sv 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 

 
 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 T. R. SULLIVAN 
 
 HORATIO. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange ! 
 HAMLET. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCBIBXEB S SONS 
 1890
 
 Copyright, 1890 
 BY CHARLES SCKIBNEK S SONS 
 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDOE
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 ffi% 33r0tfjer, 
 HENRY DORR SULLIVAN. 
 
 I^QO-t " 
 / o/C J
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT . i 
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE 41 
 
 "CORDON!" 87 
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS . 108 
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER 144 
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO 186 
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS ..... 218
 
 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 
 
 I have been half in love with easeful Death. 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale. 
 
 r I ^HE lovely old city of The Hague, now, as al- 
 J- ways, withdrawn from the vulgarizing influ 
 ences of commerce, has an indescribable air of 
 refinement, much dwelt upon in the books and 
 peculiarly its own. This is due, as any writer of 
 guides will bear me out in saying, to the fact that 
 the town grew up around the royal hunting-box, 
 and has been, since Holland was, the favorite re 
 sort of Dutch princes. And the same writer will 
 probably go on to tell you that by leaving your 
 hotel at six A.M., you can in one day see it all, 
 all, even to its flippant watering-place, two miles 
 off, among the dunes on the melancholy shore of 
 the North Sea. And so, with this impression of 
 dulness setting as it were the seal upon his own, 
 he will cheerfully whirl you away to view the Ley- 
 den University and the Haarlem tulips, with no 
 
 i
 
 2 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 effort whatsoever, from the window of your railway 
 carriage. 
 
 But if you are of a certain age, and temperate ; 
 if time has touched you gently, inclining you to 
 be sad and civil, like Malvolio ; if you are fond of 
 the light that falls aslant into old pictures ; and 
 if, above all, the commercial spirit of your own en 
 terprising nation often oppresses and disheartens 
 you, why, then you will walk leisurely back from 
 Scheveningen over the ancient dike, that is really 
 a long, straight, lofty arbor of interlacing elm- 
 branches ; and you will wonder at the contentment 
 in the faces of the peasant women, and at the bar 
 baric gilded crowns and ear-rings which they wear. 
 On either hand you will catch glimpses of sunny 
 gardens, and choose more than one villa you would 
 be glad to call your own ; while the trees go on 
 before you, in among the broad canals and splendid 
 city squares, where all the houses seem palaces, 
 built for comfort, with no state apartments in them, 
 until a few steps more have brought you to the bor 
 der of the shadowy wood, upon which the old hunt 
 ing-seat now encroaches. Here are acres of superb 
 beeches, with mossy trunks and gnarled roots, 
 recalling some enchanted forest of the brothers 
 Grimm, and that picture of it left over in your 
 memory from the pantomime of childhood ; only 
 now you find the dreadful abode of fabulous mon 
 sters and misshapen goblins haunted merely by an 
 invisible chorus of blackbirds, too far above your
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 3 
 
 head to fear or even to heed you. Who calls that 
 place dull where town and country meet upon such 
 terras ? Forgive the Dutchmen, for the moment, 
 if they take their pleasures somewhat sadly, as 
 the English do. It is true that the city s one poor 
 theatre is closed in this warm June weather. But 
 the train is always panting to take you back to 
 Paris : stay here a little longer, if only for a day 
 or two. 
 
 The Hague has its open jewel-casket, and therein 
 its captain-jewel. When you make your first visit 
 to Maurice of Nassau s house, now transformed into 
 a museum, you will pass through certain anterooms, 
 where the two wives of Rubens, his father-confessor, 
 a glorious Faun and Nymph of Jordaens, and a 
 likeness of William of Orange, by some unknown 
 but strong and tender hand, will all delight you. 
 Then, at the top of the great staircase you will 
 hesitate for a moment, as one often does in all the 
 galleries, wondering which way to turn. A look to 
 the left will decide the question. There is the load 
 star ; no other guide is needed. You stand a long 
 time before it, and turn away only to come back. 
 You are surrounded by fine pictures, half of them 
 to be forgotten within the next hour ; but this one 
 you will remember through all the after years. 
 
 It is the " Lesson in Anatomy " of Rembrandt. 
 A famous surgeon is explaining to five brothers of 
 his guild the muscles in the arm of a subject upon 
 the dissecting-table. And not to these eager listen-
 
 4 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 ers alone are the words and gesture of the man 
 directed ; for he stands in a vaulted hall, and looks 
 beyond you to the imaginary audience, of which, 
 losing your own identity, you for the time being 
 form a part. All the world knows this master 
 piece from countless reproductions ; but only those 
 who have seen the picture can fully understand the 
 charm in the painter s noble treatment of it that 
 compels one to overlook its disagreeable motive. 
 
 The light streams down upon the dead man ; yet 
 you hardly know he is there. It is death, indeed. 
 and painted so truthfully that to shut out the liv 
 ing faces is to shudder at it. Bring them back, 
 and this central object which so fixes their atten 
 tion has no power upon yours. They glow with 
 color, they breathe ; you are ready to swear that 
 one has moved a little. Hark ! the lecturer has 
 spoken. Alas ! his voice has been hushed for 
 more than two centuries. All these that look 
 have become even as the thing they look at ; their 
 very dust is now unrecognizable. And while the 
 beauty of this life completely fills your thought, 
 all life s sadness, all the mystery of death, lie on 
 the canvas there before you. 
 
 One day, on my way out of the gallery, I turned 
 back for another look at the Rembrandt. The 
 noon light was superb, and there was no one about ; 
 so I stayed on, absorbed in the picture, and study 
 ing it from every possible point of view. At last, 
 determined to go, I made some commonplace excla-
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 5 
 
 mation of delight or regret, speaking aloud, as when 
 alone one may without undue absence of mind. A 
 slight movement behind me brought me to myself, 
 and looking over my shoulder I saw that I had 
 been overheard by a little gray, old man, who had 
 come quietly into the room by another door. He 
 was plainly dressed, closely shaven, and his some 
 what heavy features had nothing distinctive about 
 them ; yet 1 felt sure that I had seen him before. 
 But one often has this fancy, and I dismissed it at 
 once, even though I had caught him in the act of 
 eying me curiously ; for I saw at a glance that he 
 was a Dutchman, and my acquaintance in Holland 
 was limited to landlords and bankers, with an occa 
 sional porter or two. The man turned from me to 
 the Rembrandt almost immediately, and I could 
 only be provoked with myself for my small display 
 of emotion. This had amused him, naturally. I 
 must be more self-contained in future. With these 
 mental notes I went away. 
 
 But the next day and the day after I found him 
 there again. Then, to avoid him, I changed the 
 hour of my daily visit ; to no purpose. Whenever 
 I went to the gallery, this strange companion was 
 sure to make his appearance before I left it. I 
 tried not to notice him, and sometimes he hardly 
 noticed me ; but once or twice I could not help 
 observing that he seemed pleased when we met, as 
 usual, in the Rembrandt room. He never spoke, 
 never saluted me, never sought in any way to make
 
 6 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 his presence an intrusion. He irritated me, never 
 theless. I could no more see my favorite picture 
 apart from this gray shadow than I could stand in 
 the sunlight and escape my own. 
 
 I pointed him out to each of the custodians in 
 turn. They all agreed in recognizing him as a 
 familiar creature, but none knew his name. If I 
 expressed surprise, or questioned further, I was 
 either politely referred to the visitors book, that 
 labyrinth without a clew, or I was given, in im 
 perfect English, a summary of the custodial duties, 
 of which a personal acquaintance with all mankind 
 had never been reckoned one. He did no injury ; 
 he molested nobody. Upon these conditions the 
 gallery was open to him. What would I have ? 
 
 What, indeed ? I could complain of nothing ; 
 the annoyance was of my own making. Why 
 should this man dog my steps with no apparent 
 purpose ? Could it be a case of mistaken identity ? 
 Was I, through a chance resemblance, in danger 
 of arrest for some extraordinary crime ? No. Were 
 I really shadowed, in that sense of the word, I 
 should be the last to know it. Besides, I had be 
 come convinced that my first impression was cor 
 rect, and that I had of the man some knowledge 
 earlier than any I could now recall. Moreover, he 
 emphasized himself, so to speak, by never leaving 
 the gallery before me. Once I waited in a remote 
 corner until the hour of closing, with the convic 
 tion that this time he would be forced to take the
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 7 
 
 lead. When I ventured out it was to find him 
 standing, with the rigid patience of a lackey, near 
 the head of the staircase. At the sight of me he 
 drew back with a courteous gesture that was al 
 most servile. Further persistence on my part 
 would involve conversation, perhaps fellowship. 
 I accepted the situation, and went first, lifting my 
 hat formally. At the door I looked back and saw 
 him slowly following ; but I had already passed 
 out of his thoughts, and my look was not returned. 
 
 1 might have played the shadow in my turn, and 
 watching my chance, have dogged him to his own 
 door. But this scheme, I argued, if detected, would 
 lead me into endless complication ; if carried out 
 successfully, it could avail me little, I might learn 
 his address, his occupation, perhaps his name, for 
 all which, as I persuaded myself, I cared next to 
 nothing. I wanted to ignore him, to forget him ; 
 but I was not long permitted to do either. 
 
 One evening after dinner I strolled lazily away 
 from the hotel-porch to smoke my cigar in the 
 gathering twilight upon the shore of the Vyver. 
 This pretty sheet of water lies in the centre of all 
 things, and has, to mark its own central point, a 
 little mossy island, around which many garrulous 
 ducks and stately swans go always gliding, as if 
 they bore in those unruffled breasts vague longings 
 vaster than their appetites, and less likely to be 
 satisfied. On one side the irregular, mediaeval 
 Palace of the Binnenhof springs directly from the
 
 8 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 water, and throws back upon the waveless surface 
 a reflection that seems to sink deeper than its own 
 foundations. There are strange gate-ways and 
 high-pitched roofs and oddly ornamented towers ; 
 while, farther off, the great Church of St. Jacob 
 thrusts itself up from the humming market-place ; 
 and opposite the palace, a broad, shady walk runs 
 the whole length of the Vyver, with now and then 
 a seat, where a man may take his ease and watch 
 all this, and let the great world hum on in the dis 
 tance. And if he remembers that he is a little 
 lonely, just a very little, when the stars come out, 
 and the recesses of the Binnenhof grow deep 
 and black under his eyes, why then that tinge of 
 loneliness suits the place and helps it, so long 
 as the pain does not prove acute enough to be 
 unbearable. 
 
 Upon this memorable evening I found the Vy ver- 
 berg crowded with good city folk, walking sedately 
 up and down under the trees. They looked so dull 
 that, thankful for not knowing them, I turned back 
 to the ducks and muttered Voltaire s malicious 
 marginal note upon his life in Holland, " Canaux, 
 canards, canaille ! " Here was his picture, repro 
 ducing itself in little, to perfection. Then the light 
 waned, and the throng gradually dispersed ; until, 
 at the end of my second cigar, I w r as left almost 
 alone. I smoked on, trying to lose myself in my 
 thoughts. But night came down with a rush, for 
 there was no moon ; and it brought up my wander-
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 9 
 
 ing senses more than once with a round turn. The 
 stars grew brilliant, and the lamps cast sharp lines 
 of light into the water. It \vas picturesque, but 
 disagreeably damp and chilly too. I shivered a 
 little ; then I thought of the homely saying that a 
 man shivers when a step has been taken some 
 where, a long way off, upon the spot of earth des 
 tined for his grave ; and at this not over-cheerful 
 suggestion I shivered again. " I shall catch my 
 death," I mentally predicted. The cigar was bitter ; 
 I tossed it away, and got up to go. 
 
 As I turned out into the path I saw a man mov 
 ing slowly toward me in the darkness on the very 
 edge of the basin. At the first glimpse of his 
 figure two thoughts came to me like successive 
 lightning flashes, that I had never encountered 
 my tormenting shadow in the open air, and that 
 this was he. I stood still. The light from one of 
 the street-lamps must have fallen upon my face ; 
 for as the man came nearer, he looked up, saw me, 
 and starting a little, lost his balance and stepped 
 back into the water of the Vyver. 
 
 I knew that it was very shallow; but of course 
 I dashed forward and helped him out. He had 
 fallen flat, and I found him thoroughly limp and 
 wet. He shivered, and his hands were cold. To 
 my surprise he thanked me in good English, speak 
 ing very simply; and his voice was decidedly 
 agreeable. He did not laugh or even smile at 
 his accident ; yet he treated it lightly, and his
 
 10 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 way of taking it made me forget its ludicrous 
 side. 
 
 " I will find you a carriage," I said. 
 
 " Oh, no ; I should walk, it is better. I am 
 cold. " 
 
 " But not alone. That will not do." 
 
 And thereupon, forgetting my former antipathy, 
 I pulled out my card and actually offered to walk 
 home with him. 
 
 He looked at the card and read the name, as we 
 stood there under the lamp. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " you are at the Marshal Tur- 
 enne. I have no card about me ; but I am called 
 Lucas Grafman. You are very kind. I could go 
 alone, yet I shall be glad of your company. Will 
 you walk on ? It is cold." 
 
 It did not strike me as strange that he should 
 know the name of my hotel. I felt that we were 
 in sympathy, and I was anxious to learn more of 
 him ; yet I hesitated to put leading questions. We 
 walked for some time in silence and at a slow pace, 
 his gait being uncertain and feeble ; until, as we 
 turned a corner, and came out into the great square 
 of the Plein, one side of which was ablaze with 
 lighted windows, he stopped and sighed. 
 
 " You are tired," I said. 
 
 He shook his head, and avoiding the shops, led 
 the way across the darkest part of the square, by 
 the statue of William the Silent, and so on under 
 the trees.
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 11 
 
 " Where have we met before?" I asked abruptly. 
 
 He pointed at the dark Mauritshuis, just defin 
 able through the wavering shadows. 
 
 " There, in the Rembrandt room," he answered. 
 
 " Yes ; but before that." 
 
 " Never before that." Then quickening his pace, 
 he added, " A little faster ; I am cold." 
 
 It made me cold myself to walk beside him. But 
 his voice was low and sweet as the night-murmur 
 of a brook. I liked to hear it. 
 
 " Do we go much farther ? " I asked again. 
 
 " No, only a little, a very little." He went on 
 as if he were talking to himself. " The way is 
 short, and it is sure. No one can miss it." - 
 
 We crossed the top of the Spui, where all the 
 bustle and movement evidently distressed him. 
 Another turn into a narrow, dimly lighted street 
 put him at his ease. He looked at me, saying 
 almost gayly, 
 
 " You do not regret your kindness ? I have not 
 bored you ? " 
 
 " No ; on the contrary." 
 
 " Good ! I thank you." 
 
 The street brought us out upon the brink of a 
 sluggish canal, which we followed for a few steps 
 under a row of dark houses, all leaning different 
 ways, with the uncanny effect peculiar to old build 
 ings in that sea-disputed land. These looked as 
 though one touch would send them tottering to 
 their fall. Halfway down the row he stopped.
 
 12 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 "This is the door." 
 
 He went up to it, and pulled a bell that rang in 
 the distance, echoing back to us as if through 
 deserted rooms. After a moment s delay he 
 called, but so faintly that even I scarcely heard 
 him, 
 
 " Yanna ! Adriana ! " 
 
 There was no answer. He groped about, ap 
 parently for a key, which he must have found. I 
 could hear the grating of the lock. Then, as he 
 held the door half open, I had a glimpse of the 
 hall, where a dying lamp was on the point of giv 
 ing up the ghost of its flame. 
 
 " Will you come in ?" he asked. 
 
 I excused myself. The hour was late. 
 
 l But you will come again ? " 
 
 Why should I ? I hesitated. All my old dislike 
 to him returned. 
 
 A sound decided me, the sound of low, sweet 
 music in the house. There was a woman singing. 
 I could not distinguish the words, but 1 knew that 
 the voice was a young girl s. 
 
 " Yanna ! Adriana ! " he called softly as be 
 fore ; and there was no more singing. 
 
 " You will come again ? " he repeated. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " To-morrow, then ; at this hour. I shall ex 
 pect you." 
 
 And he was gone. The door fell back behind 
 him. The place was horribly still. There was no
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 13 
 
 sign of life, no movement, except in the mist slowly 
 streaming up from the canal to fold itself about 
 me like a winding-sheet. I lost no time in getting 
 clear of it. 
 
 The next morning though I paid my usual visit 
 to the gallery it was not to see the pictures. Even 
 upon the great Rembrandt I turned my back, and 
 went from room to room with but one thought, 
 that of meeting Mynheer Grafman. All in vain. 
 He was not there, and his unwonted absence set 
 me thinking. Was he ill ? That might well be, 
 considering his accident of the night before. In 
 the broad daylight I had gone more than halfway 
 toward a resolve to break my reluctant word with 
 him. What possible good can come of our appoint 
 ment I had asked myself, after sleeping upon it 
 soundly. But now I felt in duty bound to keep the 
 promise, if only to prove that I had startled him 
 unwittingly, to show a decent regret for his false 
 step in the dark, of which, innocently, I had been 
 the cause. 
 
 Yet I found more than one misgiving left to con 
 quer when the time came. A lonely walk after 
 dark, in a strange city, at best is not alluring. 
 And afterward ? What risk might I not run in 
 crossing that dismal threshold ? If the old man 
 were a decoy, the house a den of thieves ? I 
 laughed these thoughts away. My watch weighed 
 so little, and I carried nothing else of value ; my 
 money, in a letter of credit, to a thief would be
 
 14 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 unavailable. I was in for an adventure, mildly in 
 teresting, perhaps ; but what were travel without 
 adventures ? Nevertheless, I gave the hotel-cham 
 ber that mute farewell one bids his household gods 
 on the eve of a long journey. With this too went 
 certain precautions. I left upon the dressing-table 
 a line to indicate my destination, so far as I knew 
 it ; I closed the door of my room without turning 
 the key ; and finding below the monumental portier, 
 resplendent in steel buttons and silver lace, 1 passed 
 the time of night with him, taking pains to state 
 the precise hour of my return. He twirled the 
 waxed ends of his absurdly small moustache, then 
 smiled and nodded confidentially. His keen glance 
 was my best assurance. The soul of the Marshal 
 Turenne would not fail to be disquieted, in case my 
 absence were prolonged. 
 
 I followed the narrow street to the pale mists of 
 the canal. This was the place, and there the house 
 I wanted, the fifth from the corner, I remem 
 bered that. I pulled the bell, which jangled again 
 remotely with the sound I knew, and immediately 
 the door was opened by a tall, white-haired man 
 servant in dark livery. 
 
 "Mynheer Grafinan?" 
 
 He bowed and moved aside to let me pass, then 
 led the way into the long hall, painted white and 
 panelled, with here and there a portrait frowning 
 down. At the farther end I saw a staircase in its 
 carved spiral of balustrade. But he stopped half-
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 15 
 
 way, and, lifting a piece of faded tapestry, waited 
 silently for me to go in. I did so, and felt the 
 curtain fall heavily into its place. 
 
 I seemed to step at once into the golden age of 
 Holland. The high walls of the huge drawing- 
 room were hung with splendid pictures that out 
 shone the gilding of their heavy frames. The 
 polished furniture was carved into strange shapes 
 and richly ornamented. There were odd, rococo 
 cabinets, revealing through their glass doors many 
 precious objects, gold and silver drinking-cups, 
 ancient prizes of the hunting-feast, South Sea curios 
 of coral, ivory, and jade. The soft Eastern carpets 
 and softer hangings had those subdued tints that 
 only time s slowly moving shuttle weaves ; the 
 crystal drops of the sconces glowed with candle 
 light ; and upon the wide hearth, in spite of the 
 season, a fire had been kindled. In the chimney- 
 corner stood a harp, and close beside it, on a heap 
 of crumpled music, a jar of yellow roses. Their 
 perfume, strengthened by the warmth of the fire, 
 filled the room. Only this handful of flowers held 
 the odor of the present in them ; all else belonged 
 to an interior that Terburgh might have painted 
 for background to a knight and lady smiling over 
 a love-letter. And my timid fancy had pictured it 
 a den of thieves ! 
 
 Mynheer Grafman left his seat by the fire, and 
 came forward to meet me. He did not offer his 
 hand, but greeted me with grave cordiality.
 
 16 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " You are welcome," lie said. " I feared you 
 might forget." 
 
 His voice had the same clear note, which again 
 disarmed ine. 
 
 " I could not forget," I answered, " that through 
 me you were caused annoyance, possibly serious. 
 You are none the worse for your accident ? " 
 
 " No ; as you see." 
 
 He went back to his place, inviting me with a 
 gesture to draw closer and be seated. 
 
 As I turned for a chair, the curtain was brushed 
 aside, and I saw in the doorway the slender figure 
 of a young girl so lovely that I stood still and 
 stared at her in speechless wonder, almost fear 
 ing to breathe, lest I should wake from a dream 
 to long for her forever. But she dropped the cur 
 tain, and came into the room. 
 
 She wore pale yellow, the color of the roses, with 
 no ornament except a white camellia. It could not 
 match the whiteness of her throat ; and her arms, 
 hare to the elbow, might have been the missing 
 ones of Melos, they were so delicately rounded. 
 Her hair was black, and its heavy braid fell over 
 one shoulder to her waist. Her eyes were black 
 too ; they had no laughter in them ; they deepened 
 the sadness of the face, yet it was of beauty inde 
 scribable, beyond all other beauty of the earth. I 
 can only liken it to the face of night, just flushed 
 with the rosy tint of morning, mournful, but sub 
 missive ; reluctant to go, yet preparing to be gone.
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 17 
 
 There was an awkward moment of silence before 
 my host looked up and presented me. 
 
 " It is my daughter Adriana," he then said 
 tenderly. 
 
 She bent her head but did not offer her hand. 
 
 " It is not the custom," I thought, wondering in 
 what language to address her. 
 
 Then she spoke, in English. 
 
 " You are welcome." That was all. But her 
 father s voice seemed harsh after those words. 
 
 I stammered incoherent thanks for her kindness 
 to a stranger. 
 
 " I knew we were to meet," she answered. " Let 
 us forget that we are strangers." 
 
 She turned away, while I sat down, as her father 
 begged me to do. I listened to his talk, thinking 
 only of her, and following her with my eyes. She 
 brought a low table, and set it down between us ; 
 then placed upon it two glasses with curiously 
 twisted stems, and after filling these from a sil 
 ver-mounted flagon, she handed one to me. 
 
 " That you may forget," she said gently. 
 
 My hand shook a little as I took the glass. The 
 time, the place, and her strange presence, all had 
 something fearful in them. The wine was black, 
 but through it one crimson bubble, glowing like 
 fire, rose to the brim and broke. 
 
 " Will you not drink ? " said the old man, paus 
 ing with his own glass at his lips. 
 
 " Friends, always ! " I murmured, drinking as I 
 -2
 
 18 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 spoke, and looking from him to her, while she 
 whispered back my words. 
 
 So, in honor of the toast, we drained the 
 glasses. 
 
 " Fill again ! " said Mynheer Graf man, as we put 
 them down. The liquor had the richness of an 
 Italian vino spumante, or some old Burgundy of 
 noted vintage ; but it was very cold, and its fine, 
 aromatic flavor was quite unknown to me. 
 
 " What wine is this ? " I asked. 
 
 " The grapes were grown in Java," he replied ; 
 " and this cask of mine has, in its time, made many 
 voyages. The wine is rare and old, but there is 
 no harm in it." 
 
 " None whatever," said I, sipping it again. 
 " These were grapes, indeed." The draught had 
 an effect upon me more than pleasant, wonderfully 
 soothing. I settled myself in -my chair, and felt 
 at peace with all the world. Care and sorrow 
 seemed to float away in an alembic fume. There 
 was in my past one bitter hour, whose recollection 
 had never failed to move me. I thought of it now 
 indifferently, as though it were another man s ; I 
 could not even sigh at it. And of the future I 
 thought nothing. I was there ; I saw her ; I was 
 content with the present moment, so content as 
 to believe that it would last. 
 
 Mynheer Grafman asked me if I liked music. 
 
 " Yes," I answered eagerly ; " to the music of 
 last night I could listen always."
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 19 
 
 " Yanna ! " he said, looking up at her and dwell 
 ing on the affectionate diminutive ; " Yanna ! " 
 
 She had been standing behind his chair, but 
 now she crossed the room, and seating herself at 
 the harp, stretched one white arm across it to try 
 the strings. Of all instruments, the harp is per 
 haps the one best suited to graceful girlhood ; 
 and I found it hard not to startle her into a con 
 sciousness of her own beauty with a false note of 
 admiration. 
 
 The song was in her native language, and I un 
 derstood no phrase of it ; yet my eyes filled with 
 tears. I could not praise her voice ; and though 
 its sweetness lives in my mind s ear like the 
 sea s voice in a shell, I cannot put it into words, 
 it won my heart. She stopped singing, and 
 played on, till the music, note by note, had died 
 away. 
 
 " The song ? " I asked. What is it ? What 
 does it mean ? " 
 
 " It is a song about life," she answered. 
 
 " Life ! " I repeated. " There was a sob in every 
 word. Can life, then, be so sad a thing ?" 
 
 " There is nothing in all the universe so sad as 
 human life," she said with perfect calmness, as 
 though this were to her a truth long since estab 
 lished past all disputing. 
 
 " No matter ! " I cried. " Though it be a wail, I 
 must know your song by heart. Sing it to me 
 again, once more, I beg of you ! "
 
 20 DA Y AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 She hesitated, but her father made a warning 
 gesture. She rose, left the harp, and went directly 
 to the door, as if in obedience to the signal. 
 
 " Not now," she said, with her hand already at 
 the curtain. "No more, until we meet again." 
 
 " But that may never be," I urged. 
 
 " Yes, sooner or later, it will surely be. All 
 rests with you." And she was gone. 
 
 I longed to speak of her, but this was not per 
 mitted. My host seemed bent upon changing the 
 current of my thoughts. He led me about the 
 room, opening the cabinets to give me a closer look 
 at their contents, talking of them rapidly and of 
 the pictures. 
 
 " There is a Hobbema, and here a Ruisdael. This 
 horn is of wrought silver, good work, it might 
 pass for a Cellini. The other is of later date, in 
 ferior, as you see. That portrait is a Rembrandt." 
 I started involuntarily, remembering our first meet 
 ing. He stopped for a moment, then went up to 
 the picture. 
 
 "It is Nicolaas Tulp," he continued, "the painter s 
 friend and patron. You remember ? " 
 
 " Perfectly. It is he who gives the Lesson in 
 Anatomy. : 
 
 " Yes," he said, turning upon me with an atten 
 tive look which was somewhat disconcerting. 
 
 "Why does he do that?" I thought; "I will 
 keep a sharp lookout for him in the mirror." Then 
 I noticed for the first time, with wondering eyes,
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 21 
 
 that, in spite of the rich appointments, there was 
 no mirror of any kind in the room. 
 
 Meanwhile the other went on, still talking of the 
 once famous surgeon. 
 
 " The same man, of course," said he ; " without 
 his hat, this time. But you recognize him, do you 
 not? The likeness is unmistakable." 
 
 " To be sure," I returned lightly. "Mynheer 
 Tulp and I are old friends. I greet him cordially. 
 This is he, beyond all question." 
 
 We looked at the portrait for a time in silence. 
 Then Mynheer Graf man spoke again. 
 
 " You are very fond of Rembrandt," said he. 
 
 " Yes ; and especially of his masterpiece, the 
 picture in the Mauritshuis, of which we were just 
 now speaking." 
 
 " Pardon me ; his master-work is not there." 
 
 " Oh," I said, " I expressed but my own opinion. 
 The world will tell you of the Night-Watch, so 
 called, in Amsterdam " 
 
 " Pardon me ; nor is it there in Amsterdam." 
 
 " And where else should one look for it ? " I 
 demanded. 
 
 " One, indeed ! " was his strange answer. " The 
 world has looked long in vain for what one man 
 may see." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " Hush ! not so loud. Wait, and I will show 
 you." 
 
 He went over to the high chimney-piece and laid
 
 22 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 his hand upon one of its smaller panels ; with some 
 slight pressure the bit of wood turned upon a pivot, 
 disclosing a shallow hiding-place from which he 
 took a rusty key and an old brass lamp. He pushed 
 the panel into place again, and lighting the lamp, 
 looked about uneasily ; then beckoned me to 
 follow. 
 
 At the back of the room was a long window, 
 which he opened stealthily. " Make no noise ! " 
 he whispered, as we stepped out upon the loose 
 pavement of a terrace encumbered with dusty 
 vines. We passed down the broken steps and 
 on through a neglected garden. In its grass- 
 grown paths the glow-worms were shining faintly ; 
 and, as we walked, the toads leaped right and 
 left before us into beds of straggling flowers 
 choked with weeds. Along one side a line of 
 out-buildings, dark and dingy, stretched away 
 from the house. Following this almost to the 
 end, he stopped at a low door and tried his key. 
 After some effort, with more noise than he cared 
 to make, it turned in the lock, and we went in. 
 
 I stood in a stone chamber, built like a cellar 
 or a crypt, with a vaulted ceiling. There were 
 wooden shelves crowded with glass vessels, plump 
 and unwieldy, some with wicker covers. Rows 
 of casks loomed up in the darkness ; some of 
 these were empty, some still contained liquor, or 
 perhaps, were only reeking with its fumes. The 
 dampness was visible ; my breath turned to vapor,
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 23 
 
 and touching the wall, I felt there a patch of 
 mould. 
 
 " It was once a wine-shop," whispered Mynheer 
 Grafman, holding the lamp above his head with 
 one hand and feeling his way forward with the 
 other. 
 
 I waited near the door, watching him. As he 
 went on, I began to see that the opposite wall- 
 space was entirely filled by a large picture with 
 figures indistinct, at first, and spectral in the 
 darkness. But my guide stopped under a hanging 
 shelf to light a pair of many-branched candelabra 
 that stood upon it ; and as the flames flashed 
 up I gave, incautiously, loud expression to my 
 wonder and delight. He silenced me with a stern 
 gesture ; and hurrying back, he listened for a 
 moment to the dismal call of the insects in the 
 garden. Then he shut the door and locked it. 
 
 " Now we may speak freely," he said ; " but 
 not too loud." 
 
 I did not care to speak. My eyes spoke for 
 me. What I saw was a pendant, undoubtedly, 
 to the great Rembrandt of the Hague Museum ; 
 though it looked larger than that in this cramped 
 space. The composition recalled the " Lesson in 
 Anatomy," but differed from it widely in all de 
 tails. The portraits were of other men in other 
 attitudes. The operating surgeon, uncovered, was 
 older than Mynheer Tulp, with a face far stronger 
 than his and finer. His subject, so foreshortened
 
 24 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 that the hands appeared almost to touch the feet, 
 lay turned directly toward me ; and this partially 
 draped figure, so like death that it must once 
 have lived, was the body of a woman. But here 
 the noble quality of the other picture reasserted 
 itself. This hideousness, thrust into the fore 
 ground, failed to catch the eye. All my admira 
 tion went up to the group around it. " Life, 
 life ! " was my one thought ; " these men were 
 made to be immortal." 
 
 Out of my startled silence I was brought back 
 to myself by an unpleasant consciousness that 
 Mynheer Grafman had again been closely watch 
 ing me. I turned quickly, to detect and to confuse 
 him ; but he looked away indifferently. 
 
 " You were perfectly right," I said ; " this is 
 Rembrandt s masterpiece." 
 
 " Yes," he replied. " The surgeon is the illus 
 trious Johannes Deyman, inspector of the Col 
 legium Medicum. For many years the picture 
 hung in the old Weighing-House at Amsterdam 
 opposite its companion, the Lesson in Anatomy. 
 Then He stopped and sighed. 
 
 "Then?" I repeated. 
 
 " The corporation needed money. They sold 
 their birthright for a mess of pottage. Offered 
 at public sale, this picture went for a handful 
 of silver to an Englishman. And no one inter 
 fered ; all the great ones of the city looked on 
 and saw it done."
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 25 
 
 His speech had a suppressed fury which I 
 understood and could not help admiring. 
 
 " When was this ? " I asked. 
 
 " Within the memory of living- men. In what 
 other age could it have come to pass ? Years be 
 fore the king had saved the Lesson in Anatomy, 
 buying it, in private contract, for more than thirty 
 times the paltry sum this brought. But times 
 had changed ; pride and self-respect were gone. 
 The nation grovelled in the dust, and clutched 
 its money-bags, while the genius of art wept for 
 shame, with folded wings." 
 
 " Why then is this picture here ? It did not go 
 to England. By whom was it saved ? How ? " 
 
 " The ship was lost, with all on board," he 
 said mournfully. " Only the picture came to me ; 
 saved as you see it, by a miracle." 
 
 " A miracle ! " I answered, with a touch of 
 contempt that I could not restrain. " We have 
 no miracles. Say by accident or by design." 
 
 " Or by theft," he added calmly. " That was 
 in your tone." 
 
 Our glances met, and I withdrew mine, not 
 without embarrassment. The suspicion had, in 
 deed, occurred to me. 
 
 " Have no fear," he continued, with the same 
 sadness. " There was no double-dealing. Wrested 
 from the sea, like this poor land of Holland, the 
 inheritance fell to me honestly. Mine by right, it is 
 here in my possession, and here it shall remain."
 
 26 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " Surely," I objected, " you are not serious. 
 You cannot mean to hide this treasure from the 
 world ? " 
 
 " The world ! " he repeated bitterly. " What 
 is it to me ? It has left this picture to become 
 a line in Burger s history. Who knows ; who 
 cares ; who mourns its loss ? The world tram 
 ples upon graves." 
 
 " That is unjust ; if not to all, to one." 
 
 " I have no quarrel with you," he returned. 
 " But the money-changers made their price, and 
 it was paid to them. Their treasure is lost be 
 yond recovery. I have sworn it. Then too there 
 is another reason." 
 
 " And what is that ? " I demanded. 
 
 " Look ! Can you find nothing there that an 
 swers you ? " 
 
 I turned back to those glowing faces, incom 
 parable in their vivid color, in their strength and 
 beauty. The painter had breathed into them the 
 breath of life ; they almost took away my own. 
 Yet his hidden meaning still eluded me. 
 
 " No," I sighed ; " it is useless, I cannot find 
 the reason." 
 
 He had already left me ; and as I spoke, he 
 began to put out the lights, one after another, 
 slowly. 
 
 " You are so young," he said. " Your eyes 
 have all youth s weakness in them. Patience ! 
 they will grow dimmer ; you will see."
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 27 
 
 The light was nearly gone, when, groping with 
 my eyes as with the brain one struggles for the 
 thought it misses, I felt that I was about to catch 
 a glimmering of his secret. 
 
 " Wait ! " 1 cried. " One moment more ! " 
 
 But the last light went out, leaving only the lamp 
 to guide us. It was darkness visible, through which, 
 as before, there rose a group of spectral figures. 
 
 " Your time will come," whispered Mynheer 
 Grafman as he unlocked the door. " You said 
 just now, We have no miracles ; count it one, 
 hereafter, to have seen the lost Rembrandt." 
 
 We stole back into the house with all our 
 former precaution. Everything was as we left 
 it. My host moved back the panel, and put away 
 his lamp and key. It was late ; I had no excuse 
 for delaying longer, and bade him good-night. 
 For answer he refilled our empty glasses. I drank 
 the perfumed wine, and once more a grave content 
 benumbed my senses. But I put down the glass 
 and turned to go. 
 
 " I can only thank you," I said, " and assure 
 you that I shall always remember these things." 
 
 " ffaec olim meminisse, " he murmured. Then, 
 without a smile, without offering his hand, he 
 led the way to the street-door and opened it. 
 
 " Good-night ! " he said, " and good repose." 
 
 Thus, with no hint that we might ever meet 
 again, the door closed upon him. It was a final 
 parting.
 
 28 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 I had not overstayed my prescribed limit of 
 time. The quizzical look of the portier bore wit 
 ness to that. But the familiar sights and sounds 
 of the hotel jarred upon me horribly. 1 could 
 not sink at once to their lower level. I was like 
 one returning home after long absence to find 
 forgotten flaws in everything. 
 
 So I went to my room, wide awake, yet half 
 inclined to fancy I was dreaming. Among the 
 few books which had been my only travelling- 
 companions lay a worn copy of Burger s " Dutch 
 Museums." It did not take me long to find his 
 record of the lost picture, a few lines only, 
 easily overlooked, as I must often have overlooked 
 them. " The color resembles closely that of 
 Titian." Sir Joshua had spoken of it once in 
 those very words. Then followed a statement of 
 the price paid by the Englishman, together with 
 the date of his purchase, February 7, 1842. 
 " It is astonishing," said the author in con 
 clusion, " that here all knowledge of the picture 
 ends." 
 
 I read and reread the paragraph impatiently. It 
 said so little ; but the writer had never seen that 
 of which he wrote. What more could he say ? 
 There was a scrap of paper on the dressing-table. 
 I laughed, remembering how I had left my last in 
 structions upon it. I took it up now to mark the 
 place in the book ; then saw with surprise that this 
 paper was not mine, but that it bore my name ia
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 29 
 
 a strange hand. I opened it and pulled the bell 
 violently. 
 
 " Who brought this ? " I asked. 
 
 The maid had small English, but was able to 
 state that she did not know. Whereupon I sum 
 moned other servants, until at last I learned that 
 earlier in tli evening an old man had been seen to 
 knock at my door. He wore livery, and otherwise 
 the description tallied perfectly with my recollec 
 tion of the silent familiar who had admitted me to 
 Mynheer Grafman s house. The messenger was 
 thus accounted for though not the message. 
 
 The paper contained but a line, in faded ink, 
 lightly written, 
 
 Come to-morrow, three hours after mid-day. I 
 shall be alone. ADRIANA. 
 
 Nearly all that night I heard the chimes quarter 
 ing out the hours. Toward daybreak I slept to 
 dream of her ; and waking, feared to look, lest I 
 had only dreamed that she had written. But the 
 letter was still there. At the sight of it my heart 
 leaped, and then I knew I loved her. What could 
 those words mean, but that she also knew it and 
 loved me. 
 
 In the clear light of day I reviewed the adven 
 ture with all the calmness possible to a man who 
 has just unlocked his heart s door and found the im 
 mortal little bailiff in possession. All my thoughts 
 led to the same conclusion ; and I chafed, impatient
 
 30 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 of the hours. The time came at last ; and it found 
 me at the house, which now, more than ever, looked 
 like one deserted. The blinds were closed, and 
 there was thick dust upon them. I rang, and got 
 no answer. But the door stood ajar; the afternoon 
 breeze stirred it a little, as if bidding me to go 
 in. " She is alone," I thought, making my way on 
 through the unlighted hall, and rinding it very cool 
 and dark to eyes that carried all the sunshine with 
 them. This was the curtained door. As I touched 
 it, low notes of the harp within confirmed me. I 
 waited in the dark one tremulous moment more ; 
 then all the light came back, and I saw her there 
 alone. 
 
 She sat at the harp, playing softly to herself the 
 air she had played to me. She wore the same 
 colors, even to the white flower at her breast ; the 
 surroundings too were all the same. The little 
 table, with the wine, stood exactly where I left it ; 
 the present day was carefully shut out ; the candles 
 were still burning. There was the pile of music, 
 there the jar of roses ; but a few petals had fallen 
 upon the hearth, and the fire had died down into 
 a heap of ashes. While I looked at her I saw 
 these things ; for she did not rise, and though her 
 look met mine, she gave me at first no sign of 
 recognition. 
 
 I drew nearer, and she welcomed me with her eyes. 
 
 " I thought that you would come," she said. " It 
 was much to ask ; yet I have more to ask of you."
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 31 
 
 " I will do all you ask," I answered, " upon one 
 condition." I pointed at the harp. " The song I 
 heard last night, that is all." 
 
 "Listen," she said, and touched the strings. 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " it is the same." 
 
 " The same air, but with other words. These 
 are in your language." 
 
 "And about life?" I asked. 
 
 " Yes, always about life. Listen ! It is called 
 In Circe s Garden. " 
 
 There were tears in her voice, tears too in 
 my eyes. I longed to hear her ; yet, at that mo 
 ment, would have implored her not to sing. The 
 prelude went on softly. There was a cushion on 
 the floor at her side ; I flung myself down upon it, 
 half kneeling, half reclining at her feet. But she 
 had forgotten me ; absorbed in the music, with a 
 sweetness that even Circe, the enchantress, might 
 have envied, she sang these words : 
 
 Love, stay by and sing ; 
 Thy reddest roses bring, 
 
 Thy richest wine ! 
 
 1 would but fill and quaff, 
 
 I would but live and laugh 
 And make thee mine ! 
 
 For Fame s a field hard-fought, 
 And gained, a thing of naught 
 
 To have and hold ! 
 Who would the laurel wear 
 Immortal youth should bear, 
 
 And I am old !
 
 32 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 So, Love, stay by and sing, 
 Thy reddest roses bring, 
 
 Thy richest wine ! 
 I leave the work un wrought, 
 I leave the field unfought 
 For thee and thine ! 
 
 The song ended. I forgot its underlying sorrow. 
 I only knew that with its last notes she turned ten 
 derly to me. I caught her in niy arms and kissed 
 her. She broke away with a low cry ; and I drew 
 back, trembling even in the moment of my triumph, 
 for my chilled lips had touched a cheek as cold 
 as marble. A string in the harp snapped, and one 
 end came rattling down. She looked at it and 
 laughed bitterly. This sound of mirth, the first 
 known to me in that strange household, brought an 
 angry flush into my face. Once more I was on fire. 
 
 " Adriana ! " I cried, " do not mock me ! Do not 
 laugh ! I love you." 
 
 She sighed, and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I know." 
 
 " Why, then, did you bring me here ? To laugh 
 at me ? " 
 
 " No," she replied. " Have you forgotten your 
 promise ? " 
 
 "What promise?" 
 
 " Just now, to do all that I should ask ?" 
 
 " I am ready to keep it ! Speak ! What shall 
 I do?" 
 
 She moved nearer, holding me with a mute ap 
 peal which was not to be resisted. Had she bade
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 33 
 
 me commit some dreadful crime, I could not have 
 denied her. 
 
 " So slight a thing," she said. " Show me what 
 you saw last night." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " The treasure that my father hides from all the 
 world, even from me." 
 
 " The lost picture, Rembrandt s masterpiece ? " 
 
 " It is a picture, then. How often I have tried 
 to see it ! But the door is always locked, and my 
 father keeps the key, where, I do not know. 
 But you " 
 
 " Yes," I whispered, turning anxiously to assure 
 myself that we were not overheard. " Yes, I 
 know." 
 
 " Do not fear ! " she answered. " We are alone. 
 You will let me see it ? " 
 
 I took a step toward the carved chimney-piece, 
 to find the secret panel, then hesitated a moment 
 longer. 
 
 "And afterward?" said I. 
 
 She held out her hand to me. 
 
 " Afterward," she murmured, " we shall go hand 
 in hand. You will be mine, henceforth ; I shall 
 be yours. Though you long to escape, there can 
 be no escaping." 
 
 " I shall never long for that," I said, and took 
 her hand. The touch of her fingers sent an icy 
 thrill through all my veins. I seemed to grow 
 sadder and calmer, years older, in a moment. 
 
 3
 
 34 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 There was a new heaviness about my heart ; it still 
 remained there after our hands unclasped, in 
 deed, it has never left me. Yet in spite of it I 
 loved her and shall love her all my days. 
 
 I found the panel and pushed it open. I lighted 
 the lamp, while she stood by with questioning eyes 
 and parted lips. Then I took down the key. 
 
 "Come!" I said. 
 
 I was no longer in her thoughts ; they were all 
 for the end and not the means. 
 
 " Show it to me !" she whispered eagerly. " Show 
 it to me ! " 
 
 We went out into the blinding daylight, through 
 the dusty garden to the door of the wine-shop. I 
 opened it, without a word, and went on through 
 the clinging darkness, assured that she would fol 
 low. I found the candelabra, and began to light 
 them, still silent, leaving the master to make his 
 own impression upon her. But half the tapers 
 \vcre lighted, when a low moan broke the silence, 
 and turning, I saw her face pale, distorted, with 
 all its beauty faded, in an agony of terror. She 
 spoke no word, but pointed toward the picture, half 
 revealed, and then, with a frightful cry, fled from 
 the place. 
 
 Oh horror ! The livid figure there upon the can 
 vas was her own^ The lovely eyes were closed, 
 the features were sharpened, drawn, distorted, as I 
 had just now seen them. But the face was hers, 
 dead, dead ; only waiting for the grave. She had
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 35 
 
 recognized it ; she had learned the secret, and now 
 I saw it too. 
 
 I dropped the lamp and rushed back into the 
 sunshine. There was no sign of her ; but the long 
 window, which we had carefully closed behind us, 
 stood open, as she must have left it in her flight. 
 I hurried after her, up the broken steps, over the 
 crumbling terrace, into the room. She was not 
 there ; but on the floor I found the white camellia, 
 lying where it had fallen from her breast. I caught 
 it up ; its petals were already stained and withered. 
 I saw an ugly worm wriggling in their folds ; and 
 I dropped the poor, decaying flower with a shiver 
 of disgust. 
 
 I looked around me. A shadow had fallen upon 
 the room. The glare of day had blighted it, even 
 as the white camellia had been blighted. The can 
 dles writhed in their sockets, sputtering and flaring 
 and going out, one by one. The drops of the rusted 
 sconces hung lustreless ; the pictures showed cen 
 turies of blackness on them ; their frames were 
 tarnished; the splendid hangings too were musty 
 and worm-eaten. The very floor felt rotten under 
 my feet. Something rustled along the wainscot ; it 
 was only a hungry rat slinking back to his hole. 
 
 "Adriana!" I called. " Adriana ! " and the 
 walls mocked me with her nickname, " Yanna ! 
 Yanna ! " 
 
 I rushed out into the hall, dislodging, as I went, 
 the heavy curtain, which fell in shreds about my
 
 36 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 heels. I climbed the creaking stairs, still calling 
 her by name, entreating her to answer. Above 
 were locked doors that I could not open. One at 
 last gave way, crashing down into a chamber empty 
 but for an old bedstead with a tattered canopy. 
 The broken window-panes were choked Avith cob 
 webs. Dust rose in clouds. Then, all at once, the 
 loneliness appalled me. I dashed down the stair 
 case to the street-door, on the threshold shouting 
 back once more into the silence ; and once more 
 my voice returned to me that dismal echo, u Yan- 
 na ! Yanna ! " 
 
 I took to the streets like a thief in desperation, 
 spurred on by a new fear, bent upon a new pur 
 pose. I had no time to lose, for my objective 
 point was the Mauritshuis, which in a few minutes 
 would be closed for the day. I found the last vis 
 itors departing ; the doorkeeper smiled as he pulled 
 out his watch, but I passed him by breathlessly, 
 and went up, at breakneck speed, two stairs at a 
 time, to the Rembrandt room. I stood before the 
 " Lesson in Anatomy ; " and shutting out the sur 
 geons with my hand, looked only at their recum 
 bent subject. There could be no longer any doubt. 
 The face was set and rigid, lengthened, sunken, 
 blank, and expressionless, like all dead faces. But 
 I knew it now for Mynheer Grafman s. 
 
 Excited and alarmed, I dared not look behind 
 me, lest I should find him at my shoulder, where I 
 had seen him first. I shut my eyes and groped
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 37 
 
 my way to the door ; then felt for the stair-rail, as 
 a blind man would have done. Only when I heard 
 the custodian s chatter did I recover sight ; only 
 in the open air could I hreathe freely. 
 
 How to account for all this noise and shouting 
 in the great square ? The sober Hollanders had 
 lost their self-control for once. A herd of them 
 flew by me like wild deer, across the gravel in the 
 direction of the Spui. I gave chase at once, deter 
 mined to be in at the death, if that were possible. 
 But my haste got the better of me, and before I 
 could check myself, I had plumped into the waist 
 coat of a big Dutchman, who bore down upon me 
 adversely with ponderous swiftness. He stopped 
 to take breath, swinging me round like a cat. It 
 was only the giant portier of the Marshal Turenne. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " I gasped. 
 
 He was in no condition to talk. 
 
 " Fire ! " was all he said. " Fire ! This way, 
 come ! " and we plunged on together. 
 
 In a few seconds I longed for wings. We turned 
 from the Spui into the narrow street thrice familiar 
 to me. I knew where we were going. My guilty 
 cry passed unnoticed in the increasing uproar, but 
 it might have given evidence against myself. I 
 had opened doors and windows upon fifty candle- 
 flames. I had dropped a lighted lamp into a tin 
 der-box. I knew where we were going. The 
 angry cloud of smoke above us interpreted my 
 fear.
 
 38 DA Y AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 Our way was already blocked. It soon became 
 impassable. Then my companion turned off into 
 a maze of by-streets and slimy, green canals, I fol 
 lowing blindly. We made a long detour, crossing 
 bridge after bridge, and coming out into the crowd 
 again ; but the friendly giant ploughed a furrow 
 in it with his shoulders, dragging me behind him. 
 And he did not stop until, with inarticulate mur 
 murs of satisfaction, he had set me up like a tenpin 
 directly in front of the burning house, but on the 
 opposite wall of the canal. One two three 
 four five. I counted again and again. I had 
 guessed it. The house was the fifth from the 
 corner. 
 
 I saw files of men handing water in buckets, 
 others working madly at primitive hand-engines ; 
 but the case was obviously desperate. Before I 
 had recovered my breath, the roof fell in, and a 
 shaft of flame shot up into the sky. 
 
 Near us, in the crowd, a workman stood talking 
 and gesticulating to his neighbor, and as the best 
 of us will do under excitement, repeating over and 
 over the same words. 
 
 " What does he say ? " I asked the portier. 
 
 The man listened a moment, then translated 
 the speech. 
 
 " He says it is a good thing. The house was 
 haunted." 
 
 " What ? Listen again. Are you sure ? " 
 
 " Yes," repeated the portier, after another pause.
 
 THE LOST REMBRANDT. 39 
 
 " The house was haunted. No one has lived in it 
 since thirty years." 
 
 " Impossible ! " I cried. 
 
 The man misunderstood me of course. 
 
 " Impossible, perhaps, in your country. Here 
 we have ghosts," he said with the serenity of 
 conviction. 
 
 I did not dispute the point, and we stood still 
 for some time huddled together in an ill-assorted 
 group of all ages, sizes, and conditions. The fire 
 roared and crackled ; the sashes of the drawing- 
 room were like the bars of a grate ; all within was 
 a live coal. I stared at it vacantly, with the refrain 
 of that unearthly music moaning in my ears. 
 
 At last I turned again to the interpreter. 
 
 " Ask the fellow," 1 said, " if he has ever heard 
 of one Heer Grafman, living here in the quarter." 
 
 " What for a name is that ? " the portier asked. 
 
 " Grafman, Mynheer Grafman." 
 
 " Excuse me ; one must have made a mistake, 
 that cannot be the name." 
 
 " Why not, pray ? " 
 
 " There was no name like that in our language. 
 In Dutch that means " 
 
 " What ? " I urged impatiently. 
 
 " It means one come out of the grave. " 
 
 " You are right," said I ; " there has been some 
 mistake. You need not ask. That cannot be the 
 name."
 
 40 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 There is no more to tell. A few days later I 
 left The Hague ; I have not revisited Holland, and 
 all this happened years ago. It is a ghost of my 
 lost youth, but one that never can be laid. Often 
 in the summer night, I hear that saddest and 
 sweetest of all songs in a troubled dream from 
 which my own despairing cry arouses me ; and I 
 wake in tears, to find myself calling, " Yanna ! 
 Adriana ! " I can listen to no other music ; for 
 me, on earth, there is no love of woman. The old 
 delight I had in living has been taken from me ; 
 but, at least, I live on calmly and no longer dread 
 the end. All fear of Death is gone, I know no 
 touch of it. I only know that I looked into those 
 quiet eyes, and that I ceased to find them terrible.
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 
 
 She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, 
 Grows cold, even in the summer of her age. 
 
 LEE and DRYDEN : (Edipus. 
 
 I. 
 
 HE will never forget his first sight of her. 
 Half-unconsciously she had drawn apart 
 from one of the merry groups on the lawn, to stand 
 for the moment alone, looking up at the stars, awed 
 a little by the beauty of the perfect July evening. 
 The moonlight streamed down upon her golden 
 hair ; upon her face, which, if not wholly faultless, 
 had faultless lines in it and was gentleness itself ; 
 while the pale blue-and-white Eastern fabric that 
 she wore gave her slender figure an unearthly look, 
 making it seem like an effect of the moonshine, 
 ready to melt away if one drew nearer. But 
 other figures came and went between her and the 
 wide expanse of glimmering sea. Two of them 
 joined her, two men ; and she did not vanish, 
 but smiled and spoke with them. Though he could 
 not hear the words, he caught the sweet tones of 
 her voice, saw the smile clearly, and wished it were
 
 42 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 for him. He had met more beautiful women, per 
 haps, none more interesting at the first glance, 
 he was sure. At the thought he sighed without 
 knowing it. One of the men had handed her a 
 rose. 
 
 His friend Mordaunt must always smoke his two 
 cigars after dinner, though the sky fell ; and so 
 they had come late to Mrs. Shirley Allerton s mid 
 summer " Small-and-early." His hostess had led 
 him out of her reception-room to this dark corner 
 of the veranda, that he might discover at once how 
 admirably Nature chimed in with all her schemes 
 of artificial entertainment. On the whole sweep of 
 Massachusetts Bay there is no choicer bit of coast 
 line than North Head, and she wanted him to tell 
 her so. A few yards out, above a sunken rock, a 
 great white breaker perpetually rose and fell, 
 her breaker, she called it. And, indeed, it seemed 
 to be always the same wave, always tumbling over 
 and over there at her command. That was her 
 moon too while it lasted ; she could not have that 
 always. Even the wife of Allerton, the eminent 
 historian, all-powerful in her social world, lost her 
 control of things, and confessed herself baffled 
 and valueless, somewhere just on this side of the 
 spheres. 
 
 From a distant room, where there was dancing, 
 faint notes of harp and violin came out to them, 
 and mingled with the deeper music of the shore. 
 Her guest undertook to admire all the sights and
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 43 
 
 sounds she indicated, and he did so, for the moment, 
 heartily. Then, suddenly, while she talked on, his 
 look and thought were arrested on the wing. 
 
 " Lovely ! " he murmured in an undertone which 
 expressed more and less than that he had before 
 employed. 
 
 His hostess saw what he meant, and smiled. 
 " Yes, is n t she ? That is Sylvia Belknap. Come ! 
 I want you to know her." And moving out toward 
 the little group she continued, in the same breath : 
 " Miss Belknap, my old friend, Mr. Luxmore, who 
 has just come home to us again." 
 
 The men drew back, one of them proving to be 
 Allerton himself ; the second, only Mordaunt, Lux- 
 more s bosom friend. Another group formed, and 
 in its turn, broke up ; so that presently the two 
 just introduced were left alone. Luxmore, looking 
 at his companion, felt vague relief at that and at 
 something else. It was Allerton who had given 
 her the rose. 
 
 At that time Luxmore s work had its small cir 
 cle of friendly critics who discerned signs of prom 
 ise in it ; but he was an unknown painter to the 
 great mass of humankind. Even those who liked 
 his pictures so well as to buy them, at low prices, 
 never ventured to predict for him what is called 
 " a future ; " and in their saner moments they 
 could only feel that their monej*, represented by 
 his few feet of decorative canvas, was safely put 
 out of the way. To be sure he knew how to draw
 
 44 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 the human figure, and his bits were strong in 
 color ; he had passed several years in Paris and 
 had improved his advantages. That he had talent 
 was obvious from their recognition of him ; but he 
 also had an income enabling him to live, frugally, 
 it is true, but still to live. He was a slow worker, 
 with a tendency to doubt himself that often brought 
 down upon him the reproach of indolence. His 
 annual product was ridiculously small. He had 
 come back this time to stay, as every decent Amer 
 ican of his age should do, of course. But here, at 
 thirty-five, with his temperament, important work 
 could hardly be expected of him. A good-humored, 
 handsome fellow, always well-met in society, he 
 would be to the end of the chapter. Yet in his 
 art, it was more than likely that his best word had 
 been already spoken. 
 
 His mother had died when he was very young ; 
 he could but just remember her. He was the only 
 child, left in the care of a father who was easy 
 going and indulgent. The boy had grown up like 
 a weed, making no mark in college other than the 
 score of his debts, which had led to more or less 
 trouble at home. But after the reproof the money 
 was always forthcoming ; and his father sorrowfully 
 admitted to himself that, on the whole, his son s 
 youth was steadier than his own had been. All 
 boys were wild, he supposed ; but time would cure 
 that. His boy s heart was in the right place. 
 He must have his fling. As for the money,
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 45 
 
 there would be enough in the end, if things went 
 well. 
 
 But the end came suddenly, and things went ill. 
 The father died without a moment s warning, the 
 estate proved to be heavily involved, and Luxmore 
 was left high and dry with a small income, helped 
 out only by the trifling sum inherited from his 
 mother. This change sobered him at once. His 
 fling was over. He determined now to make the 
 most of a serious existence ; whatever enjoyment 
 was to be found in it should be his. And having 
 artistic tastes and qualities, he chose the painter s 
 profession, for the love of it, not for its precarious 
 reward. If he succeeded, why, well and good ; if 
 not, he would burn his brushes, take up the pen, 
 and turning critic, instruct and irritate the success 
 ful. Even failure thus might bring in its compen 
 sations. But these must be his last resort ; he 
 was not disposed to fall back upon them just yet. 
 
 Nor did he ever need in this manner to call his 
 reserve forces into play. The difficult task of set 
 ting the world on fire had yet to be accomplished. 
 But if his work never went very far, it was always 
 thorough ; and the limited following to which he 
 appealed respected him through all the hours of 
 self-distrust that now succeeded. He had served 
 a long apprenticeship of preparation for a higher 
 flight. When his friends urged the attempt upon 
 him, he only shook his head ; till gradually they 
 came to fear that he would never make it. The
 
 46 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 torch had been passed on to him, undoubtedly, with 
 the spark still glowing. Why did he not draw one 
 deep breath and kindle that shining point into a 
 flame ? 
 
 It is always easy to defend with a wise proverb 
 any defect or idiosyncrasy of our own. And Lux- 
 more might well have answered these spiritual 
 inciters that, in hastening slowly, he was but obey 
 ing an important precept of the sages, another of 
 whose laws he endeavored with zealous devotion to 
 fulfil. He studied himself assiduously, as do all 
 good artists, whatever be the medium in which 
 they work. And in consequence, far from shield 
 ing himself with a delusive epigram, he went, as 
 has already been intimated, straight to the opposite 
 extreme, and was inclined to undervalue himself. 
 Certain elements were entirely wanting in him, as 
 he had reason to fear. How had he done so much 
 without them ? The wonder was that he could do 
 anything at all ? 
 
 Love, for instance, still remained an unknown 
 quantity in his personal experience. Was he, then, 
 never to feel the racking torment, the unutterable 
 sorrow, the inexpressible joy that poets have rung 
 their changes on these thousand years ? One by 
 one his friends had dropped away, confiding to him, 
 as they went, their woes and their delights, to which 
 he had listened with an amiable, unsympathetic 
 smile. Wait till you are caught, they had retorted ; 
 and he had smiled again, incredulously, envying
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 47 
 
 them, wondering at them. His own boyish fancies 
 of the past had been quite too unimportant to con 
 fide at all ; even to recall them demanded a positive 
 effort of the mind, turning back through countless 
 blank leaves of intervening years during which 
 the little shameless bowman had never revealed 
 himself to Luxmore ; never drawn a single arrow 
 from the quiver upon his account ; never stooped to 
 brush him by with so much as the tip of a wing. 
 
 What did it mean ? Had the heart for love been 
 left out of him, as the eye for color is from one 
 man, the ear for music from another ? If so, to 
 the winds with all ambitious strivings ; undoubtedly, 
 thought he, love has played its part in all lives that 
 were worthy to be written. Not to love was not to 
 soar ; to be a creature of earth, not the eagle, but 
 the strutting monarch of the dunghill, inferior 
 to him, even, for the barnyard fowl has wings that 
 he might use, if he were so minded. To want 
 wings altogether was to be cruelly handicapped. 
 To find the highest of all earthly conditions incom 
 prehensible seemed equivalent to an admission of 
 mediocrity. Commonplace was the only term ap 
 plicable to such a nature. And as the nature, so 
 the work must be. 
 
 This conclusion. lamentable as it sounded, should 
 have been his encouragement ; since the true grov 
 elling spirit is content to grovel and does not con 
 cern itself with whys and wherefores. It might 
 also have led him (though, happily or unhappily, it
 
 48 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 did nothing of the kind) to ask himself precisely 
 how far this apparent invulnerability was to be 
 trusted in a close encounter. The vigorous man 
 who has never known a day s illness suffers most 
 when the fever strikes him down ; and love is the 
 most insidious and malignant of all fevers. Its 
 germs are flying everywhere. From eighteen to 
 eighty, none of us is really safe one hour. Nay, 
 more ; it may safely be asserted that none ever 
 escapes a serious attack of it. And all in vain the 
 scoffer would confute this with shining instances 
 of celibacy like Lord Macaulay and Leonardo da 
 Vinci. These were strong, wise men, who burned 
 their documents, who locked their feelings up and 
 flung away the key. But on that final day when 
 all hearts shall be laid bare, love s scars surely will 
 be found even upon these. The hermit shows you 
 his cell triumphantly, and assures you it is an open 
 book, thus telling the truth with intent to deceive ; 
 for his book proves to be written in a strange 
 character that he alone can read. Though the 
 skull and hour-glass are his only obvious furniture, 
 they form, in fact, a very small portion of the 
 baggage buried with him in the cloister. 
 
 Luxmore, as it happened, was neither sage nor 
 hero, and in a few moments Miss Belknap skilfully 
 contrived to make him do the thing of all others 
 he usually desired to avoid, namely, to talk about 
 himself. But to-night he was off his guard ; and 
 his companion, provokingly sympathetic, put intel-
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 49 
 
 ligent questions that showed her knowledge of the 
 art he pursued to be something more than a theo 
 retic one. Of his individual work she knew noth 
 ing whatever. This disappointed him a little, but 
 it did not surprise him. A Luxmore, to be sure, 
 hung in the very house behind them. But one 
 might pass it by a dozen times unnoticed, or notice 
 it only to forget it, he supposed. In answer to his 
 question she admitted that she could draw and 
 paint in a small way for her own amusement. And 
 then she turned the talk straight back to him, and 
 made him tell her of his life abroad, of the strange 
 people he had met there, the friends he had found, 
 the better to listen leading him away from the 
 music and the dancers, along the cliff, to a turn in 
 the path where a bench had been placed fronting 
 the sea and just out of sight of the house. Here, 
 with Mrs. Allerton s breaker tossing high its foam 
 before him, Luxmore revived recollections that, 
 beginning joyously, ended by having a mournful 
 note in them, as such recitals are apt to do. And 
 both the joy and the sadness were echoed by the 
 girl at his side, whose interest in all he said was 
 quite unfeigned, and who had already become a 
 part of his life. He had known her half an hour, 
 yet he seemed to have known her always ; the 
 acquaintance had but just begun, and they were 
 old friends. 
 
 They had been speaking of the lt painters paint 
 ers," as Luxmore called them, the men whom 
 
 4
 
 50 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 their fellows agree in admiring, whose sketches are 
 treasured in dim studio corners, but whose com 
 pleted work fails to touch the public heart, or 
 gains tardy appreciation only when the hand and 
 brain that toiled for it are beyond the need of 
 toiling. A common fate enough. All the arts, 
 in all the ages, have developed such builders for 
 posterity, and their great triumphal arch is still 
 unfinished. 
 
 " Yes," said Luxmore, " I believe that we should 
 all fare better to live upon the fruits of our an 
 cestors, sealing up our own rare products for a 
 later generation. Some men, it is true, learn how 
 to hit the present ; but others never can, then 
 death sweeps them away into the past, and behold, 
 they are immortal ! There was a poor friend of 
 mine who died last year, obscure, unrecognized. 
 To-day, at the sales, the amateurs wrangle for two 
 strokes of his brush. I wonder if he knows ? " 
 
 " Was he an American ? " Miss Belknap asked. 
 
 " Yes, though not a good one. Something, I 
 don t know what, led him to forsake his native 
 land for a French village in the forest of Saint 
 Germain. Once there he never left it. Those who 
 cared for him had to seek him out. But they were 
 always sure of a welcome and something more. 
 There was much in the man worth studying be 
 sides patience and frugality. Yet he called us his 
 master-pupils, and declared that, in our game of 
 give and take, the advantage was all his."
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 51 
 
 Miss Belknap opened her fan and gently smoothed 
 its ruffled feathers. 
 
 " What was the name of your recluse ? " she 
 inquired. 
 
 "It will say nothing to you, for no one here re 
 members him. And yet he used to tell me that 
 he had left his masterpiece in America ; his first 
 sketch for it is mine now. I would give the world 
 to see the picture. But how shall I ? A needle 
 in a haystack ! One might look from here to 
 San Francisco and never find it. Why do you 
 laugh?" 
 
 " Because you have quite forgotten my question. 
 No matter, I will answer it. The painter s name 
 was Scldcn." 
 
 Luxmore started. 
 
 " How did you know ? " 
 
 " From your description of course. And the 
 picture you would give the world to see is a fly 
 ing wood-nymph. Well, give me the world, and 
 I will show it to you." 
 
 " No," said Luxmore, laughing, u you will show 
 it to me for nothing, if you are charitable." 
 
 Miss Belknap rose and caught up the silken coil 
 of her train. 
 
 " Shall we go now ? " she asked. 
 
 "By all means, but where?" 
 
 " Do you see those lights upon the shore ? No, 
 the others, farther off. That is my house ; the 
 picture is there. Come ! "
 
 52 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 Springing lightly down the path as she spoke, 
 she looked back for him to follow. 
 
 " Wait a moment. Let me bring your wrap," 
 said he. 
 
 " Come ! " she repeated, stamping her foot im 
 patiently. " Or I shall change my mind, and you 
 will never see the picture. It is but a step, in 
 ten minutes we can be there and back again. Take 
 care ; you will break your neck." 
 
 The way was so narrow that they could not walk 
 abreast. So he followed her obediently, by trim 
 lawns and gardens that swept back to lamp-lit 
 houses on one side, while on the other the summer 
 surf advanced and retreated lazily, then bounded 
 back almost to her feet. Its phosphorescent gleams 
 seemed to play about her ; she gained upon him, 
 disappearing and shining out again fitfully, like a 
 will-o -the-wisp of the sea. He begged her to stop, 
 and found her waiting at a turnstile, through which 
 they passed, over turf that felt like velvet to a 
 large, old-fashioned house, well lighted, with doors 
 and windows wide open. In one of the ground- 
 floor rooms sat a placid, middle-aged woman, 
 knitting under a lamp. As they went by she 
 looked up. 
 
 " Sylvia ! " she called. 
 
 " Yes," replied the girl, but without stopping 
 led the way into a hall crowded with curious ob 
 jects, like some cabinet in a fine museum. Lux- 
 more had only a confused impression of these
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 53 
 
 things, as be was hurried along into a dark cor 
 ridor behind, where Miss Belknap kept him wait 
 ing while she found a candle and lighted it, going 
 on immediately to a closed door, which she un 
 locked and opened to admit him, like a willing 
 dog at her heels. 
 
 He stopped a moment on the threshold, for there 
 was no other light than the uncertain one she car 
 ried. The room was bare, and plainly furnished, 
 with a forsaken look and chilly air, as though it 
 were rarely used. On the wall he caugbt a glimpse 
 of the picture they had come to see. Then Miss 
 Belknap, who had moved toward it, gave a startled 
 exclamation, scarcely audible, w T hich she at once 
 suppressed, and the candle went out, with her 
 help he was sure. He heard her rustling forward 
 in the dark. The shutters were closed, but one of 
 their upper leaves had unfolded, letting a bar of 
 moonlight slant down close by the picture upon the 
 wall and upon her as she came out into it, putting 
 up her hand toward the frame with a quick move 
 ment that he could not follow. She was there 
 and gone again in a flash, coming back to him 
 and laughing. 
 
 " How stupid ! " she said, as if to show him that 
 the light had gone out by accident. " Now I must 
 find the bell, if I can, and ring for matches." 
 
 " No ! Take mine ! " said Luxmore, offering his 
 match-box with one hand, and groping for her with 
 the other. He touched her face, her hair ; but she
 
 54 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 slipped away, and kneeling down, let him go by 
 her, as though it were a game of blind-man s-buff. 
 
 " Where are you ? " he cried, in the moonlight 
 now, but more in the dark than ever. 
 
 " Here ! " she answered in a laughing whisper, 
 close behind him. Then she took his hand and 
 placed the candle in it. And between them, with 
 some difficulty, the flame flashed up again. What 
 was there in his look, he wondered, that made her 
 change color and turn away from it. He had not 
 been thinking of himself. But now, as he did so, 
 he felt for the first time that he was in danger. 
 
 Selden was quite right. He had never done 
 anything so good as this poor little nymph, flying 
 breathless from some unseen pursuer. Even in 
 the insufficient light Luxmore was convinced of 
 that. The quality of the flesh, the modelling, the 
 color, the composition, were all remarkable. 
 
 u Poor Selden ! " he muttered, after a long look 
 in silence. This was like seeing a ghost, and when 
 Miss Belknap, who had stood aside, watching him, 
 suggested that lamps should be brought, he would 
 not hear of it. He was not sure of hjmself ; there 
 were tears in his eyes. 
 
 " After all, it is always there," she said. " You 
 will see it by day, I hope." 
 
 " Yes ; I shall be glad to come." 
 
 His tone struck her. She held the light above 
 her head in a becoming attitude, looking at him 
 curiously.
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 55 
 
 " A little for the picture, a little too for me. 
 We have had such a pleasant talk. There are 
 many things I want to ask you. I am sure we 
 shall be friends." 
 
 " We are already," said lie, taking the hand she 
 offered, with a smile. Then, as she turned to go, 
 he sprang forward quickly and opened the door. 
 In doing this he felt that his foot was entangled 
 in some light substance that clung persistently. 
 
 " What have I brought with me ? " he asked, 
 holding up a knot of crape with flying ends that 
 had wound themselves about his ankle. "A badge 
 of mourning ? " 
 
 " It is nothing," she said indifferently. " Let 
 it lie there, anywhere. Will you lock the door 
 and give me the key ? Make haste ; we are play 
 ing truant, we belong to-night to Mrs. Shirley 
 Allerton." 
 
 As they walked back Luxmore was silent, drop 
 ping behind again. At the end of the path she 
 turned upon him with a playful reproach. 
 
 "Not one word?" she said. "You are gloomy 
 as the grave." 
 
 " It is your own fault," he answered ; " you set 
 the current of my thoughts." And after a pause, 
 when they came within hearing of the music, with 
 in sight of the dancers, he added, " So you knew 
 Seldeii ? " 
 
 She smiled, speaking lightly, but in a tone that 
 betrayed some slight embarrassment. " Oh, yes.
 
 56 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 I thought I told you. I had a great regard for 
 him. Here comes the best waltzer in the world. 
 Do you think he means to dance with me ? Yes ; 
 you are released. But you won t forget the way 
 to my door, will you ? " 
 
 She went off with the other man, and Luxmore, 
 returning to the bench where they had talked 
 together, sat there for a while alone. 
 
 " A great regard ! " he thought. " That s the 
 sort of thing a woman says of the poor dog who 
 has had his day with her. I wonder if Selden lost 
 his head and returned her regard with interest. 
 That would explain him. She had tied the bit of 
 crape about his picture, and was ashamed to let me 
 see it. Why ? Now that he is safe she cares for 
 him too much perhaps. And I am winding myself 
 up with thoughts as melancholy as the crape itself. 
 She was right. I am gloomy as the grave. If I 
 were superstitious I should call it a bad omen to 
 have Selden s mantle fall on me. But my head is 
 sound as a nut, and I am safe, entirely safe. The 
 devil take her ! What do I care about the girl ?" 
 
 Then he walked up to the ball-room window 
 and saw her for the first time in a good light. 
 She was older than he had thought, twenty-five 
 or twenty-six, he dared say. Yes, she might well 
 have had that little affair with Selden. How grace 
 fully she danced ! The younger girls were con 
 scious and awkward in comparison with her, 
 mere jointed dolls. Others beside himself were
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 57 
 
 following with their looks the golden hair, the 
 clear, blue, laughing eyes. When she stopped, a 
 small court f owned about her, cutting her oft from 
 view. Then Luxmore, gloomier than ever, went 
 into the house, and keeping out of her way forced 
 himself to say cheerful nothings wittily to the first 
 good soul he met. So he passed on front one old 
 friend to another, till the clouds lifting left him 
 in a better frame of mind. If not precisely a full- 
 grown lion, he was looked upon as one of the 
 whelps ; and he could not be wholly insensible to 
 that deference which poor humanity always pays to 
 the lords of the menagerie. Later he found him 
 self once more comparing notes with his hostess. 
 " Well, did you like her ?" she inquired. 
 " Whom do you mean ? " 
 " Sylvia, Miss Belknap, of course." 
 " Perfection, but for one fault. She does not 
 know my work." 
 
 " Poor sensitive plant ! You have the vice of 
 genius. You are exactly like my husband." 
 
 "Agreed, with thanks; but that is neither here 
 nor there." 
 
 " Oh, but it is. Her fault may be overcome." 
 " I am not so sure of that," said he. " Tell 
 me " he had a question about Miss Belknap on 
 his lips and behind it a dozen others. But he 
 suppressed them all, and asked something alto 
 gether different. On the whole he preferred to 
 get his information elsewhere.
 
 58 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE opportunity came an hour afterward when 
 he and Mordaunt exchanged their impressions 
 of the evening, in loose attire, over a final cigar. 
 John Mordaunt rolled through the world in wealth, 
 the type of jollity. He was short and round and 
 ruddy; bald as a globe; with a nimble wit; and 
 an inner man so nicely adjusted to his outer one 
 that he was happy in himself, and in all things 
 appertaining to him. His wife and children were 
 the best that ever lived ; his house in town was 
 the most comfortable that could be contrived, 
 if not the grandest ; his country-house and this 
 again at North Head fell little behind it in his 
 own estimation, and were in fact admirably well- 
 ordered. He prided himself upon his social judg 
 ments, incisively pronounced and dangerously 
 true, so that those who did not like him had a 
 wholesome fear of him ; and his blunt sincerity made 
 him troops of friends. He was fond of quoting Sir 
 Peter s conclusions about sentiment, a disposition 
 of the mind which he attributed to dyspepsia ; but 
 he stated this so often as to betray a conscious 
 weakness of his own in that respect, especially in 
 view of the fact that his courtship had been a sen 
 timental one, and that he had grown domestic to 
 the last degree. He had long been intimate with 
 Roger Luxmore, whom he admired for the imagi-
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 59 
 
 native qualities which were lacking in himself. He 
 had none of the creative faculty, but was a born 
 critic, whose powers ran to waste. Unfortunately 
 he could live without cultivating them, without ap 
 plication to hard labor of any kind. It was only 
 to quiet his conscience that he took his ease in 
 his office and dabbled in the law. 
 
 Luxmore knew that his friend must have definite 
 views about so important a figure as Miss Belknap 
 already appeared to him to be. But while he was 
 preparing his first ingenious question, Mordaunt, 
 without warning, plunged straight into the heart 
 of the subject. 
 
 " What did you think of Lady Sylvia ? " he asked. 
 " I saw her making off with you." 
 
 "Not wholly unattractive," said Luxmore, cau 
 tiously ; " and with a good eye for color, she 
 wore just the right one." 
 
 " I am glad it s no worse. She did not, then, 
 intoxicate you ? " 
 
 " You forget that I m an old bird," said Lux- 
 more, smiling; "the wine I drink must be made 
 of grapes. But tell me something about her. Se 
 riously, she did interest me a little." 
 
 " Then mark my words. Beware of her. She 
 is hard as flint, and will never be otherwise ; for 
 she inherited hardness as she did her money. 
 Her father and grandfather before her were mere 
 ossifications." 
 
 Of these words Luxmore marked onlv one. He
 
 60 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 had often sworn to himself that, come what might, 
 lie would never ask a rich woman to be his wife, 
 and now his heart sank. " What ! " he thought. 
 " Do I love her, then, already ? " 
 
 " So she has money," was all he said aloud. 
 
 " Coffers, Roger, coffers. And she is charitable 
 too in her way ; she subscribes well. But no for 
 tune-hunter will ever spend one penny of it ; no 
 good fellow lives that will ever share it with her. 
 Make a note of that ; you will see." 
 
 " I see that you take a great deal for granted," 
 returned Luxmore, laughing. 
 
 " Laugh if you like, you don t know her as I do. 
 You have lived in France, where the women, with 
 all their faults, are women still. God bless them, 
 every one, I say ; but not a type like this, which 
 is getting to be far too common here at home. 
 There s no sentimental nonsense about me, you 
 may be sure, but I want a woman to be tender 
 and gentle, and to show a proper weakness, in 
 short, to be flesh and blood, and not a cold ab 
 straction. The girls nowadays seem to think that 
 their only duty is to improve their minds. They 
 refine themselves to death ; they won t look at a 
 man, they want a demi-god. He never comes ; 
 and they live single and passionless, die, and bury 
 their talent in the grave. What good have they 
 done the world with all their delightful intellectu 
 ality ? They were born to hand it down. It s 
 their only excuse for being."
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 61 
 
 " Your happy household is your best argument," 
 said Luxmore ; " but think of the risk they run 
 in saying yes. Look around you at the unhappy 
 marriages." 
 
 " Nonsense. The man runs his risk, does n t 
 he ? Why not the woman ? Because she is too 
 self-centred ; she will not let herself go a single 
 instant. What we call love implies some sacri 
 fice ; she would not make it if she could. Look at 
 the case in point. Here is Sylvia Belknap, young, 
 lovely, rich beyond reckoning. She has no near 
 relatives ; she lives alone with her servants and her 
 companion, Miss Winchester. It is the most selfish 
 and limited of lives. She writes her checks, studies 
 her art and her philosophy, cuts the leaves of her 
 review, dines, dances, and her day is done. Un 
 luckily her coldness, that should repel, attracts. 
 More than one better man than she deserves to 
 get, has dangled after her and come to grief. She 
 cannot understand it, she has improved all anti 
 quated ideas away. I have no patience with such 
 a temperament. Her smile makes me think of a 
 vein of quartz in its granite setting. She is like 
 that reef out there, the waves rush at it, and the 
 biggest can only dash itself to pieces. What are 
 you laughing at now ? " 
 
 " Only to think that the gods made Mordaunt 
 poetical." 
 
 " Fudge ! " said Mordaunt, flinging away his 
 cigar, and bustling about to lock the windows.
 
 62 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " It takes a good strong simile to touch you ; and 
 you are a little on my conscience. I want to see 
 you married, though not to Lady Sylvia, as my 
 wife persists in calling her. Ugh ! East wind, 
 again ! After all that girl is the natural product 
 of our cursed climate. Had she been born with 
 feelings, ten to one they would have been chilled 
 out of her. Past two o clock! And so to bed, 
 as Pepys says." 
 
 Mordaunt s random shot about similes was really 
 apt enough. It would have taken one far stronger 
 than any he had invented to make a deep impres 
 sion upon Luxmore in this instance. Well begun 
 is more than half done in matters of the heart. 
 The affections, once engaged, benumb the reason. 
 No two men can agree precisely concerning the 
 color of an object. They do not see it with the 
 same eyes. And their views are even more at 
 variance in the discussion of a character. There is 
 no rule of proportion accurately to determine that. 
 The lines which to one are clear and well defined 
 are blurred and iridescent to the other. Sharp at 
 tack provokes skilful defence ; and argument, usually 
 profitless, here becomes absolutely futile. To warn 
 a man against a woman on whom his eyes have once 
 looked longingly is to raise up for her a champion. 
 
 So the friendly caution went in at one ear and 
 out at the other, dismissed by Luxmore as an 
 absurd bit of social prejudice the moment Miss 
 Belknap s influence exerted itself again. Of course
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 63 
 
 she had her suitors ; how could she help that ? Of 
 course she would marry when the right man came 
 along ; how could any one suppose the contrary ? 
 To choose wisely was her affair ; not to choose at 
 all would be her misfortune, rather than the world s. 
 She lived in a land of liberty. No law, written or 
 unwritten, could compel her to marry for the sake 
 of pleasing the bystanders. The doctrine of hered 
 ity was well enough, if well worked out ; but who 
 could describe its limits, verify its laws ? What 
 would it matter that her father and grandfather 
 had been cut in adamant, if some forgotten ances 
 tor, blessed with a warm heart, had transmitted 
 his gentleness to her ? 
 
 These reflections followed hard upon the visit 
 Luxmore paid her, ostensibly for the purpose of 
 seeing Selden s nymph by day. The abandoned 
 room had been opened to the air and sunlight ; but 
 there had been no other attempt to make it habita 
 ble. On a table were scattered brushes and tubes 
 of color ; in one corner stood an empty easel. Her 
 work was not worth showing, she said ; she had 
 given it all up now ; some day, perhaps, she might 
 try again, more seriously. If there were only some 
 one to help her out. She felt the need of a good 
 master, the incentive that men acquired in a 
 Parisian atelier. She was glad to hear that he had 
 taken a studio in town. His influence would be of 
 the best, she knew. Directly and indirectly a man 
 of high aims always did so much. By the force of
 
 64 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 his example he would teach others to desire some 
 thing more than money-getting, to strive for an ideal. 
 
 Thus flattered and humored Luxmore yielded to 
 the spell of her potent personality, and carried 
 away with him a glowing sense of its charm. The 
 glow still remained when he dined at her house a 
 few days afterward. It was one of those quiet lit 
 tle dinners of general conversation with congenial 
 people that survive in memory the pomp of a formal 
 banquet. Luxmore sat between Miss Belknap and 
 Mrs. Shirley Allerton. He was in high spirits and 
 talked freely and well ; so well that Allerton moved 
 round to him after dinner, and told him tales of 
 his youth, informing his wife, on the way home, 
 that Luxmore was a fine fellow whom she must 
 corral often when they went to town. 
 
 " It is some one else who will corral him, as you 
 call it, Shirley." 
 
 " To whom do you refer ? " 
 
 " Can t you see ? Sylvia, of course." 
 
 " Oh ! " replied her husband, in blank amazement. 
 " You are very far-sighted, my dear." 
 
 " Not at all. How can you talk so ? I have 
 decided that it would be a most excellent thing. 
 In fact, I have set my heart upon it." 
 
 " Then it will be, my dear, without the slightest 
 question." 
 
 But many moons waxed and waned, and still 
 it was not. More than that, Luxmore, sitting 
 up one autumn night over his fire, took strange
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 65 
 
 counsel with himself, and decided that it could 
 never be. He had been thinking far too much, 
 lately, of Miss Belknap, or of her fortune, which 
 was it ? Overwhelmed by a new impalpable force 
 beyond his comprehension he strove against it, 
 now refusing to admit it at all, now ascribing 
 it to an unworthy motive, and struggling merely 
 to conquer that, as he believed. What ! Marry to 
 forfeit his independence ? Clinging to a woman s 
 skirts, to decline upon inglorious ease ? Impossi 
 ble ! No man could do that and respect himself ; 
 better an empty purse than a full one in the 
 wrong hand. Men were born to lead, not to 
 follow. And yet, if he were doing himself grave 
 injustice ; if this nameless longing were of a kind 
 to hold through all changes of material, outward 
 circumstance, if she were penniless, for instance, 
 would he not still long for her ? Ah, how could 
 he be sure of that ? She had always worn the 
 golden cestus. Who could say that it contrib 
 uted nothing to her mysterious, indefinable charm ? 
 The merest shadow of a doubt deprived him of 
 the right to speak. And doubt, he argued, was 
 inseparable from these conditions. Long he con 
 sidered them ; so long, that the fire died away 
 unheeded, and through his high window came the 
 first glimmer of the dawn. He roused himself, 
 shivering, to shut it out, and sleep. The silent 
 debate was over ; its question was answered in 
 the negative. 
 
 5
 
 66 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 Resolutely, then, he set his face against tempta 
 tion. He could not avoid Miss Belknap altogether, 
 of course ; but he no longer made an effort to 
 meet her. When they were thrown together his 
 talk was of the lightest and marked by an odd 
 nervousness of manner. Pie was continually con 
 triving that they should not be left alone. Thus 
 it happened that, for one reason or another, she 
 was always in his thoughts, and the chosen pur 
 suit which should have absorbed them found but 
 a secondary place. His winter was restless and 
 unprofitable. He attempted no important work, 
 but under a growing discouragement, yielded to 
 the fancied claims of society, kept its late hours, 
 and paid the penalty, by day, tilting at his own 
 poor windmills with a tired hand. Nevertheless 
 the studies he turned out sold readily. Chance 
 and his tact in dealing with it had made him 
 the favorite of the hour ; for the hour, it was 
 the thing to encourage him. 
 
 With charming inconsistency his friend Mrs. 
 Shirley Allerton alternately reproached him for 
 wasting his time, and by her own tempting invi 
 tations made sad inroads upon it. When he 
 laughingly called her attention to this fact, she 
 had her answer ready. No man, in her judgment, 
 should be permitted to immure himself. Until 
 he was married and settled, which change for 
 the better, according to her emphatic parenthesis, 
 should always occur on the hither side of forty,
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 67 
 
 he must see people ; not all people, of- course, 
 not the dull and conventional, but the wise and 
 clever, in short, the right ones. Then, to point 
 her moral, she asked him to dinner, and made 
 him take Miss Belknap in. But some one had 
 failed her at the last moment. The place on 
 his left hand was vacant. For that reason, no 
 doubt, Sylvia took pains to be doubly captivating. 
 She began with a flattering complaint. In long 
 weeks she had seen nothing of him ; she could 
 hardly remember when they had talked together 
 as they were talking now. This argued, evidently, 
 that he was hard at work. Indeed she had been 
 shown the results, and she could well understand 
 that art should be his first thought ; but it need 
 not be his only one ; he must think sometimes 
 of his friends. 
 
 He had thought of them too often, as he was on 
 the point of saying. But he checked himself and 
 turned the conversation off into impersonalities. 
 She followed where he led her, listening with an 
 attentive smile, making her own points cleverly 
 but deferentially. How well their tastes agreed ! 
 How plainly she expressed her hope in his success 
 without the aid of one insipid compliment ; her 
 pleasure in his companionship without an atom s 
 loss of maidenly reserve ! What warmth of sym 
 pathy was hers, what delicacy of feeling ! Refine 
 ment was in all her looks and gestures ; her voice 
 had nothing of the world s harshness, every note
 
 68 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 of it was an appeal. The hours of that night fled 
 like minutes ; but they left behind them an eternity 
 of recollection. 
 
 " A fine stroke of yours, that vacant place ! " 
 said Mr. Allerton to his wife, when their guests 
 were gone. 
 
 " Now, Shirley, please, for once, do me justice." 
 
 " How am I unjust ? In giving you credit for 
 benevolent diplomacy ? " 
 
 " Match-making is n t that. It s unwarrantable 
 interference, more likely to do harm than good. 
 I detest it thoroughly, as you ought to know. You 
 can t push people into marriage and expect them 
 to be happy. Miss Burleigh really gave out at the 
 last moment. I could n t have filled her place if 
 I had tried." 
 
 " My dear, I apologize. But with nobody on his 
 left, and somebody on his right " 
 
 " Well, why should n t he take her in ? " 
 
 " He could n t help himself ; and any event that 
 may occur will be purely fortuitous. There is a 
 special providence that waits on lovers." 
 
 " Lovers ! " repeated his wife, laughing and then 
 sighing. " Nothing will occur ; I am out of pa 
 tience. But I shall never interfere," she concluded 
 with determination. 
 
 For a long time Mrs. Allerton s rash prediction 
 was borne out by the fact, and nothing did occur 
 in this important matter, which, as she had before 
 confessed, was very near her heart. All the fol-
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 69 
 
 lowing summer and well into the autumn, Lux- 
 more still strove to do what he conceived to be his 
 duty ; namely, to forget the woman whose accident 
 of wealth weighed upon him, warping his better 
 judgment, making his love an oppressive and tor 
 menting burden. Then came the inevitable mo 
 ment when he ceased to struggle, and like a tired 
 swimmer, let the current have its way. It swept 
 him on fiercely. And now, in the world, he was 
 always at her side, completing the tedious round 
 of so-called pleasures for her sake, lightly. Out 
 of her sight, he carried her image with him ; but 
 he was no longer unhappy, for he no longer argued 
 with himself. If the old problem crept into his 
 mind, he dismissed it with a word. " Time must 
 settle it," he now decided. And when a man says 
 that in such a case, he uses time in a special sense, 
 and its true meaning is opportunity. 
 
 For her part, Sylvia met his advances kindly. 
 More than that, her face brightened when he ap 
 proached ; when he rose to go, she entreated him 
 to stay. The world began to interpret these signs 
 in its own reckless fashion, and to leave them more 
 and more to themselves. One night they had been 
 alone for hours in a crowded drawing-room ; as the 
 guests took leave they fell into line together ; then 
 he led her down, ordered her carriage, and went 
 back for her to the cloak-room door. As she came 
 out, drawing her furs about her, some roses fell 
 from her dress. Luxmore caught them.
 
 70 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked. " My fan, my hand 
 kerchief ? No ; here they are." 
 
 " Only these," said Luxmore ; she held out her 
 hand to take the flowers, but he shook his head. 
 "Let me keep them." 
 
 " Bring me them to-morrow," she answered, 
 smiling, but not looking at him. Silently he of 
 fered her his arm, and saw, over her shoulder, that 
 this little scene had not passed unobserved. Two 
 vigilant matrons, in the room behind, were dis 
 cussing him already ; he knew it by the mischiev 
 ous twinkle of their eyes. He could see, if not hear, 
 his name upon their lips ; they had been on the 
 alert for this. What ! the secret that he hardly 
 knew himself was, then, an open one. Had he be 
 trayed it by signs the dullest gossip of them all 
 could read ? Curses on their scandalous tongues ! 
 He was town-talk unquestionably. 
 
 " She knows it, then ! " he muttered to himself, 
 as he went out with Sylvia to the carriage. He 
 bade her good-night mechanically. 
 
 " Good-night ! " she answered, leaning forward 
 to give him her hand. " I shall be at home to 
 morrow." 
 
 Simplest of words ! Yet they made his heart 
 leap for joy. Spoken at that moment they were 
 full of significance to him. If the town talked of 
 his love for her, she must not only know it, but have 
 known it long. She must have read his thoughts, 
 have followed, step by step, his mental struggle,
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 71 
 
 appreciating his long forbearance, respecting its 
 motive, tolerating, approving him. And now, that, 
 yielding to the poet s word, he had obeyed his 
 heart, and given all to love, she approved him still. 
 For days he had been her shadow, and she begged 
 for him to-morrow. So, with scarce a word, she 
 had done all a woman could do to make him speak. 
 Yes, it had come to that. Not to tell her would 
 be to wrong her. He must speak now, if only to 
 silence the idle tongues that were busy with her 
 name. 
 
 Love is a cruel but an impartial despot; there 
 are no distinctions of rank among his subjects ; all 
 are slaves ; he laughs at gray hairs and wrinkles ; 
 and men have no age when he first bids them hope.. 
 The rapture of that moment is like the joy of an 
 ticipation, overmastering children, feverish, irra 
 tional, so keen as to be but one remove from pain. 
 It filled Luxmorc s heart now, as the fragrance of 
 her roses filled his dreary lodgings. He was living 
 out a short Arabian night. He had made, in very 
 truth, " the receipt of reason a limbec only." Its 
 fumes intoxicated him ; through their rosy clouds 
 a sweet, ideal form drew nearer. How should he 
 know that these radiant colors were the colors of 
 his fancy, that he had painted with them a being 
 too lovely for the earth ? How should he dream 
 that he was dreaming? 
 
 The roses he carried her were sweeter than hers, 
 she said. She held them while she talked, bending
 
 72 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 over them lovingly. His opportunity had come. 
 His senses had grown strangely acute, so that 
 every small detail of time and place impressed it 
 self upon them. The clear, still, winter afternoon 
 was slowly darkening ; there had been a fresh fall 
 of snow, and from the street came up a continuous 
 sound of sleigh-bells. He knew the room by heart ; 
 half the things in it were precious heirlooms. She 
 sat between the firelight and the daylight, under a 
 splendid picture that shone down upon her from the 
 wall, the portrait of an ancestor, a man in the 
 prime of life, handsome and stately, with a faint 
 smile on his shaven lips. In spite of that the face 
 was not agreeable ; its fixed look had an air of 
 mockery not at all like hers. Yet so far as the 
 features went, Sylvia bore a strong resemblance 
 to this masterpiece which Luxmore had often 
 admired. 
 
 He saw the likeness now, and it made him falter. 
 The old obstacle too loomed up once more. She 
 was so rich. What had he to offer her ? He could 
 not hear his own words, as he blundered into a 
 tale, invented on the spur of the moment. A friend 
 had written to him for advice. The man loved, 
 it appeared ; that his love was returned, he had 
 grounds for belief, insufficient ones, perhaps ; he 
 feared that sometimes ; sometimes, for other rea 
 sons, he doubted his right to love her. Meanwhile 
 the world made sport of them. There was, unhap 
 pily, no doubt of that. What advice should be
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 73 
 
 given such a man ? Should he be urged to speak 
 prematurely, and run the risk of losing her ; or to 
 hold his peace, enduring the trying situation as 
 best he might, forcing her at length to end it, in 
 one way or the other, by some further sign ? 
 
 His voice trembled ; his speech was hurried, al 
 most incoherent. The girl s cheeks grew pale un 
 der it. Two burning spots of color came and went 
 in them. She understood, of course ; the trick was 
 most transparent ; he could not prolong it. He 
 stopped short, waiting for her answer. 
 
 There was a dead silence. Miss Belknap only 
 lifted the roses to her face, and let them fall again. 
 
 " Well," he said, " what is your opinion ? " 
 
 " I think that he should speak," she answered in 
 a low voice ; " and let it be decided." 
 
 " Then he will speak," said Luxmore, firmly. 
 " The case was mine. I love you." 
 
 " You ? You love me ? " she asked in a tone 
 of great surprise. 
 
 " Yes ; as you have seen as all the world 
 knows I have loved you for months." 
 
 " For months ? Then why have you never 
 spoken ? " 
 
 " Why ? " he repeated. What did she mean by 
 that ? Surely she must have known. 
 
 " Because I could not," he continued. " And 
 yet you understood. Your face just now confirmed 
 it. You read between my words. You did not 
 need to be told that they referred to me."
 
 74 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " That is a mistake," she replied slowly. " Un 
 til the last moment I did not understand you." 
 
 Luxmore had risen and was staring at her now 
 in speechless wonder. Her eyes met his, then 
 looked another way. He did not believe her ; she 
 understood that perfectly. 
 
 " I was all wrong," she explained. " I thought 
 that it could go on always ; that we could always 
 be good friends." 
 
 " Is that all ? " he demanded huskily. " You do 
 not love me ; you cannot love me ? " 
 
 She shook her head. " I have a great regard for 
 you, no more than that." 
 
 The words made him shiver. He remembered 
 her use of them at their first meeting, and his own 
 thought about them afterward. 
 
 " It is the first time I have ever told a woman 
 that I loved her," he returned quietly, " and it will 
 be the last. I have no more to say." 
 
 " Do not make me unhappy, Mr. Luxmore," she 
 said, rising to detain him, and now, at last, laying 
 down his roses. " Let me believe that we may 
 meet later with no ill-will, even as friends." 
 
 " And talk of what ? The weather ? We shall 
 never meet, I hope." 
 
 " Don t say so." 
 
 " I must say so. Unless unless Once 
 more ! You cannot love me ? " 
 
 " No ! lam much to blame " 
 
 " I have not blamed you."
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 75 
 
 " I blame myself. I ought to have known better. 
 I did this once before." 
 
 Luxmore recoiled with an angry gesture. 
 " Ah ! " he whispered fiercely, " Selden ! " 
 
 " Did he say so ? " 
 
 " Not he ; you have said it." 
 
 She met his look calmly now, standing before 
 him with hands gently clasped. The day s last 
 gleam of sunshine fell upon her, lighting up her 
 golden hair. How fine and soft it was ! Her face 
 expressed mingled amazement and vexation at his 
 taking this annoying circumstance so seriously. 
 There was mild compassion in it too, merely 
 that, no more. Her self-possession maddened him. 
 Her eyes were tearless, hard and clear as the eyes 
 of a Dresden shepherdess ; into his own there came 
 a mist through which he saw her less and less dis 
 tinctly ; but, above her head, he co~uld still see the 
 ancestral portrait with its mocking smile. 
 
 " You will hate me all your life for this," she 
 said and sighed. 
 
 His brows contracted with a look of pain that 
 even she remembered long. 
 
 " No," he answered. " I wish that I could hate 
 you." 
 
 Then he left her.
 
 70 DAY AND NIGHT STOPIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 IT was in the following autumn that Luxmore s 
 "Circe and Ulysses/ his first great picture, 
 made him suddenly famous. Long before the sum 
 mer there came rumors that he was bent, at last, 
 upon that higher flight from which his self-distrust 
 had hitherto deterred him. The world saw less of 
 him than of old. And though he looked pale and 
 worn, his air of hopeful determination showed that 
 he was dealing with a problem which hard work 
 would solve. Mordaunt and one or two other 
 friends saw the work in progress and promised 
 great things. Great things, therefore, were ex 
 pected. And the result, given to the public, sur 
 passed expectation. 
 
 He had chosen the moment of the king s first 
 meeting with the enchantress, when, armed with 
 the sprig of moly, he draws his sword defiantly, 
 declining to become a brute at her command. The 
 figures, of life-size, were superbly modelled ; the 
 composition was original and fine, the color fully 
 worthy of it. His triumph proved in every way 
 complete. An English amateur pounced upon the 
 picture, paying without a murmur the sum he de 
 manded for it, carrying it off to London. Hard 
 upon this followed an order for a pendant at his 
 own price. His long apprenticeship had not been
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 77 
 
 served in vain. His reputation rose at last ; he 
 had but to sustain the bubble, now soaring into 
 sight of all the world. 
 
 From misfortune, fortune. There can be no 
 doubt that to what, in technical phrase, may be 
 termed heart-failure Luxmore s first success was 
 due. In that memorable winter twilight he had 
 broken down utterly at the sight of Sylvia s roses 
 still surviving the desolation of his home. Home ! 
 He had hoped for one, and the echo of that hope, 
 resounding in the lonely place, brought him hours 
 of anguish, days and nights of it, scoring them 
 selves like years. For age is measured more by 
 lost illusions than by actual flight of time. One or 
 two intimate friends saw the change in him and 
 remarked upon it ; but they invited no confidences, 
 and he made none. He met the world s glance 
 without flinching, walked erect with a firm step, 
 hugging to himself his "gnarling sorrow" as brave 
 ly as the Spartan. Mordaunt alone suspected the 
 truth ; but even to him it remained always a mere 
 suspicion. He became, none the less, a model of 
 discreet and devoted friendship. Various were the 
 devices he employed to change the current of his 
 comrade s thoughts, to shorten his hours of soli 
 tude. He would break in upon them with some 
 new joke or some new project, carry Luxmore off by 
 force to dine at his table, cheer him there in a hun 
 dred ways. But even this kindness had the power 
 to wound. At times Luxmore found the happiness
 
 78 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 of the house almost unendurable ; the children s 
 laughter wrung his heart. Then Mordaunt, seeing 
 this, but failing to comprehend it, would ascribe it 
 to some other cause, and mutter, " What have I 
 said or done to hurt him ? " 
 
 The stupor slowly wore itself away, to be suc 
 ceeded by a fierce reaction. An hour came when 
 Luxmore woke and said : " She has ruined one 
 man ; she shall be the making of another. I can 
 not hate her. I will forget her. I am not like 
 Selden." He plunged into work, wearily enough 
 at first. Day by day, however, gaining strength 
 from this healthful stimulus, he applied himself 
 more closely, grew more and more at one with his 
 difficult task, found to his delight that something 
 better than his old self had taken possession of 
 him. This it was to live ; no earthly joy that he 
 had ever known was comparable to it. Leaving 
 noble work behind them, men were more than men. 
 And if not the fulfilment, the endeavor ; to that 
 end men were endowed with souls, " to strive, to 
 seek, to find, and not to yield." 
 
 The last fumes of the alembic had cleared away. 
 He knew now that they had lent their colors to an 
 air-drawn shape, a creature of his own mind, totally 
 unreal, perhaps too perfect for material existence. 
 That lovely soul, divine in its perceptions, could 
 never consciously or unconsciously have so betrayed 
 two men ; for her there would have been no second 
 victim to dismiss with an allusion to the first. She
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 79 
 
 would have been unselfish and considerate, quick 
 to interpret a silence that every look and every act 
 of his had contradicted, eager to avert the merest 
 possibility of danger. With all the weakness of 
 her sex she would have proved herself the strong 
 est and noblest of women, an angel with a human 
 heart, not a cold abstraction. How well he re 
 membered Mordaunt s warning, when he had fa 
 tally disregarded it. She had only to reveal herself, 
 to bring home to him the cleverness of that 
 description. 
 
 And yet he could not hate her. When they met, 
 as sometimes they were forced to meet, passing 
 each other with a smile of studied cordiality, his 
 feeling was still one of tenderness toward this 
 woman whose outward self had dazzled him, whose 
 inner self he had misconceived. His embodiment 
 of all gentleness had never been ; by her own 
 showing that was clearly proved. Yet she came 
 very near to it ; and in her presence something of 
 the old glamour returned for a moment to bewilder 
 him again. Only for a moment, in the next he 
 could laugh as men do at the wild hopes of boy 
 hood, knowing them to be follies, glad to have 
 outgrown them. He had other aims now, higher 
 ones, far better worth attaining, more glorious 
 in their rewards. Had she loved him he must one 
 day have found her out. Then the charm would 
 have been more rudely broken, the gossamer thread 
 would have turned into a chain. Her coldness had
 
 80 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 saved him, had made a man of him. From the 
 flint had come the spark of fire. All was better as 
 it was. 
 
 He often wondered what he should say to her, 
 if by some mischance they were brought into 
 close companionship under too curious eyes. The 
 weather, past, present, and to come, would soon 
 exhaust itself. The numerals were left. He would 
 count, con espressione, from one to a hundred, like 
 the tired diner-out of the tale, and request her to 
 do the same. The dreadful infliction must be 
 avoided, if possible ; fortunately it was unlikely 
 to occur. He saw so little of the world s people 
 now. Even Mrs. Shirley Allerton had ceased to 
 tax him with neglect. The painter of the " Circe " 
 had justified himself; he was a privileged person 
 with other weighty work on hand, free to come 
 and go as he liked, always sure of a welcome when 
 he wanted it. So, for a long while, the steel en 
 countered the flint only in the open air or in some 
 great assemblage where the law of natural selec 
 tion prevailed. The two were no longer talked 
 about. Their little affair had been a nine days 
 wonder at best, and another soon supplanted it. 
 There is no cure for gossip like starvation. 
 
 The intercourse still remained one of looks and 
 smiles, when there came an urgent letter from 
 Luxmore s patron calling him to London. Impor 
 tant commissions were said to await him ; others 
 in train would surely follow ; they needed but his
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 81 
 
 presence. He did not think twice, and deciding 
 not only to go, but to stay indefinitely, began his 
 preparations forthwith. The news was duly chron 
 icled, and his friend Mrs. Allerton read it with a 
 start in her morning paper. 
 
 " Oh, Shirley, this is too bad ! Mr. Luxmore is 
 going abroad." 
 
 " I heard it last night at the club. I meant to 
 tell you." 
 
 " And he never, at least I suppose he never, 
 I really must interfere now." 
 
 " What on earth arc you talking about ?" 
 
 " Don t be obtuse. Miss Belknap " 
 
 " Oh, that s it ! I thought you thought they were 
 not on speaking terms." 
 
 " They must speak. I shall ask them to dinner, 
 and make him take her in." 
 
 Mr. Allerton laughed. " With another vacant 
 place, I suppose. No, my dear ; I won t consent 
 to it." 
 
 But " 
 
 " I will not have him badgered. Let him speak 
 if he chooses; if not- 
 
 " How can he, without an opportunity ? " 
 
 " You may give him that, if you please ; but 
 only that," 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Who dines here to-morrow ? The Mexican 
 minister ? " 
 
 " Yes."
 
 82 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " Very well ; ask a few of the enlightened to 
 come in afterward, Jack with them, and his Jill, 
 or jilt, which is it ? But. mind, no compulsion. Is 
 it agreed ? " 
 
 " Agreed ; yes." 
 
 Accordingly on the following night, Luxmore, 
 talking earnestly with his hostess, looked up and 
 found that he had been led into a corner where 
 Miss Bclknap stood alone. She put out her hand 
 appealingly. He was forced to take it ; and he had 
 no sooner done so than Mrs. Allerton disappeared 
 as if by magic. The rooms were large, the com 
 pany was small. For a moment they stood silent, 
 face to face, almost as far from the Mexican min 
 ister as he from Mexico. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that you are going away," 
 said the voice, once so familiar, now slightly trem 
 ulous, as he observed ; he listened closely to his 
 own, and found no tremor in it. 
 
 " Ah ! And why ? " he asked. 
 
 " I do not like to think that an American wil 
 lingly gives up his native land." 
 
 He smiled somewhat scornfully. " A great phil 
 osopher once said, Let no man call himself an 
 Athenian or a Corinthian, but a citizen of the 
 world. You have studied the philosophers. Is 
 not that good advice ? " 
 
 " You did not think so once." 
 
 "No. But we grow wiser as we grow older. 
 I have learned my lesson in philosophy."
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 83 
 
 A faint color came into her face. She studied 
 her fan attentively, opening and shutting it, strok 
 ing its feathers with the caressing gesture that he 
 remembered. 
 
 " Won t you sit down ? " she asked. 
 
 There was a small sofa near them, under a bust 
 of Plato. Wondering a little at his own in 
 difference, Luxmore took his seat there at her 
 side. 
 
 " I have seen your picture," she continued. " It 
 is very fine. I have wished to add my word to the 
 others." 
 
 " Thank you," he replied. " One does what one 
 can, and is none the worse, I hope, for recognition." 
 
 " That is a pleasure of which you are depriving 
 us. Art here struggles for existence ; it needs the 
 help of every skilful hand, and yours is turned 
 against it. Stay ; it is your duty." 
 
 " One s first duty is to one s self. I go where I 
 can work to the best advantage." 
 
 " I see. Your work absorbs you ; you have no 
 other end in life." 
 
 " None." 
 
 " And does it make you happy ? " 
 
 " I do not ask so much of it. I have lost a hope, 
 but I have gained a virtue, the virtue of content 
 ment. In this life we are all servants and not 
 masters ; the rewards come after. I serve to win 
 them. I live only for a few letters in high relief 
 upon a tombstone, for a statue, perhaps ; for
 
 84 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 fame, immortality, who knows ? for happiness 
 elsewhere." 
 
 He looked not at her, but straight before him, 
 through the half-empty rooms, toward the Mexican 
 minister who had just risen to take leave. A star 
 glittered upon his breast. The light of it flashed 
 in Luxmore s eyes. 
 
 At a slight sound beside him he turned his head. 
 One of the slender sticks of her fan had broken in 
 Miss Belknap s hands. " It is nothing," she said, 
 rising. " As you were saying, you have grown 
 older, if not wiser. All your ideas are completely 
 changed." 
 
 He rose too. "No," he said. "My ideal, 
 that is all." 
 
 " And nothing can change that ? " 
 
 " Nothing in this world." 
 
 She held out her hand once more. " Since you 
 will go, then, I wish you all possible success." 
 
 " It is to you that 1 shall owe it," he replied, 
 looking at her now, as their hands clasped. He 
 could hardly believe his own eyes, for hers were 
 full of tears. 
 
 " They are going," he said. " Shall I take you 
 to our hostess ? " 
 
 " No. I shall stay a little longer. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night, until we meet again ! " 
 
 On his way home he reviewed their talk lightly, 
 laughing to himself. " And yet," he thought, " she 
 would have flung me over. I would not have
 
 OUT OF NEW ENGLAND GRANITE. 85 
 
 trusted her even then." That was his conclusion. 
 To his last hour he will never doubt it. 
 
 " Until we meet again ! " We toss a ball into 
 the air for chance to catch, to return or not, at 
 pleasure. In this case it was returned, but only 
 after twenty years, throughout which Luxmore re 
 mained true to his ideal, winning honors, orders, 
 stars as brilliant as the Mexican s. The better to 
 enjoy them he went through the form of deniza- 
 tion, and became a British subject. He grew gray 
 and rich and stout and comfortable, but alone. 
 He never married. 
 
 One night, at a private view, his name was on 
 everybody s lips. His picture had been pronounced 
 by acclamation the picture of the year. The gal 
 leries were thronged. Luxmore had offered his 
 arm to a stately dowager, and as they made their 
 way about she caught the whisper of his name, and 
 wondered that he did not seem to hear it. 
 
 " How I envy you," she said. 
 
 He laughed. " Envy me ? Why ? " 
 
 " You are Luxmore. That s all. Who is the 
 old, young person coming this way ? Do I know 
 her?" 
 
 The figure passed on in the crowd and was gone ; 
 but not before Luxmore recognized the face and 
 returned its cordial greeting with a smile. 
 
 " No ; she looked at you," his companion rattled 
 on. " The eyes are fine ; but she makes me think 
 of a faded leaf. Who is she, pray ? "
 
 86 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " An American," said Luxmore. " I knew her 
 once, slightly. I am not sure about the name." 
 
 Later on he informed himself that she was 
 called Miss Belknap. She too had never mar 
 ried. But she had left the gallery. They did not 
 meet again. 
 
 That same night an acquaintance stopped him 
 in the club, to speak of a brother painter who had 
 lately died. 
 
 " I have just heard the news. Onslow is to have 
 a niche in the crypt of St. Paul s. Jolly good thing, 
 is n t it ? I wonder if he knows." 
 
 " I hope not," said Luxmore. " Was that the 
 best they could do ? " 
 
 The man stared and went away. Luxmore, left 
 to himself, sighed heavily. 
 
 " The crypt of St. Paul s ! I wish it were I in 
 stead of Onslow." Then his thought took another 
 turn. " After all, I am Luxmore," he said with a 
 smile. And wheeling his chair a little nearer to 
 the fire, he took a cat-nap before turning in.
 
 " CORDON I " 
 
 " T T is a bargain, Monsieur, a bargain ! The 
 
 J- rent is a mere nothing ; puisqu il y a du 
 confort ici," said the old concierge, as he threw 
 open one of the shutters, and flooded the room 
 with dusty sunshine. 
 
 The apartment was au premier, at the back 
 of a small court numbered 59 of the Rue Neuve 
 St. Augustin. No. 59, I give it fearlessly, since 
 even its foundation-stones have long been Hauss- 
 mannized away. 
 
 The court was flooded with sunshine that was 
 not dusty, and a great plane-tree grew in one 
 corner, close against an ivy-covered wall. The 
 yellow placard, " A LOUER," hanging at the door, 
 had been the bait luring me into this mouse-trap, 
 as it certainly proved to be. 
 
 But all that comes later on. For the present 
 it is enough to say that the room was comfortably 
 furnished after the old Venetian manner, and hung 
 with Cordova leather, old too, and real ; beyond, 
 there was a salon, with a floor so highly polished 
 that I narrowly escaped a sprained ankle in cross 
 ing it ; and a chamber, commonplace enough but 
 for the chintz hangings with which its walls and
 
 88 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 ceiling were draped oppressively in wide plaits 
 that met overhead in a central rosette, somehow 
 suggesting the interior decoration of a coffin. In 
 spite of this untimely thought, and of the su 
 perfluous antichambre and salle-d-manger, useless 
 incumbrances in bachelor quarters, I took the 
 apartment for a month, to the evident delight 
 of old Casimir, whose feather-duster twitched 
 expressively in his palsied hand. 
 
 The tremulous eagerness of this good gentleman 
 made me half suspect that he had not the remotest 
 right to let the rooms at all. But he told a 
 well-varnished tale of an old proprietor who hated 
 women, and who passed his life in search of a 
 country so civilized as to do without them. From 
 this journey of desperation he returned now and 
 then to restore his tired senses in the coffined 
 chamber, and to gather courage for a new depart 
 ure. It was midsummer ; I might keep the rooms 
 until the autumn, not an hour longer, since the 
 patron would then be likely to pounce down upon 
 his possessions, unannounced, at any moment. 
 Just now, he was believed to be in Lapland. 
 
 When I moved in, that very afternoon, a guilty 
 feeling of intrusion overcame me. The place was 
 so luxurious, so well ordered, so unlike the four 
 walls of lodging for which one pays. In the 
 library of the leather hangings the patron s books 
 were upon the shelves ; his portfolio, his paper- 
 knife upon the table ; the ink in the miniature
 
 CORDON! 89 
 
 helmet of blue steel was dry, it is true ; but there 
 lay the well-worn quill beside it. " The room re 
 veals the man," says Diderot ; granting this, the 
 patron was a man of taste and well informed. I 
 took down some of the books ; here were superb 
 bindings, old and rare editions. Upon one fly-leaf 
 his name was written, Marius Morizot, the 
 hand clear and fine, like a woman s. Casimir 
 had said that he was old. Bibliophile and trav 
 eller, with the means to follow his fantastic bent, 
 this patron would certainly be an agreeable man 
 to meet on his own ground ; that is, if one came 
 properly introduced. All here was as if he had 
 left it yesterday. What if the door were to open 
 and admit him at the next moment ? 
 
 Just then the door did open, but only Casimir 
 came in, bringing firewood ; for the sun had 
 already left the little court in shadow, and there 
 was an unseasonable chill in the waning summer 
 day. The old man wore a black skull-cap over 
 his thin, gray hair, and a green baize apron that 
 swathed him nearly to the ankles. He chattered 
 about the fire as he built and lighted it ; all 
 the time holding under his arm the eternal feather- 
 duster, which seemed to be his badge of office. 
 I had lately seen, at the Come die Framjaise, Reg- 
 nier s masterpiece, the sly old servant in " La joie 
 fait peur," the picture of amiable senility. Here 
 was the thing itself. 
 
 " The patron has his treasures," I said, stroking
 
 90 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 tenderly the crushed levant that enshrined a num 
 bered reprint of Andre" Che*nier. 
 
 Casimir looked at the shelves with a certain 
 respect, and then shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Yes, but not there," he answered. 
 
 Thinking that he referred to the glittering ob 
 jects of the salon, I treated myself to a complacent 
 smile, as I quietly put up the book. 
 
 " Not there," he repeated, shuffling toward me 
 in his loose slippers, and letting his voice die 
 away into the important whisper that is the em 
 phasis of a French man-of-all-work. " Ah, if 
 Monsieur knew ! " 
 
 " Knew what ? " I asked. " Have we a gold 
 mine at our feet ? " 
 
 He chuckled and nodded. " Better than that, 
 Monsieur. See ! " 
 
 Then he pushed aside one of the hangings, and 
 showed me that it covered a door of burnished 
 steel. 
 
 A safe ? " 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur, in the wall." 
 
 " And of such size ! " I continued ; for the door 
 way, though narrow, was higher than my head. 
 " What can he keep there ? " 
 
 " Jewels, Monsieur," said Casimir, enjoying my 
 surprise. " Jewels from the ends of the earth 
 laid away in little drawers lined with velvet as 
 soft as the down of a bird. It is a passion with 
 him ; the collection is a property in itself."
 
 CORDON! 91 
 
 I laid my hand gently upon the shining metal ; 
 it might have been the door of a tomb. I drew 
 back, shivering. The thought of these untold 
 riches, hardly out of reach, disturbed me ; I felt 
 in a measure responsible for their safety. 
 
 " The door is locked, of course," said I. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Monsieur ; only the patron has the 
 key." He brushed the door lightly with his 
 feather-tips, as though he were dealing with some 
 fragile work of art, and then dropped the curtain 
 over it. 
 
 " Casimir ! You have your master s leave to 
 let these rooms ; you are sure ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly, Monsieur ; Monsieur need give 
 himself no uneasiness, it is permitted at this 
 season. In the summer-time Monsieur Morizot 
 always absents himself. He has been nearly two 
 years away." 
 
 I changed the subject, though I doubted him 
 instinctively. 
 
 " What is Monsieur Morizot like ? " I asked. 
 
 " A lamb, Monsieur ; amiable, as one cannot 
 be more so. Monsieur, then, has not remarked 
 his portrait ? " 
 
 The pictures were chiefly modern, and were 
 none too well lighted ; I had barely glanced at 
 them. Casimir led me to this one, which hung 
 in a dark corner, so high that the flame of a 
 candle held up at arm s length but just revealed 
 it. The face was long, thin, sharp-featured, and
 
 92 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 sallow, with the prevailing moustache and- im 
 perial of the time. But the eyes were fine and 
 friendly. On the whole, I felt happier about Mon 
 sieur Morizot. He had the gentle, high-bred look 
 of that Van Dyck father in the long gallery of 
 the Louvre. 
 
 " And yet he hates women. Was he never 
 married ? " 
 
 " Never, Monsieur ; in youth he had a disap 
 pointment, they say, and now it would be some 
 what late for him to think again of that. At 
 his age one no longer makes such plans." 
 
 His hand shook more than ever, and the melted 
 wax of the candle ran over, one drop falling upon 
 the floor. " He is good, the patron," he mur 
 mured, so tenderly that the drop might have been 
 a tear from his own failing eyes. 
 
 When the old retainer had left me, I dismissed 
 all scruples, and unpacked my trunk in the little 
 chamber, singing to myself in the happiest of 
 moods. I was in luck, evidently. Even should 
 Monsieur Morizot turn up, I felt sure that he 
 would accept my explanation, supposing one to 
 be necessary. But he would not come. I doubted 
 Casimir no longer. 
 
 I found in the library an arm-chair covered 
 with stamped leather like that of the walls ; the 
 arms supported by hard featured goddesses, 
 wood-nymphs, perhaps, redundant in the matter 
 of bust, tapering off like terminal figures into
 
 CORDON! 93 
 
 the chair-legs below. Wheeling this up to the 
 table, I sat down awhile to do nothing and de 
 vour my brain, as the inhuman proverb puts it. 
 In the gathering twilight the room was almost 
 dark, but I saw it all, or nearly all, over the 
 mantel in a narrow, oblong mirror, there reflected 
 by Casirnir s cheerful blaze. The first fire of the 
 season invites contemplation, and my thoughts 
 wandered as fitfully as the mellow light that 
 played about the tarnished gilding of the leather. 
 When I am alone I am apt to grow inconsequent, 
 to a degree that would distress one who makes 
 a labor of thinking. 
 
 Hunger is a sharp reminder, and before long 
 I realized that I was hungry. So I hastily pulled 
 myself together, and shutting the door upon my 
 golden walls, strolled up the Boulevard to the 
 Passage des Princes. I dined well at Peter s, 
 opposite the window of innumerable meerschaums, 
 and after dinner, went out by the side gate of 
 the Passage into the Rue Favart. The doors of 
 the Opera Comique stood invitingly open, and I 
 was tempted to turn toward them, and read the 
 bill of the play, " L Ombre," of Flotow ; Gounod s 
 " Gallia." In the first, Madame Priola. Lovely 
 Madame Priola, long since forgotten ! Do you 
 live on, to look into your glass and sigh for 
 those dear old days when all Paris adored you ? 
 Or have you made, in truth, your final exit into 
 Pere-la-Chaise or Montparnasse, to sleep out there
 
 94 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 a longer night than any other you have known ? 
 To one cruelty of life all a man s experience 
 can never reconcile him, that a pretty woman 
 may not hold her own forever. 
 
 I went in, stayed the performance out, and left 
 the theatre somewhat dashed in spirits ; the echo 
 of Gounod s solemn music seemed to follow me 
 like a ghostly footfall under the flaring lights, 
 by the painted kiosk -windows. The sky was over 
 cast ; a drop or two of rain fell. The great doors 
 of No. 59 were closed and locked of course ; at 
 that hour I could have expected nothing else. But 
 Casirnir slept soundly ; it was long before I could 
 make him hear, though I pulled the bell till the 
 whole place resounded. The rain came on in 
 earnest, and I was at the despairing point, when 
 the door gave a welcome click and swung back 
 an inch or two. I stumbled in through the dark 
 ness, passed the lodge where I could hear Casimir 
 swearing to himself drowsily without a thought 
 of challenging me, and guided myself by the hand 
 rail of the staircase straight to my own door. I 
 struck a match, found the key, and went in. 
 
 The outer rooms were black and unfriendly ; 
 through them I saw a thread of light from the 
 library door to which I groped my way. The 
 light came from a stately moderateur lamp that 
 stood upon the table, and I blessed Casimir for 
 his forethought ; but for the lamp, the room, 
 at the first glance, seemed to be as I had left
 
 CORDON! 95 
 
 it. The carved chair was drawn up before the 
 fire, which still burned brightly. That I found a 
 fire and not a heap of ashes, might have struck 
 me as a curious circumstance, but I set this down 
 to Casimir s forethought too ; all the more readily 
 that my clothes were wet and that I needed it 
 to dry them, as I proceeded to do. 
 
 Standing thus before the chimney with the 
 crackling fagots at my heels, I observed a book 
 upon the table. It lay close to the arm of the 
 great chair, so close, in fact, that one sitting 
 there could hardly fail to see it even at twilight. 
 Yet it had escaped my notice until now. What 
 book ? The moment my unspoken question was 
 answered, I felt absolutely sure that it had never 
 before been in my hands. Its vellum covers were 
 worn and worm-eaten ; its musty leaves were yel 
 low with age. I read the title, " The Trial of 
 Francois Ravaillac for the Murder of King Henry 
 IV. 1610." I could hardly have forgotten that 
 book had I taken it down. 
 
 Immediately a strange terror seized me, 
 vague, unreasoning it was, like a child s in the 
 dark. I dropped the book, caught up a candle, 
 and peered into the chamber, then searched the 
 other rooms throughout. I saw no one, heard no 
 sound. I was alone ; yet this knowledge failed 
 to reassure me. I spoke and was startled at 
 my own voice. I tried to sing, but the walls 
 gave back a mocking echo that was unendurable,
 
 96 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 and I returned to the library with the same 
 childish dread of nothing still oppressing me like 
 the remembrance of a nightmare. 
 
 I can recall distinctly my struggle to conquer 
 this feeling, and I know that I must have con 
 quered it ; for I sat down in the arm-chair, and 
 began to read the trial of Ravaillac, 
 
 " The prisoner is sworn, and asked his name, 
 age, rank, and place of abode. 
 
 " He said that his name was Francois Ravaillac, 
 born and dwelling at Angouleme, between thirty- 
 one and thirty-two years of age." 
 
 I can see those lines now, in all their quaintness 
 of type, as one makes a sun-picture by a sudden 
 closing of the eyes. I remember that I read on 
 and on, till I came to a page so stained as to be 
 indistinct, part of which had been torn away. 
 Then I must have fallen into a doze, a mere 
 cat-nap of a moment only. I woke with a start, 
 unable, at first, to recognize the surroundings. 
 
 The lamp had run down, after the provoking 
 manner of French moderateurs. I knew that it 
 only needed winding, and leaning over the table, I 
 gave the key a turn or two, but I was too late ; 
 the lamp went out in a long, smoky trail. Yet 
 the room was not quite dark ; the fire burned on, 
 flickering at my feet, and making fantastic shadows 
 in the glass. 
 
 In the glass ! I looked at it, and grew numb 
 with horror. For 1 saw there the reflection of a
 
 CORDON! 97 
 
 man s face, so hideous in its expression that, even 
 in a crowd, one would have turned from it with 
 loathing. I have never been able to describe it; 
 in that uncertain light it had no color, I could 
 barely trace its outline. But I should know that 
 face if I saw it at the top of the Great Pyramid, or in 
 the plains of Arizona, anywhere, indeed, upon 
 the instant ; and I should shudder at the sight, as 
 I do now at the thought, like a frightened animal. 
 
 For a few seconds I was helpless. My muscles 
 refused to act ; I could not even turn my head to 
 look behind me. Thus, with all senses gone but 
 one, I saw the face drawing nearer to my chair 
 and looking down at it. The lines grew more 
 distinct, a strange mark came out upon the 
 cheek as if the skin there had contracted. Then, 
 with an effort that seemed like a trial of strength 
 with some force unseen, I caught the arm of the 
 chair, and springing to my feet, wheeled about 
 upon the dark, silent spaces of the room, conscious 
 only of a sudden draught of cold air that chilled 
 me to the bone. 
 
 Darkness, there was nothing else. Yet I turned 
 again to the glass, finding only my own figure, 
 scarcely recognizable. Then for the first time, I 
 was aware that my left hand, cold and damp like 
 a dead man s, still clasped the old book, marking 
 my place between its leaves. I shivered and would 
 have laid it down ; but instead of that, I flung it 
 fvom me into the fire with a shriek that set the 
 
 7
 
 98 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 room ringing. For the stain upon its torn page 
 had deepened and freshened, and was oozing out 
 upon my fingers, they were red with it. Kneel 
 ing at the hearth I wiped away the drops with my 
 handkerchief, and burned that too. 
 
 Still on the hearth I crouched and listened. If 
 there were only something human to face and chal 
 lenge ! Not a sound. But again the current of 
 cold air, as if from an open door or window. That, 
 at least, was real. I found my candle, lighted it 
 at the fire, and searched the room once more. To 
 my great surprise I discovered in the darkest corner 
 a small door that I had never seen, one of those 
 blind doors so common in French apartments, cun 
 ningly contrived to fit a panel of the wall. It stood 
 ajar, moreover, as though forced open by some mis 
 chievous gust of the night-wind that had lost its 
 way in the house and then made a frantic effort to 
 get out again. Rejoiced to account so easily for 
 one disturbing element at least, I pushed the door 
 aside, and saw merely a narrow, flagged corridor, 
 leading to a servants stairway communicating with 
 the floor below, the ground-floor, for the house 
 had no entresol. By the dim light I held, I could 
 distinguish three steps leading down into awful 
 blackness, like a murderous oubliette of the Middle 
 Ages. I strained my eyes and listened. There 
 was nothing more to be seen, but my ears caught 
 a faint sound, startling at that hour, though by 
 day I should have laughed at it, simply the noise
 
 CORDON1 99 
 
 of running water gently falling, as if from a pipe, 
 upon the pavement below. I went on cautiously 
 to the stair-rail, leaned over it, and looked down. 
 No one ; but under the stairs in the dark the 
 water went splashing on intermittently, as though 
 it fell first upon invisible hands, washing them, 
 perhaps. The thought suggested itself instantly. 
 
 " Who is there ? " I shouted, lowering the light 
 toward the dark corner, but in vain. 
 
 The water stopped. There was no other answer. 
 
 " Who is there ?" I repeated in a voice that was 
 not mine. 
 
 I heard a shuffling step, and there came a blast 
 of the night air strong enough to put out the light, 
 if I had not drawn back, shielding the flame with 
 my hand. A door below me quietly closed, and 
 all was still again. 
 
 I rushed down the stairs and found the door. It 
 was securely bolted ; the bolts were rusted, I 
 tried one, and could not stir it. 
 
 Then, out in the court, a harsh cry rang back 
 along the walls, " Cordon ! " the familiar call to 
 the sleeping concierge. " Cordon ! " the same rough 
 voice repeated. The heavy street-door fell into 
 place with a dull, jarring sound. The presence, 
 whatever it was, had escaped scot-free into the 
 world of Paris. 
 
 Drip, drip, behind me I heard the water falling 
 now, drop by drop, upon the stones. There was 
 nothing else to show that I had not been dreaming.
 
 100 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 I gave one searching look at the dismal little corner, 
 and then fled from it and from the house forever. 
 In less time than it takes to tell it, I had rushed 
 through the rooms overhead and down again by the 
 main staircase, out into the court and on through 
 the falling rain, shouting to Casimir as I went, 
 " Cordon ! cordon ! cordon ! " I woke echoes there 
 that drove me half mad ; I beat upon the door. 
 At last the cord was drawn, and I found myself 
 in the street, where I recovered my senses suffi 
 ciently to put on my hat and coat, snatched up 
 in my flight, mechanically, from the table in the 
 antichambre. 
 
 I went back to my hotel, and passed a night to 
 which that uneasy one of Clarence was as nothing. 
 In the morning, very early, I hurried out again, 
 laughing at my folly. The day was fine and bright, 
 as only Paris can be ; and yet I trembled upon 
 turning into the court, where, however, I found 
 nothing more terrible than Casimir, watering his 
 flowers and talking to a gray cat that rubbed itself 
 affectionately against his shins. The old man 
 started when he saw me, and looked from me to 
 the window behind which he supposed I had been 
 sleeping. 
 
 " Monsieur rises early," said he. 
 
 " Yes. I am called away. You will be kind 
 enough to pack my trunk and send it after 
 me." 
 
 " Monsieur gives up the rooms ? "
 
 CORDON! 101 
 
 " Unavoidably. It does not matter ; they are 
 paid for, all the same." 
 
 Surprise made him speechless for a moment. 
 The cat came slowly toward me, purring. I 
 stooped and stroked it between the ears. 
 
 " He is called Chambord, Monsieur ; he lives 
 upon raw meat, but he is very kind and gentle. 
 I regret that Monsieur goes away." 
 
 " Thank you. Casimir, what strange man was 
 in the house last night ? " 
 
 " Monsieur, I do not understand. There was 
 no one." 
 
 " You let no one out, then ? " 
 
 " Oh, that, of course. The house has many apart 
 ments, many lodgers. I do not count them in my 
 sleep." 
 
 " Nevertheless," I said with some warmth, " there 
 was a stranger in my rooms last night. I saw him." 
 
 " Monsieur was dreaming. It is impossible." 
 
 " But I can describe him to you." And I tried 
 to do so, making only a stammering failure of it. 
 
 Casimir shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Then I remembered the curious mark upon 
 the man s cheek, and put in that evidence 
 triumphantly. 
 
 The dull eyes opened a little wider ; but he 
 smiled and shook his head. 
 
 " Sapristi ! Now I know that Monsieur was 
 surely dreaming. That is the Brazilian, Cornelio, 
 the good patron s valet de chambre"
 
 102 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " Well, then, I tell you he has come back." 
 
 " But, Monsieur " 
 
 " I swear it to you." 
 
 " Impossible. Monsieur Morizot keeps him al 
 ways at his side. They are both in Lapland." 
 
 I argued with him to no purpose. He grew 
 angry, and in his excitement, tipped over his 
 watering-pot upon Chambord, who turned tail and 
 disappeared. I could convince him of nothing 
 but my own imbecility ; and so I left him, mutter 
 ing strange oaths among his flowers. 
 
 One rarely fails to recall a startling bit of his 
 own experience the first time its date comes round 
 again. So it happened that this adventure was 
 uppermost in my mind one midsummer night of 
 the following year, on board the good steamer 
 " Baron Osy," bound from London to Antwerp. 
 We had left the White Tower just at noon, and 
 had dropped leisurely down the overburdened 
 Thames, threading our cautious way through larger 
 and smaller ocean craft, in and out among tow- 
 boats and barges, and awkward little luggers with 
 red sails and spankers ; past ^ the big guns of 
 Woolwich, and Greenwich Hospital with its white- 
 haired veterans, whose reckoning leaves off where 
 ours begins ; by Tilbury Fort and Gravesend, 
 where the great river, broadened to an estuary, 
 stretches out its arms to greet the Medway and 
 the two go wandering off here and there in a
 
 CORDON! 103 
 
 tangle of green hills that know no winter but 
 are always green. So we had come out into yel 
 lower and wilder water ; the sun had set in a 
 bank of cool, gray clouds ; the white cliffs and 
 glimmering lights of Margate were already low 
 on the horizon ; and the long twilight crept down 
 upon us slowly, imperceptibly. 
 
 I had seen but few passengers, all of the heaviest 
 and most uninteresting modern Flemish pattern ; 
 but a chance remark of one of the stewards led 
 me to think that there were others of consequence, 
 holding themselves aloof in their cabins. One 
 by one, those who were about me on the after- 
 deck had gone below as the night-breeze strength 
 ened. I knew that the stars were coming out, 
 that under the pale-green streak of western sky the 
 English coast was fast receding ; but my thoughts 
 were hundreds of miles away. With them I was 
 really strolling through the Passage des Princes 
 and back along the Boulevard, humming as I 
 walked the doctor s air in " L Ombre," 
 
 " Midi, minuit ! 
 Le jour, la nuit ! 
 Midi, c est la vie, 
 Minuit, la niort oui ! " 
 
 And so on, through all the details of that troubled 
 night. I lived again in Monsieur Morizot s apart 
 ment ; I saw his chair at the fire, his book upon 
 the table ; nay, even the old letter-press danced 
 before my eyes,
 
 104 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " The prisoner is sworn, and asked his name, 
 age, rank, and place of abode. 
 
 " He said that his name was Francois Ravaillac, 
 born and dwelling at Angouleme " 
 
 The sound of my voice brought me back to 
 the deck of the " Baron Osy." I had spoken the 
 words aloud. I turned and saw that they must 
 have been overheard by a passenger who stood 
 at the rail, not ten feet away. He wore a close- 
 fitting, pointed cap and a long dark coat, buttoned 
 tightly under his chin, and these garments had 
 a suggestive richness in them. A splendid jewel 
 too shone upon his hand. But his eyes were 
 fixed on me with a look in which fear and wonder 
 mingled strangely ; his face seemed white as death, 
 and it was the face of the valet, Cornelio. 
 
 I realized an unknown power in the words which 
 I had spoken ; and without moving from my place 
 I finished the broken sentence from the trial of 
 Ravaillac, then repeated it word for word from 
 the beginning. With that, the mark upon his 
 cheek quivered convulsively ; he gave a wild cry, 
 like some brute brought to bay, and with one 
 appealing look, as if toward imaginary pursuers 
 closing in upon him, he flung himself over the 
 rail into the sea. 
 
 I rushed to the ship s side as one of the hands, 
 who had seen him jump, tore a life-preserver from 
 the guards, and threw it after him. We caught 
 sight of an arm tossed up in the foaming wake
 
 CORDON! 105 
 
 far behind ; a wave swept over it. The engines 
 were stopped, and a boat was lowered ; after 
 a long time it came back, bringing only the wet 
 corks. The old gray sexton of the sea works 
 quickly and well. 
 
 We found his name registered upon the list, 
 Ramon Quizas, rentier, of Rio. He had no com 
 panion, and his trunks were stored somewhere 
 on the quay at Antwerp. When I left the city 
 they still remained there unclaimed. 
 
 Three years later, in one of the continental 
 reading-rooms, I took up the " Figaro," to divert 
 myself with its faits divers and echos de Paris. 
 Between the last mot of Madame X., and the 
 announcement of a fete at Asnieres, I found a 
 line of reference to a matter familiar enough, as 
 it seemed, to all but casual readers ; namely, the 
 division among the heirs-at-law of a handsome prop 
 erty, that of one Monsieur Morizot. The name, 
 and the mysterious importance given it, roused my 
 curiosity, and I wrote at once to a Parisian crony 
 for fuller information. This was his answer : 
 
 " Have you retired from the world, that you cease 
 to read the news of it? We are worn out with 
 details of the life and death of Monsieur Morizot. 
 Pardon me, then, if I recite them to you very briefly. 
 The worthy man lived, en gar$on, in one of those 
 houses of the Rue Neuve St. Augustin already con 
 demned to make way for the new avenue which will
 
 106 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 be a marvel. Like you he was a traveller, and he 
 often remained for years an absentee, staying away 
 at last longer than the code allows. He became 
 to all intents and purposes a dead man, and his 
 heirs demanded to share his estate, and to break 
 up his collection of jewels, known to be of great 
 value. Man proposes ! The safe was opened, but 
 it had been rifled, mon ami. They found there, in 
 stead, the owner s body, stabbed through and through. 
 The good soul had made a hard fight of it. His 
 hand still clutched a bit of watch-chain, identified 
 as the property of a certain Brazilian ape of a servant 
 who never left him. Our haute police is enormously 
 cunning. Bit by bit, the case has been worked up, 
 and this is what happened. The two arrived late 
 one night at the Northern Railway station, where, 
 to save time, at the servant s suggestion, their trunks 
 were left to be claimed in the morning. Thus they 
 installed themselves at home without stir and unan 
 nounced. Then the man got the better of his master, 
 and became in his turn an absentee. No one ever 
 dreamed of the arrival or the departure, yet now 
 it is all clear as though we saw it in a glass, the 
 very date proved by the fragment of a journal found 
 in the pocket of what was once Monsieur Morizot. 
 Heed the warning, and travel no more ; but marry, 
 and let madame watch over you. Get thee a wife, 
 mon amour ! Et voila tout ! " 
 
 I answered my foreign correspondent in good 
 American fashion, by asking a question. Upon 
 what date, I prayed him, was the crime com-
 
 CORDON! 107 
 
 mitted ? His reply brought me a printed slip, 
 fixing upon the very night of my adventure, but 
 in the year preceding it. And on this point all 
 known records of the affair obstinately agree. 
 
 That Senor Ramon Quizes and the valet, Cor- 
 nelio, were one and the same, I have no manner 
 of doubt ; but that he ever could have revisited 
 the scene of his double crime is inconceivable. 
 Whose face, then, appeared to me in the mirror ? 
 Whose hands were washed in the running water ? 
 Who, besides myself, clamored there in the dark 
 for release from his own haunting fears ? Did 
 I, by some strange coincidence, dream these things, 
 one after another in quick succession ? Or did 
 the murderer leave behind him in his flight a 
 ghostly presence, to play his hideous part out, 
 time and time again, while the faithful glass of 
 Venice reflected line for line, moment for moment ? 
 I cannot answer. But now, when I walk in the 
 Avenue de FOp^ra, I am grateful even for that 
 dullest of improvement s dull marches, sweeping, 
 as it does, all memory but mine of my grim 
 lodging from the face of the earth.
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 
 
 AS Hazard read the last words of the manu 
 script, Purkitt knocked the ashes from his 
 long clay pipe and looked up with a cheerful smile. 
 Cheerfulness, however, was the main characteristic 
 of his somewhat puffy little personality ; and on 
 that unwrinkled forty-five-year-old face, rendered 
 rosier than usual to-night by frequent draughts of 
 gin-and-water, a smile had no more promise in it 
 to anxious eyes than has a morning rainbow. 
 
 " Well ? " said the other, faintly. 
 
 He was a man under thirty ; but time had kept 
 him in mind evidently. Already he looked old. 
 His face was thin, pale, and worn ; at first sight of 
 it one might well have wondered when he had last 
 eaten a good dinner, and what his next meal was 
 likely to be. 
 
 " Well," returned Purkitt, irresolutely. Then, 
 after a moment, " I think your style is charming." 
 
 Hazard tossed down his work with a show of 
 carelessness ; but one sheet of it fell from the 
 table upon the dusty floor, and he picked this up, 
 to brush it with his coat-sleeve before replying. 
 
 " Thank you, Dick ! " said he. " I see ; it is a 
 failure."
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 109 
 
 Dick Purkitt pushed forward his empty glass 
 and twirled it about with finger-tips unmarred by 
 any deformity of labor. They had toiled early and 
 late, but only with the pen. 
 
 " Victor, dear boy, you did not expect me to call 
 the tale a work of genius, worthy of well, say 
 Yarrow, did you ? " 
 
 " No, Dick, of course not. But 1 did hope to 
 show a bit of progress ; perhaps, even, to stir your 
 British public up a little. I worked so hard ; and 
 they will no more be stirred by it than that old 
 duffer in the corner there." 
 
 Speaking thus, -with eyes that in vain strove not 
 to glisten, he indicated a man whom they had 
 found asleep by the gray embers of the tavern-fire. 
 Dick studied for a moment the drooping figure, 
 with its folded arms and hat drawn down over 
 the eyes in deep, serene unconsciousness, still the 
 same. 
 
 " He has not turned a hair," said he. " Yes ; the 
 British public is like that. You must strike a 
 higher note to rouse it. And yet the story is a 
 good story ; not Yarrow, but still " 
 
 " Yarrow always Yarrow ! " 
 
 " Dear boy, have patience. Even Yarrow had to 
 learn his letters. Look at me ! Grinding the mill 
 for five-and-twenty years, and still at it, a hack 
 writer on the Tavistock Review. " 
 
 " Yes, but Hazard stopped and sighed. 
 
 " I know. You want to tell me your art is dif-
 
 110 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 ferent. That is true, and I honor you for it. I 
 keep the beaten path, and you must climb. Even 
 now, I could not begin to do that thing of yours. 
 Send it to the magazines." 
 
 " The magazines ! " echoed Hazard, bitterly. 
 
 " Well, magazine, then. You re too sensitive ; 
 that s one of your troubles. Shall I tell you an 
 other ? Your work is imitative, far too sugges 
 tive of your master, who is Yarrow, I say, whether 
 you like it or not. Give him the cold shoulder. 
 You are young, but you have lived. Take some 
 passage of your life, and put your heart into it. If 
 it hurts you, so much the better. The public is as 
 cruel as a Vestal virgin. I tell you, it wants blood. 
 Where did you dine to-day ? " 
 
 "Here, in the Silver Cross. Jugged hare and 
 apple-tart, not a bad dinner for one-and-three- 
 pence. It s the best luncheon-bar I know in 
 London." 
 
 " I thought you looked hungry ; so am I as a 
 horse. I say, bring us supper, will you ? Cold 
 joint, and plenty of it, the best cheese you ve got. 
 Beer for this gentleman, and gin for me. As you 
 say, Hazard, one lives well here for Fleet Street. 
 Per me, I prefer the Bristol. For Heaven s sake, 
 William, coax that fire up with another coal or 
 two. Don t you know it s snowing outside ? Now 
 then, Hazard, here s the beef. Pitch right in, 
 that s American, is n t it ? Show your Yankee 
 spirit, and make victory of defeat, as you did at
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. Ill 
 
 Bunker s Hill. Damn it, man, Victor is your 
 name ! " 
 
 All this stir in the little back parlor at last 
 roused its third occupant, who stretched his legs, 
 yawned, and growled, then rose, buttoned his 
 heavy dark coat about him, and thrust his hands 
 into the pockets ; finally, with a nod to Purkitt, he 
 passed into the bar, mumbling to himself, inaudi- 
 bly, as he went. They heard him shuffle on to the 
 street-door and go out. 
 
 Hazard had looked for an instant at his dark 
 face, deeply furrowed, with an iron-gray moustache 
 large enough to cover the lips and half the military 
 tuft upon the chin ; with enormous eyebrows, black 
 as jet, under which the eyes shrunk away into what 
 seemed empty sockets ; yet in them lurked a scru 
 tiny so keen that the boy had lowered his own eyes 
 at once, catching his breath with something like a 
 chill. The jar of the closing door was a relief. 
 
 " Who is that man ? " he asked. 
 
 " His name is Rose," said Purkitt. " Odd chap, 
 is n t he ? Some men like him ; 1 don t, or I would 
 have asked him to stay. Queer devil, they tell 
 absurd stories of him." 
 
 " What stories ? " 
 
 " Oh, mere rot. They say he dabbles in the 
 black arts, the occult and the unknowable. He 
 may deal with the Devil, for aught I know ; there 
 are various ways of doing that, and his looks are 
 in favor of him. But the rest is rubbish."
 
 112 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " What is the rest ? Go on." 
 
 " Well, that he can live forever, if he pleases. 
 That he pursues the philosopher s stone, and has 
 caught up with the elixir of long life ; that he is 
 one of those German fellows, a Rosicrucian. He 
 is shy about stating his age, and his name happens 
 to be Rose. That s all, but it s quite enough to 
 start the story." 
 
 " Has he no profession ? " 
 
 " Yes, a capital profession. He is an inventor 
 who has never invented anything ; with means, of 
 course, or he could n t exist. Drake said, the other 
 day, he had seen his rooms ; but there was nothing 
 in them, so far as I could discover. Eat your sup 
 per, old man, and let us change the subject. I 
 hate quackery and all its works." 
 
 They ate and drank until a late hour, that is, 
 one made a good meal, and the other did the drink 
 ing. Gin agreed with him, he said, and he seemed 
 none the worse for it. As they parted, the bar 
 maid complimented him on his good looks, he re 
 torting in a way that led her to blush. For a time 
 the place rang with his boisterous mirth, and when 
 he was gone the girl sighed, and told William that 
 Mr. Purkitt was a nice gentleman. 
 
 Victor Hazard would have confirmed her state 
 ment, had it been made in his hearing. Purkitt 
 took his arm and returned good advice for it, as they 
 splashed up Fleet Street to the Strand through the 
 wet snow-flakes, melting into grimy mud at their feet.
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 113 
 
 " Now, dear boy, do as I tell you. Send that 
 thing off to-morrow morning, and begin on another 
 the moment you leave the bank. Strike deep ; 
 stick the knife in up to the handle, and turn it 
 round. Don t give way, whatever happens. Fight 
 the good fight, and win. And if you get short, 
 mind you come to me." 
 
 " Yes, Dick," said Hazard. There was some 
 thing in his throat that choked off further speech ; 
 so he merely stood still, to detach himself from the 
 friendly arm and offer his hand instead. " Good 
 night to you ! " 
 
 " To be sure, there is the bridge ; you go that 
 way. Well, good-night! God bless you!" 
 
 And Purkitt went sliding on over another mile 
 of the slippery pavement to his club, in Piccadilly, 
 where other dear boys were gathered about the fire, 
 and where he made a cheerful night of it, putting 
 the struggles and possible successes of the young 
 Anglo-American quite out of mind. 
 
 Hazard waited on the corner looking after his 
 friend. His throat no longer troubled him ; the 
 tears trickled down his checks. 
 
 " What a good fellow ! " he thought ; " and how 
 little of me he really knows ! He has never had 
 to worry about his bread-and-butter; he cannot 
 imagine what it is." 
 
 Across the way he heard a sudden slamming of 
 doors ; and then a laughing crowd burst out upon 
 him. The play was over at the Lyceum Theatre.
 
 114 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 The cabbies swore and shouted and lashed their 
 patient horses. A young girl, all in white, gleamed 
 like a will-o -the-wisp under the columns of the 
 portico and disappeared. Hazard, turning away, 
 walked on to the gate of Waterloo Bridge, paid the 
 moderate price of solitude, and speedily it w r as his. 
 Half-way over he stopped to look down. The 
 sluggish river below crept on darkly in the night, 
 lapping filth and squalor, and nameless horrors al 
 most inconceivable, to purify itself at last in the 
 healing water of the sea. Above him too there 
 was little more than darkness ; the distant lights 
 blinked feebly, softened by the snow. All looked 
 solemn, mysterious, death-like. It was the place 
 of suicides, the very time of year, as the histo 
 rian of statistics demonstrated long ago. Hazard 
 smiled at it. 
 
 " There is always this," he muttered, fixing h s 
 eyes upon a single flake of snow that passed 
 through the narrow circle illumined by the nearest 
 bridge-lamp and then vanished. " Always this to 
 help us out. A snow-flake on the river in the 
 night, gone before it strikes the water, it leaves 
 no mark. How can a thread of talent hope to do 
 more upon the black indifference of the world ? " 
 He leaned over the parapet, and drew back. 
 " Not yet ! " he said and went his way resolutely, 
 defiantly. 
 
 He lived in one of those attic chambers on the 
 Surrey shore over which a loop of railway de-
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 115 
 
 scribes the wide arc of a circle between Cannon 
 Street and Charing Cross. This ten-minute jour 
 ney, with its dissolving views of the river, the Em 
 bankment, the towering landmarks of Westminster 
 and Ludgate Hill, is one of the sights of London ; 
 one that wears well too, and may be seen many 
 times before the dull lens of habit blurs it. Its 
 best side was all at Hazard s command. The out 
 look from his window over the sooty tiles, from 
 the Victoria Tower on one side to the dome of St. 
 Paul s on the other, was never twice the same. 
 The fogs in winter did their black and yellow 
 worst, but they were forever shifting, strange 
 lights shone out in them ; and at night they were 
 almost sure to lift and let the stars look down. 
 The trains thundered about his ears incessantly, 
 but a noise that lasts is no longer a nuisance ; only 
 silence becomes painful, as on a steamship when 
 the engine stops in mid-ocean, and one longs for 
 the beating soul of the machine. 
 
 Victor Hazard was the son of a poor gentleman 
 who had pinched himself to give his boy what he 
 considered a suitable education ; then, dying sud 
 denly, had left him alone in the world of New 
 York, with an inordinate desire to shine before his 
 fellow-men, his capital being a good face, a fail- 
 knowledge of the classics, an illegible hand-writing, 
 and a fondness for society. Of dollars and cents 
 his supply became wofully scant. Accepting, ac 
 cordingly, the first clerkship offered to him, he
 
 116 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 filled it perfunctorily, but acceptably, though no 
 prospect of his advancement was ever suggested ; 
 until his evil fortune lured him into falling in love 
 with his employer s daughter, and inspired her 
 cruelly to encourage him. She was rich, he over 
 scrupulous ; her fortune was a barrier that he con 
 ceived to be insurmountable. The entanglement 
 might thus have prolonged itself indefinitely, had 
 not she, growing tired of it, forced him to show his 
 hand and beg for hers. In answer she raised her 
 eyebrows and wondered what he could mean. She 
 was very sorry ; she had never consciously given 
 him cause to hope. How could he have misunder 
 stood her so ? Through an odd coincidence, but 
 really nothing more, it happened, within a week, 
 that her father resolved to reduce the sum-total of 
 his salary-list by dispensing with Mr. Hazard s ser 
 vices. He was very sorry, the family seemed 
 conventional in its expression of regret, but the 
 business, etc., did not warrant, etc., etc., and Mr. 
 Hazard could at any time rely, etc., etc., etc., upon 
 his recommendation. 
 
 Poor Victor had been told, so often as to believe 
 it, that a woman s " no " means " yes " at certain 
 times. As in war the odds are all against the be 
 leaguered city if the invaders stand their ground, so 
 in love dogged persistence nearly always conquers 
 in the end. In his heart of hearts he felt that he 
 need only wait defiantly to gain this girl s admira 
 tion, pity, love. But once more his honest scruples
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 117 
 
 overcame him. She was fabulously rich, he a beg 
 gar. In a weak moment he had miserably ignored 
 this ; she had been to blame for the weakness 
 which now led him to despise himself. He must 
 prove to her, if possible, that he was no vulgar 
 soldier of fortune ; he must bear defeat with dig 
 nity ; he could not hunt her down. He abandoned 
 the field at once, and did his best to hate her. 
 Can a man ever accomplish that when he has 
 really loved the ideal woman his fancy has created ? 
 Victor, certainly, made bad work of it ; he could 
 not, even to himself, reproach this paragon. He 
 only had been to blame. She was too good for 
 him, for earth ; she was divine. He must never 
 see her any more. He must put the ocean between 
 them, and make his whole life a struggle to forget 
 his own faultless line of beauty, eternally graven 
 upon his heart, an indelible sorrow. 
 
 A friend, who half suspected his secret, stepped 
 in at this critical moment and offered him an in 
 significant place on the staff of a great London 
 banking-house. The pay was a mere pittance, ab 
 surdly small for his native city ; he could barely 
 live upon it even in London. But Victor accepted 
 the terms gratefully, laughed hunger in the face, 
 and told his anxious friend it should be made a 
 stepping-stone to higher things. So he fled to the 
 great heart of civilization as to a hermitage in the 
 desert, lost his identity, and became a toiling unit 
 in the ant-hill, a mere mechanic of routine. He
 
 118 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 carried letters of introduction which it pleased him 
 to destroy unpresented. He made few acquaint 
 ances, fewer friends. Dick Purkitt was the only 
 man who could be said to have grown intimate 
 with him. And Purkitt did not know him long, 
 before he felt that he should never know this odd 
 stick of an American any better. Victor had been 
 drawn to him, but not closely, never losing his 
 head, never expanding. Dick remained baffled, 
 but still interested ; he took what Victor gave, and 
 he asked no more, abused him for his false pride, 
 and inwardly admired it. 
 
 Day after day Hazard bent over his desk in the 
 huge, dingy counting-house, multiplying infinitely 
 his journal-entries, till the load of dull monotony 
 weighed upon him like the rock of Sisyphus. The 
 room was favorably known in the City of London, 
 and lay within a stone s throw of Threadneedle 
 Street ; it was low, ill-ventilated, and it quartered 
 a small army of the overworked and underpaid be 
 neath its glass ceiling, which admitted foggy light, 
 in a qualified, commercial way, to fifty hollow-eyed 
 and sallow faces. They could see, could be seen ; 
 what more was needed ? By good or bad luck the 
 American had found his allotted place near the 
 only window in this dreary tread-mill. He could 
 look up from his worn page, across a flagged court 
 to the eastern wall of an old City church, whose 
 chancel windows had at least imagination in them, 
 on the other side. Too often he caught himself
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 119 
 
 trying to trace out their design, idly wondering 
 about their colors. He never took the trouble 
 to study them from the proper point within the 
 church, he never really cared a button for them. 
 His day-dreams merely took this fragmentary shape 
 in the beginning, piling up afterward like storm- 
 clouds between him and the church-wall, till they 
 had obscured it. Then his neighbor at the desk, 
 alert, fond of work, and quick at figures, would jog 
 his elbow, chaffing him. 
 
 " How many stones are there in that wall, 
 Hazard ? Are you going to build one like it ? " 
 
 And the lynx-eyed bank-manager, noting Victor s 
 lapse in duty, would make a mental black-mark 
 against the truant understanding, and whisper to 
 himself, 
 
 "Hazard is a 100 clerk, that s all." 
 
 Finally those dark stones did their destined mis 
 chief, and founded in Victor s heart the accursed 
 fabric of a literary ambition. Why not, he thought, 
 turn one s imagination to account, and help out one s 
 bread-and-butter with vin ordinaire, if not with the 
 intoxicating draught of fame? His first venture 
 proved likewise his first misfortune, for he found 
 an editor willing to accept it. All seemed plain 
 sailing now. His boat was launched ; he had but 
 to let out the sheet and fly before the favoring 
 breeze. But alas, the sky soon grew overcast, the 
 sea troubled ; the winds blew counter, or they died 
 away. His ideas came to him slowly, painfully.
 
 120 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 His little birds chirped, but did not sing; he set 
 them free to beat the air with feeble wings, to be 
 swept back and die unheard. The fumes of the 
 lamp got into his brain and clogged it. He tossed 
 through sleepless nights, while visionary clots of 
 blood, those danger-signals of the unresting train 
 of thought, swam before his staring eves. Then 
 the long, stifling day at his desk became a terror 
 to him, the task a torture ; he went to it with hag 
 gard looks, as in a trance, performing it he knew 
 not how. But at night he lived again, still toiling 
 on in his garret under the stars. His own might 
 never rise, well, so much the worse; he must 
 do without it. He had been bitten by the taran 
 tula ; he was dancing mad, and conscious of the 
 mania, could only murmur to himself, in bitter 
 consolation, the sad foreboding of the German 
 poet : 
 
 "One taste of the immortal fruit of fame, 
 Like to Proserpina s pomegranate-seeds, 
 Ranks thee forever with the quiet shades, 
 And to the living thou belong st no more." 1 
 
 Now and then the tide up-bore him. When he 
 went to press, no matter how obscurely, all his cour 
 age would revive, and sanguine to absurdity, he 
 would expect too much ; instant recognition from 
 the entire English-reading world ; the meed of 
 genius ; a horn of plenty overflowing at his feet, 
 in short, miracles. And when all these failed 
 
 1 Grillparzer s Sappho ; Ellen Frothingham s translation.
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 121 
 
 him, when the spheres coldly kept their course 
 indifferent to his, he would sink down, down, each 
 time a little lower, toward a despair of suicidal 
 depth. His temper was fitful as the flight of an 
 arrow shot over a sunlit glacier to miss its mark 
 and fall into some crevasse beyond the glimpse 
 of day. 
 
 The fit was on him that night ; the fever first, 
 and then the chill. When he begged Dick Purkitt 
 for a hearing, he did so with the firm belief that 
 the critic would warm at his work, would call it 
 his best, perhaps the best that ever was. On the 
 contrary the old hack had hardly pricked up his 
 ears. He had been considerate, of course, only 
 damning with faint praise what had faintly touched 
 him ; that was enough. The fire was out in Vic 
 tor s shabby lodging ; at sight of the familiar room 
 he shivered, but not with cold, only with the re 
 membrance of the half-frenzied hope he had car 
 ried away from the place earlier in the evening. 
 His first impulse was to burn the ineffective mas 
 terpiece in the sputtering candle-flame. But he 
 thought better of it ; and mailed the manuscript 
 to one of his editors, early the next morning, 
 thus following Dick s advice, in part. For he 
 did not begin upon another, did not even grope 
 for a new idea ; but only stared at nothing in a 
 state of mental torpor, like a criminal awaiting 
 sentence. 
 
 At least a fortnight must go by without an an-
 
 122 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 swer ; and the end of the year, always an anxious 
 time with Victor, was close at hand. He needed 
 money ; he was not in debt, but on New Year s 
 Day there would be accounts to settle. He had 
 been a long time in the bank, had never missed 
 an hour, never asked for an increase of pay. It 
 occurred to him now to submit his case with be 
 coming modesty, mildly to request what he felt 
 should be granted ungrudgingly at the first sug 
 gestion. If he was worth anything, he told him 
 self, he was worth more than a paltry ,100. Yet 
 he postponed the purposed interview, nervously 
 appointing -to-morrow for it, and then to-morrow, 
 until at length Christmas and Boxing-Day came 
 next. Little time remained to lose ; it would be 
 better to decide the question before the holiday. 
 He watched his opportunity, and at last caught the 
 manager at leisure and alone. He was no advo 
 cate ; his voice faltered in the middle of a dis 
 jointed phrase ; the stern features of the judge 
 gave him 110 encouragement ; the answer was short 
 and to the point. 
 
 "There are many young men in London, Mr. 
 Hazard, who would be glad to do your work for 
 100." 
 
 Mr. Hazard admitted that, but 
 
 " We cannot consider it ; I am sorry, but the 
 fault is your own. They tell me you are trying to 
 serve two masters ; you will never get on so in 
 London. Do one thing or the other, and put your
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 123 
 
 heart into it. That is the best answer I can give 
 you. Good-morning ! " 
 
 The atom dropped back silently to its place in 
 the swarm. In that short absence a black fog, 
 dense, impenetrable, like a funeral veil, had set 
 tled down outside the window. Shreds of it even 
 drifted in-doors and set the weaker ones to cough 
 ing, they laughed and coughed again vaporously. 
 The gas was lighted and soon burned out. Even 
 London resources fail with sudden pressure put 
 upon them. Candles glimmered about, and in the 
 dim, smoky atmosphere the working-day went on. 
 Nothing short of a convulsion of Nature can snap 
 the main-spring of mercantile routine. Victor s 
 senses were benumbed, and the hours seemed short 
 to him ; he forgot to give his usual sigh of relief 
 when the clock struck and the night-birds were 
 set free. The fog had grown thicker, heavier. He 
 made his lonely way through it, from lamp to lamp, 
 over the viaduct, along Holborn, in and out of the 
 intricate Drury Lane quarter, to a stuffy coffee 
 house in Covent Garden, where, if the dinner was 
 frugal, the beer was of the best. The foaming 
 tankard quickened him ; he could think now. But 
 there was too much Christmas jollity in the place 
 for him. He went out, took the shortest cut to 
 the Strand, and reaching it, hesitated at the street 
 corner. The sight was curious. Link-boys ran 
 before the horses, shouting and brandishing their 
 torches ; a hurrying glare, with the barbaric light
 
 124 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 of the past in it, that flashed by and left a deeper 
 gloom. It might have been a scene of Shake 
 speare s time. The shops were crowded. In the 
 one behind him sprigs of holly and mistletoe 
 gleamed red and white through the frosted panes. 
 After a moment s thought Victor turned his face 
 toward Westminster. The way home was longer, 
 but that bridge cost nothing. When he came to 
 Charing Cross, the fog had lifted a little ; he went 
 on, and it grew lighter ; now he could see the shin 
 ing clock-face in the Albert Tower ; as he passed 
 under it the four quarters chimed out musically, 
 and the great bell struck the hour, ten o clock. 
 So late ? Well, to-morrow was a holiday. The 
 lights glanced in the river, the steamers whistled, 
 the omnibuses rattled along the bridge. Overhead 
 a star sparkled, but he did not see it. He was 
 thinking of to-morrow. 
 
 "Do one thing or the other, and put your heart 
 into it." 
 
 Why ? For what unprofitable purpose ? Why 
 not let the tired muscles relax, the worn brain- 
 cells cease their reproduction ? 
 
 Straightway he recalled some lines of his own 
 from a published story that had escaped critical 
 notice, so far as he knew ; and he made them the 
 burden of his walk in mournful reiteration, 
 
 " Man, in the struggle of life, is like a poor bull 
 baited in the arena, pricked and goaded and tor 
 tured he knows not why, finding no escape;
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 125 
 
 before, behind him, only a great darkness closing 
 in." 
 
 " That is true ! " he cried as he turned the key 
 in his lock. " Yes, that is true." 
 
 On the table lay a roll of paper, which he tore 
 apart. His manuscript was returned with a printed 
 word of formal thanks, rejected. It was no less 
 than should have been foreseen, but it struck Victor 
 with the pang of a bullet. 
 
 " He might have written," he said ; then dropped 
 where he stood in tears. 
 
 After a time his face cleared itself and came out 
 white and calm, firmly set with a new resolve. He 
 tossed the manuscript with a dozen others into the 
 grate and made a bonfire, crouching before it and 
 warming his hands at the blaze. He blew out 
 his lamp and paced the room awhile in the dark. 
 Then, with a strange lightness of manner, he went 
 back to the streets, leaving his door flung open 
 wide behind him. The fog was almost gone, the 
 air clearer and colder. 
 
 " To-morrow will be fine," he , thought, following 
 briskly a familiar course toward the City, not 
 that by w r hich he had come, but the other, the 
 shorter one, to Waterloo. 
 
 He smiled pleasantly at the toll-gatherer as he 
 paid his fee. On the bridge he met only one 
 man, a muffled figure, breathing through a black 
 band drawn tight over the lower part of the face, 
 by way of precaution, not unusual, against the
 
 126 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 penetrating dampness of the English winter. The 
 steps died away behind him ; he stopped at the 
 middle of the bridge, and turned into a niche 
 over one of its great piers. The light in his face 
 had gone out ; he was cold now and trembling ; he 
 leaned against the dank wall to steady himself. 
 At that moment the mellow chimes of midnight, 
 ushering in the Christian festival, pealed and 
 echoed in a hundred spires ; the air seemed filled 
 with music, his ears hardly heard that sweetest 
 of all sounds. He swung himself forward upon 
 the wall. 
 
 "... only a great darkness closing in." 
 
 Nearer, nearer. Now ! 
 
 He had spoken no word. It was his action only 
 that a voice behind him interrupted. 
 
 " Not yet ! " said the voice. A strong hand 
 grasped him by the shoulder and pulled him 
 back. 
 
 " Let me go ! " he cried imploringly ; and turn 
 ing, found himself face to face with the stranger 
 who had just passed him on the bridge. The figure 
 unmuffled itself, removed the dark bandage from 
 its mouth and chin, and stood before him revealed, 
 recognizable. 
 
 " Mr. Rose ! " he gasped. 
 
 " You know my name, then. I see ; Purkitt 
 told you. Yes, it is I, Merlin Rose." 
 
 " Merlin Rose," repeated Victor, as though the 
 name were a spell to conjure with. There was a
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 127 
 
 kind of enchantment in this mysterious presence 
 close upon him at this place and time. 
 
 " Mr. Hazard, is it not ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " You wonder why I turned about. It was he- 
 cause I know your work and like it, your brain- 
 work, I mean. It may be that I can help you ; 
 if not, no harm is done." 
 
 " You know my work ? " said Victor, startled 
 and dazed by the unexpected word of praise. 
 
 " Yes ; I once read a passage about life, that I 
 have always remembered." 
 
 Thereupon he quoted the gloomy lines driven 
 back that night like spectres to haunt the brain 
 that had conceived them. 
 
 " Well, it is the truth," sighed Victor, in reply. 
 
 " An imperfect truth. You have stared at the 
 sun through smoked glass. For better or worse, 
 it was your only source of daylight. You need 
 not have stared at it at all." 
 
 Victor s eyes filled, but he did not answer. The 
 truth expressed itself in these lines also. 
 
 " Come ! " said the other, in a kindly voice. " I 
 have admired your courage, let me do so still. 
 You may be sure of my sympathy. Walk on with 
 me out of the night-air, which I find dangerous. 
 We will talk of your work, it interests me." 
 
 Then Victor broke down completely. And his 
 new friend soothed him with a quiet word or two 
 and with gentle touches of the hand, as he would
 
 128 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 have comforted a tired child. They turned from 
 that awful brink of suicide into the living tide of 
 London, ebb-tide now. Even the Strand was 
 almost deserted ; the theatre-doors were shut, the 
 jewelled eyes of their transparencies put out. But 
 the loitering cab-man still hailed them from his 
 perch ; the wine-shops kept open house, suffused 
 with warm light, murmurous with voices. 
 
 As they walked and talked Victor drew closer to 
 his companion, deeply interested, yet looking ask 
 ance at him with a mixture of awe and fascination, 
 partly due, no doubt, to Purkitt s tale. He had never 
 seen so singular a face. It was gaunt, yet handsome ; 
 the complexion a deep olive, very clear ; the heavy 
 wrinkles in it came and went, sometimes vanished 
 altogether. The eyes were still mere suggestions, 
 remote, immovable points of blackness under the 
 bushy, restless eyebrows. Something invisible cast 
 over the man a perpetual shadow ; but through it 
 he spoke emphatically, hopefully, his praise took 
 the form of a promise. Heights could be attained, 
 rewards reaped, depending only upon courage. 
 There was a way, a sure one, the royal road it 
 might be called, if one dared try it. Then he 
 hinted at a certain process to be undergone. Many 
 had ventured to test its efficacy, always with a 
 favorable result. But and here he turned upon 
 Victor that blank, scrutinous look, sharper in its 
 effect than the chill of the winter s night it 
 wanted courage.
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 129 
 
 What of that promise ? Was there really some 
 infusion or decoction to transmute mediocrity into 
 genius ? a subtle elixir, not of long life, but of 
 inspiration ? Victor put a question, apparently 
 foreign to the matter, but nevertheless a leading 
 one. 
 
 " Are you a doctor by profession ? " he asked. 
 
 " No ; an engraver," replied the friend whom he 
 half liked, half dreaded. 
 
 An engraver ! What a puzzling answer ! An 
 odd chap this, as Dick had called him. 
 
 " Ah ! an inventor too, I suppose," continued 
 Victor, quoting a part of Dick Purkitt s jocose 
 description. 
 
 " Yes ; who has never invented anything," re 
 turned Mr. Rose, completing the jest with sur 
 prising fidelity. " Here we are ; wait a moment 
 until I can strike a light. The stairs are steep." 
 
 He had stopped before a house in a narrow 
 street curving out of St. Martin s Lane toward 
 Leicester Square. On the ground-floor Victor no 
 ticed the closed shutters of a shop. One short 
 flight, partitioned off from it, led them to the 
 apartment overhead, where Mr. Rose inhabited 
 three or four small rooms, low-studded and plainly 
 furnished. One of these seemed to be his work 
 shop, for it contained a drawing-board littered with 
 engraver s tools ; passing this disorder by, he un 
 locked a small door and ushered his guest into 
 a circular alcove, fitted up with some degree of 
 
 9
 
 130 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 luxury, a windowless place, heavily draped with 
 curtains of dusky red that fell together over the 
 door-way. Upon the low, concave ceiling a map of 
 the world was painted. A fire burned brightly ; 
 two easy-chairs were drawn before it, and light 
 streamed down upon them from an illuminated 
 clock, the only ornament of the chimney-piece ; 
 on its glass dial seven clear-cut stars were scat 
 tered irregularly ; through them the light shone 
 more brilliantly, but with a soft, celestial radiance, 
 white and still. 
 
 Over the clock hung a drawing in red chalk, 
 a young man s portrait, suggesting rather than re 
 sembling the first Napoleon. 
 
 " My own," said Mr. Rose, following the thought 
 in Victor s eyes. " A good likeness, once." 
 
 And Victor, looking closely, saw that the sketch 
 was signed, " Gerard." 
 
 On a round table in the middle of the room lay 
 a thick folio bound in leather, with metal clasps 
 which Mr. Rose drew back. Then he lifted one of 
 the heavy covers and let it fall again. 
 
 " If I understand you rightly," he said, " you 
 want certain things which I can give you, perhaps, 
 should you trust me fearlessly." 
 
 " If you mean the world s notice and encourage 
 ment, yes," Victor replied. 
 
 " In one word, success," continued Mr. Rose. 
 " But are you ready to pay the price ? Not to me 
 in money, our vows prohibit that. We do not
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 131 
 
 sell ; we give. I refer to your own act of sacrifice, 
 that calls for superhuman courage." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " This. Will you buy fame with mortal breath ? 
 Will you run your allotted course, with all its trials, 
 its possible triumphs, its unquestionable reverses ? 
 Or will you snatch the Promethean fire, write your 
 name in flaming letters, and die when this is done, 
 shortening your life, it may be, by fifty of its 
 years ? " 
 
 " More ! " cried Victor ; " by all but one ! Give 
 me one glorious year to leave its mark behind it, 
 and take the rest ! Death comes but once. Let 
 mine come so." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed Mr. Rose, " how many of you 
 have made me the same answer ! Reflect, before 
 it is too late. Even for immortality the cost is 
 fearful." 
 
 " I have reflected," Victor returned. " In my 
 dreams I have often made this very choice. If 
 you can really offer it, my courage will not fail 
 me. I am ready ; place me where I can choose." 
 
 In answer Mr. Rose opened the book before him. 
 
 " That you may see I am in earnest," said 
 he, " read a few of the names that are written 
 here. All these have in turn submitted themselves 
 to me. Their lasting renown is your best security. 
 I am to be trusted. See ! Not one that, living, 
 was not famous ; that, dying, did not take his 
 place among the stars. Read ! Read ! ",
 
 132 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 All the earlier pages of the volume were sealed 
 together ; but where it had opened, the loose leaves 
 were inscribed with many signatures of the noble 
 dead. Victor turned them slowly, coming at last 
 to the name of a man still alive, already a celebrity. 
 He started at the sight of it, recognizing at once 
 the hand of his master, Yarrow. All beyond 
 was blank. 
 
 " I make but one condition," said Mr. Rose, 
 as he put the pen into Victor s hand ; " and that 
 is absolute secrecy. You will never speak of this 
 visit, or of me. Under the world s eye we do 
 not know each other ; remember that. You give 
 me your word ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Victor, signing without a moment s 
 hesitation. " What more is there to do ? " 
 
 " Your part is done," replied the other, in a 
 low voice. " Sit here by the fire a little nearer 
 so. Look up at the clock. I shall not detain 
 you long." 
 
 His words died away in whispers. The minute- 
 hand stood still. The flame behind it was steady, 
 colorless ; the stars were cold, like planets. Had 
 they, like the planets, burned for ages ? Could 
 this unknown benefactor be in truth a Rosicru- 
 cian ? No matter. His command must be obeyed 
 blindly, blindly. 
 
 Victor bowed his head. Dusky spaces opened 
 out before him. The power to move seemed lost ; 
 he could only stare down the black, endless dis-
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 133 
 
 tances, and listen to a faint sound, like the drum 
 of a bird far off in a forest. It is a dream, he 
 thought. A sharp pain shook him. No, it is 
 death, the after-thought came quivering. Then 
 he was there again, before the clock ; a star was 
 gone. He counted them once more, yes, there 
 were only six upon its face ; but scarcely one 
 half-minute had passed over his head, and in the 
 chair beside him sat Mr. Rose, smiling, with a 
 small flask in his hand. 
 
 " I have done my part," he said. " The process 
 is performed, and here I give you the result. Use 
 it wisely." 
 
 Victor examined the flask. It contained a clear 
 liquid, faintly tinged with rose-color. 
 
 " What is this ? " he asked. 
 
 Mr. Rose smiled again. 
 
 " You may call it, if you please," said he, " the 
 Tincture of Success." 
 
 " I see," said Victor, smiling back at him ; " the 
 Frenchman s absinthe, or your English opium, 
 a draught of inspiration. Your health ! I drink 
 to you." 
 
 Mr. Rose caught his hand. 
 
 " Not one drop of it ! " he cried. " Go 
 home, and mix that with your ink. To-morrow, 
 take your pen and write, without undue excite 
 ment, slowly, thoughtfully, laboriously, as most 
 men do." 
 
 " Is that all ? " Victor asked with an air of
 
 134 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 disappointment. The royal road, then, was the 
 turnpike still. 
 
 " No, when the ink is gone, bring the flask 
 to be filled again. Come at this same hour, be 
 tween night and morning. Remember, silence. 
 No word of this to any one. Good-night ! Dis 
 miss all fear of discouragement ; that time is past. 
 For you, the struggle of life is over." 
 
 Victor shivered. These parting words conveyed 
 a double meaning. But he had made his choice, 
 had signed the compact ; it was irrevocable. That 
 fear too must be dismissed, if possible. 
 
 Weeks went by, quietly enough ; but before 
 long, he felt that an unaccountable change had 
 come over him. By day he worked at the bank 
 with a feverish lightness, like that preceding his 
 arrested act of suicide. At night his ink flowed 
 more freely than of old. His thoughts came thick 
 and fast ; it was hard to hold them back, to write 
 cautiously, in obedience to Mr. Rose s warning. 
 His first manuscript, sent out with something of 
 his former distrust and hesitancy, was at once 
 accepted, afterward, in print, warmly praised. 
 Others soon followed it ; perceptibly he gained 
 in reputation. At the end of six months when 
 his flask had been filled for the third time, he 
 was called the rising young author. Then, turn 
 ing his back upon his irksome employment in 
 the City, he trusted wholly to his pen, and to 
 the mysterious influence that guided it ; pro-
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 135 
 
 duccd his first important work ; was known to 
 fame. 
 
 The subtle process, to which he owed so much, 
 varied only in degree. Always the same chair 
 awaited him ; always he whirled away into the 
 same outer darkness. But each time, while the 
 gloom grew vaster and more oppressive, the dis 
 tant drumming sound came nearer, and was fol 
 lowed by a sharper pain, a certainty of death 
 more imminent and more appalling. Always, 
 when he woke, another star had disappeared from 
 the clock-face. Yet always no appreciable mo 
 ment had been wasted. There sat his generous 
 host, smiling inscrutably, watching him with eyes 
 he could not sec, bestowing the priceless gift, 
 then curtly dismissing him, reluctant even to 
 accept his thanks. Once only Victor ventured 
 to prolong his visit, to describe his sensations, to 
 beg for some word of explanation ; but Mr. Rose 
 shook his head mournfully, laid his finger upon 
 his lips, and Victor knew that he was never to 
 know more. 
 
 Dick Purkitt had been the first to congratulate 
 him. At the second stage of progress the good 
 fellow threw up his hat and cheered. 
 
 " I always knew you had it in you, dear boy. 
 Damn it, did n t I tell you so ? Your name is 
 Victor. Keep it up ; keep it up ! " 
 
 And then when Victor left the garret and the 
 bank, moving northward and westward into com-
 
 136 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 fortable lodgings, Dick called upon him, and em 
 braced him with tears of joy in his eyes. Sud 
 denly he stopped, holding the rising author off 
 at arm s length, inspecting him in his critical 
 way. 
 
 " I say, young-im, what s the matter ? You 
 look poorly. Are you overworked ? What is it, 
 man ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Victor. 
 
 But Dick shook his head uneasily. Did he 
 sleep ? Did he eat ? Did he take his consti 
 tutional ? Something must be devilish wrong. 
 What was it? 
 
 " Nothing," Victor insisted. 
 
 Nothing ; yes, nothing he could explain. But 
 there was something devilish wrong, indeed, a 
 haunting terror, constant, merciless, indefinable, 
 of which he could not speak. For him the future 
 had become the present ; the sun no longer shone. 
 His horizon-line was lost, and he walked in twi 
 light on the verge of a gulf beset with shadows. 
 The nameless dread consumed him like a wasting 
 disease. He hardly knew his own eyes in the 
 glass ; they had a restless, hunted look, forever 
 turning backward over the shoulder which Mr. 
 Rose had grasped, as if they feared an encounter 
 with the supernatural. His one relief was in his 
 work ; discovering that, he gave himself up to 
 it with untiring devotion. Success followed hard 
 upon success ; rich rewards lay heaped around
 
 TEE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 137 
 
 him ; even the voice of petty jealousy was hushed ; 
 and as the note of triumph swelled louder and 
 deeper, into one long, harmonious acclaim, he 
 resigned love, liberty, everything for that, accept 
 ing the substitute eagerly, gratefully, with a fierce, 
 inhuman joy. For this he had given the death 
 blow to his own happiness ; but he knew no 
 remorse and no repentance ; he was borne on in 
 speechless agony, unflinching. 
 
 One day there came a letter that stirred him. 
 It was from a man he had never known, once 
 his chosen master, Yarrow. The veteran con 
 queror had turned hermit, producing little of late, 
 fencing himself off from the world. So it hap 
 pened that Victor and he had never met. The 
 message was an expression of his delight in the 
 fine quality of the younger man s work, a wish 
 that they might know each other. He was ill, 
 and, therefore, could not call upon Mr. Hazard. 
 Would not Mr. Hazard waive ceremony, and come 
 to him ? Victor did so immediately. He had 
 long desired such an interview ; it was now 
 brought about in the best possible way, giving 
 promise of pleasure to them both. Instead of 
 that it proved on both sides extremely painful. 
 Victor was shown through a splendid house into 
 a darkened chamber, where the sick man sat, 
 propped up with pillows, tossing and turning 
 restlessly. As he came forward Yarrow s look 
 of welcome changed to one of deep compassion.
 
 138 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " You, too " he murmured, then checked him 
 self, and offered his hand in silence. 
 
 And Victor at first could say nothing. Death 
 was written in the face ; he knew the lines by heart, 
 he had learned them in his own. They talked 
 awhile in broken whispers, each struggling for 
 self-control. It was useless ; the open secret was 
 there ; they could neither mention nor ignore it. 
 So they parted as they had met, silently, with 
 blurred eyes and trembling lips, their sympathy 
 expressed only in a lingering, convulsive clasp of 
 hands. 
 
 A few hours later Victor Hazard paid his seventh 
 and, as it proved, his last visit to Mr. Rose. The 
 signs for the moment were all the same. He lay 
 in the dark, bound hand and foot ; the noise began, 
 the deadly pain followed ; but now, for the first 
 time, the sound defined itself: clearly, it could 
 only be the sharp, continuous rattle of hammers 
 plied by dexterous hands. He woke with a start 
 to find himself alone, holding the flask once more 
 refilled. But the clock burned dimly ; not a single 
 star was left in it ; and the noise, for once, did not 
 cease. He had brought it back with him ; it was 
 there in the house, echoing around him, above, 
 below, at his very feet. He called his host by 
 name. No one answered ; he was, indeed, left 
 quite alone. He found the door and went out 
 into the work-shop. There stood the drawing- 
 board with the tools lying upon it ; another object
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 139 
 
 too that caught his eyes, attracting him, a 
 shining strip of silver, upon which had been en 
 graved two dates, a name. He started, turned 
 faint, and clutched the table. The name was 
 Yarrow. 
 
 He waited there for some time in a kind of 
 stupor, fearing to move, lest at a step he should 
 fall insensible. Meanwhile, the noise went on. 
 He could not endure it ; he must get out into the 
 air. The street was very near, the staircase short ; 
 he knew his way perfectly. With a painful effort, 
 he dragged himself slowly down, supported, as he 
 went, by the partition-wall. Ah ! The noise grew 
 louder, coming from the shop of course. What 
 were they doing there ? He had never seen the 
 place ; it had been black and silent always. What 
 journeymen were busy in it now, at such an hour, 
 hammering, hammering, as though they would 
 wake the dead ? Here was the street-door ; the 
 handle turned, the fresh air revived him. Through 
 the barred shutters at his side there peeped a ray 
 of light. Where light was, he could see. He gave 
 one look, only one. The shop was an undertaker s. 
 The men were driving nails into a coffin. 
 
 He recoiled, shuddering. Something hurt his 
 hand. It was only his precious flask, clinched a 
 shade too tightly. He flung it from him now 
 with all his might. He heard the glass strike the 
 opposite wall and shiver into fragments. Then 
 he staggered away, muttering incoherently, losing
 
 140 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 himself in the night-fog, wandering over London ; 
 but somehow bringing himself out at his own door, 
 beating at it, to be found there by the servants, a 
 stained and draggled heap upon the threshold ; to 
 be told long afterward, that at this very moment 
 the mighty presses of Fleet Street, as they rose 
 and fell in harsh, metallic rhythm, to note the 
 price of corn, the last division of the House, all 
 affairs of b all men, great and small alike, were 
 stamping out with iron feet the life and death of 
 Yarrow. 
 
 That morning Victor Hazard woke delirious, in 
 a raging fever. He rallied, sunk, became gradually 
 weaker, and never left his room again. Doctors 
 consulted over his case, called it hard names, and 
 shook their heads, impotent as Belshazzar s sooth 
 sayers. Through it all his old friend, Dick Pur- 
 kitt, was constant at his bedside. And now at 
 last Victor returned Dick s friendship, confided 
 in him, even to that unfinished romance of early 
 life, the broken round of a ladder leading to the 
 clouds. But one secret he still kept back, he 
 never spoke of Mr. Rose ; never so much as hinted 
 at the Tincture of Success. 
 
 One day Dick found him lying there with a 
 sealed package in his hand, looking at it doubtfully, 
 turning it about with thin, nervous fingers. 
 
 " What is that ? " Dick asked. 
 
 Victor held it up, showing the address of a 
 certain Miss Ashburnham in New York. Under-
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 141 
 
 neath he had written, " After my death to be 
 delivered." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Dick, " now I understand." 
 
 Understand ? What ? " 
 
 Then he was told that often in his delirium he 
 had worried about some letters, undoubtedly these, 
 that were sometimes to be burned, sometimes sent 
 off by the next post. 
 
 " Yes," said Victor, " her letters. I have always 
 kept them so. Burn the package, Dick. I added 
 a line of my own, long ago ; to receive it now 
 might give her pain." 
 
 " Let her have it," Dick replied. " She deserves 
 to suffer, but she won t. You can t hurt her as 
 she hurt you. Send it along." 
 
 " No ; we will burn them." 
 
 And they were burned, unopened. 
 
 It had now become apparent that Victor could 
 not live through the week. Three days later he 
 showed Dick another letter, just received, from 
 Miss Ashburnham. 
 
 It was a long letter, and its real significance lay 
 all between the lines. She had followed his work, 
 had always admired it. She knew he was ill, but 
 not seriously, she hoped and believed. He must 
 surely be destined to a long and happy life. Then, 
 referring to the past, she confessed that she had 
 been much to blame. Would he not forget the 
 wrong she had done him ? Would he not send her 
 a line to say she was forgiven ?
 
 142 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 Without a written word of love, the letter invited 
 a declaration in every syllable. " She thinks it 
 worth while, now, blast her ! " Dick remarked to 
 himself. Like most bachelors of forty-five he had 
 his own private views of woman s gentle nature ; 
 but he waited to see what would come of it, ex 
 erting no undue influence. Victor called for a 
 pen that only scrawled illegibly and slipped from 
 his hand. 
 
 " Let me write," said Dick. 
 
 Victor shook his head. 
 
 " No ; I will not answer it. I have outgrown all 
 that. Even if I lived, I could never love her, never 
 any woman. Burn it, Dick, as we burned the others." 
 
 He looked idly at the flame, while Purkitt stirred 
 it with fiendish satisfaction ; then he dozed away. 
 Dick sat by and watched him. An hour after he 
 woke. 
 
 " Dick," he asked in a hoarse, labored whisper, 
 " how long have I been at it ? " 
 
 " What do you mean, Victor ? At what ? " 
 
 "Success," he answered feebly, "success, I 
 mean." 
 
 " Not quite three years, old man." 
 
 "All that? Nearer, Dick, nearer ; I can t speak 
 up. Tell me, is it real, will it last, will my 
 work live ? " 
 
 " Surely, dear boy, surely. It is great. On my 
 soul, I believe so," said Dick, struggling to keep 
 down the tears.
 
 THE TINCTURE OF SUCCESS. 143 
 
 A smile stole over Victor s face, and he slept 
 awhile longer peacefully. Then he woke for the 
 last time, starting up in bed, wandering. 
 
 " Dick ! " he cried, tugging at his shirt, as though 
 something stifled him. " Dick ! I put my heart 
 into it. See ! " 
 
 He fell back, with the shirt torn open, revealing 
 seven star-shaped scars upon his breast, above the 
 heart already stilled. Dick saw and wondered at 
 them. He never knew that they were the seven 
 stars of Man s Destiny, the mystic symbols of the 
 Rosicrucian brotherhood, and that through them, 
 drop by drop, the first ingredient in the Tincture 
 of Success had been drained away.
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 
 
 I WAS still a young man ( t is twenty years since 
 then) when I first made the journey into Switz 
 erland. And I paraded a fine festival-flower of en 
 thusiasm, which ought to have been immensely 
 gratifying to the jaded senses of older travellers, 
 but which my one companion did his very best to 
 blight, with no success whatever. We were 
 thrown into the close intimacy of travel for little 
 more than a fortnight, and we never have jour 
 neyed together again. But this is due rather to 
 the sundering force of outward circumstances than 
 to our peculiar dissimilarity of sentiment, remark 
 able as that undeniably was. When we meet at 
 rare intervals, we still smile over some half-for 
 gotten incident of that memorable comradeship, 
 we have so little else in common to smile over. 
 For he is gruff and grizzled ; his oldest child is in 
 society, and of all but her he is now more ruth 
 lessly critical than ever. He has his wife to ko-tow 
 before him, ugly old Chinese curio that he is ! 
 while I 
 
 It was at a crowded table d hote in Geneva that 
 fate, one August night, allotted me a chair next to
 
 THE ROCK OF BE RANGER. 145 
 
 Hans Worden, whom I took for a German at first, 
 not on account of his name, which I did not know. 
 He has, in fact, a drop or two of Dutch blood in 
 his veins, but is as thorough-paced an American as 
 any ever shod, and this I soon discovered. I saw 
 too that he was broad-shouldered and bald, with a 
 spike of hair upon his forehead ; that he wore a 
 stiff yellow beard and moustache, clipped into 
 bristles ; that he must be at least ten years my 
 senior, and must measure considerably less than 
 two yards in height, but almost all of that in the 
 girth. His answers were short and somewhat too 
 direct. Though we were alone in a crowd, and I 
 Avas lonely, I did not care for him. But when I, 
 by an awkward accident, projected half my pint of 
 vieux Macon into his portion of the raie au beurre 
 noir, he was unexpectedly civil about this trying 
 circumstance, which he certainly could not have 
 foreseen. On that account I felt bound to him by 
 a tie of gratitude, and accordingly tried to say as 
 little as I could, and to say it in his way. This 
 flattered him, perhaps, for he began to do his share 
 of the talking, and when dinner was over he in 
 vited me to take coffee and fine champagne with 
 him upon the terrace. There, continuing our talk, 
 we found that we had friends in common at home, 
 that we were still alone in the crowd, that we were 
 going the same way on the morrow. The twilight 
 grew murky round our ears, the lighthouse flashed 
 out upon the jetty ; the lake lapped the shore 
 
 10
 
 146 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 gently ; under the wall a wandering Savoyard 
 struck up a plaintive love-song; and in the dark 
 we exchanged the cigar of peace and became fellow- 
 travellers. 
 
 The next day, which seemed interminable, we 
 took the steamer for Chillon. I was oppressively 
 conscious of myself, all the time on guard against 
 the possibility of boring my new acquaintance ; to 
 do that would not be difficult, I felt. He did not 
 bore me, but he hampered me by his indifference 
 to the cool northwesterly breeze, the sunshine, the 
 glistening water. I could not get accustomed to 
 his presence ; he was constantly on my mind, and 
 yet I was lonelier than I should have been without 
 him. I did not demand exciting incidents ; I found 
 room for diversion in the mere sight of these new 
 shores. But here, at my back, hung my Old Man 
 of this inland Sea, who would neither divert him 
 self nor let me be diverted. 
 
 At Chillon I let myself go, and enjoyed things in 
 my own way, which was not at all like his ; but 
 he was not bored, and seeing this I took heart and 
 found his attitude amusing. The oubliettes and 
 cells of the condemned he inspected gravely, but 
 with a shrug of the shoulders. A certain torture- 
 post, that bore marks of heated iron, looked, he 
 said, as if it had been freshly roasted over night 
 for our especial benefit ; and this I could not deny. 
 Concerning Bonnivard he was reticent and scepti 
 cal, but two or three of the famous names carved
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 147 
 
 in the dungeon pillar he read aloud with a faint 
 show of interest. Just above Lord Byron s, one of 
 our own nation, a female sculptor, or, as she would 
 say, a sculptress, had recorded herself in letters an 
 inch long. The name, newly cut, had not hard 
 ened in the limestone, and with the stick he car 
 ried Worden quietly obliterated it. One swift 
 stroke of the ferule, and it was gone. Here, for 
 the first time, we were in perfect sympathy. From 
 that moment I knew we should get on. 
 
 And so we did admirably. Worden took the lead 
 and made the pace, while I followed, frequently 
 out of step, but always within hailing distance. 
 That night we passed in Vevey at the famous hos 
 telry of the Three Crowns, well termed grandiose 
 by the fluent author of the guide-book. This 
 straightforward work, by the way, was Worden s 
 pet aversion, the scarlet of its covers made his 
 eyes flash fire like a bull s ; in vain I protested that 
 much wisdom lay between them, and that we were 
 ignorant. I might keep it by me, he said, might 
 even quote from it, if I chose, he could not pre 
 vent that ; but it must never be flaunted about in 
 his presence. We were not tourists, " doing " things 
 from a mistaken sense of duty ; we were moving 
 this way and the other way, as our souls incited us, 
 for pleasure only ; God willing, without formulas. 
 
 For our pleasure, therefore, we descended at the 
 Three Crowns ; walked out toward a glowing sun 
 set, and turning, saw its colors die away in the
 
 148 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 distant peak of the Dent du Midi ; while just across 
 the lake, from behind the crags of Meillerie, a 
 storm-cloud raised its head, glaring and growling 
 fitfully like some monstrous chimera of the moun 
 tains. Then the unexpected happened, and we 
 encountered a wonderful Russian princess of lit 
 erary tendencies, who greeted Worden heartily. 
 "What! Not married yet?" she inquired. And 
 upon his answer in the negative, we were given the 
 freedom of her salon, a marvel of barbaric luxury, 
 overhanging the lake, where we took coffee and 
 liqueurs, and smoked, all three ; while she told tales 
 of obvious point in many languages, and deplored 
 our early departure. 
 
 " I came here for a month," she said, " and lo, I 
 have stayed three years. There is no place like it 
 in all Europe. But to-morrow you will leave me." 
 And when we assured her that our one desire was 
 to be always there with her, but that she sighed, 
 and said all men were of the brutes and cruel. 
 One might have done worse than to accept her 
 lotus-branch thus invitingly extended ; but as Wor 
 den remarked afterward, one usually does worse, 
 somehow, on this side of the planet. 
 
 " What ! Not married yet ? " The woman of 
 the world had asked it with a note of intention 
 that kept recurring to me. Did he want to marry, 
 then? Was that the clew to his incapacity for 
 enjoyment, his pre-occupation, his feverish desire 
 to push on for pleasure to see all, and think
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 149 
 
 of nothing ? Pleasure, indeed ! Could he see any 
 thing as I saw it ? Could he dismiss from his 
 mind the thought I did not know ? Was he not 
 really blind with some old pain, and brooding 
 always upon that ? The fancy stole into my brain 
 and would not out of it. Habet! The princess 
 knew what she was talking about. A woman has 
 jilted him ; he is trying to forget her. 
 
 His face and figure had a wofully comic cast in 
 them. He was not the man to command affection 
 at a moment s notice ; not at all the kind of lover 
 that I, for instance, would make if my time ever 
 came. But in spite of that, perhaps because of 
 it, my interest in him deepened wonderfully. The 
 quenchless spirit of opposition, that I laughed at, 
 became charged with pathos now. I understood 
 his imperfect sympathy with the landscape, his 
 contempt for the beautiful, even among women, 
 all of whom he affected to regard as of a race apart, 
 inferior to our own. Evidently this was a case of 
 acute mental strabismus, his mind s eye, turning 
 inward and not outward, caught but a poor half- 
 light, distorting everything. 
 
 Constant and severe as his pangs must have been, 
 they were not permitted to impair his appetite. 
 We put up, accordingly, for our next mid-day meal 
 at the queer old town of Saint Maurice, in the 
 Rhone valley, where, after our first word or two, 
 the smiling peasant-maiden of the inn treated us 
 with great deference, yet with unaccountable famil-
 
 150 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 iarity. Never was a simple second breakfast served 
 with such circumstance, with such chattering about 
 each dish as it was set down. 
 
 "For whom does she take us?" I asked. "I 
 told her in my best accents that we were voyaging 
 to Chamouni from the Three Crowns." 
 
 "For princes of the blood, perhaps," said Wor- 
 den. " Eat your gruyere with a good conscience. 
 If need be, I will assume the role." 
 
 He had hardly spoken when to us entered the 
 landlord, carrying a bottle of choice wine, which he 
 pressed upon our acceptance. Without knowing 
 why, we were forced to drink his health, and with 
 much bowing and scraping he pledged us, in return, 
 enduring prosperity. 
 
 " And since it appears," he added, " that these 
 gentlemen travel onward in the service of the 
 Three Crowns " Thereupon, drawing from his 
 pocket a handful of the hotel cards, he begged the 
 gentlemen to honor him by distributing these in 
 his favor along their road. 
 
 My lips parted for a shout of derision, but Wor- 
 den silenced me with a look. Quietly accepting the 
 situation and the cards likewise, he told our host 
 that we would do all in our power to oblige him. 
 The sharp-eyed Switzer fairly beamed ; he had 
 known intuitively that we were men of much dis 
 tinction ; but when informed by his servant that 
 the first and second butler of the famous Three 
 Crowns chose to sustain themselves awhile with
 
 THE ROCK OF BE RANGER. 151 
 
 him in a course of recreation, he had felt that his 
 best would be all too poor and crude for palates of 
 such refinement ; and he prayed our indulgence, 
 since he was thus taken unawares. Of course the 
 stupid girl had either misinterpreted my statement 
 or had wilfully embellished it. And here stood 
 Worden nodding assent to all this with the utmost 
 tranquillity. I could not control my features, and 
 left the room abruptly for space to laugh in. 
 
 Upon the rough pavement before the door lay 
 stretched a huge dog of Saint Bernard, snapping at 
 the flies, and round the corner of the house I saw 
 our coachman and another of his class consorting 
 with the foolish, tittering maid ; otherwise the street 
 was vacant. Absurdly narrow and primitive, it 
 was, nevertheless, the main thoroughfare of the 
 town. Halfway down the opposite side a rival 
 hotel displayed its sign of blue and gold. " We 
 should have gone there," I thought ; " it is the 
 better house of the two." The guide-book, to which 
 I now tardily referred, confirmed me in this im 
 pression. Just then the little group of Swiss broke 
 up, the strange man lounging off to the stable-yard 
 of the other establishment, out of which he pres 
 ently reappeared, this time on the box of a well- 
 appointed travelling-carriage that drew up at the 
 opposite door. Wraps were stored away in front, 
 trunks were strapped behind ; a handsome old 
 fellow with gray hair took his place upon the back 
 seat; the bustle subsided, the street was still again;
 
 152 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 but the old man waited on, impatiently glancing up 
 at one of the windows. 
 
 " Yes, Papa, I am coming," called down to him 
 in English a silvery voice. And in a moment 
 more the daughter came. The coachman shouted, 
 cracked his whip ; the horses tossed their heads as 
 they dashed by me. All were gone in a flash along 
 the road we had just passed over, not the one we 
 were to follow. The merest glimpse was allowed 
 me of a pretty face half-veiled, a pair of brown eyes 
 bent on me coquettishly, as I could not help believ 
 ing ; but that glimpse I caught. 
 
 " Atrocious chance ! " I muttered. " If we had 
 gone to the other house ; if they had only turned 
 our way ! " 
 
 Worden now appeared, with the jovial landlord 
 still in attendance to speed our departure by strong 
 injunctions to the driver for our safe-conduct and 
 by renewed expressions of good will toward us. 
 
 " Did you undeceive him ? " I asked when we 
 also were well out of the town, but in the wrong 
 direction. 
 
 " No," said Worden. " Why spoil the joke, and 
 make the worthy man uncomfortable ? He actually 
 declined, at first, to give me a bill for our break 
 fast. But I told him it was not our habit to de 
 mand such favors. Why did you take yourself 
 off?" 
 
 " For a pair of bright eyes, Monsieur the Butler- 
 in-chief," I answered. Looking back down the
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 153 
 
 valley as I spoke, I caught sight of the other car 
 riage afar off, a mere speck upon the Villeneuve 
 road. " And after the eyes I flung my heart ; see, 
 it is there." 
 
 Then I informed him in a word that we should 
 have gone to the other hotel, and why. But he 
 congratulated himself upon our fortunate escape. 
 
 " Some school-girl in vacation," he continued. 
 "A bundle of American nerves, as your description 
 proves, given to sheep s-eyes and hysterics. Bah! 
 Did you notice the young person who waited upon 
 us just now at the inn ? Admirably robust." 
 
 That afternoon he did amiably enough all that 
 was expected of him, alighting for a nearer view of 
 the lovely waterfall with an unspeakable name, 
 and in the Gorge du Trient following up the 
 wooden gallery to its very end. At both places he 
 amused himself by sticking his hotel cards into 
 every crevice of rock he could find. 
 
 " To whom it may concern," he explained. " Was 
 I not asked to distribute them along the road ? " 
 
 Then observing the look of satisfaction on the 
 face of the coachman, who posed as our guide to 
 all the wonders of the wayside, Worden added, 
 
 " The end is not yet. We shall reap our reward 
 for this, as you will see." 
 
 Oddly enough, we did so almost immediately. 
 For upon arriving at Martigny we found the hotel 
 crowded to overflowing. It appeared for a mo 
 ment as if we must sleep under the stars. But the
 
 154 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 coachman whispered to the portier, the portier to 
 the chef de bureau ; and behold, we obtained a gem 
 of a salon with two alcoves, upon the main floor 
 fronting the prospect. 
 
 " We are powers in the land ! " cried Worden, 
 the deceiver. " I have mastered the art of European 
 travel. I am a butler evermore." 
 
 " A false position may have its inconveniences," 
 I suggested. 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense ! " he retorted. " I tell you 
 we are kings ! " 
 
 That night our coachman, Victor, who knew the 
 mountains, begged for the privilege of guiding us 
 across them. We could ride the horses, he said ; 
 and for the luggage, there was the sweetest of joy 
 ous little mules, eager for employment, to be had 
 for a song. Of course we closed with him at once. 
 
 " There, you see," said Worden ; " we carry all 
 before us, even to the mules." 
 
 I could only hope meekly that good would come 
 of it. So w r e got up with the sun, and went on, bag 
 and baggage, horse and mule and foot, over the pass 
 of the Tete-Noire, a route " common-hackneyed 
 in the eyes of men," as my companion took great 
 pains to tell me. But what of that ? I had not 
 seen it, nor had he. Was ever cynic argument so 
 weak ? Must we give up the Rhine, then, because 
 poets for ages have loved to call it blue, when it 
 wears, in fact, the yellowish-green hues of jade ? 
 Has the photograph solved the riddle of the Sphinx ;
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 155 
 
 and is she, from over-scrutiny, no more inscrutable ? 
 Shall we hunt for new sensations in the heart of 
 Ethiopia and the squalid suburbs of great cities ? 
 No, thank Heaven ! The Old World s face is not 
 worn out so easily by vulgar eyes. The Tete-Noire 
 was my first mountain-pass, and it will always be my 
 best one. The view of the winding Rhone from the 
 height of the Forclaz still remains to me a marvel ; 
 and the dark wilderness of fir-trees along the sharp 
 descent to the hidden torrent of the Eau Noire 
 overshadows my remembrance, as though it were 
 the selva oscura of the " Inferno." Great sheets 
 of mist enveloped us there that day. The wind 
 howled, the rain beat down ; but, save only the 
 mule who was no longer joyous, we jogged on 
 merrily. 
 
 " Behold ! " cried Victor, pointing with his staff 
 to a boundary-stone by the roadside ; " La France ! " 
 And out of a chest of appalling depth he intoned 
 the Marseillaise. So with a song on our lips we 
 came down into Savoy ; and all around us, but in 
 visible through the driving mist, lay the vale of 
 Chamouni. 
 
 Suddenly, high above me, on my left, the nearer 
 clouds parted for an instant and disclosed an 
 enormous mass of heaped-up crystals, pale-blue in 
 color, towering into space and ending there ab 
 ruptly, like the broken arch of a rainbow. I could 
 not trust my eyes, and thought the light had 
 played some trick upon them.
 
 156 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " Look there ! " I called to Victor. " Do you see 
 that ? " 
 
 " Does not Monsieur know ? " he answered calmly. 
 " It is the glacier of Argcntiere." 
 
 The fog swept back, and it was gone. It had 
 seemed as far removed from earth as the summer- 
 cloud that melts before one s eyes never to re- 
 assume its former shape, unreal as a vision. I was 
 convinced that I should never find that light again 
 in Argentiere or any other glacier. And, indeed, 
 none has ever looked to me as that did then. 
 
 Night overtook us ; the storm grew fiercer. We 
 could hardly see our horses heads ; we were soaked 
 to the skin. But the village lights shone larger and 
 brighter, and before long we plunged in among 
 them, found our hotel, and steamed before a roaring 
 fire. The old comedy of whispers went on between 
 Victor and our last new landlord, who immediately 
 transferred us to luxurious quarters befitting the 
 state we had again tacitly assumed. Worden s eyes 
 twinkled as he pulled from his pocket various cling 
 ing masses of wet pasteboard, reduced almost to 
 their original pulp by the penetrating rain. 
 
 " May Saint Boniface, patron of hotels, grant me 
 his forgiveness ! I quite forgot them." 
 
 " You did your duty by them yesterday, Heaven 
 knows," said I. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," he returned. " These were 
 given to me this morning. They are the hotel 
 cards of Martigny."
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 157 
 
 " Then I, for one, will wear a wine-label no 
 longer. I shall go down immediately and disclose 
 the whole fraudulent business to the gentlemanly 
 proprietor." 
 
 " And lose these rooms ! " cried Worden, catch 
 ing me by the arm. " Are you mad ? Leave 
 everything to me. I 11 discuss all the vintages of 
 the country with them, if necessary. Hold your 
 tongue, and let the innocent fraud go on. It hurts 
 nobody ; besides I like it." 
 
 He had his way. Nothing was said, and we 
 remained marked men and honored. 
 
 The next sun came blazing up into a cloudless 
 sky, rousing me at an early hour and drawing me 
 out upon the balcony, while I was still clothed in 
 picturesqueness. With the silent wonder of youth 
 I beheld the narrow, level meadows and the brawl 
 ing Arve, the great brown crags rising abruptly 
 on either side through their green fringes to snow- 
 fields of dazzling whiteness, leading up at last to 
 one clear summit whiter than them all. I needed 
 no guide to tell me which among these peaks was 
 royal. There he sat with his guards around him, 
 high on his immutable throne, splendid as a god. 
 I had slept for hours at his feet in the darkness of 
 ignorance. Now I knew all upon the instant, as if 
 at the touch of an enchanter s wand. 
 
 I went along the balcony and startled Worden 
 out of a sound sleep. Just as he was, I dragged 
 him to the window.
 
 158 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " Well, what of it ? " he said, rubbing his eyes. 
 
 " The Mont Blanc ! " I stammered. 
 
 He yawned audibly. " Disappointing, is n t it ? 
 I have seen more snow than that in Madison 
 Square." 
 
 " Good-by," I said, making for the balcony. " I 
 give you up." 
 
 " Wait a bit. What time is it ? " 
 
 " Seven o clock." 
 
 " Why on earth did you wake me ? I was hav 
 ing such a superior dream ; I shall never know the 
 end of it now. No matter ; coffee with you in just 
 two hours." And he went to bed again. 
 
 What could be done with such dull eyes as these ? 
 Nothing, I concluded, but religiously to let them 
 alone. The scheme worked to perfection. Upon 
 coming in that morning from my first solitary 
 stroll, I found Worden pacing his room furiously. 
 Where had I been ? Why had I crawled off by 
 myself ? If there was anything to see, he wanted 
 to see it. For what else had I brought him ? I 
 aped humility, proposing that we should take shares 
 forthwith in one of the village guides, and explore 
 the neighborhood exhaustively and systematically. 
 There fell to our lot, as it happened, a friend of 
 Victor, who on departing that day for his native 
 pastures assured us that we should find the guide 
 Franz a good comrade, very sure of foot ; and so 
 he proved. I caught a sharp attack of the climbing 
 fever, which communicated itself in a milder form
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 159 
 
 to Worden; though I could not help suspecting 
 that his interest, such as it was, in our daily life 
 arose less from my influence than from the con 
 tents of a certain telegraphic message that came to 
 him, as it were, out of a clear sky. What infor 
 mation it gave I had no means of knowing, but I 
 could see that it was of a soothing nature. 
 
 As it now appeared, that he desired to go where 
 I went, he w r as dragged up the Fldgere and down 
 the BreVent ; over the Mer de Glace, and under it 
 to the crypt-like source of the Arveiron ; through 
 half the long list of courses ordinaires, treating 
 everything lightly,, turning all he could into ridi 
 cule ; and if nothing was left him but to admire, un 
 demonstrative. When I asked why feelings were 
 given him never to be expressed, he replied that 
 since I expressed mine so well, competition would 
 be useless ; it seemed to him, sometimes, that I 
 had feelings enough for two. And with this shaft 
 of sarcasm I was for the time silenced, if not 
 convinced. 
 
 It was pleasant to see him perched on the wiry 
 apex of a mule, following my lead now, up many a 
 zigzag bridle-path, along the verge of many a pre 
 cipice ; always imperturbable, even when the beast 
 who bore him craned its neck toward some scrubby 
 thistle-blossom a yard or two down the awful gulf. 
 He consented, though reluctantly, to have his shoes 
 spiked when I inclined to glaciers. But upon one 
 point neither I nor Franz could shake his strong
 
 160 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 opinion. He pronounced the common mountain- 
 staff, or alpenstock, tipped with goat-horn and 
 smoothly rounded to the hand, a foolish and de 
 testable encumbrance, chiefly, I think, because cus 
 tom makes it also an Alpine souvenir, by branding 
 it with names and other data in a decorative spiral. 
 Every village cobbler has his set of iron type ready 
 for heating and stamping at a small fee. In Cha- 
 mouni our windows commanded that functionary s 
 little shop, and the line of tourists constantly 
 closing in at his door to have their exploits indeli 
 bly recorded. This exhibition of innocent weakness 
 always stirred Worden to wrath. 
 
 " A melancholy sight ! " he said once. " The 
 world depresses me hourly more and more. Look 
 at that string of people, every mother s son and 
 daughter in it a fool, if not a liar ! For, of course, 
 all the feats in Switzerland, whether performed or 
 not, are duly chronicled ; and each stick that comes 
 goes home with Aiguille Verte burned into it, or 
 I m a Dutchman ! " 
 
 " The Aiguille Verte is inaccessible," I ventured 
 to remonstrate. 
 
 " But the letters of the alphabet are not, my boy. 
 They may be bought for one centime apiece, as I 
 am informed ; and that wretched shoemaker will 
 die a millionnaire through the folly of your coun 
 trymen." 
 
 " Let the ill wind blow him good," said I. " It 
 does no harm to you."
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 161 
 
 " Yes ; it does. It strokes me the wrong way ; it 
 ruffles my sweet temper. See that sexless thing 
 with a veil around its head. Is it a man or 
 a woman ? Neither ; it s an American tourist, 
 personally conducted. Pah ! Let us do the 
 Aiguille Verte to-morrow, if only to escape from 
 such monstrosities." 
 
 The morrow for that rash attempt never came, 
 though we prolonged our stay in Chamouni, on 
 the whole, no worse a place than any other, Wor- 
 dcn said ; but this admission, be it noted, was 
 made after the receipt of a second mysterious tele 
 gram. We had been there ten days before I was left 
 alone again. All that morning rain had threatened; 
 the afternoon promised to be clear, and I therefore 
 suggested a climb along the Glacier des Bossons to 
 its attendant cascade. Wordcn said he was sleepy, 
 and would rather dream about it ; but I must go, 
 that he might know the place through my emotions 
 afterward. I consequently set out with Franz, on 
 foot, and took the walk so leisurely that when we 
 came back into the high-ror.d, a mile below the 
 village, the sun was already out of sight. The 
 afternoon had climbed too, and had outstripped us ; 
 but to follow it we needed only to lift our eyes, for 
 overhead the peaks still shone, keeping night at 
 bay a little longer. There was not the smallest 
 hurry, and I stopped first to examine a rough way 
 side shrine with its glazed portrait of the Madonna, 
 then to drink from a spring that trickled over 
 
 11
 
 162 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 some mossy rocks near by. Franz pulled out 
 his pipe. 
 
 " It is not late," said I. " Let us sit here and 
 smoke comfortably. Hark, I hear horses. Is that 
 the diligence from Geneva ? " 
 
 "No," said Franz, after cocking his head to 
 listen. " That is not the diligence." 
 
 The click of the hoofs drew rapidly nearer. We 
 watched curiously a turn of the road, round which 
 in a few moments the travellers must reveal them 
 selves. Suddenly the sound stopped. Then we 
 heard voices raised in discussion. Apparently the 
 strangers had come to grief, and were bewailing it 
 in at least two languages. My ear detected^ the 
 confusion of tongues, but not the words. 
 
 Franz caught up his ice-axe and coil of rope. 
 
 " An accident ! " he cried dramatically. " To 
 the rescue ! " It proved to be no more than a bro 
 ken trace. Fortune ! No more, and very much 
 more. For here were the self-same father and 
 daughter who had been whirled away from me out 
 of Saint Maurice. He did not recognize me at 
 first ; in such a case the father never docs. But 
 the girl s cheeks colored a little when our eyes met. 
 She knew instantly that they had met before, and 
 she remembered where. 
 
 While Franz and the coachman mended the 
 harness, the old man thanked me for our timely aid. 
 He had seen my face, he thought, but could not tell 
 when.
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 163 
 
 " Ten days ago," I explained ; " in the Rhone 
 valley." 
 
 " At Saint Maurice, Papa ; " his daughter added. 
 
 " Oh, to be sure," said he, with a smile. " You 
 must have come the other way." 
 
 " Yes," I answered, silently wondering why the 
 fact should afford him any amusement. An awk 
 ward pause followed, during which I read the 
 words painted on one of the trunks : HARGRAVE, 
 NEW YORK. Their nationality would thus have 
 been established, had any doubt of it existed in my 
 mind. The man s features were of a good Ameri 
 can type ; the fashion of his gray beard and a scar 
 upon his forehead gave him a martial look. " A 
 veteran of the last war ! " I thought. " Colonel, 
 perhaps, or General General Hargrave ! " The 
 girl was very like him, with brown hair and eyes, 
 and a very clear complexion ; an imperious and 
 fascinating little beauty of one or two seasons, 
 not a school-girl. She, of course, was Miss Har 
 grave, though it appeared that I was not to be told 
 this formally. Well, introduction was a bore ; I 
 should make no move in its direction. I knew 
 her name, what did mine matter ? 
 
 " Jump in, Letty ! " said the old soldier, " and 
 tell the man to walk his horses. The village is 
 very near, and I sha n t run any risks. Won t you 
 take the other seat?" he asked, turning to me. 
 
 I excused myself. I would go with them, but on 
 foot.
 
 164 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 Upon further talk, as we proceeded, I thought 
 the acquaintance was, in a certain way, too infor 
 mal. They were evidently trying to be civil, but 
 the effort was always apparent, and at times my 
 presence seemed to be ignored. It was too late 
 for me to drop behind ; I could only keep on 
 with them, and do my best to seem at ease. Find 
 ing that they had never been in Chamouni, 1 
 pointed out its wonders, calling the mountain-tops 
 by their names familiarly. Miss Hargrave lis 
 tened and admired, but with some absence of mind. 
 Suddenly she asked me if there were many Amer 
 icans at the hotels. 
 
 Her father gave a dry cough, as if to emphasize 
 her words or his own. " Do you expect to find 
 anybody," he asked, " anybody whom you know?" 
 
 She shook her head, and brought the talk direct 
 ly back again to the view. 
 
 " It is finer than all the rest," she said, " but we 
 are too far below it ; I want to climb up, up, 
 away from people, American people, I mean." 
 
 This speech struck me as most discourteous 
 under the circumstances, and for a moment I was 
 confounded by it. Did she take me for some out 
 landish foreigner ? Or, worse than that, was I a 
 nobody, to be forgotten, as well as ignored ? Her 
 words had made her father smile unconsciously. 
 
 " Why do you always laugh, Papa ? " she asked. 
 
 " I was n t laughing," he replied, becoming pre- 
 ternaturally solemn at once. But I saw the smile
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 165 
 
 getting the better of him the moment her attention 
 was diverted. 
 
 " Are the hotels good ? " she inquired of me. 
 
 I was not forgotten then. Her rudeness was 
 unintentional of course ; to her I was a foreigner. 
 How could I have doubted it ? The joke was capi 
 tal ; but what kind of foreigner, I wondered. 
 
 " Oh, yes," I returned, " as hotels go. They are 
 not grandiose, not like the Three Crowns." 
 
 " Naturally not," she said with what seemed to 
 me a tinge of contempt in her tone. Then, more 
 graciously, " We were there a day or two ago. 
 Papa calls it the finest hotel in the world." 
 
 " Particularly as to its service," her father added, 
 " and to its wines." 
 
 It was my turn to laugh now, as I did most 
 heartily. Then, remembering that they were out 
 of the joke, I prepared to explain it. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," I began ; " the fact is that 
 I that we " But at that moment the report 
 of a cannon startled us all. We were just entering 
 the village, where the gun had been fired in honor 
 of the latest successful ascension of the summit. 
 The horses made a forward plunge, whisked wildly 
 round the corner, and were then brought up quietly 
 enough before the door of a small hotel remote 
 from Worden s and mine. I reached it almost at 
 the same moment, breathless, but in time to help 
 Miss Hargrave down. She permitted this small 
 courtesy, and acknowledging it by a slight inclina-
 
 166 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 tion of the head, without so much as a look she 
 swept by me into the house. Her father, follow 
 ing, stopped and turned to me. 
 
 " We are grateful to you for your kindness," he 
 said. " I shall hope to see you again one of these 
 days in Vevey." And he was gone. 
 
 In Vevey ? Why not in Tokio, or in Khartoum ? 
 
 In Vevey ? Suddenly a light broke in upon me. 
 Reviewing, bit by bit, our fragmentary talk, its con 
 straint was all accounted for. Misinformed at our 
 first meeting through their coachman s gossip, they 
 had taken me for a servant. My own words, as 
 chance willed it, far from disproving this, had 
 strengthened the case against me. To Miss Letty 
 Hargrave I was no more, no less than the second 
 butler of the Three Crowns. 
 
 I posted back to Worden in a rage, and hastily 
 told him the story. His delight was immeasurable. 
 
 " After all you re not unlike one. It s delicious." 
 
 " I can t agree with you." 
 
 " Why on earth should you care a copper ? You 
 will never see these people any more. By the way, 
 who are they?" 
 
 " The Hargraves, father and daughter." 
 
 " The Hargraves ! " Then there was a pause, so 
 long that I looked up ; but he only drummed upon 
 the table and added, " Ah ! indeed." 
 
 " Did you ever hear of them ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes ; I have heard of them." 
 
 " Is the old man a general ? "
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 167 
 
 " General, no ! He served for a week or so in 
 the Northern army, as a major at the most. Yes, 
 that s it, Major Hargrave." 
 
 " What else can you tell me ? " 
 
 " Very little. He s an idle old beggar, living on 
 his means. His house has a high stoop and a 
 brown-stone front. Do you want the number of 
 the street ? I have n t it by me ; but as it s a street 
 in New York we may be sure that it has one. The 
 daughter, well, you ve seen her." 
 
 I sighed, then laughed. My position in the 
 matter was somewhat ludicrous. 
 
 " I can t say much for Miss Hargrave s discern 
 ment," said I. 
 
 " Don t be harsh with her. At night all cats are 
 gray. Had you made now that little speech about 
 your heart " 
 
 " What speech ? " 
 
 " Why, you flung it after her down the Ville- 
 neuve road, your heart, I mean, how many days 
 ago?" 
 
 " Pish ! " I cried impatiently. " She s pretty, 
 but she s well obtuse." 
 
 " Good honest talk ! " said Worden. " Stick to 
 it. While you have been masquerading for her 
 benefit, I have been devising means to make your 
 last impressions of Chamouni agreeable. Listen, 
 and forget her. One woman will be as good as 
 another or as bad when you come to my age." 
 
 " She is forgotten. Go on, patriarch ! "
 
 168 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 With all the contemptible ardor of a tourist, 
 "Wordcn, in my absence, had actually planned an 
 expedition, and a long one, to a rock-bound slope, 
 high up among the glaciers, called the Jardin. 
 
 " It will take us ten hours, or twelve, at most," 
 said he. 
 
 "An all day s journey, and on foot," I an 
 swered doubtfully. " Where is the Jardin ? " 
 
 He found it impossible to tell me in words, but 
 taking from one of his pockets a scrap of paper he 
 made upon that a rough diagram of the spot and 
 its approaches. 
 
 " It will be a hard pull," I objected. 
 
 " Nonsense. Women do it frequently, I am told. 
 Where is your enthusiasm ? " 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say that I had opposed 
 his scheme from diplomatic motives only, to avoid 
 bearing the burden of it in case things went wrong. 
 It was accordingly arranged that, if the weather 
 were fine, we should attempt the excursion on the 
 following day at an early hour. Upon going to 
 bed that night, I found in my pocket Worden s 
 diagram, which I had unconsciously carried off. 
 As I studied for a moment the blurred lines of his 
 drawing, I noticed a peculiar tint in the paper, and 
 turned it over, wondering how he came by it. On 
 the reverse was written : 
 
 Don t go yet. 
 
 Olga Andr^evna.
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 169 
 
 I perceived then that I held in my hand a part 
 of one of Worden s pale-blue telegrams, an im 
 portant part, since it bore the sender s name, which 
 was that of our old acquaintance the Russian 
 princess. 
 
 " Oho ! " thought I, as I wrapped the drapery 
 of my couch about me. " Monsieur the butler-in- 
 chief is himself a diplomatist. It suits him to stay 
 on a little longer ; and to lull my suspicions, to 
 keep me in good humor he has racked his brains. 
 The mountain has labored and brought forth its 
 mouse. Worden has invented the Jardin." 
 
 But neither in the pleasant dreams to which I 
 then lay down, nor in my subsequent waking hours 
 could I conceive why the Princess Olga should wish 
 at this particular moment to detain him, nor why 
 he, who commonly chafed at all restraint like a 
 stubborn horse, should now submit to be detained. 
 Could it be that she ? No, the princess had a 
 husband somewhere, I believed, an ill-favored 
 thing, as Touchstone puts it, but her own. And 
 there had been no semblance of a sheep s-eye, how 
 ever faint, on her part or on Worden s. 
 
 The next day and the next it poured in torrents. 
 Of course we stayed at home ; Worden refusing to 
 put even so much as his nose out of doors. We 
 devoted ourselves to chess, and I was checkmated 
 so many times in succession that Worden inquired 
 satirically if I would not prefer to try some game 
 that I knew how to play. Then he was beaten
 
 170 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 badly, and while my spirits rose he shut up the board 
 and said it was stupid sport after all. Your fine 
 player at anything, one observes, must always win. 
 
 Toward the close of the second day I went out 
 for a lonely walk in the rain ; but the storin was 
 really over. Broken patches of cloud went scurry 
 ing by, revealing rosy light behind them. Some 
 where at a lower level of the world there was a 
 sunset. 
 
 " To-morrow will be marvellous," said Franz, 
 when I returned, splashed with mud from head to 
 foot. " One day in a thousand ! " 
 
 " To-morrow, then, the Jardin ! " I replied. 
 
 " Did you meet anybody in your walk ? " de 
 manded Worden. 
 
 " No one," said I ; " not even the Hargraves." 
 
 " Not even is good," he retorted. " I don t 
 trust you out of sight. To-morrow, perhaps, you 11 
 be engaged to her." 
 
 " Was it for that," I asked, " that you invented 
 the Jardin ? " He looked at me sharply. I think 
 he knew that I meant more than my words did ; 
 but he pursued the subject no farther. 
 
 The dawn was cloudless as the Swiss had pre 
 dicted. Though we were up betimes, the peaks got 
 the start of us, lifting sublimely above the lingering 
 night their fresh, unblemished faces. The valley, 
 still asleep, lay dark and cold, chilling us with 
 heavy breaths of vapor. We three seemed to be 
 the only human creatures stirring in it. But the
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 171 
 
 Arve was awake and boisterous ; and everywhere 
 we heard the song of birds. Halfway up the Mon- 
 tanvert we met the perfect day, and watched it 
 stride down below us to greet the meadows and 
 the chalets, one by one. Then, coming out upon 
 the shore of the Mer de Glace, we turned from the 
 beaten track that leads straight across its frozen 
 waves ; and following the mountain crest for some 
 distance, we descended to the glacier by means of 
 Les Ponts, a series of small ledges, each of which 
 affords a foothold with little room to spare. This 
 passage, though not dangerous, absorbs one s 
 thought ; here, in one of his chamois-leaps, Worden 
 contrived to break his colored eye-glasses, inform 
 ing us of the mishap profanely. His loss was some 
 what serious, for in spite of all that Franz could 
 urge, he had refused to wear a veil ; and the ice- 
 glare already dazzled us. He would have leisure 
 for repentance, but I was too busy in crossing the 
 ugly crevasse below him to tell him so. In a few 
 minutes more we had passed the one small peril of 
 our journey, and our course stretched away before 
 us up the central portion of the glacier, over a field 
 of ice almost unbroken. 
 
 We walked on toward the heart of this vast soli 
 tude, where man finds himself swiftly dwarfed into 
 insignificance by the sight of Nature at her fiercest 
 and grandest, shut in on all sides by an insur 
 mountable barrier, the splintered points of the 
 Aiguilles. No two are alike, and all are terrible.
 
 172 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 Their deep ravines overflow with jagged ice pressing 
 forward into the field, and their shining surfaces of 
 rock lead down to instant death upon their own 
 fragments, the high, loose walls of the moraines. 
 The ice beneath assumes strange shapes, now 
 regular, as if a skilful hand had formed them, now 
 distorted and unnatural, more fantastic than bar 
 barism itself. There is no roundness, no softness 
 of vegetation. It is a land of sharpness, angular 
 ity, cold and fearful ; except for its color, like 
 a landscape in the moon. But the colors are of 
 startling beauty. In this shallow glacial pool 
 lurks a transparent, vivid green, peculiarly its own. 
 And those well-like shafts near by, as yet unsounded 
 by any scientific plummet, sink into a blue deeper 
 and clearer than that we call the blue of heaven. 
 The lustrous rocky pinnacles have been well com 
 pared to spikes of metal, once molten and suddenly 
 congealed. All things here seem to be of marble 
 or of copper, with all the cunning processes of 
 alchemy at work in them. 
 
 " Beware of the moulins I " cried Franz, pointing 
 toward a small hole down which a surface rivulet 
 went roaring away, drowning itself in savage music. 
 " They are dangerous ; one would not desire to step 
 into them." Just then we heard a sharper sound, 
 breaking into a rattle, dying off in reverberations 
 like a peal of thunder. " An avalanche ! " ex 
 plained the guide. "Look! Another!" Far up 
 a distant mountain-side we saw a faint trail of icy
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 173 
 
 smoke, moving so slowly that Wordcn had time to 
 turn the field-glass which he carried full upon it. 
 A minute later came the noise, prolonged as before, 
 echoing and re-echoing. 
 
 " That is fine ! " said Worden, under his breath. 
 So far as I know this was the only word of unquali 
 fied approval that he wasted upon Switzerland. 
 We had come, indeed, into an atmosphere of 
 exhilaration. 
 
 Nevertheless, the old contest of the wind and 
 the sun went on around us ; and the sun got the 
 better of it, precisely as he did in ^Esop s fable. 
 His mighty blaze tried more than one of our mor 
 tal senses. But when I offered compassionately a 
 strip of my veil to Worden, he scorned it as though 
 it had been Cupid s blinder. He took this occasion, 
 moreover, for a fling at my alpenstock, of which, 
 thus far, I had found little need. Nothing should 
 ever induce him to brandish this ornamental 
 weapon. Did I not feel myself to be a model ex 
 cursionist, got up for show ? What had I done 
 with my personal conductor and my ninety-nine 
 enrolled companions ? Franz inquired what mon 
 sieur was saying, and when I told him, he only 
 laughed discreetly, and called Worden un gros 
 farceur. 
 
 But when we left the ice, and toiled up the yield 
 ing granite masses of a steep and treacherous 
 moraine, the use of the bdton became at once ap 
 parent. Worden went slipping about, making all
 
 174 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 his progress laboriously. At last he fell, and after 
 that he suffered Franz to lend him a hand at the 
 difficult places. Aided by my lighter weight, even 
 more than by my staff, I could have distanced them 
 easily, but purposely lagged behind, satisfied to en 
 joy my obvious triumph in contemptuous silence. 
 In this order we gradually left behind us the great 
 terminal wall of the Talefre, and gained at length 
 one of the most important stations of our day s 
 march, a promontory of solid rock, jutting out 
 grandly into the rough, noiseless sea. Here Franz 
 wished that we should repose ourselves for awhile. 
 And here, in some former age, an enormous 
 boulder stopped to rest in its downward course, 
 and never has gone on. In its shelter a patch of 
 long grass has grown, grass of the richest green, 
 as soft and fine as though it were the fresh sod of 
 an English lawn, grateful to any eyesight that 
 turns toward it from the scorching waste of the 
 debris; doubly grateful, now, to "Worden s. He 
 threw himself down there in the shadow of the 
 boulder. 
 
 " Un beau point de vue," said Franz. " This, 
 Messieurs, is called the Rock of Be*ranger : 
 
 Ah ! qu on aspire de courage 
 
 Dans 1 air pur du sommet des monts ! " 
 
 Though we did not know it then, he had quoted 
 to us the merry poet of the " Roi d Yvetot," draw 
 ing largely for the lines, no doubt, upon his slender
 
 THE ROCK OF BtfRANGER. 175 
 
 stock in trade. Then he dropped back into prose, 
 and gave us a catalogue of Alpine names, to which 
 I listened with indifference, envying his knowledge 
 less than his nationality that made this prospect 
 an old story to him. 
 
 Directly at our feet, but far below them, three 
 huge ice-streams met to form the Mer de Glace, the 
 whole length of which we had just surmounted ; 
 and on three sides the ice was hemmed in by the 
 bristling summits told off by Franz so glibly. Above 
 them all Mont Blanc showed us a new face, a 
 wild and frowning one. No mist veiled it, no 
 shred of cloud crept into the clear blue of the sky. 
 Now and then came the white rush of an avalanche, 
 shouting up to us in tones of thunder, the only 
 sound, the only movement in all this splendid 
 desolation. 
 
 " And where," asked Wordcn, " is the Jardin ? " 
 
 " Up there," said Franz, pointing at a high mo 
 raine behind us, " up there and beyond ; a 
 trifle of another half-hour or so." 
 
 Worden eyed for an instant the formidable wall 
 of rock. " That settles it," he said ; " I shall wait 
 for you here." 
 
 In vain I urged that this was not all he had come 
 out to see. 
 
 " I shall see the rest through your observant 
 eyes," he answered, making, as he spoke, the cir 
 cuit of the small plateau, to explore a rude stone 
 shelter thrown up under the boulder. " This is my
 
 176 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 domain. If I am molested, which is most unlikely, 
 I shall take refuge in my dog-kennel, and bar the 
 door." 
 
 He limped a little as he came back to us, and 
 frankly admitted that he had bruised his knee in 
 falling. There were no bones broken ; amputation 
 would not be necessary, he fancied ; he did not 
 care to climb, that was all. 
 
 We left him food and drink, therefore, and 
 scrambled on without him. The way was not easy ; 
 more than once Franz lowered his stick, and pulled 
 me up by it. At the top we looked back, and saw 
 Worden just where we had left him, smoking 
 his cigar alone. But, as we turned away, Franz 
 stopped to point out to me three other figures 
 farther off upon the Mer de Glace, mere points of 
 moving darkness, that, w T hile we looked, passed out 
 of sight among the rocks below the boulder. 
 
 " They are coming to the Jardin," said Franz. 
 " The day is too fine ; we cannot have it to our 
 selves." 
 
 I chuckled at the thought of their speedy en 
 croachment upon Worden s philosophical repose. 
 
 " He will take to his tub, and shut them out," I 
 reflected. " Poor Diogenes ! " 
 
 We found the Glacier du Talfre ankle-deep with 
 wet snow, through which we floundered to another 
 low moraine, and crossing that, we stood at last 
 on the green slope of a little heart-shaped island, 
 completely enclosed with ramparts like a citadel.
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 177 
 
 A spring bubbled up at our feet. Bright Alpine 
 flowers of strange hues nodded and sparkled in the 
 grass. I thought the breeze had blown one from 
 its stalk ; but the color darted here and there with 
 a motion of its own, it was a butterfly. No won 
 der that its discoverer had named this place the 
 Garden. 
 
 We sat down to rest, to eat and drink away the 
 time. Then Franz curled himself up like a mar 
 mot, and went to sleep ; while I watched the ava 
 lanches, until the long silences between them grew 
 oppressive, bringing me a shuddering sense of 
 loneliness. The very air felt too pure for humanity 
 with all its faults and passions. Voices ! It was 
 a relief to hear them. The other party must be 
 very near. In a few moments a guide peered over 
 the wall, and then came down, bringing with him 
 no less a person than Major Hargrave. 
 
 He greeted me in civil surprise, while Franz 
 shook himself awake and hobnobbed with the guide. 
 
 " And the rest of your party ? " said I. " We 
 thought there were three of you." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; my daughter. She had enough of it, 
 and is waiting below at the other halting-place." 
 
 " Alone ? " 
 
 " Yes. We are only three." 
 
 " But alone ? " I repeated. 
 
 " Of course," he answered, laughing. " Why 
 not ? There are no wild beasts, I believe, and no 
 
 banditti." 
 
 12
 
 178 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 Unhappy Worden ! He had really imprisoned 
 himself, then, at the sound of their voices. 
 
 The major s luncheon was now produced, and 
 with it a bottle of RUdesheimer, from which he filled 
 a glass for me. He looked somewhat vexed when 
 I declined to drink with him. 
 
 " I have lunched already," I explained. 
 
 " A glass more or less is nothing," he urged. 
 " But I suppose you prefer the native wines. Every 
 man to his taste. Which, now, do you call your 
 best one ? " 
 
 " I have never compared the Swiss wines." 
 
 He stared at me in silent wonder. " I see," he 
 said, at length ; " Swiss grapes are like prophets, 
 
 for exportation only." 
 
 " Perhaps. I really don t know." 
 
 He grew more and more perplexed, while I 
 quietly enjoyed his confusion. 
 
 " May I ask where you learned English ? " he 
 demanded abruptly. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; in a land where it is spoken fluently, 
 
 the United States of America." 
 
 " Is it possible ? But I understood " 
 " That I was in the service of the Three Crowns. 
 Quite the reverse. I am a good Yankee, but I can t 
 keep a hotel ! Perhaps because I have never tried." 
 He burst into a loud laugh, and begged me a 
 thousand pardons ; when I told him the whole 
 story, he begged .ten thousand more. Then we 
 buried our little .hatchet in his Rhenish wine.
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 179 
 
 " It was your own fault, after all," he said 
 amiably. " You spoke French so well." 
 
 I had heard him try to speak it, and could there 
 fore appreciate the true value of his compliment ; 
 but I thanked him none the less. 
 
 " And you can read it too, of course ? " 
 
 Well, yes ; a little." 
 
 " Then help me out with this," he said, unfolding 
 a newspaper, and letting his voice fall into a 
 whisper. " It came by post yesterday ; from whom 
 I can t imagine. These long words puzzle me, and 
 I could not ask my daughter. I did not like to let 
 her know." 
 
 The French journal, printed at Geneva, was 
 three days old. In a long letter from the regular 
 correspondent at Vevey, I found a marked passage 
 recounting the loss of an American tourist near 
 the summit of the Mer de Glace. He had gone 
 out to walk alone and had not returned. There 
 could be no doubt of his sad fate, for untiring 
 search had brought to light an alpenstock with 
 his veil tied to it, at a point known as the Rock 
 of Boranger. The man s description followed, last 
 of all his name. The story was told in a florid 
 style, with many mournful interjections ; and it was 
 signed, " Trois Couronnes." I caught its purport 
 at a glance, and was thus enabled to translate it 
 gravely, word for word, in a firm voice. This feat, 
 however, was more than difficult, for the descrip 
 tion and the name were Worden s.
 
 180 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I thought so," sighed Major Hargrave, 
 as I read on to the end. I was just preparing to 
 laugh at him, when he grew strangely confidential, 
 after the manner of your good American, who 
 comes upon a sympathetic compatriot in some 
 lonely corner of the world. 
 
 " It is terrible," he whispered. " I hardly dare 
 to tell you what I fear and yet " 
 
 " You may trust me. What is it that you fear ? " 
 
 " A case of suicide," said Major Hargrave, turn 
 ing white at the word. " The man was dead in 
 love, desperately so. I happen to know it. He 
 has killed himself. It is as if I knew that too." 
 
 For one instant my face must have been whiter 
 than his own. What if this nameless, petty fiend, 
 this printer s devil, with cunning prescience had 
 lied like truth ? What if Worden, desperate to 
 folly, had dismissed me that shining morning to 
 take his own life, and had chosen for his fatal deed, 
 by a strange chance, the very spot the lie had 
 branded ? He was dead in love ; I knew that ; but 
 he was not a fool. And so the color came back 
 into my face, and I laughed at the doleful look in 
 Major Hargrave s. 
 
 " Don t laugh ! " he cried imploringly. " To 
 me it is a most distressing matter. He was a 
 capital fellow. You could not laugh if you had 
 known him." 
 
 Not know my fellow-traveller ? At this absurd 
 suggestion I only laughed the more. But the
 
 THE ROCK OF BE RANGER, 181 
 
 major lost his temper, and turning red as a turkey- 
 cock, he shook the lying letter in my face. 
 
 " Damn it, sir, do you call that a joke ? " 
 
 " Excuse me ; I can t help it. Your dead man 
 is n t dead ; that s all." 
 
 " Not dead ? " 
 
 " Dead in love, yes ; but in the flesh, alive and 
 well. He has turned hermit, and gone into a 
 retreat. Present address, the Rock of Be ranger." 
 
 " Where is that, in the Devil s name ? " 
 
 " Why, the great boulder, the halting-place 
 there, below us." 
 
 " What ! Where my daughter " 
 
 Then Major Hargrave turned from red to purple, 
 and laughed till he woke the echoes like an ava 
 lanche, till the very guides, without knowing why, 
 joined in the laugh, and prolonged the echo ; and 
 I too, but for cause. Worden loved in vain. The 
 major knew it ; well and good, but how ? Why 
 should he take my companion s small affair of the 
 heart so seriously and so merrily unless it con 
 cerned his own companion, Miss Letty Hargrave ? 
 
 I asked no questions, and he told me nothing. 
 As we came out into the land of snow, his mind 
 wandered off into a maze of conjecture regarding 
 the origin of the tale in print. I had found my 
 own clew to that, but I kept it to myself. At the 
 green plateau we found Worden and Miss Hargrave 
 chatting pleasantly like old friends. She smiled 
 when she saw me, and at last we were introduced.
 
 182 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 But she made no allusion to the stupid mistake 
 concerning my identity, of which she had been 
 the victim ; perhaps because she thought me too 
 dull to notice the difference between reserve and 
 cordiality. 
 
 While we talked, Worden and Major Hargrave 
 exchanged confidences with much suppressed hilar 
 ity. " I assure you I knew nothing of it," I heard 
 Worden say. The guides called us to order. We 
 looked our last at the waning splendor of the 
 glaciers, along which the shadows were slowly 
 lengthening ; and then we all came down together. 
 
 Worden, still limping though not disabled, 
 dropped behind with the major, leaving Miss Har 
 grave entirely to me. She was all charm and 
 sweetness now, with that air of bewitching co 
 quetry which had impressed me at the very first. 
 Without vanity I may record my conviction that 
 she tried her best to captivate me that day. For 
 had I been a monster of deformity I believe 
 she would have done the same. Luckily for my 
 peace of mind I could not forget that she had just 
 mistaken me for a servant, and she left me as she 
 found me, irresponsive. But under other circum 
 stances I should have gone to bed that night madly 
 in love with her, and much she would have cared. 
 She, of all women, had the least right to such a 
 conquest then. But what of that ? Your brilliant 
 blue-and-gold macaw, to the last gasp, will allure 
 you with a pretty attitude, only to turn and rend
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER, 183 
 
 you. You cannot change its nature. Macaws are 
 made so. 
 
 It was late when we got back to our hotel ; but 
 I followed Worden to his room, went in after him, 
 and shut the door. 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to tell me," I de 
 manded, " what all this means ? " 
 
 " To the best of my ability. But first, perhaps, 
 I ought to tell you " He hesitated. 
 
 " What ? " I asked impatiently. 
 
 " That I am engaged to Miss Hargrave." 
 
 " Since when ? " I stammered, too much startled 
 for congratulation. 
 
 " Since this morning. We agreed to let you 
 know." 
 
 I quoted Franz, and, through him, Beranger. 
 
 " Ah ! qu on aspire de courage 
 
 Dans 1 air pur du soinmet des monts ! 
 
 For this, then, you invented the Jardin." 
 
 " No," he said, laughing. " It was n t in the pro 
 gramme. After you left me, I fled into the hut at 
 the sound of voices. When all was quiet, and I 
 thought I was alone again, I came out. To my 
 amazement there was Letty Miss Hargrave 
 crying like a child over a letter." 
 " A letter ? " 
 
 " Yes, or rather its enclosure ; half a news 
 paper column, describing my awful death, a du 
 plicate of that the major showed you."
 
 184 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " She knew of it, then ? " 
 
 " The writer took good care of that." 
 
 "I see. And so " 
 
 " So she screamed at the sight of me, and I 
 thought she would have fallen. I caught her, I 
 believe. And then odd, was n t it ? " 
 
 "Very. Your lead of trumps has been fully 
 justified." 
 
 " Don t be an ass," he cried indignantly. " I 
 did n t lead. I only followed suit." 
 
 " What ? That obituary notice was not your 
 work?" 
 
 " No ; I tell you. I knew nothing of it, abso 
 lutely nothing. All I knew was this." 
 
 And he handed me the following letter : 
 
 CHER ANIMAL, Ask her again, and you will get 
 her. She has refused you once, twice, you will say, 
 a dozen times ; I care not how many. Some women 
 are like that. And this one loves you ; I am sure of 
 it. So I have telegraphed you again to wait in Cha- 
 inouni. Disobey me at your peril. In proof, I ven 
 ture upon a small experiment. It shall do no harm ; 
 perhaps it shall do good. I pray for this, for you and 
 for myself. It would be such joy for me to accom 
 plish this good action, since there are not too many to 
 remember in my life. Be disci eet therefore, and if I 
 go wrong instead of right, forgive 
 
 Your best or worst of friends, 
 
 OLGA ANDREEVNA.
 
 THE ROCK OF BERANGER. 185 
 
 I looked at Worden. If any man on earth could 
 be called completely happy, it was surely he. 
 
 " The princess is adorable," I said. " My dear 
 old man, with all my heart I congratulate you." 
 
 With what a vengeance Time can turn his tables ! 
 She, who led him such a dance, now sits at his 
 clumsy feet, and has no thought that is not his. 
 He loves her too in his own way, which is a shade 
 less devotional than hers. But that you know him, 
 you might almost reproach him with indifference. 
 A-Vho, not knowing him, would ever guess how 
 much she made him suffer, how freely he forgave 
 her on the instant, putting all but love away ? And 
 I, who longed to climb, now hobble painfully, con 
 tent if I can hold my own on level ground. Rheu 
 matism the doctor calls it ; but I know better, it is 
 gout. I know also that the rare blue we call the 
 blue of heaven is but an aqueous evaporation. Ah ! 
 were all to do again, the upper air should never 
 tempt me. I too would lie down and rest most 
 gladly under the Rock of Be ranger.
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 
 
 IN a certain narrow street of Florence, near 
 Andrea del Sarto s house and the Annunziata s 
 choir, where with maimed rites the mortal part of 
 the poor painter senza errori was hurried under 
 the pavement, there lived in the latter half of the 
 fifteenth century a learned doctor whose name and 
 titles history is scarcely able to recall. Yet the 
 young Andrea may have known him ; and the illus 
 trious Leonardo, called Da Vinci, wise in many 
 things and ennobling all with a touch rarer than 
 the golden one of fable, was surely numbered 
 among his friends. But the doctor led a life of 
 deep seclusion, indifferent to the storms of party 
 strife, to plot and insurrection, battles and mur 
 ders, the tyrant s yoke, the tyrant s favor. His 
 four gray walls sheltered him from the summer s 
 heat, the winter s cold; his little garden caught 
 from the sunlight all the colors of the prism in 
 roses, wild pomegranates, and oleanders. The 
 laboratory behind it held his store of manuscripts, 
 his retorts and crucibles, his furnace and his bel 
 lows, all the apparatus needed for experiments
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 187 
 
 which so absorbed him that he seldom went out 
 into the bustling streets. He had but one thought, 
 one purpose, to make some vast discovery which 
 should benefit the human race ; and as he was 
 human too, one may imagine that his ambition 
 went a little farther, coupling with the glorious 
 result his own name, and immortalizing that. Un 
 doubtedly he longed and hoped to live forever in 
 men s hearts ; to have his ashes consecrated in a 
 gilded shrine, surmounted by a marble bust, a 
 goal of pilgrimage. Alas ! None knows where he 
 lies buried. You may find his house to-day in the 
 Via del Mandorlo, his laboratory has been turned 
 into a stable ; the roses still run riot in his garden, 
 and the snails still nibble at their leaves ; but the 
 last of many tenants, treading the very paths he 
 trod, will smile and tell you that the property has 
 been in his own family from time immemorial, and 
 that no such man ever lived and died there as 
 Maestro Ambrogio. 
 
 He was a bachelor of course, and had come to 
 that time of life when a man is neither young nor 
 old, and when a few additional years work little 
 change in him. His figure was slender and well- 
 proportioned ; but his shoulders had the scholar s 
 stoop, his thin face the hungry look of an ascetic ; 
 the bright blue eyes in it seemed younger than the 
 rest of him ; for contrary to all custom of the day, 
 he went unshorn and unshaven, and his brown hair, 
 streaked with gray, mingled with the untrimmed
 
 188 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 beard that swept over his breast, muffling him like 
 a disguise. He wore habitually the Florentine 
 lucco, or long robe of black serge, familiar to the 
 world through Dante s portraits ; and with this, 
 the hood-like civic bonnet of the same material. 
 These garments, in spite of his absorbing pursuits, 
 were always of the most scrupulous neatness ; 
 while his hands were marvellously white and slen 
 der, fine, delicate, like the hands of a noble. But 
 the man s nobility of nature found its best expres 
 sion in his voice, which was low and clear, never 
 querulous, never raised in anger, of surpassing gen 
 tleness and patience in all its tones ; so that he 
 who heard it for the first time stood spell-bound 
 in respectful silence, as though the speech were 
 half divine, and its simple phrases the utterance of 
 an oracle. 
 
 Few, however, beyond the narrow limits of his 
 household, ever heard the voice of Maestro Am- 
 brogio. His one servant, an old peasant woman 
 from the mountains of the Mugello, stood between 
 him and all the cares and worries of the outer 
 world. Monna Modesta was well known in the 
 quarter. It was she who went to market for him, 
 who knew the worth of a plump fowl, and was 
 ready to pay just that and no more ; above all, who 
 kept her master s house in the wonderful and in 
 credible state of cleanliness noted in chronicles of 
 the time. But only the house ; she was never 
 allowed to pass beyond the garden, to profane the
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 189 
 
 dust of the laboratory with her vulgar hands. 
 This, to one of her instincts, was a positive and 
 constant grief. With tears in her eyes she bade 
 the saints witness that her master s good was all 
 she had at heart, and that dust was the insidious 
 foe of all mankind ; yet Maestro Ambrogio re 
 mained a very pig for obstinacy, as she declared. 
 The laboratory and its contents were never to be 
 touched ; he and his young pupil, the noble signer 
 Gentile Morelli, alone could enter it; even its small 
 windows, high above her head, must not be scoured. 
 This last command was hardly to be borne, and for 
 a time she persistently disobeyed it, climbing the 
 trellis in her master s absence, removing dead 
 leaves from the sills, polishing the leaded panes ; 
 and since she could not open them, peering within, 
 defiantly, upon a group of broken jars stored away 
 on a neglected shelf and half buried in cobwebs, 
 through which the wicked old spiders eyed her 
 with indifference. Beyond these evidences of pes 
 tilential disorder she saw dimly, in the feeble glow 
 of the furnace, a confusion of utensils whose very 
 names were unknown to her. And one day when 
 there was more light than usual, she also discerned 
 the outlines of a splendid alabaster chest, of great 
 size and carved in high relief, but sadly stained 
 and blackened. In her simple ignorance she took 
 this for a linen-coffer, and longed to have it re 
 moved and cleansed and restored to its proper 
 uses under her careful supervision. The good
 
 190 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 soul little dreamed that this sculptured wonder 
 had been designed merely to hold what she most 
 despised ; namely, dust. For it was an Etruscan 
 sarcophagus, found long ago by her master in his 
 mountain vineyard near Gubbio, and by him 
 brought down to Florence with reverent care, for 
 the sake of its principal figure, a young girl, 
 recumbent in the marble, but life-like, as if a touch 
 would rouse her ; the portrait, no doubt, of the 
 dead unknown whose ashes Maestro Ambrogio still 
 treasured, undisturbed. 
 
 Monna Modesta, wise in her small way, applied 
 to herself that proverb of her nation which prizes 
 the ounce of discretion above the pound of knowl 
 edge. As a matter of course, she gave her master 
 no cause to suspect that she had climbed the trel 
 lis to look upon these things, prudently resolving 
 to pry into them no more. But she continued 
 to sound the praises of order and her own devo 
 tion to it on all possible occasions ; with righteous 
 thanks that she was not as others were, uplifting 
 her standard at the gate of the enemy s citadel, to 
 wage fierce warfare upon the insects of the garden, 
 where not so much as a leaf was permitted to fall 
 unperceived ; while the student Gentile, having 
 daily access to the precincts from which she was 
 so rigorously excluded, daily grew in her disfavor. 
 She looked upon him as a poor misguided crea 
 ture, aiding and abetting her master in practices 
 that were, to say the least, unwholesome, and that
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 191 
 
 did no good to anybody, so far as honest folk 
 could see. 
 
 Toward the close of a lovely day when the long 
 Italian summer was nearly gone, Monna Modesta 
 sat spinning and considering deeply many things. 
 She had moved her wheel into a sunny corner of 
 the garden, and the grateful warmth reminded her 
 that winter was not far off, and that winter, at her 
 age, was to be dreaded. She must go to market in 
 the morning and get the better of old Niccold, who 
 was a rascal at heart, and would cheat her if he 
 could. The thought caused her wheel to rattle 
 angrily. The world s prevailing wickedness made 
 duty doubly hard ; the wicked seemed to thrive and 
 flourish, while for the good, life was a long conten 
 tion, with palsy at the end. The breeze shook down 
 some dead leaves from the rose trained above her 
 head. Yes, autumn had already come ; and what 
 would befall her master if the winter should be her 
 last ? He could never take care of himself ; he must 
 inevitably become the prey of thieves. She sighed, 
 and the wheel stopped turning ; the dry leaves rus 
 tled under foot, but she did not stoop for them. 
 
 A key grated in the lock of the laboratory door. 
 The sound passed unheeded, and her master s pres 
 ence was first made known to her by his shadow on 
 the garden-path. The wheel resumed its work, but 
 quite unconsciously she sighed again. 
 
 " Why do you sigh, my good Modesta ? " asked 
 Maestro Ambrodo.
 
 192 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " The winter is at hand, my master. I feel its 
 breath already, and I am old." 
 
 " Madre mia, with such nimble fingers ! " re 
 turned the doctor, as he watched the whirring 
 wheel. " There is no winter in your blood." 
 
 " Eh, Signor, the candle burns low ; a puff will 
 put it out. And who then will look after you? 
 Not the miserable Gentile, that insect, who knows 
 less of the world s ways than would fill a snail- 
 shell. The house that has no woman in it is a 
 ruined house, Signor. You must marry, that I may 
 die content." 
 
 " Death will come," said the doctor, gravely ; 
 " but yesterday you did not fear it. And it is only 
 one day nearer now. You talk of winter too be 
 fore its time. See, above your head, there is a 
 rose." 
 
 " The last," she answered ; " to pick that would 
 bring ill luck upon the house. Master, do not touch 
 it, I pray you." 
 
 But the rose was already plucked, and as the 
 doctor held it out to her, its petals fell apart in the 
 hollow of his hand. To Monna Modesta this was 
 the worst of omens, and as if to confirm her super 
 stitious fancy, a violent gust of the autumn breeze 
 shook every twig in the garden, and raised a cloud 
 of dust about their feet. The small whirlwind 
 passed them by in a moment ; but she had spoken 
 truly, there was winter in its breath. 
 
 " Keep the rose, Signor," she said reproachfully ;
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO 193 
 
 " for death has overtaken it. Is not this a warn 
 ing ? Make haste to choose your wife, and choose 
 her well, Maestro Ambrogio." 
 
 The doctor smiled and pointed at the door of his 
 laboratory. 
 
 " My wife is there," said he, lightly. " She is 
 wise and gentle and forgiving, with no complaints 
 and no harsh words. She is always young, always 
 beautiful ; after all these years, would you have me 
 turn against her now, and prove unfaithful ?" 
 
 " Has my master lost his senses ? " muttered 
 Monna Modesta. " Of what woman is he speaking ? " 
 
 " Of no woman, but of Science," replied the doc 
 tor, laughing. " She is the best and sweetest wife 
 in the whole world." 
 
 " A fig for her ! " cried the old servant, testily. 
 " Tell me ! Can Science go to market, and choose 
 between an old fowl and a tender chicken ? Can 
 she mind the spit, or sew new hooks upon the robe 
 you wear ? Can she make me young again, or even 
 persuade me that I am not growing old ? Science ! 
 Bah ! Can she turn winter into spring, or bring 
 the dead to life ? " 
 
 " Or bring the dead to life ! " The doctor had 
 gone laughing to his work again. But these words 
 made him start ; they rang in his ears after the 
 door had closed upon them. He stood grave and 
 silent, far removed in thought from the musty dis 
 order of his workshop, until a sweet perfume, 
 strangely out of place there, recalled him to him- 
 
 13
 
 194 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 self; it came only from the fading flower, rudely 
 crushed and broken in his hand. 
 
 " The last rose," he said, gathering up carefully 
 some of its outer petals that had fallen to the floor. 
 " Will it bring ill luck upon the house ? We shall 
 see, we shall see ! " 
 
 That night Monna Modesta summoned him in 
 vain to supper. She laid the cloth, and sitting 
 down beside it watched and waited, then nodded 
 and dozed over it alone. She awoke at a late hour, 
 to find the food still there, untasted. A light shone 
 in the laboratory ; and stealing out into the dark, 
 she climbed the trellis cautiously to the little win 
 dow and looked down. There sat the doctor before 
 a small brazier filled with glowing embers, turning 
 the leaves of a parchment book in old black-letter. 
 He stopped and sighed ; then, to her astonishment, 
 he flung the fragments of a rose her rose into 
 the heart of the hot coals, and fell to reading again 
 in the great book. A cannon-shot would hardly 
 have aroused him from his studies. But she crept 
 back as quietly as she came, in speechless won 
 der ; went to her bed, slept, and dreamed, still 
 wondering. 
 
 In the morning the table stood precisely as she 
 had left it ; her master s bed was empty ; and her 
 honest wrath broke forth upon the head of the stu 
 dent Gentile, who came at his accustomed hour. 
 He was a handsome youth, wearing a cloak of vio 
 let silk jauntily draped over his velvet doublet. A
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 195 
 
 lute was slung across his shoulder. The very ease 
 and trimness of him carried Monna Modesta s 
 anger beyond the bounds of reason. 
 
 " Here are fine doings truly ! " she cried. 
 " Maestro Ambrogio has had neither food nor sleep 
 this night. Why was not your splendid laziness 
 here to help him ? " And never listening for his 
 answer, she went on, 
 
 " Go out and fetch him in to breakfast. I pray 
 our Gracious Lady that he be not starved already. 
 If you find him dead, lay it at your own door, 
 popinjay ! " 
 
 Maestro Ambrogio looked pale and worn, but 
 somewhat to her regret, he was not dying of star 
 vation. She pointed at the table with an injured 
 air. 
 
 " It is true," he said, " I have an appetite. But 
 as you see, my night s work was not unprofitable." 
 
 And before seating himself he handed her a 
 rose. 
 
 She knew that none were left in the garden, yet 
 she turned instinctively to the window ; for the 
 flower was but half open, and seemed to have the 
 morning freshness in it. 
 
 He shook his head and smiled. 
 
 "No," he said; "I did not find it there. To 
 please you, I have restored the dead to life. That 
 is all." 
 
 He was above any wilful deception, before all 
 human creatures to be trusted ; but now she
 
 196 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 doubted him, even while she could not help observ 
 ing that, in size and color, this was the perfect 
 counterpart of the rose so lately reduced to ashes 
 under her too curious eyes. 
 
 * Well," he continued, " you will never say sharp 
 things any more about my gentle mistress. Come ! 
 Confess that her work has been complete and 
 wonderful." 
 
 " Wonderful ! " repeated Monna Modesta, press 
 ing the rose to her lips that she might conceal her 
 doubts behind it. Then she found it dry and scent 
 less, and she believed him. 
 
 But the increased respect with which she now 
 regarded her master had a touch of pity in it, a 
 new tenderness unfelt before. It was plain that 
 he failed to perceive the fatal imperfection of his 
 handiwork ; his air of triumph betrayed conclu 
 sively an absolute faith in his own skill. And the 
 old servant could not find the heart to undeceive 
 him, but left his mind clouded with this last illu 
 sion, as if she had been dealing with a child. After 
 all the rose without its perfume was a sufficient 
 marvel ; she put it away in water, crossing herself 
 involuntarily, as she did so. While it lived, her 
 wholesome awe of it continued ; she would not even 
 touch the unholy thing again, but when it had faded 
 for the second time, seizing the dried stalk with a 
 pair of tongs, at arm s length, she flung it into the 
 fire ; then raked apart the ashes. They should not 
 kindle into another life through any fault of hers.
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 197 
 
 Winter came, and with it the first symptoms of 
 the infirmity she feared. Her voice shook in an 
 annoying way, her step grew heavier, her wrinkles 
 deepened ; she compared herself to an old witch, 
 when she looked in the glass. Her lightest house 
 hold care became a burden, even grumbling was an 
 effort. But she toiled and scolded and drove her 
 bargains with unflagging spirit, praying only that 
 death might find her still in the pious fury of her 
 work. She was ready ; let this hour be her last, 
 she wanted no interval of deplorable rest, no sickly 
 folding of the hands. 
 
 Her master s future gave her more concern than 
 ever. He had drawn very near, he told her, to that 
 greatest of discoveries which had baffled him so 
 long. But no further hint of his revealed anything 
 of its scope or even of its nature. Vainly, she took 
 the young student into favor, plying him with wine, 
 artfully leading him on to gossip indiscreetly about 
 Maestro Ambrogio s affairs ; and gaining only a re 
 luctant admission that Gentile was quite ignorant 
 of the possible result to which their labors tended. 
 He performed his share of them adroitly, by his 
 own showing, and slept soundly each night when 
 they were over. But at his return, he often found 
 that the last day s work had been undone. For 
 day and night his master seemed to toil incessantly, 
 suffering repeated discouragements, but through 
 them all upheld and strengthened by some wild 
 hope that he would not explain.
 
 198 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 One morning Gentile presented himself only to 
 be sent away again. All that day Maestro Ambro- 
 gio did no work and spoke no word. Monna Mo- 
 desta came and went, but he never heeded her 
 until she made a direct attack upon him with in 
 trusive questions, when he shook his head mourn 
 fully. His eyes glistened ; a tear trickled down 
 upon his beard ; she was sure, then, that his experi 
 ments had failed. 
 
 " Heaven help us all ! " she thought ; and clat 
 tering off to the neighboring church, she said her 
 prayers in one of its chapels. 
 
 She heard him stirring in the night ; he left his 
 room, his step died away upon the stairs. She fol 
 lowed, but not softly enough, for at the garden 
 door, in the dark, she found him waiting. She felt 
 his hand upon her wrist, and drew back, alarmed. 
 But his reproof was of the gentlest. 
 
 " Why do you get up so early ? One watcher is 
 enough to guard my house. Go to your bed, and 
 sleep ; it is the best service you can do me." 
 
 She obeyed him silently. 
 
 The next day, Maestro Ambrogio recalled his 
 student. The old hope had revived, informing new 
 schemes, inducing new tests. And as time passed, 
 as his problem advanced favorably toward its 
 mysterious solution, the confidence daily growing 
 stronger within him shone through his eyes and 
 gave his face the radiance of youth. He was like 
 the fortunate lover who believes that some divinity
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 199 
 
 has alighted upon the earth to walk hand in hand 
 with him forever. 
 
 At length, when Monna Modesta imagined that 
 the hour of triumph must be very near, her master, 
 who so rarely stirred abroad, suddenly bade her 
 prepare him for a long journey. In answer to her 
 startled look, he told her that all was well with him ; 
 that he had only one venture left to make ; but that he 
 dared not run the extreme risk it involved without 
 first consulting the one living man whose judgment 
 could be called infallible. This was a famous Ve 
 netian doctor, almost a century old, unimpaired in 
 mind, but far too feeble in body to endure the 
 fatigue of travel, which, therefore, he himself must 
 undertake. He charged her solemnly to admit no 
 one, not even Gentile, to the house during his ab 
 sence. The laboratory door he locked and sealed, 
 leaving all behind him, apparently, except a scroll 
 of parchment easily to be carried in the hand. The 
 time appointed for departure came ; the horse stood 
 at the door, and Maestro Ambrogio lingering upon 
 the threshold gave his last instructions. Then, 
 with a smile, he added, 
 
 " And how shall I reward you for so much fidel 
 ity ? What shall I bring back from Venice to my 
 constant friend ? " 
 
 " Ah, Signor, a kind, gentle mistress, only 
 that. Marry your wife, and bring her back with 
 you." 
 
 " A wife, from Venice ? " said the doctor, laugh-
 
 200 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 ing. " Well, who knows ? I have done stranger 
 things. But, remember, I make no promises. God 
 be with you, Modesta ! " 
 
 " And with you, Signor. A swift journey, Maes 
 tro Ambrogio ! " 
 
 So he rode away. For many days there was no 
 sign of him, and she was faithful to her trust. 
 When Gentile demanded news, he found the house 
 barricaded as if for a siege, and was forced to hold 
 indignant parley with Modesta through a wicket in 
 the outer door. She bade him sing to his lute and 
 not to her. The great Leonardo knocked once, 
 faring little better. 
 
 " What ! Hast thou yet heard nothing of thy 
 master ? " 
 
 " Alas, no, Signor." 
 
 " Misericordia ! Pray Heaven that some sly one 
 of thy sex may not have beguiled him ! " 
 
 " Pray Heaven that he be no more a bachelor ; 
 and good day to you, Messer Leonardo." 
 
 At last, however, the door swung open for the 
 master s much-desired return. He came, dressed 
 in gay colors, with a light step and smiling face, 
 followed by two serving-men bearing rich apparel, 
 ribbons, silks, and laces, to be unfolded and dis 
 played before Modesta s wondering eyes. She tried 
 to speak, but wanted words. 
 
 " What ! No welcome for me ? " he cried mer 
 rily. " Yet all is as you wished it. I come in my 
 wedding garments ; are they not well chosen ? "
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 201 
 
 " Heaven be praised for all its mercies ! You 
 have grown young again. But the bride, Signor ? " 
 
 " She will follow. Prepare a chamber for her 
 and for these things." 
 
 " Eh, the waste of money ! Look at that bro 
 cade ! What great lady have you married ? These 
 trappings are for a princess ; how is it that your 
 wife will wear them ? " 
 
 " They are not fine enough. Wait, and you will 
 see." 
 
 She set the house in order with much nervous 
 apprehension. How should she make room for 
 these new fineries ? There was no chest fit to hold 
 them, except, perhaps, the splendid marble one 
 hidden away in her master s workshop ; but she 
 dared not ask him for that. Well, it mattered lit 
 tle ; no doubt the new mistress would bring a 
 retinue of servants to undo any humble work of 
 hers ; they would overrule her, she would count 
 for nothing; that, of course, was the fate of age, 
 and she must accept it cheerfully ; she must bid 
 them all good-night, and let the past to which she 
 belonged enshroud her in its friendly shadows. 
 All would be for the best, that promised a long and 
 happy future to Maestro Ambrogio. 
 
 Thus Modesta dealt with her misgivings. But 
 the new mistress did not come. Again the doctor 
 buried himself in the laboratory, and pursued his 
 dreary studies. To all inquiries about his wife he 
 replied that she was still to be expected; but he
 
 202 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 fixed no day, no hour. Then, fearing that the 
 great lady might take them by surprise in the 
 night, she slept with a lighted lamp near her bed 
 side, to wake continually, and strain her ears at 
 the faintest sound. But her master discovered 
 this, and rebuked her almost sternly for excess of 
 zeal. So she resumed her former habits, asked no 
 more questions, left events to wait upon them 
 selves, the stars to rise and set as they would, un 
 noted ; till the winter had worn away. 
 
 The doctor s cellar contained a few bottles of old 
 wine, lying there in wait for rare occasions. One 
 evening of the early spring-time, he brought out 
 from this dusty ambush a small flask, and uncork 
 ing it with deliberation, he called for glasses. All 
 that day he had been in a state of feverish disturb 
 ance, and his hand shook now. The golden liquor 
 leaped and sparkled in a most inviting way ; and 
 Monna Modesta, yielding readily to temptation, 
 took the glass he offered ; likewise a second, which 
 he pressed upon her. She wondered what silent 
 toast they could be drinking, for this, assuredly, 
 was a kind of ceremonial. But she had grown too 
 old for such indulgences. The wine made her 
 strangely drowsy. Was there mischief in it ? Why 
 had she taken so much ? Wliy had she touched it 
 at all ? She went to her room, repenting of this 
 childish folly, and slept profoundly the sleep of 
 childhood throughout the night, far on into the 
 morning hours.
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 203 
 
 The flood of sunshine to which she woke gave 
 its own startling evidence of time unduly wasted ; 
 but even this reproachful glare had failed to act 
 upon her sluggish senses. That worthless insect, 
 Gentile, clamored at her door ; and his voice rang 
 with delight at the detection of her grievous lapse 
 in duty. 
 
 " Modesta ! Monna Modesta ! Wake, and find 
 your wits ! My master s wife has come from 
 Venice, and no one stirs a finger to receive her. 
 Do you sleep all night and all day too ? " 
 
 " Beast ! " she cried in a passion. " Have done 
 with bellowing, and mend your manners. When 
 I sleep at all, it is with my eyes open. Go back 
 and tell them I 11 come presently." 
 
 Below, in the state apartment long ago made 
 ready for this festal day, the old servant found 
 Maestro Ambrogio in his brightest colors, but 
 formal and solemn as a sentinel ; and there too 
 on a low couch lay the noble lady, sleeping. 
 
 How young, how fair she was ! As sweet, as 
 simple in her beauty as the Virgin of the Annun- 
 ziata s shrine ! Yet these soft features were a-g]ow 
 with life, these full, red lips were not divine, but 
 exquisitely human. About her head she had bound 
 a veil, through which her heavy coils of hair showed 
 gleams of reddish gold ; and she had put on the 
 rich, brocaded garment brought from Venice, worth 
 a fortune in quattrini. It seemed, in truth, not 
 fine enough ; it should have been sown with jewels.
 
 204 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 But her only ornament was a slender golden thread 
 of curious design, clasping one wrist. 
 
 She moved a little, smiling in her sleep ; and 
 the smile was mysterious, unaccountable, perplex 
 ing as the smile of archaic sculpture, with some 
 thing of malice in it, as though the thought behind, 
 concealed rather than expressed, were not unmixed 
 with evil. So the sirens must have smiled when 
 the bark foundered, and the poor mariner went 
 unresisting to his death, happy in that inexplicable 
 joy, perhaps exultant even, with the look upon 
 his face that Maestro Ambrogio s now wore. 
 
 " See ! " he murmured. " Was not this worth 
 years of loneliness ? Could one have better fortune, 
 even in his dreams ? " 
 
 But Modesta trembled with a vague distrust, as 
 if some disaster were impending. The smile was 
 hateful to her. 
 
 " Ah, Signer," she sighed, "is that my mistress?" 
 
 Her master had already turned away, rapt 
 in his dream, and sheltered by it from outward 
 influences. 
 
 " lovina ! " he called softly. lovina ! " 
 
 Then the sleeper woke. He caught her hands 
 and kissed them, drawing her toward him from 
 the couch, folding in his arms the lovely presence 
 that had the smile of absence in it still. 
 
 The light in her clear gray eyes, however, was 
 reassuring. Her voice too was a pleasant one, 
 though it uttered strange words which Modesta
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 205 
 
 could not understand ; but her master answered 
 them in the same tongue. The new mistress looked 
 wonderingly yet not unkindly upon the faithful 
 servant. It appeared from what was said that she 
 had come alone, with no train of attendants to be 
 taught their duties. Modesta would have her own 
 way to all intents and purposes ; would still reign 
 supreme in the market-place, be Monna Modesta, 
 padrona delta casa, to them all. This cheering 
 reflection did away with presentiments for the 
 time being. The household affairs went on that 
 day as usual ; only that sometimes in the pauses 
 of work Modesta shook her head, and whispered 
 to herself doubtfully, 
 
 " lovina ! I do not like it ; it is a pagan name." 
 She shook her head in the same discontented 
 fashion over many things that happened in the 
 following days. As might have been expected, 
 her master led, at first, a life of complete infatua 
 tion. Then he resumed his studies, but with half 
 a heart, interrupting them under the smallest 
 pretext to dance attendance on the languid lady 
 whose slave he had become. To show his wife a 
 flower in the garden, to read her a line of Tuscan 
 verse that should give her in one breath a better 
 knowledge of his love and of his language, were 
 tasks of more importance than any prescribed to 
 him in those ponderous books of his. This, of 
 course, was commendable and proper ; one pardons, 
 nay, exacts some such parade of weakness in the
 
 206 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 manners of a bridegroom. It was in the attitude 
 of her mistress that Modesta found the first cause 
 for complaint. Clearly, Maestro Ambrogio s de 
 votion was wholly wasted ; day by day he squan 
 dered it, like the money woven into the embroidered 
 garments worn by his foreign princess, who either 
 had no heart to give him in return, or had chosen 
 to withhold her gift. Her thoughts seemed always 
 on the wing. The dragon-fly, darting to and fro 
 among the leaves, could win her smite as easily as 
 the poor man s fondest word. She was no happier 
 for his approach ; her steel-gray eyes never looked 
 upon him tenderly. At what, then, was she always 
 smiling ? At him, perhaps ; not with him, surely. 
 For all his kindness must have failed to touch her, 
 since she took it so impassively, sometimes, in 
 deed, as if she hardly knew that he was at her side. 
 Ah ! All men were alike, and all were fools ! 
 It needed no spark of feeling to bewitch them, 
 not even a pretence of it. Here was Gentile, now, 
 openly worshipping this same idol with eager eyes. 
 A stray glance from her would upset him for a 
 whole day. And Messer Leonardo too ! At the 
 first sight of her face his admiration burst forth 
 in a torrent of superlatives. She smiled upon him ; 
 he laughed, and talked of other things ; but his 
 eyes never left her. He came again, and asked 
 that she might sit to him ; and when permission 
 was refused, almost on his knees, he begged, im 
 plored Maestro Ambrogio to grant it. The smile
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 207 
 
 haunted him, he said, impelling him to paint it 
 from memory if not from life ; its perfect beauty 
 existed for no day, no generation, but must be 
 fixed and made imperishable for all to know until 
 the end of time. Without this attempt, he should 
 hold himself false to the divine art he served ; and 
 with all the success he had achieved, with laurels 
 heaped on laurels in the future, hereafter ages 
 would hold him forever miserable, if this duty to 
 the world went unfulfilled, if, for want of means or 
 want of inspiration, he had failed on earth to per 
 petuate that faultless smile. 
 
 These entreaties in the end prevailed. The 
 painter began upon his first sketch, a drawing 
 in red chalk, at which he worked for days, but only 
 to destroy it. The pose was wrong, he explained, 
 he must try another ; and this too came to noth 
 ing. He lamented bitterly his own incompetence. 
 Never had subject thwarted him like this ; always 
 the look he wanted was not there. That elusive 
 smile played tricks with him ; its lovely lines would 
 not be caught, but changed their places before he 
 could reproduce them. How to do her justice ? 
 How to accomplish what he already feared would 
 prove impossible ? To control that look awhile, 
 he must control the sitter s mind ; he must have 
 music, some sweet, delightful strain to charm her 
 into subjection to his will. So Gentile brought 
 his lute only too readily, and played to them, while 
 a new drawing was begun, and all went well with it.
 
 208 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 But all went far from well with Maestro Am- 
 brogio. Of late he had grown moody and de 
 spondent, most unlike himself. And now, to-day, 
 he left his furnace to pace aimlessly back and forth 
 in one of the garden-paths, that farthest away 
 from the great hall of the house, where the painter 
 had set up his easel near an open window, through 
 which Gentile s music and even Messer Leonardo s 
 progress could be followed. For now and then, 
 the master spoke a word of satisfaction, in his own 
 encouragement ; he had found the way at last ; 
 here was success indeed. But the master of the 
 house only sighed when he heard this, and his 
 step grew heavier and more uncertain, as though 
 a leaden- clog were dragging at his heels. 
 
 What weight of sorrow thus depressed him ? 
 Old Modesta knew him too well, had watched him 
 too closely not to have divined it. All was plain 
 enough. The scales had fallen from his eyes ; he 
 had come to doubt the wisdom of his choice, to 
 distrust the smile of the enchantress, and with 
 reason. In one fatal cast, rashly made, he had 
 flung away his life ; and now he repented his rash 
 ness. The poor serving-woman, who loved him 
 better than she loved herself, looked at him and 
 longed to help him, but could not find the way. 
 What comfort had she to offer ? If she spoke, 
 what good would her words do ? This, that he 
 would be forced to answer them ; and if he did not 
 speak, his heart would surely break. So, praying
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 209 
 
 Heaven to guide her, she went out and stopped 
 him in his walk. 
 
 " My master," she began ; " never have I seen you 
 so unhappy. What is it now that troubles you ? " 
 
 He stared at her with shining eyes, dry and 
 tearless. 
 
 "Nothing," he answered, "nothing." 
 
 The tears were in her eyes. " Oh, my poor mas 
 ter ! " she sighed mournfully. But he brushed by 
 her, and was gone again, muttering to himself. 
 
 " My wife ! " she heard him say. 
 
 Then there came a shout of triumph, and the 
 painter dashed out upon them with the drawing in 
 his hand. 
 
 " See ! " he cried. " I have surpassed myself. 
 Who will dare to tell me this is not worthy of 
 her ? " 
 
 In that glowing moment of success he had no 
 thought beyond his work. The doctor took the 
 paper, while Leonardo, passing behind him and 
 leaning upon his shoulder, failed to note with 
 what trouble he regarded it. 
 
 Modesta looked on silently. They made a pic 
 ture in themselves against a background of the 
 vine-leaves, as if they had been posed for embodi 
 ments of light and darkness. Light gleamed in 
 the painter s rose-hucd silken mantle, in his flushed 
 cheek, his joyous eyes. He was all aflame. In the 
 other all was clouded, cold. 
 
 But the hand of genius has a strength that can- 
 
 14
 
 210 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 not be resisted ; and it held her master now. 
 Slowly the light illumined him. His face bright 
 ened, until it reflected the painter s look of 
 exultation. 
 
 " It is wonderful ! " he whispered. 
 
 " Caro mio ! " said that other master there be 
 hind him. " This is a fortunate hour for us both ; 
 we must not let it slip. I will go home and get 
 my colors ; then make the portrait, finish it, 
 while the light lasts. Think, amico : this day s 
 work will hang upon some wall in Florence ages 
 hence, when we are only memories ; and all the 
 painters of the world will bow before it. They 
 will say : See how one brushmark, tracing out a 
 woman s smile, gave poor Da Vinci his undying 
 fame! Look at Leonardo s masterpiece, lovina, 
 Maestro Ambrogio s wife ! 
 
 "Yes," returned the doctor, eagerly. "The col 
 ors, bring the colors, noble Leonardo." 
 
 The painter hurried off, catching as he went a 
 note of laughing music, and singing his own song 
 to it. For in the house Gentile s lute played on. 
 
 Then, as the doctor listened, his face grew dull 
 and grave again. The old dark thought possessed 
 him wholly. The lovely drawing slipped from his 
 hand, falling face downward in the earth. He let 
 it lie there, and turning away, he flung himself 
 upon one of the garden-benches, hiding his own 
 face. 
 
 The silent witness, whom he had forgotten, now
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 211 
 
 forgot herself. Overcome with his despair, she 
 knew neither what she said nor what she did, but 
 rushing forward, knelt beside him, and poured out 
 her inmost soul in a flood of unconsidered words. 
 
 " Master, why did you marry her ? She has 
 brought ruin upon the house ; she cares for nothing 
 that is good ; she never goes to church, never says 
 a prayer ; she is a pagan, a demon. How has she 
 ensnared you ? " 
 
 " Modesta, Modesta ! What words are these ? " 
 
 " I cannot help it, I cannot bear it longer. 
 Why did you go so far to bring her home ? She 
 is not like other women. Maestro mio, she has no 
 heart, no tenderness. She is like the flower that 
 sprung out of the ashes, beautiful, without its 
 fragrance." 
 
 She had risen nearly to her feet in her excite 
 ment ; but Maestro Ambrogio now caught her by 
 the wrist, and forced her back upon her knees. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he asked. 
 
 " Forgive me, Master ; I forgot " 
 
 " Speak ! " he continued sharply. " What flower 
 do you mean ? " 
 
 "The rose," replied Modesta, "the dead rose 
 that seemed to live again. Signer, it was not life, 
 for life has sweetness in it. And she has none, 
 she has no feeling, no kindness in her. She is like 
 the rose." 
 
 As though the woman had stabbed him to the 
 heart, he released her with a moan of anguish.
 
 212 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " Oh, had I known ! " he cried in a broken voice. 
 " Of all men that ever breathed I am the most 
 pitiable. It is true, it is true. She is like the 
 rose." 
 
 A light breeze caught the fallen paper, which 
 fluttered to his feet. He stooped for the master s 
 handiwork, considered it one moment, then tore it 
 up, and gave it to the winds again, not angrily, 
 but deliberately, with a look and gesture of the 
 deepest sorrow. 
 
 Modesta nodded approvingly ; then her eyes 
 flashed. He should do more than this ; such calm 
 submission was intolerable. 
 
 " Listen ! " she cried. " My lady must have music. 
 What cares she for your unhappiness ? The boy 
 amuses her, and she smiles upon him. Ay ! Go 
 on with it ; play and sing to her, do ! " 
 
 The words were hardly spoken when the music 
 stopped. The doctor rose and moved slowly toward 
 the house without an answer to Modesta, who, ac 
 cepting the silent rebuke, followed him meekly, 
 but only to the window. 
 
 The lute lay upon the floor. There was the 
 painter s seat, there his empty easel ; and beyond, 
 where he had posed her, half reclined the lovely 
 figure he longed to make immortal. But now Gen 
 tile knelt beside her, drew her face down to his 
 and kissed it ; and she permitted this. She did not 
 draw away ; the golden ornament at her wrist 
 shone through his dark curls, while she smoothed
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 213 
 
 the hair upon his temples, idly but gently. In 
 truth, the boy amused her, and she smiled upon 
 him. 
 
 A shadow came between them and the sunlight. 
 With a cry of terror Gentile fled, unregarded. For 
 Maestro Ambrogio went directly to his wife, and 
 took her hand. 
 
 " Come ! " he said gravely, in a tone of pity 
 rather than of remonstrance. " Come with me ! " 
 
 She made no effort to resist him ; and with a 
 firm step he led her out into the garden. While 
 they crossed it, all the sunshine seemed to come 
 from her. She caught its glory like a mirror, and 
 gave it back in playful gleams ; then took it all 
 away in one last radiant smile, when they passed 
 into the laboratory and the door shut behind them. 
 She had outdone the flowers ; they looked cold and 
 colorless. The perfect moment of the day had 
 passed. The hours now could only droop and 
 die. 
 
 What stillness in the house ! The mute, un 
 bidden guest, misfortune, had chosen it for his 
 abode. Modesta barred the great door, and when 
 the painter came she met him at the wicket, to put 
 him off until the morrow with poor excuses. He 
 entreated, threatened her ineffectually. He begged 
 at least to have his drawing, but she denied him 
 even that ; she dared not tell him it had been de 
 stroyed. One word answered everything. To 
 morrow he should see her master; all would
 
 214 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 explain itself, all come right to-morrow. And 
 while he protested, she closed the loop-hole in his 
 face. 
 
 He went away and did not come again. There 
 was no further disturbance from without ; even the 
 distant rumors of the city sunk to rest. The great 
 blue silence overhead deepened and faded sombrely 
 into the chilling pallor of the stars. Below, in the 
 garden, the fireflies glanced about, the crickets 
 droned, no other sound broke in upon the quiet 
 of the night ; no sign of life, no movement from the 
 workshop ; there too all was black and still. 
 
 Bolt upright in her chair, hour by hour, Modesta 
 sat and told her beads. From intervals of uneasy 
 slumber in which she heard her master s voice call 
 ing her, she started up to listen breathlessly, to 
 drop back and pray herself to sleep again. At last 
 she felt sure that she had not been dreaming. 
 " Modesta ! Modesta ! " the cry of distress came 
 sharply and clearly, bringing her to her feet with 
 an answering cry. But now the cool, gray tint of 
 morning met her eyes. The drowsy notes of night 
 were hushed. She could hear the twitter of the 
 waking swallows, but nothing else. 
 
 She went to the laboratory door, and knocked 
 repeatedly, then tried the latch ; it yielded, and 
 she stood for the first time on that forbidden 
 ground. 
 
 The place was like some dream of a disordered 
 mind. Piles of mouldy books ; loose parchment
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 215 
 
 leaves, yellow and illegible ; flasks of metal, in- 
 crusted and corroded into fantastic shapes and 
 colors ; swollen monsters of glass with slender 
 necks, emitting dull phosphoric light, or bearing 
 old stains of substances long since distilled ; mor 
 tars, and heaps of pounded drugs ; fossils and 
 charts, and livid specimens in bottles, these things 
 and more were huddled together in motley groups, 
 or flung aside neglected. And in the midst of all, 
 by the door of the furnace, which was choked with 
 dying embers, crouched Maestro Ambrogio. 
 
 He seemed to have dropped asleep with his hand 
 upon the bellows ; they had fallen close beside him. 
 The air of the room was full of dust, through 
 which Modesta made her way with timid steps, 
 hesitating to disturb her master, shrinking from the 
 surrounding objects, yet eager to examine them. 
 She stopped half stifled, drew back for freer breath, 
 returned, went on. She could see more clearly 
 now. Maestro Ambrogio was alone. Where then 
 was her mistress ? What had he done with her ? 
 At the form into which the question shaped itself 
 Modesta stood still, trembling. 
 
 Here, close by, was the carved chest which had 
 aroused her curiosity long ago. At that moment, 
 through the little window to which she had climbed 
 in former days, the first sunbeams slanted down. 
 She saw at her feet a stone tablet, rudely inscribed 
 with records of a dead people. She remembered 
 others like it, unearthed among her own moun-
 
 216 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 tains ; and on the lid of the coffer at her side, she 
 saw a sculptured figure, in high relief, perfect in 
 form and feature, the graven image of the stran 
 ger who had brought ill luck upon the house, the 
 woman with the pagan name. 
 
 There she lay asleep, as Modesta had first seen 
 her, with the clinging garment, the veil about her 
 head, the ornament at her wrist ; and her lips had 
 the same enchanting smile upon them, it was 
 hard to believe that they were cut in alabaster. 
 This seemed to be a living statue of one who in 
 life had only seemed to live. 
 
 What did the chest hold ? Modesta must know 
 that ; now was the very time. She tugged at the 
 lid with all her might, but could not raise it. 
 Slowly, without noise she pushed and pushed again, 
 sliding it aside. Ashes there, and nothing else, 
 ashes, fine as dust ; stay, something more, on 
 which the sun s rays glittered. It was the twisted 
 thread of gold that Maestro Ambrogio s wife had 
 worn. 
 
 With a cry Modesta staggered back ; then, to 
 save herself, caught at the alabaster cover which 
 toppled and fell, dashed into a thousand pieces. 
 Dust and ashes mingling made a thicker cloud. 
 Life woke in the room. Mice scampered across it, 
 squeaking ; spiders fled to hide themselves ; a bat 
 flew wildly in and out of the dark corners. The 
 embers of the furnace rattled down, and flickered 
 into flame ; while poor Modesta waited with down-
 
 MAESTRO AMBROGIO. 217 
 
 cast eyes for her master s angry word. It did not 
 come, and she looked up. The firelight flashed 
 upon his face. It was a death-mask. The days 
 of his reproof were over. All the vexations of the 
 world were done for him. 
 
 Modesta returned to her native hills of the 
 Mugello, and for many winters more her master s 
 dead face haunted her, as the look he could never 
 catch haunted the great painter all his life. It 
 was a life of wandering, and he died in France 
 years afterward. The picture he longed to make 
 was never finished ; but between him and every 
 woman s face he painted came that mysterious 
 remembrance, which, in spite of himself, his brush 
 recorded. The world saw it, named it, handed 
 down the name ; and to this day, we know it as 
 the smile of Leonardo.
 
 218 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 
 
 ON the longest day in one of these later years 
 whose wine is not yet old enough to drink, 
 whose history is still too recent to record, the an 
 cient town of Mayence lay asleep in that radiant 
 sunshine which, perhaps even more than its former 
 commercial prosperity, may have given it the name 
 of "golden." The wide Gutenberg-Platz was a 
 blinding desert, with no shelter anywhere for man 
 or beast ; and Thorwaldsen s statue of the good 
 printer looked parched and dry as the dusty laurel- 
 wreath bound about his head at the last anniver 
 sary ceremonial and still clinging there. The 
 white walls of the theatre turned toward him vast 
 posters, in the type of his invention, hopelessly out 
 of date. Its doors were closed indefinitely. Even 
 the Cafci de Paris was silent and empty, but for its 
 attendants and their presiding divinity, enshrined 
 at her high desk and dozing behind her fan. The 
 noonday glare had laid upon the place a potent 
 spell which only far-reaching shadows could 
 remove. 
 
 Just beyond the theatre, however, in the little
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 219 
 
 square of the Triton, it is always possible to draw a 
 breath. There the boughs of the clipped lindens 
 cast perpetual shade, with at least a look of re 
 freshment in it. The fountain spouts and splashes 
 and flings its foam-wreath down among the flowers, 
 that thrive and blossom in colors which elsewhere 
 would be uncomfortably bright. Midsummer in its 
 fiercest mood can only salute that merry water-god 
 with lowered lance, and leave him master of the 
 field. So the townsman smiles upon him gratefully 
 in a leisure moment, and drinks deep to him at 
 some Brauerei, in draughts that have their foam- 
 wreaths too. And the stranger with time at his 
 command lingers on to eye the water wistfully ; 
 while the Kellner forgets to be alert, but leans 
 against the door-post, limp, expressionless ; and 
 mine host fills his pipe, with a sigh of regret for 
 the busy winter, as he wonders how long he has 
 been reading his newspaper of yesterday upside 
 down. 
 
 The only consumer of beer to be seen in the 
 Triton-Platz on this particular afternoon was a 
 pallid youth, whose looks, to put the adverse judg 
 ment mildly, told but little in his favor. His yel 
 low hair, tangled and neglected, had grown much 
 too long. His beard, also untrimmed, served no 
 ornamental purpose, and was so thin and colorless 
 that it did not even conceal the extreme plainness 
 of his features. His broad-brimmed hat of soft 
 felt and his long coat, unfashionably cut, had once
 
 220 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 been dyed black, but were now threadbare. He 
 looked unkempt, uncouth, and rusty, even to the 
 worn-out clumsy shoes ; and the spectacles, through 
 which his watery blue eyes gained all their reflec 
 tions of the universe, gave his face the blank, for 
 bidding cast of an owl s in the daytime. The brain 
 behind it might well be a treasure-house of learn 
 ing, but the medium of defence was apparently so 
 dull and impenetrable that no chance observer 
 would have cared to make an attack upon it. A 
 blue cotton umbrella and a shabby knapsack, hollow 
 in its folds, completed the accoutrements of this 
 odd soldier of fortune, who, whether sage or pedant, 
 had nothing of the personal charm that means 
 more than half the battle for such empty honors 
 as the world can give. 
 
 But within us all lurks that unknown quantity 
 the world cannot gauge, whose exact dimensions 
 remain a mystery even to ourselves. And this 
 shy, negative personage, distinguished solely by his 
 name of Einhard Becker, could display, in critical 
 moments, a trembling resolution akin to heroism, 
 like that of the fighting unit who longs to run 
 away, but whose spirit keeps his face to the music. 
 The poor student for such at least he surely was 
 had faced his music more than once to find it 
 singularly discordant. And now again, his spirit 
 was sorely tried. 
 
 He was a native of Frankfort-on-the-Main, the 
 old free town of which Heine has left a fond
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 221 
 
 remembrance in the saddest poem of all that his 
 sad song-book holds : 
 
 " Frankfurt, du hegst viel Narrn und Bosewichter, 
 Doch lieb ich dich, du gabst dem deutschen Land 
 Manch guten Kaiser und den besten Dichter, 
 Und hist die Stadt wo ich die Holde fand." 
 
 " Many good emperors," of whom the first was 
 Charlemagne. But if any drop of imperial blood 
 diffused itself in Einhard Becker s veins, he was 
 unaware of it. Though he had lost his parents so 
 early in life that he could hardly be said to have 
 known them, he did not lack abundant proof of 
 his humble origin. A crabbed old uncle, Jacob 
 Koberstein the saddler, had taken possession of the 
 orphan boy, rearing him as his apprentice, with a 
 certain rough fidelity. According to this high au 
 thority the elder Becker had been a good-for-noth 
 ing, whom the mother, Koberstein s sister, had 
 persisted in marrying out of pure caprice. She 
 had been told often enough that no good would 
 come of such a marriage ; well, no good had come 
 of it, as any one could see with half an eye. The 
 case was always closed by this emphatic statement, 
 which a significant glance at Einhard made doubly 
 impressive ; and the boy would then be told to put 
 up the shutters carefully, and to remember that 
 his uncle was one of the best and thriftiest men in 
 Frankfort. Einhard believed, of course, what was 
 repeated in the same straightforward terms on 
 almost every day of his life ; yet for some ancestral
 
 222 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 sin he had been cursed with a soul above leather ; 
 and as he grew up, he became more and more 
 dreamy and unpractical, living in a world of his 
 own creation, far removed from the bustling, trade- 
 haunted Zeil of his daily walks, and evolved from 
 the text of all the books that came in his way. 
 Near his uncle s shop, a dealer in antiquities had a 
 cellar stored with musty volumes, which the boy 
 was allowed to turn over in his spare moments ; 
 sometimes too he obtained permission to carry 
 them home for stealthy reading in the watches of 
 the night by the flame of a candle-end. The anti 
 quarian had a charitable heart, and taking pity 
 upon Einhard s hunger for mental improvement, 
 trusted him in this manner even with his rarest 
 treasures, entirely confident that his trust would 
 never be betrayed. For Einhard had, from the 
 first, shown something more than the scholar s 
 reverence, and he dealt with each leaf as tenderly 
 as though it were composed of golden tissue. Its 
 lines to him were lines of light, shining out upon him 
 from the sunny realms of poetry and romance. He 
 slept to walk hand in hand with gods and heroes ; 
 and even the trials of the day he learned to endure 
 patiently for the sake of what the night would bring. 
 His uncle Koberstein had one child, a daughter, 
 who seemed to Einhard s boyish fancy the embodi 
 ment of all that was good and beautiful. In point 
 of fact his cousin Minna s black eyes and rosy 
 cheeks, in all their freshness of youth, were sum-
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 223 
 
 ciently prepossessing ; but she had a high temper 
 and a will of her own, and was a thorough Kober- 
 stein, the neighbors said, in a tone which implied 
 something the reverse of complimentary. To Bin- 
 hard, however, she always tried to appear at her 
 best. Her way was his way, in the first place ; then 
 he amused her too. Behind the house there was 
 a scrap of garden, where they would sometimes sit 
 in the twilight, while he told her tales out of his 
 wonderful books, to which she listened graciously. 
 Once he made a story of his own, and told her 
 that ; and she thought it better than all the others. 
 How could he help liking her ? Once again, in his 
 talk, he busied himself all the while with the cut 
 ting of their initials, interlaced, on the bench be 
 tween them. Then she called for the knife, and 
 hacked away at the wood unmercifully, obliterating 
 the letters. It is to be feared that he liked her all 
 the more for that. Who can tell ? 
 
 Years went by. The city flourished as its trade 
 increased; the sun of prosperity shone upon the 
 house of Koberstein. A third pair of hands was 
 needed there, and young Moritz Lahn, the butcher s 
 son, entered upon his term of service. The new 
 apprentice, though Einhard s junior by a year or 
 two, was a stout, active lad, with a keen eye for 
 his own advancement, and with little heart and 
 less conscience. He lost no time in worming him 
 self into old Jacob s good graces, and as it pleased 
 Minna likewise to smile upon him, he was soon
 
 224 DA Y AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 firmly established in the post of household favorite. 
 It followed, as the night the day, that Einhard lost 
 ground steadily. The poor relation became little 
 better than the family drudge. Nothing he could do 
 was exactly right ; he was misjudged and slighted 
 upon all occasions. Worse than that, his cousin 
 played him false most cruelly by repeating some 
 of his marvellous tales to Moritz, for whose com 
 panionship she now showed a decided preference ; 
 and the butcher s boy, displaying a savage dex 
 terity that was perhaps inherited, turned the knife 
 in Einhard s wound with many a mocking jest 
 upon the subject of these confidences. The house 
 of Koberstein was a small world, and the weakest 
 went to the wall in it. 
 
 But for his good friends, the books, poor Ein 
 hard might have been driven to some desperate 
 deed. As it was, he only imitated the tortoise, 
 who shrinks into his shell to escape his tormentor. 
 He made few complaints, spoke fewer and fewer 
 words of any kind as the days went on. His 
 brain was busy none the less. Stimulated always 
 at night by. the noble thoughts of others, his own 
 thoughts came thick and fast, clamoring for ex 
 pression. He trusted no one with them now ; he 
 did not even dare to write them down, but only com 
 mitted them to memory in the form of verse, since 
 verse was easier to remember. Often, though he 
 did not know it, these were mere echoes of some 
 master-mind, over which he had been brooding.
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 225 
 
 Even to utter a cry of the heart, at first, one s 
 voice unconsciously repeats another s cry. But 
 Einhard now and then could strike a note that was 
 all his, and that would have rung out loud and 
 clear with an echo of its own had there been any 
 one to hear it. 
 
 So matters stood, with no change that was not 
 for the worse, when Einhard was seventeen, and it 
 happened that old Jacob Koberstein, going to bed 
 late or getting up early, saw a gleam of light under 
 the door of the garret where the boy slept alone. 
 Bursting into the room without warning, he found 
 Einhard wide awake, and hovering over a candle 
 with a little vellum-bound book in his hand. Rage 
 made him speechless for an instant ; then he blew 
 out the light, and telling his nephew to go to bed 
 in the dark then and there and from that time 
 forth, he departed, carrying off the book in spite 
 of all that Einhard could say or do. It was a rare 
 volume, belonging, of course, to the friendly dealer ; 
 and white with fear at the thought of its possible 
 destruction, the boy crept down the stairs behind 
 his uncle, who, however, did nothing more terrible 
 than to lock it up in a certain iron-bound strong 
 box, of which he always carried the key. Thus 
 relieved for the time Einhard went back to his 
 room, and spent the rest of the night in devising 
 means to get the priceless treasure safe into his 
 hands again. He dared not betray its owner, lest 
 this should be to cut off the source of his supplies. 
 
 15
 
 226 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 His uncle s wrath would surely turn against the 
 dealer, who would obtain the property only upon 
 condition that the hideous crime of lending it 
 should never be repeated. No ; that would not do. 
 He must keep his own counsel, await his oppor 
 tunity, open the chest himself, when the favorable 
 moment should occur. It would be but a moment, 
 if he only had the key. 
 
 The key ! How to get it ? He had never before 
 kept a book so long. Days passed in which he 
 lived in dread of a demand for it ; in which too 
 his misery was aggravated by his uncle s persistent 
 harshness. This had now taken an aggressive 
 turn, not due, as Einhard believed, to the mere 
 discovery of his midnight studies, but to quite a 
 different cause. For some time old Jacob had 
 missed various small sums of money, and in his 
 own mind he secretly accused his unlucky nephew 
 of pilfering them. The suspicion, for proof of 
 which he kept sharp watch, changing his dislike to 
 hatred, led him into acts of positive brutality. 
 Einhard bore these new trials without complaint, 
 as he had borne the others, still absorbed in his 
 books, or rather, now, in one book which was no 
 longer his. 
 
 Chance favored him. One stormy winter s night 
 he was left alone with his uncle in their gloomy 
 workshop. The room, littered now with piles of 
 leather, and lighted by a flickering lamp, had been 
 a kitchen in some former time. In one corner
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 227 
 
 was a cavernous chimney, over which the wind 
 howled dismally, bringing down stray drops of 
 rain that pattered upon the hearth-stone. Moritz 
 had taken himself off, but Einhard, grimy with 
 dust and oil, still crouched at his bench ; while his 
 uncle, bustling about, first put his work in order 
 for the night, then drew a stool into the chimney- 
 corner, and after kindling a fire, sat down by it to 
 smoke his pipe in sullen silence. Einhard worked 
 on mechanically, staying his hand now and then 
 at a startling gust of the storm. Suddenly his 
 eyes brightened ; he drew himself up ; his whole 
 demeanor changed ; on the table, under the lamp, 
 he had seen his uncle s keys. And in another 
 moment, old Jacob s head drooped forward upon 
 his breast, his right hand, with the pipe in it, 
 dropped gently to his knee. He was sound asleep ; 
 Einhard s hour had come. 
 
 In a flash the boy took off his shoes, crept to 
 the table, caught up lamp and keys, and with every 
 possible precaution made his way into the outer 
 shop where the strong-box stood behind the little 
 counter on the floor against the wall. He knelt 
 beside it, trying each key in its turn until he found 
 the right one. The lock yielded, the lid opened 
 noiselessly ; under it he saw papers and bags of 
 money, an odd trinket or two, a golden chain. He 
 fumbled right and left to no purpose ; then scat 
 tered the things about until he came at last to the 
 precious book, which he slipped at once into his
 
 228 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 pocket. The other contents he proceeded to put 
 back with trembling care. In spite of all he could 
 do, the papers rustled, the money clinked a little, 
 only a very little, but it was enough. There 
 came a heavy step, a cry of rage ; his shoulder 
 was clutched by a strong, rough hand. Blindly he 
 flung up his own which held one of the money 
 bags, and struck his uncle full in the face. With 
 an oath old Jacob fell in a heap, overturning the 
 lamp, and floundering on the floor. 
 
 " Thief ! thief ! " he shouted. 
 
 " It is a lie ! " cried Einhard, as he flung down 
 the bag with all his might. It burst open, and 
 the coins rolled right and left, glistening through 
 the firelight of the inner room. Then, while the 
 man wavered, in doubt which to pursue first, his 
 treasure or his prey, the boy rushed to the door 
 and fled out of it into the storm. 
 
 He was not followed. He turned one corner, 
 then another ; he heard no outcry, and could 
 breathe freely. He was drenched, already numb 
 with cold ; but that mattered little since he had 
 saved the book, which he now returned to the 
 owner, telling him the story and begging shelter 
 for the night. The dealer gave more than he 
 asked, not only warming, feeding, and clothing 
 him, but also offering to make his peace with 
 Koberstein, if such a thing were possible. To 
 this, however, Einhard would not listen. 
 
 " What then ? " inquired his friend, who was a
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 229 
 
 timid, gentle soul, bowed with the weight of years. 
 " What in the world is to become of you ? " 
 
 " Anything in the world but that," replied the 
 boy, stoutly. " To-morrow I will tell you." 
 
 So he went to bed, and tossed for awhile rest 
 lessly. Then he fell into a sleep disturbed by 
 dreams, made up, as dreams often are, from shreds 
 of actual experience stretched and twisted by a 
 wilful fancy. One of these was strangely vivid. 
 He saw a city square, long unfamiliar, that he had 
 seen, indeed, but once, as a child in his father s 
 arms. His father held him now, showing him the 
 trees and flowers ; there were little tables too, 
 and he heard the sound of running water. Then 
 his father was gone, and he stood erect, a grown 
 man, facing an angry crowd that threatened him. 
 By his side in the dress of another age knelt 
 a fantastic figure, old, feeble, and deformed, im 
 ploring help. 
 
 " The world ! " the stranger whispered. " It is 
 all against you. Fight it, conquer it, or it will 
 tear us limb from limb." 
 
 There came a struggle ; the crowd seemed to 
 sweep over him and bear him down. All passed, 
 leaving him in cool, deep silence, lying alone under 
 the trees, with his face to the stars, through which 
 faint flushes of the dawn came stealing up. And 
 then he woke to find it all a dream, except the 
 morning light that shone around him, thrice clear 
 and serene in contrast to his night of storms.
 
 230 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " Mayence ! " he murmured ; " it was Mayence ! 
 And it is there that I must go." 
 
 He remembered that in this neighboring city 
 lived his father s cousin, whom, to be sure, he had 
 never seen. But the man was by trade a printer, 
 and must therefore have a certain sympathy with 
 books. That he was wretchedly poor there could 
 be little doubt ; yet this thought only strengthened 
 Einhard in his resolve, for he knew instinctively 
 that the poor always greet poverty with a gentle 
 ness which is often wanting in the rich man s treat 
 ment of it. Whatever might result, his appeal for 
 advice and help, but not for charity, would at least 
 be kindly heard. To Mayence, then, to Mayence ! 
 the moment that another night should shield 
 him from his uncle s eyes. His old friend, whc 
 would have reconciled him to the saddler, made 
 fruitless objections ; then urged upon him mone} : 
 for the journey, which Einhard proudly declined 
 He had money of his own, he said. The dealci 
 had turned the boy s pockets inside out, and knew 
 that they contained only a few copper coins. But 
 he accepted the statement gravely, contenting him 
 self with such comfortable gifts of clothing as could 
 be forced upon his guest, whose departure, under 
 cover of the darkness, he was already speeding 
 when the door opened and Minna Koberstein pre 
 sented herself. 
 
 Einhard drew back in dismay ; his imagination 
 already pictured the dungeon to which he would be
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 231 
 
 dragged forthwith, now that his hiding-place was 
 known. But Minna had only guessed at it, and 
 had shrewdly kept her own counsel. Out of her 
 cousin s slender store of worldly goods she had 
 filled a knapsack with the things most needful for 
 a journey, since he must go away. Her father was 
 very violent ; it would not do to venture into his 
 sight. Did Einhard know of his dreadful charges, 
 which she knew were false ? His uncle could not 
 be convinced of their injustice ; but she pledged 
 herself to bring him to reason in Einhard s absence. 
 Yes ; he must go away, for a time. 
 
 " For all time ! " said Einhard to himself. Then, 
 touched by Minna s impulsive kindness, he de 
 scribed in detail his adventure, and accepted grate 
 fully her friendly offices. She had won her old 
 place in his heart again ; it was with tears in his 
 eyes that he bade her farewell. So the three 
 parted upon the threshold, and went their several 
 ways. She to her present care of turning old 
 Jacob s wit the seamy side within ; the dealer to 
 his mouldy records of the past ; and Einhard 
 straight out to meet the future, and make it 
 stand and deliver whatever good fortune it should 
 bring. 
 
 He slept that night by the roadside, with his 
 knapsack for a pillow. All day he followed the 
 dusty highway, procuring a scanty meal under the 
 porch of some village inn, and then trudging on 
 with a light heart so long as his money lasted ;
 
 232 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 but it was all gone by the next noon, when, draw 
 ing near the gates of a town, tired, hungry, and 
 despondent, he stopped to rest and take thought of 
 the morrow. Rather than beg he opened his pack 
 in search of something to offer in exchange for 
 food, and immediately out dropped a roll of money, 
 enough to supply his moderate wants for days 
 and weeks. Who but Minna could have done this ? 
 He blessed her for it a thousand times. How 
 bright the skies were now ; how yellow were the 
 cornfields that he passed, how green the vineyards ! 
 But his harvest lay beyond, under the spires of 
 Mayence ; already against the clear sky they twin 
 kled, with all their vanes, like beckoning fingers. 
 The sun set, and these same towers grew gray and 
 cold as he approached them. Then the chimes 
 rang out, muffled and mellowed by the distance, 
 a low breathing of unseen bells rather than their 
 uplifted voices. " Fortune ! fortune ! " he half 
 heard them say, as if the note of promise were 
 meant only for his ears. At the sound his heart 
 beat higher, though the twilight deepened, until at 
 last he came to the broad river and the mighty 
 bridge, over which he strode with quickened pace, 
 out of the darkness of solitude into flaring streets 
 filled with the darker indifference of unknown 
 faces. 
 
 Since the day he was driven forth from Eden, 
 man s state has been little better than that of the 
 pack-horse, never free of his burden, but merely
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 233 
 
 exchanging one load for another in all his wander 
 ings through the world. At the first glance Ein- 
 hard s share of the weight would seem to have 
 become no lighter under the printer s apprentice 
 ship upon which he entered. But actually, both 
 in body and in mind, he was much relieved. His 
 new-found relative received him with kindness, 
 made room for him at his own table, obtained for 
 him this employment, which, drudgery as it was, 
 brought with it enormous compensations. If to 
 handle type afforded him no special joy, there were 
 manuscripts that he could decipher, printed pages 
 from which something could be learned in a furtive 
 glance, the glow of excitement that a good line 
 gives to one who can use his brains. Furthermore, 
 in hours of freedom he found opportunity secretly 
 to set up lines and pages of his own with which his 
 mind had long been teeming. And though his 
 great thoughts dwindled when he met them in this 
 manner, face to face, at least they were neither 
 hasty nor ill-considered ; it was like seeing his own 
 heart in a mirror to read them. So, hoping always 
 to do better, and growing with his work, he went 
 on, slowly adding leaf after leaf to a book of his 
 own making in all senses of the word. 
 
 Once established in his new calling he made it 
 his first care to thank his cousin for the mysteri 
 ous gift discovered in his knapsack at a desperate 
 moment. He wrote that he had spent but little of 
 the money ; that he only waited to make good the
 
 234 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 sum out of his earnings before restoring it in full. 
 For a long time this letter was left unanswered, 
 and the answer, when it came, was singularly cold. 
 Minna disclaimed all knowledge of the money ; she 
 had given him none. She wished her cousin well, 
 but she held out no hope of a change in her father s 
 views concerning him. Obviously old Jacob still 
 believed his nephew to be a thief. Did Minna 
 think so too ? Was her coldness due to that ? Or 
 was it merely that she cared a little less for 
 Einhard than for his former rival, Moritz Lahn V 
 
 Who, then, could have concealed the roll of bank 
 notes in his wallet ? Who but the first cause of 
 all his joys and troubles, the kind old treasure- 
 seeker whose offers of money he had proudly re 
 jected ? To him, therefore, Einhard addressed a 
 letter, which returned long afterward with the seal 
 unbroken. The good dealer in imprints had 
 scanned his last title-page, and had gone the musty 
 way of all documents, however guarded. He was 
 dead as the Sibyl s books ; and limited as were 
 his friendships, Einhard counted one friend less in 
 the world. 
 
 He laid the sum by, and living frugally, increased 
 it little by little. He dreaded beggary even more 
 than death itself, and this wholesome terror spared 
 him many an after pang; for there came a dull 
 year when he, in common with many others, fell 
 out of employment. And it was to Einhard, the 
 youngest of them all, that some of these despairing
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 235 
 
 people applied for temporary help, which he gener 
 ously accorded so far as possible. This disaster 
 became also the spur to his intent, driving him 
 suddenly forward into the world of letters. With 
 fear and trembling he offered to a publisher his 
 small foundling of literature, which was received 
 and adopted, admired even. It actually brought 
 him money, a pittance, it is true, but still, money. 
 He lost no time in setting to work upon another 
 which had long been seething in his brain. This 
 should clinch his first hold upon success, make 
 him something more than a minor poet, perhaps 
 a great one. If he could only finish it ! But he 
 was miserably poor, and haunted by a thousand 
 nervous fancies. One day his work seemed abso 
 lutely worthless ; the next, it hung fire altogether ; 
 still another, he was all a-glow with it, but there 
 stood starvation knocking at the door, eager to run 
 a race with his pen. Fortunately there set in an 
 early spring, that season of hope to all, and 
 especially to the poor man, for it puts money in his 
 purse, with a promise of long exemption from the 
 need of light and fuel. For his sake would it were 
 always scorching midsummer in all climes the sun 
 shines on ; how much less pitiable are the poor of 
 the tropics than the poor of London. 
 
 And now we have followed the small circle back 
 to the very point of our departure, coming once 
 more upon Einhard Becker seated in the Triton- 
 Platz of Mayence, absorbed in a new problem very
 
 236 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 difficult to solve. His cousin Minna had written to 
 him again, and this time of her own accord. The 
 evil spirit of the house of Koberstein had been ex 
 orcised at last. Moritz Lahn, now expelled igno- 
 miniously, was proved to be the real culprit for 
 whose crime the innocent had suffered. Her good 
 father, she wrote, longed to make all the amends 
 in his power. Through her he recalled Einhard 
 upon the most flattering of terms, not as an ap 
 prentice, but as a master. They would share and 
 share alike ; henceforth he should be treated as old 
 Jacob s son, as his successor ; and Minna, im 
 ploring him to come back, threw, it seemed, more 
 than a sister s love into the scale. But all this de 
 pended upon one condition. Einhard must pledge 
 himself to give up his books, and fix all his thoughts 
 on leather. There must be no poetry in his life, 
 unless her love, that had waxed and waned capri 
 ciously, could be accounted a poetic thing. 
 
 Upon receiving this letter, in one of his exultant 
 moods, Einhard was inclined to laugh at it. Inured 
 as he was to poverty, what were its hardships com 
 pared with his uncle s tyranny, of which there still 
 remained the vivid recollection ? What were the 
 definite material comforts that could outweigh his 
 illimitable hopes of fame ? He took up his pen to 
 set aside temptation with a single stroke. But 
 he was not quick enough ; before it touched the 
 paper doubts assailed him. He hesitated, dropped 
 the pen, and read the letter once more. After all
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 237 
 
 it promised much. Life-long immunity from care 
 should not be considered lightly. And he had 
 loved his cousin once. She had done her best at 
 times to quench the boyish passion which now bade 
 fair to revive under the destroyer s hand. Already 
 he longed for a sight of her. Was not success in 
 love the best that mortal man could hope to know ? 
 Yes ; it was everything. To forego that joy for the 
 delusive one of fame was like turning from a fire 
 to snatch warmth from a star. 
 
 Lost now in a maze of deliberation, that day he 
 wrote no word. All night he lay awake, and in 
 the morning, springing up resolutely, he composed 
 a line of acceptance, which he immediately de 
 stroyed ; then he went out, and strolled aimlessly 
 through the town, staring at the shops, noting how 
 sleek and comfortable the tradesmen looked, until 
 he came to a saddler s window, and drew back in 
 disgust. The smell of the leather was enough to 
 make him miserable. And so, tired and faint with 
 the heat, he turned at last into the Triton-Platz, 
 where, at that hour, he found much merriment and 
 clinking of glasses. One by one the other citizens 
 withdrew to their affairs. Einhard was left alone 
 long before his simple meal was finished. That 
 did not trouble him, however. He knew the square 
 well, and loved it from the tenderest associations. 
 It was just there, across the way, that his father 
 had held him up to look at the fountain years ago. 
 The cool solitude of the place was very grateful to
 
 238 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 him ; he would stay on here until he had settled his 
 burning question once for all. He spread Minna s 
 letter out before him, and calling for pen and 
 paper, prepared again to answer it ; but he got no 
 farther than the scribbling of his name. As he sat 
 with knit brows, forgetful of his looks, the picture 
 of helpless indecision, the waiters smiled a little, 
 then yawned and dozed, leaving him to himself. 
 Like all waiters, they knew their world, and were 
 not to be moved by any trifling eccentricity in it. 
 
 The shadows grew longer and sharper ; the day 
 was drawing to a close ; the square roused itself 
 and gave signs of life. Two young men placed 
 themselves at a table near that at which Einhard 
 still sat scribbling his name abstractedly. They 
 called for beer, and chattered over some gossip of 
 the town. Their talk was interrupted by a noise 
 of distant shouting, which came nearer and nearer, 
 till there turned into the square a man s figure of 
 inconceivable oddity, followed by a troop of mock 
 ing boys, who, however, kept at a safe distance, 
 since now and then their victim paused to threaten 
 them. He was withered and shrunken, covered 
 with dust from head to foot ; strange garments 
 hung about him loosely, but these were of a faded 
 splendor, rich in their material. As he approached 
 with shambling and uncertain gait he looked like 
 some mask that had lost his way in a bygone car 
 nival, and had been wandering about the earlh 
 ever since, vainly trying to find it. Coming up to
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 239 
 
 the cafe*-door he peered timidly at Einhard s neigh 
 bors with eyes that seemed to fear the light, and 
 then asked them to tell him what day of the year 
 it was. 
 
 The men laughed, but made no other answer. 
 The boys, encouraged by the sympathy of these 
 new allies, looked about for stones to throw at the 
 bewildered stranger, who paid them no heed, but 
 addressing the older of the two men, put his hands 
 together with a quaint, imploring gesture, and 
 repeated his question. 
 
 " Tell me, sir, I pray you," he begged in a 
 cracked voice, " what is the date of the year ? " 
 
 " How should I know ? " retorted the man, with 
 a laugh. " There it is ; read it yourself." And 
 he pointed as he spoke toward the theatre-wall, on 
 which clung the remnant of a play-bill, bearing a 
 date, it is true, but one long past. 
 
 The stranger bowed with a grateful word, then 
 moving slowly to the wall, shaded his eyes with 
 his hand, and looked up at the tattered poster. 
 
 Einhard sprung to his feet indignantly. 
 
 " Why did you tell him that ? " he asked. 
 
 Why not ? " said the man. " Who the devil 
 are you ? " 
 
 " I am neither a coward nor a liar," said Einhard, 
 in a passion, " and you are both." 
 
 With an inarticulate cry of rage the man flew at 
 Einhard s throat. There was a struggle, in which 
 the student had the better of it. They fell to the
 
 240 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 ground together, Einhard uppermost ; but his op 
 ponent s comrade interfered, and after him the 
 waiters. Chairs and tables were overturned in a pro 
 longed scuffle, from which Einhard suddenly found 
 himself extricated, he knew not how, and leaning 
 against the cafe -wall for breath. A shower of small 
 stones rattled about his ears ; while the poor dwarf, 
 who had flown to him for protection, crouched at 
 his feet and clasped his knees. Beside him the fray 
 went on ; others had joined in it ; it threatened to 
 become general. The uproar grew louder and 
 wilder ; already the square was filling up with a cu 
 rious crowd. The boys danced with savage delight, 
 like demons, and fired a second volley indiscrimi 
 nately. One of the stones struck in the face the 
 innocent cause of all the mischief, who moaned 
 piteously. 
 
 " The world ! " he cried in a voice faint with 
 terror. " It is always so in the world. Help, good 
 master ! Save me ! " 
 
 Einhard caught up a chair to attack one of the 
 troop now venturing within reach ; but at that 
 moment the window behind him opened, a hand 
 grasped his arm and dragged him in, together 
 with the strange companion, who had fastened 
 upon him like a crab. 
 
 " Be off with you ! " said the host, for it was he. 
 " Do you want to bring the house about our ears ? " 
 
 And he pushed them toward a small door at the 
 back of the caf leading to a narrow, quiet street,
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 241 
 
 already dark in the deepening twilight. The dwarf 
 now took the lead, and as though he knew his 
 way perfectly, hurried Einhard along, by one turn 
 after another, until they came out into the open 
 Schiller-Platz, near the outskirts of the town, where 
 all was cool and still. Its old lime-trees flung 
 about them fantastic shadows, in which their own 
 were lost, as they went on to a noiseless fountain 
 hidden away among the leaves. Here his guide 
 stopped to refresh himself by dipping his hands 
 and face into the basin ; and Einhard, finding that 
 he too was bruised and bleeding, did the same. 
 
 The fountain is surmounted by a granite pillar, 
 said to be a relic of Charlemagne s palace at In- 
 gelheim, and certainly so old that this statement 
 of its origin has never been disputed. As Einhard 
 Becker lifted his face from the refreshing water 
 he saw that the dwarf had left his side and had 
 climbed to the base of the column, where he knelt 
 for a moment to lay his lips upon the stone, rev 
 erently. Then, with an adroitness of which he had 
 appeared before incapable, he swung himself quiet 
 ly to the earth again, and drawing nearer, plucked 
 Einhard gently by the sleeve. His eyes had lost 
 their dulness, and were keen and piercing. His 
 whole expression too had changed, as if he had 
 gathered strength and courage from the darkness, 
 like a nocturnal animal. Einhard looked at him in 
 wonder, waiting for him to speak. At that mo 
 ment the cathedral clock struck the hour, and the 
 
 16
 
 242 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 stranger laid his finger on his lips, counting in- 
 audibly the strokes of the bell, and listening for 
 its last vibration to die away. 
 
 " Nine ! " he muttered. " So late, and they told 
 me nothing. But you are not like the others," he 
 added, turning to Einhard confidently. " I can 
 trust you." 
 
 "Fully," said Einhard. "What help do you 
 need ? " Strange as this presence was, he did not 
 shrink from it ; rather it drew him closer by some 
 bond of sympathy wholly unaccountable. Then, 
 in a voice clear and resonant as the cathedral-bell 
 itself, the man put his singular question for the 
 third time, 
 
 " Tell me, I pray you, what is the date of the 
 year ? " 
 
 " Midsummer-day," said Einhard, smiling at his 
 insistence, and puzzled by the reiteration of his 
 trivial demand. 
 
 " But the year, the year ? " 
 
 Einhard gave this information also ; the other 
 repeating the words thoughtfully, and then ex 
 pressing his thanks with grateful earnestness. 
 
 " You have done me double service ; you took 
 my part, you saved me from those lying curs. 
 Yet by your looks I see that you are most unhappy. 
 They have tormented you too, down there in the 
 world." 
 
 " No," said Einhard, sighing ; for Minna s letter, 
 still unanswered, lay like a leaden weight upon his
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 243 
 
 heart. " I am my own tormentor. I long to soar, 
 and dare not trust my wings." 
 
 " A poor confession ! " said the dwarf, in a tone 
 almost savage in its sternness. " Is the penance 
 you call life so precious that you cannot risk the 
 loss of it, even for the stars ? " 
 
 " Dead worlds ! " replied Einhard, mournfully. 
 " They mock us with a beauty unattainable. Look 
 up ! Between us and them lies all the blackness 
 of oblivion." 
 
 " Yes," was the bitter answer ; " it is a fine thing 
 to deal in leather." 
 
 Einhard started. " What do you mean ? " de 
 manded he. 
 
 " poet ! " said the warning voice, softened 
 now into a note of sadness ; " the price they ask 
 you is too dear for happiness so brief. Let the 
 earth go, and listen to the soul that pleads in you 
 for an immortal life. Win that, or fail only in 
 striving to attain it. Come with me, and I will 
 show you what it is to live." 
 
 " Where would you have me go ? " 
 
 The dwarf pointed toward one of the city gates, 
 rising between them and the western stars. " To 
 my master, who is waiting there for my return." 
 
 " Beyond the gate ? " 
 
 "Ay, truly. Beyond the gate, beyond the gate 
 of dreams ; into the grandeur of the past, the 
 splendor of an unknown future, where no man 
 living has been before you."
 
 244 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 " You promise much," said Einhard, with a 
 smile. " But can you make the grandeur and the 
 splendor last ? Will not the poor dreamer, when 
 he wakes, be all the poorer for his dreams ? " 
 
 " Have faith," the dwarf replied. " I make the 
 unreal real. When you have passed my master s 
 threshold you will never wake. To you, hereafter, 
 life will be the dream." 
 
 " What more can I ask ? " said Einhard, confi 
 dently, " except that you shall keep your word. 
 Farewell, house of Koberstein ! " As he spoke 
 his hand closed upon the letter, and with it he 
 lifted from his heart its intolerable load. He flung 
 the crumpled paper into the fountain with a sigh 
 of relief. " I will go," said he. 
 
 " Follow me, then," returned the dwarf, as he 
 drew his tattered cloak about him. " This way, 
 through the shadows." 
 
 Hugging the darkness, so far as it was possible, 
 they went on in silence to a flight of stone steps 
 that led them to a terrace high above the city. At 
 this commanding point, while the guide stopped 
 for breath, Einhard turned to look down upon the 
 spires and housetops, the frowning roof of the 
 cathedral, the wide sweep of the Rhine and its 
 sentinel peaks of the Niederwald in all their vary 
 ing degrees of blackness. A murmur rose from 
 the pavement where countless lamps traced out 
 the streets and squares like strings of jewels ; and 
 one shrill voice shot up to them, cutting the air,
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 245 
 
 as though borne on the feathered shaft of an arrow. 
 But it did not come from the Triton-Platz ; there 
 all was peace itself under the overarching leaves. 
 
 They followed the terrace to the city wall, and 
 beyond it, through the Binger Gate, into the open 
 country. Here the dwarf, quickening his pace, 
 strode out along the smooth turnpike that stretched 
 away immeasurably. 
 
 " Is not this the road to Zahlbach ? " asked 
 Einhard, breaking at last their oppressive silence. 
 
 " No ; to Ingelheim," replied the other, without 
 stopping even to turn his head. Time pressed 
 with him, since they had far to go. 
 
 " To Ingelheim," repeated Einhard, under his 
 breath. The word recalled old legends of his 
 earliest friends, the books, and made him regard 
 the distorted figure trudging on before him with 
 something more than reverence, yet with no thought 
 of fear. Who was his master ? To what threshold 
 were they tending? The question of the year, 
 which he had asked so often, tallied perfectly with 
 a tale the student knew by heart. If that tale 
 were true, the mysterious messenger could work 
 him only good. To pass that noble master s 
 portal, and make all after-life one glorious rec 
 ollection, would be, in truth, to enter through the 
 gate of dreams. 
 
 They were on high land now ; the night wind 
 blew fresh and cool. Dark vineyards opened out 
 before them to the darker Rhine shore, already
 
 246 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 miles away. The road kept its due westward 
 course, rising gradually, and bringing them nearer 
 to the stars, so near that myriads came out where 
 none had been before. A great meteor swept 
 slowly across the sky in a trail of light ; a hare 
 fled from them into the thicket ; a night-bird flew 
 over, uttering a dismal cry But they met no 
 human creature, and the dwarf, holding his even 
 gait, left all these sights and sounds unheeded. 
 
 They had walked thus for more than two hours, 
 when the road began gradually to descend toward 
 the village of Ingelheirn, which lay asleep under 
 its shadowy roof-lines ; but on one side of the 
 way the land still rose in an abrupt slope, un 
 broken and unwooded. There the guide suddenly 
 stopped, to make sure that he was observed ; then, 
 beckoning Einhard to follow, he plunged into the 
 long grass, and proceeded to climb the hill. The 
 crickets vaulted before him as he passed, the rank 
 weeds and field-flowers he had brushed aside 
 sprung back drenching Einhard with dew. So 
 they climbed on, up the height and over the brow 
 of it to a wide, wind-swept plateau that looked all 
 the more desolate for certain detached fragments 
 of a ruin rising massively against the sky. The 
 rough-hewn walls, medieval in character, must 
 once have enclosed a dwelling of splendor and 
 solidity ; but roofs and towers and pinnacles lay 
 in the earth under huge mounds heaped over all 
 like graves of a colossal race, and it seemed as if
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 247 
 
 the crumbling arches that remained would long 
 ago have fallen too, but for stout branches of ivy 
 binding the stones together and sustaining them. 
 All broken lines had been softened and beautified 
 by its glossy mantle, glistening now at every fold 
 in the light of the one-eyed, waning moon that 
 rose above this memorial of a vanished age as the 
 intruders drew near. Then Einhard whispered, 
 while his companion paused for breath once more : 
 " It is the hill of Charlemagne." 
 
 " Hark ! " returned the dwarf, with a warning 
 gesture ; and from some distant point within the 
 ruins came the sound of a horn, in low, sweet 
 notes, faintly blowing. The dwarf advanced, drew 
 himself up, and answered the signal with a wild, 
 unearthly cry that echoed and re-echoed through 
 the empty arches. In a moment the unseen warder 
 blew his horn again, and then all was silent except 
 the rustling of the leaves. 
 
 With swift, noiseless steps the messenger re 
 turned to Einhard s side. 
 
 " Give me your hand," he whispered, " we will go 
 in together. Hush ! not a word ! Only when I 
 give the sign speak without fear ; until then 
 silence." 
 
 So, hand in hand and silently, they passed slowly 
 on over black bars of shadow, through grass-grown 
 courts, roofless and deserted, now following some 
 line of ruined wall to climb it at a favorable point 
 where the matted ivy secured their foothold, and
 
 246 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 miles away. The road kept its due westward 
 course, rising gradually, and bringing them nearer 
 to the stars, so near that myriads came out where 
 none had been before. A great meteor swept 
 slowly across the sky in a trail of light ; a hare 
 fled from them into the thicket ; a night-bird flew 
 over, uttering a dismal cry But they met no 
 human creature, and the dwarf, holding his even 
 gait, left all these sights and sounds unheeded. 
 
 They had walked thus for more than two hours, 
 when the road began gradually to descend toward 
 the village of Ingelheiin, which lay asleep under 
 its shadowy roof-lines ; but on one side of the 
 way the land still rose in an abrupt slope, un 
 broken and unwooded. There the guide suddenly 
 stopped, to make sure that he was observed ; then, 
 beckoning Einhard to follow, he plunged into the 
 long grass, and proceeded to climb the hill. The 
 crickets vaulted before him as he passed, the rank 
 weeds and field-flowers he had brushed aside 
 sprung back drenching Einhard with dew. So 
 they climbed on, up the height and over the brow 
 of it to a wide, wind-swept plateau that looked all 
 the more desolate for certain detached fragments 
 of a ruin rising massively against the sky. The 
 rough-hewn walls, medieval in character, must 
 once have enclosed a dwelling of splendor and 
 solidity ; but roofs and towers and pinnacles lay 
 in the earth under huge mounds heaped over all 
 like graves of a colossal race, and it seemed as if
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 247 
 
 the crumbling arches that remained would long 
 ago have fallen too, but for stout branches of ivy 
 binding the stones together and sustaining them. 
 All broken lines had been softened and beautified 
 by its glossy mantle, glistening now at every fold 
 in the light of the one-eyed, waning moon that 
 rose above this memorial of a vanished age as the 
 intruders drew near. Then Einhard whispered, 
 while his companion paused for breath once more : 
 " It is the hill of Charlemagne." 
 
 " Hark ! " returned the dwarf, with a warning 
 gesture ; and from some distant point within the 
 ruins came the sound of a horn, in low, sweet 
 notes, faintly blowing. The dwarf advanced, drew 
 himself up, and answered the signal with a wild, 
 unearthly cry that echoed and re-echoed through 
 the empty arches. In a moment the unseen warder 
 blew his horn again, and then all was silent except 
 the rustling of the leaves. 
 
 With swift, noiseless steps the messenger re 
 turned to Einhard s side. 
 
 " Give me your hand," he whispered, " we will go 
 in together. Hush ! not a word ! Only when I 
 give the sign speak without fear; until then 
 silence." 
 
 So, hand in hand and silently, they passed slowly 
 on over black bars of shadow, through grass-grown 
 courts, roofless and deserted, now following some 
 line of ruined wall to climb it at a favorable point 
 where the matted ivy secured their foothold, and
 
 250 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 the knights, with one voice. A hundred swords 
 flashed from their sheaths. All were alert and 
 ready ; yet no light came into their faces ; they 
 still slept, moved only by the impulse of a dream. 
 
 The king alone woke to life. His eyes opened ; 
 he rose in his place and looked about him. On the 
 instant all was still again. Then he spoke, in tones 
 that made the arches ring. 
 
 " Messenger from without the gate, what is the 
 date of the year ? " 
 
 Einhard looked at the dwarf, who made no re 
 ply, but gave instead their preconcerted signal; 
 and the student, comprehending it, rose in his 
 turn, and advancing to the royal dais knelt at the 
 emperor s feet and answered him. 
 
 His noble face grew clouded, and he sighed heav 
 ily as he addressed once more the throng below 
 him. 
 
 " Back, comrades ! The hour is not come." 
 
 The swords rattled down into their scabbards , and 
 with a dull clang the armed men dropped, one and 
 all, into repose. Murmurous echoes spread through 
 the outer courts, swelling and subsiding, as if a 
 wave of the sea had dashed itself to pieces. Then 
 the stillness of desolation settled over all. 
 
 But the king bent upon his new-found messenger 
 a keen, penetrating glance that seemed to search 
 through Einhard s inmost soul. Gradually his face 
 resumed its former calmness, and the smile re 
 turned to it.
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 251 
 
 " The hour will come," he said gently, " though 
 it be long delayed. We, who reign forever, can 
 read men s hearts in faces ; and in the face and 
 heart before me there are signs of promise." 
 
 " In mine ? " said Einhard, trembling. 
 
 " Yes. The age of chivalry is past, but only for 
 a season ; and on the toilers we, who wait, de 
 pend. Not he alone is great who slaughters ar 
 mies. To wrestle with the world, and conquer it ; 
 to have no thought that is not half divine ; to give 
 the thought a word that shall vibrate in all hearts, 
 stirring them to noble deeds, and make the mean 
 est slave a hero, this is to be greater than a king. 
 This done, the earth sweeps back into its golden 
 age." 
 
 " Alas ! " said Einhard, with a sigh, " what man 
 can hope to hold a place in every heart ? " 
 
 " None that will not strive for it. What ! are 
 there no mortals who have put on immortality ? " 
 
 " Oh, pardon me ! " replied the student, as he 
 humbly bowed his head. " I speak to one of 
 these." 
 
 With a gracious gesture the emperor motioned 
 Einhard to a low seat beside him. 
 
 " Sit here by me," he said, " and tell me some 
 story of the past. For I am restless with long 
 years of waiting. Only labor can bring happiness. 
 Be true, then, to gifts that Heaven has bestowed, 
 and use them well, however men reward them or 
 despise them. Work, work ; and work again !
 
 252 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. 
 
 God grant that in the after ages unending toil may 
 be both mine and thine ! " 
 
 Then Einhard, half from memory and half in 
 verses of his own that formed themselves without 
 an effort, recited a legend of the day that survives 
 eternally in the chronicle of Roland. Little by 
 little, all the light of the hall went out, and the 
 sleepers faded away, one by one, until only the 
 watchful eyes of the dwarfs were left, glittering 
 like glow-worms. And when the tale was finished 
 the king sunk to sleep, with his arm upon the table, 
 his cheek upon his hand. Einhard too slept 
 soundly ; and the memorable night passed on, as 
 all nights must, however memorable, to become a 
 mere remembrance of things that were, while the 
 light of a new day stole into its place and slowly 
 illumined half the world. 
 
 Einhard woke to find himself lying alone in 
 the sunshine under the ruined entrance of the 
 crumbling, ivied wall. He beat upon the door, 
 but could not move it, and nothing moved with 
 in. He turned away sadly, lingering and look 
 ing back, inclining to believe that he had only 
 dreamed. As he came into the open field a lark 
 flew up in a joyous ecstasy of song, singing, sing 
 ing, and still singing, with a full throat, an invis 
 ible rapture of the blue distance. Then Einhard s 
 look grew lighter, and his heart leaped as he went 
 down toward the spires of Mayence. 
 
 " It was no dream," he murmured. " It was a
 
 THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS. 253 
 
 step toward the eternal goal. What need I care 
 henceforth for pain or pleasure in this narrow 
 world ? The nobler life will come hereafter ; and 
 through one poor soul, at least, the appointed hour 
 will not be delayed. Oh, emperor ! I strive for 
 immortality. Unending toil shall be both thine 
 and mine ! " 
 
 THE END.
 
 RIEF LIST OF BOOKS OF FICTION 
 
 > 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER S 
 
 SONS, 743-745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. 
 
 Mary Adams. 
 
 AN HONORABLE SURRENDER. (I6mo, $1.00.) 
 
 "The story belongs distinctly to the realistic school of modern 
 fiction. The situations are those of every day. The characters are 
 not in the least eccentric ; the dialogue is never extravagant ; the 
 descriptive and analytical passages are neither obtrusive nor too 
 prolix. The sum of all these negations is a charming book, full of 
 a genuine human interest." The Portland Advertiser, 
 
 William Waldorf Astor. 
 
 VALENTINO: An Hisiorical Romance. (I2mo, $1.00). SFORZA : A Story of 
 
 Milan. (I2mo, $1.00.) 
 
 " The story is full of clear-cut little tableaux of mediaeval Italian 
 manners, customs, and observances. The movement throughout is 
 spirited, the reproduction of bygone times realistic. Mr. Astor has 
 written a romance which will heighten the reputation he made by 
 Valentino. " The New York Tribune, 
 
 Arlo Bates. 
 
 A WHEEL OF FIRE. (I2mo, paper, SO cts. ; cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 " The novel deals with character rather than incident, and is 
 evolved from one of the most terrible of moral problems with a 
 subtlety not unlike that of Hawthorne. One cannot enumerate all 
 the fine points of artistic skill which make this study so wonderful 
 in its insight, so rare in its combination of dramatic power and 
 tenderness." The Critic. 
 
 Hjalmar H. Boyesen. 
 
 FALCONBERG. Illustrated (I2mo, $1.50) GUNNAR. (Sq. I2mo, paper, 
 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25) TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES. (Sq. I2mo, 
 $1.00) ILKA ON THE HILL TOP, and Other Stories. (Sq. I2mo, $1.00) 
 QUEEN TITANIA (Sq. I2mo, $1.00). 
 
 " Mr. Boyesen s stories possess a sweetness, a tenderness, and a 
 drollery that are fascinating, and yet they are no more attractive 
 than they are strong " The Home Journal.
 
 RIEF LIST OF BOOKS OF FICTION 
 
 i 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER S 
 
 SONS, 743-745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. 
 
 Mary Adams. 
 
 AN HONORABLE SURRENDER. flOmo, $1.00.) 
 
 "The story belongs distinctly to the realistic school of modern 
 fiction. The situations are those of every day. The characters are 
 not in the least eccentric ; the dialogue is never extravagant ; the 
 descriptive and analytical passages are neither obtrusive nor too 
 prolix. The sum of all these negations is a charming book, full of 
 a genuine human interest." The Portland Advertiser, 
 
 William Waldorf Astor. 
 
 VALENTINO: An Historical Romance. (I2mo, $1.00). SFORZA : A Story of 
 Milan. (I2mo, $1.00.) 
 
 " The story is full of clear-cut little tableaux of mediaeval Italian 
 manners, customs, and observances. The movement throughout is 
 spirited, the reproduction of bygone times realistic. Mr. Astor has 
 written a romance which will heighten the reputation he made by 
 Valentino. " The New York Tribune, 
 
 Arlo Bates. 
 
 A WHEEL OF FIRE. (I2mo, paper, 50 els. cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 "The novel deals with character rather than incident, and is 
 evolved from one of the most terrible of moral problems with a 
 subtlety not unlike that of Hawthorne. One cannot enumerate all 
 the fine points of artistic skill which make this study so wonderful 
 in its insight, so rare in its combination of dramatic power and 
 tenderness." The Critic, 
 
 Hjalmar H. Bqyesen. 
 
 FALCONBERG. Illustrated (I2mo, $1.50) GUNNAR. (Sq. I2mo, paper, 
 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25) TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES. (Sq. I2mo, 
 V.OO) ILKA ON THE HILL TOP, and Other Stories. (Sq. I2mo, $1.00) 
 QUEEN TITANIA (Sq. I2mo, $1.00). 
 
 " Mr. Boyesen s stories possess a sweetness, a tenderness, and a 
 drollery that are fascinating, and yet they are no more attractive 
 than they are strong " The Home Journal.
 
 a SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 
 
 H. C. Bunner. 
 
 THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE. Illustrated by A. B. Frost (I2mo, 
 $I.25)-THE MIDGE. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.00) IN PARTNER 
 SHIP. With Brander Matthews (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1 00). 
 
 " It is Mr. Banner s delicacy of touch and appreciation of what 
 is literary art that give his writings distinctive quality. Everything 
 Mr. Bunner paints shows the happy appreciation of an author who 
 has not alone mental discernment, but the artistic appreciation. 
 The author and the artist both supplement one another in this ex 
 cellent Story of a New York House. " The New York Times. 
 
 Frances Hodgson Burnett. 
 
 THAT LASS O LOWRIE S. Illustrated (paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.25) 
 HAWORTH S. Illustrated (!2mo, $I.25)-THROUGH ONE ADMINISTRA 
 TION. (I2mo, $1.50) LOUISIANA. (I2mo, $1.25) A FAIR BARBARIAN. 
 (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25) VAGABONDIA. A Love Story. (I2mo, 
 paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.25) SURLY TIM, and Other Stories (I2mo, $1.25). 
 
 The above 7 vols., in uniform cloth binding, $9.00 per set. 
 THE PRETTY SISTER OF JOSE. Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart (I2mo, $1.00). 
 
 LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY. (Sq. 8vo, $2.00). SARAH CREWE; or, 
 What Happened at Miss Minchin s. (Sq. 8vo, $1.00). LITTLE SAINT 
 ELIZABETH, and Other Stories. (I2mo, $1.50). Illustrated by R. B. Birch. 
 
 Earlier Stories by the same author, each i6mo, paper covers. 
 
 LINDSAY S LUCK (30 cts.)-PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON (40 cts.)- 
 KATHLEEN (40 cts.) THEO (30 cts.) MISS CRESPIGNY (30 cts.). 
 
 " Mrs. Burnett discovers gracious secrets in rough and forbidding 
 natures the sweetness that often underlies their bitterness the soul 
 of goodness in things evil. She seems to have an intuitive percep 
 tion of character. If we apprehend her personages, and I think we 
 do clearly, it is not because she describes them to us, but because 
 they reveal themselves in their actions. Mrs. Burnett s characters 
 are as veritable as Thackeray s." RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 William Allen Butler. 
 
 DOMESTICUS. A Tale of the Imperial City (I2mo, $1.25.). 
 
 " Under a veil made intentionally transparent, the author main- 
 tains a running fire of good-natured hits at contemporary social 
 follies. There is a delicate love story running through the book. 
 The author s style is highly finished. One might term it old-fashioned 
 in its exquisite choiceness and precision," The New York Journal 
 of Commerce.
 
 SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 3 
 
 George W. Cable. 
 
 THE GRANDISSIMES, (I2mo, $1.25) OLD CREOLE DAYS. (I2mo, cloth, 
 $1.25; also in two parts, I6mo, cloth, each, 75 cts. ; paper, each, 30 cts.) 
 DR. SEVIER. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25) BONAVENTURE. A 
 Prose Pastoral of Acadian Louisiana (I2mo, Paper, 50 cents; $1.25.) 
 
 The set, 4 vols., $j-.oo. 
 
 " There are few living American writers who can reproduce for 
 us more perfectly than Mr. Cable does, in his best moments, the 
 speech, the manners, the whole social atmosphere of a remote time 
 and a peculiar people. A delicious flavor of humor penetrates his 
 stories." The New York Tribune. 
 
 Edward Egg lest on. 
 
 ROXY. Illustrated (I2mo, $1.50) THE CIRCUIT RIDER. Illustrated (I2mo, 
 $1.50). 
 
 "Dr. Eggleston s fresh and vivid portraiture of a phase of life 
 and manners, hitherto almost unrepresented in literature ; its boldly 
 contrasted characters, and its unconventional, hearty, religious spirit, 
 took hold of the public imagination." The Christian Union. 
 
 Erckmann-Cbatrian. 
 
 THE CONSCRIPT. Illustrated WATERLOO. Illustrated (Sequel to The 
 Conscript) MADAME THERESE THE BLOCKADE OF PHALSBURG. 
 Illustrated THE INVASION OF FRANCE IN 1814. Illustrated A 
 MILLER S STORY OF THE WAR. Illustrated. 
 
 The National Novels, each 1.25 ; the set, 6 vols., $7.50. 
 
 FRIEND FRITZ. A Tale of the Banks of the Lauter (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; 
 cloth, $1.25). 
 
 Harold Frederic. 
 
 SETH S BROTHER S WIFE. (I2mo, $1.25). THE LAWTON GIRL. (I2mo, 
 $1.25; Paper, 50 cents). 
 
 The story has a very strong, human, and pathetic side, and the 
 trials, struggles, and accomplishments of " The Lawton Girl " are 
 depicted with delicate sympathy and with admirable art. 
 
 Octare Tbanet. 
 
 EXPIATION. Illustrated by A. B. Frost. (I2mo, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, 
 $1.00.) 
 
 "This remarkable novel shows an extraordinary grasp of drama 
 tic possibilities as well as an exquisite delicacy of character drawing. 
 Miss French has with this work taken her place among the very 
 foremost of American writers of action. Boston Beacon.
 
 4 SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 
 
 James Anthony Froude. 
 
 THE TWO CHIEFS OF DUNBOY. An Irish Romance of the Last Century. 
 
 (!2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.50.) 
 
 " The narrative is full of vigor, spirit, and dramatic power. It 
 will unquestionably be widely read, for it presents a vivid and life 
 like study of character with romantic color and adventurous incident 
 for the background." The New York Tribune. 
 
 Robert Grant. 
 
 FACE TO FACE. (I2mo, paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.25.) 
 
 " This is a well-told story, the interest of which turns upon a game 
 of cross purposes between an accomplished English girl, posing as a 
 free and easy American Daisy Miller, and an American gentleman, 
 somewhat given to aping the manners of the English." The 
 Buffalo Express. 
 
 Ed-ward Everett Hale. 
 
 PHILIP NOLAN S FRIENDS. Illustrated (I2mo, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, 
 $1.75.) 
 
 " There is no question, we think, that this is Mr. Hale s com 
 pletes! and best novel. The characters are for the most part well 
 drawn, and several of them are admirable." The Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 Marion Harland. 
 
 JUDITH: A Chronicle of Old Virginia. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth. $1 00) 
 HANDICAPPED. (I2mo, $1.50). WITH THE BEST INTENTIONS. 
 A Midsummer Episode. (I2mo, Cloth, 1.25 ; Paper, 50 cents.) 
 
 " Fiction has afforded no more charming glimpses of old Virginia 
 life than are found in this delightful story, with its quaint pictures, 
 its admirably drawn characters, its wit, ar.d its frankness." Th 
 Brooklyn Daily Times. 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 FREE JOE, and Other Georgian Sketches. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts., cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 " The author s skill as a story writer has never been more felic 
 itously illustrated than in this volume. The title story is meagre 
 almost to baldness in incident, but its quaint humor, its simple but 
 broadly outlined characters, and, above all, its touching pathos, 
 combine to make it a masterpiece of its kind." The New York Sun. 
 
 Augustus Allen Hayes. 
 
 THE JESUIT S RING. A Romance of Mount Desert (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.-, 
 cloth, $1.00). 
 
 "The conception of the story is excellent. " The Boston Traveller.
 
 SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 5 
 
 8. T. W. Hoffmann. 
 
 WEIRD TALES. With Portrait (I2mo, 2 vols., $3.00). 
 
 " Hoffmann knew how to construct a ghost story quite as skilfully 
 as Poe, and with a good deal more sense of reality. All those who 
 are in search of a genuine literary sensation, or who care for the 
 marvelous and supernatural, will find these two volumes fascinating 
 reading." The Christian Union. 
 
 Dr. J. G. Holland. 
 
 SEVEN OAKS THE BAY PATH ARTHUR BONNICASTLE MISS GIL- 
 BERT S CAREER-NICHOLAS MINTURN. 
 
 Each, ismo, %i.a J the set, $6.25. 
 
 " Dr. Holland will always find a congenial audience in the homes 
 of culture and refinement. He does not affect the play ot the darker 
 and fiercer passions, but delights in the sweet images that cluster 
 around the domestic hearth. He cherishes a strong fellow-feeling 
 with the pure and tranquil life in the modest social circles of th\. 
 American people, and has thus won his way to the companionship 
 of many friendly hearts." The New York Tribune. 
 
 Thomas A. Janvier. 
 
 COLOR STUDIES. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 "Piquant, novel, and ingenious, these little stories, with all their 
 simplicity, have excited a wide interest. The best of them, Jaune 
 U Antimoine, is a little wonder in its dramatic effect, its ingenious 
 construction." The Critic. 
 
 Virginia W. Johnson. 
 
 THE FAINALLS OF TIPTON. (I2mo, $1.25.) 
 
 " The plot is good, and in its working-out original. Character- 
 drawing is Miss Johnson s recognized forte, and her pen-sketches of 
 the inventor, the checker-playing clergyman and druggist, the 
 rising young doctor, the sentimental painter, the rival grocers, etc., 
 are quite up to her best work." The Boston Commonwealth. 
 
 Lieut. J. D. J. Kelley. 
 
 A DESPERATE CHANCE. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 " This novel is of the good old-fashioned, exciting kind. Though 
 it is a sea story, all the action is not on board ship. There is a 
 well-developed mystery, and while it is in no sense sensational, 
 readers may be assured that they will not be tired out by analytical 
 descriptions, nor will they find a dull page from first to last." The 
 Brooklyn Union. 
 
 The King s Men : 
 
 A TALE OF TO-MORROW. By Robert Grant, John Boyle O Reilly, J, 8* 
 of Dale, and John T. Wheelwright. (I2mo, $1.25.)
 
 6 SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 
 
 Andrew Lang. 
 
 THE MARK OF CAIN. (I2mo, paper, 25 els.) 
 
 " No one can deny that it is crammed as full of incident as it will 
 hold, or that the elaborate plot is worked out with most ingenious 
 perspicuity." The Saturday Review. 
 
 George P. Lathrop. 
 
 NEWPORT. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $I.25)-AN ECHO OF PASSION. 
 (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00) IN THE DISTANCE. (I2mo, paper, 
 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 " It is one of the charms of Mr. Lathrop s style that it appeals to 
 the imagination of the reader by a delicate suggestiveness, which 
 lies like a fine atmosphere over the landscape of the story. His 
 novels have the refinement of motive which characterize the analytical 
 school, but his manner is far more direct and dramatic." The 
 Christian Union. 
 
 Brander Matthews. 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE SEA, and Other Stories. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; 
 cloth, $1.00) THE LAST MEETING. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; clo h, $1.00) 
 IN PARTNERSHIP. With H. C. Bunner (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00). 
 
 "Mr. Matthews is a man of wide observation and of much 
 familiarity with the world. His literary style is bright and crisp, 
 with a peculiar sparkle about it wit and humor judiciously mingled 
 which renders his pages more than ordinarily interesting." The 
 Rochester Post-Express. 
 
 Fit^-James O Brien. 
 
 THE DIAMOND LENS, with Other Stories. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, 
 $1.00.) 
 
 " These stories are the only things in literature to be compared 
 with Poe s works, and if they do not equal it in workmanship, they 
 certai r 1 y do not yield to it in originality. " The Philadelphia Record. 
 
 Duffield Osborne. 
 
 THE SPELL OF ASHTAROTH. (I2mo, $1.00.) 
 
 Bliss Perry. 
 
 THE BRpUGHTON HOUSE. (I2nv>, $1.25), 
 
 In this book Mr. Perry has presented an artistic and extraordinarily 
 vivid picture of a New England town in summer, with close, shrewd, 
 sympathetic, and wonderfully observant studies of its typical person 
 ages the quartette of persons at the hotel, " The Broughton 
 House," with whom the story is chiefly occupied, viewed against the 
 background of the villagers and the natural environment.
 
 SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 7 
 
 Thomas Nelson Page. 
 
 IN OLE VIRGINIA Marse Chan ant Other Stories. (I2mo, $1.25.) 
 
 " There are qualities in these stories of Mr. Page which we do 
 not find in those of any other Southern author, or not to the same 
 extent and in the same force and they are the qualities which are 
 too often wanting in modern literature," JN, Y, Mail and Express. 
 
 Saxe Holm s Stories. 
 
 FIRST SERIES.-Draxy Miller s Dowry The Elder s Wife-Whose Wife 
 Was She? The One-Legged Dancers How One Woman Kept Her Husband 
 Esther Wynn s Love Letters. 
 
 SECOND SERIES. Four-Leaved Clover Farmer Bassett s Romance My 
 Tourmalene Jo ; Male s Red Stocking Susan Lawton s Escape. 
 
 Each, 1 2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, %i.oo. 
 
 "Saxe Holm s characters are strongly drawn, and she goes right to 
 the heart of human experience as one who knows the way. We 
 heartily commend them as vigorous, wholesome, and sufficiently 
 exciting stories." The Advance, 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
 STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR: HYDE. (I2mo, paper, 25 
 cts.; cloth, $1. 00) KIDNAPPED. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, SI. 00, 
 illustrated, 81.25) THE MERRY MEN, and Other Tales and Fables. (I2mo, 
 paper, 35 cts.; cloth, $I.OO)-NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS. (I2mo, paper, 
 30 cts.; cloth, $1.00) THE DYNAMITER. With Mrs. Stevenson (I2mo, 
 paper, 30 cts.; cloth, $1.00) THE BLACK ARROW. Illustrated (I2mo, 
 paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $!. 00) THE WRONG BOX. With Lloyd Osbourne 
 (I2mo, $1.00) THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE. A Winter s Tale. (I2mo, 
 paper, 50 cts.; cloth, illustrated, $1.25.) 
 
 " Stevenson belongs to the romantic school of fiction writers. He 
 is original in style, charming, fascinating, and delicious, with a 
 marvelous command of words, and with a manner ever delightful 
 and magnetic. His style is as easy and as confidential as that of 
 Defoe." The Boston Transcript. 
 
 T. R. Sullivan. 
 
 DAY AND NIGHT STORIES. (I2mo, Cloth, $1.00; Paper, 50 cents). 
 ROSES OF SHADOW. (I2mo, $1.00). 
 
 " Mr. Sullivan s style is at once easy and refined, conveying most 
 happily that atmosphere of good breeding and polite society which 
 is indispensable to the novel of manners, but which so many of them 
 lamentably fail of." The Nation. " His style is clear and clean 
 cut ; his characters are genuine and observed." Saturday Review,
 
 8 SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 
 
 Frederick J. Stimson (J. 5., of Dale.) 
 
 GUERNDALE. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25) THE CRIME OF HENRY 
 VANE. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00) THE SENTIMENTAL CALEN 
 DAR. Head Pieces by F. G. Attwood (I2mo, $2.00) FIRST HARVESTS. 
 An Episode in the Career of Mrs. Levison Gower, a Satire without a Moral 
 (I2mo, $1.25) THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE; or, The Posthumous Jest ol 
 the Late John Austin. (I2mo, paper, 35 cts.; cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 "No young novelist in this country seems better equipped than 
 Mr. Stimson is. He shows unusual gifts in this and in his other 
 stories." The Philadelphia Bulletin. 
 
 Frank R. Stockton. 
 
 RUDDER GRANGE. (I2mo, paper, 60 cts.; cloth, $1.25; illustrated by A. B. 
 Frost, Sq. I2mo, $2.00) THE LATE MRS. NULL. (I2mo, $1.25) THE 
 LADY, OR THE TIGER? and Other Stories. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, 
 $I.25)-THE CHRISTMAS WRECK, and Other Stories. (I2mo, paper, 50 
 cts.; cloth, $1.25) THE BEE-MAN OF ORN, and Other Fanciful Tales. 
 (I2mo, cloth, $1.25) AMOS KILBRIGHT, with Other Stories (I2mo, paper, 
 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25). 
 
 The set, 6 vols. , in a box, $7.50. 
 
 " Of Mr. Stockton s stories what is there to say, but that they 
 are an unmixed blessing and delight ? He is surely one of the most 
 inventive of talents, discovering not only a new kind in humor and 
 fancy, but accumulating an inexhaustible wealth of details in each 
 fresh achievement, the least of which would be riches from another 
 hand." W. D. HOWELLS, in Harper s Magazine. 
 
 Stories by American Authors. 
 
 Cloth, ibmo,5oc. each; set, tovols., $5.00; cabinet ed., in sets only, f/./o. 
 
 " The public ought to appreciate the value of this series, which 
 is preserving permanently in American literature short stories that 
 have contributed to its advancement. American writers lead all 
 others in this form of fiction, and their best work appears in these 
 volumes." The Hoston Globe. 
 
 John T. Wheelwright. 
 
 A CHILD OF THE CENTURY. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 "A typical story of political and social life, free from cynicism of 
 morbid realism, and brimming over with good-natured fun, which b 
 never vulgar. " The Christian at Work.
 
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