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‘AND WHEN HECTOR MAC INTYRE , . . HAD PLAYED THE PEOPLE IN ” 
 
THE MAGIC INK 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM BLACK 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 “DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA ” U A PRINCESS OF THULE ” 
 “STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON ” ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 1892 
 
WILLIAM BLACK’S NOVELS. 
 
 LIBRARY EDITION. 
 
 23 vols. , 12mo, Cloth, $1 25 per vol. Complete Sets, $26 00. 
 
 A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 
 
 A PRINCESS OF THULE. 
 
 DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA. 
 GREEN PASTURES AND PICCA- 
 DILLY. 
 
 IN FAR LOCHABER. 
 
 IN SILK ATTIRE. 
 
 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE. Illus- 
 trated by Abbey. 
 
 KILMENY. 
 
 MACLEOD OF DARE. Illustrated. 
 MADCAP VIOLET. 
 
 PRINCE FORTUNATUS. Ill’d. 
 SABINA ZEMBRA. 
 
 YOLANDE. 
 
 Published by HARPER & 
 
 A ny of the above works will be 
 part of the United States, Canada. 
 
 SHANDON BELLS. Illustrated. 
 STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON 1 
 Illustrated. 
 
 SUNRISE. 
 
 THAT BEAUTIFUL WRETCH. Ill’d. 
 THE MAGIC INK, AND OTHER 
 STORIES. Illustrated. 
 
 THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF 
 A HOUSE-BOAT. Illustrated. 
 THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF 
 A PHAETON. 
 
 THREE FEATHERS. 
 
 WHITE HEATHER 
 WHITE WINGS. Illustrated. 
 Illustrated. 
 
 BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 sent by mail, postage prepaid , to any 
 or Mexico , on receipt of the price. 
 
 ttBT For Paper Edition of William Black's Novels, see Harper’s Cata- 
 logue, mailed to any address on receipt of Ten Cents. 
 
 Copyright, 1S92, by IIabpf.b & Brothers. 
 
n%6s 
 
 kZ3 
 
 6£6?ne. 
 
 tg-?£ 1 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 TAGE 
 
 The Magic Ink, i 
 
 A Hallowe’en Wraith, 75 
 
 Nanciebel: A Tale of Stratford-on-Avon, . • . 117 
 
 v 
 
 V 
 
 <N 
 
 Vi 
 
 \ 
 
 801.675 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 AND WHEN HECTOR MAC INTYRE . . . HAD PLAYED 
 THE PEOPLE IN” 
 
 FROM OUT OF THE DUSK OF THE WALL” . . . 
 
 I WILL SEARCH MY POCKETS” 
 
 FLORA AND HE SITTING TOGETHER IN THE STERN 
 OF THE BOAT, AND ALL OF THEM SINGING THE 
 ‘ FEAR A BHATA ’ ” 
 
 SHE TRIED TO LIFT HER WASTED HAND TO MEET 
 HIS” 
 
 THE TWO FIGURES WERE WELL WRAPPED UP, FOR 
 THE NIGHT WAS COLD ” 
 
 Frontispiece 
 Facing page 78 
 “ 82 
 
 “ 102 
 
 “ 114 
 
 “ 120 
 
THE MAGIC INK 
 
THE MAGIC INK 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE ROBBERY 
 
 At the very busiest hour of the afternoon a 
 young man of about one-and-twenty was making 
 his way along the crowded thoroughfare of the 
 Strand, carrying in his hand a satchel that had 
 stamped on it in gold letters, “Cripps* Bank.” 
 He was rather a good-looking young fellow, 
 with pale, refined features, a sensitive mouth, 
 jet-black hair, and mild, contemplative gray 
 eyes. Eyes were meant for seeing; but some- 
 times they refuse to perform their office ; at this 
 precise moment, for example, this young bank- 
 clerk beheld nothing of St. Clement’s Church, 
 nor of the frontage of the Law Courts, nor yet 
 of the fearful wild-fowl that marks the site of 
 Temple Bar. What he did see before him — here 
 in the heart of the great commercial centre of 
 the world — was a dream-picture of a small slate- 
 quarrying village in the west of Wales, its rows 
 
THE MAGIC INK 
 
 of cottages, its terraced black cliffs, its squalid 
 little harbor, and the ruffled blue sea beyond. 
 And if the schoolmaster’s daughter — Miss Wini- 
 fred — she of the raven hair, and the violet eyes, 
 and the pleasant smile — were to come along by 
 those cottages, and past the Wesleyan chapel, 
 and go away up into the wooded vale running 
 inland, so that she might secure a perfect soli- 
 tude in which to read her last letter from Lon- 
 don? Llanly is a commonplace little hamlet; 
 and the slate-quarries are not picturesque; but 
 youth and love combined can throw a mystic 
 glamour over anything. What was this song 
 that was running through his head? He had 
 got the words, such as they were, scribbled out 
 all right ; and now he was seeking for an air for 
 them — something pensive and wistful, and yet 
 not too sad either : 
 
 Sweet Winnie Davies, down by the sea, 
 
 Sweet Winnie Davies, do you still think of me? 
 
 Do you think of the long days you and I together 
 Went wandering by Llanly in the fair summer weather? 
 
 So the words began ; but they were of less im- 
 portance; it was the setting of them — to some 
 air worthy of sweet Winnie Davies herself — that 
 more particularly olaimed his attention. For 
 this young Welshman, his Celtic nature all com- 
 pact of imagination, and poetry, and romantic 
 
THE ROBBERY 
 
 5 
 
 sympathy and sentiment, was chiefly a musician ; 
 his tentative performances had been in that 
 sphere; there also lay his far-reaching hopes. 
 That he was also a bank-clerk may be ascribed 
 to the irony of fate ; but he did not complain ; 
 and sweet Winnie Davies had considered him a 
 very sensible young man in accepting this post 
 when it was offered him, seeing that he was anx- 
 ious above all things to get to London. As to 
 whether he carried with him a conductor’s baton 
 in his knapsack, who was to foresee? 
 
 When this young Arthur Hughes reached the 
 offices of the Temple Bar Branch of the Lon- 
 don and Westminster Bank, he entered by the 
 heavily-swinging doors, and approached the 
 counter. There were a good many people com- 
 ing and going ; the clerks at the various desks 
 were occupied. Young Hughes perceived that 
 he would have to wait his turn before he could 
 get his business transacted, so he placed his 
 satchel on the counter beside him, and remained 
 absently attentive, if the phrase is permissible. 
 There is a hushed somnolence about the atmo- 
 sphere of a bank, a drowsy whispering of pens 
 and shuffling of feet, that invites to contempla- 
 tion when one has nothing to do but wait. And 
 when one has been, but a few seconds before (if 
 only dream-wise), in a little Welsh village — 
 looking at the harbor, and the quarries, and the 
 
6 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 cottages, and the slim little figure of the school- 
 master’s daughter — it is perhaps easy to return 
 thither. There are times and seasons when the 
 imagination becomes a powerful necromancer; 
 hey, presto! and the bare walls of this place of 
 business suddenly vanish, and in their stead 
 there stands revealed once more that Welsh 
 landscape — the cliffs and woods, the scattered 
 cottages, the breadth of sea beyond. But it is 
 with that solitary figure he is wholly concerned ; 
 he follows her with entranced eyes, watching 
 every grace and charm of movement, and glad 
 that the sunlight is around her. Nor does she 
 seem at all downcast, notwithstanding that her 
 sweetheart is so far away. On the contrary, 
 there is an abundant cheerfulness in her expres- 
 sion ; her step is free and light ; perhaps she is 
 singing to herself — only the immeasurable dis- 
 tance deadens the sound. And now, what is 
 this? She pauses in her aimless stroll; she 
 turns and looks along the road, as if to make 
 sure there is no one in sight; then she produces 
 from her pocket a small hand-mirror, and pro- 
 ceeds to scrutinize her appearance in it. And a 
 very pretty picture she undoubtedly finds there 
 — the black eyelashes and violet eyes, the clear 
 and fresh complexion, the waving black hair; 
 and is her vanity so great that she must needs 
 smile and look pleased, and even begin to talk to 
 
THE ROBBERY 
 
 7 
 
 herself? Arthur Hughes knows better. It is not 
 vanity — nor anything like vanity. He can re- 
 member how she wrote to him shortly after his 
 coming to London : 
 
 “Will you be desperately shocked, dear Ar- 
 thur, if I tell you that I have found a new compan- 
 ion? But wait a moment — don’t be alarmed! — 
 wait a moment, and I will explain. The fact 
 is, I found myself so lonely after you left that 
 I was absolutely driven to do something; and do 
 you know what I did? — I cut myself in two. 
 Yes; I divided myself into two persons, my Or- 
 dinary Self and my Other Self ; and I find the 
 system works admirably. For my Ordinary Self 
 is a most commonplace, uninteresting, useless 
 kind of creature — indeed, indeed, ’tis too true — 
 living a humdrum, monotonous, worthless life, 
 with a sigh now and again for certain things 
 that are past, and another sigh for other things 
 that are far away in the future ; but my Other 
 Self — ah, that is different! — my Other Self is the 
 young lady that Arthur praised, and petted, and 
 teased, and made much of: and she, I can tell 
 you, is entitled to some consideration! And 
 now, when my Ordinary Self takes my Other Self 
 out for a walk, don’t you understand that I have 
 some right to be proud of my companion? I 
 have got a little pocket-mirror, Arthur; I go 
 away up the Megan road ; I take it out ; and then 
 
8 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 the Ordinary Winnie says ‘Good-morning!’ to 
 the other Winnie. 
 
 “‘Good-morning, Miss Other One; let me see 
 how you look. It is of no consequence how / 
 look. My appearance is of not the least conse- 
 quence to any one ; but you — you whom Arthur 
 imagined into existence — it is of the utmost im- 
 portance that you should be trim and neat and 
 nice, for you know he is very particular. Yes — 
 pretty well — not so bad — the sea-shell brooch on 
 the black velvet band is what he approved. The 
 saffron frill might be a little broader ; attend to 
 that. Now, go on, and tell me all the things 
 he has said about you.’ 
 
 “‘All of them?’ says my Other Self. ‘Well, 
 he has called me good, and sweet, and kind, and 
 charming, and good-tempered, and clever, and 
 affectionate, and true, and tender, and wonderful, 
 and delightful ’ 
 
 “ ‘ It is not surprising you should give your- * 
 self airs!’ 
 
 “ ‘ and stupid, and silly, and perverse, and 
 
 ill-natured, and cross, and unyielding, and un- 
 just, and quarrelsome, and obstinate ’ 
 
 “‘Not so much to boast of, after all!’ says my 
 Ordinary Self. ‘ But now let me hear some of 
 the things you have said about him, to himself, 
 or to yourself, or to other people.’ 
 
 “‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ says my Other Self, 
 
THE ROBBERY 
 
 9 
 
 laughing at me from the mirror. ‘Telling’s 
 telling. You might go away and write it all 
 down; and send it over to London; and then 
 there would be such an exhibition of vanity as 
 was never seen in the world before. It wouldn’t 
 be at all wholesome. You often say things you 
 don’t quite mean; and it isn’t safe to put them 
 down on paper; at the same time, if Arthur 
 were to appear here just now — well — I should 
 most likely ask you to go away — you would not 
 be wanted here at all — and then, if he and I were 
 left together, then I might say some of those 
 things over again. But to have them written 
 down — no, thank you!’ 
 
 “So, you see, dear Arthur, the companion I 
 have invented — or, rather, whom you imagined 
 into existence for me — is not at all monotonously 
 civil and acquiescent ; sometimes we have dread- 
 ful quarrels ; but in such cases my Ordinary Self 
 is easily triumphant ; my Ordinary Self claps the 
 mirror into her pocket — and then walks home 
 alone.” 
 
 Thus it was that Arthur Hughes, standing in 
 the London and Westminster Bank, and gazing 
 through the opaque walls at that distant dream- 
 land, knew it was no personal vanity that 
 prompted Winnie Davies to carry a little hand- 
 glass with her on her solitary wanderings. No, 
 it was rather a pretty fancy, that lent charm and 
 
IO 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 piquancy to many a letter; for sometimes, if the 
 truth must be told, the Ordinary Winnie con- 
 siderately allowed the Other Winnie to have far 
 the larger part of the conversation, she merely 
 acting the part of reporter, and not holding her- 
 self responsible when any dark and mysterious 
 secrets had to be confessed. 
 
 It was at this moment that some one touched 
 Arthur Hughes’ arm; instantly the dream-pic- 
 ture (that had been before his eyes for perhaps 
 not more than three seconds or so) disappeared : 
 he was again in the Strand. 
 
 “I beg your pardon,” said a voice close to 
 him, “but can you direct me to the London and 
 Counties Bank? ” 
 
 Naturally he faced round to see who the ques- 
 tioner was. He found before him a tall, meagre, 
 gray-complexioned man, with an aquiline nose, 
 steely eyes, and a “goatee;” and he was just 
 about to give the desired information when some 
 curious instinct caused him to turn again, to see 
 that his hand-bag was safe. It was gone ! In 
 that brief instant it had been snatched away — no 
 doubt by a confederate of the American-looking 
 stranger. But that was not what Arthur Hughes 
 understood just then; he thought of neither why 
 nor wherefore ; blank horror had fallen over 
 him; he seemed to be drowning and choking, 
 and to have lost the power of speech. The 
 
THE ROBBERY 
 
 II 
 
 satchel — and its £y, 560 belonging to his em- 
 ployers — vanished into air : it was as if he had 
 been dealt some violent blow, depriving him of 
 reason. His haggard eyes stared up and down; 
 the world around him appeared strangely empty ; 
 and then, as the clerk on the other side of the 
 counter, seeing that something was wrong, asked 
 him a question, he managed to stammer out, 
 in panting accents: 
 
 “My bag — there were £7,560 in bank-notes 
 in it — belonging to Cripps’ — I had it a moment 
 
 The next instant the truth flashed in upon 
 him : he had been robbed — and the tall man who 
 had touched him on the arm, to distract his at- 
 tention, was one of the thieves. Blindly and 
 wildly he made for the swinging-door and rushed 
 into the street. He could easily recognize the 
 tall man ; the confederates could not be far away ; 
 was there not yet a frantic chance of recovery? 
 But, alas ! what was this that confronted him — 
 this endless surging sea of human beings into 
 which those two had disappeared? He ran this 
 way and that ; he hurriedly searched the hall of 
 the Law Courts opposite; he glanced breath- 
 lessly in at the bars of the neighboring taverns — 
 but with an ever-increasing and terrible con- 
 sciousness that his pursuit was hopeless, that al- 
 ready the thieves were well away with their 
 
12 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 booty, and that a calamity too awful to be calcu- 
 lated or even thought of had befallen him. It 
 had all happened so rapidly as to be quite in- 
 credible. He kept trying to assure himself that 
 it was impossible. Why, only a few minutes 
 ago he had nothing more important to think of 
 than the setting of a song for Winifred Davies. 
 The hand-bag must be somewhere — somewhere 
 near : there may have been a mistake. And so 
 he went quickly back to the bank. 
 
 The cashier to whom he had formerly spoken 
 was engaged ; but in his agony of haste he made 
 bold to interrupt. 
 
 “I beg your pardon,” he said breathlessly, 
 “but — but have you seen anything yet of my 
 bag? I — I had it only a few moments ago — 
 here — here on this counter ” 
 
 The cashier looked up from his checks. 
 
 “Your bag? No. Have you lost it? ” 
 
 “It must have been stolen — only a few mo- 
 ments ago!” he exclaimed; “here — just where 
 I am standing. I set it on the counter — some 
 one spoke to me, and I turned for a moment. 
 It cannot be in the bank, then? They must 
 have stolen it ! ” 
 
 “If that is so,” said the cashier, “you’d better 
 jump into a hansom and drive along to Scotland 
 Yard.” 
 
 “ But they cannot have gone far ” 
 
THE ROBBERY 
 
 13 
 
 He rushed again into the street, and with dis- 
 tracted eyes looked everywhere around, and 
 looked in vain: the dread thing was that this 
 moving phantasmagoria was full of features, but 
 no one of them of any import to him. The 
 pavements showed him nothing; the cab-rank 
 showed him nothing ; the passing omnibuses 
 took no heed of him. He hurried hither and 
 thither, searching the many places he had 
 searched a few moments before — the bars of the 
 adjacent taverns, the entrance to the Law Courts, 
 and what-not ; but nowhere could he find any one 
 resembling the man who had asked him for the 
 whereabouts of the London and Counties. And 
 at last conviction and despair confronted him, 
 and would not be denied. The money was gone. 
 No one would believe the improbable tale he 
 would have to tell of the manner of its disappear- 
 ance. There would be a prosecution — conviction 
 — a prison ; disgrace would fall on his old father, 
 the white-haired Wesleyan minister, whose chief 
 pride in life was his only son. And as for Wini- 
 fred Davies ? Well, she had made many promises 
 before he left Llanly, but she never undertook 
 to correspond with a jail-bird. 
 
 Now, if in this sudden and terrible crisis Ar- 
 thur Hughes had managed to keep his wits about 
 him, he would have perceived that the best, the 
 only, thing for him to do, was to go straight 
 
14 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 away back to Cripps’, tell the officials of the bank 
 (whether they believed him or not) precisely 
 what had occurred, and let them place the whole 
 matter at once in the hands of the police. But 
 this young man was of a highly nervous, sensi- 
 tive, high-strung temperament; his imagination 
 magnified dangers, and even created them ; and, 
 above all, it was not so much of himself as of 
 those nearest and dearest to him that he was 
 now thinking, so far as he was able to think. 
 And in truth he was not able to think very 
 clearly. Dazed, bewildered, desperate, to him 
 this roaring thoroughfare of the Strand was a 
 dreadful and hideous place; the noise of the 
 cabs and carriages, the wagons and omnibuses, 
 seemed to stupefy him; he was driven to go 
 elsewhere for some brief space of self-commun- 
 ion. And so, hardly knowing what he did, he 
 turned into one of the narrow thoroughfares 
 leading down to the Thames embankment : there 
 he would find quietude, and a chance of realizing 
 to himself what this ghastly thing was that had 
 just happened, and what its consequences were 
 likely to be. 
 
 But here a singular and unexpected little in- 
 cident occurred, that he afterward, in less dis- 
 tracted moments, was able to recall. Some 
 short distance down the narrow street the way 
 was blocked, or nearly blocked, by a number of 
 
THE ROBBERY 
 
 15 
 
 vans being loaded; indeed, one of these was 
 nearly putting a summary end to this young 
 man’s troubles, for, being backed on to the pave- 
 ment, it swung round just as he was passing, 
 and was like to have pinned him against the 
 wall. More by quick instinct than by conscious 
 effort he managed to avoid it ; but in doing so he 
 ran full tilt against a stranger, whom he knocked 
 over. He was very sorry. He raised the man up. 
 He did not notice the swift malevolent glance 
 of the two dull black eyes of this little yellow- 
 skinned person, nor yet the change to a fawning 
 obsequiousness that almost instantly came over 
 the man’s manner. The street was muddy after 
 rain ; this foreigner — Malay, Chinese, Hindoo, 
 whatever he was — took out a handkerchief, and 
 began to clean his clothes after a fashion. 
 
 “I’m very sorry,” Arthur Hughes said. 
 “ The man in charge of the van did not call out 
 until it was too late — I did not see you were on 
 the other side — I’m exceedingly sorry ” 
 
 But the baleful fire had vanished from those 
 small, dull black eyes. 
 
 “Oh, me solly too if you solly,” said the little 
 foreigner, regarding the young man. “We 
 make fiends now. Me show you we make 
 fiends ; me give you little plesent. See ! ” 
 
 It was a small ink-bottle he produced — an or- 
 dinary-looking thing. 
 
1 6 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 “Take it — yes, yes, make fiends,” he said. 
 “ Make fiends ! Me solly if yon solly. English 
 good people — kind people.” 
 
 Well, in other circumstances, Arthur Hughes 
 would doubtless have declined to take an ink- 
 bottle or any similar thing from an entire stran- 
 ger encountered accidentally in the streets of 
 London ; but in his present tragic case he was 
 quite indifferent. He was bewildered; he did 
 not understand ; only, the man seemed anxious 
 he should accept the little present ; and it was a 
 token of good-will from one whom he had un- 
 intentionally injured. So, hardly looking at it, 
 and thinking nothing of it, he accepted it, put it 
 in his pocket, thanked the Eastern-looking per- 
 son, and blindly went on his way. What hap- 
 pened to him in the matter of small trifles was 
 of little moment now. 
 
 Down on the embankment, near to one of the 
 stations on the Underground Railway, he saw a 
 policeman ; and he regarded him with a strange 
 sensation of fear. There was another man driv- 
 ing a mud-sweeping machine ; and him he envied 
 with a bitter heart. 
 
 “ How little you know of your own happiness ! ” 
 he was saying, almost in reproach. “Perched 
 up there, you are as proud as any king on any 
 throne. You have nothing to dread. The law 
 cannot touch you. Your conscience is clear. 
 
THE ROBBERY 1 7 
 
 You might be singing for very joy if you only 
 knew.” 
 
 For this hypersensitive young man, in the 
 first shock of his alarm and consternation, had 
 come to regard himself as being to all intents 
 and purposes a criminal. He was convinced 
 that the people at the bank — and still more the 
 people at Scotland Yard — would not for a mo- 
 ment believe his tale of the two unknown per- 
 sons who had spirited away his satchel; they 
 would assume — and especially the people at 
 Scotland Yard would assume — that he had se- 
 creted the money for his own uses and invented 
 this cock-and-bull story about the mysterious 
 thieves. Nor did he perceive that he was at this 
 moment doing his very best to lend color to such 
 a charge. He was putting himself into the po- 
 sition of an absconding clerk. Had he gone 
 boldly back to the bank, told his story, and chal- 
 lenged inquiry, the situation would no doubt 
 have been very unpleasant for a time, but prob- 
 ably no harm would have come to him in the 
 end. But in the overwhelming dismay that fell 
 upon him on his discovering his loss, going back 
 to the bank seemed to him to mean nothing else 
 than being confronted with detectives — arrest — 
 trial — perhaps a prison. A prison ! Even now, 
 as he wandered, stunned and demented, along 
 the embankment, he began with a morbid vivid- 
 
i8 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 ness to recall such descriptions of prison-life as 
 he had read. Formerly it used to be rather a 
 jolly life — hob-nobbing with friendly turnkeys 
 — sending out for further measures of claret — 
 receiving relatives and acquaintances and borrow- 
 ing money from them — throwing dice and play- 
 ing cards — anything to pass the time. Perhaps 
 that condition of affairs was all over now; but 
 whether or not was of little consequence to him ; 
 there would be for him but the one result of his 
 going to prison — he would never lift up his head 
 again. His conscience might assure him he was 
 innocent; his friends might pity and forgive; 
 but once the iron had entered his soul, for him 
 there would be no recovery, no restoration to 
 life. And the venerable old minister who had 
 lived all these years in the love and respect and 
 affection of his flock — for him to have his white 
 head brought down to the dust: it was too pit- 
 eous to think of. Winnie Davies: but Winnie 
 Davies was young, and pretty, and fascinating ; 
 a few years would go by ; new springs and sum- 
 mers would come to her, with the thrushes sing- 
 ing in the evening woods, and a lover walking 
 by her side, linking his arm with hers. And if 
 in after-times she should ever think of a former 
 lover — of one who had gone away to London to 
 do great things for her sake — it would be with 
 anger, it would be without consideration: why 
 
THE ROBBERY 
 
 19 
 
 had he brought shame upon her in the days of 
 her maidenhood? 
 
 He was a sensitive lad: in spite of himself 
 tears rose to his eyes. 
 
 “Father — Winnie,” he murmured to himself, 
 “ you need not fear. It will not come to that. 
 There must be some other way.” 
 
 There was another way, as it seemed to his 
 unhinged and distracted mind: a way sombre 
 and dark, but sure. All the forces of Scotland 
 Yard combined could not entrap, or prosecute, 
 or hale to prison, one who had slipped quietly 
 and unseen into the deeps of the sea. No tele- 
 graphing to foreign ports could secure the arrest 
 of him whose last adieu to the world was a secret 
 confided to the night, and the stars, and the lone 
 Atlantic. 
 
 “Do not be afraid, father,” he said inwardly, 
 amid all those wild and storm-tossed emotions that 
 were now being narrowed down to one stern re- 
 solve. “ There will be no trial. There will be 
 no reading of newspaper reports — no whisper- 
 ings among the members of the congregation. 
 Do not be afraid, Winnie: no shame shall come 
 to you through me. If there had been a prose- 
 cution, I think you would have believed me in- 
 nocent, whatever happened; but there will be 
 no prosecution. Those I left behind me in 
 Llanly will have no cause to hang their heads 
 
20 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 on my account. What becomes of me is noth- 
 ing.” 
 
 And this that he was about to give up — to save 
 his dear ones from scorn? Well, youth i^ nat- 
 urally tenacious of life; it takes little heed of 
 the pains and struggles and rebuffs involved in 
 its own eager aspirations and ambitions; there 
 is the joy of pressing forward, to see what the 
 world has in store, to act one’s part, to earn the 
 quiet of old age and retrospect. Moreover, in 
 his case there were other and more idyllic vis- 
 ions, with Winifred Davies as their central figure. 
 These were harder to abandon. He thought of 
 by-gone days ; of long walks by sea and shore, he 
 and she together ; of murmured confessions with 
 downcast lashes ; of eyes upturned to his, full of 
 love, and hope, and pride. For who was it that 
 had been most eager to prophesy great things of 
 his going to London? Who had boldly declared 
 that his “ Cad wallon’s Army-Call ” had more of 
 fire in it, had a more martial and stately tread, than 
 even the famous “ Forth to the Battle,” the Rhy- 
 felgyrch Cadpen Morgan , the war-march of Morgan 
 of Morgan og? Who had sung his “Bells of 
 Llanly ” to the school children at their . nnual 
 treat, and had maintained, in public hearing, that 
 in her opinion it was more touching and sym- 
 pathetic, more characteristically Welsh, than even 
 the “Bells of Aberdovey?” Nay, had she not 
 
THE ROBBERY 
 
 21 
 
 gone further, and in wistful confidences to him- 
 self talked of the Crystal Palace, and of a young 
 conductor standing in front of the great attentive 
 choir, and of a Welsh girl seated among the au- 
 dience, and saying to herself (while trembling a 
 little), “Ah! now, you English people will hear 
 something. W ales has sent you many musicians : 
 judge now, by this Army-Call of Cadwallon, 
 whether another has not been added to the list. 
 And it was I who urged him to go away from 
 Llanly and try his fortune in the great city — 
 though the parting was cruel enough.” 
 
 Yes; it was much to give up — life, love, am- 
 bition; but he could see no alternative. The 
 only thing to do now was to guard against his 
 friends in Llanly forming any suspicion as to 
 the manner of his disappearance. He vrould 
 write a letter to his father, another to Winifred, 
 and another to Mr. Cyrus Brangwyn — a junior 
 partner in Cripps’, who had interested himself 
 in the young man’s behalf; and in these he 
 would give such plausible explanations as he 
 could invent. Then a quick vanishing — and si- 
 lence. Black night and the Atlantic would hold 
 his secret ; his troubles would be peacefully over ; 
 and there would be no finger of scorn uplifted 
 against those whom he had left behind him in 
 the distant little Welsh village, the home of his 
 youth. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 
 
 Thus it was that his first frantic apprehen- 
 sions were succeeded by a period of calm — the 
 calm of resignation rather than despair. For he 
 did not pity himself in the least; indeed, he was 
 not thinking of himself at all. A great calamity 
 had occurred — how, he was almost yet too bewil- 
 dered to know ; but his first and sole care was to 
 shield from its consequences those dear ones 
 whose welfare, whose happiness, whose good 
 name, were of more concern to him than his own 
 life. Nay, even now, in the dull and dazed con- 
 dition into which he had fallen, his mind was 
 occupied with but the one idea — to frame such 
 excuses for his going away as would cause them 
 neither alarm nor grief. His subsequent silence 
 they would no doubt explain to themselves some- 
 how or another. The old man would say : “ My 
 boy has gone away to the colonies, to seek his 
 fortune; and he is proud; we shall not hear 
 from him, perhaps, until he can announce to us 
 that he has succeeded.” And Winnie Davies? 
 She would wonder for a time. Then she would 
 grow indignant and resentful. Then her eyes — 
 as the eyes of a young maiden are apt to do — 
 
 22 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 
 
 2 3 
 
 would begin to rove ; recollections, memories 
 would become gradually obliterated ; she would 
 take it that in those distant climes he had for- 
 gotten all about her and the little Welsh village; 
 she would feel herself justified in choosing an- 
 other mate. 
 
 Sweet Winnie Davies, down by the sea, 
 
 Sweet Winne Davies, do you still think of me? 
 
 Do you think of the long days you and I together 
 Went wandering by Llanly in the fair summer weather? 
 
 — that was all very well as a bit of idle rhyme ; 
 but the way of the world was the way of the 
 world; a young maiden’s imaginative fancies are 
 soon free to grace and adorn a new-comer. In- 
 deed, what else could he wish for her? For her, 
 long years of happiness and calm content: for 
 him, oblivion — and a nameless ocean grave. 
 
 Plunged in these sombre reveries, he had left 
 the embankment, crossed the river, and was 
 now in the Blackfriars Road. He had taken this 
 route mechanically, it being part of his usual 
 homeward way; but he had no intention of re- 
 turning to his lodgings in the Kennington Park 
 Road ; would there not be a detective hovering 
 about — perhaps with a warrant of arrest in his 
 hand? No; his immediate object was to get 
 those three letters written; and so, after some 
 little hesitation, he entered a dingy-looking 
 
24 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 coffee-shop. He glanced timidly and furtively 
 around ; he knew he had entered on false pre- 
 tences ; it was neither food nor drink that was 
 in his mind. Well, there seemed to be nobody 
 in this dusky place except a stout woman — prob- 
 ably the proprietress — who was seated behind a 
 counter at the farther end ; but presently there 
 emerged from some mysterious recess a shabbily- 
 dressed man in black who was doubtless the 
 waiter. A poor-looking creature he was, with a 
 pale and puffy face that suggested gin ; and yet 
 Arthur Hughes, so unstrung were his nerves, 
 had some vague desire to propitiate this person : 
 he hoped he vrould not stare too curiously, even 
 with those dull eyes. 
 
 “I should like some tea and a roll, if you 
 please,” said Hughes, with averted look (would the 
 man guess that he wanted neither tea nor roll?). 
 
 The waiter — without any “ Yes, sir ” — was per- 
 functorily turning away to order these things, 
 when Hughes ventured to address him again. 
 
 “Would you mind getting me some writing- 
 paper in the mean time? ” 
 
 “How many sheets?” the waiter responded, 
 apathetically: he seemed to take no interest 
 whatever in this visitor, who need not have been 
 so alarmed about awakening suspicion. 
 
 “ Three, I think, will do — and three envelopes, 
 if you please.” 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 25 
 
 Then of a sudden it occurred to him that he 
 could at least spare the waiter the bother of 
 fetching pen and ink: had he not with him the 
 bottle that had just been given him by the for- 
 eigner whom he had accidentally thrown into 
 the mud ? — while there was a pen in combination 
 with his pocket-pencil. 
 
 “You needn’t trouble about pen and ink,” he 
 said, quite humbly; “I have them with me.” 
 
 And then he turned into a corner, and took 
 his seat on a bench that had a narrow table in 
 front of it. Mechanically he pulled out his 
 pocket-pen and opened it ; mechanically he 
 brought forth from his pocket the little phial: 
 his head was so crowded with memories and 
 strange imaginings that he hardly knew what he 
 was doing. It was without curiosity that he 
 opened the small bottle — the cork giving way 
 easily : he may have noticed that the ink emitted 
 a pungent and unusual odor, and yet he paid no 
 particular attention to the fact. Indeed, he did 
 not stay to consider how odd it was that the 
 Eastern-looking person should have insisted on 
 making him a present in return for an injury, 
 however unintentional the injury may have 
 been : it was of other things he was thinking. 
 The waiter fetched the paper and envelopes. 
 The pen and ink were ready. And now he set 
 
 to work to construct a cloak under cover of which 
 2 
 
26 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 he might escape into blackness and the un- 
 known. 
 
 The first letter was to the junior partner in 
 Cripps’ who had procured for him a situation 
 in the bank. This Mr. Cyrus Brangwyn was on 
 a walking-tour in Wales when he chanced to 
 make Arthur Hughes’ acquaintance; had been 
 much struck by the young man’s manner, his 
 intelligence, his sympathetic nature ; and on 
 further discovering young Hughes’ eager desire 
 to get to London, he had offered to use his in- 
 fluence to procure him a post, however minor a 
 one, in Cripps’. Hughes, who was merely an 
 assistant clerk at the Llanly slate-works, gladly 
 accepted the offer: to be in London was the 
 main point, no matter in what capacity. Lon- 
 don, with its Albert Halls and St. James’ Halls, 
 its opera-houses and Crystal Palace — that was 
 the Mecca of this young man’s mind; he did not 
 care in what guise he might travel thither, nor 
 by what modest means he might maintain him- 
 self there, so long as he was enabled to live in 
 the enchanted capital that drew the great ones 
 of the music- world from all parts of the earth. 
 Then there came a morning at Llanly, a dull, 
 gray, bitterly cold winter’s morning. The old 
 omnibus was drawn up in front of the Pembroke 
 Arms, getting in its freight for the railway sta- 
 tion some dozen miles off. The venerable, 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 
 
 27 
 
 white-headed minister was here, talking his 
 grave fashion to this one and that of the by- 
 standers. Here, likewise, was Winnie Davies — 
 tearful — laughing — courageous — petulant. Why 
 would he not let her drive with him to the sta- 
 tion? If it would be lonely for her coming back, 
 it would be as lonely for him in the cold third- 
 class carriage journeying on to London. Would 
 he write as often as he had promised? No, she 
 knew he would not. He was to be sure to ask 
 for a foot- warmer at the station. He was to be 
 sure to go and hear Santley sing at the Crystal 
 Palace, and to send her a long letter about it. 
 And, therewithal, as the driver was now mount- 
 ing the box, she drew from her pocket a volu- 
 minous neckerchief of pale pink silk, and this 
 parting gift she would herself wrap round his 
 throat. Then the commonplaces of good-by; 
 and other farewells — not so commonplace — 
 spoken by eyes half-dimmed and piteous. The 
 brake is removed ; the lumbering omnibus moves 
 off; there is a fluttering of handkerchiefs and 
 long last looks : Arthur Hughes is away to Lon- 
 don, in quest of fame and fortune, and Winnie, 
 “ sweet Winnie Davies,” walks silently back by 
 the side of the minister, hardly knowing that he 
 is doing his best, in his grave and kindly fash- 
 ion, to cheer her. 
 
28 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 “To Cyrus Brangwyn, Esq., Cripps’ Bank, 
 Strand ” — this was the letter he wrote and ad- 
 dressed, sitting in a corner of the dingy coffee- 
 house — “ Dear Sir : — I am sorry to have to tell you 
 that this afternoon I lost my satchel contain- 
 ing £y,$6o belonging to the bank, and that I am 
 quite powerless to give you any information that 
 might lead to the recovery of the same. I can- 
 not explain how the satchel was taken, nor can 
 I describe the thieves; but the numbers of the 
 notes are known to the bank, and by advertising 
 I suppose they can be stopped, at least the large 
 ones, which are not easily negotiable. As for 
 the smaller notes which the thieves may be able 
 to put in circulation, I regret that I am not in a 
 position to make good the loss to the bank ; but 
 I am leaving this country ; and if I should ever 
 find it possible to refund the money, you may 
 be sure I will do so. If you think it necessary 
 to make any inquiries about me, I ask you only 
 for one thing — not to make inquiries at Llanly. 
 I assure you it is not there I am going. I would 
 give you my word of honor; but unhappily, in 
 the position I find myself placed in — and the 
 suspicion naturally attaching to it — you might 
 not be inclined to accept that as of any value. 
 However, what I tell you is true : I am not going 
 to Llanly; and any one making inquiries there 
 would only give pain to innocent people, and 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 29 
 
 would gain no information about me. I have to 
 thank you, dear Mr. Brangwyn, for all the kind- 
 ness you have shown me since I came to London, 
 though I am sorry I ever did come. If I ever 
 return to London, it will be to restore the money 
 to the bank. 
 
 “ Yours very faithfully, 
 
 “Arthur Hughes.” 
 
 A sudden sound startled him : a boy in the 
 street was bawling out the name of an evening 
 journal. And like a knife the thought flashed 
 through his brain: what if his scheme should 
 fail? He seemed to see before him the contents- 
 bill of one of those evening newspapers — large 
 lines staring at him — “ Charge of Robbing a 
 Bank — Proceedings this Day.” And would not 
 a summarized report be at once telegraphed 
 down to Wales? Who would be the first to hear 
 the story — in the quiet little village? 
 
 And then again he strove to reassure himself. 
 His scheme could not fail — there was no possi- 
 bility of its failing — once he was on board the 
 big steamer that would carry him out into the 
 night. A noiseless slipping over into the dark 
 and unknown waters — and no writ or warrant 
 could reach him then. There could be no charge 
 brought against one who had ceased to exist; 
 there would be no evidence, no witnesses, no 
 
30 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 public trial, no report to be telegraphed down 
 to Wales. There remained only to make these 
 last sad preparations. 
 
 But meanwhile that sudden sound had also 
 startled the pallid-faced waiter; it seemed to 
 arouse him out of his dull lethargy. He cast a 
 surreptitious glance toward his mistress, who 
 appeared to have fallen asleep : then quickly and 
 stealthily he went to the door. He was gone for 
 only a second or two ; when he returned, he had 
 an evening paper in his hand ; and a marvellous 
 change had come over his features — he was all 
 eagerness and suppressed excitement. 
 
 “ Archipelago ! ” he said, in a confidential 
 whisper, to Arthur Hughes. 
 
 The young man looked up, dazed; he did not 
 understand. 
 
 “ What is it?” 
 
 "‘The Rose Plate — Newmarket ” 
 
 And even yet he did not seem to comprehend. 
 
 “ It was fifteen to eight against; I’ve made my 
 little bit this time,” said the waiter, who could 
 not altogether conceal his triumph, though he 
 spoke guardedly. 
 
 “ Oh, a race, do you mean ! ” 
 
 “Well, sir, if we didn’t pick out a winner now 
 and again, we’d never get along — just to keep 
 one’s heart up like. They tell me that Red Star 
 is a moral for the Cambridgeshire ” 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 
 
 31 
 
 But at this juncture the mistress of the place 
 made some movement, and the waiter sneaked 
 off, and began to apply his napkin to one of the 
 tables. Arthur Hughes looked after him. 
 
 “ Man, man,” he said to himself, “ have you no 
 thought of the terrible things around you in the 
 world that you can occupy yourself with such 
 trifles? And yet, why not? What better than 
 to think of nothing from day to day but the con- 
 stant and common routine, with this little variety 
 of interest? One morning must be just like an- 
 other morning, one night like another night, 
 quiet and ordinary; nothing haunting you, noth- 
 ing to dread. I wonder if you know how well 
 off you are — I wonder if you know what a price- 
 less, blessing it is to be without care? ” 
 
 And therewithal, and heavily-hearted enough, 
 he turned once more to his series of farewells. 
 It was to his father that he would now write. 
 
 • “Dear Father: — You know with what aspi- 
 rations I came to London. But after some study 
 of the musical world, from the outside, of course, 
 I find that the openings for a young composer, 
 unless he is of extraordinary ability, or has 
 powerful friends, are few indeed. On the other 
 hand, promotion in a London bank is by slow 
 steps; the increase of salary small; and little 
 opportunity given for one’s personal endeavors. 
 
32 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 So I have resolved to leave England, and seek 
 some wider and freer sphere. You must not be 
 alarmed, or fret, if you do not hear from me for 
 some time ; for my plans are as yet vague ; and 
 I may wander far before coming to a halt. Be 
 kind to Winnie. Even if you do not hear from 
 me for a very long time, do not worry on my 
 account. 
 
 “Your affectionate son, 
 
 “Arthur Hughes.” 
 
 These two letters had been comparatively easy 
 to write. But when he came to the message he 
 must send to Winnie Davies, he paused. A 
 haggard and drawn look came over his face ; it 
 was as if the hand of death were already upon 
 him ; and as if this were the farewell dooming 
 her to widowhood. And then a strange exal- 
 tation of self-sacrifice entered his heart. If he 
 were parting with her, and yielding her to some 
 one else, he would see that those days of her 
 widowhood should be brief and be not embittered 
 by any useless sorrow. He would make it easy 
 for her to forget him ; he would challenge her 
 wounded pride to help. For what more possible 
 than that a young man, far away from his native 
 village and its associations, and plunged into this 
 roaring city, should have allowed his wandering 
 inclinations to stray from the sweetheart of his 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 33 
 
 youth and fix themselves on some one nearer at 
 hand? The briefest hint would be enough. 
 Winnie Davies was proud; she would seek no 
 further correspondence ; his silence thereafter 
 would be no trouble to her hurt and indignant 
 spirit. And so, with rather bloodless lips, he 
 began to write : 
 
 “Dear Miss Winifred — ” He stopped and 
 looked. “Dear Miss Winifred.” That was the 
 way he used to address her in the remote days 
 when her father and she first came to Llanly, 
 and when she became a member of the village 
 choir. But in those days “ Dear Miss Winifred ” 
 meant respect and a timid appeal for friendship ; 
 whereas now the phrase was meant to wound and 
 insult. Never mind; the pang would be but 
 temporary — and the days of her widowhood 
 would have no vain longings and regrets at- 
 tached. 
 
 “Dear Miss Winifred: — What I have to say 
 may pain you for the moment, but it is better 
 for us both that it should be said at once and 
 done with. I am afraid you were wiser than I 
 when you hinted that our engagement was some- 
 what premature, and therefore involving risk. 
 And if I admit that, living very much alone in 
 
 London, and craving for sympathy as is natural 
 2* 
 
34 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 with a solitary stranger in a large town, I have 
 met with some one else whose attractions have 
 convinced me that the engagement between you 
 and me was a mistake from the beginning ” 
 
 He paused again, and regarded these lines. 
 The poor conventional phrases, the cold arti- 
 ficiality of tone; who could have imagined that 
 each word went like a dagger through his heart? 
 And indeed he could not go on. He was about 
 to die ; it was not thus he could send a last mes- 
 sage to Winnie Davies. He might have to con- 
 ceal much from her; he would have to let her 
 believe that some day or other he might return , 
 but he could not, even in the short time that was 
 now left to him of life, bear the thought that all 
 through the long years to come she would re- 
 gard him with scorn and disdain as a false friend 
 and perjured lover. It was too much for him to 
 demand of himself. So he tore up that sheet of 
 paper, and began again — but still with caution 
 and self-control dominating his brain and trying 
 to still the almost suffocating pulses of heart : 
 
 “Dearest Winnie: — I have something to tell 
 you which may surprise you, but it is not meant 
 to cause you any distress. It is merely that I 
 am not quite satisfied with my position in Lon- 
 don ; and that I am going away. I have nothing 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 35 
 
 to complain of as against any one ; but there are 
 circumstances which seem to call me away from 
 London ; and I am sure it will be better for us 
 all in the end. You will say I ought to have 
 come down to Llanly to bid you good-by; and 
 you may be sure I do not forget your kindness 
 in getting up that bitterly cold morning, nor yet 
 all the things your eyes said after I was on the 
 top of the coach and you could no longer speak. 
 But the world is full of changes and disappoint- 
 ments ; and if I do not run down to Llanly now 
 to see you again, it is because there are urgent 
 reasons against it. I wish you would often go 
 over to see my father; he is very lonely by him- 
 self in the house, and you know how fond he is of 
 you. If you ever speak of me don’t be vexed 
 that I have left you in a kind of uncertainty; and 
 you must always remember this, that no news is 
 good news. And now, dearest Winnie, good-by, 
 and God bless you ! Do not write to me — I am 
 going away from London. Arthur.” 
 
 And therewith he corked up the little bottle 
 of oddly-scented ink and put it in his pocket 
 again along with his pen; he paid for the tea 
 and roll which he had not touched ; he purchased 
 some stamps for the letters, and left the coffee- 
 house, wandering out alone into the wide wilder- 
 ness of London. 
 
36 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 And now he was free to go ; his affairs in this 
 world were all finished up ; there was nothing 
 left for him but to slip quietly away out of the 
 knowledge of men, so that his beloved ones should 
 have no suspicion. But all of a sudden a blunt 
 matter of fact interposed here, as he stood hesi- 
 tating and absent-minded in the Blackfriars 
 Road. He had only a few shillings in his 
 pocket. How was he to purchase a passage in 
 any Canadian or American steamer, in order that 
 on some dark night he might disappear into the 
 voiceless grave of the Atlantic? He had, it is 
 true — apart from the bulk of his savings, which 
 were deposited in the Llanly bank — a few sover- 
 eigns at home in his lodgings ; but even if these 
 were sufficient to secure a berth (as to which he 
 had no precise information) , how could he return 
 to fetch them? Already, he vaguely surmised, 
 the place was being watched. Detectives were 
 after the absconding clerk. Nay, even now, 
 when he had formed no definite plans at all, he 
 had unconsciously turned toward the heart of the 
 great city, and was slowly and impassively mak- 
 ing for Blackfriars Bridge again. How happy — 
 how careless — were those people he saw around 
 him ! The big draymen were cracking jokes as 
 they lowered barrels into the public-house cellars. 
 The rubicund driver of an omnibus raised his 
 whip in salutation to the driver of a butcher’s 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 
 
 37 
 
 cart, who responded*” in gay fashion. Even a 
 blind beggar, chanting his unheeded stave, 
 seemed content; by and by, with a few pence in 
 his pocket, he would creep away home to the 
 common lodging-house, to his pipe and his 
 cronies, sufficiently well satisfied with such poor 
 and small share of the world as had been ac- 
 corded him. How gladly would this hapless 
 young man have exchanged positions with any 
 one of these, had not a tragic destiny encom- 
 passed him ! But for him there was no escape. 
 Indeed, he wished for no escape. It was not 
 about himself he was concerned. How many 
 years would it be before Winnie Davies would 
 quite abandon all hope of hearing from him — 
 would choose out another lover — would go round 
 by the quay, and through the town, and up the 
 vale, to meet him, singing lightly to herself the 
 while “Cadair Idris,” or “The Watching of the 
 Wheat?” For he hoped, and wished, for no 
 impossible things in the way of constancy. Per- 
 haps, after all, Winnie Davies might sometimes 
 think of him ; and if she did, it would not be as 
 of a jail-bird. He would make sure of that. 
 
 He wandered on. The black world of Lon- 
 don was now ablaze with points of yellow fire ; 
 cabs and carriages were driving to the theatres ; 
 the restaurants showed wide doors. He drew 
 away toward the east; and as the slow hours 
 
3 « 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 passed there was greater darkness here and lone- 
 liness. A considerable traffic still poured down 
 toward London Bridge ; but about the Exchange, 
 and Cornhill, and Gracechurch Street, fewer and 
 fewer persons were to be met. Why had he 
 come hither? Because he had a dim recollec- 
 tion that in Fenchurch Street was the station 
 for Tilbury and Tilbury Docks; and he knew 
 that from thence went great steamers out into 
 the unknown seas which were his goal. It was 
 a short railway journey; so far at least he could 
 get; and once down there at the docks, who 
 could tell what happy accident might bring him 
 to his desire? So he idly patrolled these dark 
 and silent thoroughfares, as hour after hour 
 went by — rather avoiding this or that passing 
 policeman, whose suspicious glance he knew was 
 directed toward him. 
 
 Then, with the coming of the gray light of the 
 dawn, and while the side-thoroughfares were 
 as yet deserted — especially Fenchurch Avenue, 
 into which he had by blind accident strolled — he 
 thought he would take out and read Winnie 
 Davies’ last letter to him. It would be a kind 
 of farewell message from her. And as he un- 
 folded these closely-written pages and began, it 
 seemed to him as if Winnie’s voice sounded 
 strange. It appeared to be far away. It ap- 
 peared to belong to a distant and happy time ; 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 39 
 
 leagues and leagues now lay between him and 
 his sombre surroundings and that cheerful, every- 
 day, hopeful kind of life that Winnie Davies 
 talked about in so simple and blithe a strain. 
 
 “Do you know what happened yesterday,” she 
 wrote, “when I went down to post a letter? 
 Little Polly Evans had come out from the back 
 shop, and she was sitting on the door-step, and 
 she had a kitten, and she had hold of the kitten 
 by the fore-paws, and was trying to get it to sit 
 up, or to dance, or some nonsense of the kind. 
 But just imagine my astonishment when I over- 
 heard what the little wretch was singing — or 
 trying to sing — I only heard fragments, but I 
 knew what she was after very well : it was im- 
 pudent of the little monkey to make a dance- 
 song of it to please a kitten — but still — but still 
 — and this is what she was trying at : 
 
 “ ‘ O Llanly bells ! O Llanly bells ! your sad notes never 
 vary ; 
 
 I hear throughout your trembling chimes the name of 
 my lost Mary ! 
 
 Oh, hush you, bells ! oh, hush you, bells ! with grief my 
 heart is breaking — 
 
 Have you no other sound than that — of loving and 
 forsaking? * 
 
 “‘Why, Polly,’ says I, ‘where did you learn 
 that song?’ for I knew she was too small a thing 
 to have heard it at the choir-meetings. 
 
40 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 “‘My sister Hephzibah sings it at night,’ says 
 she, ‘ when she is ironing the clothes. But 
 they’re all singing it.’ 
 
 “ Arthur, my cheeks were burning crimson — I 
 mean my Ordinary Self this time. ‘ They re all 
 singing it, ’ the little monkey said, as innocently 
 as possible. And so, as soon as I had posted fa- 
 ther’s letter, away I went round by the chapel, 
 and up the hill, for I thought I should like to 
 hear what the Other One — Arthur’s Winnie — 
 had to say about this. And when I took the 
 mirror out to find her, you should just have seen 
 her — smirking, and laughing, and as pleased as 
 Punch. 
 
 “‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I suppose you’re mighty proud 
 just because you’ve heard that the girls in a 
 Welsh village have taken to singing a particular 
 song?’ 
 
 “‘You mind your own business, Miss Ordina- 
 ry,’ she says, as bold as brass. ‘If there are bet- 
 ter judges of music than the girls in a Welsh 
 village, I don’t know where you will find them.’ 
 
 “ ‘ And I suppose, ’ says I (for she was looking so 
 happy and stuck-up that it quite annoyed me), 
 ‘that you think the popularity of a song in a lit- 
 tle corner of Wales means conducting a cantata 
 in St. James’ Hall or at the Crystal Palace?’ 
 
 “ But you should have seen how superior she 
 was! 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 
 
 41 
 
 “‘Miss Ordinary,’ she says, ‘if you are so very 
 commonplace and unimaginative, let me tell you 
 that small beginnings have sometimes great end- 
 ings. They re all singing it: well, if you see noth- 
 ing in that — if you do not understand what that 
 means — then I say you are not fit to have made 
 the acquaintance of — you know who I mean; 
 and I will thank you to go away home, and re- 
 sume your commonplace drudgery, and your 
 narrow views. I have faith. I can look for- 
 ward. I don’t want to have anything to do with 
 you ; I do not wish to associate with you ; you 
 can be off now, please!’ 
 
 “ Did you ever hear of such conceit ! 
 
 “‘Oh,’ says I, ‘perhaps, when the great opera 
 comes to be produced at Co vent Garden, you 
 will allow me to pass in to some quiet corner, 
 where I can sit and watch? ” 
 
 “ ‘ You! ’ she says, with the greatest contempt. 
 ‘You would be shaking in your shoes. You 
 would be dreading failure. Whereas I have no 
 fear. / know. ’ 
 
 “ Indeed, dear Arthur, she was just' full of 
 confidence and assurance, and too proud almost 
 to speak to, simply because the Llanly girls had 
 taken to singing your song. And I may as well 
 tell you that she was looking none so ill — con- 
 sidering the absence of somebody — and she was 
 wearing, instead of the shell-brooch, the silver 
 
42 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 anchor, for who was to know who gave it to 
 her ” 
 
 Of a sudden he ceased reading this gay and 
 garrulous letter. The mention of his little 
 present to her recalled to him that out at his 
 lodgings there were countless letters and also a 
 number of small trinkets that Winnie Davies 
 had sent him since his coming to London ; and 
 how could he go away and leave them behind? 
 These were his secret and sacred treasures : were 
 the detectives to be allowed to overhaul them, to 
 pore over her artless confidences, to guess at 
 hidden meanings known only to himself and 
 her? At any cost of danger these things must 
 be rescued. Even if his lodgings were being 
 watched, might there not be a moment of care- 
 lessness? He would be cautious in venturing 
 near; a single second — and a latch-key ready 
 in his fingers — would suffice to get him into the 
 house; as cautiously would he come out again, 
 bringing with him what thereafter could never 
 be profaned. So he debated and debated within 
 himself — fearing and reassuring himself by turns 
 — as the busy world of London woke again ; and 
 in the end he was irresistibly drawn away out 
 toward that suburb which hitherto he had avoid- 
 ed with an unnamable dread. 
 
 After long delay, and with the greatest 
 circumspection, he ventured to approach his 
 
THE WRITING OF THE LETTERS 
 
 43 
 
 lodgings. It was now past nine, and the om- 
 nibuses and tramway-cars had carried the bulk 
 of the business men away into the city; the 
 neighborhood was comparatively quiet. As far 
 as he could make out there was no one keeping 
 observation on the house ; so, plucking up cour- 
 age, he went quickly to the door, opened it, and 
 let himself in, and to his delight found the way 
 clear before him. Hurrying upstairs to his own 
 room, a few seconds enabled him to gain pos- 
 session of those various little nothings that to 
 him were invaluable ; he put them in his breast- 
 pocket, next his heart — they would go with him 
 whither he was going ; and now he had but to 
 make good his escape. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs he met his landlady — 
 a tall, thin, rather sad-looking woman, in wid- 
 ow’s weeds — who seemed frightened. 
 
 “Oh, sir, you’ve come back, sir — and — and a 
 gentleman from the bank, sir, ’e called yesterday 
 evening, and was most p’tickler in his questions, 
 sir, and couldn’t understand it ” 
 
 “From the bank?” Arthur Hughes repeated, 
 staring at the woman. 
 
 “Yes, sir. And another one” — she did not 
 say “ gentleman ” — “ ’e came this morning, not 
 ’arf a hour ago, and there was more questions, 
 and what could I say, sir? For you as never 
 was out all night before ” 
 
44 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 There was a sharp rat-tat at the door. Ar- 
 thur Hughes looked alarmed. The landlady 
 stepped along the passage and answered the sum- 
 mons. 
 
 “Yes, sir, he’s here now," she said to the 
 stranger. 
 
 And instinctively the young man knew — and 
 quailed. 
 
 “Mr. Arthur Hughes, I believe?" said the 
 new-comer, civilly enough. “ My name is 
 Jameson — Inspector Jameson. I have been sent 
 by Cripps’ bank to make some inquiries; of 
 course they were very much astonished at your 
 not turning up yesterday afternoon." 
 
 “But — but what do you want?" the young 
 man said, with a ghastly pallor on his face. 
 
 “ Oh, merely that you should come with me to 
 the bank, and give any explanation you see fit. 
 That’s all," said the detective, quite coolly. “ You 
 have no objection, I presume. We’d better have 
 a hansom; the partners were very much con- 
 cerned about your not showing up yesterday." 
 
 He surrendered himself in a blind sort of fash- 
 ion. His desperate stratagem — unless there was 
 still some wild chance of escape — had failed. 
 He was in the hands of the law. And his old 
 father? And “sweet Winnie Davies, down by 
 the sea? " 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 A MYSTERY 
 
 And the law, as he knew, was inexorable. 
 Unless some unforeseen opportunity might still 
 present itself of his being able to slip away out 
 of the clutches of these people — to disappear, 
 leaving no trace behind him — there would be no 
 mercy shown to him or his. There would be no 
 consideration extended to the white-haired old 
 minister away down there in Wales, nor yet to 
 the young girl whose whole future life would be 
 overshadowed by her former relationship with a 
 felon. The story would get into the papers; 
 there would be a trial ; he could do nothing to 
 prove his innocence ; and it was the business of 
 the prosecution to believe the worst. Already 
 he seemed to regard himself as a convicted crim- 
 inal. The inspector seated beside him in the han- 
 som cab was his jailer — it was a wonder he had 
 not produced a pair of handcuffs. And yet this 
 man, no doubt, had his own family ties; most 
 likely, when he went home at night, his children 
 would come clambering on to his knee, convinced 
 that he was the kindest of fathers. It was only 
 when he acted as part of that dread machine, 
 the law, that he became as implacable and in- 
 exorable as itself. 
 
 45 
 
4 6 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 For a time, as the hansom carried them rapidly 
 away into the city, the young man was silent and 
 absorbed ; and his companion did not seek to in- 
 trude upon his dark meditations. But at length 
 Arthur Hughes said, almost wearily: 
 
 “ I suppose they think I stole the money? ” 
 “Oh! as for that,” rejoined the inspector, with 
 an amiable cheerfulness, “ there has been no 
 charge brought against you as yet — not at all. 
 It certainly looked awkward your not returning 
 to the bank ; and they were naturally very much 
 concerned about it. With a large sum of money 
 like that in your possession, it was possible you 
 might have been robbed or murdered. But of 
 course you will give them all the necessary ex- 
 planations ” 
 
 “I cannot! ” the young man exclaimed, in his 
 despair. “How can I explain? I know noth- 
 ing. When the bag was stolen, I did not see 
 who took it. I had turned for a moment to 
 speak to a stranger, and in the same instant the 
 satchel was snatched away — I suppose by an ac- 
 complice of the man who spoke to me. It was 
 all the work of a second. It was as if the satchel 
 had vanished. I ran up and down — searched 
 everywhere ” 
 
 He stopped. What was the use of trying to 
 convince this man ? It was the business of the 
 law to assume his guilt. 
 
A MYSTERY 
 
 47 
 
 “ It would have been better if you had re- 
 turned to the bank and reported the robbery,” 
 observed the inspector, dispassionately. 
 
 “ I was frightened and bewildered,” the young 
 man confessed. “ I made sure they would not 
 believe me — the story would sound incredible — 
 and I had nothing to show by way of proof. 
 And I suppose they will not believe me now. 
 You,” said he, turning to his companion as if 
 with a challenge, “do you believe that I have 
 not made away with that money? Do you be- 
 lieve that I don’t know where a single farthing 
 of it is? ” 
 
 “ Oh, as for that,” said the inspector, evasively, 
 “ I must remind you again that at present there 
 is no charge against you. You are not even in 
 custody.” 
 
 “Not in custody! ” said Hughes, with a stare. 
 
 “ No,” said the other, coolly. “ But if you had 
 refused to come with me to the bank, I should 
 have been forced to give you into custody. It 
 is much better as it is. And I have no doubt 
 you will be able to give a quite satisfactory ac- 
 count of the whole matter when we get to 
 Cripps’.” 
 
 So he was not yet in custody ? And there had 
 been no charge brought against him that would 
 involve his immediate arrest? Was there still 
 some chance, then, of his being allowed to carry 
 
48 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 his original plan into execution — to make sure 
 that his best and dearest should come to no re- 
 proach through him ? For he had not revealed 
 his intention to any one ; that was his own dark 
 secret; escape and disappearance, and thereafter 
 the silence of unknown waters, might even yet 
 be possible. 
 
 But little indeed did Arthur Hughes anticipate 
 what was now about to happen. They had just 
 arrived at Cripps’, and were crossing the pave- 
 ment, when a gentleman came hurriedly out. 
 The moment he cast eyes on young Hughes, an 
 expression of astonishment — coupled with some- 
 thing of relief, too — appeared on his face; and 
 he came forward quickly. 
 
 “Good heavens! Hughes, what could you 
 mean by sending me such a letter? ” he said, in 
 a serious undertone. “ I was just about to drive 
 out to your lodgings, to see what had happened. 
 But here, come into the bank ; I must talk this 
 thing over with you in private.” 
 
 Arthur Hughes followed submissively; this 
 was Mr. Brangwyn, one of the junior partners, 
 who had been of much service to the young man. 
 As they passed through the general room used 
 by the partners, these gentlemen, sitting at their 
 several tables, looked up and scanned with some 
 curiosity (at least so it seemed to Hughes) their 
 absconding clerk ; then Mr. Brangwyn entered 
 
A MYSTERY 
 
 49 
 
 a smaller apartment, also overlooking the Strand, 
 shut the door, and bade Hughes be seated. 
 
 “Well, this is a pretty business! ” said he, af- 
 fecting an injured tone. “ You know that it was 
 in a measure due to me that you came to London, 
 and got a place in this bank; then, in conse* 
 quence of something connected with the bank, 
 you go and propose to commit suicide ; and so, 
 in a measure I am made responsible for the taking 
 away of a fellow-creature’sVlife. Do you call 
 that fair treatment? It seems to me an ill return 
 for what little I have been able to do for you. 
 And suicide! such a cowardly way of escaping 
 from trouble ” 
 
 “Mr. Brangwyn,” Arthur Hughes gasped out, 
 “ I never said a word about suicide ! ” 
 
 “ Good gracious, man ! what are you talking 
 about!” the junior partner exclaimed, impa- 
 tiently. “ Here is your letter. Here is your 
 letter that I found lying on my table not more 
 than ten minutes ago.” 
 
 He went to a drawer. 
 
 “Yes, I know I sent you a letter,” the young 
 man said, quickly. “ And — and I confess that I 
 had made up my mind to get on board a ship and 
 slip over the side some dark night ; not to escape 
 from anything that might happen to me, but to 
 save my old father — and — and another — from the 
 shame that might come of a prosecution. But 
 
 3 
 
5 ° 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 no one was to know. It was to be my secret. 
 And it was not likely I should tell you about it 
 in a letter.” 
 
 “ Bless my soul, can you read your own hand- 
 writing? What do you call that? Read — read 
 for yourself! ” 
 
 Arthur Hughes took the letter that was given 
 to him ; and as he regarded it, there was amaze- 
 ment — and even consternation — in his eyes. For 
 this that he saw before him, line after line, was 
 not what he had written in that dingy little cof- 
 fee-house, but what he had been thinking dur- 
 ing the time of his writing. Here was the literal 
 truth. Here were no formal sentences, stu- 
 diously vague, designed to cover the desperate 
 scheme he had planned out for himself ; but in 
 place of these the actual thoughts and emotions, 
 hot and tumultuous, that had surged through his 
 brain when, as he thought, he was bidding 
 adieu to life. He read on in breathless be- 
 wilderment; for he could not but recognize the 
 fact that these things had been present to his 
 mind all the while he was penning that farewell 
 message. And by what subtle alchemy had the 
 transformation been effected? 
 
 “Dear Mr. Brangwyn” — this is what he be- 
 held before him, undoubtedly in his own hand- 
 writing — “You have been a good friend to me, 
 
A MYSTERY 
 
 51 
 
 and it is with the deepest grief and sorrow in 
 my heart that I say good-by to you, in circum- 
 stances that will lead you to suspect me of the 
 basest ingratitude. This afternoon my satchel, 
 containing £7,560 belonging to the bank, was 
 stolen from me at the counter of the London and 
 Westminster, Temple Bar Branch; and as I can- 
 not describe the person who took it, I suppose 
 any one would naturally conclude I myself had 
 made away with the money, and there would be 
 a prosecution. I should not mind that for my- 
 self, whatever might happen ; but I cannot bear 
 the idea of bringing such shame on my old 
 father, who has lived all his life in respect and 
 honor, and can only have a few years more be- 
 fore him now. And Winnie Davies — the daugh- 
 ter of the schoolmaster at Llanly — I think you 
 will remember her ; you said she was the pret- 
 tiest girl you had seen in Wales; and proud I 
 was that day. She and I were to have been 
 married if things had gone well ; but that is all 
 over now; and the only desire I have in my 
 mind is to make sure that no disgrace may fall 
 on my father or on her through me. I am about 
 to take a passage, under an assumed name, in a 
 steamer going to America; and some night I 
 will slip over the side; and no one will guess. 
 My father and Winnie will wonder for a while 
 why I do not write; but my father is an old 
 
52 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 man; in the natural course he will pass away 
 without suspecting; and Winnie will forget, and 
 marry and be happy. Mr. Brangwyn, I hope you 
 do not think I touched the money. No ; I am 
 almost sure you will not think that; but the 
 other partners know little or nothing about me ; 
 and they are business men — they would want a 
 strict inquiry ; and I have -nothing with which to 
 prove my innocence. But that is about myself; 
 and I do not wish to speak about myself ; it is 
 all over with me, and my hopes as to music, and 
 with other hopes : what is one human being more 
 or less in the world? It is about those dearest 
 to me that I wish to speak ; and I beg this thing 
 from you with a full heart — it is an appeal almost 
 from the grave, and you will not refuse. If my 
 father and Winnie should come to London to 
 make inquiries about me, they will almost cer- 
 tainly go to you, knowing of your goodness to 
 me; and they will ask news of me. Now, dear 
 Mr. Brangwyn, this is my last prayer to you: be 
 kind to them and cheer them. Tell them that I 
 was ambitious — that I went away — that they may 
 expect to hear from me after a while. Do 
 not say anything to them about the money. 
 They are poor; they could not make any restitu- 
 tion to the bank; besides, if they know about 
 the loss, they might couple it with my going 
 away. Be kind to them. The one is an old 
 
A MYSTERY 
 
 53 
 
 man who has already come through many trou- 
 bles and trials ; the other is a young girl whose 
 opening life should not be clouded by sad mem- 
 ories. If they come to London, send them away 
 cheerful and hopeful. This is my last prayer to 
 you, and it comes to you as from the other world. 
 
 “Arthur Hughes.” 
 
 “Now,” said the banker, in simulated indig- 
 nation (for in truth he was glad enough to find 
 the young man alive and well, his sinister de- 
 sign frustrated at least for the moment) , “ per- 
 haps you will say that is not a threat to commit 
 suicide? ” 
 
 But Arthur Hughes was still staring at the 
 paper, utterly confounded. 
 
 “That is not the letter I sent to you!” he 
 said. 
 
 “ Do you deny that it is in your handwriting? 
 Who is likely to have known of all these private 
 matters but yourself? ” were the next questions. 
 
 “It is in my handwriting,” Hughes said. 
 “ And — and what is more — it is the truth. It is 
 what I was thinking all the time. I must have 
 written it — and yet — yet I did not intend writing 
 it; the fact is, Mr. Brangwyn, the letter I did 
 actually send you was quite different from this. 
 I cannot understand it. I was most anxious to 
 hide from every one what I intended doing ” 
 
54 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 “ And a very pretty scheme it was ! ” said the 
 young banker. “ Why, my good fellow, it is 
 about the maddest piece of Quixotism I ever 
 heard of! To save your friends from a little 
 anxiety and trouble — which is about all that 
 could be involved in an inquiry into the circum- 
 stances of the robbery — you propose to deprive 
 an old man of his only son, and a young girl of 
 her sweetheart, to say nothing of throwing away 
 your own life, which you have no right to do. 
 And so I only got to know the truth by some 
 incomprehensible accident ? Y our hand deceived 
 your eye, or something of that kind? Well, 
 whatever it is, there is to be no more talk about 
 suicide. What you must do now is to come along 
 at once to Scotland Yard ” 
 
 Arthur Hughes started and changed color ; 
 and the banker instantly noticed that involun- 
 tary tremor of apprehension. 
 
 “Nothing serious,” said he, good-naturedly. 
 “You must give them such particulars of the rob- 
 bery as you can. A clerk in the London and 
 Westminster remembers something of a man 
 who was standing at the counter just before your 
 satchel was lost.” 
 
 “ I could identify the man who spoke to me 
 anywhere! ” young Hughes said with eagerness; 
 for those shackles and trammels that his sensi- 
 tive imagination had bound upon him seemed to 
 
A MYSTERY 55 
 
 be falling off one by one, and be was beginning 
 to breathe a little more freely. 
 
 “ And you need not be afraid about yourself, 
 Hughes,” the banker continued, “as you appear 
 from your letter to have been. My partners as 
 well as myself accept your story, though you 
 must perceive you did a very foolish thing in not 
 at once returning to the bank yesterday after- 
 noon. And about the money: the larger notes 
 cannot have been negotiated, and the numbers 
 will be in all the papers to-morrow ; the damage 
 will not be so great, even if we do not get hold 
 of the men. Now, come along. We will take 
 Inspector Jameson with us — and the less time we 
 lose the better.” 
 
 And so, after all, Arthur Hughes found him- 
 self in that dreaded Scotland Yard. But of what 
 happened to him there — whom he saw — what 
 questions were put to him — or how he answered 
 them, he had but the haziest knowledge. For 
 one thing, he had been up all night, wandering 
 through those dark and silent streets. Then he 
 had had no food since the previous day. But 
 above all, the distressing emotions that had 
 shaken him had left him the mere wreck of his 
 natural self. He had, as it were, tasted the bit- 
 terness of death; and now that he had been 
 plucked back from the very verge of the grave, 
 he had not quite recovered his full perceptions. 
 
56 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 How had all this come about? By what mysteri- 
 ous means had Mr. Brangwyn become possessed 
 of his secret? Who had betrayed him, when the 
 fulfilment of his scheme of self-sacrifice seemed 
 within his reach? 
 
 “ Mr. Brangwyn,” he said suddenly, when they 
 were on their way back to the bank, “ will you 
 show me that letter again? ” 
 
 The letter was produced, and Hughes studied 
 it long and reflectively. 
 
 “No; I never wrote it,” he said. “I never 
 wrote that. That is what I had in my mind, 
 certainly; it is true enough; but the letter I sent 
 you was different. Even the ink : the ink I wrote 
 with was violet; this is black.” 
 
 “The color of ink may change, you know,” 
 said Mr. Brangwyn. 
 
 “Yes; but not what you have written with it 
 — unless — unless ’ ’ 
 
 He paused for a second or two in silence. He 
 began to recall the circumstances in which he 
 had become possessed of the violet-hued ink. 
 He recollected his bewilderment and conster- 
 nation on finding the money gone ; his rushing 
 down the narrow thoroughfare ; his accidentally 
 knocking over the little Eastern-looking man; 
 his apology ; the presentation of the small phial ; 
 and his subsequent writing of the letters. And 
 that lilac-colored fluid, the curious odor of which 
 
A MYSTERY 
 
 57 
 
 had risen to his nostrils the moment he had 
 opened the bottle : had it some occult and mys- 
 terious effect on brain and vision, so that the 
 writer could not see what he was actually writ- 
 ing? Or had it some strange necromantic power 
 of changing, along with its change in color, that 
 which was written into what the writer had 
 really been thinking? And had the Malay, or 
 Lascar, or Hindoo given him this truth-telling 
 ink in order to do him a mischief? 
 
 “I suppose I must have written this letter,” 
 said he, absently. “No one but myself could 
 have written it. No one but myself knew all 
 the circumstances. And yet I don’t remember 
 writing it. No, indeed ; what I remember writ- 
 ing was entirely different. I wrote you a merely 
 formal note saying I was about to leave the coun- 
 try, and begging you as a favor not to make in- 
 quiries down at — down at Llanly. I wished no 
 one to know what had become of me ; I wished 
 no one to suspect ” 
 
 “You must have been out of your mind to be 
 contemplating such things ! ” said the banker, in 
 a kindly way. “ But whatever you intended to 
 write, it is a very good thing that the letter I 
 actually received put matters so very plainly; 
 for I mean to see that that delusion about suicide 
 and self-sacrifice is banished out of your head. 
 Romanticism, my dear fellow: it’s your Celtic 
 
58 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 nature, all simmering with high-flown notions; 
 what you want is a little cool, calm common- 
 sense of a wholesome Saxon kind. And the best 
 thing now, after we have reported ourselves at 
 the bank, is for you to go away home to your 
 lodgings, and have some food, and lie down and 
 get some sleep. You look tired; pranks like 
 walking about all night are not good for the ner- 
 vous system.” 
 
 And this advice the young man eventually fol- 
 lowed, walking home by the Blackfriars Road, in 
 order to have another glance at the coffee-house 
 in which he had written the three letters. He 
 regarded it with a secret dread ; he had suffered 
 much in that dusky little place ; it was there he 
 had bade good-by to life. And if that extreme 
 step were no longer necessary — if there was to 
 be no public inquiry, no prosecution, that could 
 bring shame on his dear ones at home — so far 
 well ; but his own case was not much bettered. 
 For had he not cut himself off from kith and kin ; 
 and made an outcast of himself ; and bade a last 
 adieu to the girl who, brave in her love, had 
 chosen to throw in her lot with his? He could 
 not go to them now and try to explain away 
 those letters he had sent them. He had signed 
 the decree of his own banishment. He was to 
 live, it was true ; but he was to live alone, apart, 
 and silent. It almost seemed to him, while he 
 
A MYSTERY 
 
 59 
 
 walked slowly and listlessly away out to Ken- 
 nington, as though life in such conditions were 
 not much preferable to a grave in the wide At- 
 lantic seas. 
 
 When he reached his lodgings he was surprised 
 to find a telegram and a letter awaiting him, and 
 he was still more startled by the contents of the 
 former : 
 
 “For heaven’s sake do nothing rash. Your 
 father and I are coming to see you at once. 
 
 “Winnie.” 
 
 What could it mean? His father and Winnie 
 Davies on their way to London ? 
 
 Then he quickly turned to the letter, to see if 
 that would afford any explanation. But as he 
 read on, it soon became clear to him that these 
 rambling, whimsical, light-hearted pages had no 
 connection whatever with recent and tragic 
 events. This merry epistle belonged to the 
 happy time — before life had grown black : doubt- 
 less she had written and posted it before his fare- 
 well message had reached her. And it was with 
 a strange kind of feeling that he regarded her 
 in this gay mood. 
 
 “Do you know,” she wrote, “that there has 
 been a most desperate fight between me and that 
 Other Winnie; and if we remain on speaking 
 terms, that’s about all that can be said. This is 
 
6o 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 how it came about. You remember Dick Grif- 
 fith? Well, when he came home from Bristol 
 last week he brought for me a most beautifully- 
 bound copy of ‘The Songs of Wales,’ and he 
 called and left it, with a message. And I con- 
 fess, Arthur, I was very much pleased ; for blue 
 smooth morocco is so nice, and only a single line 
 of gold ; but somehow — there was a suspicion — I 
 grew uncomfortable — I was frightened of that 
 Other One — and at last I went and opened the 
 mirror. 
 
 “‘Have you got anything to say?’ I asked. 
 (You should have seen her temper!) 
 
 “‘Send that book back at once!’ she cried. 
 ‘As politely as you like — but back it goes, and 
 at once ! I tell you I will not allow you to ac- 
 cept any present from any young man.’ 
 
 “Well, Arthur, my Ordinary Self — I told you 
 what a mean, shabby, useless, commonplace kind 
 of creature she is — began to fret and grumble, 
 and that only made the Other Self more indig- 
 nant. 
 
 “ ‘ For one thing, ’ she said, ‘if you had an atom 
 of pride, you would refuse to look at any collec- 
 tion of Welsh songs that did not include “The 
 Bells of Llanly,” and that had not the name of 
 Arthur Hughes in the index. But you — who are 
 you? a contemptible creature! It’s a good thing 
 Arthur knows so little about you!’ 
 
A MYSTERY 
 
 61 
 
 ‘“And you,’ I retorted (for I was a little bit 
 angry) — ‘you give yourself pretty fine airs, all 
 because of your constancy in absence ! It is so 
 rare a virtue ! It is so wonderful a thing that a 
 girl should keep to her plighted troth ! ’ 
 
 “‘I do not give myself airs!’ she said, with 
 most infinite assurance. ‘I take no credit for my 
 constancy at all! And why? Simply because 
 there is no one like him ; there is no one to com- 
 pare with him; and, besides that, I can look 
 forward and see what is awaiting him in the 
 future. But you — you don’t understand such 
 things; you are a poor wretch. However, I’m 
 going to have one word more with you before 
 I’m done; and I will thank you to listen. You 
 know what Dick Griffith is; he’s always dang- 
 ling after somebody. And you know what that 
 present means. If you keep it, then he will call 
 and see you. Then he will call again. Then he 
 will come in of an evening, to chat with your 
 father. Then he will walk home with you from 
 the meetings of the choir. And then perhaps — 
 some Sunday morning — oh, you despicable, de- 
 ceitful craven ! — you will allow him to go away 
 out to Megan’s farm with you — and he will 
 dawdle about, while you pick a few wild flowers 
 to send to London. To send to London! You 
 miserable wretch ! But I have warned you ! I 
 will keep an eye on you. You can’t any longer 
 
62 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 pretend ignorance of what presents and visits 
 may lead to, in the case of a girl whose sweet- 
 heart is far away, and who finds herself pretty 
 much alone. I am going to make you check all 
 those things at the very outset, my fine madam!’ 
 
 “ ‘ But if Arthur allows me to keep it, ’ I said, 
 rather sullenly, ‘what right would you have to 
 interfere then?’ 
 
 “This made her angrier than ever; you never 
 saw anything like it ! 
 
 “‘What! you would ask for permission? You 
 would impose on his generosity? For shame! 
 Have you no finer feeling at all?’ 
 
 “ 4 That morocco is as smooth as velvet or silk ; 
 that’s what I know.’ 
 
 “ She tried to wither me with scornful glances. 
 
 “‘No, you have no shame. I must take an- 
 other way with you. You must be compelled and 
 coerced. No presents from any young man so 
 long as I have the mastery over you ! I order 
 you to pack up that book, write a note, and send 
 them off forthwith. I will undertake that there 
 shall be no parleyings, no hesitations : I tell you, 
 you have got to deal with me!’ 
 
 “ So you see what a remorseless tyrant she is, 
 dear Arthur; and there was nothing for it but 
 to cover up again that beautiful blue book, and 
 send it away. You may say that I earned the 
 approval of my conscience; but that isn’t so, for 
 
A REUNION 
 
 63 
 
 I haven’t any; it’s my Other Self who has the 
 conscience ; and she only uses it when she wants 
 to terrify me. Can you wonder that we are 
 hardly on speaking terms? ” 
 
 And so the careless, playful, prattling letter 
 went on; but he grew less and less interested. 
 It had no bearing on the present circumstances ; 
 it had been written in happier moments. But 
 this telegram, with its announcement that his 
 father and Winnie Davies were on their way to 
 London? He stared at the oblong piece of paper 
 — comprehending nothing. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A REUNION 
 
 On the afternoon of the following day two 
 strangers, an old man and a young girl, arrived 
 at Paddington Station. They had no luggage 
 save such bits of things as they carried ; the por- 
 ters paid little attention to them ; and for a second 
 or two they seemed confused and bewildered by 
 the bustle and echoing din of this vast place. 
 But presently the white-haired old minister and 
 the timid, pretty, shy-eyed girl along with him, 
 had instinctively followed the crowd to the out- 
 side platform ; and here the minister (with some 
 
6 4 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 nervous diffidence) engaged a four-wheeled cab ; 
 the man was given an address in Kennington; 
 and then the two travellers resigned themselves 
 to the long and tedious drive toward that distant 
 quarter of the town. 
 
 For a time they were silent — silent and pre- 
 occupied ; and the faces of both were anxious and 
 careworn. But presently the minister, looking 
 out of the window at those unknown streets and 
 thoroughfares, said in an absent sort of way : 
 
 “ It is a great city, that has swallowed up the 
 lives and souls of many. Thousands and thou- 
 sands of poor human creatures have gone down 
 in its deep waters, with hardly even a cry ” 
 
 “But not Arthur — not our Arthur!” the girl 
 interposed, piteously. “ He could not have been 
 so rash, so desperate; he must have got my tele- 
 gram ; and if he knew we were coming to see 
 him, he would certainly remain in London; 
 surely he would not do anything dreadful if he 
 knew we were on our way to him ” 
 
 “And if we are too late,” the old man said, 
 with a certain calm and sad resignation, “if the 
 boy has committed this sin, it is not for us to 
 become his judges. The great Judge alone can 
 read the hearts of men : he alone can make allow- 
 ance for motives : he can forgive much to one that 
 has loved much.” Then he murmured to him- 
 self : “ Quia multum amavit — quia multum aniavit .” 
 
A REUNION 
 
 65 
 
 But she — the girl sitting here, with her pale 
 face harassed and apprehensive, and with those 
 beautiful violet eyes showing that tears had vis- 
 ited them only too frequently during the past 
 anxious hours — was she likely to condemn too 
 harshly? The letter she had received, the letter 
 that conveyed to her the terrible tidings that 
 had brought her thus suddenly to London, had 
 breathed the very spirit of unselfishness. Even 
 now, in this cab, as they traversed the ceaseless 
 thoroughfares of this great desert of a city, she 
 could recall each simple and pathetic phrase and 
 sentence ; it was as if he himself were talking to 
 her ; and as if the appeal were to her very heart 
 of hearts. 
 
 “After all,” he had written — or, at least, this 
 was what she had read — “ After all, this reso- 
 lution I have come to is but a poor enough re- 
 turn for the great love and affection that both 
 my father and yourself have given me. Think 
 of the long years of care he has bestowed on me, 
 and constant sympathy and generous consider- 
 ation; never had any son such a father. But 
 when I come to speak of you, my dearest, my 
 very dearest, what am I to say? Did you ever 
 understand your own courage, your own inde- 
 pendence and disinterestedness, when you de- 
 cided to cast in your lot with mine ? Again and 
 
66 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 again I have told you I was not worthy of such 
 loyal and self-sacrificing love ; I have shown you 
 how precarious was my position — how uncertain 
 my future ; but no — you were always the proud 
 one — you were not to be daunted.” . . . “And 
 now, after having received so much devoted 
 affection and kindness and sympathy from my 
 two dear ones, do you think I am going to let 
 any disgrace fall on them through any doings of 
 mine? No, no. They are of importance; I am 
 nothing. Some one else will write the Caradoc 
 cantata — though he may not know of your clever 
 suggestion that an under- wail of Morfa Rhuddlan 
 should run all through it; and perhaps you will 
 go to hear it at the Hereford Musical Festival; 
 and you will say, ‘ It may be Arthur could have 
 written it as well as that ; but perhaps he could 
 not ; it was merely promise in his case, that had 
 no chance of fulfilment.’ I wish I could have 
 completed a little song I meant to send you. I 
 had just about got the air in my head when the 
 dreadful thing happened, and now all that has 
 gone by. A darkness has fallen over my life — 
 such shred of life as now remains to me. And a 
 deeper darkness is to follow.” . . . “My dearest, 
 how kind to me you were in the old days! Do 
 you remember the wood beyond Megan’s farm; 
 and the little plank bridge over the brook ; and 
 the Sunday mornings in spring-time when you 
 
A REUNION 
 
 67 
 
 used to go to gather anemones, and wild hya- 
 cinths, and campions? The neighbors used to 
 say we were only boy and girl ; but we were look- 
 ing far ahead ; and you were always the hopeful 
 one, the light-hearted one, with more than the 
 courage of a woman. As we sat and talked, I 
 saw strange things in your eyes — dreams and 
 pictures — pictures of the long years before us — 
 and you always by my side — and perhaps one or 
 two of the things you prophesied come true — and 
 myself very grateful to you for your constant 
 faith and upholding and courage. It was a 
 happy time. You put a kind of fairyland round 
 the poor assistant clerk at the ' slate-works ; and 
 love was the light and color of it ; and the music 
 that was in the air was the sound of your voice. 
 So much, and far more, you did for me: is it 
 likely I should hesitate when I find before me a 
 means of saving you — and saving my father — 
 from having to hang your head in shame? ”... 
 “And now, Winnie, this is farewell between you 
 and me — a farewell forever in this world. When 
 you get this letter I shall have taken my pas- 
 sage in an outward-bound steamer; but I shall 
 never reach any port. There will be no arrest 
 of the absconding clerk ; the Atlantic will make 
 sure of that. And of course you know that I am 
 innocent — that I did not take the money; others 
 might be more difficult to convince; but this 
 
68 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 step now will guard you from any possible dis- 
 grace on my account. And you will forget me 
 soon ; I wish that, for I wish you to be happy. 
 If I were alive, it would break my heart to think 
 of your marrying any one else; but the dead 
 have no hearts to break. And so, good-by for- 
 ever in this world — good-by, and God bless you 
 — and do your best to forget all there was be- 
 tween you and me. 
 
 “Arthur Hughes.” 
 
 Would these monotonous and sombre thorough- 
 fares never end? She seemed to have got lost 
 in a very ocean of streets and houses — an ocean 
 dull and dismal, vast and shoreless, the unceas- 
 ing, inarticulate noise of which was stupefying 
 to the brain. How different from the pleas- 
 ant woodland ways round Llanly, about which 
 the poor banished lad must have been think- 
 ing when he penned this farewell message ! 
 And had she not been largely instrumental in 
 severing him from that quiet and simple life and 
 consigning him to this great and dreadful city? 
 Was not she in a measure responsible for this 
 that had happened — though what it was she could 
 not as yet in any wise conjecture? For it was 
 all a bewilderment to her — a bewilderment of 
 dismay, and piteous longing, and trembling hope, 
 and feverish impatience. She sat silent now; 
 
A REUNION 
 
 69 
 
 those sentences from his letter burning clear, as 
 it were, before her eyes. She hardly paid heed 
 to what was outside — to that endless procession 
 of gloomy houses that went by like a dream. 
 And the old man was silent too ; it was hardly 
 1 time for talk. 
 
 At last, after what had appeared to them an 
 interminable journey, the cabman drew up in 
 front of a house in the Kennington Park Road. 
 The sudden cessation of the noise and rattle was 
 a startling thing ; perhaps it was that that caused 
 Winnie Davies’ face to blanch as if in fear. 
 But the minister was apparently quite calm and 
 collected. He got out ; glanced at the number 
 of the house to see that it was correct ; paid the 
 cabman what he asked; and then crossed the 
 pavement, the girl following. He knocked at 
 the door. 
 
 The moments of delay that ensued were terri- 
 ble ; the silence was terrible. The house was as 
 a house of the dead. Were they too late, then? 
 Neither spoke. The girl’s hands, folded upon 
 the little bag she was carrying, trembled some- 
 what; but she did not know that. She was 
 watching and listening, with a nervous strain 
 that almost made it impossible for her to breathe. 
 
 Then there was a sound ; the door opened ; a 
 tall, thin, sad-visaged woman appeared. 
 
 “Is — is Mr. Arthur Hughes at home?” the 
 
7 ° 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 minister asked : there was only the slightest 
 tremor in his voice. 
 
 “No, sir,” the landlady made answer; and 
 yet, strangely enough, she stepped back a little 
 as if inviting these visitors to pass. “ Not yet, 
 sir. But he left a message, sir, that if you and 
 the young lady was to arrive before he came 
 back, I was to say he would be home as soon as 
 he could ” 
 
 “ He left that message to-day — this morning? ” 
 the minister said, quickly, but still maintaining 
 that outward calm. 
 
 “Yes, sir,” said the melancholy-visaged wom- 
 an ; “ and if you would kindly step in and wait a 
 little, sir, which it is near his usual time of com- 
 ing home in any case ” 
 
 “And he is quite well, I presume? ” the min- 
 ister said, with something of hesitation, as he 
 passed into the lobby, followed by the trembling 
 girl. 
 
 “ Oh, yes, sir — leastways he has been a little 
 flurried and hanxious, as any one could see, the 
 last day or two,” answered the landlady, as she 
 showed them upstairs to the young man’s room. 
 She was very civil. She offered them tea, which 
 both declined. Indeed, Winnie Davies was 
 hardly capable of responding to the good wo- 
 man, so entirely was she overcome by this agony 
 of suspense which she had come through. She 
 
A REUNION 
 
 71 
 
 sat limply in lier chair, her hands clinched 
 nervously together ; her breathing low and 
 strained. It had been a sore ordeal. 
 
 But all at once a new vitality seemed to leap 
 through her frame. She sprang to her feet — 
 listening intently. 
 
 “ It’s Arthur! it’s Arthur! ” she cried. 
 
 She rushed to the door, threw it open, went 
 out on to the landing ; and the next moment she 
 had caught her lover by the hand — by both 
 hands — by the arm — and was caressing him, and 
 reproaching him, and pulling him into the room, 
 all at the same time. She was laughing and 
 crying ; her face beaming with delight, and yet 
 her dark lashes swimming with tears; and it 
 looked as though she could not let go her hold of 
 him, so eager was she to assure herself that he 
 was alive and well. 
 
 “O Arthur, how could you think of doing 
 such a dreadful thing! ” she exclaimed — but her 
 upbraiding was only in the words: there was 
 none in her shining and joyful eyes. “ To save 
 us from a little trouble, you would go and break 
 our hearts! ” 
 
 “To say nothing of the grievous sin involved,” 
 said the minister, more gravely. “ I little 
 thought any son of mine would have contemplated 
 such a crime, no matter what excuse might be 
 blinding his eyes and blunting his conscience.” 
 
72 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 “But — but — how did you come to know?” 
 said the young man, in his amazement. “ Fa- 
 ther — Winnie — what brought you to London? 
 Who told you what I meant to do? Did Mr. 
 Brangwyn telegraph to you? ” 
 
 “Arthur, your own letters!” said Winnie 
 Davies. 
 
 And of a sudden a wild conjecture flashed 
 through the young man’s mind. Had all of 
 those three farewell letters written in the dingy 
 little coffee-house been perverted from their 
 intended purpose? Had each one of them re- 
 vealed what he was actually thinking at the mo- 
 ment of writing? Had the mysterious ink 
 betrayed him in each several direction? 
 
 And therewithal he sat down and gave them 
 a minute and circumstantial account of all that 
 had happened to him during those last eventful 
 days. And he insisted that in not one of the 
 three letters he had written had he thrown out 
 the least hint as to the resolve he had formed ; 
 on the contrary, all three had been composed 
 with the express object of concealment — to save 
 his friends from useless sorrow. 
 
 “But look, Arthur! ” said Winnie Davies, and 
 with trembling fingers she drew from her pocket 
 that farewell message that had been haunting 
 her during all the long journey. 
 
 As the young man glanced his eye over these 
 
A REUNION 
 
 73 
 
 pages, he seemed to become more and more as- 
 tounded. 
 
 “Yes — yes!” he said. “That is what I was 
 thinking at the time ; but not what I wrote to 
 you, Winnie; not what I intended to write, any- 
 way. This is true enough ; but I did not want 
 you to know. There could not have been some 
 glamour, some madness, over my eyes, that pre- 
 vented my seeing what I was actually writing? 
 No, it must have been the ink ; the little yellow 
 scoundrel meant to revenge himself on me for 
 having tumbled him into the gutter; and the 
 truth-telling ink was to work mischief ” 
 
 “Where is the bottle, Arthur? ” Winnie asked 
 promptly. 
 
 “ I threw it away yesterday morning,” he said; 
 and then he added: “ I thought I had no further 
 need of it — no, nor of anything else.” 
 
 “ That is a strange phantasy of yours, Arthur,” 
 said the minister, slowly, “about the ink that 
 revealed the writer’s thoughts in spite of himself 
 — a phantasy it must be, and nothing more. 
 Nevertheless, one might find in it the material 
 for a parable, as to the advantages of telling the 
 truth.” 
 
 “Oh, I don’t care how it all came about!” 
 Winnie Davies cried in her gladness, and now 
 she was standing by the young man’s chair, and 
 her arm was on his shoulder, and she had taken 
 
 4 
 
74 
 
 THE MAGIC INK 
 
 his hand in hers. “I don’t care at all. If the 
 spiteful little foreigner gave you that ink so that 
 you should get into trouble, he was entirely out- 
 witted ; and all that has happened is that your 
 father and I have come to London. And since 
 we are in London, do you know where you must 
 take me? to the Crystal Palace! To-morrow 
 afternoon — Saturday afternoon — to the Crystal 
 Palace ! ” 
 
 “And why the Crystal Palace, Winnie?” he 
 asked. 
 
 “Why?” said she, boldly. “Why but that I 
 want to see where you will be standing up in 
 front of the great chorus, conducting the per- 
 formance of your own cantata — if not Cctradoc, 
 then some other one.” 
 
 “Dreams! ” said he, laughing. 
 
 “Dreams come true sometimes,” said this un- 
 daunted young person, whose very winsome face 
 and beautiful eyes were all aglow now with pride 
 and happiness and confidence. “And what is 
 more : I am coming to London to be present at 
 that performance — ay, if I have to walk every 
 mile of the way ! ” 
 
A HALLOWE’EN WRAITH 
 
A HALLOWE’EN WRAITH 
 
 i 
 
 The vast bulk of Ben Clebrig was dark in 
 shadow, but the wide waters of Loch Naver 
 shone a soft silver-gray in the moonlight, as Hec- 
 tor MacIntyre, keeper and forester in the far 
 solitudes of Glengorm, came striding along the 
 road toward Inver-Mudal. As he approached 
 the little hamlet — which consists merely of the 
 inn and its surroundings and one or two keepers’ 
 cottages — certain small points of red told him of 
 its whereabouts among the black trees ; and as 
 he drew still nearer he thought he would let the 
 good people there know of his coming. Hector 
 had brought his pipes with him, for there were 
 to be great doings on this Hallowe’en night; 
 and now, when he had inflated the bag and tuned 
 the drones, there sprang into the profound si- 
 lence reigning everywhere around the wild skirl 
 of the “Hills of Glenorchy.” Surely the sound 
 would reach, and carry its message? If not, 
 here was “Gillie, a Drover,” played still more 
 
 77 
 
7 8 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 bravely; and again the proud strains of “The 
 Glen’s Mine! ” By which time he had got near 
 to the inn, and was about to turn down from the 
 highway by the semicircular drive passing the 
 front door. 
 
 But here he suddenly encountered a fearful 
 sight. From out of the dusk of the wall sur- 
 rounding the front garden there came three lumi- 
 nous objects — threa. globes of a dull saffron hue ; 
 and on each of these appeared the features of a 
 face — eyes, mouth, and nose — all flaming in fire. 
 On beholding this terrible thing the tall, brown- 
 bearded forester turned and fled ; and the pipes 
 told of his dismay ; for they shrieked and groaned 
 and made all sorts of indescribable noises, as if 
 they too were in mortal alarm. Then Mrs. Mur- 
 ray’s three children, with victorious shouts of 
 laughter, pursued the tall forester, and kept wav- 
 ing before them the hollowed-out turnips with 
 the bit of candle burning within. When he had 
 got up to the corner of the road, Hector turned 
 and addressed the children, who had come crowd- 
 ing round him, holding up their flaming turnips 
 to cause him still further consternation. 
 
 “Well, now,” said he, in the Gaelic, “that is 
 a fearful thing to alarm any poor person with. 
 Were you not thinking I should die of fright? 
 And the pipes squealing as well, for they never 
 saw anything like that before. But never mind, 
 
FROM OUT OF THE DUSK OF THE WALI 
 
A IiALLOWE EN WRAITH 
 
 79 
 
 we are going down to the house now ; and, do 
 you know, Ronald, and Isabel, and you, little 
 Shena — do you know, I have brought you some 
 of the fir tops that grow in Glengorm. For it is 
 a wonderful place, Glengorm ; and the fir tops 
 that grow on the larches there are not as the fir 
 tops that grow anywhere else. They are very 
 small, and they are round, and some are pink, 
 and some are blue, and some are black and 
 white, and some others — why, they have an al- 
 mond inside them ! Oh, it is a wonderful place, 
 Glengorm ! but it is not always you can get the 
 fir tops from the larches; it is only on some 
 great occasion like the Hallowe’en night; and 
 let me see, now, if I put any of them in my 
 pocket. Here, Ronald, take the pipes from me, 
 and hold them properly on your shoulder — for 
 one day you will be playing ‘Miss Ramsay’s 
 Strathspey’ as well as any one — and I will search 
 my pockets, and see if I put any of those won- 
 derful fir tops into them.” 
 
 The children knew very well what all this 
 preamble meant ; but neither they nor their elders 
 could have told how it was that Hector Mac- 
 Intyre, every time he came to Inver-Mudal, 
 brought with him packages of sweetmeats, 
 though he lived in one of the most inaccessible 
 districts in Sutherland, Glengorm being about 
 two-and-twenty miles away from anywhere. 
 
8o 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 However, here were the precious little parcels; 
 and when they had been distributed, Hector took 
 his pipes again, and, escorted by his small 
 friends, went down to the inn. 
 
 Well, Mr. Murray, the innkeeper, had also 
 heard the distant skirl of the pipes, and here he 
 was at the door. 
 
 “ How are you, Hector? ” he asked, in the Gae- 
 lic. “ And what is your news? ” 
 
 “There is not much news in Glengorm,” was 
 the answer. 
 
 “ And when is your wedding to be? ” Mr. Mur- 
 ray said. “We will make a grand day of that 
 day, Hector. And I have been thinking I will 
 get some of the lads to kindle a bonfire on the 
 top of Ben Clebrig — a fire that they will see 
 down in Ross-shire. And there’s many a pistol 
 and many a gun will make a crack when you 
 drive up to this door and bring your bride in. 
 For I am one who believes in the old customs; 
 and whether it is a wedding, or the New Year, 
 or Hallowe’en night, I am for the old ways, and 
 the Free Church ministers can say what they 
 like. Now come away in, Hector, my lad, and 
 take a dram after your long walk ; there is plenty 
 of hard work before you this evening; for John- 
 nie has broken his fiddle ; and the lasses have 
 not been asked to stand up to a reel for many a 
 day.” And then he paused, and said: “And 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 8i 
 
 how is Flora Campbell, Hector? Have you any 
 news of her? ” 
 
 “No,” said the forester, in something of an 
 undertone, and his face looked troubled. “ I 
 have had no letter for a while back ; and I do 
 not know what it means. Her sister that lives 
 in Greenock was taken ill ; and Flora said she 
 must go down from Oban to see her; and that is 
 the last I have heard. If I knew her sister’s ad- 
 dress in Greenock, I would write and ask Flora 
 why there was no letter for so long ; but if you 
 send a letter to one called Mary Campbell in such 
 a big place as Greenock, what use is it? ” 
 
 “ But no news is good news, Hector,” said Mr. 
 Murray, cheerfully. And therewith he led the 
 way through a stone corridor into the great 
 kitchen, where a considerable assemblage of 
 lads and lasses were already engaged in noisy 
 merriment and pastime. 
 
 The arrival of the tall forester and his pipes 
 was hailed with general satisfaction ; but there 
 was no call as yet for the inspiriting music ; in 
 fact, this big kitchen was given over to the 
 games of the children and the younger boys and 
 girls, a barn having been prepared for supper, 
 and for the celebration of occult Hallowe’en rites 
 when the time came for their elders to take part 
 in the festivities. At present there was a large 
 tub filled with water placed in the middle of the 
 
 4* 
 
82 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 floor; and there were apples in it; and the 
 youngsters, with their hands behind their backs, 
 were trying to snatch out an apple with their 
 teeth. There was many a sousing of heads, of 
 course — an excellent trial of temper ; while some- 
 times a bolder wight than usual would pursue his 
 prize to the bottom, and try to fasten upon it 
 there; or some shy young damsel would cun- 
 ningly shove the apple over to the side of the 
 tub, and succeed by mother-wit where masculine 
 courage had failed. Then from the roof, sus- 
 pended by a cord, hung a horizontal piece of 
 wood, at one end of which was an apple, at the 
 other a lighted tallow candle ; and when the cord 
 had been twisted up and then set free again, 
 causing the transverse piece of wood to whirl 
 round, the competitor was invited to snatch with 
 his mouth at the apple, failing to do which se- 
 cured him a rap on the cheek from the guttering 
 candle. There were all sorts of similar diver- 
 sions going forward (the origin and symbolism 
 of them little dreamt of by these light-hearted 
 lads and lasses) when little Isabel Murray came 
 up to the big, handsome, good-natured-looking 
 forester from Glengorm. 
 
 “Will you burn a nut with me, Hector? ” she 
 said, kindly. 
 
 “ Indeed I will, Isabel, if you will take me for 
 your sweetheart,” said he, in reply; “and now 
 
WILL SEARCH MY POCKETS 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 83 
 
 we will go to the fire, and see whether we are to 
 be at peace and friendship all our lives. ” 
 
 They went to the hearth ; they put the two 
 nuts among the blazing peats ; and awaited the 
 response of the oracle. Could any augury have 
 been more auspicious? The two nuts lay to- 
 gether, burning steadily and quickly — a soft love- 
 flame — no angry sputtering, no sudden explosion 
 and separation. 
 
 “Now do you see that, lamb of my heart? ” 
 said the tall forester, using a familiar Gaelic 
 phrase. 
 
 And no doubt the little lass was very highly 
 pleased. However, at this moment up came 
 Mrs. Murray with the announcement that the 
 children might continue at their games some 
 time longer, but that the grown-up folk were 
 wanted in the barn, where supper was awaiting 
 them. 
 
 It was a joyous scene. The huge peat fire 
 was blazing brightly ; the improvised chandelier 
 was studded with candles ; there were a couple 
 of lamps on the long table, which was otherwise 
 most sumptuously furnished. And when Hector 
 MacIntyre, in his capacity of piper, had played 
 the people in to the stirring strains of “The 
 Marchioness of Tweeddale’s Delight, ” he put the 
 pipes aside, and went and took the seat that had 
 been reserved for him by the side of the fair- 
 
84 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 haired Nelly, who was very smartly dressed for 
 this great occasion, as befitted the reigning 
 beauty of the neighborhood. 
 
 '‘You’ll be sorry that Flora is not here to- 
 night,” said the fair-haired damsel, rather sau- 
 cily, to her brown-bearded companion ; “ and no 
 one to take her place. I suppose there was no 
 one in Sutherland good enough for you, Hector, 
 that you must take up with a lass from Islay. 
 And there is little need for you to dip your 
 sleeve in the burn and hang it up to dry when 
 you go to bed, so that the fire may show you 
 your sweetheart, for well you know already who 
 that is. Well, well, you will have no heart for 
 the merrymaking to-night ; for a lad that has his 
 sweetheart away in the south has no heart for 
 anything.” 
 
 “You’ll just mind this, Nelly,” said the for- 
 ester, “not to carry your merrymaking too far 
 this night. Alastair Ross,” he continued, glanc- 
 ing down the table toward a huge, rough, red- 
 bearded drover who was seated there, “is not 
 the man to be made a fool of ; and if that young 
 fellow Semple does not take heed, he will find 
 himself gripped by the waist some fine dark 
 evening and flung into Loch Naver.” 
 
 “Oh, you are like all the rest, Hector!” said 
 the coquettish Nelly, with some impatience. 
 “ Every one of you is jealous of Johnnie Semple, 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 85 
 
 because he is neatly dressed and has good man- 
 ners and is civil spoken ” 
 
 “What is he doing here at all? ” said Hector, 
 with a frown. “ Is it a fine thing to see a young 
 man idling about a place with his hands in his 
 pockets just because his uncle is the landlord? 
 If he has learned his fine manners in the towns, 
 why does he not earn his living in the towns ? 
 He is no use here.” 
 
 “Oh, no,” said Nelly, with a toss of her head; 
 “ perhaps he is not much use on the hill ; perhaps 
 he could not set traps and shoot hawks. But he 
 knows all the new songs from the theatres, and he 
 can dance more steps than any one in Sutherland. ” 
 “Well, this is what I am telling you, Nelly,” 
 her companion said, with some firmness. “ I do 
 not know what there is between you and Alas- 
 tair Ross. If there is anything, as people say, 
 then do not make him an angry man. Let Sem- 
 ple alone. An honest lass should beware of a 
 town dandy like that.” 
 
 Here this private little conversation was inter- 
 rupted by Mr. Murray, who rose at the head of 
 the table and called upon the company to fill 
 their glasses. He wished to drink with them, 
 and they did not seem loth. When Hector and 
 his pretty companion found opportunity to re- 
 sume their talk, he discovered that Nelly was in 
 quite a different mood. 
 
86 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 “Well, now, it is a good thing, Hector, that 
 every one knows that you and Flora are to be 
 married ; for I can talk to you without Alastair 
 getting red in the face with rage. And when we 
 go out to pull the cabbage -stalks, will you go 
 with me? I know the way into the garden bet- 
 ter than you; and we can both go blindfold if 
 you will take my hand.” 
 
 “ But what need is there for you to pull a cab- 
 bage-stalk, lass?” said he. “Do you not know 
 already what like your husband is to be? ” 
 
 Again the pretty Nelly tossed her head. 
 “ Who can tell what is to happen in the world? ” 
 “ And maybe you would rather not pull a stalk 
 that was tall and straight and strong — that would 
 mean Alastair?” said her companion, glancing 
 at her suspiciously. “ Maybe you would rather 
 find you had got hold of a withered old stump 
 with a lot of earth at the root — a decrepit old 
 man with plenty of money in the bank? Or 
 maybe you are wishing for one that is slim and 
 supple and not so tall — for one that might mean 
 Johnnie Semple? ” 
 
 “ I am wishing to know who the man is to be, 
 and that is all,” said Nelly, with some affectation 
 of being offended. “ And what harm can there 
 be in doing what every one else is doing? ” 
 However, not all Nelly’s blandishments and 
 petulant coquetries could induce Hector Mac- 
 
a Hallowe'en wraith 
 
 87 
 
 Intyre to take part in this appeal to the divi- 
 nation of the kale-yard ; for when, after supper, 
 the lads and lasses went away blindfold to pull 
 the “ custock ” that was to reveal to them the fig- 
 ure and circumstances of their future spouse, the 
 big forester remained to have a quiet smoke 
 with the married keepers and shepherds, who 
 had no interest in such matters. It was noticed 
 that he was unusually grave — he who was ordi- 
 narily one of the lightest of the light-hearted. 
 Naturally they put it down to the fact that among 
 all the merrymaking and sweethearting and spy- 
 ing into the future of the younger people he 
 alone had no companion, or rather not the com- 
 panion whom he would have wished to have; 
 for Flora, the young girl whom he was to marry, 
 had left Inver-Mudal for the south in the preced- 
 ing autumn. And when they had asked if Flora 
 was quite well, and when he had answered “ Oh, 
 yes,” there was nothing further to be said. 
 
 II 
 
 Now on All-Hallows Eve there is one form of 
 incantation which is known to be extremely, nay, 
 terribly potent, when all others have failed. You 
 
88 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 go out by yourself, taking a handful of hemp- 
 seed with you. You get to a secluded place, and 
 begin to scatter the seed as you walk along the 
 road. You say, “ Hemp-seed, I sow thee; hemp- 
 seed I sow thee ; he who is to be my true love, 
 appear now and show thee.” And if you look 
 furtively over your shoulder you will behold the 
 desired apparition following you. 
 
 When Nelly came back from consulting the 
 oracle of the kale-yard, it appeared that she had 
 received what oracles generally vouchsafe — a 
 doubtful answer. 
 
 “What kind of custock did you pull, Nelly? ” 
 Hector asked of her. 
 
 “Well,” said she, “it is not much one way or 
 the other. No, I cannot tell anything by it. 
 But I am going out now to sow the hemp-seed, 
 Hector; and I know I shall be terribly fright- 
 ened — I shall be far too frightened to look over 
 my shoulder ; and this is what I want you to do 
 for me : you will stop at the door of the inn and 
 hide yourself ; and I will go up the road and sow 
 the hemp-seed ; and if anything appears, you will 
 see it. Will you do that, Hector? It is a clear 
 night; you will be sure to see it if there is any- 
 thing.” 
 
 He did not seem to be in the mood for taking 
 part in these superstitious observances; but he 
 was good-natured, and eventually followed her 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 89 
 
 to the door. The little walled garden in front of 
 the Inver-Mudal inn is shaped like a horseshoe, 
 the two ends of the semicircle touching the main 
 highway at some distance apart. He saw Nelly 
 go up toward the main road, and looked after 
 her absently and without interest. Nay, he was 
 so little thinking of his promised watch that, as 
 she was some time over the sowing of the hemp- 
 seed, he left the shadow of the inn door, and 
 strolled away up to the main road by the other 
 fork of the semicircular drive. It was a beauti- 
 ful clear moonlight night ; his thoughts were far 
 away from these Hallowe’en diversions; he was 
 recalling other evenings long ago, when Cle- 
 brig, as now, seemed joining earth and heaven, 
 and when there was no sound but the murmur- 
 ing of the burns through the trackless heather. 
 The highway up there was white before him ; on 
 the other side was a plantation of young firs, 
 black as jet. Not even the cry of a startled bird 
 broke this perfect stillness; the wide world of 
 mountain and loch and moor was plunged in 
 sleep profound. 
 
 All at once his pipe, that he happened to be 
 holding in his hand, dropped to his feet. There 
 before him in the white highway, and between 
 him and the black belt of firs, stood Flora 
 Campbell, regarding him with eyes that said 
 nothing, but only stared in a somewhat sad way, 
 
9 o 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 as it seemed. He was not paralyzed with, terror 
 at all. He had no time to ask himself what she 
 was doing there, or how she had come there. 
 Flora Campbell standing there in the road, and 
 looking at him in silence. But the horror came 
 when suddenly he saw that the white highway 
 was empty. He began to shake and shiver as if 
 with extremity of cold. He did not move; he 
 could not move. He knew what had happened 
 to him now. Flora Campbell’s wraith had ap- 
 peared to him. And with what message? The 
 steady gaze of her eyes had told him nothing. 
 If they were anything, they were mournful. 
 Perhaps it was a token of farewell ; perhaps it 
 was an intimation of her death. Hardly know- 
 ing what he did, and trembling in every limb, 
 he advanced a step or two, so that he could com- 
 mand the whole length of the highway. There 
 was no sign of any living thing there. He could 
 not recall how it was she first appeared ; he could 
 not tell in what manner she had gone away ; he 
 only knew that a few moments before Flora had 
 been regarding him with steady, plaintive eyes, 
 and that now he was alone with this moonlit 
 road and the black plantation, and Clebrig rising 
 far into the silent heavens. 
 
 Then there arose in his heart a wild resolve 
 that, whatever this thing might portend, he 
 must instantly make away for the south, to seek 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 91 
 
 out Flora Campbell berself. She had something 
 to say to him, surely, though those mournful 
 eyes conveyed no intelligible message. Nay, if 
 she were dead, if this were but a mute farewell, 
 must he not know? Dazed, bewildered, filled 
 with terrible misgivings of he knew not what, 
 he slowly went back to the inn. He had some 
 vague instinct that he must ask Mr. Murray for 
 the loan of a stick if he were to set out now to 
 cross the leagues of wild and mountainous coun- 
 try that lie between Inver-Mudal and the sea. 
 Mr. Murray, as it chanced, was at the door. 
 
 “God’s sake, Hector, what is the matter with 
 you?” he exclaimed, in alarm, for there was a 
 strange look in the man’s face. 
 
 “I have seen something this night,” was the 
 answer, spoken slowly and in an undertone. 
 
 “Nonsense! nonsense!” the innkeeper said. 
 “ The heads of the young people are filled with 
 foolishness on Hallowe’en, as every one knows; 
 but you — you are not to be frightened by their 
 stories.” 
 
 “It has naught to do with Hallowe’en,” said 
 Hector, still with his eyes fixed on the ground, 
 as if seeking to recall something. “ Do you 
 know what I have seen this night? I have seen 
 the wraith of Flora Campbell — ay, as clear as 
 daylight.” 
 
 “ I will not believe it, Hector,” said Mr. Mur- 
 
92 
 
 A HALLOWE EN WRAITH 
 
 ray. “ You have been hearing all those stories 
 of the witches and fairies on Hallowe’en until 
 your own head has been turned. Why, where 
 did you see the wraith? ” 
 
 “Up there in the road, and as clear as day- 
 light, for that is the truth. It was Flora her- 
 self,” the tall forester made answer, not argu- 
 mentatively, but as merely stating a fact that he 
 knew. 
 
 “ And did she come forward to you, or did she 
 go away from you?” Mr. Murray asked, curi- 
 ously. 
 
 “I — I am not sure,” Hector said, after a little 
 hesitation. “No, I could not say. Perhaps I 
 was not thinking of her. But all at once I saw 
 her between me and the plantation, in the mid- 
 dle of the road; and for a moment I was not 
 frightened ; I thought it was Flora herself ; then 
 she was gone.” 
 
 “For you know what they say, Hector,” Mr. 
 Murray continued. “ When a wraith appears, it 
 is to tell you of a great danger ; and if it comes 
 forward to you, then the danger is over; but if 
 it goes away from you, the person is dead.” 
 
 “Ay, ay; I have heard that too,” Hector mur- 
 mured, as if in sombre reverie. Then he looked 
 up, and said: “ I am going away to the south.” 
 “Well, now, that is unfortunate, Hector,” the 
 good-natured innkeeper said to him. “ For to- 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 93 
 
 morrow the mail comes north, and you will have 
 to wait till the next day for the mail going 
 south, to take you in to Lairg to catch the 
 train.” 
 
 “ I will not wait for the mail,” answered the 
 forester, who, indeed, knew little about travel- 
 ling by railway. “To-morrow is Wednesday: 
 it is the day the big steamer starts from Loch 
 Inver; perhaps I may be in time.” 
 
 “Loch Inver!” the other exclaimed. “And 
 how are you going to get to Loch Inver from 
 here, Hector?” 
 
 “Across the forest,” was the simple reply. 
 
 “ Across the Reay Forest and down by Loch 
 Assynt? That will be a fearful journey through 
 the night!” 
 
 “I cannot rest here,” Hector said. “You will 
 make some excuse for me to the lads and lasses. 
 I will leave my pipes; Long Murdoch will do 
 very well with them. And I will thank you to 
 lend me a stick, Mr. Murray, for it will be a 
 rough walk before I have done.” 
 
 Mr. Murray did more than that; he got his 
 wife to make up a little packet of food, to which 
 he added a flask of whiskey ; and these he took 
 out to the young man, along with a shepherd’s 
 staff of stout hazel. 
 
 “Good-by, Hector!” said he. “I hope you 
 will find all well in the south.” 
 
94 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 “I do not know about that,” the forester an- 
 swered, in an absent sort of fashion ; “ but I must 
 go and see. There will be no peace of mind for 
 me — there would not be one moment’s peace for 
 me — otherwise. For who knows what Flora 
 wanted to say to me? ” 
 
 III 
 
 It was an arduous task he had set before him ; 
 for nine men out of ten it would have been an 
 impossible one ; but this young forester’s limbs 
 knew not what fatigue was; and in his heart 
 there burned a longing that could not be as- 
 suaged. Nor in ordinary circumstances would 
 the loneliness of this night’s journey have mat- 
 tered to him ; but his nerves had been unstrung 
 by the strange thing that had happened; and 
 now, as he followed a shepherd’s track that led 
 away into the higher moorlands south of the 
 Mudal River, he was conscious of some mysteri- 
 ous influence surrounding him that was of far 
 more immediate concern than the mere number 
 of miles — some forty or fifty — he had to accom- 
 plish before noon of the next day. These vast 
 solitudes into which he was penetrating were ap- 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 95 
 
 parently quite voiceless and lifeless ; and yet lie 
 felt as if they knew of his presence, and were 
 regarding him. A white stone on a dark heather- 
 covered knoll would suddenly look like a human 
 face ; or again, he would be startled by the moon- 
 light shining on a small tarn set among the black 
 peat hags. There was no moaning of wind ; but 
 there was a distant murmuring of water ; the rills 
 were whispering to each other in the silence. 
 As for the mountains — those lone sentinels, Ben 
 Loyal and Ben Hope and Ben Hee — they also 
 appeared to be looking down upon the desolate 
 plain; but he did not heed them, they were too 
 far away ; it was the objects near him that seemed 
 to know he was here, and to take sudden shapes 
 as he went by. 
 
 Soon he was without even a shepherd’s track 
 to guide him ; but he knew the lay of the land ; 
 and he held on in a line that would avoid the 
 lochs, the deeper burns, and the steep heights 
 of Meall-an-amair. The moonlight was a great 
 help ; indeed, at this period of his long through- 
 the -night tramp he was chiefly engaged in trying 
 to recall how it was he first became sensible that 
 Flora Campbell’s wraith appeared before him. 
 Fie saw again — surely he would never forget to 
 his dying day the most insignificant feature of 
 the scene — the stone wall of the garden, the 
 white road, the wire fence on the other side, and 
 
9<5 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 the black plantation of spruce and pine. What 
 had he been thinking about? Not about Nelly; 
 she was some distance in another direction, busy 
 with her charms and incantations. No ; he could 
 not tell. The sudden apparition had startled 
 him out of all memory. But what he was most 
 anxious to convince himself was that the phan- 
 tom had come toward him, rather than gone 
 away from him, ere it disappeared, Mr. Mur- 
 ray’s words had sunk deep, though he himself 
 had been aware of the familiar superstition. But 
 now all his endeavors to summon up an accurate 
 recollection of what had taken place were of no 
 avail. He knew not how he first became con- 
 scious that the wraith was there — Flora Camp- 
 bell herself, as it seemed to him — nor how it was 
 he suddenly found himself alone again. He had 
 been terrified out of his senses ; he had no power 
 of observation left. This phantasm that looked 
 so like a human being, that regarded him with 
 pathetic eyes, that had some mysterious message 
 to communicate, and yet was silent, had vanished 
 as it had appeared, he could not tell how. 
 
 The hours went by ; the moon was sinking to- 
 ward the western hills. And still he toiled on 
 through this pathless waste, sometimes getting 
 into treacherous swamps, again having to ford 
 burns swollen by the recent rains. He was 
 soaked through to the waist ; but little he heeded 
 
A HALLOWE EN WRAITH 
 
 97 
 
 that ; his thoughts were of the steamer that was 
 to leave Loch Inver the next day. With the 
 moon going down, darkness was slowly resuming 
 her reign, and it became more difficult to make 
 out the landmarks ; but, at all events, the heav- 
 ens remained clear, and he had the guidance of 
 the stars. And still steadily and patiently and 
 manfully he held on, getting without much seri- 
 ous trouble across the streams that feed Loch 
 Fhiodaig, until eventually he struck the highway 
 running northward from Loch Shin, and knew 
 that so far, at least, he was in the right direction. 
 
 Leaving the Corrykinloch road again, he had 
 once more to plunge into the trackless wilderness 
 of rock and swamp and moorland ; and the fur- 
 ther he went through the black night the less 
 familiar was he with the country. But he had 
 a general knowledge ; and what mattered half a 
 dozen miles one way or the other, if only the 
 dawn would show him Ben More on his left, and 
 away before him the silver-gray waters of Loch 
 Assynt? He was less conscious now of the sin- 
 ister influences of these lonely solitudes ; his 
 nervous apprehensions had to give way before 
 his dogged resolve to get out to the western 
 shore in time to catch the steamer ; all his atten- 
 tion was given to determining his course by the 
 vague outlines of the higher hills. A wind had 
 arisen, a cold, raw wind it was, but he cared 
 
 5 
 
A HALLOWE'EN WRAITH 
 
 98 
 
 nothing for that, unless, indeed, it should bring 
 a smurr of rain and obliterate the landmarks al- 
 together. How anxiously he prayed for the 
 dawn ! If this wind were to bring driving mists 
 of rain, blotting out both earth and heaven, and 
 limiting his vision to the space of moorland im- 
 mediately surrounding him, where would be his 
 guidance then? He could not grope his way 
 along the slopes that lie beneath Loch nan Scarir, 
 nor yet across the streams that fall into Loch 
 Fionn. So all the more resolutely he held on 
 while as yet he could make out something of the 
 land, dark against the tremulous stars. 
 
 Again and again he turned his head and 
 scanned the east, with a curious mingling of im- 
 patience and hope and longing; and at length, to 
 his unspeakable joy, he was able' to convince him- 
 self that the horizon there was giving faint signs 
 of the coming dawn. He went forward with a 
 new confidence, with a lighter step. The horror 
 of these awful solitudes would disappear with the 
 declaring day ; surely, surely, when the world had 
 grown white again, he would behold before him, 
 not this terrible black loneliness of mountain 
 and mere, but the pleasant abodes of men, and 
 trees, and the western ocean, and the red-fun- 
 nelled steamer with its welcome smoke. The 
 gray light in the east increased. He began to 
 make out the features of the ground near him ; 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 99 
 
 he could tell a patch of heather from a deep 
 hole; and could choose his way. The world 
 seemed to broaden out. Everything, it is true, 
 was as yet wan and spectral and ill-defined ; but 
 the silence was no longer awful ; he had no fur- 
 ther fear of the mists coming along to isolate 
 him in the dark. By slow degrees, under the 
 widening light of the sky, the various features 
 of this wild country began to take more definite 
 shape. Down there in the south lay the mighty 
 mass of Ben More. On his right rose the sterile 
 altitudes of Ben Uidhe. And at last, and quite 
 suddenly, he came in view of the ruffled silvery 
 surface of Loch Assynt, and the cottages of Inch- 
 nadamph, and the gray ruins of Ardvreck Castle 
 on the promontory jutting out into the lake. The 
 worst of the sore fight with solitude and the night 
 was over. He gained the road, and his long 
 swinging stride now stood him in good stead. 
 Loch Assynt was soon left behind. He followed 
 the windings of the river Inver. Finally he 
 came in sight of the scattered little hamlet fac- 
 ing the western seas, with its bridge and its 
 church and its pleasant woods and slopes, look- 
 ing all so cheerful and home-like ; and there also 
 was the red-funnelled Clansman that was to carry 
 him away to the south. 
 
IOO 
 
 a Hallowe'en wraith 
 
 IV 
 
 That long and difficult struggle to get out to 
 the western coast in time had so far demanded 
 all his energy and attention; but now, in en- 
 forced idleness, as the heavy steamer ploughed 
 her way across the blue waters of the Minch, his 
 mind could go back upon what had happened 
 the preceding night, and could also look for- 
 ward with all sorts of dark, indefinite forebod- 
 ings. He began to recall his first association 
 with Flora Campbell, when she came to Auch- 
 naver Lodge to help the old housekeeper there. 
 He remembered how neat and trim she looked 
 when she walked into Strathie Free Church 
 of a Sunday morning; and how shy she was 
 when he got to know her well enough to talk a 
 little with her when they met, in their native 
 tongue. Their courtship and engagement had 
 the entire approval of Flora’s master and mis- 
 tress ; for the old housekeeper at the lodge was 
 now past work ; and they proposed to install Hec- 
 tor’s wife in her place, and give her a permanent 
 situation. The wedding was to be in February 
 or March ; in April the young wife was to move 
 into the lodge, to get it ready for the gentlemen 
 coming up for the salmon-fishing. When the 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 ioi 
 
 fishing and shooting of the year were over, Flora 
 could return to her husband’s cottage, and merely 
 look in at the lodge from time to time to light a 
 fire or two and keep the place aired. Mean- 
 while, for this present winter, she had taken a 
 situation in Oban (she was a West Highland 
 girl), and had remained there until summoned 
 away to Greenock by the serious illness of her 
 sister. Such was the situation ; but who could 
 tell now what was to become of all those fair 
 prospects and plans? Was it to bid a last fare- 
 well to them and to him that the young Highland 
 girl had appeared — saying good-by with such 
 mournful eyes? The small parlor in his cottage 
 — was she never to see the little adornments he 
 had placed there, all for her sake? Well, then, 
 if what he feared had come true, no other wo- 
 man should enter and take possession. There 
 were dreams of Canada, of Cape Colony, of Aus- 
 tralia in his brain as he sat there with bent brow 
 and heavy heart, taking hardly any heed of the 
 new shores they were now nearing. 
 
 This anguish of brooding became at length in- 
 supportable; in despair he went to the stevedore, 
 and said he would be glad to lend a hand with 
 the cargo as soon as the steamer was alongside 
 the quay in Stornoway Harbor. And right hard 
 he worked, too, hour after hour, feeding the 
 steam crane that was swinging crates and boxes 
 
102 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 over and down into the hold. The time passed 
 more easily in this fashion. His chum was a 
 good-natured young fellow who seemed rather 
 proud of his voice ; at times he sang snatches of 
 Gaelic songs — “ Mairi bhinn mheall shuileach” 
 (Mary of the bewitching eyes), or “C’aite’n 
 caidil an ribhinn?” (Where sleepest thou, dear 
 maiden ?) . They were familiar songs ; but there 
 was one still more familiar that woke strange 
 echoes in his heart; for Flora Campbell was a 
 west-country girl, and of course her favorite was 
 the well-known “ Fear a bhata: ” 
 
 “ I climb the mountains and scan the ocean 
 For thee, my boatman, with fond devotion, 
 
 When shall I see thee? — to-day? — to-morrow? 
 
 Oh, do not leave me in lonely sorrow ! 
 
 O my boatman, na horo ailya , 
 
 O my boatman, na horo ailya , 
 
 O my boatman, na horo ailya , 
 
 A hundred farewells to you, wherever you may be 
 going.” 
 
 That is how it begins in the English ; but it was 
 the Gaelic phrases that haunted his brain, and 
 brought him remembrance of Flora’s crooning 
 voice, and of a certain autumn evening when he 
 and she and some others went all the way down 
 Loch Naver to Inver-Mudal, Flora and he sitting 
 together in the stern of the boat, and all of them 
 singing the “ Fear a bhata.” 
 
FLORA AND HE SITTING TOGETHER IN THE STERN OF THE BOAT, AND ALL OF THEM SINGING THE 
 
 ‘ FEAR A BHATA ’ ” 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 103 
 
 The Clansman left Stornoway that same night, 
 groaning and thundering through the darkness 
 on her way to Skye. Hector did not go below 
 into the fore-cabin. He remained on deck, 
 watching the solitary ray of some distant light- 
 house, or perhaps turning his gaze upon the 
 great throbbing vault overhead where Cassiopeia 
 sat, throned upon her silver chair. More than 
 once an aerolite shot swiftly across the clear 
 heavens, leaving a faint radiance for a second or 
 so in its wake ; but he took no heed of these por- 
 tents now. In other circumstances they might 
 mean something; but now a more direct sum- 
 mons had come to him from the unknown world ; 
 the message had been delivered, though he had 
 been unable to understand it ; and he knew that 
 what was to happen had now happened in that 
 far town of Greenock. And as the slow hours 
 went by, his impatience and longing increased 
 almost to despair. The dark loom of land in 
 the south appeared to come no nearer. The 
 monotonous throbbing of the screw seemed as if 
 it were to go on forever. And as yet there was 
 no sign of the dawn. 
 
 But the new day, which promised to be quite 
 insupportable in its tedium and in its fears, in 
 reality brought him some distraction, and that 
 was welcome enough. At Portree there came on 
 board a middle-aged man of rather mean aspect, 
 
104 
 
 a Hallowe'en wraith 
 
 with broken nose, long upper lip, and curiously 
 set small gray eyes. He carried a big bag 
 which apparently held all his belongings, and 
 that he threw on to the luggage on the forward 
 deck. 
 
 “ Where’s this going to? ” called the stevedore. 
 
 “ Sure ’tis bound for the same place as mesilf,” 
 said the new-comer, facetiously; “and that’s 
 Philadelphia, begob ! ” 
 
 “We don’t call there,” retorted the stevedore, 
 dryly; “and you’d better stick to your bundle if 
 you want to see it at Greenock.” 
 
 And very soon it became apparent that the 
 advent of this excited and voluble Irishman had 
 brought new life into the steerage portion of the 
 ship. He had a glass or two of whiskey. He 
 talked to everybody within hearing about him- 
 self, his plans, his former experiences of the 
 United States; and when gravelled for lack of 
 matter, he would fall back on one invariable re- 
 frain : “ Aw, begob ! the Americans are the 
 bhoys!” And in especial were his confidences 
 bestowed on Hector MacIntyre, the shy and re- 
 served Highlander listening passively and with- 
 out protest to Paddy’s wild asseverations. 
 
 “Aw, the Americans are the divils, and no 
 mistake ! ” he exclaimed. “ But let me tell you 
 this, sorr, that there’s one that’s cliverer than 
 them, and that’s the Irish bhoy, begob! Sure 
 
A HALLOWE’EN WRAITH 
 
 io 5 
 
 they talk about the German vote — aw, bather- 
 shin! ’Tis the Irish vote, sorr, that’s the mas- 
 ther; and we’ve got the newspapers. And 
 where would the Republicans or the Dimocrats 
 be widout us? — tell me that av ye plaze! In 
 
 this ould counthry the Irishman is a slave ; in 
 
 Americay he’s the masther; and every mother’s 
 son of them knows it! Aw, begob, sorr, that’s 
 
 the place for a man ! This ould counthry 
 
 isn’t fit for a pig to live in! Americay’s the 
 place; you may bet your life on it, sorr! ” 
 
 And suddenly it occurred to Hector that he 
 might gain some information, even from this 
 blathering fool. His thoughts had been running 
 much on emigration during those lonely hours 
 he had passed. If what he dreaded had really 
 taken place, he would return no more to the lone 
 moorlands and hills and lakes of Sutherlandshire. 
 He would put the wide Atlantic between himself 
 and certain memories. For him it would be 
 “ Soraidh slan le tir mo ghraidh” — a long fare- 
 well to Fiunary ! 
 
 But at present the Irishman would not be 
 questioned ; the outflowing of his eloquence was 
 not to be stopped. He was now dealing with 
 the various classes and the various institutions of 
 Great Britain, on each of which he bestowed the 
 same epithet — that of “bloody.” The Govern- 
 ment, the newspaper editors, the House of Lords, 
 
io6 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 the House of Commons, the clergy, the judges, 
 the employers of labor, all were of the same 
 ensanguined hue ; and all were equally doomed 
 to perdition, as soon as Ireland had taken up 
 her proper and inevitable position in America. 
 Moreover, the tall and silent Highlander, as he 
 sat and gazed upon this frothing creature as if 
 he were some strange phenomenon, some incom- 
 prehensible freak of nature, could not but see 
 that the man was perfectly in earnest. 
 
 “Look what they did to John Mitch el! Look 
 at that, now! John Mitchel! ” 
 
 Hector had, unfortunately, never heard of 
 John Mitchel, so he could not say anything. 
 
 “Dying by the road-side! — John Mitchel — to 
 be left to die by the road-side ! Think of that, 
 now! What d’ye say to that, now? John 
 Mitchel being left to die by the road-side ! ” 
 
 There were sudden tears in the deep-sunken 
 gray eyes ; and the Irishman made no conceal- 
 ment as he wiped them away with his red cotton 
 handkerchief. 
 
 “Well, I’m very sorry,” Hector MacIntyre re- 
 plied, in answer to this appeal, “whoever he 
 was. But what could they have done for the 
 poor man? ” 
 
 “They could have given him a place,” the 
 other retorted, with a sudden blaze of anger. 
 “ All that John Mitchel wanted was a place. But 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 107 
 
 the ” (ensanguined) “ Government, would they do 
 it? No, sorr! They let him die by the road- 
 side! — John Mitchel — to die by the road-side! ” 
 
 “ Well, I am thinking,” said the forester slowly 
 (as was his way when he had to talk in English) , 
 “ that if the Government wass to give places to 
 ahl them that would like a place, why, the whole 
 country would be in the public service, and there 
 would be no one left to till the land. And do 
 they give you a place when you go to America? ” 
 “Aw, begob, sorr,” said the Irishman, with a 
 shrewd twinkle in his eye, “we get our share! ” 
 Hector could not make out whether his new 
 acquaintance had been to Portree to say good-by 
 to some friends before he crossed the Atlantic, 
 or whether he had been engaged in the crofter 
 agitation which was then attracting attention in 
 Skye. On this latter subject Paddy discoursed 
 with a vehement volubility and a gay and auda- 
 cious ignorance ; but here Hector was on his own 
 ground, and had to interfere. 
 
 “ I am thinking you will not be knowing much 
 about it,” he observed, with a calm frankness. 
 “ The great Highland clearances, they were not 
 made for deer at ahl, they were not made for 
 sportsmen at ahl, they were made for sheep, 
 as many a landlord knows to his cost this 
 day, when he has the sheep farms on his lands 
 and cannot get them let. And the deer forests, 
 
io8 
 
 A HALLOWE EN WRAITH 
 
 they are the worst land in a country where the 
 best land is poor ; and if they were to be cut up 
 into crofts to-morrow, there is not one crofter in 
 twenty would be able to earn his living, even if 
 he was to get the croft for no rent at ahl. Oh, 
 yes, I am as sorry as any one for the poor people 
 when they increase in their families on such poor 
 land ; but what would be the use of giving them 
 more peat hags and rocks? Can a man live 
 where neither deer nor sheep nor black cattle 
 can live ; and even the deer come down in the 
 winter and go wandering for miles in search of 
 a blade of bent-grass? ” 
 
 However, the Irishman would not accept these 
 representations in any wise. He suspected this 
 grave, brown-bearded Highlander of being an 
 accomplice and hireling of the (ensanguined) 
 landlords; and he might have gone on to de- 
 nounce him, or even to provoke an appeal to 
 fisticuffs (which would have been manifestly 
 imprudent) had it not suddenly occurred to him 
 that they might go down below and have a glass 
 of whiskey together. Hector saw him disappear 
 into the fore-cabin by himself, and was perhaps 
 glad to be left alone. 
 
 Steadily the great steamer clove her way on- 
 ward, by the islands of Raasay and Scalpa, 
 through the narrows of Kyle Akin and Kyle 
 Rhea, past the light-house and opening into Isle 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 109 
 
 Ornsay, and down toward the wooded shores of 
 Armadale. The day was fair and still; the sea 
 was of an almost summer-like blue, with long 
 swathes of silver calm; the sun shone on the 
 lower green slopes that seemed so strangely 
 voiceless, and on the higher peaks and shoulders 
 of the hills, where every corrie and watercourse 
 was a thread of azure among the ethereal rose- 
 grays of the far-reaching summits. Even the 
 wild Ardnamurchan (“ The Headland of the 
 Great Waves ”) had not a flake of cloud clinging 
 to its beetled cliffs; and the long smooth roll 
 that came in from the outer ocean was almost 
 imperceptible. Toward evening the Clansman 
 sailed into Oban Bay. The world seemed all on 
 fire, so far as sea and sky were concerned ; but 
 Kerrera lay in shadow, a cold and livid green ; 
 while between the crimson water and the crimson 
 heavens stood the distant mountains of Mull; 
 and they had grown to be of a pale, clear, trans- 
 parent rose-purple, so that they seemed a mere 
 film thinner than any isinglass. 
 
no 
 
 A HALLOWE EN WRAITH 
 
 V 
 
 There was abundance of time for him to go 
 ashore and make inquiries ; but nothing had been 
 heard of Flora Campbell since she had left. 
 However, he managed to get the Greenock ad- 
 dress of her sister, Mary Campbell, and with 
 that in his possession he returned on board. 
 Thereafter the monotonous voyage was resumed 
 — away down by the long peninsula of Cantyre 
 and round the Mull, up again through the estuary 
 of the Clyde, until, at four o’clock on Friday 
 afternoon, the Clansman drew in to Greenock 
 quay; and Hector MacIntyre knew that within 
 a few minutes he would learn what fate had in 
 store for him, for good or irretrievable ill. 
 
 He found his way to the address that had been 
 given him — a temperance hotel at which Mary 
 Campbell was head laundry-maid. But Mary 
 Campbell was no longer there. She had been 
 removed when she was taken ill; and as she 
 would not go into a hospital, according to a preju- 
 dice familiar among many of her class, lodgings 
 had been found for her. Thither Hector went 
 forthwith, into a slummy by-street, where, after 
 many inquiries, he found the “land” and the 
 “ close” that he sought. He ascended the grimy 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 hi 
 
 and dusky stone stairs. When he had nearly 
 reached the top floor he was met by a short, stout, 
 elderly man, who had just shut a door behind him. 
 
 “ Is there one Mary Campbell luvvin’ here? ” he 
 made bold to ask in English. 
 
 “Ay, that there is,” said the stranger, fixing 
 keen eyes on him. “ Are you come for news of 
 her? I am the doctor.” 
 
 “Yes, yes,” Hector said; but he could say no 
 more; his heart was beating like to choke him. 
 He fixed his eyes on the doctor’s face. 
 
 “Ye’ll be one of her Highland cousins, eh? 
 “Ye dinna look like a town -bred lad,” said the 
 brusque and burly doctor, with a sort of facetious 
 good-humor. “Well, well, Mary is getting on 
 right enough. Ye might as well go in and cheer 
 her up a bit. The twa lasses dinna seem to have 
 many freens.” 
 
 “ But — but — Flora? ” said the forester, with his 
 hungry, haggard eyes still watching every ex- 
 pression of the doctor’s face. 
 
 “The other one? Indeed, she has had the 
 fever worse than her sister. I wasna sure one 
 night but that she would go ” 
 
 MacIntyre seemed to hear no more. Flora 
 was alive — was within a few yards of him. He 
 stood there quite dazed. His eyes were averted; 
 he was breathing heavily. The doctor looked at 
 him for a moment or two. 
 
I 12 
 
 a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 “ Maybe it’s the sister you’re anxious about? ” 
 said he, bluntly. “Weel, she is no out o’ the 
 wood yet, but she has a fair chance. What, 
 man, what’s the matter wi’ ye? It’s no such ill 
 news ” 
 
 “No, no; it’s very good news,” Hector said, 
 in an undertone, as if to himself. “ I wass — 
 fearing something. Can I see the lass? I wass 
 not hearing from her for a while ” 
 
 But he could not explain what had brought 
 him hither. He instinctively knew that this 
 south countryman would laugh at his Highland 
 superstition, would say that his head had been 
 stuffed full of Hallowe’en nonsense, or that at 
 most what he had imagined he had seen and the 
 fact that Flora Campbell had fallen seriously ill 
 formed but a mere coincidence. 
 
 “Oh, yes, you can see her,” the doctor said, 
 with rough good-nature. “But I’ll just go in 
 beforehand to gie her a bit warning. You can 
 talk to her sister for a minute or two. She is 
 sitting up noo, and soon she’ll have to begin and 
 nurse her sister, as her sister did her until she 
 took the fever. Come away, lad — what’s your 
 name, did ye say? ” 
 
 “Hector MacIntyre. Flora will know very 
 well where I am from.” 
 
 The doctor knocked at the door, which was 
 presently opened by a young girl ; and while he 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 JI 3 
 
 left Hector to talk to the elder sister, who was 
 lying propped up on a rude couch in a rather 
 shabby little apartment, he himself went into an 
 inner room. When he came out he again looked 
 at Hector curiously. 
 
 “ Now I understand why you were so anxious,” 
 said he, with a familiar smile. “ But how came 
 ye to hear she was ill? She says she did not 
 want ye to ken anything about it until she was 
 on the high-road to getting better.” 
 
 Hector did not answer him. He only looked 
 toward the door that had been partially left open. 
 
 “Go in, then,” said the doctor; “and dinna 
 stay ower lang, my lad, for she has little strength 
 to waste in talking as yet.” 
 
 Timidly, like a school-boy, this big strong man 
 entered the sick-room ; and it was gently and on 
 tiptoe (lest his heavily nailed boots should make 
 any noise) that he went forward to the bedside. 
 Flora lay there pale and emaciated; but there 
 was a smile of surprise and welcome in the dark 
 blue Highland eyes; and she tried to lift her 
 wasted hand to meet his. What they had to 
 say to each other was said in the Gaelic tongue. 
 
 “ It is sorry I am to see you like this,” said he, 
 sitting down, and keeping her hand in his own. 
 “ But the doctor says you are now in a fair way 
 to get better; and it is not from this town I am 
 going until I take you with me, Flora, girl of my 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 
 
 114 
 
 heart. The Sutherland air will be better for you 
 than the Greenock air. And your sister Mary 
 will come with you for a while ; and both of you 
 will take my little cottage; and Mrs. Matheson 
 will give me a bed at Auchnaver Lodge. I am 
 sure Mr. Lennox would not object to that.” 
 
 “ But, Hector, how did you know that I was 
 ill? ” the sick girl said, and her eyes did not leave 
 his eyes for a moment. “ I was not wishing you 
 to know I was ill — to give you trouble — until I 
 could write to you that I was better.” 
 
 “ How did I know? ” he answered gravely. “ It 
 was you yourself who came to tell me.” 
 
 “ What is it that you say, Hector? ” she asked, 
 in some vague alarm. 
 
 “On Hallowe’en night,” he continued, in the 
 same serious, simple tones, “ I was at Inver- 
 Mudal. Perhaps I was not caring much for the 
 diversions of the lads and lasses. I walked up 
 the road by myself ; and there your wraith ap- 
 peared to me as clear as I see you now. When 
 I went back and told Mr. Murray, he said ‘Did 
 she come forward to you, Hector, or did she go 
 away? She is in great danger. It is a warning ; 
 and if she went away from you, you will see her 
 no more; but if she came forward, she is getting 
 better — you will see Flora again.’ I knew that 
 myself ; but I could not answer him ; and my 
 heart said to me that I must find out for myself ; 
 
SHE TRIED TO LIFT HER WASTED HAND TO MEET HIS ’ 
 
a Hallowe’en wraith 115 
 
 that I must go to seek you; and I set out that 
 night and walked across the Reay Forest to Loch 
 Inver, and caught the steamer there. What I 
 have been thinking since I left Loch Inver until 
 this hour I cannot tell to you or to any one 
 living.” 
 
 “Hector,” she asked, “what night was Hal- 
 lowe’en night? I have not been thinking of such 
 things.” 
 
 “ It was the night of Tuesday,” he answered. 
 
 “And that,” she said, in a low voice, “was the 
 night that the fever took the turn. Mary told me 
 they did not expect me to live till the morning.” 
 
 “We will never speak of it again, Flora,” said 
 he, “ for there are things that we do not under- 
 stand.” And then he added: “But now that I 
 am in Greenock, it is in Greenock I mean to re- 
 main until I can take you away with me, and 
 Mary too; for Sutherland air is better than 
 Greenock air for a Highland lass ; and sure I am 
 that Mr. Lennox will not grudge me having a 
 bed at Auchnaver Lodge. And you will get 
 familiar with the cottage, Flora, where I hope 
 you will soon be mistress ; and then there will be 
 no more occasion for a great distance between 
 you and me ; or for the strange things that some- 
 times happen when people are separated the one 
 from the other.” 
 

NANCIEBEL 
 
 A TALE OF STRATFORD-ON-AVON 
 

NANCIEBEL 
 
 A TALE OF STRATFORD-ON-AVON 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 “GO FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE ” 
 
 There was a slight sprinkling of snow on this 
 walled and tiled back garden — or back yard, 
 rather — in the High Street of Stratford-on-Avon ; 
 and the two figures who, arm-in-arm, were slowly 
 pacing up and down, were well wrapped up, for 
 the night was cold. The one was a tall young 
 fellow of three or four and twenty, of slim build 
 and fair complexion ; the other was a young lady 
 of lesser height, who wore a tall hat with tragic 
 sable plumes, and had also a black fur boa wound 
 round her neck. Not much could be seen of her 
 face, indeed, except that she had a pert and 
 pretty nose, and soft, eloquent, pleading dark 
 eyes. 
 
 The young man was in an oracular mood. He 
 was delivering a discourse ; and it was a discourse 
 
 119 
 
120 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 on the letter h. He was proving to his compan- 
 ion that all the learned and polished nations of 
 ancient and modern times had condemned and 
 despised the letter //, even when they did not 
 resolutely ignore it; and he was insisting that 
 the importance conferred on that letter by the 
 English-speaking communities, and the social 
 use it had been put to, as a sort of shibboleth and 
 test of one’s up-bringing, were the result of noth- 
 ing but crass and vulgar ignorance. 
 
 “Ah! I know what you mean, Richard,” the 
 young lady said plaintively. “ It is all to give 
 me courage — if ever I should meet your mother 
 some day. For you know, dear, I never do 
 make a mistake except when I am frightened or 
 anxious. Indeed,” she added shyly, “I think 
 you are rather sorry, Richard, that you can’t 
 oftener catch me tripping because of the penalty. 
 You haven’t caught me once lately, in spite of 
 all your difficult sentences. Is that why you in- 
 stituted prizes instead of penalties? And tell 
 me this, Richard — how can the same thing be 
 both a prize and a penalty? ” 
 
 “Nanciebel,” said he, in answer to these mys- 
 terious references, “ this is not a time for asking 
 conundrums. I tell you, to-night I am going to 
 speak to my mother — to tell her the whole 
 story ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, Richard,” she exclaimed imploringly, 
 
“the two figures were well wrapped up, for the night 
 
 WAS COLD 
 
“ GO FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE ” 
 
 I 2 I 
 
 “don’t do that! That will only be the end; and 
 we shall never see each other again. And our 
 acquaintanceship has been so pleasant ” 
 
 “Acquaintanceship, Nancy!” 
 
 “ Whatever you like to call it — it has been so 
 pleasant. It will be a thing to look back on in 
 after-years. But it will never be more than 
 that.” 
 
 “ Oh, stuff! ” he said, angrily. “ I really won- 
 der at you, Nancy! I never get the least help 
 or encouragement from you. Don’t I know that 
 the circumstances are difficult enough? But 
 you — you exaggerate them. You haven’t the 
 courage of a mouse. You talk as if I were a 
 prince in disguise, and as if you expected my 
 mother to throw you into the Tower as soon as 
 she got to know. I wish you would have a little 
 common sense. The widow and son of a cap- 
 tain in the navy are not such exalted person- 
 ages ” 
 
 At this moment an open door at the foot of the 
 yard was still further opened, and there stood 
 revealed, shining in ruddy light, the stationer’s 
 shop and “ fancy goods emporium ” which was 
 owned by Miss Nancy’s elder brother, and over 
 which that young lady herself presided. 
 
 “Nancy!” called a small boy — a younger 
 brother. 
 
 “All right, Jim! One moment, Richard” — 
 
 6 
 
122 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 and she had gone to attend to that infrequent 
 visitor, a customer. 
 
 When she had returned, and had taken his 
 arm again, and nestled up to him (for the night 
 was exceedingly cold, and she was an affectionate 
 kind of a creature), she said: 
 
 “ Richard, what would your mother think if 
 she saw me behind that counter? ” 
 
 “She would think you were extremely pretty," 
 said he with promptitude ; “ and what is more, 
 when she gets to know you, she will say you are 
 as good, and true, and kind, and warm-hearted 
 as you are nice to look at. And what more could 
 you want? ” 
 
 “Ah,” said Nanciebel sadly, “you fancy she 
 will see me with your eyes. But that is not the 
 way of the world.” 
 
 “ What do you know of the way of the world? ” 
 he made answer. “ Look here, Nancy. Haven’t 
 I told you that my mother’s two books are the 
 Bible and Tennyson, and that she believes 
 equally in both? Very well; now let her put 
 her faith into practice. 'Kind hearts are more 
 than coronets, and simple faith than Norman 
 blood.’” 
 
 “Ah, yes; it is so pretty to read about in a 
 book,” said Nanciebel, in her plaintive way, “ but 
 it is so different in actual life ” 
 
 He threw away her hand from his arm. 
 
“go FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE ” 1 23 
 
 “ I have no patience with you ! ” he said, with 
 an angry frown. 
 
 And she on her side was just as quick. She 
 drew herself up, and said with proud lips : 
 
 “And I, Mr. Kingston, have no wish to remain 
 here to be insulted. Good-night! ” 
 
 She was moving haughtily away; and he, in 
 his temper, was like to let her go ; but he thought 
 better of it ; he put his hand on her shoulder, 
 and somewhat sulkily said, when he laid hold of 
 her: 
 
 “ Nancy!” 
 
 “Oh, I suppose you do not understand,” she 
 said, indignantly, “ that I have a little self-respect 
 — that I wish to be treated with a little common 
 civility and courtesy? But I would have you 
 know that I am just as proud as you are — prouder 
 — although our stations in life may be differ- 
 ent ” 
 
 “ Nancy! ” he said, in a more appealing way. 
 
 “ But I am content,” she continued, in the same 
 proud and indignant tones. “ I have asked noth- 
 ing from you. This relationship between you 
 and me was not of my seeking ; and now that it 
 must end — now that it has ended — good and well ; 
 I have nothing to regret. Good-night, Mr. 
 Kingston ! ” 
 
 And again she was going away, but he caught 
 her by both shoulders. 
 
124 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “Nancy! Nancy! listen to me! How can you 
 
 be so unreasonable ” 
 
 She tore herself from him; but it was only to 
 burst into a passionate fit of crying and sobbing, 
 her hands over her face, her head averted. Of 
 course he was beside her in a moment, drawing 
 her toward him, and petting her. 
 
 “I didn’t mean it, Nancy! I meant nothing 
 at all ! ” he pleaded. “ Don’t make me miserable ! 
 
 I can’t bear to see you crying ” 
 
 “It is of no consequence,” she sobbed. “It 
 has all come to an end now. I knew it from the 
 beginning. And — and there has been enough of 
 misery — and enough of misunderstanding — and 
 quarrelling — we were never suited for each other 
 — it has been a mistake throughout — and — and 
 now there is an end — and — and I am glad — I am 
 very glad,” she said, with another burst of tears. 
 
 “Come, come, Nanciebel,” said he soothingly 
 and coaxingly, “don’t say everything is at an 
 end on the very night that I am going to appeal 
 to my mother, and when I want all the self-con- 
 fidence and courage I can muster. Why don’t 
 you look on the brighter side of things? Think 
 how fond she is of me ; she would do anything 
 for me. And then, if it comes to that, I have 
 some claim to be considered. It wasn’t nice for 
 me to be called away from Oxford when my 
 father died, at the end of my very first term. 
 
GO FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE” 
 
 125 
 
 One single term! But did I grudge it? No — not 
 when the mater put it before me, and said how 
 lonely she would be in the world, and asked me 
 to be her companion. And here have I been 
 living in that old-fashioned place, hardly seeing 
 anybody, with next to nothing to do ; and when I 
 show my mother how a little family of three 
 would be ever so much more snug and comfort- 
 able than our two solitary selves living there, 
 don’t you think she will agree? ” 
 
 “You are so unkind to me, Richard !” mur- 
 mured Nanciebel, with hidden face ; but she did 
 not attempt to get away from him now. 
 
 “ No, I am not. It is you who are so unreason- 
 able,” he protested. 
 
 “Then say you will not do it again,” the half- 
 sobbing voice murmured. 
 
 “ I promise you that, or anything else you like, 
 Nancy,” he said, “if you’ll only look up, and let 
 me see your face, and be good and kind again, 
 as you can be when you choose.” 
 
 She did as she was bidden ; and as she dried 
 her eyes she said : 
 
 “ I call it downright wicked of you, Richard, 
 when you are about to take such a serious step, 
 to waste the time in quarrelling and trying to vex 
 and hurt me. How do we know how many hours 
 we may ever have together? Perhaps this is 
 the very last, and yet you quarrel ” 
 
126 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “ I am sure I did not! It was you! ” 
 
 “Now, don’t begin again, Richard! ” she said. 
 “ How can you be so unjust, and inconsiderate, 
 and unkind, when you know what I have to 
 suffer for your sake? And are you really going 
 to speak to your mother to-night? When shall I 
 know what she says? Oh, I am so frightened 
 when I think of it! I lie awake at night, won- 
 dering how you will begin — wondering what 
 her answer will be. And I know, dear,” con- 
 tinued Nanciebel, with a bit of a sigh, “ that if 
 she is angry with anybody, it will be with me. 
 She will blame it all on me. She will never 
 think it was you who — who — began to — began 
 to ” 
 
 “ When once she sees your pretty eyes, Nancy, 
 she will understand the whole affair,” said he. 
 “ And that is what I am most anxious for. If I 
 can only get her to know you — to know you as 
 you are — I have no fear. It would be all plain 
 sailing then.” 
 
 “ Mothers and sons have different ways of look- 
 ing at things,” said Nancy, who had her little 
 traits of shrewdness, “ especially when it is some 
 one the son is fond of. Oh, just to think of go- 
 ing to see her — it frightens me to death ! I know 
 what she will be saying to herself: ‘You, you 
 impertinent wretch of a girl, how dare you try 
 to entrap my son ! How dare you imagine you 
 
“go FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE ” 127 
 
 will enter our family! * And I don't, Richard, 
 dear ! I don’t, indeed. I do not dare to imagine 
 anything of the kind. I am too terrified. It 
 would be far better to let everything remain as 
 it is. You will go and get married to some one 
 whom your mother will approve of ; and many a 
 year hence you will be saying to your wife : ' I 
 once knew a girl called Nancy. She lived at 
 Stratford. I think she was a little bit fond of 
 me — poor Nancy!’ And I suppose I may get 
 married too; but I wouldn’t utter a word to any- 
 body about what is over and gone ; I would only 
 think and think of the dear, dear winter nights 
 when you used to walk with me arm-in-arm, and 
 both of us dreaming of all kinds of impossibilities, 
 and my heart just beating and throbbing for 
 happiness. And I will never, never part with 
 the locket — I don’t care who may object. If 
 ever I marry, I will say this : ‘Well, you must take 
 me as I am; and I can’t help remembering 
 things.’ And I know this, that whatever hap- 
 pens to me, and whether I marry or don’t marry, 
 the dearest name in all the world will always be 
 to me — Richard ! ” 
 
 “You speak very freely of the chance of your 
 marrying some one else,” said he (though surely 
 her artless confession might have been sufficient 
 for the most exacting of lovers) , “ but I am going 
 to make sure you shall do nothing of the kind, 
 
128 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 unless you mean to commit bigamy. Is that 
 your little project, Nanciebel? ” 
 
 “ Ah, it is all very well for you to talk with 
 such a light heart, Richard, dear,” she answered. 
 “But I don’t know what is going to happen to- 
 night, nor what you may have to tell me to- 
 morrow.” 
 
 “Why, what can happen?” he remonstrated. 
 “You don’t understand at all, Nancy. You 
 seem to imagine I am going to face a stern 
 parent, who will storm and rave and cut me 
 off with fourpence-halfpenny, and who will 
 get hold of you and lock you up in a cell on 
 bread and water. My goodness! The mater 
 is just about the gentlest little woman in the 
 world — you will find that out for yourself some 
 day. And why should you dread what is going 
 to happen to-night? Do you think I am going 
 to ask her permission to marry? Not likely! 
 I hope I am old enough to judge and decide 
 and act for myself. But of course when I tell 
 her that I have judged and decided, and that 
 I mean to act on my own account, I hope 
 she will take it all right. It will be so much 
 more pleasant. Of course, I don’t wish to annoy 
 her; I wouldn’t vex her for the world; and I 
 know I have done nothing to vex her, if she will 
 only listen to reason, and if she will consent to 
 make your acquaintance. For that’s where it all 
 
“go FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE” 1 29 
 
 lies, Nancy, as I have told you again and again. 
 When she knows you she will just take you to 
 her heart. And that is what I am going to ask 
 of her to-night — that I may bring you out to 
 Woodend, so that you two may become friends. 
 She must know well enough that it is better for 
 me to marry a good, true-hearted girl, than to 
 run the racket that most young fellows do; and 
 where could she find anybody that would make a 
 more affectionate daughter than yourself, Nancy? 
 For there is that about you, you know — you 
 
 have a fine capacity for loving ” 
 
 “You needn’t bring that as a charge against 
 me, Richard! ” she interposed with a pout. 
 
 “ A charge against you ! It is your most ador- 
 able quality, Nancy,” he said, “so long as you 
 reserve all your loving for me. But I shan’t 
 quarrel with you, if you transfer a little of it to 
 the mater, who can be very affectionate, too, 
 when she likes. Now, I must be off, dear, or I 
 shall be late for dinner. To-night I am going 
 to see what can be done. I think everything 
 will go smoothly. And to-morrow, how shall I 
 be able to tell you what has happened? You 
 know I don’t like coming here much in the day- 
 time, Nancy, lest people should talk.” 
 
 “ Kate will be back from Evesham to-morrow 
 morning,” Nanciebel made answer. “I can get 
 
 out at any time. Suppose you meet me at the 
 6 * 
 
13° 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 end of the church — by the river — that will be out 
 of the way.” 
 
 “And at what time, Nancy?” 
 
 “Any time you like. . Well, say a little after 
 five o’clock in the afternoon — will that suit you, 
 Richard? ” 
 
 Their long and tender adieux over, he passed 
 through the front premises, and soon he had 
 quitted the gas-lit streets of Stratford town, and 
 was out in the white and silent country. As he 
 strode along the highway, he looked up to the 
 palely-irradiated heavens, and he repeated aloud 
 (for he was about as deeply steeped in Tennyson 
 as his mother was) : 
 
 “ As shines the moon in clouded skies, 
 
 She in her poor attire was seen : 
 
 One praised her ankles, one her eyes, 
 
 One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 
 
 So sweet a face, such angel grace, 
 
 In all that land had never been : 
 
 Cophetua sware a royal oath : 
 
 ‘This beggar-maid shall be my queen ! ’ ” 
 
 And of course he was the King Cophetua of these 
 modern times, or at least Nancy appeared to 
 think so ; though she would hardly have appre- 
 ciated the allusion to her poor attire, for Nancie- 
 bel was one of the most smartly-dressed girls in 
 Stratford-upon-Avon. 
 
GO FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE 
 
 u 
 
 >> 
 
 131 
 
 And Tennyson was again cunningly called 
 into requisition that evening by this young man. 
 When he got home he had just time to dress for 
 dinner — a mark of respect he never failed to pay 
 to his mother ; then he gave her his arm and led 
 her into the dining-room as his father had been 
 wont to do before him. It was a quaint old- 
 fashioned-looking apartment; for Woodend had 
 been originally a farm-house, and when it was 
 changed into an independent residence, they had 
 transformed the big kitchen into a dining-room ; 
 so that here were stone floors, partially covered 
 with rugs ; and a vast hearth, with brass fire-dogs 
 for the logs of wood ; and shelves over the side- 
 board for a brave display of shining pewter plat- 
 ters. Mr. Richard was somewhat silent during 
 this meal. His mother asked him how he had 
 spent the day; but he could give no clear ac- 
 count of himself. The fact is, this young man 
 was accustomed to haunt the town of Stratford 
 and its neighborhood, on the chance of his get- 
 ting a glimpse of a certain gray and purple dress 
 — a costume which he could now recognize at a 
 great distance, and which told him that Nanciebel 
 had come forth for a little stroll, perhaps across 
 the fields to Shottery, or over the bridge and 
 along to the Weir Brake. It was wonderful what 
 an amount of conversation these two had to get 
 through ; and how all-important it was that certain 
 
132 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 things should be repeated on every occasion on 
 which they met. Or if they did not speak at all, 
 they were still happy enough ; for their imagina- 
 tions were busy with the long life-time stretching 
 out before them. Then, before entering the 
 town again on their return, they parted (for 
 Stratford, like most other small places, is inclined 
 to gossip) ; and this separation lasted until the 
 dusk of the winter afternoon came down, and 
 until the lamps were lit, when he could approach 
 the little stationer’s shop unobserved. At this 
 time of the year there was not much doing in 
 any of these establishments. In summer Miss 
 Nancy was kept busy enough with visitors, 
 mostly Americans, who bought photographs of 
 the parish church, of Shakespeare’s birthplace, 
 and of the beautiful river view that has been 
 spoiled by the hideous theatre, and who were 
 proud to take away with them as memorials of 
 their visit all sorts of pen-holders, albums, 
 needle-cases, blotting-pads, match-boxes, paper- 
 knives, birthday books, and similar things, each 
 with a little glazed picture of some bit of Strat- 
 ford or of Warwickshire to tell where it had come 
 from. But in winter Miss Nancy’s situation was 
 a sinecure ; at any moment she could leave her 
 sister Kate in charge; nay, if Mr. Richard 
 chanced to come in of an evening, and if she 
 was minded to put on her furry jacket and her 
 
“go FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE” 133 
 
 tall hat, and go for a little stroll with him up 
 and down the walled-in inclosure at the back, 
 even her small brother Jim could take her place, 
 ready to call out “ Nancy ” if any one happened 
 to come in. Jim played gooseberry to perfec- 
 tion ; for he was a studious boy, with a dark love 
 of pirates, and cut-throats, and equatorial sav- 
 ages ; and when he was revelling in bucketfuls 
 of blood he little cared how long his sister Nancy 
 might keep pacing up and down in the crisp 
 snow out there. Mr. Richard supplied him 
 bountifully with his favorite literature; and Jim 
 had eyes and ears for nothing else. 
 
 When dinner was over at Woodend, Richard 
 Kingston went to the door and opened it for his 
 mother ; but ere she passed out on her way to the 
 drawing-room, he said to her, with his eyes cast 
 down, and with a most unusual hesitation and 
 abashment: 
 
 “ Mother, I want you to do me a favor — I want 
 you to — to read a page of this book — and — and 
 to think about it. I have marked it — will you 
 take it now — and read it? ” 
 
 “Oh, yes, Richard, of course, if you wish it,” 
 the gentle-faced little woman said, wondering at 
 her son’s confusion. Had this been a manuscript 
 poem of his own composition, she could have 
 understood his embarrassment; but the famil- 
 iar green volume — her beloved Tennyson — why 
 
*34 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 should that cause the boy any perturbation? 
 However, she took away the book with her ; and 
 he shut the door after her and returned to the 
 fire-place — to stand there and ponder over what 
 he had done, and its possible consequences. 
 
 For the page which Mrs. Kingston had been 
 besought to read and consider in this especial 
 manner contained three verses ; and the verses 
 were these : 
 
 “ And slowly was my mother brought 
 To yield consent to my desire 
 
 She wished me happy, but she thought 
 I might have look’d a little higher; 
 
 And I was young — too young to wed : 
 
 ‘Yet must I love her for your sake; 
 
 Go fetch your Alice here, ’ she said : 
 
 Hex eyelid quiver’d as she spake. 
 
 “ And down I went to fetch my bride : 
 
 But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
 
 This dress and that by turns you tried, 
 
 Too fearful that you should not please. 
 
 1 loved you better for your fears, 
 
 I knew you could not look but well ; 
 
 And dews that would have fall'n in tears, 
 
 I kiss’d away before they fell. 
 
 “ I watch’d the little flutterings, 
 
 The doubt my mother would not see ; 
 
 She spoke at large of many things, 
 
 And at the last she spoke of me ; 
 
“go FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE” 135 
 
 And turning look’d upon your face, 
 
 As near this door you sat apart, 
 
 And rose, and, with a silent grace 
 
 Approaching, press’d you heart to heart.” 
 
 Would the gentle-eyed and gentle-voiced little 
 widow in the next room understand? Surely 
 the message — the entreaty — was clear enough! 
 Yet he was afraid of his own temerity; and like- 
 wise he was afraid that when the time came for 
 explanation, he could not tell her all that Nancie- 
 bel was to him. When ought he to go and see 
 what impression had been made? Perhaps it 
 would be more prudent to wait until the first 
 surprise was over — until she had had time to see 
 that it was but natural her son should choose for 
 himself a mate. 
 
 As he stood considering, the door was opened, 
 and his mother appeared. With a sudden sink- 
 ing of the heart, he noticed that her lips were 
 pale, and her eyes anxious and concerned. She 
 shut the door behind her, and came quickly for- 
 ward, her gaze fixed intently on his face. 
 
 “Richard,” she said, in an undertone, “who 
 is she? ” 
 
 Pie was startled — and frightened. 
 
 “At all events,” he said hastily, “you may be 
 sure of this, that she is worthy to be brought 
 into this house, and to be received by you as 
 your daughter.” 
 
1 3 6 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 It was a little speech he had prepared before- 
 hand; but now it did not seem to have any 
 effect. 
 
 “Who is she, Richard? ” the widow again de- 
 manded. 
 
 He told her. 
 
 “ A shop-girl ! ” she said faintly. 
 
 “No, mother, not at all!” he exclaimed 
 eagerly. “The place belongs to her brother, 
 and she merely looks after it for him. He is 
 very well off — you know Emmet & Marlow — 
 he is a watchmaker himself, and I suppose started 
 this other business for the benefit of his two 
 sisters. But what has that got to do with it, 
 mother? She will cease to have any connection 
 with the shop the moment you say the word. 
 And as for herself, there is not a dearer or better 
 girl in the whole country. I am certain you will 
 be the first to say as much when you get to know 
 her ” 
 
 “Surely, Richard,” the little woman said, in a 
 kind of wistful way, “you might have chosen 
 some one whose family was known to us — who 
 was known to your own friends and relatives. I 
 do not say anything against the girl ; it would 
 not be just ; but she must herself be aware how 
 strange, how unusual the whole situation is. A 
 clandestine engagement — how came she to con- 
 sent to that? ” 
 
GO FETCH YOUR ALICE HERE” 
 
 137 
 
 “Mother,” said he, taking both her hands in 
 his, “ that was all my fault ! I ought to have told 
 you long ago; but Nancy was afraid. Cannot 
 you understand — isn’t it clear in the poem I 
 asked you to read? Indeed, she was quite in 
 despair; she does not know how gentle, and 
 kind, and considerate you are ; she is terrified at 
 the thought of meeting you ; indeed, again and 
 again she has told me that what I wished was an 
 impossibility, and that she would never be the 
 means of bringing about any dissension between 
 you and me. Well, I hope that will never arise 
 — she couldn’t bear it — she says she would rather 
 give me up a hundred times over ” 
 
 The mother looked at her handsome boy. 
 
 “Richard,” she said, “you know I wish for 
 nothing but your happiness ; there is no sacrifice 
 of my own feelings, or my own prejudices, I 
 wouldn’t make if I was sure it would make you 
 happy. But consider. Young men of your age 
 are apt to form such fancies. The girl may be 
 everything you say — and yet — and yet it might 
 prove to be only misery for both her and you in 
 the long run ” 
 
 “Mother, I want you to see her!” he cried, 
 confident that Nanciebel’s soft dark eyes would 
 be sufficient to resolve away all these doubts and 
 fears. 
 
 The widow was silent for a moment or two. 
 
NANCIEBEL 
 
 138 
 
 “May I bring her to see you, mother?” he 
 entreated. 
 
 “ Would it be wise, Richard? ” she said in reply. 
 “ Would not that be making a family compact — 
 would it not be recognizing as a serious engage- 
 ment what may after all be a mere passing infat- 
 uation? Have patience, my dear child; take 
 time ; think what a terrible thing it might be to 
 pledge your whole future, and to find out that 
 you had cause to repent. Your Uncle Alexander 
 has often asked you to go out to Shanghai ; well, 
 you know how I should grieve to lose you, even 
 for a week or a day; but wouldn’t it be wise if 
 you were to go away from Warwickshire for 
 three months or six months, and see whether 
 your mind might not change in the interval? I 
 know what these sudden fancies are worth . They 
 are common to both young men and young 
 women — illusions of the brain — the most uncer- 
 tain guides. It is for you own sake I speak, 
 dear! You see how I am willing to put aside my 
 own prejudices ; it is not because of her station 
 in life that I object; after all, that is not of the 
 first importance. But what surely is of the first 
 importance is that you should know your own 
 minds — that your affection for each other should 
 be tried and found capable of standing the strain 
 of absence. Richard, to please me, will you go 
 out for a few months to Shanghai? ” 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 J 3 9 
 
 “Yes, I will, mother, ” he answered cheerfully 
 and confidently, “ if you ask me after you have 
 come to know Nancy a little. Let that be the 
 first thing — then you will be able to judge and 
 decide. Let me bring her to see you! ” 
 
 The widow hesitated, reluctant; but this hand- 
 some lad held her hands in his ; and what would 
 she not do for his sake? 
 
 “Very well,” said she. 
 
 He kissed her. 
 
 “ There is the dearest mother in all the world ! 
 Ah, when you and Nancy are friends, you won’t 
 talk about Shanghai; you’ll be as anxious as I 
 am that she should come and live with you at 
 Woodend. What a pleasant companion for you, 
 mother — so kind, and light-hearted, and loving. 
 I’ll tell her, mother! You shall see her to-mor- 
 row. And you won’t scrutinize her too severely ? 
 No, you won’t be able — when you look at Nancie- 
 bel’s eyes! ” 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 A PRESENTATION 
 
 Radiant, triumphant, with all the light- 
 hearted hope and courage of youth, Richard 
 Kingston went to keep his assignation with Nan- 
 
140 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 ciebel. It had snowed heavily all the preceding 
 night and all the morning; but the afternoon 
 had brightened somewhat, and in the western 
 skies there was now a pale glow of saffron, 
 though that was hardly strong enough to tinge 
 the cold white landscape. 
 
 When he reached the church, even-song was 
 going forward ; through the windows he could see 
 the gas-jets all lit up — points of lemon-yellow 
 fire in the dusk ; and ever and anon came the soft 
 thunder-roll of the organ, and the clear singing 
 of the choir. He walked along to the river-side. 
 The elms overhead were heavily draped with 
 snow, for not a breath of wind was stirring. 
 The dull green surface of the Avon was broken 
 here and there by gray patches of ice floating 
 down with the slow current. On the other side 
 were the flat white meadows ; and beyond these 
 again white slopes and heights, with black hedges 
 and trees protruding. The world was quite 
 silent — save for the hushed and slumberous 
 music in the church. 
 
 Now, some one had considerately cleared a 
 path from the porch to the side of the stream ; so 
 that when Nanciebel came along, the deep snow 
 caused no inconvenience either to her skirts or to 
 her neat, small ankles. It was a cold and cheer- 
 less try sting-place, to be sure; but love's fires 
 burn independently of the weather; and it was 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 141 
 
 not the wintry landscape that was in Miss 
 Nancy’s mind. 
 
 Nor was it in Mr. Richard’s mind either; for 
 now, and quite suddenly and unexpectedly, he 
 experienced a new emotion — an emotion that 
 caused him no little disquiet. Hitherto, when- 
 ever he had caught sight of Nancy, his heart 
 had filled with joy; the most distant glimpse of 
 the gray and purple dress and the sable-plumed 
 hat had been like a kiss for sweetness ; his eyes 
 lighted up to welcome her. But now, to his 
 amazement and dismay, he found, as Nanciebel 
 approached, that he was grown anxiously critical. 
 He scrutinized her — her appearance, her expres- 
 sion, her dress, her manner of walking, as if he 
 feared that some objection might be taken. And 
 perhaps she noticed his unusual look as she 
 timidly gave him her hand. She flushed a 
 little ; and when she spoke, it was with averted 
 eyes. 
 
 “You asked me to meet you, Richard,” said 
 she, “and I have come; but not with any kind 
 of expectation. You were too confident. But 
 don’t think I shall be annoyed or disappointed; 
 I knew what your mother would say ” 
 
 Ah, well, the sound of her voice — with its mys- 
 terious charm, which could thrill his heart with 
 the simplest phrase — that delightful sound gave 
 him courage again ; how could his mother with- 
 
142 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 stand those soft, low, penetrating tones? What 
 mattered it what kind of gloves she wore, what 
 kind of brooch was at her neck, when that tender 
 voice could win its way to the heart, when those 
 soft dark eyes could plead for kindness? 
 
 “But you’re all wrong, Nancy,” said he with 
 a kind of forced cheerfulness (for it had alarmed 
 him to find that he could scan the appearance of 
 his sweetheart in this critical way) . “ The mater 
 
 wants you to come and see her. It will be all 
 right — as I told you it would. Of course ” 
 
 “Of course what, Richard? ” she said, seeing 
 he hesitated. 
 
 “Well, you can’t expect impossibilities, 
 Nancy,” said he vaguely. 
 
 “ Richard, ” she said, “why don’t you confess 
 the truth? Your mother is surprised and grieved 
 by what you have told her; and although she 
 may have said that you might take me to see 
 her, it was against her will, and only to please 
 you. And you know she will never really con- 
 sent, though she may formally do so, out of her 
 fondness for you. Very well; why should you 
 vex and trouble her any more? I say now what 
 I said yesterday. Let this stop where it is. Let 
 us be friends — true friends — always and always 
 — but nothing more than that. Then we can 
 grieve no one.” 
 
 “And this is what your affection comes to? ’ 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 143 
 
 said he reproachfully. “ I thought you loved 
 me, Nancy ! ” 
 
 Tears could rise quickly to those dark lashes. 
 
 “ It is not my fault, Richard,” said she. “ But 
 everything is against us. I knew your mother 
 would say no ” 
 
 “But she does not say no!” he exclaimed. 
 “Nothing of the kind. Of course, as I say, you 
 can’t expect impossibilities. You can’t expect 
 her to be enthusiastic. What woman would be, 
 about a proposed daughter-in-law she has never 
 seen? It is but natural for her to have doubts. 
 How can she know how thoroughly you and I 
 understand each other? And it is for your hap- 
 piness as well as mine, that she talks about 
 separation — about the necessity for some con- 
 siderable time of separation — to see whether we 
 know our own minds. Six months at Shanghai 
 —that’s what she proposes for me, Nancy! ” 
 
 “Shanghai! ” repeated Nancy, and she looked 
 up with a frightened stare. 
 
 “Yes, indeed. And it’s you who have to save 
 me from that banishment. It all rests on your 
 shoulders,” he continued more cheerfully. “ But 
 I know you will come through the ordeal in 
 triumph. Who could withstand your eyes, 
 Nanciebel? You don’t know yourself what a 
 winning fascination they have. And you won’t 
 be nervous — after the first second ; you will see 
 
144 
 
 NANC1EBEL 
 
 my mother wants to be kind. You remember 
 how the ‘Miller’s Daughter’ was anxious about 
 what dress would please ; but you have nothing 
 to fear on that score ; you are always as neat and 
 pretty and in good taste as it is possible to be. 
 I wish I could help you, Nanciebel; but I can’t. 
 You’ve got to do it all ” 
 
 “Richard,” said she, a little proudly, “don’t 
 you think it is rather — rather unfair — that I 
 should be taken out to Woodend on approval? ” 
 
 “ Well, so it would,” he answered her, “ if any- 
 thing of the kind were in contemplation. But it 
 isn’t so. You are going out to make the acquain- 
 tance of my mother ; and you will find her ready 
 to welcome you, be sure of that. Of course,” he 
 added, in rather a stammering fashion, “I — I 
 hope you on your side will be — well, conciliatory 
 — and nice. You need not take it as if it were a 
 hostile challenge between two women — each anx- 
 ious to criticise the other. If you go out there 
 determined to make friends, Nancy, it will be all 
 right ” 
 
 She looked rather blank for a second or 
 two. 
 
 “If I go, it will be for your sake, Richard,” 
 she said ; “ but what I am most afraid of is that 
 I shall be so terrified as to be able to do nothing. 
 Your mother will think me stiff, or ill-mannered, 
 or stupid, when I am simply frightened. You 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 145 
 
 see, you are all impetuosity and eagerness ; you 
 don’t care; you don’t consider what an awkward 
 position I shall be in. It is not as if I were be- 
 ing taken out to visit your mother by some ac- 
 quaintance knowing us both. I am presented 
 to her all of a sudden, as some one who proposes 
 to become her daughter-in-law. It’s nothing to 
 you ; you think it is all right and natural ; but it 
 is dreadful for me. I know what she will be 
 thinking — that I am a forward, impertinent minx 
 without any delicacy of feeling, or propriety of 
 conduct ” 
 
 “Oh, yes,” he broke in scornfully. “She is 
 likely to think that of you after she has spo- 
 ken to you for three minutes ! That is precisely 
 your character, Nanciebel; you are so brazen in 
 audacity ! '” 
 
 “And when is this fearful thing to be got 
 through, Richard, dear? ” asked Nancy, looking 
 down. 
 
 “ To-morrow afternoon,” he said with ineffable 
 impudence (just as if his mother had made the 
 appointment). “I will bring in the pony-chaise 
 for you, and drive you out.” 
 
 “ But — but where shall I meet you? ” she asked 
 again. 
 
 “I will come for you,” he answered. 
 
 “ Not into the High Street, ” she hinted timidly. 
 
 “Why not?” 
 
 7 
 
146 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “ The people would talk, ” she said with lowered 
 eyes. 
 
 “Let them talk,” he answered boldly. “It is 
 time this hole-and-corner arrangement was done 
 with. I want the whole thing to be recognized 
 now. When they see Miss Nancy Marlow driv- 
 ing out to Woodend, I dare say they will talk. 
 So much the better ! I am not for half- 
 measures.” 
 
 “No, you never are, Richard,” Nancy said, 
 with a bit of a sigh. “And I wonder what will 
 come of it all ! ” 
 
 Nor did she cease to be timorous and appre- 
 hensive. It was bad enough that she was going 
 out to Woodend “on approval;” but it was ever 
 so much worse that the neighbors should know 
 it — or guess at it — from the fact of his driving 
 in to the High Street to call for her. 
 
 “Don’t you think, Richard, dear,” said she at 
 last, “ it would be better if I met you somewhere 
 a little way out of the town — say at the railway 
 bridge ” 
 
 “ Then you would have to walk all that way 
 through the snow, Nancy,” he pointed out, “and 
 your boots would get wet, or even muddied, if 
 there was a thaw. You see, I want you to be as 
 neat as a new pin, as you always are; not that I 
 care about such things myself ; as long as your 
 
A PRESENTATION 147 
 
 heart is warm and loving, what do I mind what 
 dress you wear? ” 
 
 “I understand,” Nancy said at once, with quick 
 perception. “You are quite right, Richard. 
 What would your mother say if I went with be- 
 draggled skirts and soiled boots? Of course, of 
 course, you are quite right ; you must come for 
 me; and Jim will see that the pavement is dry.” 
 
 “ Have you any white-rose scent for your 
 handkerchief, Nancy? ” he asked. “That is the 
 only scent the mater seems fond of. No? Then 
 I’ll try and get some, and send it in to you this 
 evening. Oh, you will make a conquest, be 
 sure ! ” 
 
 “What time to-morrow afternoon, Richard, 
 must I be ready? ” 
 
 “ Four: will that do? ” 
 
 “Very well; now I must be going back into 
 the town. Four o’clock to-morrow afternoon. 
 Oh, dear, I wish it was all over! ” said Nanciebel, 
 plaintively. 
 
 And perhaps the gentle little widow out there 
 at Woodend had some such thought in her mind 
 when her son told her of this proposed visit on 
 the following day. It is true she knew what was 
 expected of her. Her role had been pointed out 
 to her that evening on which Richard had slipped 
 the green volume into her hand. And indeed 
 
148 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 she had made up her mind that if the girl on 
 whom he had set his affections seemed to have 
 an amiable disposition and good manners, she 
 would not allow the fact of her having stood 
 behind a counter to influence her mind. So 
 many young men had done worse ! And even if 
 there were some little defect here or there, some 
 lack of sensitiveness or refinement, might not 
 that give way to womanly sympathy and guid- 
 ance? This little woman was prepared to do a 
 good deal for her beloved son. Whom else had 
 she to care for in the world? 
 
 And yet, notwithstanding all these kindly and 
 considerate resolves, and notwithstanding the 
 diligent coaching that Nanciebel had received 
 from her sweetheart, it must be confessed that 
 the meeting between the two women on the 
 following afternoon was, especially at first, of 
 the most constrained and ominous kind. Mr. 
 Richard was so proud of the opportunity of 
 showing off the beautiful and precious prize he 
 had won for himself, that he hardly heeded; he 
 was eager and talkative, and his volubility seemed 
 in a measure to fill the void of silence that other- 
 wise might have been marked. It is true, he 
 had been disappointed that his mother and his 
 chosen bride did not fall upon each other’s neck 
 and weep gentle and sympathetic tears ; and he 
 had been surprised to hear the little widow ad- 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 149 
 
 dress Nancy as “Miss Marlow;” but he would 
 not admit to himself that there was any coldness 
 on either side. Not at all; he was descanting to 
 his mother on Nancy’s general characteristics; 
 indulging in a little sarcasm even (to give the 
 whole interview a sort of playful and friendly 
 cast) ; but conclusively proving that Nancy and 
 his mother held precisely the same opinions and 
 were bound to agree upon every possible subject. 
 Nancy, for example, was a devoted admirer of 
 the late Lord Beaconsfield, and did not fail to 
 wear a primrose on Primrose Day. Nancy be- 
 lieved that the honor of the country was safe in 
 the hands of the Conservative party, and that 
 Radicals, and Socialists, and atheists, and peo- 
 ple of that sort had nothing in view but the 
 destruction of property and the total abolition 
 of law. Nancy was a devout adherent of the 
 Church of England, and considered it unbecom- 
 ing, if not positively dangerous, for bishops to 
 have any dealings with the Dissenters. Nancy 
 strongly disapproved of women ’s-right women. 
 Nor was Nancy quite sure about the influence of 
 the school boards, which she considered apt to 
 draw away the children from their proper and 
 natural guardians and friends, who had always 
 been good to them in times past. Nancy detested 
 the use of cosmetics, and wondered that respect- 
 able girls in London could condescend to such 
 
NANCIEBEL 
 
 1 5 ° 
 
 practices. As to tight lacing, Nancy was also 
 sound; who but a fool would want to sing, “I’d 
 be a butterfly?” In short, it was Nancy, and 
 Nancy, and Nancy all the time; why should any 
 one speak of Miss Marlow? 
 
 But here a significant little incident occurred 
 which showed how very differently mother and 
 son viewed this position of affairs. When Nan- 
 ciebel was ushered into the drawing-room, Mr. 
 Richard insisted on her laying aside her hat and 
 jacket and gloves, so that she should have the 
 appearance of being quite at home ; and then he 
 conducted her to a little windowed recess at the 
 top of the room which his mother used as a bou- 
 doir. It was a remarkably snug and cozy apart- 
 ment, a couch running round three sides of it ; 
 shelves of books covering two of the walls ; the 
 windows commanding a view of the garden, 
 where thrushes and blackbirds and starlings were 
 hunting about among the snow for the food 
 which the widow was wont to fling abroad with 
 a generous hand. It would have pleased Mr. 
 Richard if his mother and his sweetheart, on 
 entering this secluded little place, had sat down 
 together, perhaps arm-in-arm ; but somehow Miss 
 Marlow took her seat on one side, where she re- 
 mained looking amiable and attentive if somewhat 
 silent, while Mrs. Kingston, on the couch oppo- 
 site her, listened to her son’s dithyrambics or 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 I 5 I 
 
 glanced out upon the wintry garden as she 
 spoke. And what now happened was this. 
 Mr. Richard, having conclusively shown that 
 Miss Marlow’s mental and moral qualities, and 
 her opinions on political, religious, and social 
 subjects generally, were such as to commend her 
 to any intelligent and reasonable human being, 
 proceeded, in a sort of half-playful and kindly 
 way, to say something of the young lady’s ap- 
 pearance. You see, she appeared to be already 
 one of the family. Here she was, in the snug 
 little corner, not with hat and gloves on, as 
 though she were paying a formal call, but as if she 
 had just come down from her own room to have 
 a little chat before tea was brought in. And 
 thus it was that when Mr. Richard, chancing to 
 talk of the fashion in which his beloved wore her 
 hair, went on to suggest that perhaps it might 
 suit her better to wear it a little higher on her 
 forehead, he quite naturally and unthinkingly 
 crossed over to her, and with a light touch or two 
 of his fingers pushed back her hair, so as to in- 
 vite his mother’s opinion. But the reply he re- 
 ceived startled him. 
 
 “ Richard ! ” the widow exclaimed, in amazed 
 protest; and then all at once he knew how 
 differently his mother and he were regarding this 
 young lady. Not yet was she the daughter of 
 the house, to be treated with familiar little caress- 
 
* 5 2 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 ings and pettings; she was only a visitor, she 
 was only Miss Marlow, to be treated with deco- 
 rum and respect. As for poor little Nancy, she 
 was terribly embarrassed. Richard, she knew, 
 should not have taken this liberty ; but he had 
 done it almost before she was aware, and indeed 
 it was not until afterward she bethought her of 
 what Mrs. Kingston might guess from this little 
 incident. Mr. Richard did not try any more ex- 
 periments with Miss Marlow’s hair, or seek to 
 alter the way in which it lay on her forehead. 
 He returned to his seat with an uneasy conscious- 
 ness that he had made a mistake — and perhaps 
 even compromised Nancy a little ; but fortunately 
 at this moment tea was brought in, and that 
 proved to be a welcome distraction. 
 
 For in truth, the widow, critical as she might 
 be of her son’s choice, could hardly help sympa- 
 thizing with the girl in the lonely and embarrass- 
 ing position in which she was placed ; and then 
 again, Nancy, though shy and silent, was obvi- 
 ously most anxious to please. Once, indeed, in 
 answer to a question, she said, “Yes, ma’am;’’ 
 and although Mr. Richard inwardly winced — for 
 the phrase recalled the shop and the counter — his 
 mother did not appear to look on it in that light. 
 Perhaps it was a kind of pathetic confession of 
 humility ; perhaps it was a kind of tribute to the 
 widow’s dignity ; and every one knows how peo- 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 153 
 
 pie who are not gifted with any great magnificence 
 of manner are pleased when they think they im- 
 press. 
 
 Moreover, when, in the general talk that now 
 ensued round the tiny tea-table, there was any 
 possibility of a difference of opinion, Mr. Richard 
 adroitly managed that his mother and Nancy 
 should be on the same side, while he challenged 
 their combined forces from the other. Take the 
 question of Mops, for example. The Mop in 
 Stratford-on-Avon, as in some other old English 
 towns, is a hiring fair at which farm-servants, 
 men and women, come in from the surrounding 
 country to offer their services to master or mis- 
 tress; and for the refreshment of these stout- 
 stomached folks, or any other who may be of a 
 like mind, oxen and pigs are roasted in the prin- 
 cipal thoroughfares — the hungry yokel paying 
 for a slice off whatever portion of the slow-revolv- 
 ing animal may take his fancy, and carrying 
 the smoking plate into the adjacent public-house, 
 where he can wash down the beef or pork with 
 copious draughts of ale. Now, there are those 
 who hold that this roasting of a huge carcass 
 and the public ladling of gravy is a brutalizing 
 spectacle ; and they would have that feature of 
 the Mop suppressed, even if the other concomi- 
 tants — the merry-go-rounds, the boxing booths, 
 the rifle galleries, and what-not — were allowed 
 
r 54 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 to remain. This was Mrs. Kingston’s opinion; 
 and Mr. Richard cunningly contrived that it 
 should be Nanciebel’s also. 
 
 “ Oh, I think the old-world customs should be 
 preserved,” said he boldly, “so long as they 
 don’t involve cruelty to animals — and you don’t 
 put an ox to shame by roasting it in public. 
 They talk of asking the magistrates to suppress 
 the Mop altogether — so that I suppose they 
 wouldn’t even allow the men and women to come 
 into the town with a bit of straw stuck in their 
 cap, or whatever other symbol it is that tells the 
 farmer what kind of work the applicant wants. 
 Well, I think it is a pity; I think the old cere- 
 monies and customs should be preserved ” 
 
 “ The roasting of these animals in the streets 
 seems to me simply horrid,” his mother said. 
 
 “Well, I know that is Nancy’s opinion, too,” 
 he said (Nancy never having uttered a single 
 word to him at any time on the subject). “And 
 I don’t wonder she should refuse to go through 
 the streets on the day of the Mop. The smell 
 of the cooking is rather too pronounced. Still, 
 there is no reason why fastidious people like you 
 and Nancy should go near at all. You may keep 
 away. Give the bucolics their holiday, in the 
 manner they can enjoy it; roasting animals has 
 always been a sign of rejoicing; it is a testimony 
 — in fact, you can see it only too plainly, if you 
 
A PRESENTATION 1 55 
 
 are walking along Chapel Street — that there is fat 
 in the land.” 
 
 “Don’t, Richard!” his mother said, with a 
 piteous expression ; and he was quite willing to 
 abandon the controversy — leaving his mother 
 and Nanciebel on the winning side together. 
 
 Well, the visit came to an end at last ; and Mrs. 
 Kingston bade good-by to Nancy without a 
 word having been said on the subject which was, 
 no doubt, uppermost in both their minds. Nor 
 was there any parting embrace ; nor the slightest 
 recognition of the peculiar circumstances that 
 had brought about this interview. None the 
 less was Mr. Richard triumphant as he drove 
 away his chosen bride through the melting 
 snow. 
 
 “What do you say now, Nanciebel?” he de- 
 manded. “ Didn’t everything go off first-rate? ” 
 
 “O Richard, I am just dying of shame,” she 
 murmured, and she wouldn’t look at him. 
 
 “Why, what is the matter? ” he asked in as- 
 tonishment. “ I thought everything went off 
 most satisfactorily ; there wasn’t a slip or mistake 
 anywhere, unless it was my own when I took to 
 rearranging your hair. That did stagger the 
 mater, I admit.” 
 
 “Richard,” said she, “didn’t you notice? 
 When you asked me in the hall if I had got my 
 gloves, I said, ‘Yes, dear.’ The next moment I 
 
* 5 6 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 thought I should have sunk through the floor 
 with shame and mortification.” 
 
 “ I’m sure I did not notice it,” he said. 
 
 “ But your mother did — I saw her look.” 
 
 “Very well, then — a good thing too! Why 
 should she not know the actual relations that 
 exist between us? Now that I think of it, I am 
 not sorry that I raised your hair a little bit on 
 your forehead, and tried the effect of it, as if you 
 already belonged to me. No, I am not sorry. 
 It is better she should know ; then she will un- 
 derstand the intimacy of our relationship, and 
 the length of time it has lasted. I have no doubt 
 she thought it was only a passing fancy. That 
 was why she talked of Shanghai. There was no 
 mention of Shanghai this afternoon.” 
 
 “No, Richard, for she seemed careful not to 
 admit that she understood there was anything 
 between you and me,” said Nanciebel, who was a 
 good deal less confident than her lover. “ She 
 treated me just like a stranger — but very kindly, 
 I must say that. And — and I am not nearly so 
 afraid of her as I was,” Nanciebel added. 
 
 “Afraid of her! ” he repeated, with a laugh. 
 “ Why, you two will be the fastest friends in the 
 world within a couple of months from now. I 
 told you she would not be able to resist you. 
 She seemed pleased with you throughout; and 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 *57 
 
 you never in your life looked prettier or more 
 winning — that I know.” 
 
 Nanciebel shook her head. 
 
 “A woman understands a woman’s ways of 
 looking and talking,” she said. “If ever she 
 does give her consent, it will be simply and 
 solely for your sake, Richard. She does not 
 like me.” 
 
 “ Nancy! ” 
 
 “Ah, but I know,” said Nanciebel doggedly. 
 “I don’t suppose she positively hates me — for I 
 gave her no occasion by provoking a quarrel or 
 anything of that kind ; but I dare say she is cry- 
 ing at this moment, and wishing in a sort of way 
 that I had never been born.” 
 
 “And you think that is the impression she 
 formed of you, Nancy? ” he asked. “ I tell you, 
 you are too diffident. You don’t know your own 
 value. Of course she couldn’t say anything — to 
 your face. But wait till I get home this evening, 
 then she will speak; and be sure, when I next 
 see you, I shall be able to tell you something that 
 will banish all those idle fears and surmises. 
 You think you could judge by her expression? 
 Well, then, you have made a bad guess, my dear 
 Nancy — as I will prove to you to-morrow.” 
 
 She was for getting out of the pony-chaise at 
 some point on the Alcester Road, so that she 
 
NANCIEBEL 
 
 158 
 
 might walk into the town on foot ; but he would 
 not hear of any such thing ; he cared not who 
 might know he had won his bride; he drove 
 through Stratford, and along the High Street, 
 and up to her own door. As he bade her good- 
 by, he said he would call and see her the next 
 day ; he expected to have some news to tell her — 
 as the result of this memorable interview. 
 
 But as he drove leisurely home through the 
 gathering dusk, he was not quite so confident 
 as he had professed to be while talking to Nan- 
 ciebel. It was strange that his mother had not 
 kissed the girl in taking leave of her. That 
 would have been sufficient recognition. Her 
 parting little speech to the effect that she hoped 
 Miss Marlow would come and see her again 
 might have been addressed to the merest stran- 
 ger. As for Nancy’s contention, on the other 
 hand, that she could tell that Mrs. Kingston 
 disliked her, and had even the monstrous inhu- 
 manity to wish that she were dead — he knew that 
 was all nonsense. However, there would soon 
 be an opportunity for him to learn what had been 
 his mother’s thought. 
 
 During dinner nothing of importance was said 
 with regard to Nanciebel ; for old Thomas, who 
 looked after the pony and kept the garden and 
 also waited at table, was continually coming and 
 going. But after dinner, Mr. Richard went 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 *59 
 
 direct- with his mother into the drawing-room, 
 and sat down beside her, and took her hand, and 
 smoothed it between his own. 
 
 “ Now, mater, what are you going to say 
 to me? ” 
 
 The little woman hesitated ; it was a momen- 
 tous crisis in her simple and uneventful life. 
 
 “What can I say to you, Richard?” she said 
 rather sadly. “ I do not wish to appear unkind 
 or inconsiderate. But — you must surely under- 
 stand how it must be a shock to me to know that 
 I am expected to receive a stranger into our 
 home ” 
 
 “A stranger, mother! ” he exclaimed. “ How 
 long would she be a stranger? ” 
 
 “And then, my dear boy,” continued the 
 mother in the same absent way, “ I have been 
 building up so many forecasts of your future — 
 and this is so entirely different. However, we 
 must do what is right — we must do what is right, 
 whatever it may cost. Much as I should like to 
 see you free from this — this entanglement, I 
 would not have you win your freedom through 
 any dishonorable action. If you have raised 
 hopes in this young woman’s heart — if you have 
 pledged your word to her, you must stand by 
 that. I would not have your conscience bur- 
 dened by the knowledge that you had trifled with 
 her, and cruelly forsaken her; no, not if I was 
 
i6o 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 thrice as anxious you should look elsewhere for 
 a wife ” 
 
 “Why, I knew you would say that, mother! ” 
 he cried joyfully, though his exultation was in 
 curious contrast with the widow’s half-concealed 
 regret. “ And then, consider this — if you found 
 her passably agreeable, and pleasant-mannered, 
 and amiable, on a first and formal interview like 
 that — just consider how she will improve, how she 
 will win your regard on more intimate knowledge. 
 What did you think of her, mother? Weren’t 
 you favorably impressed? I’m sure you must 
 have thought she looked so pretty and neat and 
 modest. Did you notice how soft and winning 
 her eyes were? Couldn’t you guess what her 
 disposition was like? At all events, she tried 
 hard to please you. I could see it in every look.” 
 
 “I have no fault to find, Richard,” his mother 
 said, but without much of the enthusiasm he had 
 hoped for. “ I dare say she is a good, honest 
 girl, and may make you a good wife — if only — if 
 only she had some little instruction — and prep- 
 aration ” 
 
 “ Mother, Nancy is the quickest girl in appre- 
 hension you ever saw ! ” he exclaimed eagerly. 
 “I don’t know in what you consider her deficient, 
 but I know she would be delighted to learn — and 
 especially from you. Didn’t you see how re- 
 spectful she was to you?” he continued with 
 
A PRESENTATION 
 
 161 
 
 insidious flattery. “ She would be a most willing 
 pupil. Of course you saw she was shy — that was 
 but natural in a girl of her age, and in the pecu- 
 liar circumstances. You could not expect her to 
 have your self-possession and grace of manner; 
 that is something that can only be acquired by 
 long training — but how willingly Nancy would 
 try to learn ! ” 
 
 “ It is all so strange tome as yet, Richard,” 
 Mrs. Kingston said at length, “that I hardly 
 know what to do. But in such an important 
 matter I cannot act entirely on my own respon- 
 sibility. I will write to your uncle Charles. 
 Perhaps he will run up from Bristol.” 
 
 “Mother! ” Mr. Richard protested, with some 
 indignation. “ Do you want to frighten poor 
 Nancy out of her senses? A family conclave — a 
 jury of strangers to summon the poor girl before 
 them ” 
 
 “You cannot call your uncle Charles a 
 stranger,” his mother retorted, but without as- 
 perity; this alarming thing that had happened 
 had stunned and frightened her rather than 
 made her angry. “Who, after myself, could 
 have your interests more at heart? And I have 
 been thinking, Richard, that if you still persist 
 in this project — or if you are bound in honor to 
 Miss Marlow — then perhaps your uncle Charles 
 would receive her into the vicarage for a while and 
 
NANCIEBEL 
 
 162 
 
 let her associate with your girl-cousins. A clergy- 
 man ’s house is the best school in the world for 
 any one who wishes to pick up the ways and 
 manners, the little courtesies and politenesses of 
 refined society. And I am sure the separation 
 would be wholesome for both you and her; it 
 would give you time to reflect ; it would enable 
 you to test the strength of your regard for each 
 other. Now, Richard, dear, don’t ask me to say 
 anything more, until I have consulted with your 
 uncle. I am sure that our chief and only consid- 
 eration will be your happiness.” 
 
 That silenced him, of course; he could plead 
 and urge no further. But when he thought of 
 his having to communicate this new scheme to 
 Nancy on the next day, his heart sank within 
 him. Poor Nanciebel ! 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 “ ADIEU, MY DEAR! ” 
 
 In reply to the widow’s letter, the Rev. Charles 
 Henningham came up from Bristol forthwith ; he 
 was not one to underestimate the gravity of such 
 a crisis in the family affairs. He was a small, 
 thin, nervous, pale-faced man, with large, almost 
 
ADIEU, MY DEAR!” 
 
 163 
 
 feminine eyes, and with a manner as gentle and 
 delicate as that of his sister. Like her, too, in 
 this particular instance, he never for a moment 
 thought of repudiating the obligations under 
 which his nephew Richard had placed himself — 
 not at all ; if the young man had pledged his 
 word to an honest and honorable girl, he must 
 stand by it, and his family must simply try to do 
 the best in the circumstances. 
 
 Mr. Richard was not at home when his uncle 
 arrived, so that there was a little preliminary 
 conversation between brother and sister — of 
 course about Nanciebel. 
 
 “I presume, Cecilia,” said the nervous little 
 clergyman, in his softly-modulated tones, “that 
 she has none of the accomplishments one would 
 naturally wish Richard’s wife to have? ” 
 
 “ Indeed, I never thought of questioning 
 Richard on that point,” Mrs. Kingston said, “for 
 I supposed she would merely have the ordinary 
 education of one in her sphere of life. Of course 
 she can read and write and figure up accounts ; 
 but beyond that, what? Not that I put much 
 value myself on young-lady accomplishments. 
 A girl can get on very well without Italian, and 
 French, and German, and music, if she has a 
 good manner, and can write a clever letter, and 
 play lawn-tennis. But really, this girl on whom 
 Richard has set his heart has no manner at all. 
 
164 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 That afternoon she was here, she had absolutely 
 nothing to say for herself. And you know how 
 popular Richard is, Charles ; his good looks and 
 high spirits stand him in good stead everywhere ; 
 and to think of his being joined for life to this — 
 this — well, I will say nothing against her — but I 
 cannot help regarding it as a cruel misfortune. ” 
 
 “We must make the best of it, Cecilia,” said 
 the clergyman with chastened reisgnation ; “ and 
 you may count on me to do what I can. If you 
 think she would gain any improvement by com- 
 ing to the vicarage for a few months — or even 
 for a year, if you consider a lengthened period of 
 separation advisable — I shall be glad to take her, 
 and she might join Gertrude and Laura in their 
 studies as far as that is practicable. You say she 
 appears amiable and sincere ; and I am sure 
 if there was any objectionable feature in her 
 character, she would not have been Richard’s 
 choice.” 
 
 “It would be the greatest kindness, Charles,” 
 the widow said, with obvious gratitude. “ It 
 might not be practicable for her to join your girls 
 in their studies — they are too far advanced — and 
 it would be too late in the day for her to begin 
 music now; but she might practise her hand- 
 writing until she acquired a good style ; and they 
 might teach her lawn-tennis. But above all, 
 what I should hope for is her gaining a little 
 
ADIEU, MY DEAR!” 
 
 i6 5 
 
 more self-confidence and frankness — familiarity 
 with good manners — and so forth; and where 
 could she find two more charming girls to ob- 
 serve and copy than Gertrude and Laura? Of 
 course it will be a difficult thing to propose to 
 her, without wounding her susceptibilities. We 
 can’t tell her that she is ill-educated, or gawky 
 in manner, or unacquainted with the ways and 
 politeness of a well-bred family ; it will be easier 
 to point out the necessity for some period of 
 separation, as a test of their regard for each 
 other. And I hope she will understand that it 
 is done in kindness ; for after all, if she is to be 
 Richard’s wife, I trust she will bear no grudge 
 against any one of us.” 
 
 “ She would be a very ungrateful young woman 
 if she did,” said the clergyman, with unusual se- 
 verity, “ considering the very great sacrifices we 
 are all of us prepared to make for her.” 
 
 And what did Nanciebel say to this scheme 
 when it was laid before her? It was Mr. Richard 
 who communicated it to her. On the day follow- 
 ing his uncle’s arrival he called in at the shop in 
 the High Street, and asked Nancy to come for 
 a stroll with him; and as her sister Kate was 
 there, she consented ; and the two of them walked 
 along Chapel Street and Church Street without 
 the slightest pretence of concealment. The tem- 
 porary thaw had been succeeded by hard frost; 
 
1 66 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 the snow again lay crisp and clear, while the 
 roads glittered with broken ice in the cart-ruts. 
 There was a blue sky overhead ; it was a bright, 
 inspiriting morning; these young folks had no 
 thought of the cold. They passed the church ; 
 they went down by the mill ; they ascended the 
 slippery steps of the foot-bridge, and there, lean- 
 ing on the rail, they paused to look at the slug- 
 gish green river, or at the wide white snow-land- 
 scape all shining in the sun. And here it was 
 that he told her what his mother and uncle 
 proposed should be done. 
 
 “O Richard,” she said, when his tale was 
 finished, “ that is as bad as your going to Shang- 
 hai! ” 
 
 “Well, it is not, Nanciebel! ” he made answer. 
 “For I should be allowed to go down and see 
 you from time to time ; and it is easier sending 
 messages or birthday presents, or things of that 
 kind, between Stratford and Bristol than between 
 Stratford and Shanghai. But the great difference 
 is this : my uncle Charles, with whom you would 
 be staying, is one of the gentlest and kindest of 
 men, whereas my uncle in China, from what I 
 can remember of him, is one of the most fiery 
 and ill-tempered — a regular pepper-caster. You 
 see, both the mater and I have grievously 
 offended him. He has been talking for ever 
 so long back of retiring — he has made a large 
 
ADIEU, MY DEAR!” 
 
 167 
 
 fortune ; and he has always been anxious that I 
 should go out and become a junior member of 
 the firm : I suppose he could make that one of his 
 conditions. Well, you know, the mater wanted 
 me at home; and besides, I have no turn for 
 business; and at home I have stayed. I dare 
 say he considers us a couple of fools. But if I 
 were to go out to Shanghai, and if he were to dis- 
 cover that I hadn’t come with any intention of 
 studying Pekoe and Souchong, but only to be 
 kept away for a while from a too fascinating 
 young lady in Warwickshire, then there would 
 be an explosion! I should have a remarkably 
 lively time of it during that six months ! Where- 
 as you, Nanciebel, you will be with the very 
 nicest people you could wish for ; and they will 
 be very kind to you, for my mother’s sake; and 
 I will write to you every day — that is to say, if I 
 am only allowed to send you one letter a week, 
 that can’t prevent my writing every day, and 
 sending you the whole budget on Saturday. Do 
 you see, Nanciebel? ” 
 
 “Well, I don’t understand yet, Richard,” said 
 Nanciebel, gazing mournfully at the green river, 
 with its slow-moving patches of ice, “ I don’t un- 
 derstand why they should want us to be sepa- 
 rated, unless it is in the hope of the separation 
 being forever.” 
 
 “ How can you say that, Nancy? ” he protested. 
 
i68 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “Why, isn’t it on the distinct understanding 
 that you are to be my wife that the mater has 
 made this proposal and that my uncle asks you 
 to make his house your home? Would they take 
 all this trouble for nothing? Then there’s an- 
 other thing, Nanciebel. If I were dealing with 
 a stern and truculent parent, threatening and 
 bullying, I might be tempted to show fight; I 
 should probably say, 'I have chosen my wife, 
 and stamping and roaring won’t alter the fact. 
 You say you will cut me off with a shilling? — 
 well, go and do it, and be hanged to you ! ’ But, 
 you know, Nancy, you couldn’t use language like 
 that to such a gentle creature as the mater ; and 
 as for cutting me off with a shilling, no one 
 threatens to do that, for the simple reason that 
 no one has the power: when I am twenty-five, 
 some eighteen months hence, I come into my 
 little money, and am my own master. So that 
 in the mean time, Nanciebel, why should you 
 grumble over our being separated for a while? ” 
 “It seems to me, Richard,” said Nanciebel, 
 with a pout, “ that you take this separation very 
 easily. I believe you are glad to get rid of me.” 
 “Oh, yes, certainly,” said he, sidling closer to 
 her as they leaned over the rail of the bridge. 
 “ That is extremely probable. Have you made 
 any other discovery, Nancy? ” 
 
 “Well, how would you like it yourself? ” she 
 
ADIEU, MY DEAR!” 
 
 169 
 
 asked abruptly. “ How would you like to be 
 taken away from your own family — as if they 
 weren’t good enough for you to associate with — 
 and sent to live among strangers? ” 
 
 “ If you mean being sent to live at Holiwell 
 Vicarage, I should like it amazingly,” said he, 
 with a jovial air. “ My cousins are awfully nice 
 girls — and extremely pretty, too. I shouldn’t 
 object, not in the least! ” 
 
 She moved away from him, and remained silent. 
 
 “Come now, Nanciebel,” he said, following 
 her, “don’t be sulky. Tell me I may say to my 
 mother that you will consider this scheme, and 
 that if your brother has no objection, you will do 
 what she wants.” 
 
 “ No,” said Nanciebel, distinctly, “ I refuse. I 
 am not going to tell my family that they are no 
 longer good enough for me. I refuse ; that is 
 my answer. You can go down to Bristol, if you 
 like ; if you prefer your cousins to me, you are 
 welcome ! ” 
 
 “I never said anything of the kind,” he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 “You did, and you said you would be glad to 
 be rid of me ” 
 
 “ Nancy ! ” 
 
 “It is mean of you — downright mean of you,” 
 she said in indignant tones, “ to deny having said 
 
 certain things simply because you did not use such 
 8 
 
70 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 and such words. What you intended to say is 
 quite enough for me — thank you ! And I have 
 had enough — all the way round. I wish to have 
 done with such treatment — once for all. I am 
 going home.” 
 
 She moved proudly away ; but he accompanied 
 her. Then she stood stock-still. 
 
 “ I wish to go alone,” she said with firm lips. 
 
 “I shan’t allow you,” he said (not dreaming 
 there was anything serious in the wind). “I 
 know better than you what is good for you, 
 Nancy; I am going back with you.” 
 
 She remained undecided for a moment — vexed 
 and mortified and helpless. Then she said 
 slowly and bitterly: 
 
 “ I have often heard that one may be born in 
 the position of a gentleman without having the 
 manners or feelings of a gentleman, but I had 
 never seen it before. I should have thought 
 that a gentleman would respect my wish.” 
 
 “No, no, Nanciebel,” said he, shaking his 
 head, “ the tragedy-queen does not become you. 
 You’re not tall enough, not fierce enough. Are 
 you going to give me your hand? ” 
 
 An implacable determination was on her 
 mouth. 
 
 “I wish to pass,” said she stiffly (though he 
 was not barring the way at all). “And I wish 
 to go back home alone.” 
 
“adieu, my dear!” 17 1 
 
 Then quick as flame his mood changed. 
 
 “ Oh, go home alone, then ! ” he said with 
 frowning brow; and the next moment he had 
 turned from her and was striding eastward along 
 the bridge, leaving Nanciebel to get down the 
 slippery steps and make her way home as she 
 pleased. 
 
 As for him, he struck off through the snow- 
 covered meadows, caring little whither he went, 
 but vowing vengeance all the time. She was too 
 unreasonable! He would suffer this kind of 
 thing no longer. Here were both his mother 
 and his uncle doing everything they could think 
 of for her — not spurning her and refusing to re- 
 ceive her into the family, as many would have 
 done, but laying thoughtful and kindly plans 
 and schemes to assure her a happy future ; and 
 she must needs break out into a fit of temper, 
 and flatly decline to accept their good offices. It 
 was too outrageously unreasonable ! He would 
 teach her a lesson this time. She would have to 
 come humbly to him, and promise amendment 
 before he would permit of any reconciliation. 
 Nanciebel would find out that he was not to be 
 trifled with. 
 
 Alas! for these brave resolutions; the first 
 thing he saw on returning to Woodend was a 
 small packet addressed to himself lying on the 
 hall table. He opened it — hurriedly and anx- 
 
172 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 iously — for he had recognized the handwriting. 
 Here were a bundle of letters, and one or two 
 tiny packages carefully wrapped up; likewise 
 the following note : 
 
 “ Richard : I return you your letters, and also 
 the presents you have given me. Good-by. 
 
 41 Nancy.” 
 
 He stared in alarm and bewilderment. Did 
 she mean it? Had she taken mortal offence be- 
 cause of the imagined slight to her family — a 
 slight that he ought to have explained aw^ay? 
 Perhaps she had consulted her elder brother be- 
 fore taking this serious step ! And then (with a 
 jump of the heart) he observed that before the 
 word “ letters ” in the above note she had originally 
 written “ dear” but had scored that out. The 
 obliteration had been done but lightly ; perhaps 
 she had meant him to see the little adjective after 
 all? He was not so angry with Nanciebel now. 
 It was her love that had dictated that little word 
 of four letters, if it was her pride that had com- 
 pelled her to score it out again. 
 
 Toward dusk on the same afternoon, Mr. 
 Richard again made his appearance in the High 
 Street. Nanciebel blushed furiously when he 
 entered the shop ; there was a curious look in her 
 eyes, moreover ; his heart smote him — he guessed 
 she had been crying. 
 
“adieu, my dear!” 
 
 1 73 
 
 “I want to speak to you, Nancy,” he said, in a 
 grave voice. 
 
 Her sister Kate was behind the counter, busy 
 with her needle; so, without more ado, Nancy 
 drew a shawl round her shoulders, and passed 
 into the back garden, leaving the door open. He 
 was at her side in a second. 
 
 “ Will you take back the letters, Nancy? ” said 
 he rather hesitatingly, for he knew not in what 
 mood she might be. “You cannot mean what 
 you say. It isn’t all over between us because — 
 because of a quarrel. And I’m sure I had no 
 intention of saying or hinting that your family 
 were not good enough for you to associate with — 
 no such intention in the world.” 
 
 “O Richard,” she suddenly said in a voice 
 full of pathetic appeal, “ do be good to me ! It 
 quite breaks my heart when there is anything 
 wrong between you and me ! I will do what you 
 want. I will do everything your mother wishes, 
 only — only — be kind to me, Richard! ” 
 
 The next instant his hands were clasped round 
 her soft dark hair ; her eyes were upturned to his. 
 
 “Why aren’t you always like this, Nancy?” 
 he said. 
 
 “Because you won’t let me,” she said plain- 
 tively. “ But don’t begin again, Richard ! Have 
 you — have you brought the letters — and the 
 locket and the other things? ” 
 
i74 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 He took the little package from his pocket and 
 handed it to her ; she furtively kissed it ere trans- 
 ferring it to her own. 
 
 “So you will go to Bristol, Nanciebel? ” 
 
 “Yes, dear! ” she said, looking down again. 
 
 “ And do you imagine I don’t understand what 
 you are thinking — or dreading? And of course 
 I sympathize with you all the same, even if I 
 know your fears are groundless. Why, they 
 will be as kind to you as it is possible for you to 
 wish! It isn’t as if you were going as a gov- 
 erness into a strange house where the daughters 
 might bully you, and the servants try to snub you ; 
 you are are going to a home — to be received as 
 my future wife ; and the chief points of education 
 that the mater seems to have in view are lawn- 
 tennis and the way of dressing your hair — though 
 I fancy you could give Gerty and Laura a lesson 
 in that, rather than they you. It seems to me 
 that it will be simply a holiday for you — a long 
 holiday ” 
 
 “Yes, Richard, long — how long?” she inter- 
 posed. 
 
 “ They were talking about a year, ” he answered 
 evasively. 
 
 “Ah, well,” she responded, with a submissive 
 sigh, “ I suppose if I have promised to do every- 
 thing your mother wishes, there is no more to be 
 said. But it will be dreadful, Richard — never 
 
ADIEU, MY DEAR!” 
 
 *75 
 
 seeing you. I shall lose heart, I know. I have 
 heard of people pining and moping until they fell 
 into an illness; well, if that should happen to 
 me, perhaps I shall not be sorry. I have only 
 been in the way — and a cause of trouble. But if 
 anything were to happen to me — when I was far 
 from my friends, and from you, and from any 
 one I cared for, I should have the consolation of 
 knowing that I had done everything that had 
 been asked of me; and I suppose your mother 
 and your uncle would have no ill feeling toward 
 me then; and you — you wouldn’t quite for- 
 get Nanciebel — sometimes you would remem- 
 ber ” 
 
 There was a sob in the dark. 
 
 “Come, come, Nancy,” said he soothingly, 
 “you needn’t have any such apprehensions. 
 And you are not going to be left alone like that. 
 I shall stipulate for being allowed to go down 
 and see you once at least in every two months — 
 they talked of three months* — — ” 
 
 “Couldn’t it be every month, Richard?” she 
 pleaded. 
 
 “ Nanciebel,” said he, “you’d begin to think 
 me a nuisance. Why, you’ll be so busy with 
 your amusements and excursions and all the 
 charitable work connected with the vicarage that 
 you’d resent my coming bothering you so often. 
 However, that can all be arranged afterward. 
 
176 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 You will find the mater most considerate; she 
 will agree to anything you ask; and don’t 
 imagine you are going to banishment or impris- 
 onment — but to have a long and pleasant holi- 
 day, in a nice house, among the most friendly 
 people in the world.” 
 
 That night at dinner Mr. Richard informed 
 his mother and his uncle that Miss Marlow had 
 given her consent to the scheme which had been 
 placed before her, and pathetically tried to draw 
 from them some expression of sympathy or ap- 
 proval. But the widow received the news with 
 a grave reserve ; perhaps in her secret heart she 
 had been wondering whether Nanciebel might 
 not definitely refuse and so prepare the way for 
 a rupture of the engagement. 
 
 “ I hope it will all turn out well, Richard,” the 
 mild- voiced clergyman said, “ and I am sure my- 
 self and the girls will do what we can to make 
 the young lady feel at home. We must simply 
 agree to regard her as already one of the family. 
 But sometimes I wonder what your uncle Alex- 
 ander will say when he comes to hear of it.” 
 
 “ My uncle Alexander,” said Mr. Richard, with 
 some independence, “seems to think he owns 
 me, simply because he happens to have been my 
 father’s brother. But I do not see that I am so 
 much beholden to him. I hardly know him, to 
 begin with ; and he has done nothing for me — ex- 
 
177 
 
 “adieu, my dear!” 
 
 cept to make offers he must have known I could 
 not accept ” 
 
 “ He might do a great deal for you,” the widow 
 
 said. “ He has made a large fortune ” 
 
 “Yes, but of course he’ll leave it all to tha+ 
 girl, his step-daughter. She is the only one whc 
 has any claim on him — I don’t consider I should 
 
 look to him for anything ” 
 
 “Well, you needn’t,” his mother said sadly, 
 “after he hears of what has now taken place.” 
 “What I look to him for,” said Mr. Richard 
 with some firmness (for well he knew what view 
 the irascible old gentleman out in Shanghai 
 would take of this matter) , “ is to mind his own 
 affairs, and not interfere where he is not wanted. 
 He writes about me,” he continued, addressing 
 his uncle, “as if I were a child, and as if the 
 mater were a nursery-governess neglecting her 
 duty. Well, I won’t have it. He hasn’t ac- 
 quired the right to intermeddle ” 
 
 “ He has been most kind and thoughtful,” Mrs. 
 Kingston pleaded. “ If his remonstrances were 
 sometimes couched in plain language, surely, my 
 dear boy, you must have known what his inten- 
 tions were. Again and again he has offered to 
 give you a place in the firm ; and if I have been 
 selfish enough to ask you to relinquish these 
 chances, and to stay at home with me, it hasn’t 
 been always with a good conscience.” 
 
 8 * 
 
i7» 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “Well, well, mother,” her son replied, “it is 
 no use talking about that now. I am not going 
 out to Shanghai. And I don’t want any of Uncle 
 Alexander’s money; let it go to my cousin who 
 is not my cousin — Florence her name is, isn’t 
 it?” 
 
 Now the Rev. Mr. Henningham had to return 
 to Bristol the next day ; but it was hardly to be 
 expected that Nanciebel could accompany him 
 on such short notice. She would wish to say 
 good-by to her friends and relatives ; moreover, 
 her wardrobe might require looking after, seeing 
 that she was to be away for so long ; and Mrs. 
 Kingston undertook that the young lady should 
 arrive at Holiwell Vicarage fully equipped. 
 Nanciebel had again been persuaded to pay an 
 afternoon visit to Woodend; and although she 
 was quite as shy and nearly as silent as on the 
 previous occasion, nevertheless her neat appear- 
 ance and becoming modesty made a favorable 
 impression on the clergyman, while Mrs. King- 
 ston, now fully recognizing the course of events 
 as inevitable, made less constrained advances 
 toward friendliness and intimacy. Mr. Richard 
 seemed highly pleased with the result of this 
 interview. It all seemed settled now. And 
 Nancy no longer appeared to be afraid. That 
 period of banishment was not to be so dreadful, 
 after all. 
 
“adieu, my dear!” 179 
 
 In the mean time Uncle Charles had nobly un- 
 dertaken the duty of calling- upon Nanciebel’s 
 elder brother, in order to explain to him the 
 position of affairs, and what were their plans for 
 the future. It was a most delicate and invidious 
 task. For when two young people become en- 
 gaged, their friends and acquaintances — and even 
 the world at large — charitably and amiably as- 
 sume that the young lady has had nothing what- 
 ever to do with bringing about this result ; it is 
 the young man who is solely and wholly respon- 
 sible. Accordingly the question remained as to 
 how NanciebeFs brother would regard this spirit- 
 ing away of his sister. Doubtless he would as- 
 sume that she was innocent of any preliminary 
 flirtation ; she had not replied to stolen glances, 
 or let her hand part reluctantly from his, or in- 
 dulged in any sort of sly and innocent coquetry. 
 No, no. She had been pursued with attentions ; 
 flattered; coaxed; finally, out of her generous 
 good-nature, she had given consent — to the 
 young man who was now answerable for the 
 whole affair. As the good clergyman made his 
 way to the shop of Emmet & Marlow, watch- 
 makers and silversmiths, he became a little anx- 
 ious. If young Marlow had taken that sta- 
 tioner’s business chiefly as a means of providing 
 employment for his sisters, he might be willing 
 enough to have the maintenance of one of the 
 
i8o 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 girls taken off liis hands. If, on the contrary, 
 he had embarked in the enterprise as a specula- 
 tion on his own account, he might object to have 
 his manageress carried off in this peremptory 
 fashion. Much would depend on his personal 
 disposition ; and Mr. Henningham, who was a 
 peaceable and timid little man, hoped at least 
 that young Marlow would not turn out to be 
 a fierce and angry Radical, indignant at the 
 thought of his sister being borne away into cap- 
 tivity in order to become the bride of a scion of 
 the so-called upper classes. 
 
 Mr. Henningham was speedily reassured. Nan- 
 ciebel’s brother he found to be a respectable, 
 quiet-mannered, sensible young man, who spoke 
 wtih equal intelligence and frankness. 
 
 “No, sir,” he said respectfully to the clergy- 
 man, “ I did not like your nephew coming about 
 the place at all. I would have stopped it if I had 
 known in time. I think Nancy ought to marry 
 in her own circle. However, I suppose it is no 
 use talking about that now. Well, I think your 
 proposal is very generous ; and I see good reasons 
 for it ; the only thing is that you must allow me 
 to pay for my sister’s board.” 
 
 “ My dear sir,” said the clergyman blandly, “I 
 hope you will not raise the question. I think both 
 Mrs. Kingston and myself would prefer to regard 
 your sister as already one of the family ” 
 
ADIEU, MY DEAR!” 
 
 181 
 
 The young man flushed. 
 
 “Oh, I can’t have Nancy go anywhere as a 
 beggar,” said he, but without rudeness. “Once 
 she is married it will be different.” 
 
 “We will waive the point at present, then,” 
 said Mr. Henningham,who was extremely pleased 
 to have got over this awkward interview so 
 easily ; and, as he was going away, he was good 
 enough to say : “ And, of course, you understand 
 that while we consider this period of separation 
 a wholesome thing as between those young peo- 
 ple, we have no wish to restrict Miss Marlow’s 
 full and free intercourse with her own relatives ; 
 and if her sister or yourself were at any time any- 
 where near Bristol, I should be only too pleased 
 to see you at Holiwell Vicarage.” 
 
 Uncle Charles went away down again into 
 Somersetshire to tell his daughters whom they 
 were to expect. Then a week or two went by, 
 during which Nanciebel was preparing for her 
 departure. Then came the night of farewell (for 
 she was going off by train next morning) , and 
 Nancy and her lover were, as on many a previous 
 occasion, strolling arm-in-arm up and down the 
 little tiled court-yard. 
 
 “ Life is so much harder in reality,” Nanciebel 
 was saying in a rather sad way, “ than it is in 
 things you read of in books. I thought it was 
 kind of your mother to give me Tennyson’s 
 
182 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 Poems yesterday, Richard. She told me how it 
 was you asked for her consent; and how she 
 couldn’t refuse; and when I came home, I read 
 the poem all over again. But everything went 
 so easily for the Miller’s Daughter. A single 
 interview with the young man’s mother: that 
 was all. There was no talk of sending her away 
 from her friends — to live with strangers — per- 
 haps for a whole year. You say they are not 
 strangers, Richard, dear; and, of course, they are 
 not to you, but they are to me. And the life 
 will be strange. I know I shall feel dreadfully 
 
 lonely. I shall spend half the night crying ” 
 
 “No, no, no, Nanciebel!” he said. “You 
 don’t know what you are talking about. It will 
 be a far pleasanter life for you than your present 
 
 “Without you, Richard!” she said reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 “I am talking of the average circumstances,” 
 said he — perhaps conscious that he was an ex- 
 ceptional one. “You will have all the fun that 
 my cousins have, with nothing of their hard 
 drill. While they are grinding away at Latin 
 and French and German, you will have nothing 
 but English literature to get up ; and while they 
 are hammering at fugues and sonatas, you will 
 only have to practise your handwriting — and 
 you can do that by writing to me. There will 
 
“adieu, my dear!” 183 
 
 be no lawn-tennis as yet, of course ; but you can 
 play battledore-and-shuttlecock in the hall ; and 
 you will be expected to take part in entertain- 
 ments for the instruction and amusement of the 
 villagers — and won’t that develop your self-con- 
 fidence, Nanciebel ! ” 
 
 “ I am sure Bristol must be a dreadful place to 
 live in,” said Nancy with a sigh. 
 
 “ Why, it is one of the most beautiful towns in 
 England ! ” he protested. “ Of course you will 
 be living a little way out in the country; but 
 wait till I come to see you ; I will take you into 
 the town, and show you the College Green and 
 the Whiteladies’ Road, and Durdham Down, and 
 Clifton Down, and the Suspension Bridge, and 
 the steep banks of the Avon all hanging in foli- 
 age. Why, it is a beautiful neighborhood — not 
 flat and tame like this, but with plenty of heights 
 and cliffs and open spaces covered with hawthorn 
 in the spring. Oh, I can tell you, Bristol is a 
 most picturesque place ! ” 
 
 “What do I care about that? ” said Nanciebel, 
 as if in echo of “ What’s this dull town to me? ” 
 And then she continued, “ Richard, I have got a 
 little pocket almanac, and I am going to mark 
 with red ink all the dates fixed for your coming 
 to Bristol ; and every night, before going to bed, 
 I will score out the day that has passed, and say, 
 ‘There’s another day of misery got over.’ ” 
 
NANCIEBEL 
 
 “ And mind this, Nancy,” he said, “though we 
 have promised to send each other a letter only 
 once a fortnight, that does not prevent you writ- 
 ing every day in the week, and keeping the 
 sheets until the proper time has come. I’m sure 
 I mean to do that ; as I told you before, it will 
 be a kind of diary ; and you must tell me every- 
 thing you are thinking, so that I may be certain 
 I know exactly the truth. Oh, I don’t say you 
 may not find it a little lonely at first; you will 
 be thinking of the pleasant evenings we have 
 spent here, or the morning strolls out to the 
 Weir Brake; but then, dearest, think of the 
 necessity for the absence, and of all the greater 
 happiness in store for us. There are very few 
 engaged young people who have everything 
 planned out so satisfactorily for them — friends 
 approving — all the circumstances propitious — 
 and what is a little waiting? ” 
 
 “Ah, it’s all very well for you, Richard,” she 
 said ; “ you are a man ; and you are high-spirited 
 and careless. But I shall feel so lonely — and — 
 and there will be nobody to be good to me,” con- 
 fessed Nanciebel artlessly. 
 
 “ You wait till I come down,” said he, “ and see 
 if I don’t make up for lost time.” 
 
 And still more sad of heart was poor Nancy 
 at the station on the following morning. She 
 hardly spoke. Mr. Richard got her a coupt, and 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 185 
 
 bribed the guard to keep it for her ; she did not 
 seem to care. Her elder brother was here to see 
 her away, but he did not pay much attention to 
 his sister ; there were one or two acquaintances of 
 his on the platform ; and there was a parliamen- 
 tary election somewhere in the neighborhood 
 that seemed to interest them. As the time drew 
 near, Nanciebel grew more and more dejected. 
 She answered her lover’s remarks in mono- 
 syllables chiefly, for her lips were tremulous, and 
 she dared not trust herself. At last she had to 
 get into the carriage. He kissed her; she took 
 leave of him without a word — only pressing his 
 hand ; and the last he saw of her were her tear- 
 filled eyes piteously and longingly regarding 
 him. Then — long after the train had left the 
 station — there was a flutter of a small white 
 handkerchief from a carriage window ; and that 
 again disappeared at a curve in the line; Nancie- 
 bel was gone. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 NEW FRIENDS 
 
 For Mr. Richard, Stratford-on-Avon was an 
 empty town after the departure of Nanciebel. 
 He used to wander all round the neighborhood : 
 
i86 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 through the meadows, down by the river, or 
 along to the Weir Brake; or again he would go 
 away up to the top of Bardon Hill, and survey 
 the wide landscape, identifying almost every 
 feature of it with some recollection of his lost 
 Nancy. Here was a lane in which she had made 
 shy confession of her love, and sworn sweet vows 
 of constancy until death ; yonder was the high- 
 way in which, not a fortnight thereafter, they 
 had had a furious quarrel; and still further 
 along the point at which she had become sud- 
 denly penitent and had wept mild tears of con- 
 trition. He even went into the little shop in 
 the High Street and begged Miss Kate Marlow 
 to allow him to visit, in solitude and silence, the 
 vacant little court-yard in which Nanciebel and 
 he had conjured up so many fair dreams and 
 visions of the future. Sister Kate was sympa- 
 thetic and understood ; she left him to himself, 
 and gave him ample opportunity to become as 
 miserable as he wished. But one afternoon Miss 
 Kate had a more definite favor to bestow on 
 him. 
 
 “I had a letter from Nancy this morning,” she 
 said, at the door of the shop. “ I was wonder- 
 ing she did not write ; but she said she waited 
 until she got settled. Would you like to see it? ” 
 
 “Oh, yes!” said he eagerly, “for she won’t 
 write to me until the end of next week. Of 
 
NEW FRIENDS 187 
 
 course, I am anxious to know how she takes to 
 the place.” 
 
 Therewith he followed Nanciebel’s sister in- 
 side, and she went and got the letter. It was a 
 long and elaborate composition, showing care as 
 regards the handwriting; no doubt Nancy was 
 already practising. But it was the contents that 
 interested Mr. Richard — and surprised him. He 
 expected that Nanciebel would be complaining 
 of her sad fortune; pining for absent friends; 
 recalling the pleasant hours she had passed with 
 those she loved most ; and wondering when her 
 period of lone banishment was to be over. Noth- 
 ing of the kind. In this letter Nancy seemed 
 rather to be giving herself airs. Her sister was 
 told of all the elegancies of life at the vicarage, 
 even to the ringing of a dressing-bell before 
 dinner ; and was given to understand that Nancy 
 was put in a position of perfect equality with the 
 vicar's daughters, and even treated with consid- 
 eration and respect by the lady-housekeeper — a 
 somewhat awful person, as it appeared — who 
 presided over the establishment. Mention was 
 made of the Stanhope phaeton which had awaited 
 her at the station. The garden of the vicarage 
 communicated with that of Holiwell Court (Hon. 
 G. Stapleton, brother of Lord De Vaux and Esk) ; 
 and as the vicar’s family had the free run of the 
 place, Nancy, when the two young ladies were at 
 
NANCIEBEL 
 
 1 88 
 
 their morning tasks, would sometimes wander 
 into the hot-houses, where the Scotch head gar- 
 dener told her the Latin names of the plants, 
 and otherwise introduced her to the science of 
 botany. And so Mr. Richard read on, momen- 
 tarily expecting some reference to himself, but 
 finding no such thing. He handed back those 
 closely scribbled sheets, and thanked Miss Kate. 
 Then he walked away home rather dispirited. 
 
 But a very different letter arrived at Woodend 
 toward the close of the following week. There 
 was no showing off or pride of place, but the out- 
 pourings and tender confidences of an innocent 
 young soul, that might have melted a heart of 
 stone. Oh, for the happy days, never to be re- 
 called, which she had passed with her dear 
 Richard in that beloved Stratford town! Here 
 she was all alone, far, far from friends, with no 
 one to cheer her or comfort her, with the future 
 all grown dark and hopeless. The night brought 
 wakeful hours of memory, and weeping over by- 
 gone happiness; the morning brought with it a 
 renewed sense of isolation. A moan as of a dove 
 deprived of its mate went all through this letter ; 
 and even while the young man prized and wel- 
 comed eagerly these artless confessions, his heart 
 was stricken with sympathy and pity. Poor 
 Nancy! Even the Stanhope phaeton, and the 
 dressing-bell before dinner, and the Hon. Mr. 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 189 
 
 Stapleton’s greenhouses, and the Scoto-Latin 
 names of flowers, seemed not altogether to com- 
 pensate. She still thought of her dear Richard, 
 and of drowsy Stratford town, and the silent- 
 winding Avon. 
 
 But the drowsiness of Warwickshire, so far as 
 Mrs. Kingston and her son were concerned, was 
 about to be broken in upon in a sudden and 
 startling manner. Quite unexpectedly, without 
 any warning, the news arrived that Richard’s 
 uncle out in China had at last accomplished the 
 end he had long had in view — his retirement 
 from the immediate direction of the firm of 
 Kingston, Campbell & Co., of Shanghai, and 
 that he and his step-daughter would almost 
 immediately start for Europe. There were some 
 further details in the letter. Uncle Alexander 
 meant to set up house in London, after he had 
 had time to look about; but, in the mean while, 
 on his arrival, there would be a good deal of 
 legal business to attend to, and he would take it 
 as a kindness if his sister-in-law, for that brief 
 period, would receive into her house his step- 
 daughter Florence. Now, Mrs. Kingston had 
 never even seen this young lady, who was a 
 daughter, by a former husband, of Uncle Alexan- 
 der’s second and recently deceased wife. But 
 the little widow never thought of evading this 
 demand made upon her by her imperious and 
 
190 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 hot-tempered brother-in-law. It was not the as- 
 pect of this surprising intelligence which filled 
 Mrs. Kingston’s breast with concern. 
 
 “Richard,” she said, going to her son with the 
 letter in her hand, “ your uncle Alexander and 
 his daughter are coming to England ; and he is 
 going to bring her down here to stay with us a 
 little while, until he gets some business over in 
 London. And — and I suppose there will be a 
 general talk over family affairs,” continued the 
 anxious mother, “and — and I suppose I shall 
 
 have to tell him about Miss — about Nancy ” 
 
 Mr. Richard’s face flushed quickly. 
 
 “ I’ve said before, mother, that I expect Uncle 
 Alexander to mind his own affairs,” he remarked 
 in ominous tones. “ I am indebted to him in no 
 way, and I don’t mean to be. Did I ever ask 
 him for any of his money? Who constituted 
 him my guardian? ” 
 
 “ I am sure that your uncle Charles and I did 
 what was right about — about Nancy,” said the 
 widow (who seemed always to have a little strug- 
 gle in calling Miss Marlow by her Christian 
 name) , “ but I know all the same that your uncle 
 Alexander will be very angry — and you know 
 
 how stormy and passionate he is ” 
 
 “Look here, mother,” Mr. Richard said defi- 
 nitely, “ I want you to understand this : I am not 
 going to allow Uncle Alexander to worry you 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 I 9 I 
 
 about Nancy, or upon any other subject. If he 
 has anything to say, let him say it to me, and 
 he shall have his answer. But if I find him be- 
 ginning to bully you, I shall show him the way to 
 the door. I suppose you may live all your life in 
 China and yet not have forgotten how to take a 
 hint.” 
 
 Alas! when Uncle Alexander arrived at Wood- 
 end — accompanied by a tall, and handsome, and 
 bright-looking young lady, who appeared to take 
 possession of the whole house in a bewildering 
 sort of way — he was in no truculent mood. He 
 was a complete wreck, he declared. The long 
 voyage had shattered him; the rattling across 
 France had still further destroyed his nerves; 
 his consolation now was that he could lay his 
 bones to rest in his native land. It is true that 
 as Mr. Richard watched the performance of this 
 big, heavy, bilious-complexioned man at lunch- 
 eon, he was of opinion that, for a moribund per- 
 son, he possessed a remarkably brave appetite. 
 His harrowing description of the sensations he 
 suffered during the wakeful hours of night did 
 not interfere with his large consumption of steak 
 and kidney pie ; and by the time that cheese and 
 celery were produced he had got through the best 
 part of a decanter of old Madeira. He had been 
 growing more and more silent, however, as the 
 repast proceeded; and when all rose from table, 
 
192 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 he said he would retire to his own room and lie 
 down for a while, as he found that a nap after 
 lunch had a soothing effect on his nervous 
 system. 
 
 And here were mother and son with this 
 strange young lady left on their hands. But the 
 strange young lady was in no wise disconcerted. 
 
 “Well, cousin,” she said gayly, as she turned 
 to Mr. Richard, “are you coming to show me 
 over the curiosities of Stratford? I suppose I 
 may call myself an Englishwoman ; and an Eng- 
 lishwoman ought to know something of Stratford- 
 on-Avon. How far is it in to the town? ” 
 
 “A little over a couple of miles,” said he; 
 “but I will drive you in, if you like.” 
 
 “Oh, thanks; that will be capital,” said she. 
 “You can tell me when the carriage is ready; I 
 shall be in the drawing-room with Aunt Cecilia.” 
 And therewith she quite naturally and affection- 
 ately put her hand within the widow’s arm and 
 led her away with her. 
 
 In less than half an hour thereafter, Mr. 
 Richard found himself seated next this light- 
 hearted cousin of his, who had begged him to 
 give her the reins. It was a pleasant after- 
 noon ; the snow had altogether disappeared from 
 the country-side now ; there were mild airs blow- 
 ing, and a touch of sunlight here and there ; a 
 feeling of spring was abroad. 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 193 
 
 “ I am awfully fond of driving,” said she ; “ and 
 driving through an English landscape in the 
 spring-time — what can be better than that? ” 
 
 “I’ll have the pony-chaise brought round for 
 you every morning if you like, Miss Kingston,” 
 he remarked. 
 
 “ Miss Kingston ! ” she exclaimed, wuth an au- 
 dacious smile. “Well, well! Why, my name 
 is Floss; and I am your cousin; can’t you put 
 these two together, and give me a nicer name 
 than Miss Kingston? I am going to call you 
 Cousin Dick. You see,” she continued, giving 
 the reins a shake to wake up the old pony, “ girls 
 are subjected to such formalities and convention- 
 alisms in ordinarily talking to gentlemen that, 
 where there is a chance of a little familiarity, 
 it is quite delightful. Cousin Dick sounds all 
 right, doesn’t it? ” 
 
 “Y — yes,” said he: he was thinking of poor 
 little Nanciebel and her shy ways ; and he was 
 hoping that Kate Marlow might not see him and 
 this dashing cousin of his if they had occasion 
 to drive along the High Street. 
 
 When they got into Stratford, however, he put 
 up the horse and trap at the stables belonging to 
 a hotel where he was known ; and thereafter they 
 continued their peregrinations on foot. But first 
 of all Cousin Floss paused at a milliner’s window 
 and looked in. 
 
 9 
 
194 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “ Will you wait for me,” said she, “or come in 
 and sit down? I’m going to buy some little 
 things for your mother, to break up the unrelieved 
 black of her mourning. Why, it isn’t at all 
 called for; and it is the greater pity in her case, 
 for she is comparatively a young woman and very 
 nice-looking, and why should she wear nothing 
 but black? Of course, a widow will protest, and 
 may even think you cruel ; but you have only to 
 talk a little common sense, and be firm; and 
 you’ll see if I don’t get something that will im- 
 prove Aunt Cecilia’s appearance.” 
 
 She made her purchases, and sent them to the 
 hotel; then he took her along to New Place, and 
 showed her the site of Shakespeare’s house; and 
 again he conducted her to the church, to the 
 shrine which so many pilgrims from all parts of 
 the world have visited. She betrayed the most 
 lively interest in everything he showed her, and 
 talked with an unfailing cheerfulness and frank- 
 ness. At first, in fact, on setting out with this 
 newly found cousin, he had been rather taken 
 aback ; her matter-of-fact audacity had somewhat 
 disconcerted him ; but now he had grown familiar 
 with her fashion of addressing him just as if he 
 were her elder brother. 
 
 “ Oh, my goodness ! ” she exclaimed, when he 
 showed her the Memorial Theatre — that fantastic 
 gew-gaw building set amid the placid river-side 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 195 
 
 scenery — “ did ever any one see anything so 
 monstrous as that — so preposterous in itself, and 
 so out of keeping with the quiet, old-fashioned 
 town! Why, have you no public-spirited men 
 in England? Couldn’t they raise a subscription 
 to buy that awful structure, and have it con- 
 veyed to the coast and hurled into the sea? How 
 do you expect Shakespeare’s ghost to rest, with 
 a thing like that in the neighborhood? ” 
 
 And then again, as they were driving home, 
 she said in her airy fashion : 
 
 “ How do you spend the evenings, Cousin 
 Dick?” 
 
 “After dinner, you mean?” he said. “Oh, 
 well, the mater is always happy enough if she 
 has a volume of Tennyson, and I wander about 
 outside with a cigarette.” 
 
 “ You haven’t a billiard-room? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Papa must see that there is-a billiard-room in 
 the house he takes in London,” continued Miss 
 Florence, with decision. “Gentlemen are too 
 valuable creatures of an evening to be allowed 
 to go away by themselves to smoke. And I’m 
 very fond of smoke.” 
 
 “ Perhaps you have tried a cigarette yourself? ” 
 he asked, with a dash of impertinence. 
 
 “ I ? ” she answered carelessly. “ Oh, no. But 
 I can play billiards a little; and I don’t care 
 
196 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 how smoky the atmosphere is. By the way, 
 Cousin Dick, are you a good waltzer? ” 
 
 “I don’t know — middling, I suppose,” was his 
 reply. 
 
 “That means you are a capital waltzer,” she 
 said with much satisfaction, “and I’m delighted 
 to hear it. A cousin who is a good waltzer must 
 be simply invaluable; and when we get our 
 London house I shall rely on you to save me 
 from bad partners — an awful lot can be done by 
 skilful connivance. One of these evenings at 
 Woodend we’ll clear the drawing-room and have 
 a turn, to see if our steps correspond; and, being 
 my cousin, you know, you won’t be afraid to 
 catch hold of me — that is the worst of a bad 
 partner — a stranger — who seems to think you’re 
 made of glass and will break if he touches you. 
 I like to feel that my partner has a good grip, 
 and knows where he is going.” 
 
 When they reached home, they found that tea 
 had just been brought in to the widow’s little 
 boudoir; and through the windows they could 
 see that Uncle Alexander was pacing up and down 
 the longest path in the garden outside — walking 
 with a quick, little, shuffling step, his head bent 
 forward, his arms swinging at his side. 
 
 “ Shall I go and call your papa, Cousin Floss? ” 
 said Mr. Richard — bravely tackling her newly 
 assumed style and title. 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 197 
 
 “Oh, no, no!” she cried. “He’ll come in 
 when he has done the regulation quantity. I 
 have no doubt he has carefully measured out 
 the forty-four yards; and forty times makes a 
 mile, you know; but if you interrupt him he 
 loses count, and has to begin the mile all over 
 again — and that makes him cross, naturally. 
 Poor papa ! he used to be so put out on board 
 ship — he never could get a stretch of the upper 
 deck left undisturbed for him ; as soon as he be- 
 gan, one of the officers would be sure to order up 
 the Lascars to do something or other, or else 
 some of the passengers would come and take 
 possession with rope-quoits or shovel-board. I 
 hope our London house will be in a square 
 where papa will be able to get a measured space 
 without being overlooked.” 
 
 But when Uncle Alexander came in it was not 
 to tea. He was groaning and complaining; he 
 hardly knew which of his ailments demanded 
 most immediate attention, whether it was the 
 headache that lay across his brow like an iron 1 
 clamp, or the heartburn that gnawed in his 
 bosom like some internal rat, or the sickness and 
 lassitude that seemed pulling him generally to 
 the ground. Well, he attacked the heartburn 
 first — with bicarbonate of soda. That proving 
 of no avail, he had a thin slice of bread-and-but- 
 ter thickly spread with cayenne pepper; and 
 
NANCIEBEL 
 
 198 
 
 having bolted that bolus, he washed it down 
 with a good stiff glass of brown brandy-and- 
 water. Whether the heartburn disappeared or 
 not, he seemed at least to recover a little from 
 the hopeless depression that had been hanging 
 over him and he could now talk without a suc- 
 cession of melancholy sighs. 
 
 He was going up to town next morning, he 
 said. Would it be convenient for Aunt Cecilia 
 to have Florence remain with her for a week or 
 ten days, until he had seen to his business 
 affairs in London? The widow replied that she 
 would be most delighted — she had already cast 
 favoring eyes on this frank-spirited girl. There- 
 after, again asked Uncle Alexander, would Aunt 
 Cecilia and Richard come up to town and be his 
 guests for a week or two at the private hotel he 
 was staying at in Arlington Street? Florence 
 wanted some one to show her about London ; he 
 would be glad to have Aunt Cecilia’s advice 
 about the choice of a house. The little widow 
 hesitated. The whirl of town life was not much 
 to her liking ; she had grown accustomed to this 
 peaceful, secluded existence. But here Miss 
 Florence struck in, and declared that she would 
 only remain at Woodend on the understanding* 
 that Aunt Cecilia and Cousin Dick should go to 
 London with her at the end of her stay ; and that 
 settled the matter. The arrangement was finally 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 1 99 
 
 made, and Uncle Alexander returned to the 
 garden to the measured forty-four yards that 
 was to assist the action of the cayenne pepper 
 and brandy. 
 
 So it came about that Florence Kingston was 
 established at Woodend, where she speedily made 
 herself felt as anything but a dull and depress- 
 ing influence. The irresistible cheerfulness, the 
 kindliness, the good humor of the girl acted as 
 a kind of charm upon the solitary little widow, 
 who thawed and warmed into smiles in the sun- 
 shine of this constant companionship. For it 
 was not at all upon Mr. Richard that Cousin Floss 
 bestowed her attention. Indeed, she treated 
 that young man in somewhat of a cavalier spirit; 
 it was the gentle mother whom she petted, and 
 teased, and spoiled, and laughed at, all at once. 
 
 “I declare, Richard,” said the widow, on one 
 occasion when Cousin Floss had just left the 
 room, “ when that girl goes out, it is just as if a 
 hurricane had passed by — leaving a sudden calm 
 behind it.” 
 
 “And yet you don’t seem to dislike her, 
 mater,” he observed. 
 
 “Dislike her? No. Sometimes I think I am 
 getting too fond of her,” the widow said, with a 
 sigh ; perhaps she was thinking of what might 
 have been. 
 
 Then came the evening on which the great 
 
200 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 waltzing- experiment was to be tried. As well 
 as they could they cleared the tables and chairs 
 from the larger drawing-room ; and Mrs. King- 
 ston was asked to officiate at the piano. How 
 long was it since the widow had played a waltz, 
 or any other species of musical composition, for 
 the matter of that? Nevertheless, she could re- 
 fuse this headstrong girl nothing; so presently 
 she was strumming away at some fine old-fash- 
 ioned tune, while the young people were gliding 
 round the cleared space to the tinkle-tankle of 
 the venerable instrument. When they stopped, 
 Miss Florence was good enough to say : 
 
 “You do very well, Cousin Dick. Oh, yes; 
 you and I will have a little practice every even- 
 ing, and we’ll get into each other’s ways per- 
 fectly. I like your reversing; you’re not afraid 
 to catch hold. And then I shall rely on you in 
 London, mind. Whenever I want to get rid of 
 a bore or a bad dancer I shall claim you. You 
 must be at my beck and call. It’s wonderful 
 what tricks you can play with a programme when 
 you have an accomplice; and when the accom- 
 plice is your cousin, it’s all right, don’t you 
 see?” 
 
 But the opportunities for bringing this dark 
 conspiracy into operation were as yet afar off; 
 for when Mrs. Kingston and Mr. Richard event- 
 ually went up to London with Cousin Floss, the 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 201 
 
 whole party found themselves in a private hotel, 
 Uncle Alexander not yet having provided himself 
 with a house. And meanwhile, as the retired 
 China merchant was still being called upon to go 
 into the city on business matters, the introducing 
 of Miss Florence to the ways and customs of the 
 town, and to its outward features as well, fell 
 upon these two Warwickshire folk, who were 
 almost as much strangers as herself. That, 
 however, did not matter much to Mr. Richard, 
 who had the arrangement of their little excur- 
 sions, and rather liked going about with this 
 pretty and vivacious cousin. The barouche 
 which Uncle Alexander had hired he seldom was 
 allowed to make use of ; it was in almost constant 
 requisition for the three sight-seers. Miss Flor- 
 ence was, of course, taken to the Tower. The 
 British Museum did not occupy much of her 
 time; but a students’ day in the National Gallery 
 interested her keenly. She heard part of a de- 
 bate in the House of Commons, and had tea in 
 the tea-room. She hunted out the neighborhoods 
 that had grown familiar to her in her favorite 
 novels; was that, then, the actual building in 
 which poor Angelica had sat and stitched, and 
 watered her bread with tears, and given her 
 lover up for dead — the lover who was pining in 
 a Spanish prison far away, and even hoping to 
 
 regain his native land? Other buildings also, 
 9 * 
 
202 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 whose names she had heard of, she was taken to 
 visit — the Trafalgar at Greenwich, the Star and 
 Garter at Richmond, and so forth; and most 
 frankly did she enjoy the little festivities that 
 accompanied these wanderings. Then there 
 were concerts and theatres for an occasional 
 afternoon or evening ; hardly a day seemed long 
 enough. The widow grew quite cheerful through 
 her constant association with this bright and bold 
 young life that was showing all its pleasantest 
 characteristics in these varied scenes ; Mr. Rich- 
 ard had never seen her look so well or so happy ; 
 and she was content (if with a smile of doleful 
 resignation) to wear whatever Miss Florence im- 
 periously insisted on her wearing. Uncle Alex- 
 ander, it may be observed, remained apart from 
 these gayeties. For one thing, his business ar- 
 rangements did not go forward quite as smoothly 
 as he had expected ; for another, the state of his 
 health called for a constant care. He was his 
 own physician. He had found that ordinary doc- 
 tors were rude persons, who were not ashamed 
 to hint that he ought to eat and drink less and 
 take more exercise. He knew that his many ail- 
 ments arose from far more recondite causes, and 
 demanded the most studious treatment. These 
 continuous escapades on the part of his daughter 
 and her two relatives were not for him. How 
 could he be expected to go and breathe the pol- 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 203 
 
 luted air of a theatre, when he had to be in his 
 own room, looking every ten minutes at his 
 tongue in a mirror? But he was glad to think 
 that Floss had youth and health and spirits to 
 enjoy all that mad gadding about; and he hoped 
 that his sister-in-law and her son would prolong 
 their stay in London as long as they conveniently 
 could. 
 
 Amid all this whirl of amusement and enjoy- 
 ment Mr. Richard suddenly remembered that the 
 day appointed for his first visit to Bristol was 
 drawing near; and perhaps he had an uneasy 
 consciousness that he had been somewhat ne- 
 glectful of poor little Nanciebel. He had not 
 written to her literally every morning — for life 
 in London was a desperately busy thing; and 
 sometimes his budget of news for the week was 
 a somewhat perfunctory affair. However, that 
 would all be put right now. Letter- writing was an 
 ineffective thing at the best. When he was once 
 more face to face with his sweetheart — her tender 
 eyes looking into his — she would know that he 
 had been true to her in absence. And would 
 they not both congratulate each other that the 
 first two months of that cruel separation were 
 now over? 
 
 When Cousin Floss heard that he was going 
 down to Bristol on the following Monday she was 
 indignant. 
 
204 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “What for?” she demanded in her straight- 
 forward way. 
 
 “I have an appointment — that I must keep,” 
 said he. 
 
 “ Why, it is Monday night we were going to 
 see ‘The Winter’s Tale’ at the Lyceum — papa 
 got the box a fortnight ago. And you know 
 your mother and I just hate going anywhere by 
 ourselves. How far away is Bristol? Can’t you 
 come back in time to take us to the theatre? ” 
 
 Well, the truth is he had intended staying the 
 night at Holiwell Vicarage, in order to have a 
 long evening with Nanciebel; but then, on the 
 other hand, both his mother and cousin looked so 
 naturally to him for escort and guidance that he 
 was almost bound to return and take them to the 
 Lyceum as they wished. There was an after- 
 noon train leaving Bristol which would bring 
 him to Paddington at 6:30; that would just give 
 him time to get to the hotel, snatch a bit of din- 
 ner, and dress. So he told Cousin Floss that she 
 should not be balked of “The Winter’s Tale” 
 on his account. 
 
 He left London on the Monday morning by 
 the 9 o’clock express, and reached Bristol at 12. 
 During the journey down he had been possessed 
 not so much with joy at the prospect of meeting 
 Nanciebel as with a half-confessed fear that she 
 might begin to cross-examine him, and be petu- 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 205 
 
 lant, and cause trouble. He was conscious that 
 the sorrow of separation had not fallen equally 
 on him and her — he had had distractions, about 
 which the less said the better. And when, on 
 arriving at Holiwell Vicarage, and being ushered 
 into the drawing-room, he found that along with 
 Nanciebel there were his two cousins and also 
 the governess, perhaps he was somewhat re- 
 lieved. Yet Nanciebel looked so gentle! — and 
 so pleased at his coming, too. She regarded him 
 covertly with her dark, soft eyes; and a man- 
 tling blush suffused her cheek when he made bold 
 to address a word or two to her direct. “ Mr. 
 Kingston,” she called him before the vicar’s 
 daughters and the governess. There was some- 
 thing odd and unexpected about the way she 
 wore her hair now — and about her dress, too — 
 that did not escape his notice; she seemed to 
 have undergone some kind of transformation, 
 though he could not define it exactly; she was 
 hardly the same Nanciebel who used to walk up 
 and down the little court-yard with him, crisp 
 snow underfoot and shining and throbbing stars 
 overhead. 
 
 Luncheon-bell rang and the vicar appeared at 
 the same time ; in a minute or two they were all 
 assembled at table in the dining-room. And 
 Uncle Charles was full of questions about his 
 brother-in-law Alexander and his plans, and also 
 
206 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 about his niece, or quasi-niece, Florence, whom 
 he had never seen. On this latter point Mr. 
 Richard was frankly talkative, not to say effu- 
 sive; and Nanciebel, on the other side of the 
 table, listened in silence. A stranger might 
 have fancied that she and this handsome young 
 man had now met for the first time ; and that 
 the quiet little country girl was rather impressed 
 by his stories of the fine doings in London 
 town. 
 
 After luncheon, the various members of the 
 small household discreetly went their several 
 ways, leaving Mr. Richard and his sweetheart by 
 themselves. But still there were servants about, 
 so Nanciebel said shyly: 
 
 “Will you come into the garden, Richard? ” 
 
 “Anywhere you like, Nancy," he answered; 
 and he followed her through the open French 
 window and down the wide stone steps. It was 
 a large, old-fashioned garden; and there were 
 walls of yew intersecting it. 
 
 “I am so glad to see you again, Richard," she 
 said, with downcast eyes (she did not dare to take 
 his arm, for there might be a spectator at one or 
 other of the windows) . 
 
 “And I am glad to find you looking so well," 
 said he. “ I was sure you would find my uncle 
 and my cousins as kind as you could wish. I 
 saw that from the first, in your letters, though 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 207 
 
 you weren’t quite — quite as — as outspoken as you 
 might have been.” 
 
 “Were you disappointed, Richard? ” she said 
 humbly. “ But you don’t know, dear, how lonely 
 I have been since I came here! Yes, they are 
 very kind; but kindness isn’t everything,” she 
 continued, with a bit of a sigh. “ When I think 
 of those days at Stratford — ah, that was differ- 
 ent ! ” 
 
 “Yes, I know, Nanciebel,” he said. “ But you 
 can’t expect everything. I know you are very 
 warm-hearted ; and you like to have people say 
 nice things to you, and be good to you, and pet 
 you. But that can’t be always and everywhere; 
 and I don’t think you are so badly off.” 
 
 “It’s all very well for you to say so,” said 
 Nanciebel, with some rebellious spirit, “when 
 you are having every possible enjoyment and 
 amusement along with that cousin of yours. Of 
 course you don’t feel dull. Of course you don’t 
 feel lonely.” 
 
 “Well,” said he sharply, “I don’t pine and 
 fret if there is no one by to say pretty things and 
 give me caresses.” 
 
 “ I dare say she would if you asked her,” said 
 Nanciebel, with a toss of her head. 
 
 He drew in his breath — but stopped ere any 
 word of anger could escape. No, he had not 
 come down here to quarrel with Nancy. And 
 
208 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 after all might there not be some little justifica- 
 tion? Had he quite realized her loneliness? 
 Had he honestly contrasted it with the gay time 
 he had been spending in London? 
 
 “We needn’t fall out, Nanciebel,” said he 
 slowly. “ I have only a short time to stay.” 
 
 “ A short time to stay? ” she repeated. “ Why, 
 when are you going back? ” 
 
 “ By the 3 142,” he made answer. 
 
 There was a momentary silence. 
 
 “ Richard,” said she, “here is the time come 
 we have been looking forward to so long — at 
 least that I have been looking forward to ; and 
 you take advantage of it to the extent of a couple 
 of hours. Are you sure it wasn’t a mere sense 
 of duty that brought you here at all? Perhaps 
 you didn’t want to come? ” 
 
 “ Perhaps I didn’t want to come! ” he said im- 
 patiently. And then he controlled himself, and 
 said in quite an altered tone : 
 
 “ Oh, stuff and nonsense, Nanciebel ! Why 
 will you insist on quarrelling, you little quick- 
 tempered, warm-hearted stupid! Come, kiss and 
 be friends.” 
 
 They were at the moment passing through an 
 arched opening cut in the thick wall of yew ; and 
 she obediently paused, and did as she was bid. 
 The reconciliation was complete. She took him 
 to see Mr. Stapleton’s greenhouses, and intro- 
 
NEW FRIENDS 
 
 209 
 
 duced him to the head gardener — a young 
 Scotchman of eight-and-twenty or so, who, as she 
 afterward informed him, was prodigiously clever, 
 had attended classes at Glasgow University, 
 though he was then quite poor, and was now so 
 recognized a master of his art that he had been 
 offered the equivalent of his present situation at 
 Beever Towers, the seat of the Duke of Grandon. 
 She led him round to show him the caged eagles, 
 and the white peacocks, and what-not; indeed, 
 she seemed just as much at home here at Holiwell 
 Court as at the adjoining vicarage. Then she 
 pointed out that if he must really go by the 3 \\2 
 train, it was about time for him to return in- 
 doors. 
 
 Both his cousins and Nanciebel drove with 
 him in to the town to see him off. The parting 
 between him and Nancy was necessarily not 
 effusive — for Gertrude and Laura were looking 
 on, and they were merry and talkative girls who 
 would hardly leave him alone for a second. Nor 
 were there tears in Nanciebel’ s eyes as the train 
 moved away from the station and as she waved 
 her handkerchief to him in final adieu. In fact, 
 this leave-taking was far different from that 
 which had occurred when Nanciebel bade good- 
 by to Stratford; but was it not better that it 
 should be so, he asked himself, as he sat alone in 
 the carriage, and was being rapidly whirled away 
 
210 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 toward London? Nancy seemed more satisfied 
 with this separation now — if at times she com- 
 plained that there was no one to be good to her. 
 And meanwhile — meanwhile he would get to 
 Arlington Street in time to slip into evening 
 dress and take his mother and Cousin Floss to 
 the Lyceum. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 FLIGHT 
 
 On that same afternoon Uncle Alexander came 
 home from the city ; and finding his step-daugh- 
 ter and Mrs. Kingston together, he without any 
 apology — for rudeness is a prerogative of dys- 
 pepsia — ordered Miss Florence to go to her own 
 room ; he had something particular to say to Aunt 
 Cecilia. He sat down by the fire, and stared into 
 the coals ; he seemed more sallow and sluggish 
 than ever ; and when he spoke it was in slow and 
 mournful tones. 
 
 “ I do not know how long I am for this world, 
 Cecilia,” he observed. “Every day I become 
 more depressed. I cannot shake it off — I have 
 lost hope — I hardly care how soon the end may 
 be.” 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 2 1 1 
 
 “Perhaps London does not agree with you,” 
 the widow said, with gentle sympathy. “Why 
 should you not try travelling, Uncle Alexander — 
 on the Continent? ” 
 
 “ Try travelling ! ” he exclaimed, in sudden 
 and angry impatience. “ God bless my soul, 
 haven’t I tried travelling sufficiently? Haven’t 
 I just come home from China? Would you like 
 me to go back to Shanghai for a change ? I wish 
 you would listen, and not interrupt with fatui- 
 ties ; how long do I know I may be able to make 
 my wishes known? ” And then he continued in 
 more business-like tones: “ Now, this is what I 
 want to say — that in view of what may happen 
 to me at any time, I wish to make the best pro- 
 vision I can for those I leave behind — those I am 
 most interested in. Florence has the first claim, 
 of course, though she is not of my blood. Rich- 
 ard, on the other hand, is of my own kith and 
 kin. Very well; when I have made certain 
 smaller bequests, the bulk of my property will 
 remain to be divided as between these two.” 
 
 “It is so generous of you, Uncle Alexander! ” 
 the widow broke in. “ But surely there is no 
 occasion for you to talk like that ! Surely not ! 
 Why, I should call you an exceptionally strong 
 man.” 
 
 “I wish you to listen, if you please, Cecilia,” 
 observed the dyspeptic, with a dignity natural to 
 
212 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 one who was speaking of his own nearly- 
 approaching end. “ I was going to say that there 
 might be some difficulty in deciding what rela- 
 tive portion should be assigned to either of these 
 two ; but that what has been happening of late 
 seems to point to an easy way out of the diffi- 
 culty. You must have noticed how capitally 
 these two get on together — how fond they seem 
 of each other’s society. Ah, well,” he contin- 
 ued, with a heavy sigh, “youth is a fine thing, 
 and health, and absence from care: let them 
 enjoy them while they can! ” 
 
 But sudden consternation filled the heart of 
 the little widow ; she knew what he meant ; and 
 she found herself on the brink of a confession 
 which she had put off from day to day, vainly 
 hoping that the need of it would not arise. 
 
 “Oh, yes, Uncle Alexander,” she observed, 
 rather breathlessly. “ I am glad to see them 
 such good friends. It is but right they should 
 be so — almost of an age — and cousins — it is only 
 to be expected ” 
 
 “ I should like to see them married before I 
 go,” continued the invalid absently. “Or if that 
 is denied me, I should like to know that that set- 
 tlement of their lives was to take place, and I 
 could make provision for them in proper form.” 
 
 “Uncle Alexander,” said the widow, with her 
 trembling fingers nervously clasped together, 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 213 
 
 “it is most kind and generous of you to have 
 such intentions in view. But — but I think — I 
 must explain — as regards Richard, what you pro- 
 pose is impossible. I have said that I am de- 
 lighted to see him and his cousin on such friendly 
 terms — but — but that is all there is betw r een 
 them.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, I understand,” Uncle Alexander said 
 impatiently. “ I understand. Of course nothing 
 has been declared between them. That is quite 
 right. There has not been a sufficient length of 
 time. But we, who are outsiders and spectators, 
 can see clearly enough what will happen.” 
 
 “O Uncle Alexander,” she exclaimed in her 
 distress, “it can never happen.” 
 
 He stared at her. 
 
 “What do you mean, Cecilia? ” he demanded. 
 
 “ Richard is — is already engaged to be mar- 
 ried,” she blurted out. 
 
 There was no explosion of wrath ; he only con- 
 tinued to stare, at her as if she were an imbecile, 
 whose utterances were wholly unintelligible. 
 
 “ But — but — what was that ? — impossible ? — 
 what did you say? Richard engaged to be 
 married?” he repeated, with non-understanding 
 eyes. 
 
 The ordeal had to be faced. She began, and 
 with piteous excuses for not having made the 
 revelation before, she told him the whole story. 
 
2 14 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 Uncle Alexander sat and listened, dumfounded 
 beyond the power of speech. A sort of despair 
 and resignation overwhelmed him. And when 
 she had finished he could only ejaculate: 
 
 “Well, well, if any human being ever heard 
 of such a gigantic piece of tomfoolery! ” 
 
 But presently he said, with a blaze of anger : 
 “Why, don’t you know that every young idiot 
 gets into a scrape like that, and that it is the 
 business of his relatives — unless they’re fools — 
 unless they’re fools — to get him out of it? Don’t 
 you know it’s as common as shelling peas? You 
 talk to me as if it was a piece of romantic senti- 
 ment — Miller’s Daughter be hanged ! — and that 
 the young idiot should rather be praised for hold- 
 ing to the girl ! I tell you it happens every day 
 — and will happen every day as long as idle lads 
 are allowed to dawdle about, and there are shop- 
 girls and milliner-girls and barmaids to make 
 eyes at them. And instead of getting him out 
 of the scrape, you treat the whole thing as serious ! 
 Gracious heavens ! But I must put this matter 
 right. What’s the girl’s name ? How much 
 does she want? What size of a check has she 
 got in her eye? ” 
 
 Mrs. Kingston flushed a little. 
 
 “ I wish you to understand, Uncle Alexander,” 
 said she with unusual firmness, “ that the girl is 
 a good and honest girl, and not a designing ad- 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 215 
 
 venturess at all — that I am convinced of ; and I 
 do not see why she should be insulted simply 
 because of her station in life — which is perfectly 
 respectable and honorable, if it comes to that.” 
 
 “Stuff and fiddlesticks! ” cried Uncle Alexan- 
 der. Indeed, this sharp crisis in the family af- 
 fairs seemed to have suddenly banished all that 
 languor and depression which, according to his 
 account, were dragging him down to the tomb. 
 “You’re too fond of romance and poetry, Ce- 
 cilia; and that’s the fact. You want a little com- 
 mon sense to come in to put matters straight. 
 Where is this girl? ” 
 
 “At Holiwell Vicarage,” Mrs. Kingston an- 
 swered. “ Uncle Charles is taking charge of her 
 for the present.” 
 
 The China merchant stared at her again. 
 
 “ No,” said he solemnly ; “ no, Cecilia, you can- 
 not mean that there are^ three such fools in the 
 family ! Two I could have borne with — but three ! 
 Uncle Charles as well! — upon my soul, it’s be- 
 yond belief! ” 
 
 But the meanest worm will turn. 
 
 “ I wish to say this once for all, Uncle Alexan- 
 der,” observed the little widow, with very con- 
 siderable dignity, “that I hope you will not 
 speak to Richard as you have done to me this 
 afternoon. His temper is not so much under 
 control as mine ; he would probably answer you 
 
2l6 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 in your own language. Propose to him that the 
 girl he is engaged to should be offered a sum of 
 money, and I know one certain consequence — he 
 would never darken your door again, nor woiild 
 you or yours ever enter our house. As for my 
 share in this matter, I am not ashamed of it. I 
 have done what I thought was right. Richard’s 
 word is pledged to a good and honorable girl ; 
 and if he is my son he will not disgrace himself 
 — I say, disgrace himself — by seeking to break 
 that bond, whatever pecuniary and mercenary 
 inducements may be placed before him.” 
 
 She rose as if to leave the room. 
 
 “Cecilia! ” he said, to stay her. 
 
 “No,” she made answer, “let that be the last 
 word. I wish for peace between the two fami- 
 lies. There will be no peace — there will be a 
 lasting rupture and estrangement if you propose 
 that Richard should do anything dishonorable, 
 merely because you have had certain plans in 
 view. I do not say that in other circumstances 
 I might not have wished as you wish ; but as 
 matters stand I hope my son will act as becomes 
 the name he bears. And another thing, Uncle 
 Alexander : neither he nor Florence need know 
 that a word has passed between us on the sub- 
 ject. They are very good friends and nothing 
 more ; let them remain such — if you choose it to 
 be so. If not, then my boy and I can return to 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 217 
 
 Woodend at once, and we shall not trouble you 
 again.” 
 
 She did not wait for an answer. She forthwith 
 quitted the room, leaving Uncle Alexander entire- 
 ly out-talked and astonished. He had not antici- 
 pated this display of firmness — this bold up- 
 standing of what he considered idiotic sentiment 
 against the rude and doughty onslaughts of com- 
 mon sense. And when he began to consider 
 matters, he had to confess that perhaps he had 
 been a little premature. That this shop-girl 
 could be bought off he was convinced; but he 
 had erred in making the proposition too sud- 
 denly to the widow. Then, again, he would 
 have a better right to interfere when the rela- 
 tionship between Richard and Florence had be- 
 come developed — in the obvious and proper di- 
 rection, of course. What! Richard marry a pen- 
 niless little seamstress in Stratford-on-Avon — 
 a shy, speechless nonentity, as the widow had 
 half admitted — when here was his bright and 
 fascinating cousin, an heiress, gifted with every 
 qualification, a fit helpmeet, one who would do 
 him honor in society? Uncle Alexander, seated 
 by the slumbering fire, was so intent upon these 
 various schemes and considerations that he for- 
 got he had allowed a whole hour to elapse since 
 he had examined his tongue in the mirror — and 
 
 during that hour he had kept his daughter Flor- 
 10 
 
21 8 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 ence a prisoner upstairs ; and when eventually he 
 went away to his own room, to seek safety and con- 
 solation in his medicine chest, he was still of 
 opinion that the widow’s quixotic ideas of duty 
 and her son’s chivalrous resolves with regard to 
 that wretched little milliner-girl — was she a mil- 
 liner-girl? he had forgotten — would in time be 
 overcome. For great is the power of common 
 sense. 
 
 Accordingly, Uncle Alexander did not return 
 to this project; and as the widow heard no more 
 of it, she, in turn, was silent, so that the two 
 cousins were thrown into association just as here- 
 tofore, ignorant of the dark schemes and designs 
 which had been foreshadowed with regard to 
 their future. And the better to secure his sinis- 
 ter end, Uncle Alexander declared that for the 
 present he was going to abandon his intention 
 of taking and fitting out a London house : it was 
 too much trouble. He did not know but that, if 
 his health continued to grow worse, he and Flor- 
 ence might not go away to one of the German 
 baths, so that he might try a course of the wa- 
 ters. In the mean time he discovered a furnished 
 residence in Melbury Road which would serve 
 their needs. And could not the widow postpone 
 her return to Woodend fora while, so as to initi- 
 ate Florence into her duties as house-mistress ? 
 When Florence preferred the same request — or 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 219 
 
 rather imperiously insisted, with all kinds of 
 direful threats and cunning coaxings — Mrs. 
 Kingston yielded ; she could refuse nothing to 
 this wild-spirited Cousin Floss. 
 
 It was hardly fair to put any young man’s con- 
 stancy to such a perilous test; but Mr. Richard, 
 even while giving himself up to the full enjoy- 
 ment of the society of this charming cousin, 
 could always still his conscience and reassure 
 himself by writing a more than usually affection- 
 ate letter to Nanciebel. And why should he 
 send a too minute account of their gay doings 
 when he knew that that would only wound the 
 poor faithful heart? Nancy had already be- 
 trayed a suspicious curiosity about the Florence 
 whom, he briefly mentioned from time to time, 
 and had even begun to demand explanations. 
 
 “Why, you see, Nanciebel,” he wrote in reply, 
 “ my uncle and his step-daughter know very few 
 people in London as yet ; and as he is a good deal 
 in the city, the time would hang very heavily on 
 her hands if the mater did not take her about a 
 little. Then, of course, I have to accompany 
 these two. I could not let them wander about 
 London all by themselves; but do you think it 
 is any pleasure to me to go to the Tower or to 
 the South Kensington Museum? And then, 
 again, when any people send them an invitation, 
 the mater and I are sure to be included, as it is 
 
220 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 known we are staying- with them ; and it is but 
 natural that in a strange house, if there is any 
 dancing or anything going on, Florence should 
 count upon me, as her cousin. I don’t see how 
 you can object; but you have such a tendency to 
 magnify trifles! When I express regret over 
 our engagement, or ask you to release me, then 
 you will have a right to complain; but in the 
 mean time you needn’t grumble about nothing.” 
 
 Nanciebel’s answer to this was written in a 
 dozen different moods : by turns she was indig- 
 nant, rebellious, petulant, and piteously implor- 
 ing. 
 
 “What is the use of keeping me here? ” she 
 asked. “ What is the use of it? Did you see any 
 difference in me when you came down that day 
 — except in the dressing of my hair? And did 
 you think it an improvement — an improvement 
 worth all this loneliness and misery? Once you 
 would have said that my hair could not be im- 
 proved ; once you would have declared it was the 
 prettiest in the world ; but that was long ago — 
 that was before your cousin Florence came to 
 England. I know you will be in a rage because 
 I talk of misery ; and you will accuse me of in- 
 gratitude, and ask what more I want. Well, I 
 needn’t attempt to tell you, for you wouldn’t 
 understand ; but I can remember the time when 
 you were more in sympathy with my feelings, 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 221 
 
 and when there was no fear of my being misun- 
 derstood. Once you would not have left me to 
 pine like this; you would not have yielded to 
 relatives ; you were ready to do anything for my 
 sake. But I suppose it’s the way of the world; 
 and you, of course, can’t regret an absence that 
 brings you so much — and such charming — con- 
 solation. 
 
 “ I have written — I only know that I just hate 
 being alone. Oh, for the happy mornings and 
 afternoons when I could sit and listen at every 
 footstep on the pavement outside, and think that 
 any moment my Richard might come in! You 
 did not want me improved then. I suppose you 
 never think now of the Bideford Road, and the 
 lane leading down to Shottery, and the meadows. 
 It seems a long time ago now to poor me. I sit 
 and think that never, never again there will be 
 the long, still, beautiful evenings, and us two 
 on the banks of the Avon, seated beneath the 
 bushes, and watching the boys fishing on the 
 other side, under the Weir Brake. Those were 
 happy, happy days! Will they ever come again, 
 Richard, dear? Do say something kind to me 
 when you write — I don’t mean the kindness I 
 get from the vicar and his daughters, but real 
 kindness, for I am so lonely and miserable ! ” 
 
 Now this appeal, couched in its artless lan- 
 guage, made Mr. Richard not a little remorseful ; 
 
222 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 and his contrition suddenly assumed the shape 
 of a resolve to go to Cousin Floss and tell her all 
 about his engagement to Nanciebel. He did not 
 stay to ask why that should be considered as 
 making amends to Nancy; he only felt that he 
 was somehow called upon to tell the whole truth ; 
 then Florence could think of him as she pleased. 
 Was it not due to poor Nanciebel? Why should 
 she be ignored amid all these gayeties and dis- 
 tractions? She had her rights. And she had 
 not been too exacting — her last letter had been 
 piteous rather than petulant and quarrelsome. 
 
 But this proved to be a terrible business. He 
 chose an opportunity when Cousin Floss had gone 
 out into the garden to have a look at the spring 
 blossoms or perchance to survey, with feminine 
 curiosity, the backs of the artists’ houses, across 
 the low brick wall. When he overtook her, she 
 was apparently busy with snowdrops and prim- 
 roses and daffodils ; and she was so good-natured 
 as to pick for him a purple crocus and even to 
 fix it into the lapel of his coat. How could he 
 refuse this simple kindness ? — he was not a boor. 
 Nevertheless, in about twenty minutes or so, 
 he and she and the little widow were to set out 
 for the private view of a certain picture-gallery, 
 where they would most likely meet such people 
 as they knew ; and he would be wearing Cousin 
 Floss’ flower in. his buttonhole. Was he going 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 223 
 
 about with her, then, under false pretences? The 
 confession had become all the more imperative. 
 
 But how was he to begin ? 
 
 “Cousin,” said he with a most unusual hesita- 
 tion — for, under her skilful tuition, he had come 
 to address her in the most frank and open and 
 unconventional manner — “did my mother ever 
 speak to you — about — about — a Miss Marlow? ” 
 
 She noticed his embarrassment instantly. 
 
 “ Why, no ! ” she said, in some surprise. “ Miss 
 Marlow? No — I don’t think I ever heard the 
 name. Who is she? ” 
 
 How could he explain ? He wished that Cousin 
 Floss had not such clear eyes, and a mouth so 
 ready to smile. 
 
 “At present,” he went on in rather a stam- 
 mering fashion, “she — she is living with my 
 uncle Charles at Bristol — at the vicarage, near 
 Bristol.” 
 
 Cousin Floss laughed. 
 
 “The governess? ” she said. 
 
 “No — no — but I have something to tell you 
 about her. I think I ought to tell you — for 
 sooner or later you will hear of it,” he continued 
 — and he was blushing like a school-girl, because 
 Cousin Floss was evidently amused by his timid- 
 ity. “ I thought the mater would have told 
 you ” 
 
 All of a sudden Miss Florence put her hand 
 
224 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 within his arm in the most friendly way, and 
 thereby intimated that she wished him to pace 
 np and down the garden path with her. 
 
 “Cousin Dick!” she protested, “I won’t hear 
 a word! I know what you’ve got to tell me — 
 and I can see how it vexes you — but I will spare 
 you the confession. Oh, don’t I know what 
 dreadful flirts young men are — don’t I know ! — 
 but they can’t help it, the poor dears, and I am 
 always ready to forgive them — because — because 
 — well, because there are sometimes girls wicked 
 enough to lead them on, and pretend they enjoy 
 it, too ! Cousin Dick, why should you tell me ? 
 — do you think it would be news? ” 
 
 “Oh, but you’re quite mistaken, Florence!” 
 he exclaimed. “ Quite mistaken ! I assure you 
 she is not the kind of girl to amuse herself in 
 that way at all ” 
 
 “Oh, a simple innocent, is she? ” said Cousin 
 Floss, with another little bit of a laugh. “Yes, 
 they sometimes look like that — sometimes it is 
 part of the game — with the clever ones ” 
 
 “ Oh, but really ” 
 
 “Oh, but really,” she repeated, with the most 
 obvious good-nature, “ I won’t hear another word ! 
 I won’t, indeed, Cousin Dick! Do you think I 
 don’t understand? You see, my dear cousin, a 
 girl who has lived a good part of her life in 
 India, and a still longer time in China, and knows 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 225 
 
 what a voyage in a P. and O. ship is like — well, 
 she isn’t quite a baby, you know — not quite a 
 baby — and if you were to begin with your con- 
 fessions, I might have to begin with mine ; and 
 wouldn’t that be mutually awkward? I wish 
 you had seen a young aide-de-camp, a Captain 
 Webster, who came on board, this last trip, at 
 Aden, and remained with us as far as Suez. He 
 was a dear — and that’s a fact; but papa didn’t 
 seem to see much in him — papas never do see 
 anything in young men who have a pretty mus- 
 tache but no income to speak of. So, you under- 
 stand, cousin, I might have a story or two to tell 
 as well as you; and I shouldn’t like it, for blush- 
 ing doesn’t become me; besides, it is far safer 
 and nicer for every one to let bygones be by- 
 gones. No, you needn’t interrupt, Cousin Dick; 
 I won’t hear another word from you — not a 
 word ; we will both let bygones be bygones ; I 
 tell you, it’s safer.” 
 
 And as Mrs. Kingston appeared at this moment 
 at the French window, and called to them, what 
 could he do? He gave up the hope of explain- 
 ing to his cousin. He went to the private view, 
 wearing the flower she had given him. And if 
 any one drew inferences from his being con- 
 stantly seen with her — well, how could he help 
 that? 
 
 In due course of time the visit of Mrs. King- 
 10* 
 
226 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 ston and her son to their London relatives came 
 to an end; and they returned to their Warwick- 
 shire home. But they very soon discovered that 
 a singular change had come over the house. 
 Woodend was solitary as they had never known 
 it to be in former days. There was something 
 wanting in these silent rooms : a voice, with clear 
 laughter ringing in its tones, and joy, and au- 
 dacity, was now heard no more in the hall ; the 
 garden, though all the splendors of the spring 
 were beginning to declare themselves in plot, 
 and bed, and border, seemed empty now. 
 
 “ I could not have believed I should have 
 missed her so much,” the widow said sadly. 
 
 And as for Mr. Richard, he was ill at ease. 
 His thoughts, which he knew should have been 
 turned toward Bristol, went in quite another 
 direction, and would hover, in spite of himself, 
 about Kensington and the neighborhood of Hol- 
 land Park. Poor Nanciebel’s fortnightly letters 
 to himself were not looked for half so eagerly 
 as Cousin Floss’ hasty scrawls sent down to her 
 dear aunt Cecilia ; and Mr. Richard would lie in 
 wait for these, and, whenever he found one on 
 the hall- table, he would at once carry it to his 
 mother, with the seemingly careless question, 
 “What has Florence to say now, mater? ” For, 
 indeed, Cousin Floss seemed to find a great many 
 things to say to the widow. She was continually 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 227 
 
 writing on some kind of excuse ; and she invari- 
 ably wound up with pretty and affectionate 
 speeches, and hopes of a speedy reunion. 
 Cousin Floss did not write to Mr. Richard, of 
 course — that was too much to expect ; but in one 
 way or another his name generally came to be 
 mentioned ; and sometimes there were tantalizing 
 and even impertinent messages for him. 
 
 “Who is this Captain Webster, Richard, 
 dear? ” the widow asked on one occasion. 
 
 Mr. Richard blushed angrily. 
 
 “Oh, he’s some young idiot — aide-de-camp to 
 a colonial governor or something of that kind.” 
 
 “ But why should Florence send you this mes- 
 sage about him? ” Mrs. Kingston asked again. 
 
 “Oh, well,” said he, with a fine air of assumed 
 indifference, “ Florence told me something about 
 him before — he was on board the steamer they 
 came home in — and as he left the ship at Gibral- 
 tar, I suppose she was surprised when she found 
 him turn up in London.” 
 
 Meanwhile the continual unrest and down- 
 heartedness that had characterized his manner 
 ever since their return to Woodend had not es- 
 caped the anxious mother’s eyes ; and one even- 
 ing she made bold to speak of it. 
 
 “Well, mater,” said he, “I don’t know what 
 it is, except that I feel I am in a wrong position 
 altogether. I am tired of doing nothing. I 
 
228 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 want to go away. Look at Nancy ; the separa- 
 tion that was agreed upon tells more hardly on 
 her than on me, for she is kept apart from her 
 friends and relatives, while I live on just as be- 
 fore. It’s hardly fair. I think I should go away 
 from England for a time — for a considerable 
 time — until, indeed, this period of separation 
 ends, and then I could come back and marry 
 Nancy, and everything would be settled and 
 right. I am sure, if once the wedding took 
 place, all would be well.” 
 
 “I suppose,” said the widow absently, “that 
 my selfishness must be punished in the end. 
 It was I who have kept you in idleness, Richard, 
 and now you fret, and want to go. I should 
 have thought you could have found some way of 
 passing the few months that must elapse now 
 before the settlement you speak of. And if you 
 find the house so dull — well, I had not intended 
 to tell you — it was a little surprise we had ar- 
 ranged — but Florence is coming down to stay 
 with us for a while.” 
 
 “Is Florence coming down here?” he asked 
 slowly, and with a strange expression of face. 
 
 Something peculiar in his tone struck her. 
 She looked up as she said : 
 
 “Yes. It was to be a little surprise for 
 
 “Mother,” he said hastily, “I will not be in 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 229 
 
 this house when Florence conies. You must 
 make some excuse for me. I will go abroad ; or 
 I will go down to Bristol and live in the town, 
 and only see Nancy from time to time. But I — 
 I don’t want to be here when Florence comes.” 
 The truth flashed upon her in an instant ; but, 
 amid all her alarm and bewilderment, she had 
 the courage to say in a low voice : 
 
 “You are right, Richard. If it is as I suspect 
 — ah, well, there is no use thinking now of what 
 might have been — you must none the less do 
 what is right. It was thoughtless of me to ask 
 Florence to come down again; but how could 
 any one help loving her? — she is such a dear 
 girl, so bright and clever and good-tempered; 
 but you, Richard, your honor is at stake. Of 
 course you have said nothing to her? ” 
 
 “To Florence? — certainly not, mother. How 
 could I? But there is not another word to be 
 said. You must make some excuse for me to 
 Florence; and I must go.” 
 
 No, there was no use saying anything further; 
 but the widow could not help adding, almost in 
 an undertone, and wistfully: 
 
 “ If things could only have been different, 
 Richard ! I cannot help thinking that Florence 
 — well, she has always seemed so much inter- 
 ested in you — and she would always talk so much 
 about you, when she and I were alone together; 
 
230 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 and you yourself see how you are never out of 
 her letters — ah, well, it is no use thinking of 
 what is impossible; but if you had been free, 
 and if you had gone to your cousin, I don’t think 
 you need have feared her answer ” 
 
 He turned very pale. 
 
 “Don’t say that — you have no right to say 
 that, mother! ” 
 
 “ It is but a guess on my part,” she said sadly. 
 “ But I can imagine what her answer would 
 have been. And then to think of her in this 
 house — as my daughter and companion — so 
 cheerful and self-reliant — so merry and good- 
 humored ” 
 
 “Mother,” said he almost reproachfully, “you 
 seem to forget ! ” 
 
 “ No, I don’t forget,” she answered with resig- 
 nation. “ I was thinking of what might have 
 been; but I don’t forget. And you are doing 
 right, Richard. I will make excuses to Flor- 
 ence for you, whether you go abroad or down to 
 Bristol. I suppose she will not suspect — no, she 
 cannot suspect, if you have said nothing to her.” 
 
 Nor was this the only act of renunciation on 
 Mr. Richard’s part. Just at this time he had to 
 go up to London for a few days to transact some 
 business with his mother’s lawyers; but he did 
 not apprise his uncle and cousin of his coming to 
 town, nor did he once call at the house in Mel- 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 231 
 
 bury Road. It is true that, during these few 
 days, he found his way a number of times to 
 that neighborhood, and on more than one occa- 
 sion he caught a glimpse of Cousin Floss, as she 
 drove up in the barouche, or came out walking 
 with her maid. He knew he had no right to do 
 this thing ; but he regarded it as a sort of bid- 
 ding good-by to a broken fancy, an impossible 
 dream. To whom could it do any harm? 
 Cousin Floss could know nothing of it — he stu- 
 diously kept himself concealed. If this unspoken 
 farewell was unduly prolonged (for he remained 
 in London some days longer than was necessary 
 for the lawyers) it was himself who was being 
 lacerated by its pain. It did not matter to 
 Nancy; marriage would condone everything; 
 she had no part or concern in these fantasies of 
 the hour, that would soon be forgotten among 
 the actualities of life. 
 
 By the time Cousin Floss’ visit drew near, 
 Mr. Richard had made all his preparations. He 
 was going down to Bristol. He argued with 
 himself that being constantly in the same neigh- 
 borhood with Nanciebel would keep alive in his 
 recollection what was due to her; and, moreover, 
 he considered that in the circumstances he might 
 fairly ask for some modification of the arrange- 
 ments that had been arrived at in family conclave 
 with regard to his visits. Might he not see 
 
232 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 Nanciebel once a week, or perhaps even twice a 
 week — for a single hour? Both he and she had 
 hitherto loyally obeyed the conditions that had 
 been imposed ; might not these be relaxed a lit- 
 tle now? It was not as a punishment, but as a 
 test, that this separation had been agreed upon ; 
 and here were the two of them, after the lapse of 
 a considerable time, of the same mind. Mr. 
 Richard endeavored to extract courage and hope 
 for the future from these wise and virtuous re- 
 flections ; but it was with rather a heavy heart 
 that he drove away to the station, on the day 
 previous to Cousin Floss’ arrival. 
 
 Cousin Floss, when she stepped out of the 
 pony-chaise on the following afternoon, and 
 found the widow awaiting her in the porch, was 
 in the highest spirits, and her always bright 
 enough eyes fairly shone with gladness. 
 
 “ Do you know, Aunt Cecilia,” said she as she 
 hugged and kissed the little woman, “ it is just 
 like getting home again to see your dear face 
 once more. When I saw Thomas and the pony 
 and the carriage at the station, I said to myself, 
 ‘Ah, now you will soon be among old friends!’ ” 
 
 “ Come away in, dear,” said the widow quite as 
 affectionately, and she took the girl by the arm 
 and led her into the house. “ I declare it does 
 my heart good to hear your voice again.” 
 
 “And papa is so sorry he couldn’t come with 
 
FLIGHT 
 
 233 
 
 me this time,” continued this blithe young 
 damsel — who looked all round the drawing-room 
 as if expecting to see some one — “ but the fact 
 is, he has found himself a good deal better of 
 late, and he thinks it is because the Kensington 
 neighborhood suits him, and he likes the house. 
 The garden is just forty yards long ; so twenty- 
 two times up and down makes an easily-measured 
 half-mile ; and he can get his regulation quantity 
 done every day without being overlooked by 
 anybody. I think he will keep that house. He 
 hasn’t been looking about for any other. But — 
 but — Aunt Cecilia,” continued Miss Florence, 
 again glancing back into the hall, “where is 
 Cousin Dick? ” 
 
 Only for the moment did the widow seem a 
 little embarrassed. 
 
 “He has had to go away, dear,” she said, 
 striving to appear quite placid and unconcerned. 
 “ He was so very sorry — I was to tell you how sorry 
 he was. Nothing but the most absolute neces- 
 sity compelled him — you may be sure of that.” 
 
 “He has gone away?” said Cousin Floss, in 
 return, with a kind of puzzled, uncertain look. 
 “ Where has he gone, Aunt Cecilia? ” 
 
 “To Bristol, dear,” answered the widow. 
 
 “Oh, to Bristol!” repeated the young lady 
 slowly. “That is where his uncle lives — his 
 uncle Charles — isn’t it? ” 
 
234 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 And when Mr. Richard’s mother signified as- 
 sent, the young lady said no more. She seemed 
 a trifle thoughtful as she went away to her own 
 room to look to her things; but when she ap- 
 peared at dinner she was as cheerful as ever; 
 and the widow, with affectionate eyes and many 
 a kindly speech, showed how she rejoiced to 
 have this pleasant companion once more with 
 her. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 CHECKMATE 
 
 When Mr. Richard arrived in Bristol he put 
 up at a hotel overlooking College Green ; but he 
 had no intention of going at once to Holiwell 
 Vicarage ; he wanted time to think. For indeed 
 he was as one distracted; wild projects flashed 
 through his brain — in a sort of restless and reck- 
 less despair ; one moment he would be for con- 
 fessing the whole truth to Nanciebel, and throw- 
 ing himself on her mercy ; the next he would be 
 for an immediate marriage, as the one definite 
 settlement of all these perplexities. He went 
 out and wandered through the streets of the 
 town, seeing hardly anything. He followed the 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 235 
 
 Whiteladies’ Road until he emerged on Durd- 
 ham Down ; but the fair English landscape, all 
 shining in the white light of the spring, brought 
 no joy to his heart. When he ought to have 
 been thinking of Nanciebel, and of his visit of 
 the morrow, he was in reality wondering what 
 his cousin Florence had said when she discovered 
 he was gone ; he was picturing her walking in 
 the garden with the little widow; he could see 
 her driving in to Stratford, to make her after- 
 noon purchases there. And what was that his 
 mother had hinted — that if in other circum- 
 stances he had made bold to speak to Florence 
 Kingston, he need not have feared her answer? 
 That was not even to be thought of ! How could 
 the widow know, in any case? It was but the 
 fond partiality of a mother. He had to turn from 
 these fruitless and agonizing speculations over 
 what might have been to the obvious duty that 
 lay before him ; and again and again he strove 
 to convince himself that if he and Nanciebel 
 were once married, there would be an end to all 
 these hopeless and futile regrets. He had been 
 bewildered by a brilliant and fascinating appari- 
 tion. Nancy and her quiet ways would win in 
 the end. The commonplace security of ordinary 
 life was sufficient for most folk. Vain dreams, 
 farewell! — here were peace and content, and the 
 even tenor of one’s way. 
 
236 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 Next morning he had summoned up courage, 
 and even formed some inchoate plans; about 
 eleven he started off and drove out to Holiwell 
 Vicarage. Arrived there, the housekeeper in- 
 formed him that his uncle had just gone off to 
 see some old woman in the neighborhood ; that 
 the young ladies were at their drawing lessons ; 
 and that Miss Marlow was in the garden. Ac- 
 cordingly, Mr. Richard replied that he would 
 himself go and seek Miss Marlow ; and presently 
 he had stepped forth into the outer air. 
 
 He encountered Nanciebel rather suddenly — 
 she was coming through the archway in the 
 walk of yew — and the instant she caught sight 
 of him she stopped, looking startled and fright- 
 ened. 
 
 “ What is it, Richard? ” she said, when he went 
 up to her. 
 
 And he was amazed also. She seemed to 
 shrink back from him, as if dreading what he 
 had to say. Yet was not this in some measure a 
 relief? If she had flown to him with love and 
 joy in her eyes, how could he have played the 
 hypocrite ? 
 
 “Well, I have come to see you,” he said. 
 
 “Yes,” she made answer rather breathlessly, * 
 and she kept staring at him with anxious scru- 
 tiny, “yes — but — but is that all? ” 
 
 “I don’t understand you,” he made answer, 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 237 
 
 still wondering. “ I — I have no bad news, if that 
 is what you fear — nor any news, indeed.” 
 
 “Oh,” she said, with her face lightening con- 
 siderably, “it is merely a visit? There is noth- 
 ing — nothing of importance? You see,” she 
 continued, as if eager to explain, “ I did not ex- 
 pect you, Richard — you sent no letter — and you 
 have come long before the usual time. I was 
 almost afraid you might have heard — I mean 
 that there might be some bad news, or some oc- 
 casion for your coming so unexpectedly. And 
 how is your mother? It was so kind of her to 
 send me Tennyson’s last volume — to keep my 
 set complete. Aren’t the flowers here pretty? — 
 the spring-time is always so delicious. And when 
 are you going back to Stratford, Richard? ” 
 
 He could not make Nanciebel out at all. Ap- 
 parently she was most desirous to be friendly 
 and complaisant; yet his presence seemed to 
 embarrass her. She was nervous — constrained 
 — her eyes watchful and furtive; this was not 
 the Nanciebel who had clung closely to him as 
 they walked up and down the little court-yard, 
 under the stars. Nevertheless, he was here to 
 perform a duty. 
 
 “Yes, I have come before the proper time, 
 Nancy,” said he, ignoring her last question, 
 “and it is to put a proposal before you, and be- 
 fore my uncle. This separation that was agreed 
 
238 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 upon — well, you have complained of it before, 
 and of your loneliness here, and I don’t wonder 
 at it — this separation has lasted long enough, it 
 seems to me. I think if we could get everybody 
 to agree, we might as well be married at 
 once ” 
 
 And again she regarded him with a sort of 
 apprehensive look, which she instantly con- 
 cealed. 
 
 “Oh, do you think so, Richard?” she said in 
 an off-hand way. “ For I am hardly of your 
 opinion. I think that an arrangement that was 
 agreed to by everybody should be carried out; 
 and then, you see, no one will be able to com- 
 plain. It was to be a trial ; and who could tell 
 what was to happen when it began, and who 
 can tell what may happen before it ends? For 
 you see people are so different, Richard,” con- 
 tinued this profound philosopher — and she 
 seemed anxious to talk away this project into 
 nothingness. “There are some who don’t care 
 about being petted, who are independent, and 
 self-sufficing — and they are mostly men; and 
 there are others who like to be petted and made 
 much of — and they are mostly women. Very 
 well, when there is such a difference between dis- 
 positions, isn’t it wise that they should be tested 
 by time ” 
 
 “ You didn’t talk that way once,” said he, with 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 239 
 
 a touch rather of surprise than of actual disap- 
 pointment or chagrin. 
 
 “Oh, well, perhaps not, for I was younger 
 then,” remarked this sage person; “and then 
 being sent away from all one’s friends and ac- 
 quaintances was pretty trying at first. How- 
 ever, I don’t complain now. No, I think it was 
 wise on the part of your mother ; and I am sure 
 I thank her. And when do you go back to 
 Stratford, Richard?” 
 
 He was completely nonplussed. Here was 
 the sacrifice he had nobly determined to make 
 put aside as a thing of naught; while he was 
 practically invited to return home forthwith ; 
 and that he could not do. Florence Kingston 
 was there — whom he dared not meet. Besides, 
 how could he go away leaving the whole matter 
 as it stood before, surrounded by all kinds of 
 distracting uncertainties? It was for Nancie- 
 bel’s own sake that he must persevere. 
 
 “To Stratford?” he repeated. “Well, under- 
 stand, Nancy, I did not think you would agree 
 to this without some coaxing and persuasion — 
 and I shall have my uncle to talk over as well — 
 so I have come down to Bristol for a little while, 
 and I am staying at a hotel there.” 
 
 “Oh, for some time? ” she said, “you are go- 
 ing to remain here, Richard?” She was silent 
 for a second or two. “ Well, it is so sudden — so 
 
240 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 bewildering. You cannot expect me to say yes 
 just at once, even if I knew that your uncle and 
 your mother would consent. It is so grave a 
 step. But — to-day is Saturday; you will give 
 me till to-morrow? Will you come out to-mor- 
 row afternoon, Richard, and then I may be able 
 to say something more definite? Yes, I will, I 
 promise ; to-morrow afternoon you shall have my 
 answer ” 
 
 “But I don’t want to press you, Nanciebel,” 
 he urged again ; for he could not in the least un- 
 derstand what all this meant. “ I came down to 
 Bristol for the very purpose of talking the whole 
 thing over, and showing how it would be better 
 and safer and more satisfactory for every one if 
 we could arrange for this time of probation to 
 cease. Who knows what may happen? And 
 you may be doubtful and reluctant, of course; 
 for it' is a grave step, as you say; but I am sure 
 it is the best thing to do ; and then there will be 
 no further misgivings or trusting to chance.” 
 
 It was hardly the impassioned pleading of a 
 lover; but Nanciebel did not seem to look for 
 that. She merely begged him again to give her 
 till the following afternoon, and she appeared to 
 be immensely relieved — and grateful — when he 
 assented. Nor did she beg him to stay until his 
 uncle should return and his cousins be free. 
 She even hinted that it might be more prudent 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 241 
 
 for her to say nothing of this proposal until he 
 himself should bring it forward on the next day. 
 In the mean time she bade him good-by with a 
 very pleasant and affectionate look ; and he re- 
 turned to his hotel in Bristol, and to aimless 
 cogitations which led to confusion rather than to 
 any enlightenment. 
 
 But what happened next day drove away those 
 puzzled surmises and substituted for them 
 amazement and alarm. About half-past one 
 o’clock his uncle drove up to the hotel, and 
 came into the coffee-room, where Mr. Richard 
 happened to be standing at the window. The 
 nervous little clergyman was very much excited ; 
 but he had to speak in a low voice, for there 
 were some people seated at the table at lunch. 
 
 “Richard,” said he in a hurried undertone, 
 “do you know what the meaning of this is? 
 Miss Marlow has gone.” 
 
 “Gone?” his nephew repeated, with staring 
 eyes. “Gone where?” 
 
 “ I do not know ; she has left the house. 
 This morning she complained of headache, and 
 decided to remain in her own room ; then when 
 we returned from morning service, we discovered 
 that a cab had been brought out between eleven 
 and twelve, and that she had left, taking all her 
 things with her. And here is a letter we found 
 
 lying for you.” 
 
 11 
 
242 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “Yes, but what did she say when she went? ” 
 his nephew demanded in blank amazement. 
 “There must have been somebody in the house. 
 What explanation did she give? Where did she 
 say she was going? ” 
 
 “Not a word to anybody! Perhaps you will 
 understand from that letter,” said the clergy- 
 man, looking at the enigmatic envelope. 
 
 Mechanically Mr. Richard broke the seal ; he 
 was thinking of her strange behavior on the 
 previous day. Nor did this carefully written 
 epistle afford him any satisfactory elucidation. 
 
 “ Saturday Night. 
 
 “ Dear Richard : By the time you get this 
 note, I shall have escaped from a position which 
 was only embarrassing to you and to me, and to 
 others. I shall always appreciate your kind- 
 ness — and never , never forget it; but what you 
 wished was not to be. I had intended telling you 
 by degrees how I had come to this resolution ; 
 but your sudden appearance here to-day has pre- 
 cipitated matters ; and to-morrow I shall take the 
 step I have long meditated — and I am sure it will 
 be better for us all. And I am sure your mother 
 will be glad. I shall always remember with 
 gratitude the sacrifices she was ready to make ; 
 and when I read ‘The Miller’s Daughter’ I shall 
 always think of her with respect and affection ; but 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 243 
 
 she did not consider, when she gave me Tenny- 
 son’s poems, and hoped they would be my con- 
 stant teachers, that there was another one far 
 more applicable to my station. I refer to ‘The 
 Lord of Burleigh.’ Do you remember those 
 significant lines : 
 
 “ ‘But a trouble weigh’d upon her. 
 
 And perplex’d her, night and morn, 
 
 With the burden of an honor 
 Unto which she was not born.’ 
 
 Ah, if that poor lady had only known in time ! — 
 then she might have avoided all her misery, as I 
 hope to do. For why should I aspire to a dignity 
 for which I am unfitted? Your cousins here 
 have been very kind ; but all the same it has 
 been impressed on me every day that I was not 
 born in the purple. I am not ashamed of my 
 humble origin, for 
 
 “ ‘ Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood; ’ 
 
 but it is better for all that I should abandon a 
 fond dream, and accept life as it is. Dear Rich- 
 ard, you have given me several little presents 
 from time to time, and these I wish to return ; 
 and I will send them to you by a safe hand. If 
 you will allow me, I will keep your photograph — 
 for one need not forget an old friend , whatever 
 trials and hardships the world may have for us. 
 
244 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 Farewell forever, dear Richard, from your still 
 affectionate and grateful 
 
 “ Nancy. 
 
 “ P. S. — I will send you the things in a day or 
 two.” 
 
 Mr. Richard handed the letter to the clergy- 
 man, but not in silence. 
 
 “Why,” he exclaimed angrily, as his uncle 
 glanced over the pages, “ if that is not a piece of 
 studied hypocrisy, it is the writing of an abso- 
 lute fool! ‘Born in the purple!’ — where did she 
 pick up a phrase like that? — does she consider 
 that I have been born in the purple ? — does she 
 suppose that 1 was going to bestow a coronet on 
 her? ” 
 
 “Richard,” said the clergyman gently, “you 
 must remember that girls in her position like to 
 write like that — they have learned it out of penny 
 romances — they think it fine. I should say the 
 letter was sincere enough, even if the terms of 
 it strike you as being artificial. And the fact 
 remains that she has left the vicarage.” 
 
 “ Precisely! ” said the young man, who did not 
 at all rejoice in the freedom that had been thus 
 suddenly thrust upon him ; for he considered that 
 this was only some kind of incomprehensible 
 freak on the part of Nancy, and that, after an 
 immensity of trouble and annoyance, they would 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 245 
 
 all of them find themselves precisely in the same 
 straits as before. “ And now we shall have to 
 hunt her out, and convince her that her heroic 
 renunciation is out of place ! I suppose we shall 
 have to advertise, ‘Come back to your sorrowing 
 friends ! ’ Upon my word, it's too bad ! We shall 
 have all this trouble for nothing. I suppose she 
 wouldn’t go to Stratford, and confess to her rel- 
 atives that she could not bear the burden of the 
 honor that was destined for her. That would 
 not be romantic enough ! She will wait until the 
 whole of our family go to her as a deputation, 
 and beg her on their knees to accept the coro- 
 net ! ” 
 
 “You are angry and impatient, Richard,” the 
 clergyman said quietly. “ But there is more in 
 that letter than you seem to see. It has been 
 written with deliberation; it has been thought 
 over for some time back. It is no sudden freak. 
 Now come away out with me to Holiwell, and we 
 will see if we cannot find out something about 
 this very odd affair. Gertrude and Laura may 
 help us. And we are bound to make inquiries — 
 until we know that the girl is in safety; she 
 cannot be allowed to vanish into space in this 
 fashion.” 
 
 As they drove away out to the vicarage, Mr. 
 Richard did not speak a word — his brain was 
 busy with all manner of conjectures and wild spec- 
 
246 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 illations. Supposing, now, that he were to take 
 Nancy at her word? Of her own free will she 
 had withdrawn from the engagement which of 
 late he had felt as a very millstone round his 
 neck. No doubt his word was given to her; but 
 here she had in set terms renounced her claims ; 
 and why should he not accept her renunciation ? 
 But, even as he argued with himself in this way, 
 he felt it was all impossible. He could not be so 
 mean as to take advantage of a fit of temper or 
 some perverse and inexplicable whim. He knew 
 Nanciebel ; knew her contradictory moods ; knew 
 how affectionate she could be at one moment, 
 and how petulant and wayward the next ; and he 
 could not make this fantastic letter an excuse for 
 backing out of an engagement to which his honor 
 was pledged. How could she mean what she 
 said in this ridiculous message of farewell? 
 When a girl took one of the most serious steps pos- 
 sible in her life, she was not likely to be quoting 
 poetry and using sham literary phrases. Perhaps 
 (this was his final conclusion) Nancy had been 
 finding her life at the vicarage too dull and for- 
 lorn, and had suddenly resolved to break the 
 monotony of it with a romantic episode. 
 
 Now, no sooner had the good vicar begun to 
 question his daughters about this mysterious 
 thing that had just happened, than it became 
 abundantly evident that they knew a good deal 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 247 
 
 more than they were willing to admit. Gertrude 
 looked at Laura, and Laura looked at Gertrude ; 
 and both were mute. Clearly they did not like 
 to “tell.” Nancy had been their comrade in a 
 measure ; perhaps she had even asked them to 
 keep her secret ; and here was their cousin Rich- 
 ard — how could they say anything that would 
 lead him to doubt the constancy of his betrothed ? 
 And yet when the vicar, getting a bit of a clew, 
 began to press home his questions, it seemed as 
 if there was nothing for it but a frank avowal. 
 Gertrude, as the elder, came in for most of the 
 cross-examination; and at length, with many 
 hesitations and shy glances at Mr. Richard, and 
 appealing looks to her father, she allowed them 
 to construct what story they might out of the fol- 
 lowing fragments and hints. 
 
 Nancy had always been fond of wandering 
 about in the garden — particularly when Gertrude 
 and Laura were at their morning exercises, and 
 she was left alone. She had made the acquaint- 
 ance of Mr. Stapleton’s head gardener — as Rich- 
 ard knew — a most respectable and well-educated 
 and well-mannered young man. “Mr.” Bruce, 
 as Nancy always called him, was very kind to 
 her, instructing her in botany, and lending her 
 books. Other books besides botanical ones, too, 
 for Mr. Bruce was a well-read young man, and 
 had quite a library. Nancy seemed to have a 
 
248 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 great admiration for the young Scotchman. She 
 was always talking about him and contrasting 
 him with others. She had cut his portrait out 
 of a horticultural journal in which it had ap- 
 peared, along with a biographical sketch, and a 
 list of all the prizes he had won. Gertrude had 
 even ventured to remonstrate with Nancy about 
 her partiality for this young man — seeing that 
 she was engaged to be married to Cousin Richard 
 — whereupon Nancy had laughingly replied that 
 she liked to be appreciated by some one. Nancy 
 had shown her a photograph of the gardens at 
 Beever Towers, and pointed out the charmingly 
 surrounded cottage which Mr. Bruce was to oc- 
 cupy when he left Somersetshire for Yorkshire. 
 That the young Scotchman and Nancy were in 
 constant correspondence, Gertrude had to admit 
 that she knew ; but she did not consider it her 
 duty to say anything — she thought it would be 
 treacherous, she said. 
 
 “ But Bruce left Holiwell a fortnight ago! ” ex- 
 claimed the vicar, breaking in upon the shy con- 
 fessions. 
 
 “Yes, papa/’ said Miss Gertrude, “but he has 
 not gone to Yorkshire, for I have seen him twice 
 during last week.” 
 
 “And I saw him yesterday,” observed Miss 
 Laura, with downcast eyes. 
 
 “Yesterday? — where?” demanded her cousin 
 
CHECKMATE 249 
 
 Richard, who had sat silent and bewildered all 
 this time. 
 
 “At the foot of Crossways Lane by the pond,” 
 said the younger daughter ; and then she added 
 with some hesitation, “And — and Nancy was 
 with him.” 
 
 “Really, I am more than surprised,” said the 
 vicar with unusual emphasis, “at such conduct 
 on the part of that young man. I had always 
 considered him a most respectable, well-bred, 
 honorable young fellow — indeed, I had a very 
 great regard for him, even when he and I dif- 
 fered in our political views ; but that he could 
 have stooped to this clandestine correspond- 
 ence ” 
 
 “Papa,” said Gertrude (who also seemed to 
 regard the young Scotchman with favor, and was 
 modestly anxious to put in this meek apology for 
 him), “don’t you think he may have been wait- 
 ing for an opportunity of coming to speak to you? 
 Perhaps he may have wished to have all his 
 affairs in Yorkshire settled first.” 
 
 “ Oh, if there has been any hole-and-corner bus- 
 iness in the affair, be sure it was Nancy’s own 
 doing! ” said Mr. Richard scornfully (alas, how 
 inconstant are the hearts of men! — had he no 
 recollection of certain moonlight strolls up and 
 down a hushed little court-yard — a court-yard so 
 
 hushed that one could almost in the darkness 
 11* 
 
250 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 have heard poor Nanciebel’s heart throbbing for 
 very joy?). “She was always for romance, and 
 mystery, and secrecy ; and I have no doubt she 
 persuaded this fellow into concealing the whole 
 affair until they could declare themselves mar- 
 ried. Or perhaps they are married already? — 
 that would be just like Nancy. And now I know 
 why she looked so frightened when I came here 
 yesterday ” 
 
 “Cousin Richard,” said Gertrude rather pite- 
 ously, “ I hope you will not think I had any part 
 in this. I could not help seeing what was going 
 on, and perhaps I ought to have told papa, or 
 written to you ; but then I thought it would be 
 dishonorable. Many a time I have been sorry 
 for you, and thought you ought to know.” 
 
 “Oh, but look here, Gertrude,” he exclaimed, 
 “you mustn’t blame yourself at all — you mustn’t 
 imagine any harm has been done to me. Why, 
 if what you suggest has all come true — if Nancy 
 has gone and got married or is about to get 
 married — that would be for me ” 
 
 But he paused and was silent. The future 
 was vague and uncertain; these wild and daz- 
 zling hopes were not to be spoken of as yet. 
 Nevertheless, the two girls could gather from 
 his face that he was in nowise disappointed or 
 depressed by this sudden news ; he only insisted, 
 in a matter-of-fact kind of way, on the neces- 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 251 
 
 sity of getting to know of Nancy’s whereabouts 
 and immediate prospects. 
 
 He remained to mid-day dinner at the vicar- 
 age; he went with his cousins to evening ser- 
 vice ; he had some bit of supper with them later 
 on ere he set out to walk into Bristol. And now 
 that he had almost convinced himself that his 
 relationship with Nancy was really finally and 
 irretrievably broken, he began to think of her 
 with gentleness — not with any anger or desire 
 for revenge. She had been a most affectionate 
 and loving kind of creature; too loving and 
 affectionate, perhaps ; she could not suffer being 
 alone ; she must have some one to cling to, some 
 one to pet her and “be good to her.” Well, 
 well, he had nothing to reproach her with, he 
 said to himself, as he walked along the solitary 
 highway. When Nanciebel’s soft dark eyes had 
 looked into his, they had been honest enough at 
 the time ; it was her too tender heart that had 
 played her false ; she was hardly to blame, for 
 how can one alter one’s temperament? And 
 he understood that letter now. It was not alto- 
 gether artificial. Perhaps there was a little sen- 
 timental regret in her bidding him good-by; 
 and perhaps she thought she could best express 
 that in the language of books. And if Nancy 
 wished to betray a sweet humility — or even to 
 convey a subtle little dose of flattery — in talk- 
 
252 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 ing of the honor of the position that had been 
 designed for her, why should he be scornful of 
 these innocent girlish wiles? Poor Nanciebel! 
 She had been kind in those bygone days; he 
 hoped she would be happy, and run no more 
 risks of separation. 
 
 But he was hardly prepared for his next meet- 
 ing with Nancy. He had spent all the Monday 
 morning in aimlessly wandering about, discuss- 
 ing with himself the various possible ways and 
 means of getting into communication with that 
 wayward and errant damsel ; and at last he was 
 returning to his hotel, about lunch-time, when 
 behold! here was Nanciebel herself, her hand 
 on the arm of a tall and rather good-looking 
 young fellow of grave aspect and quiet de- 
 meanor. 
 
 “O Mr. Richard!” said Nanciebel, with her 
 face flushing rosily and her eyes shining gladly, 
 “this is just what I have been hoping for! I 
 knew we should meet you somewhere ! Will you 
 let me introduce my husband? — you’ve met be- 
 fore.” 
 
 The two men bowed, and regarded each other 
 with a somewhat cold and repellant scrutiny; 
 which could tell how the other was going to take 
 this odd situation of affairs? But it was Nancy, 
 with her eager volubility, who got over the awk- 
 wardness of the meeting. 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 253 
 
 "Yes, indeed, Mr. Richard, for I made sure 
 you would be glad when you heard the news. I 
 have seen for many a day that you wished our 
 engagement broken off — I could read it in every 
 line of your letters ; but I wanted you to speak 
 first. Then you frightened me on Saturday — did 
 you really mean what you said? — or what was 
 your intention? Anyway, it’s all right now, and 
 you are free; and now James and I can make 
 any apologies that are necessary for the conceal- 
 ment that has been going on. Oh, but that was 
 all my doing, Mr. Richard — indeed it was! I 
 declare it was! James was for going direct to 
 your uncle and explaining everything ; and I said 
 that would only provoke a tremendous family 
 disturbance — that it would be far better for us to 
 get married, and then no objection could be 
 taken. Yes, we were married this morning,” 
 continued Nanciebel, with a becoming modesty, 
 “and Mr. and Mrs. Stephens, with whom I am 
 staying, have gone away home, and so James and 
 I thought we might come for a little walk. I am 
 so glad to have met you, Mr. Richard ” 
 
 But here Mr. Richard, who had been consider- 
 ably flurried by this unexpected encounter, and 
 by Nancy’s rapid confessions, pulled himself to- 
 gether. 
 
 “But look here,” said he boldly, “where’s the 
 wedding-breakfast? ” 
 
254 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “Oh,” said Nancy with another blush, “the 
 Stephenses are to have a few friends in the even- 
 ing ; but I think we shall leave by the afternoon 
 train for London ” 
 
 “Very well,” said Mr. Richard, “but in the 
 mean time? See, there is my hotel — suppose 
 3^ou and your husband come in and have lunch 
 with me — let it be a wedding-breakfast, if you 
 like. What do you say, Mr. Bruce? ” 
 
 An odd kind of half-embarrassed smile came 
 into the young Scotchman’s grave and handsome 
 face. 
 
 “ I have not much experience in such matters,” 
 he answered in his slow, incisive way, as he 
 looked at his bride with affectionate eyes ; “ but 
 I should think in such a case, it would be for the 
 young lady to say what should be done.” 
 
 “Oh, then, I say yes!” cried Nanciebel in an 
 instant. “ Oh, it is so kind of you, Mr. Richard ! 
 for you know I wouldn’t for the world have 
 any disagreement or ill-feeling remain behind ; 
 and now I can write down to Stratford that you 
 are quite good friends with us, and I hope you’ll 
 tell your mother so, and your uncle, and Ger- 
 trude and Laura. It is so very, very kind of 
 you, Mr. Richard! ” again said Nanciebel, almost 
 with tears of gratitude in her soft dark eyes. 
 
 The improvised wedding-breakfast was a great 
 success ; and Mr. Richard played the part of host 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 255 
 
 with a quite royal magnificence. The young 
 Scotchman was throughout grave and self-pos- 
 sessed, but not taciturn; when he did speak, 
 there was generally something in what he said. 
 But indeed, it was Nancy who did all the talk- 
 ing; chattering about everything and nothing, 
 and always turning for confirmation (but not 
 waiting for it) to James. And then again, when 
 it was time for them to go, Mr. Richard accom- 
 panied them into the hall, and had a cab called 
 for them ; and as he bade them good-by on the 
 wide stone steps outside, Nancy took his hand 
 and pressed it warmly, and looked into his eyes 
 almost as once she had looked, and murmured 
 in a soft undertone : 
 
 “ You have been kind ! ” 
 
 Such was the fashion of their parting; but 
 Nancy’s eyes were still once more turned back 
 to him, and she waved her hand to him as she 
 and her husband drove away. 
 
 Now, it was about a fortnight afterward — per- 
 haps a day or two less — that Mrs. Kingston and 
 her niece Florence were in the little boudoir at 
 Woodend; and, strange to say, the latter was 
 down on her knees with her head buried in the 
 widow’s lap, as if she had been making confes- 
 sion. 
 
 “And may I call you mother? ” was the con- 
 
256 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 elusion of her tale, uttered in only a half-heard 
 voice. 
 
 “ Indeed, you will be the dearest daughter I 
 could have wished for,” said the widow, most 
 fervently, as she stroked the pretty hair with 
 both her hands. “ I never thought to see this 
 day ; it is everything I could have wished for, 
 dear Florence.” 
 
 “You are not angry, then? ” said the fair pen- 
 itent, without looking up. “ But I shall never 
 believe you care anything about me until you call 
 me Floss.” 
 
 “ I will call you anything you like, my dear- 
 est,” said the widow, again clasping and petting 
 the pretty head that lay bent and humbled before 
 her. 
 
 Then Cousin Floss arose. Humility with her 
 could only be a passing mood. She seated her- 
 self next the little widow, and put her arm with- 
 in hers. 
 
 “ What do you think papa will say? ” she asked. 
 
 “ Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Kingston, “ I think 
 I know what he will say ; but if you are at all 
 afraid, I’ll go into the garden and ask him my- 
 self — this very moment.” 
 
 “Will you?” said Cousin Floss, with shining 
 eyes. “ And mind you let him know that Rich- 
 ard has told me everything — everything. Papa 
 knew about — about Miss Nancy, didn’t he? ” 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 257 
 
 In a second or two the widow was in the gar- 
 den, where Uncle Alexander, with his quick, 
 shuffling little step, was pacing up and down the 
 measured path. She told him her story. Uncle 
 Alexander’s instant question was: 
 
 “Well, how much had you to pay? ” 
 
 “ I don’t understand you, ” the widow said, truly 
 enough. 
 
 “ How much had you to pay? ” the hypochon- 
 driac repeated testily (for he had been inter- 
 rupted, and had forgotten where he was in his 
 prescribed laps). “What money did you give 
 the girl? It was my proposal originally; I must 
 reimburse you. I dare say you gave her far too 
 much; but never mind; I’m glad Floss is going 
 to be taken off my hands — she worries me. 
 What money had you to pay? ” 
 
 “ Why, we never offered Nancy a halfpenny ! ” 
 Mrs. Kingston exclaimed, but she was far too 
 happy to take offence. “We could not! She 
 married a young man in a very good position, of 
 excellent character, and with the most favorable 
 prospects. But I will say this, Uncle Alexander, ” 
 continued the widow, grown bold. “ If you are 
 generously minded about her, give me a certain 
 sum, and I will add a similar amount ; and when 
 Richard and dear Florence go up to town with 
 us next week, they can look about and buy some- 
 thing to send to — to Nancy.” 
 
258 
 
 NANCIEBEL 
 
 “Very well, very well,” said Uncle Alexander; 
 and away lie went on his shuffling pedestrianism 
 again. 
 
 About half an hour thereafter, Mr. Richard 
 returned to Woodend — he had been into Strat- 
 ford about some small matters. Cousin Floss 
 tripped off to meet him in the hall. 
 
 “Oh, Cousin Dick,” said she, “do you know 
 what has happened now? ” 
 
 “Has the sky fallen? ” said he. “And have 
 you caught any larks? ” 
 
 “Oh, you will be quite sufficiently surprised,” 
 she said confidently. “ For papa has been told 
 everything ; and he has not cut off my head ; no, 
 his plans are quite different. Do you know the 
 very first thing you and I have to do when we go 
 up to town next week? We have to look about — 
 in Bond Street, I suppose — for something very 
 nice, and very handsome, and very useful; and 
 papa and your mother are going to pay for it be- 
 tween them. But you couldn’t guess what this 
 wonderful thing is wanted for — no, you couldn’t.” 
 “What, then? ” he demanded. 
 
 “Why, a wedding-present for Nanciebel! ” 
 
 THE END. 
 
WALTER BESANT’S WORKS. 
 
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