NOVELS BY GILBERT PARKER, 
 
 UNIFORM EDITION. 
 
 The Seats of the Mighty. 
 
 Being the Memoirs of Captain Robert Moray, 
 sometime an Officer in the Virginia Regiment, 
 and afterwards of Amherst's Regiment. Illus- 
 trated. $1.50. 
 "Another historical romance of the vividness and intensity of 
 'The Seats of the Mighty ' has never come from the pen of an 
 American. . . . From the first chapter to the last word interest in 
 the book never wanes ; one finds it difficult to interrupt the narra- 
 tive with breathing space. It whirls with excitement and strange 
 adventure." — Chicago Record. 
 
 The Trail of the Sword. $1.25. 
 
 "Mr. Parker here adds to a reputation already wide, and 
 anew demonstrates his power of pictorial portrayal, and of strong 
 dramatic situation and climax. " — Philadelphia Bulletin. 
 
 The Trespasser. $1.25. 
 
 " Interest, pith, force, and charm — Mr. Parker's story pos- 
 sesses all these qualities. . . . Almost bare of synthetical decora- 
 tion, his paragraphs are stirring because they are real. We read 
 at times — as we have read the great masters of romance — breath- 
 lessly. ... In Mr. Parker we feel that a prophet has arisen, and 
 we hope for him great and greater years." — The Critic. 
 
 The Translation of a Savage. $1.25. 
 
 " Unique in plot and subject, and holds the interest from the 
 first page to the last." — Detroit Free Press. 
 
 " A story of remarkable interest, originality, and ingenuity in 
 construction. " — Boston Home Journal. 
 
 Mrs. Falchion. $1.25. 
 
 "A well-knit story developed in a singularly interesting fash- 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
 
MRS. FALCHION 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 GILBERT PARKER 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE 
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD 
 
 THE TRESPASSER 
 
 ETC. 
 
 NEW EDITION 
 
 NEW YORK 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1894, 
 By GILBERT PARKER. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 BELOW THE SUN LINE. 
 
 / 
 
 M 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Chapter I. — The Gates of the Sea, 5 
 
 II. — « Motley is Your Only Wear," - 13 
 
 III.— A Tale of No Man's Sea, - - 35 
 
 IV.— The Track of the Ishmaelite, - 43 
 
 V. — Accusing Faces, - - - -63 
 
 VI. — Mummers All, - - 73 
 
 VII.— The Wheel Comes Full Circle, - 94 
 
 VIII.— A Bridge of Peril, - - - - 108 
 
 IX.—" The Progress of the Suns," - 123 
 
 " X. — Between Day and Dark, - - 131 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 the slope of the pacific. 
 
 Chapter XL— Among the Hills of God, - - 143 
 
 XII.— The Whirligig of Time, - -152 
 
 XIIL— The Song of the Saw, - - 164 
 
 M27118 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chapter XIV.— The Path of the Eagle, - -178 
 
 " XV.— In the Trough of the Winds, - 200 
 
 XVI.— A Duel in Arcady, - - - 215 
 
 XVII.— Riding the Reefs, - - - 225 
 
 " XVIII.— The Strings of Destiny, - - 238 
 
 1 XIX. — The Sentence, - 254 
 
 " XX. — After the Storm, - - - 266 
 
 " XXL— In Port, 274 
 
MRS. FALCHION 
 
 BOOK I. 
 Below the Sun Line. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE GATES OF THE SEA. 
 
 The part I played in Mrs. Falchion's career is not 
 very noble, but I shall set it forth plainly here, else I 
 could not have the boldness to write of her faults or 
 those of others. Of my own history little need be said 
 in preface. Soon after graduating with honors, as a 
 physician, I was offered a professional post in a college 
 of medicine in Canada. It was difficult to establish a 
 practice in medicine without some capital, else I had re- 
 mained in London ; and, being in need of instant means, 
 I gladly accepted the offer. But six months were to inter- 
 vene before the beginning of my duties ; — how to fill that 
 time profitably was the question. I wished to travel, 
 having scarcely been out of England during my life. 
 Some one suggested the position of surgeon on one 
 of the great steamers running between England and 
 Australia. The idea of a long sea-voyage was seductive, 
 suffering as I had been from over-study, though the 
 position itself was not very distinguished. But in those 
 
j, .,'.';,•.... . , , M'HS. FALCHION. 
 
 days I cared more for pleasing myself than for what 
 might become a newly-made professor, and I was quite 
 prepared to say with a renowned Irish dean : " Dignity 
 and I might be married, for all the relations we are." 
 
 I secured the position with humiliating ease and 
 humiliating smallness of pay. The steamer was the 
 Fidvia. It was one of the largest belonging to the Oc- 
 cidental Company ; it carried no emigrants, and had 
 a passenger list of fashionable folk. On the voyage 
 out to Australia the weather was pleasant (save in the 
 Bay of Biscay) ; there was no sickness on board, and 
 there were many opportunities for social gaieties, the 
 cultivation of pleasant acquaintances, and the encourage- 
 ment of that brisk idleness which aids to health. This 
 was really the first holiday in my life, and I enjoyed it 
 thoroughly. Nothing of unusual interest occurred on 
 the outward voyage, for one thing, because there were 
 no unusual people among the passengers ; for another, 
 because the vessel behaved admirably. The same can- 
 not be said of the return voyage : and with it my story 
 really begins. Misfortune followed us out of Sydney 
 Harbor. We broke a crank-shaft between there and 
 Port Phillip, Melbourne ; a fire in the hold occurred at 
 Adelaide, and at Albany we buried a passenger who had 
 died of consumption one day out from King George's 
 Sound. 
 
 At Colombo also we had a misfortune, but it was 
 of a peculiar kind, and did not obtrude itself at once ; 
 it consisted of an addition to our passenger list. I 
 had spent a day in exploring Colombo — visiting Arabi 
 Pasha, inspecting Hindu temples, watching the jugglers 
 and snake-charmers, evading the sellers of brummagem 
 jewelry, and guides, and idling in the Cinnamon Gardens. 
 I returned to the ship tired out. After I had done some 
 official duties, I sauntered to the gangway, and, leaning 
 against the bulwarks, idly watched the passengers come 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 on board from the tender. Two of these made an 
 impression on me. One was a handsome and fashion- 
 ably-dressed woman who was followed by (as I guessed) a 
 maid or companion, carrying parcels ; the other, a shab- 
 bily-dressed man, who was the last to come up from the 
 tender. The woman was going down the companion-way 
 when he stepped on deck with a single bag in his hand, 
 and I noticed that he watched her with a strange look in 
 his eyes. He stood still as he looked, and remained so 
 for a moment after she had gone ; then he seemed to 
 recover himself, and started, as I thought, almost guiltily, 
 when he saw that my attention was attracted. He 
 nervously shifted his bag from one hand to the other, 
 and looked round, as though not certain of where he 
 should go. A steward came to him officiously, and 
 patronizingly too, — which is the bearing of servants to 
 shabbily-dressed people, — but he shook his head, caught 
 his bag smartly away from the steward's fingers, and 
 moved towards the after-part of the ship, reserved for 
 intermediate passengers. As he went he hesitated, came 
 to the side of the vessel, looked down at the tender for a 
 moment, cast his eyes to where the anchor was being 
 weighed, made as if he would go back to the tender ; 
 then, seeing that the ladder was now drawn up, sighed, 
 and passed on to the second-class companion-way, 
 through which he disappeared. 
 
 I stood commenting idly to myself upon this incident, 
 which, slight though it was, appeared to have signifi- 
 cance of a kind, when Hungerford, the fifth officer, 
 caught me slyly by the arm, and said : " Lucky fellow ! 
 Nothing to do but watch the world go by. I wish I had 
 you in the North Atlantic on a whaler, or in the No 
 Man's Sea on a pearl-smack for a matter of thirty days." 
 
 " What would come of that, Hungerford ? " said I. 
 
 "An exchange of mind for matter, Marmion ; muscle 
 for meditation, physics for philosophy." 
 
8 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " You do me too much honor. At present I've neither 
 mind, meditation, nor philosophy ; I am simply vegetat- 
 ing." 
 
 " Which proves you to be demoralized. I never saw a 
 surgeon on a ship who wasn't. They began with mind, — 
 more or less, — they ate the fruits of indolence, got pre- 
 cious near being sinful as well as indolent, and ended 
 with cheap cynicism, with the old Quid refert, the thing 
 Hamlet plagiarized in his, ' But it is no matter.' " 
 
 " Isn't this an unusual occupation for you, Hungerford 
 — this Swiftonian criticism ? " 
 
 "Swiftonian is it ? You see I've practised on many of 
 your race, Marmion, and I have it pat now. You are 
 all of two classes : those who sicken in soul and leave 
 after one trip, and those who make another trip and are 
 lost." 
 
 " Lost ? How ? " 
 
 Hungerford pressed his fingers hard on my breast- 
 bone, looked at me enigmatically from under his well- 
 hung brows, and replied : " Brains put out to seed, morals 
 put out to vegetate— that's ' lost.' " 
 
 " What about fifth officers ? " 
 
 " Fifth officers work like navvies, and haven't time for 
 foolishness. They've got to walk the bridge, and practise 
 the boats, and be responsible for luggage ; and here I am, 
 talking to you like an infallible undergraduate, while the 
 Lascars are in endless confusion with a half-dozen pieces 
 of luggage, and the first officer foams because I'm not 
 there to set them right. I leave you to your dreams. 
 Good-by." 
 
 Hungerford was younger than myself, but he knew the 
 world, and I was flattered by these uncommon remarks, 
 because he talked to no one else on the ship in the 
 same way. He never sought to make friends, had a 
 thorough contempt for social trifling, and shrugged his 
 shoulders at the " swagger " of some of the other officers. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 9 
 
 I think he longed for a different kind of sea-life, so ac- 
 customed had he been to an adventurous and hardy- 
 career. He had entered the Occidental service because 
 he had fallen in love with a pretty girl, and thought it his 
 duty to become a " regular," and thus have the chance 
 of seeing her every three months in London. He had 
 conceived a liking for me, reciprocated on my part ; the 
 more so, because I knew that behind his blunt exterior 
 there was a warm and manly heart. When he left me I 
 went to my cabin and prepared for dinner, laughing, as 
 I did so, at his keen, uncompromising criticism, which I 
 knew was correct enough ; for of all official posts, that 
 of a ship-surgeon is least calculated to make a man take 
 a pride in existence. At its best it is assisting in the move- 
 ment of a panorama ; at its worst, worse than a vegetation. 
 Hungerford's solicitude for myself, however, was mis- 
 placed, because this one voyage would end my career as 
 ship-surgeon ; and, besides, I had not vegetated, but had 
 been interested in everything that had occurred, hum- 
 drum as it was. 
 
 With these thoughts I looked out of the port-hole to 
 see the shores of Colombo, Galle Face, and Mount 
 Lavinia fading in the distance, and heard seven bells, — 
 the time for dinner. When I took my seat at the table 
 of which I was the head, my steward handed to me a 
 slip of paper, saying that the chief steward had given a 
 new passenger, a lady, the seat at my right hand, which 
 had been vacated at Colombo. The name on the paper 
 was, "Mrs. Falchion." The seat was still empty, and I 
 wondered if this was the beautiful passenger who had 
 attracted me and seemingly interested the intermediate 
 passenger. I was selfish enough to wish so : and it 
 
 was so. 
 
 We had finished the soup before she entered. The 
 chief steward, with that anxious civility which beauty can 
 inspire in even so great a personage, conducted her to 
 
IO MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 her seat beside me. I confess that though I was at once 
 absorbed in this occurrence, I noticed also that some of 
 the ladies present smiled significantly when they saw at 
 whose table Mrs. Falchion was placed, and looked not a 
 little ironically at the purser, who, as it was known, always 
 tried to get for his table the newest addition to the pas- 
 senger-list — when it was a pretty woman. I believe that 
 one or two rude people chaffed the chief steward about 
 " favoring the doctor ; " but he had a habit of saying 
 uncomfortable things in a deferential way, and they did 
 not pursue the subject. Then they commiserated the 
 purser, who was an unpleasant little Jew of an envious 
 turn of mind ; and he, as I was told, likened me to Sir 
 John Falstaff. I was sensitive in those days, and this 
 annoyed me, particularly that I had had nothing to do 
 with placing Mrs. Falchion at my table. We are always 
 most sensitive when we are guilty concerning the spirit 
 and not the letter. 
 
 One who has lived the cosmopolitan life of London 
 should be quick at detecting nationalities, but I found it 
 difficult, even after I heard her speak, to guess at Mrs. 
 Falchion's native land. There were good reasons for 
 this, as will be duly seen. Her appearance in the saloon 
 caused an instant buzz of admiration and interest, of 
 which she seemed oblivious. If it was acting, it was 
 good acting ; if it was lack of self-consciousness, it was 
 remarkable. As I soon came to know, it was the latter ; 
 which, in such a woman, increased the remarkableness. 
 I was inclined at first to venture the opinion that she was 
 an actress, but I discovered that she possessed the attract- 
 ing power of an actress, without the mind or manners of 
 one ; her very lack of self-consciousness was proof of 
 this emancipation. 
 
 When she sat down, I immediately welcomed her by 
 name to my table. The only surprise she showed at my 
 knowledge of her name and my self-introduction was to 
 
MRS. FALCHION. II 
 
 lift her head slightly and look at me, as if wondering 
 whether I was likely to be an inquisitive and troublesome 
 host ; and also, as I thought, to measure me according to 
 her measure. It was a quick look, and the interest she 
 showed was of a passive kind. She asked me, as she 
 might an old acquaintance — or a waiter — if the soup was 
 good, and what the fish was like ; decided, on my recom- 
 mendation, to wait for the entrees ; requested her next 
 neighbor to pass the olives ; in an impersonal way began 
 to talk about the disadvantages of life at sea ; regretted 
 that all ship food tasted alike ; wondered if the cook 
 knew how to truffle a turkey, and added that the menu 
 was a national compromise. 
 
 Now that she was close to me, I could see that her 
 beauty was real and notable. Her features were regular ; 
 her eyes of a greyish violet ; her chin strong, yet not too 
 strong — the chin of a singer ; her hands had that charm- 
 ing, quiet certainty of movement possessed by so few ; 
 and her color was of the most delightful health. In this 
 delightful health, in her bountiful yet perfect physical 
 eloquence, her attractiveness, as it seemed to me, chiefly 
 lay. For no one would ever have guessed her to possess 
 an emotional temperament. All that was outer was fas- 
 cinating ; all that was inner suggested coldness. After 
 experience assured me that all who came to know her 
 shared this estimate, even in those days when every man 
 on the ship was willing to be her slave. She had a com- 
 pelling atmosphere, a possessive presence, and yet her 
 mind at this time was unemotional ; like Octavia the wife 
 of Mark Antony, " of a cold conversation." She was 
 striking and unusual in appearance, and yet well within 
 convention and " good form." Her dress was simply and 
 modestly worn, and had little touches of grace and taste 
 which, I understand, many ladies on board sought to imi- 
 tate, when they recovered from the first feeling of envy. 
 
 She was an example of splendid life. I cared to look 
 
12 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 at her as one would dwell on the sleek beauty of a deer ; 
 as, indeed, I have many a time since then, in India, 
 watched a tigress asleep on her chain, claws hidden, wild 
 life latent but slumbering. I would have staked my life 
 that Mrs. Falchion was insensible to love or passion, and 
 unimpeachable in the broad scheme of right and wrong ; 
 imperious in requiring homage, incapable of giving it. 
 I noticed when she laughed, as she did once at the table, 
 that her teeth were very white and small and square ; 
 and, like a school-girl, she had a habit of clicking them 
 together very lightly, but not conspicuously, as if trying 
 their quality. It suggested, however, something a little 
 cruel. Her appetite was very good. She was coolly 
 anxious about the amusements ; she asked me if I could 
 get her a list of the passengers, said that she was never 
 seasick, and took a languid interest in the ladies present — 
 her glance at the men was at first keen, then neutral. 
 
 Once again during the meal she turned and flashed 
 an inquiring glance at me. 1 caught her eyes. She 
 did not show embarrassment, and asked me if the band 
 insisted on playing every day. Before she left the 
 saloon, one could see that many present were talking 
 about her. Even the grim old captain followed her with 
 his eyes as she went. When she rose, I asked her if she 
 was going on deck. I did it casually, as though it was 
 her usual custom to appear there after dinner, and for me 
 also. In like fashion she replied that her maid had some 
 unpacking to do ; she herself had some things to super- 
 intend, and, when this was done, she intended to spend 
 a time on deck. Then, with an enigmatical smile, she 
 passed out. 
 
 Note by Dr. Marmion appended to his MSS. : — " Many of the 
 conversations and monologues which appear in this story, not heard 
 by myself when they occurred, were told to me afterwards, or got 
 from the diaries and notes of the persons concerned. Only one or 
 two are purely imaginary." G. P. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 11 MOTLEY IS YOUR ONLY WEAR." 
 
 I went to my cabin, took a book, sat down, and began 
 to smoke. My thoughts drifted from the book, and then 
 occurred a strange, incongruous thing. It was a remem- 
 bered incident. It came like a vision, as I was lighting a 
 fresh cigar : — 
 
 A boy and a girl in a village chemist's shop ; he with 
 a boy's love for her, she responding in terms, but not in 
 fact. He passed near her, carrying a measure of sul- 
 phuric acid. She put out her hand suddenly and play- 
 fully, as if to bar his way. His foot slipped on the 
 oily floor, and the acid spilled on his hands and the skirt 
 of her dress. He turned instantly, and plunged his hands 
 into a measure of alcohol standing near, before the acid 
 had more than slightly scalded them. She glanced at 
 his startled face ; hers was without emotion. She looked 
 down and said petulantly : " You have spoiled my dress ; 
 I can't go into the street." The boy's clothes were 
 burned also. He was poor, and to replace them must 
 be a trial to him ; her father owned the shop, and was 
 well-to-do. Still he grieved most that she should be 
 annoyed, though he saw her injustice. But she turned 
 away and left him. 
 
 Another scene then crossed the disc of smoke : — 
 
 The boy and girl, now man and woman, standing alone 
 in the chemist's shop. He had come out of the great 
 working world after travel in many countries. His fame 
 had come with him. She was to be married the next day 
 to a seller of purple and fine linen. He was smiling a 
 good-by, and there was nothing of the old past in the 
 smile. The flame now was in her eyes, and she put out 
 both her hands to stop him as he turned to go ; but his 
 
14 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 face was passionless. " You have spoiled my heart," she 
 said ; " I cannot go into the world so. " " It is too late ; 
 the measures are empty," he replied. " My hate, then, 
 will follow you after to-morrow," was the answer. But 
 he turned and left her, and she blindly stretched out 
 her hands and followed him into the darkness, weeping. 
 
 Was it the scent of the chemicals in my cabin, coupled 
 with some subterranean association of things, that made 
 these scenes appear before me at this moment ? What 
 had they to do with Mrs. Falchion ? 
 
 A time came when the occurrence appeared to me in 
 the light of prescience ; but that was when I began to 
 understand that all ideas, all reason and philosophy, are 
 the result of outer impression. The primal language of 
 our minds is in the concrete. Afterwards it becomes the 
 cypher, and even at its highest it is expressed by angles, 
 lines, and geometrical forms — substances and allusive 
 shapes. But now, as the scene passed by, I had involun- 
 tarily thrust out my hands, as did the girl when she passed 
 out into the night, and, in doing so, touched the curtain 
 of my cabin door, swinging in towards me. I recovered 
 myself, and a man timidly stepped inside, knocking on 
 the lintel as he did so. It was the Intermediate Passen- 
 ger. His face was very pale. He looked ill. 
 
 Poor as his dress was, I saw that he had known the 
 influences and practised the graces of good society, 
 though his manner was hesitating and anxious now. I 
 knew at a glance that he was suffering from both physical 
 pain and mental worry. Without a word I took his 
 wrist and felt his pulse ; and he said : " I thought I might 
 venture to come " 
 
 I motioned to him not to speak. I counted the irreg- 
 ular pulse-beats, and listened to the action of his heart 
 with my ear to his breast. There lay his physical trouble. 
 I poured out a dose of digitalis, and, handing it to him, 
 asked him to sit down. As he sat and drank the medi- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 15 
 
 cine, I rapidly studied him. The chin was firm, and the 
 eyes had a dogged, persistent look that, when turned on 
 you, saw not you, but something beyond you. The head 
 was thrown slightly forward, the eyes looking up at an 
 anp-le. This last action was habitual with him. It gave 
 him a peculiar earnestness. As I noted these peculiari- 
 ties, my mind was also with his case ; I saw that his life 
 was threatened. Perhaps he guessed what was going 
 on in me, for he said in a low, cultured voice : " The 
 wheels will stop too long sometime, and there will be no 
 rebound ; " — referring to the irregular action of his heart. 
 
 " Perhaps that is true," I said. " Yet it depends a 
 good deal upon yourself when it will be. Men can die if 
 they wish without committing suicide. Look at the Maori, 
 the Tongan, the Malay. They can also prolong life 
 (not indefinitely, but in a case like yours considerably), 
 if they choose. You can lengthen your days if you do 
 not brood on fatal things — fatal to you ; if you do not 
 worry yourself into the grave." 
 
 I knew that something of this was platitude, and that 
 counsel to such a man must be of a more possible cast, if 
 it is to be followed. I was aware also, that, in nine cases 
 out of ten, worry is not a voluntary or constitutional 
 thing, but springs from some extraneous cause. He 
 smiled faintly, raised his head a little higher, and said : 
 " Yes, that's just it, I suppose ; but then we don't order 
 our own constitutions ; and I believe, Doctor, that you 
 must kill a nerve before it ceases to hurt. One doesn't 
 choose to worry, any more than one chooses to lay bare 
 a nerve." And then his eyes dropped, as if he thought 
 he may have said too much. 
 
 Again I studied him, repeating my definitions in my 
 mind. He was not a drunkard. He might have had no 
 vice, so free was his face from any sign of dissipation or 
 indulgence ; but there was suffering, possibly the marks 
 of some endured shame. The suffering and shadows 
 
l6 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 showed the more, because his features were refined 
 enough for a woman. And altogether it struck me that he 
 was possessed by some one idea which gave his features 
 a kind of sorrowful eloquence, such as one sees on occa- 
 sion in the face of a great actor like Salvini, on the fore- 
 head of a devout Buddhist, or in the eyes of a Jesuit 
 missionary who martyrs himself in the wilds. 
 
 I felt at once for the man a sympathy, a brotherli- 
 ness, the causes of which I should be at a loss to trace. 
 Most people have this experience at one time or another 
 in their lives. It is not a matter of sex ; it may be 
 between an old man and a little child, a great man and a 
 laborer, a school-girl and an old negro woman. There 
 is in such companionships less self-interest than in any 
 other. As I have said, I thought that this man had a 
 trouble ; and I wished to know it, not from curiosity, — 
 though my mind had a selfish, inquiring strain, — but 
 because I hoped I might be able to help him in some 
 way. I put my hand on his shoulder and replied : 
 " You will never be better unless you get rid of your 
 worry." 
 
 He drew in a sharp breath and replied : " I know 
 that. I'm afraid I shall never be better." 
 
 There was a silence in which we looked at each other 
 steadily, and then he added, with an intense but quiet 
 sadness, " Never — never ! " 
 
 At that he moved his hand across his forehead wearily, 
 rose, and turned towards the door. He swayed as he 
 did so, and would have fallen, but I caught him as he 
 lost consciousness, and laid him on the cabin sofa. I 
 chafed his hands, unloosed his collar, and opened the 
 bosom of his shirt. As the linen dropped away from his 
 throat, a small portrait on ivory was exposed on his 
 breast. I did not look closely at it then, but it struck 
 me that the woman's head in the portrait was familiar, 
 though the artistic work was not recent, and the fashion 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 17 
 
 of the hair was of years before. When his eyes opened, 
 and he felt his neck bare, he hurriedly put up his hand 
 and drew the collar close, and, at the same time, sent a 
 startled and inquiring look at me. After a few moments 
 I helped him to his feet, and, thanking me more with a 
 look than with words, he turned towards the door again. 
 
 " Wait," I said, " until I give you some medicine, and 
 then you shall take my arm to your cabin." 
 
 With a motion of the hand, signifying the uselessness 
 of remedies, he sat down again. As I handed him the 
 phial I continued : " I know that it is none of my busi- 
 ness, but you are a suffering man. To help your body, 
 your mind should be helped also. Can't you tell me 
 your trouble ? Perhaps I should be able to serve you. 
 I would if I could." 
 
 It may be that I spoke with a little feeling and an ap- 
 parent honesty, for his eyes searched mine in a kind of 
 earnest bewilderment, as if this could not be true ; as if, 
 indeed, life had gone so hard with him that he had for- 
 gotten the way of kindness. Then he put out his 
 hand and said brokenly : "lam grateful, believe me. I 
 can't tell you just now, but I will soon perhaps." His 
 hand was upon the curtain of the door, when my steward's 
 voice was heard outside, calling my name. The man 
 himself entered immediately, and said that Mrs. Falchion 
 sent her compliments, and would I come at once to see 
 her companion. Miss Caron, who had hurt herself ? 
 
 The Intermediate Passenger turned towards me a 
 strange look, his lips opened as if about to speak, but he 
 said nothing. At the instant there came to my mind 
 whom the picture on his breast resembled : it was Mrs. 
 Falchion. 
 
 I think he saw this new intelligence in my face, and 
 a beseeching look took the place of words, as he slowly 
 left the cabin, mutely refusing assistance. 
 
 I went to Mrs. Falchion's cabin, and met her outside 
 
I 8 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 the door. She wore a look of displeasure. " Justine has 
 hurt herself," she said. " Please attend to her ; I am 
 going on deck." 
 
 The unfeeling nature of this remark held me to the 
 spot for a moment, then I entered the cabin. Justine 
 Caron, a delicate but warm-faced girl of a little more 
 than twenty, was sitting on the cabin sofa, her head sup- 
 ported against the wall, and her hand wound in a hand- 
 kerchief soaked in blood. Her dress and the floor were 
 also stained. I undid the handkerchief and found an 
 ugly wound in the palm of the hand. I called the stew- 
 ard and sent him to my dispensary for some necessaries ; 
 then I asked her how it happened. At the moment I 
 saw the cause — a broken bottle lying on the floor. " The 
 ship rolled," she said. " The bottle fell from the shelf 
 upon the marble washstand, and, breaking, from there 
 to the floor. Madame caught at my arm to save herself 
 from falling, but I slipped, and was cut on the bottle 
 so." 
 
 As she ended there was a knock, but the curtain was 
 not drawn, and Mrs. Falchion's voice was heard : " My 
 dress is stained, Justine." 
 
 The half-fainting girl weakly replied : "I am very 
 sorry, madame, indeed." 
 
 To this Mrs. Falchion rejoined : " When you have been 
 attended to, you may go to bed, Justine. I shall not 
 want you again to-night. But I shall change my dress. 
 It is so unpleasant ; I hate blood. I hope you will be 
 well in the morning." 
 
 To this Justine replied : " Ah, madame, I am sorry. I 
 could not help it ; but I shall be quite well in the morn- 
 ing, I am sure." Then she added quietly to me : " The 
 poor madame ! She will not see suffering. She hates 
 pain. Sickness troubles her. Shall I be able to use my 
 hand very soon, monsieur ? " 
 
 There was a wistful look in her eyes, and guessing 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 19 
 
 why it was there, I said : " Soon, I hope ; in a few days, 
 no doubt." 
 
 Her face lighted up and she said : " Madame likes 
 about her people who are happy and well." Then, 
 as if he had been indiscreet, she hurriedly added : 
 " But she is very kind ; " and stooping down quickly, 
 her face whitening with the effort, she caught up the 
 broken glass, and threw it through the porthole, into the 
 sea. 
 
 A half-hour later I went on deck, and found Mrs. 
 Falchion comfortably seated in her deck chair. I 
 brought a stool over and sat down beside her. To this 
 hour the quickness with which I got upon friendly terms 
 with her astonishes me. "Justine is better?" she asked, 
 and her hand made a slight motion of disgust. 
 
 " Yes. She was not dangerously hurt." 
 
 " Let us change the subject, please. They are going 
 to have a fancy-dress ball on board, I believe, before we 
 get to Aden. How tiresome ! Isn't it a little affectation 
 on the part of the stage-struck committee ? Isn't it — 
 inconsequent ? " 
 
 " That depends," I said vaguely, inviting a question. 
 She idled with a book in her lap. 
 
 " On what ? " 
 
 " On those who go, what costumes are worn, and how 
 much beauty and art appear." 
 
 " But the trouble ! Does it pay ? What return does 
 one get ? " 
 
 " If all admire, half are envious, some are jealous, and 
 one is devoted, isn't that enough ? " I think I was a fool 
 that night. 
 
 " You seem to understand women," she said with a 
 puzzling, and not quite satisfactory smile. " Yes, all 
 that is something." 
 
 Though I was looking at the sea rather than at her, I 
 saw again that inquiring look in her eyes, — such a meas- 
 
20 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 uring look as a recruiting sergeant might give a victim 
 of the queen's shilling. 
 
 After a moment's pause she continued, I thought, 
 abstractedly : " As what should you go ? " 
 
 I answered lightly and without premeditation : " As 
 Caius Cassius. Why should you not appear as Portia ? " 
 
 She lifted her eyebrows at me. " As Portia ? " 
 
 " As Portia, the wife of Brutus," I blundered on, at the 
 same time receiving her permission, by a nod, to light 
 my cigar. 
 
 " The pious, love-sick wife of Brutus ! " This in a 
 disdainful tone, and the white teeth clicked softly yet 
 cruelly together. 
 
 "Yes ; a good disguise," I said banteringly, though I 
 fancy somewhat tentatively also, and with a touch of 
 rudeness. I was thinking at that moment of the Inter- 
 mediate Passenger, and I was curious. 
 
 " And you think of going in the disguise of a gentle- 
 man — Caius Cassius was that, wasn't he ? " she retorted 
 in a neutral, but slightly ironical tone. 
 
 " I suppose he was, though he was punished once for 
 rudeness," I replied apologetically. 
 
 " Quite so," was the decisive reply. 
 
 I felt that she was perfectly cool, while I was a little 
 confused, and ashamed, too, that I had attempted to be 
 playfully satirical. And so, wondering what I should 
 say next, I remarked in desperation, " Do you like the 
 sea ? " 
 
 " I am never ill at sea," was her reply, " but I do 
 not really like it ; it is treacherous. The land would 
 satisfy me if — " She paused. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Falchion,—' if ' ? " 
 
 < ; If I did not wish to travel," she vaguely added, look- 
 ing blandly at me. 
 
 " You have travelled much ?" I ventured. 
 
 r 'A great deal." And again I saw that scrutiny in her 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 2 1 
 
 eyes. It occurred to me at the moment, that she might 
 think I possessed some previous knowledge of her. 
 
 My mind became occupied again with the Interme- 
 diate Passenger, and the portrait which he wore about 
 his neck. I almost laughed to think of the melodra- 
 matic turn which my first conversation with this woman 
 might chance to take. I knew that I was dealing with 
 one who was able to meet cleverly any advance of mine, 
 but I determined to lead the talk into as deep waters as 
 possible. 
 
 " I suppose, too, you are a good practical sailor ; that 
 is, you understand all about seamanship, if you have 
 travelled much ? " I do not know why I said that, for 
 afterwards it sounded foolish to me. 
 
 " Pretty well," she replied. " I can manage a sail, I 
 know the argot, I could tell the shrouds from the bul- 
 warks, and I've rowed a boat in a choppy sea." 
 
 " It is not an accomplishment usual to your sex." 
 
 " It was ordinary enough where I spent the early part 
 of my life," was the idle reply ; and she settled herself 
 more comfortably in her chair. 
 
 " Yes ? May I ask you where that was ? " and, as I 
 said this, it occurred to me that she was, perhaps, leading 
 me on, instead of my leading her ; to betray me as to 
 anything I knew about her. 
 
 " In the South Seas," she replied. " My father was a 
 British Consul in the Islands." 
 
 "You have not come from the Islands now, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 "No," she said, a little more softly. "It is years 
 since I was in Samoa. ... My father is buried 
 there." 
 
 " You must have found it a romantic life in those half- 
 barbaric places." 
 
 She shifted in her chair. " Romantic ! " Her tone 
 conveyed a very slight uneasiness and vagueness. " I'm 
 
22 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 afraid you must ask some one else about that sort of 
 thing. I did not see much romance, but I saw plenty 
 that was half-barbaric." Here she laughed slightly. 
 
 Just then I saw the lights of a vessel far off. " See, 
 a vessel ! " I said ; and I watched the lights in silence, 
 but thinking. I saw that she, too, was watching idly. 
 At length, as if continuing the conversation, I said : 
 " Yes, I suppose life must be somewhat adventurous and 
 dangerous among savage people like the Samoans, Ton- 
 gans, and Fijians." 
 
 " Indeed, then," she replied, decisively, " you are not 
 to suppose anything of the kind. The danger is not for 
 the white people, but for the savages." 
 
 At this I appeared, as I really was, interested ; and 
 begged her to explain what she meant. She thought a 
 moment, and then, briefly but clearly, sketched the life 
 of those islands, showing how, in spite of missionary 
 labor selfish and unselfish, the native became the victim 
 of civilization, the prey of the white trader and beach- 
 comber, who were protected by men-of-war with con- 
 vincing Nordenfeldt and Hotchkiss guns ; how the stal- 
 wart force of barbaric existence declined, and with it the 
 crude sense of justice, the practice of communism at its 
 simplest and purest, the valor of nationality. These 
 phrases are my own ; the substance, not the fashion, of 
 her speech. 
 
 "You do not, then," I said, "believe wholly in the 
 unselfishness of missionaries, the fair dealing of traders, 
 and the impartiality of justice, as exhibited through steel- 
 clad cruisers ? " 
 
 " I have seen too much to be quite fair in judgment, I 
 fear, even to men-of-war's men ; " and she paused, lis- 
 tening to a song which came from the after part of the 
 ship. The air was very still, and a few of the words of 
 the droll, plaintive ditty came to us. 
 
 Quartermaster Stone, as he passed us, hummed it, and 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 2 3 
 
 some voices of the first-class passengers near joined in 
 the refrain : 
 
 "Sing, hey, for a rover on the sea, 
 And the old world ! r ' 
 
 Some days later I got the whole song from one of the 
 intermediate passengers, and the last verse of it I give 
 here : 
 
 " Pm a sailin', I'm a sailin' on the sea, 
 To a harbor where the wind is still. 
 Oh, my dearie, do you wait for me ? 
 
 Oh, my dearie, do you love me still ? 
 Sing, hey, for a rover on the sea, 
 And the old world ! " 
 
 I noticed that Mrs. Falchion's brow contracted as the 
 song proceeded, making a deep, vertical line between the 
 eyes, and that the fingers of the hand nearest me closed 
 on the chair-arm firmly. The hand attracted me. It 
 was long, the fingers were shapely, but not markedly 
 tapering, and suggested firmness. I remarked after- 
 wards, when I chanced to shake hands with her, that her 
 fingers enclosed one's hand ; it was not a mere touch or 
 pressure, but an unemotional and possessive clasp. I felt 
 sure that she had heard the song before, else it had not 
 produced even this so slight effect on her nerves. I said : 
 " It is a quaint song. I suppose you are familiar with it 
 and most of its kind." 
 
 " I fancy I have heard it somewhere," she answered in 
 a cold voice. 
 
 I am aware that my next question was not justified by 
 our very short acquaintance, but this acquaintance had 
 been singular from its beginning, and it did not seem at 
 that moment as it looks on paper ; besides, I had the 
 Intermediate Passenger in my mind. " Perhaps your 
 husband is a naval man ? " I asked. 
 
 A faint flush passed over her face, and then looking at 
 me with a neutral expression and some indolence of man- 
 ner, she replied : " My husband was not a naval man." 
 
24 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 She said " was not" That implied his death. There 
 was no trouble in her manner ; I could detect no sign of 
 excitement. I turned to look at the lights of the ap- 
 proaching vessel, and there, leaning against the railing 
 that divided the two decks, was the Intermediate Passen- 
 ger. He was looking at us intently. A moment after 
 he disappeared. Beyond doubt there was some intimate 
 association between these two. 
 
 My thoughts were, however, distracted by our vessel 
 signalling the other. Hungerford was passing just then, 
 and I said : " Have you any idea what vessel it is, Hun- 
 gerford ? " 
 
 " Yes ; man-of-war Porcupine, bound for Aden, I 
 think." 
 
 Mrs. Falchion at this laughed strangely, as she leaned 
 forward, looking, and then, rising quickly, said : " I think 
 I will walk." 
 
 " May I accompany you ? " I asked. 
 
 She inclined her head, and we joined the promenaders. 
 
 The band was playing, and, for a ship-band, playing 
 very well, the ballet music of Delibes's Sylvia. The 
 musicians had caught that unaccentuated and sensuous 
 swing of the melody, which the soft, tropical atmosphere 
 rendered still more languorous. With Mrs. Falchion's 
 hand upon my arm, I felt a sense of capitulation to the 
 music and to her, uncanny in its suddenness ; at this 
 distance of time it seems to me absurd. I had expe- 
 rienced something of the same feeling once with the hand 
 of a young medical student, who, skilled in thought read- 
 ing, discovered the number of a bank note that I had in 
 my mind. 
 
 This woman had an attractiveness compelling and 
 delightful, at least in its earlier application to me. Both 
 professionally and socially I have been brought into con- 
 tact with women of beauty and grace, but never one who, 
 like Mrs. Falchion, being beautiful, seemed so uncon- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 25 
 
 scious of the fact, so indifferent to those about her, so un- 
 touched by another's emotion, so lacking in sensitiveness 
 of heart, and who still drew people irresistibly to her. 
 I am speaking now of the earlier portion of our acquaint- 
 ance, and of her as she was up to this period in her life. 
 
 I was not alone in this opinion of her, for, as time 
 went on, every presentable man and woman on the boat 
 was introduced to her ; and if some women criticised her 
 and some disliked her, ail acknowledged her talent and 
 her imperial attraction. Among the men her name was 
 never spoken but with reserve and respect, and her after- 
 noon-teas were like a little court. She had no compro- 
 mising tenderness of manner for man or woman ; she 
 ruled, yet was unapproachable through any avenues of 
 sentiment. She had a quiet aplo?nb, which would be 
 called sang froid in a man. 
 
 "Did you ever see a Spanish-Mexican woman dance ? " 
 she said in one of the pauses of the music. 
 
 " Never. Never any good dancing, save what one 
 gets at a London theatre." 
 
 " That is graceful," she said, " but not dancing. You 
 have heard of music stirring the blood, of savage races 
 and others working themselves up to ecstatic fury ? 
 Maybe you have seen the Dervishes, or the Sioux, or the 
 Australian aboriginals ? No ? Well, I have ; and I have 
 seen, which is so much more, those Spanish-Mexican 
 women dance. Did you ever see anything so thrilling, 
 so splendid, that you felt you must possess it?" She 
 asked me that with her hand upon my arm ! " Well, 
 that's it. I have felt that way towards a horse which 
 has won a great race, and to a woman who has carried 
 me with her, through the fantastic drama of her dance, 
 until she stood at the climax, head thrown back, face 
 glowing, a statue. It is grand to be eloquent like that, 
 not in words, but in person." 
 
 In this was the key to her own nature. Body and 
 
2 6 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 mind, she was free from ordinary morbidness, unless her 
 dislike of all suffering was morbid. With her this was 
 the hatred of any shock to the senses. She was selfish 
 at all points. 
 
 These conclusions were pursued at the expense of 
 speech on my part. At first she did not appear to mind 
 my silence. She seemed to have thoughts of her own ; 
 but she shook them off with a little firm motion of the 
 shoulders, and, with the assumption of an almost child- 
 like manner and a fine insouciance, said : " Well, amuse 
 me." 
 
 " Amuse you ? " was my reply ; " delighted to do so if 
 I can. How ? " 
 
 " Talk to me," was the quick response. 
 
 " Would that accomplish the purpose ? " This, in a 
 tone of mock protest. 
 
 " Please don't be foolish, Dr. Marmion. I dislike hav- 
 ing to explain. Tell me things." 
 
 " About what ? " 
 
 " Oh, about yourself ! About people you have met, 
 and all that ; for I suppose you have seen a good deal 
 and lived a good deal." 
 
 " About hospital cases ? " I asked a little maliciously. 
 
 " No, please, no ! I abhor everything that is sick and 
 poor and miserable." 
 
 " Well," said I, at idle venture, " if not a hospital, what 
 about a jail ? " 
 
 I felt the hand on my arm twitch slightly, and then 
 her reply came : " I said I hated everything that was 
 wretched and wicked. You are either dense or purposely 
 irritating." 
 
 " Well, then, a college ? " 
 
 " A college ? Yes, that sounds better. But I don't 
 want descriptions about being ' gated ' or ' sent down ' or 
 'ploughed,' and that kind of commonplace. I should 
 prefer, unless your vanity leads you irresistibly in that 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 27 
 
 direction, something with mature life and amusement ; 
 or, at least, life and incident and good sport, if you 
 don't dwell viciously on the horrors of killing." 
 
 On the instant there came to me the remembrance of 
 Professor Valiant's wife. I think it was not what she 
 wanted, but I had a purpose, and I began : — " Every one 
 at St. Luke s admired and respected Professor Valiant's 
 wife, she was so frank, cordial, and prettily down-right. 
 In our rooms we all called her a good chap, and a 
 dashed good chap when her husband happened to be 
 rustier than usual. He was our professor in science. 
 It was the general belief that he chose science for his life- 
 work, because it gave unusual opportunities for torture. 
 He was believed to be a devoted vivisectionist ; he cer- 
 tainly had methods of mental and domestic cruelty, mas- 
 terly in their ingenuity. He could make a whole class 
 raw with punishment in a few words, and many a scorch- 
 ing bit of Latin verse was written about his hook nose 
 and fishy eye. 
 
 " But his highest talents in this direction were reserved 
 for his wife. His distorted idea of his own importance 
 made him view her as a chattel, an inferior being ; the 
 more so, I believe, because she brought him little money 
 when he married her. She was too much the woman to 
 pretend to kneel to him, and because she would not be 
 his slave, she had a hard time of it. He began by insist- 
 ing that she should learn science, in order that she 
 might assist him in his experiments. She knew that she 
 had no taste for it, that it was no part of her wifely duty, 
 and she did what suited her better— followed the hounds. 
 It was a picture to see her riding across country. She 
 could take a fence with a sound hunter like a bird. 
 And so it happened that, after a time, they went their 
 own way pretty well ; he ignoring her, neglecting her, 
 deprecating her by manner if not by speech, and mak- 
 ing her life more than uncomfortable. 
 
28 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " She was always kind to me. I was the youngest chap 
 in the college, and was known as ' Marmy ' by every 
 one ; and because I was fonder of science than most 
 other men in the different years, Valiant was more 
 gracious to me than the rest, though I didn't like him. 
 One day when I called, I heard her say to him, not 
 knowing that I was near : ' Whatever you feel, or how- 
 ever you act towards me in private, I will have respect 
 when others are present.' 
 
 " It was the custom for the professors to invite each 
 student to lunch or dinner once during term-time. 
 Being somewhat of a favorite of both Professor Valiant 
 and his wife however, I lunched with them often. I 
 need hardly say that I should not have exceeded the 
 regulation once, had it not been for Mrs. Valiant. The 
 last time / went is as clear in my memory as if it were 
 yesterday. Valiant was more satirical and cold-blooded 
 than usual. I noticed a kind of shining hardness in his 
 wife's eyes, which gave me a strange feeling ; yet she 
 was talkative and even gay, I thought, while I more than 
 once clenched my fist under the table, so much did I 
 want to pummel him ; for I was a lover of hers in a 
 deferential, boyish way. 
 
 " At last, knowing that she liked the hunt, I asked her 
 if she was going to the meet on the following Satur- 
 day, saying that I intended to follow, having been 
 offered a horse. With a steely ring to her voice, and a 
 further brightening of the eyes, she said : ' You're a 
 stout little sportsman, Marmy. Yes, I am going on 
 Major Karney's big horse, Carbine.' 
 
 " Valiant looked up, half sneering, half doubtful, I 
 thought, and rejoined : ' Carbine is a valuable horse, and 
 the fences are stiff in the Garston country.' 
 
 " She smiled gravely ; then, with her eyes fixed on her 
 husband, said : ' Carbine is a perfect gentleman. He'll 
 do what I ask him. I have ridden him.' 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 29 
 
 " ' The devil you have ! ' he replied. 
 
 " ' I am sure,' said I, as I hoped, bravely, and not 
 a little enthusiastically, ' that Carbine would take any 
 fence you asked him.' 
 
 " * Or not, as the case might be. Thank you, Marmy, 
 for the compliment,' said she. 
 
 " ' A Triton among minnows,' remarked Valiant, not 
 entirely under his breath. ' Horses obey, and freshmen 
 admire, and there is no end to her greatness.' 
 
 " ' There is an end to everything, Edward,' she re- 
 marked, a shade sadly and quietly. 
 
 " He turned to me and said : ' Science is a great study, 
 Marmion, but it is sardonic too ; for you shall find that 
 when you reduce even a Triton to its original ele- 
 ments ' 
 
 " ' Oh, please let me finish ! ' she interrupted softly, ' I 
 know the lecture so well. It reads this way : " The place 
 of generation must break to give place to the generated; 
 but the influence spreads out beyond the fragments, and is 
 greater thus than in the mass ; neither matter nor mind 
 can be destroyed. The earth was molten before it became 
 cold rock and quiet world:' There, you see, Marmy, 
 I'm a fellow-student of yours.' 
 
 " Valiant's eyes were ugly to see ; for she had quoted 
 from a lecture of his, delivered to us that week. After 
 an instant he said with slow maliciousness : ' O ye gods, 
 render me worthy of this Portia, and teach her to do as 
 Brutus's Portia did, ad eternum ! ' 
 
 " She shuddered a little, then said very graciously, and 
 as if he had meant nothing but kindness : ' " Beggar that 
 I am, I am even poor in thanks." I will leave you to 
 your cigarettes ; and because I must go out soon, and 
 shall not, I fear, see you again this afternoon, good-by, 
 Marmy, till Saturday— till Saturday.' And she left us. 
 
 " I was white and trembling with anger. He smiled 
 coolly, and was careful to choose me one of his best 
 
30 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 cigars, saying as he handed it : ' Conversation is a science, 
 Marmion ; study it. There is solid satisfaction in it ; 
 it's the only art that brings instant pleasure ; like the 
 stage, it gets its immediate applause.' 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Valiant did ride Carbine on that Satur- 
 day. Such a scene it was ! I see it now — the mottled 
 plump of hounds upon the scent ; the bright sun showing 
 upon the scarlet coats of the whips gloriously ; the long 
 stride of the hunters, ears back and quarters down. 
 She rode Carbine, and the fences were stiff — so stiff that 
 I couldn't have taken half of them. Afterwards I was 
 not sorry that I couldn't ; for she rode for a fall that day 
 on Carbine, her own horse, — she had bought him of 
 Major Karney a few days before, — and I heard her last 
 words as she lay beside him, smiling through the dread- 
 ful whiteness of her lips. ' Good-by, Marmy,' she 
 whispered, ' Carbine and I go together ; it's better so, in 
 the full cry and a big held. Tell all the men at Luke's 
 that I hope they'll pass at the coming exams. . . . 
 I'm going up for my final — Marmy — I wonder — if I'll — 
 pass : ' and then the words froze on her lips. 
 
 " It was persecution that did it ; diabolical persecution 
 and selfishness. That was the worst day the college ever 
 knew. At the funeral, when the Provost read : l For 
 that it hath pleased Thee to deliver this our sister out of the 
 miseries of this sinful world,' Big Wallington, the wildest 
 chap among the grads, led off with a gulp in his throat, 
 and we all followed. And that gold-spectacled sneak 
 stood there with a lying white handkerchief at his eyes. 
 
 " I laid myself out to make the college too hot for 
 him. In a week I had every man in the place with me, 
 and things came to such a pass that all of us must be 
 sent down, or Valiant resign. He resigned. He found 
 another professorship, but the thing followed him, and he 
 was obliged to leave the country." 
 
 When I finished the story, Mrs. Falchion was silent for 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 3 I 
 
 a time, then, with a slight air of surprise, and in a quite 
 critical way, she said : " I should think you would act very 
 well, if you used less emotion. Mrs. Valiant had a kind 
 of courage, but she was foolish to die. She should have 
 stayed and fought him — fought him every way, until she 
 was his master. She could have done it ; she was clever, 
 I should think. Still, if she had to die, it was better to go 
 with a good horse that way. I think I would prefer to 
 go swiftly, suddenly, but without the horror of blood and 
 bruises and that sort of thing. ... I should like to 
 meet Professor Valiant. He was hard, but he was strong 
 too. . . . But haven't we had enough of horror? I 
 asked you to amuse me, and you have merely interested 
 
 me instead. Oh ! " 
 
 This exclamation, I thought, was caused by the voice 
 of the quartermaster humming : 
 
 " I'm a sailin', I'm a sailin' on the sea, 
 To a harbor where the wind is still." 
 
 Almost immediately she said : " I think I will go 
 below." Then, after a slight pause : "This is a liberal 
 acquaintance for one day, Dr. Marmion ; and, you know, 
 we were not introduced ! " 
 
 " No, Mrs. Falchion, we were not introduced, but I 
 am in some regards your host ; and I fear we should all 
 be very silent if we waited for regular introductions 
 here. The acquaintance gives me pleasure, but it is not 
 nearly so liberal as I hope it may become." 
 
 She did not answer, but smiled at me over her shoulder 
 as she passed down the staircase, and the next instant I 
 could have bitten my tongue for playing the cavalier as 
 I had done ; for showing, as I think I did, that she had 
 an influence over me — an influence peculiar to herself, 
 and difficult to account for when not in her presence. 
 
 I sat down, lit a cigar, and went over in my mind all 
 that had been said between us ; all that had occurred in 
 3 
 
32 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 my cabin after dinner ; every minute since we left Co- 
 lombo was laid bare to its minutest detail. Lascars 
 slipped by me in the half darkness ; the voices of two 
 lovers near, alternated with their expressive silences ; and 
 from the music-saloon there came the pretty strains of a 
 minuet, played very deftly. Under the influence of this 
 music my thoughts became less exact ; they drifted. My 
 eyes shifted to the lights of the Porcupine in the distance* 
 and from them again to the figures passing and repassing 
 me on the deck. The " All's Well ! " of the lookout seemed 
 to come from an endless distance ; the swish of water 
 against the dividing hull of the Fulvia sounded like a 
 call to silence from another world ; the phosphorence 
 swimming through the jarred waters added to the sensa- 
 tion of unreality and dreams. These dreams grew till 
 they were broken by a hand placed upon my shoulder, 
 and I saw that one of the passengers, Clovelly, an Eng- 
 lish novelist, had dropped out from the promenade to 
 talk with me. He saw my mood, however, and said 
 quietly : " Give me a light for my cigar, will you ? Then, 
 astride this stool, I'll help you to make inventory of the 
 rest of them. A pretty study ; for, at our best, ' What 
 fools we mortals be ! ' " 
 
 " ' Motley is the only wear,' " was my reply ; and for 
 a full half hour, which, even for a man, is considerable, 
 we spoke no word, but only nodded when some one of 
 the promenaders noticed us. There was a bookmaker 
 fresh from the Melbourne races ; an American, — Colonel 
 Ryder,— whose eloquence had carried him round the 
 world ; a stalwart squatter from Queensland ; a pretty 
 widow who had left her husband under the sods of Tas- 
 mania ; a brace of girls going to join their lovers and 
 be married in England ; a few officers fleeing from India 
 with their livers and their lives ; a family of four lanky 
 lasses travelling " home " to school ; a row of affable 
 ladies who alternated between envy and gaiety, and de- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 3^ 
 
 light in, and criticism of, their husbands ; a couple of 
 missionaries preparing to give us lectures on the infam- 
 ous gods of the heathen (which, poor, harmless little 
 creatures ! might be bought at a few annas a pint at Aden 
 or Colombo), and the Exodus and the Pharaohs pleas- 
 ures reserved for the Red Sea ; a commercial traveller 
 who arranged theatricals, and cast himself for all the prin- 
 cipal parts ; a humorous and naive person who industri- 
 ously hinted at the opulence of his estates in Ireland ; 
 two stately English ladies of title ; the inevitable array 
 of colonial knights and judges off to Europe for a holi- 
 day ; and many others who made little worlds unto 
 themselves, called cliques by blunt people. 
 
 "To my mind, the most interesting persons on the 
 ship," said Clovelly, at last, "are the bookmaker, Miss 
 Treherne, and the lady with whom you have just been 
 talking — an exceptional type." 
 
 " An unusual woman, I fancy," was my reply. "But 
 which is Miss Treherne ? I am afraid I am not quite 
 sure. " 
 
 He described her and her father, with whom I had 
 talked — a London Q. C, travelling for his health, a not- 
 able man, with a taste for science, who spent his idle 
 hours in reading astronomy and the plays of the Euri- 
 pides. 
 
 " Why not include the father in the list of the most 
 interesting persons ? " I questioned. 
 
 " Because I have met many men like him, but no one 
 quite like his daughter or Mrs. What is her name ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Falchion." 
 
 " — or Mrs. Falchion or the bookmaker. " 
 
 " What is there so uncommon about Miss Treherne ? 
 She has not struck me as being remarkable." 
 
 " No ? Well, of course, she is not striking in the 
 manner of Mrs. Falchion. But watch her, study her, and 
 you will find her to be the perfection of a type ; the 
 
34 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 finest expression of a decorous convention ; a perfect 
 product of social conservatism ; unaffected, cheerful, 
 sensitive, composed, very talented, altogether compan- 
 ionable." 
 
 " Excuse me," I said laughing, though I was im- 
 pressed ; " that sounds as if you had been writing about 
 her and applying to her the novelist's system of analysis, 
 which makes an imperfect individual a perfect type. 
 Now, frankly, are you speaking of Miss Treherne, or of 
 some one of whom she is the outline, as it were ? " 
 
 Clovelly turned and looked at me steadily. " When 
 you consider a patient," he said, "do you arrange a 
 diagnosis of a type or of a person ? And by the way, 
 i type ' is a priggish word." 
 
 " Of the person." 
 
 " Exactly. The person is the thing. That clears up 
 the matter of business and art. But now, as to Miss 
 Treherne. I want to say, that, having been admitted to 
 her acquaintance and that of her father, I have thought of 
 them only as friends, and not as ' characters ' or ' copy.'" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Clovelly," said I ; " I might 
 have known." 
 
 " Now, to prove how magnanimous I am, I shall intro- 
 duce you to Miss Treherne, if you will let me. You've 
 met her father, I suppose ? " he said, and tossed his 
 cigar overboard. 
 
 " Yes, I have talked with him. He is a courteous and 
 able man, I should think." 
 
 We rose. Presently he continued : " See, Miss Tre- 
 herne is sitting there with the Tasmanian widow. What 
 is her name ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Callendar," I replied. " Blackburn the Queens- 
 lander is joining them." 
 
 "So much the better," he said. " Come on." 
 
 As we passed the music-saloon, we paused for an in- 
 stant to look through the porthole at a pale-faced girl 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 35 
 
 with big eyes and a wonderful bright red dress, — while ar 
 excitable bear-leader turned her music for her, — singing 
 "The Angels' Serenade." Near her stood a mnky girl 
 who adored actors and singers, and lived in the hope of 
 meeting some of those gentlemen of the footlights who 
 plough their way so calmly through the hearts of maidens 
 fresh from school. 
 
 We drew back to go on towards Miss Treherne, when 
 Hungerford touched me on the arm and said : " I want 
 to see you for a little while, Marmion, if Mr. Clovelly 
 will excuse you." 
 
 I saw by Hungerford's face that he had something of 
 importance to say, and, linking my arm in his, I went 
 with him to his cabin, which was near those of the inter- 
 mediate passengers. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A TALE OF NO MAN'S SEA. 
 
 Inside the cabin Hungerford closed the door, gripped 
 me by the arm, and then handed me a cheroot, with the 
 remark : " My pater gave them to me last voyage home. 
 Have kept 'em in tea." And then he added, with no 
 appearance of consecutiveness : "Hang the bally ship, 
 anyway ! " 
 
 I shall not attempt to tone down the crudeness of 
 Hungerford's language. It contents me to think that 
 the solidity of his • character and his worth will appear 
 even through the crust of free-and-easy idioms, as they 
 will certainly be seen in his acts ;— he was sound at heart, 
 and true as steel. 
 
 " What is the matter, Hungerford ? " I asked, lighting 
 the cheroot. 
 
 " Every thing 's the matter. Captain with his nose in 
 the air, and trusting all round to his officers. First offi- 
 
36 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 cer no good ; never any use since they poured the coal 
 on him. Purser ought to be on a Chinese junk. Second, 
 third, fourth officers, first-rate chaps, but so-so sailors. 
 Doctor frivolling with a lovely filly, pedigree not known. 
 . — Why, confound it ! nobody takes this business seriously 
 except the captain, and he sits on a golden throne. He 
 doesn't know that in any real danger this swagger craft 
 would be filled with foolishness. There isn't more than 
 one good boat's crew onboard, — sailors, Lascars, stewards, 
 and all. As for the officers, if the surgeon would leave 
 the lovely ladies to themselves, he would find cases worth 
 treating and duties worth doing. He should keep himself 
 fit for shocks. And he can take my word for it, — for I've 
 been at sea since I was a kid, worse luck! — that a man 
 with anything to do on a ship ought to travel every day, 
 nose out for shipwreck next day, and so on, port to port 
 Ship surgeons, as well as all other officers, weren't or- 
 dained to follow after cambric skirts and lace handker- 
 chiefs at sea. Believe me or not as you like, but for a 
 man having work to do, woman, lovely woman, is rocks. 
 Now, I suppose you'll think I'm insolent, for I'm 
 younger than you are, Marmion ; but you know what a 
 rough-and-tumble fellow I am, and you'll not mind." 
 
 "Well, Hungerford," I said, "to what does this 
 lead ? " 
 
 "To Number 116 Intermediate, for one thing. It's 
 letting off steam for another. I tell you, Marmion, these 
 big ships are too big. There are those canvas boats : 
 they won't work ; you can't get them together ; you 
 couldn't launch one in an hour. And as for the use 
 of the others, the Lascars would melt like snow in any 
 real danger. There's about one decent boat's crew on 
 this ship, no more. . . . There, I've unburdened 
 myself ; I feel better." Presently he added, with a shake 
 of the head : " See here, now-a-days we trust too much 
 to machinery and chance, and not enough to skill of 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 37 
 
 hand and brain-stuff. I'd like to show you some of the 
 crews I've had in the Pacific and the China Sea — but I'm 
 at it again ! I'll now come, Marmion, to the real reason 
 why I've brought you here. . . . Number 116 Inter- 
 mediate is under the weather. I found him reeling in 
 the passage. I helped him into his cabin. He said he'd 
 been to you to get medicine, and you'd given him some. 
 Now, the strange part of the business is, I know him. 
 He didn't remember me, however, — perhaps because he 
 didn't get a good look at me. Coincidences are strange 
 things. I can point to a dozen in my short life, everyone 
 as remarkable, if not startling, as this. Here, I'll spin 
 you a yarn : — 
 
 " It happened four years ago. I had a moustache then, 
 was fat like a whale, and first mate on the Dancing Kate, 
 a pearler in the Indian Ocean, between Java and Aus- 
 tralia. That was sailing, mind you ; real seamanship ; 
 no bally nonsense ; a fight every weather ; interesting all 
 around. If it wasn't a deadly calm, it was a typhoon ; 
 if it wasn't either, 'twas want of food and water. I've 
 seen us with pearls on board worth a thousand quid, and 
 not a drop of water nor three square meals in the 
 caboose. But that was life for men and not Miss 
 Nancys. If they weren't saints, they were sailors, afraid 
 of nothing but God Almighty ; and they do respect Him 
 even when they curse the winds and the sea. Well, one 
 day we were lying in the open sea, about two hundred 
 and fifty miles from Port Darwin. There wasn't a 
 breath of air. The sea was like glass. The sun was 
 drawing turpentine out of every inch of the Dancing Kate. 
 The world was one great blister. There wasn't a com- 
 fortable spot in the craft, and all round us was that star- 
 ing oily sea. It was too hot to smoke, and I used to make 
 a Sede boy do my smoking for me. I got the benefit 
 of the smell without any work. I was lying under the 
 droop of a dinghey, making the Sede boy call on all 
 
38 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 his gods for wind, with interludes of smoke, when he 
 chucked his deities and tobacco, and, pointing, shouted : 
 < Man ! Man ! ' 
 
 " I snatched a spy-glass. Sure enough, there was a 
 boat on the water. It was moving ever so slowly. It 
 seemed to stop, and we saw something lifted and waved ; 
 then all was still again. I got a boat's crew together, 
 and away we went in that deadly smother. An hour's 
 row and we got within hail of the derelict ; as one of 
 the crew said, ' feelin' as if the immortal life was jerked 
 out of us.' The dinghey lay there deadly still on the 
 glassy surface. Yet I had, as I said, seen something 
 waved. The water didn't even lap its sides. It was 
 ghostly, I can tell you. Our oars licked the water, 
 they didn't attack it. Now I'm going to tell you some- 
 thing, Marmion, that'll make you laugh. I don't think 
 I've any poetry in me, but just then I thought of some 
 verses I learned when I was a little chap at Wellington, — 
 a devilishly weird thing. It came to me at that moment 
 like a word in my ear. It made me feel for a second 
 awkward. All sailors are superstitious, you know. I'm 
 superstitious about this ship. Never mind. I'll tell you 
 the verses, to show you what a queer thing memory is. 
 The poem was called ' No Man's Sea.' 
 
 "The days are dead in the No Man's Sea, 
 And God has left it alone ; 
 The angels cover their heads and flee, 
 And the wild four winds have flown. 
 
 "There's never a ripple upon the tide, 
 There's never a word or sound ; 
 But over the waste the white wraiths glide, 
 To look for the souls of the drowned. 
 
 " The No Man's Sea is a jail of souls. 
 And its gate is a burning sun, 
 And deep beneath it a great bell tolls 
 For a death that never is done. 
 
MRS FAT.CHION. 39 
 
 " Alas ! fcr any that comes anear, 
 That lies on its moveless breast ; 
 The grumbling water shall be his bier, 
 And never a place of rest. 
 
 w There's four of the verses. I made a motion to stop 
 the rowing, and was mum for a minute. The men got 
 nervous. They looked at the boat in front of us, and 
 then turned round, as if to see if the Dancing Kate was 
 still in sight. I spoke, and they got more courage. I 
 stood up in the boat, but could see nothing in the 
 dinghey. I gave a sign to go on. Soon we were 
 alongside. In the bottom of the dinghey lay a man, 
 apparently dead, wearing the clothes of a convict. One 
 of the crew gave a grunt of disgust, the others said 
 nothing. I don't take to men often, and to convicts 
 precious seldom ; but there was a look in this man's 
 face which the prison clothes couldn't demoralize — a 
 damned pathetic look, which seemed to say, 'Not guilty.' 
 
 " In a minute I was beside him, and found he wasn't 
 dead. Brandy brought him round a little, but he was 
 a bit gone in the head, and muttering all the way- 
 back to the ship. I unbuttoned his shirt, and I saw on 
 his breast a little ivory portrait of a woman. I didn't 
 let the crew see it ; for the fellow, even in his delirium, 
 appeared to know I had exposed the thing, and drew the 
 linen close in his fingers, and for a long time held it so." 
 
 " What was the woman's face like, Hungerford ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 He parried, remarking only that she had the face of a 
 lady, and was handsome. 
 
 I pressed him. " But did it resemble any one you had 
 ever seen ? " 
 
 With a slight droop to his eyelids, he said : " Don't ask 
 foolish questions, Marmion. . . . Well, the castaway 
 had a hard pull for life. He wouldn't have lived at all, 
 if a breeze hadn't come up and let us get away to the 
 
40 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 coast. It was the beginning of the monsoon, and we 
 went bowling down towards Port Darwin, a crowd of 
 Malay proas in our wake. However, the poor beggar 
 thought he was going to die, and one night he told me 
 his story. He was an escaped convict from Fremantle, 
 Western Australia. He had, with others, been taken up 
 to the northern coast to do some government work, and 
 had escaped in the dinghey. His crime was stealing 
 funds belonging to a squatting and mining company. 
 There was this extenuating circumstance : he could have 
 replaced the money, which, as he said, he'd only intended 
 to use for a few weeks. But a personal enemy threw 
 suspicion on him, accounts were examined, and though 
 he showed he'd only used the money while more of his 
 own was on the way to him, the company insisted on 
 prosecuting him. For two reasons : because it was itself 
 in bad odor, and hoped by this trial to divert public 
 attention from its own dirty position ; and because he had 
 against him not only his personal enemy, but those who 
 wanted to hit the company through him. He'd filched 
 to be able to meet the large expenses of his wife's estab- 
 lishment. Into this he didn't enter minutely, and he 
 didn't blame her for her having so big a menage; he only 
 said he was sorry that he hadn't been able to support it 
 without having to come, even for a day, to the stupidity 
 of stealing. 
 
 " After two years he escaped. He asked me to write a 
 letter to his wife, which he'd dictate. Marmion, you or 
 I couldn't have dictated that letter if we'd taken a year 
 to do it. There was no religion in it, no poppy-cock, 
 but straightforward talk, full of sorrow for what he'd 
 done and for the disgrace he'd brought on her. I 
 remember the last few sentences as if I'd seen them 
 yesterday : — ' I am dying on the open sea, disgraced 
 but free,' he said. ' I am not innocent in act, but I was 
 not guilty of intentional wrong. I did what I did that 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 41 
 
 you should have all you wished, all you ought to have. 
 I ask but this — and I shall soon ask for nothing — that you 
 will have a kind thought, now and then, for the man 
 who always loved you, and loves you yet. I have 
 never blamed you that you did not come near me in 
 my trouble, but I wish you were here for a moment 
 before I go away forever. You must forgive me now, 
 for you will be free. If I were a better man I would 
 say, " God bless you." In my last conscious moments I 
 will think of you and speak your name. And now, good- 
 by — an everlasting good-by ! I was your loving hus- 
 band, and am your lover until death.' And it was signed, 
 1 Boyd Madras.' 
 
 " However, he didn't die. Between the captain and 
 myself we kept life in him, and at last landed him at 
 Port Darwin ; all of us, officers and crew, swearing to 
 tell no one he was a convict. And I'll say this for the 
 crew of the Dancing Kate, that, so far as I know, they 
 kept their word. That letter, addressed in care of a firm 
 of Melbourne bankers, I gave back to him before we 
 landed. We made him up a purse of fifty pounds,— for 
 the crew had got to like him,— and left him at Port Dar- 
 win, sailing away again in a few days to another pearl- 
 field farther east. What happened to him at Port Dar- 
 win and elsewhere, I don't know ; but one day I found 
 him on a fashionable steamer in the Indian Ocean, look- 
 ing almost as near to kingdom come as when he starved 
 in the dinghey on No Man's Sea. As I said before, I 
 think he didn't recognize me, and he's lying now in 116 
 Intermediate, with a look on him that I've seen in the 
 face of a man condemned to death by the devils of cholera 
 or equatorial fever. And that's the story, Marmion, which 
 I brought you to hear ; told, as you notice, in fine, classical 
 style." 
 
 " And why do you tell me this, Hungerford— a secret 
 you've kept all these years ? Knowledge of that man's 
 
42 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 crime wasn't necessary before giving him belladonna or 
 a hot bath." 
 
 Hungerford kept back the whole truth for reasons of 
 his own. He said : " Chiefly, because I want you to take 
 a decent interest in the chap. He looks as if he might 
 go off on the Long Voyage any tick o' the clock. You're 
 doctor, parson, and everything else of the kind on board. 
 I like the poor devil ; but I'm not in a position to be 
 going around with ginger-tea in a spoon, or Ecclesiastes 
 under my arm — very good things, anyway. Your profes- 
 sion has more or less to do with the mind as well as the 
 body, and you may take my word for it that Boyd Madras's 
 mind is as sick as his torso. By the way, he calls himself 
 ' Charles Boyd,' so I suppose we needn't recall to him his 
 former experiences by adding the ' Madras.' " 
 
 Hungerford squeezed my arm again violently, and 
 added: "See here, Marmion, we understand each other 
 in this, don't we ? To do what we can for the fellow, and 
 be mum." 
 
 Some of this looks rough and blunt, but, as it was 
 spoken, there was that in it which softened it to my ear. 
 I knew he had told all he thought I ought to know, and 
 that he wished me to question him no more, and not 
 to refer to Mrs. Falchion, whose relationship to Boyd 
 Madras — or Charles Boyd — both of us suspected. 
 
 " It was funny about those verses coming to my mind, 
 wasn't it, Marmion ? " he continued. -And he began to 
 repeat one of them, keeping time to the wave-like metre 
 with his cheroot, winding up with a quick circular move- 
 ment, and putting it again between his lips : 
 
 " There's never a ripple upon the tide, 
 There's never a breath or sound ; 
 But over the waste the white wraiths glide, 
 To look for the souls of the drowned." 
 
 Then he jumped off the berth where he had been sit- 
 ting, put on his jacket, said it was time to take his turn 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 43 
 
 on the bridge, and prepared to go out, having apparently 
 dismissed Number 116 Intermediate from his mind. 
 
 I went to Charles Boyd's cabin, and knocked gently. 
 There was no response. I entered. He lay sleeping 
 soundly — the sleep that comes after nervous exhaustion. 
 I had a good chance to study him as he lay there. The 
 face was sensitive and well fashioned, but not strong ; 
 the hands were delicate, yet firmly made. One hand 
 was held clenched upon that portion of his breast where 
 the portrait hung. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE TRACK OF THE ISHMAELITE. 
 
 I went on deck again, and found Clovelly in the smok- 
 ing-room. The bookmaker was engaged in telling tales 
 of the turf, alternated with comic songs by Blackburn, 
 an occupation which lasted throughout the voyage, and 
 was associated with electric appeals to the steward to fill 
 the flowing bowl. Clovelly came with me, and we joined 
 Miss Treherne and her father. Mr. Treherne introduced 
 me to his daughter, and Clovelly amiably drew the father 
 into a discussion of communism as found in the South 
 Sea Islands. 
 
 I do not think my conversation with Miss Treherne 
 was brilliant. She has since told me that I appeared 
 self-conscious and preoccupied. This being no compli- 
 ment to her, I was treated accordingly. I could have 
 endorsed Clovelly's estimate of her, so far as her reserve 
 and sedateness were concerned. It seemed impossible 
 to talk naturally. The events of the day were interrupt- 
 ing the ordinary run of thought, and I felt at a miserable 
 disadvantage. I saw, however, that the girl was gifted 
 and clear of mind> and possessed of great physical charm, 
 
44 MRS. FALCHICN. 
 
 but of that fine sort which must be seen in suitable sur- 
 roundings to be properly appreciated. Here, on board 
 ship, a sweet gravity and a proud decorum, not altogether 
 unnecessary, prevented her from being seen at once to 
 the best advantage. Even at this moment I respected 
 her the more for it, and was not surprised, nor exactly 
 displeased, that she adroitly drew her father and Clovelly 
 into the conversation. With Clovelly she seemed to find 
 immediate ground for naive and pleasant talk — on his 
 part deferential, original, and attentive ; on hers, easy, 
 allusive, and warmed with piquant humour. I admired 
 her, saw how cleverly Clovelly was making the most of 
 her ; guessed at the solicitude, studious care, and affection 
 of her bringing up ; watched the fond pleasure of the 
 father as he listened ; and was angry with myself that 
 Mrs. Falchion's voice rang in my ears at the same mo- 
 ment as hers. But it did ring, and the real value of that 
 smart tournament of ideas was partially lost to me. 
 
 The next morning I went to Boyd Madras's cabin. 
 He welcomed me gratefully, and said that he was much 
 better ; as he seemed ; but he carried a hectic flush such 
 as comes to a consumptive person. I said little to him 
 beyond what was necessary for the discussion of his case. 
 I cautioned him about any unusual exertion, and was 
 about to leave, when an impulse came to me, and I re- 
 turned and said : " You will not let me help you in any 
 other way?" 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I shall be very glad of your help; but 
 not just yet. . . . And, Doctor, believe me, I think 
 medicine can do very little. Though I am thankful to 
 you for visiting me, you need not take the trouble unless 
 I am worse ; and then I will send a steward for you, or 
 go to you myself." 
 
 What lay behind this request, unless it was sensitive- 
 ness, I could not tell ; but I determined to take my own 
 course, and to visit him when I thought fit. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 45 
 
 I saw him but once or twice on the afterdeck in the 
 succeeding days. He evidently wished to keep out of 
 sight as much as possible. I am ashamed to say there 
 was a kind of satisfaction in this to me ; for, when a man's 
 wife — and I believed she was Boyd Madras's wife — hangs 
 on your arm, and he himself is denied that privilege, 
 and fares poorly beside her sumptuousness, and lives 
 as a stranger to her, you can scarcely regard his presence 
 with pleasure. And from the sheer force of circum- 
 stances, as it seemed to me then, Mrs. Falchion's hand 
 was often on my arm. It was impossible not to feel 
 the influence ; and if I did not yield entirely to it, I was 
 more possessed by it than I was aware. I was inquisitive 
 to know beyond doubt that she was the wife of this man. 
 I think it was in my mind all the time, that, perhaps, by 
 being with her much, I should be able to do him a service. 
 But there came a time when I was sufficiently undeceived. 
 It was all a game of misery in which some one stood to 
 lose all round. Who was it : she, or I, or the refugee of 
 misfortune, Number 116 Intermediate? She seemed safe 
 enough. He or I should suffer in the crash of penalities. 
 
 It was a strange situation. I, the acquaintance of a 
 day, was welcome within the circle of this woman's 
 favor, though it was an unemotional favor on her 
 side. He, the husband, as I believed, though only half 
 the length of the ship away, was as distant from her as 
 the North Star. When I sat with her on deck at night, 
 I seemed to feel Boyd Madras's face looking at me from 
 the half darkness of the after-deck ; and Mrs. Falchion, 
 whose keen eyes missed little, remarked once on my gaze 
 in that direction. Thereafter I was more careful, but the 
 idea haunted me. Still, I was not the only person who 
 sat with her. Other men paid her attentive court. The 
 difference was, however, that with me she assumed ever 
 so delicate, yet palpable, an air of proprietorship, none 
 the less alluring because there was no heart in it. So 
 
46 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 far as the other passengers were concerned, there was 
 nothing jarring to propriety in our companionship. They 
 did not know of Number 116 Intermediate. She had 
 been announced as a widow ; and she had told Mrs. 
 Callendar that her father's brother who, years before, had 
 gone to California, had died within the past two years 
 and left her his property ; and, since all Californians are 
 supposed to be millionaires, her wealth was counted fabu- 
 lous. She was going now to England, and from thence 
 to California in the following year. People said that Dr. 
 Marmion knew on which side his bread was buttered. 
 They may have said more unpleasant things, but I did 
 not hear them, or of them. 
 
 All the time I was conscious of a kind of dishonor, 
 and perhaps it was that which prompted me (I had fallen 
 away from my intention of visiting him freely) to send 
 my steward to see how Boyd Madras came on, rather 
 than go myself. I was, however, conscious that the 
 position could not, should not, be maintained long. The 
 practical outcome of this knowledge was not tardy. A 
 new influence came into my life which was to affect it 
 permanently : but not without a struggle. 
 
 A series of concerts and lectures had been arranged 
 for the voyage, and the fancy dress ball was to close the 
 first part of the journey, — that is, at Aden. One night a 
 concert was on in the music-saloon. I had just come 
 from seeing a couple of passengers who had been suffer- 
 ing from the heat, and was debating whether to find Mrs. 
 Falchion, who, I knew, was on the other side of the deck, 
 go in to the concert, or join Colonel Ryder and Clovelly, 
 who had asked me to come to the smoking-room when I 
 could. I am afraid I was balancing rather heavily in 
 favor of Mrs. Falchion, when I heard a voice, new to 
 me, singing a song I had known years before, when 
 life was ardent, and love first came to me — halcyon days 
 in country lanes, in lilac thickets, and upon the heaths in 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 47 
 
 pleasant Hertfordshire, where our footsteps were met by 
 a miniature bombardment of bursting seed-pods of furze, 
 among the billows of green common sloping to the vil- 
 lage. I thought of all this, and of her everlasting quiet. 
 
 With a different voice, the words of the song would 
 have sent me out of hearing ; now I stood chained to the 
 spot, as the notes floated out past me to the nervelessness 
 of the Indian Ocean, every one of them a commandment 
 from behind the curtain of a sanctuary. 
 
 The voice was a warm full contralto of exquisite cul- 
 ture. It suggested depths of rich sound behind, from 
 which the singer, if she chose, might draw, until the 
 room and the deck and the sea ached with sweetness. A. 
 scarcely dared to look in to see who it was, lest I should 
 find it a dream. I stood with my head turned away 
 towards the dusky ocean. When, at last, with the clos- 
 ing notes of the song, I went to the porthole and looked 
 in, I saw that the singer was Miss Belle Treherne. There 
 was an abstracted look in her eyes as she raised them, 
 and she seemed unconscious of the applause following 
 the last chords of the accompaniment. She stood up, 
 folding the music as she did so, and unconsciously glanced 
 towards the porthole where I was. Her look caught 
 mine, and instantly a change passed over her face. The 
 effect of the song upon her was broken ; she flushed 
 slightly, and, as I thought, with faint annoyance. 
 
 I know of nothing so little complimentary to a singer 
 as the audience that patronizingly listens outside a room 
 or window, not bound by any sense of duty as an audi- 
 ence, and between whom and the artist an unnatural bar- 
 rier is raised. But I have reason to think now that Belle 
 Treherne was not wholly moved by annoyance ; that she 
 had seen something unusually, maybe, oppressively, earn- 
 est in my look. She turned to her father. He adjusted 
 his glasses as if, in his pride, to see her better. Then she 
 fondly took his arm and they left the room. 
 
48 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 As they left, I caught sight of Mrs. Falchion's face at 
 the porthole opposite. Her eyes were on me. An 
 instant before, I had intended following Miss Treherne 
 and her father ; some unaccountable revolution went on 
 in me, so that I flashed back to her a warm recognition. 
 I could not have believed it possible, if it had been told 
 of me, that, one minute, affected by beautiful and sacred 
 remembrances, the next, I should be yielding to the 
 unimpassioned tyranny of this woman, who could never 
 be anything but a stumbling block and an evil influence. 
 I had yet to learn that in times of mental and moral 
 struggle, the mixed fighting forces in us resolve them- 
 selves into two cohesive powers, and strive for mastery ; 
 that no past thought or act goes for nothing at such 
 a time, but creeps out from the darkness where we 
 thought it had gone forever, and does battle with its kind 
 against the common foe. There moved before me three 
 women : — one, sweet and unsubstantial, wistful and mute 
 and very young, not of the earth, earthy ; one, lissome, 
 grave, with gracious body and warm abstracted eyes, all 
 delicacy, strength, reserve ; the other and last, daring, 
 cold, beautiful, with irresistible charm, silent and com- 
 pelling. And these are the three women who have 
 influenced my life, who fought in me then for mastery ; 
 one from out the unchangeable past, the others in the 
 tangible and delible present. Most of us have to pass 
 through such ordeals before character and conviction 
 receive their final bias ; before human nature has its wild 
 trouble, and then settles into " cold rock and quiet world; '* 
 which any lesser after shocks may modify, but cannot 
 radically change. 
 
 I tried to think. I felt that to be manly, I should turn 
 from those eyes. I recalled the words of Clovelly spoken 
 to me that afternoon, half laughingly: "Dr. Marmion, I 
 wonder how many of us wish ourselves transported per- 
 manently to that time when we didn't know champagne 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 49 
 
 from alter feiner madeira, or dry hock from sweet sau- 
 terne ; when a pretty face made us feel ready to abjure 
 all the sinful lusts of the flesh, and become inheritors 
 of the kingdom of heaven. Egad ! I should like to feel 
 it once again. But how can we, when we have been 
 intoxicated with many things ; when we're drunk with 
 success and experience ; have hung on the fringe of 
 unrighteousness, and know the world backwards, and 
 ourselves mercilessly ? " 
 
 Was I, like the drunkard, coming surely to the time 
 when I could no longer say yes to my wisdom, or no to 
 my weakness ? I knew that, an hour before, in filling a 
 phial with medicine, I found I was doing it mechanically, 
 and had to begin over again, making an effort to keep 
 my mind to the task. I think it an axiom that no man 
 can properly perform the business of life who indulges 
 in emotional preoccupation. 
 
 These thoughts, which take so long to write, passed 
 then through my mind swiftly ; but her eyes were on me 
 with a peculiar and confident persistence, and I yielded. 
 On my way to her I met Clovelly and Colonel Ryder. 
 Hungerford was walking between them. Colonel Ryder 
 said: "I've been saving that story for you, Doctor; 
 better come and get it while it's hot." 
 
 This was a promised tale of the taking of Mobile in 
 the American Civil War. At any other time the invita- 
 tion would have pleased me mightily; for, apart from the 
 other two, Hungerford's brusque and original conversa- 
 tion was always a pleasure— so were his cheroots ; but 
 now I was under an influence selfish in its source. At 
 the same time, I felt that Hungerford was storing up 
 some acute criticism of me, and that he might let me hear 
 of it any moment. I knew, numbering the order of his 
 duties, that he could have but a very short time to spare 
 for gossip at this juncture, yet I said that I could not 
 jo-'.n them for half an hour or so. Hungerford had a 
 
50 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 fashion of looking at me searchingly from under his 
 heavy brows, and I saw that he did so now with impa- 
 tience, perhaps contempt. I was certain that he longed 
 to thrash me. That was his idea of punishment and 
 penalty. He linked his arms in those of the other two 
 men, and they moved on, Colonel Ryder saying that he 
 would keep the story till I came. 
 
 The concert was still going on when I sat down 
 beside Mrs. Falchion. " You seem to enjoy Miss Tre- 
 herne's singing," she said cordially enough, as she folded 
 her hands idly in her lap. 
 
 " Yes, I thought it beautiful. Didn't you ? " 
 
 " Pretty, most pretty ; and admirable in technique 
 and tone, but she has too much feeling to be really 
 artistic. She felt the thing, instead of pretending to feel 
 it_which makes all the difference. She belongs to a 
 race of delightful women who never do any harm, whom 
 everybody calls good, and who are very severe on those 
 that don't pretend to be good. Still, all of that pleasant 
 race will read their husbands' letters, and smuggle. They 
 have no civic virtues. Yet they would be shocked to bathe 
 on the beach without a machine as American women do, 
 and they look for a new fall of Jerusalem when one of 
 their sex smokes a cigarette after dinner. Now I don't 
 smoke cigarettes after dinner, so I can speak freely. But, 
 at the same time, I don't smuggle, and I do bathe on the 
 beach without a machine when I am in a land where 
 there are no sharks and no taboo. And I wish to say 
 that if morally consumptive people were given a few 
 years in the South Seas, where they couldn't get away 
 from nature, there would be more strength and less 
 scandal in society." 
 
 I laughed. She continued : " There's a frank note for 
 Mr. Clovelly, the sleepy-eyed novelist, who thinks he 
 knows the world and my sex thoroughly. He says as 
 much in his books ;— have you read his A Fair Apoca- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 5 I 
 
 lypse? — he said more than as much to me. But he knows 
 a mere nothing about women — their beautiful inconsist- 
 encies ; their infidelity in little things, and fidelity in big 
 things ; their self-torturings ; their inability to compre- 
 hend themselves ; their periods of religious insanity ; 
 their occasional revolts against the restraints of a wo- 
 man's position, known only to themselves in their dark 
 hours. Ah ! really, Dr. Marmion, he is ignorant, I 
 assure you. He has only two or three kinds of women 
 in his mind, and the representatives of these fooled him, 
 as far as he went with them, to their hearts' content. 
 Believe me, there is no one quite so foolish as the pro- 
 fessional student of character. He sees things with a 
 glamour ; he is impressionable ; he immediately begins 
 to make a woman what he wishes her to be for his book, 
 not what she is ; and women laugh at him when they 
 read his books, or pity him if they know him personally. 
 I venture to say that I could make Mr. Clovelly use me 
 in a novel — not A Fair Apocalypse — as a placid lover of 
 fancy bazaars and Dorcas societies, instead of a very 
 practical person who has seen life without the romantic 
 eye, and knows as well the working of a buccaneering 
 craft — through consular papers and magisterial trials of 
 course — as of a colonial government house. But it isn't 
 worth while trying to make him falsify my character — 
 besides, you are here to amuse me." 
 
 This speech, as she uttered it, was pleasantly auda- 
 cious and clever. I laughed, and made a gesture of 
 mock dissent ; and she continued : " Now I have fin- 
 ished my lecture. Please tie my shoe-lace there, and 
 then, as I said, amuse me. Oh, you can if you choose ! 
 You are clever when you like to be. Only, this time, 
 don't let it be a professor's wife who foolishly destroys 
 herself, and cuts short what might have been a brilliant 
 career." 
 
 On the instant I determined to probe deeper into her 
 
52 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 life, and try her nerve, by telling a story with enough 
 likeness to her own (if she was the wife of Boyd Madras), 
 to affect her acutely, though I was not sure I could suc- 
 ceed. A woman who triumphs over sea-sickness, whom 
 steam from the boilers never affects nor the propeller- 
 screw disturbs, has little to fear from the words of a man 
 who was neither adroit, eloquent, nor dramatic. How- 
 ever, I determined to try what I could do. I said : " I 
 fancy you would like something in the line of adventure, 
 but my career has not run in that direction, so I shall 
 resort to less exciting fields, and, I fear also, a not very 
 cheerful subject." 
 
 " Oh, never mind ! " said she. " What you please, so 
 long as it isn't conventional and hackneyed. But I 
 know you won't be prosy; so go on, please." 
 
 " Well," I began, " once, in the hospital, I attended 
 a man — Anson was his name — who, when he thought he 
 was going to die, confided to me his life's secret. I liked 
 the man ; he was good-looking, amiable, but hopelessly 
 melancholy. He was dying as much from trouble as 
 disease. No counsel or encouragement had any effect 
 upon him ; he did as I have seen so many do, resigned 
 himself to the slow outgoing tide. Well, for the secret. 
 He had been a felon. His crime had been committed 
 through ministering to his wife's vanity. . . ." 
 
 Here I paused. I felt Mrs. Falchion's eyes searching 
 me. I raised mine steadily to hers with an impersonal 
 glance, and saw that she had not changed color in the 
 least. But her eyes were busy. ... I proceeded : 
 " When he was disgraced she did not come near him. 
 When he went to her after he was released " (here I 
 thought it best to depart from any close resemblance to 
 Boyd Madras's story), and was admitted to her, she 
 treated him as an absolute stranger, as one who had 
 intruded, and might be violent. She said that she and 
 her maid were alone in the house, and that he had 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 53 
 
 evidently come to rob them. She bade him go. He 
 called her by his own name, and begged her by the 
 memory of their dead child to speak kindly to him. She 
 said he was quite mistaken in her name ; that she was 
 Mrs. Glave, not Mrs. Anson, and again insisted that he 
 should go. He left her, and at last, broken-hearted, 
 found his way, in illness and poverty, to the hospital ; 
 where, towards the last, he was cared for by a noble girl, 
 a companion of his boyhood and his better days, who 
 urged his wife to visit him. She would not come, said 
 unpleasant things to the girl, didn't come to see her hus- 
 band even when he was dead, and provided nothing for 
 his burial. You see that, like you, she hated suffering 
 and misery — and criminals. The girl and her mother 
 paid the expenses of the funeral, and, with myself, were 
 the only mourners. I am doubtful if the w v ife knows 
 even where he lies. I admit that the story looks melo- 
 dramatic, but truth is more drama than comedy, any way. 
 Now what do you think of it all, Mrs. Falchion ? " 
 
 I had felt her shrink a little at the earlier part of my 
 story, as if she feared that her own tale was to be bru- 
 tally bared before her ; but that soon passed, and she 
 languidly tapped the chair-arm as the narrative contin- 
 ued. When it was finished she leaned over slightly, and 
 with those same fingers tapped my arm. I thrilled invol- 
 untarily. 
 
 " He died, did he ? " she said. " That was the most 
 graceful thing he could do. So far as my knowledge of 
 the world is concerned, men of his class do not die. 
 They live, and they never rise above their degradation. 
 They had not brains enough nor courage to keep them 
 out of jail, and they haven't pluck or brains enough to 
 succeed afterwards. Your friend Anson was quite gentle- 
 manly in his action at the last. He had some sense of 
 the fitness of things. He couldn't find a place in the 
 world without making other people uncomfortable and 
 
54 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 causing trouble. If he had lived he would always have 
 added to the blight on his wife's career, and have been a 
 knife — not a thorn — in her side. Very likely he would 
 have created a scandal for the good young girl who 
 nursed him. He made the false step, and compelled 
 society to reject him. It did not want to do so. It 
 never does. It is long-suffering ; it tries not to see and 
 acknowledge things until the culprit himself forces it to 
 take action. Then it says : ' Now you have openly and 
 inconsiderately broken our bond of mutual forbearance. 
 You make me send you away. Go, then, behind stone 
 walls, and please don't come to me again. If you do, 
 you will only be a troublesome ghost ; you will cause 
 awkwardness and distress.' So Mr. Anson (I must be 
 polite to him) did the most reasonable and proper thing : 
 he disappeared from the play before it actually became 
 tragedy. There was no tragedy in his death. Death is 
 a magnificent ally ; it untangles knots. The tragedy 
 was in his living. He disappeared. Then the play be- 
 came drama, with only a little shadow of tragedy behind 
 it. Now, frankly, am I not right ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Falchion," I said, " your argument is clever, 
 but it is only incidentally true. You draw life, society, 
 and men, no more correctly than the author of A Fair 
 Apocalypse would draw you. The social law you sketch, 
 when reduced to its bare elements, is remorseless and 
 cruel. It does not provide for repentance, for restitu- 
 tion, for recovering a lost paradise. It makes an act 
 final ; a sin irrevocable." 
 
 " Well, since we are beginning to talk like a couple of 
 books by a couple of priggish philosophers, I might as 
 well say that I think sin is final so far as the domestic 
 and social machinery of the world is concerned. What 
 his religious belief requires of a man is one thing, what 
 his fellow-men require of him is another. Society says 
 you shall have latitude enough to swing in freely, but you 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 5^ 
 
 must keep within the code. As soon as you break the 
 law openly, and set the machinery of public penalty in 
 motion, there is an end of you so far as this world is con- 
 cerned. You may live on, but you have been broken on 
 the wheel, and broken you always will be. It isn't a 
 question of right or wrong, of kindness or cruelty, but of 
 general expediency and inevitableness. To all intents 
 and purposes Mr. Anson was dead before he breathed 
 his last. He died when he passed within the walls of a 
 jail, condemned for theft." 
 
 There was singular scorn in her last few words, and, 
 dissent as I did from her merciless theories, I was aston- 
 ished at her adroitness and downrightness ; enchanted by 
 the glow of her face. To this hour, knowing all her life 
 as I do, I can only regard her as a splendid achievement 
 of nature, convincing, even when at the most awkward 
 tangents, with the general sense and the straightest inter- 
 pretation of life ; convincing, even in those other and 
 later incidents, which showed her to be acting not so 
 much by impulse as by the law of her nature. Her 
 emotions were apparently rationalized at birth, to be 
 derationalized and broken up by a power greater than 
 herself before her life had worked itself out. I had 
 counted her clever ; I had not reckoned with her powers 
 of reasoning. Influenced as I was by emotion when in 
 her presence, I resorted to a personal application of my 
 opinions — the last and most unfair resort of a disputant. 
 I said I would rather be Anson dead than Mrs. Anson 
 living ; I would rather be the active than the passive 
 sinner ; the victim than a part of that great and cruel 
 machine of penalty. 
 
 " The passive sinner ! " she replied ; " why, what 
 wrong did she do ? " 
 
 The highest moral conceptions worked dully in her. 
 Yet she seemed then, as she always appeared to be, free 
 from any action that should set the machine of penalty 
 
56 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 going against herself. She was inexorable, but she had 
 never, knowingly, so much as slashed the hem of the 
 moral code. 
 
 " It was to give his wife pleasure that Anson made the 
 false step," I urged. 
 
 " Do you think she would have had the pleasure at the 
 price ? The man was vain and selfish to run any risk, to 
 do anything that might endanger her safety ; that is, her 
 happiness and comfort." 
 
 " But suppose he knew that she loved ease and pleas- 
 ure, that he feared her anger or disdain if he did not 
 minister to her luxuries ? " 
 
 " Then he ought not to have married that kind of a 
 woman." The hardness in her voice was matched at 
 that moment by the growing coldness of her face. 
 
 "That is begging the question," I replied. "What 
 would such a selfish woman do in such a case, if her 
 pleasure could not be gratified ? " 
 
 " You must ask that kind of a woman," was her ironical 
 answer. 
 
 I rather rashly felt that her castle of strength was 
 crumbling. I ventured farther. 
 
 " I have done so." 
 
 She turned slightly towards me, yet not nervously as I 
 had expected. " What did she say ?" 
 
 " She declined to anszuer directly." 
 
 There was a pause in which I felt her eyes searching 
 my face. I fear I must have learned dissimulation well, 
 for after a minute I looked at her, and saw, from the ab- 
 sence of any curious anxiety, that I had betrayed nothing. 
 She looked me straight in the eyes and said : " Dr. 
 Marmion, a man must not expect to be forgiven who has 
 brought shame on a woman." 
 
 " Not even when he has repented and atoned ? " 
 
 " Atoned ! How mad you are ! How can there be 
 atonement ? You can't wipe things out — on earth, and 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 57 
 
 we are of the earth. Records remain. If a man plays 
 the fool, the coward, and the criminal, he must expect to 
 wear the fool's cap, the white feather, and the leg chain, 
 until his life's end. . . . And now, please, let us 
 change the subject. We have been bookish long enough." 
 And she rose with a gesture of disgust. 
 
 I did not rise. " Pardon me, Mrs. Falchion," I urged, 
 " but this thing interests me so. I have thought much of 
 Anson lately. Please let us talk a little longer. Do sit 
 down." 
 
 She sat down again with an air of concession rather 
 than pleasure. 
 
 " I am interested," I said, "in looking at this question 
 from a woman's standpoint. You see I am apt to side 
 with the miserable fellow who made a false step, — fool- 
 ish if you like — all for love of a selfish and beautiful 
 woman." 
 
 " She was beautiful ? " 
 
 "Yes, as you are." She did not blush at that rank 
 compliment, any more than a lioness would, if you 
 praised the astonishing sleekness and beauty of its skin. 
 
 " And she had been a true wife to him before that ?" 
 
 " Yes, in all that concerned the code." 
 
 " Well ? Well, was not that enough ? She did what 
 she could, as long as she could." She leaned far back 
 in the chair, her eyes half shut. 
 
 " Don't you think — as a woman, not as a theorist — 
 that Mrs. Anson might at least have gone to him when 
 he was dying ? " 
 
 "It would only be uncomfortable for her. She had no 
 part in his life ; she could not feel with him. She could 
 do nothing." 
 
 " But suppose she had loved him ? By that memory, 
 then, of the time when they took each other for better 
 or for worse, until death should part them?" 
 
 " Death did part them when the code banished him ; 
 
58 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 when he passed from a free world into a cage. Besides, 
 we are talking about people marrying, not about their 
 loving." 
 
 "I will admit," I said with a little raw irony, "that 
 I was not exact in definition." 
 
 Here I got a glimpse into her nature, which rendered 
 after events not so marvellous to me as they might seem 
 to others. She thought a moment quite indolently, and 
 then continued : " You make one moralize like George 
 Eliot. Marriage is a condition, but love must be an 
 action. The one is a contract, the other is complete 
 possession, a principle — that is, if it exists at all. . . . 
 I do not know." 
 
 And she turned the rings round mechanically on her 
 finger : among them was a wedding ring ! Her voice 
 had become low and abstracted, and now she seemed to 
 have forgotten my presence, and was looking out upon 
 the humming darkness round us, through which now 
 and again there rang a boatswain's whistle, or the loud 
 laugh of Blackburn, telling of a joyous hour in the 
 smoking-room. 
 
 I am now about to record an act of madness, of folly, 
 on my part. I suppose most men have such moments of 
 temptation, but I suppose also that they act more sensi- 
 bly and honorably than I did then. Her hand had 
 dropped gently on the chair-arm, near to my own ; and 
 though our fingers did not touch, I felt mine thrilled and 
 impelled towards hers. I do not seek to palliate my 
 action. Though the man I believed to be her hus- 
 band was below, I yielded to an imagined passion for 
 her : in that moment I was a captive. I caught her 
 hand, and kissed it hotly. " But you might know what 
 love is," I said. " You might learn — learn of me ! 
 You " 
 
 She abruptly and with surprise withdrew her hand, 
 and without any visible emotion, save a quicker pulsation 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 59 
 
 ol her breast, spoke. " But even if I might learn, Dr. 
 Marmion, be sure that neither your college nor Heaven 
 gave you the knowledge to instruct me. . . . There, 
 pardon me, if I speak harshly ; but this is most incon- 
 siderate of you ; most impulsive — and compromising. 
 You are capable of singular contrasts. Please let us be 
 friends, friends simply. You are too interesting for a 
 lover, really you are." 
 
 Her words were a cold shock to my emotion — my 
 superficial emotion ; though indeed, for that moment she 
 seemed adorable to me. Without any apparent relevan- 
 cy, but certainly because my thoughts in self-reproach 
 were hovering about Cabin 116, Intermediate, I said 
 with a biting shame : " I do not wonder now ! " 
 
 " You do not wonder at what ? " she questioned ; and 
 she laid her hand kindly on my arm. I put the hand 
 away a little childishly, and replied : " At men going to 
 the devil." But this was not what I thought. 
 
 " That does not sound complimentary to somebody. 
 May I ask what you mean ? " she said calmly. 
 
 " I mean that Anson loved his wife, and she did not 
 love him ; yet she held him like a slave, torturing him at 
 the same time." 
 
 " Does it not strike you that this is irrelevant ? You 
 are not my husband ; not my slave. But to be less per- 
 sonal, Anson's wife was not responsible for his loving 
 her. Love, as I take it, is a voluntary thing. It pleased 
 him to love her ; he would not have done it if it did not 
 please him ; probably his love was an inconvenient thing 
 domestically — if he had no tact." 
 
 " Of that," I said, " neither you nor I can know with 
 any certainty. But, to be scriptural, she reaped where 
 she did not sow, and gathered where she had not strawed. 
 If she did not make the man love her, — I believe she 
 did, as I believe you would, perhaps unconsciously, do — 
 she used his love, and was therefore better able to make 
 
60 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 all other men admire or worship her. She was richer in 
 personal power for that experience ; but she was not 
 grateful for it nor for his devotion. 
 
 " You mean, in fact, that I — for you make the personal 
 application — shall be better able henceforth to win 
 men's love, because — ah, surely, Dr. Marmion, you do 
 not dignify this impulse, this foolishness of yours, by the 
 name of love ? " And she smiled a little satirically at 
 the fingers I had kissed. 
 
 I was humiliated, and annoyed with her and with my- 
 self, though down in my heart I knew that she was 
 right. " I mean," I said, " that I can understand how 
 men have committed suicide because of just such things. 
 My wonder is, that Anson, poor devil, did not do it." 
 I knew I was talking foolishly. 
 
 " He hadn't the courage, my dear sir. He was gentle- 
 manly enough to die, but not to be heroic to that extent ; 
 for it does need a strong dash of heroism to take one's 
 own life. As I conceive it, suicide would have been the 
 best thing for him when he sinned against the code. 
 The world would have pitied him then, would have said : 
 ' He spared us the trial of punishing him.' But to pay 
 the vulgar penalty of prison — Ah ! " She shuddered, 
 and then, almost coldly, continued : " Suicide is an act 
 of importance ; it shows that a man recognizes at least 
 the worthlessness of his life. He does one dramatic and 
 powerful thing ; he has an instant of great courage, and 
 all is over. If it had been a duel in which, in intention, 
 he would fire wide, and his assailant would fire to kill, 
 so much the better ; so much the more would the world 
 pity. But either is superior as a final situation than 
 death with a broken heart, — I suppose that is possible — 
 and disgrace, in a hospital." 
 
 " You seem to think only of the present, only of the 
 cude and the World ; and as if there were no heroism in 
 a man living down his shame, righting himself heroically 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 6l 
 
 at all points possible, bearing his penalty, and showing 
 the courage of wearing daily the sackcloth of remorse 
 and restitution." 
 
 " Oh ! " she persisted, " you make me angry. I know 
 what you wish to express ; I know that you consider it a 
 sin to take one's life, even in ' the high Roman fashion.' 
 But, frankly, I do not ; and I fear, or rather, I fancy, that 
 I never shall. After all, your belief is a pitiless one ; 
 for, as I have tried to say, the man hasn't himself alone 
 to consider, but those to whom his living is a perpetual 
 shame and menace and cruelty insupportable — insup- 
 portable ! — Now, please, let us change the subject final- 
 ly ; and — " here she softly laughed — "forgive me if I 
 have treated your fancied infatuation lightly. I want 
 you for a friend ; at least for a pleasant acquaintance. 
 
 I do not want you for a lover." 
 
 We both rose. I was not quite content with her nor 
 with myself yet. I felt sure that while she did not wish 
 me as a lover, she was not averse to my playing the 
 devoted cavalier, who should give all while she should 
 give nothing. I knew that my punishment had already 
 begun. We paced the deck in silence ; and once, as we 
 walked far aft, I saw leaning upon the railing of the in- 
 termediate deck, and looking towards us, Boyd Madras ; 
 and the words of that letter which he wrote on the No 
 Man's Sea came to me. 
 
 At length she said : " You have made no reply to my 
 last remark. Are we to be friends, and not lovers ? Or 
 are you going to cherish enmity against me ? Or, worse 
 still," and here she laughed, I thought a little ironically, 
 " avoid me, and be as icy as you have been — fervid ? " 
 
 "Mrs. Falchion," I said, "your enemy I do not wish 
 to be ; I could not be if I wished. But, for the rest, you 
 must please let me see what I may think of myself to- 
 morrow. There's much virtue in < to-morrow,' " I added, 
 
 II it enables one to get perspective." 
 
62 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " I understand," she said, and became silent. We 
 walked the deck slowly for several minutes. Then we 
 were accosted by two ladies of a committee that had 
 the fancy dress ball in hand. They wished to consult 
 Mrs. Falchion in certain matters of costume and decora- 
 tion, for which, it had been discovered, she had a peculiar 
 faculty. She turned to me half inquiringly, and I bade 
 her good-night, inwardly determined (how easy it is, after 
 having failed to gratify ourselves) that the touch of her 
 fingers should never again make my heart beat faster. 
 
 I joined Colonel Ryder and Clovelly in the smoking- 
 room. Hungerford, as I guessed gladly, was gone. I 
 was too much the coward to meet his eye just then. 
 Colonel Ryder was estimating the amount he would 
 wager — if he were in the habit of betting — that the Fulvia 
 could not turn round in her tracks in twenty minutes. 
 He was opposed by Clovelly. The bookmaker was 
 chaffing them both. He was sometimes profane, but 
 there was a deferential tone in his strong language, a 
 hesitating quaintness, which made it irresistible. He was 
 at the service of any person on board needing cham- 
 pionship. His talents were varied. He could suggest 
 harmonies in colour to the ladies at one moment, and at 
 the next, in the seclusion of the bar-counter, arrange 
 deadly harmonies in liquor. He was an authority on act- 
 ing ; he knew how to edit a newspaper ; he picked out the 
 really nice points in the sermons delivered by the mis- 
 sionaries in the saloon ; he had some marvellous theories 
 about navigation ; and his trick with a salad was superb. 
 He now convulsed the idlers in the smoking-room with 
 laughter, and soon deftly drew off the discussion to the 
 speed of the vessel, arranging a sweepstake immediately 
 upon the possibilities of the run. He instantly proposed 
 to sell the numbers by auction. He was the auctioneer. 
 With his eye-glass to his eye, and Bohemian pleasantry 
 falling from his lips, he ran the prices up. He was selling 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 63 
 
 Clovelly's number, and had advanced it beyond the nov- 
 elist's own bidding, when the screw stopped suddenly, 
 the engines ceased working, and the Fulvia slowed down. 
 The tickets remained unsold. Word came to us that 
 an accident had happened to the machinery, and that we 
 should be hove-to for a day or longer, to accomplish 
 necessary repairs. How serious the accident to the 
 machinery was no one knew. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ACCUSING FACES. 
 
 While we were hove-to, the Porcupine passed us. In 
 all probability it would now get to Aden ahead of us, 
 and herein lay a development of the history of Mrs. Fal- 
 chion. I was standing beside Belle Treherne as the ship 
 came within hail of us and signalled to see what was the 
 matter. Mrs. Falchion was not far from us. She was 
 looking intently at the vessel through marine glasses, and 
 she did not put them down until it had passed. Then 
 she turned away with an abstracted light in her eyes and 
 a wintry smile. And the look and the smile continued 
 when she sat down in her deck chair and leaned her 
 cheek meditatively on the marine glass. But I saw now 
 that something was added to the expression of her face — 
 a suggestion of brooding or wonder. Belle Treherne, 
 noticing the direction of my glances, said : " Have you 
 known Mrs. Falchion long ? " 
 
 " No, not long," I replied. " Only since she came on 
 board." 
 
 " She is very clever, I believe." 
 
 I felt my face flushing, though reasonably there was 
 no occasion for it, and said : " Yes, she is one of the 
 ablest women I have ever met." 
 5 
 
64 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " She is beautiful too, very beautiful." This very 
 frankly. 
 
 " Have you talked with her ? " said I. 
 
 " Yes, a little this morning, for the first time. She did 
 not speak much, however. " Here Miss Treherne paused, 
 and then said meditatively : " Do you know, she im- 
 pressed me as having singular frankness and singular 
 reserve as well. I think I admired it. There is no feel- 
 ing in her talk, and yet great candor. I never before 
 met anyone like her. She doesn't wear her heart upon 
 her sleeve, I fancy." 
 
 A moment of irony came over me, that desire to say 
 what one really does not believe (a feminine trait), and 
 I replied : " Are both those articles necessary to anyone ? 
 A sleeve ? — Well, one must be clothed ; but a heart ? — 
 a cumbrous thing, as I take it." 
 
 Belle Treherne turned, and looked me steadily in the 
 eyes for an instant, as if she had suddenly awakened 
 from abstraction, and slowly said, as she drew back 
 slightly : " Dr. Marmion, I am only a girl, I know, and 
 inexperienced ; but I hoped most people of education 
 and knowledge of life were free from that kind of 
 cynicism to be read of in books." Then something in 
 her thoughts seemed to chill her words and manner, and 
 her father coming up a moment after, she took his arm, 
 and walked away with a not very cordial bow to me. 
 
 The fact is, with a woman's quick intuition, she 
 had read in my tone something suggestive of my recent 
 experience with Mrs. Falchion. Her fine girlishness 
 awoke ; the purity of her thoughts rose in opposition 
 to my flippancy and to me, and I knew that I had 
 roused a prejudice not easy to destroy. This was on a 
 Friday afternoon. On the Saturday evening following, 
 the fancy dress ball was to occur. The accident to the 
 machinery and our delay were almost forgotten in the 
 preparations therefor. I had little to do ; there was 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 65 
 
 only one really sick man on board, and my hand could 
 not cure his sickness. How he fared, my uncomfortable 
 mind, now bitterly alive to a sense of duty, almost hesi- 
 tated to inquire. Yet a change had come. A reaction 
 had set in for me. Would it be permanent ? I dared 
 scarcely answer that question with Mrs. Falchion on my 
 right hand at table, with her musical voice in my ear. 
 I was not quite myself yet. I was struggling, as it were, 
 with the effects of an opium dream. Still, I had deter- 
 mined upon my course. I had made resolutions. I had 
 ended the chapter of dalliance. I had wished to go to 
 116 Intermediate and let its occupant demand what 
 satisfaction he would ; I wanted to say to Hungerford 
 that I was an ass ; but that was even harder still. He 
 was so thorough and uncompromising in nature, so 
 strong in moral fibre, that I felt his sarcasm would be 
 too outspoken for me at present. In this, however, 
 I did not give him credit for his fine sense of considera- 
 tion, as after events showed. 
 
 Although there had been no spoken understanding 
 between us that Mrs. Falchion was the wife of Boyd 
 Madras, the mind of one was the other's also. I under- 
 stand exactly why he told me Boyd Madras's story : it 
 was a warning. He was not the man to harp on things. 
 He gave the hint, and there the matter ended, so far 
 as he was concerned, until a time might come when he 
 should think it his duty to refer to the subject again. 
 Some time before, he had shown me the portrait of 
 the girl who had promised to be his wife. She, of course, 
 could trust him, anywhere, everywhere. 
 
 Mrs. Falchion had seen the change in me, and, I am 
 sure, guessed the fresh direction of my thoughts, and 
 knew that I wished to take refuge in a new companion- 
 ship — a thing, indeed, not easily to be achieved, as I 
 felt now ; for no girl of delicate, proud temper would 
 complacently regard a hasty transference of attention 
 
66 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 from another to herself. Besides, it would be neither 
 courteous nor reasonable to break with Mrs. Falchion 
 abruptly. The error was mine, not hers. She had not 
 my knowledge of the immediate circumstances which 
 made my position morally untenable. She showed un- 
 embarrassed ignorance of the change. At the same 
 time, I caught a tone of voice and a manner which 
 showed she was not actually oblivious, but was touched 
 in that nerve called vanity ; and from this much femi- 
 nine hatred springs. 
 
 I made up my mind to begin a course of scientific 
 reading, and was seated in my cabin, vainly trying to 
 digest a treatise on the pathology of the nervous system, 
 when Hungerford appeared at the door. With a nod 
 he entered, threw himself down on the cabin-sofa, and 
 asked for a match. After a pause, he said : " Marmion, 
 Boyd Madras, alias Charles Boyd, has recognized me." 
 
 I rose to get a cigar, thus turning my face from him, 
 and said : " Well ? " 
 
 " Well, there isn't anything very startling. I suppose 
 he wishes I had left him in the dinghey on No Man's Sea. 
 He's a fool." 
 
 " Indeed, why ? " 
 
 " Marmion, are your brains softening ? Why does he 
 shadow a woman who wouldn't lift her finger to save him 
 from battle, murder, or sudden death ? " 
 
 " From the code," I said in half soliloquy. 
 
 " From the what ? " 
 
 " Oh, never mind, Hungerford ! I suppose he is shad- 
 owing — Mrs. Falchion ? " 
 
 He eyed me closely. 
 
 " I mean the woman that chucked his name ; that 
 turned her back on him when he was in trouble ; that 
 hopes he is dead, if she doesn't believe that actually he 
 is ; that would, no doubt, treat him as a burglar if he 
 went to her, got down on his knees, and said : ' Mercy, 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 67 
 
 my girl, I have, come back to you, a penitent prodigal. 
 Henceforth, I shall be as straight as the sun, so help me 
 Heaven and your love and forgiveness ! ' " 
 
 Hungerford paused, as if expecting me to reply ; but, 
 leaning forward on my knees and smoking hard, I re- 
 mained silent. This seemed to anger him, for he said a 
 little roughly : " Why doesn't he come out and give you 
 blazes on the promenade deck, and corner her down with 
 a mighty cheek, and levy on her for a thousand pounds ? 
 Both you and she would think more of him. Women 
 don't dislike being bullied if it is done in the right 
 way. Haven't I seen it the world over, from lubra to 
 dowager ? I tell you, man, sinning or not, was meant to 
 be woman's master and lover, and just as much one as 
 the other." 
 
 At this point, Hungerford's manner underwent a slight 
 change, and he continued : " Marmion, I wouldn't have 
 come near you, only I noticed you have altered your 
 course, and are going on a fresh tack. It isn't my habit 
 to worry a man. I gave you a signal, and you didn't 
 respond at first. Well, we have come within hail again, 
 and now don't you think that you might help to straighten 
 this tangle and try to arrange a reconciliation between 
 those two ? The. scheme is worth trying. Nobody need 
 know but you and me. It wouldn't be much of a sacrifice 
 to her to give him a taste of the thing she swore to do. 
 How does it run ? — ' To have and to hold from this day 
 forward ' — I can't recall it ; but it's whether the wind 
 blows fair or foul, the keel scrapes the land or gives to 
 the rock, till the sea gulps one of 'em down forever. 
 That's the sense of the thing, Marmion, and the contract 
 holds between the two, straight on into the eternal belly. 
 Whatever happens, a husband is a husband, and a wife 
 a^vife. It seems to me that, in the sight of Heaven, it's 
 he that's running fair in the teeth of the wind, every tim- 
 ber straining, and she that's riding with it, well coaled, 
 
68 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 flags flying, in an open channel, and passing the derelict 
 without so much as " Ahoy there " ! 
 
 Now, at this distance of time I look back and see Hun- 
 gerford, " the rowdy sailor," as he called himself, lying 
 there, his dark grey eyes turned full on me ; and I am 
 convinced that no honester, more sturdy-minded man 
 ever reefed a sail, took his turn upon the bridge, or 
 walked the dry land in the business of life. It did not 
 surprise me, a year after, when I saw in public prints that 
 he was the hero of — but that must be told elsewhere. 
 I was about to answer him then, as I knew he would 
 wish, when a steward appeared and said : " Mr. Boyd, 
 116 Intermediate, wishes you would come to him, sir, if 
 you would be so kind." 
 
 Hungerford rose, and, as I made ready to go, urged 
 quietly : " You've got the charts and soundings, Mar- 
 mion, steam ahead ; " and, with a swift but kindly 
 clinch of my shoulder, left me. In that moment there 
 came a cowardly feeling, a sense of shamefacedness ; 
 and then, hard upon it and overwhelming it, a determi- 
 nation to serve Boyd Madras so far as lay in my power ; 
 and to be a man, and not a coward and an idler. 
 
 When I found him, he was prostrate. In his eyes 
 there was no anger, no indignation, no sullenness — all of 
 which he might reasonably have felt ; and, instantly, I 
 was ashamed of the thought which, as I came to him, 
 flashed through my mind, that he might do some violent 
 thing. Not that I had any fear of violence, but I had 
 an active dislike of awkward circumstances. I felt his 
 fluttering pulse, and noted the blue line on his warped 
 lips. I gave him some medicine, and then sat down. 
 There was a silence. What could I say? A dozen 
 thoughts came to my mind, but I rejected them. It was 
 difficult to open the subject. 
 
 At last he put his hand upon my arm and spoke. 
 " You told me one night that vou would help me, if you 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 69 
 
 could. I ought to have accepted your offer at first: it 
 
 would have been better No, please don't speak just 
 
 yet. I think I know what you would say. I knew that 
 you meant all you urged upon me ; that you liked me. 
 I was once worthy of men's liking, perhaps, and I had 
 good comrades ; but that's all over. You have not come 
 near me lately, but it wasn't because you felt any neglect, 
 or wished to take back your words ; but — because of 
 something else. ... I understand it all. She has great 
 power. She always had. She is very beautiful. I 
 
 remember when but I will not call it back before 
 
 you, though, God knows, I go over it all every day and 
 every night, until it seems that only the memory of her 
 is real, and that she herself is a ghost. I ought not to 
 have crossed her path again, even unknown to her. But 
 I have done it, and now I cannot go out of that path 
 without speaking to her once again, as I did long ago. 
 Having seen her, breathed the same air, I must speak or 
 die ; perhaps it will be both. That is a power she has : 
 she can bend one to her will, although she often invol- 
 untarily wills things that are death to others. One must 
 care for her, you understand. It is natural, even when 
 it's torture to do so." 
 
 He put his hand on his side and moved as if in pain. 
 I reached over and felt his pulse, then took his hand and 
 pressed it, saying : " I will be your friend now, Boyd 
 Madras, in so far as I can, God helping me ! " 
 
 He looked up at me gratefully, and replied : " I know 
 that/ 1 know that. It is more than I deserve." 
 
 Then he began to speak of his past. He told me of 
 Hungerford's kindness to him on the Dancing Kate, of 
 his luckless days at Port Darwin, of his search for his 
 wife, his writing to her, and her refusal to see him. He 
 did not rail against her. He apologized for her, and 
 reproached himself. " She is very beautiful," he contin- 
 ued : " and different from most women. She never said 
 
70 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 she loved me, and she never did, I know. Her father 
 urged her to marry me. He thought I was a good man." 
 Here he laughed a little bitterly. 
 
 " But it was a bad day for her. She never loved any- 
 one, I think, and she cannot understand what love is, 
 though many have cared for her. She is silent where 
 herself is concerned. I think there was some trouble — 
 not love, I am sure of that — which vexed her, and made 
 her a little severe at times ; something connected with 
 her life, or her father's life, in Samoa. One can only 
 guess, but white men take what are called ' native wives' 
 there very often; and who can tell? — Her father — but 
 that is her secret ! . . . While I was right before the 
 world, she was a good wife to me in her way. When I 
 went wrong, she treated me as if I were dead, and took 
 her old name. . . . But if I could speak to her 
 quietly once more, perhaps she would listen. It would 
 do no good at all to write. Perhaps she would never 
 begin the world with me again, but I should like to hear 
 her say, ' I forgive you. Good-by.' There would be 
 some comfort in a kind farewell from her. You can see 
 that, Dr. Marmion ? " 
 
 He paused, waiting for me to speak. " Yes, I can see 
 that," I said, and then I added : " Why did you not speak 
 to her before you both came on board at Colombo ? " 
 
 " I had no chance. I only saw her in the streets an 
 hour before the ship sailed. I had scarcely time to take 
 my passage." 
 
 Pain here checked his utterance, and, when he re- 
 covered, he turned again to me, and continued : " To- 
 morrow night there is a fancy dress ball on board. I 
 have been thinking. I could go in a good disguise. I 
 could speak to her, and attract no notice ; and if she will 
 not listen to me, why, then, that ends it ; I shall know 
 the worst, and to know the worst is best." 
 
 " Yes," said I, " and what do you wish me to do ? " 
 
MRS. FALCHT'ON. 7 1 
 
 " I wish to go in a disguise, of course ; to dress in your 
 cabin if you will let me. I cannot dress here. It would 
 attract attention ; and I am not a first-class passenger." 
 
 "I fear," I replied, "that it is impossible to assist 
 you to the privileges of a first-class passenger. You 
 see, I am an officer of the ship. But still I can help you. 
 You shall leave this cabin to-night. I will arrange so 
 that you may transfer yourself to one in the first-class 
 section. . . . No, not a word. It must be as I wish 
 in this. You are ill. I can do you that kindness, at least, 
 and then, by right, you can attend the ball, and, after it, 
 your being among the first-class passengers can make 
 little difference, for you will have met and spoken then, 
 either to reconciliation or otherwise." 
 
 I had very grave doubts of any reconciliation, the 
 substance of my notable conversation with Mrs. Falchion 
 vas so prominent in my mind. I feared she would only 
 reproduce the case of Anson and his wife. I was also 
 afraid of a possible scene ; which showed that I was not 
 yet able to judge of her resources. After a silence I said 
 to Boyd Madras : " But suppose she should be frightened, 
 should — should make a scene ? " 
 
 He raised himself to a sitting posture. " I feel better," 
 he said. Then, answering my question : " You do not 
 know her quite. She will not stir a muscle. She has 
 nerve. I have seen her in positions of great peril and 
 trial. She is not emotional, though I think she will wake 
 one day and find her heart all fire — but not for me. Still, 
 I say that all will be quite comfortable, so far as any 
 demonstration on her part is concerned. She will not be 
 excitable, I assure you." 
 
 " And the disguise — your dress ? " inquired I. 
 
 He rose from the berth slowly, and opening a portman- 
 teau, drew from it a cloth of white and red, fringed with 
 gold. It was of beautiful texture, and made into the 
 form of a toga or mantle ; and he said : " I was a seller 
 
72 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 of such stuffs in Colombo, and these I brought with me, 
 because I could not dispose of them without sacrifice 
 when I left hurriedly. I have made them into a mantle. 
 I could go as a noble Roman, perhaps ! " A slight 
 ironical smile crossed his lips, and he stretched out his 
 thin but shapely arms as if in derision of himself. 
 
 "You will go as Menelaus the Greek," said I. 
 
 " I, as Menelaus the Greek ? " The smile became a 
 little grim. 
 
 " Yes, as Menelaus ; and I will go as Paris." I doubt 
 not that my voice showed a good deal of self-scorn at the 
 moment ; but there was a kind of luxury in self-abase- 
 ment before him. " Your wife, I know, intends to go as 
 Helen of Troy. It is all mumming. Let it stand so, as 
 Menelaus and Helen and Paris before there was any 
 Trojan war, and as if there never could be any ; as if 
 Paris went back alone sorry, and the other two were 
 reconciled." 
 
 His voice was low and broken. " I know you exagger- 
 ate matters, and condemn yourself beyond reason," he 
 replied. " I will do all you say. But, Dr. Marmion, it 
 will not be all mumming, as you shall see." 
 
 A strange look came upon his face at this. I could 
 not construe it ; and after a few words of explanation 
 regarding his transference to the forward part of the ship, 
 I left him. I found the purser, made the necessary 
 arrangements for him, and then went to my cabin, 
 humbled in many ways. I went troubled to bed. After 
 a long wakefulness I dozed away into that disturbed 
 vestibule of sleep, where the world's happenings mingle 
 with the visions of unconsciousness. I seemed to watch 
 a man's heart beating in his bosom in growing agonies, 
 until, with one last immense palpitation, it burst, and 
 life was gone. Then the dream changed, and I saw a 
 man in the sea drowning, who seemed never to drown 
 entirely, his hands ever beating the air and the mocking 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 73 
 
 water. I thought that I tried many times to throw him 
 a lighted buoy in the half-shadow, but some one held 
 me back, and I knew that a woman's arms were round 
 me. But at last the drowning man looked up and saw 
 the woman so, and, with a last quiver of the arms, 
 sank from sight. When he was gone the woman's arms 
 dropped away from me ; but when I turned to speak to 
 her, she too had gone. 
 
 Two stewards were talking in the passage. One 
 was saying : " She'll get under way by daybreak, and it 
 will be a race with the Porcupine to Aden. How the 
 engines are kicking ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MUMMERS ALL. 
 
 The next day was beautiful if not enjoyable. Stir- 
 ring preparations were being made for the ball. Boyd 
 Madras was transferred to a cabin far forward, but he 
 did not appear at any meal in the saloon, or on deck. 
 In the morning I was busy in the dispensary. While I 
 was there, Justine Caron came to get a head-ache mix- 
 ture. Her hand was now nearly well. Justine had 
 nerves, and it appeared to me that her efforts to please 
 her mistress, and her occasional failures, were wearing 
 her unduly. I said to her : " You have been worried, 
 Miss Caron." 
 
 "Oh, no, Doctor ! " she quickly replied. 
 
 I looked at her a little sceptically, and she said at 
 last : " Well, perhaps a little. You see, Madame did not 
 sleep well last night, and I read to her. It was a little 
 difficult, and there was not much choice of books." 
 
 " What did you read ? " I asked with no purpose as I 
 prepared her medicine. 
 
74 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " Oh, some French novel first — De Maupassant's ; but 
 Madame said he was impertinent ; that he made women 
 fools and men devils. Then I tried some modern Eng- 
 lish tales, but she said they were silly. I knew not what 
 to do. But there was Shakespere. I read Antony a?id 
 Cleopatra, and she said the play was grand, but that the 
 people were foolish except when they died ; their deaths 
 were magnificent. Madame is a great critic ; she is very 
 clever." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know that ; but when did she fall 
 asleep ?" 
 
 " About four o'clock in the morning. I was glad, 
 because she is very beautiful when she has much 
 sleep." 
 
 " And you — does not sleep concern you in this matter 
 of Madame ? " 
 
 "For me," she said, looking away, "it is nothing. 
 I have no beauty. Besides, I am Madame's servant — " 
 she blushed slightly at this — " and she is generous with 
 money." 
 
 " Yes, and you like money so much ?" 
 
 Her eyes flashed a little defiantly as she looked me in 
 the face. " It is everything to me." She paused as if 
 to see the effect upon me, or to get an artificial (I knew 
 it was artificial) strength to go on ; then she added : " I 
 love money. I work for it, I would bear all for it — all 
 that a woman could bear. I — " but here she paused 
 again, and though the eyes still flashed, the lips quivered. 
 Hers was not a face of cupidity. It was sensitive yet 
 firm, as with some purpose deep as her nature was by 
 creation and experience, and always deepening that 
 nature. I suddenly got the conviction that this girl 
 had a sorrow of some kind in her life, and that this 
 unreal affection for money was connected with it. She, 
 perhaps, saw my look of interest, for she hurriedly con- 
 tinued : " But, pardon me, I am foolish. I shall be better 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 75 
 
 when the pain is gone. Madame is kind ; she will let 
 me sleep this afternoon perhaps." 
 
 I handed her the medicine, and then asked : " How 
 long have you known Mrs. Falchion, Miss Caron ? " 
 
 "Only one year." 
 
 " Where did you join her ?" 
 
 " In Australia." 
 
 " In Australia ? You lived there ? " 
 
 " No, monsieur ; I did not live there." 
 
 A thought came to my mind — the nearness of New 
 Caledonia to Australia, and New Caledonia was a French 
 colony — a French penal colony ! I smiled as I said the 
 word penal to myself. Of course it could have no con- 
 nection with a girl like her ; but still she might have 
 lived in the colony. So I added quietly : " You per- 
 haps had come from New Caledonia ? " Her look was 
 candid, if sorrowful. " Yes, from New Caledonia." Was 
 she, thought I, the good wife of some convict, some 
 political prisoner? the relative of a refugee of misfor- 
 tune ? Whatever she was, I felt that she was free from 
 any fault. She evidently thought that I might suspect 
 something uncomplimentary of her, for she said : " My 
 brother was an officer at Noumea. He is dead. I am 
 going to France, when I can." 
 
 I tried to speak kindly to her. I saw that her present 
 position must be a great trial. I advised her to take 
 more rest, or she would break down altogether, for she 
 was weak and nervous. I hinted that she might have to 
 give up entirely if she continued to tax herself need- 
 lessly. And, finally, that I would speak to Mrs. Falchion 
 about her. I was scarcely prepared for her action then. 
 Tears came to her eyes, and she said to me, with her 
 hand involuntarily clasping my arm : " Oh, no ! no ! I 
 ask you not to speak to Madame. I will sleep. I will 
 rest. Indeed, I will. This service is so much to me. 
 She is most generous. It is because I am so altogether 
 
76 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 hers, night or day, that she pays me well. And the 
 money is so much. It is my honor, my dead brother's 
 honor. You are kind at heart ; you will make me 
 strong with medicine, and I will ask God to bless you. 
 I could not suffer such poverty again. And, then, it is 
 my honor." 
 
 I knew that she would not have given way thus if 
 her nerves had been strong ; had she not lived so much 
 alone, and irregularly, so far as her own rest and comfort 
 were concerned ; and at such perpetual cost to her energy. 
 Mrs. Falchion, I knew, was selfish, and would not, or 
 could not, see that she was hard upon the girl, by such 
 exactions as midnight reading and loss of sleep. She 
 demanded not merely physical, but mental, energy — a 
 complete submission of both ; and when this occurred 
 with a sensitive, high-strung girl, she was really feed- 
 ing on another's life-blood. If she had been told this 
 however, she, no doubt, would have been much sur- 
 prised. 
 
 I reassured Justine. I told her that I should say noth- 
 ing directly to her mistress, for I saw she was afraid of 
 unpleasantness. But I impressed upon her that she 
 must spare herself, or she would break down ; and ex- 
 torted a promise that she would object to sitting up after 
 midnight to read to Mrs. Falchion. 
 
 When this was done, she said : " But you see it is not 
 Madame's fault that I am troubled." 
 
 " I do not wish," I said, " to know any secret. I am a 
 doctor, not priest ; but if there is anything you can tell 
 me, in which I might be able to help you, you may com- 
 mand me in so far as is possible." Candidly, I think I 
 was too inquiring in those days. 
 
 She smiled wistfully, and replied : " I will think of 
 what you say so kindly, and, perhaps, some day soon, I 
 will tell you of my trouble. But, believe me, it no ques- 
 tion of wrong at all by any one now. The wrong is 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 77 
 
 over. It is simply that a debt of honor must be satis- 
 fied ; it concerns my poor dead brother." 
 
 " Are you going to relatives in France ? " I asked. 
 
 " No, I have no relatives, no near friends. I am alone 
 in the world. My mother I cannot remember. She 
 died when I was very young. My father had riches, but 
 they went before he died. . . . Still, France is home, 
 and I must go there. " She turned her head away to the 
 long wastes of sea. 
 
 Little more passed between us. I advised her to come 
 frequently on deck and mingle with the passengers ; and 
 told her that, when she pleased, I should be glad to do 
 any service that lay in my power. Her last words were, 
 that, after we put into Aden, she would, possibly, take 
 me at my word. 
 
 And from that moment I began to connect Justine 
 Caron with certain events which, I felt sure, were mar- 
 shalling to some unhappy conclusion. I wondered, too, 
 what part I should play in the development of the 
 comedy, tragedy, or whatever it was to be. In this 
 connection, I thought of Belle Treherne, and of how I 
 should appear in her eyes, if that little scene with Mrs. 
 Falchion, now always staring me in the face, were re- 
 hearsed before her. I came quickly to my feet with a 
 half-imprecation at myself. The verse of a crude sea^ 
 song was in my ears : 
 
 " You can batten down cargo, live and dead, 
 But you can't put mem'ry out of sight ; 
 You can paint the full sails overhead, 
 
 But you can't make a black deed white. ..." 
 
 Angry, I said to myself, " It wasn't a black deed ; it was 
 foolish, it was infatuation, it was not right ; but it is com- 
 mon to ship-board, and I lost my head — that was all." 
 
 Sometime later I was still at work in the dispensary, 
 when I heard Mr. Treherne's voice calling me from out- 
 side. I drew back the curtain. He was leaning on his 
 
78 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 daughter's arm, while in one hand he carried a stick. 
 " Ah, Doctor, Doctor," cried he, " my old enemy, sciatica, 
 has me in its grip, and why, in this warm climate, I can't 
 understand. I'm afraid I'll have to heave-to like the 
 Falvia, and lay up for repairs — and, by the way, I'm 
 glad we are on our course again." He entered and sat 
 down. Belle Treherne bowed to me gravely, and smiled 
 slightly. The smile was not peculiarly hospitable. I 
 knew perfectly well, that to convince her of the reality 
 of my growing admiration would be no easy task. But 
 I was determined to base my new religion of the affections 
 upon unassailable canons, and I felt that now I could do 
 so best by waiting and proving myself. 
 
 While I was arranging some medicine for Mr. Tre- 
 herne and advising him about care against chills in a hot 
 climate, he suddenly broke in with : "Dr. Marmion, Cap- 
 tain Ascott tells me that we shall get to Aden by Tuesday 
 morning next. Now, I was asked by a friend of mine in 
 London to visit the grave of a son of his — a newspaper 
 correspondent — who was killed in one of the expeditions 
 against the native tribes, and was buried in the general 
 cemetery at Aden. On the way out I was not able to 
 fulfil the commission, because we passed Aden in the 
 night. But there will be plenty of time to do so on Tues- 
 day, I am told. This, however, is my difficulty. I can- 
 not go unless I am better, and I'm afraid there is no such 
 luck as that in store for me. These attacks last a week at 
 least. I wish my daughter, however, to go. One of the 
 ladies on board will go with her — Mrs. Callendar I 
 believe ; and I am going to be so bold as to ask you to 
 accompany them, if you will. I know you better than any 
 officer on board ; and, besides, I should feel safer and 
 better satisfied if she went under the protection of an 
 officer — these barbarous places, you know ! — though, of 
 course, it may be asking too much of you, or what's im- 
 possible." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 79 
 
 I assented with pleasure. Belle Treherne was looking 
 at the Latin names on the bottles at the time, and her face 
 showed no expression either of pleasure or displeasure. 
 Mr. Treherne said bluffly : " Dr. Marmion, you are kind, 
 very kind, and upon my word I'm much obliged." He 
 then looked at his daughter as if expecting her to speak. 
 
 She looked up, and said conventionally, "You are very 
 kind, Dr. Marmion, and I am much obliged." 
 
 Then I thought her eyes twinkled with amusement at 
 her own paraphrase of her father's speech, and she added : 
 " Mrs. Callendar and myself will be much honored indeed, 
 and feel very important in having an officer to attend us. 
 Of course everybody else will be envious, and, again of 
 course, that will add to our vanity." 
 
 At this she would have gone, but her father, who was 
 suffering just enough pain to enjoy diversion, fell into 
 conversation upon a subject of mutual interest, in which 
 his daughter joined on occasion, but not with enthusiasm. 
 Yet when they came to go, she turned and said kindly, 
 almost softly, as her fingers touched mine : ''I almost 
 envy you your profession, Dr. Marmion ; it opens doors 
 to so much of humanity and life." 
 
 "There is no sin," I laughingly said, "in such a covet- 
 ousness ; and, believe me, it can do no harm to me at 
 least." Then I added gravely, " I should like my profes- 
 sion, in so far as I am concerned, to be worth your envy." 
 She had passed through the door before the last words 
 were said, but I saw that her look was not forbidding. 
 
 Is there any unhappiness anywhere ? There is not a vex- 
 ing toss of the sea, not a cloud in the sky. Is not catas- 
 trophe dead and the quiver of tragedy spilled ? Peace 
 broadens into deep, perfumed dusk towards Arabia, 
 languor spreads towards the unknown lands of the far- 
 thest south. No anxious soul leans out from the case- 
 
80 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 ment of life ; the time is heavy with delightful ease. 
 There is no sound that troubles ; the world goes by, 
 and no one heeds ; for it is all beyond this musky twi- 
 light and this pleasant hour. In this palace on the sea, 
 Mirth goes in and out with airy and harmonious foot- 
 steps. Even the clang-clang of eight bells has music, not 
 boisterous nor disturbing, but muffled in the velvety air. 
 Then through this hemisphere of jocund quiet there 
 sounds the " All's Well " of the watch. 
 
 But, look ! Did you see a star fall just then, and the 
 long avenue of expiring flame behind it ? . . . Do 
 not shudder. It is nothing. No cry of pain came 
 through that brightness. There was only the " All's 
 well ! " from the watcher. 
 
 The thud of the engines falls on a padded atmosphere, 
 and the Lascars move like ghosts along the decks. The 
 long, smooth promenade is canopied, and curtained, and 
 bung with banners, and gay devices of the gorgeous 
 East are contributing to the federation of pleasure. 
 
 And now, through a festooned doorway, there come the 
 people of many lands to inhabit the gay court. Music 
 follows their footsteps : Hamlet and Esther, Caractacus 
 and Iphigenia, Napoleon and Hermione, the Man in the 
 Iron Mask and Sappho, Garibaldi and Boadicea, an Arab 
 sheikh and Joan of Arc, Mahomet, Casabianca, Cleopatra 
 and Hannibal — a resurrected world. . . . But the 
 illusion is short and slight. This world is very sordid — 
 of shreds and patches after all. It is but a pretty mas- 
 querade, in which feminine vanity beats hard against 
 strangely clothed bosoms, and masculine conceit is 
 shown in the work of the barber's curling irons and the 
 ship carpenter's wooden swords and paper helmets. The 
 pride of these folk is not diminished because Hamlet's 
 wig gets awry, or a Roman has trouble with his foolish 
 garters. Few men or women can resist mumming ; they 
 fancy themselves as somebody else, dead or living. Yet 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 8l 
 
 these seem happy in their nonsense. The indolent days 
 appear to have deadened hatred, malice, and all unchari- 
 tableness. They shall strut and fret their hour upon this 
 little stage. Let that sprightly girl forget the sudden 
 death which made her an orphan ; the nervous broker 
 his faithless wife ; the gray-haired soldier his silly and 
 haunting sins ; the bankrupt his creditors. 
 
 " On with the dance ; let joy be unconfined ! " 
 
 For the captain is on the bridge, the engineer is below, 
 we have a stout wall and a ceaseless sentry-go. . . . 
 In the intervals of the dance, wine passes and idle 
 things are said beside the draped and cushioned cap- 
 stan or in the friendly gloom of a boat, which, in the 
 name of safety, hangs taut between its davits. Let this 
 imitation Cleopatra use the Cleopatra's arts ; this mellow 
 Romeo (sometime an Irish landlord) vow to his coy 
 
 Juliet ; this Helen of Troy ■ Of all who walk these 
 
 decks, mantled and wigged, in characters not their own, 
 Mrs. Falchion was the handsomest, most convincing. 
 With a graceful swaying movement she passed along 
 the promenade, and even envy praised her. Her hand 
 lay lightly on the arm of a brown, stalwart native of the 
 Indian Hills, savage in attire. Against his wild pic- 
 turesqueness and brawny strength, her perfectness of 
 animal beauty, curbed and rendered delicate by her 
 inner coldness, showed in fine contrast ; and yet both 
 were matched in the fine natural prowess of form. 
 
 With a singular affirmation of what had been, after all, 
 but a sadly humorous proposal, I had attired myself in 
 a Greek costume, quickly made by my steward, who had 
 been a tailor ; and was about to leave my cabin, when 
 Hungerford entered and exclaimed, as he took his pipe 
 from his mouth in surprise : " Marmion, what does this 
 mean ? Don't you know your duties better ? No officer 
 may appear at these flare-ups in costume other than his 
 
82 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 uniform. You're the finest example of suburban inno- 
 cence and original sin I've seen this last quarter of a cen- 
 tury, wherein I've kept the world— and you— from totter- 
 ing to destruction." He reached for one of my cigars. 
 
 Without a word, and annoyed at my own stupidity, I 
 slowly divested myself of the clothes of Greece ; while . 
 Hungerford smoked on, humming to himself occasionally 
 a few bars of The Buccaneer s Bride; but evidently occu- 
 pied with something in his mind. At length he said : 
 " Marmion, I said suburban innocence and original sin, 
 but you've a grip on the law of square and compass too. 
 I'll say that for you, old chap, — and I hope you don't 
 think I'm a miserable prig." 
 
 Still I replied nothing, but offered him one of my 
 best cigars, taking the other from him, and held the 
 match while he lighted it ; which, between men, is suffi- 
 cient evidence of good feeling. He understood, and 
 continued : " Of course you'll keep your eye on Mrs. 
 Falchion and Madras to-night, if he is determined they 
 shall meet, and you have arranged it. I should like to 
 know how it goes before you turn in, if you don't mind. 
 And, I say, Marmion, ask Miss Treherne to keep a 
 dance for me — a waltz — towards the close of the even- 
 ing, will you ? Excuse me, but she is the thoroughbred 
 of the ship. And if I have only one hop down the 
 promenade, I want it to be with a girl who'll remind me 
 of some one that is making West Kensington worth 
 inhabiting. Only think, Marmion, of a girl like her, a 
 graduate of arts, whose name and pieture have been in 
 all the papers, being willing to take up with me, Dick 
 Hungerford. She is as natural and simple as a girl can 
 be, and doesn't throw Greek roots at you, nor try to 
 convince you of the difference between the songs of the 
 Troubadours and the sonnets of Petrarch. She doesn't 
 care a rap whether Dante's Beatrice was a real woman 
 or a principle ; whether James I. poisoned his son, or 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 83 
 
 what's the margin between a sine and a co-sine. She can 
 
 take a fence in the hunting-field like a bird oh, all 
 
 right, just hold still, and I'll unfasten it." He strug- 
 gled with a recalcitrant buckle. ..." Well, you'll 
 not forget about Miss Treherne, will you ? She ought 
 to go' just as she is. Fancy-dress on her would be gild- 
 ing the lily, for though she isn't surpassingly beautiful, 
 she is very fine indeed. There, now you're yourself again, 
 and look all the better for it." 
 
 By this time I was again in my uniform, and I sat 
 down and smoked and looked at Hungerford. His long 
 gossip had been more or less detached, and I had said 
 nothing. I understood that he was trying, in his blunt 
 honest way, to turn my thoughts definitely from Mrs. 
 Falchion to Belle Treherne ; and he never seemed to 
 me such a good fellow as at that moment. I replied at 
 last : " All right, Hungerford, I'll be your deputation, 
 your ambassador, to Miss Treherne. What time shall 
 we see you on deck ? " 
 
 "About 11.40 — just in time to trip a waltz on the 
 edge of eight bells." 
 
 " On the edge of Sunday, my boy." 
 
 " Yes. Do you know, it's just four years to-morrow 
 since I found Boyd Madras on the No Man's Sea." 
 
 " Let us not talk of it," said I. 
 
 " All right. I merely stated the fact, because it came 
 to me. I'm mum henceforth. . . . And I want to 
 talk about something else. — The first officer : I don't 
 know whether you've noticed him lately, but I tell 
 you this — if we ever get into any trouble with this ship, 
 he'll go to pieces. Why, the other night when the 
 engine got tangled he was as timid as a woman. That 
 shock he had with the coal, as I said before, has broken 
 his nerve, big man as he is." 
 
 " Hungerford," I said, " you don't generally croak ; but 
 you are earning the character of the raven for yourself 
 
84 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 to-night. The thing is growing on you. What is the 
 use of bringing up unpleasant subjects ? You're an old 
 woman." 
 
 I fear there was the slightest irritation in my voice, 
 but the last few days' experiences had left their mark on 
 me, and Hungerford's manner had suddenly grown trying. 
 
 He stood for a moment looking at me from under his 
 strong brows with direct earnestness, and then he stepped 
 forward, and laying his hand upon my arm, rejoined : 
 " Don't be raw, Marmion. I'm only a blunt, stupid 
 sailor, and to tell you God's truth, as I've told you 
 before, every sailor is superstitious — every real sailor. 
 He can't help it ; I can't help it. I have a special fit on 
 me now. Why don't I keep it to myself ? Because I'm 
 selfish, and it does me good to talk. You and I are in 
 one secret together, and it makes me feel like sharing 
 this with a pal, I suppose." 
 
 I seized his hand, and begged his pardon, and called 
 myself unpleasant names, which he on the instant stopped ; 
 and he said : " That's all right, Marmy ; shake till the 
 knuckles crack ! . . . I'm off. Don't forget the 
 dance." He disappeared down the passage. 
 
 Then I went on deck, and the scene which I have so 
 imperfectly described passed before me. Mrs. Falchion 
 was surrounded with admirers all the evening, — both men 
 and women, — and two of the very stately English ladies 
 spoken of before, were particularly gracious to her ; while 
 she, in turn, carried herself with dignity. I danced with 
 her once, and was down on her programme for another 
 dance. i had also danced with Belle Treherne, who 
 appeared as Miriam, and was supervised by one of the 
 ladies of title ; and I had also " sat out " one dance 
 with her. Chancing to pass her as the evening wore on, 
 I saw her in conversation with Mrs. Falchion, who had 
 dismissed her cavalier, preferring to talk, she said, " for 
 dancing was tiresome work on the Indian Ocean." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 85 
 
 Belle Treherne, who, up to that moment, had never 
 quite liked her, yielded to the agreeable charm of her 
 conversation and her frank applausive remarks upon 
 the costumes of the dancers. She had a good word for 
 every one, and she drew her companion out to make the 
 most of herself, as women less often do before women 
 than in the presence of men. I am certain that her in- 
 terest in Belle Treherne was real, and likewise certain 
 that she cherished no pique because I had transferred my 
 allegiance. Indeed, I am sure that she had no deep 
 feeling of injured pride where I was concerned. Such 
 after acidity as she sometimes showed was directed 
 against the foolish part I had played with her and my 
 action in subsequent events ; it did not proceed alone 
 from self-value. 
 
 Sometime after this meeting I saw Boyd Madras issue 
 from the companion-way, dressed as a Greek. He wore 
 a false beard, and carried off well his garments of white 
 and scarlet and gold : a very presentable man. He 
 came slowly forward, looking about him steadily, and, 
 seeing me, moved towards me. But for his walk I should 
 scarcely have recognized him. A dance was beginning, 
 but many eyes were turned curiously and even admiringly 
 to him, for he looked singular and impressive, and his 
 face was given fulness by a beard and flesh paints. I 
 motioned him aside where there was shadow, and said : 
 " You have determined to see her ? " 
 
 "Yes," he said, " and I wish you, if you will, to intro- 
 duce me to her as Mr. Charles Boyd." 
 
 " You still think this wise ? " I asked. 
 
 " It is my earnest wish. I must have an understanding 
 to-night." He spoke very firmly, and showed no excite- 
 ment. His manner was calm and gentlemanly. 
 
 He had a surprising air of decision. Suppoiting an 
 antique character, he seemed for the moment to have put 
 on also something of antique strength of mind, and to be 
 
86 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 no longer the nervous invalid. " Then, come with me," 
 I answered. 
 
 We walked in silence for a few minutes, and then see- 
 ing where Mrs. Falchion was, we advanced to her. The 
 next dance on her programme was mine. In my pre- 
 vious dance with her we had talked as we now did at the 
 table, as we did the first time I met her, — impersonally, 
 sometimes (I am bold to say) amusingly. Now I ap- 
 proached her with apologies for being late. The man 
 beside her took his leave. She had only just glanced at 
 me at first, but now she looked at my companion, and 
 the look stayed, curious, bewildered. 
 
 " It is fitting," I said, " that Greek meet Greek, that 
 Menelaus should be introduced to Helen. May I say 
 that when Helen is not Helen, she is Mrs. Falchion, and 
 when Menelaus is not Menelaus he is Mr. Charles 
 Boyd ? " 
 
 I am afraid my voice faltered slightly, because there 
 came over me suddenly a nervousness as unexpected as 
 it was inconvenient ; and my words, which began lightly, 
 ended huskily. Had Boyd Madras miscalculated this 
 woman ? 
 
 Her eyes were afire, and her face was as pale as 
 marble : all its slight but healthy glow had fled. A very 
 faint gasp came from her lips. I saw that she recognized 
 him as he bowed and mentioned her name, following my 
 introduction. I knew not what might occur, for I saw 
 danger in her eyes, in reply to the beseeching look in 
 his. Would melodrama supervene after all ? 
 
 She merely bowed towards me as if to dismiss me ; 
 and then she rose, took his arm, and moved away. The 
 interview that follows came to me from Boyd Madras 
 afterwards. 
 
 When they had reached the semi-darkness of the for- 
 ward part of the ship, she drew her hand quickly away, 
 and turning to him, said : "What is the name by which 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 87 
 
 you are called ? One does not always hear distinctly 
 when introduced." 
 
 He did not understand what she was about to do, but 
 he felt the deadly coldness in her voice. " My name is 
 known to you," he replied. He steadied himself. 
 
 " No, pardon me, I do not know it, for I do not know 
 you. ... I never saw you before." She leaned her 
 hand carelessly on the bulwarks. 
 
 He was shocked, but he drew himself together. Their 
 eyes were intent on each other. " You do know me ! 
 Need I tell you that I am Boyd Madras ? " 
 
 " Boyd Madras ? " she said, musing coldly. " A pecu- 
 liar name." 
 
 " Mercy Madras was your name until you called your- 
 self Mrs. Falchion," he urged indignantly, yet prayer- 
 fully too. 
 
 " It suits you to be mysterious, Mr. ah, yes, 
 
 Mr. Boyd Madras ; but, really, you might be less exact- 
 ing in your demands upon one's imagination." Her look 
 was again on him casually. 
 
 He spoke breathlessly. " Mercy, Mercy, for God's 
 sake don't speak and act like this ! Oh, my wife, I have 
 wronged you every way, but I loved you always, love 
 you now ! I have only followed you to ask you to forgive 
 me — after all these years. I saw you in Colombo just 
 before you came on board, and I felt that I must come 
 also. . . . You never loved me. Perhaps that is 
 better for you, but you don't know what I suffer. If you 
 could give me a chance and come with me to America — 
 anywhere— and let me start the world again. I can 
 be a good man now, and I will work hard too. I 
 will " — but here sudden pain brought back the un- 
 certainty of his life and its possibilities. He leaned 
 against the bulwarks, and made a helpless despairing 
 motion with his hand. " No, no," he said, and added 
 with a bitter laugh, " not to begin the world again, but to 
 
55 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 end it as profitably and as silently as I can. . . . 
 But you will listen to me, my wife ? You will say, at least, 
 that you forgive the blight and ill I brought upon you ?" 
 
 She had listened to him unmoved outwardly. Her 
 reply was instant. " You are more melodramatic than I 
 thought you capable of being — from your appearance," 
 she said in a hard tone. " Your acting is very good, but 
 not convincing. I cannot respond as would become the 
 unity and sequence of the play. ... I have no 
 husband. My husband is dead. I buried him years ago. 
 . . . I have forgotten his name. ... I buried 
 that too." 
 
 All the suffering and endured scorn of years came to 
 revolt in him. He leaned forward now and caught her 
 wrist. " Have you no human feeling ? " he said. " No 
 heart at all ? Look : I have it in me here, suddenly, 
 to kill you as you stand. You have turned my love 
 to hate. From your smooth skin there, I could tear 
 those rags, and call upon them all to look at you — my 
 wife, a felon's wife ; mine to have and to hold — to hold, 
 you hear ! as I was sworn at the altar. I bare my heart 
 to you, repenting, and you mock it, torture it, with your 
 undying hate and brutality. You have no heart, no life. 
 This white bosom is all of you ; all of your power to 
 make men love you, — this, and your beauty. All else, by 
 God, is cruel as the grave ! " 
 
 His voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. She had not 
 sought to remove his hand, nor struggled in the least ; 
 and once it seemed as if this new development of his 
 character, this animal fierceness, would conquer her : 
 she admired courage. But it was not so. He trembled 
 with weakness before he had finished ; he stopped too 
 soon ; he lost. 
 
 "You will find such parts exhausting to play," she 
 murmured as he let her arm fall. " It needs a strong 
 physique to endure exaggerated, nervous sentiment. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 89 
 
 And now, please, let us perform less trying scenes." 
 Then, with a low, cold anger, she continued : " Only 
 a coward dogs a woman who finds his presence insup- 
 portable to her. This woman cannot, if she would, 
 make the man's presence bearable ; it is her nature. 
 Well, why rush blindly at the impossible ? She wishes 
 to live her spoiled life alone. The man can have no 
 part in it. But she has money. If in that way " 
 
 He stretched out his hand protestingly, the fingers 
 spread in excitement. " No more — not another word ! " 
 he said. " I ask for forgiveness, for one word of kind- 
 ness, and I am offered money !— to eat the fire that 
 burned me, instead of bread. ... I had a wife once," 
 he added, in a kind of troubled dream, looking at her 
 as if she was very far away, " and her name was Mercy 
 — her name was Mercy — Mercy Madras. I loved her. I 
 sinned for her sake. A message came that she was 
 dead to me. But I could not believe that it was so 
 altogether, for I had knelt at her feet, and worshipped 
 her. I went to her, but she sent me away bitterly. Years 
 passed. She will have relented now, I said ; and I fol- 
 lowed her, and found her, as I thought. But it was not 
 she, it was a wicked ghost in her beautiful form — nothing 
 more. And then I turned away, and cursed all things, 
 because I felt that I should never see my wife again. 
 Mercy Madras was dead. . . . Can't you hear the 
 curses ? " 
 
 Still she was unmoved. She said with a cruel impa- 
 tience in her voice : " Yes, Mercy Madras is dead. How, 
 then, can she forgive ? What could her ghost (as you 
 call her) do, but offer the thing which her husband 
 (when he was living) loved so well that he sold himself 
 into bondage, and wrecked his world and hers for it ? — 
 Money. Well, money is at his disposal, as she said be- 
 fore " 
 
 But she spoke no more. The man in him shamed her 
 
90 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 into silence with a look. She bowed her head, yet not 
 quite in shame, for there was that in her eyes which 
 made her appear as if his suffering was a gratuitous inflic- 
 tion. But, at this moment, he was stronger, and he drew 
 her eyes up by the sheer force of his will. " I need no 
 money now," he coldly declared. " I need nothing ; not 
 even you ; and can you fancy that, after waiting all 
 these years for this hour, money would satisfy me ? Do 
 you know," he continued slowly and musingly, " I can 
 look upon you now — yes, at this moment, with more 
 indifference than you ever showed me ? A moment ago 
 I loved you ; now I think you horrible, because you are 
 no woman ; you have a savage heart. And some day 
 you will suffer as I do, so terribly, that even the brazen 
 Serpent couldn't cure you. Then you will remember 
 me." 
 
 He was about to leave her, but he had not taken two 
 steps before he turned with all the anger and the passion 
 softened in his eyes, and said, putting his hand out 
 towards her, yet not to touch her, — " Good-by, — for the 
 last time." His look was such as might be turned upon 
 a forgiven executioner. 
 
 " Good-night," she replied, and she did not look into 
 his eyes, but out to sea. Her eyes remained fixed upon 
 its indolent gloom. She too was indolent and gloomy at 
 this moment. They were both sleek, silent, and remorse- 
 less. Her dress rustled slightly as she changed her posi- 
 tion. It was in grim keeping to the pitiless rustle of 
 the sea. 
 
 And so they parted. I saw him move towards the 
 companion-way, and though I felt instinctively that all 
 had gone ill with him, I was surprised to see how erect 
 he walked. After a minute I approached her. She 
 heard me coming, and turned to me with a curious smile 
 upon her face. "Who is Mr. Charles Boyd ? " she asked. 
 " I did not pierce his disguise. I couldn't tell whether I 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 91 
 
 had met him on board before. Have I ? — But my im- 
 pression is that I had not seen him on the ship." 
 
 " No, you had not seen him," I replied. " He had a 
 fancy to travel, until yesterday, with the second-class 
 passengers. Now he has a first-class cabin — in his proper 
 place, in fact." 
 
 " You think so — in his proper place ? " The sugges- 
 tion was not pleasant. 
 
 " Assuredly. Why do you speak in that way ? " 
 
 She took my arm as we moved on. " Because he was 
 slightly rude to me." 
 
 I grew bold, and determined to bring her to some sort 
 of reckoning. 
 
 " How rude were you to him ? " 
 
 " Not rude at all ; it is not worth while being so — to 
 anybody," was her chilly answer. 
 
 " I was under the impression you had met him before," 
 I said gravely. 
 
 ''Indeed! And why?" She raised her eyebrows at 
 me. 
 
 I pushed the matter to a conclusion. " He was ill the 
 other day — he has heart trouble. It was necessary for 
 me to open the clothes about his neck. On his breast I 
 saw a little ivory portrait of a woman's head." 
 
 " A woman's head," she repeated absently, and her 
 fingers idly toyed with a jingling ornament in her belt. 
 
 In an idle moment I had sketched the head, as I 
 remembered it, on a sheet of paper, and now I took it 
 from my pocket, and handed it to her. We were stand- 
 ing near a porthole of the music-saloon, from which 
 light streamed. 
 
 " That is the head," said I. 
 
 She deliberately placed the paper in the belt of light, 
 and, looking at it, remarked mechanically, — " This is the 
 head, is it ? " She showed no change of countenance, 
 and handed it back to me as if she had seen no likeness. 
 
92 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " It is very interesting," she said, "but one would think 
 a man might make better use of his time than by sur- 
 reptitiously sketching portraits from sick men's breasts. 
 One must have plenty of leisure to do that sort of thing, 
 I should think. Be careful that you do not get into 
 mischief, Dr. Marmion." She laughed. " Besides, where 
 was the special peculiarity in that portrait, that you should 
 treasure it in pencil so conventionally ? Your drawing is 
 not good. Where was the point or need ? " 
 
 " I have no right to reply to that directly," I responded. 
 " But this man's life is not for always, and if anything 
 happened to him, it would seem curious to strangers to 
 find that on his breast : because, of course, more than I 
 would see it there." 
 
 " If anything happened ? What should happen ? You 
 mean, on board ship ? " There was a little nervousness 
 in her tone now. 
 
 " I am only hinting at an awkward possibility," I 
 replied. 
 
 She scrutinized me scornfully. " When did you see 
 that picture on his breast ? " 1 told her. " Ah ! before 
 that day ! " she rejoined. I knew that she referred to the 
 evening when I had yielded foolishly to the fascination 
 of her presence. The blood swam hotly in my face. 
 
 " Men are not noble creatures," she continued. 
 
 " I am afraid you would not give many their patents 
 of nobility, if you had power to bestow them," I 
 answered. 
 
 " Most men at the beginning, and very often ever 
 after, are ignoble creatures. Yet I should confer the 
 patents of nobility, if it were my prerogative ; for some 
 would succeed in living up to them. Vanity would 
 accomplish that much. Vanity is the secret of noblesse 
 oblige; not radical virtue— since we are beginning to be 
 bookish again." 
 
 " To what do you reduce honor and right ? " returned I. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 93 
 
 " As I said to you on a memorable occasion," she said 
 very dryly, "to a code." 
 
 "That is," rejoined I, "a man does a good action, 
 lives an honorable life to satisfy a social canon, to grat- 
 ify, say, a wife or mother, who believes in him and loves 
 him ? " 
 
 " Yes." She was watching Belle Treherne promenad- 
 ing with her father. She drew my attention to it by a 
 slight motion of the hand ; but why I could not tell. 
 
 " But might not a man fall by the same rule of 
 vanity?" I urged. "That he shall appear well in their 
 eyes, that their vanity in turn should be fed, might he not 
 commit a crime and so bring misery? " 
 
 " Yes, it is true either way — pleasure or misery. . . . 
 Please come to the dining-room and get me an ice before 
 the next dance." 
 
 I was perplexed. Was she altogether soulless? Even 
 now, as we passed among the dancers, she replied to 
 congratulations on her make-up and appearance with 
 evident pleasure. 
 
 An hour later I was taking Miss Treherne from the 
 arm of Hungerford for the last waltz, and, in reply to an 
 inquiring glance from him, I shook my head mournfully. 
 His face showed solicitude as he walked away. Perhaps 
 it did not gratify my vanity that Miss Treherne, as her 
 father limped forward at the stroke of eight bells to take 
 her away, said to me : " How downright and thorough 
 Mr. Hungerford is ! " But I frankly admitted that he 
 was all she might say good of him, and more. 
 
 The deck was quickly dismantled, the lights went out, 
 and all the dancers disappeared. The masquerade was 
 over ; and again through the darkness rose the plaintive 
 "All's Well." It kept ringing in my ears until it be- 
 came a mocking sound, from which I longed to be free. 
 It was like the voice of Lear crying over the body of 
 Cordelia : " Never, never, never, never, never." 
 
94 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 Something of Hungerford's superstitious feeling pos- 
 sessed me. I went below, and involuntarily made my 
 way to Boyd Madras's cabin. 
 
 Though the night was not hot, the door was drawn to. 
 I tapped. His voice at once asked who was there, and 
 when I told him, and inquired how he was, he said he 
 was not ill, and asked me to come to his cabin in the 
 morning, if I would. I promised, and bade him good- 
 night. He responded, and then as I turned away from 
 the door, I heard him repeat the good-night cordially and 
 calmly. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE WHEEL COMES FULL CIRCLE. 
 
 The next morning I was up early, and went on deck. 
 The sun had risen, and in the moist atmosphere the tints 
 of sky and sea were beautiful. Everywhere was the warm 
 ocean undulating lazily to the vague horizon. A few 
 Lascars were still cleansing the decks ; others were seated 
 on their haunches, between decks, eating curry from a cala- 
 bash ; a couple of passengers were indolently munching 
 oranges ; and Stone, the quarter-master, was inspecting 
 the work lately done by the Lascars. Stone gave me a 
 pleasant good-morning, and we walked together the length 
 of the deck forward. I had got about three-fourths of 
 the length back again, when I heard a cry from aft— a 
 sharp call of " Man overboard ! " In a moment I had 
 travelled the intermediate deck, and was at the stern, look- 
 ing below, where, in the swirling waters, was the head of 
 a man. With cries of " Man overboard ! " I threw two or 
 three buoys after the disappearing head, above which a 
 bare arm thrust itself. I heard the rush of feet behind 
 me, and, in a moment, Hungerford and Stone were beside 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 95 
 
 me. The signal was given for the engine to stop, stew- 
 ards and Lascars came running on deck in response to 
 Hungerford's call, and the first officer now appeared. 
 Very soon a crew was gathered on the after-deck about 
 a boat on the port side. 
 
 Passengers, by this time, showed in various stages of 
 dressing, women wringing their hands, men gesticulat- 
 ing. If there is anything calculated to send a thrill of 
 awe through a crowd, it is the cry of " Man overboard ! " 
 And when one looked and saw, above the drowning 
 head, two white arms thrust from the sea, a horrible 
 thing was brought home to each of us. Besides, the 
 scene before us on the deck was not reassuring. There 
 was trouble in getting the boat lowered. The first 
 officer was excited, the Lascars were dazed, the stewards 
 were hurried without being confident ; only Hungerford, 
 Stone, and the gunner collected. The boat should have 
 been launched in a minute, but still it hung between its 
 davits ; its course downward was interrupted ; something 
 
 was wrong with the ropes. " A false start, by ! " 
 
 said the bookmaker, looking through his eye-glass. 
 Colonel Ryder's face was stern, Clovelly was pale and 
 anxious, as moment after moment went, and the boat was 
 not yet free. Ages seemed to pass before the boat was 
 let down even with the bulwarks, and a crew of ten, with 
 Hungerford in command, were in it, ready to be low- 
 ered. Whether the word was given to lower, or whether 
 it was any one's fault, may never, perhaps, be known ; 
 but, as the boat hung there, suddenly it shot down at the 
 stern, some one having let go the ropes at that end, and 
 the bow being still fast, the boat had fallen like a trap- 
 door. It seemed, on the instant, as if the whole crew 
 were tossed into the water. But some had swiftly caught 
 hold of the boat's side, and Hungerford hung by a rope 
 with one hand. In the swirling water however, about 
 the reversing screw, were two heads, and farther off was 
 
g6 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 a man struggling. The face of one of the men near the 
 screw was upturned for a moment. It was that of Stone, 
 the quartermaster. 
 
 A cry went up from the passengers, and they swayed 
 forward to the suspended boat, but Colonel Ryder turned 
 almost savagely upon them. " Keep quiet," he said. 
 " Stand back. What can you do ? Give the officers a 
 chance." He knew that there had been a false start and 
 bad work, indeed ; but he also saw that the task of the 
 officers must not be made harder. His sternness had 
 effect. The excited passengers drew back, and I took 
 his place in front of them. When the effort had been 
 made to lower the boat, I asked the first officer if I 
 could accompany the crew, but he said No. I could, 
 therefore, do nothing but wait. A change came on the 
 crowd. It became painfully silent, none speaking, save 
 in whispers ; and all watching, with anxious faces, either 
 the receding heads in the water or the unfortunate boat's 
 crew. Hungerford showed himself a thorough sailor. 
 Hanging to the davit, he quietly, reassuringly, gave the 
 order for righting the boat, virtually taking the command 
 out of the hands of the first officer, who was trembling 
 with nervousness. Hungerford was right ; the man's 
 days as a sailor were over. But Hungerford was as cool 
 as if this were ordinary boat-practice. Soon the boat 
 was drawn up again, and others took the place of those 
 who had disappeared. Then it was lowered safely, and, 
 with Hungerford erect in the bow, it was pulled swiftly 
 along the path we had come. 
 
 At length, too, the great ship turned round, but not 
 in her tracks. It is a pleasant fiction that these great 
 steamers are easily managed. They can go straight 
 ahead, but their huge proportions are not adapted for 
 rapid movement. However, the work of rescue was 
 begun. Sailors were aloft on watch. Captain Ascott 
 was on the bridge, sweeping the sea with his glass ; order 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 97 
 
 was restored. But the ship had the feeling of a home 
 from which some familiar inmate had been taken, to 
 return no more. Children clasped their mothers' hands, 
 and said : " Mother, was it Stone, the quartermaster ? " 
 And men who, the day before, had got help from the 
 petty officers in the preparation of costumes, said mourn- 
 fully : " Poor Fife, the gunner, was one of them." 
 
 But who was the man first to go overboard ? And 
 who was it first gave the alarm ? There were rumors, 
 but no one was sure. All at once I remembered some- 
 thing peculiar in that cry of " Man overboard ! " and 
 it shocked me. I hurried below and went to the cabin of 
 Boyd Madras. It was empty, but on a shelf lay a large 
 envelope addressed to Hungerford and myself. I tore 
 it open. There was a small packet, which I knew con- 
 tained the portrait he had worn on his bosom, addressed 
 to Mrs. Falchion, and the other was a single sheet 
 directed to me, fully written upon, and marked in the 
 corner : " To be made public." 
 
 So, he had disappeared from the play? He had made 
 his exit? He had satisfied the code at last? 
 
 Before opening the letter addressed to me, I looked 
 round. His clothes were folded upon one of the berths ; 
 but the garments of masquerade were not in the cabin. 
 Had he, then, gone out of the world in the garb of a 
 mummer ? Not altogether, for the false beard he had 
 worn the night before lay beside the clothes. But this 
 terrible earnestness of his would look strange in last 
 night's disguise. 
 
 I opened the packet addressed to Hungerford and 
 myself, and saw that it contained a full and explicit 
 account of the last meeting with his wife. The per- 
 sonal letter was short. He said that his gratitude was 
 unspeakable. He begged us not to let the world know 
 who he was, nor his relationship to Mrs. Falchion, unless 
 she wished it ; and asked me to hand privately to her the 
 
93 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 packet bearing her name. Lastly, he requested that the 
 paper for the public be given to the captain of the fiulvia. 
 Going out into the passage I found a steward, who 
 hurriedly told me that just before the alarm was given, he 
 had seen Boyd going out of his cabin in that strange cos- 
 tume, and he had come to see if, by any chance, it was 
 he who had gone overboard. I told him that it was. 
 He disappeared, and soon the whole ship knew it. I 
 went to the captain, gave him the letter, and told him 
 only what was necessary to tell. He was on the bridge, 
 and was occupied with giving directions; so he asked 
 me the substance of the letter, and handed it back to 
 me, requesting me to make a copy of it soon, and leave it 
 in his cabin. I then took all the papers to my cabin, and 
 locked them up. I give here the substance of the letter 
 which was to be made public : — 
 
 " Because you know how much I have suffered physically while on 
 board this ship, and because you have been kind to me, I wish, 
 through you, to say my last word to the world : though, indeed, this 
 may seem a strange form for gratitude to take. Dying men, how- 
 ever, make few apologies, and I shall make none. My existence, as 
 you know, is an uncertain quantity, and may be cut short at any 
 moment in the ordinary course of things. But I have no future in 
 the active concerns of life ; no past on which to dwell with satis- 
 faction ; no friends to mourn for my misfortunes in life, nor for my 
 death, whether it be peaceful or violent : therefore, I have fewer 
 compunctions in ending a mistaken career and a worthless life. 
 
 " Some one will profit by my death : who it is matters not, for it 
 is no friend of mine. My death adjusts a balance, perhaps not 
 nicely, yet it does it. And this is all I have to say. . . . lam 
 going. Farewell. . . ." 
 
 After a brief farewell to me added, there came the 
 subscription, " Charles Boyd ; " and that was all. Why 
 he cried out, " Man overboard " (for now I recognized that 
 it was his voice which gave the alarm), I do not know, 
 except that he wished his body to be recovered and to 
 receive burial. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 99 
 
 Just here, someone came fumbling at the curtain 
 of my cabin. — I heard a gasp — " Doctor — my head ! 
 Quick ! " 
 
 I looked out. As I drew the curtain a worthless Lascar 
 sailor fell fainting into my cabin. He had been drink- 
 ing a good deal, and the horror and excitement of the 
 accident had brought on an apoplectic fit. This in a very 
 hot climate is suddenly fatal. In three minutes, in spite 
 of me, he was dead. Postponing report of the matter, I 
 went on deck again among the passengers. 
 
 I expected that Mrs. Falchion would be among them, 
 for the news must have gone to every part of the ship ; 
 but she was not there. On the outskirts of one of the 
 groups, however, I saw Justine Caron. I went to her, and 
 asked her if Mrs. Falchion had risen. She said that she 
 had not : that she had been told of the disaster, and had 
 appeared shocked ; but had complained of a headache, 
 and had not risen. I then asked Justine if Mrs. Falchion 
 had been told who the suicide was, and was answered in 
 the negative. At that moment a lady came to me and 
 said in an awed whisper : " Dr. Marmion, is it true that 
 the man who committed suicide was a second-class pas- 
 senger, and that he appeared at the ball last night and 
 danced with Mrs. Falchion ? " 
 
 I knew that my reply would soon become common 
 property, so I said : 
 
 " He was a first-class passenger, though until yesterday 
 he travelled second-class. I knew him. His name was 
 Charles Boyd. I introduced him to Mrs. Falchion last 
 night, but he did not stay long on deck because he felt 
 ill. He had heart-trouble. You may guess that he was 
 tired of life." Then I told her of the paper which was 
 for the public, and she left me. 
 
 The search for the unfortunate men went on. No 
 one could be seen near the floating buoys, which were 
 here and there picked up by Hungerford's boat. The 
 
IOO MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 long undulations of the water had been broken up in 
 a large area about the ship, but the sea was still com- 
 paratively smooth. We were steaming back along the 
 track we had come. There was less excitement on 
 board than might be expected. The tropical stillness 
 of the air, the quiet suddenness of the tragedy itself, the 
 grim decisiveness of Hungerford, the watchful silence of 
 a few men like Colonel Ryder and Clovelly, had effect 
 upon even the emotion of those women, everywhere 
 found, who get a morbid joy out of misery. 
 
 Nearly all were watching the rescue-boat, though a 
 few looked over the sides of the ship, as if they expected 
 to find bodies floating about. They saw sharks instead, 
 and a trail of blood, and this sent them away sickened from 
 the bulwarks. Then they turned their attention again 
 upon the rescue party. It was impossible not to note 
 what a fine figure Hungerford made, as he stood erect 
 in the bow, his hand over his eyes, searching the water. 
 Presently we saw him stop the boat, and something was 
 drawn in. He signalled the ship. He had found one 
 man — but dead or alive ? The boat was rapidly rowed 
 back to the ship, Hungerford making efforts for resus- 
 citation. Arrived at the vessel, the body was passed up 
 to me. 
 
 It was that of Stone, the quartermaster. I worked to 
 bring back life, but it was of no avail. A few minutes 
 after, a man in the yards signalled that he saw another. 
 It was not a hundred yards away, and was floating 
 near the surface. It was a strange sight, for the water 
 was a vivid green, and the man wore garments of 
 white and scarlet, and looked a part of some strange 
 mosaic : as one has seen astonishing figures set in balls 
 of solid glass. This figure framed in the sea was Boyd 
 Madras. The boat was signalled, it drew near, and two 
 men dragged the body in, as a shark darted forward, just 
 too late, to seize it. The boat drew alongside the Ful- 
 
MRS. FALCHiOfc. IOI 
 
 via. I stood at the gangway/„o recede this castaway. I 
 felt his wrist and heart. As I did so I chanced to 
 glance up at the passengers, who were looking at this 
 painful scene from the upper deck. There, leaning over 
 the railing, stood Mrs. Falchion, her eyes fixed with a 
 shocking wonder at the drooping weird figure. Her lips 
 parted, but at first they made no sound. Then, she 
 suddenly drew herself up with a shudder. " Horrible ! 
 horrible ! " she said, and turned away. 
 
 I had Boyd Madras taken to an empty cabin next to 
 mine, which I used for operations, and there Hungerford 
 and myself worked to resuscitate him. We allowed no 
 one to come near. I had not much hope of bringing life 
 back, but still we worked with a kind of desperation, for 
 it seemed to Hungerford and myself that somehow we 
 were responsible to humanity for him. His heart had 
 been weak, but there had been no organic trouble : only 
 some functional disorder, which care, open-air life, and 
 freedom from anxiety could overcome. Hungerford 
 worked with an almost fierce persistence. Once he said : 
 
 " By , I will bring him back, Marmion, to face that 
 
 woman down when she thinks she's got the world on the 
 hip ! " 
 
 I cannot tell what delight we felt, when after a little 
 time, I saw a quiver of the eyelids and a slight motion of 
 the chest. Presently a longer breath came and the eyes 
 opened ; at first without recognition. Then, in a few 
 moments, I knew that he was safe — desperately against 
 his will, but safe. 
 
 His first sentient words startled me. He gasped, 
 " Did you give her my paper ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then, she must still think me dead ! " 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Because " — Here he spoke faintly as if sudden fear 
 had produced additional weakness — " Because I had 
 
102 AIRS. FALCHION. 
 
 rather die a thousand deaths than meet her again ; 
 because she hates me. I must begin the world again. 
 You have saved my life against my will : I demand that 
 you give that life its only chance of happiness ! " 
 
 As his words came to me, I remembered with a start 
 the dead Lascar, and, leading Hungerford to my cabin, I 
 pointed to the body and whispered that the sailor's death 
 was only known to me. " Then this is the corpse of 
 Boyd Madras, and we'll bury it for him," he said with 
 quick bluntness. " Don't you report this death to Cap- 
 tain Ascott — he would only raise objections to the idea. 
 This Lascar was in my watch. It'll be supposed he fell 
 overboard during the accident to the boat. Perhaps some 
 day the funeral of this nigger will be a sensation and sur- 
 prise to her blessed ladyship on deck." 
 
 I suggested that it seemed underhand and unprofes- 
 sional, but the entreating words of the resuscitated man 
 in the next room conquered my objections. 
 
 It was arranged that Madras should remain in the 
 present cabin, of which I -had a key, until Ave reached 
 Aden ; then he should, by Hungerford's aid, disappear. 
 
 We were conspirators, but we meant harm to nobody. 
 I covered up the face of the dead Lascar and wrapped 
 round him the scarlet and gold cloth that Madras had 
 worn. Then I got a sailor, who supposed Boyd Madras 
 was before him, and the body was soon sewed in its 
 shotted shroud and carried to where Stone the quarter- 
 master lay. 
 
 At this day I do not suppose I would do these things, 
 but then it seemed right to do as Boyd Madras wished : 
 he was, under a new name, to begin the world again. 
 
 After giving directions for the disposition of the bodies, 
 I went on deck. Mrs. Falchion was still there. Some 
 one said to her,— " Did you know the man who committed 
 suicide ? " 
 
 " He was introduced to me last night by Dr. Mar- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 103 
 
 mion," she replied, and she shuddered again, though her 
 face showed no remarkable emotion. She had had a 
 shock to the senses, not to the heart. 
 
 When I came to her on the deck, Justine was saying 
 to her : " Madame, you should not have come. You 
 should not see such painful things when you are not 
 well." 
 
 She did not reply to this. She looked up at me and 
 said : " A strange whim to die in those fanciful rags. It 
 is dreadful to see ; but he had the courage." 
 
 I replied : " They have as much courage, who make 
 men do such things and then live on." 
 
 Then I told her briefly that I held the packet for her, 
 that I guessed what was in it, and that I would hand it 
 to her later. I also said that he had written to me the 
 record of last night's meeting with her, and that he had 
 left a letter which was to be made public. As I said 
 these things, we were walking the decks, and, because 
 eyes were on both of us, I tried to show nothing more 
 unusual in manner than the bare tragedy might account 
 for. 
 
 "Well," she said with a curious coldness, "what use 
 shall you make of your special knowledge ? " 
 
 "I intend," I said, "to respect his wish, that your rela- 
 tionship to him be kept unknown, unless you declare 
 otherwise." 
 
 " That is reasonable. If he had always been as reason- 
 able ! — and you also." I knew that she was again refer- 
 ring to the night when I made love to her. " And," she 
 continued, " I do not wish the relationship to be known : 
 practically there is none. . . . Oh ! Oh ! " she added 
 with a sudden change in her voice, " why did he do such a 
 thing, and make everything else impossible ? — impossible ! 
 Send me, or give me, the packet when you wish : 
 and now please leave me, Dr. Marmion." 
 
 The last few words were spoken with some apparent 
 
104 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 feeling, but I knew she was thinking of herself most, and 
 I went from her angry. 
 
 I did not see her again before the hour that afternoon, 
 when we should give the bodies of the two men to the 
 ocean. No shroud could be prepared for gunner Fife 
 and able-seaman Winter, whose bodies had no Chris- 
 tian burial, but were swallowed by the eager sea, not 
 to be yielded up even for a few hours. We were 
 now steaming far beyond the place where they v/ere 
 lost. 
 
 The burial was an impressive sight, as burials at sea 
 mostly are. The lonely waters stretching to the horizon 
 helped to make it so. There was a melancholy majesty 
 in the ceremony. 
 
 The clanging bell had stopped. Captain Ascott was in 
 his place at the head of the rude draped bier. In the 
 silence one only heard the swish of water against the 
 Fulvias side, as we sped on towards Aden. People do 
 not know how beautiful, how powerful, is the burial ser- 
 vice in the Book of Common Prayer, who have only heard 
 it recited by a clergyman. To hear it read by a hardy 
 man, whose life is among stern duties, is to receive anew 
 impression. He knows nothing of lethargic monotone ; 
 he interprets as he reads. And when the man is the 
 homespun captain of a ship, who sees before him the poor 
 shell of a man that served him for ten years, — u The Lord 
 gave and the Lord hath taken away; Blessed be the name of 
 the Lord," has a strange significance. It is only men who 
 have borne the shock of toil and danger, and have beaten 
 up against the world's buffetings, that are fit to say last 
 words over those gone down in the storm or translated 
 in the fiery chariot of duty. 
 
 Captain Ascott's fingers trembled, and he paused for an 
 instant and looked down upon the dead, then out sorrow- 
 fully to the waiting sea, before he spoke the words, " We 
 therefore commit their bodies to the deep." But, the moment 
 
MRS. FALCHION. I05 
 
 they were uttered, the bier was lifted, there was a swift 
 plunge, and only the flag and the empty boards were left. 
 The sobbing of women now seemed almost unnatural, for, 
 around us was the bright sunlight, the gay dresses of the 
 Lascars, the sound of the bell striking the hours, and 
 children playing on the deck. 
 
 And Mrs. Falchion? As the burial service was read 
 she had stood, and looked, not at the bier, but straight 
 out to sea, calm and apparently unsympathetic, though, 
 as she thought, her husband was being buried. When, 
 however, the weighted body divided the water with a 
 swingeing sound, her face suddenly suffused, as though 
 shame had touched her, or some humiliating idea had 
 come. But she turned to Justine almost immediately, 
 and soon after said calmly : " Bring a play of Moliere 
 and read to me, Justine." 
 
 I had the packet her supposed dead husband had 
 left for her in my pocket. I joined her, and we paced 
 the deck, at first scarcely speaking, while the pas- 
 sengers dispersed, some below, some to the smoking- 
 rooms, some upon deck-chairs to doze through the rest of 
 the lazy afternoon. The world had taken up its orderly 
 course again. At last, in an unfrequented corner of the 
 deck, I took the packet from my pocket and handed it to 
 her. " You understand ? " I said. 
 
 "Yes, I understand. And now may I beg that for the 
 rest of your natural life " — here she paused, and bit her 
 lip in vexation that the unlucky phrase had escaped her, — 
 "you will speak of this no more ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Boyd Madras, " I said (here she colored indig- 
 nantly), — " pardon me for using the name ; but it is only 
 this once, — I shall never speak of this to you again, nor 
 to any one else, unless there is grave reason." 
 
 We walked again in silence. Passing the captain's 
 cabin, we saw a number of gentlemen gathered about the 
 door, while others were inside. We paused, to find what 
 
106 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 the incident was. Captain Ascott was reading the letter 
 which Boyd Madras had wished to be made public. (I 
 had given it to him just before the burial, and he was 
 acting as if Boyd Madras was really dead — he was quite 
 ignorant of our conspiracy.) I was about to move on, 
 but Mrs. Falchion touched my arm. " Wait," she said. 
 She stood and heard the letter through. Then we walked 
 on, she musing. Presently she said : " It is a pity — a 
 pity." 
 
 I looked at her inquiringly, but she offered no expla- 
 nation of the enigmatical words. But, at this moment, 
 seeing Justine waiting, she excused herself, and soon I 
 saw her listening to Moliere. Later in the day I saw 
 her talking with Belle Treherne, and it struck me that 
 she had never looked so beautiful as then, and that Belle 
 Treherne had never seemed so perfect a product of a fine 
 convention. But, watching them together, one who had 
 had any standard of good life could never have hesitated 
 between the two. It was plain to me that Mrs. Falchion 
 was bent upon making a conquest of this girl who so 
 delicately withstood her, and Belle Treherne has told me 
 since, that, when in her presence, and listening to her, 
 she was irresistibly drawn to her ; though at the same 
 time she saw there was some significant lack in her 
 nature ; some hardness impossible to anyone who had ever 
 known love. She also told me that, on this occasion, 
 Mrs. Falchion did not mention my name, nor did she ever 
 in their acquaintance, save in the most casual fashion. 
 Her conversation with Belle Treherne was always far from 
 petty gossip or that smart comedy in which women tell so 
 much personal history, with the guise of badinage and 
 bright cynicism. I confess, though, it struck me unpleas- 
 antly at the time, that this fresh, high-hearted creature 
 should be in familiar conversation with a woman who, it 
 seemed to me, was the incarnation of cruelty. 
 
 Mrs. Falchion subscribed most liberally to the fund 
 
MRS. FALCHION. I07 
 
 raised for the children of the quartermaster, and munifi- 
 cently to that for the crew which had, under Hungerford, 
 performed the rescue work, The only effect of this 
 was to deepen the belief that she was very wealthy, and 
 could spend her money without affectation ; for it was 
 noticeable that she of all on board showed the least out- 
 ward excitement at the time of the disaster. It occurred 
 to me that once or twice I had seen her eyes fixed on 
 Hungerford inquisitively, and not free from antipathy. 
 It was something behind her usual equanimity. Her intu- 
 itive observation had led her to trace his hand in recent 
 events. Yet I know she admired him too for his brave 
 conduct. The day following the tragedy we were seated 
 at dinner. The captain and most of the officers had risen, 
 but Mrs. Falchion, having come in late, was still eating, 
 and I remained seated also. Hungerford approached 
 me, apologizing for the interruption, remarking that he 
 was going on the bridge and wished to say something 
 to me before he went. It was an official matter to which 
 Mrs. Falchion apparently did not listen. When he was 
 about to turn away, he bowed to her rather distantly, but 
 she looked up at him and said with an equivocal smile : 
 
 " Mr. Hungerford, we often respect brave men whom 
 we do not like." 
 
 And he, understanding her, but refusing to recognize 
 the compliment, not altogether churlishly replied : " And 
 I might say the same of women, Mrs. Falchion ; but there 
 are many women we dislike who are not brave." 
 
 " I think I could recognize a brave man without seeing 
 his bravery," she urged. 
 
 " But I am a blundering sailor," he rejoined, "who 
 only believes his eyes." 
 
 " You are young yet," she replied. 
 
 " I shall be older to-morrow," was his retort. 
 
 "Well, perhaps you will see better to-morrow," she 
 rejoined with indolent irony. 
 
108 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " If I do, I'll acknowledge it," he added. 
 Then Hungerford smiled at me inscrutably. 
 We two held a strange secret. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A BRIDGE OF PERIL. 
 
 No more delightful experience may be had than to 
 wake up in the harbor of Aden some fine morning, — it 
 is always fine there, — and feel the first impression of 
 that mighty fortress with its thousand iron eyes, in strong 
 repose by the Arabian Sea. 
 
 Overhead was the cloudless sun, and everywhere the 
 tremulous glare of a sandy shore and the creamy wash 
 of the sea, like fusing opals. A tiny Mohammedan 
 mosque stood gracefully where the ocean almost washed 
 its steps, and the Resident's house, far up the hard hill- 
 side, looked down upon the harbor from a green cool- 
 ness. The place had a massive warlike character. 
 
 Here was a battery and earth-works ; there, a fort ; 
 beyond, a signal-staff. Hospitals, hotels, and stores were 
 incidents in the picture. Beyond the mountain-wall and 
 lofty Jebel Shamsan, rising in fine pink and bronze, 
 and at the end of a high-walled path between the 
 great hills, lay the town of Aden proper. Above the 
 town again were the mighty Tanks, made out of clefts 
 in the mountains, and built in the times when the Phoe- 
 nicians made Aden a great mart, the richest spot in all 
 Arabia. 
 
 Over to the left, on the opposite side of the harbor, 
 were great bungalows shining in the sun ; and flanking 
 the side of the ancient aqueduct, the gigantic tomb of an 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 tog 
 
 Arab sheikh. In the harbor were the men-of-war of all 
 nations, and Arab dhows sailed slowly in, laden with 
 pilgrims for Mecca — masses of picturesque sloth and 
 dirt — and disease, also ; for, more than one vessel flew 
 the yellow flag. As we looked, a British man-of-war 
 entered the gates of the harbor in the rosy light. It 
 was bringing back the disabled and wounded from a 
 battle, where a handful of British soldiers were sent to 
 punish thirty times their number in an unknown country. 
 But there was another man-of-war in port familiar to us. 
 We passed it far out on the Indian Ocean. It again 
 passed us, and reached Aden before we did. The Por- 
 cupine lay not far from the Fulvia; and, as I leaned 
 over the bulwarks idly looking at her, a boat shot away 
 from her side, and came towards us. As it drew near 
 I saw that it was filled with luggage — a naval officer's I 
 knew it to be. As the sailors hauled it up, I noticed 
 that the initials upon the portmanteaus were G. R. The 
 owner was evidently an officer going home on leave, or 
 invalided. It did not, however, concern me, as I thought, 
 and I turned away to look for Mr. Treherne, that I might 
 tell him I would escort his daughter and Mrs. Callendar 
 to the general cemetery at Aden as I had promised ; for 
 I knew he was not fit to do the journey, and there was 
 nothing to prevent my going. 
 
 A few hours later I stood with Miss Treherne and 
 Mrs. Callendar in the grave-yard beside the fortress-wall, 
 placing wreaths of artificial flowers and one or two 
 natural roses — a chance purchase from a shop at the 
 port — on the grave of the young journalist. Miss Tre- 
 herne had brought some sketching materials, and both of 
 us (for, as has been suggested, I had a slight gift for 
 drawing) made sketches of the burial-place. Having 
 done this, we moved away to other parts of the cemetery, 
 looking at the tombstones, many of which told sad tales 
 enough, — of those who died in exile from home and 
 
IIO MRS. FALCHION* 
 
 friends. As we wandered on I noticed a woman kneel- 
 ing beside a grave. It grew upon me that the figure was 
 familiar. Presently I saw who it was, for the face lifted. 
 I excused myself, went over to her, and said : " Miss 
 Caron, you are in trouble." 
 
 She looked up, her eyes swimming with tears, and 
 pointed to the tombstone. On it I read : 
 
 " Sacred to the memory of Hector Caron, 
 
 Ensign in the French Navy. # 
 
 Erected by his friend, Gait RosCoe, 
 Of H. B. M. N." 
 
 Beneath this was the simple line : 
 
 ' ' Why, what evil hath he done ? " 
 
 " He was your brother ? " I asked. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur, my one brother." Her tears dropped 
 slowly. 
 
 " And Gait Roscoe, who was he ? " asked I. 
 
 Through her grief her face was eloquent. " I never 
 saw him, never knew him," she said. " He saved 
 my poor Hector from much suffering ; he nursed him, 
 and buried him here when he died, and then — that ! " 
 pointing to the tombstone. " He made me love the 
 English," she said. " Some day I shall find him, and I 
 shall have money to pay him back all he spent — all ! " 
 
 Now I guessed the meaning of the scene on board the 
 Fulvia y wmen she had been so anxious to preserve her 
 present relations with Mrs. Falchion. This was the 
 secret, a beautiful one. She rose. 
 
 " They disgraced Hector in New Caledonia," she said, 
 "because he refused to punish a convict at He Nou, who 
 did not deserve it. He determined to go to France to 
 represent his case. He left me behind because we were 
 poor. He went to Sydney. There he came to know this 
 good man," — her finger gently felt his name upon the 
 
MRS. FALCHION. Ill 
 
 stone, — "who made him a guest upon his ship ; and so he 
 came on towards England. In the Indian Ocean he was 
 taken ill : and this was the end ! " 
 
 She mournfully sank again beside the grave, but she 
 was no longer weeping. 
 
 " What was this officer's vessel ? " I asked presently. 
 
 She drew from her dress a letter. " It is here. Please 
 read it all. He wrote that to me when Hector died." 
 
 The superscription to the letter was : " H. B. M. S. 
 Porcupi?ie" I might have told her then that the Porcu- 
 pine was in the harbor at Aden, but I felt that things 
 would work out to their due end without my help, which, 
 indeed, they began to do immediately. As we stood there 
 in silence, I reading over and over again the line upon 
 the pedestal, I heard footsteps behind, and, turning, I 
 saw a man approaching, who, from his manner, though 
 dressed in civilian's clothes, I guessed to be an officer 
 of the navy. He was of more than middle height, had 
 black hair, dark blue eyes, straight, strongly-marked 
 brows, and was clean-shaven. He was a little ascetic- 
 looking, and rather interesting and uncommon ; and yet 
 unmistakably a sea-going man. It was a face one would 
 turn to look at again and again — a singular personality. 
 And yet my first glance told me that he was not one who 
 had seen much happiness. Perhaps that was not unat- 
 tractive in itself, for people who are very happy show it 
 in selfish ways, and repel where they should attract. He 
 was now standing near the grave, and his eyes were 
 turned from one to the other of us, at last resting on 
 Justine. Presently I saw a look of recognition. He 
 stepped quickly forward. 
 
 " Mademoiselle, will you pardon me ? " he said very 
 gently, " but you remind me of one whose grave I came 
 to see." His hand made a slight motion toward Hector 
 Caron's resting-place. 
 
 Her eyes were on him with an inquiring earnestness. 
 
112 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " O monsieur ! Is it possible that you are my brother's 
 friend and rescuer ? " 
 
 " I am Gait Roscoe. He was my good friend," he 
 said to her, and he held out his hand. She took it, and 
 kissed it reverently. He flushed and drew it back quickly 
 1 and shyly. 
 
 " Some day I shall be able to repay you for all your 
 goodness," she said. " I am only grateful now — grate- 
 ful altogether. And you will tell me all you know of 
 him, all that he said and did before he died ? " 
 
 " I will gladly tell you all I know," he answered, and 
 he looked at her compassionately, and yet with a little 
 scrutiny, as though to know more of her, and how she 
 came to be in Aden. He turned to me inquiringly. 
 
 I interpreted his thought by saying : "lam the sur- 
 geon of the Fulvia. I chanced upon Miss Caron here. 
 She is travelling by the Fulvia" 
 
 With a faint voice Justine here said, — " Travelling— 
 with my mistress." 
 
 " As companion to a lady," I preferred to add in ex- 
 planation, for I wished not to see her humble herself so. 
 A look of understanding came into Roscoe's face. 
 Then he said : "lam glad that I shall see more of you. 
 I am also to travel by the Fulvia to London." 
 
 " I am glad ; and yet I am afraid I shall see very little 
 of you," she quietly but meaningly replied. 
 
 He was about to say something to her, but she sud- 
 denly swayed, and would have fallen, but that he caught 
 her and supported her. The weakness lasted only for a 
 moment, and then, steadying herself, she said to both of 
 us : "I hope you will say nothing of this to Madame. 
 She is kind, most kind, but she hates illness — and such 
 things." 
 
 Gait Roscoe looked at me to reply, his face showing 
 clearly that he thought " Madame " an extraordinary 
 woman. I assured Justine that we would say nothing. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 113 
 
 Then Roscoe cordially parted from us, saying that he 
 would look forward to seeing us both on the ship ; but 
 before he finally went, he put on the grave a small bou- 
 quet from his button-hole. Then I excused myself from 
 Justine, and going over to Belle Treherne, explained to 
 her the circumstances, and asked her if she would speak 
 to the afflicted girl. She and Mrs. Callendar had been 
 watching the incident, and they eagerly listened to me. 
 I think this was the moment that I first stood really well 
 with Belle Treherne. Her sympathy for the bereaved 
 girl flooded many barriers between herself and me. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said quickly, " indeed I will go to her — 
 poor girl ! Will you come, also, Mrs. Callendar? " 
 
 But Mrs. Callendar timidly said she would rather Miss 
 Treherne went without her ; and so it was. While Belle 
 Treherne was comforting the bereaved girl, I talked to 
 Mrs. Callendar. I fear that Mrs. Callendar was but a 
 shallow woman ; for, after a moment of excitable interest 
 in Justine, she rather naively turned the talk upon the 
 charms of Europe. And, I fear, not without some slight 
 cynicism, I followed her where she led : for, as I said to 
 myself, it did not matter what direction our idle tongues 
 took, so long as I kept my mind upon the two beside that 
 grave : but it gave my conversation a spice of malice. I 
 dwelt upon Mrs. Callendar's return to her native heath — 
 that is, the pavements of Bond Street and Piccadilly, 
 although I knew that she was a native of Tasmania. At 
 this she smiled egregiously, for there is nothing such as 
 she love so much as the credit of having been born within 
 the sound of Bow bells. 
 
 At length Belle Treherne came to us and said that 
 Justine insisted she was well enough to go back to the 
 vessel alone, and wished not to be accompanied. So we 
 left her there. A score of times I have stopped, when 
 preparing my notes for this tale from my diary and 
 those of Mrs. Falchion and Gait Roscoe, to think how 
 
114 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 all through the events recorded here, and many others 
 omitted, Justine Caron was like those devoted attend- 
 ants of the heroes and heroines of tragedy who, when 
 all is over, close the eyes, compose the bodies, and cover 
 the faces of the dead, pronouncing with just lips the 
 benediction, fittest in their mouths. Their loves, their 
 deeds, their lives, however good and worthy, were clothed 
 in modesty and kept far up the stage, to be, even 
 when everything was over, not always given the privi- 
 lege to die as did their masters, but, like Horatio, bade 
 to live, and be still the loyal servant : — " But in this 
 harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story." 
 
 There was no reason why we should go to the ship 
 immediately, and I proposed that we should first explore 
 the port-town, and then visit the city of Aden, — five miles 
 beyond the hills, — and the Tanks. To this the ladies 
 consented. 
 
 Somauli policemen patrolled the streets ; Somauli, Arab, 
 and Turkish guides impeded the way ; Arabs in plain 
 white, Arab sheikhs in blue and white and gold, lounged 
 languidly about, or drank their coffee in the shade of the 
 bazaars. Children of the desert, nearly naked, sprinkled 
 water before the doors of the bazaars and stores and 
 upon the hot thoroughfare from long leather bottles ; 
 caravans of camels with dusty stride swung up the hill- 
 side and beyond into the desert ; the Jewish water-car- 
 rier with his donkey trudged down the pass from the cool 
 fountains in the volcanic hills ; a guard of eunuchs 
 marched by with the harem of a Mohammedan ; in 
 the doorways of the houses goats and donkeys fed. 
 Jews with greasy faces, red -hemmed skirts, and hungry 
 looks, moved about, offering ostrich feathers for sale, 
 everywhere treated worse than the Chinaman in Oregon 
 or at Port Darwin. We saw English and Australian pas- 
 sengers of the Fulvia pelting these miserable members 
 of a despised race with green fruit about the streets, and 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 "5 
 
 afterwards from the deck of the ship. A number of 
 these raised their hats to us as they passed, but Belle 
 Treherne's acknowledgment was chilly. 
 
 11 It is hard to be polite to cowards," she said. 
 
 After having made some ruinous bargains in fezes, 
 Turkish cloths, and perfume, I engaged a trap, and we 
 started for Aden. The journey was not one of beauty, 
 but it had singular interest. Every turn of the wheels 
 carried us farther and farther away from a familiar world 
 to one of yesterday. White-robed warriors of the desert, 
 with lances, bent their brows upon us as they rode by 
 towards the endless sands, and vagabonds of Egypt 
 begged for alms. In about three-quarters of an hour we 
 had passed the lofty barriers of Jebel Shamsan, and its 
 comrades, and were making clouds of dust in the streets 
 of Aden. In spite of the cantonments, the British 
 Government House, and the European church, it was an 
 Oriental town pure and simple, where the slow-footed 
 hours wandered by, leaving apathy in their train ; where 
 sloth and surfeit sat in the market-places, idle women 
 gossiped in their thresholds, and naked children rolled in 
 the sun. Yet how, in the most familiar places, does one 
 wake suddenly to hear or see some most familiar thing, 
 and learn again that the ways of all peoples and nations 
 are not, after all, so far apart ! — Here three naked 
 youths, with trays upon their heads, cried aloud at each 
 doorway what, interpreted, was : " Pies ! Hot pies ! Pies 
 aXLhotl" or "Crum-pet! Cxwm-petf Won't you buy-uy 
 a cmm-pet ? " 
 
 One sees the same thing in Kandy, in Calcutta, in 
 Tokio, in Istamboul, in Teheran, in Queensland, in 
 London. 
 
 To us the great Tanks overlooking the place were more 
 interesting than the town itself, and we drove thither. 
 At Government House, and here, were the only bits 
 of green that we had seen ; they are in fact the only 
 
Il6 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 spots of verdure on the peninsula of Aden. It was a 
 very sickly green, from which wan and dusty fig-trees 
 rose. In their scant shadow, or in the shelter of an over- 
 hanging ledge of rock, Arabs offered us draughts of cool 
 water and oranges. There were people in the sickly gar- 
 dens, and others were inspecting the Tanks. Passengers 
 from the ship had brought luncheon-baskets to this sad 
 oasis. 
 
 As we stood at the edge of one of the Tanks, Belle 
 Treherne remarked with astonishment that they were 
 empty. I explained to her that Aden did not have the 
 benefits conferred even on the land of the seven fat and 
 seven lean kine ; that there had not been rain there for 
 years, and that, when it did come, it was neither pro- 
 longed nor plentiful. Then came questions as to how 
 long ago the Tanks were built. 
 
 " Thirteen hundred years ! " she said. " How strange 
 to feel it so ! It's like looking at old graves. And how 
 high the walls are, closing up the gorge between the 
 hills ! " 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Callendar drew our attention to 
 Mrs. Falchion and a party from the ship. Mrs. Falchion 
 was but a few paces from us, smiling languidly as she 
 acknowledged our greeting. Presently two of her party 
 came to us and asked us to share their lunch. I would 
 have objected, and I am certain Belle Treherne would 
 gladly have done so, but Mrs. Callendar was anxious to 
 accept; therefore we expressed our gratitude, and joined 
 the group. On second thoughts I was glad that we did 
 so, because, otherwise, my party must have been without 
 refreshments until they returned to the ship — the restau- 
 rants at Aden are not to be trusted. To me Mrs. 
 Falchion was pleasantly impersonal, to Belle Treherne 
 delicately and actively personal. At the time I had a 
 kind of fear of her interest in the girl, but 1 know now 
 that it was quite sincere, though it began with a motive 
 
MRS. FALCHION. II7 
 
 not very lofty — to make Belle Treherne her friend, and 
 so annoy me, and also to study (as would an anatomist) 
 the girl's life. 
 
 We all moved into the illusive shade of the fig and 
 magnolia trees, and lunch was soon spread. As we ate, 
 conversation turned upon the annoying persistency of 
 Eastern guides, and reference was made to the exciting 
 circumstances attending the engagement of Amshar, the 
 guide of Mrs. Falchion's party. Among a score of claim- 
 ants, Amshar had had one particular opponent, — a per- 
 sonal enemy, — who would not desist even when the 
 choice had been made. He, indeed, had been the first 
 to solicit the party, and was rejected because of his 
 disagreeable looks. He had even followed the trap from 
 the port of Aden. As one of the gentlemen was remark- 
 ing on the muttered anger of the disappointed Arab, 
 Mrs. Falchion said : " There he is now at the gate of the 
 garden." 
 
 His look was sullenly turned upon the party. Black- 
 burn, the Queenslander, said : " Amshar, the other fel- 
 low is following up the game," and pointed to the gate. 
 
 Amshar understood the gesture, at least, and though 
 he gave a toss of his head, I noticed that his hand trem- 
 bled as he handed me a cup of water, and that he kept 
 his eyes turned on his opponent. 
 
 " One always feels unsafe with these cut-throat races," 
 said Colonel Ryder, " as some of us know who have had 
 to deal with the nigger of South America. They think 
 no more of killing a man " 
 
 " Than an Australian squatter does of dispersing a mob 
 of aboriginals or kangaroos," said Clovelly. 
 
 Here Mrs. Callendar spoke up briskly : " I don't know 
 what you mean by ' dispersing '. " 
 
 " You know what a kangaroo-battue is, don't you ?" 
 
 " But that is killing, slaughtering kangaroos by the 
 hundred." 
 
Il8 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 "Well, and that is aboriginal dispersion," said the 
 novelist. " That is the aristocratic method for legislat- 
 ing the native out of existence." 
 
 Blackburn here vigorously protested. " Yes, it's very- 
 like a novelist, on the hunt for picturesque events, to 
 spend his forensic soul upon the ' poor native ' — upon 
 the dirty nigger, I choose to call him ; the meanest, 
 cruellest, most cowardly and murderous — By Jove ! 
 What a lot of adjectives ! — of native races. But we 
 chaps who have lost some of the best friends we ever 
 had — chums with whom we've shared blanket and 
 1 tucker ' — by the crack of a nulla-nulla in the dark, or a 
 spear from the scrub, can't find a place for Exeter Hall 
 and its ' poor native ' in our hard hearts. We stand in 
 such a case for justice. It's a new country. Not once 
 in fifty times would law reach them. Reprisal and ' dis- 
 persion ' were the only things possible to men whose 
 friends had been massacred ; and — well, they punished 
 tribes for the acts of individuals." 
 
 Mrs. Falchion here said convincingly : " That is just 
 what England does. A British trader is killed. She 
 sweeps a native town out of existence with Hotchkiss 
 guns — leaves it naked and dead. That is dispersion too. 
 I have seen that, and I know how far niggers as a race 
 can be trusted, and how much they deserve sympathy. 
 I agree with Mr. Blackburn." 
 
 Blackburn raised his glass. " Mrs. Falchion," he said, 
 " I need no further evidence to prove my case. Experi- 
 ence is the best teacher." 
 
 " As I wish to join the chorus to so notable a com- 
 pliment, will somebody pass the claret ? " said Colonel 
 Ryder, shaking the crumbs of a pati from his coat-collar. 
 When his glass was filled, he turned towards Mrs. Fal- 
 chion, and continued : " I drink to the health of the best 
 teacher." And everyone laughingly responded. This 
 impromptu toast would have been drunk with more 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 II 9 
 
 warmth if he could have foreseen an immediate event. 
 Not less peculiar were Mrs. Falchion's words to Hunger- 
 ford the evening before, recorded in the last sentence 
 of the preceding chapter. 
 
 Cigars were passed, and the men rose and strolled 
 away. We wandered outside the gardens, passing the 
 rejected guide as we did so. " I don't like the look in 
 his eye," said Clovelly. 
 
 Colonel Ryder laughed. " You've always got a fine 
 perception for the dramatic." 
 
 We passed on. I suppose about twenty minutes had 
 gone, when, as we were entering the garden again, we 
 heard loud cries. Hurrying forward towards the Tanks 
 we saw a strange sight. 
 
 There, on a narrow wall dividing two great Tanks, 
 were three people : Mrs. Falchion, Amshar, and the 
 rejected Arab guide. Amshar crouched behind Mrs. 
 Falchion, clinging to her skirts in abject fear. The 
 Arab threatened with a knife. He could not get at 
 Amshar without thrusting Mrs. Falchion aside, and, as 
 I said, the wall was narrow. He was bent like a tiger 
 about to spring. 
 
 Seeing Mrs. Falchion and Amshar apart from the 
 others, Mrs. Falchion having insisted on crossing this nar- 
 row and precipitous wall, he had suddenly rushed after 
 them. As he did so, Belle Treherne saw him, and cried 
 out. Mrs. Falchion faced round swiftly, and then came 
 this tragic situation. Some one must die. 
 
 Seeing that Mrs. Falchion made no effort to dislodge 
 Amshar from her skirts, the Arab presently leaped for- 
 ward. Mrs. Falchion's hands went out suddenly and 
 caught the wrist that held the dagger. Then there was 
 an instant's struggle. It was Mrs. Falchion's life now, 
 as well as Amshar's. They swayed. They hung on the 
 edge of the rocky chasm. Then we lost the gleam of 
 the knife, and the Arab shivered, and toppled over. Mrs. 
 
120 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 Falchion would have gone with him, but Amshar caught 
 her about the waist, and saved her from the fall which 
 would have killed her, as certainly as it killed the Arab 
 lying at the bottom of the tank. She had managed to 
 turn the knife in the scoundrel's hand against his own 
 breast, and then suddenly pressed her body against it ; 
 but the impulse of the act came near carrying her over 
 also. 
 
 Amshar was kneeling at her feet, kissing her gown 
 gratefully. She pushed him away with her foot, and, 
 coolly turning aside, began to arrange her hair as I 
 approached her. She glanced down at the Arab. " Hor- 
 rible ! Horrible ! " she said. 
 
 I remembered that these were her words when her 
 husband was lifted from the sea to the Fulvia. 
 
 She, not ungently, refused my hand, or any assistance, 
 and came down among the rest of the party. I could not 
 but feel a strange wonder at the powerful side of her 
 character just shown : her courage, her cool daring. In 
 her face now there was a look of annoyance, and, possibly, 
 disgust, as well as of triumph — so natural in cases of 
 physical prowess. Everybody offered congratulations, 
 but she only showed real pleasure, and that mutely, at 
 those of Belle Treherne. To the rest of us she said : 
 "One had to save one's self, and Amshar was a coward." 
 And so this woman, whose hardness of heart and exces- 
 sive cruelty Hungerford and I were keeping from the 
 world, was now made into a heroine, around whom a halo 
 of romance would settle, whenever her name should be 
 mentioned. Now, men, eligible and ineligible, would 
 increase their homage. It seemed as if the stars had 
 stopped in their courses to give her this special fortune. 
 That morning I had thought her appearance at this 
 luncheon-party was little less than scandalous, for she 
 knew, if others did not, who Boyd Madras was. After 
 the occurrence with the Arab, the other painful event 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 121 
 
 was certainly much less prominent, and here, after many- 
 years, I can see that the act was less in her than it would 
 have been in others. For, behind her outward hardness 
 there was a sort of justice working — an iron thing, but 
 still not altogether unjustifiable in her. 
 
 Belle Treherne got also a new perception of her char- 
 acter, and a kind of awe possessed her, so masculine 
 seemed Mrs. Falchion's courage, yet so womanly and 
 feminine her manner. Mrs. Callendar was loud in her 
 exclamations of delight and wonder at Mrs. Falchion's 
 coolness, and the bookmaker, with his usual impetuosity, 
 offered to take bets at four to one that we should all be 
 detained to give evidence in the matter. 
 
 Clovelly was silent. He occasionally adjusted his 
 glasses, and looked at Mrs. Falchion as if he had sud- 
 denly come to a full stop in his opinions regarding her. 
 This, I think, was noticed' by her, and enjoyed too, for 
 she doubtless remembered her conversation with me, in 
 which she had said that Clovelly thought he understood 
 her perfectly. Colonel Ryder, who was loyal at all times, 
 said that she had the nerve of a woman from Kentucky. 
 Moreover, he had presence of mind, for he had imme- 
 diately sent off a native to inform the authorities of what 
 had occurred : so that before we had got half-way to the 
 town, we were met by policemen running towards us, fol- 
 lowed by a small detachment of Indian soldiers. The 
 officers in command of the detachment stopped us, and 
 said that the governor would be glad if we would come 
 to Government House for an hour, while an inquiry was 
 being held. 
 
 To this we cheerfully consented, of course ; and, in a 
 room where punkahs waved and cool claret-cup awaited 
 us, we were received by the governor, who was full of 
 admiration of Mrs. Falchion. It was plain, however, 
 that he was surprised at her present equanimity. Had 
 she uo nerves at all ? 
 
122 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " I can only regret exceedingly," said the governor, 
 " that your visit to Aden has had such a tragical inter- 
 ruption, but since it did occur, I am glad to have the 
 privilege of meeting a lady so brave as Mrs. Falchion." 
 The bookmaker had introduced us all with a nawetf that, 
 I am sure, amused the governor, as it certainly did his 
 aide-de-camp. " We should not need to fear the natives 
 if we had soldiers as fearless," his excellency continued. 
 
 At this point the inquiry began, and, after it was over, 
 the governor said that there the matter ended, so far as 
 we were concerned, though he remarked gallantly that 
 the government of Aden would always remain Mrs. Fal- 
 chion's debtor. She replied that it was a debt she would 
 be glad to preserve unsettled forever. After this pretty 
 exchange of compliments the governor smiled and 
 offered her his arm to the door where our char-a-bans 
 awaited us. 
 
 So impressed was the bookmaker with the hospitable 
 reception, that he offered the governor his cigar-case with 
 its contents, said he hoped they'd meet again, and asked 
 his excellency if he ever thought of coming to Australia. 
 The governor declined the cigars graciously, ignored the 
 hoped-for pleasure of another meeting, and trusted that 
 it might fall to his lot to visit Australia some day. 
 Thereupon the bookmaker insisted on the aide-de-camp 
 accepting the cigar-case, and gave him his visiting-card. 
 The aide-de-camp lost nothing by his good-humored 
 acceptance, if he smoked, because, as I knew, the cigars 
 were very good indeed. And the governor's party lost 
 nothing in dignity because, as the traps wheeled away, 
 they gave a polite little cheer for Mrs. Falchion. I, at 
 first, was fearful how Belle Treherne would regard the 
 gaucheries of the bookmaker, but I saw that he was 
 rather an object of interest to her than otherwise : for he 
 was certainly amusing. 
 
 As we drove through Aden, a Somauli lad shot from 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 123 
 
 the door of a house, and handed a letter up to the driver 
 of my trap. It bore my name, and was handed over to 
 me. I recognized the writing. It was that of Boyd 
 Madras. He had come ashore by Hungerford's aid in 
 the night. The letter simply gave an address in England 
 which would always find him, and his new assumed name. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " THE PROGRESS OF THE SUNS." 
 
 News of the event had preceded us to the Fulvia, and 
 as we scrambled out on the ship's stairs, cheers greeted 
 us. Glancing up I saw Hungerford among others lean- 
 ing over the side and looking at Mrs. Falchion in a 
 curious, cogitating fashion, not unfamiliar with him. 
 The look was non-committal, yet earnest. If it was not 
 approval, it was not condemnation ; but it might have 
 been slightly ironical, and that annoyed me. It seemed 
 impossible for him — and it was so always, I believe — 
 to get out of his mind the thought of the man he had 
 rescued on No Man's Sea. I am sure it jarred upon him 
 that the band foolishly played a welcome when Mrs. 
 Falchion stepped on deck. As I delivered Belle Tre- 
 herne into the hands of her father who was anxiously 
 awaiting us, Hungerford said in my ear : " A tragedy 
 queen, Marmion." 
 
 He said it so distinctly that Mrs. Falchion heard it, 
 and she gave him a searching look. Their eyes met and 
 warred for a moment, and then he added : " I remem- 
 ber ! Yes, I can respect the bravery of a woman I do not 
 like." 
 
 •'And this is to-morrow!" she said, "and a man may 
 change his mind, and that may be fate, or — a woman's 
 
124 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 whim." She bowed, turned away, and went below, evi- 
 dently disliking the reception she had had, and anxious 
 to escape inquiries and congratulations. Nor did she 
 appear again until the Fidvia got under way about six 
 o'clock in the evening. As we moved out of the harbor 
 we passed close to the Porcupine, and saw its officers 
 grouped on its deck, waving adieus to some one on our 
 deck, whom I guessed, of course, to be Gait Roscoe. 
 
 At this time Mrs. Falchion was standing near me. 
 "For whom is that demonstration? " she said. 
 
 " For one of her late officers, who is a passenger by the 
 Fulvia" I replied. " You remember we passed the Por- 
 cupine in the Indian Ocean? " 
 
 "Yes, I know that," she said with a shade of meaning 
 in her voice. " But " — here I thought her voice had a 
 sign of breathlessness — " but who is the officer ? — I mean, 
 what is his name ?" 
 
 " He stands in the group near the door of the captain's 
 cabin there. His name is Gait Roscoe." 
 
 A slight exclamation escaped her. There was a chilly 
 smile on her lips, and her eyes searched the group until 
 they rested on Gait Roscoe. In a moment she said : 
 " You have met him ? " 
 
 " In the cemetery this morning, for the first time." 
 
 " Everybody seems to have had business this morn- 
 ing at the cemetery. Justine Caron spent hours there. 
 . . . To me it is so foolish heaping up a mound and 
 erecting a tombstone over — what ? A dead thing, which, 
 if one could see it, would be dreadful." 
 
 "You would prefer complete absorption — as of the 
 ocean?" I brutally retorted. 
 
 She appeared not to notice the innuendo. " Yes ; what 
 is gone is gone. Graves are idolatry. Grave-stones are 
 ghostly. It is people without imagination who need 
 these things, together with crape and black-edged paper. 
 It is all barbaric ritual. I know you think I am callous, 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 125 
 
 but I cannot help that. For myself I wish the earth 
 close about me, and level green grass above me, and no 
 one knowing of the place ; or else fire or the sea." 
 
 " Mrs. Falchion," said I, "between us there need be 
 no delicate words. You appear to have neither imagina- 
 tion, nor idolatry, nor remembrances, nor common wom- 
 anly kindness." 
 
 " Indeed ! " she said. " Yet you might know me bet- 
 ter." Here she touched my arm with the tips of her 
 fingers, and, in spite of myself, I felt my pulse beat 
 faster. It seemed to me that in her presence, even now, 
 I could not quite trust myself. " Indeed ! " she repeated. 
 " And who made you omniscient, Dr. Marmion ? You 
 hardly do yourself justice. You hold a secret. You 
 insist on reminding me of the fact. Is that in perfect 
 gallantry ? Do you know me altogether, from your 
 knowledge of that one thing ? You are vain. Or the 
 secret wears on you, and — Mr. Hungerford ? . . . 
 Did you find it necessary to seek his help in keeping it ? " 
 
 I told her then the true history of Hungerford's con- 
 nection with Boyd Madras — how he had found him on 
 the No Man's Sea ; and begged her pardon for showing 
 just now my knowledge of her secret. At this she said : 
 " I suppose I should be grateful," and there was a softer 
 cadence in her voice. 
 
 " No, you need not be grateful," I said. "We are 
 silent, first, because he wished it ; then, because you are 
 a woman." 
 
 "You define your reasons with astonishing care and 
 taste," she replied. 
 
 " Oh, as to taste ! " said I — but then I bit my tongue. 
 At that she said : " I could not pretend to a grief I did 
 not feel. I acted no lie. He died as we had lived — 
 estranged. I put up no memorials." 
 
 But I, thinking of my mother lying in her grave, a 
 woman after God's own heart, who loved me more 
 
126 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 tnan I deserved, repeated almost unconsciously these 
 lines clipped from a magazine : 
 
 " Sacred the ring, the faded glove, 
 Once worn by one we used to love ; 
 Dead warriors in their armor live, 
 And in their relics saints survive. 
 
 "O Mother Earth, henceforth defend 
 All thou hast garnered of my friend ; 
 From winter's wind and driving sleet, 
 From summer's sun and drenching heat. 
 
 "Within thine all-embracing breast, 
 Is hid one more forsaken nest ; 
 While, in the sky, with folded wings, 
 The bird that left it sits and sings." 
 
 I paused ; the occasion seemed so little suited to the 
 sentiment, for around us was the idle excitement of 
 leaving port. I was annoyed with myself for my share 
 in the conversation so far. Mrs. Falchion's eyes had 
 scarcely left that group around the captain's door, al- 
 though she had appeared acutely interested in what I was 
 saying. 
 
 Now she said: "You recite very well. I feel im- 
 pressed, but I fancy it is produced more by your 
 voice than the sentiments you express ; for, after all, 
 you cannot glorify the dead body. Think of the mummy 
 of Thothmes at Boulak, and what Cleopatra must look 
 like now. And please let us talk about something else. 
 Let us " 
 
 She paused. I followed the keen shaded glance of 
 her eyes, and saw coming from the group by the cap- 
 tain's door, Gait Roscoe. He moved in our direction. 
 Suddenly he paused. His look was fixed upon Mrs. 
 Falchion. A flush passed over his face, not exactly con- 
 fusing, but painful, and again it left him pale ; and for 
 a moment he stood very still. Then he came forward 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 127 
 
 to us. He bowed to me, then looked hard at her. She 
 held out her hand. " Mr. Gait Roscoe, I think," she 
 said; — " an old friend," she added, turning to me. He 
 gravely took her extended hand, and said : " I did not 
 think to see you here, Miss " 
 
 "Mrs. Falchion," she interrupted clearly. 
 
 "Mrs. Falchion?" he said with surprise. "It is so 
 many years since we had met, and " 
 
 "And it is so easy to forget things. But it isn't so 
 many really — only seven, the cycle for constitutional 
 renewal. Dear me, how erudite that sounds ! . . .So, 
 I suppose we meet the same yet not the same." 
 
 " The same yet not the same," he repeated after her 
 with an attempt at lightness, yet abstractedly. 
 
 " I think you gentlemen know each other," she said. 
 
 " Yes, we met in the cemetery this morning. I was 
 visiting the grave of a young French officer " 
 
 "I know," she said: "Justine Caron's brother. She 
 has told me ; but she did not tell me your name." 
 
 " She has told you ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes. She is my— companion." I saw that she did 
 use the word' that first came to her. 
 
 " How strangely things occur ! . . . And yet," he 
 added musingly, " I suppose, after all, coincidence is not 
 so strange in these days of much travel, particularly with 
 people whose lives are connected — more or less." 
 
 "Whose lives are connected — more or less," she re- 
 peated after him in a cold tone. 
 
 It seemed to me that I had received my cue to leave. 
 I bowed myself away and went about my duties. As 
 we steamed bravely through the Straits of Babelmandeb, 
 with Perim on our left, rising lovely through the milky 
 haze, I came on deck again, and they were still near 
 where I had left them an hour before. I passed, glanc- 
 ing at them as I did so. They did not look towards 
 me. His eyes were turned to the shore, and hers were 
 9 
 
128 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 fixed on him. I saw an expression on her lips that 
 gave her face new character. She was speaking, as I 
 thought, clearly and mercilessly. I could not help hear- 
 ing her words, as I passed them : " You are going to be 
 that—you / " There was a ring of irony in her tone. I 
 heard nothing more in words, but I saw him turn to her 
 somewhat sharply, and I caught the deep meaning of his 
 voice as he answered her. When, a moment after, I 
 looked back, she had gone below. 
 
 Gait Roscoe had a seat at Captain Ascott's table, and I 
 did not'see anything of him at meal time ; but elsewhere 
 I soon saw him a great deal. He appeared to seek my 
 company. I was glad of this, for he was an agreeable 
 man, and had distinct originality of ideas and consider- 
 able culture. He also had that social aplomb, so much a 
 characteristic of the naval officer. Yet, man of the world 
 as he was, he had a puzzling strain of asceticism. It did 
 not make him eccentric, but it was not a thing usual with 
 the naval man. Again, he wished to be known simply as 
 Mr. Roscoe, not as Captain Roscoe, which was his rank. 
 He said nothing about having retired, yet I guessed he 
 had done so. One evening, however, soon after we had 
 left Aden, we were sitting in my cabin, and the conversa- 
 tion turned upon a recent novel dealing with the defec- 
 tion of a clergyman of the Church of England through 
 agnosticism. The keenness with which he threw himself 
 into the discussion, and the knowledge he showed, sur- 
 prised me. I knew (as most medical students get to 
 know, until they know better) some scientific objections 
 to Christianity ; and I put them forward. He clearly and 
 powerfully met them. I said at last, laughingly : " Why, 
 you ought to take holy orders." 
 
 "That is what I am going to do," he said very seri- 
 ously, "when I get to England. I am resigning the 
 navy." At that instant there flashed through my mind 
 Mrs. Falchion's words : "You are going to be that— you ! " 
 
MRS. FALCHION. T29 
 
 Then he explained to me that he had been studying for 
 two years, and expected to go up for deacon's orders 
 soon after his return to England. I cannot say that I 
 was greatly surprised, for I had known a few, and had 
 heard of many, men, who had exchanged the Navy for 
 the Church. It struck me, however, that Gait Roscoe 
 appeared to view the matter from a standpoint not pro- 
 fessional : the more so, that he expressed his determina- 
 tion to go to the newest part of a new country to do the 
 pioneer work of the Church. I asked him where he was 
 going, and he said to the Rocky Mountains of Canada. 
 I told him that my destination was Canada also. He 
 warmly expressed the hope that we should see something 
 of each other there. Our friendship may seem to have 
 been hastily hatched ; but it must be remembered that 
 the sea is a great breeder of friendship. Two men w T ho 
 have known each other for twenty years, find that twenty 
 days at sea bring them nearer than ever, or else estrange 
 them. 
 
 It was en this evening that, in a lull of the conversa- 
 tion, I casually asked him where he had known Mrs. 
 Falchion. His face was inscrutable, but he said some- 
 what hurriedly : " In the South Sea Islands." He then 
 changed the subject. 
 
 So, there was some mystery again. Was this woman 
 never to be dissociated from enigma ? In those days 
 I never could think of her, save in connection with some 
 fatal incident in which she was scathless and some one 
 else suffered. 
 
 During the first day or two after leaving Aden, Gait 
 Roscoe and Mrs. Falchion were very little together. 
 Then the impression grew that this was his doing, and 
 again that she waited with confident patience for the time 
 when he would seek her — because he could not help 
 himself. Often when other men were paying her devoted 
 cou-% I caught her eyes turned in his direction, and I 
 
13° 
 
 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 thought I read in her smile a consciousness of power. 
 And so it was. Very soon he was at her side. But I also 
 noticed that he began to look worn ; that his conversation 
 with me lagged. I think that at this time I was so much 
 occupied with tracing personal appearances to personal 
 influences, that I lost, to some degree, the physician's 
 practical keenness. My eyes were to be opened. He 
 appeared to be suffering, and she seemed to unbend 
 to him more than she ever unbent to me or any one else 
 on board. Hungerford seeing this, said to me one day 
 in his blunt fashion : " Marmion, old Ulysses knew what 
 he was about when he hugged the mast." 
 
 Then Hungerford talked with me concerning the gos- 
 sip on the after-deck, that the drunken Lascar whom I 
 had found in a fit in my cabin the day of the terrible acci- 
 dent had not been seen since that time. It was supposed 
 that he had either got off at Aden or had drowned him- 
 self. I fear I did not concern myself much in the matter. 
 
 The routine of the ship went on as before. For- 
 tunately, Mrs. Falchion's heroism at Aden had taken 
 the place of the sensation attending the previous dis- 
 aster. Those who tired of thinking of both became mildly 
 interested in Red Sea history. Chief among these was 
 the bookmaker. As an historian the bookmaker was 
 original. He cavalierly waved aside all such confusing 
 things as dates : made Moses and Mahomet contempo- 
 raneous ; incidentally referred to King Solomon's visits 
 to Cleopatra ; and with sad irreverence spoke of the Exo- 
 dus and the destruction of Pharaoh's horses and chariots 
 as the big handicap. He did not mean to be irreverent 
 or unhistorical. He merely wished to enlighten Mrs. 
 Callendar, who said he was very original and quite 
 clever at history. His really startling points, however, 
 were his remarks upon the colors of the mountains of 
 Egypt, and the sunset tints to be seen on the Red Sea 
 and the Suez Canal. To him the grey and pink and 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 131 
 
 melancholy gold only brought up visions of a race at 
 Epsom or Flemington — generally Flemington, where the 
 staring Australian sun pours down on an emerald course, 
 oti a score of horses straining to the start, the colors 
 of the jockeys' coats and hats changing in the struggle 
 like a kaleidoscope. The comparison between the moun- 
 tains of Egypt and a race-course might seem wildly 
 absurd, if one did not remember that the bookmaker had 
 his own standards, and that he thought he was paying 
 unusual honor to the land of the Fellah. Clovelly plain- 
 tively said, as he drank his hock and seltzer, that the 
 bookmaker was hourly saving his life : and Colonel 
 Ryder admitted at last that Kentucky never produced 
 anything quite like him. 
 
 The evening before we came to the Suez Canal I was 
 walking with Belle Treherne and her father. I had seen 
 Gait Roscoe in conversation with Mrs. Falchion. Pres- 
 ently I saw him rise to leave her. A moment after, in 
 passing, I was near her. She sprang up, caught my arm, 
 and pointed anxiously. I looked and saw Gait Roscoe 
 swaying as he walked. 
 
 " He is ill— ill ! " she said. 
 
 I ran forward and caught him as he was falling. Ill ? 
 Of course he was ill. What a fool I had been ! Five 
 minutes with him assured me that he had fever. I had 
 set his haggard appearance down to worry. And I was 
 going to be a professor in a medical college ! . . . 
 Yet I know now that a troubled mind hastened the 
 fever. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 BETWEEN DAY AND DARK. 
 
 From the beginning Gait Roscoe's fever was violent. 
 It had been hanging about him for a long time — the 
 
I32 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 result of malarial poisoning. I devoutly wished that we 
 were in the Mediterranean instead of the Red Sea, where 
 the heat was so great ; but, fortunately, we should soon 
 be there. There was no other case of sickness on board, 
 and I could devote plenty of time to him. Offers of 
 assistance in nursing were frequent, still I only encour- 
 aged those of the bookmaker, strange as this may seem — 
 but indeed he was as gentle and considerate as a woman 
 in the sick-room. This was on the first evening of his 
 attack. After that I had reasons for dispensing with even 
 his generous services. 
 
 The night after he was taken ill, we were passing 
 through the canal, the search-light of the Fulvia sweep- 
 ing the path ahead of it, and glorifying everything it 
 touched. Mud-barges were fairy palaces ; Arab-punts, 
 beautiful gondolas ; the ragged Egyptians on the banks 
 became picturesque ; and the desolate country behind 
 had a wide vestibule of splendor. I stood for half an 
 hour watching this scene, then I went below to Roscoe's 
 cabin and relieved the bookmaker. The sick man was 
 sleeping from the effects of a sedative draught. The 
 bookmaker had scarcely gone, when I heard a step 
 behind me, and I turned and saw Justine Caron stand- 
 ing timidly at the door, her eyes upon the sleeper. She 
 spoke quietly. 
 
 " Is he very ill ? " 
 
 I answered that he was, but that for some days I could 
 not tell how dangerous the illness might be. She went to 
 the berth where he lay, the reflected light from without 
 playing weirdly on his face, and smoothed the pillow 
 gently. 
 
 " If you are willing, I will watch for a time," she said. 
 " Everybody is on deck. Madame said she would not 
 need me for a couple of hours. I will send a steward for 
 you if he wakes ; you need rest yourself." 
 
 That I needed rest was quite true, for I had been up 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 133 
 
 all the night before ; still I hesitated. She saw my hesi- 
 tation, and added : 
 
 " It is not much that I can do, still I should like 
 to do it. I can at least watch." Then, very earnestly : 
 " He watched beside Hector." 
 
 I left her with him, her ringers moving the small bag 
 of ice about his forehead to allay the fever, her eyes 
 patiently regarding him. I went on deck again. I met 
 Belle Treherne and her father. They both inquired for 
 the sick man, and I told Belle — for she seemed much 
 interested — the nature of such malarial fevers, the acute 
 forms they sometimes take, and the kind of treatment 
 required. She asked several questions, showing a keen 
 understanding of my explanations, and then, after a 
 moment's silence, said meditatively : " I think I like 
 men better when they are doing responsible work ; it is 
 difficult to be idle and — important too." 
 
 I saw very well that, with her, I should have to con- 
 tend for a long time against those first few weeks of 
 dalliance on the Fulvia. 
 
 Clovelly joined us, and, for the first time, — if I had 
 not been so egotistical, it had appeared to me before 
 — I guessed that his somewhat professional interest in 
 Belle Treherne had developed into a very personal 
 thing. And with that came also the thought, what a 
 very powerful antagonist he would be. — For it improves 
 some men to wear glasses, and Clovelly had a delight- 
 ful, wheedling tongue ; it was illusive, contradictory (a 
 thing pleasing to women), respectful yet playful, bold yet 
 reverential. Many a time I have longed for Clovelly's 
 tongue. Unfortunately for me I learned some of his 
 methods without his art ; and of this I am occasionally 
 reminded at this day. A man like Clovelly is dangerous 
 as a rival when he is not in earnest ; when he is in ear- 
 nest, it becomes a lonely time for the other man — unless 
 the girl is perverse. 
 
134 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 I left the two together and moved about the deck, 
 trying to think closely about Roscoe's case, and to drive 
 Clovelly's invasion from my mind. I succeeded, and was 
 only roused by Mrs. Falchion's voice beside me. 
 
 " Does he suffer much ? " she murmured. 
 
 When answered she asked nervously how he looked. 
 „ . . It was impossible for her to consider misery without 
 shrinking. I told her that he was only flushed and hag- 
 gard as yet, and that he was a little wasted. A thought 
 flashed to hex' face. She was about to speak, but paused. 
 After a moment, however, she remarked evenly : " He is 
 likely to be delirious ? " 
 
 " It is probable," I replied. 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on the search-light. The look 
 was inscrutable. She continued quietly : " I will go 
 and see him, if you will let me. Justine will go with 
 me." 
 
 " Not now," I replied. " He is sleeping. To-morrow, 
 if you will." 
 
 I did not think it necessary to tell her that Justine was 
 at that moment watching beside him. We walked the 
 deck together in silence. 
 
 " I wonder," she said, " that you care to walk with me. 
 Please don't make the matter a burden." 
 
 She did not say this with any invitation to courteous 
 protest on my part ; but rather with a cold frankness, for 
 which, I confess, I always admired her. I said now : 
 "Mrs. Falchion, you have suggested what might easily 
 be possible in the circumstances ; but I candidly admit 
 that I have never yet found your presence disagreeable : 
 and I suppose that is a comment upon my weakness. 
 Though, to speak again with absolute truth, I think I do 
 not like you at this moment." 
 
 " Yes, I fancy I can understand that," she said. " I can 
 understand how, for instance, one might feel just and 
 great resentment, and have the instrument of punish- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. I35 
 
 ment, and yet withhold one's hand and protect where 
 one should injure." 
 
 At this moment these words had no particular signifi- 
 cance to me, but there chanced a time when they came 
 home with great force. I think, indeed, that she was 
 speaking more to herself than to me. Suddenly she 
 turned to me. 
 
 " I wonder," she said, " if I am as cruel as you think 
 me ; for, indeed, I do not know. . . . But I have 
 been through many things." 
 
 Here her eyes grew cold and hard. The words that 
 followed seemed in no sequence : " Yet," she said, " I 
 will go and see him to-morrow. . . . Good-night." 
 
 After about an hour I went below to Gait Roscoe's 
 cabin. I drew aside the curtain quietly. Justine evi- 
 dently had not heard me. She was sitting beside the 
 sick man, her fingers still smoothing away the pillow 
 from his fevered face, and her eyes fixed on him. I 
 spoke to her. She rose. " He has slept well," she said. 
 And she moved to the door. 
 
 "Miss Caron," I said, "if Mrs. Falchion is willing, you 
 could help me to nurse Mr. Roscoe ? " 
 
 A light sprang to her eyes. " Indeed, yes," she said. 
 
 " I will speak to her about it, if you will let me." 
 
 Her look was eloquent of thanks. After a word of 
 good-night we parted. 
 
 I knew that nothing better could come to Gait Roscoe 
 than Justine Caron's care. This would do far more for 
 him than medicine — the delicate care of a woman than 
 many pharmacopoeias. 
 
 Hungerford had insisted on relieving me for a couple 
 of hours at midnight. He said it would be a good prep- 
 aration for going on the bridge at three o'clock in the 
 morning. About half-past two he came to my cabin and 
 waked me, saying : " He is worse — delirious ; you had 
 better come." 
 
136 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 He was indeed delirious. Hungerford laid his hand 
 on my shoulder. " Marmion," said he, "that woman is 
 in it. Like the devil, she's ubiquitous. Mr. Roscoe's 
 past is mixed up with hers somehow. I don't suppose 
 men talk absolute history in delirium, but there's no 
 reason, I suppose, why they shouldn't paraphrase. . . . 
 I'd reduce the number of nurses to a minimum if I were 
 you." 
 
 A determined fierceness possessed me at the moment. 
 I said to him : " She shall nurse him, Hungerford, she 
 and Justine Caron and myself." 
 
 " Plus Dick Hungerford," he added. " I don't know 
 how you intend to work this thing, but you have the 
 case in your hands, and what you've told me about 
 the French girl shows that she's to be trusted. But, as 
 for myself, Marmion, M.D., I'm sick, sick, sick of this 
 woman and all her words and works. I believe that she 
 has brought bad luck to this ship ; and it's my last 
 voyage on it, and — I begin to think you're a damned 
 good fellow — excuse the insolence of it — and good- 
 night." 
 
 For the rest of the night I listened to Gait Roscoe's 
 wild words. He tossed from side to side, and murmured 
 brokenly. Taken separately, and as they were spoken, 
 his words might not be very significant, but pieced to- 
 gether, arranged, and interpreted through even scant 
 knowledge of circumstances, they were sufficient to give 
 a key to difficulties which, afterwards, were to cause much 
 distress. I arrange some of the sentences here, to show 
 how startling were the fancies— or remembrances— that 
 vexed him : — 
 
 " But I was coming back— I was coming back— I tell 
 you I should have stayed with her forever. . . . 
 See how she trembles — Now her breath is gone— There 
 is no pulse— Her heart is still— My God ! Her heart is 
 still— Hush, cover her face. . . . Row hard, you 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 137 
 
 devils — A hundred dollars if you make the point in 
 time. . . . Whereaway ?— Whereaway ? — Steady now 
 —Let them have it across the bows — Low ! Low ! — Fire 
 Low ! . . . She is dead — She is dead ! " 
 
 These things he would say over and over again, breath- 
 lessly ; then he would rest awhile, and the trouble would 
 begin again. " It was not I that did it — No, it was not I 
 — It was herself — She plunged it in, deep, deep, deep 
 — You made me a devil. . . . Hush ! I will tell. I 
 know — Mercy — Mercy — Falchion. . . ." 
 
 Yes, it was best that few should enter his cabin. The 
 raving of a sick man is not always counted ravings, no 
 more than the words of a well man are always reckoned 
 sane. At last I got him into a sound sleep, and by that 
 time I was thoroughly tired out. I called my own stew- 
 ard, and asked him to watch for a couple of hours while 
 I rested. I threw myself down and slept soundly for an 
 hour beyond that time, the steward having hesitated to 
 wake me. 
 
 Now we had passed into the fresher air of the Medi- 
 terranean, and the sea was delightfully smooth. Gait 
 Roscoe still slept, though his temperature was high. 
 
 My conference with Mrs. Falchion after breakfast was 
 brief but satisfactory. I told her frankly that Roscoe 
 had been delirious, that he had mentioned her name, and 
 that I thought it best to reduce the number of nurses 
 and watchers. I made my proposition about Justine 
 Caron. She shook her head a little impatiently, and said 
 that Justine had told her, and that she was quite willing. 
 Then I asked her if she would not also assist. She an- 
 swered immediately that she wished to do so. As if to 
 make me understand why she did it, she added : " If I 
 do not hear the wild things he says, someone else 
 will ; and the difference is that I understand them, 
 and the someone else would interpret them with the 
 genius of the writer of a fairy book." 
 
138 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 And so it happened that Mrs. Falchion came to sit 
 many hours a day beside the sick couch of Gait Roscoe, 
 moistening his lips, cooling his brow, giving him his medi- 
 cine. After the first day when she was, I thought, al- 
 ternating between innate disgust of misery and her 
 womanliness and humanity — in these days more a reality 
 to me — she grew watchful and silently solicitous at every 
 turn of the malady. What impressed me most was that 
 she was interested and engrossed — more, it seemed, in 
 the malady than in the man himself. And yet she baf- 
 fled me even when I had reached this conclusion. 
 
 During most of the delirium, she remained almost im- 
 passive — as if she had schooled herself to be calm and 
 strong in nerve ; but one afternoon she did a thing that 
 upset all my opinions of her for a moment. Looking 
 straight at her with staring, unconscious eyes, Roscoe 
 half rose in his bed, and said in a low, bitter tone : " I hate 
 you. ... I once loved you. . . . But I hate you 
 now." Then he laughed scornfully and fell back on the 
 pillow. She had been sitting very quietly, musing. His 
 action had been unexpected. She rose quickly, gave a 
 sharp in-drawn breath, and pressed her hand against her 
 side, as if caught by a sudden pain. The next moment, 
 however, she was composed again ; and said in expla- 
 nation that she had been half asleep and he had startled 
 her. But I had seen her in, what seemed to me, more 
 trying circumstances, and she had not shown nervousness 
 such as this. 
 
 The passengers of course talked. Many "true histo- 
 ries " of Mrs. Falchion's devotion to the sick man were 
 abroad ; but it must be said, however, that all of them 
 were romantically creditable to her. She had become a 
 rare product even in the eyes of Belle Treherne and, 
 more particularly, her father, since the matter at the Tanks. 
 Justine Caron was slyly besieged by the curious, but they 
 went away empty ; for Justine, if very simple and single- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 139 
 
 minded, was yet too much concerned for both Gait Roscoe 
 and Mrs. Falchion to give the inquiring the slightest 
 clue. She knew, indeed, little herself, whatever she may- 
 have guessed. As for Hungerford, he was dumb. He 
 refused to consider the matter. But he roundly main- 
 tained once or twice, without any apparent relevance, that 
 a woman was like a repeating decimal, you could follow 
 her, but you never could reach her. He usually added 
 to this, "minus one, Marmion," meaning thus to exclude 
 the girl who preferred him to any one else. When I ven- 
 tured to suggest that Belle Treherne might also be ex- 
 cepted, he said with maddening suggestion : " She lets 
 Mrs. Falchion fool her, doesn't she ? And she isn't quite 
 sure the splendor of a medical professor's position is 
 superior to that of an author ? " 
 
 In these moments, although I tried to smile on him, 
 I hated him a little. I sought to revenge myself by 
 telling him to help himself to a cigar, having first placed 
 the box of Mexicans near him. He invariably declined 
 them, and said he would take one of the others from 
 the tea-box — my very best, kept in tea for dryness. If 
 I reversed the process, he reversed his action. His 
 instinct regarding cigars was supernatural, and I almost 
 believe that he had— like the Black Dwarf's cat — the 
 " poo'er " of reading character and interpreting events, — 
 an uncanny divination. 
 
 I knew by the time we reached Valetta that Roscoe 
 would possibly get well ; but he knew none of us until 
 we arrived at Gibraltar. Justine Caron and myself had 
 been watching beside him. As the bells clanged to slow 
 down, on entering the harbor, his eyes opened with a 
 gaze of sanity and consciousness. He looked at me, then 
 at Justine. 
 
 " I have been ill ! " he said. 
 
 Justine's eyes were not entirely to be trusted. She 
 turned her head away. 
 
140 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 "Yes, you have been ill," I replied, "but you are 
 better." 
 
 He smiled feebly, adding : " I am glad that I did not 
 die at sea." Then he closed his eyes. After a moment 
 he opened them and said, looking at Justine : " You 
 have helped to nurse me, have you not ? " His wasted 
 fingers moved over the coverlet towards her. 
 
 " I could do so little," she murmured. 
 
 " You have more than paid your debt to me," he 
 gently replied. " For I live, you see, and poor Hector 
 died." 
 
 She shook her head gravely, and rejoined : " Ah, no ! 
 I can never pay the debt I owe to you and to God — 
 now." 
 
 He did not understand this, I know. But I did. 
 
 " You must not talk any more," I said to Lim. 
 
 But Justine interposed. " He must be told that the 
 nurse who has done most for him is Mrs. Falchion. " 
 
 His brows contracted as if he were trying to remem- 
 ber something. He moved his head wearily. " Yes, I 
 think I remember," he said, "about her being with me ; 
 but nothing clearly — nothing clearly. . . . She is 
 very kind." 
 
 Justine here murmured : " Shall I tell her ? " 
 
 I was about to say No, but Roscoe nodded, and re- 
 marked quickly, "Yes, yes." 
 
 Then I made no objection, but urged that the meet- 
 ing should only be for a moment. I determined not to 
 leave them alone even for that moment. I did not 
 know what things connected with their past — whatever 
 it was — might be brought up ; and I knew that entire 
 freedom from excitement was necessary. I might have 
 spared myself any anxiety on the point. When she came 
 she was perfectly self-composed, and more as she seemed 
 when I first knew her. 
 
 It seems strange to write of a few weeks before as the 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 141 
 
 past. But so much had occurred that the days might 
 easily have been months, and the weeks years. 
 
 She sat down beside him and held out her hand. 
 And, as she did so, I thought of Boyd Madras and of 
 her refusal to say to him one comforting word, or to 
 touch his hand in forgiveness and friendship. And was 
 this man so much better than Boyd Madras ? His wild 
 words in delirium might mean nothing, but if they meant 
 anything, and she knew of that anything, she was still the 
 heartless, unnatural woman. 
 
 B.oscoe took her hand and held it briefly. " Dr. Mar- 
 mion says that you have helped to nurse me through my 
 illness," he whispered. " I am very grateful." 
 
 I thought she replied with the slightest constraint in 
 her voice. " One could not let an old acquaintance die 
 without trying to save him." 
 
 At that instant I grew angry, and longed to tell him 
 of her husband. But then a husband was not an ac- 
 quaintance. I remarked instead: " I am sorry, but I must 
 cut short all conversation for the present. When he is a 
 little better he will be benefited by your brightest gossip, 
 Mrs, Falchion." 
 
 She rose smiling, but she did not again take his hand, 
 though I thought he made a motion to that end. But 
 she looked down at him steadily for a moment. Beneath 
 her look his face flushed, and his eyes grew hot with 
 light ; then they dropped, and the eyelids closed on 
 them. At that she said with an incomprehensible airiness, 
 " Good-night. I am going now to play the music of 
 La Grande Duchesse as a farewell to Gibraltar. They 
 have a concert on to-night." Then she was gone. 
 
 At the mention of La Grande Duchesse he sighed, and 
 turned his head away from her. What it all meant I 
 did not know, and she had annoyed me as much as she 
 had perplexed me ; her moods were as the chameleon's 
 colors. He lay silent for a long time, then he turned 
 
142 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 to me and said : " Do you remember that tale in the 
 Bible about David and the well of Bethlehem ? " I had 
 to confess my ignorance. 
 
 "I think I can remember it," he continued. And 
 though I urged him not to tax himself, he spoke slowly 
 thus : 
 
 " A?td David was in the hold, and the Philistine's gar- 
 rison was then in Bethlehe?n. 
 
 "And David lo?iged, and said, Oh that one would give ?ne 
 to drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem that is at the 
 gate 1 
 
 "And the three brake through the host of the Philistines, 
 and drew water out of the well of Bethlehem that was by 
 the gate, and took a?zd brought it to David : nevertheless he 
 would not drink thereof, but poured it out unto the Lord. 
 
 "And he said, My God forbid it me that I should do this : 
 is not this the blood of the men that went in jeopardy of 
 their lives ? Therefore he would not drink it." 
 
 He paused a moment, and then added : " One always 
 brings back the past at a tremendous price. Resurrec- 
 tions give ghosts only." 
 
 "But you must sleep now," I urged. And then, 
 because I knew not what else more fitting, I added : 
 " Sleep, and 
 
 ' Let the dead past bury its dead.' 
 
 " Yes, I will sleep," he answered. 
 
BOOK II. 
 The Slope of the Pacific. 
 
 chapter XI. 
 
 AMONG THE HILLS OF GOD. 
 
 " Your letters, sir," said my servant, on the last even- 
 ing of the college year. Examinations were over at last, 
 and I was wondering where I should spend my holidays. 
 The choice was very wide ; ranging from the Muskoka 
 Lakes to the Yosemite Valley. Because it was my first 
 year in Canada, I really preferred not to go beyond 
 the Dominion. With these thoughts in my mind I 
 opened my letters. The first two did not interest me ; 
 tradesmen's bills seldom do. The third brought a 
 thumping sensation of pleasure — though it was not from 
 Belle Treherne. I had had one from her that morning, 
 and this was a pleasure which never came twice in one 
 day, for Prince's College, Toronto, was a long week's 
 journey from London, S. W. Considering, however, that 
 I did receive letters from her once a week, it may be 
 concluded that Clovelly did not ; and that, if he had, it 
 w r ould have been by a serious infringement of my rights. 
 But, indeed, as I have learned since, Clovelly took his 
 defeat in a very characteristic fashion, and said on an 
 important occasion some generous things about me. 
 
 The letter that pleased me so much was from Gait 
 Roscoe, who, as he had intended, was settled in a new 
 
144 MRS - FALCHION. 
 
 but thriving district of British Columbia, near the Cascade 
 Mountains. Soon after his complete recovery he had 
 been ordained in England, had straightway sailed for 
 Canada, and had gone to work at once. This note was 
 an invitation to spend the holiday months with him, 
 where, as he said, a man " summering high among the 
 hills of God " could see visions and dream dreams, and 
 hunt and fish too — especially fish. He urged that he 
 would not talk parish concerns at me, that I should not 
 be asked to be godfather to any young mountaineers, and 
 that the only drawback, so far as my own predilections 
 were concerned, was the monotonous health of the people. 
 He described his summer cottage of red pine as being 
 built on the edge of a lovely ravine ; he said that he had 
 the Cascades on one hand with their big glacier fields, 
 and mighty pine forests on the other ; while the balmiest 
 breezes of June awaited " the professor of pathology and 
 genial saw-bones." At the end of the letter he hinted 
 something about a pleasant little secret for my ear when 
 I came ; and remarked immediately afterwards that there 
 were one or two delightful families at Sunburst and 
 Viking, villages in his parish. One naturally associated 
 the little secret with some member of one of these 
 delightful families. Finally he said he would like to 
 show me how it was possible to transform a naval man 
 into a parson. 
 
 My mind was made up. I wrote to him that I would 
 start at once. Then I began to make preparations, and 
 meanwhile fell to thinking again about him who was now 
 the Reverend Gait Roscoe. After the Fulvia reached 
 London I had only seen Him a few times, he having gone 
 at once into the country to prepare for ordination. Mrs. 
 Falchion and Justine Caron I had met several times, but 
 Mrs. Falchion forbore inquiring for Gait Roscoe ; from 
 which, and from other slight but significant matters, I 
 gathered that she knew of his doings and whereabouts. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. I45 
 
 Before I started for Toronto she said that she might see 
 me there some day, for she was going to San Francisco 
 to inspect the property her uncle had left her, and in all 
 probability would make a sojourn in Canada. I gave 
 her my address, and she then said she understood that 
 Mr. Roscoe intended taking a missionary parish in the 
 wilds. In his occasional letters to me while we all were 
 in England Roscoe seldom spoke of her, but, when he 
 did, showed that he knew of her movements. This did 
 not strike me at the time as anything more than natural. 
 It did later. 
 
 Within a couple of weeks I reached Viking, a lumber- 
 ing town with great saw-mills, by way of San Francisco 
 and Vancouver. Roscoe met me at the coach, and I 
 was taken at once to the house among the hills. It stood 
 on the edge of a ravine, and the end of the veranda 
 looked over a verdant precipice, beautiful but terrible 
 too. It was uniquely situated ; a nest among the hills, 
 suitable either for work or play. In one's ears was the 
 low continuous note of the rapids and the music of a 
 neighboring waterfall. 
 
 On the way up the hills I had a chance to observe 
 Roscoe closely. His face had not that sturdy buoyancy 
 which his letter suggested. Still, if it was pale, it had a 
 glow which it did not possess before, and even a stronger 
 humanity than of old. A new look had come into his 
 eyes, a certain absorbing earnestness, refining the asceti- 
 cism noticeable in the past. A more amiable and un- 
 selfish comrade man never had. 
 
 The second day I was there he took me to call upon a 
 family at Viking, the town with a great saw-mill and two 
 smaller ones, owned by James Devlin, an enterprising 
 man who had grown rich at lumbering, and who lived here 
 in the mountains many months in each year. Mr. James 
 Devlin had a daughter who had had some advantages in 
 the East after her father had become rich ; though her 
 
146 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 earlier life was spent altogether in the mountains. I 
 soon saw where Roscoe's secret was to be found. Ruth 
 Devlin was a tall girl of sensitive features, beautiful eyes, 
 and rare personality. Her life, as I came to know, had 
 been one of great devotion and self-denial. Before her 
 father had made his fortune she had nursed a frail- 
 bodied, faint-hearted mother, and had cared for, and 
 been a mother to, her younger sisters. With wealth and 
 ease came a brighter bloom to her cheek, but it had a 
 touch of care which would never quite disappear, though 
 it became in time a beautiful wistf ulness rather than anx- 
 iety. Had this responsibility come to her in a city, it 
 might have spoiled her beauty and robbed her of her 
 youth altogether : but, in the sustaining virtue of a life 
 in the mountains, warm hues remained on her cheek and 
 a wonderful freshness in her nature. Her family wor- 
 shipped her — as she deserved. 
 
 That evening Roscoe confided to me that he had not 
 asked Ruth Devlin to be his wife, nor had he, indeed, 
 given her definite tokens of his love. But the thing was in 
 his mind as a happy possibility of the future. We talked 
 till midnight, sitting at the end of the veranda overlook- 
 ing the ravine. This corner, called the coping, became 
 consecrated to our many conversations. We painted and 
 sketched there in the morning (when we were not fishing 
 or he was not at his duties), received visitors, and smoked 
 in the evening, inhaling the balsam from the pines. 
 An old man and his wife kept the house for us, and gave 
 us to eat of simple but comfortable fare. The trout-fish- 
 ing was good, and many a fine trout was broiled for our 
 evening meal ; and many a fine string of trout found its 
 way to the tables of Roscoe's poorest parishioners, or 
 else to furnish the more fashionable table at which Ruth 
 Devlin presided. There were excursions up the valley, 
 and picnics on the hillsides, and occasional lunches and 
 evening parties at the summer hotel, a mile from us farther 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 147 
 
 down the valley, at which tourists were beginning to 
 assemble. 
 
 Yet, all the time, Roscoe was abundantly faithful to 
 his duties at Viking, and in the settlement called Sun- 
 burst, which was devoted to salmon-fishing. Between 
 Viking and Sunburst there was a great jealousy and ri- 
 valry. For the salmon-fishers thought that the mills, 
 though on a tributary stream, interfered, by the saw- 
 dust spilled in the river, with the travel and spawning 
 of the salmon. It needed all the tact of both Mr. Dev- 
 lin and Roscoe to keep the places from open fighting. 
 As it was, the fire smouldered. When Sunday came 
 however, there seemed to be truce between the villages. 
 It appeared to me that one touched the primitive and 
 idyllic side of life : lively, sturdy, and simple ; with 
 nature about us at once benignant and austere. It is 
 impossible to tell how fresh, bracing, and inspiring was 
 the climate of this new land. It seemed to glorify human- 
 ity, to make all who breathed it stalwart, and almost 
 pardonable even in wrong doing. Roscoe was always 
 received respectfully, and even cordially, among the sal- 
 mon-fishers of Sunburst, as among the mill-men and river- 
 drivers of Viking : not the less so, because he had an 
 excellent faculty for machinery, and could talk to the peo- 
 ple in their own colloquialisms. He had besides, though 
 there was little exuberance in his nature, a gift of dry 
 humor, which did more than anything else, perhaps, to 
 make his presence among them unrestrained. His little 
 churches at Viking and Sunburst were always well 
 attended, often filled to overflowing, and the people gave 
 liberally to the offertory : and I never knew any clergy- 
 man, however holy, who did not view such a proceeding 
 with a degree of complacency. In the pulpit Roscoe 
 was almost powerful. His knowledge of the world, his 
 habits of directness, his eager but not hurried speech, 
 his unconventional but original statements of things, his 
 
148 MRP, FALCHION. 
 
 occasional literary felicity (which means tact\ might 
 have made him distinguished in a more cultured com- 
 munity. Yet there was something to modify all this : an 
 occasional indefinable sadness, a constant note of pathetic 
 warning. It struck me that I never had met a man 
 whose words and manner were at times so charged with 
 pathos ; it was artistic in its searching simplicity. There 
 was some unfathomable fount in his nature which was 
 even beyond any occurrence of his past ; some radical, 
 constitutional sorrow, coupled with a very strong, prac- 
 tical, and even vigorous, nature. 
 
 One of his most ardent admirers was a gambler, horse- 
 trader, and watch-dealer, who sold him a horse, and 
 afterwards came and offered him thirty dollars, saying 
 that the horse was worth that much less than Roscoe had 
 paid for it, and protesting that he never could resist the 
 opportunity of getting the best of a game. He said he 
 didn't doubt but that he would do the same with one of 
 the archangels. He afterwards sold Roscoe a watch at 
 cost, but confessed to me that the works of the watch 
 had been smuggled. He said he was so fond of the 
 parson that he felt he had to give him a chance of good 
 things. It was not uncommon for him to discourse of 
 Roscoe's quality in the bar-rooms of Sunburst and Vik- 
 ing : in which he was ably seconded by Phil Boldrick, an 
 eccentric, warm-hearted fellow, who was so occupied in 
 the affairs of the villages generally, and so much an ad- 
 visory board to the authorities, that he had little time 
 left to make much progress industrially himself. 
 
 Once when a noted bully came to Viking, and, out 
 of sheer bravado and meanness, insulted Roscoe in the 
 streets, two or three river-drivers jumped forward to 
 avenge the insult. It was quite needless, for the clergy- 
 man had promptly taken the case in his own hands. 
 Waving them back he said to the bully, — " I have no 
 weapon, and if I had, I could not take your life nor try 
 
MRS. FALCHION. I49 
 
 to take it ; and you know that very well. But I pro- 
 pose to meet your insolence,— the first shown me in this 
 town." 
 
 Here murmurs of approbation went round. 
 
 " You will, of course, take the revolver from your 
 pocket, and throw it on the ground." 
 
 A couple of other revolvers were looking the bully in 
 the face, and he sullenly did as he was asked. 
 
 " You have a knife : throw that down." 
 
 This also was done under the most earnest emphasis 
 of the revolvers. Roscoe calmly took off his coat. " I 
 have met such scoundrels as you on the quarter-deck," 
 he said, " and I know what stuff is in you. They call 
 you beach-combers in the South Seas. You never fight 
 fair. You bully women, knife natives, and never meet 
 any one in fair fight. You have mistaken your man 
 this time." 
 
 He walked close up to the bully, his face like steel, 
 his thumbs caught lightly in his waistcoat pockets ; but 
 it was noticeable that his hands were shut. 
 
 " Now," he said, " we are even as to opportunity. 
 Repeat, if you please, what jou said a moment ago." 
 
 The bully's eye quailed, and he answered nothing. 
 
 " Then, as I said, you are a coward and a cur, who 
 insults peaceable men and weak women. If I know 
 Viking right, it has no room for you." Then he picked 
 up his coat and put it on. 
 
 " Now," he added, " I think you had better go ; — but I 
 leave that to the citizens of Viking." 
 
 What they thought is easily explained. Phil Boldrick 
 speaking for all said : " Yes, you had better go,— quick : 
 but on the hop like a cur, mind you : on your hands and 
 knees, jumping all the way." 
 
 And, with weapons menacing him, this visitor to Viking 
 departed, swallowing as he went the red dust disturbed 
 b 1 - his hands and feet, 
 
150 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 This established Roscoe's position finally. Yet, with 
 all his popularity and the solid success of his work, he 
 showed no vanity or egotism, nor ever traded on the 
 position he held in Viking and Sunburst. He seemed 
 to have no ambition further than to do good work ; no 
 desire to be known beyond his own district ; no fancy, 
 indeed, for the communications of his labors to mission 
 papers and benevolent ladies in England — so much the 
 habit of his order. He was free from professional man- 
 nerisms. 
 
 One evening we were sitting in the accustomed spot — 
 that is, the coping. 
 
 We had been silent for a long time. At last Roscoe 
 rose, and walked up and down the veranda nervously. 
 
 " Marmion," said he, " I am disturbed to-day, I cannot 
 tell you how : a sense of impending evil, an anxiety." 
 
 I looked up at him inquiringly, and, of purpose, a 
 little sceptically. 
 
 He smiled something sadly and continued : " Oh, I 
 know you think it foolishness. But remember that all 
 sailors are more or less superstitious ; it is bred in them ; 
 it is constitutional ; and I'm afraid there's a good deal 
 of the sailor in me yet." 
 
 Remembering Hungerford I said : " Yes, I know you 
 are superstitious ; the most hard-hearted of you are that. 
 But it means nothing. I may think or feel that there's 
 going to be a plague, but I shouldn't enlarge the in- 
 surance on my life because of it." 
 
 He put his hand upon my shoulder and looked down at 
 me earnestly. " But, Marmion, these things, I assure you, 
 are not matters of will, nor yet morbidness. They occur 
 at the most unexpected times. I have felt such sensa- 
 tions before, and they were followed by strange matters." 
 
 I nodded, but said nothing. I was still thinking of 
 Hungerford. After a slight pause he continued some- 
 what hesitatingly : 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 151 
 
 " I dreamed last night, three times, of events that 
 occurred in my past ; events which I hoped would never 
 disturb me in the life I am now leading." 
 
 "A life of self-denial," ventured I. I waited a minute 
 and then added : " Roscoe, I think it only fair to tell 
 you (I don't know why I haven't done so before) that 
 when you were ill, you were delirious and talked of things 
 that may or may not have had to do with your past." 
 
 He started and looked at me earnestly. 
 
 " They were unpleasant things ? " 
 
 " Trying things ; though all was vague and discon- 
 nected," I replied. 
 
 " I am glad you tell me this," he remarked quietly. 
 " And Mrs. Falchion and Justine Caron — did they 
 hear ? " He looked off to the hills. 
 
 " To a certain extent, I am sure. Mrs. Falchion's name 
 was generally connected with your — fancies. . . • 
 But really no one could place any weight on what a man 
 said in delirium, and I only mention the fact to let you 
 see exactly on what ground I stand with you." 
 
 " Can you give me an idea of — the thing I raved 
 about ? " 
 
 " Chiefly about a girl called Alo, — not your wife, I 
 should judge — who was killed." 
 
 At that he spoke in a dry voice : " Marmion, I will tell 
 you all the story some day ; but not now. I hoped that 
 I had been able to bury it, even in memory, but I was 
 wrong. Some things — such things — never die. They 
 stay ; and in our cheerfullest, most peaceful moments 
 confront us, and mock the new life we are leading. 
 There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this 
 world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with 
 or without repentance." He turned again from me and 
 set a sombre face towards the ravine. 
 
 " Roscoe," I said, taking his arm in mine, " I can't 
 believe that you have any sin on your conscience so dark 
 
152 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 that penitence can't wipe out, that is not wiped out 
 now." 
 
 " God bless you for your confidence. But there is one 
 woman, who, I fear, could, if she would, disgrace me 
 before the world. You understand," he added, "that 
 there are things we repent of which cannot be repaired. 
 One thinks a sin is dead, and starts upon a new life* 
 locking up the past, not deceitfully, but believing that 
 the book is closed, and that no good can come of pub- 
 lishing it ; when suddenly it all flames out like the letters 
 in Faust's book of conjurations." 
 
 "Wait," I said. "You need not tell me more, you 
 must not — now ; not until there is any danger. Keep 
 your secret. If the woman — if that woman — ever places 
 you in danger, then tell me all. But keep it to yourself 
 now. And don't fret because you have had dreams." 
 
 " Well, as you wish," he replied after a long time. 
 
 As he sat in silence, I smoking hard, and he buried in 
 thought, I heard the laughter of people some distance 
 below us in the hills. I guessed it to be some tourists 
 from the summer hotel lately built in the hills not far 
 away. The voices came nearer. A singular thought 
 occurred to me. I looked at Roscoe. I saw that he was 
 brooding, and not noticing the voices which presently 
 died away. This was a relief to me. We were then 
 silent again. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME. 
 
 Next day we had a picnic on the Whi-Whi River* 
 which, rising in the far north, comes in varied moods to 
 
 * A note in Dr. Marmion's MSS. says that he has purposely changed 
 the names of the rivers and towns mentioned in the second part of the 
 book, because he did not wish the locale to be too definite.— G. P. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 153 
 
 join the Long Cloud River at Viking. Ruth Devlin, her 
 young sister, and her aunt Mrs. Revel, with Gait Roscoe 
 and myself, constituted the party. The first part of the 
 excursion had many delights. The morning was fresh 
 and sweet, and we were all in excellent spirits. Roscoe's 
 depression had vanished. But there was an amiable 
 seriousness in his manner which, to me, portended that 
 the faint roses in Ruth Devlin's cheeks would deepen 
 before the day was done, unless something inopportune 
 happened. 
 
 As we trudged gaily up the canon to the spot where we 
 were to take a big skiff, and cross the Whi-Whi to our 
 camping-ground, Ruth Devlin, who was walking with me,' 
 said : " A large party of tourists arrived at Viking yes- 
 terday, and have gone to the summer hotel. So I expect 
 you will be gay up here for some time to come. Pre- 
 pare, then, to rejoice." 
 
 " Don't you think it is gay enough as it is ? " I an- 
 swered. " Behold this festive throng." 
 
 " Oh, it is nothing to what there might be ! This could 
 never make Viking and ' surrounding country ' notorious 
 as a pleasure-resort. To attract tourists you must have 
 enough people to make romances and tragedies, — with- 
 out loss of life, of course,— merely catastrophes of broken 
 hearts, and hair-breadth escapes, and mammoth fishing 
 and shooting achievements, such as men know how — to 
 invent," — it was delightful to hear her voice soften to an 
 amusing suggestiveness — " and broken bridges and land- 
 slides, with many other things which you can supply, Dr. 
 Marmion. No, I'm afraid that Viking is too hum-drum 
 to be notable." 
 
 She laughed then very lightly and quaintly. She had 
 a rare sense of humor. 
 
 " Well, but, Miss Devlin," said I, " you cannot have all 
 things at once. Climaxes like these take time We have 
 a few joyful things. We have splendid fishing achieve- 
 
*54 
 
 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 ments ;— please don't forget that basket of trout I sent 
 you the other morning ; — and broken hearts and such 
 tragedies are not impossible ; as, for instance, if I do not 
 send you as good a basket of trout to-morrow evening ; 
 or if you should remark that there was nothing in a 
 
 basket of trout to " 
 
 "Now," she said, "you are becoming involved and — 
 inconsiderate. Remember, I am only a mountain girl." 
 
 "Then let us only talk of the other tragedies. But 
 aren't you a little callous to speak of such things as if 
 you thirsted for their occurrence ? " 
 
 " I am afraid you are rather silly," she replied. " You 
 see, some of the land up here belongs to me. I am 
 anxious that it should 'boom,' — that is the correct term, 
 isn't it? — and a sensation is good for 'booming.' What 
 an advertisement would ensue, if the lovely daughter of 
 an American millionaire should be in danger of drown- 
 ing in the Long Cloud, and a rough but honest fellow — 
 a foreman on the river, maybe a young member of the 
 English aristocracy in disguise — perilled his life for her. 
 The place of peril would of course be named Lover's 
 Eddy, or the Maiden's Gate ;— very much prettier, I 
 assure you, than such cold-blooded things as the Devil's 
 Slide where we are going now ; and much more attrac- 
 tive to tourists." 
 
 " Miss Devlin," laughed I, "you have all the eagerness 
 of the incipient millionaire. May I hope to see you in 
 Lombard street some day, a very Katherine among capi- 
 talists : for, from these remarks of yours I judge that 
 you would (I say it pensively) ' wade through slaughter 
 to a throne.'" 
 
 Gait Roscoe, who was just ahead with Mrs. Revel and 
 Amy Devlin, turned and said : " Who is that quoting so 
 dramatically ? Now, this is a picnic party, and any one 
 who introduces elegies, epics, sonnets, 'and such,' is 
 guilty of breaking the peace at Viking and its environs. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 155 
 
 Besides, such things should always be left to the parson. 
 He mustn't be outflanked, his thunder mustn't be stolen. 
 The scientist has unlimited resources ; all he has to do, 
 is to be vague, and look prodigious : but the parson 
 must have his poetry as a monopoly, or where is he ? " 
 
 " Then," said I, " I shall leave you to deal with Miss 
 Devlin yourself, because she is the direct cause of my 
 wrong-doing. She has expressed the most sinister senti- 
 ments about Viking and your very extensive parish. 
 Miss Devlin," I added, turning to her, " I leave you to 
 your fate, and I cannot recommend you to mercy, for 
 what Heaven made fair, should remain tender and merci- 
 ful, and " 
 
 " So young and so untender ! " she interjected with a 
 rippling laugh. " Yet Cordelia was misjudged very 
 wickedly and traduced very ungallantly, and so am I. 
 And I bid you good-day, sir." 
 
 Her delicate laugh rings in my ears as I write. I think 
 that sun, and clear skies and hills, go far to make us 
 cheerful and harmonious. Somehow, I always remember 
 her as she was that morning. 
 
 She was standing then on the brink of a new and beau- 
 tiful experience, at the threshold of an acknowledged love. 
 And that is a remarkable time to the young. 
 
 There was something thrilling about the experiences 
 of that morning, and I think we all felt it. Even the 
 great frowning precipices seemed to have lost their ordi- 
 nary gloom, and when some young white eagles rose 
 from a crag and flew away, growing smaller as they 
 passed, until they were one with the snow of the glacier 
 on Mount Trinity ; or a wapiti peeped out from the 
 underwood and stole away with glancing feet down the 
 valley ; we could scarcely refrain from doing some fool- 
 ish thing out of sheer delight. At length we emerged 
 from a thicket of Douglas pine upon the shore of the 
 Whi-Whi, and, loosening our boat, were soon moving 
 
156 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 slowly on the cool current. For an hour or more we 
 rowed down the river towards the Long Cloud, and 
 then drew into the shade of a little island for lunch. 
 When we came to the rendezvous, where picnic parties 
 generally feasted, we found a fire still smoking and the 
 remnants of a lunch scattered about. A party of pic- 
 nickers had evidently been there just before us. Ruth 
 suggested that it might be some of the tourists from 
 the hotel. This seemed very probable. 
 
 There were scraps of newspaper on the ground, and 
 among them was an empty envelope. Mechanically I 
 picked it up, and read the superscription. What I saw 
 there I did not think necessary to disclose to the other 
 members of the party ; but, as unconcernedly as possible, 
 — for Ruth Devlin's eyes were on me — I used it to light 
 a cigar, — inappropriately, for lunch would soon be 
 ready. 
 
 "What was the name on the envelope ?" she said.— 
 " Was there one ? " 
 
 I guessed she had seen my slight start. I said eva- 
 sively : " I fancy there was, but a man who is immensely 
 interested in a new brand of cigar " 
 
 " You are a very deceitful man," she said. " And, at 
 the least, you are selfish to hold your cigar as more im- 
 portant than a woman's curiosity. Who can tell what 
 romance was in the address on that envelope " 
 
 " What elements of noble tragedy, what advertise- 
 ment for a certain property in the Whi-Whi Valley," in- 
 terrupted Roscoe, breaking off the thread of a sailor's 
 song he was humming as he tended the water-kettle on 
 the fire. 
 
 This said, he went on with the song again. I was 
 struck by the wonderful change in him now. Presenti- 
 ments were far from him, yet I, having read that enve- 
 lope, knew that they were not without cause. Indeed I 
 had an inkling of that the night before, when I heard the 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 !57 
 
 voices on the hill. Ruth Devlin stopped for a moment 
 in the preparations to ask Roscoe what he was hum- 
 ming. I, answering for him, told her that it was an old 
 sentimental sea-song of common sailors, often sung by 
 officers at their jovial gatherings. At this she pretended 
 to look shocked, and straightway demanded to hear the 
 words, so that she could pronounce judgment on her 
 spiritual pastor and master. 
 
 He good-naturedly said that many of these old sailor 
 songs were amusing, and that he often found himself 
 humming them. To this I could testify, and he sang 
 them very well indeed — quietly but with the rolling tone 
 of the sailor, jovial yet fascinating. At our united re- 
 quest his humming became distinct. Three of the verses 
 I give here : — 
 
 " The Lovely Jane went sailing clown 
 To anchor at the Spicy Isles ; 
 And the wind was fair as ever was blown, 
 For the matter of a thousand miles. 
 
 " Then a storm arose as she crossed the line, 
 Which it caused her masts to crack ; 
 And she gulped her fill of the whooping brine, 
 And she likewise sprained her back. 
 
 " And the Capting cried, ' If it's Davy Jones, 
 Then it's Davy Jones,' says he ; 
 ' Though I don't aspire to leave my bones 
 In the equatorial sea.' " 
 
 What the further history of the Lovely Jane was, we 
 were not informed, for Ruth Devlin announced that the 
 song must wait, though it appeared to be innocuous and 
 child-like in its sentiments, and that lunch would be 
 served between the acts of the touching tragedy. When 
 lunch was over, and we had again set forth upon the Whi- 
 Whi, I asked Ruth to sing an old French-Canadian song 
 which she had once before sung to us. Many a time 
 
158 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 the woods of the west had resounded to the notes of En 
 Roulant ma Boule, as the voyageurs traversed the long 
 paths of the Ottawa, St. Lawrence, and Mississippi ; 
 brave light-hearted fellows, whose singing days were over. 
 By the light of coming events there was something 
 weird and pathetic in this Arcadian air, sung as it was 
 by her. Her voice was a mezzo-soprano of rare bracing 
 quality, and she had enough natural sensibility to give 
 the antique refinement of the words a wistful charm 
 particularly apparent in these verses : — 
 
 " Ah cruel Prince, my heart you break, 
 In killing thus my snow-white drake. 
 
 " My snow-white drake, my love, my King, 
 The crimson life-blood stains his wing. 
 
 " His golden bill sinks on his breast, 
 His plumes go floating east and west — 
 
 " En roulant ma boule : 
 Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant, 
 En roulant ma boule roulant, 
 En roulant ma boule ! " 
 
 As she finished the song we rounded an angle in the 
 Whi-Whi. Ahead of us lay the Snow Rapids, and the 
 swift channel at one side of the rapids which, hurrying 
 through a rocky archway, was known as the Devil's 
 Slide. There was one channel through the rapids by 
 which it was perfectly safe to pass, but that sweep of 
 water through the Devil's Slide was sometimes a trap 
 of death to even the most expert rivermen. A half-mile 
 below the rapids was the confluence of the two rivers. 
 The sight of the tumbling mass of white water and the 
 gloomy and colossal grandeur of the Devil's Slide, a 
 buttress of the hills, was very fine indeed. 
 
 But there was more than scenery to interest us here, 
 for, moving quickly towards the Slide, was a boat with 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 159 
 
 three people in it. They were evidently intending to 
 attempt that treacherous passage, which culminated in a 
 series of eddies, a menace to even the best oarsmanship. 
 They certainly were not aware of their danger, for there 
 came over the water the sound of a man's laughing voice, 
 and the two women in the boat were in unconcerned 
 attitudes. Roscoe shouted to them and motioned them 
 back, but they did not appear to understand. 
 
 The man waved his hat to us, and rowed on. There 
 was but one thing for us to do : to make the passage 
 quickly through the safe channel of the rapids, and to be 
 of what service we could on the other side of the Slide 
 if necessary. We bent to the oars, and the boat shot 
 through the water. Ruth held the rudder firmly, and 
 her young sister and Mrs. Revel sat perfectly still. But 
 the man in the other boat, thinking, doubtless, that we 
 were attempting a race, added his efforts to the current 
 of the channel. I am afraid that I said some words 
 below my breath, scarcely proper to be spoken in the 
 presence of maidens and a clerk in holy orders. Ros- 
 coe was here, however, a hundred times more sailor than 
 parson. He spoke in low firm tones, as he now and 
 then suggested a direction to Ruth Devlin or myself. 
 Our boat tossed and plunged in the rapids, and the 
 water washed over us lightly once or twice, but we went 
 through the passage safely, and had turned towards the 
 Slide before the other boat got to the rocky archway. 
 
 We rowed hard. The next minute was one of sus- 
 pense, for we saw the boat shoot beneath the archway. 
 Presently it emerged, a whirling plaything in treacherous 
 eddies. The man wildly waved his arm, and shouted to 
 us. The women were grasping the sides of the boat, but 
 making no outcry. We could not see the faces of the 
 women plainly yet. The boat ran forward like a race- 
 horse ; it plunged hither and thither. An oar snapped 
 in the rocks and the other one shot from the man's hand. 
 
l6o MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 Now the boat swung round and round and dipped towards 
 the hollow of a whirlpool. When we were within a few 
 rods of them, it appeared to rise from the water, was 
 hurled on a rock, and overturned. Mrs. Revel buried 
 her face in her hands, and Ruth gave a little groan, but 
 she held the rudder firmly, as we swiftly approached 
 the forms struggling in the water. All, fortunately, had 
 grasped the swamped boat, and were being carried down 
 the stream towards us. The man was caring resolutely 
 for himself, but one of the women had her arm round 
 the other, supporting her. We brought our skiff close to 
 the swirling current. I called out words of encourage- 
 ment, and was preparing to jump into the water, when 
 Roscoe exclaimed in a husky voice : " Marmion, it is 
 Mrs. Falchion ! " 
 
 Yes, it was Mrs. Falchion ; but I had known that 
 before. We heard her words to her companion : " Jus- 
 tine, do not look so. Your face is like death. It is 
 hateful." 
 
 Then the craft veered towards the smoother water 
 where we were. This was my opportunity. Roscoe 
 threw me a rope, and I plunged in and swam towards 
 the boat. I saw that Mrs. Falchion recognized me. But 
 she made no exclamation, nor did Justine Caron. Their 
 companion, however, on the other side of the boat, was 
 eloquent in prayers to be rescued. I caught the bow of 
 the boat as it raced past me, and with all my strength 
 swung it towards the smoother water. I ran the rope I 
 had brought through the iron ring at the bow ; and was 
 glad enough of that ; for their lives perhaps depended 
 on being able to do it. It had been a nice calculation 
 of chances, but it was done. Roscoe immediately bent 
 to the oars, I threw an arm around Justine, and in a 
 moment Roscoe had towed us into safer quarters. Then 
 he drew in the rope. As he did so Mrs. Falchion said : 
 " Justine would drown so easily if one would let her." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. I Qi 
 
 These were her first words to me. I am sure I never 
 can sufficiently admire the mere courage of the woman 
 and her presence of mind in danger. Immediately after- 
 wards she said— and subsequently it seemed to me mar- 
 vellous— " You are something more than the chorus to 
 the play this time, Dr. Marmion." 
 
 A minute after, and Justine was dragged into our boat, 
 and was followed by Mrs. Falchion, whose first words to 
 Roscoe were : " It is not such a meeting as one would 
 plan." 
 
 And he replied : '4 am glad no harm has come to you. " 
 
 The man was duly helped in. A poor creature he was, 
 to pass from this tale as he entered it, ignominiously, and 
 finally, here. I even hide his nationality, for his race are 
 generally more gallant. But he was wealthy, had an in- 
 tense admiration for Mrs. Falchion, and had managed 
 to secure her in his boat, to separate from the rest of 
 the picnic party, — chiefly through his inefficient rowing. 
 
 Dripping with water as Mrs. Falchion was, she did not, 
 strange to say, appear at serious disadvantage. Almost 
 any other woman would have done so. She was a little 
 pale, she must have felt miserable, but she accepted Ruth 
 Devlin's good offices (as did Justine Caron those of Mrs. 
 Revel) with much self-possession, scanning her face 
 and form critically the while, and occasionally turning a 
 glance on Roscoe, who was now cold and impassive. I 
 never knew a man who could so banish expression from 
 his countenance when necessary. Speaking to Belle Tre- 
 herne long afterwards of Mrs. Falchion's self-possessed 
 manner on this occasion, and of how she rose superior to 
 the situation, I was told that I must have regarded the 
 thing poetically and dramatically, for no woman could 
 possibly look self-possessed in draggled skirts. She 
 said that I always magnified certain of Mrs. Falchion's 
 qualities. 
 
 That may be so, and yet it must be remembered that I 
 
162 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 was not predisposed towards her, and that I wished her 
 well away from where Roscoe was. 
 
 As for Justine Caron, she lay with her head on Mrs. 
 Revel's lap, and looked from beneath heavy eyelids at 
 Roscoe with such gratitude and — but, no, she is only a 
 subordinate in the story, and not a chief factor, and what 
 she said or did here is of no vital consequence at this 
 moment ! We rowed to a point near the confluence cf 
 the two rivers, where we could leave our boats to be poled 
 back through the rapids or portaged past them. 
 
 On the way Mrs. Falchion said to Roscoe : " I knew 
 you were somewhere in the Rockies ; and at Vancouver, 
 when I came from San Francisco, I heard of your being 
 here. I had intended spending a month somewhere in 
 the mountains, so I came to Viking and on to the summer 
 hotel : but really this is too exciting for recreation." 
 
 This was spoken with almost gay outward manner, but 
 there was a note in her words which I did not like, nor 
 did I think that her eye was very kind, especially when 
 she looked at Ruth Devlin, and afterwards at Roscoe. 
 
 We had several miles to go, and it was nightfall — for 
 which Mrs. Falchion expressed herself as profoundly 
 grateful — when we arrived at the hotel. Our parting 
 words were as brief as, of necessity, they had been on 
 our journey through the mountains, for the ladies had 
 ridden the horses which we had sent over for ourselves 
 from Viking; and we men walked in front. Besides, the 
 thoughts of some of us were not at all free from mis- 
 giving. The spirit possessing Roscoe the night before 
 seemed to enter into all of us, even into Mrs. Fal- 
 chion, who had lost, somewhat, the aplomb with which 
 she had held the situation in the boat. But at the 
 door of the hotel she said cheerfully : " Of course, Dr. 
 Marmion will find it necessary to call on his patients 
 to-morrow, and — the clergyman, also, on his new parish- 
 ioners. " 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 163 
 
 The reply was left to me. I said gravely : " Let us 
 be thankful that both doctor and clergyman are called 
 upon to use their functions ; it might easily have been 
 only the latter." 
 
 "Oh, do not be funereal ! " she replied. " I knew that 
 we were not to drown at the Devil's Slide. The drama 
 isn't ended yet, and the chief actors cannot go until 'the 
 curtain.' — Though I am afraid that is not quite ortho- 
 dox, is it, Mr. Roscoe ? " 
 
 Roscoe looked at her gravely. " It may not be ortho- 
 dox in bald statement, but it is orthodox, I fancy, all the 
 same, if we exchange God for fate, and Providence for 
 chance. . . . Good-night." 
 
 He said this wearily. She looked up at him with an 
 ironical look, then held out her hand, and quickly bade 
 him good-night. Partings all round were made, and 
 after some injunctions to Mrs. Falchion and Justine 
 Caron from myself as to preventives against taking cold, 
 the rest of us started for Sunburst. 
 
 As we went, I could not help but contrast Ruth and 
 Amy Devlin, these two gentle yet strong mountain girls, 
 with the woman we had left. Their lives were far from 
 that dolorous tide which, sweeping through a selfish 
 world, leaves behind it the stain of corroding passions ; 
 of cruelties, ingratitude, hate, and catastrophe. We 
 are all ambitious, in one way or another. We climb 
 mountains over scoria that frays and lava that burns. 
 We try to call down the stars, and when, now and then, 
 our conjuring succeeds, we find that our stars are only 
 blasting meteors. One moral mishap lames character 
 forever. A false start robs us of our natural strength, 
 and a misplaced or unrighteous love deadens the soul 
 and shipwrecks just conceptions of life. 
 
 A man may be forgiven for a sin, but the effect re- 
 mains ; it has found its place in his constitution, and 
 it cannot be displaced by mere penitence, nor yet for- 
 
1 64 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 giveness. A man errs, and he must suffer ; his father 
 erred, and he must endure ; or some one sinned against 
 the man, and he hid the sin— but here a hand touched 
 my shoulder ! I was startled, for my thoughts had 
 been far away. Roscoe's voice spoke in my ear, — " It 
 is as she said; the actors come together for 'the cur- 
 tain.' " 
 
 Then his eyes met those of Ruth Devlin turned to 
 him earnestly and inquiringly. And I felt for a moment 
 hard against Roscoe, that he should, even indirectly and 
 involuntarily, bring suffering into her life. In youth, in 
 early manhood, we do wrong. At the time we seem to 
 be injuring no one but ourselves ; but, as we live on, 
 we find that we were wronging whomsoever should come 
 into our lives in the future. At the instant I said angrily 
 to myself : " What right has he to love a girl like that, 
 when he has anything in his life that might make her 
 unhappy or endanger her in ever so little ! " 
 
 But I bit my tongue, for it seemed to me that I was 
 Pharisaical ; and I wondered rather scornfully if I should 
 have been so indignant were the girl not so beautiful, 
 young, and ingenuous. I tried not to think further of this 
 thing, and talked much to Ruth, — Gait Roscoe walked 
 with Mrs. Revel and Amy Devlin,— but I found I could 
 not drive it from my mind. This was not unnatural, 
 for was not I the " chorus to the play " ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SAW. 
 
 There was still a subdued note to Roscoe's manner 
 the next morning. He was pale ; he talked freely how- 
 ever of the affairs of Viking and Sunburst, and spoke of 
 business which called him to Mr. Devlin's great saw-mill 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 16$ 
 
 that day. A few moments after breakfast we were stand- 
 ing in the doorway. " Well," he said, "shall we go? " 
 
 I was not quite sure where he meant to go, but I took 
 my hat and joined him. I wondered if it would be to 
 the summer hotel or the great mill. My duty lay in 
 the direction of the hotel. When we stepped out he 
 added : " Let us take the bridle-path along the edge of 
 the ravine to the hotel." 
 
 The morning was beautiful. The atmosphere of the 
 woods was of soft, diffusive green — the sunlight filtering 
 through the transparent leaves. Bowers of delicate ferns 
 and vines flanked the path, and an occasional clump of 
 giant cedars invited us : the world was eloquent. 
 
 Several tourists upon the veranda of the hotel remarked 
 us with curiosity as we entered. A servant said that 
 Mrs. Falchion would be glad to see us ; and we were 
 ushered into her sitting-room. There was no trace of 
 yesterday's misadventure about her. She appeared 
 superbly well. And yet, when I looked again, when I 
 had time to think upon and observe detail, I saw signs 
 of change. There was excitement in the eyes, and a 
 slight nervous darkness beneath them, which added to 
 their charm. She rose smiling, and said : " I fear I am 
 hardly entitled to this visit, for I am beyond convales- 
 cence, and Justine is not in need of shrift or diagnosis, 
 as you see." 
 
 I was not so sure of Justine Caron as she was, and 
 when I had paid my respects to her, I said a little prig- 
 gishly (for I was young), still not too solemnly, — " I 
 cannot allow you to pronounce for me upon my patients, 
 Mrs. Falchion ; I must make my own inquiries." 
 
 But Mrs. Falchion was right. Justine Caron was not 
 suffering much from her immersion ; though, speaking 
 professionally, her temperature was higher than the 
 normal. But that might be from some impulse of the 
 moment, for Justine was naturally a little excitable. 
 
l66 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 We walked aside, and, looking at me with a flush of 
 happiness in her face, she said : " You remember one 
 day on the Fulvia when I told you that money was every- 
 thing to me ; that I would do all I honorably could to get 
 it?" 
 
 I nodded. She continued : " It was that I might pay 
 a debt — you know it. Well, money is my god no longer, 
 for I can pay all I owe. That is, I can pay the money, 
 but not the goodness, the noble kindness. He is most 
 good, is he not ? The world is better that such men as 
 Captain Gait Roscoe live — ah, you see I cannot quite 
 think of him as a clergyman. I wonder if I ever shall ! " 
 She grew suddenly silent and abstracted, and, in the 
 moment's pause, some ironical words in Mrs. Falchion's 
 voice floated across the room to me : " It is so strange 
 to see you so. And you preach and baptize, and — marry, 
 and bury, and care for the poor and — ah, what is it ? — 
 ' all those who, in this transitory life, are in sorrow, need, 
 sickness, or any other adversity ? ' . . . And do you 
 never long for the flesh-pots of Egypt ? Never long for " 
 — here her voice was not quite so clear — " for the past, 
 Gait Roscoe ? " 
 
 I was sure that, whatever she was doing, he had been 
 trying to keep the talk, as it were, on the surface. I 
 was equally sure that, to her last question, he would 
 make no reply. Though I was now speaking to Justine 
 Caron, I heard him say quite calmly and firmly : " Yes, 
 I preach, baptize, marry, and bury, and do all I can for 
 those who need help." 
 
 " The people about here say that you are good and 
 charitable. You have won the hearts of the moun- 
 taineers. But you always had a gift that way." — I did 
 not like her tone. — " One would almost think you had 
 founded a new dispensation. And if I had drowned 
 yesterday, you would, I suppose, have buried me, and 
 have preached a little sermon about me. — You could 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 167 
 
 have done that better than any one else ! . . What 
 
 would you have said in such a case ? " 
 
 There was an earnest, almost a bitter, protest in the 
 reply. 
 
 " Pardon me if I cannot answer your question. Your 
 life was saved, and that is all we have to consider, except 
 to be grateful to Providence. The duties of my office 
 have nothing to do with possibilities." 
 
 She was evidently torturing him, and I longed to say 
 a word that would torture her. She continued : " And 
 the flesh-pots — you have not answered about them : do 
 you not long for them — occasionally ? " 
 
 "They are of a period," he said, "too distant for 
 regret." 
 
 " And yet," she replied softly, " I fancied sometimes 
 in London last year, that you had not outgrown that 
 antique time, — those lotos-days." 
 
 He made no reply at once, and in the pause Justine 
 and I passed out to the veranda. 
 
 " How long does Mrs. Falchion intend remaining 
 here, Miss Caron ? " I said. 
 
 Her reply was hesitating : " I do not quite know ; but 
 I think some time. She likes the place ; it seems to 
 amuse her." 
 
 " And you — does it amuse you ? " 
 
 " It does not matter about me at all. I am Madame's 
 servant ; but, indeed, it does not amuse me particularly." 
 
 " Do you like the place ? " 
 
 The reply was somewhat hurried, and she glanced at 
 me a little nervously. "Oh, yes," she said, " I like the 
 place, but " 
 
 Here Roscoe appeared at the door and said : " Mrs. 
 Falchion wishes to see Viking and Mr. Devlin's mills, 
 Marmion ; she will go with us." 
 
 In a little time we were on our way to Viking. I 
 walked with Mrs. Falchion, and Roscoe with Justine. 
 
170 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " How mysterious ! " said Mrs. Falchion. " What 
 does it mean ? I never saw anything like that before. 
 What a wonderful thing ! " 
 
 Roscoe explained. " Up there in that hut," he said, 
 " there lives a man called Phil Boldrick. He is a unique 
 man with a strange history. He has been miner, sailor, 
 woodsman, river-driver, trapper, salmon-fisher, — expert 
 at the duties of each of these, persistent at none. He 
 has a taste for the ingenious and the unusual. For a 
 time he worked in Mr. Devlin's mill. It was too tame 
 for him. He conceived the idea of supplying the val- 
 ley with certain necessaries, by intercepting the mule 
 trains as they passed across the hills, and getting them 
 down to Viking by means of that cable. The valley 
 laughed at him ; men said it was impossible. He 
 went to Mr. Devlin and Mr. Devlin came to me. I have, 
 as you know, some knowledge of machinery and engin- 
 eering. I thought the thing feasible but expensive, and 
 told Mr. Devlin so. However, the ingenuity of the thing 
 pleased Mr. Devlin, and, with that singular enterprise, 
 which in other directions has made him a rich man, he 
 determined on its completion. Between us we managed 
 it. Boldrick carries on his aerial railway with consider- 
 able success, as you see." 
 
 " A singular man," said Mrs. Falchion. " I should 
 like to see him. Come, sit down here and tell me all 
 you know about him, won't you?" 
 
 Roscoe nodded, I arranged a seat for us, and we all 
 sat. 
 
 Roscoe was about to begin when Mrs. Falchion said : 
 " Wait a minute. Let us take in this scene first." We 
 were silent. After a moment I turned to Mrs. Falchion, 
 and said : " It is beautiful, isn't it ? " 
 
 She drew in a long breath, her eyes lighted up, and 
 she said with a strange abandon of gaiety : " Yes ; it is 
 delightful to live." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 171 
 
 It seemed so, in spite of the forebodings of my friend 
 and my own uneasiness concerning him, Ruth Devlin, and 
 Mrs. Falchion. The place was all peace : a very monot- 
 ony of toil and pleasure. The heat drained through the 
 valley back and forth in visible palpitations upon the 
 roofs of the houses, the mills, and the vast piles of lum- 
 ber : all these seemed breathing. It looked a busy 
 Arcady. From beneath us life vibrated with the regular- 
 ity of a pulse : distance gave a kind of delighted ease to 
 its very toil. Event was asleep. 
 
 But when I look back now, after some years, at the 
 experiences of that day, I am astonished by the running 
 fire of events, which, unfortunately, were not all joy. 
 
 As I write I can hear that keen, wild singing of the 
 saw, come to us distantly, with a pleasant, weird ela- 
 tion. The big mill hung above the river, its sides all 
 open, humming with labor, as I had seen it many a time 
 during my visit to Roscoe. The sun beat in upon it, 
 making a broad piazza of light about its sides. Beyond 
 it were pleasant shadows, through which men passed and 
 repassed at their work. Life was busy all about it. 
 Yet the picture was bold, open, and strong. Great iron 
 hands reached down into the water, clamped a massive 
 log or huge timber, lightly drew it up the slide from the 
 water, where, guided by the hand-spikes of the men, it 
 was laid upon its cradle and carried slowly to the devour- 
 ing teeth of the saws : there to be sliced through rib and 
 bone in moist sandwiched layers, oozing the sweet sap 
 of its fibre ; and carried out again into the open to be 
 drained to dry bones under the pipes of the sun : piles 
 upon piles ; houses with wide chinks through which 
 the winds wandered, looking for tenants and finding 
 none. 
 
 To the north were booms of logs, swilling in the 
 current, waiting tor their devourer. Here and there 
 were groups of river-drivers and their foremen, prying 
 
172 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 twisted heaps of logs from the rocks or the shore into 
 the water. Other groups of river-drivers were scattered 
 upon the banks, lifting their huge red canoes high up on 
 the platforms, the spring's and summer's work of river- 
 driving done ; while others lounged upon the grass, or 
 wandered lazily through the village, sporting with the 
 Chinamen, or chaffing the Indian idling in the sun — a 
 garish figure stoically watching the inroads of civiliza- 
 tion. The town itself was squat but amiable : small 
 houses and large huts ; the only place of note and dignity, 
 the new town hall, which was terribly over-shadowed by 
 the big mill, and even by the two smaller ones flanking 
 it north and south. 
 
 But Viking was full of men who had breathed the 
 strong life of the hills, had stolen from Nature some of 
 her brawny strength and set themselves up before her as 
 though a man were as great as a mountain and as good 
 a thing to see. It was of such a man that Gait Roscoe 
 was to tell us. His own words I will not give, but will 
 speak of Phil Boldrick as I remember him and as Roscoe 
 described him to us. 
 
 Of all the men in the valley, none was so striking as 
 Phil Boldrick. Of all faces his was the most singular ; 
 of all characters his the most unique ; of all men he was 
 the most unlucky, save in one thing,— the regard of his 
 fellows. Others might lay up treasures, not he ; others 
 lose money at gambling, not he ; — he never had much to 
 lose. But yet he did all things magniloquently. The 
 wave of his hand was expansive, his stride was swaying 
 and decisive, his over-ruling, fraternal faculty was always 
 in full swing ; Viking was his adopted child ; so much so 
 that a gentleman river-driver called it Philippi, and by 
 that name it sometimes went, and continues still so 
 among those who knew it in the old days. 
 
 Others might have doubts as to the proper course to 
 pursue under certain circumstances, it was not so with 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 173 
 
 Phil ; they might argue a thing out orally, he did so 
 mentally, and gave judgment on it orally. He was final 
 not oracular. One of his eyes was of glass and blue, the 
 other had an eccentricity, and was of a deep and medi- 
 tative grey. It was a wise and knowing eye. It was 
 trained to many things — like one servant in a large 
 family. One side of his face was solemn, because of the 
 gay but unchanging blue eye, the other was gravely 
 humorous, shrewdly playful. His fellow-citizens re- 
 spected him ; so much so, that they intended to give him 
 an office in the new-formed corporation ; which means 
 that he had courage and downrightness, and that the 
 rough straightforward gospel of the West was properly 
 interpreted by him. 
 
 If a stranger came to the place, Phil was sent first to 
 reconnoitre ; if any function was desirable, Phil was 
 requested to tackle it ; if justice was to be meted out, 
 Phil's opinion had considerable weight — for he had 
 greater leisure time than other more prosperous men ; if 
 a man was taken ill (this was in the days before a doctor 
 came), Phil was asked to declare if he would "shy from 
 the finish." 
 
 I heard Roscoe more than once declare that Phil was 
 as good as two curates to him. Not that Phil was at all 
 pious, nor yet possessed of those abstemious qualities in 
 language and appetite, by which good men are known ; 
 but he had a gift of civic virtue — important in a wicked 
 world, and of unusual importance in Viking. He had 
 neither self-consciousness nor fear ; and while not pos- 
 sessed of absolute tact in a social way, he had a knack of 
 doing the right thing bluntly, or the wrong thing with an 
 air of Tightness. He envied no man, he coveted nothing ; 
 had once or twice made other men's fortunes by pros- 
 pecting, but was poor himself. And in all he was content, 
 and loved life and Viking. 
 
 Immediately after Roscoe had reached the mountains 
 
174 MR S. FALCHION. 
 
 Phil had become his champion, declaring that there 
 wasn't any reason why a man shouldn't be treated 
 sociably because he was a parson. Phil had been a great 
 traveller, as had many who settled at last in these valleys 
 to the exciting life of the river : salmon-catching or 
 driving logs. He had lived for a time in Lower Cali- 
 fornia and Mexico, and had given Roscoe the name of 
 The Padre : which suited the genius and temper of the 
 rude- population. And so it was that Roscoe was called 
 The Padre by every one, though he looked little like 
 one. 
 
 As he told his story of Phil's life I could not help but 
 contrast him with most of the clergymen I knew or had 
 seen. He had the admirable ease and tact of a cultured 
 man of the world, and the frankness and warmth of a 
 hearty nature, which had, however, some inherent strain 
 of melancholy. Wherever I had gone with him I had 
 noticed that he was received with good-humored defer- 
 ence by his rough parishioners and others who were 
 such only in the broadest sense. Perhaps he would not 
 have succeeded so well if he had worn clerical clothes. 
 As it was, of a week day, he could not be distinguished 
 from any respectable layman. The clerical uniform 
 attracts women more than men, who, if they spoke truly, 
 would resent it. Roscoe did not wear it, because he 
 thought more of men than of function, of manliness than 
 clothes ; and though this sometimes got him into trouble 
 with his clerical brethren who dearly love Roman collar, 
 and colored stole, and the range of ritual from a lofty 
 intoning to the eastward position, he managed to live 
 and himself be none the worse, while those who knew 
 him were certainly the better. 
 
 When Roscoe had finished his tale, Mrs. Falchion said : 
 " Mr. Boldrick must be a very interesting man : " and her 
 eyes wandered up to the great hole in the mountain-side, 
 and lingered there. " As I said, I must meet him," she 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 1 75 
 
 added; "men of individuality are rare." — Then : "That 
 great 'hole in the wall ' is of course a natural formation." 
 
 "Yes," said Roscoe, " Nature seems to have made it 
 for Boldrick : he uses it as a storehouse." 
 
 " Who watches it while he is away ? " she said. " There's 
 no door to the place, of course." 
 
 Roscoe smiled enigmatically. " Men do not steal up 
 here : that is the unpardonable crime ; any other may 
 occur and go unpaid for ; not it." 
 
 The thought seemed to strike Mrs. Falchion. " I might 
 have known ! " she said. " It is the same in the South 
 Seas among the natives : Samoans, Tongans, Fijians 
 and others. You can — as you know, Mr. Roscoe," — her 
 voice had a subterranean meaning — " travel from end to 
 end of those places, and, until the white man corrupts 
 them, never meet with a case of stealing : you will find 
 them moral too in other ways until the white man corrupts 
 them. But sometimes the white man pays for it in the 
 end." 
 
 Her last words were said with a kind of dreaminess, 
 as though they had no purpose ; but though she sat now 
 idly looking into the valley beneath, I could see that her 
 eyes had a peculiar glance, which was presently turned 
 on Roscoe then withdrawn again. On him the effect 
 was so far disturbing that he became a little pale, but I 
 noticed that he met her glance unflinchingly and then 
 looked at me, as if to see in how far I had been affected 
 by her speech. I think I confessed to nothing in my 
 face. 
 
 Justine Caron was lost in the scene before us. She 
 had, I fancy, scarcely heard half that had been said. 
 Roscoe said to her presently : " You like it, do you 
 not ? " 
 
 " Like it ! " she said. " I never saw anything so 
 wonderful." 
 
 "And yet it would not be so wonderful without 
 
176 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 humanity there," rejoined Mrs. Falchion. " Nature is 
 never complete without man. All that would be splen- 
 did without the mills and the machinery and Boldrick's 
 cable, but it wouldn't be perfect : it needs man — Phil 
 Boldrick and Company in the foreground. Nature isn't 
 happy by itself : it is only brooding and sorrowful. You 
 remember the mountain of Talili in Samoa, Mr. Roscoe, 
 and the valley about it, how entrancing yet how melan- 
 choly it is. It always seems to be haunted, for the 
 natives never live in the valley. There is a tradition that 
 once one of the white gods came down from heaven, and 
 built an altar, and sacrificed a Samoan girl — though no 
 one ever knew quite why : for there the tradition ends." 
 
 I felt again that there was a hidden meaning in her 
 words ; but Roscoe remained perfectly still. It seemed 
 to me that I was little by little getting the threads of his 
 story. That there was a native girl ; that the girl had 
 died or been killed ; that Roscoe was in some way — inno- 
 cently I dared hope — connected with it ; and that Mrs. 
 Falchion held the key to the mystery, I was certain. That 
 it was in her mind to use the mystery, I was also certain. 
 But for what end I could not tell. What had passed 
 between them in London the previous winter I did not 
 know : but it seemed evident that she had influenced 
 him there as she did on the Fulvia, had again lost her 
 influence, and was now resenting the loss, out of pique 
 or anger, or because she really cared for him. It might 
 be that she cared. 
 
 She added after a moment : " Add man to nature, and 
 it stops sulking : which goes to show that fallen humanity 
 is better than no company at all." 
 
 She had an inherent strain of mockery, of playful 
 satire, and she told me once, when I knew her better, 
 that her own suffering always set her laughing at herself, 
 even when it was greatest. It was this characteristic 
 which made her conversation very striking, it was so 
 
MRS. FALCHION. ^7 
 
 sharply contrasted in its parts ; a heartless kind of satire 
 set against the most serious and acute statements. One 
 never knew when she would turn her own or her inter- 
 locutor's gravity into mirth. 
 
 Now no one replied immediately to her remarks, and 
 she continued: "If I were an artist I should wish to 
 paint that scene, given that the lights were not so bright, 
 and that mill-machinery not so sharply defined. There 
 is almost too much lime-light, as it were ; too much 
 earnestness in the thing. Either there should be some 
 side action of mirth to make it less intense, or of tra- 
 gedy to render it less photographic ; and, unless, Dr. 
 Marmion, you would consent to be solemn, which would 
 indeed be droll ; or that The Padre there— how amusing 
 they should call him that !— should cease to be serious, 
 which, so very unusual, would be tragic, I don't know 
 how we are to tell the painter that he has missed a chance 
 of immortalizing himself." 
 
 Roscoe said nothing, but smiled at her wit, while he 
 deprecated her remarks by a wave of his hand. 
 
 I also was silent for a moment ; for there had come to 
 my mind, while she was speaking and I was watching the 
 scene, something that Hungerford had said to me once 
 on board the Fulvia. " Marmion," said he, " when 
 everything at sea appears so absolutely beautiful and 
 honest that it thrills you, and you're itching to write 
 poetry, look out. There's trouble ahead. It's only the 
 pretty pause in the happy scene of the play before the 
 villain comes in and tumbles things about. When I've 
 been on the bridge," he continued, "of a night that set 
 my heart thumping, I knew by Jingo ! it was the devil 
 playing his silent overture. — (Don't you take in the 
 twaddle about God sending thunderbolts ; it's that old 
 war-horse down below.) And then I've kept a sharp 
 lookout, for I knew as right as rain, that a company of 
 waterspouts would be walking down on us, or a hurricane 
 
178 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 racing to catch us broadsides. And what's gospel for sea 
 is good for land, and you'll find it so, my son." 
 
 I was possessed of the same feeling now, as I looked 
 at the scene before us, and I suppose I seemed moody, 
 for, immediately Mrs. Falchion said : " Why, now, my 
 words have come true ; the scene can be made perfect. 
 Pray step down to the valley, Dr. Marmion, and com- 
 plete the situation, for you are trying to seem serious, 
 and it is irresistibly amusing — and professional, I sup- 
 pose ; one mustn't forget that you teach the young 
 'saw-bones' how to saw." 
 
 I was piqued, annoyed. I said, though I admit it 
 was not cleverly said : " Mrs. Falchion, I am willing to 
 go and complete that situation if you will go with me ; 
 for you would provide the tragedy — plenty of it ; there 
 would be the full perihelion of elements ; your smile 
 is the incarnation of the serious." 
 
 She looked at me full in the eyes. " Now that," she 
 said, "is a very good quid pro quo — is that right ?— and 
 I have no doubt that it is more or less true ; and for a 
 doctor to speak truth, and a professor to be understood, 
 is a matter for angels. And I actually believe, that in 
 time, you will be free from priggishness, and become a 
 very smart conversationalist ; and — suppose we wander 
 on to our proper places in the scene. . . . Besides, 
 I want to see that strange man, Mr. Boldrick." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE PATH OF THE EAGLE. 
 
 We travelled slowly down the hillside into the village, 
 and were about to turn towards the big mill when we 
 saw Mr. Devlin and Ruth riding towards us. We halted 
 and waited for them. Mr. Devlin was introduced to 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 1 79 
 
 Mrs. Falchion by his daughter, who was sweetly solicit- 
 ous concerning Mrs. Falchion and Justine Caron, and 
 surprised at finding them abroad after the alarming acci- 
 dent of the day before. Ruth said that her father and 
 herself had just come from the summer hotel, where 
 they had gone to call upon Mrs. Falchion. Mrs. Falchion 
 heartily acknowledged the courtesy. She seemed to be 
 playing no part, but was apparently grateful all round : 
 yet I believe that even already Ruth had caught at some- 
 thing in her presence threatening Roscoe's peace ; while 
 she, from the beginning, had, with her more trained 
 instincts, seen the relations between the clergyman and 
 his young parishioner. — But what had that to do with 
 her? 
 
 Between Roscoe and Ruth there was the slightest con- 
 straint, and I thought that it gave a troubled look to the 
 face of the girl. Involuntarily the eyes of both were 
 attracted to Mrs. Falchion. I believe in that moment 
 there was a kind of revelation among the three. While 
 I talked to Mr. Devlin I watched them, standing a little 
 apart, Justine Caron with us. It must have been a pain- 
 ful situation for them : to the young girl because a 
 shadow was trailing across the light of her first love ; 
 to Roscoe because the shadow came out of his past ; to 
 Mrs. Falchion because she was the shadow. 
 
 I felt that trouble was at hand. In this trouble I knew 
 that I was to play a part ; for, if Roscoe had his secret 
 and Mrs. Falchion had the key to it, I also held a secret 
 which, in case of desperate need, I should use. I did not 
 wish to use it, for though it was mine it was also another's. 
 I did not like the look in Mrs. Falchion's eyes as she 
 glanced at Ruth : I was certain that she resented Ros- 
 coe's regard for Ruth and Ruth's regard for Roscoe ; 
 but, up to that moment, I had not thought it possible 
 that she cared for him deeply. Once she had influenced 
 me, but she had never cared for me. 
 
l8o MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 I could see a change in her. Out of it came that 
 glance at Ruth, which seemed to me the talon-like hatred 
 that shot from the eyes of Goneril and Regan : and I 
 was sure that if she loved Roscoe, there would be mad 
 trouble for him and for the girl. Heretofore she had 
 been passionless, but there was a dormant power in her 
 which had only to be wickedly aroused to wreck her own 
 and others' happiness. Hers was one of those volcanic 
 natures, defying calculation and ordinary conceptions 
 of life ; having the fullest capacity for all the elementary 
 passions, — hatred, love, cruelty, delight, loyalty, revolt, 
 jealousy. Mrs. Falchion had never from her birth until 
 now felt love for any one. She had never been awakened. 
 Even her affection for her father had been dutiful rather 
 than instinctive. She had provoked love, but had never 
 given it. She had been self-centred, compulsive, unrelent- 
 ing. She had unmoved seen and let her husband go to 
 his doom — it was his doom and death so far as she knew. 
 
 Yet, as I thought of this, I found myself again admir- 
 ing her. She was handsome, independent, distinctly 
 original, and possessing capacity for great things. Be- 
 sides, so far, she had not been actively vindictive — 
 simply passively indifferent to the sufferings of others. 
 She seemed to regard results more than means. All she 
 did not like she could empty into the mill of the destroy- 
 ing gods : just as General Grant poured hundreds of 
 thousands of men into the valley of the James, not think- 
 ing of lives but victory, not of blood but triumph. She 
 too, even in her cruelty, seemed to have a sense of wild 
 justice which disregarded any incidental suffering. 
 
 I could see that Mr. Devlin was attracted by her, as 
 every man had been who had ever met her ; for, after all, 
 man is but a common slave to beauty: virtue he respects, 
 but beauty is man's valley of suicide. Presently she 
 turned to Mr. Devlin, having, as it seemed to me, made 
 Roscoe and Ruth sufficiently uncomfortable. With that 
 
MRS. FALCHION. l8l 
 
 cheerful insouciance which was always possible to her 
 on the most trying occasions, she immediately said, as she 
 had often said to me, that she had come to Mr. Devlin to 
 be amused for the morning, perhaps the whole day. It 
 was her way, her selfish way, to make men her slaves. 
 
 Mr. Devlin gallantly said that he was at her disposal, 
 and with a kind of pride added that there was plenty in 
 the valley which would interest her ; for Mr. Devlin was 
 a frank, bluff man, who would as quickly have spoken 
 disparagingly of what belonged to himself, if it was not 
 worthy, as have praised it. 
 
 " Where shall we go first ? " he said. ' ' To the mill ? " 
 
 " To the mill, by all means," Mrs. Falchion replied ; 
 11 I have never been in a great saw-mill, and I believe 
 this is very fine. Then," she added, with a little wave 
 of the hand towards the cable running down from Phil 
 Boldrick's eyrie in the mountains, " then I want to see all 
 that cable can do — all, remember." 
 
 Mr. Devlin laughed. " Well, it hasn't many tricks, but 
 what it does it does cleverly, thanks to The Padre." 
 
 " Oh yes," responded Mrs. Falchion, still looking at 
 the cable, " The Padre I know is very clever." 
 
 "He is more than clever," bluffly replied Mr. Devlin, 
 who was not keen enough to see the faint irony in her 
 tones. 
 
 " Yes," responded Mrs. Falchion in the same tone of 
 voice, " he is more than clever. I have been told that 
 he was once very brave. I have been told that once in 
 the South Seas he did his country a great service. " 
 
 She paused. I could see Ruth's eyes glisten and her 
 face suffuse, for though she read the faint irony in the 
 tone, still she saw that the tale which Mrs. Falchion was 
 evidently about to tell, must be to Gait Roscoe's credit. 
 Mrs. Falchion idly turned upon Ruth and saw the look 
 in her face. An almost imperceptible smile came upon 
 her lips. She looked again at the cable and Phil 
 
182 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 Boldrick's eyrie, which seemed to have a wonderful 
 attraction for her. Not turning away from it, save 
 now and then to glance indolently at Mr. Devlin or 
 Ruth, and once enigmatically at myself, she said : 
 
 " Once upon a time— that's the way I believe to begin 
 a pretty story — there were four men-of-war idling about 
 a certain harbor of Samoa. One of the vessels was the 
 flag-ship, with its admiral on board. On one of the other 
 vessels was an officer, who had years before explored 
 this harbor. It was the hurricane season. He advised 
 the admiral not to enter the harbor, for the indications 
 foretold a gale, and himself was not sure that his chart 
 was in all respects correct, for the harbor had been 
 hurriedly explored and sounded. But the admiral gave 
 orders, and they sailed in. 
 
 " That day a tremendous hurricane came crying down 
 upon Samoa. It swept across the island, levelled forests 
 of cocoa palms, battered villages to pieces, caught that 
 little fleet in the harbor, and played with it in a horrible 
 madness. To right and left were reefs, behind was the 
 shore, with a monstrous surf rolling in ; t before was a 
 narrow passage. One vessel made its way out — on it 
 was the officer who had surveyed the harbor. In the 
 open sea there was safety. He brought his vessel down 
 the coast a little distance, put a rope about him and in 
 the wild surf made for the shore. I believe he could 
 have been court-martialed for leaving his ship, but he 
 was a man who had taken a great many risks of one 
 kind and another in his time. It was one chance out of 
 a hundred ; but he made it— he got to the shore, travelled 
 down to the harbor where the men-of-war were careen- 
 ing towards the reefs, unable to make the passage out, 
 and once again he tied a rope about him, and plunged 
 into the surf to try for the admiral's ship. He got there 
 terribly battered. They tell how a big wave lifted him 
 and landed him upon the quarter-deck just as big waves 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 183 
 
 are not expected to do. Well, like the hero in any 
 melodrama of the kind, he very prettily piloted monsieur 
 the admiral and his fleet out to the open sea." 
 
 She paused, smiling in an inscrutable sort of way, then 
 turned and said with a sudden softness in her voice, 
 though still with the air of one who wished not to be 
 taken with too great a seriousness : " And, ladies and 
 gentlemen, the name of the ship that led the way was 
 the Porcupine j and the name of the hero was Com- 
 mander Gait Roscoe, R.N. ; and < of such is the king- 
 dom of heaven ! ' " 
 
 There was silence for a moment. The tale had been 
 told adroitly, and with such tact as to words that Roscoe 
 could not take offence— need not, indeed, as he did not, 
 I believe, feel any particular self-consciousness. I am 
 not sure but he was a little glad that such evidence 
 should have been given at the moment, when a kind of 
 restraint had come between him and Ruth, by one who 
 he had reason to think was not wholly his friend, — might 
 be his enemy. It was a kind of offset to his premoni- 
 tions and to the peril over which he might stumble at 
 any moment. 
 
 To me the situation was almost inexplicable ; but the 
 woman herself was inexplicable : at this moment the evil 
 genius of us all, at that doing us all a kind of crude, 
 superior justice. I was the first to speak. 
 
 " Roscoe," I said, " I never had heard of this, although 
 I remember the circumstance as told in the newspapers. 
 But I am glad and proud that I have a friend with such 
 a record behind him." 
 
 " And, only think," said Mrs. Falchion, " he actually 
 wasn't court-martialed, for abandoning his ship to save 
 an admiral and a fleet. But the ways of the English 
 Admiralty are wonderful. They go out of their way to 
 avoid a court-martial sometimes, and they go out of then 
 way to establish them sometimes." 
 
184 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 By this time we had started towards the mill. Roscoe 
 walked ahead with Ruth Devlin. Mr. Devlin, Mrs. 
 Falchion, Justine Caron and myself walked together. 
 
 Mrs. Falchion presently continued, talking, as it 
 seemed to me, at the back of Roscoe's head. 
 
 " I have known the Admiralty to force an officer to 
 resign the navy because he had married a native wife. 
 But I never knew the Admiralty to court-martial an 
 officer because he did not marry a native wife whom he 
 ought to have married : but, as I said, the ways of the 
 Admiralty are past admiration." 
 
 I could see Roscoe's hand clench at his side, and pres- 
 ently he said over his shoulder at her : " Your memory 
 and your philosophy are as wonderful as the Admiralty 
 are inscrutable." 
 
 She laughed. " You have not lost your old gift of 
 retort," she said. " You are still amusing." 
 
 " Well, come," said Mr. Devlin cheerfully, " let's see 
 if there isn't something even more amusing than Mr. 
 Roscoe in Viking. I will show you, Mrs. Falchion, the 
 biggest saw that ever ate the heart out of a Norfolk 
 pine." 
 
 At the mill Mrs. Falchion was interested. She asked 
 questions concerning the machinery which mightily 
 pleased Mr. Devlin, they were so apt and intelligent; and 
 herself assisted in giving an immense log to the teeth of 
 the largest saw, which, with its six upright blades, ate and 
 was never satisfied. She stooped and ran her ungloved 
 hand into the saw-dust, as sweet before the sun has dried 
 it as the scent of a rose. The rich smell of the fresh-cut 
 lumber filled the air, and suggested all kinds of remote 
 and pleasant things. The industry itself is one of the 
 first that comes with the invasion of new territory, and 
 makes one think of man's first work in the world : to fell 
 the tree and till the soil. It is impossible to describe that 
 fierce, jubilant song of the saw, which even when we 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 185 
 
 were near was never shrill or shrieking : never drowning 
 our voices, but vibrant and delightful. To Mrs. Falchion 
 it was new ; she was impressed. 
 
 " I have seen," she said to Mr. Devlin, " all sorts of 
 enterprises, but never anything like this. It all has a 
 kind of rough music. It is enjoyable." 
 
 Mr. Devlin beamed. " I have just added something to 
 the mill that will please you," he said. 
 
 She looked interested. We all gathered round. I 
 stood between Mrs. Falchion and Ruth Devlin, and Ros- 
 coe beside Justine Caron. 
 
 " It is the greatest mill-whistle in the country," he con- 
 tinued. " It will be heard from twelve to twenty-five 
 miles, according to the condition of the atmosphere. I 
 want big things all round, and this is a masterpiece, I 
 guess. Now, I'll let you hear it if you like. I didn't 
 expect to use it until to-night at nine o'clock, when, also 
 for the first time, I am to light the mills by electricity ; a 
 thing that's not been attempted yet in any saw-mill on 
 the continent : we're going to work night and day, Mrs. 
 Falchion, for a couple of months." 
 
 " This is all very wonderful. And are you indebted 
 to Mr. Roscoe in these things too ? — Everybody seems to 
 need him here." 
 
 "Well," said the mill-owner laughing, "the whistle is 
 my own. It's the sort of thing I would propose— to blow 
 my trumpet as it were ; but the electricity .and the first 
 experiments in it I owe to The Padre." 
 
 "As I thought," she said, and turned to Roscoe. "I 
 remember," she added, "that you had an electrical search- 
 light on the Porcupine, and that you were fond of electri- 
 city. Do you ever use search-lights here ? I should 
 think they might be of use in your parish. Then, for a 
 change, you could let the parish turn it upon you, for the 
 sake of contrast and edification." 
 
 For the moment I was hatetuliy angry. Her sarcasm 
 
l86 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 was well veiled, but I could feel the sardonic touch be- 
 neath the smiling surface. This innuendo seemed so 
 gratuitous. I said to her almost beneath my breath, 
 that none of the others could hear : " You tigress ! " 
 
 She did no more than shrug her shoulder in acknowl- 
 edgment, and went on talking lightly to Mr. Devlin. 
 Roscoe was cool but I could see now in his eyes a kind 
 of smouldering anger ; which was quite to my wish. I 
 hoped he would be meek no longer. 
 
 Presently Ruth Devlin said : " Would it not be better 
 to wait till to-night, when the place is lighted, before the 
 whistle is blown ? Then you can get a better first impres- 
 sion. And if Mrs. Falchion will come over to our home 
 at Sunburst, we will try and amuse her for the rest of the 
 day — that is, after she has seen all here." 
 
 Mrs. Falchion seemed struck by the frankness of the 
 girl, and for an instant debated, but presently said : " No, 
 thank you. After I've seen all now, I will go to the hotel, 
 and then will join you all here in the evening, if that 
 seems feasible. Perhaps Dr. Marmion will escort me 
 here. Mr. Roscoe, of course, has other duties." 
 
 " I shall be happy," I said maliciously smiling, " to 
 guide you to the sacrifice of the saw. " 
 
 She was not disturbed. She touched Mr. Devlin's arm, 
 and, looking archly at him, nodded backwards towards 
 me. " ' Beware the anaconda ! ' " she said. 
 
 It was impossible not to be amused ; her repartee was 
 always so cool and clever. She disarmed one by what 
 would have been, in a man, insolent sang fr old : in her it 
 was daring, aplomb. 
 
 Presently she added : " But if we are to have no colos- 
 sal whistle and no electric light till evening, there is one 
 thing I must have : and that is your remarkable Phil 
 Boldrick, who seems to hold you all in the palm of his 
 hand, and lives up there like a god on his Olympus." 
 
 "Well, suppose you go and call on him," said Roscoe 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 187 
 
 with a touch of dry humor, his eye on the cable that 
 reached to Boldrick's perch. 
 
 She saw her opportunity, and answered promptly. 
 '• Yes, I will call on him immediately," — here she turned 
 towards Ruth, — " if Miss Devlin and yourself will go with 
 me." 
 
 "Nonsense," interposed Mr. Devlin. "Besides, the 
 cage will only hold two easily. Anyway, it's absurd." 
 
 "Why is it absurd? Is there any danger ? " queried 
 Mrs. Falchion. 
 
 " Not unless there's an idiot at the machinery." 
 
 "I should expect you to 'turn the crank,'" she per- 
 sisted. 
 
 " But no woman has ever done it." 
 
 " I will make the record then." And, turning to Ruth, 
 — " You are not afraid ? " 
 
 " No, I am not afraid," said the girl bravely, though 
 •she acknowledged to me afterwards that while she was 
 not afraid of anything where her own skill was called 
 in question, such as mountain-climbing, or even puma- 
 hunting, she did not joyfully anticipate swinging between 
 heaven and earth on that incline. " I will go," she added, 
 "if my father will let me. . . . May I?" she con- 
 tinued, turning to him. 
 
 Perhaps something of the father's pride came up in 
 him, perhaps he had just got some suspicion that be- 
 tween his daughter and Mrs. Falchion there was a sub- 
 terranean rivalry. However it was he gave a quick 
 quizzical look at both of them, then glanced at Roscoe, 
 and said : " I'll make no objections, if Ruth would like 
 to introduce you to Phil. And, as Mrs. Falchion sug- 
 gested, I'll 'turn the crank'." 
 
 I could see that Roscoe had a bad moment. But pres- 
 ently he appeared to me perfectly willing that Ruth should 
 go. Maybe he was as keen that she should not appear at 
 2. disadvantage beside Mrs. Falchion as was her father. 
 
l8S MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 A signal was given, and the cage came slowly down 
 the cable to the mill. We could see Boldrick, looking 
 little bigger than a child at the other end, watching our 
 movements. At the last moment both Mr. Devlin and 
 Roscoe seemed apprehensive, but both the women were 
 cool and determined. I noticed Mrs. Falchion look at 
 Ruth curiously once or twice after they entered the cage 
 and before they started, and what she saw evidently gave 
 her a higher opinion of the girl, for she laid her hand on 
 Ruth's arm suddenly and said : "We'll show these mere 
 men what nerve really is." 
 
 Ruth nodded, then bon voyage was said, and the signal 
 was given. The cage ascended at first quickly, then 
 more slowly, swaying up and down a little on the cable, 
 and climbing higher and higher through the air to the 
 mountain-side. What Boldrick thought when he saw the 
 two ascending towards him he expressed to Mr. Devlin 
 later in the day in vigorous language : what occurred at 
 his hut Ruth Devlin told me afterwards. When the cage 
 reached him he helped the two passengers out, and took 
 them to his hut. With Ruth he had always been a favor- 
 ite, and he welcomed her with admiring and affectionate 
 respect. 
 
 " Never b'lieved you could have done it, Miss Dev- 
 lin — never ! Not but what I knew you weren't afraid 
 of anything on the earth below or the waters under the 
 earth ; but when you get swinging there over the world, 
 and not high enough to get a hold on heaven, it makes 
 you feel as if things was droppin' away from you like. 
 But, by gracious! you did it like an eagle — you and your 
 friend." 
 
 By this time he was introduced, and at the name of Mrs. 
 Falchion, he cocked his head, and looked quizzically, as 
 if trying to remember something, then drew his hand once 
 or twice across his forehead. After a moment he said : 
 " Strange now, ma'am, how your name strikes me. It isn't 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 189 
 
 a common name, and I've heerd it before somewhere — 
 somewhere. It isn't your face that I've seen before — for 
 I'd have remembered /"/ if it was a thousand years ago," 
 he added admiringly. "But I've heard some one use it; 
 and I can't tell where." 
 
 She looked curiously at him, and said : " Don't try to 
 remember, and it will come to you in good time. But 
 show us everything about your place before we go back, 
 won't you, please ? " 
 
 He showed them his hut where he lived quite alone. 
 It was supplied with bare necessaries and with a counter, 
 behind which were cups and a few bottles. In reference 
 to this Boldrick said : " Temperance drinks for the 
 muleteers, tobacco and tea and sugar and postage stamps 
 and things. The) 7 don't gargle their throats with any- 
 thing stronger than coffee at this tavern." 
 
 Then he took them to the cave in which puma, bear, 
 and wapiti skins were piled, together with a few stores 
 and the kits of travellers who had left their belongings 
 in Boldrick's keeping till they should come again. 
 After Mrs. Falchion and Ruth had seen all, they came 
 out upon the mountain-side and waved their handker- 
 chiefs to us, who were still watching from below. Then 
 Boldrick hoisted a flag on his hut, which he used on gala 
 occasions, to celebrate the event, and not content with this 
 fired a feu de jote, managed in this way : — He took two 
 anvils used by the muleteers and expressmen to shoe their 
 animals, and placed one on the other, putting powder be- 
 tween. Then Mrs. Falchion thrust a red-hot iron into the 
 powder, and an explosion ensued. I was for a moment 
 uneasy, but Mr. Devlin reassured me, and instantly a shrill 
 whistle from the little mills answered the salute. 
 
 Just before they got into the cage Mrs. Falchion turned 
 to Boldrick, and said : " You have not been trying to 
 remember where you heard my name before ? Well, 
 can't you recall it now?" 
 
I90 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 Boldrick shook his head. " Perhaps you'll recall it 
 before I see you again," she said. 
 
 They started. As they did so, Mrs. Falchion said 
 suddenly, looking at Boldrick keenly : " Were you ever 
 in the South Seas?" 
 
 Boldrick stood for an instant open-mouthed and then 
 exclaimed loudly as the cage swung down the incline : 
 " By Jingo ! No, ma'am, I was never there, but I had 
 a pal who come from Samoa." 
 
 She called back at him,— " Tell me of him when we 
 meet again. What was his name ? " 
 
 They were too far down the cable now for Boldrick's 
 reply to reach them distinctly. The descent seemed even 
 more adventurous than the ascent, and, in spite of my- 
 self, I could not help a thrill of keen excitement. But 
 they were both smiling when the cage reached us, and 
 both had a very fine color. 
 
 " A delightful journey, a remarkable reception, and a 
 very singular man is your Mr. Boldrick," said- Mrs. Fal- 
 chion. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Devlin, "you'll know Boldrick a 
 long time before you find his limits. He is about the 
 most curious character I ever knew, and does the most 
 curious things. But straight — straight as a die, Mrs. 
 Falchion ! " 
 
 " I fancy that Mr. Boldrick and I would be very good 
 friends indeed," said Mrs. Falchion ; " and I purpose 
 visiting him again. It's quite probable that we shall find 
 we have had mutual acquaintances." She looked at 
 Roscoe meaningly as she said this, but he was occupied 
 with Ruth. 
 
 " You were not afraid ? " Roscoe said to Ruth. " Was 
 it not a strange sensation ? " 
 
 " Frankly, at first I was a little afraid, because the cage 
 swings on the cable, and it makes you uncomfortable. 
 But I enjoyed it before we got to the end. " 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 191 
 
 Mrs. Falchion turned to Mr. Devlin. " I find plenty 
 here to amuse me," she said, "and I'm glad I came. To- 
 night I want to go up that cable and call on Mr. Boldrick 
 again, and see the mills and the electric light, and hear 
 your whistle, from up there. Then, of course, you must 
 show us the mill working at night, and afterwards — may 
 I ask it ?— you must all come and have supper with me at 
 the summer hotel." 
 
 Ruth dropped her eyes. I saw she did not wish to go. 
 Fortunately Mr. Devlin extricated her. " I'm afraid that 
 will be impossible, Mrs. Falchion," he said : " much 
 obliged to you all the same. But I'm going to be at the 
 mill pretty near all night, and wouldn't be able to go, and 
 I don't want Ruth to go without me." 
 
 " Then it must be another time," said Mrs. Falchion. 
 
 " Oh, whenever it's convenient for Ruth, after a day 
 or two, I'll be ready and glad. But I tell you what : if you 
 want to see something fine, you must go down as soon as 
 possible to Sunburst. We live there, you know, not here 
 at Viking. It's funny, too, because, you see, there's a 
 feud between Viking and Sunburst — we are all river-men 
 and mill-hands at Viking, and they're all salmon-fishers 
 and fruit-growers at Sunburst. By rights I ought to live 
 here, but when I started I thought I'd build my mills 
 at Sunburst, so I pitched my tent down there. My wife 
 and the girls got attached to the place, and though the 
 mills were built at Viking and I made all my money up 
 here, I live at Sunburst and spend my shekels there. I 
 guess if I didn't happen to live at Sunburst, people would 
 be trailing their coats and making Donnybrook fairs 
 every other day between these two towns. But that's 
 neither here nor there. Take my advice, Mrs. Falchion, 
 and come to Sunburst and see the salmon-fishers at 
 work, both day and night. Its about the biggest thing 
 in the way of natural picturesqueness that you'll see 
 — outside my mills. Indians, half-breeds, white men, 
 13 
 
192 
 
 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 Chinamen, — they are all at it in weirs and cages, or in the 
 nets, and spearing by torch-light ! — Don't you think I'd 
 do to run a circus, Mrs. Falchion ?— Stand at the door, 
 and shout, ' Here's where you get the worth of your 
 money ' ? " 
 
 Mrs. Falchion laughed. " I am sure you and I will be 
 good friends ; you are amusing. And to be perfectly 
 frank with you, I'm just about weary of trying to live 
 in the intellectual altitudes of Dr. Marmion — and The 
 Padre." 
 
 I had never seen her in a greater strain of gaiety. 
 It had almost a kind of feverishness— as if she relished 
 fully the position she held toward Roscoe and Ruth, 
 her power over their future, and her belief (as I think 
 was in her mind then) that she could bring back to 
 herself Roscoe's old allegiance. That she believed this, 
 I was convinced ; that she would never carry it out 
 was just as strong : for I, though only the chorus in the 
 drama, might one day find it in my power to become, for 
 a moment, one of the principal actors,— from which posi- 
 tion I had declined one day when humiliated before Mrs. 
 Falchion on the Fulvia. Boyd Madras was in my mind. 
 After a few minutes we parted, agreeing to meet again 
 in the valley in the evening. I had promised, as Mrs. 
 Falchion had suggested, to escort her and Justine Caron 
 from the summer hotel to the mill. Roscoe had duties 
 at both Viking and Sunburst, and would not join us until 
 we all met in the evening. Mr. Devlin and Ruth rode 
 away towards Sunburst. Mrs. Falchion, Justine, and 
 myself travelled slowly up the hillside, talking chiefly 
 upon the events of the morning. Mrs. Falchion appeared 
 to admire greatly the stalwart character of Mr. Devlin ; 
 in a few swift, complimentary words disposed of Ruth ; 
 and then made many inquiries concerning Roscoe's work, 
 my own position, and the length of my stay in the moun- 
 tains ; and talked upon many trivial matters, never once 
 
MRS. FALCHION. I93 
 
 referring — as it seemed to me, purposely — to our past 
 experiences on the Fulvia, nor making any inquiry con- 
 cerning any one except Belle Treherne. 
 
 She showed no surprise when I told her that I expected 
 to marry Miss Treherne. She congratulated me with 
 apparent frankness, and asked for Miss Treherne's ad- 
 dress, saying she would write to her. As soon as she 
 had left Roscoe's presence she had dropped all enigmat- 
 ical words and phrases, and, during this hour I was with 
 her, was the tactful, accomplished woman of the world, 
 with the one present object : to make her conversation 
 agreeable, and to keep things on the surface. Justine 
 Caron scarcely spoke during the whole of our walk, 
 although I addressed myself to her frequently. But I 
 could see that she watched Mrs. Falchion's face curi- 
 ously ; and I believe that at this time her instinct was 
 keener by far to read what was in Mrs. Falchion's mind 
 than my own, though I knew far more of the hidden 
 chain of events connecting Mrs. Falchion's life and Gait 
 Roscoe's. 
 
 I parted from them at the door of the hotel, made my 
 way down to Roscoe's house at the ravine, and busied 
 myself for the greater part cf the day in writing letters 
 and reading on the coping. About sunset I called 
 for Mrs. Falchion and found her and Justine Caron 
 ready and waiting. There was nothing eventful in our 
 talk as we came down the mountain-side towards Viking 
 — Justine Caron's presence precluded that. It was dusk 
 when we reached the valley. As yet the mills were all 
 dark. The only lights visible were in the low houses 
 lining the banks of the river. Against the mountain-side 
 there seemed to hang one bunch of flame like a star, 
 large, red and weird. It was a torch burning in front of 
 Phil Boldrick's hut. We made our way slowly to the 
 mill, and found Mr. Devlin, Ruth, and Roscoe, with 
 Ruth's sister and one or two other friends, expecting us. 
 
194 MRS - FALCHION. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Devlin heartily, " I've kept the show 
 waiting for you ; the house is all dark, but I guess you'll 
 see a transformation scene pretty quick. Come out," he 
 continued, "and let's get the front seats. They're all 
 stalls here ; nobody has a box except Boldrick, and it's 
 up in the flies." 
 
 " Mr. Devlin," said Mrs. Falchion, " I purpose to see 
 this show not only from the stalls, but from the box in 
 the flies. Therefore, during the first act, I shall be here 
 in front of the foot-lights During the second act I shall 
 be aloft like Tom Bowling " 
 
 " In other words — " began Mr. Devlin 
 
 " In other words," added Mrs. Falchion, "I am going 
 to see this valley and hear your great horn blow, from 
 up there ! " She pointed towards the star in front of 
 Phil's hut. 
 
 " All right," said Mr. Devlin, " but you'll excuse me if 
 I say that I don't particularly want anybody to see this 
 performance from where Tom Bowling bides." 
 
 We left the office and went out upon the platform, a 
 little distance from the mill. Mr. Devlin gave a signal, 
 touched a wire, and immediately it seemed as if the 
 whole valley was alight. The mill itself was in a blaze 
 of white. It was transfigured — a fairy palace, just as 
 the mud barges in the Suez Canal had been transformed 
 by the search-light of the Fulvia. For the moment, in 
 the wonder of change from darkness to light, the valley 
 became the picture of a dream. Every man was at his 
 post in the mill, and in an instant work was going on as 
 we had seen it in the morning. Then, all at once, there 
 came a great roar, as it were from the very heart of the 
 mill, — a deep diapason, dug out of the throat of the hills : 
 the big whistle. 
 
 " It sounds mournful — like a great animal in pain," 
 said Mrs. Falchion. " You might have got one more 
 cheerful." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 195 
 
 " Wait till it gets tuned up," said Mr. Devlin. " It 
 hasn't had a chance to get the burs out of its throat. 
 It'll be very fine as soon as the engine-man knows how 
 to manage it. " 
 
 " Yes," said Ruth, interposing, " a little toning down 
 would do it good — it is shaking the windows in your 
 office ; feel this platform tremble ! " 
 
 " Well, I bargained for a big whistle and I've got it : 
 and I guess they'll know if ever there's a fire in this 
 town ! " 
 
 Just as he said this Roscoe gave a cry, and pointed. 
 We all turned and saw a sight that made Ruth Devlin 
 cover her face with her hands and Mrs. Falchion stand 
 horror-stricken. There, coming down the cable with 
 the speed of lightning was the cage. In it was a man — 
 Phil Boldrick. With a cry and a smothered oath Mr. 
 Devlin sprang toward the machinery, Roscoe with him. 
 There was nobody near it, but they saw a boy whose 
 duty it was that night to manage the cable, running 
 towards it. Roscoe was the first to reach the lever : but 
 it was too late. He partially stopped the cage, but only 
 partially. It came with a dull, sickening thud to the 
 ground, and Phil Boldrick — Phil Boldrick's broken bat- 
 tered body — was thrown out. 
 
 A few minutes later Boldrick was lying in Mr. Dev- 
 lin's office. 
 
 Ill luck for Viking in the hour of her success. Phil's 
 shattered hulk is drifting. The masts have gone by the 
 board, the pilot from the captain's side. Only the man's 
 " unconquerable soul " is on the bridge, watching the 
 craft dip at the bow, till the waters, their sport out, 
 should hugely swallow it. 
 
 We were all gathered round. Phil had asked to see 
 the lad who, by neglecting the machinery for a moment, 
 had wrecked his life. " Youngster," he said, " you 
 played an ugly game. It was a big mistake. I haven't 
 
196 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 any grudge agen you, but be glad I ain't one that'd 
 haunt you for your cussed foolishness. . . . There, 
 now, I feel better : that's off my mind ! " 
 
 " If you're yearning to show remorse or anything," he 
 continued, " there's my friend Roscoe, The Padre — he's 
 all right, you understand ! . . . Are you there ? 
 . . . Why don't you speak ? " He stretched out his 
 hand. The lad took it, but he could not speak : he held 
 it and sobbed. 
 
 Then Phil understood. His brow wrinkled with a 
 sudden trouble. He said : " There, never mind. I'm 
 dying, but it isn't what I expected. It doesn't smart 
 nor tear much ; not more than river-rheumatism. P'r'aps 
 I wouldn't mind it at all if I could see." 
 
 For, Phil was entirely blind now. The accident had 
 destroyed his remaining eye. Being blind, he had al- 
 ready passed that first corridor of death — darkness. 
 
 Roscoe stooped over him, took his hand, and spoke 
 quietly to him. Phil knew the voice, and said with a 
 faint smile : " Do you think they'd plant me with 
 mumaj>a.\ honors ? — honors to pardners ? " 
 
 " We'll see to that, Phil/' said Mr. Devlin from behind 
 the clergyman. 
 
 Phil recognized the voice. " You think that nobody'll 
 kick at making it official ? " 
 
 " Not one, Phil." 
 
 " And maybe they wouldn't mind nrin' a volley — Lights 
 out, as it were : and blow the big whistle ? It'd look 
 sociable, wouldn't it?" 
 
 "There'll be a volley and the whistle, Phil,— if you 
 have to go," said Mr. Devlin. 
 
 There was a silence, then the reply came musingly : " I 
 guess I hev to go. . . . I'd hev liked to see the cor- 
 poration runnin' longer, but maybe I can trust the boys." 
 
 A river-driver at the door said in a deep voice : " By 
 — ! yes, you can trust us. " 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 197 
 
 " Thank you kindly. . . . If it doesn't make any 
 difference to the rest I'd like to be alone with The Padre 
 for a little — not for religion, you understand, — for I go 
 as I stayed, and I hev my views, — but for private busi- 
 ness." 
 
 Slowly, awkwardly the few river-drivers passed out — . 
 Devlin and Mrs. Falchion and Ruth and I with them 
 — for I could do nothing now for him — he was broken 
 all to pieces. Roscoe told me afterwards what happened 
 then. 
 
 " Padre," he said to Roscoe, "are we alone ?" 
 
 "Quite alone, Phil." 
 
 "Well, I hevn't any crime to tell, and the business ain't 
 
 weighty ; but I have a pal at Danger Mountain " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " Yes, Phil ? " 
 
 " He's low down in s'ciety ; but he's square, and we've 
 had the same blanket for many a day together. I crossed 
 him first on the Panama level. I was broke — stoney 
 broke. He'd been shipwrecked, and was ditto. He'd 
 been in the South Seas ; I in Nicaragua. We travelled 
 up through Mexico and Arizona, and then through Cali- 
 fornia to the Canadian Rockies. At last we camped at 
 Danger Mountain, a Hudson's Bay fort, and stayed there. 
 It was a roughish spot, but we didn't mind that. Every 
 place isn't Viking. One night we had a difference — not 
 a quarrel, mind you, but a difference. He was for 
 lynchin' a fellow called Piccadilly, a swell that'd come 
 down in the world, bringin' the worst tricks of his tribe 
 with him. He'd never been a bony fidy gentleman, just 
 an imitation. He played sneak with the daughter of 
 Five Fingers, an Injin chief. We'd set store by that 
 girl. There wasn't one of us rough nuts but respected 
 her. She was one of the few beautiful Injin women I've 
 seen. Well, it come out that Piccadilly had ruined her, 
 and one morning she was found dead. It drove my pal 
 
198 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 well nigh crazy. Not that she was anything partik'ler to 
 him ; but the thing took hold of him unusual." 
 
 Now that I know all concerning Roscoe's past life, I 
 can imagine that this recital must have been swords at 
 his heart. The whole occurrence is put down minutely 
 in his diary, but there is no word of comment upon it. 
 
 Phil had been obliged to stop for pain, and, after 
 Roscoe had adjusted the bandages, he continued: 
 
 " My pal and the others made up their minds they'd 
 lynch Piccadilly ; they wouldn't give him the benefit of 
 the doubt — for it wasn't certain that the girl hadn't killed 
 herself. . . . Well, I went to Piccadilly, and give 
 him the benefit. He left, and skipped the rope. Not, 
 p'r'aps, that he ought to hev got away, but once he'd 
 showed me a letter from his mother, — he was drunk too 
 at the time, — and I remembered when my brother Rodney 
 was killed in the Black Hills, and how my mother took 
 it ; so I give him the tip to travel quick." 
 
 He paused and rested. Then presently continued : 
 
 " Now, Padre, I've got four hundred dollars, — the 
 most I ever had at one time in my life. And I'd like it 
 to go to my old pal — though we had that difference, and 
 parted. I guess we respect each other about the same 
 as we ever did. And I wish you'd write it down so that 
 the thing would be municipal." 
 
 Roscoe took pencil and paper and said : " What's his 
 name, Phil ? " 
 
 "Sam — Tonga Sam." 
 
 " But that isn't all his name ?" 
 
 " No, I s'pose not, but it's all he ever had in general 
 use. He'd got it because he'd been to the Tonga Islands 
 and used to yarn about them. Put ' Tonga Sam, Phil 
 Boldrick's Pal at Danger Mountain, ult,' — add the 'ult,' 
 it's correct. — That'll find him. And write him these 
 words, and if you ever see him say them to him : — ' Phil 
 Boldrick never had a pal that crowded Tonga Sam.' " 
 
MRS. FALCHION. T99 
 
 When the document was written, Roscoe read it aloud, 
 then both signed it, Roscoe guiding the battered hand 
 over the paper. 
 
 This done, there was a moment's pause, and then Phil 
 said : " I'd like to be in the open. I was born in the 
 open— on the Saskatchewan. Take me out, Padre." 
 
 Roscoe stepped to the door, and silently beckoned to 
 Devlin and myself. We carried him out, and put him 
 beside a pine tree. 
 
 " Where am I now ? " he said. 
 
 " Under the white pine, Phil." 
 
 " That's right. Face me to the north." 
 
 We did so. Minutes passed in silence. Only the 
 song of the saw was heard, and the welting of the river. 
 
 " Padre," he said at last hurriedly, "lift me up, so's I 
 can breathe." 
 
 This was done. 
 
 " Am I facin' the big mill ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 11 That's c'rrect. And the 'lectric light is burnin' in 
 the mill and in the town, an' the saws are all goin' ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " By gracious, yes— you can hear 'em ! Don't they 
 scrunch the stuff though ! " He laughed a little. " Mr. 
 Devlin an' you and me hev been pretty smart, hevn't 
 we ? " 
 
 Then a spasm caught him, and after a painful pause 
 he called : " It's the biggest thing in cables. — Stand 
 close in the cage. . . . Feel her swing — safe, you 
 bet, if he stands by the lever ! . . ." 
 
 His face lighted with the last gleam of living, and he 
 said slowly : " I hev a pal — at Danger Mountain." 
 
200 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IN THE TROUGH OF THE WINDS. 
 
 The three days following the events recorded in the 
 preceding chapter were notable to us all. Because my 
 own affairs and experiences are of the least account, I 
 shall record them first : they will at least throw a little 
 light on the history of people who appeared previously 
 in this tale and disappeared suddenly when the Fulvia 
 reached London, to make room for others. 
 
 The day after Phil Boldrick's death I received a letter 
 from Hungerford, and also one from Belle Treherne. 
 Hungerford had left the Occidental Company's service, 
 and had been fortunate enough to get the position of first 
 officer on a line of steamers running between England and 
 the West Indies. The letter was brusque, incisive, and 
 forceful, and declared that, once he got his foot firmly 
 planted in his new position, he would get married and 
 be done with it. He said that Clovelly, the novelist, had 
 given a little dinner at his chambers in Piccadilly, and 
 that the guests were all our fellow-passengers by the 
 Fulvia; among them Colonel Ryder, the bookmaker, 
 Blackburn the Queenslander, and himself. 
 
 This is extracted from the letter : — 
 
 " . . . . Clovelly was in rare form. — Don't run away with the 
 idea that he's eating his heart out because you came in just ahead in 
 the race for Miss Treherne. For my part — but, never mind ! — You 
 had phenomenal luck, and you'll be a phenomenal fool if you don't 
 arrange for an early marriage. You're a perfect baby in some things. 
 Don't you know that the time a woman most yearns for a man is 
 when she has refused him? And Clovelly is here on the ground, and 
 they're in the same set, and though I'd take my oath she would be 
 loyal to you if you were ten thousand miles from here for ten years, 
 so far as a promise is concerned, yet, remember that a promise and a 
 fancy are two different things. We may do what's right for the fear 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 201 
 
 o' God, and not love Him either. Marmion, let the marriage bells 
 be rung early — a maiden's heart is a ticklish thing. . . . 
 
 " But Clovelly was in rare form, as I said ; and the bookmaker, 
 who had for the first time read a novel of his, amiably quoted from 
 it, and criticised it during the dinner, till the place reeked with 
 laughter. At first every one stared aghast ('stared aghast ! ' — how is 
 that for literary form?) but when Clovelly gurgled, and then haw- 
 hawed till he couldn't lift his champagne, the rest of us followed in a 
 double-quick. And the bookmaker simply sat calm and earnest 
 with his eye-glass in his eye, and never did more than gently smile. 
 ' See here,' he said ever so candidly of Clovelly's best character, a 
 serious inscrutable kind of a man, the dignified figure in the book ; ' I 
 liked the way you drew that muff. He was such an awful outsider, 
 wasn't he ? All talk, and hypocrite down to his heels. And when 
 you married him to that lady who nibbled her food in public and 
 gorged in the back-pantry, and went "slumming" and made 
 shoulder-strings for the parson— oh, I know the kind ! '—[This was 
 Clovelly's heroine whom he had tried to draw, as he said himself, 
 "with a perfect sincerity and a lovely worldly-mindedness, and as 
 'a good fellow altogether'."] 'I said, that's poetic justice, that's 
 the refinement of retribution. Any other yarn-spinner would have 
 killed the male idiot by murder or a drop from a precipice, or a linger- 
 ing fever ; but Clovelly did the thing with delicate torture. He 
 said "go to blazes," and he fixed up that marriage— and there you 
 are ! Clovelly, I drink to you ; you're a master !' 
 
 " Clovelly acknowledged beautifully, and brought off a fine thing 
 about the bookmaker having pocketed ^5,000 at the Derby, then 
 complimented Colonel Ryder on his success as a lecturer in London 
 (pretty true, by the way) and congratulated Blackburn on his coming 
 marriage with Mrs. Callendar, the Tasmanian widow. What he said 
 of myself I'm not going to repeat ; but it was salaaming all round, 
 with the liquor good and fun bang over the bulwarks. 
 
 " How is Roscoe ? I didn't see as much of him as you did, but I 
 liked him. Take my tip for it, that woman will make trouble for 
 him some day. She is the biggest puzzle I ever met. I never could 
 tell whether she liked him or hated him ; but it seems to me that 
 either would be the ruin of any ' Christom man.' I know she saw 
 something of him while she was in London, because her quarters 
 were next to those of my aunt, the dowager (whose heart the gods 
 soften at my wedding!) in Queen Anne's Mansions S. W., and 
 who actually liked Mrs. F., called on her, and asked her to dinner, 
 and Roscoe too whom she met at her place. I believe my aunt 
 
202 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 would have used her influence to get him a good living, if he had 
 played his cards properly ; but I expect he wouldn't be patronized, 
 and he went for a ' mickonaree,' as they say in the South Seas . . . 
 Well, I'm off to the Spicy Isles, then back again to marry a wife ! 
 ' Go thou and do likewise.' 
 
 " By the way, have you ever heard of or seen Boyd Madras since 
 he slipped our cable at Aden and gave the world another chance ? 
 I trust he will spoil her wedding — if she ever tries to have one. 
 ' May I be there to see ! ' " 
 
 Because we shall see nothing more of Hungerford till 
 we finally dismiss the drama, I should like to say that 
 this voyage of his to the West Indies made his fortune — 
 that is, it gave him command of one of the finest ships 
 in the English merchant service. In a storm a disaster 
 occurred to his vessel, his captain was washed overboard, 
 and he was obliged to take command. His skill, forti- 
 tude, and great manliness, under tragical circumstances, 
 sent his name booming round the world ; and, coupled, 
 as it was, with a singular act of personal valor, he had his 
 pick of all vacancies and possible vacancies in the mer- 
 chant service, boy (or little more) as he was. I am glad 
 to say that he is now a happy husband and father too. 
 
 The letter from Belle Treherne mentioned having met 
 Clovelly several times of late, and, with Hungerford's 
 words hot in his mind, I determined, though I had per- 
 fect confidence in her, as in myself, to be married at 
 Christmas-time. Her account of the courtship of Black- 
 burn and Mrs. Callendar was as amusing as her descrip- 
 tion of an evening which the bookmaker had spent with 
 her father, when he said he was going to marry an actress 
 whom he had seen at Drury Lane Theatre in a racing 
 drama. This he subsequently did, and she ran him a 
 break-neck race for many a day, but never making him 
 unhappy or less resourceful. His verdict, and his only 
 verdict, upon Mrs. Falchion had been confided to 
 Blackburn, who in turn confided it to Clovelly, who 
 passed it on to me. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 203 
 
 He said : " A woman is like a horse. Make her 
 beautiful, give her a high temper and a bit of bad 
 luck in her youth, and she'll take her revenge out of 
 life ; even though she runs straight, and wins straight 
 every time ; till she breaks her heart one day over a lost 
 race. After that she is good to live with forever. A 
 heart-break for that kind is their salvation : without it 
 they go on breaking the hearts of others." 
 
 As I read Belle's and Hungerford's letters my thoughts 
 went back again — as they did so often indeed — to the 
 voyage of the Fulvia, and to Mrs. Falchion's presence 
 here in the Rocky Mountains. There was a strange 
 destiny in it all, and I had no pleasant anticipations 
 about the end ; for, even if she could or did do Roscoe 
 no harm, so far as his position was concerned, I saw that 
 she had already begun to make trouble between him and 
 Ruth. 
 
 That day which saw poor Boldrick's death put her in 
 a conflicting light to me. Now I thought I saw her in 
 her unusual gentleness, again an unusual irony, an almost 
 flippant and cruel worldiiness; and though at the time 
 she was most touched by the accident, I think her feel- 
 ing of horror at it made her appear to speak in a way 
 which showed her unpleasantly to Mr. Devlin and his 
 daughter. It may be however that Ruth Devlin saw 
 further into her character than I guessed, and under- 
 stood the strange contradictions of her nature. But I 
 shall, I suppose, never know absolutely about that ; nor 
 does it matter much now. 
 
 The day succeeding Phil's death was Sunday, and the 
 little church at Viking was full. Many fishers had come 
 over from Sunburst. It was evident that people expected 
 Roscoe to make some reference to Phil's death in his ser- 
 mon, or, at least, have a part of the service appropriate. 
 By a singular chance the first morning lesson was David's 
 lamentation for Saul and Jonathan. Roscoe had a fine 
 
204 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 voice. He read easily, naturally— like a cultivated lay- 
 man, not like a clergyman ; like a man who wished to 
 convey the simple meaning of what he read, reverently, 
 honestly. On the many occasions when I heard him read 
 the service, I noticed that he never changed the opening 
 sentence, though there were, of course, others from which 
 to choose. He drew the people to their feet always with 
 these words, spoken as it were directly to them, — 
 
 " When the wicked man turneth away from the wicked- 
 ness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful 
 and right, he shall save his soul alive!' 
 
 I noticed this morning that he instantly attracted the 
 attention of everyone, and held it, with the first words 
 of the lesson : 
 
 " The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how 
 are the mighty fallen ! ' ' 
 
 It seemed to me as if the people at first almost tried 
 to stop breathing, so intense was the feeling. Mrs. Fal- 
 chion was sitting very near me, and though she had worn 
 her veil up at first, as I uncharitably put it then, to dis- 
 concert him, she drew it rather quickly down as his 
 reading proceeded ; but, so far as I could see, she never 
 took her eyes off his face through the whole service ; 
 and, impelled in spite of myself, I watched her closely. 
 Though Ruth Devlin was sitting not far from her, she 
 scarcely looked that way. 
 
 Evidently the text of the sermon was not chosen that 
 it might have some association with Phil's death, but 
 there was a kind of simple grandeur, and certainly cheer- 
 ful stalwartness, in his interpretation and practical ren- 
 dering of the text : 
 
 " Who is this that cometh from Edom, with dyed gar- 
 ments from Bozra, travelling in the greatness of his strength ? 
 I am he that speak in righteousness, mighty to save." 
 
 A man was talking to men sensibly, directly, quietly. 
 It was impossible 10 resist the wholesome eloquence of 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 205 
 
 his temperament ; he was a revelation of humanity : what 
 he said had life. 
 
 I said to myself, as I had before, Is it possible that 
 this man ever did anything unmanly ? 
 
 After the service James Devlin — with Ruth — came 
 to Roscoe and myself, and asked us to lunch at his 
 house. Roscoe hesitated, but I knew it was better for 
 him not to walk up the hills and back again immedi- 
 ately after luncheon ; so I accepted for us both ; and 
 Ruth gave me a grateful look. Roscoe seemed almost 
 anxious not to be alone with Ruth, — not from any cow- 
 ardly feeling, but because he was perplexed by the old 
 sense of coming catastrophe which, indeed, poor chap, 
 he was not wild in feeling. He and Mr. Devlin talked 
 of Phil's funeral and the arrangements that had been 
 made, and during the general conversation Ruth and I 
 dropped behind. 
 
 Quite abruptly she said to me : " Who is Mrs. Fal- 
 chion ? " 
 
 " A widow — it is said — rich, unencumbered," I as 
 abruptly answered. 
 
 " But I suppose even widows may have pedigrees, and 
 be conjugated in the past tense," was the cool reply. 
 She drew herself up a little proudly. 
 
 I was greatly astonished. Here was a girl living 
 most of her life in these mountains, having only had a 
 few years of social life in the East, practising with con- 
 siderable skill those arts of conversation so much culti- 
 vated in metropolitan drawing-rooms. But I was a very 
 dull fellow then, and had yet to learn that women may 
 develop in a day to wonderful things. 
 
 u Well," I said in reply, " I suppose not. But I fear I 
 cannot answer regarding the pedigree, nor a great deal 
 about the past, for I only met her a little over a year 
 ago." 
 
 "And yet I have imagined that you knew her pretty 
 
206 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 well, and that Mr. Roscoe knew her even better — per- 
 haps," she said suggestively. 
 
 " That is so," I tried to say with apparent frankness, 
 " for she lived in the South Seas with her father, and 
 Roscoe knew her there." 
 
 " She is a strange woman, and quite heartless in some 
 ways ; and yet, do you know, I like her while I dislike 
 her ; and I can't tell why." 
 
 " Don't try to tell," I answered, "for she has the gift 
 of making people do both. — I think she likes and dislikes 
 herself — as well as others." 
 
 "As well — as others,—" she replied slowly. " Yes, I 
 think I have noticed that. You see," she added, " I 
 don't look at people as most girls of my age : and 
 perhaps I am no better for that. But Mrs. Falchion's 
 introduction to me occurred in such peculiar circum- 
 stances, and the coincidence of your knowing her was so 
 strange, that my interest is not unnatural, I suppose." 
 
 "On the contrary," I said, "I am only surprised that 
 you have restrained your curiosity so much and so long. 
 It was all very strange ; though the meeting was quite 
 to be expected, as Mrs. Falchion herself explained that 
 day. She had determined on coming over to the Pacific 
 Coast ; this place was in her way ; it is a fashionable 
 resort ; and she stood a good chance of finding old 
 friends." 
 
 "Yes— of finding— old friends," was the abstracted 
 reply. " I like Miss Caron her companion very much 
 better than — most women I have met." 
 
 This was not what she was going to say, but she 
 checked herself, lest she might be suspected of thinking 
 uncharitably of Mrs. Falchion. I, of course, agreed with 
 her, and told her the story of Gait Roscoe and Hector 
 Caron, and of Justine's earnestness regarding her fan- 
 cied debt to Roscoe. 
 
 I saw that the poison of anxiety had entered the girl's 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 2Q7 
 
 mind ; and it might, perhaps, bear fruit of no engaging 
 quality. In her own home, however, it was a picture to 
 see her with her younger sisters and brothers, and invalid 
 mother. She went about very brightly and sweetly 
 among them, speaking to them as if she was mother to 
 them all, angel of them all, domestic court for them all ; 
 as indeed she was. Here there seemed no disturbing 
 element in her ; a close observer might even have said 
 (and in this case I fancy I was that) that she had no mind 
 or heart for anything or anybody but these few of her 
 blood and race. Hers was a fine nature — high, whole- 
 some, unselfish. Yet it struck me sadly also, to see how 
 the child-like in her, and her young spirit, had been so 
 early set to the task of defence and protection : a mother 
 at whose breasts a child had never hung ; maternal, but 
 without the relieving joys of maternity. 
 
 I know that she would carry through her life that too 
 watchful, too anxious tenderness ; that to her last day, 
 she would look back and not remember that she had a 
 childhood once ; because, while yet a child she had been 
 made into a woman. 
 
 Such of the daughters of men make life beautiful ; but 
 themselves are selfish who do not see the almost intol- 
 erable pathos of unselfishness and sacrifice. At the 
 moment I was bitter with the thought that, if Mrs. Fal- 
 chion determined anything which could steal away this 
 girl's happiness from her, even for a time, I should 
 myself seek for some keen revenge — which was, as may 
 appear, in my power. But I could not go to Mrs. Fal- 
 chion now and say, — " You intend some harm to these 
 two : for God's sake go away and don't trouble them ! " 
 I had no real ground for making such a request. Be- 
 sides, if there were any catastrophe, any trouble, com- 
 ing, or possible, that might hasten it, or, at least, give it 
 point. 
 
 I could only wait. I had laid another plan, and from 
 
205 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 a telegram I had received in answer to one I had sent, I 
 believed it was working. I did not despair. I had, in- 
 deed, sent a cable to my agent in England, which was to 
 be forwarded to the address given me by Boyd Madras 
 at Aden. I had got a reply saying that Boyd Madras had 
 sailed for Canada by the Allan Line of steamers. I had 
 then telegraphed to a lawyer I knew in Montreal, and 
 he had replied that he was on the track of the wanderer. 
 All Viking and Sunburst turned out to Phil Boldrick's 
 funeral. Everything was done that he had requested. 
 The great whistle roared painfully, revolvers and guns 
 were fired over his grave, and the new-formed corpora- 
 tion appeared. He was buried on the top of a foot hill, 
 which, to this day, is known as Boldrick's Own. The 
 grave was covered by an immense flat stone bearing his 
 name. But a flag-staff was erected near, — no stouter one 
 stands on Beachy Head or elsewhere, — and on it was 
 engraved : — 
 
 Phil Boldrick, buried with Municipal Honors 
 
 on the Thirtieth day of June, 18S4. 
 
 This, to his Memory, and for the pride of 
 
 Viking and Sunburst. 
 
 " Padre," said a river-driver to Gait Roscoe after the 
 rites were finished, " that was a man you could trust." 
 
 " Padre," added another, " that was a man you could 
 bank on, and draw your interest reg'lar. He never done 
 a mean thing and he never pal-ed with a mean man. He 
 wasn't for getting his teeth on edge like some in the 
 valley. He didn't always side with the majority, and he 
 had a gift of doin' things on the square." 
 
 Others spoke in similar fashion, and then Viking went 
 back to work, and we to our mountain cottage. 
 
 Many days passed quietly. I saw that Gait Roscoe 
 wished to speak to me on the subject perplexing him, 
 but I did not help him. I knew that it would come in 
 £ood time, and the farther off it was the better. I 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 209 
 
 dreaded to hear what he had to tell, lest, in spite of my 
 confidence in him, it should really be a thing, which, 
 if made public, must bring ruin. During the even- 
 ings of these days he wrote much in his diary — the very 
 book that lies by me now. Writing seemed a relief 
 to him, for he was more cheerful afterwards. I know 
 that he had received letters from the summer hotel, but 
 whether they were from Mrs. Falchion or Justine Caron 
 I was not then aware, though I afterwards came to know 
 that one of them was from Justine, asking him if she 
 might call on him. He guessed that the request was con- 
 nected with Hector Caron's death ; and, of course, gave 
 his consent. During this time he did not visit Ruth 
 Devlin, nor did he mention her name. As for myself, I 
 was sick of the whole business, and wished it well over, 
 whatever the result. 
 
 1 make here a few extracts from Roscoe's diary, to 
 show the state of his mind at this period : — 
 
 " Can a man never get away from the consequences of his wicked- 
 ness, even though he repents ? . . . Restitution is necessary as 
 well as repentance. — But when one cannot make restitution, when it 
 is impossible ! — What then ? I suppose one has to reply, Well, you 
 have to suffer, that is all. . . . Poor Alo ! To think that after 
 all these years, you can strike me ! 
 
 " There is something malicious in the way Mercy Falchion crosses 
 my path. What she knows, she knows ; — and what she can do if 
 she chooses, I must endure. — I cannot love Mercy Falchion again, 
 and that, I suppose, is the last thing she would wish now. I cannot 
 bring Alo back. But how does that concern her? Why does she 
 hate me so ? For, underneath her kindest words, — and they are kind 
 sometimes, — I can detect the note of enmity, of calculating scorn. 
 . . . I wish I could go to Ruth and tell her all, and ask her to 
 decide if she can take a man with such a past. . . . What a thing 
 it is to have had a clean record of unflinching manliness at one's 
 back ! " 
 
 I add another extract : 
 
 " Phil's story of Danger Mountain struck like ice at my heart. 
 There was a horrible irony in the thing : that it should be told to 
 
2IO MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 me, of all the world, and at such a time ! Some would say, I sup- 
 pose, that it was the arrangement of Providence. Not to speak it 
 profanely, it seems to be the achievement of the devil. The torture 
 was too malicious for God. . . . 
 
 " Phil's letter has gone to his pal at Danger Mountain. . . ." 
 
 The fourth day after the funeral Justine Caron came to 
 see Gait Roscoe. This was the substance of their con- 
 versation, as I came to know long afterwards. 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, " I have come to pay something 
 of a debt which I owe to you. It is a long time since you 
 gave my poor Hector burial, but I have never forgotten, 
 and I have brought you at last — you must not shake your 
 head so— the money you spent. . . . But you must 
 take it. I should be miserable if you did not. The 
 money is all that I can repay ; the kindness is for mem- 
 ory and gratitude always." 
 
 He looked at her wonderingly, earnestly, she seemed 
 so unworldly, standing there, her life's ambition not stir- 
 ring beyond duty to her dead. If goodness makes beauty, 
 she was beautiful ; and yet, besides all that, she had a 
 warm absorbing eye, a soft rounded cheek, and she carried 
 in her face the light of a cheerful, engaging spirit. 
 
 " Will it make you happier if I take the money ? " he 
 said at last, and his voice showed how she had moved 
 him. 
 
 " So much happier ! " she answered, and she put a roll 
 of notes into his hand. 
 
 " Then I will take it," he replied, with a manner not 
 too serious, and he looked at the notes carefully ; " but 
 only what I actually spent, remember ; what I told you 
 when you wrote me at Hector's death ; not this ample 
 interest. You forget, Miss Caron, that your brother was 
 my friend." 
 
 " No, I cannot forget that. It lives with me," she 
 rejoined softly. But she took back the surplus notes. 
 " And I have my gratitude left still," she added smiling. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 2 11 
 
 " Believe me there is no occasion for gratitude. Why, 
 what less could one do ? " 
 
 " One could pass by on the other side." 
 
 " He was not fallen among thieves," was his reply, " he 
 was among Englishmen, the old allies of the French." 
 
 " But the Priests and the Levites, people of his own 
 country — Frenchmen — passed him by. They were in- 
 famous in falsehood, cruel to him and to me. — You are 
 an Englishman ; you have heart and kindness." 
 
 He hesitated, then he gravely said : " Don't trust Eng- 
 lishmen more than you trust your own countrymen. We 
 are selfish even in our friendships often. We stick to one 
 person, and to benefit that one we sacrifice others. Have 
 you found all Englishmen — and women unselfish ? " He 
 looked at her steadily ; but immediately repented that 
 he had asked the question, for he had in his mind one 
 whom they both knew, too well, perhaps ; and he added 
 quickly, — " You see, I am not kind." 
 
 They were standing now in the sunlight just outside 
 the house. His hands were thrust down in the pockets 
 of his linen coat ; her hands opening and shutting her 
 parasol slightly. They might, from their appearance, 
 have been talking of very inconsequent things. 
 
 Her eyes lifted sorrowfully to his. "Ah, monsieur," 
 she rejoined, " there are two times, when one must fear a 
 woman." She answered his question more directly than 
 he could have conjectured. But she felt that she must 
 warn him. 
 
 " I do not understand," he said. 
 
 " Of course you do not. Only women themselves un- 
 derstand that the two times when one must fear a woman 
 are when she hates, and when she loves — after a kind. 
 When she gets wicked or mad enough to hate, either 
 through jealousy or because she can't love where she 
 would, she is merciless. She does not know the honor 
 of the game. She has no pity. Then, sometimes when 
 
212 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 she loves in a way, she is, as you say, horribly selfish. I 
 mean a love which is — not possible. Then she does some 
 mad act — all women are a little mad sometimes ; — most of 
 us wish to be good, but we are quicksilver. . . ." 
 
 Roscoe's mind had been working fast. He saw she 
 meant to warn him against Mrs. Falchion. His face 
 flushed slightly. He knew that Justine had thought 
 well of him, and now he knew also that she suspected 
 something not creditable or, at least, hazardous in his 
 life. 
 
 " And the man — the man whom the woman hates ? " 
 
 " When the woman hates — and loves too, the man is in 
 danger." 
 
 " Do you know of such a man ? " he almost shrink- 
 ingly said. 
 
 " If I did I would say to him, The world is wide. 
 There is no glory in fighting a woman who won't be 
 fair in battle. She will say what may appear to be true, 
 but what she knows in her own heart to be false — false 
 and bad." 
 
 Roscoe now saw that Justine had more than an ink- 
 ling of his story. 
 
 He said calmly : " You would advise that man to flee 
 from danger ? " 
 
 "Yes, to flee," she replied hurriedly, with a strange 
 anxiety in her eyes; "for sometimes a woman is not 
 satisfied with words that kill. She becomes less than 
 human, and is like Jael." 
 
 Justine knew that Mrs. Falchion held a sword over 
 Roscoe's career ; she guessed that Mrs. Falchion both 
 cared for him and hated him too ; but she did not know 
 the true reason of the hatred, — that only came out after- 
 wards. Woman-like she exaggerated in order that she 
 might move him ; but her motive was good, and what 
 she said was not out of keeping with the facts of life. 
 
 " The man's life even mi^ht be in danger ? " he asked. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 213 
 
 "It might." 
 
 " But surely that is not so dreadful," he still said 
 calmly. " Death is not the worst of evils." 
 
 " No, not the worst ; one has to think of the evil word 
 as well. The evil word can be outlived ; but the man 
 must think of those who really love him, — who would 
 die to save him, — and whose hearts would break if he 
 were killed. Love can outlive slander, but it is bitter 
 when it has to outlive both slander and death. It is 
 easy to love with joy so long as both live, though there 
 are worlds between. Thoughts fly and meet ; but Death 
 makes the grand division. ... Love can only live 
 in the pleasant world." 
 
 Very abstractedly he said : " Is it a pleasant world to 
 you ? " 
 
 She did not reply directly to that, but answered : 
 " Monsieur, if you know of such a man as I speak of, 
 warn him to fly." And she raised her eyes from the 
 ground and looked earnestly at him. Now her face was 
 slightly flushed, she looked almost beautiful. 
 
 " I know of such a man," he replied, " but he will not 
 go. He has to answer to his own soul and his con- 
 science. He is not without fear, but it is only fear for 
 those who care for him, be they ever so few. And he 
 hopes that they will be brave enough to face his misery, 
 if it must come. For we know that courage has its hour 
 of comfort. . . . When such a man as you speak of 
 has his dark hour, he will stand firm." 
 
 Then with a great impulse he added : " This man 
 whom I know, did wrong, but he was falsely accused of 
 doing a still greater. The consequence of the first thing 
 followed him. He could never make restitution. Years 
 went by. Someone knew that dark spot in his life— his 
 Nemesis." 
 
 " The worst Nemesis in this life, monsieur, is always 
 a woman," she interrupted. 
 
214 MRS - FALCHION. 
 
 " Perhaps she is the surest," he continued. " The 
 
 woman faced him in the hour of his peace and " he 
 
 paused. His voice was husky. 
 
 " Yes, 'and,' monsieur ? " 
 
 " And he knows that she would ruin him, and kill his 
 heart and destroy his life." 
 
 " The waters of Marah are bitter," she murmured, and 
 she turned her face away from him to the woods. There 
 was no trouble there. The birds were singing, black- 
 squirrels were jumping from bough to bough, and they 
 could hear the tapping of the woodpecker. She slowly 
 drew on her gloves, as if for occupation. 
 
 He spoke at length as though thinking out loud : 
 "But he knows that, whatever comes, life has had for 
 him more compensations than he deserves. For, in his 
 trouble, a woman came, and said kind words, and would 
 have helped him if she could." 
 
 " There were two women," she said solemnly. 
 
 " Two women ? " he repeated slowly. 
 
 " The one stayed in her home and prayed, and the 
 other came." 
 
 " I do not understand," he said : and he spoke truly. 
 
 " Love is always praying for its own, therefore one 
 woman prayed at home. The other woman who came 
 was full of gratitude, for the man was noble, she owed 
 him a great debt, and she believed in him always. She 
 knew that if at any time in his life he had done wrong, 
 the sin was without malice or evil." 
 
 " The woman is gentle and pitiful with him, God 
 knows." 
 
 She spoke quietly now, and her gravity looked strange 
 in one so young. 
 
 "God knows she is just, and would see him justly 
 treated. She is so far beneath him ! and yet one can 
 serve a friend though one is humble and poor. " 
 
 " How strange," he rejoined, " that a man should 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 215 
 
 think himself miserable, who is befriended in such a way ! 
 . . . Justine Caron, he will carry to his grave the 
 kindness of this woman." 
 
 " Monsieur," she added humbly, yet with a brave light 
 in her eyes, "it is good to care whether the wind blows 
 bitter or kind. Every true woman is a mother, though 
 she have no child. She longs to protect the suffering, 
 because to protect is in her so far as God is. . . . 
 Well, this woman cares that way. . . ." She held 
 out her hand to say good-by. Her look was simple, 
 direct, and kind. Their parting words were few and 
 unremarkable. 
 
 Roscoe watched Justine Caron as she passed out into 
 the shade of the woods, and he said to himself, — " Grati- 
 tude like that is a wonderful thing." He should have 
 said something else, but he did not know, and she did 
 not wish him to know : and he never knew. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A DUEL IN ARCADY. 
 
 The more I thought of Mrs. Falchion's attitude towards 
 Roscoe, the more I was puzzled. But I had at last 
 reduced the position to this : — Years ago Roscoe had 
 cared for her and she had not cared for him. Angered 
 or indignant by her treatment of him, Roscoe's affections 
 declined unworthily elsewhere. Then came a catastrophe 
 of some kind, in which Alo, (whoever she might be,) suf- 
 fered. The secret of this catastrophe Mrs. Falchion, as 
 I believed, held. There was a parting, a lapse of years, 
 and then the meeting on the Fulvia : with it partial 
 restoration of Mrs. Falchion's influence, then its decline, 
 and then a complete change of position. It was now 
 Mrs. Falchion that cared and Roscoe that shunned. It 
 
2l6 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 perplexed me that there seemed to be behind Mrs. Fal- 
 chion's present regard for Roscoe, some weird expression 
 of vengeance, as though somehow she had been wronged, 
 and it was her duty to punish. In no other way was the 
 position definable. That Roscoe would never marry her 
 was certain to my mind. That he could not marry her 
 now, was also certain — to me ; — I had the means to pre- 
 vent it. That she wished to marry him I was not sure, 
 though she undoubtedly cared for him. Remained, there- 
 fore, the supposition that if he cared for her she would do 
 him no harm, as to his position. But if he married Ruth, 
 disaster would come — Roscoe himself acknowledged that 
 she held the key of his fortunes. 
 
 Upon an impulse and as a last resort, I had taken action 
 whereby in some critical moment I might be able to wield 
 a power over Mrs. Falchion. I was playing a blind game, 
 but it was the only card I held. I had heard from the 
 lawyer in Montreal that Madras under another name had 
 gone to the prairie country to enter the mounted police. I 
 had then telegraphed to Winnepeg, but had got no answer. 
 
 I had seen her many times, but we had never, except 
 very remotely, touched upon the matter which was upper- 
 most in both our minds. It was not my way to force a 
 situation. I knew that my opportunity would come 
 wherein to spy upon the mind of the enemy. It came. 
 On the evening that Justine Caron called upon Roscoe I 
 accidentally met Mrs. Falchion in the grounds of the 
 hotel. She was with several people, and as I spoke to" 
 her she made a little gesture of invitation. I went over, 
 was introduced to her companions, and then she said : 
 
 " Dr. Marmion, I have not yet made that visit to the 
 salmon fisheries at Sunburst. Unfortunately on the days 
 when I called on Miss Devlin my time was limited. But 
 now I have a thirst for adventure, and time hangs heavy. 
 Will you perform your old office of escort and join a party 
 which we can make up here to go to-morrow ? " 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 217 
 
 I had little love for Mrs. Falchion, but I consented, 
 because it seemed to me the chance had come for an 
 effective talk with her, and suggested that we should go 
 late in the afternoon of the next day, and remain till night 
 and see the Indians, the half-breeds, and white fishermen 
 working by torch-light on the river. The proposition 
 was accepted with delight. 
 
 Then the conversation turned upon the feud that 
 existed between Viking and Sunburst, the river-drivers 
 and the fishers. During the last few days, owing to the 
 fact that there were a great many idle rivermen about, the 
 river-driving for the season being done, there had been 
 more than one quarrel of a serious nature at Sunburst. 
 It had needed a great deal of watchfulness on the part 
 of Mr. Devlin and his supporters to prevent fighting. In 
 Sunburst itself, Mr. Devlin had much personal influence. 
 He was a man of exceedingly strong character, bold, 
 powerful, persuasive. But this year there had been a 
 large number of rough adventurous characters among 
 the rivermen, and they seemed to take delight in making 
 sport of, and even interfering with, the salmon-fishers. 
 We talked of these things for some time, and then I took 
 my leave. As I went, Mrs. Falchion stepped after me, 
 tapped me on the arm, and said in a slow indolent tone : 
 
 "Whenever you and I meet, Dr. Marmion, something 
 happens — something strange. What particular catas- 
 trophe have you arranged for to-morrow ? For you are, 
 you know, the chorus to the drama." 
 
 " Don't spoil the play," I said, " by anticipation." 
 
 " One gets pretty weary of tragedy," she retorted. 
 " Comedy would be a relief. Couldn't you manage it ? " 
 
 " I don't know about to-morrow," I said, " as to a 
 comedy. But I promise you that one of these days I'll 
 present to you the very finest comedy imaginable." 
 
 " You speak oracularly," she said, " still, you are a 
 professor, and professors always pose. But now, to be 
 
2l8 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 perfectly frank with you, I do not believe that any com- 
 edy you could arrange would be as effective as your 
 own." 
 
 " You have read Much Ado About Nothing" I said. 
 
 11 Oh, it's as good as that, is it ? " she asked. 
 
 "Well, it has just as good a final situation," I an- 
 swered. She seemed puzzled, for she saw I spoke with 
 some under-current of meaning. "Mrs. Falchion," I 
 said to her suddenly and earnestly : " I wish you to 
 think between now and to-morrow of what I am just 
 going to say to you." 
 
 " It sounds like the task set an undergraduate, but go 
 on," she said. 
 
 "I wish you to think," said I, "of the fact that I 
 helped to save your life." 
 
 She flushed ; an indignant look shot up in her face and 
 she said, her voice vibrating : 
 
 " What man would have done less ! " Then almost 
 immediately after, as though repenting of what she had 
 said, she continued in a lower tone and with a kind of 
 impulsiveness uncommon to her,— "But you had cour- 
 age, and I appreciate that ; still, do not ask too much. 
 Good-night." 
 
 We parted at that, and did not meet again until the 
 next afternoon when I joined her and her party at the 
 summer hotel. Together we journeyed down to Sunburst. 
 
 It was the height of the salmon fishing season. Sun- 
 burst lay cloyed among the products of field and forest 
 and stream. At Viking one got the impression of a 
 strong pioneer life, vibrant, eager, and with a touch of 
 Arcady. But viewed from a distance Sunburst seemed 
 Arcady itself. It was built in green pastures, which 
 stretched back on one side of the river smooth, luscious, 
 undulating to the foot-hills. This was on one side the 
 Whi-Whi River. On the other side was a narrow mar- 
 gin, and then a sheer wall of hills in exquisite verdure. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 2IQ 
 
 The houses were of wood and chiefly painted white, 
 sweet and cool in the vast greenness. Cattle wandered 
 shoulders deep in the rich grass, and fruit of all kinds 
 was to be had for the picking. The population was 
 strangely mixed. Men had drifted here from all parts 
 of the world, sometimes with their families, sometimes 
 without them. Many of them had settled here after 
 mining at the Caribou field and other places on the 
 Frazer River. Mexican, Portuguese, Canadian, Califor- 
 nian, Australian, Chinaman, and Coolie lived here, side 
 by side, at ease in the quiet land, following a primitive 
 occupation with primitive methods. 
 
 One could pick out the Indian section of the village, 
 because not far from it was the Indian graveyard, with 
 its scaffolding of poles and brush and its offerings for 
 the dead. There were almost interminable rows of 
 scaffolding on the river's edge, and upon the high bank 
 where hung the salmon drying in the sun. The river as 
 it ambled along, here over shallows, there over rapids 
 and tiny water-falls, was the pathway for millions and 
 millions of salmon upon a pilgrimage to the West 
 and North — to the happy hunting grounds of spawn. 
 They came in droves so thick at times that, crowding up 
 the little creeks which ran into the river, they filled them 
 so completely as to dam up the water and make the 
 courses a solid mass of living and dead fish. In the river 
 itself they climbed the rapids and leaped the tiny water- 
 falls with incredible certainty ; except where man had 
 prepared his traps for them. Sometimes these traps 
 were weirs or by-washes, made of long lateral tanks of 
 wicker-work. Down among the boulders near the shore, 
 scaffoldings were raised, and from these the fishermen 
 with nets and wicker-work baskets caught the fish as 
 they came up. 
 
 We wandered about during the afternoon immensely 
 interested in all that we saw. During that time the 
 
220 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 party was much together, and my conversation with Mrs. 
 Falchion was general. We had supper at a quiet little 
 tavern, idled away an hour in drinking in the pleasant 
 scene ; and when dusk came went out again to the banks 
 of the river. 
 
 From the time we left the tavern to wander by the 
 river I managed to be a good deal alone with Mrs. 
 Falchion. I do not know whether she saw that I was 
 anxious to speak with her privately, but I fancy she 
 did. Whatever we had to say must, in the circum- 
 stances, however serious, be kept superficially unim- 
 portant. And, as it happened, our serious conference 
 was carried on with an air of easy gossip, combined with 
 a not artificial interest in all we saw. And there was 
 much to see. Far up and down the river the fragrant 
 dusk was spotted with the smoky red light of torches, 
 and the atmosphere shook with shadows, through which 
 ran the song of the river, more amiable than the song of 
 the saw, and the low weird cry of the Indians and white 
 men as they toiled for salmon in the glare of the torches. 
 Here upon a scaffolding a half dozen swung their nets 
 and baskets in the swift river, hauling up with their 
 very long poles thirty or forty splendid fish in an hour ; 
 there at a little water-fall in great baskets sunk into the 
 water a couple of Indians caught and killed the salmon 
 that in trying to leap the fall plumped into the wicker- 
 cage ; beyond, others, more idle and less enterprising, 
 speared the finny travellers, thus five hundred miles from 
 home — the brave Pacific. 
 
 Upon the banks the cleaning and curing went on, the 
 women and children assisting, and as the Indians and 
 halfbreeds worked they sang either the wild Indian melo- 
 dies, snatches of brave old songs of the voyageurs of a 
 past century, or hymns taught by the Jesuit missionaries 
 in the persons of such noble men as Pere Lacombe and 
 Pere Durie.u, who have wandered up and down the vast 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 221 
 
 plains of both sides of the Rockies telling an old story 
 in a picturesque heroic way. These old hymns were 
 written in Chinook, that strange language,— French, 
 English, Spanish, Indian,— arranged by the Hudson's 
 Bay Company, which is, like the wampum-belt, a com- 
 mon tongue for tribes and peoples not speaking any 
 language but their own. They were set to old airs — 
 lullabies, chansons, barcarolles, serenades, taken out of 
 the folk lore of many lands. Time and again had these 
 simple arcadian airs been sung as a prelude to some tribal 
 act that would not bear the search light of civilization- 
 little by the Indians east of the Rockies, for they have 
 hard hearts and fierce tongues, but much by the Shuswaps, 
 Siwashes, and other tribes of the Pacific slope, whose 
 natures are for peace more than for war ; who, one an- 
 tique day, drifted across from Japan or the Corea, and 
 never, even in their wild nomadic state, forgot their skill 
 and craft in wood and gold and silver. 
 
 We sat on the shore and watched the scene for a time 
 saying nothing. Now and again, as from scaffolding to 
 scaffolding, from boat to boat, and from house to house, 
 the Chinook song ran and was caught up in a slow mono- 
 tone, so not interfering with the toil, there came the sound 
 of an Indian drum beaten indolently, or the rattle of dry 
 hard sticks, — a fantastic accompaniment. 
 
 " Does it remind you of the South Seas ? " I said to 
 Mrs. Falchion, as, with her chin on her hand, she watched 
 the scene. 
 
 She drew herself up, almost with an effort, as though 
 she had been lost in thought, and looked at me curi- 
 ously for a moment. She seemed trying to call back 
 her mind to consider my question. Presently she an- 
 swered me : " Very little. There is something finer, 
 stronger here. The atmosphere has more nerve, the life 
 more life. This is not a land for the idle or vicious, 
 pleasant as it is." 
 
222 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " What a thinker you are, Mrs. Falchion ! " 
 
 She seemed to recollect herself suddenly. Her voice 
 took on an inflection of satire. " You say it with the air 
 of a discoverer. With Columbus and Hervey and you, 
 the world-—" She stopped, laughing softly at the 
 thrust, and moved the dust about with her foot. 
 
 " In spite of the sarcasm I am going to add that I feel 
 a personal satisfaction in your being a woman who does 
 think, and acts more on thought than impulse." 
 
 " ' Personal satisfaction ' sounds very royal and august. 
 It is long, I imagine, since you took a — personal satisfac- 
 tion — in me." 
 
 I was not to be daunted. " People who think a good 
 deal and live a fresh out-door life — you do that— natu- 
 rally act most fairly and wisely in time of difficulty — and 
 contretemps." 
 
 " But I had the impression that you thought I acted 
 unfairly and unwisely— at such times ! " 
 
 We had come exactly where I wanted. In our minds 
 we were both looking at those miserable scenes on the 
 Fulvia, when Madras sought to adjust the accounts of 
 life and sorely muddled them. 
 
 " But," said I, "you are not the same woman that you 
 were." 
 
 " Indeed, Sir Oracle ! " she answered : " and by what 
 necromancy do you know ? " 
 
 " By none. I think you are sorry now— I hope you 
 are — for what ■ -" 
 
 She interrupted me indignantly. "You go too far. 
 You are almost— insolent. You said once that the 
 matter should be buried, and yet here you work for an 
 opportunity, Heaven knows why, to place me at a dis- 
 advantage ! " 
 
 " Pardon me," I answered ; " I said that I would never 
 bring up those wretched scenes unless there was cause. 
 There is cause." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 223 
 
 She got to her feet. " What cause — what possible 
 cause can there be ? " 
 
 I met her eye firmly. " I am bound to stand by my 
 friend," I said. "And I can and will stand by him." 
 
 " If it is a game of drawn swords, look out ! " she 
 retorted. " You speak to me as if I were a common 
 adventuress. You mistake me and forget that you — of 
 all men — have little margin of high morality on which 
 to speculate." 
 
 " No, I do not forget that," I said, " nor do I think of 
 you as an adventuress. But I am sure you hold a power 
 over my friend, and " 
 
 She stopped me. " Not one more word on the sub- 
 ject. You are mad to suppose this and that. Be wise : 
 do not irritate and annoy a woman like me. It were 
 better to please me than to preach to me." 
 
 " Mrs. Falchion," I said firmly, " I wish to please you, 
 — so well that some day you will feel that I have been a 
 good friend to you as well as to him " 
 
 Again she interrupted me. " You talk in foolish rid- 
 dles. No good can come of this." 
 
 " I can't believe that," I urged, "for when once your 
 heart is moved by the love of a man, you will be just, 
 and then the memory of another man who loved you and 
 sinned for you " 
 
 " Oh, you coward ! '" she broke out scornfully : " you 
 coward to persist in this ! " 
 
 I made a little motion of apology with my hand, and 
 was silent. I was satisfied. I felt that I had touched 
 her as no words of mine had ever touched her before. 
 If she became emotional, was vulnerable in her feelings, 
 I knew that Roscoe's peace might be assured. That 
 she loved Roscoe now I was quite certain. Through 
 the mists I could see a way, even if I failed to find 
 Madras and arrange another surprising situation. She 
 was breathing hard with excitement. 
 
224 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 Presently she said with incredible quietness : " Do not 
 force me to do hard things. I have a secret." 
 
 " I have a secret too," I answered. " Let us compro- 
 mise." 
 
 " I do not fear your secret," she answered. She 
 thought I was referring to her husband's death. 
 
 " Well," I replied, " I honestly hope you never will. 
 That would be a good day for you." 
 
 " Let us go," she said ; then, presently : " No, let us 
 sit here and forget that we have been talking." 
 
 I was satisfied. We sat down. She watched the scene 
 silently and I watched her. I felt that it would be my 
 lot to see stranger things happen to her than I had 
 seen before : but all in a different fashion. I had more 
 hope for my friend, for Ruth Devlin, for ! 
 
 I then became silent even to myself. The weltering 
 river, the fishers and their labor and their songs, the tall 
 dark hills, the deep gloomy pastures, the flaring lights, 
 were then in a dream before me : but I was thinking, 
 planning. 
 
 As we sat there, we heard noises not very harmonious 
 interrupting the song of the salmon-fishers. We got up 
 to see. A score of river-drivers were marching down 
 through the village, mocking the fishers and making wild 
 mirth. The Indians took little notice, but the half- 
 breeds and white fishers were restless. 
 
 " There will be trouble here one day," said Mrs. Fal- 
 chion. 
 
 " A free fight which will clear the air," I said. 
 
 " I would like to see it — it would be picturesque at 
 least," she added cheerfully : " for I suppose no lives 
 would be lost." 
 
 "One cannot tell," I answered; "lives don't count so 
 much in new lands." 
 
 "Killing is hateful, but I like to see courage." 
 
 And she did see it. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 225 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 RIDING THE REEFS. 
 
 The next afternoon Roscoe was sitting on the coping 
 deep in thought, when Ruth rode up with her father, 
 dismounted, and came upon him so quietly that he did 
 not hear her. I was standing in the trees a little distance 
 away. 
 
 She spoke to him once, but he did not seem to hear. 
 She touched his arm. He got to his feet. 
 
 " You were so engaged that you did not hear me," 
 she said. 
 
 " The noise of the rapids ! " he answered after a 
 strange pause, "and your footstep is very light." 
 
 She leaned her chin on her hand, rested against the 
 rail of the coping, looked meditatively into the torrent 
 below, and replied : " Is it so light ? " Then, after a 
 pause, " You have not asked me how I came, who came 
 with me, nor why I am here." 
 
 " It was first necessary for me to conceive the delight- 
 ful fact that you are here," he said in a dazed, and, 
 therefore, not convincing tone. 
 
 She looked him full in the eyes. " Please do not pay 
 me the ill compliment of a compliment," she said. " Was 
 it the sailor who spoke then or the — or yourself ? It is 
 not like you, I fancy." 
 
 " I did not mean it as a compliment," he replied. " I 
 was thinking about critical and important things." 
 
 " < Critical and important ' sounds large," she returned. 
 
 "And the awakening was sudden," he continued. 
 " You must make allowance, please, for " 
 
 " For the brusque appearance of a very unimaginative, 
 substantial and undreamlike person ? I do. And now, 
 since you will not put me quite at my ease by assuming, 
 
226 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 in words, that I have been properly ' chaperoned ' here, 
 I must inform you that my father waits hard by — is, as 
 my riotous young brother says, ' without on the mat.' ' 
 
 " I am very glad," he replied with more politeness 
 than exactness. 
 
 " That I was duly escorted, or that my father is ' with- 
 out on the mat?' . . . However, you do not appear 
 glad one way or the other. And now I must explain our 
 business. It is to ask your company at dinner (do con- 
 sider yourself honored — actually a formal dinner party 
 in the Rockies !) to meet the lieutenant governor, who 
 is coming to see our famous Viking and Sunburst. . . . 
 But you are expected to go out where ' my father feeds 
 his ' — there, see, — his horse on your ' trim parterre.' And 
 now that I have done my duty as page and messenger 
 without a word of assistance, Mr. Roscoe, will you go 
 and encourage my father to hope that you will be vis-a-vis 
 to his excellency ? " She lightly beat the air with her 
 whip, while I took a good look at the charming scene. 
 
 Roscoe looked seriously at the girl for an instant. He 
 understood too well the source of such gay social banter. 
 He knew it covered a hurt. He said to her : " Is this 
 Ruth Devlin or another ? " 
 
 And she replied very gravely : " It is Ruth Devlin and 
 another too," and she looked down to the chasm beneath 
 with an enigmatical smile ; but her eyes were troubled. 
 
 He left her and went and spoke to her father whom I 
 had joined, but, after a moment, returned to Ruth. 
 
 Ruth turned slightly to meet him as he came. " And 
 is the prestige of the house of Devlin to be supported ? " 
 she said ; " and the governor to be entertained with tales 
 of flood and field ?" 
 
 His face had now settled into a peculiar calmness. 
 He said with a touch of mock irony : " The sailor shall 
 play his part — the obedient retainer of the house of 
 Devlin." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 227 
 
 " Oh," she said, " you are malicious now ! You turn 
 your long accomplished satire on a woman." And she 
 nodded to the hills opposite, as if to tell them that it was 
 as they had said to her : those grand old hills with which 
 she had lived since childhood, to whom she had told all 
 that had ever happened to her. 
 
 " No, indeed no," he replied, " though I am properly 
 rebuked. I fear I am malicious, — just a little, — but it is 
 all inner-self-malice : ' Rome turned upon itself." 
 
 " But one cannot always tell when irony is intended 
 for the speaker of it. Yours did not seem applied to your- 
 self," was her slow answer, and she seemed more inter- 
 ested in Mount Trinity than in him. 
 
 " No ? " Then he said with a playful sadness, " A 
 moment ago you were not completely innocent of irony, 
 were you ?" 
 
 " But a man is big and broad, and should not — he 
 should be magnanimous, leaving it to woman, whose life 
 is spent among little things, to be guilty of littlenesses. 
 But see how daring I am — speaking like this to you who 
 know so much more than I do. . . . Surely, you are 
 still only humorous, when you speak of irony turned 
 upon yourself — the irony so icy to your friends ? " 
 
 She had developed greatly. Her mind had been sharp- 
 ened by pain. The edge of her wit had become poign- 
 ant, her speech rendered logical and allusive. Roscoe 
 was wise enough to understand that the change in her 
 had been achieved by the change in himself ; that, since 
 Mrs. Falchion came, Ruth had awakened sharply to a 
 distress not exactly definable. She felt that, though he 
 had never spoken of love to her, she had a right to share 
 his troubles. The infrequency of his visits to her of 
 late, and something in his manner, made her uneasy and 
 a little bitter. For there was an understanding between 
 them, though it had been unspoken and unwritten. They 
 had vowed without priest or witness. The heart speaks 
 
228 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 eloquently in symbols first, and afterwards in stumbling 
 words. 
 
 It seemed to Roscoe at this moment, as it had seemed 
 for some time, that the words would never be spoken. 
 And was this all that had troubled her — the belief that 
 Mrs. Falchion had some claim upon his life ? Or had 
 she knowledge, got in some strange way, of that wretched 
 shadow in his past ? 
 
 This possibility filled him with bitterness. The old 
 Adam in him awoke, and he said within himself — " God 
 in Heaven, must one folly, one sin, kill me and her too ! 
 Why me more than another ? . . . . And I love her, I 
 love her ! " 
 
 His eyes flamed until their blue looked all black, and 
 his brows grew straight over them sharply, making his 
 face almost stern. . . . There came swift visions of 
 renouncing his present life ; of going with her— any- 
 where : to tell her all, beg her forgiveness, and begin 
 life over again, admitting that this attempt at expia- 
 tion was a mistake ; to have his conscience clear of 
 secret, and trust her kindness. For now he was sure 
 that Mrs. Falchion meant to make his position as a 
 clergyman impossible ; to revenge herself on him for no 
 wrong that, so far as he knew, he ever did directly to 
 her. 
 
 But to tell this girl, or even her father or mother, that 
 he had been married, after a shameful unsanctified fashion, 
 to a savage, with what came after, and the awful thing 
 that happened — he who ministered at the altar! Now 
 that he looked the thing in the face it shocked him. No, 
 he could not do it. 
 
 She said to him while he looked at her as though he 
 would read her through and through, though his mind 
 was occupied with a dreadful possibility beyond her, — 
 " Why do you look so ? You are stern. You are criti- 
 cal. Have I — disimproved so ? " 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 229 
 
 The words were full of a sudden and natural womanly 
 fear, that something in herself had fallen in value. They 
 had a pathos so much the more moving because she 
 sought to hide it. 
 
 There swam before his eyes the picture of happiness 
 from which she herself had roused him when she came. 
 He involuntarily, passionately, caught her hand and 
 pressed it to his lips twice ; but spoke nothing. 
 
 " Oh ! Oh! "she said; — "please!" Her voice was low 
 and broken, and she spoke appealingly. Could he not 
 see that he was breaking her heart, while filling it also 
 with unbearable joy ? Why did he not speak and make 
 this possible, and not leave it a thing to flush her cheeks, 
 and cause her to feel he had acted on a knowledge he 
 had no right to possess till he had declared himself in 
 speech ? Could he not have spared her that ?— This 
 Christian gentleman whose worth had compassed these 
 mountains and won the dwellers among them ? — it was 
 bitter. Her pride and injured heart rose up and choked 
 her. 
 
 He let go her hand. Now his face was partly turned 
 from her, and she saw how thin and pale it was. She 
 saw, too, what I had seen during the past week, that 
 his hair had become almost white about the temples ; 
 and the moveless sadness of his position struck her with 
 unnatural force, so that, in spite of herself, tears came 
 suddenly to her eyes, and a slight moan broke from her. 
 She would have run away : but it was too late. 
 
 He saw the tears, the look of pity, indignation, pride, 
 and love in her face. 
 
 " My love ! " he cried passionately, and he opened his 
 arms to her. 
 
 But she stood still. He came very close to her, spoke 
 quickly, and almost despairingly : " Ruth, I love you, 
 and I have wronged you : but here is your place, if you 
 will come." 
 
230 
 
 MRS. FALCHION, 
 
 At first she seemed stunned, and her face was turned 
 to her mountains, as though the echo of his words were 
 coming back to her from them, but the thing crept into 
 her heart and flooded it. She seemed to wake, and 
 then all her affection carried her into his arms, and she 
 dried her eyes upon his breast. 
 
 After a time he whispered : " My dear, I have wronged 
 you. I should not have made you care for me." 
 
 She did not seem to notice that he spoke of wrong. 
 She said : " I was yours, Gait, even from the beginning, 
 1 think, though I did not quite know it. I remember 
 what you read in church the first Sunday you came, and 
 it has always helped me ; for I wanted to be good." 
 
 She paused and raised her eyes to his, and then with 
 sweet solemnity she said : " The words were : 
 
 < The Lord God is my strength, and he will make my feet 
 like hinds feet, and he will make me to walk upon mine 
 high places' " 
 
 " Ruth," he answered, "you have always walked on 
 the high places. You have never failed. And you 
 are as safe as the nest of the eagle, a noble work of 
 God." 
 
 " No, I'm not noble ; but I should like to be so. Most 
 women like goodness. It is instinct with us, I suppose. 
 We had rather be good than evil, and when we love we 
 can do good things ; but we quiver like the compass- 
 needle between two poles. Oh, believe me ! we are 
 weak ; but we are loving." 
 
 " Your worst, Ruth, is as much higher than my best as 
 the heaven is " 
 
 " O Gait, you hurt my fingers ! " she interrupted. 
 He had not noticed the almost fierce strength of his 
 clasp. But his life was desperately hungry for her. 
 
 " Forgive me, dear.— As I said, better than my best ; 
 for, Ruth, my life was— wicked, long ago. You cannot 
 understand how wicked ! " 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 231 
 
 " You are a clergyman and a good man," she said with 
 pathetic negation. 
 
 " You give me a heart unsoiled, unspotted of the 
 world. I have been in some ways worse than the worst 
 men in the valley there below." 
 
 " Gait, Gait," she said, " you shock me ! " 
 
 " Why did I speak ? Why did I kiss your hand as I 
 did ? Because at the moment it was the only honest 
 thing to do ; because it was due you that I should 
 say, — ' Ruth, I love you, love you so much ' " — here she 
 nestled close to him — " ' so well, that everything else in 
 life is as nothing beside it, — nothing ! so well that I could 
 not let you share my wretchedness.' " 
 
 She ran her hand along his breast and looked up at 
 him with swimming eyes. 
 
 " And you think, Gait, that this is fair to me ? that 
 a woman gives the heart for pleasant weather only? 
 I do not know what your sorrow may be, but it is my 
 right to share it. I am only a woman ; but a woman 
 can be strong for those she loves. Remember that I 
 have always had to care for others — always ; and I can 
 bear much. I will not ask what your trouble is, I only 
 ask you " — here she spoke slowly and earnestly, and 
 rested her hand on his shoulder — " to say to me that 
 you love no other woman ; and that — that no other 
 woman has a claim upon you. Then I shall be content 
 to pity you, to help you, to love you. God gives women 
 many pains, but none so great as the love that will not 
 trust utterly ; for trust is our bread of life. Yes, indeed, 
 indeed ! " 
 
 " I dare not say," he said, " that it is your misfortune 
 to love me, for in this you show how noble a woman can 
 be. But I will say that the cup is bitter-sweet for you. 
 . . . I cannot tell you now what my trouble is ; but I 
 can say that no other living woman has a claim upon me. 
 . . . My reckoning is with the dead" 
 
232 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " That is with God," she whispered, " and He is just 
 and merciful too. . . . Can it not be repaired 
 here ? " She smoothed back his hair, then let her fin- 
 gers stray lightly on his cheek. 
 
 It hurt him like death to reply : " No, but there can 
 be — punishment here." 
 
 She shuddered slightly. " Punishment, punishment ! " 
 she repeated fearfully, — " what punishment ? " 
 
 " I do not quite know." Lines of pain grew deeper 
 in his face. ..." Ruth, how much can a woman 
 forgive ? " 
 
 "A mother, everything." But she would say no more. 
 
 He looked at her long and earnestly, and said at last : 
 
 " Will you believe in me no matter what happens ? " 
 
 " Always, always." Her smile was most winning. 
 
 '* If things should appear dark against me ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you give me your word." 
 
 " If I said to you that I did a wrong ; that I broke the 
 law of God, though not the laws of man ? " 
 
 There was a pause in which she drew back trembling 
 slightly, and looked at him timidly and then steadily, but 
 immediately put her hands bravely in his and said : " Yes." 
 
 " I did not break the laws of man." 
 
 " It was when you were in the navy ? " she inquired, 
 in an awe-stricken tone. 
 
 "Yes, years ago." 
 
 " I know. I feel it. You must not tell me. It was 
 a woman, and this other woman, this Mrs. Falchion 
 knows, and she would try to ruin you, or — " here she 
 seemed to be moved suddenly by a new thought, — " or 
 have you love her. But she shall not, she shall not — 
 neither ! For I will love you, and God will listen to me, 
 and answer me." 
 
 " Would to God I were worthy of you ! I dare not 
 
 think of where you might be called to follow me, Ruth." 
 
 " Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodg- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 21,$ 
 
 est, I will lodge ; thy people shall be my people, and thy God 
 my God" she rejoined in a low voice. 
 
 " ' Thy God my God ! ' " he repeated after her slowly. 
 
 He suddenly wondered if his God was her God ; 
 whether now in his trouble, he had that comfort which 
 his creed and profession should give him. For the first 
 time he felt acutely that his choice of this new life 
 might have been more a re-action from the past, a desire 
 for expiation, than radical belief that this was the 
 right and only thing for him to do. And when, some 
 time after, he bade Ruth good-by, as she went with 
 her father, it came to him with appalling conviction 
 that his life had been a mistake. The twist of a great 
 wrong in a man's character distorts his vision : and if he 
 has a tender conscience, he magnifies his misdeeds. 
 
 In silence Roscoe and I watched the two ride down 
 the slope. I guessed what had happened : afterwards 
 1 was told all. I was glad of it, though the end was 
 not yet promising. When we turned to go towards the 
 house again, a man lounged out of the trees towards us. 
 He looked at me, then at Roscoe, and said: 
 
 " I'm Phil Boldrick's pal from Danger Mountain." 
 
 Roscoe held out his hand, and the man took it, say- 
 ing : " You're The Padre, I suppose, and Phil was soft 
 on you. Didn't turn religious, did he ? He always had 
 a streak of God A'mighty in him ; a kind of give-away- 
 the-top-of-your-head chap ; friend o' the widow and the 
 orphan, and divvy to his last crust with a' pal. I got 
 your letter, and come over here straight to see that he's 
 been tombed accordin' to his virtues ; to lay out the 
 dollars he left me, on the people he had on his visitin' 
 list ; no loafers, no gophers, not one : but to them that 
 stayed by him I stay, while prog and liquor last." 
 
 I saw Roscoe looking at him in an abstracted way, 
 and, as he did not reply, I said : " Phil had many 
 friends and no enemies." Then I told him the tale of 
 
234 MRS - FALCHION. 
 
 his death and funeral, and how the valley mourned for 
 him. 
 
 While I spoke he stood leaning against a tree, shaking 
 his head and listening, his eyes occasionally resting on 
 Roscoe with a look as abstracted and puzzled as that 
 on Roscoe's face. When I had finished he drew his 
 hand slowly down his beard, and a thick sound came 
 from behind his fingers. But he did not speak. 
 
 Then I suggested quietly that Phil's dollars could be 
 put to a better use than for prog and liquor. 
 
 He did not reply to this at all ; but after a moment's 
 pause, in which he seemed to be studying the gambols of 
 a squirrel in a pine tree, he rubbed his chin nervously, 
 and more in soliloquy than conversation said : " I never 
 had but two pals that was pals through and through. 
 And one was Phil and the other was Jo — Jo Bracken- 
 bury." 
 
 Here Roscoe's hand, which had been picking at the 
 bark of a poplar, twitched suddenly. 
 
 The man continued : " Poor Jo went down in the Fly 
 Away when she swung with her bare ribs flat before the 
 wind, and swamped and tore upon the bloody reefs at 
 Apia. . . . God, how they gnawed her ! And never 
 a rag holdin' nor a stick standin', and her pretty figger 
 broke like a tin whistle in a Corliss engine. — And Jo 
 Brackenbury, the dandiest rip, the noisiest pal that ever 
 said ' Here's how ! ' went out to heaven on a tearing sea." 
 
 " Jo Brackenbury — " Roscoe repeated musingly. His 
 head was turned away from us. 
 
 " Yes, Jo Brackenbury : and Captain Falchion said to 
 me " (I wonder that I did not start then) " when I told 
 him how the Fly Away went down to Davy, and her 
 lovers went aloft, reefed close afore the wind, — 
 ' Then,' says he, ' They've got a damned sound seaman 
 on the Jordan, and so help me ! him that's good enough 
 to row my girl from open sea, gales poundin' and break- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 235 
 
 ers showin' teeth across the bar to Maita Point, is good 
 enough for use where seas is still and reefs ain't fashion- 
 able." 
 
 Roscoe's face looked haggard as it now turned towards 
 us. " If you will meet me," he said to the stranger, " to- 
 morrow morning, in Mr. Devlin's office at Viking, I will 
 hand you over Phil Boldrick's legacy." 
 
 The man made as if he would shake hands with Ros- 
 coe, who appeared not to notice the motion, and then 
 said : " I'll be there. You can bank on that ; and as we 
 used to say down in the Spicy Isles where neither of you 
 have been, I s'pose, Talofal" 
 
 He swung away down the hill-side. 
 
 Roscoe turned to me. " You see, Marmion, all things 
 circle to a centre. The trail seems long, but the fox 
 gets killed an arm's length from his hole." 
 
 " Not always. You take it too seriously," I said. 
 " You are no fox. " 
 
 " That man will be in at the death," he persisted. 
 
 " Nonsense, Roscoe. He does not know you. What 
 has he to do with you ? This is over-wrought nerves. 
 You are killing yourself with worry." 
 
 He was motionless and silent for a minute. Then he 
 said very quietly : " No, I do not think that I really 
 worry now. I have known — " here he laid his hand 
 upon my shoulder and his eyes had a shining look — 
 " what it is to be happy, unspeakably happy, for a 
 moment ; and that stays with me. I am a coward no 
 longer." 
 
 He drew his finger tips slowly across his forehead. 
 Then he contined : " To-morrow I shall be angry with 
 myself, no doubt, for having that moment's joy, but I 
 can't feel so now. I shall probably condemn myself for 
 cruel selfishness ; but I have touched life's highest point 
 this afternoon, Marmion." 
 
 I drew his hand down from my shoulder and pressed 
 
236 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 it. It was cold. He withdrew his eyes from the 
 mountain, and said : " I have had dreams, Marmion, 
 and they are over. I lived in one : to expiate — to wipe 
 out — a past, by spending my life for others. The expia- 
 tion is not enough. I lived in another : to win a woman's 
 love ; and I have, and was caught up by it for a moment, 
 and it was wonderful. But it is over now, quite over. 
 . And now for her sake renunciation must be 
 made, before I have another dream — a long one, 
 Marmion." 
 
 I had forebodings, but I pulled myself together and 
 said firmly : "Roscoe, these are fancies. Stop it, man. 
 You are moody. Come, let us walk, and talk of other 
 things." 
 
 " No, we will not walk," he said, " but let us sit there 
 on the coping, and be quiet — quiet in that roar between 
 the hills." Suddenly he swung round, caught me by the 
 shoulders and held me gently so. 
 
 " I have a pain at my heart, Marmion, as if I'd heard 
 my death sentence ; such as a soldier feels who knows 
 that Death looks out at him from iron eyes. You smile : 
 I suppose you think I am mad." 
 
 I saw that it was best to let him speak his mind. So I 
 answered : " Not mad, my friend. Say on what you like. 
 Tell me all you feel. Only, for God's sake be brave, 
 and don't give up until there's occasion. I'm sure you 
 exaggerate your danger, whatever it is." 
 
 " Listen for a minute," said he ; "I had a brother 
 Edward, as good a lad as ever was ; a boisterous 
 healthy fellow. We had an old nurse in our family who 
 came from Irish hills, faithful and kind to us both. 
 There came a change over Edward. He appeared not 
 to take the same interest in his sports. One day he 
 came to me, looking a bit pale, and said : ' Gait, I think 
 I should like to study for the Church.' I laughed at it, 
 yet it troubled me in a way, for I saw he was not well. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 237 
 
 I told Martha, the nurse. She shook her head sadly, and 
 said : ' Edward is not for the Church, but you, my lad. 
 He is for heaven.' " 
 
 " For heaven, Martha ? " laughed I. 
 
 " ' In truth for heaven,' she replied, ' and that soon. 
 The look of his eye is doom. I've seen it since I swad- 
 dled him, and he will go suddenly.' 
 
 " I was angry, and I said to her, — though she thought 
 she spoke the truth, — ' This is only Irish croaking. We'll 
 have the banshee next.' 
 
 " She got up from her chair and answered me 
 solemnly, — ' Gait Roscoe, I- have heard the banshee 
 wail, and sorrow falls upon your home. And don't you 
 be so hard with me that have loved you, and who suffers 
 for the lad that often and often lay upon my breast. 
 Don't be so hard ; for your day of trouble comes too. 
 You, not he, will be priest at the altar. Death will come 
 to him like a swift and easy sleep ; but you will feel its 
 hand upon your heart and know its hate for many a day, 
 and bear the slow pangs of it until your life is all crushed, 
 and you go from the world alone, Love crying after you 
 and not able to save you, not even the love of woman — 
 weaker than death. . . . And, in my grave, when 
 that day comes beside a big mountain in a strange land, 
 I'll weep and pray for you ; for I was mother to you too, 
 when yours left you alone bewhiles, never, in this world, 
 to come back.' 
 
 " And, Marmion, that night towards morning, as I lay 
 in the same room with Edward I heard his breath stop 
 sharply. I jumped up and drew aside the curtains to 
 let in the light, and then I knew that the old woman 
 spoke true. . . . And now ! . . . Well, I am 
 like Hamlet, — and I can say with him, ' But thou wouldst 
 not think how ill all's here about my heart — but it is no 
 matter ! ' " . . . 
 
 I tried to laugh and talk away his brooding, but there 
 
238 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 was little use, his convictions were so strong. Besides, 
 what can you do with a morbidness which has its origin 
 in painful circumstances ? 
 
 I devoutly wished that a telegram would come from 
 Winnipeg to let me know if Boyd Madras, under his new 
 name, could be found. I was a hunter on a faint trail. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE STRINGS OF DESTINY. 
 
 When Phil's pal left us he went wandering down the 
 hillside, talking to himself. Long afterwards he told me 
 how he felt, and I reproduce his phrases as nearly as I 
 can. 
 
 " Knocked 'em I guess," he said, " with that about Jo 
 Brackenbury. . . . Poor Jo ! Stuck together, him 
 and me did, after she got the steel in her heart." . . . 
 He pulled himself together, shuddering. . . . " Went 
 back on me, she did, and took up with a cursed swell, 
 and got it cold — cold. And I ? By Judas ! I never was 
 shut of that. I've known women, many of 'em, all coun- 
 tries, but she was different! I expect now, after all these 
 years, that if I got my hand on the devil that done for 
 her, I'd rattle his breath in his throat. There's things 
 that clings. She clings, Jo Brackenbury clings, and Phil 
 Boldrick clings ; and they're gone, and I'm left to go it 
 alone. To play the single hand — what ! — by Jiminy ! " 
 
 He exclaimed thus on seeing two women approach 
 from the direction of the valley. He stood still, mouth 
 open, staring. They drew near, almost passed him. 
 But one of them, struck by his intense gaze, suddenly 
 turned and came towards him. 
 
 " Miss Falchion ! Miss Falchion ! " he cried. Then, 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 239 
 
 when she hesitated as if with an effort of memory, he 
 added, — " Don't you know me ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " she replied, abruptly, " Sam Kilby ! Are you 
 Sam Kilby, Jo Brackenbury's friend, from Samoa ? " 
 
 "Yes, Miss, I'm Jo Brackenbury's friend; and I've 
 rowed you across the reefs with him more than once — I 
 guess so ! But it's a long way from Apia to the Rockies, 
 and it's funny to meet here." 
 
 " When did you come here ? and from where ? " 
 
 " I come to-day from the Hudson's Bay post at Danger 
 Mountain. I'm Phil Boldrick's pal." 
 
 " Ah," she said again, with a look in her eyes not 
 pleasant to see, — " and what brings you up here in the 
 hills?" Hers was more than an ordinary curiosity. 
 
 " I come to see The Padre who was with Phil when — 
 he left. And The Padre's a fair square sort as I reckon 
 him, but melancholy, almighty melancholy." 
 
 " Yes, melancholy, I suppose," she said, " and fair 
 square, as you say. And what did you say and do ? " 
 
 lt Why, we yarned about Phil, and where I'd get the 
 legacy to-morrow ; and I s'pose I had a strong breeze 
 on the quarter, for I talked as free as if we'd grubbed 
 out of the same dough-pan since we was kiddies." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Yes siree ; I don't know how it was, but I got to 
 reelin' off about Jo — queer, wasn't it ? And I told 'em 
 how he went down in the Fly Away, and how the lovely 
 ladies — you remember how we used to call the white- 
 caps lovely ladies — fondled him out to sea and on to 
 heaven." 
 
 "And what did— The Padre— think of that ? " 
 
 " Well, he's got a heart, I should say, — and that's why 
 Phil cottoned to him, maybe, — for he looked as if he'd 
 seen ghosts. I guess he'd never had a craft runnin' 
 'tween a sand-bar and a ragged coral bank, nor seen a 
 girl like the Fly Away take a buster in her teeth ; nor a 
 16 
 
24O MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 man-of-war come bundlin' down upon a nasty glacis, the 
 captain on the bridge, engines goin' for all they're worth, 
 every man below battened in, and every Jack above 
 watchin' the fight between the engines and the hurricane. 
 . . . Here she rolls six fathoms from the glacis that'll 
 rip her copper garments off, and the quiverin' engines 
 pull her back ; and she swings and struggles and trem- 
 bles between hell in the hurricane and God A'mighty 
 in the engines ; till at last she gets her nose at the neck 
 of the open sea, and crawls out safe and sound. . . . 
 I guess he'd have more marble in his cheeks, if he saw 
 likes o' that, Miss Falchion ? " 
 
 Kilby paused and wiped his forehead. 
 
 She had listened calmly. She did not answer his ques- 
 tion. She said : " Kilby, I am staying at the summer 
 hotel up there. Will you call on me — let me see . . . 
 say, to-morrow afternoon? — Some one will tell you the 
 way, if you don't know it. . . . Ask for Mrs. Falchion, 
 Kilby, not Miss Falchion. . . . You will come ? " 
 
 "Why, yes," he replied, "you can count on me; 
 for I'd like to hear of things that happened after I left 
 Apia — and how it is that you are Mrs. Falchion, — for 
 that's mighty queer." 
 
 " You shall hear all that and more." She held out her 
 hand to him and smiled. He took it, and she knew that 
 now she was gathering up the strings of destiny. 
 
 They parted. 
 
 The two passed on looking, in their cool elegance, as 
 if life were the most pleasant thing ; as though the very 
 perfume of their garments would preserve them from 
 that plague called trouble. 
 
 " Justine," said Mrs. Falchion, " there is one law greater 
 than all ; the law of coincidence. Perhaps the conven- 
 ience of modern travel assists it, but fate is in it also. 
 Events run in circles. People connected with them travel 
 that wav also. We pass and re-pass each other many 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 241 
 
 times, but on different paths, until we come close and see 
 each other face to face." 
 
 She was speaking almost the very words which Ros- 
 coe had spoken to me. But perhaps there was nothing 
 strange in that. 
 
 "Yes, madame," replied Justine; "it is so, but there 
 is a law greater than coincidence." 
 
 " What, Justine ? " 
 
 " The law of love, which is just and merciful and would 
 give peace instead of trouble." 
 
 Mrs. Falchion looked closely at Justine, and, after a 
 moment, evidently satisfied, said : " What do you know 
 of love ? " 
 
 Justine tried hard for composure, and answered gently : 
 " I loved my brother Hector." 
 
 " And did it make you just and merciful and — an 
 angel ?" 
 
 " Madame, you could answer that better. But it has 
 not made me be at war ; it has made me patient." 
 
 " Your love — for your brother — has made you that ? " 
 Again she looked keenly, but Justine now showed nothing 
 but earnestness. 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 Mrs. Falchion paused for a moment and seemed intent 
 on the beauty of the pine-belted hills, capped by snowy 
 peaks, and wrapped in the most hearty yet delicate color. 
 The red of her parasol threw a warm softness upon her 
 face. She spoke now without looking at Justine. 
 
 " Justine, did you ever love anyone besides your 
 brother ? — I mean another man ? " 
 
 Justine was silent for a moment, and then she said : 
 " Yes, once." She was looking at the hills now, and Mrs. 
 Falchion at her. 
 
 " And you were happy ? " Here Mrs. Falchion ab- 
 stractedly toyed with a piece of lace on Justine's arm 
 Such acts were unusual with her. 
 
242 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 " I was happy — in loving." 
 
 " Why did you not marry ? " 
 
 " Madame, — it was impossible — quite ! " This, with 
 hesitation and the slightest accent of pain. 
 
 " Why, impossible ? You have good looks, you were 
 born a lady ; you have a foolish heart — the fond are 
 foolish." She watched the girl keenly, the hand ceased 
 to toy with the lace, and caught the arm itself, — " Why 
 impossible ? " 
 
 " Madame, he did not love me, he never could." 
 
 " Did he know of your love ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! " This, with trouble in her voice. 
 
 " And you have never forgotten ? " 
 
 The catechism was strangely cruel ; but Mrs. Falchion 
 was not merely merciless. She was inquiring of a thing 
 infinitely important to her. She was searching the heart 
 of another, not only because she was suspicious, but 
 because she wanted to know herself better. 
 
 " It is easy to remember." 
 
 " Is it long since you saw him ? " 
 
 The question almost carried terror with it, for she was 
 not quite sure why Mrs. Falchion questioned her. 
 
 She lifted her eyes slowly, and there was in them 
 anxiety and joy. " It seems," she said, " like years." 
 
 " He loves some one else perhaps." 
 
 " Yes, I think so, madame." 
 
 " Did you hate her ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; I am glad for him." 
 
 Here Mrs. Falchion spoke sharply, almost maliciously. 
 Even through her soft color a hardness appeared. 
 
 " You are glad for him ? You would see another woman 
 in his arms and not be full of anger ? " 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 " Justine, you are a fool." 
 
 " Madame, there is no commandment against being a 
 fool. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 243 
 
 " Oh, you make me angry with your meekness ! " 
 Here Mrs. Falchion caught a twig from a tree by her, 
 snapped it in her fingers, and petulantly threw its pieces 
 to the ground. " Suppose that the man had once loved 
 you, and afterwards loved another, — then again another." 
 
 " Madame, that would be my great misfortune, but it 
 might be no wrong in him." 
 
 '• How not a wrong in him ? " 
 
 " It may have been my fault. There must be love in 
 both — great love, for it to last." 
 
 " And if the woman loved him not at all ? " 
 
 " Where, then, could be the wrong in him ? " 
 
 " And if he went from you," — here her voice grew dry 
 and her words were sharp, — "and took a woman from 
 the depths of— oh, no matter what ! and made her com- 
 mit — crime — and was himself a criminal ? " 
 
 " It is horrible to think of ; but I should ask myself 
 how much I was to blame. . . . What would you 
 ask yourself, madame ? " 
 
 " You have a strain of the angel in you, Justine. You 
 would forgive Judas if he said ' Peccavi.' I have a strain 
 of Satan,— it was born in me. — I would say, You have 
 sinned, now suffer." 
 
 " God give you a softer heart," said Justine with 
 tender boldness and sincerity. 
 
 At this Mrs. Falchion started slightly, and trouble 
 covered her face. She assumed, however, a tone almost 
 brusque, artificially airy and unimportant. 
 
 " There, that will do, thank you. ... We have 
 become serious and incomprehensible. Let us talk of 
 other things. I want to be gay. . . . Amuse me." 
 
 Arrived at the hotel she told Justine that she must not 
 be disturbed till near dinner-time, and withdrew to her 
 sitting-room. There she sat and thought, as she had 
 never done in her life before. She thought upon every- 
 thing that had happened since the day when she met 
 
244 MRS - FALCHION. 
 
 Gait Roscoe on the Fulvia ; of a certain evening in 
 England, before he took orders, when he told her, in 
 retort to some peculiarly cutting remark of hers, that she 
 was the evil genius of his life : that evening when her 
 heart grew hard, as she had once said it should always 
 be to him, and she determined again, after faltering 
 many times, that just such a genius she would be ; of 
 the strange meeting in the rapids at the Devil's Slide, 
 and the irony of it ; and the fact that he had saved her 
 life — on that she paused a while ; of Ruth Devlin — and 
 here she was swayed by conflicting emotions ; of the 
 scene at the mill, and Phil Boldrick's death and funeral ; 
 of the service in the church where she meant to mock him, 
 and, instead, mocked herself ; of the meeting with Tonga 
 Sam ; of all that Justine had said to her : then of the 
 far past in Samoa, with which Gait Roscoe was associated, 
 and of that first vow of vengeance for a thing he had 
 done ; and how she had hesitated to fulfil it year after 
 year till now. 
 
 Passing herself slowly back and forth before her eyes, 
 she saw that she had lived her life almost wholly alone ; 
 that no woman had ever cherished her as a friend, and 
 that on no man's breast had she ever laid her head in 
 trust and love. She had been loved, but it had never 
 brought her satisfaction. From Justine there was de- 
 votion ; but it had, as she thought, been purchased, paid 
 for, like the labor of a ploughboy. And if she saw now 
 in Justine's eyes a look of friendship, a note of personal 
 allegiance, she knew it was because she herself had 
 grown more human. 
 
 Her nature had been stirred. Her natural heart was 
 struggling against her old bitterness towards Gait Ros- 
 coe and her partial hate of Ruth Devlin. Once Roscoe 
 had loved her, and she had not loved him. Then, on a 
 bitter day for him, he did a mad thing. The thing 
 became— though neither of them knew it at the time, 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 245 
 
 and he not yet — a great injury to her, and this had 
 called for the sharp retaliation which she had the power 
 to use. But all had not happened as she expected ; for 
 something called Love had been conceived in her very 
 slowly, and was now being boin, and sent, trembling for 
 its timid life, into the world. 
 
 She closed her eyes with weariness, and pressed her 
 hands to her temples. 
 
 She wondered why she could not be all evil or all 
 good. She had spoken and acted against Ruth Devlin, 
 and yet she pitied her. She had the nettle to sting Ros- 
 coe to death, and yet she halted to use it. She had said 
 to herself that she would wait till the happiest moment of 
 his life, and then do so. Well, his happiest moment had 
 come. Ruth Devlin's heart was all out, all blossomed — 
 beside Mrs. Falchion's like some wild flower with the 
 aloe. . . . Only now she had come to know that 
 she had a heart. Something had chilled her at her 
 birth, and when her mother died, a stranger's kiss closed 
 up all the ways to love, and left her an icicle. She was 
 twenty-eight years old, and yet she had never kissed a 
 face in joy or to give joy. And now when she had come 
 to know herself and understand what others understand 
 when they are little children in their mothers' arms, she 
 had to bow to the spirit that denies. She drew herself 
 up with a quiver of the body. 
 
 " Oh, God ! " she said, " do I hate him or love him ? " 
 
 Her head dropped in her hands. She sat regardless 
 of time, now scarcely stirring, desperately quiet. The 
 door opened softly and Justine entered. " Madame," 
 she said, " pardon me ; I am so sorry, but Miss Devlin 
 has come to see you, and I thought " 
 
 " You thought, Justine, that I would see her." There 
 was unmistakable irony in her voice. " Very well. . . . 
 Show her in here." 
 
 She rose, stretched out her arms as if to free herself 
 
246 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 of a burden, smoothed her hair, composed herself, and 
 waited, the afternoon sun just falling across her burnished 
 shoes, giving her feet of gold. She chanced to look 
 down at them. A strange thought came to her : words 
 that she had heard Roscoe read in church. The thing 
 was almost grotesque in its association. " How beauti- 
 ful upon the mountains are the feet of him who bringeth 
 glad tidings, who publisheth peace. ' ' 
 
 Ruth Devlin entered, saying, " I have come, Mrs. 
 Falchion, to ask you if you will dine with us on next 
 Monday night ? " 
 
 Then she explained the occasion of the dinner-party, 
 and said : "You see, though it is formal I am asking our 
 guests informally;" and she added as neutrally and as 
 lightly as she could, — " Mr. Roscoe and Dr. Marmion 
 have been good enough to say that they will come. Of 
 course a dinner party as it should be is quite impossible 
 to us simple folk, but when a lieutenant governor com- 
 mands, we must do the best we can — with the help of 
 our friends." 
 
 Mrs. Falchion was delighted, she said, and then they 
 talked of trivial matters, Ruth smoothing out the folds of 
 her riding-dress with her whip more earnestly, in pre- 
 occupation, than the act called for. At last she said, in 
 the course of the formal talk, — " You have travelled 
 much ?" 
 
 " Yes, that has been my lot," was the reply ; and she 
 leaned back in the gold-trimmed cane-chair, her feet 
 still in the belt of yellow sunlight. 
 
 " I have often wished that I might travel over the 
 ocean," said Ruth, " but here I remain, — what shall I say ? 
 — a rustic in a bandbox, seeing the world through a pin- 
 hole. — That is the way my father puts it. Except, of 
 course, that I think it very inspiring to live out here 
 among wonderful mountains, which, as Mr. Roscoe says, 
 are the most aristocratic and benevolent of companions/' 
 
MRS. FALCHION, 247 
 
 Some one in the next room was playing the piano idly 
 yet expressively. The notes of // Trovatore kept up a 
 continuous accompaniment to their talk, varying, as if 
 by design, with its meaning and importance, and yet in 
 singular contrast at times to their thoughts and words. 
 It was almost malicious in its monotonous persistence. 
 
 " Travel is not all, believe me, Miss Devlin," was the 
 indolent reply. " Perhaps the simpler life is the happier. 
 The bandbox is not the worst that may come to one — ■ 
 when one is born to it. I am not sure but it is the best. 
 I doubt that when one has had the fever of travel and 
 the world, the bandbox is permanently habitable again." 
 
 Mrs. Falchion was keen ; she had found her oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 On the result of this duel, if Ruth Devlin but knows 
 it, depends her own and another's happiness. It is not 
 improbable, however, that something of this is in her 
 mind. She shifts her chair so that her face may not be 
 so much in the light. But the belt of sunlight is broad- 
 ening from Mrs. Falchion's feet to her dress. 
 
 " You think not ? " Ruth said slowly. 
 
 The reply was not important in tone. Mrs. Falchion 
 had picked up a paper knife and was bending it to and 
 fro between her fingers. 
 
 " I think not. Particularly with a man, who is, we will 
 say, by nature, adventurous and explorative. I think, if, 
 in some mad moment, I determined to write a novel, it 
 should be of such a man. He flies wide and far ; he sees 
 all ; he feeds on novelty ; he passes from experience to 
 experience, — liberal pleasures of mind and sense all the 
 way. Well, he tires of Egypt and its flesh-pots. He has 
 seen as he hurried on, — I hope I am not growing too 
 picturesque ? — too much of women, too many men. He 
 has been unwise, — most men are. Perhaps he has been 
 more than unwise ; he has made a great mistake, a social 
 mistake — or crime — less or more. If it is a small one, 
 
248 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 the remedy is not so difficult. Money, friends, adroitness, 
 absence, long retirement, are enough. If a great one, 
 and he is sensitive, — and sated, — he flies, he seeks 
 seclusion. He is afflicted with remorse. He is open to 
 the convincing pleasures of the simple and unadorned 
 life ; he is satisfied — with simple people. The snuff of 
 the burnt candle of enjoyment he calls regret, repentance. 
 He gives himself the delights of introspection, and wishes 
 he were a child again — yes, indeed it is so, dear Miss 
 Devlin." 
 
 Ruth sat staring at her, her deep eyes glowing. Mrs. 
 Falchion continued : " In short, he finds the bandbox, 
 as you call it, suited to his renunciations. Its simplicities, 
 which he thinks is regeneration, are only new sensations. 
 But— you have often noticed the signification of a 'but,'" 
 she added smiling, tapping her cheek lightly with the 
 ivory knife, — " but the hour arrives when the bandbox 
 becomes a prison, when the simple hours cloy. Then 
 the ordinary incident is merely gauche and expiation a 
 bore. 
 
 " I see by your face that you understand quite what I 
 mean. . . , Well, these things occasionally happen. 
 The great mistake follows the man, and by a greater 
 misery breaks the misery of the bandbox ; or the man 
 himself, hating his captivity, becomes reckless, does some 
 mad thing, and has a miserable end. Or again, some one 
 who holds the key to his mistake comes in from the 
 world he has left, and considers,— considers, you under- 
 stand ! — whether to leave him to work out his servitude, 
 or, mercifully, if he is not altogether blind,— permit him 
 the means of escape to his old world, to the life to which 
 he was born, — away from the bandbox and all therein. 
 I hope I have not tired you — I am sure I 
 have." 
 
 Ruth saw the full meaning of Mrs. Falchion's words. 
 She realized that her happiness, his happiness,— every- 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 249 
 
 thing— was at stake. All Mrs. Falchion's old self was 
 battling with her new self. She had determined to abide 
 by the result of this meeting. She had spoken in a half 
 gay tone, but her words were not everything ; the 
 woman herself was there, speaking in every feature and 
 glance. Ruth had listened with an occasional change of 
 color but also with an outward pride to which she seemed 
 suddenly to have grown. But her heart was sick and 
 miserable. How could it be otherwise, reading as she 
 did, the tale just told her in a kind of allegory, in all its 
 warning, nakedness, and vengeance ? But she detected, 
 too, an occasional painful movement of Mrs. Falchion's 
 lips, a kind of trouble in the face. She noticed it at first 
 vaguely as she listened to the music in the other room ; 
 but at length she interpreted it aright, and she did not 
 despair. She did not then follow her first impulse to 
 show that she saw the real meaning of that speech, and 
 rise and say, " You are insulting," and bid her good-day. 
 
 After all, where was the ground for the charge of 
 insult ? The words had been spoken impersonally. So, 
 after a moment, she said, as she drew a glove from a 
 hand slightly trembling : " And you honestly think it is 
 the case : that one having lived such a life as you 
 describe so unusually, would never be satisfied with a 
 simple life ? " 
 
 " My dear, never ; — not such a man as I describe. I 
 know the world." 
 
 " But suppose not quite such an one ; suppose one 
 that had not been so— intense ; so much the social gladi- 
 ator ; who had business of life as well,"— here the girl 
 grew pale, for this was a kind of talk unfamiliar and 
 painful to her, but to be endured for her cause,—" as 
 well as ' the fleshpots of Egypt ; ' who had made no 
 criminal mistakes — would he necessarily end as you 
 
 say ? " 
 
 " I am speaking of the kind of man who had made 
 
250 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 such mistakes, and he would end as I say. Few men, if 
 any, would leave the world for — the bandbox, shall I 
 still say? without having a Nemesis." 
 
 " But the Nemesis need not, as you say yourself, be 
 inevitable. The person who holds the key of his life, 
 the impersonation of his mistake " 
 
 " His criminal mistake," Mrs. Falchion interrupted, 
 her hand with the ivory knife now moveless in that belt 
 of sunlight across her knees. 
 
 " His criminal mistake," Ruth repeated, wincing, — 
 " might not it become changed into mercy, and the man 
 be safe ? " 
 
 " Safe ? Perhaps. But he would tire of the pinhole 
 just the same. . . . My dear, you do not know life." 
 
 " But, Mrs. Falchion," said the girl, now very bravely, 
 " I know the crude elements of justice. That is one 
 plain thing taught here in the mountains. We have 
 swift reward and punishment — no hateful things called 
 Nemesis. The meanest wretch here in the West, if he 
 has a quarrel avenges himself openly and at once. 
 Actions are rough and ready perhaps, but that is our 
 simple way. Hate is manly— and womanly too — when 
 it is open and brave. But when it haunts and shadows, 
 it is not understood here." 
 
 Mrs. Falchion sat during this speech, the fingers of 
 one hand idly drumming the arm of her chair, as idly as 
 when on board the Fidvia she listened to me telling that 
 story of Anson and his wife. Outwardly her coolness 
 was remarkable. But she was really admiring, and 
 amazed at Ruth's adroitness and courage. She appre- 
 ciated fully the skilful duel that had kept things on the 
 surface, and had committed neither of them to anything 
 personal. It was a battle — the tragical battle of a draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 When Ruth had ended, she said slowly: "You speak 
 very earnestly. You do your mountains justice ; but 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 25 I 
 
 each world has its code. It is good for some men to be 
 followed by a slow hate — it all depends on themselves. 
 There are some who want to meet their fate and its 
 worst, and others who would forget it. The latter are 
 in the most danger always." 
 
 Ruth rose. 
 
 She stepped forward slightly, so that her feet also were 
 within the sunlight. The other saw this ; it appeared to 
 interest her. Ruth looked — as such a girl can look — 
 with incredible sincerity into Mrs. Falchion's eyes, and 
 said : " Oh, if I knew such a man, I would be sorry — 
 sorry for him ; and if I also knew that his was only a 
 mistake and not a crime, or, if the crime itself had been 
 repented of, and atonement made, I would beg some one 
 — some one better than I — to pray for him. And I 
 would go to the person who had his life and career at 
 disposal, and would say to her, — if it were a woman, — 
 Oh, remember, that it is not he alone who would suffer ! 
 I would beg that woman — if it were a woman, — to be 
 merciful, as she one day must ask for mercy." 
 
 The girl as she stood there, all pale, yet glowing with 
 the white light of her pain, was beautiful, noble, com- 
 pelling. Mrs. Falchion now rose also. She was altogether 
 in the sunlight now. From the piano in the next room 
 came a quick change of accompaniment, and a voice was 
 heard singing, as if to the singer's self, 77 balen del suo 
 sorris. It is hard to tell how far such little incidents 
 affected her in what she did that afternoon ; but they 
 had their influence. She said : " You are altruistic — or 
 are you selfish, or both ? . . . And should the woman 
 — if it were a woman — yield, and spare the man, what 
 would you do ? " 
 
 " I would say that she had been merciful and kind, and 
 that one in this world would pray for her when she needed 
 prayers most." 
 
 " You mean when she was old," — Mrs. Falchion shrank 
 
252 
 
 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 a little at the sound of her own words. Now her careless 
 abandon was gone ; she seemed to be following her emo- 
 tions. " When she was old," she continued, " and came 
 to die ? It is horrible to grow old, except one has been 
 a saint— and a mother. . . . And even then— have 
 you ever seen them, the women of that Egypt of which 
 we spoke ? — powdered, smirking over their champagne, 
 because they feel for an instant a false pulse of their past ? 
 — See how eloquent your mountains make me ! — I think 
 that would make one hard and cruel ; and one would 
 need the prayers of a churchful of good women, even as 
 good — as you." 
 
 She could not resist a touch of irony in the last words, 
 and Ruth, who had been ready to kiss her hand impul- 
 sively, was stung. But she replied nothing, and the 
 other, after waiting, added, with a sudden and wonder- 
 ful kindness, — " I say what is quite true. Women might 
 dislike you,— many of them would, — though you could 
 not understand why ; but you are good, and that I sup- 
 pose is the best thing in the world. Yes, you are good," 
 she said, musingly, and then she leaned forward and 
 quickly kissed the girl's cheek. " Good-by," she said, 
 and then she turned her head resolutely away. 
 
 They stood there both in the sunlight, both very quiet, 
 but their hearts were throbbing with new sensations. 
 Ruth knew that she had conquered, and, with her eyes 
 all tearful, she looked steadily, yearningly, at the woman 
 before her ; but she knew it was better she should say 
 little now, so, with a motion of the hand in good-by,— 
 she could do no more,— she slowly went to the door. 
 There she paused and looked back, but the other was 
 still turned away. 
 
 For a minute Mrs. Falchion stood looking at the door 
 through which the girl had passed, then she caught close 
 the curtains of the window and threw herself upon the 
 sofa with a sobbing laugh. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 253 
 
 * To her ! " she cried, " I played the game of mercy to 
 her ! And she has his love, the love which I rejected 
 once, and which I want now — to my shame ! A hateful 
 and terrible love. I, who ought to say to him, as I so 
 long determined, — ' You shall be destroyed. You killed 
 my sister, poor Alo ; if not with a knife yourself, you 
 killed her heart, and that is just the same/ I never knew 
 until now what a heart is when killed." 
 
 She caught her breast as though it hurt her, and, after 
 a moment, continued : " Do hearts always ache so when 
 they love? I was the wife of a good man, — oh ! he was 
 a good man, who sinned for me. — I see it now ! — and I let 
 him die — die like a rat." She shuddered violently. "Oh, 
 now I see, and I know what love such as his can be ! I 
 am punished — punished ; for my love is impossible, hor- 
 rible." 
 
 There was a long silence in which she sat looking at 
 the floor, her face gone grey with pain. At last the door 
 of the room softly opened, and Justine entered. 
 
 " May I come in, Madame ?" she said. 
 
 "Yes, come, Justine." The voice was subdued, and 
 there was in it what drew the girl swiftly to the side of 
 Mrs. Falchion. She spoke no word, but gently undid 
 the other's hair, and smoothed and brushed it softly. 
 
 At last Mrs. Falchion said : " Justine, on Monday we 
 will leave here." 
 
 The girl was surprised, but she replied without com- 
 ment, — " Yes, Madame ; where do we go ? " 
 
 There was a pause, then : " I do not know. I want 
 to go where I shall get rested. A village in Italy or — " 
 she paused. 
 
 " Or France, Madame ? " Justine was eager. 
 
 Mrs. Falchion made a helpless motion with her hand. 
 " Yes, France will do. . . . The way around the 
 world is long, and I am tired." Minutes passed, and then 
 she slowly said : " Justine, we will go to-morrow night." 
 
254 MRS - FALCHION. 
 
 " Yes, Madame, to-morrow night, — and not next Mon- 
 day." 
 
 There was a strange only half-veiled melancholy in 
 Mrs. Falchion's next words : " Do you think, Justine, 
 that I could be happy anywhere ? " 
 
 " I think anywhere but — here, Madame. " 
 
 Mrs. Falchion rose to a sitting posture, and looked at 
 the girl fixedly, almost fiercely. A crisis was at hand. 
 The pity, gentleness, and honest solicitude of Justine's 
 face conquered her, and her look changed to one of 
 understanding and longing for companionship : sorrow 
 swiftly welded their friendship. 
 
 Before Mrs. Falchion slept that night, she said again, — 
 "We will leave here to-morrow, dear, forever." 
 
 And Justine replied : " Yes, Madame, forever." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE SENTENCE. 
 
 The next morning Roscoe was quiet and calm, but he 
 looked ten years older than when I had first seen him. 
 After breakfast he said to me : "I have to go to the 
 valley to pay Phil Boldrick's friend the money ; and to 
 see Mr. Devlin. I shall be back, perhaps, by lunch time. 
 Will you go with me, or stay here ? ' 
 
 " I shall try to get some fishing this morning, I fancy," 
 I said. " And possibly I shall idle a good deal, for my 
 time with you here is shortening, and I want to have a 
 great store of laziness behind me for memory, when I've 
 got my nose to the grindstone." 
 
 He turned to the door, and said : " Marmion, I wish 
 you weren't going. I wish that we might be comrades 
 under the same roof till — " He paused and smiled 
 strangely. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 255 
 
 " Till the finish," I added, " when we should amble 
 grey-headed, sans everything, out of the mad old world ? 
 I imagine Miss Belle Treherne would scarcely fancy 
 that. . . . Still we can be pals just the same. Our 
 wives won't object to an occasional bout of loafing to- 
 gether, will they ? " 
 
 I was determined not to take him too seriously. 
 
 He said nothing, and in a moment he was gone. 
 
 I passed the morning idly enough, yet thinking, too, 
 very much about my friend. I was anxiously hoping 
 that the telegram from Winnipeg would come. About 
 noon it came. It was not known quite in what part of 
 the Northwest Madras (under his new name) was, for the 
 corps of mounted police had been changed about recently. 
 My letter had, however, been forwarded into the wilds. 
 
 I saw no immediate way but to go to Mrs. Falchion 
 and make a bold bid for Roscoe's peace. I had promised 
 Madras never to let her know that he was alive, but I 
 would break the promise if Madras himself did not 
 come. After considerable hesitation I started. It must 
 be remembered that the events of the preceding chapter 
 were only known to me afterwards. 
 
 Justine Caron was passing through the hall of the 
 hotel when I arrived. After greetings, she said that 
 Mrs. Falchion might see me, but that they were very 
 busy ; they were leaving in the evening for the coast. 
 Here was a pleasant revelation ! I was so confused with 
 delight at the information, that I could think of nothing 
 more sensible to say than that the unexpected always 
 happens. By this time we were within Mrs. Falchion's 
 sitting-room. And to my remark, Justine replied : 
 " Yes, it is so. One has to reckon most with the acci- 
 dents of life. The expected is either pleasant or unpleas* 
 ant ; there is no middle place." 
 
 "You are growing philosophic," said I playfully. 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, gravely, " I hope as I live and 
 17 
 
256 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 travel, I grow a little wiser." Still she lingered, her 
 hand upon the door. 
 
 " I had thought that you were always wise." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! How can you say so ! I have been very 
 foolish sometimes. "... She came back towards 
 me. " If I am wiser I am also happier," she added. 
 
 In that moment we understood each other ; that, is, I 
 read how unselfish this girl could be, and she knew 
 thoroughly the source of my anxiety, and was glad that 
 she could remove it. 
 
 " I would not speak to any one save you," she said, 
 " but do you not also think that it is good we go ? " 
 
 " I have been thinking so, but I hesitated to say so," 
 was my reply. 
 
 " You need not hesitate," she said earnestly. "We 
 have both understood, and I know that you are to be 
 trusted." 
 
 "Not always," I said, remembering that one experi- 
 ence of mine with Mrs. Falchion on the Fulvia. 
 
 Holding the back of a chair, and looking earnestly 
 at me, she continued : " Once, on the vessel, you re- 
 member, in a hint so very little, I made it appear that 
 Madame was selfish. ... I am sorry. Her heart 
 was asleep. Now, it is awake. She is unselfish. The 
 accident of our going away is hers. She goes to leave 
 peace behind." 
 
 " I am most glad," said I. " And you think there will 
 be peace ? " 
 
 " Surely, since this has come that will come also." 
 
 " And you — Justine Caron ? " I should not have 
 asked that question had I known more of the world. It 
 was tactless and unkind. 
 
 " For me it is no matter at all. I do not come in any- 
 where. As I said, I am happy." 
 
 And turning quickly, yet not so quickly but I saw her 
 cheeks were flushed, she passed out of the room. 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 257 
 
 In a moment Mrs. Falchion entered. There was 
 something new in her carriage, in her person. She 
 came towards me, held out her hand, and said, with the 
 same old half-quizzical tone : " Have you, with your un- 
 erring instinct, guessed that I was leaving, and so come 
 to say good-by ? " 
 
 " You credit me too highly. No, I came to see you 
 because I had an inclination. I did not guess that 
 you were going until Miss Caron told me." 
 
 " An inclination to see me is not your usual instinct, 
 is it ? Was it some special impulse based on a scientific 
 calculation (at which, I suppose, you are an adept), or 
 curiosity ? Or had it a purpose ? Or were you bored, 
 and therefore sought the most startling experience you 
 could conceive ? " She deftly rearranged some flowers 
 in a jar. 
 
 " I can plead innocence of all directly ; I am guilty of 
 all indirectly. — I was impelled to come. I reasoned — if 
 that is scientific — on what I should say if I did come, 
 knowing how inclined I was to " 
 
 " To get beyond my depth," she interrupted, and she 
 motioned me to a chair. 
 
 "Well, let it be so," said I. — " I was curious to know 
 what kept you in this sylvan, and I fear, to you, half- 
 barbaric spot. I was bored with myself ; and I had some 
 purpose in coming, or I should not have had the impulse." 
 
 She was leaning back in her chair easily, not languidly. 
 She seemed reposeful yet alert. 
 
 " How wonderfully you talk ! " she said with good- 
 natured mockery. " You are scientifically frank. You 
 were bored with yourself. — Then there is some hope for 
 your future wife. . . . We have had many talks in 
 our acquaintance, Dr. Marmion ; but none so interesting 
 as this promises to be. But now tell me what your pur- 
 pose was in coming. ' Purpose ' seems portentous, but 
 quite in keeping." 
 
258 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 I noticed here the familiar almost imperceptible click 
 of the small white teeth. 
 
 I was so glad she was going that I was playful, 
 elated. " My purpose," said I, " has no point now ; for 
 even if I were to propose to amuse you — I believe that 
 was the old formula — by an idle day somewhere, by an 
 excursion, an " 
 
 " An autobiography ? " she broke in soothingly. 
 
 " Or an autobiography," I repeated stolidly, " you 
 would not, I fancy, be prepared to accept my services. 
 There would be no chance — now that you are going 
 away — for me to play the harlequin " 
 
 " Whose office you could do pleasantly if it suited 
 you — these adaptable natures ! " 
 
 " Quite so. But it is all futile now, as I say." 
 
 " Yes, you mentioned that before. — Well ? " 
 
 "// is well" I replied, dropping into a more meaning 
 tone. 
 
 " You say it patriarchally but yet flatteringly." Here 
 she casually offered me a flower. I mechanically placed 
 it in my button-hole. She seemed delighted at confus- 
 ing me. But I kept on firmly. 
 
 " I do not think," I rejoined gravely now, " that there 
 need be any flattery between us." 
 
 " Why ? — We are not married." 
 
 " That is as radically true as it is epigrammatic," 
 blurted I. 
 
 " And truth is more than epigram ? " 
 
 " One should delight in truth ; I do delight in epi- 
 gram ; there seems little chance for choice here." 
 
 It seemed to me that I had said quite what I wished 
 there, but she only looked at me enigmatically. 
 
 She arranged a flower in her dress as she almost 
 idly replied, though she did not look me full in the 
 face as she had done before, — " Well then, let me 
 add to your present delight by saying that you may 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 259 
 
 go play till doomsday, Ur. Marmion. Your work is 
 done." 
 
 " I do not understand." 
 
 Her eyes were on me now with the directness she 
 could so well use at need. 
 
 " I did not suppose you would, despite your many 
 lessons at my hands. You have been altruistic, Dr. 
 Marmion ; I fear, critical people would say that you 
 meddled. I shall only say that you are inquiring — 
 scientific, or feminine — what you please ! . . . You 
 can now yield up your portfolio of— foreign affairs — of 
 war — shall I say ? and retire into sedative habitations, 
 which, believe me, you become best. . . . What con- 
 cerns me need concern you no longer. The enemy 
 retreats. She offers truce — without conditions. She 
 retires. ... Is that enough for even you, Professor 
 Marmion ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Falchion," I said, finding it impossible to 
 understand why she had so suddenly determined to go 
 away (for I did not know all the truth until afterwards 
 — some of it long afterwards), " it is more than I dared 
 to hope for, though, less, I know, than you have heart to 
 do if you willed so. I know that you hold some power 
 over my friend." 
 
 " Do not think," she said, " that you have had the least 
 influence. What you might think or may have intended 
 to do has not moved me in the least. I have had wrongs 
 that you do not know. I have changed, — that is all. I 
 admit, I intended to do Gait Roscoe harm. I thought 
 he deserved it. That is over. After to-night, it is not 
 probable that we shall meet again. I hope that we shall 
 not ; as, doubtless, is your own mind." 
 
 She kept looking at me with that new deep look which 
 I had seen when she first entered the room. 
 
 I was moved, and I saw that just at the last she had 
 spoken under considerable strain. " Mrs. Falchion," said 
 
26o MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 I, " I have thought harder things of you than I ever said 
 to anyone. Pray believe that, and believe also, that I 
 never tried to injure you. For the rest, I can make no com- 
 plaint. You do not like me. I liked you once and do now 
 when you do not depreciate yourself of purpose. . . . 
 Pardon me, but I say this very humbly too. ... I sup- 
 pose I always shall like you, in spite of myself. You are 
 one of the most gifted and fascinating women that I ever 
 met. I have been anxious for my friend. I was concerned 
 
 to make peace between you and your husband " 
 
 " The man who was my husband," she interrupted 
 musingly. 
 
 " Your husband — whom you so cruelly treated. But 
 I confess I have found it impossible to withhold admira- 
 tion of you." 
 
 For a long time she did not reply, but she never took 
 her eyes off my face, as she leaned slightly forward. 
 Then at last she spoke more gently than I had ever 
 heard her, and a glow came upon her face. 
 
 " I am only human. You have me at advantage. 
 What woman could reply unkindly to a speech like that ? 
 I admit I thought you held me utterly bad and heartless, 
 and it made me bitter. ... I had no heart— once. I 
 had only a wrong, an injury, which was in my mind ; not 
 mine, but another's, and yet mine. Then strange things 
 occurred. ... At last I relented. I saw that I had 
 better go. Yesterday I saw that ; and I am going— that 
 is enough. ... I wished to keep the edge of my inter- 
 course with you sharp and uncompanionable to the end ; 
 but you have forced me at my weakest point. . . ." 
 Here she smiled somewhat painfully. ..." Believe 
 me, that is the way to turn a woman's weapon upon her- 
 self. You have learned much since we first met. . . . 
 Here is my hand in friendliness, if you care to take it ; 
 and in good-by, should we not meet again more formally 
 before I go." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 261 
 
 w I wish now that your husband, Boyd Madras, was 
 here," I said. 
 
 She answered nothing, but she did not resent it ; she 
 only shuddered a little. 
 
 Our hands grasped silently. I was too choked to 
 speak, and I left her. At that moment she blinded me to 
 all her faults. She was a wonderful woman. 
 
 Gait Roscoe had walked slowly along the forest-road 
 towards the valley, his mind in that state of calm which, 
 in some, might be thought numbness of sensation, in 
 others fortitude — the prerogative of despair. He came 
 to the point of land jutting out over the valley, where he 
 had stood with Mrs. Falchion, Justine, and myself, on 
 the morning of Phil Boldrick's death. 
 
 He looked for a long time, and then, slowly descend- 
 ing the hillside, made his way to Mr. Devlin's office. 
 He found Phil's pal awaiting him there. After a few 
 preliminaries, the money was paid over, and Kilby 
 said : — 
 
 " I've been to see his camping-ground. It's right 
 enough. Viking has done it noble. . . . Now, 
 here's what I'm goin' to do ; I'm goin' to open bottles 
 for all that'll drink success to Viking. A place that's 
 stood by my pal, I stand by, — but not with his money, 
 mind you ! No, that goes to you, Padre, for hospital 
 purposes. My gift an' his. . . . So, sit down and 
 write a receipt or whatever it's called, accordin' to Hoyle, 
 and you'll do me proud." 
 
 Roscoe did as he requested, and handed the money 
 over to Mr. Devlin for safe keeping ; remarking at the 
 same time, that the matter should be announced on a 
 bulletin outside the office at once. 
 
 As Kilby stood chewing the end of a cigar and listen- 
 ing to the brief conversation between Roscoe and Mr. 
 Devlin, perplexity crossed his face. He said as Roscoe 
 
262 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 turned round : " There's something catchy about your 
 voice, Padre. I don't know what ; but it's familiar-like. 
 You never was on the Panama level, of course ? " 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Nor in Australia ? " 
 
 "Yes, in 1876." 
 
 " I wasn't there then." 
 
 Roscoe grew a shade paler, but was firm and com- 
 posed. He was determined to answer truthfully any 
 question that was asked him, wherever it might lead. 
 
 " Nor in Samoa ? " 
 
 There was the slightest pause, and then the reply 
 came : 
 
 " Yes, in Samoa." 
 
 " Not a missionary, by gracious ! Not a mickonarie in 
 Samoa ? " 
 
 " No." He said toothing further. He did not feel 
 bound to incriminate himself voluntarily. 
 
 " No ? Well you wasn't a beachcomber, nor trader, 
 I'll swear. Was you there in the last half of the Seven- 
 ties ? — That's when I was there." 
 
 " Yes." The reply was quiet. 
 
 " By Jingo ! " The man's face was puzzled. He was 
 about to speak again ; but at that moment two river- 
 drivers — boon companions who had been hanging about 
 the door — urged him to come to the tavern. This dis- 
 tracted him. He laughed and said that he was coming, 
 and then again, though with less persistency, questioned 
 Roscoe. " You don't remember me, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, I never saw you, so far as 1 know, until yester- 
 day." 
 
 " No ? Still, I've heard your voice. It keeps swingin' 
 in my ears ; and I can't remember. ... I can't re- 
 member ! . . . But we'll have a spin about it again, 
 Padre." He turned to the impatient men. "All right, 
 bully-boys, I'm comin'." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 263 
 
 At the door he turned and looked again at Roscoe 
 with a sharp half-amused scrutiny, then the two parted. 
 
 Kilby kept his word. He was liberal to Viking ; and 
 Phil's memory was drunk, not in silence, many times that 
 day. So that when, in the afternoon, he made up his mind 
 to keep his engagement with Mrs. Falchion, and left the 
 valley for the hills, he was not entirely sober. But he 
 was apparently good-natured. As he idled along he 
 talked to himself, and finally broke out into singing : — 
 
 " ' Then swing the long boat down the drink, 
 For the lads as pipe to go ; 
 But I sink when the Lovely Jane does sink, 
 To the mermaids down below. 
 
 " ' The long boat bides on its strings,' says we, 
 ' An' we bides where the long boat bides ; 
 And we'll bluff this equatorial sea, 
 Or swallow its hurricane tides.' 
 
 " But the Lovely Jane she didn't go down, 
 An' she anchored at the Spicy Isles ; 
 An' she sailed again to Wellington Town — 
 A matter of a thousand miles." 
 
 It will be remembered that this is part of the song 
 sung by Gait Roscoe on the Whi-Whi River, the day we 
 rescued Mrs. Falchion and Justine Caron. Kilby sang 
 the whole song over to himself until he reached a point 
 overlooking the valley. Then he stood silent for a time, 
 his glance upon the town. The walk had sobered him a 
 little. " Phil, old pal," he said at last, " you ain't got the 
 taste of raw whiskey with you now. When a man loses 
 a pal he loses a grip on the world equal to all that pal's 
 grip was worth. . . I'm drunk, and Phil's down there 
 among the worms — among the worms ! . . . Ah ! " 
 he added in disgust, and, dashing his hand across his 
 eyes, struck off into the woods again, making his way to 
 the summer hotel where he had promised to meet Mrs. 
 
264 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 Falchion. He inquired for her, creating some astonish- 
 ment by his uncouth appearance and unsteady manner. 
 
 He learned from Justine that Mrs. Falchion had gone 
 to see Roscoe, and that he would probably meet her if he 
 went that way. This he did. He was just about to 
 issue into a partly open space by a ravine near the house, 
 when he heard voices and his own name mentioned. 
 He stilled and listened. 
 
 "Yes, Gait Roscoe," said a voice, "Sam Kilby is the 
 man that loved Alo — loved her not as you did. He 
 would have given her a home, have made her happy, 
 maybe. You, when Kilby was away, married her — in 
 native fashion ! — which is no marriage — and killed her." 
 
 " No, no, not killed her ! that is not so. As God is 
 my judge, that is not so." 
 
 " You did not kill her with the knife ? . . . Well, 
 I will be candid now, and say that I believe that, what- 
 ever I may have hinted or said before. But you killed 
 her just the same when you left her." 
 
 " Mercy Falchion," he said desperately, " I will not try 
 to palliate my sin. But still I must set myself right with 
 you in so far as I can. The very night Alo killed herself 
 I had made up my mind to leave the Navy. I was going 
 to send in my papers, come back to Apia, and marry her 
 as Englishmen are married. While I remained in the 
 Navy I could not, as you know, marry her. It would be 
 impossible to an English officer. I intended to come back 
 and be regularly married to her." 
 
 " You say that now," was the cold reply. 
 
 " But it is the truth, the truth indeed. Nothing that 
 you might say could make me despise myself more than I 
 do ; but I have told you all, as I shall have to tell it one 
 day before a just God. You have spared me ; He will 
 not." 
 
 "Gait Roscoe," she replied, " I am not merciful, nor 
 am I just. I intended to injure you, though you will 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 265 
 
 remember I saved your life that night by giving you a 
 boat for escape across the bay to the Porcupine, which 
 was then under way. The band on board, you also 
 remember, was playing the music of La Grande Duchesse. 
 You fired on the natives who followed. Well, Sam Kilby 
 was with them. Your brother officers did not know the 
 cause of the trouble. It was not known to anyone in 
 Apia exactly who it was that Kilby and the natives had 
 tracked from Alo's hut." 
 
 He drew his hand across his forehead dazedly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I remember ! " he said. " I would to God I 
 had faced the matter there and then ! It would have been 
 better." 
 
 " I doubt that," she replied. " The natives who saw 
 you coming from Alo's hut, did not know you. You 
 wisely came straight to the consul's office — my father's 
 house. And I helped you, though Alo, half-caste Alo — 
 was my sister ! " 
 
 Roscoe started back. " Alo — your — sister ! " he ex- 
 claimed in horror. 
 
 " Yes, though I did not know it till afterwards, not till 
 just before my father died. Alo's father was my father ; 
 and her mother had been honestly married to my father 
 by a missionary ; though, for my sake, it had never been 
 made known. You remember also that you carried on 
 your relations with Alo secretly, and my father never 
 suspected it was you. " 
 
 " Your sister ! " Roscoe was white and sick. 
 
 " Yes. And now you understand my reason for wish- 
 ing you ill, and for hating you to the end." 
 
 " Yes," he said despairingly, " I see." 
 
 She was determined to preserve before him the outer 
 coldness of her nature to the last. 
 
 " Let us reckon together," she said. " I helped to — 
 in fact, I saved your life at Apia. You helped to save 
 my life at the Devil's Slide. That is balanced. You did 
 
266 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 me _ the honor, to say that you loved me once. Well, 
 one of my race loved you. That is balanced also. My 
 sister's death came through you. There is no balance 
 to that. What shall balance Alo's death ? . . . I 
 leave you to think that over. It is worth thinking about. 
 I shall keep your secret too. Kilby does not know you. 
 I doubt that he ever saw you, though, as I said, he fol- 
 lowed you with the natives that night in Apia. He was 
 to come to see me to-day. I think I intended to tell 
 him all, and shift — the duty — of punishment on his 
 shoulders, which I don't doubt he would fulfil. But he 
 shall not know. Do not ask why. I have changed my 
 mind, that is all. But still the account remains a long 
 one. You will have your life-time to reckon with it, free 
 from any demonstration on my part ; for, if I can help it, 
 we shall never meet again in this world — never ! . . . 
 And now, good-by ! " 
 
 Without a gesture of farewell she turned and left him 
 standing there, in misery and bitterness, but in a thank- 
 fulness too, more for Ruth's sake than his own. He 
 raised his arms with a despairing motion, then let them 
 drop heavily to his side. . . . 
 
 And then two strong hands caught his throat, a body 
 pressed hard against him, and he was borne backwards — 
 backwards — to the cliff ! 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 I was sitting on the veranda, writing a letter to Belle 
 Treherne. The substantial peace of a mountain even- 
 ing was on me. The air was clear, and full of the scent 
 of the pines and cedars, and the rumble of the rapids 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 267 
 
 came musically down the canon. I lifted my head and 
 saw an eagle sailing away to the snow-topped peak of 
 Trinity, and then turned to watch the orioles in the 
 trees. The hour was delightful. It made me feel how 
 grave mere living is, how noble even the meanest of us 
 becomes sometimes, — in those big moments when we 
 think the world was built for us. It is half egotism, half 
 divinity ; but why quarrel with it? 
 
 I was young, ambitious ; and Love and I were at that 
 moment the only figures in the universe really deserving 
 attention ! I looked on down a lane of cedars before 
 me, seeing in imagination a long procession of pleasant 
 things ; of — As I looked another procession moved 
 through the creatures of my dreams, so that they shrank 
 away timidly, then utterly, and this new procession came 
 on and on, until — I suddenly rose, and started forward 
 fearfully, to see — unhappy reality ! — the body of Gait 
 Roscoe carried towards me. 
 
 Then a cold wind seemed to blow from the glacier 
 above, and killed all the summer. A man whispered to 
 me : " We found him at the bottom of the ravine 
 yonder. He'd fallen over, I suppose." 
 
 I felt his heart. " He is not dead," I said. " Thank 
 God ! " 
 
 " No, sir," said the other, " but he's smashed." 
 
 They brought him in and laid him on his bed. I sent 
 one of the party for the doctor at Viking, and myself 
 set to work, with what appliances I had, to deal with the 
 dreadful injuries. When the doctor came, together we 
 made him into the semblance of a man again. His face 
 was but slightly injured, though his head had received 
 severe hurts. I think that I, alone, saw the marks on 
 his throat ; and I hid them. I guessed the cause, but 
 held my peace. 
 
 I had sent round at once to James Devlin (but asked 
 him not to come till morning), and also to Mrs. Fal- 
 
268 MRS. FALCHION, 
 
 chion ; but I begged her not to come at all. I might 
 have spared her that ; for, as I afterwards knew, she 
 had no intention of coming. She had learned of the 
 accident on her way to Viking, and had turned back ; 
 but only to wait and know the worst or the best. 
 
 About midnight I was left alone with Roscoe. Once 
 earlier in the evening he had recognized me and smiled 
 faintly, but I had shaken my head, and he had said 
 nothing. Now, however, he was looking at me earnestly. 
 I did not speak. What he had to tell me was best told 
 in his own time. 
 
 At last, he said faintly, — " Marmion, shall I die soon ? " 
 
 I knew that frankness was best, and I replied : " I 
 can't tell, Roscoe. There is a chance of your living." 
 
 He moved his head sadly. " A very faint chance ? " 
 
 " Yes, a faint one, but " 
 
 " Yes ? ' But ' ? " He looked at me as though he 
 wished it over. 
 
 " But it rests with you whether the chance is worth 
 anything. If you are content to die, it is gone." 
 
 " I am content to die," he replied. 
 
 "And there," said I, "you are wrong and selfish. 
 You have Ruth to live for. Besides, if you are given 
 the chance, you commit suicide if you don't take it." 
 
 There was a long pause, and then he said : " You are 
 right, I'll live if I can, Marmion." 
 
 "And now you are right." I nodded soothingly to 
 him, and then asked him to talk no more ; for I knew 
 that fever would soon come on. 
 
 He lay for a moment silent, but at length whispered : 
 "Did you know it was not a fall I had ?" He raised 
 his chin, and stretched his throat slightly, with a kind of 
 trembling. 
 
 " I thought it was not a fall," I replied. 
 
 " It was Phil's pal— Kilby." 
 
 " I thought that." 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 269 
 
 " How could you — think it ? Did — others — think — 
 So ?" he asked anxiously. 
 
 " No, not others ; I alone. They thought it accident ; 
 they could have no ground for suspicion. But I had ; 
 and besides, there were marks on your throat." 
 
 " Nothing must happen to him, you understand. He 
 had been drinking, and — and he was justified. I wronged 
 him in Samoa, him and Mrs. Falchion." 
 
 I nodded and put a finger on my lips. 
 
 Again there was silence. I sat and watched him. His 
 eyes closed, his body was motionless. He slept for 
 hours so, and then he waked rather sharply, and said 
 half deliriously, — " I could have dragged him with me, 
 Marmion." 
 
 " But you didn't. Yes, I understand. Go to sleep 
 again, Roscoe." 
 
 Later on the fever came, and he moaned and moved 
 his head about. He could not move his body, — -it was 
 too much injured. 
 
 There was a source of fear in Kilby. Would he reck- 
 lessly announce what he had done, and the cause of it ? 
 After thinking it over and over, I concluded that he 
 would not disclose his crimes. My conclusions were 
 right, as after events showed. 
 
 As for Roscoe, I feared that if he lived he must go 
 through life maimed. He had a private income ; there- 
 fore if he determined to work no more in the ministry, 
 he would, at least, have the comforts of life. 
 
 Ruth Devlin came. I went to Roscoe and told him 
 that she wished to see him. He smiled sorrowfully 
 and said : " To what end, Marmion ? I am a drift- 
 ing wreck. It will only shock her." I think he thought 
 she would not love him now if he lived — a crippled 
 man. 
 
 " But is this noble ? Is it just to her ? " said I. 
 
 After a long time he answered : " You are right again, 
 
270 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 quite right. I am selfish. When one is shaking between 
 life and death one thinks most of one's self." 
 
 " She will help to bring you back from those places, 
 Roscoe." 
 
 " If I am delirious ever, do not let her come, will you, 
 Marmion ? Promise me that." I promised. 
 
 I went to her. She was very calm and womanly. 
 She entered the room, went quietly to his bedside and, 
 sitting down, took his hand. Her smile was pitiful and 
 anxious, but her words were brave. 
 
 li Gait, dear," she said, " I am sorry. But you will 
 soon be well, so we must be as patient and cheerful as 
 we can." 
 
 His eyes answered, but he did not speak. She leaned 
 over and kissed his cheek. Then he said : " I hope I 
 may get well." 
 
 " This was the shadow over you," she ventured. 
 " This was your presentiment of trouble—this accident." 
 
 "Yes, this was the shadow." 
 
 Some sharp thought seemed to move her, for her eyes 
 grew suddenly hard, and she stooped and whispered : 
 " Was she there — when — it happened, Gait ? " 
 
 He shrank from the question, but he said immediately, 
 " No, she was not there." 
 
 "I am glad," she added, "that it was only an acci- 
 dent." 
 
 Her eyes grew clear of their momentary hardness. 
 There is nothing in life like the anger of one woman 
 against another concerning a man. 
 
 Justine Caron came to the house, pale and anxious, to 
 inquire. Mrs. Falchion, she said, was not going away 
 until she knew how Mr. Roscoe's illness would turn. 
 
 " Miss Caron," I said to her, " do you not think it bet- 
 ter that she should go?" 
 
 " Yes, for him, but she grieves now." 
 
 " For him ? " 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 271 
 
 " Not alone for him," was the reply. There was a 
 pause, and then she continued : " Madame told me to 
 say to you that she did not wish Mr. Roscoe to know 
 that she was still here." 
 
 I assured her that I understood, and then she added 
 mournfully : " I cannot help you now, monsieur, as I did 
 on board the Fulvia. But he will be better cared for in 
 Miss Devlin's hands, the poor lady ! ... Do you 
 think that he will live ?" 
 
 " I hope so. I am not sure." 
 
 Her eyes went to tears ; and then I tried to speak 
 more encouragingly. 
 
 All day people came to inquire ; chief among them 
 Mr. Devlin, whose great heart split itself in humanity and 
 compassion. " The price of the big mill for the guar- 
 antee of his life ! " he said over and over again. "We 
 can't afford to let him go." 
 
 Although I should have been on my way back to 
 Toronto, I determined to stay until Roscoe was entirely 
 out of danger. It was singular, but in this illness, 
 though the fever was high, he never was delirious. It 
 would almost seem as if, having paid his penalty, the 
 brain was at rest. 
 
 While Roscoe hovered between life and death, Mr. 
 Devlin, who persisted that he would not die, was plan- 
 ning for a new hospital and a new church, of which Ros- 
 coe should be president and padre respectively. But 
 the suspense to us all, for many days, was very great ; 
 until, one morning when the birds were waking the 
 cedars, and the snow on Mount Trinity was flashing cool- 
 ness down the hot valley, he waked and said to me : 
 " Marmion, old fellow, it's morning at last." 
 
 " Yes, it's morning," said I. " And you are going to 
 live now ? You are going to be reasonable and give the 
 earth another chance ? " 
 
 " Yes, I believe I shall live now." 
 rS 
 
272 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 To cheer him I told him what Mr. Devlin intended and 
 had planned ; how river-drivers and salmon-fishers came 
 every day from the valley to inquire after him. (I did 
 not tell him that there had been one Or two disturb- 
 ances between the river-drivers and the salmon-fishers.) 
 I tried to let him see that there need be no fresh change 
 in his life. At length he interrupted me. 
 
 " Marmion," he said, " I understand what you mean. 
 It would be cowardly of me to leave here now if I were 
 a whole man. I am true in intention, God knows, but I 
 must carry a crippled arm for the rest of my life, must I 
 not ? . . . and a crippled Padre is not the kind of man 
 for this place. They want men straight on their feet." 
 
 " Do you think," I answered, " that they will not be 
 able to stand the test ? You gave them — shall I say it ? 
 — a crippled mind before ; you give them a crippled 
 body now. Well, where do you think the odds lie ? 
 I should fancy, with you as you are." 
 
 There was a long silence in which neither of us moved. 
 At last he turned his face towards the window, and not 
 looking at me, said lingeringly : lt This is a pleasant 
 place." 
 
 I knew that he would remain. 
 
 I had not seen Mrs. Falchion during Roscoe's illness ; 
 but every day Justine came and inquired, or a messenger 
 was sent. And, when, this fortunate day, Justine herself 
 came, and I told her that the crisis was past, she seemed 
 infinitely relieved and happy. Then she said : 
 
 " Madame has been ill these three days, also ; but now 
 I think she will be better ; and we shall go soon." 
 
 " Ask her," said I, " not to go yet for a few days. 
 Press it as a favor to me." Then, on second thought 
 I sat down and wrote Mrs. Falchion a note, hinting that 
 there were grave reasons why she should stay a little 
 longer : things connected with her own happiness. 
 Truth is, I had received a note that morning which had 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 273 
 
 excited me. It referred to Mrs. Falchion. For I was 
 an arch-plotter — or had been. 
 
 I received a note in reply which said that she would 
 do as I wished. Meanwhile I was anxiously awaiting 
 the arrival of someone. 
 
 That night a letter came to Roscoe. After reading it 
 shrinkingly he handed it to me. It said briefly : — 
 
 " I'm not sorry I did it, but I'm glad I hevn't killed you. I was 
 drunk and mad. If 1 hadn't hurt you, I'd never hev forgive myself. 
 I reckon now, there's no need to do any forgivin' either side. We're 
 square — though maybe you didn't kill her after all. Mrs. Falchion says 
 you didn't. But you hurt her. Well, I've hurt you. And you will 
 never hear no more of Phil's pal from Danger Mountain." 
 
 Immediately after sunset of this night, a storm swept 
 suddenly down the mountains, and prevented Ruth and 
 her father from going to Viking. I left them talking 
 to Roscoe, he wearing such a look on his face as I 
 like to remember now, free from distress of mind — 
 so much more painful than distress of body. As I was 
 leaving the room, I looked back and saw Ruth sitting on 
 a stool beside Roscoe's chair, holding the unmaimed 
 hand in hers ; the father's face shining with pleasure and 
 pride. Before I went out, I turned again to look at 
 them, and, as I did so, my eye fell on the window against 
 which the wind and rain were beating. And through the 
 wet there appeared a face, shocking in its paleness and 
 misery — the face of Mrs. Falchion. Only for an instant, 
 and then it was gone. 
 
 I opened the door and went out upon the veranda. 
 As I did so, there was a flash of lightning, and in that 
 flash a figure hurried by me. One moment, and there 
 was another flash ; and I saw the figure in the beating 
 rain, making towards the precipice. 
 
 Then I heard a cry, not loud, but full of entreaty and 
 sorrow. I moved quickly towards it. In another white 
 gleam I saw Justine with her arms about the figure, hold- 
 
274 MRS - FALCHION. 
 
 ing it back from the abyss. She said with incredible 
 pleading : 
 
 " No, no, Madame ! not that ! It is wicked — wicked ! " 
 
 I came and stood beside them. 
 
 The figure sank upon the ground, and buried a beauti- 
 ful, pitiful face in the wet grass. 
 
 Justine leaned over her. 
 
 She sobbed as one whose harvest of the past is all tears. 
 Nothing human could comfort her yet. 
 
 I think she did not know that I was there. Justine 
 lifted her face to me, appealing. 
 
 I turned and stole silently away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 IN PORT. 
 
 That night I could not rest. It was impossible to 
 rid myself of the picture of Mrs. Falchion as I had seen 
 her by the precipice in the storm. What I had dared to 
 hope for had come. She had been awakened : and with 
 the awakening had come a new understanding of her 
 own life and the life of others. The storm of wind and 
 rain that had swept down the ravine was not wilder than 
 the storm of her passions when I left her alone with Jus- 
 tine in the dark night. 
 
 All had gone well where the worst might have been. 
 Roscoe's happiness was saved to him. He felt that the 
 accident to him was the penalty he paid for the error of 
 his past : but in the crash of penalties Mrs. Falchion, 
 too, was suffering, and, so far as she knew, must carry 
 with her the remorse of having seen without mercy her 
 husband sink to a suicide's grave. I knew that she was 
 paying a great price now for a mistaken past. I wished 
 that I might make her remorse and sorrow less. There 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 275 
 
 was a way, but I was not sure that all would be as I 
 wished. Since a certain dreadful day on the Firivia 
 Hungerford and I had held a secret in our hands. When 
 it seemed that Mrs. Falchion would bring a great trouble 
 and shame into Roscoe's life, I determined to use the 
 secret. It must be used now only for Mrs. Falchion's 
 good. As I said in the last chapter, I had received word 
 that somebody was coming whose presence must take a 
 large place in the drama of these events : and I hoped 
 for good. 
 
 Until morning I lay and planned the best way to bring 
 things to a successful issue. The morning came — beau- 
 tiful after a wild night. Soon after I got up I received 
 a note, brought by a boy from Viking, which gave me a 
 thrill of excitement. The note requested me to go to 
 Sunburst. But first I sent a note to Mrs. Falchion, beg- 
 ging her in the name of our new friendship not to leave 
 the mountains that day. I also asked that she would 
 meet me in Sunburst that evening at eight o'clock, at a 
 place indicated by me. I asked for a reply by the mes- 
 senger I sent, and urged her to ask no questions, but to 
 trust me as one who only wished to do her a great ser- 
 vice, as I hoped her compliance would make possible. 
 I waited for the reply, and it bore but the one word — 
 "Yes." 
 
 Greatly pleased I started down the valley. It was 
 still early when I reached Sunburst. I went directly to 
 the little tavern from whence the note had come, and 
 remained an hour or more. The result of that hour's 
 conversation with the writer of the note was memorable, 
 as was the hour itself. I began to hope fondly for the 
 success of my scheme. 
 
 From the tavern I went to the village, with an elation 
 hardly disturbed by the fact that many of the salmon- 
 fishers were sullen because of foolish depredations 
 committed the evening before by idle rivermen and mill- 
 
276 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 hands of Viking. Had I not been so occupied with Mrs. 
 Falchion and an event wherein she must figure, I should 
 have taken more seriously the mutterings of the half- 
 breeds, the moroseness of the Indians, and the nervous 
 threatenings of the white fishers : the more so because I 
 knew that Mr. Devlin had started early that morning for 
 the Pacific Coast and would not be back for some days. 
 
 No two classes of people could be more different than 
 the salmon-fishers of Sunburst and the mill-hands and 
 river-drivers of Viking. The life of the rivermen was 
 exciting, hardy and perilous, tending to boisterousness, 
 recklessness, daring, and wild humor : that of the salmon- 
 fishers was cheerful, picturesque, infrequently dangerous, 
 mostly simple and quiet. The river-driver chose to 
 spend his idle hours in crude rough sprightliness : the 
 salmon-fisher loved to lie upon the shore and listen to the 
 village story-teller, — almost official when successful, — 
 who played upon the credulity and imagination of his 
 listeners. The river-driver loved excitement for its own 
 sake, and behind his boisterousness there was little evil. 
 When the salmon-fisher was roused, his anger became 
 desperately serious. It was not his practice to be 
 boisterous for the sake of boisterousness. 
 
 All this worked for a crisis. 
 
 From Sunburst I went over to Viking, and for a time 
 watched a handful of river-drivers upon a little island in 
 the centre of the river, working to loose some logs and 
 timber and foist them into the water, to be driven down 
 to the mill. I stood interested, because I had nothing to 
 do of any moment for a couple of hours. I asked an 
 Indian on the bank to take his canoe and paddle me 
 over to the island. He did so. I do not know why I 
 did not go alone ; but the Indian was near me, his canoe 
 was at his hand, and I did the thing almost mechanically. 
 I landed on the island and watched with great interest 
 the men as they pried, twisted, and tumbled the pile to 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 277 
 
 get at the key-log which, found and loosed, would send 
 the heap into the water. * 
 
 I was sorry I brought the Indian with me, for though 
 the river-drivers stopped their wild sing-song cry for a 
 moment to call a " How ! " at me, they presently began 
 to toss jeering words at the Indian. They had recognized 
 him — I had not — as a salmon-fisher and one of the 
 Siwash tribe from Sunburst. He remained perfectly 
 silent, but I could see sullenness growing on his face. 
 He appeared to take no notice of his scornful enter- 
 tainers, but, instead of edging away, came nearer and 
 nearer to the tangle of logs — came, indeed, very close to 
 me, as I stood watching four or five men with the fore- 
 man close by, working at a huge timber. At a certain 
 moment the foreman was in a kind of hollow. Just 
 behind him, near to the Indian, was a great log, which, if 
 loosened by a slight impulse, must fall into the hollow 
 where the foreman stood. The foreman had his face to 
 us ; the backs of the other men were on us. Suddenly 
 the foreman gave a frightened cry, and I saw at the same 
 instant the Indian's foot thrust out upon the big log. 
 Before the foreman had time to get out of the hollow, it 
 slid down, caught him just above the ankle and broke it. 
 
 I wheeled to see the Indian in his canoe making for 
 the shore. He was followed by the curses of the fore- 
 man and the gang. The foreman was very quiet, but I 
 could see that there was danger in his eye, and the ex- 
 clamations of the men satisfied me that they were planning 
 a little intermunicipal difficulty. 
 
 I improvised bandages, set the leg directly, and in a 
 short time we got to the shore on a hastily-constructed 
 raft. After seeing the foreman safely cared for, and giv- 
 ing Mr. Devlin's manager the facts of the occurrence, 
 more than sated with my morning's experience, I climbed 
 the mountain-side and took refuge from the heat in the 
 coolness of Roscoe's rooms. 
 
278 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 In the afternoon I received a note from Mrs. Falchion 
 saying that on the following day she would start for the 
 coast, that her luggage would be taken to Sunburst at 
 once, and that, her engagement with me fulfilled, she 
 would spend a night there, not returning again to the 
 hills. I was preparing for my own departure, and was 
 kept very busy until evening. Then I went quickly down 
 into the valley,— for I was late,— and trudged eagerly on 
 to Sunburst. As I neared the village I saw that there 
 were fewer lights— torches and fires — than usual burning 
 on the river. I noticed also that there were very few 
 fishers on the banks or in the river. But still the village 
 seemed noisy, and, although it was dusk, I could make 
 out much stir in the one street along which the cottages 
 and huts ambled for nearly a mile. 
 
 All at once it came to me strongly that the friction 
 between the two villages had consummated in the fore- 
 man's injury, and was here coming to a painful crisis. 
 My suspicions had good grounds. As I hurried on I 
 saw that the lights usually set on the banks of the river 
 were scattered through the town. Bonfires were being 
 lighted, and torches were flaring in front of the Indian 
 huts. Coming closer I saw excited groups of Indians, 
 half-breeds and white men moving here and there ; and 
 then, all at once, there came a cry — a kind of roar — from 
 farther up the village, and the men gathered themselves 
 together, seizing sticks, irons and other weapons, and ran 
 on up the street. I understood. I was moderately 
 swift of foot those days, and came quickly after them 
 and passed them. As I did so I inquired of one or two 
 fishers, what was the trouble. They told me, as I had 
 guessed, that they expected an attack on the village by 
 the mill-hands and river-drivers of Viking. 
 
 The situation was critical. I could foresee a catas- 
 trophe which would forever unsettle the two towns, and 
 give the valley an unenviable reputation. I was certain 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 279 
 
 that, if Roscoe or Mr. Devlin were present, a prohibitive 
 influence could be brought to bear ; that some one of 
 strong will could stand, as it were, in the gap between 
 them, and prevent a pitched battle and possibly blood- 
 shed. I was sure that at Viking the river-drivers had 
 laid their plans so secretly that the news of them would 
 scarcely reach the ears of the manager of the mill, and 
 that, therefore, his influence, as Mr. Devlin's, would not 
 be available. 
 
 Remained only myself — as I first thought. I was un- 
 known to a great number of the men of both villages, 
 and familiar with but very few, — chiefly those with whom 
 I had got a gossiping acquaintance. Yet, somehow, I felt 
 that if I could but get a half-dozen men to take a firm 
 stand with me, I might hold the rioters in check. 
 
 As I ran by the side of the excitable fishers, I urged 
 upon one or two of them the wisdom and duty of pre- 
 venting a conflict. Their reply was — and it was pretty 
 convincing — that they were not forcing a struggle, but 
 were being attacked, and in the case would fight. My 
 hasty persuasion produced but little result. But I 
 kept thinking hard. Suddenly it came to me that I 
 could place my hand upon a man whose instincts in 
 the matter would be the same as mine ; who had au- 
 thority ; knew the world ; had been in dangerous posi- 
 tions in his life-time ; and owed me something. I was 
 sure that I could depend upon him : the more so that 
 once frail of body he had developed into a strong, 
 well-controlled man. 
 
 Even as I thought of him, I was within a few rods of 
 the house where he was. I looked, and saw him standing 
 in the doorway. I ran and called to him. He instantly 
 joined me, and we ran on together ; the fishermen 
 shouting loudly as they watched the river-drivers come 
 armed down the hill-slope into the village. 
 
 I hastily explained the situation to my friend, and told 
 
280 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 him what we must do. A word or two assured me of all 
 I wished to know. We reached the scene of the dis- 
 order. The fishermen were bunched together, the river 
 on the one side, the houses and hills on the other. 
 The river-drivers had halted not many yards away, 
 cool, determined, and quiet, save for a little muttering. 
 In their red shirts, top boots, many of them with long 
 black hair and brass earrings, they looked a pretty for- 
 midable crowd. They had evidently taken the matter 
 seriously and were come with the intention of carrying 
 their point, whatever it might be. Just as we reached 
 the space between the two parties, the massive leader 
 of the river-drivers stepped forward, and in a rough but 
 collected voice said that they had come determined to 
 fight, if fighting was necessary, but that they knew what 
 the end of the conflict would be, and they didn't want 
 to obliterate Sunburst entirely if Sunburst accepted the 
 conditions of peace. 
 
 There seemed no leader to the fishermen. 
 My friend said to me quickly, — " You speak first." 
 Instantly I stepped forward and demanded to know 
 what the terms of peace were. As soon as I did so, 
 there were harsh mutterings among the river-drivers. I 
 explained at once, waving back some of the fishermen 
 who were clamoring about me, that I had nothing what- 
 ever to do with the quarrel, that I happened to be where 
 I was by accident, as I had happened by accident to see 
 the difficulty of the morning. But I said that it was the 
 duty of every man who was a good citizen and respected 
 the laws of his country, to see, in so far as it was possible, 
 that there should be no breach of the laws. I spoke in 
 a clear strong voice, and I think I produced some effect 
 upon both parties to the quarrel. The reply of the 
 leader was almost immediate. He said that all they 
 demanded was the Indian who had so treacherously 
 injured the foreman of their gangs. I saw the position 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 251 
 
 at once, and was dumbfounded. For a moment I did 
 not speak. 
 
 I was not prepared for the scene that immediately 
 occurred. Some one broke through the crowd at my 
 back, rushed by me, and stood between the two forces. 
 It was the Indian who had injured the foreman. He 
 was naked to the waist, and painted and feathered 
 after the manner of his tribe going to battle. There 
 was a wild light in his eye, but he had no weapon. He 
 folded his arms across his breast, and said : 
 
 " Well, you want me. Here I am. I will fight with any 
 man all alone, without a gun or arrow or anything. I 
 will fight with my arms — to kill." 
 
 I saw revolvers raised at him instantly, but at that 
 the man, my friend, who stood beside me, sprang in front 
 of the Indian. 
 
 " Stop ! " he said, " in the name of the law ! I 
 am a sergeant of the mounted police of Canada. My 
 jurisdiction extends from Winnipeg to Vancouver. You 
 cannot have this man except over and through my body : 
 and for my body every one of you will pay with your 
 lives : for every blow given this night, there will be a 
 hundred blows struck upon the river-drivers and mill- 
 hands of this valley. Beware ! Behind me is the law 
 of the land, her police and her soldiery." 
 
 He paused. There was almost complete silence. He 
 continued. 
 
 " This man is my prisoner ; I arrest him " — he put his 
 hand upon the Indian's shoulder.—" For the crime he 
 committed this morning he shall pay : but to the law, 
 not to you. Put up your revolvers, men. Go back to 
 Viking. Don't risk your lives, don't break the law and 
 make yourselves criminals and outlaws. Is it worth it ? 
 Be men. You have been the aggressors. There isn't 
 one of you but feels that wild justice which is the boast 
 of every man of the West. You wanted to avenge the 
 
2 82 MRS. FALCHION. 
 
 crime of this morning. But the vengeance is the law's. — 
 Stand back. Stand back ! " he said, and drew his revol- 
 ver, as the leader of the river-drivers stepped forward. 
 " I will kill the first man that tries to lay his hand upon 
 my prisoner. Men, don't be mad. I am not one man, 
 I am a whole country." 
 
 I shall never forget the thrill that searched me as I 
 saw a man who, but a handful of months before, was 
 neck deep in his grave, now blossomed out into a strong, 
 brave, defiant soldier. 
 
 There was a pause. At last the leader of the river- 
 drivers spoke. "See," he said, "sergeant, I guess 
 you're right. You're a man, so help me God ! Say, 
 boys," he continued, turning to his followers, "let him 
 have the Injin. I guess he's earned him." 
 
 So saying he wheeled, the men with him, and they 
 tramped up the slope again on their way back to Viking. 
 The man who had achieved this now turned upon the 
 fishers. 
 
 " Back to your homes," he said, " and be thankful 
 that blood was not shed here to-night. Let this be a 
 lesson to you. Now go." 
 
 The crowd turned, slowly shambled down the river- 
 side, and left us three standing there. 
 
 But not alone. Out of the shadows of one of the 
 houses came two women. They stepped forward into 
 the light of the bonfire burning near us. One of the 
 women was as pale as death. 
 
 It was Mrs. Falchion. 
 
 I touched the arm of the man standing beside me. 
 He wheeled and saw her also. A cry broke from his 
 lips, but he stood still, panting. A whole lifetime of 
 sorrow, trouble and love looked out of his eyes. Mrs. 
 Falchion came nearer. Clasping her hands upon her 
 breast, she peered up into his face, and said breathlessly : 
 
 "Oh— Oh— I thought that you were drowned— and 
 
MRS. FALCHION. 283 
 
 dead ! I saw you buried in the sea. No — no — it cannot 
 be you ! — I have heard and seen all within these past few 
 minutes. You are so strong and brave, so great a man ! 
 . . . Oh, tell me, tell me, and save me from the 
 horror of my remorse and shame : are you my husband ? " 
 
 He spoke. 
 
 " I was your husband, Mercy Falchion. I was drowned, 
 but this man " — he turned and touched my shoulder — 
 " this man brought me back to life. I wanted to be dead 
 to the world. I begged him to keep my secret. A dead 
 sailor was buried in my shroud. At Aden I stole from 
 the boat in the night. I came to America — to Canada 
 — to begin, as I believed, a new life under a new name, 
 never to see you again. . . . Don't, don't speak to 
 me — unless — oh, my wife ! — unless — I am not to lose you 
 again ; unless I know that now you forgive me — that 
 you forgive me — and wish me to live." 
 
 She put both her hands out, a strange unutterable look 
 in her eyes, and said : " I have sinned — I have sinned." 
 
 He took her hands in his. 
 
 " I know," he said, ''that you do not love me yet, but 
 you may some day." 
 
 u No," she said, "I do not love you : but you must 
 teach me how. I am glad you live. Let us — go home." 
 
 FINIS. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 NOVELS BY MAARTEN MAARTENS. 
 J^HE GREATER GLORY. A Story of High Lift. 
 M. By Maarten Maartens, author of " God's Fool," " Joost 
 Avelingh," etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " Until the Appletons discovered the merits of Maarten Maartens, the foremost o§ 
 Dutch novelists, it is doubtful if many American readers knew that there were Dutch 
 novelists. His ' God's Fool ' and ' Joost Avelingh ' made for him an American reputa- 
 tion. To our mind this just published work of his is his best. . . . He is a master oi 
 epigram, an artist in description, a prophet in insight."— Boston Advertiser. 
 
 " It would take several columns to give any adequate idea of the superb way in 
 which the Dutch novelist has developed his theme and wrought out one of the most 
 impressive stories of the period. ... It belongs to the small class of novels which 
 one can not afford to neglect." — San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 " Maarten Maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the 
 day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power."— Boston Beacon. 
 
 GOB'S FOOL. By Maarten Maartens. 121110. 
 Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " Throughout there is an epigrammatic force which would make palatable a less 
 interesting story of human lives or one less deftly told."— London Saturday Review. 
 
 " Perfectly easy, graceful, humorous. . . . The author's skill in character-drawing 
 is undeniable." — London Chronicle. 
 
 " A remarkable work." — New York Times. 
 
 " Maarten Maartens has secured a firm footing in the eddies of current literature. 
 . . . Pathos deepens into tragedy in the thrilling story of ' God's Fool.' "—Philadel- 
 phia Ledger. 
 
 " Its preface alone stamps the author as one of the leading English novelists of 
 to-day." — Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 "The story is wonderfully brilliant. . . . The interest never lags ; the style is 
 realistic and intense; and there is a constantly underlying current of subtle humor. 
 ... It is, in short, a book which no student of modern literature should fail to read. 
 — Boston Tunes. 
 
 " A story of remarkable interest and point."— New York Observer. 
 
 CYOOST AVELINGH. By Maarten Maartens. 
 
 J~ i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "So unmistakably good as to induce the hope that an acquaintance with the Dutch 
 literature of fiction may soon become more general among us. —London Morning 
 Post. 
 
 " In scarcely any of the sensational novels of the day will the reader find more 
 nature or more human nature." — London Standard. 
 
 "A novel of a very high type. At once strongly realistic and powerfully ideal- 
 istic." — London Literary World. 
 
 " Full of local color and rich in quaint phraseology and suggestion."— London 
 Telegraph. 
 
 " Maarten Maartens is a capital story-teller."— /ktf Mall Gazette. 
 
 "Our English writers of fiction will have to look to their laurels."— Birmingham 
 Daily Post. 
 
 New York : D\ APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 "J" HE SEVEN SEAS. A new volume of poems by 
 -* Rudyard Kipling, author of " Many Inventions," " Barrack- 
 Room Ballads," etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50 ; half calf, $3.00 ; 
 morocco, $5.00. 
 
 " The spirit and method of Kipling's fresh and virile song have taken the English 
 reading world. . . . When we turn to the larger portion of ' The Seven Seas,' how 
 imaginative it is, how impassioned, how superbly rhythmic and sonorous! . , . The 
 ring and diction of this verse add new elements to our song. . . . The true laureate 
 of Greater Britain." — E. C. Stedman, in the Book Buyer. 
 
 " The most original poet who has appeared in his generation. . . . His is the lusti- 
 est voice now lifted in the world, the clearest, the bravest, with the fewest false notes 
 in it. ... I do not see why, in reading his book, we should not put ourselves in the 
 presence of a great poet again, and consent to put off our mourning for the high ones 
 lately dead." — W. D. Howelis. 
 
 "'The Seven Seas' is the most remarkable book of verse that Mr. Kipling has 
 given us. Here the human sympathy is broader and deeper, the patriotism heartier 
 and fuller, the intellectual and spiritual insight keener, the command of the literary 
 vehicle more complete and sure, than in any previous verse work by the author. The 
 volume pulses with power— power often rough and reckless in expression, but invariably 
 conveying the effect intended. There is scarcely a line which does not testify to the 
 strong individuality of the writer." — London Globe. 
 
 " Mr. Kipling's ' The Seven Seas ' is a distinct advance upon his characteristic 
 lines. The surpassing strength, the almost violent originality, the glorious swish and 
 swing of his lines — all are there in increased measure. . . . The book is a marvel of 
 originality and genius— a brand-new landmark in the history of English letters." — 
 Chicago Tribune. 
 
 ft/TANY INVENTIONS. By Rudyard Kipling. 
 
 •*■ *-* Containing Fourteen Stories and Two Poems. i2mo, 427 
 pages. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " ' Many Inventions ' will confirm Mr. Kipling's reputation. . . . We would cite 
 with pleasure sentences from almost every page, and extract incidents from almost 
 every story. But to what end? Here is the completest book that Mr. Kipling has yet 
 given us in workmanship, the weightiest and most humane in breadth of view." — 
 Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " Mr. Kipling's powers as a story-teller are evidently not diminishing. We adviFe 
 everybody to buy ' Many Inventions,' and to profit by some of the best entertainment 
 that modern fiction has to offer." — New York Sun. 
 
 " ' Many Inventions ' will be welcomed wherever the English language is spoken. 
 . . . Every one of the stories bears the imprint of a master who conjures up incident 
 as if by magic, and who portrays character, scenery, and feeling with an ease which is 
 only exceeded by the boldness of force." — Boston Globe. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. NEW YORK. 
 
FOURTEEN DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 l<d<Wi r tt i 
 
 
 SEP1 fi 1Q55 i it 
 
 
 *■' LI l_ 1 } . , J ) l^fj 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 LD 21-100m-2,'55 TT . Gen . eral Library 
 (B139s22)476 UniVerS g r ^ y illforma 
 
yt 
 
 ^ 
 
 7 
 
 M271 18 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY