TH6 SPHINX 
 
 1N-AUBRGY 
 
 PARISH*
 
 Pictures of American Life and Character 
 Past and Present 
 
 THE SPHINX IN AUBREY PARISH.
 
 i. 
 
 SAMUEL SEW ALL, AND THE WORLD 
 HE LIVED IN. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 A book not without uses for the learned in American hist- 
 ory. It certainly will inspire the ingenuous youth of our land 
 to study and understand the mixed, singular, and solemn story 
 of how, out of the zeal, religion, and shrewd common sense of 
 a few immigrants, a great and free nation was born. [/ press. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A NEW 
 ENGLAND FARM HOUSE. 
 
 A ROMANCH OF THE OLD COLONY. 
 
 Third edition. Illustrated, i2tno, 380 pages. $1.50. 
 
 A book that will take its place, on the shelves of the library, 
 by the side of " The Vicar of Wakefield." Born and bred on 
 Cape Cod, the author, at the winter firesides of country people 
 very conservative of old English customs now gone, heard cu- 
 rious talk of kings, Puritan ministers, the war and precedent 
 struggle of our Revolution, and touched a race of men and 
 women now passed away. He also heard, chiefly from ancient 
 women, the traditions of ghosts, witches, and Indians, as they 
 are preserved, and to a degree believed, by honest Christian 
 folk, in the very teeth of modern progress. These things are 
 embodied in this book. 
 
 III. 
 THE SPHINX IN AUBREY PARISH. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 Illustrated, lamo, cloth, 400 pages. $1.50. 
 
 The instantaneous popularity of "A New England Farm 
 House," the author's first venture in the field of fiction (which 
 has been read and re-rea^, by all classes, with an eagerness lit- 
 tle short of that which hailed the appearance of " Scarlet Letter" 
 a generation ago), has led the publishers to induce Mr. Cham- 
 berlain to consent to a companion volume. Wholly distinct 
 from that first book in its plot, scenery, and location, it will be 
 found as interesting, and equally as strong in its animation and 
 sustained energy of action. 
 
 *** For sale by all booksellers, or will be sent, post-paid, on 
 receipt of price by the publishers, 
 
 CUPPLES & HURD, 
 be 2H0onquin p0rf. BOSTON.
 
 THE SPHINX IN AUBREY PARISH.
 
 THE SPHINX 
 
 IN 
 
 AUBREY PARISH 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 N. H. CHAMBERLAIN 
 
 Author of" The Autobiography of a New England Far;>i House." 
 
 BOSTON 
 CUPPLES AND KURD 
 
 (3Tbe 2U0onquin press 
 1889
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1889, 
 By CUPPLES & HURD. 
 
 A II rights reserved.
 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY MEMORIES. 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE ARCHDEACON .... 9 
 II. THE REV. FREDERIC ARDENNE . .12 
 
 III. SIR CHAUNCEY DE VERB ... 26 
 
 IV. EASTER IN THE CATHEDRAL ... 38 
 V. Miss HANNAH 51 
 
 VI. Two MEN AT CROSS PURPOSES . . 57 
 
 VII. ST. JOHN'S G8 
 
 VIII. STRASBOURG MINSTER .... 77 
 
 IX. AUBKEY PARISH 86 
 
 X. HELEN DE VERE 95 
 
 XL MOTHER WALKER . . . . 104 
 
 XII. A MOTHER'S SURPRISE . . . .112 
 
 XIII. FOLK A PARSON FINDS OUT . . . 119 
 
 XIV. THE PARTY AT RIVER NOOK . .127 
 XV. AFTER THE PARTY .... 158 
 
 XVI. FIRST FLOWERS 172 
 
 XVII. THE SHADOW OF NEMESIS . . . 182 
 
 XVIII. A MAIDEN 196 
 
 XIX. THE REVIVAL 205 
 
 XX. THE OLD AND THE NEW IN STRIFE . 222 
 XXI. A HOME FOR A HEART . . . .231 
 
 XXII. FLOWERS AGAIN 236 
 
 XXIII. MOTHER AND SON . 245
 
 8 Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIV. A DINNER OF HERBS . . . .253 
 XXV. A YACHTING PARTY . . . .262 
 
 XXVI, A NIGHT AFLOAT 276 
 
 XXVII. A MUSICALE IN AUBREY . . . 284 
 XXVIII. THE WEDDING IN BLACKBERRY 
 
 HOLLOW 303 
 
 XXIX. A LETTER 338 
 
 XXX. AT INDIAN WELL 349 
 
 XXXI. FLOTSAM AND JETSAM .... 363 
 XXXII. SIR CHAUNCEY DE VERE AGAIN . . 366 
 
 XXXIII. LIBERTY AT LAST . .374 
 
 XXXIV. THE AGNOSTIC 381 
 
 XXXV. THE CHRISTMAS TIDE . . . .400 
 
 XXXVI. WATER AGAIN 408 
 
 XXXVII. A SISTER OF MERCY . . . .415 
 
 XXXVIII. HOME AGAIN 426 
 
 XXXIX. Miss MARY KENDRICK . . . .436 
 XL. AN INVASION OF THE RECTORY . . 447 
 
 XLI. THE MARRIAGE 461 
 
 XLII. EDWARD VAUGHN FINALE . 469
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE ARCHDEACON. 
 
 THE Archdeacon rang his bell. In due time a 
 servant appeared. 
 
 " Tell Mr. Ardenne I wish to speak with him." 
 
 The servant bowed and retired. The Archdea- 
 con turned to the papers on his table. He shall 
 remain there until the brief account which this 
 history demands is given. Archdeacon Ardenne 
 inhabits one of those comfortable recluse English 
 houses, which for a couple of hundred years or so 
 have looked across the Cathedral Close at Ches- 
 ter upon the venerable Minster which pious hands 
 have built over St. Werburgh's shrine. He has 
 been, for some time now, one of the Cathedral 
 clergy. More than this, he is a Cambridge man, 
 and fifty-six; an imposing, stalwart Englishman, 
 in clerical dress, but with a certain curt, decisive, 
 military air, that befits him as one of a race of 
 warriors. 
 
 The long rows of ancient-looking books in white 
 parchment with Latin titles, the shelves filled with 
 monotonous reaches of grim and heavily leathered
 
 10 The Archdeacon. 
 
 volumes of old divinity, with his exquisite edition 
 of the Fathers, show the tone of his exact and sturdy 
 scholarship. The elaborate bronzes on the mantel 
 tell us that he is rich. The stray pens, with per- 
 chance a vagrant inkstand hidden behind the man- 
 tel vases, and the piles of irregularly sorted pamph- 
 lets upon the heavy Brussels carpet, declare the 
 bachelor. And he writes at his table by the sober 
 daylight entering between the heavy drapery of 
 the green velvet curtains, while his favorite terrier 
 lies before the right comfortable lazy blaze of the 
 coal fire, asleep. 
 
 A young man stood beside the Archdeacon at 
 his writing. 
 
 " You sent for me just now, sir ? " 
 
 The Archdeacon rose from his chair and laid his 
 hand familiarly upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Ah yes, Fred, I tell you something. You are 
 to inform the precentor before night that on 
 Easter morning he is to sing, as the anthem, from 
 Handel's Messiah, ' I know that my Redeemer 
 liveth.' You know the music. Another thing. 
 Downham is sick, and Lloyd has gone down to see 
 his father who is dying. Robson declines for rea- 
 sons. You are to preach the Easter sermon. 
 
 " I, Uncle ? You are quizzing me." 
 
 "Not at all. Listen. I have spoken to the 
 Bishop, and he has seen fit to order it. You are 
 too good a Churchman to rebel against authority.
 
 The Archdeacon. 11 
 
 It is settled that you preach. I give you a word 
 of advice. You know what Easter Sunday in the 
 Cathedral is. It is your opportunity. I advise 
 you to improve it. You have four days for prep- 
 aration. If you miss your mark, I shall blush in 
 my stall for your mother's son." 
 
 The young man seemed to meditate upon the 
 Archdeacon's proposition, but he finally answered 
 quietly, " I will preach then, Uncle." 
 
 " I give you another piece of advice, very pri- 
 vately, Fred. I have never thought that a lady's 
 drawing-room was just the place to court theology. 
 I suggest that this week you eschew our neighbor 
 Helen De Vere." 
 
 The young man blushed to his temples, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 " It may be very pleasant work, you think," 
 the Archdeacon continued, "studying a little divin- 
 ity and I confess Miss De Vere is one, but I 
 am going to befriend the sermon. Turn monk 
 and keep your cell till after Easter. Now go and 
 tell the precentor." 
 
 The young man went without a word. The Arch- 
 deacon returned to his writing, and the terrier slept 
 on before the fire.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE REV. FREDERIC ARDENNE. 
 
 THE young man told the precentor. He found 
 him conning over some music in the choir room. 
 
 "Ah yes, " said the old man; " I have been ex- 
 pecting that message, and everything is ready. 
 The Archdeacon has had that music every Easter 
 for ten years now. Good as it is, I wonder he 
 never changes it. I suggested it once, but he ended 
 the matter by saying : ' Bentley, I hope we are to 
 have that music as men have their wives, as long 
 as we both shall live.' " There was one little thing 
 that the precentor did not know about the brief 
 gray man who ordered it. One Easter Sunday, 
 years ago, the Archdeacon had heard that anthem 
 with a young girl sitting beside him in the pew 
 for that day only who before another Easter 
 had white flowers laid around her face ; and ever 
 since, at the great feast of immortality, he had 
 somehow heard in that music the tones of her 
 voice, and felt the sunshine of a presence which 
 no grave could hide. The precentor went on with 
 his work. It may be as well to take a look at the 
 young man who brought the message.
 
 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 13 
 
 Frederic Ardenne is a man hard upon thirty 
 years old, of a Cheshire family whose men for gen- 
 erations had served their king as soldiers, under 
 diverse skies, with that loyalty which an English 
 soldier shows. He himself had been bred for the 
 Church. His father, whom he had never known, 
 died at Salamanca, when, at sunset, the Saxon 
 shouts that rang through those Spanish vineyards, 
 reddened and trampled under the angry feet of 
 stalwart foemen, told of the great victory won; 
 and they found the sword in the cold hand of Col. 
 Ardenne as he lay among his men under the pure 
 stars which looked down on the dead heroes. The 
 son from childhood bore in his heart the proud 
 memories of such a sire, and had read with tears 
 the words that men had placed in the nave of the 
 cathedral as epitaph : 
 
 HIS RACE WAS ONE OF SOLDIERS ; 
 
 AMONG SOLDIERS HE LIVED AMONG THEM HE DIED ', 
 
 A SOLDIER FALLING WHERE NUMBERS FELL WITH HIM, 
 
 IN A FOREIGN LAND. 
 
 YET THERE DIED NONE MORE GENEROUS, 
 MORE DARING, MORE GIFTED, MORE RELIGIOUS. 
 
 ON HIS EARLY GRAVE 
 
 FELL THE TEARS OF STERN AND HARDY MEN, 
 AS HIS HAD FALLEN ON THE GRAVE OF OTHERS. 
 
 His mother died with the sword stroke that slew 
 her husband. The orphan became as the Archdea- 
 con's son. From the day when he had been brought
 
 14 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 
 
 by his nurse to the latter's study, a chubby infant 
 in white dress with blue ribbons, till the time when 
 he came back from the University a prizeman 
 and a deacon, with the promise of a brilliant 
 future, his uncle had provided in all his affairs 
 with a right fatherly solicitude. He seemed to be 
 impressed with the thought that, somehow, his own 
 life was to perpetuate itself in his nephew, and 
 looked to him to be rescued from his years, and his 
 name from the grave that lay at the end of them. 
 Besides, in certain subtle ways he was rekindling 
 youth in his own heart, from the fresh, ingenuous 
 ways of the young man whom he overwatched. 
 They were, therefore, by an organic necessity, fast 
 friends. 
 
 At the time when our story begins, the young 
 man was a priest in orders, who, without holding 
 any fixed appointment among the Cathedral clergy, 
 had, through the kindness of his uncle, been en- 
 trusted with several minor affairs in its service, 
 which, while they gave him insight into his future 
 work, might in time answer as stepping-stones to 
 something better. His scholarship grew among 
 the Archdeacon's books, and under the Cathedral 
 shadows those churchly thoughts deepened in his 
 heart, which, when set at the centre of one's life, 
 make it buoyant with a great hope. Otherwise, 
 he is a middle-sized, gentlemanly Saxon, with 
 brown hair and eyes, a gentle, retiring manner,
 
 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 15 
 
 veiling a reserved strength and earnestness which 
 are the sufficient promise of his future. 
 
 The Archdeacon had given his nephew his order 
 and his advice. The order was obeyed. Ten min- 
 utes after lie left the precentor, however, his feet 
 were on the steps of that same Helen De Vere's 
 house, against whose fascinations, for this week 
 at least, the Archdeacon had so affectionately 
 warned him. 
 
 " I wish to see Miss Helen," he said to the ser- 
 vant who ushered him into the hall. 
 
 " Miss De Vere is out, but left word she would 
 be back in half an hour." 
 
 " Very well, then, I will wait ; " and he went into 
 the library. 
 
 It must be evident by this time to the most stolid 
 reader that they two are lovers. And yet that one 
 short phrase, " I love you," which, when spoken out 
 of a heart, makes so often another's rich with a 
 great peace and joy, so that this world rises forever 
 after with a new light and benediction on it, and 
 sometimes are those final words which put as it 
 were a vast and silent sea between two lives for 
 that one instant so close together, had never been 
 spoken between them. 
 
 It was one time when the young man had come 
 home in the first flush of his Rugby school-days, to 
 spend Christmas, that they met. A little merry 
 child, with a round face ruddy with the Christmas
 
 16 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 
 
 frost, driving hoop on the walk of the Cathedral 
 Close, had quite without intent driven herself and 
 hoop bolt into the arms of the circumspect and 
 stately youth who happened to be out that morn, 
 ing, in Rugby costume, upon his travels. 
 
 " Whose child are you ? " said the youth, as he 
 righted to their true equilibrium both the hoop 
 and its blushing owner. 
 
 " I am Helen De Vere, and I live in the great 
 house yonder." 
 
 Such had been their introduction. Their fami- 
 lies were friends and neighbors. Hers consisted of 
 a maiden aunt, Miss Hannah De Vere, a rather 
 stately lady, who always reminded the child of the 
 good queens she had read about in the story books, 
 and who, truth to say, busied herself in no other 
 task than that of a most painful and conscientious 
 care of the child's wants and wishes ; and her uncle 
 and guardian, Sir Chauncey De Vere, an absentee 
 for the most part in the Parisian cafes, of whom we 
 shall hear more anon. It very naturally happened 
 that the young people became friends. When Fred- 
 eric came from school or college, and it was dull at 
 the Archdeacon's, he came to learn somehow that 
 there was sunshine at the De Vere's. Helen grew 
 to regard him as a very elegant, tall man, who told 
 her famous stories of things in the great world or 
 read her fairy tales or the stories of King Arthur's 
 Table. If she had been asked what love was, she
 
 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 17 
 
 could have answered no more wisely than if she 
 had been questioned as to what the aether was ; and 
 yet somehow deep down in the child's heart an un- 
 recognized sentiment some day had planted itself 
 as silently as the flowers grow in the spring earth. 
 Frederic thought of her as a sunny-hearted child, 
 very pleasant to listen to and to be happy with, 
 as grown boys are happy with open-hearted, 
 merry girls. It had gone on so for years. And 
 as it happens every year that the spring germs 
 unfold themselves under June skies into summer 
 flowers, so it came to pass that half unconsciously 
 to both the lilies of a first love sprang up and 
 opened their blossoms without a sound. If Helen 
 asked herself why she counted the weeks to Fred- 
 eric's vacation so sedulously, she never favored 
 herself with the plain answer. If Frederic ever in- 
 quired why the long Christmas evenings seemed so 
 short, and the coal fire so ruddy, and the very night 
 so bright at the De Vere's when the rain and the 
 snow were outside, and lie sat and chatted with the 
 young girl about his college or their friends, while 
 Miss Hannah looked up from her worsted now and 
 then at the two children with no more dread com- 
 mand to Helen than to be careful about tiring 
 herself with too much talk, he too, escaped putting 
 before his own heart the exact answer. 
 
 The truth came to him at last on this wise. 
 Helen De Vere had fallen dangerously sick one
 
 18 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 
 
 Easter, and the physicians consulted ominously. 
 It drew a very black cloud for him over the Easter 
 holidays. It muffled the Easter anthems to a 
 dirge and made the Easter festivals to mock his 
 fearful and heavy heart. And thenceforth rose 
 in his soul the consciousness that he loved the 
 child, loved her as he thought with a love that 
 would outlast the very skies over him and her. 
 Helen recovered. Did the favorite flowers he sent 
 her tell her ? Did the eager eyes and the grateful 
 words which greeted her when for the first time 
 she came down stairs and lay on the lounge in the 
 library, and Miss Hannah stood sentinel over them 
 when Frederic Ardenne came in with her aunt's 
 permission? In that hour when herself was re- 
 vealed to her she became a woman. And yet one 
 word was never spoken, though they from hence- 
 forth knew each other. As ivy that twines itself 
 about the oak is silent, so noiselessly did the ten- 
 drils of Helen's love twine themselves around the 
 life of Frederic Ardenne. 
 
 With a light, airy, girlish step and the rustle of 
 silk in the hall Helen De Vere entered the library. 
 Frederic Ardenne rose to meet her. 
 
 " How did you know I was here, my child," he 
 asked. 
 
 " I saw your hat in the hall and I was expecting 
 you to-day." 
 
 "Me! Why?"
 
 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 19 
 
 " Oh, because you come here, you know, and you 
 promised to read to me this week. And you have 
 been away two days already." 
 
 " I have been very busy with the service, and this 
 is the most solemn Passion Week." 
 
 " I know it," she said, more soberly ; " arid yet I 
 have waited for you. It is selfish, I know, but I 
 am glad you have come. The sun has not shone 
 this week and it is very lonely in the house. But 
 tell me what you have been doing." 
 
 While Helen De Vere is laying aside her shawl 
 and hat by the light of the fire in the grate we 
 will study her a little. It is a face almost brunette, 
 with regular features, and just now aglow with the 
 fresh air of her evening walk, and animate perhaps 
 with Mr. Ardenne's presence ; the free, open, gener- 
 ous, trusting face of young girlhood. The dark 
 hazel eyes, round, full, and dreamy, like deep foun- 
 tains under the long eyelashes, are full of gentle- 
 ness and pathos, as is the wont of sensitive woman- 
 hood. The brown hair smooth over the white 
 forehead, the petite, girlish figure, the exquisitely 
 moulded little hands, a certain delicacy and tremu- 
 lousness of the clear-cut mouth, joined to a gentle 
 and sensitive habit of hiding herself away as it 
 were from strangers or aught that jars upon her 
 sensitive and modulated nature, are the sure signs 
 of the one fact about her, that she is born a 
 lady.
 
 20 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 
 
 "As now you have folded your shawl in an 
 exact square and laid your hat in the very centre, 
 according to Miss Hannah's education, you will 
 perhaps talk to me a little," said Mr. Ardenne, after 
 he had for some time watched her exemplary pa- 
 tience in laying aside the aforesaid apparel upon 
 the table. 
 
 " Indeed, sir. That is a new fashion. It is you 
 who are to talk to me. Is that so very difficult for 
 you?" 
 
 "Not very difficult. What am I to say?" 
 
 " Whatever you choose. Nothing or anything. 
 Why should you ask me to tell you ? " 
 
 "Are you a good listener?" 
 
 " Sometimes, if the story be good. But I asked 
 you something." 
 
 "What was it, my child?" 
 
 " If you have forgot, I think it was something 
 about the Archdeacon's terrier. Nothing very im- 
 portant, I am sure." 
 
 " No, Helen, I have not forgot. I was only try- 
 ing your kind heart," said the repentant man, as 
 he came across the room and seated himself by 
 Helen's side, with the certain air of a man who 
 knows his place. "You ask what I have been 
 doing. Well, then, I have been arranging the 
 Easter presents for the choir boys ; hearing them 
 rehearse their music ; taught the charity scholars 
 about Passion Week ; said service, and been very
 
 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 21 
 
 busy. But why don't you ask me what I am going 
 to do?" 
 
 " What, sir, are you going to do ? " 
 
 " That is what I came here to tell you," and he 
 leaned in his earnest way towards her. " Our 
 good bishop, since others have failed him, has 
 commanded me to preach at Easter. Is not that 
 news for you, that I, Frederic Ardenne, am to 
 preach in the Cathedral ? " 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "For your sake, sir." 
 
 " Why for my sake? " 
 
 " Because," and here the young girl hesitated, as 
 though something forbade her to go on. 
 
 " Because why, my child ? " 
 
 "Because, then, if it is right for me to say it, 
 I am sure you will do well. You have been at 
 the University, you know, and have the learning, 
 and it will make you friends. You want friends, 
 don't you? Besides, it is so pleasant to have one's 
 friend preach in the Cathedral choir, one hopes 
 so much, is so anxious, is so glad when he does 
 well, I can't say exactly why. It is wrong per- 
 haps, but I am ambitious for my friends, though I 
 have few friends, and most of them are women. 
 Is your sermon written?" 
 
 " It is you, then, who are ambitious. You should 
 be a soldier. Soldiers are captains and grow to
 
 22 The, Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 
 
 emperors. But in the Church we are only standard 
 bearers and soldiers always under one captain. 
 For such as I am, my child, there is only service," 
 the young man said half sadly. 
 
 " And yet," she went on, " there are different 
 qualities of the service you speak of. That which 
 is done in the Church should be well done in honor 
 of Him who is the Best. I am sure I wish you 
 to do the best. Is that wrong ? " 
 
 " Possibly not. You may be sure, my child, I 
 shall do the best I can for my Master's sake and 
 your sake too." 
 
 " I certainly wish it. Is the sermon written ? " 
 
 " Not one word. That reminds me. The Arch- 
 deacon gave me strict in charge to become a monk 
 and keep my cell till it was written." 
 
 " Are you sure it is quite right, then, for you to 
 be here? " the young girl asked anxiously. " What 
 if you should fail? Somehow I should blame 
 myself." 
 
 " And thereby sin against yourself. I shall not 
 fail. I came here to see you an hour and then go 
 away to the writing. You know I tell you that 
 you afifect me like one of Mozart's anthems." 
 
 " I am not musical, sir." 
 
 " Not exactly ; and yet the cause of music in 
 others, my child." 
 
 "I can't teach my aunt music, sir. I have 
 tried it ; and she never sings above the third note
 
 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 23 
 
 in the scale, though she gets through the service 
 tolerably. But you must go now and write your 
 sermon." 
 
 " Very well, then, after Easter I shall see you 
 again." 
 
 " Yes, and read to me the ' In Memoriam,' as 
 you promised. But one thing I forgot to tell you: 
 Aunt has letters that Sir Chauucey will be here at 
 Easter." 
 
 " Sir Chauncey De Vere ! He has been gone 
 these five years and hates England. I should have 
 as soon looked for Notre Dame crossing the channel 
 as he. What is he coming for?" 
 
 "I really do not know. Business, Aunty thinks. 
 His rooms have been prepared to-day." 
 
 Why was it that the mention of Sir Chauncey's 
 coming threw a gloom, as of anticipated evil, over 
 both Helen and the young man beside her ? He 
 was her uncle and certainly not his enemy. The 
 two men had hardly met, and yet even her heart 
 foreboded some, as yet, unshaped evil. Was it that 
 the good angel who kept watch and ward over so 
 pure a heart, looking into it and into the great world 
 outside it, saw enemies arraying themselves against 
 its peace, to wither a mighty hope born in that 
 stainless life of hers ? Was it the strong angel of 
 a man's work and wrestle, who began to sound 
 through his life the low and muffled notes of a most 
 bitter sorrow, and moved now the heart of Frederic
 
 24 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 
 
 Ardenne with the name of a man almost unknown 
 to him ! 
 
 O Good Angels, of whatever watch and ward, 
 whose protecting wings skyward are ever bright 
 in the blaze of an unsetting sun, but earthward 
 cast sometimes the shadows of your presence for 
 the warning of those you shelter, as much as in 
 you lies, and under the rule of Him who is so 
 strong, cover away from storm and night these two 
 lives now given to your charge, for His sake who 
 is the Life, and suffered once for all ! 
 
 " So, then, Sir Chauncey De Vere comes here at 
 Easter," the young man said slowly, as if he felt 
 but could not measure an impending danger. 
 " Well, at any rate, come with me, my child, to the 
 hall door as usual." 
 
 She followed him without a word. He turned 
 to her as he opened the door. " Pardon me ; I 
 was tired when I came here and have been but 
 miserable company. And yet I could not stay 
 away." 
 
 " I have nothing to pardan, sir." 
 
 The young man bent down, and gravely signed 
 with his finger upon the willing and wonted fore- 
 head the sign of the cross. 
 
 "Pax tecum," he said. 
 
 And a low voice answered gently, "Et cum 
 spiritu tuo." 
 
 Frederic Ardenne passed out and into the night,
 
 The Rev. Frederic Ardenne. 25 
 
 and there were no stars above him for the clouds. 
 And the night that was to shroud his heart for 
 many weary years had no stars for the clouds. 
 And yet, for him, for us, for all who suffer, above 
 the clouds are the stars that sing and shine for ever 
 and ever !
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SIR CHAUNCEY DE VERE. 
 
 SIR CHAUNCEY DE VERB came home on Good 
 Friday ; but Sir Chauncey had denied Good Fri- 
 day all his life. The solemn Sacrifice it commem- 
 orated had been, so far he was concerned, in vain. 
 His career for half a century had mocked the 
 cross and refused the life from it. His heart, 
 harder than Jew, Turk, infidel, or heretic, wasted 
 to ashes, by a life of elegant blasphemies against 
 itself and God, no longer asked or allowed the 
 pure flame of religion and love to be rekindled 
 by any altar on any day. Truth to say, Sir 
 Chauncey, living all his life in a Christian realm, 
 was a profound heathen, and not a very clean one 
 at that. 
 
 He had been born to wealth and a position. 
 His only ambition in life had been to spend the 
 one to degrade the other, and in that career his 
 had been a great success. If there had been in his 
 heart in his younger days, as indeed there were, 
 any pure thoughts or manly wishes, he had delved 
 down and dug them out. If either man, woman, 
 or church by accident had written some holy
 
 *SY>* Chauncey De Vere. 27 
 
 legend on his heart, he had erased it. His was the 
 faith that kept the promise of his own perdition ; 
 his the power that wrought it. 
 
 Sir Chauncey was a man of the world. He had 
 its polish, its craft, its coldness, its balance, its 
 selfishness, its remorseless will, its elegant drapery 
 cloaking foul things ; but he lacked that love and 
 generous self-denial, with a certain unclouded rec- 
 titude of soul, which this world can neither give 
 nor take away. He had lived nearly all his life 
 in the clubs and the cafe's, and his estimate of 
 human nature had been made on no more generous 
 premises. His idea of women was such as fitted 
 them to be the comrades of the men he had met. 
 Of anything better in his race he had no concep- 
 tion. And yet Sir Chauncey assumed the common 
 manners of a gentleman. He paid his bets and 
 his servants scrupulously. In his younger days 
 he had been in the army, and fought well enough, 
 under the inspiration of that animal steadiness 
 under mere physical danger which passes current 
 for courage in so many men. He was versed in 
 the manners of the companies he had kept, and had 
 long been an authority in all those questions of 
 mere worldly honor which men are wont to decide 
 without honor. His portly visage, redolent of 
 half a century of good cheer, and radiant with 
 half the vintages of Europe, was the diploma he 
 carried about with him to the illustrious fact
 
 28 /Sir Chauncey De Vere. 
 
 that he had lived to make himself a sewer for 
 meats and drinks for more than a generation. He 
 had spent his own and the fruits of other men's 
 lives upon his pleasures ; and yet had never lifted 
 his hand to make any richer or happier. He was 
 now fifty-six ; and in all those years he had not 
 learned anything which good men care to know, 
 but had known many things which all wise men 
 make haste to forget. 
 
 Sir Chauncey was welcomed home in due form 
 to his house in the Cathedral Close. His affection- 
 ate greetings of his kinsfolk may be imagined. As 
 for the servants, there was less laughter below 
 stairs than usual. Their master never kept Lent, 
 but somehow Lent was always more strictly kept 
 when he was home. The first thing he did after 
 he had seen his trunks in their places was to visit 
 the stables ; next to order minutely a very unlen- 
 ten dinner ; then he devoted himself to his friends. 
 
 So the De Veres" kept Lent. Miss Hannah De 
 Vere, his sister, from whom he had lived apart 
 nearly all his life, regarded Sir Chauncey with a 
 very profound apprehension. How far her fear was 
 kin to her dislike, it is not necessary here to say. 
 Helen showed her sense of her uncle by a silence 
 that but thinly disguised her fear of him. She 
 shrunk away as Beauty might hide from the Beast. 
 Sir Chauncey was not exacting of affection. He 
 made himself comfortable in his inn.
 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere. 29 
 
 It is not in point to speak of all the little mat- 
 ters which perplexed folks above and below stairs 
 on his return. It is only as he affects the destiny 
 of the young people whom we have met together 
 that he or his is of importance to any one. What 
 came to those two came thus. Sir Chauncey had 
 two mental habits : the habit of a tyrant, as all 
 men without conscience have, and the habit of a 
 marplot in all matters that were likely to make 
 folks happy, such as only men like him are not 
 ashamed to have. Helen De Vere's happiness fur- 
 nished a new field for his genius, as in old times 
 they say the saints provoked the chatter and gibes 
 of envious demons. He had come home to look 
 after her a little. Somehow an instinct from some 
 quarter of his unclean soul advised him to take a 
 journey back to England to look after his broth- 
 er's child. She might be too happy. Sir Chaun- 
 cey, better than he knew, was to reduce her back 
 to the vale of tears. His angel (there are two 
 sorts, we know) laid in his honest way Helen's 
 Prayer Book. In it was writ her name, and 
 " from her friend, Frederic Ardenne." Sir Chaun- 
 cey hunted the trail, as he had hunted foxes, vigo- 
 rously ; and had not long to wait for the " Halloo." 
 He called the butler. 
 
 " Who is Frederic Ardenne, John ? " 
 " A young clergyman, living with the Arch- 
 deacon his nephew, I think, sir."
 
 30 Sir Chauncey De Vere. 
 
 "Does he often come here ? " 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 " Was he here this week ? " 
 
 " I think he was." 
 
 " Don't you know he was ? And hasn't he been 
 here every week and several times a week for a 
 twelvemonth? Come now. People who eat my 
 bread must out with the truth. How often does 
 he come here ? " 
 
 " I can't exactly say, but he is often here, sir." 
 
 " That will do. You may go down." And the 
 butler went down. 
 
 " Sir Chauncey is after somebody this time," he 
 said to his friends down stairs ; " I hope no harm 
 will come to Miss Helen." 
 
 Then Sir Chauncey sent for his sister. 
 
 " What does all this mean?" he said, when, some- 
 what flustered at his mode of summoning her, she 
 made her appearance. 
 
 "What mean, brother?" 
 
 "What? why all this nonsense about Helen." 
 
 Miss Hannah knew at once from what quarter 
 the wind blew, and wisely said nothing. 
 
 "Don't you intend to answer?" 
 
 " Certainly, when I know about what I am to 
 answer." 
 
 " Well, then, I come home and I find this child, 
 your niece, with a follower, a young parson and 
 poor at that, and you allow it. I left her with you
 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere. 31 
 
 to look after. And here you are with an engage- 
 ment on your hands, for aught I know. When is 
 the wedding? Or perhaps you don't fancy making 
 me your confidant? Eh?" And he laughed a 
 laugh out of his throat, such as men like him 
 laugh when they are not particularly happy. 
 
 Miss Hannah weighed her words before she 
 spoke. " If you mean Mr. Ardenne, he is our 
 neighbor and our friend, and he comes here. He 
 is a very pleasant young person and Helen and he 
 read together sometimes. His family are very 
 respectable, you know, and he visits people in the 
 Close, and is a clergyman. I don't see anything 
 wrong in his coming. There is certainly no en- 
 gagement, and I don't know that anything has 
 ever passed between them more than between 
 young people generally." 
 
 "That is the way with all you women. You 
 are all softs ; when you have an affair on hand, espe- 
 cially if there is a parson in the basket. This thing 
 must stop. If you can't take care of your niece, 
 I will. Remember, this young parson is to stay 
 away. You understand, Helen is not at home to 
 him. You may go now." 
 
 Miss Hannah did understand, and she went, and 
 as she went she meditated why it was that God 
 allowed such a man as her brother (for she knew 
 him with a knowledge that was very bitter) the 
 power to meddle with such a poor, innocent child
 
 32 Sir Chauncey De Vere. 
 
 as her orphan niece. She might as well have 
 asked why God allows the plague or the cholera. 
 
 Sir Chauncey was hunting famously. He would 
 drive the game to cover. His temper was grown 
 to be fit for any achievement to which men of his 
 metal could possibly aspire. He sent for Helen, 
 and she came with an ill-defined sense of fear, and 
 yet steadily, to confront her uncle. 
 
 " Do you love this parson, Frederic Ardenne, who 
 has written such a sweet dedication in your prayer 
 book?" he said bluntly, as Helen came in and 
 stood before him, as, huge and luminous with the 
 vintages, now roused to his full level of malice, 
 he stood before the mantel. 
 
 " I, Uncle ? " and her face grew very pale, as the 
 blood rushed back to her heart on which so coarse 
 a blow had been so foully struck; " I, how can you 
 speak to me so ? " 
 
 " Because I wish to know. Do you love him ? 
 Out with it at once." 
 
 But Helen made no answer. He had stunned 
 her. 
 
 " Do you hear ? Do you intend to answer ? " 
 
 " How shall I answer ? How can you ask me, a 
 young girl, such a question? I have no father, 
 and you would not question your daughter in this 
 way, Uncle." 
 
 " Thank God, I have no daughter. If I had, I 
 would put her under lock to keep her from making
 
 Sir Chauncey De Fere. 33 
 
 a fool of herself, falling in love with an idiot like 
 herself. Do you love him?" 
 
 " Indeed, I do not know." 
 
 Sir Chauncey's words had so paralyzed her 
 woman's nature, that, for the moment, she knew 
 and saw nothing but the man by the mantel who 
 was torturing her. 
 
 "That is all very well. I dare say you would 
 know well enough if the man himself were to ask 
 you. Has he ever asked you?" and he laughed 
 his laugh in his throat. 
 
 "No, never, Uncle. He has never spoken to 
 me so." 
 
 " How would you like to be a poor parson's wife, 
 you, a De Vere, and rich, to live in a hole and eat 
 bread and cheese, and run after all the brats and 
 wretches in the parish, to go to prayer meetings, 
 and have all the tenantry to tea? You would 
 make a nice figure as a parson's \vife, you know, 
 and you are strong, and have been bred to hard- 
 ships, such as eating your dinners and having your 
 bills paid for you by your footman." 
 
 "But I have something of my own, Uncle," 
 Helen said, listening more quietly as Sir Chauncey 
 went 011 with his delightful picture. 
 
 " Ah, you have arranged it all, I see ; and so has 
 that disinterested friend of yours, Mr. Ardenne. 
 Parsons are perfect hounds on the scent when 
 they are running down a fortune. Their piety
 
 34 Sir Chauncey De Vere. 
 
 sharpens their nose wonderfully. I never knew 
 one of the pack who wasn't out on the hunt. 
 Your friend shows taste. He will marry the estate, 
 and take the live stock on it as it stands." 
 
 The blood came back to her face and a new 
 light was in her eyes as Helen listened to Sir 
 Chauncey's cruel words. She was after all a 
 De Vere, and her blood had been ill bred to brook 
 outrage silently. 
 
 " You wrong him, sir, when you think him cap- 
 able of such motives. Mr. Ardenne is a gentle- 
 man and a clergyman, and I am sure always re- 
 members he is that. I would trust his honor 
 anywhere. Besides I think if I loved a man (and 
 the gentle voice grew distinct and steady as she 
 went on) and gave him my hand, I would be glad 
 to give the whole world with it, if I had it." 
 
 " Nonsense ; that is like a woman, always talk- 
 ing about sacrificing yourselves to what you call 
 your heart. You are all martyrs or wish to be so. 
 But I will allow no ward of mine to get into the 
 clutches of a parson. I hate the whole pack. It is 
 no use arguing with women they leave off where 
 they started. I will end the matter. This young 
 parson, Frederic Ardenne, or whatever you call 
 him, is not to come here any more. You had 
 better send him his conge d'elire at once. Do you 
 hear?" 
 
 " I hear all you say."
 
 Sir Chauncey De Fere. 35 
 
 "But will you obey?" 
 
 "I will not disobey you. You are my guardian 
 and are in the place of my father, who was very 
 gentle to me. I am a Churchwoman, and my 
 religion teaches me to submit to superiors and to 
 honor my father and my mother. I will certainly 
 tell Mr. Ardeime that you wish he should not come 
 again. I will submit." 
 
 " Submit ! That is not enough. Give the man up. 
 There is no use in disguising matters. It is very 
 clear you love him, no matter what you say. Now 
 just give him up and forget him. He will find a 
 new Juliet among the flats in a fortnight. Pro- 
 mise now, Helen." 
 
 But Helen did not promise. Stunned as she 
 had been by the beginning of this brutal colloquy, 
 her woman's heart had been growing steady under 
 Sir Chauncey's words, and her thoughts were 
 rising up to the level of her woman's nature. As 
 she stood before him, pale, and silent except when 
 obliged to answer, with the sacred shrine of her 
 heart and its love invaded so coarsely by one who 
 should have been her friend, a child without a 
 parent, yet a woman without guile, with all she most 
 loved and that for which she lived, now to be 
 rudely torn from her, she became the second time 
 a woman. And then her love for Frederic Ar- 
 denne, under their wrong, grew clear and strong, 
 and she felt that she had laid her life in his, to be
 
 36 Sir Chauncey De Vere. 
 
 no more separated. The blow upon one heart had 
 bound two together in bonds that would not break. 
 
 " Will you promise ? " the uncle said, as Helen, 
 revolving these things in her mind, stood silently 
 before him. And then she turned her face to Sir 
 Chauncey, firm and calm, with every word distinct, 
 no longer a child before him, but a woman, in that 
 petite, delicate form of hers, and answered. 
 
 "I do love Frederic Ardenne with my whole 
 heart ; and I shall never change. I have loved him 
 ever since I was a child, and he has been always 
 gentle and true with me, as his heart is, a gentle- 
 man's. When you asked me whether I loved him 
 just now, I told you I did not know. I know now. 
 I love him. I told you, when you commanded it 
 that I would see that he did not come here any 
 more ; and I will do it. I will do it because it is 
 right. I will submit to you in all just things, 
 because my Church teaches me obedience. But 
 my Church does not teach me to deny my own heart, 
 and that I never will. I will give up seeing him ; 
 I may perhaps never marry him ; certainly not 
 against your will. But I love him always, and 
 will be true to him. I do not, and cannot, promise 
 what you wish." A woman with a heart at bay 
 against Sir Chauncey De Vere ! It is a woman 
 that would die for the faith which she has plighted. 
 
 Sir Chauncey hesitated a moment, to take coun- 
 sel of his wisdom. And then he answered coldly ?
 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere. 37 
 
 " Very well. We will arrange the matter. That 
 is all." And Helen went out. 
 
 Sir Chauncey refreshed himself after his labors 
 with a glass of brandy, drunk clear, and then dis- 
 posed his immaculate and regal body in his arm 
 chair for a nap. What pure and gentle angels 
 must frequent and guard the sleep of so generous 
 a soul as Sir Chauncey De Vere's !
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 EASTER IN THE CATHEDRAL. 
 
 MEANWHILE the writing of Frederic Ardenne's 
 sermon went on. First .of all, as was fit, he 
 kneeled down and prayed God to give him right 
 words to say in His Son's Church, before the peo- 
 ple ; for he knew what men of his order very soon 
 learn, how the path to true eloquence lies through 
 the gate of prayer. After that, he wrote over 
 the text, " In the name of God, Amen," and went 
 down to the Archdeacon's library. There he read 
 in the Church Fathers about Easter. And as he 
 read, he was struck, as never before, by the fact 
 of the great importance which all Christian men 
 attached to the due celebration of this royal 
 feast; as that kingly day in the church which 
 governed all the rest. Everywhere, in the decrees 
 of councils, and in the writings of saintly men, the 
 same earnestness for its honor and its observance 
 was manifest. No man who called himself a Chris- 
 tian but kept it. No man for ages was held a 
 Christian who did not keep it. And men cele- 
 brated this chief Sunday as they did all Sundays, 
 because the whole Church from time immemorial,
 
 Uaster in the Cathedral. 39 
 
 and especially that Church of the apostolic ages 
 which had resisted unto blood for the faith as it 
 is in Jesus, had always kept it as a duty never 
 questioned as a blessing never to be given up. 
 It was plain to him that the early Christians held 
 Easter to be as truly a part of the Christian 
 economy as Sunday or the sacraments were. 
 They might be right or wrong ; but no man could 
 dispute the fact that they so held it. 
 
 Then when he had read the Easter lore, Fred- 
 eric went out-doors to meditate. First of all he 
 walked through the ancient town. In the thick 
 English fog of the lowery April day its quaint 
 rows and buildings assumed a more ghostly and 
 ancient look than ever before. " How old it all 
 seems, " he thought. Here, without doubt, were 
 those ancient Britons, whose rule had passed away 
 before the Passion, of our Lord. Here had been 
 the Twentieth Legion and the feet of all-con- 
 quering Rome. And since their time what races, 
 tongues, flamens, priests, soldiers, pardoners, 
 monks, kings, bishops, and hosts of untitled and 
 now forgotten people had lived and passed away 
 from here, and left hardly a trace of themselves 
 upon any building or street of the sombre and 
 silent town. The very dust of the streets were the 
 ashes of the dead. It seemed to him as if all life 
 was Lent time, a Lenten service of struggle, 
 of waste, of weakness, of decay and dissolution ;
 
 40 Easter in the Cathedral, 
 
 and as though Ash Wednesday, the day of ashes 
 as well as the first of the Church's Lent, was 
 in all days, men fared so. Then he went out of 
 the streets through the Close into the Cathedral. 
 It was near the hour of Evening Prayer. He 
 entered through the low archway, and walked 
 along the covered cloisters, where in old times the 
 monks lived. The very stones of the arches had 
 crumbled, and the stone carving of saint or flower 
 had been worn away by time, or mutilated by men 
 of past ages, for whom there was no longer any 
 time. The echo of his own footsteps upon the 
 flagstones were the only sounds that fell upon his 
 ear. He stopped and looked around him. Where 
 were the monks with cowls the pilgrims from 
 Holy Land, the scribes wan with vigils or the 
 wearisome toil of those illuminated missals which 
 they had writ and embellished with monastic 
 ornament in the service of Mother Church ? Where 
 were all the sojourners and laborers, that for a 
 thousand years or more had gathered to this spot 
 in the solemn service of a priestly life, and had 
 now been gathered to their fathers? And neither 
 the worn stones of the dark and crumbled clois- 
 ters, nor the vacant niches, nor the silent Cath- 
 edral tower above him, nor the curt green grass 
 springing above the dust of a thousand years, in 
 the rectangle of the cloisters, could tell him. It 
 was Lent, he thought, in the very house of God.
 
 Easter in the Cathedral. 41 
 
 He went in to the service. An old woman, leading 
 a little girl, went in just before him, entering His 
 gates who hath made both youth and age to praise 
 Him. They knelt in prayer as they came to their 
 seats, as men have bowed themselves in His sanct- 
 uaries during all the ages of the Church. The choir 
 boys and the priests sat in the same stalls that 
 the generations of choristers and prayer-men had 
 filled before them. When the service began, the 
 same confessions were made, the same prayers 
 said, the same lessons read, the same anthems 
 chanted, as had been in use here and elsewhere 
 from time immemorial. It was true that the 
 monks were dead and Chester folk, and there was 
 no light nor voice in the cloister at this evensong, 
 and yet here was a service, a something he saw 
 that was not dead did not seem to die. They 
 who prayed and they who sung had taken up the 
 one service with the one intent of those who had 
 been and died before them, to furnish forth 
 worship of Eternity. What meant this song ? 
 Frederic Ardenne saw that while he had been 
 looking at things about him, the Church service 
 was always pointing to things above him. True, 
 so many men were dead, and here it was Lents 
 and Ash Wednesdays for the best. But the lita- 
 nies and psalms of a thousand years in the Cathe- 
 dral had been always lifting men above Lent to 
 Easter, and leading them out from days of ashes,
 
 42 Easter in the Cathedral. 
 
 and from beneath crosses, and from stumbling at 
 grave sides, to the land of the palm and the crown, 
 and the Easter of the white robes and the stainless 
 skies, and the crossless home ; to the life without 
 tears and the pavilions of peace deeper than the seas. 
 Frederic Ardenne had found his sermon. The 
 one thing eternal in this world, he said to himself, 
 is the Church. And that Bride of Christ standing 
 amongst the graves of the past, and men outwardly 
 of dust and ashes who seem to perish, is the pure 
 and gentle prophetess of a life that cannot perish, 
 of a conquest that is always sure. In the order of 
 the Church's year on earth, Easter follows Lent 
 indeed, but Lent returns with every year. In 
 heaven Easter runs through all the year, and the 
 year is endless. 
 
 It was Easter Sunday in the Cathedral. It was 
 also Easter Sunday over the whole earth. It was 
 Easter Sunday for the living. It was Easter Sun- 
 day for the dead who died in the Lord. It was a 
 new Easter and yet like all the rest that had been 
 before it, since the Christ who had risen from the 
 dead wao the same and the human hearts that wait 
 for Him and His resurrection. 
 
 It was an Easter too full of joy for the Cathe- 
 dral. The very sandstone of its/walls seemed sat- 
 urate with the mellow April sunshine, and the 
 graves under its shadows appeared to wear a more 
 cheerful and happy look. The sons and daughters
 
 Easter in the Cathedral. 43 
 
 of the Church went in to the dark oak seats where 
 so many had come before their time, and the gentry 
 of the shire, of historic name and lineage, came as 
 their fathers had to keep Easter in the Cathedral. 
 The bishop on his throne, part of St. Werburgh's 
 shrine, they say, of a thousand years ago, the sing- 
 ing boys in white and the white-robed priests that 
 read were of a line and ritual very old. The Easter 
 prayers and anthems were holy with the memories 
 of uncounted generations of Church-folk who had 
 prayed and sung there. And when the notes of 
 Handel's majestic anthem, " I know that my Re- 
 deemer liveth," rose and swelled with the voice of 
 the great organ, and rolled over the stone tombs of 
 dead abbots laid asleep in the Cathedral choir 
 five centuries ago, and floated and trembled far 
 up among the arches of the nave, and shook the 
 dust from the worn tapestries with their monkish 
 legends wrought by fingers now dust and ashes, 
 and shook the tattered war banners borne on red 
 fields by stout hands of soldiers long since dead 
 though the dead heard not and the dust moved not 
 in the wasted shouds, it lifted the loving hearts 
 who worshipped in the holy music above the mor- 
 tal waste and sleep around them to another realm, 
 where are the litanies that have no cry of pain, 
 and the praises of Cherubim and Seraphim who 
 stand with unshut eyes in watch and worship be- 
 fore His throne forever.
 
 44 Easter in the Cathedral. 
 
 Then followed the sermon. 
 
 Christ is risen. Yea, He hath risen and ap- 
 peared to Simon. With such salutations have Chris- 
 tians greeted each other on Easter morning ever 
 since He rose from the dead in triumph. This is 
 the Sabbath of life eternal. This is the queen 
 of feasts the Easter Sunday of immortality. 
 This is the feast of white robes, and the forty days 
 of Lent have end. Now, with the risen Christ, Hb 
 Church rises to a new life and hope. All Christian 
 ages celebrate this day with song, psalm, organ, 
 prayer, and sacrament. In ancient days the devout 
 watched its coming in the churches among the 
 lighted candles, and when it came Christian cities 
 at Easter-tide were hung thick with lamps which 
 made the very darkness light. The business of this 
 world ended ; the very courts of justice closed fast 
 against all business except the mercy that would 
 manumit a slave ; prisoners went free, unbound by 
 that love in Him who had unchained all prisoners 
 out of the hands of Death ; and the great feast of 
 love and reconciliation in Christ proceeded. From 
 the first the Church hath gathered about the broken 
 tomb in which the cere-cloths had been laid aside 
 to hear the Risen say " I am the Resurrection and 
 the Life," to look through veils into that land where 
 believers are gathered in bliss. It is the one tomb, 
 of all that have ever fretted or burdened the bosom 
 of our Mother Earth, which has no pang or fear in it,
 
 Easter in the Cathedral. 45 
 
 and its light gilds and glorifies every Christian grave. 
 Beside it all Christians hear it said," Because I live, 
 ye shall live also." It is a broken tomb that breaks 
 all others for the resurrection. In that tomb the 
 Church has ever found proofs of our Lord's divin- 
 ity and the foundations of a great hope. A thou- 
 sand years after the first Easter and Christian crusa- 
 ders in Palestine woke their camps with their strong 
 war cry, " Remember the Holy Sepulchre." And 
 ever since Christians, wherever scattered over the 
 globe, have called to each other in the great un- 
 wearied faith of Christ's-folk " Remember the Holy 
 Sepulchre." How strange that out of the very 
 grave itself proceed tidings of the one sure shad- 
 dowless, tearless, crossless life. The Catholic faith 
 renews itself forever at a tomb. How wonderful ! 
 The resurrection of Jesus Christ changed the 
 thought of the world touching, the most solemn 
 problem, namely, its condition beyond the grave. 
 For it was clear that all men died. For the heathen 
 world the grave was its enemy, its executioner, its 
 merciless, eternal jailer. There was something 
 about the grave that maddened it, that paralyzed 
 it. Other things it saw had choice, but the grave 
 had no choice ; it took all king, queen, peasant 
 and slave alike ; woman in the flush of beauty and 
 man in the pride of majesty ; the patriarch of un- 
 told winters ; and the babe whose life was spanned 
 by a single spring. Other things became satiate
 
 46 Easter in the Cathedral. 
 
 and full : the wild beasts of prey rested sometimes 
 from their cruel sport and feast. But the grave had 
 no day of rest, had no pastime, was never satiate, 
 was never full. The very murderers sometimes 
 forewarned their victims, but the grave never spoke 
 before it smote. To antiquity it was the one 
 ghastly pit that received and consumed forever. 
 The best thought of imperial Rome wrote such 
 epitaphs as these upon its tombs by the Appian 
 Way, " While I lived, I lived well. My play is now 
 ended : soon yours will be. Farewell and applaud 
 me. " " Domus seternalis " " the eternal home." 
 But the sand-diggers and water-carriers of Rome, 
 believers in the Resurrection, when the Emperor 
 was hunting them down with sword and lion in 
 the arena, laid their dead away in the Catacombs, 
 and, in the darkness made visible by flickering 
 torches, graved with a rude hand pious mottoes of 
 faith over the sleepers, such as these " Vitalis : 
 buried on Saturday, the kalends of August. She 
 lived twenty-five years and three months. In 
 Christ the first and the last." " Valeria sleeps in 
 peace." Often of a man : " He sleeps in the peace 
 of the Lord;" or this of a child, " You have 
 already begun to be among the innocent ones ; " 
 and of another child : " Taken away by the angels 
 on the 7th Ides of January." When heathen 
 law allowed them to bury Christians openly, 
 their grave-yards were called "places of sleep."
 
 Easter in the Cathedral. 47 
 
 These " places of sleep " were outside the city's 
 walls and near some travelled road, as the 
 heathen ever, in order that travellers coming into 
 the pomp and circumstance of a living city, might 
 first pass through the city of the dead, to be re- 
 minded of their own mortality. The heathen 
 buried their dead at night ; the Christians in the 
 sunlight ; the one buried their dead with wailings ; 
 the others with sacred song and psalm. 
 
 Observe a Christian funeral of the third century. 
 It is a company in white. The bearers, dressed in 
 white, bear out the body, also clad in white. They 
 bring no flowers in their hands to crown the dead, 
 since, as one of them has told us, "We do not 
 make fading crowns for ourselves, but expect a 
 crown of everlasting flowers from God." Perhaps 
 they have just come out of a church, where 
 they had watched the body during the night, and 
 the Holy Eucharist has just been celebrated. It 
 is morning time ; yet the procession gleams with 
 torches whose flames signify life. Then they sing 
 such words as these : " For precious in the sight 
 of the Lord is the death of his saints." " Return 
 to thy rest, O my soul, for the Lord hath rewarded 
 thee." "The memory of the just shall be blessed." 
 "The souls of the just are in the hands of the 
 Lord." " I will fear no evil, because thou art 
 with me." Thus they moved slowly outside the 
 city to the grave, where they would give the body,
 
 48 Easter in the Cathedral. 
 
 not as the heathen did, to the flame, but to the 
 more gentle embrace of that earth which would 
 hold it in its bosom till the Judgment. No tears 
 mingled with the chanted psalms, since those 
 Christians were taught to think death liberation 
 from care, the beginning of Paradise. At the 
 grave the heathen sometimes opened the eyes of 
 the dead that they might take a last look at 
 earth and sky ; but the shut eyes of the Christians 
 remained unopened, since the dead in their sleep 
 beheld more beautiful than earthly things. When 
 they laid the body in the grave, perhaps the priest 
 sprinkled some dust in the form of a cross upon it, 
 as Christians do to-day. 
 
 Then they returned home in peace again, and 
 always in their families they spoke of the dead as 
 those who had gone to Jesus, and of their dead chil- 
 dren as the lambs which were forever carried in the 
 bosom of the Good Shepherd. Thus death had no 
 pang to the faith, and the grave became the gate to 
 Beautiful House, where the disciple dwelt in per- 
 petual bliss. 
 
 It is true also that as the Church became 
 corrupt the grave became dark. In those medi- 
 aeval ages when all horrors were associated with 
 death, and the skull and the cross-bones took place 
 of the cross and the palm, it was only the heathen 
 darkness rolled back against the light of the 
 Resurrection Morn ; the Broken Tomb sealed up
 
 Easter in the Cathedral. 49 
 
 again against souls orphaned of their risen Lord. 
 Yet even in these days, because the Church could 
 not exist without her Easter, and the hope it gave 
 her, they did not doubt of immortality. The 
 Greek Church, when she placed in gloomy line 
 her robed and mitred bishops in their episcopal 
 chairs, the Bible open upon their knees, their 
 hand uplifted to give the benediction, to await 
 the resurrection, testified to the ancient faith. 
 Roman and Anglican in their own way have 
 always done the same ; and we heritors of the 
 faith of saints gathered this Easter around Christ's 
 broken tomb take up the old thanksgivings, look- 
 ing on to the Hereafter in which our Lord reigns 
 in glory. 
 
 Easter, therefore, prophesies of Heaven. It pro- 
 claims the New Jerusalem of the twelve gates of 
 pearls, guarded of angels, through which enter 
 none that defile, nor any that work abomination 
 or make a lie, but they who are written in the 
 Lamb's book of life ; city of the jasper light as 
 clear as crystal, with walls of jasper, whose founda- 
 tions are of sapphire, and emerald, and beryl, 
 and amethyst; city of the River of Life flowing 
 from the throne of sovereignty, and in midstreet 
 whereof standeth the Tree of Life, twelve-fruited 
 every month, whose leaves of mercy heal the na- 
 tions, and round whose trunk twines, not the cruel 
 amaranth, but asphodel of life eternal; city of the
 
 50 Easter in the Cathedral. 
 
 door of rest that no man shuts, and of the multi- 
 tude that no man numbers; city of the emerald 
 throne circled of the rainbow and girt of the 
 elders robed in white with golden crowns, who 
 fall down before it with harps of a new song 
 touching Him who was slain from the foundation 
 of the world, and outpouring the incense of odors, 
 which are the prayers of saints ; whose voice is as 
 the voice of many waters ; city where they neither 
 thirst nor hunger, and where no sun lights on 
 them nor any heat. " For the Lamb, which is in 
 the midst of the throne shall lead them unto living 
 fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all 
 tears from their eyes."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MISS HANNAH. 
 
 IT is right to go back a little in our story to 
 Helen De Vere. When she left the sweet coun- 
 sellings of that true gentleman, Sir Chauncey, 
 she went straight to her room, locked the door, 
 and then wept, like the poor, troubled, lonely 
 child she was. Miss Hannah heard her footsteps 
 on the stairs and went to her. She knocked, and 
 there was no answer. " It is I, Helen," said the 
 aunt ; " let me come in ;" and the door was 
 opened. 
 
 Miss Hannah De Vere was what men profanely 
 call an old maid ; but her heart was very young. 
 She had kept it young because she had nurtured 
 in it a dream of her youth, forever to be unrealized, 
 and the dream was Love. True, the fates had been 
 averse, and she had given up, as such women do, 
 at the demand of her family, the one man who had 
 ever known her or loved her as strong-hearted men 
 love women ; that is to say, Miss Hannah would 
 not disobey her kinsfolks by a marriage before the 
 world, but she kept and was true to the marriage 
 of her heart which she hid from the world, and
 
 52 Miss Hannah. 
 
 now the nuptials were very old. True, her lover 
 was dead, and she wore no widow's weeds ; but 
 her heart mourned daily ; and while it mourned it 
 hoped hoped for the Hereafter. For though in 
 the Hereafter they neither marry nor are given in 
 marriage, Miss Hannah fancied how a pure human 
 love, thwarted no more of mere human selfishness 
 and heartlessness, is satisfied in a most holy frui- 
 tion, so that even He who Himself loved us with a 
 love excelling woman's would not rebuke it. Her 
 heart was therefore very gentle towards all lovers, 
 and long ago she promised herself with a vow, 
 very like a most solemn oath, that she would 
 never come between two hearts. 
 
 Helen opened the door for her aunt. The face 
 was very pale and there were tears, but the lips 
 were set, and there was a clear light in the brown 
 eyes, and a certain womanly bearing in her who 
 had been so rudely assailed, and whose nature was 
 roused in defiance of such brutality. Miss Hannah 
 put her arms about her and kissed her forehead 
 again and again without a word. Then she man- 
 aged very gently to lead her to the sofa and make 
 her comfortable on it, with her head in Miss Han- 
 nah's lap, while the latter smoothed gently the soft 
 hair, as any mother might. Then she waited until 
 the sobs that seemed to come out of the child's 
 heart grew more infrequent and at last altogether 
 ceased. Miss Hannah proceeded cautiously to 
 give her good advice.
 
 Miss Hannah. 53 
 
 " So Sir Chauncey has been speaking harshly to 
 3 r ou, Helen ? " and both hands were laid on the 
 smooth hair, caressingly. 
 
 " Yes, Auntie." 
 
 " Your uncle is a" severe man, and we all have 
 to put up with his behaviors." (Sir Chauncey 
 was one who had interfered with Miss Hannah 
 long ago.) 
 
 "If my father were alive (a sob out of her 
 heart) he would never dare to speak to me as he 
 has. I am only an orphan." 
 
 "You are my child," the aunt said. "I will 
 look out for you. Can you tell me what he blamed 
 you for?" (O, Miss Hannah of indirection but 
 a very gentle heart, it is you who know exactly.) 
 
 " It was about Mr. Ardenne. I can't tell you, 
 Aunty, what was said." The aunt waited patiently 
 for her niece, but the hands that smoothed the 
 hair grew gentler. 
 
 " I have no right to love him," she said, finally, 
 after a long silence, as if half in answer to herself, 
 and half to her aunt's silence, which said, " I am 
 waiting, my dear, for you to trust me." " I have 
 no right to love him." 
 
 "Why not, my dear ? " 
 
 " He has never told me that he loved me, Aunt." 
 
 " He has never told you anything else since I 
 have known you two," said the aunt, with a half- 
 smile at Helen's innocence.
 
 54 Miss Hannah. 
 
 " Don't laugh at me, Aunt, I beseech you." 
 
 " Laugh at you ! No, no. But tell me, Helen, 
 you are a child, I know, but tell me. Do you 
 think if a man loves you he can only tell you so in 
 so many words, and say, I love you ; come and 
 be my wife? No ! if he is a man he will tell you 
 that in a hundred ways : by a look, a tone, a mo- 
 tion, by the way he picks up your glove, or hands 
 you a book, or touches your hand ; and a woman's 
 heart hears every motion or a look. Now, tell 
 me. Did it never occur to you that Mr. Ardenne 
 loved you ? " 
 
 " I have never known it, Aunt." 
 
 " My poor, dear little Helen. You do not know 
 it ? I know it. I am sure he loved you years ago. 
 And he will be true to you. A man with a face 
 like his is always true with women." 
 
 " How do you know it Aunt ? " 
 
 " Do you wish me to prove it to you, Helen ? I 
 should as soon think of proving you were my 
 niece and that I loved you. But I will prove it. 
 Mr. Ardenne is a gentleman ; a man compromises 
 himself to a woman as well by his acts as by his 
 words. A gentleman is true to his compromises 
 always. Mr. Ardenne has said by his acts a thou- 
 sand times, I love you. Therefore he loves you." 
 Then Miss Hannah, having made her syllogism, 
 waited for her niece. 
 
 Helen said, finally, " Sir Chauncey declares that
 
 Miss Hannah. 55 
 
 Mr. Ardenne shall not come here any more, and 
 orders me to give him up. What shall I do ? " 
 
 " Tell him what Sir Chauncey says, and let him 
 behave accordingly." 
 
 " But shall I give him up, Auntie ? " 
 
 Then the aunt rose to the height of the author- 
 ity of a woman's heart which once suffered a great 
 wrong. For a maiden of fifty she spoke with 
 vehemence. 
 
 " What ! give him up, if you love him ? Cer- 
 tainly not never. Suffer, endure wrong, be 
 patient, wait, wait thirty years if needs be, resist 
 no authority, but be true to the man whom you 
 love. God and the good angels never come be- 
 tween two hearts that love each other. The men 
 and women who interfere are neither. I, your 
 poor auntie, tell you something, Helen. I gave 
 up a man once whom I loved and who loved me, 
 because people wished it, and I thought it was my 
 duty. What good did it do? It pleased them, 
 true ; but was I bound to please them with my 
 lifelong pain? They married and loved little 
 children. I did not, because they wished it not. 
 If God did not ask the sacrifice what right had 
 they ? God gave me a heart to love this man, 
 and I loved him. I love him now, though he is in 
 his grave. If I loved him (and he was pure and 
 noble, believe me, Helen) he had a right to de- 
 mand I should keep to him, and I wronged him
 
 56 Miss Hannah. 
 
 and myself when I failed him, and obliged selfish 
 and merciless people. No, Helen. Be true to 
 Frederic Ardenne." 
 
 Helen kissed the hands which smoothed the hair 
 upon her forehead, as her sufficient answer. Two 
 women understood each other. And hours after, 
 when her niece fell asleep in her arms, Miss Han- 
 nah prayed out of her heart to God above them 
 both that He would lead and keep this child true 
 to her own heart and the pure love that dwelt 
 there.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TWO MEN AT CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 FREDERIC ARDENNE received the congratula- 
 tions of his friends. Even the Archdeacon was 
 pleased to say that his nephew's sermon was credi- 
 table. For the praise of one, which he prized most, 
 he was still waiting. 
 
 Meanwhile, as we have seen, unknown to him, 
 his fortunes, in those things which most closely 
 touched his future, had been determined at the 
 De Veres'. It was well at least that what was so 
 sinister should come to him after Easter Sunday. 
 Easter Monday, in the morning, he would visit his 
 friends, though Sir Chauncey had come home. He 
 went, and as he came Helen and her aunt were 
 just entering the carriage for a drive. He lifted 
 his hat and wished the ladies " a Happy Easter." 
 Helen turned to him with a start, and he saw her 
 face was very pale. 
 
 "Are you sick, my child?" he said anxiously. 
 
 "No! But you must not come here nor even 
 stop now. I can't tell you why, standing here. I 
 will send you a note this evening which will ex- 
 plain. You must really go now, I beg you."
 
 58 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 
 
 A shadow, dark, stormy, and such as Helen had 
 never seen before on that open, ingenuous face, 
 spread over his features, but he recovered himself 
 at once, and with a bow kept on his walk. 
 
 " Not come here ? What does that mean ? " he 
 thought. " It is a new fashion that forbids me to 
 see Helen De Vere. The late arrival is at the 
 bottom of it. I have to thank Sir Chauncey." 
 And the hot blood rushed to his head till he was 
 dizzy. But he walked on till he came back home. 
 It was clear that he could know the worst or the 
 best that had happened to him when Helen's note 
 came, and till then he must remain quiet. The 
 hours were very long until her letter came. It was 
 
 this : 
 
 Easter Monday. 
 
 DEAR FRIEND : I had hoped to have seen you 
 to-day and talked over with you the Easter Service 
 and some things in which we both are interested; 
 above all, how glad I am you preached your ser- 
 mon. But God has ordered otherwise. We have 
 always spoken truth together, dear friend, and 
 now I know you wish me to say truly what has 
 happened that I cannot see you any more. Sir 
 Chauncey has taken very peculiar views of things, 
 and has told me that hereafter you are not to come 
 to the house. He is my guardian, and in this mat- 
 ter I must obey. I must also tell you that he has 
 ordered my aunt and myself to be ready to start
 
 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 59 
 
 for Paris on Wednesday. I am almost ashamed to 
 write this to you, sir, but so it is. That God may 
 keep and bless you is the prayer of your friend, 
 
 HELEN DEVERE. 
 
 When Frederic Ardenne received this note, he 
 very naturally read it. Then he laid it carefully 
 down upon his table. Then he read it again, and 
 then he put it down again and meditated. What 
 did he meditate ? What does one meditate when 
 his ship goes down at sea, or without sail or oar 
 he is borne along the swift raceway of mad waters 
 to the cataract beyond ? Nothing carefully or 
 coolly, but all with a certain fever and delirium 
 incident to the withering blow that had fallen 
 upon his heart. And yet his instincts reached at 
 once conclusions from which no after thought 
 could wrest them. He saw that Sir Chauncey 
 had pitted himself against his happiness, and would 
 not turn back for prayer or argument. So far as 
 that man was concerned there was nothing to be 
 done. But then the woman whom he had called a 
 child ! In all those years when he had known her, 
 their converse had been so gentle that his love for 
 her needed no question. He would as soon have 
 thought of asking himself whether he breathed as 
 whether he loved Helen De Vere. But now when 
 the blow that was to sever them had fallen, he 
 asked his heart the question, and his heart answered
 
 60 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 
 
 that there was for him no song, sunshine, or beauty 
 in this world apart from her, and that he loved 
 her and all things in earth and heaven for her. 
 Should he give her up without an effort ! He 
 thought she loved him, but that was not first of all 
 his matter. It was his matter that in a thousand 
 ways he had shown his love to her. Should he 
 turn his back on her, and thus unsay his be- 
 havior? What man would do it? Only a coward. 
 No. It was demanded of his honor that he should 
 be true to her and do his part. He would go to 
 Sir Chauncey and in due form demand permission 
 to address his niece, since it had been denied. 
 Every man should take the responsibility of his 
 own acts, and he would not shirk his. 
 
 So he prepared to go. First he tried to stay the 
 whirl and clamor of his brain ; and he read from 
 St. John's Gospel the story of the shepherd and 
 his sheep, and prayed God to give him patience 
 and silence, if it were needed when he went. And 
 then he went. 
 
 A servant carried in his card. " Certainly, show 
 him up." Sir Chauncey received his visitor hold- 
 ing his card in his hand as he stood beside the 
 mantel. The two men confronted arid measured 
 each other, both cool and ready to enter on busi- 
 ness. Sir Chauncey waited for his visitor to begin. 
 
 " I beg leave, sir," the young man said, " to ex- 
 plain my business with you. And as between
 
 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 61 
 
 gentlemen the frankest way is the best, allow me 
 to state that for some time now, in the usual ways, 
 I have paid my addresses to your niece, Miss Helen 
 De Vere, as a suitor, so far as I know without con- 
 cealment and without denial. I desire to ask 
 your permission, therefore, to prosecute my ad- 
 dresses to that lady under such conditions as you 
 may see fit to impose." And Frederic Ardenue 
 awaited his answer. 
 
 " Has my niece told you of an interview I had 
 the happiness of holding with her lately ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Or do you happen to know from her the 
 opinion I then expressed ? " 
 
 "I only know that you were pleased to order 
 that I was not to visit the house again." 
 
 " Then why do you come here ? " 
 
 " Because it was right for me to speak to you 
 face to face about a matter in which your niece 
 as well as myself are interested, and I could not, 
 after what I suppose has passed, in justice to her, 
 do less than to declare to you my sentiments and 
 ask leave as I now do." 
 
 "Do you suppose I am a man to change my 
 mind ? " 
 
 " I do not know, sir. At least I suppose you to 
 have the justice of a gentleman, and I only desire 
 to endeavor, as every man would naturally wish, 
 to place my request within the pale of your plea- 
 sure and your sense of right."
 
 62 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 
 
 " How do you propose to do that ? '* 
 " Only by stating frankly that I have known 
 your niece from a child and have grown to love 
 her very tenderly. I have prospects in my pro- 
 fession, and I trust can offer Miss De Vere a pure 
 and honorable heart." 
 
 Sir Chauncey laughed almost audibly at this 
 last possession by which the young man would 
 win a bride. He contented himself with merely 
 asking, " Is that all you have to say ? " 
 " All that I have to say at present, sir." 
 Sir Chauncey, during this colloquy, eyed his vis- 
 itor from head to foot ; and had led the conversation 
 thus far, not with the least imaginable impulse to 
 change his verdict, but to decide at what point he 
 could strike a blow that would cut deepest into 
 the nerves of the man who piqued him by his 
 coolness. " There is a natural-born fighting man 
 under that parson's coat," he thought as he sur- 
 veyed the broad-chested man before him, and if 
 any thought could have mollified Sir Chauncey's 
 humor, that would. 
 
 As it was, he saw that, if at all, there must be 
 a blunt, stand-up fight, and so he went on. 
 
 " You ask me," he said steadily, " if I will allow 
 you to address my niece. I answer you, No. Is 
 that plain enough ? " 
 
 " Very plain ; may I ask for reasons ? " 
 " You have no right to any reasons. It pleases 
 me so."
 
 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 63 
 
 "I am to understand, then, that my happiness 
 in life is to be sacrificed to your pleasure." 
 
 "Exactly ; if that satisfies you." 
 
 " You can hardly imagine that the logic con- 
 vinces me." 
 
 " What has logic to do with it, when I say it is 
 my pleasure ? Nothing. I have pleased to hear 
 you. I should have been pleased to have you go 
 without words. But if you wish it, very well. 
 You ask reasons. If I wanted any reasons I 
 should find them in the fact that in my absence, 
 and without asking me, you, a clergyman, had car- 
 ried on secretly an affair with a child like my 
 niece." 
 
 The young man faced him quietly. 
 
 " I have always held," he said, " that, holding 
 the position of a gentleman by my profession, I 
 have a perfect right in the way of gentlemen to 
 win a lady's heart, if I am able, without being 
 called on to address a' whole family; for which I 
 never expect to Jaave the taste. Provided I am 
 loyal to the lady, I do not consider that I have any 
 particular duties toward them until I have won 
 her heart. Then I shall always ask permission, 
 and not before. Besides, I grew so gradually to 
 love your niece that I could hardly say when it 
 began, nor ask you to allow addresses of which for 
 a long time I was hardly conscious." 
 
 " If your reasoning convinces you, very good.
 
 64 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 
 
 I do not discuss the point. I give you another. 
 Do you think it quite modest for a poor parson 
 like you to aspire to the hand of a De Vere ? " 
 
 "I am a gentleman's son, sir, and have good 
 blood in my veins. I confess, since your courtesy 
 reminds rne of it, that I am not rich." 
 
 " And, being poor, it is a part of a parson's wis- 
 dom, which is not of this world, to wed a woman 
 because she is rich ?" 
 
 The young man's face burned with the taunt, 
 but he simply answered, " I am a clergyman, sir ; 
 and cannot reply to that as other men might. 
 Allow me to remind you that women and clergy- 
 men are, in your code, never insulted, because they 
 cannot defend themselves." 
 
 " Very good, young man ; if you have finished 
 we will close this interview." 
 
 " I have then only one request to make of you. 
 I have known and loved your niece for years, and 
 now you order me to give her up ; and you are 
 taking her to the Continent. It is but natural that 
 I should desire to take some leave of her. I ask 
 you, as one man may ask another, as a younger 
 may an elder, to show me this mercy at least, 
 to see her once more, if only a moment, and in 
 your presence." 
 
 There was no answer. " Will you grant me, 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere, that favor ? '' 
 
 " I answer you, No."
 
 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 65 
 
 And then the hot blood of the Ardennes, his 
 blood who had died in the Spanish vineyards, 
 throbbed in the young man's heart, and the tiger 
 which is in all such men gathered himself up to 
 spring upon his victim, and for a moment he felt 
 that to see Helen De Vere again he would eat 
 with his teeth through the living flesh of the man 
 before him his way to her ; that he would watch, 
 climb, break, crush his way over every bar or wall 
 built between his life and hers. Only a moment, 
 and the Christian man conquered and his heart 
 was still. 
 
 He bowed to the man by the mantel and went 
 out in silence. 
 
 Sir Chauncey rung for the butler. 
 
 "See that the trunks are brought home for 
 packing," was what he said. 
 
 Frederic Ardenne went down the hall stairs 
 with a proud and steady step. He was a strong 
 man, and his will was master. He was ready to 
 help himself, God willing, against the world. He 
 walked into the Archdeacon's library. There 
 was something in the step that moved that digni- 
 tary to look up. There was a clear gleam in the 
 young man's eye and a tremulous compression of 
 the thin lips not usual to his nephew, the Arch- 
 deacon thought. 
 
 " Why, Fred, what has happened ? " 
 
 "I wish to tell you, Uncle," And he told his
 
 66 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 
 
 story through told it with his eyes looking into 
 his uncle's as two honest men that trust each 
 other speak or listen sometimes. 
 
 The Archdeacon heard him through. Then he 
 said : " You expect me to advise and give you 
 sympathy. I will do both." And he put his 
 honest hands on Frederic's shoulders. "I know 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere all my days. He is a bad 
 man, with a worse will. You cannot help yourself 
 at present. You must submit. Does his niece 
 love you ? " 
 
 " She has never told me that ; I think it." 
 
 " Well, if she loves you and is a woman, she will 
 keep to you. If she does not love you, well ; 
 if she loves you but is not a woman she will forget 
 you, and then so much the better that you are quit 
 of her." 
 
 "But what am I to do, Uncle ?" 
 
 " Do ! Why, wait, like a man. You distress 
 me, Fred, with your misery." 
 
 " Well, I am miserable." 
 
 " Then I will shock you to do you good. Wait 
 for what turns up. I tell you a story. There 
 was once a king in the East who had a favorite 
 donkey which he desired should be taught to read. 
 And he gave word in all his realm that any man 
 who would teach the brute in ten years to read 
 should have a bag of gold, but if he failed should 
 lose his head. A certain famous philosopher 
 undertook the job ; and when his friends remon-
 
 Two Men at Cross Purposes. 67 
 
 strated with him upon his danger he answered, 
 ' My friends, I have three chances in my favor : 
 the king may die, or I may die, or the donkey 
 may die.' Remember the donkey, Fred." 
 
 " It is unkind in you, Uncle, to laugh at me." 
 
 " No, Fred, I do not laugh at you. I only shock 
 you into forgetting for a moment your misery. 
 You are a priest. You know the law. In what- 
 soever path God orders you to walk, you must 
 walk to the end, as He wills." 
 
 " That is very true," the young man said. 
 
 Let the reader go back a moment to the society 
 of that true gentleman, Sir Chauncey De Vere. 
 It is wise to go there, for we shall learn a lesson. 
 In order to learn that lesson we will look into his 
 heart a little after Frederic Ardenne has taken 
 leave. 
 
 " I hate all priests and the Ardennes," he says 
 in his stately library. " I hate the priests because 
 they are always babbling about something which I 
 do not wish to hear. I hate the Ardennes because 
 of one this man's father. Years ago and he 
 won a woman, who should have been my wife, 
 away from me this man's mother. Years ago and 
 it might have been different with me; but now I 
 shall play the farce to the end. I hurt the boy 
 to-day, though, and that score is off." Sir Chaun- 
 cey De Vere ! What a right knightly gentleman 
 is he. What a fit comrade for the angels and the 
 pure in heart who forgive and are forgiven !
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ST. JOHN'S. 
 
 WEDNESDAY was but one day off, and Frederic 
 Ardenne had taken no leave of Helen De Vere. 
 That act was difficult. He had planned a hundred 
 ways, and upon deliberation all were laid aside as 
 useless. Yet see her he would, even if he had to 
 leave England for it, and become the shadow of 
 Sir Chauncey's exodus. Not to see her and to 
 tell her, after what had happened, in a single 
 phrase if needs be, that he loved her and could not 
 change to her, that thought was agony. He 
 waited to follow circumstance. They who can 
 afford to wait in this life often win. 
 
 The Archdeacon was his angel of good tidings. 
 " Now, Fred ! " that dignitary said as he walked 
 with more than his usual alacrity into his nephew's 
 room. " I told you to wait for something to turn 
 up, and here it is. I have just met Miss Helen in 
 the Close, and she tells me she is going once more 
 to Evening Prayer at St. John's outside the 
 walls. There will not be a large congregation, and 
 if you wish it you can manage to meet her after 
 service."
 
 St. John's. 69 
 
 " Thank you, Uncle," and the young man took 
 his hat and went out. 
 
 " He has the Ardenne blood," the Archdeacon 
 said to himself, "and if he were not a priest it 
 would ill fare with the man who crossed his path." 
 
 It was a curious fact with all the Ardennes that 
 when roused in controversy the military blood in 
 them showed itself at once in military manners ; 
 and Frederic Ardenne, as he walked on to St. 
 John's with his firm, eager step had about him in 
 face and eye the manner of a soldier, with whom 
 it would not be pleasant meddling. He was only 
 fighting his way against fate to the one word he 
 had vowed to speak with Helen De Vere. 
 
 St. John's lies outside Chester walls, among 
 graves, and is very old. A church of some sort has 
 stood there almost from the time when tidings of the 
 Cross was first heard in Britain. Before Edward 
 and Henry, matins and evensong had been sung 
 within its walls, and now when all the kings and 
 queens of the Plantagenet and Tudor lines were 
 in their graves, the song of praise and prayer went 
 on as ever. St John's itself was a Norman pile of 
 the red sandstone found hereabouts, but the very 
 stone was crumbled with age. Time had thrown 
 down its statues of the saints, so that only one, 
 a Saxon king's, they say, remained, and that stood 
 far up on the front face of the square tower, look- 
 ing from under its stone crown at those Welsh
 
 70 St. Johns. 
 
 hills in the west that seemed hardly so old as the 
 church itself. Parts of the edifice, where the 
 monks had dwelt, had fallen in ruins, and trees 
 grew where cowled men had once eaten or slept. 
 In the part still standing was the service. And 
 there, over the graves of the dead, whose epitaphs 
 of brass, inlaid in the broad stones of the pavement, 
 were worn bright by the feet of the living, and 
 with monuments of dead knights and priests and 
 burghers round them, and the gray dust of the 
 generations everywhere, under the low-bowed but 
 mighty Norman arches, a worship that never dies 
 was going on. 
 
 Frederic went in under the low archway of its 
 side door to the service. He was late indeed, for 
 priest and people were saying again the Apostles' 
 Creed, the symbol of that Faith which, under all 
 skies, the Church confesses. By the side of one of 
 the heavy and shadowy arches, among the sparse 
 congregation, he recognized Helen's form, and even 
 imagined he heard her voice in the Creed. When 
 Prayers were ended he waited for her outside. 
 She came out among the last, a child, almost, 
 under the old archway. Her face lighted up when 
 she saw him with a glad surprise. 
 
 "How came you here, sir?" 
 
 " I came to see you, my child." 
 
 " I am very glad you came." 
 
 " Walk with me, then," and she went on with
 
 St. John's. 71 
 
 him without asking where or why. It sufficed her 
 that for this one moment, sacred to her heart out 
 of an unknown and dreaded future, she was with 
 him. 
 
 " The good God sent you here," he said, after 
 awhile. " To-morrow is Wednesday, and I was 
 afraid you would leave England before I had a 
 chance to speak one word to you of the many I 
 wish to say." 
 
 " God is very good, sir, but I always come to St. 
 John's in Easter week, because they say this was 
 my poor mother's parish church, and the pew 
 where I sat to-night was hers, Miss Hannah tells 
 me, and in that church I always feel as if my 
 mother was nearer to me than anywhere else. 
 When I am troubled I always turn to her. They 
 say I should turn to God. But my mother is 
 with Him and I pray to both. I could not leave 
 England without coming here once more." 
 
 Frederic led her along the path that ran among 
 the graves till they came to the middle of the yard, 
 which lies northward from St. John's. " Sit down 
 upon this stone," he said, pointing to the broad 
 mossy tablet that covered one of the many sleepers 
 hereabouts. " I want to say some things to you, 
 my child." So they both sat down on a grave. It 
 might seem a strange place and time to which 
 Fate or Providence had brought these lovers to 
 say last words. It had been sunset some time now,
 
 72 St. John's. 
 
 and the gray mist on the distant hills had deepened 
 to the night shadows, while the smoky twilight fell 
 down upon the ancient houses of the town. Was it 
 a prophecy of the night that was henceforth to fol- 
 low the one Spring day of their love, now ending ? 
 Things before them and around had perished. 
 Why should not their love waste too ? The whole 
 earth had changed since St. John's was built. 
 The Saxon king, high up in the bell tower, now 
 looked down on strangers ; and they who did him 
 reverence when he first was throned were all gone. 
 Why should they not change, and in due time 
 grow strange ? And the king in the tower could 
 not answer them, nor the stars that began to look 
 down from their thrones upon the lovers ; but 
 their hearts answered to themselves, that what is 
 truly love in man or woman does not change nor 
 fail. 
 
 "Did you know I had been with Sir Chaun- 
 cey ? " he asked. 
 
 " I imagined as much. I hope there was nothing 
 very unpleasant between you." 
 
 " It was as pleasant as Sir Chauncey would be 
 likely to make it. But I have nothing to do with 
 him except as he concerns you. You and I both 
 know he has come between us, and it is a time 
 that asks plain words. I have been frank with 
 you in my acts. I will be equally frank in what 
 I say. You know, or I hope you know, that I have
 
 St. John's. 73 
 
 loved you for a long time. I loved you when you 
 were a child. I loved you as I saw you grow up. 
 I love you now you are a woman ; and I love you 
 now more than ever, when your uncle breaks in 
 so bitterly against my heart. I shall never cease 
 to love you. I did not mean to say this to you 
 until I had won my place, and could offer you 
 something that a man wishes for one he would 
 make his wife an honorable place and name. 
 My career has just begun, and I am forced to 
 speak. I do not offer you my love. I only tell 
 you I gave it to you long ago. Tell me now, will 
 you come to me and be my wife ? " 
 
 There was no answer, but a little hand was laid 
 very gently -in his. 
 
 " Speak to me, my child." 
 
 " What more can I say to you than I am say- 
 ing now ? " 
 
 " Tell me that you love me." 
 
 " I love you, Frederic Ardenne." 
 
 " Look me now in the eyes and say that again, 
 please." 
 
 " I love you, Frederic Ardenne." And then his 
 strong hand closed gently over the one in his. 
 
 " Say now, I will never change to you." 
 
 "I will never change to you." 
 
 " And in this world and the next I will be true 
 to you."
 
 74 St. John's. 
 
 " In this world and the next I will be true to 
 you." 
 
 " This was my mother's ring, my child," he said, 
 " that I have long since kept for this," and he put 
 it upon her marriage finger. " Now take your 
 marriage finger and with it sign on my hand here 
 the sign of the Cross." And he held his open 
 right hand for her. 
 
 She did it. 
 
 " Now, Helen, you have signed that hand to 
 you. You have signed it away from dishonor, and 
 devoted it to good deeds. For your sake, as well 
 as His sake who gave you to me, I will try to keep 
 it a man's hand." 
 
 " So now you belong to me, my child," he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " I belong to you, sir." 
 
 " Now I can trust you with Sir Chauncey to go 
 to Paris?" he said, half-smiling. 
 
 " Is it right, sir, for you to ask me that now after 
 what has been ? " 
 
 " No, Helen. Men are selfish ; and they fear for 
 that which they most desire. I do trust you, as I 
 would only trust God beside." 
 
 " You may trust me." 
 
 " But Helen, you go away from me to-morrow, 
 you know not where." 
 
 " Does that matter to my love ? "
 
 St. Johns. 75 
 
 "And it may be months or years before we 
 meet again. Sir Chauncey may be cruel as he is 
 certainly wilful, and he has it in his power to do 
 mischief." 
 
 " I will wait patiently for you, so long as God 
 wills." 
 
 "And obey Sir Chauncey ? " 
 
 " So far as I owe him the obedience of a ward. 
 But this one thing, Frederic," and her voice fal- 
 tered as for the first and last time in this interview 
 she uttered that name which sounded so strangely 
 upon her lips, "I have promised my own heart 
 (and I know God heard it) that, whether it be 
 months or years, as He may order, I will hold true 
 to you, and will be your wife." 
 
 " My dear little wife." 
 
 And then he put his arms about her, and kissed 
 the white forehead again and again. After they 
 went home together, and the future was with God. 
 
 Frederic left her at her door. 
 
 " Pax tecum," he said. 
 
 " Et cum spiritu tuo," was the answer, and she 
 went in. 
 
 " Who brought you home to-night, Helen ? " 
 Sir Chauncey asked, when she passed by the 
 library. 
 
 " Mr. Ardenne." 
 
 Miss Hannah wondered at Helen's courage.
 
 76 St. John's. 
 
 Sir Chauncey thought of the trunks. Each man 
 to his mission. That night the destiny of a heart 
 had passed out forever from beneath the rule of 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere, and when it said its pray- 
 ers, it bowed itself submissively to God. And He 
 is wont to keep a trust.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 STRASBOURG MINSTER. 
 
 THE De Veres went to Paris, and in its clean 
 and delicate festivities Sir Chauncey found his 
 Paradise. Frederic Ardeune stood to his duty. 
 He absorbed himself in studies, but somehow a 
 memory wrote itself on every page he read, and 
 when the book was shut a woman stood by the 
 tired student until his study grew to a palace ; 
 only the queen of it was of intangible substance 
 and altogether silent. Chester itself had changed 
 to him. The very town seemed heartless. The 
 shadows upon the cathedral had grown older. 
 Helen had carried away the sunshine with her, and 
 he felt it. It is only when the sun goes down 
 that we so sorely miss the sunshine. Yet he 
 wrought as he best could. 
 
 It was news of Helen's sickness that broke down 
 his resolution. It came to him in some indirect 
 rumor that she was lying at the very gate of the 
 grave in Paris. A servant of Sir Chauncey's had 
 written it to his sweetheart in the Close, and the 
 tidings found their slow way to him. It shut the 
 books, and then it drove him in a swift feverish
 
 78 Strasbourg Minster. 
 
 flight across the Channel. At Sir Chauncey's hotel 
 he inquired for news. " The young English lady," 
 they said, " had been very sick some two months 
 back and had been ordered by her physician, on 
 her convalescence, to Switzerland for mountain 
 air. They knew nothing more. That night he 
 went towards the Alps. Once or twice in his im- 
 patient and heart-sick journey he found traces of 
 the travellers. He heard of Sir Chauncey among 
 the servants of the inns. Had Sir Chauncey's 
 oaths been pencils he would have left in his wan- 
 derings very black marks upon most of them. He 
 tracked them through the Oberland. " A very 
 delicate and pale young English lady, with her 
 uncle and aunt," the landlord said, " in search of 
 health ; " and that was the only consolation they 
 flung in their busy carelessness to a heart that 
 ached. At Interlaken he found something plain. 
 "The trunks had been marked," they said, "for 
 Strasbourg," and Sir Chauncey had vouchsafed the 
 host the information that he meant to solace him- 
 self for all his fatigues with the pdtes defois gras 
 of that gourmandizing but sleepy city. So Fred- 
 eric turned again to the Rhine. 
 
 The morning after his arrival, at breakfast in his 
 inn, his courier brought him good news. "The 
 English gentleman had taken apartments in the 
 chief hotel, for a three months' stay, and had been 
 settled there some two weeks." It was true, then,
 
 Strasbourg Minster. 79 
 
 that the same walls enclosed them both, and Helen 
 was out of danger. But now the real danger 
 began, and his more sober mind reflected. 
 
 Had not they two left all to God, and was not 
 his journey here faithless after all ? 
 
 And love and reason strove together. What if 
 he went to Helen? What had he to say to her, 
 who had left him in England to stand to his work 
 and his love through his w r ork ? If he forced him- 
 self into her presence, Sir Chauncey might bid her 
 to the ends of the earth, and she must go. And 
 yet he would not go out through Strasbourg gates 
 without looking upon the pale face again. So he 
 waited his opportunity at his inn. 
 
 It may be easily imagined that Frederic Ar- 
 denne wished to miss no chance of meeting Helen. 
 But in the fortnight that elapsed before he saw 
 her he had almost ceased to hope. It was an in- 
 stinct therefore which told him, when at breakfast 
 he heard there was to be a special service that 
 evening in the Cathedral, that he should some- 
 how meet her there. It was therefore with a 
 throbbing heart that he stationed himself, in the 
 twilight, under the great archway, and watched 
 the multitude going in. The service, the gray- 
 haired verger told him, was in behalf of a dead 
 alderman who had left great charities to the Stras- 
 bourg parishes. Frederic watched the faces as 
 they came in until his very brain swam with
 
 80 Strasbourg Minster. 
 
 fatigue, but yet one face did not appear. Then 
 suddenly a new sensation came over him a sense 
 that somewhere in the crowd Helen was approach- 
 ing him, was at hand. No yes ; just now, 
 under the portal, a pale, worn face, that he 
 should have known among ten thousand his 
 face appeared, a company, apparently of English 
 men and women, around her. He did not move 
 he even held his breath he could not move. 
 And she passed him at not more than an arm's 
 length and did not see him ! He roused himself 
 and pressed in amongst the crowd. Up the nave 
 slowly, with her in sight, he kept on. He saw 
 where she knelt with the rest, and he knelt almost 
 beside her. 
 
 The service began. It was Mozart's Requiem 
 which they sang ; and as the music rose and sank, 
 trembled and sobbed, and took up again its thrill- 
 ing litanies and its holy aspiration, one more 
 worshipful than Frederic might have marked 
 again how music kindles and lifts up aspiration 
 unto God, who is the soul of harmony. But 
 Frederic saw only the kneeling form before him, 
 and heard only the low tones of an English maiden 
 bidding him adieu in the twilight of a churchyard 
 across seas. The service ended, but he still 
 watched one form among the multitude, which now 
 rose from its knees to go away. Could he speak to 
 her surrounded by her companions? Impossible.
 
 Strasbourg Minster. 81 
 
 And yet she was almost touching him. It was plain 
 from her movements that she was talking to the 
 lady beside her about the Minster. She seemed 
 to have stopped a moment by herself to examine 
 the exquisite sculpture of the pulpit as she came 
 by it. In an instant her comrades, not missing 
 her, had swept on with the crowd, and she was 
 quite alone. She turned from the sculpture a 
 moment after, and Frederic saw her start he 
 thought she trembled at missing her friends. His 
 time had come. He whispered in her ear her 
 name. She turned to him amazed. In an in- 
 stant, with a half-reproach in her voice, she said, 
 " How came you here, Frederic Ardenue ? You 
 peril everything for both of us." 
 
 " I heard you were dying in Paris, and I could 
 not stay away. I have followed you here to see 
 your face once more a moment." 
 
 " But was it not agreed that you were to stand 
 in your place and trust me to God ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And cannot you trust me to Him ? Your com- 
 ing here says, ' No.' ' 
 
 "You are ice to say this," he answered almost 
 passionately. 
 
 And then she turned upon him a face, silent, 
 constant, the face of an angel almost, and the face 
 answered him. It was the face of a woman, 
 young and suffering, but of a woman whose soul
 
 82 Strasbourg Minster. 
 
 was overwatched by the twin angels of Love and 
 Duty. 
 
 " Frederic," she said then, " you are too strong 
 to fail your own heart. It is your office to 
 wait for what God sends you. First of all you 
 belong to Him, next to me. I claim you out of 
 my heart only when God surrenders you to me. 
 If both our lives are laid in God's hand, they 
 must always be close together. I saw all this when 
 I was sick in Paris and you away in England, and 
 I know now what it is to love you, now that I love 
 God more." 
 
 Frederic Ardenne said nothing. He held out 
 his hand. She took it with both her own. 
 
 "You must stay here," he said, "until your 
 friends come back for you, when they miss you. 
 Good night." 
 
 And the young man went away and watched 
 from among the shadows of the stalwart pillars 
 until her friends came back and she went out. 
 
 Then he went home to his inn with a fever in 
 his very blood ; rebuked, ashamed, confounded. 
 The child whom he loved had spoken ; most of all 
 had spoken what was true what his heart told him 
 was true. She was bearing her cross, and he had 
 run away from his to Strasbourg. Then, alone in 
 his chamber, with his face in his hands, he looked as 
 men once or twice in a lifetime look at themselves. 
 He looked into his innermost heart and judged it by
 
 Strasbourg Minster. 83 
 
 a law of iron, and yet it remained a heart of flesh. 
 It was hours before that silent reckoning ended, 
 and then weary, patient once more, he looked 
 around him. The unwearied moonlight was at 
 his feet. 
 
 He threw open his window and watched the 
 Minster, as in the moonlight across the square it 
 rose in its deserted silence towards the stars. 
 Upon its high altar they offered the daily Sacrifice ; 
 but the structure itself was also sacrifice. Into 
 that temple had been wrought the prayers and 
 offerings of generations. Its price had been the 
 cups of silver and gold out of which kings had 
 drunk ; the scarlet and purple and fine linen 
 which the queen had denied her beauty for its 
 glory ; the timber from the hills that the weary 
 peasant, forgotten when scarcely known, had hewn 
 and brought; a basket of fruit or a hamper of 
 grapes from some woman's vineyard these had 
 lifted the Minster towards the skies. It was the 
 children of Him who had given Himself in sacri- 
 fice who had laid their little upon His magnificent 
 and sheltering altar, inspired by that spirit of self- 
 surrender by which His Church is garnished and 
 kept. 
 
 Where was Erwin Von Steinbach, who had 
 planned that pile ? Where was his child, Sabrina, 
 who had aided her father's hands with a womanly 
 skill and prowess not yet forgotten? No man
 
 84: Strasbourg Minster. 
 
 could find their graves under the shadows of the 
 temple they had built. Where, too, was the twin 
 tower to that which rose so loftily, this night, alone ? 
 It had perished with the brain which planned it, 
 and even this Minster remained incomplete. It 
 was only a human work which he saw. 
 
 He watched the great spire in the moonshine 
 on the one side light, and on the other shadow. 
 So, he thought, is all life light and shade ; but 
 the shade is always because the substances of this 
 world hide from our hearts the heavenly light, 
 which in itself is always full and rounded. On 
 how many things had that spire looked down since 
 it was built. It had seen the generations of a 
 thousand Rhine villages play out their play of life, 
 and now it could hardly count their graves. It 
 had overlooked a more solemn procession than the 
 silent river between the hills flowing on to the 
 sea ; for the river of human life under its ken was 
 vaster and more solemn than any flood. It looked 
 down to-night, as it had for ages, upon the living 
 and the dead; and so long as it looked it had 
 pointed, whether there were clouds or moonlight, 
 towards the heavens, as though it would lift up 
 the souls of the human creatures dwelling under 
 its shadows towards the skies. So it was this 
 hour pointing with a cross. 
 
 It was then, as he looked on Strasbourg Minster, 
 that the henceforth master-thought of his life rose
 
 Strasbourg Minster. 85 
 
 in his heart, as a sun rises over chaos to mould it 
 into harmonies. The thought was this. The law 
 of life is sacrifice, but when one lays his sacrifice 
 upon the altar, the cross above it pointing sky- 
 wards denotes the Invisible for whom true sacrifice 
 alone is made. It was his life that Frederic Ar- 
 denne owed the Church, and that sacrifice would 
 reach beyond the stars and draw down a blessing 
 on him who dwelt an hour or so beneath them. 
 And as he looked out into the moonlight that 
 thought rose clear, musical, shining, upon his soul, 
 possessing him and filling him with peace. 
 
 He rung the bell for his servant. " To-morrow," 
 he said, " we start for England." On the morrow 
 he went.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AUBREY PARISH. 
 
 THE Rev. Frederic Ardenne, for some ten years, 
 had been the rector of St. Clement's, Aubrey Parish, 
 in the American Diocese of Riverland. To slur 
 over in a single sentence ten years of a man's life, 
 especially a lover's, comes very close to assassina- 
 tion. 
 
 Yet it is the plain fact, so far as this story runs. 
 
 When Frederic Ardenne left Helen De Vere at 
 Strasbourg he went back to Chester and his duties. 
 But the blight in his heart had smitten the place 
 with desolation. Its very comfortable and placid 
 life fretted his feverish heart. To make some 
 great sacrifice of himself, for duty, to become a 
 beggar and on foot in the lanes and fields of 
 England preaching Christ to the brutal and the 
 outcast, as the ancient priests had done ; to wit- 
 ness to the Faith and die gladly for it, as the old 
 martyrs had ; to make an utter sacrifice of all for 
 Him who saves all by His perpetual sacrifice was 
 easy ; but to exist where and as he was im- 
 possible. He had heard that missionaries were 
 wanted in the Canadas. The wilderness there
 
 Aubrey Parish. 87 
 
 might satisfy his heart as ease and comfort never 
 would. His swift decision his uncle, the Arch- 
 deacon, found no words to alter. Armed with 
 letters missive, he went out to that colony. On 
 the frontiers, among Indians and backwoodsmen, 
 in a cabin that was both his church and home, he 
 had spent five rugged and solitary years of clerical 
 toil. It is not necessary to tell their story. Among 
 the forests, by the finger of God, it had been 
 rewritten upon his heart as his rule of life, " As 
 God wills, when God wills ; " and he obeyed. It 
 was here that, worn out with work, he had been 
 found by his Bishop, on the latter's visitation, un- 
 conscious and nigh to death, but tenderly nursed 
 by the rough folk he served. In due time the 
 Bishop had him removed to his own house, where 
 he slowly came back to health. Then the physi- 
 cians said that to return to the wild was certain 
 death ; and against his wish, but as God willed, 
 his sacrifice was to be made elsewhere. The 
 Bishop of Riverland, on his summer travels through 
 these parts, had heard of him, and at once offered 
 him a place in his diocese. Thus he came to 
 Aubrey Parish, where he had now been rector 
 for some five years more. 
 
 Aubrey Parish is a realm between two rivers, 
 which here gather their waters into one. Every 
 one likes the rivers, and some the people who live 
 between them. The parish begins at the north
 
 88 Aubrey Parish. 
 
 where at a very unsocial distance these rivers 
 break from the wooded hills which for a long way 
 have kept them company. It ends where they 
 join, and lies in the shape of a triangle, with its 
 apex to the south. Across these rivers from the 
 parish are farmhouses, orchards, patches of wood- 
 land and hills everywhere bounding the horizon, 
 while scattered along their banks, among the oaks, 
 the white houses look down by day into the rest- 
 less flood and at night cast the slender ray of 
 their lamps upon its darkness. 
 
 Time and progress have divided the parish into 
 two villages. Old Town, as its name denotes, was 
 settled first, and occupies by far the larger part of 
 the parish. Factory Village, with its workshops, 
 built on and under the bluff, where the rivers join, 
 lays claim to what land is left. Old Town is full 
 of dignity and sleep, and monopolizes all the 
 antiquity and family of that locality. It quietly 
 claims a respectability so eminent as to forbid 
 denial. 
 
 But from 'its broad square houses under the 
 elms, around its Common, many young men had 
 gone and gained place in the great world, until 
 the fame of Aubrey men had become an heirloom 
 to those who stayed at home. Here were the 
 churches and meeting-houses, and just off the 
 Common the graveyard, where Aubrey folk were 
 brought, when work was done, to sleep so long.
 
 Aubrey Parish. 89 
 
 Factory Village owned to a very different strain 
 and spirit. It had been begun as a venture not 
 more than thirty years before, by a dyke that 
 turned the river over a half dozen milhvheels, 
 and hence had sprung all the thrift of the borough. 
 Its loud-voiced and thrifty citizens seemed to 
 absorb their habits from their loud-voiced and busy 
 machineries, which all day long in monotonous 
 and dreary drone, as unwilling slaves of masters 
 whom they feared but served, kept coining gold 
 for them, and at night were suffered to sleep 
 in the great factories that they might sweat and 
 slave with the same reluctant spirit on the morrow. 
 The mill-owners were those progressive men, with 
 a strong scent for money, who would undertake to 
 make charcoal out of river water, had there been 
 money in it, or shares in a company for mining 
 diamonds out of Aubrey meadows, had the market 
 tolerated such a novel venture. Some men 
 thought them sordid and grasping ; but in youth 
 their wits had been sharpened by their wants, until 
 they only hungered after money, and in middle age 
 they were able to crave nothing else. The artisans 
 of the village were a polyglot company, native 
 and foreign, who just here wrought out the problem 
 of the curse of work, ever asking, but never 
 answering, their own question, why they were 
 born to toil. 
 
 Old Town folk heartily despised the Factory as
 
 90 Aubrey Parish. 
 
 something new and extremely vulgar. Its demo- 
 cratic and noisy industries shocked their sleepy 
 stateliness, and by instinct they quarrelled with 
 the iron hands that coined gold for others in 
 that competition which went on between them. 
 They had always the intent to grow rich, like 
 their neighbors, but somehow a sad, inexorable 
 necessity or laziness or something else seemed to 
 keep them always where they were. From the 
 foot of the Hill of Gold they looked up to their 
 neighbors far above them to revile them in their 
 hearts. Very little of all this, for a casual ob- 
 server, came to the surface, but underneath it was 
 as has been writ. When a Factory man, for in- 
 stance, took out his family in his new double- 
 seated carriage through Old Town, the gossips 
 who sat by the open windows knitting, and did 
 not even own a chaise, drew their white caps more 
 primly about their wrinkled faces, as they re- 
 lated out of what hole he and his had been digged. 
 The young ladies of Old Town, too, assumed a 
 patronizing air when they met their sisters of 
 Factory pedigree, though the latter, as better 
 dressed, refused to do them honor. In fine, every- 
 thing about the factory but its bank checks was at a 
 discount among the folks who lived around Aubrey 
 Common and nursed their somnolent pride of 
 family just as if the very stars did not show a 
 much older and more courtly lineage than theirs,
 
 Aubrey Parish. 91 
 
 and yet every night looked clown upon the 
 Factory folk as benignly as ever star looked upon 
 prince or prelate or any other high breds like those 
 in Old Town. 
 
 The religions of Aubrey Parish were almost as 
 diverse as its mills, and religion in Turk or any 
 other Gentile is a fountain to color and flavor 
 human life. All the country hereabout in Colonial 
 times had been settled by Puritans, who lived out 
 their faith with a very logical exactness and in 
 unity of spirit. But the elders were long since dead, 
 and new times had brought in novelties to their 
 meeting-house, strange enough almost to make them 
 turn in their graves. The Bible had been read 
 each man for himself, and so many things had been 
 read into it and out of it, that now hardly two were 
 quite agreed in their private judgment as to what 
 these things meant. So there had come to be half 
 a dozen congregations, and in the pulpits of the 
 more ardent spirits, those thundering preachers, 
 whose mission was, as it looked, to wake God out 
 of sleep and to wrest from Him a blessing. In- 
 deed, so incessant had been these changes that the 
 evil-minded were wont to say that the cock upon 
 the steeple, which was forever veering in the wind, 
 whose prototype once spake to Peter, was a sym- 
 bol of that denial of their Lord which was now 
 going on. 
 
 St. Clement's, which stood among the meeting-
 
 92 Aubrey Parish. 
 
 houses on the green, had existed at first by the not 
 over-gracious permission of its powerful neighbors, 
 who thought it a very inn of evil spirits, and a 
 place where forbidden rites affronted the simplicity 
 of true religion. Truth to say, it was farther away 
 from them than any town common in the world 
 could possibly separate it. In St. Clement's every- 
 thing was old and fixed. It had a certain solem- 
 nity and peace about it as of the dead and graves 
 (for its worship had been handed down by gener- 
 ations who had gone), and derived itself from a 
 broken tomb which was very old. Yet every Sun- 
 day its chanted psalms and litanies, through which 
 ran, as it were, the cry of the human for rest and 
 peace, uplifted the soul towards a coming future, 
 where were no graves, and all apostles and confes- 
 sors lived again. This it was that provoked not a 
 few to call its worship stupid or bigoted or queer, 
 as the measure of their ignorance advised them. 
 If a true Puritan strayed in through the porch to 
 its service, he either wondered and then slept 
 through it, or went away surprised that sensible 
 folk could relish anything so dull. The reason for 
 all this was that St. Clement's worship had long 
 ago taken good care to perpetuate itself as it was 
 and had been for all generations. Eternity, even 
 in worship, has, no doubt, a certain monotony about 
 it, but a variety which is forever changing can only 
 be for time. Its neighbors were always making
 
 Aubrey Parish. 93 
 
 themselves a new ark to contain the shewbread 
 and the sacred relics, and therefore the symbolic 
 angels that rested upon its lid must be often 
 changed. But St. Clement's people, as they 
 thought, carried that ancient ark whose pattern 
 once for all had been revealed to men in the Mount. 
 St. Clement's church itself was built of gray 
 stone and set in a rock ledge, which just here thrust 
 its head above ground, and was thus, as its friends 
 said, twice founded upon a rock. St. Clement's 
 rectory, a little gray, rambling house, stood under 
 its mingled elms and maples hard by the church. 
 The rectors who had lived in it had each adorned 
 it with their special handicraft and taste. One 
 had been a clever mechanician, and had curiously 
 contrived a score of things for that home's perpet- 
 ual comfort. Another had been an astronomer, 
 and the hole he cut in the roof to look at the heav- 
 ens was left long after he had gone where the 
 stars are never pale. Others had been deft scribes 
 and written down among the births and deaths and 
 marriages many strange things of life in Aubrey 
 Parish as they had seen them, so that the Parish 
 Register had come to have more tragedy, if not 
 comedy, than almost any volume in their library. 
 A few were skilful gardeners, who had brought home 
 from foreign travel such rare plants as would live 
 in such a climate, and the ivy which crept up the 
 gray sides of St. Clement's had been brought from
 
 94 Aubrey Parish. 
 
 an English abbey. Like every old house, the 
 rectory had a history, and had it had speech it 
 would have told a sweet, pathetic story of its 
 own. 
 
 Such was Aubrey Parish and the house which for 
 some five years now the Rev. Frederic Ardenne had 
 occupied. Is it complained that such digressions 
 break up our story ? This is a story of life a river 
 flowing underground, but every now and then 
 breaking into broad reaches with the shadow or the 
 sunshine on them, and at last hiding again among 
 the silences.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HELEN DE VERB. 
 
 BUT what of Helen De Vere in all these years ? 
 Outwardly she followed the will of Sir Chauncey 
 over half Europe ; yet her home was always where 
 her heart was, at the side of Frederic Ardenne. 
 Sir Chauncey was a great pilgrim, only his shrines 
 were not those of the saints. So he often crossed 
 or doubled on his own track according as his noble 
 appetites required, and repeated himself on those 
 cities where they found most food. Yet generally 
 he left the two women he was dragging at his 
 chariot wheels to their own affairs, and they could 
 scarcely afford to mind his. 
 
 Young womanhood, such as Helen's was, grows 
 swiftly mature in that wisdom which is born of 
 feminine instincts, keen with the logic of a woman's 
 soul. The girl had become a woman long before 
 Sir Chauncey had dined at many inns, and was 
 waxing daily in her strong, patient, silent heart-life. 
 The law of obedience, which, wisely or unwisely, 
 she had herself set as a barrier between herself and 
 Frederic Ardenne, restrained, indeed, but never 
 dried up, the waters of her new womanhood. Ab-
 
 96 , Helen De Vere. 
 
 sent in the body, her soul followed him daily, some- 
 times hourly. And as those waters, ruled of her 
 conscience, would neither babble nor break against 
 the barrier, as they welled up they retreated and 
 overswept all the royal domain of a woman's 
 nature, every nook and corner of it, until, in her 
 silent submission, she came to possess her soul as a 
 sacred trust for him. And as living waters must 
 impart the life they hold or else grow stagnant, so 
 the tide of her love in the service of Him whose 
 name is Love flowed out into sacrifice for others. 
 Wherever on the Continent Sir Chauncey found his 
 inn, she was sure to find her Church. The chaplains 
 in a score of cities long remembered the young Eng- 
 lish girl who showed a strength so gentle in the care 
 of their poor and sick folk. Her money and her 
 service, rain or shine, were at command, and she 
 gained much repute as one quick to discriminate 
 between the good and evil among those to whom 
 she ministered. And always, in the hovels, and 
 with the sick in the last passage, she was comforted 
 in that hers was the like service, though under 
 another sun, with him whose love had made all 
 things so pure and sweet for her. And always 
 in that mighty Eucharistic Feast, that Ecstasy 
 of Saints, whose charity over-reaches tide and 
 time, to bind His to Him and to each other, 
 absence became presence and she was not alone. 
 She had written no inquiries back to Chester, and
 
 Helen De Vere. 97 
 
 Sir Chauncey so far forth was satisfied. Miss Han- 
 nah had, and received answers too ; which her 
 brother, with his high-bred tact, had managed to 
 read before her. So one day he said abruptly to 
 that lady, " I want no more letters out of Chester. 
 Do you hear? " And the correspondence ceased. 
 
 Yet he had his own plans for his niece. What 
 they were appeared in an interview to which he 
 commanded her one spring day in Florence. On 
 such state occasions he always dressed himself 
 with extra care and made the most of his lingering 
 carcass dressed in the newest modes. That day he 
 looked to Helen, as she came into his apartments, 
 like Decay in the robes of Harlequin. 
 
 Something, too, boded in his face, whose lines 
 were always a trifle harder when he had a coarse 
 thing to say. He wasted no words this time. 
 
 " You are getting old, Helen. Why don't you 
 marry ? " 
 
 " Marry ? Uncle (the brown eyes wide open and 
 alarmed). I do not wish to marry." 
 
 " Ha ! a woman, and not wish to marry ? What 
 nonsense ! I have found to my cost that a woman 
 with only one foot out of the grave thinks herself 
 marriageable ; and women of an uncertain age 
 never fix with themselves a time when they will 
 decline a wedding ring. No, to be sure, you are 
 not speaking truth, girl. All of you wish to marry." 
 And he laughed a dry, wooden laugh, which seemed
 
 98 Helen De Vere. 
 
 to come from no nearer his heart (if he had one) 
 than his throat, which he certainly had. 
 
 " But I have told you the truth, Uncle." 
 
 Sir Chauncey looked out at the windows and then 
 round the room, until his eyes came down to where 
 the woman stood, pale and still, with the blood 
 rushing back to her heart, which had been struck 
 with a cruel blow. He was only ruminating an 
 instant, on the high road to mischief. He even in- 
 dulged in a curt whistle of satisfaction. Then he 
 went at his work again. 
 
 " But I wish you to marry, Helen. You ought 
 to be settled instead of gadding about with me 
 and the priests," he added in a more stomachic 
 tone. There was no answer, but silence, a long 
 space, between them. 
 
 " Do you hear ? " he went on at last ; " I wish you 
 to marry. Will you oblige me ? " Still no answer. 
 Then another long pause, in which Sir Chauncey, 
 cunningly as he thought, left his niece to meditate 
 her charming prospects. " Since you have lost 
 your tongue, Miss, you will allow me to answer for 
 you. You will marry. You will be glad to have 
 me name the happy gentleman I have selected for 
 your husband. It is Sir John English, who dined 
 here yesterday." 
 
 " But I do not love him, Uncle." 
 
 " Love him ! bah ! you silly chit, what has that 
 to do with marriage ? "
 
 Helen De Vere. 99 
 
 " But you would not have me marry a man I did 
 not love ? " 
 
 " Yes, faith, I would. Study to love him, grow 
 to love him, as these Italian women do when their 
 mothers marry them behind their backs, and look 
 out for the DOT to boot. He has ten thousand 
 pounds a year and good blood to back his suit with 
 any girl." 
 
 " But I am an Englishwoman, Uncle," Helen 
 pleaded. 
 
 " Nonsense ! Don't English mothers sell their 
 daughters every day in London parlors, and deliver 
 the merchandise with all the gauze and crinoline 
 thrown in to boot at leisure, as coolly as ever Turk 
 sold his Circassian beauties in the market-place ? 
 Look at me now, girl." Sir Chauncey rose from 
 his chair, and, stretching up his portly figure, ad- 
 vanced towards her. " You would say now, if you 
 spoke the truth, that I am neither young nor hand- 
 some. In fact, you know that I am old and gouty. 
 Yet if I had a hundred thousand pounds to my 
 name, I could go among the fat dowagers to-morrow, 
 and they would sell me any one of a score of girls 
 as handsome as you are, even if they had to com- 
 plete the sale, prayer-book in hand, when they 
 were going in to the Sacrament the pious souls ! 
 An d the young lady herself bah ! with such a 
 mother, what could she do ? Why, marry me and 
 my gout together. ' Mamma had told her I was too
 
 100 Helen De Vere. 
 
 old to live long, and she would look charmingly in 
 widow's weeds. Weeds are so becoming to a 
 blonde, you know.' Come, marry me now Sir John 
 English. Will you?" 
 
 Before, in the Chester parlor, he had had a mere 
 child to deal with ; now there was a woman. And 
 womanhood such as hers is strength, not of iron, 
 storm, or sea wave, nor even of the granite hills, 
 but the strength of the earth bearing flowers after 
 each bitter winter that awful, passive power, Ori- 
 ental, as Indian races show, who wait and submit the 
 neck for a thousand ages, to win, perhaps, at last. 
 Sir Chauncey's first salute had shocked her to a 
 mental paralysis, which swiftly passed. Then her 
 soul, out of deep fountains, rose "to resist, and she 
 put against his wish all of herself down to the last 
 drop of her being, made pure and strong by con- 
 science. This, too, not by reason, but that wiser 
 than reason, a woman's instincts ; and these in the 
 very whirl of her brain did their work unerringly. 
 So at his last inquiry the woman turned her eyes 
 full in Sir Chauncey's face, and with her soul a 
 thousand leagues, as it were, away from the man 
 before her, answered, " No." It was a " No " which 
 carried with it a falling inflection that seemed to 
 reach the very floor. 
 
 Sir Chauncey's bodily rage was tremulous, but he 
 looked on and on at her until he said, "Go to your 
 room, Miss ; I will arrange this matter."
 
 Helen De Vere. 101 
 
 Helen De Vere did go to her room, and what 
 was more, when she got there she went straight to 
 work to examine this whole business of her right 
 relations with her guardian. First of all, she veri- 
 fied the verdict of her instincts by her reason. 
 This was a short task. Then she undertook the 
 larger business of the whole situation. She had 
 left Frederic Ardenne and followed this man for 
 years because he stood in the place of her parents, 
 and the Church had taught her, " Honor thy father 
 and thy mother." And yet this very day she had 
 utterly refused obedience. How could she be right 
 both ways? Her strong, loyal nature finally 
 touched the logic of the matter at its very roots. 
 " There is not one commandment, but ten," she 
 said. "Each commandment limits, wherever it 
 touches, all the others. I may obey my parents, 
 but never so as to disobey in any way Him who is 
 in all His laws. Marriage without love, at any 
 one's decree, offends all purity in woman. I have 
 set up a barrier of duty between my soul's life and 
 Frederic Ardenne's presence. But until God out 
 of His skies bids me other, I will not defile the 
 waters." 
 
 These questions and others consumed her whole 
 day. Why should not all honest minds mingle 
 their meditations with hers ? "What is marriage ? 
 Marriage must be either brutal or spiritual. Once 
 in Christendom, from strand to summit of the ever-
 
 102 Helen De Vere. 
 
 lasting hills, it was called a sacrament. Now they 
 call it something else an alliance, a social com- 
 pact, an economic union.; and by public sentiment 
 in diverse quarters a mere convenience to be erased 
 in pliant courts of law almost any time. 
 
 But yet what is it? An Apostle, who ought to 
 be authority with apostolic people, calls it a great 
 mystery, hinting at that ineffable marriage of Christ 
 with His Church which it takes two worlds and 
 one eternity to fulfil. Above all, what is it for a 
 woman ? For since a woman became the Mother 
 of God, Christendom clearly holds that woman- 
 hood, even to the lowest hag, is consecrated by a 
 new relationship to the Divine. Sister of the Virgin 
 Mother, and every woman brings an awful dowry 
 to her marriage. Marriage, therefore, from which 
 the soul absents itself fore ver violates the purity 
 of God, though every priest on the round globe 
 should advise or celebrate the sacrilege. 
 
 But Sir Chauncey went at his work, such as it 
 was. And to show forth his will, it is necessary to 
 explain in brief his comrade in all this trouble. 
 Sir John English was an ordinary Briton, who had 
 inherited dead men's monies and had never tried 
 to make any living man, except himself, happier 
 for his luck. He was not too proud to be fed out 
 of the hand of some one's labor, and yet would do 
 no honest work in a world where even the very 
 sand grains toil. He had long since run away from
 
 Helen De Vere. 103 
 
 his station in that English land from which he had 
 derived his very bone and muscle, and on the Con- 
 tinent wasted his substance upon himself so as to 
 make that self daily the lesser man. His was a 
 diminuendo life, sinking down through discords to 
 silence. He had met Sir Chauncey at the cafe's, and 
 won his admiration by his skill at billiards and sev- 
 eral other lesser and, sooth to say, more uncertain 
 virtues. Cousin in the flesh, at least, he was to Sir 
 Chauncey's pastimes, and the latter, when maudlin 
 with wine, had promised him his niece.. He had 
 been home with Sir Chauncey several times to 
 dinner, and had met Miss Helen so. To be brief, 
 after his interview with his niece, just recorded, Sir 
 Chauncey tried other devices, and made haste to 
 deliver the promised goods. But Helen De Vere 
 failed to be charming; and Sir Chauncey was soon 
 let by Sir John's own sweet will. "Marry that 
 woman ! " he said, at last ; "I would as soon marry 
 the Prayer Book!"
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MOTHER WALKER. 
 
 WE begin with Aubrey folk, where our blessed 
 Lord began, with the poor. Mother Walker was 
 one whose poverty and piety gave her no uncertain 
 claim upon all honest Christians. She lived in 
 three rooms of a little black, wooden house, across 
 the river, which had once known better days, when 
 a thrifty Puritan family were growing up, who, as 
 they came to luck, turned their backs on the old 
 home for the more garish world before them. It 
 had, outside, a rickety pair of stairs, which led to 
 the second story ; its windows were always rattling 
 in the shrunk casings when the wind blew ; and 
 an occasional window blind, half unhinged and 
 askew upon its rusty fastening, as black as the rest 
 of the house, and the loose clapboards over the 
 ancient oak frame, seemed to say that the very 
 house was dead or at least dying with age. It 
 was a place where poverty hides itself under the 
 mantle of decay. 
 
 Mother Walker, in outward things, was very like 
 her house ; she was a short, stout-built, fresh-colored 
 woman, who might have once been handsome, but
 
 Mother Walker. 105 
 
 was now clearly old. She wore a white cap, which 
 was always clean, and her dress was of no par- 
 ticular age or fashion. She was an emigrant from 
 England, and had lived hereabouts for many years. 
 She was always poor, and had never pretended to 
 be anything else, but gained a precarious livelihood 
 among the town folks by her needle as long as her 
 strength lasted, and for some time now had aged 
 so greatly as to be numbered among the poor of 
 the parish, who are fed by the communion alms. 
 Yet she had that simple-hearted, pious resignation 
 to her lot, and gratitude for favors, which hindered 
 people from thinking of her as a beggar, and they 
 who gave her alms had a sense of doing them- 
 selves a favor. Every one spoke to her, when, on 
 Sunday mornings, staff in hand, she wended her 
 way to church, and took her one seat by the porch 
 always a half-hour or so before the service. 
 When at the Communion, she came tottering up 
 the aisle, and knelt with the rest at the chancel 
 rail, among the devout, there were none noted 
 more tenderly by the congregation than she ; and 
 apart from the business of preparing her frugal 
 meals and minding her three rooms, her human 
 affairs seemed to begin and end in her parish 
 church. And as poverty in all Christian ages finds 
 its single refuge at the altar, so Mother Walker, as 
 strength and store failed her, seemed to cling closer 
 to holy things for refuge. For one who looked so
 
 106 Mother Walker. 
 
 old, she was very young, and in all her years of 
 poverty had maintained those cheerful manners 
 which are so winning in the truly Christian poor. 
 
 Even the young folk, especially the girls, were 
 fond of paying her visits, and the very children 
 were not afraid of being found in her great arm- 
 chair, sometimes asleep. Somehow, there was a 
 subtle affinity between them, for she also, despite 
 her years, belonged among those little ones of 
 whom the Master said, " Of such is the kingdom 
 of heaven." All the parish were her friends, 
 because she was the friend of all ; and St. Clem- 
 ent's services would have seemed incomplete had 
 she been absent. 
 
 There was the sound of feet on the stairs out- 
 side and a knock at Mother Walker's door. The 
 old lady set down her earthen teapot, and then 
 said, " Come in, my love." So the visitor came in. 
 "Ah, my love, I know your step," she said to the 
 young girl who now came in and kissed her. "It 
 is your day, and I was sure you would come down 
 and read to me out of the Good Book. You are 
 my eyes, my love, and now when I can't see clear 
 with my spectacles it's such a blessing to have you 
 read." 
 
 " Yes, Mother, I knew you would look for me, 
 and so I hurried off from school, to pay you a 
 little visit," and the new comer took of her hat, 
 put one or two chairs, near her, back in their
 
 Mother Walker. 107 
 
 places, as though she was quite at home, then 
 she took a look round the room to see if Mother 
 Walker's housekeeping was quite in order, and 
 said, " How nicely you keep your room, Mother." 
 
 " Ah, my love, I try very hard to keep tidy, and 
 it's not much I have to set to rights; but my 
 mother always taught me that a little well kept 
 was better than a great deal out of sorts, and we 
 must honor our father and our mother, you know. 
 I think of her a dozen times a day when I go to do 
 something, and ask myself how she would do it ; 
 bat she kept house better nor I, and I can't see 
 the dust very well when it gets on the chairs, 
 though I go round with a cloth ; and there's a deal 
 of dust about in this old house some way." 
 
 " I wish I may keep house as well, when I am 
 as old," said her visitor. 
 
 It is time that this visitor should be introduced, 
 to whomsoever it may concern. Lucy Farewell 
 is an orphan. She is also the teacher of St. Clem- 
 ent's school. She is further the ward of Miss Mary 
 Kendrick, a famous maiden in the annals of the 
 aforesaid parish, of whom we shall hear more anon. 
 
 For the present Lucy Farewell, as we see, is a 
 guest of Mother Walker's. 
 
 " Well, Mother," said Lucy, after her ancient 
 protege* had " righted " her cap, as she called it, 
 just a trifle, and seated herself in her armchair by 
 the stove, " how have you been this week ? "
 
 108 Mother Walker. 
 
 " I have been very happy, thank my good Lord. 
 Yesterday was my wedding day " (it was her habit 
 to remember and keep in her own way the anni- 
 versaries of at least two generations of her kins- 
 folk), " and all day I heard the chime of the bells 
 when we were wed. And I saw the spring sun- 
 shine, and the larks in the air, and the hawthorn 
 hedges not quite come out, and the priest in the 
 chancel, just as though it was all now. Last night I 
 dreamed I saw my father's cottage, and our family 
 of boys and girls as they looked when they were 
 ready for church. How green the fields were as 
 we went across the Squire's land. 
 
 " And there was one tune we used to sing at 
 prayers, which I heard asleep, just as plain as I 
 hear my own tongue now. I was so glad, I cried, 
 which waked me. All day- 1 have been thinking, 
 love, what a bright day it will be for me when we 
 all meet again." 
 
 " You never told me much about your friends, 
 Mother." 
 
 " No, love. It's not for them like me to tell 
 young folks about sad things. I have been long 
 alone here. My man died away off in Asia, and 
 my boy ah, my good Lord, is dead among the 
 heathen ; at least, they told me so, and I have 
 never heard of him for sure since he went to sea." 
 
 " Do you never hear from your old home ? " 
 
 " No. Twenty years ago a man came from there,
 
 Mother Walker. 109 
 
 and I went to see him, but he told me so many 
 folks were dead that I thought all my people were 
 in the graveyard. May they rise in the Last Day, 
 love." 
 
 "Where was your home, Mother?" 
 
 "Southcote parish, Lincolnshire." 
 
 " Perhaps they have news of your son there." 
 
 " No ; they are all dead, love, that knew me, and 
 Johnny is dead, too. If he weren't he would have 
 come to his old mother before this." 
 
 " But how should he know where to find you ? 
 Perhaps, after all, we might get news of him. We 
 might write." 
 
 "Who to?" 
 
 " The rector of the parish. He would know, if 
 anybody, and I am sure would be glad to answer 
 you if he had any tidings." 
 
 The idea seemed to be new to the old lady, and 
 to perplex her. She held her hand to her forehead 
 as if thinking hard at the difficulty. Then she 
 turned to Lucy. " But, love, who shall write ? " 
 
 " I will, if you choose." 
 
 " But what will you write ? And who do you 
 expect will answer you ? " 
 
 " Oh, a nice letter ; but you must have faith, 
 Mother. Somebody will answer us. Let me write 
 down now what you tell me. What was your 
 maiden name ? " 
 
 " Mary Lancy."
 
 110 Mother Walker. 
 
 " And what was your husband's name ? " 
 
 "John Walker." 
 
 " These names are no doubt on the parish regis- 
 ter, and I shall write them all to the rector, and if 
 he can, you see, he will help us." 
 
 So Lucy wrote down all the names in her pocket- 
 book. 
 
 "I will send the letter," she said. " Come, 
 now, I interrupted your getting tea. We must 
 have tea, you know." And Lucy Farewell lent 
 a hand at the tea-making. Mother Walker pro- 
 duced two great white cups and a sugar-bowl from 
 the cupboard behind the stove-pipe, with a couple 
 of white plates to match, a broad, fresh loaf, and a 
 little butter. Lucy set the table with a patched, 
 but very white cloth, and brought forward a mys- 
 terious package in paper, which turned out to be a 
 jar of currant jelly, which she knew to be greatly 
 to the good mother's liking. Then when grace 
 was said and tea was poured out of the brown 
 earthen pot, the two ate their supper. "Ah, my 
 love, I feel younger when you are with me," Mother 
 Walker said at the tea-table. " I am alone so 
 much that my mind grows stiff-jointed, but when 
 you are here it's quite as though May-day had 
 come." 
 
 " Well, then, Mother, I shall come often." 
 
 After the tea-things had been set away, and 
 Mother Walker in her white cap had gone to rest
 
 Mother Walker. Ill 
 
 in her high-backed chair, Lucy Farewell sat down 
 by the window, as the twilight came, to read out 
 of what Mother Walker called "The Good Book." 
 The chapter she read to-night was the sixth of St. 
 Matthew, which contains the Beatitudes of our 
 Lord. And as she read out of that great, vast, 
 shadowy Book, simple in truth, infinite in mean- 
 ing, which has been in all ages to Christians, food, 
 strength, courage, hope, and light, and as she re- 
 peated those blessings of the All-Loving, which are 
 not so much for the prcud and the rich and the 
 great of this world as for the poor, weary, and heavy- 
 laden, it seemed as though a blessing had descended 
 upon the aged woman, so still she was and motion- 
 less as Lucy read. Then followed the prayers ; and 
 as they two knelt down in the twilight, young and 
 old spring and winter, as it were before the 
 same Throne that guards all ages, and prayed to 
 that Divine Tenderness which embraces with its 
 benison all creatures, as His sunshine does, to the 
 sceptic it might seem a very common misconceit, 
 but to the wise a most tender sacrifice and worship.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A MOTHER'S SUKPRISE. 
 
 THE events of this chapter follow the last, a 
 couple of months later on. 
 
 " God willing, and on Sunday morning next there 
 will be public baptism in this church." Such was 
 the notice which the rector of St. Clement's gave 
 from the chancel the Sunday after Ascension. 
 A few of his people gathered after service at the 
 chancel rail to consult with their pastor about bring- 
 ing their children to the font. These were mostly 
 poor people, and to Mr. Ardenne, who knew their 
 story, there was many a page of sober history writ 
 in the group around him ; for to the wise priest his 
 parish is a curious book in which the most diverse 
 and wonderful lessons are writ down in living char- 
 acters. The rector in his week-day visits had 
 already given such instruction as was needed to 
 the right understanding of what they were about 
 to do with their little ones in baptism, and now there 
 were merely some few arrangements to be made as 
 to the god-parents, who were present ; and the min- 
 ister having settled such matters with them in his 
 quiet, fatherly way, the people soon took their 
 leave.
 
 A Mother s /Surprise. 113 
 
 Three persons stayed behind Miss Lucy Fare- 
 well, Mother Walker, and a stout, middle-aged, 
 English -looking man beside her. 
 
 "Ah, Mother, how are you to-day?" said the 
 rector. 
 
 " Very well, thank you, my lord " (making a 
 most antique curtsey) ; " the Lord has had great 
 mercy on me of late. This is my son here, my 
 lord, my long-lost son, come back to his old mother, 
 bless him." 
 
 The man thus introduced came forward with an 
 awkward, sailor-like bow, and paid his respects to 
 the minister. 
 
 " John wishes to be baptized, my lord." 
 
 " How is it, Mother, that so good a churchwoman 
 as you has never had your sou baptized before?" 
 
 " Ah, my lord, it's all my own fault, but it's just 
 this way. My husband and I went out as young 
 folks a great way off, up what they call the Meder- 
 terranean, I think, to try and better ourselves. He 
 was a good mechanic and had something to do with 
 putting up engines on sugar plantations. He says 
 to me, 'Mary, we'll get aforehanded here, and then 
 go back to dear old England and buy a bit of land 
 and a cottage and live like a king.' But ah, my 
 lord, it was a dreadful country : no churches, nor 
 ministers, and all the people thereabouts were 
 heathen. Well, John was born ; and I said to his 
 father, ' John,' for the boy took his name, ' John,
 
 114 A Mother's Surprise. 
 
 the dear little fellow must be baptized like a good 
 Christian. There's no priest here, and you must 
 do it, for I've heard say that in such cases folks like 
 us may do it. But John held back; as it were he 
 was afraid to do it, lest it might be a sin, for John 
 was very careful in such things ; but he said, ' O 
 Mary, you just wait a little ; when we get back to 
 England we'll have Johnny baptized in the old 
 parish church, where we were wed, and with Chris- 
 tian folks around us, for here it is all heathen.' 
 Well, my lord, then I waited. Poor man, he never 
 saw England more. He took sick of the fever, 
 and all the nursing in the AA^orld wouldn't save 
 him. He said as he lay sick, ' Mary, be sure and 
 have the boy christened.' I says 'Yes, honey.' And 
 all the time he was ailing his mind seemed to be 
 running upon our old home as we had left. So he 
 died, my lord, and if you would believe it, I was 
 the only person who could say a word or read a 
 prayer at his funeral. My heart, I thought, would 
 break, but I couldn't bear that John should be 
 buried like a dog, without a word, and so I read 
 the service, and took the earth up in my hand (I 
 recollect how black it was) and scattered it on the 
 coffin, and said the prayers, while John here, the 
 child he was, was held up in a black man's arms to 
 see it all. You don't remember that, my boy. So 
 I was left alone with the child. I had no money to 
 pay my way back to England, and I had no heart
 
 A Mother's /Surprise. 115 
 
 to go back. We two went down to the coast, 
 where there were more white folks, to a place where 
 foreign vessels came at times, and there, God be 
 thanked, I got bread and work. I was handy 
 with my needle, and some were kind to ' the Eng- 
 lancler with her child,' as they called me. So 
 Johnny here grew up. Ah ! my lord, how I prayed 
 that he might be a good child and take me back 
 to England. But you know, my lord, boys are 
 apt to go their own way, and Johnny, though he 
 was kind and obedient, had always a love for the 
 sea. So he says, " Mother, I wish to go a voyage, 
 and come back rich to you, and then we'll go home,' 
 he always called England home, you see. So I 
 says, ' If it's the Lord's will, you must go, Johnny.' 
 So he went, and never shall I forget that day. 
 And always about my work, and especially nights 
 and mornings, I prayed for him, that he might 
 be kept safe and come back. But he never 
 came back there. Tie was shipwrecked and then 
 took by the enemy, that made a slave of him, while 
 I, his poor mother, only heard he was dead. But 
 I waited for him ten years where I was, and they 
 was long years, my lord, and he never came back. 
 Then I thought he was dead, and with his poor 
 father gone I was nigh upon mad. Then I 
 heard of America, and when a vessel came from 
 there I went to the Capt'n, and I said, ' Capt'n, I 
 want to go to America.' 'Who are you,' he says.
 
 116 A Mother's Surprise. 
 
 'I am a poor woman whose man is buried up 
 country, and my poor sailor boy is dead among 
 the savages.' ' What can you do,' he says. ' Any- 
 thing almost.' So he took me for cook, like, and I 
 came out. And here in this place, my lord, I have 
 lived thirty years or so. And it's only a week ago 
 this night when this my boy came walking in to my 
 house, just as though it was his home. ' Who are 
 you ? ' says I. ' I am your son John Walker,' and he 
 put his arms round me. It didn't look like him, 
 and he was much older like, and not at all as 
 Johnny was, and I said 'You are not he; he is dead 
 in Afriky.' But he said 'No, Mother, I am alive,' 
 and then he told me some things correct of what we 
 did among the heathen, where his poor father's 
 grave is. ' Come here to the light,' I said ; ' show 
 me your cheek.' And sure enough, under the 
 whiskers, was the scar Johnny's scar that he 
 got from a heathen boy's knife in the streets once ; 
 and then I knew him to be my son; and then, my 
 lord, if you could have seen us two, Johnny and I. 
 It was as though he had come back to me from the 
 grave." 
 
 " It is all true, sir," said the son, who had been 
 brushing the tears out of the corners of his eyes 
 while his mother was telling her story. " It's quite 
 true, sir, and more than strange. I have been in 
 very strange places, and been saved out of all. I 
 was a slave once ten years among the Algerines,
 
 A Mother's Surprise. 117 
 
 and lived harder than a dog. When I was free I 
 went back to her, but she had gone to America, 
 they said, so I came here to this country. But 
 how should I find her? It was like hunting for a 
 needle in a haystack. So I went to sea again. I 
 have had a hard life of it. I went into the navy 
 latterly. When I was sick once with yellow jack, 
 off the West Indies, I told the chaplain my story. 
 I could write a letter, he said. I had learned to 
 read and write a little, you see, sir, aboard a man- 
 o'-war, and, though I hadn't it in my mind before, 
 I wrote to the parson of the parish where my 
 mother was wed, asking about her. And just then, 
 it appears, as it was a miracle, that kind lady's 
 letter," pointing to Lucy Farewell, " had come to 
 him too, and he wrote me back where she was. So 
 I came." 
 
 " From what shire are you, my man ? " 
 
 "Lincolnshire." 
 
 " Yours is a very singular story. Mother, you 
 should be thankful." 
 
 " Ah ! I am that, my lord, you may be sure. 
 Thankful am I that in my old age my boy is with 
 me, and that he is to be baptized at last." 
 
 " Have you received any instruction as to what 
 baptism means ?" asked the rector. 
 
 " The old lady and I have been over the Prayer 
 Book together, and I've studied it hard, and it 
 appears to me that it's just what every man of us 
 ought to do. I'm no saint, and never expect to be ;
 
 118 A Mother's Surprise. 
 
 but I've thought of these things in watch on deck, 
 in storms, and shipwreck, and among savages. I 
 have never been a very bad man, as you might think, 
 a regular decent man, though I say it, but I have 
 never been a Christian. I never let a man starve 
 on ship or ashore if I had bread to give him, and 
 my money and I have parted many a time for a 
 sick shipmate ; but I know that alone isn't being a 
 Christian. I am near forty-five, and I've been 
 through a deal, and God has brought me safe so far ; 
 and when I see my mother, dear old soul, and think 
 how after all we are here standing aside each other, I 
 wish to thank God by serving Him. I'm afraid I 
 can't be so perfect as I wish, but I shall try. I am 
 ready to take the vows." 
 
 " Very well," said the rector, " I am glad of your 
 happiness and of your intention. I will see you 
 during the week at your home ; and you, Mother 
 Walker, now that your son is back again, I expect 
 to find you the happiest person in the parish." 
 
 " Ah ! my lord, I am very happy. It would be 
 a sin in me not to be." And mother and son 
 went forth from St. Clement's home. 
 
 " Mother Walker has told so long a story that I 
 cannot make the inquiries about your scholars 
 that I wished, Miss Farewell. I will do so when I 
 come over this evening to Miss Kendrick's." Say- 
 ing which, the rector went to his robing-room to 
 lay aside his vestments, and the other Lucy 
 went home.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 FOLK A PARSON FINDS OUT. 
 
 THE rector of St. Clement's was a thorough 
 Churchman, and by some would have been called 
 a bigot, or any other gentle name by which liberal 
 people mark their esteem of Christians of another 
 fold who choose to keep their vows. For as Mr. 
 Ardenne was one of those men who ha I wit enough 
 to see the drift and genius of that Church in 
 which he was a priest, so he had honesty enough 
 to accept that system in a grave obedience, which, 
 while it did not abuse others, cherished unflinch- 
 ingly its own. He had early learned the differ- 
 ence between liberality and indifference in reli- 
 gion ; and as he knew that in such solemn 
 matters as man's salvation a priest above all other 
 men should have his opinions well defined, he had 
 slight respect for any teacher who held or taught 
 opinions loosely. In other words, he merely in- 
 sisted, to use a military phrase, that every soldier 
 who enlists should be loyal to his colors ; a simple 
 truth which some Christians ignore. He never 
 shrunk from calling Christ's Church Catholic, not 
 only because he and his congregation confessed as
 
 120 Folk a Parson Finds Out. 
 
 much twice every Sunday in that Apostle's Creed 
 which was as old as the Cross almost, but because 
 that word " Catholic," as applied to Christ's visi- 
 ble Body, was the most significant. But he had 
 too clear a brain not to see that Church folk cover 
 themselves with shame when, boasting the privi- 
 lege, they abstain from the duty which it involves. 
 For while he believed in the Catholic Church, and 
 in all contained in those mighty words, he also 
 believed in her as the living and ever-busy stew- 
 ard of good things to men. For while some men 
 cry in a proud conceit, " We are the Church," 
 and fold their hands before the Cross, while men 
 perish round them without religion, and they per- 
 ish, too, cross-signed, Mr. Ardenne knew that the 
 Catholic Church means work, instruction, charity, 
 sacrifice, and whatsoever may make wiser Christian 
 men. So, while he reverenced the instrument, he 
 never forgot the work it was to do. In this way 
 he had become the friend of the poor in Aubrey 
 Parish. And when he kneeled down in the hovels 
 beside the sick, amidst the waste and stain and pen- 
 ury, or read them comfortable words out of Holy 
 Writ, he felt a tender gratitude rising in him that 
 he was called to follow Him who forsook the 
 angels to consort with such lowly folk as these. 
 For him it was sufficient that the disciple should 
 be as his Master and the servant as his Lord. He 
 had a hand also in their temporal concerns, ;ind
 
 Folk a Parson Find a Out. 121 
 
 his were very anxious days when the millowners 
 closed their shops and the poor went without 
 work. Besides, twice a year, in Spring and Fall, 
 he had to overlook the reclothing of the poorest 
 children of the parish. 
 
 It was to inquire about certain of the children 
 soon to be baptized that on the evening of the day 
 whose events are recorded in the preceding chap- 
 ter he went to Miss Mary Kendrick's. Miss Mary 
 was a maid, but she was not young. She lived, 
 moreover, in an old-time house which stood among 
 the elms facing Aubrey Common. It had once 
 been a stately mansion, as times went ; and its 
 ample roof broken amidst into an obtuse angle 
 of some sixty degrees or more, as though it had 
 bulged out there under the weight of the snows 
 of so many winters, or because its joints were too 
 weak with age to keep it upright had cov- 
 ered several generations of as good blood as was 
 to be found in the parish. Its two rooms on 
 either side the front door were square, but the 
 rest were most singularly rich in angles, as though 
 partaking of the humor of the mistress who lived 
 there. They were amply supplied with cats, for 
 which Miss Mary had a passion, which grew upon 
 her with her age. She was a tall, lean, busy, bust- 
 ling body, who knew every one and their great- 
 grandfathers, and was a far better repository of 
 the history of Aubrey folks than the town clerk's
 
 122 Folk a Parson Finds Out. 
 
 register. She wore a wig, and her teeth were not 
 old, but the tongue between them had all the viva- 
 city of youth. Fifty years ago she had been a 
 belle and had her turn at love-making and the 
 thousand and one pastimes with which girls, young 
 and handsome, amuse themselves. But her part- 
 ners in the dance were long since gone, and the old 
 hall where they danced on the hard pine floor in 
 the frosty mid-winter nights had long since fallen 
 to decay, as though to show sympathy with the 
 mortal lot of its patrons. Yet while on the outside 
 she grew dry and withered, her heart became gen- 
 tle, like those pears which, growing rough outside, 
 mellow at their hearts with all the juices and sunny 
 flavor of the hazy autumn days. Truth to say, 
 Miss Mary's nature, like her tongue, had two sides 
 to it. She was always ready to lend a hand or fight 
 a battle, and she stinted neither friend nor foe. She 
 would watch all night with a neighbor and then 
 fight all day for a friend, and though she had no 
 stain of meanness in her warfare, it was of such 
 quality that Aubrey folk, and, above all, women, 
 were slow to invite her wrath. So she lived, if not 
 in peace with all men, at least in a frank and open 
 way the most pronounced and ancient maid of 
 Aubrey. Indoors and upon her premises every- 
 thing was governed with great exactness, and in 
 her garrets she had more old linen packed away in 
 lavender or tansy than would have sufficed for half
 
 Folk a Parson Finds Out. 123 
 
 the outfits of the marriageable folk in town. Her 
 ancient china and silver spoons were actually famous 
 among Aubrey gossips, and if an earthly Paradise 
 be the place where there is no dirt, her house was 
 Eden. In her house thrift followed economy and 
 nothing was wasted. Yet in her generation she 
 had fed many poor, and the tramps were always sure 
 of a crust, at least, at her back door. Even her reli- 
 gion had a martial ring to it, and she fought for her 
 Church with all the ardor of an ancient Confessor. 
 A certain storminess of temper was hid for most 
 folk behind her good deeds, and Mary Kendrick 
 was not a woman to be lightly spoken of by any. 
 She was Lucy Farewell's god-mother, and as such 
 had received her, when an infant, into her house- 
 hold, and had been as a mother. 
 
 Mr. Ardenne found her at tea over the whitest 
 tablecloth imaginable, while a wood fire blazed 
 on the fat brass andirons. The minister took his 
 seat at the table and proceeded to attend. For 
 Miss Mary had such faculty of speech as is not 
 always vouchsafed to mortals, and talking was a 
 talent she never hid in a napkin, and whenever 
 on earth she met her fellow-creatures, whatsoever 
 the subject broached, her share of the conversation 
 was at least one-half. Her tongue never showed 
 signs of age, and its quality was so well known to 
 the rector, that whenever he made his advent to 
 Miss Mary's society he always began to listen.
 
 124 Folk a Parson Finds Out. 
 
 " If poor folks were as slow to wear out their 
 clothes as they are to work, or to save their money, 
 there would be much less for honest people to do 
 in St. Clement's. There's Widow Bates' child- 
 ren : if you gave the girls velvet cloaks they would 
 be sure to wash dishes in them ; and as to the boys, 
 whenever we fix them up they are sure to fall into 
 the river the first day they wear their new clothes. 
 They are always ragged, and I am always running 
 there to see why they are not at church. I do 
 believe they would have nothing to wear if a 
 tailor's shop was emptied into their den once a 
 week. And there are the Hobsons, English folks. 
 The only thing they are rich in is children and 
 pigs, and I declare I think sometimes I like the 
 pigs best, for they don't bother me for dresses. I 
 don't see why people who have the most mouths 
 to feed have the least to put into them. I wish I 
 could stop this children business, or they'll be the 
 death of me, for this last fortnight it's been nothing 
 but calico and stockings and trousers for these 
 weak Christians and I'm quite worn out with it. 1 ' 
 
 " I notice that you always recover from your 
 fatigue, Miss Mary," the minister said, " whenever 
 there is a good deed to be done for these same 
 people." 
 
 " Well, so I do, but it comes tough, often that I, 
 who have never had any children of my own, 
 should be troubled with other folks'. But it all
 
 Folk a Parson Finds Out. 125 
 
 goes into a lifetime, maybe, and it's better to wear 
 out than to rust out. And here is Lucy. I 
 declare I have hardly caught sight of that child's 
 face since Easter. When she's not begging old 
 clothes from the neighbors, she's mending or fit- 
 ting them with her head in her work-basket, and 
 if I see as little of her for a month to come I shall 
 need an introduction." 
 
 " You certainly have great misfortunes," said 
 the rector. 
 
 " Yes ; and they increase. I don't mind work, 
 and I suppose I shall go on in the old way, run- 
 ning down to Mrs. Bates' or Mrs. Hobson's Monday 
 mornings; but I mean to scold about it to iny 
 heart's content. I wouldn't like to take my pay in 
 their gratitude. Do you know that the very last 
 time I was there the oldest Bates girl whispered 
 to her sister, loud enough for everybody to hear, 
 that my wig was put on crooked, the hussy, and her 
 brother, who is in Lucy's Sunday-school class, act- 
 ually pulled the ribbons off her bonnet when she was 
 teaching them the Ten Commandments ! " After 
 which oration Miss Mary proceeded to refresh 
 herself with another cup of tea. 
 
 "I know," the rector said, "that much of the 
 work we have to do for the poor is very vexing, 
 and nothing more so than to try to dress up 
 thriftless or thankless people ; but ingratitude, 
 I sometimes think, is a part of the curse of
 
 126 Folk a Parson Finds Out. 
 
 poverty, and as such to be overlooked. But here, 
 you know, we do not expect reward, and the thank- 
 fulness of some of the parish poor is actually over- 
 whelming. A poor child brought me two apples 
 as an Easter offering, and when she took them out 
 of her pocket they looked to me as delicious fruit 
 as a parson ever tasted. No ! Miss Mary, the 
 poor are like the rest of the world, some good, 
 some bad, yet I think I have as often found true 
 gentleness and kindness among them as among 
 any class. At least we have this consolation, that 
 when we feed the poor we allay the hunger of our 
 Lord." 
 
 " Yes, but if the Bates would attend less to my 
 wig, and a little more to mending their own 
 dresses, I should be much better pleased." 
 
 The rector made no reply. When it was evi- 
 dent that Miss Mary's tongue had returned to its 
 repose, at least so far as St. Clement's poor were 
 concerned, he made his enquiries of Lucy Farewell. 
 
 She said, " The ladies of the parish have seen to 
 dressing the children who are to be baptized, in 
 the few cases where the parents are too poor to do 
 so;" and she gave him a list of the names. Then 
 when these matters were arranged and the tea 
 things were removed, before the open fire the 
 three chatted about such things as Christians 
 may, far on into the evening.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE PARTY AT EIVEli NOOK. 
 
 " ARE you going to the prayer meeting or the 
 party to-morrow night,'' asked Isabel Seaton of 
 her neighbor, as a crowd of young men and women 
 came pouring out of the basement room of the 
 meeting-house, where a so-called " revival " had 
 been for a week in progress. 
 
 "To the party, of course. I decided what to 
 wear while Deacon Hobbs was making his last 
 prayer white with blue ribbons." 
 
 " And I what a bore to dress in the country. 
 Besides, the whole town, they say, is going to be 
 there ; and one's dress might come to grief in such 
 a crowd. Yet one would like to make an impres- 
 sion at the bachelor's. Besides, the sapper is to 
 be elegant. I lost the good of the prayer meet- 
 ing wishing that I could wear lavender as well as 
 the stout brunette who sat just before us. When 
 I go amongst ill-dressed people I always amuse 
 myself redressing them according to the extreme 
 mode. I am a great sinner, I know, but what 
 does a woman live for except to dress and eat ices 
 at a party now and then ! And the country is 
 so very stupid."
 
 128 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 The speaker, Isabel Seaton, a stylish blonde of 
 twenty or thereabouts, is a city belle, who after 
 a winter of dissipation came in the spring to the 
 country with her family to recruit for the next 
 season's revels, and to grace Aubrey Parish with 
 her rather exclusive society during the warm 
 weather. She had found a new sensation in the 
 revival to-night, and had improved it as she has 
 told us. 
 
 Aubrey Parish was experiencing just now two 
 sensations, a " revival " and a party. Religion at 
 the meeting-house had been rather husky of late, 
 but a series of protracted meetings had given it 
 a new vivacity. 
 
 Besides, for the young folk there was the party. 
 Now, there was a certain piquancy about this 
 party, above some others, in the minds of Aubrey 
 young ladies, due to the fact that it was given 
 by a bachelor, Mr. Edward Vaughn, about whom 
 there was much gossip. 
 
 It may be well to state at once who he is. Ed- 
 ward Vaughn, years ago, was a young man of 
 
 promise at the College of X . An heir and 
 
 handsome, at graduation he had become a city beau, 
 the gayest of the gay, to whom all houses were 
 open, and was looked upon as one of the rising 
 men of the metropolis. Suddenly, and why no 
 one knew, he shut his house, and accepting an 
 obscure consulate in the East, went abroad and
 
 The Party at River Nook. 129 
 
 stayed some fifteen years. What little his old 
 friends heard of him came to this, that he had 
 become a great traveller and fond of visiting the 
 most outlandish places, in a certain reckless way, 
 as to how he fared or with whom he fraternized. 
 The few of his countrymen who had visited him 
 brought back very uncertain accounts of his way 
 of living, and it was whispered that his habits in 
 the East had been more than equivocal, if meas- 
 ured by severer Occidental standards. To one of 
 them, a college friend who had ventured to ask 
 him, in these foreign parts, why he came out to 
 such a place, and perilled a brilliant career at home, 
 he had answered with such a storm of passionate 
 words that the enquiry was not repeated. He 
 had come home as suddenly as he went, bringing 
 a rare collection of antique things and curiosities. 
 At home he found everything changed. The 
 girls he had danced with were now matrons with 
 groups of children round them, and the men were 
 married or become bachelors about town. The 
 world he knew had passed on and left him behind 
 to face a new generation. He had spent a few un- 
 easy months in his old haunts, and then created a 
 new sensation by suddenly precipitating himself 
 upon Aubrey Parish, where he had settled as an 
 absolute stranger. He had fancied the scenery on 
 a chance journey through the town, and as the 
 mood was on him he settled there. First of all, he
 
 130 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 bought a wide tract of pasture land on the hillside, 
 whence one looks up the valleys of the two rivers, 
 and built himself a house there. It stood among elms 
 and oaks, and in such wise as to be almost hid from 
 the town folk, who were somewhat nettled by the 
 reserve which kept him from asking their advice 
 as to its plan or building. All the workmen and 
 the material had been brought from the city, and 
 not even the smallest trifle was ever bought in the 
 shops of the town folk. Even the servants were 
 from abroad, and one who had been so imprudent 
 as to say to a town gossip that it was her master's 
 orders that no word was to be said of what went 
 on at River Nook (for so the place was called,) was 
 sent back to the city the next day in disgrace. 
 Stout iron gates, always barred except when the 
 master or his people went in or out, excluded the 
 town folk, who revenged themselves for the stran- 
 ger's unsociability by the most diverse and ingen- 
 ious guesses as to what he was and had been. Here, 
 careless of all his neighbors, he had brought all his 
 goods, and in three years' time he had ploughed 
 and smoothed his pasture land into a green and 
 well-kept park. Occasionally an old friend came 
 from the city, but always with a written invita- 
 tion, and few stayed long. For a man who was not 
 obliged to work, the town's people thought him 
 the busiest of men. With his gun or his rod, or 
 riding hard on horseback, he was seen by them all
 
 The .Party at River Nook. 131 
 
 hours in the fields or roads on his own business, 
 which lie never saw fit to impart or discuss with 
 them. Occasionally he was seen at the church 
 or meeting-house. Sometimes he was absent for 
 days with his yacht down the river. There were 
 two things to be said in his favor. When times 
 were hard in the winter, and the poor grew poorer, 
 he had a way of sending from River Nook, by the 
 hands of his foreman, both bread and fuel ; and 
 they told also of large monies scattered in the 
 hovels. The only people he took notice of were 
 the beggars and "the queer folks." Here and 
 there through the town were to be found, as every- 
 where, unfortunates ; men and women wrecked in 
 the very fibre of their lives by birth or sickness, 
 and grown askew and crooked ; people in whom 
 one often finds a rare but momentary wit fading 
 out into unreason again, sparks of a holy fire, over- 
 laid of ashes yet, reminding us that they too once 
 were men like ourselves. These are called queer 
 folk or crazy, and with them Edward Vaughn 
 was sociable. He knew them all, and was never 
 so much in a hurry that he could not stop a 
 moment to greet them, or give them a trifle, when 
 he met them in the roads or fields. These knew 
 him, too, for their friend, and there was no service 
 possible for their maimed natures that they would 
 not have rendered him. Thus he had spent three 
 years in Aubrey Parish, and was regarded by most
 
 132 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 people as a strange or uncanny mortal who thought 
 himself too fine or wicked to associate with them. 
 
 The acute surprise of Aubrey people may be 
 imagined, therefore, when the proprietor of River 
 Nook issued cards for his party. Cards they 
 were, in the true human fashion, sent round to 
 nearly all the young folks: and at the bottom 
 was vouchsafed the information that there would 
 be dancing. Of course there could be no mistake. 
 There was to be a real party at the Nook. The 
 news had different effects on different persons. 
 It sent the young ladies forthwith to their ward- 
 robes, and vast was the wit and labor which had 
 been already spent in the arrangement of their 
 toilettes for the coming fete. Some of the more 
 surly and older townsfolk saw in it only another 
 freak of their unsocial townsman, and predicted all 
 sorts of uncomfortable results. The party had 
 already seriously interfered with the revival. 
 
 The gates of River Nook were wide open. 
 Curiously painted lanterns, hung from the trees, 
 cast their colored lights through the fresh leaves 
 upon the broad avenue that led to the house. 
 Every room was open, and lighted with wax tapers. 
 A band from the city waited on the verandah to 
 welcome the company with music. Even the 
 servants were dressed, by their master's order, with 
 great exactness. Edward Vaughn awaited his 
 guests. In clue time they came, the most of them
 
 The Parti/ at River Nook. 133 
 
 as late as possible, since to manifest a polite reluc- 
 tance to a host's society by coming at the eleventh 
 hour is always considered by the wise to be well- 
 bred. Several even took cold while watching from 
 a dark room for the rest to go, that they might not 
 be before their neighbors. Some came in those 
 ancient and stately vehicles in which their grand- 
 mothers had gone to their wedding, and which 
 were held of equal value with the family plate as 
 evidences of pedigree, carriages carefully dusted 
 out and oiled that afternoon to bear their burden of 
 aspiring young beauty to the party. The chariots 
 of the millowners were mostly new and smelt of 
 varnish, and a few of them had crests not, as one 
 would anticipate, a hammer resting on an anvil, 
 or a water-wheel among stars, but very singular 
 creatures, like birds or beasts, with Latin or Nor- 
 man-French mottoes in the most pronounced style 
 of ancient heraldry. There were also less mighty 
 coaches, and a few of the young folk came leisurely 
 down on foot. Mr. Vaughn received his guests with 
 a cordial but rather stately manner, after the 
 gentler sex had retouched its toilette in the dress- 
 ing rooms, preparatory to the evening's play, or 
 conquest, or whatever else goes on amongst mor- 
 tals on such occasions. Until dancing began, all 
 were to amuse themselves according to their taste, 
 the host said, and the bright open rooms, with their 
 elaborate furniture, invited not a few young ladies,
 
 134 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 and every matron in the crowd, to examine the 
 upholstery and housekeeping of the bachelor who 
 had heretofore kept his doors closed to their curi- 
 osity. It was certainly housekeeping like no 
 other in Aubrey Parish. Two giants in armor 
 kept guard at the hall door. The mirrors were 
 from floor to ceiling, the pictures profuse and from 
 the most diverse schools, white marble statuary in. 
 the alcoves and corners, some of which was looked 
 at with a quick side glance by .the more proper 
 people, as creatures too scantily clad for even a 
 rich man's house ; the house-clocks and candle- 
 sticks upon the mantels in short it was the 
 house of a man with both means and wit to furnish 
 it. The more observant matrons remarked that 
 the lace curtains had been lately ironed, and the 
 carpets swept, while a few of the more practical 
 spirits puzzled their brains to calculate what all 
 this had cost. There was one frank young lady 
 who assured her confidential friend that if she had 
 the ordering of it she would put blue curtains 
 outside the lace ; though the half-wish behind the 
 words was never gratified. 
 
 To describe a party is like counting sands or 
 photographing moving clouds. Belles and beaus 
 of Aubrey pattern, sentinelled by the more 
 stolid elders ; talk, jest, criticism, love-making ; 
 people in pairs, people in apology or distress, as 
 they happened to be the sinner or the sufferer, in
 
 The Party at River Nook. 135 
 
 somebody's toilette disarranged or rent by the 
 unlucky catastrophes of mixed societies ; people 
 doling out their civilities to their neighbors 
 through a very fine sieve of caution lest they 
 should happen to speak too kindly ; uncertain 
 people, who expected every one to talk to them, 
 and talked to no one, so self-conscious that they 
 blushed and stammered when they spoke and yet 
 were always wondering why the crowd passed 
 them by for more easy partners ; a curious, com- 
 plex crowd, all after something and few to get 
 more than their suppers or a to-morrow's headache 
 and an opportunity to hatch more gossip and feud 
 than could be laid asleep in the next twelvemonth 
 Edward Vaughn might congratulate himself 
 that his party was in these respects a great success. 
 It was the custom of Aubrey society to thaw 
 out by degrees; but to-night the hearty welcome of 
 the house, which left them free to do what they 
 would, broke through the crust of ceremony 
 sooner than usual, and people were really enjoying 
 themselves before dancing came on. Edward 
 Vaughn acted the host after his own fashion, and 
 very soon became tolerably at home with several. 
 Certain fat ladies, with a vast breadth of satin 
 round them, smiled upon him graciously, and truth 
 to say he was civil to mothers and daughters both ; 
 going among his guests in a very quiet manner, 
 and neither danced nor stayed long with any.
 
 136 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 " Where is Blanche, my dear," said Madame 
 Seaton to her daughter Isabelle, whom we met 
 lately at the prayer meeting, just as Edward 
 Vaughn, having made the circuit of the rooms, 
 came back to the library door, by which was seated 
 Mrs. Seaton watching the dancers. 
 
 " Indeed, I don't know, Ma. She left me half 
 an hour ago, saying she would go outdoors to get 
 some fresh air. I dare say she is amusing herself 
 looking at the nioon." 
 
 " Have you seen my niece " (to Edward 
 Vaughn), nodding the point-lace cap in a very 
 stately manner at her host. 
 
 "I really do not remember your niece, madam, 
 and from having met so many agreeable people 
 for the first time to-night, my brain is a trifle con- 
 fused as to names and faces. I will send a ser- 
 vant to search for her if you like." 
 
 " How should Mr. Vaughn know Blanche, Ma. 
 I doubt whether he has ever seen her. He was 
 arranging about the dances when we came, and 
 Blanche, you know, said she would wait a little for 
 an introduction, and I have hardly seen her since." 
 
 " Then my niece has not yet been introduced to 
 Mr. Vaughn. It is a little rude in her, I'm sure. 
 Belle, dear girl, be kind enough to find her and 
 bring her to me. I very much wish Mr. Vaughn 
 to know her." 
 
 "Indeed, madam, you pique my curiosity.
 
 The Party at River Nook. 137 
 
 Will you be so kind as to describe your niece to 
 me ? I should be glad to hunt her up myself." 
 
 "Would you like a particular description," 
 broke in Miss Isabel. " Well, then, a perfect 
 blonde, some five feet eight ; I don't know what 
 she weighs ; round, dimply hands ; a dignified, 
 fresh-colored lady. Now I have told you every- 
 thing I know about her except her age ; and an 
 unmarried lady is always of no particular age, 
 you know. O, I forgot ; the lady wears to-night 
 a crimson dress trimmed with lace (point, of 
 course) and a solitaire on her marriage finger. It's 
 as amusing as describing one for the police. Have 
 I painted the lady for you, Mr. Vaughn?" 
 
 " Very cleverly, Miss Seaton, thank you. I will 
 look about for her, and if I chance upon her, I 
 shall say that a lady of twenty or so, blonde, 
 blithe, below eight feet, with pearls in her hair 
 and some very ancient lace over a white corded 
 silk, a guest of mine, whom I hope often to meet, 
 begs her attendance in the library. Au revoir." 
 
 And with a bow Edward Vaughn went away, 
 but for two reasons ; first, that Madame might not 
 fasten herself upon him for the rest of the even- 
 ing, and next because he might as well consume 
 his time in this way as any other. Besides, he 
 had once been fond of blondes. First he took a 
 stroll in the park among the lanterns. Here and 
 there he found a couple tete-d-tete in the little
 
 138 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 rustic retreats, pagodas that he had seen fit to 
 build among the trees, but nowhere Lady 
 Blanche. Then he went back to the dancers, who 
 were too busy to mark his presence as he passed 
 by them. She was not there. At a mere venture 
 he passed on through the back hall to the green- 
 house, which formed a part of the house, and by 
 his order had been lighted to-night with lanterns. 
 He opened the door. Before him, and with her 
 back to him, was the lady in the crimson dress, 
 looking at the white azaleas near her. She started 
 at the sound of an opening door, and turned. 
 Under the dim light she appeared as a stately 
 blonde, dressed and featured as her cousin had 
 said. Closely observed, and she had the bearing 
 and look of a woman bred to the world, but with 
 a certain half-veiled consciousness, hardly to be 
 named boldness, as of one who has knowledge of 
 many and even bitter things, and yet would wear 
 the front of an artless and guileless womanhood. 
 In after years Edward Vaughn thought of her as 
 he remembered her that night as he thought of 
 those perfumed and leisure-loving Roman matrons 
 under the Caesars, who with their heathen culture 
 proved how woman's elegance and beauty may 
 not only divorce themselves from purity and 
 honor, but sink still lower in the scale of ethics. 
 
 " Do you know me, Edward Vaughn ? " she said 
 in a low, distinct voice, standing still in her place.
 
 The Party at River Nook, 139 
 
 " Pardon me, madam, your back is towards the 
 light and I cannot see your face." 
 
 " Come nearer, then." 
 
 He came close to her, and they stood face to 
 face. " Do you know me now, Edward Vaughn ? " 
 
 He looked at her for a long time in silence, as 
 men look, not so much through flesh and blood, 
 as through years and ages and supreme moments 
 that are also ages ; and as he looked his face grew 
 pale and the lips rigid as if the heart under them 
 was turning to stone, and while he looked the 
 woman before him moved not ; not a muscle of the 
 face nor the eyes that looked in his, nor even did 
 she seem to breathe, so statue-like she seemed, 
 waiting for him. When he spoke at last his 
 voice sounded as though out of long ago, and 
 from a realm where the very flame of a merciless 
 justice, or wrath, whichever it might be, had 
 blighted everything. 
 
 "Yes, I know you very well. You are the ghost 
 of Blanche De Forest." 
 
 " Have you nothing to say to me, Edward 
 Vaughn ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 "Did you never love me?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Have you forgotten me ? " 
 
 " Yes, I buried you." 
 
 " Yet here I stand before you."
 
 140 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 " I tell you I buried Blanche De Forest twenty 
 years ago ; not under the sea, for the sea gives up 
 its dead, nor under the earth, for the earth and its 
 graves shall be opened at the Judgment day ; but 
 I buried her in a grave where the very dust and 
 ashes became as it were annihilate ; since she died a 
 suicide in a wrong which slew her soul. You call 
 yourself Blanche De Forest. The woman whose 
 name you wear perished, I tell you, years ago." 
 
 She approached her right hand to lay it on his 
 arm. "Have you no mercy, Edward?" He drew 
 back with a repelling motion. "Pardon me, ma- 
 dam, or whatever you are, you are my guest, and I 
 wish to be civil. I beg to remind you that you 
 are a stranger and a woman. It follows that you 
 should maintain a woman's reserve. I do not 
 know you." 
 
 The woman answered calmly again, " This is 
 cruel, Edward Vaughn. You know me to be 
 Blanche De Forest. You know that you loved 
 me once. You know that for twenty years my 
 life has been, not a blank (would to God it were), 
 but an agony. You left me because you were 
 proud, and of hot blood ; you made me a widow 
 where I could not weep (and yet my heart wept 
 blood) ; you went abroad and gave up your career, 
 which you knew I wished and was proud to think 
 of. You have shunned me and my family, even to 
 its distant branches, ever since. You have buried
 
 The Party at River Nook. 141 
 
 yourself alive away from everything. I confess 
 the wrong I did you. I confessed it twenty years 
 ago. Have you no mercy? Do you never pray 
 for mercy? If God has pardoned me (and I 
 believe I have paid him with the coin of more 
 than my heart's blood), will you not pardon ? " 
 
 " You speak of Blanche De Forest. I repeat I 
 buried her years ago. I do not understand your 
 right to question me. Are you her ghost ? What 
 are you ? " 
 
 "Edward Vaughn, you had a man's heart once, 
 and a man is never cruel to a woman defenceless 
 and abased. Look at me. Is it not bitter 
 enough for me, think you a woman for me to 
 seek you out in your own house and tell you 
 what I have ? Will you make me drink the cup 
 to the last dregs ? Ghost or flesh, and I have 
 come here to speak to you." 
 
 " Ghost or flesh, then, if you wish it, I will 
 answer you. But come," he said, " this is too 
 public a place for a man to discuss such pleasant 
 matters with one like you. We may be inter- 
 rupted any moment. Will you come with me ? " 
 
 " I am not afraid to go with you, Edward 
 Vaughn, to the gates of the charnel-house at mid- 
 night. Have you forgot the young girl (happy, 
 then, thank God) who held in her hands the target 
 for you to practise your rifle shooting with ? " 
 
 " Blanche De Forest had courage.
 
 142 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 "But come now," he continued, "you say you 
 are a living creature of flesh and blood, like the 
 rest of us. I say you are a ghost, or something 
 worse. You ask me something. I have a fancy. 
 Ghost that you are, or woman that you may be, 
 allow me to make you an offering before we go. 
 This is a carnival night in my house. You wear 
 no flowers. You are dressed too plainly, lady. 
 Allow me to dress your hair with a few flowers, 
 whosever bride you are." 
 
 The woman kept her place, but did not answer. 
 " Here are orange flowers, bridal," he went on, " but 
 then you may be a ghost, you know ; and I would 
 not have the flavor of the grave wrought into 
 them ; and here are white camellias, in a blonde's 
 hair no trifle ; my mother wore camellias at her 
 wedding. Not them. Well, here is heliotrope ; and 
 just one passion flower, not too broad, and gay a 
 trifle, allow me to offer these. Bend down your 
 head." A proud head bent down without a word, 
 but the red blood throbbed in her temples almost 
 audibly. He entwined the flowers into the blonde 
 hair, and the proud head rose up again. 
 
 " I am waiting for you, Edward Vaughn," she 
 said. 
 
 " Come, then." 
 
 She followed him to the end of the conservatory 
 farthest from the dancers. He took from his 
 pocket a key, and unlocked a door. They passed
 
 The Party at River Nook. 143 
 
 out into the night air. The strains of music and 
 the feet of the dancers were heard indoors, and 
 without were the cool, pure stars rising to the 
 zenith. 
 
 " This way," he said, and she followed him. He 
 took the path that turned to the left. It brought 
 them in a few minutes' walk to what seemed a 
 broad, high house of brick, without windows. It 
 had one door., A second key opened it. 
 
 " Enter,'' he said, and they went in. He locked 
 the door, and replaced the key in his pocket. The 
 room in which they found themselves was lighted 
 from the top by daylight. Now, at the further 
 end a single lamp seemed hung low down from the 
 ceiling. It was a singular sort of museum of 
 quaint things. The floor was vacant ; but round 
 the sides were ranged in order a grotesque and 
 even ghastly medley. Wooden idols from India ; 
 knights in armor ; here and there a skeleton ; bat- 
 tle-axes and swords of all shapes and legends made 
 into curious emblems ; military harness and cloth- 
 ing hung from pegs ; stone axes and mortars from 
 Xorway ; a bow and quiver of arrows ; a thou- 
 sand things, apparently of all climes and races, were 
 there. The two passed up the vacant floor to the 
 lighted lamp. Under it, upon four stout stones, 
 rested a sarcophagus of red-flecked Egyptian 
 granite. The stone lid was off, and its place was 
 occupied by a covering of glass.
 
 144 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 Then Edward Vaughn turned to the woman 
 with him. 
 
 " You say you are Blanche De Forest. She died 
 twenty years ago. You are something. I said 
 a ghost. Whatever you are, you dare to speak for 
 her?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Well, then, I will answer as if to her. I do 
 not mind answering to annihilation, for the novelty 
 of the thing. Go on." 
 
 " I will go on. I ask you, Did you not love 
 ine once ? " 
 
 He laughed outright. 
 
 " Come," he said, " look down there. Under 
 that glass is an Egyptian mummy; a woman, like 
 you, the writing says. Look at the place where 
 the eyes were ; at that black parchment of the 
 shrivelled skin ; and the yellow dead hair over it ; 
 look at the swathed hands and arms laid in that 
 rest of three thousand years. Is not that woman 
 dead enough? Yet she is not so dead as Blanche 
 De Forest is. She is not even the dust and ashes 
 of a dead mummy. The death she died consumed 
 the very dust and ashes." 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 " Yes, I did love Blanche De Forest once," he 
 went on ; "I loved her more than man or woman, 
 more than God. She intoxicated my very soul 
 with love. All the music and beauty of this world,
 
 The Party at River Xook. 145 
 
 the very stars of God, centred themselves in her ; 
 and without her not even the desert, only the 
 nothingness that destroys the desert, and leaves a 
 man itself. I would have braved toil, blame, 
 agony everything but shame for her. I would 
 have died for her as a man may die, facing fire, 
 flood, battle, the very flame out of the skies ; more 
 than that, I would have been blotted out of being, 
 and my last thought as I passed forever to extinc- 
 tion should have been hers. She destroyed her- 
 self, not me, and left me nothingness. With that 
 I cannot be even angry. I may stand beside my 
 enemy's grave in wrath ; but with a thing annihil- 
 ated I cannot even console myself by quarrelling." 
 
 "You do not hate me, then, Edward Vaughn?" 
 
 " I do not hate you." 
 
 " You forgive me ? " 
 
 " I cannot forgive you. You do not even exist 
 for me to forgive." 
 
 " This is not true. I stand close to you before 
 your eyes. I speak to you. I tell you who I am. 
 I identify myself by telling you what you and I 
 only know, and yet you say I am not even a dream. 
 I am a nothing. Is not this trifling?" 
 
 "Not at all. Suppose God (I wish to say it 
 reverently ; for, though I have not a shade of piety 
 about me, I am too wise to wish to insult the Mas- 
 ter of my destinies) if God were to do something 
 plainly against our human and right conceptions
 
 146 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 of Him be unjust, for instance you might say 
 that He still existed ; but yet He would have per- 
 ished out of this world's respect, and ceased, by 
 this world's conscience, to be. Say I loved you. 
 By your own act womanhood perished in you, all 
 that I had loved in you. I loved you soul, not 
 body. You wrought suicide upon your soul. I 
 might pray, I might even die for you. I could 
 not restore you to life again. I do not wish to be 
 cruel. I have never spoken these twenty years of 
 you to any. I do not charge the worst things on 
 you. I will not go through the story. You and I 
 know it. Know that what I worshipped perished 
 before my eyes. I did go away. My life has been 
 a shipwreck. I have been mere dust and ashes in 
 the balances of great actions. The Universe is to 
 me a rent house framed out of skeletons, that may 
 fall any day, and I forehear the clatter of the 
 bones. The temple has perished with the idol." 
 " Have you no forgiveness, Edward Vaughn ? " 
 " I have answered that question already." 
 The woman lifted herself to her full height, and 
 looked at him. She was not young, but still a 
 queenly woman, who might have graced a throne. 
 Her bosom rose and sank with the great emotion. 
 She held out both her arms towards him without 
 moving from her place. The solitaire upon her mar- 
 riage finger gleamed with a strange brilliancy 
 her engagement ring, and he knew it.
 
 The Party at River Nook. 147 
 
 "I ask you, Will you come to me, Edward 
 Vaughn ? " 
 
 "I will never come to you, Blanche De Forest." 
 
 " I summon you with my heart, true and loyal 
 to you, to come to me." 
 
 " Between me and you there is a great gulf 
 fixed. I did not fix it. I cannot pass it." 
 
 The woman bowed herself down upon the mar- 
 ble over the ashes of her Egyptian sister. There 
 were no tears, not a sob or word, but the bent 
 woman golden tresses above the dead mummy 
 locks, living flesh over the dead dust first greatly 
 moved with agony, grew calm as if in prayer. 
 Then, after the long unbroken silence, she rose up 
 again, pale, firm, and looking straight into Edward 
 Vaughn's eyes. She motioned with her right 
 hand towards the door. She went before him. 
 He unlocked the door, and they passed out. On 
 the stone steps they halted. The pale stars had 
 reached the zenith. She looked up to them. 
 Then she said, hi a low Sibylline chaunt, thrice, not 
 as though to be heard of men, but as if to God, 
 these words, " Forever, never ; never, forever." 
 And the stars, looking down upon the dust and 
 ashes that suffered so, made no answer. But One 
 above the stars, and who created them, had an- 
 swered long ago, " Woman, thy sins be forgiven 
 thee ; " and holy men moved of the Holy Ghost 
 had written down from Him this great beatitude :
 
 148 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 "Blessed are the merciful; for they shall obtain 
 mercy." 
 
 They went toward the house in silence, 
 the woman leading the way. As they came to 
 where the path divided into two, she stopped. 
 " Go on," was what she said. Edward Vaughn 
 went past her, and then she turned down by the 
 artificial lake which came up close to the rear of 
 the house to the left. There were no questions 
 asked between them. He made his appearance in 
 the hall door just as the dancers, tired out with 
 their sport, were scattered about in groups waiting 
 supper. He had been missed by several, and there 
 had been diverse guesses as to his whereabouts. 
 " Ladies," he said, bowing to the groups of young 
 folks that half-stared at him as he came in, "have 
 you finished dancing? I am a busy man to- 
 night, and have been obliged to overlook some 
 things out of doors. The house is yours, you 
 know, and I beg you to amuse yourselves in it in 
 your own way. I make but a poor hand enter- 
 taining company, for I am out of practice." 
 
 " Oh, we have amused ourselves, Mr. Vaughn," 
 said several. 
 
 "Have you found Cousin Blanche?" said Miss 
 Isabel Seaton, emerging from one of the groups. 
 
 "Found her? Certainly." 
 
 "Where, pray?" 
 
 " Oh, somewhere in the world and under the
 
 The Part// at River Xook. 149 
 
 stars. Excuse me. To be more definite, I found 
 her in the conservatory, just six feet from the 
 door, looking at my white azaleas. " 
 
 " But where is she ? Did you leave her where 
 you found her?" 
 
 " She? Oh, she flew away from me, an angel 
 with wings, of course. But come, I must report 
 myself to madam. Will you take my arm?" and 
 he offered her his arm with a very elaborate bow 
 indeed. 
 
 She took his arm and said : " What do you 
 think of Blanche?" 
 
 "Think! she is charming, adorable, a magnifi- 
 cent blonde. Allow me to praise one woman to 
 another. You remind me of her, only you are 
 younger. Besides, she refuses all my addresses. 
 So I shall count myself in luck and devote myself 
 to you ; that is to say, if your majesty will con- 
 sent to be queen to a new vassal." 
 
 " Gentlemen say always what they mean, I know, 
 and of course I believe every word of that non- 
 sense. But here is Ma waiting for you. 
 
 " Mr. Vaughn has found Blanche, Ma." 
 
 " I have indeed found the lost lady, your niece, 
 madam, and a rare creature she is. I find her to 
 have a philosophical mood, and we had a charm- 
 ing talk about the mysteries of the Universe; a 
 trifle too austere, perhaps, but for me, charming. I 
 congratulate you upon your niece."
 
 150 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 " But where is Blanche ? " 
 
 " Your niece seems to have a smack of romance 
 about her, and I could not persuade her to come 
 indoors. She went down the avenue, I fancy, to 
 watch the stars, in an astronomical mood, maybe, 
 or to catch the breath of the night air on the fresh 
 leaves of the elms, or perhaps to meditate a poem, 
 tragedy, or comedy, who knows. A woman, 
 madam ! You may count stars, or weigh sunshine, 
 or box up the chemical forces of light, or do any 
 other subtle labor, but who weighs or knows a 
 woman. Her ways are past finding out. If you 
 will take it as a compliment, I will add that the 
 lady is a little odd." 
 
 " Blanche is odd," said madam, " and used to 
 have her own way, but this behavior I can't un- 
 derstand." 
 
 " At any rate, as she seems to be of age, and there 
 are no ogres or ghost knights on my premises to 
 consume or carry her away to their enchanted 
 castle, we may as well let her alone to enjoy her- 
 self. This is Liberty Hall to-night." 
 
 " But come," he said, as a demure, middle-aged 
 servant came and whispered something in his ear, 
 "Supper, they say. Allow me, madam, to offer 
 you an arm, and you, Miss Seatori another," arid 
 sandwiched between age and beauty Edward 
 Vaughn, the proper saintly man, led the way to 
 supper.
 
 The Party at River Nook. 151 
 
 " Allow me, madam, to offer you this chair next 
 the sideboard ; an old chair of my grandmother's 
 housekeeping, by the way, one of the few family 
 relics I have ; and you, Miss Isabel'' (in a lower 
 tone), "please stand here by me while these people 
 are duly fed." 
 
 Whatever else Aubrey folks might lack, they 
 never wanted an appetite ; and with a crush and 
 crumpling of gauze and satin, and blushing with 
 the heat, as in supper rooms they always do, the 
 multitude were fed. Mr. Vaughn looked to the 
 serving his guests, interspersing his labors with 
 remarks to Miss Isabel, beside him. 
 
 " How do you like my guests, Miss Seaton ? " 
 
 "I know very few of them. Very nice people, 
 I dare say a little countrified. I really haven't 
 taken the pains to see." 
 
 " Exclusive, my lady, a little, ah ? Bred to 
 something different. Very well, it won't harm you 
 to breathe the same air an hour or so ; do you sup- 
 pose they are fed yet?" 
 
 " The tables look like it, but how should I know 
 how much people eat? You should consult your 
 housekeeper." 
 
 There was an expression on the host's face very 
 like a grin. " Housekeeper ! " he said, " that is 
 what I lack and what I want. This is a regular 
 hermitage, not a woman in it. My French cook 
 is nearest it, for I believe he would cut his throat
 
 152 The Party at Hirer Nook. 
 
 if the soup were burnt, and it takes the whole 
 house to keep him in sorts. " 
 
 " Is it so very difficult to get a housekeeper ? 
 Advertise and pay well. Ma could furnish a half- 
 dozen for you." 
 
 " The housekeeper I want I won't pay for. She 
 must come as a Sister of Charity, without money 
 and without price. Quite from love of the thing, 
 you know." 
 
 " It will do you no good to advertise with those 
 terms in the bill." 
 
 " But I have advertised already, and I mean to 
 keep advertising." 
 
 " When you get one, be so kind as to introduce 
 her to me, will you ? I hate housekeeping." 
 
 " Certainly. And now will you dance with 
 me?" 
 
 " What? I did not understand." 
 
 " Excuse me. As a very old gentleman, you 
 will allow me to remark something. Several of 
 my very kind guests are watching us two. When 
 a gentleman asks you anything, never allow your- 
 self to bend towards him, as though you cared a 
 trifle for what he said ; and you are doing that. 
 Be rigid, ice, anything, before the gossips." 
 
 " Most venerable ancient master, I obey you. 
 What did you ask me ? " 
 
 "I asked you to dance with me. I have not 
 danced to-night."
 
 The Party at River Nook. 153 
 
 " Will your age permit it? " 
 
 "I am not certain." 
 
 " Then I will it. Yes. I will dance with you." 
 
 Jt was late when they returned to the dance, 
 and many who had been fed had gone, but a few 
 unconquerable spirits made ready to dance again 
 as Mr. Vaughn led in Miss Seaton, while the few 
 dowagers and idlers who still remained grouped 
 themselves about the doors to watch the dance. 
 The two, as they stood together, were a marked 
 pair. Edward Vaughn, though not young, was 
 still a tall, broad-shouldered, brown-haired, firm- 
 featured man of about forty, maybe. His face was 
 that of a man who had lived well and thought 
 hard somehow, so that his brain under the broad 
 forehead had stamped down the traces of good 
 living beneath a look of intellect and culture. 
 Otherwise, upon a closer view, his face pronounced 
 and deeply lined, yet covering generally the 
 thought behind it, reminded one of those ancient 
 manuscripts where one writing blots out another, 
 and various scribes have erased or blurred the more 
 ancient legends for their own inscriptions. Both 
 .his look and manner would have puzzled most 
 men and women. He was bland or curt as the 
 mood was on him. A soft- worded man, who some- 
 how impressed you with a sense of the tiger in him, 
 and to those who knew him most a riddle, of whom 
 they could not tell whether he laughed or scorned.
 
 154 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 A man whom most women would be half-afraid of, 
 and whom only a very singular woman would find 
 it easy to really love. Isabel Seaton was young 
 in all but her heart ; and that had aged beyond 
 her years in the atmosphere of a city's dissipation. 
 But the wisdom which waited on her age was of 
 that sort which is never over fresh or pure ; while 
 some of the more subtle elements that dwell in 
 the heart of maidenhood had become a little soiled 
 and wilted, as the late violets always wilt in the 
 June sun. To be just, she was always well bred 
 and dressed, and when the waltz was ended, and, 
 aglow with the excitement and music of the dance, 
 she stood proudly by his side, she was indeed a 
 beautiful creature, and of the angels that are bred 
 in ball-rooms. " How very like Blanche De Forest 
 twenty years ago," he thought. 
 
 Meanwhile Madame Seaton had made inquiries 
 for her niece. She had come in and gone to the 
 ladies' dressing-room, a servant said, while the 
 guests were at supper ; and one of the coachmen 
 had met a person answering her description half- 
 way to town. It was not a little strange. So, 
 shortly, the party broke up. The host led the 
 Seatons to their carriage. " Remember," he said 
 as he closed the door ; and the blonde answered 
 with a nod and a smile her " Yes." 
 
 The two ladies kept silence till almost home. 
 
 " A delightful man, is he not, Belle ? "
 
 The Party at River Nook. 155 
 
 "Who, Ma?" 
 
 "Mr. Vaughn." 
 
 " I dare say, but a little conceited, as all men 
 are, and old, you know." Then both lapsed into 
 silence again, and under the cloaks one heart heard 
 the question that had been put to it, lip to ear, in 
 the whirl of the dance. " When may I come to 
 see you ? " and knew the answer: " Any time." It 
 was wise to remind her mother that Edward 
 Vaughn was old. Mrs. Seaton found that her 
 niece had come safely home and was in her cham- 
 ber. At the breakfast table next morning Blanche 
 De Forest came very near a lecture. But she 
 stopped it by saying in an emphatic manner, " I 
 did not like the company and came away. Please 
 do not trouble me about the trifle ; " and the 
 three women ate breakfast and dropped the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 Edward Vaughn, after the guests were gone, 
 went up to the smoking room with a young friend 
 who had come up from town to spend a week with 
 him. 
 
 " Well, Frank, how have you enjoyed yourself ? " 
 said the elder, as the two in easy chairs confronted 
 each other beside the fire of cannel coal which 
 was fast going out in ashes. 
 
 "Excellently well, Vaughn. I think these 
 country girls are fresher than our ladies. I have 
 seen a dozen at least very pretty. How have you 
 fared ? "
 
 156 The Party at River Nook. 
 
 "Fared? I hate parties." 
 
 " Why then, in the name of all the gods at once, 
 did you have one ? " 
 
 " Why ? Because I took the fancy for a 
 change to amuse myself. I wanted to see if the 
 women hereabouts were like all the rest. They 
 are. I vow I hate all women." 
 
 " All, Vaughn ? It didn't look very much like it 
 when you were waltzing with the blonde." 
 
 " But I do, the blonde to the contrary. You 
 were with me, I think, Frank, among the Marionites 
 in Lebanon. You remember I offered to buy for 
 ten thousand piastres the sheik's youngest daugh- 
 ter. You know the offer was much talked about 
 among the tents, and how vehemently the old man 
 declined my offer. But you never knew how 
 that same daughter, a mere child at that, fifteen 
 or so, sent me word by an old hag that very night 
 that if I would mend my offer two thousand pias- 
 tres more, papa, she thought, would sell, and that she, 
 moreover, had always liked the Franks. I did not 
 want her at any price, for Syrian women are too 
 afraid of cold water for my taste." 
 
 " But what has that to do with the . matter, 
 Vaughn?" 
 
 " Merely this : that whether among the sheiks of 
 Lebanon or my elms, women are about alike, a 
 little crooked and sometimes worse." 
 
 " You are not orthodox on that point."
 
 The Party at .River Nook. 157 
 
 "They are not orthodox on several points, 
 
 Frank." 
 
 " But you like the blonde, though ?'' 
 
 " Like her ? Well, if you insist upon it, I adore 
 
 her."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AFTER THE PARTY. 
 
 IN this history of Aubrey parish, grave things 
 and gay are mixed together. The reason is that 
 life is likewise mixed. The dancers confront the 
 prayers. The temples not seldom are neighbors 
 to the shambles. 
 
 The day after the party at River Nook two men 
 knocked at the door of St. Clement's rectory. 
 They were the Reverend Carlos Lefingwell and 
 Deacon Hobbs, the two chief dignitaries of the 
 meeting-house. They found Mr. Ardenne in his 
 library. The latter, though a little surprised at 
 the novel visit, especially from Deacon Hobbs, 
 greeted them cordially, and they proceeded to 
 business. 
 
 " We have called upon you, Mr. Ardenne," the 
 minister said, " at the desire of some of our people, 
 to ask you to take part in the religious exercises 
 which we are carrying on at present. I am aware 
 that your clergy are not in the habit of doing so, 
 and I am not quite sure myself that we can mix 
 such matters ; but my people wished it, and I have 
 therefore come."
 
 After the Party. 159 
 
 " That may be what our parson came for," broke 
 in Deacon Hobbs, " but it is not all of it, as I 
 understand it. It has been thought best by some 
 of us, Mr. Ardenne, considering the present dearth 
 of the land in this locality and the abundant out- 
 pouring of the Spirit in the pleasant places of Zion 
 at our meetings across the green, to call upon you 
 and present you with an invitation, hoping you 
 might feel it to be your duty to be present on 
 these occasions ; and I am empowered by the 
 brethren to invite you to make such remarks at 
 the aforesaid meetings as may be for the edification 
 of the assembly. And furthermore, it has occurred 
 to me in my meditations to bring to your notice a 
 shocking instance of depravity, such as the child- 
 ren of this world, who are wise, as the Bible tells 
 us, in their day and generation, are often guilty 
 of. It has transpired that there was a very god- 
 less party last night at a certain Mr. Edward 
 Vaughn's across the river, where they had danc- 
 ing and carousing to a very late hour; and I am 
 compelled to say that not only were some of our 
 own young people there, for which the elders will 
 call them to a righteous account, but a large num- 
 ber of your parishioners, and it has occurred to me 
 to suggest to you whether under the circumstances 
 it would not be well for you to deliver next Sun- 
 day a discourse against dancing, and to exhort the 
 ungodly to avoid this snare of the devil and to
 
 160 After the Parti/. 
 
 flee from the wrath to come." Deacon Hobbs 
 was famous for his orations. He usually said noth- 
 ing, and used a deal of words to say it. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Ardenne, when 
 the Deacon had finished, " here are several mat- 
 ters which you have been so kind as to bring to 
 my notice ; and though I have no wish to engage 
 in a discussion it usually does no good, I have 
 not the slightest objection to talk these matters 
 over with you, provided it can be done in good 
 nature. Am I to understand, then, that I shall 
 not give offence if I tell you the principles by 
 which we are governed in all such matters ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said the minister. 
 
 But before we listen to Mr. Ardenne, we will 
 look at his visitors. The Rev. Carlos Lefingwell 
 was a young man with a thin, gentle, scholarly 
 face and a habit of stooping when he walked, as 
 students often have. His was a pure and truthful 
 nature, that grace had wrought upon. His religion 
 had been clarified and softened in its passage 
 through a broad and gentle heart, so that when it 
 appeared to men one missed a certain flintiness 
 such as his more ancient brethren showed. His 
 very learning (for he had that) made him tolerant 
 of those elegant arts which his elders flouted, and, 
 broken away as he was from antiquity, there 
 were many things therein which he admired. 
 But his religion was still Puritan. This showed
 
 After the Parti/. 161 
 
 itself in a certain reckless disregard of time 
 or circumstance when lie undertook to plant 
 among men what he thought to be germs of 
 truth. as though one planted roses in winter or 
 on a rock because roses are always beautiful. He 
 loved truth with a fervent, constant love and set 
 out to follow it, as one follows a star across country, 
 minding neither ditch, nor precipice, nor river that 
 lies across his path. 
 
 He showed a certain Transcendentalism by de- 
 clining form and establishment in religion, leav- 
 ing Faith to be grasped out of an atmosphere, and 
 this, too, in a world where all life contains itself in 
 form, from plant to man, and proceeds by ordin- 
 ances. In this he was like his elders, who were 
 always leaving religion in the air, in spite of the 
 fact that man walks with two feet on the earth, 
 and subsists physically and spiritually by what is 
 brought to his complex nature in fixed and min- 
 utely ordered conduits from a reservoir. 
 
 The rector and himself had long been friends, 
 and were drawn together by a certain tie of a 
 common human nature, which, while it does not 
 laugh at creeds, is yet that more ancient charity 
 which sees in all pure souls a white, shining 
 brotherhood of man. And though they had often 
 disputed, as Christians may, some question of theo- 
 logy, neither their words nor hearts had ever any 
 flavor of bitterness ; and when, after their talks,
 
 162 After the Party. 
 
 Mr. Ardenne in his study had gone over it all 
 again, he had often prayed that in the Hereafter 
 they two, without any partition wall of difference, 
 might meet once more in the Great Home where 
 the same charity blends all into one family. 
 
 Deacon Hobbs was a very different man. He 
 was a broken cistern that held only the dregs of 
 his religion ; and in all religions there are of 
 course dregs, but in this man there was nothing 
 else. A lank, bony hulk of a man, with a slouch- 
 ing, schoolboy's gait and coarse, hard face, with 
 grayish eyes, prepared one to find in him a coarse- 
 grained, mismade nature ; and his looks were the 
 only thing about him that never lied. He had had 
 several wives, and frequently expressed the fear 
 that he should survive them all, as he counted 
 their graves in the burying ground with no more 
 feeling than though they had been hills of corn. 
 Yet he was always talking of the privileges of 
 woman, and starving his female mill hands with 
 the meanest pay. His honesty was that which es- 
 capes the law, but steals, against mere moral justice, 
 every chance it gets. His charity was such as gave 
 large sums in places where the public press would 
 sound it to the world as given by Deacon Hobbs. 
 His temperance was of such lofty order, that when 
 a foreign artist freely sang in a charity concert to 
 improve the graveyard where his wives rested 
 from all their labors, the bottle of wine the former
 
 After the Party, 163 
 
 drank at the Deacon's table was charged to the 
 graveyard corporation, since lie would have the 
 world to understand he never meddled with the 
 unclean thing. Yet he always had a hankering 
 after the sourest cider, and turned an honest penny 
 by making toddy sticks to assist the vices of a sin- 
 ful world. By nature he was a very earthy man, 
 and by grace working on such a scanty soil as his, 
 very like a desert. There wre no juices in his 
 piety, but that was always wooden and emitted 
 a creaking noise whenever it was put to proof, as 
 a crazy house sounds with the wind blowing 
 through it ; yet his were the longest prayers of 
 any. He was severe upon his neighbors' sins, and 
 in the meeting-house, where he held a sort of lay 
 episcopate, he was fertile in advices as to how 
 they all should behave. When he began to ex- 
 hort the ungodly went to sleep, and when he 
 stopped the religious sung a psalm to deepen their 
 devotions ; and everywhere that human speech 
 was possible his genius compelled him always to 
 be always talking. His oratory, never select, was 
 ever endless, and, like a circle, ended where it be- 
 gan in itself. In short, he was what no religious 
 man ever was, and what few honest, open sinners 
 would ever descend to be ; one of those grotesque 
 mortals suffered to dwell with men to keep them 
 back from too much happiness. 
 
 Such were the two men in Mr. Ardenne's library.
 
 164 After the Parti/. 
 
 " You have asked me, in the first place," con- 
 tinued the latter, " to join in what arc called revival 
 services ; and I wish to show you why I cannot do 
 that. I cannot do it because it is against the 
 genius of our religion, and whoever crosses the 
 spirit of his own creed has gone astray towards 
 disaster. You believe in revivals ; we do not, at 
 least as the word is used, but rather in a revival 
 which attends a Christian from his cradle to his 
 grave. I do not wish to say that revivals do no 
 good, for I do not know what mercies in what un- 
 usual ways God may bestow on men ; but only 
 that they are based on an idea which is not ours. 
 By revivals you seize upon a man's mind with a 
 sudden wrench and haul him God's grace, as you 
 say, assisting him and you into the ark. Our 
 way is less violent. The Church, in her province, 
 does what the earth does in hers. The earth nur- 
 tures the germ hid in her bosom up to the blade in 
 spring, and through all the summer brings it to the 
 full ear in fall. So the Church takes the germ of 
 a soul to her bosom, and through its seasons here 
 feeds it for immortality by sacraments and 
 services that educate it for eternity ; as the blade 
 is fed by juices from below and sunshine from 
 above. Everything is silent, patient, in her 
 methods, as the corn and the vines grow without 
 break or murmur. In spirit as well as matter 
 things that grow slow grow sure. Yet she is no
 
 After the Part//. 165 
 
 more indifferent to man's spiritual good, because 
 she will not patronize so-called revivals, than God 
 is to the harvest because He leads the grain 
 through six months before it ripens, and will not 
 create the corn in a single hour. I do not expect," 
 he added, " you gentlemen to think as I do ; but to 
 admit that our systems are clearly different." 
 
 " I certainly do not agree with you," said Mr. 
 Lefmgwell ; "but as you were asked to state your 
 position, it was right for you to do so." 
 
 " I am very well aware," replied the rector, 
 " that you have your own view and can defend it. 
 I merely wished to answer your question." 
 
 "But how as to dancing?" interposed the 
 Deacon. 
 
 <; I was about to speak of that. The general 
 question which lies behind yours is a rather wide 
 one, and about it, I suppose, we disagree. We all 
 confess that every man's duty is to live as a Chris- 
 tian. But how is that? Some thought, long ago, 
 that the model Christian was a man who sat forty 
 years upon a pillar forty feet above ground, and 
 never once pared his nails ; and a species of that 
 sort of piety has trailed itself down through the 
 ages of the Church. We call it asceticism ; and 
 it undertakes, by mortifying the flesh, to sanctify 
 the spirit in us. Like every other phase of re- 
 ligion appearing in diverse ages, it has a measure 
 of truth in it, which is, that our bodies are to be
 
 166 After the Party. 
 
 brought in subjection to our souls, while pure as- 
 ceticism would annihilate the body for the sake of 
 the soul, which, as I take it, is murdering one half 
 of a man that the other half may live. The Church 
 says the world is good, and the soul purified by 
 grace is good, but the one is servant and the other 
 master, and the soul is to use the world for its 
 own growth in piety. Some men in a fever can 
 live without food, as some men in a delirium of so- 
 called religion can live self-absorbed and despising 
 to touch common cares or pleasures ; but fever is 
 never healthy, neither that religion. If God could 
 have all men wholly live for Him, men would not 
 be found hermits in caves, nor forever prone be- 
 fore altars, but men living in the world, ploughing, 
 weeding, reaping, trafficking, feeding their children, 
 and keeping their households. The Kingdom of 
 Grace makes no war of extermination upon the 
 things of this world, but only directs how to use 
 and rule them. Our blessed Lord told the Roman 
 soldier how to behave in his post, but he never 
 told him to desert it, neither did the Apostles 
 keep back their converts from any honest craft. 
 And as these teachers left mon in the world, to 
 work there for the glory of God and their own 
 spiritual weal and wealth, so does the Church. 
 She says to us, ' Use the world for God and your 
 soul's health.' Now you ask me whether dancing 
 is evil. Suppose you had asked me if eating
 
 After the Party. 167 
 
 was evil. I should answer, 'Under certain con- 
 ditions, yes;' as when a convalescent brings back 
 his sickness by gorging himself with forbidden 
 meats when the nurse's back is turned, or when a 
 man destroys his health by gluttony. Yet it is 
 right to eat. Everything that God hath made has 
 its place and use even poisons. The sin is from 
 misuse. I can only tell you that the Catholic 
 Church has never as yet anathematized men who 
 danced, or sang, or played upon the guitar, simply 
 for doing so, though all such pleasures seem re- 
 mote from serving God, and though she has never 
 ceased to warn men against a worldly and trivial 
 life. You can lay down no general rule, but the 
 Christian will do nothing to hurt his soul, and 
 nothing will hurt his soul that does not hinder him 
 from serving God and man. There may be wor- 
 ship in work, and there may be the devil's work in 
 what men mistake for worship, as when the Phar- 
 isee goes up to the temple to be seen of men, or a 
 man's litanies are at the heart of them mere sound. 
 I may eat my dinner in a spirit that worships God, 
 and I may say a prayer so as to insult Him. I 
 should say, then, that the Christian is one who so 
 lives in this world as to honor God and serve man- 
 kind. Protestant asceticism, in my judgment, is 
 less logical than the Roman, and both err against 
 human nature, and so against God." 
 
 " But you yourself keep Lent," said Mr. Lefing- 
 well.
 
 168 After the Party. 
 
 " Certainly ; and because the Lenten abstinence 
 may aid our spiritual growth. But not because 
 worldly things are evil, but because the constant 
 use of any good thing may mislead to evil we break 
 in upon the world with Lent, to give a breathing 
 place for meditation and special devotions. The 
 Church does the same thing, indeed, through 
 her order of feasts and fasts of the Christian year. 
 The Church has her Lent, indeed, when she says a 
 man should abstain from these common things 
 according to his ability, and give his mind more 
 wholly to spiritual things. That she would regret 
 to see Lent a year long is clear from the fact that 
 she ends Lent at Easter with a feast. In other 
 words, we hold that human nature has its own 
 specific gravity, which we try not to erase but 
 manage. Indian corn, for instance, has its own 
 normal height in growing, and so has at least the 
 average human soul. Men like Bernard or Am- 
 brose no doubt reach a higher level, but then we 
 call them saints. Men are not angels, but remain 
 as Christians at the human level ; though angels, 
 even in this world, might attain spiritual heights 
 which we never reach. The Church never attempts 
 the impossible." 
 
 " I have observed," remarked Deacon Hobbs, 
 rising from his chair and drawing his august per- 
 son up to its full height, " that you speak of yours 
 as the Catholic Church. Your church is known
 
 After the Party. 169 
 
 in civil law, if I am not very much mistaken, as 
 the Protestant Episcopal Church." 
 
 " Very true ; and if you will be seated, I will 
 explain all that, since it is part of the main ques- 
 tion. A thing may be more than its name, or a 
 name more than the thing. The former is true of 
 our Church. Men might have called it the Church 
 of Thirty-nine Articles, three orders, and two 
 creeds if they had fancied so ; but the name 
 would still have been less than the thing. I am 
 reminded when I hear our current Church name 
 of a grotesque confusion of language in ex- 
 pressing a curious fact of vegetation, viz., that a 
 blackberry is red when it is green. We are Prot- 
 estant ; we protested three hundred years ago, and 
 still protest, against Roman rule and dogma ; but 
 we are also an existent Church, since we have ex- 
 isted ever since ; and we are a Church of the Occi- 
 dent, since we exist in the west ; and so to the end. 
 But this is nothing in point. The heart of our 
 Church is that she is Catholic." 
 
 " Roman Catholic," suggested Deacon Hobbs, 
 " I can understand, but Catholic I can't." 
 
 " Very like, and perhaps you would understand 
 no better if I took an hour or so of your time to 
 explain it, as you would hardly wish to have me 
 do." 
 
 " But you talk of the ancient Catholic Church," 
 urged the deacon. " I thought your Church be-
 
 170 After the Party. 
 
 gan with Henry VIII., three hundred years 
 ago." 
 
 " That is exactly what I wished you to say ; 
 for in this conversation I have meant that you 
 should see one simple thing, and that is, that the 
 whole drift and genius of the Church differ from 
 yours. You say we began with Henry VIII. It 
 is a question of fact to be proved or disproved like 
 any other. I say we began with Jesus Christ." 
 
 " Allow me to ask," said Mr. Lefingwell, " what 
 Church existed in England before the Refor- 
 mation?" 
 
 " The Catholic Church, under Roman rule." 
 
 " What after the Reformation ? " 
 
 " The Catholic Church." 
 
 " What is the difference ? " 
 
 " Rome. 
 
 " In the mediaeval ages they had a habit of ban- 
 daging new-born babies so that they could move 
 neither hand nor foot ; but no matter how many 
 or what wraps went on, it was still the same child 
 beneath. And Rome in mediaeval times had ban- 
 daged and swathed about the English Church 
 Christ's child in England until it seemed at 
 death's door. The Reformers tore off the bandages, 
 and behold the same child has been growing ever 
 since. If I remove the bandage I do not remove 
 the child, and what I find beneath is no change- 
 ling."
 
 After the Parti/. 171 
 
 The Deacon said nothing. He was long since 
 thoroughly disgusted with what he heard, most 
 of which he did not understand. Mr. Lefingwell 
 said as he rose to go, " I most heartily disagree 
 with much that you have said. Some things are 
 reasonable. Every man must take his responsi- 
 bility, and I do not wish to meddle with your 
 conscience." And the two parted with courtesy. 
 Deacon Hobbs forgot to make his bow. He had 
 been looking round the library to discover a 
 crucifix. 
 
 " A milk and water Roman Catholic," he mum- 
 bled as he went outdoors ; and Mr. Ardenne re- 
 sumed his studies.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FIRST FLOWERS. 
 
 ONE man and a Newfoundland dog stood upon 
 the steps of the Seatons' country house on the after- 
 noon of the next day after the party, and the two, 
 when the bell was answered, entered it. Then 
 Edward Vaughn and his brute friend were ushered 
 into the parlor, and while the man amused himself 
 with looking at some of Landseer's hunting pieces 
 hung on the walls, the dog made himself comfort- 
 able on the rug before the grate. Mr. Vaughn 
 had asked for Miss Seaton, and in due time, with 
 a rustle of silk on the stairs, that damsel appeared. 
 
 " Welcome to Seaton Hall," she said, as she 
 gave him her hand. 
 
 " You must know, Miss Seaton,. I have made 
 this call on foot, and I find it a very short road 
 from home. Now I have found the way and the 
 lady of the castle, I trust to be allowed to wear 
 out a whole kit of boots in your service." 
 
 " You have certainly a very singular way of de- 
 claring your gallantry to a lady. I trust the boots 
 you speak of will not seriously damage your ex- 
 chequer. If so, you can always appeal to my 
 chanty, you know. Please be seated."
 
 First Flowers. 173 
 
 " But first allow me to introduce my friend to 
 you on the rug yonder. Are you afraid of dogs ? " 
 
 " Dogs ? I am passionately fond of them. Ah ! 
 yes, what a splendid creature. Come here, sir." 
 The dog did not move. 
 
 " You must excuse him, he has been so long out 
 of ladies' society, that like his master he has for- 
 gotten how to behave himself. But he has the 
 best intentions. Thor, come here, and be intro- 
 duced to my friend." The dog, a huge, shaggy 
 Newfoundland, rose slowly and came over where 
 the two stood. " This is Miss Seaton, Thor, a very 
 new but a very good friend of mine. Mind now, 
 you are to behave yourself as well as you can." 
 The brute stood still with his head pointing 
 straight before him. The lady patted the great, 
 black head with two round, white hands. " What 
 splendid eyes he has. Let us be friends, Sir 
 Thor." The dog of course said nothing. " But 
 what a singular name, Mr. Vaughn." 
 
 " Yes, very. We are all a shade singular at the 
 house, and we like it. Who cares to be like every- 
 body else ? Thor, you must know, is named after 
 a Scandinavian divinity, of whom I have a real 
 stone statue at my house, from Norway ; a rough- 
 bearded, hairy demon, who made thunder and 
 lightning in his time, and was a trifle too earthly 
 in his tastes to suit such refined people as we are 
 now-a-days. So I have called this dog after him,
 
 174 First Flowers. 
 
 because the brute has good points in him, and is a 
 hearty good fellow, according to his dog nature." 
 
 " You like dogs, then ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I like all creatures, but horses and 
 dogs most. I like them because I pity them 
 as brutes put under such creatures as, I will say, 
 we men ace. Fate has kicked them into life at a 
 disadvantage. There is not one of them that 
 ever told a lie, and not one of them that can 
 plead his own cause if any human brute should 
 strike him across the mouth, in joke or anger. 
 This dog is a friend I am sure of. He follows me 
 all day as my shadow, and at night eats his bone 
 without snarling or looking sour. He never tells 
 on me, nor laughs at me behind my back, and 
 would jump at the throat of any man who should 
 make at me with a cudgel. He keeps guard on the 
 rug at my chamber door every night, and, in 
 short, does his duty as a dog should, which is 
 more than can be said of his master. He is my 
 friend, and I can rely on him. I therefore think 
 very much of him. I am only sorry that dogs die 
 so soonj and I wish they had souls. You two 
 must be friends." 
 
 " If you two are well behaved and make your- 
 selves agreeable, that will not be difficult. But 
 come, I must attend to my guests. You, the 
 master, be seated, and you, the dog, be pleased to 
 make yourself comfortable anywhere about the 
 house."
 
 First Flowers. 175 
 
 So the master and Miss Seaton sat down to- 
 gether, and the dog, retiring to his rug again, 
 with his great head on his fore paws, watched, 
 with two great, round, sleepy eyes, the pair. 
 
 "I beg to inquire for Madame Seaton and Miss 
 Blanche, as I ought at first." 
 
 " Mother is out, and Miss Blanche has gone back 
 to town." 
 
 " Gone back to town ! I had hoped to see 
 her again." 
 
 " Yes, she went at noon. Business, she said. 
 She was not in a very amiable mood at the break- 
 fast table this morning. I hope you made your- 
 self agreeable to her last night, for she has had 
 a great many admirers and yet has never married. 
 You never met her before, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Two questions need two answers, my lady. 
 In the first place, I have hard work to be agree- 
 able except when the fit is on me, and I was not 
 at my best last night, but I did as well as I could 
 with your cousin, and I shall be too vain to think 
 that my society gave her the blues. In the sec- 
 ond place, I did know your cousin once, slightly, 
 but that was long ago, and she has very much 
 changed since." 
 
 " Yes. She is wonderfully preserved, though, 
 and quite a terror to all soft or sentimental people. 
 Gentlemen are usually afraid of her, young gen- 
 tlemen especially, and women such as I she
 
 176 First Flowers. 
 
 doesn't mind much. For a woman who dresses so 
 well, she talks and thinks less of dress than any 
 one I ever saw. Indeed, I don't know what she 
 does think about. Certainly not about women's 
 matters. She treats me as a child who don't 
 know the world, and has a very sarcastic way of 
 looking through one, and is occasionally very bitter. 
 There, that is a mean way of talking about 
 another woman ; and if she heard me she would 
 be sure to pay me for it. But Blanche is so 
 peculiar, and I never could make her out. But 
 she is very clever." 
 
 "You put in that last clause for a caveat 
 against my opinion, and lest I should think that 
 women never speak well of women. But now 
 you have told me what Miss De Forest can do, 
 perhaps you can tell me what you can do." 
 
 " Is it to-day that the disagreeable mood is on 
 you?" 
 
 " I humbly trust not ; but I am of an inquiring 
 mind, and I always wish a lady to describe herself, 
 in order not to put me to the trouble to find her 
 out." 
 
 " Do you believe her when she gives you her 
 description ? " 
 
 " Certainly (with a curious drawing down of 
 the mouth) ; I believe a lady always. She is quite 
 my gospel. Now then, what can you do, Miss 
 Seaton?"
 
 First Flowers. 177 
 
 " I can keep my secret." 
 
 " What else ? " 
 
 " I can eat my dinner, when it is well cooked." 
 
 " What else ? " 
 
 " Question for question. What earthly, im- 
 aginable good will it do you to know what I can 
 do ? Suppose I can build a house, have you any 
 houses to build? " 
 
 " I might order a dozen." 
 
 "You may be sure then I should look to the 
 pay before I began, and gentlemen are not always 
 good paymasters." 
 
 " I am, as you may know, a student, going 
 about studying human nature. As I told you just 
 now, I prefer that a lady should describe herself. 
 Please, then, tell me what you can do." 
 
 " Well, then, to please myself and to displease 
 you, for I see there is nothing that suits you 
 better than to confuse one, and, that this may end, 
 I can do several things, sew, sing, dance a little, 
 paint autumn leaves in water colors." 
 
 " Can you make bread ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. Why should I ? " 
 
 " Because no woman who cannot make bread is 
 fit to be married ? " 
 
 " And you, like every other man, think that the 
 chief end of woman is to be married ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " The conceit of men is monstrous. The chief
 
 178 First Flotvers. 
 
 end of woman is to amuse herself, to dress, to 
 dance, to walk, to ride a little, to be waited on, 
 and, above all, not to be teased." 
 
 " So you cannot make bread, then," said Edward 
 Vaughn, with a meditative air and in a provok- 
 ingly serious voice. 
 
 "I tell you what, I can eat it. and the cooks 
 can do the rest. As long as I get my bread, I 
 have not and shall never have the slightest wish to 
 know anything about the making of it." 
 
 " Clearly not made for a wife." 
 
 " Thank you. Come here, Thor," calling to the 
 dog upon the rug ; " come here a moment, good 
 fellow." The dog slowly rose and came this time 
 and laid his great head down in Isabel Seaton's 
 lap. She bent down a vexed face over the brute, 
 and caressed the head. "Come, good fellow, be 
 my friend. Your master yonder is not a good 
 man ; he is vexing me. He is laughing at me 
 ever since he came. Bark at him, bite him a 
 little, anything to make him stop. Be my knight, 
 good dog, and take my part." The dog's head 
 laid quite still under two very white, round hands. 
 
 " Gallant dog," said the master, " take the 
 lady's part. Your master is a great sinner, but 
 he means well. But he is awkward. He pays a 
 visit to a lady that he wishes to make his friend, 
 and before he knows it provokes her almost to 
 tears. He must be either a great villain or a
 
 First Flower?. 179 
 
 great unfortunate. Good clog, ask your mistress to 
 have pity. We are only clogs; women are angels, 
 and angels pity. Promise her we will behave in 
 future, as we learn how, and beg her to teach us 
 better manners. Beg her to shake hands and be 
 friends " and he held out his hand towards the 
 dog's head. "Come now," he said, "Miss Seaton, 
 forgive me and shake hands. I was rude." Very 
 slowly a soft hand was laid in his. 
 
 " We are friends now ? with these two hands 
 on Thor's head." 
 
 " If you wish it I will be." 
 
 The hand was removed as slowly as it was 
 given, and the great brute, looking first from one 
 to the other, with a dog's gravity went finally back 
 to the rug. 
 
 The half hour that followed such a reconciliation 
 passed very pleasantly. Edward Vaughn could 
 be an elegant gentle man; and when, in a low, 
 musical voice, he chatted with her of Europe 
 and the fashions of different people he had 
 lived amongst, Isabel Seaton wondered how the 
 man talking beside her could ever be absurd. Over 
 an Italian song which they sang together they 
 seemed to become still better friends, and when he 
 rose to go Edward Vaughn wondered that he had 
 stayed so long. She went with him to the open 
 door. The sun was low in the west, and its rays 
 were falling on the fresh spring leaves, wet with a
 
 180 First Flowers. 
 
 recent shower. There was that peculiar earthy 
 smell in the air, which is, as it were, the scent of 
 that life which garlands the breasts of Mother 
 Earth with spring flowers and grasses. 
 
 " Come now, Miss Seaton," Edward Vaughn 
 said, " if you have quite forgiven me, just take 
 the short walk with me to the gate. You will 
 need a shawl, I think, as it is a little chill. Allow 
 me to assist your toilette," and he helped to put a 
 stout, gray shawl round the shoulders in a very 
 gentle fashion. " There now, you are quite water- 
 proof." By the gate where they stopped there was 
 an apple tree in full bloom. He reached up his 
 hand and shook down the rain from the nearest 
 branches. " Look at this apple tree," he said, " with 
 its white blossoms flecked with crimson. It is the 
 Madonna's tree. Oblige me by just standing 
 under here a moment. Do not be afraid." 
 
 " I am not afraid," she said. She stood quite still, 
 while the man beside her, reaching up a strong arm, 
 shook down the blossom leaves upon the blonde 
 hair. 
 
 "There now, mon ami; you see I crown you 
 with flowers for a benediction. They are the best 
 I have, though they are withered. Good bye." 
 And Isabel Seaton walked slowly back to the 
 house. 
 
 She was half convinced she hated him. What 
 did that matter? With women love and hate are
 
 First Flowers. 181 
 
 two doors on one front, that may open into the same 
 hall. Hate is the door on the left hand. Yet she 
 said to herself, as she sat down at the piano where 
 they two had been, "They say he is very rich." 
 
 And Edward Vaughn ? 
 
 He will try to take care of himself.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF NEMESIS. 
 
 "MR. VAUGHN'S compliments to Miss Seaton 
 and will call for her at three," said a servant, as he 
 handed in at the door a note for the aforesaid lady 
 from his master. Miss Isabel read the note care- 
 fully in her mother's dressing-room, and then merely 
 said, "Ma, I am going to ride with Mr. Vaughn 
 up the river road this afternoon, and shall prob- 
 ably be home late to tea." 
 
 "See that you are warmly dressed, my child, 
 and ask Mr. Vaughn from me to take his tea with 
 us." 
 
 " Yes, Ma ; " and the daughter went down stairs 
 to order her horse ; and made ready. 
 
 Sharp three, Edward Vaughn rode up with his 
 inevitable comrade Thor at his horse's heels. He 
 came in with his gray riding-suit, spurred and 
 booted, and Miss Isabel met him in the hall. 
 "So you are ready, are you?" he said, eyeing 
 with evident satisfaction the lady who, whip in 
 hand, and holding the trail of her riding habit, 
 stood to receive him. 
 
 " Yes. I knew you would dislike to wait, and 
 so I ordered my horse ready an hour ago."
 
 The Shadow of Nemesis. 183 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 " Ma says you are to take your tea with us." 
 
 " Very good ; now for the horse." 
 
 The horses were brought round, and the two rode 
 away. 
 
 If ever Isabel Seaton looked well, it was on 
 horseback and at a gallop. A perfect form ripened 
 into young womanhood, and the glow of health 
 upon her face, under the little, plumed hat that 
 made no attempt to conceal the blonde hair 
 beneath, and a certain courage in her horseman- 
 ship, were enough to warrant the look of admira- 
 tion which her companion gave her as they passed 
 through the gate into the road. 
 
 "Are you afraid to ride fast, mon ami?" 
 
 " Try me." 
 
 " Well, then, for a dash ; " and the horses broke 
 into a full gallop. There was a mile of it, and 
 nothing said. 
 
 " We will not drive straight up this long hill, at 
 any rate," Edward Vaughn said, as they came to 
 the first hill that overlooked the river. "I am not 
 sure, Miss Seaton, but your horse is the faster, and 
 I must say you ride gallantly. Now, that is a com- 
 pliment you have forced from me. I mean it." 
 
 "Do you not mean all compliments?" 
 
 "No; why should I?" 
 
 " Why shouldn't you ? " 
 
 " Because compliments, as the world goes, mean
 
 184 The Shadow of Nemesis. 
 
 nothing. None know that better than women. 
 They are a sort of sixpences and pennies with 
 which one pays his way in society, and it makes 
 nobody poorer giving them." 
 
 " But with your view of them they make no- 
 body rich who gets them." 
 
 "It might depend on who gave it; but a six- 
 pence might make one feel rich sometimes." 
 
 " I don't think I have found you very much of a 
 
 prodigal with this sort of silver. At any rate, you 
 
 wouldn't give a lady what was worth nothing, 
 
 mere leaves, or dry sticks from the roadside, 
 
 would you ? " 
 
 " Certainly I would, if it pleased her. Compli- 
 ments are painted sticks with which clever people 
 play at jackstraws, and whoever gets most gets 
 not much. But come now, you should not always 
 contradict me ; should you, Miss Belle?" 
 
 " To use your word, ' certainly, ' if I wish it. I 
 like to contradict you men, lords of creation, as 
 you think yourselves. If you were let go on 
 without reining you up sharp, you would be like 
 runaway horses, forever getting into mischief." 
 
 " Well said, Miss Belle. And now, if you please, 
 turn your horse's head, and let us take a look down 
 the river." 
 
 It was a June day, when the woods upon the 
 low, ragged hills which hemmed in the river had 
 that fresh, living look which they never show so
 
 The Shadow of Nemesis. 185 
 
 well at any other season ; the light tasselled birches 
 against the darker oaks, and the white flowers of 
 the dogwood scattered along the hillsides; while 
 the clouds, mellow, gray, and rifted, had an abun- 
 dant watery look as if about to give their fulness 
 to the lips of the green woods to drink deeper 
 verdure. 
 
 " There," he said, " see the blue mist among the 
 further hills, and the gray, restless river, whirling 
 and eddying and eating into the sandbanks below 
 us at the bends, and building sand-bars against 
 those islands yonder it seems never better satis- 
 fied than we mortals are. I am told that this 
 river, since the white man came, has changed its 
 bed at least a quarter of a mile away." 
 
 " How charming it is, and everything so fresh 
 and sweet-scented," the lady said ; " the earth to- 
 day looks quite like a bride. I hope it is a happy 
 bride." 
 
 " A true bride anyhow, Miss Belle. There is 
 not a leaf or a flower that ever lies. Human 
 mouths only frame themselves to falsehood. Na- 
 ture never grumbles, never backbites, but has a 
 sweet, endless charity for all. I feel better in the 
 spring fields than anywhere else ; because I know 
 that they will say nothing disagreeable or accuse 
 me of my faults." 
 
 " The spring affects even a strong man like you, 
 then ? "
 
 186 The Shadow of Nemesis. 
 
 " Yes ; at least it did when I was younger. 
 Then, somehow, when the buds were breaking into 
 blossom, it used to seem to me as if I, unless I 
 wished to be mocked by all the beauty around 
 me, ought to rise up to the level of a great action 
 and do something heroic and like a man. But 
 since I have been older I have lost that sense in 
 measure." 
 
 "Are you very, very old, sir?" 
 
 " If my years are to be counted by my sins, I 
 am several centuries." 
 
 " What a patriarch ! Are you a great sinner, 
 too?" 
 
 "Yes, a vast sinner." 
 
 "Perhaps I might manage to get you absolu- 
 tion, if you paid well," she answered, patting quite 
 mechanically her horse's neck. 
 
 " No priest can absolve me," he said ; " I am 
 past that. Besides, to confess to a man would be 
 like eating wormwood ; I should make wry faces 
 at it." 
 
 " Suppose you elect me your father confessor," 
 she said archly, glancing up into the face of the 
 man beside her, with the blue eyes under the long 
 eyelashes. " If you were humble enough, I might 
 give you an easy penance." 
 
 "You! You are too young allow me, too 
 pretty to confess to. The woman I confess to 
 must be a hag, old, wrinkled, sere, toothless, and
 
 The Shadow of Nemesis. 187 
 
 wear a wig ; quite a wreck, you see ; a woman with 
 a heart as tough as shoe leather and as dry too, 
 no juices in her. Then if I brought my wares to 
 her, she couldn't blush, and she wouldn't pity." 
 
 "Don't you like pity?" 
 
 " No, what man ever did ? I had rather be 
 struck in the face than pitied any time. To pity 
 a man is to patronize him, and men like me are 
 patronized well, say by Beelzebub. At least we 
 deserve it of our master." 
 
 "I shall begin to look for the horns and the 
 hoofs pretty soon, if you insist on talking that 
 way. You certainly look human, and have acted 
 a little so since I have met you. You are cross 
 and tease folks sometimes. But really, are you 
 such a terrible individual as you would have me 
 believe ? " 
 
 " Yes, Miss Belle, I am everything nothing ; an 
 animal that eats his dinner but never earns it. I 
 have a room under lock and key where I should 
 be very sorry to have you go." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " Not a very large chamber, with red hangings 
 to it and some very curious machinery that will 
 stop one day, and in it skeletons neither clean 
 nor handsome. You should never go in there for 
 health or wealth." 
 
 "I have the curiosity of Blue Beard's wife. 
 Pray, where is this chamber ? "
 
 188 The Shadow of Nemesis. 
 
 "Here," he said, with a very grim smile, bring- 
 ing down a great hand heavily on the gray coat, 
 under which his heart was supposed to be. 
 
 " Ah, yes, I understand ; you mean your heart. 
 I have always been crazy to see one. What does 
 it look like, I mean yours, Sir Blue Beard ? " 
 
 " Well, never mind what it looks like. Now I 
 have told you, take care. In Blue Beard's cham- 
 ber there were some things that women didn't 
 like to see. Remember, I gave you warning. 
 Never ask for the key." 
 
 " I shall take care. You are no doubt a magni- 
 ficent monster, and therefore will spare poor me 
 for to-day. I came out for a gallop, and that, Sir 
 Monster, I shall trust you will aid rne to. You 
 said we were to ride to the Bridge ; we have four 
 miles yet." 
 
 " Right ; and away. You are a brave girl and 
 your society goes hard upon making me like other 
 masculine mortals a trifle soft and blarneysome. 
 Come." 
 
 And the two wheeled their horses into the road 
 for a gallop. It was a swift ride to the Bridge, and 
 as they reined up their horses under the gray 
 granite cliffs, tufted with pines and cedars, to 
 watch the passionate river that here dashed itself 
 in foam against the seamed, weather-stained rocks 
 which hemmed it in, Edward Vaughn cried 
 " Bravo ! That was well done for a woman. I
 
 The Shadow of Nemesis. 189 
 
 should like to ride with you at a fox hunt, Miss 
 Belle. You were made to take a fence or a ditch 
 without flinching. You have courage. I wish 
 you were my sister." 
 
 " Then would you be more agreeable ? " 
 
 " Possibly. Occasionally. I don't know. I 
 don't know anything sure." 
 
 " That is a sad state of mind for a gentleman, I 
 am sure. I thought they knew everything." 
 
 "Did you? Well, then, I don't know, but I 
 think it is going to rain. The clouds are growing 
 black in the north and rising ; and the white crests 
 on them look like a thunderstorm. I should re- 
 gret exceedingly to have you spoil your hat." 
 
 " I am quite in your protection. Do you say 
 'home'?" 
 
 " Yes, home, I think. There, I hear the first 
 rumble of the thunder." 
 
 It was time to be going. The cloud was rising, 
 and the wind came in gusts, also a few drops of 
 rain. 
 
 It was a fine dash they made, among the green 
 woods, with the black cloud rising overhead 
 until the face of the river that flowed beside them 
 was also very black. It was at full speed that 
 they rode under a clump of elms and maples, just 
 where the hills had pushed themselves down on 
 the left close to the river, and the road lay be- 
 tween. It was almost dark there.
 
 190 The Shadow of Nemesis. 
 
 " Give your horse the rein. He will keep the 
 road, Miss Belle." 
 
 " I am doing so." 
 
 The words were scarcely spoken when her 
 horse, first violently shying against his neighbor, 
 reared almost upright. It was a moment's work 
 in the dark under the trees. The horse, in a panic, 
 and evidently bent on throwing his rider, plunged 
 viciously. He had ahead}' sidled away towards the 
 river. Edward Vaughn drove his spur deep into 
 his horse's right flank, and with his right hand 
 wheeled him with a lunge almost against the other, 
 who was just rearing again. The woman had 
 spoken no word, but was fighting for her life. He 
 caught her horse, left handed, by the bridle, swing- 
 ing himself clear off his own. The horse's head 
 swung down a moment with the weight, and his 
 right hand reached her in the saddle. 
 
 " Foot out of stirrup, jump ; " and the silent 
 woman, steadied by a strong arm, swung herself to 
 the ground. 
 
 Edward Vaughn held to the horse. It was a 
 powerful creature, thin flanked, heavy chested, and 
 quite wild ; and as the man clung to him the two 
 struggled together to the road side and Vaughn 
 was swung violently against a tree. He heard 
 the bone crack. He had one arm left. With an 
 oath hissing between his teeth, he aimed a fright- 
 fully crushing blow with the right at the horse,
 
 The Shadow of Nemesis. 191 
 
 behind the ear, and the brute fell quivering and 
 stunned on the ground. 
 
 The woman came up to him. "Are you much 
 hurt?" she said. She had not spoken before. 
 
 " No ; stand away ; your horse may make a 
 lunge when he gets over the blow I hit him. Go 
 back in the road." 
 
 Edward Vaughn held firmly the bridle of the 
 prostrate horse. " Now, my good fellow," he said, 
 when the creature finally rose to his haunches, 
 " easy, I am here. Be quiet," and the horse came 
 to his feet trembling from head to foot. The man 
 had conquered. 
 
 " Come now to your mistress." As the man led 
 the horse back into the road, he stumbled against 
 something that felt like a pack of wool, and the 
 horse, bending his nose to the ground, trembled and 
 attempted a faint shy again. Edward Vaughn 
 kicked the thing with his foot. "What's that?" 
 
 " Me," said a thin, squeaking voice. " Me." 
 
 " Me ! Who the devil are-you ? " 
 
 " Me Gum Arabic ; the man what does chores 
 at Widow Smith's. I am overtook with the cramp 
 in my stomach." 
 
 " Drunk as a beast. You nearly broke my neck 
 over your carcass. Get up," and he gave him a 
 kick with his boot. 
 
 " Help a feller up."
 
 192 The Shadow of Nemesis. 
 
 " Get up yourself or I'll throw you into the 
 river." 
 
 The man, under the inspiration of the boot, man- 
 aged to get up. 
 
 " Now stand here, until I get ready to have you 
 go, or I'll cut your throat or do something worse." 
 
 He led the horse up to Miss Seaton. " He is as 
 gentle as a lamb now. Will you dare to ride him 
 home ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but where is your horse ? " 
 
 " Gone down the road, nobody knows where, 
 and I must foot it home. But come, the rain is 
 almost here, and you must go. Here, let me help 
 you. Have you got the reins in the dark, left 
 hand, mind ? " 
 
 " Now then," and with a strong arm around her 
 waist she was swung to the saddle again. 
 
 " But what is to become of you ? " she said. 
 
 "Oh, never mind me. I shall walk. Don't 
 alarm the house, nor send anybody back for me. 
 I shall be with you in a quarter of an hour or so. 
 Ride on ; it is raining now." 
 
 " If you will it, I will leave you." 
 
 " Ride hard, and don't stop to talk with me. It 
 is going to be a very ugly night." And Isabel 
 Seaton rode bravely away into the dark. 
 
 " Now then," he said, turning to the man with 
 the pack, " what are you doing here ? " 
 
 " I'm an unfortunate individual. My mother
 
 The Shadoiv of Nemesis. 193 
 
 was burnt to death and my sister died with the 
 measles, and I've never been well since I had the 
 influenza that's hurt all my bones." 
 
 "Yes, drunk and lay down in the road to sleep, 
 for people to break their necks over ; that's the 
 story. Such fellows as you ought to be hung." 
 
 The man was slowly coming to his senses. He 
 attempted to touch his bit of a slouched felt hat to 
 Mr. Vaughn. 
 
 " Yes ; I am an unfortunate, Mr. Vaughn," 
 beginning a maudlin, half-drunken cry, " and you 
 gin me three shillin' last week to help a feller. I 
 didn't mean it; no, sure." 
 
 " Well, but I can't stop to bother with you. 
 You'll die here in the rain before morning. Where 
 are you going ? " 
 
 " Nowhere." 
 
 "Go home." 
 
 "I hain't got none, nor no money nuther. 
 
 " Money ! what a poor devil you are. You're 
 always drunk when you have a sixpence. There, 
 take that," giving him a couple of shillings, " and 
 move on. Somebody will take you in, or you can 
 get into a barn. But if you lie down in the road 
 again to-night, I'll have you hung and cut up into 
 quarters. Mind that." 
 
 " Yis, your honor ; " and the man, lifting unstead- 
 ily his pack upon his stick over his shoulder, moved 
 on. Edward Vaughn went down the road in a
 
 194 The Shadoiv of Nemesis. 
 
 fierce, steady tramp till he came to the Seatons' 
 house. The rain was by this time falling heavily. 
 Miss Seaton was waiting for him upon the piazza. 
 " We have been so anxious," she said. 
 
 " I had better go to the kitchen," he said ; " I 
 am wet and muddy." 
 
 " No ; into the dining-room by the fire." 
 
 " But what is the matter ? " she said, as he came 
 to the light. " You are so pale." He was indeed 
 white. 
 
 "Nothing of consequence. I wish somebody 
 to go for the doctor. I have got a job for him," 
 and a grim smile crossed his features again. 
 
 " Do not alarm yourself, madam," he said to 
 Mrs. Seaton, as that lady with a very bustling air 
 was proposing a remedy for at least a score of 
 maladies. " It -is a trifle. I am a little faint, and 
 I want a glass of brandy, if you have it." The 
 doctor came in with an inquiring professional look. 
 " I have broken my left arm, Doctor, and want it 
 set. No ; don't move it. I heard the bone break. 
 Cut off the coat and get at it somehow." They 
 cut the coat off, and set the bone of a great, brawny 
 arm. " There now " he said, when it was finished, 
 " I have been over the world, and never did this 
 thing before ; and now for a horse to break my arm 
 in a cowpath ! Bah ! Miss Seaton, this will never 
 do. It is not romantic." 
 
 Then he rose up. " I regret to say, ladies," with
 
 The Shadow of Nemesis. 195 
 
 a very formal bow to Madame, " that I cannot take 
 my tea with you this evening. I must go home." 
 
 " Home ! Impossible. It is a hard rain-storm." 
 
 "Your pardon, I must go home." 
 
 " At least we will send you home." 
 
 " No, I shall walk." 
 
 The company looked at one another, as though 
 the man before them was a little daft. 
 
 " Adieu, ladies," he said, and went tramping out 
 into the storm. Edward Vaughn should have been 
 a great and good man, and he knew himself to be 
 neither. To be wet with rain, to be beat with 
 storm, to fight his way through obstacles to his 
 point, to be forever satisfying his fierce, lawless 
 moods, in a fierce battle somewhere, to absorb 
 himself in a struggle for mastery over something, 
 and then to throw away his prizes as though they 
 were dead leaves, this was the secret of his life. 
 
 Therefore with a broken arm he chose to tramp 
 home in the rain.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A MAIDEN. 
 
 EDWARD VAUGHN seemed to have entered the 
 world again at his party. By that fete he had 
 become at once acquainted with Aubrey folk 
 and a visitor at several houses. The town peo- 
 ple, now that the ice was broken, found him an 
 agreeable person, and if his faults had been as 
 mountains, there are some in every community to 
 whom they would have been quite hid behind his 
 bank-book. Truth to say, he was a pleasant per- 
 son when the fit was on him, and he never did 
 things by halves. He evidently intended to make 
 himself agreeable, and agreeable he was. But 
 while he cultivated Aubrey society, he also betook 
 himself with new zeal to field sports ; and although 
 his broken arm hindered him for some time from 
 horseback, he went, to say truth, trout fishing 
 every other day. With nothing to do he was the 
 busiest of men, and with a certain restless activity 
 he was always walking, climbing, or exploring 
 through almost every field and glen in the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 He was trout fishing one Saturday morning in
 
 A Maiden. 197 
 
 Curtis' brook, with his invariable companion, Thor, 
 who had learnt the mysteries of the craft, well in his 
 rear to avoid scaring the fish, and hunting frogs at 
 his own venture in the pools that had been left in the 
 hollows under the tree roots which exposed them- 
 selves at the bank edges. It was a wild place, 
 where the stream in spring freshets swept on full 
 between the high rocky banks thick with pines 
 and hemlocks; but at this season the water had 
 shrunk away to a shallow stream tumbling noisily 
 over the rocks midway between the banks, and its" 
 bed was for the most time bare. Mr. Vaughn was 
 fishing up stream among the rocks and in the pools 
 that lay at their base, absorbed in his sport, until 
 he had come to where the high banks afore named 
 close together and overhang the water with the 
 deep shadows of their evergreens. It was the 
 place where the largest trout lie hid. All at once 
 he had a sense that some one was near him, 
 though he had not looked up, and the stream was 
 so noisy that he heard nothing else. Yet lie felt a 
 presence, and knew that when he chose to look 
 he should find a human creature near him. So he 
 looked up, of course. Ten feet before him, under 
 the hemlocks, was a woman. He took a good view 
 of her. It was a girl of twenty, maybe, who wore 
 a chip hat trimmed black and a gray dress with a 
 brown cloth sack over it. She was of medium 
 height, petite, brown haired, with a pale face and
 
 198 A Maiden. 
 
 two very round black eyes, soft liquid Oriental 
 eyes, such as Peris have, they say, who salute those 
 good Mahomedans that are so fortunate as to 
 enter Paradise. Besides the eyes, and that hers 
 was a pure, open, childlike face, there was nothing 
 to be especially remarked about her. She had a 
 collection of ferns and brakes in her hand, and on 
 her left arm a wicker basket with a lid to it. 
 
 First Edward Vaughn made her as polite a bow 
 as he well could standing upon two very slippery 
 stones. Then he said, with a smile, " I very 
 seldom have a lady's company trout fishing, and I 
 didn't think there was one of your race within a 
 thousand miles of me ; for it seems a thousand 
 miles away from everybody when I get in under 
 these hills." 
 
 " I am quite as much surprised as you can be at 
 this meeting, I assure you, sir. I seldom meet any 
 one here but the birds and squirrels, and I come 
 here very often." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, then, for intruding on your 
 solitude. As you seem to be the Lady of the 
 Woods, I beg you to allow me to catch a few 
 more trout before I go home to dinner." 
 
 " These are not my woods," she answered, " but 
 God's, and they belong to everybody. I can give 
 you no permission here. Aubrey people own the 
 town, but the woods and the waters belong to Him, 
 and therefore are free to every one."
 
 A Maiden. 199 
 
 " May I make bold to ask the name of the lady 
 I see before me with a handful of ferns." 
 
 " I am Lucy Farewell, the teacher of St. Clem- 
 ent's parish school." 
 
 " Ah, yes, you belong to the Stone Church. I am 
 Edward Vaughn without occupation, less than 
 sixty, a vagabond trout fisher, horse rider, dinner 
 eater, Epicurean, Stoic, something, nothing, at 
 your service." 
 
 The lady looked surprise out of the black eyes, 
 but, saying nothing, was picking up her basket, 
 which she had laid off her arm, as if to go. 
 
 "Pardon me, Miss Farewell, a question. lama 
 little curious to know why you go clambering round 
 among these hills. It's not the way of young ladies 
 generally to do anything else but dress and eat their 
 dinners ; besides, the sun is very like to spoil your 
 complexion." 
 
 " Do you really wish to know, sir ? " 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " Then I am willing to tell you. I have gone 
 out into the fields and woods ever since I was a 
 child. I was born with a love of it. Everything 
 in the fields is so pure and gentle. In the house I 
 feel in prison, but when I come to a place like this 
 under the trees, and with those clear pools to look 
 into, or out in the sunshine looking up at the blue 
 sky or the white clouds, I feel freer, and as though 
 God was nearer me ; and I can think, too, of my dear
 
 200 A Maiden. 
 
 mother, who always seems nearer to me in such a 
 place than anywhere else, except in our parish 
 church, perhaps, and of many things which a 
 young person like me ought to think of." 
 
 She said this, not looking at him but beyond 
 him down the stream, and as it were speaking to 
 herself; and she said it too with a perfectly im- 
 passive face and without the least embarrassment 
 or consciousness of self; quite as a child talks. 
 Edward Vaughn had never heard that kind of talk 
 from a woman in all his life. It was certainly not 
 the talk that one hears in the waltz or at a din- 
 ner party. He had heard women discourse on 
 fashion, art, love, even religion, but quite in an 
 elegant way ; but anything so fresh, so simple, so 
 childlike in a woman he had actually never met. 
 Her words were not those of a rustic, and her way 
 was not exactly like that of a lady according to 
 the world. He actually experienced a new sensa- 
 tion. It was as though he had caught into his 
 society a new species of the genus female. He 
 might neither know nor care what it was like ; but 
 a rare bird like this it was well worth his while to 
 make sing a little. Therefore he opened wide his 
 eyes for a good look at her. It was only a girl in 
 a gray dress. There was a queer, puzzling, half- 
 satiric expression in his face. " So, then, you be- 
 lieve in God?" 
 
 Her face flushed red at once. This time she 
 looked straight at him.
 
 A Maiden. 201 
 
 "Believe in God? Believe in God?" she said. 
 " Why do you speak so ? Do you disbelieve in 
 Him ? " and her nature seemed shrinking back and 
 away from him into itself, as if to hide from some- 
 thing that sadly hurt it. " I shall not answer 
 that question, sir." 
 
 " I meant no offence. People are apt to use 
 phrases carelessly, and I merely wished to learn 
 whether you realized what you were saying. I 
 certainly believe in God, if not in your way, at 
 least in my own, and if I didn't I would try and 
 lay a train of gunpowder to blow up the world and 
 rid it of some of the insects that crawl over it." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say that, sir," she re- 
 plied. " I could not respect any one who spoke 
 differently. I do not mean you, but such a person 
 would seem a monster without heart or head. 
 Let me show you something. Please look down 
 stream," and she pointed with her hand. "Look 
 through these trees with the sunshine on them, 
 down over those birches and maples, and that very 
 blue sky beyond. In one sense their beauty would 
 be the same if there were no God, but the sense of 
 God fills them with poetry and tenderness, and a 
 spiritual beauty, if I may call it so, which is worth 
 all the rest." 
 
 Edward Vaughn was not in the mood to hear 
 sermons ; and there was something a trifle absurd 
 to have a girl for preacher, and pious things were
 
 202 A Maiden. 
 
 not exactly in his line, and here he was under 
 instruction. It was a new role that puzzled him. 
 So he went back to the old, half-veiled sarcasm. 
 
 " Since, then, I have won your respect by my 
 correct answer, will you be so kind as to tell me 
 what sort of wonders you have caged up in that 
 basket on your arm. Are you a botanist ? " 
 
 " I did not say you had won my respect. You 
 are a stranger to me, and I do not know you. I 
 trust you are worthy of a woman's respect. I 
 have no objection to show you my basket." 
 
 Edward Vaughn was actually puzzled. This 
 woman had somehow a masterful way about her, 
 that with its simple truthfulness was breaking 
 down the fence of his clever words and reaching 
 the very heart of the matter, conquered in the 
 dispute. Yet of the world, so called, he knew 
 ages more than she who had never been outside 
 a country village. With a woman like Isabel 
 Seaton he could hold his own through all the 
 intracacies of subtle sayings, but with this child 
 almost he was breaking down. That touched his 
 pride first. " It is a country girl, romantic. Bah ! " 
 he thought. Next he felt somehow, deep down in 
 his soul, that here was a pure, simple, innocent, 
 woman's nature, and truth to say he reverenced it, 
 as men always reverence women. Then upon 
 the spot he actually became sincere in his own 
 heart, which went back in secret sympathy and
 
 A Maiden. 203 
 
 homage towards her innocency, and when he 
 spoke again he had laid aside a certain frivolity 
 which was used to tone all his speech. 
 
 " Please show me your basket." 
 
 So she put down her basket and the ferns in her 
 hand and took out the' contents. ''These are 
 mosses off the stones and tree-trunks," she said, 
 as she took out and laid on the ground exquisite 
 pieces of moss. " I have gathered these for my 
 fernery. See, they are softer than velvet, and 
 under the trees where they grow is a carpet such 
 as not even queens have." 
 
 " Yes, they are very beautiful, and each has a 
 shading of its own besides, such as no painter 
 could put on with his brush. Yes, Miss Farewell, 
 I do believe in God. Only sometimes, when I see 
 how the world goes, and men and women act, it 
 seems as though He were gone to sleep. 
 
 " God is good enough, as these mosses show, and 
 men like me have sometimes religious thoughts ; 
 but then, when we go out into the world again we 
 go down to its level and live practical atheists. 
 But you don't know the world, and I hope you 
 never may. There's not much romance nor reli- 
 gion to it, nor anything else than money. I have 
 got money, Miss, plenty of it, more than is good, 
 maybe, but I'd give a round half of it if I could 
 have a child's faith again and believe in God as 
 you seem to."
 
 204 A Maiden. 
 
 " I don't know the world," she said, " and if it 
 makes one wicked I don't wish to know it, but I 
 know that God is everywhere, our Father, and 
 the more I believe in Him the more happy and 
 content I am." 
 
 "I would do nothing to disturb your faith." 
 So then Edward Vaughn helped her put back her 
 mosses into the basket and gather up her ferns 
 from the stone where she had laid them. "You 
 had better not try to follow the stream down, for 
 below, the last freshet has jammed its bed full of 
 floatwood and a tree has fallen across it. There's 
 a pair of bars just this side, where you had better 
 go on to the upland." 
 
 " I know the bars very well, thank you, and 
 every rod of ground about here. The woods are 
 my garden. Good day." 
 
 And Edward Vaughn did not presume to fol- 
 low her, but watched until she had passed the 
 bars. The interview had affected him strangely. 
 Lucy Farewell's presence lent something to his 
 life which was as a pure, cool, evening breeze from 
 the hills on the heated and worn reaper in the 
 sultry day. There are those who, when we meet 
 them, tone us up to a purer life, and Lucy Fare- 
 well was one of them, for her soul was pure and 
 childlike. Edward Vaughn had confessed his 
 inferiority to her. 
 
 He went on fishing up stream.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " THE REVIVAL." 
 
 THE revival was in full blast at the meeting- 
 house. Under a great heat, many germs of things 
 had sprouted up in the hearts which had been 
 exposed to the fire of the passionate prayers and 
 warnings spoken there. On some a great change 
 had been wrought, and ever after, till their life's 
 end, they walked with a graver and wiser step in the 
 paths of this world, looking for a great, pure rest 
 to come. On others, greatly moved for a season, 
 it was as though a whirlwind broke, which, when 
 it passed, left them stunned and dulled henceforth 
 towards things spiritual. It was a storm that fed 
 some flowers but broke others upon the stalk. 
 
 Mr. Lefingwell consented to, rather than coun- 
 selled, the performance. But Deacon Hobbs and 
 those who thought with him were in their ele- 
 ment. It is so very comfortable for the man 
 beside the fire to counsel the vagrant in the snow 
 to be warmed and fed in a charity that costs him 
 only words. The Deacon began, where charity 
 does, at home, and in his family of late he had 
 been very urgent with his daughter, Prudence
 
 206 "The Revival" 
 
 Hobbs. The mother of Prudence Hobbs was 
 long since in her grave, but she had been a true, 
 gentle woman, for the Deacon had wed with 
 women of a far nobler strain than his, in that 
 mysterious Providence at work everywhere around 
 us, which often allots to very mean men noble 
 wives, as though the costliest diamonds were to 
 be worn upon the ugliest hands. Prudence had 
 inherited her mother's nature. She had grown up 
 from a frail, silent, meditative child to a sensi- 
 tive and now quite handsome woman. But her 
 girlhood had been shadowed by her austere home. 
 From that home everything beautiful had been 
 banished except the sunshine which crept in at 
 the windows, or the honeysuckle that trailed itself 
 around the two posts of the front door. The 
 religion indoors was iron, and iron is cold, and 
 frays or chills. It was not the Puritan religion, 
 for that had always a fierce flame to it, that no 
 wise man ever spoke lightly of, but the mere skel- 
 eton of an ancient faith, with the inside burnt 
 out. In such an atmosphere Prudence Hobbs had 
 grown to womanhood, but, while she outwardly 
 obeyed its rule, her young mind rebelled against 
 its barriers, and, lifting itself up to find something 
 to feed its hunger, had dreamed far away into the 
 enchanted land which the holy angels guard for 
 such as she, and craved religion. This was the 
 soul that " the revival" fell down upon in Deacon
 
 " The Revival^ 207 
 
 Hobbs' house. To say that he understood his 
 daughter would be to say that the clod compre- 
 hends the flower that springs from it. But 
 because he did not understand his daughter he 
 smote her sorely by all he did. Humble before 
 her own faults, with a humility lie could never 
 know, she needed gentle hands to lead her 
 whither her own heart prayed to go, but did not 
 know the way, and he gave her bitter Hebrew roots 
 for diet, but not the Gospel. It was not so much 
 that she feared to suffer God's wrath as prayed to 
 be made His child. Her father's will had forced 
 her to the revival, and she had sat through all, 
 pale, silent, and outwardly unmoved. But the 
 revival smote upon a soul already sore, while at 
 home the Deacon urged the fire. It was as 
 though to give a hungry man a furnace. 
 
 It was the last night of the revival, and the 
 Deacon called for his daughter. She was not in 
 the house. Perhaps she had gone before to the 
 meeting. Yet she was not there, and the Deacon 
 turned uneasily in his seat several times during 
 meeting to search for her among the people. 
 After service, he inquired of several. No one 
 had seen her. It was certainly very strange, for 
 she had been always in her place at these devo- 
 tions ; and the Deacon, with an unquiet air, walked 
 rapidly home. She was not there either. Nine, 
 ten o'clock, and she did not come. She had sel-
 
 208 " The Revival." 
 
 dom been out late at night, and never alone. 
 It was time to arouse the neighbors. The neigh- 
 bors searched late through the town, and when, as 
 the first faint bars of light appeared in the east, 
 the tired men went home, they had found nothing. 
 Prudence Hobbs had disappeared. 
 
 But where had she gone? All that day in her 
 chamber she had heard in her heart : " The soul 
 that sinneth it shall die," and no angel had spoken 
 any other word. Then the great awful thought 
 of judgment to come rose up before her a cloud 
 of darkness that overawed and enwrapped her soul 
 with blackness. Even hope seemed to die ; and 
 to her sensitive nature she was sinking to the pit, 
 with none to help. Her brain throbbed; her 
 face was hot and feverish ; she could not weep ; 
 only occasionally she moaned. The day had 
 grown towards the evening. Then with a forlorn 
 and desperate heart she rose up, and putting on 
 her hat and shawl went out, she knew not and 
 cared not whither. She met none as she crossed 
 the common ; but she went down quite mechani- 
 cally towards the river. The evening air cooled 
 her brain a trifle, as she found herself by the 
 graveyard, which stood on a bluff overlooking the 
 flood below. She passed in through the open gate, 
 straight on to her mother's grave, and, throwing 
 herself prostrate upon it, in the grass wet with the 
 dew, lay there motionless, as if dead. Then she
 
 " The Revival" 209 
 
 prayed a strangely mixed human prayer; prayed 
 to her dead mother, who bore her, to have mercy 
 on her and beseech that God whom she could 
 not dare approach He was so terrible to de- 
 liver her and make her His ; and then again, in her 
 desperation, she prayed deep dov^n at her soul's 
 centre even to Him for pardon. And thus she 
 prayed, even till the stars, swung in their orbits by 
 His hand, had risen high above her; and yet her 
 soul had heard no answer. 
 
 O stars, serene and pure in the spring nights ! O 
 skies that overarch us, the matchless temple dome 
 upon the everlasting hills ! O earth, most motherly 
 and gentle ! you have no lips to speak our pardon ; 
 but He who made you thus and suffered once for 
 all even for her hath spoken by His cross and 
 passion that He is merciful, that He will pardon ! 
 
 Then she betook herself to the road again, and 
 went, not knowing or caring whither. The sound 
 of the river near her flowing over the stones 
 sounded like a dirge. On tired, feverish, con- 
 sumed of the flame in her she went to the Factory 
 Village. The lights were out and the shops shut ; 
 there were no people in the empty streets, as 
 though the very town was dead and gone to judg- 
 ment. She passed on to the outskirts of the 
 village. Down the lane, on her left, in a solitary 
 house, there was a light burning. She knew it 
 well the House of Idols, the Roman Catholic
 
 210 " The Revival:' 
 
 meeting-house, as the folks called it. It was the 
 last place, she knew, that a child of the Puritans 
 should ever enter. What they worshipped there 
 she had never learned, only she had often heard it 
 said that they were very wicked people, who had 
 burnt pious folks under Queen Mary, as she 
 had read in Foxe's " Book of Martyrs." Yet what 
 did it matter to her, under God's wrath, and 
 doomed ? She turned down the lane until she came 
 to the building. Then she sat down on its stone 
 steps and hid her face in her shawl, until she was 
 chilled through. Then she tried the door; it was 
 locked. Then she went round in the wet grass 
 by the north side. The windows were all shut. 
 There was a door in a little room which projected 
 from the building at the further end. She tried it; 
 it opened, and she entered. It was a little room 
 with a table in it, and a white dress or something 
 lay on one of the chairs a covering for idols, may- 
 be. Then she passed into the church itself. At the 
 end where she stood there was a dim lamp, swung 
 by a chain from the ceiling, and to her left what 
 looked like a great white catafalque, or tomb, as 
 she thought, with great candles on it, and in the 
 centre a huge cross. That was all she could see. 
 What a strange place, and the idols were no doubt 
 close at hand, perhaps in that white tomb before 
 her. Yet she might as well go to the pit from 
 here as anywhere.
 
 " The RevivaV 211 
 
 She flung herself upon some steps under the 
 lamp, facing that great white tomb. Sometimes, 
 to her disturbed vision, it seemed bursting into 
 flames, and she thought she heard groans. Then 
 impish and devilish shadows seemed dancing round 
 the cross and mocking it, while she waited for 
 them to turn on her. So in her delirium she kept 
 her vigil before the altar, until, exhausted, she fell 
 asleep. 
 
 The Roman Catholic chapel was a building 
 very like a barn, with a large red cross upon 
 its front. Otherwise it was very like all such 
 places. It was not an elegant edifice, but its 
 worshippers were not ashamed of it. It was the 
 best they could. Father Doherty was the priest 
 in charge ; and was very like a great many other 
 priests. He had a broad, red, good-humored face 
 and large, gray eyes with a slight squint to 
 them. He was often called by some a fat, lazy 
 monk, just as though it was a sin for a Christian to 
 be fat and Christians might not be lazy. It was a 
 part of that ascetic temper which razeed its hat to 
 Puritan plainness but forgot to cut its hair. The 
 divines of Genevan origin, when studied in a por- 
 trait gallery, have an emaciated look, though in 
 this the hermits of the Roman schools outdo 
 them ; and in their theology, as exemplified in 
 mortals, leanness was akin to godliness. The 
 Catholic Church has never held it n sin in a priest
 
 212 " The Revival." 
 
 to be fat. Father Doherty was therefore fat, and 
 was not ashamed to be so. 
 
 When he came to his chapel, to make his devo- 
 tions, the morning after Prudence Hobbs had dis- 
 appeared, he unlocked the front door and went in. 
 There was a more than slight flavor of old clothes 
 about the building, and the seats were wooden, and 
 at his college he had seen finer sanctuaries, but 
 this was his cure and he was proud of it, for the 
 altar-cloths were always kept white and dusted, 
 and service was exactly rendered. Father Doherty 
 had a large heart and a little learning, but he knew 
 how to do his work, and did it, while he left his 
 superiors to manage greater affairs than his, ac- 
 cording to their wit. 
 
 He approached the altar. He stopped short, 
 however, before he got there. First he crossed 
 himself and began a Pater Noster. Then he broke 
 into ejaculations. " Blessed Virgin ! and all the 
 saints ! it is a woman ! " Yes, a woman asleep 
 under her shawl in Father Doherty's chapel ! He 
 crossed himself again, and then shook her by the 
 shoulder. " Wake up, young woman. What are 
 you doing here ? " 
 
 Prudence Hobbs, for it was she, slowly roused 
 herself as though she had slept deep down toward 
 somewhere, opened her eyes half dreamily, and 
 then sat up. The eyes red with weeping, and the 
 worn face under the dishevelled hair, which she
 
 " The Revival." 213 
 
 made several useless attempts to brush back from 
 her forehead, showed the father at once that 
 here was some one in distress. 
 
 He said therefore gently, " My poor child, how 
 came you here?" 
 
 " I hardly know myself." 
 
 " Whose daughter are you ? " 
 
 "Deacon Hobbs'." 
 
 Father Doherty crossed himself again. Deacon 
 Hobbs he knew as a man who thought that what 
 was Roman Catholic was devilish, and what was 
 anti-Roman Catholic was holiness ; and for Deacon 
 Hobbs' daughter to be found in his chapel quite 
 perplexed the good man. He was also a little 
 alarmed. But he repeated his question. " How 
 came you here, my child?" 
 
 He waited some time for his answer. The black- 
 ness was returning to her heart with her waking. 
 First she shuddered a cold, suffering shudder. 
 Then she held both hands to her head, as though 
 there was something heavy on her brain. Then 
 finally she burst into tears and sobbed. The priest 
 let her cry it out. When that was done, he said, 
 very quietly, "Do not distress yourself so, my 
 child. Maybe I can help you? Tell me what 
 troubles you. Is it sin ? " 
 
 She shuddered again. " Yes." 
 
 " Is it mortal sin ? Can you tell me what it is ? 
 I am an old man " (Father Doherty was forty,
 
 214 " The Revival" 
 
 maybe). " Now tell me, quite like your 
 father." 
 
 The shudder passed over her again, but she said 
 nothing. The priest waited patiently. " Yes," 
 she said at last, " I am a great sinner and there is 
 no mercy for me. I am lost forever." 
 
 " But why ? God is all mercy. The Virgin, a 
 woman like you, and yet Mother of God, has 
 mercy. All the saints have mercy. There is 
 mercy for everybody. Be comforted, my child. 
 You wrong yourself." 
 
 "No, I can't be religious. I have tried it all my 
 days and I can't get religion. Father says I shall 
 be lost. A great many have got religion at the 
 revival, and I have been to all the meetings and 
 yet I am worse than ever. I can't be good and 
 feel as they say I should. And I know I shall 
 never be saved ; " and the old shudder came over 
 her again. It was all plain now to the priest's 
 mind. She was a victim to the revival which he 
 heard was going on at the meeting-house in Old 
 Town ; and a sort of uncatholic anathema passed 
 through his heart as he saw the young girl's 
 misery ; but he was too well trained to show it, 
 and he merely said, "Have you a mother, my 
 child?" 
 
 " My mother is dead." 
 
 "Do you remember her? Was she kind to 
 
 you?"
 
 " The Revival:' 215 
 
 " Yes ; she was a dear mother. I wish I was 
 with her" (sobbing again). 
 
 " Now then, think of your mother, all she was 
 to you, holding you on her bosom as a baby. But 
 God is more loving than she was, insomuch as He 
 is greater than she was. He is all love ; and here 
 through his Church, and hereafter in His own per- 
 son, He will hold you to His heart, as His child. 
 It will be a great sin in you not to trust Him. 
 Your mother trusted Him, I hope, and you must." 
 
 The young girl grew more quiet under his 
 reassuring words. The priest was silent a few 
 moments, as if in thought. Then he said, " Do 
 you know anything about the Church, my child?" 
 
 "What Church?" 
 
 "The Church our Church my Church." 
 
 She looked up honestly into his face. " I know 
 they say you are very wicked people and worship 
 idols. But you are very kind to me. Is it true 
 what they say ? " 
 
 Father Doherty's face grew grave with an ex- 
 pression of sorrow on it. Then he said, "I 
 would that you and all your race were children of 
 the Catholic Church, and for that we pray without 
 ceasing. But you are not of the mind that would 
 ever make you one, I see. Yet you must serve 
 God somehow, for He is full of love. Now then, 
 you must go home." 
 
 She shuddered. " I cannot go there. I am un- 
 happy."
 
 216 " The Revival' 
 
 " But, ray child, you must. It is your place. 
 Come, now, I will help you to rise," and he held 
 out his hand for her. 
 
 She tried to rise, but almost fainted. It was an 
 awkward dilemma for the good father. " Ah, I 
 see," he said, " you are quite worn out. Be quiet a 
 moment till I come back. He came back from the 
 vestry with a cup. " Here, drink this. It is wine." 
 And she obeyed. 
 
 " Now then, let us go." She rose up by his aid, 
 and went down to the door, the priest steadying 
 her. But she was very weak. 
 
 " You will never get home, my child, in this way. 
 You can hardly walk straight. Lean on me." So, 
 leaning on him, Father Doherty led her to the 
 little parsonage just by. The old Irish house- 
 keeper stared aghast at the sight as he led her in. 
 
 " Here, Bridget, give this poor child some break- 
 fast; she is very weak." And Bridget, with the 
 bustling, kindly air of her sex and nation, gave her 
 in due time some breakfast. Then Bridget sug- 
 gested a brush and comb and a little cold water, 
 and after Prudence Hobbs had made her toilette 
 that sad, pure face of hers, whether Protestant or 
 Catholic, was not exactly homely. 
 
 When Prudence Hobbs had had due time to 
 refresh herself, Father Doherty again made his 
 appearance from his cell, or wherever such priests 
 have their oratory in Protestant land, and in- 
 spected his guest.
 
 " The EevivaV 217 
 
 " You feel better, my child, for your breakfast, 
 I see. Now shall we go home ? " 
 
 The old shudder passed over her again. "No; 
 not home," she said with vehemence ; " anywhere 
 but there. I have been so wretched." 
 
 The good father was used to be obeyed. 
 Besides, he had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and 
 the additional knowledge that if he was caught 
 proselytizing a Protestant in that place, and, more- 
 over, one of Deacon Hobbs' strain, he might have 
 his house pulled down about his ears. For these 
 several reasons, therefore, he proposed to get the 
 unfortunate girl off his hands as soon as possible. 
 Yet he was gentle. 
 
 " Tell me, my child, if you won't go home, what 
 I am to do with you here. Blessed Virgin ! how 
 can I have any woman in my house, except the 
 cook ? And suppose your father should find you 
 here. He would have me, your friend, Father 
 Doherty, hung for a witch." 
 
 Yet her distress increased. "Have mercy on 
 me," she cried ; " I am willing to go anywhere but 
 into the misery from which I have fled. Tell me 
 what to do." 
 
 Father Doherty held the forefinger of his right 
 hand to his lip and mused. It was a distressing 
 case of conscience. If he could have made her 
 his he would, and he was now about to return her 
 to a religion which she loathed, and in which, as
 
 218 " The Revival" 
 
 he thought, salvation might be more than difficult. 
 And yet to meddle might be dangerous. He 
 .hit upon a compromise, that partly satisfied him. 
 " I have it," he cried, starting up. " I won't carry 
 you back to the folks that have tormented you, my 
 child, but you shall go to Parson Ardenne. He 
 won't bother you with their nonsense, and he may 
 do you good. Are you willing ?" 
 
 Prudence Hobbs assented, and the two left 
 Bridget wondering in the kitchen, as she peered 
 after them through the blinds, where on earth the 
 father had found that Protestant. The same 
 thought occurred to several people who met them 
 as they passed through the Village, but the father 
 kept on with his charge, walking before her, for 
 spiritual safety, perhaps, until he was near the 
 Common. There, as chance would have it, he 
 saw Mr. Ardenne coming down the street. 
 
 " Now, my child, here comes Parson Ardenne, 
 who will put you all right." 
 
 The rector, as he saw the two, also wondered. 
 He merely said, " The town was alarmed last 
 night for the safety of this young person. Where 
 did you find her, Father ? " 
 
 " In my chapel asleep, poor child. They have 
 been teasing her with their revival, and she is 
 quite melancholy like, poor thing. She is afraid 
 to go home, and I was bringing her up to you 
 just to comfort and pacify the lamb a little -
 
 " The Revival^ 219 
 
 plague on all this nonsense. I'm of the opinion 
 that this young woman has had too much preach- 
 ing lately, and wants a little instruction just now. 
 And you are the man to give her that." 
 
 Mr. Ardenne inquired into the case briefly. It 
 was a plain one. The young girl before him was 
 plainly in that excitement which might become 
 very dangerous on any further provocation. It 
 was necessary that she should be quieted, and, as 
 she shrank from her home with an almost insane 
 vehemence, it only remained to decide where she 
 should go. The minister bethought himself. 
 " Have you any objection to go to Miss Kendrick's, 
 just by here ? She is a kind woman, and when I 
 tell her about you she will take good care of you." 
 Prudence Hobbs, in a sort of hopeless resignation, 
 rather than any very decided wish, assented. 
 
 " Good-bye, my child," said Father Doherty, "the 
 Holy Virgin keep you," and he turned back again. 
 He was a Roman priest, but he was also a human 
 being ; and under all garbs, and despite all mortal 
 errors, one finds often a loving heart the inefface- 
 able image of God. 
 
 'Miss Mary was surprised by her two visitors 
 just as she was overseeing her morning's house- 
 work. She had heard of Prudence Hobbs' disap- 
 pearance. Mr. Ardenne explained the situation. 
 " Above all, she needs quiet. You must get her 
 to sleep somehow." Miss Mary took her charge in
 
 220 "The Revival." 
 
 hand. "Come," she said, "you are worn out and 
 need sleep." So she took her into her own room. 
 Then she took off her shawl and hat. Next she 
 made her comfortable on her own sofa, with pil- 
 lows. She closed the blinds, and made the room 
 quite dark. Then she kissed the worn girl and 
 said, " I will come back in a moment and sit by 
 you till you go to sleep." 
 
 " Her head is very hot," she said to Mr. Ardenne 
 in the hall. " There is danger of brain fever. 
 Don't let the Deacon come here to-day on any 
 account. If I am let alone, I think I can carry 
 her through." 
 
 " I am going to find her father," he said, and 
 went out. 
 
 Miss Mary went back to the dark room, and 
 sitting down by the side of her patient, bathed 
 gently her forehead in camphor, until she fell into 
 a quiet sleep. 
 
 Mr. Ardenne found Deacon Hobbs and told him 
 where his daughter was. He also explained to 
 him, as politely as he could, her distress and the 
 causes of it. The Deacon's amazement was not to 
 be described, except in this way, that while it was 
 noisy, it was somehow wooden and creaky ; since 
 his nature, as has been told, had no juices in it, and 
 his very passions, such as he had, lacked a certain 
 fire of earnestness which makes even mere human 
 passion somehow decent. He interrupted the
 
 " The Revival^ 221 
 
 minister's story several times with ejaculations of 
 a pious horror, but the latter got through at last, 
 saying, "I am mixed up in this matter quite 
 accidentally, and only wish as a Christian man to 
 be of any service I can to you and your daughter." 
 
 " You would be glad to make her one of yours, 
 I suppose," the Deacon said. 
 
 " I have made no attempt that way, and I do not 
 propose to do so, at least, against your will. The 
 whole matter rests with you, as her father." 
 'The Deacon started up to go to his daughter, to 
 comfort her with a new volume of the Law, and 
 especially that which teaches us to obey our 
 parents. " My daughter was always stubborn and 
 headstrong, and now she has run away from me. 
 She must obey." 
 
 " If you go to her to-day you will peril her life. 
 She is in a very critical state, and you might drive 
 her to insanity by saying anything to her just now. 
 When she is in a calmer mood you can do as you 
 like. But as things are, it would be merely in- 
 human to molest her, and I think the town's folk 
 would blame you severely." 
 
 The Deacon sat down again. He had an appetite 
 for popularity, as men are prone to crave that most 
 which they are doomed most to lack. 
 
 " When my daughter repents and wishes to see 
 me, I will go to her." 
 
 Deacon Hobbs himself had never sinned !
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE OLD AND THE NEW IN STRIFE. 
 
 WHEN Prudence Hobbs woke next morning she 
 was refreshed indeed, but the old pain came back 
 to her heart again. Both the Deacon and Mr. 
 Ardenne had been at the house to inquire for her, 
 but no one, by the doctor's orders, had seen her. 
 The two ladies had nursed her tenderly ; and, 
 when evening prayers had been said in her sick 
 chamber, Miss Mary kneeling by the invalid's bed, 
 in the silence that followed, before they rose from 
 their knees, they both prayed for her " the peace 
 that passeth understanding." 
 
 It was well tha't Prudence Hobbs had had her 
 breakfast before the Deacon came loud, rigid, 
 solemn, insisting to see his daughter. Miss Mary 
 could not very well deny him, so he came in. 
 Neither his daughter's youth, nor her evident dis- 
 tress, softened his righteous indignation, but he 
 began with the law of children obeying parents, 
 and in a long discourse proved that his daughter 
 had wronged and rebelled against him, Deacon 
 Hobbs, had despised the covenanted mercies, and 
 was without doubt a child of wrath, and would
 
 The Old and the New in Strife. 223 
 
 descend to the pit. It might have been all true, 
 but it was not exactly the way to save his 
 daughter. 
 
 Furthermore, this morning his eloquence was all 
 in vain. Her heart closed up under his words, as 
 though they had been blows, and there only re- 
 mained her old darkness and rigidity of nature. 
 She did not even interrupt his discourse, and for 
 some time after he stopped she made no reply. 
 
 " What have you to answer, young woman ; or 
 have you nothing to answer? " he said. 
 
 " Father, I wish to be good and a Christian ; but 
 I can't be in the way you wish. The meetings 
 have done me no good, and only make me feel 
 worse and more rebellious. My heart is very 
 hard, I know, and it grows harder every day, and 
 I expect to be damned; but if I am, I can't help 
 it. I have prayed to be better ; but I can't feel as 
 other people say they do, and I am very miserable." 
 
 The Deacon insisted that she should go home. 
 Then with a half-delirious energy, and as if an old 
 wound very near her heart had been cruelly struck 
 somehow, rising up before him she told him that 
 come what might, whether lost or saved, as she 
 was miserable and in despair, to that home she 
 could not and would not go. 
 
 The Deacon stood aghast at her wickedness ; 
 and Miss Mary, anxious for smaller matters than 
 the Deacon handled, feared hysterics.
 
 224 The Old and the New in Strife. 
 
 " Your child is very poorly," she said, " and 
 should be kept quiet, and all this injures her. I 
 think if you will leave your daughter to recover 
 from her distress, she will then be ready to do all 
 she should. But really, as she is now, an interview 
 like this is dangerous. I wish you would leave 
 her to me." The Deacon could in nowise under- 
 stand the matter, but he obeyed Miss Mary so far 
 as to follow her out of the room, where very ener- 
 getically she expressed her opinion that here was 
 a poor, distressed, excited child, whom everybody 
 but herself should let alone ; and that it would be 
 murder in anybody to talk religion to her in her 
 present state; and she insisted that everybody, 
 except herself and the doctor, should let her 
 patient be quiet. "She wants rest and a little 
 common sense more than anything else in the 
 world just now." 
 
 As Miss Mary was not one of his wives, nor 
 ever likely to be, the Deacon made no oration in 
 answer to her emphasis, but put on his hat and 
 went off. He was always suspicious of his neigh- 
 bors : here, he thought, was a conspiracy to make 
 his daughter an Episcopalian. Full of this ingen- 
 ious discovery he made haste to the rectory, and 
 with a very steady tramp of his cowhide boots 
 upon the stairs, presented himself, with no great 
 ceremony, to the rector preparing his Sunday's 
 sermon.
 
 The Old and the New in Strife. 225 
 
 " When did you see my daughter, sir ? " 
 
 " Yesterday morning." 
 
 " And haven't you seen her since ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I am not accustomed, Mr. Ardenne, to accuse 
 people without proof, but it has occurred strongly 
 to my mind, since our last meeting, that you were 
 trying to make my daughter an Episcopalian in 
 spite of my wishes." 
 
 Mr. Ardenne's face flushed a little. 
 
 " We are not used to do things in an underhand 
 way, nor to teach children to disobey their parents. 
 But we are ready to show people how to be Chris- 
 tians, and we would be glad, if not only your 
 daughter, but all were Church folk. I have hardly 
 more than seen her, and certainly shall not under- 
 take to steal her away from your communion, 
 though, as she has actually run away from it, I 
 conclude she has no great taste for it." 
 
 " I don't wish to make you mad, parson, but I 
 have always entertained a great prejudice against 
 your persuasion." 
 
 " What is the matter with ' my persuasion,' as 
 you call it ? " 
 
 " It's as bad as the Roman Catholics, and I don't 
 see much difference between you. I expect you 
 will all be Papists one of these days." 
 
 " You have mixed two or three distinct matters 
 together in what you have just said, and I will
 
 226 The Old and the New in Strife. 
 
 now divide them, and answer you. In the first 
 place, what do you mean by "as bad as Roman 
 Catholics " ? Do you mean that Roman Catholics 
 have nothing good about them, and Protestants 
 have all good? Do you mean that Roman Cath- 
 olics hold no true doctrines, and Protestants hold 
 them all ? Do you mean to say that Roman Cath- 
 olics have no piety, and all Protestants are holy ? 
 For a sensible or charitable Christian it would be 
 a very delicate matter to say all that. It is the 
 fashion of many folks to lump the Roman Catholic 
 Church together, and call it all rottenness and bad. 
 This is not a wise way to do, because abuse always 
 creates sympathy for the abused, and throws fair- 
 minded men to the wrong side sometimes. A 
 dog, maliciously hunted, finds friends ; and there 
 is no use calling the Roman Church all evil, if it 
 be partly good. That Church believes in the Holy 
 Trinity, for instance, as Protestants do ; but they 
 believe in a great many other doctrines that we do 
 not. We discriminate between their truth and 
 error. And that is the reason why we, whom you 
 think as bad as Roman Catholics, are the very 
 last people to become such. The man who knows 
 best his neighbor's landmarks is least likely to 
 trespass on his neighbor's lands. 
 
 " Protestants often go to Rome in a reaction 
 from their own injustice in thinking her all evil, 
 and end by thinking her all good. But they err
 
 The Old and the New in Strife. 227 
 
 both first and last. We shall none of us triumph by 
 calling her heathen, but by surpassing her as Chris- 
 tian. Now we are not only not Romanizers, but 
 in the long run we expect to be the bulwark of 
 Protestantism against Rome by furnishing Chris- 
 tendom what is good in Rome minus the evil. 
 We think we hold a faith older than Rome, and 
 purer." 
 
 "But your rites and ceremonies are certainly 
 Romish," said the Deacon. " All these crosses you 
 make, and all this about Lent and Easter, sounds 
 like ' the Scarlet Woman.' " 
 
 " As to Lent and Easter, and all other fasts and 
 feasts, we keep them because Christ's Church com- 
 mands us, just as she commands us to keep Sun- 
 day ; and if you keep Sunday because it is Chris- 
 tian tradition, you should keep the other holy days 
 for the same reason. 
 
 " Again, you cannot object to all rites and cere- 
 monies, because you have your own, but only to 
 our rites and ceremonies. 
 
 " You say some things we do, look Roman. 
 
 "Shall I do nothing that a Roman Catholic 
 does? Then I must cease to breathe. He says 
 the Apostle's creed. Shall I not say it? He sings 
 the Te Deum. Shall I not sing it? The question 
 for you and me is not what Rome holds, but what 
 the Catholic Church holds." 
 
 " But what do you think of a religion that is
 
 228 The Old and the New in Strife. 
 
 nothing but rites and ceremonies?" said the 
 Deacon. 
 
 " If you mean to imply by that that the religion 
 of our Church consists of rite and ceremony, I 
 can only say that it is a very harsh judgment in a 
 matter where neither you or any other man has a 
 right to judge ; and besides that, it is not correct. 
 If in many rites and ceremonies there is much 
 worship, well ; if little, ill ; and if with no rite and 
 ceremony there be no worship, then still worse. 
 Any rite which aids men to adore God is a good 
 rite ; and any rite which hinders men from ador- 
 ing God is a bad rite. You complain of us that 
 we have too many rites. Suppose we should com- 
 plain of you that you have too few? God's wor- 
 ship may be hindered by too little ceremony, as 
 well as by too much. We make no attack on you 
 for what we might think a bald service. Where 
 is your right to accuse our more elaborate wor- 
 ship?" 
 
 "But do you believe in a vital, godly, experi- 
 mental piety? " asked the Deacon. 
 
 " Do I, a Christian minister, believe in being a 
 Christian ? for that is what your question means. 
 I answer, Certainly. A true Christian is a man 
 who worships God both in his prayers and in his 
 deeds. The whole aim and office of the Church is 
 to make her children, not delirious, nor fanatical, 
 but quiet, pious Christians."
 
 The Old and the New in Strife. 229 
 
 "But do not some of you," asked the Deacon, 
 "preach much more about the Church than about 
 the Lord Jesus Christ ? " 
 
 "That is another matter," replied the minister, 
 " which requires a plain answer. We say that there 
 can be no Church without the Coss, and that there 
 can be no Cross without the Church. The Church 
 is the conduit of the Cross to man. In this world 
 every life must have its own body, and the Church 
 is the body that contains and restrains that super- 
 natural life which Christianity is." 
 
 All this was news to Deacon Hobbs. He could 
 conceive of no other religion except his own ; 
 and of his own, no mortal had ever conceived 
 except himself. To argue to a man like him was 
 to address a man who had no ears, and the rector's 
 argument left him as it found him, Deacon Hobbs. 
 Yet he had a faint sensation floating about in his 
 ungainly nature that here was a man who at least 
 thought himself right ; and he had been so far 
 conciliated by Mr. Ardenrie's words as to abstain 
 from any further severely godly remarks. 
 
 " Now then, sir," said the rector, " I wish to 
 speak to you about your daughter. You see in 
 what state she is. I have no intent to meddle 
 with her against your wishes ; and I have not done 
 so. She is at my parishioner's house. I shall 
 see her there. Have you any objection to my
 
 230 The Old and the New in Strife. 
 
 attempting to make, by God's grace, a Christian 
 of her?" 
 
 " My daughter," said Deacon Hobbs, " is a head- 
 strong and rebellious child. You may say what 
 you see fit to her. I have given her up." 
 
 And so the Deacon took his leave.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A HOME FOR A HEART. 
 
 MR. ARDENNE did not see that day the invalid 
 at Miss Kendrick's, for that lady kept good watch 
 over her patient and would let no one see her. 
 But the next day, when he came, Miss Mary 
 admitted him with a smile. " Our patient is better 
 now, and you may see her." Prudence Hobbs, 
 under her gentle handling, had become herself 
 again, so far as to be very quiet, and only an ill- 
 defined sense of a great peril overhanging her 
 remained. Her nurss had not spoken to her 
 directly about religious matters, but in diverse 
 ways, and especially in the daily prayers, she had 
 impressed her with a sense that religion was 
 meant to be something most gentle and full of 
 love. The rector went to her, as he came in, 
 very gently, and said in his fatherly way, " How 
 is the sick child to-day ? Let me see, I am half a 
 doctor. Yes, there is no fever, and the pulse is 
 quiet. Miss Mary, your patient does you great 
 credit." 
 
 " Yes, she is quite herself again, only I fancy 
 her mind is troubled about some things which you
 
 232 A Home for a Heart. 
 
 may be able to explain to her. She wishes to be 
 a Christian, and does not know how, and she has 
 an idea that God will not have any mercy on her, 
 He is so just and awful in His nature." 
 
 "It is a very singular view to take, though 
 some hold it," said the minister. " This poor child 
 here would think it very strange if I should tell 
 her that fire would not burn ; and yet, just as it is 
 the quality of fire to have heat, so it is the very 
 quality of God to have mercy. If a man or 
 angel could take away His mercy, he would de- 
 stroy God. And His mercy is so strong that men 
 in this world never outweary it. He will have 
 mercy on every child of His who will accept it, 
 and only they who are blind to it or refuse it ever 
 lack it. All God's names which He gives him- 
 self are merciful names. He is our Father, Christ 
 is our brother, the Church is our mother, the 
 Holy Ghost is comforter. It is true, as they tell 
 you, that His law is vast, immutable, unyielding. 
 This is right, since God's law, could it be change- 
 able, would not be God's law at all, and no viola- 
 tion of it, unrepented, can ever pass unpunished. 
 By that law, which we all break, we are all 
 sinners, and sinners too of that order that by 
 ourselves we cannot pay it what we owe it, and 
 therefore by ourselves must perish. But that is 
 only one half, and the lower half of the truth. 
 God has not left us to wrestle with His law and
 
 A Home for a Heart. 233 
 
 be conquered by it, for that would be to leave us 
 to fight our fight in such a way as to be surely 
 conquered. He has provided a way for our escape 
 and victory so that we may be saved forever. 
 And that way is Jesus Christ. Now Jesus Christ 
 upon His cross made an atonement for the sins of 
 the whole world, so that whoever thereafter should 
 plead His atonement for his own sins should have 
 his sins forgiven. And therefore all revelation, or 
 the showing of God to men, is a showing forth of 
 'God's love and mercy. For all revelation is to 
 save men, and our blessed Lord's coining on earth, 
 and even the way he came, as a child, and all his 
 actions on earth, show chiefly God's affection for us. 
 Nay, we are taught that every hour the blessed 
 Trinity, throned in Heaven and yet near our 
 hearts, love us with a love passing the love of 
 woman, not the love of mothers for their chil- 
 dren, but the vast, boundless, ageless love of the 
 Divinity. Therefore Christianity, above all other 
 religions, is a religion of love, and the Church, 
 through whom true religion is taught men, is full 
 of gentleness in all her words and offices. In her 
 purest ages she has never driven men to God with 
 the whip of fear, but she has drawn men to Him 
 with the gossamer, but unbreaking, bonds of 
 love. It is wrong, therefore, to think of God 
 except as one ever ready to receive and save all 
 His children. It is not difficult to begin to be a 
 Christian."
 
 234 A Home for a Heart. 
 
 "But how?" asked the young girl. 
 
 " Have you ever been baptized ? " 
 
 " No, mother wished it, but father wanted me, 
 he said, to wait until I had grown up and then 
 decide for myself." 
 
 "First of all, it is necessary that you be bap- 
 tized. Baptism is the door by which one enters 
 into the Ark of Safety, the Church. But as you 
 are grown before you are baptized, it is necessary 
 for you to soberly choose to be so. It has no 
 mystery about it, when you solemnly decide to 
 endeavor to live in obedience to God, though the 
 ways in which He helps us to keep our vows are 
 indeed mysterious, as all His ways are. Are you 
 willing to abstain from doing what He forbids, and 
 willing to believe and do what He commands ? " 
 
 "lam." 
 
 " Well, then, if you are, and understand what 
 you say, you are ready to be baptized, as I will 
 show you." And opening his Prayer-Book at the 
 Sacrament of " Baptism of those of Riper Years," 
 he showed her how the four questions to which 
 every baptized person must give assent mean 
 merely this. He also explained to her at length 
 how the Church, demanding only a solemn conse- 
 cration of a soul to God, nurtures it by definite 
 methods through this world to the next, in the 
 name and fear of Jesus Christ, and how what 
 men call religion, since it deals with God, is full on
 
 A Home for a Heart. 235 
 
 that side of mysteries, but on our human side is 
 very plain and simple. In conclusion he said, " I 
 never wish to tell you or any other young person 
 that to be a Christian is an easy thing, for it is not 
 an easy thing either to live well or ill, and the 
 Christian life is a struggle against sin towards 
 God ; but what I wish you to understand is this, 
 that the way to be a Christian is very plain. It 
 is to submit your soul to obey God and to follow 
 our blessed Lord. They whom you obey and 
 follow will take care of the rest as they have 
 promised." 
 
 Prudence Hobbs made no further reply. Then 
 they had prayers together. "I leave you," he said 
 " to the good care of our Heavenly Father. He 
 will hear your prayers and give you His grace." 
 
 When the minister had gone away, Prudence 
 Hobbs lay with her hands over her face for some 
 time without speaking. Then she said to Miss 
 Mary, who sat silently beside her, waiting, 
 
 " I wish to be baptized next Sunday."
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 FLOWERS AGAIN. 
 
 THE accident of a broken arm had not kept 
 Edward Vaughn from the Seatons'. In fact, he 
 went there about as regularly as he ate his dinner. 
 He went there both because it suited his mood 
 and it was made pleasant for him to go. The 
 gossips said it was a match. What did they 
 know ? What do they ever know ? How to gather 
 stray sticks out of the gutters, maybe, and kindle 
 a fire with their tongues therein, that not all the 
 water of two rivers could put out. The course of 
 affairs, so far as Isabel Seaton touched her hand 
 to them, moved on in a very placid manner. She 
 was a girl to act up to the level of her opportunity 
 with a man she fancied, and from her first waltz 
 with him she was not indifferent to Edward 
 Vaughn. When, therefore, he came to see her 
 quite like a suitor, it pleased her to treat him quite 
 as her lover. True, he was odd, and sometimes 
 unmanageable by the hands of Madame Propriety, 
 and his manners were occasionally stormy, but so 
 far, since his mishap, he had been measurably 
 quiet at his visits, and tractable to Miss Belle's
 
 Flowers Again. 237 
 
 tutelage. It pleased that lady, therefore, quite 
 waiving ceremony, when Mr. Vaughn came, to 
 help him off with his coat in the hall, next to 
 show him to the easiest chair in the house, which 
 she had set for him in the recess of the front bow 
 window, which looked across the rivers ; then she 
 brought him a taper with which to light his cigar, 
 and when she had seen his lordship comfortable, 
 sat down herself to entertain her guest with that 
 bright, gossipy, ever-endless chit-chat about noth- 
 ings which so many very clever people find so 
 charming. There never was a Seaton woman who 
 was not clever; and Miss Belle, that bright, 
 healthy, vivacious blonde, with those round blue 
 eyes so full of change and meanings, might have 
 moved a greater Stoic than Edward Vaughn to 
 admiration. That gentleman showed his gratitude 
 in diverse ways : sometimes in the pleasant fashion 
 of soft words that had no dispute in them, and then 
 again in a certain bearishness which trampled down 
 Miss Belle's amenities under its ungracious feet, 
 until that lady was next to anger, or in despair. 
 This was only his amiable way of showing that 
 sometimes he liked to be petted for an invalid, 
 and sometimes not. Upon the whole, however, he 
 was behaving after the lover fashion. 
 
 Was he in love with Isabel Seaton? We will 
 look deeper than ever she did into his heart and 
 answer, for our satisfaction, "No." Edward
 
 238 Floivers Again. 
 
 Vaughn was a man made to love a woman with 
 that strong, unswerving, silent heart-tide of affec- 
 tion so dear to women, and which is to them health, 
 strength, riches, when all else has gone. For 
 Edward Vaughn began life with a man's heart in 
 him, and with all that faith and truth which belong 
 to good men, and as such had honored all women 
 in a silent, gentle homage that bespeaks a princely 
 nature ; but his faith in women had withered quite 
 away, and he never loved because he never trusted ; 
 and what we do not trust neither do we respect. 
 He was no lover except in form. For love is 
 human worship to a human creature. He knelt 
 before a shrine whose divinity he despised. Yet, 
 to save him from contempt, we say again that his 
 was a nature to love a woman tenderly. It is a 
 fashion to laugh at sentiment, and in these prac- 
 tical days of Mammon to weigh lightly as chaff 
 those imponderable, filmy intangibilities we call 
 the affections as between man and woman. But 
 the man who cannot love as a man ought is not a 
 man at all, and a man's love for woman, before the 
 angels, is, next to his love for God, the one pure, 
 musical strain amid the clamor of the iron wheels 
 that grind life down from its mark. The age of 
 chivalry has passed, and a better age, they say, 
 begins in which woman is to be our equal. But 
 she must be either queen or slave to us ; there is 
 no place for equality between us. When we call
 
 Floivers Again. 239 
 
 her our equal we have already degraded her from 
 her throne to our level. In woman are those 
 strains of a pure being before which seraphs bow 
 and angels worship, and by which time and eternity 
 are governed. We call our blessed Lord a perfect 
 man, and so he was ; but this Son of Mary Virgin 
 this kingdom of His to which all creatures must 
 subject themselves have in them those dominant 
 qualities which find their human expression best 
 in woman. The Church, the faith, the spiritual 
 life, are womanly. The seraphs, angels of love, 
 are nearer God, they say, than the cherubs, angels 
 of knowing ; and God himself is Love. Heaven 
 will not be so much perfect knowledge as perfect 
 love. And as all pure things are born of love and 
 wear the maternal features, tell us, is it man or wo- 
 man in this world who is likest God in that ? No ; 
 the age of chivalry has gone ; but if in this world 
 a great, deep-reaching thought ever moved men to 
 a wise aim, it was when devotion to the idea of 
 womanhood led the knight of old to wrestle, 
 conquer self and wrong for woman, and through 
 his love for her, in the fanaticism of his devotion, 
 to love all pure and holy things in God. Edward 
 Vaughn was no knight-errant. His heart by con- 
 tact with the world had become encased in stone. 
 But under the stone were still waters of life in 
 prison. It was not in Isabel Seaton's scope to 
 smite the rock till the waters should gush forth.
 
 240 Flowers Again. 
 
 At the Seatons' it was comfortable and lively, 
 and Miss Belle was certainly piquant. And as 
 a taste for playing with edge-tools is common to 
 many men, he took his turn at the pastime and 
 was not afraid of his fingers. The Heidelberg 
 students slash away at each other with swords for 
 the excitement of it, and Isabel Seaton was his 
 excitement in an else rather drowsy town. One 
 morning at the Seatons' was so much like all the 
 others that we may as well describe it. 
 
 " So you have brought me a bouquet again to- 
 day ? How kind it is of you." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Belle. For a one-armed man my 
 hands are usually full in this household." , 
 
 "Full of nothing worse than flowers, I trust." 
 
 "Yes, full of you. I am always on the lookout 
 for some sharp speech of yours, to see that you 
 don't get the best of me. I think when you are 
 forty you will beat the town at words." 
 
 "Now, that is really unkind of you, Sir Orsin, 
 to make me out such a scold, and when, too, I have 
 just helped you off with your cloak so nicely ; 
 and there is the holder for the cigar ashes ready 
 for you by your chair, you see. Is that your grati- 
 tude?" 
 
 Then Edward Vaughn takes a survey of the 
 arrangements for his comfort, and confesses that 
 of all sinners he is the greatest against her lady- 
 ship.
 
 Flowers Again. 241 
 
 " Are you going to be quiet and well behaved 
 this morning? " 
 
 " Quite so, but you are letting my flowers wi- 
 ther on the stand yonder." So the flowers are put 
 in water and set in a vase upon the piano. When 
 he has seen that done he says, " Come, now, and 
 talk to me, while I smoke in the window yonder." 
 So he smokes his cigar with Isabel Seaton near 
 him, and they two talk. What? To report a con- 
 versation is like grasping at the sunshine. No man 
 can do it. Edward Vaughn was a good talker and 
 her elder, and she gave him that subtle sympathy 
 of mind which sometimes led him to talk his best ; 
 and so it was that under the cigar smoke in his 
 easy chair there were many curious things said 
 which touched upon the mysterious things of life ; 
 and he, who had thought down into many questions, 
 could say many striking words that instructed as 
 well as conquered the mental respect of the wo- 
 man beside him. Yet he seemed never quite in 
 earnest about anything, but in a showman's spirit 
 brought out his wares for your inspection, not 
 anxious for you to buy, nor caring to defend them, 
 provided his pride of opinion was not assailed too 
 sharply, and then he would fight roughly, not for 
 his truth, but for his way. Earnestness comes from 
 love of something, and what did he love? Per- 
 haps himself, certainly not truth for how did 
 he know that there was any truth ? He was an
 
 242 Flowers Again. 
 
 amateur philosopher ; and an amateur anything is 
 never very much in earnest. Yet, philosopher or 
 what not, he managed to make himself agreeable to 
 Miss Seaton in a very complex fashion of mingled 
 tenderness and sarcasm, and while he often per- 
 plexed and irritated, he was certainly subduing her 
 to his obedience. 
 
 "There sir, you are actually yawning." This 
 was said after a vivid conversation upon the point 
 as to whether one grew older faster in winter than 
 in summer, Mr. Vaughn taking the summer as 
 the more questionable side. 
 
 " Yes, I am yawning at my own mental empti- 
 ness ; not at you, mon ami. I tell you I am dis- 
 gusted with myself for the half way in which I 
 hold all my opinions. Opinions are nothing to me 
 but an amusement, and I am forever talking to 
 hear what absurdities I can string together. Two 
 fellows in a bar-room will pummel each other to 
 prove their politics true, but I have no politics 
 and no religion to fight for." 
 
 " Oh, you Epicurean, smoking a cigar: Is there 
 nothing you would fight for? " 
 
 " Yes, my dinner or you ! " 
 
 "You put your dinner first." 
 
 " Well, then, you and my dinner that is, if I 
 were hungry. I fought for you up the river with 
 that black horse of yours, though, you know. But
 
 Flowers Again. 243 
 
 come now, a little music puts me all right. Play 
 me something." 
 
 " What shall it be ? " 
 
 " Something from " Norma " " Casta Diva " or 
 the prayer. I am always in the mood for " Norma." 
 I hear in " Norma " the rush of the wind across the 
 North Sea and its wailings in a dark midnight 
 among the gnarled Druid oaks under which, to- 
 morrow, they will set the wicker baskets full of 
 victims, while the sharp knife flashes and the red 
 fire gleams into the faces of bearded priests. 
 That opera contains the storminess and,.blood 
 hunger of ancient Britons, of whom I am a degen- 
 erate son." 
 
 " Bravo ! That, now, is sensible. I shall sing 
 "Casta Diva" for you." So she sat down at the 
 piano to sing. Isabel Seaton played indeed ex- 
 quisitely, and her fingers upon the piano keys had 
 the movement of running water, so graceful was 
 she ; and in her singing she was exact and 
 cultured, and what depended on the knowing she 
 rendered accurately ; but what was to be felt she 
 failed in. Yet her music was the one thing in her 
 that honestly pleased Edward Vaughn, if it did 
 not rouse nor elevate him. So he turned the music 
 for her while she sang from " Norma." 
 
 " What a singing bird you are. I thank you for 
 that. That was well done, mon ami."" 
 
 " What a mocking bird you are, mon ami.
 
 244 Flowers Again. 
 
 Next time you come, if you are well behaved, 
 I will have some new music for you ; some of 
 Mendelssohn's." 
 
 Then Edward Vaughn made his adieus ; and 
 after he had gone Miss Belle opened the windows 
 to let out the smoke from her mother's lace cur- 
 tains, and then came back to take a long look at 
 the flowers upon the piano. 
 
 She had culled from that bouquet, and worn all 
 that morning, just one branch of mignonette and 
 a rose-geranium leaf on the white morning dress. 
 There were other geraniums in plant about the 
 house, and he knew it.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 JOHN WALKER had become Mr. Edward 
 Vaughn's yachtman. It is necessary to go back 
 a little in this story to relate how all this came 
 about. The wharf where that gentleman's yacht 
 lay was just opposite Mother Walker's cottage. 
 The next morning after her son came home, when 
 that person went outdoors for an airing, to his 
 great surprise the first thing he saw before him at 
 the river's bank was a mast ; and arguing there- 
 from that where there is a mast there must be a 
 boat, with a sailor's instinct for a craft afloat he 
 very soon shortened the distance between him and 
 the wharf. He was dressed in his sailor rig of 
 short blue jacket, rich in buttons, and a pair of 
 blue cloth trousers that required a deal of hitch- 
 ing to keep them in place, and a glazed tarpaulin 
 hat, and had that rolling gait which all sailors 
 seem to have caught from the sea. Then he took 
 a squint at the craft all over, with his eyes half 
 shut in the nautical fashion, as if to keep too 
 much wind out when it blows hard. It was a 
 small but neat sloop, perfect in all its appoint-
 
 246 Mother and Son. 
 
 ments and of a peculiar build to insure speed, and 
 was indeed very fast. He went round to look at 
 the bows. When he had taken a good look for- 
 ward, he grunted out his satisfaction, and then 
 said to himself, " That's a neat one. A perfect 
 little lady, to be sure. She sits like a duck on the 
 water, and she looks as though she could creep 
 right into the wind's eye like the Flying Dutch- 
 man. That's the tautest little craft I ever seen 
 afloat." 
 
 " So, then, you like my yacht," said a voice 
 behind him. 
 
 The man turned round. It was Edward Vaughn 
 in his sea rig. He gave a pull at his tarpaulin for 
 a salute, and answered, " Yes, Captain, I could 
 cross the Atlantic in her. She's a regular sea-bird." 
 
 " You are a sailor, my man ? " 
 
 " Ever since I was a boy." 
 
 "Do you think you could sail that craft?" 
 
 " Try me, Captain." 
 
 " Well, I'll try you. Go on board there. We'll 
 take a short turn down the river." So John 
 Walker went on board, with his hand on the 
 shrouds and a swinging jump on deck. Then he 
 went forward to the forecastle, if the few feet 
 before the one mast could be called so, gave one 
 last hitch to his breeches, threw his tobacco quid 
 over the side, and then took another general sur- 
 vey on deck.
 
 Mother and /Son. 247 
 
 " Pardon, Captain, who's sailed this craft afore." 
 
 " I have, generally ; but Bill Knox, a town man, 
 who has been mackerel-fishing, as he tells me, has 
 taken her out several times this spring, and hasn't 
 left things aboard in very good shape." 
 
 " No, I never knowed a whaler or a coaster that 
 ever knowed much about sailing a vessel. Things 
 are left about on deck as though a greenhorn had 
 been on board. The larboard shrouds need taut- 
 ening, you see " (with another squint aloft), 
 "and that mainsail's fniied as though a marine had 
 done it. Before we h'ist anchor, just let me put 
 things a little more ship-shape," and the man went 
 to work coiling away ropes, and putting things in 
 place with the air of a man at home. Then they 
 hoisted the sails and the anchor, and Edward 
 Vaughn said, 
 
 " Come aft here, and take the helm. Your 
 course is down the river to the point yonder." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir. Is it plain sailing here, and 
 enough water ? " 
 
 " Yes ; water enough everywhere, when the 
 centreboard is up." So they sailed down the 
 river with a quartering wind. 
 
 " Do you see the rock on that point below us, 
 my man ? If so, show me how close you can lay 
 the Qui Vive to it, and not touch. It's bold 
 water. Do you understand?" 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir ; " and John Walker, with no
 
 248 Mother and Son. 
 
 more words, but locking straight before him, put 
 the boat on to the rock until she almost grazed it, 
 and yet swept on past it clear. 
 
 " Very well done, my man. You can manage a 
 boat, I see. Now put her about, and sail back." 
 So they sailed back, and John Walker said, by way 
 of compliment, "She's like a horse with a soft 
 mouth," which meant that she steered easily. 
 
 "Now, my man," Edward Vaughn said, when 
 everything was made fast at the wharf, " I want 
 somebody to sail my yacht, and take charge of her. 
 I live up in the house yonder, and I want some- 
 body I can trust. You are a sailor evidently; and 
 though I expect you to be on hand night or day if 
 I wish it, yet it's not very hard work, and I'll pay 
 you for it forty dollars a month, winter and sum- 
 mer." 
 
 ' I wouldn't mind doing that, Capt'n, so I can 
 be with the old woman, and look after her a 
 little." 
 
 "I ought perhaps to have first inquired who 
 you are, but your face is an honest one. Do you 
 belong in this neighborhood? " Then he told him 
 his story, and who he was, and Edward Vaughn 
 seemed interested. " Very well," he said, " the 
 boat's in your care. When I want you, I will send 
 to the house for you." 
 
 It was so that John Walker became Edward 
 Vaughn's yachtman.
 
 Mother and Son. 249 
 
 And it was refreshing to see how happy Mother 
 Walker and her son grew to be over and about 
 the care of that yacht and of one another. John 
 had brought his kit, which contained itself in one 
 monstrous sailor's chest full of the odds and ends 
 of a sailor's life, into one of Mother Walker's 
 chambers next the stairway, and swung his ham- 
 mock overhead. Not a chair in his room would 
 he have, nor table, but his chest served for both ; 
 and when at night he stood on that one chest to 
 get into his hammock, the action had a sea memory 
 to it, as though he was clambering into an upper 
 berth. In the mornings he washed himself in a 
 pewter basin outside on the stairs, and then threw 
 the water, as it were, over the ship's side. He 
 would have holystoned all his mother's floors had 
 it not been for the bits of rag carpets which 
 graced the same and the ignorance of the old lady, 
 who thought "holystoning" meant something 
 dreadful. She was strengthened in that opinion 
 when in a spirit of compromise she allowed him to 
 perform that singular office upon his own room, 
 which he did by the aid of two of the smoothest 
 stones he could find on the street, and a couple of 
 pails of water. And never had there been such a 
 noise in her house, and never such complaint from 
 the people below stairs that the water soaking 
 through had spoiled their plastering, as when 
 Mother Walker's Johnny was found of her, bare
 
 250 Mother and Son. 
 
 footed and kneed, scrubbing his chamber floor, as 
 though it were a ship's deck. But although her son 
 made as much of a ship as he could out of Mother 
 Walker's house, he was the very best of sons. 
 When he waited on her, he had an air about him 
 as though he thought he was waiting on a queen, 
 so gentle was he ; and every night after she had 
 said prayers for both, since she had the more learn- 
 ing it would have done one good to see the silent 
 way in which he kissed his mother "good night " 
 before he climbed into his hammock. And as for 
 the mother, she prayed and gave thanks in her 
 heart all day, and at the same time kept her hands 
 busy preparing Johnny's meals. And so there was 
 much peace and happiness in those three rooms of 
 Mother Walker's old house. 
 
 But the best of all was when Johnny took his 
 mother down to the yacht. One should have seen 
 the pair as they went across the greensward, hand 
 in hand to the wharf, the man going so carefully, 
 and picking out the driest way for his mother in 
 the dew. Especially after supper one should have 
 seen the good mother in her white cap and checked 
 shawl, smoking her pipe for she had that Eng- 
 lish habit of her class sitting upon an old spar, 
 and chatting with Johnny at his evening work. 
 What wonderful stories he told her of the sea ; 
 and how nicely he instructed her as to how one 
 brings his ship to in a gale of wind, and what the
 
 Mother and Son. 251 
 
 rules of the navy are. What hairbreadth escapes 
 he himself had had, in order that he might tell 
 these wonders when the sun was going down to a 
 dear old woman in a white cap, who never was too 
 tired to listen. How many questions she asked, 
 and how ignorant she was, to be sure ; but Johnny 
 had any quantity of patience, and was bent by 
 sign, word, metaphor, or anything in human speech 
 or pantomime upon making his mother a sailor. 
 If one could have heard the minute lessons he 
 gave her in all sorts of nautical affairs, one would 
 have vowed he was trying to prepare his mother to 
 pass her examination as a midshipman, so eager 
 was he to have her know it all. How afraid she 
 was, to be sure, of the sea and of everything afloat? 
 What coaxing it cost him to decoy her on board 
 the yacht, and how straight he stood when his 
 mother sat down for the first time by the tiller 
 ropes, and he informed her for the hundredth time 
 that the Qui Vive was the fastest craft of her size 
 in the State ! How anxious was she lest the planks 
 should start and the yacht carry her down without 
 warning, though the craft was moored to the 
 wharf, and had only two feet of water under her 
 keel. And then, lastly, when the pipe was smoked, 
 and the work all done, how they two went home 
 in the evening, mother and son together. How 
 happy they were ! How pure the great strong 
 love with which mother and son love each other !
 
 252 Mother and Son. 
 
 And there was One who once called the Hebrew 
 maiden Mary, "mother." In the words husband 
 and wife you may find the tenderness of our 
 human love ; in the words " mother " and " son " 
 its strength.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A DINNER OF HERBS. 
 
 A HALF-DOZEN gentlemen were waiting dinner 
 on the piazza of River Nook. Most of them had 
 come up from the city the night before for a yacht- 
 ing excursion to which Edward Vaughn had in- 
 vited them for to-morrow. That gentleman now 
 made his appearance from the stables, where he 
 had been arranging for a drive for the party after 
 dinner. They were mostly younger than their 
 host. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, how have you taken care of 
 yourselves this morning ? " he asked. 
 
 "Right well, thank you," said several. "We 
 have smoked your Havannahs and played carom 
 quite to our hearts' content." 
 
 " That's right. I hope you are all as hungry as 
 bears. I have got some of the nicest brook trout 
 for dinner that you ever tasted those speckled 
 fellows, not over-large, and fried as they should 
 be in corn meal crisp and brown, fit for a king ! " 
 
 " Bravo ! " shouted the company. 
 
 "I shall give you Hock with them to-day, so 
 that fish grown in our streams will be washed in
 
 254 A Dinner of Herbs. 
 
 Rhine water. Besides, I caught them myself, not 
 with a silver hook, as they say hereabouts, but by 
 a good stout tramp Saturday, up the river. But 
 where is Le Clerke ? " 
 
 There was a shrug from several pairs of shoul- 
 ders, and some one said in a very non-committal 
 way, " Le Clerke has gone fishing, I fancy, on his 
 own hook," and a significant smile went round. 
 
 "I don't wish to pry into any man's business," 
 said Edward Vaughn, " but I see there's something 
 up with Le Clerke, and what it is I can't imagine. 
 I didn't know that he was acquainted with any- 
 body in this parish. From the way you look I 
 imagine there's a woman in the case." 
 
 " The fact is," said the man who stood next him, 
 "Le Clerke is sweet on Isabel Seaton, who I 
 hear is spending the summer here, and has pro- 
 bably gone to visit her." 
 
 " Isabel Seaton ! Isabel Seaton ! What do you 
 mean, man ?." 
 
 "Mean exactly what I say. It was reported 
 last winter over town that they were engaged, but 
 I know nothing except by hearsay. I have heard 
 that he was very sweet on her." 
 
 " That's so," said several. 
 
 " By heavens ! gentlemen, the devil will get 
 his share of men and women before he's through 
 with this world." 
 
 "Who ever doubted that?" said several with a
 
 A Dinner of Herbs. 255 
 
 laugh. "But what has that to do with Le 
 Clerke's calling on a lady ? " 
 
 "Plenty. I want that lady for myself, and I 
 won't have Le Clerke meddling." 
 
 " Ah ! that accounts for the milk in that cocoa- 
 nut," and the company fairly roared. 
 
 " We'd like to see you sweet on a woman, 
 Vaughn. That would be rich." 
 
 " But don't you think I can be ? perfect nectar, 
 running water, soft as a summer's morn, or a 
 zephyr, anything, when there is a woman at stake? 
 Laugh now, young gentlemen. I paid court to 
 these goddesses before some of you there were out 
 of arms,.and I make a very sentimental lover." 
 
 " Edward Vaughn in love. Capital." And they 
 roared at the joke. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "let them laugh that 
 win. Look out for your sweethearts when I'm 
 round. I am bound to marry somebody. I've 
 thought strongly of the seamstress we have here 
 occasionally. Then I should be sure to have my 
 buttons always sewed on. Or perhaps I can pick 
 up one of these fresh country girls among the 
 hills, who blushes all over when you look at her 
 and never knows what to do with her hands 
 in which case I could always count on fresh but- 
 ter and perhaps she might milk the cows how 
 charming! That is to say, if I can't cage Isabel 
 Seaton."
 
 256 A Dinner of Herbs. 
 
 "But here comes Le Clerke and his terrier," 
 said several. 
 
 While he is coming with a quick, nervous gait 
 up the gravel walk, we had better take a look at 
 him, since in this story he is like those cheap 
 actors in a play who appear upon the stage only 
 in one scene. Sam Le Clerke is a man of about 
 twenty-five, short and stout built, with a pale, in- 
 tellectual face and very black moustache and eyes 
 to it, while he looks the man of the world he is. 
 He has a gentleman's reserve of manner, and is 
 known among his fellows as clever in whatever he 
 tries, and is a favorite. Furthermore, and there 
 is nothing remarkable in him. 
 
 " We are waiting dinner for you, my boy," said 
 one of the group as he came up to the stoop. 
 
 "A thousand pardons, gentlemen. To keep 
 dinner waiting is not to be excused. I exceed- 
 ingly regret my offence. Business detained me." 
 
 "Pleasant business, we hope." 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "Excuse me a moment, till I get a little of this 
 dust off. I will be down at once," and the young 
 man passed through the hall door to his chamber. 
 
 "Sam does not look well to-day," said one. 
 
 "No, he was up a little too late last night at 
 carom, and is smoking hard." 
 
 The butler came out on the stoop and whispered 
 something to his master. "I am sorry to say,
 
 A Dinner of Herbs. 257 
 
 gentlemen," said the latter, " that dinner will be 
 late twenty minutes. It was sharp three in order 
 to go riding, and it's that now. In the country 
 here, to get a punctual dinner is a miracle that's 
 not seen every day. If any of you are starving, 
 you'll find crackers and cheese in the billiard 
 room. Excuse me, gentlemen, a moment." So 
 while the gentlemen arranged themselves in divers 
 attitudes of resignation waiting their dinner, Ed- 
 ward Vaughn went up to Sam Le Clerke's room. 
 He found that young man hurriedly dressing. He 
 went at his work in his own blunt way, which was 
 perhaps the best. " I wish to ask you, Le Clerke, 
 if there is anything between you and Isabel 
 Seaton ? " 
 
 The young man faced him with a steady gaze 
 and then said coolly, " Till to-day that lady was 
 engaged to be my wife." 
 
 " The devil she was. It is impossible." 
 
 " I have stated to you the fact." 
 
 " Any man who knows me, knows that I am the 
 last man alive to meddle with other people's affairs, 
 but I have my reasons for being curious about this 
 matter, which I will presently give you. I mean 
 no harm. I swear to you I mean to be your friend. 
 But tell me, how do you two stand ? " 
 
 " Miss Seaton broke her engagement with me 
 this very morning." (This was said in the same 
 cool way.) "I have all my letters back again, 
 and she will have hers when I get back to town."
 
 258 A Dinner of Herbs. 
 
 " What reasons did she give ? " 
 
 " O, she had a mouthful of them : she was too 
 young ; incompatibility of temper ; that she was 
 afraid she did not love me all the dear little 
 things women say when they wish to break their 
 engagement." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 " I told her that she had not been too young to 
 plight her faith to a man who honestly loved her, 
 and that she was rather late in her discoveries, 
 and that if it suited her it certainly suited me, 
 anything, you know, that was civil to the woman 
 and not like a puppy." 
 
 " But what do you think of her, anyhow ? " 
 
 " Think of her ? I don't know what to think of 
 her, and I don't care. I was in love with her, and 
 that's enough to keep my mouth shut. I don't 
 think I know much about her. I suppose she has 
 the way of women." Edward Vaughn, when he 
 was very much excited, had a way of being very 
 quiet outside and speaking low. Yet his face, 
 when after a long silence of meditation he lifted 
 it up, showed lips firm set, arid a smile in the gray 
 eyes that seemed dangerous. 
 
 " So, then," he said slowly, " this is it. This is 
 Isabel Seaton. Humph ! I might have known as 
 much. 
 
 " I think I can give you a little insight into this 
 matter, Le Clerke," he said, " and I will be frank
 
 A Dinner of Herbs. 259 
 
 with you. It has been a rule of my life never to 
 cross another man's path in a love affair, and from 
 that conduct I have never knowingly deviated. 
 I have followed that rule, simply because for a 
 gentleman there can be no other. Yet I fear I 
 have crossed your track, arid this is the way of it. 
 Isabel Seaton lives, as you know, summers, in this 
 town. I met her here. She put herself at once 
 in a position towards me, as one perfectly free to 
 receive addresses. In my way, which is not much 
 of a way, because it is not a very sincere one, I 
 have paid mine to her and she seems to have ac- 
 cepted them. At least it looks so. As I say, if 
 I had known that I was interfering with any 
 human being, I would rather have had my hand 
 cut off at the wrist than done so, because I meant 
 nothing, and might injure somebody ; and a man 
 would be merely a coward to make trouble of this 
 sort just to amuse himself. You know just as well 
 as I do what to think of a woman who under such 
 circumstances acts as Miss Seaton has. But that 
 is her affair. It is my business merely to tell you 
 this, and to say how much I regret having unin- 
 tentionally interfered with you." 
 
 " There's not much harm done, anyhow," he 
 answered. "A woman who can conduct herself 
 in that fashion, a man may be glad to be rid of. 
 And however much I may have thought of Isabel 
 Seaton, what you tell me ought to satisfy me to
 
 260 A Dinner of Herbs. 
 
 let her alone, with thanks for my riddance. We 
 men are but indifferent honest, anyway, but 
 somehow we think and wish women to be angels ; 
 but I swear to God " (and here for the first and 
 last time during the interview he showed a 
 man's passion), " if I loved a woman better than I 
 did my God, if she played me false I should des- 
 pise her." 
 
 " That's said like a man, my dear fellow. And 
 now let me tell you something which you don't 
 know. All this is in the Seaton blood. I know 
 them well. I meddled with one of their women 
 years ago, and she led me a worse chase than yours. 
 I thought this chit might be honest; but she is 
 like all the rest. It isn't in them to be straightfor- 
 ward in their love affairs, but they must intrigue 
 a little just for the spice of the thing. There 
 was something left out when they were made up, 
 and what that is I can't exactly say, only that they 
 are not to be trusted. And in my judgment you 
 are well rid of her." 
 
 " Perhaps I had better hand you over my letters 
 as my successor in office. They are sweet, and 
 with a change in the subscription might answer 
 you," Le Clerke said with a bitter smile, as he 
 proceeded to unload his pockets of sundry pack- 
 ages of letters. 
 
 " Ah ! well, yes. I tell you a woman like that 
 hasn't got any heart. Bah ! Men are bad enough,
 
 A Dinner of Herbs. 261 
 
 but a woman like this is not worth talking 
 about. Burn up those letters in a smoky fire and 
 cover them over with ashes but then, the ashes 
 are clean." 
 
 " Very good." 
 
 So they two burnt up the letters in the grate. 
 
 " Now then, my boy, wash your hands and let's 
 go down to dinner." 
 
 " You do not blame ine ? " he said as the two 
 went down the hall stairs. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, then, give us your hand on that." 
 
 So the two men shook hands. "Do you intend 
 to cultivate Miss Seaton ? " Le Clerke asked. 
 
 " Cultivate her ? You shall see." And the grim 
 smile, mixed tiger and satyr look, passed over the 
 face which could be sometimes handsome. " I 
 shall cultivate her, you may be sure." 
 
 Dinner was announced just as they came down 
 stairs. It was the habit of Edward Vaughn to 
 give good dinners, upon a principle that at a 
 dinner table civilization on its material side 
 should culminate ; and this was one of them. It 
 was also a dinner well taken ; and among the gay 
 gentlemen who dined together that day, Sam Le 
 Clerke and Edward Vaughn were the gayest of 
 the gay.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A YACHTING PARTY. 
 
 " How shall I get rid of your yachting party, 
 Vaughn?" said Sam Le Clerke to that gentleman, 
 whom he found very early the next morning 
 alone in the hall, overlooking some fish-lines 
 which were to be carried down to the boat for 
 the day's sport. " I wish to avoid meeting my 
 adorable lady, Miss Seaton, and I should like to 
 do it without setting the fellows talking." 
 
 Edward Vaughn laid down the lines and took 
 a look at the speaker. " Yes, I see. How shall it 
 be ? You haven't broken an arm or a leg, have 
 you?" 
 
 "No, but I have a furious headache ! " 
 
 "Well, that will do. No man should venture 
 out in the sun with a sick headache, especially 
 when he don't want to go. Say that to me, 
 before the crowd, before we start." So when the 
 young men were on the piazza after breakfast, 
 rigged for a day's yachting, Le Clerke made his 
 excuses, and was allowed to stay at home. 
 
 Edward Vaughn's yachting party had been 
 advertised by sundry invitations of his in several
 
 A Yachting Party. 263 
 
 of the most distinguished Aubrey families, and by 
 consequence a bevy of young ladies, dressed in 
 the free and easy style of picnics, that is, sensibly, 
 was already on the wharf when the party from 
 River Nook made its appearance. Then followed 
 the usual introductions, and the company went on 
 board the yacht. Both Isabel Seaton and Lucy 
 Farewell were there. The rest were the usual 
 Aubrey girls bound on a holiday, with a festival 
 glee on their faces, and but one matron among 
 them. So, while the gentlemen were getting 
 under way, the gentler sex, having bestowed sun- 
 dry shawls and reticules in safe places for future 
 use, enthroned themselves on the shady side of 
 the deck to save their complexions, and awaited 
 the grave affairs which would surely follow the 
 gentlemen's release from making sail. Edward 
 Vaughn had already managed to say in a half- 
 whisper to Isabel Seaton, " I shall steer, and 
 therefore I want you to take a seat by the helm. 
 I should make somebody jealous if I should 
 arrange a seat there for you, so you must please 
 go yourself." And that lady, quite as her nat- 
 ural right, was in the stern, with a blue veil over 
 her face in broad sunshine, close to where Edward 
 Vaughn was to be, waiting for him. It was a 
 bright summer's day, with just a breath of wind 
 to smooth the wrinkles out of the mainsail of the 
 Qui Vive, as she swung out from her berth into
 
 264 A Yachting Party. 
 
 the silent current, with her head down stream. 
 Very soon the company had divided themselves, 
 according to some mysterious law of affinity, into 
 groups, where they chatted, sung snatches of sea 
 songs, and talked tender, rambling, pointless small 
 talk quite in the fashion of such assemblies. 
 
 Before the day was over there were at least a 
 half-dozen pairs who were not certain but that they 
 were dead in love, such subtle forces of the tender 
 god-child haunt such places, though the passion 
 usually dies out with the passing of the summer's 
 day when it first sees the light. Edward Vaughn 
 steered his own boat, with Isabel Seaton beside 
 him. To-day he was unusually quiet and atten- 
 tive, and quite to her mind, she thought. He was 
 even gentle for him, and disposed to silence, yet to 
 a shrewd onlooker there was a firmness to his lips 
 and a certain preciseness i-n his attentions to her 
 which boded no good ; for with those we love we 
 are never over-precise or guarded. There was in 
 his face, indeed, that peculiar calmness which the 
 player so often shows at the Homburg tables when 
 his Napoleons are piled upon the baize and he 
 watches the turning of the wheel; for it was in 
 him to play his dangerous game to the last ven- 
 ture, and somebody, he knew, must break. Still, 
 he looked very much the lover. While he steered 
 he gave Miss Belle, in a low voice, the points of 
 his boat and explained how things were done on
 
 A Yachting Parti/. 265 
 
 shipboard, and then a lesson in steering, when, 
 with those two ro*und, gloved hands upon the 
 helm, she managed to keep the Qui Vive not more 
 than three points off her course. "Steady, ma 
 chere, not too close to the wind. You see the 
 jib forward begins to shake a little ; too close," 
 and a large hand was laid very quietly upon the 
 gloved hands, which moved not beneath the pres- 
 sure. " There now, so." And so it was. Isabel 
 Seaton had the wit to do anything well she under- 
 took, and Edward Vaughn confessed to himself 
 before the morning passed that she would make a 
 capital helmsman. In fine, the groups, before an 
 hour passed, had concluded that the two had taken 
 the lover's leap into the dreamland of constant 
 souls. Bah ! It was a comedy that might grow 
 to tragedy. The young men from the Nook 
 did everything but stare ; and wondered about 
 Sam Le Clerke's headache. They thought several 
 things, but said nothing. What they thought 
 came upon the whole to this : " Vaughn is not a 
 man to meddle against any man, and women are 
 queer. He has not gone back on Le Clerke. 
 But then, what has happened? Who knows?" 
 So they smoked their cigar, and paid their own 
 court to the damsels beside them while they sailed 
 down the river. 
 
 " You must certainly help me, ma chere, or 
 things will go wrong on the yacht. The Scrip-
 
 266 A Yachting Party. 
 
 tures say, ' it is not good for man to be alone,' 
 and the boys yonder evidently think so, and so 
 do I. I cannot manage my affairs unless you come 
 to the rescue." 
 
 " What more can I do for you than steer your 
 yacht as I have all the morning ? " 
 
 " It pleases a woman to hold the reins or the 
 helm, you know, and virtue is its own reward. 
 But now I want you to make a sacrifice for me. 
 The fact is, these folks must all be fed. What a 
 bore this eating business is. If ever I have the 
 making of men they shall never have stomachs; 
 and the Americans are always biting away at 
 something. So are the English a Frenchman or 
 an Italian is more reasonable. The long and short 
 of the matter is that it is lunch time, and love- 
 making always makes folks hungry. Half of these 
 people are famished already. I wish you to help 
 me set out lunch in the cabin." 
 
 " I shall be delighted to help you, Sir Edward." 
 
 " There ! Sir Edward again ! How very for- 
 mal. Haven't I told you divers and several times 
 that you are to call me Edward?" 
 
 "And haven't I told you divers and several 
 times that it is highly improper ? " 
 
 "I have no doubt of it. But what of that? 
 A woman usually says one thing and does another, 
 and I take it for a good sign when one of the 
 sisterhood refuses me anything. Besides, you
 
 A Yachting Party. 267 
 
 make the prettiest of mouths calling me Edward. 
 Try it." 
 
 " You have a very natural way of making 
 yourself disagreeable when you choose, Edward 
 Vaughn, and after your good behavior so far this 
 morning I am surprised at your vexing me in 
 this fashion." 
 
 "Say Edward." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " But I am captain of this yacht. Who refuses 
 to obey the captain's orders on board ship ? Sup- 
 pose I command you. What would you do 
 then?" 
 
 "Command a lady, Edward Vaughn? I am 
 shocked by you." 
 
 " I am a great sinner as ever. But please leave 
 off Vaughn and call me Edward. As for com- 
 manding you, I have done nothing else but obey 
 ever since I knew you. Come now." 
 
 "You are the most unreasonable man I ever 
 knew, and that is saying a great deal. What 
 possible good can it do you for me to call you 
 Edward?" 
 
 " It will please me." 
 
 " Yes, please you, as it pleases men to have their 
 own way, conceited creatures that they all are. 
 Do you think I am going to please you? " 
 
 "I have not the slightest doubt of it. You 
 always please me, especially when you have the
 
 268 A Yachting Party. 
 
 haughty air as now. And, besides, you ladies 
 are so generous. As for my own way, I don't 
 see much of that when you are about. You 
 never do anything I wish. Be singular for once, 
 and oblige me." 
 
 "Is that true?" 
 
 "As true as a great many things I say when 
 you are so cruel. Come now, please." 
 
 Isabel Seatoii chose to hesitate after all this 
 coaxing; and, therefore, Edward Vaughn chose 
 also to be quiet to give her time to yield. So, 
 after a while, he said : " I am waiting, ma chere." 
 
 " For what, pray ? " 
 
 "To have you oblige me in that little matter." 
 
 "What an obstinate man you are. I am posi- 
 tively afraid of you, you are so wilful. Please 
 be quiet." 
 
 "Right again. Exactly as you say. I should 
 be sorry to have my behavior so uncivil as to 
 contradict your ladyship. You compel me to 
 modestly insist that you call me Edward." 
 
 " You tire me. How can I break my word ? " 
 
 "You made no promise, or, if you did, a bad 
 promise is better broken than kept. Come now, 
 be the sensible girl you are. If I did not wish 
 it, I should not ask it. In so small a matter why 
 are you so unkind? Will you help me spread 
 lunch?" 
 
 There was still no answer.
 
 A Yachting Party. 269 
 
 "Please now, I am waiting." 
 
 Isabel Seaton yielded at last, with that quick, 
 uncertain half-laugh which women use when they 
 are about to do a thing equivocal. She said : 
 " Yes, Edward." 
 
 " Thank you, ma chere" and there was just a 
 shade of contempt visible at the corners of his 
 mouth. He thought : " This is the woman who 
 gave Sam Le Clerke his headache." Then he 
 called John Walker aft to the helm, while the 
 two went into the cabin to prepare lunch. 
 
 Edward Vaughn, having carried his point, was 
 too clever to behave as though he knew it ; 
 and so, while he helped Miss Seaton arrange 
 lunch, he was one of the most quiet and defer- 
 ential of men. It is a most singular law, which 
 wise men have often remarked, that there can 
 be no home without a wife. It is also true that 
 a table is seldom well set except by a woman. 
 And so it was that a score of men like Edward 
 Vaughn could not lay out lunch on a yacht's 
 cabin table as Isabel Seaton did. The skill might 
 have been in the way she arranged the bouquets 
 or the geranium leaves around the butter, or in 
 a subtle blending of divers dishes into a dinner 
 picture, or in something else. Certain it is that, 
 when lunch was spread, Edward Vaughn admired 
 the fashion of it. 
 
 "What a splendid housekeeper you would
 
 270 A Yachting Party. 
 
 make, Miss Belle. You have set that table very 
 cleverly. I want a housekeeper, as I have told 
 you." 
 
 " What wages will you pay ? " 
 
 " Ah ! wages ! Are you for sale ? I will pay 
 good wages." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Well I will pay myself, house, horses, dog 
 Thor, all my old clothes, and a little bank stock 
 to boot, for a housekeeper like you." 
 
 " I should like the horses and Thor, but, as 
 for you, I should have to know first whether you 
 would behave well, or as you did this morning." 
 
 " If you buy an estate you must take it with 
 the live stock on it as it stands, and you can't 
 have my horses without me. Will you take us 
 all together at a single dose? " 
 
 "Now you tease me again. I have set your 
 table for you. Now you should go call your 
 guests, and ask me no more questions." 
 
 So he went up on deck in a very free and 
 easy manner and called the company to lunch. 
 Some men have a way of showing by their very 
 gait what passes in their minds ; and his, just 
 now, was a tinge reckless, and spoke disgust, 
 as it were, at everything ; yet such things are 
 seen not so much with our eyes as with our 
 instincts, and Isabel Seaton's were by no means 
 sensitive. So the company had lunch.
 
 A Yachting Parti/. 271 
 
 It had been arranged that the excursion should 
 be to the Indian Well : and when the lunchers came 
 on deck they found the Qui Vive at the bank, just 
 where a deep glen ran back in among the hills. So 
 the party baskets, shawls, and all went up the 
 glen. It was a gleesome company that went clam- 
 bering over the great boulders of the river bed and 
 in among the hills, youth among the young leaves 
 flecked with sunshine ; and withal a pleasant sight, 
 that gaily dressed and blithesome company, as it 
 strolled among the trees in pairs, or made itself 
 comfortable on the broad rocks the river had left 
 dry. Every one fared on as they chose, but most 
 went up to the Well. The Indian Well was some- 
 thing like a vast stone goblet, hollowed out by an 
 earthquake, and then polished down in shape by 
 the babbling brook that poured for ages over its 
 west edge, to fill up its depths with the crystal flood 
 of living waters. The Well was open on one side, 
 and hence flowed such waters as the fountain could 
 not hold. Its gray sides were overdraped with 
 living mosses, and the brakes grew everywhere in 
 its crannies, and the birds built nests in its stone 
 hollows over the flood. It was a broad, round 
 pool with a foamy stream down falling to it, where 
 the trout hide in the warmest days and deep. 
 It was an old tradition that here the Indians held 
 their midsummer feast, and camped on the hills 
 around it. To-day the children of the pale-face
 
 272 A Yachting Party. 
 
 made the old woods ring with song and laugh, 
 and under the trees they danced and wore out the 
 golden hours with such bright, blithesome pas- 
 times as it pities one should ever pass away from 
 young hearts either in night or winter. 
 
 Edward Vaughn and Isabel Seaton devoted them- 
 selves to each other, and quite exclusively took a 
 stroll by themselves in a privacy which no one 
 invaded. During the course of the afternoon they 
 came upon Lucy Farewell, at her old pastime of 
 gathering mosses, and with hands full of wood 
 flowers. 
 
 Mr. Vaughn reintroduced the ladies. " This is 
 an acquaintance I made trout fishing the Lady 
 of the Woods." 
 
 Miss Seaton regarded her with a half-patroniz- 
 ing air. 
 
 "How charming!" she said. "I have always 
 thought I should like to have been one of the 
 Babes in the Wood ; only the risk of taking cold 
 is so great. Pray tell me, Miss Farewell, do you 
 like it?" 
 
 " Yes ; I like the woods, and to-day I have 
 found some very rare flowers. Here is a fringed 
 gentian, not yet in bloom." 
 
 " I dare say. But is it not tiresome, with no- 
 body to talk to?" Lucy looked at the speaker. 
 " What an elegant lady ! " she thought, " and yet 
 she does not like the woods. How can any one
 
 A Yachting Party. 273 
 
 not like them?" Yet Miss Seaton spoke truth. 
 The two women were vastly unlike. The one was 
 a child of nature, and loved her mother ; the other 
 was a changeling who had forgot her relationship. 
 It is the test of a woman that she love God's 
 works. If she does not love them, she is con- 
 demned in a man's eyes to be less than the best. 
 
 " I am never tired of the woods," she said. 
 
 "I cannot understand that. Can you, Mr. 
 Vaughn ? " 
 
 " I ? I am never tired of anything except eat- 
 ing. The woods are the place to shoot woodcock, 
 and are worth fifty dollars an acre, so they say. 
 I like the woods hugely." 
 
 "Come now, be sensible," one woman said. 
 The other said nothing, but arranged her flowers. 
 The silent woman troubled Edward Vaughn more 
 than the other. He felt himself her inferior, and 
 that somehow her nature stood apart from his 
 and looked down on him. So, as was his way, 
 lie amused himself talking nonsense. 
 
 The interview rather bored him. "The fact is, 
 ladies, I am a poor hand to settle such high things. 
 I suppose you are both right. One of you prefers 
 a ball-room and one a hill-side. To waltz with 
 one, and pick nosegays with the other, is all the 
 same to me. I am at your service both." And 
 after some more random talk they parted, and 
 Edward Vaughn strolled on with his companion
 
 274 A Yachting Party. 
 
 who disliked the woods. They came back finally 
 to the Well, on the pure sand at its verge, over 
 which the stream passed out to the river. 
 
 "Come here, ma chere," he said, "and see your 
 face in the pool." 
 
 "Yes, Edward." 
 
 "How obedient! Why do you call me Ed- 
 ward?" 
 
 "Because you have been so good to-day and 
 have kept all the brambles away from me, and are 
 so gentle." 
 
 " Excellent ! I shall grow to be a saint, per- 
 haps." 
 
 " Be quiet. There I am." 
 
 Edward Vaughn looked over her shoulder into 
 the pool. It was certainly a splendid woman 
 lithe, blithe, in health, a perfect creature of her 
 kind; and the face in the pool ought to have 
 been an angel's. To Edward Vaughn there was 
 always the flavor of the tropics about her. The 
 snows are vestal ; so are the Alpine flowers fed of 
 the glacier's coldness. But in her the sun and 
 the perfumed breath of flowers which bloom where 
 the clime is torrid. He bent over her till his 
 breath was on her cheek and the blonde hair. 
 
 " Two faces in the pool, ma chere ; two lovers 
 that have made no vows ; two people who ought 
 to be very happy." 
 
 The woman made no answer, but laughed her
 
 ^L Yachting Party. 275 
 
 low, uncertain laugh again. She bent down to- 
 wards the water. 
 
 " Hold, ma chere ; your dress will fall in the 
 water ; I will hold it." So he held her trail while, 
 with a child's glee almost, she pleased herself 
 throwing the water with her round, dimpled hands 
 into a spray of diamond drops, which fell into the 
 dark pool again and disappeared. 
 
 " This should have been a beautiful creature," 
 he thought. "But so was Blanche De Forest. 
 The devil ought to be a woman, and then he 
 might have his own way with us all. He is the 
 wrong sex." And a curious, ill-omened smile 
 played around his mouth, while the woman dab- 
 bled in the water, and a very peculiar, unsaintly 
 man held patiently her dress. 
 
 "Flood tide, captain; and the boat floats." It 
 was John Walker. 
 
 "All hands on board," he shouted. "Come, ma 
 chere;" and the party went down to the Qui 
 Vive.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A NIGHT AFLOAT. 
 
 " WELL, what is the prospect, John ? " said 
 Edward Vaughn when he came on board and 
 had taken a look at the sloop's streamer, which 
 hung lazily about the mast in the slant sunshine. 
 " Shall we get a breeze this evening ? " 
 
 "I'm afeard not, Capt'n, after sundown, and 
 there's hardly a thimble-full at present; but the 
 tide will set us up a little, if we can haul the 
 sloop into the stream." So they managed to haul 
 the sloop out from the shore, and floated up- 
 stream with the tide. 
 
 " What would you think of spending to-night 
 aboard the Qui Vive, Miss Belle ? " Vaughn said, 
 as after an hour or so of this sort of business the 
 mainsail of the sloop wrinkled up for want of 
 wind, and they made no headway. " In ten min- 
 utes the tide will turn, and then we shall drift 
 down-stream, and the sky in the west looks too 
 red for wind to-night. I think we shall have to 
 anchor here, unless the mermaids take us in 
 tow." 
 
 " It would be right nice, I think, Edward."
 
 A Night Afloat. Ill 
 
 " Thank you. That will give us a nice tete-d- 
 tete under the stars, ah, ma chere ? " 
 
 " I am happy, you know, where you are." 
 
 " Bravo ! I will fasten the Qui Vive down to 
 the river bottom, so that I have plenty of time to 
 tell you a thousand sweet things, under the night. 
 I wonder how our lovers yonder on the deck will 
 take it ? " 
 
 "They wont object to it, I am sure," she said 
 with a laugh. 
 
 So he went forward among the groups. " I am 
 sorry to say, my friends, we must anchor, and 
 perhaps stay here all night. If anybody must go 
 home, I will set them ashore in the yacht's boat." 
 No one wished to go. Several had found the 
 yacht a very charming place, where dreams dwelt. 
 A night on the river with such pleasant company 
 was a rare sensation. No regrets followed the 
 anchor as it went rattling over the side, down 
 among the mermaids ; and a right royal merry- 
 making followed, through the sunset and the 
 eventide far on into the night. And when, hour 
 after hour, the stars swung themselves steadily 
 along their mighty orbits to the mid-skies, or 
 descended towards the west, and the young hearts 
 below them, full of their fresh spring life, laughed 
 and chatted until they fell asleep, one thought 
 soberly of how under the same old skies from age 
 to age the human creatures live their strange
 
 278 A Night Afloat. 
 
 mortal life, so full of solemn things, while the 
 stars see them and never seem to pity. 
 
 Edward Vaughn, apart from the time it took 
 him to overlook the comfortable disposition of 
 his guests, kept himself strict and fast to the 
 blonde lady who called him Edward. He had 
 wrapped her up in a huge army blanket to keep 
 off the dew, and they sat late in the stern of the 
 Qui Vive, talking such things as he had promised 
 her ; only he was moodish and at times had a 
 certain bitterness about his words, which even 
 she could not fail to see. And as the night wore 
 on, he seemed bent on saying the strangest things, 
 as it were, about women. And this too, when 
 Isabel Seaton was behaving in her blandest fash- 
 ion. The fire in his heart was not love, but 
 rather a scorn for everything human, and even 
 she grew alarmed. 
 
 " Why, Edward, how can you say such things 
 to me ? Have I wronged you ? " 
 
 " Wronged me ? No. Didn't I tell you I was 
 Blue Beard and you shouldn't come too near my 
 heart ? People that play with fire get burnt. I 
 am flame." 
 
 " But to-night you seem to hate everybody." 
 
 " I do not hate men, but I despise them the 
 whole human race, with exceptions. I love my 
 mother and some others. But the rest, they 
 crawl, they fawn, they speak you fair and stab
 
 A NiffJtt Afloat. 279 
 
 you underhand ; they sell themselves for a dirty 
 sixpence, if nothing better offers, and they make 
 this world a great dirty stye of lies. I want 
 another deluge to wash things clean, and I myself 
 am too mean ever to be admitted into the second 
 ark, if they have one. Bah ! " 
 
 " But you will except women, for my sake, 
 Edward ?" 
 
 "Yes, for your sake, most mighty queen of my 
 heart. Yes, women are perfect. They always are 
 so honest, so full of truth, so sincere, so loyal, so 
 unselfish. They are angels, archangels I have 
 always found them so." 
 
 " Do you really mean what you say ? " 
 
 " Mean ? I mean everything nothing. "Wo- 
 man is the Sphinx the riddle. That Egyptian 
 woman, cut out of stone, and looking with 
 unmoving, unslmt eyes across the Nile land, has 
 kept her secret thirty centuries. Your sex will 
 keep theirs longer. I adore women. I wonder 
 what the medical students find under the knife 
 in the dissecting room. It must be great fun 
 dissecting a feminine heart, for instance. I won- 
 der whether one ever found an honest dream, 
 a pure thought there, with his knife. It must 
 look well under the microscope, and so gentle, so 
 tender, you know. A woman's heart ? Bah ! " 
 and he laughed a hard, reckless laugh, as if in a 
 pain which he despised.
 
 280 A Night Afloat. 
 
 " How can you care for me, then, if you think 
 so?" 
 
 "As a man who thinks so can for anybody, 
 and no otherwise." 
 
 "Am I to blame for what other women have 
 done ? Have I wronged you ? " 
 
 " Nobody wrongs me any more. I wrong some- 
 body whenever I get a chance." 
 
 " What a noble, generous spirit you are, Ed- 
 ward Vaughn." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear, I know it. How easily 
 you framed that pretty mouth of yours to say 
 that sweet thing. You are a charming judge, and 
 I had rather be slain by you than kissed by some 
 folks." 
 
 "Whatever I am, Edward Vaughn, I am a 
 woman ; and if you think of us in that way, you 
 had better leave me. I am no better than my 
 sex." 
 
 " I never mean to be personal. I did not say 
 anything of you. But as you wish it, I will go 
 away." 
 
 There was no answer. Isabel Seaton had pride, 
 strong but not pure, and therefore she had not for 
 the first time abased it in this conversation with 
 Edward Vaughn. And besides, she had her point 
 to reach. But she was now fairly angry, and her 
 wrath controlled her for this time, so that she 
 would have broken with the man who so angered
 
 A Night Afloat. 281 
 
 her. It was wise in him to leave her, so he went 
 forward carefully among the sleepers, with no 
 more particular purpose than to let her passion 
 have time to cool. What did such a man care for 
 her or any woman ? What could he care ? There 
 was one figure, wrapped in a shawl, sitting by the 
 rest and evidently awake. He bent down towards 
 it in the darkness. "Who is this?" he said in a 
 low tone. 
 
 " Lucy Farewell." 
 
 " And you are awake while all the rest are 
 asleep? Are you riot tired?" 
 
 " Very, but I can't sleep, and so I am spending 
 the night awake." 
 
 " And with nobody to talk to ? " 
 
 " Yes, I like to be alone. I am watching these 
 stars, and they are company for me. When I see 
 the stars at night I think of the dead of the 
 angels of a great many things." 
 
 "You are a romantic lady." 
 
 " I don't know, sir, what I am ; but I have told 
 you the truth. And to show you that I am a 
 practical person, please tell me what time we shall 
 get up the river in the morning. I must be back 
 to my school." 
 
 " It is difficult to say, Miss Farewell. So you 
 teach school?" 
 
 "Yes; I am what people about here call 'a 
 schoolmarm.' "
 
 282 A Night Afloat. 
 
 " What do you do in your school? " 
 
 "I write copies, teach lessons, keep the little 
 folks in order, teach the catechism what teachers 
 usually do in a parish school." 
 
 "And you do this every day?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You are too young to be cooped up every day 
 in this fashion. I should think you would grow 
 tired of it." 
 
 " No ; it is my duty, and a pleasure." 
 
 "What is duty?" 
 
 " What one ought to do, sir." 
 
 " And suppose one should not do one's duty ? " 
 
 " I do not understand you. Do you think I, or 
 any one is free not to do our duty ? Do we not 
 live for that ? " 
 
 " I am a poor hand at deciding such high mat- 
 ters. Some people think one's duty is to make 
 one's self comfortable ; and teaching school, I 
 should fancy, would not be exactly in their line." 
 
 " I hope you are not one of them." 
 
 " I ? I have no opinions about anything. I 
 eat my dinners and sail this yacht." 
 
 Lucy Farewell made him no answer. He at 
 least had talked no nonsense to her, and there 
 was an unconscious influence about her which 
 forced him to be civil. He said as he went away, 
 
 " If we don't get up the river in season, John 
 Walker shall row you up in the boat."
 
 A Night Afloat. 283 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 Edward Vaughn went back to the angry woman 
 in the stern. 
 
 " Have you quite forgiven me, Miss Belle ? " 
 
 " You have vexed me, Edward, beyond endur- 
 ance." 
 
 "I told you at the start what a wretch I am, 
 and now I have proved it. But angels forgive, 
 you know." 
 
 " I am not an angel, nor do I feel like one ; and 
 I belong to the sex that you think so wicked." 
 
 "Let bygones be bygones. Come now, ma 
 chere, forgive me ; I was very uncivil. I am a 
 lawless, moody being, yet I did not mean to pain 
 you. Let us kiss and be friends." 
 
 "If you promise to behave, I will be your 
 friend ; " and a hand was reached out from the 
 folds of the grey blanket in which he had wrapped 
 her. So that quarrel ended with the two beside 
 each other, the man saying many tender things, 
 not one of which was meant. They were not a 
 saintly couple that sat by the Qui Vive's helm. 
 
 In the late morning time the Qui Vive's com- 
 pany, all a little jaded and very hungry, were 
 landed safely at the wharf. Lucy Farewell had 
 been rowed up the river four hours earlier, as she 
 was promised.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A MUSICALS IN AUBREY. 
 
 ONE day, the week following the events narrated 
 in the last chapter, when Edward Vaughn came 
 home late from a long horseback ride across coun- 
 try and entered his room, he perceived a delicate 
 perfume in it. He smiled in his own peculiar way, 
 for he knew the cause of it. He found a note 
 upon his table. It was a little note with the red 
 initial letter "S" over the wax seal, and directed in 
 a woman's hand. He knew it well, for he had had 
 several already from the same quarter. First, he 
 picked it up and looked at it ; then he threw it 
 back on the table again, and proceeded to divest 
 himself of a pair of very muddy boots and to 
 change his coat for his dressing-gown. Then he 
 lighted his cigar and poked the cannel coal in the 
 grate into a blaze, and when he had prepared to 
 be comfortable he sat down at the table, and, 
 taking up the note, proceeded to examine the out- 
 side of it. It was very neatly sealed and writ, 
 only the penmanship was, he thought, a trifle too 
 masculine for a lady's. The letters were over- 
 large, but the stroke of them was thin, as a woman's
 
 A Musicale in Aubrey. 285 
 
 is, and to him, who prided himself on learning 
 character from handwriting, the note before him 
 was a study. He held it up to the taper before 
 him, and its lines showed dimly through its cover. 
 The perfume of it actually filled the room ; a 
 subtle, intoxicating fragrance, that might affect a 
 man to dreams, either good or bad, as his nature 
 prompted him. He had years before amused him- 
 self by associating different characters with differ- 
 ent perfumes, and he was wont to hold, among 
 men, that you could tell a woman by the perfume 
 she used. Indeed, he had gathered out of history 
 how, in all ages, women, as the matrons in the 
 Roman Empire, when they grew in their luxury 
 to be anything but angels, grew also to be greatly 
 skilled in perfumes, till, as it were, these became 
 the intoxication and delirium of their sense of 
 smell. The perfume of Isabel Seaton's note had 
 nothing in it of violet or crocus, nor of the spring 
 flowers which bloom among snow waters or among 
 the high pine hills of temperate climates, but it 
 was altogether tropical, sharp, penetrating, and 
 overmastering, as of a land where the great, rich, 
 intoxicating flowers yield, under the hot sun, 
 their sweets to the voluptuous and heavy, heated 
 air the perfume of an eastern sultan's palace. 
 It might have been the subtle impressions of this 
 perfume that filled his chamber which led Edward 
 Vaughn into a long reverie as he held the note in
 
 286 A Musicale in Aubrey. 
 
 his hand ; and in that reverie he travelled back 
 through many past affairs that had met him in 
 foreign lands, and dreamed of things not very high 
 nor vestal, but which had about them the fra- 
 grance of this tropic perfume. Then, at last, he 
 deliberately broke the seal and read. The sub- 
 stance of all that we are concerned to know was 
 in this sentence : " We are to have a musical com- 
 pany on Wednesday evening, Edward, and I wish 
 you to come up and talk over with me the guests 
 to be invited." When he had read it over once 
 he threw the letter back upon the table and 
 yawned. Nor did he forget Sam Le Clerke's let- 
 ters, which they two had burnt up in a smoky fire. 
 
 So, accordingly, he went up next day morning 
 to Isabel Seaton's, and in the favorite alcove be- 
 fore described, where he was used to make himself 
 comfortable, they two, the woman on a low otto- 
 man beside him, looked over her list of invitations. 
 
 "I do not see Lucy Farewell's name here," he 
 said. 
 
 " No ; her name is not there." 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 " Why do you ask ? Because I have not put it 
 there. Is not that reason enough? " 
 
 "By no means. Why in the world did you 
 leave her off, ma chere ? " 
 
 " If you must know, because I do not like the 
 person."
 
 A Musicale in Aubrey. 287 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Do you wish me to tell you? If I must, I 
 think her a little stupid rustic, an uncomfort- 
 able person who annoys me. Besides, I do not 
 wish to have a visiting acquaintance with her. 
 She is not in my circle." 
 
 " Nonsense ; she is a lady ; and suppose she isn't 
 of your set, what difference does that make ? " 
 
 "All the difference in the world. You can't 
 mix people up in society. Do you know that she 
 teaches the parish school ? " 
 
 " Bah ! now you are aristocrat, Belle. I thought 
 you were too sensible for that. You are going to 
 exclude her because she earns her bread as an 
 honest woman should." 
 
 "You wish to annoy me, Edward. You think 
 exactly as I do, if you would only say what you 
 think." 
 
 "You are wrong there, Belle. I hate this 
 American aristocracy, as it calls itself. It is of 
 the pinchbeck order, and extremely vulgar. I can 
 respect the claims of family when it is a thousand 
 years old, and its men have been gentlemen, and 
 lived and died as gentlemen under the king's flag, 
 and have in them blood made blue by a long 
 strain of high-toned and well-bred men, but this 
 aristocracy here, of yesterday, out of a pork 
 barrel, or a cotton store, or a smith's forge, bah ! 
 it ought to be merely laughed down. It is too
 
 288 A Musicale in Aubrey. 
 
 absurd to be angry with. No, Belle. Here if one 
 woman has two gowns to her back and another 
 has only one, the woman who is better off by 
 one gown than her neighbor looks down 011 her. 
 What a sublime height she occupies with the two 
 gowns ! No ! What I say is, position is relative, 
 and, measured by European standards, we are, most, 
 beggars and upstarts. America was peopled by 
 honest poor folks, who were not ashamed to be 
 poor but were proud to be that ; and when their 
 descendants give themselves airs I laugh. I look 
 through their pretension to a log cabin and an 
 honest woman in a blue woollen dress driving 
 cows home from pasture, while her good man is 
 hoeing corn in the field, to find their coat of 
 arms." 
 
 "How can you talk so, Edward?" 
 
 " How ? Because I mean it, and I don't mean 
 everything I say. You never turn me out of 
 doors when I come to see you, because why? 
 Because I am well dressed and live in a big house 
 and spend money. But my great-grandfather was 
 a hard-working man, and yet you would have 
 turned him out of doors if he had come ia a 
 homespun dress to court you, though he was an 
 honest man who made his own money, while all I 
 do is to spend it. Why don't you set me adrift, 
 Lady Isabel?" 
 
 " All persons do not get their deserts ; and be-
 
 A Mmicale in Aubrey. 289 
 
 sides, I like you. You are so very amusing. You 
 amuse me now." 
 
 " Well, but I am not in a very amusing mood, 
 I assure you. I mean all this. I want Lucy 
 Farewell invited. I honor her. She earns her 
 own bread, and I eat somebody's else. I do that 
 because I do not amount to anything, and never 
 expect to. I should be much more of a man if I 
 did some honest work like other men. I am a 
 drone, and I know it ; but I never give myself 
 airs, which is one of my few virtues, and I respect 
 every man who works. You young women would 
 be much better off if, instead of forever dressing 
 and eating your dinners, you had some useful 
 work to do ; and, above all, you can't afford to 
 despise those who have." 
 
 " What would you have me do ? " 
 
 " Mend your own stockings, and make bread 
 something." 
 
 " And what will you do ? " 
 
 "Me? Don't follow my example. I am the 
 wreck of a man. But I am going to learn a trade 
 before I die." 
 
 Isabel Seaton lifted her pretty eyebrows in a 
 very significant fashion, as she said, "Edward 
 Vaughn a mechanic ? Charming ! " 
 
 "Very well. An honest mechanic is worlds 
 above a mean gentleman, as folks call a man who 
 spends other people's money ; and I may turn out
 
 290 A Musicale in Aubrey. 
 
 one yet. The man who doesn't do something to 
 feed himself is a nuisance that is all." There 
 was no answer to this last vehemence of a man 
 who for once was sincere. After a long pause, 
 as nothing was said, he returned to his point. " I 
 wish you to invite Lucy Farewell." 
 
 " It cannot be done." 
 
 "Well, then, you may make your own choice. 
 If she doesn't come, neither will I. I intend to 
 stand by her against all this nonsense." 
 
 The man spoke almost angrily, and ,there was 
 a look in his gray e} 7 es that showed his will was 
 not to be safely hindered. Isabel Seaton had 
 some time since found out that in his stormier 
 moods there was no use opposing him. She there- 
 fore said nothing, though she was greatly vexed. 
 She held down her head over her list, until one 
 or two great tears fell upon the paper. The tears 
 were out of her eyes, not out of her heart, and 
 were flavored with pride, which, if sometimes 
 bitter, is seldom salt. The man beside her waited, 
 as he always did, to have his own way, and Isabel 
 Seaton hopelessly yielded, as was her wont. She 
 held up to him her list. " You can write what 
 name you please." So he wrote with his pencil 
 " Lucy Farewell " at the bottom. With these two 
 people, according to Edward Vaughn's manage- 
 ment, sunshine always followed a storm. Do you 
 ask what happened, in that sunshine, to the tears
 
 A Musicale in Aubrey. 201 
 
 that still lingered in Isabel Seaton's beautiful 
 eyes ? They were kissed away. 
 
 When Edward Vaughn left the Seatons he went 
 straight to St. Clement's parish school. There he 
 found Lucy Farewell in the midst of a crowd of 
 children, giving them a geography lesson. All the 
 little folks stared back at the door as he stood 
 there, and Lucy herself, with the slightest imagin- 
 able blush upon her cheeks, came down the aisle 
 to ask the wishes of her novel visitor. 
 
 His manner was abrupt with her, for the morn- 
 ing's conversation had made him angry. " There 
 is to be music at the Seatons' to-morrow evening, 
 and you are invited. May I call for you and take 
 you up ? " and he looked down at her with two 
 very sharp, incisive eyes. She hesitated, a trifle 
 embarrassed. The whole thing struck her as 
 singular, and unaccountable by any philosophy 
 she possessed. 
 
 " Why do you ask me? " she said. 
 
 " Because it pleases me, and I wish it. Some- 
 body must escort you, and I had as well do it as 
 any one. I wish to call round for you and have 
 you go with me. That is the only reason.*' 
 
 Lucy Farewell would rather not have gone with 
 him, and she was inclined to say so. In fact, she 
 did not like society, but Miss Mary was always 
 urging her to it, and so, between her wish and 
 her duty, she managed to speak a very undecided 
 "Yes."
 
 292 A Musicale in Aubrey. 
 
 "So, then, this is where you exist," he said, 
 looking round the schoolroom, whose appoint- 
 ments did not seem to please him. 
 
 "This is where I do my duty, Mr. Vaughn." 
 
 He looked down on her again with his sharp 
 glance. In fact, he looked her all over before he 
 said, 
 
 "Yes; I respect a woman. who does her duty. 
 I will call for you at half-past seven precisely," 
 and, making his bow, he went away. 
 
 Edward Vaughn produced a decided sensation 
 when he appeared at eight o'clock the next even- 
 ing among the musical folks at the Seatons' with 
 Lucy Farewell upon his arm. It was as good as a 
 play to see the curious side-glances at the pair, and 
 hear the not very flattering remarks that followed 
 them as Edward Vaughn, with a sort of steady 
 tramp, and with bows on all sides to the charming 
 creatures whom he felt were disposed to criticise 
 his companion after the fashion of female justice, 
 passed through them to make his salutation to 
 Miss Seaton, who, dressed in an ashes-of-roses 
 colored silk, with some very elaborate point lace 
 trimming (the superb creature she always was), 
 had been nervously anxious for the last hour at 
 his non-appearance. In contrast, Lucy Farewell 
 was dressed in the plainest of black silks and a 
 simple white collar about her throat, pinned to- 
 gether by a very small jet cross. When these two
 
 A Musicale in Aubrey. 293 
 
 ladies, so unlike, bowed to each other, it was, to 
 the insight of even a man like Edward Vaughn, 
 Art and Nature saluting each other. He made 
 his bow, however, in a very emphatic manner, and 
 Avith a puzzling air, as though he was not cer- 
 tain whether he wished to make himself agreeable 
 or not. He was not in a very good humor, and 
 Isabel Seaton knew it ; so, between the two, some 
 very commonplace things were said; and when 
 Edward Vaughn, having led her to a seat, excused 
 himself to make his tour of the rooms by himself, 
 Lucy Farewell had become exceedingly uncom- 
 fortable. He found the young ladies everywhere 
 gracious, if not to him, at least to the elegant 
 establishment at River Nook, which was not him, 
 yet his also ; so he had soon great gain of smiles 
 and bows from that tender sisterhood, which he 
 pocketed as graciously and about as feelingly as 
 he would his napoleons when he played for sport 
 against the bank, and won money for which he 
 had no special use. Men like him have a chronic 
 distrust of almost everybody. It fared ill, how- 
 ever, with Lucy Farewell. She was not of the 
 "set" that to-night inundated the Seatons' parlors, 
 and, therefore, was allowed to occupy her seat in 
 the alcove where Edward Vaughn had smoked so 
 many cigars, unnoticed. It was surprising how 
 many of the young ladies who promenaded past 
 her were so short-sighted that they could not
 
 294 A Musicale in Aubrey. 
 
 see to bow to her, and others, who had the grace 
 to do so, seemed, if one may dissect so closely such 
 charming creatures, to have back-bones without 
 joints. In short, she was openly " cut " by her 
 generous townswomen, and she soon discovered it; 
 so also did Edward Vaughn, who, amongst the gay 
 groups Avith whom he chatted, found time to watch 
 his protdge, and very soon saw how she fared. He 
 did not hurry himself, however, but went on with 
 his small talk, while a peculiar smile, that deep- 
 ened gradually to something like a frown, came to 
 his almost handsome face. Yet the women he 
 chatted with found him only a little more grave 
 than usual, and very polite. After a half-hour or so, 
 however, he found his way back to Lucy Farewell. 
 
 "Charming company, Miss Farewell. You 
 must enjoy it hugely " (with a shrug of the 
 shoulders). 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
 "You are not enthusiastic enough. So sociable 
 these folks are, and well bred. I am surprised 
 you don't go into raptures over it all. Isn't it 
 delightful ? " 
 
 She looked up into his face. It was very blank 
 of any expression that she could understand ; a 
 broad, grave, and, as an adept could have told, a 
 dangerous, sinister face, and with eyes looking 
 straight at her. 
 
 " I cannot tell, sir, what you really think, but
 
 A Musicale in Aubrey. 295 
 
 you make me feel as though you did not mean 
 what you say. I am very uncomfortable here." 
 
 " Bravo ! how frank. I give you a lesson. In 
 society, never say what you think. It is not ex- 
 pected of you, and would surprise people. Then 
 they will call you odd ; and honesty in the world 
 shows like the ver}' odd thing it is. You should 
 say the company is charming." 
 
 " I do not think so, and therefore I cannot say 
 so. Do you not think it is necessary for a lady to 
 speak the truth?" 
 
 " Not at all ; that is, as the world goes, and 
 you and I are in the world to-night." 
 
 "I do not like the world, then, and wish to 
 keep out of it." 
 
 " You would make a charming hermit to live in 
 a cave with the birds arid squirrels up in Roaring 
 Brook. Anywhere else, one must fib a little." 
 She was on the point of answering some things 
 very plainly, when he interrupted: "There, now, 
 no more talk ; Miss Seaton is going to sing." 
 
 Isabel Seaton, whom, in her cares as hostess, 
 Edward Vaughn had found it easy to avoid this 
 evening so far, had seated herself at the piano, 
 turning over the music sheets, and was about to 
 sing. 
 
 "A charming lady Miss Seaton is magnificent. 
 I am thinking of making her my wife. What sort 
 of a spouse would she make me ? "
 
 296 A Musicale in Aubrey. 
 
 " I don't know Miss Seaton. I dare say a very 
 good one." 
 
 " What a cold speech to a lover like me ! You 
 should say she is angelic." 
 
 " But I don't know her, I tell you." 
 
 " No matter what you know, you should say so. 
 People don't know most things they say. In fact, 
 they say most when they know least. Look at 
 her. What a magnificent figure, and that blonde 
 curl over the shoulder so nicely rounded under 
 the silk. I am very fond of blondes. I rave 
 about her. If I marry her I shall take her abroad 
 and have her presented at court. She would beat 
 the world. And she, poor lady, is so innocent of 
 my devotion." 
 
 Lucy Farewell looked at him again. Her in- 
 stinct told her that something in woman wiser 
 than all logic, and more unerring that the man 
 beside her was somehow insincere. "I do not 
 know Miss Seaton; but she is a woman, and you 
 should not speak to me a woman in this way 
 about her. If you thought of her as you say, you 
 would not speak of her so to me, and you should 
 not. I do not wish to listen to you. It is unjust 
 to her, and I do not like it." 
 
 " You must be the Goddess of Justice, or some- 
 thing quite as grand. Now we must listen. The 
 song comes now." 
 
 Isabel Seaton sung her song. There are a great
 
 A Jfuxicale in Aubrey. 297 
 
 many kinds of singers. One is the wooden kind, 
 who sing with the accuracy of a machine, and 
 with as little emotion. One is the sentimental 
 kind, who, without art, utter a great deal of senti- 
 ment in their notes, but have no culture ; and of 
 singers, as of the writing of books, there is no end. 
 Isabel Seaton sang precisely and with a certain 
 emotion. In fact, her nature expressed itself in 
 song ; but her song, like her nature, was southern, 
 with the southern fire, and dreaminess, a trifle too 
 sensuous, and with a tinge of something that is not 
 bred among violets, nor in a woman who is a child. 
 It was a song for masquerade, carnival, or wild 
 dance in the late hours of revel, but not a strain 
 to be ever sung by the cradle of blue-eyed infants 
 nor at a bride's banquet. Yet it was very proper 
 Italian music, and was rendered cleverly. 
 
 Edward Vaughn waited till the song was through, 
 and then said to the woman beside him : " As you 
 do not allow me to compliment Miss Seaton, you 
 will excuse me from criticising her music ; and as 
 it is very warm here, if you like let us take a stroll 
 outdoors and look at the stars, for a change." 
 
 " I shall be glad to go, sir." 
 
 So they went out into the hall. " The ground 
 is damp. Have you thick shoes on? I am old 
 fogy enough to have women take care of their 
 health. You had better take your shawl." So, 
 when he had helped her to her shawl and taken a
 
 298 A Musicale in Aubrey. 
 
 general inspection of her fitness to go into the 
 night air, they went out together. "Stop a min- 
 ute," he said, as they went down the walk towards 
 the gate. " This is a great change from indoors. 
 Your shawl is not close enough about } r our throat. 
 I don't intend you to catch consumption walking 
 with me. Allow me," and he arranged the shawl 
 about her throat, while she pinned it there; for 
 Edward Vaughn could be as gentle as a woman. 
 As he did so, a tear actually fell upon his hand. 
 
 He started. " How is this, my child ? You are 
 weeping. What is the matter ? " 
 
 "Nothing. I am only very foolish, and ought 
 to have more restraint. But I have really been 
 very unhappy indoors, and it is such a relief to get 
 out into the free air once more." 
 
 Edward Vaughn knew very well what the mat- 
 ter was, but he did not choose to say so. " Never 
 mind," he said ; "here you are, out in the air with 
 me. I will take good care of you ; and just look 
 what a night ! All the stars are abroad, and 
 nobody will molest us here." 
 
 So they walked down to the gate together, and 
 she leaned on a strong arm until she became tran- 
 quil. Edward Vaughn himself was very quiet, 
 and, for a wonder, said nothing grotesque or sar- 
 castic. It might have been the silence of the 
 night or of the woman with him he was at 
 least quiet. Yet he said, as they came to
 
 A Musicale in Aubrey. 299 
 
 the gate and stopped there a moment before 
 they turned back, " One of the first things my 
 mother ever taught me was to look at the stars, 
 and how they were great worlds ; and often on 
 shipboard or travelling at night, and especially 
 in the tropics, where they are so bright, I have 
 thought of the times when she taught me my 
 prayers at my bed-side. You women can do great 
 things with this human race. You should be 
 always our teachers." 
 
 Was it the childlike nature beside him that was 
 leading him back to his own childhood and its 
 better thoughts? Who knows? Yet is it not 
 writ of the proud human creatures who think to 
 rule a world, "And a little child shall lead them"? 
 
 So they walked back to the house. 
 
 " You had better say, if asked, that we have 
 been on the piazza. Folks are so inquisitive, and 
 it is nobody's business where we have been," he 
 said, as they were about to go in. 
 
 "I cannot say that. It is not true." 
 
 " What will you say, then ? " 
 
 "Say the truth, that I have been out walking 
 with you." 
 
 " But I wish it. I like to confuse people." 
 
 " I cannot oblige you. Perhaps it is not the 
 common way, but I must tell you once for all 
 that I can never oblige you by saying even in a 
 small matter what is not true."
 
 300 A Music-ale in Aubrey. 
 
 " Suppose I am angry at you." 
 
 ''I cannot help it then." 
 
 "What an innocent lamb you are. The wolves 
 will devour you if you go on in that way. Let 
 us go in to them." Sure enough the first person 
 they met on entering was Isabel Seaton. " I have 
 been looking for you," she said. " Pray, where 
 have you been ? " Edward Vaughn said nothing, 
 but his companion answered, " We have taken a 
 walk down to the gate, Miss Seaton," and the 
 man assumed his stolid, unreadable look, and 
 gazed at nothing but straight before him and 
 over Isabel Seatori's head. 
 
 During the course of the evening, when he had 
 left Lucy Farewell once more in her niche by the 
 window, where nobody seemed to see her, he 
 found himself tete-d-tete with Miss Seaton. 
 
 " You have deserted me this evening, Edward." 
 
 "Havel?" 
 
 "Yes, and I know from your manner that some- 
 thing has gone wrong. What is it ? " 
 
 " How sharp-eyed you are! I am in excellent 
 health and spirits. There is nothing the matter," 
 and his face became very grave and blank. 
 
 " Yes ; it is something. Have I done anything 
 to offend you ? " 
 
 "You? What could you do? Why don't you 
 ask Miss Farewell to sing ? " 
 
 " Ah, that is the trouble. I will ask her."
 
 A Musicale in Aubrey. 301 
 
 " Well, there she is in the alcove yonder. Sup- 
 pose we go now and do it." So they two went 
 where Lucy Farewell was sitting, and Miss Isabel, 
 in her blandest manner, asked her to sing. It 
 was not Lucy Farewell's wish to sing, and she said 
 so, but Edward Vaughn put an end to the dispute 
 by saying, "Don't be like other folks, but sing 
 when you are asked. Miss Belle wishes it, and so 
 do I." So as the easiest way she consented to 
 sing, and Mr. Vaughn led her to the piano. 
 
 It would profit nobody to count the pretty 
 shoulders that shrugged themselves when Lucy 
 Farewell began to sing. Yet she sang notwith- 
 standing. It was a song that had had a great run 
 in its day, and like all popular songs it had the 
 elements of great things in it. It was a song 
 which connected itself with a great struggle be- 
 tween Eastern and Western Christendom, and 
 its words and spirit were English. In it was the 
 pathos of free men, who had given up their beloved, 
 to die in war grapple with Russian serfs ; the pain 
 and ache of frozen men in the winter trenches, 
 and the regret of dying men in bleak hospitals ; 
 over all rose the stormy strains of that warrior 
 race, hungering for battle, which under all suns 
 fights out on the red field its victory with the 
 soul of heroes. It was a song not applauded 
 when Lucy ended, but its music was that which 
 rouses men to great thoughts. One could not
 
 802 A Musicale in Aubrey. 
 
 have told from Edward Vaughn's face what he 
 thought of it, but as he bent over the singer he 
 said, " That was well done." The company 
 turned to their talk again. It was true that Lucy 
 Farewell had sung her part well, and also that the 
 music was greater than she. For music is of no 
 clime or nation, but a universal tongue understood 
 by hearts of every blood. We talk English, 
 French, or German, as we were born, but music is 
 a more catholic language, with no such narrow 
 limits. It is this quality of music which teaches 
 us perhaps a great truth concerning the Here- 
 after. It may be the vernacular of heaven. If 
 so, we shall speak with our beloved forever in 
 music. 
 
 There was nothing further remarkable in Isabel 
 Seaton's musical party. Edward Vaughn became 
 more gracious to her after Lucy Farewell sang. 
 In due time he also took that lady home.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE WEDDING IN BLACKBERRY HOLLOW. 
 
 EDWARD VAUGHN, since his advent here, had 
 made much of Aubrey vagabonds and poor folk. 
 Polite tongues are wont to call these the sedi- 
 ment, and nautical ones the wreckage, of society. 
 However named, they were evidently at the bot- 
 tom of the pool and well broken up in the tide, so 
 boisterous and sure, which sweeps us all on and 
 away. He had done this by spasmodic outbreaks 
 of money-giving and a general habit of making 
 talk with them wherever he met them. They 
 understood the money part and were too serene 
 philosophers to ask a reason for any such unusual 
 behavior. Besides, there was something in his 
 blunt, sturdy ways that pleased them. Rough 
 lives, at least in everyday matters, find a certain 
 dissonance in soft words. He had already gained 
 a certain standing in their strata of being. For 
 human society may be as truly exclusive from 
 below as from above. So far as he went, he did 
 this, not as the great Shining One had, so long 
 ago, at the Bethesda porches or the white strands 
 of Galilee, with the lame and impotent folk, to
 
 304 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 shew mercy on them, but in the lawless outbreak 
 of a restless nature, self-foiled and self-avenging, 
 with quaint, and on the surface unaccountable, be- 
 haviors. As he stood just now, in actual assets 
 and by any honest law of virtue he was their 
 kinsman in the same tide, if at a higher altitude. 
 With the brighter of them he bandied words and 
 laughed at their sordid jokes, but he gave the 
 others less monies. 
 
 " Granny Little " was one of his favorites. 
 What her Christian name might be was sure some 
 day to puzzle the doctor, or the undertaker who 
 was like to follow him so closely at her last ill- 
 ness, to discover ; but everybody knew her for 
 " Granny Little." The two root-facts of her 
 story, as known to Aubrey, were that she was 
 an Irish immigrant and a trooper's widow. Of 
 course other things came on the surface, as some 
 knew to their cost, to wit, that her tongue was 
 long and sharp and her temper that of a person 
 in a perpetual campaign. She usually showed in 
 public as a little wizened, wiry woman with no 
 feminine uncertainty of age, dressed in dilapidated 
 brogans several sizes beyond her measure, a gray 
 woollen gown quite too short to ever suggest a 
 train, and a huge, yellowish-white cap with vagrant 
 frills that suggested horns in front; under which, 
 eyes that might once have been a trifle blue, and a 
 medley of colors culminating in vermilion at a
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 305 
 
 dropsical nose tip over a mouth vacant of anything 
 that dentistry could do or save, and towards which 
 a protruded chin seemed always trying to climb 
 up, fashioned a face which might best remind the 
 ungodly of the Queen of Clubs in a colic. 
 " Granny's " vocation ran to several things ; and, 
 as has been said, she made life a sort of running 
 fight with her needs. She was first of all a poly- 
 glot and catholic beggar ; that is, she begged 
 anything of everybody who would stand and 
 deliver ; and woe, in her prayers and in her sum- 
 ming up of character, to those who never gave. 
 For Granny had a religion, not of that Roman 
 kind which was vaster than her pate or heart; 
 but of the Roman kind so far as it had power to 
 enter upon the stony and rather scant soil of her 
 own nature. It was reported by her neighbors 
 that the day when she had behaved most naughty 
 she always went to mass. Sooth to say, if this 
 were strictly true, she must have been a daily 
 devotee. Only at mass she was sure to kneel 
 longest at the altar-rail saying her prayers, with 
 swingings back and forth and spyings out of the 
 congregation between her pinches of almost per- 
 petual snuff, until the pastor warned her of the 
 scandal, and for a week or so she became in tongue 
 and temper a very Protestant. Yet she kept the 
 Virgin and a calendar of saints upon her tongue's 
 tip for any one who would give her some cold 
 victuals.
 
 306 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 Granny lived under the hill and kept two goats. 
 Her shanty was a bit of vague architecture, loose 
 among a mecllev of Irish houses, where there were 
 
 o v 
 
 no streets and a deal of squatter sovereignty. 
 It was an event to see Granny going out with 
 these goats to pasture whenever a stray tuft of 
 grass by the river side, or any other patch of ver- 
 dure that Providence might order, offered. At 
 such times she marched with a military air, as if 
 scenting the battle ; for the Grubtown urchins 
 (for so was Granny's hamlet nominated) had a 
 spite at the goats, who were also given to war, as 
 many of the aforesaid urchins had learned to their 
 cost, in the dirt where these brutes had butted 
 them, and at every chance they pelted their 
 horned adversaries with stones. There was sure 
 to be hot work round Granny's cabin at times, 
 when all was quiet inside and she was supposed 
 to be at her noon nap, and these boys were not. 
 Then a stray stone, intended for the goats, but 
 rattling against the resounding house sides, made 
 it worse for wayfarers than digging honeycombs 
 out of a rotten stump in August ; for Granny 
 swarmed out into all quarters while the urchins 
 hid, and the tide of her tongue flowed on until the 
 neighbors shut all the windows. At such times 
 there was wanting incense to purify the air? 
 
 A few days after the events told in our last 
 chapter, Edward Vaughn, on his trip to the vil-
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 307 
 
 lage, met Granny seated by the roadside with her 
 goats. "Well, Granny, how goes it?" But 
 Granny to-day was in one of her tearful moods, 
 into which she fell whenever she had been parti- 
 cularly naughty or was meditating some unusual 
 draft on somebody's pocket. At such times she 
 was much given to frequent up-passes of her grimy 
 right hand, at an angle of some forty-five degrees 
 over her red nose tip and left eyebrow, in among 
 her cap frills, as if brushing away hairs, and her 
 voice became a sort of chronic snivel, meant to 
 vocalize her otherwise hidden sorrow. So, when 
 Mr. Vaughn addressed her his cheerful question, 
 she went through her usual pantomime, prefacing 
 it with a tug at her sere cap-strings, gone astray 
 under her left ear, and a down-snatch at her brief 
 gown, in the impossible endeavor to bring it in 
 closer neighborhood with her brogans, all in the 
 way of female vanity, and said nothing. 
 
 "Well, what the dogs ails you now, Granny? 
 Turned out for rent, or put out of church for 
 taking your morning bath in holy water?" 
 
 Only a series of dry sighs, with an asthmatic 
 timbre to them, answered the inquiry. 
 
 " Oh, I see ; you are going to die shortly. If 
 that's all, I tell you we'll give you the biggest 
 wake in town plenty of pipes and whiskey, with 
 lots of candles, and ten to one you'll enjoy it 
 all the same as though it was Polly Maguire" (her
 
 308 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 next neighbor and farthest friend) "in the coffin 
 instead of you. Cheer up, then, woman, and 
 make your best face at it, if that is all." 
 
 Even this promise, so full of hope, failed for 
 some moments to check Granny's snivel and the 
 attendant pantomime of grief; but at last she 
 managed to blurt out in what was meant to look 
 like a supreme effort to master her emotions, 
 " Ochone, it 's the weddin' that 's killed me 
 in tire." 
 
 " A wedding? Somebody run away with your 
 sweetheart, and you lone and lorn in the high- 
 way, with two goats for comfort? Shame on 
 you for no good. Go to the wedding, and, behind 
 the bride's back, weep in that eloquent way of 
 yours for her luck." 
 
 "Bad luck to the likes of ye," says Granny, 
 stiffening up, and losing for the nonce her temper 
 (a state of mind she emphasized by flinging a 
 stone, hid in her hand, at one of the goats, which 
 had slipped its tether) ; " bad luck to your honor 
 (softening down her asperity to the humility of 
 those beggars who expect) ; " does ye think I'm a 
 fool ? Men has been the plague of me life, and if 
 St. Pathrick axed me, I'd bid him nay for his 
 answer." 
 
 " Well, what, then, t* the matter? " 
 
 Her tongue once found, the fact was easy to 
 tell:
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 309 
 
 "Everybody is invited to the weddin', and 
 I've no thin' to clad meself in for the frolic." 
 
 " Oh, well, if that's all, Granny, come with me to 
 the store, and, we'll fix you out all right." It was 
 fun to mark the alacrity with which at this an- 
 nouncement Granny managed to get on her feet, 
 and, with a very shower of curtseys and the in- 
 vocation of several saints, to acquit herself of her 
 overflowing gratitude. At such times of thanks- 
 giving there was only one way to stop the out- 
 burst, to wit, to begin one's self to chant in one's 
 most solemn tone some Latin (it might be the pre- 
 face to Cornelius Nepos or any other) plentifully 
 interlarded with " Per ssecula seeculorum " and 
 "Amens," all in ritual fashion, from which, as an 
 unknown and potent incantation, Granny always 
 retreated and vanished into distance with curt- 
 seys, and it was thought with counter prayers to 
 the Virgin for her sweet protection. But as Mr. 
 Vaughn did not happen to know this secret, he 
 could only let Granny conclude and gather her 
 goats for the town. This done, and the conversa- 
 tion continued by the way. 
 
 " Fine goats these of yours, Granny." 
 
 " Och, darlin', thim's me comfort and me pace 
 of mind intirely. Whin I'm vexed, and me neigh- 
 bors throuble me, I milk me goats. They's never 
 swears at me, nor axes me for rint, nor goes roam- 
 ing about like me neighbors' dogs o' nights, and
 
 810 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 are the paceablest saints in the town. Och, goats 
 is a comfort to a poor woman's fireside, and the 
 illigantest cratures on airth." 
 
 " No doubt, Granny, and what do you call these 
 illigant cratures ? " 
 
 " That's Tim, and that's Peggy. Tim's older nor 
 two years than she." 
 
 " Well, you haven't paid much respect to gen- 
 der in naming your goats anyhow, Granny." 
 
 "Ginder! ginder! what's that?" 
 
 " I mean that both your goats give milk, and 
 you have named one of them ' Tim.' " 
 
 "Oh, that's what you marie by 'ginder.' Thin 
 I do pay respect to ginder. Thim goats' names are 
 for me babes, God rist their sowls." 
 
 "I never knew you had any children, Granny." 
 
 " Maybe not, but I had, plase God, two babes. 
 Tim was me first, and had me man's name ; both 
 died with choleray in garrison. I disremember the 
 name on the sea, Charnel or Channel, I think 
 they called it, somewhere ; and Tim jist like me 
 man ; and Peggy ochone, the blissedest babe, 
 with eyes as blue as hiven both took and me 
 lone. So I has respect to 'ginder,' and I sez, I'll 
 name me goats Tim and Peggy, and many's the 
 saison when I calls me goats out of the grass that 
 I prays the Vargin that the grass may be grane 
 where they sleeps." 
 
 " So you were married to a soldier, Granny ? "
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hottoiv. 311 
 
 " Faith, it's yis I was, and in church, too, honey, 
 and me man was as straight and trim as the best 
 that carried musket. And I follered him long- 
 shore and inshore until they took us women and 
 shut us up in Walmer Castle ochone, don't I 
 know the cussed hold, and they sent my man 
 over sea to some sort of loo Peterloo or "Watter- 
 loo, where the inemy was, to fite folks they had 
 never seen. And my man he never come back ; and 
 what was it to me whin his rigiment was home, 
 and colors and drums, and they said it was a great 
 victory. But it kilt him, and the babes were 
 gone. Git along, Tim ; " and Granny threw a chip 
 at that vagrant climbing the bank for a tuft of 
 clover. 
 
 "\\ r ell, well, Granny, all of us wear a shoe 
 that pinches somewhere. The wedding will set 
 you all right. Yonder is the store, and that will 
 comfort you. And Granny hurried on the goats, 
 and hitched them to the pump outside, while the 
 two went indoors. The proprietor, a brisk bust- 
 ling trader with sandy hair, who kept on sale a 
 little of everything except the virtues, listened 
 very readily to Mr. Vaughn's orders. " Here, Mr. 
 Messinger," said the latter, "give Granny Little 
 everything she wants for an outfit for the wedding 
 in Blackberry Hollow, and send the bill to me." 
 
 " Certainly," said the shopman. Then Mr. 
 Vaughn left, while Granny graced his departure by
 
 312 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 innumerable curtseys and a more than ordinary 
 powerful invocation of the saints for his blessing. 
 But with his disappearance went her civilities as 
 well. The shopkeeper, now in her hands, was 
 known, but not dear, to her, and in matters of 
 trade she had never before known such liberties 
 or such riches. She seemed to grow a head taller 
 all at once, as her militant air broadened over her 
 whole person, and with arms akimbo and incisive 
 eyes from under the gray lashes, first surveyed the 
 store in general, and finally halted at the store- 
 keeper. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Granny?" said that 
 person in his usual shop style. 
 
 "Oh, it's for me yees '11 be doing, is it? Will, 
 thin, wait a thrifle, and I'll be giving yees the 
 satisfaction." So she reviewed the store again, 
 and then came close to the counter, and bent over 
 to the shopman's ear to astound him with her 
 hoarse but solemn question, " Hev ye:.s any 
 rum?" Now, in the mind of most persons rum 
 has at the best or worst only a very remote rela- 
 tion to a wedding, and Granny's question certainly 
 took the man aback. 
 
 " You don't want rum for a wedding, Granny," 
 he expostulated. 
 
 " What's a wake or a widdiug without rum, ye 
 Prisbytarian sapleen. Yees might just as well ate 
 yer dinner without first fire to cook it as bury or
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 313 
 
 many a dacent person without a thrifle to drink. 
 So give me me rum and be going afther it as 
 quick as if yees was going to your wife's 
 funeral." 
 
 Granny was known to be weak with rum, so 
 the man finally said, after a vain attempt to put 
 her off and to save himself from a drunken wo- 
 man at his door, "Well, Granny, here are some 
 bitters, just the thing," and he handed her one 
 of those mysterious bottles of a popular patent 
 cough medicine which was never known to cure, 
 and would have confounded a whole college of 
 chemists to analyze. 
 
 " Will they bite hard," said Granny doubtfully, 
 with an up-squint of her left eye at the trader. 
 
 " Never fear that, Granny, they'll bite down to 
 your toes, and if you take too much you'll think 
 a herd of snakes is after you." 
 
 "Thim's the jewels, then," said Granny (for 
 such folk like strong effects, even in their diet), 
 and taking the bottle with its label illuminated 
 by a catalogue of all its virtues on the outside, 
 where they only were, she thrust it deep into the 
 capacious storehouse of the one pocket of the 
 woollen dress, and looked round for more. Her 
 eyes happened to fall on the fine stores of sardines 
 and olives. Of these she had never tasted, but 
 she had seen others do so at the picnics where 
 she was washing dishes. So she said, "Give me
 
 314 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 some of thim little fishes and thim grane apples 
 in ile that yees got on the shelf there." 
 
 " Oh, you mean the sardines and olives, do 
 you ? " 
 
 " I mane thim" pointing with her fist, " and 
 give 'em me quick and don't be foolin'." 
 
 " But what in the world have they to do with 
 your going to the wedding ? " 
 
 " Flinty, plinty, you big Prisbytarian, vexin' 
 me there behind yer counter. Can't I rade me 
 Bible as well as yer brother and know me Chater- 
 casm ? and it's meself that knows that me stomach 
 is kilt intirely this blessed day with fastin'; and 
 how'll I go to the weddin' whin I'm only fit for 
 the wake ? the saints defind us. Ye'll murder me 
 if ye don't hurry, and me faintin' here like a ha- 
 then." So the sardines and olives went into the 
 same capacious pocket. Then Granny turned to 
 the dry goods. If her deserts had been as vast as 
 the outfit she coveted she would have been a 
 paragon. The trader was ready to sell under Mr. 
 Vaughn's elastic order, but some of Granny's needs 
 seemed so remote from the occasion that even he 
 often stumbled over her requests. The struggle 
 ended finally by Granny's carrying off a curious 
 booty of ribbons of every shade of the rainbow 
 (though green predominated), and such wear as 
 was fit for no special season known to woman, nor 
 for any mortal except herself. An immense hoop
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 315 
 
 skirt, too elaborate for her pocket, was put on 
 over her dress at once, and a huge red woollen 
 shawl, also worn, completed the outfit. 
 
 Even then she was hardly satisfied. Her last 
 demand quite stupefied the shopman. " Have 
 yees any incense about ye, darlin'?" asked 
 Granny, whose temper had gradually softened 
 under her increasing riches. " Have yees any 
 incense ? " 
 
 " Incense ? " said the man, " do you take me 
 for a priest ? " 
 
 " Och, divil's the praste ye'll be, and it's lucky 
 the day ye'll get out of purgatory for yer sins 
 in sellin' bad tay and shugar with sand and 
 harbs and what not to them, for Christans like 
 me to sup. Hev yees any incense, I axes ye ?" 
 
 " No," said the man bluntly, " I haven't, and 
 don't want any." 
 
 " But how'll I go to the widdin' and not a taste 
 of somethin' to make me smell fine, and give an 
 illigant touch to me appearance ? His riverince 
 towld us last Sunday morn that incense is the 
 breath of saints, and how'll I go to the widdin' 
 and me not carrying the blissing w r id me? " 
 
 " Well, all I've got is some Cologne, if that will 
 do you," said the shopkeeper. "I've got some 
 first rate in those bottles there." 
 
 "Well," said Granny, meditatively; "it's a Pro- 
 testant weddin', anyhow, and maybe it's all the
 
 316 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 same to thim, so I don't mind if yees'll give me 
 the Kerlone." So she took the long-necked bottle 
 of Cologne, made by an enterprising Yankee up 
 the river, and this in hand (for the pocket refused 
 further duty) went for her goats. The proces- 
 sional to Grub town that followed was not soon for- 
 got by those who saw it, but Granny was too in- 
 tent and rich to mind the jeers and rambling 
 salutes of the bystanders, and when she came to the 
 Grubtown lane she halted to let the goats browse 
 a trifle while she tried to sit down under the one 
 oak tree that kept guard and shade over that 
 unique spot. In her laden condition, sitting down 
 was only easier than getting up again ; but once 
 down she also proceeded to browse in a very 
 guarded way upon what she had in hand. First 
 she examined critically the bottle of Cologne, but 
 as she could not read, the legend on it might be a 
 prayer or a curse for all she knew, and she pro- 
 ceeded to possess the olives. Now, to some per- 
 sons their first olive tastes very much as the bilge 
 water in a ship's hold smells ; and Granny's first 
 eager bite of that fruit set all the wrinkles of her 
 face into strange contortions. Then she nibbled 
 more daintily at it a moment, until her disgust 
 grew to an absolute grin of abhorrence. But it 
 was only when she managed to get herself on her 
 feet again that she found her voice. " O the chate 
 in the store beyant ; may the divil broil his bones
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 317 
 
 for givin' me the choleray, shure. I niver ate sucli 
 fruit since iver I was a Christan. There's not a 
 pig in Grubtown nor would ate the same ; nor a 
 rat, sure. It's thim Protestants may ate the same 
 and grow fat for all I'll care a pistareen, bad 
 luck to the heritics." 
 
 So Granny found her way home, and tethering 
 her goats to the water-spout of her shanty, under 
 which the washtub of rain-water served for their 
 pool of refreshment, she set to work to undo the 
 malice of her first olive with " the bitters." 
 These she uncorked by the aid of a rusty fork 
 and sniffed at the contents. " It smells like 
 inyons," was her comment (and a syrup of onions 
 did form its basis). " Inyons is healthy, anyhow." 
 So she drank first cautiously and then with her 
 usual energy at the concoction. It certainly did 
 bite, as the storekeeper told, long after Granny 
 rested. It was a liquid beyond honest alcohol in 
 vileness, so like others in human use which de- 
 mand of all who will survive them stomachs of 
 sheet iron. After her draught, Granny proceeded 
 to her millinery for the coming bridals. Her suc- 
 cess, like that of many others of her like-minded 
 sisters, will probably appear at the wedding. 
 
 Meanwhile, and all day long, the wedding was 
 waxing warm in Blackberry Hollow. In this 
 ardor the good folk there were neither amiss or 
 singular, if their engagements were to be gauged
 
 318 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 by what goes on among polite folk everywhere. 
 The two great events in the theatre of a life 
 like theirs are a wedding and a funeral ; so kindly 
 does the order of human life provide both a comic 
 and a tragic stage for all mortals. Their opera, 
 perhaps, is the singing at a funeral, the comedy 
 whereof is usually the tune. For Blackberry 
 Hollow, as the name shows, was a quiet spot 
 among the hills, and very much in the form of a 
 punchbowl, with its sides reft east and west by 
 the ravine through which flowed the trout stream 
 and the ragged road that led by the sawmill into 
 such a world as the Hollow folk chose to find or 
 make. It was in old time the farm of an English 
 immigrant, who settled there to serve God and 
 get domain in the wild ; but as time sped it had 
 been divided again and again among the genera- 
 tions, some of whom were now living in the little 
 white or black houses scattered loosely along the 
 lanes, and nearly everybody was cousin to the rest. 
 The poor whites and the colored folk were not, 
 however ; but as they were needed in harvest or 
 wood cutting, winters, and sat at meal time at 
 table with their masters, there were few social 
 bickerings or jealousies. Such as there were, 
 however, were over very minute points, and then 
 the settlement was sure to be very late, since 
 rustic conservatism settles even a quarrel slowly. 
 It was Farmer Jones' daughter who was marry-
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 319 
 
 ing this time; and as he owned most land and 
 paid most wage-money of any hereabouts this was 
 an event to rouse the Hollow. So all day long, 
 at intervals, the creaky farm wagons with poky 
 nags and generally three earnest women in each 
 seat, unloaded at Farmer Jones' door the cousins 
 and the aunts who came from across the hills to 
 assist at the ceremony. Farmer Jones' house 
 itself was a curiosity. It had, so to speak, run 
 wild under the hands of its diverse owners, who 
 had tacked on here and there a room, as their 
 quiver became full of children or the old folk 
 withdrew themselves into their corner away from 
 the clatter of new nurseries, until at present it 
 looked like a house trying to run away from itself 
 at every point of the compass. The big black 
 barn behind, stuffed full of winter fodder, seemed 
 to be always trying to get into the house, and its 
 yard, with its litter of old wheels and the car- 
 casses of bygone wagons, was always creeping up 
 to the back door, whence the housewife's broom 
 could keep it only a few paces off. It was a 
 home as homes go in this world, with its good 
 points, but it did not suggest or invoke the 
 Muses. 
 
 Indoors, and until late afternoon, the wedding 
 fervor was spending itself in such bakings and 
 brewings as furnished not exactly food and nectar 
 for the gods, but such mundane meats and drinks
 
 320 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 as befitted the stout stomachs of the Hollow folk 
 at a revel. It was to be noted on this occasion 
 that the married women went straight at their 
 work with much vivacity and clatter of tongues, 
 while the younger maidens, with less in hand, 
 went wandering through the rooms or stumbling 
 into the way of the workers, as if in a maze or 
 reverie over the grand occasion, and adorned the 
 festival with white dresses and incessant blushes. 
 The men folk were, for the most part, to be noted 
 for their absence, except the two colored men who 
 did " chores " and waited on the women. The 
 rest were hid somewhere behind the barn or hay 
 ricks, ruminating their part in the play. Their 
 final toilet, to be made in odd rooms under the 
 rafters, with a preliminary wash in the brook, was 
 as vagabond and wild as the patches of scrub 
 thickets scattered over the slopes of their Hollow. 
 So, when the lights were lit till the old house 
 blazed out in an unwonted brilliancy, and the par- 
 son 'drove up in his chaise, it was a motley company 
 which filled the long, rambling, best room, with a 
 smell about it as of mouldy apples, and received him 
 with the courtesy of a silence which could be felt, 
 at least by the younger maids and boys. So, too, 
 when the bride and groom came down from some 
 upper lodgment to " stand up," as the phrase runs, 
 for the marriage formula, it was to be noted that 
 the bride, who was not homely, had more self-
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 321 
 
 possession than the stalwart but gawky groom, and 
 gave plain answers, when he only mumbled out a 
 medley. So, too, when the brief service ended 
 which might be the preface to many and weary 
 years of their new estate, and the couple, with the 
 good wishes of the minister, stood back in one cor- 
 ner to be kissed and crooned over by all who could 
 claim relationship, the company fell into its old 
 silence as it ranged itself round the room sides in 
 convenient chairs, each apparently fallen into deep 
 meditation again, as if they had lost something 
 and were trying to find it, and not a few wrestling 
 with the problem of their two hands, as to whe- 
 ther they were theirs indeed ; and if so, whether 
 any rest was to be found for them in this world, 
 at least at a wedding. But when the parson, who 
 had tried in vain to lift the silence with a few 
 semi-pleasantries, left the solemnity, the spirits of 
 all instantly and curiously revived. The sound of 
 his departing chariot wheels was the call to the 
 real wedding " the second part," as they are 
 wont to call it, where the last wine is better than 
 the first. A certain slight movement of the 
 mass went on to deepen towards the kitchen, 
 whose doors were now opened, and the company 
 found their feet and their tongues together. 
 Then what chatter and Babel, while the long 
 tables, with frosted cakes and meats, and great 
 bowls of blackberry wine, for which the house was
 
 322 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 famous, among the smoky lamps, displayed them- 
 selves to the hungry throng which beset them. 
 Then the reserve guard of the wedding, the^ farm 
 men, deployed themselves from outside and in- 
 doors, where they had waited for the feast, and 
 the whites of the eyes of the negroes with fiddles 
 were seen in the gloom of the doorway leading 
 to the barn. Then followed that great appeal to 
 stomachs, which has such rare persuasion for human 
 kind, and the rollick and the fun ran here into 
 rough joke and jostle among the elders and when- 
 ever an ancient maiden purloined by covert, or 
 had valor to take openly, a piece of bride cake 
 to dream upon ; and became pianissimo when some 
 swain offered his blushing sweetheart a glass of 
 wine, or tried at the same time to say some soft 
 things and keep her neighbor's elbows from trans- 
 fixing her well-starched muslins and her own 
 loveliness to boot. The roots of a wedding frolic 
 in hovel or palace are one ; only the leaves differ. 
 Granny Little was not one of the folks who 
 came late. Her mental perturbations over her 
 new riches from the grocery had neither held her 
 back from a meal of sardines in early afternoon, 
 nor snatched from her the shrewd guess that there 
 would be much to eat at the wedding. Accord- 
 ingly she bade good day to the goats tethered at 
 her washtubs, and had gone quite early. Of 
 course, she had gone at once to the kitchen, as the
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 323 
 
 place for the likes of her, and the natural home of 
 that bountiful platter out of which she hoped to 
 be fed. Her advent to the kitchen, for reasons 
 which will appear presently, had quite astonished 
 the good housewives there, and her supercilious 
 and quite " arms-akimbo " air, bred from her new 
 riches, at the first blush gave alarm as well as 
 offence to the busy workers. But their good sense 
 and nature had soon consigned her, with her own 
 consent, to the oak settle behind the big stove, in 
 the recesses of the huge fireplace, with her back 
 to the brick oven, where she watched events or 
 dozed at intervals, and where her bones were sure 
 to be well warmed, as such folk like, and from 
 whence it was easy access to the tables. 
 
 During the parson's wedding prayer she had 
 vigorously crossed herself to drive off the fumes 
 of heresy; and when the feasting began she had 
 managed to possess a full loaf of frosted cake, and 
 the huge tin dipper on the stove hearth helped 
 her to the wine. Apparently, therefore, she was 
 now happy as a queen. 
 
 Edward Vaughn also went, with John Walker 
 for a guide, to the wedding. There is apparent 
 in most of us, if we watch carefully enough, a 
 series of subtle instincts which connect them- 
 selves with prehistoric ages, when men dwelt 
 in caves and herded in more democratic fash- 
 ions than prevail at present. Hence is derived
 
 324 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 a child's passion for cubbyholes and hiding-places 
 under the eaves of country houses, and for the 
 smell of kine and hay in barns; and, indeed, the 
 liking of some grown folks for cosy nooks and 
 corners. It might have come from some such 
 secret fountain that Edward Vaughn, whose 
 social standing was so diverse, found a real plea- 
 sure in the society of such folks as those in Black- 
 bery Hollow. The German hut, with the cattle 
 round it, which was before the castle or burgher's 
 mansion, after all the changes of his ancestry, 
 might have still been in his blood, urging him on 
 to what was at best but a rustic wedding. At 
 any rate, he went with good zest, and was pre- 
 pared to be merry. When he came in at the 
 back-door of the aforesaid kitchen, which opened 
 every way, curiously enough, his sense of smell 
 was greeted by an overmastering scent of Cologne, 
 and the feast was at its height. The bluff, hearty, 
 red-faced farmer gave him a warm welcome with, 
 "Well, squire, I didn't expect to see you here 
 to-night, but it's all the same anyhow. Make 
 yourself at home." 
 
 "With your help, that I will," was answered, 
 "and to show I mean it, and as I thought you 
 would have everything else in plenty, my man 
 has brought over a lot of smoking tobacco to assist 
 the good company. I had no tracts to bring, and 
 perhaps the tobacco, anyhow, is better."
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 325 
 
 "Tobacco is in order almost any time in these 
 parts, squire, and after the boys are done we'll all 
 take a whiff in the wash-room. Mayn't we, Ma?" 
 addressing his bustling spouse. 
 
 "Yes, Pa; you may smoke right here if you 
 want ; anywhere to take off this dreadful smell," 
 pointing to the chimney corner. 
 
 "O, it's Granny smells so," said several voices, 
 in explanation. Then from the depths before the 
 oven door came forth a voice and an apparition. 
 The voice said, " Bad luck to the likes of yees, to 
 be turning up yer noses at the Kerlone ! May ye 
 never have a candle at the wake of one of yees." 
 Then Granny emerged into the light, bolt upright 
 before them all, and Edward Vaughn could only 
 wonder. An immense coal-scuttle bonnet of 
 rusty yellow straw, decked out with flaunting 
 ribbons of all the colors of the rainbow, which 
 fell all ways towards her feet, covered, if they did 
 not conceal, her head ; a huge, red, woollen shawl, 
 thick enough for any thermometer, registering 
 its lowest possible, garnished her shoulders ; while 
 below thanks to the hoop skirts she looked 
 like a truncated beer barrel far gone in a dropsy, 
 yet standing on its own rim in an impudent 
 bravado against the field. A vision of such 
 peculiar beauty was greeted with a general laugh. 
 
 " Yees may laugh and laugh till ye breaks yer 
 bones, but where's the one of yees fit to hold a 
 farthin' candle to meself that is."
 
 826 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 " There, there, Granny," interposed Mr. Vaughn 
 against her wrath, " be quiet now, and don't make 
 a disturbance." 
 
 "Disterbance is it, honey?" said Granny, quiet- 
 ing down into her finery ; " and it's yees that have 
 brought the 'baccy,' but where is the pipes?" 
 
 " Be quiet, I say. You've no doubt got a half- 
 dozen in your pocket now, and black at that." 
 
 " If I had me ould gown wid me, maybe I have, 
 but divil a pocket is on me now, and how'll I 
 smoke an ould pipe at a wake or weddin', honey?" 
 
 So, to quell her ancient Irishry, some one found 
 her a bran new pipe, with which she retreated to 
 her corner, and there, what with her frequent 
 lavings of Cologne, which she bad brought in the 
 original bottle tied to her waist, and a vigorous 
 use of the Virginia weed, she created an atmo- 
 sphere so overwhelming that several doors were 
 speedily opened, and nothing but the fear of an 
 Irish scrimmage prevented some of the younger 
 from trying to drive her from her nest. 
 
 All weddings, like the tides, have seasons when 
 they flow or ebb, and their high-water mark is a 
 dance. So after supper the wedding rose to a 
 dance, and Sally Nally a wizened, sallow woman 
 with very coarse black hair and a glib tongue, 
 very frequent at funerals, and like some parsons 
 very "happy" there, where her long and stolid 
 face, without a shade of sympathy in it, reminded
 
 The Weddiny in Blackberry Hollow. 327 
 
 one of the hired mourners of an Egyptian village, 
 was floor manager. Now a dance is supposed to 
 be pastime, but a great deal of labor went into 
 this one, from the two negroes who sawed and 
 sweated over their fiddles up to the dancer who 
 turned the wrong partner or trod upon her toes in 
 the more ecstatic mazes and the maid who missed 
 her figure or her vagrant hair-pin just when she 
 would have looked bewitching, or fell into retreat 
 with a dishevelled flounce, while the dance went 
 on. Sturdy work there was to take the floor or 
 leave it, but their whole world was looking on, 
 and so with a supreme self-consciousness they 
 fared on as stoutly as they could, until vigor 
 cloaked awkwardness with a robe of public satis- 
 faction. Like many another and more urbane 
 company, this one, while it brought nothing great 
 to pass, greatly admired itself, which is all the 
 great world can ask. But Granny Little, who for 
 some time had been watching the dancers from 
 the kitchen wood-box, gave her opinion. "Thim's 
 rather slim doings in there," she said. " If only 
 yee'd see an Irish jig, me darlins." So, in a pause, 
 some of the young fellows tempted her on to show 
 them how it was. So there upon the kitchen 
 floor, with two fiddles, Granny danced her one jig. 
 What with the ribbons and her other finery, not 
 to mention her brogans, there had been seldom 
 dance like it seen upon this poor footstool, and it
 
 828 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 was well that the floor was oak. The applause 
 that followed was very hearty of its kind. 
 
 It was just after the episode of Granny's jig 
 that every one heard the sound of a violin out- 
 doors and down the road. If it was not a 
 serenade, it was certainly a surprise, as the faces 
 of all showed. Besides, the music was coming 
 nearer, and as they listened, it seemed to reach the 
 elm by the gate and halt. Then it began again, 
 and played a strange medley, and yet without a 
 note of wedding joy in it. As Edward Vaughn, 
 who was an adept in music, remembered it in after 
 years, it was a weird fantasia, broken and spray- 
 like as to its parts, and yet with the thread of a 
 theme running through it so that these parts co- 
 hered. Yet the theme wandered as if bred from 
 an unsteady mind, and the spasms of its passion 
 were abrupt and vagrant. It sounded, as indeed 
 it was, like the meditations of a mind which saw 
 through a rift of storm cloud but yet grasped 
 fiercely at the intended melodies. It was neither 
 wail, dirge, anthem, command, or proclamation, 
 but these and more in one, and the fire of it was 
 lurid and of the color of blood, no stars nor 
 flowers whatever. It was indeed, not to exag- 
 gerate, music of that nature which might fitly pre- 
 cede the judgment of a world. Only the music 
 was that of those who awaited sentence. 
 
 The party inside soon solved the mystery. *'Oh,
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 329 
 
 that's Old Red Beard," said one ; and the word 
 went round that Old Red Beard with his fiddle 
 was in the yard outside. " Bring him in and 
 give him some wedding cake," said one. " Better 
 let him alone," said a dozen others ; " he's tarna- 
 tion stubborn when his fit is on him, and to 
 meddle would make him worse. Let him play it 
 out." So the music went on. 
 
 " Who is this man ? " asked Mr. Vaughn of Far- 
 mer Jones. 
 
 "Oh, wall, he's a curious feller that works 
 round here hayin' and choppin', and lives in a 
 little hut by the big rock above 'the Well.' I 
 can't say 'zackly who he is, nor much less what he 
 is." 
 
 "Is he crazy?" 
 
 " Wall, there, Squire, you have me agin : p'r'aps 
 he is and p'r'aps he isn't ; he's mixed up somehow, 
 he's giggery. He's well enough at times; no 
 man does a better day's work ; don't need no 
 watchin'; but he never eats with nobody and 
 always goes with hisself. He's tarnation strong 
 too, you bet. I've seed him fling a feller that 
 tried to steal his fiddle clean over the bush into 
 the river as tho' he'd been a cornstalk, and the 
 boys give him a wide berth every time. Yet I 
 never had no trouble with him, and he takes 
 his pay as quiet as a lamb, and never finds fault 
 with my reckoning. The only bad thing I know
 
 330 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 of him is that he hates the wimmen folks. Why, 
 he'll get over the fence and go 'crosslots any day 
 rather nor meet a petticoat ; and when some young 
 rascals hung an old gown on the bars that go 
 clown to his spring, they do say he took his rifle 
 and riddled it with bullets, and he's gone ever 
 since another way to water. I have hearn tell 
 that there was a young woman in the case, a 
 great many young women get into such cases, I 
 guess ; and when folks round here don't know 
 what else to say of a queer feller they call him 
 'lovesick.' But I reckon more dies of measles 
 than of love, at least in Blackberry Holler. He's 
 tarnation religious, too ' Adventer,' or some such 
 name they call him, allus preaching Judgment 
 Day is comin' before snow falls ; and I wish it wor 
 come for the fellers that steal my melons, Fall 
 times. And they due say that about once a 
 month he builds a fire on the big rock behind his 
 house, just for fun, I s'pose, or p'r'aps he 'spects to 
 go up in a chariat of fire, as Ichabod or some other 
 old feller did. No ! I don't hardly think no man 
 can find Old Red Beard out. Leastaways, I can't." 
 
 " If we should go and ask him in, would he 
 make trouble ? " 
 
 "No but he wouldn't come, I reckon. This 
 house is full of wimmin folks, and he knows it; 
 and what in the name of Jack Robinson he's 
 come round here for, beats me."
 
 The Wedding In Blackberry Hollow. 331 
 
 " We might go out and see him, anyhow. He 
 won't bite unless somebody strikes." So Farmer 
 Jones and Edward Vaughn went out and down to- 
 wards the gate. Under the big elm over it, a man 
 stood playing on a fiddle, with his head laid close to 
 it as if listening; and when they came up Vaughn 
 saw that head covered with long ringlets, which 
 in the moonlight showed not red but of dark gold 
 which seemed on the point of breaking into flame. 
 The beard was also rare hair of that color and 
 energy, so to speak, which the Germans prized so 
 highly even before the days of the first Caesar. 
 They came close before they disturbed. him at his 
 music. But then slowly he lifted himself till the 
 violin went behind his back and he stood straight 
 and stark in the night air, six feet and more, lithe 
 but slight all except the chest and shoulders 
 as an ash. 
 
 " Much obleeged for that ere music, Red Beard," 
 said the farmer, " but ye'd better walk in and take 
 sumtliin' some cake, now, and a sip of the old 
 woman's wine, Red Beard." 
 
 " There are two of you," said the man, not 
 noticing the proffered hospitality. "Who is the 
 other?" 
 
 " Oh, that's my friend, Squire Vaughn, who 
 lives over at River Nook." 
 
 " I have never seen that man," answered the 
 other in the impersonal tone of one whose mind
 
 332 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 
 
 was far away. " I wish to see him." So he came 
 close to where Edward Vaughn stood, and stoop- 
 ing a little looked at him. Vaughn remembered 
 that look and face to his life's end not a sharp 
 look, and yet one that seemed to creep in under 
 the surface to the bone and marrow of a man 
 with a great solemn plea and inquest, and yet 
 the eyes wandered restlessly beyond and over 
 him ; and a face worn rather than wasted, with 
 the color of red blood still in the cheeks, and the 
 firm mouth of a man who would be hard, in mor- 
 tal strife, to break. He wore no hat, but a huge 
 red muffler about his throat, and looked a man of 
 forty, though the town records would probably 
 show him younger. 
 
 "Yes," he went on in his rapt, impersonal 
 fashion, with a musical cadence of far away, as if 
 some one out of cloudland were talking to the 
 stars. " It is coming soon, and the powers of the 
 air shall be shaken. I heard them whispering at 
 the Well this very night, and the leaves trembled 
 at what they said. Yes; and the Great White 
 Throne is coming, and the fire will make clean 
 the wheat. Yes," and the chant of his voice 
 grew low and tremulous in sweetness, as of one 
 who already tasted a certain delicious joy, " and 
 then the saints shall find their white robes and no 
 man shall sin nor weep." 
 
 "Well, well," said the good-natured common-
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 333 
 
 sense farmer, who was himself awed into more 
 than usual kindness by the man's strange utter- 
 ance. " We've heern all that afore, and p'r'aps 
 it's all true ; but I've a weddin' in my house to- 
 night, and my darter, they say, is the bride the 
 little girl, you know, who you catched once playin' 
 on yer fiddle when you was cuttin' hay here, 
 fifteen years nor more, and ye kissed her for it, 
 too. Come now, go in and see the little girl ; 
 you'd better." 
 
 And the man laid his hand kindly on Red 
 Beard's shoulder. The latter started as if struck, 
 and turning sharply upon the other, clutched him 
 fiercely by the arm with the grip he long remem- 
 bered, though it soon grew loose again, as of a 
 man bewildered, and yet he clung to him and bent 
 down his head towards the farmer as if heavy 
 with thought and trying to recollect himself. 
 Then after a lapse of silence he slowly raised him- 
 self, and said in a hesitating and dreamy fashion, 
 as if with himself, 
 
 "I remember when out of this house in. winter 
 my father carried corn over the hill to a home 
 where three little children had no bread, and how 
 one mother prayed a blessing on Farmer Jones 
 at one boy's bedside. Long ago, and the winter 
 comes again, and the bed is empty too. ' Blessed 
 are they who give, for they shall have.' " 
 
 "Well, well," said the good farmer, when all
 
 334 The Wedding in Blackberry Holloiv. 
 
 this had chanted itself out, " never mind the 
 winter nor that ere corn, but come and see my 
 little girl, how nice she looks in that ere wedclin' 
 white of hern." 
 
 So the farmer led the man, fiddle and all, 
 silent, and now submissive as a child, into the 
 house by the kitchen door. When Granny Little, 
 from her chimney corner, spied him out, she made 
 a grab, according to her kind and judgment, at 
 the tin dipper which held her wine, lest he should 
 drink it, and all the rest made quick way. The 
 dancers were on the floor for a new cotillon, but 
 Red Beard passed among them as if there was 
 only air about him, until he came to the corner 
 where the bride stood half-cowering at the strange, 
 towering man approaching. 
 
 " This ere is my little girl, my darter, Red 
 Beard, that stole yer fiddle." 
 
 The man did not seem to hear the introduction 
 any more than he seemed to see the people round 
 him ; but he halted before the bride and looked at 
 her, moments, it seemed to the now silent com- 
 pany, and the same plaintive, beseeching look was 
 in his eyes as when he had prophesied outdoors. 
 Then slowly, and with a courtesy that might have 
 been bred in a court, he bent down and kissed the 
 bride's forehead. Then, without a word, he glided 
 back the way he came, and was gone. 
 
 Of course there was much instant gossip over
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 335 
 
 the affair, while the bride looked a little pale. 
 Most laughed, and all prepared to dance. But 
 weddings have their perturbations as well as other 
 things. This time it was a cry, or rather a series 
 of cries, from the kitchen, and in the key of 
 Granny Little. The Red Beard episode had just 
 shocked the nerves of not a few, and there was a 
 general rush to that quarter. Would the soul of 
 Granny Little never rest ? There she was, pirou- 
 etting in the middle of the floor, ribbons, Cologne 
 bottle, rotundity, all together in an ecstasy of 
 terror which exploded in screams. It was long 
 before her tumult quelled to plain words. 
 
 "Why, what on airth ails ye, Granny?" cried 
 Farmer Jones, who had seized her by the back 
 sides of her red shawl, fearing she might go mad 
 and bite. " Why, ye're yelliu' like a stuck pig. 
 Speak out, woman, quick." 
 
 Granny passed through several stages of recov- 
 ery. First, her incoherency turned to battle, 
 when she regathered her shawl skirts out of the 
 farmer's hands with a mien and motion which 
 betokened blows from two Irish fists as imminent. 
 Then, in her feminine modesty, or at least the 
 feigning of it, she fell into the fainting mood and 
 called for drink, which was granted. Then, quite 
 exhausted, she fell to silence, which no one of the 
 bystanders, for a long time, could persuade her to 
 abjure. But when she recovered that measure of
 
 336 The Wedding in Blackberry Holloiv. 
 
 health which might be reasonably held to befit a 
 wedding, from the rocking chair in mid-room, 
 where in the fainting season they had set her, she 
 told her story, too long to be repeated here ; and 
 besides, the interjections of it were not altogether 
 nice. The substance was this : " I came to this 
 Protestant weddin' and I have seen the devil. 
 It'll take a dale of masses, me goin' to thim, to 
 clinse me sowl." 
 
 "But where, Granny where did you see 
 him?" 
 
 "Jist there jist there !" pointing to the mid- 
 dle of the wall before her. " Out he comes upon 
 me, and if it hadn't bin for the Vargin " At 
 that instant of her unfinished sentence, from that 
 very wall side, through the round hole, draped 
 with a wooden door on a pivot, sprang forth the 
 big house cat at Granny's feet. And then was 
 Granny's soul in danger again, and she fell mad 
 with fright. But two sturdy farmer boys held her 
 in the chair till the fainting era came, and shortly 
 after she was sent home in the farmer's tip-cart. 
 
 "It was only the cat, after all," said one, and 
 the company roared in response. Some were 
 curious to know how Granny could have been so 
 amiss. 
 
 Punch once said of a Prussian king, a trifle too 
 fond of Clicquot's champagne, and when the five 
 points of the Eastern Question were on the carpets,
 
 The Wedding in Blackberry Hollow. 337 
 
 that every day after dinner his Majesty was able 
 to discover ten. So the contents of one tin dipper 
 in Blackberry Hollow might likewise have multi- 
 plied Granny's vision. 
 
 No one cares to know how a wedding party gets 
 home except themselves. This one got home 
 with the ordinary luck. Granny rose late next 
 morning, as her more serene sisters are apt to do 
 after the feast. It was told about town that she 
 had had a fit of catalepsy. Edward Vaughn 
 gave his opinion of affairs next morning at the 
 breakfast table to a couple of young men on a 
 visit. " Yes. I believe in the brotherhood of man, 
 and all that. I can swallow with my eyes shut, 
 and a cooling draught after, the Declaration of 
 Independence. But I tell you there are two 
 equalities possible for man an equality in the 
 mud, and an equality among the stars. De- 
 mocracy puts mankind at high-water mark, but 
 you can only keep him there by an eternal use of 
 floats. For myself, when I think how many sorts 
 of people live within the horizon of these hills, and 
 how they live, the riddle of life seems more com- 
 plex than ever."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 SHORTLY after the wedding, Edward Vaughn 
 was called away to the city, on business, for a fort- 
 night. In his intervals of leisure he looked over 
 the state of his affairs with Isabel Seaton, and 
 it did not please him. It is from the outside, not 
 too near, that one commonly gets the best perspec- 
 tive, and takes the measure of the situation, partly 
 from its circumstance. When he looked, there- 
 fore, as it were from abroad upon his standing 
 with that lady, he was surprised to find in it a 
 danger. Not that he had anything to lose, as 
 things went (for he thought himself able to play a 
 blank against the heart of the whole female sex) ; 
 but, as he was clearly not her lover, he saw fit to 
 ask himself, in a particularly lucid moment, as he 
 was dressing, exactly what he was. Was he a mere 
 vulgar flirt, and so a coxcomb verging on gray 
 hairs at that? So it looked; but if he were, he 
 felt that a wise man would have taken better care 
 of his manhood. Was he Le Clerke's avenger? 
 Who had given him commission royal to right 
 such wrongs, or was he a volunteer ? Was he her
 
 A Letter. 339 
 
 judge, taking the disguise of a somewhat ardent 
 courtship to execute his own sentence upon a 
 woman who was not even summoned to plead 
 before his tribunal? She had certainly done him 
 no mortal wrong, and might he not be conspiring 
 against her peace? So what he got out of his 
 self-inquest came to this, that his had not been 
 brave behavior, and he was bound to make an end 
 of it. Indeed, he suffered a sensation of self-con- 
 tempt for several days following. 
 
 So it was a trifle awkward to find on his return 
 a note from Miss Seaton on his table. It was 
 simply a polite request that he would come to the 
 house at his convenience, as she wished to consult 
 him upon a matter it was hardly worth while to 
 put in writing. Of course he went at an early 
 date, and was received with the usual courtesy. 
 If either face had a shadow of change, it was not 
 hers. Only to a keen and friendly scrutiny was 
 her face a trifle pale, and the eyes showed the 
 effort of self-restraint. Vaughn, in the self-absorp- 
 tion of his better mind, noticed neither. So when 
 he had arranged himself as usual, he went at his 
 work in the old fashion. 
 
 " Well, Miss Belle, what is it you want to con- 
 sult me about?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! that is a trifle. I dare say you 
 will think it nothing. But I was foolish enough 
 to get just vexed a little when it came, and wrote
 
 340 A Letter. 
 
 you a note, and then was half-sorry I sent it. The 
 fact is, I have received a letter which I am not 
 quite sure I ought to show you, but which perhaps 
 you might think, if you ever came to know of its 
 existence, you ought to have been told of." 
 
 " A letter to you which concerns me ? I'll bet 
 ten to one it is a lady's." 
 
 So Miss Belle went to the mantel, and took out 
 somewhere from under its fringes a letter, which 
 she brought back to him. Here is the letter for 
 you to read. All this was done and said most 
 gently, even graciously. Then she went back to 
 the piano corner, and, facing him, waited for him 
 to read. The letter was without date or signature. 
 This is what he read : 
 
 " It is reported in this city that you are receiv- 
 ing the addresses of Edward Vaughn. Be advised. 
 Edward Vaughn has no heart. He will never love 
 any woman. He is also pitiless and cruel towards 
 our sex. Adieu." 
 
 Meanwhile the man read, and the woman 
 watched his face. It was a short note, and he 
 apparently reread it several times. And as he 
 read, his face seemed to her to be slowly turn- 
 ing to stone, so rigid was it ; and when at last he 
 rose up, and went across the room to a table, 
 and took a magnifying glass from it, it was as 
 if a marble statue was walking. " Pardon me a 
 moment," was all he said, as he came back, and
 
 A Letter. 341 
 
 sat down. Then he examined the letter carefully 
 with the glass. When he had done this, he stood 
 up again, and looked at the woman before him, 
 cold and almost expressionless in face, but with 
 pulses throbbing until they almost trembled under 
 the laces at her wrists, and said, "You should 
 never have shown me this letter, Miss Seaton, for 
 two plain reasons : first, because then it would 
 have been as though it was not, at least as between 
 us two ; and second, because it forces me to say 
 some things to you which I might have never said, 
 or said in a very different fashion. This letter 
 you put in my hands forces me as to time and 
 place to say what at best no man would wish to 
 say of himself. Please be seated, and I will speak 
 of this letter." 
 
 " I will, if you please stand here." 
 
 " First then " (approaching her), " please look 
 at the handwriting. Do you know it?" 
 
 "No; it looks to me made up disguised; and 
 yet it reminds me in parts of some one's I have 
 seen. I fail to make it out." 
 
 " Now then, look at the e's and i's. Some are in 
 usual form, but here are a half dozen writ in the 
 form of the Greek Epsilon and the Iota with its 
 grave accent. If you will examine with this glass 
 this 'the,' you will see that the writer first made 
 what we call the Greek Theta, and then for her 
 own reasons over-wrote it with the ordinary let-
 
 342 A Letter. 
 
 ters. I taught a woman once to write these signs 
 into my letters exactly as she writes here. I 
 know, also, by other proofs, your correspondent." 
 
 " But does the lady know you ? " 
 
 " That is what I am bound to come to. That 
 lady was once my betrothed wife." Then he 
 halted until the silence became audible to one at 
 least of the two, and at last went on in undertone 
 and with passages of vehemence. " This letter 
 is a true bill of me and against me. It is as she 
 says, though she should never have said it 
 never to you. This woman I loved once loved 
 as a man first loves, loved as upon the very knees 
 of my soul in worship. She disgraced herself and 
 me in an outburst of passionate folly, and love 
 died with respect. I suppose my heart died also. 
 At least I have found it so. When I say this, Miss 
 Seaton, I accuse myself to you perhaps of more 
 than folly or madness, of dishonor sheer blank 
 dishonor, as I have been in this house." 
 
 " I do not accuse you of anything. To me at 
 present you are most interesting. Please go on. 
 But just be so kind as to open one of those ver- 
 andah windows ; the air is very close." The man 
 looked at his interlocutor. She was pale almost 
 to white. Vaughn sprang to her side. " No, 
 no," said the faint voice, "it will pass presently. 
 Open a window, it is so very close here." When 
 this was done, and Vaughn came back, the voice
 
 A Letter. 343 
 
 said in its sweetest tones : " Please bring me a 
 glass of water from the hall." 
 
 She took the water coolly, and with the dimpled 
 hands sprinkled it almost fondly upon the white 
 forehead, and after, holding her handkerchief over 
 as if to dry the drops, or the fever, and the fever's 
 pain who can say which? "Water gives life," 
 she said; "this was very grateful. Thank you 
 very much. Please go on." 
 
 " There is but one step I can take that per- 
 haps I ought to take. It is all I c.m. This 
 woman's letter I both have said truth. This 
 is what I am. As I am I offer you my hand." 
 
 " There is nothing in your hand. No, thanks," 
 she said graciously. 
 
 "But what then?" 
 
 " Nothing ; let us be friends. It is a mere trifle. 
 I will take you for a friend minus a heart. 
 Hearts are troublesome things at best ; " and she 
 laughed a low, silvery laugh. Edward Vaughn 
 would have protested further, but the lady in- 
 sisted otherwise; and the conversation drifted to 
 commonplaces until he took his leave. " Come up 
 to dinner, any time," was her parting invitation. 
 
 The superb woman's pride of Isabel Seaton 
 had conquered everything, heartbreak, wrong, 
 and the iron man who craved mercy and had been 
 denied ; conquered with an outward decorum that 
 veiled contempt and a passionate will as strong as
 
 344 A Letter. 
 
 death. What was her secret she had kept as 
 hers. 
 
 "Tell Ma, when she comes in, that I have a 
 headache, and shall not be down to dinner," she 
 said to the servant, as she went to her room and 
 locked the door deliberately. Then she went to 
 her glass and saw herself pale, but with a face 
 blank of expression. " Thanks for that," she 
 muttered. " He saw nothing." Finally she sat 
 down in her usual seat, facing the mantel. The 
 window each side of it was open to the air, full of 
 sunshine bathing the landscape with a great peace. 
 The whirl in her brain was changing slowly 
 to that sullen pressure which, when unlifted, 
 crushes. Then it is that the mind moves slowly, 
 or wanders until the will rouses to its point. There 
 were no tears not one. Over the mantel had 
 always hung two Madonnas, which her taste had 
 put there according to the fashion one, Raphael's, 
 the Dresden one, and the other and smaller one, 
 011 white porcelain, below, the Mater Dolorosa of 
 Carlo Dolce. 
 
 Curiously enough, so unsteady is even a strong 
 mind under a great burden, her eyes rested, with 
 a certain vague interest, on the first Madonna. 
 She had gone over the picture often, as her nature 
 allowed, the mother's grace, purity, and, above 
 all, the infinite rest of her divine fruition, and the 
 child in arms, with the veiled splendors of eyes
 
 A Letter. 345 
 
 which seemed looking through time and space 
 after His world Lion of the tribe of Judah in 
 his birth-blood, and brother of all in love. She 
 went over it all again dreamily and aimlessly; all 
 the faces, poses, and gestures of it, and at times a 
 subtle power, which seemed to cross her will, held 
 her to it not in any artist's way of analysis, but 
 as if something were clinging to her soul in it. It 
 was her Sister of Joy who called. Then, after a 
 while, her eyes wandered to the other ; the woman 
 bent under an invisible cross a load not seen, 
 and wan and wasted with the passages of her life 
 passion, and upbn her her mind roused itself to 
 grow intent. It even thought at the picture. Both 
 were women ; both under the shadows ; both 
 drinking deep a bitter draught so far sisters, 
 yes, Sisters of Sorrow. Yet the cowled lady of 
 the picture had angels to minister to her, but 
 the suffering woman there was alone before the 
 mantel; alone as she thought, though the Ma- 
 donnas over that mantel had left her their legend, 
 that angels of rescue are everywhere for those 
 who call. Then her mind, under the stress, finally 
 wandered away into other things back to her 
 child days and her mother's arms, and even the 
 glee and dance of young girlhood, in a curious 
 medley of meditation, such as the mind takes on 
 when its very roots are sharply moved. So, wan- 
 dering, she finally came to her fate and Edward
 
 346 A Letter. 
 
 Vaughn. Step by step not hurriedly, but cau- 
 tiously as one who makes a venture of his all, 
 she went over all that had been between them, 
 sometimes fondly, and then with passionate re- 
 grets and sharp pangs, for what should not have 
 been. It was true she loved him ; he had touched 
 the inner fountains of her nature, and she had 
 given him her soul woman as she had been, or 
 was. And he had given her? An interview. 
 That was all he said he had. What then had she? 
 Hours together, pale and still, she asked her 
 memories to answer her that question. And when 
 she came back out of her past, she answered 
 slowly, and without mercy to herself, that she 
 had nothing not even an endless desert for her 
 future, for the waste itself had stars at night, and 
 hers was the darkness which would never lift. So 
 far, then, she stood upon the solid ground of a 
 fixed conclusion. What next? she asked herself. 
 Apparently it took hours more to answer till 
 nightfall, moving not but making her tearless 
 inquest. " I shall be better in the morning, Ma, 
 and will not come down to-night," was her reply 
 inside her door to that lady outside. " It is only 
 a headache, which will pass to-morrow." If hers 
 had been a weak nature it would have gone under 
 and emerged right soon from its trouble refreshed 
 and quite ready for what more this naughty world 
 might offer. Or if she had been controlled of
 
 A Letter. 347 
 
 conscience she would have taken her fate, and, 
 stripping off the bitter rind, have kneaded the 
 kernel of it into her bread of life. Just as she 
 was, and the great tide of her soul rose under the 
 storm of her pride, presaging shipwreck. Steadily 
 grew that storm until that tide was obliterating 
 for her the whole world and him. Hour by 
 hour it rose, until it reached the cliffs, and beyond 
 them, one had writ of old, there is no sea. 
 
 Then apparently she went at her work, what- 
 ever it might be. The watchers at a sickbed across 
 the river afterwards told that there was seen a 
 light all night in her chamber, and they after 
 found that the candles had burnt low and been 
 replenished. Sometime, also, she had set her little 
 affairs in order, sealed letters directed to be re- 
 turned, but not one word of hers for any. Her 
 maiden's ornaments and trappings were also found 
 arranged and laid away with no little care. Every 
 scrap of her writing had disappeared probably 
 burnt, as the grate seemed to show. Two acts 
 only in this storm of her pride showed traces of a 
 human sympathy still left the kiss she gave her 
 mother's picture on the mantel, and the lingering 
 gaze at her own portrait, when a child, beside it. 
 She dressed herself carefully, even to her gloves, 
 and prepared to go. It was quite daybreak, and 
 the house was still. She could even hear the low 
 breathing of her mother in the adjacent chamber.
 
 348 A Letter. 
 
 She went down the hall stairs, unbolted the door, 
 and passed into the night air. When she came 
 to where the gravel walk descended to the road 
 she turned an instant and looked towards the 
 silent house in the shadows. Yes, it had been her 
 home, she thought, and now the desert. Alas ! 
 over her mantel were there not even then hanging 
 those two Madonnas sisters in woman's joys 
 and sorrows forevermore, and the stars of peace 
 were swinging themselves in retreat to their 
 golden thrones at the coming of a new day? 
 And why should this suffering child, with the out- 
 stretched hands of woman and God to save her, 
 perish in her past ? Yet she went away on a mis- 
 sion that forbade return.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 AT INDIAN WELL. 
 
 AUBKEY bells rang out a sharp, angry peal, 
 and then- shortly after tolled. It was an ancient 
 custom to use the bells this way when one was 
 lost, to call the citizens to the search. Edward 
 Vaughn was with John Walker at the wharf, 
 overlooking the Qui Vive for a sail, when they 
 rang. Of course, as both were new comers, 
 neither knew their message, only that it was 
 strange. A sense of alarm, coming somewhere 
 out of the air, and unreasonably as it seemed to 
 him, crept over Edward Vaughn as he listened. 
 
 *' Go over to the town," he said, " and see what 
 the trouble is." But the man had hardly gone 
 across the lawn to the road when a messenger 
 from the Seatons met him with a letter for his 
 master. It read, in brief : " Miss Seaton left this 
 house some time last night and cannot be found. 
 The manner of her going fills us with the gra- 
 vest apprehensions. Can you help us?" Edward 
 Vaughn read the sinister words with a brain 
 clamorous and roused to instant flame by the 
 emotions that thronged there. In that short
 
 350 At Indian Well 
 
 moment, in a flash of fire, from above or below, 
 as it might chance, the whole landscape, so to 
 speak, of his past world with her unrolled before 
 him, sharp-cut and vivid; and through all the 
 crash and wildness of the storm that was now 
 wrapping it in shadows, his conscience heard a 
 monotone of accusations which framed that one 
 word THOU. Yet he had thought nothing out ; 
 indeed, there was no time. His soul, the- whole of 
 him, roused to a very delirium of self-conscious- 
 ness, seemed to have mutinied against him, and 
 set up for itself, so haughty and outspoken it was. 
 Yet there was only one man in him, and that 
 man had a will which so far in his career had 
 asserted lordship. So, in a spasm of reason, he 
 sprang at his soul with his will as it lay trem- 
 bling and abased before the open gates of the 
 Temple of the Furies, and smote it down with 
 iron to the more common level of rational 
 thought, where it lay asking its master what he 
 was pleased to do. That was soon answered. 
 " My business just here and now is to help find 
 this woman, Isabel Seaton. " 
 
 " Tell the hostler to bring me my saddle-horse. 
 You are to go on with the boat, and stay about 
 here where I can find you if I want you. Be 
 quick." 
 
 So while John Walker went for the horse 
 Edward Vaughn waited upon himself. It was
 
 At Indian Well. 351 
 
 not a merry comrade, anyhow ; quite the reverse ; 
 and when himself became mutinous again and 
 approached the stormy gates, he flung back the 
 offender without pity and set himself to his task. 
 Vaughn was by nature a man to act and control 
 affairs, though the idleness of his money had made 
 this mastery in him a trifle laggard. So when he 
 mounted his horse he had laid out his work. 
 "All roads on the Seatons' side of the river go 
 down south to the coast," he reasoned, " and that 
 way lies the city. Up the river is only the wild. 
 If, then, Miss Seaton hides herself, or in any 
 maze or freak intends to go to other friends, she 
 would undoubtedly travel south. But the road 
 through Blackberry Hollow cuts all these roads 
 east and west. Follow that road and perhaps get 
 news by the way." 
 
 So he rode into Blackberry Hollow at a 
 dash. Farmer Jones hailed him at his gate with 
 "Squire, who's lost? that them bells has ben 
 ringing for over in the town." 
 
 Vaughn told him. 
 
 " Well ; that's tarnation curus, now. My man, 
 Jake, here, went arter a stick of timber airly this 
 mornin', and he telled the wimmin folk how he 
 seen a woman, just arter daylight, goin' down that 
 ere river road that ere road what crosses down 
 before you come to the sawmill there. Here, 
 Jake, I want ye," he called towards the house.
 
 352 At Indian Well. 
 
 The man came out, and to Edward Vaughn's 
 sharp questioning gave plain answers. He had 
 met a woman on that road early, about the middle 
 of the second hill down it, and she had turned 
 out of the road to her left for his ox team. He 
 had not seen or did not remember her face. He 
 had merely thought it was strange to meet a 
 woman there so early, and wondered where she 
 was going. . That was all he knew. 
 
 So Edward Vaughn rode down that road. The 
 very rage of his will was on him, and the man 
 who rode was carrying into his venture his 
 wholeness the very soul of him intent to find 
 and to bring back. The second hill was soon 
 reached. Half-way up, a ravine of rocks and 
 bushes pushed hard into it on the right, while on 
 the left a sand gorge under the winter rains had 
 poured its sands (yellow sand) to the very ruts. 
 He checked his horse sharp and gave them a 
 quick, eager search. Yes, there they were, fresh 
 footprints small, sharp-cut, with the heel-marks, 
 he noted, set incisively into the soft earth, as of 
 one who hurried or was on an errand. In that 
 lonely road just now, ten to one and these were 
 Isabel Seaton's footmarks. He flung himself from 
 his horse, and, bridle in hand, he inspected them 
 on his knees. The trail was down the road, and, 
 he felt, was found. So, leading his horse, and with 
 head bent low and eager, he followed it. Occa-
 
 At Indian Well. 353 
 
 sionally it took to the sward beside the path, or 
 crossed the road and was lost for a season. But the 
 then baffled man would find it again at the sand 
 stretches, and it always went down the road. A 
 mile or more of this work and he came to the 
 crest of the hill, at the base of which he knew 
 was Indian Well. It was a rough, woody country 
 with broken rocks and boulders flung in among 
 the forest trees along the hill slopes. Here the 
 trail ended upon the hard gravel of the summit. 
 In vain he laid himself to the path and sought 
 for the slightest footmark. The road itself gave 
 no token. On his right, the hill crest through 
 which the road went rose still higher under the 
 forest, but his search along the face of it, and even 
 along at the woods where the hill sank to the 
 level again, gave no sign not even a trampled 
 leaf nor a bent bush. No one had gone that way. 
 Then he came back to where the trail ended, 
 searching the east side. No sign anywhere. So 
 the eager man stood at the last footmark visible, 
 and forced his soul against the problem. The last 
 footmark was straight down the road, and yet it 
 was clear that she had not gone that way. What 
 then? He tied his horse by the road side and 
 looked. Through the thin trees by the roadside 
 eastward there showed an open field. If she 
 went down to the Well, he reasoned, a woman 
 would rather take this field than the woods.
 
 354 At Indian Well 
 
 "I will search back and cross her track if she 
 has gone there." So he went back the way he 
 came, carefully sparing the silent footprints in 
 the sands, until he came to the field corner. 
 Then he swung himself over the bush fence and 
 emerged into the open. Ah ! how many times 
 after did he recall his glance in that late summer 
 day at that landscape below in the sunshine the 
 lazy smoke of the factory chimneys rising into 
 cloud pillars against the white north, the peaceful 
 white cottages among green fields and the sails of 
 the vessels going upon the winding river, deep 
 among its pine hills, toward the sea. And his 
 mission here ? Pie traversed rapidly that field in 
 a sort of semicircle from north to south. It was 
 sown to grass which had not been mown by the 
 late farmer and was in parts withered. There 
 was no trace of any one in all its broad acres 
 until he came to its south verge. Then the man 
 started back as from a blow on the brain. Yes ; 
 there indeed was a trail of some one in the grass, 
 running down by the woodside towards the Well. 
 How the dry, bent grass-stalks glistened along 
 that trail shimmering in the sunshine as he 
 looked. He followed it. At the end of it a pair 
 of bars stood against the woods and had not been 
 let down. Edward Vaughn bent over the bars 
 and searched the dry wood leaves the other side. 
 Some were fresh broken or upturned as if stepped
 
 At Indian Well. 355 
 
 on. Indeed the trail grew fresher every moment. 
 He followed rapidly, and he knew was nearing the 
 Well. A rough jangle of rocks lay just before him 
 on that crest, where, below, the waters of the sim- 
 ple stream were pouring themselves into its gran- 
 ite basin. Yet the trail led thither. He climbed 
 the crest and strove to look down the slope under 
 the trees. There was nothing human visible. 
 " Ten rods below there is the Well," he said to 
 himself, "and no human creature could go far 
 down this way and live. I will search in the 
 ravine below." So he swung round to his left 
 and went down, his soul in a very rage of will to 
 find, perhaps save. From what? Had he saved ? 
 The glen was a rock chaos, mostly. But before 
 he reached it, in his passionate rush among the 
 boulders, he heard the sound of a human voice. 
 He halted and listened. It seemed one was sing- 
 ing, with fitful intervals of silence, what he could 
 not make out. It sounded like a chant in a man's 
 voice. He broke through the dividing forest to 
 the stream bed a hundred feet or so from where it 
 leaves the Well. Just below him a man stood or 
 rather moved in a very ecstasy of laboring at 
 somewhat. It was Red Beard. As he moved or 
 rather sprang at his task, the leaf shadows fleck- 
 ing his gaunt figure, and anon the sun shining into 
 and through his hair tremulous with the wind and 
 the man's passion, whatever it might turn out to
 
 356 At Indian Well. 
 
 be, gave him certainly a most ghostly and uncanny 
 look, as of one in a rage or delirious. It did not 
 take long for Edward Vaughn to assure himself 
 that he had gone stark mad and was in a violent 
 mood. It was strange work he was at. In the 
 centre of the stream bed where he was the rocks 
 had piled themselves together into a sort of irreg- 
 ular pyramid, but flat at the top. Here the man, 
 with much industry, had gathered the driftwood 
 of the stream and the broken branches into 
 some sort of pyre or altar, and when Vaughn 
 came had just fired the same, as he stood 
 below and was watching the flame. And as 
 the fire rose red through the trees, crackling 
 and champing at its food, or the red embers and 
 half-burnt logs fell down upon the sand, this Red 
 Beard was replacing them above or adding new 
 fuel, all in an ecstatic fashion, and singing, as has 
 been noted. Occasionally he would kneel as if 
 making prayers. 
 
 Vaughn watched him long enough to know 
 that there might be danger in him, and that a 
 crazed brain is very uncertain in its fellowship. 
 Yet he was confronting a greater danger all that 
 morning and he was here to go on in his search. 
 So he called to him quietly and by name. 
 
 The priest, or whatever he fancied himself, 
 turned starply at the voice and looked. Then a 
 shudder seemed to pass over him, and he looked
 
 At Indian Well 357 
 
 on and on without words. Finally he stretched 
 out two hands in a half-beseeching fashion, and 
 kept them there until he said in the old chanting 
 way, as at the wedding, " Come to me, and I will 
 give you rest." Vaughn went to him with his 
 offered hand, which he took no notice of, but said 
 in the same weird tones, "I am glad that you 
 have come. I wanted you." 
 
 What followed then at that fire waxing hotter 
 and higher in that summer's day could never be 
 put in words. Edward Vaughn always said so in 
 after years. The man was crazed in that way 
 that moments of reason were always showing 
 through the madness, as the sand crests on the 
 coast show an eye's-blink through the over but 
 receding billows. It was madness allied with 
 wit, and therefore, as Vaughn saw, possibly more 
 dangerous. As far as Vaughn could make out, 
 it was the old story of his religious craze the 
 Great White Throne had come and the world was 
 burning up with fire. Only it was uncertain 
 whether he fancied himself Him that sat on it, 
 or a priest of His to offer a sacrifice of propitia- 
 tion for the world's sins. Some people after, 
 hearing the tale as Vaughn told it, thought that 
 his unstrung mind, shocked by what it had acci- 
 dentally found at an earlier hour of the day at 
 the Well, had entirely broken, and that he had in 
 some vague way built this as the funeral pyre for
 
 358 At Indian Well. 
 
 the dead, or perhaps to offer in flame a sacrifice, 
 such as, after, Edward Vaughn shuddered to 
 think of. 
 
 Yet he humored the dangerous, powerful luna- 
 tic beside him as best he could, listening, and 
 answering, with all the courtesy and tact he knew, 
 his vagrant words, and even helped him with his 
 oft-replenished fire. He said, after, that these 
 moments were ages he had spent in hell for his 
 most mortal sins, so ghastly were they with the 
 storm of his own agony confronting and mingling 
 with the rage of the mad. Yet he had collected 
 himself as a man does just before his word which 
 will unlock the thunder of the battle. So he 
 said coolly, in an interval of the madness, " Have 
 you seen anything of a young woman about here 
 to-day ? " The man bent his head as if trying to 
 recall something which his mind was only able to 
 snatch at ; and at last, by a supreme effort, as the 
 clouds covered again, said, " Yes, she was young ; 
 yes, beautiful in white robes and has gone 
 away." And then at once the fit was on him and 
 he raved. Vaughn waited for the paroxysm to end 
 itself, and then went to him and took him gently 
 by the arm. " Come now, my man, and show me 
 where the lady is." Apparently the words had 
 touched his sanity, for he said slowly, "Come 
 with me and I will show." Then he relapsed 
 into the old jargon. Yet the movement of the
 
 At Indian Well. 359 
 
 two had begun up and towards the Well, and hand 
 on shoulder they went over the stony stream bed 
 and even in its very flow the dazed man as if 
 led, and yet half-guiding, until they came to 
 the little sand plateau which the waters had 
 thrown up in freshets as they flowed from the 
 Well. There they halted, the man limp and dazed 
 as if exhausted. " Where now, Red Beard, will 
 w r e go for the lady? Come, brace up now, and 
 show." He roused again to his semi-reason and 
 gazed eagerly in the speaker's face, saying " Come 
 and see ; " and as he spoke Vaughn saw his mad- 
 ness crouching at the heels of his words. " Come," 
 he said, and as he spoke his right arm moved itself 
 even gently round Vaughn's waist till it felt as 
 a full circle there, and then still creeping on and 
 in until the arm felt like an iron band crushing 
 out the lite. " See," and in a whirl the two men 
 stood on the verge of the Well, looking down 
 into its waters, green with their very depth and 
 purity. In the madman's grasp, and his gaze 
 could neither have been long or steady, but 
 Edward Vaughn looked long enough to see under 
 the gurgling waters, where they touched the 
 shallower sands, a hand and part of an arm a 
 hand stretched out and up as if beckoning 
 a little hand a woman's. He would have 
 known those finger tips, he thought, over the 
 world.
 
 360 At Indian Well 
 
 The madman also, roused by something he saw, 
 broke into fresh fury. " See, there there is the 
 sacrifice. Let us descend into the very tomb for 
 it. You and I must fetch it. Come," and he 
 was dragging Vaughn towards the waters. His 
 clutch had the sane man at advantage, and there 
 was instant danger. Yet, cool as ice, Vaughn 
 had wit to say quietly, and to humor that mad- 
 ness he could not quell, " Yes, but before the 
 sacrifice comes the prayer. Why don't you pray 
 now? you the priest, and then I'll help." The 
 man seemed to fall again into the old mental 
 lassitude and confusion of a mind which could 
 not recollect itself, and unloosed his grasp as if 
 trying to think. Edward Vaughn stepped back 
 so as to put the man between him and the Well, 
 and waited. There was death about, and he 
 would fain live. 
 
 "No," said the man suddenly, and turning 
 sharply to find Vaughn behind him. "There 
 shall be no prayers but at the altar. No, I say, 
 let us go down and find the sacrifice." 
 
 " I'll not go, Red Beard, unless after prayers," 
 was the cold, quiet answer. 
 
 Then Red Beard sprung at him, towering, swift, 
 and raging. There was perhaps twelve feet of 
 strand; and around were rocks. Vaughn saw 
 him coming and stood out amid, with feet firm 
 under him, and eyes that gleamed cold light, as of
 
 At Indian Well 361 
 
 one who meant not to submit to die. The mad- 
 man clenched him firm and strong, but Vaughn's 
 arms this time were under, and they strove 
 there without words. The sane man had an old 
 skill in wrestle and a cool brain, but the other 
 had muscles of iron. So, often in the paroxysm 
 of his madness he lifted Edward Vaughn as a 
 child and shook him as a very reed in his hand. 
 It was only moments, though it seemed hours to 
 one. His brain was cool, yet his left arm had 
 been lately set, and he was clearly overmatched in 
 muscle. So he put brain into his lack and in the 
 bitterest passages kept quiet and suffered violence, 
 not wasting his strength. Yet that strength was 
 ebbing, and the madman at his throat. Yet he 
 held his reason still. In the old days he had 
 known a lock in wrestling, which if it fail is fatal, 
 but when well done conquers. It was his only 
 chance, and he waited for it. It came when his 
 man slipped a trifle on a stone. Quick as a flash, 
 with his whole weight- gone into the spring, he 
 locked with him in a burst of physical will and 
 rage greater than any and threw him senseless 
 and quivering upon the rocks below. It was fate 
 that Edward Vaughn should live. 
 
 He went down to the man, of late so danger- 
 ous. He felt the pulses still there, but flicker- 
 ing. Then he lifted and laid him upon the sand 
 where they had struggled, arid bathed the face
 
 362 At Indian Well 
 
 in water out of the stream. So after awhile the 
 man came slowly back to consciousness that is, 
 madness. "I must leave you here awhile, my 
 poor fellow," Vaughn said, " where nobody will 
 hurt you and you will hurt no one." So he took 
 off the great woollen comforter which the man 
 always wore, and bound his hands and feet and 
 laid him, unresisting, carefully down. I shall be 
 back presently, my man." 
 
 So Edward Vaughn went back sturdily toward 
 town. " The lady is found," he said to Farmer 
 Jones at his gate. "It is a sad business. Keep 
 your horse harnessed ; they will want your help 
 later on." Then he rode straight into town to 
 the Mayor's office, and told briefly the catastrophe 
 at Indian Well. Next he went to the rectory and 
 told Mr. Ardenne. "You must go and break the 
 news to the Seatons. I cannot go there." 
 
 In her brave struggle with Edward Vaughn 
 Isabel Seaton had said that water was life. Was 
 it so at the Well ? 
 
 And there are those who offer prayers for the 
 dead.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 FLOTSAM AND JETSAM. 
 
 IN due time the earth covered in Aubrey Par- 
 ish ; but there was that still living which it could 
 not cover. Of course many things were said 
 about the sad catastrophe, a few with charity. 
 Indeed, it was stoutly affirmed by some that Miss 
 Seaton's death was purely accidental, and that in 
 some unaccountable daze she had wandered away 
 among the rocks and fallen over the precipice at 
 Indian Well. In reply it was pointed out that 
 there were no bruises such as might come with 
 such a fall. Yet the many words lapsed into that 
 silence in which the great world goes eager to its 
 old wish and work and the dead sleep so long. 
 
 But not so with one man, at least, in that 
 town, whose soul was hearing sad, sharp, ghostly 
 words, and that too not from comrades whom he 
 might forsake, but from himself whom he could 
 not evade. The torrent caught by crags is apt 
 to be cruel, and Edward Vaughn's life was in 
 straits. In the days which followed, long, and 
 bare of verdure and of sunshine, he too found the 
 desert and how bitter life is in that land which
 
 364 Flotsam and Jetsam. 
 
 has no living waters. In the reaction which 
 followed that stormy outburst of his will, which 
 drove him to the very feet of Death at Indian 
 Well, conscience came to her throne once more 
 and gave decrees. She came up through the 
 stony rifts of Edward Vaughn's nature, such as 
 life had made it, from a realm where the child- 
 hood of him had once dwelt, up through the dry 
 leaves and ashes of his worldly habit, arid made 
 challenge to be heard, even though his sun were 
 darkened and his moon turned into blood. His 
 will obeyed this time one who is the queen of 
 glory to us mortals. 
 
 It may well be doubted whether at any time 
 Edward Vaughn's brain had touched firmly the 
 fact of Isabel Seaton's passion. And if it ap- 
 proached to do so, there was manhood enough in 
 him (so strangely mixed are such men's natures) 
 to have taken alarm as at a suggested wrong to 
 be done the defenceless dead, and to reject in his 
 pride the ungenerous supposition. Yet enough 
 remained to give him great hurt. With us men, 
 the grave, which is so dark, casts back a strange 
 light upon our past words and deeds, so that we 
 seem to be weighing them in the scales of another 
 world than this where we err and wound so often. 
 Regrets, when there is no longer voice to forgive, 
 are long and sore. So for days and days, longer 
 than we may care to count, Edward Vaughn
 
 Flotsam and Jetsam. 365 
 
 endured a great human penitence beyond words. 
 It was penitence for his own wreck. He had lost 
 himself. When Blanche De Forest had made 
 shipwreck of his love, his honor was still left. 
 And if, in after years, he had grown sinister or 
 hard towards the world, he had yet managed to be 
 just and upright in its affairs. But now he felt 
 that he had wronged, and deeply wronged, Isabel 
 Seaton, and that too by an insincerity unworthy a 
 just man. He had indeed even lost the right to 
 accuse Blanche De Forest. That very justice in 
 whose name he blamed her he had denied another. 
 The maniac who lay bound and trembling before 
 him at Indian Well was indeed a wreck. But 
 measured by the higher law of his higher station 
 was he himself less so? 
 
 So when his conscience, that is, his soul on its 
 side of virtue, led him into the Temple of Recti- 
 tude and set him before the great, white statue of 
 Duty, in that ghostly presence, with a bitterness 
 which little men never know, he confessed that so 
 far in this life he was the unworthy.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 SIK CHAUNCEY DE VERE AGAIN. 
 
 SIR CHAUNCEY, as guardian of Helen De Vere, 
 held high court once more in Florence. If we 
 should mistake him for a just man come to the 
 woolsack to mete out righteousness, we should call 
 it his last assize. Anyhow, he was working late. 
 Sir Chauncey was not young when he made his 
 first bow in this story, and that was ten years ago. 
 Besides, these years had subtracted no penalty 
 due from those gone before. They had rather 
 added. Pleasures like his are sure to become a 
 man's later pains. So while for more than half 
 a century they had graven, year by year, their 
 legend in the heavy face lines and the obesity of a 
 man, fat-fed, blushing vermilion and yellow over 
 all their handiwork, they also found their way 
 down where life was, and, first making turbid, 
 next dried up, the vital forces. Old age, indeed, 
 is a judgment day for the mortal in us, and the 
 body is the court record. Our immortality pleads 
 at another bar somewhat later on. 
 
 In plainer words, Sir Chauncey was fading out ; 
 slowly indeed, but yet dying. This he knew, but
 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere again. 367 
 
 took nobody else into his confidence. Vice at the 
 end is apt to be solitary, and he had neither 
 wished friends nor made them. It was on the 
 cards, he said to himself, to die sometime, and all 
 he had to do when the winning card lay on the 
 table against him was to yield his hand. He was 
 nowise afraid to die, because he had never been 
 afraid to live as he had; but the circumstance 
 of his future did not seem to him either well- 
 bred or pleasing. There would be an awkward 
 uncertainty about his dinners, and the valetship, 
 especially of worms, looked a trifle vulgar. There 
 was also just a semitone of conscience, or at least 
 of the dust of a dead one, which made itself heard 
 on the frontiers of meditation. At any rate it 
 was time to set his house in order, and he went 
 about it. 
 
 When he was well-nigh through, he was pleased 
 to call for Helen De Vere to assist. It was the 
 same house, and indeed the same room, to which 
 Sir Chauncey had wandered back, and where, five 
 years before, his niece had spoken her " No " 
 against Sir John English. Curiously enough, in 
 a world where we say things happen, it turned 
 out, as Helen after found, the very day on which 
 Frederic Ardenne had gone to the Seaton's, 
 striving to comfort. She remembered the details 
 of the day itself long after the yellow, Italian 
 sunshine in the square outside, and the stifling
 
 368 Sir Chauncey De Vere again. 
 
 midsummer air within doors yes, and the great, 
 gloomy room, with its sombre but stately furniture, 
 into which the servant ushered her. Sir Chauncey, 
 and his valet had dressed him carefully that morn- 
 ing, though they were an hour at it ; and when 
 Helen came in he was seated in his easy chair by 
 his table, on which was a litter of papers. Then, 
 with an unwonted courtesy, he proceeded to rise 
 and receive her. It was long to rise, as of a man 
 under a load clutching at an invisible staff to prop 
 him up, but neither servant nor woman dared to 
 help, so proud was his weakness to conceal itself, 
 nor did Helen venture to offer sympathy, lest it 
 should be rejected harshly by the man in full toi- 
 lette. Once on his feet, and they well under him, 
 as when one doubts his standing-power, he said to 
 the valet, " You may go outside, and come at the 
 bell," and to the niece, with a gesture not lacking 
 grace, " Sit in this chair near me ; I wish to speak 
 with you." Then both sat down, the man, as he 
 rose up, with caution. When Helen recalled that 
 face in after years, it was as if she saw the charnel- 
 house. The world Sir Chauncey's world was 
 in it, and at its sunset. 
 
 " There are two papers, Miss De Vere," he said 
 slowly, halting between the words, " on that table. 
 Bring me the one on top the one with the red 
 tape round it." He took the paper and said, 
 opening it with deliberation : " Here you will find
 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere again. 369 
 
 an inventory of your property now in my hands 
 and a statement of my account as guardian. Most 
 of your money is in the funds deposited in the 
 Bank of England. There is about a third more 
 than when I had it. I wish you to give me a 
 release, and take your own. But before doing it, 
 I advise you to see the lawyers and go over the 
 schedule. That is business." 
 
 " But why, Uncle, trouble yourself about this 
 matter?" Helen said gently. 
 
 " Because, my child " (here followed something 
 indistinct, as if the throat muscles had contracted 
 and refused their service) " because, my child " 
 (and now he spoke plainly), "I wish it." For 
 the first and last time in all his life, he had said, 
 "My child." 
 
 The pathos was not that he had no heir, but 
 that his life had long since shut against his soul 
 the golden gates of childhood. 
 
 Having said thus much he relapsed, it may be, 
 into mere thought again. Sir Chauncey had lost 
 the ethics while he retained the mathematics of a 
 conscience. Exact in business all his life, to the 
 smallest bet he ever made, it was not her right, 
 but his own habit, which led him to account for 
 the last farthing due. 
 
 " There is one other thing," he said, after a 
 while, with a preliminary clutch at his throat as 
 though something caught him there, " I wish to
 
 370 Sir Chauncey De Vere again. 
 
 mention. Bring me that sealed envelope which 
 lay under the other paper." 
 
 It was brought. He broke the seal and took 
 out a document, opened it, seemed to go over 
 it page by page and at last refolded it and held 
 it in a hand which did not tremble. 
 
 " This is my will, made lately here. I have 
 left my property to you. The total is something 
 more than your estate, land in part and London 
 houses, well insured and let. The income will 
 buy your ribbons, and I advise you to sell the 
 land. No woman should hold land, it is too 
 troublesome ; and, mark me, lend money only on 
 an English bond. Do you hear ? " 
 
 " Yes, Uncle ; you are very kind. But why 
 not give your estate to your sister instead of 
 me?" 
 
 " My sister is growing old and I wish you to 
 have it. I settle that matter my way. But, I 
 make only one condition. I want your pro- 
 mise." 
 
 "What promise, Uncle?" and for the first time 
 in the interview she remembered how the man 
 before her was strangely, yes, cruelly, persistent, 
 Her soul watched now open-eyed. Sir Chauncey 
 bent forward from his chair, with both hands 
 grasping the table, until his outstretched head 
 came low before her, as if half in supplication, 
 and then the gray eyes, with a cold gleam as
 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere again. 371 
 
 of polished steel, seemed to be cutting their way 
 into her still unspoken secret. 
 
 " Will you promise me that you will never 
 marry that man? I mean that priest, Ardenne." 
 He who could not win by violence would bribe 
 his victory, then. 
 
 "Do not ask me to promise that, Uncle. I 
 have obeyed you long and silently. Have mercy, 
 Uncle." 
 
 " Mercy ! s-s-s-s-t ! " his words fairly hissed ; 
 "you love him then, this Ardenne?" 
 
 "Yes, Uncle." 
 
 " Will you give him up ? " 
 
 This time, both for Sir Chauncey's health and 
 because her life abode where love had long shut 
 the door against either storm or frost, and where 
 the sun never set, she answered with a gentleness 
 of voice, as if from far away, " No, Uncle, I can 
 never promise you that." 
 
 The man glared at her with the cold steel eyes, 
 and long. Then slowly he recovered himself back 
 in his chair. 
 
 " At least oblige me, then, by touching that bell 
 before you," was all he said. 
 
 The man came to the bell, and at Sir Chaun- 
 cey's side. " Bend down your head, man," and he 
 whispered something in his ear. It was, " Bring 
 me here the notary. Quick ! " 
 
 Then to Helen De Vere he said, with a stately
 
 372 Sir Chauncey De Vere again. 
 
 coldness, not usual in him, "You may go now, 
 Miss De Vere. You do not please me." She 
 bowed and went with no more words. 
 
 What after happened in that room, before the 
 living opened the door she shut behind her, was 
 to be guessed at chiefly. Sir Chauncey had made 
 a will and a mistake, and meant to rectify both. 
 The mistake was that he had not put the condi- 
 tion, which Helen would not accept, into the will 
 itself. Perhaps his malice nodded, or perhaps it 
 was a providence. At least he took his chances, 
 and they had gone against him. A new will 
 would remedy all. The rest was conjecture. 
 Something kept telling Sir Chauncey that his 
 sands were running low. The will in his hand was 
 wrong, and the notary might come late. He had 
 managed, somehow, to walk or crawl to the further 
 end of the table, where was a taper. He lighted 
 it, and then holding the will to its flame tried to 
 burn it. But the sands were running very low, 
 and malice is not so strong as death. When his 
 door opened to the notary, they found him prone 
 and stiff, the will beside him, with its burnt 
 edges, and the lighted taper waiting. The first 
 two pages of the will were a trifle torn, as if, de- 
 spairing of the flame as the last agony came on, he 
 would fain try to rend some one's happiness. 
 
 Sir Chauncey's life had been consistent, yet its 
 harmony was not, to say the least, celestial, and
 
 Sir Chauncey De Vere again. 373 
 
 brought good to none. The soldier who had won 
 his bride away from him had slept long upon his 
 bed of fame, and Sir Chauncey to his last gasp 
 plotted revenge. His rage against the dead, so 
 cruel to the living, closed his eyelids.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 LIBERTY AT LAST. 
 
 THERE are times in the life of most of us when 
 our heart and our conscience maintain a sad strife 
 between them. This happens to the sincere when 
 they have deeply loved another who has proved 
 unworthy. Then, after a bitter struggle, our con- 
 science gives its unswerving verdict, while the 
 heart submits weeping. There is indeed the 
 ancient epigram, " Nihil de mortuis nisi bonum ; " 
 but then it is a heathen sentiment, as the Latin 
 shows. Indeed, as usually spoken, it is the device 
 of cowardice to veil shame in its grave. Perhaps 
 the Christian epigram would read, "Nothing of 
 living or dead but truth." 
 
 If this be so, Helen De Vere now followed the 
 higher ethics. She reviewed again Sir Chauncey's 
 life, as she had seen or felt its quality, and in all 
 her woman's charity, much as she wished it other- 
 wise, she could not find in her memory a resting- 
 place for love. Yet in the silence of Sir Chaun- 
 cey's sleep she heard the ringing bells of her own 
 release sounding in the new sunshine. Men tell 
 of prisoners so wonted to their chains that they
 
 Liberty at Last. 375 
 
 sorely miss their clank, when broken. The bird 
 let from his cage may try a turn or two above the 
 library shelves, but he soon comes back with 
 weary wing to his old prison. The world is too 
 wide for his weakness. Not so with Helen De 
 Vere. For her the granite walls had crumbled, 
 and her soul rose up to bathe itself in the new 
 freedom. 
 
 Sir Chauncey had willed to be buried where he 
 died ; and after his solemnities the two women 
 prepared to go. There were boxes of bric-a-brac 
 and trunks to be packed ; but Helen, as the 
 younger, stood forth sturdily until all was done. 
 It was hardly a week at most before she was 
 leaving Florence for her home. But where was 
 that ? It was too far away just now for much 
 impatience ; but the diligence over the pass was 
 slow and the iron wheels were laggard to Helen's 
 heart, as the two women fared across the Conti- 
 nent. In London, too, great, smoky, busy, lonely 
 London, Helen met weeks of law courts and 
 lawyers on every hand, all ready to assist her with 
 delays and fees. Sir Chauncey's stewardship was 
 clean, however, wherever she met it, and her 
 prompt, curt, business ways surprised her lawyers 
 who did not know her secret. It was with a 
 buoyant heart, then, after weeks of business, that 
 she flung off London ; and her psalm of life, so 
 tender, so grateful, and so full of hope, which was
 
 376 Liberty at Last. 
 
 singing itself in all her waking hours, rose into a 
 peean almost as the train swung into Chester, 
 though its iron wheels did not hear the joy. It 
 was yellow autumn sunshine on the old houses, 
 which seemed more sere and wrinkled than ever. 
 Once in her hotel, and she forthwith prepared 
 to leave it, to the disgust of the portly waiter 
 suggesting dinner. 
 
 "I shall be back, Auntie, by-and-by. I know 
 Chester streets, and am going on a little business." 
 So she went to the Cathedral Close. The dingy 
 brick houses were as reticent and formal as of old, 
 but new children were at their plays, and the faces 
 she met were strange. " Ten years have erased 
 much," she said to herself, " and yet I am here 
 again as of old." Was she? Ten years of a 
 woman's life like hers had made her vastly more. 
 The very love that urged on her footsteps was 
 saintlier. 
 
 She rang the bell of the clergy house and sent 
 in her card to any one of the clergy, as she told 
 the servant. The man who came to her happened 
 to be a middle-aged, pragmatic Englishman, far 
 gone, it may be told, in bachelorhood, who, hold- 
 ing her card in hand, was pleased to say, leisurely, 
 overlooking the fresh-colored countrywoman be- 
 fore him, " Yes, Miss De Vere ; a stranger here, I 
 fancy. In what can I serve you, madam ? 
 
 Miss Helen had lately completed her business
 
 Liberty at Last. 377 
 
 education among the London lawyers. So she 
 said at once, "Have you a list of the American 
 clergy ? I wish to find the name of the Rev. Frederic 
 Ardenne." 
 
 " Ardenne ! Ardenne ! it seems as if I had heard 
 that name in Chester, possibly on the Cathedral 
 books," the man half-mused to himself. 
 
 " Yes, both he and his uncle were here as clergy- 
 men ; " and her loyal heart wondered how soon the 
 world forgets. "But have you the list I asked 
 for?" 
 
 "A thousand pardons, madam, I think we have. 
 If you will please come to the library I will look." 
 So Helen sat down, while the man searched leisurely 
 among the library shelves an age or two, as it 
 seemed to her heart. Finally he came back with 
 a thin little pamphlet. " Here is the list, and we 
 will look." Helen stood beside him at his desk, 
 while he, adjusting his eyeglass, formally inspected 
 the document, unconscious of the heart-beats at 
 his elbow. 
 
 "Ah! yes, here we have it, 'Rev. Frederic 
 Ardenne, Aubrey Parish, Diocese of Riverland.' " 
 And he held up the leaf for her inspection. 
 He was there, then, at his post, as he had 
 promised. 
 
 " And please, where is Riverland ? " 
 
 " Ah ! that I can't say. Perhaps the maps will 
 show. Let us look again; " and he rummaged in
 
 378 Liberty at Last. 
 
 the alcoves, bringing back a handful of dusty 
 maps. 
 
 " Yes, here it is, a New England diocese, with 
 this river running through it. Not very far in 
 the wild, you see ; one of their oldest dioceses, 
 I fancy, in the new civilization westward. Do 
 you know any one there ? " 
 
 " Only Mr. Ardenne." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I see ; " an old rector of yours, per- 
 haps." 
 
 "I am engaged to be his wife," Helen answered 
 simply, even coldly. 
 
 The parson rose to his feet and looked at her. 
 " I beg pardon, madam, for my careless question. 
 Allow me," he added, as he looked, " to congratu- 
 late^ him. The gentleman himself I have never 
 seen." 
 
 When Helen took leave with thanks, she went 
 straight to St. John's. There was no one in the 
 old church except the gray-haired sexton, and she 
 went to her old pew to make her prayers. Curi- 
 ously enough, her psalm of life to-day was rising 
 almost fiercely, so far as her gentleness allowed, 
 in that sinewy song of the Hebrew priest : 
 
 " Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath 
 visited and redeemed his people, 
 
 " And hath raised up an horn of salvation for us 
 in the house of his servant David ;
 
 Liberty at Last. 379 
 
 "As he spake by the mouth of his holy prophets, 
 which have been since the world began : 
 
 " That we should be saved from our enemies and 
 from the hand of all that hate us." 
 
 Then she went out into the churchyard, and sat 
 down on the very stone where ten years ago her 
 vows had been made. The Saxon king in the 
 tower was keeping his watch as ever, and another 
 King Invisible was watching His. Life there among 
 the dead was mounting high in Helen's heart, 
 throbbing towards peace at last. The sea in the 
 west was wide ; but the man beyond the sea, who 
 once sat here beside her in a sacramental hour of 
 bliss, had not changed, and she was free ! 
 
 She stood up alone among the graves and looked 
 round on the old church and the hills and the 
 houses of the town, all aglow in the red sunset. 
 Let the night cover Chester graves and the old 
 sorrows. Her new life was in the West. 
 
 There is a curious continuity, perhaps kinship, 
 in the human soul. Blood is blood red in every 
 heart, although the microscope would show the 
 white and red corpuscles to differ in each, while the 
 heart varies in size and fibre. So the passion in 
 Helen's heart, as she went back to her inn, was 
 strangely like that of the Chaldean maiden of 
 forty ages back, sister of hers in constancy, who 
 answered so strong and maidenly to Abraham's
 
 380 Liberty at Last. 
 
 servant, " I will go," and left her kindred to dwell 
 with Isaac. 
 
 She came home to Miss Hannah with a quick, 
 eager step. 
 
 "I have just telegraphed for our state-rooms 
 in the next steamer to America, Auntie. He is 
 there"
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE AGNOSTIC. 
 
 WHEN Edward Vaughn became bankrupt in 
 self-respect, among his personal assets was a 
 rather thin residuum of faith. This, too, now dis- 
 appeared with the general wreck. His religion 
 that which bound him in any wise to the super- 
 natural had been at best a mere tradition, 
 which he had inherited with the family plate, and 
 now simply ceased to be. If in Blanche De 
 Forest he had lost faith in human kind, and his 
 after-life had brought no recovery, he had now 
 lost himself. And since, at the core of his being, 
 below the wreck, conscience still gave out a flick- 
 ering light to his congested reason, the new pov- 
 erty was sore. With the crass cloud over his 
 soul he could know naught of the soul's world 
 which some men still call God. Besides, he had 
 always held that every gentleman should have a 
 religion, as a part of his social station, and the 
 present situation was not well bred. To go at 
 random to morning service on pleasant Sundays, 
 and, on entering church, to go on one's knees with 
 one's face in one's hat for a moment's silent prayer
 
 382 The Agnostic. 
 
 for something not very definite was not a difficult 
 penance, and showed decorum. But to worship 
 that which is not, is at least to mock one's self, 
 and add another lie to the vast aggregate. 
 
 Edward Vaughn's agnosticism was not from 
 speculation, as some men's is, nor from a chronic 
 baseness of life, as is true of others, but from the 
 wreck into which his whole life had fallen. He 
 had often wrestled with creatures of flesh and 
 blood, and was ready to do so again. But to face 
 a world empty of God, and filled full to its lips 
 with dust turning to ashes; to hear in men's 
 voices the cry of apes trooping down to an eternal 
 sleep ; to see under the maid's blush of beauty 
 and the child's smile of purity only the gray mould 
 of a final decay ; in short, to regard human life in 
 individuals and generations as a vagabond with- 
 out a master or a leader, stumbling on and down 
 to the shut gates of the Unknown this was to 
 deny to him or any man the very substances of 
 any virtue or any victory. To stand on the edge 
 of an abyss a mere piece of matter kneading itself 
 by chance into no one's image, and to confront a 
 universe living only to perish daily, perhaps never 
 gave true joy to any one. Certainly not to 
 Edward Vaughn. The very muscle of all endea- 
 vor shrivelled in the nightshade of the world's 
 nothingness. 
 
 So for days and weeks he sat down, and dwelt
 
 The Agnostic. 383 
 
 among ruins, with his soul asking for only a 
 glimpse of something that lived on, and was for- 
 ever; but there was no voice nor any that an- 
 swered. Occasionally he found his way to the 
 parish church as an experiment ; but the words of 
 faith sounded to him like the jargon of an un- 
 known tongue. God had disappeared ; and what 
 was left ? His pride bade him bear his own bur- 
 dens, and so he faced the pang of his agnosticism 
 without flinching or asking aid. But one day, 
 under his strain, an impulse sent him to the rec- 
 tory. Curiosity woke in him to ask what any- 
 thing that called itself Christianity really had to 
 say for itself. The rector was educated and a 
 gentleman ; and how could anything harm an 
 agnostic ? 
 
 In the rector's comfortable library Edward 
 Vaughn went at once to his business. 
 
 " I would like to say, with your permission, Mr. 
 Ardenne, not in the way of a confession (for I 
 should make a poor penitent, I fancy), nor to pro- 
 voke argument, that of late things have grown 
 rather mixed in my consciousness. In fact, life at 
 its roots has become more of a riddle than ever. 
 I don't mean to say that I believe nothing. I do 
 mean to say that I should be glad to believe some- 
 thing. Will you do me the favor to state to me 
 the grounds on which men like you I mean edu- 
 cated and reasonable men base what is called 
 Christian faith ? "
 
 384 The Agnostic. 
 
 "You must confess," the other said, smiling, 
 "that your question is a very broad one. Where 
 shall I begin ? " 
 
 "Anywhere." 
 
 "Well, then, as there is to be no argument 
 which, as between men well matched, is apt to end 
 with itself, I shall be very glad to inquire with 
 you, and give you whatsoever help lies in showing 
 you my own very plain position. First of all, as a 
 minister of this Church, I accept her authority as a 
 teaching Church, and take her creeds for mine as 
 statements of the faith I am bound to hold. I do not 
 suppose these creeds contain the faith in its entire- 
 ness, because I cannot see how language, which is 
 a finite vessel, can convey or contain an infinite 
 idea. For instance, when I say I believe in God, 
 I do not suppose that Saxon word of three letters 
 can contain or communicate to me the Divine 
 Father in His wholeness. In the Church, from 
 the start, a creed has been called a symbolum a 
 symbol, a formal and useful hint of something 
 beyond words. Besides, when I see that every 
 mind has its own grasp on the creed, never identi- 
 cal with any other, and that no man's grasp upon 
 the truth is always the same or ever such as to 
 embrace all that is in the words themselves, I have 
 long since come to look upon creeds as walls which 
 the Church wisely builds around her sheepfold for 
 the security and the liberty of the sheep. Within
 
 The Agnostic. 385 
 
 these walls I dwell, and teach others to do the 
 same. Here is the place, not to sleep and waste, 
 but for a man's wholeness to wake and live a 
 broader, sweeter life than elsewhere. Men say, 
 4 Yes, but you sacrifice reason to authority.' I 
 answer, I choose my authority by an act of my 
 reason, just as I choose my doctor and after obey 
 his directions for my cure. Faith must be the obe- 
 dience of reason to an authority which is valid ; 
 superstition the obedience of reason to an author- 
 ity which is not." 
 
 "But suppose I deny that any Church authority 
 is valid ? " 
 
 " Exactly. I have said so much to explain 
 myself not to convince you. The question of 
 Church authority is long, and, in what I suppose 
 your present state of mind, not likely to hold you 
 to faith." 
 
 "How then do you propose to build me up into 
 any sort of certainty ? " 
 
 "By going down to the roots of your con- 
 sciousness and talking frankly as man should with 
 man. First, are you sure of anything of your 
 existence of your senses, say?" 
 
 " Moderately sure of some things. Yes." 
 
 " So far, so good. For you might raise the ques- 
 tion, as others have, whether our very conscious- 
 ness and senses are not deceivers. In that case 
 you would destroy the validity of all thought.
 
 386 The Agnostic. 
 
 But inasmuch as most men go in their affairs upon 
 the basis that these mental faculties of ours are 
 not liars but truth tellers, there is no reason why 
 they should deny them the same ability in spiri- 
 tual matters. For instance, take the question of 
 whether there is any God. If a man says, 'Prove 
 me God,' I answer I cannot do that, in a mathe- 
 matical way at least, although I do not doubt that 
 He is. I cannot prove Him from my conscious- 
 ness, because a man might deny I had one or that 
 it was correct. And yet the argument for God is 
 to me overwhelming, and based on a reason which 
 I trust every hour. For instance, you and I go in 
 common affairs upon the rule that thought implies 
 a thinker, contrivance a contriver, arrangement 
 an arranger. But science tells me the world is 
 full of thought, contrivance, arrangement, and 
 these, too, beyond any human ability, from sand- 
 grain up to star. Shall I cross the mental habit 
 of mankind and say the world has the action with- 
 out the actor godlike energies without a God? 
 Men will say all these world virtues come by 
 natural law. I answer, did the law make itself? 
 Is there not a lawgiver ? But they answer further, 
 'The world order comes by selection, evolution, or 
 by accident.' Well, I have a plain answer for 
 myself at least. I hold in my hand the twenty- 
 six letters of the alphabet on as many blocks of 
 wood, one letter on each. I throw these blocks
 
 The Agnostic. 387 
 
 down upon the floor. How long would it take for 
 them to select or evolve themselves, as they lie 
 there, into their sequence from A to Z, or how 
 many times must I throw them down before 
 they will fall from my hands into that order ? 
 And yet I am asked to admit that this magnificent 
 universe, in parts and whole, came by accident. 
 I say it is a greater violence to reason to believe 
 this than to believe that order implies an Orderer." 
 
 "But a clever man may say, 'I admit the 
 Orderer, but he must still remain the Unknown 
 the Unknowable.'" 
 
 "Yes, but only in the same way that all com- 
 mon things remain so. I suppose that a fly's wing 
 to a degree is the unknowable and the unknown 
 to the most skilled savant, microscope in hand. 
 Yet the fly's wing is and the Orderer too. How 
 is He? What is He? 
 
 " We judge every being from brute to God by 
 its quality of action. Now the world's order is 
 clearly superhuman, unless we hold that man can 
 make a new violet or a constellation as good as 
 any one. Dynamically at least, and in His quality 
 of work, this Orderer then is not human. Sup- 
 pose by way of argument we venture to call Him 
 Divine. Our clever man says, ' That means noth- 
 ing. God, if there be one worthy of worship, 
 must be perfect in all His attributes.' 
 
 " Certainly, that is what the Church has always 
 said.
 
 388 The Agnostic. 
 
 " ' But His world, if it be His,' he retorts, ' is 
 full of defect and flaw, mildew, pestilence, tornado, 
 earthquake, not to speak of lives a span long, 
 rickety infants, consumptives, lepers, and the foul 
 family of crime. What sort of a being ethically 
 is your God ? ' 
 
 "I answer if men would only be as sure of 
 what they don't know as of what they do, this 
 wrangle against God would soon begin to end. 
 The origin of evil I don't know, and I never met 
 the man who did. But I ask, if in this world we 
 find so much well done for man, such care, fore- 
 sight, wisdom, tenderness, if it be not more rea- 
 sonable to believe that the things which seem evil 
 are only veils of good, than to think that the 
 Power of Mercy, which gives the wine and corn 
 of life, contradicts Himself in mildew and cancer ? 
 Human reason is indeed fallible, either as affirm- 
 ing or denying God, but such as it is, as man's his- 
 tory shows, it has been generally on the side of a 
 God. The few who cross the trend of a whole 
 race should at least be modest in their premises." 
 
 " You claim, then, that the presumption of rea- 
 son is on the side of a God?" 
 
 " I certainly do ; and as I am made I cannot see 
 it any other way. And you will notice that so 
 far I have said nothing of the Bible argument in 
 favor of God. Whatever any man may take the 
 Bible to be, no sane man can deny that it asserts
 
 The Agnostic. 389 
 
 the fact of God. It even goes farther and as- 
 sumes the fact of God as a fact not to be ques- 
 tioned, and lying at the base of all its religion and 
 ethics. It is indeed the history of God's dealings 
 with men and a statement of their duties to Him ; 
 and in its theme of Christ, running as that theme 
 does through its elder books down to the latest 
 lines, it declares our salvation through the Son of 
 God. No fact in literature is plainer. 
 
 " Of course, the force of this Bible argument de- 
 pends on the credibility of the Book itself. The 
 Church says it is the very word of God, and on 
 my ground I must and do accept it as that. But 
 exactly how, and in what, it is God's word (as, for 
 instance, whether, when Isaiah had two words at 
 hand to express an idea, he was inspired to take 
 one and leave the other, or when another writer 
 speaks of sunrise he is inspired to use a scientific 
 statement and not merely a current form of 
 speech, and in a thousand other things), the 
 Church has never defined ; and as I arn not one 
 of God's privy councillors, as some affect to be, 
 neither do I. Authority must define, not my 
 reason. 
 
 " Yet I suppose that every man holding as I do, 
 under authority, has his own personal arguments 
 to satisfy his own turn of mind. Let me state 
 what mine are as to the word of God. I start 
 out with the truism, not denied perhaps by any,
 
 390 The Agnostic. 
 
 that the Bible is an effect. Reason teaches you 
 and me that every effect must not only have a 
 cause but an adequate cause. A river cannot 
 flow from a wineglass. I start from here and 
 read all those supreme books which great masses 
 of men have reverenced, Confucius, Zoroaster, 
 Buddha, Socrates, Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Epic- 
 tetus, and perhaps the Elder Edda of the Norse- 
 men. These books complete perhaps the cycle of 
 all that men, by themselves, have thought about 
 religion and ethics, or man's duty to the Divine 
 and to the human. Some of these books were 
 written by men who lived in the very blaze of 
 the foremost civilizations and culture of the world, 
 and the oldest also. I find in these books sublime 
 guesses at truth, often a thirst for it ; sometimes 
 a sweet and gentle charity, but no certainty. 
 Take Socrates' plea for immortality in " Phaedo " 
 as an example of what I mean. I am very far 
 from saying that many things in these books were 
 not, in a certain sense, though not the Church 
 sense, inspired ; since from of old the Church of 
 God has taught that He abides in the soul of 
 every one. 
 
 " Then I turn from this secular reading to the 
 Holy Oracles. First of all, I find that they de- 
 clare themselves to be from God. Next I find 
 that this Bible shows a coherency and a consis- 
 tency in its religion and ethics not to be found in
 
 The Agnostic. 391 
 
 those other books. That the Jewish Scriptures 
 sometimes show a different temper from the 
 Christian proves nothing against my statement, 
 since the Bible itself declares that it is a history 
 of the development of a world religion, from 
 Adam to St. John, in which the old broadens and 
 clarifies into the new. Next I find in the Bible 
 a certainty and definiteness which are nowhere 
 else ; and these qualities too, on such questions 
 as God, immortality, and the vexed matters of our 
 mortal life. Whatever else it has, the Bible has 
 no guesses, and it claims authority to be obeyed. 
 Then I ask after the history of this book. Some 
 man may tell me that Moses wrote into its first 
 five books the learning of the Egyptian priest- 
 hood. But until the savants can show me from 
 any or all the monuments of three thousand 
 years of Egypt any doctrine of God as plainly 
 stated as the Bible does, or any ethics as pure and 
 lofty as the Ten Commandments, I shall take leave 
 to say that the Bible cannot be from Egypt. But 
 from whence, then ? I find that it was mostly 
 writ by a race of emancipated serfs, turned peas- 
 ants, in a land of few monuments, little wealth, 
 and still less culture. 
 
 "Now to my argument. The supreme minds of 
 men, like Socrates and Plato, in supreme ages 
 of culture, as seen in their writings, show the 
 high-water mark of mere human thought. Yet in
 
 392 The Agnostic. 
 
 those particulars which I have stated, and others 
 also, the Bible outranks them all. And yet, 
 mostly, it is the work of fishermen and peasants. 
 Then I go back to my old law of adequate cause 
 and effect. I say that achievement which is super- 
 human must be divine. But the divine is God. If 
 the Bible is God's word, for me at least God is 
 proved, and twice by its source and by its sub- 
 stance. The Bible as it is, is and must always be 
 its own best defence. After all this argument, be 
 it good or bad, I wish to say, that what air is to 
 my lungs, that God. is to my soul, and more." 
 
 "From your standpoint, what would you say 
 about any sort of future life ? " 
 
 "I say that when you have proved God you 
 have proved immortality. If there be a God, man 
 must live beyond the grave and for two reasons. 
 First, God could never mock men by creating in 
 them a hunger for immortality which he never 
 meant to satisfy. Second, He would never create 
 a human life so fragmentary and unfinished as this 
 of ours, and not round and finish it with a higher 
 future life. God, if He could wrong, would cease 
 to be God at all. The Bible, as you are aware, 
 assumes eternity no less than time to be man's 
 birthright." 
 
 " And would you claim Christianity to be from 
 God the one religion of man ? " 
 
 "Certainly. The Bible and the Church claim
 
 The Agnostic. 393 
 
 for it nothing less. I need not state their argu- 
 ments. But as I am talking, as man to man, you 
 will let me say that Christianity proves itself 
 divine from the superhuman completeness of its 
 adaptations to the needs of man. A religion from 
 God to man must be able to do its work, not half- 
 way, but all ways. I confess that men have mis- 
 moulded the Faith again and again ; but the Faith 
 is of the pattern once and forever made in the 
 Mount of God. Christianity is able to satisfy 
 humanity in its entireness, as no other religion 
 can. Human religions recognize class, circum- 
 stance, or color. The Faith embraces a race, 
 and is color-blind. Gibbon, in that famous Ninth 
 Chapter of his History, gives diverse reasons why, 
 in mere human ways, Christianity, as a new super- 
 stition, made its conquest so swiftly over the 
 Roman Empire. The simple fact is, that Christi- 
 anity conquered heathenism because, from serf to 
 king, it was so curiously and minutely adapted 
 to human needs. It was, and is, the one gate 
 which opens to admit man into an eternal bliss. 
 Wherever it has availed, it alone has changed the 
 cry of the human from a wail to a psean." 
 
 After thanks to the rector, Edward Vaughn took 
 leave. The arguments had availed nothing with 
 him. To the man with a film grown over his 
 eyes, the landscape in the brightest sunshine is as 
 though it were not. In spiritual things the film
 
 394 The Aynostic. 
 
 over one's vision is from the soul. And in Edward 
 Vaughn's dwelt darkness. 
 
 The evening of the day when Edward Vaughn 
 held his interview with the rector, as has been 
 told, he had occasion to go to Mother Walker's 
 house to look up her son. It was some small 
 matter about sailing the Qui Vive the next 
 day which took him. As he went up stairs he 
 heard a voice reading. It was a musical voice, a 
 woman's which he came speedily to apprehend 
 was Lucy Farewell's. He had not seen much of 
 that lady, lately, but had heard of her from some 
 of the poor folk among whom she ministered. In 
 fact, Mother Walker herself, on one occasion, had 
 been loud in her praises to him. Therefore he 
 was not much surprised to find her here. So 
 he went up, quietly, nearer the reading. The 
 door was open, and as he came to the landing 
 he had a view of Mother Walker, in her white 
 cap, sitting quietly, with her big son beside her, 
 both intent on listening. The reader, a trifle aside 
 the door, he could not see. The words read were 
 those about the Good Shepherd and his sheepfold, 
 and Edward Vaughn confessed to himself, as he 
 listened, that they sounded like gracious ones, and 
 no less so for the reading. So when the same 
 voice after said, " Let us pray," and the son helped 
 his mother to kneel down beside him, Edward 
 Vaughn too went on his knees at the door out-
 
 The Agnostic. 395 
 
 side. It was not exactly a logical act for him, 
 perhaps, nor were his own devotions very fervent, 
 if he had any ; and yet it had some advantages. 
 It brought him into a certain human relationship 
 with those who prayed, and he was clearly not in 
 his devout attitude to be seen of men. When 
 the prayers ended, he knocked at the door his 
 human reverence, at least, for the rights of those 
 who lived within. John Walker came at the 
 knock, and with a pull at where his hat usually 
 was, asked him in. 
 
 " So you keep church here, Mother," he said in 
 a good-natured way ; " and Miss Farewell is the 
 parson. This neighborhood has need enough of a 
 church or something else to keep it straight ; and 
 I am sure that most of us are quite ready to 
 accept a young lady's orders " (with a bow to 
 Lucy). That lady suggested in a very modest 
 way that if things needed righting in the neigh- 
 borhood, Mr. Vaughn in his position had both 
 time and ability to do the needed work. 
 
 "I may have some of the physical elements 
 necessary for a missionary," he said, laughing, 
 "but I sadly lack grace. In fact, I should like 
 to have a couple of missionaries to take my own 
 case in hand. Heathenism is often very acute 
 in a Christian land, and with less surface has more 
 depth. Some of us are very wells of barbarism. 
 I believe in home missions."
 
 396 The Aynostic. 
 
 " But every one should do thier part to make 
 things better." 
 
 "True, and charity begins at home. But if I 
 were to go round here on a mission (supposing I 
 were thought fit) I should certainly behave in a 
 very uncanonical way, provided I had the power. 
 I would put, for instance, every mother who 
 wouldn't keep her children's faces clean under a 
 shower-bath until she would ; pump every drunken 
 father full of river water until he gave up his 
 dram ; flog every shop-man who gives short weight 
 and measure with his own yardstick, sitting in a 
 bushel basket until he promised better ; tag every 
 woman gossip with a big G, and if she wore a 
 flower-garden on her hat, I would force her to 
 lug round a cabbage head for a bouquet, until she 
 would agree to better taste; in fact I would 
 sweep away social cobwebs and dust-heaps gener- 
 ally." 
 
 "But would all that make them Christians, Mr. 
 Vaughn?" 
 
 " Perhaps not. In fact no. But it would clean 
 up a little for religion when it came. I have al- 
 ways had a sympathy for those Hebrew prophets 
 who went round making things uncomfortable 
 for time-serving kings and mean folk generally ; 
 rough reformers in raiment of camels'-hair and 
 leathern girdles, and as free and unconventional 
 in their behaviors as the wind or the rain it
 
 The Agnostic. 397 
 
 drives before it. They were not men who lived 
 in a glass house nor a house of any kind for 
 that matter. I do. But I should hugely enjoy 
 throwing stones about perhaps at my own win- 
 dows first to get my hand in. Anyhow, speaking 
 of stones, I notice in the city they tear up the 
 pavement in order to lay down a better street. 
 The litter of repair may baulk my carriage, but 
 I get at last a better thoroughfare. I am just 
 now a destructive Christian, sadly in need of 
 mending ; and am not at all sure that I have any 
 mission except to eat my dinner and talk random 
 nonsense." 
 
 All this indeed was an unknown tongue to the 
 simple folk in whose house he was, and worse 
 than that to Lucy Farewell, whose more sensitive 
 nature felt as if a cold wind were blowing across 
 it. So by the consent of every one the conversa- 
 tion speedily took a turn towards simpler matters, 
 and ended with kind words well taken. 
 
 "Tell the gardener to-morrow, John, that you 
 are to have your winter vegetables off the place." 
 
 " Yes, thank ye, Mr. Vaughn." 
 
 So when Lucy Farewell rose to go, and John 
 had gone to the closet (and Mother Walker at his 
 heels) to light his lantern and show Lucy home, 
 as he used at her visits, Edward Vaughn said, 
 "I have known ladies of leisure take to works 
 of charity, as their more fashionable sisters take
 
 398 The Agnostic. 
 
 to opera or dance or dinner, as a way of getting 
 through the day and a sort of mental dissipation 
 agreeable to their make-up. But I know you 
 have plenty to do in your school, and I often 
 wonder, when I hear of you, what induces you to 
 spend your time among poor folks." 
 
 " To try and be a little like my Lord," she 
 answered simply. 
 
 "And why, allow me to ask, do you pray?" 
 
 " Because," she said after a pause, " because I 
 am made so, as I am made to breathe." 
 
 " And have you ever thought of the arguments 
 for prayer ? " 
 
 "Never, no more than I should of the argu- 
 ments for my existence. It is a part of life to 
 pray." 
 
 " What would you say of a man who never 
 prayed ? " 
 
 "I should think him unworthy of his name." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 And John Walker came with his lantern to 
 show the lady home. Edward Vaughn sauntered 
 listlessly down to the wharf where the Qui Vive 
 lay, watching the swinging light as it went up 
 the river, and after, the black tide setting down. 
 
 " There is no light in any of their arguments," 
 he said. "And yet " And yet, in the act of 
 an educated and honest woman like Lucy Farewell 
 kneeling down on a rough, floor among the poor
 
 The Agnostic. 399 
 
 to pray, there had somehow been something which 
 warmed his soul, warmed it not indeed to any 
 passion of serving man or God, but so that it 
 stirred as if to recognize itself and to make ready. 
 Such motion is indeed life in its germ. 
 
 This of course he did not know, and therefore 
 did not confess. But in this world of heresy a 
 true word or act is always orthodox. The world, 
 at its peril may answer as it may please to dogma ; 
 but it cannot answer, except to reverence, women 
 kneeling in the hovels ; nursing the sick in hospi- 
 tals ; touching the leprosy of sin to wash it clean 
 with their own purity ; and all in the name of Him 
 who went about doing good. In the days now up- 
 on us, which will abide late into the future, creeds 
 must be accredited to men by deeds. Our heathen- 
 isms of head and heart must be healed by the 
 ointment of Christian lives. The Light of the 
 world upon that cross which is at once His throne 
 and altar must be defended by the smile of His 
 own charity shining in the face of His.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS TIDE. 
 
 THE Advent season had come and gone, bringing 
 tidings of an approaching joy. Yet Nature gave 
 no sign, in her lengthening nights and stronger 
 cold, of her Lord's Nativity. The leaves that 
 smiled in the sunshine paled in the frost, and the 
 very sun moved slower as if benumbed. Autumn 
 with her grays blanched into white winter whose 
 snow seemed to shroud the dead. The life of 
 Aubrey folk in these days was lapsing also some- 
 where, but with no incident that affects this story. 
 Edward Vaughn had his darkness and the rest 
 their work afield or indoors. 
 
 But now a new Christmas had come to this old 
 world, which put on, as it were, its wedding gar- 
 ments. There was wrought indeed no change in 
 tide, hill, or star, yet the inner eye saw a new 
 halo on each. Christendom, at least, was gathered 
 about a cradle. 
 
 Christinas tide always ran strong and full in St. 
 Clement's church. There had been for the week 
 past the usual litter and labor with the Christmas 
 greens. Sturdy farmers had brought, in ox-carts
 
 The Christmas Tide. 401 
 
 from their wood-lots, loads of boughs and young 
 trees; there had been the common chatter and 
 altercation over the tying of the greens and their 
 placing; young ladies had pricked their fingers 
 with the hemlock needles, and blushed a score of 
 times when their deft fingers failed to tie the knot 
 of a string much too short, while their swains 
 held up the wreaths; ladders had been set and 
 climbed until, at nightfall, the whole house seemed 
 weary in the shadows, as the toilers went home ; 
 and there had been, in fine, the usual medley of 
 the Christmas decoration of St. Clement's. 
 
 It was now Christmas Eve, and the children of 
 the parish were to have, to-night, their Christmas 
 tree and presents in the church basement. Lucy 
 Farewell arranged the ceremony. So before early 
 dark the room swarmed with the little ones, eager 
 and noisy as at such times children are, and many 
 a little girl's starched calico had been rumpled 
 by the careless small boys in cowhide boots and 
 jackets buttoned to the throat, in a room, which, 
 at such times, seemed unreasonably hot ; boys 
 who were sure to get in everybody's way, and 
 more than they deserved, to boot. Indeed, the 
 tumult hardly ended when the rector came in, 
 smiling, and with an occasional finger of warning 
 to the more uneasy. A few words to explain the 
 festival were to be spoken before the Christmas 
 tree was lighted and the presents given, for the
 
 402 The Christmas Tide. 
 
 plain reason that a crowd of children like these 
 were never known to listen to any eloquence of 
 man or woman afterwards. 
 
 So the rector explained what Christmas was, 
 and afterwards the tree was lighted. It was soon 
 ablaze with candles, but such little ones, and so 
 savoring of anything but Roman incense as they 
 were snuffed out, that the most ultra-Protestant 
 took no offence. Then the presents were handed 
 round, as the names were called, and several failed 
 to be satisfied with what they got. The rest soon 
 bestowed their new riches in their pockets or their 
 stomachs. 
 
 The Christmas tree itself had been sent over by 
 Edward Vaughn, and John Walker had assisted 
 at its furnishing all that afternoon. The former 
 had come in late to the ceremony, and now stood 
 watching it from the back part of the room. So 
 when the tree was quite stripped of presents, and 
 the tapers well-nigh out, and somebody's bright 
 eyes had discovered a solitary white envelope nigh 
 the top, it was John who was called on to bring 
 down the same. This he managed to do by 
 the aid of a pair of high steps, while the small 
 boys watched him climbing in sailor fashion, and 
 brought the envelope to the rector. " This," said 
 the latter, looking at the inscription, " is for Miss 
 Lucy Farewell ; " and a clapping of hands testi- 
 fied to that young lady's popularity. She came
 
 The Christmas Tide. 403 
 
 forward and took her present, or whatever it 
 might be. Then she went back to her place 
 among the scholars, two eyes at least watching 
 her every movement. Then she broke the wax 
 seal, and, as the restless urchins round her allowed, 
 looked inside. If one could have seen the face 
 below the bent head, he would have seen alarm 
 and even vexation. But she very deliberately put 
 the letter in her pocket. Shortly the merry, noisy 
 children went trooping out, while their elders 
 were left to sigh over the toil it would take to 
 clear away the litter. When Lucy Farewell made 
 ready to go, well muffled up against the night 
 air, Edward Vaughn was standing with his back 
 to her talking with his man at the tree. It was 
 an impulse, almost, but she went to him and laid 
 her hand upon his arm. 
 
 " I wish very much to speak with you a 
 moment." 
 
 " Certainly. Now ? " 
 
 " Not here ; but if you will walk with me 
 towards Miss Kendrick's, across the Common, I 
 will explain." 
 
 " By all means." 
 
 The children's merry voices were ringing down 
 the street in the crisp winter air, and there was a 
 flood of moonlight on the white snow. She said, 
 when they were rid of the straggling young- 
 sters,
 
 404 The Christmas Tide. 
 
 "I wish to hand you back this," and she gave 
 him out of her muff the envelope which had come 
 to her from the Christmas tree. 
 
 " Me ? Ah ! yes ; what is it ? May I examine ? " 
 
 So he stopped short in the snow, and very 
 deliberately proceeded to examine its contents by 
 moonlight. 
 
 " Yes ; here are bank bills new ones ; one or 
 two big ones, but pray tell me what have I to do 
 with them? You certainly don't want to make 
 me a Christmas present at this late hour. Besides, 
 I am not at present in need of money." 
 
 "I am sure that this money came some way 
 from you, and I wish to give it back." 
 
 "Ah! that's the trouble, is it? Will you do 
 me the honor to tell me how you know all that?" 
 
 "Because no one else would give so large a 
 sum, and the envelope was sealed with wax, which 
 our townspeople are not used to do. Besides, I 
 feel that somehow this money came from you." 
 
 "Bravo! my little lady. And do you think 
 that judge or jury would convict me on that evi- 
 dence ? I don't see any handwriting here/' 
 
 " There is none except on the envelope." 
 
 " Ah ! yes ; but I tell you on my honor that 
 handwriting is not mine." (He was right in 
 that.) "Do you know my writing?" 
 
 " No ; but I know that this money came from 
 you, and I wish to give it back."
 
 The Christmas Tide. 405 
 
 "Now, be reasonable, Miss Farewell. You 
 know the old saw, 'A woman convinced against 
 her will is of the same opinion still.' You have 
 no fair reason to think I sent this money." 
 
 "I ask you, then, as a gentleman, didn't you 
 send it?" 
 
 " And I reply, as a gentleman, that I decline to 
 answer any such question. For if I sent that 
 money anonymously, I did not mean to own it; 
 and if I should deny I sent it, you would only 
 trouble yourself to hunt up some other poor 
 fellow to bring him to confession. I must decline 
 to answer." 
 
 " And I must decline to receive your money." 
 
 " What ! will you force me to take money 
 which is not mine? I know that you are kind 
 to the poor, but I am no pauper, at least so far as 
 bank bills go, and you certainly won't force me 
 to take alms from yoUj will you? Here, take it 
 back," and he held out the envelope with its 
 enclosure to her. 
 
 But both hands went deeper into the little muff, 
 as she said, "I cannot do that, Mr. Vaughn." 
 
 " Cannot, cannot " (with a vexed air almost of 
 anger). 
 
 " Well, then, take it back, and throw it on the 
 snow, or give it to the poor, as you like. Only 
 don't make me hold this miserable package in this 
 sort of quarrel."
 
 406 The Christmas Tide. 
 
 But the gallant little lady, hands in muff, stood 
 her ground, and made no motion of assent. 
 
 " Will you do as I ask you ? " 
 
 " No, sir. I cannot take that money." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because I ought not." 
 
 "What a deal of trouble conscience makes in 
 this world, especially when it goes askew." 
 
 The little lady looked at him with two very full 
 black eyes, and steadily. 
 
 "If your sister were in my place here, you 
 would despise her if she did anything else than 
 what I am doing now. That money is not mine. 
 I am sure it is yours. I will have nothing to do 
 with it any further. You yourself will come to 
 see that I am right in saying so." 
 
 And the little lady's right foot motioned to go 
 home. 
 
 So Edward Vaughn crammed the miserable 
 little missive into his pocket with a shrug of 
 intense disgust, and prepared to attend. 
 
 All further conversation took place at Miss 
 Mary's door : 
 
 " Good night." 
 
 " Good night, Mr. Vaughn." 
 
 Even he confessed it was a sweet voice that 
 answered. 
 
 Edward Vaughn went home, singing no paean. 
 Otherwise he was the slave of his own disgust.
 
 The Christmas Tide. 407 
 
 He had half a mind to fling the envelope into the 
 fire, but did not. He had been wont to find in 
 woman acquiescence. And Lucy Farewell's vic- 
 tory nettled him. The atmosphere of her woman's 
 honor, so intangible and yet so valid, had availed 
 against his iron will. 
 
 In the poor box of St. Clement's shortly after 
 was found a roll of new bank bills which surprised 
 the rector.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 WATER AGAIN. 
 
 CHRISTMAS had gone, and also the Epiphany or 
 Feast of Light to us Gentiles, while the New Year 
 lay pallid in the rime of midwinter. The snow 
 covered deep among the pines, and the ice thick- 
 ened and rumbled in its hoar rage until it had 
 chained down all the rivers. 
 
 At this season Aubrey folk used to hold high 
 carnival upon the ice, and turned the river below 
 their town into a racecourse, especially on Satur- 
 day afternoons. There also the skaters, men and 
 women, turned out in force. The Saturday of 
 our present story the crowd was more than usual; 
 and the pokey nags and high breds of the town 
 ran queer races up and down the ice, while their 
 owners sat in their comfortable sleighs and held 
 hard the reins. Every one seemed in high spirits, 
 even to the motley pack of curs who got under 
 everybody's heels, except the horses'. Even 
 Granny Little was on the ice, to beg. So also 
 was Edward Vaughn and Lucy Farewell both 
 skating. John Walker was in his ice-boat, like 
 the old sailor he was, making voyages along the
 
 Water Again. 409 
 
 edges of the crowd or into the far regions of the 
 gray ice-stretches down the river. For the illu- 
 mination of those who dwell in less arctic regions 
 than Aubrey Parish, it may be noted that an ice- 
 boat is very much like any other rough skiff or 
 flat boat with a sail ; only it is set on a low 
 wooden frame, sprawling out on either side, with 
 its ends resting by the aid of stout, steel points 
 upon the ice. The rudder has also its steel point 
 for guidance, and the rigging is the common one 
 of all small water craft. 
 
 The ice frolic had worn away to the late after- 
 noon, and the gray, pulseless sunshine from the 
 slanting sun shone frigidly through the stripped 
 oaks on the hill ranges. The bustling, merry 
 crowd still hung well together up the river, and 
 the youngsters had already built their straggling 
 wood fires on the ice at which to warm their fin- 
 gers and watch the ascending smoke, column-like, 
 in the thin air, when Edward Vaughn, who was at 
 leisure, came to notice a lady skating alone and 
 down the river. The distance only showed a trim, 
 petite figure in black ; but he knew it very well. 
 He had not affected that lady's company to-day, 
 neither did he proceed to do so now. Only he 
 disengaged himself from the crowd and very lei- 
 surely skated off in her direction, with nothing 
 to do and only a trifle curious to know where she 
 was going. He had learned that river well in the
 
 410 Water Again. 
 
 Qui Vive, and where its currents must run under 
 the ice. So he skated on. The lady in black was 
 nearing the Point of Rocks where the hills pushed 
 the waters together in swifter flow. But the ice 
 was no doubt thick there a foot at least. So 
 there was no danger. He took a look round him 
 a moment as he skated, at the crowd above, and 
 then at the sun to see how late it was. But when 
 he looked down-stream again the little lady had 
 vanished. The gray ice reaching far down to the 
 pines showed no human form upon it. Good 
 God ! Had she gone through the ice ? Yes ; a 
 thousand to one she had. He flung himself for- 
 ward upon his skates with the energy of a man 
 ready. Seconds counted as ages in his eagerness 
 to do. On, on, with teeth hard set and white 
 face, swifter swifter, with life and death in 
 his stride, he mastered distance, and was ap- 
 proaching. Yes, there, low down, close to the 
 gray ice, a woman's head yes, two hands cling- 
 ing to the ice edge. And between him and her 
 just a rift of black water, eddying, cold, cruel 
 and he saw the gates of death wide open. Swift 
 as an arrow, steady-handed, open-eyed, as men of 
 the forlorn hope break into the breach of flame, so 
 Edward Vaughn flung himself into the tide, and 
 the gates of death closed round him. In a mo- 
 ment his left arm was well round her, and his right 
 held to the ice. " Do not clutch me. It is death
 
 Water Again. 411 
 
 to both," were the only words spoken. It was 
 speedy death to both as they were, and he knew 
 it. The ice was thin, and worn by the stream 
 a mere crust where Lucy Farewell went in ; 
 and iu his rage to live he now broke with his hand 
 of flesh the ice, until its thickness stayed him. 
 And the black, remorseless tide was ever dragging 
 down and under. 
 
 Had the end come ? Then let it come and be 
 welcome. What had life been to him that he 
 should care or quarrel at the something or noth- 
 ing beyond ? Yet he would have saved the 
 woman. Why ? In atonement for something ? 
 Perhaps, or to show himself, as he passed, that he 
 had had in him a spark of something better than 
 he had showed to man. 
 
 Men die by the fireside in quiet sleep ; men live 
 after the fire, the flood, the dagger. The East 
 calls the decision between life and death, Fate ; 
 the West, as better taught in God, calls it Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 For John Walker, in his ice-boat, had followed 
 leisurely his master as he had gone down the 
 river, and had seen him disappear, as it looked, 
 under the ice. And he too was a man and human, 
 and must be brief if he would save. He had 
 the wind quartering, and he sheeted hard home 
 his sail and drove on. He stood up, hand on 
 main sheet and rudder, and bending forward
 
 412 Water Again. 
 
 measured his distances to make ready. What 
 ages men live in such supreme moments ! Nearer, 
 nearer, a black mass in the water, two of them, 
 and their fate lay in one man's hand and eye. If 
 he drove straight down to them he would only 
 push them under, and if he broke in above them 
 the tide would set him down upon them in like 
 disaster. So with a curving sweep of his boat, 
 which his soul measured, he drove round them 
 down-stream, swift as the wind, and into the 
 wind's eye, letting go his mainsail on a run, until 
 the boat's headway brought her close to the 
 edge where the two black masses stayed them- 
 selves. 
 
 Then John Walker bent steady over the boat 
 side and seized the poor hand clutching at the ice. 
 And then, as God willed and man wrought, two 
 human creatures, man and woman, came forth 
 from the gates of death and were helped on 
 board. Edward Vaughn had yet his voice and 
 his brain, and still meant to live and save. 
 
 "Take off your coat and wrap it round her," 
 he said. It was done. 
 
 " Now give me your sheath knife ; quick, man." 
 He cut off his skates, and hers also, covering the 
 feet with the only bit of canvas at hand. Then 
 he sprung to the boat's bow, and, holding by the 
 mast, searched the situation. Over the snow on 
 the hillside he saw men running, woodchoppers
 
 Water Again. 413 
 
 who had seen the danger and were coming. Ah, 
 God, if it should be too late ! 
 
 " Forward here, man, help me unship this mast. 
 Throw it over the side towards the shore, sail and 
 all. It is death in this boat, death to the woman 
 there. Be quick." So the mast fell on the ice 
 with a crash. 
 
 The men from the shore were approaching. 
 " Bring all the fence rails you can find ; the ice is 
 thin ; bring them quick." So the men, a half a 
 dozen or so, came tumbling down, fence rails in 
 hand. " Quick ! lay them on that sail," he 
 shouted ; " make a bridge ! " So they laid them. 
 "Now, some man of you that dares, come over 
 and take this woman." One came out with care, 
 and Edward Vaughn went back and lifted Lucy 
 Farewell, unspeaking still, over the boat's side to 
 the man, who carried her ashore. 
 
 "Leave this boat; come ashore, quick." And 
 he leaped upon the bridge and followed the man 
 with his burden. The rough-handed, soft-hearted 
 farmers, Farmer Jones's people from Blackberry 
 Hollow, were ready with their advices and assis- 
 tance. " Have you got a buffalo robe any- 
 where ? " 
 
 " One in that ere wagon yonder, Squire." 
 
 "Bring it and cover her with it and take her 
 home as fast as your horse can carry you. Mind, 
 it is death if you are slow."
 
 414 Water Again. 
 
 So Lucy Farewell was covered in the huge, 
 shaggy robe and carried home. " Come, man, let 
 us go." One offered him a coat. "No," he 
 answered hoarsely, "thanks, but I shall pull 
 through in this," tugging fiercely at his sodden 
 clothes. " I was not made to die by water. Let 
 us run, man, to keep alive in this cursed frost." 
 
 To the astonished servant who opened the door 
 at River Nook he said almost fiercely, " Give me 
 some brandy, quick ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A SISTER OF MERCY. 
 
 CURIOUSLY enough, the water spared Lucy 
 Farewell while it smote Edward Vaughn. The 
 next morning he woke with a raging fever, which 
 by noontime brought delirium. The doctor, who 
 came shuffling in in haste, after watching his 
 patient a little while as the paroxysms of pain 
 came and went and he grew more violent, shook 
 his head ominously. 
 
 " The brain is in danger," he said to the attend- 
 ants, "and what besides it is too soon to say. 
 In his present state you must have at least two 
 good men at hand, night and day, to watch him. 
 He may try to do almost anything leave the 
 house, for instance, which will be death, or use 
 violence. Who is here to take charge of him ? " 
 
 "I will try, sir," said John Walker, who had 
 kept by his master ever since the delirium. " It's 
 hard for a brave man to die this way, Doctor." 
 
 "Exactly. His life depends on your watch, 
 my man. To-morrow I will see him again. He 
 needs no medicine at present." 
 
 So Edward Vaughn passed into the fever, long 
 and sore. Nor was the strong man in his deli-
 
 416 A Sister of Mercy. 
 
 rium easy to handle. He seemed, as he wandered, 
 to be rehearsing events out of his past life, until 
 the simple folk about him wondered, and some- 
 times cowered before the fury. At such times it 
 was only John Walker's voice and touch which 
 seemed to quiet. Him, in some vagary of his 
 brain, the sick man seemed to take for some high- 
 bred lady, so deferential and courteous was he 
 to all he might suggest. So for long days 
 and nights the fever and the delirium held, 
 and his faithful watchman held too, sleeping at 
 nights on the rug at his bedside. Then at last 
 the fever left him, and his reason came back, and 
 he was sinking. The doctors consulted. It had 
 been rheumatic fever, they agreed, and might have 
 touched the heart. At any rate, he could now 
 move neither hand nor foot. If not death, there 
 was danger of a lifelong paralysis of the whole 
 muscular system. If the man's constitution was 
 good, he might pull through ; but if not, the 
 doctors shook their heads. So for days more he 
 hung between life and death ; and when the crisis 
 passed, weak as a child, motionless almost as the 
 dead, he knew he was to live. 
 
 The doctor, with his ruddy, smiling face, came 
 in the morning after the change. 
 
 " Very much better, Mr. Vaughn, very much 
 better. Let me feel the pulse. Yes, a slow pulse, 
 but a little weak."
 
 A Sister of Mercy. 417 
 
 "Doctor," he said in his languid way, "I am 
 better ; but it seems to me as if I could only 
 move the muscles above my shoulders. The iron 
 teeth have shut close on me. How long must I 
 lie here?" 
 
 " That would be hard to say, Mr. Vaughn." 
 
 "I might lie here six months?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Or a year?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Or forever ? " 
 
 " I wouldn't like to say that." 
 
 " But come now nearer, please, where I can see 
 your face." The doctor came and bent over him. 
 " Now, Doctor, don't flinch, speak truth ; tell me, 
 am I a cripple for life ? " 
 
 " I can't say." 
 
 "But what do you think? " 
 
 It was entirely unprofessional, in the good doc- 
 tor's mind, to tell such plain truth to an invalid ; 
 but the plaintive eagerness of the maimed man 
 before him wrought him to say frankly, "I fear 
 you will be." 
 
 " Thank you, Doctor. But I shall live ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly ! perhaps to a green old age ; and 
 perhaps," measuring his words, " I mean it is pos- 
 sible 3 T ou may quite recover. There are some 
 cases in the books which look that way." 
 
 "Now, Doctor, go and get some breakfast in the
 
 418 A Sister of Mercy. 
 
 dining-room. I am a thousand times obliged to 
 you for telling me the fact." The doctor went 
 for his coffee ; and John Walker, who had heard 
 all, and had just finished clearing out his two eyes 
 with his coat-sleeve, came to the bedside. 
 
 " Can you turn me, John ? I wish to look out 
 of the window." 
 
 " Yes, master." And the strong arms went 
 under him, moving gently as a mother's around 
 her babe. 
 
 Edward Vaughn looked out of the window 
 while the doctor ate breakfast. When the latter 
 came back, he had fallen into a tranquil sleep. 
 
 So slowly Edward Vaughn came back to life. 
 But it was a changed man, if not a better one, who 
 confronted the same old world. In the wreck which 
 he had suffered heretofore his superb physique 
 had remained with him. Now that was gone also. 
 His will, which in him, as in most of us, was made 
 strong and dominant by his bodily energies, now 
 missed its allies, and lay passive in him. All pas- 
 sion, too, fed as it is by the fumes of a man's 
 physique, under his infirmity withdrew in a new 
 reserve. It resulted hence that a new gentleness 
 came over him, not ethical, but physical. Both 
 brain and heart remained to him, but the vital 
 fires burned low and tranquil in each ; so that, to 
 one watching the surface of his gentleness, he 
 might seem a crescent saint. Yet he was only the 
 old man in a new estate.
 
 A Sister of Mercy. 419 
 
 But where and how was Lucy Farewell all this 
 while? When that young lady, wrapped in her 
 buffalo robe, was carried in through Miss Mary 
 Kendrick's front door by the two stalwart coun- 
 trymen who came with her, Miss Mary stood 
 aghast one single moment. Then her hands flew 
 faster than even her tongue, and very soon quiet 
 reigned at Lucy Farewell's bedside. The town, 
 of course, was much moved at the accident ; and 
 when the doctor brought back word of Edward 
 Vaughn's dangerous illness and his after-crippled 
 state, not a few said kind things, and wished him 
 well. The poor folk whom he had fed were espe- 
 cially outspoken ; and one would either be forced 
 to laugh or cry in telling how Granny Little, with 
 her two goats, for several days besieged the back 
 doors of River Nook, clamoring that warm goat's 
 milk was sovereign remedy for fever, and that 
 " the masther " inside was welcome to all she had. 
 It was an offer not accepted, and no wise courtly, 
 on its outside at least, but yet entitled to the 
 ancient blessing of "a woman who hath done 
 what she could." Mr. Ardenne, of course, had 
 gone to River Nook, and lately had seen the 
 convalescent several times. 
 
 Edward Vaughn had inquired of him about 
 Lucy Farewell, and expressed a desire to see her. 
 So a day was fixed for her to come over with the 
 rector. When she stood with Mr. Ardenne upon
 
 420 A Sister of Mercy. 
 
 the verandah of River Nook, in that pause be- 
 tween the bell-pull and the opening door which 
 so often has in it for us mortals so many omens 
 of good or ill, the rector tried to put her on her 
 guard. 
 
 " Mr. Vaughn is greatly changed," he said. 
 "I suggest that you do not allow yourself to 
 show surprise. Invalids are often very sensitive, 
 you know.'' 
 
 "Yes, sir; I shall remember." 
 
 Lucy Farewell was not a beauty ; her features 
 were too small, and not all ways regular, according 
 to Attic standards; but as she stood on that 
 t^randah, petite, modest, simply dressed in black, 
 with the brown hair smooth over the forehead, 
 and the liquid brown eyes below, and the pure 
 round face with roses on the cheeks, she was cer- 
 tainly very charming. 
 
 The servant opened the door, and said, "Mr. 
 Vaughn is in the library, and is expecting you. 
 Please walk this way." John Walker was at his 
 post by the library door as usual. The library 
 itself was a good-sized room with the usual array 
 of book-shelves and bronzes, an open fire at the 
 upper end, and a profusion of cut flowers in the 
 mantel vases. One side the fire the invalid lay 
 on a lounge, and propped up with pillows. Lucy 
 had taken the rector's offered arm at the door, 
 and the two went down the room together.
 
 A Sister of Mercy. 421 
 
 " I have brought over with me the young lady 
 I promised you," Mr. Ardenne said; and he felt 
 the hand on his arm first tremble, and then clutch 
 tight, as if to keep from falling. For Lucy Fare- 
 well saw a worn /ace rigid as marble, whose very 
 smile had not strength enough to creep much 
 below the eyes, and a form under the afghan robe 
 as motionless as a draped statue of stone. A 
 moment's silence, and then she went close, and 
 bent over him. 
 
 " I have brought you these violets," she said. 
 " I am very sorry you have been ill ; " and she 
 held out the flowers to him. There was no move- 
 ment even of the head ; but the voice out of the 
 slow-moving lips said, "Pardon me, Miss Fare- 
 well : the water has chilled my manners. I thank 
 you for them, but I regret that I cannot take 
 them." 
 
 And she realized then how the man before her 
 had turned to stone, almost all except his soul. 
 
 " Oh, never mind, then ! I will put them in a 
 vase where you can see them, and where your 
 own beautiful flowers will not quite overshadow 
 them." And she very deftly put them in a small 
 vase on a table near him. Then she went back to 
 him. 
 
 " I owe my life to you," she said simply, in a 
 low voice. " I do not know how to thank you. I 
 am so sorry that you have suffered so, and to 
 save me."
 
 42-2 A Sister of Mercy. 
 
 The marble statue did not move ; but a smile 
 crept down and round the eyelids, while the 
 mouth slowly shaped itself to its old-time grim- 
 ness. " Ah, yes ! the water was very cold, and I 
 spoiled my suit fof you ; but you didn't clutch, 
 that was death ; a brave little lady you were, only 
 you go skating in slippery places, and your friends 
 have to help you out of mischief. You were also 
 a very submissive little lady at the river, and 
 did everything I wished. If you only cultivate 
 obedience, you will be quite a paragon among 
 your sex." This side reference to Lucy Fare- 
 well's late wilfulness over the envelope and its 
 enclosure on Christmas Eve that lady did not 
 choose to recognize. 
 
 "I hope you will soon be in health again." 
 
 The lips of the statue closed tight again, and 
 at last said slowly, " The doctor don't think so. 
 He says I am likely to last this way a lifetime. 
 It don't matter." (All this in a very impersonal 
 tone, as though he spoke of some one else.) 
 
 " Oh, I can't believe that ! I am sure you will 
 be better." 
 
 "Perhaps, but never mind that now. Your 
 standing tires me. Will you be so kind as to 
 bring a chair and sit where I can see you, so as I 
 can see the fire yonder, an old friend of mine, so 
 very cheerful? I envy its free motion as I lie 
 here."
 
 A Sister of Mercy. 423 
 
 So she brought a chair and set it as he wished. 
 
 " Yes," the motionless marble went on, while 
 the smile flickered around the eyes, "a lady in 
 black, with a white collar about her throat an- 
 tagonisms in dress or life are strong, you know; 
 black you wore down the river quite a Sister of 
 Charity you are, especially as you are so obedient. 
 Remember, please, you are to take me quite as 
 you do the other sick folk I hear of your visiting. 
 I shall expect you to come and see me as often as 
 you do Mother Walker. There is rio reason, is 
 there, why a man with a bank account should 
 fare worse at your hands than one who hasn't ? " 
 
 "Why not let that all go till another time 
 when you are stronger ? and, as you are pleased 
 to take me for a Sister of Charity, please tell me 
 what I can do to make you more comfortable." 
 
 "Exactly what you are doing, sitting in that 
 chair where I can see you, and talking to me. 
 Only you might call John Walker at the door 
 there. My head is complaining of these pillows ; 
 and perhaps, if they had tongue, they would com- 
 plain of my head, in a cross-action, as the law- 
 yers phrase it. Call John." 
 
 " Yes, but a Sister of Charity ought to do that 
 herself. Let me try." And so with a woman's 
 deftness she managed to smooth and arrange the 
 pillows under the head of marble, to its liking. 
 
 " Thank you ; that is much easier."
 
 424 A Sitter of Mercy. 
 
 Then Mr. Ardenne, who had been amusing 
 himself by looking over the stray books with 
 their illustrations, on the tables, came round to 
 the two. 
 
 " I suggest that our first call be not so long as 
 to tire our friend. Perhaps we had better go 
 now." 
 
 " But you must have lunch first. A good 
 lunch is sure to fill out lean manners, and I am 
 only a sorry host at best. The fact is, as I lie 
 here I enjoy all life and motion more than ever ; 
 and it would be a comfort to see you eat lunch." 
 
 So the invalid's whim was gratified. The ser- 
 vants brought in lunch, which was served on the 
 study table. 
 
 " Now, Miss Farewell, you must preside, and see 
 that these men have put things right, and if they 
 haven't, give your orders. No man, in my judg- 
 ment, can ever learn to set a table." So Miss 
 Lucy gave a few touches of her woman's skill to 
 certain glass and napkins, and then sat down at 
 the cheerful table, facing Edward Vaughn. But 
 however bright it was at table, it was quite dreary- 
 seeming in his corner, Lucy saw ; so that after a 
 little she could not refrain from saying, "But 
 what are you going to have for lunch ? " 
 
 "I? well, just a trifle more of your society, 
 and perhaps a glass of sherry." 
 
 " The sherry you shall have at once ; " and she
 
 A Sister of Mercy. 425 
 
 brought a wine-glassful, and held it out to him 
 forgetting. The shadow of that act fell upon 
 the marble face, which now showed pain of the 
 rigid and hopeless sort. 
 
 "Pardon, Miss Farewell. I am past drinking 
 alone. Some Sister of Mercy must assist." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! I see : such a patient child should be 
 well cared for." So she brought a napkin from 
 the table, and very gently tucked it about his 
 throat, and then with a steady hand gave him his 
 wine. Then she went back to her lunch, which 
 soon concluded. 
 
 " I hope to see this Sister of Charity often come 
 in with you through that door, Mr. Ardenne," 
 the invalid said as his guests bade him good-by, 
 " You both of you can do a deal of living for me, 
 and just at present I can do the dying for the 
 whole town. At least it feels so." And Edward 
 Vaughn lived on, with the iron teeth of his fate 
 shut tight upon him.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 HOME AGAIN. 
 
 VICTORY comes late, or it comes laden. 
 
 There is a time, in the early spring of our tem- 
 perate zone, when the earth shows exhausted by 
 the frost in that profound sleep under its dead 
 grasses from which no sun seems potent enough 
 to wake it. It is the day before the coming of 
 those Southron birds which make our forest music 
 later on, when the ice-gorge dams up the rivers, 
 and Nature, sere and pale, is waiting for some- 
 thing. It seems the world's three-days' grave- 
 sleep before its resurrection. 
 
 The sun had brought Aubrey Parish so far 
 towards the violets 011 the night of that day 
 when Mr. Ardenne had been making his Lent 
 calls on his parishioners. As he returned across 
 the Common, late and tired, to the rectory, he 
 stopped ; it may be quite by an accident. Below 
 him were the white houses of the town, dim in 
 the darkness. Overhead were pale stars, while 
 the swollen streams were moaning in the glen 
 under the pines. He looked round the horizon in 
 the cold night air. " Where is she ? " his heart
 
 Home Again. 427 
 
 asked, but there was no answer. The whole 
 world seemed chill and sere to him ; but his heart, 
 where the fires of an old love burned, was yet 
 warm. 
 
 He had asked that question a thousand times 
 before, and with the same ill luck. Absence, 
 sorrow, submission, above all his plighted word 
 in Strasbourg Minster, had kept him at his post, 
 and would do so to the end. Yet his estate was 
 by no means easy, and at times his soul had risen 
 up in a very storm of protest. Then it had gone 
 back again to the halls of peace. Indeed, there 
 were times (and these too, so far as could be made 
 out in after days, the crises in Helen De Vere's 
 life) when she seemed strangely near to him (so 
 subtle is the psychology of souls), and when his 
 heart rose up to greet the woman whom he knew 
 was dwelling beyond the sea. 
 
 To-day the old tides of memory had been sweep- 
 ing through his being. He had been restless, anx- 
 ious, though nothing of disaster, of w r hich he knew, 
 had happened, and yet he came to the rectory 
 depressed. Was it some demon who would rend 
 before it finally came out of him ? Or was it that 
 morning shadow which deepens towards the sun- 
 rise ? Even the ruddy, wanton fire, as it played 
 among the oak logs on the library hearth, failed 
 to cheer him. He lived and was at work among 
 a human kind who honored him, and he served a
 
 428 Home Again. 
 
 Master who gave rare wage ; and yet to-night at 
 least he felt himself alone in a wilderness without 
 bound or end, and his heart hungered and bled 
 for the society of one, and she absent and some- 
 where in the great wild. So he wearied himself 
 with meditations until he fell asleep in his chair 
 before the fire. 
 
 He must have slept long and deep, for the 
 knocking at the rectory door was loud to wake 
 him, and the embers had fallen black upon the 
 hearth when he awoke. So he went to the door. 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 " Farmer Jones's man from Blackberry Hollow." 
 
 The door was opened, and the man came in, 
 swinging a huge lantern, and covered with mud. 
 
 "There's trouble at the Hollow, parson, and 
 you're wanted. Stage-coach upset in the mud by 
 the mill, and somebody's hurted; and I'm sent 
 arter you post-haste. I hearn 'em say it is a 
 woman hurted, and is carried to Farmer Jones's 
 house." 
 
 The rector was used to sick calls, day or night ; 
 so he quickly put on his overcoat, and, with his 
 stout walking-stick in hand, went out with the 
 man into the chill. There was a reeking mist 
 above ground, and the full river was raging as he 
 passed through the covered bridge which crossed 
 it, now trembling with its fury, while the March 
 mud in the road was deep. It was a two-mile
 
 Home Again. 429 
 
 walk to the Hollow. The man with the lantern 
 went sturdily before him, pointing out the dry 
 places, if there were any ; and between the two 
 they managed without ill fare to reach the house. 
 Its lights loomed dim through the mist as they 
 came up ; and moving lights among the stables in 
 the rear, and men's voices, showed something un- 
 usual going on in this generally quiet neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 Farmer Jones was not Mr. Ardenne's parish- 
 ioner, but he gave him now a good, sturdy wel- 
 come, as of a man relieved by his coming. " Glad 
 you've come, parson. Plenty of mischief in the 
 Holler all this blessed night stage upset, horse 
 killed, driver broke his shoulder-blade, and a woman 
 hurted she's in t'other room there and we've 
 been up all night. Never knowed such a night 
 at the Holler since I wor born." 
 
 "But who is the woman who is hurt?" 
 
 "Don't know, parson. They said they were 
 friends of yourn, t'other one said so the older 
 one." 
 
 " Friends of mine ? I have no friends here 
 except in the parish. How many of them are 
 there ? " 
 
 "Two, I guess two women. They and the 
 doctor are in t'other room. I'll go and tell 'em 
 you've come." 
 
 So the kind, rough man hurried almost on tip-
 
 430 Home Again. 
 
 toe across the hall, and tapped softly at the door, 
 which was opened, and he whispered something. 
 The rector was used to surprises, but somehow 
 this whole business was setting the eyes of his 
 mind wide open. Who would come through that 
 door? First came out Farmer Jones's fat wife, 
 on tiptoe; and behind her a little lady with hair 
 white as the driven snow, and wearing something 
 like a widow's cap over it, dressed in black, and 
 with a little stoop, as she walked nervously behind 
 the fat housewife towards Mr. Ardenne. Then 
 she emerged from behind her screen, and went 
 close up to him, holding out both hands, and look- 
 ing up at the stalwart man before her. 
 "Do you know me, Mr. Ardenne?" 
 He took the hands in his, and looked; and as he 
 looked, the sense crept over him that he did know 
 her. After long absences it is the eyes which 
 we first remember, because those mirrors of the 
 soul are least veiled with the years. Yes, he knew 
 them to be the eyes of Miss Hannah De Vere. 
 Strong men do not faint usually, yet their blood 
 can run back chill to the very heart-fount, and 
 tremble in every pulse-throb, all the same. Be- 
 tween his recognition and his question was but a 
 moment; yet in that instant his soul lived ages, 
 wrapped in a flame of fear. " Blessed be God ! 
 You are Miss Hannah De Vere, but where is 
 Helen?"
 
 Home Again. 431 
 
 Miss Hannah, in all her personal misery, was 
 keeping her habit of caring for the peace of 
 others; and so now she tried to arrange her 
 answer so as to least hurt the man before her. 
 
 " Ah ! we were so near you, and then this dread- 
 ful accident. Helen is in the other room. She is 
 hurt the doctor hopes not much." 
 
 Men have need to be very strong sometimes, as 
 this man was, strong with his years of suffering 
 and submission. He had faced death calmly in 
 hovel and mansion, when the hearts of others 
 were breaking : why not when death, perhaps, 
 was coming to his own? He said very quietly 
 then: "You are among friends. We will do 
 everything we can for you both. Where is the 
 doctor?" 
 
 "In the other room with Helen." 
 
 " Will you please send him out to me ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I will go and watch while he comes out." 
 
 So the dear little lady, faithful through the 
 weary years to her one charge in life, twice her 
 daughter in the love she gave her, went, bent 
 and slowly, back to the sick-room. 
 
 The doctor came out with a very professional 
 air of solemn gravity, to be asked, 
 
 " Can I see your patient ? I wish it very much, 
 if it won't harm her." 
 
 The doctor hesitated. " You know a sick-room 
 as well as I, Mr. Ardenne. The fact is, I don't
 
 432 Home Again. 
 
 know whether it will do or not. It is a peculiar 
 case. The shock of the accident has affected the 
 lady's nervous system, and there may be danger 
 to the brain. She is wandering IIOAV. What she 
 needs is quiet : anything that would excite her 
 would be bad. Your going in would be an experi- 
 ment, anyway. Judge for yourself." 
 
 "Well, doctor, I will go." And the two went 
 very quietly into the sick-room. It was but a few 
 steps they had taken, yet, for one man, they were 
 bridging over the all of his " had been " with the 
 all of his "to be." The room itself was the same 
 where the wedding of Farmer Jones's daughter 
 had been, as heretofore described; and on one side 
 of it, as seen by the dim light of the oil lamps, 
 the patient was lying on a low lounge, dressed in 
 her travelling suit, just as she had been brought 
 in from the accident. 
 
 The two men walked noiselessly across the room 
 to where Miss Hannah sat watching; and the min- 
 ister bent down his head and looked, looked 
 without words and with his soul. The face was 
 flushed, and the eyes wandered, and the years had 
 made more matronly ; but, living or dying, she 
 was the same to him his for ever and ever. 
 
 The brown hair he knew, and the taper fingers 
 of the little hand, as it lay so restless and yet aim- 
 less on the travelling shawl which covered her. 
 He took that hand in his and knelt low down
 
 Home Again. 433 
 
 beside her. Was the cup at the lip to be shattered 
 after all ? Would the tide bear her across a wider 
 sea than that which she had crossed to him? Was 
 it the sunset behind clouds, with the chill night 
 covering forever? Then he prayed as a strong 
 man does, not as when his ship goes down in the 
 last plunge, but as when his very soul seems fall- 
 ing in ruins, and yet knows that it cannot cease to 
 be prayed, not that his own will, but that Better 
 Will, might be done on earth as it is in heaven, 
 even if the bitter cup did not pass. Then, after 
 a while, he spoke to her and called her by her 
 name. The wandering eyes opened wider, and 
 looked an instant at him, and then relapsed into 
 the old uncertainty. But one thing was plain, 
 his presence there was soothing her: she grew 
 more quiet. Yet occasionally her wandering 
 mind spoke words. He bent over close to her, 
 and listened. So far as the words cohered, they 
 seemed to be about her present journey. He 
 caught the broken sentences : " The way is so 
 long they stay so late and he expects us. Is 
 it to-morrow that we shall come home?" 
 
 He bent forward, and kissed reverently the 
 flushed forehead. The last kiss before had been 
 in a Chester churchyard. Then he bent still 
 lower, and with his mouth to her ear spoke low 
 and gently : " Peace, my child ! you have come 
 home. I am Frederic Ardenne ; you are my own
 
 434 Home Again. 
 
 dear wife whom God gave me. I am here beside 
 you. You are safe at last." 
 
 The hands were actually growing quiet; and 
 the eyes, closing themselves, ceased to wander. 
 She even seemed to be listening to the voice at 
 least, if not the words. 
 
 Then he went on: "There was once a poor 
 child in Chester Close, who loved a man who loved 
 her. And then evil things parted them ; yet they 
 had promised each other to be true and strong, 
 and God heard them. Then she went away far 
 off to strange lands ; and he stayed and waited 
 long, long years; waited and toiled and prayed. 
 And now she has come back to him, and he is 
 telling her the old, old story, and she is listening 
 to his voice ; and God is hearing his prayers for 
 her ; and she must be quiet and sleep." 
 
 She was now certainly listening. Even the 
 doctor, with some big tears in his eyes, wondered 
 at the man's singular power to soothe that wan- 
 dering intellect. She turned her face to his, and 
 looked a steady look; and as she looked, a 
 faint, conscious smile, sweet, pure as an angel's, 
 suffused her whole face. Reason had come back 
 to its throne again. Thanks be to God ! 
 
 Then he kissed her again, and said, " You must 
 go to sleep now, my child." 
 
 There was no answer, but the little hand in his 
 pressed his in a silent recognition. Then, gently
 
 Home Again. 435 
 
 as a woman, he smoothed with his hand again and 
 again the brown hair over the forehead, until she 
 fell into a deep, gentle sleep. 
 
 He left her, with Miss Hannah watching. 
 
 " The danger is past," the doctor said. " You 
 have done more than medicine. You should turn 
 doctor, parson." 
 
 " Tell the elder lady, Mr. Jones," Mr. Ardenne 
 said as he went away, " I shall come as early as I 
 can this morning, and you must keep the house 
 very quiet. Any noise is dangerous to the sick 
 person." 
 
 " I will do that thing, parson. Not a cock shall 
 crow if I can help it."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 MISS MARY KENDRTCK. 
 
 WHEN Helen De Vere woke from her long 
 sleep it was late morning. She looked round 
 Farmer Jones's quaint, rambling best room with 
 its litter of would-be finery, and said to the pa- 
 tient watcher beside her, 
 
 " Where am I, Auntie ? " 
 
 " Safe in Aubrey Parish, my dear." 
 
 " Has there been an accident ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; and you were brought into this 
 house close by, where you now are quite yourself 
 again." 
 
 Helen seemed to fall into thought a little and 
 then said, " Auntie, I had such a beautiful dream. 
 I thought Mr. Ardenne was here, and kissed me 
 I feel it now, and told me about Chester and 
 our old life there, and bade me go to sleep. Is it 
 not curious, Auntie ? " 
 
 " Mr. Ardenne has been here, my child." 
 
 " What ! in this very room ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And has seen me ? " 
 
 "Yes."
 
 Miss Mary Kendrick. 437 
 
 " And I didn't know it, but thought I dreamed. 
 Where is he, Auntie ? " 
 
 " Gone home. He will come back by and by, 
 and will, no doubt, see you if you are strong 
 enough to endure the excitement. The doctor 
 says we must keep you very quiet." 
 
 " Oh, Auntie ! I am quite myself again. Did he 
 say ' this morning ? ' ' 
 
 " Yes, my child." 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Ardenne was at his work. No 
 king after the victory of a new crown ever went 
 back to his tents with a more bounding energy of 
 triumph than he strode through the March mud 
 of the lane which led from Blackberry Hollow 
 to the rectory. He had seen her. And he had 
 work on his hands too. He, who had spent his 
 life caring for others, would now take good heed 
 to his own. The old military blood in him rose 
 to decide. They could not come to the rectory 
 for reasons. "Where then ? The one house in the 
 parish where he would ask admission was Miss 
 Mary Kendrick's. So that lady was much sur- 
 prised, at a rather early morning hour, by the 
 vigorous clamor of the bright, brass knocker on 
 her front door. Then, with a muttered ejacula- 
 tion against people so unreasonable as to go round 
 disturbing their peaceful neighbors at such a 
 heathenish time of day, she came down in a wrap- 
 per, and opened the door to let in Mr. Ardenne.
 
 438 Miss Mary Kendrick. 
 
 " Why, parson ! is my house afire, or your cook 
 dead, that you are up so early? " 
 
 " Nothing of the sort. But let me come in, and 
 I will tell you." 
 
 " You may come in if you like, but there's not 
 a fire lighted in my house ; you'll get a cold wel- 
 come. You may as well come into the parlor." 
 
 " Now, then, Miss Mary," he said when she had 
 located him in that best of her rooms, standing 
 up in his overcoat for the cold, " I have often 
 asked you favors for others, and now I want a 
 favor for myself." 
 "What is it, parson?" 
 
 "This. Strange things have happened in this 
 parish since the sun went down. A lady to 
 whom I was long ago engaged to be married 
 an English lady with her aunt was on her way 
 to me, was thrown from the stage-coach, which 
 broke down in Blackberry Hollow, and hurt, I 
 don't know how much. They are now at Farmer 
 Jones's across the river, not exactly the place for 
 them to stay. I want you to take them in as 
 soon as they are able to move. Will you ? " 
 
 Now, Miss Mary was not one of those desic- 
 cated maidens of Aubrey Parish who had fondly 
 cherished the delusion that some day it would 
 be their mission to be mistress in St. Clement's 
 rectory, and so there were no personal regrets in 
 the astonishment which her rector's words created
 
 Miss Mary Kendrick, 439 
 
 in her honest soul. Yet she meditated. It was 
 about the condition of her house, and not his per- 
 turbation of mind, however. There had been no 
 spring cleaning ; and strangers, and women at 
 that ! What a challenge to any housekeeper, like 
 her, it was ! Miss Mary had a habit, when things 
 were badly mixed, to begin at the hind end of 
 affairs, and to veil her final " Yes " with several 
 undoubted difficulties. 
 
 First of all she aired her astonishment. 
 
 "Well, I never would have thought it! I 
 always supposed that you were a bachelor for life, 
 and had taken some silly vow not to marry, and 
 so make one more old maid to keep cats. My 
 house is all to wrongs at present, not a panel 
 scoured this spring. I had rather have ten men, 
 than one woman, living in my house. A woman 
 is always mousing round to find cobwebs and 
 discover a patch in the table-cloth, and all that. 
 Men have something else to do. Besides, how can 
 these English folk get along with me ? How do 
 I know what they'll want to eat and drink, or 
 whether they dine at midnight ? And this house 
 is too old, to say nothing of its mistress, to learn 
 new manners. But" and here she took a long 
 pause before coming to her conclusion "but 
 they can come, all the same, as soon as they like, 
 and I'll do the best I can. Only they must put 
 up with what they get. They'd better have the
 
 440 Miss Mary Kendrick. 
 
 two front rooms, I reckon ; and there's plenty of 
 beds up-stairs." Miss Mary had not only said 
 " Yes," but was already beginning to carry it into 
 effect. 
 
 "I knew your kind heart," Mr. Ardenne said, 
 to her half-soliloquy. " I am going over to the 
 Hollow as soon as possible, and may bring them 
 here before dinner, if the young lady be strong 
 enough to move." 
 
 "But now, parson, we are through business, I'd 
 just like to know one thing, not whether the 
 lady's young and beautiful and charming ; no man 
 in your case is able to talk straight about all that ; 
 but I'd just like to know her name, so that she'll 
 not be quite a ghost to me when she comes 
 over." 
 
 " Helen De Vere." 
 
 " Well, now, that's a sweet name, and sounds as 
 though it came out of a castle. I am sure I shall 
 fall in love with her at sight." 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Mary. She is a lady." 
 
 Then the rector left the house to care for his 
 own, further. Somewhat later he went over in a 
 hackney coach to the Hollow. On his way he 
 met the doctor coming back. The latter stopped 
 his gig, and, rubbing his huge fur mittens together 
 in a sort of medical self-gratulation, said, ".Your 
 patient is quite herself again. The quickest out 
 of a bad business I have ever seen in all my prac-
 
 Miss Mary Kendriek. 441 
 
 tice. She was very hungry, and called for break- 
 fast, I hear. Never saw a case like it." 
 
 " When can she be moved without danger ? " 
 
 " Oh, any time ! to-day if you like. Good- 
 morning." So the rector rode on with a glad 
 heart to Farmer Jones's. Miss Hannah came out 
 into the hall with a new vivacity, less bent 
 than the night before. She told the same story. 
 Wonderful Helen was up and dressed, quite in 
 health again. "She is expecting you." 
 
 Then they two passed into Farmer Jones's par- 
 lor. The young woman who now rose from her 
 chair to meet him was stately, patient, gentle; 
 and the eyes were steady, looking in his face. 
 And then? There are moments of ecstasy in 
 this life of ours which no mortal poet can sing in 
 words, or limner paint in colors. That power, per- 
 haps, is reserved for another world where progress 
 in high art has no limit. 
 
 There were many things said in a very quiet 
 way between the three. Miss Hannah herself 
 was given to details, and was of an inquiring 
 mind. Amongst other things she asked, "Do 
 they fry everything in this country? The steak 
 was fried this morning." 
 
 The rector laughed. "Nearly everything, among 
 the country folk," he said. "I am sorry if you 
 made a poor first breakfast in my parish. There 
 are three things which an old traveller can call
 
 442 Miss Mary Kendrick. 
 
 for in this, or almost any country, which are sure 
 to be clean, boiled eggs, potatoes baked in their 
 jackets, and milk perhaps. But come, now; I 
 have a carriage at the door, and have found a 
 home for you near me. I will tell you the rest as 
 we are going." 
 
 "How very kind; and so soon! How happy we 
 are, Auntie ! " 
 
 So their travelling-packs were soon collected, 
 and they went. Miss Hannah had a quiet alter- 
 cation with Farmer Jones in the hall-way over a 
 couple of broad pieces of gold which she offered 
 and he vigorously declined. Her woman's will 
 won, however; and while he was inspecting the 
 curious legend stamped upon the British coin his 
 guests drove away. 
 
 They had rather a warm reception at Miss 
 Mary's when they got there. First of all, that 
 housewife had opened all the blinds of her two 
 front rooms, to let in as much of the sunshine 
 straggling round the parish as chose to enter. 
 Next, it looked as though she had built a blazing 
 wood fire in every fireplace of the house, to make 
 things cheerful ; and when she stood on her 
 front doorstep to receive her guests, her very wig 
 seemed to shed down a welcome. " The parson's 
 friends are mine," she said, as she shook hands 
 with a vigor which surprised the muscles of poor 
 Miss Hannah's right arm. " Glad to see you, as if
 
 Miss Mary Kendrick. 443 
 
 I had been expecting you both a six-mouth." So 
 the warm-hearted hostess went bustling round, and 
 her guests were soon ensconced in their comfort- 
 able quarters. Helen she seemed to take for her 
 god-daughter ; and as for Miss Hannah De Vere, 
 when she heard of her last night's vigils, she 
 insisted that she should take a big dose of sleep 
 forthwith. In fact, that lady just escaped being 
 put to bed perforce. Then she proceeded to ask 
 after their trunks. They were on their way, and 
 ought to reach there this very afternoon. Mr. 
 Ardenne was going to look after them. Then 
 she excused herself, to look after dinner ; and the 
 rector said to her at the door as he went away, 
 " Of course, this coming of our friends will make 
 a deal of talk in the parish. Just say, please, 
 if people ask you, exactly what I told you this 
 morning about them." 
 
 "Yes, parson, some folks in this parish would 
 split if they couldn't talk ; and I sometimes wish 
 they couldn't. But I'm sure every one, almost, 
 will rejoice with you, Lent or no Lent. I'd like 
 to see anybody come round here finding fault ! 
 They'd go off with a flea in their ear, I can tell 
 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Ardenne was a busy man all that day, but 
 the new joy welling forth in his heart like a strong 
 tide overswept and full filled everything. Aubrey 
 Parish had become a palace, and he was a king
 
 444 Miss Mary Kendrick. 
 
 in his happiness. It had been before a palace 
 where he had served his King, and now the King 
 had blessed him with a full store. 
 
 It seemed but moments when St. Clement's 
 bells rang for evening prayer. But there were 
 other ears to-night, in the parish, to hear their 
 invitation. 
 
 "What are those bells, Miss Kendrick?" Helen 
 asked. 
 
 " That is evening prayer, my dear. " 
 " I think I am strong enough to go, Auntie." 
 " Yes, my dear ; " and in due time three ladies 
 out of Miss Mary's house were walking across the 
 Common to St. Clement's. The congregation was 
 sparse to-night, so busy are even Church folk with 
 this world, while they neglect the next, and the 
 pews looked bare and cold as they came in. In 
 other lands two had worshipped where age had 
 sanctified and opened wide its stored hand to 
 beautify, and here everything was so new and 
 plain. But his voice was reading the old prayers, 
 after all that had been, here at his post, and they 
 were home at last. It was to them the one ser- 
 vice over all the globe ; and the Faith, older than 
 they, had travelled before them to the West. 
 
 They waited after service for the rector, who 
 walked back with them to Miss Mary's, where he 
 was to take his tea. And after, in Miss Mary's 
 parlor, before the cheerful fire, they talked of the
 
 Miss Mary Kendrick. 445 
 
 old Chester days, when they, all three, were 
 younger. " Some time I will tell you of our life 
 on the Continent," Helen said. "I am not quite 
 fit to-night ; " and a half-shudder showed itself, as 
 though there was just a trifle of pain in her heart 
 somewhere. 
 
 Miss Hannah had evidently been making good 
 use of her eyes since she came into her new home. 
 While Miss Mary was out a while, on her mission 
 of next day's breakfast, Miss Hannah said : " Your 
 parishioner, Mr. Ardenne, strikes me as a great 
 novelty. I have never seen one like her in Eng- 
 land. She takes care of her own house, which is 
 as clean as if there was no such thing as dust, and 
 yet she has a pile of magazines and new books 
 on her table here. She is free of speech and self- 
 respecting, and yet shows a wonderful faculty for 
 work the energy of half a dozen women about 
 her house; and she has some fine old silver, 
 and such a store of linen. She strikes me a 
 little like our own English country people, only 
 with a French vivacity to her, somehow. Pray 
 tell me what she is, exactly, in this American life 
 of yours." 
 
 " Oh ! " he said, laughing, " she is an American 
 citizen ; and here every one is a king or queen, 
 as the case may be. This parish was settled by 
 Oliver Cromwell's people good, sturdy, wilful 
 English country folk, and London tradesmen in
 
 446 Miss Mary Kendrick. 
 
 a small way. Climate and education have given 
 them, as you say, a French tinge to their manners. 
 But at bottom they are Old England as some of 
 the furniture in this very room shows." 
 
 The rector went home in the early evening, for 
 Miss Mary allowed no late hours in her house. 
 She showed him to the door. 
 
 " Have the trunks come, Miss Mary ? " 
 
 " Trunks ! A cart-load of them. It's lucky I 
 had a garret. I should think they had brought 
 all their furniture in them." 
 
 Then she, too, had a word of criticism : " If 
 every English girl is such a blessed one as this 
 here, I'm sorry I'm not a man to go and marry 
 one at sight. The aunt is a little stiff."
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 AN INVASION OF THE RECTOEY. 
 
 MEANWHILE rumors about the new arrivals in 
 Aubrey Parish multiplied themselves in an ever- 
 increasing ratio. They ran all the way from two 
 Indian princesses to two women come to town to 
 sell goods by sample. This last report came from 
 the simple remark of the man who hauled the 
 trunks that there was enough in them by weight 
 to set up a variety store. As this was a com- 
 munity given to trade, the latter rumor gained 
 some credence ; but Miss Mary, with divers 
 emphatic shakes of her wig, soon set matters 
 right, and it came to be known that the rector 
 had had a windfall in the shape of two very old 
 and dear friends out of England. 
 
 Nor should it pass without apology to the reader 
 that in the last chapter Lucy Farewell was quite 
 left out of the rejoicing. The fact is, that young 
 lady's modesty was quite hid behind Miss Mary's 
 bustle, and she ventured only the first day to mind 
 her own affairs in a strict retirement. But very 
 soon in fact, sooner than this late apology she 
 had come to be on right good terms with the two
 
 448 An Invasion of the Rectory. 
 
 English women, especially with Helen. Indeed, 
 they two were after the same pattern of Church- 
 women, yet with a difference. Both were of that 
 passive nature whose strength is in holding fast its 
 inner mind loyal to duty, and an abstinence from 
 any stormy forth-putting of its will towards any, 
 an atmosphere in calm. Yet Helen had the 
 stronger will because she had known the bitterer 
 struggle. Both were young, but Helen was the 
 elder, not so much in years as in those wider 
 experiences which had come to her in them, and in 
 a civilization which was also older in its coloring. 
 And both were daughters of that Church whose 
 cultus of faith had colored their lives into a 
 sweet simplicity and loyalty that had in it a sin- 
 gular strength to control. They two had become 
 fast friends under Helen's headship. 
 
 It was already arranged that the wedding should 
 be celebrated after Easter, and affairs went on 
 accordingly. There were surprisingly few love 
 passages between the rector and his betrothed in 
 the days preceding, at least few which would 
 give stronger color to our story. Both Mr. Ardenne 
 and Helen, in their years of separation, had trav- 
 elled far into another world where there is no 
 passion (not even of love) that pains; and they 
 came back to each other bearing a great peace 
 which this world can neither give nor take away. 
 The river of their lives had been divided into two,
 
 An Invasion of the Rectory. 449 
 
 but now flowed on as one in a great, silent, blessed 
 peace. Helen herself stated the case, perhaps 
 better than any, in answer to Miss Mary's con- 
 fidential remark one day to her that she had never 
 met in all her life so sensible a pair of lovers. 
 
 " We are not exactly lovers, Miss Kendrick." 
 
 " What, then, in the world are you ? " was that 
 ancient maid's retort. 
 
 "We are yes we are two people who have 
 so long loved each other that love has become a 
 life, an estate, an old estate, so old that it has 
 ceased to be a passion ; it is an existence. I look 
 at Mr. Ardenne through ten years of absence and 
 what they brought us ; and so I suppose he looks 
 at me. We love one another, but we are not 
 exactly lovers, Miss Mary." 
 
 " All the same, you are two very sensible people 
 anyhow, and I wish you much joy to boot." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 Helen rather surprised the rector at his next 
 visit with a request. " I wish you would take me 
 with you, making parish calls." 
 
 " Do you really wish it ? " 
 
 " Certainly I do. I am to live among this 
 people, and I wish to learn their ways as soon as 
 possible. Let me be Ruth, and say, ' Thy people 
 are my people, and where thou dwellest I will 
 dwell.' " 
 
 So next day the two went out making parish
 
 450 An Invasion of the Rectory. 
 
 calls on the poor. How proud of her he was, and 
 how happy she showed as they went their round. 
 The novel country and the houses surprised her 
 most. " How new is everything ! " she said ; " and 
 these white houses, they look like tents, as if the 
 frost might drive through them. Our English 
 houses are stronger built." 
 
 " Yet they are very comfortable, Helen ; and the 
 people in them are very self-respectful, nothing 
 cringing, a little egotistic perhaps. I give you 
 advice, although perhaps you don't need it. 
 Never patronize them. The poorest men or 
 women born here always put their best foot for- 
 ward (as the phrase is), feel themselves quite our 
 equals, and would be hurt if we treated them 
 otherwise. The emigrants from Europe are dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 " You have forgot, or perhaps I never told you, 
 that on the Continent I often went round with 
 our clergy among the poor, and certainly there 
 they are very different. I often used to think of 
 you at such times, and wonder if you might not 
 be doing the same thing somewhere in the great 
 world. But how much happier it is going round 
 with you, dear ! We love God and all His more 
 when we love one another, and I feel I can be 
 happy here all my life." 
 
 The rector looked round upon the happy face 
 beside him, and said nothing.
 
 An Invasion of the Rectory. 451 
 
 So they walked and chatted and visited together 
 all that afternoon. When they came back to Miss 
 Mary's, two were happy, and one was very tired. 
 
 As long as priests will marry, and women are 
 found to wed with them, somebody must attend, 
 some time, to very mundane and worldly matters. 
 So it was concluded in secret conclave by the 
 ladies at Miss Kendrick's that they must make a 
 right thorough visitation and inspection of the 
 rectory before the wedding. And Miss Mary 
 announced the decision. 
 
 " We are coming over to the rectory to-morrow 
 to begin to put things to rights before Easter. 
 No man ever could take care of a house by him- 
 self ; and that's one reason why the Lord sent Eve 
 to Adam, though Adam did treat her very badly 
 about the apple. We don't want you to interfere, 
 or take any trouble, but only let us go round and 
 see how things really are." 
 
 So next morning three ladies, Miss Kendrick 
 ahead, stood on the rectory steps to find admission. 
 
 "Where will you begin your visitation," said 
 the smiling rector, " up stairs or down ? " 
 
 Miss Mary was spokesman. " Oh ! we'll go to 
 the kitchen first ; there's where the happiness of 
 a house begins, or its misery, if there's bad bread 
 mornings." 
 
 So they went down-stairs to find Sally, the half- 
 breed cook and maid of all work, mixed Indian and
 
 452 An Invasion of the Rectory. 
 
 African, standing up in the middle of her fresh- 
 washed floor in the very neatest of kitchens, and 
 trying to do the honors with a series of rather 
 awkward curtsies, her eyes wide open to inspect 
 her guests. She, too, had heard that a new mis- 
 tress was coming to that house, and in her way 
 was bound to look her over, and make her own 
 conclusions. So while she kept her mouth shut, 
 the whites of her eyes grew crescent as she 
 watched Helen. Miss Mary, as usual, was speer- 
 ing round after litter and cobwebs ; but she was 
 obliged to say at last, " Well, Sally, you take good 
 care of your master here, and everything's as neat 
 as a pin " (her favorite simile for tidiness). 
 
 Another curtsey from the half-breed, still eyeing 
 Helen. 
 
 " Will de Missus jes' look at dis ere oven? dis 
 oven jes' gone and done sp'ilt the bread, and I's 
 a'most mad at the way it b'haves dis bery rnorn- 
 in'. Will Missus pies look at dis here bread." 
 And she pulled out from under a very white 
 cloth a big loaf of bread, a trifle burnt, and 
 held it out towards Helen. It has been often 
 noted that dogs and children know who is master 
 in a house ; and Sally, in her own way, in this 
 appeal was offering her allegiance to her coming 
 mistress. 
 
 So Helen looked at the bread, and tasted a bit 
 of it. " Very good bread, Sally, light and white ;
 
 An Invasion of the Rectory. 453 
 
 and as to the oven, we'll have that looked after 
 very soon." 
 
 Sally made another African curtsey, and sub- 
 sided. But that very night she broke out in con- 
 fidence to one of her gossips, as they two were 
 toasting themselves at the kitchen fire. 
 
 "I tell you what, honey, dat ole maid 'cross de 
 Common, she come in here dis mornin' smellin' 
 round in my kitchen, and I's rite glad when's 
 she's done gone. But de missus, honey, I's bery 
 glad she's comin'; she says, ' Good bread, Sally,' 
 when I shows her dat burnt lofe the oven sp'iled, 
 jes' like a lady, bless her soul ! She's handsomer 
 dan a pink, honey." 
 
 The ladies were shown over the whole house. 
 It looked, to Helen, accustomed to quite another 
 style of living, more than a trifle bare and cold ; 
 and who could count over the innumerable good 
 intentions which passed through her mind, to 
 reform and warm the same into a better estate 
 of cheerfulness ? Before Mr. Ardenne opened his 
 study door to them he said, smiling, " You may 
 do exactly what you please, ladies, with the rest 
 of this house, but I except my library. Every 
 man of spirit should have at least one spot in his 
 own house which he can call his own, and this 
 library is mine. It may be a very inviting field 
 for your labors, but I insist that nobody shall 
 meddle with my books and papers. I say this
 
 454 An Invasion of the Rectory. 
 
 because a brother parson of mine down the river 
 has a wife who is always putting things to rights, 
 as she calls it; and so he tells me, with a most 
 rebellious temper, that when he goes for a paper it 
 takes him always half an hour to find it in the 
 one huge pile that his helpmate has made of all 
 his stray writings, calling that order. I must 
 insist on this." 
 
 "Is it a den you have got in there," asked 
 Miss Kendrick quite irreverently, "that you are 
 so afraid of us ladies ? " 
 
 " You can see for yourselves," and they went 
 in. It was a room piled with books, and the 
 papers on the study table were a litter; and Miss 
 Mary's fingers, as she looked round, actually 
 began to move themselves to clear up that literary 
 de'bris around her. She contented herself with 
 the inner thought that no sensible woman like 
 Helen would ever allow that mantelpiece before 
 her to run to such wildness as it showed at 
 present ; and while she and Miss Hannah seated 
 themselves by the cheerful fire to meditate upon 
 the magnitude of the work before them, the 
 rector showed Helen round his library. 
 
 " Here I have lived, my dear, these years ; and 
 these four walls and I know one another verv 
 well. These books, too, are old friends, most of 
 them, and true ones, stately, reverend souls, all 
 a-row on their shelves, who never chide, frown at
 
 An Invasion of the Rectory. 455 
 
 me, or hurt. A man with his books is never 
 quite alone ; and yet I could read more out of 
 them to-day, Helen, than ever before. Don't you 
 know, it is the sunshine that brings out the colors 
 in a church window, not the night shade ? " 
 
 "I will try hard to be your sunshine," she 
 answered. 
 
 The minister was now obliged to attend a 
 sick call, while the ladies stayed behind in consul- 
 tation. What plans suggested, and changes of 
 them ; even what measurements, and proposed 
 contrasted colors for this and that; what solemn 
 hesitations and perplexities over questions of 
 household thrift and taste, these all may be left 
 to the memory of those who have known a group 
 of ladies arranging a bride's house before the 
 wedding. Miss Mary, on the spot, would have 
 made a dead-set at the mantel before her ; but 
 Helen interfered as the coming mistress, and 
 quieted her rancor against disorder, and her will 
 was acquiesced in. " You will have to do it your- 
 self, then. No woman can live long in this house 
 with a mantel like that." 
 
 The evening of the same day, Mr. Ardenne 
 found himself, as usual, at Miss Mary's; and after 
 tea Helen said, "This morning you showed me 
 some of your treasures in your library. Now let 
 me show you a few of mine. The fact is, I wish 
 to ask your advice about something." So, while
 
 456 An Invasion of the Rectory. 
 
 Miss Hannah nodded in her chair, she brought 
 out divers boxes and packages, which they two 
 examined together, she interpreting. 
 
 "These in this box are my mother's jewels, 
 which I always carried with me, because I fancied 
 I could recall her as she must have looked in 
 them, a few diamonds, you see, and cameos, and 
 rings, rubies and emeralds; a trifle out of style, 
 and yet very precious to me as hers. And here 
 are some trifles of my own purchase as I travelled 
 round, Florentine mosaics, and my little vanities 
 of ornament. I bought them, thinking, perhaps, 
 that one day you might like them. You know a 
 woman always dresses for the one man she loves. 
 Now, do you think all this vanity?" 
 
 " Not at all, my dear. I have always held that 
 a woman should make herself as beautiful as she 
 can, just as the flowers do. Beauty is the smile 
 of God everywhere, not a thing to be proud of 
 (the flowers have no pride), but a thing to be 
 grateful for, and used to make our life purer and 
 better." 
 
 "Then, since I do not weary you, let me show 
 you my laces ; though gentlemen, perhaps, are not 
 versed in laces. I am sorry to say that here is 
 a pile of them. They are my passion, at least in 
 dress. They are always so cool, and, pardon me, 
 so passionless and pure laces are. Maybe you 
 don't understand that, but a woman does. Look ! "
 
 An Invasion of the Rectory. 457 
 
 and she brought out a medley of rare old laoes, 
 and spread them on the table. "Ah ! but you are 
 not looking. I weary you with my chatter." 
 
 " I dare say they are very fine ; they look so ; 
 but how should I know anything about laces?" 
 
 "I will teach you, then. Look at this Chantilly 
 lace; see how fine the thread is, and each one of 
 these little loops knotted or tied by human fingers ; 
 see what a deal of work goes into it. And now I 
 spread it over this white paper, you see how ex- 
 quisite the design is." 
 
 "A woman might wear a human life, and a 
 weary one at that, man's or woman's, over 
 her shoulders at an evening party, then, and not 
 find it very heavy, Helen?" 
 
 "Perhaps so yes if you choose to see it so. 
 Only these people get bread from the very work I 
 pay for, and my lace may be a token that some- 
 body has been fed." 
 
 " Exactly, Helen ; your social economy is very 
 good for a woman. But, as you may suppose, my 
 profession does not exactly favor luxury of any 
 sort ; that is, except it can be shown that it makes 
 this world better somehow." 
 
 The deft lady had been approaching her point 
 with circumspection. So she put away the laces 
 and jewel boxes, and then came to it. "I wish 
 very much to ask you a question. You know 
 how I have been used to live abroad. Tell me
 
 458 An Invasion of the Rectory. 
 
 exactly how you want me to live in this parish, 
 as your wife, I mean, in what style ? wear laces 
 and jewels, or not? I very much fear to offend 
 your parish by any style that might show any 
 strong contrast; and yet you know, my dear, 
 and I am glad to tell you if you don't, I have a 
 fortune in my own right." 
 
 A shadow passed over the face of the man 
 before her, and the brows contracted. He did 
 know that fact; for had not Sir Chauncey told 
 him of it years ago in Chester Close, and seasoned 
 his information with a most bitter taunt ? 
 
 Helen saw the face, and interpreted it as only 
 a woman can. She laid her hand gently on his 
 arm, arid said, " Now, isn't that just a little pride 
 sheer pride, sir, in you, that is giving pain ? Tell 
 me now, sir, like the reasonable man you are, will 
 you take a woman who gives herself to you in 
 marriage, but not her money?" 
 
 Helen, whenever she became involved with him 
 in old-time matters, always went back to the 
 respectful term "sir," as had been her wont in 
 childhood. 
 
 "There is an old hurt in all this money matter," 
 he said, "which you need not know, at least at 
 present. You had better refer all that to your 
 lawyers." 
 
 "But I am my own lawyer, sir, at present, and 
 quite a business woman, a trunkful of law-
 
 An Invasion of the Rectory. 459 
 
 papers are in Miss Mary's garret, and I mean, in 
 dealing with you, to refer all law questions to my 
 own sweet will. I have trusted you a little, and I 
 mean to do so somewhat more. But you haven't 
 answered my question. How do you wish me to 
 live, as your wife, in this parish ? " 
 
 "Very much as I live now simply like a par- 
 son's wife. It is against the very soul of our reli- 
 gion for a priest to eat great dinners while the poor 
 starve, or that he or his should wear purple and fine 
 linen while they feel the frost through their rags, or 
 that he should live in a palace when his Master 
 wandered homeless to His cross. So, my dear, we 
 ought to live very plainly." 
 
 Mr. Ardenne was a trifle ascetic, maybe, but 
 Helen's heart gave a wise answer. " You shall 
 have it exactly as you please, but yet you will 
 let me wear my laces and I thought the 
 bric-d-brac in the trunks up-stairs might make 
 the rectory a little more homelike." 
 
 " By all means send them over, and arrange to 
 please yourself. Miss Mary seems determined to 
 sweep out my rectory with a new broom, even if 
 it should sweep away the rector also." 
 
 Helen laughed outright at the suggested potency 
 of Miss Mary's besom, and confessed that her 
 hostess was the most energetic person she had 
 ever met. 
 
 "She has what the Americans call 'faculty,' 
 and in this parish it has been very useful."
 
 460 An Invasion of the Rectory. 
 
 The next Sunday there was quite a mob in the 
 church porch to catch a glimpse of Helen as she 
 came out. Most had a tender sympathy for their 
 pastor's affianced wife, tinged, of course, with 
 curiosity. Only a few ancient maidens who 
 mistook their mission rectoryward pronounced 
 her a trifle too stout. But when she went down 
 with Lucy Farewell to the Sunday school below, 
 and quietly took her place to teach a class of big 
 boys, and told them about Florence at Easter-tide, 
 as she had seen it, the good-will towards her did 
 not decrease, especially among the boys.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 EASTER had come and gone, and Helen's life 
 had long since ascended from " the Benedictus " 
 of the Hebrew priest to the more gracious "Te 
 Deum " of the whole Church. Certain of its 
 sentences were ringing through all her waking 
 hours : 
 
 " We praise Thee, O God ; we acknowledge 
 Thee to be the Lord. 
 
 All the earth doth worship Thee, the Father 
 Everlasting. 
 
 To Thee all angels cry aloud, the Heavens, and 
 all the Powers therein. 
 
 To Thee Cherubim and Seraphim continually 
 do cry. 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Sabaoth ! 
 
 .Heaven and earth are full of the majesty of 
 Thy glory. 
 
 The glorious company of the Apostles praise 
 Thee; 
 
 The goodly fellowship of the Prophets praise 
 Thee; 
 
 The noble army of the Martyrs praise Thee ;
 
 462 The Marriage. 
 
 The Holy Church throughout all the world 
 doth acknowledge Thee. 
 
 O Lord, save Thy people, and bless Thine 
 heritage. 
 
 Govern them and lift them up forever. 
 
 O Lord, have mercy upon us, have mercy upon 
 us. 
 
 O Lord, let Thy mercy be upon us, as our trust 
 is in Thee. 
 
 O Lord, in Thee have I trusted ; let me never 
 be confounded." 
 
 Nature was waking to a new life in the Easter 
 holidays. The brown tassels of the elms and the 
 red ones of the maples were already out, and the 
 trailing arbutus was hiding its pure, bridal flower- 
 ets, blushing with the sun's kiss, under the sere 
 leaves, the day that Frederick Ardenne and Helen 
 De Vere were wed. 
 
 The aged bishop had come down from his city 
 to marry them ; and there was to be an Early Com- 
 munion, since the modern mind is too boisterous 
 to go on its knees in the secular bustle of a wed- 
 ding service and commemorate Him whose gentle 
 law has given a new sacredness and strength to 
 the marriage bond. So in the early twilight that 
 Sacrament of the Divine Tenderness proceeded in 
 all its ghostly majesty to the " In Excelsis " and 
 the Benediction of Peace. There were just two 
 candles lighted on the altar, for the simple reason
 
 The Marriage. 463 
 
 that just then lights could be set in use nowhere 
 else ; and, strange to say, these altar tapers pro- 
 voked no after-criticisms among folk who forbid 
 that even candles should symbolize a sacred Some- 
 thing on that altar where they hold is nothing ! 
 
 The wedding itself was very simple and brief, 
 as the Prayer Book makes it. St. Clement's 
 church was filled with an eager and not over- 
 quiet multitude, in which young maidens, with 
 blushes and fans, predominated. There was the 
 usual rush of attention towards the door as the 
 rector and his bride came in alone, and knelt at 
 the rail, and the inevitable flutter of young hearts 
 during the service and after. A brother clergy- 
 man gave the bride away; and when the organ 
 sounded out its gleesome salutation, and the man 
 and wife had left the church, there was the usual 
 crush of best dresses and the medley of a depart- 
 ing crowd. 
 
 At a funeral we see the end ; at a wedding only 
 the beginning. Yet at a wedding we make merry 
 always. But which solemnity is the greater ! 
 
 When the happy couple had gone away on 
 their wedding tour, there was another invasion 
 of the rectory by Miss Mary and her coadjutor, 
 Miss Hannah De Vere. This time the boxes in 
 Miss Mary's garret were emptied into the new 
 home in such profusion as to quite fill the house, 
 which was rummaged and made clean from top to
 
 464 The Marriage. 
 
 bottom ; and everybody was happy but Sally, the 
 cook. 
 
 " Dat ole maid," she said, " has gon' and done 
 used so much water dat I's a' most ded with dis 
 drefful cold ; and Massa will have to eat cold cakes 
 a-mornin's, if ole Sally kicks de bucket, jes' bekas 
 dat woman scrubs a hole tro dis kitchen floor." 
 
 It was thought by some that Miss Mary had 
 prayed for a rain to wash the very roof. At any 
 rate, there had been a heavy one ; and when the 
 groom and his bride came home, the house, inside 
 and out, seemed radiant with its recent bath. The 
 lighted lamps all over the house aided the delusion, 
 if such it was. 
 
 Of course Helen met the misfortunes of all 
 recent brides. She forgot to answer to her new 
 name when Mrs. Ardenne was called for, and 
 was provoked to blushes when she wrote her old 
 name in a formal document, with her husband and 
 the town clerk looking on. But upon the whole 
 she sped bravely, as she deserved. 
 
 Nor did the new life, on which she now 
 entered, ever run dry of romance. In true wed- 
 lock sentiment becomes more chaste and deli- 
 cate. The poetry after marriage, among the poets 
 at least who marry, is more gentle and sweet 
 than before, whoever may say the contrary. One 
 morning after his marriage, Mr. Ardenne found a 
 package on his desk with a letter on top. The 
 letter was this ;
 
 The Marriage. 465 
 
 " You will find, dear husband, with this letter, 
 documents which concern the estate of Sir Chaun- 
 cey De Vere. I have never told you that he left 
 his estate to me, but under such circumstances 
 that I have never intended to use it as mine. 
 The schedule of the property is with the other 
 papers, and you will see that it is a rather large 
 one. I wish to consult you, if you are willing, 
 how best to use it in any good work which you 
 may advise. Helen." 
 
 So Mr. Ardenne had an interview with his wife 
 in the library. " I need not tell you, my dear," 
 the latter said, " all the circumstances of Sir 
 Chauncey's will, nor how I happened to inherit 
 under it, for that would only pain you ; but after 
 the way he came between us I should neither be 
 loyal to myself nor you if I used his money 
 personally. To me it would be always blood 
 money. The only way of cleansing it I can 
 think of is to use it in some charity. Will you 
 suggest one ? " 
 
 The rector meditated. At last he said, "No, 
 Helen, neither of us should touch his money, that 
 is plain. What you suggest is wise. Now, if you 
 will come with me to the window, I will tell you 
 more." So they two journeyed to the window. 
 " You see that broad hill opposite, across the 
 river. The other side from us it slopes down under 
 orchards into a sunny valley with a brook running
 
 466 The Marriage. 
 
 through it. It is rather a large estate, and is now 
 in the market. For years I have coveted that 
 estate, not for myself, but for 'others. In this par- 
 ish I am often perplexed to know what to do with 
 little children who, by orphanage or the vices of 
 their parents, are thrown on my hands or the cold 
 charity of the world. The children of the poor 
 have often fine faces, which, as they age, harden 
 into something else, as if their lot degraded their 
 very faces. It is bad enough for grown folk to 
 suffer as they sometimes do ; but I always think 
 every child should have its one childhood happy 
 and free from the cark and evil which come to so 
 many, their one hour of flowers and fun and 
 carelessness. It has been a dream of mine for 
 years to make a home for children, such as I am 
 speaking of, and I have amused myself fancying 
 how I would turn that hill property yonder into 
 such an asylum. I would make it a home with 
 plenty of flowers and outing for the little ones, 
 where they might frolic under the apple blossoms, 
 or fish in the brook, and be happy. I say all this 
 frankly, yet I can't say just at present whether it 
 is best for you to help me fulfil my dream. What 
 do you think ? " 
 
 Helen, with her arm through his and her head 
 beside his shoulder, looked at the broad hill before 
 them some time in silence, and then quietly said, 
 " I should think it would be a very wise thing to 
 do."
 
 The Marriage. 467 
 
 Sir Chauncey's money was to be cleansed, then, 
 somehow, in a bath of charity. 
 
 Nor was the new wife without the old wit of 
 wise women in ruling her own domain. 
 
 " You do not pay me a visit in my library very 
 often now-a-days, Helen," the rector said, as the 
 former was making him a morning visit. 
 
 "No, my dear, I am so afraid of disturbing 
 your papers scattered round your room, with the 
 long dresses we ladies wear. I quite enjoy seeing 
 the very free way you have of ruling your own 
 library without my interference, quite a curios- 
 ity shop, my dear, and I like to come here ; only I 
 wouldn't disturb your treasures for the world." 
 
 The rector looked up with a smile at the bland 
 lady. 
 
 "Do you really think you can improve this 
 room ? " 
 
 "Not much, my dear; but if you would only 
 allow me to clear a lane, say from my chair, which 
 you set for me, round to your side, and then just 
 a short path to the window where I can look at 
 the hill you bought yesterday for the children's 
 home, I think I could get on famously." 
 
 " Well, you can do exactly as you please with 
 your road-making, in my room, you know." 
 
 So the deft lady made her path round the 
 library, as she said, and somehow its chronic 
 litter had vanished when she had finished.
 
 468 The Marriage. 
 
 There was one thing more. " You are so very 
 kind, my dear, this morning, I had almost forgot 
 to tell you what I came in to say, that you are 
 quite welcome to have in your lordship's library 
 that statuette of Victory you admired so much 
 when I unpacked it yesterday. Where shall I put 
 it?" 
 
 "Put it on the mantel, I should say. Yes, I 
 would like the statue to look at very much." 
 
 " But, my dear., that mantel is in such a state ! 
 It would be quite hidden among the piles of 
 pamphlets on it at present." 
 
 "Helen, did it ever occur to you that you like, 
 as so many women do, to have your own way 
 sometimes ? " 
 
 " I can't say it ever did. But since you remind 
 me of it, I think perhaps I do." 
 
 So Helen had her way with the rector's mantel, 
 and perhaps, in the course of a long and hence- 
 forth happy life, also in several other matters. 
 Only it was not Miss Mary Kendrick's way.
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 EDWAKD VAUGHN FINALE. 
 
 AND what part had Edward Vaughn in all this 
 festival life in Aubrey Parish? Only that of a 
 sad contrast. He was facing his death in life with 
 the same grimness and in silence. His comfort- 
 able establishment ministered what it could, and 
 his old friends came up from the city to mitigate 
 his loneliness. Indeed, there was always some 
 one of them in the house to read and talk to 
 him if he liked, but after all it was worse than 
 lonesome, this life of his. He took it to be eras- 
 ure of himself, annihilation without that boon of 
 unconsciousness which, as some think, is the one 
 gift which dust and ashes have to bestow. 
 
 He had kept run of the wedding and the story 
 which went with it, and had early sent his con- 
 gratulations to his friend, the rector. The latter 
 had indeed become, of late, a regular visitor at 
 River Nook ; and after the wedding had settled 
 itself down to the everyday life of clerical duties, 
 Helen went with him. 
 
 " How sad it is," her kind heart said, as they 
 went home, " that so strong a man should suffer 
 so ! and he is evidently a gentleman."
 
 470 Edward Vauylm Finale. 
 
 " Yes, Helen ; the outlook for him is anything 
 but hopeful." And yet how often in this world 
 are things ordered better than we foresee ! 
 
 Then after, and as the summer waxed, she and 
 Lucy Farewell often went over together, bringing 
 him flowers, and sometimes reading to him. On 
 such occasions he always insisted that his Sister^ 
 of Mercy, as he called Lucy, should take her 
 place, and administer, if it were necessary, his 
 pillows, or bring him his glass of water. 
 
 On one of these visits a crisis came to him. 
 He was lying, like the stone statue he seemed to 
 be, motionless and silent, as Lucy came in and 
 was proceeding to bring him a nosegay to inspect, 
 which she had gathered in Miss Kendrick's garden. 
 In doing so she stumbled over a cushion, and the 
 flowers fell on the floor, close beside him. The 
 danger of her falling an instinct to save, per- 
 haps some emotion out of his old nature, 
 must have powerfully prompted him to make 
 some effort through his crippled organism to 
 rescue. At any rate, as Lucy raised herself and 
 looked, his right hand and forearm had actually 
 moved themselves, nay, were that instant moving, 
 slowly indeed, but surely, towards her. She 
 looked into his face, surprised. The face was even 
 paler than usual, and the lines of the mouth were 
 set as in strong resolution. 
 
 " Why, Edward Vaughn, what has happened ? "
 
 Edward Vaughn Finale. 471 
 
 she said in almost a cry of fright. Mrs. Ardenne 
 came over from where she was sitting, and looked 
 on. 
 
 "Some sort of a change is coming over me 
 what I can't say but it seems to be towards life 
 again. Please be quite still, and let me work out 
 the problem, whatever it be. No, don't pick up 
 those flowers " (to Lucy, who was reaching after 
 them), "let them lie there; perhaps I can reach 
 them." So the grim man, resolute, and with 
 teeth hard set, kept on at his arm. Slowly, al- 
 most beyond vision, the arm was moving out 
 down ; and the two women, with bated breath, in 
 silence watched the struggle. The great drops 
 on his brow showed his own excitement at his 
 now possible deliverance from his death of stone. 
 "This arm of mine seems stung all over, as if 
 with nettles, and a strange warmth is spreading 
 over me. I am doctor enough to know these 
 are favorable signs the body trying to go free. 
 Have patience with me, ladies, and let me try hard 
 to live." 
 
 So they watched while he did try. The hand 
 had reached the floor, and was now creeping 
 towards the flowers. It reached them; then the 
 slow fingers crept around them, and the hand held 
 them. Then, in like fashion, the hand came back 
 to the lounge with the nosegay in it. Then a 
 grave smile played round the mouth, which said,
 
 472 Edward Vaughn Finale. 
 
 "Here are your flowers, my Sister of Mercy. 
 Don't let them fall again, please." 
 
 There was surprise indeed over the whole house 
 as news went out that its master had moved once 
 more. "Pardon me, ladies," he said, "if I disturb 
 your visit, it isn't every day that a man crawls 
 out of his grave, as I have this afternoon." 
 
 " Oh, we are so glad for you ! " said both. 
 
 "Please call John Walker. Go for the doctor, 
 John." 
 
 The doctor came after the ladies were gone. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "it looks like recovery. Onfy 
 there must be great care not to overdo. I hope 
 the muscular system will have vitality enough to 
 recover its tone entirely. We shall see." 
 
 The muscles had vitality, and began to live 
 again. From that hour forth he began to mend 
 slowly and surely. In a week's time he was 
 carried out of doors in men's arms, and sat on 
 his own verandah, weak as a child, but an un- 
 doubted convalescent. So for weeks and months 
 he was climbing back to life again, and his will 
 came with his health. The doctor prescribed 
 outdoors, and there he was. Some sort of sedan 
 chair was found for him, and his men bore' him 
 about his place, and even into the town. Occa- 
 sionally he was carried on board his yacht, which 
 John Walker sailed down the river. Yet he set 
 no foot on the ground until the late winter.
 
 Edward Vaughn Finale. 473 
 
 So Edward Vaughn regathered himself into 
 health again. Years have come and gone since 
 the day he picked up Lucy Farewell's nosegay off 
 his library floor. The only two events in those 
 years which concern our story can be briefly told. 
 The first was when there was a fair held in St. 
 Clement's to help furnish the De Vere home for 
 little children. It had rained all the fair-time ; 
 the receipts were small, and the managers mourned. 
 But the last day of the fair the postman brought 
 Mrs. Ardenne a letter in the dreary rain. The 
 only writing inside was, "For the Children's 
 Home ; " but there was an enclosure of several 
 large bank-bills. That lady actually turned a 
 little pale with excitement. Then she told Lucy 
 Farewell, who was tending at one of the tables, 
 and they two carried the good news to the rector 
 in his library. 
 
 " My dear, some unknown person has sent us 
 money enough to furnish ' the home.' " 
 
 Mr. Ardenne counted the money carefully. 
 " This is Mr. Vaughn's work, my dear, I am 
 quite sure, because nobody else in this parish has 
 so much money to give. One way and another 
 he has given a deal of money to the town's poor. 
 I think you ladies had better thank him, and run 
 your risk. He is a little odd, and may surprise 
 you by the way he receives your gratitude, but 
 you had better do it."
 
 474 Edward Vaughn Finale. 
 
 Lucy Farewell said nothing; only she remem- 
 bered a certain Christmas present long ago, and 
 the disgusted way Mr. Vaughn had crammed a 
 white envelope into his pocket on that Christmas 
 Eve. 
 
 The two ladies searched out Edward Vaughn, 
 and Mrs. Ardenne proceeded to thank him. But 
 he put on a very icy manner, while his face settled 
 into a most artistic blankness as he said, " I have 
 lived too long in this parish to confess anything, 
 except my faults ; and if I should own to this gift 
 somebody would be likely to hand it back, and I 
 should have to repocket the money, mine or not. 
 Miss Farewell, there, can tell you how all that is, 
 if you only ask her. I decline to accept any 
 thanks or admit anything." 
 
 Mrs. Ardenne looked from the one to the other 
 perplexed. Lucy answered, to that appeal, 
 
 " Oh ! that is only a little sarcasm at my ex- 
 pense. I am sure he sent the money, and that 
 we owe him thanks." So the ladies left their 
 thanks, in the air, perhaps, and went their 
 ways. 
 
 The second event was very much later on, and 
 a trifle personal. Mrs. Ardenne, in her parlor, 
 late one afternoon, was surprised by Lucy Fare- 
 well's hurried entrance. She looked up from her 
 embroidery to see that her usually placid face was 
 full of distress.
 
 Edward Vaughn Finale. 475 
 
 " Why, Lucy, what is the matter ? " 
 
 But the latter, saying nothing, came and laid her 
 head in that matron's lap, trembling violently, and 
 sobbing. Even so placid a woman as she was 
 doing that ! The elder lady waited and soothed 
 till the distress calmed. Then she repeated her 
 question. 
 
 " Mr. Vaughn has just asked me to be his wife." 
 
 " Oh ! is that all ? That is not such a terrible 
 thing, after all, is it? Come, now, tell me just 
 how it happened." 
 
 So after a while, and some more gentle coaxing, 
 Lucy told her about as much as women usually 
 relate of their supreme moments in joy or sorrow. 
 
 " He came into my schoolroom after hours, and 
 very bluntly, as his way is, you know, asked me 
 to be his wife." 
 
 "And what did you do, my dear? 
 
 " I told him that I could not be." 
 
 " With equal bluntness, yet with a woman's 
 tone, you told him that, you silly girl, did you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And don't you love him ? Girls don't usually 
 distress themselves over the man they hate." 
 
 " No, Mrs. Ardenne, I am sure I don't, at 
 least, not as I ought to love the man I marry. 
 He always frightens me ; I am afraid of him. He is 
 so moody he gives me so many sides of himself 
 he is such a riddle ! He is worse than ' Blue
 
 476 Edward Vaughn Finale. 
 
 Beard ; ' " and she laughed hysterically at her own 
 emphatic witticism. 
 
 " Besides," she went on, " I am only a poor 
 teacher in a parish school. Why should he marry 
 me, or why should I become a wife in a house 
 like his? I should marry quite out of my 
 station." 
 
 " Sheer pride, my dear, under a veil of humility. 
 If you are a genuine woman, as I know you are, 
 what station, pray, is above that ? No, you poor 
 child ; I am sure you will marry Edward Vaughn 
 and ' be happy,' as the story books read, ' forever 
 after.' What you want now is a good night's 
 sleep, and your own common sense to guide you, 
 and you will see things as they are. Your heart 
 is all right now, only a little clouded by your ex- 
 cited brain. I expect to be invited to the wed- 
 ding." At which both laughed. 
 
 And Edward Vaughn did marry Lucy Fare- 
 well late, to be sure, and after many and curious 
 vicissitudes. And what is more, they are living 
 this day at River Nook, and happy after that sin- 
 gular fashion which his nature allows. He always 
 says that his wife married him to get rid of him, 
 or as a sort of indoor pensioner of hers, or as one 
 of the parish poor whom a Sister of Charity is 
 bound to own. She, on her part, says that it is 
 still a mystery to her how she ever came to marry 
 him, but, as she took him for better or worse, she
 
 Edward Vaughn Finale. 477 
 
 has certainly found him better. Edward Vaughn 
 is still no saint, nor ever will be. Yet he goes 
 to church with gravity, and has still silver for 
 the poor. His better nature is always breaking 
 through the rifts of that crust of a past life, which, 
 without the teeth of the iron trap which once 
 held fast his body, still restrains the mobility of 
 his undoubted virtues. The hand with which he 
 plucked fruit, good and evil, from the tree of life, 
 is scarred; yet is it an open hand, which never 
 strikes false, or holds back from his friends. Lucy 
 is never quite sure but there is a caged tiger 
 somewhere about him, though she has never seen 
 it, or felt its claws. She herself has been casting 
 her bread upon the waters, and, as the years lapse, 
 it is coming back to her in a full feast. 
 
 Yet he is let have his own way in his own house. 
 For instance, the first Monday morning in every 
 month, Mrs. Vaughn will come down in the very 
 neatest of matron's caps to breakfast. Then she 
 will expect to find something under her plate, and 
 proceeds to look for it. It is a white envelope 
 addressed to "Lucy Farewell." In it are new 
 bank-bills occasionally, when she has a fresh 
 charity on hand, some large ones. 
 
 Then the broad-shouldered, silent man at the 
 other end of the table also expects. She will 
 put the envelope and its enclosure deeper down 
 into the pocket of her morning-dress than ever
 
 478 Edivard Vaughn Finale. 
 
 her hands went down one Christmas Eve into her 
 muff, as she held her maidenly altercation in the 
 Christmas snows. Then the white cap will go 
 over to the man, and the lips under will give 
 the broad, expectant forehead just three wifely 
 kisses. At such times he will say nothing except 
 what a grim smile over the whole face says to 
 Lucy, who can interpret. Only once she gave its 
 meaning: "You are thinking, my dear, that I am 
 very ready to take your money now. Well, I am 
 and you too." 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 He has his own way of surprises. Shortly after 
 their marriage in St. Clement's he said, " Please 
 bring me, if you will, the ' Reineke Fuchs ' of 
 Goethe with Kaulbach's illustrations, on the shelf 
 yonder that book bound in red Russia morocco. 
 I wish to show you something." 
 
 So the book is brought, and opened to a page 
 where there appears a medley of pressed, withered 
 flowers. 
 
 " Do you know those flowers, Lucy ? " 
 
 " No ; how should I ? " 
 
 " Well, they are violets which a Sister of Mercy 
 brought me once when I lay in my stone death 
 on that lounge yonder. Do you remember them 
 now?" 
 
 There was only a very gentle kiss for answer. 
 
 Surprises, too, come to him. Only last week a
 
 Edward Vaughn Finale. 479 
 
 very little girl on his knee at the dessert, rum- 
 maging round at her father's watch-chain, made a 
 discovery. 
 
 " O papa ! you have got no little finger on 
 your hand, as I have ; you have only four. Where 
 is it, papa ? " 
 
 Papa's face grows grim again, and a shadow is 
 covering. 
 
 " I lost that finger, my child, in the river once, 
 breaking ice for your mamma. She will tell you." 
 
 So the little girl slides down from the lap, and 
 goes over to mamma. 
 
 " Yes, my child, when you are old enough, I will 
 tell you how your big papa yonder once saved 
 your mother's life in the river, when the winter 
 was very cold." 
 
 And the rest of Aubrey folk who have appeared 
 in this story ? Those of them who are not dead 
 are going on as ever with the clangor of the mill- 
 wheels every day, and the stars looking down 
 every night upon a life which is so everyday, and 
 yet, after all, so strange. 
 
 It is the fashion of to-day, on its agnostic and 
 material side, to sneer at sentiment as an offence 
 in art. Yet what is art but its expression? 
 What bloom is to flowers, the purple juice to the 
 grapes, the blush of sunset to the skies, the red 
 blood in our heart-valves to the body, that is senti-
 
 480 Edivard Vauyhn Finale. 
 
 ment to human life, which without it is a mere 
 skeleton of shrivelled nerves and sinews. 
 
 Again, in a cognate criticism, men are denying 
 that supreme tragedies are everywhere evolving 
 themselves out of the dry statistics of our modern 
 civilization. But the fact is, that tragedy was 
 never more multiform and sober than now and 
 here. While the heart fires of our age receive a 
 new energy from its strangely developed intellect ; 
 while a new generation out of the old manger goes 
 forth with its human passions to taste of its tree 
 of life ; while black robes follow bridal veils, and 
 wreaths wither in the coffin of buried joys ; while 
 men go down to the sea in ships, and women on 
 the shore watch in vain for their returning sails ; 
 while men waste in the red battle, and women 
 kneel at the hearthstone with prayers for the 
 slain, so long will the tragedy in common life, 
 statelier than King Lear, confront the wise, and 
 Hamlet be only a hint of what lies cold and stark 
 with Ophelia under the willows or of those 
 darker passions which coldly furnish forth the 
 marriage table with funeral meats, and sleep at 
 last under the circlet of Yorick's skull in the 
 mould. 
 
 So the life in Aubrey Parish, herein described, 
 vindicates its right to this present history. That 
 life repeats itself to-morrow somewhere else, in a 
 new guise, but with the same old soul of a race
 
 Edward Vaughn Finale. 481 
 
 supreme. It is always a life opening out into a 
 mystery unsearchable, and to the wise, at least, 
 demands another life to interpret and fulfil the 
 present. Aubrey folk, like their neighbors, " have 
 that within which passeth show " or writing down. 
 They inherit, like the rest of us, what to those 
 who walk by sight is the riddle of life. That is 
 still the Sphinx in Aubrey Parish, and Aubrey 
 Parish is everywhere. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 CUPPLES A HURD, THE ALGONQUIN PRESS, BOSTON.
 
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 or Postal order for the amount, -with a copy of their complete catalogue, 
 
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 I. 
 
 Miss FKANCES MERLEY: 
 
 A Novel. By JOHN ELLIOT CURRAN. 420 pages. 
 
 The first important work of an author familiar to American readers by Ms 
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 II. 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A NEW ENGLAND FARM HOUSE: 
 
 A Romance of the Cape Cod Lands. By N. H. CHAMBERLAIN. 380 pages. 
 A novel of singular power and beauty, great originality and rugged force. 
 Born and bred on Cape Cod, the author, at the winter firesides of country 
 people, very conservative of ancient English customs now gone, heard curious 
 talk of kings, Puritan ministers, the war and precedent struggle of our Revolu- 
 tion, and touched a race of men and women now passed away. He also heard, 
 chiefly from ancient women, the traditions of ghosts, witches and Indians, as 
 they are preserved, and to a degree believed, by honest Christian folk, in the 
 very teeth of modern progress. These things are embodied in this book. 
 
 OTHER VOLUMES OF THIS SERIES IN PREPARATION. 
 
 A SUMMER CRUISE ON THE COAST OF NEW ENG- 
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 JOHNSON. i2mo. Cloth, with Map. $1.50. 
 
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 Important New Books. 
 
 THREE THRILLING NOVELS IN THE STYLE OF THE MODERN FRENCH 
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 MR. AND MRS- MORTON- A Novel, gth thousand. i2mo. Cloth. 
 
 I.2S- 
 
 A powerfully told story of domestic misunderstanding which turns upon an 
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 BALCH. *Cr. 8vo. Cloth elegant. $1.25. 
 
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 influences which are slowly but surely shaping the destinies of the country. 
 
 " Depicted with artistic power, and, as a love story, it is of absorbing interest. 
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 " Cleverly conceived and written." Boston Globe. 
 
 " Well worth reading." Julian Hawthorne. 
 
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 Churchman. 
 
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 Citpples and Hurd, Book*ton, BOSTON. 
 
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 Important New Books. 
 
 THE HEIDI SERIES. 
 STORIES FOR CHILDREN AND THOSE WHO LOVE CHILDREN. 
 
 Translated from the German of Johanna Spyri by Louise Brooks. 
 
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 7 illustrations, and portrait of the Authoress. $1,50. 
 
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 RICO FOUND A HOME." 12010. pp. 509. Cloth. $1.50. 
 
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 GRITLI'S CHILDREN. i2mo. 397 pages. Cloth. $1.50. 
 
 The Atlantic Monthly pronounces " Heidi " "a delightful book . . . charm, 
 ingly told. The book is, as it should be, printed in clear type, well leaded, and 
 is bound in excellent taste. Altogether it is one which we suspect will be 
 looked back upon a generation hence by people who now read it in their child- 
 hood, and they will hunt for the old copy to read in it to their children." 
 
 A leading Sunday-school paper further says : " No better books for a Sunday- 
 school library have been published for a long time. Scholars of all ages will 
 read them with delight. Teachers and parents will share the children's enjoy- 
 ment." 
 
 The steadily increasing sales of these books attest to their extreme popularity 
 and value, and it has been truly said that their publication marks an era in the 
 history of juvenile literature. Their sweetness, purity, and freedom from any 
 sectarian bias, have secured for them a place in the Sunday-school libraries of 
 all denominations, and make them as welcome to those having charge of the 
 young as they are to the children themselves. 
 
 OLD NEW ENGLAND DAYS. A story of true life. By SOPHIE M. 
 DAMON. Second edition. i6mo. $1.25. 
 
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 ing so much as in recalling the far distant days of her youth." Cavcord Even- 
 ing Gazette. 
 
 The beauty of the tale is in the touches of Yankee life and lore, joy and 
 sorrow, which crop out at every turn of the page, like dandelions in a summer 
 field." Christian Journal. 
 
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 PLACE. By S. E. DOUGLASS. i6mo. Cloth. -1.25. 
 
 This is a very curious and a remarkably interesting little book. The Chris- 
 tian Register, one of the ablest of critical reviews, says: '' If the number of 
 people vitally interested in the motif ot this bright story should all be the num- 
 ber of its readers, it would have a circulation equal to ' Uncle Tom's Cabin.' 
 . . . It is a realistic tale, which, in its way, puts Mr. Howells to shame." 
 
 Cupples and Hurd, " Booksellers, BOSTON. 
 
 Library Agents,
 
 Important New Books. 
 
 WORKS BY SALLY PRATT MCLEAN. 
 
 CAPE COD FOLKS. A novel. Twenty-third edition. Illustrated. :2mo. 
 Cloth. $1.25. 
 
 TOWHEAD: THE STORY OF A GIRL. Fifth thousand, izmo. 
 Cloth. $1.25. 
 
 SOME OTHER FOLKS. A Book in Four Stories, izmo. Cloth. $1.25. 
 
 These books are so well known that further comment seems superfluous. 
 Suffice it to say that the entire press of the country has unanimously spoken of 
 them in terms of high praise, dwelling not only on their delicious humor, their 
 literary workmanship, their genuine pathos, and their real power and eloquence, 
 but what has been described as their deep, true humanness, and the inimitable 
 manner in which the mirror is held up to nature that all may see reflected 
 therein some familiar trait, some description or character which is at once recog- 
 nized. 
 
 MISS M:LEAtTS NEW BOOK. 
 
 Since the production of Miss McLean's first effort " Cape Cod Folks," she 
 has steadily advanced in intellectual development ; the same genius is at work 
 in a larger and more artistic manner, until she has at length produced what 
 must be truly considered as her masterpiece, and which we have the pleasure to 
 announce for immediate publication. 
 
 LASTCHANCE JUNCTION; FAR, FAR WEST. A novel By 
 SAILY PRATT MCLEAN, i vol. 12010 Cloth. $1.25. 
 
 The author in this book sees further and clearer than she saw in her earlier 
 works ; she has stepped, as it were, out of the limits of her former thought and 
 action into the centre of the arena of the world's full, rich life ; from the indi- 
 vidual characteristic she has passed to the larger weaknesses and virtues of 
 humanity, with their inevitable results of tragedy and nobility. Much as 
 has been said respecting the pathos of her former books, one feels, as the 
 last page of " Lastchance Junction " has been turned, that they were but sma ; l 
 as compared with this, so terribly earnest is it, so true in its delineation of life, 
 with all its elements of tragedy and comedy ; and life, moreover, in that region 
 of our country where Nature still reigns supreme, and where humanity, uncon- 
 trolled by the conventionalities of more civilized communities, stands sharply 
 drawn in the strong shadows of villainy and misery, and in the high lights of 
 uncultured, strong nobility and gentleness. There are no half-tones. 
 
 Terse, incisive descriptions of men and scenery, drawn with so vivid a pen 
 that one can see the characters and their setting, delicious bits of humor, 
 passages full of infinite paihos, make this book absolutely hold the reader from 
 the tide to the last word, and as, when finished, one sighs for the pity of it, the 
 feeling rises that such a work has not been written in vain, and will have its 
 place among those w liich tend to elevate our race. 
 
 Cupples and Hurd, Bookleiur*, BOSTON. 
 
 Library Agents,
 
 Important New Books. 
 
 THE FOU R GOSPELS. Translated into Modern English from the Au- 
 thorized and Revised Versions. By ERNEST BILTON. Cloth. $1.00. 
 A cheaf edition of a neiu translation of the Gospels, having a great run of 
 popularity in the religious circles of Great Britain. 
 
 The author has taken the authorised version as it stands, availing him- 
 self of many corrections suggested by the revised version, and has given the 
 apparent meaning of the text in the plainest possible language, the whole 
 object being the simplification of the narratives of the Evangelists. It is not 
 expected that this rendering will supersede the accepted version. The author 
 evidently feels that he is not without hope that it may lead to the serious con- 
 sideration, in proper quarters, of the advisability of providing the people 
 with an authorised translation of the Scriptures into the "vulgar tongue." 
 not of the sixteenth but of the nineteenth century. 
 
 THE SKETCHES OF THE CLANS OF SCOTLAND, with twenty- 
 two full-page colored plates of Tartans. By CLANSMEM J. M. P. - F. W. S. 
 Large Svo. -Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 The object of this treatise is to give a concise account of the origin, seat, and 
 characteristics of the Scottish clans, together with a representation of the dis- 
 tinguishing tartan worn by each. The illustrations are fine specimens of color 
 work, all executed in Scotland. 
 
 THE GREEN HAND; or, the Adventures of a Naval Lieutenant. A Sea 
 Story. By GEORGE CUPPLES. With Portrait of the Author and other 
 Illustrations, i vol. iamo. Cloth. #2.00. 
 A new library edition of this fascinating sea classic. [In press. 
 
 ALL MATTER TENDS TO ROTATION, OR THE ORIGIN 
 OF ENERGY. A New Hypothesis which throws Light upon all the 
 Phenomena of Nature. Electricity, Magnetism, Gravitation, Light, 
 Heat, and Chemical Action explained upon Mechanical Principles and 
 traced to a Single Source. By LEONIDAS LE CENCI HAMILTON, M. A. 
 Vol. i. Origin ol Kneryv Electrostatics and Magnetism. Containing 100 
 Illustrations, including Fine Steel Portraits of Faraday and Maxwell. 
 Handsome^ bound ir cloth. Svo, 340 pp. Price, $3.00. Net. 
 
 In this volume the author has utilized the modern conception of lines of 
 torce originated by Faraday, and afterwards developed mathematically by 
 Prof. J. Clerk Maxwell, and he has reached an explanation of electrical and 
 magnetic phenomena which has been expected by physicists on both conti- 
 nents. It may have a greater influence upon the scientific world than either 
 Newton's " Principia or Darwin's "Origin of Species," because it places 
 natural science upon its only true basis Pure Mechanics. 
 
 Publishers 
 
 Cupple^ and Hurd, Booksellers, BOSTON. 
 
 Libra** Agents,
 
 Important New Books. 
 
 JOHN BROWN. By HERMANN VON HOLST, author of "Constitutional 
 History of the United States," &c., together with an introduction and appen- 
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 This book, the author of which is so well known by his " Constitutional His- 
 tory," and by his biography of John C. Calhoun, cannot fail to be of interest to 
 all students of American history, who appreciate a calm, impartial criticism of 
 a man and an episode which have been universally and powerfully discussed. 
 
 MARGARET; and THE SINGER'S STORY. By EFFIE DOUGLASS 
 PUTNAM. Daintily bound in white, stamped in gold and color, gilt 
 edges. i6mo. ^1.25. 
 A collection of charming poems, many of which are familiar through the 
 
 med.'um of the magazines and newspaper press, with some more ambitious 
 
 fligV.3, amply fulfilling the promise of the shorter efforts. Tender and pastoral, 
 
 breathing the simple atmosphere of the fields and woods. 
 
 AROUND THE GOLDEN DEEP. A Romance of the Sierras. 
 
 By A. P. REEDER. 500 pages. i2mo. Cloth. $1.50. 
 
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 of the mine that gives its name to the story, and contrasting it with the more 
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 NAU. i2mo. Cloth. $1.25. 
 
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 Daw." 
 
 MIDNIGHT SUNBEAMS, OR BITS OF TRAVEL THROUGH 
 
 THE LAND OF THE NORSEMAN. By EDWIN COOLIDGK KIM- 
 
 BALL. On fine paper, foolscap 8vo, tastefully and strongly bound, with 
 
 vignette. Cloth. $1.25. 
 
 P. onounced by Scandinavians to be accurate in its facts and descriptions. 
 
 ind of great interest to all who intend to travel in or have come from Norway 
 
 >r Sweden. 
 
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 A collection of poems and sonnets showing great talent, and valuable transla- 
 tions from Gautier, Heine, Uhland, Sully-Prudhomme, Gottschalk, Michael 
 \ngelo, and others. Also prose translations from the German, edited and 
 prefaced by Max Miiller. 
 
 Ci'ppies ami Hurd, " Bookfe'iurs, BOSTON. 
 
 Library Agents,
 
 Important New Boohs. 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE'S COUNSELS TO A LITERARY ASPI- 
 RANT (a Hitherto Unpublished Letter of 1842), and What Came oi 
 Them. With a brief estimate of the man. By JAMBJ, HUTCHINSON STIR- 
 LING, LL. D. i2mo, boards, 50 cents. 
 
 Gives a side of the rugged old Scotchman which will be new to most readers. 
 It shows that he was not always gruff and bearish, and that he could at times 
 think of somebody besides himself. Tlie letter is one which every young man 
 who lias a leaning towards literary wyrk will read and ponder over. 
 
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 i6mo, cloth, white paper labels, gilt top. $1.00. 
 
 By a well-known litterateur. It will take a high place among the literature 
 treating of the period. A quaint and delightful book, exquisitely printed in the 
 Pickering style. 
 
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 ARNOLD. And Other Essays concerning America. i6mo, unique paper 
 boards. 75 cents. Cloth, uncut, $1.25. The cloth binding matches the 
 uniform edition of his collected works. 
 
 Comprises the critical essays, which created so much discussion, namely, 
 " General Grant, an Estimate." "A Word about America," "A Word more 
 about America," and " Civilization in the United States." 
 
 *$* This collection gathers in the great critic's last contributions 7 to literature. 
 
 LEGENDS OF THE RHINE. From the German of P**. BERNARD. 
 
 Translated by FR. ARNOLD. Finely Illustrated. Small 4to. Cloth. 
 An admirable collection of the popular historical traditions of tne Rhine, told 
 with taste and picturesque simplicity. [In press. 
 
 A SELECTION FROM THE POEMS OF PUSHKIN 
 Translated, with Critical Notes and a Bibliography. By IVAN PANIN. 
 author of "Thoughts." Foolscap 8vo. Unique binding. $2.00. 
 
 The first published translation by the brilliant young Russian, Ivan Panin, 
 whose lectures in Boston on the literature of Russia, du/ing the autumn of last 
 _ ear, attracted crowded houses. 
 
 WIT, WISDOM, AND PATHOS, from the prose of HEINRICH HEINE, 
 
 with a few pieces from the " Book of Songs " Selected and translated by 
 
 J. SNODGRASS. Second edition, thoroughly revised. Cr. 8vo, 338 pp. 
 
 Cloth, $2.00 
 
 "A treasure of almost priceless thought and criticism." Contemporary 
 
 Review. 
 
 Publishers, 
 
 Cvpples and Huni, Booksellers BOSTON. 
 
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 LIFE'S PROBLEMS. HERE AND HEREAFTER. An autobio- 
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 $1.25. Second Edition revised. 
 
 This book, which is not sectarian, has been received with marked favor by 
 critics and by readers, both in this country and in England. This is not sur- 
 prising, for it treats the most difficult problems of life, here and hereafter, in a 
 hold and fearless manner, and at the same time in a candid and tender spirit, 
 and has supplanted unbelief, doubt, and perplexity, with faith, trust, and hope. 
 
 " It is a. re al spiritual biography an inner I if e honestly revealed. . . Such 
 a cheerful spirit animates the book, a spirit so full of spiritual buoyancy, in har- 
 mony with the gospel of love, seeking the good and the beautiful this in itself 
 communicates hope, courage, and/aith." Boston Post. 
 
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 NATURE, AND DESTINY OF MAN. By JAMES R. NICHOLS. 
 With portrait of the author. i2mo. Cloth, gilt top. $ 1.25. Eleventh 
 edition, revised. 
 
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 i-jolest and most scientific investigators in the field of psychical phenomena, and, 
 at the same time, one of the most honest. If the world had more earnest think- 
 ers of the same kind to co-operate with him, the world would find out some- 
 thing of value. Joseph Cook. 
 
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 and to ponder on the all-important subjects which it presents. Though it is not 
 a religious book in the accepted sense of the word, it is a took which calls for the 
 exercise of the religious nature, and which in diffusing many sensible ide^s 
 will be good." Philadelphia Press. 
 
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 SORROWFU L. By JAMES HINTON, M. D. With an introduction by 
 JAMES R. NICHOLS, author of "Whence? What? Where?" i6mo. 
 Cloth, gilt top. $1.00. 
 
 This book was published in England twenty years ago, and a small edition 
 was sent to this country, which readily found purchasers. The book, at the 
 time it appeared in England, had a limited sale ; but since the author's death a 
 new interest has arisen, and the wofk has been widely circulated and read. A 
 book which has comforted many a troubled soul, and awakened the emotion of 
 love in distressed and doubting hearts. Many good and uplifting thoughts in 
 the book, thoughts which will not readily pass from the memory. The prob- 
 lem of pain is indeed dark and not easily solved; and if one is able to .point 
 out rifts in the cloud, the world of sufferers will welcome the light as rays 
 breaking through from the regions of rest and bliss. From the Introduction. 
 
 " No word of praise can add anything to the value of this little work, which 
 has now taken its place as one of the classics of religious literature. The ten- 
 der, reverent, and searching spirit of the author has come as a great consolation 
 and help to many persons. New York Critic. 
 
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 Important New Boohs. 
 
 LIVES OF FIVE DISTINGUISHED AMERICANS. THE ONLY 
 BIOGRAPHIES EXTANT. 
 
 WIATTHEW CALBRAITH PERRY. A typical American Naval Officer. 
 By WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS, author of " The Mikado's Empire," and 
 " Corea: the Hermit Nation." Cr. 8vo, 459 pages, gilt top, with two por- 
 traits and seven illustrations. $2.00. 
 
 " Sure of favorable reception, and a permanent place in public and private 
 libraries." N. Y. Evening Post. 
 
 " Of unusual value to every student of American history." Nat. Baptist. 
 "One of the best books of the year." Public Opinion. 
 
 " His biography will be one of the naval classics." Army and Navy 
 foil rnal. 
 
 " Has done his work right well." Chicago Evening J ournal . 
 " Highly entertaining and instructive." Universalist Quarterly. 
 
 THADDEUS STEVENS, AMERICAN STATESMAN, AND 
 FOUNDER OF THE REPUBLICAN PARTY. A Memoir by 
 E. B. CALLENDAR. With portrait. Cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt top. $1.50. 
 A biography of one of the most interesting characters in the whole range of 
 American politics, whose work must be understood thoroughly to gain accurate 
 knowledge of the secret forces operating during his times, 1792 to 1869. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. A Biography of the author of "Home, 
 Sweet Home," by CHAS. H. BRAINARD. With four portraits from minia- 
 tures and other sources, fac-simile of manuscript, " Home, Sweet Home," 
 and photographic illustrations of his tomb at Washington, etc., etc. 8vo. 
 Cloth elegant, gilt top, in box. $3.00. 
 
 Apart from the remembrance and regard in which the author of " Home, 
 Sweet Home " is held by the world, this biography will possess additional inte- 
 rest from the fact that it is written under the direct editorshin of W. W. Cor- 
 coran, the late eminent philanthropist, who provided the funds for the removal 
 of the poet's body from Africa to Washington. 
 
 THE LIFE OF ADMIRAL SIR ISAAC COFFIN, BARONET; 
 
 HIS ENGLISH AND AMERICAN ANCESTORS. By THOMAS 
 
 C. AMORY. With portrait. Large 8vo. $1.25. 
 
 The name of Coffin is so widely spread over our continent, so many thous- 
 ands of men and women of other patronymics take pride in their descent from 
 Tristram, its first American patriarch, that what concerns them all, any consid- 
 erable branch or distinguished individual of the race, seems rather history than 
 biography. 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF COMMODORE CHARLES 
 
 MORRIS. With heliotype portrait after Ary Scheffer. i vol. 8vo. 
 in pages. $1.00. 
 
 A valuable addition to the literature of American history ; a biography of 
 one who, in the words of Admiral Farragut, was "America's grandest seaman." 
 
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 HOW TO WRITE THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY. By w. P. 
 
 W. PHILLIMORE, M. A., B. C. L. i vol. Cr. 8vo. Tastefully printed in 
 antiqus style, Jiandsomely bound. $2.00. 
 
 Unassuming, practical, essentially useful, Mr. Phillimore's book should be in 
 the hands of every one who aspires to search for his ancestors and to learn his 
 family history. Athen&um. 
 
 This is the best compendious genealogist's guide that has yet been published, 
 and Mr. Phillimore deserves the thanks and appreciation of all lovers of family 
 history. Reliquary. 
 
 Notice. Large Paper Edition. A few copies, an hand-made paper, wide mar- 
 gins, bound in half morocco, may be obtained, price $6.50 net. 
 
 THE KINSHIP OF MEN: An Argument from Pedigrees ; or, Genealogy 
 Viewed as a Science. By HENRY KENDALL. Cr. 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 The old pedigree-hunting was a sign of pride and pretension ; the modern is 
 simply dictated by the desire to know whatever can be known. The one 
 advanced itself by the methods of immoral advocacy ; the other proceeds by 
 those of scientific research. Spectator (London). 
 
 RECORDS AND RECORD SEARCHING. A Guide to the Genealo- 
 gist and Topographer. By WALTER RYE. 8vo, cloth. Price $2.50. 
 This book places in the hands of the Antiquary and Genealogist, and others 
 interested in kindred studies, a comprehensive guide to the enormous mass of 
 material which is available in his researches, showing what it consists of, and 
 where it can be found. 
 
 ANCESTRAL TABLETS. A Collections of Diagrams for Pedigrees, so 
 arranged that Eight Generations of the Ancestors of any Person may be 
 recorded in a connected and simple form. By WILLIAM H. WHITMORE, 
 A.M. SEVENTH EDITION. On heavy parchment paper, large 4(0, 
 tastefully and strongly bound, Roxburgh style. Price $2.00. 
 
 " No one with the least bent for genealogical research ever examined this in- 
 geniously compact substitute for the ' family tree ' without longing to own it. 
 It provides for the recording of eight lineal generations, and is a perpetual 
 incentive to the pursuit of one's ancestry." Nation. 
 
 THE ELEMENTS OF HERALDRY. A practical manual, showing 
 what heraldry is, where it comes from, and to what extent it is applicable to 
 American usage ; to which is added a Glossary in English, French and 
 Latin of the forms employed. Profusely Illustrated. By W. H. 
 WHITMORE, author of " Ancestral Tablets," etc. \Jttpress. 
 
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 Important New Boohs. 
 
 PROF. CLARK MUR RAY'S WORKS. 
 
 SOLOMON MAIMON: An Autobiography. Translated from the Ger- 
 man, with Additions and Notes, by Prof. J. CLARK MURRAY, i vol. 
 Cr. 8vo. Cloth. 307 pp. $2.00. 
 
 A life which forms one of the most extraordinary .biographies in the history 
 of literature. 
 
 The London Spectator says: "Dr. Clark Murray has had the rare good 
 fortune of first presenting this singularly vivid book in an English translation 
 as pure and lively as if it were an original, and an original by a classic 
 English writer. 
 
 George Eliot, in "Daniel Deronda," mentions it as " that wonderful bit of 
 autobiography the life of the Polish Jew, Solomon Maimon "; and Milman, 
 in his " History of the Jews," refers to it as a curious and rare book. 
 
 HANDBOOK OF PSYCHOLOGY. By Prof. J. CLARK MURRAY, 
 LL D., Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy, M'Gill College, 
 Montreal. Cr. Svo. sd edition, enlarged and improved. $1-75. 
 Clearly and simply written, with illustrations so well chosen that the dullest 
 
 student can scarcely fail to take an interest in the subject. 
 
 ADOPTED FOR USE IN COLLEGES IN SCOTLAND, ENGLAND, 
 CANADA, AND THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 Prof. Afnrray's good fortune in. bringing to light the " KTaimon Memoirs," 
 '.ogether with the increasing popularity of his "Handbook of Psychology" ha\ 
 -tttracted the attention of the intellectual world, giving him a position 
 with the leaders of thought of the present age. His writings are at once 
 original and suggestive. 
 
 AALESUNb TO TETUAN. By CHAS. R. CORNING. A Volume of 
 
 Travel, izmo. 400 pp. Cloth. $2.00. 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Portsmouth Isle of Wight Channel Islands- 
 Normandy Nice Monte Carlo Genoa Naples and its Environments 
 Rome Verona Venice Norway Sweden St. Petersburg Moscow 
 JVarsaw Berlin Up the Rhine Barcelona Valencia Seville Cadiz 
 Morocco Gibraltar Granada Madrid and the Royal Wedding Bull 
 Fights Escurial Biarritz Bordeaux Paris. 
 
 TAPPY'S CHICKS: r, Links Between Nature and Human Nature. 
 By MRS. GEORGE CUPPLES. Illustrated. i6mo. Cloth. $1.25. 
 
 The tenderness and humor of this volume are simply exquisite. E. P. 
 W hippie. 
 
 The title is altogether too insignificant for so delightful and valuable a work 
 ^Spectator (London). 
 
 It is not merely a work of talent, but has repeated strokes of undeniable 
 genius. George Macdonald. [/ preparation. 
 
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 Important New Boons. 
 
 A NEW BOOK BY W. H. H. MURRAY. 
 
 DAYLIGHT LAND. The experiences, incidents, and adventures, humorous 
 and otherwise, which befell Judge John Doe, Tourist, of San Francisco ; 
 Mr Cephas Pepperell, Capitalist, of Boston ; Colonel Goffe, the Man 
 from New Hampshire, and divers others, in their Parlor-Car Excursion pver 
 Prairie and Mountain ; as recorded and set forth by W. H. H. MURRAY. 
 Superbly illustrated with 150 cuts in various colors by the best artists. 
 
 CONTENTS : Introduction The Meeting A Breakfast A Very Hopeful 
 Man The Big Nepigon Trout The Man in the Velveteen Jacket The 
 Capitalist Camp at Rush Lake Big Game A Strange Midnight Ride 
 Banff Sunday among the Mountains Nameless Mountains The Great 
 Glacier The Hermit of Frazer Canon Fish and Fishing in British Colum- 
 bia Vancouver City Parting at Victoria. 
 
 8vo. 350 pages. Unique paper covers, $2.50; half leather binding, $3.50. 
 
 Mr. Murray has chosen the north-western side of the continent for the scene 
 of this book ; a region of country which is little known by the average reader, 
 but which in its scenery, its game, and its vast material and undeveloped 
 resources, supplies the author with a subject which has not been trenched upon 
 even by the magazines, and which he has treated in that lively and spirited 
 manner for which he is especially gifted. The result is a volume full of novel 
 information of the country, humorous and pathetic incidents, vivid descriptions 
 of its magnificent scenery, shrewd forecasts of its future wealth and greatness 
 when developed, illustrated and embellished with such lavishness and artistic 
 elegance as has never before been attempted in any similar work in this coun- 
 try 
 
 ADIRONDACK TALES. By W. H. H. MURRAY. Illustrated, wmo. 
 300 pages. $1.25. 
 
 Containing John Norton's Christmas Henry Herbert's Thanksgiving A 
 Strange Visitor Lost in the Woods A Jolly Camp Was it Suicide? 
 The Gambler's Death The Old Beggar's Dog The Ball Who was he ? 
 
 Short stories in Mr. Murray's best vein humorous; pathetic; full of the 
 spirit of the woods. 
 
 HOW DEACON TUBMAN AND PARSON WHITNEY KEPT 
 NEW YEARS, and other Stories. By W. H. H. MURRAY. i6mo. 
 Illustrated. $1.25. 
 
 A HEART REGAINED. By CARMEN SYLVA (Queen of Roumania) 
 
 Translated by MARY A. MITCHELL. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 A charming story by this talented authoress, told in her vivid, picturesqus 
 manner, and showing how patient waiting attains to ultimate reward. 
 
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 RALPH WALDO EMERSON, PHILOSOPHER AND SEER. An Estimate 
 of his Character and Genius. By A. BRONSON ALCOTT. 
 With portraits and other illustrations. Foolscap octavo. Gilt top. $1.50. 
 One hundred copies will be printed on larger and finer paper, 8vo, suitable 
 for the insertion of extra illustrations. Bound in. Roxburgh, gilt top. Price 
 to Subscribers, $3.00. 
 
 A book about Emerson, written by the one man who stood nearest to him of 
 all men. It is an original and vital contribution to Emersoma ; like a portrait 
 of one of the old masters painted by his own brush. [/ Press. 
 
 HERMAN GRIMM'S WORKS. 
 
 THE LIFE OF RAPHAEL as shown in his principal works. From the 
 German of HERMAN GRIMM, r.uthor of "The Life of Michael Angelo," 
 etc. With frontispiece, after Braun, of the recently discovered portrait, 
 outlined by Raphael in chalk. Cr. 8vo. Cloth. $2.00. 
 
 ESSAYS ON LITERATURE. From the German of HERMAN GKIMM, 
 uniform with "The Life of Raphael." New and enlarged edition, care- 
 fully corrected. Cr. 8vo. Cloth. $2.00. 
 
 BY JAMES H. STARK. 
 
 ANTIQUE VIEWS OF YE TOWNE OF BOSTON. By JAMES H. 
 STARK, Assisted by Dr. SAMUEL A. GREEN, Ex-Mayor of Boston, Libra- 
 rian of the Massachusetts Historical Society; JOHN WARD DEAN, Libra- 
 rian of the New England Historic Genealogical Society; and Judge 
 MEI.LEN CHAMBERLAIN, of the Public Library. Ait extensive and exhaust- 
 ive work in 3^8 pages. Large quarto. Illustrated with nearly soo full 
 size reproductions of all known rare maps, old prints, etc. I vol. 4/0. 
 Cloth. $6.00. 
 
 BERMUDA GUIDE. A description of everything on or about the Ber- 
 muda Islands, concerning which the visitor or resident maj r desire informa- 
 tion, including its history, inhabitants, climate, agriculture, geology, 
 government, military and naval establishments. By JAMES H. STARK. 
 With Maps, Engravings and 16 photo-prints, i vol. i2mo, cloth, 
 
 157 pp. $2.00. 
 
 PAUL REVERE: Historical and Legendary. By ELBRIDGE H. Goss. 
 With reproductions of many of Revere's engravings, etc. [lit press. 
 
 A DIRECTORY OF THE CHARITABLE AND BENEFICENT 
 ORGANIZATIONS OF BOSTON, ETC. Prepared for the Assc. 
 ciated Charities, i vol., 196 pp. 161110. Cloth, #1.00. 
 
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 TRANSLATIONS OF Two POWERFUL GERMAN NOVELS BY AUTHORS 
 
 NEW TO AMERICAN READERS. 
 
 .THE LAST VON RECKENBURG. By LOUISBVON FRANCOIS. Trans- 
 lated from the third German edition. 370 pages. Cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt. 
 |i-5o. 
 
 The popularity of this book amorg the reading public of Europe, and the 
 interest it has excited in critical circles, led to the present translation into 
 English. Gustave Freytag, one of the greatest of German novelists, says of 
 it : " Clear, terse, with not a word too much, and rich in powerful expres- 
 sions, it depicts everything in short sentences, obedient to every mood, every 
 change of color. Readers will always close this volume with a consciousness 
 that they have received a rare gift." 
 
 MM. Erckmann-Chatrian have depicted the feverish excitement of France 
 during the height of Napoleon's meteor-like blaze : this equally powerful ro- 
 mance shows the reaction in Germany immediately after his downfall, when 
 the pulse of Europe was striving to regain its normal beat. 
 
 THE MONK'S WEDDING. A novel. By C. F. MEYER. Cr. 8vo 
 
 unique binding, gilt top. $1.25. 
 
 This is an Italian story, written by a German, and translated by an American, 
 and purports to be narrated by the poet Dante at the hospitable hearth of his 
 pa'ron, Can Grande. He evolved it from an inscription on a gravestone : 
 "Hie jacet monachus Astorre cum uxore Antiope. Sepeliebat Azzolinus " 
 (Here sleeps the monk Astorre with his wife Antiope. Ezzelin gave them 
 burial). Those who have any acquaintance with the unscrupulous machina- 
 tions of the Italian, and particularly of the Italian ecclesiastic, will have little 
 difficulty in conjuring up what a grim, lurid tale of secret crime and suffering a 
 " Monk's Wedding " is sure to be. It is of sustained and absorbing interest, full 
 of delicate touches and flashes of passion, a tragedy which cannot fail to leave 
 an impression of power upon the mind. 
 
 WORKS BY WILLIAM H. RIDEING. 
 
 THACKERAY'S LONDON: HIS HAUNTS AND THE 
 SCENES OF HIS NOVELS. With two original Portraits (etched 
 and engraved) ; a fac-simile of a page of the original manuscript of "The 
 Newcomes ; " together with several exquisitely engraved woodcuts, i vol, 
 square 12010. Cloth, gilt top, in box. *i.oo. fourth Edition. 
 
 LITTLE UPSTART, A. A Novel. Third edition. i6mo. Cloth. $1.25. 
 
 " As a study of literary and would-be literary life it is positively brilliant- 
 Many well-known figures are drawn with a few sweeping touches. Tie book, 
 as a story, is interesting enough for the most experienced taste, and, as a satire, 
 it is manly and healthy." John Boyle O'Reilly . 
 
 " Notably free from the least sensationalism or unnaturalness. . . Flashes of 
 sterling wit, with touches of exquisite pathos, and with a quiet mastery of style 
 which I have rarely seen surpassed in American fiction and seldom equalled. 
 The incidental bits of philosophy, observation, and keen worldly knowledge 
 have few parallels in our literature." Edgar Fawcett. 
 
 Cupples and Hiiro", " Booksellers, BOSTON. 
 
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 fmportant New Books. 
 
 TRAVESTIES, PARODIES, AND JEUX D'ESPRIT. 
 
 THE IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS OF HIS EXCELLENCV 
 AND DAN. By C. W. TAYLOR. With 40 full-page silhouette illustra . 
 tions by F. H. BLAIR. 90 pp. i6mo Paper. 25 cents. 
 
 " It is fun for the masses, wholly irrespective of political parties, such good 
 natured fun that even those that it satirizes might well laugh. . . Probably tin 
 most humorous skit ever produced " 
 
 THE LITTLE TIN-GODS-ON-WHEELS ; OR, SOCIETY IN 
 
 OUR MODERN ATHENS- A Trilogy, after the manner of the 
 Greek. By ROBERT GRANT. Illustrated by F. G ATTWOOD. Tenth edi- 
 tion. Pamphlet. Small 410. 50 cents. 
 
 Divided into Three Parts: The Wall Flowers; the Little Tin-Gods-on- 
 Wheels ; The Chaperons. A broad burlesque of Boston society scenes. 
 
 ROLLO'S JOURNEY TO CAMBRIDGE. A Tale of the Adventures 
 of the Historic Holiday Family at Harvard under the New Regime. WitV 
 twenty-six illustrations, full-page frontispiece, and an illuminated cover ol 
 striking gorgeousness. By FRANCIS G. ATTWOOD. i vol. imperial 8vo 
 Limp. London toy-book style. Third and enlarged edition. 75 cents. 
 
 "All will certainly relish the delicious satire in both text and illustrations." 
 Boston Traveller. 
 "A brilliant and witty piece of fun." Chicago Tribune. 
 
 EVERY MAN HIS OWN POET; OR, THE INSPIRED 
 SINGER'S RECIPE BOOK. By W. H. MALLOCK, author of " New 
 Republic," etc. Eleventh Edition. i6mo. 25 cents. 
 
 A most enjoyable piece of satire, witty, clever, and refined. In society and 
 literary circles its success, both here and abroad, has been immense. 
 
 TWO COMEDIES: AN ILL WIND; AN ABJECT APOL- 
 OGY. By F. DONALDSON, JR. Fcap. 8vo. Paper, elegant. 50 cents. 
 
 These comedies belong to the same class of literature as do the lightest of 
 Austin Dobson's lyrics and Andrew Lang's least serious essays, and their form 
 is admirably suited to the depicting of the foibles and rather weak passions of 
 that indefinite caste, American society. They are evidently modelled on the 
 French vaudeville, and their characters are clever people, who say bright things. 
 Why should we not choose the people we describe from the clever minority, 
 instead of making them, as is sometimes done, unnecessarily dull, although 
 perhaps more true to nature at large ? Mr. Donaldson has done so, and much 
 of the dialogue in these comedies is clever as well as amusing. 
 
 Publishers, 
 
 Cupples and Hurd, Booksellers, BOSTON, 
 
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 Important New Books. 
 
 STRAY LEAVES FROM NEWPORT. By MRS. WM. LAMONT 
 WHEELER. Exquisitely printed and most beautifully bound in tapestry, 
 white and gold. Gilt top. Uncut edges. i2mo. $1.50. 
 
 Two editions of these charming prose idyls were exhausted within two weeks 
 of publication. Third edition now preparing. 
 
 The author is familiar with every detail of the social life of Newport, in 
 which she has long been a prominent figure , and the types of character she 
 presents will be readily recognized as direct copies front nature. She is inti- 
 mately acquainted with the scenes she describes, and the literary quality of her 
 book is of a character that will recommend it to readers of cultivated tastes. 
 Gazette. 
 
 I O N A : A Lay of Ancient Greece. By PAYNE ERSKINE. Cr. 8vo. Cloth. 
 Gilt top. $1.75. 
 
 Musical, and full of classic beauty, recalling in many passages the delicate 
 and subtle charm of Keats. 
 
 WHAT SHALL MAKE US WHOLE? or, Thoughts in the direction 
 of Man's Spiritual and Physical Integrity. By HELEN BIGELOW MERRI- 
 MAN. Third Edition, i6mo, unique boards. 75 cents. 
 
 An endeavor to present in a popular way the philosophy and practice of 
 mental healing. 
 
 The author does not claim for her essay either completeness or permanent 
 value, but hopes "to fix a few points and establish a few relative values, in an- 
 ticipation of the time when human research and experience shall complete the 
 pictures." 
 
 She holds that the human mind can achieve nothing that is so good except 
 when it becomes the channel of the infinite spirit of God, and that so-called 
 mind cures are not brought about wholly by the power of the mind over the 
 body, or by the influence of one mind over another. 
 
 Religious enthusiasm and scientific medicine abound in cases of extraordi- 
 nary cures of diseases effected by what, for the sake of convenience, is gener- 
 ally called " faith." 
 
 It will not do, says the British Medical Journal, for pathologists and psy- 
 chologists to treat these " modern miracles " so cavalierly. 
 
 In them are exhibited, in a more or less legitimate manner, the results of the 
 action of the mind upon the bodily functions and particles. 
 
 Hysteria is curable by these phenomena, since hysteria, after all, is only an 
 unhealthy mastery of the body over the mind, and is cured by this or any other 
 stimulus to the imagination. "Therefore," says the editor of the above jour- 
 nal, " there is no reason to doubt that faith-healing, so called, may have 
 more positive results than we have been accustomed to allow." 
 
 TYPICAL NEW ENGLAND ELMS AND OTHER TREES. 
 Reproduced by Photogravure from photographs by HENRY BROOKS, with an 
 Introduction, and with Notes by L. L. Dame. 410. [In press. 
 
 Cupples and Hurd, Booksellers, BOSTON. 
 
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 Important New Books. 
 
 HARVARD UNIVERSITY. 
 
 HARVARD, THE FIRST AMERICAN UNIVERSITY : ITS HIS- 
 TORY IN EARLY DAYS- By G. G. BUSH. Choicely illustrated, 
 with rare and curious engravings. Large Paper, 410, $5.00; i6mo, 
 Roxburgh binding, cloth, $1.25. 
 
 Printed in the antique style ; a very careful and beautiful piece of book- 
 making, and a valuable contribution to the early history of education in our 
 country. 
 
 HARVARD UNIVERSITY IN THE WAR OF 1861-1865. A 
 
 record of services rendered in the army and navy of the United States by 
 the graduates and students of Harvard College and the professional 
 schools. By F. H. BROWN. 8vo. With index. Cloth, gilt top, rough 
 edges. $4.00. 
 
 HOMES OF OUR FOREFATHERS. A selection of views of the 
 most interesting Historical Buildings now remaining in New England, 
 and consisting of four volumes, each independent of the others. About 
 three hundred illustrations in the four volumes from original drawings 
 taken on the spot by E. Whitefield. 
 Each volume is royal 8vo, bevelled boards, gilt edges, $6.00 per vol., or 
 
 $20.00 for the entire work. The first, third, and fourth volumes are now ready, 
 
 and the other will soon be completed. 
 Vol. I., Eastern Massachusetts; Vol. II., Western Massachusetts; Vol. III., 
 
 Connecticut and Rhode Island; Vol. IV., Maine, New Hampshire, and 
 
 Vermont. 
 
 EDITED BY RUSKIN. 
 
 THE STORY OF IDA. By FRANCES ALEXANDER (FRANCESCA). Edited, 
 with preface, by JOHN RUSKIN. With frontispiece by the author. i6mo. 
 Limp cloth, red edges. Eleventh thousand. 75 cents. 
 
 WILLIAMS ON THE CARE OF THE EYE. 
 
 OUR EYES AND HOW TO TAKE CARE OF THEM. 
 
 By HENRY W. WILLIAMS, M. D. i2mo. Cloth, red edges. $1.00. 
 The fact that the first edition of this work was some time since exhausted, 
 and that two editions of it have been published in London (without the know- 
 ledge and consent of the author), permits him to hope that its republication, 
 in a revised form, may be acceptable to those who wish to know what should 
 be done and what avoided in order that the sight, the most important of our 
 senses, may be enjoyed and preserved. Preface, 
 
 Cupples and Hurd, */S/<-, BOSTON. 
 
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 BOOKS BY ANTI-SLAVERY WRITERS. 
 ACTS OF THE ANTI-SLAVERY APOSTLES. By PARKER 
 
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 THE STORY OF ARCHER ALEXANDER, FROM SLAVERY 
 TO FREEDOM. By W. G. ELIOT. Illustrated. i6mo. Cloth. 90 cents. 
 
 WITH 32 ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS. 
 
 THE WINNIPEG COUNTRY. A record of a journey of 3 5omilesby 
 canoe, stage, saddle, and ox-cart, through the northern portion of the Ameri- 
 can continent. By a Professor of Harvard University. i2mo. Cloth. $1.75. 
 
 WORKS ABOUT BOSTON. 
 
 RAMBLES IN OLD BOSTON, NEW ENGLAND. ByEowARD 
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 parchment binding, $15.00; half levant, $25.00; i vol. quarto, half leather, 
 cloth sides, uncut edges, $6.00. 
 
 ANTIQUE VIEWS OF YE TOWN OF BOSTON. By JAMES H. 
 STARK, assisted by Dr. SAMUEL A. GREEN, Ex-Mayor of Boston, and others. 
 Illustrated. 410. Cloth. $6.00. 
 
 A DIRECTORY OF THE CHARITABLE AND BENEFICENT 
 
 ORGANIZATIONS OF BOSTON, ETC. Prepared for the Asso- 
 ciated Charities, i vol. 196 pp. i6mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 
 THE EVACUATION OFBOSTON. By GEORGE E. ELUS,D.D., LL.D. 
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 NOTES ON THE HISTORY OF THE OLD STATE HOUSE 
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 ARCH/EOLOGICAL RECONNOISSANCE INTO MEXICO. By 
 
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 woodcuts, colored engravings, etc. Second edition. Large 8vo. Cloth, 
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 notice is reserved : a letter-press book, and not stereotyped. 
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 WORKS BY RUSSIAN AUTHORS. 
 THE POEMS OF ALEXANDER PUSHKIN. Translated from the 
 
 Russian, with a bibliographical preface, an introduction, and notes, by Ivan 
 
 Panin. i vol. i6mo. Bound in yellow satin and white vellum, with an 
 
 appropriate disign and gilt top. Price, $2.00. 
 
 This is a solitaire and a masterpiece. Pushkin is by far the most celebrated 
 of all Russian poets, and only a Russian can translate him. The volume is 
 beautifully printed, and appeals to choice minds. The Beacon. 
 
 THOUGHTS- By IVAN PANIN. First and second series (sold separately). 
 
 i6mo. Cloth. Price, 50 cents each. 
 
 " Good thoughts and wise precepts." Boston Advertiser. 
 
 " An expert in pithy expression." Boston Globe. 
 
 " The truth is, this little volume in a small compass is a treasury of thought." 
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