing. at that very time the government was selling coal lands in colorado at $ to $ an acre, and it was recognized that even that price was absurdly low. hardly was this "cash sales" law passed, than the besieging capitalists pounced upon these southern lands and scooped in eight millions of acres of coal, iron and timber lands intrinsically worth (speaking commercially) hundreds of millions of dollars. the fortunes of not a few railroad and industrial magnates were instantly and hugely increased by this fraudulent transaction. [footnote: "fraudulent transaction," house ex. doc. , part iv, forty-sixth congress, third session, speaks of the phrasing of the act as a mere subterfuge for despoilment; that the act was passed specifically "for the benefit of capitalists," and "that fraud was used in sneaking it through congress."] hundreds of millions of dollars in capitalist bonds and stock, representing in effect mortgages on which the people perpetually have to pay heavy interest, are to-day based upon the value of the lands then fraudulently seized. fraud was so continuous and widespread that we can here give only a few succinct and scattering instances. "the present system of laws," reported a special congressional committee appointed in to investigate what had become of the once vast public domain, "seem to invite fraud. you cannot turn to a single state paper or public document where the subject is mentioned before the year , from the message of the president to the report of the commissioner of the land office, but what statements of 'fraud' in connection with the disposition of public lands are found." [footnote: house ex. doc. : .] a little later, commissioner sparks of the general land office pointed out that "the near approach of the period when the united states will have no land to dispose of has stimulated the exertions of capitalists and corporations to acquire outlying regions of public land in mass, by whatever means, legal or illegal." in the same report he further stated, "at the outset of my administration i was confronted with overwhelming evidence that the public domain was made the prey of unscrupulous speculation and the worst forms of land monopoly." [footnote: report of the commissioner of the general land office for october, : and .] the "exchange of land" law. not pausing to deal with a multitude of other laws the purport and effect of all of which were the same--to give the railroad and other corporations a succession of colossal gifts and other special privileges--laws, many of which will be referred to later--we shall pass on to one of the final masterly strokes of the railroad magnates in possessing themselves of many of such of the last remaining valuable public lands as were open to spoliation. this happened in . what were styled the land-grant railroads, that is to say, the railroad corporations which received subsidies in both money and land from the government, were allotted land in alternate sections. the union pacific manipulated congress to "loan" it about $ , , and give it outright , , acres of land. the central pacific got nearly $ , , and received , , acres. to the northern pacific , , acres were given; to the kansas pacific, , , ; to the southern pacific about , , acres. from the national government had granted subsidies to more than fifty railroads, and, in addition to the great territorial possessions given to the six railroads enumerated, had made a cash appropriation to those six of not less than about $ , , . but the corruptly obtained donations from the government were far from being all of the bounty. throughout the country, states, cities and counties contributed presents in the form of franchises, financial assistance, land and terminal sites. the land grants, especially in the west, were so enormous that parsons compares them as follows: those in minnesota would make two states the size of massachusetts; in kansas they were equal to two states the size of connecticut and new jersey; in iowa the extent of the railroad grants was larger than connecticut and rhode island, and the grants in michigan and wisconsin nearly as large; in montana the grant to one railroad alone would equal the whole of maryland, new jersey and massachusetts. the land grants in the state of washington were about equivalent to the area of the same three states. three states the size of new hampshire could be carved out of the railroad grants in california. [footnote: "the railways, the trusts and the people": .] the alternate sections embraced in these states might be good or useless land; the value depended upon the locality. they might be the richest and finest of agricultural grazing, mineral or timber land or barren wastes and rocky mountain tops. for a while the railroad corporations appeared satisfied with their appropriations and allotments. but as time passed, and the powers of government became more and more directed by them, this plan naturally occurred: why not exchange the bad, for good, land? having found it so easy to possess themselves of so vast and valuable an area of former public domain, they calculated that no difficulty would be encountered in putting through another process of plundering. all that was necessary was to go through the formality of ordering congress to pass an act allowing them to exchange bad, for good, lands. this, however, could not be done too openly. the people must be blinded by an appearance of conserving public interests. the opportunity came when the forest reservation bill was introduced in congress--a bill to establish national forest reservations. no better vehicle could have been found for the project traveling in disguise. this bill was everywhere looked upon as a wise and statesmanlike measure for the preservation of forests; capitalist interests, in the pursuit of immediate profit, had ruthlessly denuded and destroyed immense forest stretches, causing, in turn, floods and destruction of life, property and of agriculture. part of the lands to be taken for the forest reservations included territory settled upon; it was argued as proper, therefore, that the evicted homesteaders should be indemnified by having the choice of lands elsewhere. so far, the measure looked well. but when it went to the conference committee of the two houses of congress, the railroad representatives artfully slipped in the four unobtrusive words, "or any other claimant." this quartet of words allowed the railway magnates to exchange millions of acres of desert and of denuded timber lands, arid hills and mountain tops covered with perpetual snow, for millions of the richest lands still remaining in the government's much diminished hold. so secretly was this transaction consummated that the public knew nothing about it; the subsidized newspapers printed not a word; it went through in absolute silence. the first protest raised was that of senator pettigrew, of south dakota, in the united states senate on may , . in a vigorous speech he disclosed the vast thefts going on under this act. congress, under the complete domination of the railroads, took no action to stop it. only when the fraud was fully accomplished did the railroads allow congress to go through the forms of deferring to public interests by repealing the law. [footnote: in a letter to the author senator pettigrew instances the case of the northern pacific railroad. "the northern pacific," he writes, "having patented the top of mount tacoma, with its perpetual snow and the rocky crags of the mountains elsewhere, which had been embraced within the forest reservation, could now swap these worthless lands, every acre, for the best valley and grazing lands owned by the government, and thus the northern pacific acquired about two million acres more of mineral, forest and farming lands."] coal lands expropriated not merely were the capitalist interests allowed to plunder the public domain from the people under these various acts, but another act was passed by congress, the "coal land act," purposely drawn to permit the railroads to appropriate great stretches of coal deposits. "already," wrote president roosevelt in a message to congress urging the repeal of the stone and timber act, the desert land law, the coal land act and similar enactments, "probably one-half of the total area of high-grade coals in the west has passed under private control. including both lignite and the coal areas, these private holdings aggregate not less than , , acres of coal fields." these urgings fell flat on a congress that included many members who had got their millions by reason of these identical laws, and which, as a body, was fully under the control of the dominant class of the day-- the capitalist class. the oligarchy of wealth was triumphantly, gluttonously in power; it was ingenuous folly to expect it to yield where it could vanquish, and concede where it could despoil. [footnote: nor did it yield. roosevelt's denunciations in no way affected the steady expropriating process. in the current seizure ( ) of vast coal areas in alaska, the long-continuing process can be seen at work under our very eyes. a controversy, in , between secretary of the interior ballinger and u. s. chief forester gifford pinchot brought a great scandal to a head. it was revealed that several powerful syndicates of capitalists had filed fraudulent claims to alaskan coal lands, the value of which is estimated to be from $ , , to $ , , , . at the present writing their claims, it is announced, are being investigated by the government. the charge has been made that secretary of the interior ballinger, after leaving the land commissioner's office--a post formerly held by him--became the attorney for the most powerful of these syndicates. at a recent session of the irrigation congress at spokane, washington, gov. pardee of california charged that the timber, the minerals and the soil had long since become the booty of corporations whose political control of public servants was notorious.] the thefts of the public domain have continued, without intermission, up to this present day, and doubtless will not cease until every available acre is appropriated. a recent report of h. h. schwartz, chief of the field service of the department of the interior, to secretary garfield, of that department, showed that in the two years from to alone, approximately $ , , worth of public land in states, principally west of the mississippi river, had been fraudulently acquired by capitalist corporations and individuals. this report disclosed more than thirty-two thousand cases of land fraud. the frauds on the part of various capitalist corporations in obtaining vast mineral deposits in alaska, and incalculably rich water power sites in montana and elsewhere, constitute one of the great current public scandals. it will be described fully elsewhere in this work. overlooking the petty, confusing details of the last seventy years, and focusing attention upon the large developments, this is the striking result beheld: a century ago no railroads existed; to-day the railroads not only own stupendous natural resources, expropriated from the people, but, in conjunction with allied capitalist interests, they dictate what the lot, political, economic and social, of the american people shall be. all of this transformation has come about within a relatively short period, much of it in our own time. but a little while ago the railroad projectors begged and implored, tricked and bribed; and had the law been enforced, would have been adjudged criminals and consigned to prison. and now, in the blazing power of their wealth, these same men or their successors are uncrowned kings, swaying the full powers of government, giving imperial orders that congress, legislatures, conventions and people must obey. an array of commanding facts. but this is not the only commanding fact. a much more important one lies in the astonishing ease with which the masses of the people have been discriminated against, exploited and oppressed. theoretically the power of government resides in the people, down to the humblest voter. this power, however, has been made the instrument for enslaving the very people supposed to be the wielders of political action. while congress, the legislatures and the executive and administrative officials have been industriously giving away public domain, public funds and perpetual rights to railroad and other corporations, they have almost entirely ignored the interests of the general run of people. the more capitalists they created, the harder it became for the poor to get settler's land on the public domain. congress continued passing acts by which, in most cases, the land was turned over to corporations. intending settlers had to buy it at exorbitant prices. this took place in nearly all of the states and territories. large numbers of people could not afford to pay the price demanded by the railroads, and consequently were compelled to herd in industrial centers. they were deliberately shut off from possession of the land. this situation was already acute twenty-five years ago. "the area of arable land open to settlement," pointed out secretary of the interior teller in a circular letter of may , , "is not great when compared with the increasing demand and is rapidly decreasing." all other official reports consistently relate the same conditions. [footnote: "the tract books of my office show," reported commissioner sparks, "that available public lands are already largely covered by entries, selections and claims of various kinds." the actual settler was compelled to buy up these claims, if, indeed, he was permitted to settle on the land.--u. s. senate ex. docs., - , vol. viii, doc. no. : .] at the same time, while being excluded from soil which had been national property, the working and farming class were subjected to either neglect or onerous laws. as a class, the capitalists had no difficulty at any time in securing whatever laws they needed; if persuasion by argument was not effective, bribery was. moreover, over and above corrupt purchase of votes was the feeling ingrained in legislators by the concerted teachings of society that the man of property should be looked up to; that he was superior to the common herd; that his interests were paramount and demanded nursing and protection. whenever a commercial crisis occurred, the capitalists secured a ready hearing and their measures were passed promptly. but millions of workers would be in enforced idleness and destitution, and no move was made to throw open public lands to them, or appropriate money, or start public works. such a proposed policy was considered "paternalism"--a catchword of the times implying that governmental care should not be exercised for the unfortunate, the weak and the helpless. and here was the anomaly of the so-called american democratic government. it was held legitimate and necessary that capital should be encouraged, but illegitimate to look out for the interests of the non-propertied. the capitalists were very few; the non-propertied, holding nominally the overwhelming voting power, were many. government was nothing more or less than a device for the nascent capitalist class to work out its inevitable purposes, yet the majority of the people, on whom the powers of class government severely fell, were constantly deluded into believing that the government represented them. whether federalist or anti-federalist, whig, republican or democratic party was in power, the capitalist class went forward victoriously and invincibly, the proof of which is seen in its present almost limitless power and possessions. chapter ii a necessary contrast if the whole might of government was used in the aggrandizement and perpetuation of a propertied aristocracy, what was its specific attitude toward the working class? of the powerful few, whether political or industrial, the conventional histories hand down grossly biased and distorted chronicles. these few are isolated from the multitude, and their importance magnified, while the millions of obscure are nowhere adequately described. such sterile historians proceed upon the perfunctory plan, derived from ancient usage in the days when kingcraft was supremely exalted, that it is only the mighty few whose acts are of any consequence, and that the doings of the masses are of no account. government by property interests. hence it is that most histories are mere registers of names and dates, dull or highly-colored hackneyed splurges of print giving no insight into actual conditions. in this respect most of the prevailing histories of the united states are the most egregious offenders. they fix the idea that this or that alleged statesman, this or that president or politician or set of politicians, have been the dominating factors in the decision and sway of public affairs. no greater error could be formulated. behind the ostentatious and imposing public personages of the different periods, the arbiters of laws and policies have been the men of property. they it was who really ruled both the arena and the arcana of politics. it was they, sometimes openly, but more usually covertly, who influenced and manipulated the entire sphere of government. it was they who raised the issues which divided the people into contesting camps and which often beclouded and bemuddled the popular mind. it was their material ideals and interests that were engrafted upon the fabric of society and made the prevailing standards of the day. from the start the united states government was what may be called a regime swayed by property. the revolution, as we have seen, was a movement by the native property interests to work out their own destiny without interference by the trading classes of great britain. the constitution of the united states, the various state constitutions, and the laws, were, we have set forth, all reflexes of the interests, aims, castes and prejudices of the property owners, as opposed to the non-propertied. at first, the landholders and the shipping merchants were the dictators of laws. then from these two classes and from the tradesmen sprang a third class, the bankers, who, after a continuous orgy of bribery, rose to a high pitch of power. at the same time, other classes of property owners were sharers in varying degrees in directing government. one of these was the slaveholders of the south, desperately increasing their clutch on government administration the more their institutions were threatened. the factory owners were likewise participants. however bitterly some of these propertied interests might war upon one another for supremacy, there was never a time when the majority of the men who sat in congress, the legislatures or the judges did not represent, or respond to, either the interests or the ideals of one or more of these divisions of the propertied classes. finally, out of the landowners, slaveowners, bankers, shippers, factory masters and tradesmen a new class of great power developed. this was the railroad-owning class. from about the year to it was the most puissant governing class in the united states, and only ceased being distinctly so when the industrial trusts became even mightier, and a time came when one trust alone, the standard oil company, was able to possess itself of vast railroad systems. these different components of the railroad-owning class had gathered in their money by either outright fraud or by the customary exploitative processes of the times. we have noted how many of the landholders secured their estates at one time or another by bribery or by invidiously fraudulent transactions; and how the bankers, who originally were either tradesmen, factory owners or landowners, had obtained their charters and privileges by widespread bribery. a portion of the money thus acquired was often used in bribing congress and legislatures for railroad charters, public funds, immense areas of land including forests and mines, and special laws of the most extraordinary character. conditions of the non-propertied. since government was actually, although not avowedly or apparently, a property regime, what was the condition of the millions of non- propertied? in order to get a correct understanding of both the philosophy and the significance of what manner of property rule was in force, it is necessary to give an accompanying sketch of the life of the millions of producers, and what kind of laws related to them. merely to narrate the acts of the capitalists of the period is of no enduring value unless it be accompanied by a necessary contrast of how government and capitalist acted toward the worker. it was the worker who tilled the ground and harvested the produce nourishing nations; whose labor, mental or manual, brought forth the thousand and one commodities, utensils, implements, articles and luxuries necessary to the material wants of civilization. verily, what of the great hosts of toilers who have done their work and shuffled off to oblivion? what were their aspirations, difficulties, movements and struggles? while government, controlled by both the men and the standards of property, was being used as a distributing instrument for centering resources and laws in the hands of a mere minority, what were its methods in dealing with the lowly and propertyless? furthermore, this contrast is indispensable for another reason. posterity ever has a blunt way of asking the most inquisitive questions. the inquirer for truth will not be content with the simple statement that many of the factory owners and tradesmen bribed representative bodies to give them railroad charters and bountiful largess. he will seek to know how, as specifically as the records allow, they got together that money. their nominal methods are of no weight; it is the portrayal of their real, basic methods which alone will satisfy the delver for actual facts. this is not the place for a voluminous account of the industrial development of the united states. we cannot halt here to give the full account of the origin and growth of that factory system which has culminated in the gigantic trusts of to-day. nor can we pause to deal with the manifold circumstances and methods involved in that expansion. the full tale of the rise and climax of industrial establishments; how they subverted the functions of government to their own ends; stole inventions right and left and drove inventors to poverty and to the grave; defrauded the community of incredible amounts by evading taxation; oppressed their workers to a degree that in future times will read like the acts of a class outsavaging the savage; bribed without intermission; slaughtered legions of men, women and children in the pursuit of profit; exploited the peoples of the globe remorselessly--all of this and more, constituting a weird chapter of horrors in the progress of the race, will be fully described in a later part of this work. [footnote: see "great fortunes from industries."] but in order to contribute a clear perspective of the methods and morals of a period when government was but the mannikin of property-- a period even more pronounced now--and to give a deeper insight into the conditions against which millions had to contend at a time when the railroad oligarchy was blown into life by government edict, a few important facts will be presented here. the sonorous doctrines of the declaration of independence read well, but they were not meant to be applied to the worker. the independence so much vaunted was the independence of the capitalist to do as he pleased. few, if any, restrictions were placed upon him; such pseudo restrictions as were passed from time to time were not enforced. on the other hand, the severest laws were enacted against the worker. for a long time it was a crime for him to go on a strike. in the first strike in this country of which there is any record--that of a number of sailors in new york city in , for better wages--the leader was arrested, indicted and sent to prison. the formidable machinery of government was employed by the ruling commercial and landed classes for a double purpose. on the one hand, they insisted that it should encourage capital, which phrase translated into action meant that it should confer grants of land, immense loans of public funds without interest, virtual immunity from taxation, an extra- legal taxing power, sweeping privileges, protective laws and clearly defined statute rights. the supremacy of employers. at the same time, while enriching themselves in every direction by transferring, through the powers of government, public resources to themselves, the capitalists declared it to be a settled principle that government should not be paternalistic; they asserted that it was not only not a proper governmental function to look out for the interests of the masses of workers, but they went even further. with the precedents of the english laws as an example, they held that it devolved upon government to keep the workers sternly within the bounds established by employers. in plain words, this meant that the capitalist was to be allowed to run his business as he desired. he could overwork his employees, pay them the lowest wages, and kill them off by forcing them to work under conditions in which the sacrifice of human life was held subordinate to the gathering of profits, or by forcing them to work or live in disease-breeding places. [footnote: the slum population of the united states increased rapidly. "according to the best estimates," stated the "seventh special report of the u. s. commissioner of labor--the slums of great cities, ," "the total slum population of baltimore is about , ; of chicago, , ; of new york, , ; of philadelphia, , " (p. ). the figures of the average weekly wages per individual of the slum population revealed why there was so large a slum population. in baltimore these wages were $ . - / per week; in chicago, $ . - / ; in new york, $ . , and in philadelphia, $ . per week (p. ). in his "modern social conditions," bailey, basing his statements upon the u. s. census of , asserted that , persons had died from tuberculosis in the united states in . "plenty of fresh air and sunlight," he wrote, "will kill the germs, and yet it is estimated that there are eight millions of people who will eventually die from consumption unless strenuous efforts are made to combat the disease. working in a confined atmosphere, and living in damp, poorly ventilated rooms, the dwellers in the tenements of the great cities fall easy victims to the great white plague." (p. ).] the law, which was the distinct expression of the interests of the capitalist, upheld his right to do all this. yet if the workers protested; if they sought to improve their condition by joining in that community of action called a strike, the same code of laws adjudged them criminals. at once, the whole power of law, with its police, military and judges, descended upon them, and either drove them back to their tasks or consigned them to prison. the conditions under which the capitalists made their profits, and under which the workers had to toil, were very oppressive to the workers. the hours of work at that period were from sunrise to sunset. usually this rule, especially in the seasons of long days, required twelve, and very often fourteen and sixteen, hours a day. yet the so-called statesmen and the pretentious cultured and refined classes of the day, saw nothing wrong in this exploitation. the reason was obvious. their power, their elegant mansions, their silks and satins, their equipage and superior opportunities for enjoyment all were based upon the sweat and blood of these so-called free white men, women and children of the north, who toiled even harder than the chattel black slave of the south, and who did not receive a fraction of the care and thought bestowed, as a corrollary of property, upon the black slave. already the capitalists of the north had a slavery system in force far more effective than the chattel system of the south--a system the economic superiority of which was destined to overthrow that of black slavery. most historians, taking their cue from the intellectual subserviency demanded of them by the ruling propertied classes, delight in picturing those times as "the good old times," when the capitalists were benevolent and amiable, and the workers lived in peace and plenty. an incessant warfare. history in the main, thus far, has been an institution for the propagation of lies. the truth is that for thousands of years back, since the private property system came into existence, an incessant, uncompromising warfare has been going on between oppressors and oppressed. apart from the class distinctions and the bitterness manifested in settlement and colonial times in this country-- reference to which has been given in earlier chapters--the whole of the nineteenth century, and thus far of this century, has been a continuous industrial struggle. it has been the real warfare of modern times. in this struggle the propertied classes had the great advantage from the start. centuries of rulership had taught them that the control of government was the crux of the mastery. by possession of government they had the power of making laws; of the enforcement or non- enforcement of those laws; of the directorship of police, army, navy, courts, jails and prisons--all terrible instruments for suppressing any attempt at protest, peaceful or otherwise. notwithstanding this massing of power and force, the working class has at no time been passive or acquiescent. it has allowed itself to be duped; it has permitted its ranks to be divided by false issues; it has often been blind at critical times, and has made no concerted effort as yet to get intelligent possession of the great strategic point,-- governmental power. nevertheless, despite these mistakes, it has been in a state of constant rebellion; and the fact that it has been so, that its aspirations could not be squelched by jails, prisons and cannon nor by destitution or starvation, furnishes the sublimest record in all the annals of mankind. the workers' struggle for better conditions. again and again the workers attempted to throw off some of their shackles, and every time the whole dominant force of society was arrayed against them. by an agitation developed for a ten-hour workday. the politicians denounced the movement; the cultured classes frowned upon it; the newspapers alternately ridiculed and abused it; the officials prepared to take summary action to put it down. as for the capitalists--the shipping merchants, the boot and shoe manufacturers, the iron masters and others--they not only denied the right of the workers to organize, while insisting that they themselves were entitled to combine, but they inveighed against the ten-hour demand as "unreasonable conditions which the folly and caprice of a few journeymen mechanics may dictate." "a very large sum of money," says mcneill, "was subscribed by the merchants to defeat the ten-hour movement." [footnote: "the labor movement": .] and as an evidence of the intense opposition to the workers' demands for a change from a fourteen to a ten-hour day, mcneill quotes from a boston newspaper of : had this unlawful combination had for its object the enhancement of daily wages, it would have been left to its own care; but it now strikes the very nerve of industry and good morals by dictating the hours of labor, abrogating the good old rule of our fathers and pointing out the most direct course to poverty; for to be idle several of the most useful hours of the morning and evening will surely lead to intemperance and ruin. these, generally speaking, were the stock capitalists arguments of the day, together with the further reiterated assertion that it was impossible to conduct business on a ten-hour day system. the effect of the fourteen-hour day upon the workers was pernicious. having no time for reading, self-education, social intercourse or acquainting themselves with refinement, they often developed brutal propensities. in proportion to the length of time and the rigor with which they were exploited, they degenerated morally and intellectually. this was a well-known fact, and was frequently commented upon by contemporaneous observers. their employers could not fail to know it, yet, with few exceptions, they insisted that any movement to shorten the day's labor was destructive of good morals. this pronouncement, however, need not arouse comment. ever has the propertied class set itself up as the lofty guardian of morals although actuated by sordid self-interest and nothing more. many workers were driven to drink, crime and suicide by the exasperating and deteriorating conditions under which they had to labor. the moment that they overstepped the slightest bounds of law, in rushed the authorities with summary punishment. the prisons of the period were full of mechanics whom serfdom or poverty had stung on to commit some crime or other. however trifling the offence, or whatever the justifiable provocation, the law made no trades-union memorialized congress to limit the hours of labor of those employed on the public works to ten hours a day. the pathos of this petition! so unceasingly had the workers been lied to by politicians, newspapers, clergy and employers, that they did not realize that in applying to congress or to any legislature, that they were begging from men who represented the antagonistic interests of their own employers. after a short debate congress laid the petition on the table. congress at this very time was spinning out laws in behalf of capitalist interests; granting public lands, public funds, protective tariffs and manifold other measures demanded or lobbied for by existing or projected corporations. a memorial of a "portion of the laboring classes of the city of new york in relation to the money market" complained to congress in that the powers of the government were used against the working class. "you are not ignorant," they petitioned, that our state legislatures have, by a usurpation of power which is expressly withheld by our federal constitution, chartered many companies to engage in the manufacture of paper money; and that the necessities of the laboring classes have compelled them to give it currency. the strongest argument against this measure is, that by licensing any man or set of men to manufacture money, instead of earning it, we virtually license them to take so much of the property of the community as they may happen to fancy, without contributing to it at all--an injustice so enormous that it is incapable of any defense and therefore needs no comment. ... that the profits of capital are abstracted from the earnings of labor, and that these deductions, like any other tax on industry, tend to diminish the value of money by increasing the price of all the fruits of labor, are facts beyond dispute; it is equally undeniable that there is a point which capitalists cannot exceed without injuring themselves, for when by their exertions they so far depreciate the value of money at home that it is sent abroad, many are thrown out of employ, and are not only disabled from paying their tribute, _but are forced to betake to dishonest courses or starve_. this memorial was full of iron and stern truths, although much of its political economy was that of its own era; a very different petition, it will be noticed, from the appealing, cringing petitions sent timidly to congress by the conservative, truckling labor leaders of later times. the memorial continued; the remaining laborers are then loaded with additional burdens to provide laws and prisons and standing armies to keep order; expensive wars are created merely to lull for a time the clamors for employment; each new burden aggravates the disease, and national death finally ends it. the power of capital, was, the memorial read on, "in the nature of things, regulated by the proportion that the numbers of, and competition among, capitalists bears to the number and destitution of laborers." the only sure way of benefiting labor, "and the way best calculated to benefit all classes," was to diminish the destitution among the working classes. and the remedy proposed in the memorial? a settled principle of national policy should be laid down by congress that the whole of the remaining of the public lands should forever continue to be the public property of the nation "and accordingly, cause them to be laid out from time to time, as the wants of the population might require, in small farms with a suitable proportion of building lots for mechanics, for the free use of any native citizen and his descendants who might be at the expense of clearing them." this policy "would establish a perpetual counterpoise to the absorbing power of capital." the memorial concluded: these lands have been bought with public money every cent of which is in the end derived from the earnings of the laboring classes. and while the public money has been liberally employed to protect and foster trade, government has never, to our knowledge, adopted but one measure (the protective tariff system) with a distinct view to promote the interests of labor; and all of the advantages of this one have been absorbed by the preponderating power of capital. [footnote: executive documents, first session, twenty-third congress, , doc. no. .] employment of militia against the workers. but it was not only the national government which used the entire governing power against the workers. state and municipal authorities did likewise. in the longshoremen in new york city struck for an increase of wages. their employers hurriedly substituted non-union men in their places. when the union men went from dock to dock, trying to induce the newcomers to side with them, the shipping merchants pretended that a riot was under way and made frantic calls upon the authorities for a subduing force. the mayor ordered out the militia with loaded guns. in philadelphia similar scenes took place. naturally, as the strikers were prevented by the soldiers from persuading their fellow workers, they lost the strikes. although labor-saving machinery was constantly being devised and improved to displace hand labor, and although the skilled worker was consequently producing far more goods than in former years, the masters--as the capitalists were then often termed--insisted that employees must work for the same wages and hours as had long prevailed. by , however, the labor unions had arrived at a point where they were very powerful in some of the crafts, and employers grudgingly had to recognize that the time had passed by when the laborer was to be treated like a serf. a few enlightened employers voluntarily conceded the ten-hour day, not on any humane grounds, but because they reasoned that it would promote greater efficiency on the part of their workers. many capitalists, perforce, had to yield to the demand. other capitalists determined to break up the unions on the ground that they were a conspiracy. at the instigation of several boot and shoe manufacturers, the officials of boston brought a suit against the boston journeymen bootmakers' society. the court ruled against the bootmakers and the jury brought in a verdict of guilty. on appeal to the supreme court, robert rantoul, the attorney for the society, so ably demolished the prosecution's points, that the court could not avoid setting aside the judgment of the inferior court. [footnote: commonwealth vs. hunt and others; metcalf's supreme court reports, iv: iii. the prosecution had fallen back on the old english law of the time of queen elizabeth, making it a criminal offence for workingmen to refuse to work under certain wages. this law, rantoul argued, had not been specifically adopted as common law in the united states after the revolution.] perhaps the growing power of the labor unions had its effect upon those noble minds, the judiciary. the worker was no longer detached from his fellow workmen: he could no longer be scornfully shoved aside as a weak, helpless individual. he now had the strength of association and organization. the possibility of such strength transferred to politics affrighted the ruling classes. where before this, the politicians had contemptuously treated the worker's petitions, certain that he could always be led blindly to vote the usual partisan tickets, it now dawned upon them that it would be wiser to make an appearance of deference and to give some concessions which, although of a slight character, could be made to appear important. the workingmen's party of had shown a glimmer of what the worker could do when aroused to class-conscious action. cajoling the labor vote. now it was that the politicians began the familiar policy of "catering to the labor vote." some rainbow promises of what they would do, together with a few scraps of legislation now and then-- this constituted the bait held out by the politicians. that adroit master of political chicanery, president van buren, hastened to issue an executive order on april , , directing the establishment of a ten-hour day, between april and september, in the navy yards. from the last day of october, however, until march , the "working hours will be from the rising to the setting of the sun"--a length of time equivalent, meal time deducted, to about ten hours. the political trick of throwing out crumbs to the workers long proved successful. but it was supplemented by other methods. to draw the labor leaders away from a hostile stand to the established political parties, and to prevent the massing of workers in a party of their own, the politicians began an insidious system of bribing these leaders to turn traitors. this was done by either appointing them to some minor political office or by giving them money. in many instances, the labor unions in the ensuing decades were grossly betrayed. finally, the politicians always had large sums of election funds contributed by merchants, bankers, landowners, railroad owners--by all parts of the capitalist class. these funds were employed in corrupting the electorate and legislative bodies. caucuses and primaries were packed, votes bought, ballot boxes stuffed and election returns falsified. it did not matter to the corporations generally which of the old political parties was in power; some manufacturers or merchants might be swayed to one side or the other for the self-interest involved in the reenactment of the protective tariff or the establishment of free trade; but, as a rule, the corporations, as a matter of business, contributed money to both parties. the basis of political parties. however these parties might differ on various issues, they both stood for the perpetuation of the existing social and industrial system based upon capitalist ownership. the tendency of the republican party, founded in , toward the abolition of negro chattel slavery was in precise harmony with the aims and fundamental interests of the manufacturing capitalists of the north. the only peril that the capitalist class feared was the creation of a distinct, disciplined and determined workingmen's party. this they knew would, if successful, seriously endanger and tend to sweep away the injustices and oppressions upon which they, the capitalists, subsisted. to avert this, every ruse and expedient was resorted to: derision, undermining, corruption, violence, imprisonment--all of these and other methods were employed by that sordid ruling class claiming for itself so pretentious and all-embracing a degree of refinement, morality and patriotism. surveying historical events in a large way, however, it is by no means to be regretted that capitalism had its own unbridled way, and that its growth was not checked. its development to the unbearable maximum had to come in order to prepare the ripe way for a newer stage in civilization. the capitalist was an outgrowth of conditions as they existed both before, and during, his time. he fitted as appropriate a part in his time as the predatory baron in feudal days. but in this sketch we are not dealing with historical causes or sequences as much as with events and contrasts. the aim is to give a sufficient historical perspective of times when government was manipulated by the capitalist class for its own aggrandizement, and to despoil and degrade the millions of producers. the imminence of working-class action was an ever present and disturbing menace to the capitalists. to give one of many instances of how the workers were beginning to realize the necessity of this action, and how the capitalists met it, let us instance the resolutions of the new england workingmen's association, adopted in . with the manifold illustrations in mind of how the powers of government had been used and were being increasingly used to expropriate the land, the resources and the labor and produce of the many, and bond that generation and future generations under a multitude of law-created rights and privileges, this association declared in its preamble: whereas, we, the mechanics and workingmen of new england are convinced by the sad experience of years that under the present arrangement of society labor is and must be the slave of wealth; and, whereas, the producers of all wealth are deprived not merely of its enjoyment, but also of the social and civil rights which belong to humanity and the race; and, whereas, we are convinced that reform of those abuses must depend upon ourselves only; and, whereas, we believe that in intelligence alone is strength, we hereby declare our object to be union for power, power to bless humanity, and to further this object resolve ourselves into an association. one of the leading spirits in this movement was charles a. dana, a young professional man of great promise and exceptional attainments. subsequently he was bought off with a political office; he became not only a renegade of the most virulent type, but he leagued himself with the greatest thieves of the day--tweed and jay gould, for example--received large bribes for defending them and their interests in a newspaper of which he became the owner--the new york _sun_ --and spent his last years bitterly and cynically attacking, ridiculing and misrepresenting the labor movement, and made himself the most conspicuous editorial advocate for every thieving plutocrat or capitalist measure. the year about marked the zenith of the era of the capitalist seizing of the public domain. by that time the railroad and other corporations had possessed themselves of a large part of the area now vested in their ownership. at that very time an army of workers, estimated at , , , was out of employment. yet it was not considered a panic year; certainly the industrial establishments of the country were not in the throes of a commercial cataclysm such as happened in and previous periods. the cities were overcrowded with the destitute and homeless; along every country road and railroad track could be seen men, singly or in pairs, tramping from place to place looking for work. many of those unemployed were native americans. a large number were aliens who had been induced to migrate by the alluring statements of the steamship companies to whose profit it was to carry large batches; by the solicitations of the agents of american corporations seeking among the oppressed peoples of the old world a generous supply of cheap, unorganized labor; or by the spontaneous prospect of bettering their condition politically or economically. millions of poor europeans were thus persuaded to come over, only to find that the promises held out to them were hollow. they found that they were exploited in the united states even worse industrially than in their native country. as for political freedom their sanguine hopes were soon shattered. they had votes after a certain period of residence, it was true, but they saw--or at least the intelligent of them soon discerned--that the personnel and laws of the united states government were determined by the great capitalists. the people were allowed to go through the form of voting; the moneyed interests, by controlling the machinery of the dominant political parties, dictated who the candidates, and what the so-called principles, of those parties should be. the same program was witnessed at every election. the electorate was stimulated with excitement and enthusiasm over false issues and dominated candidates. the more the power and wealth of the capitalist class increased, the more openly the government became ultra-capitalistic. wealth and the sway of direct power it was about this time that the senate of the united states was undergoing a transformation clearly showing how impatient the great capitalists were of operating government through middlemen legislators. previously, the manufacturing, railroad and banking interests had, on the whole, deemed it wise not to exercise this power directly but indirectly. the representatives sent to congress were largely lawyers elected by their influence and money. the people at large did not know the secret processes back of these legislators. the press, advocating, as a whole, the interests of the capitalist class, constantly portrayed the legislators as great and patriotic statesmen. but the magnates saw that the time had arrived when some empty democratic forms of government could be waved aside, and the power exercised openly and directly by them. presently we find such men as leland stanford, of the pacific railroad quartet, and one of the arch-bribers and thieves of the time, entering the united states senate after debauching the california legislature; george hearst, a mining magnate, and others of that class. more and more this assumption of direct power increased, until now it is reckoned that there are at least eighty millionaires in congress. many of them have been multimillionaires controlling, or representing corporations having a controlling share in vast industries, transportation and banking systems--men such as senator elkins, of west virginia; clark, of montana; platt and depew, of new york; guggenheim, of colorado; knox, of pennsylvania; foraker, of ohio, and a quota of others. the popular jest as to the united states senate being a "millionaires' club" has become antiquated; much more appropriately it could be termed a "multimillionaires' club." while in both houses of congress are legislators who represent the almost extinguished middle class, their votes are as ineffective as their declamations are flat. the government of the united states, viewing it as an entirety, and not considering the impotent exceptions, is now more avowedly a capitalist government than ever before. as for the various legislatures, the magnates, coveting no seats in those bodies, are content to follow the old plan of mastering them by either direct bribery or by controlling the political bosses in charge of the political machines. since the interests of the capitalists from the start were acutely antagonistic to those of the workers and of the people in general from whom their profits came, no cause for astonishment can be found in the refusal of government to look out, even in trifling ways, for the workers' welfare. but it is of the greatest and most instructive interest to give a succession of contrasts. and here some complex factors intervene. those cold, unimpassioned academicians who can perpetuate fallacies and lies in the most polished and dispassionate language, will object to the statement that the whole of governing institutions has been in the hands of thieves--great, not petty, thieves. and yet the facts, as we have seen (and will still further see), bear out this assertion. government was run and ruled at basis by the great thieves, as it is conspicuously to-day. the passing of the middle class. yet let us not go so fast. it is necessary to remember that the last few decades have constituted a period of startling transitions. the middle class, comprising the small business and factory men, stubbornly insisted on adhering to worn-out methods of doing business. its only conception of industry was that of the methods of the year . it refused to see that the centralization of industry was inevitable, and that it meant progress. it lamented the decay of its own power, and tried by every means at its command to thwart the purposes of the trusts. this middle class had bribed and cheated and had exploited the worker. for decades it had shaped public opinion to support the dictum that "competition was the life of trade." it had, by this shaping of opinion, enrolled on its side a large number of workers who saw only the temporary evils, and not the ultimate good, involved in the scientific organization and centralization of industry. the middle class put through anti-trust laws and other measure after measure aimed at the great combinations. these great combinations had, therefore, a double fight on their hands. on the one hand they had to resist the trades unions, and on the other, the middle class. it was necessary to their interests that centralization of industry should continue. in fact, it was historically and economically necessary. consequently they had to bend every effort to make nugatory any effort of government, both national and state, to enforce the anti-trust laws. the thing had to be done no matter how. it was intolerable that industrial development could be stopped by a middle class which, for self-interest, would have kept matters at a standstill. self-interest likewise demanded that the nascent combinations and trusts get and exercise governmental power by any means they could use. for a while triumphant in passing certain laws which, it was fatuously expected, would wipe the trusts out of existence, the middle class was hopelessly beaten and routed. by their far greater command of resources and money, the great magnates were able to frustrate the execution of those laws, and gradually to install themselves or their tools in practically supreme power. the middle class is now becoming a mere memory. even the frantic efforts of president roosevelt in its behalf were of absolutely no avail; the trusts are mightier than ever before, and hold a sway the disputing of which is ineffective. the trusts and the unemployed. with this newer organization and centralization of industry the number of unemployed tremendously increased. in the panic of it reached about , , ; in that of perhaps , , , certainly , , . to the appalling suffering on every hand the government remained indifferent. the reasons were two-fold: government was administered by the capitalist class whose interest it was not to allow any measure to be passed which might strengthen the workers, or decrease the volume of surplus labor; the second was that government was basically the apotheosis of the current commercial idea that the claims of property were superior to those of human life. it can be said without exaggeration that high functionary after high functionary in the legislative or executive branches of the government, and magnate after magnate had committed not only one violation, but constant violations, of the criminal law. they were unmolested; having the power to prevent it they assuredly would not suffer themselves to undergo even the farce of prosecution. such few prosecutions as were started with suspicious bluster by the government against the standard oil company, the sugar trust, the tobacco trust and other trusts proved to be absolutely harmless, and have had no result except to strengthen the position of the trusts. the great magnates reaped their wealth by an innumerable succession of frauds and thefts. but the moment that wealth or the basis of that wealth were threatened in the remotest by any law or movement, the whole body of government, executive, legislative and judicial, promptly stepped in to protect it intact. the workers, however, from whom the wealth was robbed, were regarded in law as criminals the moment they became impoverished. if homeless and without visible means of support, they were subject to arrest as vagabonds. numbers of them were constantly sent to prison or, in some states, to the chain-gang. if they ventured to hold mass meetings to urge the government to start a series of public works to relieve the unemployed, their meetings were broken up and the assembled brutally clubbed, as happened in tompkins square in new york city in the panic of , in washington in , and in chicago and in union square, new york city, in the panic of . the newspapers represented these meetings as those of irresponsible agitators, inciting the "mob" to violence. the clubbing of the unemployed and the judicial murder of their spokesman, has long been a favorite repression method of the authorities. but as for allowing them freedom of speech, considering the grievances, putting forth every effort to relieve their condition,--these do not seem to have come within the scope of that government whose every move has been one of intense hostility--now open, again covert--to the working class. this running sketch, which is to be supplemented by the most specific details, gives a sufficient insight into the debasement and despoiling of the working class while the capitalists were using the government as an expropriating machine. meanwhile, how was the great farming class faring? what were the consequences to this large body of the seizure by a few of the greater part of the public domain? the state of the farming population. the conditions of the farming population, along with that of the working class, steadily grew worse. in the hope of improving their condition large numbers migrated from the eastern states, and a constant influx of agriculturists poured in from europe. a comparatively few of the whole were able to get land direct from the government. naturally the course of this extensive migration followed the path of transportation, that is to say, of the railroads. this was exactly what the railroad corporations had anticipated. as a rule the migrating farmers found the railroads or cattlemen already in possession of many of the best lands. to give a specific idea of how vast and widespread were the railroad holdings in the various states, this tabulation covering the years up to will suffice: in the states of florida, louisiana, alabama and mississippi about , , acres in all; in wisconsin, , , acres; missouri, , , acres; arkansas, , , acres; illinois, , , acres; iowa, , , acres; michigan, , , acres; minnesota, , , acres; nebraska, , , acres; colorado, , , acres; the state of washington, , , acres; new mexico, , , acres; in the dakotas, , , acres; oregon, , , acres; montana, , , acres; california, , , ; idaho, , , , and utah, , , . [footnote: "the public domain," house ex. doc. no. , third session, forty-sixth congress: .] prospective farmers had to pay the railroads exorbitant prices for land. very often they had not sufficient funds; a mortgage or two would be signed; and if the farmer had a bad season or two, and could no longer pay the interest, foreclosure would result. but whether crops were good or bad, the american farmer constantly had to compete in the grain markets of the world with the cheap labor of india and russia. and inexorably, east or west, north or south, he was caught between a double fire. on the one hand, in order to compete with the immense capitalist farms gradually developing, he had to give up primitive implements and buy the most improved agricultural machines. for these he was charged five and six times the sum it cost the manufacturers to make and market them. usually if he could not pay for them outright, the manufacturers took out a mortgage on his farm. large numbers of these mortgages were foreclosed. in addition, the time had passed when the farmer made his own clothes and many other articles. for everything that he bought he had to pay excessive prices. he, even more than the industrial working classes, had to pay an enormous manufacturer's profit, and additionally the high freight railroad rate. on the other hand, the great capitalist agencies directly dealing with the crops--the packing houses, the gambling cotton and produce exchanges--actually owned, by a series of manipulations, a large proportion of his crops before they were out of the ground. these crops were sold to the working class at exorbitant prices. the small farmer labored incessantly, only to find himself getting poorer. it served political purpose well to describe glowingly the farmer's prosperity; but the greater crops he raised, the greater the profit to the railroad companies and to various other divisions of the capitalist class. his was the labor and worry; they gathered in the financial harvest. methods of the great landowners. while thus the produce of the farmer's labor was virtually confiscated by the different capitalist combinations, the farmers of many states, particularly of the rich agricultural states of the west, were unable to stand up against the encroachments, power, and the fraudulent methods of the great capitalist landowners. the land frauds in the state of california will serve as an example. acting under the authority of various measures passed by congress-- measures which have been described--land grabbers succeeded in obtaining possession of an immense area in that state. perjury, fraudulent surveys and entries, collusion with government officials-- these were a few of the many methods. jose limantour, by an alleged grant from a mexican governor, and collusion with officials, almost succeeded in stealing more than half a million acres. henry miller, who came to the united states as an immigrant in , is to-day owner of , , acres of the richest land in california and oregon. it embraces more than , square miles, a territory three times as large as new jersey. the stupendous land frauds in all of the western and pacific states by which capitalists obtained "an empire of land, timber and mines" are amply described in numerous documents of the period. these land thieves, as was developed in official investigations, had their tools and associates in the land commissioner's office, in the government executive departments, and in both houses of congress. the land grabbers did their part in driving the small farmer from the soil. bailey millard, who extensively investigated the land frauds in california, after giving full details, says: when you have learned these things it is not difficult to understand how one hundred men in the great sacramento valley have come to own over , , acres, while in the san joaquin valley it is no uncommon thing for one man's name to stand for , acres. this grabbing of large tracts has discouraged immigration to california more than any other single factor. a family living on a small holding in a vast plain, with hardly a house in sight, will in time become a very lonely family indeed, and will in a few years be glad to sell out to the land king whose domain is adjacent. thousands of small farms have in this way been acquired by the large holders at nominal prices. [footnote: "the west coast land grabbers." everybody's magazine, may, .] seizure of immense areas by fraud. official reports of the period, contemporaneous with the original seizure of these immense tracts of land, give far more specific details of the methods by which that land was obtained. of the numerous reports of committees of the california legislature, we will here simply quote one--that of the swamp land investigating committee of the california assembly of . dealing with the fraudulent methods by which huge areas of the finest lands in california were obtained for practically nothing as "swamp" land, this committee reported, citing from what it termed a "mighty mass of evidence," "that through the connivance of parties, surveyors were appointed who segregated lands as 'swamp,' which were not so in fact. the corruption existing in the land department of the general government has aided this system of fraud." also, the committee commented with deep irony, "the loose laws of the state, governing all classes of state lands, has enabled wealthy parties to obtain much of it under circumstances which, in some countries, where laws are more rigid and terms less refined, would be termed fraudulent, but we can only designate it as keen foresight and wise (for the land grabbers) construction of loose, unwholesome laws." [footnote: report of the swamp land investigating committee, appendix to california journals of senate and assembly. twentieth session, , vol. iv, doc. no. : . ] after recording its findings that it was satisfied from the evidence that "the grossest frauds have been committed in swamp matters in this state, "the committee went on: formerly it was the custom to permit filings upon real or alleged swamp lands, and to allow the applications to lie unacted upon for an indefinite number of years, at the option of the applicants. in these cases, parties on the "inside" of the land office "ring" had but to wait until some one should come along who wanted to take up these lands in good faith, and they would "sell out" to them their "rights" to land on which they had never paid a cent, nor intended to pay a cent. or, if the nature of the land was doubtful, they would postpone all investigation until the height of the floods during the rainy season, when surveyors, in interest with themselves, would be sent out to make favorable reports as to the "swampy" character of the land. in the mountain valleys and on the other side of the sierras, the lands are overflowed from melting snow exactly when the water is most wanted; but the simple presence of the water is all that is necessary to show to the speculators that the land is "swamp," and it therefore presents an inviting opportunity for this grasping cupidity. [footnote: report of the swamp land investigating committee, etc., .] in his exhaustive report for , commissioner sparks, of the general land office, described at great length the vast frauds that had continuously been going on in the granting of alleged "swamp" lands, and in fraudulent surveys, in many states and territories. [footnote: house documents, first session, forty-ninth congress, - , vol. ii.] "i thus found this office," he wrote, "a mere instrumentality in the hands of 'surveying rings.'" [footnote: ibid., ] "sixteen townships examined in colorado in were found to have been surveyed on paper only, no actual surveying having been done. [footnote: ibid., ] in twenty-two other townships examined in colorado, purporting to have been surveyed under a "special- deposit" contract awarded in , the surveys were found wholly fraudulent in seven, while the other fifteen were full of fraud." [footnote: house documents, etc., - , ii: ] these are a very few of the numerous instances cited by commissioner sparks. although the law restricted surveys to agricultural lands and for homestead entries, yet the land office had long corruptly allowed what it was pleased to term certain "liberal regulations." surveys were so construed as to include any portion of townships the "larger portion" of which was not "known" to be of a mineral character. these "regulations," which were nothing more or less than an extra-legal license to land-grabbers, also granted surveys for desert lands and timber lands under the timber-land act. by the terms of this act, it will be recalled, those who entered and took title to desert and timber lands were not required to be actual settlers. thus, it was only necessary for the surveyors in the hire of the great land grabbers to report fine grazing, agricultural, timber or mineral land as "desert land," and vast areas could be seized by single individuals or corporations with facility. two specific laws directly contributed to the effectiveness of this spoliation. one act, passed by congress on may , , authorized surveys to be made at the expense of settlers in the townships that those settlers desired surveyed. another act, called the deposit act, passed in , provided that the amounts deposited by settlers should be partly applied in payment for the lands thus surveyed. together, these two laws made the grasping of land on an extensive scale a simple process. the "settler" (which so often meant, in reality, the capitalist) could secure the collusion of the land office, and have fraudulent surveys made. under these surveys he could lay claim to immense tracts of the most valuable land and have them reported as "swamp" or "desert" lands; he could have the boundaries of original claims vastly enlarged; and the fact that part of his disbursements for surveying was considered as a payment for those lands, stood in law as virtually a confirmation of his claim. actual settlers excluded from public domain. "wealthy speculators and powerful syndicates," reported commissioner sparks, covet the public domain, and a survey is the first step in the accomplishment of this desire. the bulk of deposit surveys have been made in timber districts and grazing regions, and the surveyed lands have immediately been entered under the timber land, preëmption, commuted homestead, timber-culture and desert-land acts. so thoroughly organized has been the entire system of procuring the survey and making illegal entry of lands, that agents and attorneys engaged in this business have been advised of every official proceeding, and enabled to present entry applications for the lands at the very moment of the filing of the plots of survey in the local land offices. prospectors employed by lumber firms and corporations seek out and report the most valuable timber tracts in california, oregon, washington territory or elsewhere; settler's applications are manufactured as a basis for survey; contracts are entered into and pushed through the general land office in hot haste; a skeleton survey is made... entry papers, made perfect in form by competent attorneys, are filed in bulk, and the manipulators enter into possession of the land. . . . this has been the course of proceeding heretofore. [footnote: house documents, etc., - , ii: .] commissioner sparks described a case where it was discovered by his special agents in california that an english firm had obtained , acres of the choicest red-wood lands in that state. these lands were then estimated to be worth $ an acre. the cost of procuring surveys and fraudulent entries did not probably exceed $ an acre. [footnote: house ex. docs., etc., - , ii: .] "in the same manner," commissioner sparks continued, "extensive coal deposits in our western territory are acquired in mass through expedited surveys, followed by fraudulent pre-emption and commuted homestead entries." [footnote: ibid.] he went on to tell that nearly the whole of the territory (now state) of wyoming, and large portions of montana, had been surveyed under the deposit system, and the lands on the streams fraudulently taken up under the desert land act, to the exclusion of actual settlers. nearly all of colorado, the very best cattle-raising portions of new mexico, the rich timber lands of california, the splendid forest lands of washington territory and the principal part of the extensive pine lands of minnesota had been fraudulently seized in the same way. [footnote: ibid., .] in all of the western states and territories these fraudulent surveys had accomplished the seizure of the best and most valuable lands. "to enable the pressing tide of western immigration to secure homes upon the public domain," commissioner sparks urged, "it is necessary... that hundreds of millions of acres of public lands now appropriated should be wrested from illegal control." [footnote: ibid.] but nothing was done to recover these stolen lands. at the very time commissioner sparks--one of the very few incorruptible commissioners of public lands,--was writing this, the land-grabbing interests were making the greatest exertions to get him removed. during his tenure of office they caused him to be malevolently harassed and assailed. after he left office they resumed complete domination of the land commissioner's bureau. [footnote: the methods of capitalists in causing the removal of officials who obstructed or exposed their crimes and violent seizure of property were continuous and long enduring. it was a very old practice. when astor was debauching and swindling indian tribes, he succeeded, it seems, by exerting his power at washington, in causing government agents standing in his way to be dismissed from office. the following is an extract from a communication, in , of the u. s. indian agent at green bay, wisconsin, to the u. s. superintendent of indian trade: "the indians are frequently kept in a state of intoxication, giving their furs, etc., at a great sacrifice for whiskey.... the agents of mr. astor hold out the idea that they will, ere long be able to break down the factories [government agencies]; and they menace the indian agents and others who may interfere with them, with dismission from office through mr. astor. they say that a representation from messrs. crooks and stewart (mr. astor's agents) led to the dismission of the indian agent at mackinac, and they also say that the indian agent here is to be dismissed...."--u.s. senate documents, first session, seventeenth congress, - , vol. i, doc. no. : - .] the gigantic private land claim frauds. the frauds in the settlement of private land claims on alleged grants by spain and mexico were colossal. vast estates in california, new mexico, arizona, colorado and other states were obtained by collusion with the government administrative officials and congress. these were secured upon the strength of either forged documents purporting to be grants from the spanish or mexican authorities, or by means of fraudulent surveys. one of the most notorious of these was the beaubin and miranda grant, otherwise famous thirty years ago as the maxwell land grant. a reference to it here is indispensable. it was by reason of this transaction, as well as by other similar transactions, that one of the american multimillionaires obtained his original millions. this individual was stephen b. elkins, at present a powerful member of the united states senate, and one of the ruling oligarchy of wealth. he is said to possess a fortune of at least $ , , , and his daughter, it is reported, is to marry the duke of the abruzzi, a scion of the royal family of italy. the new mexico claim of beaubin and miranda transferred to l. b. maxwell, was allowed by the government in , but for ninety-six thousand acres only. the owner refused to comply with the law, and in the department of the interior ordered the grant to be treated as public lands and thrown open to settlement. despite this order, the government officials in new mexico, acting in collusion with other interested parties, illegally continued to assess it as private property. in a fraudulent tax sale was held, and the grant, fraudulently enlarged to , , . acres, was purchased by m. m. mills, a member of the new mexico legislature. he transferred the title to t. b. catron, the united states attorney for new mexico. presently elkins turned up as the principal owner. the details of how this claim was repeatedly shown up to be fraudulent by land commissioners and congressional committees; how the settlers in new mexico fought it and sought to have it declared void, and the law enforced; [footnote: "land titles in new mexico and colorado," house reports first session, fifty-second congress, - , vol. iv, report no. . also, house reports, first session, fifty-second congress, - , vol. vii, report no. . also, house reports, first session, forty-ninth congress, - , ii: .] and how elkins, for some years himself a delegate in congress from new mexico, succeeded in having the grant finally validated on technical grounds, and "judicially cleared" of all taint of fraud, by an astounding decision of the supreme court of the united states--a decision contrary to the facts as specifically shown by successive government officials--all of these details are set forth fully in another part of this work. [footnote: see "the elkins fortune," in vol. iii.] the forgeries and fraudulent surveys by which these huge estates were secured were astoundingly bold and frequent. large numbers of private land claims, rejected by various land commissioners as fraudulent, were corruptly confirmed by congress. in , the heirs of one gervacio nolan applied for confirmation of two grants alleged to have been made to an ancestor under the colonization laws of new mexico. they claimed more than , , acres, but congress conditionally confirmed their claim to the extent of forty-eight thousand acres only, asserting that the mexican laws had limited to this area the area of public lands that could be granted to one individual. in the land office re-opened the claim, and a new survey was made by surveyors in collusion with the claimants, and hired by them. when the report of this survey reached washington, the land office officials were interested to note that the estate had grown from forty-eight thousand acres to five hundred and seventy-five thousand acres, or twelve times the legal quantity. [footnote: house reports, first session, forty-ninth congress, - , ii: .] the actual settlers were then evicted. the romancer might say that the officials were amazed; they were not; such fraudulent enlargements were common. the new mexico estate of francis martinez, granted under the mexican laws restricting a single grant to forty-eight thousand acres, was by a fraudulent survey, extended to , . acres, and patented in . [footnote: ibid., .] a new mexico grant said to have been made to salvador gonzales, in , comprising "a spot of land to enable him to plant a cornfield for the support of his family." was fraudulently surveyed and enlarged to , . acres--a survey amended later by reducing the area to , acres. [footnote: house reports, etc, - , ii: .] the b. m. montaya grant in new mexico, limited to forty-eight thousand acres, under the mexican colonization laws, was fraudulently surveyed for , . acres. the estancia grant in new mexico also restricted under the colonization act to forty-eight thousand acres, was enlarged by a fraudulent survey to , . acres. [footnote: ibid., .] in , ignacio chaves and others in new mexico petitioned for a tract of about two and one-fourth superficial leagues, or approximately a little less than ten thousand acres. a fraudulent survey magnified this claim to , . acres. [footnote: ibid.] these are a very few of the large number of forged or otherwise fraudulent claims. some were rejected by congress; many, despite land office protests, were confirmed. by these fraudulent and corrupt operations, enormous estates were obtained in new mexico, colorado and in other sections. the pablo montaya grant comprised in all, , . acres; the mora grant , . acres; the tierra amarilla grant , acres, and the sangre de cristo grant , . acres. all of these were corruptly obtained. [footnote: see resolution of house committee on private land claims, june, , demanding a thorough investigation. the house took no action.--report no. , .] scores of other claims were confirmed for lesser areas. during commissioner sparks' tenure of office, claims to , , acres in new mexico alone were pending before congress. a comprehensive account of the operations of the land-grabbers, giving the explicit facts, as told in government and court records, of their system of fraud, is presented in the chapter on the elkins fortune. forgery, perjury and fraudulent survey. reporting, in , to the commissioner of the general land office, henry m. atkinson, u. s. surveyor-general of new mexico, wrote that "the investigation of this office for the past five years has demonstrated that some of the alleged grants are forgeries." he set forth that unless the court before which these claims were adjudicated could have full access to the archives, "it is much more liable to be imposed upon by fraudulent title papers." [footnote: "the public domain," etc. . also see next footnote.] in fact, the many official reports describe with what cleverness the claimants to these great areas forged their papers, and the facility with which they bought up witnesses to perjure for them. finding it impossible to go back of the aggregate and corroborative "evidence" thus offered, the courts were frequently forced to decide in favor of the claimants. to use a modern colloquial phrase, the cases were "framed up." in the case of luis jamarillo's claim to eighteen thousand acres in new mexico, u. s. surveyor-general julian of new mexico, in recommending the rejection of the claim and calling attention to the perjury committed, said: when these facts are considered, in connection with the further and well-known fact that such witnesses can readily be found by grant claimants, and that in this way the most monstrous frauds have been practiced in extending the lines of such grants in new mexico, it is not possible to accept the statement of this witness as to the west boundary of this grant, which he locates at such a distance from the east line as to include more than four times the amount of land actually granted. [footnote: senate executive documents, first session, fiftieth congress, - , vol. i, private land claim no. , ex. doc. no. : . documents nos. to , to , to and in the same volume deal with similar claims.] "the widespread belief of the people of this country," wrote commissioner sparks in , "that the land department has been largely conducted to the advantage of speculation and monopoly, private and corporate, rather than in the public interest, i have found supported by developments in every branch of the service.... i am satisfied that thousands of claims without foundation in law or equity, involving millions of acres of public land, have been annually passed to patent upon the single proposition that nobody but the government had any _adverse_ interest. the vast machinery of the land department has been devoted to the chief result of conveying the title of the united states to public lands upon fraudulent entries under loose construction of law." [footnote: house ex. docs., - , ii: .] whenever a capitalist's interest was involved, the law was always "loosely construed," but the strictest interpretation was invariably given to laws passed against the working population. it was estimated, in , that , , acres of land in new mexico and colorado had, for more than thirty years, been unlawfully treated by public officers as having been ceded to the united states by mexico. the maxwell, sangre de cristo, nolan and other grants were within this area. the house committee on private land claims reported on april , : "a long list of alleged mexican and spanish grants within the limits of the texas cession have been confirmed, or quit claimed by congress, under the false representation that said alleged grants were located in the territory of new mexico ceded by the treaty; an enormous area of land has long been and is now held as confirmed mexican and spanish grants, located in the territory of mexico ceded by the treaty when such is not the fact." [footnote: house report, , no. : .] in texas the fraudulent, and often, violent methods of the seizure of land by the capitalists were fully as marked as those used elsewhere. upon its admittance to the union, texas retained the disposition of its public lands. up to about the year , almost the entire area of texas, comprising , square miles, or , , acres, was one vast unfenced feeding ground for cattle, horses and sheep. in about the year , the agricultural movement began; large numbers of intending farmers migrated to texas, particularly with the expectation of raising cattle, then a highly profitable business. they found huge stretches of the land already preempted by individual capitalists or corporations. in a number of instances, some of these individuals, according to the report of a congressional committee, in , dealing with texas lands, had each acquired the ownership of more than two hundred and fifty thousand acres. "it is a notorious fact," this committee reported, "that the public land laws, although framed with the special object of encouraging the public domain, of developing its resources and protecting actual settlers, have been extensively evaded and violated. individuals and corporations have, by purchasing the proved-up claims, or purchases of ostensible settlers, employed by them to make entry, extensively secured the ownership of large bodies of land." [footnote: house reports, second session, forty-eighth congress, - , vol. xxix, ex. doc. no. : .] the committee went on to describe how, to a very considerable extent, "foreigners of large means" had obtained these great areas, and had gone into the cattle business, and how the titles to these lands were se-cured not only by individuals but by foreign corporations. "certain of these foreigners are titled noblemen. some of them have brought over from europe, in considerable numbers, herdsmen and other employees who sustain to them a dependent relationship characteristic of the peasantry on the large landed estates of europe." two british syndicates, for instance, held , , acres in texas. [footnote: house reports, etc., - , doc. no. : .] this spoliation of the public domain was one of the chief grievances of the national greenback-labor party in . this party, to a great extent, was composed of the western farming element. in his letter accepting the nomination of that party for president of the united states, gen. weaver, himself a member of long standing in congress from iowa, wrote: an area of our public domain larger than the territory occupied by the great german empire has been wantonly donated to wealthy corporations; while a bill introduced by hon. hendrick b. wright, of pennsylvania, to enable our poor people to reach and occupy the few acres remaining, has been scouted, ridiculed, and defeated in congress. in consequence of this stupendous system of land-grabbing, millions of the young men of america, and millions more of industrious people from abroad, seeking homes in the new world, are left homeless and destitute. the public domain must be sacredly reserved to actual settlers, and where corporations have not complied strictly with the terms of their grants, the lands should be at once reclaimed. increase of farm tenantry. without dwelling upon all the causative factors--involving an extended work in themselves--some significant general results will be pointed out. the original area of public domain amounted to , , , acres, of which considerably more than half, embracing some of the very best agricultural, grazing, mineral and timber lands, was already alienated by the year . by the alienation reached , , acres. of the original area, about , , acres of forests have been withdrawn from the public domain by the government, and converted into forest reservations. large portions of such of the agricultural, grazing, mineral and timber lands as were not seized by various corporations and favored individuals before , have been expropriated west of the mississippi since then, and the process is still going, notably in alaska. the nominal records of the general land office as to the number of homesteaders are of little value and are very misleading. immense numbers of alleged homesteaders were, as we have copiously seen, nothing but paid dummies by whose entries vast tracts of land were seized under color of law. it is indisputably clear that hundreds of millions of acres of the public domain have been obtained by outright fraud. notwithstanding the fact that only a few years before, the government had held far more than enough land to have provided every agriculturist with a farm, yet by , a large farm tenant class had already developed. not less than , , of the , , farms in the united states were held by renters. one-fourth of all the farms in the united states were cultivated by men who did not own them. furthermore, and even more impressive, there were , , farm laborers composed of men who did not even rent land. equally significant was the increasing tendency to the operating of large farms by capitalists with the hired labor. of farms under cultivation, extending from one hundred to five hundred acres, there were nearly a million and a half-- , , , to give the exact number--owned largely by capitalists and cultivated by laborers. [footnote: tenth census, statistics of agriculture: .] phillips, who had superior opportunities for getting at the real facts, and whose volume upon the subject issued at the time is well worthy of consideration, thus commented upon the census returns: it will thus be seen that of the , , persons in our country engaged in agriculture, there are , , who pay rent to persons not cultivating the soil; , , capitalist or speculating owners, who own the soil and employ laborers; , of well-to-do farmers who hire part of their work or employ laborers, and , who may be said to actually cultivate the soil they own: the rest are hired workers. phillips goes on to remark: another fact must be borne in mind, that a large number of the , , farmers who own land are in debt for it to the money lenders. from the writer's observation it is probable that forty per cent, of them are so deeply in debt as to pay a rent in interest. this squeezing process is going on at the rate of eight and ten per cent., and in most cases can terminate in but one way. [footnote: "labor, land and law": . it is difficult to get reliable statistics on the number of mortgages on farms, and on the number of farm tenants. the u.s. industrial commission estimated, in , that fifty per cent, of the homesteads in eastern minnesota were mortgaged. although admitting that such a condition had been general, it represented in its final report that a large number of mortgages in certain states had been paid off. according to the "political science quarterly" (vol. xi, no. , ) the united states census of showed a marked increase, not only absolutely, but relatively in the number of farm tenants. it can hardly be doubted that farm tenantry is rapidly increasing and will under the influence of various causes increase still more.] a largely dispossessed nation. these are the statistics of a government which, it is known, seeks to make its showing as favorable as possible to the existing regime. they make it clear that a rapid process of the dispossession of the industrial working, the middle and the small farming classes has been going on unceasingly. if the process was so marked in what must it be now? all of the factors operating to impoverish the farming population of the united states and turn them into homeless tenants have been a thousandfold intensified and augmented in the last ten years, beginning with the remarkable formation of hundreds of trusts in . even though the farmer may get higher prices for his products, as he did in and , the benefits are deceptively transient, while the expropriating process is persistent. there was a time when farm land in ohio, illinois, minnesota, indiana, wisconsin, and many other states was considered of high value. but in the last few years an extraordinary sight has been witnessed. hundreds of thousands of american farmers migrated to the virgin fields of northwest canada and settled there--a portentous movement significant of the straits to which the american farmer has been driven. abandoned farms in the east are numerous; in new york state alone , are registered. hitherto the farmer has considered himself a sort of capitalist: if not hostile to the industrial working classes, he has been generally apathetic. but now he is being forced to the point of being an absolute dependant himself, and will inevitably align his interests with those of his brothers in the factories and in the shops. with this contrast of the forces at work which gave empires of public domain to the few, while dispossessing the tens of millions, we will now proceed to a consideration of some of the fortunes based upon railroads. chapter iii the beginnings of the vanderbilt fortune the first of the overshadowing fortunes to develop from the ownership and manipulation of railroads was that of cornelius vanderbilt. the havemeyers and other factory owners, whose descendants are now enrolled among the conspicuous multimillionaires, were still in the embryonic stages when vanderbilt towered aloft in a class by himself with a fortune of $ , , . in these times of enormous individual accumulations and centralization of wealth, the personal possession of $ , , does not excite a fraction of the astonished comment that it did at cornelius vanderbilt's death in . accustomed as the present generation is to the sight of billionaires or semi- billionaires, it cannot be expected to show any wonderment at fortunes of lesser proportions. ninety millions in fifteen years. yet to the people of thirty years ago, a round hundred million was something vast and unprecedented. in millionaires were so infrequent that the very word, as we have seen, was significantly italicised. but here was a man who, figuratively speaking, was a hundred millionaires rolled in one. compared with his wealth the great fortunes of ten or fifteen years before dwindled into bagatelles. during the civil war a fortune of $ , , had been looked upon as monumental. even the huge astor fortune, so long far outranking all competitors, lost its exceptional distinction and ceased being the sole, unrivalled standard of immense wealth. nearly a century of fraud was behind the astor fortune. the greater part of cornelius vanderbilt's wealth was massed together in his last fifteen years. this was the amazing, unparalleled feature to his generation. within fifteen brief years he had possessed himself of more than $ , , . his wealth came rushing in at the rate of $ , , a year. such an accomplishment may not impress the people of these years, familiar as they are with the ease with which john d. rockefeller and other multimillionaires have long swept in almost fabulous annual revenues. with his yearly income of fully $ , , or $ , , [footnote: the "new york commercial," an ultra- conservative financial and commercial publication, estimated in january, , his annual income to be $ , , . obviously it has greatly increased every year.] rockefeller can look back and smile with superior disdain at the commotion raised by the contemplation of cornelius vanderbilt's $ , , . each period to itself, however. cornelius vanderbilt was the golden luminary of his time, a magnate of such combined, far-reaching wealth and power as the united states had never known. indeed, one overruns the line of tautology in distinguishing between wealth and power. the two were then identical not less than now. wealth was the real power. none knew or boasted of this more than old vanderbilt when, with advancing age, he became more arrogant and choleric and less and less inclined to smooth down the storms he provoked by his contemptuous flings at the great pliable public. when threatened by competitors, or occasionally by public officials, with the invocation of the law, he habitually sneered at them and vaunted his defiance. in terse sentences, interspersed with profanity, he proclaimed the fact that money was law; that it could buy either laws or immunity from the law. * * * * * * * since wealth meant power, both economic and political, it is not difficult to estimate vanderbilt's supreme place in his day. far below him, in point of possessions, stretched the , , individuals who made up the nation's population. nearly , , were wage laborers, and of the , , fully , were child laborers. the very best paid of skilled workers received in the highest market not more than $ , a year. the usual weekly pay ran from $ to $ a week; the average pay of unskilled laborers was $ a year. more than , , persons ploughed and hoed and harvested the farms of the country; comparatively few of them could claim a decent living, and a large proportion were in debt. the incomes of the middle class, including individual employers, business and professional men, tradesmen and small middlemen, ranged from $ , to $ , a year. how immeasurably puny they all seemed beside vanderbilt! he beheld a multitude of many millions struggling fiercely for the dollar that meant livelihood or fortune; those bits of metal or paper which commanded the necessities, comforts and luxuries of life; the antidote of grim poverty and the guarantees of good living; which dictated the services, honorable or often dishonorable, of men, women and children; which bought brains not less than souls, and which put their sordid seal on even the most sacred qualities. now by these tokens, he had securely , , of these bits of metal or wealth in some form equivalent to them. millions of people had none of these dollars; the hundreds of thousands had a few; the thousands had hundreds of thousands; the few had millions. he had more than any. even with all his wealth, great as it was in his day, he would scarcely be worth remembrance were it not that he was the founder of a dynasty of wealth. therein lies the present importance of his career. a fortune of $ , , from $ , , bequeathed at his death, the vanderbilt fortune has grown until it now reaches fully $ , , . this is an approximate estimate; the actual amount may be more or less. in shearman placed the wealth of cornelius and william k. vanderbilt, grandsons of the first cornelius, at $ , , each, and that of frederick w. vanderbilt, a brother of those two men, at $ , , . [footnote: "who owns the united states?"--the forum magazine, november, .] adding the fortunes of the various other members of the vanderbilt family, the vanderbilts then possessed about $ , , . since that time the population and resources of the united states have vastly increased; wealth in the hold of a few has become more intensely centralized; great fortunes have gone far beyond their already extraordinary boundaries of twenty years ago; the possessions of the vanderbilts have expanded and swollen in value everywhere, although recently the standard oil oligarchy has been encroaching upon their possessions. very probable it is that the combined vanderbilt fortune reaches fully $ , , , actually and potentially. but the incidental mention of such a mass of money conveys no adequate conception of the power of this family. nominally it is composed of private citizens with theoretically the same rights and limitations of citizenship held by any other citizen and no more. but this is a fanciful picture. in reality, the vanderbilt family is one of the dynasties of inordinately rich families ruling the united states industrially and politically. singly it has mastery over many of the railroad and public utility systems and industrial corporations of the united states. in combination with other powerful men or families of wealth, it shares the dictatorship of many more corporations. under the vanderbilts' direct domination are , miles of railroad lines, the ownership of which is embodied in $ , , in stocks and $ , , in bonds. one member alone, william k. vanderbilt, is a director of seventy-three transportation and industrial combinations or corporations. bonds that hold present and posterity. behold, in imagination at least, this mass of stocks and bonds. heaps of paper they seem; dead, inorganic things. a second's blaze will consume any one of them, a few strokes of the fingers tear it into shapeless ribbons yet under the institution of law, as it exists, these pieces of paper are endowed with a terrible power of life and death that even enthroned kings do not possess. those dainty prints with their scrolls and numerals and inscriptions are binding titles to the absolute ownership of a large part of the resources created by the labors of entire peoples. kingly power at best is shadowy, indefinite, depending mostly upon traditional custom and audacious assumption backed by armed force. if it fall back upon a certain alleged divine right it cannot produce documents to prove its authority. the industrial monarchs of the united states are fortified with both power and proofs of possession. those bonds and stocks are the tangible titles to tangible property; whoso holds them is vested with the ownership of the necessities of tens of millions of subjected people. great stretches of railroad traverse the country; here are coal mines to whose products some ninety million people look for warmth; yonder are factories; there in the cities are street car lines and electric light and power supply and gas plants; on every hand are lands and forests and waterways-- all owned, you find, by this or that dominant man or family. the mind wanders back in amazement to the times when, if a king conquered territory, he had to erect a fortress or castle and station a garrison to hold it. they that then disputed the king's title could challenge, if they chose, at peril of death, the provisions of that title, which same provisions were swords and spears, arrows and muskets. but nowhere throughout the large extent of the vanderbilt's possessions or those of other ruling families are found warlike garrisons as evidence of ownership. those uncouth barbarian methods are grossly antiquated; the part once played by armed battalions is now performed by bits of paper. a wondrously convenient change has it been; the owners of the resources of nations can disport themselves thousands of miles away from the scene of their ownership; they need never bestir themselves to provide measures for the retention of their property. government, with its array of officials, prisons, armies and navies, undertakes all of this protection for them. so long as they hold these bits of paper in their name, government recognizes them as the incontestable owners and safeguards their property accordingly. the very government established on the taxation of the workers is used to enforce the means by which the workers are held in subjection. they decree taxes at will. these batches of stocks and bonds betoken as much more again. a pretty fiction subsists that government, the creator of the modern private corporation, is necessarily more powerful than its creature. this theoretical doctrine, so widely taught by university professors and at the same time so greatly at variance with the palpable facts, will survive to bring dismay in the near future to the very classes who would have the people believe it so. instead of now being the superior of the corporation the government has long since definitely surrendered to private corporations a tremendous taxing power amounting virtually to a decree authorizing enslavement. upon every form of private corporation--railroad, industrial, mining, public utility--is conferred a peculiarly sweeping and insidious power of taxation the indirectness of which often obscures its frightful nature and effects. where, however, the industrial corporation has but one form of taxation the railroad has many forms. the trust in oil or any other commodity can tax the whole nation at its pleasure, but inherently only on the one product it controls. that single taxation is of itself confiscatory enough, as is seen in the $ , , of profits gathered in by the standard oil company since its inception. the trust tax is in the form of its selling price to the public. but the railroad puts its tax upon every product transported or every person who travels. not a useful plant grows or an article is made but that, if shipped, a heavy tax must be paid on it. this tax comes in the guise of freight or passenger rates. the labor of hundreds of millions of people contributes incessantly to the colossal revenues enriching the railroad owners. for their producing capacity the workers are paid the meagerest wages, and the products which they make they are compelled to buy back at exorbitant prices after they pass through the hands of the various great capitalist middlemen, such as the trusts and the railroads. how enormous the revenues of the railroads are may be seen in the fact that in the ten years from to the dividends declared by thirty-five of the leading railroads in the united states reached the sum of about $ , , , . this railroad taxation is a grinding, oppressive one, from which there is no appeal. if the government taxes too heavily the people nominally can have a say; but the people have absolutely no voice in altering the taxation of corporations. pseudo attempts have been made to regulate railroad charges, but their futility was soon evident, for the reason that owning the instruments of business the railroads and the allied trusts are in actual possession of the governmental power viewing it as a working whole. and exercise unrestrained power. visualizing this power one begins to get a vivid perception of the comprehensive sway of the vanderbilts and of other railroad magnates. they levy tribute without restraint--a tribute so vast that the exactions of classic conquerors become dwarfed beside it. if this levying entailed only the seizing of money, that cold, unbreathing, lifeless substance, then human emotion might not start in horror at the consequences. but beneath it all are the tugging and tearing of human muscles and minds, the toil and sweat of an unnumbered multitude, the rending of homes, the infliction of sorrow, suffering and death. the magnates, as we have said, hold the power of decreeing life and death; and time never was since the railroads were first built when this power was not arbitrarily exercised. millions have gone hungry or lived on an attenuated diet while elsewhere harvests rotted in the ground; between their needs and nature's fertility lay the railroads. organized and maintained for profit and for profit alone, the railroads carry produce and products at their fixed rates and not a whit less; if these rates are not paid the transportation is refused. and as in these times transportation is necessary in the world's intercourse, the men who control it have the power to stand as an inflexible barrier between individuals, groups of individuals, nations and international peoples. the very agencies which should under a rational form of civilization be devoted to promoting the interests of mankind, are used as their capricious self-interest incline them by the few who have been allowed to obtain control of them. what if helpless people are swept off by starvation or by diseases superinduced by lack of proper food? what if in the great cities an increasing sacrifice of innocents goes on because their parents cannot afford the price of good milk--a price determined to a large extent by railroad tariff? all of this slaughter and more makes no impress upon the unimpressionable surfaces of these stocks and bonds, and leaves no record save in the hospitals and graveyards. the railroad magnates have other powers. government itself has no power to blot a town out of existence. it cannot strew desolation at will. but the railroad owners can do it and do not hesitate if sufficient profits be involved. one man sitting in a palace in new york can give an order declaring a secret discriminative tariff against the products of a place, whereupon its industries no longer able to compete with formidable competitors enjoying better rates, close down and the life of the place flickers and sometimes goes out. these are but a very few of the immensity of extravagant powers conferred by the ownership of these railroad bonds and stocks. bonds they assuredly are, incomparably more so than the clumsy yokes of olden days. society has improved its outwards forms in these passing centuries. clanking chains are no longer necessary to keep slaves in subjection. far more effective than chains and balls and iron collars are the ownership of the means whereby men must live. whoever controls them in large degree, is a potentate by whatever name he be called, and those who depend upon the owner of them for their sustenance are slaves by whatever flattering name they choose to go. high and mighty potentates. the vanderbilts are potentates. their power is bounded by no law; they are among the handful of fellow potentates who say what law shall be and how it shall be enforced. no stern, masterful men and women are they as some future moonstruck novelist or historian bent upon creating legendary lore may portray them. voluptuaries are most of them, sunk in a surfeit of gorgeous living and riotous pleasure. weak, without distinction of mind or heart, they have the money to hire brains to plan, plot, scheme, advocate, supervise and work for them. suddenly deprived of their stocks and bonds they would find themselves adrift in the sheerest helplessness. with these stocks and bonds they are the direct absolute masters of an army of employees. on the new york central railroad alone the vanderbilt payroll embraces fifty thousand workers. this is but one of their railroad systems. as many more, or nearly as many, men work directly for them on their other railroad lines. one hundred thousand men signify, let us say, as many families. accepting the average of five to a family, here are five hundred thousand souls whose livelihood is dependent upon largely the will of the vanderbilt family. to that will there is no check. to-day it may be expansively benevolent; to-morrow, after a fit of indigestion or a night of demoralizing revelry, it may flit to an extreme of parsimonious retaliation. as the will fluctuates, so must be the fate of the hundred thousand workers. if the will decides that the pay of the men must go down, curtailed it is, irrespective of their protests that the lopping off of their already slender wages means still keener hardship. apparently free and independent citizens, this army of workers belong for all essential purposes to the vanderbilt family. their jobs are the hostages held by the vanderbilts. the interests and decisions of one family are supreme. the germination and establishment of this immense power began with the activities of the first cornelius vanderbilt, the founder of this pile of wealth. he was born in . his parents lived on staten island; his father conveyed passengers in a boat to and from new york--an industrious, dull man who did his plodding part and allowed his wife to manage household expenses. regularly and obediently he turned his earnings over to her. she carefully hoarded every available cent, using an old clock as a depository. the founder's start. vanderbilt was a rugged, headstrong, untamable, illiterate youth. at twelve years of age he could scarcely write his own name. but he knew the ways of the water; when still a youth he commenced ferrying passengers and freight between staten island and new york city. for books he cared nothing; the refinements of life he scorned. his one passion was money. he was grasping and enterprising, coarse and domineering. of the real details of his early life little is known except what has been written by laudatory writers. we are informed that as he gradually made and saved money he built his own schooners, and went in for the coasting trade. the invention and success of the steamboat, it is further related, convinced him that the day of the sailing vessel would soon be over. he, therefore, sold his interest in his schooners, and was engaged as captain of a steamboat plying between new york and points on the new jersey coast. his wife at the same time enlarged the family revenues by running a wayside tavern at new brunswick, n. j., whither vanderbilt had moved. in , when his resources reached $ , , he quit as an employee and began building his own steamboats. little by little he drove many of his competitors out of business. this he was able to do by his harsh, unscrupulous and strategic measures. [footnote: some glimpses of vanderbilt's activities and methods in his early career are obtainable from the court records. in he was fined two penalties of $ for refusing to move a steamboat called "the thistle," commanded by him, from a wharf on the north river in order to give berth to "the legislature," a competing steamboat. his defence was that adams, the harbor master, had no authority to compel him to move. the lower courts decided against him, and the supreme court, on appeal, affirmed their judgment. (adams vs. vanderbilt. cowen's reports. cases in supreme court of the state of new york, vii: - .) in the eagle iron works sued vanderbilt for the sum of $ , . which it claimed was due under a contract made by vanderbilt on march , . this contract called for the payment by vanderbilt of $ , in three installments for the building of an engine for the steamboat "wave." vanderbilt paid $ , , but refused to pay the remainder, on the ground that braces to the connecting rods were not supplied. these braces, it was brought out in court, cost only $ or $ . the supreme court handed down a judgment against vanderbilt. an appeal was taken by vanderbilt, and judge nelson, in the supreme court, in october, , affirmed that judgment.--vanderbilt vs. eagle iron works, wendell's reports, cases in the supreme court of the state of new york, xxv: - .] he was severe with the men who worked for him, compelling them to work long hours for little pay. he showed a singular ability in undermining competitors. they could not pay low wages but what he could pay lower; as rapidly as they set about reducing passenger and freight rates he would anticipate them. his policy at this time was to bankrupt competitors, and then having obtained a monopoly, to charge exorbitant rates. the public, which welcomed him as a benefactor in declaring cheaper rates and which flocked to patronize his line, had to pay dearly for their premature and short-sighted joy. for the first five years his profits, according to croffut, reached $ , a year, doubling in successive years. by the time he was forty years old he ran steamboats to many cities on the coast, and had amassed a fortune of half a million dollars. driving out competitors. judging from the records of the times, one of his most effective means for harassing and driving out competitors was in bribing the new york common council to give him, and refuse them, dock privileges. as the city owned the docks, the common council had the exclusive right of determining to whom they should be leased. not a year passed but what the ship, ferry and steamboat owners, the great landlords and other capitalists bribed the aldermen to lease or give them valuable city property. many scandals resulted, culminating in the great scandal of , when the grand jury, on february , handed up a presentment showing in detail how certain aldermen had received bribes for disposal of the city's water rights, pier privileges and other property, and how enormous sums had been expended in bribes to get railroad grants in the city. [footnote: proceedings of the new york board of aldermen, xlviii: - .] vanderbilt was not openly implicated in these frauds, no more than were the astors, the rhinelanders, the goelets and other very rich men who prudently kept in the background, and who managed to loot the city by operating through go-betweens. vanderbilt's eulogists take great pains to elaborate upon his tremendous energy, sagacity and constructive enterprise, as though these were the exclusive qualities by which he got his fortune. such a glittering picture, common in all of the usual biographies of rich men, discredits itself and is overthrown by the actual facts. the times in which vanderbilt lived and thrived were not calculated to inspire the masses of people with respect for the trader's methods, although none could deny that the outcropping capitalists of the period showed a fierce vigor in overcoming obstacles of man and of nature, and in extending their conquests toward the outposts of the habitable globe. if indomitable enterprise assured permanency of wealth then many of vanderbilt's competitors would have become and remained multimillionaires. vanderbilt, by no means possessed a monopoly of acquisitive enterprise; on every hand, and in every line, were men fully as active and unprincipled as he. nearly all of these men, and scores of competitors in his own sphere--dominant capitalists in their day--have become well-nigh lost in the records of time; their descendants are in the slough of poverty, genteel or otherwise. those times were marked by the intensest commercial competition; business was a labyrinth of sharp tricks and low cunning; the man who managed to project his head far above the rest not only had to practice the methods of his competitors but to overreach and outdo them. it was in this regard that vanderbilt showed superior ability. in the exploitation of the workers--forcing them to work for low wages and compelling them to pay high prices for all necessities-- vanderbilt was no different from all contemporaneous capitalists. capitalism subsisted by this process. almost all conventional writers, it is true, set forth that it was the accepted process of the day, implying that it was a condition acquiesced in by the employer and worker. this is one of the lies disseminated for the purpose of proving that the great fortunes were made by legitimate methods. far from being accepted by the workers it was denounced and was openly fought by them at every auspicious opportunity. vanderbilt became one of the largest ship and steamboat builders in the united states and one of the most formidable employers of labor. at one time he had a hundred vessels afloat. thousands of shipwrights, mechanics and other workers toiled for him fourteen and sixteen hours a day at $ . a day for many years. the actual purchasing power of this wage kept declining as the cost of rent and other necessaries of life advanced. this was notably so after the great gold discoveries in california, when prices of all commodities rose abnormally, and the workers in every trade were forced to strike for higher wages in order to live. most of these strikes were successful, but their results as far as wages went were barren; the advance wrung from employers was by no means equal to the increased cost of living. regarded as a commercial buccaneer. the exploitation of labor, however, does not account for his success as a money maker. many other men did the same, and yet in the vicissitudes of business went bankrupt; the realm of business was full of wrecks. vanderbilt's success arose from his destructive tactics toward his competitors. he was regarded universally as the buccaneer of the shipping world. he leisurely allowed other men to build up profitable lines of steamboats, and he then proceeded to carry out methods which inevitably had one of two terminations: either his competitor had to buy him off at an exorbitant price, or he was left in undisputed possession. his principal biographer, croffut, whose effusion is one long chant of praise, treats these methods as evidences of great shrewdness, and goes on: "his foible was 'opposition;' wherever his keen eye detected a line that was making a very large profit on its investment, he swooped down on it and drove it to the wall by offering a better service and lower rates." [footnote: "the vanderbilts and the story of their fortune," by w. a. croffut, : - .] this statement is only partially true; its omissions are more significant than its admissions. far from being the "constructive genius" that he is represented in every extant biographical work and note, vanderbilt was the foremost mercantile pirate and commercial blackmailer of his day. harsh as these terms may seem, they are more than justified by the facts. his eulogists, in line with those of other rich men, weave a beautiful picture for the edification of posterity, of a broad, noble-minded man whose honesty was his sterling virtue, and whose splendid ability in opening up and extending the country's resources was rewarded with a great fortune and the thanks of his generation. this is utterly false. he who has the slightest knowledge of the low practices and degraded morals of the trading class and of the qualities which insured success, might at once suspect the spuriousness of this extravagant presentation, even if the vital facts were unavailable. but there is no such difficulty. obviously, for every one fraudulent commercial or political transaction that comes to public notice, hundreds and thousands of such transactions are kept in concealment. enough facts, however, remain in official records to show the particular methods vanderbilt used in getting together his millions. yet no one hitherto seems to have taken the trouble to disinter them; even serious writers who cannot be accused of wealth worship or deliberate misstatement have all, without exception, borrowed their narratives of vanderbilt's career from the fiction of his literary, newspaper and oratorical incense burners. and so it is that everywhere the conviction prevails that whatever fraudulent methods vanderbilt employed in his later career, he was essentially an honest, straightforward man who was compelled by the promptings of sheer self-preservation to fight back at unscrupulous competitors or antagonists, and who innately was opposed to underhand work or fraud in any form. vanderbilt is in every case portrayed as an eminently high-minded man who never stooped to dissimulation, deceit or treachery, and whose first millions, at any rate, were made in the legitimate ways of trade as they were then understood. extortion and theft common. the truth is that the bulk of vanderbilt's original millions were the proceeds of extortion, blackmail and theft. in the established code of business the words extortion and theft had an unmistakable significance. business men did not consider it at all dishonorable to oppress their workers; to manufacture and sell goods under false pretenses; to adulterate prepared foods and drugs; to demand the very highest prices for products upon which the very life of the people depended, and at a time when consumers needed them most; to bribe public officials and to hold up the government in plundering schemes. these and many other practices were looked upon as commonplaces of ordinary trade. but even as burglars will have their fine points of honor among themselves, so the business world set certain tacit limitations of action beyond which none could go without being regarded as violating the code. it was all very well as long as members of their own class plundered some other class, or fought one another, no matter how rapaciously, in accordance with understood procedure. but when any business man ventured to overstep these limitations, as vanderbilt did, and levy a species of commercial blackmail to the extent of millions of dollars, then he was sternly denounced as an arch thief. if vanderbilt had confined himself to the routine formulas of business, he might have gone down in failure. many of the bankrupts were composed of business men who, while sharp themselves, were outgeneraled by abler sharpers. vanderbilt was a master hand in despoiling the despoilers. [illustration: commodore cornelius vanderbilt, the founder of the vanderbilt fortune.] how did vanderbilt manage to extort millions of dollars? the method was one of great simplicity; many of its features were brought out in the united states senate in the debate of june , , over the mail steamship bill. the government had begun, more than a decade back, the policy of paying heavy subsidies to steamship companies for the transportation of mail. this subsidy, however, was not the only payment received by the steamship owners. in addition they were allowed what were called "postages"--the full returns from the amount of postage on the letters carried. ocean postage at that time was enormous and burdensome, and was especially onerous upon a class of persons least able to bear it. about three-quarters of the letters transported by ships were written by emigrants. they were taxed the usual rate of twenty-four or twenty-nine cents for a single letter. in the amount received for trans-atlantic postages was not less than a million dollars; three-fourths of this sum came directly from the working class. the corruption of officials. to get these subsidies, in conjunction with the "postages," the steamship owners by one means or another corrupted postal officials and members of congress. "i have noticed," said senator toombs, in a speech in the united states senate on june , , that there has never been a head of a department strong enough to resist steamship contracts. i have noticed them here with your whig party and your democratic party for the last thirteen years, and i have never seen any head of a department strong enough to resist these influences. ... thirteen years' experience has taught me that wherever you allow the postoffice or navy department to do anything which is for the benefit of contractors you may consider the thing as done. i could point to more than a dozen of these contracts. ... a million dollars a year is a power that will be felt. for ten years it amounts to ten million dollars, and i know it is felt. i know it perverts legislation. i have seen its influence; i have seen the public treasury plundered by it. ... [footnote: the congressional globe, first session, thirty-fifth congress, - , iii: .] by means of this systematic corruption the steamship owners received many millions of dollars of government funds. this was all virtually plunder; the returns from the "postages" far more than paid them for the transportation of mails. and what became of these millions in loot? part went in profits to the owners, and another part was used as private capital by them to build more and newer ships constantly. practically none of vanderbilt's ships cost him a cent; the government funds paid for their building. in fact, a careful tracing of the history of all of the subsidized steamship companies proves that this plunder from the government was very considerably more than enough to build and equip their entire lines. one of the subsidized steamship lines was that of e. k. collins & co., a line running from new york to liverpool. collins debauched the postal officials and congress so effectively that in he obtained an appropriation of $ , a year, and subsequently an additional appropriation of $ , for five years. together with the "postages," these amounts made a total mail subsidy for that one line alone during the latter years of the contract of about a million dollars a year. the act of congress did not, however, specify that the contract was to run for ten years. the postal officials, by what senator toombs termed "a fraudulent construction," declared that it did run for ten years from , and made payments accordingly. the bill before congress in the closing days of the session of , was the usual annual authorization of the payment of this appropriation, as well as other mail-steamer appropriations. vanderbilt's huge loot. in the course of this debate some remarkable facts came out as to how the government was being steadily plundered, and why it was that the postal system was already burdened with a deficit of $ , , . while the appropriation bill was being solemnly discussed with patriotic exclamations, lobbyists of the various steamship companies busied themselves with influencing or purchasing votes within the very halls of congress. almost the entire senate was occupied for days with advocating this or that side as if they were paid attorneys pleading for the interests of either collins or vanderbilt. apparently a bitter conflict was raging between these two millionaires. vanderbilt's subsidized european lines ran to southampton, havre and bremen; collins' to liverpool. there were indications that for years a secret understanding had been in force between collins and vanderbilt by which they divided the mail subsidy funds. ostensibly, however, in order to give no sign of collusion, they went through the public appearance of warring upon each other. by this stratagem they were able to ward off criticism of monopoly, and each get a larger appropriation than if it were known that they were in league. but it was characteristic of business methods that while in collusion, vanderbilt and collins constantly sought to wreck the other. one senator after another arose with perfervid effusion of either collins or vanderbilt. the collins supporters gave out the most suave arguments why the collins line should be heavily subsidized, and why collins should be permitted to change his european port to southampton. vanderbilt's retainers fought this move, which they declared would wipe out of existence the enterprise of a great and patriotic capitalist. it was at this point that senator toombs, who represented neither side, cut in with a series of charges which dismayed the whole lobby for the time being. he denounced both collins and vanderbilt as plunderers, and then, in so many words, specifically accused vanderbilt of having blackmailed millions of dollars. "i am trying," said senator toombs, to protect the government against collusion, not against conflict. i do not know but that these parties have colluded now. i have not the least doubt that all these people understand one another. i am struggling against collusion. if they have colluded, why should vanderbilt run to southampton for the postage when collins can get three hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars for running to the same place? why may not collins, then, sell his ships, sit down in new york, and say to vanderbilt, 'i will give you two hundred and thirty thousand dollars and pocket one hundred and fifty-seven thousand dollars a year.' that is the plain, naked case. the senator from vermont says the postmaster general will protect us. it is my duty, in the first place, to prevent collusion, and prevent the country from being plundered; to protect it by law as well as i can.' regarding the california mails, senator toombs reminded the senate of the granting eleven years before of enormous mail subsidies to the two steamship lines running to california--the pacific mail steamship company and the united states mail steamship company, otherwise called the harris and the sloo lines. he declared that vanderbilt, threatening them with both competition and a public agitation such as would uncover the fraud, had forced them to pay him gigantic sums in return for his silence and inactivity. responsible capitalists, senator toombs said, had offered to carry the mails to california for $ , . "everybody knows," he said, "that it can be done for half the money we pay now. why, then, should we continue to waste the public money?" senator toombs went on: you give nine hundred thousand dollars a year to carry the mails to california; and vanderbilt compels the contractors to give him $ , a month to keep quiet. this is the effect of your subventions. under your sloo and harris contracts you pay about $ , a year (since ); and vanderbilt, by his superior skill and energy, compelled them for a long time, to disgorge $ , a month, and now $ , a month. ... they pay lobbymen, they pay agencies, they go to law, because everybody is to have something; and i know this sloo contract has been in chancery in new york for years. [footnote: the case referred to by senator toombs was doubtless that of sloo et al. vs. law et al. (case no. , , federal cases, xxii: - .) in this case, argued before judge ingersoll in the united states circuit court, at new york city, on may , , many interesting and characteristic facts came out both in the argument and in the court decision. from the decision (which went into the intricacies of the case at great length) it appeared that although albert g. sloo had formed the united states mail steamship company, the incorporators were george law, marshall o. roberts, prosper m. wetmore and edwin crosswell. sloo assigned his contract to them. law was the first president, and was succeeded by roberts. a trust fund was formed. law fraudulently (so the decision read) took out $ , of stock, and also fraudulently appropriated large sums of money belonging to the trust fund. this was the same law who, in (probably with a part of this plunder) bribed the new york board of aldermen, with money, to give him franchises for the second and ninth avenue surface railway lines. roberts appropriated $ , of the united states mail steamship company's stock. the huge swindles upon the government carried on by roberts during the civil war are described in later chapters in this work. wetmore was a notorious lobbyist. by fraud, law and roberts thus managed to own the bulk of the capital stock of the united states mail steamship company. the mail contract that it had with the government was to yield $ , , in ten years. vanderbilt stepped in to plunder these plunderers. during the time that vanderbilt competed with that company, the price of a single steerage passage from california to new york was $ . after he had sold the company the steamship "north star" for $ , , and had blackmailed it into paying heavily for his silence and non- competition, the price of steerage passage was put up to $ (p. ). the cause of the suit was a quarrel among the trustees over the division of the plunder. one of the trustees refused to permit another access to the books. judge ingersoll issued an injunction restraining the defendant trustees from withholding such books and papers.] the result of this system is that here comes a man--as old vanderbilt seems to be--i never saw him, but his operations have excited my admiration--and he runs right at them and says disgorge this plunder. he is the kingfish that is robbing these small plunderers that come about the capitol. he does not come here for that purpose; but he says, 'fork over $ , a month of this money to me, that i may lie in port with my ships,' and they do it. [footnote: the congressional globe, - , iii: - . the acts by which the establishment of the various subsidized ocean lines were authorized by congress, specified that the steamers were to be fit for ships of war in case of necessity, and that these steamers were to be accepted by the navy department before they could draw subsidies. this part of the debate in the united states senate shows the methods used in forcing their acceptance on the government: mr. collamer.--the collins line was set up by special contract? mr. toombs.--yes, by special contract, and that was the way with the sloo contract and the harris contract. they were to build ships fit for war purposes. i know when the collins vessels were built; i was a member of the committee on ways and means of the other house, and i remember that the men at the head of our bureau of yards and docks said that they were not worth a sixpence for war purposes; that a single broadside would blow them to pieces; that they could not stand the fire of their own guns; but newspapers in the cities that were subsidized commenced firing on the secretary of the navy, and he succumbed and took the ships. that was the way they got here. senator collamer, referring to the subsidy legislation, said: "as long as the congress of the united states makes contracts, declare who they shall be with, and how much they shall pay for them, they can never escape the generally prevailing public suspicion that there is fraud and deceit and corruption in those contracts."] thus, it is seen, vanderbilt derived millions of dollars by this process of commercial blackmail. without his having to risk a cent, or run the chance of losing a single ship, there was turned over to him a sum so large every year that many of the most opulent merchants could not claim the equal of it after a lifetime of feverish trade. it was purely as a means of blackmailing coercion that he started a steamship line to california to compete with the harris and the sloo interests. for his consent to quit running his ships and to give them a complete and unassailed monopoly he first extorted $ , a year of the postal subsidy, and then raised it to $ , . the matter came up in the house, june , . representative davis, of mississippi, made the same charges. he read this statement and inquired if it were true: these companies, in order to prevent all competition to their line, and to enable them, as they do, to charge passengers double fare, have actually paid vanderbilt $ , per month, and the united states mail steamship company, carrying the mail between new york and aspinwall, an additional sum of $ , per month, making $ , per month to vanderbilt since may, , which they continued to do. this $ , are paid to vanderbilt per annum simply to give these two companies the entire monopoly of their lines--which sum, and much more, is charged over to passengers and freight. representative davis repeatedly pressed for a definite reply as to the truth of the statement. the advocates of the bill answered with evasions and equivocations. [footnote: the congressional globe, part iii, - : . the washington correspondent of the new york "times" telegraphed (issue of june , ) that the mail subsidy bill was passed by the house "without twenty members knowing its details."] blackmail charges true. the mail steamer appropriation bill, as finally passed by congress, allowed large subsidies to all of the steamship interests. the pretended warfare among them had served its purpose; all got what they sought in subsidy funds. while the bill allowed the postmaster- general to change collins' european terminus to southampton, that official, so it was proved subsequently, was vanderbilt's plastic tool. but what became of the charges against vanderbilt? were they true or calumniatory? for two years congress made no effort to ascertain this. in , however, charges of corruption in the postal system and other government departments were so numerously made, that the house of representatives on march , , decided, as a matter of policy, to appoint an investigatng committee. this committee, called the "covode committee," after the name of its chairman, probed into the allegations of vanderbilt's blackmailing transactions. the charges made in by senator toombs and representative davies were fully substatiated. ellwood fisher, a trustee of the united states mail steamship company, testified on may that during the greater part of the time he was trustee, vanderbilt was paid $ , a month by the united states mail steamship company, and that the pacific mail steamship company paid him $ , a month at the same time and for the same purpose. the agreement was that if competition appeared payment was to cease. in all, $ , a year was paid during this time. on june , , fisher again testified: "during the period of about four years and a half that i was one of the trustees, the earnings of the line were very large, but the greater part of the money was wrongfully appropriated to vanderbilt for blackmail, and to others on various pretexts." [footnote: house reports, thirty-sixth congress, first session - v: - and . "hence it was held," explained fisher, in speaking of his fellow trustees, "that he [vanderbilt] was interested in preventing competition, and the terror of his name and capital would be effectual upon others who might be disposed to establish steamship lines" (p. ).] william h. davidge, president of the pacific mail steamship company, admitted that the company had long paid blackmail money to vanderbilt. "the arrangement," he said, "was based upon there being no competition, and the sum was regulated by that fact." [footnote: ibid., - . the testimony of fischer, davidge and other officials of the steamship lines covers many pages of the investigating committee's report. only a few of the most vital parts have been quoted here.] horace f. clark, vanderbilt's son-in-law, one of the trustees of the united states mail steamship company, likewise admitted the transaction. [footnote: ibid., . but roberts and his associate trustees succeeded in making the government recoup them, to a considerable extent, for the amount out of which vanderbilt blackmailed them. they did it in this way: a claim was trumped up by them that the government owed a large sum, approximating about two million dollars, to the united states mail steamship company for services in carrying mail in addition to those called for under the sloo contract. in they began lobbying in congress to have this claim recognized. the scheme was considered so brazen that congress refused. year after year, for eleven years, they tried to get congress to pass an act for their benefit. finally, on july , , at a time when bribery was rampant in congress, they succeeded. an act was passed directing the court of claims to investigate and determine the merits of the claim.] it is quite useless [footnote: the court of claims threw the case out of court. judge drake, in delivering the opinion of the court, said that the act was to be so construed "as to prevent the entrapping of the government by fixing upon it liability where the intention of the legislature [congress] was only to authorize an investigation of the question of liability" (marshall o. roberts et al., trustees, vs. the united states, court of claims reports, vi: - ). on appeal, however, the supreme court of the united states held that the act of congress in referring the case to the court of claims was in effect _a ratification of the claim_. (court of claims reports, xi: - .) thus this bold robbery was fully validated.] to ask whether vanderbilt was criminally prosecuted or civilly sued by the government. not only was he unmolested, but two years later, as we shall see, he carried on another huge swindle upon the government under peculiarly heinous conditions. this continuous robbery of the public treasury explains how vanderbilt was able to get hold of millions of dollars at a time when millionaires were scarce. vanderbilt is said to have boasted in that he had eleven million dollars invested at twenty-five per cent. a very large portion of this came directly from his bold system of commercial blackmail. [footnote: undoubtedly so, but the precise proportion it is impossible to ascertain.] the mail subsidies were the real foundation of his fortune. many newspaper editorials and articles of the time mention this fact. only a few of the important underlying facts of the character of his methods when he was in the steamboat and steamship business can be gleaned from the records. but these few give a clear enough insight. with a part of the proceeds of his plan of piracy, he carried on a subtle system of corruption by which he and the other steamer owners were able time after time not only to continue their control of congress and the postal authorities, but to defeat postal reform measures. for fifteen years vanderbilt and his associates succeeded in stifling every bill introduced in congress for the reduction of the postage on mail. he quits steamships. the civil war with its commerce-preying privateers was an unpropitious time for american mercantile vessels. vanderbilt now began his career as a railroad owner. he was at this time sixty-nine years old, a tall, robust, vigorous man with a stern face of remarkable vulgar strength. the illiteracy of his youth survived; he could not write the simplest words correctly, and his speech was a brusque medley of slang, jargon, dialect and profanity. it was said of him that he could swear more forcibly, variously and frequently than any other man of his generation. like the astors, he was cynical, distrustful, secretive and parsimonious. he kept his plans entirely to himself. in his business dealings he was never known to have shown the slightest mercy; he demanded the last cent due. his close-fistedness was such a passion that for many years he refused to substitute new carpets for the scandalous ones covering the floors of his house no. washington place. he never read anything except the newspapers, which he skimmed at breakfast. to his children he was unsympathetic and inflexibly harsh; croffut admits that they feared him. the only relaxations he allowed himself were fast driving and playing whist. this, in short is a picture of the man who in the next few years used his stolen millions to sweep into his ownership great railroad systems. croffut asserts that in he was worth $ , , ; other writers say that his wealth did not exceed $ , , . he knew nothing of railroads, not even the first technical or supervising rudiments. upon one thing he depended and that alone: the brute force of money with its auxiliaries, cunning, bribery and fraud. chapter iv the onrush of the vanderbilt fortune with the outbreak of the civil war, and the scouring of the seas by privateers, american ship owners found themselves with an assortment of superfluous vessels on their hands. forced to withdraw from marine commerce, they looked about for two openings. one was how to dispose of their vessels, the other the seeking of a new and safe method of making millions. most of their vessels were of such scandalous construction that foreign capitalists would not buy them at any price. hastily built in the brief period of ninety days, wholly with a view to immediate profit and with but a perfunctory regard for efficiency, many of these steamers were in a dangerous condition. that they survived voyages was perhaps due more to luck than anything else; year after year, vessel after vessel similarly built and owned had gone down to the bottom of the ocean. collins had lost many of his ships; so had other steamship companies. the chronicles of sea travel were a long, grewsome succession of tragedies; every little while accounts would come in of ships sunk or mysteriously missing. thousands of immigrants, inhumanly crowded in the enclosures of the steerage, were swept to death without even a fighting chance for life. cabin passengers fared better; they were given the opportunity of taking to the life-boats in cases where there was sufficient warning, time and room. at best, sea travel is a hazard; the finest of ships are liable to meet with disaster. but over much of this sacrifice of life hung grim, ugly charges of mismanagement and corruption, of insufficient crews and incompetent officers; of defective machinery and rotting timber; of lack of proper inspection and safeguards. the answer found. the steamboat and steamship owners were not long lost in perplexity. since they could no longer use their ships or make profit on ocean routes why not palm off their vessels upon the government? a highly favorable time it was; the government, under the imperative necessity of at once raising and transporting a huge army, needed vessels badly. as for the other question momentarily agitating the capitalists as to what new line of activity they could substitute for their own extinguished business, vanderbilt soon showed how railroads could be made to yield a far greater fortune than commerce. the titanic conflict opening between the north and the south found the federal government wholly unprepared. true, in granting the mail subsidies which established the ocean steamship companies, and which actually furnished the capital for many of them, congress had inserted some fine provisions that these subsidized ships should be so built as to be "war steamers of the first class," available in time of war. but these provisions were mere vapor. just as the harris and the sloo lines had obtained annual mail subsidy payments of $ , and had caused government officials to accept their inferior vessels, so the collins line had done the same. the report of a board of naval experts submitted to the committee of ways and means of the house of representatives had showed that the collins steamers had not been built according to contract; that they would crumble to pieces under the fire of their own batteries, and that a single hostile gun would blow them to splinters. yet they had been accepted by the navy department. in times of peace the commercial interests had practiced the grossest frauds in corruptly imposing upon the government every form of shoddy supplies. these were the same interests so vociferously proclaiming their intense patriotism. the civil war put their pretensions of patriotism to the test. if ever a war took place in which government and people had to strain every nerve and resource to carry on a great conflict it was the civil war. the result of that war was only to exchange chattel slavery for the more extensive system of economic slavery. but the people of that time did not see this clearly. the northern soldiers thought they were fighting for the noblest of all causes, and the mass of the people behind them were ready to make every sacrifice to win a momentous struggle, the direct issue of which was the overthrow or retention of black slavery. how did the capitalist class act toward the government, or rather, let us say, toward the army and the navy so heroically pouring out their blood in battles, and hazarding life in camps, hospitals, stockades and military prisons? indiscriminate plundering during the civil war. the capitalists abundantly proved their devout patriotism by making tremendous fortunes from the necessities of that great crisis. they unloaded upon the government at ten times the cost of manufacture quantities of munitions of war--munitions so frequently worthless that they often had to be thrown away after their purchase. [footnote: in a speech on february , , on the urgency of establishing additional government armories and founderies, representative j. w. wallace pointed out in the house of representatives: "the arms, ordnance and munitions of war bought by the government from private contractors and foreign armories since the commencement of the rebellion have doubtless cost, over and above the positive expense of their manufacture, ten times as much as would establish and put into operation the armory and founderies recommended in the resolution of the committee. i understand that the government, from the necessity of procuring a sufficient quantity of arms, has been paying, on the average, about twenty-two dollars per musket, when they could have been and could be manufactured in our national workshops for one-half that money."--appendix to the congressional globe, thirty-seventh congress, third session, - . part ii: . fuller details are given in subsequent chapters. ] they supplied shoddy uniforms and blankets and wretched shoes; food of so deleterious a quality that it was a fertile cause of epidemics of fevers and of numberless deaths; they impressed, by force of corruption, worn-out, disintegrating hulks into service as army and naval transports. not a single possibility of profit was there in which the most glaring frauds were not committed. by a series of disingenuous measures the banks plundered the treasury and people and caused their banknotes to be exempt from taxation. the merchants defrauded the government out of millions of dollars by bribing custom house officers to connive at undervaluations of imports. [footnote: in his report for salmon p. chase, secretary of the treasury, wrote: "that invoices representing fraudulent valuation of merchandise are daily presented at the custom houses is well known...."] the custom house frauds were so notorious that, goaded on by public opinion, the house of representatives was forced to appoint an investigating committee. the chairman of this committee, representative c. h. van wyck, of new york, after summarizing the testimony in a speech in the house on february , , passionately exclaimed: "the starving, penniless man who steals a loaf of bread to save life you incarcerate in a dungeon; but the army of magnificent highwaymen who steal by tens of thousands from the people, go unwhipped of justice and are suffered to enjoy the fruits of their crimes. it has been so with former administrations: unfortunately it is so with this." [footnote: appendix to the congressional globe, thirty-seventh congress, third session, - . part ii: .] the federal armies not only had to fight an open foe in a desperately contested war, but they were at the same time the helpless targets for the profit-mongers of their own section who insidiously slew great numbers of them--not, it is true, out of deliberate lust for murder, but because the craze for profits crushed every instinct of honor and humanity, and rendered them callous to the appalling consequences. the battlefields were not more deadly than the supplies furnished by capitalist contractors. [footnote: this is one of many examples: philip s. justice, a gun manufacturer of philadelphia, obtained a contract in , to supply , rifles. he charged $ apiece. the rifles were found to be so absolutely dangerous to the soldiers using them, that the government declined to pay his demanded price for a part of them. justice then brought suit. (see court of claims reports, viii: - .) in the court records, these statements are included: william h. harris, second lieutenant of ordnance, under orders visited camp hamilton, va., and inspected the arms of the fifty- eighth regiment, pennsylvania volunteers, stationed there. he reported: "this regiment is armed with rifle muskets, marked on the barrel, 'p. s. justice, philadelphia,' and vary in calibre from . to . . i find many of them unserviceable and irreparable, from the fact that the principal parts are defective. many of them are made up of parts of muskets to which the stamp of condemnation has been affixed by an inspecting officer. none of the stocks have ever been approved by an officer, nor do they bear the initials of any inspector. they are made up of soft, unseasoned wood, and are defective in construction. ... the sights are merely soldered on to the barrel, and come off with the gentlest handling. imitative screw- heads are cut on their bases. the bayonets are made up of soft iron, and, of course, when once bent remain 'set,'" etc., etc. (p. ). col. (later general) thomas d. doubleday reported of his inspection: "the arms which were manufactured at philadelphia, penn., are of the most worthless kind, and have every appearance of having been manufactured from old condemned muskets. many of them burst; hammers break off; sights fall off when discharged; the barrels are very light, not one-twentieth of an inch thick, and the stocks are made of green wood which have shrunk so as to leave the bands and trimmings loose. the bayonets are of such frail texture that they bend like lead, and many of them break off when going through the bayonet exercise. you could hardly conceive of such a worthless lot of arms, totally unfit for service, and dangerous to those using them" (p. ). assistant inspector-general of ordnance john buford reported: "many had burst; many cones were blown out; many locks were defective; many barrels were rough inside from imperfect boring; and many had different diameters of bore in the same barrel. ... _at target practice so many burst that the men became afraid to fire them_" (p. ). the court of claims, on strict technical grounds, decided in favor of justice, but the supreme court of the united states reversed that decision and dismissed the case. the supreme court found true the government's contention that "the arms were unserviceable and unsafe for troops to handle." many other such specific examples are given in subsequent chapters of this work.] these capitalists passed, and were hailed, as eminent merchants, manufacturers and bankers; they were mighty in the marts and in politics; and their praise as "enterprising" and "self-made" and "patriotic" men was lavishly diffused. it was the period of periods when there was a kind of adoration of the capitalist taught in press, college and pulpit. nothing is so effective, as was remarked of old, to divert attention from scoundrelism as to make a brilliant show of patriotism. in the very act of looting government and people and devastating the army and navy, the capitalists did the most ghastly business under the mask of the purest patriotism. incredible as it may seem, this pretension was invoked and has been successfully maintained to this very day. you can scarcely pick up a volume on the civil war, or a biography of the statesmen or rich men of the era, without wading in fulsome accounts of the untiring patriotism of the capitalists. patriotism at a safe distance. but, while lustily indulging in patriotic palaver, the propertied classes took excellent care that their own bodies should not be imperilled. inspired by enthusiasm or principle, a great array of the working class, including the farming and the professional elements, volunteered for military service. it was not long before they experienced the disappointment and demoralization of camp life. the letters written by many of these soldiers show that they did not falter at active campaigning. the prospect, however, of remaining in camp with insufficient rations, and (to use a modern expressive word) graft on every hand, completely disheartened and disgusted many of them. many having influence with members of congress, contrived to get discharges; others lacking this influence deserted. to fill the constantly diminishing ranks caused by deaths, resignations and desertions, it became necessary to pass a conscription act. with few exceptions, the propertied classes of the north loved comfort and power too well to look tranquilly upon any move to force them to enlist. once more, the government revealed that it was but a register of the interests of the ruling classes. the draft act was so amended that it allowed men of property to escape being conscripted into the army by permitting them to buy substitutes. the poor man who could not raise the necessary amount had to submit to the consequences of the draft. with a few of the many dollars wrung, filched or plundered in some way or other, the capitalists could purchase immunity from military service. as one of the foremost capitalists of the time, cornelius vanderbilt has been constantly exhibited as a great and shining patriot. precisely in the same way as croffut makes no mention of vanderbilt's share in the mail subsidy frauds, but, on the contrary, ascribes to vanderbilt the most splendid patriotism in his mail carrying operations, so do croffut and other writers unctuously dilate upon the old magnate's patriotic services during the civil war. such is the sort of romancing that has long gone unquestioned, although the genuine facts have been within reach. these facts show that vanderbilt was continuing during the civil war the prodigious frauds he had long been carrying on. when lincoln's administration decided in to send a large military and naval force to new orleans under general banks, one of the first considerations was to get in haste the required number of ships to be used as transports. to whom did the government turn in this exigency? to the very merchant class which, since the foundation of the united states, had continuously defrauded the public treasury. the owners of the ships had been eagerly awaiting a chance to sell or lease them to the government at exorbitant prices. and to whom was the business of buying, equipping and supervising them intrusted? to none other than cornelius vanderbilt. every public man had opportunities for knowing that vanderbilt had pocketed millions of dollars in his fraudulent hold-up arrangement with various mail subsidy lines. he was known to be mercenary and unscrupulous. yet he was selected by secretary of war stanton to act as the agent for the government. at this time vanderbilt was posing as a glorious patriot. with much ostentation he had loaned to the government for naval purposes one of his ships--a ship that he could not put to use himself and which, in fact, had been built with stolen public funds. by this gift he had cheaply attained the reputation of being a fervent patriot. subsequently, it may be added, congress turned a trick on him by assuming that he gave this ship to the government, and, to his great astonishment, kept the ship and solemnly thanked him for the present. vanderbilt's methods in war. the outfitting of the banks expedition was of such a rank character that it provoked a grave public scandal. if the matter had been simply one of swindling the united states treasury out of millions of dollars, it might have been passed over by congress. on all sides gigantic frauds were being committed by the capitalists. but in this particular case the protests of the thousands of soldiers on board the transports were too numerous and effective to be silenced or ignored. these soldiers were not regulars without influence or connections; they were volunteers who everywhere had relatives and friends to demand an inquiry. their complaints of overcrowding and of insecure, broken-down ships poured in, and aroused the whole country. a great stir resulted. congress appointed an investigating committee. the testimony was extremely illuminative. it showed that in buying the vessels vanderbilt had employed one t. j. southard to act as his handy man. vanderbilt, it was testified by numerous ship owners, refused to charter any vessels unless the business were transacted through southard, who demanded a share of the purchase money before he would consent to do business. any ship owner who wanted to get rid of a superannuated steamer or sailing vessel found no difficulty if he acceded to southard's terms. the vessels accepted by vanderbilt, and contracted to be paid for at high prices, were in shockingly bad condition. vanderbilt was one of the few men in the secret of the destination of banks' expedition; he knew that the ships had to make an ocean trip. yet he bought for $ , the niagara, an old boat that had been built nearly a score of years before for trade on lake ontario. "in perfectly smooth weather," reported senator grimes, of iowa, "with a calm sea, the planks were ripped out of her, and exhibited to the gaze of the indignant soldiers on board, showing that her timbers were rotten. the committee have in their committee room a large sample of one of the beams of this vessel to show that it has not the slightest capacity to hold a nail." [footnote: the congressional globe, thirty- seventh congress, third session, - , part : .] senator grimes continued: if senators will refer to page of this report, they will see that for the steamer eastern queen he (vanderbilt) paid $ a day for the first thirty days, and $ for the residue of the days; while she (the eastern queen) had been chartered by the government, for the burnside expedition at $ a day, making a difference of three or four hundred dollars a day. he paid for the quinebang $ a day, while she had been chartered to the government at one time for $ a day. for the shetucket he paid $ a day, while she had formerly been in our employ for $ a day. he paid for the charles osgood $ a day, while we had chartered her for $ . he paid $ a day for the james s. green, while we had once had a charter of her for $ . he paid $ a day for the salvor, while she had been chartered to the government for $ . he paid $ a day for the albany, while she had been chartered to the government for $ . he paid $ a day for the jersey blue, while she had been chartered to the government for $ . [footnote: the congressional globe, etc., - , part i: .] there were a few of the many vessels chartered by vanderbilt through southard for the government. for vessels bought outright, extravagant sums were paid. ambrose snow, a well-known shipping merchant, testified that "when we got to commodore vanderbilt we were referred to mr. southard; when we went to mr. southard, we were told that we should have to pay him a commission of five per cent." [footnote: ibid. see also senate report no. , , embracing the full testimony.] other shipping merchants corroborated this testimony. the methods and extent of these great frauds were clear. if the ship owners agreed to pay southard five--and very often he exacted ten per cent. [footnote: senator hale asserted that he had heard of the exacting of a brokerage equal to ten per cent, in boston and elsewhere.]-- vanderbilt would agree to pay them enormous sums. in giving his testimony vanderbilt sought to show that he was actuated by the most patriotic motives. but it was obvious that he was in collusion with southard, and received the greater part of the plunder. horrors done for profit. on some of the vessels chartered by vanderbilt, vessels that under the immigration act would not have been allowed to carry more than three hundred passengers, not less than nine hundred and fifty soldiers were packed. most of the vessels were antiquated and inadequate; not a few were badly decayed. with a little superficial patching up they were imposed upon the government. despite his knowing that only vessels adapted for ocean service were needed, vanderbilt chartered craft that had hitherto been almost entirely used in navigating inland waters. not a single precaution was taken by him or his associates to safeguard the lives of the soldiers. it was a rule amoung commercial men that at least two men capable of navigating should be aboard, especially at sea. yet, with the lives of thousands of soldiers at stake, and with old and bad vessels in use at that, vanderbilt, in more than one instance, as the testimony showed, neglected to hire more than one navigator, and failed to provide instruments and charts. in stating these facts senator grimes said: "when the question was asked of commodore vanderbilt and of other gentlemen in connection with the expedition, why this was, and why they did not take navigators and instruments and charts on board, the answer was that the insurance companies and owners of the vessel took that risk, as though"--senator grimes bitingly continued--"the government had no risk in the lives of its valiant men whom it has enlisted under its banner and set out in an expedition of this kind." [footnote: the congressional globe, thirty-seventh congress, third session, - , part i: .] if the expedition had encountered a severe storm at cape hatteras, for instance, it is probable that most of the vessels would have been wrecked. luckily the voyage was fair. frauds remain unpunished. did the government make any move to arrest, indict and imprison vanderbilt and his tools? none. the farcical ending of these revelations was the introduction in the united states senate of a mere resolution censuring them as "guilty of negligence." vanderbilt immediately got busy pulling wires; and when the resolution came up for vote, a number of senators, led by senator hale, sprang up to withdraw vanderbilt's name. senator grimes thereupon caustically denounced vanderbilt. "the whole transaction," said he, "shows a chapter of fraud from beginning to end." he went on: "men making the most open professions of loyalty and of patriotism and of perfect disinterestedness, coming before the committee and swearing that they acted from such motives solely, were compelled to admit--at least one or two were--that in some instances they received as high as six and a quarter per cent ... and i believe that since then the committee are satisfied in their own mind that the per cent. was greater than was in testimony before them." senator grimes added that he did not believe that vanderbilt's name should be stricken from the resolution. in vain, however, did senator grimes plead. vanderbilt's name was expunged, and southard was made the chief scapegoat. although vanderbilt had been tenderly dealt with in the investigation, his criminality was conclusively established. the affair deeply shocked the nation. after all, it was only another of many tragic events demonstrating both the utter inefficiency of capitalist management, and the consistent capitalist program of subordinating every consideration of human life to the mania for profits. vanderbilt was only a type of his class; although he was found out he deserved condemnation no more than thousands of other capitalists, great and small, whose methods at bottom did not vary from his. [footnote: one of the grossest and most prevalent forms of fraud was that of selling doctored-up horses to the union army. important cavalry movements were often delayed and jeoparded by this kind of fraud. in passing upon the suit of one of these horse contractors against the government (daniel wormser vs. united states) for payment for horses supplied, in , for cavalry use, the supreme court of the united states confirmed the charge made by the government horse inspectors that the plaintiff had been guilty of fraud, and dismissed the case. "the government," said justice bradley in the court's decision, "clearly had the right to proscribe regulations for the inspection of horses, and there was great need for strictness in this regard, for frauds were constantly perpetrated. . . . it is well known that horses may be prepared and fixed up to appear bright and smart for a few hours."--court of claims reports, vii: - .] yet such was the network of shams and falsities with which the supreme class of the time enmeshed society, that press, pulpit, university and the so-called statesmen insisted that the wealth of the rich man had its foundation in ability, and that this ability was indispensable in providing for the material wants of mankind. whatever obscurity may cloud many of vanderbilt's methods in the steamship business, his methods in possessing himself of railroads are easily ascertained from official archives. late in , at about the time when he had added to the millions that he had virtually stolen in the mail subsidy frauds, the huge profits from his manipulation of the banks expedition, he set about buying the stock of the new york and harlem railroad. the story of a franchise. this railroad, the first to enter new york city, had received from the new york common council in a franchise for the exclusive use of fourth avenue, north of twenty-third street--a franchise which, it was openly charged, was obtained by distributing bribes in the form of stock among the aldermen. [footnote: "the history of tammany hall": .] the franchise was not construed by the city to be perpetual; certain reservations were embodied giving the city powers of revocation. but as we shall see, vanderbilt not only corrupted the legislature in to pass an act saddling one-half of the expense of depressing the tracks upon the city, but caused the act to be so adroitly worded as to make the franchise perpetual. along with the franchise to use fourth avenue, the railroad company secured in a franchise, free of taxation, to run street cars for the convenience of its passengers from the railroad station (then in the outskirts of new york city) south to prince street. subsequently this franchise was extended to walker street, and in to park row. these were the initial stages of the fourth avenue surface line, which has been extended, and has grown into a vested value of tens of millions of dollars. in the new york and harlem railroad company was forced by action of the common council, arising from the protests of the rich residents of murray hill, to discontinue steam service below forty-second street. it, therefore, now had a street car line running from that thoroughfare to the astor house. this explanation of antecedent circumstances allows a clearer comprehension of what took place after vanderbilt had begun buying the stock of the new york and harlem railroad. the stock was then selling at $ a share. this railroad, as was the case with all other railroads, without exception, was run by the owners with only the most languid regard for the public interests and safety. just as the corporation in the theory of the law was supposed to be a body to whom government delegated powers to do certain things in the interests of the people, so was the railroad considered theoretically a public highway operated for the convenience of the people. it was upon this ostensible ground that railroad corporations secured charters, franchises, property and such privileges as the right of condemnation of necessary land. the state of new york alone had contributed $ , , in public funds, and various counties, towns and municipalities in new york state nearly $ , , by investment in stocks and bonds. [footnote: report of the special committe on railroads of the new york assembly, , i: .] the theory was indeed attractive, but it remained nothing more than a fiction. no sooner did the railroad owners get what they wanted, than they proceeded to exploit the very community from which their possessions were obtained, and which they were supposed to serve. the various railroads were juggled with by succeeding groups of manipulators. management was neglected, and no attention paid to proper equipment. often the physical layout of the railroads--the road-beds, rails and cars--were deliberately allowed to deteriorate in order that the manipulators might be able to lower the value and efficiency of the road, and thus depress the value of the stock. thus, for instance, vanderbilt aiming to get control of a railroad at a low price, might very well have confederates among some of the directors or officials of that railroad who would resist or slyly thwart every attempt at improvement, and so scheme that the profits would constantly go down. as the profits decreased, so did the price of the stock in the stock market. the changing combinations of railroad capitalists were too absorbed in the process of gambling in the stock market to have any direct concern for management. it was nothing to them that this neglect caused frequent and heartrending disasters; they were not held criminally responsible for the loss of life. in fact, railroad wrecks often served their purpose in beating down the price of stocks. incredible as this statement may seem, it is abundantly proved by the facts. vanderbilt gets a railroad. after vanderbilt, by divers machinations of too intricate character to be described here, had succeeded in knocking down the price of new york and harlem railroad shares and had bought a controlling part, the price began bounding up. in the middle of april, , it stood at $ a share. a very decided increase it was, from $ to $ ; evidently enough, to occasion this rise, he had put through some transaction which had added immensely to the profits of the road. what was it? sinister rumors preceded what the evening of april , , disclosed. he had bribed the new york city common council to give to the new york and harlem railroad a perpetual franchise for a street railway on broadway from the battery to union square. he had done what solomon kipp and others had done, in , when they had spent $ , in bribing the aldermen to give them a franchise for surface lines on sixth avenue and eighth avenue; [footnote: see presentment of grand jury of february , , and accompanying testimony, documents of the (new york) board of aldermen, doc. no. xxi, part ii, no. .] what elijah f. purdy and others had done in the same year in bribing aldermen with a fund of $ , to give them the franchise for a surface line on third avenue; [footnote: ibid., - .] what george law and other capitalists had done, in , in bribing the aldermen to give them the franchises for street car lines on second avenue and ninth avenue. only three years before--in -- vanderbilt had seen jacob sharp and others bribe the new york legislature (which in that same year had passed an act depriving the new york common council of the power of franchise granting) to give them franchises for street car lines on seventh avenue, on tenth avenue, on forty-second street, on avenue d and a franchise for the "belt" line. it was generally believed that the passage of these five bills cost the projectors $ , in money and stock distributed among the purchasable members of the legislature. [footnote: see "the history of public franchises in new york city": - .] of all the new york city street railway franchises, either appropriated or unappropriated, the broadway line was considered the most profitable. so valuable were its present and potential prospects estimated that in thomas e. davies and his associates had offered, in return for the franchise, to carry passengers for a three-cent fare and to pay the city a million-dollar bonus. other eager capitalists had hastened to offer the city a continuous payment of $ , a year. similar futile attempts had been made year after year to get the franchise. the rich residents of broadway opposed a street car line, believing it would subject them to noise and discomfort; likewise the stage owners, intent upon keeping up their monopoly, fought against it. in the bare rights of the broadway franchise were considered to be worth fully $ , , . vanderbilt and george law were now frantically competing for this franchise. while vanderbilt was corrupting the common council, law was corrupting the legislature. [footnote: the business rivalry between vanderbilt and law was intensified by the deepest personal enmity on law's part. as one of the chief owners of the united states mail steamship company, law was extremely bitter on the score of vanderbilt's having been able to blackmail him and roberts so heavily and successfully.] such competition on the part of capitalists in corrupting public bodies was very frequent. the aldermen outwitted by vanderbilt. but the aldermen were by no means unschooled in the current sharp practices of commercialism. a strong cabal of them hatched up a scheme by which they would take vanderbilt's bribe money, and then ambush him for still greater spoils. they knew that even if they gave him the franchise, its validity would not stand the test of the courts. the legislature claimed the exclusive power of granting franchises; astute lawyers assured them that this claim would be upheld. their plan was to grant a franchise for the broadway line to the new york and harlem railroad. this would at once send up the price of the stock. the legislature, it was certain, would give a franchise for the same surface line to law. when the courts decided against the common council that body, in a spirit of showy deference, would promptly pass an ordinance repealing the franchise. in the meantime, the aldermen and their political and wall street confederates would contract to "sell short" large quantities of new york and harlem stock. the method was simple. when that railroad stock was selling at $ a share upon the strength of getting the broadway franchise, the aldermen would find many persons willing to contract for its delivery in a month at a price, say, of $ a share. by either the repealing of the franchise ordinance or affected by adverse court decisions, the stock inevitably would sink to a much lower price. at this low price the aldermen and their confederates would buy the stock and then deliver it, compelling the contracting parties to pay the agreed price of $ a share. the difference between the stipulated price of delivery and the value to which the stock had fallen--$ , $ or $ a share--would represent the winnings. part of this plan worked out admirably. the legislature passed an act giving law the franchise. vanderbilt countered by getting tweed, the all-powerful political ruler of new york city and new york state, to order his tool, governor seymour, to veto the measure. as was anticipated by the aldermen, the courts pronounced that the common council had no power to grant franchises. vanderbilt's franchise was, therefore, annulled. so far, there was no hitch in the plot to pluck vanderbilt. but an unlooked for obstacle was encountered. vanderbilt had somehow got wind of the affair, and with instant energy bought up secretly all of the new york and harlem railroad stock he could. he had masses of ready money to do it with; the millions from the mail subsidy frauds and from his other lootings of the public treasury proved an unfailing source of supply. presently, he had enough of the stock to corner his antagonists badly. he then put his own price upon it, eventually pushing it up to $ a share. to get the stock that they contracted to deliver, the combination of politicians and wall street bankers and brokers had to buy it from him at his own price; there was no outstanding stock elsewhere. the old man was pitiless; he mulcted them $ a share. in his version, croffut says of vanderbilt: "he and his partners in the bull movement took a million dollars from the common council that week and other millions from others." [footnote: "the vanderbilts," etc: .] the new york and harlem railroad was now his, as absolutely almost as the very clothes he wore. little it mattered that he did not hold all of the stock; he owned a preponderance enough to rule the railroad as despotically as he pleased. not a foot it had he surveyed or constructed; this task had been done by the mental and manual labor of thousands of wage workers not one of whom now owned the vestige of an interest in it. for their toil these wage workers had nothing to show but poverty. but vanderbilt had swept in a railroad system by merely using in cunning and unscrupulous ways a few of the millions he had defrauded from the national treasury. he annexes a second railroad. having found it so easy to get one railroad, he promptly went ahead to annex other railroads. by he loomed up as the owner of a controlling mass of stock in the new york and hudson river railroad. this line paralleled the hudson river, and had a terminal in the downtown section of new york city. in a way it was a competitor of the new york and harlem railroad. the old magnate now conceived a brilliant idea. why not consolidate the two roads? true, to bring about this consolidation an authorizing act of the new york legislature was necessary. but there was little doubt of the legislature balking. vanderbilt well knew the means to insure its passage. in those years, when the people were taught to look upon competition as indispensable, there was deep popular opposition to the consolidating of competing interests. this, it was feared, would inflict monopoly. the cost of buying legislators to pass an act so provocative of popular indignation would be considerable, but, at the same time, it would not be more than a trifle compared with the immense profits he would gain. the consolidation would allow him to increase, or, as the phrase went, water, the stock of the combined roads. although substantially owner of the two railroads, he was legally two separate entities--or, rather, the corporations were. as owner of one line he could bargain with himself as owner of the other, and could determine what the exchange purchase price should be. so, by a juggle, he could issue enormous quantities of bonds and stocks to himself. these many millions of bonds and stocks would not cost him personally a cent. the sole expense--the bribe funds and the cost of engraving--he would charge against his corporations. immediately, these stocks and bonds would be vested with a high value, inasmuch as they would represent mortgages upon the productivity of tens of millions of people of that generation, and of still greater numbers of future generations. by putting up traffic rates and lowering wages, dividends would be paid upon the entire outpouring of stock, thus beyond a doubt insuring its permanent value. [footnote: even croffut, vanderbilt's foremost eulogist, cynically grows merry over vanderbilt's methods which he thus summarizes: "( ) buy your railroad; ( ) stop the stealing that went on under the other man; ( ) improve the road in every practicable way within a reasonable expenditure; ( ) consolidate it with any other road that can be run with it economically; ( ) water its stock; ( ) make it pay a large dividend."] cunning against cunning. a majority of the new york legislature was bought. it looked as if the consolidation act would go through without difficulty. surreptitiously, however, certain leading men in the legislature plotted with the wall street opponents of vanderbilt to repeat the trick attempted by the new york aldermen in . the bill would be introduced and reported favorably; every open indication would be manifested of keeping faith with vanderbilt. upon the certainty of its passage the market value of the stock would rise. with their prearranged plan of defeating the bill at the last moment upon some plausible pretext, the clique in the meantime would be busy selling short. information of this treachery came to vanderbilt in time. he retaliated as he had upon the new york aldermen; put the price of new york and harlem stock up to $ a share and held it there until after he was settled with. with his chief partner, john tobin, he was credited with pocketing many millions of dollars. to make their corner certain, the vanderbilt pool had bought , more shares than the entire existing stock of the road. "we busted the whole legislature," was vanderbilt's jubilant comment, "and scores of the honorable members had to go home without paying their board bills." the numerous millions taken in by vanderbilt in these transactions came from a host of other men who would have plundered him as quickly as he plundered them. they came from members of the legislature who had grown rich on bribes for granting a continuous succession of special privileges, or to put it in a more comprehensible form, licenses to individuals and corporations to prey in a thousand and one forms upon the people. they came from bankers, railroad, land and factory owners, all of whom had assiduously bribed congress, legislatures, common councils and administrative officials to give them special laws and rights by which they could all the more easily and securely grasp the produce of the many, and hold it intact without even a semblance of taxation. the very nature of that system of gambling called stock-market or cotton or produce exchange speculation showed at once the sharply- defined disparities and discriminations in law. common gambling, so-called, was a crime. the gambling of the exchanges was legitimate and legalized, and the men who thus gambled with the resources of the nation were esteemed as highly respectable and responsible leaders of the community. for a penniless man to sell anything he did not own, or which was not in existence, was held a heinous crime and was severely punished by a long prison term. but the members of the all-powerful propertied class could contract to deliver stocks which they did not own or which were non-existent, or they could gamble in produce often not yet out of the ground, and the law saw no criminal act in their performances. far from being under the inhibition of law, their methods were duly legalized. the explanation was not hard to find. these same propertied classes had made the code of laws as it stood; and if any doubter denies that laws at all times have exactly corresponded with the interest and aims of the ruling class, all that is necessary is to compare the laws of the different periods with the profitable methods of that class, and he will find that these methods, however despicable, vile and cruel, were not only indulgently omitted from the recognized category of crimes but were elevated by prevalent teaching to be commercial virtues and ability of a high order. with two railroads in his possession vanderbilt cast about to drag in a third. this was the new york central railroad, one of the richest in the country. vanderbilt's eulogists, in depicting him as a masterful constructionist, assert that it was he who first saw the waste and futility of competition, and that he organized the new york central from the disjointed, disconnected lines of a number of previously separate little railroads. this is a gross error. the consolidation was formed in at the time when vanderbilt was plundering from the united states treasury the millions with which he began to buy in railroads nine years later. the new york central arose from the union of ten little railroads, some running in the territory between albany and buffalo, and others merely projected, but which had nevertheless been capitalized as though they were actually in operation. the cost of construction of these eleven roads was about $ , , , but they were capitalized at $ , , . under the consolidating act of the capitalization was run up to about $ , , . this fictitious capital was partly based on roads which were never built, and existing on paper only. then followed a series of legislative acts giving the company a further list of valuable franchises and allowing it to charge extortionate rates, inflate its stock, and virtually escape taxation. how these laws were procured may be judged from the testimony of the treasurer of the new york central railroad before a committee of the new york state constitutional convention. this official stated that from about to the new york central had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars for "legislative purposes,"--in other words, buying laws at albany. acquisition by wrecking. vanderbilt considered it unnecessary to buy new york central stock to get control. he had a much better and subtler plan. the hudson river railroad was at that time the only through road running from new york to albany. to get its passengers and freight to new york city the new york central had to make a transfer at albany. vanderbilt now deliberately began to wreck the new york central. he sent out an order in to all hudson river railroad employees to refuse to connect with the new york central and to take no more freight. this move could not do otherwise than seriously cripple the facilities and lower the profits of the new york central. consequently, the value of its stock was bound to go precipitately down. the people of the united states were treated to an ironic sight. here was a man who only eight years before had been shown up in congress as an arch plunderer; a man who had bought his railroads largely with his looted millions; a man who, if the laws had been drafted and executed justly, would have been condoning his frauds in prison;-- this man was contemptuously and openly defying the very people whose interests the railroads were supposed to serve. in this conflict between warring sets of capitalists, as in all similar conflicts, public convenience was made sport of. hudson river trains going north no longer crossed the hudson river to enter albany; they stopped half a mile east of the bridge leading into that city. this made it impossible to transfer freight. there in the country the trains were arbitrarily stopped for the night; locomotive fires were banked and the passengers were left to shift into albany the best they could, whether they walked or contrived to hire vehicles. all were turned out of the train--men, women and children--no exceptions were made for sex or infirmity. the legislature went through a pretense of investigating what public opinion regarded as a particularly atrocious outrage. vanderbilt covered this committee with undisguised scorn; it provoked his wrath to be quizzed by a committee of a body many of whose members had accepted his bribes. when he was asked why he had so high-handedly refused to run his trains across the river, the old fox smiled grimly, and to their utter surprise, showed them an old law (which had hitherto remained a dead letter) prohibiting the new york hudson railroad from running trains over the hudson river. this law had been enacted in response to the demand of the new york central, which wanted no competitor west of albany. when the committee recovered its breath, its chairman timidly inquired of vanderbilt why he did not run trains to the river. "i was not there, gentlemen," said vanderbilt. "but what did you do when you heard of it?" "i did not do anything." "why not? where were you?" "i was at home, gentlemen," replied vanderbilt with serene impudence, "playing a rubber of whist, and i never allow anything to interfere with me when i am playing that game. it requires, as you know, undivided attention." as vanderbilt had foreseen, the stock of the new york central went down abruptly; at its lowest point he bought in large quantities. his opponents, edward cunard, john jacob astor, john steward and other owners of the new york central thus saw the directorship pass from their hands. the dispossession they had worked to the pruyns, the martins, the pages and others was now being visited upon them. they found in this old man of seventy-three too cunning and crafty a man to defeat. rather than lose all, they preferred to choose him as their captain; his was the sort of ability which they could not overcome and to which they must attach themselves. on november , , they surrendered wholly and unreservedly. vanderbilt now installed his own subservient board of directors, and proceeded to put through a fresh program of plunder beside which all his previous schemes were comparatively insignificant. chapter v the vanderbilt fortune increases manifold vanderbilt's ambition was to become the richest man in america. with three railroads in his possession he now aggressively set out to grasp a fourth--the erie railroad. this was another of the railroads built largely with public money. the state of new york had contributed $ , , , and other valuable donations had been given. at the very inception of the railroad corruption began [footnote: report of the new york state and erie railroad company, new york state assembly document no. , .] the tradesmen, landowners and bankers who composed the company bribed the legislature to relinquish the state's claim, and then looted the railroad with such consummate thoroughness that in order to avert its bankruptcy they were obliged to borrow funds from daniel drew. this man was an imposing financial personage in his day. illiterate, unscrupulous, picturesque in his very iniquities, he had once been a drover, and had gone into the steamboat business with vanderbilt. he had scraped in wealth partly from that line of traffic, and in part from a succession of buccaneering operations. his loan remaining unpaid, drew indemnified himself by taking over, in , by foreclosure, the control of the erie railroad. for the next nine years drew manipulated the stock at will, sending the price up or down as suited his gambling schemes. the railroad degenerated until travel upon it became a menace; one disaster followed another. drew imperturbably continued his manipulation of the stock market, careless of the condition of the road. at no time was he put to the inconvenience of even being questioned by the public authorities. on the contrary, the more millions he made the greater grew his prestige and power, the higher his standing in the community. ruling society, influenced solely by money standards, saluted him as a successful man who had his millions, and made no fastidious inquiries as to how he got them. he was a potent man; his villainies passed as great astuteness, his devious cunning as marvelous sagacity. gould overreaches vanderbilt vanderbilt resolved to wrest the erie railroad out of drew's hands. by secretly buying its stock he was in a position in to carry out his designs. he threw drew and his directors out, but subsequently realizing drew's usefulness, reinstated him upon condition that he be fully pliable to the vanderbilt interests. thereupon drew brought in as fellow directors two young men, then obscure but of whom the world was to hear much--james fisk, jr., and jay gould. the narrative of how these three men formed a coalition against vanderbilt; how they betrayed and then outgeneraled him at every turn; proved themselves of a superior cunning; sold him large quantities of spurious stock; excelled him in corruption; defrauded more than $ , , , and succeeded--gould, at any rate--in keeping most of the plunder--this will be found in detail where it more properly belongs--in the chapter of the gould fortune describing that part of gould's career connected with the erie railroad. baffled in his frantic contest to keep hold of that railroad--a hold that he would have turned into many millions of dollars of immediate loot by fraudulently watering the stock, and then bribing the legislature to legalize it as gould did--vanderbilt at once set in motion a fraudulent plan of his own by which he extorted about $ , , in plunder, the greater portion of which went to swell his fortune. the year proved a particularly busy one for vanderbilt. he was engaged in a desperately devious struggle with gould. in vain did his agents and lobbyists pour out stacks of money to buy legislative votes enough to defeat the bill legalizing gould's fraudulent issue of stock. members of the legislature impassively took money from both parties. gould personally appeared at albany with a satchel containing $ , in greenbacks which were rapidly distributed. one senator, as was disclosed by an investigating committee, accepted $ , from vanderbilt and then $ , from gould, kept both sums,--and voted with the dominant gould forces. it was only by means of the numerous civil and criminal writs issued by vanderbilt judges that the old man contrived to force gould and his accomplices into paying for the stock fraudulently unloaded upon him. the best terms that he could get was an unsatisfactory settlement which still left him to bear a loss of about two millions. the veteran trickster had never before been overreached; all his life, except on one occasion, [footnote: in when he had advanced funds to a contractor carrying the mails between washington and richmond, and had taken security which proved to be worthless.] he had been the successful sharper; but he was no match for the more agile and equally sly, corrupt and resourceful gould. it took some time for vanderbilt to realize this; and it was only after several costly experiences with gould, that he could bring himself to admit that he could not hope to outdo gould. a new consolidation planned however, vanderbilt quickly and multitudinously recouped himself for the losses encountered in his erie assault. why not, he argued, combine the new york central and the hudson river companies into one corporation, and on the strength of it issue a vast amount of additional stock? the time was ripe for a new mortgage on the labor of that generation and of the generations to follow. population was wondrously increasing, and with it trade. for years the new york central had been paying a dividend of eight per cent. but this was only part of the profits. a law had been passed in authorizing the legislature to step in whenever the dividends rose above ten per cent, on the railroad's actual cost, and to declare what should be done with the surplus. this law was nothing more or less than a blind to conciliate the people of the state, and let them believe that they would get some returns for the large outlay of public funds advanced to the new york central. no returns ever came. vanderbilt, and the different groups before him, in control of the road had easily evaded it, just as in every direction the whole capitalist class pushed aside law whenever law conflicted with its aims and interests. it was the propertyless only for whom the execution of law was intended. profits from the new york central were far more than eight per cent.; by perjury and frauds the directors retained sums that should have gone to the state. every year they prepared a false account of their revenues and expenditures which they submitted to the state officials; they pretended that they annually spent millions of dollars in construction work on the road--work, in reality, never done. [footnote: see report of new york special assembly committee on railroads, , iv: , .] the money was pocketed by them under this device--a device that has since become a favorite of many railroad and public utility corporations. unenforced as it was, this law was nevertheless an obstacle in the way of vanderbilt's plans. likewise was another, a statute prohibiting both the new york central railroad and the hudson river railroad from increasing their stock. to understand why this latter law was passed it is necessary to remember that the middle class--the factory owners, jobbers, retail tradesmen and employing farmers--were everywhere seeking by the power of law to prevent the too great development of corporations. these, they apprehended, and with reason, would ultimately engulf them and their fortunes and importance. they knew that each new output of watered stock meant either that the prevailing high freight rates would remain unchanged or would be increased; and while all the charges had to be borne finally by the working class, the middle class sought to have an unrestricted market on its own terms. alarm of the trading class it was the opposition of the various groups of this class that vanderbilt expected and provided against. he was fully aware that the moment he revealed his plan of consolidation boards of trade everywhere would rise in their wrath, denounce him, call together mass meetings, insist upon railroad competition and send pretentious, firebreathing delegates to the state capitol. let them thunder, said vanderbilt placidly. while they were exploding in eruptions of talk he would concentrate at albany a mass of silent arguments in the form of money and get the necessary legislative votes, which was all he cared about. then ensued one of the many comedies familiar to observers of legislative proceedings. it was amusing to the sophisticated to see delegations indignantly betake themselves to albany, submit voluminous briefs which legislators never read, and with immense gravity argue away for hours to committees which had already been bought. the era was that of the tweed regime, when the public funds of new york city and state were being looted on a huge scale by the politicians in power, and far more so by the less vulgar but more crafty business classes who spurred tweed and his confederates on to fresh schemes of spoliation. laws were sold at albany to the highest bidder. "it was impossible," tweed testified after his downfall, "to do anything there without paying for it; money had to be raised for the passing of bills." [footnote: statement of william m. tweed before special investigating committee of the new york board of aldermen. documents of the board of aldermen, , part ii. document no. : - .] decades before this, legislators had been so thoroughly taught by the landowners and bankers how to exchange their votes for cash that now, not only at albany and washington, but everywhere in the united states, both legislative and administrative officials haggled in real astute business style for the highest price that they could get. one noted lobbyist stated in that for a favorable report on a certain bill before the new york senate, $ , apiece was paid to four members of the committee having it in charge. on the passage of the bill, a further $ , apiece with contingent expenses was added. in another instance, where but a solitary vote was needed to put a bill through, three republicans put their figures up to $ , each; one of them was bought. about thirty republicans and democrats in the new york legislature organized themselves into a clique (long styled the "black horse cavalry"), under the leadership of an energetic lobbyist, with a mutual pledge to vote as directed. [footnote: documents of the board of aldermen, , part ii, no. ; - .] "any corporation, however extensive and comprehensive the privileges it asked"--to quote from "the history of tammany hall"--"and however much oppression it sought to impose upon the people in the line of unjust grants, extortionate rates or monopoly, could convince the legislature of the righteousness of its request upon 'producing' the proper sum." a legalized theft of $ , , one act after another was slipped through the legislature by vanderbilt in and . on may , , vanderbilt secured, by one bill alone, the right to consolidate railroads, a free grant of franchises, and other rights worth hundreds of millions of dollars, and the right to water stock and bonds to an enormous extent. the printing presses were worked overtime in issuing more than $ , , of watered stock. the capital stock of the two roads was thus doubled. pretending that the railroads embraced in the consolidation had a great surplus on hand, vanderbilt, instead of distributing this alleged surplus, apportioned the watered stock among the stockholders as a premium. the story of the surplus was, of course, only a pretense. each holder of a $ share received a certificate for $ --that is to say, $ in plunder for every $ share that he held. [footnote: report of assembly committee on railroads, testimony of alexander robertson, an expert accountant, , i: - .] "thus," reported the "hepburn committee" (the popular name for the new york state assembly investigating committee of ), "as calculated by this expert, $ , , were wrongfully added to the capital stock of these roads." of this sum $ , , was issued in ; the remainder in previous years. "the only answer made by the roads was that the legislature authorized it," the committee went on. "it is proper to remark that the people are quite as much indebted to the venality of the men elected to represent them in the legislature as to the rapacity of the railroad managers for this state of affairs." [footnote: ibid., i: .] despite the fact that the report of the committee recorded that the transaction was piracy, the euphemistic wording of the committee's statement was characteristic of the reverence shown to the rich and influential, and the sparing of their feelings by the avoidance of harsh language. "wrongfully added" would have been quickly changed into such inconsiderate terms as theft and robbery had the case been even a trivial one of some ordinary citizen lacking wealth and power. the facts would have immediately been presented to the proper officials for criminal prosecution. but not a suggestion was forthcoming of haling vanderbilt to the criminal bar; had it been made, nothing except a farce would have resulted, for the reason that the criminal machinery, while extraordinarily active in hurrying petty lawbreakers to prison, was a part of the political mechanism financed by the big criminals and subservient to them. "the $ , , ," says simon sterne, a noted lawyer who, as counsel for various commercial organizations, unravelled the whole matter before the "hepburn committee," in , "represented no more labor than it took to print the script." it was notorious, he adds, "that the cost of the consolidated railroads was less than $ , , ," [footnote: "life of simon sterne," by john foord, : - .] in increasing the stock to $ , , vanderbilt and his confederates therefore stole the difference between the cost and the maximum of the stock issue. so great were the profits, both open and concealed, of the consolidated railroads that notwithstanding, as charles francis adams computed, "$ , of absolute water had been poured out for each mile of road between new york and buffalo," the market price of the stock at once shot up in from $ a share to $ and then to $ . and what was vanderbilt's share of the $ , , ? his inveterate panegyrist, croffut, in smoothly defending the transaction gives this illuminating depiction of the joyous event: "one night, at midnight, he (cornelius vanderbilt) carried away from the office of horace f. clark, his son-in-law, $ , , in greenbacks as a part of his share of the profits, and he had $ , , more in new stock." [footnote: "the vanderbilts": . croffut in a footnote tells this anecdote: "when the commodore's portrait first appeared on the bonds of the central, a holder of some called one day and said: 'commodore, glad to see your face on them bonds. it's worth ten per cent. it gives everybody confidence.' the commodore smiled grimly, the only recognition he ever made of a compliment. ''cause,' explained the visitor, 'when we see that fine, noble brow, it reminds us that you'll never let anybody else steal anything.'"] by this coup vanderbilt about doubled his previous wealth. scarcely had the mercantile interests recovered from their utter bewilderment at being routed than vanderbilt, flushed with triumph, swept more railroads into his inventory of possessions. his process of acquisition was now working with almost automatic ease. first, as we have narrated, he extorted millions of dollars in blackmail. with these millions he bought, or rather manipulated into his control, one railroad after another, amid an onslaught of bribery and glaring violations of the laws. each new million that he seized was an additional resource by which he could bribe and manipulate; progressively his power advanced; and it became ridiculously easier to get possession of more and more property. his very name became a terror to those of lesser capital, and the mere threat of pitting his enormous wealth against competitors whom he sought to destroy was generally a sufficient warrant for their surrender. after his consummation of the $ , , theft in there was little withstanding of him. by the most favorable account--that of croffut-- his own allotment of the plunder amounted to $ , , . this sum, immense, and in fact of almost inconceivable power in that day, was enough of itself, independent of vanderbilt's other wealth, to force through almost any plan involving a seizing of competing property. * * * * * * * he scoops up more railroads. vanderbilt did not wait long. the ink on the $ , , had barely dried, before he used part of the proceeds to buy a controlling interest in the lake shore railroad, a competing line. then rapidly, by the same methods, he took hold of the canada southern and michigan central. the commercial interests looked on dumfounded. under their very eyes a process of centralization was going on, of which they but dimly, stupidly, grasped the purport. that competition which they had so long shouted for as the only sensible, true and moral system, and which they had sought to buttress by enacting law after law, was being irreverently ground to pieces. out of their own ranks were rising men, trained in their own methods, who were amplifying and intensifying those methods to shatter the class from which they had sprung. the different grades of the propertied class, from the merchant with his fortune of $ , to the retail tradesman, felt very comfortable in being able to look down with a conscious superiority upon the working class from whom their money was wrung. scoffing at equality, they delighted in setting themselves up as a class infinitely above the toilers of the shop and factory; let him who disputes this consult the phrases that went the rounds--phrases, some of which are still current--as, for instance, the preaching that the moderately well-to-do class is the solid, substantial element of any country. now when this mercantile class saw itself being far overtopped and outclassed in the only measurement to which it attached any value-- that of property--by men with vast riches and power, it began to feel its relegation. although its ideal was money, and although it set up the acquisition of wealth as the all-stimulating incentive and goal of human effort, it viewed sullenly and enviously the development of an established magnate class which could look haughtily and dictatorially down upon it even as it constantly looked down upon the working class. the factory owner and the shopkeeper had for decades commanded the passage of summary legislation by which they were enabled to fleece the worker and render him incapable of resistance. to keep the worker in subjection and in their power they considered a justifiable proceeding. but when they saw the railroad magnates applying those same methods to themselves, by first wiping out competition, and then by enforcing edicts regardless of their interests, they burst out in furious rage. vanderbilt and his critics. they denounced vanderbilt as a bandit whose methods were a menace to the community. to the onlooker this campaign of virulent assault was extremely suggestive. if there was any one line of business in which fraud was not rampant, the many official reports and court proceedings of the time do not show it. this widespread fraud was not occasional; it was persistent. in one of the earlier chapters, the prevalence, more than a century ago, of the practise of fraudulent substitution of drugs and foods was adverted to. in the middle of the nineteenth century it was far more extensive. in submitting, on june , , a mass of expert evidence on the adulteration of drugs, to the house of representatives, the house select committee on the importation of drugs pointed out: for a long series of years this base traffic has been constantly increasing, until it has become frightfully enormous. it would be presumed, from the immense quantities, and the great variety of inferior drugs that pass our custom houses, and particularly the custom-house at new york, in the course of a single year, that this country had become the great mart and receptacle of all of the refuse merchandise of that description, not only from the european warehouses, but from the whole eastern market. [footnote: reports of committees, first session, thirtieth congress, - , vol. iii, report no. : --the committee reported that opium was adulterated with licorice paste and bitter vegetable extract; calomel, with chalk and sulphate of barytes; quinine, with silicine, chalk and sulphate of barytes; castor, with dried blood, gum and ammonia; gum assafoetida with inferior gums, chalk and clay, etc., etc. (pp. and ).] in presenting a formidable array of expert testimony, and in giving a list of cases of persons having died from eating foods and drugs adulterated with poisonous substances, the house committee on epidemic diseases, of the forty-sixth congress, reported on february : that they have investigated, as far as they could ... the injurious and poisonous compounds used in the preparation of food substances, and in the manufacture of wearing apparel and other articles, and find from the evidence submitted to them that the adulteration of articles used in the every day diet of vast numbers of people has grown, and is now practised, to such an extent as to seriously endanger the public health, and to call loudly for some sort of legislative correction. drugs, liquors, articles of clothing, wall paper and many other things are subjected to the same dangerous process. [footnote: house reports, third session, forty-sixth congress, - , vol. i, report no. : . the committee drafted a bill for the prevention of these frauds; the capitalists concerned smothered it.] the house committee on commerce, reporting the next year, on march , stated that "the evidence regarding the adulterations of food indicates that they are largely of the nature of frauds upon the consumer ... and injure both the health and morals of the people." the committee declared that the practise of fraudulent substitutions "had become universal." [footnote: house reports, first session, forty-seventh congress, - , vol. ii, report no. : - .] these few significant extracts, from a mass of official reports, show that the commercial frauds were continuous, and began long before commodore vanderbilt's time, and have prevailed up to the present. everywhere was fraud; even the little storekeepers, with their smug pretensions to homely honesty, were profiting by some of the vilest, basest forms of fraud, such as robbing the poor by the light-weight and short-weight trick, [footnote: these forms of cheating exist at present to a greater extent than ever before. it is estimated that manufacturers and shopkeepers cheat the people of the united states out of $ , , a year by the light-weight and short-weight frauds. in the new york state sealer of weights and measures asserted that, in that state alone, $ , , was robbed from the consumers annually by these methods. recent investigations by the bureau of standards of the united states department of commerce and labor have shown that immense numbers of "crooked" scales are in use. it has been conclusively established by the investigations of federal, state and municipal inspectors of weights and measures that there is hardly an article put up in bottled or canned form that is not short of the weight for which it is sold, nor is there scarcely a retail dealer who does not swindle his customers by the light-weight fraud. there are manufacturers who make a specific business of turning out fraudulent scales, and who freely advertise the cheating merits of these scales.] or (far worse) by selling skim milk, or poisonous drugs or adulterated food or shoddy material. these practises were so prevalent, that the exceptions were rarities indeed. if any administration had dared seriously to stop these forms of theft the trading classes would have resisted and struck back in political action. yet these were the men--these traders--who vociferously come forth with their homiletic trades against vanderbilt's criminal transactions, demanding that the power of him and his kind be curbed. it was not at all singular that they put their protests on moral grounds. in a form of society where each man is compelled to fight every other man in a wild, demoralizing struggle for self- preservation, self-interest naturally usurps the supreme functions, and this self-interest becomes transposed, by a comprehensible process, into moralities. that which is profitable is perverted into a moral code; the laws passed, the customs introduced and persisted in, and the weight of the dominant classes all conspire to put the stamp of morality on practices arising from the lowest and most sordid aims. thus did the trading class make a moral profession of its methods of exploitation; it congratulated and sanctified itself on its purity of life and its saving stability. from this class--a class interpenetrated in every direction with commercial frauds--was largely empanelled the men who sat on those grand juries and petit juries solemnly passing verdict on the poor wretches of criminals whom environment or poverty had driven into crime. they were the arbiters of justice, but it was a justice that was never allowed to act against themselves. examine all the penal codes of the period; note the laws proscribing long sentences in prison for thefts of property; the larceny of even a suit of clothes was severely punishable, and begging for alms was a misdemeanor. then contrast these asperities of law with the entire absence of adequate protection for the buyer of merchandise. following the old dictum of roman jurisprudence, "let the buyer beware," the factory owner could at will oppress his workers, and compel them, for the scantiest wages, to make for his profit goods unfit for consumption. these articles the retailer sold without scruple over his counter; when the buyer was cheated or overcharged, as happened with great frequency, he had practically no redress in law. if the merchant were robbed of even ever so little he could retaliate by sending the guilty one to prison. but the merchant himself could invidiously and continuously rob the customer without fear of any law. all of this was converted into a code of moralities; and any bold spirit who exposed its cant and sham was denounced as an agitator and as an enemy of law and order. [footnote: a few progressive jurists in the international prison congress are attempting to secure the recognition in law of the principle that society, as a supreme necessity, is obligated to protect its members from being made the victims of the cunning and unscrupulous. they have received no encouragement, and will receive none, from a trading class profiting from the very methods which it is sought to place under the inhibition of criminal law.] vanderbilt did better than expose it; he improved upon, and enlarged, it and made it a thing of magnitude; he and others of his quality discarded petty larceny and ascended into a sphere of superlative grand larceny. they knew with a cynical perception that society, with all its pompous pretensions to morality, had evolved a rule which worked with almost mathematical certainty. this rule was the paradoxical, but nevertheless true, one that the greater the theft the less corresponding danger there was of punishment. the wisdom of grand larceny. now it was that one could see with greater clearness than ever before, how the mercenary ideal of the ruling class was working out to its inevitable conclusion. society had made money its god and property its yardstick; even in its administration of justice, theoretically supposed to be equal, it had made "justice" an expensive luxury available, in actual practice, to the rich only. the defrauder of large sums could, if prosecuted, use a part of that plunder, easily engage a corps of shrewd, experienced lawyers, get evidence manufactured, fight out the case on technicalities, drag it along for years, call in political and social influence, and almost invariably escape in the end. but beyond this power of money to make a mockery of justice was a still greater, though more subtle, factor, which was ever an invaluable aid to the great thief. every section of the trading class was permeated with a profound admiration, often tangibly expressed, for the craft that got away with an impressive pile of loot. the contempt felt for the pickpocket was the antithesis of the general mercantile admiring view of the man who stole in grand style, especially when he was one of their own class. in speaking of the piratical operations of this or that magnate, it was common to hear many business men interject, even while denouncing him, "well, i wish i were as smart as he." these same men, when serving on juries, were harsh in their verdicts on poor criminals, and unctuously flattered themselves with being, and were represented as, the upholders and conservers of law and moral conduct. departing from the main facts as this philosophical digression may seem, it is essential for a number of reasons. one of these is the continual necessity for keeping in mind a clear, balanced perspective. another lies in the need of presenting aright the conditions in which vanderbilt and magnates of his type were produced. their methods at basis were not a growth independent of those of the business world and isolated from them. they were simply a development, and not merely one of standards as applied to morals, but of the mechanism of the social and industrial organization itself. finally it is advisable to give flashlight glimpses into the modes and views of the time, inasmuch as it was in vanderbilt's day that the great struggle between the old principle of competition, as upheld by the small capitalists, and the superseding one of consolidation, as incarnated in him and others, took on vigorous headway. he continues the buying of laws protest as it did against vanderbilt's merging of railroads, the middle class found itself quite helpless. in rapid succession he put through one combination after another, and caused theft after theft to be legalized, utterly disdainful of criticism or opposition. in state after state he bought the repeal of old laws, or the passage of new laws, until he was vested with authority to connect various railroads that he had secured between buffalo and chicago, into one line with nearly , miles of road. the commercial classes were scared at the sight of such a great stretch of railroad--then considered an immense line--in the hands of one man, audacious, all- conquering, with power to enforce tribute at will. again, vanderbilt patronized the printing presses, and many more millions of stock, all fictitious capital, were added to the already flooded capital of the lake shore and michigan southern railroad company. of the total of $ , , of capital stock in , fully one-half was based upon nothing but the certainty of making it valuable as a dividend payer by the exaction of high freight and passenger rates. a little later, the amount was run up to $ , , , and this was increased subsequently. vanderbilt now had a complete railroad system from new york to chicago, with extensive offshoots. it is at this point that we have to deal with a singular commendation of his methods thrust forward glibly from that day to this. true, his eulogists admitted then, as they admit now, vanderbilt was not overscrupulous in getting property that he wanted. but consider, they urge, the improvements he brought about on the railroads that came into his possession; the renovation of the roadbed, the institution of new locomotives and cars, the tearing down of the old, worn-out stations. this has been the praise showered upon him and his methods. inquiry, however, reveals that this appealing picture, like all others of its sort, has been ingeniously distorted. the fact was, in the first place, that these improvements were not made out of regard to public convenience, but for two radically different reasons. the first consideration was that if the dividends were to be paid on the huge amount of fabricated stock, the road, of necessity, had to be put into a condition of fair efficiency to meet or surpass the competing facilities of other railroads running to chicago. second, the number of damage claims for accident or loss of life arising largely from improper appliances and insufficient safeguards, was so great that it was held cheaper in the long run to spend millions for improvements. public funds for private use instead of paying for these improvements with even a few millions of the proceeds of the watered stock, vanderbilt (and all other railroad magnates in like cases did the same) forced the public treasury to defray a large part of the cost. a good illustration of his methods was his improvement of his passenger terminus in new york city. the entrance of the new york central and the harlem railroads is by way of park (formerly fourth) avenue. this franchise, as we have seen, was obtained by bribery in . but it was a qualified franchise. it reserved certain nominal restrictions in behalf of the people by inserting the right of the city to order the removal of the tracks at any time that they became an obstruction. these terms were objectionable to vanderbilt; a perpetual franchise could be capitalized for far more than a limited or qualified one. a perpetual franchise was what he wanted. the opportunity came in . from the building of the railroad, the tracks had been on the surface of fourth avenue. dozens of dangerous crossings had resulted in much injury to life and many deaths. the public demand that the tracks be depressed below the level of the street had been resisted. instead of longer ignoring this demand, vanderbilt now planned to make use of it; he saw how he could utilize it not only to foist a great part of the expense upon the city, but to get a perpetual franchise. thus, upon the strength of the popular cry for reform, he would extort advantages calculated to save him millions and at the same time extend his privileges. it was but another illustration of the principle in capitalist society to which we have referred before (and which there will be copious occasion to mention again and again) that after energetically contesting even those petty reforms for which the people have contended, the ruling classes have ever deftly turned about when they could no longer withstand the popular demands, and have made those very reforms the basis for more spoliation and for a further intrenchment of their power. [footnote: commodore vanderbilt's descendants, the present vanderbilts, have been using the public outcry for a reform of conditions on the west side of new york city, precisely as the original vanderbilt utilized that for the improvement of fourth avenue. the hudson river division of the new york central and hudson river railroad has hitherto extended downtown on the surface of tenth and eleventh avenues and other thoroughfares. large numbers of people have been killed and injured. for decades there has been a public demand that these dangerous conditions be remedied or removed. the vanderbilts have as long resisted the demand; the immense numbers of casualties had no effect upon them. when the public demand became too strong to be ignored longer, they set about to exploit it in order to get a comprehensive franchise with incalculable new privileges.] the first step was to get the new york city common council to pass, with an assumption of indignation, an ordinance requiring vanderbilt to make the desired improvements, and committing the city to bear one-half the expense and giving him a perpetual franchise. this was in tweed's time when the common council was composed largely of the most corrupt ward heelers, and when tweed's puppet, hall, was mayor. public opposition to this grab was so great as to frighten the politicians; at any rate, whatever his reasons, mayor hall vetoed the ordinance. thereupon, in , vanderbilt went to the legislature--that legislature whose members he had so often bought like so many cattle. this particular legislature, however, was elected in , following the revelations of the tweed "ring" frauds. it was regarded as a "model reform body." as has already been remarked in this work, the pseudo "reform" officials or bodies elected by the american people in the vain hope of overthrowing corruption, will often go to greater lengths in the disposition of the people's rights and interests than the most hardened politicians, because they are not suspected of being corrupt, and their measures have the appearance of being enacted for the public good. the tweed clique had been broken up, but the capitalists who had assiduously bribed its members and profited so hugely from its political acts, were untouched and in greater power than ever before. the source of all this corruption had not been struck at in the slightest. tweed, the politician, was sacrificed and went to prison and died there; the capitalists who had corrupted representative bodies everywhere in the united states, before and during his time, were safe and respected, and in a position to continue their work of corruption. tweed made the classic, unforgivable blunder of going into politics as a business, instead of into commercialism. the very capitalists who had profited so greatly by his corruption, were the first to express horror at his acts. from the "reform" legislature of vanderbilt secured all that he sought. the act was so dexterously worded that while not nominally giving a perpetual franchise, it practically revoked the qualified parts of the charter of . it also compassionately relieved him of the necessity of having to pay out about $ , , , in replacing the dangerous roadway, by imposing that cost upon new york city. once these improvements were made, vanderbilt bonded them as though they had been made with private money. "reform" as it works out. but these were not his only gifts from the "reform" legislature. the harlem railroad owned, as we have seen, the fourth avenue surface line of horse cars. although until this time it extended to seventy- ninth street only, this line was then the second most profitable in new york city. in , for instance, it carried nearly six million passengers, and its gross earnings were $ , . it did not pay, nor was required to pay, a single cent in taxation. by the city's population had grown to , . vanderbilt concluded that the time was fruitful to gather in a few more miles of the public streets. the legislature was acquiescent. chapter of the laws of allowed him to extend the line from seventy-ninth street to as far north as madison avenue should thereafter be opened. "but see," said the legislature in effect, "how mindful of the public interests we have been. we have imposed a tax of five per cent, on all gross receipts above seventy-ninth street." when, however, the time came to collect, vanderbilt innocently pretended that he had no means of knowing whether the fares were taken in on that section of the line, free of taxation, below seventy-ninth street, or on the taxed portion above it. behind that fraudulent subterfuge the city officials have never been inclined to go, nor have they made any effort. as a consequence the only revenue that the city has since received from that line has been a meager few thousand dollars a year. at the very time that he was watering stock, sliding through legislatures corrupt grants of perpetual franchises, and swindling cities and states out of huge sums in taxes, [footnote: not alone he. in a tabulated report made public on february , , the new york council of political reform charged that in the single item of surface railways, new york city for a long period had been swindled annually out of at least a million dollars. this was an underestimate. all other sections of the capitalist class swindled likewise in taxes.] vanderbilt was forcing the drivers and conductors on the fourth avenue surface line to work an average of fifteen hours out of twenty-four, and reducing their daily wages from $ . to $ . vanderbilt made the pretense that it was necessary to economize; and, as was the invariable rule of the capitalists, the entire burden of the economizing process was thrown upon the already overloaded workers. this subtraction of twenty-five cents a day entailed upon the drivers and conductors and their families many severe deprivations; working for such low wages every cent obviously counted in the management of household affairs. but the methods of the capitalist class in deliberately pyramiding its profits upon the sufferings of the working class were evidenced in this case (as they had been, and since have been, in countless other instances) by the announcement in the wall street reports that this reduction in wages was followed by an instant rise in the price of the stock of the fourth avenue surface line. the lower the wages, the greater the dividends. the further history of the fourth avenue surface line cannot here be pursued in detail. suffice to say that the vanderbilts, in , leased this line for years to the metropolitan street railway company, controlled by those eminent financiers, william c. whitney and others, whose monumental briberies, thefts and piracies have frequently been uncovered in official investigations. for almost a thousand years, unless a radical change of conditions comes, the vanderbilts will draw a princely revenue from the ownership of this franchise alone. it is not necessary to enter into a narrative of all the laws that vanderbilt bribed legislature after legislature, and common council after common council, into passing--laws giving him for nothing immensely valuable grants of land, shore rights and rights to land under water, more authorizations to make further consolidations and to issue more watered stock. nor is it necessary to deal with the numerous bills he considered adverse to his interests, that he caused to be smothered in legislative committees by bribery. vanderbilt's chief of staff his chief instrument during all those years was a general utility lawyer, chauncey m. depew, whose specialty was to hoodwink the public by grandiloquent exhibitions of mellifluent spread-eagle oratory, while bringing the "proper arguments" to bear upon legislators and other public officials. [footnote: roscoe conkling, a noted republican politician, said of him: "chauncey depew? oh, you mean the man that vanderbilt sends to albany every winter to say 'haw' and 'gee' to his cattle up there."] every one who could in any way be used, or whose influence required subsidizing, was, in the phrase of the day, "taken care of." great sums of money were distributed outright in bribes in the legislatures by lobbyists in vanderbilt's pay. supplementing this, an even more insidious system of bribery was carried on. free passes for railroad travel were lavishly distributed; no politician was ever refused; newspaper and magazine editors, writers and reporters were always supplied with free transportation for the asking, thus insuring to a great measure their good will, and putting them under obligations not to criticise or expose plundering schemes or individuals. all railroad companies used this form, as well as other forms, of bribery. it was mainly by means of the free pass system that depew, acting for the vanderbilts, secured not only a general immunity from newspaper criticism, but continued to have himself and them portrayed in luridly favorable lights. depending upon the newspapers for its sources of information, the public was constantly deceived and blinded, either by the suppression of certain news, or by its being tampered with and grossly colored. this depew continued as the wriggling tool of the vanderbilt family for nearly half a century. astonishing as it may seem, he managed to pass among the uninformed as a notable man; he was continuously eulogized; at one time he was boomed for the nomination for president of the united states, and in when the vanderbilt family decided to have a direct representative in the united states senate, they ordered the new york state legislature, which they practically owned, to elect him to that body. it was while he was a united states senator that the investigations, in , of a committee of the new york legislature into the affairs of certain life insurance companies revealed that depew had long since been an advisory party to the gigantic swindles and briberies carried on by hyde, the founder and head of the equitable life assurance society. the career of depew is of no interest to posterity, excepting in so far as it shows anew how the magnates were able to use intermediaries to do their underground work for them, and to put those intermediaries into the highest official positions in the country. this fact alone was responsible for their elevation to such bodies as the united states senate, the president's cabinet and the courts. their long service as lobbyists or as retainers was the surest passport to high political or judicial position; their express duty was to vote or decide as their masters' interest bid them. so it was (as it is now) that men who had bribed right and left, and who had put their cunning or brains at the complete disposal of the magnates, filled congress and the courts. these were, to a large extent, the officials by whose votes or decisions all measures of value to the working class were defeated; and reversely, by whose actions all or nearly all bills demanded by the money interests, were passed and sustained. here we are again forced to notice the truism thrusting itself forward so often and conspicuously; that law was essentially made by the great criminals of society, and that, thus far it has been a frightful instrument, based upon force, for legalizing theft on a large scale. by law the great criminals absolve themselves and at the same time declare drastic punishment for the petty criminals. the property obtained by theft is converted into a sacred vested institution; the men who commit the theft or their hirelings sit in high places, and pass laws surrounding the proceeds of that theft with impregnable fortifications of statutes; should any poor devil, goaded on by the exasperations of poverty, venture to help himself to even the tiniest part of that property, the severest penalty, enacted by those same plunderers, is mercilessly visited upon him. after having bribed legislatures to legalize his enormous issue of watered stock, what was vanderbilt's next move? the usual fraudulent one of securing exemption from taxation. he and other railroad owners sneaked through law after law by which many of their issues of stock were made non-taxable. so now old shaggy vanderbilt loomed up the richest magnate in the united states. his ambition was consummated; what mattered it to him that his fortune was begot in blackmail and extortion, bribery and theft? now that he had his hundred millions he had the means to demand adulation and the semblance of respect, if not respect itself. the commercial world admired, even while it opposed, him; in his methods it saw at bottom the abler application and extension of its own, and while it felt aggrieved at its own declining importance and power, it rendered homage in the awed, reverential manner in which it viewed his huge fortune. over and over again, even to the point of wearisome repetition, must it be shown, both for the sake of true historical understanding and in justice to the founders of the great fortunes, that all mercantile society was permeated with fraud and subsisted by fraud. but the prevalence of this fraud did not argue its practitioners to be inherently evil. they were victims of a system inexorably certain to arouse despicable qualities. the memorable difference between the two classes was that the workers, as the sufferers, were keenly alive to the abominations of the system, while the capitalists not only insisted upon the right to benefit from its continuance, but harshly sought to repress every attempt of the workers to agitate for its modification or overthrow. repression by starvation. these repressive tactics took on a variety of forms, some of which are not ordinarily included in the definitions of repression. the usual method was that of subsidizing press and pulpit in certain subtle ways. by these means facts were concealed or distorted, a prejudicial state of public opinion created, and plausible grounds given for hostile interference by the state. but a far more powerful engine of repression was the coercion exercised by employers in forcing their workers to remain submissive on instant peril of losing their jobs. while, at that time, manufacturers, jobbers and shopkeepers throughout the country were rising in angry protest against the accumulation of plundering power in the hands of such men as vanderbilt, gould and huntington, they were themselves exploiting and bribing on a widespread scale. their great pose was that of a thorough commercial respectability; it was in this garb that they piously went to legislatures and demanded investigations into the rascally methods of the railroad magnates. the facts, said they, should be made public, so as to base on them appropriate legislation which would curtail the power of such autocrats. contrasted with the baseness and hypocrisy of the trading class, vanderbilt's qualities of brutal candor and selfishness shine out as brilliant virtues. [footnote: no observation could be truer. as a class, the manufacturers were flourishing on stolen inventions. there might be exceptions, but they were very rare. year after year, decade after decade, the reports of the various commissioners of patents pointed out the indiscriminate theft of inventions by the capitalists. in previous chapters we have referred to the plundering of whitney and goodyear. but they were only two of a vast number of inventors similarly defrauded. in speaking of the helplessness of inventors, j. holt, commissioner of patents, wrote in his annual report for : "the insolence and unscrupulousness of capital, subsidizing and leading on its minions in the work of pirating some valuable invention held by powerless hands, can scarcely by conceived by those not familiar with the records of such cases as i have referred to. inventors, however gifted in other respects, are known to be confiding and thriftless; and being generally without wealth, and always without knowledge of the chicaneries of law, they too often prove but children in those rude conflicts which they are called on to endure with the stalwart fraud and cunning of the world." (u. s. senate documents, first session, thirty-fifth congress, - , viii: - ). in his annual report for , commissioner holt described how inventors were at the mercy of professional perjurers whom the capitalists hired to give evidence. the bribing of patent office officials was a common occurrence. "the attention of congress," reported commissioner of patents charles mason in , "is invited to the importance of providing some adequate means of preventing attempts to obtain patents by improper means." several cases of "attempted bribery" had occurred within the year, stated commissioner mason. (executive documents, first session, thirty-third congress, - , vol. vii, part i: - .) every successive commissioner of patents called upon congress to pass laws for the prevention of fraud, and for the better protection of the inventor, but congress, influenced by the manufacturers, was deaf to these appeals.] these same manufacturers objected in the most indignant manner, as they similarly do now, to any legislative investigations of their own methods. eager to have the practices of vanderbilt and gould probed into, they were acrimoniously opposed to even criticism of their factory system. for this extreme sensitiveness there was the amplest reason. the cruelties of the factory system transcended belief. in, for instance, the state of massachusetts, vaunting itself for its progressiveness, enlightenment and culture, the textile factories were a horror beyond description. the convention of the boston eight hour league, in , did not overstate when it declared of the factory system that "it employs tens of thousands of women and children eleven and twelve hours a day; owns or controls in its own selfish interest the pulpit and the press; prevents the operative classes from making themselves felt in behalf of less hours, through remorseless exercise of the power of discharge; and is rearing a population of children and youth of sickly appearance and scanty or utterly neglected schooling."... as the factory system was in massachusetts, so it was elsewhere. any employee venturing to agitate for better conditions was instantly discharged; spies were at all times busy among the workers; and if a labor union were formed, the factory owners would obtain sneak emissaries into it, with orders to report on every move and disrupt the union if possible. the factory capitalists in massachusetts, new york, illinois and every other manufacturing state were determined to keep up their system unchanged, because it was profitable to work children eleven and a half hours a day in a temperature that in summer often reached degrees and in an atmosphere certain to breed immorality; [footnote: "certain to breed immorality." see report of carrol d. wright, massachusetts bureau of statistics of labor, . a cotton mill operative testified: "young girls from fourteen and upward learn more wickedness in one year than they would in five out of a mill." see also the numerous recent reports of the national child labor committee.] it was profitable to compel adult men and women having families to work for an average of ninety cents a day; it was profitable to avoid spending money in equipping their factories with life-saving apparatus. hence these factory owners, forming the aristocracy of trade, savagely fought every move or law that might expose or alter those conditions; the annals of legislative proceedings are full of evidences of bribery. having no illusions, and being a severely practical man, vanderbilt well knew the pretensions of this trading class; with many a cynical remark, aptly epitomizing the point, he often made sport of their assumptions. he knew (and none knew better) that they had dived deep in bribery and fraud; they were the fine gentlemen, he well recalled, who had generally obtained patents by fraud; who had so often bribed members of congress to vote for a high tariff; the same, too, who had bribed legislatures for charters, water rights, exemptions from taxation, the right to work employees as long as, and under whatever conditions, they wanted to. this manufacturing aristocracy professed to look down upon vanderbilt socially as a coarse sharper; and in new york a certain ruling social element, the native aristocracy, composed of old families whose wealth, originating in fraud, had become respectable by age, took no pains to conceal their opinion of him as a parvenu, and drew about their sacred persons an amusing circle of exclusiveness into the rare precincts of which he might not enter. vanderbilt now proceeded to buy social and religious grace as he had bought laws. the purchase of absolution has ever been a convenient and cheap method of obtaining society's condonation of theft. in medieval centuries it took a religious form; it has become transposed to a social traffic in these superior days. let a man steal in colossal ways and then surrender a small part of it in charitable, religious and educational donations; he at once ceases being a thief and straightway becomes a noble benefactor. vanderbilt now shed his life-long irreverence, and gave to deems, a minister of the presbyterian church, as a gift, the church of the strangers on mercer street, and he donated $ , , for the founding of the vanderbilt university at nashville, tenn. the press, the church and the educational world thereupon upon hailed him as a marvel of saintly charity and liberality. the sermonizing of the "best classes." one section of the social organization declined to accept the views of the class above it. this was the working class. superimposed upon the working class, draining the life blood of the workers to provide them with wealth, luxuries and power, were those upper strata of society known as the "best classes." these "best classes," with a monstrous presumption, airily proclaimed their superiority and incessantly harped upon the need of elevating and regenerating the masses. and who, it may be curiously asked, were the classes self destined or self selected to do this regenerating? the commercial and financial element, with its peculiar morals so adjusted to its interests, that it saw nothing wrong in the conditions by which it reaped its wealth --conditions that made slaves of the workers, threw them into degradation and poverty, drove multitudes of girls and women into prostitution, and made the industrial field an immense concourse of tears, agony and carnage. hanging on to this supreme class of wealth, fawning to it, licking its very feet, were the parasites and advocates of the press, law, politics, the pulpit, and, with a few exceptions, of the professional occupations. these were the instructors who were to teach the working class what morals were; these were the eminences under whose guidance the working class was to be uplifted! let us turn from this sickening picture of sordid arrogance and ignorance so historically true of all aristocracies based upon money, from the remotest time to this present day, and contemplate how the organized part of the working class regarded the morals of its "superiors." while the commercial class, on the one hand, was determined on beating down the working class at every point, it was, on the other, unceasingly warring among itself. in business dealings there was no such recognized thing as friendship. to get the better of the other was held the quintessence of mercantile shrewdness. a flint-hard, brute spirit enveloped all business transactions. the business man who lost his fortune was generally looked upon without emotion or pity, and condemned as an incapable. for self interest, business men began to combine in corporations, but these were based purely upon mercenary aims. not a microscopic trace was visible of that spirit of fellow kindness, sympathy, collective concern and brotherhood already far developed among the organized part of the working class. as the supereminent magnate of his day, vanderbilt was invested with extraordinary publicity; he was extensively interviewed and quoted; his wars upon rival capitalists were matters of engrossing public concern; his slightest illness was breathlessly followed by commercialdom dom and its outcome awaited. hosts of men, women and children perished every year of disease contracted in factories, mines and slums; but vanderbilt's least ailment was given a transcending importance, while the scourging sweep of death among the lowly and helpless was utterly ignored. precisely as mercantile society bestowed no attention upon the crushed and slain, except to advance roughshod over their stricken bodies while throwing out a pittance in charity here and there, so vanderbilt embodied in himself the qualities that capitalist society in mass practiced and glorified. "it was strong men," says croffut, "whom he liked and sympathized with, not weak ones; the self-reliant, not the helpless. he felt that the solicitor of charity was always a lazy or drunken person, trying to live by plundering the sober and industrious." this malign distrust of fellow beings, this acrid cynicism of motives, this extraordinary imputation of evil designs on the part of the penniless, was characteristic of the capitalist class as a whole. itself practicing the lowest and most ignoble methods, governed by the basest motives, plundering in every direction, it viewed every member of its own class with suspicion and rapacity. then it turned about, and with immense airs of superiority, attributed all of its own vices and crimes to the impoverished masses which its own system had created, whether in america or elsewhere. the apologist may hasten forward with the explanation that the commercial class was not to be judged by vanderbilt's methods and qualities. in truth, however, vanderbilt was not more inhuman than many of the contemporary shining lights of the business world. "honesty and industry" analyzed. if there is any one fortune commonly praised as having been acquired "by honesty and industry," it is the borden millions, made from cotton factories. at the time vanderbilt was blackmailing, the founder of this fortune, colonel borden, was running cotton mills in fall river. his factory operatives worked from five o'clock in the morning to seven in the evening, with but two half hours of intermission, one for breakfast, the other for dinner. the workday of these men, women and children was thus thirteen hours; their wages were wretchedly low, their life was one of actual slavery. insufficient nourishment, overwork, and the unsanitary and disgusting conditions in the mills, prematurely aged and debilitated them, and were a constant source of disease, killing off considerable numbers, especially the children. in , the operatives asked borden for better wages and shorter hours. this was his reply: "i saw that mill built stone by stone; i saw the pickers, the carding engines, the spinning mules and the looms put into it, one after the other, and i would see every machine and stone crumble and fall to the floor again before i would accede to your wishes." borden would not have been amiss had he added that every stone in that mill was cemented with human blood. his operatives went on a strike, stayed out ten months, suffered frightful hardships, and then were forced back to their tasks by hunger. borden was inflexible, and so were all the other cotton mill owners. [footnote: the heroism of the cotton operatives was extraordinary. slaves themselves, they battled to exterminate negro slavery. "the spinner's union," says mcneill, "was almost dead during the [civil] war, as most of its members had gone to shoulder the musket and to fight... to strike the shackles from the negro. a large number were slain in battle."-"the labor movement": - .] it was not until , after many further bitterly-contested strikes, that the masachusetts legislature was prevailed upon to pass a ten-hour law, twenty-four years after the british parliament had passed such an enactment. the commercial class, high and low, was impregnated with deceit and dissimulation, cynicism, selfishness and cruelty. what were the aspirations of the working class which it was to uplift? the contrast stood out with stark distinctness. while business men were frantically sapping the labor and life out of their workers, and then tricking and cheating one another to seize the proceeds of that exploitation, the labor unions were teaching the nobility of brotherly cooperation. "cultivate friendship among the great brotherhood of toil," was the advice of uriah stevens, master workman of the knights of labor, at the annual meeting of that organization on january , . and he went on: and while the toiler is thus engaged in creating the world's value, how fares his own interest and well-being? we answer, "badly," for he has too little time, and his faculties become too much blunted by unremitting labor to analyze his condition or devise and perfect financial schemes or reformatory measures. the hours of labor are too long, and should be shortened. i recommend a universal movement to cease work at five o'clock saturday afternoon, as a beginning. there should be a greater participation in the profits of labor by the industrious and intelligent laborer. in the present arrangements of labor and capital, the condition of the employee is simply that of wage slavery--capital dictating, labor submitting; capital superior, labor inferior. this is an artificial and man-created condition, not god's arrangement and order; for it degrades man and ennobles mere pelf. it demeans those who live by useful labor, and, in proportion, exalts all those who eschew labor and live (no matter by what pretence or respectable cheat--for cheat it is) without productive work. labor's principles ignored. such principles as these evoked so little attention that it is impossible to find them recorded in most of the newspapers of the time; and if mentioned it was merely as the object of venomous attacks. in varying degrees, now in outright abuse and again in sneering and ridicule, the working class was held up as an ignorant, discontented, violent aggregation, led by dangerous agitators, and arrogantly seeking to upset all business by seeking to dictate to employers what wages and hours of labor should be. and, after all, little it mattered to the capitalists what the workers thought or said, so long as the machinery of government was not in their hands. at about the very time master workman stevens was voicing the unrest of the laboring masses, and at the identical time when the panic of saw several millions of men workless, thrown upon soup kitchens and other forms of charity, and battered wantonly by policemen's clubs when they attempted to hold mass meetings of protest, an iowa writer, d. c. cloud, was issuing a work which showed concretely how thoroughly government was owned by the commercial and financial classes. this work, obscurely published and now scarcely known except to the patient delver, is nevertheless one of the few serious books on prevailing conditions written at that time, and is in marked contrast to the reams of printed nonsense then circulated. although cloud was tinged greatly with the middle class point of view, and did not see that all successful business was based upon deceit and fraud, yet so far as his lights carried him, he wrote trenchantly and fearlessly, embodying series after series of facts exposing the existing system. he observed: ... a measure without any merit save to advance the interest of a patentee, or contractor, or railroad company, will become a law, while measures of interest to the whole people are suffered to slumber, and die at the close of the session from sheer neglect. it is known to congressmen that these lobbyists are paid to influence legislation by the parties interested, and that dishonest and corrupt means are resorted to for the accomplishment of the object they have undertaken ... not one interest in the country nor all other interests combined are as powerful as the railroad interest ... with a network of roads throughout the country; with a large capital at command; with an organization perfect in all its parts, controlled by a few leading spirits like scott, vanderbilt, jay gould, tracy and a dozen others, the whole strength and wealth of this corporate power can be put into operation at any moment, and congressmen are bought and sold by it like any article of merchandise. [footnote: "monopolies and the people:" - .] chapter vi the entailing of the vanderbilt fortune the richer commodore vanderbilt grew, the more closely he clung to his old habits of intense parsimony. occasionally he might ostentatiously give a large sum here or there for some religious or philanthropic purpose, but his general undeviating course was a consistent meanness. in him was united the petty bargaining traits of the trading element and the lavish capacities for plundering of the magnate class. while defrauding on a great scale, pocketing tens of millions of dollars at a single raid, he would never for a moment overlook the leakage of a few cents or dollars. his comprehensive plans for self-aggrandizement were carried out in true piratical style; his aims and demands were for no paltry prize, but for the largest and richest booty. yet so ingrained by long development was his faculty of acquisition, that it far passed the line of a passion and became a monomania. vanderbilt's characteristics. to such an extent did it corrode him that even when he could boast his $ , , he still persisted in haggling and huckstering over every dollar, and in tricking his friends in the smallest and most underhand ways. friends in the true sense of the word he had none; those who regarded themselves as such were of that thrifty, congealed disposition swayed largely by calculation. but if they expected to gain overmuch by their intimacy, they were generally vastly mistaken; nearly always, on the contrary, they found themselves caught in some unexpected snare, and riper in experience, but poorer in pocket, they were glad to retire prudently to a safe distance from the old man's contact. "friends or foes," wrote an admirer immediately after his death, "were pretty much on the same level in his estimation, and if a friend undertook to get in his way he was obliged to look out for himself." on one occasion, it is related, when a candidate for a political office solicited a contribution, vanderbilt gave $ for himself, and an equal sum for a friend associated with him in the management of the new york central railroad. a few days later vanderbilt informed this friend of the transaction, and made a demand for the hundred dollars. the money was paid over. not long after this, the friend in question was likewise approached for a political contribution, whereupon he handed out $ for himself and the same amount for vanderbilt. on being told of his debt, vanderbilt declined to pay it, closing the matter abruptly with this laconic pronunciamento, "when i give anything, i give it myself." at another time vanderbilt assured a friend that he would "carry" one thousand shares of new york central stock for him. the market price rose to $ a share and then dropped to $ . a little later, before setting out to bribe an important bill through the legislature--a bill that vanderbilt knew would greatly increase the value of the stock--the old magnate went to the friend and represented that since the price of the stock had fallen it would not be right to subject the friend to a loss. vanderbilt asked for the return of the stock and got it. once the bill became a law, the market price of the stock went up tremendously, to the utter dismay of the confiding friend who saw a profit of $ , thus slip out of his hands into vanderbilt's. [footnote: these and similar anecdotes are to be found incidentally mentioned in a two-page biography, very laudatory on the whole, in the new york "times," issue of january , .] in his personal expenses vanderbilt usually begrudged what he looked upon as superfluous expense. the plainest of black clothes he wore, and he never countenanced jewelry. he scanned the table bill with a hypercritical eye. even the sheer necessities of his physical condition could not induce him to pay out money for costly prescriptions. a few days before his death his physician recommended champagne for some internal trouble. "champagne!" exclaimed vanderbilt with a reproachful look, "i can't afford champagne. a bottle every morning! oh, i guess sody water'll do!" from all accounts it would seem that he diffused about him the same forbidding environment in his own house. he is described as stern, obstinate, masterful and miserly, domineering his household like a tyrant, roaring with fiery anger whenever he was opposed, and flying into fits of fury if his moods, designs and will were contested. his wife bore him thirteen children, twelve of whom she had brought up to maturity. a woman of almost rustic simplicity of mind and of habits, she became obediently meek under the iron discipline he administered. croffut says of her that she was "acquiescent and patient under the sway of his dominant will, and in the presence of his trying moods." he goes on: "the fact that she lived harmoniously with such an obstinate man bears strong testimony to her character." [footnote: "the vanderbilts": .] if we are to place credibility in current reports, she was forced time and time again to undergo the most violent scenes in interceding for one of their sons, cornelius jeremiah. for the nervous disposition and general bad health of this son the father had not much sympathy; but the inexcusable crime to him was that cornelius showed neither inclination nor capacity to engage in a business career. if cornelius had gambled on the stock exchange his father would have set him down as an exceedingly enterprising, respectable and promising man. but he preferred to gamble at cards. this rebellious lack of interest in business, joined with dissipation, so enraged the old man that he drove cornelius from the house and only allowed him access during nearly a score of years at such rare times as the mother succeeded in her tears and pleadings. worn out with her long life of drudgery, vanderbilt's wife died in ; about a year later the old magnate eloped with a young cousin, frank a. crawford, and returning from canada, announced his marriage, to the unbounded surprise and utter disfavor of his children. the old magnate's death. an end, however, was soon coming to his prolonged life. a few more years of money heaping, and then, on may , , he was taken mortally ill. for eight months he lay in bed, his powerful vitality making a vigorous battle for life; two physicians died while in the course of attendance on him; it was not until the morning of january , , that the final symptoms of approaching death came over him. when this was seen the group about his bed emotionally sang: "come, ye sinners, poor and needy," "nearer, my god, to thee," and "show ye pity, lord." he died with a conventional religious end of which the world made much; all of the property sanctities and ceremonials were duly observed; nothing was lacking in the piety of that affecting deathbed scene. it furnished the text for many a sermon, but while ministerial and journalistic attention was thus eulogistically concentrated upon the loss of america's greatest capitalist, not a reference was made in church or newspaper to the deaths every year of a host of the lowly, slain in the industrial vortex by injury and disease, and too often by suicide and starvation. except among the lowly themselves this slaughter passed unprotested and unnoticed. even as vanderbilt lay moribund, speculation was busy as to the disposition of his fortune. who would inherit his aggregation of wealth? the probating of his will soon disclosed that he had virtually entailed it. about $ , , was left to his eldest son, william h., and one-half of the remaining $ , , was bequeathed to the chief heir's four sons. [footnote: to cornelius j. vanderbilt, the commodore's "wayward" son, only the income derived from $ , was bequeathed, upon the condition that he should forfeit even this legacy if he contested the will. nevertheless, he brought a contest suit. william h. vanderbilt compromised the suit by giving to his brother the income on $ , , . on april , , cornelius j. vanderbilt shot and killed himself. croffut gives this highly enlightening account of the compromising of the suit: "at least two of the sisters had sympathized with 'cornele's' suit, and had given him aid and comfort, neither of them liking the legatee, and one of them not having been for years on speaking terms with him; but now, in addition to the bequests made to his sisters, william h. voluntarily [sic] added $ , to each from his own portion. "he drove around one evening, and distributed this splendid largess from his carriage, he himself carrying the bonds into each house in his arms and delivering them to each sister in turn. the donation was accompanied by two interesting incidents. in one case the husband said, 'william, i've made a quick calculation here, and i find these bonds don't amount to quite $ , . they're $ short, at the price quoted today.' the donor smiled, and sat down and made out his check for the sum to balance. "in another case, a husband, after counting and receipting for the $ , , followed the generous visitor out of the door, and said, 'by the way, if you conclude to give the other sisters any more, you'll see that we fare as well as any of them, won't you?' the donor jumped into his carriage and drove off without replying, only saying, with a laugh, to his companions, 'well, what do you think o' that'"-- "the vanderbilts": - .] a few millions were distributed among the founder's other surviving children, and some comparatively small sums bequeathed to charitable and educational institutions. the vanderbilt dynasty had begun. * * * * * * * personality of the chief heir. at this time william h. vanderbilt was fifty-six years old. until he had been occupied at farming on staten island; he lived at first in "a small, square, plain two-story house facing the sea, with a lean-to on one end for a kitchen." the explanation of why the son of a millionaire betook himself to truck farming lay in these facts: the old man despised leisure and luxury, and had a correspondingly strong admiration for "self-made" men. knowing this, william h. vanderbilt made a studious policy of standing in with his father, truckling to his every caprice and demand, and proving that he could make an independent living. he is described as a phlegmatic man of dull and slow mental processes, domestic tastes and of kindly disposition to his children. his father (so the chronicles tell) did not think that he "would ever amount to anything," but by infinite plodding, exacting the severest labor from his farm laborers, driving close bargains and turning devious tricks in his dealings, he gradually won the confidence and respect of the old man, who was always pleased with proofs of guile. croffut gives a number of instances of william's craft and continues: "from his boyhood he had given instant and willing submission to the despotic will of his father, and had made boundless sacrifices to please him. most men would have burst defiantly away from the repressive control and imperious requirements; but he doubtless thought that for the chance of becoming heir to $ , , he could afford to remain long in the passive attitude of a distrusted prince." (sic.) [illustration: william h. vanderbilt, he inherited the bulk of his father's fortune and doubled it] the old autocrat finally modified his contemptuous opinion, and put him in an executive position in the management of the new york and harlem railroad. later, he elevated him to be a sort of coadjutor by installing him as vice president of the new york central railroad, and as an associate in the directing of other railroads. it was said to be painful to note the exhausting persistence with which william h. vanderbilt daily struggled to get some perceptions of the details of railroad management. he did succeed in absorbing considerable knowledge. but his training at the hands of his father was not so much in the direction of learning the system of management. men of ability could always be hired to manage the roads. what his father principally taught him was the more essential astuteness required of a railroad magnate; the manipulation of stocks and of common councils and legislatures; how to fight and overthrow competitors and extend the sphere of ownership and control; and how best to resist, and if possible to destroy, the labor unions. in brief, his education was a duplication of his father's scope of action: the methods of the sire were infused into the son. from the situation in which he found himself, and viewing the particular traits required in the development of capitalistic institutions, it was the most appropriate training that he could have received. book erudition and the cultivation of fine qualities would have been sadly out of place; his father's teachings were precisely what were needed to sustain and augment his possessions. on every hand he was confronted either by competitors who, if they could get the chance, would have stripped him without scruple, or by other men of his own class who would have joyfully defrauded him. but overshadowing these accustomed business practices, new and startling conditions that had to be met and fought were now appearing. instead of a multitude of small, detached railroads, owned and operated by independent companies, the period was now being reached of colossal railroad systems. in the east the small railroad owners had been well-nigh crushed out, and their properties joined in huge lines under the ownership of a few controlling men, while in the west, extensive systems, thousands of miles long, had recently been built. having stamped out most of the small owners, the railroad barons now proceeded to wrangle and fight among themselves. it was a characteristic period when the railroad magnates were constantly embroiled in the bitterest quarrels, the sole object of which was to outdo, bankrupt and wreck one another and seize, if possible, the others' property. the rise of the first trust. it was these conflicts that developed the auspicious time and opportunity for a change of the most world--wide importance, and one which had a stupendous ultimate purport not then realized. the wars between the railroad magnates assumed many forms, not the least of which was the cutting of freight rates. each railroad desperately sought to wrench away traffic from the others by offering better inducements. in this cutthroat competition, a coterie of hawk-eyed young men in the oil business, led by john d. rockefeller, saw their fertile chance. the drilling and the refining of oil, although in their comparative infancy, had already reached great proportions. each railroad was eager to get the largest share of the traffic of transporting oil. rockefeller, ruminating in his small refinery at cleveland, ohio, had conceived the revolutionary idea of getting a monopoly of the production and distribution of oil, obliterating the middleman, and systematizing and centralizing the whole business. then and there was the modern trust born; and from the very inception of the standard oil company rockefeller and his associates tenaciously pursued their design with a combined ability and unscrupulousness such as had never before been known since the rise of capitalism. one railroad after another was persuaded or forced into granting them secret rates and rebates against which it was impossible to compete. the railroad magnates--william h. vanderbilt, for instance--were taken in the fold of the standard oil company by being made stockholders. with these secret rates the standard oil company was enabled to crush out absolutely a myriad of competitors and middlemen, and control the petroleum trade not only of the united states but of almost the entire world. such fabulous profits accumulated that in the course of forty years, after one unending career of industrial construction on the one hand, and crime on the other, the standard oil company was easily able to become owners of prodigious railroad and other systems, and completely supplant the scions of the magnates whom three or four decades before they had wheedled or brow-beaten into favoring them with discriminations. corporate wealth and labor unions. the effects of this great industrial transition were clearly visible by , so much so that two years later, vanderbilt, more prophetically than he realized, told the hepburn committee that "if this thing keeps up the oil people will own the roads." but other noted industrial changes were concurrently going on. with the up- springing and growth of gigantic combinations or concentrations of capital, and the gradual disappearance of the small factors in railroad and other lines of business, workers were compelled by the newer conditions to organize on large and compact national lines. at first each craft was purely local and disassociated from other trades unions. but comprehending the inadequacy and futility of existing separately, and of acting independently of one another, the unions had some years back begun to weld themselves into one powerful body, covering much of the united states. each craft union still retained its organization and autonomy, but it now became part of a national organization embracing every form of trades, and centrally officered and led. it was in this way that the workers, step by step, met the organization of capital; the two forces, each representing a conflicting principle, were thus preparing for a series of great industrial battles. capital had the wealth, resources and tools of the country; the workers their labor power only. as it stood, it was an uneven contest, with every advantage in favor of capital. the workers could decline to work, but capital could starve them into subjection. these, however, were but the apparent differences. the real and immense difference between them was that capital was in absolute control of the political governing power of the nation, and this power, strange to say, it secured by the votes of the very working class constantly fighting it in the industrial arena. many years were to elapse before the workers were to realize that they must organize and vote with the same political solidarity that they long had been developing in industrial matters. with political power in their hands the capitalists could, and did, use its whole weight with terrific effect to beat down the working class, and nullify most of the few concessions and laws obtained by the workers after the severest and most self-sacrificing struggles. one of the first memorable battles between the two hostile forces came about in . in their rate wars the railroad magnates had cut incisively into one another's profits. the permanent gainers were such incipient, or fairly well developed, trusts or combinations as the standard oil company. now the magnates set about asserting the old capitalist principle of recouping themselves by forcing the workers to make up their losses. but these deficits were merely relative. practically every railroad had issued vast amounts of bonds and watered stock, on which fixed charges and dividends had to be paid. judged by the extent of this inflated stock, the profits of the railroads had certainly decreased. despite, however, the prevailing cutthroat competition, and the slump in general business following the panic of , the railroads were making large sums on their actual investment, so-called. most of this investment, it will be recalled, was not private money but was public funds, which were later stolen by corrupt legislation. it was shown before the hepburn committee in , as we have noted, that from the new york central railroad had been making sixteen, and perhaps more than twenty per cent., on the actual cost of the road. moreover, apart from the profits from ordinary traffic, the railroads were annually fattening on immense sums of public money gathered in by various fraudulent methods. one of these--and is well worth adverting to, for it exists to a greater degree than ever before--was the robbery of the people in the transportation of mails. by a fraudulent official construction, in , of the postal laws, the railroads without cessation have cheated huge sums in falsifying the weight of mail carried, and since that time have charged ten times as much for mail carrying as have the express companies (the profits of which are very great) for equal haulage. but these are simply two phases of the postal plunder. in addition to the regular mail payments, the government has long paid to the railroad companies an extra allowance of $ , a year for the rent of each postal car used, although official investigation has proved that the whole cost of constructing such a car averages but from $ , to $ , . in rent alone, five millions a year have been paid for cars worth, all told, about four millions. from official estimates it would clearly seem that the railroads have long cheated the people out of at least $ , , a year in excess rates--a total of perhaps half a billion dollars since . the vanderbilt family have been among the chief beneficiaries of this continuous looting. [footnote: postmaster general vilas, annual report for : . in a debate in the united states senate on february , , senator pettigrew quoted postmaster general wanamaker as saying that "the railroad companies see to it that the representatives in congress in both branches take care of the interests of the railway people, and that it is practically impossible to procure legislation in the way of reducing expenses."] occasionally the postal officials have made pretences at stopping the plunder, but with no real effect. the great strike of . making a loud and plaintive outcry about their declining revenues, some of the railroad systems prepared to assess their fictitious losses upon the workers by cutting down wages. they had already reduced wages to the point of the merest subsistence; and now they decreed that wages must again be curtailed ten cents on every dollar. the baltimore and ohio railroad, then in the hands of the garrett family, with a career behind it of consecutive political corruption and fraud, in some ways surpassing that of the vanderbilts, led in reducing the wages of its workers. the pennsylvania railroad followed, and then the vanderbilts gave the order for another reduction. at once the baltimore and ohio railroad employees retaliated by declaring a strike; the example was followed by the pennsylvania men. in order to alienate the sympathy of the general public and to have a pretext for suppressing the strike with armed force, the railroads, it is quite certain, instigated riots at martinsburg, w. va., and at pittsburg. troops were called out and the so-called mobs were fired on, resulting in a number of strikers being killed and many wounded. that the railroads deliberately destroyed their own property and then charged the culpability to the strikers, was common report. so conservative an authority as carroll d. wright, for a long time united states commissioner of labor, tells of the railroad agents setting a large number of old, decayed, worthless freight cars at pittsburg on fire, and accusing the strikers of the act. he further tells of the pennsylvania railroad subsequently extorting millions of dollars from the public treasury on the ground that the destruction of these cars resulted from riot. wright says that from all that he has been able to gather, he believes the reports of the railroads manufacturing riots to have been true. [footnote: "the battles of labor": . in all, the railroad companies secured approximately $ , , from the public treasury in pennsylvania as indemnity for property destroyed during these "riots." in a subsequent chapter, the corruption of the operation is described.] vanderbilt acted with greater wisdom than his fellow magnates. adopting a conciliatory stand, he averted a strike on his lines by restoring the old rate of wages and by other mollifying measures. he was now assailed from a different direction. the long gathering anger and enmity of the various sections of the middle class against the corporate wealth which had possessed itself of so dictatorial a power, culminated in a manner as instructive as it was ineffective. in new york state, the legislature was prevailed upon, in , to appoint an investigating committee. vanderbilt and other railroad owners, and a multitude of complaining traders were haled up to give testimony; the stock-jobbing transactions of vanderbilt and gould were fully and tediously gone into, as also were the methods of the railroads in favoring certain corporations and mercantile establishments with secret preferential freight rates. not in the slightest did this long-drawn investigation have any result calculated to break the power of the railroad owners, or their predominant grip upon governmental functions. the magnate class preferred to have no official inquiries; there was always the annoying possibility that in some state or other inconvenient laws might be passed, or harrassing legal actions begun; and while revocation or amendment of these laws could be put through subsequently when the popular excitement had died away, and the suits could be in some way defeated, the exposures had an inflaming effect upon a population as yet ill-used to great one-man power of wealth. but if the middle class insisted upon action against the railroad magnates, there was no policy more suitable to these magnates than that of being investigated by legislative committees. they were not averse to their opponents amusing themselves, and finding a vent for their wrath, in volumes of talk which began nowhere and ended nowhere. in reply to charges, the magnates could put in their skillful defense, and inject such a maze of argument, pettifoggery and technicalities into the proceedings, that before long the public, tired of the puzzle, was bound to throw up its hands in sheer bewilderment, unable to get any concrete idea of what it was all about. fraud becomes respectable wealth so the great investigation of passed by without the least deterrent effect upon the constantly-spreading power and wealth of such men as vanderbilt and gould. every new development revealed that the hard-dying middle class was being gradually, yet surely, ground out. but the investigation of had one significant unanticipated result. what william h. vanderbilt now did is well worth noting. as the owner of four hundred thousand shares of new york central stock he had been rabidly denounced by the middle class as a plutocrat dangerous to the interests of the people. he decided that it would be wise to sell a large part of this stock; by this stroke he could advantageously exchange the forms of some of his wealth, and be able to put forward the plausible claim that the new york central railroad, far from being a one-man institution, was owned by a large number of investors. in november, , he sold through j. pierpont morgan more than two hundred thousand shares to a syndicate, chiefly, however, to british aristocrats. this sale in no way diminished his actual control of the new york central railroad; not only did he retain a sufficient number of shares, but he owned an immense block of the railroad's bonds. the sale of the stock brought him $ , , . what did he do with this sum? he at once reinvested it in united states government bonds. thus, the proceeds of a part of the stock obtained by outright fraud, either by his father or himself, were put into government bonds. this surely was a very sagacious move. stocks do not have the solid, honest air that government bonds do; nothing is more finely and firmly respectable than a government bondholder. from the blackmailer, corruptionist and defrauder of one generation to the stolid government bondholder of the next, was not a long step, but it was a sufficient one. the process of investing in government bonds vanderbilt continued; in a few years he owned not less than $ , , worth of four per cents. in he had to sell $ , , of them to make good the losses incurred by his sons on the stock exchange, but he later bought $ , , more. also he owned $ , , in government three and one-half per cent. bonds, many millions of state and city bonds, several millions of dollars in manufacturing stocks and mortgages, and $ , , of railroad bonds. the same government of which his father had defrauded millions of dollars now stood as a direct guarantee behind at least $ , , of his bonded wealth, and the whole population of the united states was being taxed to pay interest on bonds, the purchase of which was an outgrowth of the theft of public money committed by cornelius vanderbilt. in the years following his father's death, william h. vanderbilt found no difficulty in adding more extended railroad lines to his properties, and in increasing his wealth by tens of millions of dollars at a leap. more railroads acquired. the impact of his vast fortune was well-nigh resistless. commanding both financial and political power, his money and resources were used with destructive effect against almost every competitor standing in his way. if he could not coerce the owners of a railroad, the possession of which he sought, to sell to him at his own price, he at once brought into action the wrecking tactics his father had so successfully used. the west shore railroad, a competing line running along the west bank of the hudson river, was bankrupted by him, and finally, in , bought in under foreclosure proceedings. by lowering his freight rates he took away most of its business; through a series of years he methodically caused it to be harrassed and burdened by the exercise of his great political power; he thwarted its plans and secretly hindered it in its application for money loans or other relief. other means, open and covert, were employed to insure its ruination. when at last he had driven its owners into a corner, he calmly stepped in and bought up its control cheaply, and then turned out many millions of dollars of watered stock. he attempted to break in upon the territory traversed by the pennsylvania railroad by building a competing line, the south pennsylvania railroad. in the construction of this road he had an agreement with the philadelphia and reading railroad, an intense competitor of the pennsylvania; and, as a precedent to building his line, he obtained a large interest in the reading railroad. out of this arrangement grew a highly important sequence which few then foresaw--the gradual assumption by the vanderbilt family of a large share of the ownership and control of the anthracite coal mines of pennsylvania. vanderbilt, aiming at sharing in the profits from the rich coal, oil and manufacturing traffic of pennsylvania, went ahead with his building of the south pennsylvania line. but there was an easy way of getting millions of dollars before the road was even opened. this was the fraudulent one, so widely practiced, of organizing a bogus construction company, and charging three and four times more than the building of the railroad actually cost. vanderbilt got together a dummy construction company composed of some of his clerks and brokers, and advanced the sum, about $ , , , to build the road. in return, he ordered this company to issue $ , , in bonds, and the same amount in stock. of this $ , , in securities, more than $ , , was loot. [footnote: van oss' "american railroads as investments": . professor frank parsons, in his "railways, the trusts and the people," incorrectly ascribes this juggling to commodore vanderbilt.] if, however, vanderbilt anticipated that the pennsylvania railroad would remain docile or passive while his competitive line was being built, he soon learned how sorely mistaken he was. this time he was opposing no weak, timorous or unsophisticated competitors, but a group of the most powerful and astute organizers and corruptionists. their methods in pennsylvania and other states were exactly the same as vanderbilt's in new york state; their political power was as great in their chosen province as his in new york. his incursion into the territory they had apportioned to themselves for exploitation was not only resented but was fiercely resisted. presently, overwhelmed by the crushing financial and political weapons with which they fought him, vanderbilt found himself compelled to compromise by disposing of the line to them. the sequel to a "gentlemen's agreement." vanderbilt's methods and his duplicity in the disposition of this project were strikingly revealed in the court proceedings instituted by the state of pennsylvania. it appeared from the testimony that he had made a "gentlemen's agreement" with the reading railroad, the bitterest competitor of the pennsylvania railroad, for a close alliance of interests. vanderbilt owned eighty-two thousand shares of reading stock, much of which he had obtained on this agreement. strangely confiding in his word, the reading management proceeded to expend large sums of money in building terminals at harrisburg and elsewhere to make connections with his proposed south pennsylvania railroad. the pennsylvania railroad, however, set about retaliating in various effective ways. at this point, j. pierpont morgan--whose career we shall duly describe--stepped boldly in. morgan was vanderbilt's financial agent; and it was he, according to his own testimony on october , , before the court examiner, who now suggested and made the arrangements between vanderbilt and the pennsylvania railroad magnates, by which the south pennsylvania railroad was to become the property of the pennsylvania system, and the reading railroad magnates were to be as thoroughly thrown over by as deft a stroke of treachery as had ever been put through in the business world. to their great astonishment, the reading owners woke up one morning to find that vanderbilt and his associates had completely betrayed them by disposing of a majority of the stock of the partly built south pennsylvania line to the pennsylvania railroad system for $ , , in three per cent. railroad debenture bonds. it is interesting to inquire who vanderbilt's associates were in this transaction. they were john d. rockefeller, william rockefeller, d. o. mills, stephen b. elkins, william c. whitney and other founders of large fortunes. for once in his career, vanderbilt met in the pennsylvania railroad a competitor powerful enough to force him to compromise. elsewhere, vanderbilt was much more successful. out through the fertile wheat, corn and cattle sections of wisconsin, minnesota, iowa, dakota and nebraska ran the chicago and northwestern railroad, a line , miles long which had been built mostly by public funds and land grants. its history was a succession of corrupt acts in legislatures and in congress, and comprised the usual process of stock watering and exploitation. [illustration: the original vanderbilt homestead, near new dorp, staten island, n. y.] [illustration: palaces built by william h. vanderbilt, and resided in by him and his descendants.] by a series of manipulations ending in , vanderbilt secured a controlling interest in this railroad, so that he had a complete line from new york to chicago, and thence far into the northwest. during these years he also secured control of other railroad lines. he expands in splendor. it was at this time that he, in accord with the chrysalid tendency manifested by most other millionaires, discarded his long-followed sombre method of life, and invested himself with a gaudy magnificence. on fifth avenue, at fifty-first and fifty-second streets, he built a spacious brown-stone mansion. in reality it was a union of two mansions; the southern part he planned for himself, the northern part for his two daughters. for a year and a half more than six hundred artisans were employed on the interior; sixty stoneworkers were imported from europe. the capaciousness, the glitter and the cluttering of splendor in the interior were regarded as of unprecedented lavishness in the united states. all of the luxury overloading these mansions was, as was well known, the fruit of fraud piled upon fraud; it represented the spoliation, misery and degradation of the many; but none could deny that vanderbilt was fully entitled to it by the laws of a society which decreed that its rulers should be those who could best use and abuse it. and rulers must ever live imperiously and impressively; it is not fitting that those who command the resources, labor and government of a nation should issue their mandates from pinched and meager surroundings. mere pseudo political rulers, such as governors and presidents, are expected to be satisfied with the plain, unornamental official residences provided by the people; thereby they keep up the appearance of that much-bespoken republican simplicity which is part of the mask of political formulas. luckily for themselves, the financial and industrial rulers are bound by no circumscribing tradition; hence they have no set of buckramed rules to stick close to for fear of an indignant electorate. the same populace that glowers and mutters whenever its political officials show an inclination to pomp, regards it as perfectly natural that its financial and industrial rulers should body forth all of the most obtrusive evidences of grandeur. those vanderbilt twin palaces, still occupied by the vanderbilt family, were appropriately built and fitted, and are more truly and specifically historic as the abode of government than official mansions; for it is the magnates who have in these modern times been the real rulers of nations; it is they who have usually been able to decide who the political rulers should be; political parties have been simply their adjuncts; the halls of legislation and the courts their mouthpieces and registering bureaus. theirs has been the power, under cover though it has lurked, of elevating or destroying public officials, and of approving or cancelling legislation. why, indeed, should they not have their gilded palaces? a sudden transformation. the president of the united states lived in the subdued simplicity of the white house. but william h. vanderbilt ate in a great, lofty dining room, twenty-six by thirty-seven feet, wrought in italian renaissance, with a wainscot of golden-hued, delicately-carved english oak around all four sides, and a ceiling with richly-painted hunting-scene panels. when he entertained it was in a vast drawing- room, palatially equipped, its walls hung with flowing masses of pale red velvet, embroidered with foliage flowers and butterflies, and set with crystals and precious stones. it was his art gallery, however, which flattered him most. he knew nothing of art, and underneath his pretentions cared less, for he was a complete utilitarian; but it had become fashionable to have an elaborate art gallery, and he forthwith disbursed money right and left to assemble an aggregation of paintings. he gave orders to agents for their purchase with the same equanimity that he would contracts for railroad supplies. and, as a rule, the more generous in size the canvasses, the more satisfied he was that he was getting his money's worth; art to him meant buying by the square foot. not a few of the paintings unloaded upon him were, despite their high-sounding reputations, essentially commonplace subjects, and flashy and hackneyed in execution; but he gloried in the celebrity that came from the high prices he was decoyed into paying for them. for one of meissionier's paintings, "the arrival at the chateau," he paid $ , , and on one of his visits to paris he enriched meissionier to the extent of $ , for seven paintings. not until his corps of art advisers were satisfied that a painter became fashionably talked about, could vanderbilt be prevailed upon to buy examples of his work. there was something intensely magical in the ease and cheapness with which he acquired the reputation of being a "connoisseur of art." neither knowledge nor appreciation were required; with the expenditure of a few hundred thousand dollars he instantaneously transformed himself from a heavy-witted, uncultured money hoarder into the character of a surpassing "judge and patron of art." and his pretensions were seriously accepted by the uninformed, absorbing their opinions from the newspapers. "the public be damned." if he had discreetly comported himself in other respects he might have passed tolerably well as an extremely public-spirited and philanthropic man. after every great fraud that he put through he would usually throw out to the public some ostentatious gift or donation. this would furnish a new ground to the sycophantic chorus for extolling his fine qualities. but he happened to inherit his father's irascibility and extreme contempt for the public whom he exploited. unfortunately for him, he let out on one memorable occasion his real sentiments. asked by a reporter why he did not consider public convenience in the running of his trains, he blurted out, "the public be damned!" it was assuredly a superfluous question and answer; but expressed so sententiously, and published, as it was, throughout the length and breadth of the land, it excited deep popular resentment. he was made the target for general denunciation and execration, although unreasonably so, for he had but given candid and succinct utterance to the actuating principle of the whole capitalist class. the moral of this incident impressed itself sharply upon the minds of the masterly rich, and to this day has greatly contributed to the politic manner of their exterior conduct. they learned that however in private they might safely sneer at the mass of the people as created for their manipulation and enrichment, they must not declare so publicly. far wiser is it, they have come to understand, to confine spoliation to action, while in outward speech affirming the most mellifluous and touching professions of solicitude for public interests. adds $ , , in seven years. but william h. vanderbilt was little affected by this outburst of public rage. he could well afford to smile cynically at it, so long as no definite move was taken to interfere with his privileges, power and possessions. since his father's death he had added fully $ , , to his wealth, all within a short period. it had taken commodore vanderbilt more than thirty years to establish the fortune of $ , , he left. with a greater population and greater resources to prey upon, william h. vanderbilt almost doubled the amount in seven years. in january, , he confided to a friend that he was worth $ , , . "i am the richest man in the world," he went on. "in england the duke of westminster is said to be worth $ , , , but it is mostly in land and houses and does not pay two per cent." [footnote: related in the new york "times," issue of december , .] in the same breath that he boasted of his wealth he would bewail the ill-health condemning him to be a victim of insomnia and indigestion. having a clear income of $ , , a year, he kept his ordinary expenses down to $ , a year. whatever an air of indifference he would assume in his grandee role of "art collector," yet in most other matters he was inveterately closefisted. he had a delusion that "everybody in the world was ready to take advantage of him," and he regarded "men and women, as a rule, as a pretty bad lot." [footnote: "the vanderbilts": .] this incident--one of many similar incidents narrated by croffut--reveals his microscopic vigilance in detecting impositions: when in active control of affairs at the office he followed the unwholesome habit of eating the midday lunch at his desk, the waiter bringing it in from a neighboring restaurant. he paid his bill for this weekly, and he always scrutinized the items with proper care. "was i here last thursday?" he asked of a clerk at an adjoining desk. "no, mr. vanderbilt; you stayed at home that day." "so i thought," he said, and struck that day from the bill. another time he would exclaim, sotto voce, "i didn't order coffee last tuesday," and that item would vanish. up to the very last second of his life his mind was filled with a whirl of business schemes; it was while discussing railroad plans with robert garrett in his mansion, on december , , that he suddenly shot forward from his chair and fell apoplectically to the floor, and in a twinkling was dead. servants ran to and fro excitedly; messengers were dispatched to summon his sons; telegrams flashed the intelligence far and wide. the passing away of the greatest of men could not have received a tithe of the excitement and attention caused by william h. vanderbilt's death. the newspaper offices hotly issued page after page of description, not without sufficient reason. for he, although untitled and vested with no official power, was in actuality an autocrat; dictatorship by money bags was an established fact; and while the man died, his corporate wealth, the real director and center, to a large extent, of government functions, survived unimpaired. he had abundantly proved his autocracy. law after law had he violated; like his father he had corrupted and intimidated, had bought laws, ignored such as were unsuited to his interests, and had decreed his own rules and codes. progressively bolder had the money kings become in coming out into the open in the directing of government. long had they prudently skulked behind forms, devices and shams; they had operated secretly through tools in office, while virtuously disclaiming any insidious connection with politics. but no observer took this pretence seriously. james bryce, fresh from england, delving into the complexities and incongruities of american politics at about this time, wrote that "these railway kings are among the greatest men, perhaps i may say, the greatest men in america," which term, "greatest," was a ludicrously reverent way of describing their qualities. "they have power," he goes on in the same work, "more power--that is, more opportunity to make their will prevail, than perhaps any one in political life except the president or the speaker, who, after all, hold theirs only for four years and two years, while the railroad monarch holds his for life." [footnote: "the american commonwealth." first ed.: .] bryce was not well enough acquainted with the windings and depths of american political workings to know that the money kings had more power than president or speaker, not nominally, but essentially. he further relates how when a railroad magnate traveled, his journey was like a royal progress; governors of states and territories bowed before him; legislatures received him in solemn session; cities and towns sought to propitiate him, for had he not the means of making or marring a city's fortunes? "you cannot turn in any direction in american politics," wrote richard t. ely a little later, "without discovering the railway power. it is the power behind the throne. it is a correct popular instinct which designates the leading men in the railways, railroad magnates or kings. ... its power ramifies in every direction, its roots reaching counting rooms, editorial sanctums, schools and churches which it supports with a part of its revenues, as well as courts and legislatures." ... [footnote: "the independent," issue of august , .] his death a notable event. vanderbilt's death, as that of one of the real monarchs of the day, was an event of transcendent importance, and was treated so. the vocabulary was ransacked to find adjectives glowing enough to describe his enterprise, foresight, sagacity and integrity. much elaborated upon was the fiction that he had increased his fortune by honest, legitimate means--a fiction still disseminated by those shallow or mercenary writers whose trade is to spread orthodox belief in existing conditions. the underlying facts of his career and methods were purposely suppressed, and a nauseating sort of panegyric substituted. who did not know that he had bribed legislature after legislature, and had constantly resorted to conspiracy and fraud? not one of his eulogists was innocent of this knowledge; the record of it was too public and palpable to justify doubts of its truth. the extent of his possessions and the size of his fortune aroused wonderment, but no effort was made to contrast the immense wealth bequeathed by one man with the dire poverty on every hand, nor to connect those two conditions. at the very time his wealth was being inventoried at $ , , , not less than a million wage earners were out of employment, [footnote: "it is probably true," said carroll d. wright in the united states labor report for , "that this total (in round numbers , , ) as representing the unemployed at any one time in the united states, is fairly representative."] while the millions at work received the scantiest wages. nearly three millions of people had been completely pauperized, and, in one way or another, had to be supported at public expense. once in a rare while, some perceptive and unshackled public official might pierce the sophistries of the day and reveal the cause of this widespread poverty, as ira steward did in the fourth annual report of the massachusetts bureau of statistics of labor for . "it is the enormous profits," he pointedly wrote, "made directly upon the labor of the wage classes, and indirectly through the results of their labor, that, first, keeps them poor, and, second, furnishes the capital that is finally loaned back to them again" at high rates of interest. unquestionably sound and true was this explanation, yet of what avail was it if the causes of their poverty were withheld from the active knowledge of the mass of the wage workers? it was the special business of the newspapers, the magazines, the pulpit and the politicians to ignore, suppress or twist every particle of information that might enlighten or arouse the mass of people; if these agencies were so obtuse or recalcitrant as not to know their expected place and duty at critical times, they were quickly reminded of them by the propertied classes. to any newspaper owner, clergyman or politician showing a tendency to radicalism, the punishment came quickly. the newspaper owner was deprived of advertisements and accommodations, the clergyman was insidiously hounded out of his pulpit by his own church associations, the funds of which came from men of wealth, and the politician was ridiculed and was summarily retired to private life by corrupt means. as for genuinely honest administrative officials (as distinguished from the _apparently_ honest) who exposed prevalent conditions and sought to remedy them in their particular departments, they were eventually got rid of by a similar campaign of calumny and corrupt influences. his frauds in evading taxes. as in the larger sense all criticism of conditions was systematically smothered, so were details of the methods of the rich carefully obscured or altogether passed by in silence. at vanderbilt's death the newspapers laved in gorgeous descriptions of his mansion. yet apart from the proceeds of his great frauds, the amounts out of which he had cheated the city and state in taxation were alone much more than enough to have paid for his splendor of living. like the astors, the goelets, marshall field and every other millionaire without exception, he continuously defrauded in taxes. we have seen how the vanderbilts seized hold of tens of millions of dollars of bonds by fraud. certain of their railroad stocks were exempted from individual taxation, but railroad bonds ranked as taxable personal property. year after year william h. vanderbilt had perjured himself in swearing that his personal property did not exceed $ , . on more than this amount he would not pay. when at his death his will revealed to the public the proportions of his estate, the new york city commissioners of assessments and taxes made an apparent effort to collect some of the millions of dollars out of which he had cheated the city. it was now that the obsequious and time-serving depew, grown gray and wrinkled in the retainership of the vanderbilt generations, came forward with this threat: "he informed us," testified michael coleman, president of the commission, "that if we attempted to press too hard he would take proceedings by which most of the securities would be placed beyond our reach so that we could not tax them. the vanderbilt family could convert everything they had into non-taxable securities, such as new york central, government and city bonds, delaware and lackawanna, and delaware and western railroad stocks, and pay not a dollar provided they wished to do so." [footnote: the new york senate committee on cities, , iii: - .] the vanderbilt estate compromised by paying the city a mere part of the sum owed. it succeeded in keeping the greatest part of its possessions immune from taxation, in doing which it but did what the whole of the large propertied class was doing, as was disclosed in further detailed testimony before the new york senate committee on cities in . his will transmits $ , , . unlike his father, william h. vanderbilt did not bequeath the major portion of his fortune to one son. he left $ , , equally to each of his two sons, cornelius and william k. vanderbilt. supplementing the fortunes they already had, these legacies swelled their individual fortunes to approximately $ , , each--about the same amount as their father had himself inherited. the remaining $ , , was thus disposed of in william h. vanderbilt's will: $ , , , in railroad and other securities, was set apart as a trust fund, the income of which was to be apportioned equally among each of his eight children. this provided them each with an annual income of $ , . in turn, the principal was to descend to their children, as they should direct by will. another $ , , was shared outright among his eight children. the remaining $ , , was variously divided: the greater part to his widow; $ , , as an additional gift to cornelius; $ , , to a favorite grandson; sundry items to other relatives and friends, and about $ , , to charitable and public institutions. he was buried in a mausoleum costing $ , , which he himself had ordered to be built at new dorp, staten island; and there to-day his ashes lie, splendidly interred, while millions of the living plundered and disinherited are suffered to live in the deadly congestion of miserable habitations. chapter vii the vanderbilt fortune in the present generation with the demise of william h. vanderbilt the vanderbilt fortune ceased being a one-man factor. although apportioned among the eight children, the two who inherited by far the greater part of it-- cornelius and william k. vanderbilt--were its rulers paramount. to them descended the sway of the extensive railroad systems appropriated by their grandfather and father, with all of the allied and collateral properties. both of these heirs had been put through a punctilious course of training in the management of railroad affairs; all of the subtle arts and intricacies of finance, and the grand tactical and strategic strokes of railroad manipulation, had been drilled into them with extraordinary care. their first move upon coming into their inheritance was to surround themselves with the magnificence of imposing residences, as befitted their state and estate. a signatory stroke of the pen was the only exertion required of them; thereupon architects and a host of artisans yielded service and built palaces for them, for the one at fifth avenue and fifty-second street, for the other at fifth avenue and fifty-seventh street. millions were spent with prodigal lavishness. on his fifth avenue mansion alone, cornelius expended $ , , . to get the space for three beds of blossoms and a few square yards of turf, a brownstone house adjoining his mansion was torn down, and the garden created at an expense of $ , . george, a brother of cornelius and of william k. vanderbilt, and a man of retiring disposition, spent $ , , in building a palatial home in the heart of the north carolina mountains. for three years three hundred stonemasons were kept busy; and he gradually added land to his surrounding estate until it embraced one hundred and eighty square miles. his game preserves were enlarged until they covered , acres. so, within thirty years from the time their grandfather, commodore vanderbilt, was extorting his original millions by blackmailing, did they live like princes, and in greater luxury and power than perhaps any of the titular princes of ancient or modern days. but the splendor of these abodes was intended merely for partial use. at their command spacious, majestic palaces arose at newport, whither in the torrid season some of the vanderbilts transferred their august seat of power and pleasure. hardly had they settled themselves down in the vested security of their great fortunes when an ominous situation presented itself to shake the entire propertied class into a violent state of uneasiness. hitherto the main antagonistic movement perturbing the magnates was that of the obstreperous and still powerful middle class. dazed and enraged at the certain prospect of their complete subjugation and eventual annihilation, these small capitalists had clamored for laws restricting the power of the great capitalists. some of their demands were constantly being enacted into law, without, however, the expected results. the great labor movement of now, to the intense alarm of all sections of the capitalist class, a very different quality of movement reared itself upward from the deeps of the social formation. [footnote: it may be asked why an extended description of this movement is interposed here. because, inasmuch as it is a part of the plan of this work to present a constant succession of contrasts, this is, perhaps, as appropriate a place as any to give an account of the highly important labor movement of . of course, it will be understood that this movement was not the result of any one capitalist fortune or process, but was a general revolt to compel all forms of capitalist control to concede better conditions to the workers.] this time it was the laboring masses preparing for the most vigorous and comprehensive attack that they had ever made upon capitalism's intrenchments. long exploited, oppressed and betrayed, starved or clubbed into intervals of apathy or submission, they were again in motion, moving forward with a set deliberation and determination which disconcerted the capitalist class. no mere local conflict of class interests was it on this occasion, but a general cohesive revolt of the workers against some of the conditions and laws under which they had to labor. in the federation of trades and labor unions of the united states and canada had issued a manifesto calling upon all trades to unite in the demand for an eight-hour workday. the date for a general strike was finally fixed for may , . the year , therefore, was one of general agitation throughout the united states. with rapidity and enthusiasm the movement spread. presently it took on a radical character. realizing it to be at basis the first national awakening of the proletariat, progressive men and women of every shade of opinion hastened forward to support it and direct it into one of opposition, not merely to a few of the evils of wage slavery, but to what they considered the fundamental cause itself--the capitalist system. the propertied classes were not deceived. they knew that while this labor movement nominally confined itself to one for a shorter workday, yet its impetus was such that it contained the fullest potentialities for developing into a mighty uprising against the very system by which they were enabled to enrich themselves and enslave the masses. the moment this fact was discerned, both great and small capitalists instinctively suspended hostilities. they tacitly agreed to hold their bitter warfare for supremacy in abeyance, and unite in the face of their common danger. the triangular conflict between the large and small capitalists and the trades unions now resolved into a duel between the propertied classes of all descriptions on the one hand, and, on the other, the workingmen's organizations. the farmers' alliance, essentially a middle-class movement of the employing farmers in the south and west, was counted upon as aligned with the propertied classes. on the part of the capitalists there was no unity of organization in the sense of selected leaders or committees. it was not necessary. a stronger bond than that of formal organization drove them into acting in conscious unison--namely, the immediate peril involved to their property interests. apprehension soon gave way to grim decision. this formidable labor movement had to be broken and dispersed at any cost. but how was the work of destruction to be done? this was the predicament. vested wealth could succeed in bribing a labor leader here and there; but the movement had bounded far beyond the elemental stage, and had become a glowing agitation which no traitor or set of traitors could have stopped. one effective way of discrediting and suppressing it there was; the ancient one of virtually outlawing it, and throwing against it the whole brute force of government. the task of putting it down was preëminently one for the police, army and judiciary. they had been used to stifle many another protest of the workers; why not this? as the great labor movement rolled on, enlisting the ardent attachment of the masses, denouncing the injustices, corruption and robberies of the existing industrial system, the propertied classes more acutely understood that they must hasten to stamp it out by whatever means. the municipal and state governments and the national government, completely representing their interests and ideas, and dominated by them, stood ready to use force. but there had to be some kind of pretext. the hosts of labor were acting peacefully and with remarkable self control and discipline. * * * * * * * the propertied classes strike back. the propitious occasion soon came. it was in chicago that the blow was struck which succeeded in discrediting the cause of the workers, stayed the progress of their movement, and covered it with a prejudice and an odium lasting for years. there, in that maddening bedlam, called a city, the acknowledged inferno of industrialism, the agitation was tensest. with its brutalities, cruelties, corruptions and industrial carnage, its hideous contrasts of dissolute riches and woe-begone poverty, its arrogant wealth lashing the working population lower and lower into squalor, pauperism and misery, chicago was overripe for any movement seeking to elevate conditions. in the first months of , strike followed strike throughout the united states for an eight-hour day. at mccormick's reaper works in chicago [footnote: the mccormick fortune was the outgrowth, to a large extent, of a variety of frauds and corruptions. later on in this work, the facts are given as to how cyrus h. mccormick, the founder of the fortune, bribed congress, in , to give him a time extension of his patent rights.] a prolonged strike of many months began in february. determined not only to refuse shorter hours, but to force his twelve hundred wage workers to desert labor unions, mccormick drove them from his factory, hired armed mercenaries, called pinkerton detectives, and substituted in the place of the union workers those despised irresponsibles called "scabs"-- signifying laborers willing to help defeat the battles of organized labor, and, if the unions won, share in the benefits without incurring any of the responsibilities, risks or struggles. on may , , forty thousand men and women in chicago went on strike for an eight-hour day. thus far, the aim of inciting violence on the part of the strikers had completely failed everywhere. the knights of labor were conducting their strikes with a coolness, method and sober sense of order, giving no opportunity for the exercise of force. on may , a great demonstration of the mccormick workers was held near that company's factories to protest against the employment of armed pinkertons. the pinkerton detective bureau was a private establishment, founded during the civil war; in the ensuing contests between labor and capital it was alleged to have made a profitable business of supplying spies and armed men to capitalists under the pretense of safeguarding property. these armed bands really constituted private armies; recruited often from the most debased and worthless part of the population, as well as from the needy and shifty, they were, it was charged, composed largely of men who would perjure themselves, fabricate evidence, provoke trouble, and slaughter without scruple for pay. some, as was well established, were ex-convicts, others thugs, and still others were driven to the ignoble employment by necessity. [footnote: the prevailing view of the working class toward the pinkerton detectives was thus expressed at the time in a chapter on the mine workers by john mcbride, one of the trade union leaders: "they have awakened," he wrote, "the hatred and detestation of the workingmen of the united states; and this hatred is due, not only to the fact that they protect the men who are stealing the bread from the mouths of the families of strikers, but to the fact that as a class they seem rather to invite trouble than to allay it.... they are employed to terrorize the workingmen, and to create in the minds of the public the idea that the miners are a dangerous class of citizens that have to be kept down by armed force. these men had an interest in keeping up and creating troubles which gave employers opportunity to demand protection from the state militia at the expense of the state, and which the state has too readily granted."--"the labor movement": - .] during the course of the meeting in the afternoon the factory bell rung, and the "scabs" were seen leaving. some boys in the audience began throwing stones and there was hooting. fully aware of the combustible accounts wanted by their offices, the reporters immediately telephoned exaggerated, inflammatory stories of a riot being under way; the police on the spot likewise notified headquarters. [footnote: in a statement published in the chicago "daily news," issue of may , , captain ebersold, chief of police in , charged that captain schaack, who had been the police official most active in proceeding against the labor leaders and causing them to be executed and imprisoned, had deliberately set about concocting "anarchist" conspiracies in order to get the credit for discovering and breaking them up.] police in large numbers soon arrived; the boys kept throwing stones; and suddenly, without warning, the police drew their revolvers and indiscriminately opened a general fire upon the men, women and children in the crowd, killing four and wounding many. terror stricken and in horror the crowd fled. there was a group of radical spirits in chicago, popularly branded as anarchists, but in reality men of advanced ideas who, while differing from one another in economic views, agreed in denouncing the existing system as the prolific cause of bitter wrongs and rooted injustices. sincere, self-sacrificing, intellectual, outspoken, absolutely devoted to their convictions, burning with compassion and noble ideals for suffering humanity, they had stepped forward and had greatly assisted in arousing the militant spirit in the working class in chicago. at all of the meetings they had spoken with an ardor and ability that put them in the front ranks of the proletarian leaders; and in two newspapers published by them, the "alarm," in english, and the "arbeiter zeitung," in german, they unceasingly advocated the interests of the working class. these men were albert r. parsons, a printer, editor of the "alarm;" august spies, an upholsterer by trade, and editor of the "arbeiter zeitung;" adolph fischer, a printer; louis lingg, a carpenter; samuel fielden, the son of a british factory owner; george engel, a painter; oscar neebe, a well- to-do business man, and michael schwab, a bookbinder. all of them were more or less deep students of economics and sociology; they had become convinced that the fundamental cause of the prevalent inequalities of opportunity and of the widespread misery was the capitalist system itself. hence they opposed it uncompromisingly. [footnote: the utterances of these leaders revealed the reasons why they were so greatly feared by the capitalist class. fischer, for instance, said: "i perceive that the diligent, never-resting human working bees, who create all wealth and fill the magazines with provisions, fuel and clothing, enjoy only a minor part of this product, while the drones, the idlers, keep the warehouses locked up, and revel in luxury and voluptuousness." engel said: "the history of all times teaches us that the oppressing always maintain their tyrannies by force and violence. some day the war will break out; therefore all workingmen should unite and prepare for the last war, the outcome of which will be the end forever of all war, and bring peace and happiness to mankind."] the newspapers, voicing the interests and demands of the intrenched classes, denounced these radicals with a sinister emphasis as destructionists. but it was not ignorance which led them to do this; it was intended as a deliberate poisoning and inflaming of public opinion. themselves bribing, corrupting, intimidating, violating laws and slaying for profit everywhere, the propertied classes ever assumed, as has so often been pointed out, the pose of being the staunch conservers of law and order. to fasten upon the advanced leaders of the labor movement the stigma of being sowers of disorder, and then judicially get rid of them, and crush the spirit and movement of the aroused proletariat--this was the plan determined upon. labor leaders who confined their programme to the industrial arena were not feared so much; but parsons, spies and their comrades were not only pointing out to the masses truths extremely unpalatable to the capitalists, but were urging, although in a crude way, a definite political movement to overthrow capitalism. with the finest perception, fully alert to their danger, the propertied classes were intent upon exterminating this portentous movement by striking down its leaders and terrifying their followers. the haymarket tragedy. fired with indignation at the slaughter at the mccormick meeting, spies and others of his group issued a call for a meeting on the night of may , at the haymarket, to protest against the police assaults. spies opened the meeting, and was followed by fielden. observers agreed that the meeting was proceeding in perfect quiet, so quietly that the mayor of chicago, who was present to suppress it if necessary, went home--when suddenly one hundred and eighty policemen, with arms in readiness, appeared and peremptorily ordered the meeting to disperse. it seems that without pausing for a reply they immediately charged, and began clubbing and mauling the few hundred persons present. at this juncture a small bomb, thrown by someone, exploded in the ranks of the police, felling sixty and killing one. the police instantly began firing into the crowd. no one has ever been able to find out definitely who threw the bomb. suspicions were not lacking that it was done by a mercenary of corporate wealth. at pittsburg, in , as we have seen, the pennsylvania railroad hirelings deliberately destroyed property and incited riot in order to charge the strikers with crime. in the coal mining regions of pennsylvania, subsidized detectives had provoked trouble during the strikes, and by means of bogus evidence and packed juries had hung some labor leaders and imprisoned others. the hurling of the bomb, whether done by a secret emissary, or by a sympathizer with labor, proved the lever which the propertied classes had been feverishly awaiting. spies, fielding and their comrades were at once cast into jail; the newspapers invented wild yarns of conspiracies and midnight plots, and raucously demanded the hanging of the leaders. the trifling formality of waiting until their guilt had been proved was not considered. the most significant event, however, was the secret meeting of about three hundred leading american capitalists to plan the suppression of "anarchy." very horrified they professed themselves to be at violent outrages and destruction of property and life. their views were given wide circulation and commendation; they were the finest types of commercial success and prestige. they were the owners of railroads that slaughtered thousands of human beings every year, because of the demands of profit; of factories which sucked the very life out of their toilers, and which filled the hospitals, slums, brothels and graveyards with an ever-increasing assemblage; every man in that conclave, as a beneficiary of the existing system, had drained his fortune from the sweat, sorrow, miseries and death agonies of a multitude of workers. [footnote: this seems a very sweeping and extraordinary prejudicial statement. it should be remembered, however, that these capitalists, both individually and collectively, had contested the passage of every proposed law, the aim of which was to improve conditions for the workers on the railroads and in mines and factories. time after time they succeeded in defeating or ignoring this legislation. although the number of workers killed or injured in accidents every year was enormous, and although the number slain by diseases contracted in workshops or dwellings was even greater, the capitalists insisted that the law had no right to interfere with the conduct of their "private business."] these were the men who came forth to form the "citizens' association," and within a few hours subscribed $ , as a fighting fund. judicial murder of labor's leaders. the details of the trial will not be gone into here. the trial itself is now everywhere recognized as having been a tragic farce. the jury, it is clear, was purposely drawn from the employing class, or their dependents; of a thousand talesmen summoned, only five or six belonged to the working class. the malignant class nature of the trial was revealed by the questions asked of the talesmen; nearly all declared that they had a prejudice against socialists, anarchists and communists. soon the blindest could see that the conviction of the group was determined upon in advance, and that it was but the visible evidence of a huge conspiracy to terrorize the whole working class. the theory upon which the group was prosecuted was that they were actively engaged in a conspiracy against the existing authorities, and that they advocated violence and bloodshed. no jurist would now presume to contend that the slightest evidence was adduced to prove this. but all were rushed to conviction: spies, parsons, fischer, and engel were hanged on november , , after fruitless appeals to the higher courts; lingg committed suicide in prison, and fielden, neebe and schwab were sentenced to long terms in prison. the four executed leaders met their death with the heroic calmness of martyrdom. "let the voice of the people be heard!" were parsons' last words. fielden, neebe and schwab might have rotted away in prison, were it not that one of the noblest-minded and most maligned men of his time, in the person of john p. altgeld, was governor of illinois in . governor altgeld pardoned them on these grounds, which he undoubtedly proved in an exhaustive review: ( ) the jury was a packed one selected to convict; ( ) the jurors were prejudiced; ( ) no guilt was proved; ( ) the state's attorney had admitted no case against neebe, yet he had been imprisoned; ( )the trial judge (gary) was either so prejudiced or subservient to class influence that he did not or could not give a fair trial. even many of those who denounced altgeld for this action, now admit that his grounds were justified. the labor uprising in new york. in the meanwhile, between the time of the haymarket episode and the hanging and imprisonment of the chicago group, the labor movement in new york city had assumed so strong a political form that the ruling class was seized with consternation. the knights of labor, then at the summit of organization and solidarity, were ripe for independent political action; the effects of the years of active propaganda carried on in their ranks by the socialists and single-tax advocates now began to show fruit. at the critical time, when the labor unions were wavering in the decision as to whether they ought to strike out politically or not, the ruling class supplied the necessary vital impulsion. while in chicago the courts were being used to condemn the labor leaders to death or prison, in the east they were used to paralyze the weapons of offense and defence by which the unions were able to carry on their industrial warfare. the conviction, in new york city, of certain members of a union for declaring a boycott, proved the one compelling force needed to mass all of the unions and radical societies and individuals into a mighty movement resulting in an independent labor party. to meet this exigency an effort was made by the politicians to buy off henry george, the distinguished single-tax advocate, who was recognized as the leader of the labor party. but this flanking attempt at bribing an incorruptible man failed; the labor unions proceeded to nominate george for mayor, and a campaign was begun of an ardor, vigor and enthusiasm such as had not been known since the workingmen's party movement in . the election was for local officers of the foremost city in the united states--a point of vantage worth contending for, since the moral effect of such a victory of the working class would be incalculable, even if short-lived. to the ruling classes the triumph of the labor unions, while restricted to one city, would unmistakably denote the glimmerings of the beginning of the end of their regime. such rebellious movements are highly contagious; from the confines of one municipality they sweep on to other sections, stimulating action and inspiring emulation. the new york labor campaign of was an intrinsic part and result of the general labor movement throughout the united states. and it was the most significant manifestation of the onward march of the workers; elsewhere the labor unions had not gone beyond the stage of agitation and industrial warfare; but in new york, with the most acute perception of the real road it must traverse, the labor movement had plunged boldly into political action. it realized that it must get hold of the governmental powers. its antagonists, the capitalists, had long had a rigid grip on them, and had used them almost wholly as they willed. but the capitalist class was even more doggedly determined upon retaining and intensifying those powers. government was an essential requisite to its plans and development. the small capitalists bitterly fought the great; but both agreed that government with its legislators, laws, precedents, and the habits of thought it created, must be capitalistic. both saw in the uprising of labor a prospective overturning of conditions. from this identity of interest a singular concrete alliance resulted. the great capitalists, whom the middle-class had denounced as pirates, now became the decorous and orthodox "saviors of society," with the small capitalists trailing behind their leadership, and shouting their praises as the upholders of law and the conservators of order. in chicago the same men who had bribed legislators and common councils to give them public franchises, and who had hugely swindled and stolen under guise of law, had been the principals in calling for the execution and imprisonment of the group of labor leaders, and this they had decreed in the name of law. in new york city a pretext for dealing similarly with the labor leaders was entirely lacking, but another method was found effective in the subjugation and dispersion of the movement. capitalist triumph by fraud. this was the familiar one of corruption and fraud. it was a method in the exercise of which the capitalists as a class had proved themselves adepts; they now summoned to their aid all of the ignoble and subterranean devices of criminal politics. in the new york city election of three parties contested, the labor party, tammany hall and the republican party. steeped in decades of the most loathsome corruption, tammany hall was chosen as the medium by which the labor party was to be defrauded and effaced. pretending to be the "champion of the people's rights," and boasting that it stood for democracy against aristocracy, tammany hall had long deceived the mass of the people to plunder them. it was a powerful, splendidly-organized body of mercenaries and selfseekers which, by trading on the principles of democracy, had been able to count on the partisan votes of a predominating element of the wage- working class. in reality, however, it was absolutely directed by a leader or "boss," who, with his confederates, made a regular traffic of selling legislation to the capitalists, on the one hand, and who, on the other, enriched themselves by a colossal system of blackmail. they sold immunity to pickpockets, confidence men and burglars, compelled the saloonkeepers to pay for protection, and even extorted from the wretched women of the street and brothels. this was the organization that the ruling class, with its fine assumptions of respectability, now depended upon to do its work of breaking up the political labor revolt. the candidate of tammany hall was the ultra-respectable abram s. hewitt, a millionaire capitalist. the republican party nominated a verbose, pushful, self-glorifying young man, who, by a combination of fortuitous circumstances, later attained the position of president of the united states. this was theodore roosevelt, the scion of a moderately rich new york family, and a remarkable character whose pugnacious disposition, indifference to political conventionalities, capacity for exhortation, and bold political shrewdness were mistaken for greatness of personality. the phenomenal success to which he subsequently rose was characteristic of the prevailing turgidity and confusion of the popular mind. both hewitt and roosevelt were, of course, acceptable to the capitalist class. as, however, new york was normally a city of democratic politics, and as hewitt stood the greater chance of winning, the support of those opposed to the labor movement was concentrated upon him. intrenched respectability, for the most part, came forth to join sanctimony with tammany scoundrelism. it was an edifying union, yet did not comprise all of the forces linked in that historic coalition. the church, as an institution, cast into it the whole weight of its influence and power. soaked with the materialist spirit while dogmatically preaching the spiritual, dominated and pervaded by capitalist influences, the church, of all creeds and denominations, lost no time in subtly aligning itself in its expected place. and woe to the minister or priest who defied the attitude of his church! father mcglynn, for example, was excommunicated by the pope, ostensibly for heretical utterances, but in actuality for espousing the cause of the labor movement. despite every legitimate argument coupled with venomous ridicule and coercive and corrupt influence that wealth, press and church could bring to bear, the labor unions stood solidly together. on election day groups of tammany repeaters, composed of dissolutes, profligates, thugs and criminals, systematically, under directions from above, filled the ballot boxes with fraudulent votes. the same rich class that declaimed with such superior indignation against rule by the "mob" had poured in funds which were distributed by the politicians for these frauds. but the vote of the labor forces was so overwhelming, that even piles of fraudulent votes could not suffice to overcome it. one final resource was left. this was to count out henry george by grossly tampering with the election returns and misrepresenting them. and this is precisely what was done, if the testimony of numerous eye-witnesses is to be believed. the labor party, it is quite clear, was deliberately cheated out of an election won in the teeth of the severest and most corrupt opposition. this result it had to accept; the entire elaborate machinery of elections was in the full control of the labor party's opponents; and had it instituted a contest in the courts, the labor party would have found its efforts completely fruitless in the face of an adverse judiciary. the labor party evaporates. by the end of the year the political phase of the labor movement had shrunk to insignificant proportions, and soon thereafter collapsed. the capitalist interests had followed up their onslaught in hanging and imprisoning some of the foremost leaders, and in corruption and fraud at the polls, by the repetition of other tactics that they had long so successfully used. acting through the old political parties they further insured the disintegration of the labor party by bribing a sufficient number of its influential men. this bribery took the form of giving them sinecurist offices under either democratic or republican local, state or national administrations. many of the most conspicuous organizers of the labor movement were thus won over, by the proffer of well- paying political posts, to betray the cause in the furtherance of which they had shown such energy. deprived of some of its leaders, deserted by others, the labor political movement sank into a state of disorganization, and finally reverted to its old servile position of dividing its vote between the two capitalist parties. from now one, for many years, the labor movement existed purely as an industrial one, disclaiming all connection with politics. voting into power either of the old political parties, it then humbly begged a few crumbs of legislation from them, only to have a few sops thrown to it, or to receive contemptuous kicks and humiliations, and, if it grew too importunate or aggressive, insults backed with the strong might of judicial, police and military power. when it was jubilantly seen by the coalesced propertied classes that the much-dreaded labor movement had been thrust aside and shorn, they resumed their interrupted conflict. the small capitalist evinced a fierce energy in seeking to hinder in every possible way the development of the great. it was in these years that a multitude of middle-class laws were enacted both by congress and by the state legislatures; the representatives of that class from the north and east joined with those of the farmers' alliance from the west and south. laws were passed declaring combinations conspiracies in restraint of trade and prohibiting the granting of secret discriminative rates by the railroads. in no fewer than eighteen states passed anti-trust laws; five more followed the next year. every one of these laws was apparently of the most explicit character, and carried with it drastic penal provisions. "now," exulted the small capitalists in high spirits of elation, "we have the upper hand. we have laws enough to throttle the monopolists and preserve our righteous system of competition. they don't dare violate them, with the prospects of long terms in prison staring them in the face." the small capitalists' losing fight. the great capitalists both dared and did. if specific statutes were against them, the impelling forces of economic development and the power of might were wholly on their side. the competitive system was already doomed; the middle class was too blind to realize that what seemed to be victory was the rattle of the slow death struggle. at first, the great capitalists made no attempt to have these laws altered or repealed. they adopted a slyer and more circuitous mode of warfare. they simply evaded them. as fast as one trust was dissolved by court decision, it nominally complied, as did, for instance, the standard oil trust and the sugar trust, and then furtively caused itself to be reborn into a new combination so cunningly sheltered within the technicalities of the law that it was fairly safe from judicial overthrow. but the great capitalists were too wise to stake their existence upon the thin refuge of technicalities. with their huge funds they now systematically struck out to control the machinery of the two main political parties; they used the ponderous weight of their influence to secure the appointment of men favorable to them as attorneys general of the united states, and of the states, and they carried on a definite plan of bringing about the appointment or election of judges upon whose decisions they could depend. the laws passed by the middle class remained ornamental encumbrances on the statute books; the great capitalists, although harassed continually by futile attacks, triumphantly swept forward, gradually in their consecutive progress strangling the middle class beyond resurrection. such was the integral impotence of the warfare of the small against the great capitalists that, during this convulsive period, the existing magnates increased their wealth and power on every hand, and their ranks were increased by the accession of new members. from the chaos of middle-class industrial institutions, one trust after another sprang full-armed, until presently there was a whole array of them. the trust system had proved itself immensely superior in every respect to the competitive, and by its own superiority it was bound to supplant the other. where william h. vanderbilt had thought himself compelled to temporize with the middle class agitation by making a show of dividing the stock ownership of the new york central railroad, his sons cornelius and william ignored or defied it. utterly disdainful of the bitter feeling, especially in the west, against the consolidation of railroads in the hands of the powerful few, they tranquilly went ahead to gather more railroads in their ownership. the cleveland, cincinnati, chicago and st. louis railroad (popularly dubbed the "big four") acquired by them in was one of these. it would be tiresome, however, to enter into a narrative of the complex, tortuous methods by which they possessed themselves of these railroads. by the beginning of the year the vanderbilt system embraced at least , miles of railways, with a capitalized value of several hundred million dollars, and a total gross earning power of more than $ , , a year. "all of the best railroad territory," says john moody in his sketch entitled "the romance of the railways," "outside of new england, pennsylvania and new jersey was penetrated by the vanderbilt lines, and no other railroad system in the country, with the single notable exception of the pennsylvania railroad, covered anything like the same amount of rich and settled territory, or reached so many towns and cities of importance. new york, buffalo, chicago, cleveland, st. louis, cincinnati, detroit, indianapolis, omaha--these were a few of the great marts which were embraced in the vanderbilt preserves." so impregnably rich and powerful were the vanderbilts, so profitable their railroads, and their command of resources, financial institutions and legislation so great, that the panic of instead of impairing their fortunes gave them extraordinary opportunities for getting hold of the properties of weaker railroads. it was now, acting jointly with other puissant interests, that they saw their chance to get control of a large part of the fabulously rich coal mines of pennsylvania. these coal mines had originally been owned by separate companies or operators, each independent of the other. but by about the year the railroads penetrating the coal regions had conceived the plan of owning the mines themselves. why continue to act as middlemen in transporting the coal? why not vest in themselves the ownership of these vast areas of coal lands, and secure all the profits instead of those from merely handling the coal? the plan ingratiated itself as a capital one; it could be easily carried out with little expenditure. all that was necessary for the railroad to do was to burden down the operators with exorbitant charges, and hamper and beleaguer them in a variety of compressing ways. [footnote: see testimony before the committee to investigate the philadelphia and reading railroad company, and the philadelphia and reading coal and iron company, pennsylvania legislative docs. , vol. v, doc. no. . this investigation fully revealed how the railroads detained the cars of the "independent" operators, and otherwise used oppressive methods.] as was proved in subsequent lawsuits, the railroads frequently declined to carry coal for this or that mine, on the pretext that they had no cars available. every means was used to crush the independent operators and depreciate the selling value of their property. it was a campaign of ruination; in law it stood as criminal conspiracy; but the railroads persisted in it without any further molestation than prolix civil suits, and they finally forced a number of the well-nigh bankrupted independent operators to sell out to them for comparatively trifling sums. [footnote: spahr quotes an independent operator in as saying that the railroads charged the independents three times as much for handling hard coal as they charged for handling soft coal from the west--"america's working people": - .] by these methods such railroads as the philadelphia and reading, the delaware, lackawana and western, the central railroad of new jersey, the lehigh valley and others gradually succeeded, in the course of years, in extending an ownership over the coal mines. the more powerful independent operators struck back early at them by getting a constitutional provision passed in pennsylvania, in , prohibiting railroads from owning and operating coal mines. the railroads evaded this law with facility by an illegal system of leasing, and by organizing nominally separate and independent companies the stock of which, in reality, was owned by them. to the men who did the actual labor of working in the mines--the coal miners--this change of ownership was not regarded with alarm. indeed, they at first cherished the pathetic hope that it might benefit their condition, which had been desperate and intolerable enough under the old company system. the small coal-owning capitalists, who had emitted such wailings at their own oppression by the railroads, had long relentlessly exploited their tens of thousands of workers. one abuse had been piled upon another. the miners were paid by the ton; the companies had fraudulently increased the size of the ton, so that the miners had to perform much more labor while wages remained stationary or were reduced. but one of the most serious grievances was that against what were called "company or truck stores." ingenious contrivances for getting back the miserable wages paid out, these were company-owned merchandise stores in which the miners were compelled to buy their supplies. in many collieries the mine worker was not paid in money but was given an order on the company store, where he was forced to purchase inferior goods at exorbitant prices. to blast in the mines powder was necessary; the miner had to buy it at his own expense, and was charged $ . a keg, although its selling value was not more than $ . or cents. in every direction the mine worker was defrauded and plundered. "often," says john mitchell, long the leader of the miners, and a compromiser whose career proves that he cannot be charged with any deep-seated antagonism to capitalist interests, "a man together with his children would work for months without receiving a dollar of money, and not infrequently he would find at the end of the month nothing in his envelope but a statement that his indebtedness to the company had increased so many dollars." [footnote: "organized labor": . mitchell's comments were fully supported by the vast mass of testimony taken by the united states anthracite coal commission in . mitchell is, at this writing ( ), in the employ of the civic federation, an organization financed by capitalists. its alleged purpose is to bring about "harmony" between capital and labor.] mitchell adds that the legislature of pennsylvania passed anti-truck store laws, "but the operators who have always cried out loudest against illegal action by miners openly and unhesitatingly violated the act and subsequently evaded it by various devices." [footnote: ibid.] the wretched houses the miners occupied "also," says mitchell, "served as a means of extortion, and, in other instances, as a weapon to be used against the miners." in case they complained or struck, the miners were evicted under the most cruel circumstances. many other media of extortion were common. in the entire year the miners averaged only one hundred and ninety working days of ten hours each, and, of course, were paid for working time only. according to spahr , miners drudged for an average wage of $ a year. [footnote: "the present distribution of wealth in the united states": - .] seizing railroads and coal mines. this system of abject slavery was in full force when the railroads ousted many of the small operators, and largely by pressure of power took possession of the mines. in vain did the miners' unions implore the railroad magnates for redress of some kind. the magnates abruptly refused, and went on extending and intrenching their authority. the vanderbilts manipulated themselves into being important factors in the delaware and hudson railroad, and in the delaware, lackawana and western railroad, which had deviously obtained title to some of the richest coal deposits in wyoming county, and they also became prominent in the directing of the lehigh valley railroad. the most important coal-owning railroad, however, which they and other magnates coveted was the philadelphia and reading railroad. at least one-half of the anthracite coal supply of pennsylvania was owned or controlled by this railroad. the ownership of the reading railroad, with its subordinate lines, was the pivotal requisite towards getting a complete monopoly of the anthracite coal deposits. william h. vanderbilt had acquired an interest in it years before, but the actual controlling ownership at this time was held by a group of philadelphia capitalists of the second rank with their three hundred thousand shares. unfortunately for this group, the philadelphia and reading railroad was afflicted with a president, one arthur a. mcleod, who was not only too recklessly ambitious, but who was temerarious enough to cross the path of the really powerful magnates. with immense confidence in his plans and in his ability to carry them out, he set out to monopolize the anthracite coal supply and to make the reading railroad a great trunk line. to perfect this monopoly he leased some coal-carrying railroads and made "a gentlemen's agreement" with others; and in line with his policy of raising the importance of the road, he borrowed large sums of money for the construction of new terminals and approaches and for equipment. now, all of these plans interfered seriously with the aims and ambition of magnates far greater than he. these magnates quickly saw the stupendous possibilities of a monopoly of the coal supply--the hundreds of millions of dollars of profits it held out--and decided that it was precisely what they themselves should control and nobody else. second, in his aim to have his own railroad connections with the rich manufacturing and heavily-populated new england districts, mcleod had arranged with various small railroads a complete line from the coal fields of pennsylvania into the heart of new england. in doing this he overreached his mark. he was soon taught the folly of presuming to run counter to the interests of the big magnates. and the way in which it was done. the two powers controlling the large railroads traversing most of the new england states were the vanderbilts and j. pierpont morgan. the one owned the new york central, the other dominated the new york, new haven and hartford railroad. the pennsylvania railroad likewise had no intention of allowing such a powerful competitor in its own province. these magnates viewed with intense amazement the effrontery of what they regarded as an upstart interloper. although they had been constantly fighting one another for supremacy, these three interests now made common cause. they adroitly prepared to crush mcleod and bankrupt the railroad of which he was the head. by this process they would accomplish three highly important objects; one the wresting of the philadelphia and reading railroad into their own divisible ownership; second, the securing of their personal hold on the connecting railroads that mcleod had leased; and, finally, the obtaining of undisputed sovereignty over a great part of the anthracite coal mines. the warfare now began without those fanciful ceremonials, heralds or proclamations considered so necessary by governments as a prelude to slaughter. these formalities are dispensed with by business combatants. first, the morgan-vanderbilt interest caused the publication of terrifying reports that grave legislation hostile to the coal combination was imminent. the price of reading stock on the stock exchange immediately declined. then, following up their advantage, this dual alliance inspired even more ruinous reports. the credit of the philadelphia and reading railroad was represented as being in a very bad state. as the railroad had borrowed immense sums of money both to finance its coal combination and to build extensive terminals and other equipment, large payments to creditors were due from time to time. to pay these creditors the railroad had to borrow more; but when the credit of the railroad was assailed, it found that its sources of borrowing were suddenly shut off. the group of philadelphia capitalists had already borrowed large sums of money, giving reading shares as collateral. when the market price of the stock kept going down they were called upon to pay back their loans. declining or unable to do so, their fifty thousand shares of pledged stock were sold. this sale still more depressed the price of reading stock. in this group of philadelphia capitalist were men who were reckoned as very astute business lights--george m. pullman, thomas dolan, one of the street railway syndicate whose briberies of legislatures and common councils, and whose manipulation of street railways in philadelphia and other cities were so notorious a scandal; john wanamaker, combining piety and sharp business;--these were three of them. but they were no match for the much more powerful and wily vanderbilt-morgan forces. they were compelled under resistless pressure to throw over their reading stock at a great loss to themselves. most of it was promptly bought up by j. p. morgan and company and the vanderbilts, who then leisurely arranged a division of the spoils between themselves. this transaction (strict interpreters of the law would have styled it a conspiracy) opened a facile way for a number of extremely important changes. the vanderbilts and the morgan interests apportioned between them much of the ownership of the philadelphia and reading railroad with its vast ownership of coal deposits and its coal carrying traffic. [footnote: an investigation, in , showed that the "baltimore and ohio railroad and the new york central and hudson river railroad owned about . per cent. of the entire capital stock of the philadelphia and reading railroad company." "report on discriminations and monopolies in coal and oil, interstate commerce commission, january , ": .] the new york, new haven and hartford railroad grasped the new york and new england railroad from the reading's broken hold, and there were further far-reaching changes militating to increase the railroad, and other, possessions of both parties. [footnote: a good account of this expropriating transaction is that of wolcott drew, "the reading crash in " in "moody's magazine" (a leading financial periodical), issue of january, .] it was but another of the many instances of the supreme capitalists driving out the smaller fry and seizing the property which they had previously seized by fraud. [footnote: one of the particularly indisputable examples of the glaring fraud by which immense areas of coal fields were originally obtained was that of the disposition of the estate of john nicholson. dying in december, , nicholson left an estate embracing land, the extent of which was variously estimated at from three to five million acres. some of the pennsylvania legislative documents place the area at from three to four million acres, while others, notably a report in , by the judiciary committee of the pennsylvania house of representatives, state that it was , , acres. nicholson was a leading figure in the pennsylvania land company which had obtained most of its vast land possessions by fraud. some of nicholson's landed estate lay in virginia, kentucky, north carolina, south carolina, georgia and other states, but the bulk of it was in pennsylvania, and included extensive regions containing the very richest coal deposits. the state of pennsylvania held a lien upon nicholson's estate for unpaid taxes amounting to $ , . notwithstanding this lien, different individuals and corporations contrived to get hold of practically the whole of the estate in dispute. how they did it is told in many legislative documents; the fraud and theft connected with it were a great scandal in pennsylvania for forty-five years. we will quote only one of these documents. writing on january , , to william elwell, chairman of the judiciary committee of the pennsylvania house of representatives, judge j. b. anthony, of the nicholson court (a court especially established to pass upon questions arising from the disposition of the estate), said: "on the th of april, , an act passed the governor to appoint agents to discover and sell the nicholson lands at auction, for which they were allowed _twenty-five per cent_. a special board of property was also formed to compromise and settle with claimants. from what has come to my knowledge in relation to this act, i am satisfied that the commonwealth was seriously injured by the manner in which it was carried out by some of the agents. it was made use of principally for the benefit of land speculators; and the very small sums received by the state treasurer for large and valuable tracts sold and compromised, show that the cunning and astute land jobbers could easily overreach the board of property at harrisburg. ... many instances of gross fraud might be enumerated, but it would serve no useful purpose." judge anthony further said that "very many of the most influential, astute and intelligent inhabitants" and "gentlemen of high standing" were participants in the frauds.--pennsylvania house journal, , vol. ii, doc. no. : - .] the vanderbilts' ownership of a large part of the shares of railroads, which, in turn, own and control the coal mines, may be summed up as follows: through the lake shore railroad, which they have owned almost absolutely, they own, or until recently did own, $ , , of shares in the philadelphia and reading railroad with its stupendous anthracite coal deposits, and they owned, for a long time, large amounts of stock in the lehigh valley railroad with its unmined coal deposits of , , tons. in they disposed of their lehigh valley railroad ownings, receiving an equivalent in either money or some other form of property. the ownership of the delaware, lackawana and western railroad with its equally large unmined coal deposits is divided between the vanderbilt family and the standard oil interests. the vanderbilts, according to the latest official reports, also own heavy interests in the delaware and hudson railroad, the new york, ontario and western railroad, $ , , of stock in the chesapeake and ohio railroad, and large amounts of stock in other coal mining and coal carrying railroads. [footnote: see special report no. of the interstate commerce commission on intercorporate relationship of railroads: . also carl snyder's "american railways as investments": .] here, then is another important step in the acquisition of a large part of the country's resources by the vanderbilts. a recapitulation will not be out of place. his first millions obtained by blackmailing, commodore vanderbilt then uses those millions to buy a railroad. by further fraudulent methods, based upon bribery of lawmaking bodies, he obtains more railroads and more wealth. his son, following his methods, adds other railroads to the inventory, and converts tens of millions of fraudulently-acquired millions into interest-bearing government, state, city and other bonds. the third generation (in point of order from the founder) continues the methods of the father and grandfather, gets hold of still more railroads, and emerges as one of the powers owning the great coal deposits of pennsylvania. the dictation of the coal fields. the vanderbilt and morgan interest at once increased the price of anthracite coal, adding to it $ . to $ . a ton. in they appeared in the open with a new and gigantic plan of consolidation by which they were able to control almost absolutely the production and prices. that the vanderbilt family and the morgan interests were the main parties to this combination was well established. [footnote: final report of the u. s. industrial commission, , xix: - .] already high, a still heavier increase of price at once was put on the , , tons of anthracite then produced, and the price was successively raised until consumers were taxed seven times the cost of production and transportation. the population was completely at the mercy of a few magnates; each year, as the winter drew on, the coal trust increased its price. in the needs and suffering of millions of people it found a ready means of laying on fresher and heavier tribute. by the mandate of the coal trust, housekeepers were taxed $ , , in extra impositions a year, in addition to the $ , , annually extorted by the exorbitant prices of previous years. at a stroke the magnates were able to confiscate by successive grabs the labor of the people of the united states at will. neither was there any redress; for those same magnates controlled all of the ramifications of government. what, however, of the workers in the mines? while the combination was high-handedly forcing the consumer to pay enormous prices, how was it acting toward them? the question is almost superfluous. the railroads made little concealment of their hostility to the trades unions, and refused to grant reforms or concessions. consequently a strike was declared in by which the mine workers obtained a ten per cent increase in wages and the promise of semi-monthly wages in cash. but they had not resumed work before they discovered the hollowness of these concessions. two years of futile application for better conditions passed, and then, in , , men and boys went on strike. this strike lasted one hundred and sixty-three days. the magnates were generally regarded as arrogant and defiant; they contended that they had nothing to arbitrate; [footnote: it was on this occasion that george f. baer, president of the philadelphia and reading railroad, in scoring the public sympathy for the strikers, justified the attitude of the railroads in his celebrated utterance in which he spoke "of the christian men and women to whom god in his infinite wisdom has intrusted the property interests of the country," which alleged divine sanction he was never able to prove.] and only yielded to an arbitration board when president roosevelt threatened them with the full punitive force of government action. by the decision of this board the miners secured an increase of wages (which was assessed on the consumer in the form of higher prices) and several minor concessions. yet at best, their lot is excessively hard. writing a few years later, dr. peter roberts, who, if anything, is not partial to the working class, stated that the wages of the contract miners were (in ) about $ a year, while adults in other classes of mine workers, who formed more than sixty per cent, of the labor forces, did not receive an annual wage of $ . yet roberts quotes the massachusetts bureau of statistics as saying that "a family of five persons requires $ a year to live on." the average number in the family of a mine worker is five or six. "this small income," roberts observes, "drives many of our people to live in cheap and rickety houses, where the sense of shame and decency is blunted in early youth, and where men cannot find such home comforts as will counteract the attractions of the saloon." hundreds of company houses, according to roberts, are unfit for habitation, and "in the houses of mine employees, of all nationalities, is an appalling infant mortality." [footnote: "the anthracite coal communities": - .] the bituminous coal mines also. the sway of the vanderbilts, however, extends not only over the anthracite, but over a great extent of the bituminous coal fields in pennsylvania, maryland, west virginia, ohio and other states. by their control of the new york central railroad, they own various ostensibly independent bituminous coal mining companies. the clearfield corporation, the pennsylvania coal and coke co., and the west branch coal company are some of these. by their great holdings in other railroads traversing the soft coal regions, the vanderbilts control about one-half of the bituminous coal supply in the eastern, and most of the middle-western, states. according to the interstate commerce commission's report, in , the new york central railroad and the pennsylvania railroad owned in that year about forty-five per cent. of the stock of the chesapeake and ohio railroad, and the new york central owned large amounts of stock in other railroads. "the commission, therefore, reaches the conclusion," the report reads on after going into the question of ownership in detail, "that, as a matter of fact, the baltimore and ohio railroad company, the norfolk and western railroad company, and the philadelphia and reading railway company were practically controlled by the pennsylvania railroad company and the new york central and hudson river railroad company, and that the result was to practically abolish substantial competition between the carriers of coal in the territories under consideration." although the standard oil oligarchy now owns considerable stock in the vanderbilt railroads, it is an undoubted fact that the vanderbilts share to a great extent the mastery of both hard and soft coal fields. it is not possible here to present even in condensed form the outline, much less the full narrative, of the labyrinth of tricks, conspiracies and frauds which the railroad magnates have resorted to, and still practice, in the throttling of the small capitalists, and in guaranteeing themselves a monopoly. a great array of facts are to be found in the reports of the exhaustive investigations made by the united states industrial commission in - , and by the interstate commerce commission in . thousands of times was the law glaringly violated yet the magnates were at all times safe from prosecution. periodically the government would make a pretense of subjecting them to an inquiry, but in no serious sense were they interfered with. these investigations all have shown that the railroads first crushed out the small operators by a conspiracy of rates, blockades and reprisals, and then by a juggling process of stocks and bonds, bought in the mines with the expenditure of scarcely any actual money. having done this they formed a monopoly and raised prices which, in law, was a criminal conspiracy. the same weapons destructively used against the small coal operators years ago are still being employed against the few independent companies remaining in the coal fields, as was disclosed, in , in the suit of the government to dissolve the workings of the various railroad companies in the anthracite coal combination. [footnote: see testimony brought out before charles h. guilbert, examiner appointed by the united states district court in philadelphia. the government's petition charged the defendants with entering into a conspiracy contrary to the letter and the spirit of the sherman act.] the huge profits from the coal mines. no one knows or can ascertain the exact profits of the vanderbilts and of other railroad owners from their control of both the anthracite, and largely the bituminous, coal mines. as has been noted, the railroad magnates cloud their trail by operating through subsidiary companies. that their extortions reach hundreds of millions of dollars every year is a patent enough fact. some of the accompaniments of this process of extortion have been referred to;-- the confiscation, on the one hand, of the labor of the whole consuming population by taxing from them more and more of the products of their labor by repeated increases in the price of coal, and, on the other, the confiscation of the labor of the several hundred thousand miners who are compelled to work for the most precarious wages, and in conditions worse, in some respects, than chattel slavery. but not alone is labor confiscated. life is also immolated. the yearly sacrifice of life in the coal mines of the united states is steadily growing. the report for of the united states geological survey showed that , coal miners were killed by accidents in the current year, and that , were injured. the number of fatalities was , more than in . "these figures," the report explains, "do not represent the full extent of the disasters, as reports were not received from certain states having no mine inspectors." side by side with these appalling figures must be again brought out the fact adverted to already: that the owners of the coal mines have at all times violently opposed the passage of laws drafted to afford greater safeguard for life in the working of the mines. being the owners, at the same time, of the railroads, their opposition in that field to life-saving improvements has been as consistent. improvements are expensive; human life is contemptibly cheap; so long as there is a surplus of labor it is held to be commercial folly to go to the unnecessary expense of protecting an article of merchandise which can be had so cheaply. human tragedies do not enter into the making of profit and loss accounts; outlays for mechanical appliances do. assuredly this is a business age wherein profits must take precedence over every other consideration, which principle has been most elaborately enunciated and established by a long list of exalted court decisions. yea, and the very magnates whose power rests on force and fraud are precisely those who insidiously dictate what men shall be appointed to these omniscient courts, before whose edicts all men are expected to bow in speechless reverence. [footnote: this is far from being a rhetorical figure of speech. witness the dictating of the appointment and nominations of judges by the standard oil company (which now owns immense railroad systems and industrial plants) as revealed by certain authentic correspondence of that trust made public in the presidential campaign of .] chapter viii further aspects of the vanderbilt fortune the juggling of railroads and the virtual seizure of coal mines were by no means the only accomplishments of the vanderbilt family in the years under consideration. colorless as was the third generation, undistinguished by any marked characteristic, extremely commonplace in its conventions, it yet proved itself a worthy successor of commodore vanderbilt. the lessons he had taught of how to appropriate wealth were duly followed by his descendants, and all of the ancestral methods were closely adhered to by the third generation. whatever might be its pretensions to a certain integrity and to a profound respectability, there was really no difference between its methods and those of the commodore. times had changed; that was all. what had once been regarded as outright theft and piracy were now cloaked under high-sounding phrases as "corporate extension" and "high finance" and other catchwords calculated to lull public suspicion and resentment. a refinement of phraseology had set in; and it served its purpose. concomitantly, while executing the transactions already described, the vanderbilts of the third generation put through many others, both large and small, which were converted into further heaps of wealth. an enumeration of all of these diverse frauds would necessitate a tiresome presentation. a few examples will suffice. the small frauds were but lesser in relation to the larger. at this period of the economic development of the country, when immense thefts were being consummated, a fraud had to rise to the dignity of at least fifty million dollars to be regarded a large one. the law, it is true, proscribed any theft involving more than $ as grand larceny, but it was law applying to the poor only, and operative on them exclusively. the inordinately rich were beyond all law, seeing that they could either manufacture it, or its interpretation, at will. among the conspicuous, audacious capitalists the fraud of a few paltry millions shrank to the modesty of a small, cursory, off-hand operation. yet, in the aggregate, these petty frauds constituted great results, and for that reason were valued accordingly. an $ , , area confiscated. such a slight fraud was, for instance, the vanderbilts' confiscation of an entire section of new york city. in they decided that they had urgent and particular need for railroad yard purposes of a sweep of streets from sixtieth street to seventy-second street along the hudson river railroad division. what if this property had been bought, laid out and graded by the city at considerable expense? the vanderbilts resolved to have it and get it for nothing. under special forms of law dictated by them they thereupon took it. the method was absurdly easy. ever compliant to their interests, and composed as usual of men retained by them or responsive to their influences, the legislature of passed an act compelling the city authorities to close up the required area of streets. then the city officials, fully as accommodating, turned the property over to the exclusive, and practically perpetual, use of the new york central and hudson river railroad. with the profusest expressions of regard for the public interests, the railroad officials did not in the slightest demur at signing an agreement with the municipal authorities. in this paper they pledged themselves to cooperate with the city in conferring upon the board of street openings the right to reopen any of the streets at any time. this agreement was but a decoy for immediate popular effect. no such reopening ordinance was ever passed; the streets remained closed to the public which, theoretically at least, was left with the title. in fact, the memorandum of the agreement strangely disappeared from the corporation counsel's office, and did not turn up until twenty years later, when it was accidentally and most mysteriously discovered in the lenox library. whence came it to this curious repository? the query remains unanswered. for seventeen and a half acres of this confiscated land, comprising about three hundred and fifty city lots, now valued at a round $ , , , the new york central and hudson river railroad has not paid a cent in rental or taxes since the act of was passed. on the island of manhattan alone , poor families are every year evicted for inability to pay rent--a continuous and horribly tragic event well worth comparing with the preposterous facility with which the great possessing classes everywhere either buy or defy law, and confiscate when it suits them. so cunningly drafted was the act of that while new york city was obliged to give the exclusive use of this large stretch of property to the company, yet the title to the property--the empty name--remained vested in the city. this being so, a corporation counsel complaisantly decided that the railroad company could not be taxed so long as the city owned the title. [footnote: minutes of the new york city board of estimate and apportionment--financial and franchise matters, : - . "it will thus be seen," reported harry p. nichols, engineer-in-charge of the franchise bureau, "that the railroad is at present, and has been for twenty years, occupying more than three hundred city lots, or something less than twenty acres, without compensation to the city."] another of what may be called--for purposes of distinction--the numerous small frauds at this time, was that foisting upon new york city the cost of replacing the new york central's masonry viaduct approaches with a fine steel elevated system. this fraud cost the public treasury about $ , , , quite a sizable sum, it will be admitted, but one nevertheless of pitiful proportions in comparison with previous and later transactions of the vanderbilt family. we have seen how, in , commodore vanderbilt put through the legislature an act forcing new york city to pay $ , , for improving the railroad's roadway on park avenue. his grandsons now repeated his method. in the united states government was engaged in dredging a ship canal through the harlem river. the secretary of war, having jurisdiction of all navigable waters, issued a mandate to the new york central to raise its bridge to a given height, so as to permit the passing under of large vessels. to comply with this order it was necessary to raise the track structure both north and south of the harlem river. had an ordinary citizen, upon receiving an order from the authorities to make improvements or alterations in his property, attempted to compel the city to pay all or any part of the cost, he would have been laughed at or summarily dealt with. the vanderbilts were not ordinary property holders. having the power to order legislatures to do their bidding, they now proceeded to imitate their grandfather, and compel the city to pay the greater portion of the cost of supplying them with a splendid steel elevated structure. public taxation to supply private capital. the legislature of was thoroughly responsive. this was a legislature which was not merely corrupt, but brazenly and frankly so, as was proved by the scandalous openness with which various spoliative measures were rushed through. an act was passed compelling new york city to pay one-half of the cost of the projected elevated approaches up to the sum of $ , , . new york city was thus forced to pay $ , for constructing that portion south of the harlem river. if, so the law read on, the cost exceeded the estimate of $ , , then the new york central was to pay the difference. additional provision was made for the compelling of new york city to pay for the building of the section north of the harlem river. but who did the work of contracting and building, and who determined what the cost was? the railroad company itself. it charged what it pleased for material and work, and had complete control of the disbursing of the appropriations. the city's supervising commissions had, perforce, to accept its arbitrary demands, and lacked all power to question, or even scrutinize, its reports of expenditures. apart from the new york central's officials, no one to-day knows what the actual cost has been, except as stated by the company. south of the harlem river this report cost has been $ , , north of the harlem river $ , . at practically no expense to themselves, the vanderbilts obtained a massive four-track elevated structure, running for miles over the city streets. the people of the city of new york were forced to bear a compulsory taxation of $ , , without getting the slightest equivalent for it. the vanderbilts own these elevated approaches absolutely; not a cent's worth of claim or title have the people in them. together with the $ , , of public money extorted by commodore vanderbilt in , this sum of $ , , makes a total amount of $ , , plucked from the public treasury under form of law to make improvements in which the people who have footed the bill have not a moiety of ownership. [footnote: the facts as to the expenses incurred under the act of were stated to the author by ernest harvier, a member of the change of grade commission representing new york city in supervising the work.] the vanderbilts have capitalized these terminal approaches as though they had been built with private money. [footnote: the new york central has long compelled the new york, new haven and hartford railroad to pay seven cents toll for every passenger transported south of woodlawn, and also one-third of the maintenance cost, including interest, of the terminal. in reporting an effort of the new york, new haven and hartford railroad to have these terms modified, the new york "times" stated in its financial columns, issue of december , : "as matters now stand the new haven, without its consent, is forced to bear one-third of the charge arising from _the increased capital invested in the central's terminal"_] [illustration: cornelius vanderbilt grandson of commodore vanderbilt.] at this point a significant note may be made in passing. while these and other huge frauds were going on, cornelius vanderbilt was conspicuously presenting himself as a most ardent "reformer" in politics. he was, for instance, a distinguished member of the committee of seventy, organized in , to combat and overthrow tammany corruption! such, as we have repeatedly observed, is the quality of the men who compose the bourgeois reform movements. for the most part great rogues, they win applause and respectability by virtuously denouncing petty, vulgar political corruption which they themselves often instigate, and thus they divert attention from their own extensive rascality. a multitude of acquisitions why tempt exhaustion by lingering upon a multitude of other frauds which went to increase the wealth and possessions of the vanderbilt family? one after another--often several simultaneously--they were put through, sometimes surreptitiously, again with overt effrontery. legislative measures in new york and many other states were drafted with such skill that sly provisions allowing the greatest frauds were concealed in the enactments; and the first knowledge that the plundered public frequently had of them was after they had already been accomplished. these frauds comprised corrupt laws that gave, in circumstances of notorious scandal, tracts of land in the adirondack mountains to railroad companies now included in the vanderbilt system. they embraced laws, and still more laws, exempting this or that stock or property from taxation, and laws making presents of valuable franchises and allowing further consolidations. laws were enacted in new york state the effects of which were to destroy the erie canal (which has cost the people of new york state $ , , ) as a competitor of the new york central railroad. all of these and many other measures will be skimmed over by a simple reference, and attention focussed on a particularly large and notable transaction by which william k. vanderbilt in added about $ , , to his fortune at one superb swoop. the vanderbilt ownership of various railroad systems has been of an intricate, roundabout nature. a group of railroads, the majority of the stock of which was actually owned by the vanderbilt family, were nominally put under the ownership of different, and apparently distinct, railroad companies. this devious arrangement was intended to conceal the real ownership, and to have a plausible claim in counteracting the charge that many railroads were concentrated in one ownership, and were combined in monopoly in restraint of trade. the plan ran thus: the vanderbilts owned the new york central and hudson river railroad. in turn this railroad, as a corporation, owned the greater part of the $ , , stock of the lake shore railroad. the lake shore, in turn, owned the control, or a chief share of the control, of other railroads, and thus on. in , william k. vanderbilt began clandestinely campaigning to combine the new york central and the lake shore under one definite, centralized management. this plan was one in strict harmony with the trend of the times, and it had the undoubted advantage of promising to save large sums in managing expenses. but this anticipated retrenchment was not the main incentive. a dazzling opportunity was presented of checking in an immense amount in loot. the grandson again followed his eminent grandfather's teachings; his plan was nothing more than a repetition of what the old commodore had done in his consolidations. during the summer and fall of the market gymnastics of lake shore stock were cleverly manipulated. by the declaration of a seven per cent. dividend the market price of the stock was run up from to about . the object of this manipulation was to have a justification for issuing $ , , in three and one-half per cent. new york central bonds to buy $ , , of lake shore seven per cent. capital stock. by his personal manipulation, william k. vanderbilt at the same time ballooned the price of new york central stock. the purpose was kept a secret until shortly before the plan was consummated on february , . on that day william k. vanderbilt and his subservient directors of the new york central gathered their corpulent and corporate persons about one table and voted to buy the lake shore stock. with due formalities they then adjourned, and moving over to another table, declared themselves in meeting as directors of the lake shore railroad, and solemnly voted to accept the offer. presently, however, an awkward and slightly annoying defect was discovered. it turned out that the stock corporation law of new york state specifically prohibited the bonded indebtedness of any corporation being more than the value of the capital stock. this discovery was not disconcerting; the obstacle could be easily overcome with some well-distributed generosity. a bill was quickly drawn up to remedy the situation, and hurried to the legislature then in session at albany. the assembly balked and ostentatiously refused to pass it. but after the lapse of a short time the assembly saw a great new light, and rushed it through on march , on which same day it passed the senate. it was at this precise time that a certain noted lobbyist at albany somehow showed up, it was alleged, with a fund of $ , , and members of the assembly and senate suddenly revealed evidences of being unusually flush with money. [footnote: the author is so informed by an official who represented new york city's legal interests at this session and successive legislative sessions, and who was thoroughly conversant with every move. see chapter , laws of , laws of new york, , ii: . the amendment declared that section of the stock corporation law did not apply to a railroad corporation.] a very illuminating transaction, surely, and well deserving of philosophic comment. this, however, will be eschewed, and attention next turned to the manner in which the vanderbilts, in , obtained control of the boston and albany railroad. the boston and albany railroad becomes theirs. to a great extent, this railroad had been built with public funds raised by enforced taxation, the city of albany contributing $ , , , and the state of massachusetts $ , , of public funds. originally it looked as if the public interests were fully conserved. but gradually, little by little, predatory corporate interests got in their delicate work, and induced successive legislatures and state officials to betray the public interests. the public holdings of stock were entirely subordinated, so that in time a private corporation secured the practical ownership. finally, in , the legislature of massachusetts effaced the last vestige of state ownership by giving the vanderbilts a perpetual lease of this richly profitable railroad for a scant two million dollars' payment a year. during the debate over this act representative dean charged in the legislature that "it is common rumor in the state house that members are receiving $ apiece for their votes." the acquisition of this railroad enabled the new york central to make direct connection with boston, and with much of the new england coast, and added about four hundred miles to the vanderbilt system. most of the remainder of the new england territory is subservient to the boston and maine railroad system in which the american express company, controlled by the vanderbilts, owns , shares. to pay interest and dividends on the hundreds of millions of dollars of inflated bonds and stock which three generations of the vanderbilts had issued, and to maintain and enhance their value, it was necessary to keep on increasingly extorting revenues. the sources of the profits were palpable. time after time freight rates were raised, as was more than sufficiently proved in various official investigations, despite denials. conjunctively with this process, another method of extortion was the ceaseless one of beating down the wages of the workers to the very lowest point at which they could be hired. while the vanderbilts and other magnates were manufacturing law at will, and boldly appropriating, under color of law, colossal possessions in real and personal property, how was the law, as embodied in legislatures, officials and courts acting toward the working class? the government an engine of tyranny. the grievances and protests of the workers aroused no response save the ever-active one of contumely, coercion and violent reprisals. the treasury of nation, states and cities, raised by a compulsory taxation falling heavily upon the workers, was at all times at the complete disposal of the propertied interests, who emptied it as fast as it was filled. the propertiless and jobless were left to starve; to them no helping arm was outstretched, and if they complained, no quarter given. the state as an institution, while supported by the toil of the producers, was wholly a capitalist state with the capitalists in complete supremacy to fashion and use it as they chose. they used the state political machinery to plunder the masses, and then, at the slightest tendency on the part of the workers to resist these crushing injustices and burdens, called upon the state to hurry out its armed forces to repress this dangerous discontent. in buffalo, in - , thirty-one in every hundred destitutes were impoverished because of unemployment, and in new york city twenty- nine in every hundred. [footnote: "encyclopedia of social reform," edition of : .] hundreds of millions of dollars of public funds were given outright to the capitalists, but not a cent appropriated to provide work for the unemployed. in the panic of , when millions of men, women and children were out of work, the machinery of government, national, state and municipal, proffered not the least aid, but, on the contrary, sought to suppress agitation and prohibit meetings by flinging the leaders into jail. basing his conclusions upon the (aldrich) united states senate report of --a report highly favorable to capitalist interests, and not unexpectedly so, since senator aldrich was the recognized senatorial mouthpiece of the great vested interests--spahr found that the highest daily wage for all earners, taken in a mass, was $ .o [footnote: "the present distribution of wealth in the united states."] more than three-quarters of all the railroad employees in the united states received less than two dollars a day. large numbers of railroad employees were forced to work from twelve to fourteen hours a day, and their efficiency and stamina thus lowered. periodically many were laid off in enforced idleness; and appalling numbers were maimed or killed in the course of duty. [footnote: the report of the wisconsin railway commissioners for , vol. xiii., says: "in a recent year more railway employees were killed in this country than three times the number of union men slain at the battle of lookout mountain, missionary ridge and orchard knob combined. ... in the bloody crimean war, the british lost , in killed and wounded-- not as many as are slain, maimed and mangled among the railroad men injured [footnote: of the country in a single year." various reports of the interstate commerce commission state the same facts.] or slain largely because the railroad corporations refused to expend money in the introduction of improved automatic coupling devices, these workers or their heirs were next confronted by what? the unjust and oppressive provisions of worthless employers' liability laws drafted by corporation attorneys in such a form that the worker or his family generally had almost no claim. the very judges deciding these suits were, as a rule, put on the bench by the railroad corporations. machine guns for the overworked. these deadly conditions prevailed on the vanderbilt railroads even more than on any others; it was notorious that the vanderbilt system was not only managed in semi-antiquated ways so far as the operation was concerned, but also that its trainmen were terribly underpaid and overworked. [footnote: "semi-antiquated ways." only recently the "railway age gazette," issue of january, , styled the new york central's directors as mostly "concentrated absurdities, physically incompetent, mentally unfit, or largely unresident and inattentive."] in reply to a continued agitation for better hours on the part of the vanderbilt employees, the new york legislature passed an act, in , which apparently limited the working hours of railroad employees to ten a day. there was a gleam of sunshine, but lo! when the act was critically examined after it had become a law, it was found that a "little joker" had been sneaked into its mass of lawyers' terminology. the surreptitious clause ran to this effect: that railroad companies were permitted to exact from their employees overtime work for extra compensation. this practically made the whole law a negation. so it turned out; for in august, , the switchmen employed by various railroad lines converging at buffalo struck for shorter hours and more pay. the strike spread, and was meeting with tactical success; the strikers easily persuaded men who had been hired to fill their jobs to quit. what did the vanderbilts and their allies now do? they fell back upon the old ruse of invoking armed force to suppress what they proclaimed to be violence. they who had bought law and had violated the law incessantly now represented that their property interests were endangered by "mob violence," and prated of the need of soldiers to "restore law and order." it was a serviceable pretext, and was immediately acted upon. the governor of new york state obediently ordered out the entire state militia, a force of , , and dispatched it to buffalo. the strikers were now confronted with bayonets and machine guns. the soldiery summarily stopped the strikers from picketing, that is to say, from attempting to persuade strikebreakers to refrain from taking their places. against such odds the strike was lost. if, however, the vanderbilts could not afford to pay their workers a few cents more in wages a day, they could afford to pay millions of dollars for matrimonial alliances with foreign titles. these excursions into the realm of high-caste european nobility have thus far cost the vanderbilt family about $ , , or $ , , . when impecunious counts, lords, dukes and princes, having wasted the inheritance originally obtained by robbery, and perpetuated by robbery, are on the anxious lookout for marriages with great fortunes, and the american money magnates, satiated with vulgar wealth, aspire to titled connections, the arrangement becomes easy. [footnote: more than american women have married titled foreigners. the sum of about $ , , , it is estimated ( ), has followed them to europe.] romance can be dispensed with, and the lawyers depended upon to settle the preliminaries. ten millions for a dukedom. the announcement was made in that "a marriage had been arranged" between consuelo, a young daughter of william k. vanderbilt, and the duke of marlborough. the wedding ceremony was one of showy splendor; millions of dollars in gifts were lavished upon the couple. other millions in cash, wrenched also from the labor of the american working population, went to rehabilitate and maintain blenheim house, with its prodigal cost of reconstruction, its retinue of two hundred servants, and its annual expense roll of $ , . millions more flowed out from the vanderbilt exchequer in defraying the cost of yachts and of innumerable appurtenances and luxuries. not less than $ , , was spent in building sutherland house in london. great as was this expense, it was not so serious as to perturb the duchess' father; his $ , , feat of financial legerdemain, in , alone far more than made up for these extravagant outlays. the marlborough title was an expensive one; it turned out to be a better thing to retain than the man who bore it; after a thirteen years' compact, the couple decided to separate for "good and sufficient reasons," into which it is not our business to inquire. all told, the marlborough dukedom had cost william k. vanderbilt, it was said, fully $ , , . undeterred by cousin consuelo's experience, gladys vanderbilt, a daughter of cornelius, likewise allied herself with a title by marrying, in , count laslo szechenyi, a sprig of the hungarian feudal nobility. "the wedding," naively reported a scribe, "was characterized by elegant simplicity, and was witnessed by only three hundred relatives and intimate friends of the bride and bridegroom." the "elegant simplicity" consisted of gifts, the value of which was estimated at fully a million dollars, and a costly ceremony. if the bride had beauty, and the bridegroom wit, no mention of them was made; the one fact conspicuously emphasized was the all-important one of the bride having a fortune "in her own right" of about $ , , . [illustration: the duchess of marlborough, daughter of william k. vanderbilt.] the precise sum which made the count eager to share his title, no one knew except the parties to the transaction. her father had died, in , leaving a fortune nominally reaching about $ , , . its actual proportions were much greater. it had long been customary on the part of the very rich, as the new york state board of tax commissioners pointed out, in , to evade the inheritance tax in advance by various fraudulent devices. one of these was to inclose stocks or money in envelopes and apportion them among the heirs, either at the death bed, or by subsequent secret delivery. [footnote: see annual report of the new york state board of tax commissioners, new york senate document, no. , : .] like his father, cornelius vanderbilt had died of apoplexy. in his will he had cut off his eldest son, cornelius, with but a puny million dollars. and the reason for this parental sternness? he had disapproved of cornelius' choice in marriage. to his son, alfred, the unrelenting multimillionaire left the most of his fortune, with a showering of many millions upon his widow, upon reginald, another son, and upon his two daughters. cornelius objected to the injustice and hardship of being left a beggar with but a scanty million, and threatened a legal contest, whereupon alfred, pitying the dire straits to which brother cornelius had been reduced, presented him with six or seven millions with which to ease the biting pangs of want. marriages with titled foreigners have proved a drain upon the vanderbilt fortune, although, thanks to their large share in the control of laws and industrial institutions, the vanderbilts possess at all times the power of recouping themselves at volition. the american marriages, on the other hand, contracted by this family, have interlinked other great fortunes with theirs. one of the vanderbilt buds married harry payne whitney, whose father, william c. whitney, left a large fortune, partly drawn from the standard oil company, and in part from an industrious career of corruption and theft. the elder whitney, according to facts revealed in many official investigations and lawsuits, debauched legislatures and common councils into giving him and his associates public franchises for street railways and for other public utilities, and he stole outright tens of millions of dollars in the manipulation of the street railways in various cities. his crimes, and those of his associates, were of such boldness and magnitude that even the cynical business classes were moved to astonishment. [footnote: for a detailed account see that part of this work, "great fortunes from public franchises."] cornelius vanderbilt, jr., married a daughter of r. t. wilson, a multimillionaire, whose fortune came to a great extent from the public franchises of detroit. the initial and continued history of the securing and exploitation of the street railway and other franchises of that city has constituted a solid chapter of the most flagrant fraud. william k. vanderbilt, jr., married a daughter of the multimillionaire senator fair, of california, whose fortune, dug from mines, bought him a seat in the united states senate. thus, various multi-millionaire fortunes have been interconnected by these american marriages. [illustration: cornelius vanderbilt, great-grandson of commodore vanderbilt.] diversity of the vanderbilt possessions. the fortune of the vanderbilt family, at the present writing, is represented by the most extensive and different forms of property. railroads, street railways, electric lighting systems, mines, industrial plants, express companies, land, and government, state and municipal bonds--these are some of the forms. from one industrial plant alone--the pullman company--the vanderbilts draw millions in revenue yearly. formerly they owned their own palace car company, the wagner, but it was merged with the pullman. the frauds and extortions of the pullman company have been sufficiently dealt with in the particular chapter on marshall field. in the far-away philippine islands the vanderbilts are engaged, with other magnates, in the exploitation of both the united states government and the native population. the visayan railroad numbers one of the vanderbilts among its directors. this railroad has already received a government subsidy of $ , , in addition to the free gift of a perpetual franchise, on the ground that "the railroad was necessary to the development of the archipelago." but the vanderbilts' principal property consists of the new york central railroad system. the union pacific railroad, controlled by the harriman-standard oil interests, now owns $ , , of stock in the new york central system, and has directors on the governing board. the probabilities are that the voting power of the new york central, the lake shore and other vanderbilt lines is passing into the hands of the standard oil interests, of which harriman was both a part and an ally. this signifies that it is only a question of a short time when all or most of the railroads of the united states will be directed by one all-powerful and all-embracing trust. but this does not by any means denote that the vanderbilts have been stripped of their wealth. however much they may part with their stock, which gives the voting power, it will be found that, like william h. vanderbilt, they hold a stupendous amount in railroad, and other kinds of, bonds. as the astors and other rich families were perfectly willing, in , to allow commodore vanderbilt to assume the management of the new york central on the ground that under his bold direction their profits and loot would be greater, so the lackadaisical vanderbilts of the present generation perhaps likewise looked upon harriman, who proved his ability to accomplish vast fraudulent stock-watering operations and consolidations, and to oust lesser magnates. the new york central, at this writing, still remains a vanderbilt property, not so distinctively so as it was twenty years ago, yet strongly enough under the vanderbilt domination. according to moody, this railroad's net annual income in was $ , , . [footnote: "moody's magazine," issue of august, ] in alluringly describing its present and prospective advantages and value moody went on: "to begin with, it has entry into the heart of new york city, with extensive passenger and freight terminals, all of which are bound to be of steadily increasing worth as the years go by, as new york continues to grow in population and wealth. it has, in addition, a practically 'water grade' line all the way from new york to chicago, and, therefore, for all time must necessarily have a great advantage over lines like the erie, the lackawanna and others with heavy grades, many curves, etc. it has a myriad of small feeders and branches in growing and populous parts of the state of new york, as well as in the sections further to the west. it touches the great lakes at various points, operates water transportation for freight to all parts of the lakes; enters chicago over its own tracks and competes aggressively with the pennsylvania for all traffic to and from all parts of the mississippi valley and the west and southwest. it is in no danger from disastrous competition in its own chosen territory, therefore, and constantly receives income of vast importance through a network of feeders which penetrate the territory of some of the largest of its rivals." the sort of ability displayed. the particular kind of ability by which one man, followed by his descendants, obtained the controlling ownership of this great railroad system, and of other properties, has been herein adequately set forth. long has it been the custom to attribute to commodore vanderbilt and successive generations of vanderbilts an almost supernatural "constructive genius," and to explain by that glib phrase their success in getting hold of their colossal wealth. this explanation is clumsy fiction that at once falls to pieces under historical scrutiny. the moment a genuine investigation is begun into the facts, the glamour of superior ability and respectability evaporates, and the vanderbilt fortune stands out, like all other fortunes, as the product of a continuous chain of frauds. just as fifty years ago commodore vanderbilt was blackmailing his original millions without molestation by law, so today the vanderbilts are pursuing methods outside the pale of law. not all of the facts have been given, by any means; only the most important have been included in these chapters. for one thing, no mention has been made of their repeated violations of a law prohibiting the granting of rebates--a law which was stripped of its imprisonment clause by the railroad magnates, and made punishable by fine only. time and time again in recent years has the new york central been proved guilty in the courts of violating even this emasculated law. from the very inception of the vanderbilt fortune the chronicle is the same, and ever the same--legalized theft by purchase of law, and lawlessness by evasion or defiance of law. with fraud it began, by fraud it has been increased and extended and perpetuated, and by fraud it is held. chapter ix the rise of the gould fortune the greater part of this commanding fortune was originally heaped up, as was that of commodore vanderbilt, in about fifteen years, and at approximately the same time. one of the most powerful fortunes in the united states, it now controls, or has exercised a dominant share of the control, over more than , miles of railway, the total ownership of which is represented by considerably more than a billion dollars in stocks and bonds. the gould fortune is also either openly or covertly paramount in many telegraph, transatlantic cable, mining, land and industrial corporations. its precise proportions no one knows except the gould family itself. that it reaches many hundreds of millions of dollars is fairly obvious, although what is its exact figure is a matter not to be easily ascertained. in the flux of present economic conditions, which, so far as the control of the resources of the united states is concerned, have simmered down to desperate combats between individual magnates, or contesting sets of magnates, the proportions of great fortunes, especially those based upon railroads and industries, constantly tend to vary. in the years and the gould fortune, if report be true, was somewhat diminished by the onslaughts of that catapultic railroad baron, e. h. harriman, who unceremoniously seized a share of the voting control of some of the railroad systems long controlled by the goulds. despite this reported loss, the gould fortune is an active, aggressive and immense one, vested with the most extensive power, and embracing hundreds of millions of dollars in cash, land, palaces, or profit-producing property in the form of bonds and stocks. its influence and ramifications, like those of the vanderbilt and of other huge fortunes, penetrate directly or indirectly into every inhabited part of the united states, and into mexico and other foreign countries. jay gould's boyhood the founder of this fortune was jay gould, father of the present holding generation. he was the son of a farmer in delaware county, new york, and was born in . as a child his lot was to do various chores on his father's farm. in driving the cows he had to go barefoot, perforce, by reason of poverty, and often thistles bruised his feet--a trial which seems to have left such a poignant and indelible impression upon his mind that when testifying before a united states senate investigating committee forty years later he pathetically spoke of it with a reminiscent quivering. his father was, indeed, so poor that he could not afford to let him go to the public school. the lad, however, made an arrangement with a blacksmith by which he received board in return for certain clerical services. these did not interfere with his attending school. when fifteen, he became a clerk in a country store, a task which, he related, kept him at work from six o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night. it is further related that by getting up at three o'clock in the morning and studying mathematics for three years, he learned the rudiments of surveying. according to gould's own story, an engineer who was making a map of ulster county hired him as an assistant at "twenty dollars a month and found." this engagement somehow (we are not informed how) turned out unsatisfactorily. gould was forced to support himself by making "noon marks" for the farmers. to two other young men who had worked with him upon the map of ulster county, gould (as narrated by himself) sold his interest for $ , and with this sum as capital he proceeded to make maps of albany and delaware counties. these maps, if we may believe his own statement, he sold for $ , . he goes into the tanning business. subsequently gould went into the tanning business in pennsylvania with zadoc pratt, a new york merchant, politician and congressman of a certain degree of note at the time. [footnote: pratt was regarded as one of the leading agricultural experts of his day. his farm of three hundred and sixty-five acres, at prattsville, new york, was reputed to be a model. a paper of his, descriptive of his farm, and containing woodcut engravings, may be found in u. s. senate documents, second session, thirty-seventh congress, - , v: - .] pratt, it seems, was impressed by young gould's energy, skill and smooth talk, and supplied the necessary capital of $ , . gould, as the phrase goes, was an excellent bluff; and so dexterously did he manipulate and hoodwink the old man that it was quite some time before pratt realized what was being done. finally, becoming suspicious of where the profits from the gouldsboro tannery (named after gould) were going, pratt determined upon some overhauling and investigating. gould was alert in forestalling this move. during his visits to new york city, he had become acquainted with charles m. leupp, a rich leather merchant. gould prevailed upon leupp to buy out pratt's interest. when gould returned to the tannery, he found that pratt had been analyzing the ledger. a scene followed, and pratt demanded that gould buy or sell the plant. gould was ready, and offered him $ , , which was accepted. immediately gould drew upon leupp for the money. leupp likewise became suspicious after a time, and from the ascertained facts, had the best of grounds for becoming so. the sequel was a tragic one. one night, in the panic of , leupp shot and killed himself in his fine mansion at madison avenue and twenty- fifth street. his suicide caused a considerable stir in new york city. [footnote: although later in gould's career it was freely charged that he had been the cause of leupp's suicide, no facts were officially brought out to prove the charge. the coroner's jury found that leupp had been suffering from melancholia, superinduced, doubtless, by business reverses. even houghton, however, in his flamboyantly laudatory work describes gould's cheating of pratt and leupp, and leupp's suicide. according to houghton, leupp's friends ascribed the cause of the act to gould's treachery. see "kings of fortune," - .] he buys railroad bonds with his stealings. three years later, in , gould set up as a leather merchant in new york city; the new york directory for that year contains this entry: "jay gould, leather merchant, spruce street; house newark." for several years after this his name did not appear in the directory. he had been, however, edging his way into the railroad business with the sums that he had stolen from pratt and leupp. at the very time that leupp committed suicide, gould was buying the first mortgage bonds of the rutland and washington railroad--a small line, sixty-two miles long, running from troy, new york, to rutland, vermont. these bonds, which he purchased for ten cents on the dollar, gave him control of this bankrupt railroad. he hired men of managerial ability, had them improve the railroad, and he then consolidated it with other small railroads, the stock of which he had bought in. with the passing of the panic of , and with the incoming of the stupendous corruption of the civil war period, gould was able to manipulate his bonds and stock until they reached a high figure. with a part of his profits from his speculation in the bonds of the rutland and washington railroad, he bought enough stock of the cleveland and pittsburg railroad to give him control of that line. this he manipulated until its price greatly rose, when he sold the line to the pennsylvania railroad company. in these transactions there were tortuous substrata of methods, of which little to-day can be learned, except for the most part what gould himself testified to in , which testimony he took pains to make as favorable to his past as possible. his career from onward stood out in the fullest prominence; a multitude of official reports and investigations and court records contribute a translucent record. he became invested with a sinister distinction as the most cold-blooded corruptionist, spoliator, and financial pirate of his time; and so thoroughly did he earn this reputation that to the end of his days it confronted him at every step, and survived to become the standing reproach and terror of his descendants. for nearly a half century the very name of jay gould has been a persisting jeer and by-word, an object of popular contumely and hatred, the signification of every foul and base crime by which greed triumphs. why this biased view of gould's career? yet, it may well be asked now, even if for the first time, why has jay gould been plucked out as a special object of opprobrium? what curious, erratic, unstable judgment is this that selects this one man as the scapegoat of commercial society, while deferentially allowing his business contemporaries the fullest measure of integrity and respectability? monotonous echoes of one another, devoid of understanding, writer has followed writer in harping undiscriminatingly upon jay gould's crimes. his career has been presented in the most forbidding colors; and in order to show that he was an abnormal exception, and not a familiar type, his methods have been darkly contrasted with those of such illustrious capitalists as the astors, the vanderbilts, and others. thus, has the misinformed thing called public opinion been shaped by these scribbling purveyors of fables; and this public opinion has been taught to look upon jay gould's career as an exotic, "horrible example," having nothing in common with the careers of other founders of large fortunes. the same generation habitually addicted to cursing the memory of jay gould, and taunting his children and grandchildren with the reminders of his thefts, speaks with traditional respect of the wealth of such families as the astors and the vanderbilts. yet the cold truth is, as has been copiously proved, john jacob astor was proportionately as notorious a swindler in his day as gould was in his; and as for commodore vanderbilt, he had already made blackmailing on a large scale a safe art before gould was out of his teens. gould has been impeached as one of the most audacious and successful buccaneers of modern times. without doubt he was so; a freebooter who, if he could not appropriate millions, would filch thousands; a pitiless human carnivore, glutting on the blood of his numberless victims; a gambler destitute of the usual gambler's code of fairness in abiding by the rules; an incarnate fiend of a machiavelli in his calculations, his schemes and ambushes, his plots and counterplots. but it was only in degree, and not at all in kind, that he differed from the general run of successful wealth builders. the vanderbilts committed thefts of as great an enormity as he, but they gradually managed to weave around themselves an exterior of protective respectability. all sections of the capitalist class, in so fiercely reviling gould, reminded one of the thief, who, to divert attention from himself, joins with the pursuing crowd in loudly shouting, "stop thief!" we shall presently see whether this comparison is an exaggerated one or not. the teachings of his environment. to understand the incentives and methods of gould's career, it is necessary to know the endemic environment in which he grew up and flourished, and its standards and spirit. he, like others of his stamp, were, in a great measure, but products of the times; and it is not the man so much as the times that are of paramount interest, for it is they which supply the explanatory key. in preceding chapters repeated insights have been given into the methods not merely of one phase, but of all phases, of capitalist formulas and processes. at the outset, however, in order to approach impartially this narrative of the gould fortune, and to get a clear perception of the dominant forces of his generation, a further presentation of the business- class methods of that day will be given. as a young man what did jay gould see? he saw, in the first place, that society, as it was organized, had neither patience nor compassion for the very poverty its grotesque system created. prate its higher classes might of the blessings of poverty; and they might spread broadcast their prolix homilies on the virtues of a useful life, "rounded by an honorable poverty." but all of these teachings were, in one sense, chatter and nonsense; the very classes which so unctuously preached them were those who most strained themselves to acquire all of the wealth that they possibly could. in another sense, these teachings proved an effective agency in the infusing into the minds of the masses of established habits of thought calculated to render them easy and unresisting victims to the rapacity of their despoilers. from these "upper classes" proceeded the dictation of laws; and the laws showed (as they do now) what the real, unvarnished attitude of these fine, exhorting moralists was towards the poor. poverty was virtually prescribed as a crime. the impoverished were regarded in law as paupers, and so repugnant a term of odium was that of pauper, so humiliating its significance and treatment, that great numbers of the destitute preferred to suffer and die in want and silence rather than avail themselves of the scanty and mortifying public aid obtainable only by acknowledging themselves paupers. sickness, disability, old age, and even normal life, in poverty were a terrifying prospect. the one sure way of escaping it was to get and hold wealth. the only guarantee of security was wealth, provided its possessor could keep it intact against the maraudings of his own class. every influence conspired to drive men into making desperate attempts to break away from the stigma and thraldom of poverty, and gain economic independence and social prestige by the ownership of wealth. but how was this wealth to be obtained? here another set of influences combined with the first set to suppress or shatter whatever doubts, reluctance or scruples the aspirant might have. the acquisitive young man soon saw that toiling for the profit of others brought nothing but poverty himself; perhaps at the most, some small savings that were constantly endangered. to get wealth he must not only exploit his fellow men, he found, but he must not be squeamish in his methods. this lesson was powerfully and energetically taught on every hand by the whole capitalist class. conventional writers have descanted with a show of great indignation upon gould's bribing of legislative bodies and upon his cheatings and swindlings. without adverting again to the corruption, reaching far back into the centuries, existing before his time, we shall simply describe some of the conditions that as a young man he witnessed or which were prevalent synchronously with his youth. whatever sphere of business was investigated, there it was at once discovered that wealth was being amassed, not only by fraudulent methods, but by methods often a positive peril to human life itself. whether large or small trader, these methods were the same, varying only in degree. * * * * * * * all business reeked with fraud. a congressional committee, probing, in - , into frauds in the sale of drugs found that there was scarcely a wholesale or retail druggist who was not consciously selling spurious drugs which were a menace to human life. dr. m. j. bailey, united states examiner of drugs at the new york custom house, was one of the many expert witnesses who testified. "more than one-half of many of the most important chemical and medicinal preparations," dr. bailey stated, "together with large quantities of crude drugs, come to us so much adulterated as to render them not only worthless as a medicine, but often dangerous." these drugs were sold throughout the united states at high prices. [footnote: report of select committee on the importation of drugs. house reports, thirtieth congress, first session, - , report no. : . in a previous chapter, other extracts from this report have been given showing in detail what many of these fraudulent practices were.] there is not a single record of any criminal action pressed against those who profited from selling this poisonous stuff. the manufacture and sale of patent medicines were attended with the grossest frauds. at that time, to a much greater extent than now, the newspapers profited more (comparatively) from the publication of patent medicine advertisements; and even after a congressional committee had fully investigated and exposed the nature of these nostrums, the newspapers continued publishing the alluring and fraudulent advertisements. after showing at great length the deceptive and dangerous ingredients used in a large number of patent medicines, the committee on the judiciary of the house of representatives went on in its report of february , : "the public prints, without exception, published these promises and commendations. the annual [advertising] fee for publishing brandeth's pills has amounted to $ , . morrison paid more than twice as much for the advertisement of his never-dying hygiene." the committee described how morrison's nostrums often contained powerful poisons, and then continued: "morrison is forgotten, and brandeth is on the high road to the same distinction. t. w. conway, from the lowest obscurity, became worth millions from the sale of his nostrums, and rode in triumph through the streets of boston in his coach and six. a stable boy in new york was enrolled among the wealthiest in philadelphia by the sale of a panacea which contains both mercury and arsenic. innumerable similar cases can be adduced." [footnote: report no. . reports of committees, thirtieth congress, second sess., i: .] not a few multimillionaire families of to-day derive their wealth from the enormous profits made by their fathers and grandfathers from the manufacture and sale of these poisonous medicines. * * * * * * * success as gould learned it. the frauds among merchants and manufacturers reached far more comprehensive and permeating proportions. in periods of peace these fraudulent methods were nauseating enough, but in times of war they were inexpressibly repellant and ghastly. during the mexican war the northern shoe manufacturers dumped upon the army shoes which were of so inferior a make that they could not be sold in the private market, and these shoes were found to be so absolutely worthless that it is on record that the american army in mexico threw them away upon the sands in disgust. but it was during the civil war that northern capitalists of every kind coined fortunes from the national disasters, and from the blood of the very armies fighting for their interests shown how commodore vanderbilt and other shipping merchants fraudulently sold or leased to the government for exorbitant sums, ships for the transportation of soldiers--ships so decayed or otherwise unseaworthy, that they had to be condemned. in those chapters such facts were given as applied mainly to vanderbilt; in truth, however, they constituted but a mere part of the gory narrative. while vanderbilt, as the government agent, was leasing or buying rotten ships, and making millions of dollars in loot by collusion, the most conspicuous and respectable shipping merchants of the time were unloading their old hulks upon the government at extortionate prices. one of the most ultra-respectable merchants of the time, ranked of high commercial standing and austere social prestige, was, for instance, marshall o. roberts. this was the identical roberts so deeply involved in the great mail-subsidy frauds. this was also the same sanctimonious roberts, who, as has been brought out in the chapters on the astor fortune, joined with john jacob astor and others in signing a testimonial certifying to the honesty of the tweed regime. a select congressional committee, inquiring into government contracts in - , brought forth volumes of facts that amazed and sickened a committee accustomed to ordinary political corruption. here is a sample of the testimony: samuel churchman, a government vessel expert engaged by welles, secretary of the navy, told in detail how roberts and other merchants and capitalists had contrived to palm off rotten ships on the government; and, in his further examination on january , , churchman was asked: q. did roberts sell or chatter any other boats to the government? a. yes, sir. he sold the winfield scott and the union to the government. q. for how much? a. one hundred thousand dollars each, and one was totally lost and the other condemned a few days after they went to sea. [footnote: report of select committee to inquire into government contracts, house reports, thirty-seventh congress, third session, - , report no. : .] in the course of later inquiries in the same examination, churchman testified that the government had been cheated out of at least $ , , in the chartering and purchase of vessels, and that he based his judgment upon "the chartered and purchased vessels i am acquainted with, and the enormous sums wasted there to my certain knowledge." [footnote: ibid, - .] this $ , , swindled from the government in that one item of ships alone formed the basis of many a present plutocratic fortune. * * * * * * * fraud underlies respectability. but this was not by any means the only schooling gould received from the respectable business element. it can be said advisedly that there was not a single avenue of business in which the most shameless frauds were not committed upon both government and people. the importers and manufacturers of arms scoured europe to buy up worthless arms, and then cheated the government out of millions of dollars in supplying those guns and other ordnance, all notoriously unfit for use. "a large proportion of our troops," reported a congressional commission in , "are armed with guns of very inferior quality, and tens of thousands of the refuse arms of europe are at this moment in our arsenals, and thousands more are still to arrive, all unfit." [footnote: house reports of committees, thirty- seventh congress, second session, - , vol. ii, report no. : lxxix.] a congressional committee appointed, in , to inquire into the connection between government employees on the one hand, and banks and contractors on the other, established the fact conclusively, that the contractors regularly bribed government inspectors in order to have their spurious wares accepted. [footnote: house reports of committees, thirty-seventh congress, - , report no. . the chairman of this committee, representative c. h. van wyck, of new york, in reporting to the house of representatives on february , , made these opening remarks: "in the early history of the war, it was claimed that frauds and peculations were unavoidable; that the cupidity of the avaricious would take advantage of the necessities of the nation, and for a time must revel and grow rich amidst the groans and griefs of the people; that pressing wants must yield to the extortion of the base; that when the capital was threatened, railroad communication cut off, the most exorbitant prices could safely be demanded for steam and sailing vessels; that when our arsenals had been robbed of arms, gold could not be weighed against cannon and muskets; that the government must be excused if it suffered itself to be overreached. yet, after the lapse of two years, we find the same system of extortion prevailing, and robbery has grown more unblushing in its exactions as it feels secure in its immunity from punishment, and that species of fraud which shocked the nation in the spring of has been increasing. the fitting out of each expedition by water as well as land is but a refinement upon the extortion and immense profits which preceded it. the freedom from punishment by which the first greedy and rapacious horde were suffered to run at large with ill-gotten gains seems to have demoralized too many of those who deal with the government."-- appendix to the congressional globe, third session, thirty-seventh congress, - , part ii: .] in fact, the ramifications of the prevalent frauds were so extensive that a number of congressional committees had to be appointed at the same time to carry on an adequate investigation; and even after long inquiries, it was admitted that but the surface had been scratched. during the civil war, prominent merchants, with eloquent outbursts of patriotism, formed union defense committees in various northern cities, and solicited contributions of money and commodities to carry on the war. it was disclosed before the congressional investigating committees that not only did the leading members of these union defense committees turn their patriotism to thrifty account in getting contracts, but that they engaged in great swindles upon the government in the process. thus, marcellus hartley, a conspicuous dealer in military goods, and the founder of a multimillionaire fortune, [footnote: when marcellus hartley died in , his personal property alone was appraised at $ , , . his entire fortune was said to approximate $ , , . his chief heir, marcellus hartley dodge, a grandson, married, in , edith geraldine rockefeller, one of the richest heiresses in the world. hartley was the principal owner of large cartridge, gun and other factories.] admitted that he had sold a large consignment of hall's carbines to a member of the new york union defense committee. in a sudden burst of contrition he went on, "i think the worst thing this government has been swindled upon has been these confounded hall's carbines; they have been elevated in price to $ . , i think." [footnote: house report no. , etc., - , vol. ii: - ] he could have accurately added that these carbines were absolutely dangerous; it was found that their mechanism was so faulty that they would shoot off the thumbs of the very soldiers using them. hartley was one of the importers who brought over the refuse arms of europe, and sold them to the government at extortionate prices. he owned up to having contracts with various of the states (as distinguished from the national government) for $ , worth of these worthless arms. [footnote: ibid.] that corruscating patriot and philanthropic multimillionaire of these present times, j. pierpont morgan, was, as we shall see, profiting during the civil war from the sale of hall's carbines to the government. one of the congressional committees, investigating contracts for other army material and provisions, found the fullest evidences of gigantic frauds. exorbitant prices were extorted for tents "which were valueless"; these tents, it appeared, were made from cheap or old "farmers'" drill, regarded by the trade as "truck." soldiers testified that they "could better keep dry out of them than under." [footnote: house report no. , etc., - : .] great frauds were perpetrated in passing goods into the arsenals. one manufacturer in particular, charles c. roberts, was awarded a contract for , haversacks and , knapsacks. "every one of these," an expert testified, "was a fraud upon the government, for they were not linen; they were shoddy." [footnote: ibid.] a congressional committee found that the provisions supplied by contractors were either deleterious or useless. captain beckwith, a commissary of subsistence, testified that the coffee was "absolutely good for nothing and is worthless. it is of no use to the government." q. is the coffee at all merchantable? a. it is not. q. describe that coffee as nearly as you can. a. it seems to be a compound of roasted peas, of licorice, and a variety of other substances, with just coffee enough to give it a taste and aroma of coffee. [footnote: house report no. , etc. - , ii: .] this committee extracted much further evidence showing how all other varieties of provisions were of the very worst quality, and how "rotten and condemned blankets" in enormous quantities were passed into the army by bribing the inspectors. it disclosed, at great length, how the railroads in their schedule of freight rates were extorting from the government fifty per cent. more than from private parties. [footnote: house report no. , etc., - , xxix.] don cameron, leader of the corrupt pennsylvania political machine, and a railroad manipulator, [footnote: he had been involved in at least one scandal investigated by a pennsylvania legislative committee, and also in several dubious railroad transactions in maryland.] was at that time secretary of war. whom did he appoint as the supreme official in charge of railroad transportation? none other than thomas a. scott, the vice-president of the pennsylvania railroad. scott, it may be said, was another capitalist whose work has so often been fulsomely described as being that of "a remarkable constructive ability." the ability he displayed during the civil war was unmistakable. with his collusion the railroads extorted right and left. the committee described how the profits of the railroads after his appointment rose fully fifty per cent in one year, and how quartermasters and others were bribed to obtain the transportation of regiments. "this," stated the committee, "illustrates the immense and unnecessary profits which was spirited from the government and secured to the railroads by the schedule fixed by the vice-president of the pennsylvania central under the auspices of mr. cameron." [footnote: house report no. , etc., - , xix. the pennsylvania railroad, for example, made in the sum of $ , , . more in profits than it did in the preceding year.] these many millions of dollars extorted in frauds "came," reported the committee, "out of the impoverished and depleted treasury of the united states, at a time when her every energy and resources were taxed to the utmost to maintain the war." [footnote: ibid., .] these are but a few facts of the glaring fraud and corruption prevailing in every line of mercantile and financial business. great and audacious as gould's thefts were later, they could not be put on the same indescribably low plane as those committed during the civil war by men most of whom succeeded in becoming noted for their fine respectability and "solid fortunes." so many momentous events were taking place during the civil war, that amid all the preparations, the battles and excitement, those frauds did not arouse that general gravity of public attention which, at any other time, would have inevitably resulted. consequently, the men who perpetrated them contrived to hide under cover of the more absorbing great events of those years. gould committed his thefts at a period when the public had little else to preoccupy its attention; hence they loomed up in the popular mind as correspondingly large and important. a specimen of gould's tuition. at the very dawn of his career in , as a railroad owner, gould had the opportunity of securing valuable and gratuitous instruction in the ways by which railroad projects and land grants were being bribed through congress. he was then only twenty-one years old, ready to learn, but, of course, without experience in dealing with legislative bodies. but the older capitalists, veterans at bribing, who for years had been corrupting congress and the legislatures, supplied him with the necessary information. not voluntarily did they do it; their greatest ally was concealment; but one crowd of them had too baldly bribed congress to vote for an act giving an enormous land grant in iowa, minnesota and other states, to the des moines navigation and railroad company. the facts unearthed must have been a lasting lesson to gould as to how things were done in the exalted halls of congress. the charges made an ugly stir throughout the united states, and the house of representatives, in self defense, had to appoint a special committee to investigate itself. this committee made a remarkable and unusual report. ordinarily in charges of corruption, investigating committees were accustomed to reporting innocently that while it might have been true that corruption was used, yet they could find no evidence that members had received bribes; almost invariably such committees put the blame, and the full measure of their futile excoriations, on "the iniquitous lobbyists." but this particular committee, surprisingly enough, handed in no such flaccid, whitewashing report. it found conclusively that corrupt combinations of members of congress did exist; and in recommended the expulsion of four members whom it declared guilty to receiving either money or land in exchange for their votes. one of these four expelled member, orasmus b. matteson, it appeared, was a leader of a corrupt combination; the committee branded him as having arranged with the railroad capitalists to use "a large sum of money [$ , ] and other valuable considerations corruptly." [footnote: reports of committees, house of representatives, thirty-fourth congress, third session, / . report no. , vol. iii. in subsequent chapters many further details are given of the corruption during this period.] but it was essentially during the civil war that gould received his completest tuition in the great art of seizing property and privileges by bribing legislative bodies. while many sections of the capitalist class were, as we have seen, swindling manifold hundreds of millions of dollars from a hard-pressed country, and reaping fortunes by exploiting the lives of the very defenders of their interests, other sections, equally mouthy with patriotism, were sneaking through congress and the legislatures act after act, further legalizing stupendous thefts. patriotism at fifty per cent. some of these acts, demanded by the banking interests, made the people of the united states pay an almost unbelievable usurious interest for loans. these banking statutes were so worded that nominally the interest did not appear high; in reality, however, by various devices, the bankers, both national and international, were often able to extort from twenty to fifty, and often one hundred per cent., in interest, and this on money which had at some time or somehow been squeezed out of exploited peoples in the united states or elsewhere. by these laws the bankers were allowed to get annual payment from the government of six per cent. interest in gold on the government bonds that they bought. they could then deposit those same bonds with the government, and issue their own bank notes against ninety per cent. of the bonds deposited. they drew interest from the government on the deposited bonds, and at the time charged borrowers an exorbitant rate of interest for the use of the bank notes, which passed as currency. it was by this system of double interest that they were able to sweep into their coffers hundreds upon hundreds of millions of dollars, not a dollar of which did they earn, and all of which were sweated out of the adversities of the people of the united states. from to alone the government paid out to national banks as interest on bonds the enormous sum of $ , , . . [footnote: house documents, forty-fifth congress, second session, ex. document no. , vol. xiv., containing the reply of secretary of the treasury sherman, in answer to a resolution of the house of representatives.] on the other hand, the banks were entirely relieved from paying taxes; they secured the passage of a law exempting government bonds from taxation. armies were being slaughtered and legions of homes desolated, but it was a rich and safe time for the bankers; a very common occurrence was it for banks to declare dividends of twenty, forty, and sometimes one hundred, per cent. it was also during the stress of this civil war period, when the working and professional population of the nation was fighting on the battlefield, or being taxed heavily to support their brothers in arms, that the capitalists who later turned up as owners of various pacific railroad lines were bribing through congress acts giving them the most comprehensive perpetual privileges and great grants of money and of land. gould saw how all of the others of the wealth seekers were getting their fortunes; and the methods that he now plunged into use were but in keeping with theirs, a little bolder and more brutally frank, perhaps, but nevertheless nothing more than a repetition of what had long been going on in the entire sphere of capitalism. chapter x the second stage of the gould fortune the first medium by which jay gould transferred many millions of dollars to his ownership was by his looting and wrecking of the erie railroad. if physical appearance were to be accepted as a gauge of capacity none would suspect that gould contained the elements of one of the boldest and ablest financial marauders that the system in force had as yet produced. about five feet six inches in height and of slender figure, he gave the random impression of being a mild, meek man, characterized by excessive timidity. his complexion was swarthy and partly hidden by closely-trimmed black whiskers; his eyes were dark, vulpine and acutely piercing; his forehead was high. his voice was very low, soft and insinuating. private confiscation of the erie railroad. the erie railroad, running from new york city to buffalo and thence westward to chicago, was started in . in new york state alone, irrespective of gifts in other states, it received what was virtually a gift of $ , , of state funds, and $ , , interest, making $ , , in all. counties, municipalities and towns through which it passed were prevailed upon to contribute freely donations of money, lands and rights. from private proprietors in new york state it obtained presents of land then valued at from $ , to $ , , [footnote: report on the new york and erie railroad company, new york state assembly document, no. , . see also, investigation of the railroads of the state of new york, , i: .] but now worth tens of millions of dollars. in addition, an extraordinary series of special privileges and franchises was given to it. this process was manifolded in every state through which the railroad passed. the cost of construction and equipment came almost wholly from the grants of public funds. [footnote: "the erie railway was built by the citizens of this state with money furnished by its people. the state in its sovereign capacity gave the corporation $ , , . the line was subsequently captured, or we may say stolen, by the fraudulent issue of more than $ , , of stock." ... "an analysis of the erie reorganization bill, etc., submitted to the legislature by john livingston, esq., counsel for the erie railway shareholders, ."] confiding in the fair promises of its projectors, the people credulously supposed that their interests would be safeguarded. but from time to time, legislature after legislature was corrupted or induced to enact stealthy acts by which the railroad was permitted to pass without restriction into the possession of a small clique of exploiters and speculators. not only were the people cheated out of funds raised by public taxation and advanced to build the road--a common occurrence in the case of most railroads--but this very money was claimed by the capitalist owners as private capital, large amounts of bonds and stocks were issued against it, and the producers were assessed in the form of high freight and passenger rates to pay the necessary interest and dividends on those spurious issues. the speculator, drew, gets control. not satisfied with the thefts of public funds, the successive cliques in control of the erie railroad continually plundered its treasury, and defrauded its stockholders. so little attention was given to efficient management that shocking catastrophies resulted at frequent intervals. a time came, however, when the old locomotives, cars and rails were in such a state of decay, that the replacing of them could no longer be postponed. to do this money was needed, and the treasury of the company had been continuously emptied by looting. the directors finally found a money loaner in daniel drew, an uncouth usurer. he had graduated from being a drover and tavern keeper to being owner of a line of steamboats plying between new york and albany. he then, finally, had become a wall street banker and broker. for his loans drew exacted the usual required security. by he had advanced nearly two million dollars--five hundred thousand in money, the remainder in endorsements. the erie directors could not pay up, and the control of the railroad passed into his hands. as ignorant of railroad management as he was of books, he took no pains to learn; during the next decade he used the erie railroad simply as a gambling means to manipulate the price of its stocks on the stock exchange. in this way he fleeced a large number of dupes decoyed into speculation out of an aggregate of millions of dollars. old cornelius vanderbilt looked on with impatience. he foresaw the immense profits which would accrue to him if he could get control of the erie railroad; how he could give the road a much greater value by bettering its equipment and service, and how he could put through the same stock-watering operations that he did in his other transactions. tens of millions of dollars would be his, if he could only secure control. moreover, the erie was likely at any time to become a dangerous competitor of his railroads. vanderbilt secretly began buying stock; by he had obtained enough to get control. drew and his dummy directors were ejected, vanderbilt superseding them with his own. * * * * * * * vanderbilt ousts drew, then restores him. the change was worked with vanderbilt's habitual brusque rapidity. drew apparently was crushed. he had, however, one final resource, and this he now used with histrionic effect. in tears he went to vanderbilt and begged him not to turn out and ruin an old, self-made man like himself. the appeal struck home. had the implorer been anyone else, vanderbilt would have scoffed. but, at heart, he had a fondness for the old illiterate drover whose career in so many respects resembled his own. tears and pleadings prevailed; in a moment of sentimental weakness--a weakness which turned out to be costly--vanderbilt relented. a bargain was agreed upon by which drew was to resume directorship and represent vanderbilt's interests and purposes. reinstated in the erie board, drew successfully pretended for a time that he was fully subservient. ostensibly to carry out vanderbilt's plans he persuaded that magnate to allow him to bring in as directors two men whose pliancy, he said, could be depended upon. these were jay gould, demure and ingratiating, and james fisk, jr., a portly, tawdry, pompous voluptuary. in early life fisk had been a peddler in vermont, and afterwards had managed an itinerant circus. then he had become a wall street broker. keen and suspicious as old vanderbilt was, and innately distrustful of both of them, he nevertheless, for some inexplicable reason, allowed drew to install gould and fisk as directors. he knew gould's record, and probably supposed him, as well as fisk, handy tools (as was charged) to do his "dirty work" without question. he put drew, gould and fisk on erie's executive committee. in that capacity they could issue stock and bonds, vote improvements, and generally exercise full authority. * * * * * * * drew, gould and fisk betray vanderbilt. at first, they gave every appearance of responding obediently to vanderbilt's directions. believing it to his interest to buy as much erie stock as he could, both as a surer guarantee of control, and to put his own price upon it, vanderbilt continued purchasing. the trio, however, had quietly banded to mature a plot by which they would wrest away vanderbilt's control. this was to be done by flooding the market with an extra issue of bonds which could be converted into stock, and then by running down the price, and buying in the control themselves. it was a trick that drew had successfully worked several years before. at a certain juncture he was apparently "caught short" in the stock exchange, and seemed ruined. but at the critical moment he had appeared in wall street with fifty-eight thousand shares of stock, the existence of which no one had suspected. these shares had been converted from bonds containing an obscure clause allowing the conversion. the projection of this large number of shares into the stock market caused an immediate and violent decline in the price. by selling "short"--a wall street process which we have described elsewhere-- drew had taken in large sums as speculative winnings. the same ruse drew, gould and fisk now proceeded to execute on vanderbilt. apparently to provide funds for improving the railroad, they voted to issue a mass of bonds. large quantities of these they turned over to themselves as security for pretended advances of moneys. these bonds were secretly converted into shares of stock, and then distributed among brokerage houses of which the three were members. vanderbilt, intent upon getting in as much as he could, bought the stock in unsuspectingly. then came revelations of the treachery of the three men, and reports of their intentions to issue more stock. vanderbilt did not hesitate a moment. he hurried to invoke the judicial assistance of judge george c. barnard, of the new york state supreme court. he knew that he could count on barnard, whom at this time he corruptly controlled. this judge was an unconcealed tool of corporate interests and of the plundering tweed political "ring"; for his many crimes on the bench he was subsequently impeached. [footnote: at his death $ , , in bonds and cash were found among his effects.] barnard promptly issued a writ enjoining the erie directors from issuing further stock, and ordered them to return to the erie treasury one-fourth of that already issued. furthermore, he prohibited any more conversion of bonds into stock on the ground that it was fraudulent. so pronounced a victory was this considered for vanderbilt, that the market price of erie stock went up thirty points. but the plotters had a cunning trick in reserve. pretending to obey barnard's order, they had fisk wrench away the books of stock from a messenger boy summoned ostensibly to carry them to a deposit place on pine street. they innocently disclaimed any knowledge of who the thief was; as for the messenger boy, he "did not know." these one hundred thousand shares of stock drew, gould and fisk instantly threw upon the stock market. no one else had the slightest suspicion that the court order was being disobeyed. consequently, vanderbilt's brokers were busily buying in this load of stock in million-dollar bunches; other persons were likewise purchasing. as fast as the checks came in, drew and his partners converted them into cash. gould and his partners flee with millions. it was not until the day's activity was over that vanderbilt, amazed and furious, realized that he had been gouged out of $ , , . other buyers were also cheated out of millions. the old man had been caught napping; it was this fact which stung him most. however, after the first paroxysm of frenzied swearing, he hit upon a plan of action. the very next morning warrants were sworn out for the arrest of drew, fisk and gould. a hint quickly reached them; they thereupon fled to jersey city out of barnard's jurisdiction, taking their cargo of loot with them. according to charles francis adams, in his "chapters of erie," one of them bore away in a hackney coach bales containing $ , , in greenbacks. [footnote: "chapters of erie": .] the other two fugitives were loaded down with valises crammed with bonds and stocks. here in more than one sense was an instructive and significant situation. vanderbilt, the foremost blackmailer of his time, the plunderer of the national treasury during the civil war, the arch briber and corruptionist, virtuously invoking the aid of the law on the ground that he had been swindled! drew, gould and fisk sardonically jested over it. but joke as they well might over their having outwitted a man whose own specialty was fraud, they knew that their position was perilous. barnard's order had declared their sales of stock to be fraudulent, and hence outlawed; and, moreover, if they dared venture back to new york, they were certain, as matters stood, of instant arrest with the threatened alternative of either disgorging or of a criminal trial and possibly prison. to themselves they extenuated their thefts with the comforting and self-sufficient explanation that they had done to vanderbilt precisely what he had done to others, and would have done to them. but it was not with themselves that the squaring had to be done, but with the machinery of law; vanderbilt was exerting every effort to have them imprisoned. how was this alarming exigency to be met? they speedily found a way out. while vanderbilt was thundering in rage, shouting out streaks of profanity, they calmly went ahead to put into practice a lesson that he himself had thoroughly taught. he controlled a sufficient number of judges; why should not they buy up the legislature, as he had often done? the strategic plan was suggested of getting the new york legislature to pass an act legalizing their fraudulent stock issues. had not vanderbilt and other capitalists often bought up congress and legislatures and common councils? why not now do the same? they well knew the approved method of procedure in such matters; an onslaught of bribing legislators, they reckoned, would bring the desired result. gould bribes the legislature with $ , . stuffing $ , in his satchel, gould surreptitiously hurried to albany. detected there and arrested, he was released under heavy bail which a confederate supplied. he appeared in court in new york city a few days later, but obtained a postponement of the action. no time was lost by him. "he assiduously cultivated," says adams, "a thorough understanding between himself and the legislature." in the face of sinister charges of corruption, the bill legalizing the fraudulent stock issues was passed. ineffectually did vanderbilt bribe the legislators to defeat it; as fast as they took and kept his money, gould debauched them with greater sums. one senator in particular, as we have seen, accepted $ , from vanderbilt, and $ , from gould, and pocketed both amounts. a brisk scandal naturally ensued. the usual effervescent expedient of appointing an investigating committee was adopted by the new york state senate on april , . this committee did not have to investigate to learn the basic facts; it already knew them. but it was a customary part of the farce of these investigating bodies to proceed with a childlike assumption of entire innocence. many witnesses were summoned, and much evidence was taken. the committee reported that, according to drew's testimony, $ , had been drawn out of the erie railroad's treasury, ostensibly for purposes of litigation, and that it was clear "that large sums of money did come from the treasury of the erie railroad company, which were expended for some purpose in albany, for which no vouchers seem to have been filed in the offices of the company." the committee further found that "large sums of money were expended for corrupt purposes by parties interested in legislation concerning railways during the session of ." but who specifically did the bribing? and who were the legistators bribed? these facts the committee declared that it did not know. this investigating sham resulted, as almost always happened in the case of similar inquisitions, in the culpability being thrown upon certain lobbyists "who were enriched." these lobbyists were men whose trade it was to act as go-betweens in corrupting legistators. gould and thompson--the latter an accomplice--testified that they had paid "lon" payn, a lobbyist who subsequently became a powerful republican politician, $ , "for a few days' services in albany in advocating the erie bill"; and it was further brought out that $ , had been given to the lobbyists luther caldwell and russell f. hicks, to influence legislation and also to shape public opinion through the press. caldwell, it appeared, received liberal sums from both vanderbilt and gould. [footnote: report of the select committee of the new york senate, appointed april , , in relation to members receiving money from railway companies. senate document no. , : - , and , - . ] a subsequent investigation committee appointed, in , to inquire into other charges, reported that in one year of the erie railroad directors, comprising drew, gould, fisk and their associates, had spent more than a million dollars for "extra and legal services," and that it was "their custom from year to year to spend large sums to control elections and to influence legislation." [footnote: report of the select committee of the assembly, assembly documents, , doc. no. : xix.] [footnote: "what the erie has done," the committee reported, "other great corporations are doubtless doing from year to year. combined as they are, the power of the great moneyed corporations of this country is a standing menace to the liberties of the people. "the railroad lobby flaunts its ill-gotten gains in the faces of our legislatures, and in all our politics the debasing effect of its influence is felt" (p. ).] vanderbilt later succeeded in compelling the erie railroad to reimburse him for the sums that he thus corruptly spent in fighting drew, gould and fisk. [footnote: railroad investigation of the state of new york, , ii: .] their huge thefts having been legalized, drew, gould and fisk returned to jersey city. but their path was not yet clear. vanderbilt had various civil suits in new york against them; moreover they were adjudged in contempt of court. parleying now began. with the severest threats of what the courts would do if they refused, vanderbilt demanded that they buy back the shares of stock that they had unloaded upon him. drew was the first to compromise; gould and fisk shortly afterward followed. they collectively paid vanderbilt $ , , in cash, $ , , in securities for fifty thousand erie shares, and another million dollars for the privilege of calling upon him for the remaining fifty thousand shares at any time within four months. although this settlement left vanderbilt out of pocket to the extent of almost two million dollars, he consented to abandon his suits. the three now left their lair in jersey city and transferred the erie offices to the grand opera house, at eighth avenue and twenty-third street, new york city. in this collision with vanderbilt, gould learned a sharp lesson he thereafter never overlooked; namely, that it was not sufficient to bribe common councils and legislatures; he, too, must own his judges. events showed that he at once began negotiations. gould and fisk throw over drew. the next development was characteristic. having no longer any need for their old accomplice, gould and fisk, by tactics of duplicity, gradually sheared drew and turned him out of the management to degenerate into a financial derelict. it was drew's odd habit, whenever his plans were crossed, or he was depressed, to rush off to his bed, hide himself under the coverlets and seek solace in sighs and self-compassion, or in prayer--for with all his unscrupulousness he had an orthodox religious streak. when drew realized that he had been plundered and betrayed, as he had so often acted to others, he sought his bed and there long remained in despair under the blankets. the whimsical old extortionist never regained his wealth or standing. upon drew's effacement gould caused himself to be made president and treasurer of the erie railroad, and fisk vice-president and controller. when gould and fisk began to turn out more watered stock various defrauded malcontent stockholders resolved to take an intervening hand. this was a new obstacle, but it was coolly met. gould and fisk brought in gangs of armed thugs to prevent these stockholders from getting physical possession of the books of the company. then the new york legislature was again corrupted. a bill called the classification act, drafted to insure gould and fisk's legal control, was enacted. this bill provided that only one- fifth of the board of directors should be retired in any year. by this means, although the majority of stockholders might be opposed to the gould-fisk management, it would be impossible for them to get possession of the road for at least three years, and full possession for not less than five years. but to prevent the defrauded large stockholders from getting possession of the railroad through the courts, another act was passed. this provided that no judgement to oust the board of directors could be rendered by any court unless the suit was brought by the attorney-general of the state. it was thus only necessary for gould and fisk to own the attorney-general entirely (which they took pains, of course, to do) in order to close the courts to the defrauded stockholders. on a trumped-up suit, and by an order of one of the tweed judges, a receiver was appointed for the stock owned by foreign stockholders; and when any of it was presented for record in the transfer book of the erie railroad, the receiver seized it. in this way gould and fisk secured practical possesssion of $ , , of the $ , , of stock held abroad. alliance with corrupt politics and judiciary. from to gould, abetted by subservient directors, issued two hundred and thirty-five thousand more shares of stock. [footnote: fisk was murdered by a rival in in a feud over fisk's mistress. his death did not interrupt gould's plans.] the frauds were made uncommonly easy by having tweed machine as an auxiliary; in turn, tweed, up to , controlled the new york city and state dominant political machine, including the legislature and many of the judges. to insure tweed's connivance, they made him a director of the erie railroad, besides heavily bribing him. [footnote: "did you ever receive any money from either fisk or gould to be used in bribing the legislature?" tweed was asked by an aldermanic committee in , after his downfall. a. "i did sir! they were of frequent occurrence. not only did i receive money but i find by an examination of the papers that everybody else who received money from the erie railroad charged it to me."--documents of the board of aldermen, , part ii, no. : .] with tweed as an associate they were able to command the judges who owed their elevation to him. barnard, one of tweed's servile tools, was sold over to gould and fisk, and so throughly did this judge prostitute his office at their behest that once, late at night, at fisk's order, he sportively held court in the apartment of josie mansfield, fisk's mistress. [footnote: the occasion grew out of an attempt of gould and fisk in to get control of the albany and sesquehanna railroad. two parties contested--the gould and the "ramsey," headed by j. pierpont morgan. each claimed the election of its officers and board of directors. one night, at half-past ten o'clock, fisk summoned barnard from poughkeepsie to open chambers in josie mansfield's rooms. barnard hurried there, and issued an order ousting ramsey from the presidency. judge smith at rochester subsequently found that ramsey was legally elected, and severely denounced gould and fisk--"letters of general francis c. barlow, albany": . the records of this suit (as set forth in lansing's reports, new york supreme court. i: , etc.) show that each of the contesting parties accused the other of gross fraud, and that the final decision was favorable to the "ramsey" party. see the chapters on j. pierpont morgan in vol. iii of this work.] when the english stockholders sent over a large number of shares to be voted in for a new management, it was barnard who allowed this stock to be voted by gould and fisk. at another time gould and fisk called at barnard's house and obtained an injunction while he was eating breakfast. it was largely by means of his corrupt alliance with the tweed "ring" that gould was able to put through his gigantic frauds from to . gould was, indeed, the unquestioned master mind in these transactions; fisk and the others merely executed his directions. the various fraudulent devices were of gould's origination. a biographer of fisk casually wrote at the time: "jay gould and fisk took william m. tweed into their board, and the state legislature, tammany hall and the erie 'ring' were fused together and have contrived to serve each other faithfully." [footnote: "a life of james fisk, jr.," new york, .] gould admitted before a new york state assembly investigating committee in that, in the three years prior to , he had paid large sums to tweed and to others, and that he had also disbursed large sums "which might have been used to influence legislation or elections." these sums were facetiously charged on the erie books to "india rubber account"--whatever that meant. gould cynically gave more information. he could distinctly recall, he said, "that he had been in the habit of sending money into various districts throughout the state," either to control nominations or elections for senators or members of the assembly. he considered "that, as a rule, such investments paid better than to wait until the men got to albany." significantly he added that it would be as impossible to specify the numerous instances "as it would be to recall the number of freight cars sent over the erie railroad from day to day." his corrupt operations, he indifferently testified, extended into four different states. "in a republican district i was a republican; in a democratic district, a democrat; in a doubtful district i was doubtful; but i was always for erie." [footnote: report of, and testimony before, the select assembly committee, , assembly documents, doc. no. : xx, etc.] the funds that he thus used in widespread corruption came obviously from the proceeds of his great thefts; and he might have added, with equal truth, that with this stolen money he was able to employ some of the most eminent lawyers of the day, and purchase judges. gould's trading class support those writers who are content with surface facts, or who lack understanding of popular currents, either state, or leave the inference, that it was solely by bribing and trickery that gould was able to consummate his frauds. such assertions are altogether incorrect. to do what he did required the support, or at least tolerance, of a considerable section of public opinion. this he obtained. and how? by posing as a zealous anti-monopolist. the cry of anti-monopoly was the great fetich of the entire middle class; this class viewed with fear the growing concentration of wealth; and as its interests were reflected by a large number of organs of public opinion, it succeeded in shaping the thoughts of no small a section of the working class. while secretly bribing, gould constantly gave out for public consumption a plausible string of arguments, in which act, by the way, he was always fertile. he represented himself as the champion of the middle and working classes in seeking to prevent vanderbilt from getting a monopoly of many railroads. he played adroitly upon the fears, the envy and the powerful mainsprings of the self interest of the middle class by pointing out how greatly it would be at the mercy of vanderbilt should vanderbilt succeed in adding the erie railroad and other railroads to his already formidable list. it was a time of all times when such arguments were bound to have an immense effect; and that they did was shown by the readiness with which the trading class excused his corruption and frauds on the ground that he seemed to be the only man who proved that he could prevent vanderbilt from gobbling up all of the railroads leading from new york city. with a great fatuousness the middle class supposed that he was fighting for its cause. the bitterness of large numbers of the manufacturing, jobbing and agricultural classes against commodore vanderbilt was deep-seated. by an illegal system of preferential freight rates to certain manufacturers, vanderbilt put these favorites easily in a position where they could undersell competitors. thus, a. t. stewart, one of the noted millionaire manufacturers and merchants of the day, instead of owing his success to his great ability, as has been set forth, really derived it, to a great extent, from the secret preferential freight rates that he had on the vanderbilt railroads. a variety of other coercive methods were used by vanderbilt. special freight trains were purposely delayed and run at snail's pace in order to force shippers to pay the extraordinary rates demanded for shipping over the merchant's dispatch, a fast freight line owned by the vanderbilt family. these were but a few of the many schemes for their private graft that the vanderbilts put in force. the agricultural class was taxed heavily on every commodity shipped; for the transportation of milk, for example, the farmer was taxed one-half of what he himself received for milk. these taxes, of course, eventually fell upon the consumer, but the manufacturer and the farmer realized that if the extortions were less, their sales and profits would be greater. they were in a rebellious mood and gladly welcomed a man such as gould who thwarted vanderbilt at every turn. gould well knew of this bitter feeling against vanderbilt; he used it, and thrust himself forward constantly in the guise of the great deliverer. as for the small stockholders of the erie railroad, gould easily pacified them by holding out the bait of a larger dividend than they had been getting under the former regime. this he managed by the common and fraudulent expedient of issuing bonds, and paying dividends out of proceeds. so long as the profits of these small stockholders were slightly better than they had been getting before, they were complacently satisfied to let gould continue his frauds. this acquiescence in theft has been one of the most pronounced characteristics of the capitalistic investors, both large and small. numberless instances have shown that they raise no objections to plundering management provided that under it their money returns are increased. the end of gould's looting of the erie railroad was now in sight. however the small stockholders might assent, the large english stockholders, some of whom had invidious schemes of their own in the way of which gould stood, were determined to gain control themselves. gould's directors bribed to resign. they made no further attempt to resort to the law. a fund of $ , was sent over by them to their american agents with which to bribe a number of gould's directors to resign. as gould had used these directors as catspaws, they were aggrieved because he had kept all of the loot himself. if he had even partly divided, their sentiments would have been quite different. the $ , bribery fund was distributed among them, and they carried out their part of the bargain by resigning. [footnote: assembly document no. , : xii and xiii. the english stockholders took no chances on this occasion. the committee reported that not until the directors had resigned did they "receive their price." ] the assembly investigating committee of referred carelessly to the english stockholders as being "impatient at the law's delay" and therefore taking matters into their own hands. if a poor man or a trade union had become "impatient at the law's delay" and sought an illegal remedy, the judiciary would have quickly pronounced condign punishment and voided the whole proceeding. the boasted "majesty of law" was a majesty to which the underdogs only were expected to look up to in fear and trepidation. when the english stockholders elected their own board gould obtained an injunction from the courts. this writ was absolutely disregarded, and the anti-gould faction on march , , seized possession of the offices and books of the company by physical force. did the courts punish these men for criminal contempt? no effort was made to. many a worker or labor union leader had been sent to jail (and has been since), for "contempt of court," but the courts evidently have been willing enough to stomach all of the contempt profusely shown for them by the puissant rich. the propertyless owned nothing, not to speak of a judge, but the capitalists owned whole strings of judges, and those whom they did not own or corrupt were generally influenced to their side by association or environment. "all of this," reported the assembly investigating committee of , speaking of the means employed to overthrow gould, "has been done without authority of law." but no law was invoked by the officials to make the participants account for their illegal acts. the legislature bribed again. it seems that the entire amount, including the large fees paid to agents and lawyers, corruptly expended by the english capitalists in ousting gould, was $ , . did they foot this bill out of their own pockets? by no means. they arranged the reimbursements by voting this sum to themselves out of the erie railroad treasury; [footnote: assembly document no. , : xii and xvi.] that is to say, they compelled the public to shoulder it by adding to the bonded burdens on which the people were taxed to pay interest. to complete their control they bribed the new york legislature to repeal the classification act. as has been shown, the legislature of was considered a "reform" body, and it also has been brought out how vanderbilt bribed it to give him invaluable public franchises and large grants of public money. in fact, other railroad magnates as well as he systematically bribed; and it is clear that they contributed jointly a pool of money both to buy laws and to prevent the passage of objectionable acts. "it appears conclusive," reported the assembly investigating committee of , "that a large amount-- reported by one witness at $ , --was appropriated for legislative purposes by the railroad interest in , and that this [$ , ] was erie's proportion." [footnote: ibid., xvii.] one of the lobbyists, james d. barber, "a ruling spirit in the republican party," admitted receiving $ , from the vanderbilts. [footnote: ibid., .] while uniting to suppress bills feared by them all, each of the magnates bribed to foil the others' purposes. gould's direct erie thefts were $ , , . what did gould's plunder amount to? his direct thefts, by reason of his erie frauds, seem to have reached more than twelve million dollars, all, or nearly all, of which he personally kept. that sum, considering the falling prices of commodities after the panic of , and comparable with current standards of cost and living, was equivalent to perhaps double the amount at present. various approximations of his thefts were made. after a minute examination of the erie railroad's books, augustus stein, an expert accountant, testified before the "hepburn committee" (the new york assembly investigating committee of ) that gould had himself pocketed twelve or thirteen million dollars. [footnote: q.--do you think you could remember the aggregate amount of wrong-doing on the part of mr. gould that you have discovered? a.--i could give an estimate throwing off a couple of millions here and there; i could say that it amounted to--that is, what we discovered--amounted to about twelve or thirteen million dollars.-- railroad investigation of the state of new york, , ii: .] this, however, was only one aspect. between and gould and his accomplices had issued $ , , of watered stock. gould, so the erie books revealed, had charged $ , , as representing the outlay for construction and equipment, yet not a new rail had been laid, nor a new engine put in use, nor a new station built. these twelve millions or more were what he and his immediate accomplices had stolen outright from the erie railroad treasury. considerable sums were, of course, paid corruptly to politicians, but gould got them all back, as well as the plunder of his associates, by personally manipulating erie stock so as to compel them to sell at a great loss to themselves, and a great profit to himself. furthermore, in these manipulations of stock, he scooped in more millions from other sources. had it not been for his intense greed and his constitutional inability to remain true to his confederates, gould might have been allowed to retain the proceeds of his thefts. his treachery to one of them, henry n. smith, who had been his partner in the brokerage firm of smith, gould and martin, resulted in trouble. gould cornered the stock of the chicago and northwestern railroad; to put it more plainly, he bought up the outstanding available supply of shares, and then ran the price up from to . smith was one of a number of wall street men badly mulcted in this operation, as gould intended. seeking revenge, smith gave over the firm's books, which were in his possession, to general barlow, counsel for the erie railroad's protesting stockholders. [footnote: railroad investigation, etc., v: ] evidence of great thefts was quickly discovered, and an action was started to compel gould to disgorge about $ , , . a criminal proceeding was also brought, and gould was arrested and placed under heavy bonds. an extraordinary "restitution." apparently gould was trapped. but a wonderful and unexpected development happened which filled the wall street legion with admiration for his craft and audacity. he planned to make his very restitution the basis for taking in many more millions by speculation; he knew that when it was announced that he had concluded to disgorge, the market value of the stock would instantly go up and numerous buyers would appear. secretly he bought up as much erie stock as he could. then he ostentatiously and with the widest publicity declared his intension to make restitution. such a cackling sensation it made! the price of erie stock at once bounded up, and his brokers sold quantities of it to his great accruing profit. the pursuing stockholders assented to his offer to surrender his control of the erie railroad, and to accept real estate and stocks seemingly worth $ , , . but after the stockholders had withdrawn their suits, they found that they had been tricked again. the property that gould had turned over to them did not have a market value of more than $ , . [footnote: railroad investigation, etc. , iii: . one of the very rare instances in which any of gould's victims was able to compel him to disgorge, was that described in the following anecdote, which went the rounds of the press: "an old friend had gone to gould telling him that he had managed to save up some $ , , and asking his advice as to how he should invest it in such a manner as to be absolutely safe, for the benefit of his family. gould told him to invest it in a certain stock, and assured him that the investment would be absolutely safe as to income, and, besides, its market value would shortly be greatly enhanced. "the man did as advised by gould, and the stock promptly started to go down. lower and lower it went, and seeing the steady depreciation in the price of the stock, and hearing stories to the effect that the dividends were to be passed, the man wrote to gould asking if the investment was still good. gould replied to his friend's letter, assuring him that the stories had no foundation in fact and were being circulated purely for market effect. "but still the stock declined. each day the price went to new lower figures on the stock exchange, and finally the rumors became fact, and the directors passed the dividend. the man had seen the savings of years vanish in a few months and realized that he was a ruined man. "goaded to an almost insane frenzy, he rushed into gould's office the afternoon the directors announced the passing of the dividend, and told gould that he had been deliberately and grossly deceived and that he was ruined. he wound up by announcing his intention of shooting gould then and there. "gould heard his quondam friend through. there could be no mistaking the man's intent. he was evidently half crazed and possessed of an insane desire to carry out his threat. gould turned to him and said: 'my dear mr.---' calling him by name, 'you are laboring under a most serious misapprehension. your money is not lost. if you will go down to my bank tomorrow morning, you will find there a balance of $ , to your credit. i sold out your stock some time ago, but had neglected to notify you.' the man looked at him in amazement and, half doubting, left the office. "as soon as he had left the office gould sent word to his bank to place $ , to this man's credit. the man spent a sleepless night, torn by doubts and fears. when the bank opened for business he was the first man in line, and was nearly overcome when the cashier handed him the sum that gould had named the previous afternoon. "gould had evidently decided in his own mind that the man was determined to kill him, and that the only way to save his life and his name was to pay the man the sum he had lost plus a profit, in the manner he did. but as a sidelight on the absolutely cold-blooded self-possession of the man, it is interesting."] the second stage of the gould fortune gould's thefts from the erie railroad were, however, only one of his looting transactions during those busy years. at the same time, he was using these stolen millions to corner the gold supply. in this "black friday" conspiracy (for so it was styled) he fradulently reaped another eleven million dollars to the accompaniment of a financial panic, with a long train of failures, suicides and much disturbance and distress. chapter xi the gould fortune bounds forward the "gold conspiracy" as plotted and consummated by gould was in its day denounced as one of the most disgraceful events in american history. to adjudge it so was a typical exaggeration and perversion of a society caring only about what was passing in its upper spheres. the spectacular nature of this episode, and the ruin it wrought in the ranks of the money dealers and of the traders, caused its importance to be grossly misrepresented and overdrawn. the abuse of gould overdone it was not nearly as discreditable as the gigantic and repulsive swindles that traders and bankers had carried on during the dark years of the civil war. the very traders and financiers who beslimed gould for his "gold conspiracy" were those who had built their fortunes on blood-soaked army contracts. nor could the worst aspects of gould's conspiracy, bad as they were, begin to vie in disastrous results with the open and insidious abominations of the factory and landlord system. to repeat, it was a system in which incredible numbers of working men, women and children were killed off by the perils of their trades, by disease superinduced and aggravated by the wretchedness of their work, and by the misery of their lot and habitations. millions more died prematurely because of causes directly traceable to the withering influences of poverty. but this unending havoc, taking place silently in the routine departments of industry, and in obscure alleyways, called forth little or no notice. what if they did suffer and perish? society covered their wrongs and injustices and mortal throes with an inhibitive silence, for it was expected that they, being lowly, should not complain, obtrude grievances, or in any way make unpleasant demonstrations. yet, if the prominent of society were disgruntled, or if a few capitalists were caught in the snare of ruin which they had laid for others, they at once bestirred themselves and made the whole nation ring with their outcries and lamentations. their merest whispers became thunderous reverberations. the press, the pulpit, legislative chambers and the courts became their strident voices, and in all the influential avenues for directing public opinion ready advocates sprang forth to champion their plaints, and concentrate attention upon them. so it was in the "gold conspiracy." gould embarks on his conspiracy after the opening of the civil war, gold was exceedingly scarce, and commanded a high premium. the supply of this metal, this yellow dross, which to a considerable degree regulated the world's relative values of wages and commodities, was monopolized by the powerful banking interests. in but fifteen million dollars of gold was in actual circulation in the united states. notwithstanding the increase of industrial productive power, the continuous displacement of obsolete methods by the introduction of labor-saving machinery, and the consecutive discovery of new means for the production of wealth, the task of the worker was not lightened. he had, for the most part, after great struggles, secured a shorter workday, but if the hours were shorter the work was more tense and racking than in the days before steam-driven machinery supplanted the hand tool. the mass of the workers were in a state of dependence and poverty. the land, industrial and financial system, operating in the three-fold form of rent, interest and profit, tore away from the producer nearly the whole of what he produced. even those factory-owning capitalists exercising a personal and direct supervision over their plants, were often at the mercy of the clique of bankers who controlled the money marts. had the supply of money been proportionate to the growth of population and of business, this process of expropriation would have been less rapid. as it was, the associated monopolies, the international and national banking interests, and the income classes in general, constricted the volume of money into as narrow a compress as possible. as they were the very class which controlled the law- making power of government, this was not difficult. the resulting scarcity of money produced high rates of interest. these, on the one hand, facilitated usury, and, on the other, exacted more labor and produce for the privilege of using that money. staggering under burdensome rates of interest, factory owners, business men in general, farmers operating on a large scale, and landowners with tenants, shunted the load on to the worker. the producing population had to foot the additional bill by accepting wages which had a falling buying power, and by having to pay more rent and greater prices for necessities. such conditions were certain to accelerate the growth of poverty and the centralization of wealth. gould's plan was to get control of the outstanding fifteen millions of dollars of gold and fix his own price upon them. not only from what was regarded as legitimate commerce would he exact tribute, but he would squeeze to the bone the whole tribe of gold speculators--for at that time gold was extensively speculated in to an intensive degree. with the funds stolen from the erie railroad treasury, he began to buy in gold. to accommodate the crowd of speculators in this metal, the stock exchange had set apart a "gold room," devoted entirely to the speculative purchase and sale of gold. gould was confident that his plan would not miscarry if the government would not put in circulation any part of the ninety-five million dollars in gold hoarded as a reserve in the national treasury. the urgent and all- important point was to ascertain whether the government intended to keep this sum entirely shut out from circulation. he bribes government officials. to get this inside information he succeeded in corruptly winning over to his interests a. r. corbin, a brother-in-law of president grant. the consideration was gould's buying of two million dollars' worth of gold bonds, without requiring margin or security for corbin's account [footnote: gold panic investigation, house report: no , forty-first congress, second session, : . corbin's venality in lobbying for corrupt bills was notorious; he admitted his complicity before a congressional investigating committee in .] thus gould thought he had surely secured an intimate spy within the authoritative precincts of the white house. as the premium on gold constantly rose, these bonds yielded corbin as much sometimes as $ , a week in profits. to insure the further success of his plan, gould subsidized general butterfield, whose appointment as sub-treasurer at new york corbin claimed to have brought about. gould testified in that he had made a private loan to butterfield, and that he had carried speculatively $ , , for butterfield's benefit. these statements butterfield denied. [footnote: gold panic investigation, etc., .] through corbin, gould attempted to pry out grant's policies, and with fisk as an interlocutor, gould personally attempted to draw out the president. to their consternation they found that grant was not disposed to favor their arguments. the prospect looked very black for them. gould met the situation with matchless audacity. by spreading subtle rumors, and by inspiring press reports through venal writers, he deceived not only the whole of wall street, but even his own associates, into believing that high government officials were in collusion with him. the report was assiduously disseminated that the government did not intend to release any of its hoard of gold for circulation. the premium, accordingly, shot up to . soon after this, certain financial quarters suspected that gould was bluffing. the impression spreading that he could not depend upon the government's support, the rate of the premium declined, and gould's own array of brokers turned against him and sold gold. gould betrays his partners. entrapped, gould realized that something had to be done, and done quickly, if he were to escape complete ruin, holding as he did the large amount of gold that he had bought at steep prices. by plausible fabrications he convinced fisk that grant was really an ally. gould had bought a controlling interested in the tenth national bank. this institution gould and fisk now used as a fraudulent manufactory of certified checks. these they turned out to the amount of tens of millions of dollars. with the spurious checks they bought from thirty to forty millions in gold. [footnote: gold panic investigation: .] such an amount of gold did not, of course, exist in circulation. but the law permitted gambling in it as though it really existed. ordinary card gamblers, playing for actual money, were under the ban of law; but the speculative gamblers of the stock exchange who bought and sold goods which frequently did not exist, carried on their huge fraudulent operations with the full sanction of the law. gould's plan was not intricate. extensive purchases of gold naturally--as the laws of trade went--were bound to increase constantly its price. by september, , gould and his partners not only held all of the available gold in circulation, but they held contracts by which they could call upon bankers, manufacturers, merchants, brokers and speculators for about seventy millions of dollars more of the metal. to the banking, manufacturing and importing interests gold, as the standard, was urgently required for various kinds of interfluent business transactions: to pay international debts, interest on bonds, customs dues or to move the crops. they were forced to borrow it at gould's own price. this price was added to the cost of operation, manufacture and sale, to be eventually assessed upon the consumer. gould publicly announced that he would show no mercy to anyone. he had a list, for example, of two hundred new york merchants who owed him gold; he proposed to print their names in the newspapers, demanding settlement at once, and would have done so, had not his lawyers advised him that the move might be adjudged criminal conspiracy. [footnote: gold panic investigation, etc., .] the tension, general excitement and pressure in business circles were such that president grant decided to release some of the government's gold, even though the reserve be diminished. in some mysterious way a hint of this reached gould. the day before "black friday" he resolved to betray his partners, and secretly sell gold before the price abruptly dropped. to do this with success it was necessary to keep on buying, so that the price would be run up still higher. such methods were prohibited by the code of the stock exchange which prescribed certain rules of the game, for while the members of the exchange allowed themselves the fullest latitude and the most unchecked deception in the fleecing of outside elements, yet among themselves they decreed a set of rules forbidding any sort of double- dealing in trading with one another. to draw an analogy, it was like a group of professional card sharps deterring themselves by no scruples in the cheating of the unwary, but who insisted that among their own kind fairness should be scrupulously observed. yet, rules or no rules, no one could gainsay the fact that many of the foremost financiers had often and successfully used the very enfillading methods that gould now used. while gould was secretly disposing of his gold holdings, he was goading on his confederates and his crowd of fifty or more brokers to buy still more. [footnote: "gould, the guiltier plotter of all these criminal proceedings," reported the congressional investigating committee of , "determined to betray his own associates, and silent, and imperturbable, by nods and whispers directed all."-gold panic investigation: .] by this time, it seems, fisk and his partner in the brokerage business, belden, had some stray inklings of gould's real plan; yet all that they knew were the fragments gould chose to tell them, with perhaps some surmises of their own. gould threw out just enough of an outline to spur on their appetite for an orgy of spoils. undoubtedly, gould made a secret agreement with them by which he could repudiate the purchases of gold made in their names. away from the stock exchange fisk made a ludicrous and dissolute enough figure, with his love of tinsel, his show and braggadacio, his mock military prowess, his pompous, windy airs and his covey of harlots. but in wall street he was a man of affairs and power; the very assurance that in social life made him ridiculous to a degree, was transmuted into a pillar of strength among the throng of speculators who themselves were mainly arrant bluffs. a dare-devil audacity there was about fisk that impressed, misled and intimidated; a fine screen he served for gould plotting and sapping in the background. the memorable "black friday" the next day, "black friday," september , , was one of tremendous excitement and gloomy apprehension among the money changers. even the exchanges of foreign countries reflected the perturbation. gould gave orders to buy all gold in fisk's name; fisk's brokers ran the premium up to and then to . the market prices of railroad stocks shrank rapidly; failure after failure of wall street firms was announced, and fortunes were swept away. fearing that the price of gold might mount to , manufacturers and other business concerns throughout the country frantically directed their agents to buy gold at any price. all this time gould, through certain brokers, was secretly selling; and while he was doing so, fisk and belden by his orders continued to buy. the stock exchange, according to the descriptions of many eye- witnesses, was an extraordinary sight that day. on the most perfunctory occasions the scenes enacted there might have well filled the exotic observer with unmeasured amazement. but never had it presented so thoroughly a riotous, even bedlamic aspect as on this day, black friday; never had greed and the fear born of greed, displayed themselves in such frightful forms. here could be seen many of the money masters shrieking and roaring, anon rushing about with whitened faces, indescribably contorted, and again bellowing forth this order or that curse with savage energy and wildest gesture. the puny speculators had long since uttered their doleful squeak and plunged down into the limbo of ruin, completely engulfed; only the big speculators, or their commission men, remained in the arena, and many of these like trapped rats scurried about from pillar to post. the little fountain in the "gold room" serenely spouted and bubbled as usual, its cadence lost in the awful uproar; over to it rushed man after man splashing its cooling water on his throbbing head. over all rose a sickening exhalation, the dripping, malodorous sweat of an assemblage worked up to the very limit of mental endurance. what, may we ask, were these men snarling, cursing and fighting over? why, quite palpably over the division of wealth that masses of working men, women and children were laboriously producing, too often amid sorrow and death. while elsewhere pinioned labor was humbly doing the world's real work, here in this "gold room," greed contested furiously with greed, cunning with cunning over their share of the spoils. without their structure of law, and government to enforce it, these men would have been nothing; as it was, they were among the very crests of society; the makers of law, the wielders of power, the pretenders to refinement and culture. baffled greed and cunning outmatched and duplicity doubled against itself could be seen in the men who rushed from the "gold room" hatless and frenzied--some literally crazed--when the price of gold advanced to . in the surrounding streets were howling and impassable crowds, some drawn thither by curiosity and excitement, others by a fancied interest; surely, fancied, for it was but a war of eminent knaves and knavish gamblers. now this was not a "disorderly mob" of workers such as capitalists and politicians created out of orderly workers' gatherings so as to have a pretext for clubbing and imprisoning; nay it all took place in the "conservative" precincts of sacrosanct wall street, the abiding place of "law and order." the participants were composed of the "best classes;" therefore, by all logic it was a scene supereminently sane, respectable and legitimate; the police, worthy defenders of the peace, treated it all with an awed respect. suddenly, early in the afternoon, came reports that the united states treasury was selling gold; they proved to be true. within fifteen minutes the whole fabric of the gold manipulation had gone to pieces. it is narrated that a mob, bent on lynching, searched for gould, but that he and fisk had sneaked away through a back door and had gone uptown. the general belief was that gould was irretrievably ruined. that he was secretly selling gold at an exorbitant price was not known; even his own intimates, except perhaps fisk and belden, were ignorant of it. all that was known was that he had made contracts for the purchase of enormous quantities of fictitious gold at excessive premiums. as a matter of fact, his underhand sales had brought him eleven or twelve million dollars profit. but if his contracts for purchase were enforced, not only would these profits be wiped out, but also his entire fortune. eleven millions pocketed by judicial collusion. ever agile and resourceful, gould quickly extricated himself from this difficulty. he fell back upon the corrupt judiciary. upon various flimsy pretexts, he and fisk, in a single day, procured twelve sweeping injunctions and court orders. [footnote: gold panic investigation, etc. .] these prohibited the stock exchange and the gold board from enforcing any rules of settlement against them, and enjoined gould and fisk's brokers from settling any contracts. the result, in brief, was that judicial collusion allowed gould to pocket his entire "profits," amounting, as the congressional committee of reported, to about eleven million dollars, while relieving him from any necessity of paying up his far greater losses. fisk's share of the eleven millions was almost nothing; gould retained practically the entire sum. gould's confederates and agents were ruined, financially and morally; scores of failures, dozens of suicides, the despoilment of a whole people, were the results of gould's handiwork. [illustration: jay gould, who, in a brief period, possessed himself of a vast fortune.] * * * * * * * from his erie railroad thefts, the gold conspiracy and other maraudings, gould now had about twenty-five or thirty million dollars. perhaps the sum was much more. having sacked the erie previous to his being ousted in , he looked out for further instruments of plunder. money was power; the greater the thief the greater the power; and gould, in spite of abortive lawsuits and denunciations, had the cardinal faculty of holding on to the full proceeds of his piracies. in there was no man more rancorously denounced by the mercantile classes than gould. if one were to be swayed by their utterances, he would be led to believe that these classes, comprising the wholesale and retail merchants, the importers and the small factory men, had an extraordinarily high and sensitive standard of honesty. but this assumption was sheer pretense, at complete variance with the facts. it was a grim sham constantly shattered by investigation. ever, while vaunting its own probity and scoring those who defrauded it, the whole mercantile element was itself defrauding at every opportunity. * * * * * * * some comparisons with gould. one of the numberless noteworthy and conclusive examples of the absolute truth of this generalization was that of the great frauds perpetrated by the firm of phelps, dodge and company, millionaire importers of tin, copper, lead and other metals. so far as public reputation went, the members of the house were the extreme opposites of gould. in the wide realm of commercialism a more stable and illustrious firm could not be found. its wealth was conventionally "solid and substantial;" its members were lauded as "high-toned" business men "of the old-fashioned school," and as consistent church communicants and expansive philanthropists. indeed, one of them was regarded as so glorious and uplifting a model for adolescent youth, that he was chosen president of the young men's christian association; and his statue, erected by his family, to-day irradiates the tawdry surroundings of herald square, new york city. in the blue book of the elect, socially and commercially, no names could be found more indicative of select, strong-ribbed, triple-dyed respectability and elegant social poise and position. in the dying months of , a prying iconoclast, unawed by the glamor of their public repute and the contemplation of their wealth, began an exhaustive investigation of their custom house invoices. this inquiring individual was b. g. jayne, a special united states treasury agent. he seems to have been either a duty-loving servant of the people, stubbornly bent upon ferreting out fraud wherever he found it, irrespective of whether the criminals were powerful or not, or he was prompted by the prospect of a large reward. the more he searched into this case, the more of a mountainous mass of perjury and fraud revealed itself. on january, , , jayne set the full facts before his superior, george s. boutwell, secretary of the treasury. ". . . acording to ordinary modes of reckoning," he wrote, "a house of the wealth and standing of phelps, dodge and company would be above the influences that induce the ordinary brood of importers to commit fraud. that same wealth and standing became an almost impenetrable armor against suspicion of wrong-doing and diverted the attention of the officers of the government, preventing that scrutiny which they give to acts of other and less favored importers." jayne went on to tell how he had proceeded with great caution in "establishing beyond question gross under-valuations," and how united states district attorney noah davis (later a supreme court justice) concurred with him that fraud had been committed. * * * * * * * the great frauds of phelps, dodge and company. the government red tape showed signs at first of declining to unwind, but further investigation proved the frauds so great, that even the red tape was thrilled into action, and the government began a suit in the united states district court at new york for $ , , for penalties for fraudulent custom-house under-valuations. it sued william e. dodge, william e. dodge, jr., d. willis james, anson phelps stokes, james stokes and thomas stokes as the participating members of the firm. the suit was a purely civil one; influential defrauders were not inconvenienced by government with criminal actions and the prospect of prison lodging and fare; this punishment was reserved exclusively for petty offenders outside of the charmed circle. the sum of $ , , sued for by the government referred to penalties due since only; the firm's duplicates of invoices covering the period before that could not be found; "they had probably been destroyed;" hence, it was impossible to ascertain how much phelps, dodge and company had defrauded in the previous years. the firm's total importations were about $ , , a year; it was evident, according to the government officials, that the frauds were not only enormous, but that they had been going on for a long time. these frauds were not so construed "by any technical construction, or far-fetched interpretation," but were committed "by the firm's deliberately and systematically stating the cost of their goods below the purchase price for no conceivable reason but to lessen the duties to be paid to the united states." these long-continuing frauds could not have been possible without the custom-house officials having been bribed to connive. the practice of bribing customs officers was an old and common one. in his report to the house of representatives on february , , representative van wyck, chairman of an investigating committee, fully described this system of bribery. in summarizing the evidence brought out in the examination of fifty witnesses he dealt at length with the custom house officials who for large bribes were in collusion with brokers and merchants. "no wonder," he exclaimed, "the concern [the custom house] is full of fraud, reeking with corruption." [footnote: the congrssional globe, appendix, thirty-seventh congress, third session, - , part ii: . "during the last session the secretary had the honor of transmitting the draft of a bill for the detection and prevention of fraudulent entries at the custom-houses, and he adheres to the opinion that the provisions therein embodied are necessary for the protection of the revenue.... for the past year the collector, naval officer, and surveyor of new york have entertained suspicions that fraudulent collusions with some of the customs officers existed. measures were taken by them to ascertain whether these suspicions were well founded. by persistent vigilance facts were developed which have led to the arrest of several parties and the discovery that a system of fraud has been successfully carried on for a series of years. these investigations are now being prosecuted under the immediate direction of the solicitor of the treasury, for the purpose of ascertaining the extent of those frauds and bringing the guilty parties to punishment. it is believed that the enactment at the last session of the bill referred to would have arrested, and that its enactment now will prevent hereafter, the frauds hitherto successfully practiced."-- annual report for of salmon p. chase, secretary of the treasury. no matter what laws were passed, however, the frauds continued, and the importers kept on bribing.] great was the indignation shown at the charges by the flustered members of the firm; most stoutly these "eminently proper" men asserted their innocence. [footnote: if the degree of the scandal that the unearthing of the frauds created is to be judged by the extent of space given to it by the newspapers, it must have been large and sensational. see issues of the new york "times" and other newspapers of january , , january , , march , , and april , . a full history of the case, with the official correspondence from the files of the treasury department, is to be found in the new york "times," issue of april , .] in point of fact (as has been shown in the chapters on the astor fortune) several of them had long been slyly defrauding in other fields, particularly by the corrupt procuring of valuable city land before and during the tweed regime. they had also been enriching themselves by the corrupt obtaining of railroad grants. there was a scurrying about by phelps, dodge and company to explain that some mistake had been made; but the government steadfastly pressed its action; and secretary boutwell curtly informed them that if they were innocent of guilt, they had the opportunity of proving so in court. after this ultimatum their tone changed; they exerted every influence to prevent the case from coming to trial, and they announced their willingness to compromise. the government was induced to accept their offer; and on february , , phelps, dodge and company paid to the united states treasury the sum of $ , . for the discontinuance of the million-dollar suit for custom-house frauds. [footnote: see houses executive documents, forty-third congress, first session, , doc. no. : . of the entire sum of $ , . paid by phelps, dodge and company to compromise the suit, chester a. arthur, then collector of, the port, later president of the united states, received $ , . as official fees; the naval officer and the surveyor of the port each were paid the same sum by the government, and jayne received $ , . as his percentage as informer. one of the methods of defrauding the government was peculiar. under the tariff act there was a heavy duty on imported zinc and lead, while works of art were admitted free of duty. phelps, dodge and company had zinc and lead made into europe into crude dianas, venuses and mercurys and imported them in that form, claiming exemption from the customs duty on the ground of their being "works of art."] their present wealth traced to fraud. from these persistent frauds came, to a large extent, the great collective and individual wealth of the members of this firm, and of their successors. it was also by reason of these frauds that phelps, dodge and company were easily able to outdo competitors. only recently, let it be added, they formed themselves into a corporation with a capital of $ , , . with the palpably great revenues from their continuous frauds, they were in an advantageous position to buy up many forms of property. beginning in the mining of copper, they obtained hold of many very rich mining properties; their copper mines yield at present ( ) about , , pounds a year. phelps, dodge and company also own extensive coal mines and lines of railroads in the southwest territories of the united states. ten thousand employees are directly engaged in their copper and coal mines and smaller works, and on the , miles of railroad directly owned and operated by them. so greatly were the members of the firm enriched by their frauds that when d. willis james, one of the partners sued by the government for fraudulent undervaluations, died on september , , he left an estate of not less than $ , , . john f. farrel, the appraiser, so reported in his report filed on march , , in the transfer tax department of the surrogate's department, new york city. but as the transfer tax has been, and is, continuously evaded by ingenious anticipatory devices, the estate, it is probable, reached much more. james owned (accepting the appraiser's specific report at a time when panic prices prevailed) tens of millions of dollars worth of stock in railroad, mining, manufacturing and other industries. he owned, for instance, $ , , worth of shares in the phelps-dodge copper queen mining company; $ , , in the old dominion company, and millions more in other mining companies. his holdings in the great northern railway, the history of which is one endless chain of fraud, amounted to millions of dollars--$ , , of preferred stock; $ , , of common stock; $ , , of stock in the great northern iron ore properties; $ , , of great northern railway shares in the form of subscription receipts, and so on. he was a large holder of stock in the northern pacific railway, the development of which, as we shall see, has been one of incessant frauds. his interest in the "good will" of phelps, dodge and company was appraised at $ , ; his interest in the same firm at $ , ; his cash on deposit with that firm at $ , . [footnote: at his death he was eulogistically described as "the merchant philanthropist." on the day after the appraiser's report was filed, the new york "times," issue of march , , said: "mr. james was a senior member of the firm of phelps, dodge & co., of john street. his interest in educational and philanthropic work was very deep, and by his will he left bequests amounting to $ , , to various charitable and religious institutions. the residue of the estate, amounting to $ , , , is left in equal shares to his widow and their son." on the same day that the appraiser's report was filed a large gathering of unemployed attempted to hold a meeting in union square to plead for the starting of public work, but were brutally clubbed, ridden down and dispersed by the police.] in the defrauding of the united states government however, phelps, dodge and company were doing no uncommon thing. the whole importing trade was incessantly and cohesively thriving upon this form of fraud. in his annual report for , henry c. johnson, united states commissioner of customs, estimated that tourists returning from europe yearly smuggled in as personal effects , trunks filled with dutiable goods valued at the enormous sum of $ , , . "it is well known," he added, "that much of this baggage is in reality intended to be put upon the market as merchandise, and that still other portions are brought over for third parties who have remained at home. most of those engaged in this form of importation are people of wealth"... [footnote: executive documents, forty-third congress, second session, , no. : .] similar and additional facts were brought out in great abundance by a united states senate committee appointed, in , to investigate customs frauds in new york. after holding many sessions this committee declared that it had found "conclusive evidence that the undervaluation of certain kinds of imported merchandise is persistently practiced to an alarming extent at the port of new york." [footnote: u.s. senate report, no. , forty-ninth congress, second session, senate reports, iii, - .] at all other ports the customs frauds were notorious. the frauds of the whiskey distillers in cheating the government out of the internal revenue tax were so enormous as to call forth several congressional investigations; [footnote: reports of committees, fortieth congress, third session, - . report no. , etc.] the millions of dollars thus defrauded were used as private capital in extending the distilleries; virtually all of the fortunes in the present whiskey trust are derived in great part from these frauds. the banks likewise cheated the government out of large sums in their evasion of the stamp tax. "this stamp tax," reported the comptroller of currency in , "is to a considerable extent evaded by banks and more frequently by depositors, by drawing post notes, or bills of exchange at one day's sight, instead of on demand, and by substituting receipts for checks." [footnote: executive document, no. , : .] it was from these various divisions of the capitalist class that the most caustic and virtuous tirades against gould came. the boards of trade and chambers of commerce were largely made up of men who, while assuming the most vaniloquent pretensions, were themselves malodorous with fraud. to read the resolutions passed by them, and to observe retrospectively the supreme airs of respectability and integrity they individually took on, one would conclude that they were all men of whitest, most irreproachable character. but the official reports contradict their pretensions at every turn; and they are all seen in their nakedness as perjurers, cheats and frauds, far more sinister in their mask than gould in his carelessly open career of theft and corruption. many of the descendants of that sordid aggregation live to-day in the luxury of inherited cumulative wealth, and boast of a certain "pride of ancestry" and "refinement of social position;" it is they from whom the sneers at the "lower classes" come; and they it is who take unto themselves the ordaining of laws and of customs and definitions of morality. [footnote: it is worthy of note that several of the descendants of the phelps-dodge-stokes families are men and women of the highest character and most radical principles. j. g. phelps stokes, for instance, joined the socialist party to work for the overthrow of the very system on which the wealth of his family is founded. a man more devoted to his principles, more keenly alive to the injustices and oppressions of the prevailing system, more conscientious in adhering to his views, and more upright in both public and private dealings, it would be harder to find than j. g. phelps stokes. he is one of the very few distinguished exceptions among his class.] from the very foundation of the united states government, not to mention what happened before that time, the custom-house frauds have been continuous up to the very present, without any intermission. the recent suits brought by the government against the sugar trust for gigantic frauds in cheating in the importation of sugar, were only an indication of the increasing frauds. the sugar trust was compelled to disgorge about $ , , , but this sum, it was admitted, was only a part of the enormous total out of which it had defrauded the government. the further great custom-house scandals and court proceedings in and showed that the bribery of custom-house weighers and inspectors had long been in operation, and that the whole importing class, as a class, was profiting heavily by this bribery and fraud. while the trials of importers were going on in the united states circuit court at new york, despatches from washington announced, on october , , that the treasury department estimated that the same kind of frauds as had been uncovered at new york, had flourished for decades, although in a somewhat lesser degree, at boston, philadelphia, norfolk, new orleans, san francisco and at other ports. "it is probable," stated these subdued despatches, "that these systematic filchings from the government's receipts cover a period of more than fifty years, and that in this, the minor officials of the new york custom house have been the greatest offenders, although their nefarious profits have been small in comparison with the illegitimate gains of their employers, the great importers. these are the views of responsible officials of the treasury department." these despatches stated the truth very mildly. the frauds have been going on for more than a century, and the government has been cheated out of a total of hundreds upon hundreds of millions of dollars, perhaps billions. and the thieving importers of these times comprise the respectable and highly virtuous chambers of commerce and boards of trade, as was the case in gould's day. they are ever foremost in pompously denouncing the very political corruption which they themselves cause and want and profit from; they are the fine fellows who come together in their solemn conclaves and resolve this and resolve that against "law-defying labor unions," or in favor of "a reform in our body politic," etc., etc. a glorious crew they are of excellent, most devout church members and charity dispensers; sleek, self-sufficient men who sit on grand juries and trial juries, and condemn the petty thieves to conviction carrying long terms of imprisonment. viewing commercial society, one is tempted to conclude that the worthiest members of society, as a whole, are to be found within the prisons; yes, indeed, the time may not be far away, when the stigma of the convict may be considered a real badge of ancestral honor. but the comparison of gould and the trading classes is by no means complete without adding anew a contrast between how the propertied plunderers as a class were immune from criminal prosecution, and the persecution to which the working class was subjected. although all sections of the commercial and financial class were cheating, swindling and defrauding with almost negligible molestation from government, the workers could not even plead for the right to work without drawing down upon themselves the full punitive animosity of governing powers whose every move was one of deference to the interests of property. apart from the salient fact that the prisons throughout the united states were crowded with poor criminals, while the machinery of the criminal courts was never seriously invoked against the commercial and financial classes, the police and other public functionaries would not even allow the workers to meet peacefully for the petitioning of redress. organized expressions of discontent are ever objectionable to the ruling class, not so much for what is said, as for the movements and reconstructions they may lead to--a fact which the police authorities, inspired from above, have always well understood. the clubbing of the unemployed. "the winter of - ," says mcneill, was one of extreme suffering. midwinter found tens of thousands of people on the verge of starvation, suffering for food, for the need of proper clothing, and for medical attendance. meetings of the unemployed were held in many places, and public attention called to the needs of the poor. the men asked for work and found it not, and children cried for bread.... the unemployed and suffering poor of new york city determined to hold a meeting and appeal to the public by bringing to their attention the spectacle of their poverty. they gained permission from the board of police to parade the streets and hold a meeting in tompkins square on january , , but on january the board of police and board of parks revoked the order and prohibited the meeting. it was impossible to notify the scattered army of this order, and at the time of the meeting the people marched through the gates of tompkins square.... when the square was completely filled with men, women and children, without a moment's warning, the police closed in upon them on all sides. one of the daily papers of the city confessed that the scene could not be described. people rushed from the gates and through the streets, followed by the mounted officers at full speed, charging upon them without provocation. screams of women and children rent the air, and the blood of many stained the streets, and to the further shame of this outrage it is to be added that when the general assembly of new york state was called to this matter they took testimony, but made no sign. [footnote: "the labor movement": - . in describing to the committee on grievances the horrors of this outrage, john swinton, a writer of great ability, and a man whose whole heart was with the helpless, suffering and exploited, closed his address by quoting this verse: "there is a poor blind samson in our land, shorn of his strength and bound with bonds of steel, who may in some grim revel raise his hand, and shake the pillars of the commonweal."] thus was the supremacy of "law and order" maintained. the day was saved for well-fed respectability, and starving humanity was forced back into its despairing haunts, there to reflect upon the club- taught lesson that empty stomachs should remain inarticulate. for the flash of a second, a nameless fright seized hold of the gilded quarters, but when they saw how well the police did their dispersing work, and choked up with their clubs the protests of aggregated suffering, self-confidence came back, revelry was resumed, and the saturnalia of theft went on unbrokenly. and a lucky day was that for the police. the methods of the ruling class were reflected in the police force; while perfumed society was bribing, defrauding and expropriating, the police were enriching themselves by a perfected system of blackmail and extortion of their own. police commissioners, chiefs, inspectors, captains and sergeants became millionaires, or at least, very rich from the proceeds of this traffic. not only did they extort regular payments from saloons, brothels and other establishments on whom the penalties of law could be visited, but they had a standing arrangement with thieves of all kinds, rich thieves as well as what were classed as ordinary criminals, by which immunity was sold at specified rates. [footnote: the very police captain, one williams, who commanded the police at the tompkins square gathering was quizzed by the "lexow committee" in as to where he got his great wealth. he it was who invented the term "tenderloin," signifying a district from which large collections in blackmail and extortion could be made. by , the annual income derived by the police from blackmailing and other sources of extortion was estimated at $ , , . (see "investigation of the police department of new york city," , v: .) with the establishment of greater new york the amount about doubled, or, perhaps, trebled.] the police force did not want this system interfered with; hence at all times toadied to the rich and influential classes as the makers of law and the creators of public opinion. to be on the good side of the rich, and to be praised as the defenders of law and order, furnished a screen of incalculable utility behind which they could carry on undisturbedly their own peculiar system of plunder. chapter xii the gould fortune and some antecedent factors with his score or more of millions of booty, jay gould now had much more than sufficient capital to compete with many of the richest magnates; and what he might lack in extent of capital when combated by a combination of magnates, he fully made up for by his pulverizing methods. his acute eye had previously lit upon the union pacific railroad as offering a surpassingly prolific field for a new series of thefts. nor was he mistaken. the looting of this railroad and allied railroads which he, russell sage and other members of the clique proceeded to accomplish, added to their wealth, it was estimated perhaps $ , , or more, the major share of which gould appropriated. it was commonly supposed in that the union pacific railroad had been so completely despoiled that scarcely a vestige was left to prey upon. but gould had an extraordinary faculty for devising new and fresh schemes of spoliation. he would discern great opportunities for pillage in places that others dismissed as barren; projects that other adventurers had bled until convinced nothing more was to be extracted, would be taken up by gould and become plethora of plunder under his dexterous touch. again and again gould was charged with being a wrecker of property; a financial beachcomber who destroyed that he might profit. these accusations, in the particular exclusive sense in which they were meant, were distortions. in almost every instance the railroads gathered in by gould were wrecked before he secured control; all that he did was to revive, continue and elaborate the process of wrecking. it had been proved so in the case of the erie railroad; he now demonstrated it with the union pacific railroad. the misleading accounts handed down. this railroad had been chartered by congress in to run from a line on the one hundredth meridian in nebraska to the western boundary of nevada. the actual story of its inception and construction is very different from the stereotyped accounts shed by most writers. these romancers, distinguished for their sycophancy and lack of knowledge, would have us believe that these enterprises originated as splendid and memorable exhibitions of patriotism, daring and ability. according to their version congress was so solicitous that these railroads should be built that it almost implored the projectors to accept the great gifts of franchises, land and money that it proffered as assistance. a radiantly glowing description is forged of the men who succeeded in laying these railroads; how there stretched immense reaches of wilderness which would long have remained desolate had it not been for these indomitable pioneers; and how by their audacious skill and persistence they at last prevailed, despite sneers and ridicule, and gave to the united states a chain of railroads such as a few years before it had been considered folly to attempt. very limpidly these narratives flow; two generations have drunk so deeply of them that they have become inebriated with the contemplation of these wonderful men. when romance, however, is hauled to the archives, and confronted with the frigid facts, the old dame collapses into shapeless stuffing. [illustration: residence of jay gould, fifth avenue, new york] in the opening chapter of the present part of this work it was pointed out by a generalization (to be frequently itemized by specifications later on) that the accounts customarily written of the origin of these railroads have been ridiculously incorrect. to prove them so it is only necessary to study the debates and the reports of congress before, and after, the granting of the charters. sectional interests in conflict. far greater forces than individual capitalists, or isolated groups of capitalists, were at work to promote or prevent the construction of this or that pacific road. in the struggle before the civil war between the capitalist system of the north and the slave oligarchy of the south, the chattel slavery forces exerted every effort to use the powers of government to build railroads in sections where their power would be extended and further intrenched. their representatives in congress feverishly strained themselves to the utmost to bring about the construction of a trans-continental railroad passing through the southwest. the northern constituents stubbornly fought the project. in reprisal, the southern legislators in congress frustrated every move for trans-continental railroads which, traversing hostile or too doubtful territory, would add to the wealth, power, population and interests of the north. the government was allowed to survey routes, but no comprehensive trans-continental pacific railroad bills were passed. the debates in congress during the session of over pacific railroads were intensely aciduous. speaking of the southern slave holders, senator wilson, of massachusetts, denounced them as "restless, ambitious gentlemen who are organizing southern leagues to open the african slave trade, and to conquer mexico and central america." he added with great acerbity: "they want a railroad to the pacific ocean; they want to carry slavery to the pacific and have a base line from which they can operate for the conquest of the continent south." [footnote: the congressional globe. thirty-fifth congress, second session, - , part ii, appendix: .] in fiery verbiage the southern senators slashed back, taunting the northerners with seeking to wipe out the system of chattel slavery, only to extend and enforce all the more effectually their own system of white slavery. the honorable senators unleashed themselves; senatorial dignity fell askew, and there was snarling and growling, retorts and backtalk and bad blood enough. the disclosures that day were extremely delectable. in the exchange of recriminations, many truths inadvertently came out. the capitalists of neither section, it appeared, were faithful to the interests of their constituencies. this was, indeed, no discovery; long had northern representatives been bribed to vote for land and money grants to railroads in the south, and vice versa. but the charges further brought out by senator wilson angered and exasperated his southern colleagues. "we all remember," said he, "that texas made a grant of six thousand dollars and ten thousand acres of land a mile to a pacific railway company." yes, in truth, they all remembered; the south had supported that railroad project as one that would aid in the extension of her power and institutions. "i remember," wilson went on, "that when that company was organized the men who got it up could not, by any possibility, have raised one hundred thousand dollars if they paid their honest debts. many of them were political bankrupts as well as pecuniary bankrupts--men who had not had a dollar; and some of them were men who not only never paid a debt, but never recognized an obligation." at this thrust a commotion was visible in the exalted chamber; the blow had been struck, and not far from where wilson stood. "years have passed away," continued the senator, "and what has texas got?" twenty-two or twenty-three miles of railway, with two cars upon it, with no depot, the company owning everything within hailing distance of the road; and they have imported an old worn-out engine from vermont. and this is part of your grand southern pacific railroad. these gentlemen are out in pamphlets, proving each other great rascals, or attempting to do so; and i think they have generally succeeded. ... the whole thing from the beginning has been a gigantic swindle. [footnote: the congressional globe, etc., - , part ii, appendix, .] what senator wilson neglected to say was that the capitalists of his own state and other northern states had effected even greater railroad swindles; the owners of the great mills in massachusetts were, as we shall see, likewise bribing congress to pass tariff acts. a myth of modern fabrication the myth had not then been built up of putative great construction pioneers, risking their every cent, and racking their health and brains, in the construction of railways. it was in the very heyday of the bribing and swindling, as numerous investigating committees showed; there could be no glamour or illusion then. the money lavishly poured out for the building of railroads was almost wholly public money drawn from compulsory taxation of the whole people. at this identical time practically every railroad corporation in the country stood indebted for immense sums of public money, little of which was ever paid back. in new york state more than $ , , of public funds had gone into the railroads; in vermont $ , , and large sums in every other state and territory. the whole legislature and state government of wisconsin had been bribed with a total of $ , , in , to give a large land grant to one company alone, details of which transaction will be found elsewhere. [footnote: see the chapters on the russell sage fortune.]the state of missouri had already disbursed $ , , of public funds; not content with these loans and donations two of its railroads demanded, in , that the state pay interest on their bonds. in both north and south the plundering was equally conspicuous. some of the northern senators were fond of pointing out the incompetency and rascality of the southern oligarchy, while ignoring the acts of the capitalists in their own section. senator wilson, for instance, enlarged upon the condition of the railroads in north and south carolina, describing how, after having been fed with enormous subsidies, they were almost worthless. and if anything was calculated to infuriate the southerners it was the boast that the capitalists of massachusetts had $ , , invested in railroads, for they knew, and often charged, that most of this sum had been cheated by legislation out of the national, state or other public treasury, and that what had not been so obtained had been extracted largely from the underpaid and overworked laborers of the mills. often they had compared the two systems of labor, that of the north and that of the south, and had pointedly asked which was really the worse. not until after the civil war was under way, and the north was in complete control of congress, was it that most of the pacific railroad legislation was secured. the time was exceedingly propitious. the promoters and advocates of these railroads could now advance the all-important argument that military necessity as well as popular need called for their immediate construction. no longer was there any conflict at washington over legislation proposed by warring sectional representatives. but another kind of fight in congress was fiercely set in motion. competitive groups of northern capitalists energetically sought to outdo one another in getting the charters and appropriations for pacific railroads. after a bitter warfare, in which bribery was a common weapon, a compromise was reached by which the union pacific railroad company was to have the territory west of a point in nebraska, while to other groups of capitalists, headed by john i. blair and others, charters and grants were given for a number of railroads to start at different places on the missouri river, and converge at the point from which the union pacific ran westward. in the course of the debate on the pacific railroads bill, senator pomeroy introduced an amendment providing for the importation of large numbers of cheap european laborers, and compelling them to stick to their work in the building of the railroads under the severest penalties for non-compliance. it was, in fact, a proposal to have the united states government legalize the peonage system of white slavery. pomeroy's amendment specifically provided that the troops should be called upon to enforce these civil contracts. "it strikes one as the most monstrous proposition i ever heard of," interjected senator rice. "it is a measure to enslave white men, and to enforce that slavery at the point of the bayonet. i begin to believe what i have heard heretofore in the south, that the object of some of these gentlemen was merely to transfer slavery from the south to the north; and i think this is the first step toward it." [footnote: the congressional globe, thirty-seventh congress, third session, - . part ii: - .] the amendment was defeated. the act which congress passed authorized the chartering of the union pacific railroad with a capital of $ , , . in addition to granting the company the right of way, two hundred feet wide, through thousands of miles of the public domain, of arbitrary rights of condemnation, and the right to take from the public lands whatever building material was needed, congress gave as a gift to the company alternate sections of land twenty miles wide along the entire line. still further, the company was empowered to call upon the government for large loans of money. congress bribed for the union pacific charter. it was highly probable that this act was obtained by bribery. there is not the slightest doubt that the supplementary act of was. the directors and stockholders of the company were not satisfied with the comprehensive privileges that they had already obtained. it was very easy, they saw, to get still more. among these stockholders were many of the most effulgent merchants and bankers in the country; we find william e. dodge, for instance, on the list of stockholders in . the pretext that they offered as a public bait was that "capital needed more inducements to encourage it to invest its money." but this assuredly was not the argument prevailing in congress. according to the report of a senate committee of --the "wilson committee"--nearly $ , was spent in getting the act of july, , passed. [footnote: reports of committees, credit mobilier reports, forty-second congress, third session, ; doc. no. : xviii. the committee reported that the evidence proved that this sum had been disbursed in connection with the passage of the amendatory act of july , .] for this $ , distributed in fees and bribes, the union pacific railroad company secured the passage of a law giving it even more favorable government subsidies, amounting to from $ , to $ , a mile, according to the topography of the country. the land grant was enlarged from twenty to forty miles wide until it included about , , acres, and the provisions of the original act were so altered and twisted that the government stood little or no chance of getting back its outlays. the capitalists behind the project now had franchises, gifts and loans actually or potentially worth many hundreds of millions of dollars. but to get the money appropriated from the national treasury, it was necessary by the act that they should first have constructed certain miles of their railroads. the eastern capitalists had at home so many rich avenues of plunder in which to invest their funds--money wrung out of army contracts, usury and other sources-- that many of them were indisposed to put any of it in the unpopulated stretches of the far west. the banks, as we have seen, were glutting on twenty, and often fifty, and sometimes a hundred per cent.; they saw no opportunity to make nearly as much from the pacific railroads. the credit mobilier jobbery. all the funds that the union pacific railroad company could privately raise by was the insufficient sum of $ , . some greater incentive was plainly needed to induce capitalists to rush in. oakes ames, head of the company, and a member of congress, finally hit upon the auspicious scheme. it was the same scheme that the vanderbilts, gould, sage, blair, huntington, stanford, crocker and other railroad magnates employed to defraud stupendous sums of money. ames produced the alluring plan of a construction company. this corporation was to be a compact affair composed of himself and his charter associates; and, so far as legal technicalities went, was to be a corporation apparently distinct and separate from the union pacific railroad company. its designed function was to build the railroad, and the plan was to charge the union pacific exorbitant and fraudulent sums for the work of construction. what was needed was a company chartered with comprehensive powers to do the constructing work. this desideratum was found in the credit mobilier company of america, a pennsylvania corporation, conveniently endowed with the most extensive powers. the stock of this company was bought in for a few thousand dollars, and the way was clear for the colossal frauds planned. the prospects for profit and loot were so unprecedentedly great that capitalists now blithely and eagerly darted forward. one has only to examine the list of stockholders of the credit mobilier company in to verify this fact. conspicuous bankers such as morton, bliss and company and william h. macy; owners of large industrial plants and founders of multimillionaire fortunes such as cyrus h. mccormick and george m. pullman; merchants and factory owners and landlords and politicians--a very edifying and inspiring array of respectable capitalists was it that now hastened to buy or get gifts of credit mobilier stock. [footnote: the full lists of these stockholders can be found in docs. no. and no. , reports of u. s. senate committees, - . morton, bliss & co. held , shares; pullman, , shares, etc. the morton referred to--levi p. morton--was later ( - ) made vice president of the united states by the money interests.] the contract for construction was turned over to the credit mobilier company. this, in turn, engaged subcontractors. the work was really done by these subcontractors with their force of low-paid labor. oakes ames and his associates did nothing except to look on executively from a comfortable distance, and pocket the plunder. as fast as certain portions of the railroad were built the union pacific railroad company received bonds from the united states treasury. in all, these bonds amounted to $ , , , out of much of which sum the government was later practically swindled. great corruption and vast thefts. charges of enormous thefts committed by credit mobilier company, and of corruption of congress, were specifically made by various individuals and in the public press. a sensational hullabaloo resulted; congress was stormed with denunciations; it discreetly concluded that some action had to be taken. the time-honored, mildewed dodge of appointing an investigating committee was decided upon. virtuously indignant was congress; zealously inquisitive the committee appointed by the united states senate professed to be. very soon its honorable members were in a state of utter dismay. for the testimony began to show that some of the most powerful men in congress were implicated in credit mobilier corruption; men such as james g. blaine, one of the foremost republican politicians of the period, and james a. garfield, who later was elevated into the white house. every effort was bent upon whitewashing these men; the committee found that as far as their participation was concerned "nothing was proved," but, protest their innocence as they vehemently did, the tar stuck, nevertheless. as to the thefts of the credit mobilier company, the committee freely stated its conclusions. ames and his band, the evidence showed, had stolen nearly $ , , outright, more than half of which was in cash. the committee, to be sure, was not so brutal as to style it theft; with a true parliamentarian regard for sweetness and sacredness of expression, the committee's report described it as "profit." after holding many sessions, and collating volumes of testimony, the committee found, as it stated in its report, that the total cost of building the union pacific railroad was about $ , , . and what had the credit mobilier company charged? nearly $ , , or, to be exact, $ , , . . [footnote: doc. no. , credit mobilier investigation: xiv.] the committee admitted that "the road had been built chiefly with the resources of the government." [footnote: ibid., xx.] a decided mistake; it had been entirely built so. the committee itself showed how the entire cost of building the road had been "wholly reimbursed from the proceeds of the government bonds and first mortgage bonds," and that "from the stock, income bonds, and land grant bonds, the builders received in cash value $ , , as profit--about forty-eight per cent. on the entire cost." [footnote: ibid., xvii.] the total "profits" represented the difference between the cost of building the railroad and the amount charged--about $ , , in all, of which $ , , or more was in immediate cash. it was more than proved that the amount was even greater; the accounts had been falsified to show that the cost of construction was $ , , . large sums of money, borrowed ostensibly to build the road, had at once been seized as plunder, and divided in the form of dividends upon stock for which the clique had not paid a cent in money, contrary to law. thrifty, sagacious patriotism. who could deny that the phalanx of capitalists scrambling forward to share in this carnival of plunder were not gifted with unerring judgment? from afar they sighted their quarry. nearly all of them were the fifty per cent. "patriot" capitalists of the civil war; and, just as in all extant biographies, they are represented as heroic, self-sacrificing figures during that crisis, when in historical fact, they were defrauding and plundering indomitably, so are they also glorified as courageous, enterprising men of prescience, who hazarded their money in building the pacific railroads at a time when most of the far west was an untenanted desert. and this string of arrant falsities has passed as "history!" if they had that foresight for which they were so inveterately lauded, it was a foresight based upon the certainty that it would yield them forty-eight per cent. profit and more from a project on which not one of them did the turn of a hand's work, for even the bribing of congress was done by paid agents. nor did they have to risk the millions that they had obtained largely by fraud in trade and other channels; all that they had to do was to advance that money for a short time until they got it back from the government resources, with forty-eight per cent profit besides. the senate committee's report came out at a time of panic when many millions of men, women and children were out of work, and other millions in destitution. it was in that very year when the workers in new york city were clubbed by the police for venturing to hold a meeting to plead for the right to work. but the bribing of congress in , and the thefts in the construction of the railroad, were only parts of the gigantic frauds brought out--frauds which a people who believed themselves under a democracy had to bear and put up with, or else be silenced by force. the bribery persistently continues. when the act of was passed, congress plausibly pointed out the wise, precautionary measures it was taking to insure the honest disbursements of the government's appropriations. "behold," said in effect this congress, "the safeguards with which we are surrounding the bill. we are providing for the appointment of government directors to supervise the work, and see to it that the government's interests do not suffer." very appropriate legislation, indeed, from a congress in which $ , of bribe money had been apportioned to insure its betrayal of the popular interests. buts ames and his brother capitalists bribed at least one of the government directors with $ , to connive at the frauds: [footnote: document no. , credit mobilier investigation: xvii] he was a cheaply bought tool, that director. and immediately after the railroad was built and in operation, its owners scented more millions of plunder if they could get a law enacted by congress allowing them exorbitant rates for the transportation of troops and government supplies and mails. they corruptly paid out, it seems, $ , to get this measure of march , , passed. [footnote: doc. no. , etc., xvii.] what was the result of all this investigation? mere noise. the oratorial tom-toms in congress resounded vociferously for the gulling of home constituencies, and of palaver and denunciations there was a plenitude. the committee confined itself to recommending the expulsion of oakes ames and james brooks from congress. the government bravely brought a civil action, upon many specified charges, against the union pacific railroad company for misappropriation of funds. this action the company successfully fought; the united states supreme court, in , dismissed the suit on the ground that the government could not sue until the company's debt had matured in . [footnote: u.s. .] thus these great thieves escaped both criminal and civil process, as they were confident that they would, and as could have been accurately foretold. the immense plunder and the stolen railroad property the perpretrators of these huge frauds were allowed to keep. congress could have forfeited upon good legal grounds the charter of the union pacific railroad company then and there. so long as this was note done, and so long as they were unmolested in the possession of their loot, the participating capitalists could well afford to be curiously tolerant of verbal chastisement which soon passed away, and which had no other result than to add several more ponderous volumes to the already appallingly encumbered archives of government investigations of the stock of the union pacific railroad was at a very low point. the excessive amount of plunder appropriated by ames and his confederates had loaded it down with debt. with fixed charges on enormous quantities of bonds to pay, few capitalists saw how the stock could be made to yield any returns--for some time, at any rate. now was seen the full hollowness of the pretensions of the capitalists that they were inspired by a public-spirited interest in the development of the far west. this pretext had been jockeyed out for every possible kind of service. as soon as they were convinced that the credit mobilier clique had sacked the railroad of all immediate plunder, the participating capitalists showed a sturdy alacrity in shunning the project and disclaiming any further connection with it. their stock, for the most part, was offered for sale. jay gould comes forward it was now that jay gould eagerly stepped in. where others saw cessation of plunder, he spied the richest possibilities for a new onslaught. for years he had been a covetous spectator of the operations of the credit mobilier; and, of course, had not been able to contain himself from attempting to get a hand in its stealings. he and fisk had repeatedly tried to storm their way in, and had carried trumped-up cases into the courts, only to be eventually thwarted. now his chance came. what if $ , , had been stolen? gould knew that it had other resources of very great value; for, in addition to the $ , , government bonds that the union pacific railroad had received, it also had as asset about , , acres of land presented by congress. some of this land had been sold by the railroad company at an average of about $ . an acre, but the greater part still remained in its ownership. and millions of acres more could be fraudulently seized, as the sequel proved. gould also was aware--for he kept himself informed--that, twenty years previously, government geologists had reported that extensive coal deposits lay in wyoming and other parts of the west. these deposits would become of incalculable value; and while they were not included in the railroad grants, some had already been stolen, and it would be easy to get hold of many more by fraud. and that he was not in error in this calculation was shown by the fact that the union pacific railroad and other allied railroads under his control, and under that of his successors, later seized hold of many of these coal deposits by violence and fraud. [footnote: the interstate commerce commission reported to the united states senate in that the acquisition of these coal lands had "been attended with fraud, perjury, violence and disregard of the rights of individuals," and showed specifically how. various other government investigations fully supported the charges.] gould also knew that every year immigration was pouring into the west; that in time its population, agriculture and industries would form a rich field for exploitation. by the well-understood canons of capitalism, this futurity could be capitalized in advance. moreover, he had in mind other plans by which tens of millions could be stolen under form of law. fisk had been murdered, but gould now leagued himself with much abler confederates, the principal of whom was russell sage. it is well worth while pausing here to give some glimpses of sage's career, for he left an immense fortune, estimated at considerably more than $ , , , and his widow, who inherited it, has attained the reputation of being a "philanthropist" by disbursing a few of those millions in what she considers charitable enterprises. one of her endowed "philanthropies" is a bureau to investigate the causes of poverty and to improve living conditions; another for the propagation of justice. deeply interested as the benign mrs. sage professes to be in the causes producing poverty and injustice, a work such as this may peradventure tend to enlighten her. this highly desirable knowledge she can thus herein procure direct and gratuitously. furthermore, it is necessary, before describing the joint activities of gould and sage, to give a prefatory account of sage's career; what manner of man he was, and how he obtained the millions enabling him to help carry forward those operations. peter parley's visit to london. london: clarke, printers, silver street, falcon square. [illustration: _madeley lith. , wellington st. strand._ the coronation of her majesty queen victoria.] peter parley's visit to london, during the coronation of queen victoria. [illustration] london: charles tilt, fleet street. mdcccxxxix. to the good little boys and girls of great britain, peter parley dedicates these pages. contents. chapter i. parley arrives in london page chapter ii. parley goes to see the new crown chapter iii. parley visits westminster abbey and hyde-park.--preparations for the fair chapter iv. parley sees the queen, and relates some anecdotes of her majesty chapter v. parley continues his anecdotes of the queen chapter vi. parley describes westminster abbey on the morning of the coronation, and relates the legends connected with st. edward's chair chapter vii. parley describes the procession to westminster abbey chapter viii. parley describes the coronation in westminster abbey chapter ix. parley continues his description of the coronation in westminster abbey chapter x. parley gives an account of the illuminations, and of the grand display of fire-works chapter xi. parley attends a review in hyde park, and relates some passages in the life of marshal soult.--conclusion peter parley's visit to london. chapter i. parley arrives in london. "well, my little friends, here is your old acquaintance, peter parley, come to tell some more of his amusing tales. you wonder, i dare say, what could tempt such a frail old man as i am to leave home, and come so far. you shall hear. "a coronation, you must know, is a sight not to be seen every day in the united states, where we have neither king nor queen, so thinks i to myself, i hear a great deal about the grandeur of the spectacle which is to be exhibited at the crowning of queen victoria, and though i have seen many grand sights in my day, i have never seen a coronation, so i shall just get into one of these new steam ships which take one across the atlantic ocean so quickly, and have a look at the affair. i shall, besides, have an opportunity of seeing the kind london friends who treated me so handsomely when i was last in england, and then i shall have such lots of new stories for my young friends. i must--i shall go! "peter parley is not a man to spend much time in idling after having formed a resolution, so the very next day, having bid my old housekeeper good bye, i was on my way to new york. "as soon as i arrived at new york, i made enquiries about the steam ships, and, finding that the 'great western' was to sail very soon, i secured my passage in her, and then went to visit my friends in that city, for i always like to fulfil the old adage, and finish my work before i begin to play. "every body was surprised at my undertaking, and some kind folks wanted to persuade me to stay at home, thinking to frighten me by telling me about the length of the voyage, &c. they did not know peter parley. one wag, who wished to be very witty, asked me why i did not wait and take my passage in the new american ship, the 'horse-alligator,' which was to sail on the th of june, and arrive in london the day before! i could not help laughing at the idea, but i told him that steam was quick enough for me. "i have already told you about my voyages across the atlantic, so i need do no more now than make just one passing remark on the splendour of the fitting-up, and the admirable arrangements of the 'great western.' we passed a great many vessels as we came along, especially when we were not far distant from the american and english shores. they had no chance with us. sometimes we discovered them far a-head, like mere specks on the ocean. in an hour or two we came up with them, and, in as much more time, left them far behind. the steady and untiring whirl of the steamer's paddles carried every thing before it. "we reached bristol in thirteen days, and, as i had nothing to detain me there, i hurried on to london, and arrived in the middle of the grand preparations. "every body was as busy as a bee.--nothing was talked of but the coronation. 'oh! mr. parley, have you come to see the coronation too?' was my first salute from every lip. my kind old friend, major meadows, insisted on my taking up my quarters in his house, and promised that i should see every thing that was to be seen, and hear every thing that was to be heard. this was just what i wanted to be at, so i fixed myself with him at once." chapter ii. parley goes to see the new crown. "after paying a few visits, and renewing old friendships, i set myself, in good earnest, to see what was to be seen. "the most attractive object, connected with the coronation, exhibiting at the time, was the new crown made for the occasion. i accordingly made the best of my way into the city, to the shop of messrs. rundell and bridge, her majesty's goldsmiths, on ludgate hill, who, with the greatest liberality, had thrown open their rooms that the public might have an opportunity of inspecting the crown. "so great was the crowd, all anxious to have a peep, that it was some time before i could press forward to the door of the shop. carriages were so busy taking up and setting down company, that the street was quite blocked up. at length, however, by dint of perseverance, peter parley managed to squeeze in. "after traversing the shop, all round which are ranged articles of the most massive and costly description, we were ushered into an interior apartment, in which, in glass cases, were deposited the precious curiosities. "in the centre, the admired of all beholders, was the royal crown. it is beautifully designed, and formed in the most costly and elegant manner, and so covered with precious stones, as almost to dazzle the eyes of old peter parley. it is composed of hoops of silver, enclosing a cap of deep purple velvet. the hoops are completely covered and concealed by precious stones, the whole surmounted by a ball covered with small diamonds, and having a maltese cross of brilliants on the top of it. the body of the crown is wreathed with fleurs-de-lis and maltese crosses; the one in the front being ornamented with a very large heart-shaped ruby, once, i was informed, a principal ornament in the crown of edward the black prince, and which he is said to have worn at the battle of cressy. peter parley cannot remember all the details, for besides these, there are many other precious stones in the crown. the rim is surrounded with ermine, and it certainly struck me as being one of the finest things i had ever seen. "close beside the crown were the coronets of the royal dukes and duchesses, but though they also were made of costly materials, the attractions of the crown were so great as to throw the others quite into the back ground. i had hardly time to turn my eyes toward the case containing the orb and sword of state, before i was hurried away by the pressure of the crowd behind, which kept pouring in in undiminished numbers. "as i moved towards the door behind the shop, which was set apart for visitors retiring, i passed a table on which was displayed a service of massive gold utensils, to be used in the consecration service. "when i reached the street, i found it still densely crowded. i wanted to go to st. paul's, which stands close by, but was afraid to venture into such a crowd, so i directed my steps to westminster abbey, making my way with some difficulty down ludgate hill and along fleet street, and passing beneath temple bar, which marks the boundary of the city." chapter iii. parley visits westminster abbey and hyde-park. preparations for the fair. "as i approached the venerable pile i found all in bustle and confusion. every where carpenters were busily engaged fitting up galleries for the accommodation of spectators of the procession on the day of the coronation. ranges of such erections lined the whole course of the street through which the procession was to pass, up to the very door of the abbey; even the church-yard was lined with them. these i was told were the speculations of tradesmen, who let the sittings according to the value of the situation, at prices varying from half-a-sovereign up to a couple of guineas. for some very choice places even five guineas was asked. "peter parley could not help smiling at the fine names which had been given to some of these erections; such as the 'royal victoria gallery,' the 'royal kent gallery,' &c., &c. "by order of the earl marshal no visitors were permitted to enter the abbey; but as good luck would have it, just as i happened to be passing the western grand entrance i met a gentleman connected with the board of works, whom i had seen at major meadows's the day before, and who most obligingly offered to introduce me. "i gladly availed myself of his invitation, and was much struck with the grandeur and extent of the preparations. "at the western entrance to the abbey a suite of apartments for robing-rooms for her majesty and the members of the royal family had been erected. so completely did this structure harmonize externally with the rest of the antique building, that i should not have observed that it was a temporary erection had it not been pointed out to me. the chamber set apart for her majesty was fitted up in the most gorgeous manner--the walls beautifully ornamented, and the furniture, all of the richest and most magnificent description. though less costly the apartments for the royal family were equally chaste. "the interior of the abbey presented a scene at once animated and beautiful. workmen were busily engaged in various parts finishing the preparations. i will have occasion to tell you about the interior of the abbey by and by, so i may as well say nothing about it at present. "peter parley now proceeded to hyde-park to see the preparations for the grand fair which was to be held in that noble pleasure-ground on this joyous occasion. "already many booths displayed themselves on the plain, and many more were in the act of being erected. richardson, who peter parley understood is one of the most famous of the show-folks, had erected a large and handsome theatre, which even thus early seemed to have considerable attractions for the multitude who had gathered round it in great numbers. "peter parley having seen all that was worth seeing in the fair was beginning to feel tired, and was directing his steps homeward, when all of a sudden his attention was attracted to a particular part of the park to which people seemed to be hastening from all quarters. peter parley hurried to the spot and was most agreeably surprised to find that it was queen victoria, accompanied by her suite, taking her accustomed airing in her carriage." chapter iv. parley sees the queen, and relates some anecdotes of her majesty. "'what a dear sweet lady!' were the first words of peter parley when the royal cavalcade had passed. [illustration: _madeley lith. , wellington st. strand._ her majesty leaving buckingham palace on the morning of the coronation.] "'she is a dear sweet lady, mr. parley, and, what is more, she is as good as she is sweet,' said my friend, major meadows, who, afraid lest i should overwalk myself in my zeal for sight-seeing, had followed me from westminster abbey and luckily fallen in with me in the park, and he went on to relate many very interesting anecdotes of the young queen, which peter parley took good care to remember because he knew they would gratify his young friends." "'her majesty is doatingly fond of children, mr. parley,' said he, 'and that you know is always the sign of a good heart. nothing can be finer than the traits of character exhibited in a little anecdote which lady m---- told me a day or two ago. "'not long since, her majesty commanded lady barham, one of the ladies in waiting, to bring her family of lovely children to the new palace. they were greatly admired and fondly caressed by the queen; when a beautiful little boy about three years of age artlessly said-- "'i do not see the queen; i want to see the queen;' upon which her majesty, smiling, said-- "'i am the queen, love;' and taking her little guest into her arms repeatedly kissed the astonished child. "this little anecdote warmed old peter parley's heart towards the young queen; nor did any of the stories which major meadows told me tend to lessen my regard for her. peter parley was pleased to hear that she has a proper sense of the importance of the station to which she has been called by divine providence. "on the day on which she was proclaimed queen of great britain she arrived in company with her royal mother at st. james's palace for the purpose of taking part in the important ceremony. as they drove towards the palace the party received the most affectionate demonstrations of loyalty and attachment, the people following the carriages with a continuous cry of 'long live the queen'--'god bless our youthful queen, long may she live,' &c. yet, exciting and exhilirating as were these acclamations, her majesty's countenance exhibited marks only of anxiety and grief. "they arrived at st. james's palace a little before ten o'clock. when the old bell of the palace-clock announced that hour, the band struck up the national anthem, the park and tower guns fired a double royal salute, and the young and trembling queen, led by the marquis of lansdowne, president of the council, appeared at an open window looking into the great court of the palace. at the fervent and enthusiastic shout of the people who had come to witness the ceremony, her majesty burst into tears, and, in spite of all her efforts to restrain them, they continued to flow down her pale cheeks all the time she remained at the window. her emotions did not, however, prevent her from returning her acknowledgments for the devotedness of her people. "some of the most interesting anecdotes which peter parley heard, however, related to an earlier period of the queen's life, when she was princess victoria. "'here is an anecdote which i heard at a missionary meeting, mr. parley,' said major meadows, 'and i assure you it told with great effect.'" "a poor but truly pious widow, placed in charge of a lighthouse on the south coast of the mersey, had resolved to devote the receipts of one day in the year, during the visiting season, to the missionary cause. on one of these days, a lady in widow's weeds and a little girl in deep mourning came to see the lighthouse; sympathy in misfortune led to conversation, and before the unknown visitor took her departure they had most probably mingled their tears together. the lady left behind her a sovereign. the unusually large gratuity immediately caused a conflict in the breast of the poor woman, as to whether she was absolutely bound to appropriate the whole of it to the missionary-box or not. at length she compromised, by putting in half-a-crown. but conscience would not let her rest: she went to bed, but could not sleep; she arose, took back the half-crown, put in the sovereign, went to bed and slept comfortably. a few days afterwards, to her great surprise, she received a double letter, franked, and on opening it, was no less astonished than delighted to find twenty pounds from the widow lady, and five pounds from the little girl in deep mourning. and who were that lady and that little girl, do you think? no other than her royal highness the duchess of kent and our present rightful and youthful sovereign." "during one of the summer seasons of the princess's childhood the duchess of kent resided in the neighbourhood of malvern, and almost daily walked on the downs. one day the princess and her beautiful little dog pero, of which she was uncommonly fond, happening considerably to outstrip the duchess and governess, she overtook a little peasant girl about her own age. with the thoughtless hilarity of youth she made up to her, and without ceremony, said to her-- "'my dog is very tired, will you carry him for me if you please?' "the good-natured girl, quite unconscious of the rank of the applicant, immediately complied, and tripped along by the side of the princess for some time in unceremonious conversation. at length she said, "'i am tired now, and cannot carry your dog any farther.' "'tired!' cried her royal highness, 'impossible! think what a little way you have carried him!' "'quite far enough,' was the homely reply; 'besides, i am going to my aunt's, and if your dog must be carried, why cannot you carry him yourself?' "so saying, she placed pero on the grass, and he again joyfully frisked beside his royal mistress. "'going to your aunt's;' rejoined the princess, unheeding pero's gambols; 'pray who is your aunt?' "'mrs. johnson, the miller's wife.' "'and where does she live?' "'in that pretty little white house which you see just at the bottom of the hill, there;' said the unconscious girl, pointing it out among the trees; and the two companions stood still that the princess might make sure that she was right, thus giving the duchess and her companion time to come up. "'oh, i should like to see her!' exclaimed the light-hearted princess; 'i will go with you, come let us run down the hill together.' "'no, no, my princess,' cried the governess, coming up and taking her royal highness's hand, 'you have conversed long enough with that little girl, and now the duchess wishes you to walk with her. "the awful words 'princess' and 'duchess' quite confounded the little peasant girl; blushing and almost overcome, she earnestly begged pardon for the liberties she had taken, but her fears were instantly allayed by the duchess, who, after thanking her for her trouble in carrying pero, recompensed her by giving her half-a-crown. "delighted, the little girl curtsied her thanks, and running on briskly to her aunt's, she related all that had passed, dwelling particularly on the apprehension she had felt when she discovered that it was the princess whom she had desired to carry her dog herself. the half-crown was afterwards framed and hung up in the miller's homely parlour, as a memento of this pleasing little adventure." "this is but a childish story, but peter parley loves to hear stories of good children, and he knows that his little friends love to hear them too." chapter v. parley continues his anecdotes of the queen. "there was one anecdote of the queen from which peter parley derived much pleasure, because it showed that, notwithstanding her high station, she is not unmindful of him by whom 'kings reign, and princes decree justice.' "a noble lord, one of her majesty's ministers of state, not particularly remarkable for his observance of holy ordinances, recently arrived at windsor castle late one saturday night. "'i have brought down for your majesty's inspection,' he said, 'some papers of importance, but as they must be gone into at length i will not trouble your majesty with them to-night, but request your attention to them to-morrow morning.' "'to-morrow morning!' repeated the queen; 'to-morrow is sunday, my lord.' "'but business of state, please your majesty--' "'must be attended to, i know,' replied the queen, 'and as of course you could not come down earlier to-night, i will, if those papers are of such vital importance, attend to them _after we come from church to-morrow morning_.' "to church went the royal party; to church went the noble lord, and much to his surprise the sermon was on '_the duties of the sabbath_!' "'how did your lordship like the sermon?' enquired the young queen. "'very much, your majesty,' replied the nobleman, with the best grace he could. "'i will not conceal from you,' said the queen, 'that last night i sent the clergyman the text from which he preached. i hope we shall all be the better for it.' "the day passed without a single word on the subject of the 'papers of importance,' and at night, when her majesty was about to withdraw, 'to-morrow morning, my lord,' she said, 'at any hour you please, and as early as seven if you like, we will go into these papers.' "his lordship could not think of intruding at so early an hour on her majesty; 'nine would be quite time enough.' "'as they are of importance, my lord, i would have attended to them earlier, but at nine be it;' and at nine her majesty was seated ready to receive the nobleman, who had been taught a lesson on the duties of the sabbath, it is hoped, he will not quickly forget. "exemplary as the young queen is in her religious duties, however, peter parley was pleased to find that she does not allow her religion to consist in mere theory, but that in reality she clothes the poor and feeds the hungry. "on one occasion when her majesty, accompanied by her suite, was taking an airing on horseback, in the neighbourhood of windsor, she was overtaken by a heavy shower, which forced the royal party to seek shelter in an outhouse belonging to a farm yard, where a poor man was busily employed making hurdles. her majesty entered into conversation with the man (who was totally ignorant who he was addressing), and finding that he had a large family and no means of supporting them beyond what he gained by making these hurdles, her majesty enquired where he lived, and on taking her departure presented him with a sovereign. next day she went, accompanied by her royal mother, to the cottage of the poor man, and finding his statement to be correct, immediately provided some good warm clothing for his wife and children. her majesty seemed very much pleased with the neatness and regularity of the cottage, and on taking her departure presented the poor woman with a five-pound note. "there was no end to stories of this description, but i can only afford room for two or three more; one of which, in particular, shows how early the queen has been taught to look up to the only source of real comfort in affliction. "an old man who once served in the capacity of porter to the duke of kent, and who, in his old age and infirmity, has long since been pensioned by the duchess, is not a little gratified at receiving a nod of recognition from her majesty whenever her carriage chances to pass his cottage. the aged man has a daughter much afflicted, and who has been confined to bed for eight or ten years. on the evening of the late king's funeral this young woman was equally surprised and delighted at receiving from the queen a present of the psalms of david in which was a marker worked by herself with a dove, the emblem of peace, in the centre. it pointed to the forty-first psalm, which her majesty requested she would read, at the same time expressing a hope that its frequent perusal might bring an increase of peace to her mind. "another poor man named smith, who had for several years swept the crossing opposite the avenue leading to kensington palace, and whom her majesty always kindly noticed, rarely passing through the gates without throwing him some silver from the carriage window, received a message on the morning after the queen's accession informing him that her majesty had ordered that a weekly allowance of eight shillings should be regularly paid him. the poor man, however, did not long enjoy his pension, dying within six months from its commencement. "short and brilliant as has been her majesty's career however, and fondly and carefully as she has been watched over, her life affords a very striking instance of providential preservation. "during one of their summer excursions on the southern coast of england, the royal party sailed in the emerald yacht, and proceeding up the harbour at plymouth for the purpose of landing at the dock-yard, the yacht unfortunately, from the rapidity of the tide, ran foul of one of the hulks which lay off the yard. the shock was so great that the mainmast of the royal yacht was sprung in two places, and her sail and gaff (or yard by which the sail is supported) fell instantaneously upon the deck. "the princess happened unfortunately to be standing almost directly under the sail at the moment, and the most fatal consequences might have ensued, had not the master of the yacht, with admirable presence of mind, sprung forward and caught her in his arms and conveyed her to a place of safety. the alarm and confusion caused by the accident was for a time heightened by the uncertainty as to the fate of her royal highness, who had been preserved from injury by the blunt but well-timed rescue of the honest sailor. "'there is one thing which pleases me mightily, mr. parley,' said major meadows, 'and it is this, that with all this goodness our young queen has a truly british heart. often and often has she manifested this, and when quite a girl though perfectly acquainted with several european languages, and particularly with french and german, she never could be prevailed upon to converse in them as a habit, always observing that 'she was a little english girl and would speak nothing but english.' there is a healthiness of feeling in this, mr. parley, which is quite delightful.' "long before major meadows had finished his anecdotes about the queen we had reached home. as it is the custom to dine late in london, we dined after our return, and during the repast, the queen and the spectacle of to-morrow formed the chief subject of conversation, my friend continuing from time to time to give interest by some new anecdote, of which his store seemed to be inexhaustible. "peter parley is fond of early hours, so we retired to bed betimes, which was the more necessary, because by sun-rise to-morrow we must be up and away to westminster abbey." chapter vi. parley describes westminster abbey on the morning of the coronation, and relates the legends connected with st. edward's chair. "early in the morning, peter parley was up and dressed. he had hardly finished his devotions when, early though it was, major meadows knocked at the door of his room to enquire if he was stirring. "after partaking of a hurried breakfast we got into a carriage and drove to the abbey. as we passed along, we found people, even at such an early hour, already begun to congregate in the streets, and to take up stations from which they expected to obtain the best view of the day's proceedings. [illustration: _madeley lith. , wellington st. strand._ her majesty leaving her private apartments in westminster abbey.] "peter parley was pleased to find, on our arrival at the abbey, that the doors had been opened a short time before, and the crowd of eager expectants who had been waiting, some of them upwards of an hour, had been already admitted. we were thus saved the necessity of exposing ourselves to being crushed by stronger and more energetic claimants for admission. "on entering the venerable building i was struck mute with astonishment at the magnificence of the preparations which now burst upon the sight with all their breadth and effect; though i had seen it so recently, i was not at all aware of the greatness of the scale on which they had been undertaken. "the approach to the theatre was by six broad steps leading from the vestibule under the music gallery. at the termination of the choir, just where it is intersected by the north and south transepts, a similar number of steps led to a large platform, covered with a splendid carpet in rich puce and gold colours. upon this platform was raised a second of a smaller size, approached by four broad steps, each covered with carpeting of the most magnificent description. the fifth step, which formed the platform, was covered with cloth of gold, and in the centre was placed a splendid throne of a rich gilt ground, tastefully embellished with rose-coloured sprigs at short intervals, and the royal initials in the centre. "a little further in advance of this splendid throne, and nearer the altar, stood a chair of a more humble bearing, but far more interesting, from the legendary stories connected with it. this was st. edward's chair, of which peter parley must say a few words. "the chair is made of solid oak, and beneath the seat is deposited a large stone, on which the scottish kings used to be crowned. the legendary history of this stone is very curious. it commences as early as the time of jacob, who is said to have rested his head on it in the plain of luz, when, as you will recollect, he fled from the anger of his brother esau. it was afterwards carried to spain, by the scythians, whence it found its way into ireland in the time of romulus and remus, the founders of rome. here, it seems, from all accounts, first to have exhibited miraculous powers--making a 'prodigious noise, and being surprisingly disturbed,' whenever a prince of the scythian line was seated upon it. peter parley would not have you believe any of these marvellous legends, none of which are true, but which are interesting nevertheless, as they serve to show in what manner the people of former times were misled by the silly and ridiculous legends of the darker ages. "from ireland this singular stone was carried into scotland, and placed in the abbey of scone, where the coronation of the kings of scotland usually took place. one of the scottish kings caused an inscription to be cut upon it, an ancient prophecy, as it was said, but more probably an invention of some monkish chronicler of the time:-- "if fate speak sooth, where'er this stone is found, the scots shall monarch of that realm be crown'd." "when edward i. dethroned baliol, he sent this celebrated stone, on the possession of which the scots set great value, to london, along with the scottish regalia. in the following year, the monarch presented these trophies at the shrine of st. edward the confessor; and it appears soon afterwards to have been placed in the coronation chair, where it has remained ever since. "peter parley has heard that the ancient prophecy, to which even at so late a period the more superstitious amongst the scottish nation clung, was held to be fulfilled when james i. ascended the throne of england; and it is also said not to have been without a certain influence in reconciling many of the people to the union with england. "but we must not forget the coronation in westminster abbey, in our interest in the legend connected with st. edward's chair. "on each side of the platform on which the thrones stood, were the galleries appropriated for peers and peeresses and their friends, also those for the lord mayor, aldermen, and privy councillors. "there were two other galleries rising above these on each side, the highest quite among the vaultings of the roof, which were appropriated indiscriminately to the rest of the visitors. "the whole of these extensive galleries were covered with crimson cloth, and trimmed with gold fringe, which had a very rich effect when contrasted with the sombre colours and antique stone walls of the building. "the decorations of the chancel and altar were of the most gorgeous description; the draperies being of the richest purple silk, brocaded in the most sumptuous pattern with gold. behind the altar the decorations were of a still more delicate character than the rest, both the ground-work and the gold being of a lighter shade. against the compartment behind the altar stood six massive gold plateaux, two of them being of very large dimensions. the table itself was loaded with a gold communion service, as well as with other articles used in the ceremony. "peter parley had time to notice all these things from being in the abbey so early in the morning, before the visitors were so numerous, and the place so crowded as it afterwards became. the good sense and knowledge of major meadows led him to select a seat from which, while we could see as much of the ceremony as nine-tenths of those within the abbey, we could readily retire to the roof, from which we could obtain an admirable view of the procession outside. "by six o'clock in the morning the visitors began to arrive in the interior of the abbey, and bustle and confusion began to prevail, where, but an hour before, all had been stillness and silence; the rich and elegant dresses of the ladies giving an air of gaiety to the scene. an hour later the peers and peeresses began to make their appearance, and the attention was kept completely on the alert by some new arrival of a distinguished personage, or of a rich or picturesque costume." * * * * * "at length the sound of the park guns announced that the queen had entered her carriage and was on her way to the abbey. this joyful announcement seemed to inspire every one present with joy and animation. the peers, who had hitherto dispersed themselves over various parts of the building, giving, by their rich and picturesque costumes, additional brilliancy and variety to the already gorgeous scene, now retired to their appointed places, and a certain degree of order began to prevail within the abbey. "as the procession began to draw near, peter parley took advantage of major meadows' foresight, and, with some little difficulty, made his way to the roof, to view its approach." chapter vii. parley describes the procession to westminster abbey. "from this elevated and commanding position peter parley had a most admirable view of the procession, and of the immense multitude of spectators which lined the streets and crowded every window and roof from which even the most distant and casual view of it could be obtained. "far as the eye could reach was one dense mass of human beings. the deafening cheers of the populace, the waving of ten thousand handkerchiefs, the clang of martial music, and the novelty and singularity of the whole scene, well nigh turned the head of poor peter parley. "he had hardly time to satisfy his old eyes with gazing on the immense assemblage when the procession began to approach. "peter parley will not attempt to give you an exact list of the procession, for he knows very well that a simple catalogue of names would not at all interest you; he will therefore merely run hastily over the principal parts of it, and show you drawings of several of the most striking scenes, which he knows very well will give you by one glance a clearer idea of it than if he were to spend hours in mere description. "preceded by a squadron of horse-guards, whose gallant and warlike bearing excited general admiration, came the carriages of the foreign ministers resident in this country. even in the midst of so much bustle, peter parley could not help moralizing on the singularity of the scene. here were the representatives of every power on the face of the globe gathered together in one harmonious congregation; and the feelings to which their passing thus in review, in a living panorama as it were, gave rise were of the most peculiar description. here were all separate and rival interests for the moment buried in oblivion, and people from the east, from the west, and from the north, and from the south, came to assist in doing honour to england's queen. "immediately behind the resident ministers followed the ambassadors extraordinary, that is, those who had been sent by their respective governments for the express purpose of taking part in the solemnity. some of the carriages and trappings of these ambassadors excited the greatest attention and admiration. those in particular of marshal soult, the french ambassador, one of the ablest opponents of the duke of wellington during the peninsular war, were rich almost beyond description. in colour his carriage was of a rich cobalt relieved with gold, the panels most tastefully ornamented with his excellency's armorial bearings, at the back of which was a field-marshal's baton. it was furnished at each corner with a lamp surmounted by a massive silver coronet, and the raised cornices with which it was ornamented were of silver, deep and richly chased. these, with the beautiful harness (of white--the furniture was also of silver exquisitely chased), gave an air of richness and beauty to the whole equipage which was quite unequalled in the procession. peter parley thought he should never have done gazing at the rich and splendid equipage. "the carriages and attendants of the ambassador from the sultan, though far less richly caparisoned, were objects of equal curiosity, partly on account of the eastern dress in which ahmed fetij pasha appeared, and partly because of that undefined idea of romance which exists in the popular mind in connection with the crescent and the rising sun, the emblems of turkish power. "the carriage was of a rich lake colour, with the emblems which peter parley has just mentioned richly emblazoned on the panels. inside it was lined with crimson and yellow silk, in rich festoons; the hammercloth blue, with gold and scarlet hangings, the centre of scarlet velvet with the rising sun and crescent in diamonds. "the only other ambassador's carriage which peter parley shall notice is that of the prince de ligne, ambassador extraordinary from belgium. i mention it not that it was very much more striking than the others, for they were all beautiful, and each was distinguished by some peculiarity of elegant chasteness or rich display. the carriage, which was also of rich lake tastefully ornamented with gold, was drawn by six beautiful grey horses, and was preceded by a couple of outriders likewise mounted on greys. his excellency's armorial bearings were emblazoned on the panels, the roof ornamented by four gold coronets, one at each corner. the richness of the liveries and trappings made this equipage very much admired. after the foreign ambassadors followed a mounted band and a detachment of life-guards which preceded the carriages of the branches of the royal family. "peter parley cannot find a word to express his idea of the gorgeous magnificence of the carriage of the duchess of kent, the mother of the queen. the masses of gold lace by which the hammercloth and the attendants' liveries were ornamented had an extremely rich effect. her grace seemed highly delighted with the ceremony, and nothing could be more gratifying than her reception, unless indeed it was that of the queen herself. every where was the duchess cheered, and she returned the people's greetings by smiling and bowing in the blandest and most courtly manner. "the duchess of gloucester, and the dukes of cambridge and sussex, followed next in order, and each was received with the same warm and enthusiastic cheers. "after these came the queen's bargemaster and his assistants, forty-eight in number. the blunt sailor-like appearance of these men, some of whose weather-beaten countenances gave token of years of service, excited much interest. when peter parley saw them they recalled to his mind the anecdote of the saving of the life of the princess victoria, and he wondered which of the bluff sailors it was who had been so ready and so thoughtful. "the royal carriages now approached. these were twelve in number, each drawn by six splendid horses, and accompanied by two grooms walking on each side. as they passed in succession, the interest became more intense as her majesty drew nigh. the beauty of the maids of honour, the courtly bearing and gay dresses of the lords in waiting, which the carriages conveyed, the richness of the trappings, and the beauty and spirit of the horses, excited the intensest admiration. at length the twelfth carriage passed, and the most breathless interest prevailed. a squadron of life guards and a mounted band preceded the military staff and aides-de-camps, including some of the most distinguished military officers of the day. the royal huntsmen next appeared, followed by six of her majesty's horses, with rich trappings, each led by two grooms. though nothing could be finer than the appearance of these most beautiful animals the amount of attention which they received was but small, for close behind, preceded by one hundred yeomen of the guard, appeared the state coach, drawn by eight cream-coloured horses, attended by a yeoman of the guard at each wheel, and two footmen at each door, conveying "the queen. "the cheering by which other parts of the cavalcade had been received was loud and heartfelt, but no sooner did the young and amiable queen make her appearance, than the loudest and most enthusiastic plaudits rent the air. the ladies in the balconies waved their handkerchiefs, the people cheered, peal after peal of joyful applause came thundering upon the ear, shout followed shout, and acclamation burst after acclamation, until the music of the military bands and the discharges of the artillery were completely drowned in the roar of popular applause. the queen seemed to enjoy the exciting scene, and continued bowing on all sides in the most graceful and engaging manner. "the excitement which prevailed along the line of the procession, as her majesty approached, was, peter parley was assured, great beyond description. _then_ were the rich trappings of the foreign ambassadors, the magnificence of the royal carriages, the dazzling scarlet uniforms of the watermen, the magnificently caparisoned horses, the rich uniforms of the great officers of state, and even the beauty and attractions of the maids of honour, all forgotten. there was one and one only thought of--it was the queen. the struggle was to look upon her, and the object of each individual present seemed to be-- "'how and which way he might bestow himself, to be regarded in her sun-bright eye.' "never, peter parley will venture to say, did british monarch receive more heartfelt greeting, or pass under brighter auspices within the portals of westminster abbey." [illustration: _madeley lith. , wellington st. strand._ the procession approaching westminster abbey] chapter viii. parley describes the coronation in westminster abbey. "as soon as the queen, the great object of attraction, had passed, peter parley and his friend hurried into the abbey to resume their places. as they entered they encountered the most deafening and enthusiastic plaudits, to which the announcement of her majesty's arrival within the abbey gave rise. "while her majesty was undergoing the ceremony of robing, in the magnificent room which peter parley has already told you about, the procession, which forms part of the ceremony within the abbey, was arranged in order. "every thing having been prepared, her majesty made her appearance habited in a rich mantle and train of crimson velvet, over a dress of satin wrought with gold, and the assembled thousands of her loyal subjects rose with one accord, and welcomed their sovereign in a manner which must have thrilled the heart of the greatest potentate who ever swayed a sceptre. the band of instrumental music swelled forth their richest notes, and the choir gave magnificent effect to the anthem:-- "'i was glad when they said unto me we will go into the house of the lord. for there is the seat of judgment, even the seat of the house of david. o pray for the peace of jerusalem; they shall prosper that love thee. peace be within thy walls and prosperity within thy palaces. glory be to the father, and to the son, and to the holy ghost; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. amen.' "as the procession moved slowly up the abbey, the effect was most magnificent; the splendour of the pageantry, the beauty of the young queen, whose mild blue eyes shone scarcely less brightly than the circlet of diamonds which encompassed her beauteous brow, and the rich effect of the music, as it reverberated among the aisles of the building, almost made peter parley think it was a scene in fairy-land, or one of those bright and unsubstantial visions which flit across the mind in our dreams. "the queen having advanced to a chair which had been provided for her, about midway between the throne and the south side of the altar, the noblemen and others who composed the procession took up the stations which had been appropriated for them; the choir in the mean time continuing to chaunt the anthem. "the cadences of the anthem had scarcely died away among the aisles of the abbey, when peter parley was startled at the sound of youthful voices, singing at their highest pitch. he directed his eyes towards the spot whence the sound proceeded, and found it was the westminster scholars, who, according to an ancient and established custom, greeted their sovereign with a kind of chaunt, 'vivat victoria regina!' "at the conclusion of this chaunt, which, though not the most harmonious, struck peter parley as certainly not the least interesting part of the greeting, the archbishop of canterbury, the lord chancellor, the lord great chamberlain, and the earl marshal, advanced and commenced the ceremony of the coronation by what is called the recognition; that is, advancing towards each side of the theatre in succession, they thus addressed the assembled spectators:-- "'sirs, we here present unto you queen victoria, the undoubted queen of this realm; wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage, are you willing to do the same?' "as the question was repeated on each side, the abbey rang with the joyful response 'god save queen victoria!' a flourish of trumpets added to the enthusiasm of the scene; and even peter parley, carried away by the feeling of the moment, shouted forth his acclamations, in as heartfelt a manner as the most devoted of her majesty's subjects. "during this part of the ceremony, the queen remained standing by the chair on which she had at first taken her seat, and turned her face successively toward that part of the abbey to which the question was addressed. "when the enthusiastic cheering subsided her majesty resumed her seat, and preparations were made for that part of the altar service called the oblation. the bible, the chalice, and patina, were placed upon the altar, before which, two officers of the wardrobe spread a rich cloth of gold, and laid upon it a cushion for her majesty to kneel upon. the bishops who were to be engaged in the service also advanced and put on their copes. "every thing being ready, her majesty, supported by two bishops and preceded by the great officers of state bearing the regalia, approached the altar, and kneeling upon the cushion, made the various offerings. "the first, which consisted of a pall or altar-cloth of gold, was delivered by an officer of the wardrobe to the lord chamberlain, and by him handed to the lord great chamberlain, who delivered it to the queen. her majesty then gave it to the archbishop of canterbury, by whom it was placed on the altar. "an ingot of gold, a pound in weight, was then handed by the treasurer of the household to the lord great chamberlain, by whom it was placed in the hands of the queen, who delivered it to the archbishop, by whom it was put into the oblation basin, and set upon the altar. "the archbishop then said the following prayer, the queen remaining kneeling before the altar:-- "'o god, who dwellest in the high and holy place, with them also who are of an humble spirit, look down mercifully upon this thy servant victoria our queen, here humbling herself before thee at thy footstool, and graciously receive these oblations, which, in humble acknowledgment of thy sovereignty over all, and of thy great bounty unto her in particular, she hath now offered up unto thee, through jesus christ, our only mediator and advocate. amen.' "at the conclusion of this prayer her majesty returned to the chair on the south side of the altar, and the whole of the regalia, except the swords, were delivered to the archbishop and placed on the altar. "the litany was then read by the bishops of worcester and st. david's, which was followed by the communion service, previous to which, the choir sang the _sanctus_:-- "'holy! holy! holy! lord god of hosts; heaven and earth are full of thy glory; glory be to thee, o lord, most high. amen.' "at the conclusion of the service the bishop of london ascended the pulpit, which had been placed opposite her majesty's chair of state, and preached the sermon. his lordship's text was chosen from chron. xxxiv. ,--'and the king stood in his place and made a covenant before the lord, to walk after the lord, and to keep his commandments, and his testimonies, and his statutes, with all his heart, and with all his soul, to perform the words of the covenant which are written in this book.' "at the conclusion of the sermon, to which the queen was deeply attentive, the archbishop of canterbury advanced toward her majesty, and standing before her, thus addressed her:-- "'madam, is your majesty willing to take the oath?' "the queen answered, 'i am willing.' "the archbishop then ministered these questions; and the queen answered each question severally, as follows:-- "_archbishop._--will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of this united kingdom of great britain and ireland, and the dominions thereto belonging, according to the statutes in parliament agreed on, and the respective laws and customs of the same? "_queen._--i solemnly promise so to do. "_archbishop._--will you to the utmost of your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgments? "_queen._--i will. "_archbishop._--will you to the utmost of your power maintain the laws of god, the true profession of the gospel, and the protestant reformed religion established by law? and will you maintain and preserve inviolably the settlement of the united church of england and ireland, and the doctrine, worship, discipline, and government thereof, as by law established within england and ireland, and the territories thereunto belonging? and will you preserve unto the bishops and clergy of england and ireland, and to the churches there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges as by law do or shall appertain to them, or any of them? "_queen._--all this i promise to do. "the queen then proceeded to the altar, attended by the various functionaries, who had taken up their stations about her, and kneeling before it, laid her right hand on the great bible, and, in the sight of her people, took a solemn oath, to observe the promises which she had made, saying-- "'the things which i have here before promised, i will perform and keep--so help me, god.' "her majesty then kissed the book and set her royal sign manual to a copy of the oath. after this solemn ceremony she returned to the chair, and kneeling at her fald-stool, the choir sang, with the most touching effect, the magnificent hymn-- "'come, holy ghost, our souls inspire, and warm them with thy heav'nly fire; thou who th' anointing spirit art, to us thy sevenfold gifts impart; let thy bless'd unction from above be to us comfort, life, and love; enable with celestial light the weakness of our mortal sight: anoint our hearts, and cheer our face, with the abundance of thy grace. keep far our foes, give peace at home-- where thou dost dwell no ill can come. teach us to know the father, son, and spirit of both, to be but one, that so through ages all along, this may be our triumphant song; in thee, o lord, we make our boast, father, son, and holy ghost.'" chapter ix. parley continues his description of the coronation in westminster abbey. "the ceremony of anointing followed next in order--her majesty having been divested of her crimson robe by the mistress of the robes, took her seat in st. edward's chair, and the dean of westminster taking from the altar the ampulla, containing the consecrated oil, and pouring some of it into the anointing spoon, proceeded to anoint her majesty on the crown of the head and on the palm of both hands, in the form of a cross--four knights of the garter holding over her head a rich cloth of gold. "the dean of westminster then took the spurs from the altar and delivered them to the lord great chamberlain, who, kneeling before her majesty, presented them to her, after which she forthwith sent them back to the altar. the viscount melbourne, who carried the sword of state, then delivered it to the lord chamberlain, receiving in lieu thereof, another sword, in a scabbard of purple velvet, which his lordship delivered to the archbishop, who laid it on the altar. after a short prayer the archbishop took the sword from off the altar, and, accompanied by several other bishops, delivered it into the queen's right hand. then rising up her majesty proceeded to the altar and offered the sword in the scabbard, delivering it to the archbishop, who placed it on the altar. lord melbourne then redeemed it by payment of one hundred shillings, and having unsheathed it, bore it during the remainder of the ceremony. "the most important part of the ceremonial now approached: the dean of westminster having received the imperial mantle of cloth of gold, lined or furred with ermine, proceeded to invest her majesty, who stood up for the purpose. having resumed her seat, the orb with the cross was brought from the altar, and delivered into her majesty's hand by the archbishop; having in like manner been invested with the ring, the sceptre and the rod with the dove were placed in each hand. the archbishop, then, standing before the altar, took the crown into his hands, and again laying it on the altar said-- "'o god, who crownest thy faithful servants with mercy and loving kindness, look down upon this thy servant victoria, our queen, who now in lowly devotion boweth her head to thy divine majesty; and as thou dost this day set a crown of pure gold upon her head, so enrich her royal heart with thy heavenly grace, and crown her with all princely virtues, which may adorn the high station wherein thou hast placed her, through jesus christ, our lord, to whom be honour and glory for ever and ever. amen.' "the royal crown was then brought from the altar and placed on her majesty's head. "at this instant the most deafening and enthusiastic cries of 'god save the queen!' rose from every part of the abbey, the peers and peeresses put on their coronets, the bishops their caps, and the spectators cheered and waved their handkerchiefs. the guns in the park, and at the tower, fired a royal salute. "after a short prayer by the archbishop, the choir sang an anthem, and the dean of westminster taking the bible, which had been carried in the procession, from off the altar, presented it to her majesty, who, having received it, delivered it again to the archbishop, and it was returned to the altar. "having thus been solemnly anointed, and crowned, and invested with all the ensigns of royalty, the archbishop solemnly blessed the queen, the rest of the bishops and the peers following every part of the benediction with a loud and hearty 'amen.' "the _te deum_ was then sung by the choir, and her majesty passing to the recognition chair in which she first sat, received the homage of the peers. "the bishops first approached, and, kneeling before the queen, the archbishop pronounced the words of homage; the others repeating them after him, and, kissing her majesty's hand, retired. "the royal dukes, ascending the steps of the throne, took off their coronets, and kneeling, repeated the words of homage, and then, touching the crown on her majesty's head, kissed her on the left cheek and retired. "the other peers then performed their homage, each in succession touching the crown and kissing her majesty's hand. "the monotony of this ceremony was relieved by one little incident which evinced much kindness on the part of her majesty. as one of the peers (lord rolle), who is a very aged and infirm man, approached the throne, he stumbled and fell back from the second step upon the floor. he was immediately raised, and supported by two noble lords; when he again approached, her majesty, who beheld the occurrence with emotion, rose from her throne and advanced to meet him, extending her hand to him, and expressed much concern for the accident. this little trait of genuine goodness of heart was warmly cheered. [illustration: _madeley lith. , wellington st. strand._ her majesty's state carriage.] "peter parley was highly amused at the scene which was enacted behind the throne, where one of her majesty's household was busily engaged scattering the coronation medals. peers, peeresses, aldermen, and military officers engaging warmly in the scramble and eagerly clutching at the coveted memorials. "when the homage was concluded, her majesty descended from the throne and, proceeding to the altar, partook of the holy sacrament of the lord's supper. "the procession was then marshaled in the same order in which it had entered the abbey. the rich effect of the costumes was however much heightened by the coronets of the peers. "after a short stay in the robing rooms, the procession for the return to buckingham palace was formed, and the crowned sovereign left westminster abbey amid the enthusiastic greeting of her faithful and devoted subjects. "of course, there were many poems and songs made on this joyful occasion. the best which peter parley has seen is one by charles swain, which will form a very appropriate conclusion to this chapter. "'coronation song. i. "'thou music of a nation's voice, thou grace of old britannia's throne, thou light round which all hearts rejoice, god save and guard thee, england's own! while thousand, thousand hearts are thine, and britain's blessing rests on thee, pure may thy crown, victoria, shine, and all thy subjects _lovers_ be! ii. "'come, wives! from cottage--home, and field! come, daughters! oh, ye lovely, come! bid every tongue its homage yield, sound, trumpets, sound; and peal the drum! god save the queen! ring high, ye bells! swell forth a people's praise afar; she's crowned the acclaiming cannon tells! the queen!--god save the queen! hurrah! iii. "'long may she live to prove the best and noblest crown a queen can wear is that a people's love hath blessed, whose happiness is in her care! god bless the queen! ring sweet, ye bells! swell forth old england's joy afar, she's crowned the exulting cannon tells; the queen!--god bless the queen! hurrah!'" chapter x. parley gives an account of the illuminations, and of the grand display of fire-works. "after the splendid pageant, which had rivetted the attention of every one during its continuance, had passed away, the fair in hyde park seemed to be the great centre of popular attraction. "though pretty well tired out with the unusual exertion of the last day or two, peter parley proceeded to hyde park to see what was going on there. he had come across the atlantic to see the show, and he was determined to see all that was to be seen. "how different an aspect did the park now present to what it did when peter parley visited it but two days before! the fair was now begun in good earnest, and there was no end to the booths for the sale of fancy goods of every description. tents for the supply of articles of more substantial enjoyment were in equal abundance, and every one of them seemed to be completely crowded. when peter parley had wandered about the outskirts of the fair for some time, he saw a great many people standing looking at a large erection which seemed more like a house than a tent. he soon recognised the theatre of mr. richardson, which he had seen erecting when he first visited the park; as he drew near he saw that the people were laughing and enjoying the antics of a clown or merry-andrew, who was dressed in a parti-coloured dress, and was cutting the most ridiculous capers, to the no small delight of the spectators. "peter parley loves a little fun, and can laugh as loud as any one at innocent amusement, so he got close up to the booth to see how the clown acquitted himself. "'come along, old boy!--this way, this way, father adam!' cried the fellow to peter parley, when he saw him advancing--'make way there, ladies and gentlemen!' he continued, leaping right over the head of a countryman who was gazing at him with intense delight, at the same time knocking his hat over his eyes so as completely to blindfold him. in an instant the clown stood beside peter parley, and was hurrying him up the steps of the theatre before he knew what he was about. peter parley, however, did not relish such a summary mode of introduction, so he disengaged himself from the fellow's grasp and moved to another part of the fair, amid the rude laughter of the by-standers. "peter parley was amazed at the number of round-abouts and swings of every description, which beat the air and performed their evolutions with almost incessant rapidity. some of them in the form of boats, which in the course of their movements rose and sunk alternately so as to imitate the motion of a vessel on the water, seemed particularly ingenious and appeared to be in constant request. donkey races, too, lent their attractions, and altogether such a scene of gaiety peter parley never witnessed. "as long as daylight lasted these out-of-door amusements seemed to lose little or none of their attractions. when it became too dark for their performance people crowded into the theatres and tents, or waited patiently for the grand display of fireworks which was to take place at a late hour in the evening. "by way of making the most of his time peter parley got into a hackney coach and drove through the principal parts of the town to see the illuminations, which it was expected were to be on a grand scale. "all along the line of the procession the display was most splendid, and though many of the exhibitions of private individuals were beautiful and tasteful, the public offices certainly carried off the palm. peter parley thinks he never saw such a brilliant display as that at the ordnance office, in pall mall, the whole front of which was one blaze of light. peter parley was told that there were no fewer than sixty thousand lamps employed in the devices! "the admiralty, somerset house, and the horse guards, shared, with the ordnance office, the attention of the evening. the former displayed a magnificent imperial crown surmounting an anchor, with the union flag on each side in coloured lamps. it had also an inscription, 'god save the queen.' "somerset house, in which are several of the public offices, excited a good deal of attention from a novelty in the art of illumination. instead of being lighted up with oil, the coloured lamps were illuminated with gas, which added greatly to their brilliancy and effect. the horse guards was, also, lit up in the same manner, and was equally attractive. "there were, besides these, hundreds of others well worth looking at and remembering too; but so many attractions offered themselves to his notice on every side, that peter parley does not know which to tell you about. "after being satisfied with gazing at the illuminations, peter parley again proceeded to the park, as the time approached for the grand display of fireworks. "so dense was the crowd of eager spectators, that it was with difficulty that peter parley could gain access to the park. he succeeded at length, however, thanks to the virtue of perseverance, which has done much for him in the course of his life. "the display commenced by the discharge of what is called a maroon battery, which fired off successively a series of immense crackers, each giving a report like the loudest cannon. the commencement of the spectacle was hailed with loud cheers by the assemblage, many of whom had waited several hours, and were beginning to lose all patience at the delay. "this startling display was immediately followed by an exhibition of coloured fire, and four balloon mortars shooting forth serpents and squibs of every variety of colour. the beautiful variety of tints, blue, green, red, and purple, to which some of these gave rise when they exploded in the air, was most magnificent. "for two whole hours did the gentlemen who had the direction of this exhibition continue the display, each successive variety vieing in beauty and brilliancy with that by which it was preceded, to the delight of all beholders, many of whom, and peter parley among others, never witnessed such a grand sight. the young queen, it was said, enjoyed the splendour and beauty of the sight from the palace window, with as much interest and delight as any of her subjects. "it was almost one o'clock before the fireworks were concluded, and nearly an hour later before peter parley could make his way home; and the sun rose high in heaven before he awoke next morning. "peter parley must not omit to mention that all the theatres and places of public amusement were, by her majesty's command, open to the public free; of course they were all filled, but peter parley did not visit any of them. "it pleased peter parley to hear that the poor and the unfortunate were no less kindly attended to. in almost every parish committees were formed by the inhabitants for the purpose of collecting subscriptions and arranging matters for regaling the poor and the children attending the charity schools, so that to all the th of june should be a day of rejoicing. nor were the unfortunate inhabitants of the prisons forgotten. in all those belonging to the city, they were each allowed an ample repast, and in some of the others the great brewers supplied them with a good allowance of ale or porter." chapter xi. parley attends a review in hyde park, and relates some passages in the life of marshal soult.--conclusion. "peter parley had begun to recover from the fatigue which he had undergone, and was thinking of once more crossing the atlantic, and returning to the enjoyment of his quiet home, when one morning at breakfast, major meadows announced that there was to be a grand review in hyde park, on a scale of such splendour, that peter parley must see it before he left town. "the day fortunately turned out one of the most beautiful that could be conceived, and the crowds of persons who assembled to witness the grand military display, were very great. it was estimated by some of the military officers, who are accustomed to form pretty accurate notions of vast bodies of men, that at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, there were not less than two hundred thousand spectators present, in and around the park. [illustration: marshal soult's state carriage.] "early in the day the troops began to arrive, and by ten o'clock all the regiments to be reviewed were on the ground. shortly after, the duke of wellington, lord hill, and a great number of english military officers, as well as marshal soult, and all the foreign ambassadors, attended by their brilliant suites, arrived, and were every where received with great cheering. "at half-past eleven her majesty arrived accompanied by her suite in four carriages, each drawn by four horses, and escorted by a detachment of life guards. she was attended by her aides-de-camp in full military uniform. the arrival of the royal party was announced by a discharge of cannon, the band striking up the national anthem, and the soldiers presenting arms as her majesty approached. "the great attraction among the foreign visitants was marshal soult, who, as usual, excited much attention. as he rode close past the spot where peter parley and his friend major meadows had taken their stand, his stirrup broke, and we feared he would have fallen from his horse, but the marshal is a good rider, and quickly recovered. peter parley afterwards saw a curious anecdote in the newspapers connected with this accident. on learning what had happened, sir h. vivian immediately dispatched a messenger to the saddlers to the ordnance, to procure a pair of stirrups to replace the broken one. it happened, singularly enough, that the saddlers had in their possession the stirrups which napoleon used in many of his campaigns; so that marshal soult, during this review, actually did what was next to standing in his master's shoes! "seeing that peter parley was very much interested in the marshal, major meadows, who had been engaged in the peninsular war, and had fought against him in some of his most celebrated battles, continued, when our attention was not completely occupied by the evolutions of the troops, to relate many most interesting anecdotes of his distinguished career. "'marshal soult,' said major meadows, 'is a very singular man, mr. parley, and like many of napoleon's generals, rose from the very humblest rank. he entered the army as a private soldier, and, after serving some time in this capacity in a royal regiment of infantry, he became sub-lieutenant of grenadiers. "'he afterwards rose through the various ranks, till in he was appointed general of brigade, and sent to join the army of italy. here he soon won for himself new laurels, and his fame attracted the notice of napoleon, who henceforth honoured him with his personal esteem. "'on the eve of the memorable battle of austerlitz, in which he was entrusted with the command of the centre of the army, napoleon, as usual, called his marshals together to explain his plans to them, and to give them instructions for their guidance. to the others he was minute in his directions, in proportion to the importance of the posts assigned to them. when he came to soult, however, he merely said, 'as for you, soult, i have only to say, act as you always do.' "'in the midst of the battle, an aide-de-camp arrived with an order that the marshal should instantly push forward and gain certain heights. 'i will obey the emperor's commands as soon as i can,' replied soult, 'but this is not the proper time.' napoleon, enraged at the delay, sent a second messenger, with more peremptory orders. the second aide-de-camp arrived just as the marshal was putting his column in motion. the manoeuvre had been delayed because soult observed that his opponents were extending their lines, and, consequently, weakening their centre. complete success attended the attack. napoleon, who, from the elevated position which he occupied, saw the attack, instantly perceived the reason for the delay, and the brilliancy of the movement, and riding up to soult, complimented him in the presence of his staff, who, but a few minutes before, had seen him angry at the supposed disobedience, saying, 'marshal, i account you the ablest tactician in my empire!' "'after the battle of eylau, napoleon was very much discouraged at the loss he had sustained, and wished to fall back, so as to form a junction with the other corps of his army. against this resolution soult warmly protested, telling the emperor, that from what he had seen, he expected the enemy would retreat during the night, and thus leave the french army in possession of the field. napoleon complied with the marshal's advice, and every thing took place just as he had foretold. so that it was to the sagacity of soult that the french army owes the honour of the victory of eylau. "'in , soult, now duke of dalmatia, was entrusted with the command of the army in spain, and his first movement was to pursue the gallant sir john moore in his memorable retreat towards corunna. under the walls of that town he engaged the british army, but, after a sharp contest, was completely repulsed. the british general, however, was killed in the action, and was buried in the citadel, his corpse wrapped in a military cloak, and the guns of his enemy paying his funeral honours. marshal soult, with that noble feeling which can only exist in minds of true greatness erected a monument to his memory, near the spot where he so nobly fell. "'to the duke of dalmatia napoleon entrusted the command of the army, when the defeat of the french at vittoria had placed the peninsula at the mercy of the duke of wellington. after a series of conflicts, which covered the british army and its able general with glory, soult, finding the cause of his imperial master hopeless, gave up the contest and returned to paris. "'soult afterwards fought at waterloo, but without that distinction which might have been expected from his old renown. after this battle, which for ever stamped the fate of napoleon, and showed wellington the greatest general of the age, soult retired to the country, and lived for some years in seclusion. he was however recalled, and created a peer of france by charles x.' "such was major meadows' account of this celebrated man. to peter parley he was an object of great interest, because his presence recalled the remembrance of some of the spirit-stirring events in which he had been a participator; not that peter parley is an admirer of military genius or delights in military renown. he would rather do honour to the humblest benefactor of the human race than the greatest general that ever lived. with him the glory of james watt, the inventor of the steam-engine, far outshines the lustre of a soult, or a ney, or an alexander! and he would rather be the author of the waverley novels than be crowned with the blood-stained laurels of a napoleon or a wellington! "peter parley is one of those who hope the time is now come when the sound of war will be heard no more, and nations, instead of wasting their energies in deeds of blood, will strive to rival each other only in the peaceful pursuits of commerce and the arts." * * * * * "peter parley must now bid his young friends good bye! when he meets them again he hopes to find them all equally willing to be pleased and as patient and attentive to the tales which he tells them, as they have been to his 'visit to london during the coronation of queen victoria.'" [illustration] finis. clarke, printers, silver street, falcon square. juvenile works just published. stories about dogs, illustrative of their instinct, sagacity, and fidelity. by thomas bingley, _author of "stories about instinct."_ embellished with engravings from drawings by thomas landseer. _price s. neatly bound._ now ready, by the same author, stories illustrative of the instinct of animals, their characters and habits. with engravings by thomas landseer. _four shillings bound._ ii. tales of shipwrecks, and other disasters at sea. with engravings, _four shillings bound._ approved juvenile works. tales of enterprise, for the amusement of youth, by paul hopkins, with engravings, beautifully bound and gilt. _price half-a-crown._ _price s. bound in ornamented cloth._ bible quadrupeds; the natural history of the animals mentioned in scripture. with sixteen engravings. "this is an excellent little tome for young people; cherishing at the same time a love for the holy volume and a taste for natural history. it contains sixteen nice pictures of the most prominent subjects, by s. williams."--_literary gazette._ charles tilt, fleet street. list of plates. i.--the coronation of queen victoria. ii.--her majesty leaving buckingham palace. iii.--marshal soult's state carriage. iv.--her majesty's state carriage. v.--the procession approaching westminster abbey. vi.--her majesty leaving her private apartments in westminster abbey. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. provided by the internet archive the popular story of blue beard embellished with neat engravings by anonymous [illustration: ] [illustration: ] [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the popular story of blue-beard |a long time ago, and at a considerable distance from any town, there lived a gentleman, who was not only in possession of great riches, but of the largest estates in that part of the country. although he had some very elegant neat mansions on his estates, he generally resided in a magnificent castle, beautifully situated on a rising ground, surrounded with groves of the finest evergreens, and other choice trees and shrubs. the inside of this fine castle was even more beautiful than the outside; for the rooms were all hung with the richest damask, curiously ornamented; the chairs and sofas were covered with the finest velvet, fringed with gold; and his table-dishes and plates were either of silver or gold, finished in the most elegant style. his carriages and horses might have served a king, and perhaps were finer than any monarch's of the present day. the gentleman's appearance, however, did not altogether correspond to his wealth; for, to a fierce disagreeable countenance, was added an ugly blue beard, which made him an object of fear and disgust in the neighbourhood, where he usually went by the name of blue beard. there resided, at some considerable distance from blue beard's castle, an old lady and her two daughters, who were people of some rank, but by no means wealthy. the two young ladies were very pretty, and the fame of their beauty having reached blue beard, he determined to ask one of them in marriage. having ordered a carriage, he called at their house, where he saw the two young ladies, and was very politely received by their mother, with whom he begged a few moments conversation. [illustration: ] |after the two young ladies left the room, he began by describing his immense riches, and then told her the purpose of his visit, begging she would use her interest in his favour. they were both so lovely, he said, that he would be happy to get either of them for his wife, and would therefore leave it to their own choice to determine upon the subject, and immediately took his leave. when the proposals of blue beard were mentioned to the young ladies by their mother, both miss anne and her sister fatima protested, that they would never marry an ugly man, and particularly one with such a frightful blue beard; because, although he possessed immense riches, it was reported in the country, that he had married several beautiful ladies, and nobody could tell what had become of them. their mother said, that the gentleman was agreeable in his conversation and manners; that the ugliness of his facs, and the blue beard, were defects which they would soon be reconciled to from habit: that his immense riches would procure them every luxury their heart could desire; and he was so civil, that she was certain the scandalous reports about his wives must be entirely without foundation. the two young ladies were as civil as they possibly could be, in order to conceal the disgust they felt at blue beard, and, to soften their refusal, replied to this effect,--that, at present, they had no desire to change their situation; but if they had, the one sister could never think of depriving the other of so good a match, and that they did not wish to be separated. |blue beard having called next day, the old lady told him what her daughters had said; on which he sighed deeply, and pretended to be very much disappointed; but as he had the mother on his side, he still continued his visits to the family. blue beard, knowing the attractions that fine houses, fine furniture, and fine entertainments, have on the minds of ladies in general, invited the mother, her two daughters, and two or three other ladies who were then on a visit to them, to spend a day or two with him at his castle. [illustration: ] blue beard's invitation was accepted, and having spent a considerable time in arranging their wardrobe, and in adorning their persons, they all set out for the splendid mansion of blue beard. on coming near the castle, although they had heard a great deal of the taste and expense that had been employed in decorating it, they were struck with the beauty of the trees that overshadowed the walks through which they passed, and with the fragrancy of the flowers which perfumed the air. when they reached the castle, blue beard, attended by a number of his servants in splendid dresses, received them with the most polite courtesy, and conducted them to a magnificent drawing-room. an elegant repast was ready in the dining-room, to which they adjourned. here they were again astonished by the grandeur of the apartment and the elegance of the entertainment, and the rooms that were open, and were truly astonished at the magnificence that everywhere met their view. the time rolled pleasantly away a-midst a succession of the most agreeable felt so happy, that the evening passed away before they were aware. [illustration: ] |next day, after they had finished breakfast, the ladies proceeded to examine the pictures and furniture of the amusements, consisting of hunting, music, dancing, and banquets, where the richest wines, and most tempting delicacies, in most luxurious profusion, presented themselves in every direction. the party felt so agreeable amidst these scenes of festivity, that they continued at the castle several days, during which the cunning blue beard, by every obsequious service, tried to gain the favour of his fair guests. personal attentions, even although paid us by an ugly creature, seldom fail to make a favourable impression; it was therefore no wonder that fatima, the youngest of the two sisters, began to think blue beard a very polite, pleasant, and civil gentleman; and that the beard, which she and her sister had been so much afraid of, was not so very blue. a short time after her return home, fatima, who was delighted with the attention which had been paid her at the castle, told her mother that she did not now feel any objections to accept of blue beard as a husband. the old lady immediately communicated to him the change in her daughter's sentiments. [illustration: ] |blue beard, who lost no time in paying the family a visit, was in a few days privately married to the young lady, and soon after the ceremony, fatima, accompanied by her sister, returned to the castle the wife of blue beard. on arriving there, they were received at the entrance by all his retinue, attired in splendid dresses, and blue beard after saluting his bride, led the way to an elegant entertainment, where, every thing that could add to to their comfort being prepared, they spent the evening in the most agreeable manner. |the next day, and every succeeding day, blue beard always varied the amusements, and a month had passed away imperceptibly, when he told his wife that he was obliged to leave her for a few weeks, as he had some affairs to transact in a distant part of the country, which required his personal attendance. "but," said he, "my dear fatima, you may enjoy yourself in my absence in any way that will add to your happiness, and you can invite your friends to make the time pass more agreeably, for you are sole mistress in this castle, here are the keys of the two large wardrobes; this is the key of the great box that contains the best plate, which we use for company; this of my strong box, where i keep my money; and this belongs to the casket, in which are all my jewels. here also is a master-key to all the rooms in the house; but this small key belongs to the blue closet at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. i give you leave," he continued, "to open, or do what you like with all the rest of the castle except this closet: now, my dear, remember you must not enter it, nor even put the key into the lock. if you do not obey me in this, expect the most dreadful of punishments." [illustration: ] she promised him implicit obedience to his orders, and then accompanied him to the gate, where blue beard, after sa luting her in a tender manner, stepped into the coach, and drove away. |when blue beard was gone, fatima sent a kind invitation to her friends to come immediately to the castle, and ordered a grand entertainment to be prepared for their reception. she also sent a messenger to her two brothers, both officers in the army, who were quartered about forty miles distant, requesting they would obtain leave of absence, and spend a few days with her. so eager were her friends to see the apartments and the riches of blue beard's castle, of which they had heard so much, that in less than two hours after receiving notice, the whole company were assembled, with the exception of her brothers, who were not expected till the following day. as her guests had arrived long before the time appointed them for the entertainment. fatima took them thro' every apartment in the castle, and displayed all the wealth she had acquired by her marriage with blue beard. they went from room to room, and from wardrobe to wardrobe, expressing fresh wonder and delight at every new object they came to; but their surprise was increased when they entered the drawing-rooms, and saw the grandeur of the furniture. during the day, fatima was so much engaged, that she never once thought of the blue closet, which blue beard had ordered her not to open; but when all the visitors were gone, she felt a great curiosity to know its contents. she took out the key, which was made of the finest gold, and went to consult with her sister on the subject. anne used every argument she could think of to dissuade fatima from her purpose, and reminded her of the threats of blue beard; but all in vain, for fatima was now bent on gratifying her curiosity. she therefore, in spite of all her sister could do, seized one of the candles, and hurried down stairs to the fatal closet. on reaching the door she stopped, and began to reason with herself on the propriety of her conduct; but her curiosity at length overcame every other consideration, and, with a trembling hand, she applied the key to the lock, and opened the door. she had only advanced a few steps, when the most frightful scene met her view, and, struck with horror and dismay, she dropped the key of the closet. [illustration: ] |she was in the midst of blood, and the heads, bodies, and mutilated limbs of murdered ladies lay scattered on the floor. these ladies had all been married to blue beard, and had suffered for their imprudent curiosity, the key, which was the gift of a fairy, always betraying their fatal disobedience. the terror of fatima was not diminished on observing these dreadful words on the wall--"_the reward of disobedience and imprudent curiosity!_" she trembled violently; but, on recovering a little, she snatched up the key, and having again locked the door, left this abode of horror. as soon as she reached her sister's chamber, she related the whole of her horrid adventure. they then examined the key, but it was all covered with blood, and they both turned pale with fear. they spent a good part of the night in trying to clean off the blood from the key, but it was without effect, for though they washed and scoured it with brick dust and sand, no sooner was the blood removed from one side, than it appeared on the other. fatigued with their exertions, they at last retired to bed, where they passed a sleepless and anxious night. |fatima rose at a late hour next day, and consulted with her sister how she ought to proceed. she thought first of escaping from the castle, but as her brothers were expected in an hour or two, she resolved to wait their arrival. a loud knock at the gate made her almost leap for joy, and she cried, "they are come! they are come!" but what was her consternation when blue beard hastily opened the door, and entered. it was impossible for fatima to conceal her agitation, although she pretended to be very happy at his sudden and unexpected return. blue beard, who guessed what she had been about, requested the keys, in order, as he said, that he might change his dress. she went to her chamber, and soon returned with the keys, all except the one belonging to the blue closet he took the keys from her with seeming indifference, and after glancing at them minutely, said, rather sternly, "how is this, fatima! i do not see the key of the blue closet here! go and bring it to me instantly." [illustration: ] the poor girl, feeling the crisis of her fate approaching, said, "i will go and search for it," and left the apartment in tears. she went straight to her sister's chamber, where they again tried, but in vain, to remove the blood from the key. the voice of blue beard again calling for her, she was forced to return, and reluctantly to give him the fatal key. on examining the key, blue beard burst into a terrible rage. "pray madam," said he, "how came this blood to be here?" "i am sure i do not know," replied she, trembling, and turning pale. "what! do you not know!" cried blue beard, in a voice like thunder, which made poor fatima start with fear; "but i know well! you have been in the forbidden blue closet! and since you are so fond of prying into secrets, you shall take up your abode with the ladies you saw there." [illustration: ] almost expiring with fear and terror, the trembling fatima sunk upon her knees, and implored him in the most piteous manner to forgive her. but the cruel blue beard, deaf to her intreaties, drew his dreadful scymetar, and bid her prepare for immediate death. blue beard had raised his arm to give the fatal blow, when a dreadful shriek from her sister, who at that moment entered the apartment, arrested his attention. she entreated him to spare the life of fatima, but he was deaf to her intercession, and would only grant her one quarter of an hour, that she might make her peace with heaven, before he put her to death. blue beard then dragged her up to a large hall in the top of the tower of the castle, to prevent her groans being heard, to which they were followed by her sister. he then told her to make the best use of the time, as she might expect his return the moment it elapsed, and immediately left the place. |when alone with her sister, fatima felt her dreadful situation, and again burst into tears. only fifteen minutes between her and the most cruel death, without the least chance of escape; for blue beard had secured the door when he retired, and the staircase they saw only led to the battlements. fatima's thoughts were now turned to her brothers, whom she expected that day; and she requested her sister to ascend to the top of the tower, to see if there was any appearance of them. fatima's sister immediately ascended to the top of the battlements, while the poor trembling girl below, every minute, cried out, "sister anne, my dear sister anne, do you see any one coming yet?" her sister always replied, "there is not a human being in view, and i see nothing but the sun and the grass." she was upon her knees bewailing her fate, when blue beard, in a tremendous voice, cried out, "are you ready?" the time is expired and she heard the sound of his footsteps approaching. she again supplicated him to allow her five minutes longer to finish her prayers, which he, knowing she was completely within his power, granted her, and again left her. fatima again renewed her inquiries to her sister "do you see any one coming yet?" her sister replied, "there is not a human being within sight." when the five minutes were elapsed, "i see," said her sister, "a cloud of dust rising a little to the left." in breathless agitation, she cried, "do you think it is my brothers?" the voice of blue beard was heard bawling out, "are you ready yet?" she again beseeched him to allow her only two minutes more, and then addressed her sister, "dear anne, do you see any one coming yet?" [illustration: ] "alas! no, my dearest fatima," returned her sister, "it is only a flock of sheep." again the voice of blue beard was heard, and she begged for one minute longer. she then called out for the last time, "sister anne, do you see no one coming yet?" |her sister quickly answered, "i see two men on horseback, but they are still a great way off." "thank heaven," exclaimed fatima, "i shall yet be saved, for it must be my two brothers! my dearest sister, make every signal in your power to hasten them forward, or they will be too late." blue beard's patience being now exhausted, he burst open the door in a rage, and made a blow at the wretched fatima, with the intention of striking off her head; but she sprang close to him and evaded it. furious at being foiled in his aim, he threw her from him, and then seizing her by the hair of the head, was in the act of striking her a blow with his scymetar, when the noise of persons approaching, with hasty steps, arrested the progress of his sanguinary arm. blue beard had not time to conjecture who the intruders might be, when the door opened, and two officers, with their swords drawn, rushed into the apartment. struck with terror, the guilty wretch released his wife from his grasp, and without attempting to resist, he tried to effect his escape from the resentment of her brothers; but they pursued and seized him before he had got above twenty paces from the place. [illustration: ] after reproaching blue beard with his cruelty, they dragged him back to the spot where he intended to have murdered their sister; and there, stabbing him to the heart with their swords, he expired, uttering the most horrid oaths and execrations. |fatima, who had fallen to the ground at the time blue beard quitted his hold of her, still lay in the same situation insensible; for the appearance of her brothers, at the moment she expected certain death, had thrown her into a faint, which continued during the whole of the time they were engaged in despatching her husband. the two young officers now turned their attention to their sister, whom they raised from the ground; but she could hardly be persuaded of her safety, till they pointed to where blue beard lay extended and lifeless. fatima, on recovering a little, tenderly embraced her deliverers; and the appearance of their sister anne, who had come down from the top of the battlements, added to their happiness. [illustration: ] as all those horrid murders which had been committed by blue beard, were unknown to his domestics, on whose credulity he imposed by falsehoods, which they had no means of detecting, fatima and her brothers thought the most prudent way to act, was to assemble them together, and then disclose the wickedness of their late master. by the direction of fatima, her two brothers conducted all the servants to the dreadful scene of her husband's cruelties, and then showing them his dead body, related the whole occurrences which had taken place. they all said that his punishment was not adequate to what he deserved, and begged that they might be continued in the service of their mistress. as blue beard had no relations, fatima was sole heir to the whole of his immense property, and mistress of the castle, in the possession of which she was confirmed by the laws of the country. she then sent notice to all the families in the neighbourhood of the death of her husband, and the horrid proofs of his cruelty were laid open for two days to all who chose to inspect them. he was then buried privately, along with all the bodies of the ladies he had murdered, and the fatal closet underwent a complete repair, which removed every trace of his barbarity. soon after this, fatima gave a magnificent entertainment to all her friends, where happiness was seen in every face; and on this occasion the poor, who were assembled for many miles round, partook most liberally of her bounty. though possessed of riches almost inexhaustible, fatima disposed of them with so much discretion, that she gained the esteem of every one who knew her. she bestowed handsome fortunes on her two brothers; and to her sister, who was married about two months after, she gave a very large dowry. the beauty, riches, and amiable conduct of fatima, attracted a number of admirers, and among others, a young nobleman of very high rank, who, to a handsome person, added every quality calculated to make a good husband; and after a reasonable time spent in courtship, their marriage was celebrated with great rejoicings. finis transcriber's note: . small cap has been tagged with = sign. . when there were inconsistencies in hyphenation, the less frquent variant was replaced with the most frequent, e.g. "ship-board" was changed to "shipboard". [illustration] =in search of a son.= =by= =uncle lawrence,= =author of "young folks' whys and wherefores," etc.= [illustration] =philadelphia:= =j. b. lippincott company.= . copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. table of contents. page chapter i. the despatch chapter ii. two friends chapter iii. monsieur roger chapter iv. monsieur roger's story chapter v. fire at sea chapter vi. miss miette's fortune chapter vii. vacation chapter viii. a drawing lesson chapter ix. the tower of heurtebize chapter x. physical science chapter xi. the smoke which falls chapter xii. at the centre of the earth chapter xiii. why lead is heavier than cork chapter xiv. the air-pump chapter xv. drops of rain and hammer of water chapter xvi. amusing physics chapter xvii. why the moon does not fall chapter xviii. a mysterious resemblance chapter xix. the fixed idea chapter xx. fire chapter xxi. saved chapter xxii. george! george! chapter xxiii. a proof? chapter xxiv. the air and the lungs chapter xxv. oxygen chapter xxvi. why water puts out fire chapter xxvii. paul or george? chapter xxviii. my father [illustration] in search of a son. chapter i. the despatch. in the great silence of the fields a far-off clock struck seven. the sun, an august sun, had been up for some time, lighting up and warming the left wing of the old french château. the tall old chestnut-trees of the park threw the greater part of the right wing into the shade, and in this pleasant shade was placed a bench of green wood, chairs, and a stone table. the door of the château opened, and a gentleman lightly descended the threshold. he was in his slippers and dressing-robe, and under the dressing-robe you could see his night-gown. after having thrown a satisfied look upon the beauty of nature, he approached the green seat, and seated himself before the stone table. an old servant came up and said,-- "what will you take this morning, sir?" and as the gentleman, who did not seem to be hungry, was thinking what he wanted, the servant added,-- "coffee, soup, tea?" "no," said the gentleman; "give me a little vermouth and seltzer water." the servant retired, and soon returned with a tray containing the order. the gentleman poured out a little vermouth and seltzer water, then rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and, leaning back upon the rounded seat of the green bench, looked with pleasure at the lovely scene around him. on the left, in a small lake framed in the green lawn, was reflected one wing of the old château, as in a mirror. the bricks, whose colors were lighted up by the sun, seemed to be burning in the midst of the water. the large lawn began at the end of a gravelled walk, and seemed to be without limit, for the park merged into cultivated ground, and verdant hills rose over hills. there was not a cloud in the sky. the gentleman, after gazing for some minutes around him, got up and opened the door of the château. he called out, "peter!" in a subdued voice, fearing, no doubt, to waken some sleeper. the servant ran out at once. "well, peter," said the gentleman, "have the papers come?" "no, sir; they have not yet come. that surprises me. if you wish, sir, i will go and meet the postman." and peter was soon lost to sight in a little shady alley which descended into the high-road. in a few moments he reappeared, followed by a man. "sir," said he, "i did not meet the letter-carrier; but here is a man with a telegraphic despatch." the man advanced, and, feeling in a bag suspended at his side, he said,-- "monsieur dalize, i believe?" "yes, my friend." "well, here is a telegram for you which arrived at sens last night." "a telegram?" said monsieur dalize, knitting his brows, his eyes showing that he was slightly surprised, and almost displeased, as if he had learned that unexpected news was more often bad news than good. nevertheless, he took the paper, unfolded it, and looked at once at the signature. "ah, from roger," he said to himself. and then he began to read the few lines of the telegram. as he read, his face brightened, surprise followed uneasiness, and then a great joy took the place of discontent. he said to the man,-- "you can carry back an answer, can you not?" "yes, sir." "well, peter, bring me pen and ink at once." peter brought pen, ink, and paper, and monsieur dalize wrote his telegram. he gave it to the man, and, feeling through his pockets, pulled out a louis. "here, my good fellow," said he: "that will pay for the telegram and will pay you for your trouble." the man looked at the coin in the hollow of his hand in an embarrassed way, fearing that he had not exactly understood. "come, now,--run," said monsieur dalize; "good news such as you have brought me cannot be paid for too dearly; only hurry." "ah, yes, sir, i will hurry," said the man; "and thank you very much, thank you very much." and, in leaving, he said to himself, as he squeezed the money in his hand,-- "i should be very glad to carry to him every day good news at such a price as that." when he was alone, monsieur dalize reread the welcome despatch. then he turned around, and looked towards a window on the second floor of the château, whose blinds were not yet opened. from this window his looks travelled back to the telegram, which seemed to rejoice his heart and to give him cause for thought. he was disturbed in his reverie by the noise of two blinds opening against the wall. he rose hastily, and could not withhold the exclamation,-- "at last!" "oh, my friend," said the voice of a lady, in good-natured tones. "are you reproaching me for waking up too late?" "it is no reproach at all, my dear wife," said monsieur dalize, "as you were not well yesterday evening." "ah, but this morning i am entirely well," said madame dalize, resting her elbows on the sill of the window. "so much the better," cried mr. dalize, joyfully, "and again so much the better." "what light-heartedness!" said madame dalize, smiling. "that is because i am happy, do you know, very happy." "and the cause of this joy?" "it all lies in this little bit of paper," answered monsieur dalize, pointing to the telegram towards the window. "and what does this paper say?" "it says,--now listen,--it says that my old friend, my best friend, has returned to france, and that in a few hours he will be here with us." madame dalize was silent for an instant, then, suddenly remembering, she said,-- "roger,--are you speaking of roger?" "the same." "ah, my friend," said madame dalize, "now i understand the joy you expressed." then she added, as she closed the window, "i will dress myself and be down in a moment." hardly had the window of madame dalize's room closed than a little girl of some ten years, with a bright and pretty face surrounded by black curly hair, came in sight from behind the château. as she caught sight of monsieur dalize, she ran towards him. "good-morning, papa," she said, throwing herself into his open arms. "good-morning, my child," said monsieur dalize, taking the little girl upon his knees and kissing her over and over again. "ah, papa," said the child, "you seem very happy this morning." "and you have noticed that too, miette?" "why, of course, papa; any one can see that in your face." "well, i am very happy." miss mariette dalize, who was familiarly called miette, for short, looked at her father without saying anything, awaiting an explanation. monsieur dalize understood her silence. "you want to know what it is that makes me so happy?" "yes, papa." "well, then, it is because i am going to-day to see one of my friends,--my oldest friend, my most faithful friend,--whom i have not seen for ten long years." [illustration] monsieur dalize stopped for a moment. "indeed," he continued, "you cannot understand what i feel, my dear little miette." "and why not, papa?" "because you do not know the man of whom i speak." miette looked at her father, and said, in a serious tone,-- "you say that i don't know your best friend. come! is it not monsieur roger?" it was now the father's turn to look at his child, and, with pleased surprise, he said,-- "what? you know?" "why, papa, i have so often heard you talk to mamma of your friend roger that i could not be mistaken." "that is true; you are right." "then," continued miss miette, "it is mr. roger who is going to arrive here?" "it is he," said monsieur dalize, joyously. [illustration] but miss miette did not share her father's joy. she was silent for a moment, as if seeking to remember something very important, then she lowered her eyes, and murmured, sadly,-- "the poor gentleman." [illustration] chapter ii. two friends. the château of sainte-gemme, which was some miles from the village of sens, had belonged to monsieur dalize for some years. it was in this old château, which had often been restored, but which still preserved its dignified appearance, that monsieur dalize and his family had come to pass the summer. monsieur dalize had become the owner of the property of sainte-gemme on his retirement from business. he came out at the beginning of every may, and did not return to paris until november. during august and september the family was complete, for then it included albert dalize, who was on vacation from college. with his wife and his children, albert and mariette, monsieur dalize was happy, but sometimes there was a cloud upon this happiness. the absence of a friend with whom monsieur dalize had been brought up, and the terrible sorrows which this friend had experienced, cast an occasional gloom over the heart of the owner of sainte-gemme. this friend was called roger la morlière. in the dalize family he was called simply roger. he was a distinguished chemist. at the beginning of his life he had been employed by a manufacturer of chemicals in saint-denis, and the close neighborhood to paris enabled him frequently to see his friend dalize, who had succeeded his father in a banking-house. later, some flattering offers had drawn him off to northern france, to the town of lille. in this city roger had found a charming young girl, whom he loved and whose hand he asked in marriage. monsieur dalize was one of the witnesses to this marriage, which seemed to begin most happily, although neither party was wealthy. monsieur dalize had already been married at this time, and husband and wife had gone to lille to be present at the union of their friend roger. then a terrible catastrophe had occurred. roger had left france and gone to america. ten years had now passed. the two friends wrote each other frequently. monsieur dalize's letters were full of kindly counsels, of encouragement, of consolation. roger's, though they were affectionate, showed that he was tired of life, that his heart was in despair. still, monsieur dalize, in receiving the telegram which announced the return of this well-beloved friend, had only thought of the joy of seeing him again. the idea that this friend, whom he had known once so happy, would return to him broken by grief had not at first presented itself to his mind. now he began to reflect. an overwhelming sorrow had fallen upon the man, and for ten years he had shrouded himself in the remembrance of this sorrow. what great changes must he have gone through! how different he would look from the roger he had known! monsieur dalize thought over these things, full of anxiety, his eyes fixed upon the shaded alley in front of him. miette had softly slipped down from her father's knees, and, seating herself by his side upon the bench, she remained silent, knowing that she had better say nothing at such a time. light steps crunched the gravel, and madame dalize approached. miss miette had seen her mother coming, but monsieur dalize had seen nothing and heard nothing. in great astonishment madame dalize asked, addressing herself rather to her daughter than to her husband,-- "what is the matter?" miss miette made a slight motion, as if to say that she had better not answer; but this time monsieur dalize had heard. he lifted sad eyes to his wife's face. [illustration] "now, where has all the joy of the morning fled, my friend?" asked madame dalize. "and why this sudden sadness?" "because this child"--and monsieur dalize passed his hand through his daughter's thick curls--"has reminded me of the sorrows of roger." "miette?" demanded madame dalize. "what has she said to you?" "she simply said, when i spoke to her of roger, 'the poor gentleman.' and she was right,--the poor gentleman, poor roger." "undoubtedly," answered madame dalize; "but ten years have passed since that terrible day, and time heals many wounds." "that is true; but i know roger, and i know that he has forgotten nothing." "of course, forgetfulness would not be easy to him over there, in that long, solitary exile; but once he has returned here to us, near his family, his wounds will have a chance to heal; and, in any case," added madame dalize, taking her husband's hand, "he will have at hand two doctors who are profoundly devoted." "yes, my dear wife, you are right; and if he can be cured, we will know how to cure him." madame dalize took the telegram from her husband's hands, and read this: "=monsieur dalize=, château de sainte-gemme, at sens: "=friend=,--i am on my way home. learn at paris that you are at sainte-gemme. may i come there at once?" "=roger.=" "and you answered him?" "i answered, 'we are awaiting you with the utmost impatience. take the first train.'" "will that first train be the eleven-o'clock train?" "no; i think that roger will not be able to take the express. the man with the telegram will not have reached sens soon enough, even if he hurried, as he promised he would. then, the time taken to send the despatch, to receive it in paris, and to take it to roger's address would make it more than eleven. so our friend will have to take the next train; and you cannot count upon his being here before five o'clock." "oh!" cried miss miette, in a disappointed tone. "what is the matter, my child?" asked monsieur dalize. "why, i think----" "what do you think?" "well, papa," miss miette at last said, "i think that the railroads and the telegrams are far too slow." monsieur dalize could not suppress a smile at hearing this exclamation. he turned to his wife, and said,-- "see, how hurried is this younger generation. they think that steam and electricity are too slow." and, turning around to his daughter, he continued,-- "what would you like to have?" "why," answered the girl, "i would like to have monsieur roger here at once." her wish was to be fulfilled sooner than she herself could foresee. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iii. monsieur roger. monsieur and madame dalize went back into the château, and soon reappeared in walking-costumes. miette, who was playing in the shadows of the great chestnut-trees, looked up in surprise. "you are going out walking without me?" said she. "no, my child," answered madame dalize, "we are not going out to take a walk at all; but we have to go and make our excuses to monsieur and madame sylvestre at the farm, because we shall not be able to dine with them this evening, as we had agreed." "take me with you," said miette. "no; the road is too long and too fatiguing for your little legs." "are you going on foot?" "certainly," said monsieur dalize. "we must keep the horses fresh to send them down to meet roger at the station." miss miette could not help respecting so good a reason, and she resisted no longer. when left alone, she began seriously to wonder what she should do during the absence of her parents, which would certainly last over an hour. an idea came to her. she went into the château, passed into the drawing-room, took down a large album of photographs which was on the table, and carried it into her room. she did not have to search long. on the first page was the portrait of her mother, on the next was that of herself, miette, and that of her brother albert. the third page contained two portraits of men. one of these portraits was that of her father, the other was evidently the one that she was in search of, for she looked at it attentively. "it was a long time ago," she said to herself, "that this photograph was made,--ten years ago; but i am sure that i shall recognize monsieur roger all the same when he returns." at this very moment miette heard the sound of a carriage some distance off. surely the carriage was driving through the park. she listened with all her ears. soon the gravelled road leading up to the château was crunched under the wheels of the carriage. miette then saw an old-fashioned cab, which evidently had been hired at some hotel in sens. the cab stopped before the threshold. miette could not see so far from her window. she left the album upon her table, and ran down-stairs, full of curiosity. in the vestibule she met old peter, and asked him who it was. "it is a gentleman whom i don't know," said peter. "where is he?" "i asked him into the parlor." miette approached lightly on tiptoe to the door of the parlor, which was open, wishing to see without being seen. she expected she would find in this visitor some country neighbor. the gentleman was standing, looking out of the glass windows. from where she was miette could see his profile. she made a gesture, as if to say, "i don't know him;" and she was going to withdraw as slowly as possible, with her curiosity unsatisfied, when the gentleman turned around. miette now saw him directly in front of her in the full light. his beard and his hair were gray, his forehead was lightly wrinkled on the temples, a sombre expression saddened his features. his dress was elegant. he walked a few steps in the parlor, coming towards the door, but he had not yet seen miette. in her great surprise she had quickly drawn herself back, but she still followed the visitor with her eyes. at first she had doubted now she was sure; she could not be mistaken. when the gentleman had reached the middle of the parlor, miette could contain herself no longer. she showed herself in the doorway and advanced towards the visitor. he stopped, surprised at this pretty apparition. miette came up to him and looked him in the eyes. then, entirely convinced, holding out her arms towards the visitor, she said, softly,-- "monsieur roger!" the gentleman in his turn looked with surprise at the pretty little girl who had saluted him by name. he cast a glance towards the door, and, seeing that she was alone, more surprised than ever, he looked at her long and silently. miette, abashed by this scrutiny, drew back a little, and said, with hesitation,-- "tell me: you are surely monsieur roger?" "yes, i am indeed monsieur roger," said the visitor, at last, in a voice full of emotion. and, with a kindly smile, he added, "how did you come to recognize me, miss miette?" hearing her own name pronounced in this unexpected manner, miss miette was struck dumb with astonishment. at the end of a minute, she stammered,-- "why, sir, you know me, then, also?" "yes, my child; i have known and loved you for a long time." and monsieur roger caught miette up in his arms and kissed her tenderly. "yes," he continued, "i know you, my dear child. your father has often spoken of you in his letters; and has he not sent me also several of your photographs when i asked for them?" "why, that is funny!" cried miette. but she suddenly felt that the word was not dignified enough. "that is very strange," she said: "for i, too, recognized you from your photograph; and it was only five minutes ago, at the very moment when you arrived, that i was looking at it, up-stairs in my room. shall i go up and find the album?" monsieur roger held her back. "no, my child," said he, "remain here by me, and tell me something about your father and your mother." miette looked up at the clock. "papa and mamma may return at any moment. they will talk to you themselves a great deal better than i can. all that i can tell you is that they are going to be very, very glad; but they did not expect you until the evening. how does it happen that you are here already?" "because i took the first train,--the . ." "but your telegram?" "yes, i sent a despatch last night on arriving at paris, but i did not have the patience to wait for an answer. i departed, hoping they would receive me anyway with pleasure; and i already see that i was not mistaken." "no, monsieur roger," answered miette, "you were not mistaken. you are going to be very happy here, very happy. there, now! i see papa and mamma returning." the door of the vestibule had just been opened. they could see peter exchanging some words with his master and mistress. then hurried steps were heard, and in a moment monsieur dalize was in the arms of his friend roger. miss miette, who had taken her mamma by the arm, obliged her to bend down, and said in her ear,-- "i love him already, our friend roger." [illustration] [illustration] chapter iv. monsieur roger's story. the evening had come, the evening of that happy day when the two friends, after ten years of absence, had come together again. monsieur roger had known from the first that he would find loving and faithful hearts just as he had left them. they were all sitting, after dinner, in a large vestibule, whose windows, this beautiful evening in autumn, opened out upon the sleeping park. for some moments the conversation had fallen into an embarrassing silence. every one looked at monsieur roger. they thought that he might speak, that he might recount the terrible event which had broken his life; but they did not like to ask him anything about it. monsieur roger was looking at the star-sprinkled sky, and seemed to be dreaming, but in his deeper self he had guessed the thoughts of his friends and understood he ought to speak. he passed his hand over his forehead to chase away a painful impression, and with a resolute, but low and soft voice, he said,-- "i see, my friends, my dear friends, i see that you expect from me the story of my sorrow." monsieur and madame dalize made a sight gesture of negation. "yes," continued monsieur roger, "i know very well that you do not wish it through idle curiosity, that you fear to reawaken my griefs; but to whom can i tell my story, if not to you? i owe it to you as a sacred debt, and, if i held my tongue, it seems to me a dark spot would come upon our friendship. you know what a lovely and charming wife i married. her only fault--a fault only in the eyes of the world--was that she was poor. i had the same fault. when my son george came into the world i suddenly was filled with new ambitions. i wished, both for his sake and for his mother's, to amass wealth, and i worked feverishly and continuously in my laboratory. i had a problem before me, and at last i succeeded in solving it. i had discovered a new process for treating silver ores. fear nothing: i am not going to enter into technical details; but it is necessary that i should explain to you the reason which made me"--here monsieur paused, and then continued, with profound sadness--"which made _us_ go to america. silver ores in most of the mines of north america offer very complex combinations in the sulphur, bromide, chloride of lime, and iodine, which i found mixed up with the precious metal,--that is to say, with the silver. it is necessary to free the silver from all these various substances. now, the known processes had not succeeded in freeing the silver in all its purity. there was always a certain quantity of the silver which remained alloyed with foreign matters, and that much silver was consequently lost. the processes which i had discovered made it possible to obtain the entire quantity of silver contained in the ore. not a fraction of the precious metal escaped. an english company owning some silver-mines in texas heard of my discovery, and made me an offer. i was to go to texas for ten years. the enterprise was to be at my own risk, but they would give me ten per cent on all the ore that i saved. i felt certain to succeed. my wife, full of faith in me, urged me to accept. what were we risking? a modest situation in a chemical laboratory, which i should always be able to obtain again. over there on the other side of the atlantic there were millions in prospect; and if i did not succeed from the beginning, my wife, who drew and painted better than an amateur,--as well as most painters, indeed,--and who had excellent letters of recommendation, would give drawing-lessons in new orleans, where the company had its head-quarters. we decided to go; but first we came to paris. i wished to say good-by to you and to show you my son, my poor little george, of whom i was so proud, and whom you did not know. he was then two and one-half years old. my decision had been taken so suddenly that i could not announce it to you. when we arrived in paris, we learned that you were in nice. i wrote to you,--don't you remember?" said monsieur roger, turning to monsieur dalize. [illustration] "yes, my friend; i have carefully kept that letter of farewell, full of hope and of enthusiasm." "we were going to embark from liverpool on the steamer which would go directly to new orleans. the steamer was called the britannic." monsieur roger stopped speaking, full of emotion at this recollection. at the end of a long silence he again took up the thread of his story. "the first days of the journey we had had bad weather. and i had passed them almost entirely in our state-room with my poor wife and my little boy, who were very sea-sick. on the tenth day (it was the th of december) the weather cleared up, and, notwithstanding a brisk wind from the north-east, we were on the deck after dinner. the night had come; the stars were already out, though every now and then hidden under clouds high up in the sky, which fled quickly out of sight. we were in the archipelago of bahama, not far from florida. "'one day more and we shall be in port,' i said to my wife and to george, pointing in the direction of new orleans. "my wife, full of hope,--too full, alas! poor girl,--said to me, with a smile, as she pointed to george,-- "'and this fortune that we have come so far to find, but which we shall conquer without doubt, this fortune will all be for this little gentleman.' "george, whom i had just taken upon my knees, guessed that we were speaking of him, and he threw his little arms around my neck and touched my face with his lips." [illustration] [illustration] chapter v. fire at sea. "at this moment, a moment that i shall never forget, i heard a sudden crackling noise, strange and unexpected, coming from a point seemingly close to me. i turned around and saw nothing. nevertheless, i still heard that sound in my ears. it was a strange sound. one might have thought that an immense punch had been lighted in the interior of the ship, and that the liquid, stirred up by invisible hands, was tossed up and down, hissing and crackling. the quick movement of my head had arrested george in the midst of his caresses. now he looked up at me with astonished eyes. the uneasiness which i felt in spite of the absence of any cause must have appeared upon my face, for my wife, standing beside me, leaned over to ask, in a subdued voice,-- "'what is the matter?' "i think i answered, 'nothing.' but my mind had dwelt upon an awful danger,--that danger of which the most hardened seamen speak with a beating heart,--fire at sea. alas! my fears were to be realized. from one of the hatches there suddenly leaped up a tongue of flame. at the same instant we heard the awful cry, 'fire!' to add to our distress, the wind had increased, and had become so violent that it fanned the flames with terrible rapidity, and had enveloped the state-rooms in the rear, whence the passengers were running, trembling and crying. in a few minutes the back of the ship was all on fire. my wife had snatched george from my arms, and held him closely against her breast, ready to save him or die with him. the captain, in the midst of the panic of the passengers, gave his orders. the boats were being lowered into the sea,--those at least which remained, for two had already been attacked by the fire. accident threw the captain between me and my wife at the very moment when he was crying out to his men to allow none but the women and children in the boats. he recognized me. i had been introduced to him by a common friend, and he said, in a voice choked with emotion, pointing to my wife and my son,-- "'embrace them!' [illustration] "then he tore them both from my arms and pushed and carried them to the last boat, which was already too full. night had come. with the rise of the wind, clouds had collected, obscuring the sky. by the light of the fire i saw for the last time--yes, for the last time--my wife and my child in the boat, shaken by an angry sea. both were looking towards me. did they see me also for the last time? and in my agony i cried out, 'george! george!' with a voice so loud that my son must surely have heard that last cry. yes, he must have heard it. i stood rooted to the spot, looking without seeing anything, stupefied by this hopeless sorrow, not even feeling the intense heat of the flames, which were coming towards me. but the captain saw me. he ran towards me, drew me violently back, and threw me in the midst of the men, who were beginning a determined struggle against the fire which threatened to devour them. the instinct of life, the hope to see again my loved ones, gave me courage. i did as the others. some of the passengers applied themselves to the chain; the pumps set in motion threw masses of water into the fire; but it seemed impossible to combat it, for it was alcohol which was burning. they had been obliged to repack part of the hold, where there were a number of demijohns of alcohol which the bad weather the first days had displaced. during the work one of these vast stone bottles had fallen and broken. as ill luck would have it, the alcohol descended in a rain upon a lamp in the story below, and the alcohol had taken fire. so i had not been mistaken when the first sound had made me think of the crackling of a punch. we worked with an energy which can only be found in moments of this sort. the captain inspired us with confidence. at one time we had hope. the flames had slackened, or at least we supposed so; but in fact they had only gone another way, and reached the powder-magazine. a violent explosion succeeded, and one of the masts was hurled into the sea. were we lost? no; for the engineer had had a sudden inspiration. he had cut the pipes, and immediately directed upon the flames torrents of steam from the engine. a curtain of vapor lifted itself up between us and the fire, a curtain which the flames could not penetrate. then the pumps worked still more effectually. we were saved." [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] chapter vi. miss miette's fortune. "the rudder no longer guided us. what a night we passed! we made a roll-call: how many were wanting? and the boats which contained our wives, our children,--had those boats found a refuge? had they reached land anywhere? the ocean was still rough, and, notwithstanding the captain's words of hope, i was in despair,--anticipating the sorrow that was to overwhelm me. every one remained on deck. at daybreak a new feeling of sadness seized us at the sight of our steamer, deformed and blackened by the fire. the deck for more than forty yards was nothing but a vast hole, at the bottom of which were lying, pell-mell, half-consumed planks and beams, windlasses blackened by fire, bits of wood, and formless masses of metal over which the tongues of flame had passed. notwithstanding all this the steamer was slowly put in motion. we were able to reach havana. there we hoped we might hear some news. and we did hear news,--but what news! a sailing-vessel had found on the morrow of the catastrophe a capsized boat on the coast of the island of andros, where the boat had evidently been directed. a sailor who had tied himself to the boat, and whom they at first thought dead, was recalled to life, and told his story of the fire. from havana, where the sailing-vessel had stopped, a rescuing-party was at once sent out. they found and brought back with them the débris of boats broken against the rocks and also many dead bodies. these were all laid out in a large room, where the remaining passengers of the britannic were invited. we had to count the dead; we had to identify them. with what agony, with what cruel heart-beats i entered the room. i closed my eyes. i tried to persuade myself that i would not find there the beings that were so dear to me. i wished to believe that they had been saved, my dear ones, while my other companions in misfortune were all crying and sobbing. at last i opened my eyes, and, the strength of my vision being suddenly increased to a wonderful degree, i saw that in this long line of bodies there was no child. that was my first thought. may my poor wife forgive me! she also was not there; but it was not long before she came. that very evening a rescuing-party brought back her corpse with the latest found." monsieur roger ceased speaking. he looked at his friends, monsieur and madame dalize, who were silently weeping; then his eyes travelled to miette. she was not crying; her look, sad but astonished, interested, questioned monsieur roger. he thought, "she cannot understand sorrow, this little girl, who has not had any trials." and the eyes of miette seemed to answer, "but george? george? did they not find him?" at last monsieur roger understood this thought in the mind of miette without any necessity on her part to express it by her lips, and, as if he were answering to a verbal question, he said, shaking his head,-- "no, they never found him." miette expected this answer; then she too began to weep. monsieur dalize repeated the last words of monsieur roger. "they did not find him! i do not dare to ask you, my dear friend, if you preserve any hope." "yes, i hope. i forced myself to hope for a long time. but the ocean kept my child in the same way that it buried in its depths many other victims of this catastrophe, for it was that very hope that made me remain in america. i might have returned to france and given up my engagements; but there i was closer to news, if there were any; and, besides, in work, in hard labor to which i intended to submit my body, i expected to find, if not forgetfulness, at least that weariness which dampens the spirit. i remained ten years in texas, and i returned to-day without ever having forgotten that terrible night." [illustration] there was a silence. then monsieur dalize, wishing to create a diversion, asked,-- "how does it happen that you did not announce to me beforehand your return. it was not until i received your telegram this morning that we learned this news which made us so happy. i had no reason to expect that your arrival would be so sudden. did you not say that you were to remain another six months, and perhaps a year, in texas?" "yes; and i did then think that i should be forced to prolong my stay for some months. my contract was ended, my work was done. i was free, but the mining-company wished to retain me. they wanted me to sign a new contract, and to this end they invented all sorts of pretexts to keep me where i was. as i did not wish to go to law against the people through whom i had made my fortune, i determined to wait, hoping that my patience would tire them out; and that, in fact, is what happened. the company bowed before my decision. this good news reached me on the eve of the departure of a steamer. i did not hesitate for a moment; i at once took ship. i might indeed have given you notice on the way, but i wished to reserve to myself the happiness of surprising you. it was not until i reached paris that i decided to send you a despatch; and even then i did not have the strength to await your reply." "dear roger!" said monsieur dalize. "and then your process, your discovery, succeeded entirely?" "yes, i have made a fortune,--a large fortune. i have told you that the enterprise was at my risk, but that the company would give me ten per cent. on all the ore that i would succeed in saving. now, the mines of texas used to produce four million dollars' worth a year. thanks to my process, they produce nearly a million more. in ten years you can well see what was my portion." "splendid!" said monsieur dalize; "it represents a sum of----" madame dalize interrupted her husband. "miette," said she, "cannot you do that little sum for us, my child?" miette wiped her eyes and ceased crying. her mother's desire had been reached. the little girl took a pencil, and, after making her mother repeat the question to her, put down some figures upon a sheet of paper. after a moment she said, not without hesitation, for the sum appeared to her enormous,-- "why! it is a million dollars that monsieur roger has made!" "exactly," said monsieur roger; "and, my dear child, you have, without knowing it, calculated pretty closely the fortune which you will receive from me as your wedding portion." monsieur and madame dalize looked up with astonishment. miette gazed at monsieur roger without understanding. "my dear friends," said roger, turning to monsieur and madame dalize, "you will not refuse me the pleasure of giving my fortune to miss miette. i have no one else in the world; and does not mariette represent both of you? where would my money be better placed?" and turning towards miss miette, he said to her,-- "yes, my child, that million will be yours on your marriage." miette looked from her mother to her father, not knowing whether she ought to accept, and seriously embarrassed. with a sweet smile, monsieur roger added,-- "and so, you see, you will be able to choose a husband that you like." then, quietly and without hesitation, miss miette said,-- "it will be paul solange." [illustration] [illustration] chapter vii. vacation. monsieur and madame dalize could not help smiling in listening to this frank declaration of their daughter: "it will be paul solange." monsieur roger smiled in his turn, and said,-- "what! has miss miette already made her choice?" "it is an amusing bit of childishness," answered madame dalize, "as you see. but, really, miss miette, although she teases him often, has a very kindly feeling for our friend paul solange." "and who is this happy little mortal?" asked monsieur roger. "a friend of albert's," said monsieur dalize. "albert, your son?" said monsieur roger, to whom this name and this word were always painful. then he added,-- "i should like very much to see him, your son." "you shall soon see him, my dear roger," answered monsieur dalize. "vacation begins to-morrow morning, and to-morrow evening albert will be at sainte-gemme." "with paul?" asked miss miette. "why, certainly," said madame dalize, laughing; "with your friend paul solange." monsieur roger asked,-- "how old is albert at present?" "in his thirteenth year," said monsieur dalize. monsieur roger remained silent. he was thinking that his little george, if he had lived, would also be big now, and, like the son of monsieur dalize, would be in his thirteenth year. next day the horses were harnessed, and all four went down to the station to meet the five-o'clock train. when albert and paul jumped out from the train, and had kissed monsieur and madame dalize and miss miette, they looked with some surprise at monsieur roger, whom they did not know. "albert," said monsieur dalize, showing monsieur roger to his son, "why don't you salute our friend roger?" "is this monsieur roger?" cried albert, and the tone of his voice showed that his father had taught him to know and to love the man who now, with his eyes full of tears, was pressing him to his heart. "and you too, paul, don't you want to embrace our friend?" said monsieur dalize. [illustration] "yes, sir," answered paul solange, with a sad and respectful gravity, which struck monsieur roger and at once called up his affection. on the way, monsieur roger, who was looking with emotion upon the two young people, but whose eyes were particularly fixed upon paul, said, in a low voice, to monsieur dalize,-- "they are charming children." "and it is especially paul whom you think charming; acknowledge it," answered monsieur dalize, in the same tone. "why should paul please me more than albert?" asked monsieur roger. "ah, my poor friend," replied monsieur dalize, "because the father of albert is here and the father of paul is far away." monsieur dalize was right. monsieur roger, without wishing it, had felt his sympathies attracted more strongly to this child, who was, for the time being, fatherless. he bent over to monsieur dalize, and asked,-- "where is paul's father?" "in martinique, where he does a big business in sugar-cane and coffee. monsieur solange was born in france, and he decided that his son should come here to study." "i can understand that," replied monsieur roger; "but what a sorrow this exile must cause the mother of this child!" "paul has no mother: she died several years ago." "poor boy!" murmured monsieur roger, and his growing friendship became all the stronger. that evening, after dinner, when coffee was being served, miss miette, who was in a very good humor, was seized with the desire to tease her little friend paul. "say, paul," she asked, from one end of the table to the other, "how many prizes did you take this year?" paul, knowing that an attack was coming, began to smile, and answered, good-naturedly,-- "you know very well, you naughty girl. you have already asked me, and i have told you." "ah, that is true," said miette, with affected disdain: "you took one prize,--one poor little prize,--bah!" then, after a moment, she continued,-- "that is not like my brother: he took several prizes, _he_ did,--a prize for latin, a prize for history, a prize for mathematics, a prize for physical science, and a prize for chemistry. well, well! and you,--you only took one prize; and that is the same one you took last year!" "yes," said paul, without minding his friend's teasing; "but last year i took only the second prize, and this year i took the first." "you have made some progress," said miss miette, sententiously. monsieur roger had been interested in the dialogue. "may i ask what prize master paul solange has obtained?" "a poor little first prize for drawing only," answered miette. "ah, you love drawing?" said monsieur roger, looking at paul. but it was miette who answered: "he loves nothing else." monsieur dalize now, in his turn, took up the conversation, and said,-- "the truth is that our friend paul has a passion for drawing. history and latin please him a little, but for chemistry and the physical sciences he has no taste at all." monsieur roger smiled. "you are wrong," replied monsieur dalize, "to excuse by your smile paul's indifference to the sciences.--and as to you, paul, you would do well to take as your example monsieur roger, who would not have his fortune if he had not known chemistry and the physical sciences. in our day the sciences are indispensable." miss miette, who had shoved herself a little away from the table, pouting slightly, heard these words, and came to the defence of the one whom she had begun by attacking. she opened a book full of pictures, and advanced with it to her father. "now, papa," she said, with a look of malice in her eyes, "did the gentleman who made that drawing have to know anything about chemistry or the physical sciences?" [illustration] [illustration] chapter viii. a drawing lesson. for a moment monsieur dalize was disconcerted, and knew not what to say in answer. happily, monsieur roger came to his aid. he took the book from miette's hands, looked at the engraving, and said, quietly,-- "why, certainly, my dear young friend, the gentleman who made that drawing ought to know something about chemistry and physical science." "how so?" said miette, astonished. "why, if he did not know the laws of physical science and of chemistry, he has, none the less, and perhaps even without knowing it himself, availed himself of the results of chemistry and physical science." miette took the book back again, looked at the drawing with care, and said,-- "still, there are not in this drawing instruments or apparatus, or machines such as i have seen in my brother's books." "but," answered monsieur roger, smiling, "it is not necessary that you should see instruments and apparatus and machines, as you say, to be in the presence of physical phenomena; and i assure you, my dear child, that this drawing which is under our eyes is connected with chemistry and physical science." miette now looked up at monsieur roger to see if he was not making fun of her. monsieur roger translated this dumb interrogation, and said,-- "come, now! what does this drawing represent? tell me yourself." "why, it represents two peasants,--a man and a woman,--who have returned home wet in the storm, and who are warming and drying themselves before the fire." "it is, in fact, exactly that." "very well, sir?" asked miette. and in this concise answer she meant to say, "in all that, what do you see that is connected with chemistry or physical science?" "very well," continued monsieur roger; "do you see this light mist, this vapor, which is rising from the cloak that the peasant is drying before the fire?" "yes." "well, that is physical science," said monsieur roger. [illustration] "how do you mean?" asked miette. "i will explain in a moment. let us continue to examine the picture. do you see that a portion of the wood is reduced to ashes?" "yes." "do you also remark the flame and the smoke which are rising up the chimney?" "yes." "that is chemistry." "ah!" said miss miette, at a loss for words. every one was listening to monsieur roger, some of them interested, the others amused. miette glanced over at her friend paul. "what do you think of that?" she asked. paul did not care to reply. albert wished to speak, but he stopped at a gesture from his father. monsieur dalize knew that the real interest of this scene lay with monsieur roger, the scientist, who was already loved by all this little world. miette, as nobody else answered, returned to monsieur roger. "but why," she asked, "is that physical science? why is it chemistry?" "because it is physical science and chemistry," said monsieur roger, simply. "oh, but you have other reasons to give us!" said madame dalize, who understood what monsieur roger was thinking of. "yes," added miette. and even paul, with unusual curiosity, nodded his head affirmatively. "the reasons will be very long to explain, and would bore you," said monsieur dalize, certain that he would in this way provoke a protest. the protest, in fact, came. monsieur roger was obliged to speak. "well," said he, still addressing himself to miss miette, "this drawing is concerned with physical science, because the peasant, in placing his cloak before the heat of the fire, causes the phenomenon of evaporation to take place. the vapor which escapes from the damp cloth is water, is nothing but water, and will always be water under a different form. it is water modified, and modified for a moment, because this vapor, coming against the cold wall or other cold objects, will condense. that is to say, it will become again liquid water,--water similar to that which it was a moment ago; and that is a physical phenomenon,--for physical science aims to study the modifications which alter the form, the color, the appearance of bodies, but only their temporary modifications, which leave intact all the properties of bodies. our drawing is concerned with chemistry, because the piece of wood which burns disappears, leaving in its place cinders in the hearth and gases which escape through the chimney. here there is a complete modification, an absolute change of the piece of wood. do what you will, you would be unable, by collecting together the cinders and gases, to put together again the log of wood which has been burned; and that is a chemical phenomenon,--for the aim of chemistry is to study the durable and permanent modifications, after which bodies retain none of their original properties. another example may make more easy this distinction between physical science and chemistry. suppose that you put into the fire a bar of iron. that bar will expand and become red. its color, its form, its dimensions will be modified, but it will always remain a bar of iron. that is a physical phenomenon. instead of this bar of iron, put in the fire a bit of sulphur. it will flame up and burn in disengaging a gas of a peculiar odor, which is called sulphuric acid. this sulphuric-acid gas can be condensed and become a liquid, but it no longer contains the properties of sulphur. it is no longer a piece of sulphur, and can never again become a piece of sulphur. the modification of this body is therefore durable, and therefore permanent. now, that is a chemical phenomenon." monsieur roger stopped for a moment; then, paying no apparent attention to paul, who, however, was listening far more attentively than one could imagine he would, he looked at miette, and said,-- "i don't know, my child, if i have explained myself clearly enough; but you must certainly understand that in their case the artist has represented, whether he wished to or not, the physical phenomenon and the chemical phenomenon." "yes, sir," answered miette, "i have understood quite well." "well," said monsieur dalize, "since you are so good a teacher, don't you think that you could, during vacation, cause a little chemistry and a little physical science to enter into that little head?" and he pointed to paul solange. the latter, notwithstanding the sentiment of respectful sympathy which he felt for monsieur roger, and although he had listened with interest to his explanations, could not prevent a gesture of fear, so pronounced that everybody began to laugh. miette, who wished to console her good friend paul and obtain his pardon for her teasing, came up to him, and said,-- "come, console yourself, paul; i will let you take my portrait a dozen times, as you did last year,--although it is very tiresome to pose for a portrait." [illustration] [illustration] chapter ix. the tower of heurtebize. next morning at six o'clock paul solange opened the door of the château and stepped out on to the lawn. he held a sketch-book in his hand. he directed his steps along a narrow pathway, shaded by young elms, towards one of the gates of the park. at a turning in the alley he found himself face to face with monsieur roger, who was walking slowly and thoughtfully. paul stopped, and in his surprise could not help saying,-- "monsieur roger, already up?" monsieur answered, smiling,-- "but you also, master paul, you are, like me, already up. are you displeased to meet me?" "oh, no, sir," paul hastened to say, blushing a little. "why should i be displeased at meeting you?" "then, may i ask you where you are going so early in the morning?" "over there," said paul, stretching his hand towards a high wooded hill: "over there to heurtebize." "and what are you going to do over there?" paul answered by showing his sketch-book. "ah, you are going to draw?" "yes, sir; i am going to draw, to take a sketch of the tower; that old tower which you see on the right side of the hill." "well, master paul, will you be so kind," asked monsieur roger, "as to allow me to go with you and explore this old tower?" paul, on hearing this proposal, which he could not refuse, made an involuntary movement of dismay, exactly similar to that he had made the night before. "oh, fear nothing," said monsieur roger, good-naturedly. "i will not bore you either with physical science nor chemistry. i hope you will accept me, therefore, as your companion on the way, without any apprehensions of that kind of annoyance." "then, let us go, sir," answered paul, a little ashamed to have had his thoughts so easily guessed. they took a short cut across the fields, passing wide expanses of blossoming clover; they crossed a road, they skirted fields of wheat and of potatoes. at last they arrived upon the wooded hill of heurtebize, at the foot of the old tower, which still proudly raised its head above the valleys. "what a lovely landscape!" said monsieur roger, when he had got his breath. "the view is beautiful," said paul, softly; "but it is nothing like the view you get up above there." "up above?" said monsieur roger, without understanding. "yes, from the summit of the tower." "you have climbed up the tower?" "several times." "but it is falling into ruins, this poor tower; it has only one fault, that of having existed for two or three hundred years." "it is indeed very old," answered paul; "it is the last vestige of the old château of sainte-gemme, which, it is said, was built in the sixteenth century, or possibly even a century or two earlier; nobody is quite certain as to the date; at all events, the former proprietors several years ago determined to preserve it, and they even commenced some repairs upon it. the interior stairway has been put in part into sufficiently good condition to enable you to use it, if you at the same time call a little bit of gymnastics to your aid, as you will have to do at a few places. and i have used it in this way very often; but please now be good enough to----" [illustration] paul stopped, hesitating. "good enough to what? tell me." then paul solange added,-- "to say nothing of this to madame dalize. that would make her uneasy." "not only will i say nothing, my dear young friend, but i will join you in the ascent,--for i have the greatest desire to do what you are going to do, and to ascend the tower with you." paul looked at monsieur roger, and said, quickly,-- "but, sir, there is danger." "bah! as there is none for you, why should there be danger for me?" somewhat embarrassed, paul replied,-- "i am young, sir; more active than you, perhaps, and----" "if that is your only reason, my friend, do not disturb yourself. let us try the ascent." "on one condition, sir." "what is that?" "that i go up first." "yes, my dear friend, i consent. you shall go first," said monsieur roger, who would have himself suggested this if the idea had not come to paul. both of them, monsieur roger and paul, had at this moment the same idea of self-sacrifice. paul said to himself, "if any accident happens, it will happen to me, and not to monsieur roger." and monsieur roger, sure of his own strength, thought, "if paul should happen to fall, very likely i may be able to catch him and save him." luckily, the ascent, though somewhat difficult, was accomplished victoriously, and monsieur roger was enabled to recognize that the modified admiration which paul solange felt for the landscape, as seen from below, was entirely justified. paul asked,-- "how high is this tower? a hundred feet?" "less than that, i think," answered monsieur roger. "still, it will be easy to find out exactly in a moment." "in a moment?" asked paul. "yes, in a moment." "without descending?" "no; we will remain where we are." paul made a gesture which clearly indicated, "i would like to see that." monsieur roger understood. "there is no lack of pieces of stone in this tower; take one," said he to paul. paul obeyed. "you will let this stone fall to the earth at the very moment that i tell you to do so." monsieur roger drew out his watch and looked carefully at the second-hand. "now, let go," he said. paul opened his hand; the stone fell. it could be heard striking the soil at the foot of the tower. monsieur roger, who during the fall of the stone had had his eyes fixed upon his watch, said,-- "the tower is not very high." then he added, after a moment of reflection, "the tower is sixty-two and a half feet in height." paul looked at monsieur roger, thinking that he was laughing at him. monsieur roger lifted his eyes to paul; he looked quite serious. then paul said, softly,-- "the tower is sixty feet high?" "sixty-two and a half feet,--for the odd two and a half feet must not be forgotten in our computation." paul was silent. then, seeing that monsieur roger was ready to smile, and mistaking the cause of this smile, he said,-- "you are joking, are you not? you cannot know that the tower is really sixty feet high?" "sixty-two feet and six inches," repeated monsieur roger again. "that is exact. do you want to have it proved to you?" "oh, yes, sir," said paul solange, with real curiosity. "very well. go back to the château, and bring me a ball of twine and a yard-measure." "i run," said paul. "take care!" cried monsieur roger, seeing how quickly paul was hurrying down the tower. when paul had safely reached the ground, monsieur roger said to himself, with an air of satisfaction,-- "come, come! we will make something out of that boy yet!" [illustration] [illustration] chapter x. physical science. paul returned to the tower more quickly than monsieur roger had expected. instead of returning to the château, he had taken the shortest cut, had reached the village, and had procured there the two things wanted. he climbed up the tower and arrived beside monsieur roger, holding out the ball of twine and the yard-stick. "you are going to see, you little doubter, that i was not wrong," said monsieur roger. he tied a stone to the twine, and let it down outside the tower to the ground. "this length of twine," he said, "represents exactly the height of the tower, does it not?" "yes, sir," answered paul. monsieur roger made a knot in the twine at the place where it rested on the top of the tower. then he asked paul to take the yard-stick which he had brought, and to hold it extended between his two hands. then, drawing up the twine which hung outside the tower, he measured it yard by yard. paul counted. when he had reached the number sixty, he could not help bending over to see how much remained of the twine. "ah, sir," he cried, "i think you have won." "let us finish our count," said monsieur roger, quietly. and paul counted,-- "sixty-one, sixty-two,--sixty-two feet----" "and?" "and six inches!" cried paul. "i have won, as you said, my young friend," cried monsieur roger, who enjoyed paul's surprise. "now let us cautiously descend and return to the château, where the breakfast-bell will soon ring." the descent was made in safety, and they directed their steps towards sainte-gemme. paul walked beside monsieur roger without saying anything. he was deep in thought. [illustration] monsieur roger, understanding what was going on in the brain of his friend, took care not to disturb him. he waited, hoping for an answer. his hope was soon realized. as they reached the park, paul, who, after thinking a great deal, had failed to solve the difficulty, said, all of a sudden,-- "monsieur roger!" "what, my friend?" "how did you measure the tower?" monsieur roger looked at paul, and, affecting a serious air, he said,-- "it is impossible, entirely impossible for me to answer." "impossible?" cried paul, in surprise. "yes, impossible." "why, please?" "because in answering i will break the promise that i have made you,--the promise to say nothing about chemistry or physical science." "ah!" said paul, becoming silent again. monsieur roger glanced at his companion from the corner of his eye, knowing that his curiosity would soon awake again. at the end of the narrow, shady pathway they soon saw the red bricks of the château shining in the sun; but paul had not yet renewed his question, and monsieur roger began to be a little uneasy,--for, if paul held his tongue, it would show that his curiosity had vanished, and another occasion to revive it would be difficult to find. luckily, paul decided to speak at the very moment when they reached the château. "then," said he, expressing the idea which was uppermost,--"then it is physical science?" monsieur roger asked, in an indifferent tone,-- "what is physical science?" "your method of measuring the tower." "yes, it is physical science, as you say. consequently, you see very well that i cannot answer you." "ah, monsieur roger," said paul, embarrassed, "you are laughing at me." "not at all, my friend. i made a promise; i must hold to it. i have a great deal of liking for you, and i don't want you to dislike me." "oh, sir!" suddenly they heard the voice of monsieur dalize, who cried, cheerfully,-- "see, they are already quarrelling!" for some moments monsieur dalize, at the door of the vestibule, surrounded by his wife and his children, had been gazing at the two companions. monsieur roger and paul approached. "what is the matter?" asked monsieur dalize, shaking hands with his friend. "a very strange thing has happened," answered monsieur roger. "and what is that?" "simply that master paul wants me to speak to him of physical science." an astonished silence, soon followed by a general laugh, greeted these words. miss miette took a step forward, looked at paul with an uneasy air, and said,-- "are you sick, my little paul?" paul, confused, kept silent, but he answered by a reproachful look the ironical question of his friend miette. "but whence could such a change have come?" asked madame dalize, addressing monsieur roger. "explain to us what has happened." "here are the facts," answered monsieur roger. "we had climbed up the tower of heurtebize----" madame dalize started, and turned a look of uneasiness towards paul. "paul was not at fault," monsieur roger hastened to add. "i was the guilty one. well, we were up there, when master paul got the idea of estimating the height of the tower. i answered that nothing was more simple than to know it at once. i asked him to let fall a stone. i looked at my watch while the stone was falling, and i said, 'the tower is sixty-two feet and six inches high.' master paul seemed to be astonished. he went after a yard-stick and some twine. we measured the tower, and master paul has recognized that the tower is in fact sixty-two feet and six inches high. now he wants me to tell him how i have been able so simply, with so little trouble, to learn the height. that is a portion of physical science; and, as i made master paul a promise this very morning not to speak to him of physical science nor of chemistry, you see it is impossible for me to answer." monsieur dalize understood at once what his friend roger had in view, and, assuming the same air, he answered,-- "certainly, it is impossible; you are perfectly right. you promised; you must keep your promise." "unless," said miss miette, taking sides with her friend paul,--"unless paul releases monsieur roger from his promise." "you are entirely right, my child," said monsieur roger; "should paul release me sufficiently to ask me to answer him. but, as i remarked to you a moment ago, i fear that he will repent too quickly, and take a dislike to me. that i should be very sorry for." "no, sir, i will not repent. i promise you that." "very well," said miette; "there is another promise. you know that you will have to keep it." "but," answered monsieur roger, turning to paul, "it will be necessary for me to speak to you of weight, of the fall of bodies, of gravitation; and i am very much afraid that that will weary you." "no, sir," answered paul, very seriously, "that will not weary me. on the contrary, that will interest me, if it teaches me how you managed to calculate the height of the tower." "it will certainly teach you that." "then i am content," said paul. "and i also," said monsieur roger to himself, happy to have attained his object so soon. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xi. the smoke which falls. in the evening, after dinner, monsieur roger, to whom paul recalled his promise, asked miette to go and find him a pebble in the pathway before the château. when he had the bit of stone in his hand, monsieur roger let it fall from the height of about three feet. "as you have just heard and seen," said he, addressing paul, "this stone in falling from a small height produces only a feeble shock, but if it falls from the height of the house upon the flagstones of the pavement, the shock would be violent enough to break it." monsieur roger interrupted himself, and put this question to paul: "possibly you may have asked yourself why this stone should fall. why do bodies fall?" "goodness knows," said the small voice of miss miette in the midst of the silence that followed. "miette," said madame dalize, "be serious, and don't answer for others." "but, mamma, i am sure that paul would have answered the same as i did:--would you not, paul?" paul bent his head slightly as a sign that miette was not mistaken. "well," continued monsieur roger, "another one before you did ask himself this question. it was a young man of twenty-three years, named newton. he found himself one fine evening in a garden, sitting under an apple-tree, when an apple fell at his feet. this common fact, whose cause had never awakened the attention of anybody, filled all his thoughts; and, as the moon was shining in the heavens, newton asked himself why the moon did not fall like the apple." "that is true," said miette; "why does not the moon fall?" "listen, and you will hear," said monsieur dalize. monsieur roger continued: "by much reflection, by hard work and calculation, newton made an admirable discovery,--that of universal attraction. yes, he discovered that all bodies, different though they may be, attract each other: they draw towards each other; the bodies which occupy the celestial spaces,--planets and suns,--as well as the bodies which are found upon our earth. the force which attracts bodies towards the earth, which made this stone fall, as newton's apple fell, has received the name of weight. weight, therefore, is the attraction of the earth for articles which are on its surface. why does this table, around which we find ourselves, remain in the same place? why does it not slide or fly away? simply because it is retained by the attraction of the earth. i have told you that all bodies attract each other. it is therefore quite true that in the same way as the earth attracts the table, so does the table attract the earth." "like a loadstone," said albert dalize. "well, you may compare the earth in this instance to a loadstone. the loadstone draws the iron, and iron draws the loadstone, exactly as the earth and the table draw each other; but you can understand that the earth attracts the table with far more force than the table attracts the earth." "yes," said miette; "because the earth is bigger than the table." "exactly so. it has been discovered that bodies attract each other in proportion to their size,--that is to say, the quantity of matter that they contain. on the other hand, the farther bodies are from each other the less they attract each other. i should translate in this fashion the scientific formula which tells us that bodies attract each other in an inverse ratio to the square of the distance. i would remind you that the square of a number is the product obtained by multiplying that number by itself. so all bodies are subject to that force which we call weight; all substances, all matter abandoned to itself, falls to the earth." [illustration] just here miss miette shifted uneasily on her chair, wishing to make an observation, but not daring. "come, miss miette," said monsieur roger, who saw this manoeuvre, "you have something to tell us. your little tongue is itching to say something. well, speak; we should all like to hear you." "monsieur roger," said miette, "is not smoke a substance?" "certainly; the word substance signifies something that exists. smoke exists. therefore it is a substance." "then," replied miette, with an air of contentment with herself, "as smoke is a substance, there is one substance which does not fall to the earth. indeed, it does just the opposite." "ah! miss miette wants to catch me," said monsieur roger. miette made a gesture of modest denial, but at heart she was very proud of the effect which she had produced, for every one looked at her with interest. "to the smoke of which you speak," continued monsieur roger, "you might add balloons, and even clouds." "certainly, that is true," answered miette, näively. "very well; although smoke and balloons rise in the air instead of falling, although clouds remain suspended above our heads, smoke and balloons and clouds are none the less bodies with weight. what prevents their fall is the fact that they find themselves in the midst of the air, which is heavier than they are. take away the air and they would fall." "take away the air?" cried miette, with an air of doubt, thinking that she was facing an impossibility. "yes, take away the air," continued monsieur roger; "for that can be done. there even exists for this purpose a machine, which is called an air-pump. you place under a glass globe a lighted candle. then you make a vacuum,--that is to say, by the aid of the air-pump you exhaust the air in the globe; soon the candle is extinguished for want of air, but the wick of the candle continues for some instants to produce smoke. now, you think, i suppose, that that smoke rises in the globe?" "certainly," said miette. "no, no, not at all; it falls." "ah! i should like to see that!" cried miette. "and, in order to give you the pleasure of seeing this, i suppose you would like an air-pump?" "well, papa will buy me one.--say, papa, won't you do it, so we may see the smoke fall?" "no, indeed!" said monsieur dalize; "how can we introduce here instruments of physical science during vacation? what would paul say?" "paul would say nothing. i am sure that he is just as anxious as i am to see smoke fall.--are you not, paul?" and paul solange, already half-conquered, made a sign from the corner of his eye to his little friend that her demand was not at all entirely disagreeable to him. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xii. at the centre of the earth. monsieur roger, hiding his satisfaction, seemed to attach no importance to this request of miette under the assent given by paul. wishing to profit by the awakened curiosity of his little friend, he hastened to continue, and said,-- "who wants to bring me a bit of cork and a glass of water?" "i! i!" cried miette, running. when miette had returned with the articles, monsieur roger continued: "i told you a moment ago that if balloons and smoke and clouds do not fall, it is because they find themselves in the midst of air which is heavier than they are. i am going to try an experiment which will make you understand what i have said." monsieur roger took the cork, raised his hand above his head, and opened his fingers: the cork fell. "is it a heavy body?" said he. "did it fall to the ground?" "yes," cried paul and miette together. then monsieur roger placed the glass of water in front of him, took the cork, which miette had picked up, and forced it with his finger to the bottom of the glass; then he withdrew his finger, and the cork mounted up to the surface again. "did you see?" asked monsieur roger. "yes," said miss miette. "you remarked something?" "certainly: the cork would not fall, and you were obliged to force it into the water with your finger." "and not only," continued monsieur roger, "it would not fall, as you say, but it even hastened to rise again as soon as it was freed from the pressure of my finger. we were wrong, then, when we said that this same cork is a heavy body?" "ah, i don't know," said miette, a little confused. "still, we must know. did this cork fall just now upon the ground?" "yes." "then it was a heavy body?" "yes." "and now that it remains on the surface of the water, that it no longer precipitates itself towards the earth, it is no longer a heavy body?" this time miette knew not what to answer. "well, be very sure," continued monsieur roger, "that it is heavy. if it does not fall to the bottom of the water, it is because the water is heavier than it. the water is an obstacle to it. nevertheless, it is attracted, like all bodies, towards the earth, or, more precisely, towards the centre of the earth." "towards the centre of the earth?" repeated miette. "yes, towards the centre of the earth. can miss miette procure for me two pieces of string and two heavy bodies,--for example, small pieces of lead?" "string, yes; but where can i get lead?" asked miette. "look in the box where i keep my fishing-tackle," said monsieur dalize to his daughter, "and find two sinkers there." miette disappeared, and came back in a moment with the articles desired. monsieur roger tied the little pieces of lead to the two separate strings. then he told miette to hold the end of one of these strings in her fingers. he himself did the same with the other string. the two strings from which the sinkers were suspended swayed to and fro for some seconds, and then stopped in a fixed position. [illustration] "is it not evident," said monsieur roger, "that the direction of our strings is the same as the direction in which the force which we call weight attracts the bodies of lead? in fact, if you cut the string, the lead would go in that direction. the string which miss miette is holding and that which i hold myself seem to us to be parallel,--that is to say, that it seems impossible they should ever meet, however long the distance which they travel. well, that is an error. for these two strings, if left to themselves, would meet exactly at the centre of the earth." "then," said miette, "if we detach the sinkers, they would fall, and would join each other exactly at the centre of the earth?" "yes, if they encountered no obstacle; but they would be stopped by the resistance of the ground. they would attempt to force themselves through, and would not succeed." "why?" "why, if the ground which supports us did not resist, we would not be at this moment chatting quietly here on the surface of the earth; drawn by gravity, we would all be----" "at the centre of the earth!" cried miette. "exactly. and it might very well happen that i would not then be in a mood to explain to you the attraction of gravity." "yes, that is very probable," said miss miette, philosophically. then she added, "if, instead of letting these bits of lead fall upon the ground, we let them fall in water?" "well, they would approach the centre of the earth for the entire depth of the water." miette had mechanically placed the sinker above the glass of water. she let it fall into it; the cork still swam above. "why does the lead fall to the bottom of the water, and why does the cork not fall?" "why," said albert, "because lead is heavier than cork." miette looked at her brother, and then turned her eyes towards monsieur roger, as if the explanation given by albert explained nothing, and finally she said,-- "of course lead is heavier than cork; but why is it heavier?" "my child, you want to know a great deal," said madame dalize. "ah, mamma, it is not my fault,--it is paul's, who wants to know, and does not like to ask. i am obliged to ask questions in his stead." that was true. paul asked no questions, but he listened with attention, and his eyes seemed to approve the questions asked by his friend miette. monsieur roger had observed with pleasure the conduct of his young friend, and it was for him, while he was looking at miette, the latter continued: "tell us, monsieur roger, why is lead heavier than cork?" "because its density is greater," answered monsieur roger, seriously. "ah!" murmured miette, disappointed; and, as monsieur roger kept silent, she added, "what is density?" "it would take a long time to explain." "tell me all the same." monsieur roger saw at this moment that paul was beckoning to miette to insist. "goodness!" said he, smiling at paul; "miss miette was right just now. it is you that wish me to continue the questions!" [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiii. why lead is heavier than cork. monsieur roger continued in these words: "we say that a body has density when it is thick and packed close. we give the name of density to the quantity of matter contained in a body of a certain size. "let us suppose that this bit of lead has the same bulk--that is to say, that it is exactly as big--as the cork. suppose, also, that we have a piece of gold and a piece of stone, also of the same bulk as the cork, and that we weigh each different piece in a pair of scales. we would find that cork weighs less than stone, that stone weighs less than lead, and that lead weighs less than gold. but, in order to compare these differences with each other, it has been necessary to adopt a standard of weight. "i now return to miss miette's question,--'why is lead heavier than cork?'--a question to which i had solemnly answered, 'because its density is greater.' miss miette must now understand that cork, weighing four times less than water, cannot sink in water, although that process is very easy to lead, which weighs eleven times more than water. and yet," said monsieur roger, "the problem is not perfectly solved, and i am quite sure that miss miette is not entirely satisfied." miss miette remained silent. "i was not mistaken. miss miette is not satisfied," said monsieur roger; "and she is right,--for i have not really explained to her why lead is heavier than cork." miss miette made a gesture, which seemed to say, "that is what i was expecting." "i said just now," continued monsieur roger, "that the density of a body was the quantity of matter contained in this body in a certain bulk. now does miss miette know what matter is?" "no." "no! now, there is the important thing: because, in explaining to her what matter is, i will make her understand why lead is heavier than cork." "well, i am listening," said miette. and master paul respectfully added, in an undertone, "we are listening." monsieur roger continued: "the name of 'bodies' has been given to all objects which, in infinite variety, surround us and reveal themselves to us by the touch, taste, sight, and smell. all these bodies present distinct properties; but there are certain numbers of properties which are common to all. those all occupy a certain space; all are expanded by heat, are contracted by cold, and can even pass from the solid to the liquid state, and from the liquid to the gaseous state. they all possess a certain amount of elasticity, a certain amount of compressibility,--in a word, there exist in all bodies common characteristics: so they have given a common name to those possessing these common properties, and called that which constitutes bodies 'matter.' bodies are not compact, as you may imagine. they are, on the contrary, formed by the union of infinitely small particles, all equal to each other and maintained at distances that are relatively considerable by the force of attraction. "these infinitely small particles have received the names of atoms or molecules. imagine a pile of bullets, and remark the empty spaces left between them, and you will have a picture of the formation of bodies. i must acknowledge to you that no one has yet seen the molecules of a body. their size is so small that no microscope can ever be made keen enough to see them. a wise man has reached this conclusion: that if you were to look at a drop of water through a magnifying instrument which made it appear as large as the whole earth, the molecules which compose this drop of water would seem hardly bigger than bits of bird-shot. still, this conception of the formation of bodies is proved by certain properties which matter enjoys. among these properties i must especially single out divisibility. matter can be divided into parts so small that it is difficult to conceive of them. gold-beaters, for instance, succeed in making gold-leaf so thin that it is necessary to place sixty thousand one on top of the other to arrive at the thickness of an inch. i will give you two other examples of 'divisibility' that are still more striking. for years, hardly losing any of its weight, a grain of musk spreads a strong odor. in a tubful of water one single drop of indigo communicates its color. the smallness of these particles of musk which strike the sense of smell and of these particles of indigo which color several quarts of water is beyond our imagination to conceive of. and these examples prove that bodies are nothing but a conglomeration of molecules. now, if lead is heavier than cork, it is because in an equal volume it contains a far more considerable quantity of molecules, and because these molecules are themselves heavier than the molecules of cork. and now i shall stop," said monsieur roger, "after this long but necessary explanation. i will continue on the day when miss miette will present to me the famous air-pump." "that will not be very long from now," said miss miette to herself. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiv. the air-pump. monsieur roger had deferred his explanations for three days. he was awaiting the air-pump which monsieur dalize, at miette's desire, had decided to purchase in paris. monsieur roger judged that this interruption and this rest were necessary. in this way his hearers would not be tired too soon, and their curiosity, remaining unsatisfied for the moment, would become more eager. he was not mistaken; and when a large box containing the air-pump and other objects ordered by monsieur roger arrived, a series of cries of astonishment came from the pretty mouth of miss miette. paul solange, however, remained calm; but monsieur roger knew that his interest had been really awakened. they spent the afternoon in unpacking the air-pump, and monsieur roger was called upon at once to explain the instrument. "the machine," he said, "is called an air-pump because it is intended to exhaust air contained in a vase or other receptacle. to exhaust the air in a vase is to make a vacuum in that vase. you will see that this machine is composed of two cylinders, or pump-barrels, out of which there comes a tube, which opens in the centre of this disk of glass. upon this disk we carefully place this globe of glass; and now we are going to exhaust the air contained in the globe." "we are going to make a vacuum," said miette. "exactly." and monsieur roger commenced to work the lever. "you will take notice," he said, "that when the lever is lowered at the left the round piece of leather placed in the cylinder on the left side is lowered, and that the bit of leather in the right-hand cylinder is raised. in the same way, when the lever is lowered at the right, it is the right-hand piece of leather which is lowered, while the piece of leather at the left is raised in its turn. these round bits of leather, whose importance is considerable, are called pistons. each piston is hollow and opens into the air on top, while at the bottom, which communicates with that portion of the cylinder situated below the piston, there is a little hole, which is stopped by a valve. this valve is composed of a little round bit of metal, bearing on top a vertical stem, around which is rolled a spring somewhat in the shape of a coil or ringlet. the ends of this spring rest on one side on a little bit of metal, on the other on a fixed rest, pierced by a hole in which the stem of the valve can freely go up and down. when i work the lever, as i am doing now, you see that on the left side the piston lowers itself in the cylinder, and that the piston on the right is raised. now, what is going on in the interior of each cylinder? the piston of the left, in lowering, disturbs the air contained in the cylinder,--it forces it down, it compresses it. under this compression the coiled spring gives way, the round bit of metal is raised, and opens the little hole which puts the under part of the piston in communication with the atmosphere. the air contained in the cylinder passes in this way across the piston and disperses itself in the air which surrounds us. but the spring makes the bit of metal fall back again and closes the communication in the right-hand cylinder as soon as the piston commences to rise and the pressure of the air in the cylinder is not greater than the pressure of the atmosphere outside. lastly, the tube which unites the cylinders to the glass globe opens at the end of each cylinder, but a little on the side. it is closed by a little cork, carried by a metal stem which traverses the whole piston. when i cause one of the pistons to lower, the piston brings the stem down with it. the cork at once comes in contact with the hole, which closes; the stem is then stopped, but the piston continues to descend by sliding over it. in the other cylinder, in which the piston is raised, it commences by raising the stem, which re-establishes communication with the glass globe; but as soon as the top of the stem comes in contact with the upper part of the cylinder, it stops and the piston glides over it and continues to rise." [illustration] "in this fashion the movements of the cork are very small, and it opens and shuts the orifice as soon as one of the pistons begins to descend and the other begins to ascend. consequently, by working the lever for a certain space of time, i will finish by exhausting the globe of all the air which it contains." "may i try to exhaust it?" asked miette, timidly. "try your hand, miss miette," answered monsieur roger. miette began to work the lever of the air-pump, which she did at first very easily, but soon she stopped. "i cannot do it any more," said she. "why?" "because it is too heavy." "in fact, it is too heavy," said monsieur roger; "but tell me, what is it that is too heavy?" miette sought an answer. "oh, i do not know. it is the lever or the pistons which have become all of a sudden too heavy." "not at all; that is not it. neither the lever nor the pistons can change their weight." "then, what is it that is so heavy?" "come, now! try once more, with all your strength." miette endeavored to lower the right-hand side of the lever: she could not succeed. "why," said she, "it is, of course, the piston on the left which has become too heavy, as i cannot make it rise again." "you are right, miss miette. it is the piston in the left cylinder which cannot rise; but it has not changed its weight, as i said,--only it has now to support a very considerable weight; and it is that weight which you cannot combat." "what weight is it?" said miette, who did not understand. "the weight of the air." "the weight of the air? but what air?" "the air which is above it,--the exterior air; the air which weighs down this piston, as it weighs us down." "does air weigh much?" "if you are very anxious to know, i will tell you that a wine gallon of air weighs about seventy-two grains; and as in the atmosphere--that is to say, in the mass of air which surrounds us--there is a very great number of gallons, you can imagine that it must represent a respectable number of pounds. it has been calculated, in fact, that each square inch of the surface of the soil supports a weight of air of a little more than sixteen pounds." "but how is that?" cried miette. "a while ago there was also a considerable quantity of air above the piston, and yet i could make it go up very easily." "certainly, there was above the piston the same quantity of air as now, but there was air also in the globe. air, like gas, possesses an elastic force,--that is to say, that it constantly endeavors to distend its molecules, and presses without ceasing upon the sides of the vase which contained it, or upon the surrounding air. now, when you began to work the lever there was still enough air in the globe to balance, through its elastic force, the air outside; and, as the piston receives an almost equal pressure of air from the atmosphere above and from the globe below, it is easily raised and lowered. but while you were working the lever you took air out of the globe, so that at last there arrived a time when so little air remained in this globe that its elastic force acted with little power upon the piston. so the piston was submitted to only one pressure,--that of the atmosphere; and, as i have just told you, the atmosphere weighs heavy enough to withstand your little strength. still, all the air in the globe is not yet exhausted, and a stronger person, like master paul, for example, could still be able to conquer the resistance of the atmosphere and raise the piston." paul solange could not refuse this direct invitation, and he approached the air-pump and succeeded in working the lever, though with a certain difficulty. meanwhile, monsieur roger was seeking among the physical instruments which had just arrived. he soon found a glass cylinder, whose upper opening was closed by a bit of bladder stretched taut and carefully tied upon the edges. "stop, master paul," said he: "we are going to exchange the globe for this cylinder, and you will see very readily that the air is heavy. now take away the globe." but, though paul tried his best, he could not succeed in obeying this order. the globe remained firm in its place. "that is still another proof of the weight of the air," said monsieur roger. "the globe is empty of air; and as there is no longer any pressure upon it except from outside,--the pressure of the atmosphere,--master paul is unable to raise it." "he would be able to raise the glass," said miss miette, in a questioning tone, "but he cannot lift the air above it?" "you are exactly right. but you are going to see an experiment which will prove it. first, however, it will be necessary to take away the globe. i am going to ask miss miette to turn this button, which is called the key of the air-pump." miette turned the key, and then they heard a whistling sound. "it is the air which is entering the globe," said monsieur roger. "now master paul can take the globe away." that was true. when paul took away the globe, monsieur roger put in its place the cylinder closed by the bit of bladder. then he worked the handle of the machine again. as the air was withdrawn from the interior of the cylinder, the membrane was heard to crackle. suddenly it burst, with a sort of explosion, to the great surprise of miette and the amusement of everybody. "what is the matter?" said miette, eagerly. "the matter is," answered monsieur roger, "that the exterior air weighed so heavily upon the membrane that it split it; and that is what i want to show you. the moment arrived when the pressure of the atmosphere was no longer counterbalanced by the elastic force of the air contained in the cylinder. then that exhausted all the air, and the atmosphere came down with all its weight upon the membrane, which, after resisting for a little while, was torn." "is it true, monsieur roger," said miette, "that it is with this machine that you can make smoke fall?" "certainly." "well, then, won't you show that to us?" [illustration] [illustration] chapter xv. drops of rain and hammer of water. "i am very willing to show you that," answered monsieur roger; "but i must have a candle." miette ran to the kitchen and succeeded in obtaining that article which was once so common, and which is now so rare, known as a candle. monsieur roger lit the candle and placed it under the glass globe of the air-pump. then he asked paul to make a vacuum. at the end of a few minutes the candle went out. monsieur roger then told paul to stop. "why has the candle gone out?" asked miette. "because it needs air. master paul has just exhausted the air necessary to the combustion of the candle; but the wick still smokes, and we are going to see if the smoke which it produces will rise or fall." everybody approached the globe, full of curiosity. "it falls," cried miette, "the smoke falls." and in fact, instead of rising in the globe, the smoke lowered slowly and heavily, and fell upon the glass disk of the air-pump. "well," said monsieur roger, "you see that i was right. in a vacuum smoke falls: it falls because it no longer finds itself in the midst of air which is heavier than it and forms an obstacle to its fall. in the same way the cloud in the sky above the château would fall if we could exhaust the air which is between it and us." "i am very glad that we cannot," cried miette. "and why are you very glad?" asked madame dalize. "because, mamma, i don't wish any rain to fall." "does miss miette think, then," said monsieur roger, "that if the cloud fell rain would fall?" "certainly," answered miss miette, with a certain amount of logic. "when the clouds fall they fall in the form of rain." "yes; but supposing that i should exhaust the air which is between the cloud and us, the cloud would not fall in a rain, but in a single and large mass of water." "why?" "clouds, you doubtless know, are masses of vapor from water. now, when these vapors are sufficiently condensed to acquire a certain weight, they can no longer float in the atmosphere, and they fall in the form of rain. but they fall in rain because they have to traverse the air in order to fall to the ground. now, the air offers such a resistance to this water that it is obliged to separate, to divide itself into small drops. if there were no air between the water and the ground, the water would not fall in drops of rain, but in a mass, like a solid body; and i am going to prove that to you, so as to convince miss miette." among the various instruments unpacked from the box, monsieur roger chose a round tube of glass, closed at one end, tapering, and open at the other end. he introduced into this tube a certain quantity of water so as to half fill it. then he placed the tube above a little alcohol lamp, and made the water boil. "remark," said he, "how fully and completely the vapors from the water, which are formed by the influence of heat, force out the air which this tube encloses in escaping by the open end of the tube." when monsieur roger judged that there no longer remained any air in the tube, he begged monsieur dalize to hand him the blowpipe. monsieur dalize then handed to his friend a little instrument of brass, which was composed of three parts,--a conical tube, furnished with a mouth, a hollow cylinder succeeding to the first tube, and a second tube, equally conical, but narrower, and placed at right angles with the hollow cylinder. this second tube ended in a very little opening. monsieur roger placed his lips to the opening of the first tube, and blew, placing the little opening of the second tube in front of the flame of a candle, which monsieur dalize had just lit. a long and pointed tongue of fire extended itself from the flame of the candle. monsieur roger placed close to this tongue of fire the tapering and open end of the tube in which the water had finished boiling. the air, forced out of the blowpipe and thrust upon the flame of the candle, bore to this flame a considerable quantity of oxygen, which increased the combustion and produced a temperature high enough to soften and melt the open extremity of the tube, and so seal it hermetically. "i have," said monsieur roger, "by the means which you have seen, expelled the air which was contained in this tube, and there remains in it only water. in a few moments we will make use of it. but it is good to have a comparison under your eyes. i therefore ask miss miette to take another tube similar to that which i hold." "here it is," cried miette. "now i ask her to put water into it." "i have done so." "lastly, i ask her to turn it over quickly, with her little hand placed against its lower side in order to prevent the water from falling upon the floor." miss miette did as she was commanded. the water fell in the tube, dividing itself into drops of more or less size. it was like rain in miniature. "the water, as you have just seen," said monsieur roger, "has fallen in miss miette's tube, dividing itself against the resistance of the air. in the tube which i hold, and in which there is no longer any air, you will see how water falls." monsieur roger turned the tube over, but the water this time encountered no resistance from the air. it fell in one mass, and struck the bottom of the tube with a dry and metallic sound. "it made a noise almost like the noise of a hammer," said paul solange. "exactly," answered monsieur roger. "scientists have given this apparatus the name of the water-hammer." and looking at miette, who in her astonishment was examining the tube without saying anything, monsieur roger added, smiling, "and this hammer has struck miss miette with surprise." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xvi. amusing physics. hearing monsieur roger's jest, miette raised her head, and said,-- "yes, it is very curious to see water fall like that, in a single mass; and, besides, it fell quicker than the water in my tube." "of course: because it did not encounter the resistance of the air. this resistance is very easy to prove; and if miss miette will give me a sheet of any kind of paper----" miss miette looked at monsieur roger, seeming to be slightly nettled,--not by the errand, but by something else. then she went in search of a sheet of letter-paper, which she brought back to monsieur roger. he raised his hand and dropped the paper. instead of falling directly towards the earth, as a piece of lead or stone would do, it floated downward from the right to the left, gently balanced, and impeded in its fall by the evident resistance of the air. when this bit of paper had at last reached the ground, monsieur roger picked it up, saying,-- "i am going to squeeze this bit of paper in such a way as to make it a paper ball; and i am going to let this paper ball fall from the same height as i did the leaf." the paper ball fell directly in a straight line upon the floor. "and yet it was the same sheet," said he, "which has fallen so fast. the matter submitted to the action of gravity remains the same; there can be no doubt on that point. therefore, if the sheet of paper falls more quickly when it is rolled up into a ball, it is certainly because it meets with less resistance from the air; and if it meets with less resistance, it is because under this form of a ball it presents only a small surface, which allows it easily to displace the air in order to pass." "that is so," said miss miette, with a certainty which made every one smile. miette, astonished at the effect which she had thus produced, looked at her friend paul, who remained silent, but very attentive. "well, paul," said she, "is not that certain?" "yes," answered paul. "hold," returned monsieur roger. "i am going to show you an example still more convincing of the resistance of the air,--only i must have a pair of scissors; and if miss miette will have the kindness to----" miss miette looked again at monsieur roger with a singular air. none the less, she ran off in search of the scissors. then monsieur roger pulled from his pocket a coin, and with the aid of the scissors cut a round bit of paper, a little smaller than the coin. that done, he placed the circular bit of paper flat upon the coin, in such a manner that it did not overlap, and asked miss miette to take the coin between her thumb and her finger. "now," said he, "let it all fall." miette opened her fingers, and the coin upon which he had placed the bit of paper fell. coin and paper reached the ground at the same time. "why," asked monsieur roger, "does the paper reach the ground as soon as the coin?" and as miette hesitated to answer, monsieur roger continued: "because the fall of the bit of paper was not interfered with by the resistance of the air." "of course," cried miette, "it is the coin which opened the way. the paper was preserved by the coin from the resistance of the air." "exactly so," said monsieur roger; "and these simple experiments have led scientists to ask if in doing away entirely with the resistance of the air it would not be possible to abolish the differences which may be observed between the falling of various bodies,--for instance, the paper and the coin, a hair and a bit of lead. and they have decided that in a vacuum--that is to say, when the resistance of the air is abolished--the paper and the coin, the hair and the lead would fall with exactly the same swiftness; all of them would traverse the same space in the same time." [illustration] "the hair falls as fast as lead," said miette, in a tone which seemed to imply, "i would like to see that." monsieur roger understood the thought of miette, and answered by saying,-- "well, i am going to show you that." he chose a long tube of glass, closed by bits of metal, one of which had a stop-cock. he put in this tube the coin, the round bit of paper, a bit of lead, and a strand of hair from miss miette's head. then he fastened the tube by one of its ends upon the disk of the air-pump and worked the pistons. as soon as he thought that the vacuum had been made, he closed the stop-cock of the tube, to prevent the exterior air from entering. he withdrew the tube from the machine, held it vertically, then turned it briskly upsidedown. everybody saw that the paper, the coin, the hair, and the lead all arrived at the same time at the bottom of the tube. the experiment was conclusive. then monsieur roger opened the stop-cock and allowed the air to enter into the tube. again he turned the tube upsidedown: the coin and the bit of lead arrived almost together at the bottom of the tube, but the paper, and especially the strand of hair, found much difficulty on the way and arrived at the bottom much later. "why, how amusing that is!" cried miette; "as amusing as anything i know. i don't understand why paul wishes to have nothing to do with physical science." but miette was mistaken this time, for paul was now very anxious to learn more. "very well," said monsieur roger, "as all this has not wearied you, i am, in order to end to-day, going to make another experiment which will not be a bit tiresome, and which, without any scientific apparatus, without any air-pump, will demonstrate to you for the last time the existence of the pressure, of the weight of the atmosphere." monsieur roger stopped and looked at miette, whose good temper he was again going to put to the test. then he said,-- "i need a carafe and a hard egg; and if miss miette will only be kind enough to----" this time miette seemed still more uneasy than ever, more embarrassed, more uncomfortable; still, she fled rapidly towards the kitchen. during her absence, monsieur roger said to madame dalize,-- "miette seems to think that i trouble her a little too often." "that is not what is annoying her, i am certain," replied madame dalize; "but i do not understand the true cause. let us wait." at this moment miette returned, with the carafe in one hand, the hard-boiled egg (it was not boiled very hard, however) in the other. monsieur roger took the shell off the egg and placed the egg thus deprived of its shell upon the empty carafe, somewhat after the manner of a stopper or cork. [illustration] "what i want to do," said he, "is to make this egg enter the carafe." "very well," said miette; "all you have to do is to push from above: you will force the egg down." "oh, but nobody must touch it. it must not be a hand that forces it down, but by weight from above. no, the atmosphere must do this." monsieur roger took off the egg, and lit a bit of paper, which he threw into the empty carafe. "in order to burn," said he, "this paper is obliged to absorb the oxygen of the air in the carafe,--that is to say, it makes a partial vacuum." when the paper had burned for some moments, monsieur roger replaced the egg upon the carafe's neck, very much in the manner you would place a close-fitting ground-glass stopper in the neck of a bottle, and immediately they saw the egg lengthen, penetrate into the neck of the carafe, and at last fall to the bottom. "there," said he, "is atmospheric pressure clearly demonstrated. when a partial vacuum had been made in the carafe,--that is to say, when there was not enough air in it to counterbalance or resist the pressure of the exterior air,--this exterior air pressed with all its weight upon the egg and forced it down in very much the same way as miss miette wished me to do just now with my hand." in saying these last words, monsieur roger looked towards miette. "by the way," he said, "i must apologize to you, miss miette, for having sent you on so many errands. i thought i saw that it annoyed you a little bit." miss miette raised her eyes with much surprise to monsieur roger. "but that was not it at all," said she. "well, what was it?" asked monsieur roger. and miette replied timidly, yet sweetly,-- "why, i only thought that you might stop calling me miss. if you please, i would like to be one of your very good friends." "oh, yes; with very great pleasure, my dear little miette," cried monsieur roger, much moved by this touching and kindly delicacy of feeling, and opening his arms to the pretty and obliging little child of his friends. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xvii. why the moon does not fall. next evening monsieur roger, as well as his friend monsieur dalize, seemed to have forgotten completely that there was such a thing as physical science. he sat in a corner and chatted about this thing and that with monsieur and madame dalize. still, the air-pump was there, and the children touched it, looked at it, and examined the different portions of it. at last there was a conversation in a low tone between paul and miette, and in the midst of the whispering were heard these words, clearly pronounced by the lips of miette,-- "ask him yourself." then monsieur roger heard paul answer,-- "no, i don't dare to." miette then came forward towards her friend roger, and said to him, without any hesitation,-- "paul asks that you will explain to him about the tower?" monsieur roger remained a moment without understanding, then a light struck him, and he said,-- "ah! master paul wants me to explain to him how i learned the height of the tower heurtebize?" "that is it," said miette. paul solange made an affirmative sign by a respectful movement of the head. "but," said monsieur roger, responding to this sign, "it is physical science, my dear master paul,--physical science, you know; and, goodness, i was so much afraid of boring you that both i and monsieur dalize had resolved never to approach this subject." "still, sir," said paul, "all that you have said and shown to us was on account of the tower of heurtebize, and you promised me----" "that is true," said monsieur dalize; "and if you promised, you must keep your word. so explain to paul how you have been able, without moving, to learn the exact height of that famous tower." "come, then, i obey," answered monsieur roger. and, addressing himself to paul, he said,-- "you will remember that at the beginning of this conversation on gravity i took a little stone and let it fall from my full height. it produced a very feeble shock; but i made you remark that if it were to fall from a greater height the shock would be violent enough to break it." "yes," said paul, "i remember." "then, of course, you understand that the violence of the shock of a body against a fixed obstacle depends upon the rate of speed this body possessed at the moment when it encountered the obstacle. the higher the distance from which the body falls, the more violent is the shock,--for its swiftness is greater. now, the speed of a falling body becomes greater and greater the longer it continues to fall; and, consequently, in falling faster and faster it will traverse a greater and greater space in a given interval of time. in studying the fall of a body we find that in one second it traverses a space of sixteen feet and one inch. in falling for two seconds it traverses----" "twice the number of feet," said miette, with a self-satisfied air. "why, no," said paul; "because it falls faster during the second second, and in consequence travels a greater distance." "master paul is right," replied monsieur roger. "it has been found that in falling for two seconds a body falls sixteen feet and one inch multiplied by twice two,--that is to say, sixty-four feet and four inches. in falling three seconds a body traverses sixteen feet and one inch multiplied by three times three,--that is to say, by nine. in falling four seconds it traverses sixteen feet and one inch multiplied by four times four,--that is to say, by sixteen; and so on. this law of falling bodies which learned men have discovered teaches us that in order to calculate the space traversed by a body in a certain number of seconds it is necessary to multiply sixteen feet and one inch by the arithmetical square of that number of seconds. and master paul must know, besides, that the square of a number is the product obtained by multiplying this number by itself." paul bent his head. "and now you must also know," continued monsieur roger, "how i could calculate the height of the tower of heurtebize. the stone which you let fall, according to my watch, took two seconds before it reached the soil. the calculation which i had to make was easy, was it not?" "yes, sir: it was necessary to multiply sixteen feet and one inch by two times two,--which gives about sixty-four feet and four inches as the height of the tower." "you are right, and, as you may judge, it was not a very difficult problem." "yes," added monsieur dalize; "but it was interesting to know why the apple fell, and you have taught us." "that is true," cried miette; "only you have forgotten to tell us why the moon does not fall." "i have not forgotten," said monsieur roger; "but i wished to avoid speaking of the attraction of the universe. however, as miette obliges me, i shall speak. you see that all earthly bodies are subject to a force which has been called gravity, or weight. now, gravity can also be called attraction. by the word attraction is meant, in fact, the force which makes all bodies come mutually together and adhere together, unless they are separated by some other force. this gravity or attraction which the terrestrial mass exerts upon the objects placed on its surface is felt above the soil to a height that cannot be measured. learned men have, therefore, been led to suppose that this gravity or attraction extended beyond the limits which we can reach; that it acted upon the stars themselves, only decreasing as they are farther off. this supposition allows it to be believed that all the stars are of similar phenomena, that there is a gravity or attraction on their surface, and that this gravity or attraction acts upon all other celestial bodies. with this frame of thought in his mind, newton at last came to believe that all bodies attract each other by the force of gravity, that their movements are determined by the force which they exert mutually upon one another, and that the system of the universe is regulated by a single force,--gravity, or attraction." "but that does not explain to us why the moon does not fall," said monsieur dalize. monsieur roger looked at his friend. "so you also," said he, smiling,--"you also are trying to puzzle me?" "of course i am; but i am only repeating the question whose answer miette is still awaiting." "yes," said miette, "i am waiting. why does not the moon fall?" "well, the moon does not fall because it is launched into space with so great a force that it traverses nearly four-fifths of a mile a second." miette ran to open the door of the vestibule. the park was bathed in the mild light of a splendid moon. "is it of that moon that you are speaking,--the moon which turns around us?" "certainly, as we have no other moon." "and it turns as swiftly as you say?" "why, yes. and do you know why it turns around us, a prisoner of that earth from which it seeks continually to fly in a straight line? it is because----" monsieur roger stopped suddenly, with an embarrassed air. "what is the matter?" asked miette. "why, i am afraid i have put myself in a very difficult position." "why?" [illustration] "i have just undertaken to tell you why the moon does not fall. is not that true?" "yes." "well, i am obliged to tell you that it does fall." "ah, that is another matter!" cried miette. "yes, it is another matter, as you say; and it is necessary that i should speak to you of that other matter. without that how can i make you believe that the moon does not fall and that it does fall?" "that would not be easy," said miss miette. "well, then, imagine a ball shot by a cannon. this ball would go forever in a straight line and with the same swiftness if it were not subject to gravity, to the attraction of the earth. this attraction forces the ball to lower itself little by little below the straight line to approach the earth. at last the time comes when the force of attraction conquers the force which shot the ball, and the latter falls to the earth. this example of the ball may be applied to the moon, which would go forever in a straight line if it were not subject to the attraction of the earth. it shoots in a straight line, ready to flee away from us; but suddenly the attraction of the earth makes itself felt. then the moon bends downward to approach us, and the straight line which it had been ready to traverse is changed to the arc of a circle. again the moon endeavors to depart in a straight line, but the attraction is felt again, and brings near to us our unfaithful satellite. the same phenomenon goes on forever, and the straight path which the moon intended to follow becomes a circular one. it falls in every instance towards us, but it falls with exactly the same swiftness as that with which it seeks to get away from us. consequently it remains always at the same distance. the attraction which prevents the moon from running away may be likened to a string tied to the claws of a cockchafer. the cockchafer flies, seeking to free itself; the string pulls it back towards the child's finger; and very often the circular flight which the insect takes around the finger which holds it represents exactly the circular flight of the moon around the earth." "but," said miette, "is there no danger that the moon may fall some time?" "if the moon had been closer to the earth it would have fallen long ago; but it is more than two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles away, and, as i have told you, if attraction or gravity acts upon the planets, it loses its power in proportion to the distance at which they are. the same attraction which forces the moon to turn around the earth obliges the earth and the planets to turn around the sun; and the sun itself is not immovable. it flies through space like all the other stars, bearing us in its train, subject also to universal attraction." monsieur roger stopped a moment, then he said,-- "and it is this great law of universal attraction, this law which governs the universe, that newton discovered when he asked himself, 'why does the apple fall?'" "still, as for me," said miette, "i should not have had that idea at all; i should have said quietly to myself, 'the apple fell because it was ripe.'" [illustration] [illustration] chapter xviii. a mysterious resemblance. the days passed by at the château of sainte-gemme quietly and happily. monsieur roger, having fulfilled his promise to give the explanation of gravity and of attraction, was careful to make no allusions to scientific matters. he thought it useful and right to let his little hearers find their own pleasures wherever they could. one afternoon he saw miette and paul leave the house together. paul had two camp-stools, while miette held her friend's album. "where are you going?" asked monsieur roger. "we are going to sketch," answered paul: "at the end of the park." miette put on the air of a martyr, and said to monsieur roger,-- "i think he is going to sketch me." "not at all; come along," replied paul. and miette ran gayly after paul. an hour later, monsieur roger, in his walk, saw at the turning of a pathway lined by young chestnut-trees a scene which brought a smile to his lips. two camp-stools were placed in front of each other, some distance apart; upon one of these camp-stools paul was seated, his album and his pencil between his hands; on the other camp-stool was miss miette, posing for a portrait. monsieur roger approached. when miette saw him, she sat up, and, crossing her little arms, cried, with pretended anger,-- "i told you so: he is going to sketch me." "oh, miette," said paul, softly, "you have spoiled the pose." miette turned towards paul, and, seeing that she had made him angry, returned to her former attitude without saying a word. monsieur roger looked at miette, so pretty, so restless by disposition, now forcing herself to sit quietly, with an expression of determination upon her face that was half serious and half laughing. then he cast his eyes upon paul's album, but at that moment paul was scratching over with his pencil the sketch which he had begun. "never," said he, discouraged, "never shall i be able to catch her likeness." "that is not astonishing," replied monsieur roger. "i was struck at once with the change in her face. miette in posing does not resemble herself any longer." "that is true, sir; but why is it?" "why, because it is possible that it does not amuse her very much." miette began to laugh. monsieur roger had guessed aright. "oh, stay like that!" cried paul, seeing miette's face lighten up with gayety. "i will remain like this on one condition." "and what is that?" "that our friend roger will remain also with us. i shall have some one to whom i can talk, and you, paul, will make your sketch at your ease." "that is understood," said monsieur roger, seating himself upon a bank of stones beside the children. at first he lent a rather listless ear to miette's words, for he was thinking of something else, and he only uttered a word or two in answer, which, however, allowed the little girl to think that she was being listened to. his eyes had travelled from the model to the artist. since his arrival at sainte-gemme paul's face had slightly changed: his hair, which had been cut short at school, had lengthened, and now fell over his forehead, shading the top of his face and giving him an expression that was slightly feminine; his large eyes, with long, black lashes, went from miette to the sketch-book with a grave attention which the presence of a third party did not trouble at all. roger's looks had rested upon paul, full of that sympathy which the boy had inspired in him the first time he had seen him; but, instead of looking elsewhere at the end of a few minutes, his eyes were riveted upon paul's face. he eagerly examined every feature of that face, which had suddenly been revealed to him under a new aspect. he had become very pale, and his hands trembled slightly. miette perceived this sudden change, and, full of uneasiness, cried out,-- "why, what is the matter?" recalled to himself by this exclamation, monsieur roger shook his head, passed his hand over his eyes, and answered, striving to smile,-- "why, there is nothing the matter with me, my dear, except a slight dizziness, caused by the sun no doubt. don't be uneasy about me. i am going back home." and monsieur roger left them at a rapid pace, cutting across the pathway to get out of sight of the children. he walked like a crazy man; his eyes were wild, his brain full of a strange and impossible idea. when he had reached the other end of the park, sure of being alone, sure of not being seen, he stopped; but then he felt weak, and he allowed himself to fall upon the grass. for a long time he remained motionless, plunged in thought. at last he got up, murmuring,-- "why, that is impossible. i was a fool." he was himself again. he had thought over everything, he had weighed everything, and he persuaded himself that he had been the plaything of a singular hallucination. still reasoning, still talking to himself, he took no notice of where he was going. suddenly he perceived that he was returning to the spot which he had left. he stopped, and heard the voice of miette in the distance; then he approached as softly as was possible, walking on tiptoe and avoiding the gravel and the falling leaves. one wish filled his heart,--to see paul again without being seen. he walked through the woods towards the side whence the voice had made itself heard. the voice of miette, now very close, said,-- "let's see, paul. is it finished?" "yes," answered paul; "only two minutes more. and this time, thanks to monsieur roger, it will be something like you." monsieur roger, hidden behind branches and leaves, came nearer, redoubling his precautions. at last, through an opening in the foliage he perceived paul solange. he looked at him with profound attention until the lad, having started off with miette, was some distance away. when the two children had disappeared, monsieur roger took the shaded path he had been following and went towards the château. he walked slowly, his head bent down, his mind a prey to mysterious thoughts. he had seen paul again, and had studied his face, this time appealing to all his coolness, to all his reasoning power. and now a violent, unconquerable emotion bound him. in vain he tried in his sincerity to believe in a too happy and weak illusion, in a too ardent desire, realized only in his imagination. no, he was forced to admit that what he had just beheld had been seen with the eyes of a reasoning and thinking man whose brain was clear and whose mind was not disordered. however, this thought which had taken possession of him, this overwhelming idea of happiness, was it even admissible? and monsieur roger, striving to return to the reality, murmured,-- [illustration] "it is folly! it is folly!" was it not in fact folly which had led him suddenly to recognize in the features of paul solange those of madame roger la morlière? was it not folly to have noticed a mysterious, surprising, and extraordinary resemblance between the face of paul solange and the sweet one of her who had been the mother of george? yes, it was madness, it was impossible. yet, in spite of all, monsieur roger said to himself, deep down in his heart,-- "if it were my son?" [illustration] [illustration] chapter xix. the fixed idea. for some days monsieur roger made no allusion to the secret which now filled his soul, nor to that strange idea which filled his whole brain. he retired into himself, thinking that this folly which had suddenly come to him would go away as suddenly, and again feeling, in spite of all, the certain loss of a dream which had made him so happy. and still, the more he looked at paul, which he did only on the sly, not daring to look him in the face, as formerly, for fear of betraying himself, the more and more evident and real did the mysterious resemblance appear to him. the dalize family had remarked the absence of mind and the wandering look of monsieur roger. still, they thought that that was simply because something had reminded him of his sorrows. even paul could not help taking notice of the new attitude which monsieur roger had taken up with regard to him. the kindness and sympathy which monsieur roger had shown him in the first few days of his acquaintance had greatly touched the motherless boy, whose father was far away on the other side of the ocean. now, for some days, it had seemed to paul that monsieur roger sought to avoid his presence,--he neither spoke to him nor looked at him. once only paul had surprised a look which monsieur roger had given him, and in this sad look he had discovered an affection so profound that it felt to him almost like a paternal caress. yet, paul was forced to acknowledge that his father had never looked at him in that way. one evening, after dinner, monsieur dalize led his friend roger into the garden in front of the house, and said to him,-- "roger, my dear friend, you have made us uneasy for some days. now we are alone. what is the matter with you?" "why, nothing is the matter with me," said monsieur roger, surprised at the question. "why, certainly, something is the matter. what has happened to you?" "i don't understand what you mean?" "roger, you oblige me to tread on delicate ground,--to ask you a painful question." "speak." "well, my dear friend, the change which we have noticed in you for some time is not my fault, is it? or does it come from the surroundings in which you find yourself placed?" "i don't understand." "i ask if your grief--without your knowing it, perhaps--may not have been revived by the happiness which reigns around you? perhaps the presence of these children, who nevertheless love you already almost as much as they do me, awakes in your heart a terrible remembrance and cruel regrets?" "no, no," cried monsieur roger; "that is not true. but why do you ask me such questions?" "because, my dear friend, you are mentally ill, and i wish to cure you." "why, no, i am not. i am not ill either mentally or physically, i swear." "don't swear," said monsieur dalize; "and do me the kindness to hide yourself for some moments behind this clump of trees. i have witnesses who will convince you that i still have good eyes." monsieur dalize got up, opened the door of the vestibule, and called miette. she ran out gayly. "what do you wish, papa?" she said. "i want to see our friend roger. is he not in the parlor with you?" "no; he always goes his own way. he does not talk to us any longer; and he has had a very funny, sad look for some time. he is not the same at all." [illustration] "very well, my child," said monsieur dalize, interrupting the little girl. "go back to the parlor and send me your brother." albert soon arrived. "you wanted me, father?" said he. "yes; i want you to repeat to me what you told your mother this morning." albert thought for a moment; then he said,-- "about monsieur roger?" "yes." "well, i told mamma that for some time back i have heard monsieur roger walking all night in his room; only this evening i heard him crying." "that is all that i wish to know, my child. you can go back again." when monsieur dalize was alone, he walked around the clump of trees to rejoin roger. "well," said he, softly, "you have heard. everybody has noticed your grief. won't you tell me now what it is that you are suffering, or what secret is torturing you?" "yes, i will confide this secret to you," said monsieur roger, "because you will understand me, and you will not laugh at your unhappy friend." and monsieur roger told the whole truth to his friend dalize. he told him what a singular fixed idea had possessed his brain; he told him of the strange resemblance which he thought he had discovered between the features of his dear and regretted wife and the face of paul solange. monsieur dalize let his friend pour out his soul to him. he said only, with pitying affection, when monsieur roger had finished,-- "my poor friend! it is a dream that is very near insanity." "alas! that is what i tell myself; and still----" "and still?" repeated monsieur dalize. "you still doubt? come with me." he re-entered the château with roger. when he reached the parlor he went straight to paul solange. "paul," said he, "to-morrow is the mail, and i shall write to your father." "ah, sir," answered paul, "i will give you my letter; maybe you can put it in yours." monsieur dalize seemed to be trying to think of something. "how long a time is it," said he, "since i have had the pleasure of seeing your excellent father?" "two years, sir; but he will surely come to france this winter." monsieur dalize looked at roger; then he whispered in his ear,-- "you have heard." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xx. fire. certainly monsieur roger had heard, certainly he tried to convince himself; but when his looks fell upon paul, his reason forsook him and he doubted again, and even he hoped. some days passed in a semi-sadness that made every one feel uneasy. the children, without knowing why, knew that something had happened which troubled the mutual happiness of their life. monsieur and madame dalize alone understood and pitied their friend roger. they endeavored to interest him in other things,--but monsieur roger refused walks, excursions, and the invitations of the neighbors. he had asked monsieur dalize to let him alone for a while, as he felt the need of solitude. one morning albert said to his father,-- "father, paul and i wish to go with a fishing-party to the farm, as we did last year. will you allow us to do so?" "yes," answered monsieur dalize; "but on one condition." "what is it?" "that you take monsieur roger with you." albert looked at his father, and answered,-- "then you refuse?" "why, no,--i only make that condition." "yes, father; but as we cannot fulfil the condition, it is equal to a refusal." "why cannot you fulfil it? what is there so difficult about it?" "you know as well as i, my dear father, monsieur roger has been for some time very sad, very preoccupied; he wants to remain by himself, and consequently he will refuse to go to the farm." "who knows?" "well, at all events, i would not dare to ask him." "well, then, let paul do it." "but what would paul say?" "he will say that i am detained here, that i cannot come with you, and that, not thinking it prudent to allow you to go fishing alone, i object to it unless monsieur roger will consent to take my place." "very well, father," said albert, in a disappointed tone. "we will see whether paul succeeds; but i am afraid he will not." but paul did succeed. monsieur roger could not resist the request so pleasantly made by the boy. that evening, after dinner, they left home to sleep at the farm, which was situated on the borders of the river yonne. they had to get up at daybreak in order to begin their fishing. the farmers gave up to monsieur roger the only spare room they had in the house. albert and paul had to sleep in what they called the turret. this turret, the last mossy vestige of the feudal castle, whose very windows were old loop-holes, now furnished with panes of glass, stood against one end of the farm-house. it was divided into three stories: the first story was a place where they kept hay and straw; in the second there slept a young farm-boy; the higher story was reserved for another servant, who was just now absent. "in war we must do as the warriors do," cried albert, gayly; "besides, we have not so long to sleep. you may take whichever room you like the best." "i will take the highest story, if you are willing," answered paul; "the view must be beautiful." "oh, the view! through the loop-holes and their blackened glasses! however, you can climb up on the old platform of the turret if you wish. it is covered with zinc, like the roof of an ordinary house; but, all the same, one can walk upon it. come, i will show it to you." the wooden staircase was easily ascended by the boys. when they had reached the room which paul was to occupy, albert pointed his hand towards the ceiling and made paul remark a large bolt. "see," said he: "you have only to get upon a chair to draw this bolt and to push the trap-door, which gives admission to the turret. on the roof you will, in fact, see a beautiful view." "i shall do that to-morrow morning, when i get up," answered paul. albert, after he had said good-night to his friend, descended the staircase and slept in the bed which the farm-boy had yielded to him; the latter was to spend the night upon a bed of hay in the first story. a distant clock in the country had struck twelve. monsieur roger had opened the window of his room, and, being unable to sleep, was thinking, still the prey to the fixed idea, still occupied by the strange resemblance; and now the two names of paul and george mingled together in his mind and were applied only to the one and the same dear being. suddenly the odor of smoke came to him, brought on the breeze. in the cloudy night he saw nothing, and still the smoke grew more and more distinct. every one was asleep at the farm: no light was burning, no sound was heard. monsieur roger bent over the window-sill and looked uneasily around him. the loop-holes of the lower story of the turret were illuminated; then sparks escaped from it, soon followed by jets of flame. at the same instant the wooden door which opened into the yard was violently burst open, and monsieur roger saw two young people in their night-gowns fleeing together and crying with a loud voice. this was all so quick that monsieur roger had had neither the time nor the thought of calling for help. a spasm of fear had seized him, which was calmed, now that paul and albert were safe; but the alarm had been given, and the farm-hands had awakened. but what help could they expect? the nearest village was six miles off; the turret would be burned before the engines could arrive. monsieur roger had run out with the others to witness this fire which they could not extinguish. he held albert in his arms, embraced him, and said to him,-- "but, tell me, where is paul?" albert looked around him. "he must be here,--unless fright has made him run away." "no, he is not here. but you are sure that he ran out of the tower, are you not?" "certainly, since it was he who came and shook me in my bed while i was asleep." at this moment a young boy in a night-gown came out of the crowd, and, approaching albert, said,-- "no; it was i, sir, who shook you." monsieur roger looked at the boy who had just spoken, and he felt a horrible fear take possession of him. he saw that it was the farm-boy. it must have been he whom he had seen fleeing a moment before with albert. but paul? had he remained in the turret? and the flames which licked the walls had almost reached the floor where paul was sleeping. was the poor boy still asleep? had he heard nothing? "a ladder!" cried monsieur roger, with a cry of fear and despair. the ladder was immediately brought; but it was impossible to place it against the turret, whose base was in flames. monsieur roger in a second had examined the battlements which composed the roof. he ran towards the farm-house, climbed up the staircase to the top story, opened a trap-door, and found himself upon the roof. crawling on his hands and knees, following the ridge of the roof, he reached the turret, and found himself even with the story where paul solange was asleep. the loop-hole was before him. with a blow of his elbow he broke the glass; then he cried,-- "paul! paul!" below the people looked at him in mournful silence. no reply came from the room; he could see nothing through the darkness. monsieur roger had a gleam of hope: paul must have escaped. but a sheet of fire higher than the others threw a sudden light through the loop-hole on the other side. monsieur roger was seized with indescribable anguish. paul solange was there in his bed. was he asleep? monsieur roger cried out anew with all his force. paul remained motionless. then monsieur roger leaned over the roof, and said to the people below,-- "cry at the top of your voices! make a noise!" but the next moment he made a sign to them to be silent,--for monsieur roger had felt somebody crawling behind him, somebody who had followed his perilous path. it was albert dalize. "oh, my friend,--my poor friend!" cried monsieur roger; "what can we do? is it not enough to make you crazy? see! the staircase is in flames. you can hardly pass your arm through the loop-holes. whether he wakes or not, he is lost." and then he said, with an awful gravity, "then, it is better he should not awake." "no," replied albert, quickly; "there is an opening at the top of the tower." "there is an opening?" "yes, a trap-door, which i showed him only a little while ago, before we went to sleep." monsieur roger raised himself upon the roof to a standing position. "what are you doing?" cried albert. "i am going to try to reach the top of the tower." "it is useless; the bolt opens in the room. paul only can open it." "paul can open it." "if he awakes. but how is it he does not awake?" and in his turn albert called to his friend. paul made no movement. the flames were gaining, growing more and more light, and the smoke was filtering through the plank floor and filling the room. [illustration] "ah, i understand," cried monsieur roger, "i understand: he is not sleeping. that is not sleep,--that is asphyxia." "asphyxia?" repeated albert, in a voice choked with fear. the scene was terrible. there was the boy, a prisoner, who was going to die under the eyes of those who loved him, and separated from them solely by a circle of stone and of fire,--a circle which they could not cross. he was going to die without any knowledge that he was dying. asphyxia held him in a death-like trance. albert saw the floor of the room crack and a tongue of flame shoot up, which lighted up the sleeping face of paul solange. then he heard a strange cry from a terrified and awful voice. the voice cried,-- "george! george!" and it was monsieur roger who had twice called that name. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xxi. saved. albert still looked. then he saw paul solange raise himself upon his bed, and, seeing the fire, pass his hands over his eyes and his forehead, jump to the floor, reflect a moment, as if endeavoring to remember something, then seize a chair, get upon it, and pull the bolt of the trap-door. at the same time he remarked that monsieur roger was no longer near him. braving the danger, monsieur roger had jumped from the roof, and succeeded in reaching the top of the turret; and now it was he who pulled paul from the trap-door and gathered him up in his arms. the boy had fainted. obeying an order shouted by albert, two farm-boys trusted themselves upon the roof, bringing with them a ladder and ropes. then monsieur roger was able to come down with his precious burden. albert lent his aid to the rescuer, and paul was taken down into the yard. at this moment a carriage arrived, which had been driving at the top of its speed. it stopped at the door of the farm-house. monsieur dalize appeared. from the château the flames had been seen by a watchman, who had gone to awake his master. monsieur dalize, understanding the danger, frightened at what might be happening over there in that farm-house on fire, under that roof which sheltered his child, his best friend, and paul solange, had immediately harnessed a horse, with the aid of the watchman, and, telling him to say nothing to madame dalize, had departed at the top of his speed. he arrived in time to see monsieur roger and albert, who were bearing paul with them. he approached, trembling. "paul!" he cried. "calm yourself," monsieur roger hastened to say: "he has only fainted. it is nothing; but we shall have to take him home." "the carriage is ready." "then everything is for the best." paul was seated in the carriage, between albert and monsieur roger. the latter had placed his left arm under paul's head to sustain him. the poor child was still insensible; but there could be no better remedy for him than the fresh air of the night,--the fresh air which the rapid movement of the carriage caused to penetrate into his lungs. monsieur dalize, who drove, turned around frequently, looking at roger. the latter held in his right hand paul solange's hand, and from time to time placed his ear against the boy's breast. "well?" said monsieur dalize, anxiously. "his pulse is still insensible," answered monsieur roger; "but stop your horse for a moment." the carriage stopped. then, being no longer interfered with by the noise, monsieur roger again applied his ear, and said,-- "his heart beats; it beats very feebly, but it beats. now go ahead." again the carriage started. at the end of some minutes, monsieur roger, who still held paul's wrist between his fingers, suddenly felt beneath the pulsations of the radial artery. he cried out, with a loud voice, but it was a cry of joy,-- "he is saved!" he said to monsieur dalize. at that very moment paul solange opened his eyes; but he closed them again, as if a heavy sleep, stronger than his will, were weighing upon his eyelids. again he opened them, and looked with an undecided look, without understanding. at that moment they arrived at the house. everybody was on foot. the fire at the farm had been perceived by others besides the watchman. they had all risen from their beds, and madame dalize, awakened by the noise, had, unfortunately, learned the terrible news. she was awaiting in cruel agony the return of her husband. at last she saw him driving the carriage and bringing with him the beings who were dear to her. paul, leaning on the arms of monsieur roger and albert, was able to cross the slight distance which separated them from the vestibule. there monsieur roger made him sit down in an arm-chair, near the window, which he opened wide. monsieur and madame dalize and albert stood beside paul, looking at him silently and uneasily; but they were reassured by the expression of monsieur roger. with common accord they left him the care of his dear patient. monsieur roger was looking at paul with tender eyes,--an expression of happiness, of joy, illumined his face: and this expression, which monsieur dalize had not seen for long years upon the face of his friend, seemed to him incomprehensible, for he was still ignorant of the extraordinary thing that had happened. at this moment, miss miette, in her night-cap, hardly taking time to dress herself, rushed into the vestibule. her childish sleep had been interrupted by the tumult in the house. she had run down half awake. "mamma, mamma," she cried, "what is the matter?" then, as she ran to throw herself upon her mother's knees, she saw the arm-chair and paul sitting in it. she stopped at once, and, before they had the time or the thought of stopping her, she had taken paul's hands, saying to him, very sadly,-- "paul, paul, are you sick?" paul's eyes, which until this time had remained clouded and as if fixed upon something which he could not see, turned to miette. little by little they brightened as his senses returned to him: his eyes commenced to sparkle. he looked, and, with a soft but weary voice, he murmured,-- "miette, my little miette." [illustration] then he turned his head, trying to find out where it was he found himself, who were the people around him. "what has happened?" he asked. nobody dared to answer. everybody waited for monsieur roger; but monsieur roger kept silent. he let nature take care of itself. indeed, he even hid himself slightly behind monsieur dalize. paul's looks passed over the faces which were in front or beside him; but they did not stop there: they seemed to look for something or some one which they did not meet. then, with a sudden movement, paul bent over a little. he saw monsieur roger; he started; the blood came back to his face; he tried to speak, and could only let fall a few confused words. but, though they could not understand his words, what they did understand was his gesture. he held out his arms towards monsieur roger. the latter advanced and clasped paul solange in a fatherly embrace. the effort made by the sick boy had wearied him. he closed his eyes in sleep; but this time it was a healthy sleep, a refreshing sleep. monsieur roger and monsieur dalize took the sleeping paul up to his room. and miss miette, as she regained her boudoir, said to herself, with astonishment,-- "it is extraordinary! monsieur roger embraced paul as if he were his papa." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xxii. george! george! monsieur roger stayed up all the remainder of that night by the side of paul, whose sleep was calm and dreamless, like the sleep which succeeds to some strong emotion, some great fatigue. paul was still sleeping in the morning when monsieur dalize softly turned the handle of the door and entered the room on tiptoe. his entrance was made with so much precaution that monsieur roger himself did not hear him. monsieur dalize had some seconds in which to observe roger. he saw him sitting beside the bed, his eyes fixed upon the child, in a thoughtful attitude. monsieur roger was studying the delicate face which lay upon the pillow. he examined its features one by one, and, thinking himself alone, thinking that he would not be interrupted in this examination, he was calling up the mysterious resemblance with which he had already acquainted his friend. but he had not just now begun this study,--he had pursued it all night. the light, however, of the lowered lamp had not been favorable, and the emotion which he felt agitated him still too much to leave his judgment clear. when the morning sun had risen, chasing away all the vague images of the darkness and the doubts of the mind. roger, having recovered his composure, looked at the child whom he had saved, and asked himself if the child was not his own. he was drawn from these reflections by feeling himself touched upon the shoulder. monsieur dalize had approached and asked,-- "has he passed a good night?" "excellent," answered monsieur roger, in a low tone; "but we must let him sleep as long as he can. give orders that no noise shall be made around here and that no one shall enter. he must awake of his own accord. when he awakes he will only feel a slight fatigue." "then i am going to give these orders and tell the good news," said monsieur dalize. he retired as softly as he had entered, but by accident, near the door, he stumbled against a chair. he stopped, holding his breath; but roger made a sign that he could go on. the slight noise had not awakened paul, or at least had not awakened him completely; he had turned around upon his bed for the first time since he had been placed there. monsieur roger, who never took his eyes off him, understood that he was dreaming. the dream seemed to be a painful one, for some feeble groans and murmurs escaped him. then upon the face of the sleeping child appeared an expression of great fear. monsieur roger did not wish to leave paul a prey to such a dream. he approached near to raise him a little upon the bed. the moment that monsieur roger's two hands softly touched paul's head, the expression of fear disappeared, the features became quiet and calm, the groans ceased, and suddenly there escaped his lips the single word "papa." monsieur roger started. with his trembling hands he still sustained the child; he bent over, ready to embrace him, forgetting that the child was sleeping and dreaming. monsieur roger was about to utter the name which choked him,--"my son." then paul solange opened his eyes. he looked up dreamily; then he recognized the face before him, and surprise mingled with affection in his tones. "monsieur roger!" he said. he looked around him, saw that he was in his own room, and remembered nothing else. he asked,-- "why are you here, monsieur roger?" mastering himself, monsieur roger answered that he had come to find out how paul was, as he had seen him suffering the night before. "i, suffering?" asked paul. then he sought to remember, and, all of a sudden, he cried, "the fire over there at the farm!" although his memory had not entirely returned, he recollected something. he hesitated to speak. then, with an anxious voice, he asked,-- "and albert?" "albert," answered monsieur roger, "he is below; and everybody is waiting until you come down to breakfast." "then there were no accidents?" "no." "how fortunate! i will dress myself and be down in a minute." and, in fact, in a few minutes paul was ready, and descended leaning on monsieur roger's arm. the latter, as they entered the dining-room, made a sign to them that they should all keep silence: he did not wish that they should fatigue the tired mind of the child with premature questions; but when they were sitting at the table, paul, addressing albert, said,-- "tell me what passed last night. it is strange i scarcely remember." "no," said madame dalize: "we are at table for breakfast, and we have all need for food,--you, paul, above all. come, now, let us eat; a little later we may talk." [illustration] "it is well said," said monsieur dalize. there was nothing to do but to obey. and, indeed, paul was glad to do so, for he was very hungry. he had lost so much strength that the stomach for the moment was more interesting to him than the brain. they breakfasted, and then they went out upon the lawn before the château, under a large walnut-tree, which every day gave its hospitable shade to the dalize family and their guests. "well, my dear paul," said monsieur dalize, "how are you at present?" "very well, indeed, sir, very well," answered paul. "i was a little feeble when i first awoke, but now,--now----" he stopped speaking; he seemed lost in thought. "what is the matter?" asked albert. "i am thinking of last night at the farm,--the fire." "oh, that was nothing," said albert. "but," continued paul, "how did we get back here?" "in the carriage. father came for us and brought us home." "and how did we leave the farm?" monsieur roger followed with rapt attention the workings of paul's memory. he was waiting in burning anxiety the moment when paul should remember. one principal fact, only one thing occupied his attention. would paul remember how and by whom he had been borne from the torpor which was strangling him? would he remember that cry,--that name which had had the miraculous power to awake him, to bring him back to life? if paul remembered that, then, perhaps---- and again monsieur roger was a prey to his fixed idea,--to his stroke of folly, as monsieur dalize called it. the latter, besides, knew nothing as yet, and monsieur roger counted upon the sudden revelation of this extraordinary fact to shake his conviction. but paul had repeated his question. he asked,-- "how did we leave the farm-house? how were we saved?" and as albert did not know whether he should speak, whether he should tell everything, paul continued: "but speak, explain to me: i am trying to find out. i cannot remember; and that gives me pain here." and he touched his head. monsieur roger made a sign to albert, and the latter spoke: "well, do you remember the turret, where we had our rooms? you slept above, i below. do you remember the trap-door that i showed you? in the middle of the night i felt myself awakened by somebody, and i followed him. in my half sleep i thought that this some one was you, my poor friend; but, alas! you remained above; you were sleeping without fear. why, it was monsieur roger who first saw the danger that you were in." paul, while albert was speaking, had bent his head, seeking in his memory and beginning to put in order his scattered thoughts. when albert pronounced the name of monsieur roger, paul raised his eyes towards him with a look which showed that he would soon remember. "and afterwards?" said he. "and afterwards monsieur roger climbed upon the roof, at the risk of his life, and reached the loop-hole which opened into your chamber. he broke the glass of the window; but you did not hear him: the smoke which was issuing through the floor had made you insensible,--had almost asphyxiated you." "ah, i remember!" cried paul. "i was sleeping, and, at the same time, i was not sleeping. i knew that i was exposed to some great danger, but i had not the strength to make a movement. i seemed paralyzed. i heard cries and confused murmurs, sounds of people coming and going. i felt that i ought to rise and flee, but that was impossible. my arms, my legs would not obey me; my eyelids, which i attempted to open, were of lead. i soon thought that everything was finished, that i was lost; and still i was saying to myself that i might be raised out of this stupor. it seemed to me that the efforts of some one outside might be so, that an order, a prayer might give back to my will the power which it had lost; but the stupor took hold of me more and more intensely. i was going to abandon myself to it, when, all of a sudden, i heard myself called. yes, somebody called me; but not in the same way that i have been called before. in that cry there was such a command, such a prayer, so much faith, that my will at once recovered strength to make my body obey it. i roused myself; i saw and i understood, and, luckily, i remembered the trap-door which you had shown me. i could scarcely lift it; but there was some one there,--yes, some one who saved me." paul solange uttered a great cry. "ah," said he, "it was monsieur roger!" and he ran to throw himself into the arms which monsieur roger extended to him. miss miette profited by the occasion to wipe her eyes, which this scene had filled with big tears in spite of herself. then she turned to paul, and said,-- "but the one who called to you? was it true? it was not a dream?" "oh, no; it was some one. but who was it?" "it was monsieur roger," answered albert. "and so you understood him?" continued miette, very much interested. "and he called you loudly by your name, 'paul! paul!'" paul solange did not answer. this question had suddenly set him to thinking. no, he had not heard himself called thus. but how had he been called? seeing that paul was silent, albert answered his little sister's question: "certainly," said he, "he called paul by his name." then he interrupted himself, and, remembering all of a sudden: "no," cried he; "monsieur roger called out another name." "what other name?" asked monsieur dalize, much surprised. "he cried out, 'george! george!'" monsieur dalize turned his head towards roger and saw the eyes of his friend fixed upon his own. he understood at once. poor roger was still a slave to the same thought, the same illusion. madame dalize and miette, who were acquainted with the sorrows of monsieur roger, imagined that in this moment of trouble he had in spite of himself called up the image of his child. paul, very gravely, was dreamily saying to himself that the name of george was the name which he had heard, and that it was to the sound of this name that he had answered, and he was asking himself the mysterious reason for such a fact. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xxiii. a proof? monsieur dalize took his friend roger by the arm, and they walked together down one of the solitary pathways of the park. when they were some distance off from madame dalize and the children, monsieur dalize stopped, looked his friend squarely in the eyes, and said, in a faltering tone,-- "then you still think it? you have retained that foolish idea? you think that paul----?" "yes," interrupted monsieur roger, in a firm voice, and without avoiding the eyes of his friend, "i think it, and more than that." then, lowering his head, in a softened tone, but without hesitation, he said, "i think that paul is my son." monsieur dalize looked at his friend with a feeling of real pity. "your son?" he said. "you think that paul is your son? and on what do you found this improbable, this impossible belief? upon a likeness which your sorrowful spirit persists in tracing. truly, my dear roger, you grieve me. i thought you had a firmer as well as a clearer head. to whom could you confide such absurd ideas?" "to you, in the first place, as i have already done," said monsieur roger, gravely. "the resemblance which you doubt, and which, in fact, seems impossible to prove, is not a resemblance which i see between paul and george, but between paul and her who was his mother; of that i am sure." "you are sure?" "yes; and in speaking thus i am in possession of all my senses, as you see. now, would you like to know what further clue i have? perhaps i have one. i will tell it to you." here monsieur roger interrupted himself. "no," said he: "you will laugh at me." "speak," said monsieur dalize. "i am sorry for you, and i shall not laugh at your delusion. speak. i will listen." "well," said monsieur roger, "this very morning, when you left the room, the noise that you made troubled the sleep of paul; a dream passed through his brain, and i followed all its phases. i saw that paul was going over the terrible scene of the night before; i knew that by the terror of his face and by the murmur of his lips. he evidently thought himself exposed to danger; then it seemed as if he heard something, as if he knew that help was at hand. he made a movement, as if to extend his hands, and from his mouth came this word, 'papa.'" monsieur roger looked at his friend, who remained silent. "you have not understood?" he said. monsieur dalize shook his head. "ah, but i understood," continued monsieur roger; "i am certain that i understood. in his dream paul--no, no, not paul, but george, my little george--had heard himself called as ten years ago he had been called at the time of the shipwreck, during the fire on shipboard, and he was answering to that call; and it was to no stranger that he was answering; it was not to monsieur roger; no, it was to his father: it was to me." monsieur roger stopped, seeking some other proof which he might furnish to monsieur dalize. the latter was plunged in thought; his friend's faith commenced to shake his doubt. he certainly did not share roger's idea, but he was saying to himself that perhaps this idea was not so impossible as it would seem at first sight. roger continued, hesitating from the moment he had to pronounce the name of paul solange: "you remember exactly the story that paul told. were you not struck with it? did not paul acknowledge that in his torpor, in his semi-asphyxia, he had called for help, called to his assistance some unknown force which would shake and awake his dazed and half-paralyzed will? and did not this help come, this sudden force, when he felt himself called? now, how many times i had cried out 'paul' without waking the child! paul was not his name; he did not hear it. i had to shout to him, making use of his own name, his real name. i cried out, 'george!' and george heard and understood me. george was saved." monsieur dalize listened attentively: he was following up a train of reasoning. at the end of some moments he answered monsieur roger, who was awaiting with impatience the result of his thoughts. "alas, my poor friend! in spite of all my reason tells me, i should like to leave to you your hope, but it is impossible. i have seen paul's father; i know him; i have spoken to him, i have touched him; that father is not a shadow,--he exists in flesh and blood. you have heard paul himself speak of him. in a few months he will come to paris; you will see him; and then you will be convinced." "but have you seen the birth-register of paul solange?" asked monsieur roger. "have i seen it? i may have done so, but i don't remember just now." "but that register must have been made; it must be in france, in the hands of some one." "certainly." "where can it be?" "at the lyceum, in the dockets of the registrar." "well, my friend, my dear friend, i must see it. you understand?" "yes, i understand. you wish to have under your own eyes the proof of your mistake. you shall have it. as the guardian of paul solange, i will write the registrar to send me a copy of that birth-register. are you satisfied?" "yes." "and now, i ask you to be calm, to keep cool." "oh, don't be uneasy about me," answered monsieur roger. then the two friends rejoined the group which they had left. miette rose when she saw monsieur roger. "ah!" she cried, "monsieur roger is going to tell us that." "that? what?" asked monsieur dalize. "why, what asphyxia is," answered miette. "ah, my friend," said monsieur dalize, turning to roger, "i will leave the word to you." "very well," answered monsieur roger. "asphyxia is,--it is----" and as monsieur roger was seeking for some easy words in which to explain himself, miette cried out, with a laugh,-- "perhaps you don't know yourself,--you who know everything?" "yes, i know it," answered monsieur roger, with a smile; "but, in order to tell you, i must first explain to you what is the formation of the blood, and tell you something of oxygen and carbonic acid, and----" "well, tell us," cried miette, "if you think it will interest us.--it will, won't it, paul?" paul bent his head. monsieur roger saw this gesture, and replied,-- "well, then, i am going to tell you." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xxiv. the air and the lungs. "in order to live," continued monsieur roger, "you must breathe. you don't doubt that?" "no," said miss miette, seriously. "now, respiration consists in the absorption by the blood of some of the oxygen of the air and in breathing out carbonic acid. the oxygen, in combining with the carbon and hydrogen of the blood, excites a real combustion in the lungs, which results in the production of heat and in the exhalation of vapor and carbonic acid." monsieur roger was going to continue in the same scientific tone, when monsieur dalize remarked to him that his explanation did not seem to be at all understood by the children. the latter, a little embarrassed, held their tongues. "you are right," replied monsieur roger, addressing monsieur dalize; "that is a silence which is certainly not very flattering. i intend to profit by this lesson by beginning once more at the beginning." "you are right," said miette. "well, then, respiration is the very important function whose object is to introduce air into our lungs. "what are the lungs, and why is it necessary to introduce air into them? and, in the first place, how is this air introduced? through the mouth and through the nose. then it passes through the larynx and arrives at a large tube, which is called the trachea, or wind-pipe. it is this tube which, as i shall show you, forms the two lungs. as it enters the chest, this tube branches out into two smaller tubes, which are called the primary bronches. one of these bronches goes to the right, to make the right lung; the other to the left, to make the left lung. each primary bronche is soon divided into a number of little tubes, called secondary bronches. the secondary bronches divide up into a number of other tubes, which are still smaller; and so on, and so on. imagine a tree with two branches, one spreading towards the right, and the other towards the left. upon these two branches grow other branches; upon these other branches still others, and so on. the branches become smaller and smaller until they become mere twigs. now, imagine these twigs ending in leaves, and you will have some idea of that which is sometimes called the pulmonary tree, with its thousand branches." "no," said miette: "bronches." "bronches,--you are right," said monsieur roger, who could not help smiling at miss miette. "the tree which i have taken as a comparison finishes by dividing itself into twigs, which, as i have said, end in leaves. but you know, of course, that the twigs of the pulmonary tree in our breast do not end in leaves. they end in a sort of very small cells, surrounded by very thin walls. these cells are so small that they need a microscope to detect them, and their walls are very, very thin; the cells are all stuck fast together, and together they constitute a spongy mass, which is the lung. now let us pass to the second question: why is it necessary to introduce air into the lungs?" "yes," said miette; "let us pass to that." [illustration] "the blood, in going out of the heart, circulates to all the parts of the body in order to make necessary repairs; at the same time it charges itself with all the old matter which has been used up and is no longer any good and carries it along. now, what is it going to do with this old matter? it will burn it. where will it burn it? in the lungs. now, there can be no combustion when there is no air. the blood, wishing to burn its waste matter, and wishing also to purify the alimentary principles which the veins have drawn from the stomach, has need of air. where will it find it? in the lungs. and that is why it is necessary to introduce air into our lungs, or, in other words, that is why we breathe. the lungs are a simple intermediary between the air and the blood. among the cells of the lungs veins finer than hair wind and turn. these veins gather up the blood filled with waste matter. it is blood of a black color, which is called venous blood. the walls of the veins which transport the blood are so thin that air, under the atmospheric pressure,--this pressure which i have told you all about,--passes through them and into the blood. then the venous blood charges itself with the oxygen contained in the air, and frees itself from what i have called its waste material, and which is nothing less than carbon. immediately its aspect changes. this venous blood becomes what is called arterial blood; this black blood becomes rich vermilion,--it is regenerated. it goes out again to carry life to all our organs. now, this time," asked monsieur roger, pausing, "have i made myself understood?" [illustration] "yes," said miette, speaking both for paul and for herself; "yes, we have understood,--except when you speak of oxygen, of carbon, and of combustion." "oh, i was wrong to speak of them," answered monsieur roger, pretending to be vexed. "that may be," answered miss miette, very calmly; "but as you did speak of them, you must tell us what they are." "yes, you must, my friend," remarked monsieur dalize, taking sides with his little girl. "mustn't he, papa? mustn't monsieur roger explain?" asked miette. "come, now," said monsieur roger, in a resigned tone. "you must know, then, that air is composed of two gases,--oxygen and nitrogen; therefore, when we breathe, we send into our lungs oxygen and nitrogen. you might think, when we throw out this air, when we exhale,--you might think, i say, that this air coming out of our lungs is still composed of oxygen and of nitrogen in the same proportions. now, it is not so at all. the quantity of nitrogen has not varied, but, in the first place, there is less oxygen, and there is another gas,--carbonic acid gas; where, then, is the oxygen which we have not exhaled, and whence comes this carbonic acid which we did not inhale? then, besides, in the air exhaled there is vapor. where does that come from? these phenomena result from the combustion of which i speak; but, in order that you should understand how this combustion occurs, i must explain to you what is oxygen and what is nitrogen. and as it is a long story, you must let me put it off till this evening; then i will talk until you are weary, my dear little miette." miette looked at albert and paul, and answered for them with remarkable frankness: "it will be only right if you do weary us. it is we who asked you, and, besides, we have so often wearied you that it is only right you should have your revenge on us. still----" "still, what?" "still, we can trust you," added miette, laughing, and throwing her arms around roger's neck. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xxv. oxygen. "we were saying that oxygen----" cried miss miette, with a smile, that evening, after dinner, seeing that monsieur roger had completely forgotten his promise. "yes," monsieur dalize hastened to add, as he wished to distract his friend from sad thoughts; "yes, my dear roger, we were saying that oxygen----" "is a gas," continued monsieur roger, good-humoredly. "yes, it is a gas; and miette, i suppose, will want to ask me, 'what is gas?'" "certainly," said miette. "well, it is only recently that we have found out, although the old scientists, who called themselves alchemists, had remarked that besides those things that come within reach of our senses there also exists something invisible, impalpable; and, as their scientific methods did not enable them to detect this thing, they had considered it a portion of the spirit land; and indeed some of the names which they adopted under this idea still remain in common use. don't we often call alcohol 'spirits of wine'? as these ancients did not see the air which surrounded them, it was difficult for them to know that men live in an ocean of gas, in the same way as fish live in water; and they could not imagine that air is a matter just as much as water is. you remember that universal gravitation was discovered through----" "the fall of an apple," said miette. "yes; and that was something that every one knew; it was a very common fact that an apple would fall. well, it was another common fact, another well-known thing, which enabled the fleming van helmont to discover in the seventeenth century the real existence of gases, or at least of a gas. van helmont, one winter evening, was struck by the difference between the bulk of the wood which burned on his hearth and the bulk of the ashes left by the wood after its combustion. he wished to examine into this phenomenon, and he made some experiments. he readily found that sixty-two pounds of charcoal left, after combustion, only one pound of ashes. now, what had become of the other sixty-one pounds? reason showed him that they had been transformed into something invisible, or, according to the language of the times, into some aërial spirit. this something van helmont called 'gaast,' which in flemish means spirit, and which is the same word as our ghost. from the word gaast we have made our word gas. the gas which van helmont discovered was, as we now know, carbonic acid. this scientist made another experiment which caused him to think a good deal, but which he could not explain. now, we can repeat this experiment, if it will give you any pleasure." "certainly," said miette; "what shall i bring you?" "only two things,--a soup-plate and a candle." monsieur roger lit the candle and placed it in the middle of the soup-plate, which he had filled with water. then he sought among the instruments which had come with the air-pump, and found a little glass globe. he placed the globe over the candle in the middle of the plate. very soon, as if by a species of suction, the water of the plate rose in the globe; then the candle went out. "can miss miette explain to me what she has just seen?" said monsieur roger. [illustration] miette reflected, and said,-- "as the water rose in the globe, it must have been because the air had left the globe, since the water came to take its place." "yes," answered monsieur roger; "but the air could not leave the globe, as there is no opening in the globe on top, and below it there is water. it did not leave the globe, but it diminished. now, tell me why it diminished." "ah, i cannot tell you." "well, van helmont was in just your position. he could not know anything about the cause of this diminution, because he was ignorant of the composition of the air, which was not discovered until the next century by the celebrated french chemist lavoisier. now, this is how lavoisier arrived at this important discovery. in the first place, he knew that metals, when they are calcined,--that is to say, when they are exposed to the action of fire,--increase in weight. this fact had been remarked before his time by dr. jehan rey, under the following circumstances: a druggist named brun came one day to consult the doctor. rey asked to be allowed to feel his pulse. "'but i am not sick,' cried the druggist. "'then what are you doing here?' said the doctor. "'i come to consult you.' "'then you must be sick.' "'not at all. i come to consult you not for sickness, but in regard to an extraordinary thing which occurred in my laboratory.' "'what was it?' asked rey, beginning to be interested. "'i had to calcine two pounds six ounces of tin. i weighed it carefully and then calcined it, and after the operation i weighed it again by chance, and what was my astonishment to find two pounds and thirteen ounces! whence come these extra seven ounces? that is what i could not explain to myself, and that is why i came to consult you.' "rey tried the same experiment again and again, and finally concluded that the increase of weight came from combination with some part of the air. "it is probable that this explanation did not satisfy the druggist; and yet the doctor was right. the increase came from the combination of the metal with that part of the air which lavoisier called oxygen. that great chemist, after long study, declared that air was not a simple body, but that it was a composite formed of two bodies, of two gases,--oxygen and nitrogen. this opinion, running counter as it did to all preconceived ideas, raised a storm around the head of the learned man. he was looked upon as a fool, as an imbecile, as an ignoramus. that is the usual way. "lavoisier resolved to show to the unbelievers the two bodies whose existence he had announced. in the experiment of increasing the weight of metals during calcination, an experiment which has been often repeated since jehan rey's time, either tin or lead had always been used. now, these metals, during calcination, absorb a good deal of oxygen from the air, but, once they have absorbed it, they do not give it up again. lavoisier abandoned tin and lead, and made use of a liquid metal called mercury. mercury possesses not only the property of combining with the oxygen of the air when it is heated, but also that of giving back this oxygen as soon as the boiling-point is passed. the chemist put mercury in a glass retort whose neck was very long and bent over twice. the retort was placed upon an oven in such a way that the bent end of the neck opened into the top of the globe full of air, placed in a tube also full of mercury. by means of a bent tube, a little air had been sucked out of the globe in such a way that the mercury in the tube, finding the pressure diminished, had risen a slight distance in the globe. in this manner the height of the mercury in the globe was very readily seen. the level of the mercury in the globe was noted exactly, as well as the temperature and the pressure. everything being now ready for the experiment, lavoisier heated the mercury in the retort to the boiling-point, and kept it on the fire for twelve days. the mercury became covered with red pellicles, whose number increased towards the seventh and eighth days; at the end of the twelfth day, as the pellicles did not increase, lavoisier discontinued the heat. then he found out that the mercury had risen in the globe much higher than before he had begun the experiment, which indicated that the air contained in the globe had diminished. the air which remained in the globe had become a gas which was unfit either for combustion or for respiration; in fact, it was nitrogen. but the air which had disappeared from the globe, where had it gone to? what had become of it?" "yes," said miette, "it is like the air of our globe just now. where has it gone?" "wait a moment. let us confine ourselves to lavoisier's experiment." "we are listening." "well, lavoisier decided that the air which had disappeared could not have escaped from the globe, because that was closed on all sides. he examined the mercury. it seemed in very much the same state. what difference was there? none, excepting the red pellicles. then it was in the pellicles that he must seek for the air which had disappeared. so the red pellicles were taken up and heated in a little retort, furnished with a tube which could gather the gas; under the action of heat the pellicles were decomposed. lavoisier obtained mercury and a gas. the quantity of gas which he obtained represented the exact difference between the original bulk of the air in the globe and the bulk of the gas which the globe held at the end of the experiment. therefore lavoisier had not been deceived. the air which had disappeared from the globe had been found. this gas restored from the red pellicles was much better fitted than the air of the atmosphere for combustion and respiration. when a candle was placed in it, it burned with a dazzling light. a piece of charcoal, instead of consuming quietly, as in ordinary air, burned with a flame and with a sort of crackling sound, and with a light so strong that the eye could hardly bear it. that gas was oxygen." "and so the doubters were convinced," said miette. "or at least they ought to have been," added monsieur dalize, philosophically. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xxvi. why water puts out fire. "you have never seen oxygen any more than you have seen air," continued monsieur roger. "you have never seen it, and you never will see it with your eyes,--for those organs are very imperfect. i need not therefore say oxygen is a colorless gas; and yet i will say it to you by force of habit. all books of chemistry begin in this way. besides this, it is without smell and without taste. oxygen is extremely well fitted for combustion. a half-extinguished candle--that is, one whose wick is still burning but without flame--will relight instantly if placed in a globe full of oxygen. almost all the metals, except the precious metals, such as gold, silver, and platinum, burn, or oxydize more or less rapidly, when they are put in contact with oxygen; for, besides those lively combustions, in which metals, or other materials, become hot and are maintained in a state of incandescence, there are other kinds of burning which may be called slow combustions. you have often had under your eyes, without knowing it, examples of these slow combustions. for example, you have seen bits of iron left in the air, or in the water, and covered with a dark-red or light-red matter." "that is rust," said miette. "yes, that is what they call rust; and this rust is nothing less than the product of the combustion of the iron. the oxygen which is found in the air, or the water, has come in contact with the bit of iron and has made it burn. it is a slow combustion, without flames, but it nevertheless releases some heat. verdigris, in some of its forms, is nothing less than the product of the combustion----" "of copper," interrupted miette again. "miette has said it. these metals burn when they come in contact with the oxygen of the air,--or, in the language of science, they are oxydized; and this oxydation is simple combustion. therefore, oxygen is the principal agent in combustion. the process which we call burning is due to the oxygen uniting itself to some combustible body. there is no doubt on that subject, for it has been found that the weight of the products of combustion is equal to the sum of the weight of the body which burns and that of the oxygen which combines with it. in the experiment which we have made, if the oxygen has diminished in the globe, if it seems to have disappeared, it is because it has united itself and combined with the carbon of the candle to form the flame. in the same way in lavoisier's experiment it had combined itself with the mercury to form the red pellicles. the candle had gone out when all the oxygen in the globe had been absorbed; the red pellicles had ceased to form when they found no more oxygen. in this way lavoisier discovered that the air was formed of a mixture of two gases: the first was oxygen, of which we have just spoken; the second was nitrogen. the nitrogen, which is also a colorless, odorless, and tasteless gas, possesses some qualities that are precisely contrary to those of oxygen. oxygen is the agent of combustion. nitrogen extinguishes bodies in combustion. oxygen is a gas indispensable to our existence, with which our lungs breathe, and which revives our being. the nitrogen, on the contrary, contains no properties that are directly useful to the body. animals placed in a globe full of nitrogen perish of asphyxia. in other words, they drown in the gas, or are smothered by it. i suppose you will ask me what is the use of this gas, and why it enters into the composition of the air? you will ask it with all the more curiosity when you know that the air contains four times as much nitrogen as oxygen; to be exact, a hundred cubic feet of air contains seventy-nine cubic feet of nitrogen and twenty-one cubic feet of oxygen. now, the important part that nitrogen plays is to moderate the action of the oxygen in respiration. you may compare this nitrogen mixed with oxygen to the water which you put in a glass of wine to temper it. nitrogen possesses also another property which is more general: it is one of the essential elements in a certain number of mineral and vegetable substances and the larger portion of animal substances. there are certain compounds containing nitrogen which are indispensable to our food. an animal nourished entirely on food which is destitute of nitrogen would become weak and would soon die." "excuse me, monsieur roger," said albert dalize: "how can nitrogen enter into our food?" "that is a very good question," added miette, laughing; "surely you cannot eat nitrogen and you cannot eat gas." "the question is indeed a very sensible one," answered monsieur roger; "but this is how nitrogen enters into our food. we are carnivorous, are we not? we eat meat and flesh of animals. and what flesh do we chiefly eat? the flesh of sheep and of cattle. sheep and cattle are herbivorous: they feed on herbs, on vegetables. now, vegetables contain nitrogen. they have taken this nitrogen, either directly or indirectly, from the atmosphere and have fixed it in their tissues. herbivorous animals, in eating vegetables, eat nitrogen, and we, who are carnivorous, we also eat nitrogen, since we eat the herbivorous animals. we also eat vegetable food, many kinds of which contain more or less nitrogen. do you understand?" "yes, i understand," said miette. "there is nobody living who really understands this matter very well, for it is an extremely obscure, though very important, subject," replied monsieur roger. "but, to resume our explanation. besides oxygen and nitrogen, there is also in the air a little carbonic acid and vapor. the carbonic acid will bring us back to the point from which we started,--the phenomenon of breathing. carbonic acid is a gas formed by oxygen and carbon. the carbon is a body which is found under a large variety of forms. it has two or more varieties,--it is either pure or mixed with impurities. its varieties can be united in two groups. the first group comprises the diamond and graphite, or plumbago, which are natural carbon. the second group comprises coal, charcoal, and the soot of a chimney, which we may call, for convenience, artificial carbon. when oxygen finds itself in contact with carbonaceous matter,--that is to say, with matter that contains carbon,--and when the surrounding temperature has reached the proper degree of heat, carbonic acid begins to be formed. in the oven and the furnace, coal and charcoal mingle with the oxygen of the air and give the necessary heat; but it is first necessary that by the aid of a match, paper, and kindling-wood you should have furnished the temperature at which oxygen can join with the carbon in order to burn it. that is what we may call an active or a live combustion; but there can also be a slow combustion of carbon,--a combustion without flame, and still giving out heat. it is this combustion which goes on in our body by means of respiration." "ah, now we have come around to it!" cried miette. "that is the very thing i was inquiring about." "well, now that we have come around to it," answered monsieur roger, "tell me what i began to say to you on the subject of respiration." "that is not very difficult," answered miette, in her quiet manner. "you told us that we swallowed oxygen and gave out carbonic acid; and you also said, 'whence comes this carbonic acid? from combustion.' that is why i said, just now, 'we have come around to it.'" "very good,--very good, indeed, only we do not _swallow_ oxygen, but we _inhale_ it," said monsieur dalize, charmed with the cleverness of his little girl. "what, then, is the cause of this production of carbonic acid?" continued monsieur roger. "you don't know? well, i am going to tell you. the oxygen of the air which we breathe arrives into our lungs and finds itself in contact with the carbon in the black or venous blood. the carbon contained here joins with the oxygen, and forms the carbonic acid which we breathe out. this is a real, a slow combustion which takes place not only in our lungs,--as i said at first, in order not to make the explanation too difficult,--but also in all the different portions of our body. the air composed of oxygen and nitrogen--for the nitrogen enters naturally with the oxygen--penetrates into the pulmonary cells, spreads itself through the blood, and is borne through the numberless little capillary vessels. it is in these little vessels that combustion takes place,--that is to say, that the oxygen unites with the carbon and that carbonic acid is formed. this carbonic acid circulates, dissolved in the blood, until it can escape out of it. it is in the lungs that it finds liberty. when it arrives there it escapes from the blood, is exhaled, and is at once replaced by the new oxygen and the new nitrogen which arrive from outside. the nitrogen absorbed in aspiration at the same time as the oxygen is found to be of very much the same quantity when it goes out. there has therefore been no appreciable absorption of nitrogen. now, this slow combustion causes the heat of our body; in fact, what is called the animal-heat is due to the caloric set free at the moment when the oxygen is converted into carbonic acid, in the same way as in all combustion of carbon. in conclusion, i will remind you that our digestion is exercised on two sorts of food,--nitrogenous food and carbonaceous food. nitrogenous food--like fibrin, which is the chief substance in flesh; albumen, which is the principal substance of the egg; caseine, the principal substance of milk; legumine, of peas and beans--is assimilated in our organs, which they regenerate, which they rebuild continually. carbonaceous foods--like the starch of the potato, of sugar, alcohol, oils, and the fat of animals--do not assimilate; they do not increase at all the substance of our muscles or the solidity of our bones. it is they which are burned and which aid in burning those waste materials of the venous blood of which i have already spoken. still, many starchy foods do contain some nutritive principles, but in very small quantity. you will understand how little when you know that you would have to eat about fifteen pounds of potatoes to give your body the force that would be given it by a single pound of beef." "oh," said miette, "i don't like beef; but fifteen pounds of potatoes,--i would care still less to eat so much at once." "all the less that they would fatten you perceptibly," replied monsieur roger; "in fact, it is the carbonaceous foods which fatten. if they are introduced into the body in too great a quantity, they do not find enough oxygen to burn them, and they are deposited in the adipose or fatty tissue, where they will be useless and often harmful. you see how indispensable oxygen is to human life, and you now understand that if respiration does not go on with regularity, if the oxygen of your room should become exhausted, if the lungs were filled with carbonic acid produced by the combustion of fuel outside the body, there would follow at first a great deal of difficulty in breathing, then fainting, torpor, and, finally, asphyxia." these last words, pronounced by monsieur roger with much emotion, brought before them a remembrance so recent and so terrible that all remained silent and thoughtful. it was miss miette who first broke the spell by asking a new question of her friend roger. asphyxia had recalled to her the fire. then she had thought of the manner of extinguishing fire, and she said, all of a sudden, her idea translating itself upon her lips almost without consciousness,-- "why does water extinguish fire?" monsieur roger, drawn out of his thoughts by this question, raised his head, looked at miette, and said to her,-- "in the first place, do you know what water is?" "no; but you were going to tell me." "all right. the celebrated lavoisier, after having shown that air is not a simple body, but that it is composed of two gases, next turned his attention to the study of water, which was also, up to that time, considered to be an element; that is, a simple body. he studied it so skilfully that he succeeded in showing that water was formed by the combination of two gases." "of two gases!--water?" cried miette. "certainly, of two gases. one of these gases is oxygen, which we have already spoken of, and the other is hydrogen." "which we are going to speak of," added miette. "of course," answered monsieur roger, "since you wish it. but it was not lavoisier, however, who first discovered hydrogen. this gas had been discovered before his time by the chemists paracelsus and boyle, who had found out that in placing iron or zinc in contact with an acid called sulphuric acid, there was disengaged an air "like a breath." this air "like a breath" is what we now call hydrogen. lavoisier, with the assistance of the chemist meusnier, proved that it was this gas which in combining with oxygen formed water. in order to do this he blew a current of hydrogen into a retort filled with oxygen. as this hydrogen penetrated into the retort, he set fire to it by means of electric sparks. two stop-cocks regulated the proper proportions of the oxygen and the hydrogen in the retort. when the combustion took place, they saw water form in drops upon the sides of the retort and unite at the bottom. water was therefore the product of the combination of hydrogen with oxygen. the following anecdote is told in regard to this combination. a chemist of the last century, who was fond of flattery, was engaged to give some lessons to a young prince of the blood royal. when he came to explain the composition of water, he prepared before his scholar the necessary apparatus for making the combination of hydrogen and oxygen, and, at the moment when he was about to send the electric spark into the retort, he said, bowing his head,-- [illustration] "'if it please your royal highness, this hydrogen and oxygen are about to have the honor of combining before you.' "i don't know if the hydrogen and the oxygen were aware of the honor which was being done them; but certainly they combined with no more manners than if their spectator was an ordinary boy. now, i may add, you must not confound combinations with mixtures; thus, air is a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen, while water is a combination of hydrogen and oxygen. this combination is a union of the molecules of the two gases which produces a composite body formed of new molecules. these new molecules are water. now, this last word recalls to me miette's question." "yes," said the latter: "why does water put out fire?" "there are two reasons for this phenomenon," said monsieur roger: "the first is that water thrown upon the fire forms around the matter in combustion a thick cloud, or vapor, which prevents the air from reaching it. the wood, which was burning--that is to say, which was mingling with the oxygen of the air--finds its communication intercepted. the humid vapor has interposed between the carbon of the wood and the oxygen of the air; therefore, the combustion is forced to stop. further, water falling upon the fire is transformed, as you very well know, into vapor, or steam. now, this conversion into vapor necessitates the taking up of a certain quantity of heat. this heat is taken away from the body which is being burned, and that body is thus made much cooler; the combustion therefore becomes less active, and the fire is at last extinguished." "very good," said miette; "but still another question, and i will let you alone." "you promise?" "yes." "well, then, what is your last question?" "why is a candle put out by blowing on it, and why do they light a fire by doing the same thing?" "in these two cases there are two very different actions," replied monsieur roger: "in the first there is a mechanical action, and in the second a chemical action. in blowing upon a candle the violence of the air which you send out of your mouth detaches a flame which holds on only to the wick. the burning particles of this wick are blown away, and consequently the combustion is stopped. but the case is very different when you blow with a bellows or with your mouth upon the fire in the stove. there the substance in combustion, whether wood or coal, is a mass large enough to resist the violence of the current of air you throw in, and it profits from the air which you send to it so abundantly, by taking the oxygen which it contains and burning up still more briskly. "now, that is the answer to your last question; and i must beg you to remember your promise, and ask me no more hard questions to-night." "yes, friend roger," said miette, "i will leave you alone; you may go to sleep." "and it will be a well-earned sleep," added madame dalize, with the assent of every one. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xxvii. paul or george? at the end of this long talk every one rose. monsieur and madame dalize, with monsieur roger and albert, walked towards the château. paul solange, silent and motionless, followed them with his eyes. when monsieur roger reached the step, he turned and made a friendly gesture to paul, who responded by a bow. his eyes, in resting on monsieur roger, had an affectionate, softened, and respectful look. miette saw it, and was struck by it. she approached, passed her arm in paul's, and said, softly,-- "you love him very much,--monsieur roger?" "yes," answered paul, with surprise. "you love him very, very much?" "yes." "and he too loves you very well. i can see that. but do you love him as much as if he----?" and miette paused, embarrassed a little, feeling that what she was going to say was very important; still, being certain that she was right, she continued: "as much as if he was--your papa?" paul started. "yes; you love him as much and perhaps--perhaps more," she cried, seeing paul start. "why do you say things like that to me?" murmured paul, much moved. "because--nothing." "why do you think that i love monsieur roger in the manner that you have just said?" "because----" "because what?" "well, because i look at my papa just as i see you looking at monsieur roger." paul tried to hide his embarrassment, and replied,-- "you are foolish." then he looked up at miette, who shook her head and smiled, as if to say that she was not foolish. an idea came to him. "miette," said he, softly, "i am going to ask you something." "ask it." "but you will tell it to no one?" "to no one." "well, do you know why monsieur roger, at the fire at the farm, called me--called me george?" "why, certainly, i know." "you know?" cried paul. "yes: he called you george because he thought suddenly that his child, his little george, whom he lost in a fire,--in a fire on shipboard----" paul solange listened, opening his eyes very wide. "ah, that is true. you don't know anything about it. you were not here when monsieur roger told us this terrible thing." "no, i was not here; but you were here, miette. well, speak--tell me all about it." then miette repeated to paul monsieur roger's story; she told him about the departure of monsieur roger, his wife, and their little george for america, their voyage on the ship, then the fire at sea. she told about the grief, the almost insane grief, which monsieur roger had felt when he saw himself separated from his wife and his son, who had been taken off in a boat, while he remained upon the steamer. then she told paul of the despair of monsieur roger when he saw that boat disappear and bear down with it to a watery grave those whom he loved. [illustration] "at that moment," continued miette, "monsieur roger told us that he cried out 'george! george!' with a voice so loud, so terrified, that certainly his little boy must have heard." miette stopped. "why, what is the matter, paul?" she cried: "are you sick?" for paul solange had suddenly become so pale that miette was scared. "not at all," said he; "not at all; but finish your story." "it is finished." "how?" "poor monsieur roger has never again seen his wife or his little george--or at least he saw his wife, whose body had been cast up by the waves, but the body of the little boy remained at the bottom of the sea." after a silence, miette added,-- "you now understand how it is that the fire at the farm recalled to him at once the fire on the ship, and why, in his grief, in his fright to see you in so great a danger, he thought of his little boy, and cried 'george!' you understand, don't you?" paul remained an instant without answering; then, very gravely, with a pale face and wide open eyes, he said,-- "i understand." paul solange did not sleep the night which followed the day on which he learned all these things. his brain was full of strange thoughts. he was calling up shadowy confused recollections. he sought to go back as far as possible to the first years of his childhood, but his memory was at fault. he suddenly found a dark corner where everything disappeared; he could go no farther; but now that he knew monsieur roger's story, he was certain, absolutely certain that he had answered to the name of george in the fire at the farm. it was that name, that name only, which had suddenly shaken off his torpor and given him the strength to awake; it was that name that had saved him. feverishly searching in his memory, he said to himself that this name he had heard formerly pronounced with the same loud and terrified voice in some crisis, which must have been very terrible, but which he could not recall; and then, hesitating anxiously, feeling that he was making a fool of himself, he asked himself if it was during the fire on shipboard, of which miette had spoken, that he had heard this name of george; and little by little, in the silence of the night, this conviction entered and fixed itself in his mind. then he turned his thoughts upon the way that monsieur roger had treated him. whence this sudden and great affection which monsieur roger had shown him? why that sympathy which he knew to be profound and whose cause he could not explain, as he did not merit it a bit more than his friend albert? why had monsieur roger so bravely risked his life to save him? why had his emotion been so great? lastly, why this cry of "george?" and paul solange arrived at this logical conclusion,-- "if monsieur roger loves me so much; if he gave me, at the terrible moment when i came near dying, the name of his son, it must be because i recalled to him his son; it must be because i resemble his little george. and what then?" [illustration] [illustration] chapter xxviii. my father. when paul at last fell into an uneasy sleep, the sun had been up for some hours. monsieur dalize and his friend roger went out from the château. "has the postman not been here yet?" said monsieur dalize to his servant. "no sir; he will not be here for an hour." "very well; we will go to meet him." and in fact, in his haste, monsieur roger carried his friend off to meet the postman. but days had elapsed since monsieur dalize had, according to promise, written to the registrar of births, to ask him to forward a copy of the register of birth of paul solange, and no answer had yet arrived. this silence had astonished monsieur dalize and given a hope to monsieur roger. "there must be some reason, don't you see," he said, walking beside his friend. "some important reason why the registrar has not yet answered your pressing letter." "a reason, an important reason," replied monsieur dalize; "the explanation may be that the registrar is away." "no; there is some other reason," answered monsieur roger with conviction. half-way to the station they met the letter-carrier, who said,-- "monsieur dalize, there are two letters for you." the first letter which monsieur dalize opened bore the address of the registrar of births. he rapidly read the few lines, then turned towards roger. "you are right," said he; "there is a reason. read." "i pray _you_ read it; i am too much excited," replied roger. monsieur dalize read as follows: "=sir=: "the researches which i have made in my docket to find the register of birth of paul solange must be my excuse for the delay. we have not the register of birth which you ask for, but in its place is a paper so important that i have not the right to part with it; still, i shall be ready to place this paper under your eyes when you come to paris. "yours respectfully," etc. "i go," said monsieur dalize, consulting his watch; "i have just time to catch the train, and i shall return in time for dinner. go back to the château and tell them that an important letter calls me to paris." monsieur roger took the hand of his friend with a joy which he could not conceal, and said,-- "thank you." "i go to please you," answered monsieur dalize, not wishing that his friend should have hopes excited, for failure might leave him more unhappy than ever. "i am going to see this important paper, but i see no reason why it should show that paul was not the son of monsieur solange. so keep calm; you will need all your calmness on my return." before leaving, monsieur dalize opened the envelope of the second letter; as the first lines caught his eyes, an expression of sorrow and surprise came over his face. "that is very strange and very sad," said he. "what is it?" asked roger. "it is strange that this letter speaks of monsieur solange, the father of paul, and it is sad that it also brings me bad news." "speak," said roger, quickly. "this letter is from my successor in the banking house, and it says that monsieur solange, of martinique, has suspended payment." "has monsieur solange failed?" asked roger. "the letter adds that they are awaiting fuller information from the mail that should arrive to-day. you see that my presence in paris is doubly necessary. come down to the station to meet me in the coupé at five o'clock, and come alone." the sudden departure of monsieur dalize did not very much astonish the people at the château, but what did astonish them, and become a subject of remark for all, was the new expression on the face of monsieur roger. he seemed extremely moved, but his features showed hope and joy, which had chased away his usual sadness. madame dalize inquired what had happened, and monsieur roger told her the whole story. monsieur roger hoped, and he was even happier that day than ever to find himself near paul, because the latter showed himself more affectionate than ever. long before the appointed hour, monsieur roger was at the station, awaiting with impatience the return of monsieur dalize. at last the train came in sight, and soon monsieur dalize got out of the car. "well?" said roger, with a trembling voice, awaiting the yes or the no on which his happiness or his despair depended. monsieur dalize, without answering, led roger away from the station; then, when they were in the coupé, which started at a brisk pace, monsieur dalize threw his arms around his friend, with these words: "be happy, it is your son!" roger's eyes filled with tears, great big tears, which he could not restrain, tears of joy succeeding to the many tears of sorrow which he had shed. at last he murmured,-- "you have the proofs?" "i have two proofs, one of which comes in a very sad way." "what is it?" "the confession of monsieur solange, who wrote to me on his death-bed." "unhappy man!" "unhappy, yes; but also guilty." "what do you mean?" "well, read first a copy of the paper which took the place of the birth-register of paul solange." through his tears, monsieur roger read as follows: "this th day of december, , before me, jean-jacques solange, french consul of the island of saint-christopher, in the english antilles, appeared jan carit, captain of the danish fishing vessel, 'jutland,' and steffenz and kield, who declared to him that on the th of december, , finding themselves near the island of eleuthera, in the archipelago of the bahamas, they perceived a raft, from which they took a child of the masculine sex, who seemed to be between two and three years old. we have given him the name of pierre paul. in witness whereof, the above-named parties have hereunto set their hands and seals." when he had finished, roger cried,-- "there is no doubt,--the date, the place, everything is proof." [illustration] "which would not be sufficient, if i had not this." and monsieur dalize gave to his friend solange's letter. in this letter monsieur solange announced his ruin, and his approaching death from heart-disease; the doctors had given him up, and he begged monsieur dalize to tell paul that he was not his son. monsieur solange declared that he was the french consul at the island of saint christopher when some danish fishermen, from the island of saint thomas, brought him the child, which they had found in the sea. he and his wife had no children. they determined to adopt the child which had been found. monsieur solange confessed that he had been wanting in his duty in not making the necessary search. he excused himself sadly by saying that he was convinced of the death of the parents of the child, and he begged for pardon, as he had wished to bring this child up and make him happy. in finishing, he said that the linen of the child was marked "g. l. m.," and that the boy could pronounce the french words "maman" and "papa." "i pardon him," said, gravely and solemnly, monsieur roger. the coupé had entered the park, and the two gentlemen alighted before the château, where the family awaited them. monsieur dalize advanced towards him who had hitherto been called paul solange, and who really was george la morlière. "my dear child," said he, "i have news for you,--some very sad news and some very happy news." anxious, excited, george came forward. monsieur dalize continued: "you have lost him who was your adopted father,--monsieur solange." "monsieur solange is dead!" cried george, bowing his head, overwhelmed at the news. "but," monsieur dalize hastened to add, "you have found your real father." at these words george raised his head again; his eyes went straight towards those of monsieur roger. he ran forward and threw himself in the arms which were opened to him, repeating, between his tears,-- "my father! my father!" and miss miette, who wept, as all the rest did, at this moving spectacle, said, in the midst of her sobs,-- "i knew it; i knew it; i knew it was his papa!" [illustration] generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/distributivejust ryaniala distributive justice * * * * * [illustration: (macmillan logo)] the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago · dallas atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto * * * * * distributive justice the right and wrong of our present distribution of wealth by john a. ryan, d.d. associate professor of political science at the catholic university of america; professor of economics at trinity college; author of "a living wage," "alleged socialism of the church fathers," joint author with morris hillquit of "socialism: promise or menace?" new york the macmillan company all rights reserved nihil obstat. _remigius lafort, s. t. d., censor_. imprimatur. _john cardinal farley, archbishop of new york_. copyright, , by the macmillan company set up and electrotyped. published november, . to archbishop ireland in admiration and gratitude preface five of the nine members of the late federal commission on industrial relations united in the declaration that the first cause of industrial unrest is, "unjust distribution of wealth and income." in all probability this judgment is shared by the majority of the american people. regarding the precise nature and extent of the injustice, however, there is no such preponderance of opinion. even the makers of ethical and economic treatises fail to give us anything like uniform or definite pronouncements concerning the moral defects of the present distribution. while the socialists and the single taxers are sufficiently positive in their statements, they form only a small portion of the total population, and include only an insignificant fraction of the recognised authorities on either ethics or economics. the volume in hand represents an attempt to discuss systematically and comprehensively the justice of the processes by which the product of industry is distributed. inasmuch as the product is actually apportioned among landowners, capitalists, business men, and labourers, the moral aspects of the distribution are studied with reference to these four classes. while their rights and obligations form the main subject of the book, the effort is also made to propose reforms that would remove the principal defects of the present system and bring about a larger measure of justice. many treatises have been written concerning the morality of one or other element or section of the distributive process; for example, wages, interest, monopoly, the land question; but, so far as the author knows, no attempt has hitherto been made to discuss the moral aspects of the entire process in all its parts. at least, no such task has been undertaken by any one who believes that the existing economic system is not inherently unjust. that the present essay in this field falls far short of adequate achievement the author fully realises, but he is sustained by the hope that it will provoke discussion, and move some more competent person to till the same field in a more thorough and fruitful way. john a. ryan. the catholic university of america, washington, d. c., june , . contents preface vii introductory chapter: the elements and scope of the problem xiii general references xvii section i the morality of private landownership and rent chapter page i the landowner's share of the national product economic rent always goes to the landowner economic rent and commercial rent the cause of economic rent ii landownership in history no private ownership in pre-agricultural conditions how the change probably took place limited character of primitive common ownership private ownership general in historical times conclusions from history iii the arguments against private landownership arguments by socialists henry george's attack on the title of first occupancy his defence of the title of labour the right of all men to the bounty of the earth the alleged right of the community to land values iv private ownership the best system of land tenure the socialist proposals impracticable inferiority of the single tax system v private landownership a natural right three principal kinds of natural rights private landownership indirectly necessary for individual welfare excessive interpretations of the right of private landownership the doctrine of the fathers and the theologians the teaching of pope leo xiii vi limitations of the landowner's right to rent the tenant's right to a decent livelihood the labourer's claim upon the rent vii defects of the existing land system landownership and monopoly excessive gains from private landownership exclusion from the land viii methods of reforming our land system the leasing system public agricultural lands public ownership of urban land appropriating future increases of land value some objections to the increment tax the morality of the proposal the german and british increment taxes transferring other taxes to land the morality of the plan amount of taxes practically transferable the social benefits of the plan a supertax on large holdings references on section i section ii the morality of private capital and interest ix the nature and the rate of interest meaning of capital and capitalist meaning of interest the rate of interest x the alleged right of labour to the entire product of industry the labour theory of value the right of productivity xi the socialist scheme of industry socialist inconsistency expropriating the capitalists inefficient industrial leadership inefficient labour attempted replies to objections restricting individual liberty xii alleged intrinsic justifications of interest attitude of the church toward interest on loans interest on productive capital the claims of productivity the claims of service the claims of abstinence xiii social and presumptive justifications of interest limitations of the sacrifice principle the value of capital in a no-interest régime whether the present rate of interest is necessary whether at least two per cent. is necessary whether any interest is necessary the state is justified in permitting interest civil authorisation not sufficient for individual justification how the interest-taker is justified xiv co-operation a partial solvent of capitalism reducing the rate of interest need for a wider distribution of capital the essence of co-operative enterprise co-operative credit societies co-operative agricultural societies co-operative mercantile societies co-operation in production advantages and prospects of co-operation references on section ii section iii the moral aspect of profits xv the nature of profits the functions and rewards of the business man the amount of profits profits in a joint-stock company xvi the principal canons of distributive justice the canon of equality the canon of needs the canon of efforts and sacrifice the canon of productivity the canon of scarcity the canon of human welfare xvii just profits in conditions of competition the question of indefinitely large profits the question of minimum profits the question of superfluous business men xviii the moral aspect of monopoly surplus and excessive profits the question of monopolistic efficiency discriminative underselling exclusive-sales contracts discriminative transportation arrangements natural monopolies methods of preventing monopolistic injustice legalised price agreements xix the moral aspects of stockwatering injurious effects of stockwatering the moral wrong the "innocent" investor magnitude of overcapitalisation xx the legal limitation of fortunes the method of direct limitation limitation through progressive taxation the proper rate of income and inheritance taxes effectiveness of such taxation xxi the duty of distributing superfluous wealth the question of distributing some the question of distributing all some objections a false conception of welfare and superfluous goods the true conception of welfare references on section iii section iv the moral aspects of wages xxii some unacceptable theories of wage-justice i the prevailing-rate theory not in harmony with justice ii exchange-equivalence theories the rule of equal gains the rule of free contract the rule of market value the mediæval theory a modern variation of the mediæval theory iii productivity theories labour's right to the whole product clark's theory of specific productivity carver's modified version of productivity xxiii the minimum of justice; a living wage the principle of needs three fundamental principles the right to a decent livelihood the claim to a decent livelihood from a present occupation the labourer's right to a living wage when the employer is unable to pay a living wage an objection and some difficulties the family living wage other arguments in favour of a living wage the money measure of a living wage xxiv the problem of complete wage justice comparative claims of different labour groups wages versus profits wages versus interest wages versus prices concluding remarks xxv methods of increasing wages the minimum wage in operation the question of constitutionality the ethical and political aspects the economic aspect opinions of economists other legislative proposals labour unions organisation versus legislation participation in capital ownership references on section iv xxvi summary and conclusion the landowner and rent the capitalist and interest the business man and profits the labourer and wages concluding observations index introductory chapter the elements and scope of the problem distributive justice is primarily a problem of incomes rather than of possessions. it is not immediately concerned with john brown's railway stock, john white's house, or john smith's automobile. it deals with the morality of such possessions only indirectly and under one aspect; that is, in so far as they have been acquired through income. moreover, it deals only with those incomes that are derived from participation in the process of production. for example; it considers the labourer's wages, but not the subsidies that he may receive through charity or friendship. its province is not the distribution of all the goods of the country among all the people of the country, but only the distribution of the products of industry among the classes that have taken part in the making of these products. these classes are four, designated as landowners, capitalists, undertakers or business men, and labourers or wage earners. the individual member of each class is an _agent_ of production, while the instrument or energy that he owns and contributes is a _factor_ of production. thus, the landowner is an agent of production because he contributes to the productive process the factor known as land, and the capitalist is an agent of production because he contributes the factor known as capital; while the business man and the labourer are agents not only in the sense that they contribute factors to the process, but in the very special sense that their contributions involve the continuous expenditure of human energy. now the product of industry is distributed among these four classes precisely because they are agents of production; that is because they own and put at the disposal of industry the indispensable factors of production. we say that the agents of production "put the factors of production at the disposal of industry," rather than "exercise or operate the factors," because neither the landowner nor the capitalist, as such, expend continuous energy in the productive process. all that is necessary to enforce a claim upon the product is to contribute an instrument or factor without which production cannot be carried on. the product distributed in any country during a single year is variously described by economists as the national product, the national income, the national dividend. it consists not merely of material goods, such as houses, food, clothing, and automobiles, but also of those non-material goods known as services. such are the tasks performed by the domestic servant, the barber, the chauffeur, the public official, the physician, the teacher; or any other personal service "that is valued, as material commodities are valued, according to their selling prices." even the services of the clergyman are included in the national income or product, since they are paid for and form a part of the annual supply of good things produced and distributed within the country. in the language of the economist, anything that satisfies a human want is a utility, and forms part of the national wealth; hence there can be no sufficient reason for excluding from the national income goods which minister to spiritual or intellectual wants. the services of the clergyman, the actor, the author, the painter, and the physician are quite as much a part of the utilities of life as the services of the cook, the chambermaid, or the barber; and all are as clearly utilities as bread, hats, houses, or any other material thing. in a general way, therefore, we say that the national product which is available for distribution among the different productive classes comprises all the utilities, material and non-material, that are produced through human agents and satisfy human desires. in the great majority of instances the product is not distributed in kind. the wheat produced on a given farm is not directly apportioned among the farmers, labourers, and landowners that have co-operated in its production; nor are the shoes turned out by a given factory divided among the co-operating labourers and capitalists; and it is obvious that personal services cannot be returned to the persons that have rendered them. cases of partial direct distribution do, indeed, occur; as when the tenant takes two-thirds and the landowner one-third of the crop raised by the former on land belonging to the latter; or when the miller receives his compensation in a part of the flour that he grinds. to-day, however, such instances are relatively insignificant. by far the greater part of the material product is sold by the undertaker or business man, and the price is then divided between himself and the other agents of production. all personal services are sold, and the price is obtained by the performers thereof. the farmer sells his wheat, the miller his flour, and the barber his services. with the money received for his part in production each productive agent obtains possession of such kinds and amounts of the national product as his desires dictate and his income will procure. hence the distribution of the product is effected through the conversion of producers' claims into money, and the exchange of the latter for specific quantities and qualities of the product. while the national product as a whole is divided among the four productive classes, not every portion of it is distributed among actually distinct representatives of these classes. when more than one factor of production is owned by the same person, the product will obviously not go to four different classes of persons. for example; the crop raised by a man on his own unmortgaged land, with his own instruments, and without any hired assistance; and the products of the small shopkeeper, tailor, and barber who are similarly self sufficient and independent,--are in each case obtained by one person, and do not undergo any actual distribution. even in these instances, however, there occurs what may be called _virtual_ distribution, inasmuch as the single agent owns more than one factor, and performs more than one productive function. and the problem of distributive justice in such cases is to determine whether all these productive functions are properly rewarded through the total amount which the individual has received. where the factors are owned by distinct persons, or groups of persons, the problem is to determine whether each group is properly remunerated for the single function that it has performed. the problem of the morality of industrial incomes is obviously complex. for example; the income of the farmer is sometimes derived from a product which he must divide with a landowner and with labourers; sometimes from a product which he shares with labourers only; and sometimes from a product which he can retain wholly for himself. the labourer's income arises sometimes out of a product which he divides with other agents of production; sometimes out of a product which he divides with other labourers as well as other agents; and sometimes out of a product of which he receives the full money equivalent. the complexity of the forces determining distribution and income indicate a complexity in the forces affecting the morality of income. moreover, there is the more fundamental ethical question concerning the titles of distribution: whether mere ownership of a factor of production gives a just claim upon the product, as in the case of the landowner and the capitalist; whether such a claim, assuming it to be valid, is as good as that of the labourer and the business man, who expend human energy in the productive process; whether different kinds of productive activity should be rewarded at different rates; and if so in what proportion. why should the capitalist receive six per cent., rather than two per cent., or sixteen per cent.? why should the locomotive engineer receive more than the trackman? why should not all persons be compensated equally? should all or any of the benefits of industrial improvements go to the consumer? such are typical questions in the study of distributive justice. they are sufficient to give some idea of the magnitude and difficulty of the problem. scarcely less formidable is the task of suggesting means to correct the injustices of the present distribution. the difficulties in this part of the field are indicated by the multiplicity of social remedies that have been proposed, and by the fact that none of them has succeeded in winning the adhesion of more than a minority of the population. we shall be obliged not only to pass moral judgment upon the most important of these proposals, but to indicate and advocate a more or less complete and systematic group of such reforms as seem to be at once feasible and righteous. general references taussig: principles of economics. macmillan; . devas: political economy. longmans; . hobson: the industrial system. longmans; . clark: the distribution of wealth. macmillan; . smart: the distribution of income. london; . willoughby: social justice. macmillan; . carver: essays in social justice. harvard university press; . ely: property and contract in their relations to the distribution of wealth. macmillan; . nearing: income. macmillan; . streightoff: the distribution of incomes in the united states. longmans; . wagner: grundlegung der nationaloekonomie. leipzig; - . pesch: lehrbuch der nationaloekonomie. freiburg; - . antoine: cours d'Économie sociale. paris; . hitze: capital et travail. louvain; . hollander: the abolition of poverty. houghton mifflin company; . ellwood: the social problem. macmillan; . garriguet: the social value of the gospel. herder; . parkinson: a primer of social science. devin-adair co.; . vermeersch: quaestiones de justitia. bruges; . king: the wealth and income of the people of the united states. macmillan; . commission on industrial relations. final report; . section i the morality of private landownership and rent distributive justice chapter i the landowner's share of the national product that part of the national product which represents land, and is attributed specifically to land, goes to the landowner. it is called economic rent, or simply rent. we say that rent "is attributed specifically to land," rather than "is produced specifically by land," because we do not know what proportion of the joint product of the different factors of production exactly reflects the productive contribution of any factor. economic rent represents the productivity of land in so far as it indicates what men are willing to pay for land-use in the productive process. in any particular case rent comes into existence because the land makes a commercially valuable contribution to the product; and it goes to the landowner because this is one of the powers or rights included in the institution of private ownership. and the landowner's share is received by him precisely in his capacity as landowner, and not because he may happen to be labourer, farmer, or proprietor of agricultural capital. it is perhaps superfluous to observe that not all land produces rent. while almost all land is useful and productive, at least potentially, there is in almost every locality some land which in present conditions does not warrant men in paying a price for its use. if the crop raised on very sandy soil is so small as to cover merely the outlay for labour and capital, men will not pay rent for the use of that soil. yet the land has contributed something to the product. herein we have another indication that rent is not an adequate measure of land productivity. it merely represents land value,--at a given time, in given circumstances. _economic rent always goes to the landowner_ all land that is in use, and for the use of which men are willing to pay a price yields rent, whether it is used by a tenant or by the owner. in the latter case the owner may not call the rent that he receives by that name; he may not distinguish between it and the other portions of the product that he gets from the land; he may call the entire product profits, or wages. nevertheless the rent exists as a surplus over that part of the product that he can regard as the proper return for his labour, and for the use of his capital-instruments, such as, horses, buildings, and machinery. if a farmer employs the same amount and kind of labour and capital in the cultivation of two pieces of land, one of which he owns, the other being hired from some one else; if his net product is the same in both cases, say, , dollars; and if he must pay dollars to the owner of the hired land,--then, of the , dollars that he receives from his own land, is likewise to be attributed specifically to his land rather than to his capital or labour. it is rent. while the whole product is due in some degree to the productive power of land, dollars of it represents land value in the process of production, and goes to him solely in his capacity as landowner. the rent that arises on land used for building sites is of the same general character, and goes likewise to the owner of the land. the owner of the site upon which a factory is located may hire it to another for a certain sum annually, or he may operate the factory himself. in either case he receives rent, the amount that the land itself is worth for use, independently of the return that he obtains for his expenditure of capital and labour. even when a person uses his land as a site for a dwelling which he himself occupies, the land still brings him economic rent, since it affords him something for which he would be obliged to pay if his house were located on land of the same kind owned by some one else. _economic rent and commercial rent_ it will be observed that the landowner's share of the product, or economic rent, is not identical with commercial rent. the latter is a payment for land and capital, or land and improvements, combined. when a man pays nine hundred dollars for the use of a house and lot for a year, this sum contains two elements, economic rent for the lot, and interest on the money invested in the house. assuming that the house is worth ten thousand dollars, and that the usual return on such investments is eight per cent., we see that eight hundred dollars goes to the owner as interest on his capital, and only one hundred dollars as rent for his land. similarly the price paid by a tenant for the use of an improved farm is partly interest on the value of the improvements, and partly economic rent. in both cases the owner may reckon the land as so much capital value, and the economic rent as interest thereon, just as the commercial rent for the buildings and other improvements is interest on their capital value; but the economist distinguishes between them because he knows that they are determined by different forces, and that the distinction is of importance. he knows, for example, that the supply of land is fixed, while the supply of capital is capable of indefinite increase. in many situations, therefore, rent increases, but interest remains stationary or declines. sometimes, though more rarely, the reverse occurs. as we shall see later, this and some other specific characteristics of land and rent have important moral aspects; consequently the moralist cannot afford to confuse rent with interest. _the cause of economic rent_ the cause of economic rent is the fact that land is limited relatively to the demand for it. if land were as plentiful as air mere ownership of some portion of it would not enable the owner to collect rent. as landowner he would receive no income. if he cultivated his land himself the return therefrom would not exceed normal compensation for his labour, and normal interest on his capital. since no one would be compelled to pay for the use of land, competition among the different cultivators would keep the price of their product so low that it would merely reimburse them for their expenditures of capital and labour. in similar conditions no rent would arise on building sites. the cause of the _amount_ of rent may also be stated in terms of scarcity. at any given time and place, the rent of a piece of land will be determined by the supply of that kind of land relatively to the demand for it. however, the demand itself will be regulated by the fertility or by the location of the land in question. two pieces of agricultural land equally distant from a city, but of varying fertility, will yield different rents because of this difference in natural productiveness. two pieces of ground of equal natural adaptability for building sites, but at unequal distances from the centre of a city, will produce different rents on account of their difference of location. the absolute scarcity of land is, of course, fixed by nature; its relative scarcity is the result of human activities and desires. the definition of rent adopted in these pages, "what men are willing to pay for the use of land," or, "what land is worth for use," is simpler and more concrete, though possibly less scientific, than those ordinarily found in manuals of economics, namely: "that portion of the product that remains after all the usual expenditures for labour, capital, and directive ability have been deducted;" or, "the surplus which any piece of land yields over the poorest land devoted to the same use, when the return from the latter is only sufficient to cover the usual expenses of production." the statement that all rent goes to the landowner supposes that, in the case of hired land, the tenant pays the full amount that would result from competitive bidding. evidently this was not the case under the feudal system, when rents were fixed by custom and remained stationary for centuries. even to-day, competition is not perfect, and men often obtain the use of land for less than they or others might have been willing to give. but the statement in question does describe what tends to happen in a system of competitive rents. before discussing the morality of the landowner's income, and of rent receiving, we may with profit glance at the history of land tenure. thus we shall get some idea, first, of the antiquity of the present system, and, second, of its effects upon individual and social welfare. both these considerations have an important bearing upon the moral problem; for length of existence creates a presumption in favour of the social, and therefore the moral, value of any institution; and past experience is our chief means of determining whether an institution is likely to be socially beneficial, and therefore morally right, in the future. chapter ii landownership in history thirty or thirty-five years ago, the majority of economic historians seemed to accept the theory that land was originally owned in common.[ ] they held that in the beginning the community, usually a village community, was the landowner; that the community either cultivated the land as a corporation, and distributed the product among the individual members, or periodically divided the land among the social units, and permitted the latter to cultivate their allotments separately. the second of these forms of tenure was the more general. the primitive time to which the theory referred was not the period when men got their living by hunting and fishing, or by rearing herds, but the agricultural stage of economic development, when life had become settled. of the arguments upon which the theory was based, some consisted of ambiguous statements by ancient writers, such as plato, cæsar, and tacitus, and others were merely inferences drawn from the existence of certain agrarian institutions: family ownership of land; common pasture lands and woodlands; periodical distribution of land among the cultivators, as in the german mark, the russian mir, the slavonic zadruga, and the javanese dessa. all these practices have been interpreted as "survivals" of primitive common ownership. only on this hypothesis, it is argued, can they be satisfactorily explained. more recent writers have subjected the various arguments for this theory to a searching criticism.[ ] to-day the great majority of scholars would undoubtedly accept the conclusion of fustel de coulanges, that the arguments and evidence are not sufficient to prove that in the earliest stages of agricultural life land was held in common; and a majority would probably take the more positive ground that common ownership in the sense of communal cultivation and distribution, never existed for any considerable length of time among any agricultural people. the present authoritative opinion on the subject is thus summarized by professor ashley: "from the earliest historical times, in gaul and germany, very much land was owned individually, and wealth on one side and slavery on the other were always very important factors in the situation. "even in germany, communal ownership of land was never a fundamental or generally pervasive social institution; there was something very much like large private estates, worked by dependents and slaves, from the very earliest days of teutonic settlement. "as to england, it is highly probable that we shall not find anything that can fairly be called a general communal system of landowning, combined with a substantial equality among the majority of the people, under conditions of settled agriculture. to find it in any sense we shall have to go back to an earlier and 'tribal' condition, if, indeed, we shall find it there!"[ ] _no private ownership in pre-agricultural conditions_ whenever and wherever men got their living by hunting and fishing, there was no inducement to own land privately, except possibly those portions upon which they built their huts or houses. "until they become more or less an agricultural people they are usually hunters or fishermen or both, and possibly also to a limited extent keepers of sheep and cattle. population is then sparse and unoccupied territory is plentiful, and questions of the ownership of particular tracts of land do not concern them."[ ] in any region occupied by a group or tribe, all portions of the land and the water were about equally productive of game and fish; the amount obtainable by any individual had no relation to labour on any particular piece of soil; and it was much easier for each to range over the whole region in common with his fellows than to mark off a definite section upon which he would not permit others to come, but beyond which he himself would not be permitted to go. in such conditions private ownership of land would have been folly. tribal or group ownership was, however, in vogue, especially among those groups that were in control of the better grounds or streams. even this form of proprietorship was comparatively unstable, since the people were to a considerable degree nomadic, and were willing to abandon present possessions whenever there was a prospect of obtaining better ones elsewhere. among men who got their living by rearing herds, the inducement to hold land in exclusive private control would be somewhat stronger. the better grazing tracts would be coveted by many different persons, especially in the more populous communities. and there would always be the possibility of confusion among the different herds, and contention among their owners. in such circumstances the advantages of exclusive control would sometimes outweigh the benefits of common use and ownership. in the thirteenth chapter of genesis we are told that, owing to strife between the herdsmen of abram and lot, the brothers separated, and agreed to become the exclusive possessors of different territories. nevertheless, it is probable that tribal ownership was the prevailing form of land tenure so long as people remained mainly in pastoral conditions. it is likewise probable that the same system continued in many cases for some time after men began to cultivate the soil. at least, this would seem to have been the natural arrangement while land was plentiful, and the methods of cultivation crude and soil-exhausting. it would be more profitable to take up new lands than to continue upon the old. within historical times this system prevailed among the ancient germans, some of the tribes of new zealand, and some of the tribes of western africa. where land was not so plentiful it was sometimes redistributed among individuals or heads of families, as often as a death occurred or a new member arrived in the community. some of the tribes and peoples who observed this practice were the ancient irish, the aborigines of peru, mexico, and parts of what is now the united states, and australia, and some of the tribes of africa, india, and malaysia.[ ] whether the most primitive agricultural systems of every people were of this nature we have, of course, no means of knowing, but the supposition is antecedently probable; for agriculture must have begun very gradually, and been for some time practised in connection with the more primitive methods of obtaining a livelihood. as the land had been held for the most part in common during the hunting and fishing stage and during the pastoral stage, the same arrangement would probably continue until the people found it necessary to cultivate the same tracts of land year after year, and conceived the desire to retain their holdings in stable possession and to transmit them to their children. moreover, so long as the members of the clan remained strongly conscious of their kinship, and realised the necessity of acting as a unit against their enemies, there would be a strong incentive to clan ownership of the land, and clan allotment of it among the individual members. in other words, the clan would, in these circumstances, have the same motives for common ownership that exist to-day in the family. the oldest historical peoples, the israelites, egyptians, assyrians, babylonians, and chinese, had private ownership of land at the beginning of their recorded history. most of them, however, had been cultivating land for a considerable length of time, and had acquired a considerable degree of civilisation, before the earliest period of their existence of which we have any knowledge. it is quite possible that those among them that had passed through the hunting and fishing or the pastoral stage of existence, had practised tribal or common ownership during the earlier portion of their agricultural life. _how the change probably took place_ the change from tribal to private landownership could have occurred in a great variety of ways. for example, the chief, patriarch, or king might have gradually obtained greater authority in making the allotments of land among the members of the tribe or group, and thus acquired a degree of control over the land which in time became practical ownership; he might have seized the holdings of deceased persons, or of those who were unable to pay him the tax or tribute that he demanded, or of those who were for any reason obnoxious to him. again, the taxes paid to the chief man in a community for his services as ruler might have come in time to be regarded as a payment for the use of the land, and therefore as an acknowledgment that the chief was also the landlord. even in the middle ages the rents received by the feudal lords were in great measure a return for social and political services, just as are the taxes received to-day from private landowners by the state. in primitive times, as well as later on, the chief would naturally do his best to convert this institution of tax paying or tribute paying into rent paying, and to add the position of landowner to his other prerogatives. after all, the transition from tribal ownership, with private cultivation and private receipt of the produce of individual allotments, to overlordship and landlordism, would not have been greater than that which actually took place in england between the fifteenth and the nineteenth centuries, when the lords became absolute owners of land that they had previously held with their tenants in a sort of divided or dual ownership. in a word, tribal ownership could have been displaced by landlordism through the same methods that have been used everywhere by the powerful, the ambitious, and the greedy against the weak, the indifferent, and the upright. nor must we forget the influence of conquest. most of the countries that appear in historical times with a system of private ownership had at some previous period been subjugated by an alien people. in many of these the conquerors undoubtedly introduced a considerable degree of individual ownership, the more powerful among them becoming landlords, while their weaker companions and the mass of the conquered population were established in a condition of tenancy. where a somewhat widely diffused private ownership succeeded the primitive system, it was probably due to the free action of the cultivators, as soon as they came to realise the inconveniences of ownership in common. "any enclosed land round their permanent dwellings, and any land outside the settlement which was cleared, reclaimed, and cultivated, or occupied with cattle by individuals or families, was recognised as their personal property. only those who were industrious, enterprising, and courageous enough would clear, occupy, retain, cultivate, and defend waste land. they would become personal owners of cattle, and would gradually acquire wealth which would enable them to employ others and still further improve their position. as their power increased, and as population grew, the bravest, wealthiest, and most capable fighting men amongst them would become chiefs or a species of nobles, and the force of circumstances, often no doubt aided by force and fraud, would eventually make them the landowners of the greater part of the district, with the more or less willing acquiescence and consent of the community amongst whom they lived, and to whom they extended their protection."[ ] _limited character of primitive common ownership_ a great deal of the opposition to the theory of primitive common ownership of agricultural land, seems to be based upon an exaggerated conception of the scope of that institution. the average man who thinks or speaks of ownership to-day has in mind the roman concept and practice of private property. this includes the unrestricted right of disposal; that is, the power to hold permanently, to transfer or transmit, to use or to abuse or not to use at all, to retain the product of the owner's use, to rent the property to any person and for any period that the owner chooses, and to obtain a price in return called rent. any man who takes the theory of primitive common ownership to imply that the community or tribe exercised all these powers over its land, will have no difficulty in proving that the evidence is overwhelmingly against any such theory. even among those people that are certainly known to have practised so-called common ownership of land, there are very few instances of communal cultivation, or communal distribution of the product. yet these are included in the roman concept of ownership. the usual method seems to have been periodical allotment by the community of the land among individuals, individual cultivation of the allotted tracts, and individual ownership of the product. moreover, there was always a chief or patriarch who exercised considerable authority in the distribution of the land, frequently collected a rent or tax from the cultivators, and almost invariably exercised something like private ownership of a portion of the land for his direct and special benefit. sometimes other men of importance in the community possessed land which was not subject to the communal allotment. primitive ownership of land in common was, therefore, very far from vesting in the community all the powers that inhere in the private proprietor of land according to the roman law and usage. _private ownership general in historical times_ so much for land tenure in prehistoric times. during the historical period of the existence of the race, almost all civilised peoples have practised some form of private ownership in the matter of their arable lands. while differing considerably at various times and places, it has always excluded communal allotment of land and communal distribution of the product, and has always included private receipt of the product by the owner-user, or private receipt of rent when the owner transferred the use to some one else. but it did not always include the right to determine who should be the user. in the later centuries of the feudal system, for example, the lord could not always expel the tenants from the land, nor prevent them from transmitting the use of it to their children. moreover, the rent that he received was customary and fixed, not competitive and arbitrary, and it was looked upon in great measure as a return to the lord for social, military, and political services, as well as a payment for the use of land. this system was private ownership, indeed, but if we apply the roman notion of ownership we shall find it difficult to decide whether the tenant or the lord should more properly be called the owner. at any rate, the right of ownership possessed by the lord was greatly limited by restrictions which favoured the masses of the cultivators. in every community there were common wood lands and pasture lands for the free use of all the inhabitants. among other restrictions of private ownership and control in favour of the principle of equal access to the land by all persons, we may mention the division of the english villein's holding into several portions, intermingled with those of his neighbours, so that each would have about the same amount of good land; and the ancient hebrew law whereby alienated land was returned to the descendants of its original owners every fifty years.[ ] reckoning the feudal lord, and all other overlords who had the same control over land, as private proprietors, we may say that in historical times the arable land of every country has been owned by a minority of the population. since the downfall of feudalism, the tendency in most regions of the western world has been toward an increase in the number of owners, and a decrease in the number of great estates. this tendency has been especially marked during the last one hundred years. it will, however, need to continue for a very long time, or else to increase its pace very rapidly, before land ownership will be diffused in anything like the measure that is necessary if its benefits are to be shared by all the people. even in the united states, where the distribution is perhaps more general than in any other country, only . per cent. of the families in towns and cities owned, in , the homes in which they lived, and therefore the land upon which their homes were located. in the rural districts the per cent. of home-owning families was only . . _conclusions from history_ what conclusions does history warrant concerning the social and moral value of private landownership? here we are on very uncertain ground; for different inferences may be drawn from the same group of facts if a different section of them be selected for emphasis. sir henry maine and henry george both accepted the theory of primitive agrarian communism, but the former saw in this assumed fact a proof that common ownership was suited only to the needs of rude and undeveloped peoples, while the latter regarded it as a sure indication that common ownership was fundamentally natural and in accordance with permanent social welfare. the fact that practically all peoples whose history we know discarded communal for private ownership as soon as they had acquired a moderate degree of proficiency in methods of cultivation and in the arts of civilised life does, indeed, create a presumption that the latter system is the better for civilised men. to this extent sir henry maine is right. against this presumption henry george maintained that common ownership was abandoned solely because of the usurpation, fraud, and force employed by the powerful and privileged classes. undoubtedly this factor played a great part in bringing about the private ownership that has existed and still exists, but it does not account for the institution as a whole and everywhere. if chiefs, kings, and other powerful personages had never usurped control of the land, if no people had ever conquered the territory of another, it is probable that private ownership would have taken place to the same extent, although it would have been much more widely diffused. for the system of periodical repartition of land, to say nothing of communal cultivation and communal distribution of the product, does hinder that attachment to a particular portion of the soil and that intensive cultivation which are so necessary to the best interests of the cultivator, the most productive use of the land, and therefore the welfare of society. on the other hand, the limitations on the right of private ownership which have been established in so many places and times in favour of those who were not owners, show that men have very generally looked upon land as in some measure the inheritance of all the people. hence arises the presumption that this conviction is but the reflection of fundamental and permanent human needs. summing up the matter, we may say that the history of land tenure points on the whole to the conclusion that private ownership is socially and individually preferable to agrarian communism, but that it should be somewhat strictly limited in the interest of the non-owners, and of the community as a whole. footnotes: [ ] the most notable exponents of this view were: von maurer, "einleitung zur geschichte der mark," ; viollet, "bibliotheque de l'école des chartres," ; maine, "village communities in the east and the west," ; and de laveleye, "de la propriété et ses formes primitives," , of which an english translation appeared in under the title, "primitive property." [ ] chief among these writers are: fustel de coulanges in an article in "revue des questions historiques," april, ; translated by margaret ashley, and published with an introductory chapter by w. j. ashley under the title, "the origin of property in land," ; g. von below, "beilage zur allgemeine zeitung: das kurze leben einer vielgenannten theorie," ; f. seebohm, "the village community," . cf. whittaker, "ownership, tenure, and taxation of land," , ch. ii; cathrein, "das privatgrundeigenthum und seine gegner," ; and pesch, "lehrbuch der nationaloekonomie," i, - . [ ] quoted in whittaker, op. cit., pp. , . [ ] idem, p. . [ ] cf. p. w. joyce, "a social history of ancient ireland," ; and letourneau, "property: its origin and development," . [ ] whittaker, op. cit., pp. , . [ ] leviticus xxv, - . chapter iii the arguments against private landownership if land were not privately owned there would be no receiving of rent by individuals. therefore, the morality of the landlord's share of the national product is intimately related to, and is usually treated in connection with, the morality of private ownership. substantially all the opponents of private property in land to-day are either socialists or disciples of henry george. in the view of the former, land as well as the other means of production should be owned and managed by the state. although they are more numerous than the georgeites, their attack upon private landownership is less conspicuous and less formidable than the propaganda carried on by the henry george men. the socialists give most of their attention to the artificial instruments of production, dealing with land only incidentally, implicitly, or occasionally. the followers of henry george, commonly known as single taxers or single tax men, defend the private ownership of artificial capital, or capital in the strict economic sense, but desire that the control of the community over the natural means of production should be so far extended as to appropriate for public uses all economic rent. their criticism of private ownership is not only more prominent than that made by the socialists, but is based to a much greater extent upon ethical considerations. _arguments by socialists_ indeed, the orthodox or marxian socialists are logically debarred by their social philosophy from passing a strictly moral judgment upon property in land. for their theory of economic determinism, or historical materialism, involves the belief that private landownership, like all other social institutions, is a _necessary product_ of economic forces and processes. hence it is neither morally good nor morally bad. since neither its existence nor its continuance depends upon the human will, it is entirely devoid of moral quality. it is as unmoral as the succession of the seasons, or the movement of the tides. and it will disappear through the inevitable processes of economic evolution. as expressed by engels: "the growing perception that existing social institutions are unreasonable and unjust, that reason has become unreason, and right wrong, is only proof that in the modes of production and exchange changes have taken place, with which the social order, adapted to earlier economic conditions, is no longer in keeping."[ ] frequently, however, the individual socialist forgets this materialistic theory, and falls back upon his common sense, and his innate conceptions of right and wrong, of free will and responsibility. instead of regarding the existing land system as a mere product of blind economic forces, he often denounces it as morally wrong and unjust. his contentions may be reduced to two propositions: the proprietor who takes rent from a cultivator robs the producer of a part of his product; and no one has a right to take for his exclusive use that which is the natural heritage and means of support for all the people. referring to the receipt of , , pounds a year in rent by , british landlords, hyndman and morris exclaim: "yet in the face of all this a certain school still contend that there is no class robbery."[ ] since the claim that the labourer has a right to the full product of his labour applies to capital as well as to land, it can be more conveniently considered when we come to treat of the income of the capitalist. with regard to the second contention, the following statement by robert blatchford may be taken as fairly representative of socialist thought: "the earth belongs to the people.... so that he who possesses land possesses that to which he has no right, and he who invests his savings in land becomes the purchaser of stolen property."[ ] inasmuch as this argument is substantially the same as one of the fundamental contentions in the system of henry george, it will be discussed in connection with the latter, in the pages immediately following. _henry george's attack on the title of first occupancy_ every concrete right, whether to land or to artificial goods, is based upon some contingent fact or ground, called a title. by reason of some title a man is justified in appropriating a particular farm, house, or hat. when he becomes the proprietor of a thing that has hitherto been ownerless, his title is said to be original; when he acquires an article from some previous owner, his title is said to be derived. as an endless series of proprietors is impossible, every derived title must be traceable ultimately to some original title. among the derived titles the most important are contract, inheritance, and prescription. the original title is either first occupancy or labour. the prevailing view among the defenders of private landownership has always been that the original title is not labour but first occupancy. if this title be not valid every derived title is worthless, and no man has a true right to the land that he calls his own. henry george's attack upon the title of first occupancy is an important link in his argument against private property in land. "priority of occupation give exclusive and perpetual title to the surface of a globe in which, in the order of nature, countless generations succeed each other!... has the first comer at a banquet the right to turn back all the chairs, and claim that none of the other guests shall partake of the food provided, except as they make terms with him? does the first man who presents a ticket at the door of a theatre, and passes in, acquire by his priority the right to shut the doors and have the performance go on for him alone?... and to this manifest absurdity does the recognition of the individual right to land come when carried to its ultimate that any human being, could he concentrate in himself the individual rights to the land of any country, could expel therefrom all the rest of the inhabitants; and could he concentrate the individual rights to the whole surface of the globe, he alone of all the teeming population of the earth would have the right to live."[ ] in passing, it may be observed that henry george was not the first distinguished writer to use the illustration drawn from the theatre. cicero, st. basil, and st. thomas aquinas all employed it to refute extravagant conceptions of private ownership. in reply to the foregoing argument of henry george, we point out: first, that the right of ownership created by first occupancy is not unlimited, either extensively or intensively; and, second, that the historical injustices connected with private ownership have been in only a comparatively slight degree due to the first occupation of very large tracts of land. the right of first occupancy does not involve the right to take a whole region or continent, compelling all subsequent arrivals to become tenants of the first. there seems to be no good reason to think that the first occupant is justified in claiming as his own more land than he can cultivate by his own labour, or with the assistance of those who prefer to be his employés or his tenants rather than independent proprietors. "he has not the right to reserve for himself alone the whole territory, but only that part of it which is really useful to him, which he can make fruitful."[ ] nor is the right of private landownership, on whatever title it may rest, unlimited intensively, that is, in its powers or comprehension. though a man should have become the rightful owner of all the land in a neighbourhood, he would have no moral right to exclude therefrom those persons who could not without extreme inconvenience find a living elsewhere. he would be morally bound to let them cultivate it at a fair rental. the christian conception of the intensive limitations of private ownership is well exemplified in the action of pope clement iv, who permitted strangers to occupy the third part of any estate which the proprietor refused to cultivate himself.[ ] ownership understood as the right to do what one pleases with one's possessions, is due partly to the roman law, partly to the code napoléon, but chiefly to modern theories of individualism. in the second place, the abuses which have accompanied private property in land are very rarely traceable to abuses of the right of first occupancy. the men who have possessed too much land, and the men who have used their land as an instrument of social oppression, have scarcely ever been first occupants or the successors thereof through derived titles. this is especially true of modern abuses, and modern legal titles. in the words of herbert spencer: "violence, fraud, the prerogative of force, the claims of superior cunning,--these are the sources to which these titles may be traced. the original deeds were written with the sword, rather than with the pen: not lawyers but soldiers were the conveyancers: blows were the current coin given in payment; and for seals blood was used in preference to wax."[ ] not the appropriation of land which nobody owned, but the forcible and fraudulent seizure of land which had already been occupied, has been one of the main causes of the evils attending upon private landownership. moreover, in england and all other countries that have adopted her legal system, the title of first occupancy could never be utilised by individuals: all unoccupied land was claimed by the crown or by the state, and transferred thence to private persons or corporations. if some individuals have got possession of too much land through this process, the state, not the title of first occupancy, must bear the blame. this is quite clear in the history of land tenure in the united states and australasia. henry george's attack upon private landownership through the title of first occupancy is therefore ineffective; for he attributes to this qualities that it does not possess, and consequences for which it is not responsible. _his defence of the title of labour_ thinking that he has shattered the title of first occupancy, henry george undertakes to set up in its place the title of labour. "there can be to the ownership of anything no rightful title which is not derived from the title of the producer, and does not rest on the natural right of the man to himself."[ ] the only original title is man's right to the exercise of his own faculties; from this right follows his right to what he produces; now man does not produce land; therefore he cannot have rightful property in land. of these four propositions the first is a pure assumption, the second is untrue, the third is a truism, and the fourth is as unfounded as the first. dependently upon god, man has, indeed, a right to himself and to the exercise of his own faculties; but this is a right of action, not of property. by the exercise of this right alone man can never produce anything, never become the owner of anything. he can produce only by exerting his powers upon something outside of himself; that is, upon the goods of external nature. to become the producer and the owner of a product, he must first become the owner of materials. by what title is he to acquire these? in one passage[ ] henry george seems to think that no title is necessary, and refers to the raw material as an "accident," while the finished product is the "essence," declaring that "the right of private ownership attaches the accident to the essence, and gives the right of ownership to the natural material in which the labour of production is embodied." now this solution of the difficulty is too simple and arbitrary. its author would have shrunk from applying it universally; for example, to the case of the shoemaker who produces a pair of shoes out of stolen materials, or the burglar who makes an overcoat more useful (and therefore performs a task of production) by transferring it from a warehouse to his shivering back! evidently henry george has in mind only raw material in the strict sense, that which has not yet been separated from the storehouse of nature; for he declares in another place that "the right to the produce of labour cannot be enjoyed without the free use of the opportunities offered by nature."[ ] in other words, man's title to the materials upon which he is to exercise his faculties, and of which he is to become the owner by right of production, is the title of gift conferred by nature, or nature's god. nevertheless this title is applicable only to those goods that exist in unlimited abundance, not to those parts of the natural bounty that are scarce and possess economic value. a general assumption by producers that they were entitled to take possession of the gifts of nature indiscriminately would mean industrial anarchy and civil war. hence henry george tells us that the individual should pay rent to "the community to satisfy the equal rights of all other members of the community."[ ] inasmuch as the individual must pay this price before he begins to produce, his right to the use of natural opportunities is not "free," nor does his labour alone constitute a title to that part of them that he utilises in production. consequently labour does not create a right to the concrete product. it merely gives the producer a right to the value that he adds to the raw material. his right to the raw material itself, to the elements that he withdraws from the common store, and fashions into a product, say, wheat, lumber, or steel, does not originate in the title of labour but in the title of contract. this is the contract by which in exchange for rent paid to the community he is authorised to utilise these materials. until he has made this contract he has manifestly no full right to the product into which natural forces as well as his own labour have entered. according to henry george's own statements, therefore, the right to the product does not spring from labour alone, but from labour plus compensation to the community. since the contract by which the prospective user agrees to pay this compensation or rent must precede his application of labour, it instead of labour is the original title. since the contract is made with a particular community for the use of a particular piece of land, the title that it conveys must derive ultimately from the occupation of that land by that community,--or some previous community of which the present one is the legal heir. so far as economically valuable materials are concerned, therefore, the logic of henry george's principles leads inevitably to the conclusion that the original title of ownership is first occupancy. even in the case of economically free goods, the original title of ownership is occupancy. henry george declares that the traveller who has filled his vessels at a free-for-all spring owns the water when he has carried it into a desert, by the title of labour.[ ] nevertheless, in its original place this water belonged either to the community or to nobody. in the former supposition it can become the property of the traveller only through an explicit or implicit gift from the community; and it is this contract, not labour, that constitutes his title to the water. if we assume that the spring was ownerless, we see that the labour of carrying a portion of it into the desert still lacks the qualifications of a title; for the abstracted water must have belonged to him before he began the journey. it must have been his from the moment that he separated it from the spring. otherwise he had no right to take it away. his labour of transporting it gave him a right to the utility thus added to the water, but not a right to the water when it first found a local habitation in his vessels. nor was the labour of transferring it from the spring into his vessels the true title; for labour alone cannot create a right to the material upon which it is exerted, as we see in the case of stolen objects. if it be contended that labour together with the natural right to use the ownerless goods of nature have all the elements of a valid title, the assertion must be rejected as unprecise and inadequate. the right to use ownerless goods is a general and abstract right that requires to become specific and concrete through some title. in the case of water it is a right to water in general, to some water, but not a right to a definite portion of the water in this particular spring. the required and sufficient title here is that of apprehension, occupation, the act of separating a portion from the natural reservoir. therefore, it is first occupancy as exemplified in mere seizure of an ownerless good, not labour in the sense of productive activity, nor labour in the sense of painful exertion, that constitutes the precise title whereby the man acquires a right to the water that he has put into his cup or barrel. mere seizure is a sufficient title in all such cases as that which we are now considering, simply because it is a reasonable method of determining and specifying ownership. there is no need whatever of having recourse to the concept of labour to justify this kind of property right. in the present case, indeed, the acts of apprehension and of productive labour (the labour of dipping the water into a vessel _is_ productive inasmuch as the water is more useful there than in the spring) are the same physically, but they are distinct logically and ethically. one is mere occupation, while the other is production; and ownership of a thing must precede, in morals if not in time, the expenditure upon it of productive labour. "the theory which bases the right of property on labour really depends in the ultimate resort on the right of possession and the fact that it is socially expedient, and is therefore upheld by the laws of society. grotius, discussing this in the old roman days, pointed out that since nothing can be made except out of pre-existing matter, acquisition by means of labour depends, ultimately, on possession by means of occupation."[ ] since man's right to his faculties does not of itself give him a right to exercise them upon material objects, productive labour cannot of itself give him a right to the product therefrom created, nor constitute the original title of ownership. since labour is not the original title to property, it is not the only possible title to property in land. hence the fact that labour does not produce land, has no bearing on the question of private landownership. in passing it may be observed that henry george implicitly admitted that the argument from the labour title was not of itself sufficient to disprove the right of private property in land. considering the objection, "if private property in land be not just, then private property in the products of land is not just, as the material of these products is taken from the land," he replied that the latter form of ownership "is in reality a mere right of temporary possession," since the raw material in the products sooner or later returns to the "reservoirs provided for all ... and thus the ownership of them by one works no injury to others."[ ] but private ownership of land, he continued, shuts out others from the very reservoirs. here we have a complete abandonment of the principle which underlies the labour argument. instead of trying to show from the nature of the situation that there is a logical difference between the two kinds of ownership, he shifts his ground to a consideration of consequences. he makes the title of social utility instead of the title of labour the distinguishing and decisive consideration. as we shall see later, he is wrong even on this ground; for the fundamental justification of private landownership is precisely the fact that it is the system of land tenure most conducive to human welfare. at present we merely call attention to the breakdown in his own hands of the labour argument. to sum up the entire discussion on the original title of ownership: henry george's attack upon first occupancy is futile because based upon an exaggerated conception of the scope of private landownership, and upon a false assumption concerning the responsibility of that title for the historical evils of the system. his attempt to substitute labour as the original title is likewise unsuccessful, since labour can give a right only to the utility added to natural materials, not to the materials themselves. ownership of the latter reaches back finally to occupation. whence it follows that the title to an artificial thing, such as a hat or coat, water taken from a spring, a fish drawn from the sea, is a joint or two-fold title; namely, occupation and labour. where the product embodies scarce and economically valuable raw material, occupation is usually prior to labour in time; in _all_ cases it is prior to labour logically and ethically. since labour is not the original title, its absence in the case of land does not leave that form of property unjustified. the title of first occupancy remains. in a word, the one original title of all property, natural and artificial, is first occupancy. the other arguments of henry george against private landownership are based upon the assumed right of all mankind to land and land values, and on the contention that this right is violated by the present system of tenure. _the right of all men to the bounty of the earth_ "the equal right of all men to the use of land is as clear as their equal right to breathe the air--it is a right proclaimed by the fact of their existence. for we cannot suppose that some men have a right to be in the world, and others no right. "if we are here by the equal permission of the creator, we are all here with an equal title to the enjoyment of his bounty--with an equal right to the use of all that nature so impartially offers.... there is in nature no such thing as a fee simple in land. there is on earth no power which can rightfully make a grant of exclusive ownership of land. if all existing men were to grant away their equal rights, they could not grant away the rights of those who follow them. for what are we but tenants for a day? have we made the earth that we should determine the rights of those who after us shall tenant it in their turn?"[ ] the right to use the goods of nature for the support of life is certainly a fundamental natural right; and it is substantially equal in all persons. it arises, on the one hand, from man's intrinsic worth, his essential needs, and his final destiny; and, on the other hand, from the fact that nature's bounty has been placed by god at the disposal of all his children indiscriminately. but this is a general and abstract right. what does it imply specifically and in the concrete? in the first place, it includes the actual and continuous use of some land; for a man cannot support life unless he is permitted to occupy some portion of the earth for the purposes of working, and eating, and sleeping. secondly, it means that in time of extreme need, and when more orderly methods are not available, a man has the right to seize sufficient goods, natural or produced, public or private, to support life. so much is admitted and taught by all catholic authorities, and probably by all other authorities. furthermore, the abstract right in question seems very clearly to include the concrete right to obtain on reasonable conditions at least the requisites of a decent livelihood; for example, by direct access to a piece of land, or in return for a reasonable amount of useful labour. all of these particular rights are equally valid in all persons. does the equal right to use the bounty of nature include the right to equal _shares_ of land, or land values, or land advantages? since the resources of nature have been given to all men in general, and since human nature is specifically and juridically equal in all, have not all persons the right to share equally in these resources? suppose that some philanthropist hands over to one hundred persons an uninhabited island, on condition that they shall divide it among themselves with absolute justice. are they not obliged to divide it equally? on what ground can any person claim or be awarded a larger share than his fellows? none is of greater intrinsic worth than another, nor has any one made efforts, or sacrifices, or products which will entitle him to exceptional treatment. the correct principle of distribution would seem to be absolute equality, except in so far as it may be modified on account of varying needs, and varying capacities for social service. in any just distribution account must be taken of differences in needs and capacities; for it is not just to treat men as equal in those respects in which they are unequal, nor is it fair to deprive the community of those social benefits which can be obtained only by giving exceptional rewards for exceptional services. the same amount of food allotted to two persons might leave one hungry and the other sated; the same amount of land assigned to two persons might tempt the one to wastefulness and discourage the other. to be sure, the factor of exceptional capacity should not figure in the distribution until all persons had received that measure of natural goods which was in each case sufficient for a decent livelihood. for the fundamental justification of any distribution is to be sought in human needs; and among human needs the most deserving and the most urgent are those which must be satisfied as a prerequisite to right and reasonable life. now it is true that private ownership of land has nowhere realised this principle of proportional equality and proportional justice. no such result is possible in a system that, in addition to other difficulties, would be required to make a new distribution at every birth and at every death. private ownership of land can never bring about ideal justice in distribution. nevertheless it is not necessarily out of harmony with the demands of _practical_ justice. a community that lacks either the knowledge or the power to establish the ideal system is not guilty of actual injustice because of this failure. in such a situation the proportionally equal rights of all men to the bounty of nature are not actual rights. they are conditional, or hypothetical, or suspended. at best they have no more moral validity than the right of a creditor to a loan that, owing to the untimely death of the debtor, he can never recover. in both cases it is misleading to talk of injustice; for this term always implies that some person or community is guilty of some action which could have been avoided. the system of private landownership is not, indeed, perfect; but this is not exceptional in a world where the ideal is never attained, and all things are imperfect. henry george declares that "there is on earth no power which can rightfully make a grant of exclusive ownership in land"; but what would he have a community do which has never heard of his system? introduce some crude form of communism, or refrain from using the land at all, and permit the people to starve to death in the interests of ideal justice? evidently such a community must make grants of exclusive ownership, and these will be as valid in reason and in morals as any other act that is subject to human limitations which are at the time irremovable. perhaps the single taxer would admit the force of the foregoing argument. he might insist that the titles given by the state in such conditions were not exclusive grants in the strict sense, but were valid only until a better system could be set up, and the people put in possession of their natural heritage. let us suppose, then, that a nation were shown "a more excellent way." suppose that the people of the united states set about to establish henry george's system in the way that he himself advocated. they would forthwith impose upon all land an annual tax equivalent to the annual rent. what would be the effect upon private land-incomes, and private land-wealth? since the first would be handed over to the state in the form of a tax, the second would utterly disappear. for the value of land, like the value of any other economic good, depends upon the utilities that it embodies or produces. whoever controls these will control the market value of the land itself. no man will pay anything for a revenue-producing property if some one else, for example, the state, is forever to take the revenue. the owner of a piece of land which brings him an annual revenue or rent of one hundred dollars, will not find a purchaser for it if the state appropriates the one hundred dollars in the form of a tax that is to be levied year after year for all time. on the assumption that the revenue represents a selling value of two thousand dollars, the private owner will be worth that much less after the introduction of the new system. henry george defends this proceeding as emphatically just, and denies the justice of compensating the private owners. in the chapter of "progress and poverty" headed, "claim of land owners to compensation," he declares that "private property in land is a bold, bare, enormous wrong, like that of chattel slavery"; and against mill's statement that land owners have a right to rent and to the selling value of their holdings, he exclaims: "if the land of any country belong to the people of that country, what right, in morality and justice, have the individuals called land owners to the rent? if the land belong to the people, why in the name of morality and justice should the people pay its salable value for their own?"[ ] here, then, we have the full implication of the georgean principle that private property in land is essentially unjust. it is not merely imperfect,--tolerable while unavoidable. when it can be supplanted by the right system, its inequalities must not continue under another form. if inequalities are continued through the compensation of private owners, individuals are still hindered from enjoying their equal rights to land, and the state becomes guilty of formal and culpable injustice. the titles which the state formerly guaranteed to the private owners did not have in morals the perpetual validity which they professed to have. since the state is not the owner of the land, it was morally powerless to create or sanction titles of this character. even if all the citizens at any given time had deliberately transferred the necessary authorisation to the state, "they could not," in the words of henry george, "grant away the right of those who follow them." the individual's right to land is innate and natural, not civil or social. the author of "progress and poverty" attributes to the individual's _common_ right to land precisely the same absolute character that father liberatore predicates of the right to become a _private_ land owner.[ ] in the view of henry george, the state is merely the trustee of the land, having the duty of distributing its benefits and values so as to make effective the equal rights of all individuals. consequently, the legal titles of private ownership which it creates or sanctions are valid only so long as nothing better is available. at best such titles have no greater moral force than the title by which an innocent purchaser holds a stolen watch; and the persons who are thereby deprived of their proper shares of land benefits, have the same right to recover them from the existing private owners that the watch-owner has to recover his property from the innocent purchaser. hence the demand for compensation has no more merit in the one case than in the other. to the objection that the civil laws of many civilised countries would permit the innocent purchaser of the watch to retain it, provided that sufficient time had elapsed to create a title of prescription, the single taxer would reply that the two kinds of goods are not on the same moral basis in all respects. he would contend that the natural heritage of the race is too valuable, and too important for human welfare to fall under the title of prescription. to put the matter briefly, then, henry george contends that the individual's equal right to land is so much superior to the claim of the private owner that the latter must give way, even when it represents an expenditure of money or other valuable goods. the average opponent does not seem to realise the full force of the impression which this theory makes upon the man who overemphasises the innate rights of men to a share in the gifts of nature. let us see whether this right has the absolute and overpowering value which is attributed to it by henry george. in considering this question, the supremely important fact to be kept in mind is that the natural right to land is not an end in itself. it is not a prerogative that inheres in men, regardless of its purposes or effects. it has validity only in so far as it promotes individual and social welfare. as regards individual welfare, we must bear in mind that this phrase includes the well being of all persons, of those who do as well as of those who do not at present enjoy the benefits of private landownership. consequently the proposal to restore to the "disinherited" the use of their land rights must be judged by its effects upon the welfare of all persons. if existing landowners are not compensated they are deprived, in varying amounts, of the conditions of material well being to which they have become accustomed, and are thereby subjected to varying degrees of positive inconvenience and hardship. the assertion that this loss would be offset by the moral gain in altruistic feelings and consciousness, may be passed over as applying to a different race of beings from those who would be despoiled. the hardship is aggravated considerably by the fact that very many of the dispossessed private owners have paid the full value of their land out of the earnings of labour or capital, and that all of them have been encouraged by society and the state to regard landed property in precisely the same way as any other kind of property. in the latter respect they are not in the same position as the innocent purchaser of the stolen watch; for they have never been warned by society that the land might have been virtually stolen, or that the supposedly rightful claimants might some day be empowered by the law to recover possession. on the other hand, the persons who own no land under the present system, the persons who are deprived of their "birthright," suffer no such degree of hardship when they are continued in that condition. they are kept out of something which they have never possessed, which they have never hoped to get by any such easy method, and from which they have not been accustomed to derive any benefit. to prolong this condition is not to inflict upon them any new or positive inconvenience. evidently their welfare and claims in the circumstances are not of the same moral importance as the welfare and claims of persons who would be called upon to suffer the loss of goods already possessed and enjoyed, and acquired with the full sanction of society. henry george is fond of comparing the private owner of land with the slave owner, and the landless man with the man enslaved; but there is a world of difference between their respective positions and moral claims. liberty is immeasurably more important than land, and the hardship suffered by the master when he is compelled to free the slave is immeasurably less than that endured by the slave who is forcibly detained in bondage. moreover, the moral sense of mankind recognises that it is in accordance with equity to compensate slave owners when the slaves are legally emancipated. infinitely stronger is the claim of the landowner to compensation. if the georgeite replies that the landless man is at present kept out of something to which he has a right, while confiscation would take from the private owner something which does not really belong to him, the rejoinder must be that this assertion begs the question. the question is likewise begged when the unreasonable defender of private property declares that the right of the landless is vague and undetermined, and therefore morally inferior to the determinate and specific right of the individual landowner. this is precisely the question to be solved. does the abstract right of the landless man become a concrete right which is so strong as to justify confiscation? is his natural right valid against the acquired right of the private proprietor? these questions can be answered intelligently only by applying the test of human welfare, individual and social. to say that land of its very nature is not morally susceptible of private ownership, is to make an easy assertion that may be as easily denied. to interpret man's natural right to land by any other standard than human welfare, is to make of it a fetish, not a thing of reason. henry george himself seemed to recognise this when he wrote that wonderfully eloquent but overdrawn and one-sided description of the effects of private ownership which occurs in the chapter entitled, "claim of landowners to compensation."[ ] when we say that human welfare is the final determinant of the right to land, we understand this phrase in the widest possible sense. to divide the goods of the idle rich among the deserving poor, might be temporarily beneficial to both these classes, but the more remote and enduring consequences would be individually and socially disastrous. to restore a legacy to persons who had been defrauded of it when very young, would probably cause more hardship to the swindler than the heirs would have suffered had there been no restitution; nevertheless the larger view of human welfare requires that the legacy should be restored. when, however, two or three generations have been kept out of their inheritance, the civil law permits the children of the swindler to retain the property by the title of prescription; and for precisely the same reason, human welfare. the social consequences of the confiscation of rent and land values, would be even more injurious than those falling upon the individuals despoiled. social peace and order would be gravely disturbed by the protests and opposition of the landowners, while the popular conception of property rights, and of the inviolability of property, would be greatly weakened, if not entirely destroyed. the average man would not grasp or seriously consider the georgean distinction between land and other kinds of property in this connection. he would infer that purchase, or inheritance, or bequest, or any other title having the immemorial sanction of the state, does not create a moral right to movable goods any more than to land. this would be especially likely in the matter of capital. why should the capitalist, who is no more a worker than the landowner, be permitted to extract revenue from his possessions? in both cases the most significant and practical feature is that one class of men contributes to another class an annual payment for the use of socially necessary productive goods. if rent-confiscation would benefit a large number of people, why not increase the number by confiscating interest? indeed, the proposal to confiscate rent is so abhorrent to the moral sense of the average man that it could never take place except in conditions of revolution and anarchy. if that day should ever arrive the policy of confiscation would not stop with land. _the alleged right of the community to land values_ in the foregoing pages we have confined our attention to the georgean principle which bases men's common right to land and rent upon their common nature, and their common claims to the material gifts of the creator. another argument against private ownership takes this form: "consider what rent is. it does not arise spontaneously from the soil; it is due to nothing that the landowners have done. it represents a value created by the whole community.... but rent, the creation of the whole community, necessarily belongs to the whole community."[ ] before taking up the main contention in this passage, let us notice two incidental points. if all rent be due to the community by the title of social production, why does henry george defend at such length the title of birthright? if the latter title does not extend to rent it is restricted to land which is so plentiful as to yield no rent. since the owners or holders of such land rarely take the trouble to exclude any one from it, the right in question, the inborn right, has not much practical value. probably, however, the words quoted above ought not to be interpreted as excluding the title of birthright. in that case, the meaning would be that rent belongs to the community by the title of production, as well as by the congenital title. the second preliminary consideration is that the community does not create _all_ land values nor _all_ rent. these things are as certainly due to nature as to social action. in no case can they be attributed exclusively to one factor. land that has no natural qualities or capacities suitable for the satisfaction of human wants will never have value or yield rent, no matter what society does in connection with it: the richest land in the world will likewise remain valueless, until it is brought into relation with society, with at least two human beings. if henry george merely means to say that, without the presence of the community, land will not produce rent, he is stating something that is perfectly obvious, but it is not peculiar to land. manufactured products would have no value outside of society, yet no one maintains that their value is all created by social action. although the value of land is always due to both nature and society, for practical purposes we may correctly attribute the value of a particular piece of land predominantly to nature, or predominantly to society. when three tracts, equally distant from a city, and equally affected by society and its activities, have different values because one is fit only for grazing, while the second produces large crops of wheat, and the third contains a rich coal mine, their relative values are evidently due to nature rather than to society. on the other hand, the varying values of two equally fertile pieces of land unequally distant from a city, must be ascribed primarily to social action. in general, it is probably safe to say that almost all the value of land in cities, and the greater part of the value of land in thickly settled districts, is specifically due to social action rather than to differences in fertility. nevertheless, it remains true that the value of every piece of land arises partly from nature, and partly from society; but it is impossible to say in what proportion. our present concern is with those values and rents which are to be attributed to social action. these cannot be claimed by any person, nor by any community, in virtue of the individual's natural right to the bounty of nature. since they are not included among the ready made gifts of god, they are no part of man's birthright. if they belong to all the people the title to them must be sought in some historical fact, some fact of experience, some social fact. according to henry george, the required title is found in the fact of production. socially created land values and rents belong to the community because the community, not the private proprietor, has produced them. let us see in what sense the community produces the social value of land. in the first place, this value is produced by the community in two different senses of the word community, namely, as a civil, corporate entity, and as a group of individuals who do not form a moral unit. under the first head must be placed a great deal of the value of land in cities; for example, that which arises from municipal institutions and improvements, such as, fire and police protection, water works, sewers, paved streets, and parks. on the other hand, a considerable part of land values both within and without cities is due, not to the community as a civil body, but to the community as a collection of individuals and groups of individuals. thus, the erection and maintenance of buildings, the various economic exchanges of goods and labour, the superior opportunities for social intercourse and amusement which characterise a city, make the land of the city and its environs more valuable than land at a distance. while the activities involved in these economic and "social" facts and relations are, indeed, a social not an individual product, they are the product of small, temporary, and shifting groups within the community. they are not the activities of the community as a moral whole. for example, the maintenance of a grocery business implies a series of social relations and agreements between the grocer and his customers; but none of these transactions is participated in by the community acting as a community. consequently such actions and relations, and the land values to which they give rise are not due to, are not the products of the community as a unit, as a moral body, as an organic entity. what is true of the land values created by the grocery business applies to the values which are due to other economic institutions and relations, as well as to those values which arise out of the purely "social" activities and advantages. if these values are to go to their producers they must be taken, in various proportions, by the different small groups and the various individuals whose actions and transactions have been directly responsible. to distribute these values among the producers thereof in proportion to the productive contribution of each person is obviously impossible. how can it be known, for example, what portion of the increase in the value of a city's real estate during a given year is due to the merchants, the manufacturers, the railroads, the labourers, the professional classes, or the city as a corporation? the only practical method is for the city or other political unit to act as the representative of all its members, appropriate the increase in value, and distribute it among the citizens in the form of public services, institutions, and improvements. assuming that the socially produced value of land ought to go to its social producer rather than to the individual proprietor, this method of public appropriation and disbursement would seem to be the nearest approximation to practical justice that is available. is the assumption correct? do the socially produced land values necessarily belong to the producer, society? does not the assumption rest upon a misconception of the moral validity of production as a canon of distribution? let us examine some of the ways in which values are produced. the man who converts leather and other suitable raw materials into a pair of shoes, increases the utility of these materials, and in normal market conditions increases their value. in a certain sense he has created value, and he is universally acknowledged to have a right to this product. similarly the man who increases the utility and value of land by fertilising, irrigating, or draining it, is conceded the benefit of these improvements by the title of production. but value may be increased by mere restriction of supply, and by mere increase in demand. if a group of men get control of the existing supply of wheat or cotton, they can artificially raise the price, thereby producing value as effectively as the shoemaker or the farmer. if a syndicate of speculators gets possession of all the land of a certain quality in a community, they can likewise increase its value, produce new value. if a few powerful leaders of fashion decide to adopt a certain style of millinery, their action and example will effect an increase in the demand for and the value of that kind of goods. yet none of these producers of value are regarded as having a moral right to their product. when we turn to what is called the social creation of land values, we find that it takes two forms. it always implies increase of social demand; but the latter may be either purely subjective, reflecting merely the desires and power of the demanders themselves, or it may have an objective basis connected with the land. in the first case it may be due solely to an increase of population. within the last few years, agricultural land which is no more fertile nor any better situated with regard to markets or other social advantages than it was thirty years ago, has risen in value because its products have risen in value. its products have become dearer because population, and therefore demand, have grown faster than agricultural production. merely by increasing its wants the population has produced land values; but it has obviously no more right to them than have the leaders of fashion to the enhanced value which they have given to feminine headgear. on the other hand, the increased demand for land, and the consequent increase in its value, are frequently attributable specifically to changes connected with the land itself. they are changes which affect its utility rather than its scarcity. the farmer who irrigates desert land increases its utility, as it were, _intrinsically_. the community that establishes a city increases the utility of the land therein and thereabout _extrinsically_. new _relations_ are introduced between that land and certain desirable social institutions. land that was formerly useful only for agriculture becomes profitable for a factory or a store. through its new external relations, the land acquires new utility; or better, its latent and potential uses have become actual. now these new relations, these utility-creating and value-creating relations, have been established by society, in its corporate capacity through civil institutions and activities, and in its non-corporate capacity through the economic and "social" (in the narrower "society" sense) activities of groups and individuals. in this sense, then, the community has created the increased land values. has it a strict right to them? a right so rigorous and exact that private appropriation of them is unjust? as we have just seen, men do not admit that mere production of value constitutes a title of ownership. neither the monopolist who increases value by restricting supply, nor the pace-makers of fashion, who increase value by merely increasing demand, are regarded as possessing a moral right to the value that they have "created." it is increase of utility, and not either actual or virtual increase of scarcity to which men attribute a moral claim. why do men assign these different ethical qualities to the production of value? why has the shoemaker a right to the value that he adds to the raw material in making a pair of shoes? what is the precise basis of his right? it cannot be labour merely; for the cotton monopolist has laboured in getting his corner on cotton. it cannot be the fact that the shoemaker's labour is socially useful; for a chemist might spend laborious days and nights producing water from its component elements, and find his product a drug on the market. yet he would have no reasonable ground of complaint. why, then, is it reasonable for the shoemaker to require, why has he a right to require payment for the utilities that he produces? because men want to use his products, and because they have no right to require him to serve them without compensation. he is morally and juridically their equal, and has the same right as they to have access on reasonable terms to the earth and the earth's possibilities of a livelihood. being thus equal to his fellows, he is under no obligation to subordinate himself to them by becoming a mere instrument for their welfare. to assume that he is obliged to produce socially useful things without remuneration, is to assume that all these propositions are false; it is to assume that his life and personality and personal development are of no intrinsic importance, and that his pursuit of the essential ends of life has no meaning except in so far as may be conducive to his function as an instrument of production. in a word, the ultimate basis of the producer's right to his product, or its value, is the fact that this is the only way in which he can get his just share of the earth's goods, and of the means of life and personal development. his right to compensation does not rest on the mere fact of value-production. as a producer of land values, the community is not on the same moral ground with the shoemaker. its productive action is indirect and extrinsic, instead of direct and intrinsic, and is merely incidental to its principal activities and purposes. land values are a by-product which do not require the community to devote thereto a single moment of time or a single ounce of effort. the activities of which land values are a by-product, have already been remunerated in the price paid to the wage-earner for his labour, the physician for his services, the manufacturer and the merchant for their wares, and the municipal corporation in the form of taxes. on what ground can the community, or any part of it, set up a claim in strict justice to the increased land values? the right of the members of the community to the means of living and self development is not dependent upon the taking of these values by the community. nor are they treated as instruments to the welfare of the private owners who do get the socially created land values; for they expend neither time nor labour in the interest of the latter directly. their labour is precisely what it would have been had there been no increase in the value of the land. since social production does not constitute a right to land values nor to rent, it affords not a shadow of justification for the confiscation of these things by the community. if social appropriation of socially created land values had been introduced with the first occupation of a piece of land, it might possibly have proved more generally beneficial than the present system. in that case, however, the moral claim of the community to these values would have rested on the fact that they did not belong to anybody by a title of strict justice. they would have been a "res nullius" ("nobody's property") which might fairly have been taken by the community according as they made their appearance. the community could have appropriated them by the title of first occupancy. but there could have been no moral title of social production. when, however, the community or the state failed to take advantage of its opportunity to be the first occupant of these values, when it permitted the individual proprietor to appropriate them, it forfeited its own claim. ever since it has had no more right to already existing land values than it has to seize the labourer's wages or the capitalist's interest,--no more right than one person has to recover a gift or donation that he has unconditionally bestowed upon another. to sum up the conclusions of this chapter: the argument against first occupancy is valid only with regard to the abuses of private ownership, not with regard to the institution; the argument based upon the title of labour is the outcome of a faulty analysis, and is inconsistent with other statements of its author; the argument derived from men's equal rights to land merely proves that private ownership does not secure perfect justice, and the proposal to correct this defect by confiscating rent is unjust because it would produce greater evils; and the so called production of the social values of land confers upon the community no property right whatever. footnotes: [ ] "socialism: utopian and scientific," p. ; chicago, . [ ] "a summary of the principles of socialism," p. ; london, . [ ] "socialism: a reply to the pope's encyclical," p. ; london, . [ ] "progress and poverty," book vii, ch. i. [ ] "la propriété privée," par l. garriguet, i, ; paris, . [ ] cf. ardant, "papes et paysans," pp. , sq. [ ] "social statics," chap, ix; . spencer's retractation, in a later edition of this work, of his earlier views on the right of property in land does not affect the truth of the description quoted in the passage above. [ ] "progress and poverty," loc. cit. [ ] "open letter to pope leo xiii," page of vierth's edition. [ ] "progress and poverty," loc. cit. [ ] "progress and poverty," loc. cit. [ ] "open letter to pope leo xiii," loc. cit. [ ] whittaker, op. cit., p. . [ ] "open letter," loc. cit. [ ] "progress and poverty," book vii, ch. i. [ ] cf. chapter entitled "compensation" in "a perplexed philosopher." [ ] cf. "principles of political economy," , p. . [ ] "progress and poverty." [ ] "progress and poverty," book vii, ch. iii. chapter iv private ownership the best system of land tenure the defence of private landownership set forth in the last chapter has been conditional. it has tended to show that the institution is morally lawful so long as no better system is available. as soon as a better system has been discovered, the state and the citizens are undoubtedly under some degree of moral obligation to put it into practice. hence the important present question is whether this condition or contingency has become a reality. the only proposed and the only possible alternative systems are socialism and the single tax. all other forms of tenure are properly classed as modifications of private ownership, rather than as distinct systems. consequently the worth, and efficiency, and morality of private ownership can be adequately determined by comparison with the two just mentioned. _the socialist proposals impracticable_ as now existing and as commonly understood, private landownership comprises four elements which are not found together in either socialism or the single tax. they are: security of possession combined with the power to transfer and transmit; the use of land combined with the power to let the use to others; the receipt of revenue from improvements in or upon the land; and the receipt of economic rent, the revenue due to the land itself, apart from improvements. in its extreme form, and as formerly understood by the majority of its authoritative exponents, socialism would take from the individual all of these elements or powers. the state, or the collectivity, would own and manage all productive land and land-capital, and would receive and distribute the product. consequently the cultivators of the land would be deprived of even that limited degree of control which is now possessed by the tenant on a rented farm; for the latter, though not a landowner, is the owner of a farming business, and of agricultural instruments of production. under socialism the users of the land would not receive the revenue either from improvements or from the land itself. they would be substantially employés of the community, receiving a share of the product according to some plan of distribution established by public authority. land occupied by dwellings would likewise be owned and managed by the state, although its product, the benefit of its use, would necessarily go in the first instance to the occupier. in return for this benefit he would undoubtedly be required to pay some kind of rent to the state. now the majority of persons believe that this system of land tenure would be inferior to private ownership, both as regards individual welfare and social welfare. the reasons for this belief will be given in detail in the chapter on "the socialist scheme of industry." for the present it will be sufficient to point out in a summary way that socialism would be unable to organise and carry on efficiently all agricultural and extractive industries, either under one central direction or under many provincial authorities; that it could not adjust wages and salaries satisfactorily, nor give the individual worker an incentive as effective as the self interest that goes with private ownership; that it would deprive the worker of a great part of the freedom that he now enjoys in the matters of occupation and residence; that it would leave to the consumer less choice in the demand for the products of land; that it would place all the people in a position of dependence upon a single agency for all these products; and that it would make all land users, whether as workers or as residents, tenants-at-will on the property of the state. from the nature of the case, none of the foregoing propositions can be demonstrated mathematically. nevertheless they are as nearly evident as any other practical conclusions which are based upon our general experience of human nature, its tendencies, and its limitations. at any rate, the burden of proof is upon the advocates of the new system. until they have assumed and satisfactorily disposed of this burden, we are justified in rejecting their prophecies, and in maintaining the superiority of private ownership.[ ] to-day, however, many socialists, possibly the majority of them in some countries, would reject the extreme form of land socialisation discussed in the preceding paragraphs. "the nearest approach which socialists have made to a _volte face_ since marx, has been in relation to agrarianism.... marx thought that the advantage of concentrating capital would be felt in agriculture as in other industries; but, in spite of a temporary confirmation of this view by the mammoth farms which sprang up in north america, it now appears very doubtful.... recognition of this has led reformists to substitute a policy of actively assisting the peasants for the orthodox policy of leaving them to succumb to capitalism. their formula is: 'collectivise credit, transport, exchange, and all subsidiary manufacture, but individualise culture.'"[ ] the belgian socialist leader, vandervelde, seems to prefer state ownership and management of the great agricultural industries which require large masses of capital for their efficient operation, such as dairying, distilling, and sugar making, together with state ownership of the land thus used. other lands he would have owned by the state, but cultivated by individuals according to a system of leasing and rent-paying.[ ] by a referendum vote the members of the socialist party in the united states recently amended their platform on land, to read as follows: "the socialist party strives to prevent land from being used for the purpose of exploitation and speculation. it demands the collective possession, control or management of land to whatever extent may be necessary to attain that end. it is not opposed to the occupation and possession of land by those using it in a useful and bona fide manner without exploitation."[ ] as to land occupied by dwellings, perhaps the majority of socialists would now agree with spargo in the statement that, "so far as the central principle of socialism is concerned, there is no more reason for denying the right of a man to own his own home than there is to deny him the right to own his hat."[ ] in so far as the foregoing modifications of socialist proposals would allow the individual to own the land that he cultivates or occupies, they do not call for further discussion here. in so far as they combine state ownership of land with individual management of cultivation, they are subject to at least all the limitations of the single tax. to the latter system we now turn our attention. _inferiority of the single tax system_ of the four leading elements of private ownership enumerated above, the single tax scheme would comprise all but one. in the words of henry george himself: "let the individuals who now hold it still retain, if they want to, possession of what they are pleased to call _their_ land. let them continue to call it _their_ land. let them buy and sell, and bequeath and devise it. we may safely leave them the shell, if we take the kernel. _it is not necessary to confiscate land; it is only necessary to confiscate rent...._ in this way the state may become the universal landlord without calling herself so, and without assuming a single new function. in form, the ownership of land would remain just as now. no owner of land need be dispossessed, and no restriction need be placed upon the amount of land that any one could hold."[ ] individuals would, therefore, still enjoy security of possession, the managerial use of land, and the revenue due to improvements. the income arising from the land itself, the economic rent, they would be obliged to hand over as a free gift to the state. as we have seen in a preceding chapter, this confiscation of rent by the state would be pure and simple robbery of the private owner. suppose, however, that the state were willing to compensate individual proprietors with a sum equal to the present value, or the capitalised rent, of their land. in that case the only difference made to the individual would be that he could no longer invest his money in land nor profit by the increases in land values. while this would deprive some persons of advantages that they now enjoy, it would be beneficial to the majority, and to the community. since no man would find it profitable to retain control of more land than he could use himself, the number of actual land users would be increased. the land speculator would disappear, together with the opportunity of making and losing fortunes by gambling on the changes in land values. owing to the removal of taxation from the necessaries of life and from industry, consumers would get goods cheaper, and some stimulus would be given to production and employment. those monopolies which derive their strength from land would become weaker and tend to disappear. sooner or later there would probably be a considerable increase in the amount of money available for public improvements and socially beneficial institutions. on the other hand, there would be certain and serious disadvantages. a considerable number of land users might permit their holdings to deteriorate through careless cultivation. to be sure, they would not find this a profitable course if they intended to remain on the land permanently; but they might prefer to exhaust the best qualities of a farm in a few years, and then retire, or go into some other business, or repeat the wearing-out process on other lands. thus the community would suffer through the lowered productiveness of its land, and because of the lower rent that it would receive from all subsequent users of the deteriorated tracts. in the second place, the administrative machinery required to levy and collect the rent, and to apportion the different holdings among competitive bidders, would inevitably involve a vast amount of error, inequality, favouritism, and corruption. for the land tax to be levied and collected would not be, as now, a fraction of the rental value, but the full amount of the annual rent. in the third place, cultivators would not have the inducement to make improvements which arises from the hope of selling both the improvements and the land at a profit, owing to the increased demand for the land. perhaps the greatest disadvantage of the system would be the instability of tenure, with regard to both productive and residential lands. owing to misfortunes of various kinds, for example, one or two bad crops, many cultivators would be temporarily unable to pay the full amount of the land tax or rent. it is scarcely conceivable that the state would remit the deficiency, or refuse to turn the land over to other persons on terms more advantageous to itself. inasmuch as the value and rent of land would be continuously adjusted by competition, the more efficient and more wealthy would frequently supplant the less efficient and the less wealthy, even though the latter had occupied their holdings or their dwellings for a great number of years. legal security of tenure, though theoretically the same as that enjoyed by the private owner to-day, would be much less effective practically. in this respect land users would be in almost as bad a case as renters are at present.[ ] our conclusion, then, is that private landownership is certainly better than extreme socialism, or any form of socialism which does not concede to the land user all the control that he would have under the single tax system, and that it is very probably superior to the latter. in making this comparison and drawing this conclusion, we have in mind private ownership, not at its worst nor as it exists or has existed in any particular country, but private ownership in its essential elements, and with its capacity for modification and improvement. if we were to examine carefully the results of private ownership as it obtained in ireland for several centuries before the enactment of the recent land purchase act, we should probably be tempted to declare that the most extreme form of agrarian socialism could scarcely have been productive of more individual and social injury. certain other countries present almost equally unfavourable conditions of comparison. failure to note this distinction between the historical and the potential aspects of private landownership has vitiated many otherwise excellent defences of the institution. it has provoked the retort that almost any plausible change would be an improvement upon private ownership as it has existed in this or that country. but these are not the real alternatives. the practical choice is between private ownership as shown by experience and reason to be capable of improvement, and some untried system which is subject to grave defects, and which at its best would be probably inferior to modified private ownership. an attempt to describe some of these modifications and improvements will be made in a subsequent chapter. in the meantime we content ourselves with the statement that private land ownership is capable of becoming better than socialism certainly, and probably better than the single tax system. consequently it is justified not merely so long as neither of these schemes is introduced, but as an institution which the state would do well to maintain, protect, and improve. footnotes: [ ] cf. chapter xi. [ ] ensor, "modern socialism," p. xxxi, n. y., . [ ] idem, pp. - . [ ] cited by spargo, "the substance of socialism," p. , n. y., . [ ] idem, p. . [ ] "progress and poverty," book viii, ch. ii. [ ] cf. walker, "land and its rent"; and seligman, "essays in taxation." chapter v private landownership a natural right the conclusions of the preceding chapter include the statement that individuals are morally justified in becoming and remaining landowners. may we take a further step, and assert that private landownership is a natural right of the individual? if it is, the abolition of it by the state, even with compensation to the owners, would be an act of injustice. the doctrine of natural rights is so prominent in the arguments of both the advocates and the opponents of private landownership that it deserves specific treatment. moreover, the claim that private landownership is a natural right rests upon precisely the same basis as the similar claim with regard to the individual ownership of capital; and the conclusions pertinent to the former will be equally applicable to the latter. a natural right is a right derived from the nature of the individual, and existing for his welfare. hence it differs from a civil right, which is derived from society or the state, and is intended for a social or civil purpose. such, for example, is the right to vote, or the right to hold a public office. since a natural right neither proceeds from nor is primarily designed for a civil end, it cannot be annulled, and it may not be ignored, by the state. for example: the right to life and the right to liberty are so sacred to the individual, so necessary to his welfare, that the state cannot rightfully kill an innocent man, nor punish him by a term in prison. _three principal kinds of natural rights_ although natural rights are all equally valid, they differ in regard to their basis, and their urgency or importance. from this point of view, we may profitably distinguish three principal types. the first is exemplified in the right to live. the object of this right, life itself, is intrinsically good, good for its own sake, an end in itself. it is the end to which even civil society is a means. since life is good intrinsically, the right to life is also valid intrinsically, and not because of consequences. since there is no conceivable equivalent for life in the case of any individual in any contingency, the right to life is immediate and direct in all possible circumstances. among the natural rights of the second class, the most prominent are the right to marry, to enjoy personal freedom, and to own consumption-goods, such as food and clothing. the objects of these rights are not ends in themselves, but means to human welfare. confining our attention to marriage, we see that membership in the conjugal union is an indispensable means to reasonable life and self development in the majority of persons. the only conceivable substitutes are free love and celibacy. of these the first is inadequate for any person, and the second is adequate only for a minority. marriage is, therefore, _directly_ and _per se_ necessary for the majority of individuals; for the majority it is an _individual_ necessity. if the state were to abolish marriage it would deprive the majority of an indispensable means of right and reasonable life. consequently the majority have a _direct_ natural right to the legal power of marrying. in the case of the minority who do not need to marry, who can live as well or better as celibates, the legal opportunity of marriage is evidently not directly necessary. but it is necessary indirectly, inasmuch as the _power of choice_ between marriage and celibacy is an individual necessity. no argument is required to show that the state could not decide this matter consistently with individual welfare or social peace. whence it follows that even the minority who do not wish or do not need to marry, have a natural right to embrace or reject the conjugal condition. in their case the right to marry is indirect, but none the less inviolable.[ ] private ownership of land belongs in a third class of natural rights. inasmuch as it is not an intrinsic good, but merely a means to human welfare, it differs from life and resembles marriage. on the other hand, it is unlike marriage in that it is not _directly_ necessary for any individual whatever.[ ] the alternative to marriage, namely, celibacy, would not even under the best social administration enable the majority to lead right and reasonable lives. the alternative to private landownership (and to private ownership of capital as well), namely, some form of employment as wage receiver, salary receiver, or fee receiver enables the individual to attain all the vital ends of private ownership: food, clothing, shelter, security of livelihood and residence, and the means of mental, moral, and spiritual development. none of these vital ends or needs is essentially dependent upon private ownership of land; for millions of persons satisfy them every day without becoming landowners. nor are they exceptions, as those who can get along without marriage are exceptions. the persons who live reasonable lives without owning land are average persons. what they do any other person could do if placed in the same circumstances. therefore, private landownership is not directly necessary for the welfare of any individual. _private landownership indirectly necessary for individual welfare_ in our present industrial civilisation, however, private landownership is _indirectly_ necessary for the welfare of the individual. it is said to be indirectly necessary because it is necessary as a _social institution_, rather than as something immediately connected with individual needs as such. it is not, indeed, so necessary that society would promptly go to pieces under any other form of land tenure. as we have seen in the last chapter, it is necessary in the sense that it is capable of promoting the welfare of the average person, of the majority of persons, to a much greater degree than state ownership. it is necessary for the same reason and in the same way as a civil police force. as the state is obliged to maintain a police force, so it is obliged to maintain a system of private landownership. as the citizen has a right to police protection, so he has a right to the social and economic advantages which are connected with the system of private ownership of land. these rights are natural, derived from the needs of the individual in society, not dependent upon the good pleasure of the city or the state. they are individual rights to the presence and benefits of these social institutions. but man's rights in the matter of land tenure are more extensive than his rights with regard to a police force. they are not restricted to the presence and functioning of a social institution. every citizen has a natural right to police protection, but no citizen has a natural right to become a policeman. the welfare of the citizen is sufficiently looked after when the members of the police are selected by the authorities of the city. on the contrary, his welfare would not be adequately safeguarded if the state were to decide who might and who might not become landowners. in the first place, the ideal condition is that in which _all_ persons can easily become actual owners. in the second place, the mere legal opportunity of becoming owners is a considerable stimulus to the energy and ambition of all persons, even of those who are never able to convert it into an economic opportunity. therefore, only a very powerful reason of social utility would justify the state in excluding any person or any class from the legal power to own land. no such reason exists; and there are many reasons why the state should not attempt anything of the sort. as a consequence of these facts, every person, whether an actual owner or not, has a natural right to acquire property in land. this right is evidently a necessary condition of a fair and efficient system of private ownership, which is in turn a necessary condition of individual welfare. the right of private landownership is, therefore, an indirect right; but it is quite as valid and quite as certain as any other natural right. now this right is certainly valid as against complete socialism, which includes state management and use, as well as state ownership. is it valid against the single tax system, or against such modified forms of socialism as would allow the individual to rent and use the land as an independent cultivator with security of tenure? would the introduction of some such scheme in a country in which only a small minority of the population were actual owners, constitute a violation of individual rights? while we cannot with any feeling of certainty return an affirmative answer to these questions, we can confidently affirm that reform within the lines of private ownership would in the long run be more effective, and, therefore, that the right of private ownership is _probably_ valid even against these modified forms of common ownership.[ ] _excessive interpretations of the right of private landownership_ the indirect character of the right of private landownership, its relativity to and dependence upon social conditions, is not always sufficiently grasped by either its advocates or its opponents. in the writings of the former we sometimes find language which suggests that this right is as independent of social conditions as the right to marriage or the right to life. "the state has no right to abolish private property [in land] because private property is not a social right, but an individual right derived from nature, not derived from the state." it exists for _human_ welfare, not merely for _civil_ welfare.[ ] the only defect in this reasoning is that the premises do not justify the conclusion. undoubtedly the state may not abolish private ownership, _so long as it is necessary for human or individual welfare_; but, when this necessity ceases, the moral justification of the institution likewise disappears. the institution may then be abolished, somehow, by some agency, without any violation of individual rights. why may not the task of abolition be performed by the state? no other agency is available. the assertion that the state is incompetent to decide whether the institution of private ownership has outlived its usefulness, is entirely gratuitous; besides, it implies that a small minority of selfishly interested persons may justly require the continuation of a system of land tenure which has become harmful to the overwhelming majority of the community. extreme defences of the right of private landownership are largely responsible for the misconceptions of many of its opponents. occasionally the latter represent this right as an _a priori_ monstrosity which is serenely independent of the facts of life and industry. while such persons are at liberty to reject the interpretations of facts contained in the preceding paragraphs, they cannot reasonably deny the logic of the process which has led to the conclusion that the individual has a natural right to own land. so much for the natural right of landownership as seen in the light of reason. let us now consider it briefly from the side of doctrinal authority, namely, the writings of the fathers and theologians of the church, and the formal pronouncements of the popes. _the doctrine of the fathers and theologians_ some of the church fathers, particularly augustine, ambrose, basil, chrysostom, and jerome, denounced riches and the rich so severely that they have been accused of denying the right of private ownership. the facts, however, are that none of the passages upon which this accusation is based proves it to be true, and that in numerous other passages all of these writers explicitly affirm that private ownership is lawful.[ ] speaking generally, we may say that they taught the moral goodness of private ownership without insisting upon its necessity. hence they cannot be cited as authorities for the doctrine that the individual has a natural right to own land. some of the great theologians of mediæval and post-mediæval times denied this right, inasmuch as they denied that the institution of private ownership was imposed or commanded by the natural law. among them are scotus,[ ] molina,[ ] lessius,[ ] suarez,[ ] vasquez,[ ] and billuart.[ ] since private ownership is not absolutely necessary to human welfare in all forms of society, it cannot, in their view, be regarded as strictly prescribed by the natural law, nor be instituted without the positive action of civil authority, or the consent of the community. nevertheless they all admit that it is much better than common ownership in contemporary societies. the difference between their position and that of de lugo, for example, seems to be two-fold: first, they put stronger emphasis upon the doctrines that the earth belongs to all men in common, that in the absence of original sin ownership would likewise have been common, and that this arrangement is therefore in a fundamental sense normal, agreeing with nature and the natural law; and, second, they put a lower estimate upon the superiority of private ownership even in contemporary conditions. in a word, they denied that private ownership was so much better than any alternative system as to confer upon the individual a natural right in the strict sense; that is, a right which laid upon the state the correlative obligation of maintaining the institution of private landownership. on the other hand, many of the ablest theologians of the same period declared that private ownership was enjoined by the natural law and right reason, and consequently that it was among the individual's natural rights. according to st. thomas aquinas, private property is "necessary for human life," and is one of those social institutions which are prescribed by the _jus gentium_; and the content of the _jus gentium_ is not determined by positive law, but by the dictates of "natural reason," by "natural reason itself."[ ] these statements seem to convey the doctrine of natural right as clearly as could be expected in the absence of an explicit declaration. cardinal de lugo sets forth the same teaching somewhat more compactly, but in substantially the same terms: "speaking generally, a division of goods and of ownership-titles proceeds from the law of nature, for natural reason dictates such division as necessary in the present circumstances of fallen nature and dense populations."[ ] this view is to-day universally accepted among catholic writers. _the teaching of pope leo xiii_ the official teaching of the church on the subject is found in the encyclical, "on the condition of labour," by pope leo xiii. in this document we are told that the proposals of the socialists are "manifestly against justice"; that the right of private property in land is "granted to man by nature"; that it is derived "from nature not from man, and the state has the right to control its use in the interest of the public good alone, but by no means to abolish it altogether." these statements the pope deduces from a consideration of man's needs. private property in land is necessary to satisfy the wants, present and future, of the individual and his family. were the state to attempt the task of making this provision, it would exceed its proper sphere, and produce manifold domestic and social confusion. while pope leo defines the natural right of private ownership as incompatible with complete socialism, that is, collective use as well as collective ownership, his statements cannot fairly or certainly be interpreted as condemning the single tax system, or any other arrangement which would leave to the individual managerial use and secure possession of his holding, together with the power to transmit and transfer it, and full ownership of improvements. these are the only elements of ownership which the holy father defends, and which he insists upon as necessary. the one element of private ownership which the single tax system would exclude; namely, the power to take rent from and profit by the changes in land values, finds no place among the advantages of private ownership enumerated in the encyclical. there is, indeed, one passage of the encyclical in which pope leo seems to allude to the single tax, or to some similar proposal. he expresses his amazement at those persons who "assert that it is right for private persons to have the use of the soil and its various fruits, but that it is unjust for any one to possess outright either the land on which he has built, or the estate which he has brought under cultivation. but those who deny these rights do not perceive that they are defrauding man of what his own labour has produced. for the soil which is tilled and cultivated with toil and skill utterly changes its conditions: it was wild before, now it is fruitful; was barren, but now brings forth in abundance. that which has thus altered and improved the land becomes so truly a part of itself as to be in great measure indistinguishable and inseparable from it. is it just that the fruit of a man's own labour should be possessed and enjoyed by any one else? as effects follow their cause, so is it just and right that the results of labour should belong to those who have bestowed their labour." in this passage we find two principal statements: first, that those persons are in error who declare full private ownership of land to be unjust; and, second, that it is wrong to deprive a man of the improvements which he makes in the soil. now the first of these propositions does not touch the single tax system as such; it only condemns the assertion of henry george that private ownership is essentially unjust. it is directed against one of the arguments for the system, not against the system itself. more specifically, it is a refutation of an argument against private land ownership, rather than a positive attack upon any other system. it could be accepted by any single taxer who does not agree with henry george that the present system is essentially unjust. the second proposition does not apply to the single tax system at all; for the latter would concede to the individual holder the full ownership and benefit of improvements; and it could easily be so administered as to protect him against injury in any case in which improvement values were not exactly and clearly distinguishable from land values. while henry george opposed the doctrines of the encyclical in his "open letter to pope leo xiii," all his arguments are directed against the proposition that private ownership is right and just. the "letter" is an attack upon private ownership rather than a defence of the single tax. apparently its author did not find that pope leo condemned any positive or essential element of the single tax as a proposed system of land tenure. if the rejoinder be made that pope leo could have had no other group of persons in mind than the single taxers, when he wrote the paragraph quoted above, our answer must be that he did not definitely identify them, either by naming them, as he named the socialists, or by any other sufficiently explicit designation. applying to this paragraph the customary and recognised rules of interpretation, we are obliged to conclude that it does not contain an explicit condemnation of the single tax system. to put the substance of this chapter in two sentences: private landownership is a natural right because in present conditions the institution is necessary for individual and social welfare. the right is certainly valid as against complete socialism, and probably valid as against any such radical modification of the present system as that contemplated by the thoroughgoing single taxers. footnotes: [ ] the marriage rights of criminals, degenerates, and other socially dangerous persons, are passed over here as not pertinent to the present discussion. for the same reason nothing is said of the perfectly valid _social_ argument in favour of the individual right of marriage. [ ] cf. vermeersch, "quaestiones de justitia," no. . [ ] the argument in the text is obviously empirical, drawn from consequences. there is, however, a putatively intrinsic or metaphysical argument which is sometimes urged against the justice of the single tax system. it runs thus: since the fruits of a thing belong to the owner of the thing, "res fructificat domino," rent, which is the economically imputed fruit of land, necessarily and as a matter of natural right should go to the owner of the land. as will be shown later, the formula at the basis of this contention is not a metaphysical principle at all, but a conclusion from experience. like every other formula or principle of property rights, it must find its ultimate basis in human welfare. [ ] liberatore, "principles of political economy," pp. , . [ ] cf. vermeersch, op. cit., no. ; ryan, "alleged socialism of the church fathers." [ ] "in iv sent.," d. , q. , n. ; and "reportata parisiensia," d. , q. , n. - . [ ] "de justitia et jure," tr. , d. and . [ ] "de justitia et jure," c. , n. . [ ] "de legibus," l. , c. , n. and . [ ] "in summa," ma ae, d. , n. . [ ] "de justitia et jure," d. , a. . [ ] "summa theologica," a ae, q. , a. and . [ ] "de justitia et jure," d. , s. , n. . chapter vi limitations on the landowner's right to rent the chapters immediately preceding have led to the conclusion that private ownership is the best system of land tenure, and that the individual has a natural right to participate in its advantages. although this system confers upon the individual owner the power to take the rent of the land, we are not logically debarred from raising the question whether this power is a necessary part of the moral rights of landownership. does the right to own a piece of land necessarily include the right to take its rent? by what ethical principle of distribution is the landowner justified in appropriating a revenue in return for which he has performed no labour, nor made any sacrifice? this is unquestionably what happens when a man hires out his land to another. and in conditions of perfect competition, those owners who operate their own land are fully remunerated for their labour in the form of profits. over and above this sum they receive rent, the payment that they could get from the land if they were to let its use to tenants. in the normal situation, therefore, rent is a workless income. on what moral ground may it be taken by the landowner?[ ] the fact that we have rejected the single tax and the confiscation of rent by the community, does not of itself commit us to the conclusion that the private owner has a moral right to receive rent. we have condemned the state appropriation of rent on the assumption that it would take place without a similar confiscation of interest. such discrimination would be grossly unfair; for it would cause land values to sink to zero, while leaving the value of capital substantially undisturbed. to carry out such a programme would be to treat property owners unequally, to penalise one set of beneficiaries of "workless" incomes, while leaving another set untouched. consequently, the state is not justified in confiscating rent unless it is justified in confiscating or prohibiting interest; and the landowner is as fully justified in taking rent as the capital owner is in taking interest. the contention of the single taxer that ownership of the former kind is morally wrong, while ownership of capital is morally legitimate, has already received sufficient discussion. the specific question remains, therefore,--whether the landowner and the capitalist are justified in receiving and retaining their "workless" incomes. inasmuch as the principles and pertinent facts involved in this question can be more effectively and more conveniently discussed in relation to interest than in relation to rent, the solution will be deferred to the chapters on interest. assuming provisionally that the outcome of the discussion will be favourable to the claims of the landowner, let us inquire whether he always has a moral right to _all_ the rent. the parallel question regarding the capitalist will be considered in connection with the right of the labourer to a living wage. _the tenant's right to a decent livelihood_ the actual payments made by tenants to landowners sometimes leave the former without the means of decent living. such had been the condition of a large part of the irish tenant farmers before , when the land courts were established. in the course of twenty-five years these courts reduced the rents by twenty per cent. on the average in upwards of half a million cases. while a part of the reductions was intended to free the tenants from the unjust burden of paying rent on their own improvements, another part was undoubtedly ordered on the theory that the tenants were entitled to retain a larger share of the product for their own support. yet the latter portion of the reduction apparently represented true economic rent; for it was included in the difference between the product and the current cost of production; it was included in the amount that men in ireland were willing to pay for the use of land. it was a part of the surplus that they had left after defraying their expenditures for capital and labour. to be sure, the tenants in some other countries, say, the united states, would not have been satisfied with such a small remuneration, and would not have handed over so much to the landlord; but if the concept of economic rent is to have any serviceable meaning it must be determined by the actual returns to capital and labour in each locality, and not by the standards of some other place which are assumed to be normal. in any case, the irish land courts did reduce the rents below the level fixed by competition, by the unregulated forces of supply and demand. was this treating the landlords justly? may a tenant ever retain a part of the rent which the free course of competition would yield to the landowner? here we must distinguish between the tenant who is and the tenant who is not in possession of a holding sufficiently large to require all the time and labour of a cultivator possessing average efficiency. the tenant who controls and cultivates less than this amount of land ought not to expect to get all his livelihood therefrom. failure to do so would not necessarily mean that he was paying exorbitant rent. holdings of this sort are rightly called "uneconomic"; that is, they are too small to permit a profitable and reasonable application of labour and capital. on such holdings the fair rent would be that amount per acre which would be regarded as fair for the use of the same land held in farms of "economic" size. the proper recourse for the occupiers of uneconomic holdings is to get control of more land, which is exactly what has been happening in ireland through the action of the congested districts board. this brings us to the case of the man who cannot pay the competitive rent on a holding of normal size, and have sufficient left to provide himself and family with a decent livelihood. the fundamental reason why the rent is so high is to be found in the economic weakness of the great mass of the tenants, who can neither emigrate to another country nor get a better living as wage earners in their own. their predicament is exactly the same as that of the helpless and unskilled labourers who are compelled by the force of competition to accept less than living wages. in these circumstances it seems clear that a government commission would be justified in reducing the rents to such a level as would leave the tenants of average efficiency on normal holdings the means of maintaining a decent standard of living. in such cases, then, the landowner has not a right to the full economic or competitive rent. his right thereto is morally inferior to the tenant's right to a decent livelihood, just as the capitalist-employer's right to the prevailing rate of interest is morally inferior to the labourer's right to a living wage. neither in the one case nor in the other is mere competition the final determinant and measure of justice. it has no moral validity when it comes into conflict with man's natural right to get a reasonable livelihood on reasonable conditions from the bounty of the earth. these fundamental questions will be discussed at length in the chapters on wages. to the possible objection that the concept of a "normal" holding is vague, the sufficient reply is that in practice it can be estimated with as much definiteness as the concept of the "average" labourer. as we see from the history of the irish land courts and their "judicial rents," it can be defined with sufficient accuracy to serve the ends of practical justice. more than this is not attained in any department of human relations, particularly, economic relations. _the labourer's claim upon the rent_ should any part of the rent go to the labourer? let us take first the case of the labourer who is employed by a tenant, and who is not occupied in personal service but in some productive task connected with the land. like all other wage earners he has a right to a sufficient share of the product to afford him a decent livelihood. since the tenant is the employer, the director of the business, and the owner of the product, he rather than the landowner is the person who is primarily charged with the obligation of providing the labourer with a living wage. as noted above, his own claim to a decent livelihood is morally superior to the landlord's claim to rent; but if, having taken this amount from the product, he finds himself unable to pay living wages to all his employees unless he deducts something either from the normal interest-return on his own capital or from the rent that would ordinarily go to the landowner, he is morally bound to choose the former course. he, not the landowner, is the wage payer. that he is obliged to provide living wages to his labour force even at the cost of interest on his own investment in the business, is a proposition that will receive ample discussion and defence in a later chapter.[ ] suppose, however, that the tenant has not the means of paying full living wages after turning into the wage fund all the money that he had hoped to retain as interest on his capital. may he withhold from the landowner a sufficient portion of the rent to cover the deficit in wages? were this action practicable it would be undoubtedly justifiable; for the landowner's claim to rent is no stronger than the tenant-capitalist's claim to interest. as claims upon the product, both are morally weaker than the labourer's right to a living wage. nevertheless, the tenant who should attempt to carry out this course would probably be prosecuted for non-fulfilment of his contract with the landowner, or would be evicted from the holding. nor is the landowner obliged in such cases to give up the rent in order that a living wage may be paid to the tenant's labour force. he cannot be certain that the failure of the latter to receive full living wages has not been due to inefficiency or fraudulent conduct on the part of the tenant. moreover, the landowner would be justified in seeking to protect himself against the recurrence of such situations by putting his land in charge of a more capable tenant, or by selling it and investing or lending the money elsewhere. however clear may be the abstract proposition that the claim to a living wage possessed by the employee of the tenant is superior to the claim to rent possessed by the landowner, the difficulty of realising this right in practice is sufficient to relieve even conscientious proprietors from the obligation of giving up the rent for this purpose. when the landowner is operating or cultivating his land himself, he is evidently obliged to pay a living wage to all his employees at the expense of rent, just as he is obliged to do so at the cost of interest on his artificial capital. to be sure, the first charge upon the product should be a decent livelihood for himself; but, when he has obtained this, the right of his employees to a living wage is morally superior to his right to either rent or interest. at present the state takes a part of the rent through taxation. may it take a larger share without violating justice? this question will be considered in the second chapter following. in the meantime, we shall examine the principal defects of the existing system of land tenure with a view to the suggestion of appropriate remedies, whether through taxation or otherwise. footnotes: [ ] the assumption that perfect competition is even roughly approximated in relation to men who operate their own land, and that they generally obtain an adequate return for their labour in addition to the sum that they might have obtained through hiring out their land, may appear rather violent in view of the estimate that the average farmer in the united states gets only $ annually in payment for the labour of himself and family. see article on "the farmer's income" in the _american economic review_, march, . however, this income is mostly in the form of food, fuel, and shelter, which would cost very much more in the city; consequently it is probably equivalent to an urban income of $ . its value is still further enhanced by the farmer's independent position, and by his expectation of profiting by the future increase of land values. hence it would seem that the rent and interest allowance of $ might fairly be regarded as a surplus in excess of the necessary payment for labour. [ ] chapter xxii. chapter vii defects of the existing land system starting from the principle that the rightness or wrongness of any system of land tenure is determined not by metaphysical and intrinsic considerations, but by the effects of the institution upon human welfare, we arrived at the conclusion that private landownership is not unjust, so long as no better system is available. by the same test of human welfare we found that it would be wrong to substitute a better system through the process of confiscating rent, while leaving interest undisturbed. a further step brought us to the conclusion that complete socialism would certainly, and the complete single tax probably, be inferior to the present system. as a sort of corollary, the social and moral superiority of private landownership was stated in terms of natural rights. finally, the question was raised whether the landowner has a right to take rent, and to take all the rent. in stating the superiority of the present system, we explicitly noted that we had in mind the system as capable of improvement. this implied that there are defects in the present form of land tenure, and that these can be eliminated in such a way as to make the system more beneficial and more in harmony with the principles of justice. in the present chapter we shall give a summary review of the principal defects, and in the following chapter we shall suggest some methods of reform. all the defects and abuses may conveniently be grouped under three heads: monopoly; excessive gains; and exclusion from the land. _landownership and monopoly_ in the literature of the single tax movement the phrase, "land monopoly," is constantly recurring. the expression is inaccurate; for the system of individual landownership does not conform to the requirements of a monopoly. there is, indeed, a certain resemblance between the control exercised by the owner of land and that possessed by the monopolist. as the proprietor of every superior soil or site has an economic advantage over the owner of the poorest soil or site, so the proprietor of a monopolistic business obtains larger gains than the man who must operate in conditions of competition. in both cases the advantage is based upon the scarcity of the thing controlled, and the extent of the advantage is measured by the degree of scarcity. nevertheless, there is an important difference between landownership and monopoly. the latter is usually defined as that degree of unified control which enables the persons in control arbitrarily to limit supply and raise price. as a rule, no such power is exercised by individuals, or by combinations of individuals with regard to land. the pecuniary advantage possessed by the landowner, that is, the power to take rent, is conferred and determined by influences outside of himself, by the natural superiority of his land, or by its proximity to a city. he can neither diminish the amount of land in existence nor raise the price of his own. the former result is inhibited by nature; the latter by the competition of other persons who own the same kind of land. to be sure, there are certain kinds of land which are so scarce and so concentrated that they do fall under true monopolistic control. such are the anthracite coal mines of pennsylvania, and some peculiarly situated plots in a few great cities, for example, land that is desired for a railway terminal. but these instances are exceptional. the general fact is that the owners of any kind of land are in competition with similar owners. while the element of scarcity is common to landownership and to monopoly, it differs in its operation. in the case of monopoly it is subject, within limits, to the human will. this difference is sufficiently important, both theoretically and practically, to forbid the identification or confusion of landownership with monopoly. a notable illustration of such confusion is the volume by dr. f. c. howe, entitled, "privilege and democracy in america." he maintains that bituminous coal, copper ore, and natural gas are true monopolies, but gives no adequate proof to support this assertion. moreover, he exaggerates considerably the part played by landownership in the formation of industrial monopolies. thus, his contention that the petroleum monopoly is due to ownership of oil-producing lands is certainly incorrect; for the standard oil company (or companies) has never controlled as much as half the supply of raw material. "the power of the standard does not rest upon a direct monopoly of the production of crude oil through ownership of the wells."[ ] perhaps the most remarkable misstatement in the volume is this: "the railway is a monopoly because of its identity with land."[ ] now there are a few important railway lines traversing routes or possessing terminal sites which are so much better than any alternative routes or sites as to give all the advantages of a true monopoly. but they are in a small minority. in the great majority of cases, a second parallel strip or parallel site could be found which would be equally or almost equally suitable. neither the amount nor the kind of land owned by a railroad, nor its legal privilege of holding land in a long, continuous strip, is the efficient cause of a railway monopoly. to attribute the monopoly to land is to confound a condition with a cause. one might as well say that the land underlying the "wheat king's" office is the cause of his corner in wheat. it is true that in a few of the great cities the existing railroads may, through their ownership of all the suitable terminal sites, prevent the entrance of a competing line. in the first place, such instances are rare; in the second place, the fact that there are several roads already in existence shows that competition was possible without the entrance of another one. the influence impelling them to form a monopoly for the regulation of charges is not their ownership of terminal sites. no sort of uniform action with regard to terminals would produce any such effect. the true source of the monopoly element in railways is inherent in the industry itself. it is the fact of "increasing returns," which means that each additional increment of business is more profitable than the preceding one, and that in most cases this process can be kept up indefinitely. as a consequence, each of two or more railroads between two points strives to get all the traffic; then follows unprofitable rate cutting, and finally combination.[ ] the same forces would produce identical results if railroad tracks and terminals were suspended in the air. dr. howe asserts that the monopolistic character of such public utility corporations as street railways and telephone companies is due to their occupation of "favoured sites."[ ] how can this be true, when it is possible to build a competing line on an adjoining and parallel street? if the city forbids this, and gives an exclusive franchise to one company, this legal ordinance, and not any exceptional advantage in the nature of the land occupied, is the specific cause of the monopoly. if the city permits a competing line, and if the two lines sooner or later enter into a combination, the true source and explanation are to be found in the fact of increasing returns. combination is immeasurably more profitable than cut-throat competition. moreover, the evils of public service monopolies can be remedied through public control of charges and through taxation. neither in railroads nor in public utilities is land an impelling cause of monopoly, or a serious hindrance to proper regulation. most of dr. howe's exaggerations of the influence of land upon monopoly take the form of suggestion rather than of specific and direct statement. when he attempts in precise language to enumerate the leading sources of monopoly, he mentions four; namely, land, railways, the tariff, and public service franchises.[ ] nor is he able to prove his assertion that of these the most important is land. nevertheless, land is one of the foremost causes. the most prominent examples of land monopoly in this country are the anthracite coal mines and the iron ore beds. fully ninety per cent. of our anthracite coal supply (exclusive of alaska) is under the control of eight railway systems which in this matter act as a unit.[ ] according to dr. howe, the excessive profits reaped from this monopolistic control amount to between one hundred and two hundred million dollars annually.[ ] in other words, the consumers of anthracite coal must pay every year that much more than they would have expended if the supply had not been monopolised. on the other hand, the formation of monopoly would have been much more difficult if the railroads had been legally forbidden to own coal mines. as things stand, railway monopoly is an important cause of the anthracite coal monopoly. some authorities are of the opinion that a similar condition of monopoly will ultimately prevail in the bituminous coal mines. iron ore has been brought under the control of the united states steel corporation to such an extent that the commissioner of corporations writes: "indeed, so far as the steel corporation's position in the entire iron and steel industry is of a monopolistic character, it is chiefly through its control of ore holdings and the transportation of ore."[ ] from this statement, however, it is evident that the monopoly depends upon control of transportation as well as upon ownership of the ore beds. if the former were properly regulated by law, the latter would not be so effective in promoting monopoly. speaking generally, we may say that when a great corporation controls a large proportion of the raw material entering into its manufactured products, such control will supplement and reinforce very materially those other special advantages which make for monopoly.[ ] prominent examples are to be found in steel, natural gas, petroleum, and water powers. in his "report on water power development in the united states," the commissioner of corporations (march , ) declared that the rapidly increasing concentration of control might easily become the nucleus of a monopoly of both steam and water power. ten great groups of interests, he said, already dominated about sixty per cent. of the developed water power, and were pursuing a policy characterised by a large measure of agreement.[ ] as a rough generalisation, it would be fair to say that in one or two instances, at least, landownership is the chief basis, and in several other cases an important contributory cause of monopoly. even an approximately accurate estimate of the amount of money which consumers are compelled to pay annually for the products of such concerns over and above what they would pay if the raw material were not wholly or partially monopolised, is obviously impossible. it may possibly run into hundreds of millions of dollars. _excessive gains from private landownership_ the second evil of private landownership to be considered here, is the general fact that it enables some men to take a larger share of the national product than is consistent with the welfare of their neighbours and of society as a whole. as in the matter of monopoly, however, so here, single tax advocates are chargeable with a certain amount of overstatement. they contend that the landowner's share of the national product is constantly increasing, that rent advances faster than interest or wages, nay, that all of the annual increase in the national product tends to be gathered in by the landowner, while wages and interest remain stationary, if they do not actually decline.[ ] the share of the product received by any of the four agents of production depends upon the relative scarcity of the corresponding factor. when undertaking ability becomes scarce in proportion to the supply of land, labour, and capital, there is a rise in the remuneration of the business man; when labour decreases relatively to undertaking ability, land, and capital, there is an increase in wages. similar statements are true of the other two agents and factors. all these propositions are merely particular illustrations of the general rule that the price of any commodity is immediately governed by the movement of supply and demand. in view of this fact, it is not impossible that rent might increase to the extent described in the preceding paragraph. all that is necessary is that land should become sufficiently scarce, and the other factors sufficiently plentiful. as a fact, the supply of land is strictly limited by nature, while the other factors can and do increase. there are, however, several forces which neutralise or retard the tendency of land to become scarce, and of rent to rise. modern methods of transportation, of drainage, and of irrigation have greatly increased the supply of available land, and of commercially profitable land. during the nineteenth century, the transcontinental railroads of the united states made so much of our western territory accessible that the value and rent of new england lands actually declined; and there are still many millions of acres throughout the country which can be made productive through drainage and irrigation. in the second place, every increase of what is called the "intensive use" of land gives employment to labour and capital which otherwise would have to go upon new land. in america this practice is only in its infancy. with its inevitable growth, both in agriculture and mining, the demand for additional land will be checked, and the rise in land values and rents be correspondingly diminished. finally, the proportion of capital and labour that is absorbed in the manufacturing, finishing, and distributive operations of modern industry is constantly increasing. these processes call for very little land in comparison with that required for the extractive operations of agriculture and mining. an increase of one-fifth in the amount of capital and labour occupied in growing wheat or in taking out coal, implies a much greater demand for land than the same quantity employed in factories, stores, and railroads.[ ] as a consequence of these counteracting influences, it appears that the share of the landowners has not increased disproportionately. the most comprehensive endeavour yet made to determine the growth and relative size of the different shares of the national product is embodied in professor w. i. king's volume, "the wealth and income of the people of the united states," published in . it estimates that the total annual income of the nation increased from a little less than two and one-fourth billions of dollars in to a little more than thirty and one-half billions in , or slightly more than fifteen times. during the same period rent, the share of the landowners, advanced from $ , , to $ , , , , or about fifteen and three quarter times. in the year , therefore, the landowners were receiving but a very small fraction more of the national product than their predecessors obtained sixty years earlier.[ ] as to the relative size of the shares going to the different factors in , the figures are even more remarkable. wages and salaries absorbed . per cent.; profits, . per cent.; interest, . per cent.; and rent, only . per cent.[ ] this was exactly the same per cent. that the landowners received in . to be sure, these figures are only approximations, but they are probably the most reliable that can be obtained from our notoriously incomplete statistics, and they will deserve respectful consideration until they have been refuted by specific criticism and argument. in the opinion of their compiler: "the figures for wages and salaries are believed to be fairly accurate; those for rent are thought to have an error of not more than twenty per cent. the separation of the share of capital from that of the entrepreneur is very crudely done and no stress should be laid on the results. the total for all shares is thought to be more accurate than the mode of distribution, and for the last three census years should come within ten per cent. of the correct statement of the national income. for earlier years the error should not be over twenty per cent. at the outside."[ ] if we make the maximum allowance for error in reference to the share of the landowner, and assume that the rent estimate is twenty per cent. too low, we find that it was still only ten and one-half per cent. of the total product in , which represents an increase of less than three per cent. since . it is significant that dr. howe, who has no bias toward belittling the share of the landowner, suggested as his minimum and maximum estimates of the land values of the country in figures which are respectively fifty per cent. below and only five per cent. above the amount taken by professor king as the basis for his estimate of rent.[ ] there is, consequently, a strong presumption that professor king is right when he stigmatises as "absurd" the contention of the single taxer, "that all the improvements of industry result only in the enrichment of the landlord.... the value of our products has increased since to the extent of some twenty-eight billions of dollars, while rent has gained less than three billions. evidently it has captured but a meagre part of the new production."[ ] there are strong indications, however, that the per cent. of the product going to the owners of land has increased considerably in the last twenty years, and that this movement will continue indefinitely. according to professor king's calculations, the per cent. of the total product assignable as rent advanced from . in to . in , which meant that during that period the national income increased only per cent., while the share of the landowner increased per cent.[ ] it is true that a disproportionate advance in rent has occurred between other census years, only to be neutralised by subsequent decreases; but the present instance seems to include certain features which did not characterise any of the former gains in the relative share of the landowner. since the prices of food products "rose most rapidly in the case of meat, dairy products, and cereals, which were derived directly from the land. the prices of raw materials show a like relation. timber, grain, and other raw materials obtained directly from the land have risen rapidly in price, while semi-manufactured articles have increased less rapidly, or have decreased in price.... there is no parallel in any other field to the advance in those land values upon which civilisation most directly depends--timber lands, fertile agricultural land, and land in large commercial and industrial centres. the recent rise in land values has been little short of revolutionary."[ ] between and the value of farm lands _per acre_ in the united states advanced . per cent.[ ] during the eight years beginning with july , , the value of land in greater new york increased something more than one-third; in the principal cities of new jersey, and in worcester, washington, boston, and buffalo, somewhat less; in springfield and holyoke, considerably more. in the most recent ten years for which figures are available (since in every case) the land values of milwaukee, st. louis and san francisco averaged only a slight degree of expansion, while those of kansas city doubled, and those of houston, dallas, los angeles, and seattle trebled. to quote professor nearing, from whose compilations these estimates have been summarised: "the total extent of the increase in american city land values may be hinted at rather than stated with any certainty. the scattering instances in which land and improvements are separately assessed led to the conclusion that in a large, well-established city, growing at approximately the same rate as the other portions of the united states, the land value is doubling in from ten to twenty-five years. in the new, rapidly growing city of the middle and far west and in some of the smaller cities of the east, the ratio of increase in land values is far greater, amounting to two-fold or even three-fold in a decade. in a few instances the rate of increase is much smaller, and in one case, jersey city, land values over a period of seven years have actually decreased.... nevertheless, the few available long range figures indicate a widespread and considerable increase in american city land values."[ ] the rise in the value of timber lands during the last thirty years has been, in the words of the federal investigators, "enormous." for the ten-year period ending in , "the value of a given piece of southern pine taken at random is likely to have increased in any ratio from three-fold to ten-fold." about the same ratio of increase obtained in the pacific northwest, and a somewhat smaller increase in the region of the great lakes.[ ] while a considerable decline has taken place since , it is only temporary; for the demand for timber is notoriously increasing several times as fast as the supply. that this upward movement in the value of all three kinds of land will continue without serious interruption, seems to be as nearly certain as any economic proposition that is dependent upon the future. although millions of acres of arable lands are still unoccupied in the united states and canada, the far greater part of them require a comparatively large initial outlay for draining, clearing, irrigation, etc., in order to become productive. hence there is no likelihood that they can be brought under cultivation fast enough to halt or greatly retard the advancing values which follow upon the growth of population and the increased demand for agricultural products. in all probability the greater part of them will not come into use until the prices of farm products have risen above the present level. obviously this supposes an increase in the value of all farm land, old and new. nor is the adoption of better methods of farming likely to check seriously the upward movement. between and the urban population of america increased . per cent., as against a gain of only per cent. in the total population. this disproportionate growth in the number of the city dwellers will if continued make certain what is in any case extremely probable, a steady and considerable advance in urban land values and rents. the circumstance that these remarkable increases in land values are a comparatively recent phenomenon has prevented them from receiving the attention that they deserve, either from the general public or from the students of economic and social problems. the total value of the land of the country has increased steadily from decade to decade, but so has the total value of capital, and even between and the increase in the share of the capitalist was exactly equal to the increase in the share of the landowner, that is, per cent.[ ] those persons who complacently make such comparisons overlook the new and significant feature of the more recent advances in land value; namely, that they are due in only a slight degree to an expansion of the _area_ of land under consideration. the increases of value quoted in the foregoing paragraphs are increases _per acre_ and _per urban lot_, not increases derived from bringing new land under cultivation or new tracts within municipal limits. on the other hand, the increases in the value of capital, now as always, represent for the most part concrete additions to the existing stock of productive instruments. except where monopoly holds sway, particular capital instruments, unlike particular pieces of land, do not increase in value. hence the owner of a given amount of capital does not profit by the advance in the total value of capital as the owner of the average parcel of land profits by the general increase in the value of land. this means that all those consumers of products who are not landowners must pay an increasing tribute to those who are landed proprietors. so much for the _proportion_ of the national product which goes to the landowning class. let us next inquire how the landowner's share, or rent, is distributed throughout the population. if it were equally divided among all persons, its increase relatively to the shares of the other factors would, from the social viewpoint, be a matter of considerable indifference. on the other hand, if it is secured by a minority of the population, and if that minority tends to become smaller as the share itself becomes larger, we have a socially undesirable condition. in the twenty years between and , the proportion of farm families in the united states owning farm land, mortgaged or unmortgaged, declined from . per cent. to . per cent.; the proportion of urban families owning their homes, encumbered or unencumbered, increased from . to . per cent., and the proportion of all families owning homes, encumbered or unencumbered, fell from . to . per cent. of the homes owned by their occupiers, per cent. were mortgaged in , and . per cent. in .[ ] while a decline of two per cent. in the home owning and landowning families in twenty years, and an increase of almost five per cent. in the number of those families who hold their property subject to encumbrance, may not seem very serious in themselves, they indicate a definitely unhealthy trend. not only are the landowning families in a minority, but the minority is becoming smaller. nevertheless, when we consider the amount of gains accruing to the average member of the landowning class, we do not find that it is unreasonably large. the great majority of landed proprietors have not received, nor are they likely to receive, from their holdings incomes sufficiently large to be called excessive shares of the national product. their gross returns from land have not exceeded the equivalent of fair interest on their actual investment, and fair wages for their labour. the landowners who have been enabled through their holdings to rise above the level of moderate living constitute a comparatively small minority. and these statements are true of both agricultural and urban proprietors. it is true that a considerable number of persons, absolutely speaking, have amassed great wealth out of land. it is a well known fact that land was the principal source of the great mediæval and post-mediæval fortunes, down to the end of the eighteenth century. "the historical foundation of capitalism is rent."[ ] capitalism had its beginning in the revenue from agricultural lands, city sites, and mines. a conspicuous example is that of the great fugger family of the sixteenth century, whose wealth was mostly derived from the ownership and exploitation of rich mineral lands.[ ] in the united states very few large fortunes have been obtained from agricultural land, but the same is not true of mineral lands, timber lands, or urban sites. "the growth of cities has, through real estate speculation and incremental income, made many of our millionaires."[ ] "as with the unearned income of city land, our mineral resources have been conspicuously prolific producers of millionaires."[ ] the most striking instance of great wealth derived from urban land is the fortune of the astor family. while gains from trading ventures formed the beginning of the riches of the original astor, john jacob, these were "a comparatively insignificant portion of the great fortune which he transmitted to his descendants."[ ] at his death, in , john jacob astor's real estate holdings in new york city were valued at eighteen or twenty million dollars. to-day the astor estate in that city is estimated at between and millions, and within a quarter of a century will not improbably be worth one billion dollars.[ ] according to an investigation made in by the _new york tribune_, . per cent. of the millionaire fortunes of the united states at that time were traceable to landownership, while . per cent. were derived from competitive industries which were largely assisted by land possessions.[ ] the proportion of such fortunes that is due, directly or indirectly, in whole or in part, to landownership has undoubtedly increased considerably since . with regard to great individual or corporate land holdings, there exist no adequate statistics. a few conspicuous instances may be cited. the united states steel corporation owns lands yielding iron ore, coal, coke, and timber which are valued by the commissioner of corporations at nearly million dollars, and by the steel corporation itself at more than million dollars.[ ] three companies own nearly eleven per cent., and individuals or corporations own per cent. of all the privately owned timber in the united states.[ ] the united states census of shows that the number of farms containing acres or over was about , , and comprised ten per cent. of the total farm acreage. one hundred and fifty persons and corporations are said to own , , acres of various kinds of land. none of these holders has less than ten thousand acres, and two of the syndicates possess fifty million acres each.[ ] _exclusion from the land_ one of the most frequent charges brought against the present system of land tenure is that it keeps a large proportion of our natural resources out of use. it is contended that this evil appears in three principal forms: owners of large estates refuse to break up their holdings by sale; many proprietors are unwilling to let the use of their land on reasonable terms; and a great deal of land is held at speculative prices, instead of at economic prices. so far as the united states are concerned, the first of these charges does not seem to represent a condition that is at all general. although many holders of large mineral and timber tracts seem to be in no hurry to sell portions of their holdings, they are probably moved by a desire to obtain higher prices rather than to continue as large landowners. as a rule, the great landholders of america are without those sentiments of tradition, local attachment, and social ascendency which are so powerful in maintaining intact the immense estates of great britain. on the contrary, one of the common facts of to-day is the persistent effort carried on by railroads and other holders of large tracts to dispose of their land to settlers. while the price asked by these proprietors is frequently higher than that which corresponds to the present productiveness of the land, it is generally as low as that which is demanded by the owners of smaller parcels. to be sure, this is one way of unreasonably hindering access to the land, but it falls properly under the head of the third charge enumerated above. there is no sufficient evidence that the _large_ landholders are exceptional offenders in refusing to sell their holdings to actual settlers. the assertion that unused land cannot be rented on reasonable terms is in the main unfounded, so far as it refers to land which is desired for agriculture. as a rule, any man who wishes to cultivate a portion of such land can fulfil his desire if he is willing to pay a rent that corresponds to its productiveness. after all, landowners are neither fools nor fanatics: while awaiting a higher price than is now obtainable for their land, they would prefer to get from it some revenue rather than none at all. as a matter of fact, almost all the agricultural land that is immediately available for renting, is constantly under cultivation. this refers to land that is already under the plough, and is provided with buildings and other necessary improvements. practically none of this is out of use. new land which is without buildings is not wanted by tenants, unless it is convenient to their residences, because they do not desire to expend money for permanent improvements upon land that they do not own. true, the present owners of such land might erect buildings, and then let it to tenants. in so far as new land might profitably be improved and cultivated, and in so far as the owners are unwilling or unable to provide the improvements, the present system does keep out of use agricultural land that could be cultivated by tenants. mineral and timber lands are sometimes withheld from tenants because the owners wish to limit the supply of the product, or because they fear that a long-term lease would prevent them from selling the land to the best advantage. as to urban sites, the contention that we are now examining is generally true. the practice of leasing land to persons who wish to build thereon does not, with the exception of a very few cities, obtain in the united states for other than very large business structures. as a rule, it does not apply to sites for residences. the man who wants a piece of urban land for a dwelling or for a moderately sized business building cannot obtain it except by purchase. cannot the land be bought at a reasonable price? this brings us to the third and most serious of the charges concerning exclusion from the land. since the value of land in most cities is rising, and apparently will continue to rise more or less steadily, the price at which it is held and purchasable is not the economic price but a speculative price. it is higher than the capitalised value of the present revenue or rent. for example: if five per cent. be the prevailing rate of interest, a piece of land which returns that rate on a capital of one thousand dollars cannot be bought for one thousand dollars. the purchaser is willing to pay more because he hopes to sell it for a still higher price within a reasonable time. he knows that he cannot immediately obtain five per cent. on the amount (say, , dollars) that he is ready to pay for the land, but his valuation of it is not determined merely by its present income-producing power, but by its anticipated revenue value and selling value.[ ] the buyer will pay more for such land than for a house which yields the same return; for he knows that the latter will not, and hopes that the former will, bring a higher return and a higher price in the future. wherever this discounting of the future obtains, the price of land is unreasonably high, and access to vacant land is unreasonably difficult. this condition undoubtedly exists most of the time in the great majority of our larger cities. men will not sell vacant land at a price which will enable the buyer to obtain immediately a reasonable return on his investment. they demand in addition a part of the anticipated increase in value. in the rural regions this evil appears to be smaller and less general. the owners of unused or uneconomically used arable land are more eager to sell their holdings than the average proprietor of a vacant lot. so far as this sort of land is concerned, it is probable that most of the denunciation of "land speculators" and "land monopolists" overshoots the mark. not the high price at which unused arable lands are held, but the great initial cost of draining, clearing, or irrigating them, is the main reason why they are not purchased by cultivators. while no general and precise estimate can be given of the extent to which the speculative exceeds the actual rent-producing value of land in growing cities, twenty-five per cent. would not improbably be a fair conjecture. even when a reaction occurs after a period of excessive "land-booming," the lower prices do not bring the manless land any nearer to the landless men. only the few who possess ready money or excellent credit can take advantage of such a situation. on the whole the evil that we are now considering is probably greater than any other connected with the private ownership of land. all the tendencies and forces that have been described in the present chapter under the heads of monopoly, excessive gains, and exclusion from the land, are in some degree real defects and abuses of the existing system of land tenure. most of them do not seem to be sufficiently understood or appreciated by the more ardent defenders of private ownership. to recognise them, and to seek adequate correctives of them would seem to be the task of both righteousness and expediency. in the next and final chapter of this section, we shall consider certain remedies that seem to be at once effective and just. footnotes: [ ] "report of the commissioner of corporations on the petroleum industry," part i, p. . [ ] p. . [ ] cf. ely, "monopolies and trusts," pp. , sq. [ ] p. . [ ] pp. , . [ ] "final report of the u. s. industrial commission," p. ; bliss, "new encyclopedia of social reform," pp. , ; van hise, "concentration and control," pp. , . [ ] idem, pp. , ; cf. "final report of industrial commission," pp. - . [ ] "report of the commissioner of corporations on the steel industry," part i, p. . [ ] cf. hobson, "the industrial system," pp. - . [ ] pp. , , - . [ ] cf. "progress and poverty," books iii and iv. [ ] cf. walker, "land and its rent," pp. - , boston, . [ ] page . [ ] page . [ ] page ; footnote. [ ] "privilege and democracy," p. . [ ] page . [ ] op. cit., pages , . [ ] professor nearing in "the annals of the american academy of political and social science," march, . [ ] thirteenth census, bulletin on "farms and farm property," page . [ ] _the public_, nov. , . for an account of increases in the principal european cities, see camille-husymans, "la plus-value immobilière dans les communes belges"; gand, . [ ] "report of the commissioner of corporations on the lumber industry," part i, pp. - . [ ] king, op. cit., p. . [ ] thirteenth census, vol. i, p. . [ ] hobson, "the evolution of modern capitalism," p. ; london, . [ ] _harper's monthly magazine_, jan., . [ ] watkins, "the growth of large fortunes," p. ; n. y., . [ ] idem, p. . [ ] youngman, "the economic causes of great fortunes," p. ; n. y., . [ ] howe, op. cit., pp. , . [ ] cf. commons, "the distribution of wealth," pp. , ; n. y., . [ ] "report of the commissioner of corporations on the steel industry," part i, p. . [ ] "summary of report of the commissioner of corporations on the lumber industry," pp. - . [ ] from articles in "the single tax review," vol. , nos. , . [ ] "in a growing city, an advantageous site will command a price more than in proportion to its present rent, because it is expected that the rent will increase still further as the years go on." taussig, "principles of economics," ii, ; n. y., . chapter viii methods of reforming our land system in economic and social discussion the word reform is commonly opposed to the word revolution. it implies modification rather than abolition, gradual rather than violent change. hence reforms of the system of land tenure do not include such radical proposals as those of land nationalisation or the single tax. on the other hand, some extension of state ownership of land, and some increase in the proportion of taxes imposed upon land, may quite properly be placed under the head of reform, inasmuch as they are changes in rather than a destruction of the existing system. in general, the reform measures needed are such as will meet the defects described in the last chapter; namely, monopoly, excessive gains, and exclusion from the land. obviously they can be provided only by legislation; and they may all be included under two heads, ownership and taxation. by far the greater part of the more valuable lands of the country are no longer under the ownership of the state. urban land is practically all in the hands of private proprietors. while many millions of acres of land suitable for agriculture are still under public ownership, almost all of this area requires a considerable outlay for irrigation, clearing, and draining before it can become productive. forty years ago, three-fourths of the timber now standing was public property; at present about four-fifths of it is owned by private persons or corporations.[ ] the bulk of our mineral deposits, coal, copper, gold, silver, etc., have likewise fallen under private ownership, with the exception of those of alaska. the undeveloped water power remaining under government ownership has been roughly estimated at fourteen million horse power in the national forests, and considerably less than that amount in other parts of the public domain.[ ] this is a gratifying proportion of the whole supply, developed and undeveloped, of this national resource, which is said to be somewhere between and millions horse power.[ ] only about seven million horse power has yet been developed, almost all of which is privately owned. _the leasing system_ in many countries of europe it has long been the policy of governments to retain ownership of all lands containing timber, minerals, oil, natural gas, phosphate, and water power. the products of these lands are extracted and put upon the market through a leasing system. that is; the user of the land pays to the state a rental according to the amount and quality of raw material which he takes from the storehouse of nature. theoretically, the state could sell such lands at prices that would bring in as much revenue as does the leasing system; practically, this result has never been attained. the principal advantages of the leasing arrangement are: to prevent the premature destruction of forests, the private monopolisation of limited natural resources (which has happened in the case of the anthracite coal fields of pennsylvania) and the private acquisition of exceptionally valuable land at ridiculously low prices; and to enable the state to secure just treatment for the consumer and the labourer by stipulating that the former shall obtain the product at fair prices, and that the latter shall receive fair wages. this example should be followed by the united states. all timber, mineral, gas, oil, and water power lands which have not been alienated to private persons should remain under government ownership, and be brought into use through a leasing arrangement which would enable the private operators to obtain the rates of profit and interest which are ordinarily yielded by enterprises subject to the same degree of risk. happily this policy now seems likely to be adopted. in a law was passed by the united states providing for the operation of the coal mines of alaska on leases. the amount that can be leased by any person or corporation is limited to acres, and the penalty for attempting to monopolise the product is forfeiture of tenure. the secretary of the interior has urged a similar arrangement for the development and extraction of water power, coal, oil, gas, phosphate, sodium, and potassium on the public domain of continental united states, and his recommendation will probably be adopted by congress. thus the rent of these lands will go to the whole people instead of to a comparatively small number of individuals, monopoly of the products will be made impossible, and our remaining public resources will be protected from rapid and ruinous exploitation. to the objection that capitalists will not invest their money in nor carry on extractive enterprises on a leasing basis, the sufficient answer is that they are doing it now. in , . per cent. of all the lands producing minerals, precious metals, and stone; . per cent. of the lands producing petroleum and gas; and . per cent. of the two groups of lands combined, were operated under leases from private owners or from the government.[ ] if the rental or royalty demanded is not unreasonably high capitalists will be quite as willing to produce raw materials of these kinds from leased land as they are to manufacture or sell goods in a rented building. not the leasing system, but the terms of the particular lease are the important consideration. public grazing lands should remain government property until such time as they become available for agriculture. cattle owners could lease the land from the state on equitable terms, and receive ample protection for money invested in improvements. _public agricultural lands_ the leasing system cannot well be applied to agricultural lands. in order that they may be continuously improved and protected against deterioration, they must be owned by the cultivators. the temptation to wear out a piece of land quickly, and then move to another piece, and all the other obstacles that stand in the way of the single tax as applied to agricultural land, show that the government cannot with advantage assume the function of landlord in this domain. in the great majority of cases the state would do better to sell the land in small parcels to genuine settlers. there are, indeed, many situations, especially in connection with government projects of irrigation, clearing, and drainage, in which the leasing arrangement could be adopted temporarily. it should not be continued longer than is necessary to enable the tenants to become owners. with this end in view the state should make loans to cultivators at moderate rates of interest, as is done in new zealand and australia. whether the state ought to purchase undeveloped land from private owners in order to sell it to settlers, may well be doubted. the only lands to which such a scheme would be at all applicable are large estates which are held out of use by their proprietors. even here the transfer of the land to cultivators could be accomplished indirectly, through an extra heavy tax. this method has been adopted with success by australia and new zealand. the only other action by the state that seems necessary or wise in order to place settlers upon privately owned agricultural land, is the establishment of a comprehensive system of rural credits. the need of cheaper food products, and the desirability of checking the abnormal growth of our urban populations, are powerful additional reasons for the adoption of this policy. the hollis rural credits bill recently enacted into law by congress goes a considerable way toward meeting these needs. _public ownership of urban land_ no city should part with the ownership of any land that it now possesses. since capitalists are willing to erect costly buildings on sites leased from private owners, there is no good reason why any one should refuse to put up or purchase any sort of structure on land owned by the municipality. the situation differs from that presented by agricultural land; for the value of the land can easily be distinguished from that of improvements, the owner of the latter can sell them even if he is not the owner of the land, and he cannot be deprived of them without full compensation. while the lessee paid his annual rent, his control of the land would be as complete and certain as that of the landowner who continues to pay his taxes. on the other hand, the leaseholder could not permit or cause the land to deteriorate if he would; for the nature of the land renders this impossible. finally, the official activities involved in the collection of the rent and the periodical revaluation of the land, would not differ essentially from those now required to make assessments and gather taxes. the benefits of this system would be great and manifest. persons who were unable to own a home because of their inability to purchase land, could get secure possession of the necessary land through a lease from the city. instead of spending all their lives in rented houses, thousands upon thousands of families could become the owners and occupiers of homes. the greater the amount of land thus owned and leased by the city, the less would be the power of private owners to hold land for exorbitant prices. competition with the city would compel them to sell the land at its revenue-producing value instead of at its speculative value. finally, the city would obtain the benefit of every increase in the value of its land by means of periodical revaluation, and periodical readjustment of rent. unfortunately the amount of municipal land available for such an arrangement in our american cities is negligible. if they are to establish the system they must first purchase the land from private owners. undoubtedly this ought to be done by all large cities in which the housing problem has become acute, and the value of land is constantly rising. this policy has been adopted with happy results by many of the municipalities of france and germany.[ ] at the state election of the voters of massachusetts adopted by an overwhelming majority a constitutional amendment authorising the cities of the commonwealth to acquire land for prospective home builders. in savannah, georgia, no extension of the municipal limits is made until the land to be embraced has passed into the ownership of the city. another method is to refrain from opening a new street in a suburban district until the city has become the proprietor of the abutting land. whatever be the particular means adopted, the objects of municipal purchase and ownership of land are definite and obvious: to check the congestion of population in the great urban centres, to provide homes for the homeless, and to secure for the whole community the socially occasioned increases in land values. indeed, it is probable that no comprehensive scheme of housing reform can be realised without a considerable amount of land purchase by the municipalities. cities must be in a position to provide sites for those home builders who cannot obtain land on fair conditions from private proprietors.[ ] turning now from the direct method of public ownership to the indirect method of reform through taxation, we reject the thoroughgoing proposals of the single taxers. to appropriate all economic rent for the public treasury would be to transfer all the value of land without compensation from the private owner to the state. for example: a piece of land that brought to the owner an annual revenue of one hundred dollars would be taxed exactly that amount; if the prevailing rate of interest were five per cent. the proprietor would be deprived of wealth to the amount of two thousand dollars; for the value of all productive goods is determined by the revenue that they yield, and benefits the person who receives the revenue. thus the state would become the beneficiary and the virtual owner of the land. inasmuch as we do not admit that the so-called social creation of land values gives the state a moral right to these values, we must regard the complete appropriation of economic rent through taxation as an act of pure and simple confiscation.[ ] _appropriating future increases of land value_ let us examine, then, the milder suggestion of john stuart mill, that the state should impose a tax upon land sufficient to absorb all future increases in its value.[ ] this scheme is commonly known as the appropriation of future unearned increment. either in whole or in part it is at least plausible, and is to-day within the range of practical discussion. it is expected to obtain for the whole community all future increases in land values, and to wipe out the speculative, as distinguished from the revenue-producing value of land. consequently it would make land cheaper and more accessible than would be the case if the present system of land taxation were continued. before discussing its moral character, let us see briefly whether the ends that it seeks may properly be sought by the method of taxation. for these ends are mainly social rather than fiscal. to use the taxing power for a social purpose is neither unusual nor unreasonable. "all governments," says professor seligman, "have allowed social considerations in the wider sense to influence their revenue policy. the whole system of productive duties has been framed not merely with reference to revenue considerations, but in order to produce results which should directly affect social and national prosperity. taxes on luxuries have often been mere sumptuary laws designed as much to check consumption as to yield revenue. excise taxes have as frequently been levied from a wide social, as from a narrow fiscal, standpoint. from the very beginning of all tax systems these social reasons have often been present."[ ] our federal taxes on imports, on intoxicating liquors, on oleo-margarine, and on white phosphorus matches, and many of the license taxes in our municipalities, as on pedlars, saloon keepers, and dog owners, are in large part intended to meet social as well as fiscal ends. they are in the interest of domestic production, public health, and public safety. the reasonableness of effecting social reforms through taxation cannot be seriously questioned. while the maintenance of government is the primary object of taxation, its ultimate end, the ultimate end of government itself, is the welfare of the people. now if the public welfare can be promoted by certain social changes, and if these in turn can be effected through taxation, this use of the taxing power will be quite as normal and legitimate as though it were employed for the upkeep of government. hence the morality of taxing land for purposes of social reform will depend entirely upon the nature of the particular tax that is imposed. _some objections to the increment tax_ the tax that we are now considering can be condemned as unjust on only two possible grounds: first, that it would be injurious to society; and, second, that it would wrong the private landowner. if it were fairly adjusted and efficiently administered it could not prove harmful to the community. in the first place, landowners could not shift the tax to the consumer. all the authorities on the subject admit that taxes on land stay where they are put, and are paid by those upon whom they are levied in the first instance.[ ] the only way in which the owners of a commodity can shift a tax to the users or consumers of it, is by limiting the supply until the price rises sufficiently to cover the tax. by the simple device of refusing to erect more buildings until those in existence have become scarce enough to command an increase in rent equivalent to the new tax, the actual and prospective owners of buildings can pass the tax on to the tenants thereof. by refusing to put their money into, say, shoe factories, investors can limit the supply of shoes until any new tax on this commodity is shifted upon the wearers of shoes in the form of higher prices. until these rises take place in the rent of buildings and the price of shoes, investors will put their money into enterprises which are not burdened with equivalent taxes. but nothing of this sort can follow the imposition of a new tax upon land. the supply of land is fixed, and cannot be affected by any action of landowners or would-be landowners. the users of land and the consumers of its products are at present paying all that competition can compel them to pay. they would not pay more merely because they were requested to do so by landowners who were labouring under the burden of a new tax. if all landowners were to carry out an agreement to refrain from producing, and to withhold their land from others until rents and prices had gone up sufficiently to offset the tax, they could, indeed, shift the latter to the renters of land and the consumers of its products. such a monopoly, however, is not within the range of practical achievement. in its absence, individual landowners are not likely to withhold land nor to discontinue production in sufficient numbers to raise rents or prices. indeed, the tendency will be all the other way; for all landowners, including the proprietors of land now vacant, will be anxious to put their land to the best use in order to have the means of paying the tax. owing to this increased production, and the increased willingness to sell and let land, rents and prices must fall. it is axiomatic that new taxes upon land always make it cheaper than it would have been otherwise, and are beneficial to the community as against the present owners. in the second place, the tax in question could not injure the community on account of discouraging investment in land. once men could no longer hope to sell land at an advance in price, they would not seek it to the extent that they now do as a field of investment. for the same reason many of the present owners would sell their holdings sooner than they would have sold them if the tax had not been levied. from the viewpoint of the public the outcome of this situation would be wholly good. land would be cheaper and more easy of access to all who desired to buy or use it for the sake of production, rather than for the sake of speculation. investments in land which have as their main object a rise in value are an injury rather than a benefit to the community; for they do not increase the products of land, while they do advance its price, thereby keeping it out of use. hence the state should discourage instead of encouraging mere speculators in land. whether it is or is not bought and sold, the supply of land remains the same. the supreme interest of the community is that it should be put to use, and made to supply the wants of the people. consequently the only land investments that help the community are those that tend to make the land productive. under a tax on future increases in value, such investments would increase for the simple reason that land would be cheaper than it would have been without the tax. men who desired land for the sake of its rent or its product would continue as now to pay such prices for it as would enable them to obtain the prevailing rate of interest on their investment after all charges, including taxes, had been paid. men who wanted to rent land would continue as now to get it at a rental that would give them the usual return for their capital and labour. so much for the effect of the tax upon the community. would it not, however, be unjust to the landowners? does not private ownership of its very nature demand that increases in the value of the property should go to the owners thereof? "res fructificat domino:" a thing fructifies to its owner; and value-increases may be classed as a kind of fruit. in the first place, this formula was originally a dictum of the civil law merely, the law of the roman empire. it was a legal rather than an ethical maxim. whatever validity it has in morals must be established on moral grounds, by moral arguments. it cannot forthwith be assumed to be morally sound on the mere authority of legal usage. in the second place, it was for a long time applied only to natural products, to the grain grown in a field, to the offspring of domestic animals. it simply enunciated the policy of the law to defend the owner of the land in his claim to such fruits, as against any outsider who should attempt to set up an adverse title through mere appropriation or possession. thus far, the formula was evidently in conformity with reason and justice. later on it was extended, both by lawyers and moralists, to cover commercial "fruits," such as, rent from lands and houses, and interest from loans and investments. its validity in this field will be examined in connection with the justification of interest. more recently the maxim has received the still wider application which we are now considering. obviously increases in value are quite a different thing from the concrete fruit of the land, its natural product. a right to the latter does not necessarily and forthwith imply a right to the former. in the third place, the formula in question is not a self evident, fundamental principle. it is merely a summary conclusion drawn from the consideration of the facts and principles of social and industrial life. consequently its validity as applied to any particular situation will depend on the correctness of these premises, and on the soundness of the process by which it has been deduced. the increment tax is sometimes opposed on the ground that it is new, in fact, revolutionary. in some degree the charge is true, but the conditions which the proposal is intended to meet are likewise of recent origin. the case for this legislation rests mainly on the fact that, for the first time in the world's history, land values everywhere show an unmistakable tendency to advance indefinitely. this means that the landowning minority will be in a position to reap unbought and continuous benefits at the expense of the landless majority. this new fact, with its very important significance for human welfare, may well require a new limitation on the right of property in land. it is also objected that to deprive men of the opportunity of profiting by changes in the value of their land would be an unfair discrimination against one class of proprietors. but there are good reasons for making the distinction. except in the case of monopoly, increases in the value of goods other than land are almost always due to expenditures of labour or money upon the goods themselves. the value increases that can be specifically traced to external and social influences are intermittent, uncertain, and temporary. houses, furniture, machinery, and every other important category of artificial goods are perishable, and decline steadily in value. land, however, is substantially imperishable, becomes steadily scarcer relatively to the demand, and its value-increases are on the whole constant, certain, and permanent. moreover, it is the settled policy of most enlightened governments to appropriate or to prevent all notable increases in the value of monopolistic goods, either through special taxation or through regulation of prices and charges. taking the increment values of land is, therefore, not so discriminative as it appears at first glance.[ ] another objection is that the proposal would violate the canons of just taxation, since it would impose a specially heavy burden upon one form of property. the general doctrine of justice in taxation which is held by substantially all economists to-day, and which has been taught by catholic moralists for centuries, is that known as the "faculty" theory.[ ] men should be taxed in proportion to their ability to pay, not in accordance with the benefits that they may be assumed to receive from the state. and it is universally recognised that the proper measure of "ability" is not a man's total possessions, productive and unproductive, but his income, his annual revenue. now, the increment tax does seem to violate the rule of taxation according to ability, inasmuch as it would take all of one species of revenue, while all other incomes and properties pay only a certain percentage. all the adherents of the faculty theory maintain, however, that it is subject to certain modifications. incomes from interest, rent, and socially occasioned increases in the value of property should be taxed at a higher rate than incomes that represent expenditures of labour; for to give up a certain per cent. of the former involves less sacrifice than to give up the same per cent. of the latter. therefore, increments of land-value may be fairly taxed at a higher rate than salaries, personal property, or even rent and interest. when, however, the law absorbs the whole of the value increments, it seems to be something more than a tax. the essential nature of a tax is to take only a portion of the particular class of income or property upon which it is imposed. the nearest approach to the plan of taking all future increases in land value is to be found in the special assessments that are levied in many american cities. thus, the owners of urban lots are frequently compelled to defray the entire cost of street improvements on the theory that their land is thereby and to that extent increased in value. in such cases the contribution is levied not on the basis of the faculty theory, but on that of the benefit theory; that is, the owners are required to pay in proportion to benefits received. all adherents of the faculty theory admit that the benefit theory is justifiably applied in situations of this kind. it might be argued that the latter theory can also be fairly applied to increments of land value that are to arise in the future. in both cases the owner returns to the state the equivalent of benefits which have cost him nothing. there is, however, a difference. in the former case the value increases are specifically due to expenditures made by the state, while in the latter they are indirectly brought about by the general activities of the community. we do not admit with the single taxers that this "social production" of value increments creates a right thereto on the part of either the community or the civil body; but even if we did we should be compelled to admit that the two situations are not exactly parallel; for the social production of increases in the value of land involves no special expenditure of labour or money. hence it is very questionable whether the appropriation of the whole of the future value increments can be harmonised with the received conceptions and applications of the canons of taxation. _the morality of the proposal_ however, it is neither necessary nor desirable to justify the proposal on the mere ground of taxation. only in form and administration is it a tax; primarily and in essence it is a method of distribution. it resembles the action by which the state takes possession of a newly discovered territory by the title of first occupancy. the future increases of land value may be regarded as a sort of no man's property which the state appropriates for the benefit of the community. and the morality of this proceeding must be determined by the same criterion that is applied to every other method or rule of distribution; namely, social and individual consequences. no principle, title, or practice of ownership, nor any canon of taxation, has intrinsic or metaphysical value. all are to be evaluated with reference to human welfare. since the right of property is not an end in itself, but only a means of human welfare, its just prerogatives and limitations are determined by their conduciveness to the welfare of human beings. by human welfare is meant not merely the good of society as a whole, but the good of all individuals and classes of individuals. for society is made up of individuals, all of whom are of equal worth and importance, and have equal claims to consideration in the matter of livelihood, material goods, and property. in general, then, any method of distribution, any modification of property rights, any form of taxation, is morally lawful which promotes the interests of the whole community, without causing undue inconvenience to any individual. whether a given rule of ownership or method of distribution which is evidently conducive to the public good is, nevertheless, unduly severe on a certain class of individuals, is a question that is not always easily answered. some of the methods and practices appearing in history were clearly fair and just, others clearly unfair and unjust, and still others of doubtful morality. frequently the state has compelled private persons to give up their land at a lower price than they paid for it; in more than one country freebooters and kingly favourites robbed the people of the land, yet their heirs and successors are recognised by both moralists and statesmen as the legitimate owners of that land; in ireland stubborn landlords are to-day compelled by the british government to sell their holdings to the tenants at an appraised valuation; in many countries men may become owners of their neighbours' lands by the title of prescription, without the payment of a cent of compensation. all these practices and titles inflict considerable hardship upon individuals, but most of them are held to be justified on grounds of social welfare. now the public appropriation of all future increments of land value would evidently be beneficial to the community as a whole. it would enable all the people to profit by gains that now go to a minority, and it would enable the landless majority to acquire land more easily and more cheaply. we have in mind, of course, only those value increases that are not due to improvements in or on the land, and we assume that these could be distinguished in practice from the increments of value that represent improvements. would the measure in question inflict undue hardship upon individuals? here we must make a distinction between those persons who own land at the time that, and those who buy land after, the law is enacted. the only inconvenience falling upon the latter class would be deprivation of the power to obtain future increases in value. the law would not cause the value of the land to decline below their purchase price. other forces might, indeed, bring about such a result; but, as a rule, such depreciation would be relatively insignificant, for the simple reason that it would already have been "discounted" in the reduction of value which followed the law at the outset. the very knowledge that they could not hope to profit by future increases in the value of the land would impel purchasers to lower their price accordingly. while taking away the possibility of gaining, the law enables the buyers to take the ordinary precautions against losing. therefore, it does not, as sometimes objected, lessen the so called "gambler's chances." on the other hand, the tax does not deprive the owners of any value that they may add to the land through the expenditure of labour or money, nor in any way discourage productive effort. now it is, as a rule, better for individuals as well as for society that men's incomes should represent labour, expenditure, and saving instead of being the result of "windfalls," or other fortuitous and conjunctural circumstances. and the power to take future value increments is not an intrinsically essential element of private property in land. like every other condition of ownership, its morality is determined by its effects upon human welfare. but we have seen in the last paragraph that human welfare in the sense of the social good is better promoted by a system of landownership which does not include this element; and we have just shown that such a system causes no undue hardship to the individual who buys land after its establishment. such is the answer to the contention, noticed a few pages back, that the landowner has a right to future increments of value because they are a kind of fruit of his property. it is more reasonable that he should not enjoy this particular and peculiar "fruit." were the increment tax introduced into a new community before any one had purchased land, it would clearly be a fair and valid limitation on the right of ownership. those who should become owners after the regulation went into effect in an old community would be in exactly the same moral and economic position. finally, there exists some kind of legal precedent for the proposal in the present policy of efficient governments with regard to the only important increases that occur in the value of goods other than land; namely, increases due to the possession of monopoly power. by various devices these are either prevented or appropriated by the state. those persons who are landowners when the increment tax goes into effect are in a very different situation from those that we have just been considering. many of them would undoubtedly suffer injury through the operation of the measure, inasmuch as their land would reach and maintain a level of value below the price that they had paid for it. the immediate effect of the increment tax would be a decline in the value of all land, caused by men's increased desire to sell and decreased desire to buy. in all growing communities a part of the present value of land is speculative; that is, it is due to demand for the land by persons who want it mainly to sell at an expected rise, and also to the disinclination of present owners to sell until this expectation is realised. the practical result of the attitude of these two classes of persons is that the demand for, and therefore the value of land is considerably enhanced. let a law be enacted depriving them of all hope of securing the anticipated increases in value, and the one group will cease to buy, while the other will hasten to sell, thus causing a decline in demand relatively to supply, and therefore a decline in value and price. all persons who had paid more for their land than the value which it came to have as a result of the increment tax law, would lose the difference. for, no matter how much the land might rise in value subsequently, the increase would all be taken by the state. and all owners of vacant land the value of which after the law was passed did not remain sufficiently high to provide accumulated interest on the purchase price, would also lose accordingly. to be sure, both these kinds of losses would exist even if the law should cause no decline in the value of land, but they would not be so great either in number or in volume. landowners who should suffer either of these sorts of losses would have a valid moral claim against the state for compensation. through its silence on the subject of increment-tax legislation, the state virtually promised them at the time of their purchases that it would not thus interfere with the ordinary course of values. had it given any intimation that it would enact such a law at a future time, these persons would not have paid as much for their land as they actually did pay. when the state passes the law, it violates its implicit promise, and consequently is under obligation to make good the resulting losses. is it not obliged to go further, and pay for the positive gains that many of the owners would have reaped in the absence of the law? for example: a piece of land is worth one thousand dollars the day after the tax goes into effect, and that was exactly the price paid for it by the present owner; another piece has the same value, but was bought by the present owner for eight hundred dollars. while neither of these men suffer any loss on their investments, they are deprived of possible gains; for had the law not been enacted their holdings would be worth, say, eleven hundred dollars. nevertheless, they are no worse off in this respect than those persons who buy land after the increment tax goes into effect, and have no greater claim to compensation for abolished opportunities of positive gain. as we have seen above, the certain advantages of the measure to the community, the doubtful advantages to individuals of profiting by changes in price which do not represent labour, expense, or saving, show that the owners have no strict right to compensation. and it is still clearer that no landowner has a valid claim on account of value increases that would have taken place subsequent to the time that the measure was enacted. there is no way by which owners who would have held their land long enough to profit by these increments can be distinguished from owners who would not have availed themselves of this conjectural opportunity, nor any method by which the amount of such gains can be determined. on the other hand, it might be objected that, in reimbursing all owners who suffer the positive losses above described, the state is unduly generous; for if the law had not been enacted many of the reimbursed persons would have sold their holdings at a price insufficient to cover their losses. but these cannot be distinguished from those who would have sold at a remunerative price. hence the state must compensate all or none. the former alternative is not only the more just all round, but in the long run the more expedient. in view of the social benefits of the increment tax, especially the removal of many of the inequities of the present taxing system, the state might sometimes be justified in making good only a part of the losses that we have been discussing. but this could probably occur only for administrative reasons, such as the difficulty of determining the persons entitled to and the amounts of compensation. it would not be justified merely to enable the state to profit at the expense of individuals. and, in any case, there seems to be no good reason why the unpaid losses should amount to more than a small fraction of the whole. in the foregoing pages we have been considering a law which would from the beginning of its operation take _all_ the future increments of land value. there is, however, no likelihood that any such measure will soon be enacted in any country, least of all, in the united states. what we shall probably see is the spread of legislation designed to take a part, and a gradual growing part, of value increases, after the example of germany and great britain. let us glance at the laws in force in these two countries. _the german and british increment taxes_ the first increment tax (werthzuwachssteuer) was established in the year in the german colony of kiautschou, china. in the principle of the tax was adopted by frankfort-am-main, and in by cologne. by april, , it had already been enacted in cities and towns of germany, some twenty of which had a population of more than , each, in communes, several districts, one principality, and one grand duchy. in it was inserted in the imperial fiscal system, and thus extended over the whole german empire. while these laws are all alike in certain essentials, they vary greatly in details. they agree in taking only a per cent. of the value increases, and in imposing a higher rate on the more rapid increases. the rates of the imperial law vary from ten per cent. on increases of ten per cent. or less to thirty per cent. on increases of per cent. or over. in dortmund the scale progresses from one to - / per cent. inasmuch as the highest rate in the imperial law is per cent., and in any municipal law (cologne and frankfort) per cent.; inasmuch as all the laws allow deductions from the tax to cover the interest that was not obtained while the land was unproductive; and inasmuch as only those increases are taxed which are measured from the value that the land had when it came into the possession of the present owner,--it is clear that landowners are not obliged to undergo any positive loss, and that they are permitted to retain the lion's share of the "unearned increment."[ ] it is to be noted that most of the german laws are retroactive, since they apply not merely to future value increases, but to some of those that occurred before the law was enacted. thus, the hamburg ordinance measures the increases from the last sale, no matter how long ago that transaction took place. the imperial law uses the same starting point, except in cases where the last sale occurred before . accordingly, a man who had in paid marks for a piece of land which in was worth only marks, and who sold it for marks after the law went into effect, would pay the increment tax on marks,--unless he could prove that his purchase price was marks. in all such cases the burden of proof is on the owner to show that the value of the land in was lower than when he had bought it at the earlier date. obviously this retroactive feature of the german legislation inflicts no wrong on the owner, since it does not touch value increases that he has paid for. indeed, the value of the land when it came into the present owner's possession seems to be a fairer and more easily ascertained basis from which to reckon increases than any date subsequent to the enactment of the law. on the one hand, persons whose lands had fallen in value during their ownership would be automatically excluded from the operation of the law until such time as the acquisition value was again reached; on the other hand, those owners whose lands had increased in value before the law went into effect would be taxed as well as those whose gains began after that event; thus the law would reach a greater proportion of the existing beneficiaries of "unearned increment." moreover, it would bring in a larger amount of revenue. the british law formed a part of the famous lloyd-george budget of . it taxes only those increments that occur after its enactment. these are subject to a tax of twenty per cent. on the occasion of the next transfer of the land, by sale, bequest, or otherwise.[ ] in some cases this arrangement will undoubtedly cause hardship. for example: if land which was bought for , pounds in had fallen to pounds in , and were sold for , pounds in , the owner would have to pay a tax of twenty per cent. on pounds. this would mean a net loss of forty pounds, to say nothing of the loss of interest in case the land was unproductive. it would seem that some compensation ought to be given here; yet the rarity of such instances, the administrative difficulties, and the general advantages of this sort of legislation quite conceivably might forbid the conclusion that the owner was made to suffer certain injustice. the compensating social advantages of the increment tax as well as of other special taxes on land, will receive adequate discussion presently. _transferring other taxes to land_ another taxation plan for reducing the evils of our land system consists in the imposition of special taxes on the _present_ value of land. as a rule, these imply, not an addition to the total tax levy, but a transfer of taxes from other forms of property. the usual practice is to begin by exempting either partly or wholly buildings and other kinds of improvements from taxation, and then to apply the same measure to certain kinds of personal property. in most cases the transfer of such taxes to land is gradual, extending over a period of five, ten, or fifteen years. the plan is in operation in canada and australasia, and to a slight extent in the united states. it has received its greatest development in the western provinces of canada; namely, british columbia, alberta, saskatchewan, and manitoba. the cities of edmonton, medicine hat, and red deer; vancouver, victoria, and thirteen others of the thirty-three cities of british columbia; all the towns of alberta except two; all but one of the villages of alberta, and one-fourth of those in saskatchewan; all the rural municipalities and local improvements districts in alberta, manitoba, and saskatchewan, and of the in british columbia,--exempt improvements entirely from taxation. the three cities in alberta which retain some taxes on improvements; all the cities and towns and three-fourths of the villages in saskatchewan; the four largest cities in manitoba; and a considerable number of the municipalities in ontario (by the device of illegal under-assessment in this instance),--tax improvements at less than full value, in some cases as low as fifteen per cent. land is invariably assessed at its full value. it is to be observed that these special land taxes provide only local revenues; they do not contribute anything to the maintenance of either the provincial or the dominion governments. the reason why the local jurisdictions have adopted these taxes so much more extensively in alberta than in the other provinces is to be found in a provincial law enacted in , which requires all towns, villages, and rural areas to establish within seven years the practice of exempting from taxation personal property and buildings. saskatchewan permits cities and towns to tax improvements up to sixty per cent. of their value, while british columbia and manitoba leave the matter entirely in the hands of the local authorities. the provincial revenues are derived from many sources, chiefly real estate, personal property, and incomes; but british columbia, saskatchewan, and alberta levy a special tax on unimproved and only slightly improved rural land. the rate of this "wild lands tax" is in british columbia four per cent., and in the other two provinces one per cent. some of the municipalities of british columbia and saskatchewan also impose a "wild lands tax." by a law passed in alberta levies a provincial tax of five per cent. on the value increases of non-agricultural lands. a movement for the reduction of the tax on buildings has developed considerable strength in the eastern provinces of ontario, nova scotia, and new brunswick.[ ] new zealand and most of the states of australia have for several years levied special taxes on land, consisting mainly of general rates on estates of moderate size, and a progressive super tax on large estates. the commonwealth of australia also imposes a tax of one penny in the pound on the value of land. a considerable proportion of the cities and towns in both new zealand and australia derive practically all their revenues from land, exempting improvements entirely. in both countries, however, the bulk of the total revenue is obtained from other sources than land taxes. in new zealand they yield less than thirteen per cent. of the national receipts.[ ] pittsburgh and scranton were required by a law enacted in to reduce the local tax rate on buildings at such a pace that in and thereafter it would be only one-half the highest rate on other forms of property. everett, wash., and pueblo, col., within recent years adopted by popular vote more sweeping measures of the same character, but the everett law has never gone into effect, and the pueblo statute was repealed two years after it had been passed. in many cities of the united states, buildings are undervalued relatively to land by the informal and illegal action of assessors. the most pronounced and best known instance of this kind is houston, texas, where in land was assessed at seventy per cent. of its value and buildings at only twenty-five per cent. in , however, the practice was forbidden by the courts as contrary to the texas constitution. at more than one recent session of the new york legislature, bills have been introduced providing for the gradual reduction of the tax on buildings in new york city to a basis of fifty per cent. of their value. while none of them has been passed, the sentiment in favour of some such measure is probably increasing. a similar movement of opinion is apparent in many other sections of the country. on the whole, the special land taxes of canada and australasia are not remarkably high. they seem to be as low or lower than the average rates imposed on land, as well as on other forms of general property, in the united states. in the provinces, the special land taxes provide only a small portion of the total revenues; in the cities and towns, there are, as a rule, other sources of revenue as well as land, and the expenses of municipal government are probably not as high as in this country. hence the land taxes of canada have not reached an abnormally high level, and are probably lower than most persons who have heard of them would be inclined to expect. the chief exceptions to the foregoing statements are to be found in the "wild lands tax" of british columbia, and in the land taxes of some of the towns (not the cities) of alberta. a rate of four per cent. on unimproved and slightly improved rural land is extraordinary in fiscal annals, and is scarcely warranted by any received principle of taxation, although it may possibly be justified by peculiar social and administrative conditions in the province of british columbia. some of the smaller towns of alberta which adopted the land tax during the recent period of depression have been compelled to impose even higher rates, the maximum being reached by castor in , with a rate of - / per cent. as a natural consequence, a large proportion of the land in this town was surrendered by its owners to the municipality. while this amazing tax rate is probably temporary, and is likely to be lowered after the return of the average conditions of prosperity, it inflicts unfair hardship upon those owners whose circumstances are such that they must give up their land, instead of awaiting the hoped for decline in the rate of taxation. _the morality of the plan_ the losses of various kinds that would result from the transfer of other taxes to land may be thus summarised. land would depreciate in value by an amount equal to the capitalised tax. for example; if the rate of interest were five per cent., an additional tax of one per cent. would reduce land worth one hundred dollars an acre to eighty dollars. this decline might, indeed, be partly, wholly, or more than offset by a simultaneous rise due to economic forces. in any case, however, the land would be worth twenty dollars less than it would have been worth had the tax not been imposed. for some owners this would mean a positive loss; for others it would signify mere failure to gain. the latter would happen in the case of all those owners who at any time after the imposition of the tax sold their land at as high a price as they had paid for it. not all of the owners whose land was forced by the tax to a figure below their purchase price would suffer positive loss; for the land might subsequently rise in value sufficiently to wipe out the unfavourable difference. in this respect a special tax on the present value of land has a different effect from a tax that appropriates all the future value increases. only those owners who actually sold their land below their purchase price could charge the former tax with inflicting upon them positive losses. in the case of the land exemplified above, the owner who sold at ninety dollars per acre could properly attribute to the tax a loss of ten dollars; the owner who sold at eighty dollars would have a grievance amounting to twenty dollars; and a loss would be suffered by any owner who sold for less than eighty dollars. in the second place, all owners of vacant land who sold at a price insufficient to provide for accumulated interest on the purchase price, could justly hold the tax responsible, so long as the deficiency did not exceed the value-depreciation caused by the tax. thirdly, all persons whose land had an unusually high value relatively to the value of their exempted property, would suffer losses as taxpayers. they would lose more through the heavier land taxes than they would gain through the lighter taxes, or the absence of taxes, on their other property. to compensate all owners who underwent these three kinds of losses would be practically impossible. the number of persons would be too large, the difficulty of proving many of the claims would be too expensive, and the compensation process would be too long drawn out, since it would have to continue until the death of all persons who had owned land when the last instalment of the increased land taxes went into effect. therefore, the losses in question must be counterbalanced by other and indirect methods. these will be found mainly in the following considerations: the amount of the new taxes; the gradual method of imposing them; and their socially beneficial results. _amount of taxes practically transferable_ according to professor king's computations, the total rent of land in the united states in was $ , , , , while the total expenditures of national, state, county and city governments were $ , , , .[ ] in his opinion (p. ) "the rent would have been barely sufficient to pay off the various governmental budgets as at present constituted, and with the growing concentration of activities in the hands of the government, it appears that rent will soon be a quantity far too small to meet the required changes. with increasing pressure on our natural resources, however, it is probable that the percentage of the total income paid for rent will gradually increase and, since this is true, the lag behind the growing governmental expenses will be considerably less than would otherwise be the case." a change in our fiscal system providing for the immediate derivation of all revenues from land taxes would, therefore, involve the confiscation of all rent, and the destruction of all private land values. land would be worth nothing to the owners when its entire annual return was taken by the state in the guise of taxes. even if the process of imposing the new taxes on land were extended over a long term of years the same result would be reached in the end; for whatever increase had taken place in the economic value of land during the process would in all probability have been neutralised by the increase in governmental expenditures. it is evident, therefore, that the proposal to put _all_ taxes on land must be rejected on grounds of both morals and expediency. let us suppose that all national revenues continued, as now, to be raised from other sources than land, and that all state, county, and city revenues remained as they are, except those derived from the general property tax. this would mean that all the following taxes would be unchanged: all federal taxes, the taxes on licenses of all kinds, all taxes on business, incomes, and inheritances, and all special property taxes. if, then, the whole of the general property tax were concentrated on land; that is, if all the taxes on improvements and on all forms of personal property were legally shifted to land,--the entire revenue to be raised from land would in have amounted to $ , , , .[ ] this is slightly more than one-half of professor king's estimate of the total rent for , which was $ , , , . but this figure equals four per cent. of the land values of the country; hence the concentration of the general property tax on land would mean a tax rate of two per cent. on the full value of the land. how much would this change increase the present rate of land taxes, and decrease existing land values? while no accurate and definite answer can be given to either of these questions, certain approximations can be attempted which should be of considerable service. in the average tax rate on the assessed valuation of all goods subject to the general property tax was . , or $ . per thousand dollars.[ ] the assessed valuation of taxed real property and improvements (land, buildings, and other improvements) was nearly fifty-two billion dollars, while the true value of the same property was nearly ninety-eight and one-half billions.[ ] consequently, the actual tax rate of . on the assessed valuation was exactly one per cent. on the true value of real estate. on the assumption that both land and improvements were undervalued to the same extent, the land tax was one per cent. of the full value of the land. if now we take thomas g. shearman's estimate, that land values form sixty per cent. of the total value of real estate, we find that the taxes derived from land constituted only forty-four per cent. of the total revenues raised by the general property tax. to concentrate the whole of the general property tax on land, by transferring thereto the taxes on improvements and on personal property, would, accordingly, cause the land tax to be somewhat more than doubled. it would be slightly above two per cent. on the full value of the land. this is the same estimate that we obtained above by a different process; that is, by comparing professor king's estimate of land value and rent with the total revenues derived from the general property tax. however, it is not improbable that sixty per cent. is too low an estimate of the ratio of land values to entire real estate values. in , farm land and improvements, exclusive of buildings, formed . per cent. of the value of real estate, i.e., land, improvements, and buildings. in , the per cent. was a little less than . now it is quite unlikely that the value of non-building improvements on farms amounted to the difference between sixty per cent. and seventy-eight per cent. in , or between sixty per cent. and eighty-two per cent. in . hence the value of farm land is something more than sixty per cent. of farm real estate. on the other hand, the value of factory land in formed only . per cent. of the total value of factory land and buildings, while the value of city and town lots in five rural states varied from to per cent. of this species of real estate.[ ] in greater new york land constitutes per cent. of real estate values.[ ] owing to the lack of data, the average ratio for all kinds of real estate for the whole country is impossible of determination. if the estimate of seventy per cent. be adopted, which is probably the upper limit of the average proportion between land values and real estate values throughout the country, the portion of the general property tax now paid by land amounts to about fifty-two per cent. consequently the imposition of the whole general property tax on land would not quite double the present rate on land. to the first of the two questions raised above the answer can be given with a fair amount of confidence that the transfer of improvement and personal property taxes to land would cause land taxes to be about twice what they are at present. to the second question, concerning the extent to which land values would fall in consequence of the heavier taxes, the answer must be somewhat less definite. the added land taxes would be about one-half the present general property taxes, or $ , , . this is about one per cent. the total land values of the country. one per cent. of land values capitalised at five per cent. represents a depreciation of twenty per cent. in the value of land; capitalised at four per cent., it represents a depreciation of twenty-five per cent. for example; if land worth one hundred dollars an acre returns to its owner a net income of five dollars annually, the appropriation of one dollar by a new tax will leave a net revenue of only four dollars; capitalised at the current rate of five per cent., this represents only eighty dollars of land value, or a depreciation of twenty per cent. if the land has the same value of one hundred dollars, and still yields only four dollars revenue, a deduction of one dollar in new taxes will leave only three dollars net; capitalised at the current rate of four per cent., this represents only seventy-five dollars of land value, or a depreciation of twenty-five per cent. using the other method of calculation, which estimated the present tax rate on the full value of land at one per cent., we get exactly the same results; namely, the new tax is one per cent., which is equivalent to a depreciation of twenty per cent. or of twenty-five per cent., according as we assume an interest rate of five per cent. or of four per cent. suppose, however, that the assessors do not undervalue land to the extent that we have been assuming; suppose that the present rate of . on assessed valuation is equivalent to, not merely one per cent., but one and one-half per cent. of the full value of land. in that hypothesis the additional tax would likewise be one and one-half per cent., which capitalised at five per cent, would represent a depreciation of thirty per cent., and at four per cent. a depreciation of thirty-seven and one-half per cent. combining in one generalisation the various suppositions made in this paragraph, we estimate the depreciation of land values resulting from the proposed tax transfer as somewhere between twenty and forty per cent. we have considered two hypothetical transfers of taxes to land. the first we found to be out of the question because it would appropriate the whole of the rent and destroy all private land values. the second would apparently amount to two per cent. of the value of land, and cause land values to depreciate from twenty to forty per cent. it is unnecessary to consider the probable effects of any plan that would involve heavier land taxes than the second; that is, the scheme of imposing all the general property tax on land; for it represents the extreme feasible and fair limit of the movement within, at any rate, the next fifteen or twenty years. even this degree of tax transference would be unjust to the landowners if it were brought about at once. no social or other considerations exist that would justify a depreciation in land values of from twenty to forty per cent. if, however, the process were extended over a period of, say, twenty years, the decline would be only one or two per cent. annually, which is considerably less than the rate at which farm lands and the land in large cities have risen in value during recent years. under such an arrangement the great majority of owners would probably find that the depreciation caused by the heavier land taxes, had been more than offset by the upward tendency resulting from the increased demand for land. nevertheless, there would still be positive losses of the three kinds described a few pages back; namely, to owners who sold land below the price that they had paid for it; to owners who sold vacant land at a price insufficient to cover accumulated interest on the investment; and to owners whose aggregate tax burdens were increased. some degree of each of these sorts of losses would be due specifically to the new land taxes. as noted above, public compensation in all such cases would be impracticable. consequently the justification of a law that inflicts such losses must be found, if it exists, in social considerations. _the social benefits of the plan_ these may be summed up under three heads: making land easier to acquire; cheapening the products and rent of land; and reducing the burdens of taxation borne by the poorer and middle classes. an increase in the tax on land would reduce its value and price, or at least cause the price to be lower than it would have been in the absence of the tax. this does not mean that land would be more profitable to the purchaser, since he is enabled to buy it at a lower price only because it yields him less net revenue, or because it is less likely to increase in value. the value of land is always determined by its revenue-producing power, and by its probabilities of price-appreciation. consequently, what the purchasers would gain by the lower price resulting from the new tax, they would lose when they came to pay the tax itself, and when they found the chances of value increases diminished. if a piece of land which brings a return of five dollars a year costs one hundred dollars before the new tax of one per cent. is imposed, and can be bought for eighty dollars afterward, the net interest on the purchase price has not changed. it is still five per cent. hence the only advantage to the prospective purchaser of land in getting it cheaper consists in the fact that he can obtain it with a smaller outlay of capital. for persons in moderate circumstances this is a very important consideration. in the second place, higher taxes would cause many existing owners either to improve their land, in order to have the means of meeting the added fiscal charges, or to sell it to persons who would be willing to make improvements. and the desire to erect buildings and other forms of improvements would be reinforced by the reduction or abolition of taxes on those kinds of personal property which consist of building materials. an increase in the rapidity of improvements on land would mean an increase in the rate at which land was brought into use, and therefore an unusual increase in the volume of products. this virtual increase in the supply of land, and actual increase in the supply of products, would cause a fall in three kinds of prices: the price of products, the rent of land, and the price of land. the last named reduction would be distinct from the reduction of land value caused in the first instance by the imposition of the tax. in the third place, the reduction, and finally the abolition, of taxes on improvements and personal property would be especially beneficial to the poorer and middle classes because they now pay a disproportionate share of these charges. lower taxes on dwellings would mean lower rents for all persons who did not own their homes, and lower taxes for all owners whose residence values were unusually large relatively to their land values. and the tendency to lower rents on dwellings would be reinforced by the lower cost of building materials resulting, as noted above, from the increased supply and the lower tax on this form of personal property. lower taxes on that species of personal property which consists of consumers' goods, such as household furniture and wearing apparel, would lessen the present inequity of taxation because this class of goods is reached to a much greater extent in the case of the poor than in the case of the rich. it is not easy to conceal or to undervalue a relatively small number of simple and standard articles; but diamonds, costly furniture, and luxurious wardrobes can be either hidden, or certified to the assessor at a low valuation. as for those forms of personal property which are of the nature of capital and other profit producing goods, such as machinery and tools of all kinds, productive animals, money, mortgages, securities, the stocks of goods held by manufacturers and merchants, and likewise buildings which are used for productive purposes,--the taxes on all these kinds of property are for the most part shifted to the consumer. the latter ultimately pays the tax in the form of higher prices for food, clothing, shelter, and the other necessaries and comforts of life.[ ] now a tax on consumption is notoriously unfair to the poorer and middle classes because it affects a greater portion of their total expenditures, and takes a larger per cent. of their income than in the case of the rich. hence the removal of the taxes specified in this paragraph would be at once the abolition of a fiscal injustice, and a considerable assistance to the less fortunate classes. all those landowners who occupied rented dwellings would benefit by the reduction in house rent, and all landowners without exception would reap some advantage from the reduction or abolition of the taxes on consumers' goods and on the various forms of producers' goods. it is not improbable that a considerable proportion of them would gain as much in these respects as they would lose in the capacity of landowners. would the social benefits summarily described in the foregoing paragraphs be sufficient to justify the increased land taxes in the face of the losses that would be undergone by some landowners in the three ways already specified? in view of our ignorance concerning the probable amount of benefits on the one hand and losses on the other, it is impossible to give a dogmatic answer. however, when we reflect on the manifold social evils that are threatened by a rapid and continuous increase in land values, and the resulting decrease in the proportion of the population that can hope to participate in the ownership of land, we are forced to conclude that some means of checking both tendencies is urgently necessary for the sake of social justice and social peace. the project that we have been considering; namely, the transfer of taxes on improvements and on personal property to land by a process extending over twenty years, seems to involve a sufficiently large amount of advantage and a sufficiently small amount of disadvantage to justify systematic and careful experiment. _a supertax on large holdings_ every estate containing more than a maximum number of acres, say, ten thousand, whether composed of a single tract or of several tracts, could be compelled to pay a special tax in addition to the ordinary tax levied on land of the same value. the rate of this supertax should increase with the size of the estate above the fixed maximum. through this device large holdings could be broken up, and divided among many owners and occupiers. for several years it has been successfully applied for this purpose in new zealand and australia.[ ] inasmuch as this tax exemplifies the principle of progression, it is in accord with the principles of justice; for relative ability to pay is closely connected with relative sacrifice. other things being equal, the less the sacrifice involved, the greater is the ability of the individual to pay the tax. thus, the man with an income of ten thousand dollars a year makes a smaller sacrifice in giving up two per cent. of it than the man whose income is only one thousand dollars; for the latter case the twenty dollars surrendered represent a privation of the necessaries or the elementary comforts of life, while the two hundred dollars taken from the rich man would have been expended for luxuries or converted into capital. while the incomes of both are reduced in the same proportion, their satisfactions are not diminished to the same degree. the wants that are deprived of satisfaction are much less important in the case of the richer than in that of the poorer man. hence the only way to bring about anything like equality of sacrifice between them is to increase the proportion of income taken from the former. this means that the rate of taxation would be progressive.[ ] it is in order to object that the principle of progression should not be applied to the taxation of great landed estates, since a considerable part of them is unproductive, and consequently does not directly affect sacrifice. but the same objection can be urged against any taxation of unoccupied land. the obvious reply is that the equal taxation of unproductive with productive land is justified by social reasons, chiefly, the unwisdom of permitting land to be held out of use. the same social reasons apply to the question of levying an exceptionally high tax on large estates, even though they may at present produce no revenue. while the tax is sound in principle, it is probably not much needed in america in connection with agricultural or urban land. its main sphere of usefulness would seem to be certain great holdings of mineral, timber, and water power lands. "there are many great combinations in other industries whose formation is complete. in the lumber industry, on the other hand, the bureau now finds in the making a combination caused, fundamentally, by a long standing public policy. the concentration already existing is sufficiently impressive. still more impressive are the possibilities for the future. in the last forty years concentration has so proceeded that holders, many interrelated, now have practically one-half of the privately owned timber in the investigation area (which contains eighty per cent. of the whole). this formidable process of concentration, in timber and in land, clearly involves grave future possibilities of impregnable monopolistic conditions, whose far reaching consequences to society it is now difficult to anticipate fully or to overestimate."[ ] in january, , the secretary of agriculture called the attention of congress to the fact that a small number of corporations closely associated in a policy of community of interest were threatening to secure and exercise a monopoly over the developed water power of the country. ninety per cent. of the anthracite coal lands of pennsylvania are owned or controlled by some nine railroads acting as a unit in all important matters. for situations of this kind a supertax on large estates would seem to hold the promise of a large measure of relief. to sum up the main conclusions of this very long chapter: exceptionally valuable lands, as those containing timber, minerals, oil, gas, phosphate, and water power, which are still under public ownership should remain there. through a judicious system of loans, deserving and efficient persons should be assisted to get possession of some land. municipalities should lease rather than sell their lands, and should strive to increase their holdings. to take all the future increases in the value of land would be morally lawful, provided that compensation were given to owners who thereby suffered positive losses of interest or principal. to take a small part of the increase, and to transfer very gradually the taxes on improvements and on personal property to land, would probably be just, owing to the beneficial effects upon public welfare. a supertax on large holdings of exceptionally valuable and scarce land would likewise be beneficial and legitimate.[ ] references on section i ashley: the origin of property in land. london; . laveleye: primitive property. london; . whittaker: the taxation, tenure, and ownership of land. london; . preuss: the fundamental fallacy of socialism. st. louis; . george: progress and poverty; and a perplexed philosopher. marsh: land value taxation in american cities. n. y.; . fillebrown: a single tax handbook for . boston; . young: the single tax movement in the united states. princeton; . shearman: natural taxation. n. y.; . mathews: taxation and the distribution of wealth. n. y.; . cathrein: das privatgrundeigenthum und seine gegner. freiburg; . fallon: les plus-values et l'impot. paris; . nearing: anthracite. philadelphia; . haig: final report of the committee on taxation of the city of new york; . the exemption of improvements from taxation in canada and u. s.; . some probable effects of exemption in city of new york; . kelleher: private ownership. dublin; . proceedings of the meeting of the american economic association. u. s. commissioner of corporations: reports on the lumber, petroleum, steel, and water power of the united states. seligman: essays in taxation; shifting and incidence of taxation; and progressive taxation in theory and practice. also the works of taussig, devas, carver, pesch, king, vermeersch, willoughby, and the commission on industrial relations, all of which are cited at the end of the introductory chapter. footnotes: [ ] "summary of report of the commissioner of corporations on the timber industry in the united states," p. . [ ] "report of the commissioner of corporations on water power development in the united states," pp. - . [ ] idem, pp. , . [ ] "abstract of the thirteenth census," p. . [ ] cf. marsh, "land value taxation in american cities," p. . [ ] municipal purchase and ownership of land have been advocated by such a conservative authority as the rev. heinrich pesch, s.j. "lehrbuch der nationaloekonomie," i, . [ ] as we shall see in a later chapter, the confiscation and injustice would be smaller if the state should simultaneously abolish interest. in any case, the decline in land value resulting from complete confiscation of rent should be made up to the private owner by public compensation. [ ] "principles of political economy," book v, ch. , sect. v. [ ] "progressive taxation in theory and practice," , p. . [ ] cf. taussig, "principles of economics," ii, : seligman, "the shifting and incidence of taxation," p. . [ ] the "discrimination" objection is put in a somewhat different form by the rev. sydney f. smith, s.j., in an article in _the month_, sept., , entitled "the theory of unearned increment." his argument is in substance that if the people of a city can claim the increases in land values which their presence and activity have occasioned, the purchasers of food, clothes, books, or concert tickets are equally justified in claiming that, "having added to the value of the shops and music halls, they had acquired a co-proprietary right in the increased value of the owners' stock, and the owners' premises." while this argument is specifically directed against those who maintain that the "social production" of values confers a right thereto, it affects to some extent our thesis that there is a vast difference between value-increases in land and in other goods. father smith seems to confuse the origination of value with the increase of value. the presence of consumers is an obvious prerequisite to the existence of any value at all in any kind of goods, but labour and financial outlay on the part of the producers of the goods are an equally indispensable prerequisite. the reason why the value is appropriated by the latter rather than the former is that this is clearly the only rational method of distribution. what we are concerned with here, however, is not this initial or cost-of-production-value of artificial goods, but the _increases_ in value above this level which are brought about by external and social influences. theoretically, the state could as reasonably take these as the increases in the value of land; practically, such a performance is out of the question, for the simple reason that such increases are spasmodic and exceptional. if father smith thinks that "food or clothes, or books, or concert tickets" regularly advance above the cost-of-production-value, he is simply mistaken. since these and other artificial goods bring to their owners as a rule no socially occasioned increments of value, they and their owners are in quite a different situation from land and the owners of land. [ ] cf. seligman, "progressive taxation in theory and practice," part ii, chs. ii and iii; also the classic refutation of the "benefit" theory by john stuart mill in "principles of political economy," book v, ch. ii, sec. . the traditional catholic teaching on the subject is compactly stated by cardinal de lugo in "de justitia et jure," disp. ; cf. devas, "political economy," p. , d ed. [ ] cf. fallon, "les plus-values et l'impot," pp. , sq.; paris, ; fillebrown, "a single tax handbook for "; boston, ; marsh, "taxation of land values in american cities," pp. - ; new york, ; "the quarterly journal of economics," vols. , , ; "the single tax review," march-april, ; "stimmen aus maria-laach," oct., . [ ] see the references in the second last paragraph. [ ] the most comprehensive and reliable account of the special land taxes in canada is contained in the report prepared for the committee on taxation of the city of new york, by robert murray haig, ph.d., entitled, "the exemption of improvements from taxation in canada and the united states"; new york, . see also fallon, op. cit., pp. - . [ ] cf. fallon, op. cit., pp. - . [ ] "the wealth and income of the people of the united states," pp. , . [ ] "abstract of bulletins on wealth, debt, and taxation," p. ; u. s. census, . [ ] idem, p. . [ ] idem, p. ; and bulletin of the census on "estimated valuation of national wealth," p. . [ ] "special report of the twelfth census on wealth, debt, and taxation," pp. , . [ ] haig, "probable effects of exemption of improvements....", p. . [ ] cf. seligman, "the shifting and incidence of taxation," pp. , , , and all of part ii; n. y., ; taussig, "principles of economics," ii, - , and chs. - . [ ] cf. fallon, op. cit., pp. , sq. [ ] cf. vermeersch, "quaestiones de justitia," pp. - ; seligman, "progressive taxation in theory and practice," pp. , ; mill, "principles of political economy," book v, ch. ii, sec. . [ ] "summary of report of the commissioner of corporations on the lumber industry in the united states," p. . [ ] probably the most concrete and satisfactory discussion of the increment tax and the project to transfer improvement taxes to land, is that presented in the "final report of the committee on taxation of the city of new york"; . it contains brief, though complete, statements of all phases of the subject, together with concise arguments on both sides, majority and minority recommendations, a great variety of dissenting individual opinions, and considerable testimony by experts, authorities, and other interested persons. section ii the morality of private capital and interest chapter ix the nature and the rate of interest interest denotes that part of the product of industry which goes to the capitalist. as the ownership of land commands rent, so the ownership of capital commands interest; as rent is a price paid for the use of land, so interest is a price paid for the use of capital. however, the term capital is less definite and unambiguous, both in popular and in economic usage, than the word land. the farmer, the merchant, and the manufacturer often speak of their land, buildings, and chattels as their capital, and reckon the returns from all these sources as equivalent to a certain per cent. of interest or profit. this is not technically correct; when we use the terms capital and interest we should exclude the notions of land and rent. _meaning of capital and capitalist_ capital is ordinarily defined as, wealth employed directly for the production of new wealth. according as it is considered in the abstract or the concrete, it is capital-value or capital-instruments. for example, the owner of a wagon factory may describe his capital as having a value of , dollars, or as consisting of certain buildings, machines, tools, office furniture, etc. in the former case he thinks of his capital as so much abstract value which, through a sale, he could take out of the factory, and put into other concrete capital forms, such as a railroad or a jobbing house. in the latter case he has in mind the particular instruments in which his capital is at present embodied. the capital-value concept is the more convenient, and is usually intended when the word capital is used without qualification. it is also the basis upon which interest is reckoned; for the capitalist does not measure his share of the product as so many dollars of rent on his capital-instruments, but as so many per cent. on his capital-value. capitalists are of two principal kinds: those who employ their own money in their own enterprises; and those who lend their money to others for use in industry. the former may be called active capitalists, the latter loan-capitalists. perhaps a majority of active capitalists use some borrowed money in their business. to the lenders of this borrowed money or capital they turn over a part of the product in the form of interest. when, therefore, interest is defined as the share of the product that goes to the capitalist, it is the owner of capital-value rather than of capital-instruments that is meant. for the man who has loaned , dollars at five per cent. to the wagon manufacturer is not, except hypothetically, the owner of the buildings which have been erected with that money. these are owned (subject possibly to a mortgage) by the borrower, the active capitalist. but the abstract value which has gone into them continues to be the property of the lender. as owner thereof, he, instead of the active capitalist, receives the interest that is assigned to this portion of the total capital. hence interest is the share of the product that is taken by the owner of capital, whether he employs it himself or lends it to some one else. while the fundamental reason of interest is the fact that certain concrete instruments are necessary to the making of the product, interest is always _reckoned_ on capital-value, and goes to the owner of the capital-value. it goes to the man whose money has been put into the instruments, whether or not he is the owner of the instruments. _meaning of interest_ interest is the share of the capitalist as capitalist. the man who employs his own capital in his own business receives therefrom in addition to interest other returns. let us suppose that some one has invested , dollars of borrowed money and , dollars of his own money in a wholesale grocery business. at the end of the year, after defraying the cost of labour, materials, rent, repairs, and replacement, his gross returns are , dollars. out of this sum he must pay five thousand dollars as interest on the money that he has borrowed. this leaves him a total amount of ten thousand dollars, as his share of the product of the industry. since he could command a salary of three thousand dollars if he worked for some one else, he regards his labour of directing his own business as worth at least this sum. deducting it from ten thousand dollars, he has left seven thousand dollars, which must in some sense be accredited as payment for the use of his own capital. however, it is not all pure interest; for he runs the risk of losing his capital, and also of failing to get the normal rate of interest on it during future unprosperous years. hence he will require a part of the seven thousand dollars as insurance against these two contingencies. two per cent. of his capital, or two thousand dollars, is not an excessive allowance. if the business did not provide him with this amount of insurance he would probably regard it as unsafe, and would sell it and invest his money elsewhere. subtracting two thousand dollars from seven thousand, we have five thousand left as pure interest on the director's own capital. this is equivalent to five per cent., which is the rate that he is paying on the capital that he has borrowed. if he could not get this rate on his own money he would probably prefer to become a lender himself, a loan capitalist instead of an active capitalist. this part of his total share, then, and only this part, is pure interest. the other two sums that he receives, the three thousand dollars and the two thousand dollars, are respectively wages for his labour and insurance against his risks. sometimes they are classified together under the general name of profits. let us suppose, however, that the gross returns are not , dollars, but , . how is the additional sum to be denominated? in strict economic language it would probably be called net profits, as distinguished from normal or necessary profits, which comprise wages of direction and insurance against loss. sometimes it is called interest. in that case the owner of the store would receive seven instead of five per cent, on his own capital. whether the extra two per cent. ( , dollars) be called net profits or surplus interest, is mainly a matter of terminology. the important thing is to indicate clearly that these terms designate the surplus which goes to the active capitalist in addition to necessary profits and necessary interest. at the risk of wearisome repetition, one more example will be given to illustrate the distinction between interest and the other returns that are received in connection with capital. the annual income from a railway bond is interest on lender's capital, and consequently pure interest. ordinarily the bondholder is adequately protected against the loss of his capital by a mortgage on the railroad. on the other hand, the holder of a share of railway stock is a part owner of the railroad, and consequently incurs the risk of losing his property. hence the dividend that he receives on his stock comprises interest on capital plus insurance against loss. it is usually one or two per cent. higher than the rate on the bonds. since the officers and directors are the only shareholders who perform any labour in the management of the railroad, only they receive wages of management. consequently the gross profits are divided into interest and dividends at fixed rates, and fixed salaries. when a surplus exists above these requirements it is not, as a rule, distributed among the stockholders annually. in railroads, therefore, and many other corporations, interest is easily distinguished from those other returns with which it is frequently confused in partnerships and enterprises carried on by individuals. _the rate of interest_ is there a single rate of interest throughout industry? at first sight this question would seem to demand a negative answer. united states bonds pay about two per cent.; banks about three per cent.; municipal bonds about four per cent.; railway bonds about five per cent.; the stocks of stable industrial corporations about six per cent. net; real estate mortgages from five to seven per cent.; promissory notes somewhat higher rates; and pawnbrokers' loans from twelve per cent. upwards. moreover, the same kind of loans brings different rates in different places. for example, money lent on the security of farm mortgages yields only about five per cent. in the states of the east, but seven or eight per cent. on the pacific coast. these and similar variations are differences not so much of interest as of security, cost of negotiation, and mental attitude. the farm mortgage pays a higher rate than the government bond partly because it is less secure, partly because it involves greater trouble of investment, and partly because it does not run for so long a time. for the same reasons a higher rate of interest is charged on a promissory note than on a bank deposit certificate. again, the lower rates on government bonds and bank deposits are due in some degree to the peculiar attitude of that class of investors whose savings are small in amount, who are not well aware of the range of investment opportunities, and to whom security and convenience are exceptionally important considerations. if such persons did not exist the rates on government bonds and savings deposits would be higher than they actually are. the higher rates in a new country on, say, farm mortgages are likewise due in part to psychical peculiarities. where men are more speculative and more eager to borrow money for industrial purposes, the demand for loans is greater relatively to the supply than in older and more conservative communities. therefore, the price of the loans, the rate of interest, is higher. in one sense it would seem that the lowest of the rates cited above, namely, that on united states bonds, represents pure interest, and that all the other rates are interest plus something else. nevertheless, the sums invested in these bonds form but a very small part of the whole amount of money and capital drawing interest, and they come from persons who do not display the average degree either of business ability or of willingness to take risks. hence it is more convenient and more correct to regard as the standard rate of interest in any community that which is obtained on first class industrial security, such as the bonds of railroads and other stable corporations, and mortgages on real estate. loans to these enterprises are subject to what may properly be called the average or prevailing industrial risks, are negotiated in average psychical conditions, and embrace by far the greater part of all money drawing interest; consequently the rate that they command may be looked upon as in a very real and practical sense normal. while this conception of the normal rate is in a measure conventional, it accords with popular usage. it is what most men have in mind when they speak of the prevailing rate of interest. the prevailing or standard rate in any community can usually be stated with a sufficient approach to precision to be satisfactory for all practical purposes. in all the eastern states it is now about five per cent.; in the middle west it is somewhere between five and six per cent.; on the pacific coast it is between six and seven per cent. the supreme court of minnesota decided in that, in view of the actual rates of interest then obtaining, five per cent. on the reproduction cost of railroads was a fairly liberal return, and could be adopted by the state authorities in fixing charges for carrying freight and passengers.[ ] a few years later the michigan tax commission allowed the railroads four per cent. on the reproduction cost of their property, on the ground that investments which yielded that rate in addition to the usual tax of one per cent. (or five per cent. before the deduction of the tax) stood at par on the stock market.[ ] in other words, the prevailing rate was five per cent. at the beginning of the year , the railroad commission of wisconsin fixed six per cent. as the return to which the stockholders of railroads were entitled, because this was about the return which investors generally were able to get on that kind of security. in the view of the commission, the current rate of interest on railroad _bonds_, and similar investments, was about five per cent.[ ] the significance of these decisions by the public authorities of three states is found not so much in the particular rates which they sanctioned as in the fact that they were able to determine a standard or prevailing rate. therefore a standard rate exists. at the same time it is interesting to note that in all three states the rate of industrial interest was declared to be about the same, that is, five per cent. perhaps it is safe to say that, throughout the greater part of the industrial field of america, five or six per cent. is the prevailing rate of interest. what causes the rate to be five per cent., or six per cent., or any other per cent.? briefly stated, it is the interplay of supply and demand. since interest is a price paid for the use of a thing, i.e., capital, its rate or level is determined by the same general forces that govern the price of wheat, or shoes, or hats, or any other commodity that is bought and sold in the market. the rate is five or six per cent. because at that rate the amount of money offered by lenders equals the amount demanded by borrowers. should the amount offered at that rate increase without a corresponding increase in the amount demanded, the rate would fall, just as it would rise under opposite conditions. supply and demand, however, are merely the immediate forces. they are themselves the outcome or resultant of factors more remote. on the side of supply, the principal remote forces which regulate the rate of interest are: the industrial resources of the community, and the relative strength of its habits of saving and spending. on the side of demand, the chief ultimate factors are: the productivity of capital-instruments, the comparative intensity of the social desires of investing and lending, and the supplies of land, business ability and labour. each of these factors exercises upon the rate of interest an influence of its own, and each of them may be assisted or counteracted by one or more of the others. precisely what rate will result from any given condition of the factors, cannot be stated beforehand, for the factors cannot be measured in such a way as to provide a basis for this kind of forecast. all that can be said is that, when changes occur on the side of either demand or supply, there will be a corresponding change in the rate of interest, provided that no neutralising change takes place on the other side. footnotes: [ ] "final report of the industrial commission," pp. , . [ ] "report of the industrial commission," vol. ix, p. . [ ] "publication no. of the railroad commission of wisconsin," pp. , . chapter x the alleged right of labour to the entire product of industry in a preceding chapter we saw that marxian socialism is logically debarred from passing _moral_ judgment upon any social institution or practice.[ ] if social institutions are produced necessarily by socio-economic forces they are neither morally good nor morally bad. they are quite as unmoral as rain and snow, verdure and decay, tadpoles and elephants. consistent socialists cannot, therefore, censure on purely ethical grounds the system of private capital and interest. this logical requirement of the theory of economic determinism is exemplified in much of the rigidly scientific discussions of socialists. marx maintained that the value of commodities is all determined and created by labour, and that interest is the surplus which the labourer produces above the cost of his keep; nevertheless marx did not formally assert that the labourer has a moral right to the whole product, nor that interest is theft. he set forth his theories of value and surplus value as positive explanations of economic facts, not as an ethical evaluation of human actions. his object was to show the causes and nature of value, wages, and interest, not to estimate the moral claims of the agents of production, or the morality of the distributive process. in his formal discussion of the theory of value and of surplus value, marx said nothing that implied a belief in genuine moral responsibility, or that contradicted the principles of philosophical materialism and economic determinism. it is, therefore, quite erroneous to infer that, since the marxian theory attributes all value and products to the action of labour, marxian socialists must condemn the interest-taker as a robber. neither marx nor any other socialist authority, however, has always held consistently to this purely positive method of economic exposition. when they declare that the labourer is "exploited," that surplus value is "filched" from him, that the capitalist is a "parasite," etc., they are expressing and conveying distinct moral judgments. in their more popular writings socialist authors do not seriously attempt to observe the logical requirements of their necessitarian philosophy. they assume the same ethical postulates, and give expression to the same ethical intuitions as the man who believes in the human soul and free will.[ ] and the great majority of their followers likewise regard the question of distribution as a moral question, as a question of justice. in their view the labourer not only creates all value, but has a just claim to the whole product. _the labour theory of value_ this doctrine is sometimes formally based upon the marxian theory of value, and is sometimes defended independently of that theory. in the former case its groundwork is about as follows: by eliminating the factors of utility and scarcity, marx found that the only element common to all commodities is labour, and then concluded that labour is the only possible explanation, creator, and determinant of value.[ ] since capital, that is, concrete capital, is a commodity, its value is likewise determined and created by labour. since it cannot create value, for only labour has that power, it can contribute to the product of the productive process in which it is engaged only as much value as it originally received. since it is only a reservoir of value, it cannot transfer more value than it holds and possesses. in the words of marx, "the means of production transfer value to the new product, so far only as during the labour-process they lose value in the shape of the old use-value. the maximum loss of value that they can suffer in the process is plainly limited by the amount of the original value with which they came into the process, or, in other words, by the labour time necessary for their production. therefore, the means of production can ever add more value to the product than they themselves possess independently of the process in which they assist. however useful a given kind of raw material, or a machine, or other means of production may be, though it may cost pounds, or say days' labour, yet it cannot, under any circumstances, add to the value of the product more than pounds."[ ] to view the matter from another angle: capital contributes to the product only sufficient value to pay for its own reproduction. when, as is the normal usage, the undertaker has deducted from the product sufficient value or money to replace the deteriorated or worn out machine, or other concrete capital, all the remaining value in the product is due specifically to labour. when, therefore, the capitalist goes further, and appropriates from the product interest and profits, he takes a part of the value that labour has created. he seizes the surplus value which labour has produced in excess of the wages that it receives. in ethical terms, he robs the labourers of a part of their product. it is not necessary to introduce any extended refutation of this arbitrary, unreal, and fantastic argument. "the theory that labour is the sole source of value has few defenders to-day. in the face of the overwhelming criticism which has been directed against it, even good marxists are forced to abandon it, or to explain it away."[ ] it may, however, be useful to recount very briefly the facts which disprove the theory. labour creates some things which have no value, as wooden shoes in a community that does not desire wooden shoes; some things have value, exchange value, although no labour has been expended upon them, as land and minerals; the value of things is sometimes greater, sometimes less, proportionately, than the labour embodied in them; for example, paintings by the old masters, and last year's styles of millinery; and, finally, the true determinants of value are utility and scarcity. if it be objected that marx was aware of these two factors, the reply is that he either restricted them to the function of conditions rather than efficient causes of value, or attributed to them an influence that is inconsistent with his main theory that labour is the sole determinant of value. indeed, the contradictions into which marx was led by the theory are its sufficient refutation.[ ] with the destruction of the labour theory of value, the marxian contention that capital contributes only its own original value to the product is likewise overthrown. the same conclusion is reached more directly by recalling the obvious facts of experience that, since the joint action of both capital and labour is required to bring into being every atom of the product, each is in its own order the cause of the whole product, and the proportion of the whole that is specifically due to the casual influence of either is as incapable of determination as the procreative contribution of either parent to their common offspring. the productive process carried on by labour and capital is virtually an organic process, in which the precise amount contributed by either factor is unknown and unknowable. in so far, therefore, as the alleged right of labour to the whole product is based upon the marxian theory of value, it has not a shadow of validity. _the right of productivity_ but the claim is not necessarily dependent upon this foundation. those socialists who have abandoned the labour theory of value can argue that the labourer (including the active director of industry) is the only _human_ producer, that the capitalist as such produces nothing, and consequently has no moral claim to any part of the product. whatever theory of value we may adopt, or whether we adopt any, we cannot annul the fact that interest does not represent labour expended upon the product by the capitalist. nevertheless, this fact does not compel the conclusion that the share of the product now taken by the capitalist belongs of right to the labourer. productivity does not of itself create a right to the product. it is not an intrinsic title. that is to say, a right to the product is not inherent in the relation between product and producer. it is determined by certain extrinsic relations. when brown makes a pair of shoes out of materials that he has stolen, he has not a right to the whole product; when jones turns out a similar product from materials that he has bought, he becomes the exclusive owner of the shoes. the intrinsic relation of productivity is the same in both cases. it is the difference of extrinsic relation, namely, the relation between the producer and the material, that begets the difference between the moral claims of the two producers upon the product. the right of the producer is conditioned by certain other and more fundamental relations. why has jones a right to the shoes that he has made out of materials that he has bought? not because he needs them; he is not alone in this condition. the ultimate reason and basis of his ownership is to be sought in the practical requirements of an equitable social distribution. unless men receive an adequate return for their labour, they will not be able to satisfy their wants in a regular and sufficient manner. if they are forced to labour for others without compensation, they are deprived of the opportunity to develop their personality. they are treated as mere instruments to the welfare of beings who are not their superiors, but their moral and juridical equals. their intrinsic worth and sacredness of personality is outraged, their essential equality with their fellows is disregarded, and their indestructible rights are violated. on the other hand, when a producer, such as jones, gets possession of his product, he subordinates no human being to himself, deprives no man of the opportunity to perform remunerative labour, nor appropriates an unreasonable share of the common bounty of the earth. he has a right to his product because this is one of the reasonable methods of distribution. in fact, it is the exigencies of reasonable distribution that constitute the fundamental justification of every title of ownership. the title of purchase by which a man claims the hat that he wears; the title of inheritance by which a son claims the house that once belonged to his father; the title of contract through which a labourer gets wages, a merchant prices, and a landlord rent,--are all valid simply because they are reasonable devices for enabling men to obtain the goods of the earth for the satisfaction of their wants. all titles of property, productivity included, are conventional institutions which reason and experience have shown to be conducive to human welfare. none of them possesses intrinsic or metaphysical validity.[ ] therefore, the socialist cannot establish the right of labour to the full product of industry until he proves that this so-called right could be reduced to practice consistently with individual and social welfare. in other words, he must show that to give the entire product to the labourer would be a reasonable method of distribution. now the arrangement by which the socialist proposes to award the whole product of labour is the collective ownership and operation of the means of production, and the social distribution of the product. if this system would not enable the labourer and the members of society generally to satisfy their wants to better advantage than is possible under the present system, the contention that the labourer has a right to the entire product of industry falls to the ground. the question will be considered in the following chapter. footnotes: [ ] cf. engels, "socialism: utopian and scientific," pp. , ; and hillquit-ryan, "socialism: promise or menace," , , - . [ ] cf. hillquit-ryan, op. cit., pp. , . [ ] "capital," pp. - . [ ] op. cit., p. ; humboldt edition. [ ] skelton, "socialism: a critical analysis," pp. , . [ ] cf. skelton, loc. cit. [ ] the exaggerated claims made on behalf of social productivity in the matter of land values have been examined in a previous chapter. similar exaggerations with regard to capital will be considered in chapter xii. chapter xi the socialist scheme of industry "never has our party told the workingman about a 'state of the future,' never in any way than as a mere utopia. if anybody says: 'i picture to myself society after our programme has been realised, after wage labour has been abolished, and the exploitation of men has ceased, in such and such a manner,--' well and good; ideas are free, and everybody may conceive the socialist state as he pleases. whoever believes in it may do so; whoever does not, need not. these pictures are but dreams, and social democracy has never understood them otherwise."[ ] such is the official attitude of socialism toward descriptions of its contemplated industrial organisation. the party has never drawn up nor approved any of the various outlines of this sort which have been defended by individual socialists. it maintains that it cannot anticipate even the essential factors in the operation of a social and industrial system which will differ so widely from the one that we have to-day, and which will be so profoundly determined by events that are in the nature of the case impossible to prognosticate. _socialist inconsistency_ from the viewpoint of all but convinced socialists, this position is indefensible. we are asked to believe that the collective ownership and operation of the means of production would be more just and beneficial than the present plan of private ownership and operation. yet the socialist party refuses to tell us how the scheme would bring about these results; refuses to give us, even in outline, a picture of the machine at work. as reasonably might we be expected to turn the direction of industry over to a rockefeller or a morgan, making an act of faith in their efficiency and fairness. we are in the position of a man who should be advised to demolish an unsatisfactory house, without receiving any solid assurance that the proposed new one would be as good. to our requests for specific information about the working of the new industrial order the socialists, as a rule, answer in terms of prophesied results. they leave us in the dark concerning the causes by which these wonderful results are to be produced. from the viewpoint of the confirmed socialist, however, this failure to be specific is not at all unreasonable. he can have faith in the socialist system without knowing beforehand how it will work. he believes in its efficacy because he believes that it is inevitable. in the words of kautsky, "what is proved to be inevitable is proved not only to be possible, but to be the only possible outcome."[ ] the socialist believes that his scheme is inevitable because he thinks that it is necessarily included in the outcome of economic and social evolution. neither the premises nor the conclusion of this reasoning is valid. the doctrines of economic determinism, the class struggle, the concentration of capital, the disappearance of the middle classes, the progressive pauperisation of the working classes, and all the other tenets of the socialist philosophy, have been thoroughly discredited by the facts of psychology, the experience of the last half century, and the present trend of industrial and social forces.[ ] even if the socialist outcome were inevitable, it would not necessarily be an improvement on the present system. it might illustrate the principle of retrogression. since we cannot make an act of faith in either the inevitableness or the efficacy of the socialist industrial scheme, we are compelled to submit it to the ordinary tests of examination and criticism. we must try to see what would be the essential structure, elements, and operation of a system in which the means of production were owned and managed collectively, and the product socially distributed. in attempting to describe the system, we shall be guided by what seems to be inherently necessary to it, and by the prevalent conception of it among present day socialists. in this connection we have to observe that some of the criticisms of the socialist order attribute to it elements that are not essential, nor any longer demanded by the authoritative spokesmen of the movement; for example, complete confiscation of capital, compulsory assignment of men to the different industrial tasks, equality of remuneration, the use of labour checks instead of money, the socialisation of all capital down to the smallest tool, and collective ownership of homes. _expropriating the capitalists_ the first problem confronting a socialist administration would be the method of getting possession of the instruments of production. in the early years of the socialist movement, most of its adherents seemed to favour a policy of outright confiscation. professor nearing estimates the total property income now paid in the united states as, "well above the six-billion-dollar mark."[ ] were the socialist state to seize all land and capital without compensation, it could conceivably transfer more than six billion dollars annually from landowners and capitalists to the community. not all of it, however, would be available for diversion to the labourers. according to the computations of professor king, about two billion dollars were in saved and converted into capital.[ ] a progressive socialist régime would want to appropriate at least that sum for the renewal and increase of the instruments of production. consequently, it would have only four billion dollars to add to the present total income of labour. this would be equivalent to $ . for every person in the united states. desirable as would be such an addition to the remuneration of labour, it could never be realised through the process of confiscation. the owners of land and capital would be sufficiently powerful to defeat any such simple scheme of setting up the collectivist commonwealth. they constitute probably a majority of the adults of our population, and their economic advantages would make them much stronger relatively than their numbers.[ ] ethically the policy of confiscation would be, on the whole, sheer robbery. to be sure, not all owners of land and capital have a valid claim to all their possessions, but practically all of them hold the greater part of their wealth by some kind of just title. much land and capital that was originally acquired by unjust means has become morally legitimatised by the title of prescription. the majority of present day socialists seem to advocate at least partial compensation.[ ] but this plan does not seem to offer any considerable advantage over complete confiscation. as regards morality, it would differ only in the degree of its injustice; as regards expediency, it would be at best of doubtful efficacy. if the capitalists were given only a small fraction of the value of their holdings they would oppose the change with quite as much determination as though they were offered nothing; if they were paid almost the full value of their possessions there would be no substantial gain to the community from the transfer; if they were compensated at a figure somewhere between these two extremes their resistance would still be more costly to the state than the extra amount required to make full compensation. finally, if full compensation were offered it would have to take the form of government obligations, securities, or bonds. if these did not bear interest the great majority of capital owners would regard the scheme as partial and considerable confiscation, and would fight it with determination and effectiveness. if the state bound itself to pay interest on the bonds it would probably find itself giving the dispossessed capitalists as high a rate of return on their capital, as large a share of the national product, as they receive under the present system. consequently, the expropriation of the capitalists would bring no direct and pecuniary gain to the labouring classes. indeed, the latter would suffer positive loss by the change, owing to the fact that the state would be required to withdraw from the national product a considerable amount for the maintenance, renewal, and expansion of the instruments of production. at present the capitalist class performs the greater part of this function through the reinvestment of the incomes that it receives in the form of interest and rent. the average socialist entirely ignores this capitalistic service, when he draws his pessimistic picture of the vast share of the national product which now goes to "idle capitalists." so far as the larger capitalist incomes are concerned; that is, those in excess of twenty-five thousand dollars annually, it is probable that the greater part is not consumed by the receivers, but is converted into socially necessary capital instruments. since this would not be permitted in a socialist order, the capitalists would strive to consume the whole of the incomes received from the public securities, and the state would be compelled to provide the required new capital out of the current national product. in a word, society would have to give the capitalists as much as it does at present, and to withhold from the labourers for new capital an immense sum which is now furnished by the capitalists. it is undoubtedly true that the richest capitalists would be unable to expend the whole of their incomes upon themselves and their families. if they turned a considerable part of it over to the state, the surrendered sum would be available as capital, thereby reducing the amount that the state would need to take out of the national product for this purpose. were all those possessing incomes in excess of fifty thousand dollars per family to give up all above that amount, the total thus accruing to the state would be a little more than one billion dollars.[ ] but this would be only one-half the required new capital. a part of the additional one billion is now provided out of wages and salaries, but the greater part probably comes out of rent and interest. under socialism this latter portion would have to be deducted from that part of the national product which at present goes to the workers and is consumed by them. hence they would undergo a loss of several hundred million dollars. one reply to this difficulty is that the total product of industry would be much increased under socialism. undoubtedly an _efficient_ organisation of industry on collectivist lines would be able to effect economies by combining manufacturing plants, distributive concerns, and transportation systems, and by reducing unemployment to a minimum; but it could not possibly make the enormous economies that are promised by the socialists. the assertion that under socialism men would be able to provide abundantly for all their wants on a basis of a working day of four, or even two, hours is seductive and interesting, but it has no support in the ascertainable facts of industrial resources. even if the socialist organisation were operating with a fair degree of efficiency, the gains that it could effect over the present system would probably not more than offset the social losses resulting from increased consumption by the compensated capitalists. but the proposed industrial organisation would not operate with a fair degree of efficiency. according to present socialist thought, industries that are national in scope, such as the manufacture of petroleum, steel, and tobacco, would be carried on under national direction, while those that supplied only a local market, such as laundries, bakeries, and retail stores, would be managed by the municipalities. this division of control would be undoubtedly wise and necessary. moreover, the majority of socialists no longer demand that _all_ tools and all industries should be brought under collective or governmental direction. very small concerns which employed no hired labour, or at most one or two persons, could remain under private ownership and operation, while even larger enterprises might be carried on by co-operative associations.[ ] nevertheless the attempt to organise and operate collectively the industries of the country, even with these limitations, would encounter certain insuperable obstacles. these will be considered under the general heads of inefficient industrial leadership, inefficient labour, and interference with individual liberty. _inefficient industrial leadership_ under socialism the boards of directors or commissions which exercised supreme control in the various industries, would have to be chosen either by the general popular vote, by the government, or by the workers in each particular industry. the first method may be at once excluded from consideration. even now the number of officials chosen directly by the people is far too large; hence the widespread agitation for the "short ballot." public opinion is coming to realise that the voters should be required to select only a few important officials, whose qualifications should be general rather than technical, and therefore easily recognised by the masses. these supreme functionaries should have the power of filling all administrative offices, and all positions demanding expert or technical ability. if the task of choosing administrative experts cannot be safely left to the mass of the voters at present, it certainly ought not to be assigned to them under socialism, when the number and qualifications of these functionaries would be indefinitely increased. if the boards of industrial directors were selected by the government, that is, by the national and municipal authorities, the result would be industrial inefficiency and an intolerable bureaucracy. no body of officials, whether legislative or executive, would possess the varied, extensive, and specific knowledge required to pick out efficient administrative commissions for all the industries of the country or the city. and no group of political persons could safely be entrusted with such tremendous power. it would enable them to dominate the industrial as well as the political life of the nation or the municipality, to establish a bureaucracy that would be impregnable for a long period of years, and to revive all the conceivable evils of governmental absolutism. the third method is apparently the one now favoured by most socialists. "the workers in each industry may periodically select the managing authority," says morris hillquit.[ ] even if the workers were as able as the stockholders of a corporation to select an efficient governing board, they would be much less likely to choose men who would insist on hard and efficient work from all subordinates. the members of a private corporation have a strong pecuniary interest in selecting directors who will secure the maximum of product at the minimum of cost, while the employés in a socialist industry would want managing authorities who were willing to make working conditions as easy as possible. the dependence of the boards of directors upon the mass of the workers, and the lack of adequate pecuniary motives, would render their management much less efficient and progressive than that of private enterprises. in the rules that they would make for the administration of the industry and the government of the labour force, in their selection of subordinate officers, such as superintendents, general managers, and foremen, and in all the other details of management, they would have always before them the abiding fact that their authority was derived from and dependent upon the votes of the majority of the employés. their supreme consideration would be to conduct the industry in such a way as to satisfy the men who elected them. hence they would strive to maintain an administration which would permit the mass of the labour force to work leisurely, to be provided with the most expensive conditions of employment, and to be immune from discharge except in rare and flagrant cases. even if the members of the directing boards were sufficiently courageous or sufficiently conscientious to exact reasonable and efficient service from all their subordinates and all the workers, they would not have the necessary pecuniary motives. their salaries would be fixed by the government, and in the nature of things could not be promptly adjusted to reward efficient and to punish inefficient management. so long as their administration of industry maintained a certain routine level of mediocrity, they would have no fear of being removed; since they would be supervised and paid by public officials who would have neither the extraordinary capacity nor the necessary incentive to recognise and reward promptly efficient management, they would lack the powerful stimulus which is provided by the hope of gain. in the large private corporations, the tenure of the boards of directors depends not upon the workers but upon the stockholders, whose main interest is to obtain a maximum of product at a minimum of cost, and who will employ and discharge, reward and punish, according as this end is attained. moreover, the members of the boards, and the executive officers generally, are themselves financially interested in the business and in the maintenance of the policy demanded by the other stockholders. all the subordinate officers, such as department managers, superintendents, foremen, etc., would exemplify the same absence of efficiency. knowing that they must carry out the prudent policy of the board of directors, they would be slow to punish shirking or to discharge incompetents. realising that the board of directors lacked the incentive to make promotions promptly for efficient service, or to discharge promptly for inefficient service, they would devote their main energies to the task of holding their positions through a policy of indifferent and routine administration. invention and progress would likewise suffer. men who were capable of devising new machines, new processes, new methods of combining capital and labour, would be slow to convert their potencies into action. they would be painfully aware that the spirit of inertia and routine prevailing throughout the industrial and political organisation would prevent their efforts from receiving quick recognition and adequate rewards. inventors of mechanical devices particularly would be deprived of the stimulus which they now find in the hope of indefinitely large gains. boards of directors, general managers, and other persons exercising industrial authority would be very slow to introduce new and more efficient financial or technical methods when they had no certainty that they would receive adequate reward in the form of either promotion or money compensation. they would see no sufficient reason for abandoning the established and pleasant policy of routine methods and unprogressive management. _inefficient labour_ the same spirit of inefficiency and mediocrity would permeate the rank and file of the workers. indeed, it would operate even more strongly among them than among the officers and superiors; for their intellectual limitations and the nature of their tasks would make them less responsive to other than material and pecuniary motives. they would desire to follow the line of least resistance, to labour in the most pleasant conditions, to reduce irksome toil to a minimum. since the great bulk of their tasks would necessarily be mechanical and monotonous, they would demand the shortest possible working day, and the most leisurely rate of working speed. and because of their numerical strength they would have the power to enforce this policy throughout the field of industry. they would have the necessary and sufficient votes. in a general way they might, indeed, realise that the practice of universal shirking and laziness must sooner or later result in such a diminution of the national product as to cause them great hardship, but the workers in each industry would hope that those in all the others would be more efficient; or doubt that a better example set by themselves would be imitated by the workers in other industries. they would not be keen to give up the certainty of easy working conditions for the remote possibility of a larger national product. _attempted replies to objections_ all the attempts made by socialists to answer or explain away the foregoing difficulties may be reduced to two: the achievements of government enterprises in our present system; and the assumed efficacy of altruism and public honour in a régime of socialism. under the first head appeal is made to such publicly owned and managed concerns as the post office, railroads, telegraphs, telephones, street railways, water works, and lighting plants. it is probably true that all these enterprises are on the whole carried on with better results to the public than if they were in private hands. it is likewise probable that these and all other public utility monopolies will sooner or later be taken over by the state in all advanced countries. even if this should prove in all cases to be a better arrangement from the viewpoint of the general public welfare than private ownership and management, the fact would constitute no argument for a socialist organisation of all industry. in the first place, the efficiency of labour, management, and technical organisation is generally lower in public than in private enterprises, and the cost of operation higher. despite these defects, government ownership of public utilities, such as street railways and lighting concerns, may be socially preferable because these industries are monopolies. inasmuch as their charges and services cannot be regulated by the automatic action of competition, the only alternative to public ownership is public supervision. inasmuch as the latter is often incapable of securing satisfactory service at fair prices, public ownership and management becomes on the whole more conducive to social welfare. in other words, the losses through inefficient operation are more than offset by the gains from better service and lower charges. three cent fares and adequate service on an inefficiently managed municipal street railway are preferable to five cent fares on a privately owned street railway whose management is superior. on the other hand, all those industries which are not natural monopolies can be prevented from practising extortion upon the public through regulated competition. in them, therefore, the advantages of private operation, of which competition itself is not the least, should be retained. in the second place, practically all the public service monopolies are simpler in structure, more routine in operation, and more mature in organisation and efficiency than the other industries. the degree of managerial ability required, the necessity of experimenting with new methods and processes, and the opportunity of introducing further improvements in organisation are relatively less. now, it is precisely in these respects that private has shown itself superior to public operation. initiative, inventiveness, and eagerness to effect economies and increase profits are the qualities in which private management excels. when the nature and maturity of the concern have rendered these qualities relatively unimportant, public management can exemplify a fair degree of efficiency. in the third place, the ability of the state to operate a few enterprises, does not prove that it could repeat the performance with an equal degree of success in all industries. i can drive two horses, but i could not drive twenty-two. no matter how scientific the organisation and departmentalisation of industries under socialism, the final control of and responsibility for all of them would rest with one organ, one authority, namely, the city in municipal industries, and the nation in industries having national scope. this would prove too great a task, too heavy a burden, for any body of officials, for any group of human beings. finally, it must be kept in mind that the publicly operated utilities are subject continuously to the indirect competition of private management. by far the greater part of industry is now under private control, which sets the pace for efficient operation in a hundred particulars. as a consequence, comparisons are steadily provoked between public and private management, and the former is subject to constant criticism. the managers of the state concerns are stimulated and practically compelled to emulate the success of private management. this factor is probably more effective in securing efficiency in public industries than all other causes put together. in the words of professor skelton: "a limited degree of public ownership succeeds simply because it is a limited degree, succeeds because private industry, in individual forms or in the socialised joint stock form, dominates the field as a whole. it is private industry that provides the capital, private industry that trains the men and tries out the methods, private industry that sets the pace, and--not the least of its services--private industry that provides the ever-possible outlet of escape."[ ] the socialist expectation that altruistic sentiments and public honour would induce all industrial leaders and all ordinary workers to exert themselves as effectively as they now do for the sake of money, is based upon the very shallow fallacy that what is true of a few men may very readily become true of all men. there are, indeed, persons in every walk of life who work faithfully under the influence of the higher motives, but they are and always have been the exceptions in their respective classes. the great majority have been affected only feebly, intermittently, and on the whole ineffectively by either love of their kind or the hope of public approval. a socialist order could generate no forces which would be as productive of unselfish conduct as the motives that are drawn from religion. history shows nothing comparable either in extent or intensity to the record of self surrender and service to the neighbour which are due to the latter influence. yet religion has never been able, even in the periods and places most thoroughly dominated by christianity, to induce more than a small minority of the population to adopt that life of altruism which would be required of the great majority under socialism. moreover, the efficacy of the higher motives is much greater among men devoted to scientific, intellectual, and religious pursuits than in either the leaders or the rank and file engaged in industrial occupations. the cause of this difference is to be sought in the varying nature of the two classes of activity: the first necessarily develops an appreciation of the higher goods, the things of the mind and the soul; the second compels the attention of men to rest upon matter, upon the things that appeal to the senses, upon the things that are measurable in terms of money. there is a special fallacy underlying the emphasis placed by socialists on the power of public honour. it consists in the failure to perceive that this good declines in efficacy according as the number of its recipients increases. even if all the industrial population were willing to work as hard for public approval as they now do for money, the results expected by socialists would not be forthcoming. public recognition of unselfish service is now available in relatively great measure because the persons qualifying for it are relatively few. they easily stand out conspicuous among their fellows. let their numbers vastly increase, and unselfishness would become commonplace. it would no longer command popular recognition, save in those who displayed it in exceptional or heroic measure. the public would not have the time nor take the trouble to notice and honour adequately every floor walker, retail clerk, factory operative, street cleaner, agricultural labourer, ditch digger, etc., who might become a candidate for such recognition. when the socialists point to such examples of disinterested public service as that of colonel goethals in building the panama canal, they confound the exceptional with the average. they assume that, since an exceptional man performs an exceptional task from high motives, all men can be got to act likewise in all kinds of operations. they forget that the panama canal presented opportunities of self satisfying achievement and fame which do not occur once in a thousand years; that the traditions and training of the army have during many centuries deliberately and consistently aimed and tended to produce an exceptionally high standard of honour and disinterestedness; that, even so, the majority of army officers have not in their civil assignments shown the same degree of faithfulness to the public welfare as colonel goethals; that the canal was built under a régime of "benevolent despotism," which placed no reliance upon the "social mindedness" of the subordinate workers; and that the latter, far from showing any desire to qualify as altruists or public benefactors, demanded and received material recognition in the form of wages, perquisites, and gratuities which greatly surpassed the remuneration received by any other labour force in history.[ ] in a word, wherever in the construction of the canal notable disinterestedness or appreciation of public honour was shown, the circumstances were exceptional; where the situation was ordinary, the canal builders were unable to rise above the ordinary motives of selfish advantage. beneath all the socialist argument on this subject lies the assumption that the attitude of the _average man_ toward the higher motives can by some mysterious process be completely _revolutionised_. this is contrary to all experience, and to all reasonable probability. only a small minority of men have ever, in any society or environment, been dominated mainly by altruism or the desire of public honour. what reason is there to expect that men will act differently in the future? neither legislation nor education can make men love their neighbours more than themselves, or love the applause of their neighbours more than their own material welfare. _restricting individual liberty_ even though human nature should undergo the degree of miraculous transformation necessary to maintain an efficient industrial system on socialist lines, such a social organisation must soon collapse because of its injurious effect upon individual liberty. freedom of choice would be abolished in the most vital economic transactions; for there would be but one buyer of labour, and one seller of commodities. and these two would be identical, namely, the state. with the exception of the small minority that might be engaged in purely individual avocations, and in co-operative enterprises, men would be compelled to sell their labour to either the municipality or the national government. as competition between these two political agencies in the matter of wages and other conditions of labour could not be permitted, there would be virtually only one employer. practically all material goods would have to be purchased from either the municipal or the national shops and stores. since the city and the nation would produce different kinds of goods, the purchaser of any given article would be compelled to deal with one seller. his freedom of choice would be further restricted by the fact that he would have to be content with those kinds and grades of commodities which the seller saw fit to produce. he could not create an effective demand for new forms and varieties of goods, as he now does, by stimulating the ingenuity and acquisitiveness of competing producers and dealers. prices and wages would, of course, be fixed beforehand by the government. the supposition that this function might be left to the workers in each industry is utterly impracticable. such an arrangement would involve a grand scramble among the different industries to see which could pay its own members the highest wages, and charge its neighbours' members the highest prices. the final result would be a level of prices so high that only an alert and vigorous section of the workers in each industry could find employment. not only wages and prices but hours, safety requirements, and all the other general conditions of employment, would be regulated by the government. the individuals in each industry could not be permitted to determine these matters any more than they could be permitted to determine wages. moreover, all these regulations would from the nature of the case continue unchanged for a considerable period of time. the restriction of choice enforced upon the sellers of labour and the buyers of goods, the utter dependence of the population upon one agency in all the affairs of their economic as well as their political life, the tremendous social power concentrated in the state, would produce a diminution of individual liberty and a perfection of political despotism surpassing anything that the world has ever seen. it would not long be tolerated by any self respecting people. to reply that the socialist order would be a democracy, and that the people could vote out of existence any distasteful regulation, is to play with words. no matter how responsive the governing and managing authorities might be to the popular will, the dependence of the individual would prove intolerable. not the manner in which this tremendous social power is constituted, nor the personnel of those exercising it, but the fact that so much power is lodged in one agency, and so little immediate control of his affairs left to the individual,--is the heart of the evil situation. in a word, it is a question of the liberty of the individual versus the all pervading control of his actions by an agency other than himself. moreover, the people in a democracy means a majority, or a compact minority. under socialism the controlling section of the voting population would possess so much power, political and economic, that it could impose whatever conditions it pleased upon the non-controlling section for an almost indefinite period of time. the members of the latter part of the population would not only be deprived of that immediate liberty which consists in the power to determine the details of their economic life, but of that remote liberty which consists in the power to affect general conditions by their votes. in the last chapter we saw that the claim to the full product of industry, made on behalf of labour by the socialists, cannot be established on intrinsic grounds. like all other claims to material goods, it is valid only if it can be realised consistently with human welfare. its validity depends upon its feasibility, upon the possibility of constructing some social system that will enable it to work. the present chapter has shown that the requirements of such a system are not met by socialism. a socialist organisation of industry would make all sections of the population, including the wage earning class, worse off than they are in the existing industrial order. consequently, neither the private ownership of capital nor the individual receipt of interest can be proved to be immoral by the socialist argument. since private ownership and management of capital are superior to socialism, the state is obliged to maintain, protect, and improve the existing industrial system. this is precisely the conclusion that we reached in chapter iv with reference to private ownership of land. in chapter v we found, moreover, that individual ownership of land is a natural right. the fundamental considerations there examined lead to the parallel conclusion that the individual has a natural right to own capital. but we could not immediately deduce from the right to own land the right to take rent. neither can we immediately deduce from the right to own capital the right to take interest. the positive establishment of the latter right will occupy us in the two following chapters. footnotes: [ ] wilhelm liebknecht, cited in hillquit's "socialism in theory and practice," p. . [ ] "das erfurter program," cited by skelton, op. cit., p. . [ ] cf. skelton, op. cit., ch. vii; bernstein, "evolutionary socialism," pp. - ; simkhovitch, "marxism vs. socialism," _passim_; walling, "progressivism and after," _passim_; hillquit-ryan, op. cit., ch. iv. [ ] "income," p. . [ ] "the wealth and income of the people of the united states," p. . [ ] cf. hillquit-ryan, op. cit., pp. , . [ ] cf. hillquit-ryan, op. cit., pp. - ; skelton, op. cit, p. ; walling, "socialism as it is," p. . [ ] cf. king, op. cit., pp. - . [ ] cf. kautsky, "the social revolution," pp. , ; hillquit-ryan, op. cit., p. . [ ] hillquit-ryan, op. cit., p. ; cf. spargo, "socialism," pp. - . [ ] "socialism: a critical analysis," p. . [ ] cf. "the panama gateway," by joseph bucklin bishop, p. . chapter xii alleged intrinsic justifications of interest in his address as president of the american sociological society at the annual meeting, dec. , , professor albion w. small denounced "the fallacy of treating capital as though it were an active agent in human processes, and crediting income to the personal representatives of capital, irrespective of their actual share in human service." according to his explicit declaration, his criticism of the modern interest-system was based primarily upon grounds of social utility rather than upon formally ethical considerations. a german priest has attacked interest from the purely moral viewpoint.[ ] in his view the owner of any sort of capital who exacts the return of anything beyond the principal, violates strict justice.[ ] the church, he maintains, has never formally authorised or permitted interest, either on loans or on producing capital. she has merely tolerated it as an irremovable evil. is there a satisfactory justification of interest? if there is, does it rest on individual or on social grounds? that is to say: is interest justified immediately and intrinsically by the relations existing between the owner and the user of capital? or, is rendered morally good owing to its effects upon social welfare? let us see what light is thrown on these questions by the anti-usury legislation of the catholic church. _attitude of the church toward interest on loans_ during the middle ages all interest on _loans_ was forbidden under severe penalties by repeated ordinances of popes and councils.[ ] since the end of the seventeenth century the church has quite generally permitted interest on one or more extrinsic grounds, or "titles." the first of these titles was known as "lucrum cessans," or relinquished gain. it came into existence whenever a person who could have invested his money in a productive object, for example, a house, a farm, or a mercantile enterprise, decided instead to lend the money. in such cases the interest on the loan was regarded as proper compensation for the gain which the owner might have obtained from an investment on his own account. the title created by this situation was called "extrinsic" because it arose out of circumstances external to the essential relations of borrower and lender. not because of the loan itself, but because the loan prevented the lender from investing his money in a productive enterprise, was interest on the former held to be justified. in other words, interest on the loan was looked upon as merely the fair equivalent of the interest that might have been obtained on the investment. during the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, another title or justification of loan-interest found some favour among catholic moralists. this was the "praemium legale," or legal rate of interest allowed by civil governments. wherever the state authorised a definite rate of interest, the lender might, according to these writers, take advantage of it with a clear conscience. to-day the majority of catholic authorities on the subject prefer the title of virtual productivity as a justification. money, they contend, has become virtually productive. it can readily be exchanged for income-bearing or productive property, such as, land, houses, railroads, machinery, and distributive establishments. hence it has become the economic equivalent of productive capital, and the interest which is received on it through a loan is quite as reasonable as the annual return to the owner of productive capital. between this theory and the theory connected with "lucrum cessans" the only difference is that the former shifts the justification of interest from the circumstances and rights of the lender to the present nature of the money itself. not merely the fact that the individual will suffer if, instead of investing his money he loans it without interest, but the fact that money is generally and virtually productive, is the important element in the newer theory. in practice, however, the two explanations or justifications come to substantially the same thing. nevertheless, the church has given no positive approval to any of the foregoing theories. in the last formal pronouncement by a pope on the subject, benedict xiv[ ] condemned anew all interest that had no other support than the intrinsic conditions of the loan itself. at the same time, he declared that he had no intention of denying the lawfulness of interest which was received in virtue of the title of "lucrum cessans," nor the lawfulness of interest or profits arising out of investments in productive property. in other words, the authorisation that he gave to both kinds of interest was merely negative. he refrained from condemning them. in the responses given by the roman congregations from onward to questions relating to the lawfulness of loan-interest, we may profitably consider four principal features. first, they declare more or less specifically that interest may be taken in the absence of the title of "lucrum cessans"; second, some of them definitely admit the title of "praemium legale," or civil authorisation, as sufficient to give the practice moral sanction; third, they express a genuine permission, not a mere toleration, of interest taking; fourth, none of them explicitly declares that any of the titles or reasons for receiving loan-interest will necessarily or always give the lender a _strict right_ thereto. none of them contains a positive and reasoned approval of the practice. most of them merely decide that persons who engage in it are not to be disturbed in conscience, so long as they stand ready to submit to a formal decision on the subject by the holy see. the insertion of the latter condition clearly intimates that some day interest taking might be formally and officially condemned. should such a condemnation ever appear, it would not contradict any moral principle contained in the "roman responses," nor in the present attitude of the church and of catholic moralists. undoubtedly it could come only as the result of a change in the organisation of industry, just as the existing ecclesiastical attitude has followed the changed economic conditions since the middle ages. all the theological discussion on the subject, and all the authoritative ecclesiastical declarations indicate, therefore, that interest on loans is to-day regarded as lawful because a loan is the economic equivalent of an investment. evidently this is good logic and common sense. if it is right for the stockholder of a railway to receive dividends, it is equally right for the bondholder to receive interest. if it is right for a merchant to take from the gross returns of his business a sum sufficient to cover interest on his capital, it is equally right for the man from whom he has borrowed money for the enterprise to exact interest. the money in a loan is economically equivalent to, convertible into, concrete capital. it deserves, therefore, the same treatment and the same rewards. the fact that the investor undergoes a greater risk than the lender, and the fact that the former often performs labour in connection with the operation of his capital, have no bearing on the moral problem; for the investor is repaid for his extra risk and labour by the profits which he receives, and which the lender does not receive. as a mere recipient of interest, the investor undergoes no more risk nor exertion than does the lender. his claim to interest is no better than that of the latter. _interest on productive capital_ on what ground does the church or catholic theological opinion justify interest on invested capital? on the shares of the stockholders in corporations? on the capital of the merchant and the manufacturer? in the early middle ages the only recognised titles to gain from the ownership of property were labour and risk.[ ] down to the beginning of the fifteenth century substantially all the incomes of all classes could be explained and justified by one or other of these two titles; for the amount of capital in existence was inconsiderable, and the number of large personal incomes insignificant. when, however, the traffic in rent charges and the operation of partnerships, especially the "contractus trinus," or triple contract, had become fairly common, it was obvious that the profits from these practices could not be correctly attributed to either labour or risk. the person who bought, not the land itself, but the right to receive a portion of the rent thereof, and the person who became the silent member of a partnership, evidently performed no labour beyond that involved in making the contract. and their profits clearly exceeded a fair compensation for their risks, inasmuch as the profits produced a steady income. how then were they to be justified? a few authorities maintained that such incomes had no justification. in the thirteenth century henry of ghent condemned the traffic in rent charges; in the sixteenth dominicus soto maintained that the returns to the silent partner in an enterprise ought not to exceed a fair equivalent for his risks; about the same time pope sixtus v denounced the triple contract as a form of usury. nevertheless, the great majority of writers admitted that all these transactions were morally lawful, and the gains therefrom just. for a time these writers employed merely negative and _a pari_ arguments. gains from rent charges, they pointed out, were essentially as licit as the net rent received by the owner of the land; and the interest received by a silent partner, even in a triple contract, had quite as sound a moral basis as rent charges. by the beginning of the seventeenth century the leading authorities were basing their defence of industrial interest on positive grounds. lugo, lessius, and molina adduced the productivity of capital goods as a reason for allowing gains to the investor. whether they regarded productivity as in itself a sufficient justification of interest, or merely as a necessary prerequisite to justification, cannot be determined with certainty. at present the majority of catholic writers seem to think that a formal defence of interest on capital is unnecessary. apparently they assume that interest is justified by the mere productivity of capital. however, this view has never been explicitly approved by the church. while she permits and authorises interest, she does not define its precise moral basis. so much for the teaching of ecclesiastical and ethical authorities. what are the objective reasons in favour of the capitalist's claim to interest? in this chapter we consider only the intrinsic reasons, those arising wholly out of the relations between the interest-receiver and the interest-payer. before taking up the subject it may be well to point out the source from which interest comes, the class in the community that pays the interest to the capitalist. from the language sometimes used by socialists it might be inferred that interest is taken from the labourer, and that if it were abolished he would be the chief if not the only beneficiary. this is incorrect. at any given time interest on producing capital is paid by the consumer. those who purchase the products of industry must give prices sufficiently high to provide interest in addition to the other expenses of production. were interest abolished and the present system of private capital continued, the gain would be mainly reaped by the consumer in the form of lower prices; for the various capitalist directors of industry would bring about this result through their competitive efforts to increase sales. only those labourers who were sufficiently organised and sufficiently alert to make effective demands for higher wages before the movement toward lower prices had got well under way, would obtain any direct benefit from the change. the great majority of labourers would gain far more as consumers than as wage earners. speaking generally, then, we may say that the capitalist's gain is the consumer's loss, and the question of the justice of interest is a question between the capitalist and the consumer. the intrinsic or individual grounds upon which the capitalist's claim to interest has been defended are mainly three: productivity, service, and abstinence. they will be considered in this order. _the claims of productivity_ it is sometimes asserted that the capitalist has as good a right to interest as the farmer has to the offspring of his animals. both are the products of the owner's property. in two respects, however, the comparison is inadequate and misleading. since the owner of a female animal contributes labour or money or both toward her care during the period of gestation, his claim to the offspring is based in part upon these grounds, and only in part upon the title of interest. in the second place, the offspring is the definite and easily distinguishable product of its parent. but the sixty dollars derived as interest from the ownership of ten shares of railway stock, cannot be identified as the exact product of one thousand dollars of railway property. no man can tell whether this amount of capital has contributed more or less than sixty dollars of value to the joint product, i.e., railway services. the same is true of any other share or piece of concrete capital. all that we know is that the interest, be it five, six, seven, or some other per cent., describes the share of the product which goes to the owner of capital in the present conditions of industry. it is the conventional not the actual and physical product of capital. another faulty analogy is that drawn between the productivity of capital and the productivity of labour. following the terminology of the economists, most persons think of land, labour, and capital as productive in the same sense. hence the productivity of capital is easily assumed to have the same moral value as the productive action of human beings; and the right of the capitalist to a part of the product is put on the same moral basis as the right of the labourer. yet the differences between the two kinds of productivity, and between the two moral claims to the product are more important than their resemblances. in the first place, there is an essential physical difference. as an instrument of production, labour is active, capital is passive. as regards its worth or dignity, labour is the expenditure of human energy, the output of a _person_, while capital is a material thing, standing apart from a personality, and possessing no human quality or human worth. these significant intrinsic or physical differences forbid any immediate inference that the moral claims of the owners of capital and labour are equally valid. we should logically expect to find that their moral claims are unequal. this expectation is realised when we examine the bearing of the two kinds of productivity upon human welfare. in the exercise of productive effort the average labourer undergoes a sacrifice. he is engaged in a process that is ordinarily irksome. to require from him this toilsome expenditure of energy without compensation, would make him a mere instrument of his fellows. it would subordinate him and his comfort to the aggrandisement of beings who are not his superiors but his moral equals. for he is a person; they are no more than persons. on the other hand, the capitalist as such, as the recipient of interest, performs no labour, painful or otherwise. not the capitalist, but capital participates in the productive process. even though the capitalist should receive no interest, the productive functioning of capital would not subordinate him to his fellows in the way that wageless labour would subordinate the labourer. the precise and fundamental reason for according to the labourer his product is that this is the only rational rule of distribution. when a man makes a useful thing out of materials that are his, he has a strict right to the product simply because there is no other reasonable method of distributing the goods and opportunities of the earth. if another individual, or society, were permitted to take this product, industry would be discouraged, idleness fostered, and reasonable life and self development rendered impossible. direful consequences of this magnitude would not follow the abolition of interest. perhaps the most important difference between the moral claims of capitalist and labourer is the fact that for the latter labour is the sole means of livelihood. unless he is compensated for his product he will perish. but the capitalist has in addition to the interest that he receives the ability to work. were interest abolished he would still be in as good a position as the labourer. the product of the labourer means to him the necessaries of life; the product of the capitalist means to him goods in excess of a mere livelihood. consequently their claims to the product are greatly unequal in vital importance and moral value. the foregoing considerations show that even the claim of the labourer to his product is not based upon merely intrinsic grounds. it does not spring entirely from the mere fact that he has produced the product, from the mere relation between producer and thing produced. if this is true of labour-productivity we should expect to find it even more evident with regard to the productivity of capital; for the latter is passive instead of active, non rational instead of human. the expectation is well founded. not a single conclusive argument can be brought forward to show that the productivity of capital directly and necessarily confers upon the capitalist a right to the interest-product. all the attempted arguments are reducible to two formulas: "res fructificat domino" ("a thing fructifies to its owner") and "the effect follows its cause." the first of these was originally a legal rather than an ethical maxim; a rule by which the title was determined in the civil law, not a principle by which the right was determined in morals. the second is an irrelevant platitude. as a juristic principle, neither is self evident. why should the owner of a piece of capital, be it a house, a machine, or a share of railway stock, have a right to its product, when he has expended neither time, labour, money, nor inconvenience of any kind? to answer, "because the thing which produced the product belongs to him," is merely to beg the question. to answer, "because the effect follows the cause," is to make a statement which has nothing to do with the question. what we want to know is why the ownership of a productive thing gives a right to the product; why this particular effect should follow its cause in this particular way. to answer by repeating under the guise of sententious formulas the thesis to be proved, is scarcely satisfactory or convincing. to answer that if the capitalist were not given interest industry and thrift would decrease and human welfare suffer, is to abandon the intrinsic argument entirely. it brings in the extrinsic consideration of social consequences. _the claims of service_ the second intrinsic ground upon which interest is defended, is the _service_ performed by the capitalist when he permits his capital to be used in production. without capital, labourers and consumers would be unable to command more than a fraction of their present means of livelihood. from this point of view we see that the service in question is worth all that is paid in the form of interest. nevertheless it does not follow that the capitalist has a claim in strict justice to any payment for this service. according to st. thomas, a seller may not charge a buyer an extra amount merely because of the extra value attached to the commodity by the latter.[ ] in other words, a man cannot justly be required to pay an unusual price for a benefit or advantage or service, when the seller undergoes no unusual deprivation. father lehmkuhl carries the principle further, and declares that the seller has a right to compensation only when and to the extent that he undergoes a privation or undertakes a responsibility.[ ] according to this rule, the capitalist would have no right to interest; for as mere interest-receiver he undergoes no privation. his risk and labour are remunerated in profits, while the responsibility of not withdrawing from production something that can continue in existence only by continuing in production, is scarcely deserving of a reward according to the canons of strict justice. whatever we may think of this argument from authority, we find it impossible to prove objectively that a man who renders a service to another has an intrinsic right to anything beyond compensation for the expenditure of money or labour involved in performing the service. the man who throws a life preserver to a drowning person may justly demand a payment for his trouble. on any recognised basis of compensation, this payment will not exceed a few dollars. yet the man whose life is in danger would pay a million dollars for this service if he were extremely rich. he would regard the service as worth this much to him. has the man with the life preserver a right to exact such a payment? has he a right to demand the full value of the service? no reasonable person would answer this question otherwise than in the negative. if the performer of the service may not charge the full value thereof, as measured by the estimate put upon it by the recipient, it would seem that he ought not to demand anything in excess of a fair price for his trouble. in other words, he may not justly exact anything for the service as such. it would seem, then, that the capitalist has no moral claim to pure interest on the mere ground that the use of his capital in production constitutes a service to labourers and consumers. it would seem that he has no right to demand a payment for a costless service. _the claims of abstinence_ the third and last of the intrinsic justifications of interest that we shall consider is _abstinence_. this argument is based upon the contention that the person who saves his money, and invests it in the instruments of production undergoes a sacrifice in deferring to the future satisfactions that he might enjoy to-day. one hundred dollars now is worth as much as one hundred and five dollars a year hence. that is, when both are estimated from the viewpoint of the present. this sacrifice of present to future enjoyment which contributes a service to the community in the form of capital, creates a just claim upon the community to compensation in the form of interest. if the capitalist is not rewarded for this inconvenience he is, like the unpaid labourer, subordinated to the aggrandisement of his fellows. against this argument we may place the extreme refutation attempted by the socialist leader, ferdinand lassalle: "but the profit of capital is _the reward of abstinence_. truly a happy phrase! european millionaires are ascetics, indian penitents, modern st. simons stylites, who perched on their columns, with withered features and arms and bodies thrust forward, hold out a plate to the passers-by that they may receive the wages of their privations! in the midst of this sacro-saint group, high above his fellow-mortifiers of the flesh, stands the holy house of rothschild. that is the real truth about our present society! how could i have hitherto blundered on this point as i have?"[ ] obviously this is a malevolently one-sided implication concerning the sources of capital. but it is scarcely less adequate than the explanation in opposition to which it has been quoted. both fail to distinguish between the different kinds of savers, the different kinds of capital-owners. for the purposes of our inquiry savings may be divided into three classes. first, those which are accumulated and invested automatically. very rich persons save a great deal of money that they have no desire to spend, since they have already satisfied or safeguarded all the wants of which they are conscious. evidently this kind of saving involves no real sacrifice. to it the words of lassalle are substantially applicable, and the claim to interest for abstinence decidedly inapplicable. second, savings to provide for old age and other future contingencies which are estimated as more important than any of the purposes for which the money might now be expended. were interest abolished this kind of saving would be even greater than it is at present; for a larger total would be required to equal the fund that is now provided through the addition of interest to the principal. in a no-interest régime one thousand dollars would have to be set aside every year in order to total twenty thousand dollars in twenty years; when interest is accumulated on the savings, a smaller annual amount will suffice to produce the same fund. inasmuch as this class of persons would save in an even greater degree without interest, it is clear that they regard the sacrifice involved as fully compensated in the resulting provision for the future. in their case sacrifice is amply rewarded by accumulation. their claim to additional compensation in the form of interest does not seem to have any valid basis. in the words of the late professor devas, "there is ample reward given without any need of any interest or dividend. for the workers with heads or hands keep the property intact, ready for the owner to consume whenever convenient, when he gets infirm or sick, or when his children have grown up, and can enjoy the property with him."[ ] the third kind of saving is that which is made by persons who could spend, and have some desire to spend, more on present satisfactions, and who have already provided for all future wants in accordance with the standards of necessaries and comforts that they have adopted. their fund for the future is already sufficient to meet all those needs which seem weightier than their present unsatisfied wants. if the surplus in question is saved it will go to supply future desires which are no more important than those for which it might be expended now. in other words, the alternatives before the prospective saver are to procure a given amount of satisfaction to-day, or to defer the same degree of satisfaction to a distant day. in this case the inducement of interest will undoubtedly be necessary to bring about saving. as between equal amounts of satisfaction at different times, the average person will certainly prefer those of the present to those of the future. he will not decide in favour of the future unless the satisfactions then obtainable are to be greater in quantity. to this situation the rule that deferred enjoyments are worth less than present enjoyments, is strictly applicable. the increased quantity of future satisfaction which is necessary to turn the choice from the present to the future, and to determine that the surplus shall be saved rather than spent, can be provided only through interest. in this way the accumulations of interest and savings will make the future fund equivalent to a larger amount of enjoyment or utility than could be obtained if the surplus were exchanged for the goods of the present. "interest magnifies the distant object." whenever this magnifying power seems sufficiently great to outweigh the advantage of present over future satisfactions, the surplus will be saved instead of spent. among the well-to-do there is probably a considerable number of persons who take this attitude toward a considerable part of their savings. since they would not make these savings without the inducement of interest, they regard the latter as a necessary compensation for the sacrifice of postponed enjoyment. in a general way we may say that they have a strict right to this interest on the intrinsic ground of sacrifice. inasmuch as the community benefits by the savings, it may quite as fairly be required to pay for the antecedent sacrifices of the savers as for the inconvenience undergone by the performer of any useful labour or service. summing up the matter regarding the intrinsic justification of interest, we find that the titles of productivity and service do not conclusively establish the strict right of the capitalist to interest, and that the title of abstinence is morally valid for only a portion, probably a rather small portion, of the total amount of interest now received by the owners of capital. consequently interest as a whole is not conclusively vindicated on individual grounds. if it is to be proved morally lawful its justification must be sought in extrinsic and social considerations. this inquiry will form the subject of the next chapter. footnotes: [ ] hohoff, "die bedeutung der marxschen kapitalkritik"; paderborn, . [ ] pp. - , , , . [ ] cf. van roey, "de justo auctario ex contractu crediti"; and ashley, "english economic history." [ ] encyclical, "vix pervenit," . [ ] cf. st. thomas, "summa theologica," a ae, q. , a. et . [ ] "secunda secondae," q. , a. , in corp. [ ] "theologia moralis," i, no. . [ ] "what is capital?" p. . [ ] "political economy," p. . chapter xiii social and presumptive justifications of interest as we saw in the last chapter, interest cannot be conclusively justified on the ground of either productivity or service. it is impossible to demonstrate that the capitalist has a strict right to interest because his capital produces interest, or because it renders a service to the labourer or the consumer. a part, probably a small part, of the interest now received can be fairly justified by the title of sacrifice. some present owners of capital would not have saved had they not expected to receive interest. in their case interest may be regarded as a just compensation for the sacrifice that they underwent when they decided to save instead of consuming. _limitations of the sacrifice principle_ nevertheless these men would suffer no injustice if interest were now to be abolished. up to the moment of the change, they would have been in receipt of adequate compensation; thereafter, they would be in exactly the same position as when they originally chose to save rather than consume. they would still be able to sell their capital, and convert the proceeds to their immediate uses and pleasures. in this case they would obviously have no further claim upon the community for interest. on the other hand, they could retain the ownership of their capital, and postpone its consumption to some future time. in making this choice they would regard future as more important than present consumption, and the superiority of future enjoyment as sufficiently great to compensate them for the sacrifice of postponement. hence they would have no moral claim to interest on the ground of abstinence. in general, then, the sacrifice-justification of interest continues only so long as the interest continues. it extends only to the interest received by certain capitalists in certain circumstances, not to all interest in all circumstances. therefore, it presents no moral obstacle to the complete abolition of interest. since probably the greater part of the interest now received cannot be justified on intrinsic grounds, and since that part of it which is thus justified could be abolished consistently with the rights of the recipients, let us see whether it is capable of justification for reasons of social welfare. would its suppression be socially beneficial or socially detrimental? _the value of capital in a no-interest régime_ the interest that we have in mind is pure interest, not undertaker's profit, nor insurance against risk, nor gross interest. even if all pure interest were abolished the capitalist who loaned his money would still receive something from the borrower in addition to the repayment of the principal, while the active capitalist would get from the consumer more than the expenses of production. the former would require a premium of, say, one or two per cent. to protect him against the loss of his loan. the latter would demand the same kind of insurance, and an additional sum to repay him for his labour and enterprise. none of these payments could be avoided in any system of privately directed production. the return whose suppression is considered here is that which the capitalist receives over and above these payments, and which in this country seems to be about three or four per cent. would capital still have value in a no-interest régime, and if so how would its value be determined? at present the lower limit of the value of productive capital, as of all other artificial goods, is fixed in the long run by the cost of production. capital instruments that do not bring this price will not continue to be made. in other words, cost of production is the governing factor of the value of capital from the side of supply. it would likewise fix the lower limit of value in a no-interest régime; only, the cost of producing capital instruments would then be somewhat lower than to-day, owing to the absence of an interest charge for the working capital during the productive process. but the cost of production is not a constant and accurate measure of the value of artificial capital. the true measure is found in the revenue or interest that a given piece of capital yields to its owners. if the current rate of interest is five per cent., a factory that brings in ten thousand dollars net return will have a value of about two hundred thousand dollars. this is the governing factor of value from the side of demand. in a no-interest economy the demand factor would be quite different. capital instruments would be in demand, not as revenue producers, but as the concrete embodiments, the indispensable requisites of saving and accumulation. for it is impossible that saving should in any considerable amount take the form of cash hoards. in the words of sir robert giffen: "the accumulations of a single year, even taking it at one hundred and fifty millions only, ... would absorb more than the entire metallic currency of the country [great britain]. they cannot, therefore, be made in cash."[ ] the instruments of production would be sought and valued by savers for the same reason that safes and safety deposit boxes are in demand now. they would be the only means of carrying savings into the future, and they would necessarily bring a price sufficiently high to cover the cost of producing them. one man might deposit his savings in a bank, whence they would be borrowed without interest by some director of industry. when the owner of the savings desired to recover them he could obtain from the bank the fund of some other depositor, or get the proceeds of the sale of the concrete capital in which his own savings had been embodied. another man might prefer to invest his savings directly in a building, a machine, or a mercantile business, whence he could recover them later from the sale of the property. hence the absence of interest would not change essentially the processes of saving or investment. capital would still have value, but its valuation from the demand side would rest on a different basis. it would be valued not in proportion to its power to yield interest, but because of its capacity to become a receptacle for savings, and to carry into the future the consuming power of the present. the question whether the abolition of interest by the state would be socially helpful or socially harmful is mainly, though not entirely, a question of the supply of capital. if the community would not have sufficient capital to provide for all its needs, actual and progressive, the suppression of interest would obviously be a bad policy. most economists seem inclined to think that this condition would be realised; that, without the inducement of interest, men would neither make new savings nor conserve existing capital in sufficient quantity to supply the wants of society. very few of them, however, pretend to be able to prove this proposition. so many complex factors with regard to the possibilities of saving and the motives of savers, enter into the situation that no opinion on the subject can have any stronger basis than probability. as a preliminary to our consideration of the question of abolition, let us inquire whether there exists any definite relation between the present supply of capital and the current rate of interest. _whether the present rate of interest is necessary_ it is sometimes contended that the interest rate must be kept up to the present level if the existing supply of capital is to be maintained. the underlying assumption is that some of the present savers would discontinue that function at any lower rate, with the consequence that the supply of capital would fall below the demand. owing to this excess of demand over supply, the rate of interest would rise, or tend to rise, to the former level. therefore, the rate existing at any given time is the socially necessary rate. the rate of interest is said to be analogous to the rate of wages. for example; of ten thousand men receiving five dollars a day, nine thousand may be willing to work for four dollars rather than quit their present jobs. but the other thousand set their minimum price at five dollars. if the wage is reduced to four dollars these men will get employment elsewhere, thus causing such an excess of demand over supply as to force the wage rate back to five dollars. the same thing, it is contended, will happen when the high-priced section of the savers, "the marginal savers," discontinue saving on account of the artificial lowering of the rate of interest. the analogy, however, is misleading. the "marginal" one thousand wage earners refuse to work for four dollars a day because they can get better compensation in some other occupation. this phenomenon has been proved over and over again by observation and experience. on the other hand, there is no experience, no positive evidence, which shows or tends to show that any _necessary_ group of present savers would discontinue or materially reduce their accumulations if they were no longer able to secure the present rate of interest. if the rate were lowered simultaneously in all civilised countries the dissatisfied savers, unlike the dissatisfied labourers, would not be able to get a better price for their capital elsewhere. their only alternative would be to spend their actual or potential savings for present enjoyment. now we have no empirical data to justify the assumption that any considerable number of savers would choose this alternative in preference to, say, three or two per cent. interest. the fact that any group of savers at present gets and insists on getting a higher rate, merely proves that they can get it, and that they are selfish enough to take advantage of the possibility. we know that some men who now obtain six per cent. interest would accept two rather than cease to save; yet they do not hesitate to demand six per cent. so far as we know, all present savers might take the same attitude. at any rate, we can not conclude that they would not take less from the fact that they now get more. why then does not the rate of interest fall? if all present savers are getting a higher rate than is necessary to induce them to save, why do they not increase their savings to such an extent that the supply of capital will exceed the present volume of demand, and thus lead to a decline in the rate of interest? this is what happens when the price of consumption-goods rises appreciably above the minimum level that satisfies the most high-priced or "marginal" producers. there is, however, an important difference between the two cases. the capacity to produce more goods is practically unlimited, and the corresponding desire is also unlimited, so long as the price of the product exceeds the cost of production. the capacity to save is not unlimited, and the desire to save is neutralised and sharply restricted by other and more powerful desires. hence it is quite possible that the price of capital, i.e., interest, is determined to only a slight degree by the "cost" of saving, being mainly dominated and regulated from the side of demand. even though many of the present savers and owners of capital should diminish or discontinue their functions on account of a fall in the rate of interest, a reduction would not necessarily take place in the supply of capital. the function of these "marginal savers" would in all probability be performed by other persons, who would be compelled to increase their accumulations in order to provide as well for the future as they had previously been able to provide with a smaller capital at a higher rate of interest.[ ] _whether at least two per cent. is necessary_ while admitting that the present rate is unnecessarily high, professor cassel maintains that a certain important class of savers would diminish very considerably their accumulations if the interest rate should fall much below two per cent. this class comprises those persons whose main object in saving is a fund which will some day support them from its interest. at six per cent. a person can accumulate in about twelve years a sum sufficient to provide him with an interest-income equal to the amount annually saved. for example; two thousand dollars put aside every year, and subjected to compound interest, will aggregate in twelve years a principal capable of yielding an annual income of two thousand dollars. at two per cent. the same amount of yearly saving will not lead to the same income in less than thirty-five years. if the rate be one and one-half per cent., forty-seven years will be required to produce the desired income. hence, concludes cassel, if the rate falls below two per cent. the average man will decide that life is too short to provide for the future by means of an interest-income, and will expect to draw upon his principal. this means that he will not need to save as much as when he sought to accumulate a capital large enough to support him out of its interest alone. the argument is plausible but not conclusive. if the rate of interest is so low that a man must save for forty-seven years in order to obtain a sufficient interest-income to support him in his declining years, he will rarely attain that end. in the great majority of instances men who are unable to save more annually than the amount that they will need each year in old age, will expect and be compelled to use up a part or all of their capital in the period following the cessation of their economic usefulness. nevertheless, it does not follow that they will save less at one and one-half per cent. than at six per cent. the determining factor in the situation is the attitude of the saver toward the _capital sum accumulated_. he either desires or does not desire to leave this behind him. in the latter case he will save only as much as is necessary to provide an annual income composed partly of interest and partly of the principal. if this contemplated income is two thousand dollars, and the rate of interest is six per cent., he will not need to save that much annually for as long a period as ten years. he can diminish either the yearly amount saved or the length of time devoted to saving. on the other hand, if the rate is only one and one-half per cent. he will be compelled to save a larger total in order to secure an equal accumulation and an equal provision for the future. in all cases, therefore, in which the saving is carried on merely for the saver's own lifetime it will be increased instead of decreased by a low rate of interest. if the saver does desire to bequeath his capital he will not always be deterred from this purpose merely because he is compelled to use some of the capital for the satisfaction of his own wants. take the man who can save two thousand dollars a year, and with the rate of interest at six per cent. assure himself an interest-income of the same amount, and who intends to leave the principal (some thirty-three thousand dollars) to his children. should the rate fall to one and one-half per cent. he would be unable to accumulate and bequeath nearly such a large sum. surely this fact, discouraging as it is, will not determine him to save nothing. he will not, as cassel's argument assumes, decide to leave nothing to his children, and content himself with that amount of saving which will suffice to provide for his own future. in all probability he will try to accumulate a sum which, even when diminished by future deductions for his own wants, will approximate as closely as possible the amount that he could have bequeathed had the rate remained at six per cent. this means that he will save more at the low than at the high rate of interest. the relative insignificance of the sum which would be saved at a low rate might sometimes, indeed, deter a person from saving for testamentary purposes. with the rate at six per cent., a man might be willing to save six hundred dollars a year for a sufficiently long period to provide a legacy of twenty thousand dollars to an educational institution. with the rate at one and one-half per cent., the amount that he could hope to accumulate would be so much smaller that it might seem to him not worth while, and he would decline to save the six hundred dollars annually. cases of this kind, however, always involve the secondary objects of saving, the luxuries rather than the necessaries of testamentary transmission. they do not include such primary objects as provision for one's family. when the average man finds that he cannot leave to his family as much as he would desire, as much as he would have bequeathed to them at a higher rate of interest, he will strive to increase rather than decrease his efforts to save for this purpose. speaking generally, then, we conclude that the assumption underlying professor cassel's theory is contradicted by our experience of human motives and practices. men who save mainly for a future interest-income, at the same time wishing to keep the principal intact until death, and who could have fully realised this desire under a high interest régime, will not become entirely indifferent to it when they find that they cannot attain it completely. they will ordinarily try to leave behind them as large a capital or principal as they can. hence they will save more rather than less. _whether any interest is necessary_ perhaps the best known recent statement of the opinion that interest is inevitable, appears in professor irving fisher's "the rate of interest."[ ] while he does not assert explicitly that sufficient capital would not be provided without interest, and even admits that in certain circumstances interest might disappear, the general logic and implications of his argument are decidedly against the supposition that society could ever get along without interest. he lays such stress upon the factor of "impatience," i.e., man's unwillingness to wait for future goods, as to suggest strongly that other causes of interest, and the number of savers free from "impatience," are quite insignificant. now, if "impatience" were the only cause of interest the latter must continue as long as "impatience" continues; and if practically all savers, actual and possible, are completely dominated by "impatience" the abolition of interest would be socially disastrous. however, neither of these assumptions is demonstrable. we have just seen that the present rate of interest has other causes than "impatience"; that a large proportion of savers insist upon getting the present rate, not because they require it to offset their "impatience," but simply because they can obtain it, and because they prefer it to the lower rate. therefore, the mere existence of the present rate does not prove it to be necessary. by the same argument it is evident that the existence of any interest does not demonstrate the necessity of some interest. in the second place, the number of savers, present and prospective, whose "impatience" is so weak as to permit them to save without interest, is probably greater than the average reader of professor fisher's pages is led to assume. the question whether interest is necessary cannot be answered by reference to the general fact of human "impatience"; it demands a preliminary analysis of the extent to which "impatience" affects the different classes of savers. with interest abolished, those persons who were willing to subordinate present secondary satisfactions to the primary future needs of themselves and their families, would save at least as much for these purposes as when they could have obtained interest. most of them would probably save more in order to render their future provision as nearly as possible equal to what it would have been had interest accrued on their annual savings. whether a person intended to leave all his accumulations, or part of them, or none of them to posterity, he would still desire them to be as large as they might have been in a régime of interest. in order to realise this desire, he would be compelled to increase his savings. and it is reasonable to expect that this is precisely the course that would be followed by men of average thrift and foresight. such men regard future necessaries and comforts, whether for themselves or their children, as more important than present non-essentials and luxuries. interest or no interest, prudent men will subordinate the latter goods to the former, and will save money accordingly. when, however, both future and present goods are of the same order and importance, the future is no longer preferred to the present. in that case the preference is reversed. the luxuries of to-day are more keenly prized than the luxuries of to-morrow. if the latter are to be preferred they must possess some advantage over the luxuries that might be obtained here and now. such advantage may arise in various ways; for example, when a man decides that he will have more leisure for a foreign journey two years hence than this year, or when he prefers a large amount of future enjoyment at one time to present satisfactions taken in small doses. but the most general method of conferring advantage upon the secondary satisfactions of the future as compared with those of the present, is to increase the quantity. the majority of foreseeing persons are willing to pass by one hundred dollars' worth of enjoyment now for the sake of one hundred and five dollars' worth one year hence. this advantage of quantity is provided through the receipt of interest. it affects all those persons whose saving, as noted in the last chapter, involves a sacrifice for which the only adequate compensation is interest, and likewise all those persons who are in a position to choose between present and future luxuries. were interest suppressed these classes of persons would cease to save for this kind of future goods. according to professor taussig, "most saving is done by the well-to-do and the rich."[ ] on this hypothesis it seems probable that the abolition of interest would diminish the savings and capital of the community very considerably; for the accumulations of the wealthy are derived mainly from interest rather than from salaries. on the other hand, the suppression of interest should bring about a much wider diffusion of wealth. the sums formerly paid out as interest, would be distributed among the masses of the population as increased wages and reduced costs of living. hence the masses would possess an immensely increased capacity for saving, which might offset or even exceed the loss of saving-power among those who now receive interest-incomes.[ ] to sum up the results of our inquiry concerning the necessity of interest: the fact that men now receive interest does not prove that they would not save without interest. the fact that many men would certainly save without interest does not prove that a sufficient amount would be saved to provide the community with the necessary supply of capital. whether the savings of those classes that increased their accumulations would counteract the decreases in the saving of the richer classes, is a question that admits of no definite or confident answer. _the state is justified in permitting interest_ if we assume that the suppression of interest would cause a considerable decline in saving and capital, we must conclude that the community would be worse off than under the present system. to diminish greatly the instruments of production, and consequently the supply of goods for consumption, would create far more hardship than it would relieve. while "workless" incomes would be suppressed, and personal incomes more nearly equalised, the total amount available for distribution would probably be so much smaller as to cause a deterioration in the condition of every class. in this hypothesis the state would do wrong to abolish the system of interest. if, however, we assume that no considerable amount of evil would follow, or that the balance of results would be favourable, the question of the proper action of the state becomes somewhat complex. in the first place, interest could not rightfully be suppressed while the private taking of rent remained. to adopt such a course would be to treat the receivers of property incomes inequitably. landowners would continue to receive an income from their property, while capital owners would not; yet the moral claims of the former to income are no better than those of the latter. in the second place, the state would be obliged to compensate the owners of existing capital instruments for the decline in value which, as we have already seen, would occur when the item of interest was eliminated from the cost of reproducing such capital instruments. it would likewise be under moral obligation to compensate landowners for whatever decrease in value befell their property as a result of the abolition of rent. nevertheless, the practical difficulties confronting the legal abolition of interest are apparently so great as to render the attempt socially unwise and futile. in order to be effective the prohibition would have to be international. were it enforced in only one or in a few countries, these would suffer far more through the flight of capital than they would gain through the abolition of interest. the technical obstacles in any case would be well nigh insuperable. if the attempt were made to suppress interest on producing capital, as well as on loans, the civil authorities would be unable to determine with any degree of precision what part of the gross returns of a business was pure interest, and what part was a necessary compensation for risk and the labour of management. should the state try to solve this problem by allowing the directors of industry varying salaries to correspond with their comparative degrees of efficiency, and different rates of insurance-payments to represent the different risks, it would inevitably make some allowances so low as to discourage labour and enterprise, and others so high as to give the recipients a considerable amount of pure interest in the guise of profits and salaries. should it fix a flat rate of salaries and profits, the more efficient undertakers would refuse to put forth their best efforts, and the more perilous enterprises would not be undertaken. the supervision of expenses, receipts, and other details of business that would be required to prevent evasion of the law, would not improbably cost more than the total amount now paid in the form of interest. on the other hand, if the method of suppression were confined to loans it would probably prove only a little less futile than the effort to abolish interest on productive capital. the great majority of those who were prevented from lending at interest would invest their money in stocks, land, buildings, and other forms of productive property. moreover, it is probable that a large volume of loans would be made despite the prohibition. in the middle ages, when the amount of money available for lending was comparatively small, and when state and church and public opinion were unanimous in favour of the policy, the legal prohibition of loans was only partially effective. now that the supply of and the demand for loans have enormously increased, and interest is not definitely disapproved by the church or the public, a similar effort by the state would undoubtedly prove a failure. even if it were entirely successful it would only decrease, not abolish, interest on productive capital.[ ] in view of the manifold and grave uncertainties of the situation, it is practically certain that modern states are justified in permitting interest. _civil authorisation not sufficient for individual justification_ this justification of the attitude of the state does not of itself demonstrate that the capitalist has a right to accept interest. the civil law tolerates many actions which are morally wrong in the individual; for example, the payment of starvation wages, the extortion of unjust prices, and the traffic in immorality. obviously legal toleration does not _per se_ nor always exonerate the individual offender. how, then, shall we justify the individual receiver of interest? as already pointed out more than once, those persons who would not save without interest are justified on the ground of sacrifice. so long as the community desires their savings, and is willing to pay interest on them, the savers may take interest as the fair equivalent of the inconvenience that they undergo in performing this social service. the precise problem before us, then, is the justification of those savers and capitalists who do not need the inducement of interest, and whose functions of saving and conserving capital are sufficiently compensated without interest. it is a fact that the civil law can sometimes create moral rights and obligations. for example; the statute requiring a person to repair losses that he has unintentionally inflicted upon his neighbour is held by the moral theologians to be binding _in conscience_, as soon as the matter has been adjudicated by the court. in other words, this civil regulation confers on the injured man property rights, and imposes on the morally inculpable injurer property obligations. the civil statutes also give moral validity to the title of prescription, or adverse possession. when the alien possessor has complied with the legal provisions that apply, he has a moral right to the property, even though the original owner should assert his claim at a later time. some moral theologians maintain that a legal discharge in bankruptcy liberates the bankrupt from the moral obligation of satisfying his unpaid debts. several other situations might be cited in which the state admittedly creates moral rights of individual ownership which would have no definite existence in the absence of such legal action and authorisation.[ ] this principle would seem to have received a particularly pertinent application for our inquiry in the doctrine of _præmium_ legale as a title of interest on loans. in the "opus morale" of ballerini-palmieri can be found a long list of moral theologians living in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who maintained that the mere legal sanction of a certain rate of interest was a sufficient moral justification for the lender.[ ] while holding to the traditional doctrine that interest was not capable of being justified on intrinsic grounds, these writers contended that by virtue of its power of eminent domain the state could transfer from the borrower to the lender the right to the interest paid on a loan. they did not mean that the state could arbitrarily take one man's property and hand it over to another, but only that, when it sanctioned interest for the public welfare, this extrinsic circumstance (like the other "extrinsic titles" approved by moralists) annulled the claim of the borrower in favour of the lender. in other words, they maintained that the money paid in loan-interest did not belong to either borrower or lender with certainty or definiteness until the matter was determined by economic conditions and extrinsic circumstances. hence legal authorisation for the common good was morally sufficient to award it to the lender. more than one of them declared that the state had the same right to determine this indeterminate property, to assign the ownership to the lender, that it had to transfer property titles by the device of prescription. and their general position seems to have been confirmed by the response of the congregation of the poenitentiaria, feb., , to the bishop of verona, the substance of which was that a confessor might adopt and act upon this position.[ ] and yet, neither this nor any of the other precedents cited above, are sufficient to give certain moral sanction to the practice of interest-taking by those persons who would continue to save if interest were abolished. all the acts of legal authorisation that we have been considering relate to practices which are beneficial and necessary to society. only in such cases has the state the moral authority to create or annul property rights. in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the legal authorisation of a certain rate of interest made that rate morally lawful simply because this legal act gave formal and authoritative testimony to the social utility of interest-taking. the state merely declared the reasonableness, and fixed the proper limits of the practice. the beneficent effect of interest-taking upon society was its underlying justification, was the ultimate fact which made it reasonable, and which gave to the action of the state moral value. had the taking of interest on loans not been allowed the bulk of possible savings would either not have been saved at all, or would have been hoarded instead of converted into capital. and that money was badly needed in the commercial and industrial operations of the time. hence the owners of it were in the position of persons who regarded saving and investing as a sacrifice for which interest was a necessary and proper compensation. to-day, however, there are millions of persons who would continue to perform both these functions without the inducement of interest. therefore, the public good does not require that they should receive interest, nor that the state should have the power to clothe their interest-incomes with moral lawfulness. inasmuch as the state is not certain that the abolition of interest would be socially expedient or practically possible, it is justified in permitting the institution to continue; but it has no power to affect the morality of interest-taking as an individual action. _how the interest-taker is justified_ although the interest received by the non-sacrifice savers is not clearly justifiable on either intrinsic or social grounds, it is not utterly lacking in moral sanctions. in the first place, we have not contended that the intrinsic factors of productivity and service are _certainly_ invalid morally. we have merely insisted that the moral worth of these titles has never been satisfactorily demonstrated. possibly they have a greater and more definite efficacy than has yet been shown by their advocates. in more concrete terms, we admit that the productivity of capital and the service of the capitalist to the community, are possible and doubtful titles to interest. a doubtful title to property is, indeed, insufficient by itself. in the case of the interest receiver, however, the doubtful titles of productivity and service are reinforced by the fact of possession. thus supplemented, they are sufficient to justify the non-sacrifice saver in giving himself the benefit of the doubt as regards the validity of his right to take interest. to be sure, this indefinite and uncertain claim would be overthrown by a more definite and positive title. but no such antagonistic title exists. neither the consumer nor the labourer can show any conclusive reason why interest should go to him rather than to the capitalist. hence the latter has at least a presumptive title. in the circumstances this is morally sufficient. to this justification by presumption must be added a justification by analogy. the non-sacrifice savers seem to be in about the same position as those other agents of production whose rewards are out of proportion to their sacrifices. for example; the labourer of superior native ability gets as much compensation for the same quality and quantity of work as his companion who has only ordinary ability; and the exceptionally intelligent business man stands in the same relation to his less efficient competitor; yet the sacrifices undergone by the former of each pair is less than that suffered by the latter. it would seem that if the more efficient men may properly take the same rewards as those who make larger sacrifices, the non-sacrifice capitalist might lawfully accept the same interest as the man whose saving involves some sacrifice. on this principle the lenders who would not have invested their money in a productive enterprise were nevertheless permitted by the moralists of the post-mediæval period to take advantage of the title of _lucrum cessans_. although they had relinquished no opportunity of gain, nor made any sacrifice, they were put on the same moral level as sacrificing lenders, and were allowed to take the same interest. as a determinant of ownership, possession is the feeblest of all factors, and yet it is of considerable importance for a large proportion of incomes and property. in the distribution of the national product, as well as in the division of the original heritage of the earth, a large part is played by the title of first occupancy. much of the product of industry is assigned to the agents of production mainly on the basis of inculpable possession. that is; it goes to its receivers automatically, in exchange for benefits to those who hand it over, and without excessive exploitation of their needs. just as the first arrival on a piece of land may regard it as a no-man's territory, and make it his own by the mere device of appropriation, so the capitalist may get morally valid possession of interest. sometimes, indeed, this debatable share, this no-man's share of the product of industry, is secured in some part by the consumer of the labourer. in such cases their title to it is just as valid as the title of the capitalist, notwithstanding the doubtful titles of productivity and service which the latter has in his favour. first occupancy and possession are the more decisive factors. in the great majority of instances, however, the capitalist is the first occupant, and therefore the lawful possessor of the interest-share. the general justification of interest set forth in the immediately preceding paragraphs is supplemented in the case of the great majority of capital owners by the fact that their income from this source is relatively insignificant. the average income of the farmers of the united states is only dollars per year, and of this dollars is interest on the capital invested in the farm.[ ] even when we make due allowance for the high purchasing power of farm incomes, due to the lower cost of foodstuffs and house rent, the total amount of dollars provides only a very moderate living. consequently the great majority of farmers can regard the interest that they receive as a necessary part of the remuneration that is fairly due them on account of their labour, sacrifices, and risks. so far as they are concerned, the justification of interest, as interest, is not a practical question. the same observation applies to the majority of urban business men, such as small merchants and manufacturers. their interest can be justified as not more than fair wages and profits. again, there is a large number of interest receivers who are entirely dependent upon this kind of income, and who obtain therefrom only a moderate livelihood. they are mainly children, aged persons, and invalids. unlike the classes just described, they cannot justify their interest as a fair supplement to wages; however, they may reasonably claim it as their equitable or charitable share of the common heritage of the earth. if they did not receive this interest-income they would have to be supported by their relatives or by the state. for many reasons this would be a much less desirable arrangement. consequently their general claim to interest is supplemented by considerations of human welfare. the difference between the ethical character of the interest discussed in the last two paragraphs and of that received by persons who possess large incomes, is too often overlooked in technical treatises. every man owning any productive goods is reckoned as a capitalist, and assumed to receive interest. if, however, a man's total interest-income is so small that when combined with all his other revenues it merely completes the equivalent of a decent living, it is surely of very little significance as interest. it stands in no such need of justification as the interest obtained by men whose incomes amount to, say, ten thousand dollars a year and upwards. still another confirmatory title of interest is suggested by the following well known declaration of st. thomas aquinas: "the possession of riches is not in itself unlawful if the order of reason be observed: that a man should possess justly what he owns, and _use_ it in a proper manner for himself and others."[ ] neither just acquisition nor proper use is alone sufficient to render private possessions morally good. both must be present. as we have seen above, the capitalist can appeal to certain presumptive and analogous titles which justify practically his acquisition of interest; but there can be no doubt that his claim and his moral power of disposal are considerably strengthened when he puts his interest-income to a proper use. one way of so using it is for a reasonable livelihood, as exemplified in the case of the farmers, business men, and non-workers whom we considered above. those persons who receive incomes in excess of their reasonable needs could devote the surplus to religion, charity, education, and a great variety of altruistic purposes. we shall deal with this matter specifically in the chapter on the "duty of distributing superfluous wealth." in the meantime it is sufficient to note that the rich man who makes a benevolent use of his interest-income has a special reason for believing that his receipt of interest is justified. the decisive value attributed to presumption, analogy, possession, and doubtful titles in our vindication of the capitalist's claim to interest, is no doubt disappointing to those persons who desire clear-cut mathematical rules and principles. nevertheless, they are the only factors that seem to be available. while the title that they confer upon the interest receiver is not as definite nor as noble as that by which the labourer claims his wages or the business man his profits, it is morally sufficient. it will remain logically and ethically unshaken until more cogent arguments have been brought against it than have yet appeared in the denunciations of the income of the capitalist. and what is true of him is likewise true of the rent receiver, and of the person who profits by the "unearned increment" of land values. in all three cases the presumptive justification of "workless" incomes will probably remain valid as long as the present industrial system endures. footnotes: [ ] "growth of capital," p. . [ ] cf. gonner, "interest and saving," p. ; cassel, "the nature and necessity of interest," ch. iv. [ ] new york, . [ ] "principles of economics," ii, . [ ] cf. hobson, "the economics of distribution," pp. - . [ ] cf. fisher, "elementary principles of economics," pp. , . however, he does not discuss in this passage the possibility of suppressing interest on productive capital by a direct method. [ ] cf. lehmkuhl, "theologia moralis," i, nos. , , . [ ] vol. , pp. - ; d ed. [ ] ballerini-palmieri, loc. cit.; cf. van roey, op. cit., pp. - . [ ] cf. _american economic review_, march, ; p. . [ ] "contra gentiles," lib. , c. . chapter xiv co-operation as a partial solvent of capitalism interest is not a return for labour. the majority of interest receivers are, indeed, regularly engaged at some active task, whether as day labourers, salaried employés, directors of industry, or members of the professions; but for these services they obtain specific and distinct compensation. the interest that they get comes to them solely in their capacity as owners of capital, independently of any personal activity. from the viewpoint of economic distribution, interest is a "workless" income. as such, it seems to challenge that ethical intuition which connects reward with effort and which inclines to regard income from any other source as not quite normal. moreover, interest absorbs a large part of the national income, and perpetuates grave economic inequalities.[ ] nevertheless, interest cannot be wholly abolished. as long as capital remains in private hands, its owners will demand and obtain interest. the only way of escape is by the road of socialism, and this would prove a blind alley. as we have seen in a preceding chapter, socialism is ethically and economically impossible. may not the burdens and disadvantages of interest be mitigated or minimised? such a result could conceivably be reached in two ways: the sum total of interest might be reduced, and the incomes derived from interest might be more widely distributed. _reducing the rate of interest_ no considerable diminution of the interest-volume can be expected through a decline in the interest rate. as far back as the middle of the eighteenth century, england and holland were able to borrow money at three per cent. during the period that has since intervened, the rate has varied from three to six per cent. on this class of loans. between and , the general rate of interest declined about two per cent., but it has risen since the latter date about one per cent. the great war now ( ) in action is destroying an enormous amount of capital, and it will, as in the case of all previous military conflicts of importance, undoubtedly be followed by a marked rise in the rate of interest. on the other hand, the only definite grounds upon which a decline in the rate can be hoped for are either uncertain or unimportant. they are the rapid increase of capital, and the extension of government ownership and operation of natural monopolies. the first is uncertain in its effects upon the rate of interest because the increased supply of capital is often neutralised by the process of substitution. that is, a large part of the new capital does not compete with and bring down the price of the old capital. instead, it is absorbed in new inventions, new types of machinery, and new processes of production, all of which take the place of labour, thus tending to increase rather than diminish the demand for capital and the rate of interest. to be sure, the demand for capital thus arising has not always been sufficient to offset the enlarged supply. since the industrial revolution capital has at certain periods and in certain regions increased so rapidly that it could not all find employment in new forms and in old forms at the old rate. in some instances a decline in the rate of interest can be clearly traced to the disproportionately quick growth of capital. but this phenomenon has been far from uniform, and there is no indication that it will become so in the future. the possibilities of the process of substitution have been by no means exhausted. the effects of government ownership are even more problematical. states and cities are, indeed, able to obtain capital more cheaply than private corporations for such public utilities as railways, telegraphs, tramways, and street lighting; and public ownership of all such concerns will probably become general in the not remote future. nevertheless the social gain is not likely to be proportionate to the reduction of interest on this section of capital. a part, possibly a considerable part, of the saving in interest will be neutralised by the lower efficiency and greater cost of operation; for in this respect publicly managed are inferior to privately managed enterprises. consequently, the charges to the public for the services rendered by these utilities cannot be reduced to the same degree as the rate of interest on the capital. on the other hand, the exclusion of private operating capital from this very large field of public utilities should increase competition among the various units of capital, and thus bring down its rewards. to what extent this would happen cannot be estimated even approximately. the only safe statement is that the decline in the general rate of interest would probably be slight. _need for a wider distribution of capital_ the main hope of lightening the social burden of interest lies in the possible reduction in the necessary volume of capital, and especially in a wider distribution of interest-incomes. in many parts of the industrial field there is a considerable waste of capital through unnecessary duplication. this means that a large amount of unnecessary interest is paid by the consumer in the form of unnecessarily high prices. again, the owners of capital and receivers of interest constitute only a minority of the population of all countries, with the possible exception of the united states. the great majority of the wage earners in all lands possess no capital, and obtain no interest. not only are their incomes small, often pitiably small, but their lack of capital deprives them of the security, confidence, and independence which are required for comfortable existence and efficient citizenship. they have no income from productive property to protect them against the cessation of wages. during periods of unemployment they are frequently compelled to have recourse to charity, and to forego many of the necessary comforts of life. so long as the bulk of the means of production remains in the hands of a distinct capitalist class, this demoralising insecurity of the workers must continue as an essential part of our industrial system. while it might conceivably be eliminated through a comprehensive scheme of state insurance, this arrangement would substitute dependence upon the state for dependence upon the capitalist, and be much less desirable than ownership of income-bearing property. the workers who possess no capital do not enjoy a normal and reasonable degree of independence, self respect, or self confidence. they have not sufficient control over the wage contract and the other conditions of employment, and they have nothing at all to say concerning the goods that they shall produce, or the persons to whom their product shall be sold. they lack the incentive to put forth their best efforts in production. they cannot satisfy adequately the instinct of property, the desire to control some of the determining forms of material possession. they are deprived of that consciousness of power which is generated exclusively by property, and which contributes so powerfully toward the making of a contended and efficient life. they do not possess a normal amount of freedom in politics, nor in those civic and social relations which lie outside the spheres of industry and politics. in a word, the worker without capital has not sufficient power over the ordering of his own life. _the essence of co-operative enterprise_ the most effective means of lessening the volume of interest, and bringing about a wider distribution of capital, is to be found in co-operative enterprise. co-operation in general denotes the unified action of a group of persons for a common end. a church, a debating club, a joint stock company, exemplifies co-operation in this sense. in the strict and technical sense, it has received various definitions. professor taussig declares that it "consists essentially in getting rid of the managing employer"; but this description is applicable only to co-operatives of production. "a combination of individuals to economise by buying in common, or increase their profits by selling in common" (encyclopedia britannica) is likewise too narrow, since it fits only distributive and agricultural co-operation. according to c. r. fay, a co-operative society is "an association for the purpose of joint trading, originating among the weak, and conducted always in an unselfish spirit." if the word, "trading" be stretched to comprehend manufacturing as well as commercial activities, fay's definition is fairly satisfactory. the distinguishing circumstance, "originating among the weak," is also emphasised by father pesch in his statement that the essence, aim, and meaning of co-operation are to be found in "a combination of the economically weak in common efforts for the security and betterment of their condition."[ ] in order to give the proper connotation for our purpose, we shall define co-operation as, that joint economic action which seeks to obtain for a relatively weak group all or part of the profits and interest which in the ordinary capitalist enterprise are taken by a smaller and different group. this formula puts in the foreground the important fact that in every form of co-operative effort, some interest or profits, or both, are diverted from those who would have received them under purely capitalistic arrangements, and distributed among a larger number of persons. thus it indicates the bearing of co-operation upon the problem of lightening the social burden of interest. from the viewpoint of economic function, co-operation may be divided into two general kinds, producers' and consumers'. the best example of the former is a wage earners' productive society; of the latter, a co-operative store. credit co-operatives and agricultural co-operatives fall mainly under the former head, inasmuch as their principal object is to assist production, and to benefit men as producers rather than as consumers. hence from the viewpoint of type, co-operation may be classified as credit, agricultural, distributive, and productive. _co-operative credit societies_ a co-operative credit society is a bank controlled by the persons who patronise it, and lending on personal rather than material security. such banks are intended almost exclusively for the relatively helpless borrower, as, the small farmer, artisan, shopkeeper, and the small man generally. fundamentally they are associations of neighbours who combine their resources and their credit in order to obtain loans on better terms than are accorded by the ordinary commercial banks. the capital is derived partly from the sale of shares of stock, partly from deposits, and partly from borrowed money. in germany, where credit associations have been more widely extended and more highly developed than in any other country, they are of two kinds, named after their respective founders, schulze-delitzsch and raiffeisen. the former operates chiefly in the cities, serves the middle classes rather than the very poor, requires all its members to subscribe for capital stock, commits them to a long course of saving, and thus develops their interest as lenders. the raiffeisen societies have, as a rule, very little share capital, exist chiefly in the country districts, especially among the poorest of the peasantry, are based mostly on personal credit, and do not profess to encourage greatly the saving and lending activities of their members. both forms of association loan money to their members at lower rates of interest than these persons could obtain elsewhere. hence credit co-operation directly reduces the burden of interest. the schulze-delitzsch societies have more than half a million members in the cities and towns of germany, sixty per cent. of whom take advantage of the borrowing facilities. the raiffeisen banks comprise about one-half of all the independent german agriculturists. some form of co-operative banking is well established in every important country of europe, except denmark and great britain. in the former country its place seems to be satisfactorily filled by the ordinary commercial banks. its absence from great britain is apparently due to the credit system provided by the large landholders, to the scarcity of peasant proprietors, and to general lack of initiative. it is especially strong in italy, belgium, and austria, and it has made a promising beginning in ireland. in every country in which it has obtained a foothold, it gives indication of steady and continuous progress. nevertheless it is subject to definite limits. it can never make much headway among that class of persons whose material resources are sufficiently large and palpable to command loans on the usual terms offered by the commercial banks. as a rule, these terms are quite as favourable as those available through the co-operative credit associations. it is only because the poorer men cannot obtain loans from the commercial banks on the prevailing conditions that they are impelled to have recourse to the co-operative associations. _co-operative agricultural societies_ the chief operations of agricultural co-operative societies are manufacturing, marketing, and purchasing. in the first named field the most important example is the co-operative dairy. the owners of cows hold the stock or shares of the concern, and in addition to dividends receive profits in proportion to the amount of milk that they supply. in ireland and some other countries, a portion of the profits goes to the employés of the dairy as a dividend on wages. other productive co-operatives of agriculture are found in cheese making, bacon curing, distilling, and wine making. all are conducted on the same general principles as the co-operative dairy. through the marketing societies and purchasing societies, the farmers are enabled to sell their products to better advantage, and to obtain materials needed for carrying on agricultural operations more cheaply than would be possible by isolated individual action. some of the products marketed by the selling societies are eggs, milk, poultry, fruit, vegetables, live stock, and various kinds of grain. the purchasing societies supply for the most part manures, seeds, and machinery. occasionally they buy the most costly machinery in such a way that the association becomes the corporate owner of the implements. in these cases the individual members have only the use of the machines, but they would be unable to enjoy even that advantage were it not for the intervention of the co-operative society. where such arrangements exist, the society exemplifies not only co-operative buying but co-operative ownership. agricultural co-operation has become most widely extended in denmark, and has displayed its most striking possibilities in ireland. relatively to its population, the former country has more farmers in co-operative societies, and has derived more profit therefrom, than any other nation. the rapid growth and achievements of agricultural co-operation in the peculiarly unfavourable circumstances of ireland constitute the most convincing proof to be found anywhere of the essential soundness and efficacy of the movement. various forms of rural co-operative societies are solidly established in germany, france, belgium, italy, and switzerland. in recent years the movement has made some progress in the united states, especially in relation to dairies, grain elevators, the marketing of live stock and fruit, and various forms of rural insurance. the co-operative insurance companies effect a saving to the minnesota farmers of $ , annually, and the co-operative elevators handle about per cent. of the grain marketed in that state. in the business transacted by the co-operative marketing and purchasing organisations of the farmers of the united states amounted to $ , , , . the transformation in the rural life of more than one european community through co-operation has amounted to little less than a revolution. higher standards of agricultural products and production have been set up and maintained, better methods of farming have been inculcated and enforced, and the whole social, moral, and civic life of the people has been raised to a higher level. from the viewpoint of material gain, the chief benefits of agricultural co-operation have been the elimination of unnecessary middlemen, and the economies of buying in large quantities, selling in the best markets, and employing the most efficient implements. as compared with farming conducted on a large scale, the small farm possesses certain advantages, and is subject to certain disadvantages. it is less wasteful, permits greater attention to details, and makes a greater appeal to the self interest of the cultivator; but the small farmer cannot afford to buy the best machinery, nor is he in a position to carry on to the best advantage the commercial features of his occupation, such as borrowing, buying, and marketing. co-operation frees him from all these handicaps. "the co-operative community ... is one in which groups of humble men combine their efforts, and to some extent their resources, in order to secure for themselves those advantages in industry which the masters of capital derive from the organisation of labour, from the use of costly machinery, and from the economies of business when done on a large scale. they apply in their industry the methods by which the fortunes of the magnates in commerce and manufacture are made." these words, uttered by a prominent member of the irish co-operative movement, summarise the aims and achievements of agricultural co-operation in every country of europe in which it has obtained a strong foothold. in every such community the small farm has gained at the expense of the large farm system. finally, agricultural co-operation reduces the burden of interest by eliminating some unnecessary capital, stimulates saving among the tillers of the soil by providing a ready and safe means of investment, and in manifold ways contributes materially toward a better distribution of wealth. _co-operative mercantile societies_ co-operative stores are organised by and for consumers. in every country they follow rather closely the rochdale system, so called from the english town in which the first store of this kind was established in . the members of the co-operative society furnish the capital, and receive thereon interest at the prevailing rate, usually five per cent. the stores sell goods at about the same prices as their privately owned competitors, but return a dividend on the purchases of all those customers who are members of the society. the dividends are provided from the surplus which remains after wages, interest on the capital stock, and all other expenses have been paid. in some co-operative stores non-members receive a dividend on their purchases at half the rate accorded to members of the society, but only on condition that these payments shall be invested in the capital stock of the enterprise. and the members themselves are strongly urged to make this disposition of their purchase-dividends. since the latter are paid only quarterly, the co-operative store exercises a considerable influence toward inducing its patrons to save and to become small capitalists. in great britain the vast majority of the retail stores have been federated into two great wholesale societies, one in england and the other in scotland. the retail stores provide the capital, and participate in the profits according to the amounts purchased, just as the individual consumers furnish the capital and share the profits of the retail establishments. the scottish wholesale society divides a part of the profits among its employés. besides their operations as jobbers, the wholesale societies are bankers for the retail stores, and own and operate factories, farms, warehouses, and steamships. many of the retail co-operatives likewise carry on productive enterprises, such as milling, tailoring, bread making, and the manufacture of boots, shoes, and other commodities, and some of them build, sell, and rent cottages, and lend money to members who desire to obtain homes. the co-operative store movement has made greatest progress in its original home, great britain. in about one person in every three was to some degree interested in or a beneficiary of these institutions. the profits of the stores amounted to about $ , , , which was about per cent. on the capital. the employés numbered about , , and the sales for the year aggregated $ , , . the english wholesale society was the largest flour miller and shoe manufacturer in great britain, and its total business amounted to $ , , . outside of great britain, co-operative distribution has been most successful in germany, belgium, and switzerland. it has had a fair measure of development in italy, but has failed to assume any importance in france. "there is every sign that within the near future--except in france--the stores will come to include the great majority of the wage earning class, which is a constantly growing percentage of the total population."[ ] within recent years a respectable number of stores have been established on a sound basis in canada and the united states. owing, however, to the marked individualism and the better economic conditions of these two countries, the co-operative movement will continue for some time to be relatively slow. as in the case of agricultural co-operation, the money benefits accruing to the members of the co-operative stores consist mainly of profits rather than interest. in the absence of the store societies, these profits would have gone for the most part to middlemen as payments for the risks and labour of conducting privately owned establishments. forty-seven of the sixty million dollars profits of the british co-operative stores in were divided among more than two and one-half million members of these institutions, instead of going to a comparatively small number of private merchants. the other thirteen million dollars were interest on the capital stock. had the members invested an equal amount in other enterprises they could, indeed, have obtained about the same rate and amount of interest, but in the absence of the co-operative stores their inducements and opportunities to save would have been much smaller. for it must be kept in mind that a very large part of the capital stock in the co-operative stores is derived from the members' dividends on their purchases at such stores, and would not have come into existence at all without these establishments. the gains of the co-operative stores, whether classified as profits or as interest, are evidently a not inconsiderable indication of a better distribution of wealth. _co-operation in production_ co-operative production has occasionally been pronounced a failure. this judgment is too sweeping and too severe. "as a matter of fact," says a prominent london weekly, "the co-operators' success has been even more remarkable in production than in distribution. the co-operative movement runs five of the largest of our flour mills; it has, amongst others, the very largest of our boot factories; it makes cotton cloth and woollens, and all sorts of clothing; it has even a corset factory of its own; it turns out huge quantities of soap; it makes every article of household furniture; it produces cocoa and confectionery; it grows its own fruit and makes its own jams; it has one of the largest tobacco factories, and so on." obviously this passage refers to that kind of productive co-operation which is carried on by the stores, not to productive concerns owned and managed by the workers therein employed. nevertheless the enterprises in question are co-operatively managed, and hence exemplify co-operation rather than private and competitive industry. they ought not to be left out of any statement of the field occupied by co-operative production. the limitations and possibilities of co-operation in production can best be set forth by considering its three different forms separately. the "perfect" form occurs when all the workers engaged in a concern own all the share capital, control the entire management, and receive the whole of the wages, profits, and interest. in this field the failures have been much more numerous and conspicuous than the successes. godin's stove works at guise, france, is the only important enterprise of this kind that is now in existence. great britain has several establishments in which the workers own a large part of the capital, but apparently none in which they are the sole proprietors and managers. the "labour societies" of italy, consisting mostly of diggers, masons, and bricklayers, co-operatively enter into contracts for the performance of public works, and share in the profits of the undertaking in addition to their wages; but the only capital that they provide consists of comparatively simple and inexpensive tools. the raw material and other capital is furnished by the public authority which gives the contract. a second kind of productive co-operation is found in the arrangement known as co-partnership. this is "the system under which, in the first place, a substantial and known share of the profit of a business belongs to the workers in it, not by right of any shares they may hold, or any other title, but simply by right of the labour they have contributed to make the profit; and, in the second place, every worker is at liberty to invest his profit, or any other savings, in shares of the society or company, and so become a member entitled to vote on the affairs of the body which employs him."[ ] so far as its first, or profit sharing, feature is concerned, co-partnership is not genuine co-operation, for it includes neither ownership of capital nor management of the business. co-operative action begins only with the adoption of the second element. in most of the existing co-partnership concerns, all the employés are urged, and many of them required to invest at least a part of their profits in the capital stock. the most notable and successful of these experiments is that carried on by the south metropolitan gas company of london. practically all the company's , employés are now among its stockholders. although their combined holdings are only about one-twenty-eighth of the total, they are empowered to select two of the ten members of the board of directors. essentially the same co-partnership arrangements have been adopted by about one-half the privately owned gas companies of great britain. in none of them, however, have the workers obtained as yet such a large percentage of either ownership or control as in the south metropolitan. co-partnership exists in several other enterprises in great britain, and is found in a considerable number of french concerns. there are a few instances in the united states, the most thoroughgoing being that of n. o. nelson & co. at le claire, ill. as already noted, the co-operative stores exemplify a third type of co-operative production. in some cases the productive concern is under the management of a local retail establishment, but the great majority of them are conducted by the english and scottish wholesale societies. as regards the employés of these enterprises, the arrangement is not true co-operation, since they have no part in the ownership of the capital. the scottish wholesale society, as we have seen, permits the employés of its productive works to share in the profits thereof; nevertheless it does not admit them as stockholders, nor give them any voice in the management. in all cases the workers may, indeed, become owners of stock in their local retail stores. since the latter are stockholders in the wholesale societies, which in turn own the productive enterprises, the workers have a certain indirect and attenuated proprietorship in the productive concerns. but they derive therefrom no dividends. all the interest and most of the profits of the productive establishments are taken by the wholesale and retail stores. for it is the theory of the wholesale societies that the employés in the works of production should share in the gains thereof only as consumers. they are to profit only in the same way and to the same extent as other consumer-members of the local retail establishments. the most effective and beneficial form of co-operative production is evidently that which has been described as the "perfect" type. were all production organised on this plan, the social burden of interest would be insignificant, industrial despotism would be ended, and industrial democracy realised. as things are, however, the establishments exemplifying this type are of small importance. their increase and expansion are impeded by lack of directive ability and of capital, and the risk to the workers' savings. yet none of these obstacles is necessarily insuperable. directive ability can be developed in the course of time, just as it was in the co-operative stores. capital can be obtained fast enough perhaps to keep pace with the supply of directive ability and the spirit of co-operation. the risk undertaken by workers who put their savings into productive concerns owned and managed by themselves need not be greater than that now borne by investors in private enterprises of the same kind. there is no essential reason why the former should not provide the same profits and insurance against business risks as the latter. while the employés assume none of the risks of capitalistic industry, neither do they receive any of the profits. if the co-operative factory exhibits the same degree of business efficiency as the private enterprise it will necessarily afford the workers adequate protection for their savings and capital. indeed, if "perfect" co-operative production is to be successful at all its profits will be larger than those of the capitalistic concern, owing to the greater interest taken by the workers in their tasks, and in the management of the business. for a long time to come, however, it is probable that "perfect" co-operative production will be confined to relatively small and local industries. the difficulty of finding sufficient workers' capital and ability to carry on, for example, a transcontinental railroad or a nationwide steel business, is not likely to be overcome for one or two generations.[ ] the labour co-partnership form of co-operation is susceptible of much wider and more rapid extension. it can be adapted readily to the very large as well as to the small and medium sized concerns. since it requires the workers to own but a part of the capital, it can be established in any enterprise in which the capitalists show themselves willing and sympathetic. in every industrial corporation there are some employés who possess savings, and these can be considerably increased through the profit sharing feature of co-partnership. a very long time must, indeed, elapse before the workers in any of the larger enterprises could get possession of all, or even of a controlling share of the capital, and a considerable time would be needed to educate and fit them for successful management. production under the direction of the co-operative stores can be extended faster than either of the other two forms, and it has before it a very wide even though definitely limited field. the british wholesale societies have already shown themselves able to conduct with great success large manufacturing concerns, have trained and attracted an adequate number of competent leaders, and have accumulated so much capital that they have been obliged to invest several million pounds in other enterprises. the possible scope of the stores and their co-operative production has been well described by c. r. fay: "distribution of goods for personal consumption, first, among the working class population, secondly, among the salaried classes who feel a homogeneity of professional interest; production by working class organisations alone (with rare exceptions in italy) of all the goods which they distribute to their members. but this is its limit. distribution among the remaining sections of the industrial population; production for distribution to these members; production of the instruments of production, and production for international trade; the services of transport and exchange: all these industrial departments are, so far as can be seen, permanently outside the domain of a store movement."[ ] the theory by which the stores attempt to justify the exclusion of the employés of their productive concerns from a share of the profits thereof is that all profits come ultimately from the pockets of the consumer, and should all return to that source. the defect in this theory is that it ignores the question whether the consumers ought not to be required to pay a sufficiently high price for their goods to provide the producers with profits in addition to wages. while the wholesale stores are the owners and managers of the capital in the productive enterprises, and on the capitalistic principle should obtain the profits, the question remains whether this is necessarily a sound principle, and whether it is in harmony with the theory and ideals of co-operation. in those concerns which have adopted the labour co-partnership scheme, the workers, even when they own none of the capital, are accorded a part of the profits. it is assumed that this is a fairer and wiser method of distribution than that which gives the labourer only wages, leaving all the profits to the manager-capitalist. this feature of co-partnership rests on the theory that the workers can, if they will, increase their efficiency and reduce the friction between themselves and their employer to such an extent as to make the profit sharing arrangement a good thing for both parties. consequently the profits obtained by the workers are a payment for this specific contribution to the prosperity of the business. why should not this theory find recognition in productive enterprises conducted by the co-operative stores? in the second place, the workers in these concerns ought to be permitted to participate in the capital ownership and management. they would thus be strongly encouraged to become better workers, to save more money, and to increase their capacity for initiative and self government. moreover, this arrangement would go farther than any other system toward reconciling the interests of producer and consumer. as producer, the worker would obtain, besides his wages, interest and profits up to the limit set by the competition of private productive concerns. as consumer, he would share in the profits and interest which would otherwise have gone to the private distributive enterprises. in this way the producer and consumer would each get the gains that were due specifically and respectively to his activity and efficiency. _advantages and prospects of co-operation_ at this point it will perhaps be well to sum up the advantages and to estimate the prospects of the co-operative movement. in all its forms co-operation eliminates some waste of capital and energy, and therefore transfers some interest and profits from a special capitalist and undertaking class to a larger and economically weaker group of persons. for it must be borne in mind that all co-operative enterprises are conducted mainly by and for labourers or small farmers. hence the system always makes directly for a better distribution of wealth. to a considerable extent it transfers capital ownership from those who do not themselves work with or upon capital to those who are so engaged; namely, the labourers and the farmers; thus it diminishes the unhealthy separation now existing between the owners and the users of the instruments of production. co-operation has, in the second place, a very great educational value. it enables and induces the weaker members of economic society to combine and utilise energies and resources that would otherwise remain unused and undeveloped; and it greatly stimulates and fosters initiative, self confidence, self restraint, self government, and the capacity for democracy. in other words, it vastly increases the development and efficiency of the individual. it likewise induces him to practise thrift, and frequently provides better fields for investment than would be open to him outside the co-operative movement. it diminishes selfishness and inculcates altruism; for no co-operative enterprise can succeed in which the individual members are not willing to make greater sacrifices for the common good than are ordinarily evoked by private enterprise. precisely because co-operation makes such heavy demands upon the capacity for altruism, its progress always has been and must always continue to be relatively slow. its fundamental and perhaps chief merit is that it does provide the mechanism and the atmosphere for a greater development of the altruistic spirit than is possible under any other economic system that has ever been tried or devised. by putting productive property into the hands of those who now possess little or nothing, co-operation promotes social stability and social progress. this statement is true in some degree of all forms of co-operation, but it applies with particular force to those forms which are carried on by the working classes. a steadily growing number of keen-sighted social students are coming to realise that an industrial system which permits a comparatively small section of society to own the means of production and the instrumentalities of distribution, leaving to the great majority of the workers nothing but their labour power, is fundamentally unstable, and contains within itself the germs of inevitable dissolution. no mere adequacy of wages and other working conditions, and no mere security of the workers' livelihood, can permanently avert this danger, nor compensate the individual for the lack of power to determine those activities of life which depend upon the possession of property. through co-operation this unnatural divorce of the users from the owners of capital can be minimised. the worker is converted from a mere wage earner to a wage earner plus a property owner, thus becoming a safer and more useful member of society. in a word, co-operation produces all the well recognised individual and social benefits which have in all ages been evoked by the "magic of property." finally, co-operation is a golden mean between individualism and socialism. it includes all the good features and excludes all the evil features of both. on the one hand, it demands and develops individual initiative and self reliance, makes the rewards of the individual depend upon his own efforts and efficiency, and gives him full ownership of specific pieces of property. on the other hand, it compels him to submerge much of the selfishness and indifference to the welfare of his fellows which characterise our individual economy. it embraces all the good that is claimed for socialism because it induces men to consider and to work earnestly for the common good, eliminates much of the waste of competitive industry, reduces and redistributes the burdens of profits and interest, and puts the workers in control of capital and industry. at the same time, it avoids the evils of an industrial despotism, of bureaucratic inefficiency, of individual indifference, and of an all pervading collective ownership. the resemblances that socialists sometimes profess to see between their system and co-operation are superficial and far less important than the differences. under both arrangements the workers would, we are told, own and control the means of production; but the members of a co-operative society directly own and immediately control a _definite amount of specific capital_, which is essentially _private_ property. in a socialist régime the workers' ownership of capital would be collective not private, general not specific, while their control of the productive instruments with which they worked would be shared with other citizens. the latter would vastly outnumber the workers in any particular industry, and would be interested therein not as producers but as consumers. no less obvious and fundamental are the differences in favour of co-operation as regards the vital matters of freedom, opportunity, and efficiency. in so far as the future of co-operation can be predicted from its past, the outlook is distinctly encouraging. the success attained in credit, agriculture, and distribution, is a sufficient guarantee for these departments. while productive co-operation has experienced more failures than successes, it has finally shown itself to be sound in principle, and feasible in practice. its extension will necessarily be slow, but this is exactly what should be expected by any one who is acquainted with the limitations of human nature, and the history of human progress. if a movement that is capable of modifying so profoundly the condition of the workers as is co-operative production, gave indications of increasing rapidly, we should be inclined to question its soundness and permanence. experience has given us abundant proof that no mere system or machinery can effect a revolutionary improvement in economic conditions. no social system can do more than provide a favourable environment for the development of those individual capacities and energies which are the true and the only causal forces of betterment. nor is it to be expected that any of the other three forms of co-operation will ever cover the entire field to which it might, absolutely speaking, be extended; or that co-operation as a whole will become the one industrial system of the future. even if the latter contingency were possible it would not be desirable. the elements of our economic life, and the capacities of human nature, are too varied and too complex to be forced with advantage into any one system, whether capitalism, socialism, or co-operation. any single system or form of socio-economic organisation would prove an intolerable obstacle to individual opportunity and social progress. multiplicity and variety in social and industrial orders are required for an effective range of choices, and an adequate scope for human effort. in a general way the limits of co-operation in relation to the other forms of economic organisation have been satisfactorily stated by mr. aneurin williams: "i suggest, therefore, that where there are great monopolies, either natural or created by the combination of businesses, there you have a presumption in favour of state and municipal ownership. in those forms of industry where individuality is everything; where there are new inventions to make, or to develop or put on the market, or merely to adopt in some rapidly transformed industry; where the eye of the master is everything; where reference to a committee, or appeals from one official to another, would cause fatal delay: there is the natural sphere of individual enterprise pure and simple. between these two extremes there is surely a great sphere for voluntary association to carry on commerce, manufacture, and retail trade, in circumstances where there is no natural monopoly, and where the routine of work is not rapidly changing, but on the whole fairly well established and constant."[ ] the province open to co-operation is, indeed, very large. if it were fully occupied the danger of a social revolution would be non-existent, and what remained of the socio-industrial problem would be relatively undisturbing and unimportant. the "specialisation of function" in industrial organisation, as outlined by mr. williams, would give a balanced economy in which the three great socio-economic systems and principles would have full play, and each would be required to do its best in fair competition with the other two. economic life would exhibit a diversity making strongly for social satisfaction and stability, inasmuch as no very large section of the industrial population would desire to overthrow the existing order. finally, the choice of three great systems of industry would offer the utmost opportunity and scope for the energies and the development of the individual. and this, when all is said, remains the supreme end of a just and efficient socio-industrial organisation. references on section ii fisher: the rate of interest. new york; . cassel: nature and necessity of interest. london; . gonner: interest and saving. london; . landry: l'intérêt du capital. paris; . menger: the right to the whole produce of labour. london; . cathrein-gettelman: socialism. st. louis; . skelton: socialism: a critical analysis. new york; . spargo: socialism. macmillan; . walling: socialism as it is. new york; . hillquit-ryan: socialism: promise or menace? macmillan; . savatier: la théorie moderne du capital et la justice. paris; . garriguet: régime du travail. paris; . funk: zins und wucher. tübingen; . holyoake: the history of co-operation. london; . fay: co-operation at home and abroad. london; . williams: copartnership and profit-sharing. henry holt & co.; . mann, sievers, cox: the real democracy. london; . also the works of taussig, devas, antoine, hobson, nearing, willoughby, and hitze, which were given at the end of the introductory chapter. footnotes: [ ] professor scott nearing estimates the annual income derived from the ownership of property in the united states; that is, land and all forms of capital, at from six to nine billion dollars. professor w. i. king gives the combined shares of the national income received by the landowners and the capitalists at more than six and three-quarter billions in . according to the census bulletin on the "estimated valuation of national wealth," the capital goods of the country were in approximately $ , , , . . at four per cent. this would mean an annual income of seven billion dollars. the lowest of the three estimates, six billion dollars, is equivalent to more than sixty dollars a year for every man, woman, and child in the united states. if that sum were equally distributed among the whole population, it would mean an increase of between forty and sixty per cent. in the income of the majority of workingmen's families! nor do present tendencies hold out any hope of an automatic reduction of the interest-burden in the future. in the opinion of professor scott nearing, "the present economic tendencies will greatly increase the amount of property income paid with each passing decade." "income," p. ; new york, . see especially ch. vii. according to professor taussig, "the absolute amount of income going to this [the capitalist] class tends to increase, and its share of the total income tends also to increase; whereas for the labourers, though their total income may increase, their share of income of society as a whole tends to decline." "principles of economics," ii, . [ ] "lehrbuch der nationaloekonomie," iii, . [ ] fay, "co-operation at home and abroad," p. . [ ] schloss, "methods of industrial remuneration," pp. , . [ ] cf., however, mr. a. r. orage's work, "national guilds," london, . [ ] op. cit., p. . [ ] "copartnership and profit-sharing," p. . section iii the moral aspect of profits chapter xv the nature of profits we have seen that rent goes to the landlord as the price of land use, while interest is received by the capitalist as the return for the use of capital. the two shares of the product which remain to be considered include an element which is absent from both rent and interest. the use for which profits and wages are paid comprises not merely the utilisation of a productive factor, but the sustained exertion of the factor's owner. like the landowner and the capitalist, the business man and the labourer put the productive factors which they control at the disposal of the industrial process; but they do so only when and so long as they exercise human activity. the shares that they receive are payments for the continuous output of human energy. no such significance attaches to rent or interest. _the functions and rewards of the business man_ who is the business man, and what is the nature of his share of the product of industry? let us suppose that the salaried manager of a hat factory decides to set up a business of the same kind for himself. he wishes to become an entrepreneur, an undertaker, a director of industry, in more familiar language, a business man. let us assume that he is without money, but that he commands extraordinary financial credit. he is able to borrow half a million dollars with which to organise, equip, and operate the new enterprise. having selected a favourable site, he rents it on a long term lease, and erects thereon the necessary buildings. he installs all the necessary machinery and other equipment, hires capable labour, and determines the kinds and quantities of hats for which he thinks that he can find a market. at the end of a year, he realises that, after paying for labour of all sorts, returning interest to the capitalist and rent to the landowner, defraying the cost of repairs, and setting aside a fund to cover depreciation, he has left for himself the sum of ten thousand dollars. this is the return for his labour of organisation and direction, and for the risk that he underwent. it constitutes the share called profits, sometimes specified as net profits. this case is artificial, since it assumes that the business man is neither capitalist nor landowner in addition to his function as director of industry. it has, however, the advantage of distinguishing quite sharply the action of the business man as such. for the latter merely organises, directs, and takes the risks of the industrial process, finds a market for the product, and receives in return neither rent nor interest but only profits. in point of fact, however, no one ever functions solely as business man. always the business man owns some of the capital, and very often some of the land involved in his enterprise, and is the receiver not only of profits but of interest and rent. thus, the farmer is a business man, but he is also a capitalist, and frequently a landowner. the grocer, the clothier, the manufacturer, and even the lawyer and the doctor own a part at least of the capital with which they operate, and sometimes they own the land. nevertheless their rewards as business men can always be distinguished from their returns as capitalists and landowners by finding out what remains after making due allowance for rent and interest. it is a fact that many business men, especially those directing the smaller establishments, use the term profits to include rent and interest on their own property. in other words, they describe their entire income from the business as profits. in the present discussion, and throughout this book generally, profits are to be understood as comprising merely that part of the business man's returns which he takes as the reward of his labour, and as insurance against the risks affecting his enterprise. deduct from the business man's total income a sum which will cover interest on his capital at the prevailing rate and rent on his land, and you have left his income as business man, his profits. _the amount of profits_ in a preceding chapter we have seen that where the conditions of capital are the same, there exists a fairly uniform rate of interest. no such uniformity obtains in the field of profits. businesses subject to the same risks and requiring the same kind of management yield very different amounts of return to their directors. in a sense the business man may be regarded as the residual claimant of industry. this does not mean that he takes no profits until all the other agents of production have been fully remunerated, but that his share remains indeterminate until the end of the productive period, say, six months or a year, while the shares of the other agents are determined beforehand. at the end of the productive period, the business man may find that his profits are large, moderate, or small, while the landowner, the capitalist, and the labourer ordinarily obtain the precise amounts of rent, interest, and wages that they had expected to obtain. that there exists no definite upper limit to profits is proved by the history of modern millionaires. that there exists no rigid lower limit is proved by the large proportion of enterprises that meet with failure. nevertheless it would be wrong to infer that the volume of profits is governed by no law whatever, or that they show no tendency toward uniformity in any part of the industrial field. there is a calculated or preconceived minimum. no man will embark in business for himself unless he has reason to expect that it will yield him, in addition to protection against risks, an income as large as he could obtain by hiring his services to some one else. in other words, contemplated profits must be at least equal to the income of the salaried business manager. no tendency toward uniformity of profits exists among very large enterprises nor among industries which are constantly adopting new methods and new inventions. in businesses of small and moderate size, and in those whose methods have become standardised, such as a retail grocery store, or a factory that turns out staple kinds of shoes, profits tend to be about the same in the great majority of establishments. in such industries the profits of the business man do not often exceed the salary that he could command as general manager for some one else in the same kind of business. professor king estimates the total volume of profits in the united states in as almost eight and one-half billion dollars. this was . per cent. of the national product, as against . per cent. in and per cent. in .[ ] he interprets the fall in the wage earners' share which has taken place since ( . to . per cent.) as indicating a considerable increase in the share of those business men who control the very large industries. "the promoters and manipulators of these concerns have received, as their share of the spoils, permanent income claims, in the shape of securities, large enough to make croesus appear like a pauper."[ ] moreover, even outside this monopoly field, the more able and successful business men seem to have obtained in recent years what might be termed a relatively large share of the product of industry. the exceptionally efficient undertakers, those possessing the imagination, foresight, judgment, and courage to take full advantage of the recent improvements in the industrial arts, and in the methods of production generally, seem to have advanced in wealth and income more rapidly than any other class that has been subject to the operation of competition. _profits in the joint-stock company_ up to this point we have been considering the independent business man, the undertaker who manages his enterprise either alone or as a member of a partnership. in all such concerns it is easy to identify the business man. who or where is the business man in a joint stock company? where are the profits, and who gets them? strictly speaking, there is no undertaker or business man in a corporation. his functions of ownership, responsibility, and direction are exercised by the whole body of stockholders through the board of directors and other officers. it is true that in very many, probably in most corporations, one or a very few of the largest stockholders dominate the policies of the concern, and exercise almost as much power and authority as though they were the sole owners. neither these, however, nor any other officer in a corporation receives profits in the same sense as the independent owner of a business. for their active services the officers of the corporation are given salaries; for the risks that they undergo as owners of the stock they are compensated in the same way as all the other stockholders, that is, through a sufficiently high rate of dividend. for example, in railroads the bonds usually pay from four to five per cent., the stock from five to six per cent. the bonds represent borrowed money, and are secured by a mortgage on the physical property. the stock represents the money invested by the owners, and is subject to all the risks of ownership; hence its holders require the protection which is afforded by the extra one per cent. which they obtain over that paid to the bondholders. while a corporation has no profits in the sense of a reward for directive activity or a protection against risk, it frequently possesses profits in the sense of a surplus which remains after costs and expenses of every kind have been defrayed. these profits are ordinarily distributed pro rata among the stockholders, either outright in the form of an extra dividend, or indirectly through enlargement of the property and business of the company. they are surplus gains or profits having the same intermittent and speculative character as the extra gains which the individual business man sometimes obtains in addition to those profits which are necessary to remunerate him for his labour, and protect him against risks. they are not profits in the ordinary economic sense of the term. footnotes: [ ] "the wealth and income of the people of the united states," , . [ ] idem, p. . chapter xvi the principal canons of distributive justice before taking up the question of the morality of profits, it will be helpful, if not necessary, to consider the chief rules of justice that have been or might be adopted in distributing the product of industry among those who participate actively in the productive process. while the discussion is undertaken with particular reference to the rewards of the business man, it will also have an important bearing on the compensation of the wage earner. the morality of rent and interest depends upon other principles than those governing the remuneration of human activity; and it has been sufficiently treated in chapters xii and xiii. the canons of distribution applicable to our present study are mainly six in number: arithmetical equality; proportional needs; efforts and sacrifices; comparative productivity; relative scarcity; and human welfare. _the canon of equality_ according to the rule of arithmetical equality, all persons who contribute to the product should receive the same amount of remuneration. with the exception of bernard shaw, no important writer defends this rule to-day. it is unjust because it would treat unequals equally. although men are equal as moral entities, as human persons, they are unequal in desires, capacities, and powers. an income that would fully satisfy the needs of one man would meet only per cent., or per cent., of the capacities of another. to allot them equal amounts of income would be to treat them unequally with regard to the requisites of life and self development. to treat them unequally in these matters would be to treat them unequally as regards the real and only purpose of property rights. that purpose is welfare. hence the equal moral claims of men which admittedly arise out of their moral equality must be construed as claims to equal degrees of welfare, not to equal amounts of external goods. to put the matter in another way, external goods are not welfare; they are only means to welfare; consequently their importance must be determined by their bearing upon the welfare of the individual. from every point of view, therefore, it is evident that justice in industrial distribution must be measured with reference to welfare rather than with reference to incomes, and that any scheme of distribution which provided equal incomes for all persons would be radically unjust. moreover, the rule of equal incomes is socially impracticable. it would deter the great majority of the more efficient from putting forth their best efforts and turning out their maximum product. as a consequence, the total volume of product would be so diminished as to render the share of the great majority of persons smaller than it would have been under a rational plan of unequal distribution. _the canon of needs_ the second conceivable rule is that of proportional needs. it would require each person to be rewarded in accordance with his capacity to use goods reasonably. if the task of distribution were entirely independent of the process of production, this rule would be ideal; for it would treat men as equal in those respects in which they are equal; namely, as beings endowed with the dignity and the potencies of personality; and it would treat them as unequal in those respects in which they are unequal; that is, in their desires and capacities. but the relation between distribution and production cannot be left out of account. the product is distributed primarily among the agents of production only, and it must be so distributed as to give due consideration to the moral claims of the producer as such. the latter has to be considered not merely as a person possessing needs, but as a person who has contributed something to the making of the product. whence arise the questions of relative efforts and sacrifices, and relative productivity. since only those who have contributed to the product participate in the distribution thereof, it would seem that they should be rewarded in proportion to the efforts and sacrifices that they exert and undergo. as an example of varying effort, let us take two men of equal needs who perform the same labour in such a way that the first expends per cent. of his energy, while the second expends per cent. as an example of varying sacrifice, let us take the ditch digger, and the driver who sits all day on the dump wagon. in both these examples the first man expends more painful exertion than the second. this would seem to make a difference in their moral desert. justice would seem to require that in each case compensation should be proportionate to exertion rather than to needs. at any rate, the claims of needs should be modified to some extent in favour of the claims of exertion. it is upon the principle of efforts and sacrifices that we expect our eternal rewards to be based by the infinitely just rewarder. the principle of needs is likewise in conflict with the principle of comparative productivity. men generally demand rewards in proportion to their products. the validity of this demand we shall examine in a subsequent paragraph. like the rule of arithmetical equality, the rule of proportional needs is not only incomplete ethically but impossible socially. men's needs vary so widely and so imperceptibly that no human authority could use them as the basis of even an approximately accurate distribution. moreover, any attempt to distribute rewards on this basis alone would be injurious to social welfare. it would lead to a great diminution in the productivity of the more honest, the more energetic, and the more efficient among the agents of production. _the canon of efforts and sacrifice_ the third canon of distribution, that of efforts and sacrifices, would be ideally just if we could ignore the questions of needs and productivity. but we cannot think it just to reward equally two men who have expended the same quantity of painful exertion, but who differ in their needs and in their capacities of self development. to do so would be to treat them unequally in the matter of welfare, which is the end and reason of all distribution. consequently the principle of efforts and sacrifices must be modified by the principle of needs. apparently it must also give way in some degree to the principle of comparative productivity. when two men of unequal powers make equal efforts, they turn out unequal amounts of product. almost invariably the more productive man believes that he should receive a greater share of the product than the other. he believes that the rewards should be determined by productivity. it is evident that the rule of efforts and sacrifices, like those of equality and needs, could not be universally enforced in practice. with the exception of cases in which the worker is called upon regularly to make greater sacrifices owing to the disagreeable nature of the task, attempts to measure the amounts of effort and painful exertion put forth by the different agents of production would on the whole be little more than rough guesses. these would probably prove unsatisfactory to the majority. moreover, the possessors of superior productive power would in most instances reject the principle of efforts and sacrifices as unfair, and refuse to do their best work under its operation. the three rules already considered are formally ethical, inasmuch as they are directly based upon the dignity and claims of personality. the two following are primarily physical and social; for they measure economic value rather than ethical worth. nevertheless, they must have a large place in any system which includes the factor of competition. _the canon of productivity_ according to this rule, men should be rewarded in proportion to their contributions to the product. it is open to the obvious objection that it ignores the moral claims of needs and efforts. the needs and use-capacities of men do, indeed, bear some relation to their productive capacities, and the man who can produce more usually needs more; but the differences between the two elements are so great that distribution based solely upon productivity would fall far short of satisfying the demands of needs. yet we have seen that needs constitute one of the fundamentally valid principles of distribution. between productivity on the one hand and efforts and sacrifices on the other, there are likewise important differences. when men of equal productive power are performing the same kind of labour, superior amounts of product do represent superior amounts of effort; when the tasks differ in irksomeness or disagreeableness, the larger product may be brought into being with a smaller expenditure of painful exertion. if men are unequal in productive power their products are obviously not in proportion to their efforts. consider two men whose natural physical abilities are so unequal that they can handle with equal effort shovels differing in capacity by fifty per cent. instances of this kind are innumerable in industry. if these two men are rewarded according to productivity, one will get fifty per cent. more compensation than the other. yet the surplus received by the more fortunate man does not represent any action or quality for which he is personally responsible. it corresponds to no larger output of personal effort, no superior exercise of will, no greater personal desert. it is based solely upon a richer physical endowment by the creator. it is clear, then, that the canon of productivity cannot be accepted to the exclusion of the principles of needs and efforts. it is not the only ethical rule of distribution. is it a valid partial rule? superior productivity is frequently due to larger effort and expense put forth in study and in other forms of industrial preparation. in such cases it demands superior rewards by the title of efforts and sacrifices. where, however, the greater productivity is due merely to higher native qualities, physical or mental, the greater reward is not easily justified on purely ethical grounds. for it represents no personal responsibility, will-effort, or creativeness. nevertheless, the great majority of the more fortunately endowed think that they are unfairly treated unless they are recompensed in proportion to their products. sometimes this conviction is due to the fact that such men wrongly attribute their larger product to greater efforts. in very many cases, however, the possessors of superior productive power believe that they should be rewarded in proportion to their products, regardless of any other principle or factor. probably the true explanation of this belief is to be found in man's innate laziness. while the prevalence of the conviction that superior productivity constitutes a just title to superior compensation, does create some kind of a presumption in favour of its correctness, it must be remembered that presumption is not proof. weighing this presumption against the objective considerations on the opposite side of the argument, we take refuge in the conclusion that the ethical validity of the canon of comparative productivity can neither be certainly proved nor certainly disproved. like the rules of equality, needs, and efforts, that of productivity cannot be universally enforced in practice. it is susceptible of accurate application among producers who perform the same kind of work with the same kind of instruments and equipment; for example, between two shovellers, two machine operators, two bookkeepers, two lawyers, two physicians. as a rule, it cannot be adequately applied to a product which is brought into existence through a combination of different processes. the engine driver and the track repairer contribute to the common product, railway transportation; the bookkeeper and the machine tender co-operate in the production of hats; but we cannot tell in either case whether the first contributes more or less than the second, for the simple reason that we have no common measure of their contributions. sometimes, however, we can compare the productivity of _individuals_ engaged in different processes; that is, when both can be removed from the industry without causing it to come to a stop. thus, it can be shown that a single engine driver produces more railway transportation than a single track repairer, because the labour of the latter is not indispensable to the hauling of a given load of cars. but no such comparison can be made as between the whole body of engine drivers and the whole body of track repairers, since both groups are indispensable to the production of railway transportation. again, a man can be shown to exert superior productivity because he affects the productive process at more points and in a more intimate way than another who contributes to the product in a wholly different manner. while the surgeon and the attendant nurse are both necessary to a surgical operation, the former is clearly more productive than the latter. when due allowance is made for all such cases, the fact remains that in a large part of the industrial field it is simply impossible to determine remuneration by the rule of comparative productivity. _the canon of scarcity_ it frequently happens that men attribute their larger rewards to larger productivity, when the true determining element is scarcity. the immediate reason why the engine driver receives more than the track repairer, the general manager more than the section foreman, the floorwalker more than the salesgirl, lies in the fact that the former kinds of labour are not so plentiful as the latter. were general managers relatively as abundant as section foremen their remuneration would be quite as low; and the same principle holds good of every pair of men whose occupations and products are different in kind. yet the productivity of the general managers would remain as great as before. on the other hand, no matter how plentiful the more productive men may become, they can always command higher rewards than the less productive men in the same occupation, for the simple reason that their products are superior either in quantity or in quality. men engaged upon the more skilled tasks are likewise mistaken when they attribute their greater compensation to the intrinsic excellence of their occupation. the fact is that the community cares nothing about the relative nobility, or ingenuity, or other inherent quality of industrial tasks or functions. it is concerned solely with products and results. as between two men performing the same task, superior efficiency receives a superior reward because it issues in a larger or better product. as between two men performing different tasks, superior skill receives superior compensation simply because it can command the greater compensation; and it is able to do this because it is scarce. in most cases where scarcity is the immediate determinant of rewards, the ultimate determinant is, partly at least, some kind of sacrifice. one reason why chemists and civil engineers are rarer than common labourers is to be found in the greater cost of preparation. the scarcity of workers in occupations that require no special degree of skill is due to unusual hazards and unpleasantness. in so far as scarcity is caused by the uncommon sacrifices preceding or involved in an occupation, the resulting higher rewards obviously rest upon most solid ethical grounds. however, some part of the differences in scarcity is the result of unequal opportunities. if all young persons had equal facilities of obtaining college and technical training, the supply of the higher kinds of labour would be considerably larger than it now is, and the compensation would be considerably smaller. scarcity would then be determined by only three factors; namely, varying costs of training, varying degrees of danger and unattractiveness among occupations, and inequalities in the distribution of native ability. as a consequence, competition would tend to apportion rewards according to efforts, sacrifices, and efficiency. how can we justify the superior rewards of that scarcity which is not due to unusual costs of any sort, but merely to restricted opportunity? so far as society is concerned, the answer is simple: the practice pays. as to the possessors of the rarer kinds of ability, they are in about the same ethical position as those persons whose superior productivity is derived entirely from superior native endowment. in both cases the unusual rewards are due to factors outside the control of the recipients; to advantages which they themselves have not brought into existence. in the former case the decisive factor and advantage is opportunity; in the latter it is a gift of the creator. now we have seen that this sort of productivity cannot be proved to be immoral as a canon of distribution; consequently the same statement will hold good of this sort of scarcity. _the canon of human welfare_ we say "human" welfare rather than "social" welfare, in order to make clear the fact that this canon considers the well being of men not only as a social group, but also as individuals. it includes and summarises all that is ethically and socially feasible in the five canons already reviewed. it takes account of equality, inasmuch as it regards all men as persons, as subjects of rights; and of needs, inasmuch as it awards to all the necessary participants in the industrial system at least that amount of remuneration which will meet the elementary demands of decent living and self development. it is governed by efforts and sacrifices, at least in so far as they are reflected in productivity and scarcity; and by productivity and scarcity to whatever extent is necessary in order to produce the maximum net results. it would give to every producer sufficient remuneration to evoke his greatest net contribution to the productive process. greatest "net" contribution; for a man's _absolute_ maximum product may not always be worth the required price. for example: a man who for a salary of dollars turns out a product valued at dollars, should not be given dollars in order to induce him to bring forth a product worth dollars. in this case a salary of dollars evokes the maximum net product, and represents the reward which would be assigned by the canon of human welfare. once the vital needs of the individual have been safeguarded, the supreme guide of the canon of human welfare is the principle of maximum net results, or the greatest product at the lowest cost. it is not contended here that this canon ought never to undergo modification or exception. owing to the exceptional hazards and sacrifices of their occupation, a combination of producers might be justified in exacting larger compensation than would be accorded them by the canon of human welfare on the basis of net results in the present conditions of supply and scarcity. unusual needs and capacities might also justify a strong group in pursuing the same course. all that is asserted at present is that in conditions of average competition the canon of human welfare is not unjust. and this is all that is necessary as a preliminary to the discussion of just profits.[ ] footnote: [ ] a very suggestive discussion of the psychology, the general principles, and the practical limitations of distributive justice, will be found in an article by gustav schmoller, entitled, "the idea of justice in political economy." it is no. in the publications of the american academy of political and social science. chapter xvii just profits in conditions of competition we have seen that profits are that share of the product of industry which goes to the business man. they comprise that residual portion which he finds in his hands after he has made all expenditures and allowances for wages, salaries, interest at the prevailing rate on both his own and the borrowed capital, and all other proper charges. they constitute his compensation for his labour of direction, and for the risks of his enterprise and capital. in the opinion of most socialists, profits are immoral because they are an essential element of an unjust industrial system, and because they are not entirely based upon labour. under socialism the organising and directing functions that are now performed by the business man, would be allotted to salaried superintendents and managers. their compensation would include no payment for the risks of capital, and it would be fixed instead of indeterminate. hence it would differ considerably from present-day profits. to the assertion that profits are immoral a sufficient reply at this time is that socialism has already been shown to be impracticable and inequitable. consequently the system of private industry is essentially just, and profits, being a necessary element of the system, are essentially legitimate. the question of their morality is one of degree not of kind. it will be considered under two principal heads: the right of the business man to obtain indefinitely large profits; and his right to a certain minimum of profits. _the question of indefinitely large profits_ as a general rule, business men who face conditions of active competition have a right to all the profits that they can get, so long as they use fair business methods. this means not merely fair and honest conduct toward competitors, and buyers and sellers, but also just and humane treatment of labour in all the conditions of employment, especially in the matter of wages. when these conditions are fulfilled, the freedom to take indefinitely large profits is justified by the canon of human welfare. the great majority of business men in competitive industries do not receive incomes in excess of their reasonable needs. their profits do not notably exceed the salaries that they could command as hired managers, and generally are not more than sufficient to reimburse them for the cost of education and business training, and to enable them to live in reasonable conformity with the standard of living to which they have become accustomed. efforts and sacrifices are reflected to some extent in the different amounts of profits received by different business men. when all due allowance is made for chance, productivity, and scarcity, a considerable proportion of profits is attributable to harder labour, greater risk and worry, and larger sacrifices. like the principle of needs, that of efforts and sacrifices is a partial justification of the business man's remuneration. those profits which cannot be justified by either of the titles just mentioned, are ethically warranted by the principles of productivity and scarcity. this is particularly true of those exceptionally large profits which can be traced specifically to that unusual ability which is exemplified in the invention and adoption of new methods and processes in progressive industries. the receivers of these large rewards have produced them in competition with less efficient business men. while the title of productivity does not entirely satisfy the seeker for decisive ethical sanctions, it is stronger morally than any opposing considerations that can be invoked. it is probably as strong as some other principles that we have to accept as the best attainable in the very difficult field of industrial ethics. nevertheless, it would seem that those business men who obtain exceptionally large profits could be reasonably required to transfer part of their gains to their employés in the form of higher wages, or to the consumers in the form of lower prices. both of these methods have been followed by henry ford, the automobile manufacturer. neither of them is certainly demanded by the principles of strict justice; they rest upon the feebler and less decisive principle of general equity or fairness.[ ] this concept is less definite than those of charity and justice, and stands midway between them. it comes into operation when an action is obligatory on stricter grounds than those of charity, and yet cannot with certainty be required on grounds of justice. notwithstanding its vagueness, it is sufficiently strong to make the average conscientious man feel uncomfortable if he neglects its prescriptions entirely. it has, therefore, sufficient practical value to deserve a place in the ethics of distribution. and it seems to have sufficient application to the problem before us to justify the statement that the receivers of exceptionally large profits are bound in equity to share them with those persons who have co-operated in producing and providing them, namely, wage earners and consumers. in the field of profits the canon of human welfare is not only sound ethically but expedient socially. it permits the great majority of business men to obtain, if they can, sufficient remuneration to meet their reasonable needs. whether it requires society to _guarantee_ at least this amount of profit-income is a question that we shall examine presently. it encourages efforts, and makes for the maximum social product by permitting business men to retain all the profits that they can get in conditions of fair competition. does it forbid any attempt by society to limit exceptionally large profit-incomes? if the limit were placed very high, say, at , dollars per year, it would not apparently check the productive efforts of the great majority of business men, since they never hope to pass that figure. whether it would have a seriously discouraging effect upon the activity and ambition of those who do hope to reach, and of those who have already reached that level, is uncertain. among business men who are approaching or who have passed the , dollars annual profit-income mark, the desire to possess more money is frequently weaker as a motive to business activity than the longing for power and the driving force of habit. at any rate, the question is not very practical. any sustained attempt to limit profits by law would require such extensive and minute supervision of business that the policy would prove to be socially intolerable and unprofitable. the espionage involved in the policy would provoke general resentment, and the amount of profits that could be diverted either to the state or to private persons would be relatively insignificant. thus far we have been considering the independent business man and business firm, not the joint stock company or corporation. in the latter form of organisation, the labour of direction is remunerated by fixed salaries to the executive officers, while the risks of enterprise and capital are covered by the regular dividends received by the whole body of stockholders. consequently the only revenues comparable to profits are the surplus gains that remain after wages, salaries, interest, dividends, rent, and all other expenses and charges have been met. these are apportioned through one process or another among the stockholders. on what ethical principle can they be thus distributed? the general principle of productivity, or superior productivity, is the only one available. if a corporation which uses fair methods of competition can obtain surplus gains, while the majority of its competitors fail to do so, the cause must be sought in its superior business management. this superiority must be credited to the whole body of stockholders, even though the great majority of them are responsible for it only in a very remote way, through their selection of the executive officers. the stockholders surely have a better claim to these surplus gains than any other group in the community. at the same time, they are, like the independent business man, bound by the principle of equity to share the surplus with the labourers and consumers. _the question of minimum profits_ has the business man a strict right to a minimum living profit? in other words, have all business men a right to a sufficient volume of sales at sufficiently high prices to provide them with living profits or a decent livelihood? such a right would imply a corresponding obligation upon the consumers, or upon society, to furnish the requisite amount of demand at the required prices. is there such a right, and such an obligation? no industrial right is absolute. they are all conditioned by the possibilities of the industrial system, and by the desires, capacities, and actions of the persons who enter into industrial relations with one another. as we shall see later, this statement is true even of the right to a living wage. when the industrial resources are adequate, all persons of average ability who contribute a reasonable amount of labour to the productive process have a right to a decent livelihood on two conditions: first, that such labour is their only means of sustenance; and, second, that their labour is economically indispensable to those who utilise it or its product. "economically indispensable" means that the beneficiary of the labour would rather give the equivalent of a decent livelihood for it than go without it. while both these conditions are apparently fulfilled in the case of the great majority of wage earners, they are only rarely realised with regard to business men. in most instances the business man who is unable to make living profits could become an employé, and thus convert his right to a decent livelihood into a right to a living wage. even when no such alternative is open to him, he cannot claim a strict right to living profits, for the second condition stated above remains unfulfilled. the consuming public does not regard the business function of such men as economically indispensable. rather than pay the higher prices necessary to provide living profits for the inefficient business men, consumers will transfer their patronage to the efficient competitors. should the retail grocer, for example, raise his prices in the effort to get living profits, his sales would fall off to such an extent as to reduce his profits still lower. while the consumers may be willing to fulfil their obligation of furnishing living profits for all necessary grocers, they are not willing, nor are they morally bound, to do so in the case of grocers whose inability to command sufficient patronage at remunerative prices shows that they are not necessary to the community. the consuming public does not want to employ such business men at such a cost. nor is the state under obligation to ensure living profits for all business men. to carry out such a policy, either by enforcing a sufficiently high level of prices, or by subsidising those who fail to obtain living profits, would be to compel the public to support inefficiency. in the foregoing paragraphs we have assumed that the inability of the business men under consideration to get living profits is due to their own lack of capacity as compared with their more efficient competitors. when, however, their competitors are not more efficient, but are enabled to undersell through the use of unfair methods, such as adulteration of goods and oppression of labour, a different moral situation is presented. honest and humane business men undoubtedly have a claim upon society to protection against such unfair competition. and the consumers are under obligation to make reasonable efforts to withhold their patronage from those business men who practise dishonesty and extortion. _the question of superfluous business men_ although we have rejected as impractical the proposal to set a legal limit to profit-incomes, we have to admit that many of the abler business men would continue to do their best work even if the profits that they could hope to obtain were considerably smaller in volume. these men hold a strategic position in industry, inasmuch as they are not subject to the same degree of constant competition as the other agents of production.[ ] were the supply of superior business capacity more plentiful, their rewards would be automatically reduced, and the burden of profits resting upon society would be to that extent diminished. on the other hand, the number of mediocre business men, especially in the distributive industries, is much larger than is necessary to supply the wants of the community. this constitutes a second unnecessary volume of payments under the head of profits. is there no way by which these wastes can be reduced? the volume of exceptionally large profits could be diminished by an extension of the facilities of technical and industrial education. thus the number of persons qualifying as superior business men could be gradually increased, competition among this class of men would be intensified, and their rewards correspondingly diminished. the profits that go to superfluous business men, especially in the class known as middlemen, can be largely eliminated through combination and co-operation. the tendency to unite into a single concern a large number of small and inefficient enterprises should be encouraged up to the point at which the combination threatens to become a monopoly. that this process is capable of effecting a considerable saving in business profits as well as in capital, has been amply demonstrated in several different lines of enterprise. as we have seen in a preceding chapter, the co-operative movement, whether in banking, agriculture, or stores, has been distinctly successful in reducing profits. millions of dollars are thus diverted every year from unnecessary profit-receivers to labourers, consumers, and to the man of small resources generally. yet the co-operative movement is only in its infancy. it contains the possibility of eliminating entirely the superfluous business man, and even of diminishing considerably the excessive profits of the exceptionally able business man. footnotes: [ ] cf. pp. , of castelein's "philosophia moralis et socialis." [ ] cf. hobson, "the industrial system," chapter on "ability." chapter xviii the moral aspect of monopoly the conclusion was drawn in the last chapter that the surplus gains of corporations operating in conditions of competition, can justly be retained by the stockholders as the remuneration of exceptional productive efficiency. it is, of course, to be understood that the proper allowance for interest on the capital is not necessarily the amount authorised by the stipulated rate of dividend on the stock, but the prevailing or competitive rate of interest plus an adequate rate of insurance against the risks of the enterprise. if the prevailing rate of interest is five per cent., and the risk is sufficiently protected by an allowance of one per cent., the fair rate of return on the investment is six per cent. the fact that a concern may actually award its stockholders ten per cent. dividends, has no bearing on the determination of the genuine surplus. if the actual surplus that remains after paying all other charges and allowing ten per cent. on the stock, is only , dollars, whereas it would be , dollars with an allowance of only six per cent., then the true surplus gains, or profits, are the latter amount not the former. no part of the , dollars can be justified as interest on capital. it must all find its justification as profits proceeding from superior productivity. bearing in mind this distinction between the actual rate of dividend and the proper allowance for interest on capital, we take up the question of the morality of profits or surplus gains in conditions of monopoly. _surplus and excessive profits_ several of the great industrial combinations of the united states have obtained profits which are commonly stigmatised as "excessive." for example, the standard oil company paid, from to , an average annual dividend of . per cent. on the capital stock, and had profits in addition at the rate of about per cent. annually;[ ] from to the american tobacco company averaged per cent. on its actual investment;[ ] and the united states steel corporation obtained an average annual return of per cent. on its investment from to .[ ] a complete list of the american monopolies that have reaped more than the competitive rate of return on their capital would undoubtedly be a very long one. is it possible to justify such returns? has a monopoly a right to take surplus gains? let us suppose a concern which is getting per cent. on its investment. inasmuch as the risks are smaller than in competitive enterprises, six per cent. is an ample allowance for interest. of the remaining per cent., per cent., we shall assume, is derived from economies of production as compared with the great majority of competitive concerns. this portion of the surplus, being the reward of superior efficiency, may be retained by the owners of the monopoly quite as justly as similar gains are taken by the exceptionally efficient corporation in conditions of competition. the objection that the monopoly ought to share these gains with the public, since it limits individual opportunity in a socially undesirable way, has some merit, but it can scarcely be urged on grounds of strict justice. at most it points only to an obligation in equity. by what canon of distribution can the retention of the other per cent. of surplus gain be justified? not by the titles of needs and efforts, for these have already been satisfied through the salaries paid to those stockholders who perform labour in the management of the concern. these titles afford no basis for any other claim than that which proceeds from labour. they cannot be made to justify claims made on behalf of capital. not by the title of productivity, for this has already been remunerated in the per cent. just considered. not as interest on capital, for ample allowance has already been made under this head in the original per cent. as we have seen in an earlier chapter, the only reasons that give ethical support to interest on capital are the sacrifice that is involved in some kinds of saving, the possibility that interest is necessary in order to induce the provision of sufficient capital, the certainty that the state would be unable to enforce the abolition of interest, and some presumptive considerations. since all of these reasons and ends are satisfied by the competitive rate of interest, none of them will justify the exaction of more than the competitive rate. it is not possible to justify a higher rate on either social or individual grounds. therefore, the only basis that is left upon which to defend the retention of the five per cent. surplus that we are discussing, is the power of appropriation. the monopoly possesses the economic strength to take this five per cent. because it is able to impose higher than competitive prices upon the consumer. obviously such power has no greater ethical sanction or validity than the pistol of the highwayman. in both cases the gains are the product of extortion. the conclusion that men have no right to more than the competitive rate of interest, as interest, on their capital, and that a monopoly has consequently no right to those surplus gains that are not produced by superior efficiency, is confirmed by public opinion and by the decisions of the courts. the monopolistic practice of taking more than the usual rate of returns on capital merely because there exists the power to take it, is universally condemned as inequitable. in fixing the charges of public service corporations, the courts with practical unanimity allow only the rate of return that is obtainable in competitive conditions of investment. the statement that the monopoly may retain those surplus gains which are derived from superior efficiency assumes, of course, that fair wages have been paid to employés, and fair prices to the sellers of materials, and that fair methods have been used toward competitors. in so far as any of these conditions is not met, the monopolistic concern has no right to surplus gains of any sort. all three of the claims just mentioned are morally stronger than the claim to superior rewards because of superior efficiency. _the question of monopolistic efficiency_ so much for the moral principle. what proportion of the surplus gains of monopoly are due to extortionate prices rather than to economies in production, cannot be known even approximately. according to justice brandeis, who is one of the most competent authorities in this field, only a very small part of these gains are derived from superior efficiency.[ ] professor e. s. meade writes: "during a decade [ - ] of unparalleled industrial development, the trusts, starting with every advantage of large capital, well-equipped plants, financial connections, and skilled superintendence, have not succeeded."[ ] on the other hand, president van hise thinks that, "the weight of argument is strongly in favour of the increased efficiency of large combinations of industry on the average."[ ] the difference of opinion existing among students of this subject is due to lack of adequate data, particularly to the absence of such uniform and comprehensive systems of accounting as would be required to provide a basis for reliable general conclusions. opposing particular statements may be equally true, because based upon different instances; but general statements are little better than guesses. let us approach the question from another side, that of prices. whenever the charges imposed by monopolistic concerns upon their products are higher than those that would have prevailed under competition, the surplus gains are obviously to that extent not due to superior efficiency. they have their source in the arbitrarily made prices. the final report of the united states industrial commission, which was made at the beginning of the year , declared that, "in most cases the combination has exerted an appreciable power over prices, and in practically all cases it has increased the margin between raw materials and finished products."[ ] since the cost of production had decreased during the preceding decade, this increase in the margin, and the ensuing increased profits, necessarily involved an increase in prices to the consumer. taking the period of - , and comparing the movement of prices between eighteen important trust-controlled products, and the same number of important commodities not produced by monopolistic concerns, professor meade concluded that the former were sold at a "much lower" relative level than the latter.[ ] his computations were based upon figures compiled by the bureau of labour. according to the commissioner of corporations, the standard oil company "has taken advantage of its monopoly power to extort prices much higher than would have existed under free competition."[ ] the same authority shows that the american tobacco company used its power to obtain considerably more than competitive prices on some of its products.[ ] excessive prices, as measured by the standards of competition, were also established by the united states steel corporation, the american sugar refining company, and the combinations in meat packing and in lumber.[ ] a safe statement would probably be that the greater part of the surplus gains of the most conspicuous american monopolies have been due to excessive prices rather than to economies of production. let us turn from the subject of unjust monopoly gains to that of unfair methods used by the great combinations toward their competitors. these methods are mainly three: discriminative underselling, exclusive-selling contracts, and advantages in transportation. _discriminative underselling_ the first of these practices is exemplified when a monopoly sells its goods at unprofitably low rates in competitive territory, while maintaining higher prices elsewhere; and when it offers at very low prices those kinds of goods which are handled by competitors, while holding at excessively high prices the kinds of commodities over which it has exclusive control. both forms of the practice seem to have been extensively used by most of the monopolistic concerns of america.[ ] the standard oil company has been perhaps the most conspicuous offender in this field.[ ] this practice is unjust because it violates the fundamental moral principle that a man has a right to pursue a lawful good without hindrance through illicit means. among the illicit means enumerated by the moral theologians are force, fraud, deception, lying, slander, intimidation, and extortion.[ ] the illicit means employed in discriminative underselling are chiefly extortion and deception. if the very low prices at which the monopoly sells in the field which contains competitors were maintained outside of that field also, and if they were continued not merely until the independent concerns were driven out of business, but indefinitely afterward, no injustice would be done the latter. for no man has a natural right to any particular business. if a powerful concern can eliminate competitors through low prices made possible by superior efficiency, the competitors are not unjustly treated. they have no more just cause of complaint than the inefficient grocer whose custom is attracted from him by other and more efficient merchants. the offence is at the worst contrary to charity. but when the monopoly maintains the low and competition-eliminating prices only locally and temporarily, when it is enabled to establish and continue these prices only because it sells its goods at extortionate rates elsewhere, the latter prices are evidently the instrument or means by which the competitors are injured and eliminated. in that case the monopoly violates the right of the competitors to pursue a lawful good immune from unfair interference. the lawful good is a livelihood from this kind of business; and the illicit interference is the unjust prices maintained outside the competitive field. in the preceding paragraph we have assumed that the extortionate prices are operative at the same time as the excessively low prices, but in a different place. suppose that the former are imposed only after the independent concerns are eliminated. the injustice to the competitors remains the same as in the preceding case. although the extortionate prices are later in time, they are the instrumental cause of the destructive low prices through which the competitors were driven out of business. if the owners of the monopoly were not certain of their ability to establish the subsequent extortionate prices, they would not have put into effect the unprofitably low prices. hence there is a true causal connection between the former and the latter. although the connection is mainly psychical, through the consciousness of the monopoly owners, it is none the less real and effective. its practical effectiveness is seen in the fact that the subsequent possibility of imposing extortionate prices will induce men to lend the monopoly money to carry on the process of exterminating competition. the process is maintained by means of the extortionate prices quite as effectively as though the two things were simultaneous. in so far as the patrons of the independent concerns are deceived into expecting that the very low prices will be permanent, and in so far as this impression causes them to withdraw their patronage from the independents, the latter are injured through another illicit means, namely, deception. the competitors have a right not to be deprived of their customers through imposture. what is the measure of extortionate prices in this connection? how can we know that the high, competition-eliminating prices are really extortionate? there are only two possible tests of just price. the first is the proper cost of production,--fair wages to labour, fair prices for materials, and fair interest on capital. if the monopoly does not raise prices above this level, it obviously does not impose extortionate prices, nor inflict injustice upon the eliminated competitor. moreover, if the monopoly has introduced economies of production it may, as we have seen, justly charge prices somewhat above the cost-of-production level. but it may not raise them above the level that would have prevailed under competition. this is the second test of just price. no possible justification can be found, except one to be mentioned presently, for charging the consumers higher prices than they could have obtained under competitive conditions. at such prices the monopoly will be able to secure the prevailing rate of interest on its capital, and all the surplus gains that proceed from superior efficiency. a higher scale of prices will be, therefore, extortionate, and the competitors who are eliminated through its instrumentality will be the victims of injustice.[ ] the exception alluded to above occurs when the monopoly uses the excess which it obtains over the competitive price to pay fair wages to those labourers who were insufficiently compensated in competitive conditions. in such a case the eliminated competitors would have no just claim against the monopoly; for their elimination took place in the just interest of the producers. the case, however, is purely academic, since the discriminative underselling practised by our monopolistic concerns has not been impelled by any such motive, nor has it achieved any such result. _exclusive-sales contracts_ the second unfair method employed by monopolies toward competitors is that of exclusive-selling contracts, sometimes called the "factor's agreement." it requires the dealer, merchant, or jobber to refrain from selling the goods produced by independent concerns, on penalty of being refused the goods produced by the monopoly. the merchant is compelled to choose between the less important line of wares to be had from the former, and the more important line obtainable from the latter. he will not be permitted to handle both. "here is somebody who has been buying goods, let us say, by way of illustration, from the american tobacco company, and a rival producer comes in whom the merchant likes to patronise. he buys goods for a time from the rival, and an agent of the trust sends him a note to the effect that he must not buy any more from that rival corporation; that, if he does so, the trust will give all of its own goods, some of which the merchant is obliged to have, to another agent. that will probably bring him to terms."[ ] by this method the independent manufacturer can be deprived of sufficient patronage to injure him seriously, and perhaps to drive him out of business. this process is one of intimidation brought to bear upon the merchant. through fear of loss he is compelled to discontinue selling the goods of the competing manufacturer. it is a kind of secondary boycott. as such, it is an unreasonable interference with the liberty of the merchant unless its object is to compel him to do something that he may be reasonably required to do. in the case that we are considering, the object of the pressure is not of that character; for to drive the rival manufacturer out of business, or to assist in his expulsion, is not a reasonable thing. the exclusive-selling contract which is forced upon the merchant is quite as unreasonable as though its purpose were to prevent him from, say, patronising manufacturers having red hair. being thus unreasonable, thus injurious to individual liberty, it violates not only the law of charity but that of justice. it transgresses the merchant's right to enter reasonable contracts with the rival manufacturer, and if it results in a pecuniary loss to the former it is an invasion of his rights of property. it likewise violates the rights of the competitive manufacturer, since it is among the unfair means which may not be used to prevent a man from pursuing a legitimate good. it is an unfair means because it involves unreasonable intimidation, uncharity, and injustice toward the merchant. when the independent manufacturer is injured through such an instrumentality, he suffers injustice quite as certainly at the hands of the monopoly as though his property were destroyed through the strong-arm methods of hired thugs. _discriminative transportation arrangements_ concerning the third unfair method, discriminative advantages in transportation, the united states industrial commission declared: "it is incontestable that many of the great industrial combinations had their origin in railroad discrimination. this has been emphasised many times in the history of the standard oil company, and of the great monopolies dealing in live stock, dressed beef, and other products."[ ] the american sugar refining company has been several times convicted of receiving illegal favours from railroads, and has paid in fines thousands upon thousands of dollars. sometimes the monopoly has openly been accorded lower freight rates than its competitors, and sometimes it has paid the regular charges, and then received back a part of them as a refund or rebate. at one time the standard oil company obtained rebates not only on its own shipments, but on those of its rivals![ ] special advantages of this sort necessarily involve injustice to the competitors of the monopoly. if the low rates given to the monopolistic concern are a sufficiently high price for the service of carrying freight, the higher charges imposed upon the competing concerns are extortionate; if the former rates are unprofitably low, the difference between sufficient and insufficient freight charges is made up by the independent concerns. in the former case the independents pay the railroad too much; in the latter case they bear burdens that should properly rest upon the monopoly. the monopolistic concern is partly responsible for this injustice inasmuch as it urges and often intimidates the railroad to establish the discriminating rates. all three of the practices that we have been considering are universally condemned by public sentiment. they are all likewise under the ban of statutory law. the first two have recently received detailed and explicit prohibition in the clayton anti-trust act. _natural monopolies_ up to this point we have been dealing with private and artificial monopolies. we turn now to consider briefly those natural and quasi-public monopolies which are either tacitly or explicitly recognised as monopolies by public authority, and whose charges are to a greater or less extent regulated by some department of the state. such are, for example; steam railroads and municipal utilities. when the charges made for the services of these corporations are _adequately_ regulated by public authority, the owners of such concerns will have a right to all the surplus gains that they can obtain. in that case a contract is made between the corporation and the public which is presumably fair to both parties, and which represents the social estimate of what is just. if the public authorities have not sufficiently safeguarded the interests of the people, if they have permitted the charges to be so high as to provide excessive returns for the corporation, the latter is under no moral obligation to refrain from reaping the full benefit of the state's negligence or incompetence. if, however, the unduly high rates have been brought about through bribery, extortion, or deception practised by the corporation, the inequitable contract thus arranged will not justify the surplus gains thus produced. for example; if the corporation deliberately and effectively conceals the real value of its property through stockwatering, and thus misleads the public authority into permitting charges which return twelve instead of six per cent. on the actual investment, the corporation cannot forthwith justly claim the surplus gain represented by the extra six per cent. when the public authorities either fail entirely to regulate charges, or do so only spasmodically and partially, the quasi-public monopoly will not necessarily have a right to all the obtainable surplus gains. for a long time the express companies of the united states were permitted to exact what charges they pleased, and even yet the rates on some of our railroads are not adequately regulated by the state. in such cases the charges imposed on the public are not an adequate expression of the social estimate of justice, nor an adequate basis of legitimate surplus gains. in the absence of sufficient public regulation, a quasi-public monopoly is morally bound to fix its charges at such a level as will enable it to obtain only the prevailing rate of interest on the investment, and such surplus gains as it can produce through exceptional efficiency. in all such cases the public service corporation is in the same moral position as the artificial monopoly: it has no possible basis except superior efficiency for claiming or getting any returns above the competitive rate of interest on its capital. its only possible reason for obtaining more is the fact that it has the power to take more. this fact has obviously no moral validity. _methods of preventing monopolistic injustice_ how shall the injustices of monopoly be prevented in the future? so far as quasi-public monopolies are concerned, all students of the subject are now agreed that these should be permitted to exist under adequate governmental regulation as to prices and service. the reason is that in this field successful and useful competition is impossible. public utility corporations are natural monopolies, and must be dealt with by the method of regulation until such time as they are brought under the ownership and operation of the state. with regard to the great industrial combinations which have become or threaten to become artificial monopolies, there exists substantial agreement among competent authorities on one point, and disagreement on another point. all admit that the unfair competitive methods described in an earlier part of this chapter should be stringently prohibited. no possible reason can be found for legal toleration of these or any other discriminative, uncharitable, or unjust practices on the part of stronger toward weaker competitors. the disagreement among students of monopoly relates to the fundamental question of permitting or not permitting these combinations to exist. according to the first theory, of which mr. justice brandeis is the most distinguished exponent, no new industrial monopolies should be permitted, and those that we have should be dissolved. the basis of this theory is the assumption that all the economies and all the productive efficiency found in monopolistic concerns can be developed and maintained in smaller business organisations, and that the method of prevention and dissolution is the simplest means of protecting the public against the danger of extortionate monopoly prices. attention has been called in a preceding paragraph to the impossibility of determining whether the great monopolistic combinations have on the average shown themselves to be more efficient than concerns subject to active and adequate competition. it is significant, however, that in the discussion of this subject which took place at the twenty-sixth annual meeting of the american economic association, at minneapolis in , the economists who participated were practically unanimous in holding that the superior efficiency of the trusts had not been demonstrated, but was a matter of serious doubt, and that the burden of proof of their alleged superiority had been definitely shifted upon those who maintained the affirmative.[ ] probably the great majority of the whole body of american economists would share these conclusions. on the other hand, the opponents of prevention and dissolution, of whom mr. george w. perkins is probably the most conspicuous, point to the obvious economies of large-scale over small-scale production, and contend that these are sufficient reason for permitting and even encouraging the great combinations. the power to oppress competitors by unjust methods of business, and the public by extortionate prices, should be kept under rigid control by supervision, and government regulation of maximum prices. but the arguments advanced in favour of this position are never conclusive. most of its advocates fail to realise, or at least to take adequately into account, the difference between large-scale production and production by a monopoly. while the large plant and the large business organisation have in many lines of manufacture and trade a considerable advantage over the small plant and the small organisation, there is not a scintilla of evidence to show that the efficiency of magnitude increases indefinitely with magnitude. there is no proof that the maximum efficiency is reached only with the maximum size of the business unit. on the contrary, all the evidence that we have points to the conclusion that in every field of industrial and commercial enterprise, all the economies of magnitude and of combination are obtained long before the concern becomes a monopoly. there is not an industry of any importance in the united states in which all the advantages of bigness and concentration cannot be made operative in concerns that control as low as twenty-five per cent. of the total product. the highest economy and efficiency can be obtained without monopoly. indeed, this is admitted by the more reasonable advocates of the regulation and price-fixing policy. while maintaining that "concentration must go far in order to give the maximum of efficiency," president van hise does not hold "that it should go to the extent that the element of monopoly enters"; and he would have the law "declare restraint of trade unreasonable that gets to monopoly," and fix the definite per cent. of business control which constitutes a monopoly.[ ] we are justified, therefore, in concluding that the theory of prevention and dissolution (provided that the competing units are not made so small as to destroy the certain economies of magnitude) rather than the theory of permission and regulation, indicates the sound economic and social policy of dealing with monopolies. _legalised price agreements_ president van hise advocates the regulation policy in a modified form. in substance his view is that, while no corporation should be permitted to control the greater part of any product, monopolistic price-agreements should be sanctioned and regulated by law. no amount of restrictive legislation, he maintains, can secure universal competition in the matter of prices. experience shows that the destructive results of cut-throat competition compel the more powerful competitors to make price agreements in some lines of business.[ ] for example; all the retail grocers in a city are often found selling certain staples at a uniform price for long periods of time. agreements of this sort should, in the opinion of president van hise, be formally permitted by law, with the proviso that a government commission should fix the maximum and possibly the minimum limits. and he contends that the task of fixing fair maximum and minimum prices would be much less difficult than is commonly supposed, and that it would be much simpler and easier than the task of regulating railway freight rates. whatever may be the merits of this plan, it is not likely to be embodied in legislation in the near future. so far as we can see now, the american people are committed to the policy of endeavouring to restore genuine competition by prohibiting those predatory practices to which the great monopolies mainly owe their existence. the attempt will be made to give competition a fair opportunity to prevent both monopolistic control of products and monopolistic fixing of prices. competition has not enjoyed any such opportunity during the last quarter of a century. if this attempt should fail after a thorough trial, the time will be at hand for the regulation of prices by the government. until that time has arrived (let us hope that it never will arrive) the state will not, and should not, embark upon such a large and difficult experiment. footnotes: [ ] report of the commissioner of corporations on the petroleum industry, ii, , . [ ] report of the commissioner of corporations on the tobacco industry, ii, - . [ ] report of the commissioner of corporations on the steel industry, i, . according to f. j. mcrae, the expert accountant for the stanley congressional investigating committee, this concern secured per cent. on the _cost_ of its property. [ ] hearings before the interstate commerce committee, u. s. senate, part xvi, pages - . [ ] _the journal of political economy_, april, , p. . [ ] "concentration and control," p. . [ ] page . [ ] _the journal of political economy_, april, , p. . [ ] report on the petroleum industry, ii, . [ ] report on the tobacco industry, ii, . [ ] cf. van hise, op. cit., pp. , , , . [ ] final report of the industrial commission, pp. - . [ ] report on the petroleum industry, i, - . [ ] cf. lehmkuhl, "theologia moralis," i, no. . [ ] it may be of interest to recall the mediæval attitude toward monopolistic exactions, as summarily stated by st. antoninus, who was archbishop of florence in the first half of the fifteenth century: "when monopolist merchants agree together to preserve a fixed price, so as to secure an unlimited profit, they are guilty of sinful trading." he maintained that they should not sell above the market price, and should be prevented from so doing by law. see his "summa theologica," iii, , , iv, and ii, , , ii. present day moral theologians lay down the same doctrine, and in addition condemn the characteristic monopolistic methods as unjust. see tanquerey, "de justitia," nos. , ; lehmkuhl, "theologia moralis," vol. i, no. . [ ] clark, "the problem of monopoly," p. . [ ] final report, p. . [ ] report on the petroleum industry, pp. , . [ ] "papers and proceedings," pp. - . [ ] op. cit., pp. , . [ ] op. cit., pp. - . chapter xix the moral aspect of stock watering in the last chapter we saw that a monopoly has no right to gains in excess of the competitive rate of interest on its capital, except in so far as these have been derived from superior efficiency. now superior efficiency is clearly present whenever the monopolistic concern obtains surplus gains by selling its product at competitive prices, or at the prices that would have prevailed under competition. evidently the surplus in such a case is due to the greater productivity of the monopoly as compared with the average productivity of competitive concerns. when, however, the monopoly charges prices above the competitive level, its surplus gains cannot all be attributed to unusual efficiency. a part if not all of them are the result simply of the power to take; consequently they are immoral. one of the means by which some monopolies have obtained unjust surplus gains is overcapitalisation, or stockwatering. this practice is rarely found in businesses that are subject to normal competition. so far as the consumer is concerned, a corporation that cannot fix prices arbitrarily has nothing to gain by inflating its capital. unless it develops exceptional efficiency, it cannot hope to obtain more than the competitive rate of interest on its capital; if it does become exceptionally efficient, it can take the resulting surplus gains without arousing public resentment or criticism. in either case, it will have no sufficient reason to deceive the public by exaggerating the amount of its capital. when a competitive concern does water its stock, the object will be to defraud investors. if the scheme is successful the unjust surplus gains are taken by one set of stockholders from another set of stockholders. whenever anything of this sort occurs, the deceptive devices employed are so crude and obvious that they present no special problem for the moralist. even as practised by monopolies, stockwatering raises no principle that has not been already discussed. it does, however, create some special difficulties in the matter of applying the moral principles involved. consequently, it may with advantage be considered in a separate chapter. the general definition of overcapitalisation is capitalisation in excess of the proper valuation of a business. what is the measure of proper valuation? according to many corporation directors, it is earning power. if a concern is able to get the prevailing rate of interest on a capitalisation of ten million dollars, that is the proper capitalisation for that concern, even though the money actually invested might not have exceeded five million dollars. in the opinion of most other persons, however, a company is overcapitalised when the face value of its securities is greater than the money put into the business plus the subsequent enhancement in the value of its land. "the money put into the business," means that which has been expended for labour, materials, land, equipment, and all other items and costs of organising the concern, together with the sum that is necessary to cover the interest not obtained by the investors during the preparatory period before the business became productively operative. the increase in the value of the land after its acquisition by the company also deserves a place in the legitimate valuation, and may reasonably be represented by an appropriate amount of securities. monopolistic corporations have as good a right, generally speaking, to profit by the "unearned increment" of land as competitive concerns. in brief, the proper measure of capitalisation is cost: either the original cost, as just explained and supplemented; or the present cost of reproducing the business. _injurious effects of stockwatering_ stockwatering can become an instrument of unjust gains in two ways: first, through fraud inflicted upon some of the investors; second, through the imposition of exorbitant prices upon the consumers. the former cannot occur so long as the process of inflation does not go beyond earning power; for in that case all stockholders, barring dishonest manipulation of the company's receipts, will obtain the normal rate of interest on their investment. if, however, stock is sold in excess of the earning power of the concern, those stockholders who fail to obtain the ordinary rate of interest on their money are unjustly treated in so far as they have been deceived. and those officers or other members of the corporation who have profited by the deception of and injury to these stockholders, are the recipients of unjust gains. daniel drew inflated the capitalisation of the erie railroad from seventeen millions to seventy-eight millions within four years for the purpose of manipulating the stock market; owing to excessive issues of stock, the american shipbuilding company was thrown into bankruptcy to the great injury of all but one of its stockholders;[ ] because they issued securities to buy subsidiary railway lines at exorbitant prices, and to provide extravagant commissions and discounts for bankers, the directors of the 'frisco system forced it into a receivership, after having inflicted a net loss of four million dollars per year upon the stockholders.[ ] many other notable performances might be cited where stockwatering, both in railroads and in industrial concerns, has defrauded investors of millions of dollars, and enabled a few powerful directors to reap corresponding enormous profits. at first sight it would seem that stockwatering is of little or no importance to the consumer. since a monopolistic concern endeavours to fix its prices at the point that will yield the maximum net profit in any case, the amount of stock in existence would seem to be irrelevant to the problem. nevertheless, the presence of a large quantity of fictitious capital whose owners are calling for dividends, sometimes constitutes a special force impelling the imposition of higher prices and charges. "it will happen at times that overcapitalisation does at least cause a clinging to high prices. the managers of an overcapitalised monopoly may have to face the fact that great blocks of securities are outstanding, very likely issued by their predecessors, and now held by all sorts of investors. they are then loath to let go any slice of its profits. we have seen that often the monopoly principle of maximum net profit is not applied in its full sweep, especially in industries which are potentially subject to public control. where abnormal returns on the original investment have been made, concessions to public opinion in the way of low rates and better facilities are more likely to come when capitalisation has not been inflated."[ ] the united states industrial commission found that as regards railroads: "in the long run excessive capitalisation tends to keep rates high; conservative capitalisation tends to make rates low."[ ] this indirect influence of stockwatering toward excessive rates and prices becomes effective in two ways. the existence of fictitious capital conceals from the public the high rate of return that is obtained on the true valuation, thus preventing effective action for a reduction in prices and charges; and it sometimes causes the rate-making authorities to allow rates to be sufficiently high to yield something to the investors in the inflated capital. if a trust or a railroad has issued stock having a par value of twice the capital invested, its rate of dividend on the entire capitalisation will be only one-half the rate of interest that it is receiving on the investment. if it pays, for example, seven per cent. on all its stock, it will be getting fourteen per cent. on its genuine capital. while the consumers of tobacco, or the patrons of a railroad, would raise no outcry against seven per cent. dividends, they would probably begin to agitate for an enforcement of the anti-trust laws, and for a reduction in freight and passenger charges, if they realised that they were providing for dividends of fourteen per cent. nor is the public adequately protected by government investigations of trusts and regulation of railway rates. despite the anti-trust laws, many american monopolies have for many years received exorbitant profits through excessive prices imposed upon the consumer; and in many of these instances overcapitalisation and its resulting concealment of real profits have been of considerable assistance to the extortionate monopoly. in fixing railway rates, the interstate commerce commission, and the various state railroad commissions, have been seriously hampered by their inability to determine the real investment of the roads, and to separate the genuine from the fictitious capitalisation. not until the year did the national government begin the task of making a valuation of interstate railroad property, and the work will require several years. very few of the states have made valuations of the railroads within their borders. in the meantime it is certain that many of the rates fixed by both the national and the state bodies will continue, as in the past, to be higher than they would have been if the true value of the railroads were known and accepted as the basis of freight and passenger charges. the second bad effect of stockwatering on the consumer is seen when rate-fixing bodies deliberately permit the charges of public service corporations to be high enough to include some returns on that portion of the capitalisation which is fictitious. it is very difficult for such authorities to resist entirely the plea of the "innocent investor." consequently, railroad commissions and other rate making authorities, and even the courts, have occasionally made some provision for dividends on the "water." chairman knapp of the interstate commerce commission admitted a few years ago that, in considering the reasonableness of a given rate, this body took into account the financial condition, and therefore the capitalisation of the railroad.[ ] in and practically all the great railway systems of the united states made powerful, and in a measure successful, appeals to the interstate commerce commission for a rise in rates on the ground that they were unable to pay the normal rate of interest on their securities, and hence could not obtain on advantageous terms new capital needed for improvements. had the capitalisation of the roads been kept down to the actual investment, most of them would have been able to pay the competitive rate of interest on all their stock, and still have a sufficient surplus to command excellent credit. _the moral wrong_ when prices or charges are made high enough to provide returns on fictitious capital, the consumer is treated unjustly. as we have shown more than once, the consumer cannot rightfully be required to pay for the products of a monopoly at a greater rate than is necessary to provide the competitive rate of interest on capital in the average conditions of efficiency. if some concerns are able to sell at this price, and still obtain surplus gains, they have a right thereto on account of their exceptional productivity. but the capital upon which a monopolistic concern has a claim to the prevailing rate of interest, is genuine capital: that is, the actual investment as interpreted above, not an inflated capitalisation. the consumers may justly be required to pay for the use and benefit of actual productive goods; but it is not just that they should be compelled to pay for the supposed use of a capital that has no concrete reality. the stockholders of the monopolistic corporation which imposes upon the consumers exorbitant prices or charges through the instrumentality of inflated capitalisation, can become guilty of this injustice in two ways: by promoting the improper capitalisation; and by getting dividends on stock for which they have not given a fair equivalent. as a rule, the greater part of such guilt and responsibility rests upon certain special and powerful groups among the stockholders. for example; the j.p. morgan syndicate which organised the united states steel corporation received for that service securities to the value of $ , , . "there can be no question," says the commissioner of corporations, "that this huge compensation to the syndicate was greatly in excess of a reasonable payment."[ ] the syndicate was able to exact this stupendous sum mainly because some of its members were also in control of some of the companies that were brought into the combination. "in other words, as managers of the steel corporation these various interests virtually determined their compensation as underwriters."[ ] in the opinion of the minority members of the stanley congressional investigating committee, "such a sum bore no relation whatever to the service rendered, the risk run, and the capital advanced."[ ] the majority of the committee characterised the transaction in even stronger language. it is clear, therefore, that the syndicate committed injustice toward the consumers both by organising a monopoly which afterward imposed unjust prices, and by taking millions of dollars in securities which its members did not earn, and on which they received interest through the exorbitant prices. while this transaction is exceptionally conspicuous, it is substantially typical of the methods by which many powerful monopolies have watered their stock to the detriment of the public, and the advantage of a small group of directors and financiers. _the "innocent" investor_ is the state obliged to protect, or is even justified in protecting, the innocent victims of stockwatering? that is to say, should rate-making authorities fix the charges of public service corporations high enough to return some interest to the purchasers of fictitious securities? all the facts and presumptions of the case seem to demand an answer in the negative. in the first place, it is impossible to distinguish the "innocent" holders from those who were fully acquainted with the questionable and speculative nature of the stock at the time it came into their possession. in the second place, the civil law has never formally recognised any such claim on the part of even innocent investors, nor any such obligation on the part of itself. it has never laid down the principle that any class of investors in fictitious stock has a legal or moral right to obtain the normal rate of interest on such stock through the imposition of sufficiently high charges upon the consumers. nor have the courts, except in isolated instances, sanctioned any such principle. on the contrary, the supreme court of the united states, in the case of smyth vs. ames, declared that a railroad "may not impose upon the public the burden of such increased rates as may be required for the purpose of realising profits upon such excessive valuation or fictitious capitalisation." in the third place, when we consider the matter from the side of morals, we see that the innocent investors are not the only persons whose rights are involved. if charges are placed high enough to cover interest on fictitious capital, the cost and the injury fall upon the consumers. the latter have a right to the services of utility corporations, such as railways and gas companies, at a fair price; that is, a price which will return to the capital put into the concern the prevailing rate of interest, plus whatever gains are obtained by exceptional efficiency. to require them to pay more than this, is to compel them to give something for nothing; namely, to provide interest on capital which does not exist, and from which they receive no benefit. when, therefore, the state intervenes to secure fair charges for the consumers, it should base them upon the capital actually invested and used in the business of public service. frequently, however, the state has permitted overcapitalisation, and charges sufficient to pay normal dividends thereon, for long periods of years. has it not thereby encouraged investors to cherish the expectation that these high charges would be permitted to continue, and that the fictitious stock would remain indefinitely as valuable as when it came into their possession? is it not breaking faith with these investors when it reduces charges to the basis of the actual investment? a sufficient answer to these questions is found in the fact that the state has never officially sanctioned the practice of stockwatering, nor in any way intimated that it would recognise the existence of the fictitious stock when it should take up the neglected task of fixing fair rates and charges. at the most, the civil law has merely tolerated the practice, and the resulting extortion upon the public. and there has never been a time when the greater and saner part of public opinion did not look upon overcapitalisation as at the least abnormal and irregular. neither from the civil law nor from public sentiment have the devices of inflating capitalisation received that measure of approval which would confer upon investments therein the legal or the moral status of vested rights. to the "innocent investor" in watered stocks the maxim, _caveat emptor_, is as fairly applicable as to the man who has been deceived into lending his money on insufficient security, or the man who has been induced by the asseverations of a highly imaginative prospectus to put his money into a salted gold mine, or the man who buys stolen goods from a pawn shop, or the man who because of insufficient police protection loses his purse to a highwayman. in all these cases perfect legal safeguards would have prevented the loss; yet in none of them does the state undertake to make the loss good to the innocent victim. such seems to be the strict justice of the situation as between the consumer and the innocent investor. it may sometimes happen that a particularly grave hardship can be averted from the latter at a comparatively slight cost to the former. in such a case equity would seem to require that some concession be made to the investors through the imposition of somewhat higher charges upon the consumer. _magnitude of overcapitalisation_ probably the majority of the great steam railroads, street railways, and gas companies that were organised during the last quarter of the nineteenth century inflated their capitalisation to a greater or less extent. since the year the trusts have been the chief exponents and illustrations of the practice. according to president van hise, "the majority of the great concentrations of industry have gone through two or three stages of reorganisation, the promoters and financiers each time profiting greatly, sometimes enormously."[ ] for example; in the "water" in the american tobacco company was estimated by the commissioner of corporations at $ , , ; the united states shipbuilding company diluted its twelve and one-half million dollars of capital with more than fifty-five millions of "water"; the united states steel corporation contained at the time of its organisation fictitious capital to the amount of $ , , ; and at least fifty per cent. of the common stock of the american sugar refining company represented no actual investment.[ ] owing to the penetrating and widespread criticism, and the government investigations and prosecutions of the last few years, the practice of stockwatering has very greatly diminished. perhaps the most flagrant recent example is that of the pullman company, which according to the testimony of r. t. lincoln before the federal commission on industrial relations, distributed among its stockholders $ , , in stock dividends between and . nevertheless the temptation to inflate capital will exist until the device is stringently prohibited by law. both the nation and the states ought to adopt the policy of forbidding the sale of stock at less than par value, and restricting issues of stock to the amount required for the establishment, equipment, and permanent betterment of a concern, including a sum to cover the loss of interest to the investors during the early period of the business. any extraordinary risks to which an enterprise is liable can be protected by the simple device of allowing a correspondingly high rate of interest on the securities. with such legislation enacted and enforced, neither the investor nor the consumer could be deceived or defrauded; and the financing and management of corporations would become less speculative, and more beneficial to the community. the present chapter may be fittingly closed with a moderate and significant statement from the pen of professor taussig: "it is doubtful whether the whole mechanism of irregular and swollen capitalisation was at any time necessary or wise. why not provide once for all that securities shall be issued only to represent what has been invested?... it is sometimes said that freedom, even recklessness, in the issue of securities was a useful device, in that it enabled the projectors to look forward to returns really tempting, and at the same time concealed these returns from a grudging public.... a more simple and straightforward way of dealing with the issue of securities might thus have dampened in some degree the feverish speculation and restless progress of railway development. but a slower pace would have had its advantages also, and, not least, restriction of securities would have saved great complications in the later stages of established monopoly and needed regulation."[ ] footnotes: [ ] cf. ripley, "trusts, pools, and corporations," pp. - . [ ] see report of the interstate commerce commission on these transactions. [ ] taussig, "principles of economics," ii, , . [ ] final report, p. . [ ] final report of the industrial commission, p. . [ ] report on the steel industry, p. . [ ] idem, p. . [ ] _chicago record-herald_, july , . [ ] op. cit., p. . [ ] cf. van hise, op. cit., pp. , , . [ ] op. cit., ii, , . chapter xx the legal limitation of fortunes if the taxation and other measures of reform suggested in section i were fully applied to our land system; if co-operative enterprise were extended to its utmost practicable limits for the correction of capitalism; and if the wide extension of educational opportunities, and the elimination of the surplus gains of monopolies restricted the profits of the business man to an amount strictly commensurate with his ability and risks,--if all these results were accomplished the number of men who could become millionaires through their own efforts would be so small that their success would arouse popular applause rather than popular envy. their claim to whatever wealth they might accumulate would be generally looked upon as entirely valid and reasonable. their pecuniary eminence would be pronounced quite as deserved as the literary eminence of a lowell, the scientific eminence of a pasteur, or the political eminence of a lincoln. in such conditions there could be no disconcerting discussion of the menace of great fortunes. in the meantime, these reforms are not realised, nor are they likely to be even approximately established within the present generation. for some time to come it will be possible for the exceptionally able, the exceptionally cunning, and the exceptionally lucky to accumulate great riches through clever and fortuitous utilisation of special advantages, natural and otherwise. moreover, a great proportion of the large fortunes already in existence will persist, and will be transmitted to heirs who will in many cases cause them to increase. can nothing be done to reduce the size and lessen the number of these great accumulations? if so, is such a proceeding socially and morally desirable? _the method of direct limitation_ the law might directly limit the amount of property to be held by any individual. if the limit were placed fairly high, say, at one hundred thousand dollars, it could scarcely be regarded as an infringement on the right of property. in the case of a family numbering ten members, this would mean one million dollars. all the essential objects of private ownership could be abundantly met out of a sum of one hundred thousand dollars for each person. moreover, a restriction of this sort need not prevent a man from bestowing unlimited amounts upon charitable, religious, educational, or other benevolent causes. it would, indeed, hinder some persons from satisfying certain unessential wants, such as, the desire to enjoy gross or refined luxuries, great financial power, and the control of immense industrial enterprises; but none of these objects is necessary for any individual's genuine welfare. in the interest of the social good such private and unimportant ends may properly be rendered impossible of realisation. such a restriction would no more constitute a direct attack upon private ownership than limitations upon the use and kinds of property. at present a man may not do what he pleases with his gun, his horse, or his automobile, nor may he invest his money in the business of carrying the mails. the limitation of fortunes is just what the word expresses, a _limitation_ of the right of property. it is not a denial nor _destruction_ of that right. as a limitation of the amount to be held by an individual, it does not differ in principle from a limitation of the kinds of goods that may become the subject of private ownership. there is nothing in the nature of things nor in the reason of property to indicate that the right of ownership is unlimited in quantity any more than it is in quality. the final end and justification of individual rights of property is human welfare; that is, the welfare of all individuals severally and collectively. now it is quite within the bounds of physical possibility that the limitation under discussion might be conducive to the welfare of human beings both as individuals and as constituting society. nevertheless the dangers and obstacles confronting any legal restriction of fortunes are so real as to render the proposal socially inexpedient. it would easily lend itself to grave abuse. once the community had habituated itself to a direct limitation of any sort, the temptation to lower it in the interest of better distribution and simpler living would become exceedingly powerful. eventually the right of property might take such an attenuated and uncertain form in the public mind as to discourage labour and initiative, and thus seriously to endanger human welfare. in the second place, the manifold evasions to which the measure would lend itself would make it of very doubtful efficacy. to be sure, neither of these objections is absolutely conclusive, but taken together they are sufficiently weighty to dictate that such a proposal should not be entertained so long as other and less dangerous methods are available to meet the problem of excessive fortunes. four of the nine members of the federal commission on industrial relations have suggested that the amount of property capable of being received by the heirs of any person be limited to one million dollars.[ ] if we assume that by heirs the commission meant the natural persons to whom property might come by bequest or succession, this limitation would permit a family of ten persons to inherit one hundred thousand dollars each, and a family of five persons to obtain two hundred thousand dollars apiece. would such a restriction be a violation of the right of private ownership? the answer depends upon the effects of the measure on human welfare. the rights of bequest and succession are integral elements of the right of ownership; hence they are based upon human needs, and designed for the promotion of human life and development. a person needs private property not only to provide for his personal wants and those of his family during his lifetime, but also to safeguard the welfare of his dependents and to assist other worthy purposes, after he has passed away. owing to the uncertainty of death, the latter objects cannot be adequately realised without the institutions of bequest and succession. all the necessary and rational ends of bequest and succession could be attained in a society in which no man's heirs could inherit more than one million dollars. under such an arrangement very few of the children of millionaires would be prevented from getting at least one hundred thousand dollars. that much would be amply sufficient for the essential and reasonable needs of any human being. indeed, we may go further, and lay down the proposition that the overwhelming majority of persons can lead a more virtuous and reasonable life on the basis of a fortune of one hundred thousand dollars than when burdened with any larger amount. the persons who have the desire and the ability to use a greater sum than this in a rational way are so few that a limitation law need not take them into account. corporate persons, such as hospitals, churches, schools, and other helpful institutions, should not, as a rule, be restricted as to the amount that they might inherit; for many of them could make a good use of more than the amount that suffices for a natural person. so much for the welfare and rights of the beneficiaries of inheritance. the owners of estates would not be injured in their rights of property by the limitation that we are here considering. in the first place, the number of persons practically affected by the limitation would be extremely small. only an insignificant fraction of property owners ever transmit or expect to be wealthy enough to transmit to their families more than one million dollars. of these few a considerable proportion would not be deterred by the million dollar limitation from putting forth their best and greatest efforts in a productive way. they would continue to work either from force of habit and love of their accustomed tasks, or from a desire to make large gifts to their heirs during life, or because they wished to assist some benevolent enterprise. the infinitesimally small number whose energies would be diminished by the limitation could very safely be treated as a socially negligible element. the community would be better off without them. the limitation of inheritance would, indeed, be liable to abuse. circumstances would undoubtedly arise in which the community would be strongly tempted to make the maximum inheritable amount so low as to discourage the desire of acquisition, and to deprive heirs of reasonable protection. while the bad effects of such a limitation would not be as great as those following a similar abuse with regard to possessions, they are sufficiently grave and sufficiently probable to suggest that the legal restriction of bequest and succession should not be considered except as a last resort, and when the transmission of great fortunes had become a great and certain public evil. it seems reasonable to conclude, then, that neither the limitation of possessions nor the limitation of inheritance is necessarily a direct violation of the right of property, but that the possible and even probable evil consequences of both are so grave as to make these measures of very doubtful benefit. whether the dangers in question are sufficiently great to render the adoption of either proposal morally wrong, is a question that cannot be answered with any degree of confidence. what seems to be fairly certain is that in our present conditions legislation of this sort would be an unnecessary and unwise experiment. _limitation through progressive taxation_ is it legitimate and feasible to reduce great fortunes indirectly, through taxation? there is certainly no objection to the method on moral or social principles. as we have seen in chapter viii, taxes are not levied exclusively for the purpose of raising revenue. some kinds of them are designed to promote social rather than fiscal ends. now, to prevent and diminish dangerous accumulations of wealth is a social end which is at least as important as most of the objects sought in license taxes. the propriety of attempting to attain this end by taxation is, therefore, to be determined entirely by reference to its probable effectiveness. the precise method of taxation available here is a progressive tax on incomes and inheritances. by a progressive tax is meant one whose rate advances in some definite proportion to the increases in the amount taxed. for example, a bequest of , dollars might pay one per cent.; , dollars, two per cent.; , dollars, three per cent., and so forth. the reasonableness of the principle of progression in taxation has been well stated by professor seligman: "all individual wants vary in intensity, from the absolutely necessary wants of mere subsistence to the less pressing wants which can be satisfied by pure luxuries. taxes, in so far as they rob us of the means of satisfying our wants, impose a sacrifice upon us. but the sacrifice involved in giving up a portion of what enables us to satisfy our necessary wants is very different from the sacrifice involved in giving up what is necessary to satisfy our less urgent wants. if two men have incomes of one thousand dollars and one hundred thousand dollars respectively, we impose upon them not equal but very unequal sacrifices if we take away from each the same proportion, say ten per cent. for the one thousand dollar individual now has only nine hundred dollars, and must deprive himself and his family of necessaries of life; the one hundred thousand dollar individual has ninety thousand dollars, and if he retrenches at all, which is very doubtful, he will give up only great luxuries, which do not satisfy any pressing wants. the sacrifice imposed on the two individuals is not equal. we are laying on the one thousand dollar man a far heavier sacrifice than on the one hundred thousand dollar man. in order to impose equal sacrifices we must tax the richer man not only absolutely, but relatively, more than the poor man. the taxes must be not proportional, but progressive; the rate must be lower in the one case than in the other."[ ] the principle of equality of sacrifices which underlies the progressive theory does not justify the levelling and communistic inferences that have sometimes been brought against it. equality of sacrifice does not mean equality of satisfied, or unsatisfied, wants after the tax has been collected. if brown pays a tax of one per cent. on his income of two thousand dollars, it does not follow that jones with an income of ten thousand dollars should pay a sufficiently high rate to leave him with only the net amount remaining to brown; namely, dollars. equality of sacrifice means proportional equality of burden, not equality of net resources after the tax has been deducted. the object of the progressive rate is to make relatively equal the sacrifices _caused by the tax itself_, not to equalise the sum total of burdens or unsatisfied wants that exist among men. another objection to progressive taxation is that it readily lends itself to confiscation of the largest incomes. all that is necessary to produce this result is to increase the rate with sufficient rapidity. this could be accomplished either by large steps in the rate itself or by small steps in the income increases which formed the basis of the advances in the rate. for example, if the federal income tax, which at present levies two per cent. on incomes of more than three thousand dollars, and three per cent. on incomes of over twenty thousand dollars, should thereafter progress geometrically with every geometrically progressive increment of income, the rate on incomes above $ , would be per cent.! or if the rate should progress arithmetically with every ten thousand dollars of increase above twenty thousand dollars, it would be per cent. on incomes of over $ , ! to this objection there are two valid answers. even if the rate should ultimately reach one hundred per cent. it need not, and on progressive principles it should not, effect confiscation of an entire income. the progressive theory is satisfied when the successive rates of the tax apply to successive increments of income, instead of to the entire income. for example, the rate might begin at one per cent. on incomes of one thousand dollars, and increase by one per cent. with every additional thousand, and yet leave a very large part of the income in the hands of the receiver. each one thousand dollars would be taxed at a different rate, the first at one per cent., the fiftieth at fifty per cent., and the last at one hundred per cent. if the hundred per cent. rate were applied to the whole of the higher incomes, it would be a direct violation of the principle of equality of sacrifice. in the second place, the progressive theory forbids rather than requires the rate to go as high as one hundred per cent. while the sacrifices imposed by a given rate are greater in the case of small than of large properties, they become approximately equal as between all properties above a certain high level. after this level is reached, additional increments of wealth will all be expended either for extreme luxuries, or converted into new investments. consequently they will supply wants of approximately equal intensity. for example, the wants dependent upon a surplus of , dollars in excess of an income of , dollars, and the wants dependent upon a surplus of , dollars above the same level do not differ materially in strength. to diminish these surpluses by the same per cent., say, ten, would impose proportionally equal burdens. hence the rate of progression should be degressive; that is, it should increase at a constant pace until a certain high level of income is reached, then increase at a steadily diminishing pace, and finally become uniform on the very highest incomes. for example; if the rate increased one per cent. with every additional five thousand dollars, reaching fifteen per cent. on incomes of seventy-five thousand dollars, it should be on eighty thousand dollars, not sixteen but fifteen and one-half per cent. on , dollars the rate should be - / per cent.; on , , - / per cent.; on , , - / per cent.; and on all sums of , and over, per cent. the point at which the increments in the rate began to decline would be that at which differences in wants began to diminish, and the point at which the rate became stationary would be that at which wants fell to the same level of intensity. _the proper rate of income and inheritance taxes_ while the principle of equality of sacrifices forbids a rate of tax that would reach or approximate confiscation, it gives no definite indication of the proper scale of progression, or of the maximum limit that justice would set to the rate. under our federal law the highest rate on incomes is now per cent.; under the wisconsin law it is per cent.; under the law of prussia it is per cent.; and under the british act of it is about - / per cent. evidently a much higher rate than any of these would be required to make any impression upon swollen fortunes. the british government recently (september, ) made the maximum rate about - / per cent. to be sure, this is a war measure which probably will not continue after the restoration of peace. however, if it were made permanent it could not be proved to be unjust, provided that it were applied to the _increments_ of income above a certain high limit, but not to these incomes in their entirety. our present inheritance taxes are very low, averaging less than per cent. throughout the united states. probably the highest rate is to be found in wisconsin, where bequests to non relatives in excess of half a million dollars are subject to a tax of fifteen per cent. it is clear that all the existing rates could be raised very considerably without causing a violation of justice. some years ago andrew carnegie recommended a tax of fifty per cent. on estates amounting to more than one million dollars.[ ] no country has yet reached this high level of inheritance taxes. nevertheless we cannot certainly stigmatise it as unjust either to the testator or his heirs, nor can we prove that it is in any other manner injurious to human welfare. all that can be said with confidence concerning the just rates of inheritance taxation must take the form of generalisations. the increments of the tax should correspond as closely as possible to the diminishing intensity of the wants which the tax deprives of satisfaction; in the case of each heir a certain fairly high minimum of property should be entirely exempt; on all the highest estates the rate should be uniform, and it should fall a long way short of confiscation; and the tax should at no point be such as to discourage socially useful activity and enterprise. _effectiveness of such taxation_ the essential justice of the measures is not the only consideration affecting high income and inheritance taxes. there remain the questions of expediency and feasibility. under the first head the objection is sometimes raised that taxes which appropriated a considerable portion of the larger incomes and inheritances would diminish very materially the social supply of capital. immense sums of money would go into the public treasury which otherwise would have been invested in commerce and industry. two questions are raised by this situation: first, whether it might not be better for society to have these sums devoted, through public works of various kinds, to consumptive uses instead of to an increase in the supply of capital; second, whether the reduction in the savings and capital provided by the persons paying the taxes could be offset by increases in saving among other classes. even if it be assumed that the first question should receive a negative answer, it is not improbable that the second should be answered in the affirmative. in other words, the increased saving which the poorer and middle classes would be enabled to make as a result of the shifting of some of their burden of taxation to the large incomes and inheritances, might very well counterbalance the curtailment in the investments of the wealthy classes. even if this possibility were not fully realised, even if the net volume of capital in the community were somewhat diminished, this disadvantage might be more than neutralised by the wider social benefits of the taxation policy. with regard to the feasibility of very heavy income and inheritance taxes, it is sometimes contended that neither of these measures can be made effective toward the reduction of abnormal fortunes.[ ] it is held that the successful collection of these taxes requires the co-operation of the persons affected by them; that if the rate should go above ten or twelve per cent., the income receiver would evade the tax in a great variety of ways, while the owner of a large estate would transfer his property outright to a trust company, which would after his death make the desired distribution. the man who urges these objections is a very high authority on taxation, especially on its administrative side; nevertheless his contentions are not absolutely conclusive. in particular, it does not seem probable that high inheritance taxes could be evaded by the simple devices that he mentions. it ought not to be beyond the power of administrative ingenuity to find methods of defeating such subterfuges. however, it is altogether likely that the possibilities of evasion would be sufficient to prevent the imposition of tax rates that approached within measurable distance of the borderland of confiscation. the sum of the matter seems to be that the reduction and prevention of great fortunes cannot prudently be accomplished by the method of direct limitation; that these ends may wisely and justly be attained indirectly, through the imposition of progressive income and inheritance taxes; but that the extent to which these measures would be genuinely effective cannot be estimated until they have been given a thorough trial. footnotes: [ ] "final report," p. . [ ] "progressive taxation," pp. , ; cf. vermeersch, "quaestiones de justitia," pp. - . [ ] "the gospel of wealth," pp. , . [ ] cf. dr. t. s. adams in "papers and proceedings of the th annual meeting of the american economic association," pp. , sq. chapter xxi the duty of distributing superfluous wealth the correctives of the present distribution that were proposed before the beginning of the last chapter related mainly to the apportionment of the product among the agents of production. they would affect that distribution which takes place as an integral element of the productive process, not any disposition which the productive agents might desire or be required to make of the shares that they had acquired from the productive process. such were many of the proposals regarding land tenure, and all of those concerning co-operative enterprises and monopoly. in the last chapter we considered the possibility of neutralising to some extent the abuses of the primary distribution by the action of government through the taxation of large fortunes. these were proposals directly affecting the secondary distribution. and they involved the method of compulsion. in the present chapter we shall inquire whether desirable changes in the secondary distribution may not be effected by voluntary action. the specific questions confronting us here are, whether and how far proprietors are morally bound to distribute their superfluous wealth among their less fortunate fellows. _the question of distributing some_ the authority of revealed religion returns to the first of these questions a clear and emphatic answer in the affirmative. the old and the new testaments abound in declarations that possessors are under very strict obligation to give of their surplus to the indigent. perhaps the most striking expression of this teaching is that found in the gospel according to st. matthew, ch. , verses - , where eternal happiness is awarded to those who have fed the hungry, given drink to the thirsty, received the stranger, covered the naked, visited the sick, and called upon the imprisoned; and eternal damnation is meted out to those who have failed in these respects. the principle that ownership is stewardship, that the man who possesses superfluous goods must regard himself as a trustee for the needy, is fundamental and all-pervasive in the teaching of christianity. no more clear or concise statement of it has ever been given than that of st. thomas aquinas: "as regards the power of acquiring and dispensing material goods, man may lawfully possess them as his own; as regards their use, however, a man ought not to look upon them as his own, but as common, so that he may readily minister to the needs of others."[ ] reason likewise enjoins the benevolent distribution of surplus wealth. it reminds the proprietor that his needy neighbours have the same nature, the same faculties, capacities, wants, and destiny as himself. they are his equals and his brothers. reason, therefore, requires that he should esteem them as such, love them as such, and treat them as such; that he should love them not merely by well wishing, but by well doing. since the goods of the earth were intended by the creator for the common benefit of all mankind, the possessor of a surplus is reasonably required to use it in such a way that this original purpose of all created goods will be fulfilled. to refuse is to treat one's less fortunate neighbour as something different from and less than oneself, as a creature whose claim upon the common bounty of nature is something less than one's own. multiplying words will not make these truths plainer. the man who does not admit that the welfare of his neighbour is of equal moral worth and importance with his own welfare, will logically refuse to admit that he is under any obligation of distributing his superfluous goods. the man who does acknowledge this essential equality will be unable to find any logical basis for such refusal. is this obligation one of charity or one of justice? at the outset a distinction must be made between wealth that has been honestly acquired and wealth that has come into one's possession through some violation of rights. the latter kind must, of course, be restored to those persons who have been wronged. if they cannot be found or identified the ill-gotten gains must be turned over to charitable or other worthy objects. since the goods do not belong to the present holder by any valid moral title, they should be given to those persons who are qualified by at least the claim and title of needs. some of the fathers of the church maintained that all superfluous wealth, whether well or ill gotten, ought to be distributed to those in want. st. basil of cæsarea: "will not the man who robs another of his clothing be called a thief? is the man who is able and refuses to clothe the naked deserving of any other appellation? the bread that you withhold belongs to the hungry; the cloak that you retain in your chest belongs to the naked; the shoes that are decaying in your possession belong to the shoeless; the gold that you have hidden in the ground belongs to the indigent. wherefore, as often as you were able to help men and refused, so often you did them wrong."[ ] st. augustine of hippo: "the superfluities of the rich are the necessities of the poor. they who possess superfluities possess the goods of others."[ ] st. ambrose of milan: "the earth belongs to all; not to the rich; but those who possess their shares are fewer than those who do not. therefore, you are paying a debt, not bestowing a gift."[ ] pope gregory the great: "when we give necessaries to the needy, we do not bestow upon them our goods; we return to them their own; we pay a debt of justice rather than of mercy."[ ] the great systematiser of theology in the thirteenth century, st. thomas aquinas, who is universally recognised as the most authoritative private teacher in the church, stated the obligation of distribution in less extreme and more scientific terms: "according to the order of nature instituted by divine providence, the goods of the earth are designed to supply the needs of men. the division of goods and their appropriation through human law do not thwart this purpose. therefore, the goods which a man has in superfluity are due by the natural law to the sustenance of the poor."[ ] that this is the official teaching of the church to-day is evident from the words of pope leo xiii: "when one has provided sufficiently for one's necessities and the demands of one's state of life, there is a duty to give to the indigent out of what remains. it is a duty not of strict justice, save in case of extreme necessity, but of christian charity."[ ] nearly thirteen years earlier, the same pope had written: "the church lays the rich under strict command to give their superfluity to the poor."[ ] the only difference between the fathers and pope leo xiii and st. thomas on this question has reference to the precise nature of the obligation. according to the fathers, the duty of distribution would seem to be a duty of justice. in the passage quoted above from st. thomas, superfluities are said to "belong," or to be "due" ("debetur") to the needy; but the particular moral precept that applies is not specified. in another place, however, the angelic doctor declares that almsgiving is an act of charity.[ ] pope leo xiii explicitly says that the obligation of giving is one of charity, "except in extreme cases." the latter phrase refers to the traditional doctrine that a person who is in extreme need; that is, in immediate danger of losing life, limb, or some equivalent personal good, is justified in the absence of any other means of succour in taking from his neighbour what is absolutely necessary. such appropriation, says st. thomas, is not properly speaking theft; for the goods seized belong to the needy person, "inasmuch as he must sustain life."[ ] in a word, the mediæval and the modern catholic teaching would make distribution of superfluous goods a duty of justice only in extreme situations, while the fathers laid down no such specific limitation. nevertheless, the difference is less important than it appears to be on the surface. when the fathers lived, theology had not been systematised nor given a precise terminology; consequently, they did not always make exact distinctions between the different classes of virtues and obligations. in the second place, the patristic passages that we have quoted, and others of like import, were mostly contained in sermons addressed to the rich, and consequently were expressed in hortatory rather than scientific terms. moreover, the needs of the time which the rich were exhorted to relieve were probably so urgent that they could correctly be classed as extreme, and therefore would give rise to an obligation of justice on the part of those who possessed superfluous wealth. the truly important fact of the whole situation is that both the fathers and the later authorities of the church regard the task of distributing superfluous goods as one of strict moral obligation, which in serious cases is binding under pain of grievous sin. whether it falls under the head of justice or under that of charity, is of no great practical consequence. _the question of distributing all_ is a man obliged to distribute _all_ his superfluous wealth? as regards the support of human life, catholic moral theologians distinguish three classes of goods: first, the necessaries of life, those utilities which are essential to a healthy and humane existence for a man and his family, regardless of the social position that he may occupy, or the standard of life to which he may have been accustomed; second, the conventional necessities and comforts, which correspond to the social plane upon which the individual or family moves; third, those goods which are not required to support either existence or social position. goods of the second class are said to be necessary as regards conventional purposes, but superfluous as regards the maintenance of life, while those of the third class are superfluous without qualification. no obligation exists to distribute the first class of goods; for the possessor is justified in preferring his own primary and fundamental needs to the equal or less important needs of his neighbours. the owner of goods of the second class is under obligation to dispense them to persons who are in extreme need, since the preservation of the neighbour's life is more important morally than the maintenance of the owner's conventional standard of living. on the other hand, there is no obligation of giving any of these goods to meet those needs of the neighbour which are social or conventional. here, again, it is reasonable that the possessor should prefer his own interests to the equal interests of his fellows. still less is he obliged to expend any of the second class of goods for the relief of ordinary or common distress. as regards the third class of goods, those which are absolutely superfluous, the proportion to be distributed is indefinite, depending upon the volume of need. the doctrine of the moral theologians on the subject is summed up in the following paragraph. when the needs to be supplied are "ordinary," or "common"; that is, when they merely expose a person to considerable and constant inconvenience, without inflicting serious physical, mental, or moral injury, they do not impose upon any man the obligation of giving up all his superfluous goods. according to some moral theologians, the possessor fulfils his duty in such cases if he contributes that proportion of his surplus which would suffice for the removal of all such distress, provided that all other possessors were equally generous; according to others, if he gives two per cent. of his superfluity; according to others, if he contributes two per cent. of his annual income. these estimates are intended not so much to define the exact measure of obligation as to emphasise the fact that there exists some degree of obligation; for all the moral theologians agree that some portion of a man's superfluous goods ought to be given for the relief of ordinary or common needs. when, however, the distress is grave; that is, when it is seriously detrimental to welfare; for example, when a man or a family is in danger of falling to a lower social plane; when health, morality, or the intellectual or religious life is menaced,--possessors are required to contribute as much of their superfluous goods as is necessary to meet all such cases of distress. if all is needed all must be given. in other words, the entire mass of superfluous wealth is morally subject to the call of grave need. this seems to be the unanimous teaching of the moral theologians.[ ] it is also in harmony with the general principle of the moral law that the goods of the earth should be enjoyed by the inhabitants of the earth in proportion to their essential needs. in any rational distribution of a common heritage, the claims of health, mind, and morals are surely superior to the demands of luxurious living, or investment, or mere accumulation. what per cent. of the superfluous incomes in the united states would suffice to alleviate all the existing grave and ordinary distress? nothing like an exact answer is possible, but we can get an approximation that will have considerable practical value. from the estimates of family incomes given by professor w. i. king, it appears that in the number of families with annual incomes of less than one thousand dollars was a little more than ten and three quarter millions, and that the total incomes of those families receiving more than ten thousand dollars a year amounted to a little more than three and three quarter billions.[ ] if each of the latter class of families should expend ten thousand dollars per year for the needs of life and social position, they would have left nearly two and three quarter billions for distribution among the ten and three quarter million families who are below the one thousand dollar level. so far as the figures of professor king's table enable us to judge, the greater part if not all of this sum would be required to bring this group of families up to that standard. possibly an income of one thousand dollars per family is not required to remove all ordinary and grave distress; and possibly ten thousand dollars is not enough for the reasonable requirements of some families. if both these suppositions are true they will tend to cancel each other: the needs to be met will be less, but the superfluous income to be distributed will be less also. whatever be the minimum and maximum limits of family income that approve themselves to competent students, the conclusion will probably be inevitable that the greater part of the superfluous income of the well-to-do and the rich would be required to abolish all grave and ordinary need. _some objections_ the desirability of such a thoroughgoing distribution of superfluous incomes appears to be refuted by the fact that a considerable part of the capital and organising ability that function in industry is dependent upon the possession of superfluous goods by the richer classes. that surplus of the larger incomes which is not consumed or given away by its receivers at present, constitutes no small portion of the whole supply of savings annually converted into capital. were all of it to be withdrawn from industry and distributed among the needy, the process might involve more harm than good. moreover, the very large industrial enterprises are initiated and carried on by men who have themselves provided a considerable share of the necessary funds. without these large masses of personal capital, they would have much more difficulty in organising these great enterprises, and would be unable to exercise their present dominating control. to the first part of this objection we may reply that the distribution of superfluous goods need not involve any considerable withdrawal of existing capital from industry. the giving of large amounts to institutions and organisations, as distinguished from needy individuals, might mean merely a transfer of capital from one holder to another; for example, the stocks and bonds of corporations. the capital would be left intact, the only change being in the persons that would thenceforth receive the interest. small donations could come out of the possessor's income. moreover, there is no reason why the whole of the distribution could not be made out of income rather than out of capital. while the givers would still remain possessed of superfluous wealth, they would have handed over to needy objects, persons, and causes the thing that in modern times constitutes the soul and essence of wealth; namely, its annual revenues. nevertheless, the distribution from income would apparently check the necessary increase of capital, lessen unduly the supply of capital for the future. were all, or the greater part of superfluous incomes devoted to benevolent objects it would be used up for consumption goods; such as, food, clothing, housing, hospitals, churches, schools. would not this check to the increase of capital cause serious injury to society? new investment would not be diminished by an amount equal to the whole amount of income transferred to objects of benevolence. for the improved position of the poorer classes that had shared in the distribution would enable them to increase their productive power and their resources, and therefore to save money and convert it into capital. again, their increased consuming power would augment the demand for goods, bring about a larger use of existing capital instruments, and therefore lead to an enlargement of the community's capacity for saving. thus, the new saving and capital would, partially at least, take the place of that which was formerly provided by the possessors of surplus income. in so far as a net diminution occurred in the community's supply of capital, it would probably be more than offset, from the viewpoint of social welfare, by the better diffusion of goods and opportunities among the masses of the population. the second difficulty noted above, that such a thorough distribution of superfluous goods would lessen considerably the power of the captains of industry to organise and operate great enterprises, can be disposed of very briefly. those who made the distribution from income rather than from invested wealth, would still retain control of large masses of capital. all, however, would have deprived themselves of the power to enlarge their business ventures by turning great quantities of their own income back into industry. but if their ability and character were such as to command the confidence of investors, they would be able to find sufficient capital elsewhere to equip and carry on any sound and necessary enterprise. in this case the process of accumulating the required funds would, indeed, be slower than when they used their own, but that would not be an unmixed disadvantage. when the business was finally established, it would probably be more stable, would respond to a more definite and considerable need, and would be more beneficial socially, inasmuch as it would include a larger proportion of the population among its proprietors. and the diminished authority and control exercised by the great capitalist, on account of his diminished ownership of the stock, would in the long run be a good thing for society. it would mean the curtailment of a species of power that is easily liable to abuse, wider opportunities of industrial leadership, and a more democratic and stable industrial system. only a comparatively small portion of the superfluous goods of the country could with advantage be immediately and directly distributed among needy individuals. the greater part would do more good if it were given to religious and benevolent institutions and enterprises. churches, schools, scholarships, hospitals, asylums, housing projects, insurance against unemployment, sickness, and old age, and benevolent and scientific purposes generally,--constitute the best objects and agencies of effective distribution. by these means social and individual efficiency would be so improved within a few years that the distress due to economic causes would for the most part have disappeared. the proposition that men are under moral obligation to give away the greater portion of their superfluous goods or income is, indeed, a "hard saying." not improbably it will strike the majority of persons who read these pages as extreme and fantastic. no catholic, however, who knows the traditional teaching of the church on the right use of wealth, and who considers patiently and seriously the magnitude and the meaning of human distress, will be able to refute the proposition by reasoned arguments. indeed, no man can logically deny it who admits that men are intrinsically sacred, and essentially equal by nature and in their claims to a reasonable livelihood from the common heritage of the earth. the wants that a man supplies out of his superfluous goods are not necessary for rational existence. for the most part they bring him merely irrational enjoyment, greater social prestige, or increased domination over his fellows. judged by any reasonable standard, these are surely less important than those needs of the neighbour which are connected with humane living. if any considerable part of the community rejects these propositions the explanation will be found not in a reasoned theory, but in the conventional assumption that a man may do what he likes with his own. this assumption is adopted without examination, without criticism, without any serious advertence to the great moral facts that ownership is stewardship, and that the creator intended the earth for the reasonable support of all the children of men. _a false conception of welfare and superfluous goods_ if all the present owners of superfluous goods were to carry out their own conception of the obligation, the amount distributed would be only a fraction of the real superabundance. let us recall the definition of absolute superfluity as, that portion of individual or family income which is not required for the reasonable maintenance of life and social position. it allows, of course, a reasonable provision for the future. but the great majority of possessors, as well as perhaps the majority of others, do not interpret their needs, whether of life or social position, in any such strict fashion. those who acquire a surplus over their present absolute and conventional needs, generally devote it to an expansion of social position. they move into larger and more expensive houses, thereby increasing their assumed requirements, not merely in the matter of housing, but as regards food, clothing, amusements, and the conventions of the social group with which they are affiliated. in this way the surplus which ought to have been distributed is all absorbed in the acquisition and maintenance of more expensive standards. all classes of possessors adopt and act upon an exaggerated conception of both the strict and the conventional necessities. in taking this course, they are merely subscribing to the current theory of life and welfare. it is commonly assumed that to be worth while life must include the continuous and indefinite increase of the number and variety of wants, and a corresponding growth and variation in the means of satisfying them. very little endeavour is made to distinguish between kinds of wants, or to arrange them in any definite scale of moral importance. desires for purely physical goods, such as, food, drink, adornment, and sense gratifications generally, are put on the same level with the demands of the spiritual, moral, and intellectual faculties. the value and importance of any and all wants is determined mainly by the criterion of enjoyment. in the great majority of cases this means a preference for the goods and experiences that minister to the senses. since these satisfactions are susceptible of indefinite increase, variety, and cost, the believer in this theory of life-values readily assumes that no practical limit can be set to the amount of goods or income that will be required to make life continuously and progressively worth living. hence the question whether he has superfluous goods, how much of a surplus he has, or how much he is obliged to distribute, scarcely occurs to him at all. everything that he possesses or is likely to possess, is included among the necessaries of life and social position. he adopts as his working theory of life those propositions which were condemned as "scandalous and pernicious" by pope innocent xi in : "it is scarcely possible to find among people engaged in worldly pursuits, even among kings, goods that are superfluous to social position. therefore, hardly any one is bound to give alms from this source." the practical consequences of this false conception of welfare are naturally most conspicuous among the rich, especially the very rich, but they are also manifest among the comfortable and middle classes. in every social group above the limit of very moderate circumstances, too much money is spent for material goods and enjoyments, and too little for the intellectual, religious, and altruistic things of life. _the true conception of welfare_ this working creed of materialism is condemned by right reason, as well as by christianity. the teaching of christ on the worth of material goods is expressed substantially in the following texts: "woe to you rich." "blessed are you poor." "lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth." "for a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of things that he possesseth." "be not solicitous as to what you shall eat, or what you shall drink, or what you shall put on." "seek ye first the kingdom of god and his justice, and all these things shall be added unto you." "you cannot serve god and mammon." "if thou wouldst be perfect, go, sell what thou hast and give to the poor, and come follow me." reason informs us that neither our faculties nor the goods that satisfy them are of equal moral worth or importance. the intellectual and spiritual faculties are essentially and intrinsically higher than the sense faculties. only in so far as they promote, either negatively or positively, the development of the mind and soul have the senses any reasonable claim to satisfaction. they have no value in themselves; they are merely instruments to the welfare of the spirit, the intellect, and the disinterested will. right life consists, not in the indefinite satisfaction of material wants, but in the progressive endeavour to know the best that is to be known, and to love the best that is to be loved; that is, god and his creatures in the order of their importance. the man who denies the intrinsic superiority of the soul to the senses, who puts sense gratifications on the same level of importance as the activities of mind, and spirit, and disinterested will, logically holds that the most degrading actions are equally good and commendable with those which mankind approves as the noblest. his moral standard does not differ from that of the pig, and he himself is on no higher moral level than the pig. those who accept the view of life and welfare taught by christianity and reason cannot, if they take the trouble to consider the matter, avoid the conclusion that the amount of material goods which can be expended in the rational and justifiable satisfaction of the senses, is very much smaller than is to-day assumed by the great majority of persons. somewhere between five and ten thousand dollars a year lies the maximum expenditure that any family can reasonably devote to its material wants. this is independent of the outlay for education, religion, and charity, and the things of the mind generally. in the overwhelming majority of cases in which more than five to ten thousand dollars are expended for the satisfaction of material needs, some injury is done to the higher life. the interests of health, intellect, spirit, or morals would be better promoted if the outlay for material things were kept below the specified limit. the distribution advocated in this chapter is obviously no substitute for justice or the deeds of justice. inasmuch, however, as complete justice is a long way from realisation, a serious attempt by the possessors of true superfluous goods to fulfil their obligations of distribution would greatly counteract and soften existing injustice, inequality, and suffering. hence, benevolent giving deserves a place in any complete statement of proposals for a better distribution of wealth. moreover, we are not likely to make great advances on the road of strict justice until we acquire saner conceptions of welfare, and a more effective notion of brotherly love. so long as men put the senses above the soul, they will be unable to see clearly what is justice, and unwilling to practise the little that they are able to see. those who exaggerate the value of sense gratifications cannot be truly charitable, and those who are not truly charitable cannot perform adequate justice. the achievement of social justice requires not merely changes in the social mechanism, but a change in the social spirit, a reformation in men's hearts. to this end nothing could be more immediately helpful than a comprehensive recognition of the stewardship of wealth, and the duty of distributing superfluous goods. references on section iii ely: monopolies and trusts. macmillan; . van hise: concentration and control. macmillan; . stevens: industrial combinations and trusts. macmillan; . russell: business, the heart of the nation. john lane; . garriguet: régime du travail. paris; . the social value of the gospel. st. louis; . hobson: work and wealth, a human valuation. macmillan; . west: the inheritance tax. new york; . seligman: progressive taxation. princeton; . the income tax. new york; . bouquillon: de virtutibus theologicis. brugis; . also, the works of taussig, devas, hobson, antoine, pesch, carver, vermeersch, nearing, and king which are cited in connection with the introductory chapter. footnotes: [ ] "summa theologica," a. ae., q. , a. . [ ] "patrologia graeca," vol. , cols. , . [ ] "patrologia latina," vol. , col. . [ ] "patrologia latina," vol. , col. . [ ] "patrologia latina," vol. , col. . these and several other extracts of like tenor may be found in ryan's "alleged socialism of the church fathers," ch. i; st. louis, . [ ] op. cit., a. ae., q. , a. . [ ] encyclical, "on the condition of labour," may , . [ ] encyclical, "on socialism, communism, nihilism," dec. , . [ ] op. cit., a. ae., q. , a. . [ ] idem, q. , a. . [ ] a comprehensive, though brief, discussion of this question and numerous references are contained in bouquillon, "de virtutibus theologicis," pp. - . when pope leo xiii declared that the rich are obliged to distribute "out of" their superfluity, he did not mean that they are free to give only a portion thereof. the particle "de" in his statement, "officium est de eo quod superat gratificari indigentibus," is not correctly translated by "some." it means rather "out of," "from," or "with"; so that the affluent are commanded to devote their superfluous goods indefinitely to the relief of the needy. in the encyclical, "quot apostolici muneris," he used the expression, "gravissimo divites urget praecepto ut quod superest pauperibus tribuant," which clearly declares the duty of distributing all. [ ] "the wealth and income of the people of the united states," pp. - . section iv the moral aspect of wages chapter xxii some unacceptable theories of wage-justice "it may be that we are not merely chasing a will-o'-the-wisp when we are hunting for a reasonable wage, but we are at any rate seeking the unattainable." thus wrote professor frank haight dixon in a paper read at the twenty-seventh annual meeting of the american economic association, december, . whether he reflected the opinion of the majority of the economists, he at least gave expression to a thought that has frequently suggested itself to every one who has gone into the wage question free from prejudices and preconceived theories. one of the most palpable indications of the difficulty to which professor dixon refers is the number of doctrines concerning wage justice that have been laboriously built up during the christian era, and that have failed to approve themselves to the majority of students and thinkers. in the present chapter the attempt is made to set forth some of the most important of these doctrines, and to show wherein they are defective. they can all be grouped under the following heads: the prevailing-rate theory; exchange-equivalence theories; and the productivity theories. i. the prevailing-rate theory this is not so much a systematic doctrine as a rule of expediency devised to meet concrete situations in the absence of any better guiding principle. both its basis and its nature are well exemplified in the following extract from the "report of the board of arbitration in the matter of the controversy between the eastern railroads and the brotherhood of locomotive engineers:"[ ] "possibly there should be some theoretical relation for a given branch of industry between the amount of the income that should go to labour and the amount that should go to capital; and if this question were decided, a scale of wages might be devised for the different classes of employés which would determine the amount rightly absorbed by labour.... thus far, however, political economy is unable to furnish such a principle as that suggested. there is no generally accepted theory of the division between capital and labour.... "what, then, is the basis upon which a judgment may be passed as to whether the existing wage scale of the engineers in the eastern district is fair and reasonable? it seems to the board that the only practicable basis is to compare the rates and earnings of engineers in the eastern district with those of engineers in the western and southern districts, and with those of other classes of railway employés." six of the seven men composing this board of arbitration subscribed to this statement. of the six one is the president of a great state university, another is a successful and large-minded merchant, the third is a great building contractor, the fourth is a distinguished lawyer, the fifth is a prominent magazine editor, and the sixth is a railway president. the dissenting member represented the employés. since the majority could not find in any generally accepted theory a principle to determine the proper division of the product between capital and labour, they were perhaps justified in falling back upon the practical rule that they adopted. _not in harmony with justice_ from the viewpoint of justice, however, this rule or standard is utterly inadequate. it is susceptible of two interpretations. "wages prevailing elsewhere," may mean either the highest rates or those most frequently occurring. according to the latter understanding, only those wages which were below the majority rates should be raised, while all those above that level ought to be lowered. in almost all cases this would mean a reduction of the highest wages, as these are usually paid only to a minority of the workers of any grade. the adoption of the highest existing rates as a standard would involve no positive losses, but it would set a rigid limit to all possible gains in the future. according to either interpretation of the prevailing rate, the increases in wages which a powerful labour union seeks to obtain are unjust until they have been established as the prevailing rates. thus, the attorney for the street railways of chicago dissented from the increases in wages awarded to the employés by the majority of the board of arbitration in the summer of because, "these men are already paid not only a fair wage but a liberal wage, when the wages in the same employment and the living conditions in other large cities are taken into consideration, or when comparison is made of these men's annual earnings with the earnings in any comparable line of work in the city of chicago."[ ] in other words, the dominant thing is always the right thing. justice is determined by the preponderance of economic force. now, a rule such as this, which condemns improvement until improvement has somehow become general, which puts a premium upon physical and intellectual strength, and which disregards entirely the moral claims of human needs, efforts, and sacrifices, is obviously not an adequate measure of either reason or justice. and we may well doubt that it would be formally accepted as such by any competent and disinterested student of industrial relations. ii. exchange-equivalence theories according to these theories, the determining factor of wage justice is to be found in the wage contract. the basic idea is the idea of equality, inasmuch as equality is the fundamental element in the concept of justice. the principle of justice requires that equality should be maintained between what is owed to a person and what is returned to him, between the kinds of treatment accorded to different persons in the same circumstances. similarly it requires that equality should obtain between the things that are exchanged in onerous contracts. an onerous contract is one in which both parties undergo some privation, and neither intends to confer a gratuity upon the other. each exchanger desires to obtain the full equivalent of the thing that he transfers. since each is equal in personal dignity an intrinsic worth to the other, each has a strict right to this full equivalent. owing to the essential moral equality of all men, no man has a right to make of another a mere instrument to his own interests through physical force or through an onerous contract. men have equal rights not only to subsist upon the earth, but to receive benefits from the exchange of goods. _the rule of equal gains_ the agreement between employer and employé is an onerous contract; hence it ought to be made in such terms that the things exchanged will be equal, that the remuneration will be equal to the labour. how can this equivalence be determined and ascertained? not by a direct comparison of the two objects, work and pay, for their differences render them obviously incommensurable. some third term, or standard, of comparison is required in which both objects can find expression. one such standard is individual net advantage. inasmuch as the aim of the labour contract is reciprocal gain, it is natural to infer that the gains ought to be equal for the two parties. net gain is ascertained by deducting in each case the utility transferred from the utility received; in other words, by deducting the privation from the gross return. the good received by the employer when diminished by or weighed against the amount that he pays in wages should be equal to the good received by the labourer when diminished by or weighed against the inconvenience that he undergoes through the expenditure of his time and energy. hence the contract should bring to employer and employé equal amounts of net advantage or satisfaction. plausible as this rule may appear, it is impracticable, inequitable, and unjust. in the vast majority of labour contracts it is impossible to know whether both parties obtain the same quantity of net advantage. the gains of the employer can, indeed, be frequently measured in terms of money, being the difference between the wages paid to and the specific product turned out by the labourer. in the case of the labourer no such process of deduction is possible; for advantage and expenditure are incommensurable. we cannot subtract the labourer's privation, that is, his expenditure of time and energy, from his gross advantage, that is, his wages. how can we know or measure the net benefit obtained by a man who shovels sand ten hours for a wage of two dollars? how can we deduct his pain-cost from or weigh it against his compensation? so far as the two sets of advantages are comparable at all, those of the employé would seem to be always greater than those of the employer. a wage of seventy-five cents a day enables the labourer to satisfy the most important wants of life. weighed against this gross advantage, his pain-cost of toil is relatively insignificant. his net advantage is the greatest that a man can enjoy, the continuation of his existence. the net advantage received by the employer from such a wage contract is but a few cents, the equivalent of a cigar or two. even if the wage be raised to the highest level yet reached by any wage earner, the net advantage to the labourer, namely, his livelihood, will be greater than the net advantage to the employer from that single contract. moreover, the sum total of an employer's gains from all his labour contracts is less quantitatively than the sum total of the gains obtained by all his employés. the latter gains provide for many livelihoods, the former for only one. again, no general rate of wages could be devised which would enable all the members of a labour group to gain equally. differences in health, strength, and intelligence would cause differences in the pain-cost involved in a given amount of labour; while differences in desires, standards of living, and skill in spending would bring about differences in the satisfactions derived from the same compensation. finally, various employers would obtain various money gains from the same wage outlay, and various advantages from the same money gains. hence if the rule of equality of net advantages were practicable it would be inequitable. it is also fundamentally unjust because it ignores the moral claims of needs, efforts, and sacrifices as regards the labourer. as we have seen in the chapter on profits in competitive conditions, and as we shall have occasion to recognise again in a later chapter, no canon or scheme of distributive justice is acceptable that does not give adequate consideration to these fundamental attributes of human personality. _the rule of free contract_ another form of the exchange equivalence theory would disregard the problem of _equality_ of gains, and assume that justice is realised whenever the contract is free from force or fraud. in such circumstances both parties gain something, and presumably are satisfied; otherwise, they would not enter the contract. probably the majority of employers regard this rule as the only available measure of practicable justice. the majority of economists likewise subscribed to it during the first half of the nineteenth century. in the words of henry sidgwick, "the teaching of the political economists pointed to the conclusion that a free exchange, without fraud or coercion, is also a fair exchange."[ ] apparently the economists based this teaching on the assumption that competition was free and general among both labourers and employers. in other words, the rule as understood by them was probably identical with the rule of the market rate, which we shall examine presently. it is not at all likely that the economists here referred to would have given their moral approval to those "free" contracts in which the employer pays starvation wages because he takes advantage of the ignorance of the labourer, or because he exercises the power of monopoly. no matter by whom it is or has been held, the rule of free contract is unjust. in the first place, many labour contracts are not free in any genuine sense. when a labourer is compelled by dire necessity to accept a wage that is insufficient for a decent livelihood, his consent to the contract is free only in a limited and relative way. it is what the moralists call "_voluntarium imperfectum_." it is vitiated to a substantial extent by the element of fear, by the apprehension of a cruelly evil alternative. the labourer does not agree to this wage because he prefers it to any other, but merely because he prefers it to unemployment, hunger, and starvation. the agreement to which he submits in these circumstances is no more free than the contract by which the helpless wayfarer gives up his purse to escape the pistol of the robber. while the latter action is free in the sense that it is chosen in preference to a violent death, it does not mean that the wayfarer gives, or intends to give, the robber the right of ownership in the purse. neither should the labourer who from fear of a worse evil enters a contract to work for starvation wages, be regarded as transferring to the employer the full moral right to the services which he agrees to render. like the wayfarer, he merely submits to superior force. the fact that the force imposed upon him is economic instead of physical does not affect the morality of the transaction. to put the matter in another way, the equality which justice requires is wanting in an oppressive labour contract because of the inequality existing between the contracting parties. in the words of professor ely: "free contract supposes equals behind the contract in order that it may produce equality."[ ] again, the rule of free contract is unjust because it takes no account of the moral claims of needs. a man whose only source of livelihood is his labour does wrong if he accepts a starvation wage willingly. such a contract, however free, is not according to justice because it disregards the requirements of reasonable life. no man has a right to do this, any more than he has a right to perpetrate self mutilation or suicide. _the rule of market value_ a third method of interpreting exchange equivalence is based upon the concept of value. labour and compensation are thought to be equal when the value of one is equal to the value of the other. then the contract is just and the compensation is just. the only objection to these propositions is that they are mere truisms. what does value mean, and how is it to be determined? if it is to receive an ethical signification; if the value of labour is to be understood as denoting not merely the value that labour will command in a market, but the value that labour ought to have,--the statement that wages should equal the value of labour becomes merely an identical proposition. all that it tells us is that wages ought to be what they ought to be. in its simplest economic sense value denotes purchasing power, or importance in exchange. as such, it may be either individual or social; that is, it may mean the exchange importance attributed to a commodity by an individual, or that attributed by a social group. in a competitive society social value is formed through the higgling of the market, and is expressed in market price. now individual value is utterly impracticable as a measure of exchange equivalence in the wage contract. since the value attributed to labour by the employer differs in the great majority of instances from that estimated by the labourer himself, it is impossible to determine which is the true value, and the proper measure of just wages. the doctrine that the social value or market price of labour is also the ethical value or just price, is sometimes called the classical theory, inasmuch as it was held, at least implicitly, by the majority of the early economists of both france and england.[ ] under competitive conditions, said the physiocrats, the price of labour as of all other things corresponds to the cost of production; that is, to the cost of subsistence for the labourer and his family. this is the natural law of wages, and being natural it is also just. adam smith likewise declared that competitive wages were natural wages, but he refrained from the explicit assertion that they were just wages. nevertheless his abiding and oft-expressed faith in the theory that men's powers were substantially equal, and in the social beneficence of free competition, implied that conclusion. although the great majority of his followers denied that economics had moral aspects, and sometimes asserted that there was no such thing as just or unjust wages, their teaching tended to convey the thought that competitively fixed wages were more or less in accordance with justice. as noted above, their belief in the efficacy of competition led them to the inference that a free contract is also a fair contract. by a free contract they meant for the most part one that is made in the open market, that is governed by the forces of supply and demand, and that, consequently, expresses the social economic value of the things exchanged. all the objections that have been brought against the rule of the prevailing rate apply even more strongly to the doctrine of the market rate. the former takes as a standard the scale of wages most frequently paid in the market, while the latter approves any scale that obtains in any group of labourers or section of the market. both accept as the ultimate determinant of wage justice the preponderance of economic force. neither gives any consideration to the moral claims of needs, efforts, or sacrifices. unless we are to identify justice with power, might with right, we must regard these objections as irrefutable, and the market value doctrine as untenable. _the mediæval theory_ another exchange-equivalence theory which turns upon the concept of value is that found in the pages of the mediæval canonists and theologians. but it interprets value in a different sense from that which we have just considered. as the measure of exchange equivalence the mediæval theory takes objective value, or true value. however, the proponents of this view did not formally apply it to wage contracts, nor did they discuss systematically the question of just wages. they were not called upon to do this; for they were not confronted by any considerable class of wage earners. in the country the number of persons who got their living exclusively as employés was extremely small, while in the towns the working class was composed of independent producers who sold their wares instead of their labour.[ ] the question of fair compensation for the town workers was, therefore, the question of a fair price for their products. the latter question was discussed by the mediæval writers formally, and in great detail. things exchanged should have equal values, and commodities should always sell for the equivalent of their values. by what rule was equality to be measured and value determined? not by the subjective appreciations of the exchangers, for these would sometimes sanction the most flagrant extortion. were no other help available, the starving man would give all he possessed for a loaf of bread. the unscrupulous speculator could monopolise the supply of foodstuffs, and give them an exorbitantly high value which purchasers would accept and pay for rather than go hungry. hence we find the mediæval writers seeking a standard of _objective_ value which should attach to the commodity itself, not to the varying opinions of buyers and sellers. in the thirteenth century albertus magnus[ ] and thomas aquinas[ ] declared that the proper standard was to be found in labour. a house is worth as many shoes as the labour embodied in the latter is contained in the labour embodied in the former. it is worthy of note that the diagram which albertus magnus presents to illustrate this formula of value and exchange had been used centuries before by aristotle. it is likewise noteworthy that this conception of ethical value bears a striking resemblance to the theory of economic value upheld by marxian socialists. however, neither aristotle nor the schoolmen asserted that all kinds of labour had equal value. now this mediæval labour-measure of value could be readily applied only to cases of barter, and even then only when the value of different kinds of labour had already been determined by some other standard. accordingly we find the mediæval writers expounding and defending a more general interpretation of objective or true value. this was the concept of normal value; that is, the average or medium amount of utility attributed to goods in the average conditions of life and exchange. on the one hand, it avoided the excesses and the arbitrariness of individual estimates; on the other hand, it did not attribute to value the characters of immutability and rigidity. contrary to the assumptions of some modern writers, the schoolmen never said that value was something as fixedly inherent in goods as physical and chemical qualities. when they spoke of "intrinsic" value, they had in mind merely the constant capacity of certain commodities to satisfy human wants. even to-day bread has always the intrinsic potency of alleviating hunger, regardless of all the fluctuations of human appraisement. the objectivity that the mediæval writers ascribed to value was relative. it assumed normal conditions as against exceptional conditions. to say that value was objective merely meant that it was not wholly determined by the interplay of supply and demand, but was based upon the stable and universally recognised use-qualities of commodities in a society where desires, needs, and tastes were simple and fairly constant from one generation to another. how or where was this relatively objective value of goods to find concrete expression? in the "communis aestimatio," or social estimate, declared the canonists. objective value and just price would be ascertained practically through the judgment of upright and competent men, or preferably through legally fixed prices. but neither the social estimate nor the ordinances of lawmakers were authorised to determine values and prices arbitrarily. they were obliged to take into account certain objective factors. in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the factors universally recognised as determinative were the utility or use-qualities of goods, but especially their cost of production. later on, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, risk and scarcity were given considerable prominence as value determinants. now cost of production in the middle ages was mainly labour cost; hence the standard of value was chiefly a labour standard. moreover, this labour doctrine of true value and equality in exchanges was strongly reinforced by another mediæval principle, according to which labour was the supreme if not the only just title to rewards. how was labour cost to be measured, and the different kinds of labour evaluated? by the necessary and customary expenditures of the class to which the labourer belonged. mediæval society was composed of a few definite, easily recognised, and relatively fixed orders or grades, each of which had its own function in the social hierarchy, its own standard of living, and its moral right to a livelihood in accordance with that standard. like the members of the other orders, the labourers were conceived as entitled to live in conformity with their customary class-requirements. from this it followed that the needs of the labourer became the main determinant of the cost of production, and of the value and just price of goods. inasmuch as the standards of living of the various divisions of the workers were fixed by custom, and limited by the restricted possibilities of the time, they afforded a fairly definite measure of value and price,--much more definite than the standard of general utility. to langenstein, vice chancellor of the university of paris in the latter half of the fourteenth century, the matter seemed quite simple; for he declared that every one could determine for himself the just price of his wares by referring to the customary needs of his rank of life.[ ] nevertheless, class needs are not and cannot be a standard of exchange-equivalence. they cannot become a criterion of equality, a common denominator, a third term of comparison, between labour and wages. when we say that a given amount of wages is equal to a given content of livelihood, we express a purely economic, positive, and mathematical relation: when we say that a given amount of labour is equal to a given content of livelihood, we are either talking nonsense or expressing a purely ethical relation; that is, declaring that this labour _ought to_ equal this livelihood. in other words, we are introducing a fourth term of comparison; namely, the moral worth or personal dignity of the labourer. thus, we have not a single and common standard to measure both labour and wages, and to indicate a relation of equality between them. while class needs directly measure wages, they do not measure labour, either quantitatively, or qualitatively, or under any other aspect or category. aside from this purely theoretical defect, the canonist doctrine of wage justice was fairly satisfactory as applied to the conditions of the middle ages. it assured to the labourer of that day a certain rude comfort, and probably as large a proportion of the product of industry as was practically attainable. nevertheless it is not a universally valid criterion of justice in the matter of wages; for it makes no provision for those labourers who deserve a wage in excess of the cost of living of their class; nor does it furnish a principle by which a whole class of workers can justify their advance to a higher standard of living. it is not sufficiently elastic and dynamic. _a modern variation of the mediæval theory_ in spite of its fundamental impossibility, the concept of exchange-equivalence still haunts the minds of certain catholic writers.[ ] they still strive to get a formula to express equality between labour and remuneration. perhaps the best known and least vulnerable of the attempts made along this line is that defended by charles antoine, s.j.[ ] justice, he declares, demands an objective equivalence between wages and labour; and objective equivalence is determined and measured by two factors. the remote factor is the cost of decent living for the labourer; the proximate factor is the economic value of his labour. the former describes the _minimum_ to which the worker is entitled; the latter comprises perfect and adequate justice. in case of conflict between the two factors, the first is determinative of and morally superior to the second; that is to say, no matter how small the economic value of labour may _seem_ to be, it never can descend below the requisites of a decent livelihood. now, neither of these standards is in harmony with the principle of exchange-equivalence, nor capable of serving as a satisfactory criterion of wage justice. father antoine argues that labour is always the moral equivalent of a decent livelihood because the worker expends his energies, and gives out a part of his life in the service of his employer. unless his wage enables the labourer to replace these energies and conserve his life, it is not the equivalent of the service. if the wage falls short of this standard the labourer gives more than he receives, and the contract is essentially unjust. in this conception of equivalence, energy expended, instead of cost of living, becomes the term of comparison and the common measure of labour and remuneration. energy expended is, however, technically incapable of providing such a common standard; for it does not measure both related terms in the same way. the service rendered to the employer is the _effect_ rather than the equivalent of the energy expended; and the compensation is a _means_ to the replacement of this energy rather than its formal equivalent. moreover, the formula does not even furnish an adequate rational basis for the claim to a decent minimum wage. a wage which is merely adequate to the replacement of expended energy and the maintenance of life, is really inadequate to a decent livelihood. such compensation would cover only physical health and strength, leaving nothing for intellectual, spiritual, and moral needs. as father antoine himself admits and contends, the latter needs are among the elements of a decent livelihood, and a wage which does not make reasonable provision for them fails to comply with the minimum requirements of justice. the second factor of "objective equivalence" is even more questionable than the first. to be _completely_ just, says father antoine, wages must be not merely adequate to a decent livelihood, but equivalent to the "economic value of the labour" ("la valeur économique du travail"). this "economic value" is determined objectively by the cost of production, the utility of the product, and the movement of supply and demand; subjectively, by the judgment of employers and employés. in case of conflict between these two measures of value, and in case of uncertainty concerning the objective measure, the decision of the subjective determinant must always prevail. these statements are hopelessly ambiguous and confusing. if the objective measure of "economic value" is to be understood in a purely positive way, it merely means the wages that actually obtain in a competitive market. in the purely positive or economic sense, the utility of labour is measured by what it will command in the market, the movement of supply and demand is likewise reflected in market wages, and the determining effect of cost of production is also seen in the share that the market awards to labour after the other factors of production have taken their portions of the product. in other words, the "economic value" of labour is simply its market value. this, however, is not father antoine's meaning; for he has already declared that the "economic value" of labour is never less than the equivalent of a decent livelihood, whereas we know that the market value often falls below that level. in his mind, therefore, "economic value" has an ethical signification. it indicates at least the requisites of decent living, and it embraces more than this in some cases. when? and how much more? let us suppose a business so prosperous that it returns liberal profits to the employer and the prevailing rate of interest on the capital, and yet shows a surplus sufficient to give all the labourers ten dollars a day. is "cost of production" to be interpreted here as allowing only the normal rate of profits and interest to the business man and the capitalist, leaving the residue to labour? or is it to be understood as requiring that the surplus be divided among the three agents of production? in other words, is the "economic value" of labour in such cases to be determined by some ethical principle which tells beforehand how much the other agents than labour ought to receive? if so, what is this principle or formula? none of these questions is satisfactorily answered in father antoine's pages. they are all to be solved by having recourse to the subjective determinant of "economic value"; namely, the judgment of employers and employés. thus his proximate factor of justice in wages, his formula of complete as against minimum just wages, turns out to be something entirely subjective, and more or less arbitrary. it is in no sense a measure of the equivalence between work and pay. moreover, it is inadequate as a measure of justice. should the majority of both employers and employés fix the "economic value" of the labour of carpenters at five dollars a day, there would be no certainty that this decision was correct, and that this figure represented just wages. should they determine upon a rate of fifty dollars a day, we could not be sure that their decision was unjust. undoubtedly the combined judgment of employers and employés will set a fairer wage than one fixed by either party alone, since it will be less one-sided; but there is no sufficient reason for concluding that it will be in all cases completely just. undoubtedly employers and employés know what wages an industry can afford at prevailing prices, on the assumption that business ability and capital are to have a certain rate of return; but there is no certainty that the prevailing prices are fair, or that the assumed rates of profits and interest are fair. in a word, the device is too arbitrary. to sum up the entire discussion of exchange-equivalence theories: their underlying concept is fundamentally unsound and impracticable. all of them involve an attempt to compare two entities which are utterly incommensurate. there exists no third term, or standard, or objective fact, which will inform men whether any rate of wages is the equivalent of any quantity of labour. iii. productivity theories the productivity concept of wage justice appears in a great variety of forms. the first of them that we shall consider is advocated mainly by the socialists, and is usually referred to as the theory of the "right to the whole product of labour."[ ] _labour's right to the whole product_ we have seen that adam smith's belief in the normality and beneficence of free competition would have logically led him to the conclusion that competitive wages were just; and we know that this doctrine is implicit in his writings. on the other hand, his theory that all value is determined by labour would seem to involve the inference that all the value of the product belongs to the labourer. as a matter of fact, smith restricted this conclusion to primitive and pre-capitalist societies. apparently he, and his disciples in an even larger degree, was more interested in describing the supposed beneficence of competition than in justifying the distribution that resulted from the competitive process. the early english socialists were more consistent. in william godwin, whom anton menger calls "the first scientific socialist of modern times," laid down in substance the doctrine that the labourer has a right to the whole product.[ ] in charles hall formulated and defended the doctrine with greater precision and consistency.[ ] in the doctrine was stated more fundamentally, systematically, and completely by william thompson.[ ] he accepted the labour theory of value laid down by adam smith, and formally derived therefrom the ethical conclusion that the labourer has a right to the whole product. "thompson and his followers are only original in so far as they consider rent and interest to be _unjust_ deductions, which violate the right of the labourer to the whole product of his labour."[ ] he denounced the laws which empowered the land owner and the capitalist to appropriate value not created by them, and gave to the value thus appropriated the name, "surplus value." in the use of this term he anticipated karl marx by several years. his doctrines were adopted and defended by many other english socialist writers, and were introduced into france by the followers of saint-simon. "from his works," says menger, "the later socialists, the saint-simonians, proudhon, and above all, marx and rodbertus, have directly or indirectly drawn their opinions."[ ] although saint-simon never accepted the doctrine of the labourer's right to the whole product, his disciples, particularly enfantin and bazard, taught it implicitly. in a just social state, they maintained, every one would be expected to labour according to his capacity, and would be rewarded according to his product.[ ] perhaps the most theoretical and extreme statement of the theory that we are considering is found in the writings of p. j. proudhon.[ ] he maintained that the real value of products was determined by labour time, and that all kinds of labour should be regarded as equally effective in the value-creating process, and he advocated therefore equality of wages and salaries. for the realisation of this ideal he drew the outlines of a semi-anarchic social order, of which the main feature was gratuitous public credit. neither his theories nor his proposals ever obtained any considerable number of adherents. a milder and better reasoned form of the theory was set forth by karl j. rodbertus.[ ] professor wagner calls him, "the first, the most original, and the boldest representative of scientific socialism in germany." yet, as menger points out, rodbertus derived many of his doctrines from proudhon and the saint-simonians. he admitted that in a capitalist society the value of commodities does not always correspond to the labour embodied in them, and that different kinds of labour are productive in different degrees. therefore, he had recourse to the concept of a normal, or average, day's labour in any group, and would have the various members of the group remunerated with reference to this standard. this was to be brought about by a centralised organisation of industry in which the whole product would ultimately go to labour, and the share of the individual worker would be determined by his contribution of socially necessary labour. although karl marx adopted and formulated in his own terms the theory that value is determined by labour, he did not thence deduce the conclusion that labour has a right to the whole product.[ ] being a materialist, he consistently rejected conceptions of abstract justice or injustice, rights or wrongs. in opposition to the methods of his predecessors, he endeavoured to discover the historical and positive forces which determined the actual distribution, and to derive therefrom the laws that were necessarily preparing the way for a new social order. while he contended that rent receivers and interest receivers appropriated the surplus value created by labour, he refrained from stigmatising this process as morally wrong. it was merely a necessary element of the capitalist system. to call it unjust was in marx' view to use language without meaning. as well might one speak of the injustice of a hurricane or an avalanche. not the preaching of abstract justice, but the inevitable transformation of the capitalist into the collectivist organisation of industry, would enable labour to obtain its full product. nevertheless, it is probably true that a majority of the followers of marx have drawn from his labour theory of value the inference that all the value of the product belongs by a moral right to the labourer. so deeply fixed in the human conscience is the conception of justice, and so general is the conviction of the labourer's right to his product, that most socialists have not been able to maintain a position of consistent economic materialism. indeed, marx himself did not always succeed in evading the influence and the terminology of idealistic conceptions. he frequently thought and spoke of the socialist régime as not only inevitable but as morally right, and of the capitalist system as morally wrong. despite his rigid, materialistic theorising, his writings abound in passionate denunciation of existing industrial evils, and in many sorts of "unscientific" ethical judgments.[ ] in so far as the right to the whole product of labour has been based upon the labour theory of value, it may be summarily dismissed from consideration. the value of products is neither created nor adequately measured by labour; it is determined by utility and scarcity. labour does, indeed, affect value, inasmuch as it increases utility and diminishes scarcity, but it is not the only factor that influences these categories. natural resources, the desires and the purchasing power of consumers determine value quite as fundamentally as does labour, and cause it to vary out of proportion to the labour expended upon a commodity. to-day there are probably not many adherents of the right-to-the-whole-product doctrine who attempt to base it upon any theory of value. the majority appeal to the simple and obvious fact that the labourers, together with the active directors of industry, are the only human beings who expend energy in the productive process. the only labour that the capitalist and the landowner perform in return for the interest and rent that they respectively receive, consists in choosing the particular goods in which their money is to be invested. as capitalist and landowner, they do not participate in the turning out of products. they are owners but not operators of the factors of production. in the sense, therefore, of active agents the labourers and the business men are the only producers. whether land and capital should be called _productive_, whether the product should be regarded as _produced_ by land and capital as well as by labour and undertaking activity, is mostly a matter of terminology. inasmuch as they are instrumental in bringing forth the product, land and capital may properly be designated as productive, but not in the same sense as labour and business energy. the former are passive factors and instrumental causes of the product, while the latter are active factors and original causes. moreover, the former are non-rational entities, while the latter are attributes of human beings. as we have seen in former chapters, it is impossible to prove that mere ownership of a productive thing, such as a cow, a piece of land, or a machine, necessarily creates a right to either the concrete or the conventional product. the formula, "_res fructificat domino_," is not a self evident proposition. nor are there any premises available from which the formula can be logically and necessarily deduced. on the other hand, we cannot prove conclusively that ownership of productive property does _not_ give a right to the product. whence it follows that the owners of land and capital have at least a presumptive claim to take rent and interest from their possessions. moreover, those owners of capital who would not have saved money without the hope of interest have a just claim thereto on account of their sacrifices in saving. would the state be justified in abolishing rent and interest, and thus enabling labour to obtain the whole product? conceivably this result might be brought about under the present system of private ownership, or through the substitution of collectivism. were the change made by the former method land and capital would no longer be sought or have value on account of their annual revenues, but only as receptacles of saving. they would be desired solely as means of accumulating stores of goods which might be exchanged for articles of consumption some time in the future. while we cannot estimate even approximately the decline that would thus occur in the value of land and capital, we may safely assert that it would be considerable. unless the proprietors received adequate compensation for this loss, they would be compelled to suffer obvious and grave injustice. any attempt, however, to carry out such a scheme, either with or without compensation, would inevitably fail. rent might be terminated through the single tax, but interest could not be abolished by any mere legal prohibition. nor does socialism afford a way out; for, as we have seen in a former chapter, it is an impracticable system. consequently the theory of the right to the whole product of labour is confronted by the final objection that its realisation would involve greater evils and injustices than those which it seeks to abolish. finally, the theory is radically incomplete. it professes to describe the requirements of justice as between the landowners and capitalists on the one side, and the wage earners on the other; but it provides no rule for determining distributive justice as between different classes of labour. in none of its forms does it provide any comprehensive rule or principle to ascertain the difference between the products of different labourers, and to decide how the product belonging to any group of men as a whole should be divided among the individual members. does the locomotive engineer produce more than the section hand, the bookkeeper more than the salesman, the ditch digger more than the teamster? these and countless similar questions are, from the nature of the productive process, unanswerable. even if it were ethically acceptable, the doctrine of the right to the whole product is hopelessly inadequate. as intimated above, the notion that if the labourer receives compensation according to his product he receives just compensation, is one of the most prevalent and fundamental concepts in the controversy about wage justice. hence we find it in certain theories which reject the doctrine of the right to the whole product. according to these theories, not only the labourer but all the agents of production should be rewarded in proportion to their productive contributions. instead of the whole product, the worker ought to receive that portion of it which corresponds to his specific productivity, that is, that portion of the product which represents his productive influence as compared with the productive efficacy of land, capital, and business energy. _clark's theory of specific productivity_ one of the theories referred to in the last paragraph is that which has been elaborated in great detail and with great ingenuity by professor john bates clark. as stated by himself in the opening sentence of the preface to his "distribution of wealth," its main tenet is, "that the distribution of the income of society is controlled by a natural law, and that this law, if it worked without friction, would give to every agent of production the amount of wealth which that agent creates." in a régime of perfect competition, therefore, the labourer would get, not the whole product of industry, but the whole product due to his own exertions. it is impossible, and indeed unnecessary, to enter upon an extended examination of this contention. it will be sufficient to state in a summary way the most obvious and cogent objections. without making any examination of professor clark's theory, we should expect to find it unconvincing. for the productive process is by analogy an organic process, in which every factor requires the co-operation of every other factor in order to turn out even the smallest portion of the product. each factor is in its own order the cause of the whole product. consequently no physical portion of the product can be set aside and designated as wholly due to any one factor. can we not, however, distinguish the _proportionate productive influence_ exerted by each factor, and the proportion of the product which represents such productive influence? this is the question to which professor clark addresses himself with much ingenuity, subtlety, and labour, and to which he returns an affirmative answer.[ ] he contends that the amount of product added by the presence of the least productive labourer in a group or establishment describes the productivity of that and every other labourer for whom the man in question can be substituted. nevertheless this marginal labourer had the use of _some_ capital, no matter how little or how poor; consequently the increment of product which follows his activity is partly due to capital. it represents something other than his own productive power. if his wage equals the value of this increment of product, he is receiving something more than his specific product. in the second place, professor clark maintains that the difference between what a labourer produces when he uses the whole of a certain supply of capital and what he produces when he has shared that capital with another labourer, represents the specific productivity of the relinquished capital. let us assume that in a given case the difference is ten units of product. when the first man had the whole capital to himself, the product was one hundred units; when he shares the use of it with another, the total product is one hundred and eighty units. as the two men are assumed to be equally productive, each has to his credit ninety units of product. working with half the capital, the first man finds that the resulting product is ten units less than when he was using the whole capital. hence these ten units represent the portion that the relinquished capital contributed to the product; and if the productivity of half the capital is ten units, that of the whole capital must be twenty units. nevertheless, the ten units by which the product was enlarged when the man had the whole capital, did not come into being without his co-operation; hence they cannot be entirely attributed to the one-half share of the capital. in other words, the productivity of the relinquished capital seems to be less than ten units. it also seems to be more than ten units; for we may assume that if each man were to use one-half the capital independently of the other, the resulting total product would be less than one hundred and eighty units, or less than ninety units for each. consequently the difference between the product resulting from the first man's use of the whole capital and that resulting from his use of half the capital would be more than ten units; and this difference is specifically attributable to half the capital. who can say which of these calculations is correct, or whether either of them is correct? the method of ascertaining specific productivity which has been described in the last paragraph is thought by professor clark to receive confirmation from the fact that it leads to the same conclusion as the first and more direct method; namely, that the specific productivity of labour is expressed in the product of the marginal labourer. as a matter of fact, this conclusion is yielded by both methods; for the specific productivity of the first labourer appeared as eighty units, which was also the specific productivity of the second labourer, who was the marginal labourer. as we saw in the second last paragraph, however, the marginal product is not due to labour alone; hence the verification provided by the second method is in reality a refutation. apparently the majority of economists do not accept professor clark's theory; for of the nine who discussed certain applications of it at the nineteenth annual meeting of the american economic association only one approved it, three were non-committal, and five expressed their dissent.[ ] even if the theory were true its hypothetical character would deprive it of any practical value. it assumes a régime of perfect competition, but this assumption is so seldom realised that no rule based upon it can throw much light on the question of the productivity of present day labourers. even if it were exactly applicable to existing conditions, that is, if labourers were actually getting their specific products, the theory would not provide us with a doctrine of just wages. as we have seen in former chapters, productivity is neither the only nor the highest canon of justice, whether as regards the comparative claims of capital and labour, or as regards the claims of different labourers. the contention that capital ought to command interest because it aids in bringing forth the product, is neither self evident nor demonstrable by any process of reasoning. even if we should concede that the capitalist has a right to interest by virtue of the productivity of his capital, we should not therefore conclude that this right is as cogent as the corresponding right of the labourer. in the former case the productive agency is not human nor active, but only material and passive; and the recipient of the product performs no labour as capitalist, but is left free to get a livelihood by personal activity. the productivity of labour differs in all these respects, and the difference is ethically sufficient to justify the claim that the labourer may sometimes have a right to a part of the specific product of capital. to sum up the matter in the words of professor wicker: "to have proved that the capitalist gets in interest what his capital produces is not to have proved that the capitalist gets what he has earned. to have proved that the landlord gets what his land produces is not to have proved that the landlord earns his distributive share.... economics is not ethics; explanation is not justification."[ ] indeed, professor clark nowhere explicitly asserts that productivity is an adequate rule of justice. "we might raise the question," he says, "whether a rule that gives to a man his product is in the highest sense just."[ ] scattered throughout his volume, however, are many expressions which might fairly be interpreted as answering this question in the affirmative. the statements that distribution according to product is a "natural law," and that if the labourer does not get his full specific product he is "despoiled," suggest if they do not imply that wages according to productivity is not merely the economic but the ethical norm. at any rate, the assumption of productivity as the adequate canon of wage justice, is very widely adopted, and is frequently brought forward to give sanction to insufficient rates of remuneration. hence it has been thought well to show that the economic basis of the assumption, i.e., that the labourer gets what he produces, is unproved and unprovable. _carver's modified version of productivity_ professor carver makes no attempt to ascertain or state the exact physical productivity of labour as compared with that of capital, but confines his attention to what he calls the "economic" productivity of a given unit of labour in a given productive process.[ ] "find out accurately how much the community produces with his [the labourer's] help, over and above what it produces without his help, and you have an exact measure of his productivity."[ ] by this rule we can determine a man's productivity not only as compared with his inactivity in relation to a given industry or establishment, but as compared with the productivity of some other man who might be substituted for him. thus understood, productivity expresses the economic value of a man to the industrial process in which he participates. it "determines how much a man is worth, and consequently, according to our criterion of justice, how much a man ought to have as a reward for his work."[ ] while this conception of productivity is relatively simple, and the canon of justice based upon it is somewhat plausible, neither is adequate. to many situations the productivity test is substantially inapplicable. the removal from industry of the man who works alone; for example, the independent shoemaker, blacksmith, tailor, or farmer, would result not in a certain diminution, but in the entire non-appearance of the product; and the removal of the capital or tools would have precisely the same effect. according to the former method, the labourer is to be credited with the whole product, and capital with nothing; according to the latter method, capital produces everything, and labour nothing. even when several labourers are employed in an establishment, the test is inapplicable to those who are engaged upon indispensable tasks; for example, the engineer in the boiler room of a small factory, and the bookkeeper in a small store. remove them, and you have no product at all; hence a rigid enforcement of professor carver's test would award them the whole product. to be sure, we can get some measure of the productivity of these men by observing the effect on the product when inferior men are put in their places; but this merely enables us to tell how much more they are worth than other men, not their total worth. moreover, even the substitution test is not always practicable. the attempt to ascertain the productivity of a workman of high technical skill by putting in his place an utterly unskilled labourer, would not yield very satisfactory results, either to the inquiry or to the industry. in the majority of such cases, the difference in the resulting product would probably far exceed the difference in the existing wage rates of the two men, thus showing that the skilled worker is getting considerably less than he is "economically worth." in the field to which it is applicable, namely, that of more or less unspecialised labour in large establishments, professor carver's theory violates some of the most fundamental conceptions of justice and humanity. he admits that it takes no account of the labourer's efforts, sacrifices, or needs, and that when unskilled labour becomes too plentiful, the value of the product may fall below the cost of supporting a decent standard of living. while he looks with some sympathy upon the demand for a minimum wage of two dollars per day, he contends that unless the labourer really _earns_ that amount, some other man will be paid less than he earns, "which would be unjust." to "earn" two dollars a day means, in professor carver's terminology, to add that much value to the product of the establishment in which the labourer is employed; for this is the measure of the labourer's productivity. if all the men who are now getting less than two dollars a day are receiving the full value of their product, and if all the other workers are likewise given the full value of their product, an increase in the remuneration of the former will mean a deduction from the compensation of the latter. these conclusions of ethical pessimism are extremely vulnerable. as we have shown in chapter xvi, efforts, sacrifices, and needs are superior to productivity as claims to reward, and must be given due consideration in any just scheme of distribution. professor carver would leave them out of account entirely. in the second place, it is not always nor necessarily ever true that to raise the wages of the poorest paid labourers will mean to lower the remuneration of those who are better paid. many workers, particularly women, are now receiving less than the measure of their "productivity," less than they "earn," less than their worth to the employer, less than he would be willing to pay rather than go without their services. professor carver would, of course, not deny that the wages of all such labourers could be raised without affecting the remuneration of other workers. even when the poorest paid class is receiving all that its members are at present worth to the employer, an increase in their compensation would not necessarily come out of the fund available for the better paid. it could be deducted from excessive profits and interest; for we know well that in many industries competition does not automatically keep down these shares to the minimum necessary to retain the services of business ability and capital. it could be provided to some extent out of the enlarged product that would result from improvements in the productive process, and from the increased efficiency of those workers whose wages had been raised. finally, the increased remuneration could be derived from increased prices. when we speak of the unskilled labourer as getting all that he produces, or all that he earns, we refer not to his concrete product, but to the value of that product, to the selling price of the product. neither this price, nor any other existing price, has anything about it that is either economically or ethically sacred. in a competitive market current prices are fixed by the forces of supply and demand, which often involve the exploitation of the weak; in a monopoly market they are set by the desires of the monopolist, which are likewise destitute of moral validity. hence a minimum wage law which would raise the price and value of the product sufficiently to provide living wages for the unskilled workers, thus increasing their "productivity" and enabling them to "earn" the legal wage, would neither violate the principles of justice, nor necessarily diminish the compensation of any other labouring group. to be sure, the increased prices might be followed by such a lessening of demand for the product as to diminish employment; but this is another matter which has no direct bearing on either the economic or the ethical phases of productivity and earning power. and the disadvantages involved in the supposition of a reduced volume of employment may possibly be not so formidable socially as those which accompany a large volume of insufficiently paid occupations. this question will receive further consideration in a later chapter. in the meantime, we conclude that professor carver's theory or rule is inapplicable to a large part of the industrial field, and that where it does apply it frequently runs counter to some of the fundamental principles of distributive justice. footnotes: [ ] page . [ ] _the chicago daily tribune_, july , . [ ] article on "political economy and ethics," in palgrave's dictionary of political economy. [ ] "property and contract," ii, . [ ] cf. "l'idée du juste salaire," by léon polier, ch. iii. paris; . [ ] polier, op. cit., pp. , sq.; ryan, "a living wage," pp. , sq. [ ] "ethica," lib. , tr. , cap. . [ ] "comment. ad eth.," xxi, . [ ] cf. polier, op. cit., pp. - ; ryan, op. cit, pp. , . [ ] cf. polier, op. cit., pp. - . [ ] "cours d'Économie sociale," pp. , sq. [ ] polier, op. cit., pp. - ; menger, "the right to the whole produce of labour"; english translation. london; . [ ] "enquiry concerning political justice." [ ] "on the effects of civilisation on the people of european states." [ ] "an inquiry into the principles of the distribution of wealth most conducive to human happiness." [ ] menger, op. cit., p. . [ ] op. cit., p. . [ ] cf. menger, op. cit., pp. - . [ ] "qu' est-ce que la propriété ou recherches sur la principe du droit et du gouvernment." . [ ] "zur erkentniss unserer staatswirthschaftlichen zustande," . [ ] "das kapital," . [ ] cf. polier, op. cit., pp. , sq. [ ] cf. especially chap. xxi, "the theory of economic causation." [ ] "proceedings," pp. - . [ ] "proceedings of the d annual meeting of the american economic association," pp. , . [ ] op. cit., p. . [ ] "essays in social justice"; especially ch. vii. [ ] op. cit., pp. , . [ ] op. cit., p. . chapter xxiii the minimum of justice: a living wage although the principle of needs is somewhat prominent among the theories of wage justice, it received only incidental mention in the last chapter. considered as a comprehensive rule, this principle has been defended with less energy and definiteness than most of the other canons. considered as a partial rule, it is sound and fundamental, and therefore could not have been classed among theories that are unacceptable. _the principle of needs_ many of the early french socialists of the utopian school advanced this formula of distribution: "from each according to his powers; to each according to his needs." it was also put forward by the german socialists in the gotha program in . while they have not given to this standard formal recognition in their more recent platforms, socialists generally regard it as the ideal rule for the distant future.[ ] the difficulties confronting it are so great and so obvious that they would defer the introduction of it to a time when the operation of their system will, they hope, have eradicated the historical human qualities of laziness and selfishness. to adopt needs as the sole rule of distribution would mean, of course, that each person should be rewarded in proportion to his wants and desires, regardless of his efforts or of the amount that he had produced. the mere statement of the proposal is sufficient to refute it as regards the men and women of whom we have any knowledge. in addition to this objection, there is the insuperable difficulty of measuring fairly or accurately the relative needs of any group composed of men, women, and children. were the members' own estimates of their needs accepted by the distributing authority, the social product would no doubt fall far short of supplying all. if the measurement were made by some official person or persons, "the prospect of jobbery and tyranny opened up must give the most fanatical pause." indeed, the standard of needs should be regarded as a canon of communism rather than of socialism; for it implies a large measure of common life as well as of common ownership, and paternalistic supervision of consumption as well as collectivist management of production. while the formula of needs must be flatly rejected as complete rule of distributive justice, or of wage justice, it is valid and indispensable as a partial standard. it is a partial measure of justice in two senses: first, inasmuch as it is consistent with the admission and operation of other principles, such as productivity and sacrifice; second, inasmuch as it can be restricted to certain fundamental requisites of life, instead of being applied to all possible human needs. it can be made to safeguard the minimum demands of reasonable life, and therefore to function as a minimum standard of wage justice. human needs constitute the primary title or claim to material goods. none of the other recognised titles, such as productivity, effort, sacrifice, purchase, gift, inheritance, or first occupancy, is a fundamental reason or justification of either rewards or possessions. they all assume the existence of needs as a prerequisite to their validity. if men did not need goods they could not reasonably lay claim to them by any of the specific titles just enumerated. first comes the general claim or fact of needs; then the particular title or method by which the needs may be conveniently supplied. while these statements may seem elementary and platitudinous, their practical value will be quite evident when we come to consider the conflicting claims that sometimes arise out of the clash between needs and some of the other titles. we shall see that needs are not merely a physical reason or impulse toward acquisition and possession, but a moral title which rationalises the claim to a certain amount of goods.[ ] _three fundamental principles_ the validity of needs as a partial rule of wage justice rests ultimately upon three fundamental principles regarding man's position in the universe. the first is that god created the earth for the sustenance of _all_ his children; therefore, that all persons are equal in their inherent claims upon the bounty of nature. as it is impossible to demonstrate that any class of persons is less important than another in the eyes of god, it is logically impossible for any believer in divine providence to reject this proposition. the man who denies god or providence can refuse assent to the second part of the proposition only by refusing to acknowledge the personal dignity of the human individual, and the equal dignity of all persons. inasmuch as the human person is intrinsically sacred and morally independent, he is endowed with those inherent prerogatives, immunities, and claims that we call rights. every person is an end in himself; none is a mere instrument to the convenience or welfare of any other human being. the worth of a person is something intrinsic, derived from within, not determined or measurable by reference to any earthly object or purpose without. in this respect the human being differs infinitely from, is infinitely superior to, a stone, a rose, or a horse. while these statements help to illustrate what is meant by the dignity of personality, by the intrinsic worth, importance, sacredness of the human being, they do not prove the existence of this inherent juridical quality. proof in the strict sense is irrelevant and impossible. if the intrinsic and equal moral worth of all persons be not self evident to a man, it will not approve itself to him through any process of argumentation. whosoever denies it can also logically deny men's equal claims of access to the bounty of the earth; but he cannot escape the alternative conclusion that brute force, exercised either by the state or by individuals, is the only proper determinant of possessions and of property. against this monstrous contention it is not worth while to offer a formal argument. the second fundamental principle is that the inherent right of access to the earth is conditioned upon, and becomes actually valid through, the expenditure of useful labour. generally speaking the fruits and potentialities of the earth do not become available to men without previous exertion. "in the sweat of thy brow thou shalt eat thy bread," is a physical no less than a moral commandment. there are, indeed, exceptions: the very young, the infirm, and the possessors of a sufficient amount of property. the two former classes have claims to a livelihood through piety and charity, while the third group has at least a presumptive claim of justice to rent and interest, and a certain claim of justice to the money value of their goods. nevertheless, the general condition is that men must work in order to live. "if a man will not work neither shall he eat." for those who refuse to comply with this condition the inherent right of access to the earth remains only hypothetical and suspended. the two foregoing principles involve as a corollary a third principle; the men who are in present control of the opportunities of the earth are obliged to permit reasonable access to these opportunities by persons who are willing to work. in other words, possessors must so administer the common bounty of nature that non-owners will not find it unreasonably difficult to get a livelihood. to put it still in other terms, the right to subsist from the earth implies the right to access thereto on reasonable terms. when any man who is willing to work is denied the exercise of this right, he is no longer treated as the moral and juridical equal of his fellows. he is regarded as inherently inferior to them, as a mere instrument to their convenience; and those who exclude him are virtually taking the position that their rights to the common gifts of the creator are inherently superior to his birthright. obviously this position cannot be defended on grounds of reason. possessors are no more justified in excluding a man from reasonable access to the goods of the earth than they would be in depriving him of the liberty to move from place to place. the community that should arbitrarily shut a man up in prison would not violate his rights more fundamentally than the community or the proprietors who should shut him out from the opportunity of getting a livelihood from the bounty of the earth. in both cases the man demands and has a right to a common gift of god. his moral claim is as valid to the one good as to the other, and it is as valid to both goods as is the claim of any of his fellows. _the right to a decent livelihood_ every man who is willing to work has, therefore, an inborn right to sustenance from the earth on reasonable terms or conditions. this cannot mean that all persons have a right to equal amounts of sustenance or income; for we have seen on a preceding page that men's needs, the primary title to property, are not equal, and that other canons and factors of distribution have to be allowed some weight in determining the division of goods and opportunities. nevertheless, there is a certain minimum of goods to which every worker is entitled by reason of his inherent right of access to the earth. he has a right to at least a _decent_ livelihood. that is; he has a right to so much of the requisites of sustenance as will enable him to live in a manner worthy of a human being. the elements of a decent livelihood may be summarily described as: food, clothing, and housing sufficient in quantity and quality to maintain the worker in normal health, in elementary comfort, and in an environment suitable to the protection of morality and religion; sufficient provision for the future to bring elementary contentment, and security against sickness, accident, and invalidity; and sufficient opportunities of recreation, social intercourse, education, and church-membership to conserve health and strength, and to render possible in some degree the exercise of the higher faculties. on what ground is it contended that a worker has a right to a decent livelihood, as thus defined, rather than to a bare subsistence? on the same ground that validates his right to life, marriage, or any of the other fundamental goods of human existence. on the dignity of personality. why is it wrong and unjust to kill or maim an innocent man? because human life and the human person possess intrinsic worth; because personality is sacred. but the intrinsic worth and sacredness of personality imply something more than security of life and limb, and the material means of bare existence. the man who is not provided with the requisites of normal health, efficiency, and contentment lives a maimed life, not a reasonable life. his physical condition is not worthy of a human being. furthermore, man's personal dignity demands not merely the conditions of reasonable physical existence, but the opportunity of pursuing self perfection through the harmonious development of all his faculties. unlike the brutes, he is endowed with a rational soul, and the capacity of indefinite self improvement. a due regard to these endowments requires that man shall have the opportunity of becoming not only physically stronger, but intellectually wiser, morally better, and spiritually nearer to god. if he is deprived of these opportunities he cannot realise the potentialities of his nature nor attain the divinely appointed end of his nature. he remains on the plane of the lower animals. his personality is violated quite as fundamentally as when his body is injured or his life destroyed. while it is impossible to define with mathematical precision the degree of personal development that is necessary to satisfy the claims of personal dignity, it is entirely practicable to state with sufficient definiteness the minimum conditions of such development. they are that quantity of goods and opportunities which fair-minded men would regard as indispensable to humane, efficient, and reasonable life. the summary description of a decent livelihood at the end of the second last paragraph, would probably be accepted by all men who really believe in the intrinsic worth of personality. _the claim to a decent livelihood from a present occupation_ the claim of a worker to a decent livelihood from the goods of the earth does not always imply a strict right to a livelihood from one's present occupation. to demand this would in some circumstances be to demand a livelihood not on reasonable but on unreasonable terms; for the persons in control of the sources could not reasonably be required to provide a decent livelihood. their failure to do so would not constitute an unreasonable hindrance to the worker's access to the earth in such circumstances. in chapter xvi we saw that not all business men have a strict right to that minimum of profits which is required to yield them a decent livelihood: first, because the direction of industry is not generally the business man's only means of getting a living; second, because the community, the consumers, do not regard the presence and activity of all existing business men as indispensable. of course, the community is morally bound to pay such prices for goods as will enable all the necessary business men, whether manufacturers or traders, to obtain a decent livelihood in return for their directive functions; but it is not obliged to provide a livelihood for those business men whose presence is not required, who could vanish from the field of industrial direction without affecting either the supply or the price of goods, and whose superfluous character is proved by the fact that they cannot make a livelihood at the prevailing prices. they are in the position of persons whom the community does not desire to employ as business men. in refusing to pay prices sufficiently high to provide these inefficient business men with a decent livelihood, the community is not unreasonably hindering their access to the common goods of the earth. such men are really demanding a livelihood on unreasonable terms. _the labourer's right to a living wage_ on the other hand, the wage earner's claim to a decent livelihood is valid, generally speaking, in his present occupation. in other words, his right to a decent livelihood in the abstract means in the concrete a right to a living wage. to present the matter in its simplest terms, let us consider first the adult male labourer of average physical and mental ability who is charged with the support of no one but himself, and let us assume that the industrial resources are adequate to such a wage for all the members of his class. those who are in control of the resources of the community are morally bound to give such a labourer a living wage. if they fail to do so they are unreasonably hindering his access to a livelihood on reasonable terms; and his right to a livelihood on reasonable terms is violated. the central consideration here is evidently the _reasonableness_ of the process. unlike the business man, the rent receiver, and the interest receiver, the labourer has ordinarily no other means of livelihood than his wages. if these do not furnish him with a decent subsistence he is deprived of a decent subsistence. when he has performed an average day's work, he has done all that is within his power to make good his claim to a decent livelihood. on the other hand, the community is the beneficiary of his labour, and desires his services. if, indeed, the community would rather do without the services of an individual labourer than pay him a living wage, it is morally free to choose the former alternative, precisely as it is justified in refusing to pay a price for groceries that will enable an inefficient grocer to obtain living profits. whatever concrete form the right of such persons to a decent livelihood may take, it is not the right to living wages or living profits from the occupations in question. here, however, we are discussing the labourer to whom the community would rather pay a living wage than not employ him at all. to refuse such a one a living wage merely because he can be constrained by economic pressure to work for less, is to treat him unreasonably, is to deprive him of access to a livelihood on reasonable terms. such treatment regards the labourer as inferior to his fellows in personal worth, as a mere instrument to their convenience. it is an unreasonable distribution of the goods and opportunities of the earth. obviously there is no formula by which such conduct can be mathematically demonstrated as unreasonable; but the proposition is as certain morally as any other proposition that is susceptible of rational defence in the field of distribution. no man who accepts the three fundamental principles stated some pages back, can deny the right of the labourer to a living wage. the man who does not accept them must hold that all property rights are the arbitrary creation of the state, or that there is no such thing as a moral right to material goods. in either supposition the distribution and possession of the earth's bounty are subject entirely to the arbitrament of might. there is nothing to be gained by a formal criticism of this assumption. what persons, or group, or authority is charged with the obligation which corresponds to the right to a living wage? we have referred to "the community" in this connection, but we do not mean the community in its corporate capacity, i.e., the state. as regards private employments, the state is not obliged to pay a living wage, nor any other kind of wage, since it has not assumed the wage-paying function with respect to these labourers. as protector of natural rights, and as the fundamental determiner of industrial institutions, the state is obliged to enact laws which will enable the labourer to obtain a living wage; but the duty of actually providing this measure of remuneration rests upon that class which has assumed the wage-paying function. this is the employers. in our present industrial system, the employer is society's paymaster. he, not the state, receives the product out of which all the agents of production must be rewarded. where the labourer is engaged in rendering personal services to his employer, the latter is the only beneficiary of the labourer's activity. in either case the employer is the only person upon whom the obligation of paying a living wage can primarily fall. if the state were in receipt of the product of industry, the wage-paying fund, it would naturally be charged with the obligation that now rests immediately upon the employer. if any other class in the community were the owners of the product that class would be under this specific obligation. as things are, the employer is in possession of the product, and discharges the function of wage payer; consequently he is the person who is required to perform this function in a reasonable manner. _when the employer is unable to pay a living wage_ evidently the employer who cannot pay a living wage is not obliged to do so, since moral duties suppose a corresponding physical capacity. in such circumstances the labourer's right to a living wage becomes suspended and hypothetical, just as the claim of a creditor when the debtor becomes insolvent. let us see, however, precisely what meaning should reasonably be given to the phrase, "inability to pay a living wage." an employer is not obliged to pay a full living wage to all his employés so long as that action would deprive himself and his family of a decent livelihood. as active director of a business, the employer has quite as good a right as the labourer to a decent livelihood from the product, and in case of conflict between the two rights, the employer may take advantage of that principle of charity which permits a man to prefer himself to his neighbour, when the choice refers to goods of the same order of importance. moreover, the employer is justified in taking from the product sufficient to support a somewhat higher scale of living than generally prevails among his employés; for he has become accustomed to this higher standard, and would suffer a considerable hardship if compelled to fall notably below it. it is reasonable, therefore, that he should have the means of maintaining himself and family in moderate conformity with their customary standard of living; but it is unreasonable that they should indulge in anything like luxurious expenditure, so long as any of the employés fail to receive living wages. suppose that an employer cannot pay all his employés living wages and at the same time provide the normal rate of interest on the capital in the business. so far as the borrowed capital is concerned, the business man has no choice; he must pay the stipulated rate of interest, even though it prevents him from giving a living wage to all his employés. nor can it be reasonably contended that the loan capitalist in that case is obliged to forego the interest due him. he cannot be certain that this interest payment, or any part of it, is really necessary to make up what is wanting to a complete scale of living wages. the employer would be under great temptation to defraud the loan capitalist on the pretext of doing justice to the labourer, or to conduct his business inefficiently at the expense of the loan capitalist. anyhow, the latter is under no obligation to leave his money in a concern that is unable to pay him interest regularly. the general rule, then, would seem to be that the loan capitalist is not obliged to refrain from taking interest in order that the employés may have living wages. is the employer justified in withholding the full living wage from his employés to provide himself with the normal rate of interest on the capital that he has invested in the enterprise? speaking generally, he is not. in the first place, the right to any interest at all, except as a return for genuine sacrifices in saving, is not certain but only presumptive.[ ] consequently it has no such firm and definite basis as the right to a living wage. in the second place, the right to interest, be it ever so definite and certain, is greatly inferior in force and urgency. it is an axiom of ethics that when two rights conflict, the less important must give way to the more important. since all property rights are but means to the satisfaction of human needs, their relative importance is determined by the relative importance of the ends that they serve; that is, by the relative importance of the dependent needs. now the needs that are supplied through interest on the employer's capital are slight and not essential to his welfare; the needs that are supplied through a living wage are essential to a reasonable life for the labourer. on the assumption that the employer has already taken from the product sufficient to provide a decent livelihood, interest on his capital will be expended for luxuries or converted into new investments; a living wage for the labourer will all be required for the fundamental goods of life, physical, mental, or moral. evidently, then, the right to interest is inferior to the right to a living wage. to proceed on the contrary theory is to reverse the order of nature and reason, and to subordinate essential needs and welfare to unessential needs and welfare. nor can it be maintained that the capitalist-employer's claim to interest is a claim upon the product prior to and independent of the claim of the labourer to a living wage. that would be begging the question. the product is in a fundamental sense the common property of employer and employés. both parties have co-operated in turning it out, and they have equal claims upon it, in so far as it is necessary to yield them a decent livelihood. having taken therefrom the requisites of a decent livelihood for himself, the employer who appropriates interest at the expense of a decent livelihood for his employés, in effect treats their claims upon the common and joint product as essentially inferior to his own. if this assumption were correct it would mean that the primary and essential needs of the employés are of less intrinsic importance than the superficial needs of the employer, and that the employés themselves are a lower order of being than the employer. the incontestable fact is that such an employer deprives the labourers of access to the goods of the earth on reasonable terms, and gives himself an access thereto that is unreasonable. suppose that all employers who found themselves unable to pay full living wages and obtain the normal rate of interest, should dispose of their businesses and become mere loan capitalists, would the condition of the underpaid workers be improved? two effects would be certain: an increase in the supply of loan capital relatively to the demand, and a decrease in the number of active business men. the first would probably lead to a decline in the rate of interest, while the second might or might not result in a diminution of the volume of products. if the rate of interest were lowered the employing business men would be able to raise wages; if the prices of products rose a further increase of wages would become possible. however, it is not certain that prices would rise; for the business men who remained would be the more efficient in their respective classes, and might well be capable of producing all the goods that had been previously supplied by their eliminated competitors. owing to their superior efficiency and their larger output, the existing business men would be able to pay considerably higher wages than those who had disappeared from the field of industrial direction. as things are to-day, it is the less efficient business men who are unable to pay living wages and at the same time obtain the prevailing rate of interest on their capital. the ultimate result, therefore, of the withdrawal from business of those who could not pay a living wage, would probably be the universal establishment of a living wage. of course, this supposition is purely fanciful. only a small minority of the business men of to-day are likely to be driven by their consciences either to pay a living wage at the cost of interest on their capital, or to withdraw from business when they are confronted with such a situation. is this small minority under moral obligation to adopt either of these alternatives, when the effect of such action upon the great mass of the underpaid workers is likely to be very slight? the question would seem to demand an answer in the affirmative. those employers who paid a living wage at the expense of interest would confer a concrete benefit of great value upon a group of human beings. those who shrank from this sacrifice, and preferred to go out of business, would at least have ceased to co-operate in an unjust distribution of wealth, and their example would not be entirely without effect upon the views of their fellow employers. _an objection and some difficulties_ against the foregoing argument it may be objected that the employer does his full duty when he pays the labourer the full value of the product or service. labour is a commodity of which wages are the price; and the price is just if it is the fair equivalent of the labour. like any other onerous contract, the sale of labour is governed by the requirements of commutative justice; and these are satisfied when labour is sold for its moral equivalent. what the employer is interested in and pays for, is the labourer's activity. there is no reason why he should take into account such an extrinsic consideration as the labourer's livelihood. most of these assertions are correct, platitudinously correct, but they yield us no specific guidance because they use language vaguely and even ambiguously. the contention underlying them was adequately refuted in the last chapter, under the heads of theories of value and theories of exchange equivalence. at present it will be sufficient to repeat summarily the following points: if the value of labour is to be understood in a purely economic sense it means market value, which is obviously not a universal measure of justice; if by the value of labour we mean its ethical value we cannot determine it in any particular case merely by comparing labour and compensation; we are compelled to have recourse to some extrinsic ethical principle; such an extrinsic principle is found in the proposition that the personal dignity of the labourer entitles him to a wage adequate to a decent livelihood; therefore, the ethical value of labour is always equivalent to at least a living wage, and the employer is morally bound to give this much remuneration. moreover, the habit of looking at the wage contract as a matter of commutative justice in the mere sense of contractual justice, is radically defective. the transaction between employé and employer involves other questions of justice than that which arises immediately out of the relation between the things exchanged. when a borrower repays a loan of ten dollars, he fulfils the obligation of justice because he returns the full equivalent of the article that he received. nothing else is pertinent to the question of justice in this transaction. neither the wealth nor the poverty, the goodness nor the badness, nor any other quality of either lender or borrower, has a bearing on the justice of the act of repayment. in the wage contract, and in every other contract that involves the distribution of the common bounty of nature, or of the social product, the juridical situation is vitally different from the transaction that we have just considered. the employer has obligations of justice, not merely as the receiver of a valuable thing through an onerous contract, but as the _distributor_ of the common heritage of nature. his duty is not merely contractual, but social. he fulfils not only an individual contract, but a social function. unless he performs this social and distributive function in accordance with justice, he does not adequately discharge the obligation of the wage contract. for the product out of which he pays wages is not his in the same sense as the personal income out of which he repays a loan. his claim upon the product is subject to the obligation of just distribution; the obligation of so distributing the product that the labourers who have contributed to the product shall not be denied their right to a decent livelihood on reasonable terms from the bounty of the earth. on the other hand, the activity of the labourer is not a mere commodity, as money or pork; it is the output of a _person_, and a person who has no other means of realising his inherent right to a livelihood. consequently, both terms of the contract, the labour and the compensation, involve other elements of justice than that which arises out of their assumed mutual equivalence. in a word, justice requires the employer not merely to give an equivalent for labour (an equivalent which is determined by some arbitrary, conventional, fantastic, or impossible attempt to compare work and pay) but to fulfil his obligation of justly distributing that part of the common bounty of the earth which comes into his hands by virtue of his social function in the industrial process. how futile, then, to endeavour by word juggling to describe the employer's obligation in terms of mere equivalence and contractual justice! some difficulties occur in connection with the wage rights of adult males whose ability is below the average, and female and child workers. since the dignity and the needs of personality constitute the moral basis of the claim to a decent livelihood, it would seem that the inefficient worker who does his best is entitled to a living wage. undoubtedly he has such a right if it can be effectuated in the existing industrial organisation. as already noted, the right of the workman of average ability to a living wage does not become actual until he finds an employer who would rather give him that much pay than do without his services. since the obligation of paying a living wage is not an obligation to employ any particular worker, an employer may refrain from hiring or may discharge any labourer who does not add to the product sufficient value to provide his wages. for the employer cannot reasonably be expected to employ any one at a positive loss to himself. whence it follows that he may pay less than living wages to any worker whose services he would rather dispense with than remunerate at that figure.[ ] women and young persons who regularly perform a full day's work, have a right to compensation adequate to a decent livelihood. in the case of minors, this means living at home, since this is the normal condition of all, and the actual condition of almost all. adult females have a right to a wage sufficient to maintain them away from home, because a considerable proportion of them live in this condition. if employers were morally free to pay home-dwelling women less than those adrift, they would endeavour to employ only the former. this would create a very undesirable social situation. the number of women away from home who are forced to earn their own living is sufficiently large ( to per cent. of the whole) to make it reasonable that for their sakes the wage of all working women should be determined by the cost of living outside the parental precincts. this is one of the social obligations that reasonably falls upon the employer on account of his function in the present industrial system. in all the american minimum wage laws, the standard of payment is determined by the cost of living away from home. besides, the difference between the living costs of women in the two conditions is not nearly as great as is commonly assumed. probably it never amounts to a dollar a week. _the family living wage_ up to the present we have been considering the right of the labourer to a wage adequate to a decent livelihood for himself as an individual. in the case of an adult male, however, this is not sufficient for normal life, nor for the reasonable development of personality. the great majority of men cannot live well balanced lives, cannot attain a reasonable degree of self development outside the married state. therefore, family life is among the essential needs of a normal and reasonable existence. it is not, indeed, so vitally necessary as the primary requisites of individual life, such as food, clothing, and shelter, but it is second only to these. outside the family man cannot, as a rule, command that degree of contentment, moral strength, and moral safety which are necessary for reasonable and efficient living. it is unnecessary to labour this point further, as very few would assert that the average man can live a normal and complete human life without marriage. now, the support of the family falls properly upon the husband and father, not upon the wife and mother. the obligation of the father to provide a livelihood for the wife and young children is quite as definite as his obligation to maintain himself. if he has not the means to discharge this obligation he is not justified in getting married. yet, as we have just seen, marriage is essential to normal life for the great majority of men. therefore, the material requisites of normal life for the average adult male, include provision for his family. in other words, his decent livelihood means a family livelihood. consequently, he has a right to obtain such a livelihood on reasonable terms from the bounty of the earth. in the case of the wage earner, this right can be effectuated only through wages; therefore, the adult male labourer has a right to a family living wage. if he does not get this measure of remuneration his personal dignity is violated, and he is deprived of access to the goods of the earth, quite as certainly as when his wage is inadequate to personal maintenance. the difference between family needs and personal needs is a difference only of degree. the satisfaction of both is indispensable to his reasonable life. just as the woman worker who lives with her parents has a right to a wage sufficient to maintain her away from home, so the unmarried adult male has a right to a family living wage. if only married men get the latter wage they will be discriminated against in the matter of employment. to prevent this obviously undesirable condition, it is necessary that a family living wage be recognised as the right of all adult male workers. no other arrangement is reasonable in our present industrial system. in a competitive régime the standard wage for both the married and the unmarried men is necessarily the same. it will be determined by the living costs of either the one class or the other. at present the wage of the unskilled is unfortunately adjusted to the subsistence cost of the man who is not married. since two prevailing scales of wages are impossible, the remuneration of the unmarried must in the interests of justice to the married be raised to the living costs of the latter. moreover, the unmarried labourer needs more than an individual living wage in order to save sufficient money to enter upon the responsibilities of matrimony. only two objections of any importance can be brought against the male labourer's claim to a family living wage. the first is that just wages are to be measured by the value of the labour performed, and not by such an extrinsic consideration as the needs of a family. it has already been answered in this and the preceding chapters. not the economic but the ethical value of the service rendered, is the proper determinant of justice in the matter of wages; and this ethical value is always the equivalent of at least a decent livelihood for the labourer and his family. according to the second objection, the members of the labourer's family have no claim upon the employer, since they do not participate in the work that is remunerated. this contention is valid, but it is also irrelevant. the claim of the labourer's family to sustenance is directly upon him, not upon his employer; but the labourer has a just claim upon the employer for the means of meeting the claims of his family. his right to this amount of remuneration is directly based neither upon the needs nor the rights of his family, but upon his own needs, upon the fact that family conditions are indispensable to his own normal life. if the wife and young children were self supporting, or were maintained by the state, the wage rights of the father would not include provision for the family. since, however, family life involves support by the father, the labourer's right to such a life necessarily includes the right to a wage adequate to family support. _other arguments in favour of a living wage_ thus far, the argument has been based upon individual natural rights. if we give up the doctrine of natural rights, and assume that all the rights of the individual come to him from the state, we must admit that the state has the power to withhold and withdraw all rights from any and all persons. its grant of rights will be determined solely by considerations of social utility. in the concrete this means that some citizens may be regarded as essentially inferior to other citizens, that some may properly be treated as mere instruments to the convenience of others. or it means that all citizens may be completely subordinated to the aggrandisement of an abstract entity, called the state. neither of these positions is logically defensible. no group of persons has less intrinsic worth than another; and the state has no rational significance apart from its component individuals. nevertheless, a valid argument for the living wage can be set up on grounds of social welfare. a careful and comprehensive examination of the evil consequences to society and the state from the under-payment of any group of labourers, would show that a universal living wage is the only sound social policy. among competent social students, this proposition has become a commonplace. it will not be denied by any intelligent person who considers seriously the influence of low wages in diminishing the efficiency, physical, mental, and moral, of the workers; in increasing the volume of crime, and the social cost of meeting it; in the immense social outlay for the relief of unnecessary poverty, sickness, and other forms of distress; and in the formation of a large and discontented proletariat.[ ] the living wage doctrine also receives strong support from various kinds of authority. of these the most important and best known is the famous encyclical, "on the condition of labour," may , , by pope leo xiii. "let it then be granted that workman and employer should, as a rule, make free agreements, and in particular should agree freely as to wages; nevertheless, there is a dictate of natural justice more imperious and ancient than any bargain between man and man; namely, that the remuneration should be sufficient to maintain the wage earner and reasonable and frugal comfort." although the pope refrained from specifying whether the living wage that he had in mind was one adequate merely to an individual livelihood, or sufficient to support a family, other passages in the encyclical leave no room for doubt that he regarded the latter as the normal and equitable measure of remuneration. within a dozen lines of the sentence quoted above, he made this statement: "if the workman's wages be sufficient to maintain himself, his wife, and his children in reasonable comfort, he will not find it difficult, if he be a sensible man, to practise thrift; and he will not fail, by cutting down expenses, to put by some little savings and thus secure a small income." all lesser catholic authorities hold that the adult male labourer has some kind of moral claim to a family living wage. in all probability the majority of them regard this claim as one of strict justice, while the minority would put it under the head of legal justice, or natural equity, or charity. the differences between their views are not as important as the agreements; for all the catholic writers maintain that the worker's claim is strictly moral in its nature, and that the corresponding obligation upon the employer is likewise of a moral character. the federal council of the churches of christ in america, representing the principal protestant denominations, has formally declared in favour of "a living wage as a minimum in every industry." public opinion likewise accepts the principle of a living wage as the irreducible minimum of fair treatment for all workers. indeed, it would be difficult to find any important person in any walk of life to-day who would have the temerity to deny that the labourer is entitled to a wage sufficient for reasonable family life. among employers the opinion is fairly general that the narrow margin of profit in competitive industries renders the burden of paying a family living wage to all adult males unfairly heavy; but the assertion that the wage contract is merely an economic transaction, having no relation to justice, is scarcely ever uttered publicly. _the money measure of a living wage_ for self-supporting women a living wage is not less than eight dollars per week in any city of the united states, and in some of our larger cities it is from one to two dollars above this figure. the state minimum wage commissions that have acted in the matter, have fixed the rates not lower than eight nor higher than ten dollars per week.[ ] these determinations are in substantial agreement with a large number of other estimates, both official and unofficial. when the present writer was making an estimate of the cost of decent living for a family about eleven years ago, he came to the conclusion that six hundred dollars per year was the lowest amount that would maintain a man and wife and four or five small children in any american city, and that this sum was insufficient in some of the larger cities.[ ] since that time retail prices seem to have risen at least twenty-five and possibly forty-five per cent.[ ] if the six hundred dollar minimum were correct in it should, therefore, be increased to seven hundred and fifty dollars to meet the present range of prices. that this estimate is too low for some of the more populous cities, has been fully proved by several recent investigations. in the bureau of standards put the minimum cost of living for a family of five in new york city at $ . . about the same time the new york factory investigating commission gave the estimate of $ . for new york city, and $ . for buffalo. in , when the cost of living was from ten to thirty per cent. cheaper than to-day, the united states bureau of labour found that, "according to the customs prevailing in the communities selected for study," a fair standard of living for a family of five persons among mill workers, was $ . in the south, and from $ . to $ . in fall river, massachusetts.[ ] according to the "manly report" of the federal commission on industrial relations, between two-thirds and three-fourths of the adult male labourers of the united states receive less than $ . a year, and the same proportion of women workers are paid under eight dollars a week. a considerable majority, therefore, of both male and female labourers fail to obtain living wages. we are still very far from having actualised even the minimum measure of wage justice. footnotes: [ ] cf. skelton, "socialism: a critical analysis," p. ; menger, "the right to the whole produce of labour," pp. , sq. [ ] all the questions treated in this chapter are discussed at much greater length in the author's work, "a living wage"; macmillan; . [ ] see chapters xii and xiii. [ ] while the statement in the text applies to _all_ labourers of less than average ability, it obviously is applicable only to individual cases among those who are up to the average. these are the workers at the "margin" of the labour force in an establishment, those who could be discharged without causing the industry to shut down. if an employer would rather go out of business than pay a living wage to all his necessary labourers of average ability, he is morally free to do so; but he may not employ them at less than living wages in order to obtain interest on his capital. [ ] one of the best statements of the evil social results of low wages will be found in webb's "industrial democracy," vol. ii, pp. - . [ ] see reports of these commissions in oregon, washington, massachusetts, minnesota, and california. [ ] "a living wage," p. . [ ] see bulletins of the federal bureau of labour statistics on "retail prices"; and nearing, "reducing the cost of living." [ ] "summary of the report on condition of woman and child wage earners in the united states," pp. , . the best intensive study of family cost of living is that published in the volume edited by robert c. chapin, "the standard of living among workingmen's families in new york city"; . it led to the conclusion that anything less than eight hundred dollars was insufficient for the yearly maintenance of a husband and wife and three small children in manhattan. chapter xxiv the problem of complete wage justice a living wage for all workers is merely the _minimum_ measure of just remuneration. it is not in every case complete justice. possibly it is not the full measure of justice in any case. how much more than a living wage is due to any or all of the various classes of labourers? how much more may any group of workers demand without exposing itself to the sin of extortion? by what principles shall these questions be answered? the problem of complete wage justice can be conveniently and logically considered in four distinct relations, as regards: the respective claims of the different classes of labourers to a given amount of money available for wage payments; the claims of the whole body of labourers, or any group thereof, to higher wages at the expense of profits; at the expense of interest; and at the expense of the consumer. _comparative claims of different labour groups_ in the division of a common wage fund, no section of the workers is entitled to anything in excess of living wages until all the other sections have received that amount of remuneration. the need of a decent livelihood constitutes a more urgent claim than any other that can be brought forward. neither efforts, nor sacrifices, nor productivity, nor scarcity can justify the payment of more than living wages to any group, so long as any other group in the industry remains below that level; for the extra compensation will supply the nonessential needs of the former by denying the essential needs of the latter. the two groups of men will be treated unequally in respect of those qualities in which they are equal; namely, their personal dignity and their claims to the minimum requisites of reasonable life and self development. this is a violation of justice. let us suppose that all the workers among whom a given amount of compensation is to be distributed, have already received living wages, and that there remains a considerable surplus. on what principles should the surplus be apportioned? for answer we turn to the canons of distribution, as explained in chapter xvi. when the elementary needs of life and development have been supplied, the next consideration might seem to be the higher or nonessential needs and capacities. proportional justice would seem to suggest that the surplus ought to be distributed in accordance with the varying needs and capacities of men to develop their faculties beyond the minimum reasonable degree. as we have already pointed out, this would undoubtedly be the proper rule if it were susceptible of anything like accurate application, and if the sum to be distributed were not produced by and dependent upon those who were to participate in the distribution. however, we know that the first condition is impracticable, while the second is non-existent. inasmuch as the sharers in the distribution have produced and constantly determine the amount to be apportioned, the distributive process must disregard nonessential needs, and govern itself by other canons of justice. the most urgent of these is the canon of efforts and sacrifices. superior effort, as measured by unusual will-exertion, is a fundamental rule of justice, and a valid title to exceptional reward. men who strive harder than the majority of their fellows are ethically deserving of extra compensation. at least, this is the pure theory of the matter. in practice, the situation is complicated by the fact that unusual effort cannot always be distinguished, and by the further fact that some exceptional efforts do not fructify in correspondingly useful results. among men engaged at the same kind of work, superior effort is to a great extent discernible in the unusually large product. as such it actually receives an extra reward in accordance with the canon of productivity. when men are employed at different tasks, unusual efforts cannot generally be distinguished and compensated. hence the general principle is that superior efforts put forth in the production of utilities, entitle men to something more than living wages, but that the enforcement of this principle is considerably hindered by the difficulty of discerning such efforts. the unusual sacrifices that deserve extra compensation are connected with the costs of industrial functions and the disagreeable character of occupations. under the first head are included the expense of industrial training and the debilitating effects of the work. not only justice to the worker but a farsighted view of social welfare, dictate that all unusual costs of preparation for an industrial craft or profession should be repaid in the form of unusual compensation. this means something more than a living wage. for the same reasons the unusual hazards and disability resulting from industrial accidents and diseases should be provided for by higher remuneration. in the absence of such provision, these costs will have to be borne by parents, by society in the form of charitable relief, or by the worker himself through unnecessary suffering and incapacity. the industry that does not provide for all these costs is a social parasite, the workers in it are deprived of just compensation for their unusual sacrifices, and society suffers a considerable loss through industrial friction and diminished productive efficiency. in so far, however, as any of the foregoing occupational costs are borne by society, as in the matter of industrial education, or by the employer, as by the devices of accident compensation or sickness insurance, they do not demand provision in the form of extra wages. other unusual sacrifices that entitle the worker to more than living wages, are inherent in disagreeable or despised occupations. the scavenger and the bootblack ought to get more than the performers of most other unskilled tasks. on the principles of comparative individual desert, they should receive larger remuneration than many persons who are engaged upon skilled but relatively pleasant kinds of work. for if they were given the choice of expending the time and money required to fit them for the latter tasks, or of taking up immediately their present disagreeable labour, they would select the more pleasant occupations, for the same or even a smaller remuneration. and the majority of those who are now in the more skilled occupations would make the same choice. hence the sacrifices inherent in disagreeable kinds of work are in many cases as great as or greater than the sacrifices of preparation for the more pleasant tasks; consequently the doers of the former are relatively underpaid. if all wages were regulated by some supreme authority according to the principles of complete justice, the workers in disagreeable occupations would receive something more than living wages. nor would this determination of rewards be in any way contrary to social welfare or the principle of maximum net results; for the superior attractiveness of the other kinds of work would draw a sufficient supply of labour to offset the advantage conferred by higher wages upon the disagreeable occupations. the main reason why the latter kind of labour is so poorly paid now is the fact that it is very plentiful, a condition which is in turn due to the unequal division of industrial opportunity. were the opportunities of technical education and of entrance to the higher crafts and professions more widely diffused, the labourers offering themselves for the disagreeable tasks would be scarcer and their remuneration correspondingly larger. this would be not only more comfortable to the abstract principles of justice, but more conducive to social efficiency. to sum up the discussion concerning the canon of efforts and sacrifices: labourers have a just claim to more than living wages whenever they put forth unusual efforts, and whenever their occupations involve unusual sacrifices, either through costs of preparation, exceptional hazards, or inherent disagreeableness. the precise amount of extra compensation due under any of these heads can be determined, as a rule, only approximately. the next canon to be considered as a reason for more than living wages is that of productivity. this offers little difficulty; for the unusual product is always visible among men who are performing the same kind of work, and the employer is always willing to give the producer of it extra compensation. while superior productive power which is based solely upon superior native ability has only presumptive validity as a canon of justice, that is ethically sufficient in our workaday world. moreover, the canon of human welfare demands that superior productivity receive superior rewards, so long as these are necessary to evoke the maximum net product. the canon of scarcity has exactly the same value as that of productivity. society and the employer are well advised and are justified in giving extra compensation to scarce forms of labour when the product is regarded as worth the corresponding price. this remains true even when the scarcity is due to restricted opportunity of preparation, rather than to sacrifices of any sort. in that case the higher rewards are as fully justified as the superior remuneration of that superior productivity which is based upon exceptional native endowments. the amount of extra compensation which may properly be given on account of scarcity is determined either by the degree of sacrifice involved or by the ordinary operation of competition. when men are scarce because they have made exceptional sacrifices of preparation, they ought to be rewarded in full proportion to these sacrifices. when they are scarce merely because of exceptional opportunities, their extra compensation should not exceed the amount that automatically comes to them through the interplay of supply and demand. the canon of human welfare has already received implicit application. when due regard is given to efforts, sacrifices, productivity, and scarcity, the demands of human welfare, both in its individual and its social aspects, are sufficiently safeguarded. in the foregoing pages the attempt has been made to describe the proportions in which a given wage fund ought to be distributed among the various classes of labourers who have claims upon the fund. the first requisite of justice is that all should receive living wages. it applies to all workers of average ability, even to those who have no special qualifications of any sort. when this general claim has been universally satisfied, those groups of workers who are in any wise special, whose qualifications for any reason differentiate them from and place them above the average, will have a right to something more than living wages. they will have the first claim upon the surplus that remains in the wage fund. their claims will be based upon the various canons of distribution explained in detail above; and the amounts of extra remuneration to which they will be entitled, will be determined by the extent to which their special qualifications differentiate them from the average and unspecialised workers. if the total available wage fund is merely sufficient to provide universal living wages and the extra compensation due to the specialised groups, no section of the labour force will be justified in exacting a larger share. even though the employer should withhold a part of the amount due to some weaker group, a stronger group that is already getting its proper proportion would have no right to demand the unjustly withheld portion. for this belongs neither to the employer nor to the powerful labour group, but to the weaker section of labourers. this does not mean that a powerful body of workers who are already receiving their due proportion as compared with other labour groups, would not be justified in seeking any increase in remuneration whatever. the increase might come out of profits, or interest, or the consumer, and thus be in no sense detrimental to the rights of the other sections of labourers. this problem will be considered a little later. at present we confine our attention to the relative claims of different labour groups to a definite wage fund. suppose, however, that after all workers have received living wages, and all the exceptional groups have obtained those extra amounts which are due them on account of efforts, sacrifices, productivity, and scarcity, there remains a further surplus in the wage fund. in what proportions should it be distributed? it should be equally divided among all the labourers. the proportional justice which has been already established can be maintained only by raising the present rates of payment equally in all cases. all the average or unspecialised groups would get something more than living wages, and all the other groups would have their extra compensation augmented by the same amount. of course, the wage-fund hypothesis which underlies the foregoing discussion is not realised in actual life, any more than was the "wage fund" of the classical economists. better than any other device, however, it enables us to describe and visualise the comparative claims of different groups of labourers who have a right to unequal amounts in excess of living wages. _wages versus profits_ let us suppose that the wage fund is properly apportioned among the different classes of labourers, according to the specified canons of distribution. may not one or all of the labour groups demand an increase in wages on the ground that the employer is retaining for himself an undue share of the product? as we have seen in the last chapter, the right of the labourers to living wages is superior to the right of the employer or business man to anything in excess of that amount of profits which will insure him against risks, and afford him a decent livelihood in reasonable conformity with his accustomed plane of expenditure. it is also evident that those labourers who undergo more than average sacrifices have a claim to extra compensation which is quite as valid as the similarly based claim of the employer to more than living profits. in case the business does not provide a sufficient amount to remunerate both classes of sacrifices, the employer may prefer his own to those of his employés, on the same principle that he may prefer his own claim to a decent livelihood. the law of charity permits a man to satisfy himself rather than his neighbour, when the needs in question are of the same degree of urgency or importance. as to those labourers who turn out larger products than the average, or whose ability is unusually scarce, there is no practical difficulty; for the employer will find it profitable to give them the corresponding extra compensation. the precise question before us, then, is the claims of the labourers upon profits for remuneration above universal living wages and above the extra compensation due on account of unusual efforts, sacrifices, productivity, and scarcity. let us call the wage that merely includes all these factors "the equitable minimum." in competitive conditions this question becomes practical only with reference to the exceptionally efficient and productive business men. the great majority have no surplus available for wage payments in excess of the "equitable minimum." indeed, the majority do not now pay the full "equitable minimum"; yet their profits do not provide them more than a decent livelihood. the relatively small number of establishments that show such a surplus as we are considering have been brought to that condition of prosperity by the exceptional ability of their directors, rather than by the unusual productivity of their employés. in so far as this exceptional directive ability is due to unusual efforts and sacrifices, the surplus returns which it produces may be claimed with justice by the employer. in so far as the surplus is the outcome of exceptional native endowments, it may still be justly retained by him in accordance with the canon of productivity. in other words, when the various groups of workers are already receiving the "equitable minimum," they have no strict right to any additional compensation out of those rare surplus profits which come into existence in conditions of competition. this conclusion is confirmed by reference to the canon of human welfare. if exceptionally able business men were not permitted to retain the surplus in question they would not exert themselves sufficiently to produce it; labour would gain nothing; and the community would be deprived of the larger product. when the employer is a corporation instead of an individual or a partnership, and when it is operating in competitive conditions, the same principles are applicable, and the same conclusions justified. the officers and the whole body of stockholders will have a right to those surplus profits that remain after the "equitable minimum" has been paid to the employés. every consideration that urges such a distribution in the case of the individual business holds good for the corporation. the corporation that is a monopoly will have the same right as the competitive concern to retain for its owners those surplus profits which are due to exceptional efficiency on the part of the managers of the business. that part of the surplus which is derived from the extortion of higher than competitive prices cannot be justly retained, since it rests upon no definite moral title. as we saw in the chapter on monopoly, the owners have no right to anything more than the prevailing rate of interest, together with a fair return for their labour and for any unusual efficiency that they may exercise. should the surplus in question be discontinued by lowering prices, or should it be continued and distributed among the labourers? as a rule, the former course would seem morally preferable. while the labourers, as we shall see presently, are justified in contending for more than the "equitable minimum" at the expense of the consumer, their right to do so through the exercise of monopoly power is extremely doubtful. whether this power is exerted by themselves or by the employer on their behalf, it remains a weapon which human nature seems incapable of using justly. _wages versus interest_ turning now to the claims of the labourers as against the capitalists, or interest receivers, we perceive that the right to any interest at all is morally inferior to the right of all the workers to the "equitable minimum." as heretofore pointed out more than once, the former right is only presumptive and hypothetical, and interest is ordinarily utilised to meet less important needs than those supplied by wages. through his labour power the interest receiver can supply all those fundamental needs which are satisfied by wages in the case of the labourer. therefore, it seems clear that the capitalist has no right to interest until all labourers have received the "equitable minimum." it must be borne in mind, however, that any claim of the labourer against interest falls upon the owners of the productive capital in a business, upon the undertaker-capitalist, not upon the loan-capitalist. when all the labourers in an industry are receiving the "equitable minimum," have they a right to exact anything more at the expense of interest? by interest we mean, of course, the prevailing or competitive rate that is received on productive capital--five or six per cent. any return to the owners of capital in excess of this rate is properly called profits rather than interest, and its relation to the claims of the labourers has received consideration in the immediately preceding section of this chapter. the question, then, is whether the labourers who are already getting the "equitable minimum" would act justly in demanding and using their economic power to obtain a part or all of the pure interest. no conclusive reason is available to justify a negative answer. the title of the capitalist is only presumptive and hypothetical, not certain and unconditional. it is, indeed, sufficient to justify him in retaining interest that comes to him through the ordinary processes of competition and bargaining; but it is not of such definite and compelling moral efficacy as to render the labourers guilty of injustice when they employ their economic power to divert further interest from the coffers of the capitalist to their own pockets. the interest-share of the product is morally debatable as to its ownership. it is a sort of no-man's property (like the rent of land antecedently to its legal assignment through the institution of private landownership) which properly goes to the first occupant as determined by the processes of bargaining between employers and employés. if the capitalists get the interest-share through these processes it rightfully belongs to them; if the labourers who are already in possession of the "equitable minimum" develop sufficient economic strength to get this debatable share they may justly retain it as their own. the foregoing conclusion may seem to be a very unsatisfactory solution of a problem of justice. however, it is the only one that is practically defensible. if the capitalist's claim to interest were as definite and certain as the labourer's right to a living wage, or as the creditor's right to the money that he has loaned, the solution would be very simple: the labourers that we are discussing would have no right to strive for any of the interest. but the claim of the capitalists is not of this clear and conclusive nature. it is sufficient when combined with actual possession; it is not sufficient when the question is of future possession. the title of first occupancy as regards land is not valid until the land has been actually occupied; and similarly the claim of the capitalist to interest is not valid until the interest has been received. if the economic forces which determine actual possession operate in such a way as to divert the interest-share to the labourers, they, not the capitalists, will have the valid moral title, just as brown with his automobile rather than jones with his spavined nag will enjoy the valid title of first occupancy to a piece of ownerless land which both have coveted. this conclusion is confirmed by reference to the rationally and morally impossible situation that would follow from its rejection. if we deny to the labourers the moral freedom to strive for higher wages at the expense of the capitalist, we must also forbid them to follow this course at the expense of the consumer. for the great majority of consumers would stand to lose advantages to which they have as good a moral claim as the capitalists have to interest. practically this would mean that the labourers have no right to seek remuneration in excess of the "equitable minimum"; for such excess must in substantially all cases come from either the consumer or the capitalist. on what principle can we defend the proposition that the great majority of labourers are forever restrained by the moral law from seeking more than bare living wages, and the specialised minority from demanding more than that extra compensation which corresponds to unusual efforts, sacrifices, productivity, and scarcity? who has authorised us to shut against these classes the doors of a more liberal standard of living, and a more ample measure of self development? _wages versus prices_ the right of the labourers to the "equitable minimum" implies obviously the right to impose adequate prices upon the consumers of the labourer's products. this is the ultimate source of the rewards of all the agents of production. suppose that the labourers are already receiving the "equitable minimum." are they justified in seeking any more at the cost of the consumer? if all the consumers were also labourers the answer would be simple, at least in principle: rises in wages and prices ought to be so adjusted as to bring equal gains to all individuals. the "equitable minimum" is adjusted to the varying moral claims of the different classes of labourers; therefore, any rise in remuneration must be equally distributed in order to leave this adjustment undisturbed. it is a fact, however, that a large part of the consumers are not labourers; consequently they cannot look to rises in wages as an offset to their losses through rises in prices. can they be justly required to undergo this inconvenience for the benefit of labourers who are already getting the "equitable minimum"? let us consider first the case of higher wages versus lower prices. a few progressive and efficient manufacturers of shoes find themselves receiving large surplus profits which are likely to continue. so far as the presumptions of strict justice are concerned, they may, owing to their superior productivity, retain these profits for themselves. seized, however, with a feeling of benevolence, or a scruple of conscience, they determine to divide future profits of this class among either the labourers or the consumers. if they reduce prices the labourers will gain something as users of shoes, but the other wearers of shoes will also be beneficiaries. if the surplus profits are all diverted to the labourers in the form of higher wages the other consumers of shoes will gain nothing. now there does not seem to be any compelling reason, any certain moral basis, for requiring the shoe manufacturers to take one course rather than the other. either will be correct morally. possibly the most perfect plan would be to effect a compromise by lowering prices somewhat and giving some rise in wages; but there is no strict obligation to follow this course. to be sure, since the manufacturers have a right to retain the surplus profits, they have also a right to distribute them as they prefer. let us get rid of this complication by assuming that the manufacturers are indifferent concerning the disposition of the surplus, leaving the matter to be determined by the comparative economic strength of labourers and consumers. in such a situation it is still clear that either of the two classes would be justified in striving to secure any or all of the surplus. no definite moral principle can be adduced to the contrary. to put the case in more general terms: there exists no sufficient reason for maintaining that the gains of cheaper production should go to the consumer rather than to the labourer, or to the labourer rather than to the consumer, so long as the labourer is already in receipt of the "equitable minimum." turning now to the question of higher wages at the cost of higher prices, we note that this would result in at least temporary hardship to four classes of persons: the weaker groups of wage earners; all self employing persons, such as farmers, merchants, and manufacturers; the professional classes; and persons whose principal income was derived from rent or interest. all these groups would have to pay more for the necessaries, comforts, and luxuries of living, without being immediately able to raise their own incomes correspondingly. nevertheless, the first three classes could in the course of time force an increase in their revenues sufficient to offset at least the more serious inconveniences of the increase in prices. so far as the wage earners are concerned, it is understood that all these would have a right to whatever advance in the money measure of the "equitable minimum" was necessary to neutralise the higher cost of living resulting from the success of the more powerful groups in obtaining higher wages. the right of a group to the "equitable minimum" of remuneration is obviously superior to the right of another group to more than that amount. and a supreme wage-determining authority would act on this principle. it cannot be shown, however, that in the absence of any such authority empowered to protect the "equitable minimum" of the weaker labourers, the more powerful groups are obliged to refrain from demanding extra remuneration. the reason of this we shall see presently. in the meantime we call attention to the fact that, owing to the greater economic opportunity resulting from the universal prevalence of the "equitable minimum" and of industrial education, even the weaker groups of wage earners would be able to obtain some increases in wages. in the long run the more powerful groups would enjoy only those advantages which arise out of superior productivity and exceptional scarcity. these two factors are fundamental, and could not in any system of industry be prevented from conferring advantages upon their possessors. as regards the self employing classes, the remedy for any undue hardship suffered through the higher prices of commodities would be found in a discontinuance of their present functions until a corresponding rise had occurred in the prices of their own products. they could do this partly by organisation, and partly by entering into competition with the wage earners. substantially the same recourse would be open to the professional classes. in due course of time, therefore, the remuneration of all workers, whether employés or self employed or professional, would tend to be in harmony with the canons of efforts, sacrifices, productivity, scarcity, and human welfare. since the level of rent is fixed by forces outside the control of labourers, employers, or landowners, the receivers thereof would be unable to offset its decreased purchasing power by increasing its amount. however, this situation would not be inherently unjust, nor even inequitable. like interest, rent is a "workless" income, and has only a presumptive and hypothetical justification. therefore, the moral claim of the rent receiver to be protected against a decrease in the purchasing power of his income, is inferior to the moral claim of the labourer to use his economic power for the purpose of improving his condition beyond the limits of welfare fixed by the "equitable minimum." what is true of the rent receiver in this respect applies likewise to the case of the capitalist. as we saw a few pages back, the wage earners are morally free to take this course at the expense of interest. evidently they may do the same thing when the consequence is merely a diminution in its purchasing power. to be sure, if capital owners should regard their sacrifices in saving as not sufficiently rewarded, owing either to the low rate or the low purchasing power of interest, they would be free to diminish or discontinue saving until the reduced supply of capital had brought about a rise in the rate of interest. should they refrain from this course they would show that they were satisfied with the existing situation. hence they would suffer no wrong at the hands of the labourers who forced up wages at the expense of prices. two objections come readily to mind against the foregoing paragraphs. the more skilled labour groups might organise themselves into a monopoly, and raise their wages so high as to inflict the same degree of extortion upon consumers as that accomplished by a monopoly of capitalists. this is, indeed, possible. the remedy would be intervention by the state to fix maximum wages. just where the maximum limit ought to be placed is a problem that could be solved only through study of the circumstances of the case, on the basis of the canons of efforts, sacrifices, productivity, scarcity, and human welfare. the second objection calls attention to the fact that we have already declared that the more powerful labour groups would not be justified in exacting more than the "equitable minimum" out of a common wage fund, so long as any weaker group was below that level; yet this is virtually what would happen when the former caused prices to rise to such an extent that the weaker workers would be forced below the "equitable minimum" through the increased cost of living. while this contingency is likewise possible, it is not a sufficient reason for preventing any group of labourers from raising their remuneration at the expense of prices. not every rise in prices would effect the expenditures of the weaker sections of the wage earners. in some cases the burden would be substantially all borne by the better paid workers and the self employing, professional, and propertied classes. when it did fall to any extent upon the weaker labourers, causing their real wages to fall below the "equitable minimum," it could be removed within a reasonable time by organisation or by legislation. even if these measures were found ineffective, if some of the weaker groups of workers should suffer through the establishment of the higher prices, this arrangement would be preferable on the whole to one in which no class of labourers was permitted to raise its remuneration above the "equitable minimum" at the expense of prices. a restriction of this sort, whether by the moral law or by civil regulation, would tend to make wage labour a status with no hope of pecuniary progress. it is true that a universal and indefinite increase of wages at the expense of prices might at length leave the great majority of the labourers no better off than they were when they had merely the "equitable minimum." such would certainly be the result if the national product were only sufficient to provide the "equitable minimum" for all workers, and that volume of incomes for the other agents of production which was required to evoke from them a fair degree of productive efficiency. in that case the higher wages would be an illusion. the gain in the amount of money would be offset by the loss in its purchasing power. even so, this condition would be greatly superior to a régime in which the labourers were universally prevented from making any effort to raise their wages above a fixed maximum. _concluding remarks_ all the principles and conclusions defended in this chapter have been stated with reference to the present distributive system, with its free competition and its lack of legal regulation. were all incomes and rewards fixed by some supreme authority, the same canons of justice would be applicable, and the application would have to be made in substantially the same way, if the authority were desirous of establishing the greatest possible measure of distributive justice. the main exception to this statement would occur in relation to the problem of raising wages above the "equitable minimum" at the expense of prices. in making any such increase, the wage-fixing authority would be obliged to take into account the effects upon the other classes of labourers, and upon all the non-wage-earning classes. substantially the same difficulties would confront the government in a collectivist organisation of industry. the effect that a rise in the remuneration of any class would produce, through a rise in the prices of commodities, upon the purchasing power of the incomes of other classes, would have to be considered and as nearly as possible ascertained. this would be no simple task. simple or not, it would have to be faced; and the guiding ethical principles would always remain efforts, sacrifices, productivity, scarcity, and human welfare. the greater part of the discussion carried on in this chapter has a highly theoretical aspect. from the nature of the subject matter this was inevitable. nevertheless the principles that have been enunciated and applied seem to be incontestable. in so far as they are enforcible in actual life, they seem capable of bringing about a wider measure of justice than any other ethical rules that are available. possibly the applications and conclusions have been laid down with too much definiteness and dogmatism, and the whole matter has been made too simple. on the other hand, neither honesty nor expediency is furthered by an attitude of intellectual helplessness, academic hyper-modesty, or practical agnosticism. if there exist moral rules and rational principles applicable to the problem of wage justice, it is our duty to state and apply them as fully as we can. obviously we shall make mistakes in the process; but until the attempt is made, and a certain (and very large) number of mistakes are made, there will be no progress. we have no right to expect that ready-made applications of the principles will drop from heaven. for a long time to come, however, many of the questions discussed in this chapter will be devoid of large practical interest. the problem immediately confronting society is that of raising the remuneration and strengthening generally the economic position of those labourers who are now below the level, not merely of the "equitable minimum," but of a decent livelihood. this problem will be the subject of the next chapter. chapter xxv methods of increasing wages proposals for the reform of social conditions are important in proportion to the magnitude of the evils which they are designed to remove, and are desirable in proportion to their probable efficacy. applying these principles to the labour situation, we find that among the remedies proposed the primacy must be accorded to a minimum wage. it is the most important project for improving the condition of labour because it would increase the compensation of some two-thirds of the wage earners, and because the needs of this group are greater and more urgent than the needs of the better-paid one-third. the former are below the level of reasonable living, while the latter are merely deprived of the opportunities of a more ample and liberal scale of living. hence the degree of injustice suffered by the former is much greater than in the case of the latter. a legal minimum wage is the most desirable single measure of industrial reform because it promises a more rapid and comprehensive increase in the wages of the underpaid than any alternative device that is now available. the superior importance of a legally established minimum wage is obvious; its superior desirability will form the subject of the pages that are immediately to follow. _the minimum wage in operation_ happily the advocate of this measure is no longer required to meet the objection that it is novel and utterly uncertain. for more than twenty years it has been in operation in australasia. it was implicit in the compulsory arbitration act of new zealand, passed in ; for the wages which the arbitration boards enforce are necessarily the lowest that the affected employers are permitted to pay; besides, the district conciliation boards are empowered by the law to fix minimum wages on complaint of any group of underpaid workers. the first formal and explicit minimum wage law of modern times was enacted by the state of victoria in . in the beginning it applied to only six trades, but it has been extended at various legislative sessions, so that to-day it protects substantially all the labourers of the state, except those employed in agriculture. since the year all the other states of australia have made provision for the establishment of minimum wages. at present, therefore, the legal minimum wage in some form prevails throughout the whole of australasia. in the trade boards act authorised the application of this device to four trades in great britain. in the provisions of the act were made applicable to four other trades, and in to a third group of four industries. a special minimum wage law was in enacted to govern the entire coal mining industry of the country. the first minimum wage law in the united states was passed in by massachusetts. it has been followed by similar legislation in ten other states; namely, arkansas, california, colorado, kansas, minnesota, nebraska, oregon, utah, washington, and wisconsin. california has adopted a constitutional amendment which specifically authorises minimum wage legislation for women and minors, and ohio added a similar provision to her constitution which applies to men as well. the minimum wage statutes of australasia and great britain cover all classes of workers, but those of the united states are restricted to minors and women. with the exception of the utah act, all the important laws on this subject in all three regions establish minimum wages indirectly, by authorising commissions and wage boards to determine the actual rates. in australasia and great britain the statutes do not attempt to specify any standard to which the wage determinations of the boards must conform, but the tendency in the former country in recent years has been to enforce a living wage as the minimum; that is, wage rates sufficiently high to provide a decent family livelihood for men, and a reasonable personal livelihood for women and minors. all the laws in america but one require the commissions to establish living wages. in utah no commission is provided for, as the law itself specifies in terms of money the minimum rates of remuneration that the employers of women are permitted to pay. the effectiveness of the laws that have been put into operation is at least as great as their friends had dared to hope. according to professor m. b. hammond of ohio, who investigated the situation on the spot in the winter of - , the people of australasia have accepted the minimum wage "as a permanent policy in the industrial legislation of that part of the world." professor hammond's observations, and the replies of the chief factory inspector of melbourne to the new york factory investigating commission, show the main effects of minimum wage legislation to be as follows: sweating and strikes have all but disappeared; the efficiency of the workers has on the whole increased; the number of workers unable to earn the legal minimum has not been as great as most persons had feared, and almost all of them have obtained employment at lower remuneration through special permits; the legal minimum has not only not become the actual maximum, but is exceeded in the case of the majority of workers; no evidence exists to show that any industry has been crippled, or forced to move out of the country; with the exception of a very few instances, the prices of commodities have not been raised by the law.[ ] in the four trades of great britain which were first brought under the operation of the trade boards act, and which presented some of the worst examples of economic oppression, the beneficial effects of the minimum wage have been even more striking than in australasia. wages have been considerably raised, in some cases as high as one hundred per cent.; dispirited and helpless workers have gained courage, power, and self-respect to such an extent as to increase considerably their membership in trade unions, and to obtain in several instances further increases in remuneration beyond the legal minimum; the compensation of the better paid labourers has not been reduced to the level fixed by the trade boards; the efficiency of both employés and productive processes has been on the whole increased; the number of persons forced out of employment by the law is negligible; no important rise of prices is traceable to the law; and the number of business concerns unable to pay the increase in wages is too small to deserve serious consideration. all these results had been established before the outbreak of the war.[ ] the legal minimum wage has been carried into effect in only four states of our own country. it covers practically all the industries employing women and minors in oregon and washington, all the working women and girls of utah, and the women and minors of a few trades in massachusetts. the rates established for experienced women vary from $ . per week in utah to ten dollars a week for some classes in washington. as the first wage determinations were put into effect only in , american experience has been too short as well as too narrow to warrant certain conclusions. so far as it has been applied, however, the legal minimum wage has been as successful in the united states as in australasia or great britain. all competent witnesses agree that it has brought a considerable increase in wages to a considerable proportion of the women and minors in the industries in which it is operative, and that it has neither thrown any important number of workers out of employment nor forced any important concern out of business. speaking of the three leading industries in which minimum wages were first established in washington, the industrial welfare commission of that state testifies: "seldom has any piece of legislation, in prospect, engendered so much discussion and so much criticism, as did the minimum wage law, with the intricacies of its ramifications touching almost every industry in the state, large or small, and the family of nearly every wage earner; seldom, too, has any law, in actuality, been so well received, its application been accomplished with so little open opposition, and, for a law of this character, has been attended with so little industrial disturbance as that same minimum wage law. none of the dire predictions made prior to the passage of the law have come about to an extent that questions the general efficiency of the law. there has been no wholesale discharge of women employés, no wholesale levelling of wages, no wholesale replacing of higher paid workers by cheaper help, no tendency to make the minimum the maximum, while the employers of the state in general have been following the letter and spirit of the law, and aiding greatly in its application.... the law, in other words, has advanced the wages of practically sixty per cent. of the workers in these industries, and has done it without serious opposition at a time when business conditions were none too good."[ ] the bureau of labour statistics of the united states investigated the operation of the minimum wage in the mercantile establishments of oregon at the end of the first year. the conclusions of the investigators were in brief that both the number and the proportion of women getting the legal minimum ($ . per week) for adults had increased, that the proportion obtaining more than this rate had likewise increased, that those who had received a rise in remuneration did not show any decline in efficiency, that women had not been displaced by men, and that the average increase in the labour cost resulting from the advance in wages was only three mills on each dollar of sales.[ ] the effects of the utah law during the first year of its operation were summarised by the labour commissioner, mr. h. t. haines, as follows: a rise in the wages of a "number of women and girls who most needed the additional sums of money"; increased efficiency of female workers admitted by most employers; but few cases of women or girls utterly deprived of employment by the law; none of the higher paid women suffered a reduction in wages; and ninety per cent. of the employers are satisfied with the minimum wage statute.[ ] so far as the law has been applied in massachusetts, it seems to be relatively as successful as in the other three states.[ ] _the question of constitutionality_ the principal reason why the minimum wage laws on the statute books of the other seven states have not been carried into effect, is the uncertainty of the validity of minimum wage legislation in our constitutional system. in november, , a district judge granted a writ of injunction, restraining the minimum wage commission of minnesota from enforcing their wage determinations, on the ground that the law attempted to delegate legislative power, and that its provisions violated that section of the fourteenth amendment to the united states constitution which forbids any state to deprive a person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. one of the courts of arkansas has taken substantially the same position. the second objection urged by the minnesota judge is probably much the more serious of the two, and is the one upon which chief emphasis has been laid in the briefs filed in various courts by the opponents of minimum wage legislation. as regards labour legislation, "due process of law" may be practically translated, "reasonable and necessary exercise of the state's police power." and the police power means that indefinite power of the state to legislate for the health, safety, morals, and welfare of the community.[ ] now it is obvious that a minimum wage law deprives both employer and employé of some liberty of contract, and also that it virtually deprives the former of some property, inasmuch as it generally increases his outlay for wages. on the other hand, this restriction of liberty and equivalent diminution of property seem to be carried out in harmony with due process of law, since they constitute an exercise of the police power of the state on behalf of the general welfare. some months before the minnesota judge granted the writ of injunction against the enforcement of the minimum wage law of that state, a lower court and the supreme court of oregon had pronounced the oregon statute constitutional, as a legitimate exercise of the police power. an appeal from this judgment was argued in the supreme court of the united states, dec. , , but no decision has yet (october, ) been rendered. until the highest court has spoken on the question of constitutionality, no state is likely to take any further step toward establishing minimum wages. should the decision of the supreme court be unfavourable valid minimum wage legislation will be impossible without an amendment of the united states constitution.[ ] _the ethical and political aspects_ whether it be considered from the viewpoint of ethics, politics, or economics, the principle of the legal minimum wage is impregnable. the state has not only the moral right but the moral duty to enact legislation of this sort, whenever any important group of labourers are receiving less than living wages. one of the elementary functions and obligations of the state is to protect citizens in the enjoyment of their natural rights; and the claim to a living wage is, as we have seen, one of the natural rights of the person whose wages are his only means of livelihood. therefore, the establishment of minimum living wages is not among the so-called "optional functions" of the state in our present industrial society. whenever it can be successfully performed, it is a primary and necessary function. so far as political propriety is concerned, the state may as reasonably be expected to protect the citizen against the physical, mental, and moral injury resulting from an unjust wage contract, as to safeguard his money against the thief, his body against the bully, or his life against the assassin. in all four cases the essential welfare of the individual is injured or threatened through the abuse of superior force and cunning. inasmuch as the legal minimum wage is ethically legitimate, the question of its enactment is, politically speaking, entirely a question of expediency. _the economic aspect_ now the question of expediency is mainly economic. a great deal of nonsense has been written and spoken about the alleged conflict between the legal minimum wage and "economic law." economists have used no such language, indeed; for they know that economic laws are merely the expected uniformities of social action in given circumstances. the economists know that economic laws are no more opposed to a legal minimum wage than to a legal eight hour day, or legal regulations of safety and sanitation in work places. all three of these measures tend to increase the cost of production, and sometimes carry the tendency into reality. a minimum wage law is difficult to enforce, but not much more so than most other labour regulations. at any rate, the practical consideration is whether even a partial enforcement of it will not result in a marked benefit to great numbers of underpaid workers. it may throw some persons, the slower workers, out of employment; but here, again, the important question relates to the balance of good over evil for the majority of those who are below the level of decent living. at every point, therefore, the problem is one of concrete expediency, not of agreement or disagreement with a real or imaginary economic law. some of those who oppose the device on the ground of expediency set up an argument which runs about as follows: the increase in wages caused by a minimum wage law will be shifted to the consumer in the form of higher prices; this result will in turn lead to a falling off in the demand for products; a lessened demand for goods means a reduced demand for labour; and this implies a diminished volume of employment, so that the last state of the workers becomes worse than the first. not only is this conception too simple, but it proves too much. if it were correct every rise in wages, howsoever brought about, would be ill advised; for every rise would set in motion the same fatal chain of events. voluntary increases of remuneration by employers would be quite as futile as the efforts of a labour union. this is little more than the old wages fund theory in a new dress. and it is no less contrary to experience. the argument is too simple because it is based upon an insufficient analysis of the facts. there are no less than four sources from which the increased wages required by a minimum wage law might in whole or in part be obtained. in the first place, higher wages will often give the workers both the physical capacity and the spirit that make possible a larger output. thus, they could themselves equivalently provide a part at least of their additional remuneration. when, secondly, the employer finds that labour is no longer so cheap that it can be profitably used as a substitute for intelligent management, better methods of production, and up to date machinery, he will be compelled to introduce one or more of these improvements, and to offset increased labour cost by increased managerial and mechanical efficiency. this is what seems to have happened in the tailoring industry of england. according to mr. tawney, "the increased costs of production have, on the whole, been met by better organisation of work and by better machinery."[ ] in the third place, a part of the increased wage cost can be defrayed out of profits, in two ways: through a reduction in the profits of the majority of business concerns in an industry; but more frequently through the elimination of the less efficient, and the consequent increase in the volume of business done by the more efficient. in the latter establishments the additional outlay for wages might be fully neutralised by the diminished managerial expenses and fixed charges per unit of product. this elimination of unfit undertakers would not only be in the direction of greater social efficiency, but in the interest of better employment conditions generally; for it is the less competent employers who are mainly responsible for the evil of "sweating," when they strive to reduce the cost of production by the only method that they know; that is, the oppression of labour. should the three foregoing factors fall short of providing or neutralising the increased wages, the recourse would necessarily be to the fourth source; namely, a rise in the price of products. however, there is no definite reason for assuming that the rise will in any case be sufficient to cause a net decrease of demand. in oregon the increased labour cost due to the minimum wage law amounted, as we have seen, to only three mills per dollar of sales in mercantile establishments. even if this were all shifted to the consumer--something that is practically impossible--it would be equivalent to an increase of only three cents on each ten dollars' worth of purchases, and thirty cents on each hundred. the reduction in sales on account of such a slight rise in prices would be infinitesimal. in the case of possibly the majority of products, the lessened demand on the part of the other classes might be entirely counterbalanced by the increased demand at the hands of the workers whose purchasing power had been raised through the minimum wage law. the effect upon sales, and hence upon business and production, which follows from an increase in the effective consuming power of the labouring classes is frequently ignored or underestimated. so far as consumers' goods are concerned, it seems certain that a given addition to the income of the wage-earning classes will lead to a greater increase in the demand for products than an equal addition to the income of any other section of the people. nevertheless, the possibility must be admitted of some diminution of employment, owing to higher prices and decreased demand. and it is certain that some workers would not be worth the legal minimum to their employers. a part, but probably not all, of these could find employment at a lower wage, through a system of permits for "slow workers." whatever the amount of unemployment resulting from both these causes, it would undoubtedly be an evil of lesser magnitude than that which at present follows from the under-payment of a majority of the labouring population. and it could be remedied by two measures which are in any case necessary for social welfare, and which would be hastened by the establishment of a legal minimum wage. these are adequate and scientific laws and institutions to deal with the general problem of unemployment, and a comprehensive system of industrial and vocational training. these conclusions, then, seem to be justified: the economic objections to a legal minimum wage are not essentially different from those that may be urged against any other beneficial labour legislation; and they have been sufficiently refuted by experience to throw the burden of proof upon the objectors. expediency suggests, however, that in the united states the device should be applied gradually in two respects: for a few years it ought to be confined to women and minors; and when it is extended to men, the rates should approach the level of a complete family living wage by stages, covering, say, three or four years. the former restriction would enable the law to be carried through its experimental stages with a minimum disturbance to industry as a whole, and with a minimum of opposition, and the latter would greatly reduce the danger of male unemployment.[ ] _opinions of economists_ when the present writer made an argument for the legal minimum wage something more than ten years ago, he was able to find only one american economist who had touched the subject, and the verdict of that one was unfavourable.[ ] a little over a year ago, dr. john o'grady sent an inquiry to one hundred and sixty economists of the united states to ascertain their opinions on the same subject. of the ninety-four who replied seventy were in favour of a minimum wage law for women and minors, thirteen were opposed, and eleven were non-committal; fifty-five favoured such legislation for men, twenty were against it, and nineteen were disinclined to give a categorical answer. about three-fourths of those who responded expressed the opinion that the measure would tend to increase the efficiency both of the workers and of methods of production.[ ] it is worthy of note that the nine members of the late federal commission on industrial relations, although disagreeing widely and variously on most other important questions and proposals, were all favourable to a minimum wage law for women and minors.[ ] the most comprehensive and most searching criticism of the legal minimum wage from the viewpoint of economic theory has been made by professor f. w. taussig.[ ] while he does not commit himself definitely to the assertion that a universal minimum wage of, say, eight dollars per week, would cause a notable amount of unemployment among women, he regards this consequence as sufficiently probable to indicate the "need of going slow in the regulation of women's wages." specifically, he would have public wage boards refrain from fixing the minimum rates high enough to maintain women living away from home. his final and only serious argument for this position relates to the marginal effectiveness of women workers. he assumes that all "the fitful, untrained, indifferent women are got rid of; that all who offer themselves for work at the age of (say) eighteen years have had an industrially helpful education,--" and then raises the question whether all of them will be "able to get distinctly higher wages than are now current."[ ] obviously the question is not serious unless it contemplates the probability of unemployment for a _considerable proportion_. if only one per cent. or less of the women should be unable to find employment at the higher wages, the net social advantage of the minimum wage device would be so obvious as to render professor taussig's opposition quite unreasonable. making the assumptions quoted above from his pages, let us try to see whether his apprehensions are economically justifiable. if they are reasonable or probable they must rest on one of two fundamental conditions: the occupations available to women are too few to absorb all that would seek to become wage earners at eight dollars per week; or a considerable section of them would be unable to produce such a high wage. possibly the first of these assumptions is true, but neither professor taussig nor any other authority has presented evidence to support it, and it is on the face of things not sufficiently probable to justify hesitation in the advocacy of a minimum living wage. if the second assumption be correct, if the product of a considerable section of women (all adequately trained) would be insufficient to yield them eight dollars per week, in addition to the other costs of production, the conclusion is inevitable that the same result would follow the attempt to pay all male adults (likewise adequately trained) a family living wage of, say, fifteen dollars per week. for the product of the average man does not exceed that of the average woman by even as great a ratio as fifteen to eight. if the average woman is not worth eight dollars a week to an employer in any kind of woman's occupation, the average man is not worth fifteen dollars. therefore, we cannot hope, even with the aid of a thorough system of industrial and vocational training, to provide all adult males of average capacity with a family living wage and the minimum means of living a reasonable life. this is a veritable counsel of despair. it implies either that the law of diminishing returns is already operating in this country in such a way as to prevent the national product from being sufficiently large to provide a minimum wage of fifteen dollars a week for men, and eight dollars a week for women; or that the product, though ample for this purpose, and for all the other necessary payments to the higher priced workers and to the other agents of production, cannot under our present industrial system be so distributed as to attain the desired end. for the first of these hypotheses there is no evidence worthy of the name. if professor king is right in his estimate of an average family income of dollars annually[ ] the difficulty before us does not lie in the field of production. professor taussig seems to rest his fears on the second hypothesis, on the assumed impossibility of bringing about the required distribution; for he points out that increased efficiency of the workers may, like increased efficiency of the material instrumentalities of production, in the long run redound mainly to the benefit of the consumers, while wages may be little if any above the old level. if these fears are justified, if the difficulty is entirely one of the mechanism of distribution, and if it cannot be overcome by legal enactment, then is our competitive organisation of industry bankrupt, and the sooner we find out that fact definitely the better. if the legal minimum wage will help to expose such a situation, will show that, no matter how much the productivity of the workers may be increased, a large proportion of them must by the very nature of the competitive system be forever condemned to live below the level of decent existence, then the minimum wage is worth having merely as an instrument of economic enlightenment. professor taussig's argument and illustrations[ ] seem to contemplate a condition in which the number of women who become fitted for a certain trade is excessive relatively to the demand for its products, and to the supply of women in other industries. were industrial training thus misdirected, and were the trained persons unable or unwilling to distribute themselves over other occupations, they would, indeed, face precisely the same dilemma as do the unskilled workers to-day. that is; a majority would be condemned to insufficient wages, or a minority to unemployment. but we have been assuming an _adequate_ system of industrial and vocational training, a well-balanced system, one that would enable the workers to adjust their supply to the demand throughout the various occupations. in these conditions the economic axiom that a supply of goods is a demand for goods should become beneficently effective: the workers should all be able to find employment, and to obtain the greater part of their increased product. surely professor taussig does not mean to commit himself to the view that every increase in the productive power of the workers will in the long run help them only inasmuch as they are consumers, the lion's share of the additional product being taken by other classes. probably such is the usual result in a régime of unregulated competition, and unlimited freedom as regards the wage contract. but this is precisely what we expect a minimum wage law to correct and prevent. we rely upon this device to enable the workers to retain for themselves that share of the product which under free competition would automatically go to the non-labouring consumers. we hope that blind and destructive economic force can be held in check by deliberate and beneficent social control. the fact of the matter seems to be that professor taussig's argument is too hypothetical and conjectural to justify his pessimistic conclusions. it is unpleasantly suggestive of the reasoning by which the classical economists tried to show the english labourers the folly and futility of trade unionism. _other legislative proposals_ the ideal standard of a minimum wage law is a scale of remuneration adequate not only to the present needs of individuals and families, but to savings for the contingencies of the future. until such time as the compensation of all labourers has been brought up to this level, the state should make provision for cheap housing, and for insurance against accidents, sickness, invalidity, old age, and unemployment. the theory underlying such measures is that they would merely supplement insufficient remuneration, and indirectly contribute to the establishment of genuine living wages. in europe, housing and insurance legislation is so common that no reasonable and intelligent person any longer questions the competency or propriety of such action by the state. if an adequate legal minimum wage, in the sense just defined, were universally established, the state would not be required to do anything further to effectuate wage justice, except in the matter of vocational and industrial education. this would qualify practically all persons to earn at least a living wage, and would enable those who underwent unusual sacrifices either before or during their employment to command something over and above. in other words, all workers would then be able to obtain what we have called "the equitable minimum." and the labouring class as a whole would possess sufficient economic power to secure substantially all that was due by any of the canons of distributive justice. _labour unions_ the general benefits and achievements of labour organisations in the united states down to the beginning of the present century, cannot be more succinctly nor more authoritatively stated than in the words of the united states industrial commission: "an overwhelming preponderance of testimony before the industrial commission indicates that the organisation of labour has resulted in a marked improvement in the economic condition of the workers."[ ] some of the most conspicuous and unquestionable proofs of rises in wages effected by the unions are afforded by the building trades, the printing trades, the coal mining industry, and the more skilled occupations on the railroads. between and wages increased considerably more in the organised than in the unorganised trades.[ ] nevertheless, when all due credit is given to the unions for their part in augmenting the share of the product received by labour, there remain two important obstacles which seriously lessen their efficacy as a means of raising the wages of the underpaid. the first is the fact that the unions still embrace only a small portion of the total number of wage earners. according to professor leo wolman, a little more than twenty-seven million of the thirty-eight million persons engaged in "gainful occupations" in the united states in were wage earners in the ordinary sense of that phrase, and of these twenty-seven million only , , , or . per cent., were members of labour organisations.[ ] the membership to-day is about two and three quarter millions. if the total number of wage earners increased between and at the same rate as during the preceding decade, the organised portion is now somewhat less than . per cent. of the whole. evidently the labour unions have not grown with sufficient rapidity, nor are they sufficiently powerful to warrant the hope that they will be soon able to lift even a majority of the underpaid workers to the level of living wage conditions. the second obstacle is the fact that only a small minority of the members of labour unions are drawn from the unskilled and underpaid classes, who stand most in need of organisation. the per cent. of those getting less than living wages that is in the unions is almost negligible. with the exception of a few industries, the unskilled and the underpaid show very little tendency to increase notably their organised proportion. the fundamental reason of this condition has been well stated by john a. hobson: "the great problem of poverty ... resides in the conditions of the low-skilled workman. to live industrially under the new order he must organise. he cannot organise because he is so poor, so ignorant, so weak. because he is not organised he continues to be poor, ignorant, weak. here is a great dilemma, of which whoever shall have found the key will have done much to solve the problem of poverty."[ ] the most effective and expeditious method of raising the wages of the underpaid through organisation is by means of the "industrial," as distinguished from the "trade," or "craft," union. in the former all the trades of a given industry are united in one compact organisation, while the latter includes only those who work at a certain trade or occupation. for example: the united mine workers embrace all persons employed in coal mines, from the most highly skilled to the lowest grade of unspecialised labour; while the craft union is exemplified in the engineers, firemen, conductors, switchmen, and other groups having their separate organisations in the railroad industry. the industrial union is as much concerned with the welfare of its unskilled as of its skilled members, and exerts the whole of its organised force on behalf of each and every group of workers throughout the industry which it covers. the superior suitability of the industrial type of union to the needs of the unskilled labourers is seen in the fact that more of them are organised in the coal mining than in any other industry, and have received greater benefits from organisation than their unskilled fellow workers in any other industry. were the various classes of railway employés combined in one union, instead of being organised along the lines of their separate crafts, it is quite improbable that the unskilled majority would be getting, as they now are getting, less than living wages. while it is true that the various craft unions in an industry are often federated into a comprehensive association, the bond uniting them is not nearly so close, nor so helpful to the weaker groups of workers as in the case of the industrial unions. human nature being what it is, however, the members of the skilled crafts cannot all be induced or compelled to adopt the industrial type of organisation. the knights of labour attempted to accomplish this, and for a time enjoyed a considerable measure of success, but in the end the organisation was unable to withstand those fundamental inclinations which impel men to prefer the more narrow, homogeneous, and exclusive type of association. the skilled workers refused to merge their local and craft interests in the wider interests of men with whom they had no strong nor immediate bonds of sympathy. among labourers, as well as among other persons, the capacity for altruism is limited by distance in space and occupational condition. the passion for distinction likewise affects the wage earner, impelling the higher groups consciously or unconsciously to oppose association that tends to break down the barrier of superiority. owing to their greater resources and greater scarcity, the skilled members of an industrial union are less dependent upon the assistance of the unskilled than the latter are dependent upon the former; yet the skilled membership is always in a minority, and therefore in danger of being subordinated to the interests of the unskilled majority. for these and many other reasons it is quite improbable that the majority of union labourers can be amalgamated into industrial unions in the near future. the most that can be expected is that the various occupational unions within each industry should become federated in a more compact and effective way than now prevails, thus conserving the main advantages of the local and craft association, while assuring to the unskilled workers some of the benefits of the industrial union. _organisation versus legislation_ in the opinion of some labour leaders, the underpaid workers should place their entire reliance upon organisation. the arguments for this position are mainly based upon three contentions: it is better that men should do things for themselves than to call in the intervention of the state; if the workers secure living wages by law they will be less likely to organise, or to remain efficiently organised; and if the state fixes a minimum wage it may some day decide to fix a maximum. within certain limits the first of these propositions is incontestable. the self education, self reliance, and other experiences obtained by the workers through an organised struggle for improvements of any kind, are too valuable to be lightly passed over for the sake of the easier method of state assistance. indeed, it would be better to accept somewhat less, or to wait somewhat longer, in order that the advantages might be secured through organisation. however, these hypotheses are not verified as regards the minimum wage problem. the legal method promises with a high degree of probability to bring about universal living wages within ten or fifteen years. the champions of organisation can point to no solid reasons for indulging the hope that their method would achieve the same result within a half a century. therefore, the advantages of the device of organisation are much more than neutralised by its disadvantages. the fear that the devotion of the workers to the union would decline as soon as living wages had been secured by law, seems to have no adequate basis either in experience or in probability. speaking of the establishment of minimum wages in the tailoring industry of great britain, mr. tawney declares that it "has given an impetus to trade unionism among both men and women. the membership of the societies connected with the tailoring trade has increased, and in several districts the trade unions have secured agreements fixing the standard rate considerably above the minimum contained in the trade board's determination."[ ] similar testimony comes from australasia. indeed, this is precisely what we should be inclined to expect; for the workers whose wages had been raised would for the first time possess the money and the courage to support unions; and would have sufficient incentives thereto in the natural desire to obtain something more than the legal minimum, and in the realisation that organisation was necessary to give them a voice in the determination of the minimum, and to enable them to co-operate in compelling its enforcement. indeed, general experience shows that organisation becomes normally efficient and produces its best results only among workers who have already approximated the level of living wages. to be sure, the state could set up maximum instead of minimum wages,--if the employing classes were sufficiently powerful. but all indications point to a decline rather than an increase in their political influence, and to a corresponding expansion in the governmental influence of the labouring classes and their sympathisers. moreover, the labour leaders who urge this objection are inconsistent, inasmuch as they advocate other beneficial labour legislation. the distinction which they profess to find between laws that merely remove unfair legal and judicial disabilities and laws that reduce the length of the working day or fix minimum wages, has no importance in practical politics or in the mind of the average legislature. if the political influence of labour should ever become so weak and that of capital so strong as to make restrictive labour legislation generally feasible, legislators would not confine their unfriendly action to the field of positive measures. they would be quite as ready to pass a law prohibiting strikes as to enact a statute fixing maximum wages. the formal legalisation of strikes, picketing, and the primary boycott which is contained in the clayton act, and for which the labour unions worked long and patiently, could conceivably be seized upon by some future unfriendly congress as a precedent and provocation for legislation which would not only repeal all the favourable provisions of the clayton act, but subject labour to entirely new and far more odious restraints and interferences. the fact that governments passed maximum wage laws in the past is utterly irrelevant to the question of wage legislation to-day. a legal minimum wage, and a multitude of other protective labour laws are desirable and wise in the twentieth century for the simple reason that labour and the friends of labour are sufficiently powerful to utilise this method, and because their influence seems destined to increase rather than decrease. the contrary hypothesis is too improbable for serious consideration. the conclusions that seem justified by a comprehensive and critical view of all the facts of the situation, are that organisation is not of itself an adequate means of bringing about living wages for the underpaid, but that it ought nevertheless to be promoted and extended among these classes, not only for its direct effect upon wages, but for its bearing upon legislation. the method of organisation and the method of legislation are not only not mutually opposed, but are in a very natural and practical manner complementary. _participation in capital ownership_ while those workers whose remuneration is below the level of decent maintenance are not ordinarily in a position to become owners of any kind of capital, many of them, especially among the unmarried men, can accumulate savings by making large sacrifices. as a matter of fact, hundreds of thousands of the underpaid have become interest receivers through the medium of savings banks, real estate possessions, and insurance policies. every effort in this direction is distinctly worth while, and deserving of encouragement. labourers who are above the minimum wage level can, of course, save much larger amounts, and with less sacrifices than the underpaid classes. in all cases the main desideratum is that the workers should derive some income from capital; but it is almost equally important that their capital ownership should wherever possible take the form of shares in the industry in which they are employed, or the store at which they buy their goods. this means co-operative production and co-operative distribution. the general benefits of the co-operative enterprise have already been described in chapter xiv. for the wage earner proprietorship in a co-operative concern is preferable to any other kind of capital ownership because of the training that it affords in business management and responsibility, in industrial democracy, and in the capacity to subordinate his immediate and selfish interests to his more remote and larger welfare. co-operative ownership of the tools with which men work has advantages of its own over co-operative ownership of the stores from which they made their purchases, inasmuch as it increases their control over the conditions of employment, and gives them incentives to efficiency which results in a larger social product and a larger share thereof for themselves. as already pointed out in chapter xiv, the ideal type of productive co-operation is that known as the "perfect" form, in which the workers are the exclusive owners of the concern where they exercise their labour. nevertheless, the "federal" type, in which the productive concern is directly owned by a wholesale co-operative, indirectly by the retail co-operative store, and ultimately by the co-operative consumers,--presents one important advantage. it could be so modified as to enable the employés of the productive enterprise to share the ownership of the latter with the wholesale establishment. such an arrangement would at once give the workers the benefits of productive co-operation mentioned above, and render probable a satisfactory adjustment of the conflicting claims of producers and consumers. as intimated in chapter xxiv, such a conflict is inherent in every system of industrial organisation, and will become more evident and more acute in proportion to the strengthening of the position of labour. a final reason for ownership of capital by labour deserves mention here, even though it has no immediate bearing upon the question of remuneration. were all labourers receiving the full measure of wages to which they are entitled by the canons of distributive justice, it would still be highly desirable that the majority if not all of them should possess some capital, preferably in the productive and distributive concerns in which they were immediately interested. it does not seem probable that our economic system as now constituted, with the capital owners and the capital operators for the most part in two distinct classes, will be the final form of industrial organisation. particularly does this arrangement seem undesirable, incongruous, and unstable in a society whose political form is that of democracy. ultimately the workers must become not merely wage earners but capitalists. any other system will always contain and develop the seeds of social discontent and social disorder. references on section iv adams and sumner: labour problems. macmillan; . commons and andrews: principles of labour legislation. harpers; . walker: the wages question. new york; . ryan: a living wage. macmillan; . snowden: the living wage. london; hodder & stoughton. o'grady: a legal minimum wage. washington; . broda: la fixation légale des salaires. paris; . n. y. factory investigating commission. appendix to vol. iii. tawney: minimum rates in the chain-making industry. london; . minimum rates in the tailoring industry. london; . turman: le catholicisme social. paris; . pottier: de jure et justitia. liege; . polier: l'idée du juste salaire. paris; . menger: the right to the whole produce of labour. london; . garriguet: régime du travail. paris; . nearing: reducing the cost of living. philadelphia; . chapin: the standard of living in new york city. new york; . also the works on co-operation cited in connection with section ii, and those of hobson, carver, nearing and streightoff. footnotes: [ ] see articles by hammond in the _american economic review_, june, , and in the _annals of the american academy of political and social science_, july, ; and page of the appendix to the third volume of the report of the new york state factory investigating commission. [ ] see the replies of the london board of trade to the n. y. factory investigating commission, on pages , of the volume cited above; and especially the two monographs by r. h. tawney, "the establishment of minimum rates in the chain-making industry," and "the establishment of minimum rates in the tailoring industry." london; and . [ ] "first biennial report of the industrial welfare commission of washington," pp. , . [ ] "effect of minimum wage determinations in oregon." bulletin no. of united states bureau of labour statistics. [ ] from a paper read before the national convention of the association of government labour officials, nashville, tenn., june , . [ ] see bulletins of massachusetts minimum wage commission. [ ] see the excellent and varied series of papers on the subject in orth's "the relation of government to property and industry," pp. - . ginn & company; . [ ] the arguments for and against the constitutionality of a legal minimum wage are adequately presented in the briefs, respectively, of louis d. brandeis and rome g. brown, in the cases of stettler _vs._ o'hara and simpson _vs._ o'hara. the former is published by the national consumers' league, new york, and the latter by the review publishing company, minneapolis. [ ] "minimum rates in the tailoring industry," p. . [ ] one of the best statements of the economic aspect of the minimum wage is that by sidney webb, in the _journal of political economy_, dec., . probably the most varied and comprehensive general discussion is the symposium in the _survey_, feb. , . see especially the excellent presentation in commons and andrews' "principles of labour legislation," pp. - . [ ] see pages , of "a living wage"; macmillan, . [ ] o'grady, "a legal minimum wage"; washington, . [ ] "final report," pp. , , . [ ] _the quarterly journal of economics_, may, . a somewhat less unfavourable criticism is contained in the paper by professor john bates clark in the _atlantic monthly_, september, . [ ] page . [ ] "the wealth and income of the people of the united states," p. . [ ] page . [ ] "final report," p. . washington, . [ ] see article by professor commons in "the new encyclopedia of social reform," p. . [ ] _the quarterly journal of economics_, may, , p. . [ ] "problems of poverty," p. . london, . [ ] "minimum rates in the tailoring industry," p. . chapter xxvi summary and conclusion throughout this book we have been concerned with a two-fold problem: to apply the principles of justice to the workings of the present distributive system, and to point out the modifications of the system that seemed to promise a larger measure of actual justice. the mechanism of distribution was described in the introductory chapter as apportioning the national product among the four classes that contribute the necessary factors to the process of production, and the first part of the problem was stated as that of ascertaining the size of the share which ought to go to each of these classes. _the landowner and rent_ we began this inquiry with the landowner and his share of the product, i.e., rent. we found that private ownership of land has prevailed throughout the world with practical universality ever since men began to till the soil in settled communities. the arguments of henry george against the justice of the institution are invalid because they do not prove that labour is the only title of property, nor that men's equal rights to the earth are incompatible with private landownership, nor that the so-called social production of land values confers upon the community a right to rent. private ownership is not only socially preferable to the socialist and the single tax systems of land tenure, but it is, as compared with socialism certainly, and as compared with the single tax probably, among man's natural rights. on the other hand, the landowner's right to take rent is no stronger than the capitalist's right to take interest; and in any case it is inferior to the right of the tenant to a decent livelihood, and of the employé to a living wage. nevertheless, the present system of land tenure is not perfect. its principal defects are: the promotion of certain monopolies, as, anthracite coal, steel, natural gas, petroleum, water power, and lumber; the diversion of excessive gains to landowners, as indicated by the recent great increases in the value of land, and the very large holdings by individuals and corporations; and the exclusion of large masses of men from the land because the owners will not sell it at its present economic value. the remedies for these evils fall mainly under the heads of ownership and taxation. all mineral, timber, gas, oil, grazing, and water-power lands that are now publicly owned, should remain the property of the states and the nation, and be brought into use through a system of leases to private individuals and corporations. cities should purchase land, and lease it for long periods to persons who wish to erect business buildings and dwellings. by means of taxation the state might appropriate the future increases of land values, subject to the reimbursement of private owners for resulting decreases in value; and it could transfer the taxes on improvements and personal property to land, provided that the process were sufficiently gradual to prevent any substantial decline in land values. in some cases the state might hasten the dissolution of exceptionally large and valuable estates through the imposition of a supertax. _the capitalist and interest_ the socialist contention that the labourer has a right to the entire product of industry, and therefore that the capitalist has no right to interest, is invalid unless the former alleged right can be effectuated in a reasonable scheme of distribution; and we know that the contemplated socialist scheme is impracticable. nevertheless, the refutation of the socialist position does not automatically prove that the capitalist has a right to take interest. of the titles ordinarily alleged in support of such a right, productivity and service are inconclusive, while abstinence is valid only in the case of those capital owners to whom interest was a necessary inducement for saving. since it is uncertain whether sufficient capital would be provided without interest, and since the legal suppression of interest is impracticable, the state is justified in permitting the practice of taking interest. but this legal permission does not justify the individual interest-receiver. his main and sufficient justification is to be found in the presumptive title which arises out of possession, in the absence of any adverse claimant with a stronger title to this particular share of the product. the only available methods of lessening the burden of interest are a reduction in the rate, and a wider diffusion of capital through co-operative enterprise. of these the former presents no definite or considerable reasons for hope, either through the rapid increase of capital or the inevitable extension of the industrial function of government. the second proposal contains great possibilities of betterment in the fields of banking, agriculture, stores, and manufacture. through co-operation the weaker farmers, merchants, and consumers can do business and obtain goods at lower costs, and save money for investment with greater facility, while the labourers can slowly but surely become capitalists and interest-receivers, as well as employés and wage-receivers. _the business man and profits_ just remuneration for the active agents of production, whether they be directors of industry or employés, depends fundamentally upon five canons of distribution; namely, needs, efforts and sacrifices, productivity, scarcity, and human welfare. in the light of these principles it is evident that business men who use fair methods in competitive conditions, have a right to all the profits that they can obtain. on the other hand, no business man has a strict right to a minimum living profit, since that would imply an obligation on the part of consumers to support superfluous and inefficient directors of industry. those who possess a monopoly of their products or commodities have no right to more than the prevailing or competitive rate of interest on their capital, though they have the same right as competitive business men to any surplus gains that may be due to superior efficiency. the principal unfair methods of competition; that is, discriminative underselling, exclusive-selling contracts, and discrimination in transportation, are all unjust. the remedies for unjust profits are to be found mainly in the action of government. the state should either own and operate all natural monopolies, or so regulate their charges that the owners would obtain only the competitive rate of interest on the actual investment, and only such surplus gains as are clearly due to superior efficiency. it should prevent artificial monopolies from practising extortion toward either consumers or competitors. should the method of dissolution prove inadequate to this end, the state ought to fix maximum prices. inasmuch as overcapitalisation has frequently enabled monopolistic concerns to obtain unjust profits, and always presents a strong temptation in this direction, it should be legally prohibited. a considerable part of the excessive profits already accumulated can be subjected to a better distribution by progressive income and inheritance taxes. finally, the possessors of large fortunes and incomes could help to bring about a more equitable distribution by voluntarily complying with the christian duty of bestowing their superfluous goods upon needy persons and objects. _the labourer and wages_ none of the theories of fair wages that have been examined under the heads of "the prevailing rate," "exchange-equivalence," or "productivity" is in full harmony with the principles of justice. the minimum of wage justice can, however, be described with sufficient definiteness and certainty. the adult male labourer has a right to a wage sufficient to provide himself and family with a decent livelihood, and the adult female has a right to remuneration that will enable her to live decently as a self supporting individual. at the basis of this right are three ethical principles: all persons are equal in their inherent claims upon the bounty of nature; this general right of access to the earth becomes concretely valid through the expenditure of useful labour; and those persons who are in control of the goods and opportunities of the earth are morally bound to permit access thereto on reasonable terms by all who are willing to work. in the case of the labourer, this right of reasonable access can be effectuated only through a living wage. the obligation of paying this wage falls upon the employer because of his function in the industrial organism. and the labourer's right to a living wage is morally superior to the employer's right to interest on his capital. labourers who put forth unusual efforts or make unusual sacrifices have a right to a proportionate excess over living wages, and those who are exceptionally productive or exceptionally scarce have a right to the extra compensation that goes to them under the operation of competition. labourers who are receiving the "equitable minimum" described in the last sentence have a right to still higher wages at the expense of the capitalist and the consumer, if they can secure them through the processes of competition; for the additional amount is an ethically unassigned or ownerless property which may be taken by either labourer, capitalist, or consumer, provided that there is no artificial limitation of supply. the methods of increasing wages are mainly three: a minimum wage by law, labour unions, and co-operative enterprise. the first has been fairly well approved by experience, and is in no wise contrary to the principles of either ethics, politics, or economics. the second has likewise been vindicated in practice, though it is of only small efficacy in the case of those workers who are receiving less than living wages. the third would enable labourers to supplement their wage incomes by interest incomes, and would render our industrial system more stable by giving the workers an influential voice in the conditions of employment, and laying the foundation of that contentment and conservatism which arise naturally out of the possession of property. as a matter of convenience, the foregoing paragraphs may be further summarised in the following abridgment: the landowner has a right to all the economic rent, modified by the right of his tenants and employés to a decent livelihood, and by the right of the state to levy taxes which do not substantially lower the value of the land. the capitalist has a right to the prevailing rate of interest, modified by the right of his employés to the "equitable minimum" of wages. the business man in competitive conditions has a right to all the profits that he can obtain, but corporations possessing a monopoly have no right to unusual gains except those due to unusual efficiency. the labourer has a right to living wages, and to as much more as he can get by competition with the other agents of production and with his fellow labourers. _concluding observations_ no doubt many of those who have taken up this volume with the expectation of finding therein a satisfactory formula of distributive justice, and who have patiently followed the discussion to the end, are disappointed and dissatisfied at the final conclusions. both the particular applications of the rules of justice and the proposals for reform, must have seemed complex and indefinite. they are not nearly so simple and definite as the principles of socialism or the single tax. and yet, there is no escape from these limitations. neither the principles of industrial justice nor the constitution of our socio-economic system is simple. therefore, it is impossible to give our ethical conclusions anything like mathematical accuracy. the only claim that is made for the discussion is that the moral judgments are fairly reasonable, and the proposed remedies fairly efficacious. when both have been realised in practice, the next step in the direction of wider distributive justice will be much clearer than it is to-day. although the attainment of greater justice in distribution is the primary and most urgent need of our time, it is not the only one that is of great importance. no conceivable method of distributing the present national product would provide every family with the means of supporting an automobile, or any equivalent symbol of comfort. indeed, there are indications that the present amount of product per capita cannot long be maintained without better conservation of our natural resources, the abandonment of our national habits of wastefulness, more scientific methods of soil cultivation, and vastly greater efficiency on the part of both capital and labour. nor is this all. neither just distribution, nor increased production, nor both combined, will insure a stable and satisfactory social order without a considerable change in human hearts and ideals. the rich must cease to put their faith in material things, and rise to a simpler and saner plane of living; the middle classes and the poor must give up their envy and snobbish imitation of the false and degrading standards of the opulent classes; and all must learn the elementary lesson that the path to achievements worth while leads through the field of hard and honest labour, not of lucky "deals" or gouging of the neighbour, and that the only life worth living is that in which one's cherished wants are few, simple, and noble. for the adoption and pursuit of these ideals the most necessary requisite is a revival of genuine religion. index abstinence: as a title to interest, - . adams, t. s.: , . adam smith: , . agriculture: co-operation in, - . alaska: leasing system in, . altruism: efficacy of under socialism, - ; promoted by co-operation, . ambrose, saint: . american sugar refining company: , , . american tobacco company: , , . analogy: economic, as justifying interest, , . anthracite coal: a monopoly, , , , . antoine, charles: - . antoninus, saint: . aquinas, saint thomas: , , , , , , , , . arbitration: failure of, . ashley, w. j.: . astor estate: , . augustine, saint: . australasia: special land taxes in, - , ; minimum wage in, , . authorities: catholic and protestant, on living wage, , . basil, saint: . bible, the: on the duty of benevolence, , , , . brandeis, louis d.: , . business man: functions and rewards of, - , - ; no right of to minimum profits, - , , ; the superfluous, , . canada: special land taxes in, - . canonist: doctrine of wage justice, - . canons of distributive justice: - . capital: meaning of, , ; power of to create value, - ; catholic teaching concerning interest on, - ; titles of to interest, - ; value of in a no-interest régime, - ; need for a wider distribution of, , ; need for ownership of by labour, , , . capitalists: two kinds of, ; expropriation of, - ; right of to take interest, - ; claims of, versus claims of labourers, - , - , . carnegie, andrew: . carver, t. n.: - . catholic church: attitude of toward interest, - . child workers: right of to a living wage, . christian conception of welfare: - . clark, j. b.: , - . compensation: to landowners, - ; to capitalists under socialism, - . competition: alleged failure of, - . confiscation: of land values under the single tax, - ; of capital under socialism, - ; of wealth by taxation, , . constitutionality of minimum wage laws: - . consumer: injury to through stockwatering, - ; obligations of to business man, , , , ; versus labourer, - . contract: onerous, ; free, as a rule of wage justice, - , - . co-operation: as a partial solvent of capitalism, - ; essence and kinds of, , ; in banking, , ; in agriculture, - ; in stores, - ; in production, - ; effect of on social stability, , ; as compared with individualism and socialism, , ; province and limitations of, - ; bearing of on the superfluous business man, , ; and on the labouring classes, - . co-partnership: , . corporation: profits of a, , , , , , . cost of living: , . cost of production: of capital, , . credit societies: co-operative, , . defects of our land system: - ; monopoly, - ; excessive gains, - ; exclusion, - . devas, charles: . disagreeable tasks: , . dixon, f. h.: . discriminative transportation contracts: , . discriminative underselling: - . distribution of superfluous wealth: - . distributive justice: canons of, - , , . earth: right of access to, - . economic determinism: inconsistent with ethical judgments, , , , , . efficiency: monopolistic, - , - , ; exceptional, - . efforts: exceptional, as claim to rewards, - . efforts and sacrifices: as canons of distribution, - . ely, r. t.: . employer: gains of from wage contract, , ; obligation of to pay a living wage, - . engels, f.: . ensor, e. k.: . equal gains: as a canon of wage justice, - . equality: as a canon of justice, , ; of men's claims to the bounty of nature, , ; of rights to a decent livelihood, - . "equitable minimum": of wages, , , , , , , , , . equity: meaning of, . exchange-equivalence: theories of, - ; equal gains, - ; free contract, - ; market value, - ; mediæval, - ; modern, - . exclusion from the land: - . exclusive-sales contracts: - . expropriation: of capitalists under socialism, - . extrinsic titles: of interest, . family living wage: - . fathers of the church: on private property in land, ; on duty of beneficence, , . fay, c. r.: , , . fisher, irving: . fortunes: legal limitation of, - ; directly, - ; by taxation, - . france: co-operative production in, . fustel de coulanges: . gains: excessive from land, - ; from monopolies, - . germany: co-operation in, . giffen, sir robert: . godwin, w.: . government ownership: - ; limitations of, - ; and rate of interest, . great britain: co-operation in, - ; income taxes in, - ; minimum wage in, , . haines, h. t.: . hammond, m. b.: . henry george: on primitive common ownership, ; on first occupancy, - ; on title of labour, - ; on natural right to land, - ; on right of community to land values and rent, - ; on single tax, , . hillquit, morris: . hobson, j. a.: . howe, f. c.: - . human welfare: the test of property rights in land, - ; and of a system of land tenure, ; and of increment taxes, - ; and of titles of property, , , , - ; as a canon of distributive justice, , ; as justifying profits, , , ; as justifying higher than living wages, . hyndman and morris: . income: distribution of national, - . incomes: injustice of equal, ; progressive taxation of, - . increment taxes: - . inefficiency: of leadership and labour under socialism, - . inheritance: legal limitation of, - ; progressive taxation of, - . interest: nature of, - ; rate of, - ; alleged intrinsic justifications of, - ; attitude of church toward, - ; extrinsic titles of, ; and the title of productivity, - ; and the title of service, , ; and the title of abstinence, - ; social and presumptive justifications of, - ; necessity of, - ; civil authorization, - ; how justified, - , a "workless" income, ; possibility of reducing rate, - ; distinguished from profits, , ; versus wages, - . investor: the "innocent," , . ireland: reduction of rents in, - ; compulsory sale of land in, ; co-operation in, - . italy: co-operation in, . justice: dependence of on charity, ; not found in prevailing-rate theory, ; nor in exchange equivalence theories, - ; nor in productivity theories, - ; and the wage contract, - ; and the legal minimum wage, . kautsky, karl: . king, w. i: , , , , , , , . labour: as a title to land, - ; and to products, ; and to the entire product of industry, - ; - ; productivity of, , ; inefficiency of under socialism, - ; mediæval measure of cost of, , ; claims of different groups of, - ; legislative proposals for, , . labour unions: efficacy and limitations of, - ; and legislation, - . labourer, the: claim of to rent, - ; right of to his product, , , , , , , , , ; gains of from wage contract, , ; right of to a living wage, - , ; versus the capitalist, - , ; versus the consumer, - ; and co-operative enterprise, - . land: distribution of, , , - ; large holdings of, , ; accessibility to, - ; the leasing system, - ; public ownership of, - . landowner: right of to rent, - ; his share of product, - . landownership: in history, - ; two theories of, , ; in pre-agricultural conditions, - ; origin of private, - ; prevalence and benefits of, - ; arguments against private, - , by socialists, - , by henry george, - ; private, the best system of tenure, - ; four elements of, ; a natural right, - . see henry george, occupancy, labour, right, compensation, confiscation, defects, rent. land system: defects of the existing, - . land values: how created by the community, - ; increase of, - ; taxation of, - . langenstein: . lassalle, f.: . large estates: special taxation of, - . leadership: industrial, under socialism, - . leasing system: - . legislation: for labour, - , . liberty: under socialism, - . liebknecht, w.: . life: right to, ; true conception of, . limitation of fortunes: - ; directly, - ; by taxation, - . livelihood, decent: - ; the labourer's right to, - ; the employer's, . living wage: the minimum of wage justice, - ; three fundamental principles, - ; and a decent livelihood, - ; right of labourer to, - ; obligation of employer to pay, - ; for a family, - ; and social welfare, , ; authorities for, , ; money measure of, - ; versus other titles of reward, , , . loan capitalist: and the claims of the labourer, , , , . loans: attitude of church toward interest on, - ; and productive capital, , . maine, sir henry: . market value: and wage justice, - , , . marriage: right to, , ; and reasonable life, . marx, karl: - , , , . materialism: in current conception of welfare, - . meade, e. s.: , . menger, a.: . middle ages, doctrines of: on interest, , , , ; on titles of gain, ; on wage justice, - . minimum: of wage justice, - . minimum profits: question of right to, - . minimum wage: - , - ; in operation, - ; ethical and political aspects of, , ; economic aspect of, - ; opinions of economists on, - , - . modern: version of exchange-equivalence, - . monopoly: in relation to land, - ; moral aspect of, - ; excessive gains of, - ; efficiency of, - , - ; discriminative underselling by, - ; favors to by railroads, , ; natural, - ; suppression versus regulation of, - ; by labour, , . natural monopolies: - . natural rights: - . see rights. nearing, scott: - ; , , footnote. needs: as a canon of justice, , , - ; classification of, , ; exaggerated conception of, - ; a standard of wage justice in middle ages, , . occupancy, first: as a title to land, - ; as exemplified in increment taxes, . occupation: question of right to a livelihood from a present, , . original titles: see occupancy, labour. overcapitalization: - . see stockwatering. ownership: titles of determined by reasonable distribution, , . perkins, g. w.: . personality: as basis of industrial rights, - , . pesch, h.: . pope benedict xiv: . clement iv: . gregory the great: . innocent xi: . leo xiii: - , , , . sixtus v: . population: excessive increase of urban, . possession: as a partial justification of interest: , . possessors: obligation of to non-possessors, , . presumption: as a partial justification of interest, ; and the canon of productivity, . prevailing rate theory: of wage justice, - . prices: test of extortionate, , ; legalized agreements fixing, , ; versus wages, - . principles: three fundamental to living wage doctrine, - . product: distribution of national, - . see labour, labourer, right. production: of land values by the community, - ; co-operation in, - . productivity: as a title to the product, , , , , , , , ; as a title to interest, , , - , , ; of labour and capital, - ; as a canon of distribution, - , , ; as justifying large profits, - , , , ; as a title to wages, - , ; clark's theory of, - ; carver's theory of, - . profits: nature of, - ; as compared with interest and rent, , , , ; amount of, , ; in a corporation, , ; in conditions of competition, - ; indefinitely large, - ; minimum, - ; surplus and excessive, - ; in natural monopolies, , ; versus wages, - . "progress and poverty": , , , , , , , , . proudhon: . public honour: efficacy of under socialism: - . pullman company: . reform: versus revolution, . rent: economic, - ; commercial, ; how produced by society, - ; right of landowner to, - ; right of tenant and labourer to, - , ; increase and amount of, - ; distribution of, - ; in united states, . rent charges: attitude of theologians toward, , . "res fructificat domina": limitations of this formula, , , , , , , . revolution: versus reform, . riches: from land, , . right: of the individual to land, - ; of the community to land values and rent, - ; of the producer to his product, see productivity; of private landownership, - ; to take rent, - ; of access to the earth, - ; to a decent livelihood, - ; to a living wage, - , , . rights: three principal kinds of natural, - ; of property, as created by the state, . rodbertus, k.: . roman congregations: on lawfulness of interest taking, , . saint-simon: . sacrifice: principle of in taxation, , ; as a title to interest, - ; as a title of reward, - . savers: three kinds of, - . scarcity: effect of on rewards of productive agents, ; as a canon of distributive justice, , ; as justifying very large profits, and more than a living wage, - . schmoller: . schoolmen: doctrines of on wage justice, - . seligman, e. r. a.: , , . service: as a title to interest, , , , . shifting: of land taxes, , . sidgwick, h.: . single tax: injustice of, - , ; proposals and defects of, , , . skelton, o. d.: . small, a. w.: . social benefits: of special taxes on land, - . socialism: as regards land, , ; not inevitable, ; expropriation of capitalists by, - ; inefficiency of, - ; hostile to individual liberty, - ; not co-operation, , . socialists: on private landownership, - ; on interest, value, and labour, - ; on the collectivist state, , ; on morality of profits, ; on wage justice, - ; on the principle of needs, . socialist party: of the united states, on landownership, . spargo, john: . specific productivity: as a measure of wage justice, - . speculation: effect of on land values, , , . spencer, herbert: . standard oil company: , , . state, the: should permit interest, - ; power of to create property rights, - ; not obliged to guarantee living profits, ; fixing of maximum prices by, - ; and the "innocent" investor, , ; and the prevention of stockwatering, , ; and the limitation of fortunes, - ; and payment of living wages, ; and minimum wage, , , - ; and other labour legislation, , . stockholders: claim of to surplus gains, , , ; as related to stockwatering, - , . stockwatering: moral aspect of, - ; definition of, ; injurious effects of, - and the "innocent" investor, , ; magnitude of, , ; prevention of, , . stores: co-operation in, - . superfluous wealth: duty of distributing, - ; kinds of, , ; a false conception of, - ; true conception of, , . see wealth. supertax: on large landed estates, - . supply and demand: as determining rent, ; as determining interest, , . taussig, f. w.: , , , , ; on minimum wage, - . tawney, r. h.: . taxation: as a social instrument, , ; of increases in land value, - ; faculty theory of, , ; progressive, as a method of limiting fortunes, - . taxes: shifting of to land, - ; social benefits of, - . tenant: claim of to rent, - . theologians: on private landownership, - ; on interest, - , - ; on civil creation of property rights, ; on duty of benevolent distribution, , . thompson, w.: . undertaker: see business man. united states: special land taxes in, ; co-operation in, , ; minimum wage in, , - . united states commissioner of corporations, reports of: on standard oil company, , , , , ; on steel corporation, , , , , ; on water power ownership, , ; on the lumber industry, , , , ; on american tobacco company, , , ; on american sugar refining company, , , . united states shipbuilding company: , . united states steel corporation: , , , , . use: right, as a confirmatory justification of interest taking, - . value: marxian theory of, - , , , ; relation of to wage justice, - ; and to a living wage, , . van hise, c. r.: , , , , . wage justice: unacceptable theories of, - ; prevailing rate theory, - ; exchange equivalence theory, - ; productivity theories, - ; the minimum of, - ; problem of complete, - ; claims of different labour groups, - ; wages versus profits, - ; wages versus interest, - ; wages versus prices, - . wages: versus profits, - ; "equitable minimum" of, ; versus interest, - ; versus prices, - ; methods of increasing, - ; legal minimum, - ; other legislation for, , ; labour unions, - ; co-operative enterprise, - . wagner, a.: . watered stock: - . see stockwatering. water power: in the united states, , . wealth, superfluous: duty of distributing, - ; as regards a part, - ; as regards the whole, - ; a duty of charity or of justice, - ; the supply of capital and business ability, - ; false and true conceptions of, - . welfare: a false conception of, - ; true conception of, - ; social, demands a living wage for all, , . see human welfare. whittaker, sir thomas: , , . wicker, g. r.: , . williams, a.: . wolman, l.: , . women: right of to a living wage, . printed in the united states of america * * * * * the following pages contain advertisements of books by the same author or on kindred subjects. * * * * * socialism: promise or menace by morris hillquit and john a. ryan, d.d. _ pp., mo, $ . _ a debate on the right or wrong of the movement in which opposing arguments are presented dealing with various phases of the subject. the attack is made by dr. ryan, professor of moral theology and economics in st. paul seminary and author of _a living wage_. the defender, mr. hillquit, is a practising lawyer and has been a delegate to national and international socialist conferences for several years. "one of the most important books ever published, bearing on the issue of socialism."--_ohio state journal._ "many books have been written on the subject, but no better presentation of both sides in one volume can be found than in _socialism, promise or menace_.... it is a fine, fair and square discussion."--_congregationalist._ "nowhere else within the covers of a single volume can be found such a satisfactory presentation of the leading arguments and counter-arguments on a great question, for each debater is amply qualified to present his case."--boston _globe_. * * * * * _a living wage, its ethical and economic aspects_ by john a ryan, s.t.l. professor of ethics and economics in st. paul's seminary. _cloth, mo, $ . ; standard library edition, $. _ "father ryan's work on the living wage is perhaps the best exposition of the labor phase of the social problem. it has taken its place on the shelves of public and private libraries beside other standard works, while the name of the author is associated with the leading american sociologists. "the volume is prefaced by an introduction by professor richard t. ely, the noted american economist. as the title indicates, the subject is not merely treated from an economic point of view, but also in its economic aspects--a course of procedure that is somewhat of a departure from prevailing discussions of economic subjects. there is a tendency to treat political economy as a subject related to mathematics. statistics and axioms are the predominating features. however, the science of political economy cannot disregard the origin and destiny of man. "'the living wage' is based on the principles of christian philosophy. its logic proceeds from the christian conception of the dignity of man. father ryan's book is thus a most timely and necessary contribution to sociological literature. that 'the living wage' has met the popularity that it has, is evidence of the growing conviction that the social problem cannot be solved except on christian principles."--_common cause._ "it is refreshing to pick up a book by dr. ryan, who is always so sane and so convincing."--_north western chronicle._ "the book is considered the best presentation of catholic economic thought at the disposal of the general reader."--_albany times-union._ "that this economic study by father ryan is a solid work is evidenced by the fact that it was first published in , and was reprinted in , , and .... instead of appeals to sentiment or glittering generalities, professor ryan offers seasoned arguments and precise doctrine."--_portland evening telegram._ "the most judicious and balanced discussion at the disposal of the general reader."--_world to-day._ * * * * * property and contract in their relations to the distribution of wealth by richard t. ely, ph.d., ll.d. of the university of wisconsin, author of "outlines of economics," editor of the "citizens' library," etc. _in two volumes, $ . . special law library edition, sheep, vo, $ . _ in this work, which is based upon legal decisions as well as upon economic principles, a leading authority on political economy considers simply and concisely one of the greatest problems now before the american people. much has been heard and written of late about judicial readjustment and direct government, but few who have discussed the subject have seen the heart of it as clearly as does professor ely. of special importance is his treatment of the police power, a burning question in american jurisprudence. an idea of the scope and comprehensiveness of the work may be gained from the following condensed table of contents: introduction; book i, the fundamentals in the existing socio-economic order treated from the standpoint of distribution; part i, property, public and private: i, property, public and private, the first fundamental institution in the distribution of wealth; ii, illustrations showing the importance of property in wealth distribution; iii, property defined and described; iv, property, possession, estate, resources; v, the attribute and characteristic of property; vi, the social theory of private property; vii, property and the police power; viii, what may i own? ix, the conservative nature of the social theory of property; x, xi, a discussion of the kinds of property; xii, the general grounds for the maintenance of private property; xiii, a critical examination of the general grounds for the maintenance of private property; xiv, xv, xvi, xvii, xviii, xix, the present and future development of private property; xx, the transformation of public property into private property and of private property into public property; xxi, the management of public property with reference to distribution; xxii, theories of the origin of private property; part ii, contract and its conditions: i, introductory observations; ii, contract defined and described; iii, the economic significance of contract; iv, contract and individualism; v, criticism of the individualistic theory of contract and the social theory; vi, contracts for personal services; vii, class legislation; viii, facts as to impairment of liberty; ix, the courts and constitutions; x, concluding observations; appendix i, part iii, vested interests; appendix ii, part iv, personal conditions; appendix iii, production, present and future, by w. i. king, ph.d., instructor in statistics, university of wisconsin; appendix iv, list of cases illustrating the attitude of the courts toward property and contract rights and the consequent evolution of these rights, by samuel p. orth, ph.d., professor of political science, cornell university. * * * * * principles of economics by f. w. taussig henry lee professor of economics in harvard university _new edition. cloth, vo, vols., each $ . _ volume i, pages volume ii, pages the present edition of professor taussig's standard work embodies many changes throughout the text, thus bringing his work abreast of the most recent developments. the chapter on banking in the united states has been entirely re-written; as it now stands, it includes a description of the federal reserve bank system and a consideration of the principles underlying the new legislation. the chapter on trusts and combinations has been largely re-written, with reference to the laws enacted in . considerable addition and revision has been made in the chapter on workmen's insurance, calling attention to the noteworthy steps taken of late years in england and the united states. the chapters on taxation and especially on income taxes, and on some other topics, have been similarly brought to date. a remarkable tribute to the merit of this book is that while it was not intended primarily as a class text, it has been adopted for exclusive use as a text in many of the colleges and universities, both large and small. experience has shown conclusively that the book's clarity of expression and freedom from the usual technical treatment of the subject has made it an especially suitable text for all colleges. for the smaller institutions, the book has the additional advantage of containing all the necessary material required in the usual course in economics, and thus avoids the extra expense and trouble of using several other books to supplement the basic text. in fact, the value and the extended use of this work as a comprehensive, untechnical treatment of the subject, have led many eminent economists to regard it as the most notable contribution to the subject of economics since the time of john stuart mill. the macmillan company publishers - fifth avenue new york * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious typographical errors were corrected. hyphenation inconsistency between "co-partnership" as used by the author, and "copartnership" as in the title of a quoted reference, was retained as in the original. a few out-of-order index entries were relocated. advertisements: "the macmillan company publishers - fifth avenue new york" appeared at the bottom of each ad page in the original. this has been reduced to one occurrence after the final ad. team. shanty the blacksmith; a tale of other times by mrs. sherwood. . shanty the blacksmith. * * * * * it was during the last century, and before the spirit of revolution had effected any change in the manners of our forefathers, that the events took place, which are about to be recorded in this little volume. at that period there existed in the wild border country, which lies between england and scotland, an ancient castle, of which only one tower, a few chambers in the main building, certain offices enclosed in high buttressed walls, and sundry out-houses hanging as it were on those walls, yet remained. this castle had once been encircled by a moat which had been suffered to dry itself up, though still the little stream which used to fill it when the dams were in repair, murmured and meandered at the bottom of the hollow, and fed the roots of many a water plant and many a tree whose nature delights in dank and swampy soils. the verdure, however, which encircled this ancient edifice, added greatly to the beauty, when seen over the extent of waste and wild in which it stood. there can be no doubt but that the ancient possessors of this castle, which, from the single remaining barrier, and the name of the family, was called dymock's tower, had been no other than strong and dangerous free-booters, living on the plunder of the neighbouring kingdom of scotland. every one knows that a vast extent of land, waste or at best but rudely cultivated, had once belonged to the lords of dymock; but within a few years this family had fallen from affluence, and were at length so much reduced, that the present possessor could hardly support himself in any thing like the state in which he deemed it necessary for his father's son to live. mr. dymock was nearly thirty years of age, at the time our history commences; he had been brought up by an indolent father, and an aunt in whom no great trusts had been vested, until he entered his teens, at which time he was sent to edinburgh to attend the classes in the college; and there, being a quick and clever young man, though without any foundation of early discipline, or good teaching, and without much plain judgment or common sense, he distinguished himself as a sort of genius. one of the most common defects in the minds of those who are not early subjected to regular discipline is, that they have no perseverance; they begin one thing, and another thing, but never carry anything on to any purpose, and this was exactly the case with mr. dymock. whilst he was in edinburgh he had thought that he would become an author; some injudicious persons told him that he might succeed in that way, and he began several poems, and two plays, and he wrote parts of several treatises on mathematics, and physics, and natural history; the very titles of these works sound clever, but they were never finished. dymock was nearly thirty when his father died; and when he came to reside in the tower, his mind turned altogether to a new object, and that was cultivating the ground, and the wild commons and wastes all around him: and if he had set to work in a rational way he might have done something, but before he began the work he must needs invent a plough, which was to do wonderful things, and, accordingly, he set to work, not only to invent this plough, but to make it himself, or rather to put it together himself, with the help of a carpenter and blacksmith in the neighbourhood. but before we introduce the old blacksmith, who is a very principal person in our story, we must describe the way in which mr. dymock lived in his tower. his aunt, mrs. margaret dymock, was his housekeeper, and so careful had she always been, for she had kept house for her brother, the late laird, that the neighbours said she had half-starved herself, in order to keep up some little show of old hospitality. in truth, the poor lady was marvellously thin, and as sallow and gaunt as she was thin. some old lady who had stood for her at the font, in the reign of charles the second, had, at her death, left her all her clothes, and these had been sent to dymock's tower in several large chests. mrs. margaret was accordingly provided for, for life, with the addition of a little homespun linen, and stockings of her own knitting; but, as she held it a mighty piece of extravagance to alter a handsome dress, she wore her godmother's clothes in the fashion in which she found them, and prided herself not a little in having silks for every season of the year. large hoops were worn in those days, and long ruffles, and sacks short and long, and stomachers, and hoods, and sundry other conceits, now never thought of; but mrs. margaret thought that all these things had a genteel appearance, and showed that those who bought them and those who inherited them had not come of nothing. mrs. margaret, however, never put any of these fine things on, till she had performed her household duties, looked into every hole and corner in the offices, overlooked the stores, visited the larder, scullery and hen-yard, weighed what her three maids had spun the day before, skimmed the milk with her own hands, gathered up the candle ends, and cut the cabbage for the brose; all which being done, and the servants' dinner seen to, and it must be confessed, it was seldom that they had a very sumptuous regale, she dressed herself as a lady should be dressed, and sate down to her darning, which was her principal work, in the oval window in the chief room in the castle. darning, we say, was her principal work, because there was scarcely an article in the house which she did not darn occasionally, from the floor-cloth to her own best laces, and, as money was seldom forthcoming for renewing any of the finer articles in the house capable of being darned, no one can say what would have been the consequence, if mrs. margaret had been divested of this darning propensity. how the old lady subsisted herself is hardly known, for it often happened that the dinner she contrived for her nephew, was barely sufficient for him, and although on these occasions she always managed to seem to be eating, yet had mr. dymock had his eyes about him, he could not but have seen that she must often have risen from the table, after having known little more than the odour of the viands. nothing, however, which has been said of mrs. margaret dymock goes against that which might be said with truth, that there was a fund of kindness in the heart of the venerable spinster, though it was sometimes choked up and counteracted by her desire to make a greater appearance than the family means would allow. besides the three maids in the kitchen, there were a man and a boy without doors, two or three lean cows, a flock of sheep which were half starved on the moor, a great dog, and sundry pigs and fowls living at large about the tower; and, to crown our description, it must be added, that all the domestic arrangements which were beyond the sphere of mrs. margaret were as ill managed as those within her sphere were capitally well conducted; however, as mr. dymock said to her one day when she ventured to expostulate with him on this subject, "only have a little patience, my good aunt, when i have completed what i am now about, for instance my plough, you will see how i will arrange every thing. i cannot suffer these petty attentions and petty reforms to occupy me just now; what i intend to do will be done in a large way; i mean not only to repair but to restore the castle, to throw the whole of my lands to the north into a sheep-walk, to plant the higher points, and to convert the south lands into arable. but my first object is the plough, and that must be attended to, before everything else; the wood-work is all complete, but a little alteration must be made in the coulter, and after all, i apprehend i must do it myself, as old shanty is as stupid as his own hammer." mrs. margaret hinted that every man had not the ingenuity of her nephew; adding, however, that old shanty was as worthy and god-fearing a man as any on the moor. "i do not deny it," replied mr. dymock, "but what has worth and god-fearing to do with my plough. i have been trying in vain to make him understand what i want done, and am come to the resolution of going myself, taking off my coat, and working with him; i should make a better blacksmith in a week, than he has in forty years." mrs. margaret lifted up her hands and eyes, and then fetching a deep sigh, "that i should have lived to hear that," she exclaimed; "the last representative of the house of dymock proposing to work at a blacksmith's forge!" "and why not? mrs. margaret," replied the nephew, "does a gentleman lower himself when he works merely for recreation, and not for sordid pelf; you have heard of peter the great?" "bless me, nephew," replied the spinster, bridling, "where do you think my ears have been all my life, if i never heard of peter the great!" "you know then, that he worked with his own hands at a blacksmith's forge," returned the nephew. "i know no such thing," said mrs. margaret, "and if the romans say so, i account it only another of their many lies; and i wonder they are not ashamed to invent tales so derogotary to the honour of him they call their head!" "pshaw!" said the laird; "i am not speaking of the pope, but of the czar of all the russias!" "well! well! dymock;" returned mrs. margaret, "i only wish that i could persuade you from committing this derogation. however, if you must needs work with shanty, let me beg you to put on one of your old shirts; for the sparks will be sure to fly, and there will be no end of darning the small burns." "be assured aunt," said mr. dymock, "that i shall do nothing by halves; if i work with shanty, i shall put on a leathern apron, and tuck up my sleeves." "all this does not suit my notions," replied mrs. margaret: but her nephew had risen to leave her, and there was an end to the argument. as mr. dymock had told his aunt; so he did: he went to shanty's forge, he dressed himself like the old master himself, and set fairly to work, to learn the mysteries of the trade; mysteries which, however, as far as shanty knew them, were not very deep. [illustration: he went to shantys forge _see page _] there has not often been a more ill-arranged and unsettled mind than that of mr. dymock; his delight was in anything new, and for a few days he would pursue this novelty with such eagerness, that during the time he seemed to forget every thing else. it was a delicate job, and yet one requiring strength which was needed for the plough. shanty had told the laird at once, that it was beyond his own skill or strength, seeing that he was old and feeble, "and as to your doing it, sir," he said, "who cannot yet shape a horse-shoe! you must serve longer than a week, before you get that much knowledge of the craft; there is no royal way to learning, and even for the making of a horse-shoe a 'prenticeship must be served, and i mistake me very much if you don't tire before seven days service are over, let alone as many years." but, mr. dymock had as yet served only two days, when one evening a young man, a dark, athletic, bold-looking youth, entered the blacksmith's shed. it was an evening in autumn, and the shed was far from any house; dymock's tower was the nearest, and the sun was already so low that the old keep with its many mouldering walls, and out-buildings, was seen from the shed, standing in high relief against the golden sky. as the young man entered, looking boldly about him, shanty asked him what he wanted. "i want a horse-shoe," he replied. "a horse-shoe!" returned the blacksmith, "and where's your horse?" "i has no other horse than adam's mare," he replied; "i rides no other, but i want a horse-shoe." "you are a pretty fellow," returned shanty "to want a horse-shoe, and to have never a horse to wear him." "did you never hear of no other use for a horse-shoe, besides protecting a horse's hoof?" replied the youth. "i have," returned the blacksmith, "i have heard fools say, that neither witch nor warlock can cross a threshold that has a horse-shoe nailed over it. but mind i tell you, it must be a cast shoe." "well" said the young man, "suppose that i am plagued with one of them witches; and suppose that i should have bethought me of the horse-shoe, what would you think of me then? what may that be which you are now shaping; why may it not serve my turn as well as another? so let me have it, and you shall have its worth down on the nail." "did not i tell you," said shanty, sullenly, "that it must be a cast shoe that must keep off a witch; every fool allows that." "well," said the young man, looking about him, "have you never a cast shoe?" "no," replied shanty, "i have none here fit for your turn." "i am not particular," returned the young man, "about the shoe being an old one; there is as much virtue, to my thinking, in a new one; so let me have that you are about." "you shall have none of my handiworks, i tell you," said shanty, decidedly, "for none of your heathenish fancies and follies. the time was when i lent myself to these sort of follies, but, thank my god, i have learned to cast away, aye, and to condemn such degrading thoughts as these. believe me, young man, that if god is on your side, neither witch nor warlock, or worse than either, could ever hurt you." "well," said the young man, "if you will not make me one, will you let me make one for myself?" "are you a smith?" said mr. dymock, before shanty could reply. "am i a smith?" answered the young man; "i promise you, i should think little of myself if i was not as much above him, (pointing to shanty, who was hammering at his horse-shoe, with his back towards him,) as the sun is brighter than the stars." shanty took no notice of this piece of insolence; but mr. dymock having asked the stranger a few more questions, proceeded to show him the job he wanted done to his plough, and from one thing to another, the young man undertook to accomplish it in a few hours, if the master of the shed would permit. shanty did by no means seem pleased, and yet could not refuse to oblige mr. dymock; he, however, remarked, that if the coulter was destroyed, it was no odds to him. the young stranger, however, soon made it appear that he was no mean hand at the work of a blacksmith; he had not only strength, but skill and ingenuity, and in a short time had so deeply engaged the attention of dymock by his suggestions of improvements to this same plough, that the young laird saw none but him, and allowed the evening to close in, and the darkness of night to cover the heath, whilst still engaged in talking to the stranger, and hearkening to his ingenious comments on the machinery of the plough. in the meantime, although the sun had set in golden glory, dark and dense clouds had covered the heavens, the wind had risen and whistled dismally over the moor, and a shower of mingled rain and sleet blew into the shed, one side of which was open to the air. it was in the midst of this shower, that a tall gaunt female, covered with a ragged cloak, and having one child slung on her back, and another much older in her hand, presented herself at the door of the shed, and speaking in a broad northern dialect, asked permission to shelter herself and her bairns, for a little space in the corner of the hut. neither dymock nor the young man paid her any regard, or seemed to see her, but shanty made her welcome, and pointing to a bench which was within the glow of the fire of the forge, though out of harm's way of sparks or strokes, the woman came in, and having with the expertness of long use, slung the child from her back into her arms, she sate down, laying the little one across her knee, whilst the eldest of the two children dropped on the bare earth with which the shed was floored, and began nibbling a huge crust which the mother put into his hand. in the meantime, work went on as before the woman had come in, nor was a word spoken, till shanty, looking up from the horse-shoe which he was hammering, remarked in his own mind, that he wondered that the little one stretched on the woman's knee, was not awakened and frightened by the noise of the forge; but there the creature lies, he thought, as if it had neither sense or hearing. when this strange thought suggested itself, the old man dropped his hammer, and fixing his eye on the infant, he seemed to ask himself these questions,--what, if the child should be dead? would a living child, drop as that did from the back of the woman on her lap, like a lump of clay, nor move, nor utter a moan, when thrown across its mother's lap? urged then by anxiety, he left his anvil, approached the woman, and stood awhile gazing at the child, though unable for some minutes to satisfy himself, or to put away the horrible fear that he might perchance be looking at a body without life. mr. dymock was acting the part of bellows-blower, in order to assist some work which the young stranger was carrying on in the fire. the lad who generally performed this service for shanty, had got permission for a few hours, to visit his mother over the border, mr. dymock having told him in all kindness that he would blow for him if needs must. but the fitful light--the alternate glow and comparative darkness which accompanied and kept time with the motion of the bellows, made it almost impossible for the old man to satisfy himself concerning his horrible imagination. he saw that the infant who lay so still on the woman's lap, was as much as two years of age; that, like the woman, it had dark hair, and that its complexion was olive; and thus he was put out in his first notion, that the child might perchance be a stolen one. but the bellows had filled and exhausted themselves many times before his mind was set at rest with regard to his first fearful thought; at length, however, the child moved its arm, and uttered a low moan, though without rousing itself from its sleep; on which shanty, being satisfied, turned back to his block and his horse-shoe, and another half-hour or more passed, during which the tempest subsided, the clouds broke and began to disappear, and the stars to come forth one by one, pointing out the direction of the heavens to the experienced eye of the night-walking traveller. the woman observing this, arose, and taking the sleeping babe in her arms whilst the other child clung to her cloak, she thanked the blacksmith for the convenience of the shelter which he had given her; when he, with the courtesy of one who, though poor and lowly, had been admitted to high conference with his redeemer, invited her to stay longer--all night if she pleased,--regretting only that he had nothing to offer her but a bed of straw, and a sup of sowens for the little ones. "for which," she replied, "i thank you; what can any one give more than what he has. but time is precious to me, this night i must be over the border; mind me, however, i shall remember you, and mayhap may call again." so saying, she passed out of the shed, almost as much disregarded by dymock in her going out, as she had been in coming in. and now, for another hour, the strokes of the hammers of old shanty and the young stranger might have been heard far over the moor in the stillness of the night, for the wind had entirely died away, and the fitful glare of the forge, still shone as a beacon over the heath. at length, however, the job which the stranger had undertaken was finished, and dymock, having given him a silver piece, the only one in his pocket, the young man took his leave, saying as he went out, and whilst he tossed the silver in his hand,--"well, if i have not got what i came for, i have got that which is as good, and in return for your civility, old gentleman," he added, addressing shanty, "i give you a piece of advice; nail the horse-shoe, which you would not spare to me, over your own door, for i tell you, that you are in no small danger of being over-reached by the very warlock, who has haunted my steps for many a day." so saying, he went gaily, and with quick step, out of the shed, and his figure soon disappeared in a ravine or hollow of the moor. in the mean time, dymock and shanty stood at the door. the former being full of excitement, respecting the wonderful sagacity of the singular stranger, and the other being impatient to see the master off, as he wanted to shut up his shed, and to retire to the little chamber within, which served him for sleeping apartment, kitchen, and store-room, not to say study, for our worthy shanty never slept without studying the holy word of god. but whilst these two were standing, as we said, at the door, suddenly, a low moan reached their ears, as coming from their left, where the roof of the shed being lengthened out, afforded shelter for any carts, or even, on occasion, waggons, which might be brought there, for such repairs as shanty could give them. at that time, there was only one single cart in the shed, and the cry seemed to come from the direction of this cart. dymock and shanty were both startled at the cry, and stood in silence for a minute or more, to ascertain if it were repeated. another low moan presently ensued, and then a full outcry, as of a terrified child. dymock and shanty looked at each other, and shanty said, "it is the beggar woman. she is still skulking about, i will be bound; hark!" he added, "listen! she will be stilling the child, she's got under the cart." but the child continued to screech, and there was neither threat nor blandishment used to still the cries. dymock seemed to be so thoroughly astounded, that he could not stir, but shanty going in, presently returned with a lighted lanthorn, and an iron crow-bar in his hand; "and now," he said, "mr. dymock, we shall see to this noise," and they both turned into the out-building, expecting to have to encounter the tall beggar, and with her perhaps, a gang of vagrants. they, however, saw only the infant of two years' old, who had lain like a thing dead on the woman's lap, though not dead, as shanty had feared, but stupified with hollands, the very breath of the baby smelling of the spirit when dymock lifted it out of the cart and brought it into the interior shed. shanty did not return, till he had investigated every hole and corner of his domain, with the crow-bar in one hand, and the lanthorn in the other. the baby had ceased to cry, when brought into the shed, and feeling itself in the arms of a fellow-creature, had yielded to the influence of the liquor, and had fallen again into a dead sleep, dropping back on the bosom of mr. dymock. "they are all off," said shanty, as he entered the house, "and have left us this present. we have had need, as that young rogue said, of the horse-shoe over our door. we have been over-reached for once; that little one is stolen goods, be sure, mr. dymock,--some great man's child for aught we know,--the wicked woman will not call again very soon, as she promised, and what are we to do with the child? had my poor wife been living, it might have done, but she is better off! what can i do with it?" "i must take it up to the tower," said mr. dymock, "and see if my aunt margaret will take to it, and if she will not, why, then there are charity schools, and poor-houses to be had recourse to; yet i don't fear her kind heart." "nor i neither, mr. dymock," said shanty, and the old man drew near to the child, and holding up his lanthorn to the sleeping baby, he said, "what like is it? gipsy, or jew? one or the other; those features, if they were washed, might not disgrace sarah or rachel." "the mouth and the form of the face are grecian," said dymock, "but the bust is oriental." shanty looked hard at his patron, as trying to understand what he meant by _oriental_ and _grecian;_ and then repeated his question, "gipsy or jew, mr. dymock? for i am sure the little creature is not of our northern breed." "we shall see by and bye," said dymock, "the question is, what is to be done now? i am afraid that aunt margaret will look prim and stately if i carry the little one up to the tower; however, i see not what else to do. who is afraid? but put your fire out, shanty, and come with us. you shall carry the bantling, and i will take the lanthorn. mayhap, aunt margaret may think this arrangement the more genteel of the two. so let it be." and it was so; old shanty turned into child-keeper, and the laird into lanthorn-carrier, and the party directed their steps towards the tower, and much talk had they by the way. now, as we have said before, there was a fund of kindness in the heart of mrs. margaret dymock, which kindness is often more consistent than some people suppose, with attention to economy, especially when that economy is needful; and moreover, she had lately lost a favourite cat, which had been, as she said, quite a daughter to her. therefore the place of pet happened to be vacant just at that time, which was much in favour of the forlorn child's interests. dymock had taken shanty with him into the parlour, in which mrs. margaret sat at her darning; and he had suggested to the old man, that he might just as well tell the story himself for his aunt's information, and account for the presence of the infant; and, in his own words, mrs. margaret took all very well, and even did not hint that if her nephew had been in his own parlour, instead of being in a place where vagrants were sheltered, he would at all events have been out of this scrape. but the little one had awoke, and had begun to weep, and the old lady's heart was touched, so she called one of the maids, and told her to feed the babe and put it to sleep; after which, having ordered that shanty should be regaled with the bladebone of a shoulder of mutton, she withdrew to her room to think what was next to be done. the result of mrs. margaret's thoughts were, that come what might, the child must be taken care of for a few days, and must be washed and clothed; and, as the worthy lady had ever had the habit of laying by, in certain chests and boxes piled on each other in her large bed-room, all the old garments of the family not judged fitting for the wear of cottagers, she had nothing more to do than, by the removal of half-a-dozen trunks, to get at a deal box, which contained the frocks, and robes, and other garments which her nephew had discarded when he put on jacket and trousers. from these she selected one of the smallest suits, and they might have been seen airing at the kitchen fire by six o'clock that morning. hot water and soap were next put in requisition, and as soon as the baby awoke, she was submitted to such an operation by the kitchen fire, as it would appear she had not experienced for a long time. the little creature was terribly frightened when soused in the water, and screeched in a pitiful manner; the tears running from her eyes, and the whole of her small person being in a violent tremor. the maids, however, made a thorough job of it, and scoured the foundling from head to foot. at length mrs. margaret, who sat by, directing the storm, with a sheet across her lap and towels in her hand, pronounced the ablution as being complete, and the babe was lifted from the tub, held a moment to drip, and then set on the lap of the lady, and now the babe seemed to find instant relief. the little creature was no sooner placed on mrs. margaret's knee, than, by some strange and unknown association, she seemed to think that she had found an old friend,--some faintly remembered nurse or mother,--whom she had met again in mrs. dymock, and quivering with delight, she sprang on her feet on the lady's lap, and grasped her neck in her arms, pressing her little ruby lips upon her cheek; and on one of the maids approaching again with some of her clothes, she strained her arms more closely round mrs. margaret, and perfectly danced on her lap with terror lest she should be taken away from her. "lord help the innocent babe!" said the old lady, "what is come to her?" and mrs. margaret's eyes were full of tears; but the good lady then soothed and carressed the babe, and instructed her to sit down on her knees, whilst she directed the servant to assist in dressing her. but no, no, it would not do; no one was to touch her but mrs. margaret; and the old lady, drawing herself up, at length said,--"well, janet, we must give way, i suppose; it seems that i am to be the favourite; there is something in my physiognomy which has taken the child's fancy; come, hand me the clothes, i must try my skill in dressing this capricious little dame." mrs. margaret was evidently pleased by the poor orphan's preference, and whilst she was dressing the infant, there was time to discover that the little child was a perfect beauty in her way; the form of her face being oval, the features exquisite, the eyes soft, yet sparkling, and the lips delicately formed. the hair, of raven black, was clustered and curling, and the head set on the shoulders in a way worthy of the daughters of kings; but the servants pointed out on the arm of the infant, a peculiar mark which was not natural, but which had evidently been burnt therein. one said it was a fan, and another a feather; but mrs. margaret augured vast things from it, pronouncing that the child surely belonged to some great person, and that no one could say what might be the consequence of kindness shown to such a child. as soon as mr. dymock came down into the breakfast-room, mrs. margaret came swimming in with the child in her arms, exclaiming, "a pretty piece of work you have done for me, nephew! i am under a fine servitude now;" and she primmed up her mouth, but her eye laughed,--"little miss here, chooses to be waited on by me, and me only; and here i am, with nothing to do but to attend on my lady." "little miss," said mr. dymock, "what little miss? who have you got there?" "neither more nor less," replied mrs. margaret, "than your foundling." "impossible!" said mr. dymock: "why, what have you done to her?" "merely washed, combed, and dressed her," said mrs. margaret; "give me credit, nephew, and tell me what i have brought out by my diligence." "you have brought out a brilliant from an unfinished stone," exclaimed mr. dymock; "that is a beautiful child; i shall have extreme delight in making as much of that fine mind, as you have done with that beautiful exterior." "then you do not think of putting her in a foundling hospital or a workhouse, nephew, as you proposed last night?" said mrs. margaret, with a smile. "it would be a folly," replied the nephew, "to degrade such a creature as that;" and he attempted to kiss the baby; but, swift as thought, she had turned her face away, and was clinging to mrs. margaret. the old lady primmed up again with much complacency, "did i not tell you, nephew, how it was," she said, "nothing will do but aunt margaret. well, i suppose i must give her my poor pussy's corner in my bed. but now her back is turned to you, dymock, observe the singular mark on her shoulder, and tell me what it is?" mr. dymock saw this mark with amazement:--he saw that it was no natural mark; and at length, though not till after he had examined it many times, he made it out, or fancied he had done so, to be a branch of a palm tree. from the first he had made up his mind that this was a jewish child; and, following the idea of the palm-tree, and tracing the word in a hebrew lexicon,--for he was a hebrew scholar, though not a deep one,--he found that tamar was the hebrew for a palm tree. "and tamar it shall be," he said; "this maid of judah, this daughter of zion shall be called tamar;" and he carried his point, although mrs. margaret made many objections, saying it was not a christian name, and therefore not proper for a child who was to be brought up as a christian. however, as mr. dymock had given up his whim of learning the business of a smith since the adventure which has been so fully related, and had forgotten the proposed experiment of turning up the whole moor round the tower with his new-fangled plough,--that plough having ceased to be an object of desire to him as soon as it was completed,--she thought it best to give way to this whim of giving the child so strange a name, and actually stood herself at the font, as principal sponsor for little tamar. thus, the orphan was provided with a happy home; nor, as mrs. margaret said, did she ever miss the child's little bite and sup. after a few days, the babe would condescend to leave mrs. margaret, when required to go to the servants. she would even, when directed so to do, steal across the floor, and accept a seat on mr. dymock's knee, and gradually she got very fond of him. nor was her affection unrequited; he had formed a theory about her,--and it was not a selfish theory, for he never expected to gain anything by her,--but he believed that she was of noble but unfortunate jewish parentage, and he built this theory on the singular grace and beauty of her person. at all events, he never doubted but that she was a jewess; and he talked of it, and thought of it, till he was entirely convinced that it was so, and had convinced his aunt also, and established the persuasion in the minds of most persons about him. if mr. dymock was not a genius, he had all the weaknesses commonly attributed to genius, and, in consequence, was as useless a being as ever cumbered the ground; yet, he was generally loved, and no one loved him more than tamar did, after she had got over her first baby fear of him. but mrs. margaret, who had no pretensions to genius, was the real benefactor of this child, and as far as the lady was concerned in bringing her up, performed the part of a truly affectionate mother. her first effort was made to bring the will of the child, which was a lofty one, under subjection to her own; and the next, to give her habits of industry and self-denial. she told her that whatever she might hear respecting her supposed parentage, she was merely a child without pretentions, and protected from motives of love, and of love only; that her protectors were poor, and ever likely to remain so, and that what god required of her, was that when able, she should assist them as they had assisted her in helpless infancy. as to religion, mrs. margaret taught her what she herself knew and believed; but her views were dark and incomplete, she saw not half as much of the great mystery of salvation, as had been revealed to shanty in his hut; yet, the desire of doing right in the sight of god, had been imparted to her, and this desire was a fixed principle, and did not appear to be affected by her want of knowledge. as to forms, mrs. margaret had her own, and she was very attentive to them, but she had very small opportunity of public worship, as there was no church within some miles of the tower. in the meantime, whilst the old lady went plodding on in her own quiet way, teaching the little girl all she knew herself, mr. dymock was planning great things by way of instruction for tamar. he was to teach her to read her native language, as he called the hebrew, and to give her various accomplishments, for he had dipped into innumerable branches, not only of the sciences, but of the arts; and as he happened to have met with a mind in tamar which was as rapid as his own, though far more plodding and persevering, the style of teaching which he gave her, produced far richer fruit than could possibly have been expected. but as rome was not built in a day, neither must it be supposed that good mrs. margaret had not many a laborious, if not weary hour before her part of the care necessary to the well-rearing of the child, was so complete that the worthy woman might sit down and expect a small return; for, as she was wont to say, the child could not be made, for years after she could hold a needle, to understand that the threads should not be pulled as tight in darning as in hem stitch, and this, she would say, was unaccountable, considering how docile the child was in other matters; and, what was worst of all, was this,--that the little girl, who was as wild and fleet, when set at liberty, as a gazelle of the mountains, added not unseldom to the necessity of darning, until mrs. margaret bethought herself of a homespun dress in which tamar was permitted to run and career during all hours of recreation in the morning, provided she would sit quietly with the old lady in an afternoon, dressed like a pretty miss, in the venerable silks and muslins which were cut down for her use when no longer capable of being worn by mrs. margaret. by this arrangement tamar gained health during one part of the day, and a due and proper behaviour at another; and, as her attachment to mrs. margaret continued to grow with her growth, many and sweet to memory in after-life were the hours she spent in childhood, seated on a stool at the lady's feet, whilst she received lessons of needlework, and heard the many tales which the old lady had to relate. mrs. margaret having led a life without adventures, had made up their deficiency by being a most graphic recorder of the histories of others; scheherazade herself was not a more amusing story-teller; and if the arabian princess had recourse to genii, talismans, and monsters, to adorn her narratives, neither was mrs. dymock without her marvellous apparatus; for she had her ghosts, her good people, her dwarfs, and dreadful visions of second sight, wherewith to embellish her histories. there was a piety too, a reference in all she said to the pleasure and will of a reconciled god, which added great charms to her narratives, and rendered them peculiarly interesting to the little girl. whilst tamar was under her seventh year, she never rambled beyond the moat alone; but being seven years old, and without fear, she extended her excursions, and not unseldom ran as far as shanty's shed. the old man had always taken credit to him self for the part he had had in the prosperity of the little girl, and mrs. margaret did not fail to tell her how she had first come to the tower in shanty's arms; on these occasions the child used to say,--"then i must love him, must not i ma'am?" and being told she must, she did so, that is, she encouraged the feeling; and on a sunday when he was washed and had his best coat on, she used to climb upon his knees, for she always asked leave to visit him on that day if he did not come up to the tower, as he often did, to ask for her, and being on his knees she used to repeat to him what she had been learning during the week. he was very much pleased, when she first read a chapter in the bible, and then it was that he first opened out to her some of his ideas on religion; which were much clearer and brighter than either mrs. margaret's or her nephew's. how this poor and solitary old man had obtained these notions does not appear; he could not have told the process himself, though, as he afterwards told tamar, all the rest he knew, had seemed to come to him, through the clearing and manifestation of one passage of scripture, and this passage was col. iii. . "but christ is all." "this passage," said the old man, "stuck by me for many days. i was made to turn it about and about, in my own mind, and to hammer it every way, till at length, i was made to receive it, in its fulness. christ i became persuaded, is not all to one sort of men, and not all to another sort, nor all at one time of a man's life, and not all at another; nor all in one circumstance of need, and not all in another; nor all to the saints and not all to the sinner; nor all in the hour of joy, and not all in the hour of retribution; being ready and able to supply one want, and unwilling to supply another. for," as he would add, "does a man want righteousness? there it is laid for him in christ; does he want merit? there is the treasure full and brimming over; does he want rest and peace? they are also provided for him; does he want faith? there also is faith prepared for him; but the times and the seasons, these are not given to him to know; and, if confusion and every evil work now prevail, christ being all, he will bring order out of confusion, when the fulness of the time shall come. "and so," continued the old man, "when it was given me to see and accept this one passage first, in its completeness, all other parts of scripture seemed to fall at once into their places; and the prophecies; the beautiful prophecies of future peace and joy to the earth, of the destruction of death and of hell, all opened out to me, as being hidden and shut up in christ,--for christ is all; and as i desired the treasure, so i was drawn more and more towards him who keeps the treasure, and all this," he would add, "was done for me, through no deserts or deservings of my own; for till this light was vouchsafed me, i was as other unregenerate men, living only to myself, and for myself; and more than this," he would say, "were it the divine will to withdraw the light, i should turn again to be dead and hard, as iron on the cold anvil." in this way, shanty often used to talk to mrs. margaret, and after a while to tamar; but the old lady for many years remained incapable of entering so entirely as he could wish, into his views of the sufficiency of the redeemer. she could not give up entirely her notions of the need of some works, not as evidences of the salvation of an individual, but as means of ensuring that salvation, and accordingly she never met with shanty for many years, without hinting at this discrepancy in their opinions, which hints seldom failed of bringing forward an argument. when tamar was about nine years old, mr. dymock gave her a dog. of this creature she was very fond, and always accustomed it to accompany her in her excursions around the tower. there was on the moor, not many hundred paces from the tower, a heap of blocks of granite, some of which bore evidence of having been cut with a chisel; but these were almost entirely grown over with saxifrages and other wild plants. the country people seldom resorted to this place, because they accounted it uncanny, and mrs. margaret had several wild tales to tell about it, which greatly interested tamar. she said, that in the times of papal power, there had been a monastery there, and in that place a covenanter had been murdered; hence, it had been pulled down to the ground, and all the unholy timbers and symbols of idolatry burnt; "and still," she added, "to this day, uncanny objects are seen in that place, and wailings as of souls in woe have also been heard coming from thence; and i myself have heard them. nay, so short a time ago as the night or two before you, tamar, were brought a baby to this house, a light was seen there, and unearthly voices heard as coming from thence." of course after this, it could not be thought that tamar should approach this place quite alone, though she often desired to do so; had not mrs. margaret told her these stories, she probably might never have had this desire, but there is a principle in human nature, which hankers after the thing forbidden; hence, as st. paul says, "by the law is the knowledge of sin." we are not defending human nature, which is indefensible, but merely stating facts. tamar had much desire to visit this mysterious place; and so it happened one day, when she had her dog with her, and the sun was shining, and all about her bright and gay, that she climbed up the little green knoll, and pushing her way through many brambles, furze bushes, and dwarf shrubs, she found herself in the centre of the huge heaps of stones and rubbish, of which she had hitherto seen only the summits, from the windows of the tower. but being arrived there, she came to a stand, to look about her, when her dog, to whom dymock had given the poetical name of sappho, began to prick up her ears, and snuff as if she scented something more than ordinary, and the next minute, she dashed forward, made her way through certain bushes, and disappeared. tamar called aloud; a hollow echo re-sounded her voice, but no dog appeared;--again she called,--again she heard the echo, and again she was silent; but she was by no means a timid child; she had been too much accustomed to be alone,--too much used to explore old corners, of which there were multitudes about the tower, occupied only by owls and bats. she therefore went forward to the place where sappho had disappeared, and forcing aside the shrubs, she saw before her a low, arched door-way, which, had she understood architecture, she would have known, from the carvings about the posts and lintel, to have been norman. she was surprised, indeed, but thinking only of her dog, she called again, and was perfectly amazed at the long, hollow, and deep sound, of the reverberation. she stood still again, holding the bushes aside, and was aware of a rush of damp vapour, blowing in her face. sappho, she called again, and the next minute heard an impatient bark, or yelp, from the animal, and another sound, low, deep and muttering, which she could not comprehend. she was now getting much alarmed and dropping the boughs, took to flight, and she had scarcely cleared the rubbish, when sappho came scouring after her, jumping upon her as if glad to see her again. she patted her head, saying "my poor sappho, what have you seen in that dark place? i wish you had a tongue to tell me." tamar immediately returned to the tower, and hastened to tell her adventure to mrs. margaret. "oh!" said the old lady, "is it so? that reminds me of what i heard my father say, many and many is the year gone by, that there was an old tradition of a secret passage underground from the monastery to the tower; but he never knew where the passage came into the tower. but be it which way it might, it must needs have passed under the moat." "how strange!" said tamar; "but when that passage was made, it could not have been secret; many people must have known it, and i wonder, then, how it could have been so entirely forgotten." "who shall say how things were done in those days," said mrs. margaret; "those times long past, when things uncanny had more power than they have now? but it is not good to talk of such things," added the lady; "and now, tamar, let that which you have seen to-day never again be mentioned by you; for, as sure as the master should hear of it, he would be for looking into the cavern, and, heaven knows what he might stir up, if he were to disturb such things as might be found there. i only wish that that the mischief may not be already done!" but no mischief did occur, at least for a long time, from this mysterious quarter. tamar did not again visit the place; and in a short time thought no more of the matter. the happy days of childhood were passing away with tamar, and sorrow was coming on her patrons, from a quarter which poor mrs. margaret had long darkly anticipated; but whilst these heavy clouds were hanging over the house of dymock, a few, though not very important events intervened. mr. dymock, by fits and snatches, had given such lessons to tamar as had enabled her to proceed, by her own exertions, in several branches of knowledge quite out of the sphere of mrs. margaret. amongst these was the history of the jews, carried on in connection between the new and old testament, and afterwards in christian times, and to these he added certain crude views of prophecy; for he was resolved that tamar was a jewess, and he had talked himself into the belief that she was of some distinguished family. it is no difficult matter to impress young persons with ideas of their own importance; and none are more liable to receive such impressions, than those who, like tamar, are in the dark respecting their origin. the point on which mr. dymock failed in his interpretations of prophecy, is not unfrequently mistaken, even in this more enlightened age. he never considered or understood, that all prophecy is delivered in figurative language; every prophecy in the old testament having first a literal and incomplete fulfilment, the complete and spiritual fulfilment being future. he did not see that the jews, according to the flesh, were types of the spiritual israel; that david was the emblem of the saviour; and that the universal kingdom promised to the seed of david, was no other than the kingdom of christ, into which all the children of god will be gathered together as into one fold under one shepherd. not seeing this, he anticipated a period of earthly triumph for the jews, such as an ambitious, worldly man might anticipate with delight; and he so filled the mind of his young pupil with these notions of the superiority of her race, that it is a miracle that he did not utterly ruin her. as it was, she counted herself greatly superior to all about her, and was much hurt and offended when old shanty represented the simple truth to her, telling her, that even were she the lineal descendant of solomon himself, she could have no other privilege than that of the lowest gentile who has obtained a new birth-right in the saviour of mankind; "for," said he, "under the gospel dispensation there is no difference between the jew and the greek,--the same lord over all, is rich unto all that call upon him," rom. x. . it did not, however, suit tamar to adopt these truths at the present time; and as shanty could not succeed with her, he took the liberty of speaking to mr. dymock on the subject. "why do you fill the young girl's mind, dymock," said he, "with such fancies as you do? but, leaving her alone, let us speak of the jews in general. they that wish them well should not fill them up with notions of a birth-right which they have forfeited, and thus confirm them in the very same pride which led them to crucify the lord of glory. what is a jew more than another man? for he is not a jew which is one outwardly; neither is that circumcision which is outward in the flesh; but he is a jew which is one inwardly, and circumcision is that of the heart, in the spirit, and not in the letter, whose praise is not of men but of god." rom. ii. , . mr. dymock would not listen to honest shanty on this subject, much as he respected him; and, indeed, the poor laird was at this time deeply oppressed with other matters. he had, in his various speculations, so entirely neglected his own affairs for some years past, that poverty, nay actual penury, was staring in his face. he had formerly mortgaged, by little and little, most of his lands, and nothing now remained to make money of, but the castle itself and a few acres around it, with the exception only of a cottage and a small field, hitherto occupied by a labourer, which lay in a kind of hollow on the side of the knoll, where the entrance of the secret cavern was. this cottage was as remote from dymock's tower in one way, as shanty's shed was in another; although the three dwellings formed together a sort of equilateral triangle. mr. dymock long suspected that this labourer had done his share to waste his substance; and once or twice it had occurred to him, that if he left the castle he might retire to the cottage. but yet, to part with the castle, could he find a purchaser, would, he feared, be death to mrs. margaret, and how would tamar bear it?--this glorious maid of judah, as he was wont to call her,--this palm tree of zion, this daughter of david,--the very fine person, and very superior air of tamar having confirmed him in the impression of her noble birth. it was whilst these heavy thoughts respecting what must be done in the management of his affairs dwelt on his mind, that the same man who had finished the unfortunate plough appeared again in shanty's shed. the old man recognized him immediately, although fourteen years had much changed his appearance, and he at once charged him with having had some concern with the woman who left the child. the well-acted astonishment of the vagrant, for such he was, silenced shanty, though it did not convince him that he was mistaken in his conjecture. however, the old man, changing his mode of attack, and regretting that he had put the stranger on his guard by giving him so home a thrust, pretended to be convinced, and entered into easy conversation with him; amongst other things asking him if perchance he knew of any one who wanted to purchase an estate? "aye!" said the vagrant, to whom as we small have the pleasure of introducing him again, we think it may be well to give the name of harefoot,--"aye! old gentleman, and might one ask where this estate of yours may be?" "it is of no consequence," replied shanty, "i answer no questions, as not being empowered so to do. at all events, however, the estate is not far from hence, and it is a magnificent place, i promise you, more's the pity, that those who have owned it for some hundreds of years, should be compelled to part with it." other matters were then introduced, and shanty endeavoured to wind about harefoot, but with little success; for, deep as he thought himself, he had one deeper to deal with. in truth, poor shanty was but a babe in cunning, and the vagrant departed, without having dropped a single hint which could be taken hold of respecting tamar. in the meantime troubles were pressing upon poor dymock, the interest of moneys lent on the motgage was not forthcoming, and the laird having no better friend (and as to a sincerer he needed none,) than poor shanty, used from day to day to go down to the shed, to open his heart to the old man. shanty had long advised his patron to tell his situation to mrs. margaret, and to advertise the sale of the castle, but dymock's pride had not yet so far submitted itself, as to enable him to make so public a confession of the downfall of the family, as an advertisement would do. "i cannot open my heart to my aunt, shanty," he said, "she, poor creature, has devoted her whole life to keeping up the dignity of the house; how, then, will she bear to see the whole labour of her life annihilated?" "the sooner she knows of what is coming the better," returned shanty, "if she is not prepared, the blow when it comes, will go nigh utterly to overpower her," and the old man proposed to go himself, to open the matter to her. "you shall, shanty, you shall," said the laird, "but wait a little, wait a little, we may hear of a purchaser for the castle, and when such a one is found, then you shall speak to my aunt." "but first," said shanty, "let me prepare your adopted one, let me open the matter to her; she is of an age, in which she ought to think and act no longer as a child; it is now fourteen years since i carried her up in my arms to dymock's tower, and though the young girl is too much filled up with pride, yet i fear not but that she is a jewel, which will shine brighter, when rubbed under the wheel of adversity; allowing what i hope, that there is a jewel under that crust of pride." "pride!" repeated dymock, flying off into the region of romance, "and if a daughter of zion, a shoot from the cedar of lebanon, is not to carry her head high, who is to do so? the fate of her race may indeed follow her, and she may be brought down, to sit in the dust, but still even in the dust, she may yet boast her glorious origin." shanty raised his hands and eyes, "lord help you! dymock," he said, "but you are clean demented. i verily believe, that the child is nothing mere than the offspring of a begging gipsy, and that if her mother had been hanged, she would only have met with her deserts." discussions of this kind were constantly taking place between shanty and dymock, and it was in the very midst of one these arguments, that the rare appearance of a hired chaise,--a job and pair, as shanty called it, appeared coming over the moor, directly to the shed, and so quick was the approach, that the laird and the blacksmith had by no means finished their conjectures respecting this phenomenon, before the equipage came to a stand, in the front of the hut. as the carriage stopped, a spare, sallow, severe looking old gentlemen, put his head out of the window, and calling to the post boy, in a sharp, querulous tone, asked if he were quite sure that he was right? "not sure that this is old shanty's hut; shanty of dymock's moor," replied the post-boy, in a broad northern accent; "ask me if i don't know my own mother's son, though she never had but one bairn." dymock and shanty no sooner heard the voice of the boy, than they both recognized him, and stepping forward, they went up to the carriage and offered to assist the old gentleman to alight; he received their civilities with very little courtesy. however, he got out of the carriage, and giving himself a shake, and a sort of twist, which caused the lappets of his coat to expand, like the fan-tail of a pigeon, he asked, if the place was dymock's moor, and if the old man he saw before him, was one called shanty of the moor? the blacksmith declared himself to be that same person, "and this gentlemen," he added, pointing to dymock, whose every day dress, by the bye, did not savor much of the laird, "this gentleman is dymock himself." "ah, is it so," said the stranger, "my business then is with him, show me where i can converse with him." "i have no parlour to offer you," said shanty; "to my shed, however, such as it is, i make you welcome." no gracious notice was taken by the stranger of the offer, but without preamble or ceremony, he told his errand to mr. dymock. "i hear," he said, "that you wish to sell your tower, and the lands which surround it; if after looking at it, and finding that it suits me, you will agree to let me have it, i will pay you down in moneys, to the just and due amount of the value thereof, but first i must see it." "it stands there, sir," said shanty, seeing that mr. dymock's heart was too full to permit him to speak; "it stands there, sir, and is as noble an object as my eye ever fell upon. the tower," continued the old man, "at this minute, lies directly under the only dark cloud now in the heavens; nevertheless, a slanting ray from the westering sun now falls on its highest turret; look on, sir, and say wherever have you seen a grander object?" the old gentleman uttered an impatient pish, and said, "old man, your travels must needs have lain in small compass, if you think much of yon heap of stones and rubbish." the laird's choler was rising, and he would infallibly have told the stranger to have walked himself off, if shanty had not pulled him by the sleeve, and, stepping before the stranger, said something in a soothing way, which should enhance the dignity of the tower and encourage the pretended purchaser. "i must see it, i must see it," returned the old gentleman, "not as now mixed up with the clouds, but i must examine it, see its capabilities, and know precisely what it is worth, and how it can be secured to me and my heirs for ever." it was warm work which poor shanty now had to do; between the irritated seller and the testy buyer, he had never been in a hotter place before his own forge, and there was wind enough stirring in all reason, without help of bellows, for the laird puffed and groaned and uttered half sentences, and wished himself dead, on one side of the old blacksmith, whilst the stranger went on as calmly, coolly, and deliberately, with his bargain, on the other side, as if he were dealing with creatures utterly without feeling. shanty turned first to one, and then to another; nodding and winking to dymock to keep quiet on one side, whilst he continued to vaunt the merits of the purchase on the other. at length, on a somewhat more than usually testy remark of the stranger reaching the ears of the laird, he burst by shanty and had already uttered these words, "let me hear no more of this, i am a gentleman, and abominate the paltry consideration of pounds, shillings, and pence;" when shanty forcibly seizing his arm, turned him fairly round, whispering, "go, and for the sake of common sense, hold your tongue, leave the matter to me, let me bargain for you; go and tell mrs. margaret that we are coming, and make what tale you will to her, to explain our unceremonious visit; you had better have told her all before." the laird informed shanty that there was no need of going up to the tower to inform his aunt, as she and tamar were gone that day over the border to visit a friend; but added he, "i take your offer, shanty, make the bargain for me if you can, and i shall not appear till i am wanted to sign and seal," and away marched the laird nor was he forthcoming again for some hours. after he was gone, shanty begged leave to have a few minutes given him for washing his hands and face and making himself decent, and then walked up with the testy old gentlemen to the castle. little as shanty knew of the great and grand world, yet his heart misgave him, lest the ruinous state of the castle, (although the tower itself stood in its ancient and undilapidated strength,) should so entirely disgust the stranger that he should at once renounce all ideas of the purchase; he was therefore much pleased when the old gentleman, having gone grumbling and muttering into every room and every outhouse, crying, it is naught! it is naught! as buyers generally do, bade shanty tell the laird that he was going to the nearest town, that he should be there till the business was settled, that he would give the fair valuation for the estate, and that the payment should be prompt. shanty was, indeed astonished; he was all amazement, nor did he recover himself, till he saw the old gentleman walk away, and get into his carriage which was waiting on the other side of the moat, it not being particularly convenient, on account of the total deficiency of anything like a bridge or passable road? to bring a carriage larger than a wheel-barrow up to the castle. dymock returned to the shed, when he, from some place of observation on the moor, saw that the carriage had reached the high road, and there, having been told all that had passed, the poor gentleman (who, by the bye, was not half pleased with the idea of the honours of dymock falling into the hands of such a purchaser,) informed shanty that he must prepare to go with him the next day to hexham, where the stranger had appointed to meet him. "i go with you!" exclaimed shanty, "was ever so strange a conceit." "i shall be fleeced, shorn, ruined," implied mr. dymock, "if i go to make a bargain, without a grain of common sense in my company." "true," returned shanty, "your worship is right; but how are we to go? i have plenty of horse-shoes by me, but neither you, nor i laird, i fear could find any four legs to wear them." "we must e'en walk then," said dymock, "nay, i would gladly carry you on my back, rather than descend to the meanness of driving a bargain with a testy old fellow like that; by the bye, shanty, what does he call himself?" "salmon," replied shanty, "and i mistake if he has not a touch of the foreigner on his tongue." "you will accompany me, then shanty," said the laird. "i will," he replied, "if this evening you will open the business out to mrs. margaret." "it cannot be shanty," replied dymock chuckling, "for she does not expect to be back over the border till to-morrow, and when to-morrow is over and we know what we are about, then you shall tell her all." "dymock," said shanty, "you are hard upon me, when you have a morsel to swallow that is too tough for you, you put it into my mouth; but," added the old man kindly, "there is not much that i would refuse to do for your father's son." the sun had not yet risen over the moor, when dymock and shanty, both arrayed in their best, set off for hexham, where they found the crabbed old gentlemen, still in the humour of making the purchase, though he abused the place in language at once rude and petulant; his offer, however, was, as shanty compelled dymock to see, a very fair one, though the more sensible and wary blacksmith could not persuade his friend to beware of trusting anything to the honour of mr. salmon. dymock's estate had been deeply mortgaged, the sale was made subject to the mortgages, and the purchaser was bound to pay the mortgagee the mortgage moneys, after which there was small surplus coming to poor dymock. this small surplus was, however, paid down on the signing of the papers; still, however, there was an additional payment to take place soon after possession. this payment was, it was supposed, to be for fixtures and other articles, which were to be left on the premises, and it was not to be asked till mr. salmon had been resident a few weeks. the amount was between five and six hundred pounds, and was in fact all that dymock would have to depend upon besides his cottage, his field, a right of shooting on the moor, and fishing in a lake which belonged to the estate, and about twenty pounds a year which appertained to mrs. margaret, from which it was supposed she had made some savings. shanty had succeeded in forcing the laird to listen to the dictates of prudence, and to act with sufficient caution, till it came to what he called the dirty part of the work, to wit, the valuation of small articles, and then was the blood of the dymocks all up; nor would he hear of requiring a bond for the payment of this last sum, such a document, in fact, as should bind the purchaser down to payment without dispute. he contented himself only with such a note from the old man as ought he asserted to be quite sufficient, and it was utterly useless for shanty to expostulate. the laird had got on his high horse and was prancing and capering beyond all the controul of his honest friend, whilst mr. salmon, no doubt, laughed in his sleeve, and only lamented that he had not known dymock better from the first, for in that case he would have used his cunning to have obtained a better bargain of the castle and lands. it was not one nor two visits to hexham which completed these arrangements; however mr. dymock, after the first visit, no longer refused to permit shanty to open out every thing to his aunt, and to prepare her to descend into a cottage, on an income of forty or fifty pounds a year. mrs. margaret bore the information better than shanty had expected; she had long anticipated some such blow, and her piety enabled her to bear it with cheerfulness. "i now," she said, "know the worst, and i see not wherefore, though i am a dymock, i should not be happy in a cottage, i am only sorry for tamar; poor tamar! what will become of her?" "oh mother! dear mother!" said tamar weeping, "why are you sorry for me, cannot i go with you? surely you would not part from me;" and she fell weeping on mrs. margaret's bosom. "never before! oh, never before," cried mrs. margaret, "did i feel my poverty as i do now." "mother dear! oh mother dear! had i thousands of pounds, i would devote them all to you, and to my dear protector." "god helping you, or god working in you tamar," said shanty, rubbing his rough hand across his eyes, "but never boast of what you will do, dear child; boasting does not suit the condition of humanity." "oh! that i could now find my father," she replied, "and if i could find him a rich man, what a comfort it would be; what would i give now," she added, "to find a rich father!" mrs. margaret kissed her child, and wept with her, calling her a dear, affectionate, grateful creature; but shanty made no remark respecting tamar's gratitude; he had it in his mind to speak to her when alone, and he very soon found the opportunity he wished. it was on the next sunday that he met tamar walking on the moor, and it was then that he thus addressed her, "i was sorry damsel," he said, "to hear you speak as you did to mrs. margaret the other day, making a profession of what you would do for her if you were rich, and yet never offering her that which you have to give her." "what have i to give her?" asked tamar. "much," replied the old man; "much, very much. you have strength, and activity, and affection to give her. with forty pounds a-year, a house, and a little field, which is all your adopted parents will have, can they, think you, keep a servant? will not the very closest care be necessary, and should not one who is young, and faithful, and attached, rejoice to serve her benefactors at such time as this, and to render their fall as easy as possible; and where, i ask you, tamar, should they find such service as you can render them?" they were walking side by side, the old man and the beautiful girl, among the heather of the moor; and he was looking up kindly and animatedly to her,--for he was a remarkably short, thick-set man,--but she was looking down on the ground, whilst a bitter struggle was passing in her mind. she had been filled up by her guardian with wild fancies of her own greatness, which was hereafter to be made manifest; and it would have been too strong for unaided nature, to bring herself to submit to such drudgeries as duty seemed now to require of her; her bright-brown cheek was flushed with the inward contest, and her bosom seemed to be almost swelled to suffocation. but the assistance required was not withheld in the hour of need, and shanty was soon made aware of the change of feelings which was suddenly imparted to the orphan by the change of the expression of her countenance; the tears had already filled her eyes, when she turned to her old friend, and thanked him for his reproof, expressing her conviction, that his advice was that of a true christian, and begging him always to tell her, in like manner, when he saw that she was going wrong. a more general discussion on the subject of true religion then followed, and shanty assured tamar, that all high notions of self, whether of birth, talents, or riches, were unpleasing in the sight of god, and utterly inconsistent with that view of salvation by christ, which is independent of all human merit. such was the nature of the lessons given by the old man to tamar. his language was, however, broad, and full of north-country phrases, so much so, as to have rendered them inexplicable to one who had not been accustomed to the border dialect. from that day, however, through the divine mercy, the heart of tamar was given to the duties which she saw before her, and all her activity was presently put into requisition; for mr. salmon had given notice, that he should take possession of dymock's tower as soon as it could be got ready for him, and he also sent persons to make the preparations which he required. these preparations were of a most singular nature; his object appeared neither to be the beautifying of the old place, or even the rendering it more comfortable, for he neither sent new furniture, nor ordered the restoration of any of the dilapidated chambers or courts. but he ordered the moat to be repaired, so that it could be filled and kept full, and he directed that a light draw-bridge should also be erected. the walls of the inner courts were also to be put to rights, and new gates added. there was a great laugh in the country respecting this unknown humourist; and some said he was preparing for a siege, and others going to set up for a modern rob roy, and castle-dymock was to be his head-quarters. the greater part of the furniture, and all the fixtures, were to be paid for by the money for which the laird had mr. salmon's memorandum; and they who knew their condition, said that the things had been brought to a good market, as little of the furniture would have been worth the carriage across the moor. nothing at present, therefore, remained for the aunt and the nephew to do, but to remove to the cottage as soon as it should be ready to receive them. this humble habitation was situated in a small nook or vale of the moor called heatherdale. a little fresh-water spring ran through it, coming in at the higher end of the valley, and going out through a natural cleft in a block of granite at the other end. there were many tall trees scattered on the banks within the dell; and the place was so sheltered, that many a plant would flourish in the garden on the south side of the house, which could hardly be kept alive in any other situation in the country. the cottage was an old, black, timbered and thatched edifice, and had four rooms of considerable dimensions, two above and two below, with a porch in the front, overgrown with briony and another hardy creeper. as soon as this tenement was vacated, and the laird's intention of inhabiting it known, the ancient tenants of the family all manifested their affection by using their several crafts in repairing the cottage, and setting the house to rights,--one mended the thatch, another repaired the wood-work, a third white-washed the walls, another mended the paling, and old shanty did any little job in his way which might be required. the labours of love never hang long on hand, and though the old tenant had gone out only at lady-day, the hawthorn had scarcely blossomed when the affectionate people pronounced the work complete. poor dymock had become very restless when he saw the changes which were going on at the tower; but when there was no longer an excuse to be found for delaying the removal, he gave way altogether, or rather, we should say, made a cut and run, and went off to botanize the lakes in westmoreland, with a knapsack on his back, and a guinea in his pocket. before he went, however, he had opened his heart to his daughter tamar, saying, "i now take leave, dear child, of the life of a gentleman; henceforward i must content myself with the corner of a kitchen ingle; and this, truly, is a berth," he added, "too good for a cumberer of the ground, such as i am." he said this as he passed through the gate of the court, giving his adopted one time only to snatch his hand and kiss it, and he was gone beyond her hearing before she could relieve her heart with a burst of tears. after a while, however, she dried them up, and began to busy her mind in thinking what she could do to render the cottage comfortable for her beloved guardian; and having at length formed her plan, she ran to mrs. margaret, and asked her permission to take the arrangement of their new house. "let me," said she, "see all the things put in their places; you and i, dear aunt margaret, will have to ourselves a kitchen as neat as a palace, and we will make a study of the inner room for mr. dymock." "what!" said the old lady, "and give up our parlour?" "dear mother," replied the young girl carelessly, "if there is to be no maid but poor tamar, why should not the kitchen be the happiest place, for her own dear mother? you shall have your chair in the corner, between the window and the fire-place, and your little work-table by it, and then you can direct me without moving from your needle. oh! dear, aunt margaret," she added, "i am beginning to think that we shall be happier in the cottage, than we have been in the castle; we shall have fewer cares, and shall have a pleasure in putting our small means to the best. do not the scatterings of the flock, aunt margaret, make us as warm hose as the prime of the fleece?" "that may be doubted child," replied the old lady with a smile, "but go young creature, take your way; i believe ere yet you have done, that you, with your sunny smile, will cheat me into contentment before i know what i am about; but mind, my lovely one," she added, "i will tell you how it is. i have been led to see how god in his displeasure,--displeasure, i say, on account of the pride of ancestry and station, which i have hitherto persisted in cherishing,--how god, i repeat, in his displeasure has remembered mercy, and, in taking away that which is worthless, has left me that which is most precious, even you my bright one." the old lady then kissed tamar, and gave her the permission she required, to arrange the cottage according to her own fancy. when the day of removal actually arrived, being the day after the laird had walked himself off, the neighbours, with shanty at their head, came to assist. tamar had determined upon having the room within the kitchen, for her beloved father by adoption; a village artist having understood her pious wish, had stained the walls of light grey, and painted the frame of the casement window of the same colour. tamar had prepared a curtain of some light drapery for the window; a well-darned carpet covered the floor, the laird's bookcases occupied one entire end of the room opposite the window, the wonted table of the old study at the tower was placed in the centre of the floor, and was covered with its usual cloth, a somewhat tarnished baize, with a border worked in crewels by mrs. margaret in days gone by. in the centre of this table the inkstand was placed, and on the opposite wall, a venerable time-piece, asserted, with what truth we presume not to say, to be nearly as old as the clock sent by haroun al raschid to the emperor charlemagne. a few high-backed chairs, certain strange chimney ornaments, and other little matters dear to the laird, finished the furniture of this room, and tamar perfectly laughed with joy, when, having seen all done, she became aware that this small apartment was in fact more comfortable than the cold, wide, many-drafted study in the tower. those who were with her caught the merry infection and laughed too, and shanty said, "but dear one, whilst you thus rejoice in your own contrivances, have you not a word of praise to give to him, who has spread such glories as no human skill could create, beyond yon little window?" the old man then opened the casement, and showed the sweet and peaceful scene which there presented itself; for the cottage was enclosed in a small dell, the green sides of which seemed to shut out all the world, enclosing within their narrow limits, a running brook, and hives of bees, and many fragrant flowers. tamar was equally successful, and equally well pleased with her arrangements in other parts of the cottage; the kitchen opened on one side to a little flower garden, on the other to the small yard, where mrs. margaret intended to keep her poultry, and the whole domain was encompassed by the small green field, which made up the extent of the dell, and was the only bit of land left to the representative of the house of dymock. but mrs. margaret had reckoned that the land would keep a little favourite cow, and with this object tamar had taken great pains to learn to milk. when all was ready, mrs. margaret with many tears took leave of dymock's tower; she had not seen the process of preparation in the cottage, and was therefore perfectly astonished when she entered the house. tamar received her with tears of tenderness, and the worthy lady having examined all the arrangements, blessed her adopted one, and confessed that they had all in that place that man really required. neither did she or tamar find that they had more to do than was agreeable; if they had no servants to wait upon them, they had no servants to disarrange their house. they had engaged an old cottager on the moor to give them an hour's work every evening, and for this they paid him with a stoup of milk, or some other small product of their dairy; money they had not to spare, and this he knew,--nor did he require any; he would have given his aid to the fallen family for nothing, had it been asked of him. in wild and thinly peopled countries, there is more of neighbourly affection,--more of private kindness and sympathy than in crowded cities. man is a finite creature; he cannot take into his heart many objects at once, and such, indeed, is the narrowness of his comprehension, that he cannot even conceive how the love of an infinite being can be generally exercised through creation. it is from this incapacity that religious people, at least too many of them, labour so sedulously as they do to instil the notion of the particularity of the work of salvation, making it almost to appear, that the almighty father brings beings into existence, merely to make them miserable,--but we are wandering from our story. aunt margaret and tamar had been at the cottage a fortnight before dymock returned; tamar saw him first coming down the glen, looking wearied, dispirited and shabby. she ran out to meet her adopted father, and sprang into his arms; his eyes were filled with tears, and her bright smiles caused those eyes to overflow. she took his hand, she brought him in, she set him a chair, and mrs. margaret kissing him, said "come dymock brighten up, and thank your god for a happy home." dymock sighed, tamar took his heavy knapsack from him, and placed before him bread and butter, and cheese, and a stoup of excellent beer. "eat, dear father," she said, "and then you shall go to bed, (for it was late in the evening,) and to-morrow you will see what a sweet place this is;" but poor dymock could not rally that night. tamar had always slept with mrs. margaret, and the best room of the two above stairs had been prepared for dymock, mrs. margaret having found a place under the rafters for her innumerable boxes. the poor laird slept well, and when he awoke the sun was shining into his room, and aunt margaret had arranged his clean clothes at the foot of his bed; he arose in better spirits, and dressing himself, he went down; he found tamar in the kitchen, and she, without speaking, took his hand and led him to his study. the poor gentleman could not bear this: he saw the sacrifice his aunt had made for him, and the exertions also which tamar must have made to produce this result, and he fairly wept; but this burst of agitation being over, he embraced his adopted child, and expressed his earnest hope that henceforward he might be enabled to live more closely with his god. but the mind of dymock was not a well balanced one; he could not live without a scheme, and he had scarcely been two days in the cottage, when he re-aimed at the ideas which he had formerly indulged of becoming an author, and of obtaining both fame and money by his writings. mrs. margaret was fretted when she was made aware of this plan, and sent tamar to shanty, to ask him to talk him out of the fancy, and to persuade him to adopt some employment, if it were only digging in his garden, which might bring in something; but shanty sent tamar back to mrs. margaret to tell her that she ought to be thankful that there was anything found which would keep the laird easy and quiet, and out of the way of spending the little which he had left. poor dymock, therefore, was not disturbed in his attempts at authorship, and there he used to sit in his study with slip-shod feet, an embroidered dressing gown, which mrs. margaret had quilted from an old curtain, and a sort of turban twisted about his head, paying no manner of attention to hours or seasons. as mrs. margaret only allowed him certain inches of candle, he could not sit up all night as geniuses ought to be permitted to do; but then he would arise with the lark and set to work, before any of the labourers on the moor were in motion. in vain did mrs. margaret complain and expostulate; she even in her trouble sent tamar again to shanty to request him to plead with the laird, and beg him to allow himself to enjoy his regular rest; but in this case when she required shanty's aid, she had reckoned without her host. "go back to mrs. margaret, damsel," he said, "go and tell the lady that as long as she can keep the laird from work by candle light, so long no harm is done, and if instead of murmuring at this early rising, fair child, you will take example by him, and leave your bed at the same time that your hear him go down, you will do well. he that lies in bed gives a daily opportunity to his servants, if he has any to serve him, to do mischief before he is up, and she that rises with the sun and goes straight forward, like an arrow in its course, in the path of her duties, shall find fewer thorns and more roses in that path, than those who indulge in ease. through divine mercy," continued the old man, "our own exertions are not needed for the assurance of our salvation, but sloth and carelessness tend to penury and misery, in this present life; and there is no sloth more ruinous to health and property than that of wasting the precious morning hours in bed." tamar was not deaf to the pleadings of shanty; she began immediately to rise with the first crowing of the cock, and thus obtained so much time for her business, that she could then afford herself some for reading. mrs. margaret took also to rise early, so that instead of breakfasting as formerly at eight o'clock, the family took that meal at seven; but the laird often managed to have such bright and valuable thoughts just at breakfast time, that for the sake of posterity, as he was wont to say, he could by no means endanger the loss of them by suffering such a common place interruption as that of breakfast, such an every day and vulgar concern. on these occasions tamar always took in his coffee and toast, and set it before him, and she generally had the pleasure of finding that he took what she brought him, though he seldom appeared to be aware either of her entrance or her exit, mrs. margaret invariably exclaiming when tamar reported her reception in the study, "lord help him! see what it is to be a genius!" in the meantime, the moat around dymock's tower was repaired and filled up, or was fast filling up; the draw-bridge was in its place, and the gates and walls restored; and as the neighbours said, the tower wanted nothing but men and provisions to enable it to stand a siege. at length, all being pronounced ready, though no interior repairing had taken place, the new possessor arrived, bringing with him two servants, an old man and an old woman, and many heavy packages, which were stowed in a cart, and lifted out by himself and his man-servant, whom he called jacob. this being done, he and his people were heard of no more, or rather seen no more, being such close housekeepers, that they admitted no one over the moat, though the man jacob, rode to the nearest market every week on the horse which had dragged the baggage, to bring what was required, which, it was said, was not much more than was necessary to keep the bodies and souls of three people together. numerous and strange were the speculations made by all people on the moor upon these new tenants of dymock's tower, and shanty's shed was a principal scene of these speculations. various were the reproaches which were cast on the strangers, and no name was too bad for them. "our old laird," one remarked, "was worth ten thousand such. as long as he had a crust, he would divide it with any one that wanted it. mark but his behaviour to the poor orphan, who is now become the finest girl, notwithstanding her dark skin, in all the country round." then followed speculations on the parentage of tamar, and old shanty asserted that he believed her to be nothing more or less than the daughter of the gipsy hag who had laid her at his door. some said she was much to good to be the child of a gipsy; and then shanty asserted, that the grace of god could counteract not only the nature of a child of a vagrant of the worst description, but even that of such vagrant himself; the spirit of god being quick and powerful, and sharper than a two-edged sword. shanty was a sort of oracle amongst his simple neighbours, and what he said was not often disputed to his face; nevertheless, there was not an individual on the moor who knew tamar, who did not believe her to be a princess in disguise or something very wonderful; and, at the bottom of her heart, poor tamar still indulged this same belief, though she did not now, as formerly express it. it was in the month of june, very soon after, mr. salmon had arrived at the tower, and before dymock, who was a woful procrastinator, had gone to demand the last payment, that tamar, who was extraordinarily light and active, had undertaken to walk to the next village to procure some necessaries; she had three miles to go over the moor, nor could she go till after dinner. her way lay by shanty's shed; and mrs. margaret admonished her, if anything detained her, to call on shanty, and ask him to walk over the remainder of the moor with her on her return. when she came down from preparing herself for this walk, all gay and blooming with youth and health, and having a basket on her arm, she met dymock in the little garden. "whither away? beautiful maid of judah," said the genius. "my bright-eyed tamar," he added, "i have been thinking of a poem, and if i can but express my ideas, it will be the means of lifting up my family again from the destitution into which it has fallen. my subject is the restoration of jerusalem in the latter days, and the lifting up of the daughters of zion from the dust. the captives of israel now are hewers of wood and carriers of water; but the time will come when the hands that now wear the manacles of servitude shall be comely with rows of jewels." "if no daughter of judah," replied tamar, "wears heavier manacles than i do, dear father, they may bear them with light hearts;" and, as she passed quickly by her adopted father, she snatched his hand and kissed it, and soon she disappeared beyond the boundary of the glen. tamar reached the village in so short a time, and did her errands so quickly, that having some hours of light before her, she thought she would try another way of return, over a small bridge, which in fact spanned the very water-course which ran through her glen; but being arrived at this bridge, to her surprise she found it broken down. it was only a single plank, and the wood had rotted and given way. the brook was too wide and deep in that place to permit her to cross it, and the consequence was, that she must needs go round more than a mile; and, what added to her embarrassment, the evening, which had been fine, was beginning to cloud over, the darkness of the sky hastening the approach of the dusk. she had now farther to walk than she had when in the village; and, added to the threatenings of the clouds, there were frequent flashings of pale lightning, and remote murmurings of thunder. but tamar was not easily alarmed; she had been brought up independently, and already had she recovered the direct path from the village to shanty's shed, when suddenly a tall figure of a female arose, as it were, out of the broom and gorse, and stepped in the direction in which she was going, walking by her side for a few paces without speaking a word. the figure was that of a gipsy, and the garments, as tamar glanced fearfully at them as they floated in a line with her steps, bespoke a variety of wretchedness scarcely consistent with the proud and elastic march of her who wore them. whilst tamar felt a vague sense of terror stealing over her, the woman spoke, addressing her without ceremony, saying, "so you have been driven to come this way at last; have you been so daintily reared that you cannot wade a burn which has scarcely depth enough to cover the pebbles in its channel. look you," she added, raising her arm, and pointing her finger,--"see you yon rising ground to the left of those fir trees on the edge of the moor,--from the summit of that height the sea is visible, and i must, ere many hours, be upon those waters, in such a bark as you delicately-bred dames would not confide in on a summer's day on ulswater mere." whilst the woman spoke, tamar looked to her and then from her, but not a word did she utter. "do you mind me?" said the gipsy; "i have known you long, aye very long. you were very small when i brought you to this place. i did well for you then. are you grateful?" tamar now did turn and look at her, and looked eagerly, and carefully, and intently on her dark and weather-beaten countenance. "ah!" said the gipsy, whilst a smile of scorn distorted her lip,--"so you will demean yourself now to look upon me; and you would like to know what i could tell you?" "indeed, indeed, i would!" exclaimed tamar, all flushed and trembling. "oh, in pity, in mercy tell me who i am and who are my parents?--if they still live; if i have any chance or--hope of seeing them?" "one is no more," replied the gipsy. "she from whom i took you lies in the earth on norwood common. i stretched the corpse myself,--it was a bonny corpse." tamar fetched a deep, a very deep sigh. "does my father live?" she asked. "your father!" repeated the gipsy, with a malignant laugh,--"your father!" tamar became more and more agitated; but excessive feeling made her appear almost insensible. with great effort she repeated,--"does my father live?" "he does," replied the woman, with a malignant smile, "and shall i tell you where and how?--shut up, confined in a strong-hold, caught like a vile animal in a trap. do you understand me, tamar? i think they call you tamar." "what!" said the poor girl, gasping for breath, "is my father a convicted felon?" "i used no such words," replied the gipsy; "but i told you that he lies shut up; and he is watched and guarded, too, i tell you." "then he has forfeited his liberty," said tamar; "he has committed some dreadful crime. tell me, oh! tell me, what is it?" the gipsy laughed, and her laugh was a frightful one. "what!" she said, "are you disappointed?--is the blight come over you? has the black fog shut out all the bright visions which the foolish laird created in your fancy? go, child!" she said, "go and tell him what i have told you, and see whether he will continue to cherish and flatter the offspring of our vagrant race." "he will," replied tamar; "but tell me, only tell me, what is that mark burnt upon my shoulder?" "your father branded you," she answered, "as we do all our children, lest in our many wanderings we should lose sight of our own, and not know them again; but come," she added, "the night draws on, darkness is stealing over the welkin; you are for the shed; there is your pole-star; see you the fitful glare of the forge?--i am for another direction; fare-you-well." "stay, stay," said tamar, seizing her arm, "oh, tell me more! tell me more! my father, if i have a living father, i owe him a duty,--where is he? tell me where he is, for the love of heaven tell me?" the woman shook her off,--"go, fool," she said, "you know enough; or stay," she added, in her turn seizing tamar's arm,--"if you like it better, leave those dymocks and come with me, and you shall be one with us, and live with us, and eat with us and drink with us." "no! no!" said tamar, with a piercing shriek, disengaging herself from the gipsy, and running with the swiftness of a hare, towards the friendly hovel. old shanty was alone, when, all pale and trembling, tamar entered the shed, and sunk, half fainting, on the very bench on which the gipsy had sate on the eventful night in which she had brought her to the hovel fourteen years before. shanty was terrified, for he had a paternal feeling for tamar; he ceased immediately from his hammering, and sitting himself by her on the bench, he rested not until she had told him every thing which had happened; and when she had done so,--"tamar," he said, "i am not surprised; i never thought you any thing else than the child of a vagrant, nor had you ever any ground for thinking otherwise. there are many imaginations," added the pious old man, "which attend our nature, which must be destroyed before we can enter into that perfect union with the son, which will render us one with the father, and will insure our happiness when god shall be all in all, and when all that is foretold in prophecy respecting this present earth shall be completed. sin," continued the old man, "is neither more nor less than the non-conformity of the will of the creature with that of the creator; and when the will of every child of adam is brought into unison with the divine pleasure, then, as far our race is concerned, there will be an end of sin; and, in particular cases, tamar, as regarding individuals in the present and past days, each one is happy, not as far as he indulges the imaginations suggested by his own depraved nature, but as far as he is content to be what his god would have him to be, as indicated by the circumstances and arrangements of things about him." it was marvellous (or rather would have been so to a stranger,) to hear this poor old dusky blacksmith, speaking and reasoning as he did; but who shall limit or set bounds to the power of the lord the spirit in enlightening the mind, independently as it were, of human ministry, or at least of any other ministry than that which teaches and promulgates the mere letter of scripture? tamar's mind was at that time fully prepared to receive all that shanty said to her, and, insensibly to themselves, they were presently led almost to forget the information given by the gipsy, (which in fact left tamar just as it had found her,) whilst new thoughts were opening to them; and the young girl was brought to see, that in her late anxiety to render the kind friends who had adopted her, comfortable as to outward circumstances, she had failed in using her filial influence to draw their attention to thoughts of religion. shanty put on his coat, and walked with her over the rest of the moor, nor did he leave heatherdale (where mrs. margaret insisted that he should sup,) until he had opened out to the laird and his aunt the whole history of tamar's rencounter with the gipsy. it was curious to observe the effect of this story on the minds of the two auditors. mrs. margaret embraced tamar with tears, saying, "methinks i am rejoiced that there is no one likely to claim my precious one from me;" whilst the laird exclaimed, "i am not in the least convinced. the gipsy has no doubt some scheme of her own in view. she is afraid of being found out, and transported for child-stealing; but i wish i could see her, to tell her that i no more believe my palm-tree to have sprung from the briers of the egyptian wilderness, than that i am not at this moment the laird of dymock." "lord help you, nephew!" said mrs. margaret, "if poor dear tamar's noble birth has not more substantial foundation than your lairdship, i believe that she must be content as she is,--the adopted daughter of a poor spinster, who has nothing to leave behind her but a few bales of old clothes." "contented, my mother," said tamar, bursting into tears, "could i be contented if taken from you?" thus the affair of the gipsy passed off. the laird, indeed, talked of raising the country to catch the randy quean; but all these resolutions were speedily forgotten, and no result ensued from this alarm, but that which almighty power produced from it in the mind of tamar, by making her more anxious to draw the minds of her patrons to religion. after this, for several weeks things went on much as usual on dymock's moor. the inhabitants of the tower were so still and quiet, that unless a thin curl of smoke had now and then been seen rising from the kitchen chimney, all the occupants might have been supposed to have been in a state of enchantment. jacob, however, the dwarfish, deformed serving-man, did cross the moat at intervals, and came back laden with food; but he was so surly and short, that it was impossible to get a word of information from him, respecting that which was going on within the moat. whilst dymock scribbled, his aunt darned, shanty hammered, and tamar formed the delight and comfort of all the three last mentioned elders. but some settlement was necessarily to be made respecting mr. salmon's last payment, which had run up, with certain fixtures and old pictures, for which there was no room in the cottage, to nearly six hundred pounds, and after much pressing and persuading on the part of mrs. margaret, the laird was at length worked up to the point of putting on his very best clothes, and going one morning to the tower. he had boasted that he would not appear but as the laird of dymock in dymock castle; therefore, though the weather was warm, he assumed his only remains of handsome apparel, viz, a cloak or mantle of blue cloth and with a hat, which was none of the best shape, on his head, he walked to the edge of the moat, and there stood awhile calling aloud. at length jacob appeared on the other side, and knowing the laird, he turned the bridge, over which dymock walked with sullen pride. "i would see your master, where is he?" said the laird, as soon as he got into the court. the eye of the dwarf directed that of dymock to the window of a small room in a higher part of the keep, and the laird, without waiting further permission, walked forward into the tower. it gave him pain to see all the old and well remembered objects again; but it also gave him pleasure to find everything in its place as he had left it--even the very dust on the mouldings and cornices, which had remained undisturbed through the reign of mrs. margaret, from the absolute impossibility of reaching the lofty site of these depositions, was still there. not an article of new furniture was added, while the old furniture looked more miserable and scanty, on account of some of the best pieces having been taken out to fill the cottage. dymock walked through the old circular hall, the ground-floor of the tower, and went up the stairs to the room where mrs. margaret used to sit and darn in solitary state; there was the oriel window, which hanging over the moat, commanded a glorious view on three sides. dymock walked up to this window, and stood in the oriel, endeavouring, if possible, to understand what the feelings of his ancestors might have been, when they could look from thence, and call all the lands their own as far as the border, without counting many broader and fairer fields, in the southern direction. whilst waiting there in deep and melancholy mood, suddenly his eye fell on the airy figure of tamar standing on the opposite side of the moat, and looking up to him; as soon as she caught his eye, she kissed her hand and waved it to him, and well he could comprehend the sparkling smile which accompanied this motion, though he was too far off to see it. "and art thou not fair maid of judah," said the affectionate genius, "worth to me all the broad lands of my fathers? could they purchase for me such love as thine? art thou not the little ewe lamb of the poor man?--but none shall ever have thee from me my daughter, but one entirely worthy of thee?" scarcely had dymock returned the courtesy of tamar, before jacob, who had run to the top of the tower before him, came to tell him that his master was ready to see him, and dymock, who needed no guide, soon found himself at the head of several more rounds of stairs, which got narrower as they ascended,--and in front of a narrow door well studded with knobs of iron. within this door was a room, which in time past had been used for security, either for prisoners, treasures, or other purposes,--tradition said not what,--but it still had every requisite of strength, the narrow windows being provided with stauncheons of iron, and the walls covered with strong wainscotting, in one side of which were sliding pannels opening into a closet. the secret of these pannels was known only to dymock, and he, when he sold the castle, had revealed it to mr. salmon, vaunting the great service of which this secret closet, had been, in keeping plate and other valuables, though he acknowledged, poor man, that he had never made any great use of this mysterious conservatory. it seems that mr. salmon had appropriated this same room to his especial use; his bed, which in the french taste was covered with a tent-like tester, occupied one nook, and the curtains, as well as the floor-cloth, were of very rich, but tarnished and threadbare materials. several ponderous tomes in vellum emblazoned with gold, were placed on a ledge of the wall near the bed; a square table, a trunk strongly clamped with brass, and an old fashioned easy chair, completed the furniture. and now for the first time dymock saw mr. salmon in his deshabille. the old gentleman had laid aside his coat, probably that it might be spared unnecessary wear and tear; he wore a claret coloured waistcoat with large flaps, on which were apparent certain tarnished remains of embroidery; his lower extremities, as far as the knees, were encased in a texture the colour of which had once been pepper and salt, and from the knee downwards he wore a pair of home-manufactured, grey worsted stockings, which proved that his housekeeper was by no means inferior to mrs. margaret in her darning talents, though we must do the laird's aunt the justice to assert, that she never darned stockings with more than three different colours. his slippers, both sole and upper part, had evidently at one time formed a covering of a floor, though what the original pattern and colours had been, could not now be made out. with all this quaintness of attire, the old man had the general appearance of neatness and cleanliness, and had it not been for the expression of his countenance, would have been far from ill-looking. he received dymock with a sort of quiet civility, not unlike that which a cat assumes when she is aware of a mouse, and yet does not perceive that the moment is come to pounce upon it. dymock drew near to the table, and accosted mr. salmon with his usual courteous, yet careless manner, and having apologized for coming at all on such an errand, wishing that there was no such thing as money in the world, he presented the inconclusive and inefficient memorandum, which the old gentleman had given him, "trusting, as he said, that it would be no inconvenience for him to pay what he conceived would be a mere trifle to him." mr. salmon had, it seems, forgotten to ask dymock to sit down; indeed, there was no chair in the room but that occupied by his own person; however, he took his own note from the laird's hands, and having examined it, he said, "but mr. dymock, there are conditions,--the memorandum is conditional, and i understand thereby, that i undertake to pay such and such moneys for such and such articles." "well sir, and have you not these articles in possession?" asked dymock; have i removed a single item, which i told you on the honour of a gentleman should be yours on such and such conditions, and did you not tell me that you would pay me a certain sum, on entering into possession of these articles?" "what i did say, sir," replied the old man, "is one thing; or rather what you choose to assert that i did say, and what is written here is another thing." "sir!" replied dymock, "sir! do you give me the lie?--direct or indirect, i will not bear it; i, a son of the house of dymock, to be thus bearded in my own tower, to be told that what i choose to assert may not be true; that i am, in fact, a deceiver,--a sharper,--one that would prevaricate for sordid pelf!" what more the worthy man added, our history does not say, but that he added much cannot be disputed, and that he poured forth in high and honourable indignation, many sentiments which would have done credit both to the gentleman and the christian. [illustration: see page ] in the meantime the old man had drawn a huge bunch of keys from his pocket, and had deliberately opened the trunk before mentioned, at the top of which were sundry yellow canvass bags of specie; he next fitted a pair of spectacles on his nose, and then raising the cover of the table, he drew out a drawer containing a pair of scales, and began to weigh his guineas, as if to make a show of that of which he had none,--honesty; and the laird having spent his indignation, was become quiet, and stood looking on, in a somewhat indolent and slouching attitude, making no question but that his honourable reasonings had prevailed, and that mr. salmon was about, without further hesitation, to pay him the five hundred and ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, and sixpence, which were his just due. whilst salmon went on with this process of weighing, which he did with perfect _sang-froid_, he began to mutter, "five hundred and ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, and six-pence; too much, too much by half, for worm-eaten bed-steads and chairs, darned curtains and faded portraits; but mr. dymock, to show you that i am a man of honour, i will pay you at this moment four hundred pounds in the king's gold, and the remainder, that is, the one hundred and ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, and six-pence, shall be put to arbitration; we will go over each item, you and i, and a friend of each, and we will examine every article together, and if it is decided that the things are worth the moneys, well and good, it shall be so, and i will forthwith pay down the residue, though not compelled so to do by bond or signature." again the hot blood of the dymocks rose to the brow of the laird; by an amazing effort of prudence and presence of mind, however, he caught up salmon's note from the table, a motion which made the old man start, look up, and turn yellow, and then whisking round on his heel, with an expression of sovereign contempt, the laird turned out of the room, exclaiming, "i scorn to address another word to thee, old deceiver; i shake the dust of thy floor from my foot; i shall send those to talk with thee, whose business it is to deal with deceivers;" and thus he quitted the chamber, drawing the door after him with a force which made every chamber in the tower reverberate. in descending the spiral stairs, he came to a narrow window, which overlooked the moat, and from thence he saw tamar lingering on the other side thereof. he stood a moment and she called to him; her words were these,--"have you sped?" in reply to which, protruding his head through the narrow aperture, he said: "no! the man's a low and despicable deceiver," adding other terms which were by no means measured by the rules of prudence or even courtesy; these words were not, however, lost on tamar, and by what she then heard, she was induced to take a measure which had she deliberated longer thereon, she might not have ventured upon. dymock having spent his breath and his indignation through the window, to the disturbance of sundry bats and daws, which resided in the roof of the tower, was become so calm that he made the rest of his descent in his usually tranquil and sluggish style, and even before he had crossed the court towards the draw-bridge, he had made up his mind to get shanty to settle this knotty business, feeling that the old blacksmith would have been the proper person to have done it from the first. jacob, the ugly, ill-conditioned serving-man, was waiting to turn the light bridge, and had dymock looked upon him, he would have seen that there was triumph on the features of this deformed animal, for jacob was in all his master's secrets; he knew that he meant to cheat the laird, and he being salmon's foster brother, already counted upon his master's riches as his own. salmon's constitution was failing rapidly, and jacob, therefore, soon hoped to gather in his golden harvest. jacob too, hated every creature about him, and his hatred being inherited from his parents, was likely to be coeval with his life. the cause of this hatred will be seen in the sequel; but jacob had no sooner turned the bridge and fixed it against the opposite bank, than tamar springing from behind a cluster of bushes, jumped lightly on the boards, and the next moment she was with dymock and jacob on the inner side of the moat, under the tower. jacob had started back, as if he had seen a spectre, at the appearance of the blooming, sparkling tamar, who came forward without hat or other head dress, her raven tresses floating in the breeze. "why are you here, my daughter?" said dymock. "do not restrain me, dear father," she answered, "you have not sped you say, only permit me to try my skill;" and then turning suddenly to jacob, she drew herself up, as dymock would have said, like a daughter of kings, and added, "show me to your master, i have business with him; go and tell him that i am here, and that i would see him." "and who are you?" asked jacob, not insolently as was his wont, but as if under the impression of some kind of awe; "who shall i say you are?" dymock was about to answer; but tamar placed her hand playfully on his lips, and took no other notice of the question of the serving man, but by repeating her command. "what are you doing,--what do you propose to do, tamar?" said the laird. tamar was fully aware that she had power to cause her patron at any time, to yield to her caprices; and she now used this power, as women know so well how to effect these things--not by reason--or persuasion, but by those playful manoeuvrings, which used in an evil cause have wrought the ruin of many a more steadfast character than dymock. "i have a thought dear father," she said, "a wish, a fancy, a mere whim, and you shall not oppose me: only remain where you are; keep guard upon the bridge, i shall not be absent long, only tell me how it has happened that your errand here has failed, and you," she added, addressing jacob, "go to your master and tell him i am here." "why do you stand?" she added, stamping her little foot with impatience; "why do you not obey me?" and her dark eyes flashed and sparkled, "go and tell your master that i wish to see him." "and who must i tell him that you are?" he asked. "my name has been mentioned in your presence," she replied, "and if you did not hear it the fault is your own; it will not be told again." "are you the daughter of this gentleman?" asked jacob. "you have heard what he called me," she answered, "go and deliver my message." whilst jacob was gone, for go he did, at the young girl's bidding, dymock told tamar all that had taken place in mr. salmon's room, and tamar confessed her wish to be permitted to speak to the old gentleman herself. dymock was glad that any one should undertake this business, provided he could be relieved from it, and he promised tamar that he would stand by the bridge and watch for her till her return. "then i will myself go up to the tower and demand admission:" so saying, she ran from dymock, coursed rapidly through the various courts, and swift as the wind ascended the stairs, meeting no one in her way. she found the door of salmon's chamber ajar, and pushing it open, she entered, and stood before salmon, jacob, and rebecca (the old woman before mentioned as having come with mr. salmon to the tower;) these three were all deep in consultation, mr. salmon being still seated where the laird had left him. as tamar burst upon them in all the light of youth; of beauty, and of conscious rectitude in the cause for which she came, the three remained fixed as statues, jacob and rebecca in shrinking attitudes, their eyes set fearfully upon her, their faces gathering paleness as they gazed; whilst salmon flushed to the brow, his eyes distended and his mouth half open. the young girl advanced near to the centre of the room and casting a glance around her, in which might be read an expression of contempt quite free from fear, she said, "i am come by authority to receive the just dues of the late possessor of this place, and i require the sum to be told into my hand, and this i require in the name of him who rules on high, and who will assuredly take cognizance of any act of fraud used towards a good and honourable man." "and who? and who?" said salmon, his teeth actually chattering "who are you? and whence come you?" "i come from the laird of dymock," she answered, "and in his name i demand his rights!" "you, you," said salmon, "you are his daughter?" "that remains to be told," replied tamar, "what or who i am, is nothing to you, nor to you, nor you," she added, looking at jacob and rebecca, her eye being arrested for a minute on each, by the singular expression which passed over their countenances. "give me the laird's dues and you shall hear no more from me," she said, "never again will i come to trouble your dulness; but, if you deny it to me, you shall never rest from me;--no, no, i will haunt you day and night," and getting hotter as she continued to speak, "you shall have no rest from me, neither moat nor stone walls shall keep me out." she was thinking at that moment of the secret passage by which she fancied she might get into the tower, if at this time she did not succeed; it was a wild and girlish scheme, and whether practicable or not, she had no time to think. as she uttered these last words, salmon rose slowly from his seat, pushed his chair from behind him and stepped back, a livid paleness covering his features whilst he exclaimed: "are you in life? or are you a terrible vision of my fancy? jacob,--rebecca,--do you see it too--ah! you look pale, as those who see the dead--is it not so?" the terror now expressed in the three countenances, was rapidly extending to the heart of tamar. what can all this mean, she thought, what is there about me that thus appals them: it is their own guilt that renders them fearful; but why should i fear? now is the moment for strength of heart, and may heaven grant it to me. having strength given her; she again demanded the just due of her guardian. "it would be better to give it," muttered jacob; and rebecca at the same time screached out, "in the name of our father abraham, give her what she asks, master,--and let her go,--let her go to her father,--to him that has reared her, and yet disowns her,--let her go to him; or like the daughters of moab she will bring a curse on our house." "hold your tongue, you old fool," said jacob, "what do you know of her, and of him who was once laird of dymock? but, master," he added "pay the girl what she asks, and i will go down and get back your note, and once for all we will shut our doors upon these people." "but i would know," said salmon, "i would know whence that girl has those eyes, which are bright as the bride of solomon,--as rachel's," he added, "they are such as hers." "go to," said jacob, "what folly is this, tell the money to the girl, and let her go." "jacob! jacob!" exclaimed salmon, "i am ruined, undone, i shall come to beggary,--five hundred and ninty-four pounds, ten shillings and sixpence," and the teeth of the old man began to chatter, terror and dotage and cunning, seeming to be striving within him for the mastery and altogether depriving him of the power of acting. jacob muttered one or two indistinct imprecations, then approaching the table himself, he told the gold from the bags with the facility of a money-changer, whilst tamar stood calmly watching him; but the serving man finding the weight too great for her, he exchanged much of the gold, for bank of england notes, which he took out of the same trunk, and then delivering the sum into tamar's hands; "there young woman, go," he said, "and never again disturb my master with your presence." whilst this was going on, salmon had kept his eyes fixed on tamar, and once or twice had gasped as if for breath; at length he said, "and you are dymock's daughter, damsel, but you are not like your father's people,--are they not nazarenes; tell me what was she who bore you?" "beshrew you," exclaimed jacob, "what is all this to you," and roughly seizing tamar by the arm, he drew her out of the room, saying, "you have all you want, go down to your father, and let us see you no more." the young girl almost doubted as she descended the stairs, but that still she was over-reached, and if so, that dymock would not perhaps find it out till it might be too late; she therefore, hearing jacob behind her, ran with all her might, and coming to the place where dymock stood, she called to him to follow her, and ran directly to shanty's shed; dymock proceeded after her a few yards behind, and jacob still farther in the rear, crying "laird, stop! stop! mr. dymock! give us your release, here is a paper for you to sign." fortunately, tamar found shanty alone in his shed, and taking him into his inner room, she caused him to count and examine the money and thus was he occupied when dymock and jacob came in. tamar went back to the outer room of the shed; but shanty remained within, and when he found that all was right, mr. dymock gave his release. jacob returned to the tower, and old shanty trotted off to hexham, to put the money in a place of security; nor did he fail in his object, so that before he slept, the laird had the satisfaction to think that this dirty work was all completed, and that without his having in the least soiled his own hands in the process. as to the mystery of tamar's having been enabled to effect what he could not do, he soon settled that matter in his own mind, for, thought he, "if i the laird of dymock could never refuse a favour asked me by this maid of judah, how could inferior minds be expected to withstand her influence?"--the poor laird not considering that the very inferiority and coarseness of such minds as he attributed to salmon and jacob, would have prevented them from feeling that influence, which he had found so powerful. but they had felt something, which certainly belonged to tamar, and had yielded to that something; nor could tamar herself, when she reflected upon that scene in the tower, at all comprehend how she had excited such emotions as she witnessed there; neither could shanty, nor mrs. margaret help her out. again for another month, all went on in its usual routine; all was quiet at dymock's tower, and darning, writing, and hammering, continued to be the order of the day with mrs. margaret, the laird, and shanty, whilst tamar was all gay and happy in the fulfilment of many active duties, rising with the lark, and brushing the dew from the frequent herbs which encompassed her dwelling. it was all summer with her then, nor did she spoil the present by anticipation of the severities of a wintery day, for the work of grace was going on with her, and though her natural temper was lofty and violent, as appeared by her manner to jacob on the occasion lately described, yet there was a higher principle imparted, which rendered these out-breakings every day more rare. we have said before, that mrs. margaret had a favourite cow, named by her mistress, brindle, from the colours of her coat. tamar had learned to milk brindle, and this was always her first work. one morning in the beginning of august, it happened, or rather, was so ordered by providence, that the laird was constrained through the extreme activity of his imagination, which had prevented him from sleeping after midnight, to arise and go down to his study in order to put these valuable suggestions on paper. it was, however, still so dark when he descended into his study, that he was compelled to sit down awhile in his great chair, to await the break of day; and there that happened to him, which might as well have happened in bed,--that is he fell asleep, and slept soundly for some hours. all this, however, had not been done so quietly, but that he had awakened his sister and tamar, who slept in the adjoining room; the consequence of which was, that tamar got up and dressed herself, and having ascertained the situation of the laird, and informed mrs. margaret that all was well in that quarter, she descended again into the kitchen, and proceeded to open the house-door. the shades of night were as yet not dispersed, although the morning faintly dawned on the horizon; but the air was soft, fragrant, and elastic, and as it filled the chest of tamar, it seemed to inspire her with that sort of feeling, which makes young things whirl, and prance, and run, and leap, and perform all those antics which seem to speak of naught but folly to all the sober and discreet elders, who have forgotten that they were ever young. almost intoxicated with this feeling inspired by the morning air, tamar bounded from the step of the door, and ran a considerable way, first along the bottom of the glen, and then in a parallel line on the green side thereof; suddenly coming to a stand, she looked for brindle, and could not at first discern her; a minute afterwards, however, she saw her at the higher end of the glen, just where it opened on the moor, and where it had hitherto been protected from the inroads of the sheep, or other creatures feeding on the common, by a rail and gate. this rail and gate had wanted a little repair for several weeks, the laird having promised to give it that repair; and he was well able so to have done, having at one time of his life worked several months with the village carpenter. but the good man had not fulfilled his promise, and it had only been the evening before that tamar had tied up the gate with what came nearest to her hand, namely, certain tendrils of a creeper which hung thereabouts from the rock that formed the chasm by which the valley was approached in that direction. these tendrils she had twisted together so as to form a band, never supposing that brindle, though a young and female creature, could possibly be sufficiently capricious to leave her usual fragrant pasturage, in order to pull and nibble this withering band. but, however, so it was, as tamar asserted, for there when she came up to the place, the band was broken, the gate forced open, and brindle walking quietly forward through the narrow gully towards the moor. tamar being come to the gate, stopped there, and called brindle, who knew tamar as well as she knew her own calf. but the animal had snuffed the air of liberty which came pouring down the little pass, from the open moor, and she walked deliberately on with that air which seemed to say,--"i hear your voice, but i am not coming." tamar was provoked; had it been a human creature who was thus acting she might perhaps have recollected that it is not good to give way to anger; as it was, she made no such reflection, but exclaiming in strong terms against the creature, she began to run, knowing that if brindle once got on the moor it would probably cost her many a weary step before she could get her back again. in measure however, as she quickened her pace, so did brindle, and in a few minutes the truant animal had reached the open moor and began to career away in high style, as if rejoicing in the trouble she was giving. but even on the open moor it was yet very dusk; the dawn was hardly visible on the summits of the distant hills, and where there were woods or valleys the blackness was unbroken. tamar stood almost in despair, when she found that the animal had reached the open ground; but whilst watching how she could get round her, so as to turn her back, the creature rather slackened her pace, and began to browze the short grass among the heather. tamar now slowly advancing was taking a compass to come towards her head, when she, perceiving her, turned directly round, and trotted on straightforward to the knoll, which was at most not half a quarter of a mile from the dingle; tamar followed her, but could not reach her till she had pushed her way in among the trees and bushes, and when tamar reached the place, she found her quietly feeding in the green area, surrounded by the ruins. the light was still very imperfect, and tamar was standing half hid by the bushes and huge blocks of granite, doubting whether she should not leave the cow there whilst she ran back to call the laird to assist her, when suddenly she was startled by the sound of voices. she drew closer behind the block, and remained perfectly still, and ceased to think of the cow, so great was her amazement to find persons in a place, generally deserted by the country people, under the impression that things were there which should not be spoken of. she then also remembered her adventure with sappho, and what mrs. margaret had told her of the concealed passage; and now recollecting that secret passage, she was aware that she stood not very far from the mysterious door-way. all these thoughts crowded to her mind, but perfect quiet was needful at the moment. as the disk of the sun approached the horizon, the light was rapidly increasing; the dawn in those higher latitudes is however long, but those who knew the signs of the morning were aware that it would soon terminate, and that they whose deeds feared the light had no time to lose. tamar accordingly heard low voices, speaking, as it were in the mouth of the cavern, and then a voice of one without the cavern--of one as in the act of departing, saying distinctly, "twelve then at midnight!" the answer from within did not reach tamar's ears, at least, she heard only an indistinct murmur, but the voice without again came clear to her, and the words were to this effect, "i will not fail; i will take care that he shall be in no condition to return;" the answer was again lost to tamar, and probably some question, but the reply to this question was clear. "it is his day to go,--the garrison can't live without provision,--if he don't go to-day, we must skulk another twenty-four hours,--we must not venture with him, there will be murder!" then followed several sentences in such broad slang, as tamar could not comprehend, though she thought she understood the tendency of these words, which were mixed with oaths and terms so brutal, that her blood ran cold in thinking of them; "caught in his own snare,--he will sink in his own dyke,--we have him now, pelf and all." after this, tamar heard parting steps, and various low rumbling noises as if proceeding from under ground; then all was still, and no farther sound was heard by her, but the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the cropping of the herb by the incisors of brindle. in the mean time the morning broke, the light of day was restored, and tamar creeping gently from her hiding-place, left brindle, whilst she ran back to the cottage. she had not gone far, before she met the labourer who was accustomed to assist her in the care of the garden. she told him that the cow had strayed to the knoll, and that she had seen her enter among the trees; and he undertook, with his dog, to drive her back to the glen, though, he said, he would on no account go up on the knoll, but his dog would drive her down, and he would see her home. "and why not go on to the knoll?" said tamar. the man replied, that the place was known to be uncanny, and that not only strange noises, but strange sights had been seen there. "lately?" asked tamar, "have they been seen and heard lately?" the poor man could not assert that they had, and tamar was not going to tell him what she had seen and heard. no! this mystery was to be left for the consideration of dymock and shanty, and she was anxious to know if their thoughts agreed with hers. when she arrived at the cottage, and the labourer had brought back brindle, and fastened the gate, and tamar had milked her cow, and done her usual services, she went to dymock who was just awake, and brought him out to breakfast with mrs. margaret, "you shall not say any thing about posterity, and the benefits which you are doing to them by recording your thoughts, this morning, sir," she said, "but you shall hear what i have to tell you, and i will not tell you, but in the presence of mrs. margaret." when dymock heard what tamar had to say, he was at first quite amazed, for it seems, that if he had ever heard of the secret passage he had forgotten it, and mrs. margaret had had her reasons, for not stirring up his recollections; but when he was made acquainted with this fact, and had put together all that tamar had related, he made the same reflections which she had done, and said that he had no doubt, but that these ruins had been the rendezvous of vagrants for years, and that there was now a plan to rob mr. salmon, through the means of the secret passage. he went further, for he had no lack of imagination, and proceeded to conjecture, that it was through the manoeuvreing of these very vagrants, that the old curmudgeon had been brought to dymock's tower, and following the connexion, he began to put together the appearance of the young blacksmith, the gipsy who had left tamar at shanty's, her second appearance and rapid disappearance, the coming of mr. salmon, his supposed riches, his strange whim of shutting himself up, and every other extraordinary circumstance, in a jumble even more inexplicable and confusing, than any of his previous speculations upon these events,--and when he had so done he put on his hat, and declared that he must go forthwith to shanty. "to see," said tamar, "what he can hammer out of it all, but something must and ought to be done to put mr. salmon on his guard, for otherwise, assuredly he will be robbed this night." "and perhaps murdered," exclaimed mrs. margaret; "but go, brother, be quick, and let us have shanty's advice." "and i," said tamar, after the laird was departed, "will go to the tower, and if possible get admittance. i will stop the going off of jacob." mrs. margaret expostulated with her, but all her pleadings came to this,--that she should send a neighbour to watch for tamar on the side of the moat, the young girl having assured her kind protectress, that she had nothing to fear for her, and that as the laird was proverbially a procrastinator, he might let half the day pass, before he had settled what was to be done. poor mrs. margaret was all tremor and agitation; at the bottom of her heart, she did not like to be left in the cottage, so near a gang of thieves as she felt herself to be; she was not, however, a selfish character, and after some tears, she kissed tamar and bade her go, watching her the whole way through the glen, as if she were parting with her for years. the light step of the young girl, soon brought her to the edge of the moat, and she arrived, as it was ordered by providence, at a very convenient time, for she met rebecca on the moor, the old woman having just parted from jacob, whose figure was still to be seen jogging along the heath. the first words of tamar were to entreat rebecca to call jacob back, and when she found that she was speaking to one who chose to lend a deaf ear, she raised her own voice, but with equal ill success; turning then again to rebecca, she saw that she was hastening to the bridge, on which she followed her, and was standing with her under the tower, before the old woman could recollect herself. the creature looked yellow with spite, as she addressed the young maiden with many bitter expressions, asking her what she did there, and bidding her to be gone. "i am come," replied tamar, "to see your master, and i will see him." "it is what you never shall again," replied the dame; "he has never been himself since he last saw you." "how is that?" said tamar; "what did i do, but press him to act as an honourable man, but of this i am resolved," she added, "that i will now see him again," and as she spoke, she proceeded through the postern into the courts, still passing on towards the principal door of the tower, rebecca following her, and pouring upon her no measured abuse. tamar, however, remarked, that the old woman lowered her voice as they advanced nearer the house, on which she raised her own tones, and said, "i must, and will see mr. salmon, it is a matter of life and death i come upon;--life and death i repeat, and if you or your master, have any thing on your minds or consciences, you will do well to hear what i have to tell you; a few hours hence and it will be too late." "in that case," said rebecca, looking at one angry and terrified, "come with me, and i will hear you." "no," exclaimed tamar, speaking loud, "i will see your master, my errand is to him," and at the same instant, the quick eye of the young girl, observed the face of salmon peering through a loop-hole, fitted with a casement, which gave light to a closet near the entrance. encouraged by this she spoke again, and still louder than before, saying, "see him i will, and from me alone, shall he hear the news i am come to tell." the next minute she heard the casement open, and saw the head of the old man obtruded from thence, and she heard a querulous, broken voice, asking what was the matter? tamar stepped back a few paces, in order that she might have a clearer view of the speaker, and then looking up, she said, "i am come mr. salmon as a friend, and only as a friend, to warn you of a danger which threatens you,--hear me, and you may be saved,--but if you refuse to hear me, i tell you, that you may be a ghastly livid corpse before the morning." "rebecca, rebecca!" cried the old man, "rebecca, i say, speak to her," and his voice faltered, the accents becoming puling. "hear her not," said the dame, "she is a deceiver, she is come to get money out of you." "and heaven knows," cried mr. salmon, "that she is then coming to gather fruit from a barren tree. money, indeed! and where am i to find money, even for her,--though she come in such a guise, as would wring the last drop of the heart's blood?" "tush!" said rebecca, "you are rambling and dreaming again;" but the old man heard her not, he had left the lattice, and in a few seconds he appeared within the passage. during this interval, rebecca had not been quiet, for she had seized the arm of tamar, and the young girl had shaken her off with some difficulty, and not without saying, "your unwillingness to permit me to speak to your master, old woman, goes against you, but it shall not avail you, speak to him i will," and the contest between tamar and the old woman was still proceeding, when salmon appeared in the passage. tamar instantly sprang to meet him, and seeing that his step was feeble and tottering, she supported him to a chair, in a small parlour which opened into the passage, and there, standing in the midst of the floor between him and rebecca, she told her errand; nor was she interrupted until she had told all, the old man looking as if her recital had turned him into stone, and the old woman expressing a degree of terror, which at least cleared her in tamar's mind, of the guilt of being connected with the thieves of the secret passage. as soon as the young girl had finished, the old miser broke out in the most bitter and helpless lamentations. "my jewels!--my silver!--my moneys!" he exclaimed, "oh my moneys!--my moneys! tell me, tell me damsel, what i can do? call jacob. where is jacob? oh, my moneys!--my jewels!" "peace, good sir! peace!" said tamar, "we will befriend you, we will assist you, we will protect you; the laird is an honourable man, he will protect you. i have known him long, long,--since i was a baby; and he would perish before he would wrong any one, or see another wronged." "the laird did you say," asked salmon, "your father; he is your father damsel is he not?" "i have no other," replied tamar, "i never knew another. why do you ask me?" "because," said rebecca, "he is doting, and thinks more of other people's concerns than his own." "has he ever lost a daughter?" asked tamar. "he lost a wife in her youth," answered the old woman, "and he was almost in his dotage when he married her, and he fancies because you have black hair, that you resemble her; but there is no more likeness between you two, than there is between a hooded crow and a raven." "there is more though, there is much more though," muttered the old man, "and jacob saw it too, and owned that he did." "the fool!" repeated rebecca, "the fool! did i not tell him that he was feeding your poor mind with follies; tell me, how should this poor girl be like your wife?" the old man shook his head, and answered, "because, he that made them both, fashioned them to be so; and rebecca, i have been thinking that had my daughter lived, had jessica lived till now, she would have been just such a one." "preserve you in your senses, master," exclaimed rebecca, "such as they are, they are better than none; but had your daughter lived, she would have been as unlike this damsel as you ever were to your bright browed wife. why you are short and shrivelled, so was your daughter; your features are sharp, and so were hers; she was ever a poor pining thing, and when i laid her in her grave beside her mother, it was a corpse to frighten one; it was well for you, as i ever told you, that she died as soon." "yet had she lived, i might have had a thing to love," replied the old man; and then, looking at tamar, he added, "they tell me you are the laird's daughter,--is it so, fair maid?" rebecca again interrupted him. "what folly is this," she said, raising her voice almost to a shriek, "how know you but that, whilst you are questioning the damsel, your chests and coffers are in the hands of robbers; your money, i tell you, is in danger: your gold, your oft-told gold. you were not wont to be so careless of your gold; up and look after it. you will be reduced to beg your bread from those you hate; arise, be strong. where are your keys? give them to the damsel; she is young and active; she will swiftly remove the treasure out of the way. can you not trust her? see you not the fair guise in which she comes? can you suspect a creature who looks like your wife, like rachel? is not her tale well framed; and are you, or are you not deceived by her fair seemings? she is the daughter of a beggar, and she knows herself to be such; and there is no doubt but that she has her ends to answer by giving this alarm." the old man had arisen; he looked hither and thither; he felt for his keys, which were hanging at his girdle; and then, falling back into his chair, he uttered one deep groan and became insensible, his whole complexion turning to a livid paleness. "he is dying!" exclaimed tamar, holding him up in his chair, from which he would have otherwise fallen. "he is dying, the poor old man is dying; bring water, anything." "he has often been in this way since he came here," replied rebecca. "we have thought that he has had a stroke; he is not the man he was a few months since; and had i known how it would be, it is strange but i would have found means to hinder his coming." "if he were ever so before," said tamar "why did you work him up, and talk to him, as you did, about his daughter; but, fetch some water," she added. "i shall not leave him with you," answered rebecca. "nor shall i abandon him to your tender mercies," replied tamar, "whilst he is in this condition. i am not his daughter, it is true,--but he is a feeble old man, and i will befriend him if i can." the old gentleman at this moment fell forward with such weight, that tamar ran from behind him, and dropping down on her knees, received his head on her shoulder, then, putting one arm round him, she was glad to hear a long, deep sigh, the prelude of his returning to partial consciousness; and as he opened his eyes, he said,--"ah, rachel, is it you? you have been gone a long time." tamar was at that moment alone with the old man. rebecca had heard voices at a distance, and she had run to pull up the bridge. "i am not your rachel, venerable sir," she said; "but the adopted daughter of the laird of dymock," and she gently laid his head back. "then why do you come to me like her?" said the old man. "that is wrong, it is very cruel; it is tormenting me before my time. i have not hurt you, and i will give you more gold if you will not do this again." "you rave, sir," said tamar. "who do you take me for?" "a dream," he answered. "i have been dreaming again;" and he raised himself, shook his head, rubbed his hands across his eyes, and looked as usual; but before he could add another word, dymock and shanty entered the parlour. rebecca had been too late in preventing their crossing the bridge, and they with some difficulty made the old gentleman understand that if he had any valuables, they must ascertain whether the place in which they were kept was any way approachable by the cavern. they also told him that they had taken means to have the exterior mouth of the cavern upon the knoll, stopped up, after the gang were in it; that they had provided a considerable force for this purpose; and that they should bring in men within the tower to seize the depredators. dymock then requested tamar to return to mrs. margaret, and remain quietly with her; and when she was gone, the bridge was drawn up, and she went back to the cottage. she had much to tell mrs. margaret, and long, very long,--after they had discussed many times the singular scene between salmon, rebecca, and tamar, and spoken of what might be the plans of dymock and shanty for securing the tower,--did the remainder of the day appear to them. several times they climbed to the edge of the glen, to observe if aught was stirring; but all was still as usual. there stood the old tower in solemn, silent unconsciousness of what might soon pass within it; and there was the knoll, looking as green and fresh as it was ever wont to do. at sun-set tamar and mrs. margaret again visited this post of observation, and again after they had supped at eight o'clock. they then returned and shut their doors; they made up their fires; and whilst tamar plied her needle, mrs. margaret told many ancient tales and dismal predictions of secret murders, corpse-candles, and visions of second-sight, after which, as midnight approached, they became more restless and anxious respecting their friends, wondering what they would do, and expressing their hopes, or their fears, in dark sentences, such as these:--"we trust no blood may be shed!--if there should be blood!--if dymock or poor shanty should be hurt!" again, they turned to form many conjectures, and put many things together:--"was mr. salmon connected with the gipsies who had brought tamar to the moor?--was it this gang that proposed robbing him?--was the young blacksmith called harefoot connected with the gipsy?--had he persuaded salmon to bring his treasures there, in order that he might pilfer them?--and lastly, wherefore was mr. salmon so affected both times he had seen tamar?" here, indeed, was a subject for conjecture, which lasted some hours, and beguiled the sense of anxiety. at length the morning began to dawn on that long night, and tamar went out to milk brindle, whose caprices had, in fact, the day before, been the first mover in all this confusion. cows must be milked, even were the master of the family dying; and tamar wished to have this task over before any message should come from the tower; and scarcely had she returned to the cottage, when the lad who administered the wind to shanty's forge, came running with such haste, that, to use his own words,--"he had no more breath left for speaking than a broken bellows." "for the love of prince charles," he said, "can you give us any provender, mrs. margaret? it is cold work watching all night, with neither food nor drink, save one bottle of whiskey among ten of us, and scarce a dry crust." "but what have you done?" asked tamar. "we have nabbed them," replied the boy. "there were four of them, besides an old woman who was taken in the cave, and they are in the tower till we can get the magistrates here, and proper hands to see them off. they came like rats from under ground. my master had made out where to expect them, in one of the cellars, behind the great hogshead which used to be filled at the birth of the heir, and emptied at his coming of age. so we were ready in the cellar, and nabbed three of them there, and the other, who was hindmost, and the woman, were taken as they ran out the other way; and there they are in the strong-hold, that is, the four men, but the woman is up above; and it is pitiful to hear how she howls and cries, and calls for the laird; but he fell asleep as soon as he knew all was safe, and we have not the heart to disturb him." "well," said mrs. margaret, "i am most thankful that all is over without bloodshed, and my nephew asleep. no wonder, as he has not slept since twelve in the morning of yesterday." "excepting in his chair," said tamar. "but the provender, mistress," said the young man. "here," replied tamar; "lift this pail on your head, and take this loaf, and i will follow with what else i can find." "nay, tamar," said mrs. margaret, "you would not go where there is such a number of men and no woman, but that old witch rebecca." "i am not afraid of going where my father is," replied tamar; "but i must see that woman. i should know her immediately. i am convinced that she is the very person who brought me to shanty's shed. she hinted at some connexion with me. oh, horrible! may it not be possible that i may have near relations among these miserable men who are shut up in the strong-hold of the tower?" as tamar said these words, she burst into tears, and sunk upon the bosom of mrs. margaret, who, kissing her tenderly, said, "child of my affections, of this be assured, that nothing shall separate you from me. my heart, methinks, clings more and more to you; and oh, my tamar! that which i seem most to fear is that you should be claimed by any one who may have a right to take you from me." this was a sort of assurance at that moment requisite to the poor girl; and such, indeed, was the interest which mrs. margaret felt in ascertaining if this really were the woman who had brought tamar to shanty's, that she put on her hood and cloak, and having filled a basket from the larder, she locked the cottage door, and went with tamar to the tower. it was barely light when they crossed the moat, for the bridge was not drawn; and when they entered the inner-court, they found many of the peasants seated in a circle, dipping portions of the loaf in brindle's pail. "welcome! welcome! to your own place, mrs. margaret dymock!" said one of them, "and here," he added, dipping a cup into the pail, "i drink to the restoration of the rightful heir and the good old family, and to your house-keeping, mrs. margaret; for things are done now in another style to what they were in your time." a general shout seconded this sentiment, and mrs. margaret, curtseying, and then pluming herself, answered, "i thank you, my friends, and flatter myself, that had my power been equal to my will, no hungry person should ever have departed from dymock's tower." the ladies were then obliged to stand and hear the whole history of the night's exploit,--told almost in as many ways as there were tongues to tell it; and whilst these relations were going forward, the sun had fairly risen above the horizon, and was gilding the jagged battlements of the tower. shanty was not with the party in the court, but he suddenly appeared in the door-way of the tower. he seemed in haste and high excitement, and was about to call to any one who would hear him first, when his eye fell on tamar and mrs. margaret. "oh, there you are," he said; "i was looking for one of swift foot to bring you here. come up this moment; you are required to be present at the confession of the gipsy wife, who is now willing to tell all, on condition that we give her her liberty. whether this can be allowed or not, we doubt; though she did not make herself busy with the rest, but was caught as she tried to escape by the knoll." "oh! spare her, if possible," said tamar, "or let her escape, if you can do nothing else to save her; i beseech you spare her!" shanty made no reply, but led the way to an upper room of the tower, which had in old time, when there were any stores to keep, (a case which had not occurred for some years,) been occupied as a strong-hold for groceries, and other articles of the same description; and there, besides the prisoner, who stood sullenly leaning against the wall, with her arms folded, sat dymock and salmon,--the laird looking all importance, his lips being compressed and his arms folded,--and old salmon, being little better in appearance than a _caput mortuum_, so entirely was the poor creature overpowered by the rapid changes in the scenes which were enacting before him. shanty had met rebecca running down the stairs as he was bringing up mrs. margaret, and he had seized her and brought her in, saying, "now old lady, as we are coming to a clearance, it might be just as well to burn out your dross among the rest; or may be," he added, "you may perhaps answer to the lumps of lime-stone in the furnace, not of much good in yourself, but of some service to help the smelting of that which is better,--so come along, old lady; my mind misgives me, that you have had more to do in making up this queer affair than you would have it supposed." the more rebecca resisted, the more determined was shanty; neither did he quit his hold of the old woman, until the whole party had entered the room, the door being shut, and his back set against it, where he kept his place, like a bar of iron in a stanchion. chairs had been set for mrs. margaret and tamar, and when they were seated dymock informed the prisoner that she might speak. tamar had instantly recognized her; so had shanty; and both were violently agitated, especially the former, when she began to speak. we will not give her story exactly in her own words; for she used many terms, which, from the mixture of gipsy slang and broad border dialect, would not be generally understood; but, being translated, her narrative stood as follows:-- she was, it seems, of gipsy blood, and had no fixed habitation, but many hiding places, one of which was the cavern or passage connected with dymock's tower. another of her haunts was norwood common, which, every one knows, is near london, and there was a sort of head-quarters of the gang, though, as was their custom, they seldom committed depredations near their quarters. she said, that, one day being on the common, she came in front of an old, black and white house, (which was taken down not many years afterwards;) in the front thereof was a garden, and a green lawn carefully trimmed, and in that garden on a seat sat an old lady, a tall and comely dame, she said, and she was playing with a little child, who might have been a year and-a-half old. the gipsy, it seems, had asked charity through the open iron railing of the garden; and the lady had risen and approached the railing, bringing the child with her, and putting the money into the infant's hand to pass it through the railing. the vagrant had then observed the dress and ornaments of the child, that she had a necklace of coral, clasped with some sparkling stone, golden clasps in her shoes, much rich lace about her cap, and above all, golden bracelets of curious workmanship on her wrists. "she had not," said rebecca; "she never wore those ornaments excepting on festival days." the vagrant took no notice of this remark of rebecca's; but shanty gave the old servant a piercing look, whilst all others present, with the exception of salmon, felt almost fainting with impatience; but salmon's mind seemed for the moment in such a state of obtuseness, as disabled him from catching hold of the link which was leading to that which was to interest him as much as, or even more than, any one present. the gipsy went on to say, that her cupidity was so much excited by these ornaments, that she fixed her eye immediately on the family, and resolved, if possible, to get possession of the child. she first inquired respecting the family, and learned, that the house was occupied by a widow lady, who had with her an only daughter, a married woman; that the child she had seen belonged to that daughter; and that the husband was abroad, and was a jew, supposed to be immensely rich. "i knew it," said dymock, turning round and snapping his fingers; "i hammered it out, master shanty, sooner than you did; i knew the physiognomy of a daughter of zion at the very first glance; you, too, must never talk again of your penetration, aunt margaret," and the good man actually danced about the room; but shanty on one side, and aunt margaret on the other, seized him by an arm, and forced him again upon his chair, entreating him to be still; whilst salmon roused himself in his seat, shook off, or tried to shake off his confusion, and fixed his eyes stedfastly on the vagrant. the woman then went on to describe the means by which she had got a sort of footing in this house; how she first discovered the back-door, and under what pretences she invited the servants to enter into a sort of concert with her for their mutual emolument, they bartering hare-skins, kitchen grease, cold meat, &c., for lace, tapes, thread, ballads, and other small matters. "the thieves?" cried salmon; but no one noticed him. "there were only two servants in the house," said the gipsy; "there might be others, but i saw them not, and one of those now stands here;" and she fixed her eagle eye on rebecca; "the other is jacob." "jacob and rebecca!" exclaimed salmon; "it was my house, then, that you were robbing, and my servants whom you were tampering with." "go on," said dymock to the vagrant, whose story then proceeded to this effect:-- she had visited the offices of this house several times; when, coming one evening by appointment of the servants, with some view to bartering the master's goods with her own wares, she found the family in terrible alarm, she had come as she said, just at the crisis in which a soul had parted, and it was the soul of that same old lady who had been playing with the infant on the grass-plot. rebecca was wailing and groaning in the kitchen, for she needed help to streak the corpse, and the family had lived so close and solitary, that she knew of no one at hand to whom to apply, and she feared that the dead would become stark and cold, before she could find help; jacob was not within, he had gone to london, to fetch a doctor of their own creed, and was not likely to be back for some time. "and why? said i," continued the vagrant, "why, said i, should i not do for this service as well as another? for many and many had been the corpse which i had streaked; so she accepted my offer, and took me up to the chamber of death, and i streaked the body, and a noble corpse it was. the dame had been a comely one, as tall as that lady," pointing to dymock's aunt, "and not unlike her." "ah!" exclaimed mrs. margaret, smiling, "i understand it now;" but dymock bade her be silent, and the vagrant went on. "so," said she, "when i had streaked the body, i said to rebecca we must have a silver plate, for pewter will not answer the purpose." "what for?" said she. "'to fill with salt,' i answered, 'and set upon the breast.' "so she fetched me a silver plate half filled with salt, and i laid it on the corpse; 'and now,' i said, 'we must have rue and marjoram, run down and get me some;' and then i frightened her, poor fool as she was, by telling her that by the limpness of the hand of the corpse, i augured another death very soon in the house." "when i told this to rebecca, the creature was so frightened, that away she ran, leaving me in the room with the body. swift as thought," continued the woman, "i caught the silver dish, and was running down stairs,--it was gloaming--when i saw a door open opposite the chamber of death, and there, in the glimmering, i saw the child of the family asleep in a little crib. she had on her usual dress, with the ornaments i spoke of, and seemed to have fallen asleep before her time, as she was not undressed. i caught her up, asleep as she was, and the next moment i was out in the yard, and across the court, and through the back-door, and away over the common, and to where i knew that none would follow me, but they of my people, who would help my flight." "and the child with you," said salmon, "did you take the child?" "more i will not tell," added the woman; "no, nor more shall any tortures force from me, unless you bind yourselves not to prosecute me,--unless you promise me my liberty." "i have told you," said the laird, "that if you tell every thing you shall be free,--do you question my truth?" "no, dymock," said the vagrant; "i know you to be a man of truth, and in that dependence you shall hear all." "i stripped the child of her gaudery, i wrapped her in rags, and i slung her on my back; but i did her no harm, and many a weary mile i bore her, till i came to the moor; and then, because she was a burden, and because the brand on her shoulder would assuredly identify her, if suspicion fell on me for having stolen her, i left her in the old blacksmith's shed, and there she found a better father than you would have made her; for what are you but a wicked jew, with a heart as hard as the gold you love." the fixed, and almost stone-like attitude in which the old man stood for some moments after his understanding had admitted the information given by the vagrant, so drew the attention of all present, that there was not a sound heard in the room, every one apprehending that the next moment they should see him drop down dead, nor did any one know what was best to do next; but this moment of terror was terminated by the old man's sinking on his knees, clasping his hands, and lifting his eyes, and breaking out in a short but solemn act of thanksgiving, and then turning his head without rising, as it were looking for his daughter, she sprang toward him, and threw her arms about him, whilst he still knelt. it would be difficult to describe the scene which followed: dymock began to caper and exult, mrs. margaret to weep, rebecca to utter imprecations, and shanty to sing and whistle, as he was wont to do when hammering in his shed, and the vagrant to dare the old jewess to deny any thing which she had said. when dymock had assisted tamar to lift her father into the chair, and when the old man had wept plentifully, he was again anxious to examine the case more closely; and a discussion followed, in which many things were explained and cleared up on both sides, though it was found necessary for this end, to promise rebecca that she should be forgiven, and no vengeance taken upon her, if she should confess her part of the history. this discussion lasted long, and the substance of what was then opened to tamar and her paternal friends was this:--mr. salmon was, it seems, a polish jew, extremely rich, and evidently very parsimonious; he had had mercantile concerns in london, and had there married, when nearly fifty years of age, a beautiful young jewess, whose mother he had greatly benefitted, when in the most deplorable circumstances. with this lady he had gone abroad, and it was very evident that he had been a severe and jealous husband. she had brought him a daughter soon after her marriage. this child was born in poland, rebecca was her nurse; but mrs. salmon, falling into bad health immediately after the birth of the child, she implored her husband to permit her to return to england, and to her mother. salmon saw that she was not happy with him; and the strange suspicion seized him, as there was little tie between him and his wife, that in case his own child died, she might palm another upon him,--to prevent which, he branded the babe with the figure of a palm branch, and sent her home, with rebecca and jacob, who were both jews, to watch her; though there was no need, as rachel was a simple, harmless creature. she was also in very bad health when she reached england, and scarcely survived her mother three days, and during that time hardly asked for her child; and the artful servants had contrived to make their master believe that the baby had proved a sickly deformed creature, and had died, and been buried in the coffin with its mother. salmon was in poland when all these horrors occurred, and there jacob and rebecca found him; and having now no other object, he devoted himself entirely to amassing riches, passing from one state of covetousness to another, till at length he began to fall into the dotage of avarice, which consists in laying up money for the sake of laying up, and delighting in the view of hoards of gold and precious things. with this madness in his mind, he turned much of his property into jewels, and returning to england, he began to look about for a safe place wherein he might deposit his treasures. but, as a jew, he could not possess land; he therefore passed the form of naturalization, and whilst looking about for a situation in which he might dwell in safety, his character and circumstances became in part known to the gipsies, (who, amongst other thieves, always have their eyes on those who are supposed to carry valuables about them,) and the man called harefoot, formed the plan of getting him and his treasures into dymock's tower. this harefoot was the nephew of the woman who had brought tamar to shanty's; and the old miser, being tempted by the moat, and other circumstances of the place, fell into the snare which had been thus skillfully laid for him. it was not till after salmon had come to the tower, that the connection between salmon and tamar was discovered by the old woman; and it was at this time that she contrived to meet tamar, and to convey the notion to her, that she was of a gipsy family; fearing lest she should, by any means, be led to an explanation with salmon, before her nephew and his gang had made sure of the treasure. harefoot had supposed that he and his gang were the only persons who knew of the secret passage; and the reason why they had not made the attempt of robbing salmon by that passage sooner, was simply this, that harefoot, having been detected in some small offence in some distant county, had been confined several weeks in a house of correction, from which he had not been set free many days before he came to the moor, and took upon himself the conduct of the plot for robbing salmon. what jacob and rebecca's plans were did not appear, or wherefore they had not only fallen in with, but promoted the settlement of their master in the tower; but that their object was a selfish one cannot be doubted. had other confirmation been wanting, after the mark on tamar's shoulder had been acknowledged, the vagrant added it, by producing a clasp of one armlet, which she had retained, and carried about with her in a leathern bag, amongst sundry other heterogeneous relics; and she accounted for having preserved it, from the fear she had of exposing a cypher wrought on a precious stone, which might, she thought, lead to detection. a dreadful hue and cry in the court below, soon after this disturbed the conference. all seemed confusion and uproar; dymock and shanty rushed down stairs, and aunt margaret and tamar ran out to the window in the nearest passage; there they learnt that the prisoners had broken the bars of their dungeon, swam the moat, and fled; and the ladies could see the peasants in pursuit, scouring over the moor, whilst those they were pursuing were scarcely visible. "i am glad of it," said tamar, "i should rejoice in their escape, they will trouble us no more; and oh, my dear mother, i would not, that one sad heart, should now mix itself with our joyful ones!" mrs. margaret and tamar stood at the window till they saw the pursuers turning back to the castle, some of them not being sorry in their hearts, at the escape of the rogues, but the most remarkable part of the story was, that whilst they had all been thus engaged, the woman had also made off, and, though probably not in company with her, that most excellent and faithful creature rebecca, neither of whom were ever heard of again. and now none were left, but those who hoped to live and die in each other's company, but these were soon joined by the magistrates and legal powers, who had been summoned from the nearest town, together with people from all quarters, who flocked to hear and learn what was going forward; and here was an opportunity not to be lost by dymock and shanty, of telling the wonderful tale, and old salmon having been recruited with some small nourishment, administered by mrs. margaret, presented his daughter to the whole assembly, and being admonished by shanty, placed in her hands before them, the deed of transfer of the lands and castle of dymock, which in fact to him, was but a drop in the ocean of his wealth. as she received this deed, she fell on one knee, and kissed her venerable father's hand, after which he raised and embraced her, paternal affection and paternal pride acting like the genial warmth of the sun, in thawing the frost of his heart and frame. she had whispered something whilst he kissed her, and as his answer had been favourable, she turned to dymock, and now bending on both knees, she placed the deed in his hands, her sweet face at the same time being all moist with gushing tears, falling upon her adopted father's hand. shanty in his apron and unshorn chin, explained to those about, what had been done; for they, that is the laird, aunt margaret, salmon, and tamar, were standing on the elevated platform, at the door of the tower: and then arose such shouts and acclamations from one and all, as made the whole castle ring again, and one voice in particular arose above the rest, crying, "our laird has got his own again, and blessing be on her who gave it him." "rather bless him," cried shanty, "who has thus brought order out of confussion, to him be the glory given in every present happiness, as in all that we are assured of in the future." as there were no means of regaling those present at that time, and as mr. salmon was then too confused to do that which he ought to have done, in rewarding those who had defended him, most of them being poor people, they were dismissed with an invitation to a future meeting at the tower; two or three gentlemen, friends of dymock, only being left. much consultation then ensued, whilst mrs. margaret bestirred herself, to procure female assistance, and to provide the best meal, which could be had at a short notice. during this conference with the laird and his friends, all of whom were honourable men, mr. salmon was induced to consent to have his treasures, his bonds, his notes and bills, consigned to such keeping as was judged most safe; neither, could these matters be settled, without a journey to town, in which dymock accompanied him, together with a legal friend of the latter of known respectability. we do not enter into the particulars of this journey, but merely say, that mr. salmon in the joy, and we may add, thankfulness of recovering his child, not only permitted himself to be advised, but whilst in town made his will, by which, he left all he possessed to his daughter, and this being concluded to the satisfaction of all concerned, he returned to dymock's tower, laden with presents for mrs. margaret. neither were shanty's services overlooked; the cottage and land appertaining thereunto, were to be his for life, free from rent and dues, together with twenty pounds a year, in consideration of his never-varying kindness to tamar. the old man wept, when told of what was done for him, and himself went the next day to morpeth, to bring from thence a sister, nearly as old as himself, who was living there in hard service. and here the memorandum from which this story is derived, becomes less particular in the details. it speaks of mr. salmon after the various exertions he had made, (these exertions having been as it was supposed succeeded by a stroke,) sinking almost immediately into a state nearly childish, during which, however, it was a very great delight to tamar, to perceive in the very midst of this intellectual ruin an awakening to things spiritual; so that it would seem, as if the things hidden from him in the days of human prudence and wisdom, were now made manifest to him, in the period of almost second childishness. tamar had been enabled to imbibe the purest christian principles, in her early youth, for which, humanly speaking, she owed much to shanty, and she now with the assistance of the kind old man, laboured incessantly, to bring her father to the messiah of the christians, as the only hope and rest of his soul; and she had reason before her father died, to hope that her labours had not been without fruit. as to worldly pelf, she had it in rich abundance, but she could have little personal enjoyment of it whilst shut up with her aged father in dymock's tower, yet she had exquisite delight in humouring therewith, the fancies of dymock, and administering to the more sober and benevolent plans of mrs. margaret; for this lady's principal delight was, to assist the needy, and her only earthly or worldly caprice, that of restoring the tower and its environs, and furnishing, to what she conceived had been its state, in the, perhaps, imaginary days of the exaltation of the dymocks. a splendid feast in the halls of dymock's tower, is also spoken of, as having taken place, soon after the return of the laird from london, from which, not a creature dwelling on the moor was absent, when salmon directed tamar to reward those persons who had assisted him in his greatest need, and when mrs. margaret added numbers of coats and garments to those that were destitute. dymock in his joy of heart, caused the plough to be brought forward, and fixed upon a table in the hall, for every one to see that day, mrs. margaret having been obliged to acknowledge, that it was this same plough, which had turned up the vein of gold, in which all present were rejoicing. with the notice of this feast the history terminates, and here the writer concludes with a single sentiment,--that although a work of kindness wrought in the fear of god, as imparted by the lord, the spirit--seldom produces such a manifest reward, as it did in the case of mrs. margaret and her nephew, for the race is not always to the swift, nor the burthen to the strong, yet, even under this present imperfect dispensation, there is a peace above all price, accompanying every act, which draws a creature out of self, to administer to the necessities of others, whenever these acts are performed in faith, and with a continual reference to the pleasure of god, and without view to heaping up merits, which is a principle entirely adverse to anything like a correct knowledge of salvation by the lord the saviour. [illustration: "owen ... made a dart after the little creature."--_page ._] owen's fortune; or, "durable riches." by mrs. f. west, author of "frying-pan alley," "the battle-field," etc. new york: e. p. dutton & co., , west twenty-third street. contents. chap. page i. the resolve, ii. changes, iii. making his fortune, iv. an unexpected trial, v. sunshine and shade, vi. "poor, yet making many rich," owen's fortune. chapter i. the resolve. it was a lovely fresh autumn afternoon; there were still a few blossoms in the cottage gardens, and the leaves which were left on the trees were coloured rich crimson and gold and brown, causing them to look almost like flowers ere they dropped off the branches to make room for the young buds that were swelling underneath, and silently preparing for the spring. but two boys, who were in the woods just outside the village, were far too occupied to notice the leaves. they were searching for nuts; and a basket on the ground, already more than half filled, showed that their search had not been in vain. the younger of the two, owen hadleigh, was a fine, strong, intelligent boy of about fourteen years of age; his bright, dark eye was full of merriment as he laughingly told his companion he intended to make his fortune. "over these nuts?" asked sam, ironically. "now look here, sam netherclift, you can laugh; i don't care for that. but i intend to make my fortune one day, and be a rich man." "like squire rowland?" "maybe; why not? i can work and earn it all." "a likely thing!" laughed sam; "and your father only a village schoolmaster." "you'd better not laugh at my father," returned owen, hotly; "there isn't a better man in the world than he is, and i intend to share all my fortune with him." "how are you going to make it?" "i don't know yet;" and owen's face rather fell, for he had talked so confidently of what he would do, that sam naturally would expect he had some sort of a plan, and he did not wish him to think he was only building castles in the air. but he added, bravely, "there are more ways than one of making a fortune, and i 'll try something yet. father says squire rowland made his money by inventing a new dye, some bright colour no one had thought of before, and now he is rolling in riches. so i shall be sure to find some way of making money, never fear." "when you have found out what to do, let me know, and i will come and help you," said sam, laughing. he was a thorough boy, and had no thought beyond the present, though he was older than his companion, and had already to work on his father's farm. but the conversation was suddenly interrupted by a squirrel, who flew rapidly up a branch just before them. owen sprang to the tree, and made a dart after the little creature, but though he could not catch it, it had done him good service, for it had led him to a tree he had not noticed before, and which was covered with clusters of nuts. "hurrah!" shouted owen, "here's the beginning of the fortune!" sam, of course, hastened to help, and to take his share, and both boys were too much engaged for the next hour to have any more lengthened conversation. as it grew dusk they started for home, carrying the basket between them, well pleased with the result of their afternoon's work. the schoolhouse, with the adjoining cottage for the schoolmaster, stood somewhat apart from the other houses. both buildings were almost covered with ivy and monthly roses, some of which were even now blooming, though it was late in the year. the little garden in front of the cottage was trim and tidy, though all was still and quiet as the boys pushed the gate open and went in. owen's mother had died before he could remember, but his father had so loved and cared for his only child, that the boy realised no loss or want. his father was everything to him, and he repaid his care with most grateful love. the two lived alone in the rose-covered cottage, and did the needful work, with the help of a woman who came in twice a-week to do the washing and set things straight in general. she was in the kitchen when the boys went in. "is that you, owen?" she said, raising her voice, that he might hear her in the front parlour. "yes, mrs. mitchell, it's all right; it is only me and sam. where is father?" he added, going into the kitchen, where she was busily ironing. "he's gone to allenbury," she answered shortly. "gone to town! he never said anything about going!" exclaimed the boy, with surprise, for his father mostly made him his confidant in everything. "he'll be back in good time; he said he had to go on particular business." and mrs. mitchell turned back to her ironing, as if she did not care to be questioned. owen looked at her anxiously, but he did not speak again, and returned to the next room with a somewhat saddened face. he had noticed that his father was not quite himself lately, and he feared that there was some trouble pressing on him, that he should go off to allenbury like this, without saying a word. sam was already dividing the nuts, and in this interesting occupation owen soon forgot his anxiety, and was laughing and joking with his friend, as if there was no such thing as trouble in the world. "well," said sam at last, "i must go, i suppose; i have those cows to see after, and father is pretty strict if i don't attend them well. it's fine to be you, having your time to yourself, and nothing to do." "nothing to do!" echoed owen. "why, i've no idle time, i can tell you. i have the water to fetch in, and the wood to chop, and the garden to see to, besides my lessons, and father is very particular about them." "when are you going to leave school? you are near fourteen, are you not? i left when i was twelve. shall you go to school when you are a man?" owen laughed. "father wants me to learn all i can; he says we can't have too much education, and if i want to make a fortune, i must gather all knowledge i can now." "how will geography, and sums, and history help you to make your fortune?" "i don't know _how_, but i suppose they all come in. if i didn't know anything of geography, how could i trade with foreign countries, or know where to write for the stuff i wanted? and how could i tell whether they were cheating me or not, if i couldn't add up my sums? i should like to learn foreign languages too, to be able to talk to the merchants myself; but father does not know any language but english." sam looked wonderingly at his young companion's eager face. he did not care for education himself, and he could not understand the desire for it in owen. he had passed through school, as do many, learning just so much as he was obliged, and no more. though he could read and write, it was very seldom he took up either book or pen, spending his time in wandering about the lanes and woods when he was released from the farm duties which fell to his share. he was a good-natured, pleasant companion, but could in no way share owen's aspirations, though it amused him to listen to them. when he was gone, owen took up a book in order to study his lessons for the next day, but the fading light soon drove him into the brighter region of the fire. the warm glow spread itself all over the little kitchen, and even the snowy linen on the table looked attractive as it grew gradually smoother and fairer under mrs. mitchell's experienced hands. owen watched her a while from the chimney-corner, and presently he said-- "it must be very nice to iron, mrs. mitchell; to see the things that look all rough, and uncomfortable, and damp, smoothing themselves out under your hand, and looking pleasant and happy." mrs. mitchell was a character in her way, and had many thoughts under her somewhat stern face, but it had never occurred to her that the clothes were any happier for being ironed. "i expect it is you who are happier for seeing the things smooth, owen," she said; "it makes no difference to them, of course. but it do make a great difference to us to have things nice about us. i suppose that is the reason the dear lord says, 'whatsoever things are lovely, ... think on these things.'" "do you think that god cares about our having things nice and pretty?" "why, my dear, of course i do. do you think god would have taken all the trouble to put so much beauty into the world if he hadn't meant us to love it and enjoy it? see what lots of flowers he has given us, and such beautiful colours, even turning the leaves bright for us when the flowers are going. and when the snow comes down, he arranges it as beautiful as possible, making the very frost trace delicate patterns on the windows, and on the ground." "yes, i know," said owen, eagerly; "father was reading to me yesterday how that every snow-flake is a crystal." "ah, i expect the more you search into god's works, the more beauty you will find, owen." the good woman went on busily with her work as she spoke, presently adding, "i think, too, that god's children should always try to have things nice and pleasant about them, at least, as far as may be. i know that a struggling woman, with a lot of little children, can't have things as nice as she would. but every one may be clean, and if all did their best, the world would look different to what it does now." "mrs. mitchell, i am going to do my best, and make my fortune one day." "i am very glad, owen; i hope you will." "do you? that is kind of you. sam netherclift laughs, and thinks i shall never do it." "you may do it, if you seek it in the right way. there are two sorts of fortune, owen. i hope you'll get the better." "two sorts! what are they?" "one is a fortune of riches that take to themselves wings, and soon fly away; and the other sort is 'durable riches.'" "oh, i should make a fortune that would last, of course. riches that fly away are not of much use. i should seek the best fortune, mrs. mitchell." "i hope so, i hope so, indeed," said the woman, as she set down her cool iron, and took a fresh one from the fire. owen did not reply at once; he fancied there was some hidden meaning in mrs. mitchell's words, but he did not understand what it was. he turned to his book, and for a while there was silence, only broken by the sound of the iron on the board. presently he looked up, and asked, "did father say when he would be in, mrs. mitchell?" "no, he said he wasn't sure, but he should not be late." "you knew my mother, didn't you? i wish she had lived till now." "ah, you may well wish that. a sweeter and a better woman never lived. yes, i knew her, and tended her in her last illness. she was a rich woman, too." "a rich woman! how do you make that out?" "rich in faith, and love, and good works; those are the riches that last, owen. you will never be rich unless you come to the saviour." "squire rowland is rich, and he isn't----" owen paused for a suitable word--"you know what i mean, mrs. mitchell; he does not go to church, or visit the poor." "no, i fear he is not a child of god, poor man. he is rich in this world's goods; but this world will not last for ever, and we shall live on after this world is burnt up. so it is best to have riches we can take with us. better be poor here, and rich in the world to come, than rich on earth, to pine in miserable poverty for ever." "but will all rich men be poor in the other world?" "no, indeed. god sometimes gives earthly riches to his children to spend for him, though i must say i think they are generally poor. but those of god's children who are rich here count their money the least part of their fortune. a wealthy christian man once lost all his money by the breaking of a bank, and a friend meeting him after, said, 'i am sorry to hear you have lost everything.' he replied, 'it is a mistake; i have not lost everything. i have not lost christ, i have not lost heaven, nor god's word, nor the peace he gives. and on earth i have not lost my wife, nor my health, nor my senses, nor many good friends.' you see, owen, one may be very rich, and yet have very little money." "but money is a good thing, too; we cannot do without it." "it is good for what we can do with it. money is no good stored away and laid up. but it may be of great use and blessing if laid out and spent for the saviour. yet i think those people are the happiest who have just enough for every day's use." "i don't know, mrs. mitchell. i should like to have more than i could count." "god grant you never may, owen; it would ruin you, body and soul. seek the lasting riches, and leave god to give you sufficient means to live on. isn't that a bible on the shelf? just reach it down, and turn to proverbs, the eighth chapter and seventeenth and eighteenth verses." owen did as he was bid, and read out aloud, "i love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me. riches and honour are with me; yea, durable riches and righteousness." "that's the true fortune; god give you grace to seek it." owen did not reply; he sat with the book in his hands, looking thoughtfully into the fire, till suddenly he heard a step outside, and jumped up to greet his father. chapter ii. changes. mr. hadleigh was a tall, thin, anxious-looking man, a great contrast to his son. he entered the room slowly, and sat down in the arm-chair by the fire, as if he were very weary. "are you not well, father?" asked owen, anxiously. "i have had a long walk, my son. i shall be better when i have had some tea." owen was accustomed to wait upon his father, and soon put the tea in the little teapot, and set it down by the fire to brew while he fetched the bread and butter out of a neighbouring cupboard, and cutting a slice of bread off the loaf, he knelt down before the fire to toast it. mrs. mitchell meanwhile put her irons away, and folded up the remaining clothes without a word, except just as she was tying on her bonnet she ventured to say, "i suppose you got through your business, mr. hadleigh. it seems to have knocked you up a bit." "yes; the result was what i expected. but i am more concerned for others than for myself." "god can see after them, and care for them even better than you can. his ways are always better than ours." "no doubt; but one cannot always realise it," said the schoolmaster wearily. mrs. mitchell ventured no more than a quiet "good-night," as she saw owen was listening to the conversation, evidently desiring to know what they meant. but when she was by herself out in the road, she said softly, "poor things, they are both in trouble. mr. hadleigh is a clever man, no doubt, and gets the children on wonderful; but he has not got that quiet trust in god that mrs. hadleigh had. god give it him!" just as she turned the corner of the lane leading to her cottage, she met the vicar. "ha, mrs. mitchell, i have just been to your cottage, but your little girl told me you were not in yet. i hear that mr. hadleigh has some trouble pressing upon him. i have thought him looking anxious and careworn for some time; but he is such a reserved man, one cannot get much out of him. i thought perhaps you could give me a hint how i could help him." "indeed, sir, i wish you would go and see him; i fear he is in a sad way. he has not been feeling well for a long time, though he will not own it. he will not go to dr. benson for fear all the village should talk; but to-day he went over to allenbury to see dr. foster, and he has evidently told him some bad news about himself, for he seemed very low when he came in; but owen was there, so i could not ask." "no; the poor boy will feel it sadly if his father is really seriously ill. i never saw such deep attachment between father and son." meanwhile owen and his father were having a little talk. the poor boy seemed very uneasy during tea, and as soon as he had cleared away the remains of the meal, he sat down on his accustomed seat by his father's side, and said anxiously, "what is it father? something is wrong, i am sure." mr. hadleigh put his hand on the boy's head for a few moments without speaking. presently he said, "you have often talked of making your fortune, owen; how should you like to go to your uncle james, and learn his business as a beginning?" "i should like to go into business very well, father, but i could not leave you. you will not send me away?" "no, i will not do that, but i may have to leave you, owen. the doctor says my heart is seriously diseased." mr. hadleigh could get no further for the look of dismay that crept over his son's face. but, boy-like he would not let the tears fall, keeping his eyes steadfastly fixed on the fire, till his voice was calm enough to say, "perhaps the doctor was mistaken, and you may get better. doctors are often wrong." "it may be," returned mr. hadleigh, anxious not to grieve the boy too much at first. while they were talking, mr. sturt, the vicar, came in, and owen gladly took the opportunity of escaping upstairs for a while. it was a sore trouble to him, for he loved his father devotedly; but after the first grief was over, hope took her place again, and the boy went downstairs more cheerfully than his father expected. the days and weeks passed by, and things went on much as usual for owen. his father still taught in the school, and the boy did all he could to help him, sweeping out the schoolroom, and getting up in the dark mornings to light the fire before his father was out of bed--in every way he could, trying to lessen his father's work. but mr. hadleigh's health was not again alluded to. no doubt he spoke of it to mrs. mitchell, who was often in and out, but owen heard nothing of it, and he began to hope it was all a mistake. the winter came in early, with sharp frosts and snow, and owen, with his friend sam, was often on the ponds a good part of the day, sliding and skating to his heart's content. one evening, as he ran home glowing with exercise and fun, his father asked him, "how shall you like the town, owen? it will be a great contrast to the country." "i should not like it at all, father; except, i suppose, one can get more money there." "yes, i suppose so. your uncle is reckoned a rich man, and he has always been annoyed with me that i did not go into business too; but i had no taste for it. country life always had greater charms for me, even with less to live upon. but i think you will get on, owen; you have more push in you than i ever had. only don't let the earthly fortune that you desire, blind your eyes to the heavenly riches. i neglected them too long, and though i can thank god that he has saved me, yet i often fear i shall have little reward yonder, for i have hidden my hope in my own breast, and have been content to keep my riches to myself, instead of trading with them. mind that you do otherwise, owen. seek _first_ the kingdom of god, and all other things needful, food and clothing, shall be added unto you." these were the last words that owen ever heard from his father's lips. he had not seemed worse that night, but before the next morning he had passed away. at first owen was inconsolable, and would not be comforted at all. but kind neighbours gathered round, and in the evening his uncle arrived, having been telegraphed for by mr. sturt, according to mr. hadleigh's instructions. mr. james hadleigh was a great contrast to his brother; he was a strong, active man, quick, business-like, and energetic. he seemed to know exactly what to do, and speedily made all arrangements. he could not stay long in the village, of course; he had his business to attend to. but he had promised his brother to look after owen, and he would take him back with him. a few of his brother's belongings were packed up for the boy, but the rest mr. james hadleigh decided should be sold. there were several things that owen greatly desired to keep; the arm-chair that his father used, a small cabinet which contained botanical specimens that his father had collected, some books of his mother's, and other treasures. but his uncle spoke decidedly-- "nonsense; they are mostly old things. i cannot have my house filled with lumber. your clothes and a few books are all that i can allow you to take; the remainder must be sold. the money will be useful to you, till you are able to earn something. i began life with half-a-crown, and by laying it out judiciously, have obtained a tolerable income for myself. you will have more than i had, and ought to do better." owen did not say more then, but when he went up to the vicarage to bid good-bye to mr. sturt, he told him of his trouble. the vicar listened sympathisingly; he knew well that such treasures are not to be valued with money, and he felt, too, that such home-valuables might be helps to the boy amid the temptations of a town life. this little glimpse of mr. james hadleigh's character, too, made him fear that the boy would have very different surroundings to what he had been accustomed; but he determined not to discourage him, so he only said, kindly-- "i am sorry your uncle has not more room for your belongings; but i think i can help you. i will buy those things you value most, and when you have a room where you can put them, you shall have them again." "thank you, sir," said owen, gratefully. "i will pay you back all you give for them, sir. i am going to make my fortune, and do the best i can." "i hope indeed you will do the best you can whatever your hands find to do. but as to making your fortune, that is another matter, and i don't know that i can wish you success in that. seek the heavenly riches, my boy, and amid all the lower aims of earth, keep your heart fresh and pure by yielding yourself to the saviour, and asking his grace to live only for him." the next day owen and his uncle started on their journey; they had a long way to go, and it was quite a novelty to owen to go any distance in a train. at first he was very sorrowful; the little village had been his home all his life, and he felt that no other place could ever be the same to him. his eyes filled as he thought of his dear father, but he was glad to know that he was doing just what his father wished in going with his uncle. by-and-by the train stopped at a station, and when they went on again, owen found that he and his uncle were alone in the carriage. he wished he would talk to him; his father would have pointed out places of interest, and been so companionable, but his uncle seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts. "have we much farther to go, please?" ventured owen at last. "about an hour more," said his uncle, turning round, as if suddenly aware of his presence. "what can you do?" he asked, after a pause; "have you been accustomed to work at all?" "i did odd jobs about the house, sir, but i never went out to work; father wanted me to learn all i could." "wanted to make a scholar of you, did he?" "no; but he said learning was always a good thing, and he would give me as much as he could." "humph, your father was always an unpractical man. you might have been earning a nice little sum now." "perhaps i shall be able to work better for what father taught me," said the boy, timidly. mr. hadleigh looked at his orphan nephew, and said more kindly, "perhaps you will; your father was a good man, though he did not know how to make money. do you know much of arithmetic?" "yes, i am very fond of it." "that's a good thing; a quick reckoner is valuable in business. of course you know you will have to work. your aunt and clarice both help, and i can keep no idler on the premises." "is clarice my cousin?" "yes; she is some years older than you, though. she helps me with the books, and makes a good business woman. i think that everybody, young people specially, should stick to their work. if people did that, there would not be so many poor about." "but people cannot help being poor, can they? some are always richer than others." "that may be, but all can earn their own living, if they will. if not, they have no business to live." owen was rather startled at this view of things, and did not reply. but the end of the journey was nearly reached; already he saw tall chimneys and spires, and numbers of houses in the distance, and soon they were in that dull haze that always surrounds large towns. but there was no time to think about it, for the train pulled up at a large station, and all was bustle and confusion, as people ran here and there in anxiety for their luggage. his uncle thought owen quite capable of carrying his own belongings, and led the way down a narrow street into a broader one, with some fine buildings; then, to the boy's surprise, over a bridge, which crossed a fine dock filled with shipping, for he had no idea that barmston was a seaport town. he was tempted to stop and look at the busy life, where the twinkling lights of the lamps were reflected in the dark waters of the dock. but his uncle was walking with rapid steps, and he ran to keep up with him. as he turned into the broad market-place, he entered a bright, cheerful grocer's shop, over which owen had just time to catch the name "hadleigh" in large letters. his uncle passed at once into the counting-house, and entered into eager conversation with a man who was there, and a young girl, who, owen concluded, was his cousin. but nobody seemed to think of the orphan, who sat on his box in a corner of the bright and busy shop, unnoticed and uncared for. after a while he grew so interested in watching the various customers that he almost forgot where he was, till a clear voice close at his side asked pleasantly, "are you my cousin owen?" chapter iii. making his fortune. owen sprang up and acknowledged the relationship, following the girl through the back of the shop, upstairs to a pleasant room, where tea was already spread. "father is busy with dawson just for a few minutes," she said, "but mother will be here presently. oh, there she is. mother, here is owen; where is he to sleep?" "in the little room at the top of the stairs," replied a middle-aged, active-looking woman, who stood before owen, without giving him a word of greeting, saying, critically, "you look pretty capable; are you willing to work?" "oh yes, ma'am; i will do anything i can." "that is right," said clarice, kindly; "come, i will show you your room, and you can wash your hands and face, and then come down to tea. i expect you want something after your journey." owen looked gratefully at his cousin as he carried his box upstairs after her. the little room in which she left him was dreary and cold, so different to his pretty little bedroom at home, which his father had made so cheerful and pleasant. but owen was determined not to look on the dark side. he peeped out of the window; it looked down on the busy street, and the tops of the houses. as far as he could see were house-tops, and he wondered how far off the country could be. he felt a little sore at his aunt's cool manner, and was almost inclined to cry, as he turned to the washstand to follow his cousin's suggestion. the cold water refreshed him, and things looked brighter when he made his way down to the parlour, and found only clarice waiting for him. "you and i will have tea by ourselves," she said, cheerfully; "father is not ready yet, and mother has gone down to him. would you like a slice of ham? here is bread, and a nice hot cup of tea. i wonder how you will like the town." so clarice chatted away, trying to make the boy at home. the warm tea revived him, and his cousin's kindness won his heart, so that when she said, "i am so glad you have come, i know we shall be good friends," he was able to respond, "yes, i am glad too; you are good and pretty." clarice laughed. "nobody ever told me that before. i have to work too hard to be pretty. father and mother let no one be idle. we must do all we can to make a fortune." but she said it somewhat bitterly, and owen did not know how to reply, though he said, after a pause, "don't you want to make a fortune?" "i would rather enjoy what money we have," said clarice. "what is the good of going on heaping up money all your life, and never enjoying what it brings at all?" "that is what mrs. mitchell said." "who is mrs. mitchell?" "a neighbour of ours. she said it was best to get 'durable riches.'" "what sort of riches are they?" "i don't quite know, but they are in the bible; i read it there." "oh," said clarice, "i don't know much of the bible. perhaps it would be better if i did, but father would not like me to spend time reading it. will you have some more tea? no? then we had better go down, and father and mother can come up. father never likes to leave the counting-house unless one of us is there, but i don't see why he can't trust dawson." owen followed his cousin downstairs. the shop was now brightly lighted up, and the fragrant smell of newly-ground coffee pervaded the place. looking out at the door, he could see the twinkling lights of the pier at the end of the broad street, and the tall, dark masts of the vessels in the river; while nearer were rows of bright shops, and many feet hurrying past. it was a great change for the country-bred boy. "what time do the people go to bed here?" he asked, as he returned to his cousin. "why, not yet for a long time." "they all look as if it was the middle of the day, and in westbrook every one was at home and quiet after tea." clarice laughed. "you will see a great difference here, owen." the next morning his uncle told him he must set to work, and gave him some employment at once, quite to owen's satisfaction, for he did not care to be idle. it was a new thing to be busy about a shop, but he liked the change. it had been arranged that he should serve his uncle for the first three months without payment, only getting his board and lodging; but after that, if he proved capable, his uncle promised him a small salary. "of course you will have to buy your clothes out of it. but if you really wish to make your fortune, take my advice, never spend more than you can help! save up all you can, and never buy anything you can possibly do without." owen promised obedience, and threw his whole heart into his work. poor lad, he seemed in danger of forgetting his father's advice, and the unworldly lessons he had learnt in earlier days, as he made haste to be rich. for no one in his uncle's household seemed to think of anything beyond this present life. his uncle was somewhat strict with him, though on the whole he treated him kindly, while his aunt was very cool and stern. but clarice was very fond of her young cousin, and whenever she could obtain her father's consent, would take him out with her, and walk along the river-side, or round the docks, where the boy never ceased to wonder at the new and strange things he saw. among the men and boys employed in the shop, owen was much attracted by a young errand-boy, about his own age, whom everybody called "david," and he soon made friends with him. david was very obliging, and always willing to help owen any way he could, which was not the case with norris, one of the young men, who seemed to take a delight in thwarting and hindering him. one day when david had some extra heavy parcels to carry, owen was sent out with him, and as they walked along, he asked him his surname. "david netherclift," he replied. "what!" said owen, "netherclift, did you say?" "yes, why not?" "why, sam netherclift was my greatest friend down home. it is funny you should have the same name." "where is your home?" "at westbrook, near allenbury; a long way from here." "westbrook? i have often heard my father speak of it; his brother lives there. i expect sam is my cousin. i'll ask father." "oh, do. does your father live near here?" "not far off. but we must not go there now." "why not?" "because this is the time for work. father says it is as bad as stealing to take my master's time for my own use. i'll ask him all about it to-night, and tell you in the morning." "i expect your father is something like mine was," said owen; "he was so good, and never let me do wrong if he could help it." "is he dead?" asked david. "yes, he died some time ago. if he had been alive i should not be here, for i would never have left him." when the boys returned to the shop, they were both set busily to work, and had no time for further conversation. but next day david found opportunity to say, "sam is my cousin, and father says he hopes you will come and see him some day; he would like to hear about westbrook." owen was getting rapidly initiated into business habits, and being a quick, intelligent boy, did not often want telling twice how to do a thing, so that his uncle regarded him with favour, and at times allowed him to help clarice in the counting-house when she was extra busy. the boy missed the country life, the long walks, the skating, the thousand pleasures of unfettered rural life, and he sometimes wished he could have a holiday, though he never said so to his uncle, but stuck manfully to his work till late every night, and then threw himself on his bed, and went sound asleep. mr. hadleigh seldom went to church; indeed, the whole family were generally too tired on a sunday, after a week of incessant labour, to do anything but rest. in fine weather clarice generally went for a walk in the afternoon, and her father sometimes accompanied her. but on winter evenings they sat round the fire, yawning and tired, wishing the hours would pass rapidly by, so that the shop could be opened again. mr. hadleigh really cared for nothing but business. the first sunday or two owen was very miserable. sundays had been such bright days in his old home. he had always gone to church with his father in the morning, and to a class he held for elder boys in the afternoon; and though he had not always taken heed to the lessons as he ought, he had at any rate enjoyed the time. and he looked back to the westbrook sundays as days of peaceful rest. the first sunday after he had found out that david was a cousin of his old friend sam, he ventured to ask his uncle if he might go and spend the afternoon with the netherclifts. his uncle gave him leave, not caring what he did on sundays, so long as he attended well to his work during the week. owen started off eagerly, and just round the corner saw david, who had come to meet him by agreement. they walked some little distance, till they reached a narrower street, with smaller houses--a dingy street owen thought it. but david stopped at a house which looked brighter than the rest, having clean blinds and curtains to the windows, and a very white stone step at the door. owen noticed this as he followed david in. "this is owen hadleigh, father," he said, bringing him into the little sitting-room. "i am very glad to see you," said mr. netherclift; "but i cannot rise to greet you. i am a constant prisoner with rheumatism." and then owen noticed that the man's hands, too, were twisted and swollen with the same painful disease. he hardly knew what to say. but mr. netherclift was anxious to set him at his ease, and bid david bring a chair forward, as he remarked-- "you have come from westbrook, david tells me. i used to go there often, many years ago." "did you really?" asked owen, eagerly, ready for a talk with one who knew his old home. "did you know my father, too?" "i have seen him, but i don't think i ever spoke to him. my visits to my brother were always short, so i did not get to know many of his friends. and so your father is now home with christ; it is a blessed change even from such a pretty place as westbrook." "yes, and he was glad to go; though he was sorry to leave me," said the boy, wistfully. "mother died when i was a baby, so now i have nobody." "have you not got christ?" owen looked up inquiringly; he did not quite know his friend's meaning. "the blessed saviour loves you, my boy; have you no love in your heart for him? those who belong to him can never say they have nobody to love them. are you not his child?" the question was asked very tenderly, and owen looked into the kind face that watched his so earnestly, as he said, slowly, "i don't think so." "then i am sure you are both poor and lonely." "yes, i am poor, because father had very little to leave me--only a few books and furniture. but i have come to barmston to make my fortune." "i hope you will find the truest fortune; it is already made for you, and all you have to do is to accept it." "what is the truest fortune?" "it is to belong to christ, the king of kings. the peace and rest and joy he gives are riches of untold price, more valuable--infinitely so--than any wealth of earth. and they are riches that will last for ever." "how can we get them?" "by first of all realising our poverty, that we, you and i, are poor lost sinners in ourselves, fit for nothing but hell, and that we can do nothing to save ourselves. then, knowing this fact, because god says it, to come just as we are, and believe in his son, who died to save us from all sin." owen listened earnestly, the boy's heart was roused; it was god's message to him. he looked thoughtfully into the fire for a few moments. presently he said, "father's last words to me were to seek the heavenly riches." "have you sought them?" "there is no time here in barmston. from morning to night i am as busy as can be, often till ten o'clock, and then i am so tired i almost drop asleep while i am undressing." "poor boy, you are hard-worked. but remember this, god never puts you into any place where you cannot seek him. do you never read your bible, or speak to god in prayer?" [illustration: "did you know my father?"--_page ._] "not now. perhaps i shall have more time when i am older." "nay, never think that. god says, 'now is the day of salvation.' you may not live to be older." the conversation was interrupted by mrs. netherclift coming in with the tea, and directly after the two boys went out together to a neighbouring mission-hall, where david's father knew they would hear an earnest gospel message. he, being unable to walk, remained at home, earnestly praying that both lads might get a blessing. chapter iv. an unexpected trial. david netherclift ushered owen into a small, but cheerful and brightly-lighted mission-hall. the place was nearly full, but they found comfortable seats, and the service almost immediately commenced. the singing was hearty, and the speaker's manner so earnest and manly that owen's attention was gained even before he began to preach. but when he read out his text, the boy listened still more earnestly, for the words seemed to have some reference to the fortune he so eagerly desired. slowly and deliberately they were read out: "ye know the grace of our lord jesus christ, that, though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be rich." "you see here," began the speaker, "that one who was rich gave up his wealth, and became a poor man that you, poor men, women, and children, might become rich. it was a wonderful thing to do, for it was not only that he gave up home and comfort and wealth for poor people, but for those who cared nothing for him, even for his enemies. and he did it out of his own great love and grace. who was it who did this? it was the lord jesus christ, the king of glory, the god who made the world, and all those countless stars that fill our sky. if it was a good man that had done it, we should have thought it a great thing to do; but that god should stoop so low fills us with surprise. he might have stayed in heaven, rejoicing in his father's love, listening to the songs and adoration of the angels, leaving us in our poverty and ruin to die eternally. but no; out of his boundless love and grace, he came to suffer and die--'for your sakes.' "yes, for our sakes, because we were poor, lost sinners, and he pitied us. so he came down from heaven, and lived a poor man, dying a death of shame to redeem us and save us from hell. should we not then seek his rich salvation, and take the wealth the saviour went through such deep poverty to win for us? you may refuse it; god does not force it upon you. but oh, the terrible punishment that will fall on those who neglect or reject god's salvation! "you, here before me, are mostly poor; you would all like to be rich. listen, then, to god's word: 'the blessing of the lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it.' the heavenly riches never disappoint, never fly away, but last on, growing deeper and fuller, right into eternity. who will come to christ to-night, and seek his unsearchable riches?" they were simple words simply spoken, but were god's message to many hearts. owen did not say much as he walked home with his friend; but he did not forget the words he had heard. that night he opened his bible for the first time since he came to barmston, and knelt in prayer before he went to bed. all that week he was very thoughtful, longing for sunday to come, that he might again have some help heavenward, for he was beginning to set his face that way. not that he neglected his work. no; his uncle never found him more diligent and active, though he was on his feet from morning till night, and was often thoroughly tired out. "no sorrow with it," he said softly to himself one evening, as he was copying some writing by his cousin's side in the counting-house. "what do you say, owen?" the boy smiled. "i did not know i was speaking out loud," he said. "but what did you say about 'no sorrow'?" "it was something i heard on sunday: 'the blessing of the lord it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it.'" "those riches must be worth getting," said clarice, after a pause, with tears in her eyes. she had long known a deeply unsatisfied feeling in her heart, though no one suspected it; and she herself hardly knew how the uneasiness arose. "yes, i think so too," said owen, as he went on busily with his work. it was only a few days after this that mr. hadleigh called his nephew to him, and said, "clarice has to go on business for me over to horley, across the river, and she wants you to go too; so run and change your jacket, and get ready to go with her." "thank you, uncle," said the boy, delighted at the prospect of a change. he had never been on the river before, and it was a great charm to him to step on board the little steamer waiting at the pier-head, and start off in the fresh breeze across the river. "how long will it take us?" he asked his cousin. "about twenty minutes crossing; then we have to go into the village for father, and take the next boat back." "how curious it feels; it looks as if the town and pier were moving away." "yes, it often does at first; but it is really we who are moving. you will see better when we get farther out into the river." the shipping and the new sights occupied the boy the whole way across, and clarice had to answer numberless questions, so that it was not till they had reached the other side, and were walking down a country road to the neighbouring village, that she was able to say, "do you know why i asked father to let you come to-day?" "because you are kind, and wanted me to have a holiday." "it was not altogether that," said the girl, looking down on the young boy at her side; "i wanted you to tell me more about that 'no sorrow.'" "why, i told you all i knew." "ah, but how can we get it?" the boy hesitated. "you must come with me to the mission-hall on sunday night, and hear the preacher yourself, clarice. then you will know all about it." "i cannot do that; mother would not let me, nor father either, i fear." "but they let me." "yes; but they had a talk about it the first sunday evening you were gone. mother said she did not like you to go at all, but father said as long as you did your work well he did not mind where you went on sundays, as you are a boy. so you really must tell me more, owen. no one but you can help me." "i don't know what to tell you. i don't quite understand it myself yet. he said we were to read the bible and pray, and seek the salvation god offers. he said the lord jesus loves us, and wants us to be his children." "are you his child?" "i don't know. i want to be. father and mother were, and----" the boy stopped. "i must know more about it," said clarice, earnestly; "you must listen for yourself and me too, owen, when you go again, and try to remember all you can to tell me." when they returned to barmston, they found mr. hadleigh evidently in a bad temper. he was talking very loudly, and seemed considerably annoyed. the moment he caught sight of owen, he called him to him. "didn't you put out that order for mr. davenport yesterday? i gave it into your hands." "yes, sir, i did it. i weighed out the things, and wrapped them up." "this comes of trusting to boys," he said, bitterly; "but you seemed different to most. mr. davenport has just been in, and says the things never arrived." "i packed them up all right," said owen, respectfully, but firmly. "whose place was it to take them out?" "it was david's round." "then the matter lies between you and david. which of you stole the goods?" "oh, father!" exclaimed clarice, "neither of them would do such a thing." "well, the goods must be somewhere," he replied, half-ashamed of his hot words. "norris has often given me hints about the two, david and owen; he says they are too much together for good." "i expect norris is at the bottom of it," said clarice, eager to defend her young cousin. "nonsense. norris has been with us for years. i would trust him as well as anybody. owen, you can go to your own room for the present, till i decide what is to be done. send david to me as soon as he returns." poor owen, it was a sad ending to a pleasant little holiday. things looked black, but he knew he had done as he was told, and that the goods had been carefully wrapped up, and laid on the counter ready to be taken away. yet how could he prove it? norris had seen him weighing the things out, but he had turned against him, and there was no other witness. he sat down by the side of his bed, and wondered what he should do if his uncle sent him to prison. could he not run away? there were lots of ships about; perhaps he could get work on one of them. but better thoughts prevailed, and at last he sank on his knees, and prayed that some way might be found for him out of his trouble. meanwhile david had been questioned, and said that he had never been given anything for mr. davenport. he showed his book, stating what houses he had called at, and answered so straightforwardly that mr. hadleigh at once acquitted him of all complicity in wrong-doing. "it is just that nephew of yours, mr. hadleigh," said his wife; "a little sneaking fellow, trying to toady himself into your favour by industry, and then returning it in this fashion." "owen never did it," said clarice, decidedly. "ah, you always favoured him. you and your father should have believed me, and this would never have occurred," said her mother, sweeping out of the room. clarice possessed great influence with her father, so when they were alone, he asked, "don't you really think it is owen?" "no, father, i don't. i am certain he would not do such a thing. his father brought him up too well for that. things have been missing before he came. if i were you, i should look after somebody else." nothing more was said. business went on as usual till ten o'clock; then the shop was closed, and the family went upstairs to the sitting-room. no one had been near owen, or had even thought of taking him food, till clarice suddenly remembered he had had nothing since breakfast; so filling a plate with some bread and butter, and a slice of cold meat, she hastily left the room, unquestioned by her parents. owen had fallen asleep, with his head resting against the washstand, and clarice noticed that there were traces of tears on his face. she touched his arm, and he jumped up in a moment. "i have brought you something to eat," she said, kindly; "i am so sorry i forgot to do so before; i am afraid you are nearly starved." "no, it didn't matter; but i am glad to have it now. what is going to be done?" he asked, watching his cousin's face anxiously. "nothing can be done to-night. father wants to find out the truth, of course. i think if we asked god to let it be seen who took the things, he would make it plain." "i am sure he would if we were his children. but you see we are not." the words were said sorrowfully and slowly. clarice did not reply for a moment, as she watched her cousin eating his supper. "we must see what to-morrow brings," she said, at last; "go to bed now." mr. hadleigh could find no direct evidence against owen. the goods had vanished, certainly, but it was not at all clear who had taken them. he did not care to prosecute his own nephew, and he would not turn him adrift for his dead brother's sake. so things went on much as usual, though the boy knew he was only tolerated, and was carefully watched, whatever he did. when sunday came, owen gladly went off to his kind friends. mr. netherclift had heard all about the accusation from david, and felt much for the orphan lad. again he put the gospel earnestly and faithfully before him; but he was a wise man; he would not hurry any soul, though he knew there must be a moment of decision, and he entreated the boy not to put it off. as to the present trial, he urged owen to do his every-day work faithfully and well, as under the eye of god, and he felt sure that his uncle would in time be assured that he was not the culprit. "it seems strange this should happen just now, when i want to do right. it is only this week that i have begun to read my bible again. when i didn't read it nothing disagreeable happened." "ah, my boy, if you were older and more experienced, you would know why. when you were content to live just for this world alone, without a thought of god and eternal things, satan left you alone. but the moment you begin to seek god, satan does all he can to hinder and keep you back. no doubt he has stirred up some of his servants to work you this evil; but be sure of this, god will right you in good time." a quiet, happy evening was spent, owen feeling very grateful for sympathy, and being much cheered to see that the netherclifts never for one moment doubted his honesty. but he went home early, saying he wished to be alone, and would not go to the mission-hall that night. chapter v. sunshine and shade. clarice and owen generally breakfasted together very early, some time before mr. and mrs. hadleigh appeared. clarice had spent an anxious night, partly on her own account, and partly being troubled about owen, as norris continued to speak against him whenever he could; so that she was quite startled to see her cousin come into the room with a calm, sunny face. "what is the matter!" she exclaimed; "has father found out it was not you?" "no; i wish he had." "then what makes you look so happy?" "clarice, i do believe the lord jesus has saved me, and made me his child." they were simple words, but they told of a great change, and clarice burst into tears. "why do you cry?" asked owen, presently. "because i want the same; i see it has made you 'rich,' owen." "you can have it too, if you will. only you must go to the lord jesus for it, as i did." the rest of the breakfast passed almost in silence. clarice could not speak, and it was not easy for owen to tell of his new-found joy. they went down together to the shop, and the morning's work began. the boy's bright face was not unnoticed, though no one else asked him the reason of it. a fortnight passed away, and owen seemed no nearer being cleared. norris was as disagreeable as ever, doing all he could to get the boy into trouble; but his unfailing truthfulness and integrity saved him from falling into the traps laid for him, and this angered norris still more. mrs. hadleigh, too, continued as distant as ever, and was much annoyed to see the change in clarice, which she attributed solely to her cousin's influence. "i can't think what has taken the girl," she said to her husband one day; "your nephew has brought his religious notions here, and has turned her head. such trouble as i've taken to keep her from all pious people, too, fearing they would fill her head with fancies. and here she is as religious as any of them. i might just as well have saved myself the trouble." "exactly so," said her husband, dryly. "i do believe you will go the same way, james." "might do worse." "and after all our toil to work up the business!" "my dear, the business won't suffer." meanwhile, in the shop below, norris had sent owen on an errand to the stores underneath the ground; he had to go down through a trap door to the cellar, and not going quick enough to suit the young man, or out of spite, norris give him a push, which, loaded as he was, made him lose his footing and fall heavily through the opening. "what a stupid!" exclaimed the man; "he is no more fit for business than a calf." "norris!" said clarice, coming hastily out of the counting-house, "i saw the whole affair. you pushed him down, and my father shall know." "you make a mistake, miss hadleigh," he said, blandly; "he is the most useless boy we ever had on the premises." one of the porters and dawson had hastily descended after the boy, who was lifted up in their arms, groaning heavily. mr. hadleigh came in at the moment, asking what had happened. every one gave a different answer. "he is severely injured," he said, as he bent over the boy. "david, run for mr. daly; ask him to come at once. can you two carry the lad upstairs?" when mrs. hadleigh had found out what had happened, she declared he ought to be sent at once to the hospital. but her husband said the boy reminded him more of his brother every day, and for that brother's sake he should be nursed in the house. the doctor's verdict settled everything; he said the patient must on no account be moved; the hip-bone was broken, and he must be kept perfectly quiet. when the bone was set, and the boy somewhat more comfortable, though in great pain and weakness, clarice crept softly into the room, and watched him for a moment with tears in her eyes. he looked so white and suffering; and to think it should happen through the carelessness and unkindness of another! presently owen opened his eyes. "is that you, clarice?" "yes; how are you now?" "isn't it a good thing i was saved in time?" his voice was feeble, though the tone was glad. "saved in time?" questioned clarice. "yes, i mean saved before this happened. you see, i could not have thought about these things while i was in such pain--at least, it would have made me feel worse. now the pain is all outside; my heart is happy. jesus comes and says to me, 'my peace i give unto you.'" clarice knelt down by the side of the bed, and softly stroked the boy's hair back from his forehead. he seemed to like the caressing motion, for he did not move till she said softly, "i know something of that peace, too, owen, and it was through your lips the blessing came to me." a sunny smile spread over the white face as he said, "it was worth all the pain to know that, clarice. god has found us both now." "yes, i had been trying to help father to make his fortune; and you had come to barmston wishing to make your fortune; but god has given us his riches." "would you mind reading to me a little? my head is so bad; i think it would comfort me, and give me something to think of while i am alone in the night." clarice was much touched to find that her young cousin expected no care or nursing during the night. it showed her how accustomed he was to be neglected, and put on one side in the house. but she said nothing, only opened owen's bible, and softly read the psalm that so many, young and old, have rested their souls on in times of joy and sorrow: "the lord is my shepherd; i shall not want." quietly and slowly, without any comment, she read the psalm through, and then, seeing the boy was exhausted, went noiselessly out of the room to seek some refreshment for him. as soon as the shop was closed mr. hadleigh came up himself to visit his nephew, and assure him that he would take all care of him, and that he was not to trouble about the accusation, for the more he watched him, the more he was convinced that he was innocent, though where the goods had gone to was a great mystery. "david shall sit up with you to-night," he said, "and we will see about a better nurse in the morning." owen was much surprised at his uncle's tender manner, for he had always been too absorbed in business to speak kindly to any of his family. but though owen did not know it, his influence was working unconsciously upon his uncle, and opening his eyes to see that other things are worth obtaining besides money. the pain was very severe, and owen felt thoroughly sore all over, for, beside the broken bone, he was considerably bruised and shaken. clarice peeped in again before she went to bed, bringing a little plate of jelly to moisten his mouth during the night, and to see that everything was arranged as comfortably as might be. presently [illustration: "quietly and slowly ... she read the psalm through."--_page ._] david came up, and took a seat by the bedside. he looked gravely at the drawn, white face, as he asked anxiously, "is the pain terribly bad?" "bad enough," said owen, faintly. "what a coward that norris is!" said the boy, indignantly; "the master ought to turn him away." "does uncle know he did it?" "i don't know. i saw norris talking away to him in the soft, sweet manner he has; and no doubt he made out it was no fault of his. i should like to tell mr. hadleigh himself." "you must not do that." "why not?" "because we must not carry accusations of one another about." "but it is true that he did knock you down." "yes; and if uncle asked you to tell him, you might do so; but i am sure you ought not to offer to tell him." "that's rather queer, isn't it? mr. hadleigh was not there, and he may think it was your fault after all." "god was there. he saw it all, and he knows everything--even why norris is so against me; and he will make it right." but owen could not go on talking; the pain was so severe, he could only just bear it by keeping perfectly quiet. an hour or two passed away slowly, when owen was surprised to hear his uncle's voice at the door, calling softly, "david!" the boy rose. "yes, sir," he replied. "is owen asleep?" "no, sir, he can't sleep, the pain is so bad." "well, come with me a minute, and then you shall return to him." the door was gently closed, and owen heard no more, except a whispered consultation outside. then he was left alone for some time. a strange thing had happened. in the bustle and confusion of owen's accident mr. hadleigh had been somewhat upset, and just as he was getting into bed he remembered that he had left his cash-box in the counting-house. such a thing had never occurred before in all his business life, and he was a good deal dismayed when he thought of it. throwing on a dressing-gown, and stepping softly for fear of disturbing owen, he went downstairs. he carried no candle, for he knew just where he had left the box, and he feared a light might set fire to something. he had just reached the glass door leading into the shop, and was about to put his hand out to open it, when he observed a faint light in one corner, and a figure moving. for a moment he seemed paralysed, but gathering his wits together, he carefully watched for a moment or two, when he saw the muffled figure of a man reaching down canisters and boxes, carefully and gently, and abstracting part of their contents. not much out of each, evidently, for the parcels he made up were small; but the basket on the floor held a good many of them. the man's face he could not see, nor could he at all make out the figure. after watching him for a moment, he crept upstairs, and calling david out of owen's room, sent him off by a back-door to the neighbouring police-station, while he again mounted guard at the glass door. it seemed a long time to mr. hadleigh as he stood watching the thief walking softly about the shop, helping himself here and there to tea, sugar, cloves and spices, dried fruit, and other goods. he felt sure it was one who knew the premises well, by the way he went about, laying his hands on exactly what he wanted. who could it be? it was neither owen nor david, that was clear, and mr. hadleigh felt quite relieved when david returned with two policemen, who did not speak a word, but looked through the glass door, as mr. hadleigh silently pointed out the thief to them. as they turned the handle of the door, the slight click caused the thief to start, and when he saw the policemen he hastily extinguished his light, and flew across the shop. but the policemen rushed after him; there was a few moments' struggle in the dark, as the thief tried to reach a small window at the back, from which he had evidently entered; but the two powerful men held him down and secured him, while david got matches, and lighted a lamp. "that was a pretty tidy catch," said one of the men; "caught in the very act of stealing. a pretty long sentence you'll get, my man." mr. hadleigh drew nearer to look at the man as they were leading him away, and to his surprise and indignation, saw norris! "is it possible!" he exclaimed. "what can have been your object?" "let me off this time, mr. hadleigh," he whined; "let me off this time. it will ruin me for life if you put me in prison. let me go this time." "a likely thing!" said the policemen, grimly, as they led him out into the street. when they were gone, mr. hadleigh went round the house and shop to see that all was safe, david following with a light; and when everything was secure, they went upstairs again. "where have you been?" was owen's first question. "do lift up my pillow a bit; my head is so uncomfortable." david did as he was asked; but he looked so excited that owen inquired again, "where have you been?" "mr. hadleigh wanted me down in the shop." "in the night! what time is it?" "two o'clock." "what could he want?" "we caught a thief stealing the goods out of the shop. i went for two policemen, and they got hold of him." "how dreadful it must be to be a thief; it is worse for him even than for uncle to lose his things." "yes, i suppose so." "i wish he knew i did not take those things of mr. davenport's." "i think he'll know soon." "do you? why?" "i expect it was the same thief all along, and the truth will come out." to david's relief, owen did not ask any more questions, for mr. hadleigh had warned him not to excite the boy, nor tell him more than was needful. but david could hardly contain himself, it had been such a strange episode in the night. chapter vi. "poor, yet making many rich." just as the clock was striking five, to the great relief of both boys, clarice softly opened the door. she sent david off at once to the sofa in the next room, bidding him get an hour's sleep as soon as he could. then making up the fire, she speedily and skilfully made a refreshing cup of chocolate, and brought it to owen's bedside. he looked white and wan, as he whispered softly, "there is 'no sorrow' with it, cousin clarice, though the pain is so bad." "poor boy," she whispered, softly stroking his head, "i wish i could bear it for you. but jesus knows, and he will help you through all." "oh, he does; he comforts me so. when i was all alone, he gave me such happy thoughts of going soon to be with him and father." "i hope you will not go yet awhile, owen. but how were you alone in the night? i thought david was with you." "he was, most of the time. but uncle called him down to help about some thief." "some thief!" "yes, david said so." clarice thought the boy's mind was wandering, and asked no more questions, only talked on soothingly for awhile, and then read the "keeping" psalm to him, "the lord is thy keeper, ... the lord shall preserve thee from all evil," till owen seemed quite comforted by the blessed words, both in mind and body, and laid so still, that his cousin hoped he might get a short sleep. when at last she went into the breakfast-room, she found both her father and mother there before her, considerably excited and annoyed with the affair of the previous night. she was told the whole story, and said she was not much surprised, for she had never thought norris was trustworthy. "i know you never liked him," said her father; "but i thought it was only a girl's fancy. how is owen this morning?" "in great pain. this accident might never have happened but for norris. i saw him push owen just as he was stepping down; and having his arms full, he could not save himself." mr. hadleigh went in to see the boy, before he went round to the police-court, and stayed some little time with him. owen asked to be sent back to westbrook; he was sure some there would care for him for his father's sake; and he had not forgotten his uncle's words in the train, that if anyone could not work they had no right to live. "it is impossible you should be moved, at any rate for some weeks," he said. "why do you want to go?" "because i cannot earn anything, and shall not be able to do so for a long time, i fear," was the sorrowful reply. "never mind, owen, these few months you have been here have shown me that money is not everything. honesty, uprightness, and faithful service are more than money, and i will show you i value them by spending money on you. don't you trouble; you will earn plenty when you are about again." "thank you," said the boy, greatly comforted, "i will get well as soon as i can, sir." but the days passed slowly to the active lad, as he lay in weariness and pain, wondering if he should ever be able to walk again. he had intended to work hard and get on, and earn money, and do so much good in the world. yet here he was laid on his back, unable to do anything, hardly knowing whether he should ever be more than a cripple. it was a trial to the young christian, just as he started on the heavenly road. but he was very patient, and bore his pain manfully, while gratefully thanking any one who showed him any kindness. his uncle continually came and sat down by him for half-an-hour at a time, and thus owen often had sweet opportunities of witnessing for his saviour, and telling his uncle of his peace and joy. one day mr. hadleigh came in with a somewhat troubled face. "owen," he said, "how can i make up to you for wrongly accusing you?" "have you found out that i never took those things of mr. davenport's?" he asked, eagerly. "yes, i have just returned from norris's trial, and it all came out. it seems that he and his sister kept a small grocer's shop in a low part of the town, and that for a long time he has partly stocked it through goods taken from me, by little and little, as he was able to do it. he confessed at last, when the evidence became too strong, and owned that he carried off mr. davenport's parcel to his own home. he is now in prison for two years." "isn't it sad for him?" "it serves him right, for such wicked and underhand dealings." "yes, isn't it strange that people forget that they will be sure to be found out one day? father always used to say that it paid best to be honest and upright in every way, even if it were not a question of right. dishonest people must always live in fear of being found out. father said we must always live _open_ lives, and then everything would be right." "your father was a good man, owen. i can't think how i came to suspect you. only get well, and i will do all i can for you." "thank you, uncle; i am very glad you know i did not do it," replied the boy, as if he could not forget how heavy a weight had been lifted off him. "it troubled you?" asked mr. hadleigh, kindly. "yes, sir, very much. only i knew that god knew all about it, and i hoped he would right me one day." "does it comfort you to think that god knows all about you?" "yes, indeed it does; specially since he has made me his child. i like to think he knows just where i am, and what i am doing, and that he cares for me all the day long. he makes me so happy." mr. hadleigh was silent; it was an experience he knew nothing of; yet as he looked at the thin, white face, smiling so peacefully, he felt it was possible so to live. and from that day forward he was very kind and tender to owen, often encouraging him to talk, though saying little in reply himself. mr. netherclift had sent many kind messages to owen; he greatly regretted not being able to walk, as he should have liked to call on his young friend. but that not being possible, he sent kind words by david, and once he managed to write a few lines, to owen's great joy, for it was a very rare thing for him to receive a letter. at last he was able to get up once more, and in a few days longer could manage to go into the next room by the aid of a crutch on one side, and clarice's strong arm on the other. it was a great delight to be able to move even so far, though the exertion made him feel somewhat faint at first. he had been there only a short time, when clarice, who had been downstairs, came into the room with a smiling face. "could you bear to see a visitor, owen?" she asked. "do you feel strong enough?" "a visitor! for me? who is it?" [illustration: clarice helping owen.--_page ._] "an old friend of yours," she replied, returning in a few minutes with an elderly gentleman, in whom owen joyfully recognised his kind friend the vicar of westbrook. "oh, mr. sturt, sir, is it really you? i can't get up, sir, but i am glad to see you." "don't move, my boy. i have just heard of your accident from your uncle," he said, taking a chair which clarice offered him, close to owen. "i was passing through barmston, and thought i should like to see you. you look very altered and weak," he said, kindly; "are you in much pain?" "no, it is not so bad now, sir; i hardly knew how to bear it at first. but the lord jesus was with me all the time, and he helped me, sir." "i am glad to hear you say that, owen; it is a blessed thing to know that the saviour is with his children at all times, under all circumstances, and we are very happy when we realise his presence." "yes, sir, i have had 'no sorrow' with it, though the suffering has been so great." "you are changed, owen; i think few at westbrook would recognise you if they saw you now." "no, sir, i daresay not. will you tell me something about them all, please? it seems so long since i was there." "no doubt it does, though to us things seem going on much as usual, except that we greatly miss your father, and his quiet influence for good. i have still got your things, owen, but they are ready for you whenever you want them." "i am afraid it will be a long time before i can have them, sir. there is no room to put them here, and i do not know when i shall be able to earn money enough to buy them back. i shall never win a fortune now, sir, as i used to wish to. i am afraid i shall always be a cripple." "i don't think there is much fear of that. you are young, and the bones soon knit together again. i have no doubt you will be as strong as ever by-and-by, though of course it will take time. but as for your fortune, i thought you had already obtained a large part of it," said mr. sturt, smiling kindly at the pale young face. a bright smile flushed all over it, as owen replied, "so i have, sir, in one way. i have got the best fortune now, for i belong to the saviour, and i know he will give me just what i need. only i meant i could not earn any money for a long time." "then occupy this leisure time in seeking more of the heavenly riches, and though you may be poor yourself, you can make many rich by giving." "but i have nothing to give, sir, nothing at all." "can you not give grateful thanks and love to those around you, who so kindly look after you? and can you not give your voice and heart in prayer for those who yet know nothing of the riches of the saviour's grace?" "yes," said the boy, slowly, "i can do that. and i have prayed, sir, often for uncle and clarice." "and god hears and answers. your cousin tells me that it is mainly through you she has sought and found the saviour; and your uncle is also seeking the same blessing. god is honouring you, owen. oh, keep always low down at his feet, and give him all the glory. you came here wishing to gain riches, and god is giving you your desire, not in earthly coin, but in precious souls saved for all eternity. 'there is that maketh himself rich, yet hath nothing: there is that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches.' god give you grace to choose the lowly and the better way at all times through life." mr. sturt could not stay longer; he was only in barmston for a short time; when owen was strengthened and comforted by seeing his kind friend once more, and by his helpful words. a few more weeks passed by, and owen was able to accept a kind invitation from farmer netherclift to go and spend a month at westbrook. the fresh country air, and the freedom, worked wonders for him, though his leg was still too stiff to enable him to go on the old rambling excursions that he and his friend sam loved so much. but they made the best use of their time together, and merry sam learnt something of a joy he had hitherto thought little of. owen visited all his old friends, greatly profited by mr. sturt's kind instructions, and at last returned to barmston with a happy, thankful heart, resolved to be as industrious and active as possible, while yet keeping the heavenly riches foremost before his eyes; while diligent in business, to be fervent in spirit, in all things serving the lord. s. w. partridge and co., paternoster row, london. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. punctuation errors have been corrected without note. inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original except: page : "bramston" changed to "barmston" mr. prohack by arnold bennett author of "clayhanger," etc. contents chapter i the new poor ii from the dead iii the law iv eve's headache v charlie vi sissie vii the sympathetic quack viii sissie's business ix collision x the theory of idleness xi neurasthenia cured xii the practice of idleness xiii further idleness xiv end of an idle day xv the heavy father xvi transfer of mimi xvii romance xviii a homeless night xix the reception xx the silent tower xxi eve's martyrdom xxii mr. prohack's triumph xxiii the yacht chapter i the new poor i arthur charles prohack came downstairs at eight thirty, as usual, and found breakfast ready in the empty dining-room. this pleased him, because there was nothing in life he hated more than to be hurried. for him, hell was a place of which the inhabitants always had an eye on the clock and the clock was always further advanced than they had hoped. the dining-room, simply furnished with reproductions of chaste chippendale, and chilled to the uncomfortable low temperature that hardy britons pretend to enjoy, formed part of an unassailably correct house of mid-victorian style and antiquity; and the house formed part of an unassailably correct square just behind hyde park gardens. (taxi-drivers, when told the name of the square, had to reflect for a fifth of a second before they could recall its exact situation.) mr. prohack was a fairly tall man, with a big head, big features, and a beard. his characteristic expression denoted benevolence based on an ironic realisation of the humanity of human nature. he was forty-six years of age and looked it. he had been for more than twenty years at the treasury, in which organism he had now attained a certain importance. he was a companion of the bath. he exulted in the fact that the order of the bath took precedence of those bumptious orders, star of india, st. michael and st. george, indian empire, royal victorian and british empire; but he laughed at his wife for so exulting. if the matter happened to be mentioned he would point out that in the table of precedence companions of the bath ranked immediately below masters in lunacy. he was proud of the treasury's war record. other departments of state had swollen to amazing dimensions during the war. the treasury, while its work had been multiplied a hundredfold, had increased its personnel by only a negligible percentage. it was the cheapest of all the departments, the most efficient, and the most powerful. the war office, the admiralty, and perhaps one other department presided over by a personality whom the prime minister feared, did certainly defy and even ignore the treasury. but the remaining departments (and especially the "mushroom ministries") might scheme as much as they liked,--they could do nothing until the treasury had approved their enterprises. modest mr. prohack was among the chief arbiters of destiny for them. he had daily sat in a chair by himself and approved or disapproved according to his conscience and the rules of the exchequer; and his fiats, in practice, had gone forth as the fiats of the treasury. moreover he could not be bullied, for he was full of the sense that the whole constitution and moral force of the british empire stood waiting to back him. scarcely known beyond the treasury, within the treasury he had acquired a reputation as "the terror of the departments." several times irritated ministers or their high subordinates had protested that the treasury's (mr. prohack's) passion for rules, its demands for scientific evidence, and its sceptical disposition were losing the war. mr. prohack had, in effect retorted: "departmentally considered, losing the war is a detail." he had retorted: "wild cats will not win the war." and he had retorted: "i know nothing but my duty." in the end the war was not lost, and mr. prohack reckoned that he personally, by the exercise of courage in the face of grave danger, had saved to the country five hundred and forty-six millions of the country's money. at any rate he had exercised a real influence over the conduct of the war. on one occasion, a chief being absent, he had had to answer a summons to the inner cabinet. of this occasion he had remarked to his excited wife: "they were far more nervous than i was." despite all this, the great public had never heard of him. his portrait had never appeared in the illustrated papers. his wife's portrait, as "war-worker and wife of a great official," had never appeared in the illustrated papers. no character sketch of him had ever been printed. his opinions on any subject had never been telephonically or otherwise demanded by the editors of up-to-date dailies. his news-value indeed was absolutely nil. in _who's who_ he had only four lines of space. mr. prohack's breakfast consisted of bacon, dry toast, coffee, marmalade, _the times_ and _the daily picture_. the latter was full of brides and bridegrooms, football, enigmatic murder trials, young women in their fluffy underclothes, medicines, pugilists, cinema stars, the biggest pumpkin of the season, uplift, and inspired prophecy concerning horses and company shares; together with a few brief unillustrated notes about civil war in ireland, famine in central europe, and the collapse of realms. ii "ah! so i've caught you!" said his wife, coming brightly into the room. she was a buxom woman of forty-three. her black hair was elaborately done for the day, but she wore a roomy peignoir instead of a frock; it was chinese, in the imperial yellow, inconceivably embroidered with flora, fauna, and grotesques. she always thus visited her husband at breakfast, picking bits off his plate like a bird, and proving to him that her chief preoccupation was ever his well-being and the satisfaction of his capricious tastes. "many years ago," said mr. prohack. "you make a fuss about buying _the daily picture_ for me. you say it humiliates you to see it in the house, and i don't know what. but i catch you reading it yourself, and before you've opened _the times_! dear, dear! that bacon's a cinder and i daren't say anything to her." "lady," replied mr. prohack, "we all have something base in our natures. sin springs from opportunity. i cannot resist the damned paper." and he stuck his fork into the fair frock-coat of a fatuous bridegroom coming out of church. "my fault again!" the wife remarked brightly. the husband changed the subject: "i suppose that your son and daughter are still asleep?" "well, dearest, you know that they were both at that dance last night." "they ought not to have been. the popular idea that life is a shimmy is a dangerous illusion." mr. prohack felt the epigram to be third-rate, but he carried it off lightly. "sissie only went because charlie wanted to go, and all i can say is that it's a nice thing if charlie isn't to be allowed to enjoy himself now the war's over--after all he's been through." "you're mixing up two quite different things. i bet that if charlie committed murder you'd go into the witness-box and tell the judge he'd been wounded twice and won the military cross." "this is one of your pernickety mornings." "seeing that your debauched children woke me up at three fifteen--!" "they woke me up too." "that's different. you can go to sleep again. i can't. you rather like being wakened up, because you take a positively sensual pleasure in turning over and going to sleep again." "you hate me for that." "i do." "i make you very unhappy sometimes, don't i?" "eve, you are a confounded liar, and you know it. you have never caused me a moment's unhappiness. you may annoy me. you may exasperate me. you are frequently unspeakable. but you have never made me unhappy. and why? because i am one of the few exponents of romantic passion left in this city. my passion for you transcends my reason. i am a fool, but i am a magnificent fool. and the greatest miracle of modern times is that after twenty-four years of marriage you should be able to give me pleasure by perching your stout body on the arm of my chair as you are doing." "arthur, i'm not stout." "yes, you are. you're enormous. but hang it, i'm such a morbid fool i like you enormous." mrs. prohack, smiling mysteriously, remarked in a casual tone, as she looked at _the daily picture_: "why _do_ people let their photographs get into the papers? it's awfully vulgar." "it is. but we're all vulgar to-day. look at that!" he pointed to the page. "the granddaughter of a duke who refused the hand of a princess sells her name and her face to a firm of ship-owners who keep newspapers like their grandfathers kept pigeons.... but perhaps i'm only making a noise like a man of fifty." "you aren't fifty." "i'm five hundred. and this coffee is remarkably thin." "let me taste it." "yes, you'd rob me of my coffee now!" said mr. prohack, surrendering his cup. "is it thin, or isn't it? i pride myself on living the higher life; my stomach is not my inexorable deity; but even on the mountain top which i inhabit there must be a limit to the thinness of the coffee." eve (as he called her, after the mother and prototype of all women--her earthly name was marian) sipped the coffee. she wrinkled her forehead and then glanced at him in trouble. "yes, it's thin," she said. "but i've had to ration the cook. oh, arthur, i _am_ going to make you unhappy after all. it's impossible for me to manage any longer on the housekeeping allowance." "why didn't you tell me before, child?" "i have told you 'before,'" said she. "if you hadn't happened to mention the coffee, i mightn't have said anything for another fortnight. you started to give me more money in june, and you said that was the utmost limit you could go to, and i believed it was. but it isn't enough. i hate to bother you, and i feel ashamed--" "that's ridiculous. why should you feel ashamed?" "well, i'm like that." "you're revelling in your own virtuousness, my girl. now in last week's _economist_ it said that the index number of commodity prices had slightly fallen these last few weeks." "i don't know anything about indexes and the _economist_," eve retorted. "but i know what coffee is a pound, and i know what the tradesmen's books are--" at this point she cried without warning. "no," murmured mr. prohack, soothingly, caressingly. "you mustn't baptise me. i couldn't bear it." and he kissed her eyes. iii "i _know_ we can't afford any more for housekeeping," she whispered, sniffing damply. "and i'm ashamed i can't manage, and i knew i should make you unhappy. what with idle and greedy working-men, and all these profiteers...! it's a shame!" "yes," said mr. prohack. "it's what our charlie fought for, and got wounded twice for, and won the m.c. for. that's what it is. but you see we're the famous salaried middle-class that you read so much about in the papers, and we're going through the famous process of being crushed between the famous upper and nether millstones. those millstones have been approaching each other--and us--for some time. now they've begun to nip. that funny feeling in your inside that's causing you still to baptise me, in spite of my protest--that's the first real nip." she caught her breath. "arthur," she said. "if you go on like that i shall scream." "do," mr. prohack encouraged her. "but of course not too loud. at the same time don't forget that i'm a humourist. humourists make jokes when they're happy, and when they're unhappy they make jokes." "but it's horribly serious." "horribly." mrs. prohack slipped off the arm of the chair. her body seemed to vibrate within the chinese gown, and she effervesced into an ascending and descending series of sustained laughs. "that's hysteria," said mr. prohack. "and if you don't stop i shall be reluctantly compelled to throw the coffee over you. water would be better, but there is none." then eve ceased suddenly. "to think," she remarked with calmness, "that you're called the terror of the departments, and you're a great authority on finance, and you've been in the government service for nearly twenty-five years, and always done your duty--" "child," mr. prohack interrupted her. "don't tell me what i know. and try not to be surprised at any earthly phenomena. there are people who are always being astonished by the most familiar things. they live on earth as if they'd just dropped from mars on to a poor foreign planet. it's not a sign of commonsense. you've lived on earth now for--shall we say?--some twenty-nine or thirty years, and if you don't know the place you ought to. i assure you that there is nothing at all unusual in our case. we are perfectly innocent; we are even praiseworthy; and yet--we shall have to suffer. it's quite a common case. you've read of thousands and millions of such cases; you've heard of lots personally; and you've actually met a few. well, now, you yourself _are_ a case. that's all." mrs. prohack said impatiently: "i consider the government's treated you shamefully. why, we're much worse off than we were before the war." "the government has treated me shamefully. but then it's treated hundreds of thousands of men shamefully. all governments do." "but we have a position to keep up!" "true. that's where the honest poor have the advantage of us. you see, we're the dishonest poor. we've been to the same schools and universities and we talk the same idiom and we have the same manners and like the same things as people who spend more in a month or a week than we spend in a year. and we pretend, and they pretend, that they and we are exactly the same. we aren't, you know. we're one vast pretence. has it occurred to you, lady, that we've never possessed a motor-car and most certainly never shall possess one? yet look at the hundreds of thousands of cars in london alone! and not a single one of them ours! this detail may have escaped you." "i wish you wouldn't be silly, arthur." "i am not silly. on the contrary, my real opinion is that i'm the wisest man you ever met in your life--not excepting your son. it remains that we're a pretence. a pretence resembles a bladder. it may burst. we probably shall burst. still, we have one great advantage over the honest poor, who sometimes have no income at all; and also over the rich, who never can tell how big their incomes are going to be. _we know exactly where we are_. we know to the nearest sixpence." "i don't see that that helps us. i consider the government has treated you shamefully. i wonder you important men in the treasury haven't formed a trade union before now." "oh, eve! after all you've said about trade unions this last year! you shock me! we shall never he properly treated until we do form a trade union. but we shall never form a trade union, because we're too proud. and we'd sooner see our children starve than yield in our pride. that's a fact." "there's one thing--we can't move into a cheaper house." "no," mr. prohack concurred. "because there isn't one." years earlier mr. prohack had bought the long lease of his house from the old man who, according to the logical london system, had built the house upon somebody else's land on the condition that he paid rent for the land and in addition gave the house to the somebody else at the end of a certain period as a free gift. by a payment of twelve pounds per annum mr. prohack was safe for forty years yet and he calculated that in forty years the ownership of the house would be a matter of some indifference both to him and to his wife. "well, as you're so desperately wise, perhaps you'll kindly tell me what we _are_ to do." "i might borrow money on my insurance policy--and speculate," said mr. prohack gravely. "oh! arthur! do you really think you--" marian showed a wild gleam of hope. "or i might throw the money into the serpentine," mr. prohack added. "oh! arthur! i could kill you. i never know how to take you." "no, you never do. that's the worst of a woman like you marrying a man like me." they discussed devices. one servant fewer. no holiday. cinemas instead of theatres. no books. no cigarettes. no taxis. no clothes. no meat. no telephone. no friends. they reached no conclusion. eve referred to adam's great treasury mind. adam said that his great treasury mind should function on the problem during the day, and further that the problem must be solved that very night. "i'll tell you one thing i shall do," said mrs. prohack in a decided tone as mr. prohack left the table. "i shall countermand sissie'a new frock." "if you do i shall divorce you," was the reply. "but why?" mr. prohack answered: "in i saw that girl in dirty overalls driving a thundering great van down whitehall. yesterday i met her in her foolish high heels and her shocking openwork stockings and her negligible dress and her exposed throat and her fur stole, and she was so delicious and so absurd and so futile and so sure of her power that--that--well, you aren't going to countermand any new frock. that chit has the right to ruin me--not because of anything she's done, but because she _is_. i am ready to commit peccadilloes, but not crimes. good morning, my dove." and at the door, discreetly hiding her chinese raiment behind the door, eve said, as if she had only just thought of it, though she had been thinking of it for quite a quarter of an hour: "darling, there's your clubs." "what about my clubs?" "don't they cost you a lot of money?" "no. besides i lunch at my clubs--better and cheaper than at any restaurant. and i shouldn't have time to come home for lunch." "but do you need two clubs?" "i've always belonged to two clubs. every one does." "but why _two_?" "a fellow must have a club up his sleeve." "_couldn't_ you give up one?" "lady, it's unthinkable. you don't know what you're suggesting. abandon one of my clubs that my father put me up for when i was a boy! i'd as soon join a trade union. no! my innocent but gluttonous children shall starve first." "i shall give up _my_ club!" "ah! but that's different." "how is it different?" "you scarcely ever speak to a soul in your club. the food's bad in your club. they drink liqueurs before dinner at your club. i've seen 'em. your club's full every night of the most formidable spinsters each eating at a table alone. give up your club by all means. set fire to it and burn it down. but don't count the act as a renunciation. you hate your club. good morning, my dove." iv one advantage of the situation of mr. prohack's house was that his path therefrom to the treasury lay almost entirely through verdant parks--hyde park, the green park, st. james's park. not infrequently he referred to the advantage in terms of bland satisfaction. true, in wet weather the advantage became a disadvantage. during his walk through verdant parks that morning, the terror of the departments who habitually thought in millions was very gloomy. something resembling death was in his heart. humiliation also was certainly in his heart, for he felt that, no matter whose the fault, he was failing in the first duty of a man. he raged against the chancellor of the exchequer. he sliced off the head of the chancellor of the exchequer with his stick. (but it was only an innocent autumn wildflower, perilously blooming.) and the tang in the air foretold the approach of winter and the grip of winter--the hell of the poor. near whitehall he saw the advertisement of a firm of shop-specialists: "bring your business troubles to us." chapter ii from the dead i "well, milton, had a good holiday?" said mr. prohack to the hall-porter on entering his chief club for lunch that day. "no, sir," said the hall-porter, who was a realist. "ah, well," said mr. prohack soothingly. "perhaps not a bad thing. there's nothing like an unsatisfactory holiday for reconciling us all to a life of toil, is there?" "no, sir," said milton, impassively, and added: "mr. bishop has just called to see you, sir. i told him you'd probably be in shortly. he said he wouldn't wait but he might look in again." "thanks," said mr. prohack. "if he does, i shall be either in the coffee-room or upstairs." mr. prohack walked into the majestic interior of the club, which had been closed, rather later than usual, for its annual cleaning. he savoured anew and more sharply the beauty and stateliness of its architecture, the elaboration of its conveniences, the severe splendour of its luxury. and he saw familiar and congenial faces, and on every face was a mild joy similar to the joy which he himself experienced in the reopening of the club. and he was deliciously aware of the "club feeling," unlike, and more agreeable than, any other atmosphere of an organism in the world. the club took no time at all to get into its stride after the closure. it opened its doors and was instantly its full self. for hundreds of grave men in and near london had risen that very morning from their beds uplifted by the radiant thought: "to-day i can go to the club again." mr. prohack had long held that the noblest, the most civilised achievement of the british character was not the british empire, nor the house of commons, nor the steam-engine, nor aniline dyes, nor the music-hall, but a good west end club. and somehow at the doors of a good west end club there was an invisible magic sieve, through which the human body could pass but through which human worries could not pass. this morning, however, mr. prohack perceived that one worry could pass through the sieve, namely a worry concerning the club itself.... give up the club? was the sacrifice to be consummated? impossible! could he picture himself strolling down st. james's street without the right to enter the sacred gates--save as a guest? and supposing he entered as a guest, could he bear the hall-porter to say to him: "if you'll take a seat, sir, i'll send and see if mr. blank is in the club. what name, sir?" impossible! yet milton would be capable of saying just that. milton would never pardon a defection.... well, then, he must give up the other club. but the other--and smaller--club had great qualities of its own. indeed it was indispensable. and could he permit the day to dawn on which he would no longer be entitled to refer to "my other club"? impossible! nevertheless he had decided to give up his other club. he must give it up, if only to keep even with his wife. the monetary saving would be unimportant, but the act would be spectacular. and mr. prohack perfectly comprehended the value of the spectacular in existence. ii he sat down to lunch among half a dozen cronies at one of the larger tables in a window-embrasure of the vaulted coffee-room with its precious portrait of that historic clubman, charles james fox, and he ordered himself the cheapest meal that the menu could offer, and poured himself out a glass of water. "same old menu!" remarked savagely mr. prohack's great crony, sir paul spinner, the banker, who suffered from carbuncles and who always drove over from the city in the middle of the day. "here's old paul grumbling again!" said sims of downing street. "after all, this is the best club in london." "it certainly is," said mr. prohack, "when it's closed. during the past four weeks this club has been the most perfect institution on the face of the earth." they all laughed. and they began recounting to each other the unparalleled miseries and indignities which such of them as had remained in london had had to endure in the clubs that had "extended their hospitality" to members of the closed club. the catalogue of ills was terrible. yes, there was only one club deserving of the name. "still," said sir paul. "they might give us a rest from prunes and rice." "this club," said mr. prohack, "like all other clubs, is managed by a committee of methuselahs who can only digest prunes and rice." and after a lot more talk about the idiosyncrasies of clubs he said, with a casual air: "for myself, i belong to too many clubs." said hunter, a fellow official of the treasury: "but i thought you only had two clubs, arthur." "only two. but it's one too many. in fact i'm not sure if it isn't two too many." "are you getting disgusted with human nature?" sims suggested. "no," said mr. prohack. "i'm getting hard up. i've committed the greatest crime in the world. i've committed poverty. and i feel guilty." and the truth was that he did feel guilty. he was entirely innocent; he was a victim; he had left undone nothing that he ought to have done; but he felt guilty, thus proving that poverty is indeed seriously a crime and that those who in sardonic jest describe it as a crime are deeper philosophers than they suppose. "never say die," smiled the monocled mixon, a publisher of scientific works, and began to inveigh against the government as an ungrateful and unscrupulous employer and exploiter of dutiful men in an inferno of rising prices. but the rest thought mixon unhappy in his choice of topic. hunter of the treasury said nothing. what was there to say that would not tend to destroy the true club atmosphere? even the beloved prohack had perhaps failed somewhat in tact. they all understood, they all mildly sympathised, but they could do no more--particularly in a miscellaneous assemblage of eight members. no, they felt a certain constraint; and in a club constraint should be absolutely unknown. some of them glanced uneasily about the crowded, chattering room. iii it was then, that a remarkable coincidence occurred. "i saw bishop at inverness last week," said sir paul spinner to mr. prohack, apropos of nothing whatever. "seems he's got a big moor this year in sutherlandshire. so i suppose he's recovered from his overdose of shipping shares." bishop (fred ferrars) was a financier with a cheerful, negligent attitude towards the insecurities and uncertainties of a speculative existence. he was also a close friend of prohack, of sir paul, and of several others at the table, and a member of prohack's secondary club, though not of his primary club. "that's strange," said mr. prohack. "i hear he's in london." "he most positively isn't in london," said sir paul. "he's not coming back until november." "then that shows how little the evidence of the senses can be relied upon," remarked mr. prohack gently. "according to the hall-porter he called here for me a few minutes ago, and he may call again." the banker grunted. "the deuce he did! does that mean he's in some fresh trouble, i wonder?" at the same moment a page-girl, the smart severity of whose uniform was mitigated by a pig-tail and a bow of ribbon, approached mr. prohack's chair, and, bending her young head to his ear, delivered to him with the manner of a bearer of formidable secrets: "mr. bishop to see you, sir." "there he is!" exclaimed mr. prohack. "now he's bound to want lunch. why on earth can't we bring guests in here? waitress, have the lunch i've ordered served in the guests' dining-room, please.... no doubt bishop and i'll see you chaps upstairs later." he went off to greet and welcome bishop, full of joy at the prospect of tasting anew the rich personality of his old friend. it is true that he had a qualm about the expense of standing bishop a lunch--a fellow who relished his food and drink and could distinguish between the best and the second best; but on the other hand he could talk very freely to bishop concerning the crisis in which he found himself; and he knew that bishop would not allow bishop's affairs, however troublesome they might be, unduly to bother _him_. bishop was not on the bench in the hall where visitors were appointed to wait. only one man was on the bench, a spectacled, red-faced person. mr. prohack glanced about. then the page-girl pointed to the spectacled person, who jumped up and approached mr. prohack somewhat effusively. "how d'ye do, prohack?" "well, _bishop_!" mr. prohack responded. "it's _you_!" it was another bishop, a bishop whom he had forgotten, a bishop who had resigned from the club earlier and disappeared. mr. prohack did not like him. mr. prohack said to himself: "this fellow is after something, and i always knew he was an adventurer." "funny feeling it gives you to be asked to wait in the hall of a club that you used to belong to!" said bishop. the apparently simple words, heavy with sinister significance, sank like a depth-charge into mr. prohack's consciousness. "among other things," said mr. prohack to himself, "this fellow is very obviously after a free lunch." now mr. prohack suffered from a strange form of insincerity, which he had often unsuccessfully tried to cure, partly because it advantaged unsympathetic acquaintances at his expense, and partly because his wife produced unanswerable arguments against it with mortal effect. although an unconceited man (as men go), and a very honest man, he could not help pretending to like people whom he did not like. and he pretended with a histrionic skill that deceived everybody--sometimes even himself. there may have been some good-nature in this moral twist of his; but he well knew that it originated chiefly in three morbid desires,--the desire to please, the desire to do the easiest thing, and the desire to nourish his reputation for amiability. so that when the unexpected mr. bishop (whose christian name was softly) said to him: "i won't keep you now. only i was passing and i want you to be kind enough to make an early appointment with me at some time and place entirely convenient to yourself," mr. prohack proceeded to persuade mr. bishop to stay to lunch, there being no sort of reason in favour of such a course, and various sound reasons against it. mr. prohack deceived mr. softly bishop as follows: "no time and place like the present. you must stay to lunch. this is your old club and you must stay to lunch." "but you've begun your lunch," bishop protested. "i've not. the fact is, i was half expecting you to look in again. the hall-porter told me...." and mr. prohack actually patted mr. bishop on the shoulder--a trick he had. "come now, don't tell me you've got another lunch appointment. it's twenty-five to two." and to himself, leading mr. bishop to the strangers' dining-room, he said: "why should i further my own execution in this way?" he ordered a lunch as copious and as costly as he would have ordered for the other, the real bishop. powerful and vigorous in some directions, mr. prohack's mentality was deplorably weak in at least one other. mr. softly bishop was delighted with his reception, and mr. prohack began to admit that mr. bishop had some personal charm. nevertheless when the partridge came, mr. prohack acidly reflected: "i'm offering this fellow a portion of my daughter's new frock on a charger!" they talked of the club, mr. bishop as a former member being surely entitled to learn all about it, and then they talked about clubs in the united states, where mr. bishop had spent recent years. but mr. bishop persisted in giving no hint of his business. "it must be something rather big and annoying," thought mr. prohack, and ordered another portion of his daughter's new frock in the shape of excellent cigars. "you don't mean to say we can smoke _here_," exclaimed mr. bishop. "yes," said mr. prohack. "not in the members' coffee-room, but we can here. stroke of genius on the part of the committee! you see it tends to keep guests out of the smoking-room, which for a long time has been getting uncomfortably full after lunch." "good god!" murmured mr. bishop simply. iv and he added at once, as he lighted the corona corona: "well, i'd better tell you what i've come to see you about. you remember that chap, silas angmering?" "silas angmering? of course i do. used to belong here. he cleared off to america ages ago." "he did. and you lent him a hundred pounds to help him to clear off to america." "who told you?" "he did," said mr. bishop, with a faint, mysterious smile. "what's happened to him?" "oh! all sorts of things. he made a lot of money out of the war. he established himself in cincinnati. and there were opportunities...." "how came he to tell you that i'd lent him anything?" mr. prohack interrupted sharply. "i had business with him at one time--before the war and also just after the war began. indeed i was in partnership with him." mr. bishop spoke with a measured soothing calmness. "and you say he's made a lot of money out of the war. what do you mean--a lot?" "well," said mr. bishop, looking at the tablecloth through his glittering spectacles, "i mean a _lot_." his tone was confidential; but then his tone was always confidential. he continued: "he's lost it all since." "pity he didn't pay me back my hundred pounds while he'd got it! how did he lose his money?" "in the same way as most rich men lose their money," answered mr. bishop. "he died." although mr. prohack would have been capable of telling a similar story in a manner very similar to mr. bishop's, he didn't quite relish his guest's theatricality. it increased his suspicion of his guest, and checked the growth of friendliness which the lunch had favoured. still, he perceived that there was a good chance of getting his hundred pounds back, possibly with interest--and the interest would mount up to fifty or sixty pounds. and a hundred and fifty pounds appeared to him to be an enormous sum. then it occurred to him that probably mr. bishop was not indeed "after" anything and that he had been unjust to mr. bishop. "married?" he questioned, casually. "angmering? no. he never married. you know as well as anybody, i expect, what sort of a card he was. no relations, either." "then who's come into his money?" "well," said mr. bishop, with elaborate ease and smoothness of quiet delivery. "i've come into some of it. and there was a woman--actress sort of young thing--about whom perhaps the less said the better--she's come into some of it. and you've come into some of it. we share it in equal thirds." "the deuce we do!" "yes." "how long's he been dead?" "about five weeks or less. i sailed as soon as i could after he was buried. i'd arranged before to come. i daresay i ought to have stayed a bit longer, as i'm the executor under the will, but i wanted to come, and i've got a very good lawyer over there--and over here too. i landed this morning, and here i am. strictly speaking i suppose i should have cabled you. but it seemed to me that i could explain better by word of mouth." "i wish you would explain," said mr. prohack. "you say he's been rich a long time, but he didn't pay his debt to me, and yet he goes and makes a will leaving me a third of his fortune. wants some explaining, doesn't it?" mr. bishop replied: "it does and it doesn't. you knew he was a champion postponer, poor old chap. profoundly unbusinesslike. it's astonishing how unbusinesslike successful men are! he was always meaning to come to england to see you; but he never found time. he constantly talked of you--" "but do you know," mr. prohack intervened, "that from that day to this i've never heard one single word from him? not even a picture-postcard. and what's more i've never heard a single word _of_ him." "just like silas, that was! just!... he died from a motor accident. he was perfectly conscious and knew he'd only a few hours to live. spine. he made his will in hospital, and died about a couple of hours after he'd made it. i wasn't there myself. i was in new york." "well, well!" muttered mr. prohack. "poor fellow! well, well! this is the most amazing tale i ever heard in my life." "it _is_ rather strange," mr. bishop compassionately admitted. a silence fell--respectful to the memory of the dead. the members' coffee-room seemed to mr. prohack to be a thousand miles off, and the chat with his cronies at the table in the window-embrasure to have happened a thousand years ago. his brain was in anarchy, and waving like a flag above the anarchy was the question: "how much did old silas leave?" but the deceitful fellow would not permit the question to utter itself,--he had dominion over himself at any rate to that extent. he would not break the silence; he would hide his intense curiosity; he would force softly bishop to divulge the supreme fact upon his own initiative. and at length mr. bishop remarked, musingly: "yes. thanks to the exchange being so low, you stand to receive at the very least a hundred thousand pounds clear--after all deductions have been made." "do i really?" said mr. prohack, also musingly. chapter iii the law his tranquil tone disguised the immense anarchy within. silas angmering had evidently been what is called a profiteer. he had made his money "out of the war." and silas was an englishman. while englishmen, and--later--americans, had given up lives, sanity, fortunes, limbs, eyesight, health, silas had gained riches. there was nothing highly unusual in this. mr. prohack had himself seen, in the very club in which he was now entertaining softly bishop, a man who had left an arm in france chatting and laughing with a man who had picked up over a million pounds by following the great principle that a commodity is worth what it will fetch when people want it very badly and there is a shortage of it. mr. prohack too had often chatted and laughed with this same picker-up of a million, who happened to be a quite jolly and generous fellow. mr. prohack would have chatted and laughed with barabbas, convinced as he was that iniquity is the result of circumstances rather than of deliberate naughtiness. he seldom condemned. he had greatly liked silas angmering, who was a really educated and a well-intentioned man with a queer regrettable twist in his composition. that silas should have profiteered when he got the chance was natural. most men would do the same. most heroes would do the same. the man with one arm would conceivably do the same. but between excusing and forgiving a brigand (who has not despoiled _you_), and sharing his plunder, there was a gap, a chasm. few facts gave mr. prohack a more serene and proud satisfaction than the fact that he had materially lost through the war. he was positively glad that he had lost, and that the government, his employer, had treated him badly.... and now to become the heir of a profiteer! nor was that all! to become the co-heir with a woman of dubious renown, and with mr. softly bishop! he knew nothing about the woman, and would think nothing. but he knew a little about mr. softly bishop. mr. bishop, it used to be known and said in the club, had never had a friend. he had the usual number of acquaintances, but no relationship more intimate. mr. prohack, in the old days, had not for a long time actively disliked mr. bishop; but he had been surprised at the amount of active dislike which contact with mr. bishop engendered in other members of the club. why such dislike? was it due to his fat, red face, his spectacles, his conspiratorial manner, tone and gait, the evenness of his temper, his cautiousness, his mysteriousness? nobody knew. in the end mr. prohack also had succeeded in disliking him. but mr. prohack produced a reason, and that reason was mr. bishop's first name. on it being pointed out to mr. prohack by argufiers that mr. bishop was not responsible for his first name, mr. prohack would reply that the mentality of parents capable of bestowing on an innocent child the christian name of softly was incomprehensible and in a high degree suspicious, and that therefore by the well-known laws of heredity there must be something devilish odd in the mentality of their offspring--especially seeing that the offspring pretended to glory in the christian name as being a fine old english name. no! mr. prohack might stomach co-heirship with a far-off dubious woman; but could he stomach co-heirship with softly bishop? it would necessitate friendship with mr. bishop. it would bracket him for ever with mr. bishop. these various considerations, however, had little to do with the immense inward anarchy that mr. prohack's tone had concealed as he musingly murmured: "do i really?" the disturbance was due almost exclusively to a fierce imperial joy in the prospect of immediate wealth. the origin of the wealth scarcely affected him. the associations of the wealth scarcely affected him. he understood in a flash the deep wisdom of that old proverb (whose truth he had often hitherto denied) that money has no smell. perhaps there might be forty good reasons against his accepting the inheritance, but they were all ridiculous. was he to abandon his share of the money to softly bishop and the vampire-woman? such a notion was idiotic. it was contrary to the robust and matter-of-fact commonsense which always marked his actions--if not his theories. no more should his wife be compelled to scheme out painfully the employment of her housekeeping allowance. never again should there be a question about a new frock for his daughter. he was conscious, before anything else, of a triumphant protective and spoiling tenderness for his women. he would be absurd with his women. he would ruin their characters with kindness and with invitations to be capricious and exacting and expensive and futile. they nobly deserved it. he wanted to shout and to sing and to tell everybody that he would not in future stand any d----d nonsense from anybody. he would have his way. "why!" thought he, pulling himself up. "i've developed all the peculiarities of a millionaire in about a minute and a half." and again, he cried to himself, in the vast and imperfectly explored jungle that every man calls his heart: "ah! i could not have borne to give up either of my clubs! no! i was deceiving myself. i could not have done it! i could not have done it! anything rather than that. i see it now.... by the way, i wonder what all the fellows will say when they know! and how shall i break it to them? not to-day! not to-day! to-morrow!" at the moment when mr. prohack ought to have been resuming his ill-remunerated financial toil for the nation at the treasury, bishop suggested in his offhand murmuring style that they might pay a visit to the city solicitor who was acting in england for him and the angmering estate. mr. prohack opposingly suggested that national duty called him elsewhere. "does that matter--now?" said bishop, and his accents were charged with meaning. mr. prohack saw that it did not matter, and that in future any nation that did not like his office-hours would have to lump them. he feared greatly lest he might encounter some crony-member on his way out of the club with bishop. if he did, what should he say, how should he carry off the situation? (for he was feeling mysteriously guilty, just as he had felt guilty an hour earlier. not guilty as the inheritor of profiteering in particular, but guilty simply as an inheritor. it might have been different if he had come into the money in reasonable instalments, say of five thousand pounds every six months. but a hundred thousand unearned increment at one coup...!) fortunately the cronies were still in the smoking-room. he swept bishop from the club, stealthily, swiftly. bishop had a big motor-car waiting at the door. iii he offered no remark as to the car, and mr. prohack offered no remark. but mr. prohack was very interested in the car--he who had never been interested in cars. and he was interested in the clothes and in the deportment of the chauffeur. he was indeed interested in all sorts of new things. the window of a firm of house-agents who specialised in country houses, the jewellers' shops, the big hotels, the advertisements of theatres and concerts, the establishments of trunk-makers and of historic second-hand booksellers and of equally historic wine-merchants. he saw them all with a fresh eye. london suddenly opened to him its possibilities as a bud opens its petals. "not a bad car they; hired out to me," said bishop at length, with casual approval. "you've hired it?" "oh, yes!" and shortly afterwards bishop said: "it's fantastic the number of cars there are in use in america. you know it's a literal fact that almost every american family has a car. for instance, whenever there's a big meeting of strikers in new york, all the streets near the hall are blocked with cars." mr. prohack had food for reflection. his outlook upon life was changed. and later bishop said, again apropos of nothing: "of course it's only too true that the value of money has fallen by about half. but on the other hand interest has about doubled. you can get ten per cent on quite safe security in these days. even governments have to pay about seven--as you know." "yes," concurred mr. prohack. ten thousand pounds a year! and then he thought: "what an infernal nuisance it would be if there was a revolution! oh! but there couldn't be. it's unthinkable. revolution everywhere, yes; but not in england or america!" and he saw with the most sane and steady insight that the final duty of a government was to keep order. change there must be, but let change come gradually. injustices must be remedied, naturally, but without any upheaval! yet in the club some of the cronies (and he among them), after inveighing against profiteers and against the covetousness of trades unions, had often held that "a good red revolution" was the only way of knocking sense into the heads of these two classes. the car got involved in a block of traffic near the mansion house, and rain began to fall. the two occupants of the car watched each other surreptitiously, mutually suspicious, like dogs. scraps of talk were separated by long intervals. mr. prohack wondered what the deuce softly bishop had done that angmering should leave him a hundred thousand pounds. he tried to feel grief for the tragic and untimely death of his old friend angmering, and failed. no doubt the failure was due to the fact that he had not seen angmering for so many years. at last mr. prohack, his hands in his pockets, his legs stretched out, his gaze uplifted, he said suddenly: "i suppose it'll hold water?" "what? the roof of the car?" "no. the will." mr. softly bishop gave a short laugh, but made no other answer. iv the car halted finally before an immense new block of buildings, and the inheritors floated up to the fifth floor in a padded lift manned by a brilliantly-uniformed attendant. mr. prohack saw "smathe and smathe" in gilt on a glass door. the enquiry office resembled the ante-room of a restaurant, as the whole building resembled a fashionable hotel. everywhere was mosaic flooring. "mr. percy smathe?" demanded bishop of a clerk whose head glittered in the white radiance of a green-shaded lamp. "i'll see, sir. please step into the waiting-room." and he waved a patronising negligent hand. "what name?" he added. "have you forgotten my name already?" mr. bishop retorted sharply. "bishop. tell mr. percy smathe i'm here. at once, please." and he led mr. prohack to the waiting-room, which was a magnificent apartment with stained glass windows, furnished in chippendale similar to, but much finer than, the furnishing of mr. prohack's own house. on the table were newspapers and periodicals. not _the engineering times_ of april in the previous year or a _punch_ of the previous decade, and _the vaccination record_; but such things as the current _tatler, times, economist_, and _la vie parisienne._ mr. prohack had uncomfortable qualms of apprehension. for several minutes past he had been thinking: "suppose there _is_ something up with that will!" he had little confidence in mr. softly bishop. and now the aspect of the solicitors' office frightened him. it had happened to him, being a favourite trustee of his relations and friends, to visit the offices of some of the first legal firms in lincoln's inn fields. you entered these lairs by a dirty door and a dirty corridor and another dirty door. you were interrogated by a shabby clerk who sat on a foul stool at a foul desk in a foul office. and finally after an interval in a cubby hole that could not boast even _the anti-vaccination record_, you were driven along a dirtier passage into a dirtiest room whose windows were obscured by generations of filth, and in that room sat a spick and span lawyer of great name who was probably an ex-president of the incorporated law society. the offices of smathe and smathe corresponded with alarming closeness to mr. prohack's idea of what a bucket-shop might be. mr. prohack had the gravest fears for his hundred thousand pounds. "this is the solicitor's office new style," said bishop, who seemed to have an uncanny gift of reading thoughts. "very big firm. anglo-american. smathe and smathe are two cousins. percy's american. english mother. they specialise in what i may call the international complication business, pleasant and unpleasant." mr. prohack was not appreciably reassured. then a dapper, youngish man with a carnation in his buttonhole stepped neatly into the room, and greeted bishop in a marked american accent. "here i am again," said bishop curtly. "mr. prohack, may i introduce mr. percy smathe?" "mr. prohack, i'm delighted to make your acquaintance." mr. prohack beheld the lawyer's candid, honest face, heard his tones of extreme deference, and noted that he had come to the enquiry room to fetch his clients. "there's only one explanation of this," said mr. prohack to himself. "i'm a genuinely wealthy person." and in mr. percy smathe's private room he listened but carelessly to a long legal recital. details did not interest him. he knew he was all right. chapter iv eve's headache i that afternoon mr. prohack just got back to his bank before closing time. he had negligently declined to comprehend a very discreet hint from mr. percy smathe that if he desired ready money he could have it--in bulk. nevertheless he did desire to feel more money than usual in his pocket, and he satisfied this desire at the bank, where the september quarter of his annual salary lay almost intact. his bank was near hanover square, a situation inconvenient for him, but he had chosen that particular branch because its manager happened to be a friend of his. the prohack account did no good to the manager personally, and only infinitesimal good to the vast corporation of which the branch-manager was the well-dressed, well-spoken serf. the corporation was a sort of sponge prodigiously absorbent but incapable of being squeezed. the manager could not be of the slightest use to mr. prohack in a financial crisis, for the reason that he was empowered to give no accommodation whatever without the consent of the head office. still, mr. prohack, being a vigorous sentimentalist, as all truly wise men are, liked to bank with a friend. on the present occasion he saw the branch-manager, insott by name, explained that he wanted some advice, and made an appointment to meet the latter at the latter's club, the oriental, at six-thirty. thereupon he returned to the treasury, and from mere high fantasy spread the interesting news that he had broken a back tooth at lunch and had had to visit his dentist at putney. his colleague, hunter, remarked to him that he seemed strangely gay for a man with a broken tooth, and mr. prohack answered that a philosopher always had resources of fortitude within himself. he then winked--a phenomenon hitherto unknown at the treasury. he stayed so late at his office that he made the acquaintance of two charwomen, whom he courteously chaffed. he was defeated in the subsequent encounter, and acknowledged the fact by two half-crowns. at the oriental club he told insott that he might soon have some money to invest; and he was startled and saddened to discover that insott knew almost nothing about exciting investments, or about anything at all, except the rigours of tube travel to golder's green. insott had sunk into a deplorable groove. when, confidential, insott told him the salary of a branch-manager of a vast corporation near hanover square, and incidentally mentioned that a bank-clerk might not marry without the consent in writing of the vast corporation, mr. prohack understood and pardoned the deep, deplorable groove. insott could afford a club simply because his father, the once-celebrated authority on japanese armour, had left him a hundred and fifty a year. compared to the ruck of branch-managers insott was a free and easy plutocrat. as he departed from the oriental mr. prohack sighed: "poor insott!" a sturdy and even exultant cheerfulness was, however, steadily growing in him. poor insott, unaware that he had been talking to a man with an assured income of ten thousand pounds a year, had unconsciously helped that man to realise the miracle of his own good fortune. mr. prohack's route home lay through a big residential square or so and along residential streets of the first quality. all the houses were big, and they seemed bigger in the faint october mist. it was the hour after lighting up and before the drawing of blinds and curtains. mr. prohack had glimpses of enormous and magnificent interiors,--some right in the sky, some on the ground--with carved ceilings, rich candelabra, heavily framed pictures, mighty furniture, statuary, and superb and nonchalant menials engaged in the pleasant task of shutting away those interiors from the vulgar gaze. the spectacle continued furlong upon furlong, monotonously. there was no end to the succession of palaces of the wealthy. then it would be interrupted while mr. prohack crossed a main thoroughfare, where scores of young women struggled against a few men for places in glittering motor-buses that were already packed with successful fighters for room in them. and then it would be resumed again in its majesty. the sight of the street-travellers took mr. prohack's mind back to insott. he felt a passionate sympathy for the insotts of the world, and also for the prohacks of six hours earlier. once mr. prohack had been in easier circumstances; but those circumstances, thanks to the ambitions of statesmen and generals, and to the simplicity of publics, had gradually changed from easy to distressed. he saw with terrible clearness from what fate the angmering miracle had saved him and his. he wanted to reconstruct society in the interest of those to whom no miracle had happened. he wanted to do away with all excessive wealth; and by "excessive" he meant any degree of wealth beyond what would be needed for the perfect comfort of himself, mr. prohack,--a reasonable man if ever there was one! ought he not to devote his fortune to the great cause of reconstructing society? could he enjoy his fortune while society remain unreconstructed? well, societies were not to be reconstructed by the devoting of fortunes to the work. moreover, if he followed such an extreme course he would be regarded as a crank, and he could not have borne to be regarded as a crank. he detested cranks more than murderers or even profiteers. as for enjoying his fortune in present circumstances, he thought that he might succeed in doing so, and that anyhow it was his duty to try. he was regrettably inconsistent. ii having entered his house as it were surreptitiously, and avoided his children, mr. prohack peeped through the half-open door between the conjugal bedroom and the small adjoining room, which should have been a dressing-room, but which mrs. prohack styled her boudoir. he espied her standing sideways in front of the long mirror, her body prettily curved and her head twisted over her shoulder so that she could see three-quarters of her back in the mirror. an attitude familiar to mr. prohack and one that he liked! she was wearing the chinese garment of the morning, but he perceived that she had done something to it. he made a sharp noise with the handle of the door. she shrieked and started, and as soon as she had recovered she upbraided him, and as soon as she had upbraided him she asked him anxiously what he thought of the robe, explaining that it was really too good for a dressing-gown, that with careful treatment it would wear for ever, that it could not have been bought now for a hundred pounds or at least eighty, that it was in essence far superior to many frocks worn by women who had more money and less taste than herself, that she had transformed it into a dinner-dress for quiet evenings at home, and that she had done this as part of her part of the new economy scheme. it would save all her other frocks, and as for a dressing-gown, she had two old ones in her reserves. mr. prohack kissed her and told her to sit down on the little sofa. "to see the effect of it sitting down?" she asked. "if you like," said he. "then you don't care for it? you think it's ridiculous?" said she anxiously, when she had sat down. he replied, standing in front of her: "you know that oxford concise dictionary that i bought just before the war? where is it?" "arthur!" she said. "what's the matter with you? you look so queer. i suppose the dictionary's where you keep it. _i_ never touch it." "i want you to be sure to remind me to cross the word 'economy' out of it to-night. in fact i think i'd better tear out the whole page." "arthur!" she exclaimed again. "are you ill? has anything serious happened? i warn you i can't stand much more to-day." "something very serious has happened," answered the incorrigible mr. prohack. "it may be all for the best; it may be all for the worst. depends how you look at it. anyway i'm determined to tell you. of course i shouldn't dream of telling anybody else until i'd told you." he seated himself by her side. there was just space enough for the two of them on the sofa. "oh, dear!" sighed mrs. prohack, with apprehension, and instinctively she stretched her arm out and extinguished one of the lights. he had been touched by her manoeuvre, half economy and half coquetry, with the chinese dress. he was still more touched by the gesture of extinguishing a light. for a year or two past mrs. prohack had been putting forward a theory that an average degree of illumination tried her eyes, and the household was now accustomed to twilit rooms in the evening. mr. prohack knew that the recent taste for obscurity had nothing to do with her eyes and everything to do with her years, but he pretended to be deceived by her duplicity. not for millions would he have given her cause to suspect that he was not perfectly deceived. he understood and sympathised with her in all her manifestations. he did not select choice pieces of her character for liking, and dislike or disapprove of the rest. he took her undivided, unchipped, and liked the whole of her. it was very strange. when he married her he had assumed, but was not sure, that he loved her. for thirteen or fourteen years she had endangered the bond between them by what seemed to him to be her caprices, illogicalities, perversities, and had saved it by her charming demonstrations of affection. during this period he had remained as it were neutral--an impassive spectator of her union with a man who happened to be himself. he had observed and weighed all her faults, and had concluded that she was not worse than other wives whom he respected. he continued to wonder what it was that held them together. at length, and very slowly indeed, he had begun to have a revelation, not of her but of himself. he guessed that he must be profoundly in love with her and that his original assumption was much more than accurate,--it was a bull's-eye. his love developed into a passion, not one of your eruptive, scalding affairs, but something as placid as an english landscape, with white heat far, far below the surface. he felt how fine and amusing it was to have a genuine, incurable, illogical passion for a woman,--a passion that was almost an instinct. he deliberately cultivated it and dwelt on it and enjoyed it. he liked reflecting upon it. he esteemed that it must be about the most satisfying experience in the entire realm of sentiment, and that no other earthly experience of any sort could approach it. he made this discovery for himself, with the same sensations as if he had discovered a new star or the circulation of the blood. of course he knew that two-thirds of the imaginative literature of the world was based on, and illustrative of, this great human discovery, and therefore that he was not exactly a pioneer. no matter! he was a pioneer all the same. "do you remember a fellow named angmering?" he began, on a note of the closest confiding intimacy--a note which always flattered and delighted his wife. "yes." "what was he like?" "wasn't he the man that started to run away with ronnie philps' wife and thought better of it and got her out of the train at crewe and put her into the london train that was standing at the other platform and left her without a ticket? was it crewe or rugby--i forget which?" "no, no. you're all mixed up. that wasn't angmering." "well, you have such funny friends, darling. tell me, then." "angmering never ran away with anybody except himself. he went to america and before he left i lent him a hundred pounds." "arthur, i'll swear you never told me that at the time. in fact you always said positively you wouldn't lend money to anybody. you promised me. i hope he's paid you back." "he hasn't. and i've just heard he's dead." "i felt that was coming. yes. i knew from the moment you began to talk that it was something of that kind. and just when we could do with that hundred pounds--heaven knows! oh, arthur!" "he's dead," said mr. prohack clinchingly, "but he's left me ten thousand a year. ha, ha!--ha, ha!" he put his hand on her soft shoulder and gave a triumphant wink. * * * * * iii "dollars, naturally," said mrs. prohack, after listening to various romantic details. "no, pounds." "and do you believe it? are you sure this man bishop isn't up to some game? you know anybody can get the better of you, sweetest." "yes," said mr. prohack. "i know i'm the greatest and sweetest imbecile that the almighty ever created. but i believe it." "but _why_ should he leave you all this money? it doesn't stand to reason." "it doesn't. but you see the poor fellow had to leave it to _some_ one. and he'd no time to think. i expect he just did the first thing that came into his head and was glad to get it over. i daresay he rather enjoyed doing it, even if he was in great pain, which i don't think he was." "and who do you say the woman is that's got as much as you have?" "i don't say because i don't know." "i guarantee _she_ hadn't lent him a hundred pounds," said mrs. prohack with finality. "and you can talk as long as you like about real property in cincinnati--what is real property? isn't all property real?--i shall begin to believe in the fortune the day you give me a pearl necklace worth a thousand pounds. and not before." "lady," replied mr. prohack, "then i will never give you a pearl necklace." mrs. prohack laughed. "i know that," she said. after a long meditative pause which her husband did not interrupt, she murmured: "so i suppose we shall be what you call rich?" "some people will undoubtedly call us rich. others won't." "you know we shan't be any happier," she warned him. "no," mr. prohack agreed. "it's a great trial, besides being a great bore. but we must stick it." "_i_ shan't be any different. so you mustn't expect it." "i never have expected it." "i wonder what the children will say. now, arthur, don't go and tell them at dinner while the maid's there. i think i'll fetch them up now." "you'll do nothing of the kind," said mr. prohack sharply. "why not?" "because i can't stand the strain of telling them to-night. ha-ha!" he laughed. "i intend to think things over and tell them to-morrow. i've had quite enough strain for one day." "strain, darling?" "strain. these extremes of heat and cold would try a stronger man than me." "extremes of heat and cold, darling?" "well, just think how cold it was this morning and how warm it is to-night." "you quaint boy!" she murmured, admiring him. "i quite understand. quite. how sensitive you are! but then you always were. now listen here. shall _i_ tell the children?" she gave him a long kiss. "no," said he, making prods at her cheek with his finger, and smiling vaguely. "no. you'll do nothing of the kind. but there's something you _can_ do for me." "yes?" "will you do it?" "yes." "whatever it is?" "if you aren't going to play a trick on me." "no. it's no trick. "very well, then." "first, you must have one of your best headaches. second, you must go to bed at once. third, you must sprinkle some eau-de-cologne on the bed, to deceive the lower orders. fourth, you must be content with some soup for your dinner, and i'll smuggle you up some dessert in my pocket if you're hungry. fifth, you must send word to those children of yours that you don't wish to be disturbed." "but you want to treat me like a baby." "and supposing i do! for once, can't you be a baby to oblige me?" "but it's too ridiculous! why do you want me to go to bed?" "you know why. still, i'll tell you. you always like to be told what you know,--for instance, that i'm in love with you. i can't tell those kids to-night, and i'm not going to. the rumpus, the conflict of ideas, the atmospheric disturbance when they do get to know will be terrific, and i simply won't have it to-night. i must have a quiet evening to think in or else i shan't sleep. on the other hand, do you suppose i could sit through dinner opposite you, and you knowing all about it and me knowing all about it, and both of us pretending that there was nothing unusual in the air? it's impossible. either you'd give the show away, or i should. or i should burst out laughing. no! i can manage the situation alone, but i can't manage it if you're there. hence, lady, you will keep your kind promise and hop into bed." without another word, but smiling in a most enigmatic manner, mrs. prohack passed into the bedroom. the tyrant lit a cigarette, and stretched himself all over the sofa. he thought: "she's a great woman. she understands. or at any rate she acts as if she did. now how many women in similar circumstances would have--" etc. etc. he listened to her movements. he had not told her everything, for example, the profiteering origin of the fortune, and he wondered whether he had behaved quite nicely in not doing so. "arthur," she called from the bedroom. "hullo?" "i do think this is really too silly." "you're not paid to think, my girl." a pause. "arthur," she called from the bedroom. "hullo?" "you're sure you won't blurt it out to them when i'm not there?" he only replied: "i'm sorry you've got such a frightful headache, marian. you wouldn't have these headaches if you took my advice." a pause. "i'm in bed." "all right. stay there." when he had finished his cigarette, he went into the bedroom. yes, she was veritably in bed. "you are a pig, arthur. i wonder how many wives--" he put his hand over her mouth. "stop," he said. "i'm not like you. i don't need to be told what i know already." "but really--!" she dropped her head on one side and began to laugh, and continued to laugh, rather hysterically, until she could not laugh any more. "oh, dear! we are the queerest pair!" "it is possible," said he. "you've forgotten the eau-de-cologne." he handed her the bottle. "it is quite possible that we're the queerest pair, but this is a very serious day in the history of the prohack family. the prohack family has been starving, and some one's given it an enormous beefsteak. now it's highly dangerous to give a beefsteak to a starving person. the consequences might be fatal. that's why it's so serious. that's why i must have time to think." the sound of sissie playing a waltz on the piano came up from the drawing-room. mr. prohack started to dance all by himself in the middle of the bedroom floor. chapter v charlie i when mr. prohack, in his mature but still rich velvet jacket, came down to dinner, he found his son charlie leaning against the mantelpiece in a new dark brown suit, and studying _the owner-driver_. charlie seemed never to read anything but motor-car and light-car and side-car and motor-bicycle periodical literature; but he read it conscientiously, indefatigably, and completely--advertisements and all. he read it as though it were an endless novel of passion and he an idle woman deprived of the society her heart longed for. he possessed a motor-bicycle which he stabled in a mews behind the square. he had possessed several such machines; he bought, altered, and sold them, apparently always with profit to himself. he had no interest in non-mechanical literature or in any of the arts. "your mother's gone to bed with a headache," said mr. prohack, with a fair imitation of melancholy. "oh!" said the young man apathetically. his face had a wearied, disillusioned expression. "is this the latest?" asked his father, indicating the new brown suit. "my respectful congratulations. very smart, especially at the waist." for a youth who had nothing in the world but what remained of his wound gratuity and other trifling military emoluments, and what he made out of commerce in motor-bicycles, charlie spent a lot in clothes. his mother had advised his father to "speak to him about it." but his father had declined to offer any criticism, on the ground that charlie had fought in mesopotamia, italy and france. moreover, charlie had scotched any possible criticism by asserting that good clothes were all that stood between him and the ruin of his career. "if i dressed like the dad," he had once grimly and gloomily remarked, "it would be the beginning of the end for me." "smart?" he now exclaimed, stepping forward. "look at that." he advanced his right leg a little. "look at that crease. see where it falls?" the trouser-crease, which, as all wise men know, ought to have fallen exactly on the centre of the boot-lacing, fell about an inch to the left thereof. "and i've tried this suit on four times! all the bally tailors in london seem to think you've got nothing else to do but call and try on and try on and try on. never seems to occur to them that they don't know their business. it's as bad as staff work. however, if this fellow thinks i'm going to stick these trousers he'll have the surprise of his life to-morrow morning." the youth spoke in a tone of earnest disgust. "my boy," said mr. prohack, "you have my most serious sympathy. your life must be terribly complicated by this search for perfection." "yes, that's all very well," said charlie. "where's sissie?" "hanged if i know!" "i heard her playing the piano not five minutes since." "so did i." machin, the house-parlourmaid, then intervened: "miss sissie had a telephone call, and she's gone out, sir." "where to?" "she didn't say, sir. she only said she wouldn't be in for dinner, sir. i made sure she'd told you herself, sir." the two men, by means of their eyes, transmitted to each other a unanimous judgment upon the whole female sex, and sat down to dine alone in the stricken house. the dinner was extremely frugal, this being the opening day of mrs. prohack's new era of intensive economy, but the obvious pleasure of machin in serving only men brightened up somewhat its brief course. charlie was taciturn and curt, though not impolite. mr. prohack, whose private high spirits not even the amazing and inexcusable absence of his daughter could impair, pretended to a decent woe, and chatted as he might have done to a fellow-clubman on a wet sunday night at the club. at the end of the meal charlie produced the enormous widow's cruse which he called his cigarette-case and offered his father a cigarette. "doing anything to-night?" asked mr. prohack, puffing. "no," answered desperately charlie, puffing. "ring the bell, will you?" while charlie went to the mantelpiece mr. prohack secreted an apple for his starving wife. "machin," said he to the incoming house-parlourmaid, "see if you can find some port." charlie raised his fatigued eyebrows. "yes, sir," said the house-parlourmaid, vivaciously, and whisked away her skirts, which seemed to remark: "you're quite right to have port. i feel very sorry for you two attractive gentlemen taking a poor dinner all alone." charlie drank his port in silence and mr. prohack watched him. * * * * * ii mr. prohack's son was, in some respects, a great mystery to him. he could not understand, for instance, how his own offspring could be so unresponsive to the attractions of the things of the mind, and so interested in mere machinery and the methods of moving a living or a lifeless object from one spot on the earth's surface to another. mr. prohack admitted the necessity of machinery, but an automobile had for him the same status as a child's scooter and no higher. it was an ingenious device for locomotion. and there for him the matter ended. on the other hand, mr. prohack sympathised with and comprehended his son's general attitude towards life. charlie had gone to war from cambridge at the age of nineteen. he went a boy, and returned a grave man. he went thoughtless and light-hearted, and returned full of magnificent and austere ideals. six months of england had destroyed these ideals in him. he had expected to help in the common task of making heaven in about a fortnight. in the war he had learnt much about the possibilities of human nature, but scarcely anything about its limitations. his father tried to warn him, but of course failed. charlie grew resentful, then cynical. he saw in england nothing but futility, injustice and ingratitude. he refused to resume cambridge, and was bitterly sarcastic about the generosity of a nation which, through its war office, was ready to pay to studious warriors anxious to make up university terms lost in a holy war decidedly less than it paid to its street-sweepers. having escaped from death, the aforesaid warriors were granted the right to starve their bodies while improving their minds. he might have had sure situations in vast corporations. he declined them. he spat on them. he called them "graves." what he wanted was an opportunity to fulfil himself. he could not get it, and his father could not get it from him. while searching for it, he frequently met warriors covered with ribbons but lacking food and shelter not only for themselves but for their women and children. all this, human nature being what it is, was inevitable, but his father could not convincingly tell him so. all that mr. prohack could effectively do mr. prohack did,--namely, provide the saviour of britain with food and shelter. charlie was restlessly and dangerously waiting for his opportunity. but he had not developed into a revolutionist, nor a communist, nor anything of the sort. oh, no! quite the reverse. he meditated a different revenge on society. mr. prohack knew nothing of this meditated revenge, did not suspect it. if he had suspected it, he might have felt less compassion than, on this masculine evening with the unusual port, he did in fact feel. for he was very sorry for charlie. he longed to tell him about the fortune, and to exult with him in the fortune, and to pour, as it were, the fortune into his lap. he did not care a fig, now, about advisable precautions. he did not feel the slightest constraint at the prospect of imparting the tremendous and gorgeous news to his son. he had no desire to reflect upon the proper method of telling. he merely and acutely wanted to tell, so that he might see the relief and the joyous anticipation on his son's enigmatic and melancholy face. but he could not tell because it had been tacitly agreed with his wife that he should not tell in her absence. true, he had given no verbal promise, but he had given something just as binding. "nothing exciting to-day, i suppose," he said, when the silence had begun to distress him in his secret glee. "no," charlie replied. "i got particulars of an affair at glasgow, but it needs money." "what sort of an affair?" "oh! rather difficult to explain. buying and selling. usual thing." "what money is needed?" "i should say three hundred or thereabouts. might as well be three thousand so far as i'm concerned." "where did you hear of it?" "club." charlie belonged to a little club in savile place where young warriors told each other what they thought of the nature of society. mr. prohack drew in his breath with an involuntary gasp, and then said: "i expect i could let you have three hundred." "_you couldn't!_" "i expect i could." mr. prohack had never felt so akin to a god. it seemed to him that he was engaged in the act of creating a future, yea, a man. charlie's face changed. he had been dead. he was now suddenly alive. "when?" "well, any time." "now?" "why not?" charlie looked at his watch. "well, i'm much obliged," he said. * * * * * iii mr. prohack had brought a new cheque-book from the bank. it lay in his hip-pocket. he had no alternative but to write out a cheque. three hundred pounds would nearly exhaust his balance, but that did not matter. he gave charlie the cheque. charlie offered no further information concerning the "affair" for which the money was required. and mr. prohack did not choose to enquire. perhaps he was too proud to enquire. the money would probably be lost. and if it were lost no harm would be done. good, rather, for charlie would have gained experience. the lad was only a child, after all. the lad ran upstairs, and mr. prohack sat solitary in delightful meditation. after a few minutes the lad re-appeared in hat and coat. mr. prohack thought that he had heard a bag dumped in the hall. "where are you off to?" he asked. "glasgow. i shall catch the night-train." he rang the bell. "machin, run out and get me a taxi, sharp." "yes, sir." machin flew. this was the same girl of whom mrs. prohack dared to demand nothing. mr. prohack himself would have hesitated to send her for a taxi. but charlie ordered her about like a slave and she seemed to like it. "rather sudden this, isn't it?" said mr. prohack, extremely startled by the turn of events. "well, you've got to be sudden in this world, guv'nor," charlie replied, and lit a fresh cigarette. mr. prohack was again too proud to put questions. still, he did venture upon one question: "have you got loose money for your fare?" the lad laughed. "oh, don't let that worry you, guv'nor...!" he looked at his watch once more. "i wonder whether that infernal girl is manufacturing that taxi or only fetching it." "what must i say to your mother?" demanded mr. prohack. "give her my respectful regards." the taxi was heard. machin dashed into the house, and dashed out again with the bag. the lad clasped his father's hand with a warm vigour that pleased and reassured mr. prohack in his natural bewilderment. it was not consistent with the paternal dignity to leave the dining-room and stand, valedictory, on the front-doorstep. "well, i'm dashed!" mr. prohack murmured to himself as the taxi drove away. and he had every right to be dashed. chapter vi sissie i "had any dinner?" mr. prohack asked his daughter. "no." "aren't you hungry?" "no, thanks." sissie seized the last remaining apple from the dessert-dish, and bit into it with her beautiful and efficient teeth. she was slim, and rather taller than necessary or than she desired to be. a pretty girl, dressed in a short-skirted, short-sleeved, dark blue, pink-heightened frock that seemed to combine usefulness with a decent perverse frivolity, and to carry forward the expression of her face. she had bright brown hair. she was perfectly mistress of the apple. "where's mother?" "in bed with a headache." "didn't she have dinner with you?" "she did not. and she doesn't want to be disturbed." "oh! i shan't disturb her, poor thing. i told her this afternoon she would have one of her headaches." "well," said mr. prohack, "that's one of the most remarkable instances of sound prophecy that i ever came across." "father, what's amusing you?" "nothing." "yes, something is. you've got your funny smile, and you were smiling all to yourself when i came in." "i was thinking. my right to think is almost the only right i possess that hasn't yet been challenged in this house." "where's charles?" "gone to glasgow." "gone to _glasgow_?" "yes." "what, just now?" "ten minutes ago." "whatever has he gone to _glasgow_ for?" "i don't know,--any more than i know why you went out before dinner and came back after dinner." "would you like to know why i went out?" sissie spoke with sudden ingratiatingness. "no, not at all. but i should like to know why you went out without telling anybody. when people are expected to dinner and fail to appear they usually give notice of the failure." "but, father, i told machin." "i said 'anybody.' don't you know that the whole theory of the society which you adorn is based on the assumption that machin is nobody?" "i was called away in a frightful hurry, and you and mother were gossiping upstairs, and it's as much as one's life is worth to disturb you two when you are together." "oh! that's news." "besides, i should have had to argue with mother, and you know what she is." "you flatter me. i don't even know what _you_ are, and you're elementary compared to your mother." "anyhow, i'm glad mother's in bed with a headache. i came in here trembling just now. mother would have made such a tremendous fuss although she's perfectly aware that it's not the slightest use making a fuss.... only makes me stupid and obstinate. showers and showers of questions there'd have been, whereas you haven't asked a single one." "yes, you're rather upset by my lack of curiosity. but let me just point out that it is not consistent with my paternal duty to sit here and listen to you slanging your mother. as a daughter you have vast privileges, but you mustn't presume on them. there are some things i couldn't stand from any woman without protest." "but you must admit that mother _is_ a bit awful when she breaks loose." "no. i've never known your mother awful, or even a bit awful." "you aren't being intellectually honest, dad." "i am." "ah! well, of course she only shows her best side to _you_." "she has no other side. in that sense she is certainly one-sided. here! have another." mr. prohack took the apple from his pocket, and threw it across the table to sissie, who caught it. ii mr. prohack was extremely happy; and sissie too, in so far as concerned the chat with her father, was extremely happy. they adored each other, and they adored the awful woman laid low with a headache. sissie's hat and cloak, which she had dropped carelessly on a chair, slipped to the floor, the hat carried away by the cloak. mr. prohack rose and picked them up, took them out of the room, and returned. "so now you've straightened up, and you're pleased with yourself," observed sissie. "so now," said he. "perhaps i may turn on my curiosity tap." "don't," said sissie. "i'm very gloomy. i'm very disappointed. i might burst into tears at any moment.... yes, i'm not joking." "out with it." "oh, it's nothing! it's only that i saw a chance of making some money and it hasn't come off." "but what do you want to make money for?" "i like that. hasn't mother been telling me off and on all day that something will have to be done?" "done about what?" "about economy, naturally." sissie spoke rather sharply. "but you don't mean your mother has spent the day in urging you to go forth and earn money!" "of course she hasn't, father. how absurd you are! you know very well mother would hate the idea of me earning money. hate it! but i mean to earn some. surely it's much better to bring more money in than to pinch and scrape. i loathe pinching and scraping." "it's a sound loathing." "and i thought i'd got hold of a scheme. but it's too big. i have fifty pounds odd of my own, but what use is fifty pounds when a hundred's needed? it's all off and i'm in the last stage of depression." she threw away the core of the second apple. "is that port? i'll have some." "so that you're short of fifty pounds?" said mr. prohack, obediently pouring out the port--but only half a glass. "well, i might be able to let you have fifty pounds myself, if you would deign to accept it." sissie cried compassionately: "but you haven't got a cent, dad!" "oh! haven't i? did your mother tell you that?" "well, she didn't exactly say so." "i should hope not! and allow me to inform you, my girl, that in accusing me of not having a cent you're being guilty of the worst possible taste. children should always assume that their fathers have mysterious stores of money, and that nothing is beyond their resources, and if they don't rise to every demand it's only because in their inscrutable wisdom they deem it better not to. or it may be from mere cussedness." "yes," said sissie. "that's what i used to think when i was young. but i've looked up your salary in _whitaker's almanac_." "it was very improper of you. however, nothing is secret in these days, and so i don't mind telling you that i've backed a winner to-day--not to-day, but some little time since--and i can if necessary and agreeable let you have fifty pounds." mr. prohack as it were shook his crest in plenary contentment. he had the same sensation of creativeness as he had had a while earlier with his son,--a godlike sensation. and he was delighted with his girl. she was so young and so old. and her efforts to play the woman of the world with him were so comic and so touching. only two or three years since she had been driving a motor-van in order to defeat the germans. she had received twenty-eight shillings a week for six days of from twelve to fourteen hours. she would leave the house at eight and come back at eight, nine, or ten. and on her return, pale enough, she would laugh and say she had had her dinner and would go to bed. but she had not had her dinner. she was simply too tired and nervously exasperated to eat. and she would lie in bed and tremble and cry quietly from fatigue. she did not know that her parents knew these details. the cook, her confidante, had told them, much later. and mr. prohack had decreed that sissie must never know that they knew. she had stuck to the task during a whole winter, skidding on glassy asphalt, slimy wood, and slithery stone-setts in the east end, and had met with but one accident, a minor affair. the experience seemed to have had no permanent effect on her, but it had had a permanent effect on her father's attitude towards her,--her mother had always strongly objected to what she called the "episode," had shown only relief when it concluded, and had awarded no merit for it. "can you definitely promise me fifty pounds, dad?" sissie asked quietly. mr. prohack made no articulate answer. his reply was to take out his cheque-book and his fountain-pen and fill in a cheque to _miss sissie prohack or order_. he saw no just reason for differentiating between the sexes in his offspring. he had given a cheque to charlie; he gave one to sissie. "then you aren't absolutely stone-broke," said sissie, smiling. "i should not so describe myself." "it's just like mother," she murmured, the smile fading. mr. prohack raised a sternly deprecating hand. "enough." "but don't you want to know what i want the money for?" sissie demanded. "no!... ha-ha!" "then i shall tell you. the fact is i must tell you." * * * * * iii "i've decided to teach dancing," said sissie, beginning again nervously, as her father kept a notable silence. "i thought you weren't so very keen on dancing." "i'm not; but perhaps that's because i don't care much for the new fashion of dancing a whole evening with the same man. still the point is that i'm a very fine dancer. even charlie will tell you that." "but i thought that all the principal streets in london were full of dancing academies at the present time, chiefly for the instruction of aged gentlemen." "i don't know anything about that," sissie replied seriously. "what i do know is that now i can find a hundred pounds, i have a ripping chance of taking over a studio--at least part of one; and it's got quite a big connection already,--in fact pupils are being turned away." "and this is all you can think of!" protested mr. prohack with melancholy. "we are living on the edge of a volcano--the country is, i mean--and your share in the country's work is to teach the citizens to dance!" "well," said sissie. "they'll dance anyhow, and so they may as well learn to dance properly. and what else can i do? have you had me taught to do anything else? you and mother have brought me up to be perfectly useless except as the wife of a rich man. that's what you've done, and you can't deny it." "once," said mr. prohack. "you very nobly drove a van." "yes, i did. but no thanks to you and mother. why, i had even to learn to drive in secret, lest you should stop me! and i can tell you one thing--if i was to start driving a van now i should probably get mobbed in the streets. all the men have a horrid grudge against us girls who did their work in the war. if we want to get a job in these days we jolly well have to conceal the fact that we were in the w.a.a.c. or in anything at all during the war. they won't look at us if they find out that. our reward! however, i don't want to drive a van. i want to teach dancing. it's not so dirty and it pays better. and if people feel like dancing, why shouldn't they dance? come now, dad, be reasonable." "that's asking a lot from any human being, and especially from a parent." "well, have you got any argument against what i say?" "i prefer not to argue." "that's because you can't." "it is. it is. but what is this wonderful chance you've got?" "it's that studio where charlie and i went last night, at putney." "at _putney_?" "well, why not putney? they have a gala night every other week, you know. it belongs to viola ridle. viola's going to get married and live in edinburgh, and she's selling it. and eliza asked me if i'd join her in taking it over. eliza telephoned me about it to-night, and so i rushed across the park to see her. but viola's asking a hundred pounds premium and a hundred for the fittings, and very cheap it is too. in fact viola's a fool, _i_ think, but then she's fond of eliza." "now, eliza? is that eliza brating, or am i getting mixed up?" "yes, it's eliza brating." "ah!" "you needn't be so stuffy, dad, because her father's only a second-division clerk at the treasury." "oh, i'm not. it was only this morning that i was saying to mr. hunter that we must always remember that second-division clerks are also god's creatures." "father, you're disgusting." "don't say that, my child. at my age one needs encouragement, not abuse. and i'm glad to be able to tell you that there is no longer any necessity either for you to earn money or to pinch and scrape. satisfactory arrangements have been made...." "really? well, that's splendid. but of course it won't make any difference to me. there may be no necessity so far as you're concerned. but there's my inward necessity. i've got to be independent. it wouldn't make any difference if you had an income of ten thousand a year." mr. prohack blenched guiltily. "er--er--what was i going to say? oh, yes,--where's this eliza of yours got her hundred pounds from?" "i don't know. it's no business of mine." "but do you insist--shall you--insist on introductions from your pupils?" "father, how you do chop about! no, naturally we shan't insist on introductions." "then any man can come for lessons?" "certainly. provided he wears evening-dress on gala nights, and pays the fees and behaves properly. viola says some of them prefer afternoon lessons because they haven't got any evening-dress." "if i were you i shouldn't rush at it," said mr. prohack. "but we must rush at it--or lose it. and i've no intention of losing it. viola has to make her arrangements at once." "i wonder what your mother will say when you ask her." "i shan't ask her. i shall tell her. nobody can decide this thing for me. i have to decide it for myself, and i've decided it. as for what mother says--" sissie frowned and then smiled, "that's your affair." "my affair!" mr. prohack exclaimed in real alarm. "what on earth do you mean?" "well, you and she are so thick together. you're got to live with her. i haven't got to live with her." "i ask you, what on earth _do_ you mean?" "but surely you've understood, father, that i shall have to live at the studio. somebody has to be on the spot, and there are two bedrooms. but of course you'll be able to put all that right with mother, dad. you'll do it for your own sake; but a bit for mine, too." she giggled nervously, ran round the table and kissed her parent. "i'm frightfully obliged for the fifty pounds," she said. "you and the mater will be fearfully happy together soon if charlie doesn't come back. ta-ta! i must be off now." "where?" "to eliza's of course. we shall probably go straight down to putney together and see viola and fix everything up. i know viola's had at least one other good offer. i may sleep at the studio. if not, at eliza's. anyhow it will be too late for me to come back here." "i absolutely forbid you to go off like this." "yes, do, father. you forbid for all you're worth if it gives you any pleasure. but it won't be much use unless you can carry me upstairs and lock me in my room. oh! father, you are a great pretender. you know perfectly well you're delighted with me." "indeed i'm not! i suppose you'll have the decency to see your mother before you go?" "what! and wake her! you said she wasn't to be disturbed 'on any account.'" "i deny that i said 'on any account.'" "i shouldn't dream of disturbing her. and you'll tell her so much better than i could. you can do what you like with her." iv "where's my dessert?" demanded mrs. prohack, anxiously and resentfully, when her husband at length reached the bedroom. "i'm dying of hunger, and i've got a real headache now. oh! arthur how absurd all this is! at least it would be if i wasn't so hungry." "sissie ate all the dessert," mr. prohack answered timidly. he no longer felt triumphant, careless and free. indeed for some minutes he had practically forgotten that he had inherited ten thousand a year. "the child ate it every bit, so i couldn't bring any. shall i ring for something else?" "and why," mrs. prohack continued, "why have you been so long? and what's all this business of taxis rushing up to the door all the evening?" "marian," said mr. prohack, ignoring her gross exaggeration of the truth as to the taxis. "i'd better tell you at once. charlie's gone to glasgow on his own business and sissie's just run down to viola ridle's studio about a new scheme of some kind that she's thinking of. for the moment we're alone in the world." "it's always the same," she remarked with indignation, when with forced facetiousness he had given her an extremely imperfect and bowdlerized account of his evening. "it's always the same. as soon as i'm laid up in bed, everything goes wrong. my poor boy, i cannot imagine what you've been doing. i suppose i'm very silly, but i _can't_ understand it." nor could mr. prohack himself, now that he was in the sane conjugal atmosphere of the bedroom. chapter vii the sympathetic quack i the next morning mr. prohack had a unique shock, for he was awakened by his wife coming into the bedroom. she held a big piece of cake in her hand. never before had mrs. prohack been known to rise earlier than her husband. also, the hour was eight-twenty, whereas never before had mr. prohack been known, on a working-day, to rise later than eight o'clock. he realised with horror that it would be necessary for him to hurry. still, he did not jump up. he was not a brilliant sleeper, and he had had a bad night, which had only begun to be good at the time when as a rule he woke finally for the day. he did not feel very well, despite the fine sensation of riches which rushed reassuringly into his arms the moment consciousness returned. "arthur," said mrs. prohack, who was in her chinese robe, "do you know that girl hasn't been home all night. her bed hasn't been slept in!" "neither has mine," answered mr. prohack. "what girl?" "sissie, of course." "ah! sissie!" murmured mr. prohack as if he had temporarily forgotten that such a girl existed. "didn't i tell you last night she mightn't be back?" "no, you didn't! and you know very well you didn't!" "honestly," said mr. prohack (meaning "dishonestly" as most people do in similar circumstances), "i thought i did." "do you suppose i should have slept one wink if i'd thought sissie wasn't coming _home_?" "yes, i do. the death of nelson wouldn't keep you awake. and now either i shall be late at the office, or else i shall go without my breakfast. i think you might have wakened me." mrs. prohack, munching the cake despite all her anxieties, replied in a peculiar tone: "what does it matter if you are late for the office?" mr. prohack reflected that all women were alike in a lack of conscience where the public welfare was concerned. he was rich: therefore he was entitled to neglect his duty to the nation! a pleasing argument! mr. prohack sat up, and mrs. prohack had a full view of his face for the first time that morning. "arthur," she exclaimed, absolutely and in an instant forgetting both cake and daughter. "you're ill!" he thought how agreeable it was to have a wife who was so marvellously absorbed in his being. there was something uncanny, something terrible, in it. "oh, no i'm not," he said. "i swear i'm not. i'm very tired, but i'm not ill. get out of my way." "but your face is as yellow as a cheese," protested eve, frightened. "it may be," said mr. prohack. "you won't get up." "i shall get up." eve snatched her hand-mirror from the dressing-table, and gave it to him with a menacing gesture. he admitted to himself that the appearance of his face was perhaps rather alarming at first sight; but really he did not feel ill; he only felt tired. "it's nothing. liver." he made a move to emerge from the bed. "exercise is all i want." he saw eve's lips tremble; he saw tears hanging in her eyes; these phenomena induced in him the sensation of having somehow committed a solecism or a murder. he withdrew the move to emerge. she was hurt and desperate. he at once knew himself defeated. he thought how annoying it was to have a woman in the house who was so marvellously absorbed in his being. she was wrong; but her unreasoning desperation triumphed over his calm sagacity. "telephone for dr. veiga," said mrs. prohack to machin, for whom she had rung. "v-e-i-g-a. bruton street. he's in the book. and ask him to come along as soon as he can to see mr. prohack." now mr. prohack had heard of, but never seen, dr. veiga. he had more than once listened to the portuguese name on eve's lips, and the man had been mentioned more than once at the club. mr. prohack knew that he was, if not a foreigner, of foreign descent, and hence he did not like him. mr. prohack took kindly to foreign singers and cooks, but not to foreign doctors. moreover he had doubts about the fellow's professional qualifications. therefore he strongly resented his wife's most singular and startling order to machin, and as soon as machin had gone he expressed himself: "anyway," he said curtly, after several exchanges, "i shall see my own doctor, if i see any doctor at all--which is doubtful." eve's response was to kiss her husband--a sisterly rather than a wifely kiss. and she said, in a sweet, noble voice: "it's i that want dr. veiga's opinion about you, and i must insist on having it. and what's more, you know i've never cared for your friend dr. plott. he never seems to be interested. he scarcely listens to what you have to say. he scarcely examines you. he just makes you think your health is of no importance at all, and it doesn't really matter whether you're ill or well, and that you may get better or you mayn't, and that he'll humour you by sending you a bottle of something." "stuff!" said mr. prohack. "he's a first-rate fellow. no infernal nonsense about _him!_ and what do _you_ know about veiga? i should like to be informed." "i met him at mrs. cunliff's. he cured her of cancer." "you told me mrs. cunliff hadn't got cancer at all." "well, it was dr. veiga who found out she hadn't, and stopped the operation just in time. she says he saved her life, and she's quite right. he's wonderful." mrs. prohack was now sitting on the bed. she gazed at her husband's features with acute apprehension and yet with persuasive grace. "oh! arthur!" she murmured, "you are a worry to me!" mr. prohack, not being an ordinary englishman, knew himself beaten--for the second time that morning. he dared not trifle with his wife in her earnest, lofty mood. "i bet you veiga won't come," said mr. prohack. "he will come," said mrs. prohack blandly. "how do you know?" "because he told me he'd come at once if ever i asked him. he's a perfect dear." "oh! i know the sort!" mr. prohack said sarcastically. "and you'll see the fee he'll charge!" "when it's a question of health money doesn't matter." "it doesn't matter when you've got the money. you'd never have dreamed of having veiga this time yesterday. you wouldn't even have sent for old plott." mrs. prohack merely kissed her husband again, with a kind of ineffable resignation. then machin came in with her breakfast, and said that dr. veiga would be round shortly, and was told to telephone to the treasury that her master was ill in bed. "and what about my breakfast?" the victim enquired with irony. "give me some of your egg." "no, dearest, egg is the very last thing you should have with that colour." "well, if you'd like to know, i don't want any breakfast. couldn't eat any." "there you are!" mrs. prohack exclaimed triumphantly. "and yet you swear you aren't ill! that just shows.... it will be quite the best thing for you not to take anything until dr. veiga's been." mr. prohack, helpless, examined the ceiling, and decided to go to the office in the afternoon. he tried to be unhappy but couldn't. eve was too funny, too delicious, too exquisitely and ingenuously "firm," too blissful in having him at her mercy, for him to be unhappy.... to say nothing of the hundred thousand pounds! and he knew that eve also was secretly revelling in the hundred thousand pounds. dr. veiga was her first bite at it. * * * * * ii considering that he was well on the way to being a fashionable physician, dr. veiga arrived with surprising promptitude. mr. prohack wondered what hold eve had upon him and how she had acquired it. he was prejudiced against the fellow before he came into the bedroom, simply because eve, on hearing the noise of a car and a doorbell, had hurried downstairs, and a considerable interval had elapsed between the doctor's entrance into the house and his appearance at the bedside. mr. prohack guessed easily that those two had been plotting against him. strange how eve could be passionately loyal and basely deceitful simultaneously! the two-faced creature led the doctor forward with a candid smile that partook equally of the smile of a guardian angel and the smile of a cherub. she was an unparalleled comedian. dr. veiga was fattish and rather shabby; about sixty years of age. he spoke perfectly correct english with a marked foreign accent. his demeanour was bland, slightly familiar, philosophical and sympathetic. dr. plott's eyes would have said: "this is my thirteenth visit this morning, and i've eighteen more to do, and it's all very tedious. why _do_ you people let yourselves get ill--if it's a fact that you really are ill? i don't think you are, but i'll see." dr. veiga's eyes said: "how interesting your case is! you've had no luck this time. we must make the best of things; but also we must face the truth. god knows i don't want to boast, but i expect i can put you right, with the help of your own strong commonsense." mr. prohack, a connoisseur in human nature, noted the significances of the veiga glance, but he suspected that there might also be something histrionic in it. dr. veiga examined heart, pulse, tongue. he tapped the torso. he asked many questions. then he took an instrument out of a leather case which he carried, and fastened a strap round mr. prohack's forearm and attached it to the instrument, and presently mr. prohack could feel the strong pulsations of the blood current in his arm. "dear, dear!" said dr. veiga. " . blood pressure too high. much too high! must get that down." eve looked as though the end of the world had been announced, and even mr. prohack had qualms. ten minutes earlier mr. prohack had been a strong, healthy man a trifle unwell in a bedroom. he was suddenly transformed into a patient in a nursing-home. "a little catarrh," said dr. veiga. "i've got no catarrh," said mr. prohack, with conviction. "yes, yes. catarrh of the stomach. probably had it for years. the duodenum is obstructed. a little accident that easily happens." he addressed himself as it were privately to mrs. prohack. "the duodenum is no thicker than that." he indicated the pencil with which he was already writing in a pocket-book. "we'll get it right." "what is the duodenum?" mr. prohack wanted to cry out. but he was too ashamed to ask. it was hardly conceivable that he, so wise, so prudent, had allowed over forty years to pass in total ignorance of this important item of his own body. he felt himself to be a bag full of disconcerting and dangerous mysteries. or he might have expressed it that he had been smoking in criminal nonchalance for nearly half a century on the top of a powder magazine. he was deeply impressed by the rapidity and assurance of the doctor's diagnosis. it was wonderful that the queer fellow could in a few minutes single out an obscure organ no bigger than a pencil and say: "there is the ill." the fellow might be a quack, but sometimes quacks were men of genius. his shame and his alarm quickly vanished under the doctor's reassuring and bland manner. so much so that when dr. veiga had written out a prescription, mr. prohack said lightly: "i suppose i can get up, though." to which dr. veiga amiably replied: "i shall leave that to you. perhaps if i tell you you'll be lucky if you don't have jaundice...! but i think you _will_ be lucky. i'll try to look in again this afternoon." these last words staggered both mr. and mrs. prohack. "i've been expecting this for years. i knew it would come." mrs. prohack breathed tragically. and even mr. prohack reflected aghast: "my god! doctor calling twice a day!" true, "duodenum" was a terrible word. mrs. prohack gazed at dr. veiga as at a high priest, and waited to be vouchsafed a further message. "anyhow, if i find it impossible to call, i'll telephone in any case," said dr. veiga. some slight solace in this! mrs. prohack, like an acolyte, personally attended the high priest as far as the street, listening with acute attention to his recommendations. when she returned she had put on a carefully bright face. evidently she had decided, or had been told, that cheerfulness was essential to ward off jaundice. "now that's what i _call_ a doctor," said she. "to think of your friend plott...! i've telephoned for a messenger boy to go to the chemist's." "you're at liberty to call the man a doctor," answered mr. prohack. "and i'm at liberty to call him a fine character actor." "i knew the moment you sat up it was jaundice," said mrs. prohack. "well," said mr. prohack. "i lay you five to one i don't have jaundice. not that you'd ever pay me if you lost." mrs. prohack said: "when i saw you were asleep at after eight o'clock this morning i knew there must be something serious. i felt it. however, as the doctor says, if we _take_ it seriously it will soon cease to be serious." "he's not a bad phrase-maker," said mr. prohack. in the late afternoon dr. veiga returned like an old and familiar acquaintance, with his confident air of saying: "we can manage this affair between us--i am almost sure." mr. prohack felt worse; and the room, lighted by one shaded lamp, had begun to look rather like a real sick-room. mr. prohack, though he mistrusted the foreign accent, the unprofessional appearance, and the adventurous manner, was positively glad to see his new doctor, and indeed felt that he had need of succour. "yes," said dr. veiga, after investigation. "my opinion is that you'll escape jaundice. in four or five days you ought to be as well as you were before the attack. i don't say _how_ well you were before." mr. prohack instantly felt better. "it will be very awkward if i can't get back to the office early next week," said he. "i'm sure it will," dr. veiga agreed. "and it might be still more awkward if you went back to the office early next week, and then never went any more." "what do you mean?" dr. veiga smiled understandingly at mrs. prohack, as though he and she were the only grown-up persons in the room. "look here," he addressed the patient. "i see i shall have to charge you a fee for telling you what you know as well as i do. the fact is i get my living by doing that. how old are you?" "forty-six." "every year of the war counts double. so you're over fifty. a difficult age. you can run an engine ten hours a day for fifty years. but it's worn; it's second-hand. and if you keep on running it ten hours a day you'll soon discover how worn it is. but you can run it five hours a day for another twenty years with reasonable safety and efficiency. that's what i wanted to tell you. you aren't the man you were, mr. prohack. you've lost the trick of getting rid of your waste products. you say you feel tired. why do you feel tired? being tired simply means being clogged. the moment you feel tired your waste products are beginning to pile up. look at those finger joints! waste products! friction! why don't you sleep well? you say the more tired you are the worse you sleep: and you seem surprised. but you're only surprised because you haven't thought it out. morpheus himself wouldn't sleep if his body was a mass of friction-producing waste products from top to toe. you aren't a body and soul, mr. prohack. you're an engine--i wish you'd remember that and treat yourself like one. the moment you feel tired, stop the engine. if you don't, it'll stop itself. it pretty nearly stopped to-day. you need lubrication too. the best lubricant is a tumbler of hot water four times a day. and don't take coffee, or any salt except what your cook puts into the dishes. don't try to be cleverer than nature. don't think the clock is standing still. it isn't. if you treat yourself as well as you treat your watch, you'll bury me. if you don't, i shall bury you. all that i've told you i know by heart, because i'm saying it to men of your age every day of my life." mr. prohack felt like a reprimanded schoolboy. he feared the wrath to come. "don't you think my husband ought to take a long holiday?" eve put in. "well, _of course_ he ought," said dr. veiga, opening both mouth and eyes in protest against such a silly question. "six months?" "at least." "where ought he to go?" "doesn't matter. portugal, the riviera, switzerland. but it's not the season yet for any of these places. if he wants to keep on pleasant terms with nature he'll get out his car and motor about his own country for a month or two. after that he might go to the continent. but of course he won't. i know these official gentlemen. if you ask them to disturb their routine they'll die first. they really would sooner die. very natural of course. routine is their drug." "my husband will take six months holiday," said eve quietly. "i suppose you could give the proper certificate? you see in these government departments...." "i'll give you the certificate to-morrow." mr. prohack was pretending to be asleep, or at least to be too fatigued and indifferent to take notice of this remarkable conversation. but as soon as dr. veiga had blandly departed under the escort of eve, he slipped out of bed and cautiously padded to the landing where there was a bookcase. "duodenum. duodenum. must be something to do with twelve." then he found a dictionary and brought it back into the bedroom and consulted it. "so it's twelve inches long, is it?" he murmured. he had just time to plunge into bed and pitch the dictionary under the bed before his wife returned. * * * * * iii she was bending over him. "darling!" he opened his deceiving eyes. her face was within a foot of his. "how do you feel now?" "i feel," said he, "that this is the darnedest swindle that ever was. if i hadn't come into a fortune i should have been back at the office the day after to-morrow. in about eight hours, with the help of that portuguese mountebank, you've changed me from a sane normal man into a blooming valetudinarian who must run all over the earth in search of health. i've got to 'winter' somewhere, have i? you'll see. it's absolutely incredible. it's more like maskelyne and cook's than anything i ever came across." he yawned. he knew that it was the disturbed duodenum that caused him to yawn, and that also gave him a dry mouth and a peculiar taste therein. "yes, darling," eve smiled above him the smile of her impenetrable angelicism. "yes, darling. you're better." the worst was that she had beaten him on the primary point. he had asserted that he was not ill. she had asserted that he was. she had been right; he wrong. he could not deny, even to himself, that he was ill. not gravely, only somewhat. but supposing that he was gravely ill! supposing that old plott would agree with all that veiga had said! it was conceivable. misgivings shot through him. and eve had him at her sweet mercy. he was helpless. she was easily the stronger. he perceived then, what many a husband dies without having perceived, that his wife had a genuine individual existence and volition of her own, that she was more than his complement, his companion, the mother of his children. she lowered her head further and gave him a long, fresh, damp kiss. they were very intimate, with an intimacy that her enigmatic quality could not impair. he was annoyed, aggrieved, rebellious, but extremely happy in a weak sort of way. he hated and loved her, he despised and adored her, he reprehended and admired her--all at once. what specially satisfied him was that he had her to himself. the always-impinging children were not there. he liked this novel solitude of two. "darling, where is charlie staying in glasgow?" "why?" "i want to write to him." "post's gone, my poor child." "then i shall telegraph." "what about?" "never mind." "i shan't tell you the address unless you promise to show me the telegram. i intend to be master in my own house even if i am dying." thus he saw the telegram, which ran: "father ill in bed what is the best motor car to buy. love. mother." the telegram astounded mr. prohack. "have you taken leave of your senses?" he cried. then he laughed. what else was there to do? what else but the philosopher's laugh was adequate to the occasion? while eve with her own unrivalled hand was preparing the bedroom for the night, machin came in with a telegram. without being asked to do so eve showed it to the sufferer: "tell him to buck up. eagle six cylinder. everything fine here. charles." "i think he might have sent his love," said eve. mr. prohack no longer attempted to fight against the situation, which was like a net winding itself round him. chapter viii sissie's business i one evening, ten days later, mr. prohack slipped out of his own house as stealthily as a thief might have slipped into it. he was cured provisionally. the unseen, unfelt, sinister duodenum no longer mysteriously deranged his whole engine. only a continual sensation of slight fatigue indicated all the time that he was not cleverer than nature and that he was not victoriously disposing of his waste products. but he could walk mildly about; his zest for smoking had in part returned; and to any uninstructed observer he bore a close resemblance to a healthy man. four matters worried him, of which three may be mentioned immediately. he could not go to the treasury. his colleague hunter had amiably called the day after his seizure, and mrs. prohack had got hold of hunter. her influence over sane and well-balanced males was really extraordinary. mr. prohack had remained in perfect ignorance of the machinations of these two for eight days, at the end of which period he received by post an official document informing him that my lords of the treasury had granted him six months' leave of absence for reasons of ill-health. dr. veiga had furnished the certificate unknown to the patient. the quick despatch of the affair showed with what celerity a government department can function when it is actuated from the inside. the leave of absence for reasons of ill-health of course prevented mr. prohack from appearing at his office. how could he with decency appear at his office seemingly vigorous when it had been officially decided that he was too ill to work? and mr. prohack desired greatly to visit the treasury. the habit of a life-time had been broken in a moment, and since mr. prohack was the creature of that habit he suffered accordingly. he had been suffering for two days. this was the first matter that worried mr. prohack. the second matter had to do with his clubs. he was cut off from his clubs. partly for the same reason as that which cut him off from the treasury--for both his clubs were full of civil servants--and partly because he was still somehow sensitive concerning the fact of his inheritance. he would have had a similar objection to entering his clubs in highland kilt. the explanation was obvious. he hated to be conspicuous. his inheritance was already (through mr. softly bishop) the talk of certain official and club circles, and mr. prohack apprehended that every eye would be curiously upon him if he should set foot in a club. he could not bear that, and he could not bear the questions and the pleasantries. one day he would have to bear them--but not yet. the third matter that worried him was that he could not, even in secret, consult his own doctor. how could he go to old plott and say: "plott, old man, i've been ill and my wife insisted upon having another doctor, but i've come to ask you to tell me whether or not the other doctor's right?" the thing was impossible. yet he badly wanted to verify veiga by plott. he still mistrusted veiga, though his mistrust lessened daily, despite his wish to see it increase. mrs. prohack had benevolently suggested that he should run down to his club, but on no account for a meal--merely "for a change." he had declined, without giving the reason, and she had admitted that perhaps he was right. he attributed all the worries to his wife. "i pay a fine price for that woman," he thought as he left the house, "a rare fine price!" but as for her price, he never haggled over it. she, just as she existed in her awful imperfection, was his first necessary of life. she had gone out after dinner to see an acquaintance about a house-maid (for already she was reorganising the household on a more specious scale); she was a mile off at least; but she would have disapproved of him breaking loose into his clubs at night, and so the terror of the departments stole forth, instead of walking forth, intimidated by that moral influence which she left behind her. undoubtedly since the revolt of the duodenum her grip of him had sensibly tightened. not that mr. prohack was really going to a club. he had deceitfully told himself that he _might_ stroll down to his principal club, for the sake of exercise (his close friends among the members were lunchers not diners), but the central self within himself was aware that no club would see him that evening. a taxi approached in the darkness; he knew by its pace that it was empty. he told the driver to drive to putney. in the old days of eleven days ago he would not have dared to tell a taxi-driver to drive to putney, for the fare would have unbalanced his dizzy private weekly budget; and even now he felt he was going the deuce of a pace. even now he would prudently not have taken a taxi had not part of the american hundred thousand pounds already materialised. mr. softly bishop had been to see him on the previous day, and in addition to being mysteriously sympathetic about his co-heir's ill-health had produced seven thousand pounds of the hundred thousand. a new york representative had cabled fourteen thousand, not because mr. prohack was in a hurry for seven, but because mr. softly bishop was in a hurry for seven. and mr. softly bishop had pointed out something which mr. prohack, treasury official, had not thought of. he had pointed out that mr. prohack might begin immediately to spend just as freely as if the hundred thousand were actually in hand. "you see," said he, "the interest has been accumulating over there ever since angmering's death, and it will continue to accumulate until we get all the capital; and the interest runs up to about a couple of hundred a week for each of us." now mr. prohack had directed the taxi to his daughter's dance studio, and perhaps it was the intention to do so that had made him steal ignobly out of the house. for eve would assuredly have rebelled. a state of war existed between eve and her daughter, and mr. prohack's intelligence, as well as his heart, had ranged him on eve's side. since sissie's departure, the girl had given no sign whatever to her parents. mrs. prohack had expected to see her on the next day after her defection. but there was no sissie, and there was no message from sissie. mrs. prohack bulged with astounding news for sissie, of her father's illness and inheritance. but mrs. prohack's resentful pride would not make the first move, and would not allow mr. prohack to make it. they knew, at second-hand through a friend of viola ridle's, that sissie was regularly active at the studio; also sissie had had the effrontery to send a messenger for some of her clothes--without even a note! the situation was incredible, and waxed daily in incredibility. sissie's behaviour could not possibly be excused. this was the fourth and the chief matter that worried mr. prohack. he regarded it sardonically as rather a lark; but he was worried to think of the girl making a fool of herself with her mother. her mother was demonstrably in the right. to yield to the chit's appalling heartlessness would be bad tactics and it would be humiliating. nevertheless mr. prohack had directed the taxi-driver to the dance-studio at putney. on the way it suddenly occurred to him, almost with a shock, that he was a rich man, secure from material anxieties, and that therefore he ought to feel light-hearted. he had been losing sight of this very important fact for quite some time. * * * * * ii the woman in the cubicle near the door was putting a fresh disc on to a gramophone and winding up the instrument. she was a fat, youngish woman, in a parlourmaid's cap and apron, and mr. prohack had a few days earlier had a glimpse of her seated in his own hall waiting for a package of sissie's clothes. "very sorry, sir," said she, turning her head negligently from the gramophone and eyeing him seriously. "i'm afraid you can't go in if you're not in evening dress." evidently from her firm, polite voice, she knew just what she was about, did that young woman. she added: "the rule's very strict on fridays." at the same moment a bell rang once. the woman immediately released the catch of the gramophone and lowered the needle on to the disc, and mr. prohack heard music, but not from the cubicle. there was a round hole in the match-board partition, and the trumpet attachment of the gramophone disappeared beyond the hole. "this affair is organised," thought mr. prohack, decidedly impressed by the ingenuity of the musical arrangement and by the promptness of the orchestral director in obeying the signal of the bell. "my name is prohack," said he. "i'm miss prohack's father." this important announcement ought to have startled the sangfroid of the guardian, but it did not. she merely said, with a slight mechanical smile: "as soon as this dance is over, sir, i'll let miss prohack know she's wanted." she did not say: "sir, a person of your eminence is above rules. go right in." two girls in all-enveloping dark cloaks entered behind him. "good-evening, lizzie," one of them greeted the guardian. and lizzie's face relaxed into a bright genuine smile. "good-evening, miss. good-evening, miss." the two girls vanished rustlingly through a door over which was hung a piece of cardboard with the written words: "ladies' cloakroom." in a few moments they emerged, white and fluffy apparitions, eager, self-conscious, and they vanished through another door. mr. prohack judged from their bridling and from their whispers to each other that they belonged to the class which ministers to the shopping-class. he admitted that they looked very nice and attractive; but he had the sensation of having blundered into a queer, hitherto unknown world, and of astonishment and qualms that his daughter should be a ruler in that world. lizzie stood up and peeped through a little square window in the match-boarding. as soon as she had finished peeping mr. prohack took liberty to peep also, and the dance-studio was revealed to him. somehow he could scarcely believe that it was not a hallucination, and that he was really in putney, and that his own sober house in which sissie had been reared still existed not many miles off. for mr. prohack, not continuously but at intervals, possessed a disturbing faculty that compelled him to see the phenomena of human life as they actually were, and to disregard entirely the mere names of things,--which mere names by the magic power of mere names usually suffice to satisfy the curiosity of most people and to allay their misgivings if any. mr. prohack now saw (when he looked downwards) a revolving disc which was grating against a stationary needle and thereby producing unpleasant rasping sounds. but it was also producing a quite different order of sounds. he did not in the least understand, and he did not suppose that anybody in the dance-studio understood, the delicate secret mechanism by which these other sounds were produced. all he knew was that by means of the trumpet attachment they were transmitted through the wooden partition and let loose into the larger air of the studio, where the waves of them had a singular effect on the brains of certain bright young women and sombre young and middle-aged men who were arranged in clasped couples: with the result that the brains of the women and men sent orders to their legs, arms, eyes, and they shifted to and fro in rhythmical movements. each woman placed herself very close--breast against breast--to each man, yielding her volition absolutely to his, and (if the man was the taller) often gazing up into his face with an ecstatic expression of pleasure and acquiescence. the physical relations between the units of each couple would have caused censorious comment had the couple been alone or standing still; but the movement and the association of couples seemed mysteriously to lift the whole operation above criticism and to endow it with a perfect propriety. the motion of the couples, and their manner of moving, over the earth's surface were extremely monotonous; some couples indeed only walked stiffly to and fro; on the other hand a few exhibited variety, lightness and grace, in manoeuvres which involved a high degree of mutual trust and comprehension. while only some of the faces were ecstatic, all were rapt. the ordinary world was shut out of this room, whose inhabitants had apparently abandoned themselves with all their souls to the performance of a complicated and solemn rite. odd as the spectacle was, mr. prohack enjoyed it. he enjoyed the youth and the prettiness and the litheness of the brightly-dressed girls and the stern masculinity of the men, and he enjoyed the thought that both girls and men had had the wit to escape from the ordinary world into this fantastic environment created out of four walls, a few chinese lanterns, some rouge, some stuffs, some spangles, friction between two pieces of metal, and the profoundest instinct of nature. beyond everything he enjoyed the sight of the lithest and most elegant of the girls, whom he knew to be eliza brating and who was dancing with a partner whose skill obviously needed no lessons. he would have liked to see his daughter sissie in eliza's place, but sissie was playing the man's rôle to a stout and nearly middle-aged lady, whose chief talent for the rite appeared to be an iron determination. mr. prohack was in danger of being hypnotised by the spectacle, but suddenly the conflict between the disc and the needle grew more acute, and lizzie, the guardian, dragged the needle sharply from the bosom of its antagonist. the sounds ceased, and the brains of the couples in the studio, no longer inspired by the sounds, ceased to inspire the muscles of the couples, and the rite suddenly finished. mr. prohack drew breath. "to think," he reflected, "that this sort of thing is seriously going on all over london at this very instant, and that many earnest persons are making a livelihood from it, and that nobody but me perceives how marvellous, charming, incomprehensible and disconcerting it is!" he said to the guardian: "there doesn't seem to be much 'lesson' about this business. everybody here seems to be able to dance all right." to which lizzie replied with a sagacious, even ironic, smile: "you see, sir, on these gala nights they all do their very best." "father!" sissie had arrived upon him. clearly she was preoccupied, if not worried, and the unexpected sight of her parent forced her, as it were, unwillingly from one absorbing train of ideas into another. she was startled, self-conscious, nervous. still, she jumped at him and kissed him,--as if in a dream. "nothing the matter, is there?" "nothing." "i'm frightfully busy to-night. just come in here, will you?" and she took him into the ladies' cloakroom--an apartment the like of which he had never before seen. it had only one chair, in front of a sort of dressing-table covered with mysterious apparatus and instruments. mr. prohack inspected his daughter as though she had been somebody else's daughter. "well," said he. "you look just like a real business woman, except the dress." she was very attractive, very elegant, comically young (to him), and very business-like in her smart, short frock, stockings, and shoes. "can't you understand," she objected firmly, "that this is my business dress, just as much as a black frock and high collar would be in an office?" he gave a short, gentle laugh. "i don't know what you're laughing at, dad," she reproached him, not unkindly. "anyhow, i'm glad some one's come at last. i was beginning to think that my home had forgotten all about me. even when i sent up for some clothes no message came back." the life-long experience of mr. prohack had been that important and unusual interviews rarely corresponded with the anticipation of them, and the present instance most sharply confirmed his experience. he had expected to be forgiving an apologetic daughter, but the reality was that he found himself in the dock. he hesitated for words, and sissie went on: "here have i been working myself to death reorganising this place after viola went--and i can tell you it needed reorganising! haven't had a minute in the mornings, and of course there are the lessons afternoon and evening. and no one's been down to see how i was getting on, or even written. i do think it's a bit steep. mother might have known that if i _had_ had any spare time i should have run up." "i've been rather queer," he excused himself and the family. "and your mother's been looking after me, and of course you know charlie's still in glasgow." "i don't know anything," she corrected him. "but you needn't tell me that if you've been unwell mother's been looking after you. does she ever do anything else? are you better? what was it? you _look_ all right." "oh! general derangement. i haven't been to the office since you decamped." he did not feel equal to telling her that he would not be returning to the office for months. she had said that he looked all right, and her quite honest if hasty verdict on his appearance gave him a sense of guilt, and also renewed suspicions of dr. veiga. "not been to the office!" the statement justly amazed the girl, almost shocked her. but she went on in a fresh, satirical accent recalling mr. prohack's own: "you _must_ have been upset! but of course you're highly nervous, dad, and i expect the excitement of the news of your fortune was too much for you. i know exactly how you get when anything unusual happens." she had heard of the inheritance! "i was going to tell you about that little affair," he said awkwardly. "so you knew! who told you?" "nobody in my family at any rate," she answered. "i heard of it from an outsider, and of course from sheer pride i had to pretend that i knew all about it. and what's more, father, you knew when you gave me that fifty pounds, only you wouldn't let on. don't deny it.... naturally i'm glad about it, very glad. and yet i'm not. i really rather regret it for you and mother. you'll never be as happy again. riches will spoil my poor darling mother." "that remains to be seen, miss worldly wisemiss," he retorted with unconvincing lightness. he was disturbed, and he was impressed, by her indifference to the fortune. it appeared not to concern or to interest her. she spoke not merely as one who objected to unearned wealth but as one to whom the annals of the prohack family were henceforth a matter of minor importance. it was very strange, and mr. prohack had to fight against a feeling of intimidation. the girl whom he had cherished for over twenty years and whom he thought he knew to the core, was absolutely astounding him by the revelation of her individuality. he didn't know her. he was not her father. he was helpless before her. "how are things here?" he demanded, amiably inquisitive, as an acquaintance. "excellent," said she. "jolly hard work, though." "yes, i should imagine so. teaching men dancing! by jove!" "there's not so much difficulty about teaching men. the difficulty's with the women. father, they're awful. you can't imagine their stupidity." lizzie glanced into the room. she simply glanced, and sissie returned the glance. "you'll have to excuse me a bit, father," said sissie. "i'll come back as quick as i can. don't go." she departed hurriedly. "i'd better get out of this anyhow," thought mr. prohack, surveying the ladies' cloakroom. "if one of 'em came in i should have to explain my unexplainable presence in this sacred grot." * * * * * iii having received no suggestion from his daughter as to how he should dispose of himself while awaiting her leisure, mr. prohack made his way back to the guardian's cubicle. and there he discovered a chubby and intentionally-young man in the act of gazing through the small window into the studio exactly as he himself had been gazing a few minutes earlier. "hel_lo_, prohack!" exclaimed the chubby and intentionally-young man, with the utmost geniality and calmness. "how d'ye do?" responded mr. prohack with just as much calmness and perhaps ten per cent less geniality. mr. prohack was a peculiar fellow, and that on this occasion he gave rather less geniality than he received was due to the fact that he had never before spoken to the cupid in his life and that he was wondering whether membership of the same club entirely justified so informal a mode of address--without an introduction and outside the club premises. for, like all modest men, mr. prohack had some sort of a notion of his own dignity, a sort of a notion that occasionally took him quite by surprise. mr. prohack did not even know the surname of his aggressor. he only knew that he never overheard other men call him anything but "ozzie." had not mr. prohack been buried away all his life in the catacombs of the treasury and thus cut off from the great world-movement, he would have been fully aware that oswald morfey was a person of importance in the west end of london, that he was an outstanding phenomenon of the age, that he followed very closely all the varying curves of the great world-movement, that he was constantly to be seen on the pavements of piccadilly, bond street, st. james's street, pall mall and hammersmith, that he was never absent from a good first night or a private view of very new or very old pictures or a distinguished concert or a poetry-reading or a fashionable auction at christie's, that he received invitations to dinner for every night in the week and accepted all those that did not clash with the others, that in return for these abundant meals he gave about once a month a tea-party in his trifling japanese flat in bruton street, where the sandwiches were as thin as the sound of the harpsichord which eighteenth century ladies played at his request; and that he was in truth what mr. asprey chown called "social secretary" to mr. asprey chown. mr. prohack might be excused for his ignorance of this last fact, for the relation between asprey chown and ozzie was never very clearly defined--at any rate by ozzie. he had no doubt learned, from an enforced acquaintance with the sides of motor-omnibuses, that mr. asprey chown was a theatre-manager of some activity, but he certainly had not truly comprehended that mr. asprey chown was head of one of the two great rival theatrical combines and reputed to be the most accomplished showman in the western hemisphere, with a jewelled finger in notable side-enterprises such as prize-fights, restaurants, and industrial companies. the knowing ones from whom naught is hidden held that asprey chown had never given a clearer proof of genius than in engaging this harmless and indefatigable parasite of the west end to be his social secretary. the knowing ones said further that whereas ozzie was saving money, nobody could be sure that asprey chown was saving money. the engagement had a double effect--it at once put asprey chown into touch with everything that could be useful to him for the purposes of special booming, and it put ozzie into touch with half the theatrical stars of london--in an age when a first-rate heroine of revue was worth at least two duchesses and a dame in the scale of social values. mr. oswald morfey, doubtless in order to balance the modernity of his taste in the arts, wore a tight black stock and a wide eyeglass ribbon in the daytime, and in the evening permitted himself to associate a soft silk shirt with a swallow-tail coat. it was to mr. prohack's secondary (and more exclusive) club that he belonged. inoffensive though he was, he had managed innocently to offend mr. prohack. "who is the fellow?" mr. prohack had once asked a friend in the club, and having received no answer but "ozzie," mr. prohack had added: "he's a perfect ass," and had given as a reason for this harsh judgment: "well, i can't stick the way he walks across the hall." in the precincts of the dance-studio mr. oswald morfey said in that simple, half-lisping tone and with that wide-open child-like glance that characterised most of his remarks: "a very prosperous little affair here!" having said this, he let his eyeglass fall into the full silkiness of his shirt-front, and turned and smiled very amicably and agreeably on mr. prohack, who could not help thinking: "perhaps after all you aren't such a bad sort of an idiot." "yes," said mr. prohack. "do you often get as far as putney?" for mr. oswald morfey, enveloped as he unquestionably was in the invisible aura of the west end, seemed conspicuously out of place in a dance-studio in a side-street in putney, having rather the air of an angelic visitant. "well, now i come to think of it, i don't!" mr. morfey answered nearly all questions as though they were curious, disconcerting questions that took him by surprise. this mannerism was universally attractive--until you got tired of it. mr. prohack was now faintly attracted by it,--so that he said, in a genuine attempt at good-fellowship: "you know i can't for the life of me remember your name. you must excuse me. my memory for names is not what it was. and i hate to dissemble, don't you?" the announcement was a grave shock to mr. oswald morfey, who imagined that half the taxi-drivers in london knew him by sight. nevertheless he withstood the shock like a little man of the world, and replied with miraculous and sincere politeness: "i'm sure there's no reason why you should remember my name." and he vouchsafed his name. "of course! of course!" exclaimed mr. prohack, with a politeness equally miraculous, for the word "morfey" had no significance for the benighted official. "how stupid of me!" "by the way," said mr. morfey in a lower, confidential tone. "your eagle will be ready to-morrow instead of next week." "my eagle?" "your new car." it was mr. prohack's turn to be staggered, and to keep his nerve. not one word had he heard about the purchase of a car since charlie's telegram from glasgow. he had begun to think that his wife had either forgotten the necessity of a car or was waiting till his more complete recovery before troubling him to buy it. and he had taken care to say nothing about it himself, for he had discovered, upon searching his own mind, that his interest in motor-cars was not an authentic interest and that he had no desire at all to go motoring in pursuit of health. and lo! eve had been secretly engaged in the purchase of a car for him! oh! a remarkable woman, eve: she would stop at nothing when his health was in question. not even at a two thousand pound car. "ah, yes!" said mr. prohack, with as much tranquillity as though his habit was to buy a car once a week or so. "to-morrow, you say? good!" was the fellow then a motor-car tout working on commission? "you see," said ozzie, "my old man owns a controlling interest in the eagle company. that's how i happen to know." "i see," murmured mr. prohack, speculating wildly in private as to the identity of ozzie's old man. when ozzie with a nod and a smile and a re-fixing of his monocle left the cubicle to enter the studio, he left mr. prohack freshly amazed at the singularities of the world and of women, even the finest women. how disturbing to come down to putney in a taxi-cab in order to learn from a stranger that you have bought a two thousand pound car which is to come into your possession on the morrow! the dangerousness, the excitingness, of being rich struck mr. prohack very forcibly. a few minutes later he beheld a sight which affected him more deeply, and less pleasantly, than anything else in an evening of thunderclaps. through the little window he saw sissie dancing with ozzie morfey. and although sissie was not gazing upward ecstatically into ozzie's face--she could not because they were of a size--and although her features had a rather stern, fixed expression, mr. prohack knew, from his knowledge of her, that sissie was in a secret ecstasy of enjoyment while dancing with this man. he did not like her ecstasy. was it possible that she, so sensible and acute, had failed to perceive that the fellow was a perfect ass? for in spite of his amiability, a perfect ass the fellow was. the sight of his sissie held in the arms of ozzie morfey revolted mr. prohack. but he was once again helpless. and the most sinister suspicions crawled into his mind. why was the resplendent, the utterly correct ozzie dancing in a dancing studio in putney? certainly he was not there to learn dancing. he danced to perfection. the feet of the partners seemed to be married into a mystic unity of direction. the performance was entrancing to watch. could it be possible that ozzie was there because sissie was there? darker still, could it be possible that sissie had taken a share in the studio for any reason other than a purely commercial reason? "he thinks you're a darling," said sissie to her father afterwards when he and she and eliza brating, alone together in the studio, were informally consuming buns and milk in the corner where the stove was. the talk ran upon dancers, and whether ozzie morfey was not one of the finest dancers in london. was sissie's tone quite natural? mr. prohack could not be sure. eliza brating said she must go at once in order not to miss the last tram home. mr. prohack, without thinking, said that he would see her home in his taxi, which had been ruthlessly ticking his fortune away for much more than an hour. "kiss mother for me," said sissie, "and tell her that she's a horrid old thing and i shall come along and give her a piece of my mind one of these days." and she gave him the kiss for her mother. and as she kissed him, mr. prohack was very proud of his daughter--so efficient, so sound, so straight, so graceful. "she's all right, anyway," he reflected. and yet she could be ecstatic in the arms of that perfect ass! and in the taxi: "fancy me seeing home this dancing-mistress!" eliza lived at brook green. she was very elegant, and quite unexceptionable until she opened her mouth. she related to him how her mother, who had once been a _premier sujet_ in the covent garden ballet, was helpless from sciatica. but she related this picturesque and pride-causing detail in a manner very insipid, naïve, and even vulgar, (after all there was a difference between first division and second division in the civil service!) she was boring him terribly before they reached brook green. she took leave with a deportment correct but acquired at an age too late. still, he had liked to see her home in the taxi. she was young, and she was an object pleasing to the eye. he realised that he was not accustomed to the propinquity of young women. what would his cronies at the club say to the escapade?... odd, excessively odd, that the girl should be sissie's partner, in a business enterprise of so odd a character!... the next thing was to meet eve after the escapade. should he keep to the defensive, or should he lead off with an attack apropos of the eagle car? chapter ix collision i after an eventful night mr. prohack woke up late to breakfast in bed. theoretically he hated breakfast in bed, but in practice he had recently found that the inconveniences to himself were negligible compared to the intense and triumphant pleasure which his wife took in seeing him breakfast in bed, in being fully dressed while he was in pyjamas and dressing-gown, and in presiding over the meal and over him. recently marian had formed the habit of rising earlier and appearing to be very busy upon various minute jobs at an hour when, a few weeks previously, she would scarcely have decided that day had given place to night. mr. prohack, without being able precisely to define it, thought that he understood the psychology of the change in this unique woman. under ordinary circumstances he would have been worried by his sense of fatigue, but now, as he had nothing whatever to do, he did not much care whether he was tired or not. neither the office nor the state would suffer through his lack of tone. the events of the night had happened exclusively inside mr. prohack's head. nor were they traceable to the demeanour of his wife when he returned home from the studio. she had mysteriously behaved to him as though nocturnal excursions to disgraceful daughters in remote quarters of london were part of his daily routine. she had been very sweet and very incurious. whereon mr. prohack had said to himself: "she has some diplomatic reason for being an angel." and even if she had not been an angel, even if she had been the very reverse of an angel, mr. prohack would not have minded, and his night would not have been thereby upset; for he regarded her as a beautiful natural phenomenon is regarded by a scientist, lovingly and wonderingly, and he was incapable of being irritated for more than a few seconds by anything that might be done or said by this forest creature of the prime who had strayed charmingly into the twentieth century. he was a very fortunate husband. no! the eventfulness of the night originated in reflection upon the relations between sissie and ozzie morfey. if thoughts could take physical shape and solidity, the events of the night would have amounted to terrible collisions and catastrophes in the devil-haunted abysses of mr. prohack's brain. the forces of evil were massacring all opponents between three and four a.m. it was at this period mr. prohack was convinced that sissie, in addition to being an indescribably heartless daughter, was a perfect fool hoodwinked by a perfect ass, and that ozzie's motive in the affair was not solely or chiefly admiration for sissie, but admiration of the great fortune which, he had learnt, had fallen into the lap of sissie's father. after five o'clock, according to the usual sequence, the forces of evil lost ground, and at six-thirty, when the oblong of the looking-glass glimmered faintly in the dawn, mr. prohack said roundly: "i am an idiot," and went to sleep. "now, darling," said eve when he emerged from the bathroom. "don't waste any more time. i want you to give me your opinion about something downstairs." "child," said mr. prohack. "what on earth do you mean--'wasting time'? haven't you insisted, and hasn't your precious doctor insisted, that i must read the papers for an hour in bed after i've had my breakfast in bed? talk about 'wasting time' indeed!" "yes, of course darling," eve concurred, amazingly angelic. "i don't mean you've been wasting time; only i don't want you to waste any _more_ time." "my mistake," said mr. prohack. from mere malice and wickedness he spun out the business of dressing to nearly its customary length, and twice eve came uneasily into the bedroom to see if she could be of assistance to him. no nurse could have been so beautifully attentive. during one of her absences he slipped furtively downstairs into the drawing-room, where he began to strum on the piano, though the room was yet by no means properly warm. she came after him, admirably pretending not to notice that he was behaving unusually. she was attired for the street, and she carried his hat and his thickest overcoat. "you're coming out," said she, holding up the overcoat cajolingly. "that's just where you're mistaken," said he. "but i want to show you something." "what do you want to show me?" "you shall see when you come out." "is it by chance the bird of the mountains that i am to see?" "the bird of the mountains? my dear arthur! what are you driving at now?" "is it the eagle car?" and as she staggered speechless under the blow he proceeded: "ah! did you think you could deceive _me_ with your infantile conspiracies and your tacit deceits and your false smiles?" she blushed. "some one's told you. and i do think it's a shame!" "and who should have told me? who have i seen? i suppose you think i picked up the information at putney last night. and haven't you opened all my letters since i was ill, on the pretext of saving me worry? shall i tell you how i know? i knew from your face. your face, my innocent, can't be read like a book. it can be read like a newspaper placard, and for days past i've seen on it, 'extra special. exciting purchase of a motor-car by a cunning wife.'" then he laughed. "no, chit. that fellow oswald morfey, let it out last night." when she had indignantly enquired how oswald morfey came to be mixed up in her private matters, she said: "well, darling, i hope i needn't tell you that my _sole_ object was to save you trouble. the car simply had to be bought, and as quickly as possible, so i did it. need i tell you--" "you needn't, certainly," mr. prohack agreed, and going to the window he lifted the curtain. yes. there stood a real car, a landaulette, with the illustrous eagle on the front of its radiator, and a real chauffeur by its side. the thing seemed entirely miraculous to mr. prohack; and he was rather impressed by his wife's daring and enterprise. after all, it was somewhat of an undertaking for an unworldly woman to go out alone into the world and buy a motor-car and engage a chauffeur, not to mention clothing the chauffeur. but mr. prohack kept all his imperturbability. "isn't it lovely?" "is it paid for?" "oh, no!" "didn't you have to pay any deposit?" "of course i didn't. i gave your name, and that was sufficient. we needn't keep it if we don't like it after the trial run." "and is it insured?" "of course, darling." "and what about the licence?" "oh! the eagle company saw to all those stupid things for me." "and how many times have you forged my signature while i've been lying on a bed of pain?" "the fact is, darling, i made the purchase in my own name. now come _along_. we're going round the park." the way she patted his overcoat when she had got it on to him...! the way she took him by the hand and pulled him towards the drawing-room door...! she had done an exceedingly audacious deed, and her spirits rose as she became convinced from his demeanour that she had not pushed audacity too far. (for she was never absolutely sure of him.) "wait one moment," said mr. prohack releasing himself and slipping back to the window. "what's the matter?" "i merely desired to look at the chauffeur's face. is it a real chauffeur? not an automaton?" "arthur!" "you're sure he's quite human?" mrs. prohack closed the piano, and then stamped her foot. "listen," said mr. prohack. "i'm about to trust my life to the mysterious being inside that uniform. did you imagine that i would trust my life to a perfect stranger? in another half hour he and i may be lying in hospital side by side. and i don't even know his name! fetch him in, my dove, and allow me to establish relations with him. but confide to me his name first." the expression on mrs. prohack's features was one of sublime forbearance under ineffable provocation. "this is carthew," she announced, bringing the chauffeur into the drawing-room. carthew was a fairly tall, fairly full-bodied, grizzled man of about forty; he carried his cap and one gauntleted glove in one gloved hand, and his long, stiff green overcoat slanted down from his neck to his knees in an unbroken line. he had the impassivity of a policeman. "good morning, carthew," mr. prohack began, rising. "i thought that you and i would like to make one another's acquaintance." "yes, sir." mr. prohack held out his hand, which carthew calmly took. "will you sit down?" "thank you, sir." "have a cigarette?" carthew hesitated. "do you mind if i have one of my own, sir?" "these are virginian." "oh! thank you, sir." and carthew took a cigarette from mr. prohack's case. "light?" "after you, sir." "no, no." "thank you, sir." carthew coughed, puffed, and leaned back a little in his chair. at this point mrs. prohack left the room. (she said afterwards that she left the room because she couldn't have borne to be present when carthew's back broke the back of the chair.) carthew sat silent. "well," said mr. prohack. "what do you think of the car? i ought to tell you i know nothing of motors myself, and this is the first one i've ever had." "the eagle is a very good car, sir. if you ask me i should say it was light on tyres and a bit thirsty with petrol. it's one of them cars as anybody can _drive_--if you understand what i mean. i mean anybody can make it _go_. but of course that's only the beginning of what i call driving." "just so," agreed mr. prohack, drawing by his smile a very faint smile from carthew. "my son seems to think it's about the best car on the market." "well, sir, i've been mixed up with cars pretty well all my life--i mean since i was twenty--" "have you indeed!" "i have, sir--" carthew neatly flicked some ash on the carpet, and mr. prohack thoughtfully did the same--"i have, sir, and i haven't yet come across the best car on the market, if you understand what i mean." "perfectly," said mr. prohack. carthew sat silent. "but it's a very good car. nobody could wish for a better. i'll say that," he added at length. "had many accidents in your time?" "i've been touched, sir, but i've never touched anything myself. you can have an accident while you're drawn up alongside the kerb. it rather depends on how many fools have been let loose in the traffic, doesn't it, sir, if you understand what i mean." "exactly," said mr. prohack. carthew sat silent. "i gather you've been through the war," mr. prohack began again. "i was in the first territorial regiment that landed in france, and i got my discharge july ." "wounded?" "well, sir, i've been blown up twice and buried once and pitched into the sea once, but nothing ever happened to me." "i see you don't wear any ribbons." "it's like this, sir. i've seen enough ribbons on chests since the armistice. it isn't as if i was one of them conscripts." "no," murmured mr. prohack thoughtfully; then brightening: "and as soon as you were discharged you went back to your old job?" "i did and i didn't, sir. the fact is, i've been driving an ambulance for the city of london, but as soon as i heard of something private i chucked that. i can't say as i like these corporations. there's a bit too much stone wall about them corporations, for my taste." "family man?" asked mr. prohack lightly. "i've two children myself and both of them can drive." "really, sir, i am a family man, as ye might say, but my wife and me, we're best apart." "sorry to hear that. i didn't want to--" "oh, not at all, sir! that's all right. but you see--the war--me being away and all that--i've got the little boy. he's nine." "well," said mr. prohack, jumping up nervously, "suppose we go and have a look at the car, shall we?" "certainly, sir," said carthew, throwing the end of his cigarette into the fender, and hastening. "my dove," said mr. prohack to his wife in the hall. "i congratulate you on your taste in chauffeurs. carthew and i have laid the foundations of a lasting friendship." "i really wonder you asked him to smoke in the drawing-room," mrs. prohack critically observed. "why? he saved england for me; and now i'm trusting my life to him." "i do believe you'd _like_ there to be a revolution in this country." "not at all, angel! and i don't think there'll be one. but i'm taking my precautions in case there should be one." "he's only a chauffeur." "that's very true. he was doing some useful work, driving an ambulance to hospitals. but we've stopped that. he's now only a chauffeur to the idle rich." "oh, arthur! i wish you wouldn't try to be funny on such subjects. you know you don't mean it." mrs. prohack was now genuinely reproachful, and the first conjugal joy-ride might have suffered from a certain constraint had it taken place. it did not, however, take place. just as carthew was holding out the rug (which eve's prodigious thoroughness had remembered to buy) preparatory to placing it on the knees of his employers, a truly gigantic automobile drove up to the door, its long bonnet stopping within six inches of the eagle's tail-lantern. the eagle looked like nothing at all beside it. mr. prohack knew that leviathan. he had many times seen it in front of the portals of his principal club. it was the car of his great club crony, sir paul spinner, the "city magnate." sir paul, embossed with carbuncles, got out, and was presently being presented to eve,--for the friendship between mr. prohack and sir paul had been a purely club friendship. like many such friendships it had had no existence beyond the club, and neither of the cronies knew anything of real interest about the domestic circumstances of the other. sir paul was very apologetic to eve, but he imperiously desired an interview with mr. prohack at once. eve most agreeably and charmingly said that she would take a little preliminary airing in the car by herself, and return for her husband. mr. prohack would have preferred her to wait for him; but, though eve was sagacious enough at all normal times, when she got an idea into her head that idea ruthlessly took precedence of everything else in the external world. moreover the car was her private creation, and she was incapable of resisting its attractions one minute longer. ii "i hear you've come into half a million, arthur," said paul spinner, after he had shown himself very friendly and optimistic about mr. prohack's health and given the usual bulletin about his own carbuncles and the shortcomings of the club. "but you don't believe it, paul." "i don't," agreed paul. "things get about pretty fast in the city and we can size them up fairly well; and i should say, putting two and two together, that a hundred and fifty thousand would be nearer the mark." "it certainly is," said mr. prohack. if paul spinner had suggested fifty thousand, mr. prohack would have corrected him, but being full of base instincts he had no impulse to correct the larger estimate, which was just as inaccurate. "well, well! it's a most romantic story and i congratulate you on it. no such luck ever happened to me." sir paul made this remark in a tone to indicate that he had had practically no luck himself. and he really believed that he had had no luck, though the fact was that he touched no enterprise that failed. every year he signed a huger cheque for super-tax, and every year he signed it with a gesture signifying that he was signing his own ruin. this distressing illusion of sir paul's was probably due to his carbuncles, which of all pathological phenomena are among the most productive of a pessimistic philosophy. the carbuncles were well known up and down harley street. they were always to be cured and they never were cured. they must have cost their owner about as much as his motor-car for upkeep--what with medical fees, travelling and foreign hotels--and nobody knew whether they remained uncured because they were incurable or because the medical profession thought it would be cruel at one stroke to deprive itself of a regular income and sir paul of his greatest hobby. the strange thing was that sir paul with all his powerful general sagacity and shrewdness, continued firmly, despite endless disappointments, in the mystical faith that one day the carbuncles would be abolished. "i won't beat about the bush," said he. "we know one another. i came here to talk frankly and i'll talk frankly." "you go right ahead," mr. prohack benevolently encouraged him. "first of all i should like to give you just the least hint of warning against that fellow softly bishop. i daresay you know something' about him--" "i know nothing about him, except the way he looks down his nose. but no man who looks down his nose the way he looks down his nose is going to influence me in the management of my financial affairs. i'm only an official; i should be a lamb in the city; but i have my safeguards, old chap. thanks for the tip all the same." sir paul spinner laughed hoarsely, as mr. prohack had made him laugh hundreds of times in the course of their friendship. and mr. prohack was aware of a feeling of superiority to sir paul. the feeling grew steadily in his breast, and he was not quite sure how it originated. perhaps it was due to a note of dawning obsequiousness in sir paul's laugh, reminding mr. prohack of the ancient proverb that the jokes of the exalted are always side-splitting. "as i say," sir paul proceeded, "you and i know each other." mr. prohack nodded, with a trace of impatience against unnecessary repetition. yet he was suddenly struck with the odd thought that sir paul certainly did not know him, but only odd bits of him; and he was doubtful whether he knew sir paul. he saw an obese man of sixty sitting in the very chair that a few moments ago had been occupied by carthew the chauffeur, a man with big purplish features and a liverish eye, a man smoking a plutocratic and heavenly cigar and eating it at the same time, a man richly dressed and braided and jewelled, a man whose boots showed no sign of a crease, an obvious millionaire of the old type, in short a man who was practically all prejudices and waste-products. and he wondered why and how that man had become his friend and won his affection. sir paul looked positively coarse in mr. prohack's frail chippendale drawing-room, seeming to need for suitable environment the pillared marble and gilt of the vast club. well, after having eaten many hundreds of meals and drunk many hundreds of cups of coffee in the grunting society of sir paul, all that mr. prohack could be sure of knowing about sir paul was, first, that he had an absolutely unspotted reputation; second, that he was a very decent, simple-minded, kindly, ignorant fellow (ignorant, that is, in the matters that interested mr. prohack); third, that he instinctively mistrusted intellect and brilliance; fourth, that for nearly four years he had been convinced that germany would win the war, and fifth, that he was capable of astounding freaks of generosity. stay, there was another item,--sir paul's invariable courtesy to the club servants, which courtesy he somehow contrived to combine with continual grumbling. the club servants held him in affection. it was probably this sixth item that outweighed any of the others in mr. prohack's favourable estimate of the financier. and then mr. prohack, as in a dream, heard from the lips of paul spinner the words, "oil concessions in roumania." in a flash, in an earthquake, in a blinding vision, mr. prohack instantaneously understood the origin of his queer nascent feeling of superiority to old paul. what he had previously known subconsciously he now knew consciously. old paul who had no doubt been paying in annual taxes about ten times the amount of mr. prohack's official annual salary; old paul whose name was the synonym for millions and the rumours of whose views on the stock-markets caused the readers of financial papers to tremble; old paul was after mr. prohack's money! marvellous, marvellous, thrice marvellous money!... it was the most astounding, the most glorious thing that ever happened. mr. prohack immediately began to have his misgivings about sir paul spinner. simultaneously he felt sorry for old paul. and such was his constraint that he made the motion of swallowing, and had all he could do not to blush. mr. prohack might be a lamb in the city, but he had a highly trained mind, and a very firm grasp of the mere technique of finance. therefore sir paul could explain himself succinctly and precisely in technical terms, and he did so--with much skill and a sort of unconsidered persuasiveness, realising in his rough commonsense that there was no need to drive ideas into mr. prohack's head with a steam-hammer, or to intoxicate him with a heady vapour of superlatives. in a quarter of an hour mr. prohack learnt that sir paul was promoting a strictly private syndicate as a preliminary to the formation of a big company for the exploitation of certain options on roumanian oil-territory which sir paul held. he learnt about the reports of the trial borings. he learnt about the character and the experience of the expert whom sir paul had sent forth to roumania. he learnt about the world-supply of oil and the world-demand for oil. he learnt about the great rival oil-groups that were then dividing the universe of oil. he had the entire situation clearly mapped on his brain. next he obtained some startling inside knowledge about the shortage of liquid capital in the circles of "big money," and then followed sir paul's famous club disquisition upon the origin of the present unsaleableness of securities and the appalling uneasiness, not to say collapse, of markets. "what we want is stability, old boy. we want to be left alone. we're being governed to death. social reform is all right. i believe in it, but everything depends on the pace. change there ought to be, but it mustn't be like a transformation scene in a pantomime." and so on. mr. prohack was familiar with it all. he expected the culminating part of the exposition. but sir paul curved off towards the navy and the need of conserving in british hands a more than adequate gush of oil for the navy. mr. prohack wished that sir paul could have left out the navy. and then the empire was reached. mr. prohack wished that sir paul could have left out the empire. finally sir paul arrived at the point. "i've realised all i can in reason and i'm eighty thousand short. of course i can get it, get it easily, but not without giving away a good part of my show in quarters that i should prefer to keep quite in the dark. i thought of you--you're clean outside all that sort of thing, and also i know you'd lie low. you might make a hundred per cent; you might make two hundred per cent. but i'll guarantee you this--you won't lose, whatever happens. of course your capital may not be liquid. you mayn't be able to get at it. i don't know. but i thought it was just worth mentioning to you, and so i said to myself i'd look in here on my way to the city." sir paul spinner touting for a miserable eighty thousand pounds! "hanged if i know _how_ my capital is!" said mr. prohack. "i suppose your lawyer knows. smathe, isn't it?... i heard so." "how soon do you want an answer, yes or no?" mr. prohack asked, with a feeling that he had his back to the wall and old paul had a gun. "i don't want an answer now, anyhow, old boy. you must think it over. you see, once we've got the thing, i shall set the two big groups bidding against each other for it, and we shall see some fun. and i wouldn't ask them for cash payments. only for payment in their own shares--which are worth more than money." "want an answer to-morrow?" "could you make it to-night?" sir paul surprisingly answered. "and assuming you say yes--i only say assuming--couldn't you run down with me to smathe's now and find out about your capital? that wouldn't bind you in any way. i'm particularly anxious you should think it over very carefully. and, by the way, better keep these papers to refer to. but if you can't get at your capital, no use troubling further. that's the first thing to find out." "i can't go to smathe's now," mr. prohack stammered. "why not?" "because i'm going out with my wife in the car." "but, my dear old boy, it's a big thing, and it's urgent." "yes, i quite see that. but i've got to go with marian. i'll tell you what i can do. i'll telephone smathe that you're coming down to see him yourself, and he must tell you everything. that'll be best. then i'll let you know my decision later." as they parted, sir paul said: "we know each other, and you may take it from me it's all right. i'll say no more. however, you think it over." "oh! i will!" old paul touting for eighty thousand pounds! a wondrous world! a stupefying world! mr. prohack, who didn't know what to do with a hundred thousand pounds, saw himself the possessor of a quarter of a million, and was illogically thrilled by the prospect. but the risk! supposing that honest paul was wrong for once, or suppose he was carried off in the night by a carbuncle,--mr. prohack might find himself a pauper with a mere trifle of twenty thousand pounds to his name. as soon as he had telephoned he resumed his hat and coat and went out on to the pavement to look for his car, chauffeur and wife. there was not a sign of them. * * * * * iii mr. prohack was undeniably a very popular man. he had few doubts concerning the financial soundness of old paul's proposition; but he hesitated, for reasons unconnected with finance or with domesticity, about accepting it. and he conceived the idea (which none but a very peculiar man would have conceived) of discussing the matter with some enemy of old paul's. now old paul had few enemies. mr. prohack, however, could put his hand on one,--mr. francis fieldfare--the editor of an old-established and lucrative financial weekly, and familiar to readers of that and other organs as "f.f." mr. fieldfare's offices were quite close to mr. prohack's principal club, of which mr. fieldfare also was a member, and mr. fieldfare had the habit of passing into the club about noon and reading the papers for an hour, lunching early, and leaving the club again just as the majority of the members were ordering their after-lunch coffee. mr. fieldfare pursued this course because he had a deep instinct for being in the minority. mr. prohack looked at his watch. the resolution of every man is limited in quantity. only in mad people is resolution inexhaustible. mr. prohack had no more resolution than becomes an average sane fellow, and his resolution to wait for his wife had been seriously tried by the energetic refusal to go with spinner to see smathe. it now suddenly gave out. "pooh!" said mr. prohack. "i've waited long enough for her. she'll now have to wait a bit for me." and off he went by taxi to his club. the visit, he reflected, would serve the secondary purpose of an inconspicuous re-entry into club-life after absence from it. he thought: "they may have had an accident with that car. one day she's certain to have an accident anyhow,--she's so impulsive." of course mr. fieldfare was not in the morning-room of the club as he ought to have been. that was bound to happen. mr. prohack gazed around at the monumental somnolence of the great room, was ignored, and backed out into the hall, meaning to return home. but in the hall he met f.f. just arriving. it surprised and perhaps a little pained mr. prohack to observe that f.f. had evidently heard neither of his illness nor of his inheritance. mr. fieldfare was a spare, middle-aged man, of apparently austere habit; short, shabby; a beautiful, resigned face, burning eyes, and a soft voice. he was weighed down, and had been weighed down for thirty years, by a sense of the threatened immediate collapse of society--of all societies, and by the solemn illusion that he more clearly than anybody else understood the fearful trend of events. mr. prohack had once, during the war, remarked on seeing f.f. glance at the tape in the club: "look at f.f. afraid lest there may be some good news." nevertheless he liked f.f. as editor of a financial weekly, f.f. naturally had to keep well under control his world-sadness. high finance cannot prosper in an atmosphere of world-sadness, and hates it. f.f. ought never to have become the editor of a financial weekly; but he happened to be an expert statistician, an honest man and a courageous man, and an expert in the pathology of stock-markets, and on this score his proprietors excused the slight traces of world-sadness occasionally to be found in the paper. he might have left his post and obtained another; but to be forced by fate to be editor of a financial weekly was f.f.'s chief grievance in life, and he loved a good grievance beyond everything. "but, my dear fellow," said f.f. with his melancholy ardent glance, when mr. prohack had replied suitably to his opening question. "i'd no idea you'd been unwell. i hope it isn't what's called a breakdown." "oh, no!" mr. prohack laughed nervously. "but you know what doctors are. a little rest has been prescribed." f.f. gazed at him softly compassionate, as if to indicate that nothing but trouble could be expected under the present political regime. they examined the tape together. "things can't go on much longer like this," observed f.f. comprehensively, in front of the morning's messages from the capitals of the world. "still," said mr. prohack, "we've won the war, haven't we?" "i suppose we have," said f.f. and sighed. mr. prohack felt that he had no more time for preliminaries, and in order to cut them short started some ingenious but quite inexcusable lying. "you didn't chance to see old paul spinner going out as you came in?" "no," answered f.f. "why?" "nothing. only a man in the morning-room was wanting to know if he was still in the club, and i told him i'd see." "i hear," said f.f. after a moment, and in a lower voice, "i hear he's getting up some big new oil scheme." "ah!" murmured mr. prohack, delighted at so favourable a coincidence, with a wonderful imitation of casualness. "and what may that be?" "nobody knows. some people would give a good deal to know. but if i'm any judge of my spinner they won't know till he's licked off all the cream. it's marvellous to me how spinner and his sort can keep on devoting themselves to the old ambitions while the world's breaking up. marvellous!" "money, you mean?" "personal aggrandisement." "well," answered mr. prohack, with a judicial, detached air. "i've always found spinner a very decent agreeable chap." "oh, yes! agreed! agreed! they're all too confoundedly agreeable for anything, all that lot are." "but surely he's honest?" "quite. as straight a man as ever breathed, especially according to his own lights. all his enterprises are absolutely what is known as 'sound.' they all make rich people richer, and in particular they make _him_ richer, though i bet even he's been feeling the pinch lately. they all have." "still, i expect old spinner desires the welfare of the country just as much as any one else. it's not all money with him." "no. but did you ever know spinner touch anything that didn't mean money in the first place? i never did. what he and his lot mean by the welfare of the country is the stability of the country _as it is_. they see the necessity for development, improvement in the social scheme. oh, yes! they see it and admit it. then they go to church, or they commune with heaven on the golf-course, and their prayer is: 'give us needed change, o lord, but not just yet.'" the pair moved to the morning-room. "look here," said mr. prohack, lightly, ignoring the earnestness in f.f.'s tone. "supposing you had a bit of money, say eighty thousand pounds, and the chance to put it into one of old who-is-it's schemes, what would you do?" "i should be ashamed to have eighty thousand pounds," f.f. replied with dark whispering passion. "and in any case nothing would induce me to have any dealings with the gang." "are they all bad?" "they're all bad, all! they are all anti-social. all! they are all a curse to the country and to all mankind." f.f. had already rung the bell, and he now beckoned coldly to the waitress who entered the room. "everybody who supports the present government is guilty of a crime against human progress. bring me a glass of that brown sherry i had yesterday--you know the one--and three small pieces of cheese." mr. prohack went away to the telephone, and got paul spinner at smathe's office. "i only wanted to tell you that i've decided to come into your show, if smathe can arrange for the money. i've thought it all over carefully, and i'm yours, old boy." he hung up the receiver immediately. * * * * * iv the excursion to the club had taken longer than mr. prohack had anticipated, and when he got back home it was nearly lunch-time. no sign of an eagle car or any other car in front of the house! mr. prohack let himself in. the sounds of a table being set came from the dining-room. he opened the door there. machin met him at the door. each withdrew from the other, avoiding a collision. "your mistress returned?" "yes, sir." machin seemed to hesitate, her mind disturbed. "where is she?" "i was just coming to tell you, sir. she told me to say that she was lying down." "oh!" disdaining further to interrogate the servant, he hurried upstairs. he had to excuse himself to eve, and he had also to justify to her the placing of eighty thousand pounds in a scheme which she could not possibly understand and for which there was nothing whatever to show. she would approve, of course; she would say that she had complete confidence in his sagacity, but all the inflections of her voice, all her gestures and glances, would indicate to him that in her opinion he was a singularly ingenuous creature, the natural prey of sharpers, and that the chances of their not being ruined by his incurable simplicity were exceedingly small. his immense reputation in the treasury, his sinister fame as the terror of the departments, would not weigh an atom in her general judgment of the concrete case affecting the fortunes of the prohack family. then she would be brave; she would be bravely resigned to the worst. she would kiss his innocence. she would quite unconvincingly assure him, in her own vocabulary, that he was a devil of a fellow and the smartest man in the world. further, she would draw in the horns of her secret schemes of expenditure. she would say that she had intended to do so-and-so and to buy so-and-so, but that perhaps it would be better, in view of the uncertainties of destiny, neither to do nor to buy so-and-so. in short, she would succeed in conveying to him the idea that to live with him was like being in an open boat with him adrift in the middle of the stormy atlantic. she loved to live with him, the compensations were exquisite, and moreover what would be his fate if he were alone? still, it was like being in an open boat with him adrift in the middle of the stormy atlantic. and she would cling closer to him and point to the red sun setting among black clouds of tempest. and this would continue until he could throw say about a hundred and sixty thousand pounds into her lap, whereupon she would calmly assert that in her opinion he and she had really been safe all the while on the glassy lake of the serpentine in a steamer. "i ought to have thought of all that before," he said to himself. "and if i had i should have bought houses, something for her to look at and touch. and even then she would have suggested that if i hadn't been a coward i could have done better than houses. she would have found in _the times_ every day instances of companies paying twenty and thirty per cent ... no! it would have been impossible for me to invest the money without losing her esteem for me as a man of business. i wish to heaven i hadn't got any money. so here goes!" and he burst with assumed confidence into the bedroom. and simultaneously, to intensify his unease, the notion that profiteering was profiteering, whether in war or in peace, and the notion that f.f. was a man of lofty altruistic ideals, surged through his distracted mind. eve was lying on the bed. she looked very small on the bed, smaller than usual. at the sound of the door opening she said, without moving her head--he could not see her face from the door: "is that you, arthur?" "yes, what's the matter?" "just put my cloak over my feet, will you?" he came forward and took the cloak off a chair. "what's the matter?" he repeated, arranging the cloak. "i'm not hurt, dearest, i assure you i'm not--not at all." she was speaking in a faint, weak voice, like a little child's. "then you've had an accident?" she glanced up at him sideways, timidly, compassionately, and nodded. "you mustn't be upset. i told machin to go on with her work and not to say anything to you about it. i preferred to tell you myself. i know how sensitive you are where i'm concerned." mr. prohack had to adjust his thoughts, somewhat violently, to the new situation, and he made no reply; but he was very angry about the mere existence of motor-cars. he felt that he had always had a prejudice against motor-cars, and that the prejudice was not a prejudice because it was well-founded. "darling, don't look so stern. it wasn't carthew's fault. another car ran into us. i told carthew to drive in the park, and we went right round the park in about five minutes. so as i felt sure you'd be a long time with that fat man, i had the idea of running down to putney--to see sissie." eve laughed nervously. "i thought i might possibly bring her home with me.... after the accident carthew put me into a taxi and i came back. of course he had to stay to look after the car. and then you weren't here when i arrived! where are you going, dearest?" "i'm going to telephone for the doctor, of course," said mr. prohack quietly, but very irritably. "oh, darling! i've sent for the doctor. he wasn't in, they said, but they said he'd be back quite soon and then he'd come at once. i don't really need the doctor. i only sent for him because i knew you'd be so frightfully angry if i didn't." mr. prohack had returned to the bed. he took his wife's hand. "feel my pulse. it's all right, isn't it?" "i can't feel it at all." "oh, arthur, you never could! i can feel your hand trembling, that's what i can feel. now please don't be upset, arthur." "i suppose the car's smashed?" she nodded: "it's a bit broken." "where was it?" "it was just on the other side of putney bridge, on the tramlines there." "carthew wasn't hurt?" "oh, no! carthew was simply splendid." "how did it happen, exactly?" "oh, arthur, you with your 'exactlys'! don't ask me. i'm too tired. besides, i didn't see it. my eyes were shut." she closed her eyes. suddenly she sat up and put her hand on his shoulder, in a sort of appeal, vaguely smiling. he tried to smile, but could not. then her hand dropped. a totally bewildered expression veiled the anxious kindness in her eyes. the blood left her face until her cheeks were nearly as white as the embroidered cloth on the night-table. her eyes closed. she fell back. she had fainted. she was just as if dead. her hand was as cold as the hand of a corpse. such was mr. prohack's vast experience of life that he had not the least idea what to do in this crisis. but he tremendously regretted that angmering, bishop, and the inventor of the motor-car had ever been born. he rushed out on to the landing and loudly shouted: "machin! machin! ring up that d----d doctor again, and if he can't come ring up dr. plott at once." "yes, sir. yes, sir." he rushed back into the bedroom, discovered eve's smelling-salts, and held them to her nose. already the blood was mounting again. "well, she's not dead, anyway!" he said to himself grimly. he could see the blood gently mounting, mounting. it was a wonderful, a mysterious and a reassuring sight. "i don't care so long as she isn't injured internally," he said to himself. eve opened her eyes in a dazed look. then she grinned as if apologetically. then she cried copiously. mr. prohack heard a car outside. it was dr. veiga's. the mere sound of dr. veiga's car soothed mr. prohack, accused him of losing his head, and made a man of him. dr. veiga entered the bedroom in exactly the same style as on his first visit to mr. prohack himself. he had heard the nature of the case from machin on his way upstairs. he listened to mr. prohack, who spoke, in the most deceitful way, as if he had been through scores of such affairs. "exactly," said dr. veiga, examining eve summarily. "she sat up. the blood naturally left her head, and she fainted. fainting is nothing but a withdrawing of blood from the head. will you ring for that servant of yours, please?" "i'm positive i'm quite all right, doctor," eve murmured. "will you kindly not talk," said he. "if you're so positive you're all right, why did you send for me? did you walk upstairs? then your legs aren't broken, at least not seriously." he laughed softly. but shortly afterwards, when mr. prohack, admirably dissembling his purposes, crept with dignity out of the room, dr. veiga followed him, and shut the door, leaving machin busy within. "i don't think that there is any internal lesion," said dr. veiga, with seriousness. "but i will not yet state absolutely. she has had a very severe shock and her nerves are considerably jarred." "but it's nothing physical?" "my dear sir, of course it's physical. do you conceive the nerves are not purely physical organs? i can't conceive them as anything but physical organs. can you?" mr. prohack felt schoolboyish. "it's you that she's upset about, though. did you notice she motioned me to give you some of the brandy she was taking? very sweet of her, was it not?... what are you going to do now?" "i'm going to fetch my daughter." "excellent. but have something before you go. you may not know it, but you have been using up nervous tissue, which has to be replaced." as he was driving down to putney in a taxi, mr. prohack certainly did feel very tired. but he was not so tired as not to insist on helping the engine of the taxi. he pushed the taxi forward with all his might all the way to putney. he pushed it till his arms ached, though his hands were in his pockets. the distance to putney had incomprehensibly stretched to nine hundred and ninety-nine miles. he found sissie in the studio giving a private lesson to a middle-aged gentleman who ought, mr. prohack considered, to have been thinking of his latter end rather than of dancing. he broke up the lesson very abruptly. "your mother has had a motor accident. you must come at once." sissie came. "then it must have been about here," said she, as the taxi approached putney bridge on the return journey. so it must. he certainly had not thought of the _locus_ of the accident. he had merely pictured it, in his own mind, according to his own frightened fancy. yes, it must have been just about there. and yet there was no sign of it in the roadway. carthew must have had the wounded eagle removed. mr. prohack sat stern and silent. a wondrous woman, his wife! absurd, possibly, about such matters as investments; but an angel! her self-forgetfulness, her absorption in _him_,--staggering! the accident was but one more proof of it. he was greatly alarmed about her, for the doctor had answered for nothing. he seemed to have a thousand worries. he had been worried all his life, but the worries that had formed themselves in a trail to the inheritance were worse worries than the old simple ones. no longer did the thought of the inheritance brighten his mind. he somehow desired to go back to former days. glancing askance at sissie, he saw that she too was stern. he resumed the hard pushing of the taxi. it was not quite so hard as before, because he knew that sissie also was pushing her full share. chapter x the theory of idleness i within the next seven days mr. prohack had reason to lose confidence in himself as an expert in human nature. "after all," he reflected, "i must have been a very simple-minded man to have thought that i thoroughly understood another human being. every human being is infinite, and will beat your understanding in the end." the reference of course was to his wife. since the automobile accident she had become another person and a more complex person. the climax, or what seemed to be the climax, came one cold morning when she and mr. prohack and sissie and dr. veiga were sitting together in the little boudoir beyond the bedroom. they were packed in there because eve (otherwise marian) had taken a fancy to the sofa. eve was relating to the admired and trusted doctor all her peculiar mental and moral symptoms. she was saying that she could no longer manage the house, could not concentrate her mind on anything, could not refrain from strange caprices, could not remain calm, could not keep her temper, and was the worst conceivable wife for such a paragon as arthur prohack. her daughter alone had saved the household organism from a catastrophe; her daughter sissie-- "come here, sissie!" sissie obeyed the call and was suddenly embraced by her mother with deep tenderness. this in front of the doctor! still more curious was the fact that sissie, of late her mother's frigid critic, came forward and responded to the embrace almost effusively. the spectacle was really touching. it touched mr. prohack, who yet felt as if the floor had yielded under his feet and he was falling into the tube railway underground. indeed mr. prohack had never had such sensations as drew and quartered him then. "well," said dr. veiga to mrs. prohack in his philosophical-realistic manner, "i've been marking time for a week. i shall now proceed to put you right. you can't sleep. you will sleep to-night--i shall send you something. i suppose it isn't your fault that you've been taking the digestive tonic i sent you last thing at night under the impression that it was a sedative, in spite of the label. but it is regrettable. as for your headaches, i will provide a pleasing potion. as for this sad lack of application, don't attempt application. as for your strange caprices, indulge them. one thing is essential. you must go away to the sea. you must go to frinton-on-sea. it is an easy journey. there is a pullman car on the morning train, and the air is unrivalled for your--shall i say?--idiosyncrasy." "yes, darling mother," said sissie. "you must go away, and father and i will take you." "of course!" confirmed mr. prohack, with an imitation of pettishness, as though he had been steadily advocating a change of scene for days past; but he had done nothing of the kind. "oh!" eve cried piteously, "that's the one thing i can't do!" dr. veiga laughed. "afraid of the expense, i suppose?" "no," eve answered with seriousness. "my husband has just made a very fortunate investment, which means a profit of at least a hundred thousand pounds--like that!" she snapped her fingers and laughed lightly. here was another point to puzzle an expert in human nature. instead of being extremely incredulous and apprehensive about the vast speculation with sir paul, eve had in truth accepted it for a gold-mine. she did not assume satisfaction; she really was satisfied. her satisfaction was absurd, and nothing that mr. prohack could say would diminish it. she had already begun to spend the financial results of the speculation with enormous verve. for instance, she had hired another eagle to take the place of the wounded eagle, without uttering a word to her husband of what she had done. mr. prohack could see the dregs of his bank-balance; and in a dream he had had glimpses of a sinister edifice at the bottom of a steep slope, the building being the bankruptcy court. "is it a railway strike you're afraid of?" demanded dr. veiga cruelly. and eve replied with sweetness: "i can't leave london until my son charlie comes back from glasgow, and he's written me to say he'll be here next week." a first-rate example, this, of her new secretiveness! she had said absolutely nothing to mr. prohack about a letter from charlie. "when did you hear that?" mr. prohack might well have asked; but he was too loyal to her to betray her secretiveness by such a question. he did not wish the portuguese quack to know that he, the husband, was kept in the dark about anything whatever. he had his ridiculous dignity, had mr. prohack, and all his motives were mixed motives. not a perfectly pure motive in the whole of his volitional existence! however, sissie put the question in her young blundering way. "oh, mother dear! you never told us!" "i received the letter the day before yesterday," eve continued gravely. "and charlie is certainly not coming home to find me away." for two entire days she had had the important letter and had concealed it. mr. prohack was disturbed. "very well," dr. veiga concurred. "it doesn't really matter whether you go to frinton now or next month, or even next year but one. you're a powerful woman and you'll last a long time yet, especially if you don't worry. i won't call for about a week, and if you'd like to consult another doctor, do." he smiled on her in an avuncular manner, and rose. whereupon mr. prohack also jumped up. "i'm not worrying," she protested, with a sweet, pathetic answering smile. "yes, i am. yes, i am. i'm worrying because i know i'm worrying my poor husband." she went quickly to her poor husband and kissed him lavishly. eve was an artist in kissing, and never a greater artist than at that moment. and now mr. prohack, though still to the physical eye a single individual, became two mr. prohacks. there was the mr. prohack who strongly deprecated this departure from the emotional reserve which is one of the leading and sublimest characteristics of the british governing-class. and there was the mr. prohack, all nerves and heart and humanity, who profoundly enjoyed the demonstration of a woman's affection, disordered and against the rules though the demonstration might be. the first mr. prohack blushed and hated himself for blushing. the second was quite simply enraptured and didn't care who knew it. "dr. veiga," eve appealed, clinging to mr. prohack's coat. "it is my husband who needs looking after. he is not making any progress, and it is my fault. and let me tell you that you've been neglecting him for me." she was a dramatic figure of altruism, of the everlasting sacrificial feminine. she was quite possibly absurd, but beyond doubt she was magnificent. mr. prohack felt ashamed of himself, and the more ashamed because he considered that he was in quite tolerable health. "mother," murmured sissie, with a sweetness of which mr. prohack had imagined her to be utterly incapable. "come and sit down." and eve, guided by her daughter, the callous, home-deserting dancing-mistress, came and sat down. * * * * * ii "my dear sir," said dr. veiga. "there is nothing at all to cause alarm. she will gradually recover. believe me." he and mr. prohack and sissie were conspiring together in the dining-room, the drawing-room being at that hour and on that day under the dominion of servants with brushes. "but what's the matter with her? what is it?" "merely neurasthenia--traumatic neurasthenia." "but what's that?" mr. prohack spoke low, just as though his wife could overhear from the boudoir above and was listening to them under the impression that they were plotting against her life. "it's a morbid condition due to a violent shock." "but how? you told me the other day that it was purely physical." "well," said dr. veiga. "it is, because it must be. but i assure you that if a post-mortem were to be held on mrs. prohack--" "oh, doctor, please!" sissie stopped him resentfully. the doctor paused and then continued: "there would be no trace of any morbid condition in any of the organs." "then how do you explain it?" "we don't explain it," cried dr. veiga, suddenly throwing the onus on the whole medical profession. "we can't. we don't know." "it's very, very unsatisfactory, all this ignorance." "it certainly is. but did you suppose that medical science, alone among all sciences, had achieved finality and omniscience? we've reached the state of knowing that we don't know, and that's something. i hope i'm not flattering you by talking like this. i only do it to people whom i suspect to be intelligent. but of course if you'd prefer the omniscient bedside manner you can have it without extra charge." mr. prohack thought, frightened: "i shall be making a friend of this quack soon, if i'm not careful." "and by the way, about _your_ health," dr. veiga proceeded, after having given further assurances as to his other patient. "mrs. prohack was perfectly correct. you're not making progress. the fact is, you're bored. you haven't organised your existence, and the lack of organisation is reacting on your health." "something is reacting on his health," sissie put in. "i'm not at all pleased." she was now not mr. prohack's daughter but his aunt. "how can i organise my existence?" mr. prohack burst out crossly. "i haven't got any existence to organise. i haven't got anything to do. i thought i had too much to do, the other day. illusion. of course i'm bored. i feel all right, but bored i am. and it's your fault." "it is," the doctor admitted. "it is my fault. i took you for a person of commonsense, and so i didn't tell you that two and two make four and a lot more important things of the same sort. i ought to have told you. you've taken on the new profession of being idle--it's essential for you--but you aren't treating it seriously. you have to be a _professionally_ idle man. which means that you haven't got a moment to spare. when i advised you to try idleness, i didn't mean you to be idle idly. that's worse than useless. you've got to be idle busily. you aren't doing half enough. do you ever have a turkish bath?" "no. never could bear the idea of them." "well, you will kindly take two turkish baths a week. you can be massaged at the same time. a turkish bath is as good as a day's hunting, as far as exercise goes, but you must have more exercise. do you dance? i see you don't. you had better begin dancing. there is no finer exercise. i absolutely prescribe it." at this juncture mr. prohack was rather relieved that the sound of an unaccustomed voice in the hall drew his daughter out of the dining-room. when she had gone dr. veiga went on, in a more confidential tone: "there's another point. an idle man who really knows his business will visit his tailor's, his hosier's, his bootmaker's, his barber's much oftener and much more conscientiously than you do. you've got a mind above clothes--of course. so have i. i take a wicked pleasure in being picturesquely untidy. but i'm not a patient. my life is a great lark. yours isn't. yours is serious. you have now a serious profession, idleness. bring your mind down to clothes. i say this, partly because to be consistently well-dressed means much daily expenditure of time, and partly because really good clothes have a distinctly curative effect on the patient who wears them. then again--" mr. prohack was conscious of a sudden joyous uplifting of the spirit. "here!" said he, interrupting dr. veiga with a grand gesture. "have a cigar." "i cannot, my friend." dr. veiga looked at his watch. "you must. have a corona." mr. prohack moved to the cigar cabinet which he had recently purchased. "no. my next patient is awaiting me in hyde park gardens at this moment." "let him die!" exclaimed mr. prohack ruthlessly. "you've got to have a cigar with me. look. i'll compromise. i'll make it a half-corona. you can charge me as if for another consultation." the doctor's foreign eyes twinkled as he sat down and struck a match. "you thought i was a quack," he said maliciously, and maliciously he seemed to intensify his foreign accent. "i did," admitted mr. prohack with candour. "so i am," said dr. veiga. "but i'm a fully qualified quack, and all really good doctors are quacks. they have to be. they wouldn't be worth anything if they weren't. medicine owes a great deal to quacks." "tell me something about some of your cases," said mr. prohack imperatively. "you're one of the most interesting men i've ever met. so now you know. we want some of your blood transfused, into the english character. you've got a soul above medicine as well as clothes." "all good doctors have," said dr. veiga. "my life is a romance." "and so shall mine be," said mr. prohack. * * * * * iii when at length mr. prohack escorted dr. veiga out into the hall he saw sissie kissing eliza brating with much affection on the front-door step. they made an elegant group for a moment and then eliza brating departed hurriedly, disappearing across the street behind dr. veiga's attendant car. "now i'll just repeat once more to both of you," resumed dr. veiga, embracing father and daughter in one shrewd glance. "you've nothing to worry about upstairs." he indicated the boudoir by a movement of his somewhat tousled head. "but you've got just a little to worry about here." and he indicated mr. prohack. "i know," said sissie with assurance. "but i shall look after him, doctor. you can rely on me. i understand--both cases." "well, there's one good thing," said sissie, following her father into the dining-room after the doctor had gone. "i've done with that foolish eliza. i knew it couldn't last and it hasn't. unless i'm there all the time to keep my eye on everything--of course it all goes to pieces. that girl is the biggest noodle...!" "but haven't i just seen you and her joined in the deepest affection?" "naturally i had to kiss her. but i've finished with her. and what's more, she knows what i think of her. she never liked me." "sissie," said mr. prohack, "you shock me." and indeed he was genuinely shocked, for he had always thought that sissie was different from other girls; that she had all the feminine qualities without any of the feminine defects. yes, he had thought that she might develop into a creature more perfect even than marian. and here she was talking and behaving exactly as men at the club would relate of their own conventional women. sissie gazed firmly at her father, as it were half in pity and half in disdain. did the innocent fellow not then understand the nature of women? or was he too sentimental to admit it, too romantic to be a realist? "would you believe," said sissie, "that although i was there last night and told her exactly what to do, she's had a quarrel this morning with the landlord of the studio? well, she has. you know the a.r.a. on the first floor has been making a lot of silly complaints about the noise--music and so on--every night. and some other people have complained. _i_ could have talked the landlord round in ten minutes! eliza doesn't merely not talk him round,--she quarrels with him! of course it's all up. and as if that wasn't enough, a county council inspector has been round asking about a music and dancing licence. we shall either have to give up business altogether or else move somewhere else. eliza says she knows of another studio. well, i shall write her to-night and tell her she can have my share of the fittings and furniture and go where she likes, but i shan't go with her. and if she never liked me i can honestly say i never liked her. and i don't want to run a dancing studio any more, either. why should i, after all? we _were_ the new poor. now we're the new rich. well, we may as well _be_ the new rich." mr. prohack was now still more shocked. nay, he was almost frightened. and yet he wasn't either shocked or frightened, in the centre of his soul. he was rather triumphant,--not about his daughter with the feet of clay, but about himself. "but i shan't give up teaching dancing entirely," said sissie. "no?" he wondered what would come next. "no! i shall teach you." "indeed you won't!" he instinctively recoiled. "yes, i shall. i promised the doctor he could rely on me. you'll buy a gramophone, and we'll have the carpet up in the drawing-room. oh! you startled deer, do you want to run back into the depths of the forest?... father, you are the funniest father that ever was." she marched to him and put her hand on his shoulder and just twitched his beard. "i can look after you quite as well as mother can. we're pals, aren't we?" "yes. like the tiger and the lamb. you've got hold of my silky fleece already." iv mr. prohack sat in the dining-room alone. the room was now heated by an electric radiator which eve had just bought for the sake of economy. but her economy was the economy of the rich, for the amount of expensive current consumed by that radiator was prodigious, while the saving it effected in labour, cleanliness and atmospheric purity could certainly not have been measured without a scientific instrument adapted to the infinitely little. (still, machin admired and loved it.) mr. prohack perceived that all four bars of it were brightly incandescent, whereas three bars would have been ample to keep the room warm. he ought to get up and turn a bar off.... he had a hundred preoccupations. his daughter had classed him with the new rich. he resented the description, but could he honestly reject it? all his recent troubles sprang from the new riches. if he had not inherited from a profiteer he would assuredly have been at his office in the treasury, earning an honest living, at that very moment. for only sick persons of plenteous independent means are ever prescribed for as he had been prescribed for; the others either go on working and making the best of such health as is left to them, or they die. if he had not inherited from a profiteer he would not have had a car and the car would not have had an accident and he would not have been faced with the prospect (as he was faced with it) of a legal dispute, to be fought by him on behalf of the insurance company, with the owner of the colliding car. (the owner of the colliding car was a young woman as to whose veracity carthew had had some exceedingly hard things to say.) mr. prohack would have settled the matter, but neither eve nor the insurance company would let him settle it. and if the car had not had an accident eve would not have had traumatic neurasthenia, with all its disconcerting reactions on family life. and if he had not inherited from a profiteer, charlie would not have gone off to glasgow,--he had heard odds and ends of strange tales as to charlie's doings in glasgow,--not in the least reassuring! and if he had not inherited from a profiteer sissie would not have taken a share in a dancing studio and might never have dangerously danced with that worm oswald morfey. and if he had not inherited from a profiteer he would not have been speculating, with a rich chance of more profiteering, in roumanian oil with paul spinner. in brief--well, he ought to get up and turn off a bar of that wasteful radiator. yet he was uplifted, happy. not because of his wealthy ease. no! a week or two ago he had only to think of his fortune to feel uplifted and happy. but now! no! he was uplifted and happy now for the simple reason that he had caught the romance of the doctor's idea of taking idleness seriously and practising it as a profession. if circumstances forced him to be idle, he would be idle in the grand manner. he would do everything that the doctor had suggested, and more. (the doctor saw life like a poet. he might be a cross between a comedian and a mountebank, but he was a great fellow.) every species of idleness should have its appointed hour. in the pursuit of idleness he would become the busiest man in london. a definite programme would be necessary. strict routine would be necessary. no more loafing about! he hankered after routine as the drunkard after alcohol. routine was what he had been missing. the absence of routine, and naught else, was retarding his recovery. (yes, he knew in his heart that what they all said was true,--he was not getting better.) his own daughter had taught him wisdom. inevitably, unavoidably, he was the new rich. well, he would be the new rich thoroughly. no other aim was logical.... let the radiator burn! chapter xi neurasthenia cured i three days later mr. prohack came home late with his daughter in the substituted car. he had accompanied sissie to putney for the final disposition of the affairs of the dance-studio, and had witnessed her blighting politeness to eliza brating and eliza brating's blighting politeness to her. the last kiss between these two young women would have desolated the heart of any man whose faith in human nature was less strong than mr. prohack's. "i trust that the excellent eliza is not disfigured for life," he had observed calmly in the automobile. "what are you talking about, father?" sissie had exclaimed, suspicious. "i was afraid her lips might be scorched. you feel no pain yourself, my child, i hope?" he made the sound of a kiss. after this there was no more conversation in the car during the journey. arrived home, sissie said nonchalantly that she was going to bed. "burn my lips first," mr. prohack implored. "father!" said she, having kissed him. "you are simply terrible." "i am a child," he replied. "and you are my grandmother." "you wait till i give you your next dancing-lesson," sissie retorted, turning and threatening him from the stairs. "it won't be as mild as this afternoon's." he smiled, giving an imitation of the sphinx. he was happy enough as mortals go. his wife was perhaps a little better. and he was gradually launching himself into an industrious career of idleness. also, he had broken the ice,--the ice, that is to say, of tuition in dancing. not a word had been spoken abroad in the house about the first dancing-lesson. he had had it while mrs. prohack was, in theory at least, paying calls; at any rate she had set forth in the car. mr. prohack and sissie had rolled up the drawing-room carpet and moved the furniture themselves. mr. prohack had unpacked the gramophone in person. they had locked the drawing-room door. at the end of the lesson they had relaid the carpet and replaced the furniture and enclosed the gramophone and unlocked the door, and mr. prohack had issued from the drawing-room like a criminal. the thought in his mind had been that he was no end of a dog and of a brave dog at that. then he sneered at himself for thinking such a foolish thought. after all, what was there in learning to dance? but the sneer was misplaced. his original notion that he had done something courageous and wonderful was just a notion. the lesson had favoured the new nascent intimacy with his daughter. evidently she was a born teacher as well as a born dancer. he perceived in two minutes how marvellous her feet were. she guided him with pressures light as a feather. she allowed herself to be guided with an intuitive responsiveness that had to be felt to be believed. her exhortations were delicious, her reprimands exquisite, her patience was infinite. further, she said that he had what she called "natural rhythm," and would learn easily and satisfactorily. best of all, he had been immediately aware of the physical benefit of the exercise. the household was supposed to know naught of the affair, but the kitchen knew a good deal about it somehow; the kitchen was pleasantly and rather condescendingly excited, and a little censorious, for the reason that nobody in the kitchen had ever before lived in a house the master of which being a parent of adult children took surreptitious lessons in dancing; the thing was unprecedented, and therefore of course intrinsically reprehensible. mr. prohack guessed the attitude of the kitchen, and had met machin's respectful glance with a self-conscious eye. he now bolted the front-door and went upstairs extinguishing the lights after him. eve had told her husband and child that she should go to bed early. he meant to have a frolicsome, teasing chat with her, for the doctor had laid it down that light conversation would assist the cure of traumatic neurasthenia. she would not be asleep, and even if she were asleep she would be glad to awaken, because she admired his style of gossip when both of them were in the vein for it. he would describe for her the evening at the studio humorously, in such a fashion as to confirm her in her righteous belief that the misguided sissie had seen the maternal wisdom and quitted dance-studios for ever. the lamps were out in the bedroom. she slept. he switched on a light, but her bed was empty; it had not been occupied! "marian!" he called in a low voice, thinking that she might be in the boudoir. and if she was in the boudoir she must be reclining in the dark there. he ascertained that she was not in the boudoir. then he visited both the drawing-room and the dining-room. no marian anywhere! he stood a moment in the hall and was in a mind to ring for machin--he could see from a vague illumination at the entrance to the basement steps that the kitchen was still inhabited--but just then all the servants came upwards on the way to the attics, and at the strange spectacle of their dancing master in the hall they all grew constrained and either coughed or hurried as though they ought not to be caught in the act of retiring to bed. mr. prohack, as it were, threw a lasso over machin, who was the last of the procession. "where is your mistress, machin?" he tried to be matter-of-fact, but something unusual in his tone apparently started her. "she's gone to bed, sir. she told me to put her hot-water bag in the bed early." "oh! thanks! good-night." "good-night, sir." he could not persuade himself to call an alarm. he could not even inform machin that she was mistaken, for to do so would have been equivalent to calling an alarm. hesitating and inactive he allowed the black-and-white damsels and the blue cook to disappear. nor would he disturb sissie--yet. he had first to get used to the singular idea that his wife had vanished from home. could this vanishing be one of the effects of traumatic neurasthenia? he hurried about and searched all the rooms again, looking with absurd carefulness, as if his wife were an insignificant object that might have dropped unperceived under a chair or behind a couch. then he telephoned to her sister, enquiring in a voice of studied casualness. eve was not at her sister's. he had known all the while that she would not be at her sister's. being unable to recall the number, he had had to consult the telephone book. his instinct now was to fetch sissie, whose commonsense had of late impressed him more and more; but he repressed the instinct, holding that he ought to be able to manage the affair alone. he could scarcely say to his daughter: "your mother has vanished. what am i to do?" moreover, feeling himself to be the guardian of marian's reputation for perfect sanity, he desired not to divulge her disappearance, unless obliged to do so. she might return at any moment. she must return very soon. it was inconceivable that anything should have "happened" in the prohack family.... almost against his will he looked up "police stations" in the telephone-book. there were scores of police stations. the nearest seemed to be that of mayfair. he demanded the number. to demand the number of the police station was like jumping into bottomless cold water. in a detestable dream he gave his name and address and asked if the police had any news of a street accident. yes, several. he described his wife. he said, reflecting wildly, that she was not very tall and rather plump; dark hair. dress? dark blue. hat and mantle? he could not say. age? a queer impulse here. he knew that she hated the mention of her real age, and so he said thirty-nine. no! the police had no news of such a person. but the polite firm voice on the wire said that it would telephone to other stations and would let mr. prohack hear immediately if there was anything to communicate. wonderful organisation, the london police force! as he hung up the receiver he realised what had occurred and what he had done. marian had mysteriously disappeared and he had informed the police,--he, arthur prohack, c.b. what an awful event! his mind ran on the consequences of traumatic neurasthenia. he put on his hat and overcoat and unbolted the front-door as silently as he could--for he still did not want anybody in the house to know the secret--and went out into the street. what to do? a ridiculous move! did he expect to find her lying in the gutter? he walked to the end of the dark street and peered into the cross-street, and returned. he had left the front-door open. as he re-entered the house he descried in a corner of the hall, a screwed-up telegraph-envelope. why had he not noticed it before? he snatched at it. it was addressed to "mrs. prohack." mr. prohack's soul was instantaneously bathed in heavenly solace. traumatic neurasthenia had nothing to do with eve's disappearance! his bliss was intensified by the fact that he had said not a word to the servants and had not called sissie. and it was somewhat impaired by the other fact that he had been ass enough to tell the police. he was just puzzling his head to think what misfortune could have called his wife away--not that the prospect of any misfortune much troubled him now that eve's vanishing was explained--when through the doorway he saw a taxi drive up. eve emerged from the taxi. ii he might have gone out and paid the fare for her, but he stayed where he was, in the doorway, thinking with beatific relief that after all nothing had "happened" in the family. "ah!" he said, in the most ordinary, complacent, quite undisturbed tone, "i was just beginning to wonder where you'd got to. we've been back about five minutes, sissie and i, and sissie's gone to bed. i really don't believe she knows you were out." mrs. prohack came urgently towards him, pushing the door to behind her with a careless loud bang. the bang might waken the entire household, but mrs. prohack did not care. mrs. prohack kissed him without a word. he possessed in his heart a barometric scale of her kisses, and this was a set-fair kiss, a kiss with a somewhat violent beginning and a reluctant close. then she held her cheek for him to kiss. both cheek and lips were freshly cold from the night air. mr. prohack was aware of an immense, romantic felicity. and he immediately became flippant, not aloud, but secretly, to hide himself from himself. he thought: "it's a positive fact that i've been kissing this girl of a woman for a quarter of a century, and she's fat." but beneath his flippancy and beneath his felicity there was a lancinating qualm, which, if he had expressed it he would have expressed thus: "if anything _did_ happen to her, it would be the absolute ruin of me." the truth was that his felicity frightened him. never before had he been seriously concerned for her well-being. the reaction from grave alarm lighted up the interior of his mysterious soul with a revealing flash of unique intensity. "what are all these lights burning for?" she murmured. lights were indeed burning everywhere. he had been in a mood to turn on but not to turn off. "oh!" he said, "i was just wandering about." "i'll go straight upstairs," she said, trying to be as matter-of-fact as her arthur appeared to be. when he had leisurely set the whole of the ground-floor to rights, he followed her. she was waiting for him in the boudoir. she had removed her hat and mantle, and lighted one of the new radiators, and was sitting on the sofa. "there came a telegram from charlie," she began. "i was crossing the hall just as the boy reached the door. so i opened the door myself. it was from charlie to say that he would be at the grand babylon hotel to-night." "charlie! the grand babylon!... not buckingham palace." eve ignored his crude jocularity. "it seems i ought to have received it early in the afternoon. i was so puzzled i didn't know what to do--i just put my things on and went off to the hotel at once. it wasn't till after i was in the taxi that i remembered i ought to have told the servants where i was going. that's why i hurried back. i wanted to get back before you did. charlie suggested telephoning from the hotel, but i wouldn't let him on any account." "why not?" "well, i thought you might be upset and wonder what on earth was going on." "what was going on?" mr. prohack repeated, gazing at her childlike maternal serious face, whose wistfulness affected him in an extraordinary way. "what on earth are you insinuating?" no! it was inconceivable that this pulsating girl perched on the sofa should be the mother of the mature and independent charles. "charlie's _staying_ at the grand babylon hotel," said eve, as though she were saying that charlie had forged a cheque or blown up the cenotaph. even the imperturbable man of the world in front of her momentarily blenched at the news. "more fool him!" observed mr. prohack. "yes, and he's got a bedroom and a private sitting-room and a bathroom, and a room for a secretary--" "hence a secretary," mr. prohack put in. "yes, and a secretary. and he dictates things to the secretary all the time, and the telephone's always going,--yes, even at this time of night. he must be spending enormous sums. so of course i hurried back to tell you." "you did quite right, my pet," said mr. prohack. "a good wife should share these tit-bits with her husband at the earliest possible moment." he was really very like what in his more conventional moments he would have said a woman was like. if eve had taken the affair lightly he would without doubt have remonstrated, explaining that such an affair ought by no means to be taken lightly. but seeing that she took it very seriously, his instinct was to laugh at it, though in fact he was himself extremely perturbed by this piece of news, which confirmed, a hundredfold and in the most startling manner, certain sinister impressions of his own concerning charlie's deeds in glasgow. and he assumed the gay attitude, not from a desire to reassure his wife, but from mere contrariness. positively the strangest husband that ever lived, and entirely different from normal husbands! then he saw tears hanging in eve's eyes,--tears not of resentment against his lack of sympathy, tears of bewilderment and perplexity. she simply did not understand his attitude. and he sat down close by her on the sofa and solaced her with three kisses. she was singularly attractive in her alternations of sagacity and helplessness. "but it's awful," she whimpered. "the boy must be throwing money away at the rate of twenty or twenty-five pounds a day." "very probably," mr. prohack agreed. "where's he getting it from?" she demanded. "he must be getting it from somewhere." "i expect he's made it. he's rather clever, you know." "but he can't have made money like that." "people do, sometimes." "not honestly,--you know what i mean, arthur!" this was an earthquaking phrase to come from a mother's lips. "and yet," said mr. prohack, "everything charlie did used to be right for you." "but he's carrying on just like an adventurer! i've read in reports of trials about people carrying on just like that. a fortnight ago he hadn't got fifty pounds cash in the world, and now he's living like a millionaire at the grand babylon hotel! arthur, what are you going to do about it? couldn't you go and see him to-night?" "now listen to me," mr. prohack began in a new tone, taking her hands. "supposing i did go and see him to-night, what could i say to him?" "well, you're his father." "and you're his mother. what did _you_ say to him?" "oh! i didn't say anything. i only said i should have been very glad if he could have arranged to sleep at home as usual, and he said he was sorry he couldn't because he was so busy." "you didn't tell him he was carrying on like an adventurer?" "arthur! how could i?" "but you'd like _me_ to tell him something of the sort. all that i can say, you could say--and that is, enquire in a friendly way what he has done, is doing, and hopes to do." "but--" "yes, my innocent creature. you may well pause." he caressed her, and she tried to continue in unhappiness, but could not. "you pause because there is nothing to say." "you're his father at any rate," she burst out triumphantly. "that's not his fault. you ought to have thought of all this over twenty years ago, before charlie was born, before we were married, before you met me. to become a parent is to accept terrible risks. i'm charlie's father. what then? am i to give him orders as to what he must do and what he mustn't? this isn't china and it isn't the eighteenth century. he owes nothing whatever to me, or to you. if we were starving and he had plenty, he would probably consider it his duty to look after us; but that's the limit of what he owes us. whereas nothing can put an end to our responsibility towards him. you see, we brought him here. we thought it would be so nice to have children, and so charlie arrived. he didn't choose his time, and he didn't choose his character, nor his education, nor his chance. if he had his choice you may depend he'd have chosen differently. do you want me, on the top of all that, to tell him that he must obediently accept something else from us--our code of conduct? it would be mere cheek, and with all my shortcomings i'm incapable of impudence, especially to the young. he was our slave for nearly twenty years. we did what we liked with him; and if charlie fails now it simply means that we've failed. besides, how can you be sure that he's carrying on like an adventurer? he may be carrying on like a financial genius. perhaps we have brought a giant to earth. we can't believe it of course, because we haven't got enough faith in ourselves, but later on we may be compelled to believe it. naturally if charlie crashes after a showy flight, then he won't be a financial genius,--he'll only be an adventurer, and there may he some slight trouble in the law courts,--there usually is. that is where we shall have to come forward and pay for the nice feeling of having children. and, remember, we shan't be in a position to upbraid charlie. he could silence us with one question, to which we could find no answer: 'why did you get married, you two?' however, my pet, let us hope for the best. it's not yet a crime to live at great price at the grand babylon hotel. quite possibly your son has not yet committed any crime, whatever. if he succeeds in making a huge fortune and in keeping it, he will not commit any crime. rich men never do. they can't. they never even commit murder. there is no reason why they should. whatever they do, it is no worse than an idiosyncrasy. now tell me what our son talked about." "well, he didn't talk much. he--he wasn't expecting me." "did he ask after me?" "i told him about you. he asked about the car." "he didn't ask after me, but he asked after the car. nothing very original there, is there? any son would behave like that. he must do better than that if he doesn't mean to end as an adventurer. i must go and see him, and offer him, very respectfully, some advice." "arthur, i insist that he shall come here. it is not proper that you should go running after _him_." "pooh, my dear! i'm rich enough myself to run after him without being accused of snobbishness or lion-hunting or anything of that kind." "oh! arthur!" sobbed eve. "don't you think you're been funny quite long enough?" she then openly wept. the singular mr. prohack was apparently not in the least moved by his wife's tears. he and she alone in the house were out of bed; there was no chance of their being disturbed. he did not worry about his adventurous son. he did not worry about the possibility of oswald morfey having a design to convert his daughter into mrs. oswald morfey. he did not worry about the fate of the speculation in which he had joined sir paul spinner. nor did he worry about the malady called traumatic neurasthenia. as for himself he fancied that he had not for years felt better than he felt at that moment. he was aware of the most delicious sensation of sharing a perfect nocturnal solitude with his wife. he drew her towards him until her acquiescent head lay against his waistcoat. he held her body in his arms, and came deliberately to the conclusion that to be alive was excellent. eve's body was as yielding as that of a young girl. to mr. prohack, who of course was the dupe of an illusion, it had an absolutely enchanting girlishness. she sobbed and she sobbed, and mr. prohack let her sob. he loosed the grip of his arms a little, so that her face, free of his waistcoat, was turned upwards in the direction of the ceiling; and then he very caressingly wiped her eyes with his own handkerchief. he gave an elaborate care to the wiping of her eyes. for some minutes it was a sisyphean labour, for what he did she immediately undid; but after a time the sobs grew less frequent, and at length they ceased; only her lips trembled at intervals. mr. prohack said ingratiatingly: "and whose fault is it if i'm funny? answer, you witch." "i don't know," eve murmured tremblingly and not quite articulately. "it's your fault. do you know that you gave me the fright of my life to-night, going out without saying where you were going to? do you know that you put me into such a state that i've been telephoning to police-stations to find out whether there'd been any street accidents happening to a woman of your description? i was so upset that i daren't even go upstairs and call sissie." "you said you'd only been back five minutes when i came," eve observed in a somewhat firmer voice. "i did," said mr. prohack. "but that was neither more nor less than a downright lie. you see i was in such a state that i had to pretend, to both you and myself, that things aren't what they are.... and then, without the slightest warning, you suddenly arrive without a scratch on you. you aren't hurt. you aren't even dead. it's a scandalous shame that a woman should be able, by merely arriving in a taxi, to put a sensible man into such a paroxysm of satisfaction as you put me into a while ago. it's not right. it's not fair. then you try to depress me with bluggy stories of your son's horrible opulence, and when you discover you can't depress me you burst into tears and accuse me of being funny. what did you expect me to be? did you expect me to groan because you aren't lying dead in a mortuary? if i'm funny, you are at liberty to attribute it to hysteria, the hysteria of joy. but i wish you to understand that these extreme revulsions of feeling which you impose on me are very dangerous for a plain man who is undergoing a rest-cure." eve raised her arms about mr. prohack's neck, lifted herself up by them, and silently kissed him. then she sank back to her former position. "i've been a great trial to you lately, haven't i?" she breathed. "not more so than usual," he answered. "you know you always abuse your power." "but i _have_ been queer?" "well," judicially, "perhaps you have. perhaps five per cent or so above your average of queerness." "didn't the doctor say what i'd got was traumatic neurasthenia?" "that or something equally absurd." "well, i haven't got it any more. i'm cured. you'll see." just then the dining-room clock entered upon its lengthy business of chiming the hour of midnight. and as it faintly chimed mr. prohack, supporting his wife, had a surpassing conviction of the beauty of existence and in particular of his own good fortune--though the matter of his inheritance never once entered his mind. he gazed down at eve's ingenuous features, and saw in them the fastidious fineness which had caused her to recoil so sensitively from her son's display at the grand babylon. yes, women had a spiritual beauty to which men could not pretend. "arthur," said she, "i never told you that you'd forgotten to wind up that clock on sunday night. it stopped this evening while you were out, and i had to wind it and i only guessed what the time was." chapter xii the practice of idleness i at ten minutes to eleven the next morning mr. prohack rushed across the pavement, and sprang head-first into the original eagle (now duly repaired) with the velocity and agility of a man long accustomed to the fact that seconds are more precious than six-pences and minutes than banknotes. and carthew slammed the door on him like a conjuror performing the final act of a trick before an audience of three thousand people. mr. prohack was late. he was late on this the first full day of his career as a consciously and scientifically idle man. carthew knew that his employer was late; and certainly the people in his house knew that he was late. mr. prohack's breakfast in bed had been late, which meant that his digestive and reposeful hour of newspaper reading was thrown forward. and then he had actually been kept out of his own bathroom, through the joint fault of sissie and her mother, who had apparently determined to celebrate sissie's definite release from the dance-studio, and mrs. prohack's astonishing recovery from traumatic neurasthenia, by a thorough visitation and reorganisation of the house and household. those two, re-established in each other's affection, had been holding an inquisition in the bathroom, of all rooms, at the very moment when mr. prohack needed the same, with the consequence that he found the bath empty instead of full, and the geyser not even lighted. yet they well knew that he had a highly important appointment at the tailor's at ten forty-five, followed by other just as highly important appointments! the worst of it was that he could not take their crime seriously because he was on such intimate and conspiratorial terms with each of them separately. on the previous evening he had exchanged wonderful and rather dangerous confidences with his daughter, and, further on in the night he and her mother had decided that the latter's fantastic excursion to the grand babylon hotel should remain a secret. and sissie, as much as her mother, had taken advantage of his helplessness in the usual unscrupulous feminine manner. they went so far as to smile quasi-maternally at his boyish busy-ness. now no sooner had carthew slammed the door of the eagle and got into the driving-seat than a young woman, a perfect stranger to mr. prohack, appeared, and through the open window asked in a piteous childlike voice if mr. prohack was indeed mr. prohack, and, having been informed that this was so, expressed the desire to speak with him. mr. prohack was beside himself with annoyance and thwarted energy. was the entire universe uniting against the execution of his programme? "i have a most important appointment," said he, raising his hat and achieving politeness by an enormous effort, "and if your business is urgent you'd better get into the car. i'm going to conduit street." she slipped into the car like a snake, and carthew, beautifully unaware that he had two passengers, simultaneously drove off. if a snake, she was a very slim, blushing and confused snake,--short, too, for a python. and she had a turned-up nose, and was quite young. her scales were stylish. and, although certainly abashed, apprehensive and timorous, she yet had, about her delicate mouth, the signs of terrible determination, of ruthlessness, of an ambition that nothing could thwart. mr. prohack might have been alarmed, but fortunately he was getting used to driving in closed cars with young women, and so could keep his nerve. moreover, he enjoyed these experiences, being a man of simple tastes and not too analytical of good fortune when it came his way. "it's very good of you to see me like this," said the girl, in the voice of a rapid brook with a pebbly bed. "my name is winstock, and i've called about the car." "the car? what car?" "the motor-car accident at putney, you know." "ah!" "yes." "just so. just so. you are the owner-driver of the other car." "yes." "i think you ought to have seen my wife. it is really she who is the owner of this car. as you are aware, i wasn't in the accident myself, and i don't know anything about it. besides, it's entirely in the hands of the insurance company and the solicitors. you are employing a solicitor, aren't you?" "oh, yes." "then i suppose it's by his advice that you've come to see me." "well, i'm afraid it isn't." "what!" cried mr. prohack. "if it isn't by his advice you may well be afraid. do you know you've done a most improper thing? most improper. i can't possibly listen to you. _you_ may go behind your lawyer's back. but i can't. and also there's the insurance company." mr. prohack lifted the rug which had fallen away from her short skirts. "i think solicitors and companies and things are so silly," said miss winstock, whose eyes had not moved from the floor-mat. "thank you." the 'thank you' was in respect to the rug. "so they are," mr. prohack agreed. "that was why i thought it would be better to come straight to you." for the first time she glanced at him; a baffling glance, a glance that somehow had the effect of transferring some of the apprehension in her own breast to that of mr. prohack. "well," said he, in a departmental tone recalling whitehall. "will you kindly say what you have to say?" "can i speak confidentially?" mr. prohack raised his hands and laughed in what he hoped was a sardonic manner. "i give you young women up," he murmured. "yes, i give you up. you're my enemy. we're at law. and you want to talk confidentially! how can i tell whether i can let you talk confidentially until i've heard what you're going to say?" "oh! i was only going to say that i'm not really the owner-driver of the car. i'm personal secretary to mr. carrel quire, and it's really his car. you see he has three cars, but as there's been such a fuss about waste lately and he's so prominent in the anti-squandermania campaign, he prefers to keep only one car in his own name." "you don't mean to sit there and tell me you're talking about the secretary for foreign affairs!" "yes, of course. who else? you know he's on the continent at present. he wouldn't take me with him because he wanted to create an effect of austerity in paris--that's what he said; and i must get this accident affair settled up before he comes back, or he _may_ dismiss me. i don't think he will, because i'm a cousin of the late lady queenie paulle--that's how i got the place--but he may. and then where should i be? i was told you were so kind and nice--that's why i came." "i am not kind and i am not nice," remarked mr. prohack, in an acid tone, but laughing to himself because the celebrated young statesman, mr. carrel quire (bald at thirty-five) was precisely one of the ministers who, during the war, had defied and trampled upon the treasury. he now almost demoniacally contemplated the ruin of mr. carrel quire. "you have made a serious mistake in coming to me. unfortunately you cannot undo it. be good enough to understand that you have not been talking confidentially." miss winstock ought to have been intimidated and paralysed by the menacing manner of the former terror of the departments. but she was not. "please, please, mr. prohack," she said calmly, "don't talk in that strain. i distinctly told you i was talking confidentially, and i'm sure i can rely on you--unless all that i've heard about you is untrue; which it can't be. i only want matters to be settled quietly, and when mr. quire returns he will pay anything that has to be paid--if it isn't too much." "my chauffeur asserts that you have told a most naughty untruth about the accident. you say that he ran into you, whereas the fact is that he was nearly standing still while you were going too fast and you skidded badly into him off the tramlines. and he's found witnesses to prove what he says." "i may have been a little mistaken," miss winstock admitted with light sadness. "i won't say i wasn't. you know how you are in an accident." "i've never been in an accident in my life," mr. prohack objected. "if you had, you'd sympathise with me." at this moment the eagle drew up at the desired destination in conduit street. mr. prohack looked at his watch. "i'm sorry to seem inhospitable," he said, "but my appointment is extremely important. i cannot wait." "can _i_ wait?" miss winstock suggested. "i'm quite used to waiting for mr. carrel quire. if i might wait in the car till you came out.... you see i want to come to an understanding." "i don't know how long i shall be." "that doesn't matter, truly. i haven't got anything else in the world to do, as mr. carrel quire is away." mr. prohack left miss winstock in the car. the establishment into which mr. prohack disappeared was that of his son's tailors. he slipped into it with awe, not wholly because the tailors were his son's tailors, but in part because they were tailors to various august or once-august personages throughout europe. till that day mr. prohack had bought his clothes from an insignificant though traditional tailor in maddox street, to whom he had been taken as a boy by his own father. and he had ordered his clothes hastily, negligently, anyhow, in intervals snatched from meal-hours or on the way from one more important appointment to another more important appointment. indeed he had thought no more of ordering a suit than of ordering a whiskey and soda. nay, he had on one occasion fallen incredibly low, and his memory held the horrid secret for ever,--on one occasion he had actually bought a ready-made suit. it had fitted him, for he was slimmish and of a good stock size, but he had told nobody, not even his wife, of this shocking defection from the code of true british gentlemanliness,--and he had never repeated the crime; the secret would die with him. and now he was devoting the top of the morning to the commandment of a suit. the affair was his chief business, and he had come to it in a great car whose six cylinders were working harmoniously for nothing else, and with the aid of an intelligent and experienced and expert human being whose sole object in life that morning was to preside over mr. prohack's locomotion to and from the tailors'! mr. prohack perceived that he was only beginning to comprehend the wonder of existence. the adepts at the tailors', however, seemed to see nothing wonderful in the matter. they showed no surprise that he had written to make an appointment with a particular adept named melchizidek, who had been casually mentioned weeks earlier by charles as the one man in london who really comprehended waistcoats. they took it as a matter of course that mr. prohack had naught else to do with the top of the morning but order clothes, and that while he did so he should keep a mature man and a vast and elaborate machine waiting for him in the street outside. and mr. melchizidek's manner alone convinced mr. prohack that what he had told his family, and that what he had told miss winstock in the car, was strictly true and not the invention of his fancy--namely that the appointment was genuinely of high importance. mr. melchizidek possessed the strange gift of condescending majestically to mr. prohack while licking his boots. he listened to mr. prohack as to an autocrat while giving mr. prohack to understand that mr. prohack knew not the first elements of sartorial elegance. at intervals he gazed abstractedly at the gold framed and crowned portraits that hung on the walls and at the inscriptions similarly framed and crowned and hung, and it was home in upon mr. prohack that the inscriptions in actual practice referred to mr. melchizidek, and that this same melchizidek, fawning and masterful, had seen monarchs in their shirt sleeves and spoken to princes with pins in his mouth, and made marks in white chalk between the shoulder-blades of grand-dukes; and that revolutions and cataclysms were nothing to mr. melchizidek. when mr. melchizidek had decided by hypnotic suggestion and magic power what mr. prohack desired in the way of stuffs and patterns, he led mr. prohack mysteriously to a small chamber, and a scribe followed them carrying pencil and paper, and mr. prohack removed, with assistance, his shabby coat and his waistcoat, and mr. melchizidek measured him in unexampled detail and precision, and the scribe, writing, intoned aloud all mr. prohack's dimensions. and all the time mr. prohack was asking in his heart: "how much will these clothes cost?" and he, once the terror of the departments, who would have held up the war to satisfy his official inquisitiveness on a question of price,--he dared not ask how much the clothes would cost. he felt that in that unique establishment money was simply not mentioned,--it could never be more than the subject of formal and stately correspondence. during the latter part of the operation mr. prohack heard, outside in the shop, the sharp sounds of an imperial and decisive voice, and he was thereby well-nigh thunderstruck. and even mr. melchizidek seemed to be similarly affected by the voice,--so much so that the intimate of sovereigns unaffectedly hastened the business of enduing mr. prohack into the shameful waistcoat and coat, and then, with a gesture of apology, passed out of the cubicle, leaving mr. prohack with the attendant scribe. mr. prohack, pricked by a fearful curiosity, followed mr. melchizidek; and the voice was saying: "oh! you're there, melchizidek. just come and look at this crease." mr. melchizidek, pained, moved forward. three acolytes were already standing in shocked silence round about a young man who stretched forth one leg so that all might see. "i ask you," the young man proceeded, "is it an inch out or isn't it? and how many times have i tried these things on? i'm a busy man, and here i have to waste my time coming here again and again to get a thing right that ought to have been right the first time. and you call yourselves the first tailors in europe.... correct me if i'm inaccurate in any of my statements." mr. melchizidek, who unlike an englishman knew when he was beaten, said in a solemn bass: "when can i send for them, sir?" "you can send for them this afternoon at the grand babylon, and be sure that i have them back to-morrow night." "certainly, sir. it's only fair to ourselves, sir, to state that we have a great deal of trouble with our workmen in these days." "no doubt. and i have a great deal of trouble to find cash in these days, but i don't pay your bills with bad money, i think." a discreet sycophantic smile from the group at this devastating witticism! mr. prohack cautiously approached; the moment had awkwardness, but mr. prohack owed it to himself to behave with all presence of mind. "hullo, charlie!" said he casually. "hello, dad! how are you?" and charlie, wearing the very suit in which he had left home for glasgow, shook hands boyishly. looking into his firm, confident eyes, mr. prohack realised, perhaps for the first time, that the fruit of his loins was no common boy. the mere fact that as an out-of-work ex-officer, precariously making a bit in motor-bicycle deals, he had dared to go to melchizidek's firm for clothes, and that he was now daring to affront melchizidek,--this sole fact separated him from the ruck of sons. "i warn you, dad, that if you're ordering clothes here you're ordering trouble." mr. melchizidek's interjected remarks fitted to the occasion. the group dissipated. the males of the prohack family could say nothing interesting to each other in such a situation. they could only pretend that their relations were purely normal; which they did quite well. "i say, dad, i'm awfully busy this morning. i can't stop now. i've telephoned the mater and she's coming to the grand babylon for lunch--one thirty. sis too, i think. do come. you haven't got anything else to do." the boy murmured all this. "oh! haven't i! i'm just as busy as you are, and more." however, mr. prohack accepted the invitation. charlie went off in haste. mr. prohack arrived on the pavement in time to see him departing in an open semi-racing car driven by a mature, handsome and elegant woman, with a chauffeur sitting behind. mr. prohack's mind was one immense interrogation concerning his son. he had seen him, spoken with him, and--owing to the peculiar circumstances--learnt nothing whatever. indeed, the mystery of charlie was deepened. had charles hurried away in order to hide the mature handsome lady from his father?... mr. prohack might have moralised, but he suddenly remembered that he had a lady in his own car, and that the disparity between their ages was no less than the disparity between the ages of the occupants of the car in which charles had fled. iii turning to his own car, he observed with a momentary astonishment that carthew, the chauffeur, leaning a little nonchalantly through the open off-window of the vehicle, was engaged in conversation with miss winstock. the astonishment passed when he reflected that as these two had been in the enforced intimacy of an accident together they were necessarily on some kind of speaking terms. before carthew had noticed mr. prohack, mr. prohack noticed that carthew's attitude to miss winstock showed a certain tolerant condescension, while miss winstock's girlish gestures were of a subtly appealing nature. then in an instant carthew, the easy male tolerator of inaccurate but charming young women, disappeared from the window--disappeared indeed, entirely from the face of the earth--and a perfectly non-human, impassive automaton emerged from behind the back of the car and stood attentive at the door, holding the handle thereof. mr. prohack, with a gift of dissimulation equal to carthew's own, gave him an address in bond street. "i have another very urgent appointment," said mr. prohack to miss winstock as he sat down beside her. and he took his diary from his pocket and gazed at it intently, frowning, though there was nothing whatever on its page except the printed information that the previous sunday was the twenty-fourth after trinity, and a warning: "if you have omitted to order your new diary it would be well to do so now to prevent disappointment." "it's awfully good of you to have me here," said miss winstock. "it is," mr. prohack admitted. "and so far as i can see you've done nothing to deserve it. you were very wrong to get chatting with my chauffeur, for example." "i felt that all the time. but he has such a powerful individuality." "he may have. but what i pay him for is to drive my car, not to put his passengers into a semi-hypnotic state. do you know why i am taking you about like this?" "i hope it's because you are kind-hearted." "not at all. do you think i should do it if you were fifty, fat and a fright? of course i shouldn't. and no one knows that better than you. i'm doing it because you're young and charming and slim and attractive and smart. though forty-six, i am still a man. the chief difference between me and most other men is that i know and openly admit my motives. that's what makes me so dangerous. you should beware of me. take note that i haven't asked you what you're been saying to carthew. nor shall i ask him. now what exactly do you want me to do?" "only not to let the law case about the accident go any further." "and are you in a position to pay the insurance company for the damage to my car?" "oh! mr. carrel quire will pay." "are you sure? are you quite sure that mr. carrel quire is not spending twice as much as his ministerial salary, that salary being the whole of his financial resources except loans from millionaires who will accept influence instead of interest? i won't enquire whether mr. carrel quire pays your salary regularly. if he does, it furnishes the only instance of regularity in the whole of his gorgeous career. if our little affair becomes public it might ruin mr. carrel quire as a politician--at the least it would set him back for ten years. and i am particularly anxious to ruin mr. carrel quire. in doing so i shall accomplish a patriotic act." "oh, mr. prohack!" "yes. mr. carrel quire may be--probably is--a delightful fellow, but he is too full of brains, and he constitutes the gravest danger that has threatened the british empire for a hundred years. hence it is my duty to ruin him if i get the chance; and i've got the chance. i don't see how he could survive the exposure of the simple fact that while preaching anti-waste he is keeping motor-cars in the names of young women." the car had stopped in front of a shop over whose door a pair of gilded animals like nothing in zoology were leaping amiably at each other. miss winstock began to search neurotically in a bag for a handkerchief. "this is the scene of my next appointment," mr. prohack continued. "would you prefer to leave me at once or will you wait again?" miss winstock hesitated. "you had better wait," mr. prohack decided. "you'll be crying in fifteen seconds and your handkerchief is sadly inadequate to the crisis. try a little self-control, and don't let carthew hypnotise you. i shan't be surprised if you're gone when i come back." a commissionaire was now holding open the door of the car. "carthew," said mr. prohack privily, after he had got out. "oblige me by imagining that during my absence the car is empty." carthew quivered for a fraction of eternity, but was exceedingly quick to recover. "yes, sir." the shop was all waxed parquetry, silks, satins, pure linen and pure wool, diversified by a few walking-sticks and a cuff link or so. faced by a judge-like middle-aged authority in a frock-coat, mr. prohack suddenly lost the magisterial demeanour which he had exhibited to a defenceless girl in the car. he comprehended in a flash that suits of clothes were a detail in the existence of an idle man and that neckties and similar supremacies alone mattered. "i want a necktie," he began gently. "certainly, sir," said the judge. but the judge's eyes, fixed on mr. prohack's neck, said: "i should just think you did." life was enlarged to a bewildering, a maddening maze of neckties. mr. prohack considered in his heart that one of the needs of the day was an encyclopaedia of neckties. as he bought neckties he felt as foolish as a woman buying cigars. any idiot could buy a suit, but neckties baffled the intelligence of the terror of the departments, though he had worn something in the nature of a necktie for forty years. the neckties which he bought inspired him with fear--the fear lest he might lack the courage to wear them. in a nightmare he saw himself putting them on in his bedroom and proceeding downstairs to breakfast, and then, panic-stricken, rushing back to the bedroom to change into one of his old neckties. and when he had bought neckties he apprehended that neckties without shirts were like butter without bread, and he bought shirts. and then he surmised that shirts without collars would be indecent. and when he had bought collars a still small voice told him that the logical foundation of all things was socks, and that really he had been trying to build a house from the fourth story downwards. fortunately he had less hesitation about the socks, for he could comfort himself with the thought that socks did not jump to the eye as neckties did, and that by constant care their violence might even be forever concealed from the gaze of his household. he sighed with relief at the end of the sock episode. but he had forgotten braces, as to which he surrendered unconditionally to the frock-coated judge. he brooked the most astounding braces, for none but eve would see them, and he could intimidate eve. "shall we make you a quarter of a dozen pairs to measure, sir?" this extraordinary question miraculously restored all mr. prohack's vanished aplomb. that at the end of the greatest war in the history of the earth, amid decapitated empires and cities of starvation, braces should be made to measure,--this was too much for mr. prohack, who had not dreamed that braces ever had been made to measure. it shocked him back into sense. "_no!_" he said coldly, and soon afterwards left the shop. miss winstock, in the car, sat for the statue of wistful melancholy. "heavens!" breathed mr. prohack to himself. "the little thing is taking me seriously. with all her experience of the queer world, and all her initiative and courage, she is taking me seriously!" he was touched; his irony became sympathetic, and he thought: "how young the young are!" her smile as he rejoined her had pathos in it. the totality of her was delicious. "you cannot be all bad, miss winstock," said he to her, after instructing the chauffeur, "because nobody is. you are undisciplined. you do wild and rash things--you have already accomplished several this morning. but you have righteous instincts, though not often enough. of course, with one word to the insurance company i could save you. the difficulty is that i could not save you without saving mr. carrel quire also. and it would be very wrong of me to save mr. carrel quire, for to save him would be to jeopardise the future of the british empire, because unless he is scotched, that man's frantic egotism and ruthless ambition will achieve political disaster for four hundred million human beings. i should like to save you. but can i weigh you in the balance against an empire? can i, i say?" "no," answered miss winstock weakly but sincerely. "that's just where you're wrong," said mr. prohack. "i can. and you are shamefully ignorant of history. never yet when empire, any empire, has been weighed in the balance against a young and attractive woman has the young woman failed to win! that is a dreadful fact, but men are thus constituted. had you been a hag, i should not have hesitated to do my duty to my country. but as you are what you are, and sitting so agreeably in my car, i will save you and let my country go." "oh! mr. prohack, you are very kind--but every one told me you were." "no! i am a knave. also there is a condition." "i will agree to anything." "you must leave mr. carrel quire's service. that man is dangerous not only to empires. the entire environment is the very worst decently possible for a girl like you. get away from it. if you don't undertake to give him notice at once, and withdraw entirely from his set, then i will ruin both you and him." "but i shall starve," cried miss winstock. "i shall never find another place without influence, and i have no more influence." "have the winstocks no money?" "not a penny." "and have the paulles no money?" "none for me." "you are the ideal programme-girl in a theatre," said mr. prohack. "you will never starve. excuse me for a few minutes. i have another very important appointment," he added, as the car stopped in piccadilly. after a quarter of an hour spent in learning that suits were naught, neckties were naught, shirts, collars, socks and even braces were naught, but that hats alone made a man of fashion and idleness, mr. prohack returned to miss winstock and announced: "i will engage you as my private secretary. i need one very badly indeed. in fact i cannot understand how, with all my engagements, i have been able to manage without one so long. your chief duties will be to keep on good terms with my wife and daughter, and not to fall in love with my son. if you were not too deeply preoccupied with my chauffeur, you may have noticed a young man who came out of the tailors' just before i did. that was my son." "oh!" exclaimed miss winstock, "the boy who drove off in lady massulam's car?" "was that lady massulam?" asked mr. prohack before he had had time to recover from the immense effect of hearing the startling, almost legendary name of lady massulam in connection with his son. "of course," said miss winstock. "didn't you know?" mr. prohack ignored her pertness. "well," he proceeded, having now successfully concealed his emotion, "after having dealt as i suggest with my wife and children, you will deal with my affairs. you shall have the same salary as mr. carrel quire paid--or forgot to pay. do you agree or not?" "i should love it," replied miss winstock with enthusiasm. "what is your christian name?" "mimi." "so it is. i remember now. well, it won't do at all. never mention it again, please." when he had accompanied mimi to a neighbouring post office and sent off a suitable telegram of farewell to mr. carrel quire in her name, mr. prohack abandoned her till the morrow, and drove off quickly to pick up his wife for the grand babylon lunch. "i am a perfect lunatic," said he to himself. "it must be the effect of riches. however, i don't care." he meant that he didn't care about the conceivable consequences of engaging mimi winstock as secretary. but what he did care about was the conjuncture of lady massulam and charlie. chapter xiii further idleness i strange, inconceivable as it may appear to people of the great world and readers of newspapers, mr. prohack, c.b., had never in his life before been inside the grand babylon hotel. such may be the narrow and mean existence forced by circumstances upon secretly powerful servants of the crown. he arrived late, owing to the intricate preparations of his wife and daughter for charlie's luncheon. these two were unsuccessfully pretending not to be nervous, and their nervousness reacted upon mr. prohack, who perceived with disgust that his gay and mischievous mood of the morning was slipping away from him despite his efforts to retain it. he knew now definitely that his health had taken the right turn, and yet he could not prod the youthful sissie as he had prodded the youthful mimi winstock. moreover mimi was a secret which would have to be divulged, and this secret not only weighed heavy within him, but seemed disturbingly to counterbalance the secrets that charlie was withholding. on the present occasion he saw little of the grand babylon, for as soon as he mentioned his son's name to the nonchalant official behind the enquiry counter the official changed like lightning into an obsequious courtier, and charles's family was put in charge of a hovering attendant boy, who escorted it in a lift and along a mile of corridors, and charlie's family was kept waiting at a door until the voice of charlie permitted the boy to open the door. a rather large parlour set with a table for five; a magnificent view from the window of a huge white-bricked wall and scores of chimney pots and electric wires, and a moving grey sky above! charlie, too, was unsuccessfully pretending not to be nervous. "hullo, kid!" he greeted his sister. "hullo yourself," responded sissie. they shook hands. (they very rarely kissed. however, charlie kissed his mother. even he would not have dared not to kiss her.) "mater," said he, "let me introduce you to lady massulam." lady massulam had been standing in the window. she came forward with a pleasant, restrained smile and made the acquaintance of charlie's family; but she was not talkative. her presence, coming as a terrific surprise to the ladies of the prohack family, and as a fairly powerful surprise to mr. prohack, completed the general constraint. mrs. prohack indeed was somewhat intimidated by it. mrs. prohack's knowledge of lady massulam was derived exclusively from _the daily picture_, where her portrait was constantly appearing, on all sorts of pretexts, and where she was described as a leader of london society. mr. prohack knew of her as a woman credited with great feats of war-work, and also with a certain real talent for organisation; further, he had heard that she had a gift for high finance, and exercised it not without profit. as she happened to be french by birth, no steady english person was seriously upset by the fact that her matrimonial career was obscure, and as she happened to be very rich everybody raised sceptical eyebrows at the assertion that her husband (a knight) was dead; for _the daily picture_ implanted daily in the minds of millions of readers the grand truth that to the very rich nothing can happen simply. the whole _daily picture_ world was aware that of late she had lived at the grand babylon hotel in permanence. that world would not have recognised her from her published portraits, which were more historical than actual. although conspicuously anti-victorian she had a victorian beauty of the impressive kind; she had it still. her hair was of a dark lustrous brown and showed no grey. in figure she was tall, and rather more than plump and rather less than fat. her perfect and perfectly worn clothes proved that she knew just how to deal with herself. she would look forty in a theatre, fifty in a garden, and sixty to her maid at dawn. this important person spoke, when she did speak, with a scarcely perceptible french accent in a fine clear voice. but she spoke little and said practically nothing: which was a shock to marian prohack, who had imagined that in the circles graced by lady massulam conversation varied from badinage to profundity and never halted. it was not that lady massulam was tongue-tied, nor that she was impolite; it was merely that with excellent calmness she did not talk. if anybody handed her a subject, she just dropped it; the floor around her was strewn with subjects. the lunch was dreadful, socially. it might have been better if charlie's family had not been tormented by the tremendous question: what had charlie to do with lady massulam? already charlie's situation was sufficient of a mystery, without this arch-mystery being spread all over it. and inexperienced charlie was a poor host; as a host he was positively pathetic, rivalling lady massulam in taciturnity. sissie took to chaffing her brother, and after a time charlie said suddenly, with curtness: "have you dropped that silly dance-scheme of yours, kid?" sissie was obliged to admit that she had. "then i tell you what you might do. you might come and live here with me for a bit. i want a hostess, you know." "i will," said sissie, straight. no consultation of parents! this brief episode overset mrs. prohack. the lunch worsened, to such a point that mr. prohack began to grow light-hearted, and chaffed charlie in his turn. he found material for chaff in the large number of newly bought books that were lying about the room. there was even the _encyclopaedia of religion and ethics_ in eleven volumes. queer possessions for a youth who at home had never read aught but the periodical literature of automobilism! could this be the influence of lady massulam? then the telephone bell rang, and it was like a signal of salvation. charlie sprang at the instrument. "for you," he said, indicating lady massulam, who rose. "oh!" said she. "it's ozzie." "who's ozzie?" charlie demanded, without thought. "no doubt oswald morfey," said mr. prohack, scoring over his son. "he wants to see me. may i ask him to come up for coffee?" "oh! do!" said sissie, also without thought. she then blushed. mr. prohack thought suspiciously and apprehensively: "i bet anything he's found out that my daughter is here." ozzie transformed the final act of the luncheon. an adept conversationalist, he created conversationalists on every side. mrs. prohack liked him at once. sissie could not keep her eyes off him. charlie was impressed by him. lady massulam treated him with the familiarity of an intimate. mr. prohack alone was sinister in attitude. ozzie brought the great world into the room with him. in his simpering voice he was ready to discuss all the phenomena of the universe; but after ten minutes mr. prohack noticed that the fellow had one sole subject on his mind. namely, a theatrical first-night, fixed for that very evening; a first-night of the highest eminence; one of mr. asprey chown's first-nights, boomed by the marvellous showmanship of mr. asprey chown into a mighty event. the competition for seats was prodigious, but of course lady massulam had obtained her usual stall. "what a pity we can't go!" said sissie simply. "will you all come in my box?" astonishingly replied mr. oswald morfey, embracing in his weak glance the entire prohack family. "the fellow came here on purpose to fix this," said mr. prohack to himself as the matter was being effusively clinched. "i must go," said he aloud, looking at his watch. "i have a very important appointment." "but i wanted to have a word with you, dad," said charlie, in quite a new tone across the table. "possibly," answered the superior ironic father in mr. prohack, who besides being sick of the luncheon party was determined that nothing should interfere with his median and persian programme. "possibly. but that will be for another time." "well, to-night then," said charlie, dashed somewhat. "perhaps," said mr. prohack. yet he was burning to hear his son's word. ii however, mr. prohack did not succeed in loosing himself from the embraces of the grand babylon hotel for another thirty minutes. he offered to abandon the car, to abandon everything to his wife and daughter, and to reach his next important appointment by the common methods of conveyance employed by common people; but the ladies would permit no such thing; they announced their firm intention of personally escorting him to his destination. the party seemed to be unable to break up. there was a considerable confabulation between eve and lady massulam at the entrance to the lift. mr. prohack noticed anew that eve's attitude to lady massulam was still a flattering one. indeed eve showed that in her opinion the meeting with so great a personage as lady massulam was not quite an ordinary episode in her simple existence. and lady massulam was now talking with a free flow to eve. as soon as the colloquy had closed and eve had at length joined her simmering husband in the lift, charlie must have a private chat with lady massulam, apart, mysterious, concerning their affairs, whatever their affairs might be! in spite of himself, mr. prohack was impressed by the demeanour of the young man and the mature blossom of womanhood to each other. they exhibited a mutual trust; they understood each other; they liked each other. she was more than old enough to be his mamma, and yet as she talked to him she somehow became a dignified girl. mr. prohack was disturbed in a manner which he would never have admitted,--how absurd to fancy that lady massulam had in her impressive head a notion of marrying the boy! still, such unions had occurred!--but he was pleasantly touched, too. then oswald morfey and sissie made another couple, very different, more animated, and equally touching. ozzie seemed to grow more likeable, and less despicable, under the honest and frankly ardent gaze of miss prohack; and mr. prohack was again visited by a doubt whether the fellow was after all the perfectly silly ass which he was reputed to be. in the lift, lady massulam having offered her final adieux, ozzie opened up to mrs. prohack the subject of an organisation called the united league of all the arts. mr. prohack would not listen to this. he hated leagues, and especially leagues of arts. he knew in the marrow of his spine that they were preposterous; but mrs. prohack and sissie listened with unfeigned eagerness to the wonderful tale of the future of the united league of all the arts. and when, emerging from the lift, mr. prohack strolled impatiently on ahead, the three stood calmly moveless to converse, until mr. prohack had to stroll impatiently back again. as for charlie, he stood by himself; there was leisure for the desired word with his father, but mr. prohack had bluntly postponed that, and thus the leisure was wasted. without consulting mr. prohack's wishes, ozzie drew the ladies towards the great lounge, and mr. prohack at a distance unwillingly after them. in the lounge so abundantly enlarged and enriched since the days of the celebrated felix babylon, the founder of the hotel, post-lunch coffee was merging into afternoon tea. the number of idle persons in the world, and the number of busy persons who ministered to them, and the number of artistic persons who played voluptuous music to their idleness, struck mr. prohack as merely prodigious. he had not dreamed that idleness on so grandiose a scale flourished in the city which to him had always been a city of hard work and limited meal-hours. he saw that he had a great deal to learn before he could hope to be as skilled in idleness as the lowest of these experts in the lounge. he tapped his foot warningly. no effect on his women. he tapped more loudly, as the hatred of being in a hurry took possession of him. eve looked round with a delightful placatory smile which conjured an answering smile into the face of her husband. he tried to be irritated after smiling, and advancing said in a would-be fierce tone: "if this lunch lasts much longer i shall barely have time to dress for dinner." but the effort was a failure--so complete that sissie laughed at him. he had expected that in the car his women would relate to him the sayings and doings of ozzie morfey in relation to the united league of all the arts. but they said not a syllable on the matter. he knew they were hiding something formidable from him. he might have put a question, but he was too proud to do so. further, he despised them because they essayed to discuss lady massulam impartially, as though she was just a plain body, or nobody at all. a nauseating pretence on their part. crossing a street, the car was held up by a procession of unemployed, with guardian policemen, a band consisting chiefly of drums, and a number of collarless powerful young men who shook white boxes of coppers menacingly in the faces of passers-by. "instead of encouraging them, the police ought to forbid these processions of unemployed," said eve gravely. "they're becoming a perfect nuisance." "why!" said mr. prohack, "this car of yours is a procession of unemployed." this sardonic pleasantry pleased mr. prohack as much as it displeased mrs. prohack. it seemed to alleviate his various worries, and the process of alleviation went further when he remembered that, though he would be late for his important appointment, he had really lost no time because dr. veiga had forbidden him to keep this particular appointment earlier than two full hours after a meal. "don't take cold, darling," eve urged with loving solicitude as he left the car to enter the place of rendezvous. sissie grinned at him mockingly. they both knew that he had never kept such an appointment before. iii solemnity, and hush, and antique menials stiff with tradition, surrounded him. as soon as he had paid the entrance fee and deposited all his valuables in a drawer of which the key was formally delivered to him, he was motioned through a turnstile and requested to permit his boots to be removed. he consented. white linens were then handed to him. "see here," he said with singular courage to the attendant. "i've never been into one of these resorts before. where do i go?" the attendant, who was a bare-footed mild child dressed in the moorish mode, reassuringly charged himself with mr. prohack's well-being, and led the aspirant into a vast mosque with a roof of domes and little glowing windows of coloured glass. in the midst of the mosque was a pale green pool. white figures reclined in alcoves, round the walls. a fountain played--the only orchestra. there was an eastern sound of hands clapped, and another attendant glided across the carpeted warm floor. mr. prohack understood that, in this immense seclusion, when you desired no matter what you clapped your hands and were served. a beautiful peace descended upon him and enveloped him; and he thought: "this is the most wonderful place in the world. i have been waiting for this place for twenty years." he yielded without reserve to its unique invitation. but some time elapsed before he could recover from the unquestionable fact that he was still within a quarter of a mile of piccadilly circus. from the explanations of the attendant and from the precise orders which he had received from dr. veiga regarding the right method of conduct in a turkish bath, mr. prohack, being a man of quick mind, soon devised the order of the ceremonial suited to his case, and began to put it into execution. at first he found the ceremonial exacting. to part from all his clothes and to parade through the mosque in attire of which the principal items were a towel and the key of his valuables (adorning his wrist) was ever so slightly an ordeal to one of his temperament and upbringing. to sit unsheltered in blinding steam was not amusing, though it was exciting. but the steam-chapel (as it might be called) of the mosque was a delight compared to the second next chapel further on, where the woodwork of the chairs was too hot to touch and where a gigantic thermometer informed mr. prohack that with only another fifty degrees of heat he would have achieved boiling point. he remembered that it was in this chamber he must drink iced tonic water in quantity. he clapped his streaming hands clammily, and a tall, thin, old man whose whole life must have been lived near boiling point, immediately brought the draught. short of the melting of the key of his valuables everything possible happened in this extraordinary chamber. but mr. prohack was determined to shrink from naught in the pursuit of idleness. and at length, after he had sat in a less ardent chapel, and in still another chapel been laid out on a marble slab as for an autopsy and, defenceless, attacked for a quarter of an hour by a prize-fighter, and had jumped desperately into the ice-cold lake and been dragged out and smothered in thick folds of linen, and finally reposed horizontal in his original alcove,--then he was conscious of an inward and profound conviction that true, perfect, complete and supreme idleness had been attained. he had no care in the world; he was cut off from the world; he had no family; he existed beatifically and individually in a sublime and satisfied egotism. but, such is the insecurity of human organisms and institutions, in less than two minutes he grew aware of a strange sensation within him, which sensation he ultimately diagnosed as hunger. to clap his hands was the work of an instant. the oncoming attendant recited a catalogue of the foods at his disposal; and the phrase "welsh rarebit" caught his attention. he must have a welsh rarebit; he had not had a welsh rarebit since he was at school. it magically arrived, on an oriental tray, set on a low moorish table. eating the most wonderful food of his life and drinking tea, he looked about and saw that two of the unoccupied sofas in his alcove were strewn with garments; the owners of the garments had doubtlessly arrived during his absence in the chapels and were now in the chapels themselves. he lay back; earthly phenomena lost their hard reality.... when he woke up the mosque was a pit of darkness glimmering with sharp points of electric light. he heard voices, the voices of two men who occupied the neighbouring sofas. they were discoursing to each other upon the difficulties of getting good whiskey in afghanistan and in rio de janeiro respectively. from whiskey they passed to even more interesting matters, and mr. prohack, for the first time, began to learn how the other half lives, to such an extent that he thought he had better turn on the lamp over his head. whereupon the conversation on the neighbouring sofas curved off to the english weather in late autumn. then mr. prohack noticed a deep snore. he perceived that the snore originated in a considerable figure that, wrapped in white and showing to the mosque only a venerable head, was seated in one of the huge armchairs which were placed near the entrance to every alcove. it seemed to him that he recognised the snore, and he was not mistaken, for he had twice before heard it on sunday afternoons at his chief club. the head was the head of sir paul spinner. mr. prohack recalled that old paul was a devotee of the turkish bath. now mr. prohack was exceedingly anxious to have speech with old paul, for he had heard very interesting rumours of paul's activities. he arose softly and approached the easy-chair and surveyed sir paul, who in his then state looked less like a high financier and more like something chipped off the roof of a cathedral than anything that mr. prohack had ever seen. but paul did not waken. a bather plunged into the pool with a tremendous splash, but paul did not waken. and mr. prohack felt that it would be contrary to the spirit of the ritual of the mosque to waken him. but he decided that if he waited all night he would wait until old paul regained consciousness. at that moment an attendant asked mr. prohack if he desired the attentions of the barber, the chiropodist, or the manicurist. new vistas opened out before mr. prohack. he said yes. after the barber, he padded down the stairs from the barber's chapel (which was in the upper story of the mosque), to observe if there was any change in old paul's condition. paul still slept. mr. prohack did similarly after the chiropodist. paul still slept. then again after the manicurist. paul still slept. then a boyish attendant hurried forward and in a very daring manner shook the monumental paul by the shoulder. "you told me to wake you at six, sir paul." and paul woke. "how simple," reflected mr. prohack, "are the problems of existence when they are tackled with decision! here have i been ineffectively trying to waken the fellow for the past hour. but i forgot that he who wishes the end must wish the means, and my regard for the ritual of the mosque was absurd." he retired into the alcove to dress, keeping a watchful eye upon old paul. he felt himself to be in the highest state of physical efficiency. from head to foot he was beyond criticism. when mr. prohack had got as far as his waistcoat sir paul uprose ponderously from the easy-chair. "hi, paul!" the encounter between the two friends was one of those affectionate and ecstatic affairs that can only happen in a turkish bath. "i've been trying to get you on the 'phone half the day," grunted paul spinner, subsiding on to mr. prohack's sofa. "i've been out all day. horribly busy," said mr. prohack. "what's wrong? anything wrong?" "oh, no! only i thought you'd like to know i've finished that deal." "i did hear some tall stories, but not a word from you, old thing." mr. prohack tried to assume a tranquillity which he certainly did not feel. "well, i never sing until i'm out of the wood. but this time i'm out sooner than i expected." "any luck?" "yes. but i dictated a letter to you before i came here." "i suppose you can't remember what there was in it." "i shall get the securities next week." "what securities?" "well, you'll receive"--here paul dropped his voice--"three thousand short of a quarter of a million in return for what you put in, my boy." "then i'm worth over two hundred and fifty thousand pounds!" murmured mr. prohack feebly. and he added, still more feebly: "something will have to be done about this soon." his heart was beating against his waistcoat like an engine. chapter xiv end of an idle day i it is remarkable that even in the most fashionable shopping thoroughfares certain shops remain brilliantly open, exposing plush-cushioned wares under a glare of electricity in the otherwise darkened street, for an hour or so after all neighbouring establishments have drawn down their blinds and put up their shutters. an interesting point of psychology is involved in this phenomenon. on his way home from the paradise of the mosque, mr. prohack, afoot and high-spirited, and energised by a long-forgotten sensation of physical well-being, called in at such a shop, and, with the minimum of parley, bought an article enclosed in a rich case. a swift and happy impulse on his part! the object was destined for his wife, and his intention in giving it was to help him to introduce more easily to her notice the fact that he was now, or would shortly be, worth over quarter of a million of money. for he was a strange, silly fellow, and just as he had been conscious of a certain false shame at inheriting a hundred thousand pounds, so now he was conscious of a certain false shame at having increased his possessions to two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. the eagle was waiting in front of mr. prohack's door; he wondered what might be the latest evening project of his women, for he had not ordered the car so early; perhaps the first night had been postponed; however, he was too discreet, or too dignified, to make any enquiry from the chauffeur; too indifferent to the projects of his beloved women. he would be quite content to sit at home by himself, reflecting upon the marvels of existence and searching among them for his soul. within the house, servants were rushing about in an atmosphere of excitement and bell-ringing. he divined that his wife and daughter were dressing simultaneously for an important occasion--either the first night or something else. in that feverish environment he forgot the form of words which he had carefully prepared for the breaking to his wife of the great financial news. fortunately she gave him no chance to blunder. "oh, arthur, arthur!" she cried, sweetly reproachful, as with an assumed jauntiness he entered the bedroom. "how late you are! i expected you back an hour ago at least. your things are laid out in the boudoir. you haven't got a moment to spare. we're late as it is." she was by no means dressed, and the bedroom looked as if it had been put to the sack; nearly every drawer was ajar, and the two beds resembled a second-hand shop. mr. prohack's self-protective instinct at once converted him into a porcupine. an attempt was being made to force him into a hurry, and he loathed hurry. "i'm not late," said he, "because i didn't say when i should return. it won't take me more than a quarter of an hour to eat, and we've got heaps of time for the theatre." "i'm giving a little dinner in the grand babylon restaurant," said eve, "and of course we must be there first. sissie's arranged it for me on the 'phone. it'll be much more amusing than dining here, and it saves the servants." yet the woman had recently begun to assert that the servants hadn't enough to do! "ah!" said mr. prohack, startled. "and who are the guests?" "oh! nobody! only us and charlie, of course, and oswald morfey, and perhaps lady massulam. i've told charlie to do the ordering." "i should have thought one meal per diem at the grand babylon would have been sufficient." "but this is in the _restaurant_, don't i tell you? oh, dear! that's three times i've tried to do my hair. it's always the same when i want it nice. now do get along, arthur!" "strange!" said he with a sardonic blitheness. "strange how it's always my fault when your hair goes wrong!" and to himself he said: "all right! all right! i just shan't inform you about that quarter of a million. you've no leisure for details to-night, my girl." and he went into the boudoir. his blissful serenity was too well established to be overthrown by anything short of a catastrophe. nevertheless it did quiver slightly under the shock of eve's new tactics in life. this was the woman who, on only the previous night, had been inveighing against the ostentation of her son's career at the grand babylon. now she seemed determined to rival him in showiness, to be the partner of his alleged vulgarity. that the immature sissie should suddenly drop the ideals of the new poor for the ideals of the new rich was excusable. but eve! but that modest embodiment of shy and quiet commonsense! she, who once had scorned the world of _the daily picture_, was more and more disclosing a desire for that world. and where now were her doubts about the righteousness of charlie's glittering deeds? and where was the ancient sagacity which surely should have prevented her from being deceived by the superficialities of an oswald morfey? was she blindly helping to prepare a disaster for her blind daughter? was the explanation that she had tasted of the fruit? the horrid thought crossed mr. prohack's mind: _all women are alike._ he flung it out of his loyal mind, trying to substitute: all women except eve are alike. but it came back in its original form.... not that he cared, really. if eve had transformed herself into a cleopatra his ridiculous passion for her would have suffered no modification. lying around the boudoir were various rectangular parcels, addressed in flowing calligraphy to himself: the first harvest-loads of his busy morning. the sight of them struck his conscience. was not he, too, following his wife on the path of the new rich? no! as ever he was blameless. he was merely executing the prescription of his doctor, who had expounded the necessity of scientific idleness and the curative effect of fine clothes on health. true, he knew himself to be cured, but if nature had chosen to cure him too quickly, that was not his fault.... he heard his wife talking to machin in the bedroom, and machin talking to his wife; and the servant's voice was as joyous and as worried as if she herself, and not eve, were about to give a little dinner at the grand babylon. queer! queer! the phrase 'a quarter of a million' glinted and flashed in the circumambient air. but it was almost a meaningless phrase. he was like a sort of super-savage and could not count beyond a hundred thousand. and, quite unphilosophical, he forgot that the ecstasy produced by a hundred thousand had passed in a few days, and took for granted that the ecstasy produced by two hundred and fifty thousand would endure for ever. "take that thing off, please," he commanded his wife when he returned to the bedroom in full array. she was by no means complete, but she had achieved some progress, and was trying the effect of her garnet necklace. "but it's the best i've got," said she. "no, it isn't," he flatly contradicted her, and opened the case so newly purchased. "arthur!" she gasped, spellbound, entranced, enchanted. "that's my name." "pearls! but--but--this must have cost thousands!" "and what if it did?" he enquired placidly, clasping the thing with much delicacy round her neck. his own pleasure was intense, and yet he severely blamed himself. indeed he called himself a criminal. scarcely could he meet her gaze when she put her hands on his shoulders, after a long gazing into the mirror. and when she kissed him and said with frenzy that he was a dear and a madman, he privately agreed with her. she ran to the door. "where are you going?" "i must show sissie." "wait a moment, child. do you know why i've bought that necklace? because the affair with spinner has come off." he then gave her the figures. she observed, not unduly moved: "but i knew _that_ would be all right." "how did you know?" "because you're so clever. you always get the best of everybody." he realised afresh that she was a highly disturbing woman. she uttered highly disturbing verdicts without thought and without warning. you never knew what she would say. "i think," he remarked, calmly pretending that she had said something quite obvious, "that it would be as well for us not to breathe one word to anybody at all about this new windfall." she eagerly agreed. "but we must really begin to spend--i mean spend regularly." "yes, of course," he admitted. "otherwise it would be absurd, wouldn't it?" "yes, of course." "arthur." "yes." "how much will it be--in income?" "well, i'm not going in for any more flutters. no! i've done absolutely with all speculating idiocies. providence has watched over us. i take the hint. therefore my investments will all have to be entirely safe and sound. no fancy rates of interest. i should say that by the time old paul's fixed up my investments we shall have a bit over four hundred pounds a week coming in--if that's any guide to you." "arthur, isn't it _wicked_!" she examined afresh the necklace. by the time they were all three in the car, mr. prohack had become aware of the fact that in sissie's view he ought to have bought two necklaces while he was about it. sissie's trunks were on the roof of the car. she had decided to take up residence at the grand babylon that very night. the rapidity and the uncontrollability of events made mr. prohack feel dizzy. "i hope you've brought some money, darling," said his wife. ii "lend me some money, will you?" murmured mr. prohack lightly to his splendid son, after he had glanced at the bill for eve's theatre dinner at the grand babylon. mr. prohack had indeed brought some money with him, but not enough. "haven't got any," said charlie, with equal lightness. "better give me the bill. i'll see to it." whereupon charlie signed the bill, and handed the bowing waiter five ten shilling notes. "that's not enough," said mr. prohack. "not enough for the tip. well, it'll have to be. i never give more than ten per cent." mr. prohack strove to conceal his own painful lack of worldliness. he had imagined that he had in his pockets heaps of money to pay for a meal for a handful of people. he was mistaken; that was all, and the incident had no importance, for a few pounds more or less could not matter in the least to a gentleman of his income. yet he felt guilty of being a waster. he could not accustom himself to the scale of expenditure. barely in the old days could he have earned in a week the price of the repast consumed now in an hour. the vast apartment was packed with people living at just that rate of expenditure and seeming to think naught of it. "but do two wrongs make a right?" he privately demanded of his soul. then his soul came to the rescue with its robust commonsense and replied: "perhaps two wrongs don't make a right, but five hundred wrongs positively must make a right." and he felt better. and suddenly he understood the true function of the magnificent orchestra that dominated the scene. it was the function of a brass band at a quack-dentist's booth in a fair,--to drown the cries of the victims of the art of extraction. "yes," he reflected, full of health and carelessness. "this is a truly great life." the party went off in two automobiles, his own and lady massulam's. cars were fighting for room in front of the blazing façade of the metropolitan theatre, across which rose in fire the title of the entertainment, _smack your face_, together with the names of asprey chown and eliza fiddle. car after car poured out a contingent of glorious girls and men and was hustled off with ferocity by a row of gigantic and implacable commissionaires. mr. oswald morfey walked straight into the building at the head of his guests. highly expensive persons were humbling themselves at the little window of the box office, but ozzie held his course, and officials performed obeisances which stopped short only at falling flat on their faces at the sight of him. tickets were not for him. "this is a beautiful box," said eve to him, amazed at the grandeur of the receptacle into which they had been ushered. "it's mr. chown's own box." "then isn't mr. chown to be here to-night?" "no! he went to paris this morning for a rest. the acting manager will telephone to him after each act. that's how he always does, you know." "when the cat's away the mice will play," thought mr. prohack uncomfortably, with the naughty sensations of a mouse. the huge auditorium was a marvellous scene of excited brilliance. as the stalls filled up a burst of clapping came at intervals from the unseen pit. "what are they clapping for?" said the simple eve, who, like mr. prohack, had never been to a first-night before, to say nothing of such a super-first-night as this. "oh!" replied ozzie negligently. "some one they know by sight just come into the stalls. the _chic_ thing in the pit is to recognise, and to show by applause that you have recognised. the one that applauds the oftenest wins the game in the pit." at those words and their tone mr. prohack looked at ozzie with a new eye, as who should be thinking: "is sissie right about this fellow after all?" sissie sat down modestly and calmly next to her mother. nobody could guess from her apparently ingenuous countenance that she knew that she, and not the terror of the departments and his wife, was the originating cause of mr. morfey's grandiose hospitality. "i suppose the stalls are full of celebrities?" said eve. "they're full of people who've paid twice the ordinary price for their seats," answered ozzie. "who's that extraordinary old red-haired woman in the box opposite?" eve demanded. "that's enid." "enid?" "yes. you know the enid stove, don't you? all ladies know the enid stove. it's been a household word for forty years. that's the original enid. her father invented the stove, and named it after her when she was a girl. she never misses a first-night." "how extraordinary! is she what you call a celebrity?" "rather!" "now," said mr. prohack. "now, at last i understand the real meaning of fame." "but that's charlie down there!" exclaimed eve, suddenly, pointing to the stalls and then looking behind her to see if there was not another charlie in the box. "yes," ozzie agreed. "lady massulam had an extra stall, and as five's a bit of a crowd in this box.... i thought he'd told you." "he had not," said eve. the curtain went up, and this simple gesture on the part of the curtain evoked enormous applause. the audience could not control the expression of its delight. a young lady under a sunshade appeared; the mere fact of her existence threw the audience into a new ecstasy. an old man with a red nose appeared: similar demonstrations from the audience. when these two had talked to each other and sung to each other, the applause was tripled, and when the scene changed from piccadilly circus at a.m. to the interior of a spanish palace inhabited by illustrious french actors and actresses who proceeded to play an act of a tragedy by corneille, the applause was quintupled. at the end of the tragedy the applause was decupled. then the spanish palace dissolved into an abyssinian harem, and eliza fiddle in abyssinian costume was discovered lying upon two thousand cushions of two thousand colours, and the audience rose at eliza and eliza rose at the audience, and the resulting frenzy was the sublimest frenzy that ever shook a theatre. the piece was stopped dead for three minutes while the audience and eliza protested a mutual and unique passion. from this point onwards mr. prohack lost his head. he ran to and fro in the bewildering glittering maze of the piece, seeking for an explanation, for a sign-post, for a clue, for the slightest hint, and found nothing. he had no alternative but to cling to eliza fiddle, and he clung to her desperately. she was willing to be clung to. she gave herself, not only to mr. prohack, but to every member of the audience separately; she gave herself in the completeness of all her manifestations. the audience was rich in the possession of the whole of her individuality, which was a great deal. she sang, danced, chattered, froze, melted, laughed, cried, flirted, kissed, kicked, cursed, and turned somersaults with the fury of a dervish, the languor of an odalisque, and the inexhaustibility of a hot-spring geyser.... and at length mr. prohack grew aware of a feeling within himself that was at war with the fresh, fine feeling of physical well-being. "i have never seen a revue before," he said in secret. "is it possible that i am bored?" iii "would you care to go behind and be introduced to miss fiddle?" ozzie suggested at the interval after the curtain had been raised seventeen times in response to frantic shoutings, cheerings, thumpings and clappings, and the mighty tumult of exhilaration had subsided into a happy buzz that arose from all the seats in the entire orange-tinted brilliant auditorium. the ladies would not go; the ladies feared, they said, to impose their company upon miss fiddle in the tremendous strain of her activities. they spoke primly and decisively. it was true that they feared; but their fear was based on consideration for themselves rather than on consideration for miss fiddle. ozzie was plainly snubbed. he had offered a wonderful privilege, and it had been disdained. mr. prohack could not bear the spectacle of ozzie's discomfiture. his sad weakness for pleasing people overcame him, and, putting his hand benevolently on the young man's shoulder, he said: "my dear fellow, personally i'm dying to go." they went by strangely narrow corridors and through iron doors across the stage, whose shirt-sleeved, ragged population seemed to be behaving as though the last trump had sounded, and so upstairs and along a broad passage full of doors ajar from which issued whispers and exclamations and transient visions of young women. from the star's dressing-room, at the end, a crowd of all sorts and conditions of persons was being pushed. mr. prohack trembled with an awful apprehension, and asked himself vainly what in the name of commonsense he was doing there, and prayed that ozzie might be refused admission. the next moment he was being introduced to a middle-aged woman in a middle-aged dressing-gown. her face was thickly caked with paint and powder, her eyes surrounded with rings of deepest black, her finger-nails red. mr. prohack, not without difficulty, recognised eliza. a dresser stood on either side of her. blinding showers of electric light poured down upon her defenceless but hardy form. she shook hands, but mr. prohack deemed that she ought to bear a notice: "danger. visitors are requested not to touch." "so good of you to come round," she said, in her rich and powerful voice, smiling with all her superb teeth. mr. prohack, entranced, gazed, not as at a woman, but as at a public monument. nevertheless he thought that she was not a bad kind, and well suited for the rough work of the world. "i hope you're all coming to my ball to-night," said she. mr. prohack had never heard of any ball. in an instant she told him that she had remarked two most charming ladies with him in the box--(inordinate faculty of observation, mused mr. prohack)--and in another instant she was selling him three two guinea tickets for a grand ball and rout in aid of the west end chorus girls' aid association. could he refuse, perceiving so clearly as he did that within the public monument was hiding a wistful creature, human like himself, human like his wife and daughter? he could not. "now you'll _come_?" said she. mr. prohack swore that he would come, his heart sinking as he realised the consequence of his own foolish weakness. there was a knock at the door. "did you want me, liza?" said a voice, and a fat gentleman, clothed with resplendent correctness, stepped into the room. it was the stage-manager, a god in his way. eliza fiddle became a cyclone. "i should think i did want you," she said passionately. "that's why i sent for you, and next time i'll ask you to come quicker. i'm not going to have that squint-eyed girl on the stage any more to-night. you know, the one at the end of the row. twice she spoiled my exit by getting in the way. and you've got to throw her out, and take it from me. she does it on purpose." "i can't throw her out without mr. chown's orders, and mr. chown's in paris." "then you refuse?" a pause. "yes." "then i'm not going on again to-night, not if i know it. i'm not going to be insulted in my own theatre." "it's not the girl's fault. you know they haven't got room to move." "i don't know anything about that and i don't care. all i know is that i've finished with that squint-eyed woman, and you can choose right now between her and me. and so that's that." miss fiddle's fragile complexion had approached to within six inches of the stage-manager's broad and shiny features, and it had little resemblance to any of the various faces which audiences associated with the figure of eliza fiddle; it was a face voluptuously distorted by the violence of emotion. as miss fiddle appeared to be under the impression that she was alone with the stage-manager, mr. prohack rendered justice to that impression by softly departing. ozzie followed. the stage-manager also followed. "where are you going?" they heard eliza's voice behind them addressing the stage-manager. "i'm going to tell your under-study to get ready quick." an enormous altercation uprose, and faces peeped from every door in the corridor; but mr. prohack stayed not. ozzie led him to mr. asprey chown's private room. the terror of the departments was shaken. ozzie laughed gently as he shut the door. "what will happen?" asked mr. prohack, affecting a gaiety he did not feel. "what do you think will happen?" simpered ozzie blandly, "having due regard to the fact that miss fiddle has to choose between three hundred and fifty pounds a week and a law-suit with chown involving heavy damages? i must say there's nobody like blaggs for keeping these three hundred and fifty pound a week individuals in order. chown would sooner lose forty of them than lose blaggs. and eliza knows it. by the way, what do you think of the show?" "will it succeed?" "you should see the advance booking. there's a thousand pounds in the house to-night. chown will be clearing fifteen hundred a week when he's paid off his production." "well, it's marvellous." "you don't mean the show?" "no. the profit." "i agree," simpered ozzie. "i'm beginning to like this sizzling idiot," thought mr. prohack, as it were regretfully. they left the imperial richness of mr. chown's private room like brothers. iv when mr. prohack touched the handle of the door of the box, he felt as though he were returning to civilisation; he felt less desolated by the immediate past and by the prospect of the immediate future; he was yearning for the society of mere women after his commerce with a star at three hundred and fifty pounds a week. true, he badly wanted to examine his soul and enquire into his philosophy of life, but he was prepared to postpone that inquest until the society of mere women had had a beneficial effect on him. charlie, who had been paying a state visit to his mother and sister was just leaving the box and the curtain was just going up. "hullo, dad!" said the youth, "you're the very man i was looking for," and he drew his father out into the corridor. "you've got two of the finest ballroom dancers i ever saw," he added to ozzie. "haven't we!" ozzie concurred, with faint enthusiasm. "but the rest of the show ..." charlie went on, ruthless. "well, if chown's shows were only equal to his showmanship...! only they aren't!" ozzie raised his eyebrows--a skilful gesture that at once defended his employer and agreed with charles. "by the way, dad, i've got a house for you. i've told the mater about it and she's going to see it to-morrow morning." "a house!" mr. prohack exclaimed weakly, foreseeing new vistas of worry. "i've got one. i can't live in two." "but this one's a _house_. you know about it, don't you, morfey?" ozzie gave a nod and a vague smile. "see here, dad! come out here a minute." ozzie discreetly entered the box and closed the door. "what is it?" asked mr. prohack. "it's this," charlie replied, handing his parent a cheque. "i've deducted what i paid for you to-night from what you lent me not long since. i've calculated interest on the loan at ten per cent. you can get ten practically anywhere in these days, worse luck." "but i don't want this, my boy," mr. prohack protested, holding the cheque as he might have held a lady's handkerchief retrieved from the ground. "well, i'm quite sure i don't," said charlie, a little stiffly. there was a pause. "as you please," said mr. prohack, putting the cheque--interest and all--into his pocket. "thanks," said charlie. "much obliged. you're a noble father, and i shouldn't be a bit surprised if you've laid the foundation of my fortunes. but of course you never know--in my business." "what _is_ your business?" mr. prohack asked timidly, almost apologetically. he had made up his mind on the previous evening that he would talk to charlie as a father ought to talk to a son, that is to say, like a cross-examining barrister and a moralist combined. he had decided that it was more than his right--it was his duty to do so. but now the right, if not the duty, seemed less plain, and he remembered what he had said to eve concerning the right attitude of parents to children. and chiefly he remembered that charlie was not in his debt. "i'm a buyer and seller. i buy for less than i sell for. that's how i live." "it appears to be profitable." "yes. i made over ten thousand in glasgow, buying an option on an engineering business--with your money--from people who wanted to get rid of it, and then selling what i hadn't paid for to people in london who wanted to get hold of an engineering business up there. seems simple enough, and the only reason everybody isn't doing it is that it isn't as simple as it seems. at least, it's simple, but there's a knack in it. i found out i'd got the knack through my little deals in motor-bikes and things. as a matter of fact i didn't find out,--some one told me, and i began to think.... but don't be alarmed if i go bust. i'm on to a much bigger option now, in the city. oh! very much bigger. if it comes off ... you'll see. lady massulam is keen on it, and she's something of a judge.... any remarks?" mr. prohack looked cautiously at the young man, his own creation, to whom, only the other day as it seemed, he had been in the habit of giving one pound per school-term for pocket-money. and he was affrighted--not by what he had created, but by the astounding possibilities of fatherhood, which suddenly presented itself to him as a most dangerous pursuit. "no remarks," said he, briefly. what remarks indeed could he offer? wildly guessing at the truth about his son, in that conversation with eve on the previous evening, he had happened to guess right. and his sermon to eve prevented now the issue of remarks. "oh! of course!" charlie burst out. "you can't tell me anything i don't know already. i'm a pirate. i'm not producing. all the money i make has to be earned by somebody else before i get hold of it. i'm not doing any good to my beautiful country. but i did try to find a useful job, didn't i? my beautiful country wouldn't have me. it only wanted me in the trenches. well, it's got to have me. i'll jolly well make it pay now. i'll squeeze every penny out of it. i'll teach it a lesson. and why not? i shall only be shoving its own ideas down its throat. supposing i hadn't got this knack and i hadn't had _you_. i might have been wearing all my ribbons and playing a barrel organ in oxford street to-day instead of living at the grand babylon." "you're becoming quite eloquent in your old age," said mr. prohack, tremulously jocular while looking with alarm into his paternal heart. was not he himself a pirate? had not the hundred and fifty thousand that was coming to him had to be earned by somebody else? money did not make itself. "well," retorted charlie, with a grim smile. "there's one thing to be said for me. when i _do_ talk, i talk." "and so at last you've begun to read?" "i'm not going to be the ordinary millionaire. no fear! make your mind easy on that point. besides, reading isn't so bad after all." "and what about that house you were speaking of? you aren't going to plant any of your options on me." "we'll discuss that to-morrow. i must get back to my seat," said charlie firmly, moving away. "so long." "i say," mr. prohack summoned him to return. "i'm rather curious about the methods of you millionaires. just when did you sign that cheque for me? you only lent me the money as we were leaving the hotel." "i made it out while i was talking to the mater and sis in your box, of course." "how simple are the acts of genius--after they're accomplished!" observed mr. prohack. "naturally you signed it in the box." as he rejoined his family he yawned, surprising himself. he began to feel a mysterious fatigue. the effect of the turkish bath, without doubt! the remainder of the evening stretched out in front of him, interminably tedious. the title of the play was misleading. he could not smack his face. he wished to heaven he could.... and then, after the play, the ball! eliza might tell him to dance with her. she would be quite capable of such a deed. and by universal convention her suggestions were the equivalent of demands. nobody ever could or would refuse to dance with eliza.... there she was, all her four limbs superbly displayed, sweetly smiling with her enormous mouth, just as if the relations between blaggs and herself were those of paul and virginia. the excited audience, in the professional phrase, was "eating" her. v mr. prohack was really a most absurd person. _smack your face_, when it came to an end, towards midnight, had established itself as an authentic enormous success; and because mr. prohack did not care for it, because it bored him, because he found it vulgar and tedious and expensive, because it tasted in his mouth like a dust-and-ashes sandwich, the fellow actually felt sad; he felt even bitter. he hated to see the fashionable and splendid audience unwilling to leave the theatre, cheering one super-favourite, five arch-favourites and fifteen favourites, and cheering them again and again, and sending the curtain up and down and up and down time after time. he could not bear that what he detested should be deliriously admired. he went so far as to form views about the decadence of the theatre as an institution. most of all he was disgusted because his beloved eve was not disgusted. eve said placidly that she did not think much of the affair, but that she had thoroughly enjoyed it and wouldn't mind coming on the next night to see it afresh. he said gloomily: "and i've been bringing you up for nearly twenty-five years." as for sissie, she was quietly and sternly enthusiastic about a lot of the dancing. she announced her judgment as an expert, and charlie agreed with her, and there was no appeal, and mr. prohack had the air of an ignorant outsider whose opinions were negligible. further, he was absurd in that, though he assuredly had no desire whatever to go to the dance, he fretted at the delay in getting there. even when they had all got out to the porch of the theatre he exhibited a controlled but intense impatience because charlie did not produce the car instantly from amidst the confused hordes of cars that waited in the surrounding streets. moreover, as regards the ball, he had foolishly put himself in a false position; for he was compelled to pretend that he had purchased the tickets because he personally wanted to go to the ball. had he not been learning to dance? now the fact was that he looked forward to the ball with terror. he had never performed publicly. he proceeded from one pretence to another. when charlie stated curtly that he, charlie, was going to no ball, he feigned disappointment, saying that charlie ought to go for his sister's sake. yet he was greatly relieved at charlie's departure (even in lady massulam's car); he could not stomach the notion of charlie cynically watching his infant steps on the polished, treacherous floor. in the matter of charlie, oswald morfey also feigned disappointment, but for a different reason. ozzie wanted to have sissie as much as possible to himself. mr. prohack yawned in the car. "you're over-tired, arthur. it's the turkish bath," said eve with commiseration. this was a bad enough mistake on her part, but she worsened it by adding: "perhaps the wisest thing would be for us all to go home." mr. prohack was extremely exhausted, and would have given his head to go home; but so odd, so contrary, so deceitful and so silly was his nature that he replied: "darling! where on earth do you get these ideas from? there's nothing like a turkish bath for stimulating you, and i'm not at all tired. i never felt better in my life. but the atmosphere of that theatre would make anybody yawn." the ball was held in a picture-gallery where an exhibition of the international portrait society was in progress. the crush of cars at the portals was as keen as that at the portals of the metropolitan. and all the persons who got out of the cars seemed as fresh as if they had just got out of bed. mr. prohack was astonished at the vast number of people who didn't care what time they went to bed because they didn't care what time they arose; he was in danger of being morbidly obsessed by the extraordinary prevalence of idleness. the rooms were full of brilliant idlers in all colours. everybody except chorus girls had thought fit to appear at this ball in aid of the admirably charitable chorus girls' aid association. and as everybody was also on the walls, the dancers had to compete with their portraits--a competition in which many of them were well beaten. after they had visited the supper-room, where both sissie and her mother did wonderful feats of degustation and mr. prohack drank all that was good for him, sissie ordered her father to dance with her. he refused. she went off with ozzie, while her parents sat side by side on gold chairs like ancestors. sissie repeated her command, and mr. prohack was about to disobey when eliza fiddle dawned upon the assemblage. the supernatural creature had been rehearsing until a.m., she had been trying on clothes from a.m. until p.m. she had borne the chief weight of _smack your face_, on her unique shoulders for nearly three hours and a half. she had changed into an unforgettable black ball-dress, cut to demonstrate in the clearest fashion that her shoulders had suffered no harm; and here she was as fresh as aphrodite from the foam. she immediately set herself to bear the chief weight of the ball on those same defenceless shoulders; for she was, in theory at any rate, the leading organiser of the affair, and according to the entire press it was "her" ball. as soon as he saw her mr. prohack had a most ridiculous fear lest she should pick him out for a dance, and to protect himself he said "all right" to his daughter. a fox-trot announced itself. in his own drawing-room, with the door locked, mr. prohack could and did treat a fox-trot as child's play. but now he realised that he had utterly forgotten every movement of the infernal thing. agony as he stood up and took his daughter's hand! an awful conviction that everybody (who was anybody) was staring to witness the terror of the departments trying to jazz in public for the first time. a sick, sinking fear lest some of his old colleagues from the treasury might be lurking in corners to guy him! agony as he collected himself and swayed his body slightly to catch the rhythm of the tune! where in heaven's name was the first beat in the bar? "walk first," said sissie professionally.... he was in motion. "now!" said sissie. "_one_, two. _one_, two." miraculously he was dancing! it was as though the whole room was shouting: "they're off!" sissie steered him. "don't look at your feet!" said she sharply, and like a schoolboy he chucked his chin obediently up.... then he was steering her. although her feet were the reverse of enormous he somehow could not keep off them; but that girl was made of hardy stuff and never winced. he was doing better. pride was puffing him. yet he desired the music to stop. the music did stop. "thanks," he breathed. "oh, no!" said she. "that's not all." the dancers clapped and the orchestra resumed. he started again. couples surged around him, and sometimes he avoided them and sometimes he did not. then he saw a head bobbing not far away, as if it were one cork and he another on a choppy sea. it resembled eve's head. it was eve's head. she was dancing with oswald morfey. he had never supposed that eve could dance these new dances. "let's stop," said he. "certainly not," sissie forbade. "we must finish it." he finished it, rather breathless and dizzy. he had lived through it. "you're perfectly wonderful, arthur," said eve when they met. "oh no! i'm no good." "i was frightfully nervous about you at first," said sissie. he said briefly: "you needn't have been. i wasn't." a little later eve said to him: "aren't you going to ask _me_ to dance, arthur?" dancing with eve was not quite like dancing with sissie, but they safely survived deadly perils. and mr. prohack perspired in a very healthy fashion. "you dance really beautifully, dear," said eve, benevolently smiling. after that he cut himself free and roamed about. he wanted to ask eliza fiddle to dance, and also he didn't want to ask her to dance. however, he had apparently ceased to exist for her. ozzie had introduced him to several radiant young creatures. he wanted to ask them to dance; but he dared not. and he was furious with himself. to dance with one's daughter and wife was well enough in its way, but it was not the real thing. it was without salt. one or two of the radiances glanced at him with inviting eyes, but no, he dared not face it. he grew gloomy, gloomier. he thought angrily: "all this is not for me. i'm a middle-aged fool, and i've known it all along." life lost its savour and became repugnant. fatigue punished him, and simultaneously reduced two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to the value of about fourpence. it was eve who got him away. "home," he called to carthew, after eve and sissie had said good-bye to ozzie and stowed themselves into the car. "excuse me," said sissie. "you have to deliver me at the grand babylon first." he had forgotten! this détour was the acutest torture of the night. he could no longer bear not to be in bed. and when, after endless nocturnal miles, he did finally get home and into bed, he sighed as one taken off the rack. ah! the delicious contact with the pillow! vi but there are certain persons who, although their minds are logical enough, have illogical bodies. mr. prohack was one of these. his ridiculous physical organism (as he had once informed dr. veiga) was least capable of going to sleep when it was most fatigued. if mr. prohack's body had retired to bed four hours earlier than in fact it did, mr. prohack would have slept instantly and with ease. now, despite delicious contact with the pillow, he could not 'get off.' and his mind, influenced by his body, grew restless, then excited, then distressingly realistic. his mind began to ask fundamental questions, questions not a bit original but none the less very awkward. "you've had your first idle day, mr. prohack," said his mind challengingly instead of composing itself to slumber. "it was organised on scientific lines. it was carried out with conscientiousness. and look at you! and look at me! you've had a few good moments, as for example at the turkish bath, but do you want a succession of such days? could you survive a succession of such days? would you even care to acquire a hundred and fifty thousand pounds every day? you have eaten too much and drunk too much, and run too hard after pleasure, and been too much bored, and met too many antipathetic people, and squandered too much money, and set a thoroughly bad example to your family. you have been happy only in spasms. your health is good; you are cured of your malady. does that render you any more contented? it does not. you have complicated your existence in the hope of improving it. but have you improved it? no. you ought to simplify your existence. but will you? you will not. all your strength of purpose will be needed to prevent still further complications being woven into your existence. to inherit a hundred thousand pounds was your misfortune. but deliberately to increase the sum to a quarter of a million was your fault. you were happier at the treasury. you left the treasury on account of illness. you are not ill any more. will you go back to the treasury? no. you will never go back, because your powerful commonsense tells you that to return to the treasury with an income of twenty thousand a year would be grotesque. and rather than be grotesque you would suffer. again, rightly. nothing is worse than to be grotesque." "further," said his mind, "you have started your son on a sinister career of adventure that may end in calamity. you have ministered to your daughter's latent frivolity. you have put temptations in the way of your wife which she cannot withstand. you have developed yourself into a waster. what is the remedy? obviously to dispose of your money. but your ladies would not permit you to do so and they are entitled to be heard on the point. moreover, how could you dispose of it? not in charity, because you are convinced of the grave social mischievousness of charity. and not in helping any great social movement, because you are not silly enough not to know that the lavishing of wealth never really aids, but most viciously hinders, the proper evolution of a society. and you cannot save your income and let it accumulate, because if you did you would once again be tumbling into the grotesque; and you would, further, be leaving to your successors a legacy of evil which no man is justified in leaving to his successors. no! your case is in practice irremediable. like the murderer on the scaffold, you are the victim of circumstances. and not one human being in a million will pity you. you are a living tragedy which only death can end." during this disconcerting session eve had been mysteriously engaged in the boudoir. she now came into the dark bedroom. "what?" she softly murmured, hearing mr. prohack's restlessness. "not asleep, darling?" she bent over him and kissed him and her kiss was even softer, more soporific, than her voice. "now do go to sleep." and mr. prohack went to sleep, and his last waking thought was, with the feel of the kiss on his nose (the poor woman had aimed badly in the dark): "anyway this tragedy has one compensation, of which a hundred quarter of a millions can't deprive me." chapter xv the heavy father i within a few moments of his final waking up the next morning, mr. prohack beheld eve bending over him, the image of solicitude. she was dressed for outdoor business. "how do you feel?" she asked, in a tender tone that demanded to know the worst at once. "why?" asked mr. prohack, thus with one word, and a smile to match, criticising her tone. "you looked so dreadfully tired last night. i did feel sorry for you, darling. don't you think you'd better stay in bed to-day?" "can you seriously suggest such a thing?" he cried. "what about my daily programme if i stay in bed? i have undertaken to be idle, and nobody can be scientifically idle in bed. i'm late already. where's my breakfast? where are my newspapers? i must begin the day without the loss of another moment. please give me my dressing-gown." "i very much wonder how your blood-pressure is," eve complained. "and you, i suppose, are perfectly well?" "oh, yes, i am. i'm absolutely cured. dr. veiga is really very marvellous. but i always told you he was." "well," said mr. prohack. "what's sauce for the goose has to be sauce for the gander. if you're perfectly well, so am i. you can't have the monopoly of good health in this marriage. what's that pamphlet you've got in your hand, my dove?" "oh! it's nothing. it's only about the league of all the arts. mr. morfey gave it to me." "i suppose it was that pamphlet you were reading last night in the boudoir instead of coming to bed. eve, you're hiding something from me. where are you going to in such a hurry?" "i'm not hiding anything, you silly boy.... i thought i'd just run along and have a look at that house. you see, if it isn't at all the kind of thing to suit us, me going first will save you the trouble of going." "_what house?_" exclaimed mr. prohack with terrible emphasis. "but charlie told me he'd told you all about it," eve protested innocently. "charlie told you no such thing," mr. prohack contradicted her. "if he told you anything at all, he merely told you that he'd mentioned a house to me in the most casual manner." eve proceeded blandly: "it's in manchester square, very handy for the wallace gallery, and you know how fond you are of pictures. it's on sale, furniture and all; but it can be rented for a year to see how it suits us. of course it may not suit us a bit. i understand it has some lovely rooms. charlie says it would be exactly the thing for big receptions." "_big receptions_! i shall have nothing to do with it. now we've lost our children even this house is too big for us. and i know what the houses in manchester square are. you've said all your life you hate receptions." "so i do. they're so much trouble. but one never knows what may happen...! and with plenty of servants...!" "you understand me. i shall have nothing to do with it. nothing!" "darling, please, please don't excite yourself. the decision will rest entirely with you. you know i shouldn't dream of influencing you. as if i could! however, i've promised to meet charlie there this morning. so i suppose i'd better go. carthew is late with the car." she tapped her foot. "and yet i specially told him to be here prompt." "well, considering the hour he brought us home, he's scarcely had time to get into bed yet. he ought to have had the morning off." "why? a chauffeur's a chauffeur after all. they know what they have to do. besides, carthew would do anything for me." "yes, that's you all over. you deliberately bewitch him, and then you shamelessly exploit him. i shall compare notes with carthew. i can give him a useful tip or two about you." "oh! here he is!" said eve, who had been watching out of the window. "au revoir, my pet. here's machin with your breakfast and newspapers. i daresay i shall be back before you're up. but don't count on me." as he raised himself against pillows for the meal, after both she and machin had gone, mr. prohack remembered what his mind had said to him a few hours earlier about fighting against further complications of his existence, and he set his teeth and determined to fight hard. scarcely had he begun his breakfast when eve returned, in a state of excitement. "there's a young woman downstairs waiting for you in the dining-room. she wouldn't give her name to machin, it seems, but she says she's your new secretary. apparently she recognised my car on the way from the garage and stopped it and got into it; and then she found out she'd forgotten something and the car had to go back with her to where she lives, wherever that is, and that's why carthew was late for _me_." eve delivered these sentences with a tremendous air of ordinariness, as though they related quite usual events and disturbances, and as though no wife could possibly see in them any matter for astonishment or reproach. such was one of her methods of making an effect. mr. prohack collected himself. on several occasions during the previous afternoon and evening he had meditated somewhat uneasily upon the domestic difficulties which might inhere in this impulsive engagement of miss winstock as a private secretary, but since waking up the affair had not presented itself to his mind. he had indeed completely forgotten it. "who told you all this?" he asked warily. "well, she told machin and machin told me." "let me see now," said mr. prohack. "yes. it's quite true. after ordering a pair of braces yesterday morning, i did order a secretary. she was recommended to me." "you didn't say anything about it yesterday." "my dove, had i a chance to do so? had we a single moment together? and you know how i was when we reached home, don't you?... you see, i always had a secretary at the treasury, and i feel sort of lost without one. so i--" "but, darling, _of course_! i always believe in letting you do exactly as you like. it's the only way.... au revoir, my pet. charlie will be frightfully angry with me." and then, at the door: "if she hasn't got anything to do she can always see to the flowers for me. perhaps when i come back you'll introduce us." as soon as he had heard the bang of the front-door mr. prohack rang his bell. "machin, i understand that my secretary is waiting in the dining-room." "yes, sir." "ask her to take her things off and then bring her up here." "up here, sir?" "that's right." in seven movements of unimaginable stealthy swiftness machin tidied the worst disorders of the room and departed. mr. prohack continued his breakfast. miss winstock appeared with a small portable typewriter in her arms and a notebook lodged on the typewriter. she was wearing a smart black skirt and a smart white blouse with a high collar. in her unsullied freshness of attire she somewhat resembled a stage secretary on a first night; she might have been mistaken for a brilliant imitation of a real secretary. ii "good morning. so you're come," mr. prohack greeted her firmly. "good morning. yes, mr. prohack." "well, put that thing down on a chair somewhere." machin also had entered the room. she handed a paper to mr. prohack. "mistress asked me to give you that, sir." it was a lengthy description, typewritten, of a house in manchester square. "pass me those matches, please," said mr. prohack to mimi when they were alone. "by the way, why wouldn't you give your name when you arrived?" "because i didn't know what it was." "didn't know what it was?" "when i told you my christian name yesterday you said it wouldn't do at all, and i was never to mention it again. in the absence of definite instructions about my surname i thought i had better pursue a cautious policy of waiting. i've told the chauffeur that he will know my name in due course and that until i tell him what it is he mustn't know it. i was not sure whether you would wish the members of your household to know that i'm the person who had a collision with your car. mrs. prohack and i were both in a state of collapse after the accident, and i was removed before she could see me. therefore she did not recognise me this morning. but on the other hand she has no doubt heard my name often enough since the accident and would recognise _that_." mr. prohack lit the first cigarette of the day. "why did you bring that typewriter?" he asked gravely. "it's mine. i thought that if you didn't happen to have one here it might be useful. it was the typewriter that the car had to go back for. i'd forgotten it. i can take it away again. but if you like you can either buy it or hire it from me." the girl could not have guessed it from his countenance, but mr. prohack was thunderstruck. she was bringing forward considerations which positively had not presented themselves to him. that she had much initiative was clear from her conduct of the previous day. she now disclosed a startling capacity for intrigue. mr. prohack, however, was not intimidated. the experience of an official life had taught him the value of taciturnity, and moreover a comfortable feeling of satisfaction stole over him as he realised that once again he had a secretary under his thumb. he seemed to be delightfully resuming the habits which ill-health had so ruthlessly broken. "mary warburton," said he at length. "certainly," said she. "i'll tell your chauffeur." "the initials will correspond--in case--" "yes," said she. "i'd noticed that." "we will see what your typewriting machine is capable of, and then i'll decide about it." "certainly." "please take down some letters." "mr. carrel quire always told me what he wanted said, and i wrote the letters myself." "that is very interesting," said mr. prohack. "perhaps you can manage to sit at the dressing-table. mind that necklace there. it's supposed to be rather valuable. put it in the case, and put the case in the middle drawer." "don't you keep it in a safe?" said miss warburton, obeying. "all questions about necklaces should be addressed direct to mrs. prohack." "i prefer to take down on my knee," said miss warburton, opening her notebook, "if i am to take down." "you are. now. 'dear madam. i am requested by my lords of the treasury to forward to you the enclosed cheque for one hundred pounds for your privy purse.' new line. 'i am also to state that no account of expenditure will be required.' new line. 'be good enough to acknowledge receipt. your obedient servant. to miss prohack, grand babylon hotel.' got it? 'dear sir. with reference to the action instituted by your company against miss mimi winstock, and to my claim against your company under my accident policy. i have seen the defendant. she had evidently behaved in an extremely foolish not to say criminal way; but as the result of a personal appeal from her i have decided to settle the matter privately. please therefore accept this letter as a release from all your liabilities to me, and also as my personal undertaking to pay all the costs of the action on both sides. yours faithfully. secretary, world's car insurance corporation.' wipe your eyes, wipe your eyes, miss warburton. you're wetting the notebook." "i was only crying because you're so kind. i know i _did_ behave in a criminal way." "just so, miss warburton. but it will be more convenient for me and for you too if you can arrange to cry in your own time and not in mine." and he continued to address her, in his own mind: "don't think i haven't noticed your aspiring nose and your ruthless little lips and your gift for conspiracy and your wonderful weakness for tears! and don't confuse me with mr. carrel quire, because we're two quite different people! you've got to be useful to me." and in a more remote part of his mind, he continued still further: "you're quite a decent sort of child, only you've been spoilt. i'll unspoil you. you've taken your first medicine rather well. i like you, or i shall like you before i've done with you." miss warburton wiped her eyes. "you understand," mr. prohack proceeded aloud, "that you're engaged as my confidential secretary. and when i say 'confidential' i mean 'confidential' in the fullest sense." "oh, quite," miss warburton concurred almost passionately. "and you aren't anybody else's secretary but mine. you may pretend to be everybody else's secretary, you may pretend as much as you please--it may even be advisable to do so--but the fact must always remain that you are mine alone. you have to protect my interests, and let me warn you that my interests are sometimes very strange, not to say peculiar. get well into your head that there are not ten commandments in my service. there is only one: to watch over my interests, to protect them against everybody else in the whole world. in return for a living wage, you give me the most absolute loyalty, a loyalty which sticks at nothing, nothing, nothing." "oh, mr. prohack!" replied mary warburton, smiling simply. "you needn't tell me all that. i entirely understand. it's the usual thing for confidential secretaries, isn't it?" "and now," mr. prohack went on, ignoring her. "this being made perfectly clear, go into the boudoir--that's the room through there--and bring me here all the parcels lying about. our next task is to check the accuracy of several of the leading tradesmen in the west end." "i think there are one or two more parcels that have been delivered this morning, in the hall," said miss warburton. "perhaps i had better fetch them." "perhaps you had." in a few minutes, miss warburton, by dint of opening parcels, had transformed the bedroom into a composite of the principal men's shops in piccadilly and bond street. mr. prohack recoiled before the chromatic show and also before the prospect of eve's views on the show. "take everything into the boudoir," said he, "and arrange them under the sofa. it's important that we should not lose our heads in this crisis. when you go out to lunch you will buy some foolscap paper and this afternoon you will make a schedule of the goods, divided according to the portions of the human frame which they are intended to conceal or adorn. what are you laughing at, miss warburton?" "you are so amusing, mr. prohack." "i may be amusing, but i am not susceptible to the flattery of giggling. endeavour not to treat serious subjects lightly." "i don't see any boots." "neither do i. you will telephone to the bootmaker's, and to my tailor's; also to sir paul spinner and messrs. smathe and smathe. but before that i will just dictate a few more letters." "certainly." when he had finished dictating, mr. prohack said: "i shall now get up. go downstairs and ask machin--that's the parlourmaid--to show you the breakfast-room. the breakfast-room is behind the dining-room, and is so called because it is never employed for breakfast. it exists in all truly london houses, and is perfectly useless in all of them except those occupied by dentists, who use it for their beneficent labours in taking things from, or adding things to, the bodies of their patients. the breakfast-room in this house will be the secretary's room--your room if you continue to give me satisfaction. remove that typewriting machine from here, and arrange your room according to your desire.... and i say, miss warburton." "yes, mr. prohack," eagerly responded the secretary, pausing at the door. "yesterday i gave you a brief outline of your duties. but i omitted one exceedingly important item--almost as important as not falling in love with my son. you will have to keep on good terms with machin. machin is indispensable and irreplaceable. i could get forty absolutely loyal secretaries while my wife was unsuccessfully searching for another machin." "i have an infallible way with parlourmaids," said miss warburton. "what is that?" "i listen to their grievances and to their love-affairs." mr. prohack, though fatigued, felt himself to be inordinately well, and he divined that this felicity was due to the exercise of dancing on the previous night, following upon the turkish bath. he had not felt so well for many years. he laughed to himself at intervals as he performed his toilette, and knew not quite why. his secretary was just like a new toy to him, offering many of the advantages of official life and routine without any of the drawbacks. at half past eleven he descended, wearing one or two of the more discreet of his new possessions, and with the sensation of having already transacted a good day's work, into the breakfast-room and found miss warburton and machin in converse. machin feverishly poked the freshly-lit fire and then, pretending to have urgent business elsewhere, left the room. "here are some particulars of a house in manchester square," said mr. prohack. "please read them." miss warburton complied. "it seems really very nice," said she. "very nice indeed." "does it? now listen to me. that house is apparently the most practical and the most beautiful house in london. judging from the description, it deserves to be put under a glass-case in a museum and labelled 'the ideal house.' there is no fault to be found with that house, and i should probably take it at once but for one point. i don't want it. i do not want it. do i make myself clear? i have no use for it whatever." "then you've inspected it." "i have not. but i don't want it. now a determined effort will shortly be made to induce me to take that house. i will not go into details or personalities. i say merely that a determined effort will shortly be made to force me to act against my will and my wishes. this effort must be circumvented. in a word, the present is a moment when i may need the unscrupulous services of an utterly devoted confidential secretary." "what am i to do?" "i haven't the slightest idea. all i know is that my existence must not on any account be complicated, and that the possession of that house would seriously complicate it." "will you leave the matter to me, mr. prohack?" "what shall you do?" "wouldn't it be better for you not to know what i should do?" miss warburton glanced at him oddly. her glance was agreeable, and yet disconcerting. the attractiveness of the young woman seemed to be accentuated. the institution of the confidential secretary was magnified, in the eyes of mr. prohack, into one of the greatest achievements of human society. "not at all," said he, in reply. "you are under-rating my capabilities, for i can know and not know simultaneously." "well," said miss warburton. "you can't take an old house without having the drains examined, obviously. supposing the report on the drains was unfavourable?" "do you propose to tamper with the drains?" "certainly not. i shouldn't dream of doing anything so disgraceful. but i might tamper with the surveyor who made the report on the drains." "say no more," mr. prohack adjured her. "i'm going out." and he went out, though he had by no means finished instructing miss warburton in the art of being his secretary. she did not even know where to find the essential tools of her calling, nor yet the names of tradesmen to whom she had to telephone. he ought to have stayed in if only to present his secretary to his wife. but he went out--to reflect in private upon her initiative, her ready resourcefulness, her great gift for conspiracy. he had to get away from her. the thought of her induced in him qualms of trepidation. could he after all manage her? what a loss would she be to mr. carrel quire! nevertheless she was capable of being foolish. it was her foolishness that had transferred her from mr. carrel quire to himself. iii mr. prohack went out because he was drawn out, by the force of an attraction which he would scarcely avow even to himself,--a mysterious and horrible attraction which, if he had been a logical human being like the rest of us, ought to have been a repulsion for him. and as he was walking abroad in the pleasant foggy sunshine of the west end streets, a plutocratic idler with nothing to do but yield to strange impulses, he saw on a motor-bus the placard of a financial daily paper bearing the line: "the latest oil coup." he immediately wanted to buy that paper. as a london citizen he held the opinion that whenever he wanted a thing he ought to be able to buy it at the next corner. yet now he looked in every direction but could see no symptom of a newspaper shop anywhere. the time was morning--for the west end it was early morning--and there were newsboys on the pavements, but by a curious anomaly they were selling evening and not morning newspapers. daringly he asked one of these infants for the financial daily; the infant sniggered and did no more. another directed him to a shop up an alley off the edgware road. the shopman doubted the existence of any such financial daily as mr. prohack indicated, apparently attaching no importance to the fact that it was advertised on every motor-bus travelling along the edgware road, but he suggested that if it did exist, it might just conceivably be purchased at the main bookstall at paddington station. determined to obtain the paper at all costs, mr. prohack stopped a taxi-cab and drove to paddington, squandering eighteenpence on the journey, and reflecting as he rolled forward upon the primitiveness of a so-called civilisation in which you could not buy a morning paper in the morning without spending the whole morning over the transaction--and reflecting also upon the disturbing fact that after one full day of its practice, his scheme of scientific idleness had gone all to bits. he got the paper, and read therein a very exciting account of sir paul spinner's deal in oil-lands. the amount of paul's profit was not specified, but readers were given to understand that it was enormous and that paul had successfully bled the greatest oil combine in the world. the article, though discreet and vague in phraseology, was well worth a line on any placard. it had cost mr. prohack the price of a complete shakespere, but he did not call it dear. he threw the paper away with a free optimistic gesture of delight. yes, he had wisely put his trust in old paul and he was veritably a rich man--one who could look down on mediocre fortunes of a hundred thousand pounds or so. civilisation was not so bad after all. then the original attraction which had drawn him out of the house resumed its pull.... why did his subconscious feet take him in the direction of manchester square? true, the wallace collection of pictures is to be found at hertford house, manchester square, and mr. prohack had always been interested in pictures! well, if he did happen to find himself in manchester square he might perhaps glance at the exterior of the dwelling which his son desired to plant upon him and his wife desired him to be planted with.... it was there right enough. it had not been spirited away in the night hours. he recognised the number. an enormous house; the largest in the square after hertford house. over its monumental portico was an enormous sign, truthfully describing it as "this noble mansion." as no automobile stood at the front-door mr. prohack concluded that his wife's visit of inspection was over. doubtless she was seeking him at home at that moment to the end of persuading him by her soft, unscrupulous arts to take the noble mansion. the front-door was ajar. astounding carelessness on the part of the caretaker! mr. prohack's subconscious legs carried him into the house. the interior was amazing. mr. prohack had always been interested, not only in pictures, but in furniture. pictures and furniture might have been called the weakness to which his circumstances had hitherto compelled him to be too strong to yield. he knew a good picture, and he knew a good piece of furniture, when he saw them. the noble mansion was full of good pictures and good furniture. evidently it had been the home of somebody who had both fine tastes and the means to gratify them. and the place was complete. nothing had been removed, and nothing had been protected against the grimy dust of london. the occupiers might have walked out of it a few hours earlier. the effect of dark richness in the half-shuttered rooms almost overwhelmed mr. prohack. nobody preventing, he climbed the beautiful georgian staircase, which was carpeted with a series of wondrous persian carpets laid end to end. a woman in a black apron appeared in the hall from the basement, gazed at mr. prohack's mounting legs, and said naught. on the first-floor was the drawing-room, a magnificent apartment exquisitely furnished in louis quinze. mr. prohack blenched. he had expected nothing half so marvellous. was it possible that he could afford to take this noble mansion and live in it? it was more than possible; it was sure. mr. prohack had a foreboding of a wild, transient impulse to take it. the impulse died ere it was born. no further complications of his existence were to be permitted; he would fight against them to the last drop of his blood. and the complications incident to residence in such an abode would be enormous. still, he thought that he might as well see the whole house, and he proceeded upstairs, wondering how many people there were in london who possessed the taste to make, and the money to maintain, such a home. even the stairs from the first to the second floor, were beautiful, having a lovely carpet, lovely engravings on the walls, and a delightful balustrade. on the second-floor landing were two tables covered with objects of art, any of which mr. prohack might have pocketed and nobody the wiser; the carelessness that left the place unguarded was merely prodigious. mr. prohack heard a sound; it might have been the creak of a floor-board or the displacement of a piece of furniture. startled, he looked through a half-open door into a small room. he could see an old gilt mirror over a fire-place; and in the mirror the images of the upper portions of a young man and a young woman. the young woman was beyond question sissie prohack. the young man, he decided after a moment of hesitation--for he could distinguish only a male overcoated back in the glass--was oswald morfey. the images were very close together. they did not move. then mr. prohack overheard a whisper, but did not catch its purport. then the image of the girl's face began to blush; it went redder and redder, and the crimson seemed to flow downwards until the exposed neck blushed also. a marvellous and a disconcerting spectacle. mr. prohack felt that he himself was blushing. then the two images blended, and the girl's head and hat seemed to be agitated as by a high wind. and then both images moved out of the field of the mirror. the final expression on the girl's face as it vanished was one of the most exquisite things that mr. prohack had ever witnessed. it brought the tears to his eyes. nevertheless he was shocked. his mind ran: "that fellow has kissed my daughter, and he has kissed her for the first time. it is monstrous that any girl, and especially my daughter, should be kissed for the first time. i have not been consulted, and i had not the slightest idea that matters had gone so far. her mother has probably been here, with charlie, and gone off leaving these doves together. culpable carelessness on her part. talk about mothers! no father would have been guilty of such negligence. the affair must be stopped. it amounts to an outrage." a peculiar person, mr. prohack! no normal father could have had such thoughts. mr. prohack could of course have burst in upon the pair and smashed an idyll to fragments. but instead of doing so he turned away from the idyll and descended the stairs as stealthily as he could. nobody challenged his exit. in the street he breathed with relief as if he had escaped from a house of great peril; but he did not feel safe until he had lost himself in the populousness of oxford street. "for social and family purposes," he reflected, "i have not seen that kiss. i cannot possibly tell them, or tell anybody, that i spied upon their embrace. to put myself right i ought to have called out a greeting the very instant i spotted them. but i did not call out a greeting. by failing to do so i put myself in a false position.... how shall i get official news of that kiss? shall i ever get news of it?" he had important business to transact with tradesmen. he could not do it. on leaving home he had not decided whether he would lunch domestically or at the grand babylon. he now perceived that he could do neither. he would lunch at one of his clubs. no! he could not bring himself to lunch at either club. he could face nobody. he resembled a man who was secretly carrying a considerable parcel of high explosive. he wandered until he could wander no more, and then he entered a tea-shop that was nearly full of young girls. it was a new world to him. he saw "mutton pie d" on the menu and ordered it haphazard. he discovered to his astonishment that he was hungry. having eaten the mutton pie, he ordered a second one, and ate it. the second mutton pie seemed to endow the eater with the faculty of vision--a result which perhaps no other mutton pie had ever before in the whole annals of eating achieved. he felt much better. he was illuminated by a large, refreshing wisdom, which thus expressed itself in his excited brain: "after all, i suppose it's not the first or the only instance of a girl being kissed by a man. similar incidents must occur quite often in the history of the human race." iv when he returned home his house seemed to be pitiably small, cramped, and lacking in rich ornament; it seemed to be no sort of a house for a man with twenty thousand a year. but he was determined to love his house at all costs, and never to leave it. the philosopher within himself told him that happiness does not spring from large houses built with hands. and his own house was bright that afternoon; he felt as soon as he entered it that it was more bright than usual. the reason was immediately disclosed. sissie was inside it. she had come for some belongings and to pay a visit to her mother. "my word!" she greeted her father in the drawing-room, where she was strumming while eve leaned lovingly on the piano. "my word! we are fine with our new private secretary!" not a sign on that girl's face, nor in her demeanour, that she had an amorous secret, that something absolutely unprecedented had happened to her only a few hours earlier! the duplicity of women astonished even the philosopher in mr. prohack. "will she mention it or won't she?" mr. prohack asked himself; and then began to equal sissie in duplicity by demanding of his women in a tone of raillery what they thought of the new private secretary. he reflected that he might as well know the worst at once. "she'll do," said sissie gaily, and eve said: "she seems very willing to oblige." "ah!" mr. prohack grew alert. "she's been obliging you already, has she?" "well," said eve. "it was about the new house--" "what new house?" "but you know, darling. charlie mentioned it to you last night, and i told you that i was going to look at it this morning." "oh! _that_!" mr. prohack ejaculated disdainfully. "i've seen it. i've been all over it, and it's simply lovely. i never saw anything equal to it." "of course!" "and so cheap!" "of course!" "but it's ripping, dad, seriously." "seriously ripping, it is? well, so far as i am concerned i shall let it rip." "i rushed back here as soon as i'd seen it," eve proceeded, quietly ignoring the last remark. "but you'd gone out without saying where. nobody knew where you'd gone. it was very awkward, because if we want this house we've got to decide at once--at latest in three days, charlie says. miss warburton--that's her name, isn't it?--miss warburton had a very bright idea. she seems to know quite a lot about property. she thought of the drains. she said the first thing would be to have the drains inspected, and that if there was any hurry the surveyors ought to be instructed instantly. she knew some surveyor people, and so she's gone out to see the agents and get permission from them for the surveyors to inspect, and she'll see the surveyors at the same time. she says we ought to have the report by to-morrow afternoon. she's very enterprising." the enterprisingness of miss warburton frightened mr. prohack. she had acted exactly as he would have wished--only better; evidently she was working out his plot against the house in the most efficient manner. yet he was frightened. so much so that he could find nothing to say except: "indeed!" "you never told me she used to be with mr. carrel quire and is related to the paulle family," observed eve, mingling a mild reproach with joyous vivacity, as if saying: "why did you keep this titbit from me?" "i must now have a little repose," said mr. prohack. "we'll leave you," eve said, eager to be agreeable. "you must be tired, you poor dear. i'm just going out to shop with sissie. i'm not sure if i shall be in for tea, but i will be if you think you'll be lonely." "did you do much entertaining at lunch, young woman?" mr. prohack asked. "charlie had several people--men--but i really don't know who they were. and ozzie morfey came. and permit me to inform you that charlie was simply knocked flat by my qualities as a hostess. do you know what he said to me afterwards? he said: 'that lunch was a bit of all right, kid.' enormous from charlie, wasn't it?" mother and daughter went out arm in arm like two young girls. beyond question they were highly pleased with themselves and the world. eve returned after a moment. "are you comfortable, dear? i've told machin you mustn't on any account be disturbed. charlie's borrowed the car. we shall get a taxi in the bayswater road." she bent down and seemed to bury her soft lips in his cheek. she was beginning to have other interests than himself. and since she had nothing now to worry about, in a maternal sense, she had become a child. she was fat--at any rate nobody could describe her as less than plump--and over forty, but a child, an exquisite child. he magnificently let her kiss him. however, he knew that she knew that she was his sole passion. she whispered most intimately and persuasively into his ear: "shall we have a look at that house to-morrow morning, just you and i? you'll love the furniture." "perhaps," he replied. what else could he reply? he very much desired to have a talk with her about sissie and the fellow morfey; but he could not broach the subject because he could not tell her in cold blood that he had seen sissie in morfey's arms. to do so would have an effect like setting fire to the home. unless, of course, sissie had already confided in her mother? was it conceivable that eve had a secret from him? it was certainly conceivable that he had a secret from eve. not only was he hiding from her his knowledge of the startling development in the relations between sissie and morfey,--he had not even told her that he had seen the house in manchester square. he was leading a double life,--consequence of riches! was she? as soon as she had softly closed the door he composed himself, for he was in fact considerably exhausted. remembering a conversation at the club with a celebrated psycho-analyst about the possibilities of auto-suggestion, he strove to empty his mind and then to repeat to himself very rapidly in a low murmur: "you will sleep, you will sleep, you will sleep, you will sleep," innumerable times. but the incantation would not work, probably because he could not keep his mind empty. the mysterious receptacle filled faster than he could empty it. it filled till it flowed over with the flooding realisation of the awful complexity of existence. he longed to maintain its simplicity, well aware that his happiness would result from simplicity alone. but existence flatly refused to be simple. he desired love in a cottage with eve. he could have bought a hundred cottages, all in ideal surroundings. the mere fact, however, that he was in a position to buy a hundred cottages somehow made it impossible for him to devote himself exclusively to loving eve in one cottage.... his imagination leaped over intervening events and he pictured the wedding of sissie as a nightmare of complications--no matter whom she married. he loathed weddings. of course a girl of sissie's sense and modernity ought to insist on being married in a registry office. but would she? she would not. for a month previous to marriage all girls cast off modernity and became victorian. yes, she would demand real orange-blossom and everything that went with it.... he got as far as wishing that sissie might grow into an old maid, solely that he might be spared the wearing complications incident to the ceremony of marriage as practised by intelligent persons in the twentieth century. his character was deteriorating, and he could not stop it from deteriorating.... then sissie herself came very silently into the room. "sit down, my dear. i want to talk to you," he said in his most ingratiating and sympathetic tones. and in quite another tone he addressed her silently: "it's time i taught you a thing or two, my wench." "yes, father," she responded charmingly to his wily ingratiatingness, and sat down. "if you were the ordinary girl," he began, "i shouldn't say a word. it would be no use. but you aren't. and i flatter myself i'm not the ordinary father. you are in love. or you think you are. which is the same thing--for the present. it's a fine thing to be in love. i'm quite serious. i like you tremendously just for being in love. yes, i do. now i know something about being in love. you've got enough imagination to realise that, and i want you to realise it. i want you to realise that i know a bit more about love than you do. stands to reason, doesn't it?" "yes, father," said sissie, placidly respectful. "love has got one drawback. it very gravely impairs the critical faculty. you think you can judge our friend oswald with perfect impartiality. you think you see him as he is. but if you will exercise your imagination you will admit that you can't. you perceive that, don't you?" "quite, dad," the adorable child concurred. "well, do you know anything about him, really?" "not much, father." "neither do i. i've nothing whatever against him. but i shouldn't be playing straight with you if i didn't tell you that at the club he's not greatly admired. and a club is a very good judge of a man, the best judge of a man. and then as regards his business. supposing you were not in love with him, should you like his business? you wouldn't. naturally. there are other things, but i won't discuss them now. all i suggest to you is that you should go a bit slow. exercise caution. control yourself. test him a little. if you and i weren't the greatest pals i shouldn't be such an ass as to talk in this strain to you. but i know you won't misunderstand me. i know you know there's absolutely no conventional nonsense about me, just as i know there's absolutely no conventional nonsense about you. i'm perfectly aware that the old can't teach the young, and that oftener than not the young are right and the old wrong. but it's not a question of old and young between you and me. it's a question of two friends--that's all." "dad," said she, "you're the most wonderful dad that ever was. oh! if everybody would talk like that!" "not at all! not at all!" he deprecated, delighted with himself and her. "i'm simply telling you what you know already. i needn't say any more. you'll do exactly as you think best, and whatever you do will please me. i don't want you to be happy in my way--i want you to be happy in your own way. possibly you'll decide to tell mr. morfey to wait for three months." "i most decidedly shall, dad," sissie interrupted him, "and i'm most frightfully obliged to you." he had always held that she was a marvellous girl, and here was the proof. he had spoken with the perfection of tact and sympathy and wisdom, but his success astonished him. at this point he perceived that sissie was not really sitting in the chair at all and that the chair was empty. so that the exhibition of sagacity had been entirely wasted. "anyhow i've had a sleep," said the philosopher in him. the door opened. machin appeared, defying her mistress's orders. "i'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but a mr. morfey is on the telephone and asks whether it would be convenient for you to see him to-night. he says it's urgent." mr. prohack braced himself, but where his stomach had been there was a void. v "had an accident to your eye-glass?" asked mr. prohack, shaking hands with oswald morfey, when the latter entered, by appointment, mr. prohack's breakfast-room after dinner. miss warburton having gone home, mr. prohack had determined to employ her official room for formal interviews. with her woman's touch she had given it an air of business which pleasantly reminded him of the treasury. ozzie was not wearing an eye-glass, and the absence of the broad black ribbon that usually ran like a cable-connection between his eye and his supra-umbilical region produced the disturbing illusion that he had forgotten an essential article of attire. "yes," ozzie replied, opening his eyes with that mien of surprise that was his response to all questions, even the simplest. "miss sissie has cracked it." "i'm very sorry my daughter should be so clumsy." "it was not exactly clumsiness. i offered her the eye-glass to do what she pleased with, and she pleased to break it." "surely an impertinence?" "no. a favour. miss sissie did not care for my eye-glass." "you must be considerably incommoded." "no. the purpose of my eye-glass was decorative, not optical." ozzie smiled agreeably, though nervously. mr. prohack was conscious of a certain surprising sympathy for this chubby simpering young man with the peculiar vocation, whom but lately he had scorned and whom on one occasion he had described as a perfect ass. "well, shall we sit down?" suggested the elder, whom the younger's nervousness had put into an excellent state of easy confidence. "the fact is," said ozzie, obeying, "the fact is that i've come to see you about sissie. i'm very anxious to marry her, mr. prohack." "indeed! then you must excuse this old velvet coat. if i'd had notice of the solemnity of your visit, my dear morfey, i'd have met you in a dinner jacket. may i just put one question? have you kissed sissie already?" "i--er--have." "by force or by mutual agreement?" "neither." "she made no protest?" "no." "the reverse rather?" "yes." "then why do you come here to me?" "to get your consent." "i suppose you arranged with sissie that you should come here?" "yes, i did. we thought it would be best if i came alone." "well, all i can say is that you're a very old-fashioned pair. i'm afraid that you must have forgotten to alter your date calendar when the twentieth century started. let me assure you that this is not by any means the nineteenth. i admit that i only altered my own date calendar this afternoon, and even then only as the result of an unusual dream." "yes?" said ozzie politely, and he said nothing else, but it seemed to mr. prohack that ozzie was thinking: "this queer old stick is taking advantage of his position to make a fool of himself in his queer old way." "let us examine the circumstances," mr. prohack proceeded. "you want to marry sissie. therefore you respect her. therefore you would not have invited her to marry unless you had been reasonably sure that you possessed the brains and the material means to provide for her physical and moral comfort not merely during the next year but till the end of her life. it would be useless, not to say impolite, for me to question you as to your situation and your abilities, because you are convinced about both, and if you failed to convince me about both you would leave here perfectly sure that the fault was mine and not yours, and you would pursue your plans just the same. moreover, you are a man of the world--far more a man of the world than i am myself--and you are unquestionably the best judge of your powers to do your duty towards a wife. of course some might argue that i, being appreciably older than you, am appreciably wiser than you and that my opinion on vital matters is worth more than yours. but you know, and perhaps i know too, that in growing old a man does not really become wiser; he simply acquires a different sort of wisdom--whether it is a better or a worse sort nobody can decide. all we know is that the extremely young and the extremely old are in practice generally foolish. which leads you nowhere at all. but looking at history we perceive that the ideas of the moderately young have always triumphed against the ideas of the moderately old. and happily so, for otherwise there could be no progress. hence the balance of probability is that, assuming you and i were to differ, you would be more right than i should be." "but i hope that we do not differ, sir," said ozzie. and mr. prohack found satisfaction in the naturalness, the freedom from pose, of ozzie's diffident and disconcerted demeanour. his sympathy for the young man was increased by the young man's increasing consternation. "again," resumed mr. prohack, ignoring ozzie's hope. "take the case of sissie herself. sissie's education was designed and superintended by myself. the supreme aim of education should be to give sound judgment in the great affairs of life, and moral stamina to meet the crises which arrive when sound judgment is falsified by events. if i were to tell you that in my opinion sissie's judgment of you as a future husband was unsound, it would be equivalent to admitting that my education of sissie had been unsound. and i could not possibly admit such a thing. moreover, just as you are a man of the world, so sissie is a woman of the world. by heredity and by natural character she is sagacious, and she has acquainted herself with all manner of things as to which i am entirely ignorant. nor can i remember any instance of her yielding, from genuine conviction, to my judgment when it was opposed to hers. from all which it follows, my dear morfey, that your mission to me here this evening is a somewhat illogical, futile, and unnecessary mission, and that the missioner must be either singularly old-fashioned and conventional--or laughing in his sleeve at me. no!" mr. prohack with a nineteenth century wave of the hand deprecated ozzie's interrupting protest. "no! there is a third alternative, and i accept it. you desired to show me a courtesy. i thank you." "but have you no questions to ask me?" demanded ozzie. "yes," said mr. prohack. "how did you first make the acquaintance of my daughter?" "do you mean to say you don't know? hasn't sissie ever told you?" "never. what is more, she has never mentioned your name in any conversation until somebody else had mentioned it. such is the result of my educational system, and the influence of the time-spirit." "well, i'm dashed!" exclaimed ozzie sincerely. "i hope not, morfey. i hope not, if by dashed you mean 'damned.'" "but it was the most wonderful meeting, mr. prohack," ozzie burst out, and he was in such an enthusiasm that he almost forgot to lisp. "you knew i was in m.i. in the war, after my trench fever." "m.i., that is to say, secret service." "yes. secret service if you like. well, sir, i was doing some work in the east end, in a certain foreign community, and i had to get away quickly, and so i jumped into a motor-van that happened to be passing. that van was driven by sissie!" "an example of fact imitating fiction!" remarked mr. prohack, seeking, not with complete success, to keep out of his voice the emotion engendered in him by ozzie's too brief recital. "now that's one question, and you have answered it brilliantly. my second and last question is this: are you in love with sissie--" "please, mr. prohack!" ozzie half rose out of his chair. "or do you love her? the two things are very different." "i beg your pardon, sir. i hadn't quite grasped," said ozzie apologetically, subsiding. "i quite see what you mean. i'm both." "you are a wonder!" mr. prohack murmured. "anyway, sir, i'm glad you don't object to our engagement." "my dear oswald," said mr. prohack in a new tone. "do you imagine that after my daughter had expressed her view of you by kissing you i could fail to share that view. you have a great opinion of sissie, but i doubt whether your opinion of her is greater than mine. we will now have a little whiskey together." ozzie's chubby face shone as in his agreeable agitation he searched for the eye-glass ribbon that was not there. "well, sir," said he, beaming. "this interview has not been at all like what i expected." "nor like what i expected either," said mr. prohack. "but who can foresee the future?" and he added to himself: "could i foresee when i called this youth a perfect ass that in a very short time i should be receiving him, not unpleasantly, as a prospective son-in-law? life is marvellous." at the same moment mrs. prohack entered the room. "oh!" cried she, affecting to be surprised at the presence of ozzie. "wife!" said mr. prohack, "mr. oswald morfey has done you the honour to solicit the hand of your daughter in marriage. you are staggered! "how ridiculous you are, arthur!" said mrs. prohack, and impulsively kissed ozzie. vi the wedding festivities really began the next evening with a family dinner to celebrate sissie's betrothal. the girl arrived magnificent from the grand babylon, escorted by her lover, and found mrs. prohack equally magnificent--indeed more magnificent by reason of the pearl necklace. it seemed to mr. prohack that eve had soon become quite used to that marvellous necklace; he had already had to chide her for leaving it about. ozzie also was magnificent; even lacking his eye-glass and ribbon he was magnificent. mr. prohack, esteeming that a quiet domestic meal at home demanded no ceremony, had put on his old velvet, but eve had sharply corrected his sense of values--so shrewishly indeed that nobody would have taken her for the recent recipient of a marvellous necklace at his hands--and he had yielded to the extent of a dinner-jacket. charlie had not yet come. since the previous afternoon he had been out of town on mighty enterprises, but sissie had seen him return to the hotel before she left it, and he was momently expected. mr. prohack perceived that eve was treating ozzie in advance as her son, and ozzie was responding heartily: a phenomenon which mr. prohack in spite of himself found agreeable. sissie showed more reserve than her mother towards ozzie; but then sissie was a proud thing, which eve never was. mr. prohack admitted privately that he was happy--yes, he was happy in the betrothal, and he had most solemnly announced and declared that he would have naught to do with the wedding beyond giving a marriage gift to his daughter and giving his daughter to ozzie. and when sissie said that as neither she nor ozzie had much use for the state of being merely engaged the wedding would occur very soon, mr. prohack rejoiced at the prospect of the upset being so quickly over. after the emotions and complications of the wedding he would settle down to simplicity,--luxurious possibly, but still simplicity: the plain but perfect. and let his fortune persist in accumulating, well it must accumulate and be hanged to it! "but what about getting a house?" he asked his daughter. "oh, we shall live in ozzie's flat," said sissie. "won't it be rather small?" "the smaller the better," said sissie. "it will match our income." "oh, my dear girl," eve protested, with a glance at mr. prohack to indicate that for the asking sissie could have all the income she wanted. "and i'll give you an idea," eve brightly added. "you can have _this_ house rent free." sissie shook her head. "don't make so sure that they can have this house," said mr. prohack. "but, arthur! you've agreed to go and look at manchester square! and it's all ready excepting the servants. i'm told that if you don't want less than seven servants, including one or two menservants, there's no difficulty about servants at all. i shall be very disappointed if we don't have the wedding from manchester square." mr. prohack writhed, though he knew himself safe. seven servants; two menservants? no! and again no! no complications! "i shall only agree to manchester square," said he with firmness and solemnity, "subject to the drains being all right. somebody in the place must show a little elementary sagacity and restraint." "but the drains are bound to be all right!" "i hope so," said the deceitful father. "and i believe they will be. but until we're sure--nothing can be done." and he laughed satanically to himself. "haven't you had the report yet?" sissie complained. "miss warburton was to try to get hold of it to-night." a moment later machin, in a condition of high excitement due to the betrothal, brought in a large envelope, saying that miss warburton had just left it. the envelope contained the report of messrs. doy and doy on the drains of the noble mansion. mr. prohack read it, frowned, and pursed his judicial lips. "read it, my dear," he said to eve. eve read that messrs. doy and doy found themselves unable, after a preliminary inspection, which owing to their instructions to be speedy had not been absolutely exhaustive, to certify the drains of the noble mansion. they feared the worst, but there was of course always a slight hope of the best, or rather the second best. (they phrased it differently but they meant that.) in the meantime they would await further instructions. mr. prohack reflected calmly: "my new secretary is an adept of the first conspiratorial order." eve was shocked into silence. (doy and doy used very thick and convincing note-paper.) the entrance of charlie loosed her tongue. "charlie!" she cried. "the drains are all wrong. look at this. and didn't you say the option expired to-morrow?" charlie read the report. "infernal rascals!" he muttered. "whose doing is this? who's been worrying about drains?" he looked round accusingly. "i have," said mr. prohack bravely, but he could not squarely meet the boy's stern glance. "well, dad, what did you take me for? did you suppose i should buy an option on a house without being sure of the drains? my first act was to have the drains surveyed by flockers, the first firm in london, and i've got their certificate. as for doy and doy, they're notorious. they want to stop everybody else but themselves getting a commission on that house, and this--" he slapped the report--"this is how they're setting about it." eve adored her son. "you see," she said victoriously to mr. prohack, who secretly trembled. "i shall bring an action against doy and doy," charlie continued. "i'll show the whole rascally thing up." "i hope you'll do no such thing, my boy," said mr. prohack, foolishly attempting the grandiose. "i most positively shall, dad." mr. prohack realised desperately that all was lost except honour, and he was by no means sure about even honour. chapter xvi transfer of mimi i mr. prohack passed a very bad night--the worst for months, one of the outstanding bad nights of his whole existence. "why didn't i have it out with charlie before he left?" he asked himself some scores of times while listening to the tranquil regular breathing of eve, who of course was now sure of her house and probably had quite forgotten the meaning of care. "i'm bound to have it out with him sooner or later, and if i'd done it at once i should at any rate have slept. they're all sleeping but me." he simply could not comprehend life; the confounded thing called life baffled him by its mysterious illogicalness. he was adored by his spouse, beloved by his children, respected by the world. he had heaps of money, together with the full control of it. his word, if he chose, was law. he had only to say: "i will not take the house in manchester square," and nobody could thwart him. he powerfully desired not to take it. there was no sensible reason why he should take it. and yet he would take it, under the inexplicable compulsion of circumstances. in those sombre hours he had a fellow-feeling for oriental tyrants, who were absolute autocrats but also slaves of exactly the same sinister force that had gripped himself. he perceived that in practice there is no such thing as an autocrat.... not that his defeat in regard to the house really disturbed him. he could reconcile himself to the house, despite the hateful complications which it would engender. what disturbed him horribly was the drains business, the doy and doy business, the mimi business; he could see no way out of that except through the valley of humiliation. he remembered, with terrible forebodings, the remark of his daughter after she heard of the heritage: "you'll never be as happy again." when the household day began and the familiar comfortable distant noises of domestic activity announced that the solar system was behaving much as usual in infinite and inconceivable space, he decided that he was too tired to be scientifically idle that day--even though he had a trying-on appointment with mr. melchizidek. he decided, too, that he would not get up, would in fact take everything lying down, would refuse to descend a single step of the stairs to meet trouble. and he had a great wish to be irritated and angry. but, the place seemed to be full of angels who turned the other cheek--and the other cheek was marvellously soft and bewitching. eve, sissie (who had called), and machin--they were all in a state of felicity, for the double reason that sissie was engaged to be married, and that the household was to move into a noble mansion. machin saw herself at the head of a troup of sub-parlourmaids and housemaids and tweenies, and foretold that she would stand no nonsense from butlers. they all treated mr. prohack as a formidable and worshipped tyrant, whose smile was the sun and whose frown death, and who was the fount of wisdom and authority. they knew that he wanted to be irritated, and they gave him no chance to be irritated. their insight into his psychology was uncanny. they knew that he was beaten on the main point, and with their detestable feminine realism they exquisitely yielded on all the minor points. eve, fresh as a rose, bent over him and bedewed him, and said that she was going out and that sissie had gone again. when he was alone he rang the bell for machin as though the bell had done him an injury. "what time is it?" "eleven o'clock, sir." "eleven o'clock! good god! why hasn't miss warburton come?" as if machin was responsible for miss warburton!... no! mr. prohack was not behaving nicely, and it cannot be hidden that he lacked the grandeur of mind which distinguishes most of us. "miss warburton was here before ten o'clock, sir." "then why hasn't she come up?" "she was waiting for orders, sir." "send her up immediately." "certainly, sir." miss warburton was the fourth angel--an angel with another spick-and-span blouse, and the light of devotion in her eyes and the sound of it in her purling voice. "good morning," the gruff brute started. "did i hear the telephone-bell just now?" "yes, sir. doy and doy have telephoned to say that mr. charles prohack has just been in to see them, and they've referred him to you, and--and--" "and what? and what? and what?" (a machine-gun.) "they said he was extremely unpleasant." instinctively mr. prohack threw away shame. mimi was his minion. he treated her as an oriental tyrant might treat the mute guardian of the seraglio, and told her everything,--that charlie had forestalled them in the matter of the drains of the noble mansion, that charlie had determined to destroy doy and doy, that he, mr. prohack, was caught in a trap, that there was the devil to pay, and that the finest lies that ingenuity could invent would have to be uttered. he abandoned all pretence of honesty and uprightness. mimi showed no surprise whatever, nor was she apparently in the least shocked. she seemed to regard the affair as a quite ordinary part of the day's routine. her insensitive calm frightened mr. prohack. "now we must think of something," said the iniquitous monster. "i don't see that there need be any real difficulty," mimi replied. "_you_ didn't know anything about my plot with doy and doy. i got the notion--quite wrongly--that you preferred not to have the house, and i acted as i did through an excess of zeal. i must confess the plot. i alone am to blame, and i admit that what i did was quite inexcusable." "what a girl! what a girl!" thought mr. prohack. but there were limits to his iniquity, and he said aloud, benevolently, grandiosely: "but i did know about it. you as good as told me exactly what you meant to do, and i let you do it. i approved, and i am responsible. nothing will induce me to let you take the responsibility. let that be clearly understood, please." he looked squarely at the girl, and watched with apprehension her aspiring nose rise still further, her delicate ruthless mouth become still more ruthless. "excuse me," she said. "my plan is the best. it's the obvious plan. mr. carrel quire often adopted it. i'm afraid you're hesitating to trust me as i expect to be trusted. please don't forget that you sacrificed an empire for me--i shall always remember that. and what's more, you said you expected from me absolute loyalty to your interests. i can stand anything but not being trusted--_fully_!" mr. prohack sank deeper into the bed, and laughed loudly, immoderately, titanically. his ill-humour vanished as a fog will vanish. nevertheless he was appalled by the revelation of the possibilities of the girl's character. the strange scene was interrupted by the arrival of charlie, who, thanks to his hypnotic influence over machin, came masterfully straight upstairs, entered the bedroom without asking permission to do so, and, in perfect indifference to the alleged frailty of his father's health, proceeded to business. ii "dad," said he, after mimi had gone through her self-ordained martyrdom and left the room. "i wonder whether you quite realise what a top-hole creature that warburton girl is. she's perfectly astounding." "she is," mr. prohack admitted. "she's got ideas." "she has." "and she isn't afraid of carrying them out." "she is not." "she's much too good for you, dad." "she is." "i mean, you can't really make full use of her, can you? she's got no scope here." "she makes her own scope," said mr. prohack. "now i honestly do need a good secretary," charlie at last unmasked his attack. "i've got a temporary idiot, and i want a first-rater, preferably a woman. i wish you'd be decent and turn miss warburton over to me. she'd be invaluable to me, and with me she really _would_ have scope for her talents." charlie laughed. "what are you laughing at?" "i was only thinking of her having the notion of queering the drains like that because she wanted to please you. it was simply great. it's the best thing i ever heard." he laughed again. "now, dad, will you turn her over to me?" "you appear to think she's a slave to be bought and sold and this room the slave-market," said mr. prohack. "it hasn't occurred to you that _she_ might object to the transfer." "oh! i can soon persuade _her_." said charlie, lightly. "but you couldn't easily persuade me. and i may as well inform you at once, my poor ingenuous boy, that i won't agree. i will never agree. miss warburton is necessary to my existence." "all in two or three days, is she?" charlie observed sarcastically. "yes." "well, father, as we're talking straight, let's talk straight. i'm going to take her from you. it's a very little help i'm asking you for, and that you should refuse is a bit thick. i shall speak to the mater." "and what shall you say?" "i shall tell her all about the plot against the new house. it was really a plot against her, because she wants the house--the house is nothing to me. i may believe that you knew nothing about the plot yourself, but i'll lay you any odds the mater won't." "speaking as man to man, my boy, i lay you any odds you can't put your mother against me." "oh!" cried charlie, "she won't _say_ she believes you're guilty, but she'll believe it all the same. and it's what people think that matters, not what they say they think." "that's wisdom," mr. prohack agreed. "i see that i brought you up not so badly after all. but doesn't it strike you that you're trying to blackmail your father? i hope i taught you sagacity, but i never encouraged you in blackmail--unless my memory fails me." "you can call it by any name you please," said charlie. "very well, then, i will. i'll call it blackmail. give me a cigarette." he lit the offered cigarette. "anything else this morning?" father and son smiled warily at one another. both were amused and even affectionate, but serious in the battle. "come along, dad. be a sport. anyhow, let's ask the girl." "do you know what my answer to blackmail is?" mr. prohack blandly enquired. "no." "my answer is the door. drop the subject entirely. or sling your adventurous book." mr. prohack was somewhat startled to see charlie walk straight out of the bedroom. a disturbing suspicion that there might be something incalculable in his son was rudely confirmed. he said to himself: "but this is absurd." iii that morning the prohack bedroom seemed to be transformed into a sort of public square. no sooner had charlie so startlingly left than machin entered again. "dr. veiga, sir." and dr. veiga came in. the friendship between mr. prohack and his picturesque quack had progressed--so much so that eve herself had begun to twit her husband with having lost his head about the doctor. nevertheless eve was privately very pleased with the situation, because it proved that she had been right and mr. prohack wrong concerning the qualities of the fat, untidy, ironic portuguese. mr. prohack was delighted to see him, for an interview with dr. veiga always meant an unusual indulgence in the sweets of candour and realism. "this is my wife's doing, no doubt," said mr. prohack, limply shaking hands. "she called to see me, ostensibly about herself, but of course in fact about you. however, i thought she needed a tonic, and i'll write out the prescription while i'm here. now what's the matter with you?" "no!" mr. prohack burst out, "i'm hanged if i'll tell you. i'm not going to do your work for you. find out." dr. veiga examined, physically and orally, and then said: "there's nothing at all the matter with you, my friend." "that's just where you're mistaken," mr. prohack retorted. "there's something rather serious the matter with me. i'm suffering from grave complications. only you can't help me. my trouble is spiritual. neither pills nor tonics can touch it. but that doesn't make it any better." "try me," said dr. veiga. "i'm admirable on the common physical ailments, and by this time i should have been universally recognised as a great man if common ailments were uncommon; because you know in my profession you never get any honour unless you make a study of diseases so rare that nobody has them. discover a new disease, and save the life of some solitary nigger who brought it to liverpool, and you'll be a baronet in a fortnight and a member of all the european academies in a month. but study colds, indigestion and insomnia, and change a thousand lives a year from despair to felicity, and no authority will take the slightest notice of you ... as with physical, so with mental diseases--or spiritual, if you like to call them so. you don't suspect that in the common mental diseases i'm a regular benefactor of mankind; but i am. i don't blame you for not knowing it, because you're about the last person i should have thought susceptible to any mental disease, and so you've had no chance of finding out. now, what is it?" "don't i tell you i'm suffering from horrible complications?" cried mr. prohack. "what kind of complications?" "every kind. my aim has always been to keep my life simple, and i succeeded very well--perhaps too well--until i inherited money. i don't mind money, but i do mind complications. i don't want a large house--because it means complications. i desire sissie's happiness, but i hate weddings. i desire to be looked after, but i hate strange servants. i can find pleasure in a motor-car, but i hate even the risk of accidents. i have no objection to an income, but i hate investments. and so on. all i ask is to live simply and sensibly, but instead of that my existence is transformed into a quadratic equation. and i can't stop it. my happiness is not increasing--it's decreasing. i spend more and more time in wondering whither i am going, what i am after, and where precisely is the point of being alive at all. that's a fact, and now you know it." dr. veiga rose from his chair and deliberately sat down on the side of his patient's bed. the gesture in itself was sufficiently unprofessional, but he capped it with another of which probably no doctor had ever been guilty in a british sick-room before; he pulled out a pocket-knife and became his own manicure, surveying his somewhat neglected hands with a benevolently critical gaze, smiling at them as if to say: "what funny hands you are!" and mr. prohack felt that the doctor was saying: "what a funny prohack you are!" "my friend," said dr. veiga at length (with his voice), "my friend, i will not conceal from you that your alarm was justified. you are suffering from one of the commonest and one of the gravest mental derangements. i'm surprised, but there it is. you haven't yet discovered that it's the earth you're living on. you fancy it may be sirius, uranus, aldebaran or jupiter--let us say jupiter. perhaps in one of these worlds matters are ordered differently, and their truth is not our truth; but let me assure you that the name of your planet is the earth and that on the earth one great unalterable truth prevails. namely:--you can't do this"--here dr. veiga held up a pared and finished finger and wagged it to and fro with solemnity--"you can't do this without moving your finger ... you were aware of this great truth? then why are you upset because you can't wag your finger without moving it?... perhaps i'm being too subtle for you. let me put the affair in another way. you've lost sight of the supreme earthly fact that everything has not merely a consequence, but innumerable consequences. you knew when you married that you were creating endless consequences, and now you want to limit the consequences. you knew when you accepted a fortune that you were creating endless consequences, and now you want to limit them too. you want to alter the rules after the game has started. you set in motion circumstances which were bound to influence the development of the members of your family, and when the inevitable new developments begin, you object, simply because you hadn't foreseen them. you knew that money doesn't effectively exist until it's spent and that you can't spend money without causing consequences, and when your family causes consequences by bringing the money to life you complain that you're a martyr to the consequences and that you hadn't bargained for complications. my poor friend, you have made one crucial mistake in your career,--the mistake of being born. happily the mistake is curable. i can give you several prescriptions. the first is prussic acid. if you don't care for that you can donate the whole of your fortune to the sinking fund for extinguishing the national debt and you can return to the treasury. if you don't care for that you can leave your family mysteriously and go and live in timbuctoo by yourself. if you don't care for that you can buy a whip and forbid your wife and daughter to grow older or change in any way on pain of a hundred lashes. and if you don't like that you can acquaint yourself with the axioms that neither you nor anybody else are the centre of the universe and that what you call complications are simply another name for life itself. worry is life, and life is worry. and the absence of worry is death. i won't say to you that you're rich and beloved and therefore you've nothing to worry about. i'll say to you, you've got a lot to worry about because you're rich and beloved.... i'll leave the other hand for to-morrow." dr. veiga snapped down the blade of the pocket-knife. "platitudes!" ejaculated mr. prohack. "certainly," agreed the quack. "but i've told you before that it's by telling everybody what everybody knows that i earn my living." "i'll get up," said mr. prohack. "and not too soon," said the quack. "get up by all means and deal with your worries. all worries can be dealt with." "it doesn't make life any better," said mr. prohack. "nothing makes life any better, except death--and there's a disgusting rumour that there is no death. where shall i find a pencil, my dear fellow? i've forgotten mine, and i want to prescribe mrs. prohack's tonic." "in the boudoir there," said mr. prohack. "what the deuce are you smiling at?" "i'm smiling because i'm so glad to find you aren't so wise as you look." and dr. veiga disappeared blithely into the boudoir. almost at the same moment mimi knocked and entered. she entered, stared harshly at mr. prohack, and then the corners of her ruthless mouth twitched and loosened and she began to cry. "doctor," called mr. prohack, "come here at once." the doctor came. "you say all worries can be dealt with? how should you deal with this one?" the doctor dropped a slip of paper on to the bed and walked silently out of the room, precisely as charlie had done. iv in regard to the effect of the sermon of dr. veiga on mr. prohack, it was as if mr. prohack had been a desk with many drawers and one drawer open, and the sermon had been dropped into the drawer and the drawer slammed to and nonchalantly locked. the drawer being locked, mr. prohack turned to the weeping figure in front of him, which suddenly ceased to weep and became quite collected and normal. "now, my child," said mr. prohack, "i have just been informed that everything has a consequence. i've seen the consequence. what is the thing?" he was rather annoyed by mimi's tears, but in his dangerous characteristic desire to please, he could not keep kindness out of his tone, and mimi, reassured and comforted, began feebly to smile, and also mr. prohack remarked that her mouth was acquiring firmness again. "i ought to tell you in explanation of anything of a personal nature that i may have said to him in your presence, that the gentleman just gone is my medical adviser, and i have no secrets from him; in that respect he stands equal with you and above everybody else in the world without exception. so you must excuse my freedom in directing his attention to you." "it's i who ought to apologise," said miss warburton, positively. "but the fact is i hadn't the slightest idea that you weren't alone. i was just a little bit upset because i understand that you want to get rid of me." "ah!" murmured mr. prohaek, "who put that notion into your absurd head?" he knew he was exercising his charm, but he could not help it. "mr. charles. he's just been down to my room and told me." "i hope you remembered what i said to you about your duty so far as he is concerned." "of course, mr. prohack." she smiled anew; and her smile, so clever, so self-reliant, so enigmatic, a little disturbed mr. prohack. "what did my son say to you?" "he said that he was urgently in need of a thoroughly competent secretary at once--confidential--and that he was sure i was the very woman to suit him, and that he would give me double the salary i was getting." "did you tell him how much you're getting?" "no." "well, neither did i! and then?" "then he told me all about his business, how big it was, and growing quickly, too, and how he was after a young woman who had tact and resource and could talk to any one from a bank director to a mechanic or a clergyman, and that tens of thousands of pounds might often depend on my tact, and that you wouldn't mind my being transferred from you to him." "and i suppose he asked you to go off with him immediately?" "no, at the beginning of next week." "and what did you say?" demanded mr. prohack, amazed and frightened at the manoeuvres of his unscrupulous son. "naturally i said that i couldn't possibly leave you--unless you told me to go, and that i owed everything to you. then he asked me what i did for you, and i said i was particularly busy at present making a schedule of all your new purchases and checking the outfitters' accounts, and so on. that reminds me, i haven't been able to get the neckties right yet." "good heavens!" exclaimed mr. prohack. "not been able to get the neckties right! but this is very serious. the neckties are most important. most important!" "oh!" said mimi. "if necessary i shall run round to bond street in my lunch-hour." at this point the drawer in the desk started to unlock itself and open of its own accord, and mr. prohack's eye caught a glimpse of a page of the sermon. mimi continued: "we mustn't forget there'll be hundreds of things to see to about the new house." "will there?" "well, mrs. prohack told machin, and machin has just told me, that it's all settled about taking the house. and i know what taking a house is. mr. carrel quire was always taking new houses." "but perhaps you could keep an eye on the house even if you went over to mr. charles?" "then it's true," said mimi. "you do want me to go." but she showed no sign of weeping afresh. "you must understand," mr. prohack said with much benevolence, "that my son is my son. of course my clothes are also my clothes. but charles is in a difficult position. he's at the beginning of his career, whereas i'm at the end of mine. he needs all the help he can get, and he can afford to pay more than i can. and even at the cost of having to check my own neckties i shouldn't like to stand in his way. that's how i look at it. mind you, i have certainly not told charlie that i'll set you free." "i quite see," said mimi. "and naturally if you put it like that--" "you'll still be in the family." "i shall be very sorry to leave you, mr. prohack." "doubtless. but you'll be even gladder to go over to charles, though with him you'll be more like a kettle tied to the tail of a mad dog than a confidential secretary." mimi raised the tip of her nose. "excuse me, mr. prohack, i shall _not_ be gladder to go over to mr. charles. any girl will tell you that she prefers to work for a man of your age than for a boy. boys are not interesting." "yes," murmured mr. prohack. "a comfortable enough theory. and i've already heard it more than once from girls. but i've never seen any confirmation of it in practice. and i don't believe it. i'll tell you something about yourself you don't know. you're delighted to go over to my son. and if i'd refused to let you go i should have had a martyr instead of a secretary. you want adventure. you want a field for your remarkable talent for conspiracy and chicane. you know by experience there's little scope for it here. but under my son your days will be breathless.... no, no! i don't wish to hear anything. run away and get on with your work. and you can telephone my decision to charles. i'm now going to get up and wear all my new neckties at once." miss warburton departed in a state of emotion. as, with all leisureliness, mr. prohack made himself beautiful to behold, he reflected: "i'm very impulsive. i've simply thrown that girl into the arms of that boy. eve will have something to say about it. still, there's one complication off my chest." eve returned home as he was descending the stairs, and she blew him upstairs again and shut the door of the bedroom and pushed him into the privacy of the boudoir. "it's all settled," said she. "i've signed the tenancy agreement for a year. charlie said i could, and it would save you trouble. it doesn't matter the cheque for the first half-year's rent being signed by you, only of course the house will be in my name. how handsome you are, darling!" and she kissed him and re-tied one of the new cravats. "but that's not what i wanted to tell you, darling." her face grew grave. "do you know i'm rather troubled about charlie--and your friend lady massulam. they're off again this morning." "my friend?" "well, you know she adores you. it would be perfectly awful if--if--well, you understand what i mean. i hear she really is a widow, so that--well, you understand what i mean! i'm convinced she's at least thirty years older than charlie. but you see she's french, and french women are so clever.... you can never be sure with them." "fluttering heart," said mr. prohack, suddenly inspired. "don't get excited. i've thought of all that already, and i've taken measures to guard against it. i'm going to give charlie my secretary. she'll see that lady massulam doesn't make any more headway, trust her!" "arthur, how clever you are! nobody but you would have thought of that. but isn't it a bit dangerous, too? you see--don't you?" mr. prohack shook his head. "i gather you've been reading the love-story in _the daily picture_," said he. "in _the daily picture_ the typist always marries the millionaire. but outside _the daily picture_ i doubt whether these romantic things really happen. there are sixty-five thousand girls typists in the city alone, besides about a million in whitehall. the opportunities for espousing millionaires and ministers of state are countless. but no girl-typist has been married at st. george's, hanover square, since typewriters were invented." chapter xvii romance i the very next day mr. prohack had a plutocratic mood of overbearingness, which led to a sudden change in his location--the same being transferred to frinton-on-sea. the mood was brought about by a visit to the city, at the summons of paul spinner; and the visit included conversations not only with paul, but with smathe and smathe, the solicitors, and with a firm of stockbrokers. paul handed over to his crony saleable securities, chiefly in the shape of scrip of the greatest oil-combine and its subsidiaries, for a vast amount, and advised mr. prohack to hold on to them, as, owing to the present depression due to the imminence of a great strike, they were likely to be "marked higher" before mr. prohack was much older. mr. prohack declined the advice, and he also declined the advice of solicitors and stockbrokers, who were both full of wisdom and of devices for increasing capital values. what these firms knew about the future, and about the consequences of causes and about "the psychology of the markets" astounded the simple terror of the departments; and it was probably unanswerable. but, being full of riches, mr. prohack did not trouble to answer it; he merely swept it away with a tyrannical and impatient gesture, which gesture somehow mysteriously established him at once as a great authority on the art of investment. "now listen to me," said he imperiously, and the manipulators of shares listened, recalling to themselves that mr. prohack had been a treasury official for over twenty years and must therefore be worth hearing--although the manipulators commonly spent many hours a week in asserting, in the press and elsewhere, that treasury officials comprehended naught of finance. "now listen to me. i don't care a hang about my capital. it may decrease or increase, and i shan't care. all i care for is my interest. i want to be absolutely sure that my interest will tumble automatically into my bank on fixed dates. no other consideration touches me. i'm not a gambler. i'm not a usurer. industrial development leaves me cold, and if i should ever feel any desire to knit the empire closer together i'll try to do it without making a profit out of it. at the moment all i'm after is certain, sure, fixed interest. hence--government securities, british government or colonial! britain is of course rotten to the core, always was, always will be. still, i'll take my chances. i'm infernally insular where investment is concerned. there's one thing to be said about the british empire--you do know where you are in it. and i don't mind some municipal stocks. i even want some. i can conceive the smash-up of the british empire, but i cannot conceive manchester defaulting in its interest payments. can you?" and he looked round and paused for a reply, and no reply came. nobody dared to boast himself capable of conceiving manchester's default. towards the end of the arduous day mr. prohack departed from the city, leaving behind him an immense reputation for financial sagacity, and a scheme of investment under which he could utterly count upon a modest regular income of £ , per annum. he was sacrificing over £ , per annum in order to be free from an investor's anxieties, and he reckoned that his peace of mind was cheap at a hundred pounds a week. this detail alone shows to what an extent the man's taste for costly luxuries had grown. naturally he arrived home swollen. now it happened that eve also, by reason of her triumph in regard to the house in manchester square, had swelled head. a conflict of individualities occurred. a trifle, even a quite pleasant trifle! nothing that the servants might not hear with advantage. but before you could say 'knife' mr. prohack had said that he would go away for a holiday and abandon eve to manage the removal to manchester square how she chose, and eve had leapt on to the challenge and it was settled that mr. prohack should go to frinton-on-sea. eve selected frinton-on-sea for him because dr. veiga had recommended it for herself. she had a broad notion of marriage as a commonwealth. she loved to take mr. prohack's medicines, and she was now insisting on his taking her watering-places. mr. prohack said that the threatened great strike might prevent his journey. pooh! she laughed at such fears. she drove him herself to liverpool street. "you may see your friend lady massulam," said she, as the car entered the precincts of the station. (once again he was struck by the words 'your friend' prefixed to lady massulam; but he offered no comment on them.) "why lady massulam?" he asked. "didn't you know she's got a house at frinton?" replied mrs. prohack. "everybody has in these days. it's the thing." she didn't see him into the train, because she was in a hurry about butlers. mr. prohack was cast loose in the booking-hall and had a fine novel sensation of freedom. ii never since marriage had he taken a holiday alone--never desired to do so. he felt himself to be on the edge of romance. frinton, for example, presented itself as a city of romance. he knew it not, knew scarcely any english seaside, having always managed to spend his holidays abroad; but frinton must, he was convinced, be strangely romantic. the train thither had an aspect which strengthened this conviction. it consisted largely of first-class coaches, and in the window of nearly every first-class compartment and saloon was exhibited a notice: "this compartment (or saloon) is reserved for members of the north essex season-ticket-holders association." mr. prohack, being still somewhat swollen, decided that he was a member of the north essex season-ticket-holders association and acted accordingly. otherwise he might never have reached frinton. he found himself in a sort of club, about sixty feet by six, where everybody knew everybody except mr. prohack, and where cards and other games, tea and other drinks, tobacco and other weeds, were being played and consumed in an atmosphere of the utmost conviviality. mr. prohack was ignored, but he was not objected to. his fellow-travellers regarded him cautiously, as a new chum. the head attendant and dispenser was very affable, as to a promising neophyte. only the ticket-inspector singled him out from all the rest by stopping in front of him. "my last hour has come," thought mr. prohack as he produced his miserable white return-ticket. all stared; the inspector stared; but nothing happened. mr. prohack had a sense of reprieve, and also of having been baptised or inducted into a secret society. he listened heartily to forty conversations about physical diversions and luxuries and about the malignant and fatuous wrong-headedness of men who went on strike, and about the approaching catastrophic end of all things. meanwhile, at any rate in the coach, the fabric of society seemed to be holding together fairly well. before the train was half-way to frinton mr. prohack judged--and rightly--that he was already there. the fact was that he had been there ever since entering the saloon. after two hours the train, greatly diminished in length, came to rest in the midst of a dark flatness, and the entire population of the coach vanished out of it in the twinkling of an eye, and mr. prohack saw the name 'frinton' on a flickering oil-lamp, and realised that he was at the gates of the most fashionable resort in england, a spot where even the ozone was exclusive. the station staff marvelled at him because he didn't know where the majestic hotel was and because he asked without notice for a taxi, fly, omnibus or anything on wheels. all the other passengers had disappeared. the exclusive ozone was heavy with exciting romance for mr. prohack as the station staff considered his unique and incomprehensible case. then a tiny omnibus materialised out of the night. "is this the majestic bus?" mr. prohack enquired of the driver. "well, it is if you like, sir," the driver answered. mr. prohack did like.... the majestic was large and prim, resembling a swiss hotel in its furniture, the language and composition of the menu, the dialect of the waiters; but it was about fifteen degrees colder than the highest hotel in switzerland. the dining-room was shaded with rose-shaded lamps and it susurrated with the polite whisperings of elegant couples and trios, and the entremet was cabinet pudding: a fine display considering the depth of winter and of the off-season. mr. prohack went off after dinner for a sharp walk in the east wind. solitude! blackness! night! east wind in the bushes of gardens that shielded the façades of large houses! not a soul! not a policeman! he descended precariously to the vast, smooth beach. the sound of the sea! romance! mr. prohack seemed to walk for miles, like ozymandias, on the lone and level sands. then he fancied he descried a moving object. he was not mistaken. it approached him. it became a man and a woman. it became a man and a young woman arm-in-arm and soul-in-soul. and there was nothing but the locked couple, and the sound of the invisible, immeasurable sea, and the east wind, and mr. prohack. romance thrilled through mr. prohack's spine. "so i said to him," the man was saying to the young woman as the pair passed mr. prohack, "i said to him 'i could do with a pint o' that,' i said." iii the next morning mr. prohack rose with alacrity from a hard bed, and was greeted in the hall by the manager of the hotel, an enormous, middle-aged, sun-burnt, jolly person in flannels and an incandescent blazer, who asked him about his interests in golf and hard-court tennis. mr. prohack, steeped as he felt himself to be in strange romance, was prepared to be interested in these games, but the self-protective instinct warned him that since these games could not be played alone they would, if he indulged in them, bring him into contact with people who might prove tedious. he therefore changed the conversation and asked whether he could have strawberry jam to his breakfast. the manager's face instantly changed, hardening to severity. was mr. prohack eccentric? did he desire to disturb the serene habits of the hotel? the manager promised to see. he did see, and announced that he was 'afraid' that mr. prohack could not have strawberry jam to his breakfast. and mr. prohack said to himself: "what would my son charles have done?" during a solitary breakfast (with blackberry jam) in the huge dining-room, mr. prohack decided that charles would have approached the manager differently. after breakfast he saw the manager again, and he did not enquire from the manager whether there was any chance of hiring a motor-car. he said briefly: "i want to hire a car, please. it must be round here in half an hour, sharp." "i will attend to the matter myself," said the manager humbly. the car kept the rendezvous, and mr. prohack inspected frinton from the car. he admired the magnificent reserve of frinton, which was the most english place he had ever seen. the houses gave nothing away; the shivering shopping ladies in the streets gave nothing away; and certainly the shops gave nothing away. the newspaper placards announced what seemed to be equivalent to the end of the existing social order; but frinton apparently did not blench nor tremble; it went calmly and powerfully forward into the day (which was saturday), relying upon the great british axiom: "to ignore is to destroy." it ignored the end of the existing social order, and lo! there was no end. up and down various long and infinitely correct avenues of sheltered homes drove mr. prohack, and was everywhere baffled in his human desire to meet frinton half-way. he stopped the car at the post office and telegraphed to his wife: "no strawberry jam in this city. love. arthur." the girl behind the counter said: "one and a penny, please," and looked hard at him. five minutes later he returned to the post office and telegraphed to his wife: "omitted to say in previous telegram that frinton is the greatest expression of anglo-saxon character i have ever encountered. love. arthur." the girl behind the counter said: "two and three, please," stared harder at him, and blushed. perceiving the blush, mr. prohack at once despatched a third telegram to his wife: "but it has charming weaknesses. love. arthur." extraordinarily happy and gay, he drove out of frinton to see the remainder of north east essex in the enheartening east wind. in the evening he fell asleep in the lounge while waiting for dinner, having dressed a great deal too soon and being a great deal too full of east wind. when he woke up he noticed a different atmosphere in the hotel. youth and brightness had entered it. the lounge had vivacity and expectation; and mr. prohack learned that saturday night was gala, with a dance and special bridge. not even the news that the star-guest of the hotel, lord partick, was suddenly indisposed and confined to his room could dash the new optimism of the place. at dinner the manager walked around the little tables and gorgeously babbled with diners about the sportive feats of the day. and mr. prohack, seeing that his own turn was coming, began to feel as if he was on board a ship. he feared the worst and the worst came. "perhaps you'd like to make a fourth at bridge. if so--" said the manager jollily. "or perhaps you dance. if so--" mr. prohack shut his eyes and gave forth vague affirmatives. and as soon as the manager had left him he gazed around the room at the too-blonde women young and old and wondered fearfully which would be his portion for bridge or dance. in the lounge after dinner he ignited a cigar and watched the lighting up of the ball-room (ordinarily the drawing-room) and the entry of the musicians therein. then he observed the manager chatting with two haughty beldames and an aged gentleman, and they all three cast assaying glances upon mr. prohack, and mr. prohack knew that he had been destined for bridge, not dancing, and the manager moved towards him, and mr. prohack breathed his last sigh but one.... but the revolving doors at the entrance revolved, and out of the frintonian night appeared lady massulam, magnificently enveloped. seldom had mr. prohack's breast received a deeper draught of mingled astonishment and solace. hitherto he had not greatly cared for lady massulam, and could not see what charlie saw in her. now he saw what charlie saw and perhaps more also. she had more than dignity,--she had style. and she femininely challenged. she was like a breeze on the french shore to a british barque cruising dully in the channel. she welcomed the sight of mr. prohack, and her greeting of him made a considerable change in the managerial attitude towards the unassuming terror of the departments. the manager respectfully informed lady massulam that lord partick was indisposed, and respectfully took himself off. lady massulam and mr. prohack then proceeded to treat each other like new toys. mr. prohack had to explain why he was at frinton, and lady massulam explained that whenever she was in frinton at the week-end she always came to the majestic to play bridge with old lord partick. it flattered him; she liked him, though he had bought his peerage; he was a fine player--so was she; and lastly they had had business relations, and financially lord partick watched over her as over a young girl. mr. prohack was relieved thus to learn that lady massulam had not strolled into the majestic hotel, frinton, to play bridge with nobody in particular. still, she was evidently well known to the habitués, several of whom approached to greet her. she temporised with them in her calm latin manner, neither encouraging nor discouraging their advances, and turning back to mr. prohack by her side at every surcease. "we shall be compelled to play bridge if we do not take care," she murmured in his ear, as a dowager larger than herself loomed up. "yes," murmured mr. prohack, "i've been feeling the danger ever since dinner. will you dance with me,--not of course as a pleasure--i won't flatter myself--but as a means of salvation?" the dowager bore down with a most definite suggestion for bridge in the card-room. lady massulam definitely stated that she was engaged to dance.... well, of course lady massulam was something of a galleon herself; but she was a beautiful dancer; that is to say, she responded perfectly to the male volition; she needed no pushing and no pulling; she moved under his will as lightly as a young girl. her elaborately dressed hair had an agreeable scent; her complexion was a highly successful achievement; everything about her had a quiet and yet a dazzling elegance which had been obtained regard-less of expense. as for her figure, it was on a considerable scale, but its important contours had a soft and delicate charm. and all that was nothing in the estimation of mr. prohack compared with her glance. at intervals in the fox-trot he caught the glance. it was arch, flirtatious, eternally youthful, challenging; and it expressed pleasure in the fox-trot. mr. prohack was dancing better than ever before in his career as a dancer. she made him dance better. she was not the same woman whom he had first met at lunch at the grand babylon hotel. she was a new revelation, packed with possibilities. mr. prohack recalled his wife's phrase: "you know she adores you." he hadn't known. honestly such an idea had not occurred to him. but did she adore him? not "adore"--naturally--but had she a bit of a fancy for him? mr. prohack became the youngest man in the room,--an extraordinary case of rejuvenescence. he surveyed the room with triumph. he sniffed up the brassy and clicking music into his vibrating nostrils. he felt no envy of any man in the room. when the band paused he clapped like a child for another dose of fox-trot. at the end of the third dose they were both a little breathless and they had ices. after a waltz they both realised that excess would be imprudent, and returned to the lounge. "i wish you'd tell me something about my son," said mr. prohack. "i think you must be the greatest living authority on him." "here?" exclaimed lady massulam. "anywhere. any time." "it would be safer at my house," said lady massulam. "but before i go i must just write a little note to lord partick. he will expect it." that was how she invited him to the lone cedar, the same being her famous bungalow on the front. iv "your son," said lady massulam, in a familiar tone, but most reassuringly like an aunt of charlie's, after she had explained how they had met in glasgow through being distantly connected by the same business deal, and how she had been impressed by charlie's youthful capacity, "your son has very great talent for big affairs, but he is now playing a dangerous game--far more dangerous than he imagines, and he will not be warned. he is selling something he hasn't got before he knows what price he will have to pay for it." "ah!" breathed mr. prohack. they were sitting together in the richly ornamented bungalow drawing-room, by the fire. lady massulam sat up straight in her sober and yet daring evening frock. mr. prohack lounged with formless grace in a vast easy-chair neighbouring a whiskey-and-soda. she had not asked him to smoke; he did not smoke, and he had no wish to smoke. she was a gorgeously mature specimen of a woman. he imagined her young, and he decided that he preferred the autumn to the spring. she went on talking of finance. "she is moving in regions that eve can never know," he thought. "but how did eve perceive that she had taken a fancy to me?" the alleged danger to charlie scarcely disturbed him. her appreciation or depreciation of charlie interested him only in so far as it was a vehicle for the expression of her personality. he had never met such a woman. he responded to her with a vivacity that surprised himself. he looked surreptitiously round the room, brilliantly lighted here, and there obscure, and he comprehended how every detail of its varied sumptuosity aptly illustrated her mind and heart. his own heart was full of quite new sensations. "of course," she was saying, "if charles is to become the really great figure that he might be, he will have to cure his greatest fault, and perhaps it is incurable." "i know what that is," said mr. prohack, softly but positively. "what is it?" her glance met his. "his confounded reserve, lack of elasticity, lack of adaptability. the old british illusion that everything will come to him who won't budge. why, it's a ten-horse-power effort for him even to smile!" lady massulam seemed to leap from her chair, and she broke swiftly into french: "oh! you comprehend then, you? if you knew what i have suffered in your terrible england! but you do not suspect what i have suffered! i advance myself. they retire before me. i advance myself again. they retire again. i open. they close. do they begin? never! it is always i who must begin! do i make a natural gesture--they say to themselves, 'what a strange woman! how indiscreet! but she is foreign.' they lift their shoulders. am i frank--they pity me. they give themselves never! they are shut like their lips over their long teeth. ah, but they have taught me. in twenty years have i not learnt the lesson? there is nobody among you who can be more shut-tight than me. i flatter myself that i can be more terrible than any english woman or man. you do not catch me now! but what a martyrdom!... i might return to france? no! i am become too english. in paris i should resemble an _émigrée_. and people would say: 'what is that? it is like nothing at all. it has no name.' besides, i like you english. you are terrible, but one can count on you.... _vous y êtes?_" "_j'y suis_," replied mr. prohack, ravished. lady massulam in her agitation picked up the tumbler and sipped. "pardon!" she cried, aghast. "it is yours," and planked the tumbler down again on the lacquered table. mr. prohack had the wit to drink also. they went on talking.... a silver tongue vibrated from the hall with solemn british deliberation--one! two! the air throbbed to the sound for many seconds. "good heavens!" exclaimed mr. prohack, rising in alarm. "and this is frinton!" she let him out herself, with all soft precautions against shocking the frintonian world. his manner of regaining the majestic hotel can only be described by saying that he 'effected an entrance' into it. he went to bed but not to sleep. "what the deuce has happened to me?" he asked himself amazed. "is it anything serious? or am i merely english after all?" v late the next morning, when he was dreaming, a servant awoke him with the information that a chauffeur was demanding him. but he was sleepy and slept again. between noon and one o'clock he encountered the chauffeur. it was carthew, who stated that his mistress had sent him with the car. she felt that he would need the car to go about in. as for her, she would manage without it. mr. prohack remained silent for a few moments and then said: "be ready to start in a quarter of an hour." "before lunch, sir?" "before lunch." mr. prohack paid his bill and packed. "which way, sir?" carthew asked, as the eagle moved from under the portico of the hotel. "there is only one road out of frinton," said mr. prohack. "it's the road you came in by. take it. i want to get off as quickly as possible. the climate of this place is the most dangerous and deceptive i was ever in." "really, sir!" responded carthew, polite but indifferent. "the east wind i suppose, sir?" "not at all. the south wind." chapter xviii a homeless night i how exhilarating (mr. prohack found it) to be on the road without a destination! it was sunday morning, and the morning was marvellous for the time of year. mr. prohack had had a very fine night, and he now felt a curious desire to defy something or somebody, to defend himself, and to point out, if any one accused him of cowardice, that he had not retreated from danger until after he had fairly affronted it. more curious still was the double, self-contradictory sensation of feeling both righteous and sinful. he would have spurned a charge of wickedness, and yet the feeling of being wicked was really very jolly. he seemed to have begun a new page of life, and then to have ripped the page away--and possibly spoilt the whole book. deference to eve, of course! respect for eve! or was it merely that he must always be able to look eve in the face? in sending the car for his idle use, eve had performed a master-stroke which laid him low by its kindliness, its wifeliness, its touches of perverse self-sacrifice and of vague, delicate malice. lady massulam hung in the vast hollow of his mind, a brilliant and intensely seductive figure; but eve hung there too, and mr. prohack was obliged to admit that the simple eve was holding her own. "my sagacity is famous," said mr. prohack to himself. "and i never showed more of it than in leaving frinton instantly. few men would have had the sense and the resolution to do it." and he went on praising himself to himself. such was the mood of this singular man. hunger--mr. prohack's hunger--drew them up at frating, a village a few miles short of colchester. the inn at frating had been constructed ages earlier entirely without reference to the fact that it is improper for certain different types of humanity to eat or drink in each other's presence. in brief, there was obviously only one dining-room, and not a series of dining-rooms classified according to castes. mr. prohack, free, devil-may-care and original, said to his chauffeur: "you'd better eat with me, carthew." "you're very kind, sir," said carthew, and at once sat down and ceased to be a chauffeur. "well, i haven't been seeing much of you lately," mr. prohack edged forward into the fringes of intimacy when three glasses of beer and three slices of derby round had been unequally divided between them, "have i?" "no, sir." mr. prohack had in truth been seeing carthew almost daily; but on this occasion he used the word "see" in a special sense. "that boy of yours getting on all right?" "pretty fair, considering he's got no mother, if you understand what i mean, sir," replied carthew, pushing back his chair, stretching out his legs, and picking his teeth with a fork. "ah! yes!" said mr. prohack commiseratingly. "very awkward situation for you, that is." "it isn't awkward for me, sir. it's my boy it's awkward for. i'm as right as rain." "no chance of the lady coming back, i suppose?" "well, she'd better not try," said carthew grimly. "but does this mean you've done with the sex, at your age?" cried mr. prohack. "i don't say as i've _done_ with the sex, sir. male and female created he them, as the good old book says; and i'm not going behind that. no, not me! all i say is, i'm as right as rain--_for_ the present--and she'd better not try." "i bet you anything you won't keep it up," said mr. prohack, impetuously exceeding the limits of inter-caste decorum. "keep what up?" "this attitude of yours." "i won't bet, sir," said carthew. "because nobody can see round a corner. but i promise you i'll never take a woman _seriously_ again. that's the mistake we make, taking 'em seriously. you see, sir, being a chauffeur in the early days of motor-cars, i've had a tidy bit of experience, if you understand what i mean. because in them days a chauffeur was like what an air-pilot is to-day. he didn't have to ask, he didn't. and what i say is this--i say we're mugs to take 'em seriously." "you think we are!" bubbled mr. prohack emptily, perceiving that he had to do with an individual whom misfortune had rendered impervious to argument. "i do, sir. and what's more, i say you never know where you are with any woman." "that i agree with," said mr. prohack, with a polite show of eagerness. "but you're cutting yourself off from a great deal you know, carthew," he added, thinking magnificently upon his adventure with lady massulam. "there's a rare lot as would like to be in my place," murmured carthew with bland superiority. "if it's all the same to you, sir, i'll just go and give her a look over before we start again." he scraped his chair cruelly over the wood floor, rose, and ceased to be an authority on women. it was while exercising his privilege of demanding, awaiting, and paying the bill, that mr. prohack happened to see, at the other end of the long, empty dining-room table, a copy of _the sunday picture_, which was the sabbath edition of _the daily picture_. he got up and seized it, expecting it to be at least a week old. it proved, however, to be as new and fresh as it could be. mr. prohack glanced with inimical tolerance at its pages, until his eye encountered the portraits of two ladies, both known to him, side by side. one was miss eliza fiddle, the rage of the west end, and the other was mrs. arthur prohack, wife of the well-known treasury official. the portraits were juxtaposed, it seemed, because miss eliza fiddle had just let her lovely home in manchester square to mrs. arthur prohack. the shock of meeting eve in _the sunday picture_ was terrible, but equally terrible to mr. prohack was the discovery of his ignorance in regard to the ownership of the noble mansion. he had understood--or more correctly he had been given to understand--that the house and its contents belonged to a certain peer, whose taste in the arts was as celebrated as that of his lordly forefathers had been. assuredly neither eliza fiddle nor anybody like her could have been responsible for the exquisite decorations and furnishings of that house. on the other hand, it would have been very characteristic of eliza fiddle to leave the house as carelessly as it had been left, with valuable or invaluable bibelots lying about all over the place. almost certainly eliza fiddle must have had some sort of effective ownership of the place. he knew that dazzling public favourites did sometimes enjoy astounding and mysterious luck in the matter of luxurious homes, and that some of them progressed through a series of such homes, each more inexplicable than the last. he would not pursue the enquiry, even in his own mind. he had of course no grudge against the efficient and strenuous eliza, for he was perfectly at liberty not to pay money in order to see her. she must be an exceedingly clever woman; and it was not in him to cast stones. yet, pharisaical snob, he did most violently resent that she should be opposite his wife in _the sunday picture...._ eve! eve! a few short weeks ago, and you made a mock of women who let themselves get into _the daily picture_. and now you are there yourself! (but so, and often, was the siren lady massulam! a ticklish thing, criticism of life!) and there was another point, as sharp as any. ozzie morfey must have known, charlie must have known, sissie must have known, eve herself must have known, that the _de facto_ owner of the noble mansion was eliza fiddle. and none had vouchsafed the truth to him. "we'll struggle back to town i think," said mr. prohack to carthew, with a pitiable affectation of brightness. and instead of sitting by carthew's side, as previously, he sat behind, and reflected upon the wisdom of carthew. he had held that carthew's views were warped by a peculiar experience. he now saw that they were not warped at all, but shapely, sane and incontrovertible. ii that evening, soon after dark, the eagle, dusty and unkempt from a journey which had not been free from mishaps, rolled up to the front-door of mr. prohack's original modest residence behind hyde park; and mr. prohack jumped out; and carthew came after him with two bags. the house was as dark as the owner's soul; not a gleam of light in any window. mr. prohack produced his familiar latch-key, scraped round the edge of the key-hole, savagely pushed in the key, and opened the door. there was still no light nor sign of life. mr. prohack paused on the threshold, and then his hand instinctively sought the electric switch and pulled it down. no responsive gleam! "machin!" called mr. prohack, as it were plaintively. no sound. "i am a fool," thought mr. prohack. he struck a match and walked forward delicately, peering. he descried an empty portmanteau lying on the stairs. he shoved against the dining-room door, which was ajar, and lit another match, and started back. the dining-room was full of ghosts, furniture sheeted in dust-sheets; and a newspaper had been made into a cap over his favourite chippendale clock. he retreated. "put those bags into the car again," he said to carthew, who stood hesitant on the vague whiteness of the front-step. how much did carthew know? mr. prohack was too proud to ask. carthew was no longer an authority on women lunching with an equal; he was a servitor engaged and paid on the clear understanding that he should not speak until spoken to. "drive to claridge's hotel," said mr. prohack. "yes, sir." at the entrance to the hotel the party was received by gigantic uniformed guards with all the respect due to an eagle. ignoring the guards, mr. prohack passed imperially within to the reception office. "i want a bedroom, a sitting-room and a bath-room, please." "a private suite, sir?" "a private suite." "what--er--kind, sir? we have--" "the best," said mr. prohack, with finality. he signed his name and received a ticket. "please have my luggage taken out of the car, and tell my chauffeur i shall want him at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, and that he should take the car to the hotel-garage, wherever it is, and sleep here. i will have some tea at once in my sitting-room." the hotel-staff, like all hotel-staffs, loved a customer who knew his mind with precision and could speak it. mr. prohack was admirably served. after tea he took a bath because he could think of nothing else to do. the bath, as baths will, inspired him with an idea. he set out on foot to manchester square, and having reached the square cautiously followed the side opposite to the noble mansion. the noble mansion blazed with lights through the wintry trees. it resembled the set-piece of a pyrotechnic display. mr. prohack shivered in the dank evening. then he observed that blinds and curtains were being drawn in the noble mansion, shutting out from its superb nobility the miserable, crude, poverty-stricken world. with the exception of the glow in the fan light over the majestic portals, the noble mansion was now as dark as mr. prohack's other house. he shut his lips, steeled himself, and walked round the square to the noble mansion and audaciously rang the bell. he had to wait. he shook guiltily, as though he, and no member of his family, had sinned. a little more, and his tongue would have cleaved to the gold of his upper denture. the double portals swung backwards. mr. prohack beheld the portly form of an intensely traditional butler, and behind the butler a vista of outer and inner halls and glimpses of the soaring staircase. he heard, somewhere in the distance of the interior, the ringing laugh of his daughter sissie. the butler looked carelessly down upon him, and, as mr. prohack uttered no word, challenged him. "yes, sir?" "is mrs. prohack at home?" "no, sir." (positively.) "is miss prohack at home?" "no, sir." (more positively.) "oh!" "will you leave your name, sir?" "no." abruptly mr. prohack turned away. he had had black moments in his life. this was the blackest. of course he might have walked right in, and said to the butler: "here's a month's wages. hook it." but he was a peculiar fellow, verging sometimes on silliness. he merely turned away. the vertiginous rapidity of his wife's developments, manoeuvres and transformations had dazed him into a sort of numbed idiocy. in two days, in a day, with no warning to him of her extraordinary precipitancy, she had 'flitted'! at claridge's, through giving monsieur charles, the _maitre d' hôtel_, carte blanche in the ordering of his dinner and then only half-eating his dinner, mr. prohack failed somewhat to maintain his prestige, though he regained ground towards the end by means of champagne and liqueurs. the black-and-gold restaurant was full of expensive persons who were apparently in ignorance of the fact that the foundations of the social fabric had been riven. they were all gay; the music was gay; everything was gay except mr. prohack--the sole living being in the place who conformed in face and heart to the historical conception of the british sunday. but mr. prohack was not now a man,--he was a grievance; he was the most deadly kind of grievance, the irrational kind. a superlatively fine cigar did a little--not much--to solace him. he smoked it with scientific slowness, and watched the restaurant empty itself.... he was the last survivor in the restaurant; and fifteen waiters and two hundred and fifty electric lamps were keeping him in countenance. then his wandering, enfeebled attention heard music afar off, and he remembered some remark of sissie's to the effect that claridge's was the best place for dancing in london on sunday nights. he would gaze byronically upon the dance. he signed his bill and mooned towards the ball-room, which was full of radiant couples: a dazzling scene, fit to mark the end of an epoch and of a society. the next thing was that he had an absurd delusion of seeing sissie and charlie locked together amid the couples. he might have conquered this delusion, but it was succeeded by another,--the illusion of seeing ozzie morfey and eve locked together amid the couples.... yes, they were there, all four of them. at first mr. prohack was amazed, as at an unprecedented coincidence. but he perceived that the coincidence was not after all so amazing. they had done what they had to do in the way of settling eve into the noble mansion, and then they had betaken themselves to the nearest and the best dancing resort for the rest of the evening. nothing could be more natural. mr. prohack might have done all manner of feats. what he actually did do was to fly like a criminal to the lift and seek his couch. iii the next morning at ten o'clock a strange thing happened. the hotel clocks showed the hour and mr. prohack's watch showed the hour, and carthew was not there with the car. mr. prohack could not understand this unnatural failure to appear on the part of carthew, for carthew had never been known to be late (save when interfered with by mimi), and therefore never could be late. mr. prohack fretted for a quarter of an hour, and then caused the hotel-garage to be telephoned to. the car had left the garage at nine-fifty. mr. prohack went out for a walk, not ostensibly, but really, to look for the car in the streets of london! (such was his diseased mentality.) he returned at half past eleven, and at eleven thirty-two the car arrived. immediately mr. prohack became calm; his exterior was apt to be very deceptive; and he said gently to carthew, just as if nothing in the least unusual had occurred: "a little late, aren't you?" "yes, sir," carthew replied, with a calmness to match his employer's. "as i was coming here from the garage i met the mistress. she was looking for a taxi and she took me." "but did you tell her that i asked you to be here at o'clock?" "no, sir." "did you tell her that i was in london?" "no, sir." mr. prohack hesitated a moment and then said: "drive into hyde park, please, and keep to the north side." when the car had reached a quiet spot in the park, mr. prohack stopped it, and, tapping on the front window, summoned carthew. "carthew," said he, through the side-window, which he let down without opening the door, "we're by ourselves. will you kindly explain to me why you concealed from mrs. prohack that i was in london?" "well, sir," carthew answered, very erect and slightly frowning, "i didn't know you were in london, if you understand what i mean." "didn't you bring me to london? of course you knew i was in london." "no, sir. not if you understand what i mean." "i emphatically do not understand what you mean," said mr. prohack, who, however, was not speaking the truth. "may i put a question, sir?" carthew suggested. "having regard to all the circumstances--i say having regard as it were to all the circumstances, in a manner of speaking, what should you have done in my place, sir?" "how do i know?" cried mr. prohack. "i'm not a chauffeur. what _did_ you say to mrs. prohack?" "i said that you had instructed me to return to london, as you didn't need the car, and that i was just going to the house for orders. and by the way, sir," carthew added, glancing at the car-clock, "madam told me to be back at twelve fifteen--i told her i ought to go to the garage to get something done to the carbureter--so that there is not much time." mr. prohack jumped out of the car and said: "go." wandering alone in the chilly park he reflected upon the potentialities of human nature as exhibited in chauffeurs. the fellow carthew had evidently come to the conclusion that there was something wrong in the more intimate relationships of the prohack family, and, faced with a sudden contretemps, he had acted according to the best of his wisdom and according to his loyalty to his employer, but he had acted wrongly. but of course the original sinner was mr. prohack himself. respectable state officials, even when on sick leave, do not call at empty houses and stay at hotels within a stone's throw of their own residences unknown to their families. no! mr. prohack saw that he had been steering a crooked course. error existed and must be corrected. he decided to walk direct to manchester square. if eve wanted the car at twelve fifteen she would be out of the house at twelve thirty, and probably out for lunch. so much the better. she should find him duly established on her return. reconnoitring later at manchester square he saw no car, and rang the bell of the noble mansion. on account of the interview of the previous evening he felt considerably nervous and foolish, and the butler suffered through no fault of the butler's. "i'm mr. prohack," said he, with self-conscious fierceness. "what's your name? brool, eh? take my overcoat and send machin to me at once." he lit a cigarette to cover himself. the situation, though transient, had been sufficiently difficult. machin came leaping and bounding down the stairs as if by magic. she had heard his voice, and her joy at his entry into his abode caused her to forget her parlour-maidenhood and to exhibit a humanity which pained mr. brool, who had been brought up in the strictest traditions of flunkeyism. her joy pleased mr. prohack and he felt better. "good morning, machin," said he, quite blithely. "i just want to see how things have been fixed up in my rooms." he had not the least notion where or what his rooms were in the vast pile. "yes, sir," machin responded eagerly, delighted that mr. prohack was making to herself, as an old friend, an appeal which he ought to have made to the butler. mr. prohack, guided by the prancing machin, discovered that, in addition to a study, he had a bedroom and a dressing-room and a share in eve's bath-room. the dressing-room had a most agreeable aspect. machin opened a huge and magnificent wardrobe, and in drawer after drawer displayed his new hosiery marvellously arranged, and in other portions of the wardrobe his new suits and hats and boots. the whole made a wondrous spectacle. "and who did all this?" he demanded. "madam, sir. but miss warburton came to help her at nine this morning, and i helped too. miss warburton has put the lists in your study, sir." "thank you, machin. it's all very nice." he was touched. the thought of all these women toiling in secret to please him was exceedingly sweet. it was not as though he had issued any requests. no! they did what they did from enthusiasm, unknown to him. "wait a second," he stopped machin, who was leaving him. "which floor did you say my study is on?" she led him to his study. an enormous desk, and in the middle of it a little pile of papers crushed by a block of crystal! the papers were all bills. the amounts of them alarmed him momentarily, but that was only because he could not continuously and effectively remember that he had over three hundred pounds a week coming in. still, the bills did somewhat dash him, and he left them without getting to the bottom of the pile. he thought he would voyage through the house, but he got no further than his wife's boudoir. the boudoir also had an enormous desk, and on it also was a pile of papers. he offended the marital code by picking up the first one, which read as follows:--"madam. we beg to enclose as requested estimate for buffet refreshments for one hundred and fifty persons, and hire of one hundred gilt cane chairs and bringing and taking away same. trusting to be honoured with your commands--" this document did more than alarm him; it shook him. clearly eve was planning a great reception. even to attend a reception was torture to him, always had been; but to be the host at a reception...! no, his mind refused to contemplate a prospect so appalling. surely eve ought to have consulted him before beginning to plan a reception. why a reception? he glimpsed matters that might be even worse than a reception. and this was the same woman who had so touchingly arranged his clothes. iv he was idly regarding himself in an immense mirror that topped the fireplace, and thinking that despite the stylishness of his accoutrement he presented the appearance of a rather tousled and hairy person of unromantic middle-age, when, in the glass, he saw the gilded door open and a woman enter the room. he did not move,--only stared at the image. he knew the woman intimately, profoundly, exhaustively, almost totally. he knew her as one knows the countryside in which one has grown up, where every feature of the scene has become a habit of the perceptions. and yet he had also a strange sensation of seeing her newly, of seeing her for the first time in his life and estimating her afresh. in a flash he had compared her, in this boudoir, with lady massulam in lady massulam's bungalow. in a flash all the queer, frightening romance of a.m. in frinton had swept through his mind. well, she had not the imposingness nor the mystery of lady massulam, nor perhaps the challenge of lady massulam; she was very much more prosaic to him. but still he admitted that she had an effect on him, that he reacted to her presence, that she was at any rate at least as incalculable as lady massulam, and that there might be bits of poetry gleaming in her prose, and that after a quarter of a century he had not arrived at a final judgment about her. withal lady massulam had a quality which she lacked,--he did not know what the quality was, but he knew that it excited him in an unprecedented manner and that he wanted it and would renounce it with regret. "is it conceivable," he thought, shocked at himself, "that all three of us are on the road to fifty years?" then he turned, and blushed, feeling exactly like an undergraduate. "i knew you'd be bored up there in that hole." eve greeted him. "i wasn't bored for a single moment," said he. "don't tell me," said she. she was very smart in her plumpness. the brim of her spreading hat bumped against his forehead as he bent to kiss her. the edge of the brown veil came half-way down her face, leaving her mouth unprotected from him, but obscuring her disturbing eyes. as he kissed her all his despondency and worry fell away from him, and he saw with extraordinary clearness that since the previous evening he had been an irrational ass. the creature had done nothing unusual, nothing that he had not explicitly left her free to do; and everything was all right. "did you see your friend lady massulam?" was her first question. marvellous the intuition--or the happy flukes--of women! yet their duplicity was still more marvellous. the creature's expressed anxiety about the danger of lady massulam's society to charlie must have been pure, wanton, gratuitous pretence. he told her of his meeting with lady massulam. "i left her at a.m.," said he, with well-feigned levity. "i knew she wouldn't leave you alone for long. but i've no doubt you enjoyed it. i hope you did. you need adventure, my poor boy. you were getting into a regular rut." "oh, was i!" he opposed. "and what are you doing here? machin told me you were out for lunch." "oh! you've been having a chat with your friend machin, have you? it seems she's shown you your beautiful dressing-room. well, i was going out for lunch. but when i heard you'd returned i gave it up and came back. i knew so well you'd want looking after." "and who told you i'd returned?" "carthew, of course! you're a very peculiar pair, you two. when i first saw him carthew gave me to understand he'd left you at frinton. but when i see him again i learn that you're in town and that you spent last night at claridge's. you did quite right, my poor boy. quite right. i want you to feel free. it must have been great fun stopping at claridge's, with your own home close by. i'll tell you something. we were dancing at claridge's last night, but i suppose you'd gone to bed." "the dickens you were!" said he. "by the way, you might instruct one of your butlers to telephone to the hotel for my things and have the bill paid." "so you'll sleep here to-night?" said she, archly. "if there's room," said he. "anyway you've arranged all my clothes with the most entrancing harmony and precision." "oh!" eve exclaimed, in a tone suddenly changed. "that was miss warburton more than me. she took an hour off from charlie this morning in order to do it." then mr. prohack observed his wife's face crumble to pieces, and she moved aside from him, sat down and began to cry. "now what next? what next?" he demanded with impatient amiability, for he was completely at a loss to keep pace with the twistings of her mind. "arthur, why did you deceive me about that girl? how could you do it? i hadn't the slightest idea it was m--miss w--instock. i can't make you out sometimes, arthur--really i can't!" the fellow had honestly forgotten that he had in fact grossly deceived his wife to the point of planting mimi winstock upon her as somebody else. he had been nourishing imaginary and absurd grievances against eve for many hours, but her grievance against himself was genuine enough and large enough. no wonder she could not make him out. he could not make himself out. his conscience awoke within him and became exceedingly unpleasant. but being a bad man he laughed somewhat coarsely. "oh!" he said. "that was only a bit of a joke. but how did you find out, you silly child?" "ozzie saw her yesterday. he knew her. you can't imagine how awkward it was. naturally i had to laugh it off. but i cried half the night." "but why? what did it matter? ozzie's one of the family. the girl's not at all a bad sort, and i did it for her sake." eve dried her eyes and looked up at him reproachfully with wet cheeks. "when i think," said she, "that that girl might so easily have killed me in that accident! and it would have been all her fault. and then where would you have been without me? where _would_ you have been? you'd never have got over it. never, never! you simply don't know what you'd be if you hadn't got me to look after you! and you bring her into the house under a false name, and you call it a joke! no, arthur. frankly i couldn't have believed it of you." mr. prohack was affected. he was not merely dazzled by the new light which she was shedding on things,--he was emotionally moved.... would lady massulam be capable of such an attitude as eve's in such a situation? the woman was astounding. she was more romantic than any creature in any bungalow of romantic frinton. she beat him. she rent his heart. so he said: "well, my beloved infant, if it's any use to you i'm prepared to admit once for all that i was an ass. we'll never have the wretched mimi in the house again. i'll give the word to charlie." "oh, not at all!" she murmured, smiling sadly. "i've got over it. and you must think of my dignity. how ridiculous it would be of me to make a fuss about her being here! now, wouldn't it? but i'm glad i've told you. i didn't mean to, really. i meant never to say a word. but the fact is i can't keep anything from you." she began to cry again, but differently. he soothed her, as none but he could, thinking exultantly: "what a power i have over this chit!" they were perfectly happy. they lunched alone together, talking exclusively for the benefit of eve's majestic butler. and mr. prohack, with that many-sidedness that marked his strange regrettable mind, said to himself at intervals: "nevertheless she's still hiding from me her disgusting scheme for a big reception. and she knows jolly well i shall hate it." chapter xix the reception the reception pleased mr. prohack as a spectacle, and it cost him almost no trouble. he announced his decision that it must cost him no trouble, and everybody in the house, and a few people outside it, took him at his word--which did not wholly gratify him. indeed the family and its connections seemed to be conspiring to give him a life of ease. responsibilities were lifted from him. he did not even miss his secretary. sissie, who returned home--by a curious coincidence--on the very day that mimi winstock was transferred to charlie's service in the grand babylon, performed what she called 'secretarial stunts' for her father as and when required. on the afternoon of the reception, which was timed to begin at p.m., he had an attack of fright, but, by a process well known to public executants, it passed off long before it could develop into stage-fright; and he was quite at ease at p.m. the first arrivals came at nine thirty. he stood by eve and greeted them; and he had greeted about twenty individuals when he yawned (for a good reason) and eve said to him: "you needn't stay here, you know. go and amuse yourself." (this suggestion followed the advent of lady massulam.) he didn't stay. ozzie morfey and sissie supplanted him. at a quarter to eleven he was in the glazed conservatory built over the monumental portico, with sir paul spinner. he could see down into the square, which was filled with the splendid and numerous automobiles incident to his wife's reception. guests--and not the least important among them--were still arriving. cars rolled up to the portico, gorgeous women and plain men jumped out on to the red cloth, of which he could just see the extremity near the kerb, and vanished under him, and the cars hid themselves away in the depths of the square. looking within his home he admired the vista of brilliantly illuminated rooms, full of gilt chairs, priceless furniture, and extremely courageous toilettes. for, as the reception was 'to meet the committee of the league of all the arts.' (ozzie had placed many copies of the explanatory pamphlet on various tables), artists of all kinds and degrees abounded, and the bourgeois world (which chiefly owned the automobiles) thought proper to be sartorially as improper as fashion would allow; and fashion allowed quite a lot. the affair might have been described as a study in shoulder-blades. it was a very great show, and mr. prohack appreciated all of it, the women, the men, the lionesses, the lions, the kaleidoscope of them, the lights, the reflections in the mirrors and in the waxed floors, the discreetly hidden music, the grandiose buffet, the efficient valetry. he soon got used to not recognising, and not being recognised by, the visitors to his own house. true, he could not conceive that the affair would serve any purpose but one,--namely the purpose of affording innocent and expensive pleasure to his wife. "you've hit on a pretty good sort of a place here," grunted sir paul spinner, whose waistcoat buttons were surpassed in splendour only by his carbuncles. "well," said mr. prohack, "to me, living here is rather like being on the stage all the time. it's not real." "what the deuce do you mean, it's not real? there aren't twenty houses in london with a finer collection of genuine bibelots than you have here." "yes, but they aren't mine, and i didn't choose them or arrange them." "what does that matter? you can look at them and enjoy the sight of them. nobody can do more." "paul, you're talking neo-conventional nonsense again. have you ever in your career as a city man stood outside a money-changer's and looked at the fine collection of genuine banknotes in the window? supposing i told you that you could look at them and enjoy the sight of them, and nobody could do more?... no, my boy, to enjoy a thing properly you've got to own it. and anybody who says the contrary is probably a member of the league of all the arts." he gave another enormous yawn. "excuse my yawning, paul, but this house is a perfect inferno for me. the church of st. nicodemus is hard by, and the church of st. nicodemus has a striking clock, and the clock strikes all the hours and all the quarters on a half cracked bell or two bells. if i am asleep every hour wakes me up, and most of the quarters. the clock strikes not only the hours and the quarters but me. i regulate my life by that clock. if i'm beginning to repose at ten minutes to the hour, i say to myself that i must wait till the hour before really beginning, and i do wait. it is killing me, and nobody can see that it is killing me. the clock annoys some individuals a little occasionally; they curse, and then go to sleep and stay asleep. for them the clock is a nuisance; but for me it's an assassination. however, i can't make too much fuss. several thousands of people must live within sound of the st. nicodemus clock; yet the rector has not been murdered nor the church razed to the ground. hence the clock doesn't really upset many people. and there are hundreds of such infernal clocks in london, and they all survive. it follows therefore that i am peculiar. nobody has a right to be peculiar. hence i do not complain. i suffer. i've tried stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, and stuffing the windows of my bedroom with eiderdowns. no use. i've tried veronal. no use either. the only remedy would be for me to give the house up. which would he absurd. my wife soothes me and says that of course i shall get used to the clock. i shall never get used to it. lately she has ceased even to mention the clock. my daughter thinks i am becoming a grumbler in my latter years. my son smiles indifferently. i admit that my son's secretary is more sympathetic. like most people who are both idle and short of sleep, i usually look very well, spry and wideawake. my friends remark on my healthy appearance. you did. the popular mind cannot conceive that i am merely helplessly waiting for death to put me out of my misery; but so it is. there must be quite a few others in the same fix as me in london, dying because rectors and other clergymen and officials insist on telling them the time all through the night. but they suffer in silence as i do. as i do, they see the uselessness of a fuss." "you _will_ get used to it, arthur," said sir paul indulgently but not unironically, at the end of mr. prohack's disquisition. "you're in a nervous state and your judgment's warped. now, i never even heard your famous clock strike ten." "no, you wouldn't, paul! and my judgment's warped, is it?" there was irritation in mr. prohack's voice. he took out his watch. "in sixty or seventy seconds you shall hear that clock strike eleven, and you shall give me your honest views about it. and you shall apologise to me." sir paul obediently and sympathetically listened, while the murmur of the glowing reception and the low beat of music continued within. "you tell me when it starts to strike," said he. "you won't want any telling," said mr. prohack, who knew too well the riving, rending, smashing sound of the terrible bells. "it's a pretty long seventy seconds," observed sir paul. "my watch must be fast," said mr. prohack, perturbed. but at eighteen minutes past eleven the clock had audibly struck neither the hour nor the quarter. sir paul was a man of tact. he said simply: "i should like a drink, dear old boy." "_the clock's not striking_," said mr. prohack, with solemn joy, as the wonderful truth presented itself to him. "either it's stopped, or they've cut off the striking attachment." and to one of the maids on the landing he said as they passed towards the buffet: "run out and see what time it is by the church clock, and come back and tell me, will you?" a few minutes later he was informed that the church clock showed half-past eleven. the clock therefore was still going but had ceased to strike. mr. prohack at once drank two glasses of champagne at the buffet, while sir paul had the customary whiskey. "i say, old thing, i say!" sir paul protested. "_i shall sleep!_" said mr. prohack in a loud, gay, triumphant voice. he was a new man. * * * * * the reception now seemed to him far more superb than ever. it was almost at its apogee. all the gilt chairs were occupied; all the couches and fauteuils of the room were occupied, and certain delicious toilettes were even spread on rugs or on the bare, reflecting floors. on every hand could be heard artistic discussions, serious and informed and yet lightsome in tone. if it was not the real originality of jazz music that was being discussed, it was the sureness of the natural untaught taste of the denizens of the east end and south london, and if not that then the greatness of male revue artistes, and if not that then the need of a national theatre and of a minister of fine arts, and if not that then the sculptural quality of the best novels and the fictional quality of the best sculpture, and if not that then the influence on british life of the fox-trot, and if not that then the prospects of bringing modern poets home to the largest public by means of the board schools, and if not that then the evil effects of the twin great london institutions for teaching music upon the individualities of the young geniuses entrusted to them, and if not that the part played by the most earnest amateurs in the destruction of opera, and if not that the total eclipse of beethoven, brahms and wagner since the efflorescence of the russian ballet. and always there ran like a flame through the conversations the hot breath of a passionate intention to make britain artistic in the eyes of the civilised world. what especially pleased mr. prohack about the whole affair, as he moved to and fro seeking society now instead of avoiding it, was the perfect futility of the affair, save as it affected eve's reputation. he perceived the beauty of costly futility, and he was struck again, when from afar he observed his wife's conquering mien, by the fact that the reception did not exist for the league, but the league for the reception. the reception was a real and a resplendent thing; nobody could deny it. the league was a fog of gush. the league would be dear at twopence half-penny. the reception was cheap if it stood him in five hundred pounds. eve was an infant; eve was pleased with gewgaws; but eve had found herself and he was well content to pay five hundred pounds for the look on her ingenuous face. "and nothing of this would have happened," he thought, impressed by the wonders of life, "if in a foolish impulse of generosity i hadn't once lent a hundred quid to that chap angmering." he descried lady massulam in converse with a tall, stout and magnificently dressed gentleman, who bowed deeply and departed as mr. prohack approached. "who is your fat friend?" said mr. prohack. "he's from _the daily picture_.... but isn't this rather a strange way of greeting a guest after so long a separation? do you know that i'm in your house and you haven't shaken hands with me?" there was a note of intimacy and of challenge in lady massulam's demeanour that pleased mr. prohack immensely, and caused him to see that the romance of frinton was neither factitious nor at an end. he felt pleasantly, and even thrillingly, that they had something between them. "ah!" he returned, consciously exerting his charm. "i thought you detested our english formality and horrible restraint. further, this isn't my house; it's my wife's." "your wife is wonderful!" said lady massulam, as though teaching him to appreciate his wife and indicating that she alone had the right thus to teach him,--the subtlest thing. "i've never seen an evening better done--_reussie_." "she is rather wonderful," mr. prohack admitted, his tone implying that while putting lady massulam in a class apart, he had wit enough to put his wife too in a class apart,--the subtlest thing. "i quite expected to meet you again in frinton," said lady massulam simply. "how abrupt you are in your methods!" "only when it's a case of self-preservation," mr. prohack responded, gazing at her with daring significance. "i'm going to talk to mrs. prohack," said lady massulam, rising. but before she left him she murmured confidentially in his ear: "where's your son?" "don't know. why?' "i don't think he's come yet. i'm afraid the poor boy's affairs are not very bright." "i shall look after him," said mr. prohack, grandly. a qualm did pierce him at the sound of her words, but he would not be depressed. he smiled serenely, self-confidently, and said to himself: "i could look after forty charleses." he watched his wife and his friend chatting together as equals in _the daily picture_. yes, eve was wonderful, and but for sheer hazard he would never have known how wonderful she was capable of being. "you've got a great show here to-night, old man," said a low, mysterious voice at his side. mr. softly bishop was smiling down his nose and holding out his hand while looking at nothing but his nose. "hello, bishop!" said mr. prohack, controlling a desire to add: "i'd no idea _you'd_ been invited!" "samples of every world--except the next," said mr. softly bishop. "and now the theatrical contingent is arriving after its night's work." "do you know who that fellow is?" mr. prohack demanded, indicating a little man with the aspect of a prize-fighter who was imperially conveying to mrs. prohack that mrs. prohack was lucky to get him to her reception. "why!" replied mr. bishop. "that's the napoleon of the stage." "not asprey chown!" "asprey chown." "great scott!" and mr. prohack laughed. "why are you laughing?" "mere glee. this is the crown of my career as a man of the world." he saw mr. asprey chown give a careless brusque nod to ozzie morfey, and he laughed again. "it's rather comic, isn't it?" mr. softly bishop acquiesced. "i wonder why oswald morfey has abandoned his famous stock for an ordinary necktie." "probably because he's going to be my son-in-law," said mr. prohack. "ah!" ejaculated mr. softly bishop. "i congratulate him." mr. prohack looked grim in order to conceal his joy in the assurance that he would sleep that night, and in the sensations produced by the clear fact that lady massulam was still interested in him. somehow he wanted to dance, not with any woman, but by himself, a reel. "by jove!" exclaimed mr. softly bishop. "you _are_ shining to-night. here's eliza fiddle, and that's her half-sister miss fancy behind her." and it was eliza fiddle, and the ageing artiste with her ravaged complexion and her defiant extra-vivacious mien created instantly an impression such as none but herself could have created. the entire assemblage stared, murmuring its excitement, at the renowned creature. eliza loved the stare and the murmur. she was like a fish dropped into water after a gasping spell in mere air. "i admit i was in too much of a hurry when i spoke of having reached the zenith," said mr. prohack. "i'm only just getting there now. and who's the half-sister?" "she's not precisely unknown on the american stage," answered mr. softly bishop. "but before we go any further i'd perhaps better tell you a secret." his voice and his gaze dropped still lower. "she's a particularly fine girl, and it won't be my fault if i don't marry her. not a word of course! mum!" he turned away, while mr. prohack was devising a suitable response. "welcome to your old home. and do come with me to the buffet. you must be tired after your work," mr. prohack burst out in a bold, loud voice to eliza, taking her away from his wife, whose nearly exhausted tact almost failed to hide her relief. "i do hope you like the taste of my old home," eliza answered. "my new house up the river is furnished throughout in real oriental red lacquer. you must come and see it." "i should love to," said mr. prohack bravely. "this is my little sister, miss fancy. fan, mr. prohack." mr. prohack expressed his enchantment. at the buffet eliza did not refuse champagne, but miss fancy refused. "now don't put on airs, fan," eliza reproved her sister heartily and drank off her glass while mr. prohack sipped his somewhat cautiously. he liked eliza's reproof. he was beginning even to like eliza. to say that her style was coarse was to speak in moderation; but she was natural, and her individuality seemed to be sending out waves in all directions, by which all persons in the vicinity were affected whether they desired it or not. mr. prohack met eliza's glance with satisfaction. she at any rate had nothing to learn about life that she was capable of learning. she knew everything--and was probably the only creature in the room who did. she had succeeded. she was adored--strangely enough. and she did not put on airs. her original coarseness was apparently quite unobscured, whereas that of miss fancy had been not very skilfully painted over. miss fancy was a blonde, much younger than eliza; also slimmer and more finickingly and luxuriously dressed and jewelled. but mr. prohack cared not for her. she was always keeping her restless inarticulate lips in order, buttoning them or sewing them up or caressing one with the other. further, she looked down her nose; probably this trait was the secret lien between her and mr. softly bishop. mr. prohack, despite a cloistral lifetime at the treasury, recognised her type immediately. she was of the type that wheedles, but never permits itself to be wheedled. and she was so pretty, and so simpering, and her blue eyes were so steely. and mr. prohack, in his original sinfulness, was pleased that she was thus. he felt that "it would serve softly bishop out." not that mr. softly bishop had done him any harm! indeed the contrary. but he had an antipathy to mr. softly bishop, and the spectacle of mr. softly bishop biting off more than he could chew, of mr. softly bishop being drawn to his doom, afforded mr. prohack the most genuine pleasure. unfortunately mr. prohack was one of the rare monsters who can contemplate with satisfaction the misfortunes of a fellow being. mr. softly bishop unostentatiously joined the sisters and mr. prohack. "better have just a sip," he said to miss fancy, when told by eliza that the girl would not be sociable. his eyes glimmered at her through his artful spectacles. she listened obediently to his low-voiced wisdom and sipped. she was shooting a million fascinations at him. mr. prohack decided that the ultimate duel between the two might be a pretty even thing after all; but he would put his money on the lady. and he had thought mr. softly bishop so wily! a fearful thought suddenly entered his mind: supposing the failure of the church-clock's striking powers should be only temporary; supposing it should recover under some verger's treatment, and strike twelve! "let's go into the conservatory and look at the square," said he. "i always look at the square at midnight, and it's nearly twelve now." "you're the most peculiar man i ever met," said eliza fiddle, eyeing him uneasily. "very true," mr. prohack agreed. "i'm half afraid of you." "very wise," said mr. prohack absently. they crossed the rooms together, arousing keen interest in all beholders. and as they crossed charlie entered the assemblage. he certainly had an extremely perturbed--or was it merely self-conscious--face. and just in front of him was mimi winstock, who looked as if she was escaping from the scene of a crime. was lady massulam's warning about charlie about to be justified? mr. prohack's qualm was renewed. the very ground trembled for a second under his feet and then was solid and moveless again. no sooner had the quartette reached the conservatory than eliza left it to go and discuss important affairs with mr. asprey chown, who had summoned ozzie to his elbow. they might not have seen one another for many years, and they might have been settling the fate of continents. mr. prohack took out his watch, which showed a minute to twelve. he experienced a minute's agony. the clock did not strike. "well," said mr. softly bishop, who during the minute had been whispering information about the historic square to miss fancy, who hung with all her weight on his words, "well, it's very interesting and even amusing, we three being alone here together isn't it?... the three heirs of the late silas angmering! how funny life is!" and he examined his nose with new curiosity. all mr. prohack's skin tingled, and his face flushed, as he realised that miss fancy was the mysterious third beneficiary under angmering's will. yes, she was in fact jewelled like a woman who had recently been handling a hundred thousand pounds or so. and mr. softly bishop might be less fascinated by the steely blue eyes than mr. prohack had imagined. mr. softly bishop might in fact win the duel. the question, however, had no interest for mr. prohack, who was absorbed in a sense of gloomy humiliation. he rushed away from his co-heirs. he simply had to rush away right to bad. chapter xx the silent tower the fount of riches and the terror of the departments, clothed in the latest pattern of sumptuous pyjamas, lay in the midst of his magnificent and spacious bed, and, with the shaded electric globe over his brow, gazed at the splendours of the vast bedroom which eve had allotted to him. it was full, but not too full, of the finest directoire furniture, and the walls were covered with all manner of engravings and watercolours. evidently this apartment had been the lair of the real owner and creator of the great home. mr. prohack could appreciate the catholicity and sureness of taste which it displayed. he liked the cornice as well as the form of the dressing-table, and the cumberland landscape by c.j. holmes as well as the large piranesi etching of an imaginary prison, which latter particularly interested him because it happened to be an impression between two "states"--a detail which none but a true amateur could savour. the prison depicted was a terrible place of torment, but it was beautiful, and the view of it made mr. prohack fancy, very absurdly, that he too was in prison, just as securely as if he had been bolted and locked therein. his eye ranged about the room and saw nothing that was not lovely and that he did not admire. yet he derived little or no authentic pleasure from what he beheld, partly because it was the furnishing of a prison and partly because he did not own it. he had often preached against the mania for owning things, but now--and even more clearly than when he had sermonised paul spinner--he perceived, and hated to perceive, that ownership was probably an essential ingredient of most enjoyments. the man, foolishly priding himself on being a philosopher, was indeed a fleshly mass of strange inconsistencies. more important, he was losing the assurance that he would sleep soundly that night. he could not drag his mind off his co-heiress and his co-heir. the sense of humiliation at being intimately connected and classed with them would not leave him. he felt himself--absurdly once again--to be mysteriously associated with them in a piece of sharp practice or even of knavery. they constituted another complication of his existence. he wanted to disown them and never to speak to them again, but he knew that he could not disown them. he was living in gorgeousness for the sole reason that he and they were in the same boat. eve came in, opening the door cautiously at first and then rushing forward as soon as she saw that the room was not in darkness. he feared for an instant that she might upbraid him for deserting her. but no! triumphant happiness sat on her forehead, and affectionate concern for him was in her eyes. she plumped down, in her expensive radiance, on the bed by his side. "well?" said he. "i'm so glad you decided to go to bed," said she. "you must be tired, and late nights don't suit you. i just slipped away for a minute to see if you were all right. are you?" she puckered her shining brow exactly as of old, and bent and kissed him as of old. one of her best kisses. but the queer fellow, though touched by her attention, did not like her being so glad that he had gone to bed. the alleged philosopher would have preferred her to express some dependence upon his manly support in what was for her a tremendous event. "i feel i shall sleep," he lied. "i'm sure you will, darling," she agreed. "don't you think it's all been a terrific success?" she asked naïvely. he answered, smiling: "i'm dying to see _the daily picture_ to-morrow. i think i shall tell the newsagent in future only to deliver it on the days when you're in it." "don't be silly," she said, too pleased with herself, however, to resent his irony. she was clothed in mail that night against all his shafts. he admitted, what he had always secretly known, that she was an elementary creature; she would have been just as at home in the stone age as in the twentieth century--and perhaps more at home. (was lady massulam equally elementary? no? yes?) still, eve was necessary to him. only, up to a short while ago, she had been his complement; whereas now he appeared to be her complement. he, the philosopher and the source of domestic wisdom, was fully aware, in a superior and lofty manner, that she was the eternal child deceived by toys, gewgaws, and illusions; nevertheless he was only her complement, the indispensable husband and payer-out. she was succeeding without any brain-work from him. he noticed that she was not wearing the pearls he had given her. no doubt she had merely forgotten at the last moment to put them on. she was continually forgetting them and leaving them about. but this negligent woman was the organiser in chief of the great soiree! well, if it had succeeded, she was lucky. "i must run off," said she, starting up, busy, proud, falsely calm, the general of a victorious army as the battle draws to a close. she embraced him again, and he actually felt comforted.... she was gone. "as i grow older," he reflected, "i'm hanged if i don't understand life less and less." * * * * * he was listening to the distant rhythm of the music when he mistily comprehended that there was no music and that the sounds in his ear were not musical. he could not believe that he had been asleep and had awakened, but the facts were soon too much for his delusion and he said with the air of a discoverer: "i've been asleep," and turned on the light. there were voices and footsteps in the corridors or on the landing,--whispers, loud and yet indistinct talking, tones indicating that the speakers were excited, if not frightened, and that their thoughts had been violently wrenched away from the pursuit of pleasure. his watch showed two o'clock. the party was over, the last automobile had departed, and probably even the tireless eliza fiddle was asleep in her new home. next mr. prohack noticed that the door of his room was ajar. he had no anxiety. rather he felt quite gay and careless,--the more so as he had wakened up with the false sensation of complete refreshment produced by short, heavy slumber. he thought: "whatever has happened, i have had and shall have nothing to do with it, and they must deal with the consequences themselves as best they can." and as a measure of precaution against being compromised, he switched off the light. he heard eve's voice, surprisingly near his door: "i simply daren't tell him! no, i daren't!" the voice was considerably agitated, but he smiled maliciously to himself, thinking: "it can't be anything very awful, because she only talks in that strain when it's nothing at all. she loves to pretend she's afraid of me. and moreover i don't believe there's anything on earth she daren't tell me." he heard another voice, reasoning in reply, that resembled mimi's. hadn't that girl gone home yet? and he heard sissie's voice and charlie's. but for him all these were inarticulate. then his room was filled with swift blinding light. somebody had put a hand through the doorway and turned the light on. it must be eve.... it was eve, scared and distressed, but still in complete war-paint. "i'm so relieved you're awake, arthur," she said, approaching the bed as though she anticipated the bed would bite her. "i'm not awake. i'm asleep, officially. my poor girl, you've ruined the finest night i was ever going to have in all my life." she ignored his complaint, absolutely. "arthur," she said, her face twitching in every direction, and all her triumph fallen from her, "arthur, i've lost my pearls. they're gone! some one must have taken them!" mr. prohack's reaction to this piece of more-than-midnight news was to break into hearty and healthy laughter; he appeared to be genuinely diverted; and when eve protested against such an attitude he said: "my child, anything that strikes you as funny after being wakened up at two o'clock in the morning is very funny, very funny indeed. how can i help laughing?" eve thereupon began to cry, weakly. "come here, please," said he. and she came and sat on the bed, but how differently from the previous visit! she was now beaten by circumstances, and she turned for aid to his alleged more powerful mind and deeper wisdom. in addition to being amused, the man was positively happy, because he was no longer a mere complement! so he comforted her, and put his hands on her shoulders. "don't worry," said he, gently. "and after all i'm not surprised the necklace has been pinched." "not surprised? arthur!" "no. you collect here half the notorious smart people in london. fifty per cent of them go through one or other of the courts; five per cent end by being detected criminals, and goodness knows what per cent end by being undetected criminals. possibly two per cent treat marriage seriously, and possibly one per cent is not in debt. that's the atmosphere you created, and it's an atmosphere in which pearls are apt to melt away. hence i am not surprised, and you mustn't be. still, it would be interesting to know _how_ the things melted away. were you wearing them?" "of course i was wearing them. there was nothing finer here to-night--that _i_ saw." "you hadn't got them on when you came in here before." "hadn't i?" said eve, thoughtful. "no, you hadn't." "then why didn't you tell me?" eve demanded suddenly, almost fiercely, through her tears, withdrawing her shoulders from his hands. "well," said mr. prohack. "i thought you'd know what you'd got on, or what you hadn't got on." "i think you might have told me. if you had perhaps the--" mr. prohack put his hand over her mouth. "stop," said he. "my sweet child, i can save you a lot of trouble. it's all my fault. if i hadn't been a miracle of stupidity the necklace would never have disappeared. this point being agreed to, let us go on to the next. when did you find out your sad loss?" "it was miss winstock who asked me what i'd done with my necklace. i put my hand to my throat, and it was gone. it must have come undone." "didn't you say to me a fortnight or so ago that the little safety-chain had gone wrong?" "did i?" said eve, innocently. "did you have the safety-chain repaired?" "i was going to have it done to-morrow. you see, if i'd sent it to be done to-day, then i couldn't have worn the necklace to-night, could i?" "very true," mr. prohack concurred. "but who could have taken it?" "ah! are you sure that it isn't lying on the floor somewhere?" "every place where i've been has been searched--thoroughly. it's quite certain that it must have been picked up and pocketed." "then by a man, seeing that women have no pockets--except their husbands'. i'm beginning to feel quite like a detective already. by the way, lady, the notion of giving a reception in a house like this without a detective disguised as a guest was rather grotesque." "but of course i had detectives!" eve burst out. "i had two private ones. i thought one ought to be enough, but as soon as the agents saw the inventory of knicknacks and things, they advised me to have two men. one of them's here still. in fact he's waiting to see you. the scotland yard people are very annoying. they've refused to do anything until morning." that eve should have engaged detectives was something of a blow to the masculine superiority of mr. prohack. however, he kept himself in countenance by convincing himself in secret that she had not thought of the idea; the idea must have been given to her by another person--probably mimi, who nevertheless was also a woman. "and do you seriously expect me to interview a detective in the middle of the night?" demanded mr. prohack. "he said he should like to see you. but of course if you don't feel equal to it, my poor boy, i'll tell him so." "what does he want to see _me_ for? i've nothing to do with it, and i know nothing." "he says that as you bought the necklace he must see you--and the sooner the better." this new aspect of the matter seemed to make mr. prohack rather thoughtful. * * * * * iii eve brought in to her husband, who had improved his moral stamina and his physical charm by means of the finest of his dressing-gowns, a dark, thin young man, clothed to marvellous perfection, with a much-loved moustache, and looking as fresh as if he was just going to a party. mr. prohack of course recognised him as one of the guests. "good morning," said mr. prohack. "so _you_ are the detective." "yes, sir," answered the detective, formally. "do you know, all the evening i was under the impression that you were first secretary to the czecho-slovakian legation." "no, sir," answered the detective, formally. "well! well! i think there is a proverb to the effect that appearances are deceptive." "is there indeed, sir?" said the detective, with unshaken gravity. "in our business we think that appearances ought to be deceptive." "now talking of your business," mr. prohack remarked with one of his efforts to be very persuasive. "what about this unfortunate affair?" "yes, sir, what about it?" the detective looked askance at eve. "i suppose there's no doubt the thing's been stolen--by the way, sit on the end of the bed, will you? then you'll be near me." "yes, sir," said the detective, sitting down. "there is no doubt the necklace has been removed by some one, either for a nefarious purpose or for a joke." "ah! a joke?" meditated mr. prohack, aloud. "it certainly hasn't been taken for a joke," said eve warmly. "nobody that i know well enough for them to play such a trick would dream of playing it." "then," said mr. prohack, "we are left all alone with the nefarious purpose. i had a sort of a notion that i should meet the nefarious purpose, and here it is! i suppose there's little hope?" "well, sir. you know what happens to a stolen pearl necklace. the pearls are separated. they can be sold at once, one at a time, or they can be kept for years and then sold. pearls, except the very finest, leave no trace when they get a fair start." "what i can't understand," eve exclaimed, "is how it could have dropped off without me noticing it." "oh! i can easily understand that," said mr. prohack, with a peculiar intonation. "i've known ladies lose even their hair without noticing anything," said the detective firmly. "not to mention other items." "but without anybody else noticing it either?" eve pursued her own train of thought. "somebody did notice it," said the detective, writing on a small piece of paper. "who?" "the person who took the necklace." "well, of course i know that," eve spoke impatiently. "but who can it be? i feel sure it's one of the new servants or one of the hired waiters." "in our business, madam, we usually suspect servants and waiters last." then turning round very suddenly he demanded: "who's that at the door?" eve, startled, moved towards the door, and in the same instant the detective put a small piece of paper into mr. prohack's lap, and mr. prohack read on the paper: "_should like see you alone_." the detective picked up the paper again. mr. prohack laughed joyously within himself. "there's nobody at the door," said eve. "how you frightened me!" "marian," said mr. prohack, fully inspired. "take my keys off there, will you, and go to my study and unlock the top right-hand drawer of the big desk. you'll find a blue paper at the top at the back. bring it to me. i don't know which is the right key, but you'll soon see." and when eve, eager with her important mission, had departed, mr. prohack continued to the detective: "pretty good that, eh, for an improvisation? the key of that drawer isn't on that ring at all. and even if she does manage to open the drawer there's no blue paper in there at all. she'll be quite some time." the detective stared at mr. prohack in a way to reduce his facile self-satisfaction. "what i wish to know from you, sir, personally, is whether you want this affair to be hushed up, or not." "hushed up?" repeated mr. prohack, to whom the singular suggestion opened out new and sinister avenues of speculation. "why hushed up?" "most of the cases we deal with have to be hushed up sooner or later," answered the detective. "i only wanted to know where i was." "how interesting your work must be," observed mr. prohack, with quick sympathetic enthusiasm. "i expect you love it. how did you get into it? did you serve an apprenticeship? i've often wondered about you private detectives. it's a marvellous life." "i got into it through meeting a man in the piccadilly tube. as for liking it, i shouldn't like any work." "but some people love their work." "so i've heard," said the detective sceptically. "then i take it you do want the matter smothered?" "but you've telephoned to scotland yard about it," said mr. prohack. "we can't hush it up after that." "i told _them_," replied the detective grimly, indicating with his head the whole world of the house. "i told _them_ i was telephoning to scotland yard; but i wasn't. i was telephoning to our head-office. then am i to take it you want to find out all you can, but you want it smothered?" "not at all. i have no reason for hushing anything up." the detective gazed at him in a harsh, lower-middle-class way, and mr. prohack quailed a little before that glance. "will you please tell me where you bought the necklace?" "i really forget. somewhere in bond street." "oh! i see," said the detective. "a necklace of forty-nine pearls, over half of them stated to be as big as peas, and it's slipped your memory where you bought it." the detective yawned. "and i'm afraid i haven't kept the receipt either," said mr. prohack. "i have an idea the firm went out of business soon after i bought the necklace. at least i seem to remember noticing the shop shut up and then opening again as something else." "no jeweller ever goes out of business in bond street," said the detective, and yawned once more. "well, mr. prohack, i don't think i need trouble you any more to-night. if you or mrs. prohack will call at our head-office during the course of to-morrow you shall have our official report, and if anything really fresh should turn up i'll telephone you immediately. good night, mr. prohack." the man bowed rather awkwardly as he rose from the bed, and departed. "that chap thinks there's something fishy between eve and me," reflected mr. prohack. "i wonder whether there is!" but he was still in high spirits when eve came back into the room. "the sleuth-hound has fled," said he. "i must have given him something to think about." "i've tried all the keys and none of them will fit," eve complained. "and yet you're always grumbling at me for not keeping my keys in order. if you wanted to show him the blue paper why have you let him go?" "my dear," said mr. prohack, "i didn't let him go. he did not consult me, but merely and totally went." "and what is the blue paper?" eve demanded. "well, supposing it was the receipt for what i paid for the pearls?" "oh! i see. but how would that help?" "it wouldn't help," mr. prohack replied. "my broken butterfly, you may as well know the worst. the sleuth-hound doesn't hold out much hope." "yes," said eve. "and you seem delighted that i've lost my pearls! i know what it is. you think it will be a lesson for me, and you love people to have lessons. why! anybody might lose a necklace." "true. ships are wrecked, and necklaces are lost, and nelson even lost his eye." "and i'm sure it _was_ one of the servants." "my child, you can be just as happy without a pearl necklace as with one. you really aren't a woman who cares for vulgar display. moreover, in times like these, when society seems to be toppling over, what is a valuable necklace, except a source of worry? felicity is not to be attained by the--" eve screamed. "arthur! if you go on like that i shall run straight out of the house and take cold in the square." "i will give you another necklace," mr. prohack answered this threat, and as her face did not immediately clear, he added: "and a better one." "i don't want another one," said eve. "i'd sooner be without one. i know it was all my own fault. but you're horrid, and i can't make you out, and i never could make you out. i never did know where i am with you. and i believe you're hiding something from me. i believe you picked up the necklace, and that's why you sent the detective away." mr. prohack had to assume his serious voice which always carried conviction to eve, and which he had never misused. "i haven't picked your necklace up. i haven't seen it. and i know nothing about it." then he changed again. "and if you'll kindly step forward and kiss me good morning i'll try to snatch a few moments' unconsciousness." iv mr. prohack's life at this wonderful period of his career as a practising philosopher at grips with the great world seemed to be a series of violent awakenings. he was awakened, with even increased violence, at about eight o'clock the next--or rather the same--morning, and he would have been awakened earlier if the servants had got up earlier. the characteristic desire of the servants to rise early had, however, been enfeebled by the jolly vigils of the previous night. it was, of course, eve who rushed in to him--nobody else would have dared. she had hastily cast about her plumpness the transformed chinese gown, which had the curious appearance of a survival from some former incarnation. "arthur!" she called, and positively shook the victim. "arthur!" mr. prohack looked at her, dazed by the electric light which she had ruthlessly turned on over his head. "there's a woman been caught in the area. she's a fat woman, and she must have been there all night. the cook locked the area gate and the woman was too fat to climb over. brool's put her in the servants' hall and fastened the door, and what do you think we ought to do first? send for the police or telephone to mr. crewd--he's the detective you saw last night?" "if she's been in the area all night you'd better put her to bed, and give her some hot brandy and water," said mr. prohack. "arthur, please, please, be serious!" eve supplicated. "i'm being as serious as a man can who has been disturbed in this pleasant fashion by a pretty woman," said mr. prohack attentively examining the ceiling. "you go and look after the fat lady. supposing she died from exposure. there'd have to be an inquest. do you wish to be mixed up in an inquest? what does she want? whatever it is, give it her, and let her go, and wake me up next week. i feel i can sleep a bit." "arthur! you'll drive me mad. can't you see that she must be connected with the necklace business. she _must_ be. it's as clear as day-light!" "ah!" breathed mr. prohack, thoughtfully interested. "i'd forgotten the necklace business." "yes, well, i hadn't!" said eve, rather shrewishly. "i had not." "quite possibly she may be mixed up in the necklace business," mr. prohack admitted. "she may be a clue. look here, don't let's tell anybody outside--not even mr. crewd. let's detect for ourselves. it will be the greatest fun. what does she say for herself?" "she said she was waiting outside the house to catch a young lady with a snub-nose going away from my reception--mimi winstock, of course." "why mimi winstock?" "well, hasn't she got a turned-up nose? and she didn't go away from my reception. she's sleeping here," eve rejoined triumphantly. "and what else does the fat woman say?" "she says she won't say anything else--except to mimi winstock." "well, then, wake up mimi as you wakened me, and send her to the servants' hall--wherever that is--i've never seen it myself!" eve shook her somewhat tousled head vigorously. "certainly not. i don't trust miss mimi winstock--not one bit--and i'm not going to let those two meet until you've had a talk with the burglar." "me!" mr. prohack protested. "yes, you. seeing that you don't want me to send for the police. something has to be done, and somebody has to do it. and i never did trust that mimi winstock, and i'm very sorry she's gone to charlie. that was a great mistake. however, it's got nothing to do with me." she shrugged her agreeable shoulders. "but my necklace has got something to do with me." mr. prohack thought "what would lady massulam do in such a crisis? and how would lady massulam look in a dressing-gown and her hair down? i shall never know." meanwhile he liked eve's demeanour--its vivacity and simplicity. "i'm afraid i'm still in love with her," the strange fellow reflected, and said aloud: "you'd better kiss me. i shall have an awful headache if you don't." and eve reluctantly kissed him, with the look of a martyr on her face. within a few minutes mr. prohack had dismissed his wife, and was descending the stairs in a dressing-gown which rivalled hers. the sight of him in the unknown world of the basement floor, as he searched unaided for the servants' hall, created an immense sensation,--far greater than he had anticipated. a nice young girl, whom he had never seen before and as to whom he knew nothing except that she was probably one of his menials, was so moved that she nearly had an accident with a tea-tray which she was carrying. "what is your name?" mr. prohack benignly asked. "selina, sir." "where are you going with that tea-tray and newspaper?" "i was just taking it upstairs to machin, sir. she's not feeling well enough to get up yet, sir." mr. prohack comprehended the greatness of the height to which machin had ascended. machin, a parlourmaid, drinking tea in bed, and being served by a lesser creature, who evidently regarded machin as a person of high power and importance on earth! mr. prohack saw that he was unacquainted with the fundamental realities of life in manchester square. "well," said he. "you can get some more tea for machin. give me that." and he took the tray. "no, you can keep the newspaper." the paper was _the daily picture_. as he held the tray with one hand and gave the paper back to selina with the other, his eye caught the headlines: "west end sensation. mrs. prohack's pearls pinched." he paled; but he was too proud a man to withdraw the paper again. no doubt _the daily picture_ would reach him through the customary channels after machin had done with it, accompanied by the usual justifications about the newsboy being late; he could wait. "which is the servants' hall," said he. selina's manner changed to positive alarm as she indicated, in the dark subterranean corridor, the door that was locked on the prisoner. not merely the presence of mr. prohack had thrilled the basement floor; there was a thrill greater even than that, and mr. prohack, by demanding the door of the servants' hall was intensifying the thrill to the last degree. the key was on the outside of the door, which he unlocked. within the electric light was still burning in the obscure dawn. the prisoner, who sprang up from a chair and curtsied fearsomely at the astonishing spectacle of mr. prohack, was fat in a superlative degree, and her obesity gave her a middle-aged air to which she probably had no right by the almanac. she looked quite forty, and might well have been not more than thirty. she made a typical london figure of the nondescript industrial class. it is inadequate to say that her shabby black-trimmed bonnet, her shabby sham-fur coat half hiding a large dubious apron, her shabby frayed black skirt, and her shabby, immense, amorphous boots,--it is inadequate to say that these things seemed to have come immediately out of a tenth-rate pawnshop; the woman herself seemed to have come, all of a piece with her garments, out of a tenth-rate pawnshop; the entity of her was at any rate homogeneous; it sounded no discord. she did nothing so active as to weep, but tears, obeying the law of gravity, oozed out of her small eyes, and ran in zigzags, unsummoned and unchecked, down her dark-red cheeks. "oh, sir!" she mumbled in a wee, scarcely articulate voice. "i'm a respectable woman, so help me god!" "you shall be respected," said mr. prohack. "sit down and drink some of this tea and eat the bread-and-butter.... no! i don't want you to say anything just yet. no, nothing at all." when she had got the tea into the cup, she poured it into the saucer and blew on it and began to drink loudly. after two sips she plucked at a piece of bread-and-butter, conveyed it into her mouth, and before doing anything further to it, sirruped up some more tea. and in this way she went on. her table manners convinced mr. prohack that her claim to respectability was authentic. "and now," said mr. prohack, gazing through the curtained window at the blank wall that ended above him at the edge of the pavement, so as not to embarrass her, "will you tell me why you spent the night in my area?" "because some one locked the gate on me, sir, while i was hiding under the shed where the dustbins are." "i quite see," said mr. prohack, "i quite see. but why did you go down into the area? were you begging, or what?" "me begging, sir!" she exclaimed, and ceased to cry, fortified by the tonic of aroused pride. "no, of course you weren't begging," said mr. prohack. "you may have given to beggars--" "that i have, sir." she cried again. "but you don't beg. i quite see. then what?" "it's no use me a-trying to tell you, sir. you won't believe me." her voice was extraordinarily thin and weak, and seldom achieved anything that could fairly be called pronunciation. "i shall," said mr. prohack. "i'm a great believer. you try me. you'll see." "it's like this. i was converted last night, and that's where the trouble began, if it's the last word i ever speak." "theology?" murmured mr. prohack, turning to look at her and marvelling at the romantic quality of basements. "there was a mission on at the methodists' in paddington street, and in i went. seems strange to me to be going into a methodists', seeing as i'm so friendly with mr. milcher." "who is mr. milcher?" "milcher's the sexton at st. nicodemus, sir. or i should say sacristan. they call him sacristan instead of sexton because st. nicodemus is high, as i daresay _you_ know, sir, living so close." mr. prohack was conscious of a slight internal shiver, which he could not explain, unless it might be due to a subconscious premonition of unpleasantness to come. "i know that i live close to st. nicodemus," he replied. "very close. too close. but i did not know how high st. nicodemus was. however, i'm interrupting you." he perceived with satisfaction that his gift of inspiring people with confidence was not failing him on this occasion. "well, sir, as i was saying, it might, as you might say, seem strange me popping like that into the methodists', seeing what milcher's views are; but my mother was a methodist in canonbury,--a great place for dissenters, sir, north london, you know, sir, and they do say blood's thicker than water. so there i was, and the mission a-going on, and as soon as ever i got inside that chapel i knew i was done in. i never felt so all-overish in all my days, and before i knew where i was i had found salvation. and i was so happy, you wouldn't believe. i come out of that methodists' as free like as if i was coming out of a hospital, and god knows i've been in a hospital often enough for my varicose veins, in the legs, sir. you might almost have guessed i had 'em, sir, from the kind way you told me to sit down, sir. and i was just wondering how i should break it to milcher, sir, because me passing st. nicodemus made me think of him--not as i'm not always thinking of him--and i looked up at the clock--you know it's the only 'luminated church clock in the district, sir, and the clock was just on eleven, sir, and i waited for it to strike, sir, and it didn't strike. my feet was rooted to the spot, sir, but no, that clock didn't strike, and then all of a sudden it rushed over me about that young woman asking me all about the tower and the clock and telling me as her young man was so interested in church-towers and he wanted to go up, and would i lend her the keys of the tower-door because milcher always gives me the bunch of church-keys to keep for him while he goes into the horse and groom public-house, sir, him not caring to take church keys into a public-house. he's rather particular, sir. they are, especially when they're sacristans. it rushed over me, and i says to myself, 'bolsheviks,' and i thought i should have swounded, but i didn't." mr. prohack had to make an effort in order to maintain his self-control, for the mumblings of the fat lady were producing in him the most singular and the most disturbing sensations. "if there's any tea left in the pot," said he, "i think i'll have it." "_and_ welcome, sir," replied the fat lady. "but there's only one cup. but i have but hardly drunk out of it, sir." mr. prohack first of all went to the door, transferred the key from the outside to the inside, and locked the door. then he drank the dregs of the tea out of the sole cup; and seeing a packet of mr. brool's gold flake cigarettes on the mahogany sideboard, he ventured to help himself to one. "yes, sir," resumed the fat lady. "i nearly swounded, and i couldn't feel happy no more until i'd made a clean breast of it all to milcher. and i was setting off for milcher when it struck me all of a heap as i'd promised the young lady with the turned-up nose as i wouldn't say nothing about the keys to nobody. it was very awkward for me, sir, me being converted and anxious to do right, and not knowing which was right and which was wrong. but a promise is a promise whether you're converted or not--that i do hold. anyhow i says to myself i must see milcher and tell him the clock hadn't struck eleven, and i prayed as hard as i could for heavenly guidance, and i was just coming down the square on my way to milcher's when who should i see get out of a taxi and run into this house but that young lady and her young man. i said in my haste that was an answer to prayer, sir, but i'm not so sure now as i wasn't presuming too much. i could see there was something swanky a-going on here and i said to myself, 'that young lady's gone in. she'll come out again; she's one of the gues's, she is,' i said, 'and him too, and i'll wait till she does come out and then i'll catch her and have it out with her even if it means policemen.' and the area-gate being unfastened, i slipped down the area-steps, sir, with my eye on the front-door. and that was what did me. i had to sit down on the stone steps, sir, because of my varicose veins and then one of the servants comes in _from_ the street, sir, and i more like dropped down the area-steps, sir, than walked, sir, and hid between two dustbins, and when the coast was clear i went up again and found gate locked and nothing doing. and it's as true as i'm standing here--sitting, i should say." mr. prohack paused, collecting himself, determined to keep his nerve through everything. then he said: "when did the mysterious young lady borrow the keys from you?" "last night, sir, i mean the night before last." "and where are the keys now?" "milcher's got 'em, sir. i lay he's up in the tower by this time, a-worrying over that clock. it'll be in the papers--you see if it isn't, sir." "and he's got no idea that you ever lent the keys?" "that he has not, sir. and the question is: must i tell him?" "what exactly are the relations between you and mr. milcher?" "well, sir, he's a bit dotty about me, as you might say. and he's going to marry me. so he says, and i believe him." and mr. prohack reflected, impressed by the wonder of existence: "this woman too has charm for somebody, who looks on her as the most appetising morsel on earth." "now," he said aloud, "you are good enough to ask my opinion whether you ought to tell mr. milcher. my advice to you is: don't. i applaud your conversion. but as you say, a promise is a promise--even if it's a naughty promise. you did wrong to promise. you will suffer for that, and don't think your conversion will save you from suffering, because it won't. don't run away with the idea that conversion is a patent-medicine. it isn't. it's rather a queer thing, very handy in some ways and very awkward in others, and you must use it with commonsense or you'll get both yourself and other people into trouble. as for the clock, it's stopping striking is only a coincidence, obviously. abandon the word 'bolshevik.' it's a very overworked word, and wants a long repose. if the clock had been stopped from striking by your young friends it would have stopped the evening before last, when they went up the tower. and don't imagine there's any snub-nosed young lady living here. there isn't. she must have left while you were down among the dustbins, mrs. milcher--that is to be. she paid you something for your trouble, quite possibly. if so, give the money to the poor. that will be the best way to be converted." "so i will, sir." "yes. and now you must go." he unlocked the door and opened it. "quick. quietly. into the area, and up the area-steps. and stop a moment. don't you be seen in the square for at least a year. a big robbery was committed in this very house last night. you'll see it in to-day's papers. my butler connected your presence in the area--and quite justifiably connected it--with the robbery. without knowing it you've been in the most dreadful danger. i'm saving you. if you don't use your conversion with discretion it may land you in prison. take my advice, and be silent first and converted afterwards. good morning. tut-tut!" he stopped the outflow of her alarmed gratitude. "didn't i advise you to be silent? creep, mrs. milcher. creep!" v "well, what have you said to her? what does she say? what have you done with her?" questioned eve excitedly, who had almost finished dressing when mr. prohack, gorgeously, but by no means without misgivings, entered her bedroom. "i've talked to her very seriously and let her go," answered mr. prohack. eve sat down as if stabbed on the chair in front of her dressing-table, and stared at mr. prohack. "you've let her go!" cried she, with an outraged gasp, implying that she had always suspected that she was married to a nincompoop, but not to such a nincompoop. "where's she gone to?" "i don't know." "what's her name? who is she?" "i don't know that either. i only know that she's engaged to be married, and that a certain sacristan is madly but i hope honourably in love with her, and that she's had nothing whatever to do with the disappearance of your necklace." "i suppose she told you so herself!" said eve, with an irony that might have shrivelled up a husband less philosophic. "she did not. she didn't say a word about the necklace. but she did make a full confession. she's mixed up in the clock-striking business." "the what business?" "the striking of the church-clock. you know it's stopped striking since last night, under the wise dispensation of heaven." as he made this perfectly simple announcement, mr. prohack observed a sudden change in his wife's countenance. her brow puckered: a sad, protesting, worried look came into her eyes. "please don't begin on the clock again, my poor arthur! you ought to forget it. you know how bad it is for you to dwell on it. it gets on your nerves and you start imagining all sorts of things, until, of course, there's no chance of you sleeping. if you keep on like this you'll make me feel a perfect criminal for taking the house. you don't suspect it, but i've several times wished we never had taken it--i've been so upset about your nervous condition." "i was merely saying," mr. prohack insisted, "that our fat visitor, who apparently has enormous seductive power over sacristans, had noticed about the clock just as i had, and she thought--" eve interrupted him by approaching swiftly and putting her hands on his shoulders, as he had put his hands on her shoulders a little while earlier, and gazing with supplication at him. "please, please!" she besought him. "to oblige me. do drop the church-clock. i know what it means for you." mr. prohack turned away, broke into uproarious and somewhat hysterical laughter, and left the bedroom, having perceived to his amazement that she thought the church-clock was undermining his sanity. going to his study, he rang the bell there, and brool, with features pale and drawn, obeyed the summons. the fact that his sanity was suspect, however absurdly, somehow caused mr. prohack to assume a pontifical manner of unusual dignity. "is miss warburton up yet?" "no, sir. one of the servants knocked at her door some little time ago, but received no answer." "she must be wakened, and i'll write a note that must be given to her immediately." mr. prohack wrote: "please dress at once and come to my study. i want to see you about the church-clock. a.p." then he waited, alternately feeling the radiator and warming his legs at the newly-lit wood fire. he was staggered by the incredible turn of events, and he had a sensation that nothing was or ever would be secure in the structure of his environment. "well, i'm hanged! well, i'm hanged!" he kept saying to himself, and indeed several times asserted that an even more serious fate had befallen him. "here i am!" mimi exclaimed brazenly, entering the room. the statement was not exaggerated. she emphatically was there, aspiring nose and all--in full evening dress, the costume of the night before. "have you slept in your clothes?" mr. prohack demanded. her manner altered at his formidable tone. "no, sir," she replied meekly. "but i've nothing else here. i shall put a cloak on and drive off in a taxi to change for the day. may i sit down?" mr. prohack nodded. indubitably she made a wonderful sight in her daring splendour. "so you've found out all about it already!" said she, still meekly, while mr. prohack was seeking the right gambit. "please do tell me how," she added, disposing the folds of her short skirt about the chair. "i'm not here to answer questions," said mr. prohack. "i'm here to ask them. how did you do it? and was it you or charlie or both of you? whose idea was it?" "it was my idea," mimi purred. "but mr. charles seemed to like it. it was really very simple. we first of all found out about the sexton." "and how did you do that?" "private enquiry agents, of course. same people who were in charge here last night. i knew of them when i was with mr. carrel quire, and it was i who introduced them to mrs. prohack." "it would be!" mr. prohack commented. "and then?" "and then when we'd discovered mrs. slipstone--or miss slipstone--" "who's she?" "she's a rather stout charwoman who has a fascination for the sexton of st. nicodemus. when i'd got her it was all plain sailing. she lent me the church keys and mr. charles and i went up the tower to reconnoitre." "but that was more than twenty-four hours before the clock ceased to strike, and you returned the keys to her." "oh! so you know that too, do you?" said mimi blandly. "mr. prohack, i hope you'll forgive me for saying that you're most frightfully clever. i _did_ give the keys back to mrs. slipstone a long time before the clock stopped striking, but you see, mr. charles had taken an impression of the tower key in clay, so that last night we were able to go up with an electric torch and our own key. the clock is a very old one, and mr. charles removed a swivel or something--i forget what he called it, but he seems to understand everything about every kind of machinery. he says it would take a tremendous long time to get another swivel, or whatever it is, cast, even if it ever could be cast without a pattern, and that you'll be safe for at least six months, even if we don't rely on the natural slowness of the established church to do anything really active. you see it isn't as if the clock wasn't going. it's showing the time all right, and that will be sufficient to keep the rector and the church-wardens quiet. it keeps up appearances. of course if the clock had stopped entirely they would have had to do something.... you don't seem very pleased, dear mr. prohack. we thought you'd be delighted. we did it all for you." "did you indeed!" said mr. prohack ruthlessly. "and did you think of the riskiness of what you were doing? there'll be a most appalling scandal, certainly police-court proceedings, and i shall be involved, if it comes to light." "but it can't come to light!" mimi exploded. "and yet it came to my light." "yes, i expect mr. charles was so proud that he couldn't help telling you some bits about it. but nobody else can know. even if mrs. slipstone lets on to the sexton, the sexton will never let on because if he did he'd lose his place. the sexton will always have to deny that he parted with the keys even for a moment. it will be the loveliest mystery that ever was, and all the police in the world won't solve it. of course, if you aren't pleased, i'm very sorry." "it isn't a question of not being pleased. the breath is simply knocked out of me--that's what it is! whatever possessed you to do it?" "but something had to be done, mr. prohack. everybody in the house was terribly upset about you. you couldn't sleep because of the clock, and you said you never would sleep. mrs. prohack was at her wit's end." "everybody in the house was terribly upset about me! this is the first i've heard of anybody being terribly upset about me. i thought that everybody except me had forgotten all about the infernal clock." "naturally!" said mimi, with soothing calmness. "mrs. prohack quite rightly forbade any mention of the clock in your presence. she said the best thing to do was to help you to forget it by never referring to it, and we all agreed with her. but it weighed on us dreadfully. and something really had to be done." mr. prohack was not unimpressed by this revelation of the existence of a social atmosphere which he had never suspected. but he was in no mood for compromise. "now just listen to me," said he. "you are without exception the most dangerous woman that i have ever met. all women are dangerous, but you are an acute peril." "yes," mimi admitted, "mr. carrel quire used to talk like that. i got quite used to it." "did he really? well, i think all the better of him, then. the mischief with you is that your motives are good. but a good motive is no excuse for a criminal act, and still less excuse for an idiotic act. i don't suppose i shall do any good by warning you, yet i do hereby most solemnly warn you to mend your ways. and i wish you to understand clearly that i am not a bit grateful to you. in fact the reverse." mimi stiffened herself. "perhaps you would prefer us to restore the missing part and start the clock striking again. it would be perfectly easy. we still have our own key to the tower and we could do it to-night. i am sure it will be at least a week before the church-wardens send an expert clock-maker up the tower." in that moment mr. prohack had a distressing glimpse into the illogical peculiarities of the human conscience, especially his own. he knew that he ought to accept mimi's offer, since it would definitely obviate the possible consequences of a criminal act and close a discreditable incident. but he thought of his bad nights instead of thinking of mimi's morals and the higher welfare of society. "no," he said. "let sleeping clocks lie." and he saw that mimi read the meanness of his soul and was silently greeting him as a fellow-sinner. she surprised him by saying: "i assure you, mr. prohack, that my sole idea--that our sole idea--was to make the house more possible for you." and as she uttered these words she gazed at him with a sort of delicious pouting, challenging reproach. what a singular remark, he thought! it implied a comprehension of the fact, which he had considerately never disclosed, that he objected to the house _in toto_ and would have been happier in his former abode. and, curiously, it implied further that she comprehended and sympathised with his objections. she knew she had not done everything necessary to reconcile him to the noble mansion, but she had done what she could--and it was not negligible. "nothing of the kind," said he. "you simply had no 'sole idea.' when i admitted just now that your motives were good i was exaggerating. your motives were only half good, and if you think otherwise you are deceiving yourself; you are not being realistic. in that respect you are no better than anybody else." "what was my other motive, then?" she enquired submissively, as if appealing for information to the greatest living authority on the enigmas of her own heart. "your other motive was to satisfy your damnable instinct for dubious and picturesque adventure," said mr. prohack. "you were pandering to the evil in you. if you could have stopped the clock from striking by walking down bond street in mrs. slipstone's clothes and especially her boots, would you have done it? certainly not. of course you wouldn't. don't try to come the self-sacrificing saint over me, because you can't do it." these words, even if amounting to a just estimate of the situation, were ruthless and terrible. they might have accomplished some genuine and lasting good if mr. prohack had spoken them in a tone corresponding to their import. but he did not. his damnable instinct for pleasing people once more got the better of him, and he spoke them in a benevolent and paternal tone, his voice vibrating with compassion and with appreciation of her damnable instinct for dubious and picturesque adventure. the tone destroyed the significance of the words. moreover, not content with the falsifying tone, he rose up from his chair as he spoke, approached the charming and naughty girl, and patted her on the shoulder. the rebuke, indeed, ended by being more agreeable to the sinner than praise might have been from a man less corroded with duplicity than mr. prohack. mimi surprised him a second time. "you're perfectly right," she said. "you always are." and she seized his limp hand in hers and kissed it,--and ran away, leaving him looking at the kissed hand. well, he was flattered, and he was pleased; or at any rate something in him, some fragmentary part of him, was flattered and pleased. mimi's gesture was a triumph for a man nearing fifty; but it was an alarming triumph.... odd that in that moment he should think of lady massulam! his fatal charm was as a razor. had he been playing with it as a baby might play with a razor?... popinjay? coxcomb? perhaps, nevertheless, the wench had artistically kissed his hand, and his hand felt self-complacent, even if he didn't. brool, towards whom mr. prohack felt no impulse of good-will, came largely in with a salver on which were the morning letters and the morning papers, including the paper perused by machin with her early bedside tea and doubtless carefully folded again in its original creases to look virginal. the reappearance of that sheet had somewhat the quality of a sinister miracle to mr. prohack. he asked no questions about it so that he might be told no lies, but he searched it in vain for a trace of the suffering machin. it was, however, full of typographical traces of himself and his family. the description of the reception was disturbingly journalistic, which adjective, for mr. prohack, unfortunately connoted the adjective vulgar. all the wrong people were in the list of guests, and all the decent quiet people were omitted. a value of twenty thousand pounds was put upon the necklace, contradicting another part of the report which stated the pearls to be "priceless." mr. prohack's fortune was referred to; also his treasury past; the implication being that the fortune had caused him to leave the treasury. his daughter's engagement to mr. morfey was glanced at; and it was remarked that mr. morfey--"known to all his friends and half london as 'ozzie' morfey"--was intimately connected with the greatest stage napoleon in history, mr. asprey chown. finally a few words were given to charlie; who was dubbed "a budding financier already responsible for one highly successful _coup_ and likely to be responsible for several others before much more water has run under the bridges of the thames." mr. prohack knew, then, in his limbs the meaning of the word "writhe," and he was glad that he had not had his bath, because even if he had had his bath he would have needed another one. his attitude towards his fellow men had a touch of embittered and cynical scorn unworthy of a philosopher. he turned, in another paper, to the financial column, for, though all his money was safe in fixed-interest-bearing securities, the fluctuations of whose capital value could not affect his safety, yet he somehow could not remain quite indifferent to the fluctuations of their capital value; and in the financial column he saw a reference to a "young operator," who, he was convinced, could be no other than charlie; in the reference there was a note of sarcasm which hurt mr. prohack and aroused anew his apprehensions. and among his correspondence was a letter which had been delivered by hand. he thought he knew the handwriting on the envelope, and he did: it was from mr. softly bishop. mr. softly bishop begged, in a very familiar style, that mr. prohack and wife would join himself and miss fancy on an early day at a little luncheon party, and he announced that the 'highly desirable event to the possibility of which he had alluded' on the previous evening, had duly occurred. strange, the fellow's eagerness to publish his engagement to a person of more notoriety than distinction! the fellow must have "popped the question" while escorting miss fancy home in the middle of the night, and he must have written the note before breakfast and despatched it by special messenger. what a mentality! mr. prohack desired now a whole series of baths. and he was very harassed indeed. if he, by a fluke, had discovered the escapade of the church-tower and the church-clock, why should not others discover it by other flukes? was it conceivable that such a matter should forever remain a secret? the thing, to mr. prohack's sick imagination, was like a bomb with a fuse attached and the fuse lighted. when the bomb did go off, what trouble for an entirely innocent mr. prohack! and he loathed the notion of his proud, strong daughter being affianced to a man who, however excellent intrinsically, was the myrmidon of that sublime showman, mr. asprey chown. and he hated his connection with mr. softly bishop and with miss fancy. could he refuse the invitation to the little luncheon party? he knew that he could not refuse it. his connection with these persons was indisputable and the social consequences of it could not be fairly avoided. as for the matter of the necklace, he held that he could deal with that,--but could he? he lacked confidence in himself. even his fixed interest-bearing securities might, by some inconceivable world-catastrophe, cease to bear interest, and then where would he be? philosophy! philosophy was absurdly unpractical. philosophy could not cope with real situations. where had he sinned? nowhere. he had taken dr. veiga's advice and given up trying to fit his environment to himself instead of vice versa. he had let things rip and shown no egotistic concern in the business of others. but was he any better off in his secret soul? not a whit. he ought to have been happy; he was miserable. on every hand the horizon was dark, and the glitter of seventeen thousand pounds per annum did not lighten it by the illuminative power of a single candle.... but his feverish hand gratefully remembered mimi's kiss. vi nevertheless, as the day waxed and began to wane, it was obvious even to mr. prohack that the domestic climate grew sunnier and more bracing. a weight seemed to have been lifted from the hearts of all mr. prohack's entourage. the theft of the twenty thousand pound necklace was a grave event, but it could not impair the beauty of the great fact that the church-clock had ceased to strike, and that therefore the master would be able to sleep. the shadow of a menacing calamity had passed, and everybody's spirits, except mr. prohack's, reacted to the news; machin, restored to duty, was gaiety itself; but mr. prohack, unresponsive, kept on absurdly questioning his soul and the universe: "what am i getting out of life? can it be true that i am incapable of arranging my existence in such a manner that the worm shall not feed so gluttonously on my damask cheek?" eve's attitude to him altered. in view of the persistent silence of the clock she had to admit to herself that her husband was still a long way off insanity, and she was ashamed of her suspicion and did all that she could to make compensation to him, while imitating his discreet example and not referring even distantly to the clock. when she mentioned the necklace, suggesting a direct appeal to scotland yard, and he discountenanced the scheme, she at once in the most charming way accepted his verdict and praised his superior wisdom. when he placed before her the invitation from mr. softly bishop, she beautifully offered to disentangle him from it if he should so desire. when she told him that she had been asked to preside over the social amenities committee of the league of all the arts, and he advised her not to bind herself by taking any official position, and especially one which would force her into contact with a pack of self-seeking snobbish women, she beamed acquiescence and heartily concurred with him about the pack of women. in fact the afternoon became one of those afternoons on which every caprice was permitted to mr. prohack and he could do no wrong. but the worm still fed on his cheek. before tea he enjoyed a sleep, without having to time his repose so as to avoid being wakened by the clock. and then tea for one was served with full pomp in his study. this meant either that his tireless women were out, or that eve had judged it prudent to indulge him in a solitary tea; and, after the hurried thick-cupped teas at the treasury, he certainly did not dislike a leisurely tea replete with every luxury proper to the repast. he ate, drank, and read odd things in odd corners of _the times_, and at last he smoked. he was on the edge of felicity in his miserableness when his indefatigable women entered, all smiles. they had indeed been out, and they were still arrayed for the street. one by one they removed or cast aside such things as gloves, hats, coats, bags, until the study began to bear some resemblance to a boudoir. mr. prohack, though cheerfully grumbling at this, really liked it, for he was of those who think that nothing furnishes a room so well as a woman's hat, provided it be not permanently established. sissie even took off one shoe, on the plea that it hurt her, and there the trifling article lay, fragile, gleaming and absurd. mr. prohack appreciated it even more than the hats. he understood, perhaps better than ever before, that though he had a vast passion for his wife, there was enough emotion left in him to nourish an affection almost equally vast for his daughter. she was a proud piece, was that girl, and he was intensely proud of her. nor did a realistic estimate of her faults of character seem in the least to diminish his pride in her. she had distinction; she had race. mimi might possibly be able to make rings round her in the pursuit of any practical enterprise, but her mere manner of existing from moment to moment was superior to mimi's. the simple-minded parent was indeed convinced at heart that the world held no finer young woman than sissie prohack. he reflected with satisfaction: "she knows i'm old, but there's something young in me that forces her to treat me as young; and moreover she adores me." he also reflected: "of course they're after something, these two. i can see a put-up job in their eyes." ah! he was ready for them, and the sensation of being ready for them was like a tonic to him, raising him momentarily above misery. "you look much better, arthur," said eve, artfully preparing. "i am," said he. "i've had a bath." "had you given up baths, dad?" asked sissie, with a curl of the lips. "no! but i mean i've had two baths. one in water and the other in resignation." "how dull!" "i've been thinking about the arrangements for the wedding," eve started in a new, falsely careless tone, ignoring the badinage between her husband and daughter, which she always privately regarded as tedious. there it was! they had come to worry him about the wedding. he had not recovered from one social martyrdom before they were plotting to push him into another. they were implacable, insatiable, were his women. he got up and walked about. "now, dad," sissie addressed him. "don't pretend you aren't interested." and then she burst into the most extraordinary laughter--laughter that bordered on the hysterical--and twirled herself round on the shod foot. her behaviour offended eve. "of course if you're going on like that, sissie, i warn you i shall give it all up. after all, it won't be my wedding." sissie clasped her mother's neck. "don't be foolish, you silly old mater. it's a wedding, not a funeral." "well, what about it?" asked mr. prohack, sniffing with pleasure the new atmosphere created in his magnificent study by these feminine contacts. "do you think we'd better have the wedding at st. george's, hanover square, or at st. nicodemus's?" at the name of nicodemus, mr. prohack started, as it were guiltily. "because," eve continued, "we can have it at either place. you see ozzie lives in one parish and sissie in the other. st. nicodemus has been getting rather fashionable lately, i'm told." "what saith the bride?" "oh, don't ask me!" answered sissie lightly. "i'm prepared for anything. it's mother's affair, not mine, in spite of what she says. and nobody shall be able to say after i'm married that i wasn't a dutiful daughter. i should love st. george's and i should love st. nicodemus's too." and then she exploded again into disconcerting laughter, and the fit lasted longer than the first one. eve protested again and sissie made peace again. "st. nicodemus would be more original," said eve. "not so original as you," said mr. prohack. sissie choked on a lace handkerchief. st. nicodemus was selected for the august rite. similar phenomena occurred when eve introduced the point whether the reception should be at manchester square or at claridge's hotel. and when eve suggested that it might be well to enliven the mournfulness of a wedding with an orchestra and dancing, sissie leaped up and seizing her father's hand whizzed him dangerously round the room to a tuna of her own singing. the girl's mere physical force amazed him the dance was brought to a conclusion by the overturning of an occasional table and a tanagra figure. whereupon sissie laughed more loudly and hysterically than ever. mr. prohack deemed that masculine tact should be applied. he soothed the outraged mother and tranquillised the ecstatic daughter, and then in a matter-of-fact voice asked: "and what about the date? do let's get it over." "we must consult ozzie," said the pacified mamma. off went sissie again into shrieks. "you needn't," she spluttered. "it's not ozzie's wedding. it's mine. you fix your own date, dearest, and leave ozzie to me, ozzie's only function at my wedding is to be indispensable." and still laughing in the most crude and shocking way she ran on her uneven feet out of the room, leaving the shoe behind on the hearth-rug to prove that she really existed and was not a hallucination. "i can't make out what's the matter with that girl," said eve. "the sooner she's married the better," said mr. prohack, thoroughly reconciled now to the tedium of the ceremonies. "i daresay you're right. but upon my word i don't know what girls are coming to," said eve. "nobody ever did know that," said mr. prohack easily, though he also was far from easy in his mind about the bridal symptoms. vii "can charlie speak to you for a minute?" the voice was eve's, diplomatic, apologetic. her smiling and yet serious face, peeping in through the bedroom door, seemed to say: "i know we're asking a great favour and that your life is hard." "all right," said mr. prohack, as a gracious, long-suffering autocrat, without moving his eyes from the book he was reading. he had gone to bed. he had of late got into the habit of going to bed. he would go to bed on the slightest excuse, and would justify himself by pointing out that voltaire used to do the same. he was capable of going to bed several times a day. it was early evening. the bed, though hired for a year only, was of extreme comfortableness. the light over his head was in exactly the right place. the room was warm. the book, by a roman emperor popularly known as marcus aurelius, counted among the world's masterpieces. it was designed to suit the case of mr. prohack, for its message was to the effect that happiness and content are commodities which can be manufactured only in the mind, from the mind's own ingredients, and that if the mind works properly no external phenomena can prevent the manufacture of the said commodities. in short, everything was calculated to secure mr. prohack's felicity in that moment. but he would not have it. he said to himself: "this book is all very fine, immortal, supreme, and so on. only it simply isn't true. human nature won't work the way this book says it ought to work; and what's more the author was obviously afraid of life, he was never really alive and he was never happy. finally the tendency of the book is mischievously anti-social." thus did mr. prohack seek to destroy a reputation of many centuries and to deny opinions which he himself had been expressing for many years. "i don't want to live wholly in myself," said mr. prohack. "i want to live a great deal in other people. if you do that you may be infernally miserable but at least you aren't dull. marcus aurelius was more like a potato than i should care to be." and he shoved the book under the pillow, turned half-over from his side to the flat of his back, and prepared with gusto for the evil which charlie would surely bring. and indeed one glance at charlie's preoccupied features confirmed his prevision. "you're in trouble, my lad," said he. "i am," said charlie. "and the hour has struck when you want your effete father's help," mr. prohack smiled benevolently. "put it like that," said charlie amiably, taking a chair and smoothing out his trousers. "i suppose you've seen the references to yourself in the papers?" "yes." "rather sarcastic, aren't they?" "yes. but that rather flatters me, you know, dad. shows i'm being taken notice of." "still, you _have_ been playing a dangerous game, haven't you?" "admitted," said charlie, brightly and modestly. "but i was reading in one of my new books that it is not a bad scheme to live dangerously, and i quite agree. anyhow it suits me. and it's quite on the cards that i may pull through." "you mean if i help you. now listen to me, charlie. i'm your father, and if you're on earth it's my fault, and everything that happens to you is my fault. hence i'm ready to help you as far as i can, which is a long way, but i'm not ready to throw my money into a pit unless you can prove to my hard treasury mind that the pit is not too deep and has a firm unbreakable bottom. rather than have anything to do with a pit that has all attractive qualities except a bottom, i would prefer to see you in the bankruptcy court and make you an allowance for life." "that's absolutely sound," charlie concurred with beautiful acquiescence. "and it's awfully decent of you to talk like this. i expect i could soon prove to you that my pit is the sort of pit you wouldn't mind throwing things into, and possibly one day i might ask you to do some throwing. but i'm getting along pretty well so far as money is concerned. i've come to ask you for something else." "oh!" mr. prohack was a little dashed. but charlie's demeanour was so ingratiating that he did not feel in the least hurt. "yes. there's been some trouble between mimi and me this afternoon, and i'm hoping that you'll straighten it out for me." "ah!" mr. prohack's interest became suddenly intense and pleasurable. "the silly girl's given me notice. she's fearfully hurt because you told her that i told you about the church-clock affair, after it had been agreed between her and me that we wouldn't let on to anybody at all. she says that she can't possibly stay with anybody who isn't loyal, and that i'm not the man she thought i was, and she's given notice!... and i can't do without that girl! i knew she'd be perfectly invaluable to me, and she is." mr. prohack was staggered at this revelation concerning mimi. it seemed to make her heroic and even more incalculable. "but _i_ never told her you'd told me anything about the clock-striking business!" he exclaimed. "i felt sure you hadn't," said charlie, blandly. "i wonder how she got the idea into her head." "now i come to think of it," said mr. prohack, "she did assume this morning that you must have told me about the clock, and i didn't contradict her. why should i!" "just so," charlie smiled faintly. "but i'd be awfully obliged if you'd contradict her now. one word from you will put it all right." "i'll ask her to come and see me first thing in the morning," said mr. prohack. "but would you believe it, my lad, that she never gave me the slightest sign this morning that your telling me anything about the clock would upset her. not the slightest sign!" "oh! she wouldn't!" said charlie. "she's like that. she's the strangest mixture of reserve and rashness you ever saw." "no, she isn't. because they're all the strangest mixture--except of course your esteemed mother, who we all agree is perfect. anything else i can do for you to-night?" "you might tell me how you _did_ find out about the church-clock." "with pleasure. the explanation will surprise you. i found out because in my old-world way i'm jolly clever. and that's all there is to it." "good night, dad. thanks very much." after charlie had gone, mr. prohack said to himself: "that boy's getting on. i can remember the time when he would have come snorting in here full of his grievance, and been very sarcastic when i offered him money he didn't want. what a change! oh, yes, he's getting on all right. he'll come through." and mr. prohack was suddenly much fonder of the boy and more inclined to see in him the possibility of genius. but he was aware of apprehension as to the relations forming between his son and mimi. that girl appeared to be establishing an empire over the great youthful prodigy of finance. was this desirable?... no, that was not the question. the question was: would eve regard it as desirable? he could never explain to his wife how deeply he had been touched by mimi's mad solicitude for the slumber of charlie's father. and even if he could have explained eve would never have consented to understand. chapter xxi eve's martyrdom i after a magnificent night's sleep, so magnificent indeed that he felt as if he had never until that moment really grasped the full significance of the word "sleep," mr. prohack rang the bell for his morning tea. of late he had given orders that he must not under any circumstances be called, for it had been vouchsafed to him that in spite of a multitude of trained servants there were still things that he could do for himself better than anybody else could do for him, and among them was the act of waking up mr. prohack. he knew that he was in a very good humour, capable of miracles, and he therefore determined that he would seize the opportunity to find the human side of mr. brool and make a friend of him. but the tea-tray was brought in by mrs. prohack, who was completely and severely dressed. she put down the tray and kissed her husband not as usual, but rather in the manner of a roman matron, and mr. prohack divined that something had happened. "i hope brool hasn't dropped down dead," said he, realising the foolishness of his facetiousness as he spoke. eve seemed to be pained. "have you slept better?" she asked, solicitous. "i have slept so well that there's probably something wrong with me," said he. "heavy sleep is a symptom of several dangerous diseases." "i'm glad you've had a good night," she began, again ignoring his maladroit flippancy, "because i want to talk to you." "darling," he responded. "pour out my tea for me, will you? then i shall be equal to any strain. i trust that you also passed a fair night, madam. you look tremendously fit." visions of lady massulam flitted through his mind, but he decided that eve, seriously pouring out tea for him under the lamp in the morning twilight of the pale bedroom, could not be matched by either lady massulam or anybody else. no, he could not conceive a lady massulam pouring out early tea; the lady massulams could only pour out afternoon tea--a job easier to do with grace and satisfaction. "i have not slept a wink all night," said eve primly. "but i was determined that nothing should induce me to disturb you." "yes?" mr. prohack encouraged her, sipping the first glorious sip. "well, will you believe me that sissie slipped out last night after dinner without saying a word to me or any one, and that she didn't come back and hasn't come back? i sat up for her till three o'clock--i telephoned to charlie, but no! he'd seen nothing of her." "did you telephone to ozzie?" "telephone to ozzie, my poor boy! of course i didn't. i wouldn't have ozzie know for anything. besides, he isn't on the telephone at his flat." "that's a good reason for not telephoning, anyway," said mr. prohack. "but did you ever hear of such a thing? the truth is, you've spoilt that child." "i may have spoilt the child," mr. prohack admitted. "but i have heard of such a thing. i seem to remember that in the dear dead days of dancing studios, something similar occurred to your daughter." "yes, but we did know where she was." "you didn't. i did," mr. prohack corrected her. "do you want me to cry?" eve demanded suddenly. "yes," said mr. prohack. "i love to see you cry." eve pursed her lips and wrinkled her brows and gazed at the window, performing great feats of self-control under extreme provocation to lose her temper. "what do you propose to do?" she asked with formality. "wait till the girl comes back," said mr. prohack. "arthur! i really cannot understand how you can take a thing like this so casually! no, i really can't!" "neither can i!" mr. prohack admitted, quite truthfully. he saw that he ought to have been gravely upset by sissie's prank and he was merely amused. "effect of too much sleep, no doubt," he added. eve walked about the room. "i pretended to machin this morning that sissie had told me that she was sleeping out, and that i had forgotten to tell machin. it's a good thing we haven't engaged lady's maids yet. i can trust machin. i know she didn't believe me this morning, but i can trust her. you see, after sissie's strange behaviour these last few days.... one doesn't know what to think. and there's something else. every morning for the last three or four weeks sissie's gone out somewhere, for an hour or two, quite regularly. and where she went i've never been able to find out. of course with a girl like her it doesn't do to ask too direct questions.... ah! i should like to have seen my mother in my place. i know what she'd have done!" "what would your mother have done? she always seemed to me to be a fairly harmless creature." "yes, to you!... do you think we ought to inform the police!" "no!" "i'm so glad. the necklace and sissie coming on top of each other! no, it would be too much!" "it never rains but it pours, does it?" observed mr. prohack. "but what _are_ we to do?" "just what your mother would have done. your mother would have argued like this: either sissie is staying away against her will or she is staying away of her own accord. if the former, it means an accident, and we are bound to hear shortly from one of the hospitals. if the latter, we can only sit tight. your mother had a vigorous mind and that is how she would have looked at things." "i never know how to take you, arthur," said mrs. prohack, and went on: "and what makes it all the more incomprehensible is that yesterday afternoon sissie went with me to jay's to see about the wedding-dress." "but why should that make it all the more incomprehensible?" "don't you think it does, somehow? i do." "did she giggle at jay's?" "oh, no! except once. yes, i think she giggled once. that was when the fitter said she hoped we should give them plenty of time, because most customers rushed them so. i remember thinking how queer it was that sissie should laugh so much at a perfectly simple remark like that. oh! arthur!" "now, my child," said mr. prohack firmly. "don't get into your head that sissie has gone off hers. yesterday you thought for quite half an hour that i was suffering from incipient lunacy. let that suffice you for the present. be philosophical. the source of tranquillity is within. remember that, and remind me of it too, because i'm apt to forget it.... we can do nothing at the moment. i will now get up, and i warn you that i shall want a large breakfast and you to pour out my coffee and read the interesting bits out of _the daily picture_ to me." at eleven o'clock of the morning the _status quo_ was still maintaining itself within the noble mansion at manchester square. mr. prohack, washed, dressed, and amply fed, was pretending to be very busy with correspondence in his study, but he was in fact much more busy with eve than with the correspondence. she came in to him every few minutes, and each time needed more delicate handling. after one visit mr. prohack had an idea. he transferred the key from the inside to the outside of the door. at the next visit eve presented an ultimatum. she said that mr. prohack must positively do something about his daughter. mr. prohack replied that he would telephone to his solicitors: a project which happily commended itself to eve, though what his solicitors could do except charge a fee mr. prohack could not imagine. "you wait here," said he persuasively. he then left the room and silently locked the door on eve. it was a monstrous act, but mr. prohack had slept too well and was too fully inspired by the instinct of initiative. he hurried downstairs, ignoring brool, who was contemplating the grandeur of the entrance hall, snatched his overcoat, hat, and umbrella from the seventeenth-century panelled cupboard in which these articles were kept, and slipped away into the square, before brool could even open the door for him. as he fled he glanced up at the windows of his study, fearful lest eve might have divined his purpose to abandon her and, catching sight of him in flight, might begin making noises on the locked door. but eve had not divined his purpose. mr. prohack walked straight to bruton street, where oswald morfey's japanese flat was situated. mr. prohack had never seen this flat, though his wife and daughter had been invited to it for tea--and had returned therefrom with excited accounts of its exquisite uniqueness. he had decided that his duty was to inform ozzie of the mysterious disappearance of sissie as quickly as possible; and, as ozzie's theatrical day was not supposed to begin until noon, he hoped to catch him before his departure to the beck and call of the mighty asprey chown. the number in bruton street indicated a tall, thin house with four bell-pushes and four narrow brass-plates on its door-jamb. the deceitful edifice looked at a distance just like its neighbours, but, as the array on the door-jamb showed, it had ceased to be what it seemed, the home of a respectable victorian family in easy circumstances, and had become a georgian warren for people who could reconcile themselves to a common staircase provided only they might engrave a sound west end address on their notepaper. the front-door was open, disclosing the reassuring fact that the hall and staircase were at any rate carpeted. mr. prohack rang the bell attached to ozzie's name, waited, rang again, waited, and then marched upstairs. perhaps ozzie was shaving. not being accustomed to the organisation of tenements in fashionable quarters, mr. prohack was unaware that during certain hours of the day he was entitled to ring the housekeeper's bell, on the opposite door-jamb, and to summon help from the basement. as he mounted it the staircase grew stuffier and stuffier, but the condition of the staircarpet improved. mr. prohack hated the place, and at once determined to fight powerfully against sissie's declared intention of starting married life in her husband's bachelor-flat, for the sake of economy. he would force the pair, if necessary, to accept from him a flat rent-free, or he would even purchase for them one of those bijou residences of which he had heard tell. he little dreamed that this very house had once been described as a bijou residence. the third floor landing was terribly small and dark, and mr. prohack could scarcely decipher the name of his future son-in-law on the shabby name-plate. "this den would be dear at elevenpence three farthings a year," said he to himself, and was annoyed because for months he had been picturing the elegant oswald as the inhabitant of something orientally and impeccably luxurious, and he wondered that his women, as a rule so critical, had breathed no word of the flat's deplorable approaches. he rang the bell, and the bell made a violent and horrid sound, which could scarcely fail to be heard throughout the remainder of the house. no answer! ozzie had gone. he descended the stairs, and on the second-floor landing saw an old lady putting down a mat in front of an open door. the old lady's hair was in curl-papers. "i suppose," he ventured, raising his hat. "i suppose you don't happen to know whether mr. morfey has gone out?" the old lady scanned him before replying. "he can't be gone out," she answered. "he's just been sweeping his floor enough to wake the dead." "sweeping his floor!" exclaimed mr. prohack, shocked, thunderstruck. "i understood these were service flats." "so they are--in a way, but the housekeeper never gets up to this floor before half past twelve; so it can't be the housekeeper. besides, she's gone out for me." "thank you," said mr. prohack, and remounted the staircase. his blood was up. he would know the worst about the elegant oswald, even if he had to beat the door down. he was, however, saved from this extreme measure, for when he aimlessly pushed against oswald's door it opened. he beheld a narrow passage, which in the matter of its decoration certainly did present a japanese aspect to mr. prohack, who, however, had never been to japan. two doors gave off the obscure corridor. one of these doors was open, and in the doorway could be seen the latter half of a woman and the forward half of a carpet-brush. she was evidently brushing the carpet of a room and gradually coming out of the room and into the passage. she wore a large blue pinafore apron, and she was so absorbed in her business that the advent of mr. prohack passed quite unnoticed by her. mr. prohack waited. more of the woman appeared, and at last the whole of her. she felt, rather than saw, the presence of a man at the entrance, and she looked up, transfixed. a deep blush travelled over all her features. "how clever of you!" she said, with a fairly successful effort to be calm. "good morning, my child," said mr. prohack, with a similar and equally successful effort. "so you're cleaning mr. morfey's flat for him." "yes. and not before it needed it. do come in and shut the door." mr. prohack obeyed, and sissie shed her pinafore apron. "now we're quite private. i think you'd better kiss me. i may as well tell you that i'm fearfully happy--much more so than i expected to be at first." mr. prohack again obeyed, and when he kissed his daughter he had an almost entirely new sensation. the girl was far more interesting to him than she had ever been. her blush thrilled him. "you might care to glance at that," said sissie, with an affectation of carelessness, indicating a longish, narrowish piece of paper covered with characters in red and black, which had been affixed to the wall of the passage with two pins. "we put it there--at least i did--to save trouble." mr. prohack scanned the document. it began: "this is to certify--" and it was signed by a "registrar of births, deaths, and marriages." "yesterday, eh?" he ejaculated. "yes. yesterday, at two o'clock. _not_ at st george's and _not_ at st nicodemus's.... well, you can say what you like, dad--" "i'm not aware of having said anything yet," mr. prohack put in. "you can say what you like, but what _did_ you expect me to do? it was necessary to bring home to some people that this is the twentieth century, not the nineteenth, and i think i've done it. and anyway what are you going to do about it? did you seriously suppose that i--_i_--was going through all the orange-blossom rigmarole, voice that breathed o'er eden, fully choral, red carpet on the pavement, flowers, photographers, vicar, vestry, _daily picture_, reception, congratulations, rice, old shoes, going-away dress, 'be kind to her, ozzie.' not much! and i don't think. they say that girls love it and insist on it. well, i don't, and i know some others who don't, too. i think it's simply barbaric, worse than a public funeral. why, to my mind it's central african; and that's all there is to it. so there!" she laughed. "well," said mr. prohaek, holding his hat in his hand. "i'm a tolerably two-faced person myself, but for sheer heartless duplicity i give you the palm. you can beat me. has it occurred to you that this dodge of yours will cost you about fifty per cent of the wedding presents you might otherwise have had?" "it has," said sissie. "that was one reason why we tried the dodge. nothing is more horrible than about fifty per cent of the wedding presents that brides get in these days. and we've had the two finest presents anybody could wish for." "oh?" "yes, ozzie gave me ozzie, and i gave him me." "i suppose the idea was yours?" "of course. didn't i tell you yesterday that ozzie's only function at my wedding was to be indispensable. he was very much afraid at first when i started on the scheme, but he soon warmed up to it. i'll give him credit for seeing that secrecy was the only thing. if we'd announced it beforehand, we should have been bound to be beaten. you see that yourself, don't you, dearest? and after all, it's our affair and nobody else's." "that's just where you're wrong," said mr. prohack grandly. "a marriage, even yours, is an affair of the state's. it concerns society. it is full of reactions on society. and society has been very wise to invest it with solemnity--and a certain grotesque quality. all solemnities are a bit grotesque, and so they ought to be. all solemnities ought to produce self-consciousness in the performers. as things are, you'll be ten years in convincing yourself that you're really a married woman, and till the day of your death, and afterwards, society will have an instinctive feeling that there's something fishy about you, or about ozzie. and it's your own fault." "oh, dad! what a fraud you are!" and the girl smiled. "you know perfectly well that if you'd been in my place, and had had the pluck--which you wouldn't have had--you'd have done the same." "i should," mr. prohack immediately admitted. "because i always want to be smarter than other people. it's a cheap ambition. but i should have been wrong. and i'm exceedingly angry with you and i'm suffering from a sense of outrage, and i should not be at all surprised if all is over between us. the thing amounts to a scandal, and the worst of it is that no satisfactory explanation of it can ever be given to the world. if your ozzie is up, produce him, and i'll talk to him as he's never been talked to before. he's the elder, he's a man, and he's the most to blame." "take your overcoat off," said sissie laughing and kissing him again. "and don't you dare to say a word to ozzie. besides, he isn't in. he's gone off to business. he always goes at eleven-thirty punctually." there was a pause. "well," said mr. prohack. "all i wish to state is that if you had a feather handy, you could knock me down with it." "i can see all over your face," sissie retorted, "that you're so pleased and relieved you don't know what to do with yourself." mr. prohack perfunctorily denied this, but it was true. his relief that the wedding lay behind instead of in front of him was immense, and his spirits rose even higher than they had been when he first woke up. he loathed all ceremonies, and the prospect of having to escort an orange-blossom-laden young woman in an automobile to a fashionable church, and up the aisle thereof, and raise his voice therein, and make a present of her to some one else, and breathe sugary nothings to a thousand gapers at a starchy reception,--this prospect had increasingly become a nightmare to him. often had he dwelt on it in a condition resembling panic. and now he felt genuinely grateful to his inexcusable daughter for her shameless effrontery. he desired greatly to do something very handsome indeed for her and her excellent tame husband. "step in and see my home," she said. the home consisted of two rooms, one of them a bedroom and the other a sitting-room, together with a small bathroom that was as dark and dank as a cell of the spanish inquisition, and another apartment which he took for a cupboard, but which sissie authoritatively informed him was a kitchen. the two principal rooms were beyond question beautifully japanese in the matter of pictures, prints and cabinets--not otherwise. they showed much taste; they were unusual and stimulating and jolly and refined; but mr. prohack did not fancy that he personally could have lived in them with any striking success. the lack of space, of light, and of air outweighed all considerations of charm and originality; the upper staircase alone would have ruined any flat for mr. prohack. "isn't it lovely!" sissie encouraged him. "yes, it is," he said feebly. "got any servants yet?" "oh! we can't have servants. no room for them to sleep, and i couldn't stand charwomen. you see, it's a service flat, so there's really nothing to do." "so i noticed when i came in," said mr. prohack. "and i suppose you intend to eat at restaurants. or do they send up meals from the cellar?" "we shan't go to restaurants," sissie replied. "you may be sure of that. too expensive for us. and i don't count much on the cookery downstairs. no! i shall do the cooking in a chaffing-dish--here it is, you see. i've been taking lessons in chafing-dish cookery every day for weeks, and it's awfully amusing, it is really. and it's much better than ordinary cooking, and cheaper too. ozzie loves it." mr. prohack was touched, and more than ever determined to "be generous in the grand manner and start the simple-minded couple in married life on a scale befitting the general situation. "you'll soon be clearing out of this place, i expect," he began cautiously. "clearing out!" sissie repeated. "why should we? we've got all we need. we haven't the slightest intention of trying to live as you live. ozzie's very prudent, i'm glad to say, and so am i. we're going to save hard for a few years, and then we shall see how things are." "but you can't possibly stay on living in a place like this!" mr. prohack protested, smiling diplomatically to soften the effect of his words. "who can't?" "you can't." "but when you say me, do you mean your daughter or ozzie's wife? ozzie's lived here for years, and he's given lots of parties here--tea-parties, of course." mr. prohack paused, perceiving that he had put himself in the wrong. "this place is perfectly respectable," sissie continued, "and supposing you hadn't got all that money from america or somewhere," she persisted, "would you have said that i couldn't 'possibly go on living in a place like this?'" she actually imitated his superior fatherly tone. "you'd have been only too pleased to see me living in a place like this." mr. prohack raised both arms on high. "all right," said the young spouse, absurdly proud of her position. "i'll let you off with your life this time, and you can drop your arms again. but if anybody had told me that you would come here and make a noise like a plutocrat i wouldn't have believed it. still, i'm frightfully fond of you and i know you'd do anything for me, and you're nearly as much of a darling as ozzie, but you mustn't be a rich man when you call on me here. i couldn't bear it twice." "i retire in disorder, closely pursued by the victorious enemy," said mr. prohack. and in so saying he accurately described the situation. he had been more than defeated--he had been exquisitely snubbed. and yet the singular creature was quite pleased. he looked at the young girl, no longer his and no longer a girl either, set in the midst of a japanned and lacquered room that so resembled ozzie in its daintiness; he saw the decision on her brow, the charm in her eyes, and the elegance in her figure and dress, and he came near to bursting with pride. "she's got character enough to beat even me," he reflected contentedly, thus exhibiting an ingenuousness happily rare among fathers of brilliant daughters. and even the glimpse of the cupboard kitchen, where the washing-up after a chafing-dish breakfast for two had obviously not yet been accomplished--even this touch seemed only to intensify the moral and physical splendour of his child in her bridal setting. "at the same time," he added to the admission of defeat, "i seem to have a sort of idea that lately you've been carrying on rather like a plutocrat's daughter." "that was only my last fling," she replied, quite unperturbed. "i see," said mr. prohack musingly. "now as regards my wedding present to you. am i permitted to offer any gift, or is it forbidden? of course with all my millions i couldn't hope to rival the gift which ozzie gave you, but i might come in a pretty fair second, mightn't i?" "dad," said she. "i must leave all that to your good taste. i'm sure that it won't let you make any attack on our independence." "supposing that i were to find some capital for ozzie to start in business for himself as a theatrical manager? he must know a good deal about the job by this time." sissie shook her delicious head. "no, that would be plutocratic. and you see i've only just married ozzie. i don't know anything about him yet. when i do, i shall come and talk to you. while you're waiting i wish you'd give me some crockery. one breakfast cup isn't quite enough for two people, after the first day. i saw a set of things in a shop in oxford street for £ . . which i should love to have.... what's happened to the mater? is she in a great state about me? hadn't you better run off and put her out of her misery?" he went, thoughtful. iii he was considerably dashed on his return home, to find the door of his study still locked on the outside. the gesture which on his leaving the room seemed so natural, brilliant and excusable, now presented itself to him as the act of a coarse-minded idiot. he hesitated to unlock the door, but of course he had to unlock it. eve sat as if at the stake, sublime. "arthur, why do you play these tricks on me--and especially when we are in such trouble?" why did he, indeed? "i merely didn't want you to run after me," said he. "i made sure of course that you'd ring the bell at once and have the door opened." "did you imagine for a moment that i would let any of the servants know that you'd locked me in a room? no! you couldn't have imagined that. i've too much respect for your reputation in this house to do such a thing, and you ought to know it." "my child," said mr. prohack, once again amazed at eve's extraordinary gift for putting him in the wrong, and for making him still more wrong when he was wrong. "this is the second time this morning that i've had to surrender to overwhelming force. name your own terms of peace. but let me tell you in extenuation that i've discovered your offspring. the fact is, i got her in one." "where is she?" eve asked, not eagerly, rather negligently, for she was now more distressed about her husband's behaviour than about sissie. "at ozzie's." as soon as he had uttered the words mr. prohack saw his wife's interest fly back from himself to their daughter. "what's she doing at ozzie's?" "well, she's living with him. they were married yesterday. they thought they'd save you and me and themselves a lot of trouble.... but, look here, my child, it's not a tragedy. what's the matter with you?" eve's face was a mask of catastrophe. she did not cry. the affair went too deep for tears. "i suppose i shall have to forgive sissie--some day; but i've never been so insulted in my life. never! and never shall i forget it! and i've no doubt that you and sissie treated it all as a great piece of fun. you would!" the poor lady had gone as pale as ivory. mr. prohack was astonished--he even felt hurt--that he had not seen the thing from eve's point of view earlier. emphatically it did amount to an insult for eve, to say naught of the immense desolating disappointment to her. and yet sissie, princess among daughters, had not shown by a single inflection of her voice that she had any sympathy with her mother, or any genuine appreciation of what the secret marriage would mean to her. youth was incredibly cruel; and age too, in the shape of mr. prohack himself, had not been much less cruel. "something's happened about that necklace since you left," said eve, in a dull, even voice. "oh! what?" "i don't know. but i saw mr. crewd the detective drive up to the house at a great pace. then brool came and knocked here, and as i didn't care to have to tell him that the door was locked, i kept quiet and he went away again. mr. crewd went away too. i saw him drive away." mr. prohack said nothing audible, but to himself he said: "she actually choked off her curiosity about the necklace so as not to give me away! there could never have been another woman like her in the whole history of human self-control! she's prodigious!" and then he wondered what could have happened in regard to the necklace. he foresaw more trouble there. and the splendour of the morning had faded. an appalling silence descended upon the whole house. to escape from its sinister spell mr. prohack departed and sought the seclusion of his secondary club, which he had not entered for a very long time. (he dared not face the lively amenities of his principal club.) he pretended, at the secondary club, that he had never ceased to frequent the place regularly, and to that end he put on a nonchalant air; but he was somewhat disconcerted to find, from the demeanour of his acquaintances there, that he positively had not been missed to any appreciable extent. he decided that the club was a dreary haunt, and could not understand why he had never before perceived its dreariness. the members seemed to be scarcely alive; and in particular they seemed to have conspired together to behave and talk as though humanity consisted of only one sex,--their own. mr. prohack, worried though he was by a too acute realisation of the fact that humanity did indeed consist of two sexes, despised the lot of them. and yet simultaneously the weaker part of him envied them, and he fully admitted, in the abstract, that something might convincingly be said in favour of monasteries. it was a most strange experience. after a desolating lunch of excellent dishes, perfect coffee which left a taste in his mouth, and a fine cigar which he threw away before it was half finished, he abandoned the club and strolled in the direction of manchester square. but he lacked the courage to go into the noble mansion, and feebly and aimlessly proceeded northward until he arrived at marylebone road and saw the great historic crimson building of madame tussaud's waxworks. his mood was such that he actually, in a wild and melancholy caprice, paid money to enter this building and enquired at once for the room known as the chamber of horrors.... when he emerged his gloom had reached the fantastic, hysteric, or giggling stage, and his conception of the all-embracingness of london was immensely enlarged. "miss sissie and mr. morfey are with mrs. prohack, sir," said brool, in a quite ordinary tone, taking the hat and coat of his returned master in the hall of the noble mansion. mr. prohack started. "give me back my hat and coat," said he. "tell your mistress that i may not be in for dinner." and he fled. he could not have assisted at the terrible interview between eve and the erring daughter who had inveigled her own betrothed into a premature marriage. sissie at any rate had pluck, and she must also have had an enormous moral domination over ozzie to have succeeded in forcing him to join her in a tragic scene. what a honeymoon! to what a pass had society come! mr. prohack drove straight to the monument, and paid more money for the privilege of climbing it. he next visited the tower. the day seemed to consist of twenty-four thousand hours. he dined at the trocadero restaurant, solitary at a table under the shadow of the bass fiddle of the orchestra; and finally he patronised maskelyne and cook's entertainment, and witnessed the dissipation of solid young women into air. he reached home, as it was humorously called, at ten thirty. "mrs. prohack has retired for the night, sir," said brool, who never permitted his employers merely to go to bed, "and wishes not to be disturbed." "thank god!" breathed mr. prohack. "yes, sir," said brool, dutifully acquiescent. iv the next morning eve behaved to her husband exactly as if nothing untoward had happened. she kissed and was kissed. she exhibited sweetness without gaiety, and a general curiosity without interest. she said not a word concerning the visit of sissie and ozzie. she expressed the hope that mr. prohack had had a pleasant evening and slept well. her anxiety to be agreeable to mr. prohack was touching,--it was angelic. to the physical eye all was as usual, but mr. prohack was aware that in a single night she had built a high and unscalable wall between him and her; a wall which he could see through and which he could kiss through, but which debarred him utterly from her. and yet what sin had he committed against her, save the peccadillo of locking her for an hour or two in a comfortable room? it was sissie, not he, who had committed the sin. he wanted to point this out to eve, but he appreciated the entire futility of doing so and therefore refrained. about eleven o'clock eve knocked at and opened his study door. "may i come in--or am i disturbing you?" she asked brightly. "don't be a silly goose," said mr. prohack, whose rising temper--he hated angels--was drowning his tact. smiling as though he had thrown her a compliment, eve came in, and shut the door. "i've just received this," she said. "it came by messenger." and she handed him a letter signed with the name of crewd, the private detective. the letter ran: "madam, i beg to inform you that i have just ascertained that the driver of taxi no. has left at new scotland yard a pearl necklace which he found in his vehicle. he states that he drove a lady and gentleman from your house to waterloo station on the evening of your reception, but can give no description of them. i mention the matter _pro forma_, but do not anticipate that it can interest you as the police authorities at new scotland yard declare the pearls to be false. yours obediently.... p.s. i called upon you in order to communicate the above facts yesterday, but you were not at home." mr. prohack turned a little pale, and his voice trembled as he said, looking up from the letter: "i wonder who the thief was. anyhow, women are staggering. here some woman--i'm sure it was the woman and not the man--picks up a necklace from the floor of one of your drawing-rooms, well knowing it not to be her own, hides it, makes off with it, and then is careless enough to leave it in a taxi! did you ever hear of such a thing?" "but that wasn't my necklace, arthur!" said eve. "of course it was your necklace," said mr. prohack. "do you mean to tell me--" eve began, and it was a new eve. "of course i do!" said mr. prohack, who had now thoroughly subdued his temper in the determination to bring to a head that trouble about the necklace and end it for ever. he was continuing his remarks when the wall suddenly fell down with an unimaginable crash. eve said nothing, but the soundless crash deafened mr. prohack. nevertheless the mere fact that sissie's wedding lay behind and not before him, helped him somewhat to keep his spirits and his nerve. "i will never forgive you, arthur!" said eve with the most solemn and terrible candour. she no longer played a part; she was her formidable self, utterly unmasked and savagely expressive without any regard to consequences. mr. prohack saw that he was engaged in a mortal duel, with the buttons off the deadly foils. "of course you won't," said he, gathering himself heroically together, and superbly assuming a calm which he did not in the least feel. "of course you won't, because there is nothing to forgive. on the contrary, you owe me your thanks. i never deceived you. i never told you the pearls were genuine. indeed i beg to remind you that i once told you positively that i would never buy you a _pearl_ necklace,--don't you remember? you thought they were genuine, and you have had just as much pleasure out of them as if they had been genuine. you were always careless with your jewellery. think how i should have suffered if i had watched you every day being careless with a rope of genuine pearls! i should have had no peace of mind. i should have been obliged to reproach you, and as you can't bear to be reproached you would have picked quarrels with me. further, you have lost nothing in prestige, for the reason that all our friends and acquaintances have naturally assumed that the pearls were genuine because they were your pearls and you were the wife of a rich man. a woman whose husband's financial position is not high and secure is bound to wear real pearls because people will _assume_ that her pearls are false. but a woman like yourself can wear any pinchbeak pearls with impunity because people _assume_ that her pearls are genuine. in your case there could be no advantage whatever in genuine pearls. to buy them would be equivalent to throwing money in the street. now, as it is, i have saved money over the pearls, and therefore interest on money, though i did buy you the very finest procurable imitations! and think, my child, how relieved you are now,--oh, yes! you are, so don't pretend the contrary: i can deceive you, but you can't deceive me. you have no grievance whatever. you have had many hours of innocent satisfaction in your false jewels, and nobody is any the worse. indeed my surpassing wisdom in the choice of a necklace has saved you from all further worry about the loss of the necklace, because it simply doesn't matter either one way or the other, and i say i defy you to stand there and tell me to my face that you have any grievance at all." mr. prohack paused for a reply, and he got it. "i will never forgive you as long as i live," said eve. "let us say no more about it. what time is that awful lunch that you've arranged with that dreadful bishop man? and what would you like me to wear, please?" in an instant she had rebuilt the wall, higher than ever. mr. prohack, always through the wall, took her in his arms and kissed her. but he might as well have kissed a woman in a trance. all that could be said was that eve submitted to his embrace, and her attitude was another brilliant illustration of the fact that the most powerful oriental tyrants can be defied by their weakest slaves, provided that the weakest slaves know how to do it. "you are splendid!" said mr. prohack, admiringly, conscious anew of his passion for her and full of trust in the virtue of his passion to knock down the wall sooner or later. "but you are a very naughty and ungrateful creature, and you must be punished. i will now proceed to punish you. we have much to do before the lunch. go and get ready, and simply put on all the clothes that have cost the most money. they are the clothes fittest for your punishment." three-quarters of an hour later, when mr. prohack had telephoned and sent a confirmatory note by hand to his bank, carthew drove them away southwards, and the car stopped in front of the establishment of a very celebrated firm of jewellers near piccadilly. "come along," said mr. prohack, descending to the pavement, and drew after him a moving marble statue, richly attired. they entered the glittering shop, and were immediately encountered by an expectant salesman who had the gifts of wearing a frock-coat as though he had been born in it, and of reading the hearts of men. that salesman saw in a flash that big business was afoot. "first of all," said mr. prohack. "here is my card, so that we may know where we stand." the salesman read the card and was suitably impressed, but his conviction that big business was afoot seemed now to be a little shaken. "may i venture to hope that the missing necklace has been found, sir?" said the salesman smoothly. "we've all been greatly interested in the newspaper story." "that is beside the point," said mr. prohack. "i've come simply to buy a pearl necklace." "i beg pardon, sir. certainly. will you have the goodness to step this way." they were next in a private room off the shop; and the sole items of furniture were three elegant chairs, a table with a glass top, and a colossal safe. another salesman entered the room with bows, and keys were produced, and the two salesmen between them swung back the majestic dark green doors of the safe. in another minute various pearl necklaces were lying on the table. the spectacle would have dazzled a connoisseur in pearls; but mr. prohack was not a connoisseur; he was not even interested in pearls, and saw on the table naught but a monotonous array of pleasing gewgaws, to his eye differing one from another only in size. he was, however, actuated by a high moral purpose, which uplifted him and enabled him to listen with dignity to the technical eulogies given by the experts. eve of course behaved with impeccable correctness, hiding the existence of the wall from everybody except mr. prohack, but forcing mr. prohack to behold the wall all the time. when he had reached a state of complete bewilderment regarding the respective merits of the necklaces, mr. prohack judged the moment ripe for proceeding to business. with his own hands he clasped a necklace round his wife's neck, and demanded: "what is the price of this one?" "eight hundred and fifty pounds," answered the principal expert, who seemed to recognise every necklace at sight as a shepherd recognises every sheep in his flock. "do you think this would suit you, my dear?" asked mr. prohack. "i think so," replied eve politely. "well, i'm not so sure," said mr. prohack, reflectively. "what about this one?" and he picked up and tried upon eve another and a larger necklace. "that," said the original expert, "is two thousand four hundred guineas." "it seems cheap," said mr. prohack carelessly. "but there's something about the gradation that i don't quite like. what about this one?" eve opened her mouth, as if about to speak, but she did not speak. the wall, which had trembled for a few seconds, regained its monumental solidity. "five thousand guineas," said the expert of the third necklace. "hm!" commented mr. prohack, removing the gewgaw. "yes. not so bad. and yet--" "that necklace," the expert announced with a mien from which all deference had vanished, "is one of the most perfect we have. the pearls have, if i may so express it, a homogeneity not often arrived at in any necklace. they are not very large of course--" "quite so," mr. prohack stopped him, selecting a fourth necklace. "yes," the expert admitted, his deference returning. "that one is undoubtedly superior. let me see, we have not yet exactly valued it, but i think we could put it in at ten thousand guineas--perhaps pounds. i should have to consult one of the partners." "it is scarcely," said mr. prohack, surveying the trinket judicially on his wife's neck, "scarcely the necklace of my dreams,--not that i would say a word against it.... ah!" and he pounced suddenly, with an air of delighted surprise, upon a fifth necklace, the queen of necklaces. "my dear, try this one. try this one. i didn't notice it before. somehow it takes my fancy, and as i shall obviously see much more of your necklace than you will, i should like my taste to be consulted." as he fastened the catch of the thing upon eve's delicious nape, he could feel that she was trembling. he surveyed the dazzling string. she also surveyed it, fascinated, spellbound. even mr. prohack began to perceive that the reputation and value of fine pearls might perhaps be not entirely unmerited in the world. "sixteen thousand five hundred," said the expert. "pounds or guineas?" mr. prohack blandly enquired. "well, sir, shall we say pounds?" "i think i will take it," said mr. prohack with undiminished blandness. "no, my dear, don't take it off. don't take it off." "arthur!" eve breathed, seeming to expire in a kind of agonised protest. "may i have a few minutes' private conversation with my wife?" mr. prohack suggested. "could you leave us?" one expert glanced at the other awkwardly. "pardon my lack of savoir vivre," said mr. prohack. "of course you cannot possibly leave us alone with all these valuables. never mind! we will call again." the principal expert rose sublimely to the great height of the occasion. he had a courageous mind and was moreover well acquainted with the fantastic folly of allowing customers to call again. within his experience of some thirty years he had not met half a dozen exceptions to the rule that customers who called again, if ever they did call, called in a mood of hard and miserly sanity which for the purposes of the jewellery business was sickeningly inferior to their original mood. "please, please, mr. prohack!" said he, with grand deprecation, and departed out of the room with his fellow. no sooner had they gone than the wall sank. it did not tumble with a crash; it most gently subsided. "arthur!" eve exclaimed, with a curious uncertainty of voice. "are you mad?" "yes," said mr. prohack. "well," said she. "if you think i shall walk about london with sixteen thousand five hundred pounds round my neck you're mistaken." "but i insist! you were a martyr and our marriage was ruined because i didn't give you real pearls. i intend you shall have real pearls." "but not these," said eve. "it's too much. it's a fortune." "i am aware of that," mr. prohack agreed. "but what is sixteen thousand five hundred pounds to me?" "truly i couldn't, darling," eve wheedled. "i am not your darling," said mr. prohack. "how can i be your darling when you're never going to forgive me? look here. i'll let you choose another necklace, but only on the condition that you forgive all my alleged transgressions, past, present and to come." she kissed him. "you can have the one at five thousand guineas," said mr. prohack. "nothing less. that is my ultimatum. put it on. put it on, quick! or i may change my mind." he recalled the experts who, when they heard the grave news, smiled bravely, and looked upon eve as upon a woman whose like they might never see again. "my wife will wear the necklace at once," said mr. prohack. "pen and ink, please." he wrote a cheque. "my car is outside. perhaps you will send some one up to my bank immediately and cash this. we will wait. i have warned the bank. there will be no delay. the case can be delivered at my house. you can make out the receipt and usual guarantee while we're waiting." and so it occurred as he had ordained. "would you care for us to arrange for the insurance? we undertake to do it as cheaply as anybody," the expert suggested, later. mr. prohack was startled, for in his inexperience he had not thought of such complications. "i was just going to suggest it," he answered placidly. "i feel quite queer," said eve, as she fingered the necklace, in the car, when all formalities were accomplished and they had left the cave of aladdin. "and well you may, my child," said mr. prohack. "the interest on the price of that necklace would about pay the salary of a member of parliament or even of a professional cricketer. and remember that whenever you wear the thing you are in danger of being waylaid, brutally attacked, and robbed." "i wish you wouldn't be silly," eve murmured. "i do hope i shan't seem self-conscious at the lunch." "we haven't reached the lunch yet," mr. prohack replied. "we must go and buy a safe first. there's no safe worth twopence in the house, and a really safe safe is essential. and i want it to be clearly understood that i shall keep the key of that safe. we aren't playing at necklaces now. life is earnest." and when they had bought a safe and were once more in the car, he said, examining her impartially: "after all, at a distance of four feet it doesn't look nearly so grand as the one that's lying at scotland yard--i gave thirty pounds for that one." chapter xxii mr. prohack's triumph "and where is your charming daughter?" asked mr. softly bishop so gently of eve, when he had greeted her, and quite incidentally mr. prohack, in the entrance hall of the grand babylon hotel. he was alone--no sign of miss fancy. "sissie?" said eve calmly. "i haven't the slightest idea." "but i included her in my invitations--and mr. morfey too." mr. prohack was taken aback, foreseeing the most troublesome complications; and he glanced at eve as if for guidance and support. he was nearly ready to wish that after all sissie had not gone and got married secretly and prematurely. eve, however, seemed quite undisturbed, though she offered him neither guidance nor support. "surely," said mr. prohack hesitatingly, "surely you didn't mention sissie in your letter to me!" "naturally i didn't, my dear fellow," answered mr. bishop. "i wrote to her separately, knowing the position taken up by the modern young lady. and she telephoned me yesterday afternoon that she and morfey would be delighted to come." "then if you know so much about the modern young lady," said eve, with bright and perfect self-possession, "you wouldn't expect my daughter to arrive with her parents, would you?" mr. softly bishop laughed. "you're only putting off the evil moment," said mr. prohack in the silence of his mind to eve, and similarly he said to mr. softly bishop: "i do wish you wouldn't call me 'my dear fellow.' true, i come to your lunch, but i'm not your dear fellow and i never will be." "i invited your son also, prohack," continued mr. bishop. "together with miss winstock or warburton--she appears to have two names--to make a pair, to make a pair you understand. but unfortunately he's been suddenly called out of town on the most urgent business." as he uttered these last words mr. bishop glanced in a peculiar manner partly at his nose and partly at mr. prohack; it was a singular feat of glancing, and mr. prohack uncomfortably wondered what it meant, for charles lay continually on mr. prohack's chest, and at the slightest provocation charles would lie more heavily than usual. "am i right in assuming that the necklace affair is satisfactorily settled?" mr. softly bishop enquired, his spectacles gleaming and blinking at the adornment of eve's neck. "you are," said eve. "but it wouldn't be advisable for you to be too curious about details." her aplomb, her sangfroid, astounded mr. prohack--and relieved him. with an admirable ease she went on to congratulate their host upon his engagement, covering him with petals of flattery and good wishes. mr. prohack could scarcely recognise his wife, and he was not sure that he liked her new worldiness quite as much as her old ingenuous and sometimes inarticulate simplicity. at any rate she was a changed woman. he steadied himself, however, by a pertinent reflection: she was always a changed woman. then sissie and ozzie appeared, looking as though they had been married for years. mr. prohack's heart began to beat. ignoring mr. softly bishop, sissie embraced her mother with prim affectionateness, and eve surveyed her daughter with affectionate solicitude. mr. prohack felt that he would never know what had passed between these two on the previous day, for they were a pair of sphinxes when they chose, and he was too proud to encourage confidences from ozzie. whatever it might have been it was now evidently buried deep, and the common life, after a terrible pause, had resumed. "how do you do, miss prohack," said mr. softly bishop, greeting. "so glad you could come." mr. prohack suspected that his cheeks were turning pale, and was ashamed of himself. even sissie, for all her young, hard confidence, wavered. but eve stepped in. "don't you know, mr. bishop?--no, of course you don't. we ought to have told you. my daughter is now mrs. morfey. you see in our family we all have such a horror of the conventional wedding and reception and formal honeymoon and so on, that we decided the marriage should be strictly private, with no announcements of any kind. i really think you are the first to know. one thing i've always liked about actresses is that in the afternoon you can read of them getting married that day and then go and see them play the same evening. it seems to me so sensible. and as we were all of the same opinion at our house, especially sissie and her father, there was no difficulty." "upon my word," said mr. softly bishop shaking hands with ozzie. "i believe i shall follow your example." mr. prohack sank into a chair. "i feel rather faint," he said. "bishop, do you think we might have a cocktail or so?" "my dear fellow, how thoughtless of me! of course! waiter! waiter!" as mr. bishop swung round in the direction of waiters eve turned in alarm to mr. prohack. mr. prohack with much deliberation winked at her, and she drew back. "yes," he murmured. "you'll be the death of me one day, and then you'll be sorry." "i don't think a cocktail is at all a good thing for you, dad," sissie calmly observed. the arrival of miss fancy provided a distraction more agreeable than mr. prohack thought possible; he positively welcomed the slim, angular blonde, for she put an end to a situation which, prolonged another moment, would have resulted in a severe general constraint. "you're late, my dear," said mr. softly bishop, firmly. the girl's steely blue-eyed glance shot out at the greeting, but seemed to drop off flatly from mr. bishop's adamantine spectacles like a bullet from bessemer armour. "am i?" she replied uncertainly, in her semi-american accent. "where's the ladies' cloakroom of this place?" "i'll show you," said mr. bishop, with no compromise. the encounter was of the smallest, but it made mr. prohack suspect that perhaps mr. bishop was not after all going into the great warfare of matrimony blindly or without munitions. "i've taken the opportunity to tell miss fancy that she will be the only unmarried woman at my lunch," said mr. bishop amusingly, when he returned from piloting his beloved. a neat fellow, beyond question! miss fancy had apparently to re-dress herself, judging from the length of her absence. the cocktails, however, beguiled the suspense. "is this for me?" she asked, picking up a full glass when she came back. "no, my dear," said mr. bishop. "it isn't. we will go in to lunch." and they went in to lunch, leaving unconsumed the cocktail which the abstemious and spartan sissie had declined to drink. ii "i suppose you've been to see the twelve and thirteen," said eve, in her new grand, gracious manner to miss fancy, when the party was seated at a round, richly-flowered table specially reserved by mr. softly bishop on the embankment front of the restaurant, and the hors d'oeuvre had begun to circulate on the white cloth, which was as crowded as the gold room. "i'm afraid i haven't," muttered miss fancy weakly but with due refinement. the expression of fear was the right expression. eve had put the generally brazen woman in a fright at the first effort. and the worst was that miss fancy did not even know what the twelve and thirteen was--or were. at the opening of her début at what she imagined to be the great, yet exclusive, fashionable world, miss fancy was failing. of what use to be perfectly dressed and jewelled, to speak with a sometimes carefully-corrected accent, to sit at the best table in the london restaurant most famous in the united states, to be affianced to the cleverest fellow she had ever struck, if the wonderful and famous hostess, mrs. prohack, whose desirable presence was due only to softly's powerful influence in high circles, could floor her at the very outset of the conversation? it is a fact that miss fancy would have given the emerald ring off her left first-finger to be able to answer back. all miss fancy could do was to smite mr. softly bishop with a homicidal glance for that he had not in advance put her wise about something called the twelve and thirteen. it is also a fact that miss fancy would have perished sooner than say to mrs. prohack the simple words: "i haven't the slightest idea what the twelve and thirteen are." eve did not disguise her impression that miss fancy's lapse was very strange and disturbing. "i suppose you've seen the new version of the 'sacre du printemps,' miss fancy," said mrs. oswald morfey, that exceedingly modern and self-possessed young married lady. "not yet," said miss fancy, and foolishly added: "we were thinking of going to-night." "there won't be any more performances this season," said ozzie, that prince of authorities on the universe of entertainment. and in this way the affair continued between the four, while mr. softly bishop, abandoning his beloved to her fate, chatted murmuringly with mr. prohack about the oil market, as to which of course mr. prohack was the prince of authorities. mrs. prohack and her daughter and son-in-law ranged at ease over all the arts without exception, save the one art--that of musical comedy--in which miss fancy was versed. mr. prohack was amazed at the skilled cruelty of his women. he wanted to say to miss fancy: "don't you believe it! my wife is only a rather nice ordinary housekeeping sort of little woman, and as for my daughter, she cooks her husband's meals--and jolly badly, i bet." he ought to have been pleased at the discomfiture of miss fancy, whom he detested and despised; but he was not; he yearned to succour her; he even began to like her. and not eve and sissie alone amazed him. oswald amazed him. oswald had changed. his black silk stock had gone the way of his ribboned eye-glass; his hair was arranged differently; he closely resembled an average plain man,--he, the unique ozzie! with all his faults, he had previously been both good-natured and negligent, but his expression was now one of sternness and of resolute endeavour. sissie had already metamorphosed him. even now he was obediently following her lead and her mood. mr. prohack's women had evidently determined to revenge themselves for being asked to meet miss fancy at lunch, and ozzie had been set on to assist them. further, mr. prohack noticed that sissie was eyeing her mother's necklace with a reprehending stare. the next instant he found himself the target of the same stare. the girl was accusing him of folly, while questioning ozzie's definition of the difference between georgian and neo-georgian verse. the girl had apparently become the censor of society at large. mysterious cross-currents ran over the table in all directions. mr. prohack looked around the noisy restaurant packed with tables, and wondered whether cross-currents were running invisibly over all the tables, and what was the secret force of fashionable fleeting convention which enabled women with brains far inferior to his own to use it effectively for the fighting of sanguinary battles. at last, when miss fancy had been beaten into silence and the other three were carrying on a brilliant high-browed conversation over the corpse of her up-to-dateness, mr. prohack's nerves reached the point at which he could tolerate the tragic spectacle no more, and he burst out vulgarly, in a man-in-the-street vein, chopping off the brilliant conversation as with a chopper: "now, miss fancy, tell us something about yourself." the common-sounding phrase seemed to be a magic formula endowed with the power to break an awful spell. miss fancy gathered herself together, forgot that she had been defeated, and inaugurated a new battle. she began to tell the table not something, but almost everything, about herself, and it soon became apparent that she was no ordinary woman. she had never had a set-back; in innumerable conversational duels she had always given the neat and deadly retort, and she had never been worsted, save by base combinations deliberately engineered against her--generally by women, whom as a sex she despised even more than men. her sincere belief that no biographical detail concerning miss fancy was too small to be uninteresting to the public amounted to a religious creed; and her memory for details was miraculous. she recalled the exact total of the takings at any given performance in which she was prominent in any city of the united states, and she could also give long extracts from the favourable criticisms of countless important american newspapers,--by a singular coincidence only unimportant newspapers had ever mingled blame with their praise of her achievements. she regarded herself with detachment as a remarkable phenomenon, and therefore she could impersonally describe her career without any of the ordinary restraints--just as a shopman might clothe or unclothe a model in his window. thus she could display her heart and its history quite unreservedly,--did they not belong to the public? the astounded table learnt that miss fancy was illustrious in the press of the united states as having been engaged to be married more often than any other actress. yet she had never got as far as the altar, though once she had reached the church-door--only to be swept away from it by a cyclone which unhappily finished off the bridegroom. (what grey and tedious existences eve and sissie had led!) her penultimate engagement had been to the late silas angmering. "something told me i should never be his wife," she said vivaciously. "you know the feeling we women have. and i wasn't much surprised to hear of his death. i'd refused silas eight times; then in the end i promised to marry him by a certain date. he _wouldn't_ take no, poor dear! well, _he_ was a gentleman anyway. of course it was no more than right that he should put me down in his will, but not every man would have done. in fact it never happened to me before. wasn't it strange i should have that feeling about never being his wife?" she glanced eagerly at mr. prohack and mr. prohack's women, and there was a pause, in which mr. softly bishop said, affectionately regarding his nose: "well, my dear, you'll be _my_ wife, you'll find," and he uttered this observation in a sharp tone of conviction that made a quite disturbing impression on the whole company, and not least on mr. prohack, who kept asking himself more and more insistently: "why is softly bishop marrying miss fancy, and why is miss fancy marrying softly bishop?" mr. prohack was interrupted in his private enquiry into this enigma by a very unconventional nudge from sissie, who silently directed his attention to eve, who seemingly wanted it. "your friend seems anxious to speak to you," murmured eve, in a low, rather roguish voice. 'his friend' was lady massulam, who was just concluding a solitary lunch at a near table; he had not noticed her, being still sadly remiss in the business of existing fully in a fashionable restaurant. lady massulam's eyes confirmed eve's statement. "i'm sure miss fancy will excuse you for a moment," said eve. "oh! please!" implored miss fancy, grandly. mr. prohack self-consciously carried his lankness and his big head across to lady massulam's table. she looked up at him with a composed but romantic smile. that is to say that mr. prohack deemed it romantic; and he leaned over the table and over lady massulam in a manner romantic to match. "i'm just going off," said she. simple words, from a portly and mature lady--yet for mr. prohack they were charged with all sorts of delicious secondary significances. "what _is_ the difference between her and eve?" he asked himself, and then replied to the question in a flash of inspiration: "i am romantic to her, and i am not romantic to eve." he liked this ingenious explanation. "i wanted to tell you," said she gravely, with beautiful melancholy, "charles is _flambé_. he is done in. i cannot help him. he will not let me; but if i see him to-night when he returns to town i shall send him to you. he is very young, very difficult, but i shall insist that he goes to you." "how kind you are!" said mr. prohack, touched. lady massulam rose, shook hands, seemed to blush, and departed. an interview as brief as it had been strange! mr. prohack was thrilled, not at all by the announcement of charlie's danger, perhaps humiliation, but by the attitude of lady massulam. he had his plans for charlie. he had no plans affecting lady massulam. mr. softly bishop's luncheon had developed during the short absence of mr. prohack. it's splendour, great from the first, had increased; if tables ever do groan, which is perhaps doubtful, the table was certainly groaning; mr. softly bishop was just dismissing, with bland and negligent approval, the major domo of the restaurant, with whom, like all truly important personages, he appeared to be on intimate terms. but the chief development of the luncheon disclosed itself in the conversation. mr. softly bishop had now taken charge of the talk and was expatiating to a hushed and crushed audience his plans for a starring world-tour for his future wife, who listened to them with genuine admiration on her violet-tinted face. "eliza won't be in it with me when i come back," she exclaimed suddenly, with deep conviction, with anticipatory bliss, with a kind of rancorous ferocity. mr. prohack understood. miss fancy was uncompromisingly jealous of her half-sister's renown. to outdo that renown was the main object of her life, and mr. softly bishop's claim on her lay in the fact that he had shown her how to accomplish her end and was taking charge of the arrangements. mr. softly bishop was her trainer and her manager; he had dazzled her by the variety and ingenuity of his resourceful schemes; and his power over her was based on a continual implied menace that if she did not strictly obey all his behests she would fail to realise her supreme desire. and when mr. softly bishop gradually drew ozzie into a technical tête-à-tête, mr. prohack understood further why ozzie had been invited to the feast. upon certain branches of mr. bishop's theatrical schemes ozzie was an acknowledged expert, and mr. bishop was obtaining, for the price of a luncheon, the fruity knowledge and wisdom acquired by ozzie during long years of close attention to business. for mr. prohack it was an enthralling scene. the luncheon closed gorgeously upon the finest cigars and cigarettes, the finest coffee, and the finest liqueurs that the unique establishment could provide. sissie refused every allurement except coffee, and miss fancy was permitted nothing but coffee. "do not forget your throat, my dear," mr. softly bishop authoritatively interjected into miss fancy's circumstantial recital of the expensiveness of the bouquets which had been hurled at her in the new national theatre at washington. "and by the way," (looking at his watch), "do not forget the appointment with the elocutionist." "but aren't you coming with me?" demanded miss fancy alarmed. already she was learning the habit of helplessness--so attractive to men and so useful to them. these remarks broke up the luncheon party, which all the guests assured the deprecating host had been perfectly delightful, with the implied addition that it had also constituted the crown and summit of their careers. eve and sissie were prodigious in superlatives to such an extent that mr. prohack began to fear for mr. softly bishop's capacity to assimilate the cruder forms of flattery. his fear, however, was unnecessary. when the host and his beloved departed miss fancy was still recounting tit-bits of her biography. "but i'll tell you the rest another time," she cried from the moving car. she had emphatically won the second battle. from the first blow she had never even looked like losing. and she had shown no mercy, quite properly following the maxim that war is war. eve and sissie seemed to rise with difficulty to their knees, after the ruthless adversary, tired of standing on their prostrate form, had scornfully walked away. iii "well!" sighed mrs. prohack, with the maximum of expressiveness, glancing at her daughter as one woman of the world at another. they were lingering, as it were convalescent after the severe attack and defeat, in the foyer of the hotel. "well!" sighed sissie, flattered by the glance, and firmly taking her place in the fabric of society. "well, father, we always knew you had some queer friends, but really these were the limit! and the extravagance of the thing! that luncheon must have cost at least twenty pounds,--and i do believe he had special flowers, too. when i think of the waste of money and time that goes on daily in places like these, i wonder there's any england left. it ought to be stopped by law." "my child," said mr. prohack. "i observe with approbation that you are beginning to sit up and take notice. centuries already divide you from the innocent creature who used to devote her days and nights to the teaching of dancing to persons who had no conception of the seriousness of life. i agree with your general criticism, but let us remember that all this wickedness does not date from the day before yesterday. it's been flourishing for some thousands of years, and all prophecies about it being over-taken by nemesis have proved false. still, i'm glad you've turned over a new leaf." sissie discreetly but unmistakably tossed her young head. "oswald, dearest," said she. "it's time you were off." "it is," ozzie agreed, and off he went, to resume the serious struggle for existence,--he who until quite recently had followed the great theatrical convention that though space may be a reality, time is not. "i don't mind the extravagance, because after all it's good for trade," said eve. "what i--" "mother darling!" sissie protested. "where do you get these extraordinary ideas from about luxury being good for trade? surely you ought to know--" "i daresay i ought to know all sorts of things i don't know," said eve with dignity. "but there's one thing i do know, and that is that the style of those two dreadful people was absolutely the worst i've ever met. the way that woman gabbled--and all about herself; and what an accent, and the way she held her fork!" "lady," said mr. prohack. "don't be angry because she beat you." "beat me!" "yes. beat you. both of you. you talked her to a standstill at first; but you couldn't keep it up. then she began and she talked you to a standstill, and she could keep it up. she left you for all practical purposes dead on the field, my tigresses. and i'm very sorry for her," he added. "dad," said sissie sternly. "why do you always try to be so clever with us? you know as well as we do that she's a _creature_, and that there's nothing to be said for her at all." "nothing to be said for her!" mr. prohack smiled tolerantly. "why she was the star of the universe for silas angmering, the founder of our fortunes. she was the finest woman he'd ever met. and angmering was a clever fellow, let me tell you. you call her a creature. yes, the creature of destiny, like all of us, except of course you. i beg to inform you that miss fancy went out of this hotel a victim, an unconscious victim, but a victim. she is going to be exploited. mr. softly bishop, my co-heir, will run her for all she is worth. he will make a lot of money out of her. he will make her work as she has never worked before. he will put a value on all her talents, for his own ends. and he will deprive her of most of her accustomed pleasures. in fifteen years there'll be nothing left of miss fancy except an exhausted wreck with a spurious reputation, but mr. softly bishop will still be in his prime and in the full enjoyment of life, and he will spend on himself the riches that she has made for him and allow her about sixpence a week; and the most tragic and terrible thing of all is that she will think she owes everything to him! no! if i was capable of weeping, i should have wept at the pathos of the spectacle of miss fancy as she left us just now unconscious of her fate and revelling in the most absurd illusions. that poor defenceless woman, who has had the misfortune not to please you, is heading straight for a life-long martyrdom." mr. prohack ceased impressively. "and serve her right!" said eve. "i've met cats in my time, but--" and eve also ceased. "and i am not sure," added mr. prohack, still impressively. "and i am not sure that the ingenuous and excellent oswald morfey is not heading straight in the same direction." and he gazed at his adored daughter, who exhibited a faint flush, and then laughed lightly. "yes," said mr. prohack, "you are very smart, my girl. if you had shown violence you would have made a sad mistake. that you should laugh with such a brilliant imitation of naturalness gives me hopes of you. let us seek carthew and the car. mr. bishop's luncheon, though i admit it was exceedingly painful, has, i trust, not been without its useful lessons to us, and i do not regret it. for myself i admit it has taught me that even the finest and most agreeable women, such as those with whom i have been careful to sourround myself in my domestic existence, are monsters of cruelty. not that i care." "i've arranged with mamma that you shall come to dinner to-night," said sissie. "no formality, please." "mayn't your mother wear her pearls?" asked mr. prohack. "i hope you noticed, arthur," said eve with triumphant satisfaction, "how your miss fancy was careful to keep off the subject of jewels." "mother's pearls," said sissie primly, "are mother's affair." mr. prohack did not feel at all happy. "and yet," he asked himself. "what have i done? i am perfectly innocent." iv "i never in all my life," said sissie, "saw you eat so much, dad. and i think it's a great compliment to my cooking. in fact i'm bursting with modest pride." "well," replied mr. prohack, who had undoubtedly eaten rather too much, "take it how you like. i do believe i could do with a bit more of this stuff that imitates an omelette but obviously isn't one." "oh! but there isn't any more!" said sissie, somewhat dashed. "no more! good heavens! then have you got some cheese, or anything of that sort?" "no. i don't keep cheese in the place. you see, the smell of it in these little flats--" "any bread? anything at all?" "i'm afraid we've finished up pretty nearly all there was, except ozzie's egg for breakfast to-morrow morning." "this is serious," observed mr. prohack, tapping enquiringly the superficies of his digestive apparatus. "arthur!" cried eve. "why are you such a tease to-night? you're only trying to make the child feel awkward. you know you've had quite enough. and i'm sure it was all very cleverly cooked--considering. you'll be ill in the middle of the night if you keep on, and then i shall have to get up and look after you, as usual." eve had the air of defending her daughter, but something, some reserve in her voice, showed that she was defending, not her daughter, but merely and generally the whole race of house-wives against the whole race of consuming and hypercritical males; she was even defending the eve who had provided much-criticised meals in the distant past. such was her skill that she could do this while implying, so subtly yet so effectively, that sissie, the wicked, shameless, mamma-scorning bride, was by no means forgiven in the secret heart of the mother. "you are doubtless right, lady," mr. prohack agreed. "you always could judge better than i could myself when i had had enough, and what would be the ultimate consequences of my eating. and as for your lessons in manners, what an ill-bred lout i was before i met you, and what an impossible person i should have been had you not taken me in hand night and day for all these years! it isn't that i'm worse than the average husband; it is merely that wives are the sole repositories of the civilising influence. were it not for them we should still be tearing steaks to pieces with our fingers. i daresay i have eaten enough--anyhow i've had far more than anybody else--and even if i hadn't, it would not be at all nice of me not to pretend that i hadn't. and after all, if the worst comes to the worst, i can always have a slice of cold beef and a glass of beer when i get home, can't i?" sissie, though blushing ever so little, maintained an excellent front. she certainly looked dainty and charming,--more specifically so than she had ever looked; indeed, utterly the young bride. she was in morning dress, to comply with her own edict against formality, and also to mark her new, enthusiastic disapproval of the modern craze for luxurious display; but it was a delightful, if inexpensive, dress. she had taken considerable trouble over the family dinner, devising, concocting, cooking, and presiding over it from beginning to end, and being consistently bright, wise, able, and resourceful throughout--an apostle of chafing-dish cookery determined to prove that chafing-dish cookery combined efficiency, toothsomeness and economy to a degree never before known. and she had neatly pointed out more than once that waste was impossible under her system and that, servants being dispensed with, the great originating cause of waste had indeed been radically removed. she had not informed her guests of the precise cost in money of the unprecedentedly cheap and nourishing meal, but she had come near to doing so; and she would surely have indicated that there had been neither too much nor too little, but just amply sufficient, had not her absurd and contrarious father displayed a not uncharacteristic lack of tact at the closing stage of the ingenious collation. moreover, she seemed, despite her generous build, to have somehow fitted herself to the small size of the flat. she did not dwarf it, as clumsier women are apt to dwarf their tiny homes in the centre of london. on the contrary she gave to it the illusion of spaciousness; and beyond question she had in a surprisingly short time transformed it from a bachelor's flat into a conjugal nest, cushiony, flowery, knicknacky, and perilously seductive to the eye without being too reassuring to the limbs. mr. prohack was accepting a cigarette, having been told that ozzie never smoked cigars, when there was a great ring which filled the entire flat as the last trump may be expected to fill the entire earth, and mr. prohack dropped the cigarette, muttering: "i think i'll smoke that afterwards." "good gracious!" the flat mistress exclaimed. "i wonder who that can be. just go and see, ozzie, darling." and she looked at ozzie as if to say: "i hope it isn't one of your indiscreet bachelor friends." ozzie hastened obediently out. "it may be charlie," ventured eve. "wouldn't it be nice if he called?" "yes, wouldn't it?" sissie agreed. "i did 'phone him up to try to get him to dinner, but naturally he was away for the day. he's always as invisible as a millionaire nowadays. besides i feel somehow this place would be too much, too humble, for the mighty charles. buckingham palace would be more in his line. but we can't all be speculators and profiteers." "sissie!" protested their mother mildly. after mysterious and intriguing noises at the front-door had finished, and the front-door had made the whole flat vibrate to its bang, ozzie puffed into the room with three packages, the two smaller being piled upon the third. "they're addressed to you," said ozzie to his father-in-law. "did you give the man anything?" sissie asked quickly. "no, it was carthew and the parlourmaid--machin, is her name?" "oh!" said sissie, apparently relieved. "now let us see," said mr. prohack, starting at once upon the packages. "don't waste that string, dad," sissie enjoined him anxiously. "eh? what do you say?" murmured mr. prohack, carefully cutting string on all sides of all packages, and tearing first-rate brown paper into useless strips. he produced from the packages four bottles of champagne of four different brands, a quantity of pâté de foie gras, a jar of caviare, and several bunches of grapes that must have been grown under the most unnatural and costly conditions. "what ever's this?" sissie demanded, uneasily. "arthur!" said eve. "whatever's the meaning of this?" "it has a deep significance," replied mr. prohack. "the only fault i have to find with it is that it has arrived rather late--and yet perhaps, like blücher, not too late. you can call it a wedding present if you choose, daughter. or if you choose you can call it simply caviare, pâté de foie gras, grapes and champagne. i really have not had the courage to give you a wedding present," he continued, "knowing how particular you are about ostentation. but i thought if i sent something along that we could all join in consuming instantly, i couldn't possibly do any harm." "we haven't any champagne glasses," said sissie coldly. "champagne glasses, child! you ought never to drink champagne out of champagne glasses. tumblers are the only thing for champagne. some tumblers, ozzie. and a tin-opener. you must have a tin-opener. i feel convinced you have a tin-opener. upon my soul, eve, i was right after all. i _am_ hungry, but my hunger is nothing to my thirst. i'm beginning to suspect that i must be the average sensual man." "arthur!" eve warned him. "if you eat any of that caviare you're bound to be ill." "not if i mix it with pâté de foi gras, my pet. it is notorious that they are mutual antidotes, especially when followed by the grape cure. now, ladies and ozzie, don't exasperate me by being coy. fall to! ingurgitate. ozzie, be a man for a change." mr. prohack seemed to intimidate everybody to such an extent that sissie herself went off to secure tumblers. "but why are you opening another bottle, father?" she asked in alarm on her return. "this one isn't half empty." "we shall try all four brands," said mr. prohack. "but what a waste!" "know, my child," said mr. prohack, with marked and solemn sententiousness. "know that in an elaborately organised society, waste has its moral uses. know further that nothing is more contrary to the truth than the proverb that enough is as good as a feast. know still further that though the habit of wastefulness may have its dangers, it is not nearly so dangerous as the habit of self-righteousness, or as the habit of nearness, both of which contract the soul until it's more like a prune than a plum. be a plum, my child, and let who will be a prune." it was at this moment that eve showed her true greatness. "come along, sissie," said she, after an assaying glance at her husband and another at her daughter. "let's humour him. it isn't often he's in such good spirits, is it?" sissie's face cleared, and with a wisdom really beyond her years she accepted the situation, the insult, the reproof, the lesson. as for mr. prohack, he felt happier, more gay, than he had felt all day,--not as the effect of champagne and caviare, but as the effect of the realisation of his prodigious sagacity in having foreseen that sissie's hospitality would be what it had been. he was glad also that his daughter had displayed commonsense, and he began to admire her again, and in proportion as she perceived that he was admiring her, so she consciously increased her charm; for the fact was, she was very young, very impressionable, very anxious to do the right thing. "have another glass, ozzie," urged mr. prohack. ozzie looked at his powerful bride for guidance. "do have another glass, you darling old silly," said the bride. "there will be no need to open the other two bottles," said mr. prohack. "indeed, i need only have opened one.... i shall probably call here again soon." at this point there was another ring at the front-door. "so you've condescended!" sissie greeted charles when ozzie brought him into the room, and then, catching her father's eye and being anxious to rest secure in the paternal admiration, she added: "anyway it was very decent of you to come. i know how busy you are." charles raised his eyebrows at this astonishing piece of sisterliness. his mother kissed him fondly, having received from mr. prohack during the day the delicatest, filmiest hint that perhaps charlie was not at the moment fabulously prospering. "your father is very gay to-night," said she, gazing at charlie as though she read into the recesses of his soul and could see a martyrdom there, though in fact she could not penetrate any further than the boy's eyeballs. "i beg you to note," mr. prohack remarked. "that as the glasses have only been filled once, and three of them are at least a quarter full, only the equivalent of two and a half champagne glasses has actually been drunk by four people, which will not explain much gaiety. if the old gentleman is gay, and he does not assert that he is not, the true reason lies in either the caviare or the pâté de foie gras, or in his crystal conscience. have a drink, charles?" "finish mine, my pet," said eve, holding forth her tumbler, and charlie obeyed. "a touching sight," observed mr. prohack. "now as charlie has managed to spare us a few minutes out of his thrilling existence, i want to have a few words with him in private about an affair of state. there's nothing that you oughtn't to hear," he addressed the company, "but a great deal that you probably wouldn't understand--and the last thing we desire is to humiliate you. that's so, isn't it, carlos?" "it is," charles quickly agreed, without a sign of self-consciousness. "now then, hostess, can you lend us another room,--boudoir, morning-room, smoking-room, card-room, even ball-room; anything will do for us. possibly ozzie's study...." "father! father!" sissie warned him against an excess of facetiousness. "you can either go into our bedroom or you can sit on the stairs, and talk." as father and son disappeared together into the bedroom, which constituted a full half of the entire flat, mr. prohack noticed on his wife's features an expression of anxiety tempered by an assured confidence in his own wisdom and force. he knew indeed that he had made quite a favourable sensation by his handling of sissie's tendency to a hard austerity. nevertheless, when charles shut the door of the chamber and they were enclosed together, mr. prohack could feel his mighty heart beating in a manner worthy of a schoolgirl entering an examination room. the chamber had apparently been taken bodily out of a doll's house and furnished with furniture manufactured for pigmies. it was very full, presenting the aspect of a room in a warehouse. everything in it was 'bijou,' in the trade sense, and everything harmonised in a charming japanese manner with everything else, except an extra truckle-bed, showing crude iron feet under a blazing counterpane borrowed from a russian ballet, which second bed had evidently just been added for the purposes of conjugal existence. the dressing-table alone was unmistakably symptomatic of a woman. some of ozzie's wondrous trousers hung from stretchers behind the door, and the inference was that these had been displaced from the wardrobe in favour of sissie's frocks. it was all highly curious and somewhat pathetic; and mr. prohack, contemplating, became anew a philosopher as he realised that the tiny apartment was the true expression of his daughter's individuality and volition. she had imposed this crowded inconvenience upon her willing spouse,--and there was the grandiose charles, for whom the best was never good enough, sitting down nonchalantly on the truckle-bed; and it appeared to mr. prohack only a few weeks ago that the two children had been playing side by side in the same nursery and giving never a sign that their desires and destinies would be so curious. mr. prohack felt absurdly helpless. true, he was the father, but he knew that he had nothing whatever to do, beyond trifling gifts of money and innumerable fairly witty sermons--divided about equally between the pair, with the evolution of those mysterious and fundamentally uncontrollable beings, his son and his daughter. the enigma of life pressed disturbingly upon him, as he took the other bed, facing charles, and he wondered whether sissie in her feminine passion for self-sacrifice insisted on sleeping in the truckle-contraption herself, or whether she permitted ozzie to be uncomfortable. v "i just came along," charlie opened simply, "because lady m. was so positive that i ought to see you--she said that you very much wanted me to come. it isn't as if i wanted to bother you, or you could do any good." he spoke in an extremely low tone, almost in a whisper, and mr. prohack comprehended that the youth was trying to achieve privacy in a domicile where all conversation and movements were necessarily more or less public to the whole flat. charles's restraint, however, showed little or no depression, disappointment, or disgust, and no despair. "but what's it all about? if i'm not being too curious," mr. prohack enquired cautiously. "it's all about my being up the spout, dad. i've had a flutter, and it hasn't come off, and that's all there is to it. i needn't trouble you with the details. but you may believe me when i tell you that i shall bob up again. what's happened to me might have happened to anybody, and has happened to a pretty fair number of city swells." "you mean bankruptcy?" "well, yes, bankruptcy's the word. i'd much better go right through with it. the chit thinks so, and i agree." "the chit?" "mimi." "oh! so you call her that, do you?" "no, i never call her that. but that's how i think of her. i call her miss winstock. i'm glad you let me have her. she's been very useful, and she's going to stick by me--not that there's any blooming sentimental nonsense about her! oh, no! by the way, i know the mater and sis think she's a bit harum-scarum, and you do, too. nevertheless she was just as strong as lady m. that i should stroll up and confess myself. she said it was _due_ to you. lady m. didn't put it quite like that." the truckle-bed creaked as charlie shifted uneasily. they caught a faint murmur of talk from the other room, and sissie's laugh. "lady massulam happened to tell me once that you'd been selling something before you knew how much it would cost you to buy it. of course i don't pretend to understand finance myself--i'm only a civil servant on the shelf--but to my limited intelligence such a process of putting the cart before the horse seemed likely to lead to trouble," said mr. prohack, as it were ruminating. "oh! she told you that, did she?" charlie smiled. "well, the good lady was talking through her hat. _that_ affair's all right. at least it would be if i could carry it through, but of course i can't now. it'll go into the general mess. if i was free, i wouldn't sell it at all; i'd keep it; there'd be no end of money in it, and i was selling it too cheap. it's a combine, or rather it would have been a combine, of two of the best paper mills in the country, and if i'd got it, and could find time to manage it,--my word, you'd see! no! what's done me in is a pure and simple stock exchange gamble, my dear father. nothing but that! r.r. shares." "r.r. what's that?" "dad! where have you been living these years? royal rubber corporation, of course. they dropped to eighteen shillings, and they oughtn't to have done. i bought a whole big packet on the understanding that i should have a fortnight to fork out. they were bound to go up again. hadn't been so low for eleven years. how could i have foreseen that old sampler would go and commit suicide and make a panic?" "i never read the financial news, except the quotations of my own little savings, and i've never heard of old sampler," said mr. prohack. "considering he was a front-page item for four days!" charlie exclaimed, raising his voice, and then dropping it again. and he related in a few biting phrases the recent history of the r.r. "i wouldn't have minded so much," he went on. "if your particular friend, mr. softly bishop, wasn't at the bottom of my purchase. his name only appears for some of the shares, but i've got a pretty good idea that it's he who's selling all of them to yours truly. he must have known something, and a rare fine thing he'd have made of the deal if i wasn't going bust, because i'm sure now he was selling to me what he hadn't got." mr. prohack's whole demeanour changed at the mention of mr. bishop's name. his ridiculous snobbish pride reared itself up within him. he simply could not bear the idea of softly bishop having anything 'against' a member of his family. sooner would the inconsistent fellow have allowed innocent widows and orphans to be ruined through charlie's plunging than that softly bishop should fail to realise a monstrous profit through the same agency. "i'll see you through, my lad," said he, briefly, in an ordinary casual tone. "no thanks. you won't," charlie replied. "i wouldn't let you, even if you could. but you can't. it's too big." "ah! how big is it?" mr. prohack challengingly raised his chin. "well, if you want to know the truth, it's between a hundred and forty and a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. i mean, that's what i should need to save the situation." "you?" cried the terror of the departments in amaze, accustomed though he was to dealing in millions. he had gravely miscalculated his son. ten thousand he could have understood; even twenty thousand. but a hundred and fifty...! "you must have been mad!" "only because i've failed," said charles. "yes. it'll be a great affair. it'll really make my name. everybody will expect me to bob up again, and i shan't disappoint them. of course some people will say i oughtn't to have been extravagant. grand babylon hotel and so on. what rot! a flea-bite! why, my expenses haven't been seven hundred a month." mr. prohack sat aghast; but admiration was not absent from his sentiments. the lad was incredible in the scale of his operations; he was unreal, wagging his elegant leg so calmly there in the midst of all that fragile japanese lacquer--and the family, grotesquely unconscious of the vastness of the issues, chatting domestically only a few feet away. but mr. prohack was not going to be outdone by his son, however napoleonic his son might be. he would maintain his prestige as a father. "i'll see you through," he repeated, with studied quietness. "but look here, dad. you only came into a hundred thousand. i can't have you ruining yourself. and even if you did ruin yourself--" "i have no intention of ruining myself," said mr. prohack. "nor shall i change in the slightest degree my mode of life. you don't know everything, my child. you aren't the only person on earth who can make money. where do you imagine you get your gifts from? your mother?" "but--" "be silent. to-morrow morning gilt-edged, immediately saleable securities will be placed at your disposal for a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. i never indulge in wildcat stock myself. and let me tell you there can be no question of _your_ permitting or not permitting. i'm your father, and please don't forget it. it doesn't happen to suit me that my infant prodigy of a son should make a mess of his career; and i won't have it. if there's any doubt in your mind as to whether you or i are the strongest, rule yourself out of the competition this instant,--it'll save you trouble in the end." mr. prohack had never felt so happy in his life; and yet he had had moments of intense happiness in the past. he could feel the skin of his face burning. "you'll get it all back, dad," said charlie later. "no amount of suicides can destroy the assets of the r.r. it's only that the market lost its head and absolutely broke to pieces under me. in three months--" "my poor boy," mr. prohack interrupted him. "do try not to be an ass." and he had the pleasing illusion that charles was just home from school. "and, mind, not one word, not one word, to anybody whatever." vi the other three were still modestly chatting in the living-room when the two great mysterious men of affairs returned to them, but sissie had cleared the dining-room table and transformed the place into a drawing-room for the remainder of the evening. they were very feminine; even ozzie had something of the feminine attitude of fatalistic attending upon events beyond feminine control; he had it, indeed, far more than the vigorous-minded sissie had it. they were cheerful, with a cheerfulness that made up in tact what it lacked in sincerity. mr. prohack compared them to passengers on a ship which is in danger. with a word, with an inflection, he reassured everybody--and yet said naught--and the cheerfulness instantly became genuine. mr. prohack was surprised at the intensity of his own feelings. he was thoroughly thrilled by what he himself had done. perhaps he had gone too far in telling charlie that the putting down of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds could be accomplished without necessitating any change in his manner of living; but he did not care what change might be involved. he had the sense of having performed a huge creative act, and of the reality of the power of riches,--for weeks he had not been imaginatively cognisant of the fact that he was rich. he glanced secretly at the boy charles, and said to himself: "to that boy i am like a god. he was dead, and i have resurrected him. he may achieve an enormous reputation after all. anyhow he is an amazing devil of a fellow, and he's my son, and no one comprehends him as i do." and mr. prohack became jolly to the point of uproariousness--without touching a glass. he was intoxicated, not by the fermentation of grapes, but by the magnitude and magnificence of his own gesture. he was the monarch of the company, and getting a bit conceited about it. the sole creature who withstood him in any degree was sissie. she had firmness. "she has married the right man,-" said mr. prohack to himself. "the so-called feminine instinct is for the most part absurd, but occasionally it justifies its reputation. she has chosen her husband with unerring insight into her needs and his. he will be happy; she will have the anxieties of responsible power. but _i_ am not her husband." and he spoke aloud, masterfully: "sissie!" "yes, dad? what now?" "i've satisfactorily transacted affairs with my son. i will now try to do the same with my daughter. a few moments with you in the council-chamber, please. oswald also, if you like." sissie smiled kindly at her awaiting spouse. "perhaps i'd better deal with my own father alone, darling." ozzie accepted the decision. "look here. i think i must be off," charlie put in. "i've got a lot of work to do." "i expect you have," mr. prohack concurred. "by the way, you might meet me at smathe and smathe's at ten fifteen in the morning." charlie nodded and slipped away. "infant," said mr. prohack to the defiantly smiling bride who awaited him in the council chamber. "has your mother said anything to you about our wedding present?" "no, dad." "no, of course she hasn't. and do you know why? because she daren't! with your infernal independence you've frightened the life out of the poor lady; that's what you've done. your mother will doubtless have a talk with me to-night. and to-morrow she will tell you what she has decided to give you. please let there be no nonsense. whatever the gift is, i shall be obliged if you will accept it--and use it, without troubling us with any of your theories about the proper conduct of life. wisdom and righteousness existed before you, and there's just a chance that they'll exist after you. do you take me?" "quite, father." "good. you may become a great girl yet. we are now going home. thanks for a very pleasant evening." in the car, beautifully alone with eve, who was in a restful mood, mr. prohack said: "i shall be very ill in a few hours. pâté de foi gras is the devil, but caviare is beelzebub himself." eve merely gazed at him in gentle, hopeless reproach. he prophesied truly. he was very ill. and yet through the succeeding crises he kept smiling, sardonically. "when i think," he murmured once with grimness, "that that fellow bishop had the impudence to ask us to lunch--and charlie too! charlie too!" eve, attendant, enquired sadly what he was talking about. "nothing, nothing," said he. "my mind is wandering. let it." chapter xxiii the yacht i mr. prohack was lounging over his breakfast in the original old house in the square behind hyde park. he came to be there because that same house had been his wedding present to sissie, who now occupied it with her spouse, and because the noble mansion in manchester square was being re-decorated (under compulsion of some clause in the antique lease) and eve had invited him to leave the affair entirely to her. in the few months since charlie's great crisis, all things conspired together to prove once more to mr. prohack that calamities expected never arrive. even the british empire had continued to cohere, and revolution seemed to be further off than ever before. the greatest menace to his peace of mind, the league of all the arts, had of course quietly ceased to exist; but it had established eve as a hostess. and eve as a hostess had gradually given up boring herself and her husband by large and stiff parties, and they had gone back to entertaining none but well-established and intimate friends with the maximum of informality as of old,--to such an extent that occasionally in the vast and gorgeous dining-room of the noble mansion eve would have the roast planted on the table and would carve it herself, also as of old; brool did not seem to mind. mr. prohack had bought the lease of the noble mansion, with all the contents thereof, merely because this appeared to be the easiest thing to do. he had not been forced to change his manner of life; far from it. owing to a happy vicissitude in the story of the r.r. corporation charlie had called upon his father for only a very small portion of the offered one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and had even repaid that within a few weeks. matters had thereafter come to such a pass with charlie that he had reached the pages of _the daily picture_, and was reputed to be arousing the jealousy of youthful millionaires in the united states; also the figure which he paid weekly for rent of his offices in the grand babylon hotel was an item of common knowledge in the best clubs and not to know it was to be behind the times in current information. no member of his family now ventured to offer advice to charlie, who still, however, looked astonishingly like the old charlie of motor-bicycle transactions. the fact is, people do not easily change. mr. prohack had seemed to change for a space, but if indeed any change had occurred in him, he had changed back. scientific idleness? turkish baths? dandyism? all vanished, contemned, forgotten. to think of them merely annoyed him. he did not care what necktie he wore. even dancing had gone the same way. the dancing season was over until october, and he knew he would never begin again. he cared not to dance with the middle-aged, and if he danced with the young he felt that he was making a fool of himself. it had been rather a lark to come and stay for a few days in his old home,--to pass the sacred door of the conjugal bedroom (closed for ever to him) and mount to charlie's room, into which sissie had put the bulk of the furniture from the japanese flat--without overcrowding it. decidedly amusing to sleep in charlie's old little room! but the romantic sensation had given way to the sensation of the hardness of the bed. breakfast achieved, mr. prohack wondered what he should do next, for he had nothing to do; he had no worries, and almost no solicitudes; he had successfully adapted himself to his environment. through the half-open door of the dining-room he heard sissie and ozzie. ozzie was off to the day's business, and sissie was seeing him out of the house, as eve used to see mr. prohack out. ozzie, by reason of a wedding present of ten thousand pounds given in defiance of sissie's theories, and with the help of his own savings, was an important fellow now in the theatrical world, having attained a partnership with the napoleon of the stage. "you'd no business to send for the doctor without telling me," sissie was saying in her harsh tone. "what do i want with a doctor?" "i thought it would be for the best, dear," came ozzie's lisping reply. "well, it won't, my boy." the door banged. "eve never saw me off like that," mr. prohack reflected. sissie entered the room, some letters in her hand. she was exceedingly attractive, matron-like, interesting--but formidable. said mr. prohack, glancing up at her: "it is the duty of the man to protect and the woman to charm--and i don't care who knows it." "what on earth do you mean, dad?" "i mean that it is the duty of the man to protect and the woman to _charm_." sissie flushed. "ozzie and i understand each other, but you don't," said she, and made a delicious rude face. "carthew's brought these letters and he's waiting for orders about the car." she departed. among the few letters was one from softly bishop, dated rangoon. it was full of the world-tour. "we had a success at calcutta that really does baffle description," it said. "'we!'" commented mr. prohack. there was a postscript: "by the way, i've only just learnt that it was your son who was buying those royal rubber shares. i do hope he was not inconvenienced. i need not say that if i had had the slightest idea who was standing the racket i should have waived--" and so on. "would you!" commented mr. prohack. "i see you doing it. and what's more i bet you only wrote the letter for the sake of the postscript. your tour is not a striking success, and you'll be wanting to do business with me when you come back, but you won't do it.... and here i am lecturing sissie about hardness!" he rang the bell and told a servant who was a perfect stranger to him to tell carthew that he should not want the car. "may carthew speak to you, sir?" said the servant returning. "carthew may," said he, and the servant thought what an odd gentleman mr. prohack was. "well, carthew," said he, when the chauffeur, perturbed, entered the room. "this is quite like old times, isn't it? sit down and have a cigarette. what's wrong?" "well, sir," replied carthew, after he had lighted the cigarette and ejected a flake of tobacco into the hearth. "there may be something wrong or there mayn't, if you understand what i mean. but i'm thinking of getting married." "oh! but what about that wife of yours?" "oh! her! she's dead, all right. i never said anything, feeling as it might be ashamed of her." "but i thought you'd done with women!" "so did i, sir. but the question always is, have women done with you? i was helping her to lift pictures down yesterday, and she was standing on a chair. and something came over me. and there you are before you know where you are, sir, if you understand what i mean." "perfectly, carthew. but who is it?" "machin, sir. to cut a long story short, sir, i'd been thinking about her for the better part of some time, because of the boy, sir, because of the boy. she likes him. if it hadn't been for the boy--" "careful, carthew!" "well, perhaps you're right, sir. she'd have copped me anyway." "i congratulate you, carthew. you've been copped by the best parlourmaid in london." "thank you, sir. i think i'll be getting along, sir." "have you told mrs. prohack?" "i thought i'd best leave that to machin, sir." mr. prohack waved a hand, thoughtful. he heard carthew leave. he heard dr. veiga arrive, and then he heard dr. veiga leaving, and rushed to the dining-room door. "veiga! a moment. come in. everything all right?" "of course. absolutely normal. but you know what these young husbands are. i can't stop unless you're really ill, my friend." "i'm worse than really ill," said mr. prohack, shutting the door. "i'm really bored. i'm surrounded by the most interesting phenomena and i'm really bored. i've taken to heart all your advice and i'm really bored. so there!" the agreeable, untidy, unprofessional portuguese quack twinkled at him, and then said in his thick, southern, highly un-english voice: "the remedy may be worse than the disease. you are bored because you have no worries, my friend. i will give you advice. go back to your treasury." "i cannot," said mr. prohack. "i've resigned. i found out that my friend hunter was expecting promotion in my place." "ah, well!" replied dr. veiga with strange sardonic indifference. "if you will sacrifice yourself to your friends you must take the consequences like a man. i will talk to you some other time, when i've got nothing better to do. i am very busy, telling people what they already know." and he went. a minute later charlie arrived in a car suitable to his grandeur. "look here, dad," said charlie in a hurry. "if you're game for a day out i particularly want to show you something. and incidentally you'll see some driving, believe me!" "my will is made! i am game," answered mr. prohack, delighted at the prospect of any diversion, however perilous. ii when charlie drew up at the royal pier, southampton (having reached there in rather less time than the train journey and a taxi at each end would have required), he silently handed over the wheel to the chauffeur, and led his mystified but unenquiring father down the steps on the west side of the pier. a man in a blue suit with a peaked cap and a white cover on the cap was standing at the foot of the steps, just above the water and above a motor-launch containing two other men in blue jerseys with the name "northwind" on their breasts and on their foreheads. a blue ensign was flying at the stem of the launch. "how d'ye do, snow?" charlie greeted the first man, who raised his cap. father and son got into the launch and the man after them: the launch began to snort, and off it went at a racing speed from the pier towards midchannel. mr. prohack, who said not a word, perceived a string of vessels of various sizes which he judged to be private yachts, though he had no experience whatever of yachts. some of them flew bunting and some of them didn't; but they all without exception appeared, as mr. prohack would have expected, to be the very symbols of complicated elegance and luxury, shining and glittering buoyantly there on the brilliant blue water under the summer sun. the launch was rushing headlong through its own white surge towards the largest of these majestic toys. as it approached the string mr. prohack saw that all the yachts were much larger than he imagined, and that the largest was enormous. the launch flicked itself round the stern of that yacht, upon which mr. prohack read the word "northwind" in gold, and halted bobbing at a staircase whose rails were white ropes, slung against a dark blue wall; the wall was the side of the yacht. mr. prohack climbed out of the bobbing launch, and the staircase had the solidity under his feet of masonry on earth. high up, glancing over the wall, was a capped face. "how d'ye do, skipper," called charlie, and when he had got his parent on to the deck, he said: "skipper, this is my father. dad--captain crowley." mr. prohack shook hands with a short, stoutish nervous man with an honest, grim, marine face. "everything all right?" "yes, sir. glad you've come at last, sir." "good!" charlie turned away from the captain to his father. mr. prohack saw a man hauling a three-cornered flag up the chief of the three masts which the ship possessed, and another man hauling a large oblong flag up a pole at the stern. "what is the significance of this flag-raising?" asked mr. prohack. "the significance is that the owner has come aboard," charlie replied, not wholly without self-consciousness. "come on. have a look at her. come on, skipper. do the honours. she used to be a mediterranean trader. the former owner turned her into a yacht. he says she cost him a hundred thousand by the time she was finished. i can believe it." mr. prohack also believed it, easily; he believed it more and more easily as he was trotted from deck to deck and from bedroom to bedroom, and sitting-room to sitting-room, and library to smoking-room, and music-room to lounge, and especially from bathroom to bathroom. in no land habitation had mr. prohack seen so many, or such marmoreal, or such luxurious bathrooms. what particularly astonished mr. prohack was the exceeding and minute finish of everything, and what astonished him even more than the finish was the cleanliness of everything. "dirty place to be in, sir, southampton," grinned the skipper. "we do the best we can." they reached the dining-room, an apartment in glossy bird's-eye maple set in the midst of the virgin-white promenade deck. "by the way, lunch, please," said charlie. "yes, sir," responded eagerly the elder of two attendants in jackets striped blue and white. "have a wash, guv'nor? thanks, skipper, that'll do for the present." mr. prohack washed in amplitudinous marble, and wiped his paternal face upon diaper into which was woven the name "northwind." he then, with his son, ate an enormous and intricate lunch and drank champagne out of crystal engraved with the name "northwind," served to him by a ceremonious person in white gloves. charlie was somewhat taciturn, but over the coffee he seemed to brighten up. "well, what do you think of the old hulk?" "she must need an awful lot of men," said mr. prohack. "pretty fair. the wages bill is seven hundred a month." "she's enormous," continued mr. prohack lamely. "oh, no! seven hundred tons thames measurement. you see those funnels over there," and charlie pointed through the port windows to a row of four funnels rising over great sheds. "that's the _mauretania_. she's a hundred times as big as this thing. she could almost sling this affair in her davits." "indeed! still, i maintain that this antique wreck is enormous," mr. prohack insisted. they walked out on deck. "hello! here's the chit. you can always count on _her_!" said charles. the launch was again approaching the yacht, and a tiny figure with a despatch case on her lap sat smiling in the stern-sheets. "she's come down by train," charles explained. miss winstock in her feminineness made a delicious spectacle on the spotless deck. she nearly laughed with delight as she acknowledged mr. prohack's grave salute and shook hands with him, but when charlie said: "anything urgent?" she grew grave and tense, becoming the faithful, urgent, confidential employé in an instant. "only this," she said, opening the despatch case and producing a telegram. "confound it!" remarked charles, having read the telegram. "here, you, snow. please see that miss winstock has something to eat at once. that'll do, miss winstock." "yes, mr. prohack," she said dutifully. "and his mother thought he would be marrying her!" mr. prohack senior reflected. "he'll no more marry her than he'll marry machin. goodness knows whom he will marry. it might be a princess." "you remember that paper concern--newsprint stuff--i've mentioned to you once or twice," said charlie to his father, dropping into a basket-chair. "sit down, will you, dad? i've had no luck with it yet." he flourished the telegram. "here the new manager i appointed has gone and got rheumatic fever up in aberdeen. no good for six months at least, if ever. it's a great thing if i could only really get it going. but no! the luck's wrong. and yet a sound fellow with brains could put that affair into such shape in a year that i could sell it at a profit of four hundred per cent to the southern combine. however--" soon afterwards he went below to talk to the chit, and the skipper took charge of mr. prohack and displayed to him the engine-room, the officers' quarters, the forecastle, the galley, and all manner of arcana that charlie had grandiosely neglected. "it's a world!" said mr. prohack, but the skipper did not quite comprehend the remark. "well," said charlie, returning. "we'll have some tea and then we must be off again. i have to be in town to-night. have you seen everything? what's the verdict? some ship, eh?" "some ship," agreed mr. prohack. "but the most shockingly uneconomic thing i've ever met with in all my life. how often do you use the yacht?" "well, i haven't been able to use her yet. she's been lying here waiting for me for nearly a month. i hope to get a few days off soon." "i understand there's a crew of thirty odd, all able-bodied and knowing their job, i suppose. and all waiting for a month to give you and me a lunch and a tea. seven hundred pounds in wages alone for lunch and a tea for two, without counting the food and the washing!" "and why not, dad?" charlie retorted calmly. "i've got to spend a bit of money uneconomically, and there's nothing like a yacht for doing it. i've no use for racing, and moreover it's too difficult not to mix with rascals if you go in for racing, and i don't care for rascals. also it's a mug's game, and i don't want to be a mug. as for young women, no! they only interest me at present as dancing partners, and they cost me nothing. a good yacht's the sole possible thing for my case, and a yacht brings you into contact with clean and decent people, not bookmakers. i bought this boat for thirty-three thousand, and she's a marvellous bargain, and that's something." "but why spend money uneconomically at all?" "because i said and swore i would. didn't i come back from the war and try all i knew to obtain the inestimable privilege of earning my living by doing something useful? did i succeed in obtaining the privilege? why, nobody would look at me! and there were tens of thousands like me. well, i said i'd take it out of this noble country of mine, and i am doing; and i shall keep on doing until i'm tired. these thirty men or so here might be at some useful productive work, fishing or merchant-marining. they're otherwise engaged. they're spending a pleasant wasteful month over our lunch and tea. that's what i enjoy. it makes me smile to myself when i wake up in the middle of the night.... i'm showing my beloved country who's won the peace." "it's a scheme," murmured mr. prohack, rendered thoughtful as much by the quiet and intense manner, as by the matter, of his son's oration. "boyish, of course, but not without charm." "we were most of us boys," said charlie. mr. prohack marshalled, in his head, the perfectly plain, simple reasoning necessary to crush charlie to powder, and, before crushing him, to expose to him the crudity of his conceptions of organised social existence. but he said nothing, having hit on another procedure for carrying out his parental duty to charles. shortly afterwards they departed from the yacht in the launch. long ere they reached the waiting motor-car the bunting had been hauled down. in the car mr. prohack said: "tell me something more about that paper-making business. it sounds interesting." iii when mr. prohack reached his daughter's house again late in the night, it was his wife who opened the door to him. "good heavens, arthur! where have you been? poor sissie is in such a state--i was obliged to come over and stay with her. she needs the greatest care." "we had a breakdown," said mr. prohack, rather guiltily. "who's we? where? what breakdown? you went off without saying a word to any one. i really can't imagine what you were thinking about. you're just like a child sometimes." "i went down to southampton with charlie," the culprit explained, giving a brief and imperfect history of the day, and adding that on the way home he had made a détour with charles to look at a paper-manufactory. "and you couldn't have telephoned!" "never thought of it!" "i'll run and tap at sissie's door and tell her. ozzie's with her. you'd better go straight to bed." "i'm hungry." eve made a deprecating and expostulatory noise with her tongue against her upper teeth. "i'll bring you something to eat. at least i'll try to find something," said she. "and are you sleeping here, too? where?" mr. prohack demanded when eve crept into charlie's old bedroom with a tray in her hands. "i had to stay. i couldn't leave the girl. i'm sleeping in her old room." "the worst of these kids' rooms," said mr. prohack, with an affectation of calm, "is that there are no easy chairs in them. it never struck me before. look here, you sit on the bed and put the tray down _there_, and i'll occupy this so-called chair. now, i don't want any sermons. and what is more, i can't eat unless you do. but i tell you i'm very hungry. so would you be, if you'd had my day." "you won't sleep if you eat much." "i don't care if i don't. is this whiskey? what--bread and cheese? the simple life! i'm not used to it.... where are you off to?" "there came a letter for you. i brought it along. it's in the other bedroom." "open it for me, my good child," said mr. prohack, his mouth full and his hands occupied, when she returned. she did so. "it seems to me that you'd better read this yourself," she said, naughtily. the letter was from lady massulam, signed only with her initials, announcing with a queer brevity that she had suddenly decided to go back at once to her native country to live. "how strange!" exclaimed mr. prohack, trying to be airy. "listen! what do you make of it. you're a woman, aren't you?" "i make of it," said eve, "that she's running away from you. she's afraid of herself, that's what she is! didn't i always tell you? oh! arthur. how simple you are! but fancy! at her age! oh, my poor boy! shall you get over it?" eve bent forward and kissed the poor boy, who was cursing himself for not succeeding in not being self-conscious. "rot!" he exploded at last. "i said you were a woman, and by all the gods you are! give me some more food." he was aware of a very peculiar and unprecedented thrill. he hated to credit eve's absurd insinuation, but...! and eve looked at him superiorly, triumphant, sure of him, sure of her everlasting power over him! yet she was not romantic, and her plump person did not in the least symbolise romance. "i've a piece of news for you," he said, after a pause. "after to-night i've done with women and idleness. i'm going into business. i've bought half of that paper-making concern from your singular son, and i'm going to put it on its legs. i know nothing about paper-making, and i can only hope that the london office is not as dirty and untidy as the works. i'd no idea what works were. the whole thing will be a dreadful worry, and i shall probably make a horrid mess of it, but charlie seems to think i shan't." "but why--what's come over you, arthur? surely we've got enough money. what _has_ come over you? i never could make you out and i never shall." "nothing! nothing!" said he. "only i've got a sort of idea that some one ought to be economic and productive. it may kill me, but i'll die producing, anyhow." he waited for her to begin upbraiding him for capricious folly and expatiating upon the fragility of his health. but you never know where you are with an eve. eves have the most disconcerting gleams of insight. she said: "i'm rather glad. i was getting anxious about you." the history of the great american fortunes by the same author * * * * * the history of tammany hall history of the public franchises in new york city history of the great american fortunes by gustavus myers author of "the history of tammany hall," "history of public franchises in new york city," etc. * * * * * vol. i. part i: conditions in settlement and colonial times part ii: the great land fortunes * * * * * chicago charles h. kerr & company copyright , and by gustavus myers preface in writing this work my aim has been to give the exact facts as far as the available material allows. necessarily it is impossible, from the very nature of the case, to obtain all the facts. it is obvious that in both past and present times the chief beneficiaries of our social and industrial system have found it to their interest to represent their accumulations as the rewards of industry and ability, and have likewise had the strongest motives for concealing the circumstances of all those complex and devious methods which have been used in building up great fortunes. in this they have been assisted by a society so constituted that the means by which these great fortunes have been amassed have been generally lauded as legitimate and exemplary. the possessors of towering fortunes have hitherto been described in two ways. on the one hand, they have been held up as marvels of success, as preëminent examples of thrift, enterprise and extraordinary ability. more recently, however, the tendency in certain quarters has been diametrically the opposite. this latter class of writers, intent upon pandering to a supposed popular appetite for sensation, pile exposure upon exposure, and hold up the objects of their diatribes as monsters of commercial and political crime. neither of these classes has sought to establish definitely the relation of the great fortunes to the social and industrial system which has propagated them. consequently, these superficial effusions and tirades--based upon a lack of understanding of the propelling forces of society--have little value other than as reflections of a certain aimless and disordered spirit of the times. with all their volumes of print, they leave us in possession of a scattered array of assertions, bearing some resemblance to facts, which, however, fail to be facts inasmuch as they are either distorted to take shape as fulsome eulogies or as wild, meaningless onslaughts. they give no explanation of the fundamental laws and movements of the present system, which have resulted in these vast fortunes; nor is there the least glimmering of a scientific interpretation of a succession of states and tendencies from which these men of great wealth have emerged. with an entire absence of comprehension, they portray our multimillionaires as a phenomenal group whose sudden rise to their sinister and overshadowing position is a matter of wonder and surprise. they do not seem to realize for a moment--what is clear to every real student of economics--that the great fortunes are the natural, logical outcome of a system based upon factors the inevitable result of which is the utter despoilment of the many for the benefit of a few. this being so, our plutocrats rank as nothing more or less than as so many unavoidable creations of a set of processes which must imperatively produce a certain set of results. these results we see in the accelerated concentration of immense wealth running side by side with a propertyless, expropriated and exploited multitude. the dominant point of these denunciatory emanations, however, is that certain of our men of great fortune have acquired their possessions by dishonest methods. these men are singled out as especial creatures of infamy. their doings and sayings furnish material for many pages of assault. here, again, an utter lack of knowledge and perspective is observable. for, while it is true that the methods employed by these very rich men have been, and are, fraudulent, it is also true that they are but the more conspicuous types of a whole class which, in varying degrees, has used precisely the same methods, and the collective fortunes and power of which have been derived from identically the same sources. in diagnosing an epidemic, it is not enough that we should be content with the symptoms; wisdom and the protection of the community demand that we should seek and eradicate the cause. both wealth and poverty spring from the same essential cause. neither, then, should be indiscriminately condemned as such; the all-important consideration is to determine why they exist, and how such an absurd contrast can be abolished. in taking up a series of types of great fortunes, as i have done in this work, my object has not been the current one of portraying them either as remarkable successes or as unspeakable criminals. my purpose is to present a sufficient number of examples as indicative of the whole character of the vested class and of the methods which have been employed. and in doing this, neither prejudice nor declamation has entered. such a presentation, i believe, cannot fail to be useful for many reasons. it will, in the first place, satisfy a spirit of inquiry. as time passes, and the power of the propertied oligarchy becomes greater and greater, more and more of a studied attempt is made to represent the origin of that property as the product of honest toil and great public service. every searcher for truth is entitled to know whether this is true or not. but what is much more important is for the people to know what have been the cumulative effects of a system which subsists upon the institutions of private property and wage-labor. if it possesses the many virtues that it is said to possess, what are these virtues? if it is a superior order of civilization, in what does this superiority consist? this work will assist in explaining, for naturally a virtuous and superior order ought to produce virtuous and superior men. the kind and quality of methods and successful ruling men, which this particular civilization forces to the front, are set forth in this exposition. still more important is the ascertainment of where these stupendous fortunes came from, their particular origin and growth, and what significance the concomitant methods and institutions have to the great body of the people. i may add that in part i no attempt has been made to present an exhaustive account of conditions in settlement and colonial times. i have merely given what i believe to be a sufficient resumé of conditions leading up to the later economic developments in the united states. gustavus myers. september , . contents page preface iii part i conditions in colonial and settlement times chapter i. the great proprietary estates ii. the sway of the landgraves iii. the rise of the trading class iv. the shipping fortunes v. the shippers and their times vi. girard--the richest of the shippers part ii the great land fortunes i. the origin of huge city estates ii. the inception of the astor fortune iii. the growth of the astor fortune iv. the ramifications of the astor fortune v. the momentum of the astor fortune vi. the propulsion of the astor fortune vii. the climax of the astor fortune viii. other land fortunes considered ix. the field fortune in extenso x. further vistas of the field fortune part i conditions in settlement and colonial times chapter i the great proprietary estates the noted private fortunes of settlement and colonial times were derived from the ownership of land and the gains of trading. usually both had a combined influence and were frequently attended by agriculture. throughout the colonies were scattered lords of the soil who held vast territorial domains over which they exercised an arbitrary and, in some portions of the colonies, a feudal sway. nearly all the colonies were settled by chartered companies, organized for purely commercial purposes and the success of which largely depended upon the emigration which they were able to promote. these corporations were vested with enormous powers and privileges which, in effect, constituted them as sovereign rulers, although their charters were subject to revision or amendment. the london company, thrice chartered to take over to itself the land and resources of virginia and populate its zone of rule, was endowed with sweeping rights and privileges which made it an absolute monopoly. the impecunious noblemen or gentlemen who transported themselves to virginia to recoup their dissipated fortunes or seek adventure, encountered no trouble in getting large grants of land especially when after tobacco became a fashionable article in england and took rank as a valuable commercial commodity. over this colony now spread planters who hastened to avail themselves of this new-found means of getting rich. land and climate alike favored them, but they were confronted with a scarcity of labor. the emergency was promptly met by the buying of white servants in england to be resold in virginia to the highest bidder. this, however, was not sufficient, and complaints poured over to the english government. as the demands of commerce had to be sustained at any price, a system was at once put into operation of gathering in as many of the poorer english class as could be impressed upon some pretext, and shipping them over to be held as bonded laborers. penniless and lowly englishmen, arrested and convicted for any one of the multitude of offenses then provided for severely in law, were transported as criminals or sold into the colonies as slaves for a term of years. the english courts were busy grinding out human material for the virginia plantations; and, as the objects of commerce were considered paramount, this process of disposing of what was regarded as the scum element was adjudged necessary and justifiable. no voice was raised in protest. the introduction of black slaves. but, fast as the english courts might work, they did not supply laborers enough. it was with exultation that in the plantation owners were made acquainted with a new means of supplying themselves with adequate workers. a dutch ship arrived at jamestown with a cargo of negroes from guinea. the blacks were promptly bought at good prices by the planters. from this time forth the problem of labor was considered sufficiently solved. as chattel slavery harmonized well with the necessities of tobacco growing and gain, it was accepted as a just condition and was continued by the planters, whose interests and standards were the dominant factor. after , when the london company was dissolved by royal decree, and the commerce of virginia made free, the planters were the only factor. virginia, it was true, was made a royal province and put under deputy rule, but the big planters contrived to get the laws and customs their self-interest called for. there were only two classes--the rich planters, with their gifts of land, their bond-servants and slaves and, on the other hand, the poor whites. a middle class was entirely lacking. as the supreme staple of commerce and as currency itself, tobacco could buy anything, human, as well as inert, material. the labor question had been sufficiently vanquished, but not so the domestic. wives were much needed; the officials in london instantly hearkened, and in sent over sixty young women who were auctioned off and bought at from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and sixty pounds of tobacco each. tobacco then sold at three shillings a pound. its cultivation was assiduously carried on. the use of the land mainly for agricultural purposes led to the foundation of numerous settlements along the shores, bays, rivers, and creeks with which virginia is interspersed and which afforded accessibility to the sea ports. as the years wore on and the means and laborers of the planters increased, their lands became more extensive, so that it was not an unusual thing to find plantations of fifty or sixty thousand acres. but neither in virginia nor in maryland, under the almost regal powers of lord baltimore who had propriety rights over the whole of his province, were such huge estates to be seen as were being donated in the northern colonies, especially in new netherlands and in new england. feudal grants in the north. in its intense aim to settle new netherlands and make use of its resources, holland, through the states general, offered extraordinary inducements to promoters of colonization. the prospect of immense estates, with feudal rights and privileges, was held out as the alluring incentive. the bill of freedoms and exemptions of made easy the possibility of becoming a lord of the soil with comprehensive possessions and powers. any man who should succeed in planting a colony of fifty "souls," each of whom was to be more than fifteen years old, was to become at once a patroon with all the rights of lordship. he was permitted to own sixteen miles along shore or on one side of a navigable river. an alternative was given of the ownership of eight miles on one side of a river and as far into the interior "as the situation of the occupiers will permit." the title was vested in the patroon forever, and he was presented with a monopoly of the resources of his domain except furs and pelts. no patroon or other colonist was allowed to make woolen, linen, cotton or cloth of any material under pain of banishment.[ ] these restrictions were in the interest of the dutch west india company, a commercial corporation which had well-nigh dictatorial powers. a complete monopoly throughout the whole of its subject territory, it was armed with sweeping powers, a formidable equipment, and had a great prestige. it was somewhat of a cross between legalized piracy and a body of adroit colonization promoters. pillage and butchery were often its auxiliaries, although in these respects it in nowise equalled its twin corporation, the dutch east india company, whose exploitation of holland's asiatic possessions was a long record of horrors. the dutch west india company. the policy of the dutch west india company was to offer generous prizes for peopling the land while simultaneously forbidding competition with any of the numerous products or commodities dealt in by itself. this had much to do with determining the basic character of the conspicuous fortunes of a century and two centuries later. it followed that when native industries were forbidden or their output monopolized not only by the dutch west india company in new netherlands, but by other companies elsewhere in the colonies, that ownership of land became the mainstay of large private fortunes with agriculture as an accompanying factor. subsequently the effects of this continuous policy were more fully seen when england by law after law paralyzed or closed up many forms of colonial manufacture. the feudal character of dutch colonization, as carried on by the dutch west india company, necessarily created great landed estates, the value of which arose not so much from agriculture, as was the case in virginia, maryland and later the carolinas and georgia, but from the natural resources of the land. the superb primitive timber brought colossal profits in export, and there were also very valuable fishery rights where an estate bounded a shore or river. the pristine rivers were filled with great shoals of fish, to which the river fishing of the present day cannot be compared. as settlement increased, immigration pressed over, and more and more ships carried cargo to and fro, these estates became consecutively more valuable. to encourage colonization to its colonies still further, the states general in passed a new decree. it repeated the feudal nature of the rights granted and made strong additions. did any aspiring adventurer seek to leap at a bound to the exalted position of patroonship? the terms were easy. all that he had to do was to found a colony of forty-eight adults and he had a liberal six years in which to do it. for his efforts he was allowed even more extensive grants of land than under the act of . so complete were his powers of proprietorship that no one could approach within seven or eight miles of his jurisdiction without his express permission. his was really a principality. over its bays, rivers, and islands, had it any, as well as over the mainland, he was given command forever. the dispensation of justice was his exclusive right. he and he only was the court with summary powers of "high, low and middle jurisdiction," which were harshly or capriciously exercised. not only did he impose sentence for violation of laws, but he, himself, ordained those laws and they were laws which were always framed to coincide with his interests and personality. he had full authority to appoint officers and magistrates and enact laws. and finally he had the power of policing his domain and of making use of the titles and arms of his colonies. all these things he could do "according to his will and pleasure." these absolute rights were to descend to his heirs and assigns.[ ] old world traders become feudal lords. thus, at the beginning of settlement times, the basis was laid in law and custom of a landed aristocracy, or rather a group of intrenched autocrats, along the banks of the hudson, the shores of the ocean and far inland. the theory then prevailed that the territory of the colonies extended westward to the pacific. from these patroons and their lineal or collateral descendants issued many of the landed generations of families which, by reason of their wealth and power, proved themselves powerful factors in the economic and political history of the country. the sinister effects of this first great grasping of the land long permeated the whole fabric of society and were prominently seen before and after the revolution, and especially in the third and fourth decades of the eighteenth century. the results, in fact, are traceable to this very day, even though laws and institutions are so greatly changed. other colonies reflected the constant changes of government, ruling party or policy of england, and colonial companies chartered by england frequently forfeited their charters. but conditions in new netherlands remained stable under dutch rule, and the accumulation of great estates was intensified under english rule. it was in new york that, at that period, the foremost colonial estates and the predominant private fortunes were mostly held. the extent of some of those early estates was amazingly large. but they were far from being acquired wholly by colonization methods. many of the officers and directors of the dutch west india company were amsterdam merchants. active, scheming, self-important men, they were mighty in the money marts but were made use of, and looked down upon, by the old dutch aristocracy. having amassed fortunes, these merchants yearned to be the founders of great estates; to live as virtual princes in the midst of wide possessions, even if these were still comparative solitudes. this aspiration was mixed with the mercenary motive of themselves owning the land from whence came the furs, pelts, timber and the waters yielding the fishes. one of these directors was kiliaen van rensselaer, an amsterdam pearl merchant. in his agents bought for him from the indians a tract of land twenty-four miles long and forty-eight broad on the west bank of the hudson. it comprised, it was estimated, seven hundred thousand acres and included what are now the counties of albany, rensselaer, a part of columbia county and a strip of what is at present massachusetts. and what was the price paid for this vast estate? as the deeds showed, the munificent consideration of "certain quantities of duffels, axes, knives and wampum,"[ ] which is equal to saying that the pearl merchant got it for almost nothing. two other directors--godyn and bloemart--became owners of great feudal estates. one of these tracts, in what is now new jersey, extended sixteen miles both in length and breadth, forming a square of sixty-four miles.[ ] so it was that these shrewd directors now combined a double advantage. their pride was satisfied with the absolute lordship of immense areas, while the ownership of land gave them the manifold benefits and greater profits of trading with the indians at first hand. from a part of the proceeds they later built manors which were contemplated as wonderful and magnificent. surrounded and served by their retainers, agents, vassal tenants and slaves, they lived in princely and licentious style, knowing no law in most matters except their unrestrained will. they beheld themselves as ingenious and memorable founders of a potential landed aristocracy whose possessions were more extended than that of europe. wilderness much of it still was, but obviously the time was coming when the population would be fairly abundant. the laws of entail and primogeniture, then in full force, would operate to keep the estates intact and gifted with inherent influence for generations. along with their landed estates, these directors had a copious inflowing revenue. the dutch west india company was in a thriving condition. by the year it had more than one hundred full-rigged ships in commission. most of them were fitted out for war on the commerce of other countries or on pirates. fifteen thousand seamen and soldiers were on its payroll; in that one year it used more than one hundred thousand pounds of powder--significant of the grim quality of business done. it had more than four hundred cannon and thousands of other destructive weapons.[ ] anything conducive to profit, no matter if indiscriminate murder, was accepted as legitimate and justifiable functions of trade, and was imposed alike upon royalty, which shared in the proceeds, and upon the people at large. the energetic trading class, concentrated in the one effort of getting money, and having no scruples as to the means in an age when ideals were low and vulgar, had already begun to make public opinion in many countries, although this public opinion counted for little among submissive peoples. it was the king and the governing class, either or both, whose favor and declarations counted; and so long as these profited by the devious extortions and villainies of trade the methods were legitimatized, if not royally sanctified. an aristocracy solidly grounded. a more potentially robust aristocracy than that which was forming in new netherlands could hardly be imagined. resting upon gigantic gifts of land, with feudal accompaniments, it held a monopoly, or nearly one, of the land's resources. the old aristocracy of holland grew jealous of the power and pretensions of what it frowned upon as an upstart trading clique and tried to curtail the rights and privileges of the patroons. these latter contended that their absolute lordship was indisputable; to put it in modern legal terminology that a contract could not be impaired. they elaborated upon the argument that they had spent a "ton of gold" (amounting to one hundred thousand guilders or forty thousand dollars) upon their colonies.[ ] they not only carried their point but their power was confirmed and enlarged. now was seen the spectacle of the middle-class men of the old world, the traders, more than imitating--far exceeding--the customs and pretensions of the aristocracy of their own country which they had inveighed against, and setting themselves up as the original and mighty landed aristocracy of the new country. the patroons encased themselves in an environment of pomp and awe. like so many petty monarchs each had his distinct flag and insignia; each fortified his domain with fortresses, armed with cannon and manned by his paid soldiery. the colonists were but humble dependants; they were his immediate subjects and were forced to take the oath of fealty and allegiance to him.[ ] in the old country the soil had long since passed into the hands of a powerful few and was made the chief basis for the economic and political enslavement of the people. to escape from this thralldom many of the immigrants had endured hardships and privation to get here. they expected that they could easily get land, the tillage of which would insure them a measure of independence. upon arriving they found vast available parts of the country, especially the most desirable and accessible portions bordering shores or rivers, preëmpted. an exacting and tyrannous feudal government was in full control. their only recourse in many instances was to accept the best of unwelcome conditions and become tenants of the great landed functionaries and workers for them. the abasement of the workers. the patroons naturally encouraged immigration. apart from the additional values created by increased population, it meant a quantity of labor which, in turn, would precipitate wages to the lowest possible scale. at the same time, in order to stifle every aspiring quality in the drudging laborer, and to keep in conformity with the spirit and custom of the age which considered the worker a mere menial undeserving of any rights, the whole force of the law was made use of to bring about sharp discriminations. the laborer was purposely abased to the utmost and he was made to feel in many ways his particular low place in the social organization. far above him, vested with enormous personal and legal powers, towered the patroon, while he, the laborer, did not have the ordinary burgher right, that of having a minor voice in public affairs. the burgher right was made entirely dependent upon property, which was a facile method of disfranchising the multitude of poor immigrants and of keeping them down. purchase was the one and only means of getting this right. to keep it in as small and circumscribed class as possible the price was made abnormally high. it was enacted in new netherlands in , for instance, that immigrants coming with cargoes had to pay a thousand guilders for the burgher right.[ ] as the average laborer got two shillings a day for his long hours of toil, often extending from sunrise to sunset, he had little chance of ever getting this sum together. the consequence was that the merchants became the burgher class; and all the records of the time seem to prove conclusively that the merchants were servile instruments of the patroons whose patronage and favor they assiduously courted. this deliberately pursued policy of degrading and despoiling the laboring class incited bitter hatreds and resentments, the effects of which were permanent. [illustration: jeremias van rensslaerr. one of the patroons. (from an engraving.)] [illustration: signature] footnotes: [ ] o'callaghan's "history of new netherlands," : - . [ ] documents relating to the colonial history of the state of new york, : - . [ ] o'callaghan, : . although it was said that kiliaen van rensselaer visited america, it seems to be established that he never did. he governed his estate as an absentee landgrave, through agents. he was the most powerful of all of the patroons. [ ] ibid., . [ ] colonial documents, : . the primary object of this company was a monopoly of the indian trade, not colonization. the "princely" manors were a combination fort and trading house, surrounded by moat and stockade. [ ] colonial documents, : . [ ] "annals of albany," iii: . the power of the patroons over their tenants, or serfs, was almost unlimited. no "man or woman, son or daughter, man servant or maid servant" could leave a patroon's service during the time that they had agreed to remain, except by his written consent, no matter what abuses or breaches of contract were committed by the patroon. [ ] "burghers and freemen of new york": . chapter ii the sway of the landgraves while this seizure of land was going on in new netherlands, vast areas in new england were passing suddenly into the hands of a few men. these areas sometimes comprised what are now entire states, and were often palpably obtained by fraud, collusion, trickery or favoritism. the puritan influx into massachusetts was an admixture of different occupations. some were traders or merchants; others were mechanics. by far the largest portion were cultivators of the soil whom economic pressure not less than religious persecution had driven from england. to these land was a paramount consideration. describing how the english tiller had been expropriated from the soil wallace says: "the ingenuity of lawyers and direct landlord legislation steadily increased the powers of great landowners and encroached upon the rights of the people, till at length the monstrous doctrine arose that a landless englishman has no right whatever to enjoyment even of the unenclosed commons and heaths and the mountain and forest wastes of his native country, but is everywhere in the eye of the law a trespasser whenever he ventures off a public road or pathway."[ ] by the sixteenth century the english peasantry had been evicted even from the commons, which were turned into sheep walks by the impoverished barons to make money from the flemish wool market. the land at home wrenched from them, the poor english immigrants ardently expected that in america land would be plentiful. they were bitterly disappointed. the various english companies, chartered by royal command with all-inclusive powers, despite the frequent opposition of parliament, held the trade and land of the greater part of the colonies as a rigid monopoly. in the case of the new england company severe punishment was threatened to all who should encroach upon its rights. it also was freed from payment for twenty-one years and was relieved from taxes forever. the colonies carved into great estates. the new england colonies were carved out into a few colossal private estates. the example of the british nobility was emulated; but the chartered companies did not have to resort to the adroit, disingenuous, subterranean methods which the english land magnates used in perpetuating their seizure, as so graphically described by s. w. thackery in his work, "the land and the community". the land in new england was taken over boldly and arbitrarily by the directors of the plymouth company, the most powerful of all the companies which exploited new england. the handful of men who participated in this division, sustained with a high hand their claims and pretensions, and augmented and fortified them by every device. quite regardless of who the changing monarch was, or what country ruled, these colonial magnates generally contrived to keep the power strong in their own hands. there might be a superficial show of changed conditions, an apparent infusion of democracy, but, in reality, the substance remained the same. this was nowhere more lucidly or strikingly illustrated than after new netherlands passed into the control of the english and was renamed new york. laws were decreed which seemed to bear the impress of justice and democracy. monopoly was abolished, every man was given the much-prized right of trading in furs and pelts, and the burgher right was extended and its acquisition made easier. however well-intentioned these altered laws were, they turned out to be shallow delusions. under english rule, the gifts of vast estates in new york were even greater than under dutch rule and beyond doubt were granted corruptly or by favoritism. miles upon miles of land in new york which had not been preëmpted were brazenly given away by the royal governor fletcher for bribes; and it was suspected, although not clearly proved, that he trafficked in estates in pennsylvania during the time when, by royal order, he supplanted william penn in the government of that province. from the evidence which has come down it would appear that any one who offered fletcher his price could be transformed into a great vested land owner. but still the people imagined that they had a real democratic government. had not england established representative assemblies? these, with certain restrictions, alone had the power of law-making for the provinces. these representative bodies were supposed to rest upon the vote of the people, which vote, however, was determined by a strict property qualification. the landed proprietors the political rulers. what really happened was that, apparently deprived of direct feudal power, the landed interests had no difficulty in retaining their law-making ascendancy by getting control of the various provincial assemblies. bodies supposedly representative of the whole people were, in fact, composed of great landowners, of a quota of merchants who were subservient to the landowners, and a sprinkling of farmers. in virginia this state was long-continuing, while in new york province it became such an intolerable abuse and resulted in such oppressions to the body of the people, that on sept. , , lieutenant-governor cadwallader colden, writing from new york to the lords of trade at london, strongly expostulated. he described how the land magnates had devised to set themselves up as the law-making class. three of the large land grants contained provisions guaranteeing to each owner the privilege of sending a representative to the general assembly. these landed proprietors, therefore, became hereditary legislators. "the owners of other great patents," colden continued, "being men of the greatest opulence in the several american counties where these tracts are, have sufficient influence to be perpetually elected for those counties. the general assembly, then, of this province consists of the owners of these extravagant grants, the merchants of new york, the principal of them strongly connected with the owners of these great tracts by family interest, and of common farmers, which last are men easily deluded and led away with popular arguments of liberty and privileges. the proprietors of the great tracts are not only freed from the quit rents which the other landholders in the provinces pay, but by their influences in the assembly are freed from every other public tax on their lands."[ ] what colden wrote of the landed class of new york was substantially true of all the other provinces. the small, powerful clique of great landowners had cunningly taken over to themselves the functions of government and diverted them to their own ends. first the land was seized and then it was declared exempt of taxation. inevitably there was but one sequel. everywhere, but especially so in new york and virginia, the landed proprietors became richer and more arrogant, while poverty, even in new country with extraordinary resources, took root and continued to grow. the burden of taxation fell entirely upon the farming and laboring classes; although the merchants were nominally taxed they easily shifted their obligations upon those two classes by indirect means of trade. usurious loans and mortgages became prevalent. it was now seen what meaningless tinsel the unrestricted right to trade in furs was. to get the furs access to the land was necessary; and the land was monopolized. in the south, where tobacco and corn were the important staples, the worker was likewise denied the soil except as a laborer or tenant, and in massachusetts colony, where fortunes were being made from timber, furs and fisheries, the poor man had practically no chance against the superior advantages of the landed and privileged class. these conditions led to severe reprisals. several uprisings in new york, bacon's rebellion in virginia, after the restoration of charles ii, when that king granted large tracts of land belonging to the colony to his favorites, and subsequently, in , a ferment in georgia, even under the mild proprietary rule of the philanthropist oglethorpe, were all really outbursts of popular discontent largely against the oppressive form in which land was held and against discriminative taxation, although each uprising had its local issues differing from those elsewhere. in this conflict between landed class and people, the only hope of the mass of the people lay in getting the favorable attention of royal governors. at least one of these considered earnestly and conscientiously the grave existing abuses and responded to popular protest which had become bitter. a conflict between land magnates and people. this official was the earl of bellomont. scarcely had he arrived after his appointment as captain-general and governor of massachusetts bay, new york and other provinces, when he was made acquainted with the widespread discontent. the landed magnates had not only created an abysmal difference between themselves and the masses in possessions and privileges, but also in dress and air, founded upon strict distinctions in law. the landed aristocrat with his laces and ruffles, his silks and his gold and silver ornaments and his expensive tableware, his consciously superior air and tone of grandiose authority, was far removed in established position from the mechanic or the laborer with his coarse clothes and mean habitation. laws were long in force in various provinces which prohibited the common people from wearing gold and silver lace, silks and ornaments. bellomont noted the sense of deep injustice smouldering in the minds of the people and set out to confiscate the great estates, particularly, as he set forth, as many of them had been obtained by bribery. it was with amazement that bellomont learned that one man, colonel samuel allen, claimed to own the whole of what is now the state of new hampshire. when, in , the plymouth colony was about to surrender its charter, its directors apportioned their territory to themselves individually. new hampshire went by lot to captain john mason who, some years before, had obtained a patent to the same area from the company. charles i had confirmed the company's action. after mason's death, his claims were bought up by allen for about $ , . mason, however, left an heir and protracted litigation followed. in the meantime, settlers taking advantage of these conflicting claims, proceeded to spread over new hampshire and hew the forests for cleared agricultural land. allen managed to get himself appointed governor of new hampshire in and declared the whole province his personal property and threatened to oust the settlers as trespassers unless they came to terms. there was imminent danger of an uprising of the settlers, who failed to see why the land upon which they had spent labor did not belong to them. bellomont investigated; and in communication, dated june , , to the lords of trade, denounced allen's title as defective and insufficient, and brought out the charge that allen had tried to get his confirmation of his, allen's, claims by means of a heavy bribe. attempted bribery charged. "there was an offer made me," bellomont wrote, "of £ , in money, but i thank god i had not the least tempting thought to accept of the offer and i hope nothing in this world will ever be able to attempt me to betray england in the least degree. this offer was made me three or four times." bellomont added: "i will make it appear that the lands and woods claimed by colonel allen are much more valuable than ten of the biggest estates in england, and i will rate those ten estates at £ , a piece, one with another, which is three millions. by his own confession to me at pescattaway last summer, he valued the quit rents of his lands (as he calls 'em) at £ , per annum at d per acre of d in the pound of all improv'd rents; then i leave your lordships to judge what an immense estate the improv'd rents must be, which (if his title be allowed) he has as good a right to the forementioned quit rents. and all this besides the woods which i believe he might very well value at half the worth of the lands. there never was, i believe, since the world began so great a bargain as allen has had of mason, if it be allowed to stand good, that all this vast estate i have been naming should be purchased for a poor £ and that a desperate debt, too, as col. allen thought. he pretends to a great part of this province as far westward as cape st. ann, which is said to take in of the best towns in this province next to boston, the best improved land, and, (i think col. allen told me) or , acres of their land. if col. allen shall at any time go about to make a forcible entry on these lands he pretends to (for, to be sure, the people will never turn tenants to him willingly) the present occupants will resist him by any force he shall bring and the province will be put to a combustion and what may be the course i dread to think."...[ ] but the persistent allen did not establish his claim. several times he lost in the litigation, the last time in . his death was followed by his son's death; and after sixty years of fierce animosities and litigation, the whole contention was allowed to lapse. says lodge: "his heirs were minors who did not push the controversy, and the claim soon sank out of sight to the great relief of the new hampshire people, whose right to their homes had so long been in question."[ ] similarly, another area, the entirety of what is now the state of maine, went to the individual ownership of sir fernandino gorges, the same who had betrayed essex to queen elizabeth and who had received rich rewards for his treachery.[ ] the domain descended to his grandson, fernando gorges, who, on march , , sold it by deed to john usher, a boston merchant, for £ , . the ominous dissatisfaction of the new hampshire and other settlers with the monopolization of land was not slighted by the english government; at the very time usher bought maine the government was on the point of doing the same thing and opening the land for settlement. usher at once gave a deed of the province to the governor and company of massachusetts, of which colony and later, state, it remained a part until its creation as a state in .[ ] these were two notable instances of vast land grants which reverted to the people. in most of the colonies the popular outcry for free access to the land was not so effective. in pennsylvania, after the government was restored to penn, and in part of new jersey conditions were more favorable to the settlers. in those colonies corrupt usurpations of the land were comparatively few, although the proprietary families continued to hold extensive tracts. penn's sons by his second wife, for instance, became men of great wealth.[ ] the pacific and conciliatory quaker faith operated as a check on any local extraordinary misuse of power. unfortunately for historical accuracy and penetration, there is an obscurity as to the intimate circumstances under which many of the large private estates in the south were obtained. the general facts as to their grants, of course, are well known, but the same specific, underlying details, such as may be disinterred from bellomont's correspondence, are lacking. in new york, at least, and presumably during fletcher's sway of government in pennsylvania, great land grants went for bribes. this is definitely brought out in bellomont's official communications. vast estates secured by bribery. fletcher, it would seem, had carried on a brisk traffic in creating by a stroke of the quill powerfully rich families by simply granting them domains in return for bribes. captain john r. n. evans had been in command of the royal warship richmond. an estate was his fervent ambition. fletcher's mandate gave him a grant of land running forty miles one way, and thirty another, on the west bank of the hudson. beginning at the south line of the present town of new paltry, ulster county, it included the southern tier of the now existing towns in that picturesque county, two-thirds of the fertile undulations of orange county and a part of the present town of haverstraw. it is related of this area, that there was "but one house on it, or rather a hut, where a poor man lives." notwithstanding this lone, solitary subject, evans saw great trading and seignorial possibilities in his tract. and what did he pay for this immense stretch of territory? a very modest bribe; common report had it that he gave fletcher £ for the grant.[ ] nicholas bayard, of whom it is told that he was a handy go-between in arranging with the sea pirates the price that they should pay for fletcher's protection, was another favored personage. bayard was the recipient of a grant forty miles long and thirty broad on both sides of schoharie creek. col. william smith's prize was a grant from fletcher of an estate fifty miles in length on nassau--now long island. according to bellomont, smith got this land "arbitrarily and by strong hand." smith was in collusion with fletcher, and moreover, was chief justice of the province, "a place of great awe as well as authority." this judicial land wrester forced the town of southampton to accept the insignificant sum of £ for the greater part of forty miles of beach--a singularly profitable transaction for smith, who cleared in one year £ , the proceeds of whales taken there, as he admitted to bellomont.[ ] henry beekman, the astute and smooth founder of a rich and powerful family, was made a magnate of the first importance by a grant from fletcher of a tract sixteen miles in length in dutchess county, and also of another estate running twenty miles along the hudson and eight miles inland. this estate he valued at £ , .[ ] likewise peter schuyler, godfrey dellius and their associates had conjointly secured by fletcher's patent, a grant fifty miles long in the romantic mohawk valley--a grant which "the mohawk indians have often complained of". upon this estate they placed a value of £ , . this was a towering fortune for the period; in its actual command of labor, necessities, comforts and luxuries it ranked as a power of transcending importance. these were some of the big estates created by "colonel fletcher's intolerable corrupt selling away the lands of this province," as bellomont termed it in his communication to the lords of trade of nov. , . fletcher, it was set forth, profited richly by these corrupt grants. he got in bribes, it was charged, at least £ , .[ ] but fletcher was not the only corrupt official. in his interesting work on the times,[ ] george w. schuyler presents what is an undoubtedly accurate description of how robert livingston, progenitor of a rich and potent family which for generations exercised a profound influence in politics and other public affairs, contrived to get together an estate which soon ranked as the second largest in new york state and as one of the greatest in the colonies. livingston was the younger son of a poor exiled clergyman. in currying favor with one official after another he was unscrupulous, dexterous and adaptable. he invariably changed his politics with the change of administration. in less than a year after his arrival he was appointed to an office which yielded him a good income. this office he held for nearly half a century, and simultaneously was the incumbent of other lucrative posts. offices were created by governor dongan apparently for his sole benefit. his passion was to get together an estate which would equal the largest. extremely penurious, he loaned money at frightfully usurious rates and hounded his victims without a vestige of sympathy.[ ] as a trader and government contractor he made enormous profits; such was his cohesive collusion with high officials that competitors found it impossible to outdo him. a current saying of him was that he made a fortune by "pinching the bellies of the soldiers"--that is, as an army contractor who defrauded in quantity and quality of supplies. by a multitude of underhand and ignoble artifices he finally found himself the lord of a manor sixteen miles long and twenty-four broad. on this estate he built flour and saw mills, a bakery and a brewery. in his advanced old age he exhibited great piety but held on grimly to every shilling that he could and as long as he could. when he died about --the exact date is unknown--at the age of years, he left an estate which was considered of such colossal value that its true value was concealed for fear of further enraging the discontented people. effects of the land seizures. the seizure of these vast estates and the arbitrary exclusion of the many from the land produced a combustible situation. an instantaneous and distinct cleavage of class divisions was the result. intrenched in their possessions the landed class looked down with haughty disdain upon the farming and laboring classes. on the other hand, the farm laborer with his sixteen hours work a day for a forty-cent wage, the carpenter straining for his fifty-two cents a day, the shoemaker drudging for his seventy-three cents a day and the blacksmith for his seventy cents,[ ] thought over this injustice as they bent over their tasks. they could sweat through their lifetime at honest labor, producing something of value and yet be a constant prey to poverty while a few men, by means of bribes, had possessed themselves of estates worth tens of thousands of pounds and had preëmpted great stretches of the available lands. in consulting extant historical works it is noticeable that they give but the merest shadowy glimpse of this intense bitterness of what were called the lower classes, and of the incessant struggle now raging, now smouldering, between the landed aristocracy and the common people. contrary to the roseate descriptions often given of the independent position of the settlers at that time, it was a time when the use and misuse of law brought about sharp divisions of class lines which arose from artificially created inequalities, economically and politically. with the great landed estates came tenantry, wage slavery and chattel slavery, the one condition the natural generator of the others. the rebellious tendency of the poor colonists against becoming tenants, and the usurpation of the land, were clearly brought out by bellomont in a letter written on nov. , , to the lords of trade. he complained that "people are so cramped here for want of land that several families within my own knowledge and observation are remov'd to the new country (a name they give to pennsylvania and the jerseys) for, to use mr. graham's expression to me, and that often repeated, too, what man will be such a fool as to become a base tenant to mr. dellius, colonel schuyler, mr. livingston (and so he ran through the whole role of our mighty landgraves) when for crossing hudson's river that man can, for a song, purchase a good freehold in the jerseys." if the immigrant happened to be able to muster a sufficient sum he could, indeed, become an independent agriculturist in new jersey and in parts of pennsylvania and provide himself with the tools of trade. but many immigrants landed with empty pockets and became laborers dependent upon the favor of the landed proprietors. as for the artisans--the carpenters, masons, tailors, blacksmiths--they either kept to the cities and towns where their trade principally lay, or bonded themselves to the lords of the manors. attempt at confiscation thwarted. bellomont fully understood the serious evils which had been injected into the body politic and strongly applied himself to the task of confiscating the great estates. one of his first proposals was to urge upon the lords of trade the restriction of all governors throughout the colonies from granting more than a thousand acres to any man without leave from the king, and putting a quit rent of half a crown on every hundred acres, this sum to go to the royal treasury. this suggestion was not acted upon. he next attacked the assembly of new york and called upon it to annul the great grants. in doing this he found that the most powerful members of the assembly were themselves the great land owners and were putting obstacle after obstacle in his path. after great exertions he finally prevailed upon the assembly to vacate at least two of the grants, those to evans and bayard. the assembly did this probably as a sop to bellomont and to public opinion, and because evans and bayard had lesser influence than the other landed functionaries. but the owners of the other estates tenaciously held them intact. the people regarded bellomont as a sincere and ardent reformer, but the landed men and their following abused him as a meddler and destructionist. despairing of getting a self-interested assembly to act, bellomont appealed to the lords of trade: "if your lordships mean i shall go on to break the rest of the extravagant grants of land by colonel fletcher or other governors, by act of assembly, i shall stand in need of a peremptory order from the king so to do."[ ] a month later he insisted to his superiors at home that if they intended that the corrupt and extravagant grants should be confiscated--"(which i will be bold to say by all the rules of reason and justice ought to be done) i believe it must be done by act of parliament in england, for i am a little jealous i shall not have strength enough in the assembly of new york to break them." the majority of this body, he pointed out, were landed men, and when their own interest was touched, they declined to act contrary to it. unless, added bellomont, "the power of our palatines, smith, livingston, the phillips, father and son[ ]--and six or seven more were reduced ... the country is ruined."[ ] despite some occasional breaches in its intrenchments, the landocracy continued to rule everywhere with a high hand, its power, as a whole, unbroken. how the lords of the soil lived. a glancing picture of one of these landed proprietors will show the manner in which they lived and what was then accounted their luxury. as one of the "foremost men of his day," in the colonies colonel smith lived in befitting style. this stern, bushy-eyed man who robbed the community of a vast tract of land and who, as chief justice, was inflexibly severe in dealing punishment to petty criminals and ever vigilant in upholding the rights of property, was lord of the manor of st. george, suffolk county. the finest silks and lace covered his judicial person. his embroidered belts, costing £ , at once attested his great wealth and high station. he had the extraordinary number of one hundred and four silver buttons to adorn his clothing. when he walked a heavy silver-headed cane supported him, and he rode on a fancy velvet saddle. his three swords were of the finest make; occasionally he affected a turkish scimeter. few watches in the colonies could compare with his massive silver watch. his table was embellished with heavy silver plate, valued at £ , on which his coat-of-arms was engraved. twelve negro slaves responded to his nod; he had a large corps of bounded apprentices and dependant laborers. his mansion looked down on twenty acres of wheat and twenty of corn; and as for his horses and cattle they were the envy of the country. in his last year thirty horses were his, fourteen oxen, sixty steers, forty-eight cows and two bulls.[ ] he lived high, drank, swore, cheated--and administered justice. one of the best and most intimate descriptions of a somewhat contemporaneous landed magnate in the south is that given of robert carter, a virginia planter, by philip vickers fithian,[ ] a tutor in carter's family. carter came to his estate from his grandfather, whose land and other possessions were looked upon as so extensive that he was called "king" carter. robert carter luxuriated in nomini hall, a great colonial mansion in westmoreland county. it was built between and of brick covered with strong mortar, which imparted a perfectly white exterior, and was seventy-six feet long and forty wide. the interior was one of unusual splendor for the time, such as only the very rich could afford. there were eight large rooms, one of which was a ball-room thirty feet long. carter spent most of his leisure hours cultivating the study of law and of music; his library contained , volumes and he had a varied assortment of musical instruments. he was the owner of , acres of land spread over almost every county of virginia, and he was the master of six hundred negro slaves. the greater part of a prosperous iron-works near baltimore was owned by him, and near his mansion he built a flour mill equipped to turn out , bushels of wheat a year. carter was not only one of the big planters but one of the big capitalists of the age; all that he had to do was to exercise a general supervision; his overseers saw to the running of his various industries. like the other large landholders he was one of the active governing class; as a member of the provincial council he had great influence in the making of laws. he was a thorough gentleman, we are told, and took good care of his slaves and of his white laborers who were grouped in workhouses and little cottages within range of his mansion. within his domain he exercised a sort of benevolent despotism. he was one of the first few to see that chattel slavery could not compete in efficiency with white labor, and he reckoned that more money could be made from the white laborer, for whom no responsibility of shelter, clothing, food and attendance had to be assumed than from the negro slave, whose sickness, disability or death entailed direct financial loss. before his death he emancipated a number of his slaves. this, in brief, is the rather flattering depiction of one of the conspicuously rich planters of the south. the nascent trading class. land continued to be the chief source of the wealth of the rich until after the revolution. the discriminative laws enacted by england had held down the progress of the trading class; these laws overthrown, the traders rose rapidly from a subordinate position to the supreme class in point of wealth. no close research into pre-revolutionary currents and movements is necessary to understand that the revolution was brought about by the dissatisfied trading class as the only means of securing absolute freedom of trade. notwithstanding the view often presented that it was an altruistic movement for the freedom of man, it was essentially an economic struggle fathered by the trading class and by a part of the landed interests. admixed was a sincere aim to establish free political conditions. this, however, was not an aim for the benefit of all classes, but merely one for the better interests of the propertied class. the poverty-stricken soldiers who fought for their cause found after the war that the machinery of government was devised to shut out manhood suffrage and keep the power intact in the hands of the rich. had it not been for radicals such as jefferson, paine and others it is doubtful whether such concessions as were made to the people would have been made. the long struggle in various states for manhood suffrage sufficiently attests the deliberate aim of the propertied interests to concentrate in their own hands, and in that of a following favorable to them, the voting power of the government and of the states. with the success of the revolution, the trading class bounded to the first rank. entail and primogeniture were abolished and the great estates gradually melted away. for more than a century and a half the landed interests had dominated the social and political arena. as an acknowledged, continuous organization they ceased to exist. great estates no longer passed unimpaired from generation to generation, surviving as a distinct entity throughout all changes. they perforce were partitioned among all the children; and through the vicissitudes of subsequent years, passed bit by bit into many hands. altered laws caused a gradual disintegration in the case of individual holdings, but brought no change in instances of corporate ownership. the trinity corporation of new york city, for example, has held on to the vast estate which it was given before the revolution except such parts as it voluntarily has sold. disintegration of the great estates. the individual magnate, however, had no choice. he could no longer entail his estates. thus, estates which were very large before the revolution, and which were regarded with astonishment, ceased to exist. the landed interests, however, remained paramount for several decades after the revolution by reason of the acceleration which long possession and its profits had given them. washington's fortune, amounting at his death, to $ , , was one of the largest in the country and consisted mainly of land. he owned , acres, valued at $ an acre, on the ohio river in virginia, , acres, worth $ , , on the great kenawa, and also land elsewhere in virginia and in maryland, pennsylvania, new york, kentucky, the city of washington and other places.[ ] about half a century later it was only by persistent gatherings of public contributions that his very home was saved to the nation, so had his estate become divided and run down. after a long career, benjamin franklin acquired what was considered a large fortune. but it did not come from manufacture or invention, which he did so much to encourage, but from land. his estate in , two years before his death, was estimated to be worth $ , , mostly in land.[ ] by the opening decades of the nineteenth century few of the great estates in new york remained. one of the last of the patroons was stephen van rensselaer, who died at the age of on jan. , , leaving ten children. up to this time the manor had devolved upon the eldest son. although it had been diminished somewhat by various cessions, it was still of great extent. the property was divided among the ten children, and, according to schuyler, "in less than fifty years after his death, the seven hundred thousand acres originally in the manor were in the hands of strangers."[ ] long before old van rensselaer passed away he had seen the rise and growth of the trading and manufacturing class and a new form of landed aristocracy, and he observed with a haughty bitterness how in point of wealth and power they far overshadowed the well-nigh defunct old feudal aristocracy. a few hundred thousand dollars no longer was the summit of a great fortune; the age of the millionaire had come. the lordly, leisurely environment of the old landed class had been supplanted by feverish trading and industrial activity which imposed upon society its own newer standards, doctrines and ideals and made them uppermost factors. footnotes: [ ] "land nationalization,": - . [ ] colonial documents, vii: - . [ ] colonial documents, iv: - . [ ] "a short history of the english colonies in america": . [ ] yet, this fortune seeker, who had incurred the contempt of every noble english mind, is described by one of the class of power-worshipping historians as follows: "fame and wealth, so often the idols of _superior intellect_, were the prominent objects of this aspiring man."--williamson's "history of maine," : . [ ] the public domain: its history, etc.: . [ ] pennsylvania: colony and commonwealth: , , etc. their claim to inherit proprietary rights was bought at the time of the revolutionary war by the commonwealth of pennsylvania for £ , sterling or about $ , . [ ] colonial documents, iv: . [ ] ibid.: . [ ] ibid.: . [ ] colonial documents, iv: . one of bellomont's chief complaints was that the landgraves monopolized the timber supply. he recommended the passage of a law vesting in the king the right to all trees such as were fit for masts of ships or for other use in building ships of war. [ ] "colonial new york," : - . [ ] according to reynolds's "albany chronicles," livingston was in collusion with captain kidd, the sea pirate. reynolds also tells that livingston loaned money at ten per cent. [ ] wright's "industrial evolution in the united states"; see also his article "wages" in johnson's encyclopædia. the new york colonial documents relate that in in the three provinces of bellomont's jurisdiction, "the laboring man received three shillings a day, which was considered dear," iv: . [ ] colonial documents, iv: - . [ ] frederick and his son adolphus. frederick was the employer of the pirate, captain samuel burgess of new york, who at first was sent out by phillips to madagascar to trade with the pirates and who then turned pirate himself. from the first voyage phillips and burgess cleared together £ , , the proceeds of trade and slaves. the second voyage yielded £ , and three hundred slaves. burgess married a relative of phillips and continued piracy, but was caught and imprisoned in newgate. phillips spent great sums of money to save him and succeeded. burgess resumed piracy and met death from poisoning in africa while engaged in carrying off slaves.--"the lives and bloody exploits of the most noted pirates": - . this work was a serious study of the different sea pirates. [ ] colonial docs, iv: - . on november , , bellomont wrote to the lords of the treasury: "i can supply the king and all his dominions with naval stores (except flax and hemp) from this province and new hampshire, but then your lordships and the rest of the ministers must break through coll. fletcher's most corrupt grants of all the lands and woods of this province which i think is the most impudent villainy i ever heard or read of any man," iv: . [ ] this is the inventory given in "abstracts of wills," : . [ ] "journal and letters," - . [ ] sparks' "life of washington," appendix, ix: - . [ ] bigelow's "life of franklin," iii: . [ ] "colonial new york," : . chapter iii the rise of the trading class the creation of the great landed estates was accompanied by the slow development of the small trader and merchant. necessarily, they first established themselves in the sea ports where business was concentrated. many obstacles long held them down to a narrow sphere. the great chartered companies monopolized the profitable resources. the land magnates exacted tribute for the slightest privilege granted. drastic laws forbade competition with the companies, and the power of law and the severities of class government were severely felt by the merchants. the chartered corporations and the land dignitaries were often one group with an identity of men and interests. against their strength and capital the petty trader or merchant could not prevail. daring and enterprising though he be, he was forced to a certain compressed routine of business. he could sell the goods which the companies sold to him but could not undertake to set up manufacturing. and after the companies had passed away, the landed aristocracy used its power to suppress all undue initiative on his part. the manorial lords monopolize trade. this was especially so in new york, where all power was concentrated in the hands of a few landowners. "to say," says sabine, "that the political institutions of new york formed a feudal aristocracy is to define them with tolerable accuracy. the soil was owned by a few. the masses were mere retainers or tenants as in the monarchies of europe."[ ] the feudal lord was also the dominant manufacturer and trader. he forced his tenants to sign covenants that they should trade in nothing else than the produce of the manor; that they should trade nowhere else but at his store; that they should grind their flour at his mill, and buy bread at his bakery, lumber at his sawmills and liquor at his brewery. thus he was not only able to squeeze the last penny from them by exorbitant prices, but it was in his power to keep them everlastingly in debt to him. he claimed, and held, a monopoly in his domain of whatever trade he could seize. these feudal tenures were established in law; woe to the tenant who presumed to infract them! he became a criminal and was punished as a felon. the petty merchant could not, and dared not, compete with the trading monopolies of the manorial lords within these feudal jurisdictions. in such a system the merchant's place for a century and a half was a minor one, although far above that of the drudging laborer. merchants resorted to sharp and frequently dubious ways of getting money together. they bargained and sold shrewdly, kept their wits ever open, turned sycophant to the aristocracy and a fleecer of the laborer. it would appear that in new york, at least, the practice of the most audacious usury was an early and favorite means of acquiring the property of others. these others were invariably the mechanic or laborer; the merchant dared not attempt to overreach the aristocrat whose power he had good reason to fear. money which was taken in by selling rum and by wheedling the unsophisticated indians into yielding up valuable furs, was loaned at frightfully onerous rates. the loans unpaid, the lender swooped mercilessly upon the property of the unfortunate and gathered it in. the richest merchant of his period in the province of new york was cornelius steenwyck, a liquor merchant, who died in . he left a total estate of £ , and a long list of book debts which disclosed that almost every man in new york city owed money to him, partly for rum, in part for loans.[ ] the same was true of peter jacob marius, a rich merchant who died in , leaving behind a host of debtors, "which included about all the male population on manhattan island."[ ] this eminent counter-man was "buried like a gentleman." at his funeral large sums were spent for wine, cookies, pipes and tobacco, beer, spice for burnt wine and sugar--all according to approved and reverent dutch fashion. the actual currency left by some of these rich men was a curious conglomeration of almost every stamp, showing the results of a mixed assemblage of customers. there were spanish pistoles, guineas, arabian coin, bank dollars, dutch and french money--a motley assortment all carefully heaped together. without doubt, those enterprising pirate captains, kidd and burgess, and their crews, were good customers of these accommodating and undiscriminating merchants. it was a time when money was triply valued, for little of it passed in circulation. to a people who traded largely by barter and whose media of exchange, for a long time, were wampum, peltries and other articles, the touch and clink of gold and silver were extremely precious and fascinating. buccaneers kidd and burgess deserved the credit for introducing into new york much of the variegated gold and silver coin, and it was believed that they long had some of the leading merchants as their allies in disposing of their plundered goods, in giving them information and affording them protection. the traders' methods. by one means or another, some of the new york merchants of the period attained a standing in point of wealth equal to not a few of the land magnates. william lawrence of flushing, long island, was "a man of great wealth and social standing." like the rest of his class he affected to despise the merchant class. after his death, an inventory showed his estate to be worth £ , , mostly in land and in slaves, of which he left ten.[ ] while the landed men often spent much of their time carousing, hunting, gambling, and dispersing their money, the merchants were hawk-eyed alert for every opportunity to gather in money. they wasted no time in frivolous pursuits, had no use for sentiment or scruples, saved money in infinitesimal ways and thought and dreamed of nothing but business. throughout the colonies, not excepting pennsylvania, it was the general practice of the merchants and traders to take advantage of the indians by cunning and treacherous methods. the agents of the chartered companies and the land owners first started the trick of getting the indians drunk, and then obtaining, for almost nothing, the furs that they had gathered--for a couple of bottles of rum, a blanket or an axe. after the charters of the companies were annulled or expired, the landgraves kept up the practice, and the merchants improved on it in various ingenious ways. "the indians," says felt,[ ] "were ever ready to give up their furs for knives, hatchets, beads, blankets, and especially were anxious to obtain tobacco, guns, powder, shot and strong water; the latter being a powerful instrument enabling the cunning trader to perpetuate the grossest frauds. immense quantities of furs were shipped to europe at a great profit." this description appropriately applied also to new york, new jersey, and the south. in new york there were severe laws against indians who got drunk, and in massachusetts colony an indian found drunk was subject to a fine of ten shillings or whipping, at the discretion of the magistrate. as to the whites who, for purposes of gain, got the indians drunk, the law was strangely inactive. everyone knew that drink might incite the indians to uprisings and imperil the lives of men, women and children. but the considerations of trade were stronger than even the instinct of self-preservation and the practice went on, not infrequently resulting in the butchery of innocent white victims and in great cost and suspense to the whole community. strict laws which pronounced penalties for profaneness and for not attending church, connived at the systematic defrauding and swindling of the indians of land and furs. two strong considerations were held to justify this. the first was that the indians were heathen and must give way to civilization; that they were fair prey. the demands of trade, upon which the colonies flourished was the second. the fact was that the code of the trading class was everywhere gradually becoming the dominant one, even breaking down the austere, almost ascetic, puritan moral professions. among the common people--those who were ordinary wage laborers--the methods of the rich were looked upon with suspicion and enmity, and there was a prevalent consciousness that wealth was being amassed by one-sided laws and fraud. some of the noted sea pirates of the age made this their strong justification for preying upon commerce.[ ] in virginia the life of the community depended upon agriculture; therefore slavery was thought to be its labor prop and was joyfully welcomed and earnestly defended. in massachusetts and new york trading was an elemental factor, and whatever swelled the volume and profits was accounted a blessing to the community and was held justified. laws, the judges who enforced them, and the spirit of the age reflected not so much the morality of the people as their trading necessities. the one was often mistaken for the other. the bonding of laborers. this condition was shown repeatedly in the trade conflicts of the competing merchants, their system of bonded laborers and in the long contests between the traders of the colonies and those of england, culminating in the revolution. in the churches the colonists prayed to god as the father of all men and showed great humility. but in actual practice the propertied men recognized no such thing as equality and dispensed with humility. the merchants imitated in a small way the seignorial pretensions of the land nabobs. few merchants there were who did not deal in negro slaves, and few also were there who did not have a bonded laborer or two, whose labor they monopolized and whose career was their property for a long term of years. limited bondage, called apprenticeship, was general. penniless boys, girls and adults were impressed by sheer necessity into service. nicholas auger, years old, binds himself, in , to wessell evertson, a cooper, for a term of nine years, and swears that "he will truly serve the commandments of his master lawfull, shall do no hurt to his master, nor waste nor purloin his goods, nor lend them to anybody at dice, or other unlawful game, shall not contract matrimony, nor frequent taverns, shall not absent himself from his master's service day or night." in return evertson will teach nicholas the trade of a cooper, give him "apparell, meat, drink and bedding" and at the expiration of the term will supply him with "two good suits of wearing apparell from head to foot." cornelius hendricks, a laborer, binds himself in as an apprentice and servant to john molet for five years. hendricks is to get £ current silver money and two suits of apparell--one for holy days, the other for working days, and also board is to be provided. elizabeth morris, a spinster, in consideration of her transportation from england to new york on the barkentine, "antegun," binds herself in as a servant to captain william kidd for four years for board. when her term is over she is to get two dresses. these are a few specific instances of the bonding system--a system which served its purpose in being highly advantageous to the merchants and traders. the fisheries of new england. toward the close of the seventeenth century the merchants of boston were the richest in the colonies. trade there was the briskest. by , according to the records of the massachusetts historical society, there were ten to fifteen merchants in boston whose aggregate property amounted to £ , , or about £ , each, and five hundred persons who were worth £ , each. some of these fortunes came from furs, timber and vending merchandise. but the great stimuli were the fisheries of the new england coast. bellomont in ascribed the superior trade of massachusetts to the fact that fletcher had corruptly sold the best lands in new york province and had thus brought on bad conditions. had it not been for this, he wrote, new york "would outthrive the massachusetts province and quickly outdoe them in people and trade." while the people of the south took to agriculture as a main support, and the merchants of new york were contented with the more comfortable method of taking in coin over counters, a large proportion of the , inhabitants of boston and those of salem and plymouth braved dangers to drag the sea of its spoil. they developed hardy traits of character, a bold adventurousness and a singular independence of movement which in time engendered a bustling race of traders who navigated the world for trade. it was from shipping that the noted fortunes of the early decades of the eighteenth century came. the origin of the means by which these fortunes were got together lay greatly in the fisheries. the emblem of the codfish in the massachusetts state house is a survival of the days when the fisheries were the great and most prolific sources of wealth and the chief incentive of all kinds of trade. a tremendous energy was shown in the hazards of the business. so thoroughly were the fisheries recognized as important to the life of the whole new england community that vessels were often built by public subscription, as was instanced in plymouth, where public subscription on one occasion defrayed the expense.[ ] in response to the general incessant demand for ships, the business of shipbuilding soon sprang up; presently there were nearly thirty ship yards in boston alone and sixty ships a year were built. it was a lucrative industry. the price of a vessel was dear, while the wages of the carpenters, smiths, caulkers and sparmakers were low. not a few of the merchants and traders or their sons who made their money by debauching and cheating the indians went into this highly profitable business and became men of greater wealth. by boston was shipping , quintals of dried codfish every year. the fish was divided into several kinds. the choice quality went to the catholic countries, where there was a great demand for it, principally to bilboa, lisbon and oporto. the refuse was shipped to the west india islands for sale to the negro slaves and laborers. the price varied. in it was eighteen shillings a quintal; the next year, we read, it had fallen to twelve shillings because the french fisheries had glutted the market abroad.[ ] "force as good as force." along with the fisheries, considerable wealth was extracted in new england, as elsewhere in the colonies, from the shipment of timber. sharp traders easily got the advantage of indians and landowners in buying the privilege of cutting timber. in some cases, particularly in new hampshire, which allen claimed to own, the timber was simply taken without leave. the word was passed that force was as good as force, fraud as good as fraud. allen had got the province by force and fraud; let him stop the timber cutters if he dare. ship timber was eagerly sought in european ports. one boston merchant is recorded as having taken a cargo of this timber to lisbon and clearing a profit of £ , on an expenditure of £ . "everybody is excited," wrote bellomont on june , , to the lords commissioners for trades and plantations. "some of the merchants of salem are now loading a ship with , feet of the noblest ships timber that was ever seen."[ ] the whale fishery sprang up about this time and brought in great profits. the original method was to sight the whale from a lookout on shore, push out in a boat, capture him and return to the shore with the carcass. the oil was extracted from the blubber and readily sold. as whales became scarce around the new england islands the whalers pushed off into the ocean in small vessels. within fifty years at least sixty craft were engaged in the venture. by degrees larger and larger vessels were built until they began to double cape horn, and were sometimes absent from a year and a half to three years. the labors of the cruise were often richly rewarded with a thousand barrels of sperm oil and two hundred and fifty barrels of whale oil. british traders' tactics. by the middle of the seventeenth century the colonial merchants were in a position to establish manufactures to compete with the british. a seafaring race and a mercantile fleet had come into a militant existence; and ambitious designs were meditated of conquering a part of the import and export trade held by the british. the colonial shipowner, sending tobacco, corn, timber or fish to europe did not see why he should not load his ship with commodities on the return trip and make a double profit. it was now that the british trading class peremptorily stepped in and used the power of government to suppress in its infancy a competition that alarmed them. heavy export duties were now declared on every colonial article which would interfere with the monopoly which the british trading class held, and aimed to hold, while the most exacting duties were put on non-british imports. colonial factories were killed off by summary legislation. in parliament enacted that no wool yarn or woolen manufactures of the american colonies should be exported to any place whatever. this was a destructive bit of legislation, as nearly every colonial rural family kept sheep and raised flax and were getting expert at the making of coarse linen and woolen cloths. no sooner had the colonists begun to make paper than that industry was likewise choked. with hats it was the same. the colonists had scarcely begun to export hats to spain, portugal and the west indies before the british company of hatters called upon the government to put a stop to this colonial interference with their trade. an act was thereupon passed by parliament forbidding the exportation of hats from any american colony, and the selling in one colony of hats made in another. colonial iron mills began to blast; they were promptly declared a nuisance, and parliament ordered that no mill or engine for slitting or rolling iron be used, but graciously allowed pig and bar iron to be imported from england into the colonies. distilleries were common; molasses was extensively used in the making of rum and also by the fishermen; a heavy duty was put upon molasses and sugar as also on tea, nails, glass and paints. smuggling became general; a narrative of the adroit devices resorted to would make an interesting tale. these restrictive acts brought about various momentous results. they not only arrayed the whole trading class against great britain, and in turn the great body of the colonists, but they operated to keep down in size and latitude the private fortunes by limiting the ways in which the wealth of individuals could be employed. much money was withdrawn from active business and invested in land and mortgages. still, despite the crushing laws with which colonial capitalists had to contend, the fisheries were an incessant source of profit. by they employed , seamen and had , tons of shipping and did a business estimated at somewhat more than a million dollars. footnotes: [ ] "lives of the loyalists,": . [ ] "abstracts of wills," ii: - . [ ] ibid., : - . [ ] "abstracts of wills," : . [ ] "an historical account of massachusetts currency." see also colonial documents, iii: , and the records of new amsterdam. see the chapters on the astor fortune in part ii for full details of the methods in debauching and swindling the indians in trading operations. [ ] thus captain bellamy's speech in to captain baer of boston, whose sloop he had just sunk and rifled: "i am sorry that they [his crew] won't let you have your sloop again, for i scorn to do any one a mischief when it is not for my advantage; damn the sloop, we must sink her, and she might be of use to you. though you are a sneaking puppy, and so are all those who will submit to be governed by laws which rich men have made for their own security--for the cowardly whelps have not the courage otherwise to defend what they get by their knavery. but damn ye altogether; damn them for a pack of crafty rascals, and ye who serve them, for a parcel of hen-hearted numbskulls. they villify us, the scoundrels do, when there is only this difference: they rob the poor under cover of law, forsooth, and we plunder the rich under protection of our own courage. had you better not make one of us than sneak after these villains for employment." baer refused and was put ashore.--"the lives and bloody exploits of the most noted pirates": - . [ ] "a commercial sketch of boston," hunt's merchant's magazine, , : . [ ] colonial documents, iv: . [ ] ibid., . chapter iv the shipping fortunes thus it was that at the time of the revolution many of the consequential fortunes were those of shipowners and were principally concentrated in new england. some of these dealt in merchandise only, while others made large sums of money by exporting fish, tobacco, corn, rice and timber and lading their ships on the return with negro slaves, for which they found a responsive market in the south. many of the members of the continental congress were ship merchants, or inherited their fortunes from rich shippers, as, for instance, samuel adams, robert morris, henry laurens of charleston, s. c., john hancock, whose fortune of $ , came from his uncle thomas, francis lewis of new york and joseph hewes of north carolina. others were members of various constitutional conventions or became high officials in the federal or state governments. the revolution disrupted and almost destroyed the colonial shipping, and trade remained stagnant. fortunes from privateering. not wholly so, for the hazardous venture of privateering offered great returns. george cabot of boston was the son of an opulent shipowner. during the revolution, george, with his brother swept the coast with twenty privateers carrying from sixteen to twenty guns each. for four or five years their booty was rich and heavy, but toward the end of the war, british gun-boats swooped on most of their craft and the brothers lost heavily. george subsequently became a united states senator. israel thorndike, who began life as a cooper's apprentice and died in at the age of , leaving a fortune, "the greatest that has ever been left in new england,"[ ] made large sums of money as part owner and commander of a privateer which made many successful cruises. with this money he went into fisheries, foreign commerce and real estate, and later into manufacturing establishments. one of the towering rich men of the day, we are told that "his investments in real estate, shipping or factories were wonderfully judicious and hundreds watched his movements, believing his pathway was safe." the fortune he bequeathed was ranked as immense. to each of his three sons he left about $ , each, and other sums to another son, and to his widow and daughters. in all, the legacies to the surviving members of his family amounted to about $ , , .[ ] another "distinguished merchant," as he was styled, to take up privateering was nathaniel tracy, the son of a newburyport merchant. college bred, as were most of the sons of rich merchants, he started out at the age of with a number of privateers, and for many years returned flushed with prizes. to quote his appreciative biographer: "he lived in a most magnificent style, having several country seats or large farms with elegant summer houses and fine fish ponds, and all those matters of convenience or taste that a british nobleman might think necessary to his rank and happiness. his horses were of the choicest kind and his coaches of the most splendid make." but alas! this gorgeous career was abruptly dispelled when unfeeling british frigates and gun-boats hooked in his saucy privateers and tracy stood quite ruined. much more fortunate was joseph peabody. as a young man peabody enlisted as an officer on derby's privateer "bunker hill." his second cruise was on cabot's privateer "pilgrim" which captured a richly cargoed british merchantman. returning to shore he studied for an education, later resuming the privateer deck. some of his exploits, as narrated by george atkinson ward in "hunt's lives of american merchants," published in , were thrilling enough to have found a deserved place in a gory novel. with the money made as his share of the various prizes, he bought a vessel which he commanded himself, and he personally made sundry voyages to europe and the west indies. by he had amassed a large fortune. there was no further need of his going to sea; he was now a great merchant and could pay others to take charge of his ships. these increased to such an extent that he built in salem and owned eighty-three ships which he freighted and dispatched to every known part of the world. seven thousand seamen were in his employ. his vessels were known in calcutta, canton, sumatra, st. petersburg and dozens of other ports. they came back with cargoes which were distributed by coasting vessels among the various american ports. it was with wonderment that his contemporaries spoke of his paying an aggregate of about $ , in state, county and city taxes in salem, where he lived.[ ] he died on jan. , , aged years. asa clapp, who at his death in , at the age of years, was credited with being the richest man in maine,[ ] began his career during the revolution as an officer on a privateer. after the war he commanded various trading vessels, and in established a shipping business of his own, with headquarters at portland. his vessels traded with europe, the east and west indies and south america. in his later years he went into banking. of the size of his fortune we are left in ignorance. a glance at other shipping fortunes. these are instances of rich men whose original capital came from privateering, which was recognized as a legitimate method of reprisal. as to the inception of the fortunes of other prominent capitalists of the period, few details are extant in the cases of most of them. of the antecedents and life of thomas russell, a boston shipper, who died in , "supposedly leaving the largest amount of property which up to that time had been accumulated in new england," little is known. the extent of his fortune cannot be learned. russell was one of the first, after the revolution, to engage in trade with russia, and drove many a hard bargain. he built a stately mansion in charleston and daily traveled to boston in a coach drawn by four black horses. in business he was inflexible; trade considerations aside he was an alms-giver. of cyrus butler, another shipowner and trader, who, according to one authority, was probably the richest man in new england[ ]--and who, according to the statement of another publication[ ]--left a fortune estimated at from three to four millions of dollars, few details likewise are known. he was the son of samuel butler, a shoemaker who removed from edgartown, mass., to providence about and became a merchant and shipowner. cyrus followed in his steps. when this millionaire died at the age of in , the size of his fortune excited wonderment throughout new england. it may be here noted as a fact worthy of comment that of the group of hale rich shipowners there were few who did not live to be octogenarians. the rapidity with which large fortunes were made was not a riddle. labor was cheap and unorganized, and the profits of trade were enormous. according to weeden the customary profits at the close of the eighteenth century on muslins and calicoes were one hundred per cent. cargoes of coffee sometimes yielded three or four times that amount. weeden instances one shipment of plain glass tumblers costing less than $ , which sold for $ , in the isle of france.[ ] the prospects of a dazzling fortune, speedily reaped, instigated owners of capital to take the most perilous chances. decayed ships, superficially patched up, were often sent out on the chance that luck and skill would get them through the voyage and yield fortunes. crew after crew was sacrificed to this frenzied rush for money, but nothing was thought of it. again, there were examples of almost incredible temerity. in his biography of peter charndon brooks, one of the principal merchants of the day, and his father-in-law, edward everett tells of a ship sailing from calcutta to boston with a youth of nineteen in command. why or how this boy was placed in charge is not explained. this juvenile captain had nothing in the way of a chart on board except a small map of the world in guthrie's geography. he made the trip successfully. later, when he became a rich boston banker, the tale of this feat was one of the proud annals of his life and, if true, deservedly so.[ ] whitney's notable invention of the cotton gin in had given a stupendous impetus to cotton growing in the southern states. as the shipowners were chiefly centered in new england the export of this staple vastly increased their trade and fortunes. it might be thought, parenthetically, that whitney himself should have made a surpassing fortune from an invention which brought millions of dollars to planters and traders. but his inventive ability and perseverance, at least in his creation of the cotton gin, brought him little more than a multitude of infringements upon his patent, refusals to pay him, and vexatious and expensive litigation to sustain his rights.[ ] in despair, he turned, in , to the manufacture in new haven of fire-arms for the government, and from this business managed to get a fortune. from the canton and calcutta trade thomas handasyd perkins, a boston shipper, extracted a fortune of $ , , . his ships made thirty voyages around the world. this merchant peer lived to the venerable age of ; when he passed away in his fortune, although intact, had shrunken to modest proportions compared with a few others which had sprung up. james lloyd, a partner of perkins', likewise profited; in he was elected a united states senator and later reëlected. william gray, described as "one of the most successful of american merchants," and as one who was considered and taxed in salem "as one of the wealthiest men in the place, where there were several of the largest fortunes that could be found in the united states," owned, in his heyday, more than sixty sail of vessels. some scant details are obtainable as to the career and personality of this moneyed colossus of his day. he began as an apprenticed mechanic. for more than fifty years he rose at dawn and was shaved and dressed. his letters and papers were then spread before him and the day's business was begun. at his death in no inventory of his estate was taken. the present millions of the brown fortune of rhode island came largely from the trading activities of nicholas brown and the accretions of which increased population and values have brought. nicholas brown was born in providence in , of a well-to-do father. he went to rhode island college (later named in his honor by reason of his gifts) and greatly increased his fortune in the shipping trade. it is quite needless, however, to give further instances in support of the statement that nearly all the large active fortunes of the latter part of the eighteenth and the early period of the nineteenth century, came from the shipping trade and were mainly concentrated in new england. the proceeds of these fortunes frequently were put into factories, canals, turnpikes and later into railroads, telegraph lines and express companies. seldom, however, has the money thus employed really gone to the descendants of the men who amassed it, but has since passed over to men who, by superior cunning, have contrived to get the wealth into their own hands. this statement is an anticipation of facts that will be more cognate in subsequent chapters, but may be appropriately referred to here. there were some exceptions to the general condition of the large fortunes from shipping being compactly held in new england. thomas pym cope, a philadelphia quaker, did a brisk shipping trade, and founded the first regular line of packets between philadelphia and baltimore; with the money thus made he went into canal and railroad enterprises. and in new york and other ports there were a number of shippers who made fortunes of several millions each. the workers' meager share. obviously these millionaires created nothing except the enterprise of distributing products made by the toil and skill of millions of workers the world over. but while the workers made these products their sole share was meager wages, barely sufficient to sustain the ordinary demands of life. moreover, the workers of one country were compelled to pay exorbitant prices for the goods turned out by the workers of other countries. the shippers who stood as middlemen between the workers of the different countries reaped the great rewards. nevertheless, it should not be overlooked that the shippers played their distinct and useful part in their time and age, the spirit of which was intensely ultra-competitive and individualistic in the most sordid sense. footnotes: [ ] "hunt's merchant's magazine," : - . [ ] allen's "biographical dictionary," edition of : . [ ] hunt's "lives of american merchants": . [ ] allen's "biographical dictionary," edit. of : . [ ] stryker's "american register" for : . [ ] "the american almanac" for : . [ ] "an economic and social history of new england," : . [ ] hunt's "lives of american merchants": . [ ] life of eli whitney, "our great benefactors": . chapter v the shippers and their times unfortunately only the most general and eulogistic accounts of the careers of most of the rich shippers have appeared in such biographies as have been published. scarcely any details are preserved of the underlying methods and circumstances by which these fortunes were amassed. sixty years ago, when it was the unqualified fashion to extol the men of wealth as great public benefactors and truckle to them, and when sociological inquiry was in an undeveloped stage, there might have been some excuse for this. but it is extremely unsatisfactory to find pretentious writers of the present day glossing over essential facts or not taking the trouble to get them. a "popular writer," who has pretended to deal with the origin of one of the great present fortunes, the astor fortune, and has given facts, although conventionally interpreted, as to one or two of astor's land transactions,[ ] passes over with a sentence the fundamental facts as to astor's shipping activities, and entirely ignores the peculiar special privileges, worth millions of dollars, that astor, in conjunction with other merchants, had as a free gift from the government. this omission is characteristic, inasmuch as it leaves the reader in complete ignorance of the kind of methods astor used in heaping up millions from the shipping trade--millions that enabled him to embark in the buying of land in a large and ambitious way. certainly there is no lack of data regarding the two foremost millionaires of the first decades of the nineteenth century--stephen girard and john jacob astor. the very names of nearly all of the other powerful merchants of the age have receded into the densest obscurity. but both those of girard and astor live vivifyingly, the first by virtue of a memorable benefaction, the second as the founder of one of the greatest fortunes in the world. commerce surcharged with fraud. because of their unexcelled success, these two were the targets for the bitter invective or the envy of their competitors on the one hand, and, on the other, of the laudation of their friends and beneficiaries. harsh statements were made as to the methods of both, but, in reality, if we but knew the truth, they were no worse than the other millionaires of the time except in degree. the whole trading system was founded upon a combination of superior executive ability and superior cunning--not ability in creating, but in being able to get hold of, and distribute, the products of others' creation. fraudulent substitution was an active factor in many, if not all, of the shipping fortunes. the shippers and merchants practiced the grossest frauds upon the unsophisticated people. walter barrett, that pseudonymic merchant, who took part in them himself, and who writes glibly of them as fine tricks of trade, gives many instances in his volumes dealing with the merchants of that time. the firm of f. & g. carnes, he relates, was one of the many which made a large fortune in the china trade. this firm found that chinese yellow-dog wood, when cut into proper sizes, bore a strong superficial resemblance to real turkey rhubarb. the carnes brothers proceeded to have the wood packed in china in boxes counterfeiting those of the turkey product. they then made a regular traffic importing this spurious and deleterious stuff and selling it as the genuine turkey article at several times the cost. it entirely superseded the real product. this firm also sent to china samples of italian, french and english silks; the chinese imitated them closely, and the bogus wares were imported into the united states where they were sold as the genuine european goods. the carneses were but a type of their class. writing of the trade carried on by the shipping class, barrett says that the shippers sent to china samples of the most noted paris and london products in sauces, condiments, preserves, sweetmeats, syrups and other goods. the chinese imitated them even to fac-similies of printed paris and london labels. the fraudulent substitutions were then brought in cargoes to the united states where they were sold at fancy prices. merchants the pillars of society. this was the prevalent commercial system. the most infamous frauds were carried on; and so dominant were the traders' standards that these frauds passed as legitimate business methods. the very men who profited by them were the mainstays of churches, and not only that, but they were the very same men who formed the various self-constituted committees which demanded severe laws against paupers and petty criminals. a study of the names of the men, for instance, who comprised the new york society for the prevention of pauperism, - , shows that nearly all of them were shippers or merchants who participated in the current commercial frauds. yet this was the class that sat in judgment upon the poverty of the people and the acts of poor criminals and which dictated laws to legislatures and to congress. girard and astor were the superfine products of this system; they did in a greater way what others did in a lesser way. as a consequence, their careers were fairly well illumined. the envious attacks of their competitors ascribed their success to hard-hearted and ignoble qualities, while their admirers heaped upon them tributes of praise for their extraordinary genius. both sets exaggerated. their success in garnering millions was merely an abnormal manifestation of an ambition prevalent among the trading class. their methods were an adroit refinement of methods which were common. the game was one in which, while fortunes were being amassed, masses of people were thrown into the direst poverty and their lives were attended by injustice and suffering. in this game a large company of eminent merchants played; girard and astor were peers in the playing and got away with the greater share of the stakes. post-revolutionary conditions. before describing girard's career, it is well to cast a retrospective fleeting glance into conditions following the revolution. despite the lofty sentiments of the declaration of independence--sentiments which were submerged by the propertied class when the cause was won--the gravity of law bore wholly in favor of the propertied interests. the propertyless had no place or recognition. the common man was good enough to shoulder a musket in the stress of war but that he should have rights after the war, was deemed absurd. in the whole scheme of government neither the feelings nor the interests of the worker were thought of. the revolution brought no immediate betterment to his conditions; such slight amelioration as came later was the result of years of agitation. no sooner was the revolution over than in stepped the propertied interests and assumed control of government functions. they were intelligent enough to know the value of class government--a lesson learned from the tactics of the british trading class. they knew the tremendous impact of law and how, directly and indirectly, it worked great transformations in the body social. while the worker was unorganized, unconscious of what his interests demanded, deluded by slogans and rallying-cries which really meant nothing to him, the propertied class was alert in its own interests. property's rule intrenched. it proceeded to intrench itself in political as well as in financial power. the constitution of the united states was so drafted as to take as much direct power from the people as the landed and trading interests dared. most of the state constitutions were more pronounced in rigid property discriminations. in massachusetts, no man could be governor unless he were a christian worth a clear £ , ; in north carolina if he failed of owning the required £ , in freehold estate; nor in georgia if he did not own five hundred acres of land and £ , , nor in new hampshire if he lacked owning £ in property. in south carolina he had to own £ , in property clear of all debts. in new york by the constitution of , only actual residents having freeholds to the value of £ free of all debts, could vote for governor and other state officials. the laws were so arranged as effectually to disfranchise those who had no property. in his "reminiscenses" dr. john w. francis tells of the prevalence for years in new york of a supercilious class which habitually sneered at the demand for political equality of the leather-breeched mechanic with his few shillings a day. theoretically, religious standards were the prevailing ones; in actuality the ethics and methods of the propertied class were all powerful. the church might preach equality, humility and the list of virtues; but nevertheless that did not give the propertyless man a vote. thus it was, that in communities professing the strongest religious convictions and embodying them in constitutions and in laws and customs, glaring inconsistencies ran side by side. the explanation lay in the fact that as regarded essential things of property, the standards of the trading class had supplanted the religious. even the very admonition given by pastors to the poor, "be content with your lot," was a preachment entirely in harmony with the aims of the trading class which, in order to make money, necessarily had to have a multitude of workers to work for it and from whose labor the money, in its finality, had to come. in the very same breath that they advised the poverty-stricken to reverence their superiors and to expect their reward in heaven, the ministers glorified the aggrandizing merchants as god's chosen men who were called upon to do his work.[ ] since the laws favored the propertied interests, it was correspondingly easy for them to get direct control of government functions and personally exercise them. in new england rich shipowners rose at once to powerful elective and appointive officers. likewise in new york rich landowners, and in the south, plantation men were selected for high offices. law-making bodies, from congress down, were filled with merchants, landowners, plantation men and lawyers, which last class was trained, as a rule, by association and self-interest to take the views of the propertied class and vote with, and for, it. a puissant politico-commercial aristocracy developed which, at all times, was perfectly conscious of its best interests. the worker was regaled with flattering commendations of the dignity of labor and sonorous generalizations and promises, but the ruling class took care of the laws. by means of these partial laws, the propertied interests early began to get tremendously valuable special privileges. banking rights, canal construction, trade privileges, government favors, public franchises all came in succession. the rigors of law on the poor. at the same time that laws were enacted or were twisted to suit the will of property, other laws were long in force oppressing the poor to a terrifying degree. poor debtors could be thrown in jail indefinitely, no matter how small a sum they owned. in law, the laborer was accorded few rights. it was easy to defraud him of his meager wages, since he had no lien upon the products of his labor. his labor power was all that he had to sell, and the value of this power was not safeguarded by law. but the products created by his labor power in the form of property were fortified by the severest laws. for the laborer to be in debt was equal to a crime, in fact, in its results, worse than a crime. the burglar or pickpocket would get a certain sentence and then go free. the poor debtor, however, was compelled to languish in jail at the will of his creditor. the report of the prison discipline society for estimated that fully , persons were annually imprisoned for debt in the united states and that more than one-half of these owed less than twenty dollars.[ ] and such were the appalling conditions of these debtors' prisons that there was no distinction of sex, age or character; all of the unfortunates were indiscriminately herded together. sometimes, even in the inclement climate of the north, the jails were so poorly constructed, that there was insufficient shelter from the elements. in the newspapers of the period advertisements may be read in which charitable societies or individuals appeal for food, fuel and clothing for the inmates of these prisons. the thief and the murderer had a much more comfortable time of it in prison than the poor debtor. law kind to the traders. with the law-making mercantile class the situation was very different. the state and national bankruptcy acts, as apply to merchants, bankers, storekeepers--the whole commercial class--were so loosely drafted and so laxly enforced and judicially interpreted, that it was not hard to defraud creditors and escape with the proceeds. a propertied bankrupt could conceal his assets and hire adroit lawyers to get him off scot-free on quibbling technicalities--a condition which has survived to the present time, though in a lesser degree.[ ] but imprisonment for debt was not the only fate that befell the propertyless. according to the "annual report of the managers of the society for the prevention of pauperism in new york city," there were , paupers in new york city in .[ ] many of these were destitute irish who, after having been plundered and dispossessed by the absentee landlords and the capitalists of their own country, were induced to pay their last farthing to the shippers for passage to america. there were laws providing that ship masters must report to the mayors of cities and give a bond that the destitutes that they brought over should not become public charges. these laws were systematically and successfully evaded; poor immigrants were dumped unceremoniously at obscure places along the coast from whence they had to make their way, carrying their baggage and beds, to the cities the best that they could. cadwallader d. colden, mayor of new york for some years, tells, in his reports, of harrowing cases of death after death resulting from exposure due to this horrible form of exploitation. now when the immigrant or native found himself in a state of near, or complete, destitution and resorted to the pawnbrokers's or to theft, what happened? the law restricted pawnbrokers from charging more than seven per cent on amounts more than $ , but on amounts below that they were allowed to charge twenty-five per cent. which, as the wage value of money then went, was oppressively high. of course, the poor with their cheap possessions seldom owned anything on which they could get more than $ ; consequently they were the victims of the most grinding legalized usury. occasionally some legislative committee recognized, although in a dim and unanalytic way, this onerous discrimination of law against the propertyless. "their [the pawnbrokers'] rates of interest," an aldermanic committee reported in , "have always been exorbitant and exceedingly oppressive. it has from time to time been regulated by law, and its sanctions have (as is usual upon most occasions when oppression has been legalized) been made to fall most heavily upon the poor." the committee continued with the following comments which were naïve in the extreme considering that for generations all law had been made by and for the propertied interests: "it is a singular fact that the smallest sums advanced have always been chargeable with the highest rates of interest.... it is a fact worthy of consideration that by far the greater number of loans effected at these establishments are less than one dollar, and of the whole twelve-fifteenths are in sums less than one dollar and a half."[ ] on the other hand, the propertied class not only was able to raise money at a fairly low rate of interest, but, as will appear, had the free use of the people's money, through the power of government, to the extent of tens of millions of dollars. the penalties of poverty. if a man were absolutely destitute and took to theft as the only means of warding off starvation for himself or his family, the whole force of law at once descended heavily upon him. in new york state the law decreed it grand larceny to steal to the value of $ , and in other states the statutes were equally severe. for stealing $ worth of anything the penalty was three years in prison at hard labor. the unfortunate was usually put in the convict chain-gang and forced to work along the roads. street-begging was prohibited by drastic laws; poverty was substantially a crime. the moment a propertyless person stole, the assumption at once was that he was _prima facie_ a criminal; but let the powerful propertied man steal and government at once refused to see the criminal _intent_; if he were prosecuted, the usual outcome was that he never went to jail. hundreds of specific instances could be given to prove this. one of the most noted of these was that of samuel swartwout, who was collector of the port of new york for a considerable period and who, at the same time, was a financier and large land-speculation promoter. it came out in that he had stolen the enormous sum of $ , , . from the government,[ ] which money he had used in his schemes. he was a fugitive from justice for a time, but upon his return was looked upon extenuatingly as the "victim of circumstances" and he never languished in jail. money was the standard of everything. the propertied person could commit any kind of crime, short of murder, and could at once get free on bail. but what happened to the accused who was poor? here is a contemporaneous description of one of the prisons of the period: "in bridewell, white females of every grade of character, from the innocent who is in the end acquitted, down to the basest wretch that ever disgraced the refuges of prostitution, are crowded into the same abandoned abode. with the white male prisons, the case is little altered.... and so it is with the colored prisoners of both sexes. hundreds are taken up and sent to these places, who, after remaining frequently several weeks, are found to be innocent of the crime alleged and are then let loose upon the community."[ ] "let loose upon the community." does not this clause in itself convey volumes of significance of the attitude of the propertied interests, even when banded together in a pseudo "charitable" enterprise, toward the poverty-stricken? while thus the charitable societies were holding up the destitute to scorn and contumely as outcasts and were loftily lecturing down to the poor on the evils of intemperance and gambling--practices which were astoundingly prevalent among the rich--at no time did they make any attempt to alter laws so glaringly unjust that they practically made poverty a distinct crime, subject to long terms of imprisonment. for instance, if a rich man were assaulted and made a complaint, all that he had to do was to give bail to insure his appearance as a witness. but if a poor man or woman were cheated or assaulted and could not give bail to insure his or her appearance at the trial as a complaining witness, the law compelled the authorities to lock up that man or woman in prison. in the debates in the new york constitutional convention of , numerous cases were cited of this continuing barbarity in new york, maryland, pennsylvania and other states. in maryland a young woman was assaulted and preferred criminal charges. as she could not give bail she was locked up for eighteen months as a detained witness. this was but one instance in thousands of similar cases. master and bonded man. for an apprenticed laborer to quit his master and job was a crime in law; once caught he was forthwith bundled off to jail, there to await the dispensation of his master. no matter how cruelly his master ill-treated him, however dissatisfied he was, the apprenticed laborer in law had no rights. almost every day the newspapers of the eighteenth, and the early part of the nineteenth, century contained offers of rewards for the apprehension of fugitive apprentice laborers; from a survey of the pennsylvania, new york, massachusetts and other colonial and state newspapers it is clear that thousands of these apprentices had to resort to flight to escape their bondage. this is a specimen advertisement: twenty dollars reward. ran away from the subscriber, an apprentice boy, named william rustes, about years and months old, by trade a house carpenter, of a dark complexion, dark eye brows, black eyes and black hair, about feet, inches high, his dress unknown as he took with him different kinds of clothes. the above reward will be paid to any person that will secure him in gaol or return him to his master. george lord, no. first street.[ ] in contradistinction to the scorpion-like laws which worked such injustice to the poor and which made a mockery of doctrines of equality before the law, the propertied interests endowed themselves, by their control of government, with invaluable exemptions and peculiarly profitable special privileges. even where, in civil cases, all men, theoretically, had an equal chance in courts of equity, litigation was made so expensive, whether purposely or not, that justice was really a one-sided pastime, in which the rich man could easily wear out the poor contestant. this, however, is not the place for a dissertation on that most remarkable of noteworthy sorcerer's arts, the making of justice an expensive luxury, while still deluding the people with the notion that the law knows no preferences. the preferences which are more to the point at present are those in which government force is used to enrich the already rich and impoverish the impoverished still further. at the very time that property was bitterly resisting enlightened pleas for the abolition of imprisonment for debt, for the enactment of a mechanic's lien law, and for the extension of the suffrage franchise it was using the public money of the whole people for its personal and private enterprises. in works dealing with those times it is not often that we get penetration into the underlying methods of the trading class. but a lucid insight is inadvertently given by walter barrett (who, for sixty years, was in the mercantile trade), in his smug and conventional, but quaintly entertaining, volumes, "the merchants of old new york." this strong instance shows like a flashlight that while the success of the shippers was attributed to a fine category of energetic qualities, the benevolent assistance of the united states government was, in a large measure, responsible for part of their accumulations. the shippers' huge graft. the griswolds of new york owned the ship, "panama." she carried spelter, lead, iron and other products to china and returned with tea, false cinnamon and various other chinese goods. the duty on these was extremely high. but the government was far more lenient to the trading class than the trader was to the poor debtor. it generously extended credit for nine, twelve and eighteen months before it demanded the payment of the tariff duties. what happened under this system? as soon as the ship arrived, the cargo was sold at a profit of fifty per cent. the griswolds, for example, would pocket their profits and instead of using their own capital in further ventures, they would have the gratuitous use of government money, that is to say, the people's money, for periods of from six months to a year and a half. thus the endless chain was kept up. according to barrett, this was the customary attitude of the government toward merchants: it was anything but unusual for a merchant to have the free use of government money to the sum of four or five hundred thousand dollars.[ ] "john jacob astor," says barrett in a view of admiration, "at one period of his life had several vessels operating in this way. they would go to the pacific and carry furs from thence to canton. these would be sold at large profits. then the cargoes of tea would pay enormous duties which astor did not have to pay to the united states for a year and a half. his tea cargoes would be sold for good four and six months paper, or perhaps cash; so that for eighteen or twenty years john jacob astor had what was actually a free-of-interest loan from the government of over _five millions_ of dollars."[ ] "one house," continues barrett, "was thomas h. smith & sons. this firm went enormously into the canton trade, and, although possessing originally but a few thousand dollars, smith imported to such an extent that when he failed he owed the united states three millions and not a cent has ever been paid." was smith imprisoned for debt? not at all. it is such revelations as these that indicate how it was possible for the shippers to pile up great fortunes at a time when "a house that could raise $ , in specie had an uncommon capital." they showed how the same functions of government which were used as an engine of such oppressive power against the poor, were perverted into highly efficient auxiliary of trading class aims and ambitions. by multifarious subtle workings, these class laws inevitably had a double effect. they poured wealth into the coffers of the merchant-class and simultaneously tended to drive the masses into poverty. the gigantic profits taken in by merchants had to be borne by the worker, perhaps not superficially, but in reality so. they came from his slender wages, from the tea and cotton and woolen goods that he used, the sugar and the coffee and so on. in this indirect way the shippers absorbed a great part of the products of his labor; what they did not expropriate the landlord did. then when the laborer fell in debt to the middleman tradesman to jail he went.[ ] unite against the worker. the worker denounced these discriminations as barbarous and unjust. but he could do nothing. the propertied class, with its keen understanding of what was best for its interests, acted and voted, and usually dragooned the masses of enfranchised into voting, for men and measures entirely favorable to its designs. sometimes these interests conflicted as they did when a part of new england became manufacturing centers and favored a high protective tariff in opposition to the importing trades, the plantation owners and the agricultural class in general. then the vested class would divide, and each side would appeal with passionate and patriotic exhortations to the voting elements of the people to sustain it, or the country would go to ruin. but when the working class made demands for better laws, the propertied class, as a whole, united to oppose the workers bitterly. however it differed on the tariff, or the question of state or national banks, substantially the whole trading class solidly combated the principle of manhood suffrage and the movements for the wiping out of laws for imprisonment for debt, for mechanic's liens and for the establishment of shorter hours of work. political institutions and their offspring in the form of laws being generally in the control of the trading class, the conditions were extraordinarily favorable for the accumulation of large fortunes, especially on the part of the shipowners, the dominant class. the grand climax of the galaxy of american fortunes during the period from to --the greatest of all the fortunes up to the beginning of the third decade of that century--was that of girard. he built up what was looked up to as the gigantic fortune of about ten millions of dollars and far overtopped every other strainer for money except astor, who survived him seventeen years, and whose wealth increased during that time to double the amount that girard left. footnotes: [ ] "the astor fortune," mcclure's magazine, april, . [ ] innumerable were the sermons and addresses poured forth, all to the same end. to cite one: the rev. daniel sharp of the third baptist meeting house, boston, delivered a sermon in on "the tendency of evil speaking against rulers." it was considered so powerful an argument in favor of obedience that it was printed in pamphlet form (beals, homer & co., printers), and was widely distributed to press and public. [ ] various writers assert that twenty dollars was the average minimum. in many places, however, the great majority of debts were for less than ten dollars. thus, for the year ending november , , nearly one thousand citizens had been imprisoned for debt in baltimore. of this number more than half owed less than ten dollars, and of the whole number, only thirty-four individually had debts exceeding one hundred dollars.--reports of committees, first session, twenty-fourth congress, vol. ii, report no. : . [ ] in his series of published articles, "the history of the prosecution of bankrupt frauds," the author has brought out comprehensive facts on this point. [ ] the eminent merchants who sat on this committee had their own conclusive opinion of what produced poverty. in commenting on the growth of paupers they ascribed pauperism to seven sources. ( ) ignorance, ( ) intemperance, ( ) pawnbrokers, ( ) lotteries, ( ) charitable institutions, ( ) houses of ill-fame, ( ) gambling. no documents more wonderfully illustrate the bourgeois type of temperament and reasoning than their reports. the people of the city were ignorant because , of the , families did not attend church. pawnbrokers were an incentive to theft, cunning and lack of honest industry, etc., etc. thus their explanations ran. in referring to mechanics and paupers, the committee described them as "the middling and inferior classes." is it any wonder that the working class justly views "charitable" societies, and the spirit behind them, with intense suspicion and deep execration? [ ] documents of the board of assistant aldermen of new york city, - , doc. no. : . [ ] house executive document, no. , twenty-fifth congress, third session; also, house report, no. . [ ] report for of the "society for the prevention of pauperism." [ ] "new york gazette and general advertiser", aug. , . the rewards offered for the apprehension of fugitive apprentices varied. an advertisement in the same newspaper, issue of july , , held out an offer of five dollars reward for an indented german boy who had "absconded." the fear was expressed that he would attempt to board some ship, and all persons were notified not to harbor or conceal him as they would be "proceeded against as the law directs". that old apprentice law has never been repealed in new york state. [ ] the government reports bear out barrett's statements, although in saying this it must be with qualifications. the shippers engaged in the east india and china trade were more favored, it seems, than other classes of shippers, which discrimination engendered much antagonism. "why," wrote the mercantile society of new york to the house committee on manufactures in , "should the merchant engaged in the east india trade, who is the overgrown capitalist, have the extended credit of twelve months in his duties, the amount of which on one cargo furnishes nearly a sufficient capital for completing another voyage, before his bonds are payable?" the mercantile society recommended that credits on duties be reduced to three and six months on merchandise imported from all quarters of the globe.--reports of committees, second session, sixteenth congress, - , vol. i, document no. . [ ] "the old merchants of new york," : - . barrett was a great admirer of astor. he inscribed vol. iii, published in , to astor's memory. [ ] the movement to abolish imprisonment for debt was a protracted one lasting more than a quarter of a century, and was acrimoniously opposed by the propertied classes, as a whole. by , however, many state legislatures had been induced to repeal or modify the provisions of the various debtors' imprisonment acts. in response to a recommendation by president andrew jackson that the practise be abolished in the district of columbia, a house select committee reported on january , , that "the system originated in cupidity. it is a confirmation of power in the few against the many; the patrician against the plebeian." on may , , the house committee for the district of columbia, in reporting on the debtors' imprisonment acts, said: "they are disgraceful evidences of the ingenious subtlety by which they were woven into the legal system we adopted from england, and were obviously intended to increase and confirm the power of a wealthy aristocracy by rendering poverty a crime, and subjecting the liberty of the poor to the capricious will of the rich."--reports of committees, second session, twenty-second congress, - , report no. , and reports of committees, first session, twenty-fourth congress, , report no. , ii: . chapter vi girard--the richest of the shippers girard was born at bordeaux, france, on may , , and was the eldest of five children of captain pierre girard, a mariner. when eight years old he became blind in one eye, a loss and deformity which subjected his sensibilities to severe trials and which had the effect of rendering him morose and sour. it was his lament in later life that while his brothers had been sent to college, he was the ugly duckling of the family and came in for his father's neglect and a shrewish step-mother's waspishness. at about fourteen years of age he relieved himself of these home troubles and ran away to sea. during the nine years that he sailed between bordeaux and the west indies, he rose from cabin-boy to mate. evading the french law which required that no man should be made master of a ship unless he had sailed two cruises in the royal navy and was twenty-five years old, girard got the command of a trading vessel when about twenty-two years old. while in this service he clandestinely carried cargoes of his own which he sold at considerable profit. in may, , while en route from new orleans to a canadian port, he became enshrouded in a fog off the delaware capes, signaled for aid, and when the fog had cleared away sufficiently for an american ship, near by, to come to his assistance, learned that war was on. he thereupon scurried for philadelphia, where he sold vessel and cargo, of which latter only a part belonged to him, and with the proceeds opened up a cider and wine bottling and grocery business in a small store on water street. girard made money fast; and in july, , married mary lum, a woman of his own class. she is usually described as a servant girl of great beauty and as one whose temper was of quite tempestuous violence. this unfortunate woman subsequently lost her reason; undoubtedly her husband's meannesses and his forbidding qualities contributed to the process. one of his most favorable biographers thus describes him: "in person he was short and stout, with a dull repulsive countenance, which his bushy eyebrows and solitary eye almost made hideous. he was cold and reserved in manner, and was disliked by his neighbors, the most of whom were afraid of him."[ ] during the british occupation of philadelphia he was charged by the revolutionists with extreme double-dealing and duplicity in pretending to be a patriot, and taking the oath of allegiance to the colonies, while secretly trading with the british. none of his biographers deny this. while merchant after merchant was being bankrupted from disruption of trade, girard was incessantly making money. by he was again in the shipping trade, his vessels plying between american ports and new orleans and san domingo; not the least of his profits, it was said, came from slave-trading. [illustration: stephen girard. (from an engraving.)] how he built his ships. a troublous partnership with his brother, captain jean girard, lasted but a short time; the brothers could not agree. at the dissolution in stephen girard's share of the profits amounted to $ , . girard's greatest stroke came from the insurrection of the san domingo negroes against the french several years later. he had two vessels lying in the harbor of one of the island ports. at the first mutterings of danger, a number of planters took their valuables on board one of these ships and scurried back to get the remainder. the sequel, as commonly narrated, is represented thus: the planters failed to return, evidently falling victims to the fury of the insurrectionists. the vessels were taken to philadelphia, and girard persistently advertised for the owners of the valuables. as no owners ever appeared, girard sold the goods and put the proceeds, $ , , into his own bank account. "this," says houghton, "was a great assistance to him, and the next year he began the building of those splendid ships which enabled him to engage so actively in the chinese and west india trades." from this time on his profits were colossal. his ships circumnavigated the world many times and each voyage brought him a fortune. he practiced all of those arts of deception which were current among the trading class and which were accepted as shrewdness and were inseparably associated with legitimate business methods. in giving one of his captains instructions he wrote, as was his invariable policy, the most explicit directions to exercise secretiveness and cunning in his purchases of coffee at batavia. be cautious and prudent, was his admonition. keep to yourself the intention of the voyage and the amount of specie that you have on board. to satisfy the curious, throw them off the scent by telling them that the ship will take in molasses, rice and sugar, if the price is very low, adding that the whole will depend upon the success in selling the small liverpool cargo. if you do this, the cargo of coffee can be bought ten per cent cheaper than it would be if it is publicly known there is a quantity of spanish dollars on board, besides a valuable cargo of british goods intended to be invested in coffee for stephen girard of philadelphia. by we see him ordering the barings of london to invest in shares of the bank of the united states half a million dollars which they held for him. when the charter expired, he was the principal creditor of that bank; and he bought, at a great bargain, the bank and the cashier's house for $ , . on may , , he opened the girard bank, with a capital of $ , , , which he increased the following year by $ , more.[ ] a dictator of finance. his wealth was now overshadowingly great; his power immense. he was a veritable dictator of the realms of finance; an assiduous, repellent little man, with his devil's eye, who rode roughshod over every obstacle in his path. his every movement bred fear; his veriest word could bring ruin to any one who dared cross his purposes. the war of brought disaster to many a merchant, but girard harvested fortune from the depths of misfortune. "he was, it must be said," says houghton, "hard and illiberal in his bargains, and remorseless in exacting the last cent due him." and after he opened the girard bank: "finding that the salaries which had been paid by the government were higher than those paid elsewhere, he cut them down to the rate given by the other banks. the watchman had always received from the old bank the gift of an overcoat at christmas, but girard put a stop to this. he gave no gratuities to any of his employees, but confined them to the compensation for which they had bargained; yet he contrived to get out of them service more devoted than was received by other men who paid higher wages and made presents. appeals to him for aid were unanswered. no poor man ever came full-handed from his presence. he turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of failing merchants to help them on their feet again. he was neither generous nor charitable. when his faithful cashier died, after long years spent in his service, he manifested the most hardened indifference to the bereavement of the family of that gentleman, and left them to struggle along as best they could." further, houghton unconsciously proceeds to bring out several incidents which show the exorbitant profits girard made from his various business activities. in the spring of , one of his ships was captured by a british cruiser at the mouth of the delaware. fearing that his prize would be recaptured by an american war ship if he sent her into port, the english admiral notified girard that he would ransom the ship for $ , in coin. girard paid the money; and, even after paying that sum, the cargo of silks, nankeens and teas yielded him a profit of half a million dollars. his very acts of apparent public spirit were means by which he scooped in large profits. several times, when the rate of exchange was so high as to be injurious to general business, he drew upon baring bros. for sums of money to be transferred to the united states. this was hailed as a public benefaction. but what did girard do? he disposed of the money to the bank of the united states and charged ten per cent. for the service. bribery and intimidation. the reëstablishment and enlarged sway of this bank were greatly due to his efforts and influence; he became its largest stockholder and one of its directors. no business institution in the first three decades of the nineteenth century exercised such a sinister and overshadowing influence as this chartered monopoly. the full tale of its indirect bribery of politicians and newspaper editors, in order to perpetuate its great privileges and keep a hold upon public opinion, has never been set forth. but sufficient facts were brought out when, after years of partizan agitation, congress was forced to investigate and found that not a few of its own members for years had been on the payrolls of the bank.[ ] in order to get its charter renewed from time to time and retain its extraordinary special privileges, the united states bank systematically debauched politics and such of the press as was venal; and when a critical time came, as it did in - , when the mass of the people sided with president jackson in his aim to overthrow the bank, it instructed the whole press at its command to raise the cry of "the fearful consequences of revolution, anarchy and despotism," which assuredly would ensue if jackson were reëlected. to give one instance of how for years it had manipulated the press: the "courier and enquirer" was a powerful new york newspaper. its owners, webb and noah, suddenly deserted jackson and began to denounce him. the reason was, as revealed by a congressional investigation, that they had borrowed $ , from the united states bank which lost no time in giving them the alternative of paying up or supporting the bank.[ ] girard's share in the united states bank brought him millions of dollars. with its control of deposits of government funds and by the provisions of its charter, this bank swayed the whole money marts of the united states and could manipulate them at will. it could advance or depress prices as it chose. many times, girard with his fellow directors was severely denounced for the arbitrary power he wielded. but--and let the fact be noted--the denunciation came largely from the owners of the state banks who sought to supplant the united states bank. the struggle was really one between two sets of capitalistic interests. shipping and banking were the chief sources of girard's wealth, with side investments in real estate and other forms of property. he owned large tracts of land in philadelphia, the value of which increased rapidly with the growth of population; he was a heavy stockholder in river navigation companies and near the end of his life he subscribed $ , toward the construction of the danville & pottsville railroad. the solitary croesus. he was at this time a solitary, crusty old man living in a four-story house on water street, pursued by the contumely of every one, even of those who flattered him for mercenary purposes. children he had none, and his wife was long since dead. his great wealth brought him no comfort; the environment with which he surrounded himself was mean and sordid; many of his clerks lived in better style. there, in his dingy habitation, this lone, weazened veteran of commerce immersed himself in the works of voltaire, diderot, paine and rousseau, of whom he was a profound admirer and after whom some of his best ships were named. this grim miser had, after all, the one great redeeming quality of being true to himself. he made no pretense to religion and had an abhorrence of hypocrisy. cant was not in his nature. out into the world he went, a ferocious shark, cold-eyed for prey, but he never cloaked his motives beneath a calculating exterior of piety or benevolence. thousands upon thousands he had deceived, for business was business, but himself he never deceived. his bitter scoffs at what he termed theologic absurdities and superstitions and his terrific rebuffs to ministers who appealed to him for money, undoubtedly called forth a considerable share of the odium which was hurled upon him. he defied the anathemas of organized churchdom; he took hold of the commercial world and shook it harshly and emerged laden with spoils. to the last, his volcanic spirit flashed forth, even when, eighty years old, he lay with an ear cut off, his face bruised and his sight entirely destroyed, the result of being felled by a wagon. in all his eighty-one years charity had no place in his heart. but after, on dec. , , he lay stone dead and his will was opened, what a surprise there was! his relatives all received bequests; his very apprentices each got five hundred dollars, and his old servants annuities. hospitals, orphan societies and other charitable associations all benefited. five hundred thousand dollars went to the city of philadelphia for certain civic improvements; three hundred thousand dollars for the canals of pennsylvania; a portion of his valuable estate in louisiana to new orleans for the improvement of that city. the remainder of the estate, about six millions, was left to trustees for the creation and endowment of a college for orphans, which was promptly named after him. a chorus of astonishment and laudation went up. was there ever such magnificence of public spirit? did ever so lofty a soul live who was so misunderstood? here and there a protesting voice was feebly heard that girard's wealth came from the community and that it was only justice that it should revert to the community; that his methods had resulted in widows and orphans and that his money should be applied to the support of those orphans. these protests were frowned upon as the mouthings of cranks or the ravings of impotent envy. applause was lavished upon girard; his very clothes were preserved as immemorial mementoes.[ ] "the great benefactor." all of the benefactions of the other rich men of the period waned into insignificance compared to those of girard. his competitors and compeers had given to charity, but none on so great a scale as girard. distinguished orators vied with one another in extolling his wonderful benefactions,[ ] and the press showered encomiums upon him as that of the greatest benefactor of the age. to them this honestly seemed so, for they were trained by the standards of the trading class, by the sophistries of political economists and by the spirit of the age, to concentrate their attention upon the powerful and successful only, while disregarding the condition of the masses of the people. the pastimes of a king or the foibles of some noted politician or rich man were things of magnitude and were much expatiated upon, while the common man, singly or in mass, was of absolutely no importance. the finely turned rhetoric of the orators, pleasing as it was to that generation, is, judged by modern standards, well nigh meaningless and worthless. in that highflown oratory, with its carefully studied exordiums, periods and perorations can be clearly discerned the reverence given to power as embodied by possession of property. but nowhere do we see any explanation, or even an attempt at explanation, of the basic means by which this property was acquired or of its effect upon the masses of the people. woefully lacking in facts are the productions of the time as to how the great body of the workers lived and what they did. facts as to the rich are fairly available, although not abundant, but facts regarding the rest of the population are pitifully few. the patient seeker for truth--the mind which is not content with the presentation of one side--finds, with some impatience, that only a few writers thought it worth while to give even scant attention to the condition of the working class. one of these few was matthew carey, an orthodox political economist, who, in a pamphlet issued in [ ], gave this picture which forms both a contrast and a sequel to the accumulations of multimillionaires, of which girard was then the archetype: a stark contrast presented. "thousands of our laboring people travel hundreds of miles in quest of employment on canals at - / cents to - / cents per day, paying $ . to $ . a week for board, leaving families behind depending upon them for support. they labor frequently in marshy grounds, where they inhale pestiferous miasmata, which destroy their health, often irrevocably. they return to their poor families broken hearted, and with ruined constitutions, with a sorry pittance, most laboriously earned, and take to their beds, sick and unable to work. hundreds are swept off annually, many of them leaving numerous and helpless families. notwithstanding their wretched fate, their places are quickly supplied by others, although death stares them in the face. hundreds are most laboriously employed on turnpikes, working from morning to night at from half a dollar to three-quarters a day, exposed to the broiling sun in summer and all the inclemency of our severe winters. there is always a redundancy of wood-pilers in our cities, whose wages are so low that their utmost efforts do not enable them to earn more than from thirty-five to fifty cents per day.... finally there is no employment whatever, how disagreeable or loathsome, or deleterious soever it may be, or however reduced the wages, that does not find persons willing to follow it rather than beg or steal." footnotes: [ ] "kings of fortune": --the pretentious title and sub-title of this work, written thirty odd years ago by walter r. houghton, a.m., gives an idea of the fantastic exaltation indulged in of the careers of men of great wealth. hearken to the full title: "kings of fortune--or the triumphs and achievements of noble, self-made men.--whose brilliant careers have honored their calling, blessed humanity, and whose lives furnish instruction for the young, entertainment for the old and valuable lessons for the aspirants of fortune." could any fulsome effusion possibly surpass this? [ ] "mr. girard's bank was a financial success from the beginning. a few months after it opened for business its capital was increased to one million three hundred thousand dollars. one of the incidents which helped, at the outstart, to inspire the public with confidence in the stability of the new institution was the fact that the trustees who liquidated the affairs of the old bank of the united states opened an account in girard's bank, and deposited in its vaults some millions of dollars in specie belonging to the old bank."--"the history of the girard national bank of philadelphia," by josiah granville leach, ll.b., . this eulogistic work contains only the scantiest details of girard's career. [ ] the first session of the twenty-second congress, , iv, containing reports from nos. to . [ ] ibid. an investigating committee appointed by the pennsylvania legislature in , reported that during a series of years the bank of the united states (or united states bank, as it was more often referred to) had corruptly expended $ , in pennsylvania for a re-charter.--pa. house journal, , vol. ii, appendix, - . [ ] in providing for the establishment of girard college, girard stated in his will: "i enjoin and require that no ecclesiastic, missionary, or minister of any sect whatsoever, shall ever hold or exercise any station or duty whatsoever in the said college; nor shall any such person be admitted for any purpose, or as a visitor within the premises appropriated to the purposes of said college."--the will of the late stephen girard, esq., : - . an attempt was made by his relatives in france to break his will, one of the grounds being that the provisions of his will were in conflict with the christian religion which was a part of the common law of pennsylvania. the attempt failed. [ ] for example, an address by edward everett, at the odeon, before the mercantile library association in boston, september , : "few persons, i believe, enjoyed less personal popularity in the community in which he lived and to which he bequeathed his personal fortune.... a citizen and a patriot he lived in his modest dwelling and plain garb; appropriating to his last personal wants the smallest pittance from his princely income; living to the last in the dark and narrow street in which he made his fortune; and when he died bequeathed it for the education of orphan children. for the public i do not believe he could have done better," etc., etc.--hunt's "merchant's magazine," , : . [ ] "the public charities of philadelphia." part ii the great land fortunes [illustration: gen. stephen van rensslaer. the last of the patroons. (from an engraving.)] chapter i the origin of huge city estates in point of succession and importance the next great fortunes came from ownership of land in the cities. they far preceded fortunes from established industries or from the control of modern methods of transportation. long before vanderbilt and other of his contemporaries had plucked immense fortunes from steamboat, railroad and street railway enterprises, the astor, goelet, and longworth fortunes were counted in the millions. in the seventy years from the landowners were the conspicuous fortune possessors; and, although fortunes of millions were extracted from various other lines of business, the land fortunes were preëminent. at the dawn of the nineteenth century and until about , survivals of the old patroon estates were to be met with. but these gradually disintegrated. everywhere in the north the tendency was toward the partition of the land into small farms, while in the south the condition was the reverse. the main fact which stood out was that the rich men of the country were no longer those who owned vast tracts of rural land. that powerful kind of landowner had well-nigh vanished. the manorial lords pass away. for more than two centuries the manorial lords had been conspicuous functionaries. shorn of much power by the alterations of the revolution they still retained a part of their state and estate. but changing laws and economic conditions drove them down and down in the scale until the very names of many of them were gradually lost sight of. as they descended in the swirl, other classes of rich men jutted into strong view. chief among these nascent classes were the landowners of the cities, at first grabbling tradesmen and land speculators and finally rising to the crowning position of multimillionaires. originally, as we have seen, the manorial magnate himself made the laws and decreed justice; but in two centuries great changes had taken place. he now had to fight for his very existence. thus, to give one example, the manorial men in new york were confronted in by a portentous movement. their tenants were in a state of unrest. on the van rensselaer, the livingston and other of the old feudal estates they rose in revolt. they objected to the continuing system which gave the lords of these manors much the same rights over them as a lord in england exercised over his tenants. under the leases that the manorial lords compelled their tenants to sign, there were oppressive anachronisms. if he desired to entertain a stranger in his house for twenty-four hours, the tenant was required to get permission in writing. he was forced to obligate himself not to trade in any commodities except the produce of the manor. he could not get his flour ground anywhere else than at the mill of the manor without violating his lease and facing ejectment, nor could he buy anything at any place except at the store of the manorial magnate. these were the rights reserved to the manorial lords after the revolution, because theirs were the rights of private property; and as has often been set forth, property absolutely dominated the laws and greatly nullified the spirit of a movement made successful by the blood and lives of the masses in the revolutionary army. tardily, subsequent legislatures had abolished all feudal tenures, but these laws were neither effective nor were enforced by the authorities who reflected and represented the interests of the proprietors of the manors. on their part the manorial men believed that self-interest, pride and adherence to ancient traditions called for the perpetuation of their arbitrary power of running their domains as they pleased. they refused to acknowledge that law had any right to interfere in the managing of what they considered their private affairs. eager to avail themselves of the police power of the law in dispossessing any fractious or impecunious tenant and in suppressing protest meetings, they, at the same time, denounced law as tyrannical when it sought to inject more modern and humane conditions in the managing of their estates. they stubbornly insisted upon a tenantry, and as obstinately contested any forfeiture of what they deemed their property rights. feudal tenures abolished. a long series of reprisals and an intense agitation developed. the anti-renters mustered such sympathetic political strength and threw the whole state into such a vortex of radical discussion, that the politicians of the day, fearing the effects of such a movement, practically forced the manorial magnates to compromise by selling their land in small farms,[ ] which they did at exorbitant prices. they made large profits on the strength of the very movement which they had so bitterly opposed. affrighted at the ominous unrest of a large part of the people and hoping to stem it, the new york constitutional convention in adopted a constitutional inhibition on all feudal tenures, an inhibition so drafted that no legislature could pass a law contravening it.[ ] so, in this final struggle, passed away the last vestiges of the sway of the all-powerful patroons of old. they had become archaic. it was impossible for them to survive in the face of newer conditions, for they represented a bygone economic and social era. their power was one accruing purely from the extent of their possessions and discriminative laws. when these were wrenched from their grasp, their importance as wielders of wealth and influence ceased. they might still boast of their lineage, their aristocratic enclosure and culture and their social altitude, but these were about the only remnants of consolation left. the time was unpropitious for the continuation of great wealth based upon rural or small-town land. many influences conspired to make this land a variable property, while these same influences, or a part of them, fixed upon city land an enhancing and graduating permanency of value. the growth of the shipping trade built up the cities and attracted workers and population generally. the establishment of the factory system in had a two-fold effect. it began to drain country sections of many of the younger generations and it immediately enlarged the trading activities of the cities. another and much more considerable part of the farming population in the east was constantly migrating to the west and southwest with their promising opportunities. some country districts thinned out; others remained stationary. but whether the rural census increased or not, there were other factors which sent up or down the value of farming lands. the building of a canal would augment the value of land in section and cause stimulation, and depress conditions in another section not so favored. even this stimulation, however, was often transient. with each fresh settlement of the west and with the construction of each pioneer railroad, new and complex factors turned up which generally had a depreciating effect upon eastern lands. a country estate worth a large sum in one generation might very well succumb to a mortgage in the next. the new aristocracy. but fortunes based upon land in the cities were indued with a mathematical certainty and a perpetuity. city real estate was not subject to the extreme fluctuating processes which so disordered the value of rural land. all of the tendencies and currents of the times favored the building up of an aristocracy based upon ownership of city property. compared to their present colossal proportions the cities were then mere villages. there was a nucleus of perhaps a mile or two of houses, beyond which were fields and orchards, meadows and wastes. these could be bought for an insignificant sum. with the progressing growth of commerce and population, with immigration continually going on, every year witnessing a keener pressure for occupation of the land, the value of this latter was certain to increase. there was no chance of its being otherwise. up to it was a mooted question whether the richest landowners would arise in new york, philadelphia, boston or baltimore. for many years philadelphia had been far in the lead in extent of commerce. but the opening of the erie canal at once settled this question. at a bound new york attained the rank of the foremost commercial city in the united states, completely outstripping its competitors. while the trade of these fell off precipitately, the population and trade of new york city nearly doubled in a single decade. the value of land began to increase stupendously. the swamps, rocky wastes and flats and the land under water of a few years before became prolific sources of fortunes. land which had been worth a paltry sum ten or twenty years before sprang to a considerable value and, in course of time, with the same causes in a more intense ratio of operation, was vested with a value of hundreds of millions of dollars. this being so, it was not surprising that the richest landowners should appear first in new york city and should be able to maintain their supremacy. the wealth of the landowners soon completely eclipsed that of the shippers. enormous as were the profits of the shipping business, they were immediate only. in the contest for wealth it was inevitable that the shippers should fall behind. their business was one of peculiar uncertainties. the hazards of the sea, the fluctuations and vicissitudes of trade, the severe competition of the times, exposed their traffic to many mutations. many of the rich shipowners well understood this; the surplus wealth derived from commerce on the seas they invested in land, banks, factories, turnpikes, insurance companies, railroads and in some instances, lotteries. those shipping millionaires who clung exclusively to the sea fell in the scale of the rich class, especially as the time came when foreign shipping largely supplanted the trade hitherto carried in american cutters. other shippers who applied their surplus capital to investments in other forms of trade and ownership advanced rapidly in wealth. city land the supreme factor. between land ownership and other forms, however, there was a great difference. trade was then extremely individualistic; the artificial controlling power called the corporation was in its earliest infantile condition. the heirs of the owner of sixty line of sail might not possess the same astuteness, the same knowledge, adroitness, and cunning--or let us say, unscrupulousness--the same severe application as the founder. consequently the business would decay or fall into the hands of others shrewder or more fortunate. as to factories the condition was somewhat the same; and, after the organization of labor unions the possibility of strikes was an ever-present danger to the constant flow of profits. banks were by no means fixed, unchangeable establishments. like other media of profit-making, the extent of their power and profits depended upon prevailing conditions and very largely upon the favoritism or policy of government. at any time the party controlling government functions might change and a radically different policy in banking, tariff or other laws be put in force. these changing laws did not, it is true, vitally benefit the masses of the people, for one set or other of the propertied interests almost invariably benefited. the laws enacted were usually in response to a demand made by contending propertied interests. the trade and political struggles carried on by the commercial interests were a series of incessant wars, in which every individual owner, firm or combination was fiercely resisting competitors or striving for their overthrow. the invulnerable landowner. but the landowner occupied a superior position which neither political conditions nor the flux of changing circumstances could materially assail. he was ardently individualistic also in that he demanded, and was accorded, the unimpaired right to get land in any way that he legally could, hold a monopoly of as much of it as he pleased, and dispose of it as he willed. in the very act of asserting this individualism he called upon society, through its machinery of government, for the enactment of particular laws, to guarantee him the sole possession of his land and uphold his claims and rights by force if necessary. these were all the basic laws that he needed and these laws did not change. from generation to generation they remained fixed, immovable. the interests of all landowners were identical; those of the traders were varying and conflicting. for long periods the landowner could expect the continuance of existing fundamental laws regarding the ownership of land, while the shipper, the factory owner, the banker did not know what different set of laws might be enacted at any time. furthermore, the landowner had an efficient and never-failing auxiliary. he yoked society as a partner, but it was a partnership in which the revenue went exclusively to the landowner. the principal factor he depended upon was the work of collective humans in adding greater and greater values to his land. broadly speaking, his share consisted in merely looking on; he had nothing to do except hold on to his land. his sons, grandsons, his descendants down to remotest posterity need do even less; they could leisurely hold on to their inheritance, enlarge it, hire the necessary ability of superintendence and vast and ever vaster riches would be theirs. society worked feverishly for the landowner. every street laid and graded by the city; every park plotted and every other public improvement; every child born and every influx of immigrants; every factory, warehouse and dwelling that went up;--all these and more agencies contributed toward the abnormal swelling of his fortune. a prolific breeder of wealth. under such a system land was the one great auspicious, facile and durable means of rolling up an overshadowing fortune. its exclusive possession struck at the very root of human necessity. at a pinch people can do without trade or money, but land they must have, even if only to lie down on and starve. the impoverish, jobless worker, with disaster facing him, must first perforce give up his precious few coins to the landlord and take chances on food and the remainder. especially is land in demand in a complicated industrial system which causes much of the population to gravitate to centers where industries and trade are concentrated and congest there. a more formidable system for the foundation and amplification of lasting fortunes has not existed. it is automatically self-perpetuating. and that it is preëminently so is seen in the fact that the large shipping fortunes of a century ago are now generally as completely forgotten as the methods then used are obsolete. but the land has remained land; and the fortunes then incubated have grown into mighty powers of great national, and some of considerable international, importance. it was by favor of these propitious conditions that many of the great fortunes, based upon land, were founded. according to the successive census returns of the united states, by far the greater part of the wealth of the country as regards real estate was, and is, concentrated in the north atlantic division and the north central division, the one taking in such cities as new york, philadelphia, and boston, the other chicago, cincinnati and other cities.[ ] it is in the large cities that the great land fortunes are to be found. the greatest of these fortunes are the astor, goelet and rhinelander estates in the east and, in the west, the longworth and field estates are notable examples. to deal with all the conspicuous fortunes based upon land would necessitate an interminable narrative. suffice it for the purposes of this work to take up a few of the superlatively great fortunes as representatives of those based upon land. vast fortunes from land. the foremost of all american fortunes derived from land is the astor fortune. its present bulk, embracing all the collateral family branches, is estimated by some authorities at about $ , , . this, it is generally believed, is an underestimate. as long ago as , when the population of new york city was much less than now, thomas g. shearman, a keen student of land conditions, placed the collective wealth of the astors at $ , , .[ ] the stupendous magnitude of this fortune alone may at once be seen in its relation to the condition of the masses of the people. an analysis of the united states census of , compiled by lucien sanial, shows that while the total wealth of the country was estimated at about $ , , , , the proletarian class, composed chiefly of wage workers and a small proportion of those in professional classes, and numbering , , persons, owned only about $ , , , . it is by such a contrast, bringing out how one family alone, the astors, own more than many millions of workers, that we begin to get an idea of the overreaching, colossal power of a single fortune. the goelet fortune is likewise vast; it is variously estimated at from $ , , to $ , , , although what its exact proportions are is a matter of some obscurity. in the case of these great fortunes it is well nigh impossible to get an accurate idea of just how much they reach. all of them are based primarily upon ownership of land, but they also include many other forms such as shares in banks, coal and other mines, railroads, city transportation systems, gas plants, industrial corporations. even the most indefatigable tax assessors find it such a fruitless and elusive task in attempting to discover what personal property is held by these multimillionaires, that the assessment is usually a conjectural or haphazard performance. the extent of their land holdings is known; these cannot be hid in a safe deposit vault. but their other varieties of property are carefully concealed from public and official knowledge. since this is so, it is entirely probable that the fortunes of these families are considerably greater than is commonly estimated. the case of marshall field, a chicago croesus, who left a fortune valued at about $ , , , is a strong illustration. this man owned $ , , worth of real estate in chicago alone. there was no telling, however, what his whole estate amounted to, for he refused year after year to pay taxes on more than a valuation of $ , , of personal property. yet, after his death in , an inventory of his estate filed in january, , disclosed a clear taxable personal property of $ , , . he was far richer than he would have it appear. let us investigate the careers of some of these powerful landed men, the founders of great fortunes, and inquire into their methods and into the conditions under which they succeeded in heaping up their immense accumulations. footnotes: [ ] in and the anti-renters demonstrated a voting strength in new york state of about , . livingston's title to his estate being called into question, a suit was brought. the court decision favored him. the livingstons, it may be again remarked, were long powerful in politics, and had had their members on the bench.--"life of silas wright," - ; "last leaves of american history": - , etc. [ ] the debates in this convention showed that the feudal conditions described in this chapter prevailed down to .--new york constitution; debates in convention, ; - . this is an extract from the official convention report: "mr. jordan [a delegate] said that it was from such things that relief was asked: which although the moral sense of the community will not admit to be enforced, are still actually in existence." [ ] of a total of $ , , , , representing wealth in real estate and improvements, the census of attributed $ , , , to the north atlantic division and a trifle more than $ , , , to the north central division. [ ] the forum (magazine), november, . chapter ii the inception of the astor fortune the founder of the astor fortune was john jacob astor, a butcher's son. he was born in waldorf, germany, on july , . at the age of eighteen, according to traditional accounts, he went to london, where a brother, george peter, was in the business of selling musical instruments. two years later with "one good suit of sunday clothes, seven flutes and five pounds sterling of money"[ ] he emigrated to america. landing at baltimore he proceeded to new york city. here he became an apprentice to george dieterich, a baker at no. pearl street, for whom he peddled cakes, as was the custom. walter barrett insists that this was astor's first occupation in new york. later, astor went into business for himself. "for a long time," says barrett, "he peddled [fur] skins, and bought them where he could; and bartered cheap jewelry, etc., from the pack he carried on his back."[ ] another story is that he got a job beating furs for $ a week and board in the store of robert bowne, a new york merchant; that while in this place he showed great zest in quizzing the trappers who came in to sell furs, and that in this fashion he gained considerable knowledge of the fur animals. the story proceeds that as bowne grew older he entrusted to astor the task of making long and fatiguing journeys to the indian tribes in the adirondacks and canada and bargaining with them for furs. astor's early career. astor got together enough money to start in the fur business for himself in in a small store on water street. it is not unreasonable to suppose that at this time he, in common with all the fur dealers of the time, participated in the current methods of defrauding the indians. it is certain that he contrived to get their most valuable furs for a jug of rum or for a few toys or notions. returning from these strokes of trade, he would ship large quantities of the furs to london where they were sold at great profit. his marriage to sarah todd, a cousin of henry brevoort, brought him a good wife, who had the shining quality of being economical, and an accession of some means and considerable family connections. remarkably close-fisted, he weighed over every penny. as fast as his means increased he used them in extending his business. by he was somewhat of an expansive merchant. scores of trappers and agents ravaged the wilderness at his command. periodically he shipped large quantities of furs to europe. his modest, even niggardly, ways of living in rooms over his store were not calculated to create the impression that he was a rich man. it was his invariable practice habitually to deceive others as to his possessions and plans. but when, in , he removed to no. broadway, at the corner of vesey street, then a fashionable neighborhood, he was rated, perforce, as a man of no inconsiderable means. he was, in fact, as nearly as can be gathered, worth at this time a quarter of a million dollars--a monumental fortune at a period when a man who had $ , was thought rich; when a good house could be rented for $ a year and when $ or $ would fully defray the annual expenses of the average well-living family. [illustration: john jacob astor. the founder of the colossal astor fortune. (from an engraving.)] the great profits from the fur trade naturally led him into the business of being his own shipowner and shipper, for he was a highly efficient organizer and well understood the needlessness of middlemen. a beaver skin bought for one dollar from the indian or white trappers in western new york could be sold in london for six dollars and a quarter. on all other furs there were the same large profits. but, in addition to these, astor saw that his profits could be still further increased by investing the money that he received from the sale of his furs in england, in english goods and importing them to the united states. by this process, the profit from a single beaver skin could be made to reach ten dollars. at that time the united states depended upon british manufactures for many articles, especially certain grades of woolen goods and cutlery. these were sold at exorbitant profit to the american people. this trade astor carried on in his own ships. his methods in business. it is of the greatest importance to ascertain astor's methods in his fur trade, for it was fundamentally from this trade that he reaped the enormous sums that enabled him to become a large landowner. what these methods were in his earlier years is obscure. nothing definite is embodied in any documentary evidence. not so, however, regarding the methods of the greatest and most successful of his fur gathering enterprises, the american fur company. the "popular writer" referred to before says that the circumstances of astor's fur and shipping activities are well known. on the contrary, they are distinctly not well known nor have they ever been set forth. none of astor's biographers have brought them out, if, indeed, they knew of them. and yet these facts are of the most absolute significance in that they reveal the whole foundation of the colossal fortune of the astor family. the pursuit and slaughter of fur animals were carried on with such indefatigable vigor in the east that in time that territory became virtually exhausted. it became imperative to push out into the fairly virgin regions of the mississippi and missouri rivers and of the rocky mountains. the northwest company, a corporation running under british auspices, was then scouring the wilds west and northwest of the great lakes. its yearly shipments of furs were enormous.[ ] astor realized the inconceivably vaster profits which would be his in extending his scope to the domains of the far west, so prolific in opportunities for furs. in he incorporated the american fur company. although this was a corporation, he was, in fact, the company. he personally supplied its initial capital of $ , and dictated every phase of its policy. his first ambitious design was to found the settlement of astoria in oregon, but the war of frustrated plans well under way, and the expedition that he sent out there had to depart.[ ] had this plan succeeded, astor would have been, as he rightly boasted, the richest man in the world; and the present wealth of his descendants instead of being $ , , would be manifold more. monopoly based on force. thwarted in his project to get a monopoly of the incalculable riches of furs in the extreme northwest, he concentrated his efforts on that vast region extending along the missouri river, far north to the great lakes, west to the rocky mountains and into the southwest. it was a region abounding in immense numbers of fur animals and, at that time, was inhabited by the indian tribes, with here and there a settlement of whites. by means of government favoritism and the unconcealed exercise of both fraud and force, he obtained a complete monopoly, as complete and arbitrary as ever feudal baron held over seignorial estates. nominally, the united states government ruled this great sweep of territory and made the laws and professed to execute them. in reality, astor's company was a law unto itself. that it employed both force and fraud and entirely ignored all laws enacted by congress, is as clear as daylight from the government reports of that period. the american fur company maintained three principal posts or depots of receiving and distribution--one at st. louis, one at detroit, the third at mackinac. in response to an order from lewis cass, secretary of war, to send in complete reports of the fur trade, joshua pilcher reported from st. louis, december , : about this time [ ] the american fur company had turned their attention to the missouri trade, and, as might have been expected, soon put an end to all opposition. backed, as it was, by any amount of capital, and with skillful agents to conduct its affairs at _every point_, it succeeded by the year , in monopolizing the trade of the indians on the missouri, and i have but little doubt will continue to do so for years to come, as it would be rather a hazardous business for small adventurers to rise in opposition to it.[ ] in that wild country where the government, at best, had an insufficient force of troops, and where the agents of the company went heavily armed, it was distinctly recognized, and accepted as a fact, that no possible competitor's men, or individual trader, dare intrude. to do it was to invite the severest reprisals, not stopping short of outright murder. the american fur company overawed and dominated everything; it defied the government's representatives and acknowledged no authority superior to itself and no law other than what its own interests demanded. the exploitation that ensued was one of the most deliberate, cruel and appalling that has ever taken place in any country. the debauching of indians. if there was any one serious crime at that time it was the supplying of the indians with whisky. the government fully recognized the baneful effects of debauching the indians, and enacted strict laws with harsh penalties. astor's company brazenly violated this law, as well as all other laws conflicting with its profit interests. it smuggled in prodigious quantities of rum. the trader's ancient trick of getting the indians drunk and then swindling them of their furs and land was carried on by astor on an unprecedented scale. to say that astor knew nothing of what his agents were doing is a palliation not worthy of consideration; he was a man who knew and attended to even the pettiest details of his varied business. moreover, the liquor was despatched by his orders direct by ship to new orleans and from thence up the mississippi to st. louis and to other frontier points. the horrible effects of this traffic and the consequent spoliation were set forth by a number of government officers. col. j. snelling, commanding the garrison at detroit, sent an indignant protest to james barbour, secretary of war, under date of august , . "he who has the most whisky, generally carries off the most furs," wrote col. snelling, and then continued: the neighborhood of the trading houses where whisky is sold, presents a disgusting scene of drunkenness, debauchery and misery; it is the fruitful source of all our difficulties, and of nearly all the murders committed in the indian country.... for the accommodation of my family i have taken a house three miles from town, and in passing to and from it, i have daily opportunities of seeing the road strewed with the bodies of men, women and children, in the last stages of brutal intoxication. it is true there are laws in this territory to restrain the sale of whisky, but they are not regarded....[ ] col. snelling added that during that year there had been delivered by contract to an agent of the north american fur company, at mackinac (he meant the american fur company which, as we have seen, had one of its principal headquarters at that post and maintained a monopoly there), , gallons of whisky and , gallons of high wines. this latter liquor was preferred by the agents, he pointed out, as it could be "increased at pleasure." col. snelling went on: "i will venture to add that an inquiry into the manner in which the indian trade is conducted, especially by the north american fur company, is a matter of no small importance to the tranquillity of the borders."[ ] violation of laws. a similar report was made the next winter by thomas l. mckenney, superintendent of indian affairs, to the secretary of war. in a communication dated feb. , , mckenney wrote that "the forbidden and destructive article, whisky, is considered so essential to a lucrative commerce, as not only to still those feelings [of repugnance] but lead the traders to brave the most imminent hazards, and evade, by various methods the threatened penalties of law." the superintendent proceeded to tell of the recent seizure by general tipton, indian agent at fort wayne, of an outfit in transit containing a considerable supply of whisky, which was owned in large part, he says, by the american fur company. he then continued: "the trader with the whisky, it must be admitted, is certain of getting the most furs.... there are many honorable and high-minded citizens in this trade, but expediency overcomes their objections and reconciles them for the sake of the profits of the trade."[ ] in stating this fact, mckenney was unwittingly enunciating a profound truth, the force of which mankind is only now beginning to realize, that the pursuit of profit will transform natures inherently capable of much good into sordid, cruel beasts of prey, and accustom them to committing actions so despicable, so inhuman, that they would be terrified were it not that the world is under the sway of the profit system and not merely excuses and condones, but justifies and throws a glamour about, the unutterable degradations and crimes which the profit system calls forth. living in a more advanced time, in an environment adjusted to bring out the best, instead of the worst, astor and his henchmen might have been men of supreme goodness and gentleness. as it was, they lived at a period when it was considered the highest, most astute and successful form of trade to resort to any means, however base, to secure profits. let not too much ignominy be cast upon their memories; they were but creatures of their time; and their time was not that "golden age," so foolishly pictured, but a wild, tempestuous, contending struggle in which every man was at the throat of his fellowman, and in a vortex which statesmen, college professors, editors, political economists, all praised and sanctified as "progressive civilization." like all other propertied interests, astor's company regarded the law as a thing to be rigorously invoked against the poor, the helpless and defenseless, but as not to be considered when it stood in the way of the claims, designs and pretensions of property. superintendent mckenney reported that all laws in the indian country were inoperative--so much dead matter. andrew s. hughes, reporting from st. louis, oct. , , to lewis cass, secretary of war, wrote: .... the traders that occupy the largest and most important space in the indian country are the agents and engagees of the american fur trade company. they entertain, as i know to be the fact, no sort of respect for our citizens, agents, officers or the government, or its laws or general policy. after describing the "baneful influence of these persons," hughes went on: the capital employed in the indian trade must be very large, especially that portion which is employed in the annual purchase of whisky and alcohol into the indian country for the purpose of trade with the indians. it is not believed that the superintendent is ever applied to for a permit for the one-hundredth gallon that is taken into the indian country. the whisky is sold to the indians in the face of the [government] agents. indians are made drunk, and, of course, behave badly.... profit and its results. not only, however, were the indians made drunk with the express purpose of befuddling and swindling them,[ ] but in the very commission of this act, an enormous profit was made on the sale of the whisky. those who may be inclined to recoil with horror at the historic contemplation of this atrocity, will do well to remember that this was simply one manifestation of the ethics of the trading class--the same class which formed and ruled government, made and interpreted laws, and constituted the leading, superior and exclusive groups of high society. hughes continued: i am informed that there is but little doubt, but a clear gain of more than fifty thousand dollars has been made this year on the sale of whisky to the indians on the river missouri; the _prices are from $ to $ a gallon_. major morgan, united states sutler at cantonment leavenworth, says that thousands of gallons of alcohol has passed that post during the present year, destined for the indian country.[ ] these official reports were supplemented by another on the same subject from william m. gordon to general william clark, at that time superintendent of indian affairs. in his report, gordon, writing from st. louis, pointed out that, "whisky, though not an authorized article, has been a principal, and i believe a very lucrative one for the last several years."[ ] what a climax of trading methods, first to debauch the indians systematically in order to swindle them, and then make a large revenue on the rum that enabled the company to do it! undoubtedly it was by these means that astor became possessed of large tracts of land in wisconsin and elsewhere in the west. but the methods thus far enumerated were but the precursors of others. when the indians were made maudlin drunk and bargained with for their furs were they paid in money? by no means. the american fur company had another trick in reserve. astor employed the cunning expedient of exchanging merchandise for furs. large quantities of goods, especially woolens, made by underpaid adult and child labor in england and america, and representing the sweat and suffering of the labor of the workers, were regularly shipped by him to the west. for these goods the indians were charged one-half again or more what each article cost after paying all expenses of transportation.[ ] reporting from st. louis, oct. , , in a communication to the secretary of war, thomas forsyth gave a description of this phase of the american fur company's dealings. he said: in the autumn of every year [when the hunting season began] the trader carefully avoids giving credit to the indians on many costly articles such as silver works, wampum, scarlet cloth, fine bridles, etc., etc., as also a few woolens, such as blankets, strouds, etc., unless it be to an indian whom he knows will pay all his debts. in that case he will allow the indian, on credit, everything he wishes. traders always prefer giving credit on gunpowder, flints, lead, knives, tomahawks, hoes, domestic cottons, etc.; which they do _at the rate of or per cent_, and if one-fourth of the price of these articles be paid, he is amply remunerated.[ ] nor were these the final injustices and infamies heaped upon the untutored aborigines. it was not enough that they should be pillaged of their possessions; that the rights guaranteed them by the solemn treaties of government should be blown aside like so much waste paper by the armed force of the american fur company; that whole tribes should be demoralized with rum and then defrauded; that shoddy merchandise, for which generally no market could be found elsewhere, should be imposed upon them at such incredibly high prices, that they were bound to be beggared.[ ] these methods were not enough. never were human beings so frightfully exploited as these ignorant, unsophisticated savages of the west. through the long winters they roamed the forests and the prairies, and assiduously hunted for furs which eventually were to clothe and adorn the aristocracy of america, europe and asia. when in the spring they came in with their spoil, they were, with masterly cunning, artfully made intoxicated and then robbed. not merely robbed in being charged ruinous prices for merchandise, but robbed additionally in the weight of their furs. forsyth relates that for every dollar in merchandise that the astor company exchanged for furs, the company received $ . or $ . in fur values, undoubtedly by the trader's low trick of short weighing. a long record of violence. in law the indian was supposed to have certain rights, but astor's company not only ignored but flouted them. now when the indians complained, what happened? did the government protect them? the government, and especially the courts, were quick and generous in affording the greatest protection and the widest latitude to astor's company. but when the indians resented the robberies and injustices to which they were subjected beyond bearing, they were murdered. they were murdered wantonly and in cold blood; and then urgent alarmist representations would be sent to washington that the indians were in a rebellious state, whereupon troops would be punitively hurried forth to put them down in slaughter. in turn, goaded by an intense spirit of revenge, the indians would resort to primitive force and waylay, rob and murder the white agents and traders.[ ] from to more than traders were robbed and killed by indians.[ ] many of these were astor's men. but how many indians were killed by the whites has never been known, nor apparently was there any solicitude as to whether the number was great or small. what did astor pay his men for engaging in this degrading and dangerous business? is it not a terrifying commentary on the lengths to which men are forced to go in quest of a livelihood, and the benumbing effects on their sensibilities, that astor should find a host of men ready to seduce the indians into a state of drunkenness, cheat and rob them, and all this only to get robbed and perhaps murdered in turn? for ten or eleven months in the year astor's subaltern men toiled arduously through forest and plain, risking sickness, the dangers of the wilderness and sudden death. they did not rob because it benefited them; it was what they were paid to do; and it was likewise expected of them that they should look upon the imminent chances of death as a part of their contract. for all this what was their pay? it was the trifling sum of $ for the ten or eleven months. but this was not paid in money. the poor wretches who gave up their labor, and often their health and lives, for astor were themselves robbed, or their heirs, if they had any. payment was nearly always made in merchandise, which was sold at exorbitant prices. everything that they needed they had to buy at astor's stores; by the time that they had bought a year's supplies they not only had nothing coming to them, but they were often actually in debt to astor. but astor--how did he fare? his profits from the fur trade of the west were truly stupendous for that period. he, himself, might plead to the government that the company was in a decaying state of poverty. these pleas deceived no one. it was characteristic of his habitual deceit that he should petition the government for a duty on foreign furs on the ground that the company was being competed with in the american markets by the british fur companies. at this very time astor held a virtual monopoly of fur trading in the united states. one need not be surprised at the grounds of such a plea. throughout the whole history of the trading class, this pathetic and absurdly false plea of poverty has incessantly been used by this class, and used successfully, to get further concessions and privileges from a government which reflected, and represented, its interests. curiously, enough, however, if a mendicant used the same plea in begging a mite of alms on the streets, the law has invariably regarded him as a vagrant to be committed to the workhouse. astor's enormous profits. at about the identical time that john jacob astor was persistently complaining that the company was making no money, his own son and partner, william b. astor, was writing from new york on nov. , , to the secretary of war, that the company had a capital of about $ , , and that, "you may, however, estimate our annual returns at half a million dollars."[ ] not less than $ , annual revenues on a capital of $ , , ! these were inconceivably large returns for the time; thomas j. dougherty, indian agent at camp leavenworth, estimated that from to the fur trade on the missouri and its waters had yielded returns amounting to $ , , with a clear profit of $ , , . this was unquestionably a considerable underestimate. it is hardly necessary to say that astor, as the responsible head and beneficiary of the american fur company, was never prosecuted for the numerous violations of both penal and civil laws invariably committed by his direction and for his benefit. with the millions that rolled in, he was able to command the services of not only the foremost lawyers in warding off the penalties of law, but in having as his paid retainers some of the most noted and powerful politicians of the day.[ ] senator benton, of missouri, a leading light in the democratic party, was not only his legal representative in the west and fought his cases for him, but as united states senator introduced in congress measures which astor practically drafted and the purport of which was to benefit astor and astor alone. thus was witnessed a notorious violator of the law, invoking aid of the law to enrich himself still further,--a condition which need not arouse exceptional criticism, since the whole trading class in general did precisely the same thing. footnotes: [ ] parton's "life of john jacob astor": . [ ] "the old merchants of new york," : . [ ] the extent of its operations and the rapid slaughter of fur animals may be gathered by a record of one year's work. in this company enriched itself by , beaver skins, , bear skins, , fox skins, kit fox, , muskrat, , martin, , mink, , lynx, , wolverine, , fisher, raccoon, , dressed deer, elk, buffalo robes, etc. [ ] astor was accused by a government agent of betraying the american cause at the outbreak of this war. in addition to the american fur company, astor had other fur companies, one of which was the southwest company. under date of june , , matthew irwin, u. s. factor or agent at green bay, wis., wrote to thomas l. mckenney, u. s. superintendent of indian affairs: "it appears that the government has been under an impression [that] the southwest company, of which mr. john jacob astor is the head, is strictly an american company, and in consequence, some privileges in relation to trade have been granted to that company." irwin went on to tell how astor had obtained an order from gallatin, u. s. secretary of the treasury, allowing him, astor, to land furs at mackinac from the british post at st. joseph's. astor's agent in this transaction was a british subject. "on his way to st. joseph's," irwin continued, "he [astor's british agent] communicated to the british at malden that war had been or would be declared. the british made corresponding arrangements and landed on the island of mackinac with regulars, canadians and indians before the commanding officer there had notice that war would be declared. the same course was about to be pursued at detroit, before the arrival of troops with gen. hull, who, having been on the march there, frustrated it." irwin declared that astor's purpose was to save his furs from capture by the british, and concluded: "mr. astor's agent brought the furs to mackinac _in company with the british troops_, and the whole transaction is well known at mackinac and detroit."--u. s. senate docs., first session, seventeenth congress, - , vol. i, doc. no. : - . [ ] document no. , u. s. senate, first session, nd congress, ii: . [ ] document no. , u. s. senate docs. first session, th congress: - . [ ] ibid. that the debauching of the indians was long continuing was fully evidenced by the numerous communications sent in by government representatives. the following is an extract from a letter written on october , , by the u. s. indian agent at green bay to the superintendent of indian affairs (or indian trade): "mr. kinzie, son to the sub indian agent at chicago, _and agent for the american fur company_, has been detected in selling large quantities of whisky to the indians at and near milwaukee of lake michigan."--senate docs., first session, seventeenth congress, - , vol. i, doc. no. : . [ ] doc. no. : . [ ] of this fact there can be no doubt. writing on february , , to senator henry johnson, chairman of the u. s. senate committee on indian affairs, superintendent mckenney said: ".... the indians, it is admitted, are good judges of the articles in which they deal, and, generally when they are permitted to be sober, they can detect attempts to practise fraud upon them. the traders knowing this (however, few of the indians are permitted to trade without a previous preparation in the way of liquor,) would not be so apt to demand exorbitant prices.... this may be illustrated by the fact, as reported to this office by matthew irwin, that previous to the establishment of the green bay factory [agency] as much as one dollar and fifty cents had been demanded by the traders of the indians, and received, for a brass thimble, and eighteen dollars for one pound of tobacco!"--u. s. senate docs., first session, seventeenth congress, - , vol. i, document no. : . [ ] document no. , u. s. senate docs., first session, nd congress, ii: - . [ ] ibid: . [ ] for a white point blanket which cost $ . they were charged $ ; for a beaver trap costing $ . , the charge was $ ; for a rifle costing $ they had to pay $ ; a brass kettle which astor could buy at cents a pound, he charged the indians $ for; powder cost him cents a pound; he sold it for $ a pound; he bought tobacco for cents a pound and sold it at the rate of five small twists for $ , etc., etc., etc. [ ] document no. : . [ ] many of the tribes, the government reports show, not only yielded up to astor's company the whole of their furs, but were deeply in debt to the company. in the winnebagoes, sacs and foxes owed farnham & davenport, agents for the american fur company among those tribes, $ , ; by the debts had risen to $ , or $ , . the pawnees owed fully as much, and the cherokees, chickasaws, sioux and other tribes were heavily in debt.--doc. no. : . [ ] forsyth admits that in practically all of these murders the whites were to blame.--doc. no. : . [ ] doc. no. .--this is but a partial list. the full list of the murdered whites the government was unable to get. [ ] document no. : . [ ] some of the original ledgers of the american fur company were put on exhibition at anderson's auction rooms in new york city in march, . one entry showed that $ , had been paid to lewis cass for services not stated. doubtless, astor had the best of reasons for not explaining that payment; cass was, or had been, the governor of michigan territory, and he became the identical secretary of war to whom so many complaints of the crimes of astor's american fur company were made. the author personally inspected these ledgers. the following are some extracts from a news account in the new york "times," issue of march , , of the exhibition of the ledgers: "they cover the business of the northern department from to , and consist of six folio volumes of about , pages each, in two stout traveling cases, fitted with compartments, lock and key. it is said that these books were missing for nearly seventy-five years, and recently escaped destruction by the merest accident. "the first entry is april , . there are two columns, one for british and the other for american money. an entry, may , , shows that lewis cass, then governor of michigan territory and afterward democratic candidate for the presidency against gen. zachary taylor, the successful whig candidate, took about $ , of the astor money from montreal to detroit, in consideration of something which is not set down." chapter iii the growth of the astor fortune while at the outposts, and in the depths, of the western wilderness an armed host was working and cheating for astor, and, in turn, being cheated by their employer; while, for astor's gain, they were violating all laws, debauching, demoralizing and beggaring entire tribes of indians, slaying and often being themselves slain in retaliation, what was the beneficiary of this orgy of crime and bloodshed doing in new york? for a long time he lived at no. broadway in a large double house, flanked by an imposing open piazza supported by pillars and arches. in this house he combined the style of the ascending capitalist with the fittings and trappings of the tradesman. it was at once residence, office and salesroom. on the ground floor was his store, loaded with furs; and here one of his sons and his chief heir, william b. could be seen, as a lad, assiduously beating the furs to keep out moths. astor's disposition was phlegmatic and his habits were extremely simple and methodical. he had dinner regularly at three o'clock, after which he would limit himself to three games of checkers and a glass of beer. most of his long day was taken up with close attention to his many business interests of which no detail escaped him. however execrated he might be in the indian territories far in the west, he assumed, and somewhat succeeded in being credited with, the character of a patriotic, respectable and astute man of business in new york. astor superior to law. during (taking a wide survey) the same series of years that he was directing gross violations of explicit laws in the fur-producing regions--laws upon the observance of which depended the very safety of the life of men, women and children, white and red, and which laws were vested with an importance corresponding with the baneful and bloody results of their infraction--astor was turning other laws to his distinct advantage in the east. pillaging in the west the rightful and legal domain, and the possessions, of a dozen indian tribes, he, in the east, was causing public money to be turned over to his private treasury and using it as personal capital in his shipping enterprises. as applied to the business and landowning class, law was notoriously a flexible, convenient, and highly adaptable function. by either the tacit permission or connivance of government, this class was virtually, in most instances, its own law-regulator. it could consistently, and without being seriously interfered with, violate such laws as suited its interests, while calling for the enactment or enforcement of other laws which favored its designs and enhanced its profits. we see astor ruthlessly brushing aside, like so many annoying encumbrances, even those very laws which were commonly held indispensable to a modicum of fair treatment of the indians and to the preservation of human life. these laws happened to conflict with the amassing of profits; and always in a civilization ruled by the trading class, laws which do this are either unceremoniously trampled upon, evaded or repealed. for all the long-continued violations of law in the west, and for the horrors which resulted from his exploitation of the indians, was astor ever prosecuted? to repeat, no; nor was he disturbed even by such a triviality as a formal summons. yet, to realize the full enormity of acts for which he was responsible, and the complete measure of immunity that he enjoyed, it is necessary to recall that at the time the government had already begun to assume the role of looking upon the indians as its wards, and thus of theoretically extending to them the shield of its especial protection. if government allowed a people whom it pleased to signify as its wards to be debauched, plundered and slain, what kind of treatment could be expected for the working class as to which there was not even the fiction of government concern, not to mention wardship? law breakers and law makers. but when it came to laws which, in the remotest degree, could be used or manipulated to swell profits or to buttress property, astor and his class were untiring and vociferous in demanding their strict enforcement. successfully ignoring or circumventing laws objectionable to them, they, at the same time, insisted upon the passage and exact construction and severe enforcement of laws which were adjusted to their interests. law breakers, on the one hand, they were law makers on the other. they caused to be put in statute, and intensified by judicial precedent, the most rigorous laws in favor of property rights. they virtually had the extraordinary power of choosing what laws they should observe and what they should not. this choice was invariably at the expense of the working class. law, that much-sanctified product, was really law only when applied to the propertyless. it confronted the poor at every step, was executed with summary promptitude and filled the prisons with them. poverty had no choice in saying what laws it should obey and what it should not. it, perforce, had to obey or go to prison; either one or the other, for the laws were expressly drafted to bear heavily upon it. it is illustrative, in the highest degree, of the character of government ruled by commercial interests, that astor was allowed to pillage and plunder, cheat, rob and (by proxy) slaughter in the west, while, in the east, that same government extended to him, as well as to other shippers, the free use of money which came from the taxation of the whole people--a taxation always weighted upon the shoulders of the worker. in turn, this favored class, either consciously or unconsciously, voluntarily or involuntarily, cheated the government of nearly half of the sums advanced. from the foundation of the government up to , there were nine distinct commercial crises which brought about terrible hardships to the wage workers. did the government step in and assist them? at no time. but during all those years the government was busy in letting the shippers dig into the public funds and in being extremely generous to them when they failed to pay up. from to the government lost more than $ , , in duties,[ ] all of which sum represented what the shippers owed and did not, or could not, pay. and no criminal proceedings were brought against any of these defaulters. this, however, was not all that the government did for the favored, pampered class that it represented. laws were severe against labor-union strikes, which were frequently judicially adjudged conspiracies. theoretically, law inhibited monopoly, but monopolies existed, because law ceases to be effective law when it is not enforced; and the propertied interests took care that it was not enforced. their own class was powerful in every branch of government. furthermore, they had the money to buy political subserviency and legal dexterity. the $ , that astor paid to cass, the very official who, as secretary of war, had jurisdiction over the indian tribes and over the indian trade, and the sums that astor paid to benton, were, it may well be supposed, only the merest parts of the total sums that he disbursed to officials and politicians, high and low. astor's monopolies. astor profited richly from his monopolies. his monopoly of furs in the west was made a basis for the creation of other monopolies. china was a voracious and highly profitable market for furs. in exchange for the cargoes of these that he sent there, his ships would be loaded with teas and silks. these products he sold at exorbitant prices in new york. his profits from a single voyage sometimes reached $ , ; the average profits from a single voyage were $ , . during the war of - tea rose to double its usual price. astor was invariably lucky in that his ships escaped capture. at one period he was about the only merchant who had a cargo of tea in the market. he exacted, and was allowed to exact, his own price. meanwhile, astor was setting about making himself the richest and largest landowner in the country. his were not the most extensive land possessions in point of extent but in regard to value. he aimed at being a great city, not a great rural, landlord. it was estimated that his trade in furs and associated commerce brought him a clear annual revenue of about two million dollars. this estimate was palpably inadequate. not only did he reap enormous profits from the fur trade, but also from banking privileges in which he was a conspicuous factor. it was on one of his visits to london, so the recital goes, that he first became possessed of the idea of founding an extraordinarily rich landed family. he admired, it is told, the great landed estates of the british nobility, and observed the prejudice against the caste of the trader and the corresponding exalted position of the landowner. whether this story is true or not, it is evident that he was impressed with the increasing power and the stability of a fortune founded upon land, and how it radiated a certain splendid prestige. the very definition of the word landlord--lord of the soil--signified the awe-compelling and authoritative position of him who owned land--a definition heightened and enforced in a thousand ways by the laws. the speculative and solid possibilities of new york city real estate held out dazzling opportunities gratifying his acquisitiveness for wealth and power--the wealth that fed his avarice, and the power flowing from the dominion of riches. astor not an exception. it may here be observed that astor's methods in trade or in acquiring of land need not be indiscriminately condemned as an exclusive mania. nor should they be held up to the curiosity of posterity as a singular and pernicious exhibition, detached from his time and generation, and independent of them. again and again the facts disclose that men such as he were merely the representative crests of prevailing commercial and political life. substantially the whole propertied class obtained its wealth by methods which, if not the same, had a strong relationship. his methods differed nowise from those of many cotton planters of the south who stole, on a monstrous scale,[ ] government land and then with the wealth derived from their thefts, bought negro slaves, set themselves up in the glamour of a patriarchal aristocracy and paraded a florid display of chivalry and honor. and it was this same grandiose class that plundered whitney of the fruits of his invention of the cotton-gin and shamelessly defrauded him.[ ] far more flagrant, however, were the means by which other southern plantation owners and business firms secured landed estates in alabama, georgia and in other states. their methods in expropriating the reservations of such indian tribes as the creeks and chickasaws were not less fraudulent than those that astor used elsewhere. they too, those fine southern aristocrats, debauched indian tribes with whisky, and after swindling them of their land, caused the government to remove them westward. the frauds were so extensive, and the circumstances so repellant, that president andrew jackson, in , ordered an investigation. from the records of this investigation,--four hundred and twenty-five solid pages of official correspondence--more than enough details can be obtained.[ ] where was fraud absent? in wisconsin the most valuable government lands, containing rich deposits of lead and other mineral ore, were being boldly appropriated by force and fraud. the house committee on public lands reported on december , , that with the connivance of local land agents, these lands, since , had been sold at private sale before they were even subject to public entry.[ ] "in consequence of which," the committee stated, "many tracts of land known to be rich and valuable mineral lands for many years, and known to be such at the time of the entry, have been entered by evil-minded persons, who have falsely made, or procured others to make, the oath required by the land offices. honest men have been excluded from the purchase of these lands, while the dishonest and unscrupulous have been permitted to enter them by means of false oath and fraud."[ ] these are but the merest glimpses of the widespread frauds in seizing land, whether agricultural, timber or mineral. what of the mercantile importers, the same class that the government so greatly favored in allowing it long periods in which to pay its customs duties? it was defrauding the government on the very importations on which it was extended long-time credit for customs payments. the few official reports available clearly indicate this. great frauds were continuously going on in the importations of lead.[ ] large quantities of sugar were imported in the guise of molasses which, it was discovered, after being boiled a few minutes, would produce an almost equal weight in brown sugar.[ ] doubtless similar frauds were being committed in other lines of importations. between the methods of these divisions of the capitalist class, and those of astor, no basic difference can be discerned. neither was there any essential difference between astor's methods and those of the manufacturing capitalists of the north who remorselessly robbed charles goodyear of the benefits of his discovery of vulcanized rubber and who drove him, after protracted litigation, into insolvency, and caused him to die loaded down with worries and debts, a broken-down man, at the age of .[ ] as for that pretentious body of gentry who professed to spread enlightenment and who set themselves high and solemnly on a pinnacle as dispensers of knowledge and molders of public opinion--the book, periodical and newspaper publishers--their methods at bottom were as fraudulent as any that astor ever used. they mercilessly robbed and knew it, while making the most hypocritical professions of lofty motives. buried deep in the dusty archives of the united states senate is a petition whereon appear the signatures of moore, carlyle, the two disraelis, milman, hallam, southey, thomas campbell, sir charles lyell, bulwer lytton, samuel rogers, maria edgeworth, harriet martineau and other british literary luminaries, great or small. in this petition these authors, some of them representing the highest and finest in literary, philosophical, historical, and scientific thought and expression, implore congress to afford them protection against the indiscriminate theft of their works by american booksellers. their works, they set forth, are not only appropriated without their consent but even contrary to their expressed desire. and there is no redress. their productions are mutilated and altered, yet their names are retained. they instance the pathetic case of sir walter scott. his works have been published and sold from maine to the gulf of mexico, yet not a cent has he received. "an equitable remuneration," they set forth, "might have saved his life, and would, at least have relieved his closing years from the burdens of debts and destructive toils."[ ] how fares this petition read in the united states senate on february , ? the booksellers, magazine, periodical and newspaper publishers have before succeeded in defeating one copyright bill. they now bestir themselves again; the united states senate consigns the petition to the archives; and the piracy goes on as industriously as ever. legalized piracy in all branches of trade. what else could be expected from a congress which represented the commercial and landholding classes? no prodding was needed to cause it to give the fullest protection to possessions in commerce, land and negro slaves; these were concrete property. but thought was not capitalized; it was not a manufactured product like iron or soap. nothing can express the pitying contempt or the lofty air of patronization with which the dominant commercial classes looked down upon the writer, the painter, the musician, the philosopher or the sculptor. regarding these "sentimentalists" as easy, legitimate and defenseless objects of prey, and as incidental and impractical hangers-on in a world where trade was all in all, the commercial classes at all times affected a certain air of encouragement of the fine arts, which encouragement, however, never attempted to put a stop to piracies of publication or reproduction. how sordidly commercial that era was, to what extremes its standards went, and how some of the basest forms of theft were carried on and practically legalized, may be seen by the fate of peter cardelli's petition to congress. cardelli was a roman sculptor, residing in the united states for a time. he prays congress in to pass an act protecting him from commercial pirates who make casts and copies of his work and who profit at his expense. the senate committee on judiciary, to whom the petition is referred, rejects the plea. on what ground? because he "has not discovered any new invention on which he can claim the right."[ ] could stupidity go further? all of the confluent facts of the time show conclusively that every stratum of commercial society was permeated with fraud, and that this fraud was accepted generally as a routine fixture of the business of gathering property or profits. astor, therefore, was not an isolated phenomenon, but a typically successful representative of his time and of the methods and standards of the trading class of that time. whatever in the line of business yielded profits, that act, whether cheating, robbing or slaughtering, was justified by some sophistry or other. astor did not debauch, spoliate, and incite slaughter because he took pleasure in doing them. perhaps--to extend charitable judgment--he would have preferred to avoid them. but they were all part of the formulated necessities of business which largely decreed that the exercise of humane and ethical considerations was incompatible with the zealous pursuit of wealth. in the wilderness of the west, astor, operating through his agents, could debauch, rob and slay indians with impunity. as he was virtually the governing body there, without fear of being hindered, he thus could act in the most high-handed, arbitrary and forcible ways. in the east, however, where law, or the forms of law, prevailed, he had to have recourse to methods which bore no open trace of the brutal and sanguinary. he had to become the insidious and devious schemer, acting through sharp lawyers instead of by an armed force. hence in his eastern operations he made deception a science and used every instrument of cunning at his command. the result was precisely the same as in the west, except that the consequences were not so overt, and the perpetration could not be so easily distinguished. in the west, death marched step by step with astor's accumulating fortune; so did it in the east, but it was not open and bloody as in the fur country. the mortality thus accompanying astor's progress in new york was of that slow and indefinite, but more lingering and agonizing, kind ensuing from want, destitution, disease and starvation. astor's supreme craft was at no time better shown than by the means by which he acquired possession of an immense estate in putnam county, new york. during the revolution, a tract consisting of , acres held by roger morris and mary his wife, tories, had been confiscated by new york state. this land, it is worth recalling, was part of the estate of adolphus phillips, the son of frederick who, as has been set forth, financed and protected the pirate captain samuel burgess in his buccaneer expeditions, and whose share of the burgess' booty was extremely large.[ ] mary morris was a descendant of adolph phillips and came into that part of the property by inheritance. the morris estate comprised nearly one-third of putnam county. after confiscation, the state sold the area in parts to various farmers. by seven hundred families were settled on the property, and not a shadow of a doubt had ever been cast on their title. they had long regarded it as secure, especially as it was guaranteed by the state. a noted land transaction. in a browsing lawyer informed astor that those seven hundred families had no legal title whatever; that the state had had no legal right to confiscate the morris property, inasmuch as the morrises held a life lease only, and no state could ever confiscate a life lease. the property, astor was informed, was really owned by the children of the morris couple, to whom it was to revert after the lease of their parents was extinguished. legally, he was told, they were as much the owners as ever. astor satisfied himself that this point would hold in the courts. then he assiduously hunted up the heirs, and by a series of strategic maneuvers worthy of the pen of a balzac, succeeded in buying their claim for $ , . in the thirty-three years which had elapsed since confiscation, the land had been greatly improved. suddenly came a notification to these unsuspecting farmers that not they, but astor, owned the land. all the improvements that they had made, all the accumulated standing products of the thirty-three years' labor of the occupants, he claimed as his, by virtue of the fact that, in law, they were trespassers. dumfounded, they called upon him to prove his claim. whereupon his lawyers, men saturated with the terminology and intricacies of legal lore, came forward and gravely explained that the law said so and so and was such and such and that the law was incontestible in support of astor's claim. the hard-working farmers listened with mystification and consternation. they could not make out how land which they or their fathers had paid for, and which they had tilled and improved, could belong to an absentee who had never turned a spade on it, had never seen it, all simply because he had the advantage of a legal technicality and a document emblazoned with a seal or two. the public uproar over astor's claim. they appealed to the legislature. this body, influenced by the public uproar over the transaction, refused to recognize astor's title. the whole state was aroused to a pitch of indignation. astor's claim was generally regarded as an audacious piece of injustice and robbery. he contended that he was not subject to the provision of the statute directing sales of confiscated estates which provided that tenants could not be dispossessed without being paid for improvements. in fine, he claimed the right to evict the entire seven hundred families without being under the legal or moral necessity of paying them a single cent for their improvements. in the state of public temper, the officials of the state of new york decided to fight his claim. astor offered to sell his claim to the state for $ , . but such was the public outburst at the effrontery of a man who had bought what was virtually an extinct claim for $ , , and then attempting to hold up the state for more than six times that sum, that the legislature dared not consent. the contention went to the courts and there dragged along for many years. astor, however, won his point; it was decided that he had a valid title. finally in the legislature allowed itself[ ] to compromise, although public opinion was as bitter as ever. the state gave astor $ , in five per cent stock, specially issued, in surrender of his claim.[ ] thus were the whole people taxed to buy, at an exorbitant price, the claim of a man who had got it by artifice and whose estate eventually applied the interest and principal of that stock to buying land in new york city. thus also can a considerable part of the astor fortune be traced to adolphus phillips, son of frederick, the partner, protector and chief spoil-sharer of captain burgess, sea pirate, and whose estate, the phillips manor, had been obtained by bribing fletcher, the royal governor. but while astor gradually appropriated vast tracts of land in wisconsin, missouri, iowa and other parts of the west, and levied his toll on one-third of putnam county, it was in new york city that he concentrated the great bulk of his real estate speculations. to buy steadily on the scale that he did required a constant revenue. this revenue, as we have seen, came from his fur trading methods and activities and the profits and privileges of his shipping. but these factors do not explain his entire agencies in becoming a paramount landocrat. one of these was the banking privilege--a privilege so ordained by law that it was one of the most powerful and insidious suctions for sapping the wealth created by the toil of the producers, and for enriching its owners at a most appalling sacrifice to the working and agricultural classes. and above all, astor in common with his class, made the most valuable asset of law, whether exploiting the violation, or the enforcement, of it. if we are to accept the superficial, perfunctory accounts of astor's real estate investments in new york city, then he will appear in the usual eulogistic light of a law-loving, sagacious man engaged in a legitimate enterprise. the truth, however, lies deeper than that--a truth which has been either undiscerned or glossed over by those conventional writers who, with a panderer's instinct, give a wealth-worshipping era the thing it wants to read, not what it ought to know. although apparently innocent and in accord with the laws and customs of the times, astor's real estate transactions were inseparably connected with consecutive evasions, trickeries, frauds and violations of law. extraordinarily favorable as the law was to the propertied classes, even that law was constantly broken by the very classes to whom it was so partial. simultaneously, while reaping large revenues from his fur trade among the indians in both the east and west, astor was employing a different kind of fraud in using the powers of city and state government in new york in obtaining, for practically nothing, enormously valuable grants of land and other rights and privileges which added to the sum total of his growing wealth. corrupt grants of city land. in this procedure he was but doing what a number of other contemporaries such as peter goelet, the rhinelanders, the lorillards, the schermerhorns and other men who then began to found powerful landed families, were doing at the same time. the methods by which these men secured large areas of land, now worth huge sums, were unquestionably fraudulent, although the definite facts are not as wholly available as are, for instance, those which related to fletcher's granting vast estates for bribes in the seventeenth century, or the bribery which corrupted the various new york legislatures beginning in the year . nevertheless, considering the character of the governing politicians, and the scandals that ensued from the granting and sales of new york city land a century or more ago, it is reasonably certain that corrupt means were used. the student of the times cannot escape from this conclusion, particularly as it is borne out by many confirming circumstances. new york city, at one time, owned a very large area of land which was fraudulently granted or sold to private individuals. considerable of this granting or selling was done during the years when the corrupt benjamin romaine was city controller. romaine was so badly involved in a series of scandals arising from the grants and corrupt sales of city land, that in the common council, controlled by his own party, the tammany machine, found it necessary to remove him from the office of city controller for malfeasance.[ ] the specific charge was that he had fraudulently obtained valuable city land in the heart of the city without paying for it. something had to be done to still public criticism, and romaine was sacrificed. but, in fact, he was far from being the only venal official concerned in the current frauds. these frauds continued no matter which party or what set of officials were in power. several years after romaine was removed, john bingham, a powerful member of the aldermanic committee on finance, which passed upon and approved these various land grants, was charged by public investigators with having caused the city to sell to his brother-in-law land which he later influenced the city administration to buy back at an exorbitant price. spurred by public criticism the common council demanded its reconveyance.[ ] it is more than evident--it is indisputable--from the records and the public scandals, that the successive city administrations were corruptly conducted. the conservative newspaper comments alone of the period indicate this clearly, if nothing else does. a process of spoliation. neither astor nor goelet were directly active members of the changing political cliques which controlled the affairs of the city. it is likely that they bore somewhat the same relation to these cliques that the politico-industrial magnates and financiers of to-day do; to all appearances distinctly apart from participation in politics, and yet by means of money, having a strong or commanding influence in the background. but the rhinelander brothers, william and frederick, were integral members of the political machine in power. thus we find that in , william rhinelander was elected assessor for the fifth ward (a highly important and sumptuary office at that time), while both he and frederick were, at the same time, appointed inspectors of elections.[ ] the action of the city officials in disposing of city land to themselves, to political accomplices and to favorites (who, it is probable, although not a matter of proof, paid bribes) took two forms. one was the granting of land under water, the other the granting of city real estate. at that time the configuration of manhattan island was such that it was marked by ponds, streams and marshes, while the marginal lines of the hudson river and the east river extended much further inland than now. when an individual got what was called a water grant, it meant land under shallow water, where he had the right to build bulkheads and wharves and to fill in and make solid ground. out of these water grants was created property now worth hundreds upon hundreds of millions of dollars. the value at that time was not great, but the prospective value was immense. this fact was recognized in the official reports of the day, which set forth how rapidly the city's population and commerce were increasing. as for city land as such, the city not only owned large tracts by reason of old grants and confiscations, but it constantly came into possession of more because of non-payment of taxes. the excuses by which the city officials covered their short-sighted or fraudulent grants of the water rights and the city land were various. one was that the gifts were for the purpose of assisting religious institutions. this, however, was but an occasional excuse. the principal excuse which was persisted in for forty years was that the city needed revenue. this was a fact. the succeeding city administrations so corruptly and extravagantly squandered the city's money that the city was constantly in debt. perhaps this debt was created for the very purpose of having a plausible ground for disposing of city land. so it was freely charged at that time. the city creates landlords. let us see how the religious motive worked. on june , , the city gave to trinity church a water grant covering all that land from washington street to the north river between chambers and reade streets. the annual rent was one shilling per running foot after the expiration of forty-two years from june , . thus, for forty-two years, no rent was charged. shortly after the passage of this grant, trinity church conveyed it to william rhinelander, and also all that ground between jay and harrison streets, from greenwich street to the north river. by a subsequent arrangement with trinity church and the city, all of this land as well as certain other trinity land became william rhinelander's property; and then, by agreement of the common council on may , , and confirmation of nov. , , he was given all rights to the land water between high and low water mark, bounding his property, for an absurdly low rental.[ ] these water grants were subsequently filled in and became of enormous value. astor was as energetic as rhinelander in getting grants from the city officials. in he obtained two of large extent on the east side--on mangin street between stanton and houston streets, and on south street between peck slip and dover street. on may , , upon a favorable report handed in by the finance committee, of which the notorious john bingham was a member, astor received an extensive grant along the hudson bounding the old burr estate which had come into his possession.[ ] in he received three more water grants in the vicinity of hubert, laight, charlton, hammersly and clarkson streets, and on april , , three at tenth avenue, twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth streets. these were some of the grants that he received. but they do not include the land in the heart of the city that he was constantly buying from private owners or getting by the evident fraudulent connivance of the city officials. having obtained the water grants and other land by fraud, what did the grantees next proceed to do? they had them filled in, not at their own expense, but largely at the expense of the municipality. sunken lots were filled in, sewers placed, and streets opened, regulated and graded at but the merest minimum of expense to these landlords. by fraudulent collusion with the city authorities they foisted much of the expense upon the taxpayers. how much money the city lost by this process in the early decades of the nineteenth century was never known. but in controller flagg submitted to the common council an itemized statement for the five years from in which he referred to "the startling fact that the city's payments, in a range of five years [for filling in sunken lots, regulating and grading streets, etc.], exceed receipts by the sum of more than two millions of dollars."[ ] many participants in the current frauds. in the case of most of these so-called water fronts, there was usually a trivial rental attached. nearly always, however, this was commuted upon payment of a small designated sum, and a full and clear title was then given by the city. in this rush to get water-grants--grants many of which are now solid land filled with business and residential buildings--many of the ancestors of those families which pride themselves upon their exclusive air participated. the lorillards, the goelets, william f. havemeyer, cornelius vanderbilt, w. h. webb, w. h. kissam, robert lenox, schermerhorn, james roosevelt, william e. dodge, jr.--all of these and many others--not omitting astor's american fur company--at various times down to, and including the period of, the monumentally corrupt tweed "ring," got grants from corrupt city administrations. some of these water rights, that is to say, such fragmentary parts of them as pertained to wharves and bulkheads, new york city, in recent years, has had to buy back at exorbitant prices. from the organization of the dock department down to inclusive, new york city had expended $ , , for the purchase of bulkhead and wharf property and for construction. during all the years from on, astor, in conjunction with other landholders, was manipulating the city government not less than the state and federal government. now he gets from the board of aldermen title to a portion of this or that old country road on manhattan which the city closes up; again and again he gets rights of land under water. he constantly solicits the board of aldermen for this or that right or privilege and nearly always succeeds. no property or sum is too small for his grasp. in , when eighth avenue, from thirteenth to twenty-third streets is graded down and the earth removed is sold by the city to a contractor for $ , . , astor, stephen d. beekman and jacob taylor petition that each get a part of the money for earth removed from in front of their lots. this is considered such a petty attempt at defrauding, that the aldermen call it an "unreasonable petition" and refuse to accede.[ ] in the aldermen allow him a part of the old hurlgate road, and rhinelander a part of the southampton road. not a year passes but that he does not get some new right or privilege from the city government. at his request some streets are graded and improved; the improvement of such other streets as is not to his interest to have improved is delayed. here sewers are placed; then they are refused. every function of city administration was incessantly used by him. the cumulative effect of this class use of government was to give him and others a constant succession of grants and privileges that now have a prodigious value. but it should be noted that those who thus benefited, singularly enjoyed the advantages of laws and practices. for city land that they bought they were allowed to pay on easy terms; not infrequently the city had to bring action for final payment. but the tenants of these landlords had to pay rent on the day that it fell due, or within a few days of the time; they could not be in arrears more than three days without having to face dispossess proceedings. nor was this all the difference. on land which they corruptly obtained from the city and which, to a large extent, they fraudulently caused to be filled in, regulated, graded or otherwise improved at the expense of the whole community, the landlords refused to pay taxes promptly, just as they refused to pay them on land that they had bought privately. what was the result? "some of our wealthiest citizens," reported the controller in , "are in the habit of postponing the payment of taxes for six months and more, and the common council are necessitated to borrow money on interest to meet the ordinary disbursements of the city."[ ] if a man of very moderate means were backward in payment of taxes, the city promptly closed him out, and if a tenant of any of these delinquent landlords were dispossessed for non-payment of rent, the city it was which undertook the process of eviction. the rich landlord, however, could do as he pleased, since all government represented his interests and those of his class. instead of the punishment for non-payment of taxes being visited upon him, it was imposed upon the whole community in the form of interest-bearing bonds. pillage, profits and land. the money that astor secured by robbing the indians and exploiting the workers by means of monopolies, he thus put largely into land. in , a story runs, he offers to sell a wall street lot for $ , . the price is so low that a buyer promptly appears. "yes, you are astonished," astor says. "but see what i intend to do with that eight thousand dollars. that wall street lot, it is true, will be worth twelve thousand dollars in a few years. but i shall take that eight thousand dollars and buy eighty lots above canal street and by the time your one lot is worth twelve thousand dollars, my eighty lots will be worth eighty thousand dollars." so goes one of the fine stories told to illustrate his foresight, and to prove that his fortune came exclusively from that faculty and from his industry. this version bears all the impress of being undoubtedly a fraud. astor was remarkably secretive and dissembling, and never revealed his plans to anyone. that he bought the lots is true enough, but his attributed loquacity is mythical and is the invention of some gushing eulogist. at that time he was buying for $ or $ each many lots on lower broadway, then, for the most part, an unoccupied waste. what he was counting upon was the certain growth of the city and the vastly increasing values not that he would give his land, but which would accrue from the labor of an enlarged population. these lots are now occupied by crowded business buildings and are valued at from $ , to $ , each. throughout those years in the first decade of the nineteenth century he was constantly buying land on manhattan island. practically all of it was bought, not with the idea of using it, but of holding it and allowing future populations to make it a thousand times more valuable. an exception was his country estate of thirteen acres at hurlgate (hellgate) in the vicinity of sixtieth street and the east river. it was curious to look back at the fact that less than a century ago the upper regions of manhattan island were filled with country estates--regions now densely occupied by huge tenement houses and some private dwellings. in those days, not less than in these, a country seat was considered a necessary appendage to the possessions of a rich man. astor bought that hurlgate estate as a country seat; but as such it was long since discontinued although the land comprising it has never left the hold of the astor family. what were the intrinsic circumstances of the means by which he bought land, now worth hundreds of millions of dollars? for once, we get a gleam of the truth, but a gleam only, in the "popular writer's" account when he says: "john jacob astor's record is constantly crossed by embarrassed families, prodigal sons, mortgages and foreclosure sales. many of the victims of his foresight were those highest in church and state. he thus acquired for $ , one-half of governor george clinton's splendid greenwich country place [in the old greenwich village on the west side of manhattan island].... after the governor's death, he kept persistently at the heirs, lent them money and acquired additional slices of the family property.... nearly two-thirds of the clinton farm is now held by astor's descendants, and is covered by scores of business buildings, from which is derived an annual income estimated at $ , ." the fate of others his gain. in this transaction we see the beginnings of that period of conquest on the part of the very rich using their surplus capital in effacing the less rich--a period which really opened with astor and which has been vastly intensified in recent times. clinton was accounted a rich man in his day, but he was a pigmy in that respect compared to astor. with his incessant inflow of surplus wealth, astor was in a position where on the instant he could take advantage of the difficulties of less rich men and take over to himself their property. a large amount of astor's money was invested in mortgages. in times of periodic financial and industrial distress, the mortgagers were driven to extremities and could no longer keep up their payments. these were the times that astor waited for, and it was in such times that he stepped in and possessed himself, at comparatively small expense, of large additional tracts of land. it was this way that he became the owner of what was then the cosine farm, extending on broadway from fifty-third to fifty-seventh streets and westward to the hudson river. this property, which he got for $ , by foreclosing a mortgage, is now in the very heart of the city, filled with many business, and every variety of residential, buildings, and is rated as worth $ , , . by much the same means he acquired ownership of the eden farm in the same vicinity, coursing along broadway north from forty-second street and slanting over to the hudson river. this farm lay under pledges for debt and attachments for loans. suddenly astor turned up with a third interest in an outstanding mortgage, foreclosed, and for a total payment of $ , obtained a sweep of property now covered densely with huge hotels, theaters, office buildings, stores and long vistas of residences and tenements--a property worth at the very least $ , , . any one with sufficient security in land who sought to borrow money would find astor extremely accommodating. but woe betide the hapless borrower, whoever he was, if he failed in his obligations to the extent of even a fraction of the requirements covered by law! neither personal friendship, religious considerations nor the slightest feelings of sympathy availed. but where law was insufficient or non-existent, new laws were created either to aggrandize the powers of landlordship, or to seize hold of land or enchance its value, or to get extraordinary special privileges in the form of banking charters. and here it is necessary to digress from the narrative of astor's land transactions and advert to his banking activities, for it was by reason of these subordinately, as well as by his greater trade revenues, that he was enabled so successfully to pursue his career of wealth-gathering. the circumstances as to the origin of certain powerful banks in which he and other landholders and traders were large stockholders, the methods and powers of those banks, and their effect upon the great body of the people, are component parts of the analytic account of his operations. not a single one of astor's biographers has mentioned his banking connections. yet it is of the greatest importance to describe them, inasmuch as they were closely intertwined with his trade, on the one hand, and with his land acquisitions, on the other. footnotes: [ ] doc. no. , state papers, second session, th congress, vol. ii. [ ] "stole on a monstrous scale." the land frauds, by which many of the southern planters obtained estates in louisiana, mississippi and other states were a national scandal. benjamin f. linton, united states attorney for western louisiana, reported to president andrew jackson on august , , that in seizing possession of government land in that region "the most shameful frauds, impositions and perjuries had been committed in louisiana." sent to investigate, v. m. garesche, an agent of the government land office, complained that he could get no one to testify. "is it surprising," he wrote to the secretary of the treasury, "when you consider that those engaged in this business belong to every class of society from the member of the legislature (if i am informed correctly) down to the quarter quarter-section settler!" up to that time the government held title to immense tracts of land in the south and had thrown it open to settlers. few of these were able to get it, however. southern plantation men and northern capitalists and speculators obtained possession by fraud. "a large company," garesche reported, "was formed in new york for the purpose, and have an agent who is continually scouring the country." the final report was a whitewashing one; hence, none of the frauds was sent to jail.--doc. no. , twenty-fourth congress, d session, ii: - , also doc. no. , ibid. [ ] "america," admits houghton, "never presented a more shameful spectacle than was exhibited when the courts of the cotton-growing regions united with the piratical infringers of whitney's rights in robbing their greatest benefactor.... in spite of the far-reaching benefits of his invention, he had not realized one dollar above his expenses. he had given millions upon millions of dollars to the cotton-growing states, he had opened the way for the establishment of the vast cotton-spinning interests of his own country and europe, and yet, after fourteen years of hard labor, he was a poor man, the victim of wealthy, powerful, and, in his case, a dishonest class."--"kings of fortune": . all other of whitney's biographers relate likewise. [ ] see senate documents, first session, th congress, , vol. vi, doc. no. . a few extracts from the great mass of correspondence will lucidly show the nature of the fraudulent methods. writing from columbus, georgia, on july , , col. john milton informed the war department ... "many of them [the indians] are almost starved, and suffer immensely for the things necessary to the support of life, and are sinking in moral degradation. they have been much corrupted by white men who live among them, who induce them to sell to as many different individuals as they can, and then cheat them out of the proceeds."... (p. .) luther blake wrote to the war department from fort mitchell, alabama, on september , ... "many, from motives of speculation, have bought indian reserves fraudulently in this way--take their bonds for trifles, pay them ten or twenty dollars in something they do not want, and take their receipts for five times the amount." (p. ). on february , , j. h. howard, of pole-cat springs, creek nation, sent a communication, by request, to president jackson in which he said, ... "from my own observation, i am induced to believe that a number of reservations have been paid for at some nominal price, and the principal consideration has been whisky and homespun" ... (p. ). gen. j. w. a. sandford, sent by president jackson to the creek country to investigate the charges of fraud, wrote, on march , , to the war department, ... "it is but very recently that the indian has been invested with an individual interest in land, and the great majority of them appear neither to appreciate its possession, nor to economize the money for which it is sold; the consequence is, that the white man rarely suffers an opportunity to pass by without swindling him out of both".... (p. ). the records show that the principal beneficiaries of these swindles were some of the most conspicuous planters, mercantile firms and politicians in the south. frequently, they employed dummies in their operations. [ ] reports of house committees, second session, th congress, - , report no. . [ ] ibid., and . [ ] executive documents, first session, rd congress, - , doc. no. . [ ] senate documents, first session, nd congress, - , vol. iii, doc. no. . [ ] "no inventor," reported the united states commissioner of patents in , "probably has ever been so harassed, so trampled upon, so plundered by that sordid and licentious class of infringers known in the parlance of the world, with no exaggeration of phrase as 'pirates.' the spoliation of their incessant guerilla upon his defenseless rights have unquestionably amounted to millions." [ ] doc. no. , twenty-fourth congress, d session, vol. ii. [ ] doc. , state papers, - , vol. ii. [ ] see part i, chapter ii. [ ] "allowed itself." the various new york legislatures from the end of the eighteenth century on were hotbeds of corruption. time after time members were bribed to pass bills granting charters for corporations or other special privileges. (see the numerous specific instances cited in the author's "history of tammany hall," and subsequently in this work.) the legislature of was notoriously corrupt. [ ] journal of the [new york] senate, : --journal of the [new york] assembly, : ; journal of the assembly, . also "a statement and exposition of the title of john jacob astor to the lands purchased by him from the surviving children of roger morris and mary, his wife"; new york, . [ ] mss. minutes of the (new york city) common council, xvi: - and . [ ] ibid., xx: - . [ ] mss. minutes of the common council, xiii: and . [ ] mss. minutes of the common council, xvii: - . see also annual report of controller for , appendix a. [ ] mss. minutes of the common council, xviii: - . [ ] doc. no. , documents of the board of aldermen, xxii: . [ ] proceedings of the board of aldermen, - , iv: - . [ ] controller's reports for : . also ibid. for : . chapter iv the ramifications of the astor fortune astor flourished at that precise time when the traders and landowners, flushed with revenues, reached out for the creation and control of the highly important business of professionally dealing in money, and of dictating, personally and directly, what the supply of the people's money should be. this signalized the next step in the aggrandizement of individual fortunes. the few who could center in themselves, by grace of government, the banking and manipulation of the people's money and the restricting or inflating of money issues, were immediately vested with an extraordinary power. it was a sovereign power at once coercive and proscriptive, and a mighty instrument for transferring the produce of the many to a small and exclusive coterie. not merely over the labor of the whole working class did this gripping process extend, but it was severely felt by that large part of the landowning and trading class which was excluded from holding the same privileges. the banker became the master of the master. in that fierce, pervading competitive strife, the banks were the final exploiters. sparsely organized and wholly unprotected, the worker was in the complete power of the trader, manufacturer and landowner; in turn, such of these divisions of the propertied class as were not themselves sharers in the ownership of banks were at the mercy of the banking institutions. at any time upon some pretext or other, the banks could arbitrarily refuse the latter class credit or accommodation, or harass its victims in other ways equally as destructive. as business was largely done in expectations of payment, in other words, credit, as it is now, this was a serious, often a desperate, blow to the lagging or embarrassed brothers in trade. banks were virtually empowered by law to ruin or enrich any individual or set of individuals. as the banks were then founded and owned by men who were themselves traders or landholders, this power was crushingly used against competitors. armed with the strong power of law, the banks overawed the mercantile world, thrived on the industry, misfortune or ruin of others, and swayed politics and elections. the bank men loaned money to themselves at an absurdly low rate of interest. but for loans of money to all others they demanded a high rate of interest which, in periods of commercial distress, overwhelmed the borrowers. nominally banks were restricted to a certain standard rate of interest; but by various subterfuges they easily evaded these provisions and exacted usurious rates. banks and their power. these, however, were far from being the worst features. the most innocent of their great privileges was that of playing fast and loose with the money confidingly entrusted to their care by a swarm of depositors who either worked for it, or for the matter of that, often stole it; bankers, like pawnbrokers, ask no questions. the most remarkable of their vested powers was that of manufacturing money. the industrial manufacturer could not make goods unless he had the plant, the raw material and the labor. but the banker, somewhat like the fabled alchemists, could transmute airy nothing into bank-note money, and then, by law, force its acceptance. the lone trader or landholder unsupported by a partnership with law could not fabricate money. but let trader and landholder band in a company, incorporate, then persuade, wheedle or bribe a certain entity called a legislature to grant them a certain bit of paper styled a charter, and lo! they were instantly transformed into money manufacturers. a mandate to prey. the simple mandate of law was sufficient authorization for them to prey upon the whole world outside of their charmed circle. with this scrap of paper they could go forth on the highways of commerce and over the farms and drag in, by the devious, absorbent processes of the banking system, a great part of the wealth created by the actual producers. as it was with taxation, so was it with the burdens of this system; they fell largely upon the worker, whether in the shop or on the farm. when the business man and the landowner were compelled to pay exorbitant rates of interest they but apparently had to meet the demands. what these classes really did was to throw the whole of these extra impositions upon the working class in the form of increased prices for necessaries and merchandise and in augmented rents. but how were these state or government authorizations, called charters, to be obtained? did not the federal constitution prohibit states from giving the right to banks to issue money? were not private money factories specifically barred by that clause of the constitution which declared that no state "shall coin money, emit bills of credit, or make anything but gold or silver a tender in payment of debts?" here, again, the power of class domination of government came into compelling effect. the onward sweep of the trading class was not to be balked by such a trifling obstacle as a constitutional provision. at all times when the constitution has stood in the way of commercial aims it has been abrogated, not by repeal nor violent overthrow, but by the effective expedient of judicial interpretation. the trading class demanded state created banks with power of issuing money; and, as the courts have invariably in the long run responded to the interests and decrees of the dominant class, a decision was quickly forthcoming in this case to the effect that "bills of credit" were not meant to cover banknotes. this was a new and surprising construction; but judicial decision and precedent made it virtually law, and law a thousandfold more binding than any constitutional insertion. courts and constitution. the trading class had already learned the importance of the principle that while it was essential to control law-making bodies, it was imperative to have as their auxiliary the bodies that interpreted law. to a large extent the united states since then has lived not under legislative-made law, but under a purely separate and extraneous form of law which has superseded the legislature product, namely, court law. although nowhere in the united states constitution is there even the suggestion that courts shall make law, yet this past century and more they have been gradually building up a formidable code of interpretations which substantially ranks as the most commanding kind of law. and these interpretations have, on the whole, consistently followed, and kept pace with, the changing interests of the dominant class, whether traders, slaveholders, or the present trusts. this decision of the august courts opened the way for the greatest orgy of corruption and the most stupendous frauds. in new york, massachusetts, new jersey, pennsylvania, maryland, and other states a continuous rush to get bank charters ensued. most of the legislatures were composed of men who, while perhaps, not innately corrupt, were easily seduced by the corrupt temptations held out by the traders. there was a deep-seated hostility, in many parts of the country, on the part of the middling tradesmen--the shopkeepers and the petty merchants--to any laws calculated to increase the power and the privileges of the superior traders and the landowners. among the masses of workers, most of whom were, however, disfranchised, any attempt to vest the rich with new privileges, was received with the bitterest resentment. but the legislatures were approachable; some members who were put there by the rich families needed only the word as to how they should vote, while others, representing both urban and rural communities, were swayed by bribes. by one means or another the traders and landholders forced the various legislatures into doing what was wanted. omitting the records of other states, a few salient facts as to what took place in new york state will suffice to give a clear idea of some of the methods of the trading class in pressing forward their conquests, in hurling aside every impediment, whether public opinion or law, and in creating new laws which satisfied their extending plans for a ramification of profit-producing interests. if forethought, an unswerving aim and singleness of execution mean anything, then there was something sternly impressive in the way in which this rising capitalist class went forward to snatch what it sought, and what it believed to be indispensable to its plans. there was no hesitation, nor were there any scruples as to niceties of methods; the end in view was all that counted; so long as that was attained, the means used were considered paltry side-issues. and, indeed, herein lies the great distinction of action between the world-old propertied classes and the contending proletariat; for whereas the one have always campaigned irrespective of law and particularly by bribery, intimidation, repression and force, the working class has had to confine its movement strictly to the narrow range of laws which were expressly prepared against it and the slightest violation of which has called forth the summary vengeance of a society ruled actually, if not theoretically, by the very propertied classes which set at defiance all law. the banking frauds begin. the chartered monopoly held by the traders who controlled the united states bank was not accepted passively by others of the commercial class, who themselves wanted financial engines of the same character. the doctrine of state's rights served the purpose of these excluded capitalists as well as it did that of the slaveholders. the states began a course of reeling out bank charters. by new york city had one bank, the bank of new york; this admixed the terrorism of trade and politics so overtly that presently an opposition application for a charter was made. this solitary bank was run by some of the old landowning families who fully understood the danger involved in the triumph of the democratic ideas represented by jefferson; a danger far overestimated, however, since win as democratic principles did, the propertied class continued its victorious march, for the simple reason that property was able to divert manhood suffrage to its own account, and to aggrandize itself still further on the ruins of every subsequent similar reform expedient. what the agitated masses, for the most part, of that period could not comprehend was that they who hold the possession of the economic resources will indubitably sway the politics of a country, until such time as the proletariat, no longer divided but thoroughly conscious, organized, and aggressive, will avail itself of its majority vote to transfer the powers of government to itself. the bank of new york injected itself virulently into politics and fought the spread of democratic ideas with sordid but effective weapons. if a merchant dared support what it denounced as heretical doctrines, the bank at once black-listed him by rejecting his notes when he needed cash most. it was now that aaron burr, that adroit leader of the opposition party, stepped in. seconded or instigated by certain traders, he set out to get one of those useful and invaluable bank charters for his backers. the explanation of how he accomplished the act is thus given: taking advantage of the epidemic of yellow fever then desolating new york city, he, with much preliminary of philanthropic motives, introduced a bill for the apparent beneficent purpose of diminishing the future possibility of the disease by incorporating a company, called the manhattan company, to supply pure, wholesome water. supposing that the charter granted nothing more than this, the explanation goes on, the legislature passed the bill, and was most painfully surprised and shocked when the fact came out that the measure had been so deftly drawn, that it, in fact, granted an unlimited charter, conferring banking powers on the company.[ ] this explanation is probably shallow and deficient. it is much more likely that bribery was resorted to, considering the fact that the granting of every successive bank charter was invariably accompanied by bribery. six years later the mercantile bank received a charter for a thirteen years' period--a charter which, it was openly charged by certain members of the assembly, was secured by bribery. these charges were substantially proved by the testimony before a legislative investigating committee.[ ] in the mechanics' bank was chartered with a time limit under circumstances indicating bribery. indeed, so often was bribing done and so pronounced were charges of corruption at frequent sessions of the legislature, that in , the assembly, in an heroic spasm of impressive virtue, passed a resolution compelling each member to pledge himself that he had neither taken, nor would take, "any reward or profit, direct or indirect, for any vote on any measure."[ ] this resolution was palpably intended to blind the public; for, in that identical year, the bank of america received a charter amid charges of flagrant corruption. one assemblyman declared under oath that he had been offered the sum of $ , "besides, a handsome present for his vote."[ ] all of the banks, except the manhattan, had limited charters; measures for the renewal of these were practically all put through by bribery.[ ] thus, in , the charter of the merchants' bank was renewed until , and renewed after that. the chartering of the chemical bank (that staid and most eminently respectable and solid new york institution of to-day) was accomplished by bribery. the chemical bank was an outgrowth of the chemical manufacturing company, the plant and business of which were bought expressly as an excuse to get a banking auxiliary. the goelet brothers were among the founders of this bank. in fact, many of the great landed fortunes were inseparably associated with the frauds of the banking system; money from land was used to bribe legislatures, and money made from the banks was employed in buying more land. the promoters of the chemical bank set aside a considerable sum of money and $ , in stock for the bribery fund.[ ] no sooner had it received its charter than it began to turn out reams of paper money, based upon no value, which paper was paid as wages to its employees as well as circulated generally. so year after year the bribery went on industriously, without cessation. bribery a crime in name only. were the bribers ever punished, their illicitly gotten charters declared forfeited, and themselves placed under the ban of virtuous society? far, very far, from it! the men who did the bribing were of the very pinnacle of social power, elegance and position, or quickly leaped to that height by reason of their wealth. they were among the foremost landholders and traders of the day. by these and a wide radius of similar means, they amassed wealth or greatly increased wealth already accumulated. the ancestors of some of the most conspicuous multimillionaire families of the present were deeply involved in the perpetration of all of those continuous frauds and crimes--peter goelet and his sons, peter p. and robert, for instance, and jacob lorillard, who, for many years, was president of the mechanics' bank. no stigma attached to these wealth-graspers. their success as possessors of riches at once, by the automatic processes of a society which enthroned wealth, elevated them to be commanding personages in trade, politics, orthodoxy and the highest social spheres. the cropped convict, released from prison, was followed everywhere by the jeers and branding of a society which gloated over his downfall and which forever reminded him of his infamy. but the men who waded on to wealth through the muck of base practices and by means of crimes a millionfold more insidious and dangerous than the offense of the convict, were not only honored as leading citizens, but they became the extolled and unquestioned dictators of that supreme trading society which made modes, customs and laws. it was a society essentially built upon money; consequently he who was dexterous enough to get possession of the spoils, experienced no difficulty in establishing his place among the elect and anointed. his frauds were forgotten or ignored; only the fact that he was a rich man was remembered. and yet, what is more natural than to seek, and accept, the obeisance lavished upon property, in a scheme of society where property is crowned as the ruling power? in the rude centuries previously mankind exalted physical prowess; he who had the greatest strength and wielded the deftest strokes became victor of the judicial combat and gathered in laurels and property. but now we have arrived at the time when the cunning of mind supplants the cunning of muscle; bribery takes the place of brawn; the contestants fight with statutes instead of swords. and this newer plan, which some have decried as degenerate, is a great advance over the old, for thereby has brute force been legally abandoned in personal quarrels at least, and that cunning of mind which has held sway, is the first evidence of the reign of mind, which from a low order, will universally develop noble and supereminent qualities charged with the good, and that alone, of the human race. astor's banking activities. with this preliminary sketch, we can now proceed to a consideration of how astor profited from the banking system. we see that constantly the bold spirits of the trading class, with a part of the money made or plundered in some direction or other, were bribing representative bodies to give them exceptional rights and privileges which, in turn, were made the fertile basis for further spoliation. astor was a stockholder in at least four banks, the charters of which had been obtained or renewed by trickery and fraud, or both. he owned , shares of the capital stock of the manhattan company; , of the merchant's bank; of the bank of america; , of the mechanic's bank. he also owned at one time considerable stock in the national bank, the charter of which, it was strongly suspected had been obtained by bribery. there is no evidence that he, himself, did the actual bribing or was in any way concerned in it. in all of the legislative investigations following charges of bribery, the invariable practice was to throw the blame upon the wicked lobbyists, while professing the most naïve astonishment that any imputations should be cast upon any of the members of the honorable legislature. as for the bribers behind the scenes, their names seldom or never were brought out or divulged. in brief, these investigations were all of that rose-water order, generally termed "whitewashing." but whether astor personally bribed or not, he at any rate consciously profited from the results of bribery; and, moreover, it is not probable that his methods in the east were different, except in form, from the debauching and exploitation that he made a system of in the fur regions. it is not outside the realm of reasonable conjecture to suppose that he either helped to debauch, or connived at the corruption of legislatures, just as in another way he debauched indian tribes. furthermore his relations with burr in one notorious transaction, are sufficient to justify the conclusion that he held the closest business relations with that political adventurer who lived next door to him at no. broadway. this transaction was one which was partially the outcome of the organization of the manhattan bank and was a source of millions of dollars of profit to astor and to his descendants. a century or more ago trinity church owned three times the extent of even the vast real estate that it now holds. a considerable part of this was the gift of that royal governor fletcher, who, as has been set forth, was such a master-hand at taking bribes. there long existed a contention upon the part of new york state, a contention embodied in numerous official records, that the land held for centuries by trinity church was usurped; that trinity's title was invalid and that the real title vested in the people of the city of new york. in - the land commissioners of new york state, deeply impressed by the facts as marshalled by rutger b. miller,[ ] recommended that the state bring suit. but with the filing of trinity's reply, mysterious influences intervened and the matter was dropped. these influences are frequently referred to in aldermanic documents. to go back, however: in trinity church leased to abraham mortier, for ninety-nine years, at a total annual rental of $ a year, a stretch of land comprising lots in what is now the vicinity bounded by greenwich, spring and hudson streets. mortier used it as a country place until when the new york legislature, upon the initiative of burr, developed a consuming curiosity as to how trinity church was expending its income. this was a very ticklish question with the pious vestrymen of trinity, as it was generally suspected that they were commingling business and piety in a way that might, if known, cause them some trouble. the law, at that time, restricted the annual income of trinity church from its property to $ , a year. a committee of investigation was appointed; of this committee burr was made chairman. how astor secured a lease. burr never really made any investigation. why? the reason soon came out, when burr turned up with a transfer of the mortier lease to himself. he at once obtained from the manhattan bank a $ , loan, pledging the lease as security. when his duel with hamilton forced burr to flee the country, astor promptly came along and took the lease off his hands. astor, it was said, paid him $ , for it, subject to the manhattan bank's mortgage. at any rate, astor now held this extraordinarily valuable lease.[ ] he immediately released it in lots; and as the city fast grew, covering the whole stretch with population and buildings, the lease was a source of great revenue to him and to his heirs.[ ] as a lutheran, astor could not be a vestryman of trinity church. anthony lispenard, however, it may be passingly noted, was a vestryman, and, as such, mixed piety and business so well, that his heirs became possessed of millions of dollars by the mere fact that in , when a vestryman, he got a lease, for eighty-three years of eighty-one trinity lots adjacent to the astor leased land, at a total annual rental of $ . .[ ] it was by the aid of the banking system that the trading class was greatly enabled to manipulate the existing and potential resources of the country and to extend invaluable favors to themselves. in this system astor was a chief participant. for many years the banks, especially in new york state, were empowered by law to issue paper money to the extent of three times the amount of their capital. the actual specie was seized hold of by the shippers, and either hoarded, or exported in quantities to asia or europe which, of course, would not handle paper money. by the banks in new york had issued $ , , , and the total amount of specie to redeem this fiat stuff amounted to only $ , , . these banknotes were nothing more or less than irresponsible promises to pay. what became of them? what the worker got as wages. what, indeed, became of them? they were imposed upon the working class as payment for labor. although these banknotes were subject to constant depreciation, the worker had to accept them as though they were full value. but when the worker went to buy provisions or pay rent, he was compelled to pay one-third, and often one-half, as much as the value represented by those banknotes. sometimes, in crises, he could not get them cashed at all; they became pitiful souvenirs in his hands. this fact was faintly recognized by a new york senate committee when it reported in that every artifice in the wit of man had been devised to find ways of putting these notes into circulation; that when the merchant got this depreciated paper, he "saddled it upon the departments of productive labor." "the farmer and the mechanic alike," went on the report, "have been invited to make loans and have fallen victims to the avarice of the banker. the result has been the banishment of metallic currency, the loss of commercial confidence, fictitious capital, increase of civil prosecutions and multiplication of crimes."[ ] what the committee did not see was that by this process those in control of the banks had, with no expenditure, possessed themselves of a considerable part of the resources of the country and had made the worker yield up twice and three times as much of the produce of his labor as he had to give before the system was started. the large amount of paper money, without any basis of value whatever, was put out at a heavy rate of interest. when the merchant paid his interest, he charged it up as extra cost on his wares; and when the worker came to buy these same wares which he or some fellow-worker had made, he was charged a high price which included three things all thrown upon him: rent, interest and profit. the banks indirectly sucked in a large portion of these three factors. and so thoroughly did the banks control legislation that they were not content with the power of issuing spurious paper money; they demanded, and got through, an act exempting bank stock from taxation. thus year after year this system went on, beggaring great numbers of people, enriching the owners of the banks and virtually giving them a life and death power over the worker, the farmer and the floundering, struggling small business man alike. the laws were but slightly altered. "the great profits of the banks," reported a new york senate committee on banks and insurance in , "arise from their issues. it is this privilege which enables them, in fact, to coin money, to substitute their evidences of debt for a metallic currency and to loan more than their actual capitals. a bank of $ , capital is permitted to loan $ , ; and thus receive an interest on twice and a half the amount actually invested."[ ] the workingmen's party protest. it cannot be said that all of the workingmen were apathetic, or that some did not see through the fraud of the system. they had good reason for the deepest indignation and exasperation. the terrible injustices piled upon them from every quarter--the low wages that they were forced to accept, often in depreciated or worthless banknotes, the continually increasing exactions of the landlords, the high prices squeezed out of them by monopolies, the arbitrary discriminations of law--these were not without their effect. the workingmen's party, formed in in new york city, was the first and most ominous of these proletarian uprisings. its resolutions read like a proletarian declaration of independence, and would unquestionably have resulted in the most momentous agitation, had it not been that it was smothered by its leaders, and also because the slavery issue long obscured purely economic questions. "resolved," ran its resolutions adopted at military hall, oct. , , in the opinion of this meeting, that the first appropriation of the soil of the state to private and exclusive possession was eminently and barbarously unjust. that it was substantially feudal in its character, inasmuch as those who received enormous and unequal possessions were _lords_ and those who received little or nothing were _vassals_. that hereditary transmission of wealth on the one hand and poverty on the other, has brought down to the present generation all the evils of the feudal system, and that, in our opinion, is the prime source of all our calamities. after declaring that the workingmen's party would oppose all exclusive privileges, monopolies and exemptions, the resolutions proceeded: we consider it an exclusive privilege for one portion of the community to have the _means of education in colleges_, while another is restricted to common schools, or, perhaps, by extreme poverty, even deprived of the limited education to be acquired in those establishments. our voice, therefore, shall be raised in favor of a system of education which shall be equally open to _all_, as in a real republic, it should be. finally the resolutions told what the workingmen's party thought of the bankers and the banking system. the bankers were denounced as "the greatest knaves, impostors and paupers of the age." the resolutions went on: as banking is now conducted, the owners of the banks receive annually of the people of the state not less than two millions of dollars in their paper money (and it might as well be pewter money) for which there is and can be nothing provided for its redemption on demand.... the mockery that went up from all that was held influential, respectable and stable when these resolutions were printed, was echoed far and wide. they were looked upon first as a joke, and then, when the workingmen's party began to reveal its earnestness and strength, as an insolent challenge to constituted authority, to wealth and superiority, and as a menace to society. radicalism versus respectability. the "courier and enquirer," owned by webb and noah, in the pay of the united states bank, burst out into savage invective. it held the workingmen's party up to opprobrium as an infidel crowd, hostile to the morals and the institutions of society, and to the rights of property. nevertheless the workingmen's party proceeded with an enthusiastic, almost ecstatic, campaign and polled , votes, a very considerable number compared to the whole number of voters at the time. by , however, it had gone out of existence. the reason was that it allowed itself to be betrayed by the supineness, incompetence, and as some said, the treachery, of its leaders, who were content to accept from a legislature controlled by the propertied interests various mollifying sops which slightly altered certain laws, but which in no great degree redounded to the benefit of the working class. for a few bits of counterfeit, this splendid proletarian uprising, glowing with energy, enthusiasm and hope, allowed itself to be snuffed out of existence. what a tragedy was there! and how futile and tragic must inevitably be the fate of any similar movement which depends not upon itself, not upon its own intrinsic, collective strength and wisdom, but upon the say-so of leaders who come forward to assume leadership. representing only their own timidity of thought and cowardice of action, they often end by betraying the cause placed confidingly in their charge. that class which for these immemorial generations has done the world's work, and as long has been plundered and oppressed and betrayed, thus had occasion to learn anew the bitter lesson taught by the wreckage of the past, that it is from itself that the emancipation must come; that it is itself which must essentially think, act and strike; that its forces, long torn asunder and dispersed, must be marshalled in invulnerable compactness and iron discipline; and so that its hosts may not again be routed by strategy, no man or set of men should be entrusted with the irrevocable power of executing its decrees, for too often has the courage, boldness and strength of the many been shackled or destroyed by the compromising weakness of the leaders. the panic of . passing over the equal rights movement in , which was a diluted revival of the workingmen's party, and which, also, was turned into sterility by the treachery of its leaders, we arrive at the panic of , the time when astor, profiting from misfortune on every side, vastly increased his wealth. the panic of was one of those periodic financial and industrial convulsions resulting from the chaos of capitalist administration. no sooner had it commenced, than the banks refused to pay out any money, other than their worthless notes. for thirty-three years they had not only enjoyed immense privileges, but they had used the powers of government to insure themselves a monopoly of the business of manufacturing money. in the legislature of new york state had passed an extraordinary law, called the restraining act. this prohibited, under severe penalties, all associations and individuals not only from issuing notes, but "from receiving deposits, making discounts or transacting any other business which incorporated banks may or do transact." thus the law not only legitimatized the manufacture of worthless money, but guaranteed a few banks a monopoly of that manufacture. another restraining act was passed in . the banks were invested with the sovereign privilege of depreciating the currency at their discretion, and were authorized to levy an annual tax upon the country, nearly equivalent to the interest on $ , , of deposits and circulation. on top of these acts, the legislature passed various acts compelling the public authorities in new york city to deposit public money with the manhattan company. this company, although, as we have seen, expressly chartered to supply pure water to the city of new york, utterly failed to do so; at one stage the city tried to have its charter revoked on the ground of failure to carry out its chartered function, but the courts decided in the company's favor.[ ] at the outbreak of the panic of , the new york banks held more than $ , , of public money. when called upon to pay only about a million of that sum, or the premium on it, they refused. but far worse was the experience of the general public. when they frantically besieged the banks for their money, the bank officials filled the banks with heavily armed guards and plug-uglies with orders to fire on the crowd in case a rush was attempted.[ ] in every state conditions were the same. in may, , not less than eight hundred banks in the united states suspended payment, refusing a single dollar to the government whose deposits of $ , , they held, and to the people in general who held $ , , of their notes. no specie whatever was in circulation. the country was deluged with small notes, colloquially termed shinplasters. of every form and every denomination from the alleged value of five cents to that of five dollars, they were issued by every business individual or corporation for the purpose of paying them off as wages to their employees. the worker was forced to take them for his labor or starve. moreover, the shinplasters were so badly printed that it was not hard to counterfeit them. the counterfeiting of them quickly became a regular business; immense quantities of the stuff were issued. the worker never knew whether the bills paid him for his work were genuine or counterfeit, although essentially there was not any great difference in basic value between the two.[ ] the resulting widespread destitution. now the storm broke. everywhere was impoverishment, ruination and beggary. every bank official in new york city was subject to arrest for the most serious frauds and other crimes, but the authorities took no action. on the contrary, so complete was the dominance of the banks over government,[ ] that they hurriedly got the legislature to pass an act practically authorizing a suspension of specie payments. the consequences were appalling. "thousands of manufacturing, mercantile, and other useful establishments in the united states," reported a new york senate committee, "have been broken down or paralyzed by the existing crisis.... in all our great cities numerous individuals, who, by a long course of regular business, had acquired a competency, have suddenly been reduced, with their families to beggary."[ ] new york city was filled with the homeless and unemployed. in the early part of one-third of all the persons in new york city who subsisted by manual labor, were wholly or substantially without employment. not less than , persons were in utter poverty, and had no other means of surviving the winter than those afforded by the charity of neighbors. the almshouses and other public and charitable institutions overflowed with inmates, and , sufferers were still uncared for. the prevailing system, as was pointed out even by the conventional and futile reports of legislative committees, was one inevitably calculated to fill the country with beggars, vagrants and criminals. this important fact was recognized, although in a remote way, by de beaumont and de tocqueville who, however, had no fundamental understanding of the deep causes, nor even of the meaning of the facts which they so accurately gathered. in their elaborate work on the penitentiary system in the united states, published in , they set forth that it was their conclusion that in the four states, new york, massachusetts, connecticut and pennsylvania, the prison system of which they had fully investigated, almost all of those convicted for crimes from to were convicted for offenses against property. in these four states, collectively, with a population amounting to one-third of that of the union, not less than . out of every convictions were for crimes against property, while only . of every were for crimes against persons, and . of every were for crimes against morals. in new york state singly, . of every convictions were for crimes against property and . for crimes against persons.[ ] property and crime. thus we see from these figures filled with such tragic eloquence, the economic impulse working at bottom, and the property system corrupting every form of society. but here a vast difference is to be noted. just as in england the aristocracy for centuries had made the laws and had enforced the doctrine that it was they who should wield the police power of the state, so in the united states, to which the english system of jurisprudence had been transplanted, the propertied interests, constituting the aristocracy, made and executed the laws. de beaumont and de tocqueville passingly observed that while the magistrates in the united states were plebeian, yet they followed out the old english system; in other words, they enforced laws which were made for, and by, the american aristocracy, the trading classes. the views, aims and interests of these classes were so thoroughly intrenched in law that the fact did not escape the keen notice of these foreign investigators. "the americans, descendants of the english," they wrote, "have provided in every respect for the rich and hardly at all for the poor.... in the same country where the complainant is put in prison, the thief remains at liberty, if he can find bail. murder is the only crime whose authors are not protected[ ].... the mass of lawyers see in this nothing contrary to their ideas of justice and injustice, nor even to their democratic institutions."[ ] the system--how it worked. the system, then, frequently forced the destitute into theft and mendicancy. what resulted? laws, inconceivably harsh and brutal, enacted by, and in behalf of, property rights were enforced with a rigor which seems unbelievable were it not that the fact is verified by the records of thousands of cases. those convicted for robbery usually received a life sentence; they were considered lucky if they got off with five years. the ordinary sentence for burglary was the same, with variations. forgery and grand larceny were punishable with long terms, ranging from five to seven years. these were the laws in practically all of the states with slight differences. but they applied to whites only. the negro slave criminal had a superior standing in law, for the simple reason that while the whites were "free" labor, negroes were property, and, of course, it did not pay to send slaves to prison. in maryland and in most southern states, where the slaveholders were both makers and executors of law, the slaves need have no fear of prison. "the slaves, as we have seen before, are not subject to the penal code of the whites; they are hardly ever sent to prison. slaves who commit grave crimes are hung; those who commit heinous crimes not punishable with death are sold out of the state. in selling him care is taken that his character and former life are not known, _because it would lessen his price_." thus wrote de beaumont and de tocqueville; and in so writing they handed down a fine insight into the methods of that southern propertied class which assumed so exalted an opinion of its honor and chivalry. but the sentencing of the criminal was merely the beginning of a weird life of horror. it was customary at that period to immure prisoners in solitary confinement. there, in their small and reeking cells, filled with damps and pestilential odors, they were confined day after day, year after year, condemned to perpetual inactivity and silence. if they presumed to speak, they were brutally lashed with the whip. they were not allowed to write letters, nor to communicate with any member of their family. but the law condescended to allow a minister to visit them periodically in order to awaken their religious thoughts and preach to them how bad a thing it was to steal! many were driven stark mad or died of disease; others dashed their brains out; while others, when finally released, went out into the world filled with an overpowering hatred of society, and all its institutions, and a long-cherished thirst for vengeance against it for having thus so cruelly misused them. such were the laws made by the propertied classes. but they were not all. when a convict was released, the law allowed only three dollars to be given him to start anew with. "to starve or to steal is too often the only alternative," wrote john w. edmonds, president of the new york board of prison inspectors in .[ ] if the released convict did steal he was nearly always sent back to prison for life. equally severe in their way were the laws applying to mendicants and vagrants. six months or a year in the penitentiary or workhouse was the usual sentence. after the panic of , crime, mendicancy, vagrancy and prostitution tremendously increased, as they always do increase after two events: war, which, when over, turns into civil life a large number of men who cannot get work; and panics which chaotically uproot industrial conditions and bring about widespread destitution. although undeniably great frauds had been committed by the banking class, not a single one of that class went to jail. but large numbers of persons convicted of crimes against property, and great batches of vagrants were dispatched there, and also many girls and women who had been hurled by the iron force of circumstances into the horrible business of prostitution. these were some of the conditions in those years. let it not, however, be supposed that the traders, bankers and landowners were impervious to their own brand of sensibilities. they dressed fastidiously, went to church, uttered hallelujahs, gave dainty receptions, formed associations to dole out alms and--kept up prices and rents. notwithstanding the general distress, rents in new york city were greater than were paid in any other city or village upon the globe.[ ] footnotes: [ ] hammond's "political history of the state of new york," : - . [ ] journal of the [new york] senate and assembly, : and . [ ] ibid., : . [ ] ibid., : - . frequently, in those days, the giving of presents was a part of corrupt methods. [ ] "the members [of the legislature] themselves sometimes participated in the benefits growing out of charters created by their own votes; ... if ten banks were chartered at one session, twenty must be chartered the next, and thirty the next. the cormorants could never be gorged. if at one session you bought off a pack of greedy lobby agents ... they returned with increased numbers and more voracious appetite."--hammond, ii: - . [ ] journal of the [new york] senate, : - . see also chap. viii, part ii of this work. [ ] "letter and authentic documentary evidence in relation to the trinity church property," etc., albany, . hoffman, the best authority on the subject, says in his work published forty-five years ago: "very extensive searches have proved unavailing to enable me to trace the sources of the title to much of this upper portion of trinity church property."--"state and rights of the corporation of new york," ii: . [ ] in all of the official communications of trinity church up to this lease is referred to as the "burr or astor lease."--"the communication of the rector, church wardens and vestrymen of trinity church in the city of new york in reply to a resolution of the house, passed march , "; document no. , assembly docs. . also document no. , senate docs. . upon returning from exile burr tried to break his lease to astor, but the lease was so astutely drawn that the courts decided in astor's favor. [ ] in his descriptive work on new york city of a half century ago, matthew hale smith, in "sunshine and shadow in new york" (pp. - ), tells this story: "the morley [mortier] lease was to run until . persons who took the leases supposed that they took them for the full term of the trinity lease. [john jacob] astor was too far-sighted and too shrewd for that. every lease expired in , leaving him [william b. astor, the founder's heir] the reversion for three years, putting him in possession of all the buildings, and all of the improvements made on the lots, and giving him the right of renewal." smith's account is faulty. most of the leases expired in . the value of the reversions was very large. [ ] docs. no. [new york] assembly docs., : - . [ ] journal of the [new york] senate, forty-second session, : - . [ ] doc. no. , [new york] senate documents, , vol. ii. the committee stated that banks in the state outside of new york city, after paying all expenses, divided per cent. among the stockholders in and had on hand as surplus capital per cent. on their capital. new york city banks paid larger dividends. [ ] people of the state of new york vs. manhattan co.--doc. no. , documents of the board of assistant aldermen, - , vol. ii. [ ] doc. no. [new york] senate docs., , vol. ii. [ ] abridgement of the debates of congress, from to , xiii: - . [ ] in the course of this work, the word government is frequently used to signify not merely the functions of the national government, but those of the totality of government, state and municipal, not less than national. [ ] doc. no. [new york] senate docs., , vol. ii. [ ] "on the penitentiary system in the united states," etc., by g. de beaumont and a. de tocqueville, appendix , statistical notes: - . [ ] a complete error. walling, for more than thirty years superintendent of police of new york city, says in his "memoirs" that he never knew an instance of a rich murderer who was hanged or otherwise executed. and have we all not noted likewise? [ ] "on the penitentiary system," etc., - . [ ] prison association of new york, annual reports, - . it is characteristic of the origin of all of these charity associations, that many of the founders of this prison association were some of the very men who had profited by bribery and theft. horace greeley was actuated by pure humanitarian motives, but such incorporators as prosper wetmore, ulshoeffer, and others were, or had been, notorious in lobbying by bribing bank charters through the new york legislature. [ ] "the new yorker," feb. , . chapter v the momentum of the astor fortune it was at this identical time, in the panic of , that astor was phenominally active in profiting from despair. "he added immensely to his riches," wrote a contemporaneous narrator, "by purchases of state stocks, bonds and mortgages in the financial crisis of - . he was a willing purchaser of mortgages from needy holders at less than their face; and when they became due, he foreclosed on them, and purchased the mortgaged property at the ruinous prices which ranged at that time."[ ] if his seven per cent was not paid at the exact time, he inflexibly made use of every provision of the law and foreclosed mortgages. the courts quickly responded. to lot after lot, property after property, he took full title. the anguish of families, the sorrow and suffering of the community, the blank despair and ruination which drove many to beggary and prostitution, others to suicide, all had no other effect upon him than to make him more eagerly energetic in availing himself of the misfortunes and the tragedies of others. now was observable the operation of the centripetal principle which applied to every recurring panic, namely, that panics are but the easy means by which the very rich are enabled to get possession of more and more of the general produce and property. the ranks of petty landowners were much thinned out by the panic of and the number of independent business men was greatly reduced; a considerable part of both classes were forced down into the army of wageworkers. astor's wealth multiplies. within a few years after the panic of astor's wealth multiplied to an enormous extent. business revived, values increased. it was now that immigration began to pour in heavily. in sixty thousand immigrants entered the port of new york. four years later the number was , a year. soon it rose to , a year; and from that time on kept on ever increasing. a large portion of these immigrants remained in new york city. land was in demand as never before; fast and faster the city grew. vacant lots of a few years before became congested with packed humanity; landlordism and slums flourished side by side, the one as a development of the other. the outlying farm, rocky and swamp lands of the new york city of , with its , population became the thickly-settled metropolis of , with , inhabitants and the well-nigh half-million population of . hard as the laborer might work, he was generally impoverished for the reason that successively rents were raised, and he had to yield up more and more of his labor for the simple privilege of occupying an ugly and cramped habitation. once having fastened his hold upon the land, astor never sold it. from the first, he adopted the plan, since religiously followed, for the most part, by his descendants, of leasing the land for a given number of years, usually twenty-one. large tracts of land in the heart of the city he let lie unimproved for years while the city fast grew up all around them and enormously increased their value. he often refused to build, although there was intense pressure for land and buildings. his policy was to wait until the time when those whom necessity drove to use his land should come to him as supplicants and accept his own terms. for a considerable time no one cared to take his land on lease at his onerous terms. but, finally, such was the growth of population and business, that his land was indispensable and it was taken on leaseholds. astor's exactions for leaseholds were extraordinarily burdensome. but he would make no concessions. the lessee was required to erect his dwelling or business place at his own expense; and during the period of the twenty-one years of the lease, he not only had to pay rent in the form of giving over to astor five or six per cent of the value of the land, but was responsible for all taxes, repairs and all other charges. when the ground lease expired the buildings became astor's absolute property. the middleman landlord, speculative lessee or trading tenant who leased astor's land and put up tenements or buildings, necessarily had to recoup himself for the high tribute that he had to pay to astor. he did this either by charging the worker exorbitant rents or demanding excessive profits for his wares; in both of which cases the producers had finally to foot the bill. evasion of assessments by the landlords. the whole machinery of the law astor, in common with all other landlords, used ruthlessly in enforcing his rights as landlord or as lessor or lessee. not a single instance has come down of any act of leniency on astor's part in extending the time of tenants in arrears. whether sickness was in the tenant's family or not, however dire its situation might be, out it was summarily thrown into the streets, with its belongings, if it failed in the slightest in its obligations. while he was availing himself of the rigors of the law to oust tenants in arrears, he was constantly violating the law in evading assessments. but this practice was not by any means peculiar to astor. practically the whole propertied class did it, not merely once, but so continually that year after year official reports adverted to the fact. an aldermanic report on taxation in showed that thirty million dollars worth of assessable property escaped taxation every year, and that no bona fide efforts were made by the officials to remedy that state of affairs.[ ] the state of morality among the propertied classes--those classes which demanded such harsh laws for the punishment of vagrants and poor criminals--is clearly revealed by this report made by a committee of the new york board of aldermen in : for several years past the evasion of taxation on the part of those engaged in the business of the city, and enjoying the protection and benefits of its municipal government and its great public improvements, has engaged the attention of the city authorities, called forth reports of committees and caused application to the legislature for relief, but the demands of justice and the dictates of sound policy have hitherto been entirely unheeded. necessarily they were unheeded, for the very obvious reason that it was this same class which controlled the administration of government. this class distorted the powers of government by calling either for the drastic enforcement of laws operating for its interests, or for the partial or entire immunity from other laws militating against its interests and profit. the report thus continued: our rich merchants and heavy capitalists ... find excuses to remove their families to nearby points and thus escape all taxation whatever, except for the premises that they occupy. _more than , firms engaged in business_ in new york, whose capital is invested and used in new york, and with an aggregate personal property of $ , , , thus escape taxation.[ ] defrauding a fine art. the committee pointed out that at the taxable rate of per cent the city was, in that way, being cheated out of the sum of $ , or $ , a year. these two thousand firms who every year defrauded the city were the eminently respectable and influential merchants of the city; most of them were devout church members; many were directors or members of charitable societies to relieve the poor; and all of them, with vast pretensions of superior character and ability, joined in opposing any movement of the working classes for better conditions and in denouncing those movements as hostile to the security of property and as dangerous to the welfare of society. each of these two thousand firms year after year defrauded the city out of an average of $ annually in that one item, not to mention other frauds. yet not once was the law invoked against them. the taxation that they shirked fell upon the working class in addition to all of those other myriad forms of indirect taxation which the workers finally had to bear. yet, as we have noted before, if a poor man or woman stole property of the value of $ or more, conviction carried with it a long term in prison for grand larceny. in every city--in boston, philadelphia, cincinnati, baltimore, new orleans and in every other place--the same, or nearly the same, conditions prevailed. the rich evaded taxation; and if in the process it was necessary to perjure themselves, they committed perjury with alacrity. astor was far from being an exception. he was but an illustrious type of the whole of his class. but, how, in a government theoretically democratic and resting on popular suffrage, did the propertied interests get control of government functions? how were they able to sway the popular vote and make, or evade, laws? by various influences and methods. in the first place, the old english ideas of the superiority of aristocracy had a profound effect upon american thought, customs and laws. for centuries these ideas had been incessantly disseminated by preachers, pamphleteers, politicians, political economists and editors. where in england the concept applied mainly to rank by birth, in america it was adapted to the native aristocracy, the traders and landowners. in england it was an admixture of rank and property; in america, where no titles of nobility existed, it became exclusively a token of the propertied class. the people were assiduously taught in many open and subtle ways to look up to the inviolability of property, just as in the old days they had been taught to look humbly up to the majesty of the king. propertied men, it was preached and admonished, represented the worth, stability, virtue and intelligence of the community. they were the solid, substantial men. what importance was to be attached to the propertyless? they, forsooth, were regarded as irresponsible and vulgar; their opinions and aspirations were held of small account. how public opinion was made. the churches professed to preach to all; yet they depended largely upon men of property for contributions; and moreover the clergy, at least the influential of them, were propertied men themselves. the preachings of the colleges and the doctrines of the political economists corresponded precisely to the views the trading interests at different periods wanted taught. many of the colleges were founded with funds contributed or bequeathed by traders. the newspapers were supported by the advertisements of the propertied class. the various legislative bodies were mainly, and the judicial benches wholly, recruited from the ranks of the lawyer class; these lawyers either had, or sought to have, the rich as clients;[ ] few attorneys are overzealous for poor men's cases. still further, the lawyers were deeply impregnated, not with the conception of law as it might be, but as it had been handed down through the centuries. encrusted creatures of precedent and self-interest, they thoroughly accepted the doctrine that in the making and enforcement of law their concern should be for the propertied interests. with few exceptions they were aligned with the propertied. so that here were many influences all of which conspired to spread on every hand, and drill deep in the minds of all classes, often even of those who suffered so keenly by prevalent conditions, the idea that the propertied men were the substantial element. consequently with this idea continuously driven into every stratum of society, it was not surprising that it should be embodied in thoughts, customs, laws and tendencies. nor was it to be wondered at that when occasionally a proletarian uprising enunciated radical principles, these principles should seem to be abnormally ultra-revolutionary. all society, for the most part, except a fragment of the working class, was enthralled by the spell of property. the sanctity of property. out of this prevailing idea grew many of the interpretations and partial enforcements. a legislator, magistrate or judge might be the very opposite of venal, and yet be irresistibly impelled by the force of training and association to take the current view of the unassailable rights and superiority of property. it would be biassed, in fact, ridiculous to say that the privileges and exemptions enjoyed by the rich were altogether the outcome of corruption by bribes. there is a much more subtle and far more effective and dangerous form of corruption. this is corruption of the mind. for innumerable centuries all government had proceeded, perhaps not avowedly, but in reality, upon the settled and consistent principle that the sanctity of property was superior to considerations of human life, and that a man of property could not very well be a criminal and a peril to the community. under various disguises church, college, newspaper, politician, judge, all were expositors of this principle. the people were drugged with laudations of property. but these teachings were supplemented by other methods which added to their effectiveness. we have seen how after the revolution the propertied classes withheld suffrage from those who lacked property. they feared that property would no longer be able to dominate government. gradually they were forced to yield to the popular demand and allow manhood suffrage. this seemed to them a new and affrighting force; if votes were to determine the personnel and policy of government, then the propertyless, being in the majority, would overwhelm them eventually and pass an entirely new code of laws. in one state after another, the propertied class were driven, after a prolonged struggle, to grant citizens a vote, whether they had property or not. in new york state unqualified manhood suffrage was adopted in , but in other states it was more difficult to bring about this revolutionary change. the fundamental suffrage law of new jersey, for instance, remained, for more than sixty years after the adoption of the declaration of independence, in accordance with an act passed by the provincial congress of new jersey on july , , two days before the adoption of the declaration of independence, or according to some authorities, on the very day of its adoption. among other requirements this act ( laws, n. j. p. .) decreed that the voter must be "worth £ proclamation money, clear estate within the colony." the fourth section of an act passed by the new jersey legislature in june, ( laws n. j. p. ), expressly reenacted this same property qualification. by about the year , however, nearly all the states had adopted manhood suffrage, so far as it applied to whites. the severest and most dramatic conflict took place in rhode island. in an act had been passed declaring that the possession of £ was necessary to become qualified as a voter. this law continued in force in rhode island for more than eighty years. in the years , , , , and the workingmen (or the mechanics, as the official reports styled them), made the most determined efforts to have this property qualification abolished, but the propertied classes, holding the legislative power, declined to make any change. under such a law it was easy for one-third of the total number of resident male adults to have the exclusive decisions in elections; the largest vote ever polled in rhode island, was in the presidential election of , when , votes were cast, in a total adult male population of permanent resident citizens of about , . the result of this hostility of the propertied classes was a rising in of the workingmen in what is slurringly misdescribed in conventional history as "dorr's rebellion,"--an event the real history of which has not as yet been told. this movement eventually compelled the introduction in rhode island of suffrage without the property qualification. how did the propertied classes meet this extension of suffrage throughout the united states? corruption at the polls. a systematic corruption of the voters was now begun. the policy of bribing certain legislators to vote for bank, railroad, insurance company and other charters was extended to reach down into ward politics, and to corrupt the voters at the springs of power. with a part of the money made in the frauds of trade or from exactions for land, the propertied interests, operating at first by personal entry into politics and then through the petty politicians of the day, packed caucuses and primaries and bought votes at the polls. this was equally true of both city and rural communities. in many of the rural sections the morals of the people were exceedingly low, despite their church-going habits. the cities contained, as they always do contain, a certain quota of men, products of the industrial system, men of the slums and alleyways, so far gone in destitution or liquor that they no longer had manhood or principle. along came the election funds of the traders, landholders and bankers to corrupt these men still further by the buying of their votes and the inciting of them to commit the crime of repeating at the polls. exalted society and the slums began to work together; the money of the one purchased the votes of the other. year after year this corruption fund increased until in the fall of the money raised in new york city by the bankers alone amounted to $ , . although this sum was meager compared to the enormous corruption funds which were employed in subsequent years, it was a sum which, at that time, could do great execution. ignorant immigrants were persuaded by offerings of money to vote this way or that and to repeat their votes. presently the time came when batches of convicts were brought from the prisons to do repeating, and overawe the polls in many precincts.[ ] as for that class of voters who could not be bribed and who voted according to their conceptions of the issues involved, they were influenced in many ways:--by the partisan arguments of newspapers and of political speech-makers. these agencies of influencing the body politic were indirectly controlled by the propertied interests in one form or another. a virtual censorship was exercised by wealth; if a newspaper dared advocate any issue not approved by the vested interests, it at once felt the resentment of that class in the withdrawal of advertisements and of those privileges which banks could use or abuse with such ruinous effect. political subserviency. finally, both of the powerful political parties were under the domination of wealth; not, to be sure, openly so, but insidiously. differences of issue there assuredly were, but these issues did not in any way affect the basic structure of society, or threaten the overthrow of any of the fundamental privileges held by the rich. the political campaigns, except that later contest which decided the eventual fate of chattel slavery, were, in actuality, sham battles. never were the masses so enthusiastic since the campaign of when jefferson was elected, as they were in when they sided with president jackson in his fight against the united states bank. they considered this contest as one between the people, on the one side, and, on the other, the monied aristocracy of the country. the united states bank was effaced; but the state banks promptly took over that share of the exploitative process so long carried on by the united states bank and the people, as has already been explained, were no better off than they were before. one set of ruling capitalists had been put down only to make way for another. both parties received the greater part of their campaign funds from the men of large property and from the vested corporations or other similar interests. astor, for example, was always a liberal contributor, now to the whig party and again to the democratic. in return, the politicians elected by those parties to the legislature, the courts or to administrative offices usually considered themselves under obligations to that element which financed its campaigns and which had the power of defeating their reëlection by the refusal of funds or by supporting the opposite party. the masses of the people were simply pawns in these political contests, yet few of them understood that all the excitement, partisan activity and enthusiasm into which they threw themselves, generally had no other significance than to enchain them still faster to a system whose beneficiaries were continuously getting more and more rights and privileges for themselves at the expense of the people, and whose wealth was consequently increasing by precipitate bounds. astor becomes america's richest man. astor was now the richest man in america. in his fortune was estimated at fully $ , , . in all the length and breadth of the united states there was no man whose fortune was within even approachable distance of his. with wonderment his contemporaries regarded its magnitude. how great it ranked at that period may be seen by a contrast with the wealth of other men who were considered very rich. in and a pamphlet listing the number of rich men in new york was published under the direction of moses yale beach, publisher of the "new york sun." the contents of this pamphlet were vouched for as strictly accurate.[ ] the pamphlet showed that there were at that time perhaps twenty-five men in new york city who were ranked as millionaires. the most prominent of these were peter cooper with an accredited fortune of $ , , ; the goelets, $ , , ; the lorillards, $ , , ; moses taylor, $ , , ; a. t. stewart, $ , , ; cornelius vanderbilt, $ , , , and william b. crosby, $ , , . there were a few fortunes of $ , each, and several hundred ranging from $ , to $ , . the average fortunes graded from $ , to $ , . a similar pamphlet published in philadelphia showed that that city contained a bevy of nine millionaires, only two of whose individual fortunes exceeded $ , , .[ ] no facts are available as to the private fortunes in boston and other cities. occasionally the briefest mention would appear in the almanacs of the period of the death of this or that rich man. there is a record of the death of alexander milne, of new orleans, in and of his bequest of $ , to charitable institutions, and of the death of m. kohne, of charleston, s. c., in the same year with the sole fact that he left $ , in charitable bequests. in there appeared a line that nicholas girod, of new orleans, died leaving $ , to "various objects," and a scant notice of the death of william bartlett, of newburyport, mass., coupled with the fact that he left $ , to andover seminary. it is entirely probable that none of these men were millionaires; otherwise the fact would have been brought out conspicuously. thus, when pierre lorillard, a new york snuff maker, banker, and landholder, died in , his fortune of $ , , or so, was considered so unusual that the word millionaire, newly-coined, was italicized in the rounds of the press. similarly in the case of jacob ridgeway, a philadelphia millionaire, who died in the same year. the passing away now of a man worth a mere million, calls forth but a trifling, passing notice. yet when henry brevoort died in new york city in , his demise was accounted an event in the annals of the day. his property was estimated at a valuation of about $ , , , the chief source of which came from the ownership of eleven acres of land in the heart of the city. originally his ancestors cultivated a truck farm and ran a dairy on this land, and daily in the season carried vegetables, butter and milk to market. brevoort, the newspaper biography read, was a "man of fine taste in painting, literature and intellectual pursuits of every kind. he owned a large property in the fashionable part of the city, where he erected a splendid house, elegantly adorned and furnished in the italian style; for he was quite a connoisseur in the arts." it can be at once seen in what transcendent degree astor's wealth towered far above that of every other rich man in the united states. astor's towering wealth. his fortune was the colossus of the times; an object of awe to all wealth-strivers. necessary as manufactures were in the social and industrial system, they, as yet, occupied a strikingly subordinate and inferior position as an agency in accumulating great fortunes. statistics issued in of manufactures in the united states showed a total gross amount of $ , , invested. astor's wealth, then, was one-fifteenth of the whole amount invested throughout the territory of the united states in cotton and wool, leather, flax and iron, glass, sugar, furniture, hats, silks, ships, paper, soap, candles, wagons--in every kind of goods which the demands of civilization made indispensable. the last years of this magnate were passed in an atmosphere of luxury, laudation and power. on broadway, by prince street, he built a pretentious mansion, and adorned it with works of art which were more costly than artistic. of medium height, he was still quite stout, but his once full, heavy face and his deep set eyes began to sag from the encroachments of extreme advanced age. he could be seen every weekday poring over business reports at his office on prince street--a one-story, fireproof brick building, the windows of which were guarded by heavy iron bars. the closing weeks of his life were passed at his country seat at eighty-eighth street and the east river. infirm and debilitated, so weak and worn that he was forced to get his nourishment like an infant at a woman's breast, and to have exercise administered by being tossed in a blanket, he yet retained his faculty of vigilantly scrutinizing every arrear on the part of tenants, and he compelled his agent to render daily accounts. parton relates this story: one morning this gentleman [the agent] chanced to enter his room while he was enjoying his blanket exercise. the old man cried out from the middle of his blanket: "has mrs. ---- paid that rent yet?" "no," replied the agent. "well, but she must pay it," said the poor old man. "mr. astor," rejoined the agent, "she can't pay it now; she has had misfortunes, and we must give her time." "no, no," said astor; "i tell you she can pay it and she will pay it. you don't go the right way to work with her." the agent took leave, and mentioned the anxiety of the old gentleman with regard to this unpaid rent to his son, who counted out the requisite sum, and told the agent to give it to the old man, as if he had received it from the tenant. "there," exclaimed mr. astor when he received the money. "i told you that she would pay it if you went the right way to work with her."[ ] the death of john jacob astor. so, to the last breath, squeezing arrears out of tenants; his mind focused upon those sordid methods which had long since become a religion to him; contemplating the long list of his possessions with a radiant exaltation; so astor passed away. he died on march , , aged eighty-four years, four months; and almost as he died, the jubilant shouts of the enthusiastic workingmen's processions throughout the city resounded high and often. they were celebrating the french revolution of , intelligence of which had just arrived;--a revolution brought about by the blood of the parisian workingmen, only to be subsequently stifled by the stratagems of the bourgeoisie and turned into the corrupt despotism of napoleon iii. the old trader left an estate valued at about $ , , . the bulk of this descended to william b. astor. the extent of wealth disclosed by the will made a profound impression. never had so rich a man passed away; the public mind was not accustomed to the sight of millions of dollars being owned by one man. one new york newspaper, the "journal," after stating that astor's personal estate amounted to seven or nine million dollars, and his real estate to perhaps more, observed: "either sum is quite out of our small comprehension; and we presume that with most men, the idea of one million is about as large an item as that of any number of millions." an entirely different and exceptional view was taken by james gordon bennett, owner and editor of the new york "herald;" bennett's comments were the one distinct contrast to the mass of flowery praise lavished upon astor's memory and deeds. he thus expressed himself in the issue of april , : we give in our columns an authentic copy of one of the greatest curiosities of the age--the will of john jacob astor, disposing of property amounting to about twenty million dollars, among his various descendants of the first, second, third, and fourth degrees.... if we had been an associate of john jacob astor ... the first idea that we should have put into his head would have been that _one-half of his immense property--ten millions at least--belonged to the people of the city of new york_. during the last fifty years of the life of john jacob astor, his property has been augmented and increased in value by the aggregate intelligence, industry, enterprise and commerce of new york, fully to the amount of one-half its value. the farms and lots of ground which he bought forty, twenty and ten and five years ago, have all increased in value entirely by the industry of the citizens of new york. of course, it is plain as that two and two make four, that the half of his immense estate, in its actual value, has accrued to him by the industry of the community. the wonder of the age. the analyst might well be tempted to smile at the puerility of this logic. if astor was entitled to one-half of the value created by the collective industry of the community, why was he not entitled to all? why make the artificial division of one-half? either he had the right to all or to none. but this editorial, for all its defects of reasoning, was an unusual expression of newspaper opinion, although of a single day, and was smothered by the general course of that same newspaper in supporting the laws and institutions demanded by the commercial aristocracy. so the arch multimillionaire passed away, the wonder and the emulation of the age. his friends, of whom he had a few, deeply mourned him, and his bereaved family suffered a deep loss, for, it is related, he was a kind and indulgent husband and father. he left a legacy of $ , for the establishment of the astor library; for this and this alone his memory has been preserved as that of a philanthropist. the announcement of this legacy was hailed with extravagant joy; yet such is the value of meretricious glory and the ideals of present society, that none has remarked that the proceeds of one year's pillage of the indians were more than sufficient to found this much-praised benevolence. thus does society blind itself to the origin of the fortunes, a fraction of which goes to gratify it with gifts. the whole is taken from the collective labor of the people, and then a part is returned in the form of institutional presents which are in reality bits of charity bestowed upon the very people from whose exploitation the money has come. astor, no doubt, thought that, in providing for a public library, he was doing a service to mankind; and he must be judged, not according to the precepts and demands of the scarcely heard working class of his day with its altruistic aspirations, nor of more advanced present ideas, but by the standards of his own class, that commercial aristocracy which arrogated to itself superiority of aims and infallibility of methods. he died the richest man of his day. but vast fortunes could not be heaped up by him and his contemporaries without having their corresponding effect upon the mass of the people. what was this effect? at about the time that he died there was in new york city one pauper to every one hundred and twenty-five inhabitants and one person in every eighty-three of the population had to be supported at the public expense.[ ] footnotes: [ ] "reminiscences of john jacob astor," new york "herald," march , . [ ] doc. no. , proceedings of the [new york city] board of assistant aldermen, xxix. the merchant's bank, for instance, was assessed in at $ , ; it had cost that sum twenty years before and in was worth three times as much. [ ] proceedings of the [new york city] board of assistant aldermen, xxix, doc. no. . [ ] many eminent lawyers, elected or appointed to high official or judicial office, were financially interested in corporations, and very often profited in dubious ways. the case of roger b. taney, who, from , was for many years, chief justice of the supreme court of the united states, is a conspicuous example. after he was appointed united states secretary of the treasury in , the united states senate passed a resolution inquiring of him whether he were not a stockholder in the union bank of maryland, in which bank he had ordered public funds deposited. he admitted that he was, but asserted that he had obtained the stock before he had selected that bank as a depository of public funds. (see senate docs., first session, rd congress, vol. iii, doc. no. .) it was taney, who as chief justice of the supreme court of the united states, handed down the decision, in the dred scott case, that negro slaves, under the united states constitution, were not eligible to citizenship and were without civil rights. [ ] these frauds at the polls went on, not only in every state but even in such newly-organized territories as new mexico. many facts were brought out by contestants before committees of congress. (see "contested elections," to , second session, th congress, - , vol. v, doc. no. .) in the case of monroe vs. jackson, in , james monroe claimed that his opponent was illegally elected by the votes of convicts and other non-voters brought over from blackwell's island. the majority of the house elections committee reported favoring monroe's being seated. aldermanic documents tell likewise of the same state of affairs in new york. (see the author's "history of tammany hall.") similar practices were common in philadelphia, baltimore and other cities, and in country townships. [ ] "the wealth and biography of the wealthy citizens of the city of new york." by moses yale beach. [ ] "wealth and biography of the wealthy citizens of philadelphia." by a member of the philadelphia bar, . the misconception which often exists even among those who profess the deepest scholarship and the most certainty of opinion as to the development of men of great wealth was instanced by a misstatement of dr. felix adler, leader of the new york society for ethical culture. in an address on "anti-democratic tendencies in american life" delivered some years ago, dr. adler asserted: "before the civil war there were three millionaires; now there are , ." the error of this assertion is evident. [ ] parton's "life of john jacob astor": - . [ ] proceedings of the board of assistant aldermen, xxix, doc. no. . this poverty was the consequence, not of any one phase of the existing system, nor of the growth of any one fortune, but resulted from the whole industrial system. the chief form of the exploitation of the worker was that of his capacity as a producer; other forms completed the process. a considerable number of the paupers were immigrants, who, fleeing from exploitation at home, were kept in poverty in america, "the land of boundless resources." the statement often made that there were no tramps in the united states before the civil war is wholly incorrect. chapter vi the propulsion of the astor fortune at the time of his father's death, william b. astor, the chief heir of john jacob astor's twenty million dollars, was fifty-six years old. a tall, ponderous man, his eyes were small, contracted, with a rather vacuous look, and his face was sluggish and unimpressionable. extremely unsocial and taciturn, he never betrayed emotion and generally was destitute of feeling. he took delight in affecting a carelessly-dressed, slouchy appearance as though deliberately notifying all concerned that one with such wealth as he was privileged to ignore the formulas of punctilious society. in this slovenly, stoop-shouldered man with his cold, abstracted air no one would have detected the richest man in america. acquisitiveness was his most marked characteristic. even before his father's death he had amassed a fortune of his own by land speculations and banking connections, and he had inherited $ , from his uncle henry, a butcher on the bowery. it was said in that he possessed an individual fortune of $ , , . during the last years of his father he had been president of the american fur co., and he otherwise knew every detail of his father's multifarious interests and possessions. william b. astor's parsimony. he lived in what was considered a fine mansion on lafayette place, adjoining the astor library. the sideboards were heaped with gold plate, and polyglot servants in livery stood obediently by at all times to respond to his merest nod. but he cared little for this show, except in that it surrounded him with an atmosphere of power. his frugality did not arise from wise self-control, but from his parsimonious habits. he scanned and revised the smallest item of expense. wine he seldom touched, and the average merchant spent more for his wardrobe than he did. at a time when the rich despised walking and rode in carriages drawn by fast horses, he walked to and from his business errands. this severe economy he not only practiced in his own house, but he carried it into every detail of his business. arising early in the morning, he attended to his private correspondence before breakfast. this meal was served punctually at o'clock. then he would stride to his office on prince street. a contemporary writer says of him: he knew every inch of real estate that stood in his name, every bond, contract and lease. he knew what was due when leases expired, and attended personally to the matter. no tenants could expend a dollar, or put in a pane of glass without his personal inspection. his father sold him the astor house [an hotel] for the sum of one dollar. the lessees were not allowed to spend one cent on the building, without his supervision and consent, unless they paid for it themselves. in the upper part of new york hundreds of lots can be seen enclosed by dilapidated fences, disfigured by rocks and waste material, or occupied as [truck] gardens. they are eligibly located, many of them surrounded by a fashionable population.... mr. astor owned most of these corner lots but kept the corners for a rise. he would neither sell nor improve them.... he knew that no parties can improve the center of a block without benefiting the corners. he was sombre and solitary, dwelt alone, mixed little with general society, gave little and abhorred beggars.[ ] it was a common saying of him "when he paid out a cent he wanted a cent in return;" and as to his abject meannesses we forbear relating the many stories of him. he pursued, in every respect, his father's methods in using the powers of city government to obtain valuable water grants for substantially nothing, and in employing his surplus wealth for further purchases of land and in investments in other profitable channels. no scruples of any kind did he allow to interfere with his constant aim of increasing his fortune. his indifference to compunctions was shown in many ways, not the least in his open support of notoriously corrupt city and state administrations. this corruption was by no means one existing despite him and his class, and one that was therefore accepted grudgingly as an irremediable evil. far from it. corrupt government was welcomed by the landholding, trading and banking class, for by it they could secure with greater facility the perpetual rights, franchises, privileges and the exemptions which were adapted to their expanding aims and riches. by means of it they were not only enabled to pile up greater and greater wealth, but to set themselves up in law as a conspicuously privileged body, distinct from the mass of the people. the purchase of laws. publicly they might pretend a proper and ostentatious horror of corruption. secretly, however, they quickly dispensed with what were to them idle dronings of political cant. as capitalists they ascribed their success to a rigid application and practicality; and being practical they went about purchasing laws by the most short-cut and economical method. they had the money; the office-holders had the votes and governmental power; consequently the one bought the other. it was a systematic corruption springing entirely from the propertied classes; they demanded it, were responsible for it and kept it up. it worked like an endless chain; the land, charters, franchises and privileges corruptly obtained in one set of years yielded vast wealth, part of which was used in succeeding years in getting more law-created sources of wealth. if professional politicians had long since got into the habit of expecting to be bought, it was because the landholders, traders and bankers had accustomed them to the lucrative business of getting bribes in return for extraordinary laws. since the men of wealth, or embryo capitalists who by hook or crook raised the funds to bribe, were themselves ready at all times to buy laws in common councils, legislatures and in congress, it naturally followed that each of them was fully as eager to participate in the immense profits accruing from charters, franchises or special grants obtained by others of their own class. they never questioned the means by which these laws were put through. they did not care. the mere fact that a franchise was put through by bribery was a trite, immaterial circumstance. the sole, penetrating question was whether it were a profitable project. if it were, no man of wealth hesitated in investing his money in its stock and in sharing its revenue. it could not be expected that he would feel moral objections, even the most attenuated, for the chances were that while he might not have been a party to the corrupt obtaining of this or that particular franchise, yet he was involved in the grants of other special endowments. moreover, money making was not built on morality; its whole foundation and impetus lay in the extraction of profits. society, it is true, professed to move on lofty moral planes, but this was a colossal pretension and nothing less. the inverted nature of society. society--and this is a truth which held equally strong of succeeding decades--was incongruously inverted. in saying this, the fact should not be ignored that the capitalist, as applied to the man who ran a factory or other enterprise, was an indigenous factor in that period, even although the money or inventions by which he was able to do this, were often obtained by fraud. every needed qualification must be made for the time and the environment, and there should be neither haste in indiscriminately condemning nor in judging by the standards or maturity of later generations. yet, viewing society as a whole and measuring the results by the standards and ideas then prevailing, it was undoubtedly true that those who did the world's real services were the lowly, despoiled and much discriminated-against mass of mankind. their very poverty was a crime, for after they were plundered and expropriated, either by the ruling classes of their own country or of the united states, the laws regarded them as semi-criminals, or, at best, as excrescences to whom short shrift was to be given. they made the clothes, the shoes, hats, shirts, underwear, tools, and all the other necessities that mankind required; they tilled the ground and produced its food. curiously enough, those who did these indispensable things were condemned by the encompassing system to live in the poorest and meanest habitations and in the most precarious uncertainty. when sick, disabled or superannuated they were cast aside by the capitalist class as so much discarded material to eke out a prolonged misery of existence, to be thrown in penal institutions or to starve. substantially everywhere in the united states, vagrancy laws were in force which decreed that an able-bodied man out of work and homeless must be adjudged a vagrant and imprisoned in the workhouse or penetentiary. the very law-making institutions that gave to a privileged few the right to expropriate the property of the many, drastically plunged the many down still further after this process of spoliation, like a man who is waylaid and robbed and then arrested and imprisoned because he has been robbed. on the other hand, the class which had the money, no matter how that money was gotten, irrespective of how much fraud or sacrifice of life attended its amassing, stood out with a luminous distinctness. it arrogated to itself all that was superior, and it exacted, and was invested with, a lordly deference. it lived in the finest mansions and laved in luxuries. surrounded with an indescribably pretentious air of importance, it radiated tone, command and prestige. but, such was the destructive, intestinal character of competitive warfare, that even this class was continually in the throes of convulsive struggles. each had to fight, not merely to get the wealth of others, but to keep what he already possessed. if he could but frustrate the attempts of competitors to take what he had, he was fortunate. as he preyed upon the laborer, so did the rest of his class seek to prey upon him. if he were less able, less cunning, or more scrupulous than they, his ruination was certain. it was a system in which all methods were gauged not by the best but by the worst. thus it was that many capitalists, at heart good men, kindly disposed and innately opposed to duplicity and fraud, were compelled to adopt the methods of their more successful but thoroughly unprincipled competitors. and, indeed, realizing the impregnating nature of example and environment, one cannot but conclude that the tragedies of the capitalist class represented so many victims of the competitive system, the same as those among the wageworkers, although in a very different way. yet in this bewildering jumble of fortune-snatching, an extraordinary circumstance failed to impress itself upon the class which took over to itself the claim to superior intelligence and virtue. the workers, for the most part, instinctively, morally and intellectually, knew that this system was wrong, a horror and a nightmare. but even the capitalist victims of the competitive struggle, which awarded supremacy to the knave and the trickster, went to their doom praising it as the only civilized, rational system and as unchangeable and even divinely ordained. the prevailing corruption. if corruption was flagrant in the early decades of the nineteenth century, it was triply so in the middle decades. this was the period of all periods when common councils all over the country were being bribed to give franchises for various public utility systems, and legislatures and congress for charters, land, money, and laws for a great number of railroad and other projects. the numerous specific instances cannot be adverted to here; they will be described more appropriately in subsequent parts of this work. for the present, let this general and sweeping observation suffice. the important point which here obtrudes itself is that in every case, without an exception, the wealth amassed by fraud was used in turn to put through more frauds, and that the net accumulation of these successive frauds is seen in the great private fortunes of to-day. we have seen how the original astor fortune was largely derived by the use of both force and fraud among the indians, and by the exercise of cunning and corruption in the east. john jacob astor's immense wealth descends mostly to william b. astor. in turn, one of the third generation, john jacob astor, jr., representing his father, william b. astor, uses a portion of this wealth in becoming a large stockholder in the new york central railroad, and in corrupting the new york legislature still further to give enormously valuable grants and special laws with incalculably valuable exemptions to that railroad. john jacob astor, jr., never built a railroad in his life; he knew nothing about railroads; but by virtue of the possession of large surplus wealth, derived mainly from rents, he was enabled to buy enough of the stock to make him rank as a large stockholder. and, then, he with the other stockholders, bribed the legislature for the passage of more laws which enormously increased the value of their stock. it is altogether clear from the investigations and records of the time that the new york central railroad was one of the most industrious corrupters of legislatures in the country, although this is not saying much in dealing with a period when every state legislature, none excepted, was making gifts of public property and of laws in return for bribes, and when congress, as was proved in official investigations, was prodigal in doing likewise.[ ] in the fourteen years up to , the new york central railroad had spent upward of a half million dollars in buying laws at albany and in "protecting its stockholders against injurious legislation." as one of the largest stockholders in the road john jacob astor, jr., certainly must have been one of the masked parties to this continuous saturnalia of corruption. but the corruption, bad as it was, that took place before , was rather insignificant compared to the eruption in the years and . and here is to be noted a significant episode which fully reveals how the capitalist class is ever willing to turn over the managing of its property to men of its own class who have proved themselves masters of the art either of corrupting public bodies, or of making that property yield still greater profits. bribery and business. in control of the new york and harlem railroad, cornelius vanderbilt had showed what a remarkably successful magnate he was in deluging legislatures and common councils with bribe money and in getting corrupt gifts of franchises and laws worth many hundreds of millions of dollars. for a while the new york central fought him; it bribed where he bribed; when he intimidated, it intimidated. but vanderbilt was, by far, the abler of the two contending forces. finally the stockholders decided that he was the man to run their system; and on nov. , , john jacob astor, jr., edward cunard, john steward and others, representing more than thirteen million dollars of stock, turned the new york central over to vanderbilt's management on the ground, as their letter set forth, that the change would result in larger dividends to the stockholders and (this bit of cant was gratuitously thrown in) "greatly promote the interests of the public." in closing, they wrote to vanderbilt of "your great and acknowledged abilities." no sooner had vanderbilt been put in control than these abilities were preëminently displayed by such an amazing reign of corruption and exaction, that even a public cynically habituated to bribery and arbitrary methods, was profoundly stirred.[ ] it was in these identical years that the astors, the goelets, the rhinelanders and many other landholders and merchants were getting more water grants by collusion with the various corrupt city administrations. on june , , william b. astor gets a grant of land under water for the block between twelfth and thirteenth streets, on the hudson river, at the ridiculous price of $ per running foot.[ ] william e. dodge likewise gets a grant on the hudson river. public opinion severely condemned this practical giving away of city property, and a special committee of the board of councilmen was moved to report on may , , that "the practice of selling city property, except where it is in evidence that it cannot be put to public use, is an error in finance that has prevailed too frequently; indeed the experience of about eleven years has demonstrated that sales of property usually take place about the time it is likely to be needed for public uses, or on the eve of a rise in value. every pier, bulkhead and slip should have continued to be the property of the city...."[ ] water grants from tweed. but when the tweed "ring" came into complete power, with its unbridled policy of accommodating anyone who could pay bribes enough, the landowners and merchants rushed to get water grants among other special privileges. on dec. , , william c. rhinelander was presented with a grant of land under water from ninety-first to ninety-fourth street, east river.[ ] on march , , peter goelet obtained from the sinking fund commissioners a grant of land under water on the east river in front of land owned by him between eighty-first street and eighty-second street. the price asked was the insignificant one of $ a running foot.[ ] the officials who made this grant were the controller, richard b. connolly, and the street commissioner, george w. mclean, both of whom were arch accomplices of william m. tweed and were deeply involved in the gigantic thefts of the tweed ring. the same band of officials gave to mrs. laura a. delano, a daughter of william b. astor, a grant from fifty-fifth to fifty-seventh street, hudson river, at $ per running foot, and on may , , a grant to john jacob astor, jr., of lands under water between forty-ninth and fifty-first streets, hudson river, for the trivial sum of $ per running foot. many other grants were given at the same time. the public, used as it was to corrupt government, could not stomach this granting of valuable city property for virtually nothing. the severe criticism which resulted caused the city officials to bend before the storm, especially as they did not care to imperil their other much greater thefts for the sake of these minor ones. many of the grants were never finally issued; and after the tweed "ring" was expelled from power, the commissioners of the sinking fund on feb. , , were compelled by public agitation to rescind most of them.[ ] the grant issued to rhinelander in , however, was one of those which was never rescinded. during its control of the city administration from to alone, the tweed "ring" stole directly from the city and county of new york a sum estimated from $ , , to $ , , . henry f. taintor, the auditor employed by andrew h. green to investigate controller connolly's books, testified before the special aldermanic committee in , that he had estimated the frauds during those three and a half years at from $ , , to $ , , .[ ] the committee, however, evidently thought that the thefts amounted to $ , , ; for it asked tweed during the investigation whether they did not approximate that sum, to which question he gave no definite reply. but mr. taintor's estimate, as he himself admitted, was far from complete even for the three and a half years. matthew j. o'rourke, who was responsible for the disclosures, and who made a remarkably careful study of the "ring's" operations, gave it as his opinion that from to the "ring" stole about $ , , and that he thought the total stealings from about to , counting vast issues of fraudulent bonds, amounted to $ , , . profiting from gigantic thefts. every intelligent person knew in that tweed, connolly and their associates were colossal thieves. yet in that year a committee of new york's leading and richest citizens, composed of john jacob astor, jr., moses taylor, marshall o. roberts, e. d. brown, george k. sistare and edward schell, were induced to make an examination of the controller's books and hand in a most eulogistic report, commending connolly for his honesty and his faithfulness to duty. why did they do this? because obviously they were in underhand alliance with those political bandits, and received from them special privileges and exemptions amounting in value to hundreds of millions of dollars. we have seen how connolly made gifts of the city's property to this class of leading citizens. moreover, a corrupt administration was precisely what the rich wanted, for they could very conveniently make arrangements with it to evade personal property taxation, have the assessments on their real estate reduced to an inconsiderable sum, and secure public franchises and rights of all kinds. there cannot be the slightest doubt that the rich, as a class, were eager to have the tweed régime continue. they might pose as fine moralists and profess to instruct the poor in religion and politics, but this attitude was a fraud; they deliberately instigated, supported, and benefited by, all of the great strokes of thievery that tweed and connolly put through. thus to mention one of many instances, the foremost financial and business men of the day were associated as directors with tweed in the viaduct railroad. this was a project to build a railroad on or above the ground _on any new york city street_. one provision of the bill granting this unprecedentedly comprehensive franchise compelled the city to take $ , , of stock; another exempted the company property from taxes or assessments. other subsidiary bills allowed for the benefit of the railroad the widening and grading of streets which meant a "job" costing from $ , , to $ , , .[ ] this bill was passed by the legislature and signed by tweed's puppet governor hoffman; and only the exposure of the tweed régime a few months later prevented the complete consummation of this almost unparalleled steal. considering the fact that the richest and most influential and respectable men were direct allies of the tweed clique, it was not surprising that men such as john jacob astor, jr., moses taylor, edward schell and company were willing enough to sign a testimonial certifying to controller connolly's honesty. the tweed "ring" supposed that a testimonial signed by these men would make a great impression upon the public. yet, stripping away the halo which society threw about them simply because they had wealth, these rich citizens themselves were to be placed in even a lower category than tweed, on the principle that the greater the pretension, the worst in its effect upon society is the criminal act. the astors cheated the city out of enormous sums in real estate and personal property taxation; moses taylor likewise did so, as was clearly brought out by a senate investigating committee in ; roberts had been implicated in great swindles during the civil war; and as for edward schell, he, by collusion with corrupt officials, compelled the city to pay exorbitant sums for real estate owned by him and which the city needed for public purposes. and further it should be pointed out that tweed, connolly and sweeny were but vulgar political thieves who retained only a small part of their thefts. tweed died in prison quite poor; even the very extensive area of real estate that he bought with stolen money vanished, one part of it going in lieu of counsel fees to one of his lawyers, elihu root, united states secretary of state under roosevelt.[ ] connolly fled abroad with $ , , of loot and died there, while sweeny settled with the city for an insignificant sum. the men who really profited directly or indirectly by the gigantic thefts of money and the franchise, tax-exemption, and other measures put through the legislature or common council were men of wealth in the background, who thereby immensely increased their riches and whose descendants now possess towering fortunes and bear names of the highest "respectability."[ ] the original money of the landholders came from trade; and then by a combination of cunning, bribery, and a moiety of what was considered legitimate investment, they became the owners of immense tracts of the most valuable city land. the rentals from these were so great that continuously more and more surplus wealth was heaped up. this surplus wealth, in slight part, went to bribe representative bodies for special laws giving them a variety of exclusive property, and another part was used in buying stock in various enterprises the history of which reeked with corruption. from being mere landholders whose possessions were confined mainly to city land, they became part owners of railroad, telegraph, express and other lines reaching throughout the country. so did their holdings and wealth-producing interests expand by a cumulative and ever-widening process. the prisons were perennially filled with convicts, nearly all of whom had committed some crime against property, and for so doing were put in chains behind heavy bars, guarded by rifles and great stone walls. but the men who robbed the community of its land and its railroads (most of which latter were built with _public_ land and money) and who defrauded it in a thousand ways, were, if not morally exculpated, at least not molested, and were permitted to retain their plunder, which, to them, was the all-important thing. this plunder, in turn, became the basis for the foundation of an aristocracy which in time built palaces, invented impressive pedigrees and crests and coats-of-arms, intermarried with european titles, and either owned or influenced newspapers and journals which taught the public how it should think and how it should act. it is one thing to commit crimes against property, and a vastly different thing to commit crimes _in behalf_ of property. such is the edict of a system inspired by the sway of property. rentals from disease and death. but the sources of the large rentals that flowed into the exchequers of the landlords--what were they? where did these rents, the volume of which was so great that the surplus part of them went into other forms of investments, come from? who paid them and how did the tenants of these mammoth landlords live? a considerable portion came from business buildings and private residences on much of the very land which new york city once owned and which was corruptly squirmed out of municipal ownership. for the large rentals which they were forced to pay, the business men recouped themselves by marking up the prices of all necessities. another, and a very preponderate part, came from tenement houses. many of these were also built on land filched from the city. and such habitations! never before was anything seen like them. the reports of the metropolitan board of health for , and succeeding years revealed the fact that miles upon miles of city streets were covered with densely populated tenements, where human beings were packed in vile rooms, many of which were dark and unventilated and which were pestilential with disease and overflowed with deaths. in its first report, following its organization, the metropolitan board of health pointed out: the first, and at all times the most prolific cause of disease, was found to be the very insalubrious condition of most of the tenement houses in the cities of new york and brooklyn. these houses are generally built without any reference to the health and comfort of the occupants, but simply with a view to economy and profit to the owner. they are almost invariably overcrowded, and ill-ventilated to such a degree as to render the air within them constantly impure and offensive. here follows a mass of nauseating details which for the sake of not overshocking the reader we shall omit. the report continued: the halls and stairways are usually filthy and dark, and the walls and banisters foul and damp, while the floors were not infrequently used ... [for purposes of nature] ... for lack of other provisions. the dwelling rooms are usually very inadequate in size for the accommodation of their occupants, and many of the sleeping rooms are simply closets, without light or ventilation save by means of a single door.... such is the character of a vast number of tenement houses, especially in the lower part of the city and along the eastern and western border. disease especially in the form of fevers of a typhoid character are constantly present in these dwellings and every now and then become an epidemic.[ ] "some of the tenements," added the report, "are owned by persons of the highest character, but they fail to appreciate the responsibility resting on them." this sentence makes it clear that landlords could own, and enormously profit from, pig-sty human habitations which killed off a large number of the unfortunate tenants, and yet these landlords could retain, in nowise diminished, the lustre of being men "of the highest character." fully one-third of the deaths in new york and brooklyn resulted from zymotic diseases contracted in these tenements, yet not even a whisper was heard, not the remotest suggestion that the men of wealth who thus deliberately profited from disease and death, were criminally culpable, although faint and timorous opinions were advanced that they might be morally responsible. humanity of no consequence. human life was nothing; the supremacy of the property idea dominated all thought and all laws, not because mankind was callous to suffering, wretchedness and legalized murder, but because thought and law represented what the propertied interests demanded. if the proletarian white population had been legal slaves, as the negroes in the south had been, much consideration would have been bestowed upon their gullets and domiciles, for then they would have been property; and who ever knew the owner of property to destroy the article which represented money? but being "free" men and women and children, the proletarians were simply so many bundles of flesh whose sickness and death meant pecuniary loss to no property-holder. therefore casualities to them were a matter of no great concern to a society that was taught to venerate the sacredness of property as embodied in brick and stone walls, clothes, machines, and furniture, which same, if inert, had the all-important virile quality of having a cash value, which the worker had not. but these landlords "of the highest character" not only owned, and regularly collected rents from, tenement houses which filled the cemeteries, but they also resorted to the profitable business of leasing certain tenements to middlemen who guaranteed them by lease a definite and never-failing annual rental. once having done this, the landlords did not care what the middlemen did--how much rent they exacted, or in what condition they allowed the tenements. "the middlemen," further reported the metropolitan board of health, are frequently of the most heartless and unscrupulous character and make large profits by sub-letting. they leave no space unoccupied: they rent sheds, basements and even cellars to families and lodgers; they divide rooms by partitions, and then place a whole family in a single room, to be used for living, cooking, and sleeping purposes. in the fourth, sixth, seventh, tenth, and fourteenth wards may be found large, old fashioned dwellings originally constructed for one family, subdivided and sublet to such an extent that even the former sub-cellars are occupied by two or more families. there is a cellar population of not less than , in new york city. here, again, shines forth with blinding brightness that superior morality of the propertied classes. there is no record of a single landlord who refused to pocket the great gains from the ownership of tenement houses. great, in fact, excessive gains they were, for the landowning class considered tenements "magnificent investments" (how edifying a phrase!) and all except one held on to them. that one was william waldorf astor of the present generation, who, we are told, "sold a million dollars worth of unpromising tenement house property in ."[ ] what fantasy of action was it that caused william waldorf astor to so depart from the accepted formulas of his class as to give up these "magnificent investments?" was it an abhorrence of tenements, or a growing fastidiousness as to the methods? it is to be observed that up to that time he and his family had tenaciously kept the revenues from their tenements; evidently then, the source of the money was not a troubling factor. and in selling those tenements he must have known that his profits on the transaction would be charged by the buyers against the future tenants and that even more overcrowding would result. what, then, was the reason? about the year there developed an agitation in new york city against the horrible conditions in tenement houses, and laws were popularly demanded which would put a stop to them, or at least bring some mitigation. the whole landlord class virulently combated this agitation and these proposed laws. what happened next? significantly enough a municipal committee was appointed by the mayor to make an inquiry into tenement conditions; and this committee was composed of property owners. william waldorf astor was a conspicuous member of the committee. the mockery of a man whose family owned miles of tenements being chosen for a committee, the province of which was to find ways of improving tenement conditions, was not lost on the public, and shouts of derision went up. the working population was skeptical, and with reason, of the good faith of this committee. every act, beginning with the mild and ineffective one of , designed to remedy the appalling conditions in tenement houses, had been stubbornly opposed by the landlords; and even after these puerile measures had finally been passed, the landlords had resisted their enforcement. whether it was because of the bitter criticisms levelled at him, or because he saw that it would be a good time to dispose of his tenements as a money-making matter before further laws were passed, is not clearly known. at any rate william waldorf astor sold large batches of tenements. an exalted capitalist. to return, however, to william b. astor. he was the owner, it was reckoned in , of more than seven hundred buildings and houses, not to mention the many tracts of unimproved land that he held. his income from these properties and from his many varied lines of investments was stupendous. every one knew that he, along with other landlords, derived great revenues from indescribably malodorous tenements, unfit for human habitation. yet little can be discerned in the organs of public opinion, or in the sermons or speeches of the day, which showed other than the greatest deference for him and his kind. he was looked up to as a foremost and highly exalted capitalist; no church disdained his gifts;[ ] far from it, these were eagerly solicited, and accepted gratefully, and even with servility. none questioned the sources of his wealth, certainly not one of those of his own class, all of whom more or less used the same means and who extolled them as proper, both traditionally and legally, and as in accordance with the "natural laws" of society. no condemnation was visited on astor or his fellow-landlords for profiting from such ghastly harvests of disease and death. when william b. astor died in , at the age of eighty-three, in his sombre brownstone mansion at thirty-fifth street and fifth avenue, his funeral was an event among the local aristocracy; the newspapers published the most extravagant panegyrics and the estimated $ , , which he left was held up to all the country as an illuminating and imperishable example of the fortune that thrift, enterprise, perseverance, and ability would bring. footnotes: [ ] matthew hale smith in "sunshine and shadow in new york," - . [ ] see part iii of this work, "the great railroad fortunes". [ ] see part iii, chapters iv, v, vi, etc. [ ] proceedings of the [new york city] commissioners of the sinking fund, - : . [ ] doc. no. , documents of the [new york city] board of aldermen, xxi, part ii. [ ] proceedings of the [new york city] commissioners of the sinking fund, - : . [ ] ibid: . [ ] proceedings of the [new york city] sinking fund commission, : - . [ ] documents of the [new york city] board of aldermen, , part ii. no. . [ ] new york senate journal, : - . [ ] see exhibits doc. no. , documents of the [new york city] board of aldermen, . [ ] for a full account of the operations of the tweed régime see the author's "history of tammany hall." [ ] report of the metropolitan board of health for , appendix a: . [ ] "america's successful men of affairs": . [ ] "no church disdained his gifts." the morals and methods of the church, as exemplified by trinity church, were, judged by standards, much worse than those of astor or of his fellow-landlords or capitalists. these latter did not make a profession of hypocrisy, at any rate. the condition of the tenements owned by trinity church was as shocking as could be found anywhere in new york city. we subjoin the testimony given by george c. booth of the society for the improvement of the condition of the poor before a senate investigating committee in : senator plunkett: ask him if there is not a great deal of church influence [in politics]. the witness: yes, sir, there is trinity church. q.: which is the good, and which is the bad? a.: i think trinity is the bad. q.: do the trinity people own a great deal of tenement property? a.: yes, sir. q.: do they comply with the law as other people do? a.: no, sir; that is accounted for in one way--the property is very old and rickety, and perhaps even rotten, so that some allowance must be made on that account. (investigation of the departments of the city of new york, by special committee of the [new york] senate, , : - .) chapter vii the climax of the astor fortune the impressive fortune that william b. astor left was mainly bequeathed in about equal parts to his sons john jacob ii. and william. these scions, by inheritance from various family sources, intermarriage with other rich families, or both, were already rich. furthermore, having the backing of their father's immense riches, they had enjoyed singularly exceptional opportunities for amassing wealth on their own account. in william astor had married one of the schermerhorn family. the schermerhorns were powerful new york city landholders; and if not quite on the same pinnacle in point of wealth as the astors, were at any rate very rich. the immensely valuable areas of land then held by the schermerhorns, and still in their possession, were largely obtained by precisely the same means that the astors, goelets, rhinelanders and other conspicuous land families had used. interrelated wealth. the settled policy, from the start, of the rich men, and very greatly of rich women, was to marry within their class. the result obviously was to increase and centralize still greater wealth in the circumscribed ownership of a few families. in estimating, therefore, the collective wealth of the astors, as in fact of nearly all of the great fortunes, the measure should not be merely the possessions of one family, but should embrace the combined wealth of interrelated rich families. the wedding of william astor (as was that of his son john jacob astor thirty-eight years later to a daughter of one of the richest landholding families in philadelphia) was an event of the day if one judges by the commotion excited among what was represented as the superior class, and the amount of attention given by the newspapers. in reality, viewing them in their proper perspective, these marriages of the rich were infinitesimal affairs, which would scarcely deserve a mention, were it not for the effect that they had in centralizing wealth and for the clear picture that they give of the ideas of the times. posterity, which is the true arbiter in distinguishing between the enduring and the evanescent, the important and the trivial, rightly cares nothing for essentially petty matters which once were held of the highest importance. edgar allan poe, wearing his life out in extreme poverty, william lloyd garrison, thundering against chattel slavery from a boston garret, robert dale owen spending his years in altruistic endeavors--these men were contemporaries of the astors of the second generation. yet a marriage among the very rich was invested by the self-styled creators and dispensers of public opinion with far more importance than the giving out of the world of the most splendid products of genius or the enunciation of principles of the profoundest significance to humanity. yet why slur the practices of past generations when we to-day are confronted by the same perversions? in the month of february, , for instance, several millions of men in the united states were out of work; in destitution, because something or other stood between them and their getting work; and consequently they and their wives and children had to face starvation. this condition might have been enough to shock even the most callous mind, certainly enough to have impressed the community. but what happened? the superficial historian of the future, who depends upon the newspapers and who gauges his facts accordingly, will conclude that there was little or no misery or abject want; that the people were interested in petty happenings of no ultimate value whatsoever; that an oriental dance and pantomime given in new york by "society" women, led by mrs. waldorf astor, where a rich young woman reaped astonishment and admiration by coiling a live boa constrictor around her neck, was one of the great events of the day, because the newspapers devoted two columns to it, whereas scarcely any mention was made of armies of men being out of work. money and humanity. as it was in so was it in the decades when the capitalists of one kind or another were first piling up wealth; they were the weighty class of the day; their slightest doings were chronicled, and their flimsiest sayings were construed oracularly as those of public opinion. numberless people sickened and died in the industrial strife and in miserable living quarters; ubiquitous capitalism was a battle-field strewn with countless corpses; but none of the professed expositors of morality, religion or politics gave heed to the wounded or the dead, or to the conditions which produced these hideous and perpetual slaughters of men, women and children. but to the victors, no matter what their methods were, or how much desolation and death they left in their path, the richest material rewards were awarded; wealth, luxury, station and power; and the law, the majestic, exalted law, upheld these victors in their possessions by force of courts, police, sheriffs, and by rifles loaded with bullets if necessary. thus, to recapitulate, the astors debauched, swindled and murdered the indians; they defrauded the city of land and of taxes; they assisted in corrupting legislatures; they profited from the ownership of blocks of death-laden tenement houses; they certified to thieving administrations. once having wrested into their possession the results of all of these and more fraudulent methods in the form of millions of dollars in property, what was their strongest ally? the law. yes, the law, theoretically so impartial and so reverently indued with awe--and with force. from fraud and force the astor fortune came, and by force, in the shape of law, it was fortified in their control. if a starving man had gone into any one of the astor houses and stolen even as much as a silver spoon, the law would have come to the rescue of outraged property by sentencing him to prison. or if, in case of a riot, the astor property was damaged, the law also would have stepped in and compelled the county to idemnify. this law, this extraordinary code of print which governs us, has been and is nothing more or less, it is evident, than so many statutes to guarantee the retention of the proceeds of fraud and theft, if the piracy were committed in a sufficiently large and impressive way. the indisputable proof is that every single fortune which has been obtained by fraud, is still privately held and is greater than ever; the law zealously and jealously guards it. so has the law practically worked; and if the thing is to be judged by its practical results, then the law has been an instigator of every form of crime, and a bulwark of that which it instigated. seeing that this is so, it is not so hard to understand that puzzling problem of why so large a portion of the community has resolved itself into a committee of the whole, and while nominally and solemnly professing the accustomed and expected respect for law, deprecates it, as it is constituted, and often makes no concealment of contempt. law the strongest asset. in penetrating into the origin and growth of the great fortunes, this vital fact is constantly forced upon the investigator: that law has been the most valuable asset possessed by the capitalist class. without it, this class would have been as helpless as a babe. what would the medieval baron have been without armed force? but note how sinuously conditions have changed. the capitalist class, far shrewder than the feudalistic rulers, dispenses with personally equipped armed force. it becomes superfluous. all that is necessary to do is to make the laws, and so guide things that the officials who enforce the laws are responsive to the interests of the propertied classes. back of the laws are police forces and sheriffs and militia all kept at the expense of city, county and state--at public expense. clearly, then, having control of the laws and of the officials, the propertied classes have the full benefit of armed forces the expense of which, however, they do not have to defray. it has unfolded itself as a vast improvement over the crude feudal system. in complete control of the laws, the great propertied classes have been able either to profit by the enforcement, or by the violation, of them. this is nowhere more strikingly shown than in the growth of the astor fortune, although all of the other great fortunes reveal the same, or nearly identical, factors. with the millions made by a career of crime the original astors buy land; they get more land by fraud; the law throws its shield about the property so obtained. they cheat the city out of enormous sums in taxation; the law does not molest them. on the contrary it allows them to build palaces and to keep on absorbing up more forms of property. in william astor builds a railroad in florida; and as a gift of appreciation, so it is told, the florida legislature presents him with , acres of land. it is wholly probable, if the underlying circumstances were known, that it would be found that an influence more material than a simple burst of gratitude prompted this gift. where did the money come from with which this railroad was built? and what was the source of other immense funds which were invested in railroads, banks, industrial enterprises, in buying more land and in mortgages--in many forms of ownership? the unsophisticated acceptor of current sophistries or the apologist might reply that all this money came from legitimate business transactions, the natural increase in the value of land, and thus on. but waiving these superficial explanations and defenses, which really mean nothing more than a forced justification, it is plain that the true sources of these revenues were of a vastly different nature. the millions in rents which flowed in to the astor's treasury every year came literally from the sweat, labor, misery and murder of a host of men, women, and children who were never chronicled, and who went to their death in eternal obscurity. the basis of wealth's structure. it was they who finally had to bear the cost of exorbitant rents; it was their work, the products which they created, which were the bases of the whole structure. and in speaking of murder, it is not deliberate, premeditated murder which is meant, in the sense covered by statute, but that much more insidious kind ensuing from grinding exploitation; in herding human beings into habitations unfit even for animals which need air and sunshine, and then in stubbornly resisting any attempt to improve living conditions in these houses. in this respect, it cannot be too strongly pointed out, the astors were in nowise different from the general run of landlords. is it not murder when, compelled by want, people are forced to fester in squalid, germ-filled tenements, where the sunlight never enters and where disease finds a prolific breeding-place? untold thousands went to their deaths in these unspeakable places. yet, so far as the law was concerned, the rents collected by the astors, as well as by other landlords, were honestly made. the whole institution of law saw nothing out of the way in these conditions, and very significantly so, because, to repeat over and over again, law did not represent the ethics or ideals of advanced humanity; it exactly reflected, as a pool reflects the sky, the demands and self-interest of the growing propertied classes. and if here and there a law was passed (which did not often happen) contrary to the expressed opposition of property, it was either so emasculated as to be harmless or it was not enforced. the direct sacrifice of human life, however, was merely one substratum of the astor fortune. it is very likely, if the truth were fully known, that the stupendous sums in total that the astors cheated in taxation, would have been more than enough to have constructed a whole group of railroads, or to have bought up whole sections of the outlying parts of the city, or to have built dozens of palaces. incessantly they derived immense rentals from their constantly expanding estate, and just as persistently they perjured themselves, and defrauded the city, state and nation of taxes. it was not often that the facts were disclosed; obviously the city or state officials, with whom the rich acted in collusion, tried their best to conceal them. great thefts of taxes. occasionally, however, some fragments of facts were brought out by a legislative investigating committee. thus, in , a state senate committee, in probing into the affairs of the tax department, touched upon disclosures which dimly revealed the magnitude of these annual thefts, but which in nowise astonished any well-informed person, because every one knew that these frauds existed. questioned closely by william m. ivins, counsel for the committee, michael coleman, president of the board of assessments and taxes, admitted that vast stretches of real estate owned by the astors were assessed at half or less than half of their real value.[ ] then followed this exchange, in which the particular "mr. astor" referred to was not made clear: q.: you have just said that mr. astor never sold? a.: once in a while he sells, yes. q.: but the rule is that he does not sell? a.: well, hardly ever; he has sold, of course. q.: isn't it almost a saying in this community that the astors buy and never sell? a.: they are not looked upon as people who dispose of real estate after they once get possession of it. q.: have you the power to exact from them a statement of their rent rolls? a.: no. q.: don't you think that ... if you are going to levy a tax properly and fully ... you ought to be vested with that power to learn what the returns and revenues of that property are? a.: no, sir; it's none of our business.[ ] this fraudulent evasion of taxation was anything but confined to the astor family. it was practiced by the entire large propertied interests, not only in swindling new york city of taxes on real estate, but also those on personal property. coleman admitted that while the total valuation of the personal property of all the corporations in new york was assessed at $ , , , , they were allowed to swear it down to $ , , . here we see again at work that fertile agency which has assisted in impoverishing the masses. rentals are exacted from them, which represent on the average the fourth part of their wages. these rentals are based upon the full assessment of the houses that they live in. in turn, the landlords defraud the city of one-half of this assessment. in order to make up for this continuous deprivation of taxes, the city proceeds time and time again to increase taxes and put out interest-bearing bond issues. these increased taxes, as in the case of all other taxes, fall upon the workers and the results are seen in constantly rising rents and in higher prices for all necessities. licensed piracy rampant. was any criminal action ever instituted against these rich defrauders? none of which there is any record. not a publicist, editor, preacher was there who did not know either generally or specifically of these great frauds in taxation. some of them might protest in a half-hearted, insincere or meaningless way. but the propertied classes did not mind wordy criticism so long as it was not backed by political action. in other words, they could afford to tolerate, even be amused by, gusty denunciation if neither the laws were changed, nor the particular enforcement or non-enforcement which they demanded. the essential thing with them was to continue conditions by which they could keep on defrauding. virtually all that was considered best in society--the men and women who lived in the finest mansions, who patronized art and the opera, who set themselves up as paramount in breeding, manners, taste and fashions--all of these were either parties to this continuous process of fraud or benefited by it. the same is true of this class to-day; for the frauds in taxation are of greater magnitude than ever before. it was not astonishing, therefore, when john jacob astor ii died in , and william astor in , that enconiums should be lavished upon their careers. in all the accounts that appeared of them, not a word was there of the real facts; of the corrupt grasping of city land; of the debauching of legislatures and the manipulation of railroads; of their blocks of tenements in which disease and death had reaped so rich a harvest, or of their gigantic frauds in cheating the city of taxes. not a word of all of these. without an exception the various biographies were fulsomely laudatory. this excessive praise might have defeated the purpose of the authors were it not that it was the fashion of the times to depict and accept the multimillionaires as marvels of ability, almost superhuman. this was the stuff fed out to the people; it was not to be wondered at that a period came when the popular mind reacted and sought the opposite extreme in which it laved in the most violent denunciations of the very men whom it had long been taught to revere. that period, too, passed to be succeeded by another in which a more correct judgment will be formed of the magnates, and in which they will appear not as exceptional criminals, but as products of their times and environment, and in their true relation to both of these factors. the fortune left by john jacob astor ii in amounted to about $ , , . the bulk of this descended to his son william waldorf astor. the $ , , fortune left by william astor in was bequeathed to his son john jacob astor. these cousins to-day hold the greatest part of the collective astor fortune. having reached the present generation, we shall not attempt to enter into a detailed narrative of their multifarious interests, embracing land, railroads, industries, insurance and a vast variety of other forms of wealth. the purpose of this work is to point out the circumstances underlying the origin and growth of the great private fortunes; in the case of the astors this has been done sufficiently, perhaps overdone, although many facts have been intentionally left out of these chapters which might very properly have been included. but there are a few remaining facts without which the story would not be complete, and lacking which it might lose some significance. the astor fortune doubles. [illustration: william waldorf astor. now a british subject, self-expatriated. he derives an enormous income from his american estate.] we have seen how at william b. astor's death in the astor fortune amounted to at least $ , , , probably much more. within sixteen years, by , it had more than doubled in the hands of his two sons. how was it possible to have added the extraordinary sum of $ , , in less than a decade and a half? individual ability did not accomplish it; it is ludicrous to say that it could have done so. the methods by which much of this increase was gathered in have already been set forth. a large part came from the rise in the value of land, which value arose not from the slightest act of the astors, but from the growth of the population and the labor of the whole body of workers. this value was created by the producers, but far from owning or even sharing in it, they were compelled to pay heavier and heavier tribute in the form of rent for the very values which they had created. had the astors or other landlords gone into a perpetual trance these values would have been created just the same. then, not content with appropriating values which others created, the landlord class defrauded the city of even the fractional part of these values, in the form of taxation. up to the present generation the astors had never set themselves out as "reformers" in politics. they had plundered right and left, but withal had made no great pretenses. the fortune held by the astors, so the facts indubitably show, represents a succession of piracies and exploitation. very curious, therefore, it is to note that the astors of the present generation have avowed themselves most solicitous reformers and have been members of pretentious, self-constituted committees composed of the "best citizens," the object of which has been to purge new york city of tammany corruption. leaving aside the astors, and considering the attitude of the propertied class as a whole, this posing of the so-called better element as reformers has been, and is, one of the most singular characteristics of american politics, and its most colossal sham. although continuously, with rare intermissions, the landholders and the railroad and industrial magnates have been either corrupting public officials or availing themselves of the benefits of corrupt politics, many of them, not in new york alone, but in every american city, have been, at the same time, metamorphosing themselves into reformers. not reformers, of course, in the true, high sense of the word, but as ingenious counterfeits. with the most ardent professions of civic purity and of horror at the prevailing corruption they have come forward on occasions, clothed in a fine and pompous garb of righteousness. the quality of "reformers." the very men who cheated cities, states and nation out of enormous sums in taxation; who bribed, through their retainers, legislatures, common councils and executive and administrative officials; who corruptly put judges on the bench; who made government simply an auxiliary to their designs; who exacted heavy tribute from the people in a thousand ways; who forced their employees to work for precarious wages and who bitterly fought every movement for the betterment of the working classes--these were the men who have made up these so-called "reform" committees, precisely as to-day they constitute them.[ ] if there had been the slightest serious attempt to interfere with their vested privileges, corruptly obtained and corruptly enhanced, and with the vast amount of increment and graft that these privileges bought them, they would have instantly raised the cry of revolutionary confiscation. but they were very willing to put an end to the petty graft which the politicians collected from saloons, brothels, peddlers, and the small merchants, and thereby present themselves as respectable and public-spirited citizens, appalled at the existing corruption. the newspapers supported them in this attitude, and occasionally a sufficient number of the voters would sustain their appeals and elect candidates that they presented. the only real difference was that under an openly corrupt machine they had to pay in bribes for franchises, laws and immunity from laws, while under the "reform" administrations, which represented, and toadied to, them, they often obtained all these and more without the expenditure of a cent. it has often been much more economical for them to have "reform" in power; and it is a well known truism that the business-class reform administrations which are popularly assumed to be honest, will go to greater lengths in selling out the rights of the people than the most corrupt political machine, for the reason that their administrations are not generally suspected of corruption and therefore are not closely watched. moreover, corruption by bribes is not always the most effective kind. there is a much more sinister form. it is that which flows from conscious class use of a responsive government for insidious ends. practically all of the american "reform" movements have come within this scope. this is no place for a dissertation on these pseudo reform movements; it is a subject deserving a special treatment by itself. but it is well to advert to them briefly here since it is necessary to give constant insights into the methods of the propertied class. whether corruption or "reform" administrations were in power the cheating of municipality and state in taxation has gone on with equal vigor.[ ] a vast annual income. the collective astor fortune, as we have said, amounts to $ , , . this, however, is merely an estimate based largely upon their real estate possessions. no one but the astors themselves know what are their holdings in bonds and stocks of every description. it is safe to venture the opinion that their fortune far exceeds $ , , . their surplus wealth piles up so fast that a large part of it is incessantly being invested in buying more land. originally owning land in the lower part of manhattan, they then bought land in yorkville, then added to their possessions in harlem, and later in the bronx, in which part of new york city they now own immense areas. their estate is growing larger and larger all the time. in rents in new york city alone it is computed that the astors collect twenty-five or thirty million dollars a year. the "astor estates" are managed by a central office, the agent in charge of which is said to get a salary of $ , a year. all the business details are attended to entirely by this agent and his force of subordinates. of these annual rents a part is distributed among the various members of the astor family according to the degree of their interest; the remainder is used to buy more land. the astor mansions rank among the most pretentious in the united states and in europe. the new york city residence long occupied by mrs. william astor at fifth avenue and sixty-fifth street is one of extraordinary luxury and grandeur. adjoining and connected with it is the equally sumptuous mansion of john jacob astor. in these residences, or rather palaces, splendor is piled upon splendor. in mrs. william astor's spacious ball-room and picture gallery, balls have been given, each costing, it is said, $ , . in cream and gold the picture gallery spreads; the walls are profuse with costly paintings, and at one end is a gallery in wrought iron where musicians give out melody on festive occasions. the dining rooms of these houses are of an immensity. embellished in old oak incrusted with gold, their walls are covered with antique tapestries set in huge oak framework with margins thick with gold. upon the diners a luxurious ceiling looks down, a blaze of color upon black oak set off by masses of gold borders. directly above the center of the table are painted garlands of flowers and clusters of fruit. in the hub of this representation is mrs. astor's monogram in letters of gold. from the massive hall, with its reproductions of paintings of marie antoinette and other old french court characters, its statuary, costly vases and draperies, a wide marble stairway curves gracefully upstairs. to dwell upon all of the luxurious aspects of these residences would compel an extended series of details. in both of the residences every room is a thing of magnificence. proximity of palaces and poverty. from these palaces it is but a step, as it were, to gaunt neighborhoods where great parts of the population are crowded in the most inhuman way into wretched tenement houses. it is an undeniable fact that more than fifty blocks on manhattan island--each of which blocks is not much larger than the space covered by the astor mansions--have each a teeming population of from , to , persons. in each of several blocks , persons are congested. in , when conditions were thought bad enough, , inhabitants were crowded into the section south of fourteenth street; but in this district contained fully , population. forty years ago the lower sections only of manhattan were overcrowded, but now the density of congestion has spread to all parts of manhattan, and to parts of the bronx and brooklyn. on an area of two hundred acres in certain parts of new york city not less than , people exist. it is not uncommon to find eighteen men, women, and children, driven to it by necessity, sleeping in three small, suffocating rooms. [illustration: the astor mansions in new york city. occupied by the late mrs. william astor and by john jacob astor.] but the new york city residences of the astors are only a mere portion of their many palaces. they have impressive mansions, costing great sums, at newport. at ferncliffe-on-the-hudson john jacob astor has an estate of two thousand acres. this country palace, built in chaste italian architecture, is fitted with every convenience and luxury. john jacob astor's cousin, william waldorf, some years since expatriated himself from his native country and became a british subject. he bought the cliveden estate at taplow, bucks, england, the old seat of the duke of westminster, the richest landlord in england. thenceforth william waldorf scorned his native land, and has never even taken the trouble to look at the property in new york which yields him so vast a revenue. this absentee landlord, for whom it is estimated not less than , men, women and children directly toil, in the form of paying him rent, has surrounded himself in england with a lofty feudal exclusiveness. sweeping aside the privilege that the general public had long enjoyed of access to the cliveden grounds, he issued strict orders forbidding trespassing, and along the roads he built high walls surmounted with broken glass. his son and heir, waldorf astor, has avowed that he also will remain a british subject. william waldorf astor, it should be said, is somewhat of a creator of public opinion; he owns a newspaper and a magazine in london. * * * * * the origin and successive development of the astor fortune have been laid bare in these chapters; not wholly so, by any means, for a mass of additional facts have been left out. where certain fundamental facts are sufficient to give a clear idea of a presentation, it is not necessary to pile on too much of an accumulation. and yet, such has been the continued emphasis of property-smitten writers upon the thrift, honesty, ability and sagacity of the men who built up the great fortunes, that the impression generally prevails that the astor fortune is preëminently one of those amassed by legitimate means. these chapters should dispel this illusion. footnotes: [ ] see testimony taken before the [new york] senate committee on cities, , iii: , etc. [ ] testimony taken before the [new york] senate committee on cities, , iii: - . [ ] as one of many illustrations of the ethics of the propertied class, the appended newspaper dispatch from newport, r. i., on jan. , , brings out some significant facts: "william c. schermerhorn, whose death is announced in new york, and who was a cousin of mrs. william astor, was one of newport's pioneer summer residents. he was one of new york's millionaires, and his newport villa is situated on narragansett avenue near cliffside, opposite the pinard cottages. "mr. schermerhorn, with mrs. astor and ex-commodore gerry, of the new york yacht club, in order to avoid the inheritance tax of new york, and to take advantage of newport's low tax-rate, obtained in january last through their counsel, colonel samuel r. honey, a decree declaring their citizenship in rhode island. since that time mr. schermerhorn's residence has been in this state. in last year's tax-list he was assessed for $ , . "mr. schermerhorn was a member of both the fashionable clubs on bellevue avenue, the newport casino and the newport reading-room." [ ] for further details on this point see chapter ix, part ii. chapter viii other land fortunes considered the founding and aggrandizement of other great private fortunes from land were accompanied by methods closely resembling, or identical with, those that the astors employed. next to the astors' estate the goelet landed possessions are perhaps the largest urban estates in the united states in value. the landed property of the goelet family on manhattan island alone is estimated at fully $ , , . the goelet fortune. the founder of the goelet fortune was peter goelet, an ironmonger during and succeeding the revolution. his grandfather, jacobus goelet, was, as a boy and young man, brought up by frederick phillips, with whose career as a promoter and backer of pirates and piracies, and as a briber of royal officials under british rule, we have dealt in previous chapters. of peter goelet's business methods and personality no account is extant. but as to his methods in obtaining land, there exists little obscurity. in the course of this work it has already been shown in specific detail how peter goelet in conjunction with john jacob astor, the rhinelander brothers, the schermerhorns, the lorillards and other founders of multimillionaire dynasties, fraudulently secured great tracts of land, during the early and middle parts of the last century, in either what was then, or what is now, in the heart of new york city. it is entirely needless to iterate the narrative of how the city officials corruptly gave over to these men land and water grants before that time municipally owned--grants now having a present incalculable value.[ ] as was the case with john jacob astor, the fortune of the goelets was derived from a mixture of commerce, banking and ownership of land. profits from trade went toward buying more land, and in providing part of corrupt funds with which the legislature of new york was bribed into granting banking charters, exemptions and other special laws. these various factors were intertwined; the profits from one line of property were used in buying up other forms and thus on, reversely and comminglingly. peter had two sons; peter p., and robert r. goelet. these two sons, with an eye for the advantageous, married daughters of thomas buchanan, a rich scotch merchant of new york city, and for a time a director of the united states bank. the result was that when their father died, they not only inherited a large business and a very considerable stretch of real estate, but, by means of their money and marriage, were powerful dignitaries in the directing of some of the richest and most despotic banks. peter p. goelet was for several years one of the directors of the bank of new york, and both brothers benefited by the corrupt control of the united states bank, and were principals among the founders of the chemical bank. these brothers had set out with an iron determination to build up the largest fortune they could, and they allowed no obstacles to hinder them. when fraud was necessary they, like the bulk of their class, unhesitatingly used it. in getting their charter for the notorious chemical bank, they bribed members of the legislature with the same phlegmatic serenity that they would put through an ordinary business transaction. this bank, as we have brought out previously, was chartered after a sufficient number of members of the legislature had been bribed with $ , in stock and a large sum of money. yet now that this bank is one of the richest and most powerful institutions in the united states, and especially as the criminal nature of its origin is unknown except to the historic delver, the goelets mention the connection of their ancestors with it as a matter of great and just pride. in a voluminous biography giving the genealogies of the rich families of new york--material which was supplied and perhaps written by the families themselves--this boast occurs in the chapter devoted to the goelets: "they were also numbered among the founders of that famous new york financial institution, the chemical bank."[ ] thus do the crimes of one generation become transformed into the glories of another! the stock of the chemical bank, quoted at a fabulous sum, so to speak, is still held by a small, compact group in which the goelets are conspicuous. from the frauds of this bank the goelets reaped large profits which systematically were invested in new york city real estate. and progressively their rentals from this land increased. their policy was much the same as that of the astors--constantly increasing their land possessions. this they could easily do for two reasons. one was that almost consecutively they, along with other landholders, corrupted city governments to give them successive grants, and the other was their enormous surplus revenue which kept piling up. once a farm; now of vast value. when william b. astor inherited in the greater part of his father's fortune, the goelet brothers had attained what was then the exalted rank of being millionaires, although their fortune was only a fraction of that of astor. the great impetus to the sudden increase of their fortune came in the period - , through a tract of land which they owned in what had formerly been the outskirts of the city. this land was once a farm and extended from about what is now union square to forty-seventh street and fifth avenue. it embraced a long section of broadway--a section now covered with huge hotels, business buildings, stores and theaters. it also includes blocks upon blocks filled with residences and aristocratic mansions. at first the fringe of new york city, then part of its suburbs, this tract lay in a region which from on began to take on great values, and which was in great demand for the homes of the rich. by it was a central part of the city and brought high rentals. the same combination of economic influences and pressure which so vastly increased the value of the astors' land, operated to turn this quondam farm into city lots worth enormous sums. as population increased and the downtown sections were converted into business sections, the fashionables shifted their quarters from time to time, always pushing uptown, until the goelet lands became a long sweep of ostentatious mansions. in imitation of the astors the goelets steadily adhered, as they have since, to the policy of seldom or never selling any of their land. on the other hand, they bought constantly. on one occasion they bought eighty lots in the block from fifth to sixth avenues, forty-second to forty-third streets. the price they paid was $ a lot. these lots have a present aggregate value of perhaps $ , , or more, although they are assessed at much less. misers with millions. the second generation of the goelets--counting from the founder of the fortune--were incorrigibly parsimonious. they reduced miserliness to a supreme art. likewise the third generation. of peter goelet, a grandson of the original peter, many stories were current illustrating his close-fistedness. his passion for economy was carried to such an abnormal stage that he refused even to engage a tailor to mend his garments.[ ] he was unmarried, and generally attended to his own wants. on several occasions he was found in his office at the chemical bank industriously absorbed in sewing his coat. for stationery he used blank backs of letters and envelopes which he carefully and systematically saved and put away. his house at nineteenth street, corner of broadway, was a curiosity shop. in the basement he had a forge, and there were tools of all kinds over which he labored, while upstairs he had a law library of , volumes, for it was a fixed, cynical determination of his never to pay a lawyer for advice that he could himself get for the reading. yet this miser, who denied himself many of the ordinary comforts and conveniences of life, and who would argue and haggle for hours over a trivial sum, allowed himself one expensive indulgence--expensive for him, at least. he was a lover of fancy fowls and of animals. storks, pheasants and peacocks could be seen in the grounds about his house, and also numbers of guinea pigs. in his stable he kept a cow to supply him with fresh milk; he often milked it himself. this eccentric was very melancholy and, apart from his queer collection of pets, cared for nothing except land and houses. chancing in upon him one could see him intently pouring over a list of his properties. he never tired of doing this, and was petulantly impatient when houses enough were not added to his inventory. he died in aged seventy-nine years; and within a few months, his brother robert, who was as much of an eccentric and miser in his way, passed away in his seventieth year. the third generation. the fortunes of the brothers descended to robert's two sons, robert, born in , and ogden, born in . these wielders of a fortune so great that they could not keep track of it, so fast did it grow, abandoned somewhat the rigid parsimony of the previous generations. they allowed themselves a glittering effusion of luxuries which were popularly considered extravagances but which were in nowise so, inasmuch as the cost of them did not represent a tithe of merely the interest on the principal. in that day, although but thirty years since, when none but the dazzlingly rich could afford to keep a sumptuous steam yacht in commission the year round, robert goelet had a costly yacht, feet long, equipped with all the splendors and comforts which up to that time had been devised for ocean craft. between them, he and his brother ogden possessed a fortune of at least $ , , . the basic structure of this was new york city land, but a considerable part was in railroad stocks and bonds, and miscellaneous aggregations of other securities to the purchase of which the surplus revenue had gone. thus, like the astors and other rich landholders, partly by investments made in trade, and largely by fraud, the goelets finally became not only great landlords but sharers in the centralized ownership of the country's transportation systems and industries. when ogden goelet died he left a fortune of at least $ , , , reckoning all of the complex forms of his property, and his brother, robert, dying in , left a fortune of about the same amount. two children survived each of the brothers. then was witnessed that characteristic so symptomatic of the american money aristocracy. a surfeit of money brings power, but it does not carry with it a recognized position among a titled aristocracy. the next step is marriage with title. the titled descendants of the predatory barons of the feudal ages having, generation after generation, squandered and mortgaged the estates gotten centuries ago by force and robbery, stand in need of funds. on the other hand, the feminine possessors of american millions, aided and abetted doubtless by the men of the family, who generally crave a "blooded" connection, lust for the superior social status insured by a title. the arrangement becomes easy. in marrying the duke of roxburghe in , may goelet, the daughter of ogden, was but following the example set by a large number of other american women of multimillionaire families. it is an indulgence which, however great the superficial consequential money cost may be, is, in reality, inexpensive. as fast as millions are dissipated they are far more than replaced in these private coffers by the collective labor of the american people through the tributary media of rent, interest and profit. in the last ten years the value of the goelet land holdings has enormously increased, until now it is almost too conservative an estimate to place the collective fortune at $ , , . this large fortune, as is that of the astors and of other extensive landlords, is not, as has been pointed out, purely one of land possessions. far from it. the invariable rule, it might be said, has been to utilize the surplus revenues in the form of rents, in buying up controlling power in a great number and variety of corporations. the astors are directors in a large array of corporations, and likewise virtually all of the other big landlords. the rent-racked people of the city of new york, where rents are higher proportionately than in any other city, have sweated and labored and fiercely struggled, as have the people of other cities, only to deliver up a great share of their earnings to the lords of the soil, merely for a foothold. in turn these rents have incessantly gone toward buying up railroads, factories, utility plants and always more and more land. where surplus revenue has gone. but the singular continuity does not end here. land acquired by political or commercial fraud has been made the lever for the commission of other frauds. the railroads now controlled by a few men, among whom the large landowners are conspicuous, were surveyed and built to a great extent by public funds, not private money. as time passes a gradual transformation takes place. little by little, scarcely known to the people, laws are altered; the states and the government, representing the interests of the vested class, surrender the people's rights, often even the empty forms of those rights, and great railroad systems pass into the hands of a small cabal of multimillionaires. to give one of many instances: the illinois central railroad, passing through an industrial and rich farming country, is one of the most profitable railroads in the united states. this railroad was built in the proportion of twelve parts to one by public funds, raised by taxation of the people of that state, and by prodigal gifts of public land grants. the balance represents the investments of private individuals. the cost of the road as reported by the company in was $ , a mile. of this amount all that private individuals contributed was $ , a mile above their receipts; these latter were sums which the private owners gathered in from selling the land given to them by the state, amounting to $ , per mile, and the sums that they pocketed from stock waterings amounting to $ , a mile. "the unsold land grant," says professor frank parsons, "amounted to , acres, worth probably over $ , , , so that those to whom the securities of the company were issued, had obtained the road at a bonus of nearly $ , , above all they paid in."[ ] by this manipulation, private individuals not only got this immensely valuable railroad for practically nothing, but they received, or rather the laws (which they caused to be made) awarded them, a present of nearly four millions for their dexterity in plundering the railroad from the people. what set of men do we find now in control of this railroad, doing with it as they please? although the state of illinois formally retains a nominal say in its management, yet it is really owned and ruled by eight men, among whom are john jacob astor, and robert walton goelet, associated with e. h. harriman, cornelius vanderbilt and four others. john jacob astor is one of the directors of the western union telegraph monopoly, with its annual receipts of $ , , and its net profits of $ , , yearly; and as for the many other corporations in which he and his family, the goelets and the other commanding landlords hold stock, they would, if enumerated, make a formidable list. and while on this phase, we should not overlook another salient fact which thrusts itself out for notice. we have seen how john jacob astor of the third generation very eagerly in invited cornelius vanderbilt to take over the management of the new york central railroad, after vanderbilt had proved himself not less an able executive than an indefatigable and effective briber and corrupter. so long as vanderbilt produced the profits, astor and his fellow-directors did not care what means he used, however criminal in law and whatever their turpitude in morals. john jacob astor of the fourth generation repeats this performance in aligning himself, as does goelet, with that master-hand harriman, against whom the most specific charges of colossal looting have been brought.[ ] but it would be both idle and prejudicial in the highest degree to single out for condemnation a brace of capitalists for following out a line of action so strikingly characteristic of the entire capitalist class--a class which, in the pursuit of profits, dismisses nicety of ethics and morals, and which ordains its own laws. the rhinelanders. the wealth of the rhinelander family is commonly placed at about $ , , . but this, there is excellent reason to believe, is an absurdly low approximation. nearly a century and a half ago william and frederick rhinelander kept a bakeshop on william street, new york city, and during the revolution operated a sugar factory. they also built ships and did a large commission business. it is usually set forth, in the plenitude of eulogistic biographies, that their thrift and ability were the foundation of the family's immense fortune. little research is necessary to shatter this error. that they conducted their business in the accepted methods of the day and exercised great astuteness and frugality, is true enough, but so did a host of other merchants whose descendants are even now living in poverty. some other explanation must be found to account for the phenomenal increase of the original small fortune and its unshaken retention. this explanation is found partly in the fraudulent means by which, decade after decade, they secured land and water grants from venal city administrations, and in the singularly dubious arrangement by which they obtained an extremely large landed property, now having a value of tens upon tens of millions, from trinity church. since the full and itemized details of these transactions have been elaborated upon in previous chapters, it is hardly necessary to repeat them. it will be recalled that, as important personages in tammany hall, the dominant political party in new york city, the rhinelanders used the powers of city government to get grant after grant for virtually nothing. from trinity church they got a ninety-nine year lease of a large tract in what is now the very hub of the business section of new york city--which tract they subsequently bought in fee simple. another large tract of new york city real estate came into their possession through the marriage of william c. rhinelander, of the third generation, to a daughter of john rutgers. this rutgers was a lineal descendant of anthony rutgers, who, in , obtained from the royal governor cosby the gift of what was then called the "fresh water pond and swamp"--a stretch of seventy acres of little value at the time, but which is now covered with busy streets and large commercial and office buildings. what the circumstances were that attended this grant are not now known. the grant consisted of what are now many blocks along broadway north of lispenard street. it is not merely business sections which the rhinelander family owns, however; they derive stupendous rentals from a vast number of tenement houses. the rhinelanders, also, employ their great surplus revenues in constantly buying more land. with true aristocratic aspirations, they have not been satisfied with mere plebeian american mansions, gorgeous palaces though they be; they set out to find a european palace with warranted royal associations, and found one in the famous castle of schonberg, on the rhine, near oberwesel, which they bought and where they have ensconced themselves. how great the wealth of this family is may be judged from the fact that one of the rhinelanders--william--left an estate valued at $ , , at his death in december, . the schermerhorns. the factors entering into the building up of the schermerhorn fortune were almost identical with those of the astor, the goelet and the rhinelander fortunes. the founder, peter schermerhorn, was a ship chandler during the revolution. parts of his land and other possessions he bought with the profits from his business; other portions, as has been brought out, he obtained from corrupt city administrations. his two sons continued the business of ship chandlers; one of them--"peter the younger"--was especially active in extending his real estate possessions, both by corrupt favors of the city officials and by purchase. one tract of land, extending from third avenue to the east river and from sixty-fourth to seventy-fifth street, which he secured in the early part of the nineteenth century, became worth a colossal fortune in itself. it is now covered with stores, buildings and densely populated tenement houses. "peter the younger" quickly gravitated into the profitable and fashionable business of the day--the banking business, with its succession of frauds, many of which have been described in the preceding chapters. he was a director of the bank of new york from until his death in . it seems quite superfluous to enlarge further upon the origin of the great landed fortunes of new york city; the typical examples given doubtless serve as expositions of how, in various and similar ways, others were acquired. we shall advert to some of the great fortunes in the west based wholly or largely upon city real estate. while the astors, the goelets, the rhinelanders and others, or rather the entire number of inhabitants, were transmuting their land into vast and increasing wealth expressed in terms of hundreds of millions in money, nicholas longworth was aggrandizing himself likewise in cincinnati. how longworth began. longworth had been born in newark, n. j., in , and at the age of twenty-one had migrated to cincinnati, then a mere outpost, with a population of eight hundred sundry adventurers. there he studied law and was admitted to practice. the story of how longworth became a landowner is given by houghton as follows: his first client was a man accused of horse stealing. in those frontier days, a horse represented one of the most valuable forms of property; and, as under a system wherein human life was inconsequential compared to the preservation of property, the penalty for stealing a horse was usually death. no term of reproach was more invested with cutting contempt and cruel hatred than that of a horse thief. the case looked black. but longworth somehow contrived to get the accused off with acquittal. the man--so the story further runs--had no money to pay longworth's fee and no property except two second-hand copper stills. these also were high in the appraisement of property values, for they could be used to make whisky, and whisky could be in turn used to debauch the indian tribes and swindle them of furs and land. these stills longworth took and traded them off to joel williams, a tavern-keeper who was setting up a distillery. in exchange, longworth received thirty-three acres of what was then considered unpromising land in the town.[ ] from time to time he bought more land with the money made in law; this land lay on what were then the outskirts of the place. some of the lots cost him but ten dollars each. as immigration swarmed west and cincinnati grew, his land consequently took on enhanced value. by the population was , ; twenty years later it had reached , , and in , , inhabitants. for a western city this was a very considerable population for the period. the growth of the city kept on increasingly. his land lay in the very center of the expanding city, in the busiest part of the business section and in the best portion of the residential districts. indeed, so rapidly did its value grow soon after he got it, that it was no longer necessary for him to practice law or in any wise crook to others. in he gave up law, and thenceforth gave his entire attention to managing his property. an extensive vineyard, which he laid out in ohio, added to his wealth. here he cultivated the catawba grape and produced about , bottles a year. all available accounts agree in describing him as merciless. he foreclosed mortgages with pitiless promptitude, and his adroit knowledge of the law, approaching if not reaching, that of an unscrupulous pettifogger, enabled him to get the upper hand in every transaction. his personal habits were considered repulsive by the conventional and fastidious. "he was dry and caustic in his remarks," says houghton, "and very rarely spared the object of his satire. he was plain and careless in his dress, looking more a beggar than a millionaire." his vagaries--so called. there were certain other conventional respects in which he was woefully deficient, and he had certain singularities which severely taxed the comprehension of routine minds. none who had the appearance of respectable charity seekers could get anything else from him than contemptuous rebuffs. for respectability in any form he had no use; he scouted and scoffed at it and pulverized it with biting and grinding sarcasm. but once any man or woman passed over the line of respectability into the besmeared realm of sheer disrepute, and that person would find longworth not only accessible but genuinely sympathetic. the drunkard, the thief, the prostitute, the veriest wrecks of humanity could always tell their stories to him and get relief. this was his grim way of striking back at a commercial society whose lies and shams and hypocrisies he hated; he knew them all; he had practiced them himself. there is good reason to believe that alongside of his one personality, that of a rapacious miser, there lived another personality, that of a philosopher. certainly he was a very unique type of millionaire, much akin to stephen girard. he had a clear notion (for he was endowed with a highly analytical and penetrating mind) that in giving a few coins to the abased and the wretched he was merely returning in infinitesimal proportion what the prevailing system, of which he was so conspicuous an exemplar, took from the whole people for the benefit of a few; and that this system was unceasingly turning out more and more wretches. long after longworth had become a multimillionaire he took a savage, perhaps a malicious, delight in doing things which shocked all current conceptions of how a millionaire should act. to understand the intense scandal caused by what were considered his vagaries, it is only necessary to bear in mind the ultra-lofty position of a multimillionaire at a period when a man worth $ , was thought very rich. there were only a few millionaires in the united states, and still fewer multimillionaires. longworth ranked next to john jacob astor. on one occasion a beggar called at longworth's office and pointed eloquently at his gaping shoes. longworth kicked off one of his own untied shoes and told the beggar to try it on. it fitted. its mate followed. then after the beggar left, longworth sent a boy to the nearest shoe store, with instructions to get a pair of shoes, but in no circumstances to pay more than a dollar and a half. this remarkable man lived to the age of eighty-one; when he died in in a splendid mansion which he had built in the heart of his vineyard, his estate was valued at $ , , . he was the largest landowner in cincinnati, and one of the largest in the cities of the united states. the value of the land that he bequeathed has increased continuously; in the hands of his various descendants to-day it is many times more valuable than the huge fortune which he left. cincinnati, with its population of , ,[ ] pays incessant tribute in the form of a vast rent roll to the scions of the man whose main occupation was to hold on to the land he had got for almost nothing. unlike the founder of the fortune the present longworth generation never strays from the set formulas of respectability; it has intermarried with other rich families: and nicholas, a namesake and grandson of the original, and a representative in congress, married in circumstances of great and lavish pomp a daughter of president roosevelt, thus linking a large fortune, based upon vested interests, with the ruling executive of the day and strategically combining wealth with direct political power. the same process of reaping gigantic fortunes from land went on in every large city. in chicago, with its phenomenally speedy growth of population and its vast array of workers, immense fortunes were amassed within an astonishingly short period. here the growth of large private fortunes was marked by much greater celerity than in the east, although these fortunes are not as large as those based upon land in the eastern cities. marshall field and leiter. the largest landowners that developed in chicago were marshall field and levi z. leiter. in the illinois labor bureau, in that year happening to be under the direction of able and conscientious officials, made a painstaking investigation of land values in chicago. it was estimated that the acres of land, constituting what was owned by individuals and private corporations in one section alone--the south side,--were worth $ , , . this estimate was made at a time when the country was slowly recovering, as the set phrase goes, from the panic of - , and when land values were not in a state of inflation or rise. the amount of $ , , was calculated as being solely the value of the land, not counting improvements, which were valued at as much more. the principal landowner in this one section, not to mention other sections of that immense city, was marshall field, with $ , , worth of land; the next was leiter, who owned in that section land valued at $ , , .[ ] it appeared from this report that eighteen persons owned $ , , of this $ , , worth of land, and that eighty-eight persons owned $ , , worth--or one-half of the entire business center of chicago. doubling the sums credited to field and leiter (that is to say, adding the value of the improvements to the value of the land), this brought field's real estate in that one section to a value of $ , , , and leiter's to nearly the same. this estimate was confirmed to a surprising degree by the inventory of field's executors reported to the court early in . the executors of field's will placed the value of his real estate in chicago at $ , , . this estimate did not include $ , , worth of land which the executors reported that he owned in new york city, nor the millions of dollars of his land possessions elsewhere. field's many possessions. field left a fortune of about $ , , (as estimated by the executors) which he bequeathed principally to two grandsons, both of which heirs were in boyhood. the factors constituting this fortune are various. at least $ , , of it was represented at the time that the executors made their inventory, by a multitude of bonds and stocks in a wide range of diverse industrial, transportation, utility and mining corporations. the variety of field's possessions and his numerous forms of ownership were such that we shall have pertinent occasion to deal more relevantly with his career in subsequent parts of this work. [illustration: marshall field.] the careers of field, leiter and several other chicago multimillionaires ran in somewhat parallel grooves. field was the son of a farmer. he was born in conway, mass., in . when twenty-one he went to chicago and worked in a wholesale dry goods house. in he was made a partner. during the civil war this firm, as did the entire commercial world, proceeded to hold up the nation for exorbitant prices in its contracts at a time of distress. the government and the public were forced to pay the highest sums for the poorest material. it was established that government officials were in collusion with the contractors. this extortion formed one of the saddest and most sordid chapters of the civil war (as it does of all wars,) but conventional history is silent on the subject, and one is compelled to look elsewhere for the facts of how the commercial houses imposed at high prices shoddy material and semi-putrid food upon the very army and navy that fought for their interests.[ ] in the words of one of field's laudatory biographers, "the firm coined money"--a phrase which for the volumes of significant meaning embodied in it, is an epitome of the whole profit system. some of the personnel of the firm changed several times: in field, leiter and potter palmer (who had also become a multimillionaire) associated under the firm name of field, leiter & palmer. the great fire of destroyed the firm's buildings, but they were replaced. subsequently the firm became field, leiter & co., and, finally in , marshall field & co.[ ] the firm conducted both a wholesale and retail business on what is called in commercial slang "a cash basis:" that is, it sold goods on immediate payment and not on credit. the volume of its business rose to enormous proportions. in it reached an aggregate of $ , , a year; in it was estimated at fully $ , , a year. footnotes: [ ] some of this land and these water grants and piers were obtained by peter goelet during the corrupt administration of city controller romaine. goelet, it seems, was allowed to pay in installments. thus, an entry, on january , , in the municipal records, reads: "on receiving the report of the street commissioner, ordered that warrants issue to messrs. anderson and allen for the three installments due to them from mr. goelet for the whitehall and exchange piers."--mss. minutes of the [new york city] common council, , xvi: . [ ] "prominent families of new york": . another notable example of this glorifying was nicholas biddle, long president of the united states bank. yet the court records show that, after a career of bribery, he stole $ , of that bank's funds. [ ] at this very time his wealth, judged by the standard of the times, was prodigious. "his wealth is vast--not less than five or six millions," wrote barrett in --"the old merchants of new york city," : . [ ] "the railways, the trusts and the people": . [ ] see part iii, "great fortunes from railroads." [ ] "kings of fortune": . [ ] census of . [ ] eighth annual report, illinois labor bureau: - . [ ] in those parts of this work relating to great fortunes from railroads and from industries, this phase of commercial life is specifically dealt with. the enormities brazenly committed during the spanish-american war of are sufficiently remembered. napoleon had the same experience with french contractors, and the testimony of all wars is to the same effect. [ ] so valuable was a partnership in this firm that a writer says that field paid leiter "an unknown number of millions" when he bought out leiter's interest. chapter ix the field fortune in extenso in close similarity to the start of the astors and many other founders of great land fortunes, commerce was the original means by which marshall field obtained the money which he invested in land. consecutively came a ramification of other revenue-producing properties. once in motion, the process worked in the same admixed, interconnected way as it did in the amassing of contemporary large fortunes. it may be literally compared to hundreds of golden streams flowing from as many sources to one central point. from land, business, railroads, street railways, public utility and industrial corporations--from these and many other channels, prodigious profits kept, and still keep, pouring in ceaselessly. in turn, these formed ever newer and widening distributing radii of investments. the process, by its own resistless volition, became one of continuous compound progression. land for almost nothing. long before the business of the firm of marshall field & co. had reached the annual total of $ , , , field, leiter and their associates had begun buying land in chicago. little capital was needed for the purpose: the material growth of chicago explains sufficiently how a few dollars put in land fifty or sixty years ago became in time an automatically-increasing fund of millions. a century or so ago the log cabin of john kinzie was the only habitation on a site now occupied by a swarming, conglomerate, rushing population of , , .[ ] where the prairie land once stretched in solitude, a huge, roaring, choking city now stands, black with factories, the habitat of nearly two millions of human beings, living in a whirlpool of excitement and tumult, presenting extremes of wealth and poverty, the many existing in dire straits, the few rolling in sovereign luxury. a saying prevails in chicago that the city now holds more millionaires than it did voters in . land, in the infancy of the city, was cheap; few settlers there were, and the future could not be foreseen. in one-quarter of an acre could be bought for $ ; a few bits of silver, or any currency whatsoever, would secure to the buyer a deed carrying with it a title forever, with a perpetual right of exclusive ownership and a perpetual hold upon all succeeding generations. the more population grew, the greater the value their labor gave the land; and the keener their need, the more difficult it became for them to get land. within ten years--by about the beginning of the year --the price of a quarter of an acre in the center of the city had risen to $ , . a decade later the established value was $ , , and in , $ , . chicago was growing with great rapidity; a network of railroads converged there; mammoth factories, mills, grain elevators, packing houses:--a vast variety of manufacturing and mercantile concerns set up in business, and brought thither swarms of workingmen and their families, led on by the need of food and the prospects of work. the greater the influx of workers, the more augmented became the value of land. inevitably the greatest congestion of living resulted. by the price of a quarter of an acre in the heart of the city bounded to $ , , and by , to $ , . it becomes worth millions. during the next decade--a decade full of bitter distress to the working population of the united states, and marked by widespread suffering--the price shot up to $ , . by --a panic year, in which millions of men were out of work and in a state of appalling destitution--a quarter of an acre reached the gigantic value of $ , , .[ ] at this identical time large numbers of the working class, which had so largely created this value, were begging vainly for work, and were being evicted by the tens of thousands in chicago because they could not pay rent for their miserable, cramped habitations. by exchanging a few hundred, or a few thousand dollars, in chicago's extreme youth, for a scrap of paper called a deed, the buyer of this land found himself after the lapse of years, a millionaire. it did not matter where or how he obtained the purchase money: whether he swindled, or stole, or inherited it, or made it honestly;--so long as it was not counterfeit, the law was observed. after he got the land he was under no necessity of doing anything more than hold on to it, which same he could do equally well, whether in chicago or buried in the depths of kamschatka. if he chose, he could get chronically drunk; he could gamble, or drone in laziness; he could do anything but work. nevertheless, the land and all its values which others created, were his forever, to enjoy and dispose of as suited his individual pleasure. this was, and is still, the system. thoroughly riveted in law, it was regarded as a rational, beneficent and everlasting fixture of civilized life--by the beneficiaries. and as these latter happened to be, by virtue of their possessions, among the real rulers of government, their conceptions and interests were embodied in law, thought and custom as the edict of civilization. the whole concurrent institutions of society, which were but the echo of property interests, pronounced the system wise and just, and, as a reigning force, do still so proclaim it. in such a state there was nothing abnormal in any man monopolizing land and exclusively appropriating its revenues. on the contrary, it was considered a superior stroke of business, a splendid example of astuteness. marshall field was looked upon as a very sagacious business man. field's real estate tracts. field bought much land when it was of comparatively inconsequential value, and held on to it with a tenacious grip. in the last years of his life, his revenues from his real estate were uninterruptedly enormous. "downtown real estate in chicago," wrote "a popular writer" in a typically effusive biographical account of field, published in , "is about as valuable, foot for foot, as that in the best locations in new york city. from $ , to $ , a front foot are not uncommon figures for property north of congress street, in the chicago business district. marshall field owns not less than twenty choice sites and buildings in this section; not including those used for his drygoods business. in the vicinity of the chicago university buildings he owns square block after block of valuable land. yet farther south he owns hundreds of acres of land in the calumet region--land invaluable for manufacturing purposes." this extension and centralization of land ownership were accompanied by precisely the same results as were witnessed in other cities, although these results were the sequence of the whole social and industrial system, and not solely of any one phase. poverty grew in exact proportion to the growth of large fortunes; the one presupposed, and was built upon, the existence of the other. chicago became full of slums and fetid, overcrowded districts; and if the density and congestion of population are not as great as in new york, boston and cincinnati, it is only because of more favorable geographical conditions. field's fortune was heaped up in about the last twenty years of his life. the celerity of its progress arose from the prolific variety and nature of his possessions. to form even an approximate idea of how fast wealth came in to him, it is necessary to picture millions of men, women and children toiling day after day, year in and year out, getting a little less than two parts of the value of what they produced, while almost nine portions either went to him entirely or in part. but this was not all. add to these millions of workers the rest of the population of the united states who had to buy from, or in some other way pay tribute to, the many corporations in which field held stock, and you get some adequate conception of the innumerable influxions of gold which poured into field's coffers every minute, every second of the day, whether he were awake or asleep; whether sick or well, whether traveling or sitting stock still. his income: $ to $ an hour. this one man had the legal power of taking over to himself, as his inalienable property, his to enjoy, hoard, squander, bury, or throw in the ocean, if his fancy so dictated, the revenue produced by the labor of millions of beings as human as he, with the same born capacity for eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping and dying. many of his workers had a better digestive apparatus which had to put up with inferior food, and, at times, no food at all. he could eat no more than three meals a day, but his daily income was enough to have afforded him ten thousand sumptuous daily meals, with exquisite "trimmings," while periods came when those who drudged for him were fortunate to have any meals at all. few of his workers received as much as $ a day; field's income was estimated to be at the rate of about $ to $ an hour. first--and of prime importance--was his wholesale and retail drygoods business. this was, and is, a line of business in which frantic competition survived long after the manufacturing field had passed over into concentrated trust control. to keep apace with competitors and make high profits, it was imperative not only to resort to shifts, expedients and policies followed by competitors, but to improve upon, and surpass, those methods if possible. field at all times proved that it was possible. no competing firm would pay a certain rate of wages but what field instantly outgeneraled it by cutting his workers' wages to a point enabling him to make his goods as cheap or cheaper. his employees' wretched wages. in his wholesale and retail stores he employed not less than ten thousand men, women and children. he compelled them to work for wages which, in a large number of cases, were inadequate even for a bare subsistence. ninety-five per cent. received $ a week or less. the female sewing-machine operators who bent over their tasks the long day, making the clothes sold in the field stores, were paid the miserable wages of $ . a week. makers of socks and stockings were paid from $ . to $ . a week. the working hours consisted variously of from fifty-nine to fifty-nine and a half a week. field also manufactured his own furniture as well as many other articles. furniture workers were paid: machine workers, $ . , and upholsterers $ . a week. all of field's wage workers were paid by the hour; should they fall sick, or work become slack, their pay was proportionately reduced. the wretchedness in which many of these workers lived, and in which they still live (for the same conditions obtain), was pitiful in the extreme. even in a small town where rent is not so high, these paltry wages would have been insufficient for an existence of partial decency. but in chicago, with its forbidding rents, the increasing cost of all necessaries, and all of the other expenses incident to life in a large city, their wages were notoriously scanty. large numbers of them were driven to herding in foul tenements or evil dwellings, the inducements of which was the rent, a little lighter than could be had elsewhere. every cent economized meant much. if an investigator (as often happened) had observed them, and had followed them to their wretched homes after their day's work, he would have noted, or learned of, these conditions: their food was circumscribed and coarse--the very cheapest forms of meat, and usually stale bread. butter was a superfluous luxury. the morning meal was made up of a chunk of bread washed down with "coffee"--adulterated stuff with just a faint odor of real coffee. at noon, bread and an onion, or a bit of herring, or a slice of cheap cheese composed their dinner, with perhaps a dash of dessert in the shape of sweetened substance, artificially colored, sold as "cake." for supper, cheap pork, or a soup bone, garnished occasionally in the season by stale vegetables, and accompanied by a concoction resembling tea. few of these workers ever had more than one suit of clothes, or more than one dress. they could not afford amusements, and were too fatigued to read or converse. at night bunches of them bunked together--sometimes eight or ten in a single room; by this arrangement the rent of each was proportionately reduced. it is now we come to a sinister result of these methods of exploiting the wage-working girls and women. the subject is one that cannot be approached with other than considerable hesitancy, not because the facts are untrue, but because its statistical nature has not been officially investigated. nevertheless, the facts are known; stern, inflexible facts. for true historical accuracy, as well as for purposes of humanity, they must be given; that delicacy would be false, misleading and palliative which would refrain from tearing away the veil and from exposing the putridity beneath. field was repeatedly charged with employing his workers at such desperately low wages as to drive large numbers of girls and women, by the terrifying force of poverty, into the alternative of prostitution. how large the number has been, or precisely what the economic or psychologic factors have been, we have no means of knowing. it is worth noting that many official investigations, futile though their results, have probed into many other phases of capitalist fraud. but the department stores over the country have been a singular exception. why this partiality? because the public is never allowed to get agitated over the methods and practices of the department stores. hence the politicians are neither forced, for the sake of appearance, to investigate, nor can they make political capital from a thing over which the people are not aroused. not a line of the horrors taking place in the large department stores is ever reported in the newspapers, not a mention of the treatment of girls and women, not a word of the injunctions frequently obtained restraining these stores from continuing to sell this or that brand of spurious goods in imitation of those of some complaining capitalist, or of the seizures by health boards of adulterated drugs or foods. wherefore this silence? because, unsophisticated reader, these same department stores are the largest and steadiest advertisers. the newspapers, which solemnly set themselves up as moral, ethical, and political instructors to the public, sell all the space desired to advertise goods many of which are fraudulent in nature or weight. not a line objectionable to these department stores ever gets into newspaper print; on the contrary, the owners of these stores, by the bludgeon of their immense advertising, have the power, within certain limitations, of virtually acting as censors. the newspapers, whatever their pretensions, make no attempt to antagonize the powers from whom so large a portion of their revenue comes. it is a standing rule in newspaper offices in the cities, that not a specific mention of any unfavorable or discreditable matter occurring in department stores, or affecting the interests of the proprietors of those stores, is allowed to get into print. thus it is that the general public are studiously kept in ignorance of the abominations incessantly going on in the large department stores. outcasts rather than slaves. notwithstanding this community of silence, in some respects akin to a huge compounded system of blackmail, it is generally known that department stores are often breeding stations of prostitution by reason of two factors--extremely low wages and environment. there can be no disputing the fact that these two working together, and perhaps superinduced by other compelling influences, do bring about a condition the upshot of which is prostitution. such supine reports as those of the consumers' league, an organization of well-disposed dilletantes, and of superficial purposes, give no insight into the real estate of affairs. in his rather sensational and vitriolic raking of chicago, w. t. stead strongly deals with the effects of department store conditions in filling the ranks of prostitutes. he quotes dora claflin, the proprietress of a brothel, as saying that such houses as hers obtained their inmates from the stores, those in particular where hours were long and the pay small.[ ] mockery of mockeries that in this era of civilization, so-called, a system should prevail that yields far greater returns from selling the body than from honest industry! it has been estimated that the number of young women who receive $ , in one year by the sale of their persons is larger than the number of women of all ages, in all businesses and professions, who make a similar sum by work of mind or hand.[ ] but one of the most significant recognitions of the responsibility of department stores for the prevalence of prostitution, was the act of a member of the illinois legislature, a few years ago, in introducing a resolution (which failed to pass) to investigate the department stores of chicago on the ground that conditions in them led to a shocking state of immorality. the statement has been repeatedly made that nearly one-half of the outcast girls and women of chicago have come from the department stores.[ ] it was not only by these methods that the firm of marshall field & co. was so phenomenally successful in making money. in the background were other methods which belong to a different category. whatever field's practices--and they were venal and unscrupulous to a great degree, as will be shown--he was an astute organizer. he understood how to manipulate and use other men, and how to centralize business, and cut out the waste and junket of mercantile operations. in the evolutionary scheme of business he played his important part and a very necessary part it was, for which he must be given full credit. his methods, base as they were, were in no respect different from those of the rest of the commercial world, as a whole. the only difference was that he was more conspicuous and more successful. centering all profits in himself. at a time when all business was run on the chaotic and desultory lines characteristic of the purely competitive age, he had the foresight and shrewdness to perceive that the storekeeper who depended upon the jobber and the manufacturer for his goods was largely at the mercy of those elements. even if he were not, there were two sets of profits between him and the making of the goods--the jobber's profits and the manufacturer's. years before this vital fact was impressed upon the minds of the floundering retailers, field understood, and acted upon, it. he became his own manufacturer and jobber. thus he was complacently able to supply his department store with many goods at cost, and pocket the profits that otherwise would have gone to jobber and manufacturer. in, however, the very act of making three sets of profits, while many other stores made only one set, field paid his employees at the retail store rate; that is to say, he paid no more in wages than the store which had to buy often from the jobber, who in turn, purchased from the manufacturer. with this salient fact in mind, one begins to get a clear insight into some of the reasons why field made such enormous profits, and an understanding of the consequent contrast of his firm doing a business of $ , , a year while thousands of his employees had to work for a wretched pittance. he could have afforded to have paid them many times more than they were getting and still would have made large profits. but this would have been an imbecilic violation of that established canon of business: pay your employees as little as you can, and sell your goods for the highest price you can get. field was one of the biggest dry goods manufacturers in the world. he owned, says a writer, scores of enormous factories in england, ireland and scotland. "the provinces of france," this eulogist goes on, "are dotted with his mills. the clatter of the marshall field looms is heard in spain, italy, germany, austria and russia. nor is the orient neglected by this master of fabrics. plodding chinese and the skilled japs are numbered by the thousands on the payroll of the chicago merchant and manufacturer. on the other side of the equator are vast woolen mills in australia, and the chain extends to south america, with factories in brazil and in other of our neighboring republics." in all of these factories the labor of men, women and children was harshly exploited; in nearly all of them the workers were in an unorganized state, and therefore deprived of every vestige of self-protection. boys and girls of tenderest age were mercilessly ground into dollars; their young life's blood dyed deep the fabrics which brought field riches. in this dehumanizing business field was only doing what the entire commercial aristocracy the world over was doing. how extraordinarily profitable the business of marshall field & co. was (and is), may be seen in the fact that its shares (it became an incorporated stock company) were worth $ , each. at his death marshall field owned , of these shares, which the executors of his estate valued at $ , , . that the exploitation of labor, the sale of sweatshop and adulterated goods, and many other forms of oppression or fraud were a consecutive and integral part of his business methods is undeniable. but other factors, distinctly under the ban of the law, afford an additional explanation of how he was able to undersell petty competitors, situated even at a distance. what all of these factors were is not a matter of public knowledge. at least one of them came to light when, on december , , d. r. anthony, a representative in congress from kansas, supplied evidence to postmaster-general meyer that the house of marshall field & co. had enjoyed, and still had, the privilege of secret discriminatory express rates in the shipment of goods. this charge, if sustained, was a clear violation of the law; but these violations by the great propertied interests were common, and entailed, at the worst, no other penalty than a nominal fine. from such sources came the money with which he became a large landowner. also, from the sources enumerated, came the money with which he and his associates debauched politics, and bribed common councils and legislatures to present them with public franchises for street and elevated railways, gas, telephone and electric light projects--franchises intrinsically worth incalculable sums.[ ] with the money squeezed out of his legions of poverty-stricken employees and out of his rent-racked tenants he became an industrial monarch. the inventory of his estates filed in court by his executors revealed that he owned stocks and bonds in about one hundred and fifty corporations. this itemized list showed that he owned many millions of bonds and stocks in railroads with the construction and operation of which he had nothing to do. the history of practically all of them reeks with thefts of public and private money; corruption of common councils, of legislatures, congress and of administrative officials; land grabbing, fraud, illegal transactions, violence, and oppression not only of their immediate workers, but of the entire population.[ ] he owned--to give a few instances--$ , , of baltimore and ohio stock; $ , of atchison, topeka and santa fe; $ , , of chicago and northwestern, and tens of millions more of the stock or bonds of about fifteen other railroads. he also owned an immense assortment of the stocks of a large number of trusts. the affairs of these trusts have been shown in court, at some time or other, as overflowing with fraud, the most glaring oppressions, and violations of law. he had $ , in stock of the corn products company (the glucose trust); $ , of the stock of the notorious harvester trust, which charges the farmer $ for a machine that perhaps costs $ in all to make and market, and which holds a great part of the farming population bound hand and foot; $ , of biscuit trust stock; $ , of american tin can company (tin can trust) stock; and large amounts of stock in other trusts. all of these stocks and bonds field owned outright; he made it a rule never to buy a share of stock on margin or for speculative purposes. all told, he owned more than $ , , in stocks and bonds. a very considerable part of these were securities of chicago surface and elevated railway, gas, electric light and telephone companies. in the corruption attending the securing of the franchises of these corporations he was a direct principal. the narrative of this part of his fortune, however, more pertinently belongs to subsequent chapters of this work. footnotes: [ ] census of . [ ] eighth annual report, illinois labor bureau: . [ ] see his work, "if christ came to chicago." much more specific and reliable is the report of the u. s. industrial commission. after giving the low wages paid to women in the different cities, it says: "it is manifest from the figures given that the amount of earnings in many cases is less than the actual cost of the necessities of life. the existence of such a state of affairs must inevitably lead in many cases to the adoption of a life of immorality and, in fact, there is no doubt that the low rate of wages paid to women is one of the most frequent causes of prostitution. the fact that the great mass of working women maintain their virtue in spite of low wages and dangerous environment is highly creditable to them."--final report of the industrial commission, , xix: . [ ] see an article on this point by the rev. f. m. goodchild in the "arena" magazine for march, . [ ] in the course of inquiries among the chicago religious missions in , the author was everywhere informed that the great majority of native prostitutes were products of the department stores. some of the conditions in these department stores, and how their owners have fought every effort to better these conditions, have been revealed in many official reports. the appended description is from the annual report of the factory inspectors of illinois, - , pp. ix and x: "in this regard, and worthy of mention, reference might be made to the large dry goods houses and department stores located in chicago and other cities, in which places it has been customary to employ a great number of children under the age of sixteen as messenger boys, bundle wrappers, or as cash boys or cash girls, wagon boys, etc. in previous years these children were required to come to work early in the morning and remain until late at night, or as long as the establishment was open for business, which frequently required the youngsters to remain anywhere from : to : o'clock in the morning until : and : p.m., their weak and immature bodies tired and worn out under the strain of the customary holiday rush. in the putting a stop to this practice of employing small children ten and thirteen hours per day, the department found it necessary to institute frequent prosecutions. while our efforts were successful, we met with serious opposition, and in some cases almost continuous litigation, some arrests being necessary to bring about the desired results, which finally secured the eight hour day and a good night's rest for the small army of toilers engaged in the candy and paper box manufacturing establishments and department stores. "in conducting these investigations and crusades the inspectors met with some surprises in the way of unique excuses. in chicago a manager of a very representative first class department store, one of the largest of its kind, gave as his reason for not obeying the law, that they had never been interfered with before. another, that the children preferred to be in the store rather than at home. the unnaturalness of this latter excuse can be readily realized by anyone who has stepped into a large department store during the holiday season, when the clerks are tired and cross and little consideration is shown to the cash boy or cash girl who, because he or she may be tired or physically frail, might be a little tardy in running an errand or wrapping a bundle. this character of work for long hours is deleterious to a child, as are the employments in many branches of the garment trade or other industries, which labor is so openly condemned by those who have been interested in anti-child labor movements." [ ] for detailed particulars see that part of this work comprising "great fortunes from public franchises." [ ] the acts here summarized are narrated specifically in part iii, "great fortunes from railroads." chapter x further vistas of the field fortune but if only to give at the outset a translucent example of field's method's in the management of industrial corporations, it is well to advert here to the operations of one of his many properties--the pullman company, otherwise called the "palace car trust." this is a necessary part of the exposition in order to bring out more of the methods by which field was enabled to fling together his vast fortune. the artificial creation of the law called the corporation was so devised that it was comparatively easy for the men who controlled it to evade personal, moral, and often legal, responsibility for their acts. governed as the corporation was by a body of directors, those acts became collective and not individual; if one of the directors were assailed he could plausibly take refuge in the claim that he was merely one of a number of controllers; that he could not be held specifically responsible. thus the culpability was shifted, until it rested on the corporation, which was a bloodless thing, not a person. field's pullman works. in the case of the pullman co., however, much of the moral responsibility could be directly placed upon field, inasmuch as he, although under cover, was virtually the dictator of that corporation. according to the inventory of the executors of his will, he owned , shares of pullman stock, valued at $ , . it was asserted (in ) that field was the largest owner of pullman stock. "in the popular mind," wrote a puffer, probably inspired by field himself, "george m. pullman has ever been deemed the dominant factor in that vast and profitable enterprise." this belief was declared an error, and the writer went on: "field is, and for years has been, in almost absolute control. pullman was little more than a figurehead. such men as robert t. lincoln, the president of the company, and norman b. ream are but representatives of marshall field, whose name has never been identified with the property he so largely owns and controls." that fulsome writer, with the usual inaccuracies and turgid exaggerations of "popular writers," omitted to say that although field was long the controlling figure in the management of the pullman works, yet other powerful american multimillionaires, such as the vanderbilts, had also become large stockholders. the pullman company, moody states, employed in , in all departments of its various factories at different places, nearly , employees, and controlled per cent of the entire industry.[ ] as at least a part of the methods of the company have been the subject of official investigation, certain facts are available. to give a brief survey, the pullman company was organized in to build sleeping cars of a feasible type officially patented by pullman. in it bought five hundred acres of land near chicago. upon three hundred of these it built its plant, and proceeded, with much show and advertisement of benevolence, to build what is called a model town for the benefit of its workers. brick tenements, churches, a library, and athletic grounds were the main features, with sundry miscellaneous accessories. this project was heralded far and wide as a notable achievement, a conspicuous example of the growing altruism of business. the nature of a model town. time soon revealed the inner nature of the enterprise. the "model town," as was the case with imitative towns, proved to be a cunning device with two barbs. it militated to hold the workers to their jobs in a state of quasi serfdom, and it gave the company additional avenues of exploiting its workers beyond the ordinary and usual limits of wages and profits. in reality, it was one of the forerunners of an incoming feudalistic sway, without the advantages to the wage worker that the lowly possessed under medieval feudalism. it was also an apparent polished improvement, but nothing more, over the processes at the coal mines in pennsylvania, illinois and other states where the miners were paid the most meager wages, and were compelled to return those wages to the coal companies and bear an incubus of debt besides, by being forced to buy all of their goods and merchandise at company stores at extortionate rates. but where the coal companies did the thing boldly and crudely, the pullman company surrounded the exploitation with deceptive embellishments. the mechanism, although indirect, was simple. while, for instance, the cost of gas to the pullman company was only thirty-three cents a thousand feet, every worker living in the town of pullman had to pay at the rate of $ . a thousand feet. if he desired to retain his job he could not avoid payment; the company owned the exclusive supply of gas and was the exclusive landlord. the company had him in a clamp from which he could not well escape. the workers were housed in ugly little pens, called cottages, built in tight rows, each having five rooms and "conveniences." for each of these cottages $ rent a month was charged. the city of chicago, the officials of which were but the mannikins or hirelings of the industrial magnates, generously supplied the pullman company with water at four cents a thousand gallons. for this same water the company charged its employees ten cents a thousand gallons, or about seventy-one cents a month. by this plan the company, in addition, obtained its water supply for practically nothing. even for having shutters on the houses the workers were taxed fifty cents a month. these are some specimens of the company's many devious instrumentalities for enchaining and plundering its thousands of workers. in the panic year of the pullman company reduced wages one-fourth, yet the cost of rent, water, gas--of nearly all other fundamental necessities--remained the same. as the average yearly pay of at least , of the company's wage workers was little more than $ --or, to be exact, $ . --this reduction, in a large number of cases, was equivalent to forcing these workers to yield up their labors for substantially nothing. numerous witnesses testified before the special commission appointed later by president cleveland, that at times their bi-weekly checks ran variously from four cents to one dollar. the company could not produce evidence to disprove this. these sums represented the company's indebtedness to them for their labor, after the company had deducted rent and other charges. such manifold robberies aroused the bitterest resentment among the company's employees, since especially it was a matter of authentic knowledge, disclosed by the company's own reports, that the pullman factories were making enormous profits. at this time, the pullman workers were $ , in arrears to the company for rent alone. the pullman employees strike. finally plucking up courage--for it required a high degree of moral bravery to subject themselves and their families to the further want inevitably ensuing from a strike--the workers of the pullman company demanded a restoration of the old scale of wages. an arrogant refusal led to the declaration of a strike on may , . this strike, and the greater strike following, were termed by carroll d. wright, for a time united states commissioner of labor, as "probably the most expensive and far-reaching labor controversy which can properly be classed among the historic controversies of this generation."[ ] the american railway union, composed of the various grades of workers on a large number of railroads, declared a general sympathetic strike under the delegated leadership of eugene v. debs. the strike would perhaps have been successful had it not been that the entire powers of the national government, and those of most of the states affected, were used roughshod to crush this mighty labor uprising. the whole newspaper press, with rare exceptions, spread the most glaring falsehoods about the strike and its management. debs was personally and venomously assailed in vituperation that has had little equal. to put the strikers in the attitude of sowing violence, the railroad corporations deliberately instigated the burning or destruction of their own cars (they were cheap, worn-out freight cars), and everywhere had thugs and roughs as its emissaries to preach, and provoke, violence.[ ] the object was threefold: to throw the onus upon the strikers of being a lawless body; to give the newspapers an opportunity of inveighing with terrific effect against the strikers, and to call upon the government for armed troops to shoot down, overawe, or in other ways thwart, the strikers. government was, in reality, directed by the railroad and other corporations. united states judges, at the behest of the railroad companies (which had caused them to be appointed to the bench), issued extraordinary, unprecedented injunctions against the strikers. these injunctions even prevented the strikers from persuading fellow employees to quit work. so utterly lacking any basis in law had these injunctions that the federal commission reported: "it is seriously questioned, and with much force, whether the courts have jurisdiction to enjoin citizens from 'persuading' each other in industrial matters of common interest." but the injunctions were enforced. debs and his comrades were convicted of contempt of court and, without jury trial, imprisoned at a critical juncture of the strike. and what was their offense? nothing more than seeking to induce other workers to take up the cause of their striking fellow-workers. the judges constituted themselves as prosecuting attorney, judge and jury. never had such high-handed judicial usurpation been witnessed. as a concluding stroke, president cleveland ordered a detachment of the united states army to chicago. the pretexts were that the strikers were interfering with interstate commerce and with the carrying of mails. vast profits and low wages. that the company's profits were great at the identical time the workers were curtailed to a starvation basis, there can be no doubt. the general indignation and agitation caused by the summary proceedings during the strike, compelled president cleveland to appoint a commission to investigate. cleveland was a mediocre politician who, by a series of fortuitous circumstances, had risen from ward politics to the presidency. after using the concentrated power of the federal government to break the strike, he then decided to "investigate" its merits. it was the shift and ruse of a typical politician. the special commission, while not selected of men who could in the remotest degree be accused of partiality toward the workers, brought out a volume of significant facts, and handed in a report marked by considerable and unexpected fairness. the report showed that the pullman company's capital had been increased from $ , , in to $ , , in . "its prosperity," the commission reported, "has enabled the company for over twenty years to pay two per cent. quarterly dividends." but this eight per cent. annual dividend was not all. in certain years the dividends had ranged from nine and one half, to twelve, per cent. in addition, the commission further reported, the company had laid by a reserve fund in the form of a surplus of $ , , of profits which had not been divided. for the year ending july , , the declared dividends were $ , , ; the wages $ , , . . during the next year, when wages were cut one-fourth, the stockholders divided an even greater amount in profits: $ , , . wages went to , , . .[ ] if field's revenue was so proportionately large from this one property--the pullman works--it is evident that his total revenue from the large array of properties which he owned, or in which he held bonds or stock, was very great. it is probable that in the latter years of his life his annual net income was, at the very least, $ , , . this is an extremely conservative estimate. more likely it reached $ , , a year. computing the sum upon which the average of his workers had to live (to make a very liberal allowance) at $ a year, this sum of $ , , flowing in to him every year, without in the slightest trenching upon his principal, was equal to the entire amount that , of his employees earned by the skill of their brains and hands, and upon which they had to support themselves and their families. here, then, was one individual who appropriated to his use as much as six thousand; men and more who laboriously performed service to the community. for that $ , , a year field had nothing to do in return except to worry over the personal or business uses to which his surplus revenues should be put; like a true industrial monarch he relieved himself of superfluous cares by hiring the ability to supervise and manage his properties for him. such an avalanche of riches tumbled in upon him that, perforce, like the astors, the goelets and other multimillionaires, he was put constantly to the terrible extremity of seeking new fields for investment. luxuriously live, as he did, it would have required a superior inventive capacity to have dissipated his full income. but, judging his life by that of some other multimillionaires, he lived modestly. of medium height and spare figure, he was of rather unobtrusive appearance. in his last years his hair and mustache were white. his eyes were gray and cold; his expression one of determination and blandly assertive selfishness. his eulogists, however, have glowingly portrayed him as "generous, philanthropic and public-spirited." "a model of business integrity." in fact, it was a point descanted upon with extraordinary emphasis during field's lifetime and following his demise that, (to use the stock phrase which with wearying ceaselessness went the rounds of the press), he was "a business man of the best type." from this exceptional commentary it can be seen what was the current and rooted opinion of the character of business men in general. field's rigorous exploitation of his tens of thousands of workers in his stores, in his pullman factories, and elsewhere, was not a hermetically sealed secret; but this exploitation, no matter to what extremes to which it was carried, was an ordinary routine of prevailing business methods.[ ] of the virtual enslavement of the worker; of the robbing him of what he produced; of the drastic laws enforced against him; of the debasement of men, women and children--of all of these facts the organs of public expression, the politicians and the clergy, with few exceptions, said nothing. everywhere, except in obscure quarters of despised workingmen's meetings, or in the writings or speeches of a few intellectual protestors, the dictum was proclaimed and instilled that conditions were just and good. in a thousand disingenuous ways, backed by nimble sophistry, the whole ruling class, with its clouds of retainers, turned out either an increasing flood of praise of these conditions, or masses of misinforming matter which tended to reconcile or blind the victim to his pitiful drudgery. the masters of industry, who reaped fabulous riches from such a system, were covered with slavish adulation, and were represented in flowery, grandiloquent phrases as indispensable men, without whom the industrial system of the country could not be carried on. nay, even more: while being plundered and ever anew plundered of the fruits of their labor, the workers were told, (as they are increasingly being told), that they should honor the magnates and be thankful to them for providing work. he steals millions in taxes. marshall field, as we have said, was heralded far and wide as an unusually honest business man, the implication being that every cent of his fortune was made fairly and squarely. those fawners to wealth, and they were many, who persisted in acclaiming his business methods as proper and honorable, were grievously at a loss for an explanation when his will was probated, and it was found that even under the existing laws, favorable as they were to wealth, he had been nothing more than a common perjurer and a cheat. it was too true, alas! this man "of strict probity" had to be catalogued with the rest of his class. for many years he had insisted on paying taxes on personal property on a valuation of not more than $ , , ; and the pious old shopkeeper had repeatedly threatened, in case the board of assessors should raise his assessment, that he would forthwith bundle off his domicile from chicago, and reside in a place where assessors refrain from too much curiosity as to one's belongings. but lo! when the schedule of his property was filed in court, it was disclosed that for many years he had owned at least $ , , of taxable personal property subject to the laws of the state of illinois. thus was another idol cruelly shattered; for the aforesaid fawners had never tired of exulting elaborately upon the theme of field's success, and how it was due to his absolute integrity and pure, undented character. at another time the facts of his thefts of taxes might have been suppressed or toned down. but at this particular juncture chicago happened to have a certain corporation counsel who, while mildly infected with conventional views, was not a truckler to wealth. suit was brought in behalf of the city for recovery of $ , , back taxes. so clear was the case that the trustees of field's estate decided to compromise. on march , , they delivered to john r. thompson, treasurer of cook county, a check for one million dollars. if the compound interest for the whole series of years during which field cheated in taxation were added to the $ , , , it would probably be found that the total amount of his frauds had reached fully three million dollars. the chorus of astonishment that ascended when these facts were divulged was an edifying display. he who did not know that the entire propertied class made a regular profession of perjury and fraud in order to cheat the public treasury out of taxes, was either deliciously innocent or singularly uninformed. year after year a host of municipal and state officials throughout the united states issued reports showing this widespread condition. yet aside from their verbose complainings, which served political purpose in giving an air of official vigilance, the authorities did nothing. perjury and cheating common. as a matter of fact, the evasion of taxes by the pullman company had been a public scandal for many years. john p. altgeld, governor of illinois in - , frequently referred to it in his speeches and public papers. field, then, not only personally cheated the public treasury out of millions, but also the corporations which he controlled did likewise. the propertied class everywhere did the same. the unusually thorough report of the illinois labor bureau of demonstrated how the most valuable land and buildings in chicago were assessed at the merest fraction of their true value--the costliest commercial buildings at about one-tenth, and the richest residences at about one-fourteenth, of their actual value. as for personal property it contributed a negligible amount in taxes.[ ] the reports of the tax committee of the boston executive business association in estimated that two billion dollars of property in boston escaped taxation, and that the public treasury was cheated out of about $ , , in taxes every year. as for new york city, we have seen how the astors, the schermerhorns, the goelets--the whole aggregate of the propertied class--systematically defrauded in taxes for many decades. it is estimated that in new york city, at present, not less than five billion dollars of property, real and personal, entirely escapes taxation. this estimate is a conservative one. spahr, after an exhaustive investigation in the united states concluded more than a decade ago that, "the wealthy class pay less than one-tenth of the indirect taxes, the well-to-do less than one-quarter, and the relatively poorer classes more than two-thirds."[ ] what spahr omitted was this highly important qualification: when the rich do pay. tenants of the property owners must pay their rent on time or suffer eviction, but the capitalists are allowed to take their own leisurely time in paying such portion of their taxes as remains after the bulk of the tax list has been perjured away. thus in a report he made public on february , , controller metz, of new york city, pointed out that the huge amount of $ , , , was due the city in uncollected taxes, much of which amount ran several decades back. of this sum $ , , was owed on real estate, on which the taxes were a direct lien. the beauties of law as made and enforced by the property interests, are herein illustriously exemplified. a poor tenant can be instantly dispossessed, whether sick or in destitution, for non-payment of rent; the landowner is allowed by officials who represent, and defer to him and his class, to owe large amounts in taxes for long periods, and not a move is taken to dispossess him. and now by the most natural gradation, we come to those much bepraised acts of our multimillionaires--the seignorial donating of millions to "charitable" or "public-spirited" purposes. like the astors, the schermerhorns, the rhinelanders and a galaxy of others, field diffused large sums; he, like them, was overwhelmed with panegyrics. millions field gave toward the founding and sustaining of the field columbian museum in chicago, and to the university of chicago. it may be parenthetically added that, (to repeat), he owned, adjacent to this latter institution, many blocks of land the increased value of which, after the establishment of the university, more than recouped him for his gifts. this might have been either accidental or it might have been cold calculation; judging from field's consistent methods, it was probably not chance. so composite, however, is the human character, so crossed and seamed by conflicting influences, that at no time is it easy to draw any absolute line between motives. merely because he exploited his employees mercilessly, and cheated the public treasury out of millions of dollars, it does not necessarily follow that field was utterly deficient in redeeming traits. as business is conducted, it is well known that many successful men (financially), who practice the most cruel and oppressive methods, are, outside the realm of strict business transactions, expansively generous and kind. in business they are beasts of prey, because under the private property system, competition, whether between small or large concerns, is reduced to a cutthroat struggle, and those who are in the contest must abide by its desperate rules. they must let no sympathy or tenderness interpose in their business dealings, else they are lost. but without entering into a further philosophical disquisition, this fact must be noted: the amounts that field gave for "philanthropy" were about identical with the sums out of which he defrauded chicago in the one item of taxes alone. probed into, it is seen that a great part of the sums that multimillionaires have given, represent but a tithe of the sums cheated by them in taxes. william c. schermerhorn donates $ , to columbia university; the aggregate amount that he defrauded in taxes was much more. thus do our magnates supply themselves with present and posthumous fame gratuitously. not to consider the far greater and incalculably more comprehensive question of their appropriating the resources of the country and the labor of hundreds of millions of people,[ ] and centering attention upon this one concrete instance of frauds in taxes, the situation presented is an incongruous one. money belonging to the public treasury they retain by fraud; this money, apparently a part of their "honestly acquired" fortune, is given in some form of philanthropy; and then by some curious oversetting of even conventional standards, they reap blessings and glory for giving what are really stolen funds. "those who enjoy his confidence," wrote an effervescent eulogist of field, "predict that the bulk of his vast fortune will be devoted to purposes of public utility." but this prediction did not materialize. $ , , to two boys. field's fortune, conservatively estimated at $ , , , yet, in fact, reaching about $ , , , was largely bequeathed to his two grandsons, marshall field iii., and henry field. marshall field, as did many other multimillionaires of his period, welded his fortune into a compact and vested institution. it ceased to be a personal attribute, and became a thing, an inert mass of money, a corporate entity. this he did by creating, by the terms of his will, a trust of his fortune for the two boys. the provisions of the will set forth that $ , , was to set aside in trust for marshall iii., until the year . at the expiration of that period it, together with its accumulation, was to be turned over to him. to the other grandson, henry, $ , , was bequeathed under the same conditions. these sums are not in money, although at all times field had a snug sum of cash stowed away; when he died he had about $ , , in banks. the fortune that he left was principally in the form of real estate and bonds and stocks. these constituted a far more effective cumulative agency than money. they were, and are, inexorable mortgages on the labor of millions of workers, men, women and children, of all occupations. by this simple screed, called a will, embodying one man's capricious indulgence, these boys, utterly incompetent even to grasp the magnitude of the fortune owned by them, and incapable of exercising the glimmerings of management, were given legal, binding power over a mass of people for generations. patterson says that in the field stores and pullman factories fifty thousand people work for these boys.[ ] but these are the direct employees; as we have seen, field owned bonds and stock in more than one hundred and fifty industrial, railroad, mining and other corporations. the workers of all these toil for the field boys. they delve in mines, and risk accident, disease and death, or suffer an abjectly lingering life of impoverishment. thousands of coal miners are killed every year, and many thousands more are injured, in order that two boys and others of their class may draw huge profits.[ ] more than , persons are killed, and , injured, every year on the railroads, so that the income enjoyed by these lads and others shall not diminish. nearly all of these casualties are due to economizing in expense, working employees to an extreme fatiguing limit, and refusing to provide proper safety appliances. millions more workers drudge in rolling mills, railroad shops and factories; they wear out their lives on farms, in packing houses and stores. for what? why, foolish questioner, for the rudiments of an existence; do you not know that the world's dispossessed must pay heavily for the privilege of living? as these lads hold, either wholly or partly, the titles to all this inherited property; in plain words, to a formidable part of the machinery of business, the millions of workers must sweat and bend the back, and pile up a ceaseless flow of riches for them. [illustration: marshal field iii. and henry field. the boys who inherited $ , , .] marshall field iii., still in knickerbockers, receives $ , a week; his brother henry, $ , a week. the sum in both cases automatically increases as the interest on the principal compounds. what do many of the workers who supply this revenue get? patterson gives this authentic list of wages: pullman company blacksmiths, $ . a week; boiler-makers, $ ; carpenters, $ . ; machinists, $ . ; painters, $ . , and laborers, $ . a week. as for the lower wages paid to the workers in the field stores, we have already given them. and apart from the exploitation of employees, every person in chicago who rides on the street or elevated railroads, and who uses gas, electricity or telephones, must pay direct tribute to these lads. how decayed monarchial establishments are in these days! kings mostly must depend upon parliaments for their civil lists of expenditure; but capitalism does not have to ask leave of anybody; it appropriates what it wants. this is the status of the field fortune now. let the field striplings bless their destiny that they live in no medieval age, when each baron had to defend his possessions by his strong right arm successfully, or be compelled to relinquish. this age is one when little lord fauntleroys can own armies of profit producers, without being distracted from their toys. whatever defense is needed is supplied by society, with its governments and its judges, its superserviceable band of lawyers, and its armed forces. two delicate children are upheld in enormous possessions and vast power, while millions of fellow beings are suffered to remain in destitution. footnotes: [ ] "the truth about the trusts": - . [ ] "industrial evolution of the united states," . [ ] parsons, "the railways, the trusts and the people": . also, report of chicago chief of police for . this was a customary practice of railroad, industrial and mining capitalists. further facts are brought out in other parts of this work. [ ] "report on the chicago strike of june and july, ," by the united states strike commissioners, .--throughout all subsequent years, and at present, the pullman company has continued charging the public exorbitant rates for the use of its cars. numerous bills have been introduced in various legislatures to compel the company to reduce its rates. the company has squelched these measures. its consistent policy is well known of paying its porters and conductors such poor wages that the , , passengers who ride in pullman cars every year are virtually obliged to make up the deficiency by tips. [ ] sweeping as this statement may impress the uninitiated, it is entirely within the facts. as one of many indisputable confirmations it is only necessary to refer to the extended debate over child labor in the united states senate on january , , and , , in which it was conclusively shown that more than half a million children under fifteen years of age were employed in factories, mines and sweatshops. it was also brought out how the owners of these properties bitterly resisted the passage or enforcement of restrictive laws. [ ] eighth biennial report of the illinois bureau of labor statistics, . the report, made public in august, , of the illinois tax reform league's investigation of the chicago board of review's assessments, showed that these frauds in evading taxation not only continue, but on a much greater scale than ever before. the illinois tax reform league asserted, among other statements, that edward morris, head of a large packing company, was not assessed on personal property, whereas he owned $ , , worth of securities, which the league specified. the league called upon the board of review to assess j. ogden armour, one of the chiefs of the beef trust, on $ , , of personal property. armour was being yearly assessed on only $ , of personal property. these are two of the many instances given in the report in question. it is estimated (in ), that back taxes on at least a billion dollars of assessable corporate capital stock, are due the city from a multitude of individuals and corporations. [ ] "the present distribution of wealth in the united states": . [ ] "hundreds of millions of people." not only are the , , people of the united states compelled to render tribute, but the peoples of other countries all over the globe. [ ] "marshall field's will" by joseph medill patterson. reprinted in pamphlet form from "collier's weekly." [ ] the number of men killed per , employed has increased from a year in to about at present. (see report of j. a. holmes, chief of the technological branch of the united states geological survey.) the chief reason for this slaughter is because it is more profitable to hire cheap, inexperienced men, and not surround the work with proper safeguards. end of vol. i. (the index for volumes i, ii, and iii will be found in vol. iii.) +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [illustration: "the lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(see page .)] a young hero; or, fighting to win. by edward s. ellis, _author of_ "adrift in the wilds," etc., etc. illustrated. [illustration: logo] new york: a. l. burt, publisher. copyright , by a. l. burt. a young hero. chapter i. the peacemaker. "a fight! a fight! form a ring!" a dozen or more excited boys shouted these words, and, rushing forward, hastily formed a ring around two playmates who stood in the middle of the road, their hats off, eyes glaring, fists clenched, while they panted with anger, and were on the point of flying at one another with the fury of young wildcats. they had been striking, kicking and biting a minute before over some trifling dispute, and they had now stopped to take breath and gather strength before attacking each other again with a fierceness which had become all the greater from the brief rest. "give it to him, sam! black his eyes for him! hit him under the ear! bloody his nose!" thus shouted the partisans of sammy mcclay, who had thrown down his school books, and pitched into his opponent, as though he meant to leave nothing of him. the friends of joe hunt were just as loud and urgent. "sail in, joe! you can whip him before he knows it! kick him! don't be a coward! you've got him!" a party of boys and girls were on their way home from the tottenville public school, laughing, romping and frolicking with each other, when, all at once, like a couple of bantam chickens, these two youngsters began fighting. the girls looked on in a horrified way, whispering to each other, and declaring that they meant to tell mr. mccurtis, the teacher, including also the respective mothers of the young pugilists. the other boys, as is nearly always the case, did their utmost to urge on the fight, and, closing about sam and joe, taunted them in loud voices, and appealed to them to resume hostilities at once. the fighters seemed to be equally matched, and, as they panted and glared, each waited for the other to renew the struggle by striking the first blow. "you just hit me if you dare! that's all i want!" exclaimed sammy mcclay, shaking his head so vigorously that he almost bumped his nose against that of joe hunt, who was just as ferocious, as he called back: "you touch me, sam mcclay, just touch me! i dare you! double, double dare you." matters were fast coming to the exploding point, but not fast enough to suit the audience. jimmy emery picked up a chip, and running forward, balanced it in a delicate position on the shoulder of sam mcclay, and, addressing his opponent said: "knock that off, joe!" "yes, knock it off!" shouted sam, "i dare you to knock it off!" "who's afraid?" demanded joe, looking at the chip, with an expression which showed he meant to flip it to the ground. "well, you just try it--that's all!" joe was in the very act of upsetting the bit of wood, when a boy about their own age, with a flapping straw hat, and with his trousers rolled far above his knees, ran in between the two, and used his arms with so much vigor that the contestants were thrown quite a distance apart. "what's the matter with you fellows?" demanded this boy, glancing from one to the other. "what do you want to make fools of yourselves for?" "he run against me," said sammy mcclay, "and knocked me over jim emery." "well, what of it?" asked the peacemaker. "will it make you feel any better to get your head cracked? what's the matter of _you_, joe hunt?" he added, turning his glance without changing his position, toward the other pugilist. "what did he punch me for, when i stubbed my toe and run agin him?" and joe showed a disposition just then to move around his questioner, so as to get at the offender. the other boys did not like this interference with their enjoyment, and called on the peacemaker to let them have it out; but he stood his ground, and shaking his right fist at sammy mcclay, and his left at joe hunt, he told them they must let each other alone, or he would whip them both. this created some laughter, for the lad was no older than they, and hardly as tall as either; but there is a great deal in the manner of a man or boy. if his flashing eye, his stern voice, and look of determination show that he means what he says, or is in dead earnest, his opponent generally yields. at the critical juncture, the girls added their voices in favor of peace, and their champion, stooping down, picked up the hats from the ground, and jammed them upon their owners' heads with a force that nearly threw them off their feet. "that's enough! now come on!" sam and joe walked along, rather sullenly at first. they glowered on each other, shook their heads, muttered and seemed on the point of renewing the contest more than once; but the passions of childhood are brief, and the storm soon blew over. before the boys and girls had reached the cross-roads, sam mcclay and joe hunt were playing with each other like the best of friends, as indeed they were. the name of the lad who had stopped the fight was fred sheldon, and he is the hero of this story. chapter ii. the call to school. fred sheldon, as i have said, is the hero of this story. he was twelve years of age, the picture of rosy health, good nature, bounding spirits and mental strength. he was bright and well advanced in his studies, and as is generally the case with such vigorous youngsters he was fond of fun, which too often, perhaps, passed the line of propriety and became mischief. on the monday morning after the fight, which fred sheldon interrupted, some ten or twelve boys stopped on their way to the tottenville public school to admire in open-mouthed wonder, the gorgeous pictures pasted on a huge framework of boards, put up for the sole purpose of making such a display. these flaming posters were devoted to setting forth the unparalleled attractions of bandman's great menagerie and circus, which was announced to appear in the well-known "hart's half-acre," near the village of tottenville. these scenes, in which elephants, tigers, leopards, camels, sacred cows, and indeed an almost endless array of animals were shown on a scale that indicated they were as high as a meeting-house, in which the serpents, it unwound from the trees where they were crushing men and beasts to death, would have stretched across "hart's half-acre" (which really contained several acres), those frightful encounters, in which a man, single-handed, was seen to be spreading death and destruction with a clubbed gun among the fierce denizens of the forest; all these had been displayed on the side of barns and covered bridges, at the cross-roads, and indeed in every possible available space for the past three weeks; and, as the date of the great show was the one succeeding that of which we are speaking, it can be understood that the little village of tottenville and the surrounding country were in a state of excitement such as had not been known since the advent of the preceding circus. regularly every day the school children had stopped in front of the huge bill-board and studied and admired and talked over the great show, while those who expected to go in the afternoon or evening looked down in pity on their less fortunate playmates. the interest seemed to intensify as the day approached, and, now that it was so close at hand, the little group found it hard to tear themselves away from the fascinating scenes before them. down in one corner of the board was the picture of a hyena desecrating a cemetery, as it is well known those animals are fond of doing. this bad creature, naturally enough, became very distasteful to the boys, who showed their ill-will in many ways. several almost ruined their new shoes by kicking him, while others had pelted him with stones, and still others, in face of the warning printed in big letters, had haggled him dreadfully with their jack-knives. it was a warm summer morning and most of the boys not only were bare-footed, but had their trousers rolled above their knees, and, generally, were without coat or vest. "to-morrow afternoon the show will be here," said sammy mcclay, smacking his lips and shaking his head as though he tasted a luscious morsel, "and i'm going." "how are you going," asked joe hunt, sarcastically, "when your father said he wouldn't give you the money?" "never you mind," was the answer, with another significant shake of the head. "i'm goin'--that's all." "goin' to try and crawl under the tent. i know. but you can't do it. you'll get a whack from the whip of the man that's watching that you'll feel for six weeks. don't i know--'cause, didn't i try it?" "i wouldn't be such a dunce as you; you got half way under the tent and then stuck fast, so you couldn't go backward or forward, and you begun to yell so you like to broke up the performance, and when the man come along why he had the best chance in the world to cowhide you, and he did it. i think i know a little better than that." at this moment, mr. abijah mccurtis, the school teacher in the little stone school-house a hundred yards away, solemnly lifted his spectacles from his nose to his forehead, and grasping the handle of his large cracked bell walked to the door and swayed it vigorously for a minute or so. this was the regular summons for the boys and girls to enter school, and he had sent forth the unmusical clangor, summer and winter, for a full two-score years. having called the pupils together, the pedagogue sat down, drew his spectacles back astride of his nose, and resumed setting copies in the books which had been laid on his desk the day before. in a minute or so the boys and girls came straggling in, but the experienced eye of the teacher saw that several were missing. looking through the open door he discovered where the four delinquent urchins were; they were still standing in front of the great showy placards, studying the enchanting pictures, as they had done so many times before. they were all talking earnestly, sammy mcclay, joe hunt, jimmy emery and fred sheldon, and they had failed for the first time in their lives to hear the cracked bell. most teachers, we are bound to believe, would have called the boys a second time or sent another lad to notify them, but the present chance was one of those which, unfortunately, the old-time pedagogue was glad to have, and mr. mccurtis seized it with pleasure. rising from his seat, he picked up from where it lay across his desk a long, thin switch, and started toward the four barefooted lads, who were admiring the circus pictures. nothing could have been more inviting, for, not only were they barefooted, but each had his trousers rolled to the knee, and fred sheldon had drawn and squeezed his so far that they could go no further. his plump, clean legs offered the most inviting temptation to the teacher, who was one of those sour old pedagogues, of the long ago, who delighted in seeing children tortured under the guise of so-called discipline. "i don't believe in wearing trousers in warm weather," said fred, when anybody looked wonderingly to see whether he really had such useful garments on, "and that's why i roll mine so high up. don't you see i'm ready to run into the water, and----" "how about going through the bushes and briars?" asked joe hunt. "i don't go through 'em," was the crushing answer. "i feel so supple and limber that i just jump right over the top. i tell you, boys, that you ought to see me jump----" fred's wish was gratified, for at that moment he gave such an exhibition of jumping as none of his companions had ever seen before. with a shout he sprang high in air, kicking out his bare legs in a frantic way, and ran with might and main for the school-house. the other three lads did pretty much the same, for the appearance of the teacher among them was made known by the whizzing hiss of his long, slender switch, which first landed on fred's legs, and was then quickly transferred to the lower limbs of the other boys, the little company immediately heading for the school house, with fred sheldon at the front. each one shouted, and made a high and frantic leap every few steps, believing that the teacher was close behind him with upraised stick, and looking for the chance to bring it down with effect. "i'll teach you not to stand gaping at those pictures," shouted mr. mccurtis, striding wrathfully after them. a man three-score years old cannot be expected to be as active as a boy with one-fifth as many years; but the teacher had the advantage of being very tall and quite attenuated, and for a short distance he could outrun any of his pupils. the plump, shapely legs of fred sheldon, twinkling and doubling under him as he ran, seemed to be irresistibly tempting to mr. mccurtis, who, with upraised switch, dashed for him like a thunder-gust, paying no attention to the others, who ducked aside as he passed. "it's your fault, you young scapegrace," called out the pursuer, as he rapidly overhauled him; "you haven't been thinking of anything else but circuses for the past month and i mean to whip it out of you--good gracious sakes!" fred sheldon had seen how rapidly the teacher was gaining, and finding there was no escape, resorted to the common trick among boys of suddenly falling flat on his face while running at full speed. the cruel-hearted teacher at that very moment made a savage stroke, intending to raise a ridge on the flesh of the lad, who escaped it by a hair's breadth, as may be said. the spiteful blow spent itself in vacancy, and the momentum spun mr. mccurtis around on one foot, so that he faced the other way. at that instant his heels struck the prostrate form of the crouching boy, and he went over, landing upon his back, his legs pointing upward, like a pair of huge dividers. there is nothing a boy perceives so quickly as a chance for fun, and before the teacher could rise, sammy mcclay also went tumbling over the grinning fred sheldon, with such violence, indeed, that he struck the bewildered instructor as he was trying to adjust his spectacles to see where he was. then came joe hunt and jimmy emery, and fred sheldon capped the climax by running at full speed and jumping on the struggling group, spreading out his arms and legs in the effort to bear them down to the earth. but the difficulty was that fred was not very heavy nor bony, so that his presence on top caused very little inconvenience, the teacher rising so hurriedly that fred fell from his shoulders, and landed on his head when he struck the earth. the latter was dented, but fred wasn't hurt at all, and he and his friends scrambled hastily into the school-house, where the other children were in an uproar, fairly dancing with delight at the exhibition, or rather "circus," as some of them called it, which took place before the school-house and without any expense to them. by the time the discomfited teacher had got upon his feet and shaken himself together, the four lads were in school, busily engaged in scratching their legs and studying their lessons. mr. mccurtis strode in a minute later switch in hand, and in such a grim mood that he could only quiet his nerves by walking around the room and whipping every boy in it. chapter iii. startling news. fred sheldon was the only child of a widow, who lived on a small place a mile beyond the village, and managed to eke out a living thereon, assisted by a small pension from the government, her husband having been killed during the late war. a half-mile beyond stood a large building, gray with age and surrounded with trees, flowers and climbing vines. the broad bricks of which it was composed were known to have been brought from holland long before the revolution, and about the time when george washington was hunting for the cherry-tree with his little hatchet. in this old structure lived the sisters perkinpine--annie and lizzie--who were nearly seventy years of age. they were twins, had never been married, were generally known to be wealthy, but preferred to live entirely by themselves, with no companion but three or four cats, and not even a watch-dog. their ancestors were among the earliest settlers of the section, and the holland bricks could show where they had been chipped and broken by the bullets of the indians who howled around the solid old structure, through the snowy night, as ravenous as so many wolves to reach the cowering women and children within. the property had descended to the sisters in regular succession, and there could be no doubt they were rich in valuable lands, if in nothing else. their retiring disposition repelled attention from their neighbors, but it was known there was much old and valuable silver, and most probably money itself, in the house. michael heyland was their hired man, but he lived in a small house some distance away, where he always spent his nights. young fred sheldon was once sent over to the residence of the misses perkinpine after a heavy snowstorm, to see whether he could do anything for the old ladies. he was then only ten years old, but his handsome, ruddy face, his respectful manner, and his cheerful eagerness to oblige them, thawed a great deal of their natural reserve, and they gradually came to like him. he visited the old brick house quite often, and frequently bore substantial presents to his mother, though, rather curiously, the old ladies never asked that she should pay them a visit. the misses perkinpine lived very well indeed, and fred sheldon was not long in discovering it. when he called there he never could get away without eating some of the vast hunks of gingerbread and enormous pieces of thick, luscious pie, of which fred, like all boys, was very fond. there was no denying that fred had established himself as a favorite in that peculiar household, as he well deserved to be. on the afternoon succeeding his switching at school he reached home and did his chores, whistling cheerily in the meanwhile, and thinking of little else than the great circus on the morrow, when he suddenly stopped in surprise upon seeing a carriage standing in front of the gate. just then his mother called him to the house and explained: "your uncle william is quite ill, fred, and has sent for me. you know he lives twelve miles away, and it will take us a good while to get there; if you are afraid to stay here alone you can go with us." fred was too quick to trip himself in that fashion. to-morrow was circus day, and if he went to his uncle will's, he might miss it. "miss annie asked me this morning to go over and see them again," he said, alluding to one of the misses perkinpine, "and they'll be mighty glad to have me there." "that will be much better, for you will be so near home that you can come over in the morning and see that everything is right, but i'm afraid you'll eat too much pie and cake and pudding and preserves." "i ain't afraid," laughed fred, who kissed his mother good-by and saw the carriage vanish down the road in the gloom of the gathering darkness. then he busied himself with the chores, locked up the house and put everything in shape preparatory to going away. he was still whistling, and was walking rapidly toward the gate, when he was surprised and a little startled by observing the figure of a man, standing on the outside, as motionless as a stone, and no doubt watching him. he appeared to be ill-dressed, and fred at once set him down as one of those pests of society known as a tramp, who had probably stopped to get something to eat. "what do you want?" asked the lad, with an air of bravery which he was far from feeling, as he halted within two or three rods of the unexpected guest, ready to retreat if it should become necessary. "i want you to keep a civil tongue in your head," was the answer, in a harsh rasping voice. "i didn't mean to be uncivil," was the truthful reply of fred, who believed in courtesy to every one. "who lives here, then?" asked the other in the same gruff voice. "my mother, mrs. mary sheldon, and myself, but my mother isn't at home." the stranger was silent a moment, and then looking around, as if to make sure that no one was within hearing, asked in a lower voice: "can you tell me where the miss perkinpines live?" "right over yonder," was the response of the boy, pointing toward the house, which was invisible in the darkness, but a star-like twinkle of light showed where it was, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. fred came near adding that he was on his way there, and would show him the road, but a sudden impulse restrained him. the tramp-like individual peered through the gloom in the direction indicated, and then inquired: "how fur is it?" "about half a mile." the stranger waited another minute or so, as if debating with himself whether he should ask some other questions that were in his mind; but, without another word, he moved away and speedily disappeared from the road. although he walked for several paces on the rough gravel in front of the gate, the lad did not hear the slightest sound. he must have been barefooted, or more likely, wore rubber shoes. fred sheldon could not help feeling very uncomfortable over the incident itself. the question about the old ladies, and the man's looks and manner impressed him that he meant ill toward his good friends, and fred stood a long time asking himself what he ought to do. he thought of going down to the village and telling archie jackson, the bustling little constable, what he feared, or of appealing to some of the neighbors; and pity it is he did not do so, but he was restrained by the peculiar disposition of the misses perkinpine, who might be very much displeased with him. as he himself was about the only visitor they received, and as they had lived so long by themselves, they would not thank him, to say the least--that is, viewing the matter from his standpoint. "i'll tell the ladies about it," he finally concluded, "and we'll lock the doors and sit up all night. i wish they had three or four dogs and a whole lot of guns; or if i had a lasso," he added, recalling one of the circus pictures, "and the tramp tried to get in, i'd throw it over his head and pull him half way to the top of the house and let him hang there until he promised to behave himself." fred's head had been slightly turned by the circus posters, and it can hardly be said that he was the best guard the ladies could have in case there were any sinister designs on the part of the tramp. but the boy was sure he was never more needed at the old brick house than he was on that night, and hushing his whistle, he started up the road in the direction taken by the stranger. it was a trying ordeal for the little fellow, whose chief fear was that he would overtake the repulsive individual and suffer for interfering with his plans. there was a faint moon in the sky, but its light now and then was obscured by the clouds which floated over its face. here and there, too, were trees, beneath whose shadows the boy stepped lightly, listening and looking about him, and imagining more than once he saw the figure dreaded so much. but he observed nothing of him, nor did he meet any of his neighbors, either in wagons or on foot, and his heart beat tumultuously when he drew near the grove of trees, some distance back from the road, in the midst of which stood the old holland brick mansion. to reach it it was necessary to walk through a short lane, lined on either hand by a row of stately poplars, whose shade gave a cool twilight gloom to the intervening space at mid-day. "maybe he isn't here, after all," said fred to himself, as he passed through the gate of the picket fence surrounding the house, "and i guess----" just then the slightest possible rustling caught his ear, and he stepped back behind the trunk of a large weeping willow. he was not mistaken; some one was moving through the shrubbery at the corner of the house, and the next minute the frightened boy saw the tramp come stealthily to view, and stepping close to the window of the dining-room, peer into it. as the curtain was down it was hard to see how he could discover anything of the inmates, but he may have been able to detect something of the interior by looking through at the side of the curtain, or possibly he was only listening. at any rate he stood thus but a short time, when he withdrew and slowly passed from view around the corner. the instant he was gone fred moved forward and knocked softly on the door, so softly indeed, that he had to repeat it before some one approached from the inside and asked who was there. when his voice was recognized the bolt was withdrawn and he was most cordially welcomed by the old ladies, who were just about to take up their knitting and sewing, having finished their tea. when fred told them he had come to stay all night and hadn't had any supper, they were more pleased than ever, and insisted that he should go out and finish a large amount of gingerbread, custard and pie, for the latter delicacy was always at command. "i'll eat some," replied fred, "but i don't feel very hungry." "why, what's the matter?" asked miss annie, peering over her spectacles in alarm; "are you sick? if you are we've got lots of castor oil and rhubarb and jalap and boneset; shall i mix you up some?" "o my gracious! no--don't mention 'em again; i ain't sick that way--i mean i'm scared." "scared at what? afraid there isn't enough supper for you?" asked miss lizzie, looking smilingly down upon the handsome boy. "i tell you," said fred, glancing from one to the other, "i think there's a robber going to try and break into your house to-night and steal everything you've got, and then he'll kill you both, and after that i'm sure he means to burn down the house, and that'll be the last all of you and your cats." when the young visitor made such a prodigious declaration, he supposed the ladies would scream and probably faint away. but the very hugeness of the boy's warning caused emotions the reverse of what he anticipated. they looked kindly at him a minute or so and then quietly smiled. "what a little coward you are, fred," said miss annie; "surely there is nobody who would harm two old creatures like us." "but they want your money," persisted fred, still standing in the middle of the floor. both ladies were too truthful to deny that they had any, even to such a child, and lizzie said: "we haven't enough to tempt anybody to do such a great wrong." "you can't tell about that, then i 'spose some of those silver dishes must be worth a great deal." "yes, so they are," said annie, "and we prize them the most because our great, great, great-grandfather brought them over the sea a good many years ago, and they have always been in our family." "but," interposed lizzie, "we lock them up every night." "what in?" "a great big strong chest." "anybody could break it open, though." "yes, but it's locked; and you know it's against the law to break a lock." "well," said fred, with a great sigh, "i hope there won't anybody disturb you, but i hope you will fasten all the windows and doors to-night." "we always do; and then," added the benign old lady, raising her head so as to look under her spectacles in the face of the lad, "you know we have you to take care of us." "have you got a gun in the house?" "mercy, yes; there's one over the fire-place, where father put it forty years ago." "is there anything the matter with it?" "nothing, only the lock is broke off, and i think father said the barrel was bursted." fred laughed in spite of himself. "what under the sun is such an old thing good for?" "it has done us just as much good as if it were a new cannon--but come out to your supper." the cheerful manner of the old ladies had done much to relieve fred's mind of his fears, and a great deal of his natural appetite came back to him. he walked into the kitchen, where he seated himself at a table on which was spread enough food for several grown persons, and telling him he must not leave any of it to be wasted, the ladies withdrew, closing the door behind them, so that he might not be embarrassed by their presence. "i wonder whether there's any use of being scared," said fred to himself, as he first sunk his big, sound teeth into a huge slice of buttered short-cake, on which some peach jam had been spread! "if i hadn't seen that tramp looking in at the window i wouldn't feel so bad, and i declare," he added in dismay, "when they questioned me, i never thought to tell 'em that. never mind, i'll give 'em the whole story when i finish five or six slices of this short-cake and some ginger-cake, and three or four pieces of pie, and then, i think, they'll believe i'm right." for several minutes the boy devoted himself entirely to his meal, and had the good ladies peeped through the door while he was thus employed they would have been highly pleased to see how well he was getting along. "i wish i was an old maid and hadn't anything to do but to cook nice food like this and play with the cats--my gracious!" just then the door creaked, and, looking up, fred sheldon saw to his consternation the very tramp of whom he had been thinking walk into the room and approach the table. his clothing was ragged and unclean, a cord being drawn around his waist to keep his coat together, while the collar was up so high about his neck that nothing of the shirt was visible. his hair was frowsy and uncombed, as were his huge yellow whiskers, which seemed to grow up almost to his eyes, and stuck out like the quills on a porcupine. as the intruder looked at the boy and shuffled toward him, in his soft rubber shoes, he indulged in a broad grin, which caused his teeth to shine through his scraggly beard. he held his hat, which resembled a dishcloth, as much as anything, in his hand, and was all suavity. his voice sounded as though he had a bad cold, with now and then an odd squeak. as he bowed he said: "good evening, young man; i hope i don't intrude." as he approached the table and helped himself to a chair, the ladies came along behind him, miss lizzie saying: "this poor man, frederick, has had nothing to eat for three days, and is trying to get home to his family. i'm sure you will be glad to have him sit at the table with you." "yes, i'm awful glad," replied the boy, almost choking with the fib. "i was beginning to feel kind of lonely, but i'm through and he can have the table to himself." "you said you were a shipwrecked sailor, i believe?" was the inquiring remark of miss lizzie, as the two sisters stood in the door, beaming kindly on the tramp, who began to play havoc with the eatables before him. "yes, mum; we was shipwrecked on the jarsey coast; i was second mate and all was drowned but me. i hung to the rigging for three days and nights in the awfullest snow storm you ever heard of." "mercy goodness," gasped annie; "when was that?" "last week," was the response, as the tramp wrenched the leg of a chicken apart with hands and teeth. "do they have snow storms down there in summer time?" asked fred, as he moved away from the table. the tramp, with his mouth full of meat, and with his two hands grasping the chicken-bone between his teeth, stopped work and glared at the impudent youngster, as if he would look him through and through for daring to ask the question. "young man," said he, as he solemnly resumed operations, "of course, they have snow storms down there in summer time; i'm ashamed of your ignorance; you're rather small to put in when grown-up folks are talking, and i'd advise you to listen arter this." fred concluded he would do so, using his eyes meanwhile. "yes, mum," continued the tramp; "i was in the rigging for three days and nights, and then was washed off by the breakers and carried ashore, where i was robbed of all my clothing, money and jewels." "deary, deary me!" exclaimed the sisters in concert. "how dreadful." "you are right, ladies, and i've been tramping ever since." "how far away is your home?" "only a hundred miles, or so." "you have a family, have you?" "a wife and four babies--if they only knowed what their poor father had passed through--excuse these tears, mum." the tramp just then gave a sniff and drew his sleeve across his forehead, but fred sheldon, who was watching him closely, did not detect anything like a tear. but he noted something else, which had escaped the eyes of the kind-hearted ladies. the movement of the arm before the face seemed to displace the luxuriant yellow beard. instead of sitting on the countenance as it did at first, even in its ugliness, it was slewed to one side. only for a moment, however, for by a quick flirt of the hand, as though he were scratching his chin, he replaced it. and just then fred sheldon noticed another fact. the hand with which this was done was as small, white and fair as that of a woman--altogether the opposite of that which would have been seen had the tramp's calling been what he claimed. the ladies, after a few more thoughtful questions, withdrew, so that their guest might not feel any delicacy in eating all he wished--an altogether unnecessary step on their part. fred went out with them, but after he had been gone a few minutes he slyly peeped through the crack of the door, without the ladies observing the impolite proceeding. the guest was still doing his best in the way of satisfying his appetite, but he was looking around the room, at the ceiling, the floor, the doors, windows and fire-place, and indeed at everything, as though he was greatly interested in them, as was doubtless the case. all at once he stopped and listened, glancing furtively at the door, as if he feared some one was about to enter the room. then he quietly rose, stepped quickly and noiselessly to one of the windows, took out the large nail which was always inserted over the sash at night to keep it fastened, put it in his pocket, and, with a half chuckle and grin, seated himself again at the table. at the rate of eating which was displayed, he soon finished, and, wiping his greasy hands on his hair, he gave a great sigh of relief, picked up his slouchy hat, and moved toward the door leading to the room in which the ladies sat. "i'm very much obleeged to you," said he, bowing very low, as he shuffled toward the outer door, "and i shall ever remember you in my prayers; sorry i can't pay you better, mums." the sisters protested they were more than repaid in the gratitude he showed, and they begged him, if he ever came that way, to call again. he promised that he would be glad to do so, and departed. "you may laugh all you're a mind to," said fred, when he had gone, "but that's the man i saw peeping in the window, and he means to come back here to-night and rob you." the boy told all that he knew, and the ladies, while not sharing his fright, agreed that it was best to take extra precautions in locking up. chapter iv. on guard. the sisters perkinpine always retired early, and, candle in hand, they made the round of the windows and doors on the first floor. when they came to the window from which the nail had been removed, fred told them he had seen the tramp take it out, and he was sure he would try and enter there. this served to add to the uneasiness of the sisters, but they had great confidence in the security of the house, which had never been disturbed by burglars, so far as they knew, in all its long history. "the chest where we keep the silver and what little money we have," said lizzie, "is up-stairs, next to the spare bed-room." "leave the door open and let me sleep there," said fred, stoutly. "gracious alive, what can you do if they should come?" was the amazed inquiry. "i don't know as i can do anything, but i can try; i want that old musket that's over the fire-place, too." "why, it will go off and kill you." fred insisted so strongly, however, that he was allowed to climb upon a chair and take down the antiquated weapon, covered with rust and dust. when he came to examine it he found that the description he had heard was correct--the ancient flintlock was good for nothing, and the barrel, when last discharged, must have exploded at the breach, for it was twisted and split open, so that a load of powder could only injure the one who might fire it, were such a feat possible. the sisters showed as much fear of it when it was taken down as though it were in good order, primed and cocked, and they begged the lad to restore it to its place as quickly as possible. but he seemed to think he had charge of the business for the evening, and, bidding them good-night, he took his candle and went to his room, which he had occupied once or twice before. it may well be asked what young fred sheldon expected to do with such a useless musket, should emergency arise demanding a weapon. indeed, the boy would have found it hard to tell himself, excepting that he hoped to scare the man or men away by the pretence of a power which he did not possess. now that the young hero was finally left alone, he felt that he had a most serious duty to perform. the spare bedroom which was placed at his disposal was a large, old-fashioned apartment, with two windows front and rear, with a door opening into the next room, somewhat smaller in size, both being carpeted, while the smaller contained nothing but a few chairs and a large chest, in which were silver and money worth several thousand dollars. "i'll set the candle in there on the chest," concluded fred, "and i'll stay in here with the gun. if he comes up-stairs and gets into the room i'll try and make him believe i've got a loaded rifle to shoot him with." the door opening outward from each apartment had nothing but the old-style iron latch, large and strong, and fastened in place by turning down a small iron tongue. it would take much effort to force such a door, but fred had no doubt any burglar could do it, even though it were ten times as strong. he piled chairs against both, and then made an examination of the windows. to his consternation, the covered porch extending along the front of the house, passed beneath every window, and was so low that it would be a very easy thing to step from the hypostyle to the entrance. the room occupied by the ladies was in another part of the building, and much more inaccessible. young as fred sheldon was, he could not help wondering how it was that where everything was so inviting to burglars they had not visited these credulous and trusting sisters before. "if that tramp, that i don't believe is a tramp, tries to get into the house he'll do it by one of the windows, for that one is fastened down stairs, and all he has to do is to climb up the portico and crawl in here." the night was so warm that fred thought he would smother when he had fastened all the windows down, and he finally compromised by raising one of those at the back of the house, where he was sure there was the least danger of any one entering. this being done, he sat down in a chair, with the rusty musket in his hand, and began his watch. from his position he could see the broad, flat candlestick standing on the chest, with the dip already burned so low that it was doubtful whether it could last an hour longer. "what's the use of that burning, anyway?" he asked himself; "that fellow isn't afraid to come in, and the candle will only serve to show him the way." acting under the impulse, he walked softly through the door to where the yellow light was burning, and with one puff extinguished it. the wick glowed several minutes longer, sending out a strong odor, which pervaded both rooms. fred watched it until all became darkness, and then he was not sure he had done a wise thing after all. the trees on both sides of the house were so dense that their leaves shut out nearly all the moonlight which otherwise would have entered the room. only a few rays came through the window of the other apartment, and these, striking the large, square chest showed its dim outlines, with the phantom-like candlestick on top. where fred himself sat it was dark and gloomy, and his situation, we are sure all will admit, was enough to try the nerves of the strongest man, even if furnished with a good weapon of offence and defence. "i hope the ladies will sleep," was the unselfish thought of the little hero, "for there isn't any use of their being disturbed when they can't do anything but scream, and a robber don't care for that." one of the hardest things is to keep awake when exhausted by some unusual effort of the bodily or mental powers, and we all know under how many conditions it is utterly impossible. the sentinel on the outpost or the watch on deck fights off his drowsiness by steadily pacing back and forth. if he sits down for a few minutes he is sure to succumb. when fremont, the pathfinder, was lost with his command in the rocky mountains, and was subjected to such arctic rigors in the dead of winter as befell the crew of the jeannette in the ice-resounding oceans of the far north the professor, who accompanied the expedition for the purpose of making scientific investigations, warned all that their greatest peril lay in yielding to the drowsiness which the extreme cold would be sure to bring upon them. he begged them to resist it with all the energy of their natures, for in no other way could they escape with their lives. and yet this same professor was the first one of the party to give up and to lie down for his last long sleep, from which it was all fremont could do to arouse him. fred sheldon felt that everything depended on him, and with the exaggerated fears that come to a youngster at such a time he was sure that if he fell asleep the evil man would enter the room, take all the money and plate and then sacrifice him. "i could keep awake a week," he muttered, as he tipped his chair back against the wall, so as to rest easier, while he leaned the musket along side of him, in such position that it could be seized at a moment's warning. the night remained solemn and still. far in the distance he could hear the flow of the river, and from the forest, less than a mile away, seemed to come a murmur, like the "voice of silence" itself. now and then the crowing of a cock was answered by another a long distance off, and occasionally the soft night wind stirred the vegetation surrounding the house. but among them all was no sound which the excited imagination could torture into such as would be made by a stealthy entrance into the house. in short, everything was of the nature to induce sleep, and it was not yet ten o'clock when fred began to wink, very slowly and solemnly, his grasp on the ruined weapon relaxed, his head bobbed forward several times and at last he was asleep. as his mind had been so intensely occupied by thoughts of burglars and their evil doings, his dreams were naturally of the same unpleasant personages. in his fancy he was sitting on the treasure-chest, unable to move, while an ogre-like creature climbed into the window, slowly raised an immense club and then brought it down on the head of the boy with a terrific crash. with an exclamation of terror fred awoke, and found that he had fallen forward on his face, sprawling on the floor at full length, while the jar tipped the musket over so that it fell across him. in his dream it had seemed that the burglar was a full hour climbing upon the roof and through the window, and yet the whole vision began and ended during the second or two occupied in falling from his chair. in the confusion of the moment fred was sure the man he dreaded was in the room, but when he had got back into the chair he was gratified beyond measure to find his mistake. "i'm a pretty fellow to keep watch," he muttered, rubbing his eyes; "i don't suppose that i was awake more than a half hour. it must be past midnight, so i've had enough sleep to last me without any more of it before to-morrow night." he resumed his seat, never more wide awake in all his life. it was not as late as he supposed, but the hour had come when it was all-important that he should keep his senses about him. hearing nothing unusual he rose to his feet and walked to the rear window and looked out. it was somewhat cooler and a gentle breeze felt very pleasant on his fevered face. the same stillness held reign, and he moved to the front, where he took a similar view. so far as could be told, everything was right and he resumed his seat. but at this juncture fred was startled by a sound, the meaning of which he well knew. some one was trying hard to raise the dining-room window--the rattling being such that there was no mistake about it. "it's that tramp!" exclaimed the boy, all excitement, stepping softly into the next room and listening at the head of the stairs, "and he's trying the window that he took the nail out of." the noise continued several minutes--long after the time, indeed, when the tramp must have learned that his trick had been discovered--and then all became still. this window was the front, and fred, in the hope of scaring the fellow away, raised the sash, and, leaning out, peered into the darkness and called out: "halloo, down there! what do you want?" as may be supposed, there was no answer, and after waiting a minute or two, fred concluded to give a warning. "if i hear anything more of you, i'll try and shoot; i've got a gun here and we're ready for you!" this threat ought to have frightened an ordinary person away, and the boy was not without a strong hope that it had served that purpose with the tramp whom he dreaded so much. he thought he could discern his dark figure among the trees, but it was probably fancy, for the gloom was too great for his eyes to be of any use in that respect. fred listened a considerable while longer, and then, drawing his head within, said: "i shouldn't wonder if i had scared him off----" just then a soft step roused him, and turning his head, he saw that the very tramp of whom he was thinking and of whom he believed he was happily rid, had entered the room, and was standing within a few feet of him. chapter v. brave work. when fred sheldon turned on his heel and saw the outlines of the tramp in the room behind him he gave a start and exclamation of fear, as the bravest man might have done under the circumstances. the intruder chuckled and said in his rasping, creaking voice: "don't be skeert, young man; if you keep quiet you won't get hurt, but if you go to yelping or making any sort of noise i'll wring your head as if you was a chicken i wanted for dinner." fred made no answer to this, when the tramp added, in the same husky undertone, as he stepped forward in a threatening way: "do you hear what i said?" "yes, sir; i hear you." "well, just step back through that door in t'other room and watch me while i look through this chest for a gold ring i lost last week." poor fred was in a terrible state of mind, and, passing softly through the door opening into his bed-room, he paused by the chair where he had sat so long, and then faced toward the tramp, who said, by way of amendment: "i forgot to say that if you try to climb out of the winder onto the porto rico or to sneak out any way i'll give you a touch of that." as he spoke he suddenly held up a bull's-eye lantern, which poured a strong stream of light toward the boy. it looked as if he must have lighted it inside the house, and had come into the room with it under his coat. while he carried this lantern in one hand he held a pistol, shining with polished silver, in the other, and behind the two objects the bearded face loomed up like that of some ogre of darkness. the scamp did not seem to think this remark required anything in the way of response, and, kneeling before the huge oaken chest, he began his evil work. for a few moments fred was so interested that he ceased to reproach himself for having failed to do his duty. the tramp set the lantern on the floor beside him, so that it threw its beams directly into the room where the boy stood. the marauder, it must be said, did not act like a professional. one of the burglars who infest society to-day would have made short work with the lock, though it was of the massive and powerful kind, in use many years ago; but this person fumbled and worked a good while without getting it open. he muttered impatiently to himself several times, and then caught up the bull's-eye, and, bending his head over, carefully examined it, to learn why it resisted his vigorous efforts. the action of the man seemed to rouse fred, who, without a moment's thought, stepped backward toward the open window at the rear, the one which had been raised all the time to afford ventilation. he thought if the dreadful man should object, he could make excuse on account of the warmth of the night. but the lad moved so softly, or the wicked fellow was so interested in his own work that he did not notice him, for he said nothing, and though fred could see him no longer he could hear him toiling, with occasional mutterings of anger at his failure to open the chest, which was believed to contain so much valuable silverware and money. the diverging rays from the dark-lantern still shot through the open door into the bed-room. they made a well-defined path along the floor, quite narrow and not very high, and which, striking the white wall at the opposite side, terminated in one splash of yellow, in which the specks of the whitewash could be plainly seen. it was as if a great wedge of golden light lay on the floor, with the head against the wall and the tapering point passing through the door and ending at the chest in the other room. while fred sheldon was looking at the curious sight he noticed something in the illuminated path. it would be thought that, in the natural fear of a boy in his situation, he would have felt no interest in it, but, led on by a curiosity which none but a lad feels, he stepped softly forward on tip-toe. before he stooped over to pick it up he saw that it was a handsome pocket-knife. "he has dropped it," was the thought of fred, who wondered how he came to do it; "anyway i'll hold on to it for awhile." he quietly shoved it down into his pocket, where his old barlow knife, his jewsharp, eleven marbles, two slate pencils, a couple of large coppers, some cake crumbs and other trifles nestled, and then, having succeeded so well, he again went softly to the open window at the rear. just as he reached it he heard an unusual noise in the smaller apartment where the man was at work, and he was sure the burglar had discovered what he was doing, and was about to punish him. but the sound was not repeated, and the boy believed the tramp had got the chest open. if such were the fact, he was not likely to think of the youngster in the next room for several minutes more. fred was plucky, and the thought instantly came to him that he had a chance to leave the room and give an alarm; but to go to the front and climb out on the roof of the porch would bring him so close to the tramp that discovery would be certain. at the rear there was nothing by which he could descend to the ground. it was a straight wall, invisible in the darkness and too high for any one to leap. he might hang down from the sill by his hands and then let go, but he was too unfamiliar with the surroundings to make such an attempt. "maybe there's a tub of water down there," he said to himself, trying to peer into the gloom; "and i might turn over and strike on my head into it, or it might be the swill barrel, and i wouldn't want to get my head and shoulders wedged into that----" at that instant something as soft as a feather touched his cheek. the gentle night wind had moved the rustling limbs, so that one of them in swaying only a few inches had reached out, as it were, and kissed the chubby face of the brave little boy. "why didn't i think of that?" he asked himself, as he caught hold of the friendly limb. "i can hold on and swing to the ground." it looked, indeed, as if such a movement was easy. by reaching his hand forward he could follow the limb until it was fully an inch in diameter. that was plenty strong enough to hold his weight. glancing around, he saw the same wedge of golden light streaming into the room, and the sounds were such that he was sure the burglar had opened the chest and was helping himself to the riches within. the next minute fred bent forward, and, griping the limb with both hands, swung out of the window. all was darkness, and he shut his eyes and held his breath with that peculiar dizzy feeling which comes over one when he cowers before an expected blow on the head. the sensation was that of rushing into the leaves and undergrowth, and then, feeling himself stopping rather suddenly, he let go. he alighted upon his feet, the distance being so short that he was scarcely jarred, and he drew a sigh of relief when he realized that his venture had ended so well. "there," he said to himself, as he adjusted his clothing, "i ain't afraid of him now, i can outrun him if i only have a fair chance, and there's plenty of places where a fellow can hide." looking up to the house it was all dark; not a ray from the lantern could be seen, and the sisters were no doubt sleeping as sweetly as they had slept nearly every night for the past three-score years and more. but fred understood the value of time too well to stay in the vicinity while the tramp was engaged with his nefarious work above. if the law-breaker was to be caught, it must be done speedily. but there were no houses near at hand, and it would take fully an hour to bring archie jackson, the constable, to the spot. "the nearest house is mike heyland's, the hired man, and i'll go for him." filled with this thought, fred moved softly around to the front, passed through the gate, entered the short lane, and began walking between the rows of trees in the direction of the highway. an active boy of his age finds his most natural gait to be a trot, and fred took up that pace. "it's so dark here under these trees that if there's anything in the road i'll tumble over it, for i never miss----" "halloo there, you boy!" as these startling words fell upon young sheldon's ear, the figure of a man suddenly stepped out from the denser shadows and halted in front of the affrighted boy, who stopped short, wondering what it meant. there was nothing in the voice and manner of the stranger, however, which gave confidence to fred, who quickly rallied, and stepping closer, caught his hand with the confiding faith of childhood. "o, i'm so glad to see you! i was afraid i'd have to run clear to tottenville to find somebody." "what's the matter, my little man?" "why, there's a robber in the house back there; he's stealing all the silver and money that belongs to the misses perkinpine, and they're sound asleep--just think of it--and he's got a lantern up there and is at work at the chest now, and said he would shoot me if i made any noise or tried to get away, but i catched hold of a limb and swung out the window, and here i am!" exclaimed fred, stopping short and panting. "well now, that's lucky, for i happen to have a good, loaded pistol with me. i'm visiting mr. spriggins in tottenville, and went out fishing this afternoon, but stayed longer than i intended, and was going home across lots when i struck the lane here without knowing exactly where i was; but i'm glad i met you." "so'm i," exclaimed the gratified fred; "will you help me catch that tramp?" "indeed i will; come on, my little man." the stranger stepped off briskly, fred close behind him, and passed through the gate at the front of the old brick house, which looked as dark and still as though no living person had been in it for years. "don't make any noise," whispered the elder, turning part way round and raising his finger. "you needn't be afraid of my doing so," replied the boy, who was sure the caution was unnecessary. fred did not notice the fact at the time that the man who had come along so opportunely seemed to be quite familiar with the place, but he walked straight to a rear window, which, despite the care with which it had been fastened down, was found to be raised. "there's where he went in," whispered fred's friend, "and there's where we're going after him." "all right," said fred, who did not hesitate, although he could not see much prospect of his doing anything. "i'll follow." the man reached up and catching hold of the sash placed his feet on the sill and stepped softly into the room. then turning so his figure could be seen plainly in the moonlight, he said in the same guarded voice: "he may hear me coming, do you, therefore, go round to the front and if he tries to climb down by way of the porch, run round here and let me know. we'll make it hot for him." this seemed a prudent arrangement, for it may be said, it guarded all points. the man who had just entered would, prevent the thieving tramp from retreating by the path he used in entering, while the sharp eyes of the boy would be quick to discover him the moment he sought to use the front window. "i guess we've got him," thought fred, as he took his station by the front porch and looked steadily upward, like one who is studying the appearance of a new comet or some constellation in the heavens; "that man going after him ain't afraid of anything, and he looks strong and big enough to take him by the collar and shake him, just as mr. mccurtis shakes us boys when he wants to exercise himself." for several minutes the vigilant fred was in a flutter of excitement, expecting to hear the report of firearms and the sound of struggling on the floor above. "i wonder if miss annie and lizzie will wake up when the shooting begins," thought fred; "i don't suppose they will, for they are so used to sleeping all night that nothing less than a big thunder-storm will start them--but it seems to me it's time that something took place." young sheldon had the natural impatience of youth, and when ten minutes passed without stirring up matters, he thought his friend was too slow in his movements. besides, his neck began to ache from looking so steadily upward, so he walked back in the yard some distance, and leaning against a tree, shoved his hands down in his pockets and continued the scrutiny. this made it more pleasant for a short time only, when he finally struck the happy expedient of lying down on his side and then placing his head upon his hand in such an easy position that the ache vanished at once. fifteen more minutes went by, and fred began to wonder what it all meant. it seemed to him that fully an hour had gone since stationing himself as a watcher, and not the slightest sound had come back to tell him that any living person was in the house. "there's something wrong about this," he finally exclaimed, springing to his feet; "maybe the tramp got away before i came back; but then, if that's so, why didn't the other fellow find it out long ago?" loth to leave his post, fred moved cautiously among the trees a while longer, and still failing to detect anything that would throw light on the mystery, he suddenly formed a determination, which was a rare one, indeed, for a lad of his years. "i'll go in and find out for myself!" boy-like, having made the resolve, he acted upon it without stopping to think what the cost might be. he was in his bare feet, and it was an easy matter for a little fellow like him to climb through an open window on the first floor without making a noise. when he got into the room, however, where it was as dark as the darkest midnight he ever saw, things began to appear different, that is so far as anything can be said to appear where it is invisible. he could see nothing at all, and reaching out his hands, he began shuffling along in that doubting manner which we all use under such circumstances. he knew that he was in the dining-room, from which it was necessary to pass through a door into the broad hall, and up the stairs to the spare room, where it was expected he would sleep whenever he favored the twin maiden sisters with a visit. he could find his way there in the dark, but he was afraid of the obstructions in his path. "i 'spose all the chairs have been set out of the way, 'cause miss annie and lizzie are very particular, and they wouldn't----" just then fred's knee came against a chair, and before he could stop himself, he fell over it with a racket which he was sure would awaken the ladies themselves. "that must have jarred every window in the house," he gasped, rubbing his knees. he listened for a minute or two before starting on again, but the same profound stillness reigned. it followed, as a matter of course, that the men up-stairs had heard the tumult, but fred consoled himself with the belief that it was such a tremendous noise that they would mistake its meaning altogether. "any way, i don't mean to fall over any more chairs," muttered the lad, shuffling along with more care, and holding his hands down, so as to detect such an obstruction. it is hardly necessary to tell what followed. let any one undertake to make his way across a dark room, without crossing his hands in front and the edge of a door is sure to get between them. fred sheldon received a bump which made him see stars, but after rubbing his forehead for a moment he moved out into the broad hall, where there was no more danger of anything of the kind. the heavy oaken stairs were of such solid structure that when he placed his foot on the steps they gave back no sound, and he stepped quite briskly to the top without making any noise that could betray his approach. "i wonder what they thought when i tumbled over the chair," pondered fred, who began to feel more certain than before that something was amiss. reaching out his hands in the dark he found that the door of his own room was wide open, and he walked in without trouble. as he did so a faint light which entered by the rear window gave him a clear idea of the interior. with his heart beating very fast fred tip-toed toward the front until he could look through the open door into the small room where the large oaken chest stood. by this time the moon was so high that he could see the interior with more distinctness than before. all was still and deserted; both the men were gone. "that's queer," muttered the puzzled lad; "if the tramp slipped away, the other man that i met on the road ought to have found it out; but what's become of him?" running his hand deep down among the treasures in his trousers pocket, fred fished out a lucifer match, which he drew on the wall, and, as the tiny twist of flame expanded, he touched it to the wick of the candle that he held above his head. the sight which met his gaze was a curious one indeed, and held him almost breathless for the time. the lid of the huge chest was thrown back against the wall, and all that was within it were rumpled sheets of old brown paper, which had no doubt been used as wrappings for the pieces of the silver tea-service. on the floor beside the chest was a large pocket-book, wrong side out. this, doubtless, had once held the money belonging to the old ladies, but it held it no longer. money and silverware were gone! "the tramp got away while we were down the lane," said fred, as he stood looking at the signs of ruin about him; "but why didn't my friend let me know about it, and where is he?" fred sheldon stopped in dismay, for just then the whole truth came upon him like a flash. these two men were partners, and the man in the lane was on the watch to see that no strangers approached without the alarm being given to the one inside the house. "why didn't i think of that?" mentally exclaimed the boy, so overcome that he dropped into a chair, helpless and weak, holding the candle in hand. it is easy to see how natural it was for a lad of his age to be deceived as was fred sheldon, who never in all his life had been placed in such a trying position. he sat for several minutes looking at the open chest, which seemed to speak so eloquently of the wrong it had suffered, and then he reproached himself for having failed so completely in doing his duty. "i can't see anything i've done," he thought, "which could have been of any good, while there was plenty of chances to make some use of myself if i had any sense about me." indeed there did appear to be some justice in the self-reproach of the lad, who added in the same vein: "i knew, the minute he stopped to ask questions at our front gate, that he meant to come here and rob the house, and i ought to have started right off for constable jackson, without running to tell the folks. then they laughed at me and i thought i was mistaken, even after i had seen him peeping through the window. when he was eating his supper i was sure of it, and then i should have slipped away and got somebody else here to help watch, but we didn't have anything to shoot with, and when i tried to keep guard i fell asleep, and when i woke up i was simple enough to think there was only one way of his coming into the house, and, while i had my eye on that, he walked right in behind me." then, as fred recalled his meeting with the second party in the lane, he heaved a great sigh. "well, i'm the biggest blockhead in the country--that's all--and i hope i won't have to tell anybody the whole story. halloo!" just then he happened to think of the pocket-knife he had picked up on the floor, and he drew it out of his pocket. boy-like, his eyes sparkled with pleasure when they rested on the implement so indispensable to every youngster, and which was much the finest one he had ever had in his hand. the handle was pearl and the two blades were of the finest steel and almost as keen as a razor. fred set the candle on a chair, and leaning over, carefully examined the knife, which seemed to grow in beauty the more he handled it. "the man that dropped that is the one who stole all the silverware and money, and there's the letters of his name," added the boy. true enough. on the little piece of brass on the side of the handle were roughly cut the letters, "n. h. h." chapter vi. on the outside. when fred sheldon had spent some minutes examining the knife he had picked up from the floor, he opened and closed the blades several times, and finally dropped it into his pocket, running his hand to the bottom to make sure there was no hole through which the precious implement might be lost. "i think that knife is worth about a thousand dollars," he said, with a great sigh; "and if aunt lizzie and annie don't get their silverware and money back, why they can hold on to the jack-knife." at this juncture it struck the lad as a very strange thing that the two ladies should sleep in one part of the house and leave their valuables in another. it would have been more consistent if they had kept the chest in their own sleeping apartment, but they were very peculiar in some respects, and there was no accounting for many things they did. "maybe they went in there!" suddenly exclaimed fred, referring to the tramp and his friend. "they must have thought it likely there was something in their bed-room worth hunting for. i'll see." he felt faint at heart at the thought that the good ladies had been molested while they lay unconscious in bed, but he pushed his way through the house, candle in hand, with the real bravery which was a part of his nature. his heart was throbbing rapidly when he reached the door of their apartment and softly raised the latch. but it was fastened from within, and when he listened he distinctly heard the low, gentle breathing of the good souls who had slumbered so quietly all through these exciting scenes. "i am so thankful they haven't been disturbed," said fred, making his way back to his own room, where he blew out his light, said his prayers and jumped into bed. despite the stirring experiences through which he had passed, and the chagrin he felt over his stupidity, fred soon dropped into a sound slumber, which lasted until the sun shone through the window. even then it was broken by the gentle voice of aunt lizzie, as she was sometimes called, sounding from the foot of the stairs. fred was dressed and down in a twinkling, and in the rushing, headlong, helter-skelter fashion of youngsters of his age, he told the story of the robbery that had been committed during the night. the old ladies listened quietly, but the news was exciting, indeed, and when aunt lizzie, the mildest soul that ever lived, said: "i hope you are mistaken, fred; after breakfast we'll go up-stairs and see for ourselves." "i shall see now," said her sister annie, starting up the steps, followed by fred and the other. there they quickly learned the whole truth. eight hundred and odd dollars were in the pocketbook, and the intrinsic worth of the silver tea service amounted to fully three times as much, while ten times that sum would not have persuaded the ladies to part with it. they were thrown into dismay by the loss, which grew upon them as they reflected over it. "why didn't you call us?" asked the white-faced aunt lizzie. "why, what would you have done if i had called you?" asked fred, in turn. "we would have talked with them and shown them what a wicked thing they were doing, and reminded them how unlawful and wrong it is to pick a lock and steal things." "gracious alive! if i had undertaken to call you that first man would have shot me, and it was lucky he didn't see me when i swung out the back window; but they left something behind them which i'd rather have than all your silver," said fred. "what's that?" he drew out the pocket-knife and showed it, looking so wistfully that they did not even take it from his hand, but told the gleeful lad to keep it for himself. "you may be sure i will," was his comment as he stowed it away once more; "a boy don't get a chance at a knife like that more than once in a lifetime." the old ladies, mild and sweet-tempered as they were, became so faint and weak as they fully realized their loss, that they could eat no breakfast at all, and only swallowed a cup of coffee. fred was affected in the same manner, but not to so great an extent. however, he was anxious to do all he could for the good ladies, and spending only a few minutes at the table he donned his hat and said he would go for constable archie jackson. the hired man, michael heyland, had arrived, and was at work out-doors, so there was no call for the boy to remain longer. as fred hastened down the lane, he was surprised to hear sounds of martial music, but when he caught sight of a gorgeous band and a number of square, box-like wagons with yellow animals painted on the outside, he recalled that this was the day of the circus, and his heart gave a great bound of delight. "i wish miss annie and lizzie hadn't lost their money and silver," he said, "for maybe i could have persuaded them to go to the circus with me, and i'm sure they would have enjoyed themselves." running forward, fred perched himself on the fence until the last wagon rattled by, when he slipped to the ground and trotted behind it, feeling that delight which comes to all lads in looking upon the place where wild animals are known to be housed. at every dwelling they passed the inmates hastened out, and the musicians increased the volume of their music until the air seemed to throb and pulsate with the stirring strains. when the town of tottenville was reached, the whole place was topsy-turvy. the men and wagons, with the tents and poles, had been on the ground several hours, hard at work, and crowds had been watching them from the moment of their arrival. as the rest of the vehicles gathered in a circle, which was to be enclosed by the canvas, the interest was of such an intense character that literally nothing else was seen or thought of by the countrymen and villagers. there was no one who gaped with more open-mouthed wonder than fred sheldon, who forgot for the time the real business which had brought him to tottenville. as usual, he had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and with his hands deep in his pockets, walked about with his straw hat flapping in the slight breeze, staring at everything relating to the menagerie and circus, and tasting beforehand the delights that awaited him in the afternoon, when he would be permitted to gaze until tired, if such a thing were possible. "that's the cage that has the great african lion," said fred to jimmy emery and joe hunt, who stood beside him; "just look at that picture where he's got a man in his jaws, running off with him, and not caring a cent for the hunters firing at him." "them's tottenhots," said joe hunt, who was glad of a chance of airing his knowledge of natural history; "they live in the upper part of africa, on the hang ho river, close to london." "my gracious," said fred, with a laugh; "you've got europe, asia and africa all mixed up, and the people are the hottentots; there isn't anybody in the world with such a name as tottenhots." "yes, there is, too; ain't we folks that live in tottenville tottenhots, smarty?" "let's ask that big boy there about them; he belongs to the show." the young man to whom they alluded stood a short distance off, with a long whip in his hand, watching the operations of those who were erecting the canvas. he was quite red in the face, had a bushy head of hair almost of the same hue, and was anything but attractive in appearance. his trousers were tucked in his boot-tops; he wore a blue shirt, sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a strong briar-wood pipe, occasionally indulging in some remark in which there was a shocking amount of profanity. the boys started toward him, and had nearly reached him when jimmy emery said in an excited undertone: "why, don't you see who he is? he's bud heyland." "so he is. his father told me last spring he had gone off to join a circus, but i forgot all about it." bud heyland was the son of michael heyland, the man who did the work for the sisters perkinpine, and before he left was known as the bully of the neighborhood. he was a year or two older than the oldest in school, and he played the tyrant among the other youngsters, whose life sometimes became a burden to them when he was near. he generally punished two or three of the lads each day after school for some imaginary offense. if they told the teacher, he would scold and threaten bud, who would tell some outlandish falsehood, and then whip the boys again for telling tales. if they appealed to mr. mccurtis, the same programme was gone through as before; and as the original victims continued to be worsted, they finally gave it up as a losing business and bore their sorrows uncomplainingly. fred sheldon tried several times to get up a confederation against the bully, with a view of bringing him to justice, but the others were too timid, and nothing came from it. bud was especially ugly in his actions toward fred, who had no father to take the matter in hand, while mr. heyland himself simply smoked his pipe and grunted out that he couldn't do anything with bud and had given him up long ago. finally mr. mccurtis lost all patience, and summoning his energies he flogged the young scamp most thoroughly and then bundled him out of the door, forbidding him to come to school any more. this suited bud, who hurled several stones through the window, and then went home, stayed several days and finally went off with a circus, with one of whose drivers he had formed an acquaintance. the boys were a little backward when they recognized bud, but concluded he would be glad to see them, especially as they all intended to visit the menagerie during the afternoon. "halloo, bud!" called out fred, with a grin, as he and his two friends approached; "how are you?" the boy, who was sixteen years old, turned about and looked at them for a minute, and then asked: "is that you, younkers? what'er you doin' here?" "oh, looking around a little. we're all coming this afternoon." "you are, eh? do you expect to crawl under the tent?" "no, we're going to pay our way in; jim and joe didn't know whether they could come or not, but it's all fixed now." "i watch outside with this cart-whip for boys that try to crawl under, and it's fun when i bring the lash down on 'em. do you see?" as he spoke, bud gave a flourish with the whip, whirling the lash about his head and causing it to snap like a firecracker. chapter vii. "the lion is loose!" "i'll show you how it works," he called out, with a grin, and without a word of warning he whirled it about the legs and bodies of the boys, who jumped with pain and started to run. he followed them just as the teacher did before, delivering blows rapidly, every one of which fairly burned and blistered where it struck. bud laughed and enjoyed it, because he was inflicting suffering, and he would have caused serious injury had not one of the men shouted to him to stop. bud obeyed, catching the end of the lash in the hand which held the whipstock, and slouching back to his position, said: "they wanted me to give 'em free tickets, and 'cause i wouldn't they told me they were going to crawl under the tent; so i thought i would let 'em have a little taste beforehand." "you mustn't be quite so ready," said the man; "some time you will get into trouble." "it wan't be the first time," said bud, looking with a grin at the poor boys, all three of whom were crying with pain; "and i reckon i can get out ag'in, as i've done often enough." fred sheldon, after edging away from the other lads and his friends, all of whom were pitying him, recalled that he had come into the village of tottenville to see the constable, archie jackson, and to tell him about the robbery that had been committed at the residence of the misses perkinpine the preceding evening. archie, a short, bustling, somewhat pompous man, who turned in his toes when he walked, was found among the crowd that were admiring the circus and menagerie, and was soon made acquainted with the alarming occurrence. "just what might have been expected," he said, severely, when he had heard the particulars; "it was some of them circus people, you can make up your mind to that. there's always an ugly crowd going along with 'em, and sometimes a little ahead. it's been some of 'em, i'm sure; very well, very well, i'll go right out and investigate." he told fred it was necessary he should go along with him, and the boy did so, being informed that he would be permitted to attend the show in the afternoon. the fussy constable made the investigation, assisted by the sisters, who had become much calmer, and by fred, who, it will be understood, was an important witness. the officer went through and through the house, examining the floor and chairs and windows and furniture for marks that might help him in ferreting out the guilty parties. he looked very wise, and, when he was done, said he had his own theory, and he was more convinced than ever that the two burglars were attachés of bandman's menagerie and circus. "purely as a matter of business," said he, "i'll attend the performances this afternoon and evening; i don't believe in circuses, but an officer of the law must sometimes go where his inclination doesn't lead him. wouldn't you ladies like to attend the show?" the sisters were quite shocked at the invitation, and said that nothing could induce them to go to such an exhibition, when they never attended one in all their lives. "in the meantime," added the bustling officer, "i suggest that you offer a reward for the recovery of the goods." "the suggestion is a good one," said aunt annie, "for i do not believe we shall ever get back the silverware unless we make it an inducement for everybody to hunt for it." after some further words it was agreed that the constable should have a hundred posters printed, offering a reward for the recovery of the stolen property, nothing being said about the capture and conviction of the thieves. nor would the conscientious ladies consent to make any offer that could be accepted by the thieves themselves, by which they could claim protection against prosecution. they would rather bear their irreparable loss than consent to compound crime. "i know mr. carter, a very skillful detective in new york," said archie jackson, as he prepared to go, "and i will send for him. he's the sharpest man i ever saw, and if the property can be found, he's the one to do it." the confidence of the officer gave the ladies much hope, and they resumed their duties in their household, as they had done so many times for years past. as the afternoon approached, the crowds began streaming into tottenville, and the sight was a stirring one, with the band of music inside, the shouts of the peddlers on the outside, and the general confusion and expectancy on the part of all. the doors were open early, for, as is always the case, the multitude were ahead of time, and were clamoring for admission. as may be supposed, the boys were among the earliest, and the little fellows who had suffered at the hands of the cruel bud heyland forgot all their miseries in the delight of the entertainment. on this special occasion fred had rolled down his trousers and wore a pair of shoes, although most of his playmates preferred no covering at all for their brown, expanding feet. the "performance," as the circus portion was called, did not begin until two o'clock, so that more than an hour was at the disposal of the visitors in which to inspect the animals. these were found to be much less awe-inspiring than they were pictured on the flaming posters and on the sides of their cages. the hippopotamus, which was represented as crushing a large boat, containing several men, in his jaws, was taken for a small, queer-looking pig, as it was partly seen in the tank, while the grizzly bear, the "monarch of the western wilds," who had slain any number of men before capture, did not look any more formidable than a common dog. the chief interest of fred and two or three of his young friends centered around the cage containing the numidian lion. he was of pretty fair size, looked very fierce, and strode majestically back and forth in his narrow quarters, now and then giving vent to a cavernous growl, which, although not very pleasant to hear, was not so appalling by any means as some travelers declare it to be. most of the boys soon went to the cage of monkeys, whose funny antics kept them in a continual roar; but fred and joe hunt, who were about the same age, seemed never to tire of watching the king of beasts. "come, move on there; you've been gaping long enough, and it's time other folks had a chance." it was bud heyland, who had yielded his position on the outside for a few minutes to one of the men, and had come in to look around. he raised his whip in a threatening manner, but did not let it descend. "i'm not in anybody's way," replied the indignant fred, "and i'll stand here as long as i want to." "you will, eh? i'll show you!" this time the bully drew back his whip with the intention of striking, but before he could do so archie jackson, standing near, called out: "you touch him if you dare!" bud turned toward the constable, who stood at his elbow, with flashing eyes, and demanded: "what's the matter with you?" "that boy isn't doing any harm, and if you touch him i'll take you by the collar and lock you up where you'll stay a while after this miserable show has gone." bud knew the officer and held him in more fear than any one else in the community, but he growled: "this boy crawled under the tent, and he's no business in here." "that's a falsehood, for i saw him buy his ticket. come now, young man, i _know something about last night's nefarious proceedings_." it would be hard to describe the significance with which these words were spoken, but it may be said that no one could have made them more impressive than did the fiery constable, who said them over a second time, and then, shaking his head very knowingly, walked away. it may have been that bud heyland was such a bad boy that his conscience accused him at all times, but fred sheldon was certain he saw the red face grow more crimson under the words of the hot-tempered constable. "can it be bud knows anything about last night?" fred asked himself, attentively watching the movements of bud, who affected to be interested in something going on a rod or two distant. he walked rapidly thither, but was gone only a short while when he came back scowling at fred, who looked at him in an inquiring way. "what are you staring at me so for?" asked bud, half raising his hand as if he wanted to strike, but was afraid to do so. fred now did something which bordered on insolence, though the party of the other part deserved no consideration therefor. the little fellow looked steadily in the red, inflamed face, and with that peculiar grin that means so much in a boy, said in a low, confidential voice: "bud, how about last night?" young sheldon had no warrant to assume that bud heyland knew anything of the robbery, and he was only following up the hint given by archie jackson himself. this may have been the reason that fred fancied he could detect a resemblance--very slight though it was--between the voice of bud heyland and that of the tramp who sat at the table in the old brick house, and who, beyond question, had a false beard on. the young man with the whip in his hand simply looked back at the handsome countenance before him, and without any appearance of emotion, asked in turn: "what are you talking about?" fred continued to look and smile, until suddenly bud lost all self-command and whirled his whip over his head. as he did so, the lash flew through the bars of the cage and struck the numidian lion a sharp, stinging blow on the nose. he gave a growl of anger, and half-rearing on his hind feet, made a furious clawing and clutching with both paws. the end of the lash seemed to have hit him in the eye, for he was furious for a minute. bud heyland knew what the sounds behind him meant, and instead of striking the young lad whom he detested so much, he turned about in the hope of soothing the enraged lion. he spoke kindly to the beast, and failing to produce any effect, was about to call one of the men to bring some meat, but at that instant every one near at hand was startled by a crashing, grinding sound, and the cage was seen to sway as if on the point of turning over. then, before any one could comprehend fully what had occurred, a huge form was seen to bound through the air in front of the cage, landing directly among the terrified group, who stood spell-bound, scarcely realizing their fearful peril. "the lion is loose! the lion is loose!" was the next cry that rang through the enclosure. [illustration: "the lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(see page .)] chapter viii. a day of excitement in tottenville. if any of our readers were ever so unfortunate as to be in the neighborhood of a menagerie of animals when one of the fiercest has broken loose he can form some idea of the confusion, terror and consternation caused by the escape of the lion from his cage. strong men rushed headlong over each other; parents caught up their children and struggled desperately to get as far as possible from the dreadful beast; the other animals uttered fierce growls and cries; women and children screamed and fainted; brave escorts deserted young ladies, leaving them to look out for themselves, while they joined in the frantic struggle for life; some crawled under the wagons; others clambered upon the top, and one man, original even in his panic, scrambled into the cage just vacated by the lion, intending to do his utmost to keep the rightful owner from getting back again. could any one have looked upon the exciting scene, and preserved his self-possession, he would have observed a burly boy climbing desperately up the center pole, never pausing until he reached the point where the heavy ropes of the canvas converged, when he stopped panting, and looked down on what was passing beneath him. the name of that young man was bud heyland. among the multitude that swarmed through the entrance to the tent, which was choked until strong men fought savagely to beat back the mad tide, were three boys who got outside safely on their feet, and, drawing in their breath, broke into a blind but very earnest run that was intended to take them as far as possible from the dangerous spot. they were jimmy emery, joe hunt and fred sheldon. the last-named saw the lion make a tremendous bound, which landed him almost at his feet, and fred was sure it was all over with him; but he did not stand still and be devoured, but plunged in among the struggling mass and reached the exterior of the tent without a scratch. high above the din and tumult rose the shout of the principal showman: "don't kill the lion! don't kill the lion!" it was hard to see the necessity for this cry, inasmuch as the danger seemed to be altogether the other way, but the one who uttered the useless words was evidently afraid some of the people would begin shooting at the beast, which was altogether too valuable to lose, if there was any way of avoiding it. it may be, too, that he believed a general fusillade, when the confusion was so great, would be more perilous to the people than to the lion. there is reason in the belief that, as some scientists claim, there is a sense of humor which sometimes comes to the surface in certain animals, and the action of the numidian lion when he broke out tended to confirm such a statement. he seemed to forget all about the sharp cut he had received across the nose and eyes the moment he was clear of his cage and to enjoy the hubbub he created. had he chosen he could have lacerated and killed a score of children within his reach, but instead of doing so he jumped at the terrified crowd, striking them pretty hard blows with his fore paws, then wheeling about and making for another group, who were literally driven out of their senses by the sight of the brute coming toward them. one young gentleman who was with a lady left her without a word, and, catching sight of a small ladder, placed it hastily against the center pole and ran rapidly up the rounds, but the ladder itself stood so nearly perpendicular that when he reached the top and looked around to see whether the king of beasts was following him, it tipped backward, and he fell directly upon the shoulders of the lion, rolling off and turning a back somersault, where he lay kicking with might and main, and shouting to everybody to come and take him away. the brute paid no attention to him except to act in a confused manner for a minute or two, when he darted straight across the ring to an open space in the wall of the tent, made by some men who had cut it with their knives. the next moment he was on the outside. the bewilderment and consternation seemed to increase every minute, and did not abate when the lion was seen to be galloping up the road toward a forest, in which he disappeared. a number of the show people ran after him, shouting and calling continually to others to keep out of his way and not to kill him. the beast had entered a track of dense woodland, covering fully a dozen acres, and abounding with undergrowth, where it was probable he could hide himself for days from his would-be captors. the incident broke up the exhibition for the afternoon, although it was announced that it would go on again as usual in the evening, when something like self-possession came back to the vast swarm of people scattered through the village and over the grounds, it was found that although a number had been severely bruised and trampled upon, no one was seriously injured, and what was the strangest fact of all, no one could be found who had suffered any hurt from the lion. this was unaccountable to nearly every one, though the explanation, or partial one, at least, appeared within the succeeding few days. had the lion been able to understand the peril into which he entered by this freak of his it may be safely said that he would not have left his cage, for no sooner had the community a chance to draw breath and realize the situation than they resolved that it would never do to allow such a ferocious animal to remain at large. "why, he can hide in the woods there and sally out and kill a half dozen at a time, just as they do in their native country," said archie jackson, discussing the matter in the village store. "yes," assented a neighbor; "the lion is the awfulest kind of a creature, which is why they call him the king of beasts. in brazil and italy, where they run wild, they're worse than--than--than a--that is--than a steam b'iler explosion." "we must organize," added the constable, compressing his thin lips; "self-protection demands it." "i think we had better call on the governor to bring out the military, and to keep up the hunt until he is exterminated." "no need of calling on the military, so long as the civil law is sufficient," insisted archie. "a half-dozen of us, well armed, will be able to smoke him out." "will you j'ine?" asked one of the neighbors. the constable cleared his throat before saying: "i've some important business on my hands that'll keep me pretty busy for a few days. if you will wait till that is over, it will give me pleasure--ahem!--to j'ine you." "by that time there won't be any of us left to j'ine," said the neighbor with a contemptuous sniff. "it looks very much, archie, as though you were trying to get out of it." the constable grew red in the face at the general smile this caused, and said, in his most impressive manner: "gentlemen, i'll go with you in search of the lion; more than that, gentlemen and fellow-citizens, i'll lead you." "that's business; you ain't such a big coward as people say you are." "who says i'm a coward--show him to me----" at this moment one of the young men attached to the menagerie and circus entered, and when all became still said: "gentlemen, my name is jacob kincade, and i'm the keeper of the lion which broke out to-day and is off somewhere in the woods. he is a very valuable animal to us, we having imported him directly from the bushman country, at a great expense. his being at large has created a great excitement, as was to be expected, but we don't want him killed." "of course not," said archie jackson, who echoed the sentiment of his neighbors, as he added, "you prefer that he should go raging 'round the country and chaw us all up instead. my friend, that little scheme won't work; we're just on the point of organizing an exploring expedition to shoot the lion. our duty to our wives and families demands that we should extirpate the scourge. yes, sir," added archie, rising from his chair and gesticulating like an orator, "as patriots we are bound to prevent any foreign monsters, especially them as are worshiped by the red-coats, to squat on our soil and murder our citizens. the glorious american eagle----" "one minute," interrupted mr. kincade, with a wave of his hand. "it isn't the eagle, but the lion we are considering. the menagerie, having made engagements so far ahead, must show in lumberton to-morrow evening, but two of us will stay behind to arrange for his recapture. bud heyland, whose home is in this vicinity, and myself would like to employ a dozen of you to assist. you will be well paid therefor, and whoever secures him, without harm, will receive a reward of a hundred dollars." while these important words were being uttered, archie jackson remained standing on the floor, facing the speaker, with his hand still raised, as if he intended resuming his patriotic speech at the point where it had been broken in upon. but when the showman stopped archie stood staring at him with mouth open, hand raised and silent tongue. "go on," suggested one at his elbow. but the constable let his arm fall against his side, and said: "i had a good thing about the emblem of british tyranny, but he put me out. will give a hundred dollars, eh? that's another matter altogether. but i say, mr. kincade, how shall we go to work to capture a lion? that sort of game ain't abundant in these parts, and i don't think there's any one here that's ever hunted 'em." old mr. scrapton, who was known to be the teller of the most amazing stories ever heard in the neighborhood, opened his mouth to relate how he had lassoed lions forty years before, when he was hunting on the plains of texas, but he restrained himself. he thought it best to wait till this particular beast had been disposed of and was out of the neighborhood. "i may say, gentlemen," added the showman, with a peculiar smile, "that this lion is not so savage and dangerous as most people think. you will call to mind, although he broke loose in the afternoon, when the tent was crowded with people, and when he had every opportunity he could wish, yet he did not hurt any one." "that is a very remarkable circumstance," said the constable, in a low voice, heard by all. "i am warranted, therefore," added mr. kincade, "in saying that there is no cause for such extreme fright on your part. you should fix some sort of cage and bait it with meat. then watch, and when he goes in spring the trap, and there he is." "yes, but will he stay there?" "if the trap is strong enough." "how would it do to lasso him?" "if you are skilled in throwing the lasso and can fling several nooses over his head simultaneously from different directions. by that i mean if three or four of you can lasso him at the same instant, from different directions, so he will be held fast, why the scheme will work splendidly." all eyes turned toward old mr. scrapton, who cleared his throat, threw one leg over the other and looked very wise. it was known that he had a long buffalo thong looped and hanging over his fire-place at home, with which, he had often told, he used to lasso wild horses in the southwest. when the old gentleman saw the general interest he had awakened, he nodded his head patronizingly and said: "yes, boys, i'll go with you and show you how the thing is done." the important conversation, of which we have given a part, took place in the principal store in tottenville late on the evening succeeding the escape of the lion and after the performance was over. mr. kincade, by virtue of his superior experience with wild animals, gave the men a great many good points and awakened such an ambition in them to capture the beast that he was quite hopeful of his being retaken in a short time. it was understood that if the lion was injured in any way not a penny's reward would be paid, and a careful observer of matters would have thought there was reason to fear the neighbors were placing themselves in great personal peril, through their anxiety to take the king of beasts alive and unharmed. on the morrow, when the children wended their way to the old stone school-house again, they stopped to look at archie jackson, who was busy tearing down the huge posters of the menagerie and circus, preparatory to tacking up some others which he had brought with him and held under his arm. the constable dipped into several professions. he sometimes dug wells and helped to move houses for his neighbors. beside this, he was known as the auctioneer of the neighborhood, and tacked up the announcement posters for himself. as soon as he had cleared a space, he posted the following, printed in large, black letters: one hundred dollars reward. the above reward will be paid for the capture of the lion which escaped from bandman's great menagerie and circus on tuesday the twenty-first instant. nothing will be paid if the animal is injured in any manner. the undersigned will be at the tottenville hotel for a few days, and will hand the reward named to any one who will secure the lion so that he can be returned to his cage. jacob kincade. directly beneath this paper was placed a second one, and it seemed a curious coincident that it also was the announcement of a reward. five hundred dollars reward. the above reward will be paid for the recovery of the silver tea-service stolen from the residence of the misses perkinpine on the night of the twentieth instant. a liberal price will be given for anything in the way of information which may lead to the recovery of the property or the detection of the thieves. attached to the last was a minute description of the various articles stolen, and the information that any one who wished further particulars could receive them by communicating with archibald jackson, constable, in tottenville. the menagerie and circus had departed, but the excitement which it left behind was probably greater and more intense than that which preceded its arrival. its coming was announced by a daring robbery, and when it went the most terrible animal in its "colossal and unparalleled collection" remained to prowl through the woods and feast upon the men, women, boys and girls of the neighborhood, to say nothing of the cows, oxen, sheep, lambs and pigs with which it was to be supposed the king of beasts would amuse himself when he desired a little recreation that should remind him of his native, far-away country. around these posters were gathered the same trio which we pictured on the opening of our story. "i tell you i'd like to catch that lion," said jimmy emery, smacking his lips over the prospect; "but i don't see how it can be done." "why couldn't we coax him into the school-house this afternoon after all the girls and boys are gone?" asked joe hunt; "it's so low and flat he would take it for his den, that is, if we kill a calf and lay it inside the door." "but mr. mccurtis stays an hour after school to set copies," said fred sheldon. joe hunt scratched his arms, which still felt the sting of the blows for his failure in his lessons, and said: "that's one reason why i am so anxious to get the lion in there." "well, younkers, i s'pose you're going to earn both of them rewards?" it was bud heyland who uttered these words, as he halted among the boys, who were rather shy of him. bud had his trousers tucked in the top of his boots, his sombrero and blue shirt on, his rank brier-wood pipe in his mouth, and the whip, whose lash looked like a long, coiling black snake, in his hand. his face was red as usual, with blotches on his nose and cheeks, such as must have been caused by dissipation. he was ugly by nature, and had the neighborhood been given the choice between having him and the lion as a pest it may be safely said that bud would not have been the choice of all. "i don't think there's much chance for us," said fred sheldon, quietly edging away from the bully; "for i don't see how we are to catch and hold him." "it would not do for him to see you," said bud, taking his pipe from his mouth and grinning at fred. "why not?" "he's so fond of calves he'd be sure to go for you." "that's why he tried so hard to get at you, i s'pose, when you climbed the tent pole and was so scared you've been pale ever since." bud was angered by this remark, which caused a general laugh, and he raised his whip, but just then he saw the teacher, mr. mccurtis, close at hand, and he refrained. although large and strong, like all bullies, he was a coward, and could not forget the severe drubbing received from this severe pedagogue, "all of ye olden times." he walked sullenly away, resolved to punish the impudent fred sheldon before he left the neighborhood, while the ringing of the cracked bell a minute or two later drew the boys and girls to the building and the studies of the day were begun. young fred sheldon was the brightest and best boy in school, and he got through his lessons with his usual facility, but it may be said that his thoughts were anywhere but in the school-room. indeed, there was plenty to rack his brain over, for during the few minutes when bud heyland stood talking to the boys before school fred was impressed more than ever with the fact that his voice resembled that of the tramp who had been entertained by the misses perkinpine a couple of nights before. "i s'pose he tried to make his voice sound different," thought fred, "but he didn't remember it all the time. bud's voice is coarser than it used to be, which i s'pose is because it's changing, but every once in awhile it sounded just like it did a few minutes ago. "then it seems to me," added our hero, pursuing the same train of perplexing thought, "that the voice of the other man--the one that come on to me in the lane--was like somebody i've heard, but i can't think who the person can be." fred took out his new knife and looked at it in a furtive way. when he had admired it a few minutes he fixed his eyes on the three letters cut in the brass piece. "they're 'n. h. h.,'" he said, "as sure as i live; but 'n. h. h.' don't stand for bud heyland, though the last name is the same. if that was bud who stole the silver then he must have dropped the knife on the floor, though i don't see how he could do it without knowing it. i s'pose he stole the knife from some one else." the boy had not shown his prize to any of his playmates, having thought it best to keep it out of sight. he could not help believing that bud heyland had something to do with the robbery, but it was difficult to think of any way by which the offense could be proven against him. "he'll deny it, of course, and even aunt annie and lizzie will declare that it wasn't him that sat at the table the other night and eat enough for a half-dozen men, or as much as i wanted, anyway. he's such a mean, ugly boy that i wish i could prove it on him--that is, if he did it." that day fred received word from his mother that she would not return for several days, and he was directed to look after the house, while he was permitted to sleep at the old brick mansion if he chose. accordingly fred saw that all his chores were properly done after he reached home that afternoon, when he started for the home of the maiden ladies, where he was more than welcome. the boy followed the same course he took two nights before, and his thoughts were so occupied that he went along at times almost instinctively, as may be said. "gracious," he muttered, "but if i could find that silver for them--she don't say anything about the money that was taken--that would be an awful big reward. five hundred dollars! it would more than pay the mortgage on our place. then that one hundred dollars for the lion--gracious alive!" gasped fred, stopping short and looking around in dismay. "i wonder where that lion is. he's been loose twenty-four hours, and i should like to know how many people he has killed. i heard he was seen up among the hills this morning, and eat a whole family and a team of horses, but i think maybe there's some mistake about it. "i wonder why he didn't kill somebody yesterday when he had such a good chance. he jumped right down in front of me, and i just gave up, and wished i was a better boy before i should go and leave mother alone; but he didn't pay any attention to me, nor anybody else, but he's a terrible creature, for all that." now that fred's thoughts were turned toward the beast that was prowling somewhere in the neighborhood, he could think of nothing else. there was the fact that this peril was a present one, which drove all thoughts of bud heyland and the robbery from the mind of the boy. the rustling wind, the murmur of the woods, and the soft, hollow roar of the distant river were all suggestive of the dreaded lion, and fred found himself walking on tip-toe and peering forward in the gloom, often stopping and looking behind and around, and fancying he caught an outline of the crouching beast. but at last he reached the short lane and began moving with a rapid and confident step. the moon was shining a little more brightly than when he went over the ground before, and here and there the rays found their way between the poplars and served to light the road in front. "i guess he is asleep in the woods and will keep out of sight till he's found----" the heart of fred sheldon rose in his throat, and, as he stopped short, it seemed that his hair rose on end. and well it might, for there, directly in the road before him, where the moon's rays shot through the branches, the unmistakable figure of the dreaded lion suddenly appeared. chapter ix. several mishaps. on this same eventful evening, archie jackson, the constable of tottenville, started from the residence of the misses perkinpine for his own house in the village. he had been out to make some inquiries of the ladies, for it will be remembered that he had two very important matters on hand--the detection of the robbers who had taken the property of the sisters and the leadership of the party who were to recapture the lion. at the close of the day, as he moved off toward the village, some time before the arrival of fred sheldon, he could not console himself with the knowledge that anything like real progress had been made in either case. "i've sent for that new york detective, carter, to come down at once, and he ought to be here, but i haven't seen anything of him. like enough he's off somewhere and won't be heard from for a week. i don't know as i care, for i begin to feel as though i can work out this nefarious proceeding myself. "then the lion. well, i can't say that i desire to go hunting for that sort of game, for i never studied their habits much, but as this cretur' doesn't seem to be very ferocious we ought to be able to run him in. i've organized the company, and scrapton says he'll bring out his lasso and show two or three of us how to fling the thing, so we can all neck him at the same time. "if i can work up this matter and the other," continued the constable, who was "counting his chickens before they were hatched," "i shall make a nice little fee. i'm sure the lion will stay in the woods till he's pretty hungry. all the wild reports we've heard to-day have nothing in them. nobody has seen him since he took to the forest yesterday afternoon, and what's more, nobody will----" and just then came the greatest shock of archie jackson's life. he was walking along the road toward tottenville, and had reached a place where a row of trees overhung the path. he had taken a different route home from that pursued by fred sheldon, and was in quite a comfortable frame of mind, as the remarks quoted will show, when he gave a gasp of fright, for there, at the side of the path, he was sure he saw the lion himself sitting on his haunches and waiting for him to come within reach of his frightful claws and teeth. the constable did not observe him until he was within arm's length, as may be said, and then the poor fellow was transfixed. he stood a minute or so, doing nothing but breathe and staring at the monster. the lion seemed to comprehend that he was master of the situation, for he quietly remained sitting on his haunches, no doubt waiting for his victim to prepare for his inevitable fate. finally, archie began to experience something like a reaction, and he asked himself whether he was to perish thus miserably, or was there not some hope, no matter how desperate, for him. of course he had no gun, but he generally carried a loaded revolver, for his profession often demanded the display of such a weapon; but to his dismay, when he softly reached his right hand back to his hip to draw it, he recalled that he had cleaned it that afternoon, and left it lying on his stand at home. the situation was enough to make one despair, and for an instant after the discovery the officer felt such a weakness in the knees that it was all he could do to keep from sinking to the ground in a perfect collapse; but he speedily rallied, and determined on one great effort for life. "i will strike him with my fist--that will knock him over--and then run for a tree." this was his resolve. archie could deliver a powerful blow, and, believing the lion would not wait any longer, he drew back his clenched hand and aimed for the forehead directly between the eyes. he measured the distance correctly, but the instant the blow landed he felt he had made a mistake; it was not the runaway lion which he had struck, but the stump of an old tree. it is hardly necessary to say that the constable suffered more than did the stump, and for a minute or two he was sure he had fractured the bones of his hand, so great was the pain. he danced about on one foot, shaking the bruised member and bewailing the stupidity that led him to make such a grievous error. "that beats anything i ever knowed in all my life," he exclaimed, "and how glad i am that nobody else knows it; if the folks ever hear of it, they will plague me forever and----" "halloo, archie, what's the matter?" the cold chills ran down the officer's back as he heard this hail, and suppressing all expression of pain, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked quickly around. in the dim moonlight he saw old man scrapton and two neighbors, vincent and emery, fathers respectively of two playmates of fred sheldon. each carried a coil of long, strong rope in his right hand and seemed to be considerably excited over something. "we're after the lion," said mr. scrapton; "have you seen him?" "no, i don't think he's anywhere around here." "i've had vincent and emery out in the meadow nearly all day, practicing throwing the lasso, and they've got the hang of it exactly. emery can fling the noose over the horns of a cow a dozen yards away and never miss, while vincent, by way of experiment, dropped the noose over the shoulders of his wife at a greater distance." "yes," said mr. vincent, "but i don't regard that as much of a success. mrs. vincent objected, and before i could let go of my end of the lasso, she drawed me to her and--well, i'd prefer to talk of something else." the constable laughed and said: "it's a good thing to practice a little beforehand, when you are going into such a dangerous business as this." "i suppose that's the reason you've been hammering that white oak stump," suggested mr. scrapton, with a chuckle. archie jackson saw he was caught, and begged his friends to say nothing about it, as he had already suffered as much in spirit as body. "but do you expect to find the lion to-night?" he asked, with unaffected interest. "yes, we know just where to look for him," said mr. scrapton; "he stayed in the woods all day, but just as the sun was setting i catched sight of him along the edge of the fence, and he isn't far from there this very minute." "do you want me to go with you?" "certainly." "but i have no weapon." "all the better; i made each leave his gun and pistols at home, for they'd be so scared at the first sight of the cretur' they'd fire before they knowed it and spoil everything. like the boys at ticonderoga, if their guns ain't loaded, they can't shoot 'em." "but i don't see what help i can give you, as i haven't got a rope; and even if i had, i wouldn't know how to use it." "come along, any way; we'll feel safer if we have another with us." it cannot be said that the constable was very enthusiastic, for there was something in the idea of hunting the king of beasts without firearms which was as terrifying as it was grotesque. however, he could not refuse, and the four started down the road and across the field, in the direction of the large tract of forest in which it was known the lion had taken refuge when he broke from his cage the day before. a walk of something like a third of a mile took the party to the edge of the wood, where they stopped and held a consultation in whispers. none of them were so brave as they seemed a short time before, and all secretly wished they were safe at home. "i don't see how you can expect to find him by hunting in the night time, when you have made no preparation," said archie jackson, strongly impressed with the absurdity of the whole business. "but i have made preparation," answered scrapton, in the same guarded undertone. "how?" "i killed a pig and threw him over the fence yonder by that pile of rocks--good heavens!" at the moment of pointing his finger to indicate the spot, all heard a low cavernous growl, which sent a shiver of affright from head to foot. they were about to break into a run, when the constable said: "if you start, he will be after us; let's stand our ground." "certainly," assented mr. vincent, through his chattering teeth. "certainly, certainly," added his neighbor, in the same quaking voice. toning down their extreme terror as best they could, the four frightened friends strained their eyes to catch a sight of the animal. "he's there," said scrapton, fingering his lasso in a way which showed he was very eager to hurl it. "where?" "right behind the fence; i see him; he's crouching down and eating the carcass of the pig." "when he gets through with that he will come for us." "like enough--but that will be all right," said the old gentleman, who really showed more self-possession than any of the others; "for it will give us just the chance we want." "how so?" "when he comes over the fence we'll sort of scatter and throw our lassoes together; then each will pull with all his might and main." "but," said mr. vincent, "s'posing we pull his head off, we won't get any of the reward." "we can't pull hard enough to do that, but if we hold on we'll keep him fast, so he can't move any way at all, and bime-by he'll get so tired that he'll give up, and we'll have him, certain sure." "that is, if he don't happen to have us," said mr. jackson. "as i haven't got any rope, s'pose i climb over the fence and scare him up so he will come toward you." the idea seemed to be a good one, as the others looked at it, but when the constable moved off to carry out his proposition they thought he was making altogether too extended a circuit, and that it would be a long while before he would succeed in his undertaking. archie finally vanished in the gloom, and climbing over the fence into the woods moved a short distance toward the spot where the animal lay, when he paused. "the man who goes to hunt a wild lion with nothing but a jack-knife with both blades broke out is a natural-born idiot, which his name isn't archie jackson. i've business elsewhere." and thereupon he deliberately turned about and started homeward by a circuitous route. meanwhile old mr. scrapton and vincent and emery stood trembling and waiting for the appearance of the lion, which, judging from the sounds that reached their ears, was busy crunching the bones of the young porker that had been slain for his special benefit. they didn't know whether to stay where they were or to break into a run. the danger seemed great, but the reward was so tempting that they held their ground. "he may start to run away," weakly suggested mr. vincent. "i don't think so, now that he's tasted blood, but if he does," said the leader of the party, "we must foller." "but he can run faster than we----" "there he comes!" in the darkness they saw the faintly-outlined figure of an animal clambering over the fence, with growls and mutterings, and hardly conscious of what they were doing, the three men immediately separated several yards from each other and nervously clutched their ropes, ready to fling them the instant the opportunity presented itself. "there he comes!" called out mr. scrapton again; "throw your lassoes!" at the same instant the three coils of rope whizzed through the air as a dark figure was seen moving in a direction which promised to bring him to a point equidistant from all. mr. vincent was too enthusiastic in throwing his noose, for it went beyond the animal and settled around the neck of the astonished mr. emery, who thought the lion had caught him in his embrace, thrown as he was off his feet and pulled fiercely over the ground by the thrower. mr. emery missed his mark altogether, although mr. scrapton had to dodge his head to escape the encircling coil. the old gentleman would have lassoed the animal had he not discovered at the very instant the noose left his hand that it was his own mastiff, towser, that they were seeking to capture instead of a runaway lion. chapter x. a brave act. meanwhile fred sheldon had become involved in anything but a pleasant experience. there might be mistakes ludicrous and otherwise in the case of others, but when he saw the animal in the lane before him, as revealed by the rays of the moon, there was no error. it was the identical lion that had escaped from the menagerie the day previous, and the beast must have noted the presence of the terrified lad, who stopped such a short distance from him. master fred was so transfixed that he did not stir for a few seconds, and then it seemed to him that the best thing he could do was to turn about and run, and yell with might and main, just as he did some weeks before when he stepped into a yellow-jackets' nest. it is hard to understand how the yelling helps a boy when caught in such a dilemma, but we know from experience that it is easier to screech at the top of one's voice, as you strike at the insects that settle about your head, than it is to concentrate all your powers in the single act of running. almost unconsciously, fred began stepping backward, keeping his gaze fixed upon the lion as he did so. if the latter was aware of the stratagem, which is sometimes used with advantage by the african hunter, he did not immediately seek to thwart it, but continued facing him, and occasionally swaying his tail, accompanied by low, thunderous growls. the boys of the school had learned a great deal of natural history within the last day or two, and fred had read about the king of beasts. he knew that a lion could crouch on his belly, and, with one prodigious bound, pass over the intervening space. the lad was afraid the one before him meant to act according to the instincts of his nature, and he retreated more rapidly, until all at once he whirled about and ran for dear life, directly toward the highway. he did not shout, though, if he had seen any other person, he would have called for help; but, when he reached the road, he cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting to feel the horrible claws at the same instant. the lion was invisible. fred could scarcely believe his eyes; but such was the fact. "i don't understand him," was the conclusion of the boy, who kept moving further away, scarcely daring to believe in his own escape even for a few brief minutes. fred had been too thoroughly scared to wish to meet the lion again, but he wanted to get back to the house that the misses perkinpine could be told of the new danger which threatened them. "i think they'll be more likely to believe me than night before last," said the lad to himself. but nothing could tempt him to venture along the lane again after such an experience. it was easy enough to reach the house by a long detour, but the half belief that the lion was lurking in the vicinity made the effort anything but assuring. however, fred sheldon thought it his duty to let his good friends know the new peril to which they were subject, in the event of venturing out of doors. so slow and stealthy was his next approach to the building that nearly an hour passed before he found himself in the small yard surrounding the house; but, when once there, he hastened to the front door and gave such a resounding knock with the old-fashioned brass knocker that it could have been heard a long distance away, on the still summer night. it seemed a good while to fred before the bolt was withdrawn, and aunt annie appeared in her cap and spectacles. "oh, it's you, fred, is it?" she exclaimed with pleasure, when she recognized the young man who was so welcome at all times. "you are so late that we had given you up, and were going to retire." "i started early enough, but it seems to me as if every sort of awful thing is after us," replied fred, as he hastily followed the lady into the dining-room, where the sisters began preparing the meal for which the visitor, like all urchins of his age, was ready at any time. "what's the matter now, freddy?" asked aunt lizzie. "why, you had a tramp after you night before last, and now you've got a big, roaring lion." "a what?" asked the two in amazement, for they had not heard a syllable of the exciting incident of the day before. "why, there's a lion that broke out of the menagerie yesterday, and they haven't been able to catch him yet." "land sakes alive!" gasped aunt annie, sinking into a chair and raising her hands, "what is the world coming to?" aunt lizzie sat down more deliberately, but her pale face and amazed look showed she was no less agitated. fred helped himself to some more of the luscious shortcake and golden butter and preserves, and feeling the importance of his position told the story with which our readers are familiar, though it must be confessed the lad exaggerated somewhat, as perhaps was slightly excusable under the circumstances. still it was not right for him to describe the lion as of the size of an ordinary elephant, unless he referred to the baby elephant, which had never been seen in this country at that time. nor should he have pictured his run down the lane, with the beast behind him all the way, snapping at his head, while fred only saved himself by his dexterity in dodging him. there was scarcely any excuse for such hyperbole, though the narrative was implicitly believed by the ladies, who felt they were in greater danger than if a score of burglarious tramps were planning to rob them. "they've offered one hundred dollars to any one who catches the lion without hurting him," added fred, as well as he could speak with his mouth filled with spongy gingerbread. "a hundred dollars!" exclaimed aunt lizzie; "why, he'll kill anybody who goes near him. if i were a man i wouldn't try to capture him for a million dollars." "i'm going to try to catch him," said fred, in his off-hand fashion, as though it was a small matter, and then, swallowing enough of the sweet food to allow him to speak more plainly, he added: "lions ain't of much account when you get used to 'em; i'm beginning to feel as though i'm going to make that hundred dollars." but the good ladies could not accept this statement as an earnest one, and they chided their youthful visitor for talking so at random. fred thought it best not to insist, and finished his meal without any further declarations of what he intended to do. "they've left two persons behind to look after the lion," he said; "one is named kincade and the other is bud heyland, you know him--the son of michael, your hired man." "yes; he called here to-day." "he did. what for?" "oh, nothing in particular; he said he heard we had had our silverware stolen, and he wanted to tell us how sorry he felt and to ask whether we had any suspicion of who took it." "he did, eh?" said fred, half to himself, with a belief that he understood the real cause of that call. "i think bud is getting to be a much better boy than he used to be," added aunt annie; "he was real sorry for us, and talked real nice. he said he expected to be at home for two or three days, though he didn't tell us what for, and he would drop in to see us." master sheldon made no answer to this, but he "had his thoughts," and he kept them to himself. the hour was quite advanced, for the days were long, so that the fastenings of the house were looked to with great care, and fred went to the same room he had occupied two nights before, the one immediately preceding having been spent at home, as he partly expected the return of his mother. after saying his prayers and extinguishing the light, he walked to the rear window and looked out on the solemn scene. everything was still, but he had stood thus only for a minute or two, when in the quiet, he detected a peculiar sound, which puzzled him at first; but as he listened, he learned that it came from the smoke-house, a small structure near the wood-house. like the residence, it was built of old-fashioned holland brick, and was as strong as a modern prison cell. "somebody is in there stealing meat," was the conclusion of fred; "i wonder who it can be." he listened a moment longer, and then heard the same kind of growl he had noticed the day before when standing in front of the lion's cage. beyond a doubt the king of beasts was helping himself to such food as suited him. in a twinkling fred sheldon hurried softly down stairs, cautiously opened the kitchen door, and looked out and listened. yes, he was in there; he could hear him growling and crunching bones, and evidently enjoying the greatest feast of his life. "now, if he don't hear me coming, i'll have him sure," fred said to himself, as he began stealing toward the door through which the lion had passed. chapter xi. a reward well earned. the smoke-house attached to the perkinpine mansion, as we have already said, was made of bricks, and was a strong, massive structure. although originally used for a building in which meat was cured, it had been adapted to the purposes of a milk store-house. a stream of water ran through one side and the milk and fresh meats were kept there so long as it was possible during the summer weather. a supply of mutton and lamb had been placed in it the evening before by michael, the hired man, a portion for the use of the ladies and a portion for himself, when he should come to take it away in the morning. there had never been an ice-house on the property, that luxury having been much less known a half a century ago than it is to-day. the lion, in snuffing around the premises, had scented this store-house of meat, and was feasting himself upon it when detected by fred sheldon, who, with very little hesitation, covered the couple of rods necessary to reach it. it is difficult to comprehend the trying nature of such a venture, but the reward was a gigantic one in the eyes of fred, who was very hopeful also of the chance being favorable for capturing the animal. having started he did not dare to turn back, but hastened forward on tip-toe, and with a firm hand caught the latch of the door. the instant he did so the latter was closed and fastened. he expected the lion would make a plunge against it, and break out. having done all he could to secure him, fred scurried back through the kitchen door, which he nervously closed after him, and then scampered in such haste to his room that he feared he had awakened the two ladies in the other part of the house. hurrying to the window, the lad looked anxiously out and down upon the smoke-house as it was called. to his delight he saw nothing different in its appearance from what it was when he left it a few moments before. it followed, therefore, that the lion was within, as indeed was proven by the sounds which reached the ears of the listening lad. but was the little structure strong enough to hold him? when he broke through his own cage with such ease, would he find any difficulty in making his way out of this place? these were the questions our hero asked himself, and which he could not answer as he wished. while the walls of the little building were strong and secure, yet the door was an ordinary one of wood, fastened by a common iron latch and catch, supplemented by a padlock whenever michael heyland chose to take the trouble; but the door was as secure against the animal within with the simple latch in place as it was with the addition of the lock, for it was not to be expected that he would attempt to force his way out in any manner other than by flinging himself against the door itself whenever he should become tired of his restraint. after a while all became still within the smoke-house, and it must have been that the unconscious captive, having gorged himself, had lain down for a good sleep. fred sheldon was all excitement and hope, for he felt that if the creature could be kept well supplied with food, he was likely to remain content with his quarters for a considerable time. tired and worn out, the boy finally lay down on his bed and slept till morning. the moment his eyes were open, he arose and looked out. the smoke-house showed no signs of disturbance, the door remaining latched as it was the night before. "he's there yet," exclaimed the delighted boy, hurriedly donning his clothes and going down the stairs in three jumps. he was right in his guess, for when he cautiously peeped through the slats of the window he saw the monster stretched out upon the floor in a sound slumber. when fred told the misses perkinpine that the lion was fastened in the smoke-house their alarm passed all bounds. they instantly withdrew to the uppermost room, where they declared they would stay until the neighbors should come and kill the creature. fred tried to persuade them out of their fears, but it was useless, and gathering what meat he could in the house he shoved it through the small window, and then hurried off toward tottenville. "the lion has got plenty of food, and there is the little stream of water running through the smoke-house, so he ought to be content to stay there for the day." jacob kincade sat on the porch of the tottenville hotel, smoking a cigar and talking with a number of the villagers, who were gathered around him. bud heyland stayed with his folks up the road, and he had not come down to the village yet. the talk, as a matter of course was about the lion, which was believed to be ranging through the country, and playing havoc with the live stock of the farmers. among the listeners were several boys, with open mouths and eyes, and when fred joined them no one paid any attention to him. "as i was saying," observed mr. kincade, flinging one of his legs over the other, and flirting the ashes from his cigar, "the lion is one of the most valuable in the country. he has a wonderful history, having killed a number of people before he was captured in africa. colonel bandman has been offered a large price for him, which explains why he is so anxious to secure him unhurt." "what is the reward?" asked one of the bystanders. "it was originally a hundred dollars, but i've just received a letter from colonel bandman, in which he instructs me to make the reward two hundred, provided the animal is not injured at all." "what does that offer imply?" asked another of the deeply interested group. "the only feasible plan, in my judgment, is to construct a large cage and to lure the lion into that. i have a couple of carpenters hard at work, but the trouble is the animal has such a good chance now of getting all the meat he wants that it will be difficult to get him inside of anything that looks like a cage." "if he could be got into a place where he could be held secure until you brought up his own cage, that would be all you would ask?" continued the speaker, who evidently was forming some plan of operations in his own mind. "that is all, sir." "_i've got your lion for you!_" this rather weighty assertion was made by fred sheldon, from his position in the group. an instant hush fell upon all, who looked wonderingly at the lad, as if uncertain whether they had heard aright. before any comment was made our hero, somewhat flushed in the face, as he summoned up his courage, added: "i've got the lion fast, and if you will go with me i will show you where he is." mr. kincade laughed, as did one or two others. taking a puff or two of his cigar, the showman added: "run home, sonny, and don't bother us any more." but in that little party were a number who knew fred sheldon to be an honest and truthful boy. they made inquiries of him, and when his straightforward answers had been given they told the showman he could rely on what had been said. mr. kincade thereupon instantly made preparations, the group swelling to large proportions, as the news spread that the wild beast had been captured. the cage of the lion, which had been strongly repaired, was driven to the front of the hotel; jake kincade mounted, took the lines in hand and started toward the home of the misses perkinpine, the villagers following close beside and after him. just as they turned into the short lane leading to the place, whom should they meet but bud heyland in a state of great excitement. he was seen running and cracking his whip over his head, and shouting---- "i've got him! i've got him! i've got the lion!" the wagon and company halted for him to explain. "i've got him up here in the old maids' smoke-house. i put some meat in there last night, for i seen tracks that showed me he had been prowling around, and this morning when me and the old man went over to look there he was! i'll take that reward, jacob, if you please." and the boy grinned and ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice, while the others turned inquiringly toward fred sheldon, whose cheeks burned with indignation. "he tells a falsehood," said fred. "he never knew a thing about it till this morning." "i didn't, eh?" shouted bud. "i'll show you!" thereupon he raised his whip, but mr. emery stepped in front and said, calmly: "bud, it won't be well for you to strike that boy." "well, i don't want anybody telling me i don't tell the truth, for i'm square in everything i do, and i won't be insulted." mr. kincade was on the point of taking the word of bud heyland that the reward had been earned by him, when he saw from the disposition of the crowd that it would not permit any such injustice as that. "if you've got the animal secure i'm satisfied," called out the showman from his seat, as he assumed an easy, lolling attitude. "you two chaps and the crowd can settle the question of who's entitled to the reward between you, and i only ask that you don't be too long about it, for the critter may get hungry and eat his way out." mr. emery, at the suggestion of several, took charge of the investigation. turning to fred he said: "the people here have heard your story, and bud can now tell his." "why, i hain't got much to tell," said the big boy, in his swaggering manner. "as i said awhile ago, i seen signs around the place last night which showed the lion was sneaking about the premises. he likes to eat good little boys, and i s'pose he was looking for freddy there," said young heyland, with a grinning leer at our hero, which brought a smile to several faces. "so i didn't say anything to the old man but just flung a lot of meat in the smoke-house and went home to sleep. this morning the old man awoke afore i did, which ain't often the case, and going over to his work found the trap had been sprung and the game was there. "the old man (bud seemed to be proud of calling his father by that disrespectful name) came running home and pitched through the door as white as a ghost, and it was a minute or two before he could tell his story. when he had let it out and the old woman begun to shiver, why i laughed, and told 'em how i'd set the trap and earned the reward. with that the old man cooled down, and i got him back with me to look at the beast, which is still asleep, and then i started to tell you about it, jake, when i meets this crowd and hears with pain and surprise the awful whopper this good little boy tells. i believe he slept in the house there last night, and when he woke up and went out in the smoke-house to steal a drink of milk and seen the lion, he was so scared that he nearly broke his neck running down to the village to tell about it." this fiction was told so well that several looked at fred to see what he had to say. the lad, still flushed in the face, stepped forward and said: "i'd like to ask bud a question or two." as he spoke, fred addressed mr. emery, and then turned toward the grinning bully, who said: "go ahead with all you're a mind to." "you say you put the meat in there on purpose to catch the lion last night?" "that's just what i done, freddy, my boy." "where did you get the meat?" "at home of the old woman." "after you put it in the smoke-house, you didn't go back until this morning?" "no, sir; my little sunday school lad." "who, then, shut and fastened the door, after the lion walked in the smoke-house to eat the meat?" bud heyland's face flushed still redder, and he coughed, swallowed and stuttered---- "who shut the door? why--that is--yes--why what's the use of asking such infarnal questions?" demanded bud in desperation, as the listeners broke into laughter. mr. emery quietly turned to kincade, who was leaning back on his elevated seat and said: "the reward of two hundred dollars belongs to master fred here," and the decision was received with shouts of approbation. bud heyland's eyes flashed with indignation, and he muttered to himself; but, in the face of such a number, he dared not protest, and he followed them as they pushed on toward the little structure where the escaped beast was restrained of his liberty. a reconnoissance showed that he was still there, and the arrangements for his transfer were speedily made and carried out with much less difficulty than would have been supposed. the cage was placed in front of the door of the smoke-house, communication being opened, after an inclined plane was so arranged that the beast could not walk out without going directly into his old quarters. several pounds of raw, bleeding meat were placed in the cage, and then the animal was stirred up with a long pole. he growled several times, got on his feet, looked about as if a little confused, and then seemed to be pleased at the familiar sight of his old home, for he walked deliberately up the inclined plane into the cage, and lay down as if to complete his nap, so rudely broken a few minutes before. the door was quickly closed and fastened, and the escaped lion was recaptured! when all saw how easily it was done, and recalled the fact that the king of beasts, so far as was known, had injured no person at all, there was a great deal of inquiry for the explanation. why was it that, with such opportunities for destroying human life, he had failed to rend any one to fragments? jacob kincade, after some laughter, stated that the lion, although once an animal of tiger-like ferocity and strength, was now so old that he was comparatively harmless. his teeth were poor, as was shown by the little progress he had made with the bony meat in the smoke-house. if driven into a corner he might make a fight, but if he had been loose for a month it was hardly likely he would have killed anybody. the blow which he received in the eye from bud heyland's whip incited him to fury for the moment, but by the time he got fairly outside he was comparatively harmless, and the hurried climbing of the center-pole by bud heyland was altogether a piece of superfluity. as fred sheldon had fairly earned the two hundred dollars, he was told to call at the hotel in tottenville that afternoon and it would be paid him. it is not necessary to say that he was there punctually, for the sum was a fortune in his eyes. as he came to the porch a number of loungers were there as usual, and fred found himself quite a hero among his playmates and fellows. not only was jake kincade present, with his cigar alternately between his finger and lips, but bud heyland and a stranger were sitting on the bench which ran along the porch, their legs crossed, one smoking his briar-wood and the other a cigar. despite fred's agitation over his own prospects, he could not help noticing this stranger whom, he believed, he had never seen before. his dress and appearance were much like those of a cattle drover. he wore a large, gray sombrero, a blue flannel shirt, had no suspenders, coarse corduroy trousers, though the weather was warm, with the legs tucked in the tops of his huge cowhide boots, the front of which reached far above his knees, like those of a cavalryman. he had frowsy, abundant hair, a smoothly-shaven face--that is, the stubby beard was no more than two or three days old--and he seemed to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age. looking at his rather regular features, it would be hard to tell whether he was a good or evil man, but it was very evident that he and bud heyland had struck up a strong intimacy, which was growing. they sat close together, chatted and laughed, and indulged in jokes at the expense of those around them, careless alike of the feelings that were hurt or the resentment engendered. as fred approached he saw bud turn his head and speak to the stranger, who instantly centered his gaze on the boy, so there could be no doubt that his attention was called to him. fred was moving rather timidly toward kincade, when the stranger raised his hand and crooked his finger toward him. wondering what he could want, fred sheldon diverged toward him and took off his hat. "i wouldn't stand bareheaded, freddy, dear," said bud, with his old grin; "you might catch cold in your brains." neither of the others noticed this course remark, and the stranger, scrutinizing the boy with great interest, said: "what is your name, please?" "frederick sheldon." "and you are the boy who locked the lion in the smoke-house last night when you heard the poor fellow trying to use his aged teeth on some bones?" "yes, sir." "well, you deserve credit; for you thought, like everybody else, that he was as fierce as he was a dozen years ago. well, all i want to say, fred, is that i'm cyrus sutton, stopping here at the hotel, and i'm somewhat interested in cattle. bud, here, doesn't feel very well, and he's got leave of absence for two or three days and is going to stay at home. bud and i are strong friends, and i've formed a rather good opinion of you and i congratulate you on having earned such a respectable pile of money. mr. kincade is ready and glad to pay you." squire jones, a plain, honest, old man, who had been justice of the peace for fully two score years, went into the inner room with fred sheldon and jacob kincade to see that everything was in proper shape; for as the boy was a minor his rights needed careful protection. all was done deliberately and carefully, and the entire amount of money, in good, crisp greenbacks, was placed in the trembling hands of fred sheldon, who felt just then as though he would buy up the entire village of tottenville, and present it to his poor friends. "come over to my office with me," said the squire, when the transaction was finished. the lad willingly walked across the street and into the dingy quarters of the old man, who closed the door and said: "i am real glad, frederick, that you have earned such a sum of money, for your mother needs it, and i know you to be a truthful and honest boy; but let me ask you what you mean to do with it?" "save it." "i know, but how and where? it will not be safe in your house nor at the misses perkinpines', as the events of the other night prove. it ought to be placed somewhere where it will be safe." "tell me where to put it." "there is the lynton bank ten miles away, but you couldn't drive there before it would be closed. i have a good, strong, burglar-proof safe, in which i have many valuable papers. if you wish it, i will seal the money in a large envelope, write your name on the back and lock it up for you. then, whenever you want it, i will turn it over to you." fred replied that he would be glad to have him do as proposed, and the old squire, with solemn deliberation, went through the ceremony of placing the two hundred dollars safely among his other papers and swinging the ponderous safe-door upon them. fred would have liked to keep the money to look at and admire and show to his playmates, but he saw how much wiser the course of the squire was, and it was a great relief to the boy to have the custody of such riches in other hands. when he came out on the street again he looked across to the hotel and noticed that bud heyland and cyrus sutton were no longer visible. he supposed they were inside visiting the bar, and without giving them any further thought, fred started for his home to complete his chores before going over to stay with the misses perkinpine. after reaching a certain point up the road a short cut was almost always used by fred, who followed quite a well-beaten path through a long stretch of woods. the boy was in high spirits, for he could not feel otherwise after the wonderful success which had attended his efforts to capture the astray lion. "if i could only get on the track of the men that stole the silverware and money, why, i would retire wealthy," he said to himself, with a smile; "but i don't see where there is much chance----" "halloo, there, freddy dear!" it was bud heyland who hailed the startled youngster in this fashion, and when our hero stopped and looked up, he saw the bully standing before him, whip in hand and waiting for him to approach. chapter xii. a business transaction. when fred sheldon saw bud heyland standing before him in the path, his impulse was to whirl about and run, for he knew too well what to expect from the bully; but the latter, reading his thoughts called out: "hold on, freddy, i won't hurt you, though you deserve a good horsewhipping on account of the mean way you cheated me out of the reward for capturing the lion; but i have a little business with you." wondering what all this could mean fred stood still while the red-faced young man approached, though our hero wished as fervently that he was somewhere else as he did when he found himself face to face with the lion in the lane. "jake sent me," added bud in his most persuasive manner, and with a strong effort to win the confidence of the boy, who was somewhat reassured by the last words. "what does mr. kincade want?" asked fred. "why, he told me to hurry after you and say that he had made a mistake in paying you that money." "i guess he didn't make any mistake," replied the surprised boy. "yes, he did; it's twenty dollars short." "no, it isn't, for squire jones and i counted it over twice." "that don't make any difference; i tell you there was a mistake and he sent me to correct it." "why didn't you come over to squire jones' office, then, and fix it?" "i didn't know you was there." fred knew this was untrue, for bud sat on the porch and watched him as he walked across the street with the squire. "well, if you are so sure of it, then you can give me the twenty dollars and it will be all right." "i want you to take out the money and count it here before me." "i sha'n't do it." "i guess you will; you've got to." "but i can't." "what's the reason you can't?" "i haven't got the money with me." "you haven't!" exclaimed bud, in dismay. "where is it?" "locked up in squire jones' safe." the bully was thunderstruck, and gave expression to some exclamations too forcible to be recorded. it was evident that he was unprepared for such news, and he seemed to be eager to apply his cruel whip to the little fellow toward whom he felt such unreasonable hatred. "i've got a settlement to make with you, any way," he said, advancing threateningly toward him. "what have i done," asked fred, backing away from him, "that you should take every chance you can get, bud, to hurt me?" "what have you done?" repeated the bully, "you've done a good deal, as you know well enough." but at this juncture, when poor fred thought there was no escape for him, bud heyland, very curiously, changed his mind. "i'll let you off this time," said he, "but it won't do for you to try any more of your tricks. when i come to think, it was ten dollars that the money was short. here is a twenty-dollar bill. i want you to get it changed and give me the ten dollars to-morrow." fred sheldon was bewildered by this unexpected turn to the interview, but he took the bill mechanically, and promised to do as he was told. "there's another thing i want to say to you," added bud, stopping as he was on the point of moving away: "you must not answer any questions that may be asked you about the bill." the wondering expression of the lad showed that he failed to take in the full meaning of this warning, and bud added, impatiently. "don't tell anybody i gave it to you. say you found it in the road if they want to know where you got it; that's all. do you understand?" fred began to comprehend, and he resolved on the instant that he would not tell a falsehood to save himself from a score of whippings at the hands of this evil boy, who would not have given the caution had he not possessed good reasons for doing so. bud heyland repeated the last warning, word for word, as first uttered, and then, striding by the affrighted fred, continued in the direction of tottenville, while the younger boy was glad enough to go homeward. the sun had not set yet when he reached the house where he was born, and he hurried through with his work and set out for the old brick dwelling, which had been the scene of so many stirring incidents within the last few days. he was anxious to see his mother, who had been away several days. he felt that she ought to know of his great good fortune, that she might rejoice with him. "if she doesn't get there by to-morrow or next day i'll have to go after her," he said to himself, "for i'll burst if i have to hold this news much longer. and won't she be glad? it's hard work for us to get along on our pension, and i can see she has to deny herself a good many things so that i can go to school. i thought i would be happy when i got the money, and so i am, but it is more on her account than on my own--halloo!" it seemed as if the lane leading to the old brick mansion was destined to play a very important part in the history of the lad, for he had reached the very spot where he met the lion the night before, when a man suddenly stepped out from behind one of the trees and stood for a moment, with the setting sun shining full on his back, his figure looking as if it were stamped in ink against the flaming horizon beyond. as fred stared at him, he held up his right hand and crooked his finger for him to approach, just as he did when sitting on the porch of the village hotel, for it was cyrus sutton. the boy was not pleased, by any means, to meet him in such a place, for he had felt suspicious of him ever since he saw him sitting in such familiar converse with bud heyland and jacob kincade. nevertheless, our hero walked boldly toward him, and with a faint "good-evening, sir," waited to hear what he had to say. "your name is frederick sheldon, i believe?" fred nodded to signify that he was correct in his surmise. "you met bud heyland in the woods over yonder, didn't you?" "yes, sir; how could you know it?" "i saw him going in that direction, and i saw you come out the path; what more natural than that i should conclude you had met? he gave you a twenty-dollar bill to get changed, didn't he?" "he did, sir," was the answer of the amazed boy, who wondered how it was this person could have learned so much, unless he got the news from bud heyland himself. "let me see the money." fred did not like this peremptory way of being addressed by a person whom he had never seen until that afternoon, but he drew the bill from his pocket. as he did so he brought several other articles with it, among them his new knife, which dropped to the ground. he quickly picked them up, and shoved them hurriedly out of sight. mr. sutton did not seem to notice this trifling mishap, but his eyes were bent on the crumpled bill which was handed to him. as soon as he got it in his hands he turned his back toward the setting sun, and placing himself in the line of some of the horizontal rays which found their way between the trees he carefully studied the paper. he stood full a minute without moving, and then merely said, "ahem!" as though he were clearing his throat. then he carefully doubled up the piece of national currency, and opening his pocket-book placed it in it. "are you going to keep that?" asked fred. "it isn't yours." "he wanted you to get it changed, didn't he?" "yes, sir; but he didn't want me to give it away." "of course not, of course not; excuse me, but i only wanted to change the bill for you. here you are." thereupon he handed four five-dollar bills to fred, who accepted them gladly enough, though still wondering at the peculiar actions of the man. "one word," he added. "bud told you not to answer any questions when you got the bill changed. i haven't asked you any, but he will have some to ask himself, which he will be very anxious you should answer. take my advice, and don't let him know a single thing." "i won't," said fred, giving his promise before he thought. "very well, don't forget it; he will be on the lookout for you to-morrow, and when you see him, hand him his ten dollars and keep the rest for yourself, and then end the interview. good evening, my son." "good evening," and fred was moving on, when mr. cyrus sutton said: "hold on a minute," at the same time crooking his forefinger in a way peculiar to himself; "i understand you were in the house there the other night, when it was robbed by a tramp." "i was, sir; the whole village knows that." "you were lucky enough to get away while it was going on, though you were deceived by the man whom you met here in the lane." the lad assured him he was correct, as he seemed to be in every supposition which he made. "do you think you would know either of those men if you met them again?" the question was a startling one, not from the words themselves, but from the peculiar manner in which it was asked. cyrus sutton bent forward, thrusting his face almost in that of the boy and dropping his voice to a deep guttural bass as he fixed his eyes on those of fred. the latter looked up and said: "the voice of the man i met in the lane sounded just like yours. are you the man?" it surely was a stranger question than that to which the lad had made answer, and sutton, throwing back his head, laughed as if he would sink to the earth from excess of mirth. "well, that's the greatest joke of the season. am i the other tramp that led you on such a wild-goose chase? well, i should say not." nevertheless fred sheldon felt absolutely sure that this was the man he accused him of being. mr. sutton, with a few jesting remarks, bade the boy good-evening, and the latter hastened on to the brick mansion, where he busied himself for a half hour in doing up a few chores that michael, the hired man, had left for him. when these were finished, he went into the house, with a good appetite for his supper, which was awaiting him. the old ladies were greatly pleased to learn he had been paid such a large sum for capturing the lion, and they did not regret the fright they had suffered, since it resulted in such substantial good for their favorite. "now, if you could only find our silverware," said aunt annie, "what a nice sum you would earn!" "wouldn't i? i'd just roll in wealth, and i'd make mother so happy she'd feel miserable." "but i'm afraid we shall never see the silver again," observed miss lizzie, with a deep sigh. "wasn't there some money taken, too?" "yes; several hundred dollars. but we don't mind that, for we can get along without it; but the silverware, you know, has been in the family for more than two centuries." "you haven't owned it all that time, have you?" "my goodness! how old do you suppose we are?" asked the amused old lady. "i never thought, but it would be a good thing to get the money, too, wouldn't it? has archie jackson been here to-day?" "yes. he says that the officer he sent for doesn't come, and so he's going to be a detective himself." "a detective," repeated fred to himself. "that's a man, i believe, that goes prying around after thieves and bad people, and is pretty smart in making himself look like other folks." "yes," said aunt lizzie, "he went all over the house again, and climbed out on top of the porch, and was crawling around there, 'looking for signs,' as he called them. i don't know how he made out, but he must have been careless, for he slipped off and came down on his head and shoulders, and when we ran out to help him up, said some awful bad words, and went limping down the lane." "he don't know how to climb," said fred, as he disposed of his usual supply of gingerbread; "it takes a boy like me to climb, a man is always sure to get in trouble." "archibald seems to be very unfortunate," said aunt annie mildly, and with a meek smile on her face, "for just before he fell off the roof of the porch, he came bumping all the way down-stairs and said the bad man had put oil on them, so as to make him slip to the bottom. i am quite anxious about him, but i hope no bones were broken." "i saw that his hand was swelled up too," said the sister, "and when i inquired about it he said he caught it in the crack of the door, playing with his little boy, though i don't see how that could make such a hurt as his was. but there has been some one else here." "who was that?" asked fred, excitedly. "a very nice, gentlemanly person, though he wasn't dressed in very fine clothes. his name was--let me see, circus-circum--no----" "cyrus sutton?" "that's it--yes, that's his name." "what was he after?" demanded fred, indignantly. "he said he was staying in the village a little while, and, having heard about our loss, he came out to make inquiries." "i would like to know what business he had to do that," said the boy, who was sure the old ladies were altogether too credulous and kind to strangers who presented themselves at their doors. "why, frederick, it was a great favor for him to show such an interest in our affairs." "yes; so it was in them other two chaps, i s'pose; this ain't the first time mr. cyrus sutton has been in your house." "what do you mean, frederick?" "i mean this," answered fred, wheeling his chair about and slapping his hand several times upon the table, by way of emphasis, "that mr. cyrus sutton, as he calls himself, is the man i met in the lane the other night, and who climbed into the window and helped the other fellow carry off your plate and money; there!" the ladies raised their hands in protesting amazement. "impossible! you must be mistaken!" "i know it, and i told him so, too!" "you did! didn't he kill you?" "not that i know of," laughed fred. "i don't feel very dead, anyway; but though he had on whiskers the other night as the other one did, i knew his voice." young sheldon did not think it best to say anything about the suspicion he had formed against bud heyland, for that was coming so near home that it would doubtless cause immediate trouble. nor did he tell how he was sure, only a short time before, that jacob kincade was the partner of bud in the theft, but that the latter, who handed him the two hundred dollars, was relieved from all suspicion, at least so far as the lad himself was concerned. "have you told archibald of this?" asked aunt lizzie, when fred had repeated his declaration several times. "what's the use of telling him? he would start in such a hurry to arrest him that he would tumble over something and break his neck. then, he'd get the reward, too, and i wouldn't have any of it." "we will see that you have justice," said miss lizzie, assuringly; "you deserve it for what you have already done." "i don't want it, and i won't have it until i can earn it, that's certain. i must go to school to-morrow, and i brought over two of my books to study my lessons. i had mother's permission to stay home to go to the circus, but i was out to-day, and i s'pose mr. mccurtis will give me a good whipping for it to-morrow. anyway, i'll wear my trousers down, instead of rolling 'em up, till i learn how the land lies." this seemed a prudent conclusion, and as the ladies were anxious that their favorite should keep up with his classes they busied themselves with their household duties while the lad applied himself with might and main to his mental work. at the end of half an hour he had mastered it, and asked the ladies if there was anything he could do for them. "i forgot to tell michael," said aunt annie, "before he went home, that we want some groceries from the store, and i would like him to give the order before coming here in the morning." "i'll take the order to him if you will write it out." thanking him for his courtesy, the order was prepared, and, tucking it in his pocket, fred sheldon started down the road on a trot to the home of michael heyland, the hired man. "i wonder whether bud is there?" he said to himself, as he approached the humble house. "i don't s'pose he'll bother me, but he'll want to know about that money as soon as he sees me." without any hesitation the lad knocked at the door and was bidden to enter. as he did so he saw that mrs. heyland was the only one at home. "michael has gone to the village," said the lady of the house, in explanation; "but i'm expecting him home in the course of an hour or so, and perhaps you had better wait." "i guess there isn't any need of it. aunt annie wants him to take an order to the store to-morrow morning before he comes up to the house, and i can leave it with you." "is it writ out?" "yes; here it is," said fred, laying the piece of folded paper on the stand beside the bible and a copy of the tottenville _weekly illuminator_. the lad had no particular excuse for staying longer, but he was anxious to ask several questions before going back, and he was in doubt as to how he should go about it. but when he was invited to sit down he did so, and asked, in the most natural manner: "where is bud?" "he's down to the village, too." "when will he be home?" "that's a hard question to answer, and i don't think bud himself could tell you if he tried. you know he's been traveling so long with the circus and has so many friends in the village that they are all glad to see him and won't let him come home. bud was always a good boy, and i don't wonder that everybody thinks so much of him." fred sheldon indulged in a little smile for his own amusement, but he took care that the doting mother did not notice it. "michael was always hard on bud, but he sees how great his mistake was, and when he rode by on the big wagon, cracking his whip, he felt as proud of him as i did." "is bud going to be home long?" "he got leave of absence for a few days, because the boy isn't feeling very well. they've worked him too hard altogether. you observed how pale-looking he is?" fred could not say that he had noticed any alarming paleness about the young man, but he did not deny the assertion of the mother. "does bud like it with the circus?" "oh, yes, and they just dote on him. bud tells me that colonel bandman, the owner of the circus and menagerie, has told him that if he keeps on doing so well he's going to take him in as partner next year." "mrs. heyland, why do you call him bud?" "he was such a sweet baby that we nick-named him 'birdy,' and it has stuck by him since. when he went to school he was called budman, that being a cunning fancy of the darling boy, but his right name is nathaniel higgens, though most people don't know it." fred sheldon had got the information he was seeking. chapter xiii. the eavesdropper. fred sheldon had learned one most important fact. beyond all doubt the letters "n. h. h." stood for the name nathaniel higgens heyland, who for some months past had been attached as an employee to colonel bandman's menagerie and circus. by some means, hard to understand, this young man had dropped his pocket-knife, bearing these initials, on the floor of the upper room of the brick mansion, at the time he entered it disguised as an ordinary tramp, and with the sole purpose of robbery. it was proven, therefore, that bud had committed that great offense against the laws of his country, as well as against those of his maker, and he was deserving of severe punishment. but young, as bright, honest fred sheldon was, he knew that the hardest work of all remained before him. how was the silver plate to be recovered, for the task would be less than half performed should the owners fail to secure that? how could the guilt of bud heyland be brought home to him, and who was his partner? although fred was sure that the stranger who called himself cyrus sutton was the other criminal, yet he saw no way in which that fact could be established, nor could he believe that the proof which he held of bud's criminality would convince others. bud was such an evil lad that he would not hesitate to tell any number of falsehoods, and he was so skilled in wrong talking, as well as wrong doing, that he might deceive every one else. fred sheldon felt that he needed now the counsel of one person above all others. the one man to whom his thoughts first turned was archie jackson, the constable, and he was afraid to trust him, for the temptation of obtaining the large reward offered was likely to lead him to do injustice to the boy. the one person whom he longed to see above all others was his mother--that noble, brave woman whose love and wisdom had guided him so well along his journey of life, short though it had been. it was she who had awakened in him the desire to become a good and learned man, who had cheered him in his studies, who had entertained him with stories culled from history and calculated to arouse an honorable ambition in his heart. the memory of his father was dim and misty, but there was a halo of glory that would ever envelop that sacred name. fred could just remember the bright spring morning when the patriot, clad in his uniform of a private, had taken his wee baby boy in his arms, tossed him in the air, and, as he came down, kissed him over and over again, and told him that he was the son of a soldier who intended to fight for his country; and commending him to god and his wife, had resigned him to the weeping mother, who was pressed to his heart, and then, catching up his musket he had hurried out the little gate and walked rapidly down the road. held in the mother's arms, fred had strained his baby eyes until the loved form of his father faded out in the distance, and then the heavy-hearted wife took up the burden of life once more. but, though she shaded her weary eyes and looked down the road many a time, the husband never came back again. somewhere, many long miles away, he found his last resting place, there to sleep until the last trump shall wake the dead, and those who have been separated in this life shall be reunited, never to part again. fred's memories of those sad days, we say, were dim and shadowy, but he saw how bravely his mother fought her own battle, more sorrowful than that in which the noble husband went down, and fred, young though he was, had been all that the fondest mother could wish. "let him be spared to me, oh, heavenly father," she plead, and henceforth she lived only for him. it was she who taught him to kneel at her knee and to murmur his prayers morning and evening; who told him of the gracious father who will reward every good deed and punish every evil one not repented of; it was she who taught him to be manly and truthful and honest and brave for the right, and whose counsel and guidance were more precious than those of any earthly friend ever could be. fred had no secret from her, and now that so much had taken place in the last few days he felt that he could not stand it much longer without her to counsel and direct him. "i sha'n't tell anybody a word of what i've found out," he said to himself, as he walked thoughtfully along the road, in the direction of the old brick mansion, where he expected to spend the night; "the misses perkinpine are such simple souls that they can't help a big boy like me, and though they might give me something, i don't want it unless i earn it. i'll bet mother can give me a lift." and holding this very high and not exaggerated opinion of his parent's wisdom, he continued onward, fervently hoping that she would return on the morrow. "we've never been apart so long since i can remember," he added, "and i'm beginning to feel homesick." the night was clear and starlight, the moon had not yet risen, but he could see very distinctly for a short distance in the highway. he was thinking of nothing in the way of further incident to him, but, as it sometimes happens in this world, the current of one's life, after flowing smoothly and calmly for a long time, suddenly comes upon shoals and breakers and everything is stormy for a while. fred, in accordance with his favorite custom, had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and was barefooted. in the dust of the road he walked without noise, and as the night was very still he could hear the least sound. though involved in deep thought he was of such a wide-awake nature that he could never be insensible to what was going on around him. he heard again the soft murmur of the wind in the forest, the faint, distant moan of the river, the cock crowing fully a mile away, answered by a similar signal of a chanticleer still further off, and then all at once he distinctly caught the subdued sound of voices. he at once stopped in the road and looked and listened. he could see nothing, but his keen ears told him the faint noise came from a point directly ahead, and was either in or at the side of the road. his intimate knowledge of the highway, even to the rocks and fences and piles of rails, that here and there lined it, enabled him to recall that there was a broad, flat rock, perhaps a hundred rods ahead, on the right side of the path, and that it was the one on which many a tired traveler sat down to rest. no doubt the persons whose voices reached him were sitting there, holding some sort of conference, and fred asked himself how he should pass them without discovery, for, like almost every one, he was timid of meeting strangers on a lonely road after dark. his recourse suggested itself the next minute--he had only to climb the fence and move around them. at this point there was a meadow on each side of the highway, without any trees near the road, so that great care was needed to avoid observation, but in the starlight night fred had little doubt of being able to get by without detection. very carefully he climbed the fence, and, dropping gently upon the grass on the other side, he walked off across the field, peering through the gloom in the direction of the rock by the roadside, whence came the murmur of voices. the boy was so far away that, as yet, he had not caught a glimpse of the others, but when he stopped at the point where he thought it safe to begin to approach the road again, one of the parties gave utterance to an exclamation in a louder voice than usual. fred instantly recognized it as that of cyrus sutton, the cattle drover, who had formed such a strong friendship for bud heyland. "i'll bet that bud is there, too," muttered fred, moving stealthily in the direction of the rock; "they are always--halloo!" in imitation of the loud voice of sutton, the other did the same, and in the still night there could be no mistaking it; the only son of michael heyland was sitting at the roadside, in conversation with cyrus sutton. it was natural that young sheldon should conclude they were discussing the subject of the robbery, and he was at once seized with the desire to learn what it was they were saying, for, more than likely, it would throw some light on the matter. fred had been taught by his mother that it was mean to tell tales of, or to play the eavesdropper upon, another, but in this case he felt warranted in breaking the rule for the sake of the good that it might do. accordingly, he crept through the grass toward the highway until he caught the outlines of the two figures between the fence rails and thrown against the sky beyond. at the same time the rank odor of tobacco came stealing through the summer air, as it floated from the strong briar-wood pipe of bud heyland. it was not to be supposed that two persons, engaged in an unlawful business, would sit down beside a public highway and hold a conversation in such a loud voice that any one in the neighborhood would be able to learn all their secrets. fred sheldon got quite close, but though the murmur was continued with more distinctness than before, he could not distinguish many words nor keep the run of the conversation. there may have been something in the fact that the faces of the two, as a rule, were turned away from the listener, but now and then in speaking one of them would look at the other and raise his voice slightly. this indicated that he was more in earnest just then, and fred caught a word or two without difficulty, the fragments, as they reached him, making a queer jumble. bud heyland's voice was first identified in the jumble and murmur. "big thing--clean two thousand--got it down fine, sutton." the reply of the companion was not audible, but bud continued staring at him and smoking so furiously that the boy, crouching behind them, plainly saw the vapor as it curled upward and tainted the clear summer air above their heads. in a moment, however, fred caught the profile of cyrus sutton against the starlight background, while that of young heyland and his briar-wood looked as if drawn in ink against the sky. both were looking at each other, and the words reached him more distinctly. "must be careful--dangerous business--been there myself, bud, don't be in a hurry." this, of course, was spoken by the cattle drover, and it was plain that it must refer to the robbery. bud was laboring under some impatience and was quick to make answer. "can't play this sick bus'ness much longer--must join the circus at belgrade in a few days--must make a move pretty soon." "won't keep you waiting long--but the best jobs in--country--spoiled by haste. take it easy till you can be sure how the land lies." "that may all be--but----" just then bud heyland turned his head so that only the back portion was toward the listener, and his voice dropped so low that it was some time before another word could be distinguished. fred sheldon was deeply interested, for a new and strong suspicion was beginning to take possession of him. it seemed to him on the sudden that the two worthies were not discussing the past so much as they were the future. that is, instead of talking about the despoiling of the perkinpine mansion, a few nights before, they were laying plans for the commission of some new offense. "that sutton is a regular burglar," thought fred, "and he has come down here to join bud, and they're going to rob all the houses in the neighborhood. i wonder whom they're thinking about now." the anxiety of the eavesdropper to hear more of what passed between the conspirators was so great that he grew less guarded in his movements than he should have been. his situation was such already that had the suspicion of the two been directed behind them they would have been almost sure to discover the listener; but, although they should have been careful themselves, it was hardly to be expected that they would be looking for spies in such a place and at such a time. fred caught several words, which roused his curiosity to such a point that he determined to hear more, though the risk should be ten times as great. as silently, therefore, as possible, he crept forward until he was within a dozen feet of the rock on which heyland and sutton sat. the fact that the two had their faces turned away from him, still interfered with the audibility of the words spoken in a lower tone than the others, but the listener heard enough to fill him not only with greater anxiety than ever, but with a new fear altogether. without giving all the fragments his ear caught, he picked up enough to convince him that bud heyland and cyrus sutton were discussing their past deeds and laying plans for the commission of some new act of evil. it was the latter fact which so excited the boy that he almost forgot the duty of using care against being discovered, and gradually crept up near enough to keep the run of the conversation. but, when he had secured such a position, he was annoyed beyond bearing by the silence, occasionally broken, of the two. it looked, indeed, as if they had got through the preliminaries of some evil scheme, and were now speaking in a desultory way of anything which came in their heads, while one smoked his pipe and the other his cigar. cyrus sutton held a jack-knife in his hand, which he now and then rubbed against a portion of the rock, as if to sharpen the blade, while he puffed the smoke first on the one side of his head and then on the other. bud was equally attentive to his pipe, the strong odor of which at times almost sickened young sheldon. bud had not his whip with him, and he swung his legs and knocked his heels against the rock and seemed as well satisfied with himself as such worthless fellows generally are. "it's a pretty big thing and it will take a good deal of care and skill to work it through." this remark was made by sutton, after a minute's pause on the part of both, and was instantly commented upon by bud in his off-hand style. "of course it does, but don't you s'pose we know all that? haven't we done it in more than one other place than tottenville?" "yes," said sutton, "and i've run as close to the wind as i want to, and closer than i mean to again, if i can help it." "well, then," said bud, "we'll fix it to-morrow night." "all right," said the drover, "but remember you can't be too careful, bud, for this is a dangerous business." "i reckon i'm as careful as you or any one else," retorted the youth, "and ain't in any need of advice." these words disclosed one important fact to fred sheldon; they showed that the unlawful deed contemplated was fixed for the succeeding night. "they're going to break into another house," he mentally said, "and to-morrow is the time. now, if i can only learn whose house it is, i will tell archie jackson." this caused his heart to beat faster, and again the lad thought of nothing else than to listen and catch the words of the conspirators. "do you think we can manage it alone?" asked sutton, turning his head so that the words were unmistakably distinct. "what's to hinder? halloo! what's that?" bud heyland straightened himself and looked up and down the road. the affrighted fred sheldon saw his head and shoulders rise to view as he glanced about him, while his companion seemed occupied also in looking and listening. what was it they had heard? the lad was not aware that he had made the slightest noise, but the next guarded remark of heyland startled him. "i heard something move, as if in the grass." "it would be a pretty thing if some one overheard our plans," said cyrus sutton, turning squarely about, so that his face was toward the crouching lad; "we ought to have looked out for that. where did it seem to come from?" "maybe i was mistaken; it was very faint, and i couldn't think of the right course; it may have been across the road or behind us." fred sheldon began to think it was time for him to withdraw, for his situation was becoming a dangerous one, indeed. "i guess you were mistaken," said sutton, off-hand; "this is a slow neighborhood and the people don't know enough to play such a game as that." "you was saying a minute ago that you couldn't be too careful; i'll take a look across the road and up and down, while you can see how things are over the fence there." the last clause referred to the hiding place of fred sheldon, who wondered how it was he had not already been seen, when he could distinguish both forms so plainly, now that they stood up on their feet. it looked as if detection was certain, even without the two men shifting their positions in the least. the lad was lying flat on the ground and so motionless that he might have hoped to escape if special attention were not called to him. but he felt that if the cattle-drover came over the fence it would be useless to wait a second. as bud heyland spoke he started across the highway, while cyrus sutton called out: "all right!" as he did so he placed his hand on the top rail of the fence and with one bound leaped over, dropping upon his feet within a few steps of poor fred sheldon, who, with every reason for believing he had been seen, sprang to his feet and ran for dear life. chapter xiv. fred's best friend. fred sheldon sprang up from his hiding-place in the grass, almost before the drover vaulted over the fence, and ran across the meadow in the manner he did when he believed the wandering lion was at his heels. cyrus sutton seemed to be confused for the minute, as though he had scared up some strange sort of animal, and he stared until the dark figure began to grow dim in the distance. even then he might not have said or done anything had not bud heyland heard the noise and come clambering over the fence after him. "why don't you shoot him?" demanded bud; "he's a spy that has been listening! let's capture him! come on! it will never do for him to get away! if we can't overhaul him, we can shoot him on the fly!" the impetuous bud struck across the lot much the same as a frightened ox would have done when galloping. he was in dead earnest, for he and sutton had been discussing some important schemes, which it would not do for outsiders to learn anything about. he held his pistol in hand, and was resolved that the spy should not escape him. the skurrying figure was dimly visible in the moonlight, but in his haste and excitement bud probably did not observe that the object of the chase was of very short stature. sutton kept close beside bud, occasionally falling a little behind, as though it was hard work. "he's running as fast as we," said sutton; "you had better hail him." bud heyland did so on the instant. "hold on there! stop! surrender and you will be spared! if you don't stop i'll shoot!" master frederick sheldon believed he was running for life, and, finding he was not overtaken, he redoubled his exertions, his chubby legs carrying him along with a speed which astonished even himself. the terrible hail of his pursuer instead of "bringing him to," therefore, only spurred him to greater exertions. "i give you warning," called out bud, beginning to pant from the severity of his exertion, "that i'll shoot, and when i take aim i'm always sure to hit something." "that's what makes me so afraid," said sutton, dropping a little behind, "for i think i'm in more danger than the one ahead." bud heyland now raised his revolver and sighted as well as he could at the shadowy figure, which was beginning to edge off to the left. a person on a full run is not certain to make a good shot, and when the weapon was discharged, the bullet missed the fugitive by at least a dozen feet if not more. bud lowered the pistol and looked to see the daring intruder fall to the ground, but he did not do so, and continued on at the same surprising gait. "that bullet grazed him," said bud, bringing up his pistol again; "just see how i'll make him drop this time; fix your eye on him, and when i pull the trigger he'll give a yell and jump right up in the air." to make his aim sure, beyond all possibility of failure, the panting pursuer came to a halt for a moment, and resting the barrel on his left arm, as though he were a duelist, he took "dead aim" at the lad and again pulled the trigger. but there is no reason to believe that he came any nearer the mark than in the former instance; and when sutton said with a laugh: "i don't see him jump and yell, bud," the marksman, retorted: "you'd better shoot yourself, then." "no; i was afraid you would shoot me instead of him. i think you came nearer me than you did him. hark! did you hear the man laugh then. he don't mind us so long as we keep shooting at him." "did he laugh?" demanded bud, savagely. "if he laughed at me he shall die!" hurriedly replacing his useless pistol in his pocket he resumed his pursuit with fierce energy, for he was resolved on overhauling the man who had dared to listen to what had been said. had bud been alone he would have left the pursuit to some one else, but with the muscular cyrus sutton at his back he was running over with courage and vengeance. although the halt had been a brief one, yet it could not fail to prove of advantage to the fugitive, who was speeding with might and main across the meadow, and had begun to work off to the left, because he was anxious to reach the shelter of some woods, where he was hopeful of dodging his pursuers. it would seem that bud heyland and cyrus sutton could easily outspeed such a small boy as fred sheldon, but they were so bulky that it was much harder work for them to run, and they could not last so long. hitherto they had lumbered along pretty heavily, but now they settled down to work with all the vigor they possessed, realizing that it was useless to expect to capture the fugitive in any other way. meanwhile fred sheldon was doing his "level best;" active and quick in his movements he could run rapidly for one of his years, and could keep it up much longer than those behind him, though for a short distance their speed was the greater. dreading, as he did, to fall into the hands of bud heyland and his lawless companion, he put forth all the power at his command, and glancing over his shoulder now and then he kept up his flight with an energy that taxed his strength and endurance to the utmost. when he found that they were not gaining on him he was encouraged, but greatly frightened by the pistol-shots. he was sure that one of the bullets went through his hat and the other grazed his ear, but so long as they didn't disable him he meant to keep going. he was nearly across the meadow when he recalled that he was speeding directly toward a worm-fence which separated it from the adjoining field. it would take a few precious seconds to surmount that, and he turned diagonally toward the left, as has been stated, because by taking such a course, he could reach the edge of a small stretch of woods, in whose shadows he hoped to secure shelter from his would-be captors. this change in the line of flight could not fail to operate to the disadvantage of the fugitive, for a time at least, for, being understood by bud and cyrus, they swerved still more, and sped along with increased speed, so that they rapidly recovered the ground lost a short time before. they were aiming to cut off fred, who saw his danger at once, and changed his course to what might be called "straight away" again, throwing his pursuers directly behind him. this checked the scheme for the time, but it deprived fred of his great hope of going over the fence directly into the darkness of the woods. as it was, he was now speeding toward the high worm-fence which separated the field he was in from the one adjoining. already he could see the long, crooked line of rails, as they stretched out to the right and left in front of him, disappearing in the gloom and looking like mingling lines of india ink against the sky beyond. even in such stirring moments odd thoughts come to us, and fred, while on the dead run, compared in his mind the fence rails to the crooked and erratic lines he had drawn with his pen on a sheet of white paper. although he could leap higher in the air and further on the level than any lad of his age, he knew better than to try and vault such a fence. as he approached it, therefore, he slackened his gait slightly, and springing upward with one foot on the middle rail, he placed the other instantly after on the topmost one and went over like a greyhound, with scarcely any hesitation, continuing his flight, and once more swerving to the left toward the woods on which he now fixed his hopes. possibly bud heyland thought that the fact of his being attached to colonel bandman's great menagerie and circus called upon him to perform greater athletic feats; for instead of imitating the more prudent course of the fugitive, he made a tremendous effort to clear the fence with one bound. he would have succeeded but for the top three rails. as it was his rather large feet struck them, and he went over with a crash, his hat flying off and his head ploughing quite a furrow in the ground. [illustration: bud heyland fell headlong over the fence in pursuit of fred. --(see page .)] he rolled over several times, and as he picked himself up it seemed as if most of his bones were broken and he never had been so jarred in all his life. "did you fall?" asked cyrus sutton, unable to suppress his laughter, as he climbed hastily after him. "i tripped a little," was the angry reply, "and i don't see anything to laugh at; come on! we'll have him yet!" to the astonishment of the cattle dealer, bud caught up his hat and resumed the pursuit with only a moment's delay, and limping only slightly from his severe shaking up. fred sheldon was dimly visible making for the woods, and the two followed, sutton just a little behind his friend. "you might as well give it up," said the elder; "he's got too much of a start and is making for cover." "i'm bound to have him before he can reach it, and i'll pay him for all this." no more than one hundred feet separated the parties, when fred, beginning to feel the effects of his severe exertion, darted in among the shadows of the wood, and, hardly knowing what was the best to do, threw himself flat on the ground, behind the trunk of a large tree, where he lay panting and afraid the loud throbbing of his heart would betray him to his pursuers, who were so close behind him. had he been given a single minute more he would have made a sharp turn in his course, and thus could have thrown them off the track without difficulty; but, as it was--we shall see. bud heyland rushed by within a few feet, and halted a couple of yards beyond, while sutton stopped within a third of that distance, where fred lay flat on the ground. "do you hear him?" asked bud. "hear him? no; he's given us the slip, and it's all time thrown away to hunt further for him." bud uttered an angry exclamation and stood a few minutes listening for some sound that would tell where the eavesdropper was. but nothing was heard, and sutton moved forward, passing so close to fred that the latter could have reached out his hand and touched him. "how could he help seeing me?" the boy asked himself, as the man joined bud heyland, and the two turned off and moved in the direction of the highway. some distance away bud heyland and sutton stopped and talked together in such low tones that fred sheldon could only hear the murmur of their voices, as he did when he first learned of their presence beside the road. but it is, perhaps, needless to say that he was content to let them hold their conference in peace, without any effort on his part to overhear any more of it. he was only too glad to let them alone, and to indulge a hope that they would be equally considerate toward him. bud would have continued the search much longer and with a strong probability of success had not sutton persuaded him that it was only a waste of time to do so. accordingly they resumed their walk, with many expressions of impatience over their failure to capture the individual who dared to discover their secrets in such an underhanded way. "he looked to me like a very small man," said bud, as he walked slowly along, dusting the dirt from his clothing and rubbing the many bruised portions of his body. "of course he was," replied sutton, "or he wouldn't have gone into that kind of business." "i don't mean that; he seemed like a short man." "yes, so he was, but there are plenty of full-grown men in this world who are no taller than he." "it's too bad, i broke my pipe all to pieces when i fell over the fence, and jammed the stem half way down my throat." "i thought you had broken your neck," said sutton, "and you ought to be thankful that you did not." bud muttered an ill-natured reply, and the two soon after debouched into the highway, along which they continued until the house of the younger was reached, where they stopped a minute or so for a few more words, when they separated for the night. fred sheldon waited until they were far beyond sight and hearing, when he cautiously rose to his feet and stood for a short time to make sure he could leave the spot without detection. "i guess i've had enough for one night," he said with a sigh, as he turned off across the meadow until he reached the border of the lane, along which he walked until he knocked at the door of the misses perkinpine, where he was admitted with the same cordiality that was always shown him. they seemed to think he had stayed at the hired man's house for a chat with bud, and made no inquiries, while the boy himself did not deem it best to tell what had befallen him. his recent experience had been so severe upon him that he felt hungry enough to eat another supper, and he would not have required a second invitation to do so, but, as the first was not given, he concluded to deny himself for the once. fred expected to lie awake a long time after going to bed, trying to solve the meaning of the few significant words he had overheard, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and did not wake until called by aunt lizzie. this was friday, the last school-day of the week, and he made sure of being on hand in time. as he had been absent by the permission of his mother, made known through a note sent before she went to see her brother, mr. mccurtis could not take him to task for his failure to attend school, but a number of lads who had been tempted away by the circus and the excitement over the escaped lion were punished severely. however, they absented themselves with a full knowledge of what would follow, and took the bitter dregs with the sweet, content to have the pain if they might first have the pleasure. "i have excused several of you," said the teacher, peering very keenly through his glasses at fred, "for absence, but i have not been asked to excuse any failure in lessons, and i do not intend to do so. those who have been loitering and wasting their time will soon make it appear when called on to recite, and they must be prepared for the consequences." this remark was intended especially for fred, who was thankful that he found out what the lessons of the day were, for he had prepared himself perfectly. and it was well he did so, for the teacher seemed determined to puzzle him. fred was asked every sort of question the lesson could suggest. it had always been said by mrs. sheldon that fred never knew a lesson so long as he failed to see clear through it, and could answer any question germane to it. he felt the wisdom of such instruction on this occasion, when the teacher at the end of the examination allowed him to take his seat and remarked, half angrily: "there's a boy who knows his lessons, which is more than i can say of a good many of you. i think it will be a good thing for him to go out and hunt a few more lions." this was intended as a witticism on the part of the teacher, and, like the urchins of goldsmith's "deserted village," they all laughed with "counterfeit glee," some of the boys roaring as if they would fall off the benches from the excess of their mirth. mr. mccurtis smiled grimly, and felt it was another proof that when he became a school teacher the world lost one of its greatest comedians and wits. at recess and noon fred was quite a hero among the scholars. they gathered about him and he had to tell the story over and over again, as well as the dreadful feelings that must have been his when he woke up in the night and found that a real, live burglar was in his room. like most boys of his age, fred unconsciously exaggerated in telling the narratives so often, but he certainly deserved credit, not only for his genuine bravery, but for the self-restraint that enabled him to keep back some other things he might have related which would have raised him still more in the admiration of his young friends. "i'm going to tell them to mother first of all," was his conclusion, "and i will take her advice as to what i should do." he brought the lunch the misses perkinpine had put up for him, and stayed in the neighborhood of the school-house all noon, with a number of others, who lived some distance away. as the weather was quite warm, the boys sat under a tree, talking over the stirring incidents of the preceding few days. fred was answering a question for the twentieth time, when he was alarmed by the sudden appearance of bud heyland, with his trousers tucked in his boots, his briar-wood pipe--that is, a new one--in his mouth, and his blacksnake-whip in hand. as he walked along he looked at the school-house very narrowly, almost coming to a full stop, and acting as though he was searching for some one. he did not observe that half a dozen boys were stretched out in the shadow of the big tree across the road. "keep still!" said fred, in a whisper, "and maybe he won't see us." but young heyland was not to be misled so easily. observing that the school was dismissed, he looked all around him, and quickly espied the little fellows lolling in the shade, when he immediately walked over toward them. fred sheldon's heart was in his mouth on the instant, for he was sure bud was looking for him. "he must have known me last night," he thought, "and as he couldn't catch me then he has come to pay me off now." but it would have been a confession of guilt to start and run, and bud would be certain to overtake him before he could go far, so the boy did not stir from the ground on which he was reclining. "halloo, bud," called out several, as he approached. "how are you getting along?" "none of your business," was the characteristic answer; "is fred sheldon there?" "i'm here," said fred, rising to the sitting position. "what do you want of me?" bud heyland acted curiously. he looked sharply at the boy, and then said: "i don't want anything of you just now, but i'll see you later," and without anything further he moved on, leaving our hero wondering why he had not asked for the ten dollars due him. fred expected he would return, and was greatly relieved when the teacher appeared and school was called. fearful that the bully would wait for him on the road, fred went to the old brick mansion first, where he stayed till dark, when he decided to run over to his own home, look after matters there, and then return by a new route to the old ladies who were so kind to him. he kept a sharp lookout on the road, but saw nothing of either bud or cyrus sutton. "it seems to me," said fred to himself, as he approached the old familiar spot, "that i ought to hear something from mother by this time. there isn't any school to-morrow, and i'll walk over to uncle will's and find out when she's coming home, and then i'll tell her all i've got to tell, which is so much, with what i want to ask, that it'll take me a week to get through--halloo! what does that mean?" he stopped short in the road, for through the closed blinds of the lower story he caught the twinkling rays of a light that some one had started within. "i wonder whether it is our house they're going to rob to-night," exclaimed fred, adding the next moment, with a grim humor: "if it is, they will be more disappointed than they ever were in their lives." a minute's thought satisfied him that no one with a view to robbery was there, for the good reason that there was nothing to steal, as anyone would be quick to learn. "it must be some tramp prowling around in the hope of getting something to eat. anyway, i will soon find out----" just then the window was raised, the shutters thrown wide open by some person, who leaned part way out the window in full view. one glance was enough for fred sheldon to recognize that face and form, the dearest on earth, as seen in the starlight, with the yellow rays of the lamp behind them. "halloo, mother! ain't i glad to see you? how are you? bless your dear soul! what made you stay away so long?" "fred, my own boy!" and leaning out the window she threw both arms about the neck of the lad, who in turn threw his about her, just as the two always did when they met after a brief separation. the fact of it was, fred sheldon was in love with his mother and always had been, and that sort of boy is sure to make his mark in this world. a few minutes later the happy boy had entered the house and was sitting at the tea table, eating very little and talking very much. the mother told him that his uncle had been dangerously ill, but had begun to mend that day, and was now believed to have passed the crisis of his fever, and would soon get well. she therefore expected to stay with her boy all the time. and then the delighted little fellow began his story, or rather series of stories, while the kind eyes of the handsome and proud parent were fixed on the boy with an interest which could not have been stronger. her face paled when, in his own graphic way, he pictured his lonely watch in the old brick mansion, and the dreadful discovery that the wicked tramp had entered the building stealthily behind him. she shuddered to think that her loved one had been so imperiled, and was thankful indeed that providence had protected him. then the story of the lion, of its unexpected breaking out from the cage, the panic of the audience, his encounter with it in the lane, its entry into the smoke-house, his shutting the door, and finally how he earned and received the reward. all this was told with a childish simplicity and truthfulness which would have thrilled any one who had a less personal interest than the boy's mother. as i have said, there were no secrets that the son kept from his parent. he told how he saw that the tramp wore false whiskers and how he dropped a knife on the floor, which he got and showed to his mother, explaining to her at the same time that the letters were the initials of the young man known through the neighborhood as "bud" heyland. "that may all be," said she, smilingly, "and yet bud may be as innocent as you or i." "how is that?" asked fred, wonderingly. "he may have traded or lost the knife, or some one may have stolen it and left it there on purpose to turn suspicion toward bud. such things have been done many a time, and it is odd that anyone could drop a knife in such a place without knowing it." fred opened his eyes. "then bud is innocent, you think?" "no, i believe he is guilty, for you say you were pretty sure of his voice, but it won't do to be too certain. as to the other man, who misled you when you met him in the lane, it is a hard thing to say who he is." "why, mother, i'm surer of him than i am of bud, and i'm dead sure of him, you know." "what are your reasons?" fred gave them as they are already known to the reader. the wise little woman listened attentively, and said when he had finished: "i don't wonder that you think as you do, but you once was as sure, as i understand, of mr. kincade, the one who paid you the reward." "that is so," assented fred, "but i hadn't had so much time to think over the whole matter." "very probably you are right, for they are intimate, and they are staying in the neighborhood for no good. tell me just what you heard them say last night, when they sat on the rock by the roadside. be careful not to put in any words of your own, but give only precisely what you know were spoken by the two." the boy did as requested, the mother now and then asking a question and keeping him down close to the task of telling only the plain, simple truth, concerning which there was so much of interest to both. when he was through she said the words of the two showed that some wicked scheme was in contemplation, though nothing had been heard to indicate its precise nature. the matter having been fully told the question remained--and it was the great one which underlay all others--what could fred do to earn the large reward offered by the two ladies who had lost their property? "remember," said his mother, thoughtfully, "you are only a small boy fourteen years old, and it is not reasonable to think you can out-general two bad persons who have learned to be cunning in all they do." "nor was it reasonable to think i would out-general a big lion," said fred, with a laugh, as he leaned on his mother's lap and looked up in her eyes. "no; but that lion was old and harmless; he might have spent the remainder of his days in this neighborhood without any one being in danger." "but we didn't know that." "but you know that bud heyland and this mr. sutton are much older than you and are experienced in evil doing." "so was the lion," ventured fred, slyly, quite hopeful of earning the prize on which he had set his heart. "i have been thinking that maybe i ought to tell mr. jackson, the constable, about the knife, with bud's name on it." "no," said the mother. "it isn't best to tell him anything, for he has little discretion. he boasts too much about what he is going to do; the wise and skilful man never does that." mrs. sheldon had "gauged" the fussy little constable accurately when she thus described him. "fred," suddenly said his mother, "do not the misses perkinpine expect you to stay at their house to-night?" "yes, i told them i would be back, and they will be greatly surprised, for i didn't say anything about your coming home, because i thought uncle will was so sick you wouldn't be able to leave him." "then you had better run over and explain why it is you cannot stay with them to-night." the affectionate boy disliked to leave his mother when they were holding such a pleasant conversation, but he could please her only by doing so, and donning his broad-brimmed straw hat, and bidding her good-night, passed out the door, promising soon to return. fred was so anxious to spend the evening at home that he broke into a trot the instant he passed out the gate, and kept it up along the highway until he reached the short lane, which was so familiar to him. the same eagerness to return caused him to forget one fact that had hitherto impressed him, which was that the conspiracy of bud heyland and cyrus sutton was intended to be carried out this same evening. the boy had gone almost the length of the lane when he was surprised to observe a point of light moving about in the shadow of the trees, the night being darker than the previous one. "what under the sun can that be?" he asked, stopping short and scrutinizing it with an interest that may be imagined. viewed from where he stood, it looked like a jack-o'-lantern, or a candle which some one held in his hand while moving about. it had that swaying, up-and-down motion, such as a person makes when walking rapidly, while now and then it shot up a little higher, as though the bearer had raised it over his head to get a better view of his surroundings. "well, that beats everything i ever heard of," muttered fred, resuming his walk toward the house; "it must be some kind of a lantern, and maybe it's one of them dark ones which robbers use, and they are taking a look at the outside to see which is the best way of getting inside, though i don't think there is anything left for them." the distance to the house was so short that fred soon reached the yard. on his way thither the strange light vanished several times, only to reappear again, its occasional eclipse, no doubt, being due to the intervening vegetation. when the boy came closer he saw that the lantern was held in the hand of aunt lizzie, who was walking slowly around the yard, with her sister by her side, while they peered here and there with great deliberation and care. "why, aunt lizzie!" called out fred, as he came up, "what are you looking for?" the good ladies turned toward him with a faint gasp of fright, and then gave utterance to an expression of thankfulness. "why, frederick, we are looking for you," was the reply, and then, complimenting his truthfulness, she added, "you promised to come back, and we knew you wouldn't tell a story, and sister and i thought maybe you were hungry and sick somewhere around the yard, and if so we were going to get you into the house and give you some supper." "why, aunties, i've had supper," laughed fred, amused beyond measure at the simplicity of the good ladies. "we didn't suppose that made any difference," was the kind remark of the good ladies, who showed by the observation that they had a pretty accurate knowledge after all of this particular specimen of boyhood. chapter xv. the meeting in the wood. fred sheldon told his good friends that inasmuch as his mother had returned, he would stay at home hereafter, though he promised to drop in upon them quite often and "take dinner or supper." the lantern was blown out and the sisters went inside, where, for the present, we must bid them good-night, and the lad started homeward. he had not quite reached the main highway, when, in the stillness of the night, he caught the rattle of carriage or wagon wheels. there was nothing unusual in this, for it was the place and time to look for vehicles, many of which went along the road at all hours of the day and night. but so many strange things had happened to fred during the week now drawing to a close that he stopped on reaching the outlet of the lane, and, standing close to the shaded trunk of a large tree, waited until the wagon should go by. as it came nearer he saw that it was what is known in some parts of the country as a "spring-wagon," being light running, with a straight body and without any cover, so that the driver, sitting on the front seat, was the most conspicuous object about it. as it came directly opposite fred could see that the driver wore a large sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a pipe. at the same moment, too, he gave a peculiar sound, caused by an old habit of clearing his throat, which identified him at once as bud heyland. "that's odd," thought fred, stepping out from his place of concealment and following after him; "when bud goes out at night with a strange wagon or alone, or with cyrus sutton, there's something wrong on foot." not knowing what was best for him to do, fred walked behind the wagon a short distance, for the horse was going so slow that this was an easy matter. but all at once bud struck the animal a sharp blow, which sent him spinning forward at such a rate that he speedily vanished in the darkness. young sheldon continued walking toward home, his thoughts busy until he reached the stretch of woods, where the courage of any boy would have been tried in passing it after nightfall. brave as he undoubtedly was, fred felt a little shiver, when fairly among the dense shadows, for there were some dismal legends connected with it, and these had grown with the passage of years. but fred had never turned back for anything of the kind, and he was now so cheered by the prospect of being soon again with his mother that he stepped off briskly, and would have struck up one of his characteristic whistling tunes had he not heard the rattle of the same wagon which bud heyland drove by a short while before. "that's strange," thought the lad; "he couldn't have gone very far, or he wouldn't have come back so soon." the darkness was so profound over the stretch of road leading through the wood that fred had no fear of being seen as he stepped a little to one side and waited for the vehicle to pass. fortunately for night travel, the portion of the highway which led through the forest was not long, for, without the aid of a lantern, no one could see whither he was going, and everything had to be left to the instinct of the horse himself. the beast approached at a slow walk, while bud no doubt was perched on the high front seat, using his eyes for all they were worth, which was nothing at all where the gloom was so impenetrable. he must have refilled his pipe a short time before, for he was smoking so vigorously that the ember-like glow of the top of the tobacco could be seen, and the crimson reflection even revealed the end of bud's nose and the faintest possible glimpse of his downy mustache and pimply cheeks, as they glided through the darkness. the light from this pipe was so marked that fred moved back a step or two, afraid it might reveal him to his enemy. his withdrawal was not entirely satisfactory to himself, as he could not observe where to place his feet, and striking his heels against a fallen limb, he went over backward with quite a bump. "who's that?" demanded bud heyland, checking his horse and glaring about in the gloom; "is that you, sutton?" fred thought it wiser to make no response, and he silently got upon his feet again. bud repeated his question in a husky undertone, and receiving no reply muttered some profanity and started the horse forward at the same slow, deliberate pace. wondering what it could all mean, young sheldon stood in the middle of the road, looking in the direction of the vanishing wagon, of which, as a matter of course, he could not catch the slightest glimpse, and asking himself whether it would be wise to investigate further. "there's some mischief going on, and it may be that i can--halloo!" once more bud heyland drew his horse to a halt, and the same solemn stillness held reign as before. but it was only for a minute or two, when bud gave utterance to a low whistle, which sounded like the tremolo notes of a flute, on the still air. fred sheldon recalled that the bully used to indulge in that peculiar signal when he attended school, merely because he fancied it, and when there could be no significance at all attached to it. it was now repeated several times, with such intervals as to show that bud was expecting a reply, though none could be heard by the lad, who was listening for a response. all at once, yielding to a mischievous impulse, fred sheldon replied, imitating bud's call with astonishing accuracy. instantly the bully seized upon it, and the signal was exchanged several times, when bud sprang out of his wagon and came toward the spot where the other stood. fred was frightened when he found there was likely to be a meeting between him and the one he dreaded so much, and he became as silent as the tomb. bud advanced through the gloom, continually whistling and giving utterance to angry expressions because he was not answered, while fred carefully picked his way a few paces further to the rear to escape discovery. "why don't you speak?" called out bud; "if you can whistle you can use your voice, can't you?" although this question could have been easily answered, fred sheldon thought it best to hold his peace. "if you ain't the biggest fool that ever undertook to play the gentleman!" added the disgusted bully, groping cautiously among the trees; "everything is ready for----" just then an outstretching limb passed under the chin of bud heyland, and, though walking slowly, he thought it would lift his head off his shoulders before he could stop himself. when he did so he was in anything but an amiable mood, and fred, laughing, yet scared, was glad he had the friendly darkness in which to find shelter from the ugliness of the fellow. bud had hardly regained anything like his self-possession when he caught a similar signal to those which had been going on for some minutes between fred sheldon and himself. it came from some point beyond fred, but evidently in the highway. the angry heyland called out: "what's the matter with you? why don't you come on, you fool?" the person thus addressed hurried over the short distance until he was close to where bud stood rubbing his chin and muttering all sorts of bad words at the delay and pain to which he had been subjected. "halloo, bud, where are you?" guarded as the voice was, fred immediately recognized it as belonging to cyrus sutton, the cattle drover. "i'm here; where would i be?" growled the angry bully. "tumbling over a fence, or cracking your head against a tree, i suppose," said sutton, with a laugh; "when i whistled to you, why didn't you whistle back again, as we agreed to do?" it is easy to picture the scowling glare which bud heyland turned upon sutton as he answered: "you're a purty one to talk about signals, ain't you? after answering me half a dozen times, and i got close to you, you must shut up your mouth, and while i went groping about, i came near sawing my head off with a knotty limb. when you heard me, why did you stop?" "heard you? what are you talking about?" "didn't you whistle to me a while ago, and didn't you keep it up till i got here, and then you stopped? what are you talking about, indeed!" "i was a little late," said sutton, who began to suspect the truth, "and have just come into the wood; i whistled to you, and then you called to me in a rather more personal style than i think is good taste, and i came forward and here i am, and that's all there is about it." "wasn't that you that answered my whistling a little while ago?" asked bud heyland in an undertone, that fairly trembled with dread. "no, sir; as i have explained to you, i signaled to find where you were only a minute since, and i heard nothing of the kind from you." "then we're betrayed!" words would fail to depict the tragic manner in which bud heyland gave utterance to this strange remark. his voice was in that peculiar condition, known as "changing," and at times was a deep bass, sometimes breaking into a thin squeak. he sank it to its profoundest depths as he slowly repeated the terrifying expression, and the effect would have been very impressive, even to cyrus sutton, but for the fact that on the last word his voice broke and terminated with a sound like that made by a domestic fowl when the farmer seizes it by the head with the intention of wringing its neck. but cyrus sutton seemed to think that it was anything else than a laughing matter, and he asked the particulars of bud, who gave them in a stealthily modulated voice, every word of which was plainly heard by fred sheldon, who began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. "you remember the man that was behind us listening when we sat on the rock last night?" asked bud. "of course i do." "well, he's watching us still, and ain't far off this very minute. i wish i had a chance to draw a bead on him." "you drew several beads last night," said sutton. "see here," snarled bud, "that's enough of that. i'll give you a little advice for your own good--let it drop." "well, bud," said the other, in an anxious voice, "it won't do to try it on now if some one is watching us. so drive back to tottenville, put the horse away and we'll take a look around to-morrow night. if the coast is clear we'll wind the business up." "it's got to be wound up then," said the bully, earnestly; "it won't do for me to wait any longer; i've got to j'ine the circus on monday, and i must start on sunday to make it." "very well; then we'll take a look around to-morrow and fix things at night." "agreed," said bud, "for you can see that if some officer is watching us--halloo!" this exclamation was caused by the sudden sound of wagon wheels, and man and boy knew at once that bud's horse, probably tired of standing still, had started homeward with the enthusiasm of a steed who believes that a good supper is awaiting him. chapter xvi. bud's mishaps. when a horse takes it into his head to go home, with a view of having a good meal, the attraction seems to become stronger from the moment he makes the first move. bud heyland's animal began with a very moderate pace, but he increased it so rapidly that by the time the angry driver was on the run, the quadruped was going almost equally as fast. in the hope of scaring the brute into stopping bud shouted: "whoa! whoa! stop, or i'll kill you!" if the horse understood the command, he did not appreciate the threat, and, therefore, it served rather as a spur to his exertion, for he went faster than ever. it is well known, also, that under such circumstances the sagacious animal is only intent on reaching home with the least delay, and he does not care a pin whether his flight injures the vehicle behind him or not. in fact, he seems to be better pleased if it does suffer some disarrangement. when, therefore, the animal debouched from the wood into the faint light under the stars he was on a gallop, and the wagon was bounding along from side to side in an alarming way. bud was not far behind it, and shouting in his fiercest manner, he soon saw that he was only wasting his strength. he then ceased his outcries and devoted all his energies to overtaking the runaway horse. "it'll be just like him to smash the wagon all to flinders," growled bud, "and i'll have to pay for the damages." as nearly as could be determined, horse and lad were going at the same pace, the boy slightly gaining, perhaps, and growing more furious each minute, for this piece of treachery on the part of the horse. some twenty yards separated the pursuer from the team, when a heavy, lumbering wagon loomed to view ahead. "get out of the road!" called bud, excitedly. "this hoss is running away, and he'll smash you if you don't!" at such times a farmer is slow to grasp the situation, and the old gentleman, who was half asleep, could not understand what all the rumpus was about, until the galloping horse was upon him. then he wrenched his lines, hoping to pull his team aside in time, but his honest nags were as slow as their owner, and all they did was to get themselves out of the way, so as to allow the light vehicle to crash into that to which they were attached. it is the frailer vessel which generally goes to the wall at such times, though bud's was armed with a good deal of momentum. as it was the front wheel was twisted off, and the frightened horse continued at a swifter gait than ever toward his home, while bud, seeing how useless it was to try to overtake him, turned upon the old farmer, who was carefully climbing out of his wagon to see whether his property had suffered any damage. "why didn't you get out the way when i hollered to you?" demanded the panting bud, advancing threateningly upon him. "why didn't you holler sooner, my young friend?" asked the old gentleman, in a soft voice. "i yelled to you soon enough, and you're a big fool that you didn't pull aside as i told you. i hope your old rattle-trap has been hurt so it can't be fixed up." "i can't diskiver that it's been hurt at all, and i'm very thankful," remarked the farmer, stooping down and feeling the spokes and axletree with his hands; "but don't you know it is very disrespectful for a boy like you to call an old man a fool?" bud snarled: "i generally say just what i mean, and what are you going to do about it, old hay seed?" the gentleman thus alluded to showed what he meant to do about it, for he reached quietly upward and lifted his whip from its socket in the front of the wagon. "i say again," added bud, not noticing the movement, and swaggering about, "that any man who acts like you is a natural born fool, and the best thing you can do is to go home----" just then something cracked like a pistol shot and the whip of the old farmer whizzed about the legs of the astounded scapegrace, who, with a howl similar to that which fred sheldon uttered under similar treatment, bounded high in air and started on a run in the direction of his flying vehicle. at the second step the whip descended again, and it was repeated several times before the terrified bud could get beyond reach of the indignant gentleman, who certainly showed more vigor than any one not knowing him would have looked for. "some boys is very disrespectful, and should be teached manners," he muttered, turning calmly about and going back to his team, which stood sleepily in the road awaiting him. "what's getting into folks?" growled bud heyland, trying to rub his smarting legs in half a dozen places at once; "that's the sassiest old curmudgeon i ever seen. if i'd knowed he was so sensitive i wouldn't have argued the matter so strong. jingo! but he knows how to swing a whip. when he brought down the lash on to me, i orter just jumped right into him and knocked him down, and i'd done it, too, if i hadn't been afraid of one thing, which was that he'd knocked me down first. plague on him! i'll get even with him yet. i wish----" bud stopped short in inexpressible disgust, for just then he recalled that he had his loaded revolver with him, and he ought to have used it to defend himself. the assault of the old gentleman was so sudden that his victim had no time to think of anything but to place himself beyond reach of his strong and active arm. "i don't know what makes me so blamed slow in thinking of things," added bud, resuming the rubbing of his legs and his walk toward tottenville, "but i must learn to wake up sooner. i'm sure i got in some good work to-day, and i'll finish it up in style to-morrow night, or my name ain't nathaniel higgins heyland, and then i'm going to skip out of this slow place in a hurry and have a good time with the boys. what's that?" he discerned the dim outlines of some peculiar looking object in the road, and going to it, suddenly saw what it was. "yes, i might have knowed it!" he muttered, with another forcible expression; "it's a wagon wheel; the second one off that good-for-nothing one i hired of grimsby, and i'll have a pretty bill to pay when i get there. i 'spose i'll find the rest of the wagon strewed all along the road; yes----" bud was not far wrong in his supposition, for a little further on he came upon a third wheel, which was leaning against the fence, as though it were "tired," and near by was the fourth. after that the fragments of the ruined vehicle were met with continually, until the angered young man wondered how it was there could be so much material in such an ordinary structure. "it's about time i begun to find something of the horse," he added, with a grim sense of the grotesque humor of the idea; "i wouldn't care if i came across his head and legs scattered along the road, for i'm mad enough agin him to blow him up, but i won't get the chance, for old grimsby won't let me have him agin when i go out to take a ride to-morrow night." things could not have been in a worse condition than when bud, tired and angry, walked up on the porch of the hotel and dropped wearily into one of the chairs that were always there. old mr. grimsby was awaiting him, and said the animal was badly bruised, and as for the wagon, the only portion he could find any trace of was the shafts, which came bounding into the village behind the flying horse. mr. grimsby's principal grief seemed to be that bud himself had not shared the fate of the wagon, and he did not hesitate to so express himself. "the damages won't be a cent less than a hundred dollars," added the angry keeper of the livery stable. "will you call it square for that?" asked bud, looking at the man, who was leaning against the post in front of him. "yes, of course i will?" "very well; write out a receipt in full and sign it and i'll pay it." mr. grimsby scanned him curiously for a minute, and then said: "if you're in earnest come over to my office." bud got up and followed him into his little dingy office, where he kept a record of his humble livery business, and after considerable fumbling with his oil-lamp, found pen and paper and the receipt was written and signed. while he was thus employed bud heyland had counted one hundred dollars in ten-dollar bills, which he passed over to mr. grimsby, who, as was his custom, counted them over several times. as he did so he noticed that they were crisp, new bills, and looked as if they were in circulation for the first time. he carefully folded them up and put them away in his wallet with a grim smile, such as is apt to be shown by a man of that character when he thinks he has got the better of a friend in a bargain or trade. and as bud heyland walked out he smiled, too, in a very meaning way. chapter xvii. two unexpected visitors. fred sheldon did not give much attention to bud heyland after he started in pursuit of his runaway horse, but, turning in the opposite direction, he moved carefully through the wood toward his mother's house. he did not forget that cyrus sutton was somewhere near him, and the boy dreaded a meeting with the cattle drover almost as much as he did with bud heyland himself; but he managed to get out of the piece of wood without seeing or being seen by him, and then he made all haste to his own home, where he found his mother beginning to wonder over his long absence. fred told the whole story, anxious to hear what she had to say about a matter on which he had made up his own mind. "it looks as though bud heyland and this mr. sutton, that you have told me about, are partners in some evil doing." "of course they are; it can't be anything else, but what were they doing in the woods with the wagon?" "perhaps they expected to meet some one else." "i don't think so, from what they said; it would have been better if i hadn't whistled to bud, wouldn't it?" "perhaps not," replied the mother, "for it looks as if by doing so you prevented their perpetrating some wrong for which they had laid their plans, and were frightened by finding some one else was near them." "i'm going to take a look through that wood to-morrow and keep watch; i think i will find out something worth knowing." "you cannot be too careful, fred, for it is a wonder to me that you have kept out of trouble so long----" both were startled at this moment by the closing of the gate, followed by a rapid footstep along the short walk, and then came a sharp knocking on the door. fred sprang up from his seat beside his mother and quickly opened the door. the fussy little constable, archie jackson, stood before them. "good evening, frederick; good evening, mrs. sheldon," he said, looking across the room to the lady and taking off his hat to her, as he stepped within. the handsome little lady arose, bowed and invited him to a seat, which he accepted, bowing his thanks again. it was easy to see from the manner of archie that he was full of the most important kind of business. he was in danger of tipping his chair over, from the prodigious extent to which he threw out his breast, as he carefully deposited his hat on the floor beside him and cleared his throat, with a vigor which could have been heard by any one passing outside. "a pleasant night," he remarked, looking benignantly upon mrs. sheldon, who nodded her head to signify that she agreed with him in his opinion of the weather. after this preliminary he came to the point--that is, in his own peculiar way. "mrs. sheldon, you have a very fine boy there," he said, nodding toward fred, who turned quite red in the face. "i am glad to hear you have such a good opinion of him," was the modest manner in which the mother acknowledged the compliment to her only child. "i understand that he is the brightest scholar in school, and has the reputation of being truthful and honest, and i know him to be as full of pluck and courage as a--a--spring lamb," added the constable, clearing his throat again, to help him out of his search for a metaphor. mrs. sheldon simply bowed and smiled, while archie looked at his right hand, which was still swollen and tender from its violent contact with the stump that he mistook for the lion some nights before. he remarked something about hurting it in the crack of the door when playing with his children, and added: "fred has become quite famous from the shrewd manner in which he captured the lion." "i don't see as he deserves any special credit for that," observed the mother, "for i understand the animal was such an old one that he was almost harmless, and then he was kind enough to walk into the smoke-house and give fred just the chance he needed. i regard it rather as a piece of good fortune than a display of courage." "you are altogether too modest, mrs. sheldon--altogether too modest. think of his stealing up to the open door of the smoke or milk-house when the creatur' was crunching bones inside! i tell you, mrs. sheldon, it took a great deal more courage than you will find in most men to do that." the lady was compelled to admit that it was a severe test of the bravery of a boy, but she insisted that fred had been favored by providence, or good fortune, as some called it. "what i want to come at," added archie, clearing his throat again and spitting in his hat, mistaking it for the cuspidor on the other side, "is that i would be pleased if he could secure the reward which the misses perkinpine have offered for the recovery of their silverware, to say nothing of the money that was taken." "it would be too unreasonable to hope that he could succeed in such a task as that." "i'm not so sure, when you recollect that he saw the two parties who were engaged in the burglarious transaction. i thought maybe he might have some clew which would enable the officers of the law to lay their fingers on the guilty parties." fred was half tempted to say that he had such a clew in his pocket that very minute, but he was wise enough to hold his peace. once more the constable cleared his throat. "but such is not the fact--ah, excuse me--i thought that was the spittoon, instead of my hat--how stupid!--and to relieve his mind of the anxiety which i know he must feel, i have called to make a statement." having said this much the visitor waited until he thought his auditors were fully impressed, when he added: "when this robbery was made known to me i sent to new york city at once for one of the most famous detectives, giving him full particulars and urging him to come without delay; but for some reason, which i cannot understand, mr. carter has neither come nor written--a very discourteous proceeding on his part, to say the least; so i undertook the whole business alone--that is, without asking the help of anyone." "i hope you have met with success," was the truthful wish expressed by mrs. sheldon. "i have, i am glad to inform you. i have found out who the man was that, in the disguise of a tramp, eat a meal at the house of the misses perkinpine on monday evening, and who afterward entered the building stealthily, and with the assistance of a confederate carried off all their valuable silverware and a considerable amount of money." "you've fastened it on bud, eh?" asked fred, greatly interested. the constable looked impressively at the lad, and said: "there's where you make a great mistake; in fact, nothing in this world is easier than to make an error. i was sure it was bud from what you told me, and you will remember i hinted as much to him on the day of the circus." "yes, and he turned red in the face and was scared." "his face couldn't turn much redder than it is, and blushing under such circumstances can't always be taken as a proof of guilt; but i set to work and i found the guilty man." "and it wasn't bud?" "he hadn't anything to do with it." "but there were two of them, for i saw them." "of course; and i know the other man also." this was important news indeed, and mother and son could only stare at their visitor in amazement. the constable, with all the pomposity of which he was master, picked up his hat from the floor and arose to his feet. "of course a detective doesn't go round the country boasting of what he has done and is going to do. those who know me, know that i am one of the most modest of men and rarely speak of my many exploits. but i may tell you that you can prepare yourselves for one of the greatest surprises of your life." "when is it going to come?" asked fred. "very soon; in a day or two; maybe to-morrow; at any rate by monday at the latest." mrs. sheldon saw that the fussy officer was anxious to tell more and needed but the excuse of a question or two from her. but she did not ask him anything, for with the intuition of her sex she had read his nature the first time she talked with him, and she had little faith in his high-sounding declaration of success. still, she knew that it was not unlikely he had stumbled upon the truth, while groping about; but she could form no idea, of who the suspected parties were, and she allowed her visitor to bid her good evening without gaining any further knowledge of them. archie was heard walking down the path and out the gate, still clearing his throat, and doubtless with his shoulders thrown to the rear so far that he was in danger of falling over backwards. mrs. sheldon smiled in her quiet way after his departure, and said: "i can't feel much faith in him, but it may be he has found who the guilty ones are." "i don't believe it," replied fred, stoutly; "for, when he declares that bud had nothing to do with it, i know he is wrong. suppose i had taken out this knife and told him all about it, what would he have said?" "it wouldn't have changed his opinion, for he is one of those men whose opinions are set and very difficult to change. he is confident he is right, and we shall know what it all means in a short time." "perhaps i will find out something to-morrow." "more than likely you will fail altogether----" to the surprise of both, they heard the gate open and shut again, another series of hastening steps sounded upon the gravel, and in a moment a quick, nervous rap came upon the door. "archie has come back to tell us the rest of his story," said fred, springing up to answer the summons; "i thought he couldn't go away without letting us know----" but the lad was mistaken, for, when he opened the door, who should he see standing before him but cyrus sutton, the cattle drover, and the intimate friend of bud heyland? he smiled pleasantly, doffed his hat, bowed and apologized for his intrusion, adding: "i am sure you hardly expected me, and i only came because it was necessary that i should meet you both. ah!" mrs. sheldon had risen and advanced a couple of steps to greet her visitor, but, while the words were in her mouth she stopped short and looked wonderingly at him. and cyrus sutton did the same respecting her; fred, beholding the interesting spectacle of the two, whom he had believed to be utter strangers, staring at each other, with a fixidity of gaze, followed the next moment by an expression of looks and words which showed that this was not the first time they had met. fred's first emotion was that of resentment that such a worthless and evil-disposed man should presume to smile, extend his hand and say, as he advanced: "this is a surprise, indeed! i had no idea that mrs. sheldon was you." "and when i heard of mr. cyrus sutton i never dreamed that it could be you," she answered. she was about to add something more when he motioned her not to speak the words that he had reason to believe were on her tongue, and fred knew not whether to be still angrier or more amazed. mr. cyrus sutton took the chair to which he was invited and began talking about unimportant matters which it was plain were of no interest to either and were introductory to something that was to follow. this continued several minutes, and then mrs. sheldon asked her visitor to excuse her for a minute or two while she accompanied her son to bed. "my dear boy," she said, after they were alone in his little room, and he was about to kneel to say his prayers, "you must not be displeased at what you saw to-night. i know mr. cyrus sutton very well and he has called on some business which he wishes to discuss with me alone." "but he's a thief and robber," said fred, "and i don't like to have him in the house unless i'm awake to take care of you." "you need have no fears about me," replied the mother, stroking back his hair and kissing the forehead of the manly fellow. "i would be willing to talk before you, but i saw that he preferred not to do so, and as the matter is all in my interest, which you know is yours, it is proper that i should show that much deference to him." "well, it's all right if you say so," was the hearty response of fred, who now knelt down and went through his prayers as usual. his mother kissed him good-night and descended the stairs, and in a few minutes the murmur of voices reached the ears of the lad, who could have crept part way down-stairs and heard everything said. but nothing in the world would have induced him to do such a dishonorable thing, and he finally sank to slumber, with the dim words sounding to him, as they do to us in dreams. in the morning his mother laughingly told him he would have to restrain his curiosity for a day or two, but she would tell him all as soon as mr. sutton gave his permission. fred felt all the eagerness natural to one of his years to know the meaning of the strange visit, but he was content to wait his mother's own good time, when she could make known the strange story which he realized she would soon have to tell him. this day was saturday, and fred sheldon determined to use it to the utmost, for he knew the singular incidents in which he had become involved were likely to press forward to some conclusion. after breakfast and his morning chores, he started down the road in the direction of the village, it being his intention to pass through or rather into the wood where sutton and bud heyland had held their meeting of the night before. he had not reached the stretch of forest when he caught sight of bud himself coming toward him on foot. the sombrero-like hat, the briar-wood pipe and the big boots, with the trousers tucked in the top, could be recognized as far as visible. the bully had not his whip with him, both hands being shoved low down in his trousers pockets. he slouched along until close to fred, when he stopped, and, leaning on the fence, waited for the boy to come up. fred would have been glad to avoid him, but there was no good way of doing so. he walked forward, whistling a tune, and made a move as if to go by, nodding his head and saying: "halloo, bud." "hold on; don't be in a hurry," said the other, "i want to see you." "well, what is it?" asked fred, stopping before him. "you want to play the thief, do you?" "i don't know what you mean," replied fred, a half-dozen misgivings stirring his fears. "how about that twenty dollars i gave you to get changed?" "i declare i forgot all about it," replied fred, greatly relieved that it was no worse. "did you get it changed?" "yes, and here are your ten dollars." bud took the bills and scanned them narrowly, and fred started on again. "hold on!" commanded the other; "don't be in such a hurry; don't start ahead agin till i tell you to. did they ask you any questions when you got it changed?" "nothing very particular, but changed it very gladly." "who was it that done it for you?" "i told him the one who gave me the bill didn't wish me to answer any questions, and then this gentleman said it was all right, and just for the fun of the thing i mustn't tell anything about him." bud heyland looked at the fellow standing a few feet away as if he hardly understood what this meant. finally he asked, in his gruff, dictatorial way: "who was he?" "i cannot tell you." "you cannot? you've got to." "but i can't break my promise, bud; i wouldn't tell a story to save my life." "bah, that's some of your mother's stuff; i'll soon take it out of you," said the bully, advancing threateningly toward him. "if you don't tell me all about him i'll break every bone in your body." "you can do it then, for you won't find out." believing that he would have to fight for his very life, as the bully could catch him before he could get away, fred drew his knife from his pocket, intending to use it as a weapon of defense. while in the act of opening it, bud heyland caught sight of it, and with an exclamation of surprise, he demanded: "where did you get that?" "i found it," replied fred, who saw how he had forgotten himself in his fear; "is it yours?" "let me look at it," said bud, reaching out his hand for it. fred hardly knew whether he ought to surrender such a weapon or not, but, as the interest of the bully seemed to center entirely in it, he thought it best to do so. bud heyland examined the jack-knife with great interest. one glance was enough for him to recognize it as his own. he opened the blades and shut them two or three times, and then dropped it into his pocket with the remark: "i'll take charge of that, i reckon." "is it yours?" "i rather think it is, now," answered bud, with an impudent grin! "where did you find it?" "down yonder," answered fred, pointing in a loose kind of way toward the old brick mansion. "it was stole from me two weeks ago by a tramp, and it's funny that he lost it in this neighborhood. you can go now; i'll let you off this time, 'cause i'm so glad to get my old knife agin that was give to me two years ago." and to the surprise and delight of fred sheldon, he was allowed to pass on without further questioning. "i wonder whether i was wrong," said fred, recalling the words of the bully; "he said he had it stolen from him two weeks ago by a tramp, and mother says that it isn't any proof that bud is guilty because his knife was found there. some one might have put it on the floor on purpose, and she says that just such things have been done before by persons who didn't want to be suspected." "that agrees with what the constable says, too," added the boy, still following the same line of thought, "he is sure he has got the right man and it isn't bud or cyrus sutton. bud is bad enough to do anything of the kind, but maybe i was mistaken." the lad was sorely puzzled, for matters were taking a shape which would have puzzled an older head than his. everything he had seen and heard for the last few days confirmed his theory that heyland and sutton were the guilty ones, and now the theory was being upset in a singular fashion. fred was in this mental muddle when he awoke to the fact that he had passed the boundary of the wood and would soon be beyond the place where he had intended to make some observations that day. "i don't know whether there's any use in my trying to do anything," he said, still bewildered over what he had seen and heard within the last few hours. nevertheless, he did try hard, and we may say, succeeded, too. he first looked hastily about him, and seeing no one, turned around and ran back into the wood. he did not remain in the highway itself, but entered the undergrowth, where it would be difficult for any one in the road to detect him. "i noticed that when i spoke about coming here this morning, mother encouraged me, and told me to be careful, and so i will." he now began picking his way through the dense wood with the care of a veritable american indian stealing upon the camp of an enemy. chapter xviii. eureka! this was the wood where bud heyland and cyrus sutton held their stolen interview the night before. the former was now in the immediate neighborhood, so that fred sheldon had reason to think something would be done in the same place before the close of day, or at most, before the rising of to-morrow's sun. no one could have been more familiar with this small stretch of forest than was our young hero, who did not take a great while to reach a point close to the other side. he was near the road which wound its way through it, but was on the watch to escape being seen by any one passing by. having reached this point, fred stood several minutes, uncertain what he ought to do. evidently there was nothing to be gained by advancing further, nor by turning back, so he waited. "i wonder where bud has gone. there is something in the wood which he is interested in----" the thought was not expressed when the rustling of leaves was heard, and fred knew some one was near him. afraid of being discovered, he shrank close to the trunk of a large tree, behind which he could hide himself the moment it became necessary. no doubt the person moving through the wood was using some care, but he did not know how to prevent the rustling of the leaves, and it is not likely he made much effort. at any rate the advantage was on the side of fred, who, a minute later, caught sight of a slouchy sombrero and briarwood pipe moving along at a height of five feet or so above the ground, while now and then the motion of the huge boots was seen beneath. "it's bud, and he's looking for something," was the conclusion of fred, fairly trembling with excitement; "and it won't do for him to see me watching him." the trouble was that it was now broad daylight, and it is no easy matter for one to shadow a person without being observed; but fred had the advantage of the shelter in the dense growth of shrubbery which prevailed in most parts of the wood. however, he was in mortal dread of discovery by bud, for he believed the ugly fellow would kill him should he find him watching his movements. it was this fear which caused the lad to wait a minute or two after bud heyland had disappeared, and until the rustling of the leaves could no longer be heard. then, with the utmost care, he began picking his way through the undergrowth, stopping suddenly when he caught the sound again. the wood was not extensive enough to permit a very extended hunt, and when fred paused a second time he was sure the end was at hand. he was alarmed when he found, from the stillness, that bud heyland was not moving. fred waited quietly, and then began slowly rising until he stood at his full height, and looked carefully around him. nothing could be seen of the bully, though the watcher was confident he was not far off, and it would not do to venture any further just then. "if it was only the night time," thought fred, "i wouldn't be so scared, for he might take me for a man; but it would never do for him to find me here." the sudden ceasing of the rustling, which had betrayed the passage of bud heyland a few minutes previous could not be anything else but proof that he was near by. "maybe he suspects something, and is waiting to find whether he is seen by any one. strange that in looking round he does not look up," whispered fred to himself, recalling an anecdote which he had once heard told in sunday-school: "bud looks everywhere but above, where there is that eye which never sleeps, watching his wrong-doing." a boy has not the patience of a man accustomed to watching and waiting, and when several minutes had passed without any new developments, fred began to get fidgety. "he has gone on further, and i have lost him; he has done this to lead me off, and i won't see anything more of him." but the boy was in error, and very speedily saw a good deal more of bud heyland than he wished. the rustling of the leaves, such as is heard when one is kicking them up as he walks along, aroused the watcher the next minute, and fred stealthily arose, and scanned his surroundings. as he did so, he caught sight of bud heyland walking in such a direction that he was certain to pass close to him. luckily the bully was looking another way at that moment, or he would have seen the scared face as is presented itself to view. as fred dropped out of sight and hastily crept behind the large tree-trunk he felt that he would willingly give the two hundred dollars that he received in the way of a reward could he but be in any place half a mile or more away. it would never do to break into a run as he felt like doing, for then he would be sure to be discovered and captured, while there was a slight probability of not being seen if he should remain where he was. shortly after fred caught sight of a pair of huge boots stalking through the undergrowth, and he knew only too well what they contained. he shrank into as close quarters as possible, and prayed that he might not be noticed. the prayer was granted, although it will always remain a mystery to fred sheldon how it was bud heyland passed so very close to him and yet never turned his eyes from staring straight ahead. but bud went on, vanished from sight, and in a few minutes the rattling of the dry leaves ceased and all was quiet. the sound of wagon wheels, as a vehicle moved over the road, was heard, and then all became still again. not until sure the fellow was out of sight did fred rise to his feet and move away from his hiding place. then, instead of following bud, he walked in the opposite direction. "he has been out here to hunt for something and didn't find it." looking down to the ground the bright-eyed lad was able to see where bud had stirred the leaves, as he carelessly walked along, no doubt oblivious of the fact that his own thoughtlessness might be used against him. "he's the only one who has been here lately, and i think i can track him through the wood. if he had been as careful as i, he wouldn't have left such tell-tale footprints." the work of trailing bud, as it may be called, was not such an easy matter as fred had supposed, for he soon found places where it was hard to tell whether or not the leaves had been disturbed by the boots of a person or the hoofs of some quadruped. but fred persevered, and at the end of half an hour, by attentively studying the ground, he reached a point a little over two hundred yards from where he himself had been hiding, and where he was certain bud heyland had been. "here's where he stopped, and after a while turned about and went back again," was the conclusion of fred; "though i can't see what he did it for." it was no longer worth while to examine the ground, for there was nothing to be learned there, and fred began studying the appearance of things above the earth. there were a number of varieties of trees growing about him--oak, maple, birch, chestnut and others, such as fred had looked on many a time before, and nothing struck him as particularly worthy of notice. but, hold! only a short ways off was an oak, or rather the remains of one, for it had evidently been struck by lightning and shattered. it had never worn a comely appearance, for its trunk was covered with black, scraggy excrescences, like the warts which sometimes disfigure the human skin. furthermore, the lower portion of the trunk was hollow, the width of the cavity being fully a foot at the base. the bolt from heaven had scattered the splinters, limbs and fragments in all directions, and no one could view this proof of the terrific power of that comparatively unknown force in nature without a shudder. fred sheldon stood looking around him until his eye rested on this interesting sight, when he viewed it some minutes more, with open eyes and mouth. then, with a strange feeling, he walked slowly toward the remains of the trunk, and stepping upon one of the broken pieces, drew himself up and peered down into the hollow, rotten cavity. he had been standing in the sunshine but a short time before, and it takes the pupil of the eye some time to become adapted to such a sudden change. at first all was blank darkness, but shortly fred saw something gleaming in the bottom of the opening. he thought it was that peculiar fungus growth known as "fox-fire," but his vision rapidly grew more distinct, and drawing himself further up, he reached down and touched the curious objects with his hand. eureka! there was all the silver plate which had been stolen from the old brick mansion a few nights before. not a piece was missing! fred sheldon had discovered it at last, and as he dropped back again on his feet, he threw his cap into the air and gave a shout, for just about that time he felt he was the happiest youngster in the united states of america! [illustration: on finding the stolen silver, fred threw his cap in the air and gave a shout.] chapter xix. a slight mistake. when archibald jackson, constable of tottenville and the surrounding country, strode forth from the home of widow sheldon on the night of the call which we have described, he felt like "shaking hands with himself," for he was confident he had made one of the greatest strikes that ever came in the way of any one in his profession--a strike that would render him famous throughout the country, and even in the city of new york. "a man has to be born a detective," he said, as he fell over a wheelbarrow at the side of the road; "for without great natural gifts he cannot attain to preeminence, as it were, in his profession. i was born a detective, and would have beaten any of those fellows from irish yard or welsh yard or scotland yard, or whatever they call it. "queer i never thought of it before, but that was always the trouble with me; i've been too modest," he added, as he climbed over the fence to pick up his hat, which a limb had knocked off; "but when this robbery at the misses perkinpine's occurred, instead of relying on my own brains i must send for mr. carter, and was worried half to death because he didn't come. "i s'pose he found the task was too gigantic for him, so he wouldn't run the risk of failure. then for the first time i sot down and begun to use my brains. it didn't take me long to work the thing out; it came to me like a flash, as it always does to men of genius--confound that root; it's ripped the toe of my shoe off." but archie was so elevated in the region of conceit and self-satisfaction that he could not be disturbed by the petty annoyances of earth; he strode along the road with his chest thrust forward and his head so high in air that it was no wonder his feet tripped and bothered him now and then. "i don't see any use of delaying the blow," he added, as he approached his home; "it will make a sensation to-morrow when the exposure is made. the new york papers will be full of it and they will send their reporters to interview me. they'll print a sketch of my life and nominate me for governor, and the illustrated papers will have my picture, and my wife betsey will find what a man of genius her husband--ah! oh! i forgot about that post!" he was recalled to himself by a violent collision with the hitching-post in front of his own house, and picking up his hat and waiting until he could gain full command of his breath, he entered the bosom of his family fully resolved to "strike the blow" on the morrow, which should make him famous throughout the country. with the rising of the sun he found himself feeling more important than ever. swallowing his breakfast hastily and looking at his bruised knuckles, he bade his family good-by, telling his wife if anybody came after him they should be told that the constable had gone away on imperative business. with this farewell archie went to the depot, boarded the cars and started for the country town of walsingham, fifty miles distant. he bought a copy of a leading daily, and after viewing the scenery for several miles, pretended to read, while he gave free rein to his imagination and drew a gorgeous picture of the near future. "to-morrow the papers will be full of it," he said, not noticing that several were smiling because he held the journal upside down, "and they'll want to put me on the force in new york. they've got to pay me a good salary if they get me--that's sartin." some time after he drew forth a couple of legal documents, which he read with care, as he had read them a score of times. they were correctly-drawn papers calling for the arrest of two certain parties. "the warrants are all right," mused the officer, as he replaced them carefully in the inside pocket of his coat, "and the two gentlemen--and especially one of them--will open his eyes when i place my hand on his shoulder and tell him he is wanted." a couple of hours later, the constable left the cars at the town of walsingham, which was in the extreme corner of the county that also held tottenville, and walked in his pompous fashion toward that portion where colonel bandman's menagerie and circus were making ready for the usual display. it was near the hour of noon, and the regular street parade had taken place, and the hundreds of people from the country were tramping back and forth, crunching peanuts, eating lunch and making themselves ill on the diluted stuff sold under the name of lemonade. the constable paid scarcely any heed to these, but wended his way to the hotel, where he inquired for colonel bandman, the proprietor of the establishment which was creating such an excitement through the country. archie was told that he had just sat down to dinner, whereupon he said he would wait until the gentleman was through, as he did not wish to be too severe upon him. then the officer occupied a chair by the window on the inside, and feeling in his pockets, to make sure the warrants were there, he kept an eye on the dining-room, to be certain the proprietor did not take the alarm and get away. after a long time colonel bandman, a tall, well-dressed gentleman, came forth, hat in hand, and looked about him, as if he expected to meet some one. "are you the gentleman who was inquiring for me?" he asked, advancing toward the constable, who rose to his feet, and with all the impressiveness of manner which he could assume, said, as he placed his hand on his shoulder: "colonel james bandman, you are my prisoner!" the other donned his hat, looked somewhat surprised, as was natural, and with his eyes fixed on the face of the constable, asked: "on what charge am i arrested?" "burglary." "let me see the warrant." "oh, that's all right," said mr. jackson, drawing forth a document from his pocket and opening it before him; "read it for yourself." the colonel glanced at it for a moment, and said with a half smile: "my name is not mentioned there; that calls upon you to arrest thomas gibby, who is my ticket agent." "oh, ah--that's the wrong paper; here's the right one." with which he gave colonel james bandman the pleasure of reading the document, which, in due and legal form, commanded archibald jackson to take the gentleman into custody. "i presume the offense is bailable?" asked the colonel, with an odd smile. "certainly, certainly, sir; i will accompany you before a magistrate who will fix your bail. where can i find mr. gibby?" "i will bring him, if you will excuse me for a minute." colonel bandman started to enter the hotel again, but the vigilant constable caught his arm: "no you don't; i'll stay with you, please; we'll go together; i don't intend you shall slip through my fingers." the colonel was evidently good-natured, for he only laughed and then, allowing the officer to take his arm, started for the dining-room, but unexpectedly met the individual whom they wanted in the hall. when gibby had been made acquainted with the business of the severe-looking official he was disposed to get angry, but a word and a suggestive look from colonel bandman quieted him, and the two walked with the officer in the direction of a magistrate. "i've got this thing down fine on you," ventured mr. jackson, by way of helping them to a feeling of resignation, "the proofs of the nefarious transaction in which you were engaged being beyond question." colonel bandman made no answer, though his companion muttered something which their custodian did not catch. as they walked through the street they attracted some attention, but it was only a short distance to the magistrate's office, where the official listened attentively to the complaints. when made aware of its character he turned smilingly toward the chief prisoner and said: "well, colonel, what have you to say to this?" "i should like to ask mr. jackson on what grounds he bases his charge of burglary against me." "the house of the misses perkinpine, near tottenville, in this county, was robbed of a lot of valuable silver plate and several hundred dollars in money on monday night last. it was the night before the circus showed in that town. fortunately for the cause of justice the two parties were seen and identified, especially the one who did the actual robbing. a bright young boy, who is very truthful, saw the robber at his work, identified him as the ungrateful wretch who was given his supper by the two excellent ladies, whom he basely robbed afterward. the description of the pretended tramp corresponds exactly with that of colonel bandman--so closely, indeed, that there can be no mistake about him. the account of his confederate is not so full, but it is sufficient to identify him as mr. gibby, there. when i was assured beyond all mistake that they were the two wretches i took out them warrants in proper form, as you will find, and i now ask that they may be held to await the action of the grand jury." having delivered himself of this rather grandiloquent speech, mr. jackson bowed to the court and stepped back to allow the accused to speak. colonel bandman, instead of doing so, turned to the magistrate and nodded for him to say something. that official, addressing himself to the constable, asked: "you are certain this offense was committed on last monday evening?" "there can be no possible mistake about it." "and it was done by these two?" "that is equally sartin." "if one is guilty both are; if one is innocent so is the other?" "yes, sir; if you choose to put it that way." "it becomes my duty to inform you then, mr. jackson, that colonel bandman has not been out of the town of walsingham for the past six weeks; he is an old schoolmate of mine, and on last monday night he stayed in my house with his wife and daughter. this complaint is dismissed, and the best thing you can do is to hasten home by the next train. good day, sir." archie wanted to say something, but he could think of nothing appropriate, and, catching up his hat, he made haste to the station where he boarded the cars without a ticket. he was never known to refer to his great mistake afterward unless some one else mentioned it, and even then the constable always seemed anxious to turn the subject to something else. chapter xx. all in good time. between nine and ten o'clock on the saturday evening succeeding the incidents i have described, a wagon similar to the one wrecked the night before, drove out of tottenville with two persons on the front seat. the driver was jacob kincade, who, having safely passed the recaptured lion over to colonel bandman, secured a couple of days' leave of absence and hurried back to tottenville, where he engaged the team, and, accompanied by bud heyland, drove out in the direction of the wood where matters went so unsatisfactorily when bud assumed charge. "i was awful 'fraid you wouldn't come to time," said bud, when they were fairly beyond the village, "which is why i tried to run the machine myself and got things mixed. sutton insisted on waiting till you arriv', but when he seen how sot i was he give in and 'greed to meet me at the place." "that was all well enough," observed mr. kincade; "but there's some things you tell me which i don't like. you said some one was listening behind the fence the other night when you and sutton was talking about this business." "that's so; but sutton showed me afterwards that the man, who was short and stumpy, couldn't have heard anything that would let him know what he was driving at. we have a way of talking that anybody else might hear every word and yet he wouldn't understand it. that's an idee of mine." "but you said some one--and i've no doubt it's the same chap--was whistling round the wood last night and scared you, so you made up your mind to wait till to-night." "that rather got me, but sut says that no man that 'spected anything wrong would go whistling round the woods in that style. that ain't the way detectives do." "maybe not, but are you sure there ain't any of them detectives about?" "me and sut have been on the watch, and there hasn't been a stranger in the village that we don't know all about. that's the biggest joke i ever heard of," laughed bud, "that 'ere jackson going out to walsingham and arresting the colonel and gibby." "yes," laughed kincade, "it took place just as i was coming away. i wish they'd locked up the colonel for awhile, just for the fun of the thing. but he and gibby were discharged at once. i came on in the same train with jackson, though i didn't talk with him about it, for i saw he felt pretty cheap. "however," added kincade, "that's got nothing to do with this business, which i feel a little nervous over. it was a mighty big load for us to get out in the wood last monday night, and i felt as though my back was broke when we put the last piece in the tree. s'pose somebody has found it!" "no danger of that," said bud. "i was out there to-day and seen that it was all right." "sure nobody was watching you?" "i took good care of that. we'll find it there just as we left it, and after we get it into the wagon we'll drive over to tom carmen's and he'll dispose of it for us." tom carmen lived at the "four corners," as the place was called, and had the reputation of being engaged in more than one kind of unlawful business. it was about ten miles off, and the thieves intended to drive there and place their plunder in his hands, he agreeing to melt it up and give them full value, less a small commission for his services. the arrangement with carmen had not been made until after the robbery, which accounts for the hiding of the spoils for several days. it did not take long, however, to come to an understanding with him, and the plunder would have been taken away the preceding night by bud heyland and cyrus sutton but for the mishaps already mentioned. "you're sure sutton will be there?" asked kincade, as they approached the wood. "you can depend on him every time," was the confident response; "he was to go out after dark to make sure that no one else is prowling around. he's one of the best fellows i ever met," added bud, who was enthusiastic over his new acquaintance; "we've fixed up half a dozen schemes that we're going into as soon as we get this off our hands." "am i in?" "of course," said bud; "the gang is to be us three, and each goes in on the ground floor. we're going to make a bigger pile than colonel bandman himself, even with all his menagerie and circus." "i liked sutton--what little i seen of him," said kincade. "oh, he's true blue--well, here we are." both ceased talking as they entered the shadow of the wood, for, bad as they were, they could not help feeling somewhat nervous over the prospect. the weather had been clear and pleasant all the week, and the stars were shining in an unclouded sky, in which there was no moon. a few minutes after they met a farmer's wagon, which was avoided with some difficulty, as it was hard to see each other, but the two passed in safety, and reached the spot they had in mind. here bud heyland took the reins, because he knew the place so well, and drew the horse aside until he and the vehicle would clear any team that might come along. to prevent any such accident as that of the preceding night the animal was secured, and the man and big boy stepped carefully a little further into the wood, bud uttering the same signal as before. it was instantly answered from a point near at hand, and the next minute cyrus sutton came forward, faintly visible as he stepped close to them and spoke: "i've been waiting more than two hours, and thought i heard you coming a half dozen times." he shook hands with kincade and bud, the latter asking: "is everything all right?" "yes, i've had my eyes open, you may depend." "will there be any risk in leaving the horse here?" asked kincade. "none at all--no one will disturb him." "then we had better go on, for there's a pretty good load to carry." "i guess i can find the way best," said bud, taking the lead. "i've been over the route so often i can follow it with my eyes shut." sutton was also familiar with it, and though it cost some trouble and not a little care, they advanced without much difficulty. bud regretted that he had not brought his bull's eye lantern with him, and beyond question it would have been of service, but sutton said it might attract attention, and it was better to get along without it if possible. the distance was considerable, and all of half an hour was taken in making their way through the wood, the darkness being such in many places that they had to hold their hands in front of them to escape collision with limbs and trunks of trees. "here we are!" it was bud heyland who spoke, and in the dim light his companions saw that he was right. there was a small, natural clearing, which enabled them to observe the blasted oak without difficulty. the little party stood close by the hiding-place of the plunder that had been taken from the old brick mansion several nights before. "you can reach down to it, can't you?" asked sutton, addressing bud heyland. "yes; it's only a little ways down." "hand it out, then," added kincade; "i shan't feel right till we have all this loot safely stowed away with tom carmen at the 'four corners.'" "all right," responded bud, who immediately thrust his head and shoulders into the cavity. he remained in this bent position less than a minute, when he jerked out his head as though some serpent had struck at him with his fangs, and exclaimed: "it's all gone!" "what?" gasped jake kincade. "somebody has taken everything away----" in the dim light, bud heyland at that juncture observed something which amazed him still more. instead of two men there were three, and two of them were struggling fiercely together. these were cyrus sutton and jacob kincade, but the struggle was short. in a twinkling the showman was thrown on his back, and the nippers placed on his wrists. "it's no use," said sutton, as he had called himself, in a low voice; "the game is up, jacob." before bud heyland could understand that he and kincade were entrapped, the third man sprang forward and manipulated the handcuffs so dexterously that bud quickly realized he was a helpless captive. this third man was archie jackson, the constable, who could not avoid declaring in a louder voice than was necessary. "we've got you both, and you may as well take it like men. this gentleman whom you two took for cyrus sutton, a cattle drover, is my old friend james carter, the detective, from new york." and such was the truth indeed. chapter xxi. how it was done. as was intimated at the close of the preceding chapter, the individual who has figured thus far as cyrus sutton, interested in the cattle business, was in reality james carter, the well-known detective of the metropolis. when he received word from archie jackson of the robbery that had been committed near tottenville, he went out at once to the little town to investigate. mr. carter was a shrewd man, who understood his business, and he took the precaution to go in such a disguise that the fussy little constable never once suspected his identity. the detective wished to find out whether it would do to trust the officer, and he was quick to see that if jackson was taken into his confidence, he would be likely to spoil everything, from his inability to keep a secret. so the real detective went to work in his own fashion, following up the clews with care, and allowing jackson to disport himself as seemed best. he was not slow to fix his suspicions on the right parties, and he then devoted himself to winning the confidence of bud heyland. it would have been an easy matter to fasten the guilt on this bad boy, but the keen-witted officer was quick to perceive that he had struck another and more important trail, which could not be followed to a successful conclusion without the full confidence of young heyland. he learned that bud was being used as a tool by other parties, who were circulating counterfeit money, and jacob kincade was one of the leaders, with the other two who composed the company in new york. the detectives in that city were put to work and captured the knaves almost at the same time that bud and kincade were taken. it required a little time for mr. carter to satisfy himself beyond all mistake that the two named were the ones who were engaged in the dangerous pursuit of "shoving" spurious money, and he resolved that when he moved he would have the proof established beyond a shadow of doubt. he easily drew the most important facts from bud, and thus it will be seen the recovery of the stolen silverware became secondary to the detection of the dealers in counterfeit money. the officer was annoyed by the failure of kincade to appear on the night he agreed, and was fearful lest he suspected something and would keep out of the way. he could have taken him at the time fred sheldon was paid his reward, for he knew the showman at that time had a lot of bad money in his possession, though he paid good bills to fred, who, it will be remembered, placed them in the hands of squire jones. bud was determined to exchange bad currency for this, and waylaid fred for that purpose, but failed, for the reason already given. he, however, gave fred twenty dollars to change, which it will also be remembered fell into the hands of the detective a few minutes later, and was one of the several links in the chain of evidence that was forged about the unsuspecting youth and his employer. then bud, like many beginners in actual transgression, became careless, and worked off a great deal of the counterfeit money in the village where he was staying, among the lot being the one hundred dollars which he paid the liveryman for wrecking his wagon. when fred sheldon came into the village to claim his reward for securing the estray lion, cyrus sutton, as he was known, who was sitting on the hotel porch, became interested in him. he scrutinized him sharply, but avoided asking him any questions. it was natural, however, that he should feel some curiosity, and he learned that what he suspected was true; the boy was the child of mary sheldon, who was the widow of george sheldon, killed some years before on the battle-field. george sheldon and james carter had been comrades from the beginning of the war until the former fell while fighting for his country. the two had "drank from the same canteen," and were as closely bound together as if brothers. carter held the head of sheldon when he lay dying, and sent the last message to his wife, who had also been a schoolmate of carter's. an aptitude which the latter showed in tracing crime and wrong-doers led him into the detective business, and he lost sight of the widow of his old friend and their baby boy, until drawn to tottenville in the pursuit of his profession. he reproached himself that he did not discover the truth sooner, but when he found that mrs. sheldon was absent he could only wait until she returned, and as we have shown, he took the first occasion to call upon her and renew the acquaintance of former years. but the moment carter identified the brave little fellow who had earned his reward for capturing the wild beast he made up his mind to do a generous thing for him and his mother; he was determined that if it could possibly be brought about fred should receive the five hundred dollars reward offered for the recovery of the silver plate stolen from the misses perkinpine. circumstances already had done a good deal to help him in his laudable purpose, for, as we have shown, fred had witnessed the robbery, and, in fact, had been brought in contact with both of the guilty parties. mr. carter was afraid to take fred into his entire confidence, on account of his tender years; and though he was an unusually bright and courageous lad, the detective was reluctant to bring him into any more intimate association with crime than was necessary from the service he intended to do him. as he was too prudent to trust the constable, archie jackson, it will be seen that he worked entirely alone until the night that mrs. sheldon returned home. then he called upon her and told her his whole plans, for he knew that fred inherited a good deal of his bravery from her, and though it was contrary to his rule to make a confidant of any one, he did not hesitate to tell her all. she was deeply grateful for the kindness he contemplated, though she was not assured that it was for the best to involve fred as was proposed. the detective, however, succeeded in overcoming her scruples, and they agreed upon the plan of action. the boy was encouraged to make his hunt in the wood, for carter had already learned from bud heyland that the plunder was hidden somewhere in it, and he had agreed to assist in bringing it forth, though bud would not agree to show him precisely where it was, until the time should come for taking it away. when fred found the hiding place he was so overjoyed that for awhile he did not know what to do; finally he concluded, as a matter of safety, to remove and hide it somewhere else. accordingly he tugged and lifted the heavy pieces out one by one, and then carried them all some distance, placed them on the ground at the foot of a large beech tree and covered them up as best he could with leaves. this took him until nearly noon, when he ran home to tell his mother what he had done. within the next hour james carter knew it and he laughed with satisfaction. "it was the wisest thing that could have been done." "why so?" asked the widow. "don't you see he has already earned the reward, and, what is more, he shall have it, too. he has recovered the plate without the slightest assistance from any one." "but the thieves have not been caught." "that is my work; i will attend to that." "and what shall fred do?" "keep him home to-night, give him a good supper and put him to bed early, and tell him it will be all right in the morning." mrs. sheldon did not feel exactly clear that it was "all right," but the good-hearted carter had a way of carrying his point, and he would not listen to any argument from her. so she performed her part of the programme in spirit and letter, and when fred sheldon closed his eyes in slumber that saturday evening it was in the belief that everything would come out as his mother promised, even though he believed that one of the guiltiest of the criminals was the man known as cyrus sutton. mrs. sheldon wanted to tell the little fellow the whole story that night, but the detective would not consent until the "case was closed." when archie jackson was called upon late in the afternoon by james carter and informed how matters stood, he was dumfounded for several minutes. it seemed like doubting his own senses, to believe that the cattle drover was no other than the famous new york detective, but he was convinced at last, and entered with great ardor into the scheme for the capture of the criminals. mr. carter impressed upon the constable the fact that the offered reward had already been earned by master fred sheldon. archie was disposed to demur, but finally, with some show of grace, he gave in and said he would be pleased to extend his congratulations to the young gentleman. a little judicious flattery on the part of the detective convinced archie that a point had been reached in the proceedings, where his services were indispensable, and that, if the two law breakers were to be captured, it must be through the help of the brave tottenville constable, who would receive liberal compensation for his assistance. accordingly, archie was stationed near the spot where it was certain bud heyland and jacob kincade would appear, later in the evening. at a preconcerted signal, he sprang from his concealment, and the reader has learned that he performed his part in really creditable style. chapter xxii. an attempted rescue. now since the reader knows how it happened that archie jackson and he who had masqueraded under the name of cyrus sutton chanced to be at this particular spot in the woods when the thieves would have removed their booty, and also why the silver could not be found by these worthies, it is necessary to return to the place where the arrest was made. bud heyland did not take kindly to the idea of being a prisoner. none knew better than himself the proofs which could be brought against him, and, after the first surprise passed away, his only thought was of how he might escape. while the valiant archie stood over him in an attitude of triumph, the detective was holding a short but very concise conversation with the second captive. "i'll make you smart for this," bud heard kincade say. "things have come to a pretty pass when a man who is invited by a friend to stop on the road a minute in order to look for a whip that was lost while we were hunting for the lion, gets treated in this manner by a couple of drunken fools." taking his cue from the speech, bud added in an injured tone: "that's a fact. i was on my way to join the show; but thought it might be possible to find the whip, for it belongs to colonel bandman, an' he kicked because i left it." "after the plans we have laid, heyland, do you think it is well to try such a story on me," carter asked sternly. "i don't know what you're talkin' about. jake has told how we happened to come here." "he didn't explain why you wanted fred sheldon to change a twenty-dollar bill for you, nor how it happened that you had an hundred dollars to pay for the wagon which was smashed." "i've got nothing to do with any counterfeit money that has been passed, and i defy you to prove it," kincade cried, energetically. "who said anything about counterfeits?" the detective asked, sternly. "it will be well for you to keep your mouth shut, unless you want to get deeper in the mire than you are already. it so chances, however, that i have ample proof of your connection with the robbery, aside from what bud may have let drop, and, in addition, will show how long you have been engaged in the business of passing worthless money, so there is no need of any further talk. will you walk to the road, or shall we be forced to carry you?" this question was asked because bud had seated himself as if intending to remain for some time; but he sprung to his feet immediately, so thoroughly cowed, that he would have attempted to obey any command, however unreasonable, in the hope of finding favor in the sight of his captors. "we've got to do what you say, for awhile, anyhow," kincade replied, sulkily; "but somebody will suffer because of this outrage." "i'll take the chances," carter replied, laughingly. "step out lively, for i intend to get some sleep to-night." "hold on a minute," the fussy little constable cried, as he ran to the side of the detective and whispered: "i think we should take the silver with us. there may be more of this gang who will come after it when they find we have nabbed these two." "i fancy it's safe," was the careless reply, "and whether it is or not, we must wait until we see fred again, for i haven't the slightest idea where he hid it." "but, you see----" "now, don't fret, my friend," the detective interrupted, determined that fred should take the silver himself to the maiden ladies. "you have conducted the case so admirably thus far that it would be a shame to run the risk of spoiling the job by loitering here where there may be an attempt at a rescue." this bit of flattery, coupled with the intimation that there might be a fight, caused archie to remain silent. he was eager to be in town where he could relate his wonderful skill in trapping the thieves, as well as his fear lest there should be a hand-to-hand encounter with desperate men, and these desires caused him to make every effort to land the prisoners in jail. he even lost sight of the reward, for the time being, through the anxiety to sing his own praises, and in his sternest tones, which were not very dreadful, by the way, he urged bud forward. "if you make the slightest show of trying to run away, i'll put a dozen bullets in your body," he said, and then, as he reached for his weapon to further intimidate the prisoner, he discovered, to his chagrin, that, as on a previous occasion, his revolver was at home; but in its place, put there while he labored under great excitement, was the tack-hammer, symbol of his trade as bill-poster. the two men went toward the road very meekly, evidently concluding that submission was the best policy, and for once carter made a mistake. having worked up the case to such a satisfactory conclusion, and believing these were the only two attachés of the circus in the vicinity, he allowed archie jackson to manage matters from this point. the valiant constable, thinking only of the glory with which he would cover himself as soon as he was at the hotel amid a throng of his acquaintances, simply paid attention to the fact that the prisoners were marching properly in front of him, heeding not the rumble of distant wheels on the road beyond. kincade heard them, however, and he whispered softly to bud: "there's just a chance that some of our people are coming. i heard colonel bandman say he should send albers and towsey back to look up some harness that was left to be repaired, and this is about the time they ought to be here." "much good it will do us with that fool of a jackson ready to shoot, the first move we make," bud replied petulantly. "go on without so much talk," archie cried fiercely, from the rear. "you can't play any games on me." "from what i've heard, you know pretty well how a man can shoot in the dark, an' i'll take my chances of gettin' a bullet in the back rather than go to jail for ten years or so. when i give the word, run the best you know how." bud promised to obey; but from the tone of his voice it could be told that he had much rather shoot at a person than act as target himself, and archie ordered the prisoners to quicken their speed. carter was several paces in the rear, remaining in the background in order, for the better carrying out of his own plans in regard to fred, it should appear as if the constable was the commanding officer, and when the party arrived at the edge of the road where bud had fastened the horse, the rumble of the approaching team could be heard very distinctly. "now's our time! run for your life!" kincade whispered, staring up the road at the same instant, and as bud followed at full speed both shouted for help at the utmost strength of their lungs. it was as if this daring attempt at escape deprived archie of all power of motion. he lost several valuable seconds staring after his vanishing prisoners in speechless surprise, and followed this officer-like proceeding by attempting to shoot the fugitives with the tack-hammer. carter, although not anticipating anything of the kind, had his wits about him, and, rushing past the bewildered constable, darted up the road in silence. he was well armed; but did not care to run the risk of killing one of the thieves, more especially since he felt positive of overtaking both in a short time, owing to the fact that the manacles upon their wrists would prevent them from any extraordinary speed. neither bud nor kincade ceased to call for help, and almost before carter was well in pursuit a voice from the oncoming team could be heard saying: "that's some of our crowd. i'm sure nobody but jake could yell so loud." "it _is_ me!" kincade shouted. "hold hard, for there are a couple of officers close behind!" by the sounds which followed, carter understood that the new-comers were turning their wagon, preparatory to carrying the arrested parties in the opposite direction, and he cried to the valiant archie, who as yet had not collected his scattered senses sufficiently to join in the pursuit: "bring that team on here, and be quick about it!" now, to discharge a weapon would be to imperil the lives of the new actors on the scene, and this was not to be thought of for a moment. carter strained every muscle to overtake his prisoners before they could clamber into the wagon; but in vain. even in the gloom he could see the dark forms of the men as they leaped into the rear of the vehicle, and in another instant the horse was off at a full gallop in the direction from which he had just come. for the detective to go on afoot would have been folly, and once more he cried for archie to bring the team, which had been left by the roadside when kincade and bud arrived. the little constable had by this time managed to understand at least a portion of what was going on around him, and, in a very bungling fashion, was trying to unfasten the hitching-rein; but he made such a poor job of it that carter was forced to return and do the work himself. "get in quickly," the detective said, sharply, as he led the horse into the road, and following archie, the two were soon riding at a mad pace in pursuit, regardless alike of possible vehicles to be met, or the danger of being overturned. "why didn't you shoot 'em when you had the chance?" archie asked, as soon as he realized the startling change in the condition of affairs. "because that should be done only when a man is actually in fear of his life, or believes a dangerous prisoner cannot be halted in any other way." "but that was the only chance of stoppin' them fellers." "i'll have them before morning," was the quiet reply, as the driver urged the horse to still greater exertions. "those men have been traveling a long distance, while our animal is fresh, therefore it's only a question of time; but how does it happen that you didn't shoot? i left the fellows in your charge." "i was out putting up some bills this afternoon, and had my hammer with me, of course. when we got ready for this trip, i felt on the outside of my hip pocket, and made sure it was my revolver that formed such a bunch." "another time i should advise you to be certain which of your many offices you intend to represent," carter said, quietly. "i'm not positive, however, that we haven't cause to be thankful, for somebody might have been hurt." "there's no question about it, if i had been armed," was the reply, in a blood-thirsty tone, for archie was rapidly recovering his alleged courage. "and i, being in the rear, stood as good a chance of receiving the bullet as did the men." "you have never seen me shoot," the little constable said, proudly. "fortunately, i never did," carter replied, and then the conversation ceased, as they were at the forks of a road where it was necessary to come to a halt in order to learn in which direction the fugitives had gone. this was soon ascertained, and as the detective applied the whip vigorously, he said, warningly: "now keep your wits about you, for we are where they will try to give us the slip, and it is more than possible heyland and kincade may jump out of the wagon, leaving us to follow the team, while they make good their escape." archie tried very hard to do as he was commanded; he stared into darkness, able now and then to distinguish the outlines of the vehicle in advance, and at the same time was forced to exert all his strength to prevent being thrown from his seat, so recklessly was carter driving. "we'll be upset," he finally said, in a mild tone of protest. "the road seems to be very rough, and there must be considerable danger in going at such a pace." "no more for us than for them. i'll take a good many chances rather than go back to tottenville and admit that we allowed two prisoners to escape after we had them ironed." the little constable had nothing more to say. he also thought it would be awkward to explain to his particular friends how, after such a marvelous piece of detective work, the criminals had got free. this, coupled with the story of his bruised hand, would give the fun-loving inhabitants of the village an opportunity to make his life miserable with pointless jokes and alleged witticisms, therefore he shut his teeth firmly, resolved not to make any further protest even though convinced that his life was actually in danger. during half an hour the chase continued, and for at least twenty minutes of this time the pursuers were so near the pursued that it would have been impossible for either occupant of the wagon to leap out unnoticed. now the foremost horse was beginning to show signs of fatigue, owing to previous travel and the unusual load. both whip and voice was used to urge him on; but in vain, and carter said, in a low tone to archie: "the chase is nearly ended! be ready to leap out the instant we stop." then, drawing his revolver, he cried, "there's no chance of your giving us the slip. pull up, or i shall fire! if the prisoners are delivered to me at once there will be nothing said regarding the effort to aid them in escaping; but a delay of five minutes will result in imprisonment for the whole party." kincade's friends evidently recognized the folly of prolonging the struggle, and, to save themselves from possible penalties of the law, the driver shouted: "i'll pull up. look out that you don't run into us!" it required no great effort to bring both the panting steeds to a stand-still, and in a twinkling carter was standing at one side of the vehicle with his revolver in hand, while archie, with a boldness that surprised him afterward, stationed himself directly opposite, holding the tack-hammer as if on the point of shooting the culprits. kincade realized that it was best to submit to the inevitable with a good grace, and he descended from the wagon, saying to the little constable as he did so: "don't shoot! i'll agree to go peacefully." "then see that you behave yourself, or i'll blow the whole top of your head off," archie replied, in a blood-thirsty tone; but at the same time he took very good care to keep the hammer out of sight. bud heyland resisted even now when those who had tried to aid were ready to give him up. "i won't go back!" he cried, kicking vigorously as the detective attempted to pull him from the wagon. "i've done nothing for which i can be arrested, and you shan't take me." the long chase had exhausted all of carter's patience, and he was not disposed to spend many seconds in expostulating. seizing the kicking youth by one foot he dragged him with no gentle force to the ground, and an instant later the men in the wagon drove off, evidently preferring flight to the chances that the detective would keep his promise. "bundle them into the carriage, and tie their legs," carter said to the constable, and in a very short space of time the thieves were lying in the bottom of the vehicle unable to move hand or foot. now that there was not the slightest possibility the culprits could escape, archie kept vigilant watch over them. the least movement on the part of either, as carter drove the tired horse back to the village, was the signal for him to use his hammer on any portion of their bodies which was most convenient, and this repeated punishment must have caused bud to remember how often he had ill-treated those who were quite as unable to "strike back" as he now was. not until the prisoners were safely lodged in the little building which served as jail did archie feel perfectly safe, and then all his old pompous manner returned. but for the detective he would have hurried away to tell the news, late in the night though it was, for in his own opinion at least, this night's work had shown him to be not only a true hero, but an able detective. "it is considerably past midnight," carter said, as they left the jail, "and we have a great deal to do before this job is finished." "what do you mean?" "are we to leave the silver and money?" "of course not; but you said we'd have to wait until we saw fred." "exactly so; but what is to prevent our doing that now? when the property has been delivered to its rightful owners you and i can take our ease; until then we are bound to keep moving." archie was disappointed at not being able to establish, without loss of time, his claim to being a great man; but he had no idea of allowing anything to be done in the matter when he was not present, if it could be avoided, and he clambered into the wagon once more. the two drove directly to the sheldon home, and fred was dreaming that burglars were trying to get into the house, when he suddenly became conscious that some one was pounding vigorously on the front door. leaping from the bed and looking out of the window he was surprised at seeing the man whom he knew as cyrus sutton, and at the same moment he heard his mother ask: "what is the matter, mr. carter?" "nothing, except that we want fred. the case is closed, and to save time we'd better get the property at once. have you any objection to his going with me?" "not the slightest. i will awaken him." "i'll be down in a minute," fred cried, as he began to make a hurried toilet, wondering meanwhile why bud heyland's friend should be trusted so implicitly by his mother. as a matter of course it was necessary for mrs. sheldon to explain to her son who cyrus sutton really was and fred was still in a maze of bewilderment when his mother admitted the detective. "why didn't you tell me," he cried reproachfully. "no good could have come of it," the gentleman replied laughingly, "and, besides, i can't see how you failed to discover the secret, either when you ran away after listening behind the rock on the road-side, or when i passed so near while supposed to be hunting for you." "did you see me then?" "certainly, and but for such slight obstructions as i placed in bud's way, he might have overtaken you." "where is archie?" "out in the wagon waiting for you. kincade and bud are in the lock-up where we just left them, and now it is proposed to get the silver in order to deliver it early in the morning." "did mother tell you i found it?" "she did, and i am heartily glad, since now the reward will be yours, and with it you can clear your home from debt." fred did not wait to ask any further questions. in a very few moments he was ready for the journey, and, with the promise to "come home as soon as the work was done," he went out to where archie greeted him in the most effusive manner. "we have covered ourselves with glory," the little constable cried. "this is a case which will be told throughout the country, and the fact that we arrested the culprits and recovered the property when there was absolutely no clew on which to work, is something unparalleled in the annals of detective history." fred was neither prepared to agree to, nor dispute this statement. the only fact which remained distinct in his mind was that the reward would be his, and if there was any glory attached he felt perfectly willing archie should take it all. "get into the wagon, fred," carter said impatiently. "it will take us until daylight to get the stuff, and we don't want to shock the good people of tottenville by doing too much driving after sunrise." fred obeyed without delay, and during the ride archie gave him all the particulars concerning the capture of the thieves, save in regard to his own stupidity which permitted the temporary escape. knowing the woods in the vicinity of his home as well as fred did, it was not difficult for him to go directly to the place where he had hidden the silver, even in the night, and half an hour later the stolen service was in the carriage. "it is nearly daylight," carter said, when they were driving in the direction of the village again, "and the best thing we can do will be to go to fred's home, where he and i can keep guard over the treasure until it is a proper time to return it to its owners." "in that case i may as well go home awhile," archie said reflectively. "doubtless my wife will be wondering what has kept me, and there is no need of three to watch the silver." "very well, we shall not leave there until about nine o'clock," and carter reined in the horse as they were in front of the fussy little constable's house, for him to alight. chapter xxiii. the silverware returned. the sabbath morning dawned cool, breezy and delightful, and the maiden twin sisters, misses annie and lizzie perkinpine, made their preparations for driving to the village church, just as they had been in the habit of doing for many years. it required a storm of unusual violence to keep them from the sunday service, which was more edifying to the good souls than any worldly entertainment could have been. they were not among those whose health permits them to attend secular amusements, but who invariably feel "indisposed" when their spiritual duties are involved. "i was afraid, sister," said annie, "that when our silver was stolen, the loss would weigh so heavily upon me that i would not be able to enjoy the church service as much as usual, but i am thankful that it made no difference with me; how was it with _you_?" "i could not help feeling disturbed for some days," was the reply, "for it _was_ a loss indeed, but, when we have so much to be grateful for, how wrong it is to repine----" "what's that?" interrupted the other, hastening to the window as she heard the rattle of carriage wheels; "some one is coming here as sure as i live." "the folks must have forgot that it is the sabbath," was the grieved remark of the other. "but this is something out of the common. heigho!" this exclamation was caused by the sight of cyrus sutton, as he leaped lightly out of the wagon and tied his horse, while fred sheldon seemed to be tugging at something on the floor of the vehicle, which resisted his efforts. mr. sutton, having fastened the horse, went to the help of the youngster, and the next moment the two approached the house bearing a considerable burden. "my gracious!" exclaimed aunt lizzie, throwing up her hands, and ready to sink to the floor in her astonishment; "they have got our silverware." "you are right," added her sister, "they have the whole six pieces, slop-jar, sugar bowl, cream pitcher--not one of the six missing. they have them _all_; _now_ we can go to church and enjoy the sermon more than ever." the massive service of solid silver quaintly fashioned and carved by the puffy craftsmen of amsterdam, who wrought and toiled when sturdy old von tromp was pounding the british tars off goodwin sands, more than two centuries ago, was carried into the house with considerable effort and set on the dining-room table, while for a minute or two the owners could do nothing but clasp and unclasp their hands and utter exclamations of wonder and thankfulness that the invaluable heirlooms had at last come back to them. the detective and lad looked smilingly at the ladies, hardly less pleased than they. "where did you find them?" asked aunt lizzie, addressing herself directly to mr. carter, as was natural for her to do. the detective pointed to the boy and said: "ask him." "why, what can fred know about it?" inquired the lady, beaming kindly upon the blushing lad. "he knows everything, for it was not i, but he, who found them." "why, fred, how can that be?" "i found them in an old tree in the woods," replied the little fellow, blushing to his ears. "this gentleman helped me to bring them here, for i never could have lugged them alone." "of course you couldn't, but since you have earned the reward, you shall have it. to-day is the holy sabbath, and it would be wrong, therefore, to engage in any business, but come around early to-morrow morning and we will be ready." "and i want to say," said aunt annie, pinching the chubby cheek of the happy youngster, "that there isn't any one in the whole world that we would rather give the reward to than you." "and there is none that it will please me more to see receive it," was the cordial remark of mr. carter, who, respecting the scruples of the good ladies, was about to bid them good-morning, when aunt lizzie, walking to the window, said: "i wonder what is keeping michael." "i am afraid he will not be here to-day," said the officer. "why not?" asked the sisters together in astonishment. "well, to tell you the truth, he is in trouble." "why, what has michael done." "nothing himself, but do you remember the tramp who came here last monday night, and, after eating at your table, stole, or rather helped to steal, your silver service?" "of course we remember him." "well, that tramp was michael's son bud, who had put on false whiskers and disguised himself so that you never suspected who he was. bud is a bad boy and is now in jail." "what is the world coming to?" gasped aunt lizzie, sinking into a chair with clasped hands, while her sister was no less shocked. in their kindness of heart they would have been glad to lose a large part of the precious silverware could it have been the means of restoring the boy to honesty and innocence. but that was impossible, and the sisters could only grieve over the depravity of one whom they had trusted. they asked nothing about the money that was taken with the silver, but mr. carter handed more than one-half of the sum to them. "bud had spent considerable, but he gave me this; kincade declared that he hadn't a penny left, but i don't believe him; this will considerably decrease your loss." at this moment, there was a resounding knock on the door, and in response to the summons to enter, archie jackson appeared, very red in the face and puffing hard. bowing hastily to the ladies, he said impatiently to the officer: "it seems to me you're deef." "why so?" "i've been chasing and yelling after you for half a mile, but you either pretended you didn't hear me or maybe you didn't." "i assure you, archie, that i would have stopped on the first call, if i had heard you, for you know how glad i am always to have your company, and how little we could have done without your help." the detective knew how to mollify the fussy constable, whose face flushed a still brighter red, under the compliments of his employer, as he may be termed. "i knowed you was coming here," explained archie, "and so i come along, so as to vouch to these ladies for you." "you are very kind, but they seem to be satisfied with master fred's indorsement, for he has the reputation of being a truthful lad." "i'm glad to hear it; how far, may i ask," he continued, clearing his throat, "have you progressed in the settlement of the various questions and complications arising from the nefarious transaction on monday evening last?" "the plate has been returned to the ladies, as your eyes must have told you; but, since this is the first day of the week, the reward will not be handed over to fred until to-morrow morning. "accept my congratulations, sir, accept my congratulations," said the constable, stepping ardently toward the boy and effusively extending his hand. the ladies declined to accept the money which the detective offered, insisting that it belonged to him. he complied with their wishes, and, since it was evident that archie had hastened over solely to make sure he was not forgotten in the general distribution of wages, the detective handed him one hundred dollars, which was received with delight, since it was far more than the constable had ever earned in such a short time in all his life before. "before i leave," said mr. carter, addressing the ladies, "i must impress one important truth upon you." "you mean about the sin of stealing," said aunt annie; "oh, we have thought a good deal about _that_." the officer smiled in spite of himself, but quickly became serious again. "you mistake me. i refer to your practice of keeping such valuable plate as loosely as you have been in the habit of doing for so many years. the fact of the robbery will cause it to be generally known that your silver can be had by any one who chooses to enter your house and take it, and you may rest assured, that if you leave it exposed it won't be long before it will vanish again, beyond the reach of all the fred sheldons and detectives in the united states." "your words are wise," said aunt annie, "and i have made up my mind that we must purchase two or three more locks and put them on the chest." "i think i know a better plan than _that_," aunt lizzie hastened to say. "what's that?" inquired the visitor. "we'll get michael to bring some real heavy stones to the house and place them on the lid of the chest, so as to hold it down." "neither of your plans will work," said mr. carter solemnly; "you must either place your silver in the bank, where you can get it whenever you wish, or you must buy a burglar-proof safe and lock it up in that every night." "i have heard of such things," said aunt lizzie, "and i think we will procure a safe, for it is more pleasant to know that the silver is in the house than it is to have it in the bank, miles off, where it will be so hard to take and bring it. what do you think, sister?" "the same as you do." "then we will buy the safe." "and until you do so, the silver must be deposited in the bank; though, as this is sunday, you will have to keep it in the house until the morrow." "i shall not feel afraid to do that," was the serene response of sister lizzie, "because no man, even if he is wicked enough to be a robber, would be so abandoned as to commit the crime on _sunday_." the beautiful faith of the good soul was not shocked by any violent results of her trust. though the silver remained in her house during the rest of that day and the following night, it was not disturbed, and on the morrow was safely delivered to the bank, where it stayed until the huge safe was set up in the old mansion, in which the precious stuff was deposited, and where at this writing it still remains, undisturbed by any wicked law-breakers. you may not know it, but it is a fact that there are circuses traveling over the country to-day whose ticket-sellers receive no wages at all, because they rely upon the short change and the bad money which they can work off on their patrons. not only that, but i know of a case where a man paid twenty dollars monthly for the privilege of selling tickets for a circus. from this statement, i must except any and all enterprises with which my old friend, p. t. barnum, has any connection. nothing could induce him to countenance such dishonesty. trained in this pernicious school, jacob kincade did not hesitate to launch out more boldly, and finally he formed a partnership with two other knaves, for the purpose of circulating counterfeit money, engaging now and then in the side speculation of burglary, as was the case at tottenville, where he arrived a few hours in advance of the show itself. he and his two companions were deserving of no sympathy, and each was sentenced to ten years in the state prison. the youth of bud heyland, his honest repentance and the grief of his father and mother aroused great sympathy for him. it could not be denied that he was a bad boy, who had started wrong, and was traveling fast along the downward path. in truth, he had already gone so far that it may be said the goal was in sight when he was brought up with such a round turn. a fact greatly in his favor was apparent to all--he had been used as a cat's paw by others. he was ignorant of counterfeit money, though easily persuaded to engage in the scheme of passing it upon others. true, the proposition to rob the perkinpine sisters came from him, but in that sad affair also he was put forward as the chief agent, while his partner took good care to keep in the background. bud saw the fearful precipice on whose margin he stood. his parents were almost heart-broken, and there could be no doubt of his anxiety to atone, so far as possible, for the evil he had done. fortunately, the judge was not only just but merciful, and, anxious to save the youth, he discharged him under a "suspended sentence," as it was called, a most unusual proceeding under the circumstances, but which proved most beneficent, since the lad never gave any evidence of a desire to return to his evil ways. as for master fred sheldon, i almost feel as though it is unnecessary to tell you anything more about him, for, with such a mother, with such natural inclinations, and with such training, happiness, success and prosperity are as sure to follow as the morning is to succeed the darkness of night. i tell you, boys, you may feel inclined to slight the old saying that honesty is the best policy, but no truer words were ever written, and you should carry them graven on your hearts to the last hours of your life. fred grew into a strong, sturdy boy, who held the respect and esteem of the neighborhood. the sisters perkinpine, as well as many others, took a deep interest in him and gave him help in many ways, and often when the boy was embarrassed by receiving it. the time at last came, when our "young hero" bade good-by to his loved mother, and went to the great city of new york to carve his fortune. there he was exposed to manifold more temptations than ever could be the case in his simple country home, but he was encased in the impenetrable armor of truthfulness, honesty, industry and right principles, and from this armor all the darts of the great adversary "rolled off like rustling rain." fred is now a man engaged in a prosperous business in the metropolis of our country, married to a loving and helpful wife, who seems to hold the sweetest and tenderest place in his affection, surpassed by that of no one else, but equalled by her who has been his guardian angel from infancy--his mother. the walnut rod. by r. f. colwell. my father was a physician of good practice in a wealthy quarter of philadelphia, and we boys, four in number, were encouraged by him to live out of doors as much as possible. we played the national game, rowed, belonged to a well-equipped private gymnasium, and were hale and hearty accordingly; but especially did we prize the spring vacation which was always spent at our grandfather's farm, a beautiful spot in the juanita valley, shut in by hills and warmed by the sunshine, which always seemed to us to shine especially bright on our annual visit, as if to make up for the cloudy and stormy weather of march. at the time of which i speak, the anticipations before starting were especially joyous. harry, carl and francis, aged respectively eleven, fourteen and sixteen, had after earnest efforts in their school work been promoted each to the class above his former rank, and were in consequence proud and happy, though tired. i, royal by name, a junior in a well-known new england college, working steadily in the course, was not unwilling to spend a week or two in quiet, searching the well-stored library which had the best that three generations of book lovers could buy on its shelves, and before whose cheery open fire we gathered at evening for stories and counsel from older and wiser minds. we packed our bags, took our rods--for trout fishing was often good, even in early april, in a well-stocked brook that ran along willow-fringed banks in the south pasture--and boarded the train. at the station the hired man met us with a pair of morgan horses than which i do not remember to have seen better from that day to this, and we were soon at the hall door, shaking hands with grandmother and grandfather, and, to our pleasant surprise, with aunt celia, who, unexpectedly to us, was at home. she was a widow, having lost her husband in the mexican war, and was a teacher of modern languages in a girl's private school in southern new york. she was one of those rare natures that the heart instinctively trusts, and no one of the many grandchildren hesitated about telling aunt celia his or her troubles, always confident that something would be done toward making the rough place smooth or gaining the object sought. we had a cozy tea. the special good things that only grandmothers seem to remember that a boy likes were found beside our plates, and we did them ample justice. this was saturday evening. the next morning we occupied the family pew, and raised our young voices in the familiar hymns so clearly and joyously, that i remember to have seen many of the older people looking in our direction, and one old lady remarked as we were going out, "henry's boys take after him for their good voices." father had led the village choir for several years before he went away from his home to the medical school. the next morning we took our rods and went off for a long tramp. we fished some, and between us brought home enough for next morning's breakfast. the next day we climbed the favorite hills and gathered four large bunches of that spring beauty _epigæa repens_, arbutus, or may flowers, whose pink cups and delicious woody fragrance we entrusted to damp moss, and sent the box with our cards to mother, for we knew how she loved the flowers she had picked from these same hills. their scent comes back to me now, though it is many years since i have picked one. carl and francis were just at the age when feats of daring were a delight to them. harry was of a naturally timid nature, modest, and lacking sometimes in confidence, and so was often urged on by the other two, when he shrank from attempting anything, by such expressions as "don't be a coward, harry!" "a girl could do that!" which, by such a sensitive spirit, were felt more than blows of the lash would be. when i was by, the boys would not indulge in these trials of strength or endurance, but in my absence i knew they hurt his tender feelings by their taunts, though really they did not intend to. a boy looks for what he calls courage in his playmate, and, if he does not see what apparently corresponds to his own, he thinks him a coward, while the braver of the two may really be the more diffident and shrinking one. it was saturday afternoon; we were to leave monday morning, and i had gone to the post-office to mail a letter to our father, telling him to expect us monday noon. behind the barn was a large oak tree from whose trunk a long branch ran horizontally toward the shed roof, though at a considerable distance above it. the boys had been pitching quoits near the tree, and, having finished the game, looked about for some more exciting sport. francis thought he saw it, so he climbed the tree, crept out on the limb, hung by the arms a moment and then dropped, with something of a jar, to be sure, but safely, on the roof, where he sat with a satisfied look. he called to carl to follow him. carl, though unwilling to try it, was still more unwilling to acknowledge any superiority of his older brother in that line, so he, too, climbed up, crept out, and, when he had found what he thought was a good place, and had called out two or three times, "fran, shall i strike all right?" dropped and was happy. then they both called to harry, "come on, hal," but he, overcome by the fear he had felt that they would fall while attempting it, refused to make the trial. when they began to speak about what "a girl could do," grandfather came out of the back door, where he had been a silent spectator of the whole affair, patted harry on the shoulder, assuring him that he'd more good sense than carl and francis together, and bade the climbers come down at once. grandfather was a man of few words, and they obeyed. nothing more was said. i returned soon after. we had tea as usual and adjourned to the library, where a genial fire of hickory logs warmed and lighted the room. grandmother and grandfather sat in their armchairs on each side of the broad hearth. i occupied an antique chair i had found in the attic, and which i was to carry home for my own room. carl and francis sat on old-fashioned crickets, while aunt celia had her low willow rocker in front of the fire, and harry leaned against her, with her arm around his neck. we remained silent for some moments, when grandfather said quietly, "celia, hadn't you better tell the boys the story of the walnut rod?" we looked up in swift surprise. the walnut rod spoken of was one that had rested, ever since we could remember, across a pair of broad antlers over the fireplace, with an old sword and two muskets that had seen service at bunker hill and yorktown. often had we, in boyish curiosity, asked what it was, and why it was kept there, tied by a piece of faded ribbon to one of the antlers, but had always been put off with "by-and-by," and "when you are older." now, when we saw a chance to know about it, we chorused, "oh, yes, aunt celia, do tell, please," and she quietly saying, "i suppose they can learn its lesson now," began: "i was, as you know, the only girl of the family, and also the youngest child, your father being two years older. there were few neighbors when we first came here to live; indeed, our nearest was fully a quarter of a mile away, so we saw few beside our own family. your uncles, john, william, and elijah, were several years older, and so were busy helping father in clearing the land and in its care. accordingly, henry and i were much together. we studied the same book at our mother's knee, played with the same toys, and were together so much that the older boys sometimes called us 'mother's two girls.' but your father, though tender and gentle in appearance, had a brave heart under his little jacket, and i knew better than they, that he was no coward. they called him so sometimes, thinking, because he seemed fearful about some things they counted trifles, that he really had no courage. i'm afraid boys have forgotten nowadays, that mere daring is no test of true courage." here francis and carl felt their faces grow hot, but aunt celia said no more and went on. "it was one day in april, very like to-day, that we all went upon the side hill to pick may flowers. henry was nearly twelve years old--his birthday, as you know, is next month--and i was ten. it had always been a habit, when people went out in the spring for flowers, to cut a stout stick, to be used partly as a walking-stick, and partly as a protection against snakes, which were often seen, but which usually escaped before they could be reached. old people told of rattlesnakes that used to be seen, but they were very scarce, even then, and none of us had ever seen one. "we all had sticks, cut from a bunch of hickory saplings that grew beside the path, and your uncle elijah said, as we were going along, 'i wonder what hen would do if he heard a rattlesnake; turn pale and faint away, i guess,' at which the others laughed loudly, but henry said nothing, though i saw his lips quiver at the taunt. "we found the flowers, thick and beautiful, just as you have this week. we picked all we wished, ate the lunch which mother had put up for us, and were sitting on a large, flat stone, talking of starting for home. i saw a bit of pretty moss under some twigs at the edge of the stone, and stepped down to get it, when suddenly a peculiar whir-r-r, that we never had heard before, struck our ears. all the boys started up, looking about eagerly. the bushes at my side parted slightly, and the flattened head of a large rattlesnake protruded, and again came that dreadful sound. then the boys jumped from the rock, each in a different direction, and screamed, rather than cried, 'jump, celia, it's a rattlesnake!' "i could not move. i must have been paralyzed by fear, for, though i was but a child, i could not misunderstand my danger. of course, what i am telling happened in a few seconds, but i remember hearing the swish that a stick makes when it cuts through the air, and the horrible head, with its forked, vibrating tongue, was severed from the writhing body, and fell at my feet. "harry had quietly stepped down by my side, and with his stick--the one you see on the antlers yonder--had saved me from a dreadful death. there he stood, pale and trembling to be sure, but with such a light in his blue eyes, that none of his older brothers dared ever call him coward, or girl, again. we walked quietly home, bringing the body with its horrible horny scales to show to father and mother. i shall never forget how they clasped us in their arms as they listened to the story, and how i wondered, as a child will, if everybody, when they were grown up, cried when they were very glad. "nothing was ever said to the older boys. they had learned what true bravery was, the scorn of self-protection when another needed help, and they have been better for it ever since. your father has never had the story told to you, thinking that some time it might also teach you the lesson that true courage from its root word, the latin _cor_, and down through the french _coeur_, is both below and above any outward manifestations, and belongs to the heart. "the snake must have come out into the sun from his den under the rock, and was not as active as in warmer weather, or the bite would have followed the first alarm. there has never since been seen another in this locality." we sat in silence for awhile, and then grandfather spoke, laying his hand on harry's curls: "i seem to see my boy henry again in his son, harry. i hope he will grow up into the same brave, though tender manhood of his father, and remember, boys," he said, turning toward francis and carl, "that recklessness and a desire to be thought bold and daring are not an index of true courage and often have no connection with it. if the walnut rod teaches you this lesson, its story will be of great value to you." how the hatchet was buried. by octavia carroll. a feud, as fierce as that between the montagues and capulets, had for several years raged between the boys of valleytown and the country lads living on the breezy hills just above the small village. originating in a feeling of jealousy, it waxed hotter and more bitter with every game of ball and every examination at the "academy" where they were forced to meet the rival factions, tauntingly dubbing each other "lilies of the valley" and "ground moles," while if a lily chanced to whip a mole in a fair fight all the town-bred youths immediately stood on their heads for joy, and if a mole went above a lily in class, the entire hill company crowed as loudly as the chanticleers of the barnyard. by general consent two boys had come to be considered the leaders of the respective factions; handsome, quick-witted roy hastings of the former, and stronger, bright carl duckworth of the latter; while it was an annoyance to each that their sisters had struck up a "bosom friendship" and stubbornly refused to share in their brothers' feud. "it is so absurd in roy," said helen hastings, "to want me not to visit maizie, whom i love so dearly, just because one of her family has beaten him at baseball and shot more pigeons this spring." "and helen shall come to tea as often as she likes to put up with our plain fare," declared little miss duckworth, "even if carl does look like a thunder-cloud all supper time and has hardly enough politeness to pass the butter." so matters stood when, one evening in early june, the commander of the heights' coterie summoned his followers to a meeting in the loft of an old barn on his father's estate, that was only used as a storehouse since a better one had been built. "hello, fellows, what is this pow-wow about?" asked agile mark tripp, as he sprang up a rickety ladder and popped his head through the square opening in the attic floor. "dun'no; some bee, duckworth, here, has buzzing round in his bonnet," replied lazy hugh blossom from the hay, where he reclined. "it takes the captain to have 'happy thoughts,'" while, playfully pulling a refractory lock of hair sticking out from carl's head, he gaily chanted: "and the duck with the feather curled over his back, he leads all the others, with his quack! quack! quack!" "good enough! all right, ducky, proceed with your quacking! let's know what's up! are the 'low-ly lil-is of the val-ly' once more on the war path? and to what do they challenge us--a spelling match or a swimming race?" "to neither. those very superior posies are about to seek glory in another way. i have learned from a most reliable source that they are now hoarding all their pocket money in order to astonish the natives. in fact, fellers, they intend to fresco valleytown a decided carmine on the 'glorious fourth,' and we have got to make the hills hum to quench 'em." "what form is their celebration to take?" asked little peter wheatly. "fireworks, principally. real stunners! not just a few roman candles and sky-rockets, but flower-pots throwing up colored balls that burst into stars, zigzagging serpents, and all sorts of things, such as have never been seen round here before. why, our big bonfire and giant crackers will be nowhere." "right you are there, cap," said hugh. "they will have all the country down on the green patting them on the back for their public spirit, while we occupy a back seat. it's a pretty bright move for the lilies, and i don't see how we can prevent it." "get up a counter-attraction. pyro--pyro--what do you call 'em will make a good deal finer show from round knob than down yonder in the dale." "sure. but where are your pyrotechnics to come from?" "from the city, of course. see here, i wrote to a firm there as soon as i learned the lilies' secret, and they sent me a price-list." young duckworth produced a very gay red and yellow circular, but the boys only looked at each other in blank amazement. the hillside farmers were nearly all land poor, gaining but a bare subsistence out of the rocky new england soil and seldom had a dime, much less dollars, to squander on mere amusement. "guess you think we are rothschilds or vanderbilts," snickered small peter. "pennies always burn a hole in my pocket and drop right out," said mark. "i might chip in a copper cent and a nickel with a dig in it," drawled hugh, and there was no one else who could do better. "well, i know you are an impecunious lot," continued carl, "but next week the strawberries will be dead ripe. if you fellows will only be patriotic and pitch in and pick for the cause we can put roy hastings and his top-lofty crowd to the blush by getting up a really respectable show with a 'piece' as a topper off. i don't believe the valleyites ever thought of a 'piece.'" "what sort of a piece?" asked bud perkins. "why, a fancy piece of fireworks, of course. just listen to what powder & co. offer!" and carl read aloud: "'realistic spectacle of mother goose, in peaked hat and scarlet cloak, with her gander by her side. the head of george washington, the father of his country, surrounded by thirteen stars. very fine. superb figure of christopher columbus landing from his spanish galleon upon the american shore. one of our most magnificent designs." "there, don't that sound prime? they're expensive, awfully expensive, but we can economize on the rockets and little things to come out strong, in a blaze of glory, at the end. i warrant a mother goose or, better yet, a washington would shut up the lilies' leaves in a jiffy." "or christopher columbus--i vote for old chris," shouted mark. "yes, yes, chris and his galleon," chorused the others. "it is the dearest of them all," remarked carl, somewhat dubiously. "no matter, 'chris or nothing,' say we." so it was decided, and before the boys parted they had all agreed, if they could win their parents' consent, to hire out for the berry-picking and to contribute every cent thus earned toward the fourth of july celebration. there is no spur like competition, and for the next three weeks the ambitious youths devoted themselves heart, and soul, and fingers to the cause; but the pickers had their reward, when, the berry harvest over, they found they could send a tolerably satisfactory order to powder & co., and when, on the third of july, a great box arrived by express, was unpacked, and its contents secretly, and under the cover of night, stored away in the lower part of farmer duckworth's discarded barn, their exuberant delight burst forth in sundry ecstatic somersaults and indian-like dances. it may be, however, that their exultation might have been tempered with caution had they been aware of two figures gliding stealthily through the darkness without, and known that the case, bearing the name of the city firm, when it was taken from the train, had not escaped the sharp eyes of roy hastings and his chum ed spafford. "how do you suppose they ever raised the money to buy all those fireworks?" asked one shadow of another shadow, as they flitted down the hill. "i don't know, confound 'em! but i do know their show is better than ours, and something has got to be done!" "yes, indeed, and surely, roy, there must be some way!" "there always is where there is a will, and--and--_matches_!" boom, boom, boom! old captain stone's ancient cannon announced the advent of another independence day shortly after midnight, and young america was quickly abroad with the chinese cracker and torpedo. helen hastings disliked the deafening racket of the village and, therefore, early beat a retreat to the hills, determined to enjoy the day in her own fashion with maizie, who welcomed her with open arms. "i am so glad you have come, nell, dear, for i was feeling as blue as your sash, if it is the fourth of july!" "why, darling, what is the matter?" "oh, i am so worried because pa is worried. he don't act a bit like his dear, jolly, old self, but goes round with a long face and can neither eat nor sleep. ma says it is because a mortgage or something is coming due, and the crops have been so bad for several years that he is afraid he may have to sell the farm and move out west. it would just break my heart to leave this place." "so it would mine. but there, maizie, it is foolish to be troubled about what may never happen. it is so warm let us find a nice cool spot and finish the book we commenced the other day." "there is a good current of air through the loft of the old barn. we will go there if you can scramble up the ladder." this, with some assistance, helen succeeded in doing, and the two girls were soon nestling in the sweet, new-mown hay. "eleven o'clock," announced helen, consulting her little chatelaine watch as they finally laid down the entertaining story they had been reading, "and i am both sleepy and thirsty." "well, my dear, lie back and take a nap and i will go and make lemonade for us both." "really? oh, that will be delicious!" and throwing herself back on the fragrant mow she closed her eyes as her blithe, hospitable friend skipped off toward the house. the twittering of the swallows in the eaves and the hum of the insects in the meadows without were curiously soothing, and the fair maid fell into a light doze from which, however, she was rudely awakened by a terrific explosion. she sprang to her feet in alarm to find the floor heaving like the deck of a ship at sea and feel the tumble-down building rocking as though shaken to its very foundation. "what has happened! is it an earthquake?" she gasped, rushing to the ladder-way; but she started back in affright at sight of a mass of flame and flying, fiery objects below. "oh, this is terrible!" was she, helen hastings--her father's pride, her brothers' pet--to meet a violent death here in this lonely spot? expecting every instant to have the boards give way beneath her, she flew to the window and, in her desperation, would have leaped out, regardless of a huge pile of stones beneath, had not the voice of maizie at that moment reached her ear calling: "don't jump, helen; don't jump! you will be killed! wait! courage! i am going for help." even as she faltered hesitatingly, her strength failed, her senses reeled and she fell fainting to the ground. across lots from round knob, where they had been preparing for the evening exhibition, came carl duckworth, hugh blossom and bud perkins. they were in high spirits, discussing with animation the anticipated fun, when bud suddenly stopped short, asking, "who are those fellows making tracks so fast down the road?" "looks like roy hastings and ed spafford," replied hugh. "though what brings them this way on such a day as this puzzles me." "i hope they haven't got wind of our plans and been up to some mischief," said carl, uneasily, instinctively quickening his footsteps. a moment later, as they entered the farm gate, the explosion that had awakened helen made them also start and gaze at each other in dismay. then a howl of mingled rage, grief and astonishment burst from the trio as through the open door of the old barn shot a confused medley of rockets, pin-wheels, snakes and grasshoppers, popping and fizzing madly in the garish sunlight; a howl that culminated in a shriek when whirling and spinning out whizzed the famous "piece," the landing of columbus, thrown by the concussion far upon the grass, where it went off in a highly erratic manner, poor christopher appearing perfectly demoralized as he stood on his head in the brilliant galleon, with his feet waving amid a galaxy of stars. "all our three weeks' labor and all our money gone up in smoke!" groaned bud, flinging himself down in an agony of despair. "and it is roy hastings' mean, dastardly work," growled hugh; while carl turned pale with wrath and shook his fist in a way that boded no good to his enemy. indeed, at that instant, he felt that revenge, swift and telling, would be the sweetest thing in life. truly, then, it seemed the very irony of fate, when, from amid the wreaths of smoke pouring from the upper loft window, emerged for a brief second a girlish, white-robed figure, with beseeching, outstretched hands, that paused, swayed, then fell back and disappeared, while maizie rushed toward them crying, "oh, carl, carl! the old barn is on fire, and helen is in there!" "what! roy hastings' sister?" and hugh actually laughed aloud. "serves the mean rascal right, too, if she was killed, for he would have no one but himself to blame," said bud perkins, whose bark was always worse than his bite, and who was really as kind-hearted a chap as ever lived. "oh, you bad, cruel boys!" exclaimed maizie; "but carl, i know, will not be so wicked," and she turned imploringly to her brother, in whose mind a fierce struggle was going on. in a flash, he saw his foe bowed and crushed with remorse, a "paying back" far beyond anything he could have dreamed of! besides, the risk was tremendous, and why should he endanger his life? but the next moment humanity triumphed, and shouting, "we can't stand idle and see a girl perish before our eyes! so here goes," he sped off toward the burning building, stripping off his jacket, as he ran, which he plunged into a barrel of water and then wrapped closely about his head. thus protected, he bravely dashed through the flames lapping at him with their fiery tongues. his breath came in short, quick pants, he was nearly suffocated, and falling rafters warned him that he had no time to spare. valiantly, however, he struggled to the already charred ladder and groped his way up it, until, gasping and exhausted, he reached the window with the unconscious girl in his arms, as the fire was eating through the floor at his feet. to the anxious watchers outside, it appeared an eternity before the lad reached the window and deftly caught the rope they had ready to toss to him. with trembling fingers he knotted this about helen's waist, gently let her down into the arms of bud and hugh and then prepared to descend himself, when a groan of horror from the onlookers rent the air; there was a quiver, a sudden giving way, a deafening crash and roar. the flooring had at length succumbed to the destroying element and gone down. mrs. duckworth sank on her knees sobbing. "oh, my boy! my boy!" and maizie hid her face. but, as the smoke cleared away, the groan changed to a joyous shout and all looked up to behold the youth clinging to the casement, which was still upheld by two feeble supports. hugh sprang forward. "carl, drop! let yourself drop," he called. "we will catch you," and carl, as a great darkness overwhelmed him, dropped like a dead weight and was borne, a begrimed and senseless burden, to his own little room in the cozy old homestead. summer was over ere a mere wraith of sturdy, lively carl duckworth was able to creep down stairs to sit on the veranda and gaze listlessly out upon the mountain landscape in its early autumn dress. but, after weary weeks of pain and anxiety, he was on the mend, and there was something of the old merriment in his laugh when he caught sight of a row of urchins, perched on the fence like a motley flock of birds, singing with hearty good will, "see, the conquering hero comes!" and he was surprised to recognize in the welcoming choristers many "lilies" of valleytown, as well as his own familiar friends. it was something of an astonishment, too, to have roy hastings hurry forward to offer his hand and say: "i can't tell you, duckworth, how glad i am to see you out again and only wish you would give me a good sound kicking;" while surely there were tears in his eyes and a curious break in his voice. it was a boy's way of begging pardon, but, being a boy, carl understood, while as he looked into the other's white worn face, so changed since he saw it last, he dimly comprehended that there might be "coals of fire" which burn more sharply even than the blisters and stings that had caused him such days and nights of agony. so the grasp he gave roy was warm and cordial as he said, "well, i'm not equal to much kicking yet, old fellow; but, for one, i am tired of this old feud and think it is time we buried the hatchet." "oh, i am so glad!" cried a merry voice in the doorway, and out danced helen with her hands full of flowers. "you dear, heroic carl. i have come to thank you, too, though i never, never can, for rescuing me on that dreadful day, and, as some small return, they have let me be the first to tell you of the silver lining hidden behind that cloud of smoke." "what do you mean?" asked carl, thoroughly mystified. "i mean that christopher columbus and his combustible companions did a pretty good turn after all. they plowed up the ground under the old barn so well that when the rubbish was cleared away there came to light what promises to be the finest paint mine in the whole country." "paint mine!" "yes, sir. non-inflammable, mineral paint that will not only save the farm, but, perhaps, make all our fortunes." "it's true, carl, every word true," laughed maizie, who had stolen softly up. "papa has had the ore analyzed, and is so happy he beams like a full moon. judge hastings, too, has been so kind, advancing funds, getting up a company and preparing to build a kiln. it has been quite the excitement of the summer in valleytown." "well, well! this is glorious news! hip, hip, hooray!" a feeble cheer that was echoed and re-echoed by the faction on the fence. "dear me, haven't you finished your revelations yet?" exclaimed mark tripp, suddenly tumbling up the steps. "for if you have the 'lilies of the valley' request the captain of the 'ground moles' and the young ladies to occupy the piazza chairs and witness a pyrotechnical display postponed from the fourth of july, but now given in honor of the recovery of our esteemed citizen, carl duckworth, and of our peace jubilee." all laughed at mark's pompous little speech and hastened to take their places. so at last in a shower of golden sparks they buried the hatchet and the feud between valleytown and hillside ended forever amid a generous display of fire-works. hanschen and the hares. from the german, by ellen t. sullivan. long ago, in a little house near a forest in germany lived a shoemaker and his wife. they were poor but contented and happy; for they were willing to work and they had their snug little house and food enough for themselves and their little hanschens. "oh! if hanschen would only grow like other boys, i should be the happiest woman in the land," the mother used to say. "he is six years old, yet he can stand on the palm of my hand." "well, if he is not so big as some of our neighbors' boys, he is brighter than many of them," the father used to answer. then the mother felt so glad she would dance around the room with hans and say, "yes, he is bright as a child can be and as spry too. when he runs around the room i can hardly catch him." one day she said to her husband, "i am going to the forest meadow to cut fodder for the goat. the grass there is so sweet and juicy that, if the goat eats it, we shall have the richest milk for hanschen. that will make him grow faster. i will take him with me; he can sit in the grass and play with the flowers." "very well," said the father; "take care that he does not stray away from you. give him some clover blossoms to suck. we are too poor to buy candy for him." out through the green forest went hanschen and his mother. the boy was so happy that his mother could hardly hold him, as he laughed and jumped and clapped his hands. he thought the blue sky was playing hide-and-seek with him through the treetops; that the birds were singing a welcome to him, and that the bees, the butterflies, and great dragon-flies were all glad to see him. when they came to the meadow his mother put him down and gave him some clover blossoms. then she began to cut the grass and soon she was quite a way from hanschen, who was entirely hidden by the tall grass. while the mother was working hanschen sat sucking his sweet clover blossoms. all at once he heard a rustling, and there, beside him were two little hares. he was not at all afraid. he nodded to them and said, "how do you do?" the little hares had never seen a child. they thought he was a hare, dressed up in a coat and having a different kind of face from their own. they stared at him a minute and then one said, "hop! hop!" and sprang over a grass stalk. "can you do that?" said they to hanschen. "yes, indeed!" said he, leaping quickly over a stalk, as he spoke. "now," said the hares, "we shall have a fine time playing together." and a fine time they did have, leaping and racing until the sun was low in the west, and the little hares began to think of supper and bed. "come home with us; our father and mother will be good to you;" they said to hanschen. so he leaped away with the little hares toward the green bushes where they lived. now there was another little hare, who had staid at home with his mother that day. his bright eyes were the first to see the three merry friends leaping toward the bushes. "oh, mammy! mammy!" he cried: "just look through the bushes. did you ever see such a queer-looking hare as that little chap with my brothers?" "bring me my spectacles, child," said mrs. hare. "it may be the poor thing has been hurt. that terrible hunter is around again. he chased your poor father yesterday. then that wicked old fox is prowling about, too. it may be that one of them hurt the poor little stranger so that he does not look natural. if so, i'll soon cure him by good nursing." that was what kind mrs. hare said to her little son. he brought her spectacles, which she wiped and put on. then she cried out, "why bless me! this is no hare! this is a human child! he is lost and his parents will be wild with grief for him. my children, i fear you led him astray. tell just where you found him and we will carry him back there in the morning. it is so late now he must stay with us to-night." "we thought he was a hare because he can spring and leap as well as we can. we found him in the forest meadow and we have had splendid fun together," said the little hares. then good mrs. hare gave hanschen some hares' bread for his supper, and soon after she tucked him snugly in bed with her sons. before putting him to bed she drew over him, a soft silky hare coat. it fitted him nicely from the two furry ears to the little stubby tail. the three little hares were delighted and said, "he's a hare now, isn't he, mammy?" "well, dears, he does look just like one of you; but you must all lie still now and go to sleep for we must get up with the sun, to-morrow," said mrs. hare. in the meantime hanschen's mother had finished cutting the grass, and she looked for hanschen and called him until it grew quite dark. then she went home, weeping bitterly, and told her husband that their child was lost. out ran the father then to look for his boy; but he could not find him. all that night the poor parents wept and moaned, while hanschen was sleeping peacefully with the little hares. the hare family got up at daylight, and all of them put on their sunday clothes, for mr. hare had said to his wife, "i want folks to see that their child has been with good company; so please put on your very best cap and brush all our children's coats until they shine. i'll wear a high collar and my tall silk hat, and you must tie my cravat in a nice bow." when all were dressed they ate a good breakfast, locked up their green gate and started for the meadow. they had scarcely reached the edge of the forest, when they heard hanschen's mother calling, "hanschen! hanschen! darling!" "here i am, mother;" cried he. "i hear him! i hear him! oh husband! don't you?" said the mother. "i do hear his voice but i can see nothing except a little brown hare." hanschen laughed in delight--sprang forward and pulled off his furry coat. how surprised his father and mother were! by this time the hare family had come up and mr. hare took off his hat and bowing very low, he said, "mr. man, this is my good wife and these youngsters are my three sons. their mother and i try to teach them to do right, and they really are pretty good children. two of them were playing around here yesterday, and invited your son to play with them, not knowing what sorrow and trouble they caused you by leading him astray. they brought him home with them last night. my good wife gave him plenty to eat; he slept with my sons and you see the fine suit of hare-clothes he has just taken off. i hope you will let him keep it to remember us by. it is a present from all of us. we are only hares but we have done by your child just what we should like you to do by one of our children if you should find one of them astray. and now, my dear sir, we will bid you farewell and go back to our home." "not yet! not yet!" cried hanschen's father and mother. "tell us, do you have sorrows or troubles? one good turn deserves another. we should be so glad to do something for you." "sorrows and troubles are plentiful in our lives," said mr. hare. "if you can stop that terrible hunter from chasing us; and if you can manage to trap that wicked mr. fox, will make us very happy. and good mrs. man, if you will just throw a few cabbage leaves out on the snow for us in the winter, when every green thing is dead or buried; then we shall not have to go to bed hungry." hanschen's father and mother gladly promised to do all they could for the good hare family; then the two happy families went home. one day soon after hanschen's visit to the hares, his father got up very early, for he had two pairs of shoes to finish that day. he had scarcely begun his work when a very loud knock was heard at the door. "who can it be so early as this?" thought the shoemaker. he opened the door and there stood--mr. fox! "good morning, shoemaker," said he; "i want you to make me a pair of shoes and do it right off, too, or i'll kill every one of your hens to-night. i'm hare hunting, to-day. i know where a whole family of hares live, down near the forest. i mean to bag them all before they leave their house this morning. they run so fast it is hard to catch them when they are out. but, see one of my shoes is torn, so i must have a new pair before i can walk so far." the shoemaker bowed and invited the fox to come in and sit down. then he said, "mr. fox, a great hunter like you ought to wear high boots; not low shoes like common folks." that pleased mr. fox, so he said, "well, make high boots; but make them of the finest, softest leather, and do not make them tight." the shoemaker took the hardest, heaviest, leather he could find and soon finished the boots. he put a piece of sticky wax into each boot. he said to himself, "mr. fox thinks he is very sly but we'll see whether he can catch our friends, the hares, when he puts on these boots." mr. fox proudly drew on his boots but he said: "they seem stiff and tight. i fear i cannot run very fast in them." "just wait till you have worn them a little while--new boots generally feel stiff," said the shoemaker. "well, i will hurry off now; but i'll soon come back and bring you the hares' skins to pay for the boots," said mr. fox. a little while after the fox had gone the shoemaker's wife jumped up in alarm from her chair. a hare had leaped in through the window behind her. it was one of their friends--the father of the hare family. "save me! the hunter is after me," he cried. "here, quick! jump into bed," said the shoemaker's wife. he did so, and she covered him up, then she dressed hanschen in the suit that the hares had given him. she had scarcely done so when the hunter came in and said, "give me the hare that i have been chasing. i saw him leap into your window. i must have him. there he is now, springing on your table." "there is my little hanschen," said the shoemaker. "no wonder you think he is a hare, for he can run as fast and leap as well as any hare." "yes," said hanschen's mother, "and he often goes out to play in this hare-suit--see how nicely it fits him. but, mr. hunter, you must not shoot my hanschen when you are out chasing hares." "well," said the hunter, "if that isn't wonderful. but say, good people, how in the world am i to know whether i am chasing hanschen or a hare?" "oh, easily enough," said the shoemaker. "you have only to wait a minute and call out, 'hanschen!' if the little creature sits up still and straight like a child, don't shoot, for that will be hanschen." "i will remember and call out," said the hunter. "well, then, to pay you for your kindness, i'll tell you that if you hurry toward the forest, now, you will be able to bag a fox that cannot be far away; for the rogue has on a pair of boots of my making, and he has hard work to move with them by this time, i'll be bound." "thank you, mr. shoemaker," said the hunter; "i'll soon finish him and bring you his hide to prove it. only last night he killed three of my hens." the hunter soon caught up with the fox, brought his hide to the shoemaker and went away. then hanschen's father told the hare to go home to his folks and tell them that the old fox would never trouble them again, and when they heard the hunter they were just to sit still and straight on their hind legs. mr. hare flew over the ground on his way home. his good news made him light-hearted and swift-footed. oh, how happy the hares were! to this day hares often sit up like a child. hanschen often spent a day with the hares, and learned to run so well, and spring forward so quickly, that all the people said when he grew up, "he is the best man to have for a postman for the villages around." so hanschen became postman. he never forgot his friends, the hares, but always carried some cabbage leaves for them when snow and ice covered up or killed the green leaves. 'tis said the hares used to watch for his coming, and sing this song when they caught sight of him: "our good friend, hans, is a brave young man; hip, hurrah! he springs as well as the best hare can; hip, hurrah! beneath his coat is a good, warm heart; hip, hurrah! we may be sure he will take our part; hip, hurrah! we need not starve though the world be white; hip, hurrah! our good friend, hans will give us a bite; hip, hurrah! this is his time he is drawing near; hip, hurrah! off with hats; now cheer upon cheer; hip, hip, hurrah!" the end. annie o' the banks o' dee by gordon stables illustrations by none published by f.v. white & co, bedford street, strand, london wc. this edition dated . annie o' the banks o' dee, by gordon stables. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ annie o' the banks o' dee, by gordon stables. chapter one. at bilberry hall. "it may not be, it cannot be that such a gem was meant for me; but oh! if it had been my lot, a palace, not a highland cot, that bonnie, simple gem had thrown bright lustre o'er a jewelled crown; for oh! the sweetest lass to me is annie--annie o' the banks o' dee?" old song. far up the romantic dee, and almost hidden by the dark waving green of spruce trees and firs, stands the old mansion-house of bilberry hall. better, perhaps, had it still been called a castle, as undoubtedly it had been in the brave days of old. the many-gabled, turreted building had formerly belonged to a family of gordons, who had been deprived of house and lands in the far north of culloden, after the brutal soldiery of the bloody duke had laid waste the wild and extensive country of badenoch, burning every cottage and house, murdering every man, and more than murdering every woman and child, and "giving their flesh to the eagles," as the old song hath it. but quiet indeed was bilberry hall now, quiet even to solemnity, especially after sunset, when the moon sailed up from the woods of the west, when only the low moan of the wind through the forest trees could be heard, mingling with the eternal murmur of the broad winding river, or now and then the plaintive cry of a night bird, or the mournful hooting of the great brown owl. it was about this time that laird mcleod would summon the servants one and all, from the supercilious butler down to shufflin' sandie himself. then would he place "the big ha' bible" before him on a small table, arrange his spectacles more comfortably astride his nose, clear his throat, and read a long chapter. one of the psalms of david in metre would then be sung. there wasn't a deal of music in the laird's voice, it must be confessed. it was a deep, hoarse bass, that reminded one of the groaning of an old grandfather's clock just before it begins to strike. but when the maids took up the tune and sweet annie lane chimed in, the psalm or hymn was well worth listening to. then with one accord all fell on their knees by chairs, the laird getting down somewhat stiffly. with open eyes and uplifted face he prayed long and earnestly. the "amen" concluded the worship, and all retired save annie, the laird's niece and almost constant companion. after, mcleod would look towards her and smile. "i think, my dear," he would say, "it is time to bring in the tumblers." there was always a cheerful bit of fire in the old-fashioned grate, and over it from a sway hung a bright little copper kettle, singing away just as the cat that sat on the hearth, blinking at the fire, was doing. the duet was the pleasantest kind of music to the laird mcleod in his easy-chair, the very image of white-haired contentment. annie lane--sixteen years of age she was, and beautiful as a rosebud-- would place the punch-bowl on the little table, with its toddy-ladle, and flank it with a glass shaped like a thistle. into the bowl a modicum of the oldest whisky was poured, and sugar added; the good squire, or laird, with the jolly red face, smiled with glee as the water bubbled from the spout of the shining kettle. "now your slippers, dear," annie would say. off came the "brogue shoes" and on went a pretty pair of soft and easy slippers; by their flowery ornamentation it was not difficult to tell who had made them. a long pipe looked rather strange between such wee rosy lips; nevertheless, annie lit that pipe, and took two or three good draws to make sure it was going, before handing it to her uncle. then she bent over the back of the chair and kissed him on the bald pate, before going out with her maid for a walk on the lawn. it might be in the sweet summer time, when those green grassy terraces were perfumed with roses of every hue, or scented with the sweet syringa; in spring, when every tree and bush were alive with bird song; in red-berried autumn, or in the clear frost of a winter's night, when the world was all robed in its white cocoon and every bush, brake, or tree had branches like the whitest of coral. jeannie lee, the maid, was a great favourite with annie, and jeannie dearly loved her young mistress, and had done so for ten long years, ever since she had arrived at bilberry hall a toddling wee thing of six, and, alas! an orphan. both father and mother had died in one week. they had loved each other in life, and in death were not divided. jeannie was just four years older than her mistress, but she did not hesitate to confide to her all her secrets, for jeannie was a bonnie lassie. "she whiles had a sweetheart, and whiles she had two." well, but strange as it may appear, annie, young as she was, had two lovers. there was a dashing young farmer--craig nicol by name--he was well-to-do, and had dark, nay, raven hair, handsome face and manly figure, which might well have captivated the heart of any girl. at balls and parties, arrayed in tartan, he was indeed a splendid fellow. he flirted with a good many girls, it is true, but at the bottom of his heart there was but one image--that of annie lane. annie was so young, however, that she did not know her own mind. and i really think that craig nicol was somewhat impetuous in his wooing. sometimes he almost frightened her. poor craig was unsophisticated, and didn't know that you must woo a woman as you angle for a salmon. he was a very great favourite with the laird at all events, and many were the quiet games of cards they played together on winter evenings, many the bowl of punch they quaffed, before the former mounted his good grey mare and went noisily cantering homewards. no matter what the weather was, craig would be in it, wind or rain, hail or snow. like burns's tam o' shanter was craig. "weel mounted on his grey mare, meg, a better never lifted leg, tam skelpit on through dub and mire, despising wind and rain and fire, whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet, whiles crooning o'er some auld scots sonnet." yes, indeed. craig nicol was a dashing young blade, and at times annie thought she almost loved him. but what of the girl's other lover? well, he was one of a very different stamp. a laird he was too, and a somewhat wealthy one, but he was not a week under fifty. he, too, was a constant visitor at bilberry hall, and paid great attention to annie, though he treated her in a kind and fatherly sort of manner, and annie really liked the man, though little did she think he was in love with her. one lovely moonlight night in autumn, however, when laird fletcher--for that was his name--found himself seated beside annie and her maid in an arbour that overlooked the dreamy, hazy forest, he suddenly said to jeannie: "jeannie, i'd be the happiest man on earth if i only had this darling child to be my bride." annie never spoke. she simply smiled, thinking he was in fun. but after a pause the laird took annie's hand: "ah! dear lassie, i'll give you plenty of time to think of it. i'd care for you as the apple of my eye; i'd love you with a love that younger men cannot even dream of, and not a lady in all the land should be dressed so braw as my own wee dove." annie drew her hand from his; then--i can't tell why--perhaps she did not know herself, she put her little white hands to her face and burst into tears. with loving words and kind, he tried to soothe her, but like a startled deer she sprang away from him, dashed across the lawn, and sought shelter in her own boudoir. the laird, honest fellow, was sad, and sorry, too, that he had proposed to annie; but then he really was to be excused. what is it a man will not do whom love urges on? laird fletcher was easy-minded, however, and hopeful on the whole. "ah! well," he said to himself; "she'll come round in time, and if that black-haired young farmer were only _out of the way_, i'd win the battle before six months were over. gives himself a mighty deal too much side, he does. young men are mostly fools--i'll go into the house and smoke a pipe with my aged friend, mcleod." shufflin' sandie seemed to spring from the earth right in front of him. a queer little creature was sandie, soul and body, probably thirty years old, but looking older; twinkling ferrety eyes and red hair, a tuft of which always stuck up through a hole on the top of the broad prince charlie bonnet he wore; a very large nose always filled with snuff; and his smile was like the grin of a vixen. sandie was the man-of-all-work at bilberry. he cleaned knives and boots in-doors, ran errands, and did all kinds of odd jobs out of doors. but above all sandie was a fisherman. old as he was, squire mcleod, or laird, as he was most often called, went to the river, and sandie was always with him. the old man soon tired; then sandie took the rod, and no man on all deeside could make a prettier cast than he. the salmon used to come at his call. "hullo!" said laird fletcher, "where did _you_ come from?" "just ran round, sir, to see if you wanted your horse." "no, no, sandie, not for another hour or two." the truth is that sandie had been behind the arbour, listening to every word that was said. sandie slept in a loft above the stable. it was there he went now, and threw himself on his bed to think. "folks shouldn't speak aloud to themselves," he thought, "as laird fletcher does. wants farmer nicol got out of the way, does he? the old rascal! i've a good mind to tell the police. but i think i'd better tell craig nicol first that there is danger ahead, and that he mustn't wear his blinkers. poor man! indeed will i! then i might see what the laird had to say as well. that's it, sandie, that's it. i'll have twa strings to my bow." and sandie took an enormous pinch of snuff and lay back again to muse. i never myself had much faith to put in an ignorant, deformed, half-dwarfed creature, and shufflin' sandie was all that, both physically and morally. i don't think that sandie was a thief, but i do believe he would have done almost anything to turn an honest penny. indeed, as regards working hard there was nothing wrong with sandie. craig nicol, the farmer, had given him many a half-crown, and now he saw his way, or thought he did, to earn another. well, sandie, at ten o'clock, brought round laird fletcher's horse, and before mounting, the laird, who, with all his wealth, was a wee bit of a niggard, gave him twopence. "the stingy, close-fisted, old tottering brute. tuppince, eh!" shufflin' sandy shook his fist after the laird. "_you_ marry our bonnie annie?" he said, half-aloud. "man, i'd sooner see the dearie floating down the dee like a dead hare than to see her wedded to an old fossil like you." sandie went off now to his bed in the loft, and soon all was peace around bilberry hall, save when the bloodhounds in their kennels lifted up their bell-like voices, giving warning to any tramp, or poacher that might come near the hall. annie knelt reverently down and said her prayers before getting into bed. the tears were in her eyes when she got up. "oh," she said to her maid, "i hope i haven't hurt poor mr fletcher's feelings! he really is a kind soul, and he was very sincere." "well, never mind, darling," said jeannie; "but, lor, if he had only asked _my_ price i would have jumped at the offer." chapter two. "there is danger in the sky." "what!" said annie lane, "would you really marry an old man?" "ay, that would i," said the maid. "he's got the money. besides, he is not so very old. but let me sing a bit of a song to you--very quietly, you know." jeannie lee had a sweet voice, and when she sang low, and to annie alone, it was softer and sweeter still, like a fiddle with a mute on the bridge. this is the little song she sang: "what can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, what can a young lassie do with an old man? bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie to sell her poor jenny for silver and land. "he's always complaining from morning till eenin', he coughs and he hobbles the weary day long; he's stupid, and dozin', his blood it is frozen-- oh! dreary's the night wi' a crazy old man! "he hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers-- i never can please him, do all that i can; he's peevish and jealous of all the young fellows-- oh! grief on the day i met wi' an old man! "my old aunty kitty upon me takes pity: i'll do my endeavour to follow her plan; i'll cross him and rack him until i heart-break him, and then his old brass will buy a new pan!" "but, oh, how cruel!" said annie. "oh, i wish you would marry that laird fletcher--then he would bother me no more. will you, jeannie, dear?" jeannie lee laughed. "it will be you he will marry in the long run," she said; "now, i don't set up for a prophet, but remember my words: laird fletcher will be your husband, and he will be just like a father to you, and your life will glide on like one long and happy dream." it will be observed that jeannie could talk good english when she cared to. when speaking seriously--the scots always do--the doric is for the most part of the fireside dialect. "and now, darling," continued annie's maid, "go to sleep like a baby; you're not much more, you know. there, i'll sing you a lullaby, an old, old one: "`hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, holy angels guard thy bed; countless blessings without number gently falling on thy head.'" the blue eyes tried to keep open, but the eyelids would droop, and soon annie o' the banks o' dee was wafted away to the drowsy land. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ shufflin' sandie was early astir next morning. first he fed and attended to his horses, for he loved them as if they had been brothers; then he went to the kennels to feed the hounds, and in their joy to see him they almost devoured him alive. this done, sandie had a big drink of water from the pump, for sandie had had a glass too much the night before. he was none the worse, however; so he hied him to the kitchen. there were lots of merry scotch lassies here, and they delighted to torment and tease sandie. "sandie," said one, "i've a good mind to tie the dish-cloth round your head." "tie it round your own," said sandie. "anything becomes a good-looking face, my bonnie betsy." "sandie," said another buxom girl, "you were drunk last night. i'm sure of it." "no, not so very full, fanny. i hadn't enough to get happy and jolly on." "but wouldn't you like a hair of the doggie that bit you this morning?" "indeed would i, fanny. i never say no to a drop of good scotch." "well, ye'll have to go to the village. ye'll get none here. just make your brose, and be content." sandie did as he was bidden. into a huge wooden bowl, called a "caup," he put three large handfuls of fine oatmeal and a modicum of salt. the kettle was boiling wildly on the fire, so the water was poured on and stirred, and the "brose" was made. a huge piece of butter was placed in the centre, and the bowl was flanked by a quart of new milk. and this was shufflin' sandie's breakfast, and when he had finished all save the bit he always left for collie and the cat, he gave a sigh of contentment, and lit his pipe. and now the lasses began their banter again. "that's the stuff to make a man of you," said fanny. "make a man of an ill-shapen dwarf like him," said maggie reid. "well! well! well!" "hush, mag," cried fanny, "hush! god could have made you just as misshapen as poor sandie." but sandie took no heed. he was thinking. soon he arose, and before fanny could help herself, he had kissed her. fanny threw the dish-cloth after him, but the laugh was all against her. the laird would be downstairs now, so sandie went quietly to the breakfast-room door and tapped. "come in, sandie," cried the laird. "i know it is you." the laird had a good scotch breakfast before him. porridge, fresh herrings and mashed potatoes, with ducks' eggs to follow and marmalade to finish off with. "will you have a thistle, sandie?" "indeed i will, sir, and glad to." "well, there's the bottle, and yonder's the glass. help yourself, lad." sandie did that, right liberally, too. "horses and hounds all well, sandie?" "all beautiful, laird. and i was just going to ask if i could have the bay mare, jean, to ride o'er to birnie-boozle (craig nicol's farm possessed that euphonic name). i've news for the fairmer." "all right, sandie. take care you don't let her down, though." "i'll see to her, laird." and away went sandie exultant, and in ten minutes more was clattering along the deeside road. it was early autumn, and the tints were just beginning to show red and yellow on the elms and sycamores, but sandie looked at nothing save his horse's neck. "was the farmer at home?" "yes; and would sandie step into the parlour for a minute. mary would soon find him." "why, sandie, man, what brings you here at so early an hour?" sandie took a lordly pinch of snuff, and handed the box to craig nicol. "i've something to tell ye, sir. but, hush! take a peep outside, for fear anybody should be listening." "now," he continued, in a half-whisper, "ye'll never breathe a word of what i'm going to tell you?" "why, sandie, i never saw you look so serious before. sit down, and i'll draw my chair close to yours." the arrangement completed, sandie's face grew still longer, and he told him all he heard while listening behind the arbour. "i own to being a bit inquisitive like," he added; "but man, farmer, it is a good thing for you on this occasion that i was. i've put you on your guard." craig laughed till the glasses on the sideboard jingled and rang. "is that all my thanks?" said sandie, in a disheartened tone. "no, no, my good fellow. but the idea of that old cockalorum--though he is my rival--doing a sturdy fellow like me to death is too amusing." "well," said sandie, "he's just pretty tough, though he is a trifle old. he can hold a pistol or a jock-the-leg knife easily enough; the dark nights will soon be here. he'd be a happy man if you were dead, so i advise you to beware." "well, well, god bless you, sandie; when i'm saying my prayers to-night i'll think upon you. now have a dram, for i must be off to ride round the farm." just before his exit, the farmer, who, by the way, was a favourite all over the countryside, slipped a new five-shilling piece into sandie's hand, and off the little man marched with a beaming face. "i'll have a rare spree at nancy wilson's inn on saturday," he said. "i'll treat the lads and lassies too." but shufflin' sandie's forenoon's work was not over yet. he set spurs to his mare, and soon was galloping along the road in the direction of laird fletcher's mansion. the laird hadn't come down yet. he was feeling the effects of last evening's potations, for just as-- "the highland hills are high, high, high, the highland whisky's strong." sandie was invited to take a chair in the hall, and in about half an hour laird fletcher came shuffling along in dressing-gown and slippers. "want to speak to me, my man?" "seems very like it, sir," replied sandie. "well, come into the library." the laird led the way, and sandie followed. "i've been thinkin' all night, laird, about the threat i heard ye make use of--to kill the farmer of birnie-boozle." gentlemen of fifty who patronise the wine of scotland are apt to be quick-tempered. fletcher started to his feet, purple-faced and shaking with rage. "if you dare utter such an expression to me again," he cried, banging his fist on the table, "i won't miss you a kick till you're on the deeside road." "well, well, laird," said sandie, rising to go, "i can take my leave without kicking, and so save your old shanks; but look here. i'm going to ride straight to aberdeen and see the fiscal." sandie was at the door, when laird fletcher cooled down and called him back. "come, come, my good fellow, don't be silly; sit down again. you must never say a word to anyone about this. you promise?" "i promise, if ye square me." "well, will a pound do it?" "look here, laird, i'm saving up money to buy a house of my own, and keep dogs; a pound won't do it, but six might." "six pounds!" "deuce a dollar less, laird." the laird sighed, but he counted out the cash. it was like parting with his heart's blood. but to have such an accusation even pointed at him would have damned his reputation, and spoilt all his chances with annie o' the banks o' dee. shufflin' sandie smiled as he stowed the golden bits away in an old sock. he then scratched his head and pointed to the decanter. the laird nodded, and sandie drank his health in one jorum, and his success with miss lane in another. sly sandie! but his eyes were sparkling now, and he rode away singing "auld lang syne." he was thinking at the same time about the house and kennels he should build when he managed to raise two hundred pounds. "i'll save every sixpence," he said to himself. "when i've settled down i'll marry fanny." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ that same forenoon craig called at bilberry hall. he was dressed for the hill in a dark tweed kilt, with a piece of leather on his left shoulder. he had early luncheon with mcleod, annie presiding. in her pretty white bodice she never looked more lovely. so thought craig. "annie, come to the hill with me. _do_." "annie, go," added her uncle. "well, i'll go, and bring you some birds, uncle dear, and sandie shall ghillie me." "_i_ have a ghillie," said craig. "never mind. two are better than one." they had really a capital day of it, for the sun shone brightly and the birds laid close. gordon setters are somewhat slow, and need a drink rather often, but they are wondrous sure, and bolt, the retriever, was fleet of foot to run down a wounded bird. so just as the sun was sinking behind the forests of the west, and tingeing the pine trees with crimson, they wended their way homeward, happy--happy with the health that only the highland hills can give. shufflin' sandie had had several drops from craig's flask, but he had also had good oatcakes and cheese, so he was as steady as a judge of session. when near to bilberry hall, nicol and annie emptied their guns in the air, and thus apprised of their approach, white-haired old mcleod came out to bid them welcome. a good dinner! a musical evening! prayers! the tumblers! then, bidding annie a fond adieu, away rode the jolly young farmer. shufflin' sandie's last words to him were these: "mind what i told you. there's danger in the sky. good-night, and god be with you, farmer craig." chapter three. sandie tells the old, old story. "i wonder," said craig nicol to himself that night, before going to bed, and just as he rose from his knees, "if there can be anything in shufflin' sandie's warning. i certainly don't like old father fletcher, close-fisted as he is, and stingy as any miser ever i met. i don't like him prowling round my darling annie either. and _he_ hates _me_, though he lifts his hat and grimaces like a tom-cat watching a bird whenever we meet. i'll land him one, one of these days, if he can't behave himself." but for quite a long time there was no chance of "landing the laird one," for fletcher called on annie at times when he knew craig was engaged. and so the days and weeks went by. laird fletcher's wooing was carried on now on perfectly different lines. he brought annie many a little knick-knack from aberdeen. it might be a bracelet, a necklet of gold, or the last new novel; but never a ring. no; that would have been too suggestive. annie accepted these presents with some reluctance, but fletcher looked at her so sadly, so wistfully, that rather than hurt his feelings she did receive them. one day annie, the old laird and the younger started for aberdeen, all on good horses--they despised the train--and when coming round the corner on his mare, whom should they meet face to face but craig nicol? and this is what happened. the old man raised his hat. the younger laird smiled ironically but triumphantly. annie nodded, blushed, and smiled. but the young farmer's face was blanched with rage. he was no longer handsome. there was blood in his eye. he was a devil for the present. he plunged the spurs into his horse's sides and went galloping furiously along the road. "would to god," he said, "i did not love her! shall i resign her? no, no! i cannot. yet-- "`tis woman that seduces all mankind; by her we first were taught the wheedling arts.'" worse was to follow. right good fellow though he was, jealousy could make a very devil of craig. "for jealousy is the injured woman's hell." and man's also. one day, close by the dee, while craig was putting his rod together previous to making a cast, laird fletcher came out from a thicket, also rod in hand. "ah, we cannot fish together, nicol," said the laird haughtily. "we are rivals." then all the jealousy in nicol's bosom was turned for a moment into fury. "you--_you_! you old stiff-kneed curmudgeon! you a rival of a young fellow like me! bah! go home and go to bed!" fletcher was bold. "here!" he cried, dashing his rod on the grass; "i don't stand language like that from anyone!" off went his coat, and he struck craig a well-aimed blow under the chin that quite staggered him. ah! but even skill at fifty is badly matched by the strength and agility of a man in his twenties. in five minutes' time fletcher was on the grass, his face cut and his nose dripping with blood. craig stood over him triumphantly, but the devil still lurked in his eyes. "i'm done with you for the time," said fletcher, "but mark me, i'll do for you yet!" "is that threatening my life, you old reprobate? you did so before, too. come," he continued fiercely, "i will help you to wash some of that blood off your ugly face." he seized him as he spoke, and threw him far into the river. the stream was not deep, so the laird got out, and went slowly away to a neighbouring cottage to dry his clothes and send for his carriage. "hang it!" said craig aloud; "i can't fish to-day." he put up his rod, and was just leaving, when shufflin' sandie came upon the scene. he had heard and seen all. "didn't i tell ye, sir? he'll kill ye yet if ye don't take care. be warned!" "well," said craig, laughing, "he is a scientific boxer, and he hurt me a bit, but i think i've given him a drubbing he won't soon forget." "no," said sandie significantly; "he--won't--forget. take my word for that." "well, sandie, come up to the old inn, and we'll have a glass together." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ for a whole fortnight laird fletcher was confined to his rooms before he felt fit to be seen. "a touch of neuralgia," he made his housekeeper tell all callers. but he couldn't and dared not refuse to see shufflin' sandie when he sent up his card--an old envelope that had passed through the post-office. "well," said the laird, "to what am i indebted for the honour of _this_ visit?" "come off that high horse, sir," said sandie, "and speak plain english. i'll tell you," he added, "i'll tell you in a dozen words. i'm going to build a small house and kennels, and i'm going to marry fanny--the bonniest lassie in all the world, sir. ah! won't i be happy, just!" he smiled, and took a pinch, then offered the box to the laird. the laird dashed it aside. "what in thunder?" he roared, "has your house or marriage to do with me?" "ye'll soon see that, my laird. i want forty pounds, or by all the hares on bilberry hill i'll go hot-foot to the fiscal, for i heard your threat to craig nicol by the riverside." half-an-hour afterwards shufflin' sandie left the laird to mourn, but sandie had got forty pounds nearer to the object of his ambition, and was happy accordingly. as he rode away, the horse's hoofs making music that delighted his ear, sandie laughed aloud to himself. "now," he thought, "if i could only just get about fifty pounds more, i'd begin building. maybe the old laird'll help me a wee bit; but i must have it, and i must have fanny. my goodness! how i do love the lassie! her every look or glance sends a pang to my heart. i cannot bear it; i _shall_ marry fanny, or into the deepest, darkest kelpie's pool in the dee i'll fling myself. "`o love, love! love is like a dizziness, that winna let a poor body go about his bus-i-ness.'" shufflin' sandie was going to prove no laggard in love. but his was a thoroughly dutch peasant's courtship. he paid frequent visits by train to the granite city, to make purchases for the good old laird mcleod. and he never returned without a little present for fanny. it might be a bonnie ribbon for her hair, a bottle of perfume, or even a bag of choice sweets. but he watched the chance when fanny was alone in the kitchen to slip them into her hand half-shyly. once he said after giving her a pretty bangle: "i'm not so very, _very_ ugly, am i, fanny?" "'deed no, sandie!" "and i'm not so crooked and small as they would try to make me believe. eh, dear?" "'deed no, sandie, and i ay take your part against them all. and that you know, sandie." how sweet were those words to sandie's soul only those who love, but are in doubt, may tell. "tis sweet to love, but sweeter far to be beloved again; but, ah! how bitter is the pain to love, yet love in vain!" "ye haven't a terrible lot of sweethearts, have you, fanny?" "well, sandie, i always like to tell the truth; there's plenty would make love to me, but i can't bear them. there's ploughman sock, and geordie mckay. ach! and plenty more." she rubbed away viciously at the plate she was cleaning. "and i suppose," said sandie, "the devil a one of them has one sixpence to rub against another?" "mebbe not," said fanny. "but, fanny--" "well, sandie?" "i--i really don't know what i was going to say, but i'll sing it." sandie had a splendid voice and a well-modulated one. "my love is like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in june; my love is like a melody, that's sweetly played in tune. "as fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am i; and i will love you still, my dear, till a' the seas go dry. "till a' the seas go dry, my lass, and the rocks melt with the sun; yes, i will love you still, my dear, till sands of life are run." the tears were coursing down the bonnie lassie's cheeks, so plaintive and sweet was the melody. "what! ye're surely not crying, are ye?" said sandie, approaching and stretching one arm gently round her waist. "oh, no, sandie; not me!" but sandie took the advantage, and kissed her on the tear-bedewed cheeks. she didn't resist. "i say, fanny--" "yes, sandie." "it'll be a bonnie night to-night, the moon as bright as day. will you steal out at eight o'clock and take a wee bit walk with me? just meet me on the hill near tammie gibb's ruined cottage. i've something to tell you." "i'll--i'll try," said fanny, blushing a little, as all innocent scotch girls do. sandie went off now to his work as happy as the angels. and fanny did steal out that night. only for one short hour and a half. oh, how short the time did seem to sandie! it is not difficult to guess what sandie had to tell her. the old, old story, which, told in a thousand different ways, is ever the same, ever, ever new. and he told her of his prospects, of the house--a but and a ben, or two rooms--he was soon to build, and his intended kennels, though he would still work for the laird. "will ye be my wife? oh, will you, fanny?" "yes." it was but a whispered word, but it thrilled sandie's heart with joy. "my ain dear dove!" he cried, folding her in his arms. they were sitting on a mossy bank close by the forest's edge. their lips met in one long, sweet kiss. yes, peasant love i grant you, but i think it was leal and true. "they might be poor--sandie and she; light is the burden love lays on; content and love bring peace and joy. what more have queens upon a throne?" homeward through the moonlight, hand-in-hand, went the rustic lovers, and parted at the gate as lovers do. sandie was kind of dazed with happiness. he lay awake nearly all the livelong night, till the cocks began to crow, wondering how on earth he was to raise the other fifty pounds and more that should complete his happiness. then he dozed off into dreamland. he was astir, all the same, at six in the morning. and back came the joy to his heart like a great warm sea wave. he attended to his horses and to the kennel, singing all the time; then went quietly in to make his brose. some quiet, sly glances and smiles passed between the betrothed--scotch fashion again--but that was all. sandie ate his brose in silence, then took his departure. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ one morning a letter arrived from edinburgh from a friend of craig nicol. craig was sitting at the table having breakfast when the servant brought it in and laid it before him. his face clouded as he read it. the friend's name was reginald grahame, and he was a medical student in his fourth year. he had been very kind to craig in edinburgh, taking him about and showing him all the sights in this, the most romantic city on earth-- "edina, scotia's darling seat." nevertheless, craig's appetite failed, and he said "bother!" only more so, as he pitched the letter down on the table. chapter four. "this quarrel, i fear, must end in blood." reginald grahame was just as handsome a young fellow as ever entered the quad of edinburgh university. not the same stamp or style as craig; equally as good-looking, but far more refined. "my dear boy," ran the letter,--"next week look out for me at birnie-boozle. i'm dead tired of study. i'm run down somewhat, and will be precious glad to get a breath of your highland air and a bit of fishing. i'm only twenty-one yet, you know, and too young for my m.d. so i'm going soon to try to make a bit of money by taking out a patient and her daughter to san francisco, then overland to new york, and back home. why, you won't know your old friend when he comes back," etc, etc. "hang my luck!" said craig, half-aloud. "this is worse than a dozen laird fletchers. annie has never said yet that she loved me, and i feel a presentiment that i shall be cut out now in earnest. och hey! but i'll do my best to prevent their meeting. it may be mean, but i can't help it. indeed, i've half a mind to pick a quarrel with him and let him go home." next week reginald did arrive, looking somewhat pale, for his face was "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," but very good-looking for all that. probably his paleness added to the charm of his looks and manner, and there was the gentleman in every movement, grace in every turn. they shook hands fervently at the station, and soon in craig's dogcart were rattling along towards birnie-boozle. reginald's reception was everything that could be desired, and the hospitality truly highland. says burns the immortal: "in heaven itself i'll seek nae mair than just a highland welcome!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ for over a week--for well-nigh a fortnight, indeed--they fished by the river, and caught many a trout, as well as lordly salmon, without seeing anyone belonging to bilberry hall, except shufflin' sandie, for whom the grand old river had irresistible attractions. sandie smelt a rat, though, and imagined he knew well enough why craig nicol did not bring his friend to the hall. before falling asleep one night, craig had an inspiration, and he slept more soundly after it. he would take his friend on a grand highland tour, which should occupy all his vacation. yes. but man can only propose. god has the disposal of our actions. and something happened next that craig could not have calculated on. they had been to the hill, which was still red and crimson with the bonnie blooming heather, and were coming down through the forest, not far from bilberry hall, when suddenly they heard a shot fired, then the sounds of a fearful struggle. both young men grasped their sturdy cudgels and rushed on. they found two of mcleod's gamekeepers engaged in a terrible encounter with four sturdy poachers. but when craig and his friend came down they were man to man, and the poachers fled. not, however, before poor reginald was stabbed in the right chest with a _skean dhu_, the little dagger that kilted highlanders wear in their right stocking. the young doctor had fallen. the keepers thought he was dead, the blood was so abundant. but he had merely fainted. they bound his wound with scarves, made a litter of spruce branches, and bore him away to the nearest house, and that was the hall. craig entered first, lest annie should be frightened, and while shufflin' sandie rode post-haste for the doctor poor reginald was put to bed downstairs in a beautiful room that overlooked both forest and river. so serious did the doctor consider the case that he stayed with him all night. a rough-looking stick was this country surgeon, in rough tweed jacket and knickerbockers, but tender-hearted to a degree. craig had gone home about ten, somewhat sad-hearted and hopeless. not, it must be confessed, for his friend's accident, but reginald would now be always with annie, for she had volunteered to nurse him. but craig rode over every day to see the wounded man for all that. "he has a tough and wondrous constitution," said dr mcrae. "he'll pull through under my care and annie's gentle nursing." craig nicol winced, but said nothing. reginald had brought a dog with him, a splendid black newfoundland, and that dog was near him almost constantly. sometimes he would put his paws on the coverlet, and lean his cheek against his master in a most affectionate way. indeed, this action sometimes brought the tears to annie's eyes. no more gentle or kind nurse could reginald have had than annie. to the guileless simplicity of a child was added all the wisdom of a woman. and she obeyed to the very letter all the instructions the doctor gave her. she was indefatigable. though fanny relieved her for hours during the day, annie did most of the night work. at first the poor fellow was delirious, raving much about his mother and sisters. with cooling lotions she allayed the fever in his head. ay, she did more: she prayed for him. ah! scots folk are strange in english eyes, but perhaps some of them are saints in god's. reginald, however, seemed to recover semiconsciousness all at once. the room in which he lay was most artistically adorned, the pictures beautifully draped, coloured candles, mirrors, and brackets everywhere. he looked around him half-dazed; then his eyes were fixed on annie. "where am i?" he asked. "is this heaven? are you an--an--angel?" he half-lifted himself in the bed, but she gently laid him back on the snow-white pillows again. "you must be good, dear," she said, as if he had been a baby. "be good and try to sleep." and the eyes were closed once more, and the slumber now was sweet and refreshing. when he awoke again, after some hours, his memory had returned, and he knew all. his voice was very feeble, but he asked for his friend, craig nicol. but business had taken craig away south to london, and it would be a fortnight before he could return. ah! what a happy time convalescence is, and happier still was it for reginald with a beautiful nurse like annie--annie o' the banks o' dee. in a week's time he was able to sit in an easy-chair in the drawing-room. annie sang soft, low songs to him, and played just as softly. she read to him, too, both verse and prose. soon he was able to go for little drives, and now got rapidly well. is it any wonder that, thrown together in so romantic a way, these two young people fell in love, or that when he plighted his troth annie shyly breathed the wee word yes? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ craig nicol came back at last, and he saw reginald alone. reginald--impulsive he ever was--held out his hand and asked for congratulations on his engagement to annie. craig almost struck that hand away. his face grew dark and lowering. "curse you!" he cried. "you were my friend once, or pretended to be. now i hate you; you have robbed me of my own wee lamb, my sweetheart, and now have the impudence--the confounded impertinence--to ask me to congratulate you! you are as false as the devil in hell!" "craig nicol," said reginald, and his cheeks flushed red, "i am too weak to fight you now, but when i am well you shall rue these words! _au revoir_. we meet again." this stormy encounter took place while the young doctor sat on a rocking-chair on the gravelled terrace. shufflin sandie was close at hand. "gentlemen," said sandie, "for the lord's sake, don't quarrel!" but craig said haughtily, "go and mind your own business, you blessed paul pry." then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, and soon after his horse's hoofs might have been heard clattering on the road as he dashed briskly on towards his farm of birnie-boozle. annie lane came round from the flower-garden at the west wing of bilberry hall. she carried in her hand a bouquet of autumnal roses and choice dahlias--yellow, crimson, and white; piped or quilled cactus and single. she was singing low to herself the refrain of that bonnie old song: "when jackie's far awa' at sea, when jackie's far awa' at sea, what's a' the pleasure life can gie, when jackie's far awa'?" perhaps she never looked more innocently happy or more beautiful than she did at that moment. "like dew on the gowans lying was the fa' o' her fairy feet; and like winds in summer sighing, her voice was low and sweet." but when she noticed the pallor on her lovers cheek she ceased singing, and advanced more quickly towards him. "oh, my darling," she cried, "how pale you are! you are ill! you must come in. mind, i am still your nursie." "no, no; i am better here. i have the fresh air. but i am only a little upset, you know." "and what upset you, dear reginald?" she had seated herself by his side. she had taken his hand, and had placed two white wee fingers on his pulse. "i'll tell you, annie mine--" "yes, i'm yours, and yours only, and ever shall be." "craig nicol has been here, and we have quarrelled. he has cursed and abused me. he says i have stolen your heart from him, and now he must for ever hate me." "but, oh, reginald, he never had my heart!" "i never knew he had sought it, dearest." "yet he did. i should have told you before, but he persecuted me with his protestations of love. often and often have i remained in my room all the evening long when i knew he was below." "well, he cursed me from the bottom of his heart and departed. not before i told him that our quarrel could not end thus, that i was too proud to stand abuse, that when well i should fight him." "oh, no--no--no! for my sake you must not fight." "annie, my ain little dove, do you remember these two wee lines: "`i could not love thee half so much, loved i not honour more.' "there is no hatred so deep and bitter as that between two men who have once been friends. no; both craig and i will be better pleased after we fight; but this quarrel i fear must end in blood." poor annie shuddered. just at that moment shufflin' sandie appeared on the scene. he was never far away. "can i get ye a plaid, mr grahame, to throw o'er your legs? it's gettin' cold now, i fear." "no, no, my good fellow; we don't want attendance at present. thank you all the same, however." oscar, reginald's great newfoundland, came bounding round now to his master's side. he had been hunting rats and rabbits. the embrace he gave his master was rough, but none the less sincere. then he lay down by his feet, on guard, as it were; for a dog is ever suspicious. annie was very silent and very sad. reginald drew her towards him, and she rested her head on his shoulder. but tears bedimmed her blue eyes, and a word of sympathy would have caused her to burst into a fit of weeping that would probably have been hysterical in its nature. so reginald tried to appear unconcerned. they sat in silence thus for some time. the silence of lovers is certainly golden. presently, bright, neatly-dressed fanny came tripping round, holding in advance of her a silver salver. "a letter, sir," she said, smiling. reginald took it slowly from the salver, and his hand shook visibly. "annie," he said, somewhat sadly, "i believe this contains my sailing orders." chapter five. a discovery that appalled and shocked everyone. reginald had guessed aright. the good barque _wolverine_ would sail from glasgow that day month, wind and weather permitting, for the south atlantic, and round the horn to the south pacific islands and san francisco. this was from the captain; but a note was enclosed from mrs hall, reginald's pet aunt, hoping he was quite restored to health and strength, and would join them some hours before sailing. she felt certain, she said, that the long voyage would quite restore her, and her daughter ilda and wee niece matty were wild with delight at the prospect of being-- "all alone on the wide, wide sea." "oh, my darling!" cried annie, "i believe my heart will break to lose you." "but it will not be for long, my love--a year at most; and, oh, our reunion will be sweet! you know, annie, i am _very_ poor, with scarce money enough to procure me an outfit. it is better our engagement should not be known just yet to the old laird, your uncle. he would think it most presumptuous in me to aspire to the hand of his heiress. but i shall be well and strong long before a month; and think, dearest, i am to have five hundred pounds for acting as private doctor and nurse to mrs hall! when i return i shall complete my studies, set up in practice, and then, oh, then, annie, you and i shall be married! "`two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one.'" but the tears were now silently chasing each other down her cheeks. "cheer up, my own," said reginald, drawing her closer to him. presently she did, and then the woman, not the child, came uppermost. "reginald," she said, "tell me, is miss hall very beautiful?" "i hardly know how to answer you, annie. i sometimes think she is. fragile, rather, with masses of glittering brown hair, and hazel eyes that are sometimes very large, as she looks at you while you talk. but," he added, "there can be no true love unless there is a little jealousy. ah, annie," he continued, smiling, "i see it in your eye, just a tiny wee bit of it. but it mustn't increase. i have plighted my troth to you, and will ever love you as i do now, as long as the sun rises over yonder woods and forests." "i know, i know you will," said annie, and once more the head was laid softly on his shoulder. "there is one young lady, however, of whom you have some cause to be jealous." "and she?" "i confess, annie, that i loved her a good deal. ah, don't look sad; it is only matty, and she is just come five." poor annie laughed in a relieved sort of way. the lovers said little more for a time, but presently went for a walk in the flower-gardens, and among the black and crimson buds of autumn. reginald could walk but slowly yet, and was glad enough of the slight support of annie's arm. "ah, annie," he said, "it won't be long before you shall be leaning on my arm instead of me on yours." "i pray for that," said the child-woman. the gardens were still gay with autumnal flowers, and i always think that lovers are a happy adjunct to a flower-garden. but it seemed to be the autumn buds that were the chief attraction for reginald at present. they were everywhere trailing in vines over the hedgerows, supported on their own sturdy stems or climbing high over the gables and wings of the grand old hall. the deadly nightshade, that in summer was covered with bunches of sweetest blue, now grew high over the many hedges, hung with fruitlike scarlet bunches of the tiniest grapes. the _bryonia alba_, sometimes called the devil's parsnip, that in june snows the country hedges over with its wealth of white wee flowers, was now splashed over with crimson budlets. the holly berries were already turning. the black-berried ivy crept high up the shafts of the lordly lombardy poplars. another tiny berry, though still green, grew in great profusion--it would soon be black--the fruit of the privet. the pyrocanthus that climbs yonder wall is one lovely mass of vermilion berries in clusters. these rival in colour and appearance the wealth of red fruit on the rowan trees or mountain ashes. "how beautiful, annie," said reginald, gazing up at the nodding berries. "do you mind the old song, dear?-- "`oh, rowan tree, oh, rowan tree, thou'lt ay be dear to me; begirt thou art with many thoughts of home and infancy. "`thy leaves were ay the first in spring thy flowers the summer's pride; there wasn't such a bonnie tree in a' the countryside, oh, rowan tree!'" "it is very beautiful," said annie, "and the music is just as beautiful, though plaintive, and even sad. i shall play it to you to-night." but here is an arbour composed entirely of a gigantic briar, laden with rosy fruit. yet the king-tree of the garden is the barberry, and i never yet knew a botanist who could describe the lavish loveliness of those garlands of rosy coral. with buds of a somewhat deeper shade the dark yews were sprinkled, and in this fairy-like garden or arboretum grew trees and shrubs of every kind. over all the sun shone with a brilliancy of a delightful september day. the robins followed the couple everywhere, sometimes even hopping on to reginald's shoulder or annie's hat, for these birds seem to know by instinct where kindness of heart doth dwell. "annie," said reginald, after a pause, "i am very, very happy." "and i, dear," was the reply, "am very hopeful." how quickly that month sped away. reginald was as strong as ever again, and able to play cards of an evening with laird mcleod or laird fletcher, for the latter, knowing that the farmer of birnie-boozle came here no longer, renewed his visits. i shall not say much about the parting. they parted in tears and in sorrow, that is all; with many a fond vow, with many a fond embrace. it has often grieved me to think how very little englishmen know about our most beautiful scottish songs. though but a little simple thing, "the pairtin'" (parting) is assuredly one of the most plaintively melodious i know of in any language. it is very _apropos_ to the parting of reginald and annie o' the banks o' dee. "mary, dearest maid, i leave thee, home and friends, and country dear, oh, ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee, happier days may soon be here. "see, yon bark so proudly bounding, soon shall bear me o'er the sea; hark! the trumpet loudly sounding, calls me far from love and thee. "summer flowers shall cease to blossom, streams run backward from the sea; cold in death must be this bosom ere it cease to throb for thee. "fare thee well--may every blessing shed by heaven around thee fa'; one last time thy lov'd form pressing-- think on me when far awa'." "if you would keep song in your hearts," says a writer of genius, "learn to sing. there is more merit in melody than most people are aware of. even the cobbler who smoothes his wax-ends with a song will do as much work in a day as one given to ill-nature would do in a week. songs are like sunshine, they run to cheerfulness, and fill the bosom with such buoyancy, that for the time being you feel filled with june air or like a meadow of clover in blossom." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ how lonely the gardens and the hall itself seemed to annie now that her lover had gone, and how sad at heart was she! well, and how reluctant am i myself to leave all these pleasant scenes, and bring before the mind's eye an event so terrible and a deed so dark that i almost shudder as i describe it; but as the evolution of this ower-true tale depends upon it, i am obliged to. first, i must tell you that just two days before joining his ship, reginald had to go to aberdeen to see friends and bid them adieu. but it happened that craig nicol had made a visit on foot to aberdeen about the same time. thirty, or even forty, miles was not too much for a sturdy young fellow like him. he had told his housekeeper a week before that he was to draw money from the bank--a considerable sum, too. this was foolish of him, for the garrulous old woman not only boasted to the neighbouring servants of the wealth of her master, but even told them the day he would leave for the town. poor craig set off as merrily as any half-broken hearted lover could be expected to do. but, alas! after leaving aberdeen on his homeward journey, he had never been seen alive again by anyone who knew him. as he often, however, made a longer stay in town than he had first intended, the housekeeper and servants of birnie-boozle were not for a time alarmed; but soon the assistance of the police was called in, with the hopes of solving the mystery. all they did find out, however, was that he had left the granite city well and whole, and that he had called at an inn called the five mile house on the afternoon to partake of some refreshment. after that all was a dread and awful blank. there was not a pond, however, or copse along from this inn that was not searched. then the river was dragged by men used to work of this sort. but all in vain. the mystery remained still unrevealed. only the police, as usual, vaunted about having a clue, and being pressed to explain, a sergeant said: "why, only this: you see he drew a lot of cash from the bank in notes and gold, and as we hear that he is in grief, there is little doubt in our minds that he has gone, for a quiet holiday to the continent, or even to the states." certain in their own minds that this was the case, the worthy police force troubled themselves but little more about the matter. they thought they had searched everywhere; but one place they had forgotten and missed. from the high road, not many miles from birnie-boozle, a road led. it was really little more than a bridle-path, but it shortened the journey by at least a mile, and when returning from town craig nicol always took advantage of this. strange, indeed, it was, that no one, not even the housekeeper, had thought of giving information about this to the police. but the housekeeper was to be excused. she was plunged deeply in grief. she and she only would take no heed of the supposed clue to the mystery that the sergeant made sure he had found. "oh, oh," she would cry, "my master is dead! i know, i know he is. in a dream he appeared to me. how wan and weird he looked, and his garments were drenched in blood and gore. oh, master, dear, kind, good master, i shall never, never see you more!" and the old lady wrung her hands and wept and sobbed as if her very heart would break. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ reginald's ship had been about two days at sea. the wind was fair and strong, so that she had made a good offing, and was now steering south by west, bearing up for the distant shores of south america. and it was now that a discovery was made that appalled and shocked everyone in all the countryside. chapter six. a verdict of murder. about half-way up the short cut, or bridle-path, was a dark, dingy spruce-fir copse. it was separated from the roads by a high whitethorn hedge, trailed over with brambles, the black, shining, rasp-like fruit of which were now ripe and juicy. they were a great attraction to the wandering schoolboy. two lads, aged about eight or ten--great favourites with craig's housekeeper--were given a basket each in the forenoon and sent off to pick the berries and to return to tea about four o'clock. there was a gate that entered from the path, but it was seldom, if ever, opened, save probably by the wood-cutters. well, those two poor little fellows returned hours and hours before tea-time. they were pale and scared-looking. in their terror they had even dropped their baskets. "oh, the man! the man!" they cried, as soon as they entered. "the poor, dead man!" although some presentiment told the aged housekeeper that this must indeed be the dead body of her unhappy master, she summoned courage to run herself to the police-station. an officer was soon on the fatal spot, guided by the braver of the two little lads. with his big knife the policeman hacked away some of the lower branches of the spruce-fir, and thus let in the light. it was indeed craig, and there was little doubt that he had been foully murdered. but while one officer took charge of the corpse, he did not touch it, but dispatched another to telegraph to aberdeen at once for a detective. he arrived by the very next train, accompanied by men with a letter. the news had spread like wildfire, and quite a crowd had by this time gathered in the lane, but they were kept far back from the gate lest their footsteps should deface any traces of the murder. even the imprint of a shoe might be invaluable in clearing up an awful mystery like this. mr c., the detective, and the surgeon immediately started their investigations. it was only too evident that craig nicol had been stabbed to the heart. his clothes were one mass of gore, and hard with blood. on turning the body over, a discovery was made that caused the detective's heart to palpitate with joy. here, underneath it, was found a highlander's _skean dhu_ (stocking dirk). the little sheath itself was found at a distance of a few yards, and it must evidently have been dropped by the murderer, in his haste to conceal the body. "ha! this is indeed a clue," said the detective. "this knife did the deed, george. see, it is encrusted with blood." "i think so, sir." "and look, on the silver back of the little sheath are the letters r.g." he took the dagger in his hand, and went back to the little crowd. "can anyone identify this knife?" he asked, showing it to them. no one could. "can you?" said the detective, going to the rear and addressing shufflin' sandie. sandie appeared to be in deep grief. "must i tell?" "you needn't now, unless you like, but you must at the inquest." "then, sir, i may as well say it now. the knife belongs to mr grahame." a thrill of horror went through the little crowd, and sandy burst into tears. "where does he live, this mr grahame?" "he did live at bilberry hall, sir," blubbered sandie; "but a few days ago he sailed away for the southern seas." "was he poor or rich, sandie?" "as poor as a church mouse, sir. i've heard him tell miss annie lane so. for i was always dandlin' after them." "thank you; that will do in the meantime." craig had evidently been robbed, for the pockets were turned inside out, and another discovery made was this: the back of the coat was covered with dust or dried mud, so that, in all human probability, he must have been murdered on the road, then dragged and hidden here. there was a terrible bruise on one side of the head, so it was evident enough to the surgeon, as well as to the detective, that the unfortunate man must first have been stunned and afterwards stabbed. there was evidence, too, that the killing had been done on the road; there were marks of the gravel having been scraped away, and this same gravel, blackened with blood, was found in the ditch. the detective took his notes of the case, then calling his man, proceeded to have the man laid on the litter. the body was not taken home, but to the barn of an adjoining cottage. here when the coroner was summoned and arrived from aberdeen, part of the inquest was held. after viewing the body, the coroner and jury went to birnie-boozle, and here more business was gone through. the housekeeper was the first to be examined. she was convulsed with grief, and could only testify as to the departure and date of departure of her master for the distant city, with the avowed intention of drawing money. "that will do, my good woman; you can retire." the next witness to be examined was shufflin' sandie. he was exceedingly cool, and took a large pinch of snuff before answering a question. "were not craig nicol and reginald grahame particular friends?" "once upon a time, sir; but he was awfully jealous was craig, and never brought grahame to the hall; but after the fight with thae devils of poachers, grahame was carried, wounded, to bilberry hall, and nursed by miss annie. not much wonder, sir, that they fell in love. i would have done the same myself. i--" "now, don't be garrulous." "oh, devil a garrylus; i'll not say another word if ye like." "well, go on." "well, sir, they were engaged. then one day craig comes to the hall, and there was terrible angry words. craig cursed grahame and called him all the ill names he could lay his tongue to." "and did grahame retaliate?" "indeed did he, sir; he didn't swear, but he said that as soon as he was well, the _quarrel should end in blood_." (sensation in court.) "had craig any other enemy?" "that he had--old laird fletcher. they met at the riverside one day, and had a row, and fought. i saw and heard everything. craig nicol told the old laird that he would have nobody snuffling round his lady love. then they off-coat and fought. man! it was fine! the laird put in some good ones, but the young 'un had it at last. then he flung the laird into the river, and when he got out he threatened to do for poor craig nicol." (sensation.) sandie paused to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, and took snuff before he could proceed. "you think," said the coroner, "that laird fletcher meant to carry out his threat?" "i don't know. i only know this--he was in doonright devilish earnest when he made it." "i am here," said laird fletcher, "and here, too, are five witnesses to prove that i have not been twice outside my own gate since craig nicol started for aberdeen. once i was at the hall, and my groom here drove me there and back; i was too ill to walk." the witnesses were examined on oath, and no alibi was ever more clearly proven. laird fletcher was allowed to leave the court without a stain on his character. "i am sorry to say, gentlemen," addressing the jury, "that there appears no way out of the difficulty, and that his poverty would alone have led grahame to commit the terrible deed, to say nothing of his threat that the quarrel would end in blood. poor craig nicol has been robbed, and foully, brutally murdered, and reginald grahame sails almost immediately after for the south seas. i leave the verdict with you." without leaving the box, and after a few minutes of muttered conversation, the foreman stood up. "have you agreed as to your verdict?" "unanimously, sir." "and it is?" "wilful murder, sir, committed by the hands of reginald grahame." "thank you. and now you may retire." ill news travels apace, and despite all that fanny and annie's maid could do, the terrible accusation against her lover soon reached our poor heroine's ears. at first she wept most bitterly, but it was not because she believed in reginald's guilt. no, by no means. it was because she felt sorrow for him. he was not here to defend himself, as she was sure he could. perhaps love is blind, and lovers cannot see. but true love is trusting. annie had the utmost faith in reginald grahame--a faith that all the accusations the world could make against him could not shake, nor coroners' verdicts either. "no, no, no," she exclaimed to her maid passionately, through her tears, "my darling is innocent, though things look black against him. ah! how unfortunate that he should have gone to the city during those three terrible days!" she was silent for a couple of minutes. "depend upon it, jeannie," she added, "someone else was the murderer. and for all his alibi, which i believe to be got up, i blame that laird fletcher." "oh, don't, dearest annie," cried the maid, "believe me when i say i could swear before my maker that he is not guilty." "i am hasty, because in sorrow," said annie. "i may alter my mind soon. anyhow, he does not look the man to be guilty of so terrible a crime, and he has been always kind and fatherly to me, since the day i ran away from the arbour. knowing that i am engaged, he will not be less so now. but, oh, my love, my love! reginald, when shall i ever see thee again? i would die for thee, with thee; as innocent thou as the babe unborn. oh reginald my love, my love!" her perfect confidence in her lover soon banished annie's grief. he would return. he might be tried, she told herself, but he would leave the court in robes of white, so to speak, able to look any man in the face, without spot or stain on his character. then they would be wedded. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ a whole month flew by, during which--so terrible is justice--an expedition was sent to san francisco overland, with policemen, to meet the _wolverine_ there, and at once to capture their man. they waited and waited a weary time. six months flew by, nine months, a year; still she came not, and at last she was classed among the ships that ne'er return. reginald grahame will never be seen again--so thought the 'tecs--"till the sea gives up the dead." chapter seven. buying the bonnie things. to say that annie was not now in grief would be wrong. still hope told a flattering tale. and that tale sufficed to keep her heart up. he must have been wrecked somewhere, but had she not prayed night and day for him? yes, he was safe--must be. heaven would protect him. prayers are heard, and he _would_ return safe and sound, to defy his enemies and his slanderers as well. fletcher had been received back into favour. somewhat penurious he was known to be, but so kind and gentle a man as he could never kill. had she not seen him remove a worm from the garden path lest it might be trodden upon by some incautious foot? he kept her hopes up, too, and assured her that he believed as she did, that all would come right in the end. if everybody else believed that the _wolverine_ was a doomed ship, poor annie didn't. there came many visitors to the hall, young and middle-aged, and more than one made love to annie. she turned a deaf ear to all. but now an event occurred that for a time banished some of the gloom that hung around bilberry hall. about two months before this, one morning, after old laird mcleod had had breakfast, shufflin' sandie begged for an audience. "most certainly," said mcleod. "show the honest fellow in." so in marched sandie, bonnet in hand, and determined on this occasion to speak the very best english he could muster. "well, sandie?" "well, laird. i think if a man has to break the ice, he'd better do it at once and have done with it. eh? what think _you_?" "that's right, sandie." "well, would you believe that a creature like me could possibly fall in love over the ears, and have a longing to get married?" "why not, sandie? i don't think you so bad-looking as some other folks call you." sandie smiled and took a pinch. "not to beat about the bush, then, laird, i'm just awfully gone on fanny." "and does she return your affection?" "that she does, sir; and sitting on a green bank near the forest one bonnie moonlit night, she promised to be my wife. you wouldn't turn me away, would you, sir, if i got married?" "no, no; you have been a faithful servant for many a day." "well, now, laird, here comes the bit. i want to build a bit housie on the knoll, close by the forest, just a but and a ben and a kennel. then i would breed terriers, and make a bit out of that. fanny would see to them while i did your work. but man, laird, i've scraped and scraped, and saved and saved, and i've hardly got enough yet to begin life with." "how much do you need?" "oh, laird, thirty pounds would make fanny and me as happy as a duke and duchess." "sandie, i'll lend it to you. i'll take no interest. and if you're able some time to pay it back, just do it. that will show you are as honest as i believe you are." the tears sprang, or seemed to spring, to sandie's eyes, and he had to take another big noseful of snuff to hide his emotions. "may the lord bless ye, laird! i'll just run over now and tell fanny." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it does not take so long to build a highland cot as it would to erect a crystal palace, and in three weeks' time shufflin' sandie's house was complete and furnished. he had even laid out a garden or kail-yard, and planted a few suitable trees. then, when another month had passed away, sandie once more sought audience of the good laird, and formally begged for fanny's hand. next the wedding-day was settled, and the minister's services requisitioned. and one day shufflin' sandie set off for aberdeen by train to buy the "bonnie things," as they are termed. perhaps there are no more beautiful streets in great britain than union street and king street, especially as seen by moonlight. they then look as if built of the whitest and purest of marble. while the beautiful villas of rubislaw, with their charming flower-gardens, are of all sorts of architecture, and almost rival the snow in their sheen. fanny was charmed. strange to say this simple servant lassie had never been to the city before. it was all a kind of fairyland to her, and, look wherever she might, things of beauty met her eyes. and the windows--ah, the windows! she must pull sandie by the sleeve every other minute, for she really could not pass a draper's shop nor a jeweller's without stopping to glance in and admire. "oh!" she would cry, "look, look, sandie, dear, at the chains and the watches, and the bracelets and diamonds and pearls. surely all the gold in ophir is there!" one particularly well-dressed window--it was a ladies' drapery shop-- almost startled her. she drew back and blushed a little as her eyes fell on a full-length figure of a lady in fashionable array. "oh, sandie, is she living?" "de'il a living?" said sandie. "her body's timber, and her face and hands are made out of cobbler's wax. that's how living she is." "but what a splendid dress! and yonder is another. surely solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!" "well, fanny, lassie, beautiful though this shop be, it is a pretty cheap one, so we'll buy your marriage dress here." the shop-walker was very obsequious. "marriage dress, sir. certainly, sir. third counter down, my lady." fanny had never been so addressed before, and she rose several inches in her own estimation. "i--that is, she--is needing a marriage dress, missie." "ready-made?" "ay, that'll do, if it isn't over dear. grand though we may look in our sunday clothes, we're not o'er-burdened with cash; but we're going to be married for all that." sandie chuckled and took snuff, and fanny blushed, as usual. "i'm sure i wish you joy," said the girl in black. "i'm certain ye do. you're a bit bonnie lassie yerself, and some day ye'll get a man. ye mind what the song says: "`oh, bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, ye little know what may betide ye yet; some bonnie wee mannie may fa' to your lot, so ay be canty and thinkin' o't.'" the girl in black certainly took pleasure in fitting fanny, and, when dressed, she took a peep in the tall mirror--well, she didn't know herself! she was as beautiful as one of the wax figures in the window. sandy was dazed. he took snuff, and, scarce knowing what he was doing, handed the box to the lassie in black who was serving them. well, in an hour's time all the bonnie things that could be purchased in this shop were packed in large pasteboard boxes, and dispatched to the station waiting-room. but before sallying forth sandie and fanny thought it must be the correct thing to shake hands with the girl in black, much to her amusement. "good-bye, my lady; good-bye, sir. i hope you were properly served." this from the shop-walker. "that we were," said sandie. "and, man, we'll be married--fanny and me--next week. well, we're to be cried three times in one day from the pulpit. to save time, ye see. well, i'll shake hands now, and say good-day, sir, and may the lord be ay around you. good-bye." "the same to you," said the shop-walker, trying hard to keep from laughing. "the same to you, sir, and many of them." there were still a deal of trinkets to be bought, and many gee-gaws, but above all the marriage ring. sandie did feel very important as he put down that ten shillings and sixpence on the counter, and received the ring in what he called a bonnie wee boxie. "me and fanny here are going to be married," he couldn't help saying. "i'm sure i wish ye joy, sir, and"--here the shopman glanced at fanny--"i envy you, indeed i do." sandie must now have a drop of scotch. then they had dinner. sandie couldn't help calling the waiter "sir," nor fanny either. "hold down your ear, sir," sandie said, as the waiter was helping him to gorgonzola. "we're going to be married, fanny and i. cried three times in one sunday. what think ye of that?" of course, the waiter wished him joy, and sandie gave him a shilling. "i hope you'll not be offended, sir, but just drink my health, you know." the joys of the day ended up with a visit to the theatre. fanny was astonished and delighted. oh, what a day that was! fanny never forgot it. they left by a midnight train for home, and all the way, whenever fanny shut her eyes, everything rose up before her again as natural as life--the charming streets, the gay windows, and the scenes she had witnessed in the theatre, and the gay crowds in every street. and so it was in her dreams, when at last she fell asleep. but both fanny and sandie went about their work next day in their week-day clothes as quietly as if nothing very extraordinary had happened, or was going to happen in a few days' time. of course, after he had eaten his brose, sandie must "nip up," as he phrased it, to have a look at the cottage. old grannie stewart--she was only ninety-three--was stopping here for the present, airing it, burning fires in both rooms, for fear the young folks might catch a chill. "ah, grannie!" cried sandie, "i'm right glad to see you. and look, i've brought a wee drappie in a flat bottle. ye must just taste. it'll warm your dear old heart." the old lady's eyes glittered. "well," she said, "it's not much of that comes my way, laddie. my blood is not so thick as it used to be. for--would you believe it!--i think i'm beginnin' to grow auld." "nonsense," said sandie. old or young the old dame managed to whip off her drop of scotch, though it brought the water to her eyes. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ and now all preparations were being made for the coming marriage. for several days sandie had to endure much chaff and wordy persecution from the lads and lasses about his diminutive stature and his uncouth figure. sandie didn't mind. sandie was happy. sandie took snuff. chapter eight. a scottish peasant's wedding and a ball. old laird mcleod had a right good heart of his own, and willingly permitted the marriage to take place in his drawing-room. there were very few guests, however. the grey-haired old minister was there in time to taste the wine of scotland before the ceremony began, which, after all, though short, was very solemn. no reading of prayers. the prayer that was said was from the heart, not from a book; that sort of prayer which opens heaven. a long exhortation followed, hands were joined, the minister laid his above, and sandie and fanny were man and wife. then the blessing. i don't know why it was, but fanny was in tears most of the time. the marriage took place in the afternoon; and dinner was to follow. annie good-naturedly took fanny to her own room and washed away her tears. in due time both sailed down to dinner. and a right jolly dinner it was, too. fanny had never seen anything like it before. of course that lovely haunch of tender venison was the _piece de resistance_, while an immense plum-pudding brought up the rear. dessert was spread, with some rare wines--including whisky--but sandie could scarce be prevailed upon to touch anything. he was almost awed by the presence of the reverend and aged minister, who tried, whenever he could, to slip in a word or two about the brevity of life, the eternity that was before them all, the judgment day, and so on, and so forth. but the minister, for all that, patronised the highland whisky. "no, no," he said, waving the port wine away. "`look not thou upon the wine when it is red; when it giveth his colour to the cup... at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.'" it was observed, however, that as he spoke he filled his glass with glenlivet. well, i suppose no man need care to look upon the wine when it is red, if his tumbler be flanked by a bottle of scotch. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the dinner ended, there was the march homeward to sandie's wee house on the knoll, pipers first, playing right merrily; sandie and his bride arm-in-arm next; then, four deep, lads and lasses gay, to the number of fifty at least. and what cheering and laughing as they reached the door. but finally all departed to prepare for the ball that was to take place later on in the great barn of bilberry hall. and it was a barn, too!--or, rather, a loft, for it was built partly on a brae, so that after climbing some steps you found yourself on level ground, and entered a great door. early in the evening, long ere lad and lass came linking to the door, the band had taken their places on an elevated platform at one side of, but in the middle of, the hall. the floor was swept and chalked, the walls all around densely decorated with evergreens, scotch pine and spruce and heather galore, with here and there hanging lamps. boys and girls, however, hovered around the doorway and peeped in now and then, amazed and curious. to them, too, the tuning of the musicians' fiddles sent a thrill of joy expectant to their little souls. how they did long, to be sure, for the opening time. as the vultures scent a battle from afar, so do the aberdeen "sweetie" wives scent a peasant's ball. and these had already assembled to the number of ten in all, with baskets filled to overflowing with packets of sweets. these would be all sold before morning. these sweetie wives were not young by any means--save one or two-- "but withered beldames, auld and droll, rig-woodie hags would spean a foal." they really looked like witches in their tall-crowned white cotton caps with flapping borders. a half-hour goes slowly past. the band is getting impatient. a sweet wee band it is--three small fiddles, a 'cello, a double bass, and clarionet. the master of ceremonies treats them all to a thistle of the wine of the country. then the leader gives a signal, and they strike into some mournfully plaintive old melodies, such as "auld robin grey," "the flowers o' the forest," "donald," etc, enough to draw tears from anyone's eyes. but now, hurrah! in sails fanny with shufflin' sandie on her arm, looking as bright as a new brass button. there is a special seat for them, and for the laird, annie, and the quality generally, at the far end of the hall--a kind of arbour, sweetly bedecked with heather, and draped with mcleod tartan. here they take their seats. there is a row of seats all round the hall and close to the walls. and now crowd in the highland lads and lasses gay, the latter mostly in white, with ribbons in their hair, and tartan sashes across their breasts and shoulders. very beautiful many look, with complexions such as duchesses might envy, and their white teeth flashing like pearls as they whisper to each other and smile. as each couple file in at the door, the gentleman takes his partner to a seat, bows and retires to his own side, for the ladies and gentlemen are seated separately, modestly looking at each other now and then, the lads really infinitely more shy than the lasses. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ now laird mcleod slowly rises. there is a hush now, and all eyes are turned towards the snowy-haired grand old man. "ladies and gentlemen all," he says, "i trust you will enjoy a really happy evening, and i am sure it will be an innocent one. `youth's the season made for joy.' i have only to add that the bridegroom himself will open the ball with a hornpipe." a deafening cheer rang out, the musicians struck up that inimitable college hornpipe, and next moment, arrayed in his best clothes, shufflin' sandie was in the middle of the floor. he waited, bowing to the mcleod and the ballroom generally, till the first measure was played. then surely never did man-o'-war sailor dance as sandie danced! his legs seemed in two or three places at one time, and so quickly did he move that scarce could they be seen. he seemed, indeed, to have as many limbs as a daddy-long-legs. he shuffled, he tripled and double-tripled, while the cracking of his thumbs sounded for all the world like a nigger's performance with the bones. then every wild, merry "hooch!" brought down the house. such laughing and clapping of hands few have ever heard before. sandie's uncouth little figure and droll face added to the merriment, and when he had finished there was a general cry of "encore!" sandie danced another step or two, then bowed, took a huge pinch of snuff, and retired. but the ball was not quite opened yet. a foursome reel was next danced by the bride and annie herself, with as partners shufflin' sandie and mcleod's nephew, a handsome young fellow from aberdeen. it was the reel of tulloch, and, danced in character, there is not much to beat it. then came a cry of "fill the floor!" and every lad rushed across the hall for his partner. the ball was now indeed begun. and so, with dance after dance, it went on for hours: "lads and lassies in a dance; nae cotillion brent new frae france; but hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels put life and mettle in their heels." sandie hardly missed a dance. he was indeed the life and soul of the ballroom. the sweetie wives were almost sold out already, for every jock must treat his own jeannie, or the other fellow's jeannie, to bags and handfuls of sweets. and the prettier the girl was the more she received, till she was fain to hand them over to her less good-looking sisters. but at midnight there came a lull--a lull for refreshments. white-aproned servants staggered in with bread, butter, and cheese, and bucketfuls of strong whisky punch. there was less reserve now. the lads had their lasses at either side of the hall, and for the most part on their knees. even the girls must taste the punch, and the lads drank heartily--not one mugful each, but three! nevertheless, they felt like giants refreshed. "and now the fun grew fast and furious"--and still more so when, arrayed in all the tartan glory of the highland dress, two stalwart pipers stalked in to relieve the band, grand men and athletes! "they screwed their pipes and made them skirl, till roofs and rafters all did dirl. the pipers loud and louder blew, the dancers quick and quicker flew." but at two o'clock again came a lull; more biscuits, more bread-and-cheese, and many more buckets of toddy or punch. and during this lull, accompanied by the violins, sandie sang the grand old love-song called "the rose of allandale." it was duly appreciated, and sandie was applauded to the "ring of the bonnet," as he himself phrased it. then annie herself was led to the front by her uncle. everyone was silent and seemingly dazzled by her rare but childlike beauty. her song was "ever of thee i'm fondly dreaming." perhaps few were near enough to see, but the tears were in the girl's eyes, and almost streaming over more than once before she had finished. and now mcleod and his party took their leave, sandie and his bride following close behind. the ball continued after this, however, till nearly daylight in the morning. then "bob at the booster"--a kind of kiss-in-the-ring dance-- brought matters to a close, and, wrapped in plaids and shawls, the couples filed away to their homes, over the fields and through the heather. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ next day shufflin' sandie was working away among his horses as quietly and contentedly as if he had not been married at all yesterday, or spent the evening in a ballroom. before, however, leaving his little cottage by the wood, he had dutifully made his wife a cup of tea, and commanded her to rest for hours before turning out to cook their humble dinner. and dutifully she obeyed. the laird and sandie came to an arrangement that same forenoon as to how much work he was to do for him and how much for himself. "indeed, sir," he told mcleod, "i'll just get on the same as i did before i got the wife. my kail-yard's but small as yet, and it'll be little trouble to dig and rake in the evening." "very well, sandie. help yourself to a glass there." sandie needed no second bidding. he was somewhat of an enthusiast as far as good whisky was concerned; perfectly national, in fact, as regarded the wine of "poor auld scotland." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ nearly three years passed away. the ship had not returned. she never would, nor could. chapter nine. a bolt from the blue. nearly three years! what a long, lonesome time it had been for annie! yet she still had somewhat of hope--at times, that is. her cousin, mr beale, from the city, had spent his holiday very delightfully at bilberry hall; he had gone shooting, and fishing also, with annie; yet, much though he admired her, and could have loved her, he treated her with the greatest respect, condoled with her in her sorrow, and behaved just like a brother to her. her somewhat elderly lover was different. lover he was yet, though now fifty and three years of age, but fatherly and kind to a degree. "we all have griefs to bear in this world, annie dear," he said once. "they are burdens god sends us to try our patience. but your sorrow must soon be over. do you know, dear, that it is almost sinful to grieve so long for the dead?" "dead!" cried annie. "who knows, or can tell?" "oh, darling, i can no longer conceal it from you. perhaps i should have told you a year ago. here is the newspaper. here is the very paragraph. the figurehead of the unfortunate _wolverine_ and one of her boats have been picked up in the midst of the pacific ocean, and there can remain no doubt in the mind of anyone that she foundered with all hands. the insurance has been paid." annie sat dumb for a time--dumb and dry-eyed. she could not weep much, though tears would have relieved her. she found voice at last. "the lord's will be done," she said, simply but earnestly. laird fletcher said no more _then_. but he certainly was very far from giving up hope of eventually leading annie to the altar. and now the poor sorrowing lassie had given up all hope. she was, like most scotch girls of her standing in society, pious. she had learnt to pray at her mother's knee, and, when mother and father were taken away, at her uncle's. and now she consoled herself thus. "dear uncle," she said, "poor reginald is dead; but i shall meet him in a better world than this." "i trust so, darling." "and do you know, uncle, that now, as it is all over, i am almost relieved. a terrible charge hung over him, and oh! although my very soul cries out aloud that he was not guilty, the evidence might have led him to a death of shame. and i too should have died." "you must keep up your heart. come, i am going to paris for a few weeks with friend fletcher, and you too must come. needn't take more than your travelling and evening dresses," he added. "we'll see plenty of pretty things in the gay city." so it was arranged. so it was carried out. they went by steamer, this mode of travelling being easier for the old highlander. fletcher and mcleod combined their forces in order to give poor annie "a real good time," as brother jonathan would say. and it must be confessed at the end of the time, when they had seen everything and gone everywhere, annie was calmer and happier than she ever remembered being for years and years, and on their return from paris she settled down once more to her old work and her old ways. but the doctor advised more company, so she either visited some friends, or had friends to visit her, almost every night. old laird mcleod delighted in music, and if he did sit in his easy-chair with eyes shut and hands clasped in front of him, he was not asleep, but listening. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ how little do we know when evil is about to befall us! it was one lovely day in spring. annie had kissed her uncle on his bald, shining head, and gone off to gather wildflowers, chaperoned by jeannie, her maid, and accompanied by laird fletcher. this man was a naturalist--not a mere classifier. he did not fill cases with beetles or moths, give them latin names, and imagine that was all. he knew the life story and habits of almost every flower and tree, and every creature that crept, crawled, or flew. so he made just the kind of companion for annie that she delighted in. when he found himself thus giving her pleasure he felt hopeful--nay, sure--that in the end his suit would be successful. it was indeed a beautiful morning. soft and balmy winds sighing through the dark pine tree tops, a sky of moving clouds, with many a rift of darkest blue between, birds singing on the bonnie silver birches, their wild, glad notes sounding from every copse, the linnet on the yellow patches of whins or gorse that hugged the ground and perfumed the air for many a yard around, and the wild pigeon murmuring his notes of love in every thicket of spruce. rare and beautiful wildflowers everywhere, such as never grow in england, for every country has its own sweet flora. the little party returned a few minutes before one o'clock, not only happy, but hungry too. to her great alarm annie found her uncle still sitting on his chair, but seemingly in a stupor of grief. near his chair lay a foolscap letter. "oh, uncle dear, are you ill?" "no, no, child. don't be alarmed; it has pleased god to change our fortunes, that is all, and i have been praying and trying hard to say `thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,'--i cannot yet. i may ere long." but annie was truly alarmed. she picked up the lawyer's letter and read it twice over ere she spoke. and her bonnie face grew ghastly pale now. "oh, uncle dear," she said at last, "what does this mean? tell me, tell me." "it means, my child, that we are paupers in comparison to the state in which we have lived for many years. that this mansion and grounds are no longer our own, that i must sell horses and hounds and retire to some small cottage on the outskirts of the city--that is all." "cheer up, uncle," said annie, sitting down on his knee with an arm round his neck, as she used to do when a child. "you still have me, and i have you. if we can but keep jeannie we may be happy yet, despite all that fate can do." "god bless you, my child! you have indeed been a comfort to me. but for you, i'd care nothing for poverty. i may live for ten years and more yet, to the age of my people and clansmen, but as contentedly in a cottage as in a castle. god has seen fit to afflict us, but in his mercy he will temper the wind to the shorn lamb." luncheon was brought in, but neither mcleod nor his niece did much justice to it. the weather, however, remained bright and clear, and as the two went out to the beautiful arbour and seated themselves, they could hear the birds--mavis, chaffinch, and blackie--singing their wild, ringing lilts, as if there was no such thing as sorrow in all this wide and beautiful world. "uncle," said annie at last, "tell me the sad story. i can bear it now." "then, dear, i shall, but must be very brief. i love not to linger over sorrow and tribulation. the young fellow francis robertson, then, who now lays claim to the estate, is, to tell the honest truth, a _roue_ and a blackguard from the australian diggings. he is but twenty-two. even when a boy he was rough and wild, and at fifteen he was sentenced to six years' imprisonment for shooting a man at the gold diggings. he has but recently come out of gaol and found solicitors in australia and here to take up the cudgels for him. his father disappeared long, long ago, and i, not knowing that, before his death, he had married, and had one son, succeeded to this estate. but, ah me! the crash has come." "but may this young fellow not be an impostor?" "nay, child, nay. you see what the letter says: that if i go to law i can only lose; but that if i trouble and tire robertson with a lawsuit he will insist upon back rents being paid up. no," he added, after a pause, "he is fair enough. he may be good enough, too, though passionate. many a wild and bloody scene is enacted at the diggings, but in this case the police seem to have been wonderfully sharp. ah, well; he will be here to-morrow, and we will see." that was an anxious and sleepless night for poor annie. in vain did her maid try to sing her off into dreamland. she tossed and dozed all night long. then came the eventful day. and at twelve o'clock came young francis robertson, with a party of witnesses from australia. mcleod could tell him at once to be the heir. he was the express image of his dead father. the laird and his solicitor, hastily summoned from aberdeen, saw them alone in the drawing-room, only annie being there. robertson was tall, handsome, and even gentlemanly. the witnesses were examined. their testimony under oath was calm, clear, and to the point. not a question they did not answer correctly. the certificate of birth, too, was clear, and succinct. there were no longer any doubts about anything. then laird mcleod--laird now, alas! only by courtesy--retired with his advocate to another room to consult. said the advocate: "my dear laird, this is a sad affair; but are you convinced that this young fellow is the rightful owner?" "he is, as sure as yonder sun is shining." "and so am i convinced," said the advocate. "then there must be no lawsuit?" "no, none." "that is right. at your age a long and troublesome lawsuit would kill you." "then, my dear duncan," said laird mcleod, "look out for a pretty cottage for me at once." "i will do everything for you, and i know of the very place you want--a charming small villa on the beautiful rubislaw road. choose the things you want. have a sale and get rid of the others. keep up your heart, and all will yet be well. but we must act expeditiously." and so they did. and in a fortnight's time all was settled, and the little villa furnished. till the day of the sale francis robertson was a guest at the hall. now i must state a somewhat curious, but not altogether rare, occurrence. the young man, who really might be rash, but was not bad-hearted, sought audience of the laird on the very day before the sale. "my dear uncle," he said, "i would rather you did not leave. be as you were before. i will occupy but a small portion of the house. stay with me." "francis robertson," replied mcleod, "we _go_. i'll be no man's guest in a house that once was mine." "be it so, sir. but i have something further to add." "speak on." "from the first moment i saw her i fell in love with miss annie lane. will you give me her hand?" "have you spoken to herself?" "i have not dared to." mcleod at once rang the bell and summoned annie, his niece. "annie, dear, this gentleman, your relation, says he loves you, and asks for your hand. think you that you could love him?" annie drew herself haughtily up. she said but one word, a decisive and emphatic one: "_no_." "you have had your answer," said mcleod. francis bowed and went somewhat mournfully away. chapter ten. "what must be must--'tis fate." the old laird mcleod possessed that true christian feeling which we so rarely see displayed in this age, and as he left the door of the old mansion where he had lived so long and so happily he held out his hand to francis. "god bless you, lad, anyhow. be good, and you'll prosper." "the wicked prosper," said francis. "all artificial, lad, and only for a time. never can they be said to be truly happy." "good-bye--or rather, _au revoir_." "_au revoir_." then the old man clambered slowly into the carriage. poor annie was already there. she cast just one longing, lingering look behind, then burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. but the day was beautiful, the trees arrayed in the tender tints of spring, while high above, against a fleecy cloud, she could see a laverock (lark), though she could not hear it. but his body was quivering, and eke his wings, with the joy that he could not control. woods on every side, and to the right the bonnie winding dee, its wavelets sparkling in the sunshine. everything was happy; why should not she be? so she dried her tears, and while her uncle dozed she took her favourite author from her satchel, and was soon absorbed in his poems. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ after they had settled down in mcleod cottage, as the snow-white pretty villa had now been called, i do believe that they were happier than when in the grand old mansion, with all its worries and work and trouble. they were not very well off financially, that was all. but it was a new pleasure for annie and her maid to do shopping along union street the beautiful, and even round the quaint old new market. she used to return happy and exultant, to show her uncle the bargains she had made. one night annie had an inspiration. she was a good musician on piano and zither. why not give lessons? she would. nor was she very long in finding a pupil or two. this added considerably to the fund for household expenditure. but nevertheless the proud old highlander mcleod thought it was somewhat _infra dignitate_. but he bore with this because it seemed to give happiness to the child, as he still continued to call her. so things went on. and so much rest did the laird now have that for a time, at least, his life seemed all one happy dream. they soon made friends, too, with their neighbours, and along the street wherever annie went she was known, for she was always followed by a grand and noble dog, a great dane, as faithful and as true as any animal could well be. one evening she and jeannie, her maid, were walking along a lovely tree-shaded lane, just as the beams of the setting sun were glimmering crimson through the leafy grandeur of the great elms. for some purpose of his own the dog was in an adjoining field, when suddenly, at the bend of the road, they were accosted by a gigantic and ragged tramp, who demanded money on the pain of death. both girls shrieked, and suddenly, like a shell from a great gun, darted the dog from the hedge, and next moment that tramp was on his back, his ragged neckerchief and still more ragged waistcoat were torn from his body, and but for annie his throat would have been pulled open. but while jeannie trembled, annie showed herself a true mcleod, though her name was lane. she called the dog away; then she quickly possessed herself of the tramp's cudgel. annie was not tall, but she was strong and determined. "get up at once," she cried, "and march back with us. if you make the least attempt to escape, that noble dog shall tear your windpipe out!" very sulkily the tramp obeyed. "i'm clean copped. confound your beast of a dog!" within a few yards of her own door they met a policeman, who on hearing of the assault speedily marched the prisoner off to gaol. when she related the adventure to her uncle he was delighted beyond measure, and must needs bless her and kiss her. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ they had parted with the carriage. needs must where poverty and the devil drives! but they still had a little phaeton, and in this the old man and his niece enjoyed many a delightful drive. he would take her to concerts, too, and to the theatre also, so that, on the whole, life was by no means a galling load to anyone. but a very frequent visitor at mcleod cottage was laird fletcher. not only so, but he took the old man and annie frequently out by train. his carriage would be waiting at the station, and in this they drove away to his beautiful home. the house itself was modern, but the grounds, under the sweet joy of june, looked beautiful indeed. it was at some considerable distance from the main road, and so in the gardens all was delightfully still, save for the music of happy song-birds or the purr of the turtle-dove, sounding low from the spreading cedars. "a pleasing land of drowsyhead it was, of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; and of gay castles in the clouds that pass, for ever flushing round a summer sky. there eke the soft delights, that witchingly instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, and the calm pleasures always hovered nigh; but whate'er smacked of 'noyance or unrest was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest." through these lovely rose-gardens and tree-shaded lawns frequently now wandered annie, alone with fletcher. he was so gentle, winning, and true that she had come to like him. mind, i say nothing of love. and she innocently and frankly told him so as they sat together in a natural bower beneath a spreading deodar cedar. he was happy, but he would not risk his chance by being too precipitate. another day in the same arbour, after a moment or two of silence, she said: "oh, i wish you were my uncle!" fletcher winced a little, but summoned up courage to say: "ah, annie, could we not be united by a dearer tie than that? believe me, i love you more than life itself. whether that life be long or short depends upon you, annie." but she only bent her head and cried, childlike. "ah, mr fletcher," she said at last, "i have no heart to give away. it lies at the bottom of the sea." "but love would come." "we will go to the house now, i think," and she rose. fletcher, poor fellow, silently, almost broken-heartedly, followed, and, of course, the great dane was there. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ that night she told her uncle all. he said not a word. she told her maid in the bedroom. "oh, miss annie," said jeanie, "i think you are very, very foolish. you refuse to marry this honest and faithful man, but your mourning will not, cannot restore the dead. reginald grahame is happier, a thousand, million times more happy, than anyone can ever be on this earth. besides, dear, there is another way of looking at the matter. your poor uncle mcleod is miles and miles from the pines, from the heath and the heather. he may not complain, but the artificial life of a city is telling on him. what a quiet and delightful life he would have at laird fletcher's!" annie was dumb. she was thinking. should she sacrifice her young life for the sake of her dear uncle? ah, well, what did life signify to her now? _he_ was dead and gone. thus she spoke: "you do not think my uncle is ill, jeannie?" "i do not say he is _ill_, but i do say that he feels his present life irksome at times, and you may not have him long, miss annie. now go to sleep like a baby and dream of it." and i think annie cried herself asleep that night. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "it becomes not a maiden descended from the noble clan mcleod to be otherwise than brave," she told herself next morning. "oh, for dear uncle's sake i feel i could--" but she said no more to herself just then. fletcher called that very day, and took them away again to his bonnie highland home. it was a day that angels would have delighted in. and just on that same seat beneath the same green-branched cedar fletcher renewed his wooing. but he, this time, alluded to the artificial city life that the old laird had to lead, he who never before during his old age had been out of sight of the waving pines and the bonnie blooming heather. fletcher was very eloquent to-day. love makes one so. yet his wooing was strangely like that of auld robin grey, especially when he finished plaintively, appealingly, with the words: "oh, annie, for his sake will you not marry me?" annie o' the banks o' dee wept just a little, then she wiped her tears away. he took her hand, and she half-whispered: "what must be _must_--'tis fate." chapter eleven. the "wolverine" puts out to sea. with the exception of the _sunbeam_, probably no more handsome steam yacht ever left southampton harbour than the _wolverine_. she was all that a sailor's fancy could paint. quite a crowd of people were on the quay to witness her departure on her very long and venturesome cruise. venturesome for this reason, that, though rigged as a steam barque, she was but little over four hundred tons register. seamen on shore, as they glanced at her from stem to stem, alow and aloft, criticised her freely. but jack's opinion was on the whole well embodied in a sentence spoken by a man-o'-wars-man, as he hitched up his nether garments and turned his quid in his mouth: "my eyes, bill and elizabeth martin, she is a natty little craft! i've been trying to find a flaw in her, or a hole, so to speak, but there's ne'er a one, bill--above water, anyhow. without the steam she reminds me of the old aberdeen clippers. look at her bilge, her lines, her bows, her jibboom, with its smart and business-like curve. ah, bill, how different to sail in a yacht like that from living cooped up in a blooming iron tank, as we are in our newest-fashioned man-o'-war teakettles! heigho! blowed if i wouldn't like to go on board of her! why, here is the doctor--splendid young fellow!--coming along the pier now. i'll overhaul him and hail him. come on, bill!" reginald grahame was coming somewhat slowly towards them. it was just a day or two before the discovery of craig nicol's murder and the finding of his body in the wood. reginald was thinking of bilberry hall and annie o' the banks o' dee. sorrow was depicted in every lineament of his handsome but mobile and somewhat nervous countenance. was he thinking also of the cold, stiff body of his quondam friend craig, hidden there under the dark spruce trees, the tell-tale knife beside him? who can say what the innermost workings of his mind were? some of the most bloodthirsty pirates of old were the handsomest men that ever trod the deck of a ship. we can judge no man's heart from his countenance. and no woman's either. there be she-devils who bear the sweet and winning features of saints. our scottish queen mary was beautiful, and as graceful as beautiful. "if to her share some human errors fall, look in her face, and you'll forget them all." "beggin' yer pardon, sir," said jack, touching his hat and scraping a bit, like a horse with a loose shoe, "we're only just two blooming bluejackets, but we've been a-admiring of your craft--outside like. d'ye think, sir, they'd let us on board for a squint?" "come with me, my lads. i'll take you on board." next minute, in company with reginald--who was now called _dr._-- grahame, they were walking the ivory-white decks. those two honest man-o'-war sailors were delighted beyond measure with all they saw. "why," said jack--he was chief spokesman, for bill was mute--"why, doctor, you have _sailors_ on board!--and mind you, sir, you don't find real sailors nowadays anywhere else except in the merchant service. we bluejackets are just like our ships--fighting machines. we ain't hearts of oak any longer, sir." "no," said the doctor, "but you are hearts of iron. ha! here comes the postman, with a letter for me, too. thank you, postie." he gave him sixpence, and tore the letter open, his hand shaking somewhat. yes, it was from annie. he simply hurriedly scanned it at present, but he heaved a sigh of relief as he placed it in his bosom. then he rejoined the bluejackets. "well, sir, we won't hinder you. i see you've got the blue peter up. but never did i see cleaner white decks; every rope's end coiled, too. the capstan itself is a thing o' beauty; all the brasswork looks like gold, all the polished woodwork like ebony; and, blow me, bill, just look at that binnacle! blest if it wouldn't be a beautiful ornament for a young lady's boodwar (boudoir)! well, sir, we wishes you a pleasant, happy voyage and a safe return. god bless you, says jack, and good-bye." "good-bye to you, lads; and when you go to war, may you send the foe to the bottom of the ocean. there,"--he handed jack a coin as he spoke--"drink _bon voyage_ to us." "ah, that will we!" the sailors once more scraped and bowed, and reginald hurried below to read annie's letter. it was just a lover's letter--just such a letter as many of my readers have had in their day--so i need not describe it. reginald sat in his little cabin--it was only six feet square--with his elbow leaning on his bunk, his hand under his chin, thinking, thinking, thinking. then an idea struck him. the skipper of the yacht--called "captain" by courtesy--and reginald were already the best of friends. indeed, dickson--for that was his name--was but six or seven years older than reginald. "rat-tat-tat!" at the captain's door. his cabin was pretty large, and right astern, on what in a frigate would be called "the fighting deck." this cabin was of course right abaft the main saloon, and had a private staircase, or companion, that led to the upper deck. "hullo, doctor, my boy!" "well, just call me grahame, _mon ami_." "if you'll call me dickson, that'll square it." "well, then, dickson, i'm terribly anxious to get out and away to sea. if not soon, i feel i may run off--back to my lady love. when do we sail for sure?" the captain got up and tapped the glass. "our passengers come on board this afternoon, bag and baggage, and to-morrow morning early we loose off, and steam out to sea--if it be a day on which gulls can fly." "thanks, a thousand times. and now i won't hinder you." "have a drop of rum before you go, and take a cigar with you." reginald's heart needed keeping up, so he did both. "when i am on the sea," he said, "i shall feel more happy. ay, but annie, i never can forget you." more cheerily now, he walked briskly off to the hotel to meet his patients. there were two, mr and mrs hall, wealthy americans; besides, there were, as before mentioned, miss hall and the child matty. they were all very glad to see reginald. "you are very young," said mr hall, offering him a cigar. "i think," he answered, "i am very fit and fresh, and you will find me very attentive." "i'm sure of it," said mrs hall. little matty took his hand shyly between her own two tiny ones. "and matty's su'e too," she said, looking up into his face. they say that american children are thirteen years of age when born. i know they are precocious, and i like them all the better for it. this child was very winning, very pert and pretty, but less chubby, and more intellectual-looking than most british children. for the life of him reginald could not help lifting her high above his head and kissing her wee red lips as he lowered her into his arms. "you and i are going to be good friends always, aren't we?" "oh, yes, doc," she answered gaily; "and of torse the dleat (great) big, big dog." "yes, and you may ride round the decks on him sometimes." matty clapped her hands with joy. "what a boo'ful moustache you has!" she said. "you little flatterer!" he replied, as he set her down. "ah! you have all a woman's wiles." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ everything was on board, and the _wolverine_ was ready to sail that night. but the captain must go on shore to see his friends and bid them adieu first. the night closed in early, but the sky was studded with stars, and a three-days'-old moon shone high in the west like a scimitar of gold. this gave reginald heart. still, it might blow big guns before morning, and although he sat up pretty late, to be initiated by mr hall into the game of poker, he went often to the glass and tapped it. the glass was steadily and moderately high. reginald turned into his bunk at last, but slept but little, and that little was dream-perturbed. early in the morning he was awakened by the roar of steam getting up. his heart leaped for joy. it is at best a wearisome thing, this being idle in harbour before sailing. but at earliest dawn there was much shouting and giving of orders; the men running fore and aft on deck; other men on shore casting off hawsers. then the great screw began slowly to churn up the murky water astern. the captain himself was on the bridge, the man at the wheel standing by to obey his slightest command. and so the _wolverine_ departed, with many a cheer from the shore--ay, and many a blessing. as she went out they passed a man-o'-war, in which the captain had many friends. early as it was, the commander had the band up, and sweetly across the water came the music of that dear old song i myself have often heard, when standing out to sea, "good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye." by eventide they were standing well down towards the bay of biscay, which they would leave on their port quarter. they would merely skirt it, bearing up for madeira. but a delightful breeze had sprung up; the white sails were set, and she was running before it, right saucily, too, bobbing and curtseying to each rippling wavelet very prettily, as much as to say: "ah! you dear old sea, we have been together before now. you will never lose your temper with me, will you?" it is well, indeed, that sailors do not know what is before them. the dinner-hour was seven. mr and mrs hall were seated on chairs on the quarter-deck. neither was over-well, but ilda and reginald were pacing briskly up and down the quarter-deck, chatting pleasantly. i think, though, that ilda had more to say than he. american girls are born that way. wee matty was making love to oscar, the splendid and good-natured newfoundland. nobody more happy than bonnie matty, bonnie and gay, for her happiness, indeed, was a species of merry madness. only no one could have heard her childish, gleesome and silvery laugh without laughing with her. the bell at last! reginald took ilda down below, then hurried on deck to help his patients. matty and oscar seemed to come tumbling down. and so the evening passed away, the stars once more glittering like crystal gems, the great star sirius shining in ever-changing rays of crimson and blue. it was indeed a goodly night, and reginald slept to-night. the incubus love had fled away. chapter twelve. "i say, cap," said mr hall, "i should maroon a fellow like that!" while the whole countryside--ay, and the granite city itself--were thrilled with awe and horror at the brutal murder of poor unoffending craig nicol, the _wolverine_ was making her way on the wings of a delightful ten-knot breeze to the isle of madeira. reginald had ascertained that there was nothing very serious the matter with mr and mrs hall. they were run down, however, very much with the gaieties of paris and london, to say nothing of new york, and thought rightly that a long sea voyage would be the best thing to restore them. madeira at last! the beach, with its boulders or round sea-smoothed stones, was a difficult one to land upon. the waves or breakers hurled these stones forward with a hurtling sound that could be heard miles and miles away, then as quickly sucked them back again. nevertheless, the boat was safely beached, and there were men with willing hands and broad shoulder to carry mr and mrs hall and daughter safely on to dry land. reginald was sure of foot, and lifting matty in his arms as she crowed with delight, he bore her safe on shore. the great newfoundland despised a boat, and hardly was she well off the yacht ere he leaped overboard with a splash. and he also landed, shaking himself free of gallons of water, which made rainbows and halos around him. he drenched his master pretty severely. but it was a fine joke to oscar, so, grinning and laughing as only this breed can, he went tearing along the beach and back again at the rate of fifteen knots an hour. when he did come back, he licked his master's hand and little matty's face. "nothing like a good race," he seemed to say, "to set the blood in motion after a long bath." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ while the party sit in the piazza of a beautiful tree-shaded hotel, sipping iced sherbet, let me say a word about the nature of the _wolverine's_ voyage. the yacht did not belong to the halls. she was lent them for the cruise round the horn to the south pacific, and many a beautiful island they meant to visit, and see many a strange and wondrous sight. for hitherto all their travelling experiences had been confined to europe. but your true american wants to see all the world when he can afford it. it was health the halls were in search of, combined with pleasure if possible; but they meant to collect all the curios they could get, and they also felt certain--so mrs hall said--that they would find the south sea savages very interesting persons indeed. so have i myself found them, especially when their spears were whisking over my boat and they were dancing in warlike frenzy on the beach. in such cases, however, a shot or two from a good revolver has a wonderfully persuasive and calmative effect on even somali indians. we british have called scotland and england an isle of beauty, but i question very much if it can cope with madeira. here not only have we splendid mountains, clad in all the beauty of tropical and sub-tropical shrubs and trees, tremendous cliffs and gorges, raging torrents and cataracts, with many a bosky dell, lovely even as those birchen glades in scotia, but in this heavenly isle there is the sunshine that overspreads all and sparkles on the sea. and that sea, too!--who could describe the splendour of its blue on a calm day, patched here and there towards the shore with browns, seagreens, and opals? no wonder that after making several visits and picnics in shore and high among the mountains, borne there by sturdy portuguese in hammocks, mrs hall should declare that she felt better already. it was with some reluctance that mr hall ordered the anchor to be got up at last, and all sail made for the canaries. near sunset was it when they sailed slowly away, a sunset of indescribable beauty. a great grey misty bank of cloud was hanging many degrees above the mountains, but beneath it was more clear and streaked with long trailing cloudlets of crimson, light yellow, and purple, the rifts between being of the deepest sea-green. but over the hills hung a shadow or mist of smoky blue. then descended the sun, sinking in the waters far to the west, a ball of crimson fire with a pathway of blood 'twixt the horizon and the yacht. then night fell, with but a brief twilight. there was going to be a change, however. the mate, a sturdy, red-faced, weather-beaten, but comely fellow, sought the captain's cabin and reported a rapidly-falling glass, and the gradual obliteration of the stars, that erst had shone so sweetly. how swiftly comes a squall at times in these seas! a huge bank of blackest darkness was seen rapidly advancing towards the ship, and before sail could be taken in or steam got up she was in the grasp of that merciless demon squall. for a minute or two she fled before it and the terrible waves, quivering the while from stem to stern like a dying deer. then high above the roaring of the wind, and booming and hissing of the waves, great guns were heard. it seemed so, at least, but it was but the bursting of the bellying sails, and platoon-firing next, as the rent ribbons of canvas crackled and rattled in the gale. to lie to was impossible now. with the little sail they had left they must fly on and on. men staggered about trying to batten down, but for a time in vain. then came a huge pooping wave, that all but swept the decks. it smashed the bulwarks, it carried away a boat, and, alas! one poor fellow found a watery grave. he must have been killed before being swept overboard. anyhow, he was seen no more. everything movable was carried forward with tremendous force. even the winch was unshipped, and stood partly on end. the man at the wheel and the men battening down were carried away on the current, but though several were badly bruised, they were otherwise unhurt. sturdy captain dickson had rushed to the wheel, else would the _wolverine_ have broached to and sunk in a few minutes. the water had poured down the companions like cataracts, and it drowned out the half-lit fires. mr hall and party had shut themselves up in their state-rooms, but everything in the saloon was floating in water two feet deep. however, this storm passed away almost as quickly as it had come, and once more the seas calmed down, and sky and waters became brightly, ineffably blue. the ship was baled out, and, as the wind had now gone down, fires were got up, and the _wolverine_ steamed away for the canaries and the marvellous peak of teneriffe. but poor bill stevens's death had cast a general gloom throughout the ship. he was a great favourite fore and aft, always merry, always laughing or singing, and a right good sailor as well. so next morning, when red and rosy the sun rose over the sea, orders were sent forward for the men to "lay aft" at nine o'clock for prayers. then it was "wash and scrub decks, polish the wood, and shine the brasswork." right rapidly did the sun dry the decks, so that when mrs hall, who had received a bad shock, was helped on deck by reginald, everything 'twixt fo'c'sle and wheel looked clean and nice. the winch had not been badly damaged, and was soon set to rights. i should not forget to mention that the only one not really alarmed during the terrible black squall was that busy, merry wee body matty. when she saw the cataract of waters coming surging in, she speedily mounted the table. the fiddles had been put on, and to these she held fast; and she told reginald all this next morning, adding, "and, oh, doc, it was so nice--dust (just) like a swinging-rope!" but she had had a companion; for, after swimming several times round the table, as if in search of dry land, the beautiful dog clambered up on the table beside matty. to be sure, he shook himself, but matty shut her eyes, and wiped her face, and on the whole was very glad of his company. how solemn was that prayer of mr hall for the dead. granted that he was what is so foolishly called "a dissenter" in england, his heart was in the right place, and he prayed right from that even his slight nasal twang in no way detracted from the solemnity of that prayer. ilda hall had her handkerchief to her face, but poor little cabin-boy ralph williams wept audibly. for the drowned sailor had ever been kind to him. the captain was certainly a gentleman, and an excellent sailor, but he had sea ways with him, and now he ordered the main-brace to be spliced; so all the jacks on board soon forgot their grief. "his body has gone to davy jones," said one, "but his soul has gone aloft." "amen," said others. they stayed at orotava long enough to see the sights, and reginald himself and a sailor got high up the peak. he was on board in time for dinner, but confessed to being tired. he had not forgotten to bring a splendid basket of fruit with him, however, nor wildflowers rich and rare. a long lonely voyage was now before them--south-west and away to rio de janeiro--so ere long everyone on board had settled quietly down to a sea life. i must mention here that it was the first mate that had chosen the crew. he had done so somewhat hastily, i fear, and when i say that there were two or three spaniards among them, and more than one finn, need i add that the devil was there also? one finn in particular i must mention. he was tall to awkwardness. somewhat ungainly all over, but his countenance was altogether forbidding. he had an ugly beard, that grew only on his throat, but curled up over his chin--certainly not adding to his beauty. christian norman was his name; his temper was vile, and more than once had he floored poor boy williams, and even cut his head. he smoked as often as he had the chance, and would have drunk himself to insensibility if supplied with vile alcohol. "i don't like him," said the captain one evening at dinner. "nor i," said reginald. "i say, cap," said mr hall, "i'd maroon a fellow like that! if you don't, mark my words, he will give us trouble yet." and he did, as the sequel will show. chapter thirteen. the breakdown--savages! captain dickson was just as kind to norman, the finn, as he was to anyone else. perhaps more so. not that he dreaded him. dickson would have shot him with as little compunction as shooting a panther had he given him even a mutinous answer. but he often let him have double allowance of rum. "you're a big man," he would say; "you need a little more than the little ones." norman would smile grimly, but swallow it. he would even buy the men's, for he seemed to have plenty of money. when half-seas-over norman would swagger and rant and sing, and with little provocation he would have fought. the other finns and the spaniard, besides an englishman or two, always took norman's side in an argument. so things went on until rio was reached. what a splendid harbour--ships of all nations here; what a romantic city as seen from the sea, and the surroundings how romantic, rivalling even edinburgh itself in beauty! it was early summer here, too. they had left autumn and the coming winter far away in the dreary north. i shall make no attempt to describe the floral grandeur of the country here. i have done so before. but not only reginald, but all the halls, and matty as well, were able to walk round and admire the tropical vegetation and the gorgeous flowers in the gardens; and in the town itself the fish-market and fruit-market were duly wondered at, for everything was new and strange to the visitors. further out into the country they drove all among the peaked and marvellous mountains and the foliaged glens, and matty, who sat on reginald's knee, clapped her hands with delight to see the wee, wee humming-birds buzzing from flower to flower "like chips of rainbows," as ilda phrased it, and the great butterflies as big as fans that floated in seeming idleness here, there, and everywhere. a whole week was spent here, and every day afforded fresh enjoyments. but they must sail away at last. the captain had half-thought of leaving the finn norman here, but the man seemed to have turned over a new leaf, so he relented. south now, with still a little west in it. the good ship encountered more bad weather. yet so taut and true was she, and so strong withal, that with the exception of the waves that dashed inboards--some of them great green seas that rolled aft like breakers on a stormy beach--she never leaked a pint. captain dickson and his mate paid good attention to the glass, and never failed to shorten sail and even batten down in time, and before the approach of danger. but all went well and the ship kept healthy. indeed, hardly was there a sick man among the crew. little matty was the life and soul of the yacht. surely never on board ship before was there such a merry little child! had anyone been in the saloon as early as four, or even three, bells in the morning watch, they might have heard her lightsome laugh proceeding from her maid's cabin; for matty was usually awake long before the break of day, and it is to be presumed that maggie, the maid, got little sleep or rest after that. reginald used to be on deck at seven bells, and it was not long before he was joined by matty. prettily dressed the wee thing was, in white, with ribbons of blue or crimson, her bonnie hair trailing over her back just as wild and free as she herself was. then up would come oscar, the great newfoundland. hitherto it might have been all babyish love-making between reginald and matty. "i loves 'oo," she told him one morning, "and when i'se old eno' i'se doin' (going) to mally 'oo." reginald kissed her and set her down on the deck. but the advent of the grand dog altered matters considerably. he came on deck with a dash and a spring, laughing, apparently, all down both sides. "you can't catch me," he would say, or appear to say, to matty. "i tan tatch 'oo, twick!" she would cry, and off went the dog forward at the gallop, matty, screaming with laughter, taking up the running, though far in the rear. smaller dogs on board ship are content to carry and toss and play with a wooden marlin-spike. oscar despised so puny an object. he would not have felt it in his huge mouth. but he helped himself to a capstan bar, and that is of great length and very heavy. nevertheless, he would not drop it, and there was honest pride in his beaming eye as he swung off with it. he had to hold his head high to balance it. but round and round the decks he flew, and if a sailor happened to cross his hawse the bar went whack! across his shins or knees, and he was left rubbing and lamenting. matty tried to take all sorts of cross-cuts between the masts or boats that lay upside down on the deck, but all in vain. but oscar would tire at last, and let the child catch him. "now i'se tatched 'oo fairly!" she would cry, seizing him by the shaggy mane. oscar was very serious now, and licked the child's cheek and ear in the most affectionate manner, well knowing she was but a baby. "woa, horsie, woa!" it was all she could do to scramble up and on to oscar's broad back. stride-legs she rode, but sometimes, by way of practical joke, after she had mounted the dog would suddenly sit down, and away slid matty, falling on her back, laughing and sprawling, all legs and arms, white teeth, and merry, twinkling eyes of blue. "mind," she would tell oscar, after getting up from deck and preparing to remount, "if 'oo sits down adain, 'oo shall be whipped and put into the black hole till the bow-mannie (an evil spirit) tomes and takes 'oo away!" oscar would now ride solemnly aft, 'bout ship and forward as far as the fo'c's'le, and so round and round the deck a dozen times at least. when dog and child were tired of playing together, the dog went in search of breakfast down below, to the cook's galley. there was always the stockpot, and as every man-jack loved the faithful fellow he didn't come badly off. but even norman the finn was a favourite of matty's, and he loved the child. she would run to him of a morning, when his tall form appeared emerging from the fore-hatch. he used to set her on the capstan, from which she could easily mount astride on his shoulders, grasping his hair to steady herself. how she laughed and crowed, to be sure, as he went capering round the deck, sometimes pretending to rear and jib, like a very wicked horse indeed, sometimes actually bucking, which only made matty laugh the more. ring, ding, ding!--the breakfast bell; and the child was landed on the capstan once more and taken down--now by her devoted sweetheart, reginald grahame. the ship was well found. certainly they had not much fresh meat, but tinned was excellent, and when a sea-bank was anywhere near, as known from the colour of the water, dickson called away a boat and all hands, and had fish for two days at least. fowls and piggies were kept forward. well, on the whole she was a very happy ship, till trouble came at last. it was mr hall's wish to go round the stormy and usually ice-bound horn. the cold he felt certain would brace up both himself and his wife. but he wished to see something of the romantic scenery of magellan's straits first, and the wild and savage grandeur of tierra del fuego, or the land of fire. they did so, bearing far to the south for this purpose. the weather was sunny and pleasant, the sky blue by day and star-studded by night, while high above shone that wondrous constellation called the southern cross. indeed, all the stars seemed different from what they were used to in their own far northern land. now, there dwells in this fierce land a race of the most implacable savages on earth. little is known of them except that they are cannibals, and that their hands are against everyone. but they live almost entirely in boats, and never hesitate to attack a sailing ship if in distress. hall and dickson were standing well abaft on the quarter-deck smoking huge cigars, mr hall doing the "yarning," dickson doing the laughing, when suddenly a harsh grating sound caused both to start and listen. next minute the vessel had stopped. there she lay, not a great way off the shore, in a calm and placid sea, with not as much wind as would lift a feather, "as idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean." in a few minutes' time the scotch engineer, looking rather pale, came hurrying aft. "well, mr mcdonald, what is the extent of the damage? shaft broken?" "oh, no, sir, and i think that myself and men can put it all to rights in four days, if not sooner, and she'll be just as strong as ever." "thank you, mr mcdonald; so set to work as soon as possible, for mind you, we are lying here becalmed off an ugly coast. the yacht would make very nice pickings for these land of fire savages." "yes, i know, sir; and so would we." and the worthy engineer departed, with a grim smile on his face. he came back in a few minutes to beg for the loan of a hand or two. "choose your men, my good fellow, and take as many as you please." both hall and dickson watched the shore with some degree of anxiety. it was evident that the yacht was being swept perilously near to it. the tide had begun to flow, too, and this made matters worse. nor could anyone tell what shoal water might lie ahead of them. there was only one thing to be done, and dickson did it. he called away every boat, and by means of hawsers to each the _wolverine_ was finally moved further away by nearly a mile. the sailors were now recalled, and the boats hoisted. the men were thoroughly exhausted, so the doctor begged the captain to splice the main-brace, and soon the stewardess was seen marching forward with "black jack." black jack wasn't a man, nor a boy either, but simply a huge can with a spout to it, that held half a gallon of rum at the very least. the men began to sing after this, for your true sailor never neglects an opportunity of being merry when he can. some of them could sing charmingly, and they were accompanied by the carpenter on his violin. that grand old song, "the bay of biscay," as given by a bass-voiced sailor, was delightful to listen to. as the notes rose and fell one seemed to hear the shrieking of the wind in the rigging, the wild turmoil of the dashing waters, and the deep rolling of the thunder that shook the doomed ship from stem to stern. "hullo?" cried hall, looking shorewards. "see yonder--a little black fleet of canoes, their crews like devils incarnate!" "ha!" said dickson. "come they in peace or come they in war, we shall be ready. lay aft here, lads. get your rifles. load with ball cartridge, and get our two little guns ready and loaded with grape." the savages were indeed coming on as swift as the wind, with wild shouts and cries, meant perhaps only to hurry the paddle-men, but startling enough in all conscience. chapter fourteen. against fearful odds. hardly a heart on board that did not throb with anxiety, if not with fear, as that fiendish-looking cannibal fleet drew swiftly nigh. armed with bows and arrows and spears were they, and dickson could see also the glitter of ugly creases in the bottom of each canoe. not tall men were any of them; all nearly naked, however, broad-shouldered, fierce, and grim. the yacht was now stern on to the shore, but at a safe distance. nevertheless, by the soundings they could tell that the water just here was not so deep as that further in; so both anchors were let go, the chains rattling like platoon-firing as these safeguards sank to the bottom. there was no fear about matty. to the astonishment of all she had clambered up into the dinghy that hung from davits abaft the binnacle. "hillo!" she was shouting, as she waved a wee red flag. "hillo! 'oo bootiful neglos! tome twick, matty wants to buy some-fink!" these dark boats and their savage crews were soon swarming round the _wolverine_, but they had come to barter skins for tobacco, rum, and bread, not to fight, it seemed. peaceful enough they appeared in all conscience. yet dickson would not permit them to board. but both he and hall made splendid deals. a dozen boxes of matches bought half-a-dozen splendid and well-cured otter skins, worth much fine gold; tobacco bought beautiful large guanaca skins; bread fetched foxes' skins and those of the tuen-tuen, a charming little rodent; skins, also well-cured, of owls, hawks, rock-rabbits, and those of many a beautiful sea-bird. the barter, or nicker, as the yankee called it, pleased both sides, and the savages left rejoicing, all the more so in that, although the skipper would give them no rum to carry away with them, he spliced a kind of savage main-brace, and everyone swallowed a glass of that rosy fluid as a baby swallows its mother's milk. "the moon will be shining to-night, hall," said the captain, "and we'll have a visit from these fire-fiends of another description. glad we have got her anchored, anyhow." soon after sunset the moon sailed majestically through the little fleecy clouds lying low on the horizon. she soon lost her rosy hue, and then one could have seen to pick up pins and needles on the quarter-deck. she made an immense silver triangular track from ship to shore. matty was then on deck with oscar, both merry as ever. but reginald now took her in his arms and carried her below for bed. both dickson and hall went below to console and hearten the ladies. "those fire savages will pay us a visit," said hall, "but you are not to be afraid. we will wipe them off the face of the creation world. won't we, skipper?" "that will we!" nodded dickson. but neither mrs hall nor ilda could be persuaded to retire. if a battle was to be fought they would sit with fear and trembling till all was over. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ out from under the dark shadows of the terrible snow-peaked mountain, that fell far over the water, just before eight bells in the first watch--the midnight hour--crept a fleet of canoes, silently--oh, so silently! but presently they got into that track of moonlit sea, so that they could be counted. thirteen! ominous number--but ominous for whom? in twenty minutes the plash of the paddles could be distinctly heard, and the warriors could be seen, armed with spear and bow and deadly crease. "standoff! standoff!" it was a shout from dickson. but it was answered by a wilder shout of defiance and rage, and a cloud of arrows flew inboards. "now then, lads!" cried the captain, "give them fits! quick is the word!" the six-pounder armstrong was trained on the foremost boat, with terrible effect. "bang!" went the gun. heavens! what a sight! no less than three canoes went down, with the dead and the shrieking wounded. the others but sped onwards the faster, however. a rifle volley now. then the other gun was fired almost straight down among them, with awful results so far as the savages were concerned. hall was coolly emptying his revolvers as soon as his fingers could fill them. had it been daylight his practice would have been better; as it was, there was nothing to be ashamed of. but now the canoes were close under the ship's bows and sides. they would attempt to board. they did, and partly succeeded, cutting through the netting easily with their knives. the sailors fought like true british tars, repelling the fiends with revolvers, with the butts of their rifles, and smashing many a chest and skull even with capstan bars. the officers defended the bows. no less than six savages managed to get inboards. the newfoundland was slightly wounded; then he was like a wild beast. he downed one savage, and, horrible to say, seizing him by the windpipe, drew it clean away from the lungs. the others were seen to by the sailors, and their bodies tossed overboard. the fire-fiends had had enough of it, and prepared to retire. grape was once more brought to bear on them, and two more canoes were sunk. the loss to the _wolverine_ was one man killed and three wounded, but not severely. as long as a canoe was visible, a determined rifle fire was kept up, and many must have fallen. when hall and reginald went below to report the victory, they found the ladies somewhat nervous, and there was little matty on the table-top, barefooted and in her night-dress. the strange little yankee maiden wouldn't stop in her state-room, and even when the battle was raging fiercest she had actually tried to reach the deck! then oscar came down, laughing and gasping, and matty quickly lowered herself down to hug her darling horsie, as she called him. "oh, look, auntie!" she cried, after she had thrown her little arms around his great neck and kissed him over and over again, "my pinny is all bluggy!" the night-dress was indeed "bluggy," for poor oscar had an ugly spear wound in his shoulder. but the doctor soon stitched it, the faithful fellow never even wincing. then he licked the doctors red hands and matty's ear, and then went off on deck to bed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ next morning broke bright and crisp and clear, but it was cold, for autumn reigned in this dreary land. once more a service for the dead, and as the body sank into the deep the poor sailor's messmates turned sadly away, and more than one brought his arm to bear across his eyes. as another attack was to be feared, it was determined to punish the islanders--to carry the war on shore, in fact--and so the four large boats were called away, only a few men being left on board to defend the ship. the guns were too heavy to take, but every man had a rifle, two revolvers and a cutlass. for so small a vessel, the _wolverine_ was heavily manned, for from the beginning captain dickson had expected grim fighting. this attack was more than the natives had calculated on. they did not stand the onset an instant, but fled from their village helter-skelter to the almost inaccessible mountains beyond, dropping their spears and bows to accelerate their flight. but the fire which was poured on them was a withering one, and brought many to the ground. emboldened by their success, hall, with dickson and his brave fellows, made a journey of several miles into the interior. the mountains were everywhere rugged and stern, and covered on their summits with snow that no doubt was perpetual. but in the valleys beneath, which were quite uninhabited except by wild beasts and birds, were beautiful forests of dark waving cypresses, lofty pines, and beeches, their leaves tinted now with rose and yellow. very silent and solemn were these woods; but for the savages that even now might be hidden in their dark depths, they seemed to woo one to that peace that only a forest can give. a stream was meandering through the valley here, and many a glad fish leaped up from the pools, his scales shining like a rainbow in the sunlight. all haste was now made to regain the shore, where but a few sailors had been left to guard the boats. only just in time, for the savages were gathering for another attack, and coming down the hillsides in streams. a hot volley or two dispersed them, however, and they once more hid behind the rocks. here in the village was evidence that these fire-fiends had been sitting down to a terrible feast of roasted human flesh! doubtless they had killed the wounded and cooked them. it is a terrible thing to think of, but i have proof that a woman will eat of the dead body of either husband or brother, and the children too will ravenously partake. i dare not tell in a story like this the horrors of savage life that i have witnessed. i wish to interest, but not to horrify, my readers. this village was probably one of the largest in the islands which constitute the tierra del fuego group. it consisted of nearly nine hundred huts in all, some well-built and comparatively comfortable. first and foremost it was looted, a large cargo of precious skins being secured. some bows and arrows, spears, etc, were taken as curios; then, just as the sun was sinking red behind the sea, every hut and house was fired. the blaze was tremendous; and back to the ship, by means of its light, the boats were steered. a breeze having sprung up increased the magnificence of the conflagration, and the sparks, like showers of golden snow, were carried far inland and up the mountain sides. no wonder that matty was clapping her wee hands and crowing with delight at the beauty of the "bonfire," as she called it. happy indeed were the adventurers when the breeze waxed steadier and stronger. it blew from the west, too. the anchors were quickly hoisted, the ship's head turned to the east, and before two days had fled she had wormed her way out once more into the open ocean. the engines had by this time been repaired, but were not now needed, for the breeze, though abeam, was steady, and good progress was made. a few days more, and the wind having died down, clear sky by day, star-studded at night, and with sharp frost, the _wolverine_ was once more under steam and forcing her way round the storm-tormented horn. for the waves are ofttimes houses high here when no wind is blowing, and they break and toss their white spray far over the green and glittering sides of the snow-clad bergs. "and now there came both mist and snow, and it grew wondrous cold; and ice mast-high came floating by, as green as emerald. "the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around; it cracked and growled, and roared and howled, like noises in a swound." but at this time a greater danger than that from the ice was threatening, for norman the finn was hatching mutiny. verily a curse seemed to follow the ship wherever she went. chapter fifteen. mutiny--the coming storm. nobody would have credited williams, the cabin-boy, with very much 'cuteness. we never know the hidden depths of even a young lad's mind. the finn norman had in his two countrymen and in the spaniards five men willing to do anything. to put it plainly, for gold they would use their knives against their dearest friends, and rejoice in it too. norman had not only a body of fearful physical strength, but a winning and persuasive tongue, and he wheedled over no less than three englishmen, or rather scotsmen, to join his forces. late one night a half-whispered conversation was held near to the winch. the finn had been here before--that is, up in the south pacific--and he could guide them to an island of gold. and what was it that gold could not purchase in this world? he added. "everyone of you shall be wealthy. we shall then scrape the vessel from stem to stern, alter her name and rigging, and after loading up with gold, sail for distant australia. there we shall sell the ship and, going to the diggings for a time, to avoid suspicion, will in a few months return to sidney or melbourne as lucky miners. then hurrah for home!" "we will join," said the scotsman, "on one condition." "and that is?" "there must be no murder." "your request is granted. we will rise suddenly, batten down the men below, then rushing aft we shall secure the officers in the saloon. the vessel will then be ours. but we shall maroon the men on the nearest land, with biscuits and a few arms. the women will be best on board," he grinned. "bah!" said a spaniard, drawing his ugly knife. "let us throat them. dead men tell no tales, you know. take my advice." but the marooning was finally decided on, and the mutineers retired to their bunks or to their duty. little did they know that the cabin-boy, with listening ears, though almost frightened out of his life, was hiding behind the winch and had heard every word they had said. as soon as it was possible he escaped, and going at once aft, he reported in a frightened whisper all the details of the terrible plot. "horrible!" said dickson. "strikes me," said hall, "that there must be a jonah on board, or a murderer. let us draw for him, putting all names in a hat, and then lynch the fellow!" "if," said dickson, "there be a murderer on board, the fellow is that finn." "seize the scoundrel at once, then," cried hall, "and throw him to the sharks or put him in irons." "no, i'll wait, and williams shall be our spy." nearly all the mutineers were in the same watch, only one good man and true being among them. norman played his game well. he knew that if suspected at all, they would be watched by night, so he chose broad daylight for the awful _denouement_. while the men were below at dinner, those in the cabin all having luncheon, then norman suddenly gave the preconcerted signal. the hatches were thrown on in a moment, and screwed down by two men, while the main band rushed aft and secured the saloon door. "if you value your lives in there," savagely shouted the finn down through the skylight, as that too was being fastened securely down, "you'll keep quiet." hall had both his revolvers out in a trice, and fired; but the skylights were closed, and no harm or good was done. next the mutineers threw open the fore-hatch, and at pistol point ordered every man into the half-deck cabin abaft the galley and abaft the sailors' sleeping bunks. "i'll shoot the first man dead," cried norman, "who does not look active!" the communication door was then secured, and all was deemed safe. they would bear north now, and make for the nearest island. the rum store was near the foot of the stair, or companion, and close to the stewardess's pantry. the key hung there, so more than a gallon of rum was got up and taken forward. the engineers were told that if they did not crack on, they would be had on deck and made to walk the plank. the finn had not meant that any orgie should take place; but take place it did, and a fearful one too. the man at the wheel kept on for fear of death, and so did the engineers. by twelve o'clock, or eight bells, in the first watch, the fellows were helplessly drunk and lying about in the galley in all directions. little williams, the cabin-boy, had been overlooked. wise he was indeed, for now he very quietly hauled on the fore-hatch--ay, and screwed it down. then he went quickly aft and succeeded in releasing the officers. the men were next set free, and the door between secured aft. in ten minutes' time every mutineer in the ship was in irons. surely no mutiny was ever before quelled in so speedy and bloodless a manner! "i knew," said hall, "that we had a jonah on board, and that jonah is the double-dyed villain christian norman. say, captain dickson, is it going to be a hanging match?" "i am almost tempted to hang the ringleader," replied dickson, "but this would be far too tragical, especially with ladies on board. remember that, be his heart what it may, there is just one little good spot in his character. he dearly loved little matty, and she loved him." "well, sir, what are you going to do about it? i'd like to know that." "this. i cannot pardon any single one of these villains. the scotsmen, indeed, are worse in a manner of speaking than the finns or cowardly spaniards. i shall mete out to them the same punishment, though in a lesser degree, that they would have meted out to us. not on the inhospitable snow-clad shores of the tierra del fuego islands shall they be placed, but on the most solitary isle i can find in some of the south pacific groups." now things went on more pleasantly for a time. the prisoners were not only in leg-irons, but manacled, and with sentries placed over them watch and watch by night and by day. these men had orders to shoot at once any man who made the slightest attempt to escape. it was about a week after this, the _wolverine_ had safely rounded the stormy cape, and was now in the broad pacific. a sailor of the name of robertson had just gone on sentry, when, without a word of warning, norman the finn suddenly raised himself to his feet and felled him with his manacled hands. the strength of the fellow was enormous. but the ring of a rifle was heard next minute, and norman fell on his face, shot through the heart. he was thrown overboard that same evening with scant ceremony. "i feel happier now," said hall, "that even our jonah is no more. now shall our voyage be more lucky and pleasant." ah! but was it? the _wolverine_ was purposely kept well out of the ordinary track of ships coming or going from either china or australia. and luck or not luck, after ten days' steaming westward and north, they sighted an island unknown to the navigator, unknown to any chart. it was small, but cocoa-nuts waved from the summit of its lofty hills. here, at all events, there must be fruit in abundance, with probably edible rodents, and fish in the sea. and here the mutineers were marooned. not without fishing gear were they left, nor without a small supply of biscuits, and just three fowling pieces and ammunition, with some axes and carpenter's tools. they deserved a worse fate, but dickson was kind at heart. well, at any rate, they pass out of our story. on that island they probably are until this day. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ everyone on the _wolverine_ seemed to breathe more freely now, and the vessel was once more headed eastwards to regain her direct route to california and san francisco. for a whole week the breeze blew so pleasantly and steadily that fires were bunked and all sail set. the very ship herself seemed to have regained cheerfulness and confidence, and to go dancing over the sunlit sea, under her white wing-like studding sails, as if she were of a verity a thing of life. those on board soon forgot all their trials and misery. the mutineers were themselves forgotten. matty and oscar (who had recovered from his spear wound) resumed their romps on deck, and surely never did sea-going yacht look more snug and clean than did the _wolverine_ at this time. she was still far out of the usual track of ships, however, though now bearing more to the nor'ard. so far north were they, indeed, that the twilight at morn or even was very short indeed. in the tropics, it is not figurative language, but fact, to say that, the red sun seemed to leap from behind the clear horizon. but a few minutes before this one might have seen, high in the east, purple streaks of clouds, changing quickly to crimson or scarlet, then the sun, like a huge blood orange, dyeing the rippling sea. at night the descent was just as sudden, but my pen would fail did i try to describe the evanescent beauty of those glorious sunsets. light and sunshine are ever lovely; so is colour; but here was light and colour co-mingled in a transformation scene so grand, so vast, that it struck the heart of the beholder with a species of wonder not unmixed with awe. and the beholders were usually silent. then all night long in the west played the silent lightning, bringing into shape and form many a rock-like, tower-like cloud. it was behind these clouds of the night that this tropical lightning played and danced and shimmered. then at times they came into a sea of phosphorescent light. it was seen all around, but brighter where the vessel raised ripples along the quarter. it dropped like fire from her bows, ay, and even great fishes could be seen--sharks in all probability--sinking down, down, down into the sea's dark depths, like fishes of fire, till at last they were visible only like little balls of light, speedily to be extinguished. about this latitude flying gurnets leapt on board by the score on some nights, and a delightful addition indeed did they prove to the matutinal _menu_. sometimes a huge octopus would be seen in the phosphorescent sea. it is the devil-fish of the tropics, and, with his awful head and arms, so abhorrent and nightmarish was the sight that it could not be beheld without a shudder. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the pacific ocean! yes, truly, very often pacific enough; so much so that with ordinary luck one might sail across its waters in a dinghy boat. but there are times when some portions of it are swept by terrific circular storms. ah! happy is the ship that, overtaken by one of these, can manage to keep well out and away from its vortex. one evening the sun went down amidst a chaos of dark and threatening clouds, from which thunder was occasionally heard like the sound of distant artillery, but muttering, and more prolonged. the glass went tumbling down. captain dickson had never seen it so low. the wind too had failed, and before sunset the sea lay all around them, a greasy glitter on its surface like mercury, with here and there the fin of a basking shark appearing on the surface. even the air was stifling, sickening almost, as if the foetus of the ocean's slimy depths had been stirred up and risen to the surface. all sail was speedily taken in, and by the aid of oil, the fires were quickly roaring hot beneath the boilers. higher and higher rose that bank of clouds, darkening the sky. then-- "the upper air burst into life! and a hundred fire flags sheen; to and fro they were hurried about, and to and fro, and in and out, the wan stars danced between." chapter sixteen. shipwreck--the white queen of the isle of flowers. to and fro, to and fro, on the quarter-deck walked the imperturbable yankee, mr hall, quietly pulling at his huge cigar. he had seen the ladies, and had told them straight that it was to be a fearful storm, and now he would wait to see what fate had in store for them. but more impatient far was captain dickson. would steam never be got up? he had an idea which way the storm would come, and he wanted to steam southwards, and as much out of its track as possible. at last the steam begins to roar, and now the screw revolves, and the good ship cleaves its way through the darkness of sky and sea. dickson is somewhat relieved. he puts two men to the wheel, and sailors lash them to it. well dickson knows that the storm will be a fearful one. who is this fluttering up along the deck? a little dot all in white-- nothing on but a night-dress. matty, of course. "i lunned away," she explained, "and tomed (came up) to see the lightnin's flash." "oh, my darling!" cried reginald, "you must come with me at once!" he picked the little fairy up, and quickly had her safely below again. the men were busy battening down when he returned to deck. here and there along the bulwarks loose ropes were left that the men, if needful, might lash themselves to the rigging. but now the rain began to come down, first in scattered drops, then in a hot and awful torrent. louder and louder roared the thunder, brighter and still more vivid flashed the lightning. the thunder-claps followed the lightning so quickly that dickson knew it was very near. "lash yourselves, lads!" the skipper roared through the speaking-trumpet. "she is coming!" ah! come she did. and no shoreman can ever tell what the vehemence of a circular hurricane like this sweeping across the ocean is like in strength and vehemence. dickson had just time to shout, "the first shock will be the strongest, boys," when the terrible storm burst upon the doomed ship with a violence indescribable, and a noise like a hundred great guns fired at once. thrown at first almost on her beam-ends, she soon righted, and now she was tossed about like a cork. high up on a mighty wave at one moment, down in a dark gulf the next. the foam of the breaking waters and the incessant lightning was the only light they had, and in this glare the faces of the crew looked blue and ghastly. bravely did the men stick to the wheel. hall himself had gone early below to comfort the ladies. yet, although the waves and spray were making a clean breach over the ship, luckily she was well battened down, and it was dry below. the seas that tumbled inboard were hot and seething. mr hall prevailed upon his wife and daughter to lie down on the lockers, or couches, and to these he did his best to lash them; but so great was the uncertain motion, that he had to clutch with one hand to the table while he did so. the air down below was as hot as the waters on deck; hot and sulphurous, so that the perspiration stood on the brows of all below. it was indeed a fearful storm. but it lulled at last, though two men had been called to their account-- swept overboard in the clutches of a great green sea. it lulled; but the intensity of the pitchy darkness still continued. it was no longer a circular storm, but a gale, settling down to less than half a gale towards the commencement of the morning watch. but the binnacle had been washed away, and the men were steering only by blind chance. just as daylight, grey and gloomy, began to appear in the east, an awful tell-tale rasping was heard beneath the keel of the _wolverine_, and almost at once two of her masts went by the board. "axes, men!" cried dickson--"axes, and clear away the wreck!" it was a dangerous and difficult task, with every now and then a huge sea rushing in from astern, and all but sweeping the decks. daylight came in quickly now, though clouds seemingly a mile in depth obscured the sun, and the horizon was close on board of them all around. but yonder, looming through the mist, was a coral shore, with huge rugged, and apparently volcanic, mountains rising behind it. fearing she would soon break up, captain dickson determined to lower a boat at all hazards, manned by four of his strongest and best sailors. in this hall begged that his wife might go with the maid, and the request was granted. mr hall watched that boat as she rose and fell on the troubled waters with the greatest anxiety and dread. suddenly he staggered and clutched the rigging, and his eyes seemed starting from his head. "oh, my god! my god!" he cried. "my wife! my wife!" for a bigger wave than any, a huge breaker or bore, in fact came rushing from seawards and engulfed the unfortunate boat. and she was never seen, nor anyone who had gone in her. the crew and poor mrs hall, with her maid, now-- "lie where pearls lie deep, yet none o'er their low bed may weep." mr hall was led below by the kind-hearted captain himself, and threw himself on a couch in an agony of grief. dickson forced him to take a large stimulant, and put a man to watch him, fearing he might rush on deck and pitch himself into the sea. as to their whereabouts, or the latitude and longitude of that strange, wild island, dickson knew nothing. he had many times and oft sailed these seas, and was certain he had never seen those lofty peaks and rugged hills before. although the wind continued, and the keel was breaking up, although she was fast making water below, he determined to hang on to her as long as possible, for there was a probability that the storm might soon die away. some of the crew, however, grew impatient at last, and, in spite of threats, lowered another boat, into which crowded six men. alas! they, too, went down before they were many yards from the wreck. but see these figures now flitting up and down on the coral sands! and, strangest sight of all, there is among those dusky, almost naked savages, the tall and commanding figure of a white woman, dressed in skins. the savages are evidently obeying her slightest behest, for a queen she is. with ropes of grass they are stoutly binding together three large canoes, flanked by outriggers, thus forming a kind of wide raft. then these are launched, and right rapidly do the paddles flash and drip and ply, as the triple craft nears the ship. the raft seems to come through the seas rather than over them, but busy hands are baling, and, by the time this strange construction arrives on the lee bow, the canoes are free of water. the _wolverine_ has but few on board her now, only eight men of the crew, with the officers, little matty, hall, and miss hall. these latter are lowered first, with three men. they are safely landed through the surf, and dickson can see the strange white woman advance towards them with outstretched arms. the raft comes back again, and all on board are now taken off, captain dickson being the last to leave the doomed ship. oscar, the grand newfoundland, prefers to swim. no terrors have the waves or surf for him, and he is on shore barking joyfully as he races up and down the beach long before the raft rasps upon the silver sands. the strange, skin-dressed lady met them. she was english, and dubbed herself queen of the isle of flowers. "for ten long years," she told captain dickson, "i have been here, and yours is the first ship i have seen. but come to my house behind the hills, and i will tell you my strange story later on." though drenched to the skin, they all most gladly followed the queen, up glens, and by zigzag paths, and over wild hills, till at last they came to one of the wildest and most beautiful valleys these adventurers had ever beheld. now they could understand how the queen had named it the isle of flowers. a beautiful stream went meandering through the valley with every species of tropical or semi-tropical flowering trees it is possible to imagine growing on its banks. no wonder that matty, whom reginald carried in his strong arms, cried: "oh, doc, dear, zis (this) is surely fairyland! oh, doc, i'se dizzy wi' beauty!" "hurry on," said the queen; "a keen wind is blowing on this hilltop." in the midst of a forest of magnolias that scented the air all around, they found the road that led to the queen's palace. a long, low building it was, and seemingly comfortable; but the path that led to it was bordered on each side with human skulls placed upon poles. noticing dickson's look of horror, she smiled. "these are the skulls of our enemies--a tribe that in war canoes visited our island a few years ago, but never found their way back. my people insisted on placing those horrid relics there. had i refused my permission, i should have been deposed, probably even slain." into one room she showed the ladies, the officers and few remaining men into another. here were couches all around, with comfortable mats of grass, and on these, tired and weary, everyone lay and many slept, till their garments were dried in the sun by the queen's servants. it was afternoon now, but the wind had lulled, and soon it was night, clear and starry. the vessel had gone on shore at low tide, but some time during the middle watch a great wave had lifted her and thrown her on her beam-ends high up on the coral sands. next morning, when dickson and reginald went over the hills, after a hearty breakfast of roast yams and delicious fish, they found that the sea had receded so far that they could walk around the wreck on the dry sand. that day was spent--with the assistance of the queen's special servants--in saving from the vessel everything of value, especially stores, and the ship's instruments. casks of rum and flour, casks of beans, and even butter, with nearly all the bedding and clothes. these latter were spread on the beach to dry. inland, to the queen's mansion, everything else was borne on litters. but the greatest "save" of all was the arms and ammunition, to say nothing of tools of every description, and canvas wherewith good tents might be built later on. when all was secured that could be secured, and the remainder of the crew had joined them-- "men," said dickson, "let us pray." down on the coral strand knelt the shipwrecked men, while, with eyes streaming with tears, captain dickson prayed as perhaps he had never prayed before, to that heavenly father who had spared the lives of those before him. the natives stood aside wonderingly, but they listened intently and earnestly when, led by their captain, the mariners sang a portion of that beautiful psalm: "god is our refuge and our strength, in straits a present aid; therefore, although the earth remove, we will not be afraid." chapter seventeen. crusoes on the island of flowers--a threatened armada. for weeks and weeks mourned poor hall for his wife; for weeks and weeks mourned he. he was like rachel weeping for her children, who would not be comforted "because they were not." but the anguish of his grief toned down at last. his sorrow was deep still, but he could listen now to the consolations that dickson never forgot to give him morn, noon, and night. "ah, well," he said at last, "i shall meet her again in the bright beyond, where farewells are never said, where partings are unknown. that thought must be my solace." and this thought did console both him and ilda, his daughter. as for matty, she was too young to know what grief really was, and romped with reginald's dog in the queen's beautiful gardens, just as she had done on board the unfortunate yacht--now, alas! a yacht no more. but busy weeks these had been for the shipwrecked mariners. yet far from unhappy. they were crusoes now to all intents and purposes, and acting like crusoes, having saved all the interior stores, etc, that they could, knowing well that the very next storm would not leave a timber of the poor _wolverine_. so at every low tide they laboured at breaking her up. at high tide they worked equally energetically in building a wooden house on a bit of tableland, that was easy of access, and could not be reached by a tide, however high. the house was very strong, for the very best wood in the ship was used. moreover, its back was close to the straight and beetling mountain cliff. the six men of the crew that were saved worked like new hollanders, as sailors say. the house had sturdy doors, and the vessel's windows were transhipped. but this wooden house did not actually touch the ground, but was built on two-foot high stone supports. soot could be strewn around them, and the white ants thus kept at bay. stone, or rather scoria, steps led up to the dwelling, one end of which was to be not only the sleeping-place of the men, but a kind of recreation-room as well, for dickson had succeeded in saving even the piano and violins. the other room to the right was not so large, but, being furnished from the saloon of the _wolverine_, was almost elegant, and when complete was always decorated and gay with lovely wildflowers. indeed, all the flowers here were wild. the queen had begged that miss hall and wee matty might sleep at the palace. this was agreed to; but to luncheon not only they but the queen herself came over every fine day, and the days were nearly all fine. one day a big storm blew and howled around the rocky mountain peaks. it increased in violence towards evening, and raged all night. next day scarcely a timber of the wrecked yacht was to be seen, save a few spars that the tempest had cast up on the white and coralline beach. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ captain dickson was far indeed from being selfish, and quite a quantity of saloon and cabin furniture saved from the wreck was carried on the backs of the natives over the mountain tracks to the beautiful valley of flowers, to furnish and decorate the house of the queen. her majesty was delighted, and when her rooms were complete she gave a great dinner-party, or rather banquet. she had much taste, and the table was certainly most tastefully decorated. the _menu_ was a small one. there was fish, however, excellently cooked. "i taught my cook myself," said her majesty, smiling. this was followed by the _piece de resistance_, a roast sucking-pig. the _entree_ was strange, namely, fillets of a species of iguana lizard. the huge and terrible-looking iguana lizard, as found on the coast of africa, crawling on the trees, is very excellent eating, and so were these fillets. but the fruits were the most delicious anyone around the festive board had ever tasted. there were, strangely enough, not only blushing pine-apples, but guavas, which eat like strawberries smothered in cream; mangoes, and many other fragrant fruits no one there could name. dickson had supplied the wine, but very little was used. goats' milk and excellent coffee supplied its place. poor hall was still a patient of reginald's, and the latter compelled him to take a little wine for his grief's sake. just a word or two about queen bertha. though but twenty and five, her dark hair was already mixed with threads of silver. she was tall for a woman, very beautiful and very commanding. she never stirred abroad in her picturesque dress of skins without having in her hand a tall staff, much higher than herself. it was ornamented--resplendent, in fact--with gold, silver, precious stones and pearls. "this is my sceptre," she said, "and all my people respect it." she smiled as she added: "i make them do so. i can hypnotise a man with a touch of it; but if a fellow is fractious, i have a strong arm, and he feels the weight of it across his shins. he must fling himself at my feet before i forgive him. my history, gentlemen, is a very brief one, though somewhat sad and romantic. i am the daughter of a wealthy english merchant, who had a strange longing to visit in one of his own ships the shores of africa and the south sea islands. he did so eventually, accompanied by my dear mother and myself, then little more than a child, for i was only fifteen; also an elder brother. alas! we were driven far out of our way by a gale, or rather hurricane, of wind, and wrecked on this island. my father's last act was to tie me to a spar. that spar was carried away by the tide, and in the _debris_ of the wreck i was washed up on shore. every soul on board perished except myself. the superstitious natives looked upon the dark-haired maiden as some strange being from another world, and i was revered and made much of from the first. i soon had proof enough that the islanders were cannibals, for they built great fires on the beach and roasted the bodies of the sailors that were washed up. there were, indeed, but few, for the sharks had first choice, and out yonder in that blue and sunlit sea the sharks are often in shoals and schools. some devoured the human flesh raw, believing that thus they would gain extra strength and bravery in the day of battle." "are there many battles, then?" asked reginald. "hitherto, doctor, my people have been the invaders of a larger island lying to the east of us. thither they go in their war canoes, and so far fortune has favoured them. they bring home heads and human flesh. the flesh they eat, the heads they place on the beach till cleaned and whitened by crabs and ants; then they are stuck on poles in my somewhat ghastly avenue. i have tried, but all in vain, to change the cannibalistic ways of my people. they come to hear me preach salvation on sundays, and they join in the hymns i sing; but human flesh they will have. yes, on the whole i am very happy, and would not change my lot with victoria of britain herself. my people do love me, mind, and i would rather be somebody in this savage though beautiful island than nobody in the vortex of london society. "but i have one thing else to tell you. the red-stripe savages of the isle we have so often conquered are gathering in force, and are determined to carry the war into our country; with what results i cannot even imagine, for they are far stronger numerically than we are, though not so brave. these savages are also cannibals; not only so, but they put their prisoners to tortures too dreadful even to think of. it will be many months before they arrive, but come they will. i myself shall lead my army. this will inspire my people with pluck and from the hilltops i hope you will see us repel the armada in beautiful style." she laughed right merrily as she finished her narrative. "but my dear queen," said dickson, "do you imagine that myself and my brave fellows saved from the wreck will be contented to act as mere spectators from the hills, like the `gods' in a theatre gallery, looking down on a play? nay, we must be beside you, or near you, actors in the same drama or tragedy. lucky it is, doctor, that we managed to save our two six-pounders, our rifles, and nearly all our ammunition. why are they called the red-stripe savages, your majesty?" "because, though almost naked, their bodies when prepared for war are all barred over with red paint. the face is hideous, for an eye is painted on the forehead, and a kind of cap with the pricked ears of the wild fox, which is half a wolf, worn on the head. their arms are bows, spears, shields of great size, which quite cover them, and terrible black knives." "our shrapnel, believe me, lady, will go through all that, and their heads as well." "though loth to seek your assistance," said queen bertha, "in this case i shall be glad of it. for if they succeed in conquering us the massacre would be awful. not a man, woman or child would be left alive on our beautiful island." "assuredly we shall conquer them," said dickson. "the very sound of our guns and crack of our rifles will astonish and demoralise them. not a boat shall return of their invincible armada; perhaps not a savage will be left alive to tell the tale hereafter." "that would indeed be a blessing to us. and my people have half-promised not to make war on them again. we should therefore live in peace, and fear no more armadas." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ mr hall was now brightening up again, and all the survivors of the unfortunate _wolverine_, having something to engage their attention, became quite jolly and happy. i scarce need mention matty. the child was happy under all circumstances. ilda, too, was contented. perhaps never more so than when taking long walks with reginald up the lovely valley, gathering wildflowers, or fishing in the winding river. ilda was really beautiful. her beauty was almost of the classical type, and her voice was sweet to listen to. so thought reginald. "how charmingly brown the sun has made you, dear ilda," said reginald, as she leant on his arm by the riverside. he touched her lightly on the cheek as he spoke. her head fell lightly on his shoulder just then, as if she were tired, and he noticed that there were tears in her eyes. "no, not tired," she answered, looking up into his face. redder, sweeter lips surely no girl ever possessed. for just a moment he drew her to his breast and kissed those lips. ah, well, reginald grahame was only a man. i fear that ilda was only a woman, and that she really loved the handsome, brown-faced and manly doctor. they had now been one year and two months away from scotland, and at this very moment the laird fletcher was paying all the attention in his power to annie o' the banks o' dee. he was really a modern "auld robin grey." "my mither she fell sick, an' my jamie at the sea; then aold robin grey came a-courting me." chapter eighteen. a cannibal brewer and cannibal beer. queen bertha of the isle of flowers had industriously laboured among her people. it gave her pleasure to do so. she even taught them english, which all could now speak after a fashion. well, while dickson and hall were drilling a small company of blacks as soldiers, and trying to make them experts in the use of the rifle--for they had over a score of these to spare--reginald spent much of his time on the hills with his gun, shooting small wild pigs, rock-rabbits, tuen-tuens, etc. he was always accompanied by ilda, merry matty, and oscar the newfoundland. no matter where a wild bird fell, in river or lake, or in the bush, oscar found it, and laid it at his master's feet. but one day reginald, while shooting, made a singular discovery indeed. far up in the hills they came upon the grass hut of a very peculiar old man indeed. before reaching the place quite, they met three natives, and they were evidently intoxicated, staggering, laughing, singing and dancing. the old man was seated in his doorway. around his hut were at least a dozen huge clay jars, with clay lids, and these contained beer of some sort. he was the most hideous old wretch that reginald had yet clapped eyes on. even matty was terrified, and hugged the great dog round the neck as she gazed on that awful-looking and repulsive creature. "these jars," said reginald, "evidently contain some intoxicating drink. and the old brewer doesn't look a beauty, nor a saint either!" nor did he. here he is, as i myself have seen him more than once. squatting tailor-fashion outside the door of his dark and windowless hut, a man with a mop of rough silvery hair, thin lips, drawn back into a grin, so that one could see all his awful teeth--tusks they really seemed to be, each one filed into a pointed triangle, the better to tear human flesh. they were stained red. his eyes were red also, and like those of some scared wild beast and cheeks and brow were covered with symmetrical scars. but he was a brewer, and very busy plying his trade. beside him were open cocoa-nuts and bunches of fragrant herbs. "go on," said reginald; "don't let us interfere with business, pray." the horrid creature put a huge lump of cocoa-nut into his mouth, then some herbs, and chewed the lot together; then taking a mouthful of water from a chatty, he spat the whole mass into a jar and proceeded as before. this awful mess of chewed cocoa-nut, herbs, and saliva ferments into a kind of spirit. this is poured off and mixed with water, and lo! the beer of the cannibal islanders! reginald, noticing a strange-looking chain hanging across the old man's scarred and tattooed chest, begged to examine it. to his astonishment, it consisted entirely of beautiful pearls and small nuggets of gold. "where did this come from, my man?" "ugh! i catchee he plenty twick. plenty mo'. ver' mooch plenty." reginald considered for a moment. money was no good to an old wretch like this, but he wore around his waist a beautiful crimson sash. this he divested himself of, and held it up before the cannibal brewer. "i will give you this for your chain," he said, "and another as good to-morrow, if you will come now and show us where you find these things." the old man at once threw the chain at reginald's feet, and seized the scarf delightedly. "i come quick--dis moment!" he cried. and he was as good as his word. it was a long walk, and a wild one. sometimes reginald carried matty; sometimes she rode on the great dog. but they arrived at last at the entrance to a gloomy defile, and here in the hillsides were openings innumerable, evidently not made by hands of man. here, however, was an el dorado. caves of gold! for numerous small nuggets were found on the floors and shining in the white walls around them. it was evident enough that it only needed digging and a little hard work to make a pile from any single one of these caves. next about the pearls. the old savage took the party to the riverside. he waded in, and in five minutes had thrown on shore at least a hundred pearl oysters. these, on coming to bank, he opened one by one, and ten large and beautiful white pearls were found, with ever so many half-faced ones. strange and wondrous indeed was the story that reginald grahame had to relate in private to mr hall and captain dickson on his return to his home by the sea. at present the trio kept the secret to themselves. that gold was to be had for the gathering was evident enough. but to share it with six men was another question. it might be better, at all events, if they were first and foremost to make their own pile. anyhow, the men's services might be required; in that case they could choose their own claims, unless reginald claimed the whole ravine. this he was entitled to do, but he was very far indeed from being mean and greedy. but so intricate was the way to the ravine of gold that without a guide no one could possibly find it. for six whole weeks no gold digging was thought about. matters of even greater import occupied the minds of the white men. the company of blacks was beautifully drilled by this time, and made fairly good marksmen with the rifle. they were, indeed, the boldest and bravest on the island, and many of them the queen's own bodyguards. well, the bay enclosed by the reefs on one of which the _wolverine_ had struck was the only landing-place in the whole island. every other part of the shore was guarded by precipitous rocks a thousand feet high at least, rising sheer and black out of the ocean. the armada must come here, then, if anywhere; and, moreover, the bay faced the enemy's own island, although, with the exception of a mountain peak or two, seen above the horizon, it was far too distant to be visible. a grass watch-tower was built on the brow of a hill, and a sentry occupied this by night as well as by day. only keen-eyed blacks were chosen for this important duty, and they were told that if any suspicious sign was observed they must communicate immediately with captain dickson. and now, facing the sea, a strong palisaded fort was built, and completely clayed over, so as to be almost invisible from the sea. it was roofed over with timber, as a protection against the enemy's arrows; it was also loop-holed for rifles, and here, moreover, were mounted the two six-pounders. plenty of ammunition for both rifles and guns was placed at a safe distance from the ports. one evening the sentry ran below to report that, seeing a glare in the sky, he had climbed high up the mountain side, and by aid of the night-glass could see that fires were lighted on the brow of every low hill on the enemy's island, and that savages in rings were wildly dancing around them. the sentry had no doubt that the attack on the isle of flowers would soon follow this. dickson thanked the man heartily for his attention, gave him coffee and biscuit, and sent him back to the sentry hut. so kind was the captain, and so interested in the welfare of the blacks, that any one of those he had trained would have fought at fearful odds for him. for kindness towards, a savage soon wins his heart, and his respect as well. three days more passed by--oh, so slowly and wearily! for a cloud hovered over the camp that the white men tried in vain to dispel. there was this fearful armada to face and to fight, and the anxiety born of thinking about it was harder to bear than the actual battle itself would be. dickson was a strictly pious man. never a morning and never an evening passed without his summoning his men to prayers, and in true scottish fashion reading a portion from the little bible which, like general gordon, he never failed to carry in his bosom. i think he did good. i think he made converts. mind, without any preaching. he simply led these darkened intellects to the light, the glorious light of revealed religion. the portion of the fort where the guns were placed was so fashioned as to be able to cover a wide space of sea on both sides, and from this arrangement dickson expected great results. a whole week had worn away since the first fires had been seen from the hilltop; but every night those fires had blazed. it was evident enough the enemy was endeavouring to propitiate their gods before sailing. for by day, on climbing a mountain, dickson, by means of his large telescope, could see on the beach that human sacrifices were being offered up. it was fearful to behold. men, or perhaps women, were chained to stakes on the beach, and pyres of wood built around them. as the fire curled up through the smoke in tongues, he could see the wretches writhing in agony, while round them danced the spear-armed savages. reginald had little to do at present, and would have but little to do until summoned to tight. so he was often at the queen's palace, and a very delightful conversationalist she proved herself to be. she had avowed her intention of being at the great battle herself. her presence, and the sway of her pole-like sceptre, she assured the doctor, would give her people confidence, and mayhap be the turning point which would lead to victory. many a ramble together had reginald and ilda, nearly always followed by sweet wee matty and her canine favourite oscar. one day, however, matty was at the seaside camp, and reginald went out with ilda alone to collect bouquets for the queen's table. the day was a hot one, but both were young, and when they zigzagged up a mountain side they found not only shade on a green mound beneath some spreading trees, but coolness as well. all this morning reginald had been thinking sorrowfully about his lost love, as he now called annie, and of the country he never expected again to see, because never did ships visit this unknown island unless driven hither by storm or tempest. but now there was the soft and dreamy light of love in ilda's eyes, if ever there were in a woman's. reginald was very far indeed from being unfaithful at heart to his betrothed, but--well, he could not help thinking how strangely beautiful ilda was. when she leant towards him and gave one coy glance into his face, it might have been but passion--i cannot say; it might be budding love. at all events, he drew her to his breast and kissed those red lips over and over again, she blushing, but unresisting as before. what he might have said i do not know. but at that moment a half-naked armed savage burst hurriedly in upon the scene. "come, sah, come; de capatin he sendee me. de bad black mans' war canoes dey is coming, too. plenty big boat, plenty spear and bow." reginald thought no more of love just then. his scottish blood was on fire, and when he had seen ilda safe in the palace he bade her an affectionate but hurried farewell, and hurried away to the front. the armada was coming in deadly earnest, and no one in the isle of flowers could even guess how matters might end. chapter nineteen. gold and pearls--jack carousing. no confusion here in the fort. the men were all in, the other spear-armed corps of at least five hundred were hidden in the bush at the base of the mountain side. inside everything was being conducted as quietly and regularly as--as--well, as a marriage in church. but looking seaward, even without the aid of a glass, the great armada could be seen approaching. huge black many-paddled war canoes, forty in all, and probably with fifty men in each, or nearly a thousand altogether. nearer and nearer they swept with many a wild or warlike shout that was meant to strike terror into the hearts of the flower islanders. they were soon so near that the rattling of their spears as they struck them against their big shields could be distinctly heard. so near now that with a small opera-glass which the doctor carried, he could see their painted skins and faces, and the red and horrible streaks. and now it was time to fire the first gun. a shot or shell would have carried much further, but grape would be ever so much more demoralising. dickson himself trained that gun on the foremost or leading boat. the surprise of the enemy was indeed great. never had they seen a gun fired before, nor heard the roar of one. but yonder on shore and in front of the barricaded fort they could see a balloon of white smoke, with a stream of red fire in the centre. then the roar of that piece of ordnance was appalling. next moment the crowded boat or war canoe was filled with corpses and the shrieking, bleeding wounded. but she was in splinters, and quickly filled and sank. the other boats lay on their paddles for a minute, uncertain what to do. meanwhile, and just as reginald was quickly sponging out the gun previous to reloading, and all was silent for a time, a curious thing occurred. in at the tiny back door of the fort, which had not yet been closed, rushed a tiny, laughing figure, all in white and barefooted. it was matty, and in jumped honest oscar next. she was laughing merrily. "oh!" she cried, clapping her hands with glee. "they put me to bed, but i dot up again and runned away twickly, and i'se come to 'ssist!" "oh, my darling!" cried reginald, in great concern, "why did you come?" "i can tally (carry) tartridges and powder." "no, no, no, dear. you must obey me. here, there is my coat, and in that corner you must sit till all the fight is over." matty said: "tiss me, then." he kissed her, and down she sat with the dog beside her, and looked very demure indeed, with that one wee forefinger in her mouth. strange to say, she soon fell fast asleep, with her head pillowed on the dog's back, one hand clutching his mane. the battle now became general all along the line. for the riflemen in the back, as well as those within the fort, began to fire. and now slowly down the hill came bertha, the island queen, sceptre-pole in hand, and dressed in skins of dazzling white. a very imposing figure she looked. but her presence gave extra courage to her people. the officers in almost every boat were picked off easily, so short was now the range. it must be admitted that the enemy showed no lack of courage, though boat after boat was sunk to the number of six, and rifles rang out from the bush and fort in a series of independent but incessant firing, and well did the foe understand that their main safety now consisted in landing as soon as they possibly could. they knew that in a hand-to-hand fight the "fire-sticks," as savages call our rifles, would be of little avail. the guns were worked with splendid results, however, and by the time the war canoes were beached only about four hundred men were left to fight. but these cannibals knew no fear. one more telling volley from the bush, one more shot from a six-pounder, then from behind a bush rushed the white queen waving aloft her sceptre, and instantly from their cover, spear-armed, now rushed the flower islanders, one thousand strong at least the fight was a fearful one. dickson, hall, with reginald and the men in the fort, joined with revolver and cutlass. the queen was in the front. no, she fought not, but her presence there was like that of joan of arc. many of the invaded fell dead and wounded; but even the fierce foe was forced to yield at last, and the miserable remnant of them tried once more to reach their boats. they never did. it was a war of extermination, and the invaders were utterly and completely wiped out never a boat, never a man returned home to their distant island to tell the fearful tale. the flower islanders expected now a grand feast. here was flesh--human flesh. the queen forbade it, and dickson himself gave orders that every body-- the wounded had been stabbed--should be rowed out to sea and thrown overboard to feed the sharks. they demurred. dickson was determined and stern. if not obeyed instantly, he should turn the guns on the would-be cannibals. reginald suggested as a kind of compromise that each man who had been fighting should receive a large biscuit and a glass of rum. it was a happy thought, and after this the work was set about merrily. the sea-burial occupied all the afternoon till within an hour of sunset. then the canoes returned. all was over. the armada was no more. but around him now dickson gathered the flower island army, and offered up a prayer of thanks to the god of battle, who had fought on their side, and the islanders seemed much impressed. the enemy would probably never attempt invasion again--in our heroes' time, at all events. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the queen gave a banquet that night, she herself presiding. of course, nothing was talked about except the incidents of the recent terrible battle. matty came in for a share of praise, but was told she really must not run away again. and she promised, only adding that she thought she could "'ssist the poor dear doc." the banquet lasted till late. the queen had not forgotten how to play and sing. dickson and reginald were both good musicians, and one or two blacks gave inimitable performances, partly gesture, partly song; which would assuredly have brought down the house if given in a london music-hall. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ being freed now for a time from any fear of further invasion, attention was turned to the gold mines and to the pearl-fishing. at a meeting on the hillside it was resolved that the men--they were all honest fellows--should be admitted to the secret. to have shut them out would hardly have been fair, so thought all. well, naturally enough, reginald chose what he considered the best two claims; then came dickson's choice; then mr hall's, and after these the six white sailors, and they were willing to dig like heroes. they divided the work of the day into two parts. one was spent at the gold mines, the other in fishing for pearls. they were remarkably successful with the latter, but for nine months at least the gold came but slowly in, and this was disheartening. nevertheless, they continued to dig and dig, assisted by native labour. the savages often found nuggets among the _debris_ that had been overlooked by the white men, and these they dutifully presented to the owners of the claims. it must be admitted that the men were most energetic, for while their officers were always at the queen's palace by five o'clock, and ready for dinner, the men often worked by moonlight, or even by the glimmer of lanterns. they were slowly accumulating wealth. success crowned reginald's efforts at last, though. for, to his extreme wonderment and delight, he struck a splendid pocket. it was deep down at the far end of the cave, and the mould was of a sandy nature, much of it apparently powdered quartz, broken, perhaps, by the awful pressure of the mountain above. but the very first nugget he pulled from here was as large as a pineapple, and many more followed, though none so large. no wonder his heart palpitated with joy and excitement, or that his comrades crowded round to shake his hand and congratulate him. but that cave had already made reginald a fairly wealthy man. his success, moreover, encouraged the others to dig all the harder, and not without excellent results. it seemed, indeed, that not only was this island a flowery land, but an isle of gold. and the further they dug into the hill the more gold did they find. the men were very happy. "oh, bill," said one to his pal one night at supper, "if ever we does get a ship home from this blessed isle, won't my polly be glad to see me just!" "ay, jack, she will; but i ain't in any particular hurry to go yet, you know." "well, it's two years come monday since we sailed away from the beautiful clyde. heigho! i shouldn't wonder if polly has given me up for good and all, and married some counter-jumping land-lubber of a draper or grocer." "never mind, jack; there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it yet. pass the rum. this is saturday night, and it was just real good of captain dickson to send us an extra drop of the rosy. fill your glasses, gentlemen, for a toast and a song. that digging has made me a mighty deal too tired to think of dancing to the sweetest jig e'er a fiddler could scrape out." "well, give us your toast, bill. we're all primed and waiting." "my toast ain't a very short one, but here it goes: `may the next year be our very last in this 'ere blessed island; may we all go home with bags of gold, and find our sweethearts true and faithful.'" "hear, hear!" and every glass was drained to the bottom. "now for the song." "oh, only an old ditty o' dibdin's, and i'd rather be on the heavin' ocean when i sings it. there is no accompaniment to a song so fetching as that which the boom and the wash of the waves make. them's my sentiments, boys. "wives and sweethearts. "'tis said we ve't'rous diehards, when we leave the shore, our friends should mourn, lest we return to bless their sight no more; but this is all a notion bold jack can't understand, some die upon the ocean, and some die on the land. then since 'tis clear, howe'er we steer, no man's life's under his command; let tempests howl and billows roll, and dangers press; in spite of these there are some joys us jolly tars to bless, for saturday night still comes, my boys, to drink to poll and bess. "hurrah!" but just at this moment a strange and ominous sound, like distant thunder, put a sudden stop to the sailors' saturday night. all started to their feet to listen. chapter twenty. "oh, awful! what can it be?" cried reginald. i do not hesitate to say that the possession of unprotected wealth maketh cowards of most people. the anxiety connected therewith may keep one awake at night, and bring on a state of nervousness that shall end in a break-up of the general health. but no thought of ever losing the precious nuggets and pearls that had cost him so much hard work came into the mind of reginald grahame, until an event took place which proved that gold may tempt even those we trust the most. harry jenkins was a bright little sailor, the pet of his mess. he was always singing when at work in the diggings, and he generally managed to keep his comrades in excellent humour, and laughing all the time. in their messroom of an evening they were all frank and free, and hid nothing one from the other. for each believed in his pal's honesty. "i have a thousand pounds' worth of nuggets at least!" said harry one evening. "and i," said bill johnson, "have half as much again." they showed each other their gold, comparing nuggets, their very eyes glittering with joy as they thought of how happy they should be when they returned once more to their own country. then they each stowed away their wealth of nuggets and pearls, placed in tiny canvas bags inside their small sea-chests. this was about a week after that pleasant saturday night which was so suddenly broken up by the muttering of subterranean thunder and the trembling of the earth. but earthquakes were frequent in the island, though as yet not severe. the queen was by no means alarmed, but ilda was--terribly so. "oh," she cried, "i wish i were away and away from this terrible island!" the queen comforted her all she could. "i have a presentiment," replied the poor girl, "that this is not the last nor the worst." but when days and days passed away, and there were no more signs of earth-tremor, she regained courage, and was once more the same happy girl she had been before. then the occurrence took place that made reginald suspicious of the honesty of some of those british sailors. one morning harry was missing. they sought him high, they sought him low, but all in vain. then it occurred to johnson to look into his box. the box, with all his gold and pearls, was gone! harry's box had been left open, and it was found to be empty. no one else had lost anything. however, this was a clue, and the officers set themselves to unravel the mystery at once. nor was it long before they did so. not only was one of the largest canoes missing, with a sail that had been rigged on her, but two of the strongest natives and best boatmen. it was sadly evident that harry was a thief, and that he had bribed these two savages to set out to sea with him. there was a favouring breeze for the west, and harry no doubt hoped that, after probably a week's sailing, he would reach some of the more civilised of the polynesian islands, and find his way in a ship back to britain. whether he did so may never be known, but the fact that the breeze increased to over half a gale about three days after he had fled, makes it rather more than probable that the big canoe was swamped, and that she foundered, going down with the crew and the ill-gotten gold as well. only a proof that the wicked do not always prosper in this world. poor johnson's grief was sad to witness. "on my little store," he told his messmates, wringing his hands, and with the tears flowing over his cheeks, "i placed all my future happiness. i care not now what happens. one thing alone i know: life to me has no more charms, and i can never face poor mary again." he went to the diggings again in a halfhearted kind of way, and for a day or two was fairly successful; but it was evident that his heart was almost broken, and that if something were not done he might some evening throw himself over a cliff, and so end a life that had become distasteful to him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ so one morning reginald had an interview with his messmates. "i myself," he said, "must have already collected over twenty thousand pounds in nuggets and pearls, and will willingly give of this my store five hundred pounds worth of gold by weight, if you, captain dickson, and you, hall, will do the same. thus shall we restore reason and happiness to a fellow-creature, and one of the best-hearted sailors that ever lived and sailed the salt, salt seas." both dickson and hall must need shake hands with reginald, and, while the tears stood in his eyes, the former said: "that will we, my dear boy, and god will bless your riches, and restore you all your desires whenever we reach our british shores again." and so that very night there was no more happy man than johnson. another saturday night in the men's mess. dickson willingly spliced the main-brace twice over, and the night passed pleasantly on with yarn and song till midnight. but the thief harry was never mentioned. it was better thus. already, perhaps, the man had met his doom, and so they forgave him. yet somehow this incident rankled in reginald's bosom, and made him very uneasy. "i say," he said to dickson one day, "i confess that the flight of harry jenkins with poor johnson's gold has made me suspicious." "and me so as well," said dickson. "i mean," said reginald, "to bury my treasure, and i have already selected a spot." "you have? then i shall bury mine near yours. i have ever liked you, doctor, since first we met, and we have been as brothers." they shook hands. appealed to, mr hall said straight: "i am a wealthy man, and, if ever i reach america, i shall have more than i can spend. i shall leave mine in the box where it is. i admit," he added, "that if there be one thief among six men, there may be two, and gold is a great temptation. but i'll go with you at the dead of night, and help to carry, and help you to bury your treasure." they thanked him heartily, and accepted his kindly assistance. the spot at which reginald had chosen to hide his gold and treasure was called lone tree hill. it was on a bare, bluff mountain side. here stood one huge eucalyptus tree, that might have been used as a landmark for ships at sea had it been in the track of vessels. but this island, as i have already said, was not so. strangely enough, all around this tree the hill was supposed to be haunted by an evil spirit, and there was not a native who would go anywhere near it, even in broad daylight. the spirit took many forms, sometimes rushing down in the shape of a fox, or even wild pig, and scaring the natives into convulsions, but more often, and always before an earthquake, the spirit was seen in the shape of a round ball of flame on the very top of the tree. this was likely enough. i myself have seen a mysterious flame of this kind on the truck or highest portion of a ship's mast, and we sailors call it saint elmo's fire. i have known sailors, who would not have been afraid to bear the brunt of battle in a man-o'-war, tremble with superstitious dread as they beheld that mysterious quivering flame at the mast-head. some evil, they would tell you, was sure to happen. a storm invariably followed. well, generally a gale wind did, owing to the electric conditions of the atmosphere. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ a bright scimitar of moon was shining at midnight when dickson and reginald, assisted by hall, stole silently out and away to the hills to bury their treasure. there were few sounds to be heard to-night on the island. far out in the bay there was at times the splash of a shark or the strange cooing of a porpoise, and in the valley the yapping of foxes in pursuit of their prey. the mournful hooting of great owls sounded from the woods, with now and then the cry of a night bird, or shriek of wounded bird. it was a long and stiff walk to lone tree hill; but arrived there, they set to work at once to dig at the eucalyptus root. the holes made-- dickson's to the east, reginald's to the west--the nuggets, enclosed in strong tarpaulin bags, were laid in, and next the pearls, in small cash-boxes, were placed above these. the earth was now filled in, and the sods replaced so carefully and neatly that no one could have told that the earth had ever been broken or the sods upturned. then, breathing a prayer for the safety of their treasure, on which so much might depend in future, they walked silently down the hill and back to the camp. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ but that very night--or rather towards morning--an event took place that alarmed all hands. the earth shook and trembled, and finally heaved; and it felt as if the house were a ship in the doldrums crossing the line. everyone was dashed on to the floor, and for a time lay there almost stunned, giddy, and even sick. it passed off. but in an hour's time a worse shock followed, and all hands rushed into the open air to seek for safety. outside it was not only hot and stifling--for not a breath of wind was blowing--but the air had a strange and almost suffocating sulphurous odour. and this was soon accounted for. now, not far from lone tree mountain was a high and conical hill. from this, to the great astonishment of all, smoke and flames were now seen issuing. the flames leapt in marvellous tongues high up through the smoke. there was the whitest of steam mingling with the smoke, and anon showers of dust, scorai, and stones began to fall. for a minute or two the sight quite demoralised the trio. but the men, too, had run out, and all had thrown themselves face down on the ground while the heaving of the earth continued. it was a new experience, and a terrible one. dickson went towards them now. "i do not think, boys, that the danger is very extreme," he said. "but i advise you to keep out of doors as much as possible, in case of a greater shock, which may bring down our humble dwelling. and now, hall, and you, reginald," he added, "the ladies at the palace will, i fear, be in great terror. it is our duty to go to them. our presence may help to cheer them up." daylight was beginning to dawn, though from rolling clouds of smoke in the far east the sun could only be seen like a red-hot iron shot. it was evident enough to our heroes when they had climbed the highest intervening hill, that the island from which the armada had come was far more severely stricken than this isle of flowers was. but as they still gazed eastward at the three or four blazing mountains on that island, they started and clung together with something akin to terror in every heart. "oh, awful! what can it be?" cried reginald. chapter twenty one. a terrible time. never until the crack of doom might they hear such another report as that which now fell upon their ears. at almost the same moment, in a comminglement of smoke and fire, a huge dark object was seen to be carried high into the air, probably even a mile high. it then took a westerly direction, and came towards the isle of flowers, getting larger every second, till it descended into the sea, end on, and not two miles away. it was seen to be a gigantic rock, perhaps many, many acres in extent. the waters now rose on every side, the noise was deafening; then in, landwards, sped a huge bore, breaker, or wave, call it what you please, but darkness almost enveloped it, and from this thunders roared and zigzag lightning flashed as it dashed onwards to the island shore. the men they had left behind had speedily climbed the rocks behind the camp, for although the wave did not reach so high, the spray itself would have suffocated them, had they not looked out for safety. it was an awful moment. but the wave receded at last, and the sea was once more calm. only a new island had been formed by the fall of the rock into the ocean's coral depths, and for a time the thunder and lightning ceased. not the volcanic eruptions, however. and but for the blaze and lurid light of these the enemy's isle, as it was called, must have been in total darkness. truly a terrible sight! but our heroes hurried on. just as they had expected, when they reached the queen's palace they found poor miss hall, and even little matty--with all her innocent courage--in a state of great terror. the queen alone was self-possessed. she had seen a volcanic eruption before. ilda was lying on the couch with her arms round matty's waist matty standing by her side. the child was now seven years of age, and could talk and think better. reginald, after kissing ilda's brow, sat down beside them, and matty clambered on his knee. meanwhile, the darkness had increased so much that the queen called upon her dusky attendants to light the great oil lamp that swung from the roof. the queen continued self-possessed, and tried to comfort her guests. "it will soon be over," she said. "i am assured of that. my experience is great." but matty refused all consolation. "i'se never been a very great sinner, has i?" she innocently asked reginald, as she clung round his neck. "oh, no, darling," he said; "you are too young to be much of a sinner." "you think god won't be angry, and will take you and me and ilda and queen bertha straight up to heaven, clothes and all?" "my child," said reginald, "what has put all this into your head?" "oh," she answered, "because i know the day of judgment has come." well, there was some excuse for the little innocent thinking so. without the thickest darkness reigned. dickson and hall went to the door, but did not venture out. scoria was falling, and destroying all the shrubs and flowers in the beautiful valley. the river was mixed with boiling lava, and the noise therefrom was like a thousand engines blowing off steam at one and the same time. surely never was such loud and terrible thunder heard before; and the lightning was so vivid and so incessant that not only did the island itself seem all ablaze, but even the distant sea. crimson and blue fire appeared to lick its surface in all directions. but the burning mountain itself was the most wondrous sight eyes of man could look upon. the smoke and steam rose and rolled amidst the play of lightning miles high apparently. the peak of the mountain itself shot up a continuous stream of orange-yellow flame, in which here and there small black spots could be seen--rocks and stones, without a doubt. but the cone of the great hill itself was marvellously beautiful. for rivers of lava--dickson counted nine in all--were rushing down its sides in a straight course, and these were streams of coloured fire, almost every one a different hue--deep crimson, green, and blue, and even orange. were it not for the terror of the sight, our heroes would have enjoyed it. reginald carried matty to the door to see the beauty of the burning mountain. she took one brief glance, then shudderingly held closer to reginald's neck. "take me back, take me back!" she cried in an agony of fear. "that is the bad place! oh, when will god come and take us away?" all that fearful day and all the following night scoria and ashes continued to fall, the thunder never ceased, and the lightning was still incessant. there was no chance now of getting back to camp, and they trembled to think of what might have taken place. towards morning, however, a wondrous change took place. the sky got clearer, a star or two shone through the rifts of heavy, overhanging clouds. the fire no longer rose from the mountain, only a thick balloon-shaped white cloud lay over it. then the rain began to fall, and, strangely enough, mingled with the rain, which felt warm, were gigantic hailstones and pieces of ice as large as six-pound shells. then up rose the glorious sun. like a red ball of fire he certainly was; but oh, what a welcome sight! that forenoon, all being now peace and quiet, dickson and his comrades determined to march back to camp and ease their minds. after a long and toilsome journey over the hills, many of which were covered with ashes, they reached camp, and were glad to find the men alive, and the house intact. a rampart had been built around the barracks, as hall called it, and inside was a large drill-yard. dickson served out rum to the men, and they soon were cheerful enough once more. the guns had been mounted on the walls, and all rifles were stowed away inside. this was at a suggestion from hall. "you never can trust those niggers," he said quietly, shaking his head. and well it was, as it turned out, that dickson had taken mr hall's advice. that same afternoon, about two o'clock, the same savages who had fought with rifles from the bush against the invaders came hurriedly and somewhat excitedly into camp. the spokesman, a tall and splendid-looking native, gesticulated wildly, as he almost shouted in the officers' ears: "to-mollow molning dey come! all dis island rise! dey come to kill and eat!" the officers were astonished. what had they done to deserve so terrible a fate? "dey blame you for all. oh, be plepared to fight. gib us guns, and we too will fight plenty much. foh true!" a very uneasy night was passed, but the yard and guns had been cleared of cinders and scoria, the bulwarks strengthened, and before the sun once more shone red over the sea dickson was prepared for either battle or siege. everyone had been assigned his quarters. the day was still, hot, and somewhat sultry. luckily the little garrison was well provisioned, and the water would last a week or even longer. low muttering thunders were still heard in the direction of the volcano, and sometimes the earth shook and trembled somewhat, but it was evident that the subterranean fires had burnt themselves out, and it might be a score of years before another eruption occurred. it was evident that the savages did not think so. for as long as the cloud hung over the peak they did not consider themselves safe. about twelve o'clock that day distant shouts and cries were heard in the nearest glen, and presently an undisciplined mob of nearly a thousand howling savages, armed with bows and spears and broad black knives, appeared on the sands, in their war-paint. it was evidently their intention to storm the position, and determinedly too. they halted, however, and seemed to have a hasty consultation. then a chief boldly advanced to the ramparts to hold a parley. his speech was a curious one, and he himself, dressed partly in skins and leaning on a spear like a weaver's beam, was a strangely wild and romantic figure. the officers appeared above the ramparts to look and to listen. "hear, o white men!" cried the savage chief, in fairly good english; "'tis you who brought dis evil on us. we now do starve. de rice and de fruit and de rats and most all wild beasts dey kill or hide demselves. in de sea all round de fish he die. we soon starve. but we not wish to fight. you and your men saved us from the foe that came in der big black war canoe. den you try to teach us god and good. but we all same as before now. we must fight, eat and live, if you do not leave the island. plenty big canoe take you off. den de grass and trees and fruit will grow again, and we shall be happy and flee onct mo'." "an end to this!" cried dickson angrily. "fight as you please, and as soon as you please. but mind, you will have a devilish hot reception, and few of you will return to your glens to tell the tale. away!" as soon as the chief had returned and communicated to his men the result of the interview, they shrieked and shouted and danced like demons. they brandished their spears aloft and rattled them against their shields. then, with one continuous maddened howl, they dashed onwards to scale the ramparts. "blood! blood!" was their battle cry. well knowing that if once they got inside the little garrison would soon be butchered, dickson immediately had both guns trained on them. he himself did so. "bang! bang!" they went, and the grape made fearful havoc in the close and serried ranks of the cannibals. the rifles kept up a withering fire. again, and quickly too, the guns were loaded and run out, and just as the enemy had scaled the brae they were once more met by the terrible fire, and positively hewn down before it. not even savages could stand this. they became demoralised, and fled incontinently. and they soon disappeared, carrying many of their dead with them. far along the beach went they, and as stakes were placed in the ground, large fires built around them, and one or more of the dead thrown on each, it was evident that they had made up their minds not to starve. one of the blacks was now sent out from the fort to make a circuit round the hills, and then, mingling with the savages, to find out out what was their intention. he returned in a few hours, and while the awful feast was still going on. a night attack was determined on, and they believed they would inherit strength and bravery by eating their dead comrades. that was the scout's report. chapter twenty two. more fearful fighting--golden gulch--"a ship! a ship!" forewarned is, or ought to be, forearmed. nevertheless, it must be confessed that dickson and the others greatly dreaded an attack by savages under cover of the moonless darkness of a tropical night. all was done that could be done to repel the fury of the onslaught. but come it must and would. just as the sun was sinking behind the western mountains, amidst lurid and threatening clouds, a happy thought occurred to one of the sailors. "sir," he said to dickson, "the darkness will be our greatest foe, will it not?" "certainly. if these demon cannibals would but show front in daylight we could easily disperse them, as we did before. have you any plans, mcgregor?" "i'm only a humble sailor," said mcgregor, "but my advice is this. we can trust the honest blacks we have here within the fort?" "yes." "well, let them throw up a bit of sand cover for themselves down here on the beach and by the sea. each man should wear a bit of white cotton around his arm, that we may be able to distinguish friend from foe. do you follow me, sir?" "good, mcgregor. go on." "well, captain, the cannibals are certain to make direct for the barracks and attempt to scale as they did before. i will go in command of our twenty black soldiers, and just as you pour in your withering grape and rifle bullets we shall attack from the rear, or flank, rather, and thus i do not doubt we shall once more beat them off." "good again, my lad; but remember we cannot aim in the darkness." "that can be provided against. we have plenty of tarry wood here, and we can cut down the still standing brush, and making two huge bonfires, deluge the whole with kerosene when we hear the beggars coming and near at hand. thus shall you have light to fight." "mcgregor, my lad, i think you have saved the fort and our lives. get ready your men and proceed to duty. or, stay. while they still are at their terrible feast and dancing round the fires, you may remain inside." "thanks, sir, thanks." the men had supper at eleven o'clock and a modicum of rum each. the british sailor needs no dutch courage on the day of battle. the distant fires burnt on till midnight. then, by means of his night-glass, dickson could see the tall chieftain was mustering his men for the charge. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ half an hour later they came on with fiendish shouts and howling. then brave mcgregor and his men left the barracks and hid in the darkling to the left and low down on the sands. the enemy advanced from the right. their chief was evidently a poor soldier, or he would have caused them to steal as silently as panthers upon the fort. when within a hundred yards, dickson at one side and reginald at the other, each accompanied by a man carrying a keg of kerosene, issued forth at the back door. in three minutes more the flames sprang up as if by magic. they leaped in great white tongues of fire up the rock sides, from which the rays were reflected, so that all round the camp was as bright as day. the astonished savages, however, came on like a whirlwind, till within twenty yards of the brae on which stood the fort. then mr hall, the brave and imperturbable yankee, "gave them fits," as he termed it. he trained a gun on them and fired it point-blank. the yells and awful howlings of rage and pain told how well the grape had done its deadly work, and that many had fallen never to rise again. the tall, skin-clad chief now waved his spear aloft, and shouted to his men, pointing at the fort. that dark cloud was a mass of frenzied savages now. they leaped quickly over their dead and wounded, and rushed for the hill. but they were an easy mark, and once again both guns riddled their ranks. they would not be denied even yet. but lo! while still but half-way up the hill, to their astonishment and general demoralisation, they were attacked by a terrible rifle fire from the flank. again and again those rifles cracked, and at so close a range that the attacking party fell dead in twos and threes. but not until two more shots were fired from the fort, not until the giant chief was seen to throw up his arms and fall dead in his tracks, did they hurriedly rush back helter-skelter, and seek safety in flight. the black riflemen had no mercy on their brother-islanders. their blood was up. so was mcgregor's, and they pursued the enemy, pouring in volley after volley until the darkness swallowed them up. the slaughter had been immense. the camp was molested no more. but at daybreak it was observed that no cloud hung any longer on the volcanic peak. the savages were still grouped in hundreds around their now relighted fires, and it was evident a new feast was in preparation. but something still more strange now happened. accompanied by two gigantic spear-armed men of the guard, the queen herself was seen to issue from the glen, and boldly approach the rebels. what she said may never be known. but, while her guard stood like two statues, she was seen to be haranguing the cannibals, sometimes striking her sceptre-pole against the hard white sand, sometimes pointing with it towards the volcanic mountain. but see! another chief approaches her, and is apparently defying her. next moment there is a little puff of white smoke, and the man falls, shot through the head. and now the brave and romantic queen nods to her guards, and with their spears far and near the fires are dispersed and put out. this was all very interesting, as well as wonderful, to the onlookers at the fort, but when the queen was seen approaching the little garrison, a little white flag waving from her pole, and followed by all the natives, astonishment was at its height. humbly enough they approached now, for the queen in their eyes was a goddess. with a wave of her sceptre she stopped them under the brae, or hill, and dickson and reginald hurried down to meet her floral majesty. "had i only known sooner," she said sympathisingly, "that my people had rebelled and attempted to murder you, i should have been here long, long before now. these, however, are but the black sheep of my island, and now at my command they have come to sue for pardon." "and they will lay down their arms?" "yes, every spear and bow and crease." "then," said dickson, "let them go in single file and heap them on the still smouldering fire up yonder." queen bertha said something to them in their own language, and she was instantly obeyed. the fire so strangely replenished took heart and blazed up once more, and soon the arms were reduced to ashes, and the very knives bent or melted with the fierce heat. "go home now to your wives and children," she cried imperiously. "for a time you shall remain in disgrace. but if you behave well i will gladly receive you once more into my favour. disperse! be off!" all now quietly dispersed, thankfully enough, too, for they had expected decapitation. but ten were retained to dig deep graves near the sea and bury the dead. there were no wounded. this done, peace was restored once more on the island of flowers. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ three weeks of incessant rain followed. it fell in torrents, and the river itself overflowed its banks, the fords being no longer of any use, so that the men were confined to their barracks. it was a long and a dreary time. very much indeed reginald would have liked to visit the palace, to romp with little matty, and listen to the music of ilda's sweet voice. "as for annie--she must have given me up for dead long ere now," he said to himself. "why, it is two years and nine months since i left home. yes, something tells me that annie is married, and married to--to--my old rival the laird. do i love ilda? i dare not ask myself the question. bar annie herself, with sweet, baby, innocent face, i have never known a girl that so endeared herself to me as ilda has done. and--well, yes, why deny it?--i long to see her." one day the rain ceased, and the sun shone out bright and clear once more. the torrents from the mountains were dried up, and the river rapidly went down. this was an island of surprises, and when, three days after this, reginald, accompanied by hall and dickson, went over the mountains, they marvelled to find that the incessant downpour of rain had entirely washed the ashes from the valley, and that it was once more smiling green with bud and bourgeon. in a week's time the flowers would burst forth in all their glory. the ford was now easily negotiable, and soon they were at the queen's palace. need i say that they received a hearty welcome from her majesty and ilda? nor did it take matty a minute to ensconce herself on reginald's knee. "oh," she whispered, "i'se so glad you's come back again! me and ilda cried ourselves to sleep every, every night, 'cause we think the bad black men kill you." ilda crying for him! probably praying for him! the thought gave him joy. then, indeed, she loved him. no wonder that he once again asked himself how it would all end. the weather now grew charming. even the hills grew green again, for the ashes and _debris_ from the fire-hill, as the natives called it, had fertilised the ground. and now, accompanied by ilda and matty, who would not be left behind, an expedition started for the valley of gold. the road would be rough, and so a hammock had been sent for from the camp, and two sturdy natives attached it to a long bamboo pole. matty, laughing with delight, was thus borne along, and she averred that it was just like flying. alas! the earthquake had been very destructive in golden gulch. our heroes hardly knew it. indeed, it was a glen no longer, but filled entirely up with fallen rocks, lava, and scoria. they sighed, and commenced the return journey. but first a visit must be paid to lone tree mountain. for reginald's heart lay there. "from that elevation," said reginald, "we shall be able to see the beautiful ocean far and near." the tree at last! it was with joy indeed they beheld it. though damaged by the falling scoria, it was once more green; but the grave in which the gold and pearls lay was covered three feet deep in lava and small stones. the treasure, then, was safe! they were about to return, when ilda suddenly grasped reginald's arm convulsively. "look! look!" she cried, pointing seawards. "the ship! the ship! we are saved! we are saved!" chapter twenty three. "she threw herself on the sofa in an agony of grief." nearer and nearer drew that ship, and bigger and bigger she seemed to grow, evidently with the intention of landing on the island. even with the naked eye they soon could see that her bulwarks were badly battered, and that her fore-topmast had been carried away. back they now hurried to leave ilda and matty at the palace. then camp-wards with all speed; and just as they reached the barracks they could hear the rattling of the chains as both anchors were being let go in the bay. a boat now left the vessel's side, and our three heroes hurried down to meet it. the captain was a red-faced, white-haired, hale old man, and one's very _beau-ideal_ of a sailor. he was invited at once up to the barracks, and rum and ship biscuits placed before him. then yarns were interchanged, captain cleaver being the first to tell the story of his adventures. very briefly, though, as seafarers mostly do talk. "left rio three months ago, bound for san francisco. fine weather for a time, and until we had cleared the straits. then--oh, man! may i never see the like again! i've been to sea off and on for forty years and five, but never before have i met with such storms. one after another, too; and here we are at last. in the quiet of your bay, i hope to make good some repairs, then hurry on our voyage. and you?" he added. "ah," said dickson, "we came infinitely worse off than you. wrecked, and nearly all our brave crew drowned. six men only saved, with us three, mr hall's daughter and a child. the latter are now with the white queen of this island. we managed to save our guns and provisions from our unhappy yacht and that was all." "well, you shall all sail to california with me. i'll make room, for i am but lightly loaded. but i have not yet heard the name of your craft, nor have you introduced me to your companions." "a sailor's mistake," laughed dickson; "but this is mr hall, who was a passenger; and this is dr reginald grahame. our vessel's name was the _wolverine_." "and she sailed from glasgow nearly three years ago?" captain cleaver bent eagerly over towards dickson as he put the question. "that is so, sir." "why, you are long since supposed to have foundered with all hands, and the insurance has been paid to your owners." "well, that is right; the ship is gone, but _we_ are alive, and our adventures have been very strange and terrible indeed. after dinner i will tell you all. but now," he added, with a smile, "if you will only take us as far as 'frisco, we shall find our way to our homes." captain cleaver's face was very pale now, and he bit his lips, as he replied: "i can take you, captain dickson, your six men, mr hall and the ladies, but i cannot sail with this young fellow." he pointed to reginald. "it may be mere superstition on my part," he continued, "but i am an old sailor, you know, and old sailors have whims." "i cannot see why i should be debarred from a passage home," said reginald. "i am a plain man," said cleaver, "and i shall certainly speak out, if you pretend you do not know." "i do _not_ know, and i command you to speak out." "then i will. in britain there is a price set upon your head, sir, and you are branded as a _murderer_!" dickson and hall almost started from their seats, but reginald was quiet, though deathly white. "and--and," he said, in a husky voice, "whom am i accused of murdering?" "your quondam friend, sir, and rival in love, the farmer craig nicol." "i deny it _in toto_!" cried reginald. "young man, i am not your judge. i can only state facts, and tell you that your knife was found bloodstained and black by the murdered man's side. the odds are all against you." "this is truly terrible!" said reginald, getting red and white by turns, as he rapidly paced the floor. "what can it mean?" "captain dickson," he said at last, "do you believe, judging from all you have seen of me, that i could be guilty of so dastardly a deed, or that i could play and romp with the innocent child matty with, figuratively speaking, blood between my fingers, and darkest guilt at my heart? can you believe it?" dickson held out his hand, and reginald grasped it, almost in despair. "things look black against you," he said, "but i do _not_ believe you guilty." "nor do i," said hall; "but i must take the opportunity of sailing with captain cleaver, i and my daughter and little matty." reginald clasped his hand to his heart. "my heart will break!" he said bitterly. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ in a few days' time cleaver's ship was repaired, and ready for sea. so was hall, and just two of the men. the other four, as well as dickson himself, elected to stay. there was still water to be laid in, however, and so the ship was detained for forty-eight hours. one morning his messmates missed reginald from his bed. it was cold, and evidently had not been slept in for many hours. "well, well," said dickson, "perhaps it is best thus, but i doubt not that the poor unhappy fellow has thrown himself over a cliff, and by this time all his sorrows are ended for ay." but reginald had had no such intention. while the stars were yet shining, and the beautiful southern cross mirrored in the river's depth, he found himself by the ford, and soon after sunrise he was at the palace. ilda was an early riser and so, too, was wee matty. both were surprised but happy to see him. he took the child in his arms, and as he kissed her the tears rose to his eyes, and all was a mist. "dear matty," he said, "run out, now; i would speak with ilda alone." half-crying herself, and wondering all the while, matty retired obediently enough. "oh," cried ilda earnestly, and drawing her chair close to his, "you are in grief. what can have happened?" "do not sit near me, ilda. oh, would that the grief would but kill me! the captain of the ship which now lies in the bay has brought me terrible news. i am branded with murder! accused of slaying my quondam friend and rival in the affections of her about whom i have often spoken to you--annie lane." ilda was stricken dumb. she sat dazed and mute, gazing on the face of him she loved above all men on earth. "but--oh, you are not--_could_ not--be guilty! reginald--my own reginald!" she cried. "things are terribly black against me, but i will say no more now. only the body was not found until two days after i sailed, and it is believed that i was a fugitive from justice. that makes matters worse. ilda, i could have loved you, but, ah! i fear this will be our last interview on earth. your father is sailing by this ship, and taking you and my little love matty with him." she threw herself in his arms now, and wept till it verily seemed her heart would break. then he kissed her tenderly, and led her back to her seat. "brighter times may come," he said. "there is ever sunshine behind the clouds. good-bye, darling, good-bye--and may every blessing fall on your life and make you happy. say good-bye to the child for me; i dare not see her again." she half rose and held out her arms towards him, but he was gone. the door was closed, and she threw herself now on the sofa in an agony of grief. the ship sailed next day. reginald could not see her depart. he and one man had gone to the distant hill. they had taken luncheon with them, and the sun had almost set before they returned to camp. "have they gone?" was the first question when he entered the barrack-hall. "they have gone." that was all that dickson said. "but come, my friend, cheer up. no one here believes you guilty. all are friends around you, and if, as i believe you to be, you are innocent, my advice is this: pray to the father; pray without ceasing, and he will bend down his ear and take you out of your troubles. remember those beautiful lines you have oftentimes heard me sing: "`god is our comfort and our strength, in straits a present aid; therefore although the earth remove, we will not be afraid.' "and these: "`he took me from a fearful pit, and from the miry clay; and on a rock he set my feet, establishing my way.'" "god bless you for your consolation. but at present my grief is all so fresh, and it came upon me like a bolt from the blue. in a few days i may recover. i do not know. i may fail and die. it may be better if i do." dickson tried to smile. "nonsense, lad. i tell you all will yet come right, and you will see." the men who acted as servants now came in to lay the supper. the table was a rough one indeed, and tablecloth there was none. yet many a hearty meal they had made off the bare boards. "i have no appetite, dickson." "perhaps not; but inasmuch as life is worth living, and especially a young life like yours, eat you must, and we must endeavour to coax it." as he spoke he placed a bottle of old rum on the table. he took a little himself, as if to encourage his patient, and then filled out half a tumblerful and pushed it towards reginald. reginald took a sip or two, and finally finished it by degrees, but reluctantly. dickson filled him out more. "nay, nay," reginald remonstrated. "do you see that couch yonder?" said his companion, smiling. "yes." "well, as soon as you have had supper, on that you must go to bed, and i will cover you with a light rug. sleep will revive you, and things to-morrow morning will not look quite so dark and gloomy." "i shall do all you tell me." "good boy! but mind, i have even solomon's authority for asking you to drink a little. `give,' he says, `strong drink to him who is ready to perish... let him drink... and remember his misery no more.' and our irrepressible bard burns must needs paraphrase these words in verse: "`give him strong drink, until he wink, that's sinking in despair; and liquor good to fire his blood, that's pressed wi' grief and care. there let him bouse and deep carouse wi' bumpers flowing o'er; till he forgets his loves or debts, an' minds his griefs no more.'" chapter twenty four. "oh, merciful father! they are here." well, it seemed there was very little chance of poor reginald (if we dare extend pity to him) forgetting either his loves or the terrible incubus that pressed like a millstone on heart and brain. captain dickson was now doctor instead of grahame, and the latter was his patient. two things he knew right well: first, that in three or four months at the least a ship of some kind would arrive, and reginald be taken prisoner back to england; secondly, that if he could not get him to work, and thus keep his thoughts away from the awful grief, he might sink and die. he determined, therefore, to institute a fresh prospecting party. perhaps, he told the men, the gold was not so much buried but that they might find their way to it. "that is just what we think, sir, and that is why we stayed in the island with you and dr grahame instead of going home in the _erebus_. now, sir," continued the man, "why not employ native labour? we have plenty of tools, and those twenty stalwart blacks that fought so well for us would do anything to help us. shall i speak to them, captain?" "very well, mcgregor; you seem to have the knack of giving good advice. it shall be as you say." after a visit to the queen, who received them both with great cordiality, and endeavoured all she could to keep up poor reginald's heart, they took their departure, and bore up for the hills, accompanied by their black labourers, who were as merry as crickets. much of the lava, or ashes, had been washed away from the golden mount, as they termed it, and they could thus prospect with more ease in the gulch below. in the most likely part, a place where crushed or powdered quartz abound, work was commenced in downright earnest. "here alone have we any chance, men," said captain dickson cheerily. "ah, sir," said mcgregor, "you have been at the diggings before, and so have i." "you are right, my good fellow; i made my pile in california when little more than a boy. i thought that this fortune was going to last me for ever, and there was no extravagance in new york i did not go in for. well, my pile just vanished like mist before the morning sun, and i had to take a situation as a man before the mast, and so worked myself up to what i am now, a british master mariner." "well, sir," said mac, "you have seen the world, anyhow, and gained experience, and no doubt that your having been yourself a common sailor accounts for much of your kindness to and sympathy for us poor jacks." "perhaps." mining work was now carried on all day long, and a shaft bored into the mountain side. this was their only chance. timber was cut down and sawn into beams and supports, and for many weeks everything went on with the regularity of clock-work; but it was not till after a month that fortune favoured the brave. then small nuggets began to be found, and to these succeeded larger ones; and it was evident to all that a well-lined pocket was found. in this case both the officers and men worked together, and the gold was equally divided between them. they were indeed a little republic, but right well the men deserved their share, for well and faithfully did they work. two months had passed away since the departure of the _erebus_, and soon the detectives must come. reginald's heart gave a painful throb of anxiety when he thought of it. another month and he should be a prisoner, and perhaps confined in a hot and stuffy cell on board ship. oh! it was terrible to think of! but work had kept him up. soon, however, the mine gave out, and was reluctantly deserted. every night now, however, both dickson and reginald dined and slept at the palace of queen bertha. with her reginald left his nuggets. "if i should be condemned to death," he said,--"and fate points to that probability--the gold and all the rest is yours, dickson." "come, sir, come," said the queen, "keep up your heart. you say you are not guilty." they were sitting at table enjoying wine and fruit, though the latter felt like sawdust in reginald's hot and nerve-fevered mouth. "i do not myself believe i am guilty, my dear lady," he answered. "you do not _believe_?" "listen, and i will tell you. the knife found--it was mine--by the side of poor craig nicol is damning evidence against me, and this is my greatest fear. listen again. all my life i have been a sleep-walker or somnambulist." the queen was interested now, and leaned more towards him as he spoke. "you couldn't surely--" she began. "all i remember of that night is this--and i feel the cold sweat of terror on my brow as i relate it--i had been to aberdeen. i dined with friends--dined, not wisely, perhaps, but too well. i remember feeling dazed when i left the train at--station. i had many miles still to walk, but before i had gone there a stupor seemed to come over me, and i laid me down on the sward thinking a little sleep would perfectly refresh me. i remember but little more, only that i fell asleep, thinking how much i would give only to have craig nicol once more as my friend. strange, was it not? i seemed to awake in the same place where i had lain down, but cannot recollect that i had any dreams which might have led to somnambulism. but, oh, queen bertha, my stocking knife was gone! i looked at my hands. `good god!' i cried, for they were smeared with blood! and i fainted away. i have no more to say," he added, "no more to tell. i will tell the same story to my solicitor alone, and will be guided by all he advises. if i have done this deed, even in my sleep, i deserve my fate, whate'er it may be, and, oh, queen bertha, the suspense and my present terrible anxiety is worse to bear than death itself could be." "from my very inmost heart i pity you," said the queen. "and i too," said dickson. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was now well-nigh three months since the _erebus_ had left, and no other vessel had yet arrived or appeared in sight. but one evening the queen, with reginald and dickson, sat out of doors in the verandah. they were drinking little cups of black coffee and smoking native cigarettes, rolled round with withered palm leaves in lieu of paper. it was so still to-night that the slightest sound could be heard: even leaves rustling in the distant woods, even the whisk of the bats' wings as they flew hither and thither moth-hunting. it was, too, as bright as day almost, for a round moon rode high in the clear sky, and even the brilliant southern cross looked pale in her dazzling rays. there had been a lull in the conversation for a few minutes, but suddenly the silence was broken in a most unexpected way. from seaward, over the hills, came the long-drawn and mournful shriek of a steamer's whistle. "o, merciful father!" cried reginald, half-rising from his seat, but sinking helplessly back again--"they are here!" alas! it was only too true. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ when the _erebus_ left the island, with, as passengers, mr hall and poor, grief-stricken ilda, she had a good passage as far as the line, and here was becalmed only a week, and made a quick voyage afterwards to the golden horn. here mr hall determined to stay for many months, to recruit his daughter's health. all the remedies of san francisco were at her command. she went wherever her father pleased, but every pleasure appeared to pall upon her. doctors were consulted, and pronounced the poor girl in a rapid decline. there was a complete collapse of the whole nervous system, they said, and she must have received some terrible shock. mr hall admitted it, asking at the same time if the case were hopeless, and what he could do. "it is the last thing a medical man should do," replied the physician, "to take hope away. i do not say she may not recover with care, but--i am bound to tell you, sir--the chances of her living a year are somewhat remote." poor mr hall was silent and sad. he would soon be a lonely man indeed, with none to comfort him save little matty, and she would grow up and leave him too. shortly after the arrival of the _erebus_ at california, a sensational heading to a scotch newspaper caught the eye of the old laird mcleod, as he sat with his daughter one morning at breakfast: "remarkable discovery. the supposed murderer of craig nicol found on a cannibal island." the rest of the paragraph was but brief, and detailed only what we already know. but annie too had seen it, and almost fainted. and this very forenoon, too, laird fletcher was coming to mcleod cottage to ask her hand formally from her father. already, as i have previously stated, she had given a half-willing consent. but now her mind was made up. she would tell fletcher everything, and trust to his generosity. she mentioned to jeannie, her maid, what her intentions were. "i would not utterly throw over fletcher," said jeannie. "you never know what may happen." jeannie was nothing if not canny. well, fletcher did call that forenoon, and she saw him before he could speak to her old uncle--saw him alone. she showed him the paper and telegram. then she boldly told him that while her betrothed, whom she believed entirely innocent of the crime laid at his door, was in grief and trouble, all thoughts of marriage were out of the question entirely. "and you love this young man still?" "ay, fletcher," she said, "and will love him till all the seas run dry." the laird gave her his hand, and with tears running down her cheeks, she took it. "we still shall be friends," he said. "yes," she cried; "and, oh, forgive me if i have caused you grief. i am a poor, unhappy girl!" "every cloud," said fletcher, "has a silver lining." then he touched her hand lightly with his lips, and next moment he was gone. chapter twenty five. the cruise of the "vulcan." the next news concerning what was called the terrible deeside murder was that a detective and two policemen had started for new york, that thence they would journey overland to san francisco, and there interview the captain of the _erebus_ in order to get the latitude and longitude of the isle of flowers. they would then charter a small steamer and bring the accused home for trial--and for justice. it is a long and somewhat weary journey, this crossing america by train, but the detective and his companions were excited by the adventure they were engaged on, and did not mind the length of the way. the _vulcan_, which they finally chartered at 'frisco, was a small, but clean and pretty steamer, that was used for taking passengers (a few select ones only) to view the beauties of the fiji islands. many a voyage had she made, but was as sturdy and strong as ever. it must be confessed, however, that master mariner neaves did not half-like his present commission, but the liberality of the pay prevailed, and so he gave in. his wife and her maid, who acted also as stewardess, had always accompanied him to sea, and she refused to be left on this expedition. so away they sailed at last, and soon were far off in the blue pacific, steering southwards with a little west in it. and now a very strange discovery was brought to light. they had been about a day and a half at sea, when, thinking he heard a slight noise in the store-room, captain neaves opened it. to his intense surprise, out walked a beautiful little girl of about seven. she carried in her hand a grip-sack, and as she looked up innocently in neaves's face, she said naively: "oh, dear, i is so glad we are off at last. i'se been so very lonely." "but, my charming little stowaway, who on earth are you, and how did you come here?" "oh," she answered, "i am matty. i just runned away, and i'se goin' south with you to see poor regie grahame. that's all, you know." "well, well, well!" said neaves wonderingly. "a stranger thing than this surely never happened on board the saucy _vulcan_, from the day she first was launched!" then he took matty by the hand, and laughing in spite of himself, gave her into the charge of his wife. "we can't turn back," he explained; "that would be unlucky. she must go with us." "of course," said matty, nodding her wise wee head. "you mustn't go back." and so it was settled. but matty became the sunshine and life of all on board. even the detective caught the infection, and the somewhat solemn-looking and important policeman as well. all were in love with matty in less than a week. if neaves was master of the _vulcan_, matty was mistress. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ well, when that ominous whistle was heard in the bay of flower island, although utterly shaken and demoralised for a time, reginald soon recovered. poor oscar, the newfoundland, had laid his great head on his master's knees and was gazing up wonderingly but pityingly into his face. "oh, queen bertha," said reginald sadly, as he placed a hand on the dog's great head, "will--will you keep my faithful friend till all is over?" "that i shall, and willingly. nothing shall ever come over him; and mind," she said, "i feel certain you will return to bring him away." next morning broke sunny and delightful. all the earth in the valley was carpeted with flowers; the trees were in their glory. reginald alone was unhappy. at eight o'clock, guided by two natives, the detectives and policemen were seen fording the river, on their way to the palace. reginald had already said good-bye to the queen and his beautiful brown-eyed dog. "be good, dear boy, and love your mistress. i will come back again in spirit if not in body. good-bye, my pet, good-bye." then he and dickson went quietly down to meet the police. the detective stopped and said "good-morning" in a kindly, sympathetic tone. "good-morning," said reginald sadly. "i am your prisoner." the policeman now pulled out the handcuffs. the detective held up his hand. "if you, grahame," he said, "will assure me on your oath that you will make no attempt to escape or to commit suicide, you shall have freedom on board--no irons, no chains." the prisoner held up his hand, and turned his eyes heavenwards. "as god is my last judge, sir," he said, "i swear before him i shall give you not the slightest trouble. i know my fate, and can now face it." "amen," said the detective. "and now we shall go on board." reginald took one last longing, lingering look back at the palace; the queen was there, and waved him farewell; then, though the tears were silently coursing down his cheeks, he strode on bravely by dickson's side. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ arrived on board, to his intense surprise, matty was the first to greet him. she fairly rushed into his arms, and he kissed her over and over again. then she told him all her own little story. now the men came off with their boxes, and dickson with his traps. the _vulcan_ stayed not two hours altogether after all were on board. steam was got up, and away she headed back once more for 'frisco, under full steam. i think that reginald was happier now than he had been for months. the bitterness of death seemed to be already past, and all he longed for was rest, even should that rest be in the grave. moreover, he was to all intents and purposes on parole. though he took his meals in his own cabin, and though a sentry was placed at the door every night, he was permitted to walk the deck by day, and go wherever he liked, and even to play with matty. "i cannot believe that the poor young fellow is guilty of the terrible crime laid to his charge," said mrs neaves to her husband one day. "nor i either, my dear; but we must go by the evidence against him, and i do not believe he has the slightest chance of life." "terrible!" yet mrs neaves talked kindly to him for all that when she met him on the quarter-deck; but she never alluded to the dark cloud that hung so threateningly over his life. the more she talked to him, the more she believed in his innocence, and the more she liked him, although she tried hard not to. matty was reginald's almost constant companion, and many an otherwise lonely hour she helped to cheer and shorten. he had another companion, however--his bible. all hope for this world had fled, and he endeavoured now to make his peace with the god whom he had so often offended and sinned against. captain dickson and he often sat together amidships or on the quarter-deck, and the good skipper of the unfortunate _wolverine_ used to talk about all they should do together when the cloud dissolved into thin air, and reginald was once more free. "but, ah, dickson," said the prisoner, "that cloud will not dissolve. it is closed aboard of me now, but it will come lower and lower, and then--it will burst, and i shall be no more. no, no, dear friend, i appreciate the kindness of your motives in trying to cheer me, but my hopes of happiness are now centred in the far beyond." if a man in his terrible position could ever be said to experience pleasure at all, reginald did when the four honest sailors came to see him, as they never failed to do, daily. theirs was heart-felt pity. their remarks might have been a little rough, but they were kindly meant, and the consolation they tried to give was from the heart. "how is it with you by this time?" mcgregor said one day. "you mustn't mope, ye know." "dear mac," replied reginald, "there is no change, except that the voyage will soon be at an end, just as my voyage of life will." "now, sir, i won't have that at all. me and my mates here have made up our minds, and we believe you ain't guilty at all, and that they dursn't string you up on the evidence that will go before the jury." "i fear not death, anyhow, mac. indeed, i am not sure that i might not say with job of old, `i prefer strangling rather than life.'" "keep up your pecker, sir; never say die; and don't you think about it. we'll come and see you to-morrow again. adoo." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ yes, the voyage was coming to a close, and a very uneventful one it had been. when the mountains of california at last hove in sight, and skipper neaves informed reginald that they would get in to-morrow night, he was rather pleased than otherwise. but matty was now in deepest grief. this strange child clung around his neck and cried at the thoughts of it. "oh, i shall miss you, i shall miss you!" she said. "and you can't take poor matty with you?" and now, to console her, he was obliged to tell her what might have been called a white lie, for which he hoped to be forgiven. "but matty must not mourn; we shall meet again," he said. "and perhaps i may take matty with me on a long cruise, and we shall see the queen of the isle of flowers once more, and you and dear oscar, your beautiful newfoundland, shall play together, and romp just as in the happy days of yore. won't it be delightful, dear?" matty smiled through her tears, only drawing closer to reginald's breast as she did. "poor dear doggy oscar?" she said. "he will miss you so much?" "yes, darling; his wistful, half-wondering glance i never can forget. he seemed to refuse to believe that i could possibly leave him, and the glance of love and sorrow in the depths of his soft brown eyes i shall remember as long as i live." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the first to come on board when the vessel got in was mr hall himself and ilda. the girl was changed in features, somewhat thinner, paler, and infinitely more sad-looking. but with loving abandon she threw herself into reginald's arms and wept. "oh, dear," she cried, "how sadly it has all ended!" then she brightened up a little. "we--that is, father and i--are going to italy for the winter, and i may get well, and we may meet again. god in heaven bless you, reginald!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ then the sad partings. i refuse to describe them. i would rather my story were joyful than otherwise, and so i refrain. it was a long, weary journey that to new york, but it ended at last, and reginald found himself a prisoner on board the _b--castle_ bound for britain's far-off shores. chapter twenty six. meeting and parting. reginald was infinitely more lonely now and altogether more of a prisoner too. neither captain dickson nor the four sailors returned by the same ship, so, with the exception of the detective, who really was a kind-hearted and feeling man, he had no one to converse with. he was permitted to come up twice a day and walk the deck forward by way of exercise, but a policeman always hovered near. if the truth must be told, he would have preferred staying below. the passengers were chiefly yankees on their way to london paris, and the riviera, but as soon as he appeared there was an eager rush forward as far as midships, and as he rapidly paced the deck, the prisoner was as cruelly criticised as if he had been some show animal or wild beast. it hurt reginald not a little, and more than once during his exercise hour his cheeks would burn and tingle with shame. when he walked forward as far as the winch, he turned and walked aft again, and it almost broke his heart--for he dearly loved children--to see those on the quarter-deck clutch their mothers' skirts, or hide behind them screaming. "oh, ma, he's coming--the awful man is coming?" "he isn't so terrible-looking, is he, auntie?" said a beautiful young girl one day, quite aloud, too. "ah, child, but remember what he has done. even a tiger can look soft and pleasant and beautiful at times." "well," said another lady, "he will hang as high as haman, anyhow!" "and richly deserves it," exclaimed a sour-looking, scraggy old maid. "i'm sure i should dearly like to see him strung. he won't walk so boldly along the scaffold, i know, and his face will be a trifle whiter then!" "woman!" cried an old white-haired gentleman, "you ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, talking in that manner in the hearing of that unfortunate man; a person of your age might know just a little better!" the old maid tossed her yellow face. "and let me add, madam, that but for god's grace and mercy you might occupy a position similar to his. good-day, miss!" there was a barrier about the spot where the quarter-deck and midships joined. thus far might steerage passengers walk aft, but no farther. to this barrier reginald now walked boldly up, and, while the ladies for the most part backed away, as if he had been a python, and the children rushed screaming away, the old gentleman kept where he was. "god bless you, sir," said reginald, loud enough for all to hear, "for defending me. the remarks those unfeeling women make in my hearing pierce me to the core." "and god bless you, young man, and have mercy on your soul." he held out his hand, and reginald shook it heartily. "i advise you, mr grahame, to make your peace with god, for i cannot see a chance for you. i am myself a new york solicitor, and have studied your case over and over again." "i care not how soon death comes. my hopes are yonder," said reginald. he pointed skywards as he spoke. "that's good. and remember: "`while the lamp holds out to burn, the greatest sinner may return.' "i'll come and see you to-morrow." "a thousand thanks, sir. good-day." mr scratchley, the old solicitor, was as good as his word, and the two sat down together to smoke a couple of beautiful havana cigars, very large and odorous. the tobacco seemed to soothe the young man, and he told scratchley his story from beginning to end, and especially did he enlarge on the theory of somnambulism. this, he believed, was his only hope. but scratchley cut him short. "see here, young man; take the advice of one who has spent his life at the bar. mind, i myself am a believer in spiritualism, but keep that somnambulism story to yourself. i must speak plainly. it will be looked upon by judge and jury as cock-and-bull, and it will assuredly do you more harm than good. heigho!" he continued. "from the bottom of my heart i pity you. so young, so handsome. might have been so happy and hopeful, too! well, good-bye. i'll come again." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ mr scratchley was really a comfort to reginald. but now the voyage was drawing near its close. they had passed the isles of bute and arran, and had entered on the wild, romantic beauties of the clyde. it was with a feeling of utter sadness and gloom, however, that the prisoner beheld them. time was when they would have delighted his heart. those days were gone, and the darkness was all ahead. the glad sunshine sparkled in the wavelets, and, wheeling hither and thither, with half-hysterical screams of joy, were the white-winged, free, and happy gulls; but in his present condition of mind things the most beautiful saddened him the most. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ two days are past and gone, and reginald is now immured in gaol to await his trial. it was lightsome and comfortable, and he had books to read, and a small, cheerful fire. he had exercise also in the yard, and even the gaolers talked kindly enough to him; but all the same he was a prisoner. his greatest trial had yet to come--the meeting with--ah! yes, and the parting from--annie--his annie--annie o' the banks o' dee. one day came a letter from her, which, though it had been opened and read by the authorities, was indeed a sweet boon to him. he read it over and over again, lover-like. it burned with affection and love, a love that time and absence had failed to quench. but she was coming to see him, "she and her maid, jeannie lee," she continued. her uncle was well and hearty, but they were no longer owners of the dear old house and lands of bilberry. she would tell him all her story when she saw him. and the letter ended: "with unalterable love, your _own_ annie." the ordeal of such a meeting was one from which reginald naturally shrank; but this over, he would devote himself entirely to communion with heaven. only heavenly hopes could now keep up his heart. the day came, and annie, with jeannie, her maid, arrived at the prison. he held annie at arms' length for a few seconds. not one whit altered was she. her childlike and innocent beauty was as fresh now, and her smile as sweet, though somewhat more chastened, as when he had parted with her in sorrow and tears more than three years ago. he folded her in his arms. at this moment, after a preliminary knock at the door, the gaoler entered. "the doctor says," he explained, "that your interview may last an hour, and that, fearing it may be too much for you, he sends you this. and a kindly-hearted gent he is." he placed a large glass of brandy and water before reginald as he spoke. "what! must i drink all this?" "yes--and right off, too. it is the doctor's orders." the prisoner obeyed, though somewhat reluctantly. even now he needed no dutch courage. then, while jeannie took a book and seated herself at some little distance, the lovers had it all to themselves, and after a time annie felt strong enough to tell her story. we already know it. "yes, dear, innocent reginald, we were indeed sorry to leave bonnie bilberry hall, and live in so small a cottage. and though he has kept up wonderfully well, still, i know he longs at times for a sight of the heather. he is not young now, darling, and yet he may live for very many years. but you were reported as lost, dear, and even the figurehead of the _wolverine_ and a boat was found far away in the pacific. then after that, dearest, all hope fled. i could never love another. the new heir of bilberry hall and land proposed to me. my uncle could not like him, and i had no love to spare. my heart was in heaven with you, for i firmly believed you drowned and gone before. then came laird fletcher. oh, he was very, very kind to us, and often took uncle and myself away in his carriage to see once more the bonnie highland hills. and i used to notice the tears standing in dear uncle's eyes when he beheld the glory and romance of his own dear land, and the heather. and then i used to pity poor uncle, for often after he came home from a little trip like this he used to look so forlornly at all his humble surroundings. well, dear, from kindness of every kind fletcher's feelings for me seemed to merge into love. yes, true love, reginald. but i could not love him in return. my uncle even pleaded a little for fletcher. his place is in the centre of the deeside highlands, and, oh, the hills are high, and the purple heather and crimson heath, surrounded by dark pine forests, are a sight to see in autumn. well, you were dead, reginald, and uncle seemed pining away; and so when one day fletcher pleaded more earnestly than ever, crying pathetically as he tried to take my hand, `oh, annie, my love, my life, i am unworthy of even your regard, but for sake of your dear old uncle won't you marry me?' then, reginald, i gave a half-consent, but a wholly unwilling one. can you forgive me?" he pressed her closer to his heart by way of answer. how quickly that hour sped away lovers only know. but it ended all too soon. the parting? ay, ay; let this too be left to the imagination of him or her who knows what true love is. after annie had gone, for the first time since his incarceration reginald collapsed. he threw himself on his bed and sobbed until verily he thought his heart would break. then the gaoler entered. "come, come, my dear lad," said the man, walking up to the prisoner and laying a kindly and sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "keep up, my boy, keep up. we have all to die. god is love, lad, and won't forsake you." "oh," cried the prisoner, "it is not death i fear. i mourn but for those i leave behind." a few more weeks, and reginald's case came on for trial. it was short, perhaps, but one of the most sensational ever held in the granite city, as the next chapter will prove. chapter twenty seven. a sensational murder trial. the good people of aberdeen--yclept the granite city--are as fond of display and show as even the londoners, and the coming of the lords, who are the judges that try the principal cases, is quite an event of the year, and looked forward to with longing, especially by the young people. ah! little they think of or care for the poor wretches that, in charge of warders or policemen, or both, are brought up from their cells, to stand pale and trembling before the judge. the three weeks that intervened between the departure of poor, unhappy annie from his cell and the coming of the lords were the longest that reginald ever spent in life--or appeared to be, for every hour was like a day, every day seemed like a month. the gaoler was still kind to him. he had children of his own, and in his heart he pitied the poor young fellow, around whose neck the halter would apparently soon be placed. he had even--although i believe this was against the rules--given reginald some idea as to the day his trial would commence. "god grant," said reginald, "they may not keep me long. death itself is preferable to the anxiety and awful suspense of a trial." but the three weeks passed away at last, and some days to that, and still the lords came not. the prisoner's barred window was so positioned that he could see down union street with some craning of the neck. one morning, shortly after he had sent away his untouched breakfast, he was startled by hearing a great commotion in the street, and the hum of many voices. the pavements were lined with a sea of human beings. shortly after this he heard martial music, and saw men on the march with nodding plumes and fixed bayonets. among them, guarded on each side, walked lords in their wigs and gowns. reginald was brave, but his heart sank to zero now with terror and dread. he felt that his hour had come. shortly the gaoler entered. "your case is to be the first," he said. "prepare yourself. it will come off almost immediately." he went away, and the prisoner sank on his knees and prayed as surely he never prayed before. the perspiration stood in great drops on his forehead. another weary hour passed by, and this time the door was opened to his advocate. his last words were these: "all you have got to do is to plead `not guilty'; then keep silent. if a question is put to you, glance at me before you answer. i will nod if you must answer, and shake my head if you need not." "a thousand thanks for all your kindness, sir. i'm sure you will do your best." "i will." once more the gaoler entered. "the doctor sends you this," he said. "and drink it you must, or you may faint in the dock, and the case be delayed." at last the move was made. dazed and dizzy, reginald hardly knew whither he was being led, until he found himself in the dock confronting the solemn and sorrowful-looking judge. he looked just once around the court, which was crowded to excess. he half-expected, i think, to see annie there, and was relieved to find she was not in court. but yonder was captain dickson and the four sailors who had remained behind to prosecute the gold digging. dickson smiled cheerfully and nodded. then one of the policemen whispered attention, and the unhappy prisoner at once confronted the judge. "reginald grahame," said the latter after some legal formalities were gone through, "you are accused of the wilful murder of craig nicol, farmer on deeside, by stabbing him to the heart with a dirk or _skean dhu_. are you guilty or not guilty?" "not guilty, my lord." this in a firm voice, without shake or tremolo. "call the witnesses." the first to be examined was craig's old housekeeper. she shed tears profusely, and in a faint tone testified to the departure of her master for aberdeen with the avowed intention of drawing money to purchase stock withal. she was speedily allowed to stand down. the little boys who had found the body beneath the dark spruce-fir in the lonely plantation were next interrogated, and answered plainly enough in their shrill treble. then came the police who had been called, and the detective, who all gave their evidence in succinct but straightforward sentences. all this time there was not a sound in the court, only that sea of faces was bent eagerly forward, so that not a word might escape them. the excitement was intense. now came the chief witness against reginald; and the bloodstained dirk was handed to shufflin' sandie. "look at that, and say if you have seen it before?" said the judge. "as plain as the nose on your lordship's face!" said sandie, smiling. that particular nose was big, bulbous, and red. sandie's reply, therefore, caused a titter to run through the court. the judge frowned, and the prosecution proceeded. "where did you last see it?" "stained with blood, sir; it was found beneath the dead man's body." on being questioned, sandie also repeated his evidence as given at the coroner's inquest, and presently was allowed to stand down. then the prisoner was hissed by the people. the judge lost his temper. he had not quite got over sandie's allusion to his nose. "if," he cried, "there is the slightest approach to a repetition of that unseemly noise, i will instantly clear the court?" the doctor who had examined the body was examined. "might not the farmer have committed suicide?" he was asked. "everything is against that theory," the doctor replied, "for the knife belonged to grahame; besides, the deed was done on the road, and from the appearance of the deceased's coat, he had evidently been hauled through the gateway on his back, bleeding all the while, and so hidden under the darkling spruce pine." "so that _felo de se_ is quite out of the question?" "utterly so, my lord." "stand down, doctor." i am giving the evidence only in the briefest epitome, for it occupied hours. the advocate for the prosecution made a telling speech, to which the prisoner's solicitor replied in one quite as good. he spoke almost ironically, and laughed as he did so, especially when he came to the evidence of the knife. his client at the time of the murder was lying sound asleep at a hedge-foot. what could hinder a tramp, one of the many who swarm on the deeside road, to have stolen the knife, followed craig nicol, stabbed him, robbed and hidden the body, and left the knife there to turn suspicion on the sleeping man? "is it likely," he added, "that reginald--had he indeed murdered his quondam friend--would have been so great a fool as to have left the knife there?" he ended by saying that there was not a jot of trustworthy evidence on which the jury could bring in a verdict of guilty. but, alas! for reginald. the judge in his summing up--and a long and eloquent speech it was--destroyed all the good effects of the solicitor's speech. "he could not help," he said, "pointing out to the jury that guilt or suspicion could rest on no one else save grahame. as testified by a witness, he had quarrelled with nicol, and had made use of the remarkable expression that `the quarrel would end in blood.' the night of the murder grahame was not sober, but lying where he was, in the shade of the hedge, nicol must have passed him without seeing him, and then no doubt grahame had followed and done that awful deed which in cool blood he might not even have thought about again, grahame was poor, and was engaged to be married. the gold and notes would be an incentive undoubtedly to the crime, and when he sailed away in the _wolverine_ he was undoubtedly a fugitive from justice, and in his opinion the jury had but one course. they might now retire." they were about to rise, and his lordship was about to withdraw, when a loud voice exclaimed: "hold! i desire to give evidence." a tall, bold-looking seafarer stepped up, and was sworn. "i have but this moment returned from a cruise around africa," he said. "i am bo's'n's mate in h.m.s. _hurricane_. we have been out for three years. but, my lord, i have some of the notes here that the bank of scotland can prove were paid to craig nicol, and on the very day after the murder must have taken place i received these notes, for value given, from the hands of sandie yonder, usually called shufflin' sandie. i knew nothing about the murder then, nor until the ship was paid off; but being hurried away, i had no time to cash the paper, and here are three of them now, my lord." they were handed to the jury. "they were smeared with blood when i got them. sandie laughed when i pointed this out to him. he said that he had cut his finger, but that the blood would bring me luck." (great sensation in court.) sandie was at once recalled to the witness-box. his knees trembled so that he had to be supported. his voice shook, and his face was pale to ghastliness. "where did you obtain those notes?" said the judge sternly. for a moment emotion choked the wretch's utterance. but he found words at last. "oh, my lord my lord, i alone am the murderer! i killed one man--craig nicol--i cannot let another die for my crime! i wanted money, my lord, to help to pay for my new house, and set me up in life, and i dodged nicol for miles. i found mr grahame asleep under a hedge, and i stole the stocking knife and left it near the man i had murdered. when i returned to the sleeping man, i had with me--oh, awful!--some of the blood of my victim that i had caught in a tiny bottle as it flowed from his side,"--murmurs of horror--"and with this i smeared grahame's hands." here sandie collapsed in a dead faint, and was borne from the court. "gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, "this evidence and confession puts an entirely new complexion on this terrible case. the man who has just fainted is undoubtedly the murderer." the jury agreed. "the present prisoner is discharged, but must appear to-morrow, when the wretched dwarf shall take his place in the dock." and so it was. even the bloodstained clothes that sandie had worn on the night of the murder had been found. the jury returned a verdict of guilty against him without even leaving the box. the judge assumed the black cap, and amidst a silence that could be felt, condemned him to death. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ reginald grahame was a free man, and once more happy. the court even apologised to him, and wished him all the future joys that life could give. but the wretched culprit forestalled justice, and managed to strangle himself in his cell. and thus the awful tragedy ended. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "i knew it, i knew it!" cried annie, as a morning or two after his exculpation reginald presented himself at mcleod cottage. and the welcome he received left nothing to be desired. chapter twenty eight. the last cruise to the island of flowers. in quite a ship-shape form was poor reginald's release from prison, and from the very jaws of death. met at the door by his friends and old shipmates. dickson was there, with his four brave sailors, and many was the fellow-student who stretched out his hands to shake reginald's, as pale and weakly he came down the steps. then the students formed themselves into procession--many who read these lines may remember it-- and, headed by a brass band, marched with dickson and the sailors, who bore reginald aloft in an armchair, marched to the other end of union street, then back as far as a large hotel. here, after many a ringing cheer, they dismissed themselves. but many returned at eventide and partook of a sumptuous banquet in honour of reginald, and this feast was paid for by dickson himself. the common sailors were there also, and not a few strange tales they had to tell, their memories being refreshed by generous wine. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ and now our story takes a leap of many months, and we find the _highland mary_, a most beautiful yacht, somewhat of the _wolverine_ type, far, far at sea, considerable to nor'ard of the line, however, but bounding on under a spread of whitest canvas, over just such a sea as the sailor loves. no big waves here, but wavelets of the darkest steel-blue, and each one wrinkled and dimpled with the warm, delightful breeze, kissed by the sunlight, and reflecting the glory in millions of broken rays, as if the sea were besprinkled with precious stones and diamonds of purest ray serene. let us take a look on deck. we cannot but be struck with the neatness and brightness of everything our eyes fall upon. the fires are out. there is no roaring steam, no clouds of dark, dense smoke, no grind and grind of machinery, and no fall of black and sooty hailstones from the funnel. ill indeed would this have accorded with the ivory whiteness of the quarter-deck, with the snow-white table linen, which one can catch a glimpse of down through the open skylight. but worst of all would it accord with the dainty dresses of the ladies, or the snowy sailor garb of the officers. the ladies are but two in reality, annie herself--now mrs reginald grahame--and daft, pretty wee matty. but there is annie's maid, jeannie lee, looking as modest and sweet as she ever did. annie is seated in a cushioned chair, and, just as of old, matty is on reginald's knee. if annie is not jealous of her, she certainly is not jealous of annie. in her simple, guileless young heart, she believes that she comes first in reginald's affections, and that annie has merely second place. i daresay it is the bracing breeze and the sunshine that makes matty feel so happy and merry to-day. well, sad indeed would be the heart that rejoiced not on such a day as this! why, to breathe is joy itself; the air seems to fill one with exhilaration, like gladsome, sparkling wine. here is captain dickson. he never did look jollier, with his rosy, laughing face, his gilt-bound cap and his jacket of blue, than he does now. he is half-sitting, half-standing on the edge of the skylight, and keeping up an animated conversation with annie. poor annie, her troubles and trials seem over now, and she looks quietly, serenely happy; her bonnie face--set off by that tiny flower-bedecked bride's bonnet--is radiant with smiles. but matty wriggles down from reginald's knee at last, and is off to have a game of romps with sigmund, the splendid dane. sigmund is four-and-thirty inches high at the shoulder, shaped in body somewhat like a well-built pointer, but in head like a long-faced bull-terrier. his coat is short, and of a slatey-blue; his tail is as straight and strong as a capstan bar. at any time he has only to switch it across matty's waist, when down she rolls on the ivory-white decks. then sigmund bends down, and gives her cheek just one loving lick, to show there is no bad feeling; but so tickled is he at the situation, that with lips drawn back and pearly teeth showing in a broad smile, he must set out on a wild and reckless rush round and round the decks from winch to binnacle. if a sailor happens to get in his way, he is flung right into the air by the collision, and is still on his back when sigmund returns. but the dog bounds over the fallen man, and continues his mad gallop until, fairly exhausted, he comes back to lie down beside matty, with panting breath, and about a yard, more or less, of a red-ribbon of tongue depending from one side of his mouth. matty loves sigmund, but she loves oscar more, and wonders if she will ever see him once again; and she wonders, too, if sigmund and oscar will agree, or if they will fight, which would be truly terrible to think of. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ yonder is mcgregor. he is elevated to the rank of bo's'n, and the three other sailors that came home in the _vulcan_ are here too. with the pile in gold and pearls they made on the isle of flowers, they needn't have been now serving before the mast. this would probably be their last voyage, for they meant to go into business on shore. but they loved the sea, and they loved reginald and dickson too. so here they were, and many more tars also; and when the main-brace was spliced of a saturday night, it would have been good for anyone to have come forward to the bows and listened to the songs sung and the tales told by honest jack. but how came matty on board? the story is soon told, and it is a sad one. a few weeks after his marriage, being in london, and dropping into the savoy hotel on the now beautiful embankment, reginald found mr hall standing languid and lonely by the bar with a little glass of green liquor in his hand. "delighted to see you! what a pleasant chance meeting to be sure!" then matty ran up for her share of the pleasure, and was warmly greeted. ah! but mr hall had a sad story to tell. "i am now a lonely, childless man," he said. "what!" cried reginald--"is ilda--" "she is dead and gone. lived but a week in italy--just one short week. faded like a flower, and--ah, well, her grave is very green now, and all her troubles are over. but, i say, grahame, we have all to die, and if there is a heaven, you know, i daresay we shall be all very happy, and there won't be any more partings nor sad farewells." reginald had to turn away his head to hide the rising tears, and there was a ball in his throat that almost choked him, and quite forbade any attempt at speaking. the two old friends stayed long together, and it was finally arranged that mr hall should pay a long visit to the old laird mcleod, and that reginald should have the loan of his little favourite matty in a voyage to the south sea island. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the cruise of the _highland mary_ was a long but most pleasant and propitious one. they steamed through the straits of magellan, and were delighted when the yacht, under, a favouring breeze, went stretching west and away out into the blue and beautiful pacific ocean. dickson had taken his bearings well, and at last they found themselves at anchor in the bay off the isle of flowers, opposite the snow-white coralline beach and the barracks and fort where they had not so long ago seen so much fighting and bloodshed. was there anyone happier, i wonder, at seeing her guests, her dear old friends, than queen bertha? well, if there was, it was honest oscar on meeting his long-lost master. indeed, the poor dog hardly knew what to do with joy. he whined, he cried, he kissed and caressed his master, and scolded him in turns. then he stood a little way off and barked at him. "how could you have left your poor oscar so long?" he seemed to say. then advancing more quietly, he once more placed a paw on each of his master's shoulders and licked his ear. "i love you still," he said. after this he welcomed matty, but in a manner far more gentle, for he ever looked upon her as a baby--his own baby, as it were. and there she was, her arms around his massive neck, kissing his bonnie broad brow-- just a baby still. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the isle of flowers was very lovely now, and the valley-- "oh?" cried annie, in raptures, as she gazed down the verdant strath. "surely this is fairyland itself!" the ladies, and jeannie as well, were the guests of the queen during the long, happy month they stayed on the island. there was no more gold-seeking or pearl-fishing to any great extent. only one day they all went up the valley and had a delightful picnic by the winding river and under the shade of the magnolia trees. reginald and dickson both waded into the river, and were lucky enough, when they came out with their bags full of oysters, to find some rare and beautiful pearls. they were as pure as any scotch ever taken from the tay, and had a pretty pinkish hue. but now jeannie lee herself must bare her shapely legs and feet and try her luck. she wanted one big pearl for her dear mistress, she said, and three wee ones for a ring for somebody. yes, and she was most successful, and annie is wearing that large pearl now as i write. and the three smaller? well, i may as well tell it here and be done with it. mcgregor, the handsome, bold sailor, had asked jeannie to be his wife, and she had consented. the ring was for mac. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ on lone tree mountain, assisted by the men, dickson and reginald soon set to digging, and found all their gold and pearls safe and sound. and now parting time came, and farewells were said, the queen saying she should live in hopes of seeing them back again. "god bless you all, my children." "and god bless you, queen bertha." with ringing british cheers, the little band playing "good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye," the _highland mary_ sailed slowly, and, it appeared, reluctantly, away from the isle of flowers. at sunset it was seen but as a little blue cloud low down on the western horizon. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ to matty's surprise the two great dogs made friends with each other at once, and every day during that long voyage homewards they romped and played together, with merry matty as their constant companion, and never quarrelled even once. british shores and the snow-white steeples and spires of bonnie aberdeen at last! the first thing that reginald did was to hire a carriage, and, accompanied by annie and the honest dog oscar, drive straight to mcleod's cottage. to their surprise and alarm they found the house empty and the windows boarded up. "oh, annie!" cried reginald. "i fear the worst. your poor uncle has gone." annie had already placed her handkerchief to her eyes. "beg pardon," said the jarvey, "but is it laird mcleod you're a-talking about? oh, yes; he's gone this six months! man! i knew the old man well. used to drive him most every day of his life. but haven't you heard, sir?" "no, my good fellow; we have not been on shore two hours. tell us." "there isn't much to tell, sir, though it was sad enough. for the young laird o' bilberry hall shot himself one morning by accident while out after birds. well, of course, that dear soul, the old laird, is gone back to his estate, and such rejoicings as there was you never did see." "and he is not dead, then?" "dead! he is just as lively as a five-year-old!" this was indeed good news. they were driven back to the ship, and that same afternoon, accompanied by matty, after telegraphing for the carriage to meet them, they started by train up deeside. yes, the carriage was there, and not only the laird, but mr hall as well. i leave anyone who reads these lines to imagine what that happy reunion was like, and how pleasantly spent was that first evening, with so much to say, so much to tell. but a house was built for mr hall on the estate, and beautiful gardens surrounded it, and here he meant to settle down. jeannie was married in due course, but she and mcgregor took a small farm near to bilberry hall, and on the estate, while reginald and his wife lived in the mansion itself. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ many years have passed away since the events i have related in this "ower-true" tale. matty is a tall girl now, and her uncle's constant companion. reginald and annie are lovers still--"happy, though married." the heather still blooms bonnie on the hills; dark wave the pine trees in the forests around; the purring of the dove is heard mournfully sounding from the thickets of spruce, and the wildflowers grow on every bank and brae; but--the auld laird has worn away. his home is under the long green grass and the daisies; yet even when the snow-clads that grave in a white cocoon, annie never forgets to visit it, and rich and rare are the flowers that lie at its head. and so my story ends, so drops the curtain down. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end.