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DAVID POINDEXTER'S 
 DISAPPEARANCE 
 
 ETC. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY, 
 
 i88§ 
 
813 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 David Poindexter's Disappearance .... 3 
 
 Ken's Mystery 50 
 
 " When Half-Gods go, the Gods arrive " . .94 
 " Set not thy Foot on Graves " . . . .133 
 
 My Friend Paton 179 
 
 Dr. Carajo's Patient 211 
 
 A Strange Friend 239 
 
 1 
 
 V5^ 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER^S 
 DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 Among the records of the English state 
 trials are to be found many strange stories, which 
 would, as the phrase is, make the fortune of a 
 modern novelist. But there are also numerous 
 cases, not less stimulating to imagination and 
 curiosity, which never attained more than local 
 notoriety, of which the law was able to take but 
 comparatively small cognizance, although they 
 became subjects of much unofficial discussion and 
 mystification. Among these cases none, perhaps, 
 is better worth recalling than that of David 
 Poindexter. It will be my aim here to tell the 
 tale as simply and briefly as possible — to repeat 
 it, indeed, very much as it came to my ears while 
 living, several years ago, near the scene in which 
 its events took place. There is a temptation to 
 amplify it, and to give it a more recent date and 
 
4 DAVID FOINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 
 
 a different setting; but (other considerations 
 aside) the story might lose in force and weight 
 more than it would thereby gain in artistic bal- 
 ance and smoothness. 
 
 David Poindexter was a younger son of an 
 old and respected family in Sussex, England. 
 He was born in London in 1785. He was edu- 
 cated at Oxford, with a view to his entering the 
 clerical profession, and in the year 1810 he ob- 
 tained a living in the little town of Witton, near 
 Twickenham, known historically as the home of 
 Sir John Suckling, The Poindexters had been 
 much impovershed by the excesses of David's 
 father and grandfather, and David seems to have 
 had few or no resources beyond the very modest 
 stipend appertaining to his position. He was, at 
 all events, poor, though possessed of capacities 
 which bade fair to open to him some of the higher 
 prizes of his calling; but, on the other hand, 
 there is evidence that he chafed at his poverty, 
 and reason to believe that he had inherited no 
 small share of the ill-regulated temperament 
 which had proved so detrimental to the elder gen- 
 erations of his family. 
 
 Personally he was a man of striking aspect, 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 5 
 
 having long, dark hair, heavily-marked eyebrows, 
 and blue eyes ; his mouth and chin were graceful 
 in contour, but wanting in resolution ; his figure 
 was tall, well knit, and slender. He was an elo- 
 quent preacher, and capable, when warmed by his 
 subject, of powerfully affecting the emotions of 
 his congregation. He was a great favorite with 
 women — whom, however, he uniformly treated 
 with coldness — and by no means unpopular with 
 men, toward some of whom he manifested much 
 less reserve. Nevertheless, before the close of the 
 second year of his incumbency he was known to be 
 paying his addresses to a young lady of the neigh- 
 borhood. Miss Edith Saltine, the only child of an 
 ex-army officer. The colonel was a widower, and 
 in poor health, and since he was living mainly on 
 his half -pay, and had very little to give his daugh- 
 ter, the affair was looked upon as a love match, 
 the rather since Edith was a handsome young 
 woman of charming character. The Keverend 
 David Poindexter certainly had every appearance 
 of being deeply in love ; and it is often seen that 
 the passions of reserved men, when once aroused, 
 are stronger than those of persons more generally 
 demonstrative. 
 
6 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 Colonel Saltine did not at first receive his pro- 
 posed son-in-law with favor. He was a valetudi- 
 narian, and accustomed to regard his daughter as 
 his nurse by right, and he resented the idea of 
 her leaving him forlorn for the sake of a good- 
 looking parson. It is very likely that his objec- 
 tions might have had the effect of breaking off 
 the match, for his daughter was devotedly at- 
 tached to him, and hardly questioned his right to 
 dispose of her as he saw fit ; but after a while the 
 worthy gentleman seems to have thought better 
 of his contrariness. Poindexter had strong per- 
 suasive powers, and no doubt made himself per- 
 sonally agreeable to the colonel, and, moreover, it 
 was arranged that the latter should occupy the 
 same house with Mr. and Mrs. Poindexter after 
 they were married. Nevertheless, the colonel 
 was not a man to move rapidly, and the engage- 
 ment had worn along for nearly a year without 
 the wedding-day having been fixed. One winter 
 evening in the early part of December, Poindex- 
 ter dined with the colonel and Edith, and as the 
 gentlemen were sitting over their wine the lover 
 spoke on the topic that was uppermost in his 
 thoughts, and asked his host whether there was 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 7 
 
 any good reason why tlie marriage should not be 
 consummated at once. 
 
 " Christmas is at hand," the young man re- 
 marked ; " why should it not be rendered doubly 
 memorable by granting this great boon?" 
 
 " For a parson, David, you are a deuced impa- 
 tient man," the colonel said. 
 
 "Parsons are human," the other exclaimed 
 with warmth. 
 
 "Humph! I suppose some of them are. In 
 fact, David, if I didn't believe that there was 
 something more in you than texts and litanies and 
 the Athanasian creed, I'll be hanged if I'd ever 
 have let you look twice at Edith. That girl has 
 got blood in her veins, David ; she's not to be 
 thrown away on any lantern-jawed, white-livered 
 doctor of souls, I can tell you." 
 
 David held his head down, and seemed not to 
 intend a reply ; but he suddenly raised his eyes, 
 and fixed them upon the colonel's. " You know 
 what my father was," he said, in a low, distinct 
 voice ; " I am my father's son." 
 
 " That idea has occurred to me more than 
 once, David, and to say the truth, I've liked you 
 none the less for it. But, then, what the deuce 
 
8 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DmAPFEARANCE. 
 
 should a fellow like you want to do in a pulpit ? 
 I respect the cloth as much as any man, I hope, 
 but leaving theory aside, and coming down to 
 practice, aren't there fools and knaves enough in 
 the world to carry on that business, without a fel- 
 low of heart and spirit like you going into it ? " 
 
 " Theory or no theory, there have been as 
 great men in the pulpit as in any other position," 
 said David, gloomily. 
 
 " I don't say to the contrary : ecclesiastical his- 
 tory, and all that : but what I do say is, if a man 
 is great in the pulpit, it's a pity he isn't some- 
 where else, where he could use his greatness to 
 more advantage." 
 
 " Well," remarked David, in the same somber 
 tone, " I am not contented : so much I can admit 
 to the father of the woman I love. But you 
 know as well as I do that men nowadays are called 
 to my profession not so much by the Divine sum- 
 mons as by the accident of birth. Were it not 
 for the law of primogeniture, Colonel Saltine, the 
 Church of England would be, for the most part, 
 a congregation without a clergyman." 
 
 " Gad ! I'm much of your opinion," returned 
 the colonel, with a grin; "but there are two 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 9 
 
 doors, you know, for a second son to enter the 
 world by. If lie doesn't fancy a cassock, lie can 
 put on His Majesty's uniform." 
 
 " JSTeither the discipline nor the activity of a 
 soldier's life would suit me," David answered. 
 
 So far as I know my own nature, what it craves 
 is freedom, and the enjoyment of its capacities. 
 Only under such conditions could I show what I 
 am capable of. In other words," he added, with 
 a short laugh, " ten thousand a year is the profes- 
 sion I should choose." 
 
 " Ah," murmured the colonel, heaving a sigh, 
 " I doubt that's a profession we'd all of us like to 
 practice as well as preach. What! no more 
 wine ? Oh, ay, Edith, of course ! Well, go to 
 her, sir, if you must ; but when you come to my 
 age you'll have found out which wears the best — 
 woman or the bottle. I'll join you presently, and 
 maybe we'll see what can be done about this mar- 
 rying business." 
 
 So David went to Edith, and they had a 
 clear hour together before they heard the colo- 
 nel's slippered tread hobbling through the hall. 
 Just before he opened the door, David had 
 said : 
 
10 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 " I sometimes doubt whether you wholly love 
 me, after all." And she had answered: 
 
 " If I do not, it is because I sometimes feel as 
 if you were not your real self." 
 
 The colonel heard nothing of this odd bit of 
 dialogue ; but when he had subsided, with his us- 
 ual grunt, into his ami-chair beside the fire-place, 
 and Edith had brought him his foot-stool and his 
 pipe, and put the velvet skull-cap on his bald pate, 
 he drew a long whiff of tobacco smoke, and said : 
 
 " If you young folks want to set up house- 
 keeping a month from to-day, you can do it, for 
 all I care." 
 
 Little did any one of the three suspect what 
 that month was destined to bring forth. 
 
 David Poindexter's father had been married 
 twice, his second wife dying within a year of her 
 wedding-day, and two weeks after bringing David 
 into the world. This lady, whose maiden name was 
 Lambert, had a brother who was a gentleman farm- 
 er, and a tolerably successful one. His farm was 
 situated in the parish of Witton, and he owned a 
 handsome house on the outskirts of the town itself. 
 He and David's father had been at one time great 
 friends, insomuch that David was named after 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, H 
 
 him, and Lambert, as his godfather as well as un- 
 cle, presented the child with the usual silver mug. 
 Lambert was never known to have married, but 
 there were rumors, dating as far as back David's 
 earliest recollections, to the effect that he had en- 
 tertained a secret and obscure passion for some 
 foreign woman of great beauty, but of doubtful 
 character and antecedents. Nobody could be 
 found who had ever seen this woman, or would 
 accept the responsibility of asserting that she actu- 
 ally existed ; but she afforded a convenient means 
 of accounting for many things that seemed mys- 
 terious in Mr. Lambert's conduct. At length, 
 when David was about eight years old, his god- 
 father left England abruptly, and without telling 
 any one whither he was going or when he 
 would return. As a matter of fact he never did 
 return, nor had any certain news ever been heard 
 of him since his departure. Neither his house 
 nor his farm was ever sold, however, though they 
 were rented to more than one tenant during a 
 number of years. It was said, also, that Lambert 
 held possession of some valuable real estate in 
 London. Nevertheless, in process of time he was 
 forgotten, or remembered only as a name. And 
 
12 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 
 
 the new generation of men, though they might 
 speak of " the old Lambert House/' neither knew 
 nor cared how it happened to have that title. For 
 aught they could tell, it might have borne it ever 
 since Queen Elizabeth's time. Even David Poin- 
 dexter had long ceased to think of his uncle as 
 anything much more substantial than a dream. 
 
 He was all the more surprised, therefore, 
 when, on the day following the interview just 
 mentioned, he received a letter from the late 
 David Lambert's lawyers. It informed him in 
 substance that his uncle had died in Constantino- 
 ple, unmarried (so far as could be ascertained), in- 
 testate, and without blood-relations surviving him. 
 Under these circumstances, his property, amount- 
 ing to one hundred and sixty thousand pounds, 
 the bulk of which was invested in land and houses 
 in the city of London, as well as the country-seat 
 in Witton known as the old Lambert House, and 
 the farm lands thereto appertaining — all this 
 wealth, not to mention four or five thousand 
 pounds in ready money, came into possession of 
 the late David Lambert's nearest of kin, who, as 
 it appeared, was none other than the Reverend 
 David Poindexter. Would that gentleman, there- 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 13 
 
 fore, be kind enough, at his convenience, to advise 
 his obedient servants as to what disposition he 
 wished to make of his inheritance? 
 
 It was a Saturday morning, and the young 
 clergyman was sitting at his study table ; the fire 
 was burning in the grate at his right hand, and 
 his half-written sermon lay on the desk before 
 him. After reading the letter, at first hurriedly 
 and amazedly, afterward more slowly, with fre- 
 quent pauses, he folded it up, and, still holding 
 it in his hand, leaned back in his chair, and re- 
 mained for the better part of an hour in a state of 
 deep preoccupation. Many changing expressions 
 passed across his face, and glowed in his dark-blue 
 eyes, and trembled on the curves of his lips. At 
 last he roused himself, sat erect, and smote the 
 table violently with his clinched hand. Yes, it 
 was true — it was real ; he, David Poindexter, an 
 hour ago the poor imprisoned clergyman of the 
 Church of England — he, as by a stroke of magic, 
 was free, powerful, emancipated, the heir of seven 
 thousand pounds a year ! And what about to- 
 morrow's sermon ? 
 
 He rose up smiling, with a vivid color in his 
 cheeks and a bright sparkle in his eyes. He 
 
J 
 
 14 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 stretched himself to his full height, threw ont 
 his arms, and smote his chest with both fists. 
 What a load was gone from his heart ! What a 
 new ardor of life was this that danced in his 
 veins ! He walked with long strides to the win- 
 dow, and threw it wide open, breathing in the 
 rush of bright icy air with deep inhalations. 
 Freedom ! emancipation ! Yonder, above the 
 dark, level boughs of the cedar of Lebanon, rose 
 the square, gray tower of the church. Yesterday 
 it was the incubus of his vain hopes; to-day it 
 was the tomb of a dead and despised past. What 
 had David Poindexter to do with calling sinners 
 to repentance ? Let him first find out for himself 
 what sin was like. Then he looked to the right, 
 where between the leafless trees Colonel Saltine's 
 little dwelling raised its red-tile roof above the high 
 garden-wall. And so, Edith, you doubted wheth- 
 er I were at all times my real self ? You shall 
 not need to make that complaint hereafter. As 
 for to-morrow's sermon — I am not he who wrote 
 sermons, nor shall I ever preach any. Away 
 with it, therefore! 
 
 He strode back to the table, took up the sheets 
 of manuscript from the desk, tore them across, 
 
i 
 i 
 
 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 15 
 
 and laid 4liem on the burning coals. They 
 smoldered for a moment, then blazed up, and 
 the draught from the open window whisked the 
 blackened ashes up the chimney. David stood, 
 meanwhile, with his arms folded, smiling to him- 
 self, and repeating, in a low voice : 
 
 " Never again — never again — never again." 
 
 By-and-by he reseated himself at his desk, and 
 hurriedly wrote two or three notes, one of which 
 was directed to Miss Saltine. He gave them to his 
 servant with an injunction to dehver them at 
 their addresses during the afternoon. Looking at 
 his watch, he was surprised to find that it was al- 
 ready past twelve o'clock. He went up-stairs, 
 packed a small portmanteau, made some changes 
 in his dress, and came down again with a buoyant 
 step. There was a decanter half full of sherry 
 on the sideboard in the dining-room ; he poured 
 out and drank two glasses in succession. This 
 done, he put on his hat, and left the house with 
 his portmanteau in his hand, and ten minutes 
 later he had intercepted the London coach, and 
 was bowling along on his way to the city. 
 
 There was a dramatic instinct in David, as in 
 many eloquent men of impressionable tempera- 
 
16 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 ment, which caused him every now and then to 
 look upon all that was occurring as a sort of play, 
 and to resolve to act his part in a telling and pict- 
 uresque manner. On that Saturday afternoon 
 he had an interview with the late Mr. Lambert's 
 lawyers, and they were struck by his calm, lofty, 
 and indifferent bearing. He seemed to regard 
 worldly prosperity as a thing beneath him, yet to 
 feel in a half-impatient way the responsibility 
 which the control of wealth forced upon him. 
 
 " It is my purpose not to allow this legacy to 
 interfere permanently with my devotion to my 
 higher duties," he remarked, " but I have taken 
 measures to enable myself to place these affairs 
 upon a fixed and convenient footing. I pre- 
 sume," he added, fixing his eyes steadily upon his 
 interlocutor, "that you have thoroughly investi- 
 gated the possibility of there being any claimant 
 nearer than myself ? " 
 
 "No such claimant could exist," the lawyer 
 replied, " unless the late Mr. Lambert had married 
 and had issue." 
 
 "Is there, then, any reason to suppose that 
 he contemplated the contingency that has hap- 
 pened ? " 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 17 
 
 " If he bestowed any thought at all upon the 
 subject, that contingency could hardly have failed 
 to present itself to his mind," the lawyer an- 
 swered. 
 
 David consented to receive the draft for a 
 thousand pounds which was tendered him, and 
 took his leave. He returned to his rooms at the 
 Tavistock Hotel, Covent Garden. In the even- 
 ing, after making some changes in his costume, he 
 went to the theatre, and saw Kean play something 
 of Shakespeare's. When the play was over, and 
 he was out in the frosty air again, he felt it im- 
 possible to sleep. It was after midnight before 
 he returned to his hotel, with flushed cheeks, 
 and a peculiar brilliance in his eyes. He slept 
 heavily, but awoke early in the morning with a 
 slight feeling of feverishness. It was Sunday 
 morning. He thought of his study in the parson- 
 age at Witton, with its bright fire, its simplicity, 
 its repose. He thought of the church, and of the 
 congregation which he would never face again. 
 And Edith — what had been her thoughts and 
 dreams during the night ? He got up, and went 
 to the window. It looked out upon a narrow, in- 
 closed court. The sky was dingy, the air was full 
 
18 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 of the muffled tnmult of the city. His present 
 state, as to its merely external aspect, was cer- 
 tainly not so-agreeable as that of the morning be- 
 fore. Ay, but what a vista had opened now 
 which then was closed ! David dressed himself, 
 and went down to his breakfast. While sitting 
 at his table in the window, looking out upon the 
 market-place, and stirring his cup of Mocha, a 
 gentleman came up and accosted him. 
 
 "Am I mistaken, or is your name Poindex- 
 ter?'' 
 
 David looked up, and recognized Harwood 
 Courtney, a son of Lord Derwent. Courtney was 
 a man of fashion, a member of the great clubs, 
 and a man, as they say, with a reputation. He 
 was a good twenty years older than David, and 
 had been the companion of the latter's father in 
 some of his wildest escapades. To David, at this 
 moment, he was the representative and symbol of 
 that great, splendid, unregenerate world, with 
 which it was his purpose to make acquaintance. 
 
 "You are not mistaken, Mr. Courtney," he 
 said, quietly. "Have you breakfasted? It is 
 some time since we have met." 
 
 " Why, yes, egad ! If I remember right, you 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 19 
 
 were setting out on another road than that which 
 I was travelling. However, we sinners, you 
 know, depend upon you parsons to pull us up in 
 time to prevent any — er — any very serious catas- 
 trophe! Ha! ha!" 
 
 " I understand you ; but for my part I have 
 left the pulpit," said David, uttering the irrevoca- 
 ble words with a carelessness which he himself 
 wondered at. 
 
 By Jove ! " exclaimed Courtney, with a little 
 intonation of surprise and curiosity, which his 
 good breeding prevented him from formulating 
 more explicitly. As David made no rejoinder, 
 he presently continued : " Then — er — perhaps you 
 might find it in your way to dine with me this 
 evening. Only one or two friends — a very quiet 
 Sunday party." 
 
 " Thank you," said David. " I had intended 
 going to bed betimes to-night; but it will give 
 me pleasure to meet a quiet party." 
 
 " Then that's settled," exclaimed Courtney ; 
 " and meanwhile, if you've finished your coflEee, 
 what do you say to a turn in the Eow ? I've got 
 my trap here, and a breath of air will freshen us 
 up." 
 
20 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 David and Courtney spent the day together, 
 and by evening the young ex-clergyman had made 
 the acquaintance of many of the leading men 
 about town. He had also allowed the fact to 
 transpire that his pecuniary standing was of the 
 soundest kind ; but this was done so skillfully 
 — with such a lofty air — that even Courtney, who 
 was as cynical as any man, was by no means con- 
 vinced that David's change of fortune had any- 
 thing to do with his relinquishing the pulpit. 
 " David Poindexter is no fool," he remarked, con- 
 fidentially, to a friend. " He has double the stuff 
 in him that the old fellow had. You must get up 
 early to get the better of a man who has been a 
 parson, and seen through himseK!" 
 
 David, in fact, felt himseK the superior, intel- 
 lectually and by nature, of most of the men he 
 saw. He penetrated and comprehended them, but 
 to them he was impenetrable ; a certain air of au- 
 thority rested upon him; he had abandoned the 
 service of God; but the training whereby he had 
 fitted himself for it stood him in good stead ; it 
 had developed his insight, his subtlety, and, 
 strange to say, his powers of dissimulation. Con- 
 trary to what is popularly supposed, his study of 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DmAPPEABANCE. 21 
 
 the affairs of the other world had enabled him to 
 deal with this world's affairs with a half-con- 
 temptuous facility. As for the minor technicali- 
 ties, the social pass-words, and so forth, to which 
 much importance is generally ascribed, David had 
 nothing to fear from them ; first, because he was 
 a man of noble manners, naturally as well as by 
 cultivation; and, secondly, because the fact that 
 he had been a clergyman acted as a sort of breast- 
 plate against criticism. It would be thought that 
 he chose to appear ignorant of that which he re- 
 ally knew. 
 
 As for Mr. Courtney's dinner, though it may 
 doubtless have been a quiet one from his point of 
 view, it differed considerably from such Sunday 
 festivities as David had been accustomed to. A 
 good deal of wine was drunk, and the conversa- 
 tion (a little cautious at first, on David's account) 
 gradually thawed into freedom. It was late when 
 they rose from table ; and then a proposition was 
 made to go to a certain well-known club in St. 
 James's Street. David went with the rest, and, 
 for the first time in his life, played cards for 
 money; he lost seven hundred pounds — more 
 money than he had handled during the last three 
 
22 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 
 
 years — bnt lie kept his head, and at three o'clock 
 in the morning drove with Courtney to the lat- 
 ter's lodgings, with five hundred pounds in his 
 pocket over and above the sum with which he 
 had begun to play. Here was a wonderful change 
 in his existence ; but it did not seem to him half 
 so wonderful as his reason told him it was. It 
 seemed natural — as if, after much wandering, he 
 had at last found his way into the place where he 
 belonged. It is said that savages, educated from 
 infancy amid civilized surroundings, will, on 
 breathing once more their native air, tear oflE their 
 clothes and become savages again. Somewhat 
 similar may have been David's case, who, inherit- 
 ing in a vivid degree the manly instincts of his 
 forefathers, had forcibly and by constraint of cir- 
 cumstances lived a life wholly opposed to these 
 impulses — an artificial life, therefore. But now at 
 length he had come into his birthright, and felt at 
 home. 
 
 One episode of the previous evening remained 
 in his memory : it had produced an effect upon 
 him out of proportion with its apparent signifi- 
 cance. A gentleman, a guest at the dinner, a 
 small man with sandy hair and keen gray eyes, on 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 23 
 
 being presented to David had looked at him with 
 an expression of shrewd perplexity, and said : 
 
 " Have we not met before ? 
 
 " It is possible, but I confess I do not recollect 
 it," replied David. 
 
 "The name was not Poindexter," continued 
 the other, "but the face — pardon me — I could 
 have taken my oath to." 
 
 " Where did this meeting take place ? " asked 
 David, smihng. 
 
 " In Paris, at 's," said the gray-eyed gen- 
 tleman (mentioning the name of a well-known 
 French nobleman). 
 
 " You are quite certain of that ? " 
 
 "Yes. It was but a month since." 
 
 "I was never in Paris. For three years I 
 have hardly been out of sight of London," David 
 answered. " What was your friend's name ? " 
 
 "It has slipped my memory," he replied. 
 " An Italian name, I fancy. But he was a man — 
 pardon me — of very striking appearance, and I 
 conversed with him for more than an hour." 
 
 Now it is by no means an uncommon occur- 
 rence for two persons to bear a close resemblance 
 to each other, but (aside from the fact that David 
 
24 DAVID POINDEXTER'8 DISAPPEARANCE, 
 
 was anything but an ordinary-looking man) this 
 mistake of his new acquaintance affected him 
 oddly. He involuntarily associated it with the in- 
 ternal and external transformation which had hap- 
 pened to him, and said to himself : 
 
 " This counterpart of mine was prophetic : he 
 was what I am to be — what I am." And fantas- 
 tic though the notion was, he could not rid him- 
 self of it. 
 
 David returned to Witton about the middle 
 of the week. In the interval he had taken meas- 
 ures to make known to those concerned the revo- 
 lution of his affairs, and to have the old Lambert 
 mansion opened, and put in some sort of condition 
 for his reception. He had gone forth on foot, an 
 unknown, poor, and humble clergyman; he re- 
 turned driving behind a pair of horses, by far the 
 most important personage in the town; and yet 
 this outward change was far less great than the 
 change within. His reception could scarcely be 
 called cordial ; though not wanting in the techni- 
 cal respect and ceremony due to him as a gentle- 
 man of wealth and influence, he could perceive a 
 half -concealed suspense and misgiving, due unmis- 
 takably to his attitude as a recreant clergyman. 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 25 
 
 In fact, his worthy parishioners were in a terrible 
 quandary how to reconcile their desire to stand 
 well with their richest fellow-townsman, and their 
 dismayed recognition of that townsman's scandal- 
 ous professional conduct. David smiled at this, 
 but it made him bitter too. He had intended 
 once more to call the congregation together, and 
 frankly to explain to them the reasons, good or 
 bad, which had induced him to withdraw from 
 active labor in the church. But now he deter- 
 mined to preserve a proud and indifferent silence. 
 There was only one person who had a right to 
 call him to account, and it was not without fear- 
 fulness that he looked forward to his meeting 
 with her. However, the sooner such fears are 
 put at rest the better, and he called upon Edith on 
 the evening of his arrival. Her father had been 
 in bed for two days with a cold, and she was sit- 
 ting alone in the little parlor. 
 
 She rose at his entrance with a deep blush, 
 and a look of mixed gladness and anxiety. Her 
 
 ' eyes swiftly noted the change in his dress, for he 
 had considerably modified, though not as yet 
 wholly laid aside, the external marks of his pro- 
 
 i fession. She held back from him with a certain 
 
26 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 strangeness and timidity, so that he did not kisG 
 her cheek, but only her hand. The first words of 
 greeting were constrained and conventional, but 
 at last he said : 
 
 " All is changed, Edith, except our love for 
 each other." 
 
 " I do not hold you to that," she answered^ 
 quickly. 
 
 " But you can not turn me from it," he said, 
 with a smile. 
 
 "I do not know you yet," said she, looking 
 away. 
 
 " When I last saw yon, you said you doubted 
 whether I were my real self. I have become my 
 real self since then." 
 
 " Because you are not what you were, it does 
 not follow that you are what you should be." 
 
 " Surely, Edith, that is not reasonable. I was 
 what circmiistances forced me to be, henceforth I 
 shall be what God made me." 
 
 "Did God, then, have no hand in those cir- 
 cumstances ? " 
 
 " Not more, at all events, than in these." 
 
 Edith shook her head. " God does not ab- 
 solve us from holy vows." 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 27 
 
 " But how if I can not, with loyalty to my in- 
 ner conscience, hold to those vows ? " exclaimed 
 David, with more warmth. ^^I have long felt 
 that 1 was not fitted for this sacred calling. Be- 
 fore the secret tribunal of my self-knowledge, I 
 have stood charged with the sin of hypocrisy. It 
 has been God's will that I be delivered from that 
 sin." 
 
 " Why did you not say that before, David ? " 
 she demanded, looking at him. " Why did you 
 remain a hypocrite until it was for your worldly 
 benefit to abandon your trust ? Can you say, on 
 your word of honor, that you would stand where 
 you do now if you were still poor instead of 
 rich?" 
 
 " Men's eyes are to some extent opened and 
 their views are confirmed by events. They make 
 our dreams and forebodings into realities. We 
 question in our minds, and events give us the an- 
 swers." 
 
 "Such an argument might excuse any vil- 
 lainy," said Edith, lifting her head indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 "Yillany! Do you use that word to me?" 
 exclaimed David. 
 
28 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 
 
 " Not unless your own heart bids me — and, 1 
 do not know your heart." 
 
 "Because you do not love me?" 
 
 " You may be right," replied Edith, striving 
 to steady her voice ; " but at least I believed I 
 loved you." 
 
 " You are cured of that belief, it seems — as I 
 am cured of many foolish faiths," said David, 
 witl^ gloomy bitterness. " Well, so be it ! The 
 love that waits upon a fastidious conscience is 
 never the deepest love. My love is not of that 
 complexion. Were it possible that the shadow of 
 sin, or of crime itself, could descend upon you, it 
 would but render you dearer to me than be- 
 fore." 
 
 " You may break my heart, David, if you 
 will," cried the girl, tremulously, yet resolutely, 
 "but I reverence love more than I love you." 
 
 David had turned away as if to leave the 
 room, but he paused and confronted her once 
 more. 
 
 " At any rate, we will understand each other," 
 said he. " Do you make it your condition that I 
 should go back to the ministry ? " 
 
 Edith was still seated, but the condition of the 
 
DAVID FOINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 29 
 
 crisis compelled her to rise. She stood before 
 him, her dark eyes downcast, her lips trembling^ 
 nervously drawing the fingers of one hand 
 through the clasp of the other. She was tempted 
 to yield to him, for she could imagine no happi- 
 ness in life without him ; but a rare sanity and 
 integrity of mind made her perceive that he had 
 pushed the matter to a false alternative. It was 
 not a question of preaching or not preaching ser- 
 mons, but of sinful apostasy from an upright life. 
 At last she raised her eyes, which shone like dark 
 jewels in her pale countenance, and said, slowly, 
 " We had better part." 
 
 Then my sins be upon your head ! " cried 
 David, passionately. 
 
 The blood mounted to her cheeks at the in- 
 justice of this rejoinder, but she either could not 
 or would not answer again. She remained erect 
 and proud until the door had closed between 
 them ; what she did after that neither David nor 
 any one else knew. 
 
 The apostate David seems to have determined 
 that, if she were to bear the burden of his sins, 
 they should be neither few nor light. His life 
 for many weeks after this interview was a scandal 
 
30 DAVID POIND EXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 and a disgrace. The old Lambert mansion was 
 the scene of carousals and excesses such as re- 
 called the exploits of the monks of Medmenham. 
 Harwood Courtney, and a score of dissolute gen- 
 tlemen like him, not to speak of other visitors, 
 thronged the old house day and night ; drinking, 
 gaming, and yet wilder doings gave the sober lit- 
 tle town no rest, till the Keverend David Poin- 
 dexter was commonly referred to as the Wicked 
 Parson. Meanwhile Edith Saltine bore herself 
 with a grave, pale impassiveness, which some ad- 
 mired, others wondered at, and others deemed an 
 indication that she had no heart. If she had not, 
 so much the better for her ; for her father was 
 almost as difficult to manage as David himself. 
 The old gentleman could neither comprehend nor 
 forgive what seemed to him his daughter's im- 
 measurable perversity. One day she had been all 
 for marrying a poor, unknown preacher ; and the 
 next day, when to marry him meant to be the 
 foremost lady in the neighborhood, she dismissed 
 him without appeal. And the worst of it was 
 that, much as the poor colonel's mouth watered at 
 the feasts and festivities of the Lambert mansion, 
 he was prevented by the fatality of his position 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 31 
 
 from taking any part in them. So Edith conld 
 find no peace either at home or abroad ; and if it 
 dwelt not in her own heart, she was indeed for- 
 lorn. 
 
 What may have been the cost of all this dissi- 
 pation it was difficult to say, but several observant 
 persons were of opinion that the parson's income 
 could not long stand it. There were rumors that 
 he had heavy bills owing in several quarters, 
 which he could pay only by realizing some of his 
 investments. On the other hand, it was said that 
 he played high and constantly, and usually had 
 the devil's luck. But it is impossible to gauge 
 the truth of such stories, and the Wicked Parson 
 himself took no pains either to deny or confirm 
 them. He was always the loudest, the gayest, 
 and the most reckless of his company, and the 
 leader and inspirer of all their wild proceedings ; 
 but it was noticed that, though he laughed often, 
 he never smiled ; and that his face, when in re- 
 pose, bore traces of anything but happiness. For 
 I some cause or other, moreover — but whether 
 1 maliciously or remorsefully was open to ques- 
 tion — he never entirely laid aside his clerical 
 j garb ; he seemed either to delight in profaning it, 
 
32 BAVID POIKDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 
 
 or to retain it as the reminder and scourge of his 
 own wickedness. 
 
 One night there was a great gathering up at 
 the mansion, and the noise and music were kept 
 up till well past the small hours of the morning. 
 Gradually the guests departed, some going toward 
 London, some elsewhere. At last only Harwood 
 Courtney remained, and he and David sat down 
 in the empty dining-room, disorderly with the re- 
 mains of the carousal, to play picquet. They 
 played, with short intermissions, for nearly 
 twenty-four hours. At last David threw down 
 his cards, and said, quietly : 
 
 ^^Well, that's all. Give me until to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " With all the pleasure in life, my boy," re- 
 plied the other ; " and your revenge, too, if you 
 like. Meanwhile, the best thing we can do is to 
 take a nap." 
 
 You may do so if you please," said David ; 
 " for my part, I must take a turn on horseback 
 first. I can never sleep till I have breathed fresh 
 air." 
 
 They parted accordingly, Courtney going to 
 his room, and David to the stables, whence he 
 
DAVID POmDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 33 
 
 presently issued, mounted on his bay mare, and 
 rode eastward. On his way he passed Colonel 
 Saltine's house, and drew rein for a moment be- 
 side it, looking up at Edith's window. It was 
 between four and five o'clock of a morning in 
 early April ; the sky was clear, and all was still 
 and peaceful. As he sat in the saddle looking up, 
 the blind of the window was raised and the sash 
 itself opened, and Edith, in her white night-dress, 
 with her heavy brown hair falling round her face 
 and on her shoulders, gazed out. She regarded 
 him with a half-bewildered expression, as if doubt- 
 ing of his reality, For a moment they remained 
 thus ; then he waved his hand to her with a wild 
 gesture of farewell, and rode on, passing imme- 
 diately ont of sight behind the dark foliage of the 
 cedar of Lebanon. 
 
 On reaching the London high-road the horse- 
 man paused once more, and seemed to hesitate 
 what course to pursue ; but finally he turned to 
 the right, and rode in a southerly direction. The 
 road wound gently, and dipped and rose to cross 
 low hills ; trees bordered the way on each side ; 
 and as the sun rose they threw long shadows west- 
 ward, while the birds warbled and twittered in 
 
34 DAVID POINDEXTER'8 UISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 the fields and hedges. By-and-by a clump of 
 woodland came into view about half a mile off, 
 the road passing through the midst of it. As Da- 
 vid entered it at one end, he saw, advancing to- 
 ward him through the shade and sunlight, a rider 
 mounted on a black horse. The latter seemed to 
 be a very spirited animal, and as David drew near 
 it suddenly shied and reared so violently that any 
 but a practiced horseman would have been un- 
 seated. No catastrophe occurred, however, and a 
 moment afterward the two cavaliers were face to 
 face. No sooner had their eyes met than, as if 
 by a common impulse, they both drew rein, and 
 set staring at each other with a curiosity which 
 merged into astonishment. At length the stranger 
 on the black horse gave a short laugh, and 
 said : 
 
 " I perceive that the same strange thing has 
 struck us both, sir. If you won't consider it un- 
 civil, I should like to know who you are. My 
 name is Giovanni Lambert." 
 
 " Giovanni Lambert," repeated David, with a 
 slight involuntary movement ; " unless I am mis- 
 taken, I have heard mention of you. But you 
 are not Italian?" 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 35 
 
 " Only on my mother's side. Bnt you have 
 the advantage of me." 
 
 " You will understand that I could not have 
 heard of you without feehng a strong desire to 
 meet you," said David, dismounting as he spoke. 
 " It is, I think, the only desire left me in the 
 world. I had marked this wood, as I came along, 
 as an inviting place to rest in. Would it suit you 
 to spend an hour here, where we can converse bet- 
 ter at our ease than in saddle ; or does time press 
 you ? As for me, I have little more to do with 
 time." 
 
 " I am at your service, sir, with pleasure," re- 
 turned the other, leaping lightly to the ground, 
 and revealing by the movement a pair of small 
 pistols attached to the belt beneath his blue riding 
 surtout. It was in my mind, also, to stretch my 
 legs and take a pull at my pipe, for, early as it is, 
 I have ridden far this morning." 
 
 At the point where they had halted a green 
 lane branched off into the depths of the wood, 
 and down this they passed, leading their horses. 
 When they were out of sight of the road they 
 made their animals fast in such a way that they 
 could crop the grass, and themselves reclined at 
 
36 DAVID POINDEXTEWS DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 the foot of a broad-limbed oak, and they remained 
 in converse there for upward of an hour. 
 
 In fact, it must been several hours later (for 
 the sun was high in the heavens) when one of 
 them issued from the wood. He was mounted on 
 a black horse, and wore a blue surtout and high 
 boots. After looking up and down the road, and 
 assuring himself that no one was in sight, he 
 turned his horse's head toward London, and set 
 off at a round canter. Coming to a cross-road, he 
 turned to the right, and rode for an hour in that 
 direction, crossing the Thames near Hampton 
 Wick. In the afternoon he entered London from 
 the south, and put up at an obscure hostelry. 
 Having seen his horse attended to, and eaten 
 something himself, he went to bed and slept 
 soundly for eighteen hours. On awaking, he ate 
 heartily again, and spent the rest of the day in 
 writing and arranging a quantity of documents 
 that were packed in his saddle-bags. The next 
 morning early he paid his reckoning, rode across 
 London Bridge, and shaped his course toward the 
 west. 
 
 Meanwhile the town of Witton was in vast 
 perturbation. When Mr. Harwood Courtney 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. Z\ 
 
 woke up late in the afternoon, and came yawning 
 down-stairs to get his breakfast, he learned, in an- 
 swer to his inquiries, that nothing had been seen 
 of David Poindexter since he rode away thirteen 
 hours ago. Mr. Courtney expressed anxiety at 
 this news, and dispatched his own valet and one of 
 David's grooms to make investigations in the 
 neighborhood. These two personages investigated 
 to such good purpose that before night the whole 
 neighborhood was aware that David Poindexter 
 had disappeared. By the next morning it became 
 evident that something had happened to the 
 Wicked Parson, and some people ventured to 
 opine that the thing which had happened to him 
 was that he had run away. And indeed it was 
 astonishing to find to how many worthy people 
 this evil-minded parson was in debt. Every 
 other man you met had a bill against the Eev- 
 erend David Poindexter in his pocket; and as 
 the day wore on, and still no tidings of the 
 missing man were received, individuals of the 
 sheriff and bailiff species began to be distinguish- 
 able amid the crowd. But the great sensation 
 was yet to come. How the report started no one 
 knew, but toward supper-time it passed from 
 
38 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 month to mouth that Mr. Harwood Courtney, in 
 the course of his twenty-four hours of picquet 
 with Poindexter, had won from the latter not his 
 ready money alone, but the entire property and 
 estates that had accrued to him as nearest of kin 
 to the late David Lambert. And it was added 
 that, as the debt was a gambling transaction, and 
 therefore not technically recoverable by process of 
 law, Mr. Courtney was naturally very anxious for 
 his debtor to put in an appearance. Now it so 
 happened that this report, unlike many others 
 ostensibly more plausible, was true in every par- 
 ticular. 
 
 Probably there was more gossip at the supper- 
 tables of Witton that night than in any other town 
 of ten times the size in the United Kingdom ; and 
 it was formally agreed that Poindexter had escaped 
 to the Continent, and would either remain in hid- 
 ing there, or take passage by the first opportunity 
 to the American colonies, or the United States, 
 as they had now been called for some years past. 
 Nobody defended the reverend apostate, but, on 
 the other hand, nobody pretended to be sorry for 
 Mr, Harwood Courtney ; it was generally agreed 
 that they had both of them got what they de- 
 
DAVID FOINDBXTBR'S DISAPPJ^ARANCE. 39 
 
 served. The only question was. What was to be- 
 come of the property ? Some people said it ought 
 to belong to Edith Saltine ; but of course poetical 
 justice of that kind was not to be expected. 
 
 Edith, meanwhile, had kept herself strictly 
 secluded. She was the last person who had seen 
 David Poindexter, but she had mentioned the 
 fact to no one. She was also the only person who 
 did not believe that he had escaped, but who felt 
 convinced that he was dead, and that he had died 
 by his own hand. That gesture of farewell and 
 of despair which he had made to her as he van- 
 ished behind the cedar of Lebanon had for her a 
 significance capable of only one interpretation. 
 Were he alive, he would have returned. 
 
 On the evening of the day following the 
 events just recorded, the solitude of her room 
 suddenly became terrible to Edith, and she was 
 irresistibly impelled to dress herself and go forth 
 in the open air. She wound a veil about her 
 head, and, avoiding the main thoroughfare, slipped 
 out of the town unperceived, and gained the free 
 country. After a while she found herself ap- 
 proaching a large tree, which spread its branches 
 across a narrow lane that made a short-cut to the 
 
40 ^AVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE 
 
 London highway. Beneath the tree was a natural 
 seat, formed of a fragment of stone, and here 
 David and she had often met and sat. It was a 
 mild, still evening; she sat down on the stone, 
 and removed her veil. The moon, then in its 
 first quarter, was low in the west, and shone be- 
 neath the branches of the tree. 
 
 Presently she was aware — though not by any 
 sound — that some one was approaching, and she 
 drew back in the shadow of the tree. Down the 
 lane came a horseman, mounted on a tall, black 
 horse. The outline of his figure and the manner 
 in which he rode fixed Edith's gaze as if by a 
 spell, and made the blood hum in her ears. Near- 
 er he came, and now his face was discernible in 
 the level moonlight. It was impossible to mis- 
 take that countenance : the horseman was David 
 Poindexter. His costume, however, was differ- 
 ent from any he had ever before worn ; there was 
 nothing clerical about it ; nor was that black horse 
 from the Poindexter stables. Then, too, how 
 noiselessly he rode ! — as noiselessly as a ghost. 
 That, however, must have been because his 
 horse's hoofs fell on the soft turf. He rode 
 slowly, and his head was bent as if in thought ; 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 41 
 
 but almost before Edith could draw her breath, 
 much less to speak, he had passed beneath the 
 boughs of the tree, and was riding on toward 
 the village. Now he had vanished in the vague 
 light and shadow, and a moment later Edith 
 began to doubt whether her senses had not 
 played her a trick. A superstitious horror fell 
 upon her; what she had seen was a spirit, not 
 living flesh and blood. She knelt down by the 
 stone, and remained for a long time with her 
 face hidden upon her arms, and her hands clasped, 
 sometimes praying, sometimes wondering and 
 fearing. At last she rose to her feet, and hastened 
 homeward through the increasing darkness. But 
 before she had reached her house she had discov- 
 ered that what she had seen was no ghost. The 
 whole village was in a fever of excitement. 
 
 Everybody was full of the story. An hour 
 ago who should appear riding quietly up the vil- 
 lage street but David Poindexter himself — at 
 least, if it were not he, it was the devil. He 
 seemed to take little notice of the astonished 
 glances that were thrown at him, or, at any rate, 
 not to understand them. Instead of going to the 
 Lambert mansion, he had alighted at the inn, and 
 
42 DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 asked the innkeeper whether he might have lodg- 
 ing there. But when the innkeeper, who had 
 known the reverend gentleman as well as he knew 
 his own sign-board, had addressed him by name, 
 the other had shaken his head, seemed perplexed, 
 and had affirmed that his name was not Poindex- 
 ter but Lambert ; and had added, upon further in- 
 quiry, that he was the onlj^ son of David Lam- 
 bert, and was come to claim that gentleman's 
 property, to which he was by law entitled; in 
 proof whereof he had produced various documents, 
 among them the certificates of his mother's 
 marriage and of his own birth. As to David 
 Poindexter, he declared that he knew not there 
 was such a person ; and although no man in his 
 senses could be made to believe that David Poin- 
 dexter and this so-called Lambert were twain, and 
 not one and the same individual, the latter stoutly 
 maintained his story, and vowed that the truth 
 would sooner or later appear and confirm him. 
 Meanwhile, however, one of his creditors had had 
 him arrested for a debt of eight hundred pounds ; 
 and Harwood Courtney had seen him, and said that 
 he was ready to pledge his salvation that the man 
 was Poindexter and nobody else. So here the 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 43 
 
 matter rested for the present. But wlio ever 
 heard of so strange and audacious an attempt at 
 imposition ? The man had not even made any ef- 
 fort to disguise himself further than to put on a 
 different suit of clothes and get another horse; 
 and why, in the name of all that was inconceivable, 
 had he come back to Witton, instead of going to 
 any other part of the earth's surface ? What 
 could he expect here, except immediate detection, 
 imprisonment, and ruin ? Was he insane ? He 
 did not seem to be so ; but that interpretation of 
 his conduct was not only the most charitable one, 
 but no other could be imagined that would ac- 
 count for the facts. 
 
 Witton slept but little that night ; but who 
 shall describe its bewilderment when, early in the 
 morning, a constable arrived in the village with 
 the news that the dead body of the Eeverend Da- 
 vid Poindexter had been found in some woods 
 about fifteen miles off, and that his bay mare had 
 been picked up grazing along the roadside not far 
 from home! Upon the heels of this intelligence 
 came the corpse itself, lying in a country wagon, 
 and the bay mare trotting behind. It was taken 
 out and placed on the table in the inn parlor, 
 
44 I>AVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 
 
 where it immediately became the center of a 
 crowd half crazy with curiosity and amazement. 
 The cause of death was found to be the breaking 
 of the vertebral column jurt at the base of the 
 neck. There was no other injury on the body, 
 and, allowing for the natural changes incident to 
 death, the face was in every particular the face of 
 David Poindexter. The man who called himself 
 Lambert was now brought into the room, and 
 made to stand beside the corpse, which he re- 
 garded with a certain calm interest. The resem 
 blance between the two was minute and astonish- 
 ing ; it was found to be impossible, upon that evi- 
 dence alone, to decide which was David Poin- 
 dexter. 
 
 The matter was brought to trial as promptly 
 as possible. A great number of witnesses iden- 
 tified the prisoner as David Poindexter, but those 
 who had seen the corpse mostly gave their evi- 
 dence an opposite inclination; and four persons 
 (one of them the gray-eyed gentleman who has 
 been already mentioned) swore positively that the 
 prisoner was Giovanni Lambert, the gray-eyed 
 gentleman adding that he had once met Poindex- 
 ter^ and had confidently taken him to be Lanibert, 
 
JDA VID POINBEXTER 'S DISAPPEARANCE, 45 
 
 An attempt was then made to prove that Lambert 
 had murdered Poindexter ; but it entirely failed, 
 there being no evidence that the two men had 
 ever so much as met, and there being no conceiv- 
 able motive for the murder. Lambert, therefore, 
 was permitted to enter undisturbed upon his in- 
 heritance ; for he had no difficulty in establishing 
 the fact of the elder Lambert's marriage to an 
 Italian woman twenty-three years before. The 
 marriage had been a secret one, and soon after a 
 violent quarrel had taken place between the wife 
 and husband, and they had separated. The fol- 
 lowing month Giovanni was born prematurely. 
 He had seen his father but once. The quarrel 
 was never made up, but Lambert sent his wife, 
 from time to time, money enough for her sup- 
 port. She had died about ten years ago, and had 
 given her son the papers to establish his identity, 
 telling him that the day would come to use them. 
 Giovanni had been a soldier, fighting against the 
 French in Spain and elsewhere, and had only 
 heard of his father's death a few weeks ago. He 
 had thereupon come to claim his own, with the 
 singular results that we have seen. 
 
 Here was the end of the case, so far as the law 
 
46 DAVID POINDEXTER'8 DISAPPEARANCE, 
 
 was concerned; but the real end of it is worth 
 noting. Lambert, by his own vohmtary act, paid 
 all the legal debts contracted by Poindexter, and 
 gave Courtney, in settlement of the gambling 
 transaction, a sum of fifty thousand pounds. The 
 remainder of his fortune, which was still consid- 
 erable, he devoted almost entirely to charitable 
 purposes, doing so much genuine good, in a man- 
 ner so hearty and unassuming, that he became the 
 object of more personal affection than falls to the 
 lot of most philanthropists. He was of a quiet, 
 sad, and retiring disposition, and uniformly very 
 sparing of words. After a year or so, circum- 
 stances brought it about that he and Miss Saltine 
 were associated in some benevolent enterprise, 
 and from that time forward they often consulted 
 together in such matters, Lambert making her the 
 medium of many of his benefactions. Of course 
 the gossips were ready to predict that it would end 
 with a marriage; and indeed it was impossible 
 to see the two together (though both of them, and 
 especially Edith, had altered somewhat with the 
 passage of years) without being reminded of the 
 former love affair in which Lambert's double had 
 been the hero. Did this also occur to Edith ? It 
 
DAVID POINBEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 47 
 
 could hardly have been otherwise, and it would be 
 interesting to speculate on her feelings in the mat- 
 ter; but I have only the story to tell. At all 
 events^ they never did marry, though they became 
 very tender friends. At the end of seven years 
 Colonel Saltine died of jaundice ; he had been 
 failing in his mind for some time previous, and 
 had always addressed Lambert as Poindexter, and 
 spoken of him as his son-in-law. The year fol- 
 lowing Lambert himself died, after a brief illness. 
 He left all his property to Edith. She survived 
 to her seventieth year, making it the business of 
 her life to carry out his philanthropic schemes, 
 and she always dressed in widows' weeds. After 
 her death, the following passage was found in one 
 of her private journals. It refers to her last inter- 
 view with Lambert, on his death-bed : 
 
 " . . . . He smiled, and said, ' You will be- 
 lieve, now, that I was sincere in renouncing the 
 ministry, though I have tried to serve the Lord in 
 other ways than from the pulpit.' I felt a shock 
 in my heart, and could hardly say, ^ What do you 
 mean, Mr. Lambert ? ' He replied, ' Surely, Edith, 
 your soul knows, if your reason does not, that I 
 am David Poindexter!' I could not speaks I 
 
48 J) AVID POINBEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE, 
 
 hid my face in my hands. After a while, in sepa- 
 rate sentences, he told me the trnth. When he 
 rode forth on that dreadful morning it was with 
 the purpose to die. But he met on the road this 
 Giovanni Lambert, who so marvelously resem- 
 bled him, and they sat down together in the wood 
 and talked, and Giovanni told him all the story of 
 his life. ... As Giovanni was about to mount 
 his horse, which was very restive, he saw a violet 
 in the grass, and stooped to pick it. The horse 
 lashed out with its heels, and struck him in the 
 back of the neck and killed him. . . . Then the 
 idea came to David to exchange clothes with the 
 dead man, and to take his papers, and personate 
 him. Thus, he could escape from the individu- 
 ality which was his curse, and find his true self, as 
 it were, in another person. He said, too, that his 
 greatest hope had been to win my love and make 
 me his wife; but he found that he could not 
 bring himself to attempt that, unless he confessed 
 his falsehood to me, and he had feared that this 
 confession would turn me from him forever. I 
 wept, and told him that my heart had been his al- 
 most from the first, because I always thought of 
 him as David, and that I would have loved him 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
DAVID POINDEXTER'S DISAPPEARANCE. 49 
 
 through all things. He said, ' Then God has been 
 more merciful to me than I deserve ; but, doubt- 
 less, it is also of His mercy that we have remained 
 unmarried.' But I was in an agony, and could 
 not yet be reconciled. At last he said, ' Will you 
 kiss me, Edith?' and afterward he said, 'Mj 
 wife ! ' and that was his last word. But we shall 
 meet again!" 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 One cool October evening — it was the last 
 day of the month, and unusually cool for the time 
 of year — I made up my mind to go and spend 
 an hour or two with my friend Keningale. 
 Keningale was an artist (as well as a musical 
 amateur and poet), and had a very delightful 
 studio built onto his house, in which he was wont 
 to sit of an evening. The studio had a cavernous 
 fire-place, designed in imitation of the old-fash- 
 ioned fire-places of Elizabethan manor-houses, and 
 in it, when the temperature out-doors warranted, 
 he would build up a cheerful fire of dry logs. It 
 would salt me particularly well, I thought, to go 
 and have a quiet pipe and chat in front of that 
 fire with my friend. 
 
 I had not had such a chat for a very long time 
 — ^not, in fact, since Keningale (or Ken, as his 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 51 
 
 friends called him) had returned from his visit to 
 Europe the year before. He went abroad, as he 
 affirmed at the time, "for purposes of study," 
 whereat we all smiled, for Ken, so far as we knew 
 him, was more likely to do anything else than to 
 study. He was a young fellow of buoyant tem- 
 perament, lively and social in his habits, of a brill- 
 iant and versatile mind, and possessing an income 
 of twelve or fifteen thousand dollars a year; he 
 could sing, play, scribble, and paint very cleverly, 
 and some of his heads and figure-pieces were really 
 well done, considering that he never had any reg- 
 ular training in art ; but he was not a worker. 
 Personally he was fine-looking, of good height 
 and figure, active, healthy, and with a remarkably 
 fine brow, and clear, full-gazing eye. Nobody 
 was surprised at his going to Europe, nobody ex- 
 pected him to do anything there except amuse 
 himself, and few anticipated that he would be 
 soon again seen in New York. He was one of the 
 sort that find Europe agree with them. Oflf he 
 went, therefore ; and in the course of a few months 
 the rumor reached us that he was engaged to a 
 handsome and wealthy New York girl whom he had 
 met in London. This was nearly all we did hear 
 
52 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 of Mm until, not very long afterward, he turned 
 up again on Fifth Avenue, to every one's aston- 
 ishment ; made no satisfactory answer to those 
 who wanted to know how he happened to tire so 
 soon of the Old World ; while, as to the reported 
 engagement, he cut short all allusion to that in so 
 peremptory a manner as to show that it was not 
 a permissible topic of conversation with him. It 
 was surmised that the lady had jilted him ; but, 
 on the other hand, she herself returned home not 
 a great while after, and, though she had plenty of 
 opportunities, she has never married to this day. 
 
 Be the rights of that matter what they may, 
 it was soon remarked that Ken was no longer the 
 careless and merry fellow he used to be ; on the 
 contrary, he appeared grave, moody, averse from 
 general society, and habitually taciturn and unde- 
 monstrative even in the company of his most inti- 
 mate friends. Evidently something had happened 
 to him, or he had done something. What ? Had 
 he committed a murder ? or joined the Nihilists ? 
 or was his unsuccessful love affair at the bottom 
 of it? Some declared that the cloud was only 
 temporary, and would soon pass away. Neverthe- 
 less, up to the period of which I am writing, it had 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 53 
 
 not passed away, but had rather gathered addi- 
 tional gloom, and threatened to become perma- 
 nent. 
 
 Meanwhile I had met him twice or thrice at the 
 club, at the opera, or in the street, but had as yet 
 had no opportunity of regularly renewing my ac- 
 quaintance with him. We had been on a footing 
 of more than common intimacy in the old days, 
 and I was not disposed to think that he would re- 
 fuse to renew the former relations now. But what 
 > had heard and myself seen of his changed condi- 
 jon imparted a stimulating tinge of suspense or 
 iiriosity to the pleasure with which I looked for- 
 .^ard to the prospects of this evening. His house 
 ;tood at a distance of two or three miles beyond the 
 general range of habitations in New York at this 
 time, and as I walked briskly along in the clear 
 twilight air I had leisure to go over in my mind 
 all that I had known of Ken and had divined of 
 his character. After all, had there not always 
 been something in his nature — deep down, and 
 held in abeyance by the activity of his animal 
 spirits — but something strange and separate, and 
 capable of developing under suitable conditions 
 into — into what? As I asked myself this ques- 
 
54 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 tion I arrived at liis door ; and it was with a feel- 
 ing of relief that I felt the next moment the cor- 
 dial grasp of his hand, and his voice bidding 
 me welcome in a tone that indicated unaifected 
 gratification at my presence. He drew me at once 
 into the studio, relieved me of my hat and cane, 
 and then put his hand on my shoulder. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," he repeated, with 
 singular earnestness — "glad to see you and to 
 feel you ; and to-night of all nights in the year." 
 
 " Why to-night especially ? " 
 
 " Oh, never mind. It's just as well, too, yc 
 didn't let me know beforehand you were coming 
 the unreadiness is all, to paraphrase the poe 
 Now, with you to help me, I can drink a glass o. 
 whisky and water and take a bit draw of the 
 pipe. This would have been a grim night for 
 me if I'd been left to myself." 
 
 " In such a lap of luxury as this, too ! " said I, 
 looking round at the glowing fire-place, the low, 
 luxurious chairs, and all the rich and sumptuous 
 fittings of the room. ^' I should have thought a 
 condemned murderer might make himself com- 
 fortable here." 
 
 " Perhaps ; but that's not exactly my category 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 55 
 
 at present. But have you forgotten what niglit 
 this is? This is November-eve, when, as tradi- 
 tion asserts, the dead arise and walk about, and 
 .fairies, gobhns, and spiritual beings of all kinds 
 Ijiave more freedom and power than on any other 
 diay of the year. One can see you've never been 
 i p Ireland." 
 
 I " I wasn't aware till now that you had been 
 
 tj^ere, either." 
 
 " Yes, I have been in Ireland. Yes — " He 
 
 " ilaused, sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which, 
 Ib 
 
 i)wever, he soon roused himself by an effort, and 
 w (Cnt to a cabinet in a corner of the room for the 
 li Iquor and tobacco. "While he was thus employed 
 1 1 sauntered about the studio, taking note of the 
 ' parlous beauties, grotesquenesses, and curiosities 
 /that it contained. Many things were there to re- 
 / pay study and arouse admiration ; for Ken was a 
 / good collector, having excellent taste as well as 
 / means to back it. But, upon the whole, nothing 
 interested me more than some studies of a female 
 head, roughly done in oils, and, judging from the 
 sequestered positions in which I found them, not 
 intended by the artist for exhibition or criticism. 
 There were three or four of these studies, all of 
 
56 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 the same face, but in different poses and costumes. 
 In one tlie head was enveloped in a dark hood, over- 
 shadowing and partly concealing the features ; in. 
 another she seemed to be peering duskily througlji 
 a latticed casement, lit by a faint moonlight; 
 third showed her splendidly attired in eveninj^T 
 costume, with jewels in her hair and ears, anc i 
 sparkling on her snowy bosom. The expression; 5 
 were as various as the poses ; now it was demur-^e 
 penetration, now a subtle inviting glance, noT v 
 burning passion, and again a look of elfish an^ d 
 elusive mockery. In whatever phase, the countf' a- 
 nance possessed a singular and poignant fascin? a- 
 tion, not of beauty merely, though that wa .s 
 very striking, but of character and quality like - 
 wise. 
 
 " Did you find this model abroad ? " I in- 
 quired at length. "She has evidently inspired 
 you, and I don't wonder at it." 
 
 Ken, who had been mixing the punch, and 
 had not noticed my movements, now looked 
 up, and said : " I didn't mean those to be seen. 
 They don't satisfy me, and I am going to 
 destroy them; but I couldn't rest till I'd made 
 some attempts to reproduce — What was it you 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 57 
 
 asked? Abroad? Yes — or no. They were all 
 
 painted here within the last six weeks." 
 
 " Whether they satisfy you or not, they are by 
 
 i]ar the best things of yours I have ever seen." 
 
 I " Well, let them alone, and tell me what you 
 tlhink of this beverage. To my thinking, it goes 
 tlo the right spot. It owes its existence to your 
 (Tjoming here. I can't drink alone, and those por- 
 maits are not company, though, for aught I know, 
 s^jhe might have come out of the canvas to-night 
 a ind sat down in that chair." Then, seeing my 
 i^inquiring look, he added, with a hasty laugh. 
 It's November-eve, you know, when anything 
 
 may happen, provided its strange enough. Well, 
 
 here's to ourselves." 
 
 We each swallowed a deep draught of the 
 
 smoking and aromatic liquor, and set down our 
 
 glasses with approval. The punch was excellent. 
 
 Ken now opened a box of cigars, and we seated 
 
 ourselves before the fire-place. 
 
 All we need now," I remarked, after a short 
 
 silence, " is a little music. By-the-by, Ken, have 
 
 you still got the banjo I gave you before you went 
 
 abroad?" 
 
 He paused so long before replying that I sup- 
 
58 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 posed he had not heard my question. I have 
 got it," he said, at length, " but it will never make 
 any more music." ^ 
 Got broken, eh ? Can't it be mended ? Pt 
 was a fine instrument." 
 
 " It's not broken, but it's past mending. Yoi\ 
 shall see for yourself." 
 
 He arose as he spoke, and going to another par/h 
 of the studio, opened a black oak coJffer, and took^: 
 out of it a long object wrapped up in a piece o:^ f 
 faded yellow silk. He handed it to me, and whei' i 
 I had unwrapped it, there appeared a thing thai c 
 might once have been a banjo, but had little re - 
 semblance to one now. It bore every sign o^ ; 
 extreme age. The wood of the handle was honey-' 
 combed with the gnawings of worms, and dusty 
 with dry-rot. The parchment head was green 
 with mold, and hung in shriveled tatters. The 
 hoop, which was of solid silver, was so blackened 
 and tarnished that it looked like dilapidated iron. 
 The strings were gone, and most of the tuning- 
 screws had dropped out of their decayed sockets. 
 Altogether it had the appearance of having been 
 made before the Flood, and been forgotten in the 
 forecastle of Noah's Ark ever since. 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 59 
 
 ^^It is a curious relic, certainly," I said. 
 " Where did you come across it ? I had no idea 
 that the banjo was invented so long ago as this. 
 It certainly can't be less than two hundred years 
 old, and may be much older than that." 
 
 Ken smiled gloomily. " You are quite right," 
 h^ said ; " it is at least two hundred years old, and 
 yet it is the very same banjo that you gave me a 
 ypar ago." 
 
 ) "Hardly," I returned, smiling in my turn, 
 "I since that was made to my order with a view to 
 presenting it to you." 
 
 j "I know that; but the two hundred years 
 have passed since then. Yes ; it is absurd and 
 i mpossible, I know, but nothing is truer. That 
 )oanjo, which was made last year, existed in the 
 jsixteenth century, and has been rotting ever since. 
 j Stay. Give it to me a moment, and I'll convince 
 ] you. You recollect that your name and mine, 
 with the date, were engraved on the silver hoop ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and there was a private mark of my 
 own there, also." 
 
 " Very well," said Ken, who had been rubbing 
 a place on the hoop with a corner of the yellow 
 silk wrapper ; " look at that." 
 
60 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 I took the decrepit instrument from him, and 
 examined the spot which he had rubbed. It was 
 incredible, sure enough ; but there were the names 
 and the date precisely as I had caused them to be 
 engraved ; and there, moreover, was my own pri- 
 vate mark, which I had idly made with an old 
 etching point not more than eighteen months be- 
 fore. After convincing myself that there was no 
 mistake, I laid the banjo across my knees, and 
 stared at my friend in bewilderment. He sat 
 smoking with a kind of grim composure, his eyes 
 fixed upon the blazing logs. 
 
 " I'm mystified, I confess," said I. " Com^ ; 
 what is the joke? What method have you dig?- 
 covered of producing the decay of centuries oil 
 this unfortunate banjo in a few months? And 
 why did you do it ? I have heard of an elixir to 
 counteract the effects of time, but your recipel 
 seems to work the other way — to make time rush | 
 forward at two hundred times his usual rate, in | 
 one place, while he jogs on at his usual gait else- ^ 
 where. Unfold your mystery, magician. Seri- 
 ously, Ken, how on earth did the thing happen ? " 
 
 " I know no more about it than you do," was 
 his reply. " Either you and I and all the rest of 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 61 
 
 the living world are insane, or else there has been 
 wrought a miracle as strange as any in tradition. 
 How can I explain it ? It is a common saying — 
 a common experience, if you will — that we may, 
 on certain trying or tremendous occasions, live 
 years in one moment. But that's a mental ex- 
 perience, not a physical one, and one that applies, 
 at all events, only to human beings, not to sense- 
 less things of wood and metal. You imagine the 
 thing is some trick or jugglery. If it be, I don't 
 know the secret of it. There's no chemical appli- 
 ance that I ever heard of that will get a piece of 
 solid wood into that condition in a few months, or a 
 few years. And it wasn't done in a few years, or 
 a few months either. A year ago to-day at this 
 very hour that banjo was as sound as when it left 
 the maker's hands, and twenty-four hours after- 
 ward — I'm telling you the simple truth — it was as 
 you see it now." 
 
 The gravity and earnestness with which Ken 
 made this astounding statement were evidently 
 not assumed. He believed every word that he 
 uttered. I knew not what to think. Of course 
 my friend might be insane, though he betrayed 
 none of the ordinary symptoms of mania; but, 
 
62 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 however that might be, there was the banjo, a wit- 
 ness whose silent testimony there was no gainsay- 
 ing. The more I meditated on the matter the more 
 inconceivable did it appear. Two hundred years 
 — twenty-four honrs ; these were the terms of the 
 proposed equation. Ken and the banjo both af- 
 firmed that the equation had been made ; all 
 worldly knowledge and experience affirmed it to 
 be impossible. What was the explanation ? "What 
 is time ? What is life ? I felt myself beginning 
 to doubt the reality of all things. And so this 
 was the mystery which my friend had been brood- 
 ing over since his return from abroad. No won- 
 der it had changed him. More to be wondered at 
 was it that it had not changed him more. 
 
 "Can you tell me the whole story?" I de- 
 manded at length. 
 
 Ken quaffed another draught from his glass of 
 whisky and water and rubbed his hand through 
 his thick brown beard. " I have never spoken to 
 any one of it heretofore," he said, " and I had 
 never meant to speak of it. But I'll try and give 
 you some idea of what it w^as. You know me bet- 
 ter than any one else ; you'll understand the thing 
 as far as it can ever be understood, and perhaps I 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 63 
 
 may be relieved of some of the oppression it has 
 caused me. For it is rather a ghastly memory to 
 grapple with alone, I can tell yon." 
 
 Hereupon, without further preface. Ken re- 
 lated the following tale. He was, I may observe 
 in passing, a naturally line narrator. There were 
 deep, lingering tones in his voice, and he could 
 strikingly enhance the comic or pathetic effect of 
 a sentence by dwelling here and there upon some 
 syllable. His features were equally susceptible of 
 humorous and of solemn expressions, and his eyes 
 were in form and hue wonderfully adapted to 
 showing great varieties of emotion. Their mourn- 
 ful aspect was extremely earnest and affecting ; 
 and when Ken was giving utterance to some mys- 
 terious passage of the tale they had a doubtful, 
 melancholy, exploring look which appealed irre- 
 sistibly to the imagination. But the interest of 
 his story was too pressing to allow of noticing 
 these incidental embellishments at the time, 
 though they doubtless had their influence upon 
 me all the same. 
 
 I left New York on an Inman Line steamer^ 
 you remember," began Ken, " and landed at 
 Havre. I went the usual round of sight-seeing 
 
64 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 on the Continent, and got round to London in 
 July, at the height of the season. I had good in- 
 troductions, and met any number of agreeable 
 and famous people. Among others was a young 
 lady, a countrywoman of my own — you know 
 whom I mean — who interested me very much, 
 and before her family left London she and I w^ere 
 engaged. We parted there for the time, because 
 she had the Continental trip still to make, while I 
 wanted to take the opportunity to visit the north 
 of England and Ireland. I landed at Dublin 
 about the 1st of October, and, zigzagging about 
 the country, I found myself in County Cork about 
 two weeks later. 
 
 " There is in that region some of the most lovely 
 scenery that human eyes ever rested on, and it seems 
 to be less known to tourists than many places of 
 infinitely less picturesque value. A lonely region 
 too : during my rambles I met not a single stran- 
 ger like myself, and few enough natives. It 
 seems incredible that so beautiful a country 
 should be so deserted. After walking a dozen 
 Irish miles you come across a group of two or 
 three one-roomed cottages, and, like as not, one or 
 more of those will have the roof off and the walls 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 65 
 
 in ruins. The few peasants whom one sees, how- 
 ever, are affable and hospitable, especially when 
 they hear you are from that terrestrial heaven 
 whither most of their friends and relatives have 
 gone before them. They seem simple and primi- 
 tive enough at first sight, and yet they are as 
 strange and incomprehensible a race as any in the 
 world. They are as superstitious, as credulous of 
 marvels, fairies, magicians, and omens, as the men 
 whom St. Patrick preached to, and at the same 
 time they are shrewd, skeptical, sensible, and 
 bottomless liars. Upon the whole, I met with no 
 nation on my travels whose company I enjoyed 
 so much, or who inspired me with so much kind- 
 liness, curiosity, and repugnance. 
 
 " At length I got to a place on the sea-coast, 
 which I will not further specify than to say that 
 it is not many miles from Ballymacheen, on the 
 south shore. I have seen Venice and Naples, I 
 have driven along the Cornice Eoad, I have spent 
 a month at our own Mount Desert, and I say that 
 all of them together are not so beautiful as this 
 glowing, deep-hued, soft-gleaming, silvery-lighted, 
 ancient harbor and town, with the tall hills crowd- 
 ing round it and the black cliffs and headlands 
 
66 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 planting their iron feet in the bine, transparent 
 sea. It is a very old place, and has had a history 
 which it has outlived ages since. It may once 
 have had two or three thousand inhabitants ; it has 
 scarce five or six hundred to-day. Half the houses 
 are in ruins or have disappeared; many of the 
 remainder are standing empty. All the people 
 are poor, most of them abjectly so ; they saunter 
 about with bare feet and uncovered heads, the 
 women in quaint black or dark-blue cloaks, the 
 men in such anomalous attire as only an Irishman 
 knows how to get together, the children half 
 naked. The only comfortable-looking people are 
 the monks and the priests, and the soldiers in the 
 fort. For there is a fort there, constructed on the 
 huge ruins of one which may have done duty in 
 the reign of Edward the Black Prince, or earlier, 
 in whose mossy embrasures are mounted a couple 
 of cannon, which occasionally sent a practice-shot 
 or two at the cliff on the other side of the harbor. 
 The garrison consists of a dozen men and three or 
 four officers and non-commissioned officers. I 
 suppose they are relieved occasionally, but those 
 I saw seemed to have become component parts of 
 their surroundings. 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 67 
 
 " I put up at a wonderful little old inn, the 
 only one in tlie place, and took my meals in a din- 
 ing-saloon fifteen feet by nine, with a portrait of 
 George I (a print varnished to preserve it) hang- 
 ing over the mantel-piece. On the second evening 
 after dinner a young gentleman came in — the din- 
 ing-saloon being public property of course — and 
 ordered some bread and cheese and a bottle of 
 Dublin stout. We presently fell into talk; he 
 turned out to be an officer from the fort, Lieuten- 
 ant O'Connor, and a fine young specimen of the 
 Irish soldier he was. After telling me all he 
 knew about the town, the surrounding country, 
 his friends, and himself, he intimated a readiness 
 to sympathize with whatever tale I might choose 
 to pour into his ear ; and I had pleasure in trying 
 to rival his own outspokenness. We became ex- 
 cellent friends ; we had up a half -pint of Kina- 
 han's whisky, and the lieutenant expressed himself 
 in terms of high praise of my countrymen, my 
 country, and my own particular cigars. When it 
 became time for him to depart I accompanied 
 him — for there was a splendid moon abroad — and 
 bade him farewell at the fort entrance, having 
 promised to come over the next day and make the 
 
68 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 acquaintance of the other fellows. ^ And mind 
 your eye, now, going back, my dear boy,' he called 
 out, as I turned my face homeward. ' Faith, 'tis a 
 spooky place, that graveyard, and you'll as likely 
 meet the black woman there as anywhere else ! ' 
 
 " The graveyard was a forlorn and barren spot 
 on the hill-side, just the hither side of the fort : 
 thirty or forty rough head-stones, few of which 
 retained any semblance of the perpendicular, 
 while many were so shattered and decayed as to 
 seem nothing more than irregular natural projec- 
 tions from the ground. Who the black woman 
 might be I knew not, and did not stay to inquire. 
 I had never been subject to ghostly apprehensions, 
 and as a matter of fact, though the path I had to 
 follow was in places very bad going, not to men- 
 tion a hap-hazard scramble over a ruined bridge 
 that covered a deep-lying brook, I reached my inn 
 without any adventure whatever. 
 
 " The next day I kept my appointment at the 
 fort, and found no reason to regret it ; and my 
 friendly sentiments were abundantly reciprocated, 
 thanks more especially, perhaps, to the success of 
 my banjo, which I carried with me, and which 
 was as novel as it was popular with those who lis- 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 69 
 
 tened to it. The chief personages in the social 
 circle besides my friend the lieutenant were Major 
 MoUoy, who was in command, a racy and juicy 
 old campaigner, with a face like a sunset, and the 
 surgeon. Dr. Dudeen, a long, dry, humorous gen- 
 ius, with a wealth of anecdotical and traditional 
 lore at his command that I have never seen sur- 
 passed. We had a jolly time of it, and it was the 
 precursor of many more like it. The remains of 
 October slipped away rapidly, and I was obliged 
 to remember that I was a traveler in Europe, and 
 not a resident in Ireland. The major, the sur- 
 geon, and the lieutenant all protested cordially 
 against my proposed departure, but, as there was 
 no help for it, they arranged a farewell dinner to 
 take place in the fort on All-hallo ween. 
 
 " I wish you could have been at that dinner 
 with me! It was the essence of Irish good-fel- 
 lowship. Dr. Dudeen was in great force ; the 
 major was better than the best of Lever's novels ; 
 the lieutenant was overflowing with hearty good- 
 humor, merry chaff, and sentimental rhapsodies 
 anent this or the other pretty girl of the neighbor- 
 hood. For my part I made the banjo ring as it 
 had never rung before, and the others joined in 
 
70 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 the chorus with a mellow strength of lungs such 
 as you don't often hear outside of Ireland. 
 Among the stories that Dr. Diideen regaled us 
 with was one about the Kern of Querin and his 
 wife, Ethelind Fionguala — which being interpreted 
 signifies ' the white-shouldered.' The lady, it ap- 
 pears, was originally betrothed to one O'Connor 
 (here the lieutanant smacked his lips), but was 
 stolen away on the wedding night by a party of 
 vampires, who, it would seem, wwe at that period 
 a prominent feature among the troubles of Ire- 
 land. But as they were bearing her along — she 
 being unconscious — to that supper where she was 
 not to eat but to be eaten, the young Kern of 
 Querin, who happened to be out duck-shooting, 
 met the party, and emptied his gun at it. The 
 vampires fled, and the Kern carried the fair lady, 
 still in a state of insensibility, to his house. ' And 
 by the same token, Mr. Keningale,' observed the 
 doctor, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, ' ye're 
 after passing that very house on your way here. 
 The one with the dark archway underneath it, and 
 the big muUioned window at the corner, ye recol- 
 lect, hanging over the street as I might say — ' 
 " ' Go 'long wid the house. Dr. Dudeen, dear/ 
 
KEN' 8 MYSTERY. 
 
 interrupted the lieutenant ; ' sure can't you see 
 we're all dying to know what happened to sweet 
 Miss Fionguala, God be good to her, when I was 
 after getting her safe up-stairs — ' 
 
 " ' Faith, then, I can tell ye that myself, Mr. 
 O'Connor,' exclaimed the major, imparting a ro- 
 tary motion to the remnants of whisky in his tum- 
 bler. ' 'Tis a question to be solved on general 
 principles, as Colonel O'Halloran said that time he 
 was asked what he'd do if he'd been the Dook o' 
 Wellington, and the Prussians hadn't come up in 
 the nick o' time at Waterloo. ' Faith,' says the 
 colonel, ^I'U tell ye — ' 
 
 " ' Arrah, then, major, why would ye be inter- 
 ruptin' the doctor, and Mr. Keningale there lettin' 
 his glass stay empty till he hears — The Lord 
 save us ! the bottle's empty ! ' 
 
 " In the excitement consequent upon this dis- 
 covery, the thread of the doctor's story was lost ; 
 and before it could be recovered the evening had 
 advanced so far that I felt obliged to withdraw. 
 It took some time to make my proposition heard 
 and comprehended ; and a still longer time to put 
 it in execution ; so that it was fully midnight be- 
 fore I found myself standing in the cool pure air 
 
72 
 
 KEN'S MYSTJEJRY. 
 
 outside the fort, with the farewells of my boon 
 companions ringing in my ears. 
 
 " Considering that it had been rather a wet 
 evening in-doors, I was in a remarkably good state 
 of preservation, and I therefore ascribed it rather 
 to the roughness of the road than to the smoothness 
 of the liquor, when, after advancing a few rods, I 
 stumbled and fell. As I picked myself up I fan- 
 cied I had heard a laugh, and supposed that the 
 lieutenant, w^ho had accompanied me to the gate, 
 was making merry over my mishap ; but on look- 
 ing round I saw that the gate was closed and no 
 one was visible. The laugh, moreover, had seemed 
 to be close at hand, and to be even pitched in a key 
 that was rather feminine than masculine. Of course 
 I must have been deceived ; nobody w^as near me : 
 my imagination had played me a trick, or else 
 there was more truth than poetry in the tradition 
 that Halloween is the carnival-time of disembodied 
 spirits. It did not occur to me at the time that a 
 stumble is held by the superstitious Irish to be an 
 evil omen, and had I remembered it it would only 
 have been to laugh at it. At all events, I was 
 physically none the worse for my fall, and I 
 resumed my way immediately. 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 Y3 
 
 But the path was singularly difficult to find, 
 or rather the path I was following did not seem 
 to be the right one. I did not recognize it ; I 
 could have sworn (except I knew the contrary) 
 that I had never seen it before. The moon had 
 risen, though her light was as yet obscured by 
 clouds, but neither my immediate surroundings 
 nor the general aspect of the region appeared fa- 
 mihar. Dark, silent hill-sides mounted up on 
 either hand, and the road, for the most part, 
 plunged downward, as if to conduct me into the 
 bowels of the earth. The place was alive with 
 strange echoes, so that at times I seemed to be 
 walking through the midst of muttering voices 
 and mysterious whispers, and a wild, faint sound 
 of laughter seemed ever and anon to reverberate 
 among the passes of the hills. Currents of colder 
 air sighing up through narrow defiles and dark 
 crevices touched my face as with airy fingers. A 
 certain feeling of anxiety and insecurity began to 
 take possession of me, though there was no defin- 
 able cause for it, unless that I might be belated in 
 getting home. With the perverse instinct of 
 those who are lost I hastened my steps, but was 
 impelled now and then to glance back over my 
 
74 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 shoulder, with a sensation of being pursued. But 
 no living creature was in sight. The moon, how- 
 ever, had now risen higher, and the clouds that 
 were drifting slowly across the sky flung into the 
 naked valley dusky shadows, which occasionally 
 assumed shapes that looked like the vague sem- 
 blance of gigantic human forms. 
 
 ^'How long I had been hurrying onward I 
 know not, when, with a kind of suddenness, I 
 found myself approaching a graveyard. It was 
 situated on the spur of a hill, and there was no 
 fence around it, nor anything to protect it from 
 the incursions of passers-by. There was some- 
 thing in the general appearance of this spot that 
 made me half fancy I had seen it before ; and I 
 should have taken it to be the same that I had 
 often noticed on my way to the fort, but that the 
 latter was only a few hundred yards distant there- 
 from, whereas I must have traversed several miles 
 at least. As I drew near, moreover, I observed that 
 the head-stones did not appear so ancient and de- 
 cayed as those of the other. But what chiefly at- 
 tracted my attention was the figure that was lean- 
 ing or half sitting upon one of the largest of the 
 upright slabs near the road. It was a female fig- 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 75 
 
 ure draped in black, and a closer inspection — for I 
 was soon within a few yards of her — showed that 
 she wore the calla, or long hooded cloak, the most 
 common as well as the most ancient garment 
 of Irish women, and doubtless of Spanish 
 origin. 
 
 "I was a trifle startled by this apparition, so 
 unexpected as it was, and so strange did it seem 
 that any human creature should be at that hour of 
 the night in so desolate and sinister a place. In- 
 voluntarily I paused as I came opposite her, and 
 gazed at her intently. But the moonlight fell be- 
 hind her, and the deep hood of her cloak so com- 
 pletely shadowed her face that I was unable to 
 discern anything but the sparkle of a pair of eyes, 
 which appeared to be returning my gaze with 
 much vivacity. 
 
 " ' You seem to be at home here,' I said, at 
 length. ^Can you tell me where I am?' 
 
 " Hereupon the mysterious personage broke 
 into a light laugh, which, though in itself musical 
 and agreeable, was of a timbre and intonation that 
 caused my heart to beat rather faster than my late 
 pedestrian exertions warranted ; for it was the 
 identical laugh (or so my imagination persuaded 
 
76 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 me) that had echoed in my ears as I arose from 
 my tumble an hour or two ago. For the restj it 
 was the laugh of a young woman, and presumably 
 of a pretty one ; and yet it had a wild, airy, mock- 
 ing quality, that seemed hardly human at all, or 
 not, at any rate, characteristic of a being of 
 affections and limitations like nnto ours. But 
 this impression of mine was fostered, no doubt, 
 by the unusual and uncanny circumstances of the 
 occasion. 
 
 " ' Sure, sir,' said she, ' you're at the grave of 
 Ethelind Fionguala.' 
 
 " As she spoke she rose to her feet, and pointed 
 to the inscription on the stone. I bent forward, 
 and was able, without much difficulty, to decipher 
 the name, and a date which indicated that the oc- 
 cupant of the grave must have entered the disem- 
 bodied state between two and three centuries ago. 
 
 " ' And who are you ? ' was my next question. 
 
 " ' I'm called Elsie,' she replied. ' But where 
 would your honor be going November-eve ? ' 
 
 " I mentioned my destination, and asked her 
 whether she could direct me thithen 
 
 "'Indeed, then, 'tis there I'm going myself,' 
 Elsie replied 5 ^and if your honor '11 follow me. 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 77 
 
 and play me a tune on the pretty instrument, 
 'tisn't long we'll be on the road.' 
 
 " She pointed to the banjo which I carried 
 wrapped up under my arm. How she knew that 
 it was a musical instrument I could not imagine ; 
 possibly, I thought, she may have seen me play- 
 ing on it as I strolled about the environs of the 
 town. Be that as it may, I offered no opposition 
 to the bargain, and further intimated that I would 
 reward her more substantially on our arrival. At 
 that she laughed again, and made a peculiar gest- 
 ure with her hand above her head. I uncovered 
 my banjo, swept my fingers across the strings, and 
 struck into a fantastic dance-measure, to the music 
 of which we proceeded along the path, Elsie slightly 
 in advance, her feet keeping time to the airy meas- 
 ure. In fact, she trod so lightly, with an elastic, 
 undulating movement, that with a little more it 
 seemed as if she might float onward like a spirit. 
 The extreme whiteness of her feet attracted my 
 eye, and I was surprised to find that instead of 
 being bare, as I had supposed, these were incased 
 in white satin slippers quaintly embroidered with 
 gold thread, 
 
 ' Elsie,' said I, lengthening my steps so as to 
 
78 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 come up with her, ' where do you live, and what 
 do you do for a living?' 
 
 " ' Sure, I live by myself,' she answered ; ' and 
 if you'd be after knowing how, you must come 
 and see for yourself.' 
 
 " ' Are you in the habit of walking over the 
 hills at night in shoes like that?' 
 
 " ' And why would I not ? ' she asked, in her 
 turn. ' And where did your honor get the pretty 
 gold ring on your finger?' 
 
 "The ring, which was of no great intrinsic 
 value, had struck my eye in an old curiosity -shop 
 in Cork. It was an antique of very old-fashioned 
 design, and might have belonged (as the vender 
 assured me was the case) to one of the early kings 
 or queens of Ireland. 
 
 " ' Do you like it ? ' said I. 
 
 " ' Will your honor be after making a present 
 of it to Elsie ? ' she returned, with an insinuating 
 tone and turn of the head. 
 
 Maybe I will, Elsie, on one condition. I 
 am an artist ; I make pictures of people. If you 
 will promise to come to my studio and let me 
 paint your portrait, I'll give you the ring, and 
 some money besides.^ 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 79 
 
 ^ And will you give me the ring now ? ^ said 
 Elsie. 
 
 "'Yes, if you'll promise.' 
 
 " ' And will you play the music to me ? ' she 
 continued. 
 
 " ' As much as you like.' - 
 
 " ' But maybe I'll not be handsome enough for 
 ye/ said she, with a glance of her eyes beneath 
 the dark hood. 
 
 " ' I'll take the risk of that,' I answered, laugh- 
 ing, ' though, all the same, I don't mind taking a 
 peep beforehand to remember you by.' So say- 
 ing, I put fortli a hand to draw back the conceal- 
 ing hood. But Elsie eluded me, I scarce know 
 how, and laughed a third time, with the same airy, 
 mocking cadence. 
 
 ' Give me the ring first, and then you shall 
 see me,' she said, coaxingly. 
 
 " ' Stretch out your hand, then,' returned I, 
 removing the ring from iriy finger. 'When we 
 are better acquainted, Elsie, you won't be so sus- 
 picious.' 
 
 '' She held out a slender, delicate hand, on the 
 forefinger of which I slipped the ring. As I did 
 60, the folds of her cloak fell a little apart, afford- 
 
80 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 ing me a glimpse of a white shoulder and of a 
 dress that seemed in that deceptive semi-darkness 
 to be wrought of rich and costly material ; and I 
 caught, too, or so I fancied, the frosty sparkle of 
 precious stones. 
 
 "^Arrah, mind where ye tread!' said Elsie, 
 in a sudden, sharp tone. 
 
 "I looked round, and became aware for the 
 first time that we were standing near the middle 
 of a ruined bridge which spanned a rapid stream 
 that flowed at a considerable depth below. The 
 parapet of the bridge on one side was broken 
 down, and I must have been, in fact, in imminent 
 danger of stepping over into empty air. I made 
 my way cautiously across the decaying structure ; 
 but, when I turned to assist Elsie, she was nowhere 
 to be seen. 
 
 " What had become of the girl ? I called, but 
 no answer came. I gazed about on every side, 
 but no trace of her was visible. Unless she had 
 plunged into the narrow abyss at my feet, there 
 was no place where she could have concealed her- 
 self — none at least that I could discover. She 
 had vanished, nevertheless; and since her disap- 
 pearance must have been premeditated, I finally 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 81 
 
 came to the conclusion that it was useless to at- 
 tempt to find her. She would present herself 
 again in her own good time, or not at all. She 
 had given me the slip very cleverly, and I must 
 make the best of it. The adventure was perhaps 
 worth the ring. 
 
 " On resuming my way, I was not a little re- 
 lieved to find that I once more knew where I was. 
 The bridge that I had just crossed was none other 
 than the one I mentioned some time back ; I was 
 within a mile of the town, and my way lay clear 
 before me. The moon, moreover, had now quite 
 dispersed the clouds, and shone down with exqui- 
 site brilliance. Whatever her other failings, El- 
 sie had been a trustworthy guide ; she had brought 
 me out of the depth of elf-land into the material 
 world again. It had been a singular adventure, 
 certainly ; and I mused over it with a sense of 
 mysterious pleasure as I sauntered along, hum- 
 ming snatches of airs, and accompanying myself 
 on the strings. Hark ! what light step was that 
 behind me ? It sounded like Elsie's ; but no, El- 
 sie was not there. The same impression or hallu- 
 cination, however, recurred several times before I 
 reached the outskirts of the town — the tread of an 
 
82 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 airy foot behind or beside my own. The fancy 
 did not make me nervous ; on the contrary, I was 
 pleased with the notion of being thus haunted, 
 and gave myself up to a romantic and genial vein 
 of reverie. 
 
 " After passing one or two roofless and moss- 
 grown cottages, I entered the narrow and ram- 
 bling street which leads through the town. This 
 street a short distance down widens a little, as if 
 to afford the wayfarer space to observe a remark- 
 able old house that stands on the northern side. 
 The house was built of stone, and in a noble 
 style of architecture ; it reminded me somewhat 
 of certain palaces of the old Italian nobility that I 
 had seen on the Continent, and it may very prob- 
 ably have been built by one of the Italian or 
 Spanish immigrants of the sixteenth or seven- 
 teenth century. The molding of the projecting 
 windows and arched doorway was richly carved, 
 and upon the front of the building was an escutch- 
 eon wrought in high relief, though I could not 
 make out the purport of the device. The moon- 
 light falling upon this picturesque pile enhanced 
 all its beauties, and at the same time made it 
 seem like a vision that might dissolve away when 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY, 
 
 83 
 
 the light ceased to shine. I must often have seen 
 the house before, and yet I retained no definite 
 recollection of it; I had never until now exam- 
 ined it with my eyes open, so to speak. Leaning 
 against the wall on the opposite side of the street, 
 I contemplated it for a long while at my leis- 
 ure. The window at the corner was really a very 
 fine and massive affair. It projected over the 
 pavement below, throwing a heavy shadow aslant ; 
 the frames of the diamond-paned lattices were 
 heavily muUioned. How often in past ages had 
 that lattice been pushed open by some fair hand, 
 revealing to a lover waiting beneath in the moon- 
 light the charming countenance of his high-born 
 mistress ! Those were brave days. They had 
 passed away long since. The great house had stood 
 empty for who could tell how many years ; only 
 bats and vermin were its inhabitants. Where 
 now were those who had built it ? and who were 
 they ? Probably the very name of them was for- 
 gotten. 
 
 " As I continued to stare upward, however, a 
 conjecture presented itself to my mind which rap- 
 idly ripened into a conviction. Was not this the 
 house that Dr. Dudeen had described that very 
 
84 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 evening as having been formerly the abode of 
 the Kern of Qiierin and his mysterious bride? 
 There was the projecting window, the arched 
 doorway. Yes, beyond a doubt this was the very 
 house. I emitted a low exclamation of renewed 
 interest and pleasure, and my speculations took a 
 still more imaginative, but also a more definite 
 turn. 
 
 " What had been the fate of that lovely lady 
 after the Kern had brought her home insensible 
 in his arms? Did she recover, and were they 
 married and made happy ever after ; or had the 
 sequel been a tragic one ? I remembered to have 
 read that the victims of vampires generally be- 
 came vampires themselves. Then my thoughts 
 went back to that grave on the hill-side. Surely 
 that was unconsecrated ground. Why had they 
 buried her there? Ethelind of the white shoul- 
 der ! Ah ! why had not I lived in those days ; or 
 why might not some magic cause them to live 
 again for me ? Then would I seek this street at 
 midnight, and standing here beneath her window, 
 I would lightly touch the strings of my bandore 
 until the casement opened cautiously and she 
 looked down. A sweet vision indeed ! And 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 85 
 
 what prevented my realizing it ? Only a matter 
 of a couple of centuries or so. And was time, 
 then, at which poets and philosophers sneer, so 
 rigid and real a matter that a little faith and im- 
 agination might not overcome it ? At all events, 
 I had my banjo, the bandore's legitimate and lin^ 
 eal descendant, and the memory of Fionguala 
 should have the love-ditty. 
 
 " Hereupon, having retuned the instrument, I 
 launched forth into an old Spanish love-song, 
 which I had met with in some moldy library 
 during my travels, and had set to music of my 
 own. I sang low, for the deserted street re- 
 echoed the lightest sound, and what I sang must 
 reach only my lady's ears. The words were warm 
 with the fire of the ancient Spanish chivalry, and 
 I threw into their expression all the passion of 
 the lovers of romance. Surely Fionguala, the 
 white-shouldered, would hear^ and awaken from 
 her sleep of centuries, and come to the latticed 
 casement and look down! Hist! see yonder! 
 What light — what shadow is that that seems to 
 flit from room to room within the abandoned 
 house, and now approaches the mullioned win- 
 dow ? Are my eyes dazzled by the play of the 
 
86 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 moonlight, or does the casement move — does it 
 open ? Nay, this is no delusion ; there is no er- 
 ror of the senses here. There is simply a woman, 
 yonng, beautiful, and richly attired, bending for- 
 ward from the window, and silently beckoning 
 me to approach. 
 
 " Too much amazed to be conscious of amaze- 
 ment, I advanced until I stood directly beneath 
 the casement, and the lady's face, as she stooped 
 toward me, was not more than twice a man's 
 height from my own. She smiled and kissed her 
 finger-tips ; something white fluttered in her hand, 
 then fell through the air to the ground at my feet. 
 The next moment she had withdrawn, and I 
 heard the lattice close. 
 
 ^' I picked up what she had let fall ; it was a deli- 
 cate lace handkerchief, tied to the handle of an 
 elaborately wrought bronze key. It was evidently 
 the key of the house, and invited me to enter. I 
 loosened it from the handkerchief, which bore a 
 faint, delicious perfume, like the aroma of flowers 
 in an ancient garden, and turned to the arched door- 
 way. I felt no misgiving, and scarcely any sense 
 of strangeness. All was as I had wished it to be, 
 and as it should be ; the mediaeval age was alive 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 87 
 
 once more, and as for myself, I almost felt the vel- 
 vet cloak hanging from my shoulder and the long 
 rapier dangling at my belt. Standing in front of 
 the door I thrust the key into the lock, turned it, 
 and felt the bolt yield. The next instant the 
 door was opened, apparently from within ; I 
 stepped across the threshold, the door closed 
 again, and I was alone in the house, and in dark- 
 ness. 
 
 " Not alone, however ! As I extended my 
 hand to grope my way it was met by another 
 hand, soft, slender, and cold, which insinuated it- 
 self gently into mine and drew me forward. For- 
 ward I went, nothing loath ; the darkness was im- 
 penetrable, but I could hear the light rustle of a 
 dress close to me, and the same delicious perfume 
 that had emanated from the handkerchief en- 
 riched the air that I breathed, while the little 
 hand that clasped and was clasped by my own 
 alternately tightened and half relaxed the hold of 
 its soft cold fingers. In this manner, and tread- 
 ing lightly, we traversed what I presumed to be a 
 long, irregular passageway, and ascended a stair- 
 case. Then another corridor, until finally we 
 paused, a door opened, emitting a flood of soft 
 
88 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 light, into which we entered, still hand in hand. 
 The darkness and the donbt were at an end. 
 
 " The room was of imposing dimensions, and 
 was furnished and decorated in a style of antique 
 splendor. The walls were draped with mellow 
 hues of tapestry ; clusters of candles burned in 
 polished silver sconces, and were reflected and 
 multiplied in tall mirrors placed in the four 
 corners of the room. The heavy beams of the 
 dark oaken ceiling crossed each other in squares, 
 and were laboriously carved ; the curtains and the 
 drapery of the chairs were of heavy-figured dam- 
 ask. At one end of the room was a broad otto- 
 man, and in front of it a table, on which was set 
 forth, in massive silver dishes, a sumptuous re- 
 past, with wines in crystal beakers. At the side 
 was a vast and deep fire-place, with space enough 
 on the broad hearth to burn whole trunks of trees. 
 No fire, however, was there, but only a great heap 
 of dead embers ; and the room, for all its magnifi- 
 cence, was cold — cold as a tomb, or as my lady's 
 hand — and it sent a subtle chill creeping to my 
 heart. 
 
 " But my lady ! how fair she was ! I gave 
 but a passing glance at the room ; my eyes and my 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 89 
 
 thoughts were all for her. She was dressed in 
 white, like a bride; diamonds sparkled in her 
 dark hair and on her snowy bosom ; her lovely 
 face and slender lips were pale, and all the paler 
 for the dusky glow of her eyes. She gazed at me 
 with a strange, elusive smile ; and yet there was, 
 in her aspect and bearing, something familiar in 
 the midst of strangeness, like the burden of a 
 song heard long ago and recalled among other 
 conditions and surroundings. It seemed to me 
 that something in me recognized her and knew 
 her, had known her always. She was the woman 
 of whom I had dreamed, whom I had beheld in 
 visions, whose voice and face had haunted me 
 from boyhood up. Whether we had ever met 
 before, as human beings meet, I knew not ; per- 
 haps I had been blindly seeking her all over the 
 world, and she had been awaiting me in this splen- 
 did room, sitting by those dead embers until all 
 the warmth had gone out of her blood, only to be 
 restored by the heat with which my love might 
 supply her. 
 
 " ' I thought you had forgotten me,' she said, 
 nodding as if in answer to my thought. ' The 
 night was so late — our one night of the year! 
 
90 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 How my heart rejoiced when I heard your dear 
 voice singing the song I know so well ! Kiss me 
 — my lips are cold!' 
 
 " Cold indeed they were — cold as the lips of 
 death. But the warmth of my own seemed to 
 revive them. They were now tinged with a faint 
 color, and in her cheeks also appeared a delicate 
 shade of pink. She drew fuller breath, as one 
 who recovers from a long lethargy. Was it my 
 life that was feeding her ? I was ready to give 
 her all. She drew me to the table and pointed to 
 the viands and the wine. 
 
 " ' Eat and drink,' she said. ' You have trav- 
 eled far, and you need food.' 
 
 " ' Will you eat and drink with me ? ' said I, 
 pouring out the wine. 
 
 " ' You are the only nourishment I want,' w^as 
 her answer. ' This wine is thin and cold. Give 
 me wine as red as your blood and as warm, and I 
 will drain a goblet to the dregs.' 
 
 "At these words, I know not why, a slight 
 shiver passed through me. She seemed to gain 
 vitality and strength at every instant, but the 
 chill of the great room struck into me more and 
 more. 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 91 
 
 " She broke into a fantastic flow of spirits, 
 clapping her hands, and dancing about me like a 
 child. Who was she? And was 1 myself, or 
 was she mocking me when she implied that we 
 had belonged to each other of old ? At length 
 she stood still before me, crossing her hands over 
 her breast. I saw upon the forefinger of her 
 right hand the gleam of an antique ring. 
 
 " ^ Where did yon get that ring ? ' I demanded. 
 
 " She shook her head and langhed. ' Have 
 you been faithful?' she asked. 'It is my ring; 
 it is the ring that unites us ; it is the ring you 
 gave me when you loved me first. It is the ring 
 of the Kern — the fairy ring, and I am your Eth- 
 elind — Ethelind Fiongiiala.' 
 
 " ' So be it,' I said, casting aside all doubt and 
 fear, and yielding myself wholly to the spell of 
 her inscrutable eyes and wooing lips. ' You are 
 mine, and I am yours, and let us be happy while 
 the hours last.' 
 
 " ' You are mine, and I am yours,' she re- 
 peated, nodding her head with an elfish smile. 
 ^ Come and sit beside me, and sing that sweet 
 song again that you sang to me so long ago. Ah, 
 now I shall live a hmidred years.' 
 
92 
 
 KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 "We seated ourselves on the ottoman, and 
 while she nestled luxuriously among the cushions, 
 I took my banjo and sang to her. The song and 
 the music resounded through the lofty room, and 
 came back in throbbing echoes. And before me 
 as I sang I saw the face and form of Ethelind 
 Fionguala, in her jeweled bridal dress, gazing at 
 me with burning eyes. She was pale no longer, 
 but ruddy and warm, and life was like a flame 
 within her. It was I who had become cold and 
 bloodless, yet with the last life that was in me I 
 would have sung to her of love that can never 
 die. But at length my eyes grew dim, the room 
 seemed to darken, the form of Ethelind alter- 
 nately brightened and waxed indistinct, like the 
 last flickerings of a fire; I swayed toward her, 
 and felt myself lapsing into unconsciousness, with 
 my head resting on her white shoulder." 
 
 Here Keningale paused a few moments in his 
 story, flung a fresh log upon the fire, and then 
 continued : 
 
 " I awoke, I know not how long afterward. I 
 was in a vast, empty room in a ruined building. 
 Eotten shreds of drapery depended from the 
 walls, and heavy festoons of spiders' webs gray 
 
KEN'S MYSTERY. 
 
 93 
 
 with dust covered the windows, which were desti- 
 tute of glass or sash ; they had been boarded up 
 with rough planks which had themselves become 
 rotten with age, and admitted through their holes 
 and crevices pallid rays of light and chilly 
 draughts of air. A bat, disturbed by these rays 
 or by my own movement, detached himseK from 
 his hold on a remnant of moldy tapestry near 
 me, and after circling dizzily around my head, 
 wheeled the flickering noiselessness of his flight 
 into a darker corner. As I arose unsteadily from 
 the heap of miscellaneous rubbish on which I had 
 been lying, something which had been resting 
 across my knees fell to the floor with a rattle. I 
 picked it up, and found it to be my banjo — as 
 you see it now. 
 
 "Well, that is all I have to tell. My health 
 was seriously impaired ; all the blood seemed to 
 have been drawn out of my veins ; I was pale and 
 haggard, and the chill — Ah, that chill," mur- 
 mured Keningale, drawing nearer to the fire, and 
 spreading out his hands to catch the warmth — " I 
 shall never get over it ; I shall carry it to my 
 grave" 
 
WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE 
 GODS AURIVE." 
 
 " What a beautiful girl ! " said Mr. Ambrose 
 Drayton to bimself ; " and how mucb she looks 
 like — " He cut the comparison short, and turned 
 his eyes seaward, pulling at his mustache medita- 
 tively the while. 
 
 " This American atmosphere, fresh and pure 
 as it is in the nostrils, is heavy-laden with reminis- 
 cences," his thoughts ran on. " Eeminiscences, 
 but always with diflEerences, the chief difference 
 being, no doubt, in myself. And no wonder. 
 Nineteen years ; yes, it's positively nineteen years 
 since I stood here and gazed out through yonder 
 gap between the headlands. Nineteen years of 
 foreign lands, foreign men and manners, the 
 courts^ the camps, the schools; adventure, busi- 
 
WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVEr 95 
 
 ness, and pleasure — if I may lightly use so 
 mysterious a word. Nineteen and twenty are 
 thirty-nine ; in my ease say sixty at least. Why, 
 a girl like that lovely young thing walking away 
 there with her light step and her innocent heart 
 would take me to be sixty to a dead certainty. A 
 rather well-preserved man of sixty — that's how 
 she'd describe me to the young fellow she's given 
 her heart to. Well, sixty or forty, what differ- 
 ence ? When a man has passed the age at which 
 he falls in love, he is the peer of Methuselah 
 from that time forth. But what a fiery sea- 
 son that of love is while it lasts! Ay, and it 
 burns something out of the soul that never grows 
 again. And well that it should do so : a suscept- 
 ible heart is a troublesome burden to lug round 
 the world. Curious that I should be even think- 
 ing of such things : association, I suppose. Here 
 it was that we met and here we parted. But 
 what a different place it was then! A lovely 
 cape, half bleak moorland and half shaggy wood, 
 a few rocky headlands and a great many coots 
 and gulls, and one solitary old farmhouse standing 
 just where that spick-and-span summer hotel, with 
 its balconies and cupolas, stands now. So it was 
 
96 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GOBS ARRIVE.'' 
 
 nineteen years ago, and so it may be again, per- 
 haps, nine hundred years hence ; but meanwhile, 
 what a pretty array of modern aesthetic cottages, 
 and plank walks, and bridges, and bathing-houses, 
 and pleasure-boats ! And what an admirable con- 
 course of well-dressed and pleasurably inclined 
 men and women ! After all, my countrymen are 
 the finest-looking and most prosperous-appearing 
 people on the globe. They have traveled a little 
 faster than I have, and on a somewhat different 
 track; but I would rather be among them than 
 anywhere else. Yes, I won't go back to London, 
 nor yet to Paris, or Calcutta, or Cairo. I'll buy a 
 cottage here at Squittig Point, and live and 
 die here and in New York. I wonder whether 
 Mary is alive and mother of a dozen children, 
 or — not ! " 
 
 " Auntie," said Miss Leithe to her relative, as 
 they regained the veranda of their cottage after 
 their morning stroll on the beach, " who was that 
 gentleman who looked at us ? " 
 
 "Hey? — who?" inquired the widow of the 
 late Mr. Corwin, absently. 
 
 " The one in the thin gray suit and Panama 
 
« WHEN HALF-aOBB GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 97 
 
 hat; you must have seen him. A very distin- 
 guished-looking man, and yet very simple and 
 pleasant; like some of those nice middle-aged 
 men that you see in " Punch," slenderly built, with 
 handsome chin and eyes, and thick mustache and 
 whiskers. Oh, auntie, why do you never notice 
 things ? I think a man between forty and fifty is 
 ever so much nicer than when they're younger. 
 They know how to be courteous, and they're not 
 afraid of being natural. I mean this one looks as 
 if he would. But he must be somebody remark- 
 able in some way — don't you think so ? There's 
 something about him — something graceful and 
 gentle and refined and manly — that makes most 
 other men seem common beside him. Who do 
 you suppose he can be ? " 
 
 "Who? — what have you been saying, my 
 dear?" inquired Aunt Oorwin, rousing herself 
 from the perusal of a letter. " Here's Sarah writes 
 that Frank Redmond was to sail from Havre the 
 20th ; so he won't be here for a week or ten days 
 yet." 
 
 " Well, he might not have come at all," said 
 the girl, coloring slightly. " I'm sure I didn't 
 think he would, when he w^ent away." 
 
98 " WEEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVEr 
 
 " You are both, of you a year older and wiser/' 
 said the widow, meditatively ; " and you have 
 learned, I hope, not to irritate a man needlessly. 
 I never irritated Corwin in all my life. They 
 don't understand it." 
 
 " Here comes Mr. Haymaker," observed Miss 
 Leitlie. "I shall ask him." 
 
 " Don't ask him in," said Mrs. Corwin, retir- 
 ing ; " he chatters like an organ-grinder." 
 
 " Oh, good-morning. Miss Mary ! " exclaimed 
 Mr. Haymaker, as he mounted the steps of the 
 veranda, with his hands extended and his custom- 
 ary effusion. "How charming you are looking 
 after your bath and your walk and all ! Did you 
 ever see such a charming morning ? I never was 
 at a place I liked so much as Squittig Point ; the 
 new Newport, I call it — eh ? the new Newport. 
 So fashionable already, and only been going, as 
 one might say, three or four years ! Such charm- 
 ing people here ! Oh, by-the-way, whom do you 
 think I ran across just now ? You wouldn't know 
 him, though — been abroad since before you were 
 born, I should think. Most charming man I ever 
 met, and awfully wealthy. Ean across him in 
 Europe — Paris, I think it was — stop ! or was it 
 
« WHEN HALF- GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVEr 99 
 
 Vienna ? Well, never mind. Drayton, that's his 
 name ; ever hear of him ? Ambrose Drayton. 
 Made a great fortune in the tea-trade ; or was it 
 in the mines ? I've forgotten. Well, no matter. 
 Great traveler, too — Africa and the Corea, and all 
 that sort of thing ; and fought under Garibaldi, 
 they say ; and he had the charge of some diplo- 
 matic affair at Pekin once. The quietest, most 
 gentlemanly fellow you ever saw. Oh, you must 
 meet him. He's come back to stay, and will prob- 
 ably spend the summer here. I'll get him and 
 introduce him. Oh, he'll be charmed — we aU 
 shall." 
 
 " What sort of a looking person is he ? " Miss 
 Leithe inquired. 
 
 " Oh, charming — just right ! Trifle above me- 
 dium height; rather lighter weight than I am, 
 but graceful ; grayish hair, heavy mustache, blue 
 eyes ; style of a retired English colonel, rather. 
 You know what I mean — trifle reticent, but 
 charming manners. Stop! there he goes now — 
 see him? Just stopping to light a cigar — in a 
 line with the light-house. Now he's thrown away 
 the match, and walking on again. That's Am- 
 brose Drayton. Introduce him on the sands this 
 
100 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 
 
 afternoon. How is your good aunt to-day ? So 
 sorry not to have seen her ! "Well, I must be off ; 
 awfully busy to-day. Good-by, my dear Miss 
 Mary ; see you this afternoon. Good-by. Oh, 
 make my compliments to your good aunt, won't 
 you ? Thanks. So charmed ! Au TevoirP 
 
 "Has that fool gone?" demanded a voice 
 from within. 
 
 " Yes, Auntie," the young lady answered. 
 
 " Then come in to your dinner," the voice re- 
 joined, accompanied by the sound of a chair be- 
 ing drawn up to a table and sat down upon. 
 Mary Leithe, after casting a glance after the 
 retreating figure of Mr. Haymaker and another 
 toward the light-house, passed slowly through the 
 wire-net doors and disappeared. 
 
 Mr. Drayton had perforce engaged his accom. 
 modations at the hotel, all the cottages being 
 either private property or rented, and was like- 
 wise constrained, therefore, to eat his dinner in 
 public. But Mr. Drayton was not a hater of his 
 species, nor a fearer of it ; and though he had 
 not acquired precisely our American habits and 
 customs, he was disposed to be as little strange to 
 
" WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 101 
 
 them as possible. Accordingly, when the gong 
 sounded, he entered the large dining-room with 
 great intrepidity. The arrangement of tables 
 was not continuous, but many small tables, cap- 
 able of accommodating from two to six, were 
 dotted about everywhere. Mr. Drayton estab- 
 lished himself at the smallest of them, situated in 
 a part of the room whence he had a view not only 
 of the room itself, but of the blue sea and yellow 
 rocks on the other side. This preliminary feat of 
 generalship accomplished, he took a folded dollar 
 bill from his pocket and silently held it up in the 
 air, the result being the speedy capture of a waiter 
 and the introduction of dinner. 
 
 But at this juncture Mr. Haymaker came 
 pitching into the room, as his nature was, and 
 pinned himself to a standstill, as it were, with his 
 eyeglass, in the central aisle of tables. Drayton 
 at once gave himself up for lost, and therefore re- 
 ceived Mr. Haymaker with kindness and serenity 
 when, a minute or two later, he came plunging 
 up, in his usual ecstasy of sputtering amiability, 
 and seated himself in the chair at the other side 
 of the table with an air as if everything were 
 charming in the most charming of all possible 
 
102" WHEN HALF-GOLS GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 
 
 worlds, and he himself the most charming person 
 in it. 
 
 "My dear Drayton, though," exclaimed Mr. 
 Haymaker, in the interval between the soup and 
 the bluefish, "there is some one here you must 
 know — most charming girl you ever knew in your 
 life, and has set her heart on knowing you. We 
 were talking about you this morning — Miss Mary 
 Leithe. Lovely name, too ; pity ever to change it 
 — he ! he ! he ! Why, you must have seen her 
 about here ; has an old aunt, widow of Jim Cor- 
 win, who's dead and gone these five years. You 
 recognize her, of course ? " 
 
 " Not as you describe her," said Mr. Drayton, 
 helping his friend to fish. 
 
 " Oh, the handsomest girl about here ; tallish, 
 wavy brown hair, soft brown eyes, the loveliest- 
 shaped eyes in the world, my dear fellow ; com- 
 plexion like a Titian, figure slender yet, but prom- 
 ising. A way of giving you her hand that makes 
 you wish she would take your heart," pursued Mr. 
 Haymaker, impetuously filling his mouth with 
 bluefish, during the disposal of which he lost 
 the thread of his harangue. Drayton, however, 
 seemed disposed to recover it for him. 
 
" WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 103 
 
 " Is this young lady from New England ? " 
 lie inquired. 
 
 " New-Yorker by birth," responded the ever- 
 vivacious Haymaker; "father a Southern man; 
 mother a Bostonian. Father died eight or nine 
 years after marriage; mother survived him six 
 years ; girl left in care of old Mrs. Corwin — good 
 old creature, but vague — very vague. Don't 
 fancy the marriage was a very fortunate one; a 
 little friction, more or less. Leithe was rather a 
 wild, unreliable sort of man ; Mrs. Leithe a wo- 
 man not easily influenced — ^immensely charming, 
 though, and all that, but a trifle narrow and set. 
 Well, you know, it was this way : Leithe was an 
 immensely wealthy man when she married him; 
 lost his money, struggled along, good deal of fric- 
 tion ; Mrs. Leithe probably felt she had made a 
 mistake, and that sort of thing. But Miss Mary 
 here, very different style, looks like her mother, 
 but softer ; more in her, too. Yery little money, 
 poor girl, but charming. Oh ! you must know her." 
 
 " What did you say her mother's maiden name 
 was?" 
 
 " Maiden name ? Let me see. Why — oh, no 
 — oh, yes — Cleveland, Mary Cleveland." 
 
104 " WHEN HALF- GOBS GO, TEE GODS ARRIVEy 
 
 " Mary Cleveland, of Boston ; married Hamil- 
 ton Leithe, about nineteen years ago. I used to 
 know the lady. And this is her daughter ! And 
 Mary Cleveland is dead ! — Help yourself, Hay- 
 maker. I never take more than one course at this 
 hour of the day." 
 
 " But you must let me introduce you, you 
 know/' mumbled Haymaker, through his succo- 
 tash. 
 
 "I hardly know," said Drayton, rubbing his 
 mustache. " Pardon me if I leave you," he add- 
 ed, looking at his watch. "It is later than I 
 thought." 
 
 Nothing more was seen of Drayton for the 
 rest of that day. But the next morning, as Mary 
 Leithe sat on the Bowlder Rock, with a book on 
 her lap, and her eyes on the bathers, and her 
 thoughts elsewhere, she heard a light, leisurely 
 tread behind her, and a gentlemanly, effective fig- 
 ure made its appearance, carrying a malacca walk- 
 ing-stick, and a small telescope in a leather case 
 slung over the shoulder. 
 
 " Good-morning, Miss Leithe," said this per- 
 sonage, in a quiet and pleasant voice. " I knew 
 your mother before you were born, and I can not 
 
" WHEN HALF'QOBS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 105 
 
 feel like a stranger toward her daughter. My 
 name is Ambrose Drayton. You look something 
 like your mother, I think." 
 
 " I think I remember mamma's having spoken 
 of you," said Mary Leithe, looking up a little shy- 
 ly, but with a smile that was the most winning of 
 her many winning manifestations. Her upper 
 lip, short, but somewhat fuller than the lower one, 
 was always alive with delicate movements; the 
 corners of her mouth were blunt, the teeth small ; 
 and the smile was such as Psyche's might have 
 been when Cupid waked her with a kiss. 
 
 " It was here I first met your mother," con- 
 tinued Drayton, taking his place beside her. 
 " We often sat together on this very rock. I was 
 a young fellow then, scarcely older than you, and 
 very full of romance and enthusiasm. Your 
 mother — " Pie paused a moment, looking at his 
 companion with a grave smile in his eyes. " If I 
 had been as dear to her as she was to me," he 
 went on, "you would have been our daughter." 
 
 Mary looked out upon the bathers, and upon 
 the azure bay, and into her own virgin heart. 
 " Are you married, too ? " she asked at length. 
 
 " I was cut out for an old bachelor, and I have 
 
106 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVEr 
 
 been true to my destiny/' was his reply. "Be- 
 sides, I've lived abroad till a month or two ago, 
 and good Americans don't marry foreign wives," 
 "I should like to go abroad," said Mary 
 Leithe. 
 
 " It is the privilege of Americans," said Dray- 
 ton. " Other people are born abroad, and never 
 know the delight of real travel. But, after all, 
 America is best. The life of the world culmi- 
 nates here. "We are the prow of the vessel ; there 
 may be more comfort amidships, but we are the 
 first to touch the unknown seas. And the fore- 
 most men of all nations are foremost only in so 
 far as they are at heart American ; that is to say, 
 America is, at present, even more an idea and a 
 principle than it is a country. The nation has 
 perhaps not yet risen to the height of its oppor- 
 tunities. So you have never crossed the Atlan- 
 tic?" 
 
 " No ; my father never wanted to go ; and 
 after he died, mamma could not." 
 
 " Well, our American Emerson says, you 
 know, that, as the good of travel respects only 
 the mind, we need not depend for it on railways 
 and steamboats." 
 
^^WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 107 
 
 " It seems to me, if we never moved onrselves, 
 our minds would never really move either." 
 
 " Where would you most care to go ? " 
 
 " To Kome, and Jerusalem, and Egypt, and 
 London." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " They seem like parts of my mind that I 
 shall never know unless I visit them." 
 
 " Is there no part of the world that answers to 
 your heart?" 
 
 " Oh, the beautiful parts everywhere, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " I can well believe it," said Drayton, but 
 with so much simplicity and straightforwardness 
 that Mary Leithe's cheeks scarcely changed color. 
 " And there is beauty enough here," he added, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " Yes ; I have always liked this place," said 
 she, ^-'though the cottages seem a pity." 
 
 " You knew the old farm-house, then ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I used to play in the farm-yard 
 when I was a little girl. After my father died, 
 mamma used to come here every year. And my 
 aunt has a cottage here now. You haven't met 
 my aunt, Mr. Drayton ? " 
 
108 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 
 
 " I wished to know you first. But now I 
 want to know her, and to become one of the fam- 
 ily. There is no one left, I find, who belongs to 
 me. What would you think of me for a bachelor 
 uncle ? " 
 
 " I would like it very much," said Mary, with 
 a smile. 
 
 " Then let us begin," returned Drayton. 
 
 Several days passed away very pleasantly. 
 Never was there a bachelor uncle so charming, as 
 Haymaker would have said, as Drayton. The 
 kind of life in the midst of which he found him- 
 self was altogether novel and delightful to him. 
 In some aspects it was like enjoying for the first 
 time a part of his existence which he should have 
 enjoyed in youth, but had missed ; and in many 
 ways he doubtless enjoyed it more now than he 
 would have done then, for he brought it to a ma- 
 turity of experience which had taught him the 
 inestimable value of simple things ; a quiet nobil- 
 ity of character and clearness of knowledge that 
 enabled him to perceive and follow the right 
 course in small things as in great; a serene yet 
 cordial temperament that rendered him the cheer- 
 
" WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 109 
 
 fulest and most trustworthy of companions ; a 
 generous and masculine disposition, as able to di- 
 rect as to comply ; and years which could sympa- 
 thize impartially with youth and age, and supply 
 something which each lacked. He, meanwhile, 
 sometimes seemed to himself to be walking in 
 a dream. The region in which he was living, 
 changed, yet so familiar, the thought of being 
 once more, after so many years of homeless wan- 
 dering, in his own land and among his own coun- 
 trymen, and the companionship of Mary Leithe, 
 like, yet so unlike, the Mary Cleveland he had 
 known and loved, possessing in reality all the ten- 
 derness and lovely virginal sweetness that he had 
 imagined in the other, with a warmth of heart 
 that rejuvenated his own, and a depth and fresh- 
 ness of mind answering to the wisdom that he 
 had drawn from experience, and rendering her, 
 though in her diflEerent and feminine sphere, his 
 equal — all these things made Drayton feel as if 
 he would either awake and find them the phantas- 
 magoria of a beautiful dream, or as if the past 
 time were the dream, and this the reality. 
 Certainly, in this ardent, penetrating light of the 
 present, the past looked vaporous and dim, like a 
 
110 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE."^ 
 
 range of mountains scaled long ago and vanishing 
 on the horizon. 
 
 And was this all ? Doubtless it was, at first. 
 It was natural that Drayton should regard with 
 peculiar tenderness the daughter of the woman he 
 had loved. She was an orphan, and poor ; he was 
 alone in the world, with no one dependent upon 
 him, and with wealth which could find no better 
 use than to afford this girl the opportunities and 
 the enjoyments which she else must lack. His 
 anticipations in returning to America had been 
 somewhat cold and vague. It was his native 
 land ; but abstract patriotism is, after all, rather 
 chilly diet for a human being to feed his heart 
 upon. The unexpected apparition of Mary Leithe 
 had provided just that vividness and particularity 
 that were wanting. Insensibly Drayton bestowed 
 upon her all the essence of the love of country 
 which he had cherished untainted throughout his 
 long exile. It was so much easier and simpler a 
 thing to know and appreciate her than to do as 
 much for the United States and their fifty million 
 inhabitants, national, political, and social, that it is 
 no wonder if Drayton, as a modest and sane gen- 
 tleman, preferred to make the former the symbol 
 
WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' m 
 
 of the latter — of all, at least, that was good and 
 lovable therein. At the same time, so clear-head- 
 ed a man could scarcely have failed to be aware 
 that his affection for Mary Leithe was not actually 
 dependent upon the fact of her being an emblem. 
 Upon what, then, was it dependent ? Upon her 
 being the daughter of Mary Cleveland ? It was 
 true that he had loved Mary Cleveland ; but she 
 had deliberately jilted him to marry a wealthier 
 man, and was therefore connected with and re- 
 sponsible for the most painful as well as the most 
 pleasurable episode of his early life. Mary Leithe 
 bore some personal resemblance to her mother; 
 but had she been as like her in character and dis- 
 position as she was in figure and feature, would 
 Drayton, knowing what he knew, have felt drawn 
 toward her ? A man does not remain for twenty 
 years under the influence of an unreasonable and 
 mistaken passion. Drayton certainly had not, al- 
 though his disappointment had kept him a bach- 
 elor all his life, and altered the whole course of 
 his existence. But when we have once embarked 
 upon a certain career, we continue in it long after 
 the motive which started us has been forgotten. 
 No ; Drayton's regard for Mary Leithe must stand 
 
112 WHEN HALF-GOD 8 GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 
 
 on its own basis, independent of all other consid- 
 erations. 
 
 What, in the next place, was the nature of this 
 regard ? Was it merely avuncular, or something 
 different? Drayton assured himself that it was 
 the former. He was a man of the world, and had 
 done with passions. The idea of his falling in 
 love made him smile in a deprecatory manner. 
 That the object of such love should be a girl 
 eighteen years his junior rendered the suggestion 
 yet more irrational. She was lustrous with lov- 
 able qualities, which he genially recognized and 
 appreciated ; nay, he might love her, but the love 
 would be a quasi-paternal one, not the love that 
 demands absolute possession and brooks no riv- 
 alry. His attitude was contemplative and benefi- 
 cent, not selfish and exclusive. His greatest 
 pleasure would be to see her married to some one 
 worthy of her. Meantime he might devote him- 
 self to her freely and without fear. 
 
 And yet, once again, was he not the dupe of 
 himself and of a convention ? "Was his the mood in 
 which an uncle studies his niece, or even a father 
 his daughter? How often during the day was 
 she absent from his thoughts, or from his dreams 
 
" WHEN HALF-GOBS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 113 
 
 at night ? What else gave him so much happi- 
 ness as to please her, and what would he not do 
 to give her pleasure ? Why was he dissatisfied 
 and aimless when not in her presence? Why so 
 full-orbed and complete when she was near ? He 
 was eighteen years the elder, but there was in her 
 a fullness of nature, a balanced development, 
 which w^nt far toward annulling the discrepancy. 
 Moreover, though she was young, he was not old, 
 and surely he had the knowledge, the resources, 
 and the will to make her life happy. There 
 would be, he fancied, a certain poetical justice in 
 such an issue. It w^ould illustrate the slow, seem- 
 ingly severe, but really tender wisdom of Provi- 
 dence. Out of the very ashes of his dead hopes 
 would arise this gracious flower of promise. She 
 would afford him scope for the employment of all 
 those riches, moral and material, which life had 
 brought him ; she would be his reward for having 
 lived honorably and purely for purity's and hon- 
 or's sake. But why multiply reasons ? There 
 was justification enough; and true love knows 
 nothing of justification. 
 
 He loved her, then; and now, did she love 
 him? This was the real problem — the mystery 
 
114: " WHEN HALF-GOBS GO, THE GOBS ARRIVE:' 
 
 of a maiden's heart, wMcL. all Solomon's wisdom 
 and Bacon's logic fail to elucidate. Drayton did 
 what he could. Once he came to her with the 
 news that he must be absent from an excursion 
 which they had planned, and he saw genuine dis- 
 appointment darken her sweet face, and her slen- 
 der figure seem to droop. This was well as far as 
 it went, but beyond that it proved nothing. An- 
 other time he gave her a curious little shell which 
 he had picked up while they were rambling to- 
 gether along the beach, and some time afterward 
 he accidently noticed that she was wearing it by 
 a ribbon round her neck. This seemed better. 
 Again, on a night when there was a social gath- 
 ering at the hotel, he entered the room and sat 
 apart at one of the windows, and as long as he re- 
 mained there he felt that her gaze was upon him, 
 and twice or thrice when he raised his eyes they 
 were met by hers, and she smiled ; and afterward, 
 when he was speaking near her, he noticed that 
 she disregarded what her companion of the mo- 
 ment was saying to her, and listened only to him. 
 Was not all this encouragement ? Nevertheless, 
 whenever, presuming upon this, he hazarded less 
 ambiguous demonstrations, she seemed to shrink 
 
WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVEr 115 
 
 back and appear strange and troubled. This be- 
 havior perplexed him; he doubted the evidence 
 that had given him hope ; feared that he was a 
 fool ; that she divined his love, and pitied him, and 
 would have him, if at all, only out of pity. 
 Thereupon he took himself sternly to task, and re- 
 solved to give her up. 
 
 It was a transparent July afternoon, with 
 white and gray clouds drifting across a clear blue 
 sky, and a southwesterly breeze roughening the 
 dark waves and showing their white shoulders. 
 Mary Leithe and Drayton came slowly along the 
 rocks, he assisting her to climb or descend the 
 more rugged places, and occasionally pausing 
 with her to watch the white canvas of a yacht 
 shiver in the breeze as she went about, or to ques- 
 tion whether yonder flash amid the waves, where 
 the gulls were hovering and dipping, were a blue- 
 fish breaking water. At length they reached a 
 little nook in the seaward face, which, by often re- 
 sorting to it, they had in a manner made their own. 
 It was a small shelf in the rock, spacious enough 
 for two to sit in at ease, with a back to lean 
 against, and at one side a bit of level ledge which 
 
116 ''WHEN HALF-G0D8 GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 
 
 served as a stand or table. Before ttiem was 
 the sea, which, at high-water mark, rose to within 
 three yards of their feet ; while from the shore- 
 ward side they were concealed by the ascending 
 wall of sandstone. Drayton had brought a cush- 
 ion with him, which he arranged in Mary's seat ; 
 and when they had established themselves, he 
 took a volume of Emerson's poems from his pock- 
 et and laid it on the rock beside him. 
 
 "Are you comfortable?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes ; I wish it wonld be always hke this — 
 the weather, and the sun, and the time — so that 
 we might stay here forover." 
 
 " Forever is the least useful word in human 
 language," observed Drayton. " In the perspec- 
 tive of time, a few hours, or days, or years, seem 
 alike inconsiderable." 
 
 "But it is not the same to our hearts, which 
 live forever," she returned. 
 
 " The life of the heart is love," said Dray- 
 ton. 
 
 "And that lasts forever," said Mary Leithe. 
 " True love lasts, but the object changes," was 
 his reply. 
 
 "It seems to change sometimes," said she. 
 
" WHEN EALF-GOBB GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 117 
 
 "But I think it is only our perception tliat is 
 misled. We think we have found what we love ; 
 but afterward, perhaps, we find it was not in the 
 person we supposed, but in some other. Then 
 we love it in him ; not because our heart has 
 changed, but just because it has not." 
 
 "Has that been your experience?" Drayton 
 asked, with a smile. A 
 
 " Oh, I was speaking generally," she said, 
 looking down. 
 
 " It may be the truth ; but if so, it is a peril- 
 ous thing to be loved." 
 
 "Perilous?" 
 
 "Why, yes. How can the lover be sure that 
 he really is what his mistress takes him for? 
 After all, a man has and is nothing in himself. 
 His life, his love, his goodness, such as they are, 
 flow into him from his Creator, in such measure 
 as he is capable or desirous of receiving them. 
 And he may receive more at one time than at an- 
 other. How shall he know when he may lose the 
 talismanic virtue that won her love — even suppos- 
 ing he ever possessed it?" 
 
 " I don't know how to argue," said Mary 
 Leithe ; " I can only feel when a thing is true or 
 
118 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 
 
 not — or wlien I think it is — and say what I 
 feei;' 
 
 " Well, I am wise enough to trust the truth of 
 your feeling before any argument." 
 
 This assertion somewhat disconcerted Mary 
 Leithe, who never liked to be confronted with her 
 own shadow, so to speak. However, she seemed 
 resolved on this occasion to give fuller utterance 
 than usual to what was in her mind ; so, after a 
 pause, she continued, " It is not only how much 
 we are capable of receiving from God, but the pe- 
 culiar way in which each one of us shows what is 
 in him, that makes the difference in people. It is 
 not the talisman so much as the manner of using 
 it that wins a girl's love. And she may think one 
 manner good until she comes to know that an- 
 other is better." 
 
 "And, later, that another is better still?" 
 
 " You trust my feeling less than you thought, 
 you see," said Mary, blushing, and with a tremor 
 of her lips. 
 
 " Perhaps I am afraid of trusting it too much," 
 Drayton replied, fixing his eyes upon her. Then 
 he went on, with a changed tone and manner: 
 " This metaphysical discussion of ours reminds me 
 
" WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 119 
 
 of one of Emerson's poems, whose boob, by-the- 
 by, I brought with me. Have you ever read 
 them ? " 
 
 " Yery few of them," said Mary ; " I don't 
 seem to belong to them." 
 
 " Not many people can eat them raw, 1 imag- 
 ine," rejoined Drayton, laughing. " They must 
 be masticated by the mind before they can nour- 
 ish the heart, and some of them — However, 
 the one I am thinking of is very beautiful, take 
 it how you will. It is called, ' Give all to Love.' 
 Do you know it ! " 
 
 Mary shook her head. 
 
 " Then listen to it," said Drayton, and he read 
 the poem to her. " What do you think of it ? " 
 he asked when he had ended. 
 
 " It is very short," said Mary, " and it is cer- 
 tainly beautiful ; but I don't understand some 
 parts of it, and I don't think I like some other 
 parts." 
 
 " It is a true poem," returned Drayton ; " it 
 has a body and a soul ; the body is beautiful, but 
 the soul is more beautiful still; and where the 
 body seems incomplete, the soul is most nearly 
 perfect. Be loyal, it says, to the highest good 
 
120 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE: 
 
 yon know ; follow it throngh all difBculties and 
 dangers ; make it the core of yonr heart and the 
 life of yonr sonl ; and yet, be free of it ! For the 
 honr may always be at hand when that good that 
 yon have lived for and lived in mnst be given np. 
 And then — what says the poet? 
 
 " * Though thou loved her as thyself, 
 As a self of purer clay, 
 Though her parting dims the day, 
 Stealing grace from all alive, 
 Heartily know, 
 When half-gods go, 
 The gods arrive.' " 
 
 There was something ominons in Drayton's 
 tone, qniet and pleasant though it sounded to the 
 ear, and Mary could not speak ; she knew that he 
 would speak again, and that his words would 
 bring the issue finally before her. 
 
 He shut the book and put it in his pocket. 
 For some time he remained silent, gazing east- 
 ward across the waves, which came from afar to 
 break against the rock at their feet. A small 
 white pyramidal object stood up against the hori- 
 zon verge, and upon this Drayton's attention ap- 
 peared to be concentrated. 
 
WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 121 
 
 " If yon should ever decide to come," he said 
 at length, " and want the services of a courier who 
 knows the ground well, I shall be at your disposal." 
 
 " Come where ? " she said, falteringly. 
 
 "Eastward. To Europe." 
 
 " You will go with me ? " 
 
 " Hardly that. But I shall be there to receive 
 you." 
 
 " You are going back ? " 
 
 "In a month, or thereabouts." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Drayton ! Why ? " 
 
 " Well, for several reasons. My coming here 
 was an experiment. It might have succeeded, but 
 it was made too late. I am too old for this young 
 country. I love it, but I can be of no service to 
 it. On the contrary, so far as I was anything, I 
 should be in the way. It does not need me, and 
 I have been an exile so long as to have lost my 
 right to inflict myself upon it. Yet I am glad to 
 have been here ; the little time that I have been 
 here has recompensed me for all the sorrows of 
 my life, and I shall never forget an hour of it as 
 long as I live." 
 
 " Are you quite sure that your country does 
 not want you— need you ? " 
 
122 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE?' 
 
 " I should not like my assurance to be made 
 more sure." 
 
 " How can you know ? Who has told you ? 
 Whom have you asked ? " 
 
 " There are some questions which it is not wise 
 to put ; questions whose answers may seem ungra- 
 cious to give, and are sad to hear." 
 
 "But the answer might not seem so. And 
 how can it be given until you ask it ? " 
 
 Drayton turned and looked at her. His face 
 was losing its resolute composure, and there was a 
 glow in his eyes and in his cheeks that called up 
 an answering warmth in her own. 
 
 " Do you know where my country is ? " he 
 demanded, almost sternly. 
 
 " It is where you are loved and wanted most, 
 is it not ? " she said, breathlessly. 
 
 " Do not deceive yourself — nor me ! " ex- 
 claimed Drayton, putting out his hand toward 
 her, and half rising from the rock. " There is 
 only one thing more to say." 
 
 A sea-gull flew close by them, and swept on, 
 and in a moment was far away, and lost to sight. 
 So in our lives does happiness come so near us as 
 almost to brush our cheeks with its wings, and 
 
« WHEN HALF- GOD 8 GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 123 
 
 then pass on, and become as unattainable as the 
 stars. As Mary Leithe was abont to speak, a 
 shadow cast from above fell across her face and 
 ' figure. She seemed to feel a sort of chill from 
 it, warm though the day was ; and without mov- 
 ing her eyes from Drayton's face to see whence 
 the shadow came, her expression underwent a 
 subtle and sudden change, losing the fervor of a 
 moment before, and becoming relaxed and dis- 
 mayed. But after a moment Drayton looked up, 
 and immediately rose to his feet, exclaiming, 
 " Frank Eedmond ! " 
 
 On the rock just above them stood a young 
 man, dark of complexion, with eager eyes, and a 
 figure athletic and strong. As Drayton spoke his 
 name, his countenance assumed an expression 
 half-way between pleased surprise and jealous sus- 
 picion. Meanwhile Mary Leithe had covered 
 her face with her hands. 
 
 "Vm sure I'd no idea you were here, Mr. 
 Drayton," said the young man. " I was looking 
 for Mary Leithe. Is that she ? " 
 
 Mary uncovered her face, and rose to her 
 feet languidly. She did not as yet look to- 
 ward Eedmond, but she said in a low voice, 
 
 1 
 I 
 
124: " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRlVEr 
 
 "How do you do, Frank? You — came so sud- 
 denly!" 
 
 " I didn't stop to think — that I might inter- 
 rupt you," said he, drawing back a little and lift- 
 ing his head. 
 
 Drayton had been observing the two intently, 
 breathing constrainedly the while, and grasping a 
 jutting point of rock with his hand as he stood. 
 He now said, in a genial and matter-of-fact voice, 
 " Well, Master Frank, I shall have an account to 
 settle with you when you and my niece have got 
 through your first greetings." 
 
 " Mary your niece ! " cried Eedmond, bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 " My niece by courtesy ; her mother was a dear 
 friend of mine before Mary was born. And now 
 it appears that she is the young lady, the dearest 
 and loveliest ever heard of, about whom you used 
 to rhapsodize to me in Dresden! Why didn't 
 you tell me her name ? By Jove, you yoimg 
 rogue, I've a good mind to refuse my consent to 
 the match ! What if I had married her off to 
 some other young fellow, and you been left in the 
 lurch ! However, luckily for you, I haven't been 
 able thus far to find any one who in my opinion 
 
« WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 125 
 
 would suit her better. Come down here and 
 shake hands, Frank, and then I'll leave you to 
 make your excuses to Miss Leithe. And the next 
 time you come back to her after a year's absence, 
 don't frighten her heart into her mouth by spring- 
 ing out on her like a jack-in-the-box. Send a 
 bunch of flowers or a signet-ring to tell her you 
 are coming, or you may get a cooler reception 
 than you'd like ! " 
 
 " Ah ! Ambrose Drayton," he sighed to him- 
 self as he clambered down the rocks alone, and 
 sauntered along the shore, " there is no fool like an 
 old fool. Where were your eyes that you 
 couldn't have seen what was the matter? Her 
 heart was fighting against itself all the time, 
 poor child ! And you, selfish brute, bringing to 
 bear on her all your antiquated charms and fasci- 
 nations — Heaven save the mark! — and bullying 
 her into the belief that you could make her 
 happy! Thank God, Ambrose Drayton, that 
 your awakening did not come too late. A minute 
 more would have made her and you miserable for 
 life — and Eedmond too, confound him! And 
 yet they might have told me ; one of them might 
 
126" WHEN HALF' GOD 8 GO, THE GOBS ARRIVE?' 
 
 have told me, surely. Even at my age it is hard 
 to remember one's own insignificance. And I did 
 love her ! God knows how I loved her ! I hope 
 he loves her as much ; but how can he help it ! 
 And she — she won't remember long! An old 
 fellow who made believe he was her uncle, and 
 made rather a fool of himself ; went back to Eu- 
 rope, and never been heard of since. Ah, me ! " 
 
 "Where did you get acquainted with Mr. 
 Drayton, Frank ? '' 
 
 " At Dresden. It was during the vacation at 
 Freiberg last winter, and I had come over to 
 Dresden to have a good time. We stayed at the 
 same hotel. We played a game of billiards to- 
 gether, and he chatted with me about America, 
 and asked me about my mining studies at Frei- 
 berg; and I thought him about the best fellow 
 I'd ever met. But I didn't know then — I hadn't 
 any conception what a splendid fellow he really 
 was. If ever I hear anybody talking of their ideal 
 of a gentleman, I shall ask them if they ever met 
 Ambrose Drayton." 
 
 " What did he do ? " 
 
 " Well, the story isn't much to my credit ; if 
 
« WEEN HALF-GODS QO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 127 
 
 it hadn't been for him, yon might never have 
 heard of me again ; and it will serve me right to 
 confess the whole thing to you. It's abont a — 
 woman." 
 
 "What sort of a woman?" 
 
 " She called herself a countess ; but there's no 
 telling what she really was. I only know she got 
 me into a fearful scrape, and if it hadn't been for 
 Mr. Drayton — " 
 
 "Did you do anything wrong, Frank?" 
 
 " No ; upon my honor as a gentleman ! If I 
 had, Mary, I wouldn't be here now." 
 
 Mary looked at him with a sad face. "Of 
 course I believe you, Frank," she said. " But I 
 think I would rather not hear any more about 
 it." 
 
 " Well, I'll only tell you what Mr. Drayton 
 did. I told him all about it — how it began, and 
 how it went on, and all ; and how I was engaged 
 to a girl in America — I didn't tell him your 
 name; and I wasn't sure, then, whether you'd 
 ever marry me, after all; because, you know, 
 you had been awfully angry with me before I 
 went away, because I wanted to study in Europe 
 instead of staying at home. But, you see, I've 
 
128 WHEN HALF-GOBS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE.'' 
 
 got my diploma, and that'll give me a better 
 start than I ever should have had if I'd only 
 studied here. However — what was I saying? 
 Oh! so he said he would find out about the 
 countess, and talk to her himself. And how he 
 managed I don't know; and he gave me a tre- 
 mendous hauling over the coals for having been 
 such an idiot ; but it seems that instead of being 
 a poor injured, deceived creature, with a broken 
 heart, and all that sort of thing, she was a regular 
 adventuress — an old hand at it, and had got lots 
 of money out of other fellows for fear she would 
 make a row. But Mr. Drayton had an interview 
 with her. I was there, and I never shall forget 
 it if I live to a hundred. You never saw any- 
 body so quiet, so courteous, so resolute, and so 
 immitigably stern as he was. And yet he seemed 
 to be stern only against the wrong she was trying 
 to do, and to be feeling kindness and compassion 
 for her all the time. She tried everything she 
 knew, but it wasn't a bit of use, and at last she 
 broke down and cried, and carried on like a child. 
 Then Mr. Drayton took her out of the room, and 
 I don't know what happened, but I've always 
 suspected that he sent her off with money enough 
 
" WHEN HALF' GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 129 
 
 in her pocket to become an honest woman with 
 if she chose to ; but he never would admit it to 
 me. He came back to me after a while, and told 
 me to have nothing more to do with any woman, 
 good or bad, except the woman I meant to marry, 
 and I promised him I wouldn't, and I kept my 
 promise. But we have him to thank for our hap- 
 piness, Mary." 
 
 Tears came silently into Mary's eyes ; she 
 said nothing, but sat with her hands clasped 
 around one knee, gazing seaward. 
 
 " You don't seem very happy, though," pur- 
 sued Redmond, after a pause; ^'and you acted so 
 oddly when I first found you and Mr. Drayton 
 together — I almost thought — well, I didn't know 
 what to think. You do love me, don't you ? " 
 
 For a few moments Mary Leithe sat quite 
 motionless, save for a slight tremor of the nerves 
 that pervaded her whole body; and then, all at 
 once, she melted into sobs. Eedmond could not 
 imagine what was the matter with her; but he 
 put his arms round her, and after a little hesita- 
 tion or resistance, the girl hid her face upon his 
 shoulder, and wept for the secret that she would 
 never tell. 
 
130 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVED 
 
 But Mary Leithe's nature was not a stubborn 
 one, and easily adapted itself to the influences 
 with which she was most closely in contact. 
 When she and Redmond presented themselves 
 at Aunt Corwin's cottage that evening her tears 
 were dried, and only a tender dimness of the eyes 
 and a droop of her sweet mouth betrayed that 
 she had shed any. 
 
 "Mr. Drayton wanted to be remembered to 
 you, Mary," observed Aunt Corwin, shortly be- 
 fore going to bed. She had been floating colored 
 sea-weeds on paper all the time since supper, and 
 had scarcely spoken a dozen words. 
 
 "Has he gone?" Mary asked. 
 
 " Who ? Oh, yes ; he had a telegram, I be- 
 lieve. His trunks were to follow him. He said 
 he would write. I liked that man. He was not 
 like Mr. Haymaker; he was a gentleman. He 
 took an interest in my collections, and gave me 
 several nice specimens. Your mother was a fool 
 not to have married him. I wish you could have 
 married him yourself. But it was not to be ex- 
 pected that he would care for a child like you, even 
 if your head were not turned by that Frank Eed- 
 mond. How soon shall you let him marry you ? " 
 
" WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 131 
 
 " Whenever he likes/' answered Mary Leithe, 
 turning away. 
 
 As a matter of fact, they were married the 
 following winter. A week before the ceremony 
 a letter arrived for Mary from New York, ad- 
 dressed in a legal hand. It contained an intima- 
 tion that, in accordance with the instructions of 
 their client, Mr. Ambrose Drayton, the under- 
 signed had placed to her account the sum of fifty 
 thousand dollars as a preliminary bequest, it being 
 the intention of Mr. Drayton to make her his 
 heir. There was an inclosure from Drayton him- 
 self, which Mary, after a moment's hesitation, 
 placed in her lover's hand, and bade him break 
 the seal. 
 
 It contained only a few lines, wishing happi- 
 ness to the bride and bridegroom, and hoping 
 they all might meet in Europe, should the wed- 
 ding trip extend so far. " And as for you, my 
 dear niece," continued the writer, "whenever 
 you think of me remember that little poem of 
 Emerson's that we read on the rocks the last 
 time I saw you. The longer I live the more of 
 truth do I find in it, especially in the last verse : 
 
132 " WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE:' 
 
 "'Heartily know, 
 When half -gods go, 
 The gods arrive!'" 
 
 ^^What does that mean?" demanded Eed- 
 mond, looking up from the letter. 
 
 "We can not know except by experience," 
 answered Mary Leithe. 
 
"SET NOT THY FOOT ON 
 GRAVES." 
 
 New York^ Ajoril 29th, — Last night I came 
 upon this passage in my old author : " Friend, 
 take it sadly home to thee — Age and Youthe are 
 strangers still. Youthe, being ignorant of the 
 wisdome of Age, which is Experience, but wise 
 with its own wisdome, which is of the unshack- 
 eled Soule, or Intuition, is great in Enterprise, 
 but slack in Achievement. Holding itself equal 
 to all attempts and conditions, and to be heir, 
 not of its own spanne of yeares and compasse 
 of Faculties only, but of all time and all Human 
 Nature — such, I saye, being its illusion (if, in- 
 deede, it be illusion, and not in some sorte a 
 Truth), it still underrateth the value of Oppor- 
 tunitie, and, in the vain beleefe that the City of 
 its Expectation is paved with Golde and walled 
 
134 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 with Precious Stones, letteth slip betwixt its 
 fingers those diamond.es and treasures which 
 ironical Fate offereth it. . . . But see nowe what 
 the case is when this youthe becometh in yeares. 
 For nowe he can nowise understand what defecte 
 of Judgmente (or effecte of insanitie rather) did 
 leade him so to despise and, as it were, reject 
 those Giftes and golden chaunces which come 
 but once to mortal men. Experience (that saturn- 
 ine Pedagogue) hath taught him what manner of 
 man he is, and that, farre from enjoying that De- 
 ceptive Seeminge or mirage of Freedome which 
 would persuade him that he may run hither and 
 thither as the whim prompteth over the face of 
 the Earthe — yea, take the wings of the morninge 
 and winnowe his aerie way to the Pleiadies — he 
 must e'en plod heavilie and with paine along that 
 single and narrowe Path whereto the limitations 
 of his personal nature and profession confine him 
 — ^happy if he arrive with muche diligence and 
 faire credit at the ende thereof, and falle not 
 ignobly by the way. Neverthelesse — for so great 
 is the infatuation of man, who, although he ac- 
 quireth all other knowledge, yet arriveth not at 
 the knowledge of Himself — ^if to the Sage of 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 135 
 
 Experience lie proffered once again the gauds and 
 prizes of youthe, which he hath ever since re- 
 gretted and longed for — what doeth he in his 
 wisdome? Yerihe, so longe as the matter re- 
 maineth in nuhibis^ as the Latins say, or in the 
 Region of the Imagination, as oure speeche hath 
 it, he will beleeve, yea, take his oathe, that he 
 still is master of all those capacities and energies 
 whiche, in his youthe, would have prompted and 
 enabled him to profit by this desired occurrence. 
 Yet shall it appeare (if the thinge be brought 
 still further to the teste, and, from an Imagina- 
 tion or Dreame, become an actual Eealitie), that 
 he will shrinke from and decline that which he 
 did erste so ardently sigh for and covet. And 
 the reason of this is as follows, to- wit : That 
 Habit or Custome hath brought him more to 
 love and affect those very ways and conditions of 
 life, yea, those inconveniences and deficiencies 
 which he useth to deplore and abhorre, than that 
 Crown of Golde or Jewel of Happiness whose 
 withholding he hath all his life lamented. Hence 
 we may learne, that what is past, is dead, and 
 that though thoughte be free, nature is ever capt- 
 ive, and loveth her chaine." 
 
136 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 This is too lugubrious and cynical not to have 
 some truth in it ; but I am unwilling to believe 
 that more than half of it is true. The author 
 himself was evidently an old man, and therefore 
 a prejudiced judge ; and he did not make allow- 
 ances for the range and variety of temperament. 
 Age is not a matter of years, and scarcely of ex- 
 perience. The only really old persons are the 
 selfish ones. The man whose thoughts, actions, 
 and affections center upon himself, soon acquires 
 a fixity and crustiness which (if to be old is to be 
 strange to youth") is old as nothing else is. 
 But the man who makes the welfare and happi- 
 ness of others his happiness, is as young at three- 
 score as he was at twenty, and perhaps even 
 younger, for he has had no time to grow old. 
 
 April 30th, — The Courtneys are in town! 
 This is, I believe, her first visit to America 
 since he married her. At all events, I have not 
 seen or heard of her in all these seven years. I 
 wonder ... I was going to write, I wonder 
 whether she remembers me. Of course she re- 
 members me, in a sort of way. I am tied up 
 somewhere among her bundle of recollections, 
 and occasionally, in an idle moment, her eye falls 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 137 
 
 npon me, and moves her, perhaps, to smile or to 
 sigh. For my own part, in thinking over our 
 old days, I find I forget her less than I had sup- 
 posed. Probably she has been more or less con- 
 sciously in my mind throughout. In the same 
 way, one has always latent within him the knowl- 
 edge that he must die ; but it does not follow that 
 he is continually musing on the thought of death. 
 As with death, so with this old love of mine. 
 What a difference, if we had married! She w^as 
 a very lovely girl — at least, I thought so then. 
 Very likely I should not think her so now. My 
 taste and knowledge have developed ; a different 
 order of things interests me. It may not be an 
 altogether pleasant thing to confess ; but, know- 
 ing myself as I now do, I have often thanked my 
 stars that I am a bachelor. 
 
 Doubtless she is even more changed than I 
 am. A woman changes more than a man in 
 seven years, and a married woman especially 
 must change a great deal from twenty-two to 
 twenty-nine. Think of Ethel Leigh being in 
 her thirtieth year! and the mother of four or 
 five children, perhaps. Well, for the matter of 
 that, think of the romantic and ambitious young 
 
138 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 Claude Campbell being an old bachelor of forty ! 
 I have married Art instead of Ethel, and she, 
 instead of being Mrs. Campbell, is Mrs. Court- 
 ney. 
 
 It was a surprising thing — her marrying him 
 so suddenly. But, appearances to the contrary 
 notwithstanding, I have never quite made up 
 my mind that Ethel was really fickle. She did 
 it out of pique, or pride, or impulse, or whatever 
 it is that sways women in such cases. She was 
 angry, or indignant — how like fire and ice at once 
 she was when she was angry ! — and she was re- 
 solved to show me that she could do without me. 
 She would not listen to my explanations ; and I 
 was always awkward and stiff about making ex- 
 planations. Besides, it was not an easy matter to 
 explain, especially to a girl like her. With a 
 married woman or a widow it would have been 
 a simple thing enough. But Ethel Leigh, the 
 minister's daughter — innocent, ignorant, passion- 
 ate — she would tolerate nothing short of a public 
 disavowal and discontinuance of my relations with 
 Mrs. Murray, and that, of course, I could not con- 
 sent to, though heaven knows (and so must Ethel, 
 by this time) that Mrs. Murray was nothing to 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 139 
 
 me, save as she was the wife of my friend, during 
 whose enforced absence I was bound to look after 
 her, to some extent. It was not my fault that 
 poor Mrs. Murray was a fool. But such are the 
 trumpery seeds from which tragedies grow. Not 
 that ours was a tragedy, exactly : Ethel married 
 her English admirer, and I became a somewhat 
 distinguished artist, that is all. I wonder whether 
 she has been happy! Likely enough; she was 
 born to be wealthy ; Englishmen make good hus- 
 bands sometimes, and her London hfe must have 
 been a brilliant one. ... I have been looking at 
 my old photograph of her — the one she gave me 
 the morning after we were engaged. Tall, slen- 
 der, dark, with level brows, and the bearing of a 
 Diana. She certainly was handsome, and I shall 
 not run the risk of spoiling this fine memory by 
 calling on her. Even if she have not deteriorated, 
 she can scarcely have improved. Nay, even were 
 she the same now as then, I should not find her 
 so, because of the change in myself. Why should 
 I blink the truth? Experience, culture, and the 
 sober second thought of middle age have carried 
 me far beyond the point where I could any longer 
 be in sympathy with this crude, thin-skinned, im- 
 
 i 
 
140 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 pulsiv^e girl. And then — four or five children! 
 Decidedly, I will give her a wide berth. And 
 Courtney himself, with his big beard, small brain, 
 and obtrusive laugh ! I shall step across to Cali- 
 fornia for a few months. 
 
 May 1st — Called this morning on Ethel Leigh 
 — Mrs. Deighton Courtney, that is to say. She 
 is not so much changed, but she has certainly im- 
 proved. When I say she has not changed much, 
 I refer to her physical appearance. Her features 
 are scarcely altered; her figure is a little fuller 
 and more compact ; in her bearing there is a cer- 
 tain quiet composure and self-possession — the air 
 of a woman who has seen the world, has received 
 admiration, and is familiar with the graceful little 
 arts of social intercourse. In short, she has ac- 
 quired a high external polish; and that is pre- 
 cisely what she most needed. Evidently, too, 
 there is an increased mental refinement corre- 
 sponding to the outward manner. She has mel- 
 lowed, sweetened — whether deepened or not I 
 should hesitate to affirm. But I am quite sure 
 that I find her more charming to talk with, more 
 supple in interconrse, more fascinating, in a word, 
 than formerly. We chatted discm-sively and 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 141 
 
 rather volubly for more than an hour; yet we 
 did not touch on anything very serious or pro- 
 found. They are staying at the Brevoort House. 
 Courtney himself, by-the-by, is still in Boston 
 (they landed there), where business will detain 
 him a few days. Ethel goes on a house-hunting 
 expedition to-morrow, and I am going with her ; 
 for New York has altered out of her recollection 
 during these seven years. They are to remain 
 here three years, perhaps longer. Courtney is to 
 establish and oversee an American branch of his 
 English business. 
 
 They have only one child — a pretty little 
 thing: Susie and I became great friends. 
 
 Mrs. Courtney opened the door of the private 
 sitting-room in which I was awaiting her, and 
 came in — beautifully ! She has learned how to 
 do that since I knew her. My own long resi- 
 dence in Paris has made me more critical than 
 I used to be in such matters ; but I do not re- 
 member having met any woman in society with 
 manners more nearly perfect than Mrs. Courtney's. 
 Ethel Leigh used to be, upon occasion, painfully 
 abrupt and disconcerting ; and her movements 
 and attitudes, though there was abundant native 
 
14:2 ''^^T NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 grace in them, were often careless and unconven- 
 tional. Of course, I do not forget that niceties 
 of deportment, without sound qualities of mind 
 and heart to back them, are of trifling value ; but 
 the two kinds of attraction are by no means in- 
 compatible with each other. Mrs. Courtney 
 smiles often, Ethel Leigh used to smile rarely, 
 although, when the smile did come, it was irresist- 
 ibly winning ; there was in it exquisite significance 
 and tenderness. It is a beautiful smile still, but 
 that charm of rarity (if it be a charm) is lacking. 
 It is a conventional smile more than a spontane- 
 ous or a happy one ; indeed, it led me to surmise 
 that she had perhaps not been very happy since 
 we last met, and had learned to use this smile as a 
 sort of veil. Not that I suppose for a moment 
 that Courtney has ill-treated her. I never could 
 see anything in the man beyond a superficial 
 comeliness, a talent for business, and an affable tem- 
 per ; but he was not in any sense a bad fellow. 
 Besides, he was over head and ears in love with 
 her ; and Ethel would be sare to have the upper 
 hand of a nature like his. No, her unhappiness, 
 if she be unhappy, would be due to no such cause, 
 she and her husband are no doubt on good terms 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVEST 143 
 
 with each other. But — suppose she has discov- 
 ered that he fell short of what she demanded in a 
 husband ; that she overmatched him ; that, in or- 
 der to make their life smooth, she must descend to 
 him ? I imagine it may be something of that 
 kind. Poor Mrs. Courtney! 
 
 She addressed me as " Mr. Campbell," and I 
 dare say she was right. Women best know how 
 to meet these situations. To have called me 
 " Claude " would have placed us in a false posi- 
 tion, by ignoring the changes that have taken 
 place. It is wise to respect these barriers ; they 
 are conventional, but, rightly considered, they are 
 more of an assistance than of an obstacle to free- 
 dom of intercourse. I asked her how she liked 
 England. She smiled and said, " It was my busi- 
 ness to like England; still, I am glad to see 
 America once more." 
 
 " You will entertain a great deal, I presume 
 — that sort of thing?" 
 
 " We shall hope to make friends with people 
 — and to meet old friends. It is such a pleasant 
 surprise to find you here. I heard you were set- 
 tled in Paris." 
 
 So I was, for several years ; the Parisians 
 
144 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 said nice things about my pictures. But one 
 may weary even of Paris. I returned here two 
 years ago, and am now as much of a fixture in 
 New York as if I'd never left it." 
 
 "But not a permanent fixture. Shall we 
 never see you in London ? " 
 
 "My present probabilities lie rather in the 
 direction of California. I want to make some 
 studies of the scenery and the atmosphere. Be- 
 sides, I am getting too old to think of another 
 European residence." 
 
 "T^o one gets old after thirty — especially no 
 bachelor ! " she answered, with a smile. " But if 
 you were ever to feel old, the society of London 
 would rejuvenate you." 
 
 "It has certainly done you no harm. But 
 you have the happiness to be married." 
 
 She looked at me pleasantly and said, " Yes, 
 I make a good Englishwoman." That sounded 
 like an evasion, but the expression of her face 
 was not evasive. In the old days she would 
 probably have flushed up and said something cut- 
 ting. 
 
 " You must see my little girl," she said, after 
 a while. 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr I45 
 
 The child was called, and presently came in. 
 She resembles her mother, and has a vivacity 
 scarcely characteristic of English children. I 
 am not constitutionally a worshiper of children, 
 but I liked Susie. She put her arms round her 
 mother's arm, and gazed at me with wide-eyed 
 scrutiny." 
 
 " This is Mr. Campbell," said mamma. 
 
 " My name is Susan Courtney," said the little 
 thing. "We are going to stay in New York 
 three years. Not here — this is only an hotel — we 
 are going to have a house. How do you do ? 
 This is my dolly." 
 
 I saluted dolly, and thereby inspired its parent 
 with confidence : she put her hand in mine, and 
 gave me her smooth little cheek to kiss. You 
 are not like papa," she then observed. 
 
 I smiled conciliatingly, being uncertain 
 whether it were prudent to follow this lead ; 
 but Mrs. Courtney asked, " In what way differ- 
 ent, dear ? " 
 
 "Papa has a beard," replied Susie. 
 
 The incident rather struck me ; it seemed to 
 indicate that Mrs. Courtney was under no appre- 
 hension that the child would say anything embar- 
 
146 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 rassing about the fatlier. Having learned so 
 much, I ventured farther. 
 
 " Do you love papa or mamma best ? " I in- 
 quired. 
 
 " I am with mamma most," she answered, 
 after meditation, but when papa comes, I like 
 him." 
 
 This was non-committal. She continued, 
 " Papa is coming here day after to-morrow. To- 
 morrow, mamma and I are going to find a 
 house." 
 
 " Your husband leaves all that to you ? " I 
 said, turning to Mrs. Courtney. 
 
 "Mr. Courtney never knows or cares what 
 sort of a place he lives in. It took me some little 
 time to get used to that. I wanted everything to 
 be just in a certain way. They used to laugh at 
 me, and say I was more English than he." 
 
 " Now that you are both here, you must both 
 be American." 
 
 " He doesn't enjoy America much. Of 
 course, it is very different from London. An 
 Englishman can not be expected to care for 
 American ways and American quickness, and — " 
 
 " American people ? " I put in, laughingly. 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 147 
 
 " Don't undress dolly here," she said to Susie. 
 "It isn't time yet to put her to bed, and she 
 might catch cold." 
 
 Was this another evasion? The serene face 
 betrayed nothing, but she had left unanswered 
 the question that aimed at discovering how she 
 and her husband stood toward each other. After 
 all, however, no answer could have told me more 
 than her no answer did — supposing it to have 
 been intentional. I soon afterward took my 
 leave, after having arranged to call to-morrow and 
 accompany her and Susie on their house-hunting 
 expedition. 
 
 Upon the whole, I don't think I am sorry to 
 have renewed my acquaintance with her. She 
 is more delightful — as an acquaintance — than 
 when I knew her formerly. Should I have 
 fallen in love with her had I met her for the first 
 time as she is now ? Yes, and no ! In the old 
 days there was something about her that com- 
 manded me — that fascinated my youthful imagin- 
 ation. Perhaps it was only the freshness, the ig- 
 norance, the timidity of young maidenhood — 
 that mystery of possibilities of a nature that has 
 not yet met the world and received its impress for 
 
148 ''^ET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES^ 
 
 good or evil. It is this which captivates in youth ; 
 and this, of course, Mrs. Courtney has lost. But 
 every quality that might captivate mature man- 
 hood is hers, and, were I likely to think of mar- 
 riage now, and were she marriageable, she is the 
 type of woman I would choose. Yet I do not 
 quite relish the perception that my present femi- 
 nine ideal (whether it be lower or higher) is not 
 the former one. But, frankly, would I marry 
 her if I could ? I hardly know : I have got out 
 of the habit of regarding marriage as among my 
 possibilities ; many avenues of happiness that once 
 were open to me are now closed against me. Put 
 it, that 1 have lost a faculty — that I am now able 
 to enjoy only in imagination a phase of existence 
 that, formerly, I could have enjoyed in fact. 
 This bit of self -analysis may be erroneous ; but I 
 would not like to run the risk of proving it so ! 
 Am I not well enough off as I am ? My health is 
 fair, my mind active, my reputation secure, my 
 finances prosperous. The things that I can dream 
 must surely be better than anything that could 
 happen. I can picture, for example, a state of 
 matrimonial felicity which no marriage of mine 
 could realize. Besides, I can, whenever I choose, 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES:' 149 
 
 see Mrs. Courtney herself, talk with her, and en- 
 joy her as a reasonable and congenial friend, apart 
 from the danger and disappointment that might 
 result from a closer connection. I think I have 
 chosen the wiser part, or, rather, the wiser part 
 has been thrust upon me. That I shall never be 
 wildly happy is, at least, security that I shall never 
 be profoundly miserable. I shall simply be com- 
 fortable. 
 
 Is this sour grapes ? Am I, if not counting, 
 then discounting my eggs before they are hatched ? 
 To such questions a practical — a materialized — 
 answer would be the only conclusive one. Were 
 Mrs. Courtney ready to drop into my mouth, I 
 should either open my mouth, or else I should 
 shut it, and either act would be conclusive. But, 
 so far from being ready to drop into my mouth, 
 she is immovably and (to all appearances) content- 
 edly fixed where she is. I suppose I am insinuat- 
 ing that appearances are deceptive ; that she may 
 be unhappy with her husband, and desire to leave 
 him. Well, there is no technical evidence in 
 support of such an hypothesis; but, again, in a 
 matter of this kind, it is not so mnch the techni- 
 cal as the indirect evidence that tells — the ca- 
 
150 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES:' 
 
 dences of the voice, the breathing, the silences, 
 the atmosphere. There is no denying that I did 
 somehow acquire a vague impression that Courtney 
 is not so large a figure in his wife's eyes as he 
 might be. I may have been biased by my pre- 
 vious conception of his character, or I may have 
 misinterpreted the impalpable, indescribable signs 
 that I remarked in her. But, once more, how do 
 I know that her not caring for him would postu- 
 late her caring for me ? Why should she care for 
 either of us ? Our old romance is to her as the 
 memory of something read in a book, and it is 
 powerless to make her heart beat one throb the 
 faster. Were Courtney to die to-morrow, would 
 his widow expect me to marry her ? Not she ! 
 She would settle down here quietly, educate her 
 daughter, and think better of her departed hus- 
 band with every year that passed, and less of re- 
 peating the experiment that made her his! I 
 may be prone to romantic and elaborate specula- 
 tions, but I am not exactly a fool. I do not de- 
 lude myself with the idea that Mrs. Courtney is, 
 at this moment, following my example by record- 
 ing her impressions of me at her own writing- 
 desk, and asking herself whether — if such and 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 151 
 
 such a thing were to happen — such another 
 would be apt to follow. No ; she has put 
 Susie to bed, and is by this time asleep her- 
 self, after having read through the "Post," 
 or " Bazar," or the last new novel, as her predi- 
 lection may be. It is after midnight; since 
 she has not followed my example, I will fol- 
 low hers ; it is much the more sensible of the 
 two. 
 
 May ^d. — What a woman she is ! and, in a dif- 
 ferent sense, what a man I am ! How little does 
 a man know or suspect himself until he is 
 brought to the proof ! How serenely and se- 
 curely I philosophized and laid down the law 
 yesterday ! and to-day, how strange to contrast the 
 event with my prognostication of it! And yet, 
 again, how little has happened that might not be 
 told in such a way as to appear nothing ! It was 
 the latent meaning, the spirit, the touch of look 
 and tone. Her husband may have reached New 
 York by this time ; they may be together at this 
 moment; he will find no perceptible change in 
 her — perceptible to him ! He will be told that 
 I have been her escort during the day, and that 
 I was polite and serviceable, and that a house 
 
152 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES:' 
 
 lias been selected. What more is there to tell? 
 Nothing — that he could hear or understand! 
 and yet — everything ! He will say, " Yes, I recol- 
 lect Campbell; nice fellow; have him to dine 
 with us one of these days." But I shall never sit 
 at their table ; I shall never see her again ; I can 
 not ! I shall start for California next week. 
 Meanwhile I will write down the history of one 
 day, for it is well to have these things set visibly 
 before one — to grasp the nettle, as it were. Noth- 
 ing is so formidable as it appears when we shrink 
 from defining it to ourselves. 
 
 I drove to the hotel in my brougham at eleven 
 o'clock, as we had previously arranged. She was 
 ready and waiting for me, and little Susie was 
 with her. Ethel was charmingly dressed, and 
 there was a soft look in her eyes as she turned 
 them on me — a look that seemed to say, ''I re- 
 member the past; it is pleasant to see you, so 
 pleasant as to be sad ! " Susie came to me as if I 
 were an old friend, and I lifted the child from the 
 floor and kissed her twice. 
 
 " Why did you give me two kisses ? " she de- 
 manded, as I put her down. " Papa always gives 
 me only one kiss." 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES:' 153 
 
 " Papa lias mamma as well as you to kiss ; but 
 I have no one ; I am an old bachelor." 
 
 " "When you have known mamma longer, will 
 you kiss her too ? " 
 
 " Old bachelors kiss nobody but little girls," 
 I replied, laughing. 
 
 "We went down to the brougham, and after 
 we were seated and on our way, Ethel said, " Al- 
 ready I feel so much at home in New York, it 
 almost startles me. I fancied I should have for- 
 gotten old associations — should have grown out of 
 sympathy with them ; but I seem only to have 
 learned to appreciate them more. Our memory 
 for some things is better than we would believe." 
 
 "There are two memories in us," I remarked; 
 " the memory of the heart and the memory of the 
 head. The former never is lost, though the other 
 may be. But I had not supposed that you cared 
 very deeply for the American period of your life." 
 
 "England is very agreeable," she said, rather 
 hastily. She turned her head and looked out of 
 the window ; but after a pause she added, as if to 
 herself, "but I am an American!" 
 
 " There is, no doubt, a deep-rooted and sub- 
 stantial repose in English life such as is scarcely 
 
154: ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES:^ 
 
 to be found elsewhere," I said ; " but, for all that, 
 I have often thought that the best part of domes- 
 tic happiness could exist nowhere but here. Here 
 a man may marry the woman he loves, and their 
 affection for each other will be made stronger by 
 the hardships they may have to pass through. 
 After all, when we come to the end of our lives, 
 it is not the business we have done, nor the social 
 distinction we have enjoyed — it is the love we have 
 given and received that we are glad of." 
 
 " Mamma," inquired Susie, " does Mr. Camp- 
 bell love you ? " 
 
 We both of us looked at the child and laughed 
 a little. " Mr. Campbell is an old friend," said 
 Ethel. After a few moments she bhished. She 
 held in her hand some house-agents' orders to view 
 houses, and these she now began to examine. " Is 
 this Madison Avenue place likely to be a good 
 one ? " she asked me. 
 
 " It is conveniently situated and comfortable ; 
 but I should think it might be too large for a 
 family of three. Perhaps, though, you don't like 
 a close fit?" 
 
 "I don't like empty rooms, though I prefer 
 such rooms as there are to be large. But it 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESy 155 
 
 doesn't make much difference. Mr. Courtney 
 moves about a good deal, and he is as happy in 
 a hotel as anywhere. These American hotels 
 are luxurious and splendid, but they are not home- 
 like to me.'^ 
 
 " I remember you used to dislike being among 
 a crowd of people you didn't know." 
 
 " Yes, and I haven't yet learned to be sociable 
 in that way. A friend is more company for me 
 than a score of acquaintances. Dear me! I'm 
 afraid New York will spoil me — for England!" 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. Courtney may be cured of Eng- 
 land by New York." 
 
 She smiled and said, " Perhaps ! He accom- 
 modates himself to things more easily than I do, 
 but I think one needs to be born in America to 
 know how to love it." 
 
 Under the veil of discussing America and 
 things in general, we were talking of ourselves, 
 awakening reminiscences of the past, and discov- 
 ering, with a pleasure we did not venture to ac- 
 knowledge, that — allowing for the events and 
 the years that had come between — ^we were as 
 much in accord as when we were young lovers. 
 Yes, as much, and perhaps even more. For 
 
156 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 surely, if one grows in the right way, the sphere 
 of knowledge and sympathy must enlarge, and 
 thereby the various points of contact between 
 two minds and hearts must be multiplied. Ethel 
 and I, during these seven years, had traveled our 
 round of daily life on different sides of the earth ; 
 but the miles of sea and land which had physically 
 separated us had been powerless to estrange our 
 spirits. Nothing is more strange, in this mysteri- 
 ous complexity of impressions and events that we 
 call human existence, than the fact that two beings, 
 entirely cut off from all natural means of associ- 
 ation and communion, may yet, unknown to each 
 other, be breathing the same spiritual air and 
 learning the same moral and intellectual lessons. 
 Like two seeds of the same species, planted, the 
 one in American soil, the other in English, Ethel 
 and I had selected, by some instinct of the soul, 
 the same elements from our different surround- 
 ings ; so that now, when we met once more, we 
 found a close and harmonious resemblance be- 
 tween the leaves and blossoms of our experience. 
 What can be more touching and delightful than 
 such a discovery ? Or what more sad than to 
 know that it came too late for us to profit by it 2 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES:' 157 
 
 Oh, Ethel, how easy it is to take the little step that 
 separates light from darkness, happiness from mis- 
 ery! Eemembering that we live but once, and 
 that the worthy enjoyments of life are so limited 
 in number and so hard to get, it seems unjust and 
 monstrous that one little hour of jealousy or mis- 
 understanding should wreck the fair prospects of 
 months and years. Why is mischief so much 
 readier to our hand than good ? 
 
 We got out at a house near the Park. I as- 
 sisted Ethel to alight, and, as her hand rested on 
 mine, the thought crossed my mind — How sweet 
 if this were our own home that we are about to 
 enter! — and I glanced at her face to see whether 
 a like thought had visited her. She maintained 
 a subdued demeanor, with an expression about the 
 mouth and eyes of a peculiar timid gentleness, 
 and, as it were, a sort of mental leaning upon me 
 for support and protection. She felt, it may be, 
 a little fear of herself, at finding herself — in more 
 senses than one — so near to me ; and, woman-like, 
 she depended upon me to protect her against the 
 very peril of which I was the occasion. No 
 higher or more delicate compliment can be paid 
 by a woman , to a man ; and I resolved that I 
 
158 ^ET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAYEST 
 
 would do what in me lay to deserve it. But such 
 resolutions are the hardest in the world to keep, 
 because the circumstance or the impulse of the 
 moment is continually in wait to betray you. 
 Ethel was more fascinating and lovely in this 
 mood than in any other I had hitherto seen her 
 in ; and the misgiving, from which I could not 
 free myself, that the man whom Fate had made 
 her husband did not appreciate or properly cher- 
 ish the gift bestowed upon him, made me warm 
 toward her more than ever. I could scarcely have 
 believed that such blood could flow in the sober 
 veins of my middle age ; but love knows nothing 
 of time or age! 
 
 "I do not like this house," Susie declared, 
 when we had been admitted by the care-taker. 
 " It has no carpets, nor chairs, nor pictures ; and 
 the floor is dirty ; and the walls are not pretty ! 
 
 "I suppose one can have these houses deco- 
 rated and furnished at short notice ? " Ethel asked 
 me. 
 
 " It would not take long. There are several 
 firms that make it their specialty." 
 
 "I have always wanted to live in a house 
 where the colors and forms were to my taste. I 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVEST 169 
 
 don't know whether you remember that you used 
 to think I had some taste in such matters. Mr. 
 Courtney, of course, doesn't care much about 
 art, and he didn't encourage me to carry out my 
 ideas. A business man can not be an artist, you 
 know." 
 
 "You yourself would have become an artist 
 if — " I began ; but I was approaching dangerous 
 ground, and I stopped. " This dining-room might 
 be done in Indian red," I remarked — " the wood- 
 work, that is to say. The walls would be a warm 
 salmon color, which contrasts well with the cold 
 blue of the china, which it is the fashion to have 
 about nowadays. As for the furniture, antique 
 dark oak is as safe as anything, don't you think 
 so?" 
 
 "I should like all that," said she, moving a 
 little nearer me, and letting her eyes wander 
 about the room with a pleased expression, until 
 at length they met my own. " If you could only 
 design our decoration for us, I'm sure it would be 
 perfect; at least, I should be satisfied. Well, and 
 how should we . . . how ought the drawing-room 
 to be done?" 
 
 " There is a shade of yellow that is very agree- 
 
160 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 able for drawing-rooms, and it goes very well 
 with the dull peacock-blue which is in vogue 
 now. Then you could get one of those bloomy 
 Morris friezes. There is some very graceful 
 Chippendale to be picked up in various places. 
 And no such good furniture is made nowadays. 
 But I am advising you too much from the artist's 
 point of view." 
 
 " Oh, I can get other sort of advice when I 
 want it." She looked at me with a smile; our 
 glances met more often now than at first. " But 
 it seems to me," she went on, ^'that the way the 
 house is built does not suit the way we want to 
 decorate it. Let us look at a smaller one. I 
 should think ten rooms would be quite enough. 
 And it would be nice to have a corner house, 
 would it not?" 
 
 " If the question were only of our agreement, 
 there would probably not be much difliculty," I 
 said, in a tone which I tried to make merely cour- 
 teous, but which may have revealed something 
 more than courtesy beneath it. 
 
 In coming down-stairs she gathered her dress 
 in her right hand and put her left in my arm ; 
 and then, in a flash, the picture came before me 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES:' 161 
 
 of the last time we had gone arm-in-arm together 
 down-stairs. It was at her father's house, and 
 she was speaking to me of that unlucky Mrs. 
 Murray ; we had our quarrel that evening in the 
 drawing-room, and it was never made up. From 
 then till now, what a gulf! and yet those years 
 would have been but a bridge to pass over, save 
 for the one barrier that was insurmountable be- 
 tween us. 
 
 ''What has become of that Mrs. Murray 
 whom you used to know ? " she asked, as we 
 reached the foot of the stairs. She relinquished 
 my arm as she spoke, and faced me. 
 
 I felt the blood come to my face. " Mrs. 
 Murray was in my thoughts at the same moment 
 — and perhaps by the same train of associa- 
 tions." I answered, " I don't know where she 
 is now; I lost sight of her years ago — soon 
 after you were married, in fact. Why do you 
 ask?" 
 
 " You had not forgotten her, then ? " 
 I had every reason to forget her, except the 
 one reason for which I have remembered her — 
 and you know what that is! Have yon mis- 
 trusted me all this time?" 
 
162 ''SET NOT THT FOOT ON GRAVES:^ 
 
 " Oh, no — no ! I don't think I really mistrust- 
 ed you at all ; and long ago I admitted to myself 
 that yon had acted unselfishly and honorably. 
 But I was angry at the time ; you know, some- 
 times a girl will be angry, even when there is no 
 good reason for it. I have long wished for an 
 opportunity to tell you this, for my own sake, 
 you know, as well as for yours." 
 
 "I hardly know whether I am most glad or 
 sorry to hear this," I said, as we moved toward 
 the door. " If you had only been able to say it, 
 or to think it, before . . . there would have been 
 a great difference ! " 
 
 " The worst of mistakes is, they are so seldom 
 set right at the time, or in the way they ought 
 to be. Come, Susie, we are going away now. 
 Susie, do you most like to be American or Eng- 
 lish?" 
 
 "English," replied Susie, without hesitation. 
 Her mother turned to me and said in a low 
 tone: 
 
 " I love her, whichever she is." 
 
 I understood what she meant. Susie was the 
 symbol of that inevitable element in our lives 
 which seems to evolve itself without reference to 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVEST 163 
 
 our desires or efforts; but which, nevertheless, 
 when we have recognized that it is inevitable, we 
 learn (if we are wise) to accept and even to love. 
 Save for the estrangement between Ethel and 
 myself, Susie would never have existed ; yet there 
 she was, a beautiful child, who had as good a 
 right to be as either of us ; and her mother loved 
 her, and, as it were, bade me love her also. I 
 took the little maiden by the hand and said, 
 " You are right, Susie ; the Americans are the 
 children of the English, and can not expect to be 
 so wise and comfortable as they. But you must 
 remember that the Americans have a future be- 
 fore them, and we are not enemies any more. 
 Will you be friends with me, and let me call 
 you my little girl?" 
 
 "I shouldn't mind being your little girl, 
 if I could still have the same mamma," was 
 Susie's reply. "Papa is away a great deal, 
 and you could be papa, you know, until he 
 came back." 
 
 I made some laughing answer; but, in fact, 
 Susie's frank analysis of the situation poignantly 
 kindled an imagination which stood in no need 
 of stimulus. Ah, if this were the Golden Age, 
 
164 ''^ET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 when love never went astray, how happy we 
 might be! But it is not the Golden Age — far 
 from it ! Meanwhile, I think I can assert, with 
 a clear conscience, that no dishonorable purpose 
 possessed me. I loved Ethel too profoundly to 
 wish to do her wrong. Yet I may have wished 
 — I did wish — that a kindly Providence might 
 have seen fit to remove the disabilities that con- 
 trolled us. If a wish could have removed Court- 
 ney painlessly to another world, I think I should 
 have wished it. There was something exquisitely 
 touching in Ethel's appearance and manner. She 
 is as pure as any woman that ever lived ; but she 
 is a woman ! and I felt that, for this day, I had a 
 man's power over her. Occasionally I was con 
 scious that her eyes were resting on my face; 
 when I addressed her, her aspect softened and 
 brightened ; she fell into little moods of preoccu- 
 pation, from which she would emerge with a 
 sigh ; in many ways she betrayed, without know- 
 ing it, the secret that neither of us would men- 
 tion. I do not mean to imply that she expected 
 me to mention it. A pure woman does not real- 
 ize the dangers of the world ; and that very fact 
 is itself her strongest security against them. But, 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVEST 165 
 
 had I spoken, she would have responded. It was 
 a temptation which I could hardly have believed 
 I could have resisted as I did; but such a 
 woman calls out all that is best and noblest 
 in a man; and, at the time, I was better than 
 I am! 
 
 When we were in the brougham again, I said, 
 "If you wiU allow me, I will drive you to a 
 house I have seen, which belongs to a man with 
 whom I am slightly acquainted. He is on the 
 point of leaving it, but his furniture is still in it, 
 and, as he is himself an artist and a man of taste, 
 it will be worth your while to look at it. He is 
 rather deaf, but that is all the better ; we can ex- 
 press our opinions without disturbing him. Per- 
 haps you might arrange to take house and furni- 
 ture as they stand." 
 
 "Whatever you advise, I shall like to do," 
 Ethel answered. 
 
 We presently arrived at the house, which was 
 situated in the upper part of the town, a little to 
 the west of Fifth Avenue. It was a comely 
 gabled edifice of red brick, with square bay-win- 
 dows and a roomy porch. The occupant, Maler, 
 a German, happened to be at home ; and on my 
 
166 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 sending in my card, we were admitted at once, 
 and he came to greet us in the hall in his usual 
 hearty, headlong fashion. 
 
 " My good Campbell," he exclaimed, in his 
 blundering English, "very delighted to see you. 
 Ah, dis will be madame, and de little maid ! So 
 you are married since some time — I have not 
 know it! Your servant, Madame Campbell. I 
 know — all de artists know — your husband: we 
 wish we could paint how he can — ^but it is impos- 
 sible! Ha, ha, ha! not so! Now, I am very 
 pleased you shall see dis house. May I beg de 
 honor of accompany you ? First you shall see de 
 studio; dat I call de stomach of de house, eh? 
 because it is most important of all de places, and 
 make de rest of de places live. See, I make dat 
 window be put in — ^you find no better hght in 
 New York. Den you see, here we have de al- 
 cove, where Madame Campbell shall sit and make 
 her sewing, while de husband do his work on de 
 easel. How you like dat portiere ? I design him 
 myself — oh, yes, I do all here ; you keep them if 
 you like; I go to Germany, perhaps not come 
 back after some years, so I leave dem, not so? 
 Now I show you my little chamber of the piano. 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 167 
 
 See, I make an arched ceiling — groined arch, eh ? 
 — and I gild him ; so I get pretty light and pretty 
 sound, not ? Ah ! madame, I have not de happi- 
 ness to be married, but I make my house so, dat 
 if I get me a wife, she find all ready ; but no wife 
 come, so I give him over to Herr Campbell and 
 you. Now we mount up-stairs to de bed-rooms, 
 eh?" 
 
 In this way he went over the entire house 
 with us. His loud, jolly voice, his resounding 
 laugh, his bustling manner, his heedless, boy-like 
 self-confidence, and his deafness, made it impossi- 
 ble to get in a word of explanation, and, after a 
 few efforts, I gave up the attempt. 
 
 " Let him suppose what he likes," I said aside 
 to Ethel, "it can make no difference ; he is going 
 away, and you wdll never see him again. After 
 all these years, it can do no great harm for us to 
 play at being Mr. and Mrs. Campbell for an 
 hour! " 
 
 " It is a very beautiful house," she said, tacitly 
 accepting what I had proposed. " It is such a 
 house as I have always dreamed of living in. I 
 shall not care to look at any others. Will you 
 tell him that we — that I will take it just as it 
 
168 ^SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES:^ 
 
 stands. You have made this a very pleasant day 
 for me — a very happy day," she added, in a lower 
 tone. " Every room here will be associated w^th 
 you. You will come here often and see me, will 
 you not? Perhaps, after all, you might use the 
 studio to paint my — or Susie's portrait in." 
 
 " I shall inflict myself upon you very often, I 
 have no doubt," was all I ventured to reply. I 
 could not tell her, at that moment, that we must 
 never see each other again. She — after the man- 
 ner of women — probably supposes that a man's 
 strength is limitless ; that he may do with himself 
 and make of himself what he chooses ; and she 
 supposes that I could visit her and converse with 
 her day after day, and yet keep my thoughts and 
 my acts within such bounds as would enable me 
 to take Courtney honestly by the hand. But I 
 know too well my own weakness, and I shall 
 leave her while yet I have power to do so. To- 
 morrow — or soon — I will write to her one last 
 letter, telling her why I go. 
 
 Sudden and strange indeed has been this pas- 
 sionate episode in a life which, methought, had 
 done with passion. It has lasted hardly so many 
 hours as I have lived years ; and yet, were I to 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESP 169 
 
 live on into the next century, it would never cease 
 to influence me in all I think and do. I can not 
 solve to my satisfaction this problem — why two 
 lives should be wasted as ours have been. Court- 
 ney could have been happy with another wife, or 
 with no wife at all, perhaps ; but, for Ethel and 
 me, there could be no happiness save in each 
 other. But were she free to-day, the separation 
 that has already existed — long tliough it has been 
 — would only serve to render our future union 
 more blissful and complete. We have learned, 
 by sad experience, the value of a love like ours, 
 and we should know how to give it its fullest and 
 widest expression. But oh! what a blank and 
 chilly road lies before us now! 
 
 I drove her back to her hotel; we hardly 
 spoke all the way; my heart was too full, and 
 hers also, I think ; though she did not know, as I 
 did, that it was our last interview. It must be 
 our last ! Heaven help me to keep that resolu- 
 tion ! 
 
 Susie was not at all impressed by the pathos 
 of the situation; she babbled all the time, and 
 thus, at all events, afforded us an excuse for our 
 silence. At parting, one incident occurred that 
 
170 ''ISET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVEST 
 
 may as well be recorded. I liad shaken hands 
 with Ethel, speaking a few words of farewell, 
 and allowing her to infer that we might meet 
 again on the morrow ; then I toned to Susie, 
 and gave her the kiss which I would have given 
 the world to have had the right to press on her 
 mother's lips. Ethel saw, and, I think, under- 
 stood. She stooped quickly down, and laid her 
 mouth where mine had been. Through the inno- 
 cent medium of the child, our hearts met; and 
 then I saw her no more. 
 
 May 3d, — Of course, it may not be true, prob- 
 ably it is not ; mistakes are so easily made in the 
 first moments of such horror and confusion ; the 
 dead come to life, and the living die. Or, at the 
 worst, he may be only wounded or disabled. At 
 all events, I decline to believe, save upon certain 
 evidence, that the poor fellow has actually been 
 killed. Were it to turn out so, I should feel 
 almost like a murderer ; for was not I writing, in 
 this very journal, and perhaps at the very mo- 
 ment the accident occurred, that if my wish could 
 send him to another world, I would not spare him ? 
 
 Later, — I have read all the accounts in the 
 newspapers this morning, and all agree in putting 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVEST 171 
 
 Courtney's name among the killed. There can 
 be no doubt about it any longer; he is dead. 
 When the collision occurred, the car in which he 
 was riding was thrown across the track, and the 
 other train crashed through it. Judging by the 
 condition of the body when discovered, death 
 must have been nearly instantaneous. Poor 
 Courtney! My conscience is not at ease. Of 
 course, I am not really responsible ; that is only 
 imagination. But I begin to suspect that my 
 imagination has been playing me more than one 
 trick lately. 
 
 And now, with tliis new state of ajffairs so 
 suddenly and terribly brought about, what is to 
 be done ? I am as yet scarcely in a condition to 
 reflect calmly; but a voice within me seems to 
 say that something else besides my conscience has 
 been awakened by Courtney's death. Can it be 
 that imagination, dallying with what it took for 
 impossibilities, could so far mislead a man ? Well, 
 I shall start at once for the scene of the disaster, 
 and relieve the poor fellow's widow of whatever 
 pain I can. Ethel Courtney a widow! Ah, 
 Ethel! Death sheds a ghastly light upon the 
 idle vagaries of the human heaxt. 
 
172 ''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 May 15th. — Denver^ Colorado, — Magnificent 
 weather and scenery; very difl'erent from my 
 own mental scenery and mood at this moment. 
 I am sorely ont of spirits ; and no wonder, after 
 the reckless and insane emotion of the first days 
 of this month. One pays for such indulgences at 
 my age. 
 
 I have been re-reading the foregoing pages of 
 this journal. Was I a fool or a coward, or was 
 I merely intoxicated for eight-and-forty hours? 
 At all events, Courtney's tragic end sobered me, 
 and put what I had been doing in a true light. I 
 am glad my insanity was not permitted to proceed 
 farther than it did ; but I have quite enough to 
 reproach myself with as it is. So far as I have 
 been able to explain the matter to myself, my 
 prime error lay in attributing, in a world subject 
 to constant change, too much permanence to a 
 given state of affairs. The fact that Ethel was 
 the wife of another man seemed to me so fixed 
 and unalterable that I allowed my imagination to 
 play with the picture of what might happen if 
 that unalterable fact were altered. Secure in this 
 fallacy, I worked myself up to the pitch of be- 
 lieving that I was actually and passionately in 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 1Y3 
 
 love with a woman whose inaccessibility was, 
 after all, her most winning attraction. Moreover, 
 by writing down, in this journal, the events and 
 words of the hours we spent together, I confirmed 
 myself in my false persuasion, and probably im- 
 ported into the record of what we said and did 
 an amount of color and hidden significance that 
 never, as I am now convinced, belonged to it in 
 reality. Deluded by the notion that I was play- 
 ing with a fancy, I was suddenly aroused to find 
 myself imbrued in facts. The whole episode has 
 profoundly humiliated me, and degraded me in 
 my own esteem. 
 
 But I am not at the bottom of the mystery 
 yet. Was I not in love with Ethel? Surely I 
 was, if love be anything. Then why did I not ask 
 her to marry me ? Would she have refused me ? 
 No. That last look she gave me from under her 
 black veil, when I told her I was going away. . . . 
 Ah, no, she would not have refused me. Then 
 why did I hesitate? Was not such a marriage 
 precisely what I have always longed for ? During 
 all these seven years have I not been bewailing 
 my bachelorhood, and wishing for an Ethel to 
 cheer my solitary fireside with her gracious pres- 
 
174 ''^ET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVESr 
 
 ence, to be interested in my work and hopes, to 
 interest me in her wifely and maternal ways and 
 aspirations? And when at last all these things 
 were offered me, why did I shrink back and re- 
 ject them? 
 
 Honestly, I can not explain it. Perhaps, if I 
 had never loved her before, I might have loved 
 her this time enough to nnite my fate with hers. 
 Or, perhaps — for I may as well speak plainly, 
 since I am speaking to myself — perhaps, by force 
 of habit, I had grown to love, better than love 
 itself, those self-same forlorn conditions and 
 dreary solitudes which I was continually lament- 
 ing and praying to be delivered from. What a 
 dismal solution of the problem this would be were 
 it the true one ! It amounts to saying that I pre- 
 fer an empty room, a silent hearth, an old pair of 
 slippers, and a dressing-gown to the love and com- 
 panionship of a refined and beautiful woman ! — 
 that I love even my own discomforts more than 
 the comfort she would give me! It sounds ab- 
 surd, scandalous, impossible ; and yet, if it be not 
 the literal truth, I know not what the truth is. 
 It is amazing that an educated and intelligent man 
 can live to be forty years old and still have come 
 
''SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES:' I75 
 
 to no better an understanding of himself than I 
 had. Yerily, as my old author said, thought is 
 free, bnt nature is captive, and loveth her chain. 
 Yes, my old author was right. 
 
MY FRIEND PATON. 
 
 Mathew M0RRISS5 father, was a cotton 
 merchant in Liverpool twenty-five years ago — a 
 steady, laborions, clear-headed man, very affec- 
 tionate and genial in his private intercourse. He 
 was wealthy, and we lived in a sumptuous house 
 in the upper part of the city. This was when I 
 was about ten years old. My father was twice 
 married; I was the child of the first wife, who 
 died when I was very young; my stepmother 
 came five years later. She was the elder of two 
 sisters, both beautiful women. The sister often 
 came to visit us. I remember I liked her better 
 than I liked my stepmother ; in fact, I regarded 
 her with that sort of romantic attachment that 
 often is developed in lads of my age. She had 
 golden brown hair and a remarkably sweet voice^, 
 
MY FRIEND FAT ON, 
 
 177 
 
 and slie sang and played in a manner that trans- 
 ported me with dehght; for I was already de- 
 voted to music. She was of a gentle yet im- 
 pulsive temperament, easily moved to smiles and 
 tears ; she seemed to me the perfection of woman- 
 kind, and I made no secret of my determination 
 to marry her when I grew up. She used to caress 
 me, and look at me in a dreamy way, and tell me 
 I was the nicest and handsomest boy in the world. 
 " And as soon as you are a year older than I am, 
 John," she would say, '^you shall marry me, if 
 you like." 
 
 Another frequent visitor at our house at this 
 time was not nearly so much a favorite of mine. 
 This was a German, Adolf Korner by name, who 
 had been a clerk in my father's concern for a 
 number of years, and had just been admitted 
 junior partner. My father placed every confi- 
 dence in him, and often declared that he had 
 the best idea of business he had ever met with. 
 This may very likely have been the fact ; but to 
 me he appeared simply a tall, grave, taciturn 
 man, of cold manners, speaking with a slight 
 German accent, which I disliked. I suppose he 
 was about thirty-seven years of age, but I always 
 
178 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT ON. 
 
 thought of him as older than my father, who 
 was fifty. Another and more vahd reason for 
 my disliking Korner was that he was in the habit 
 of paying a great deal of attention to my lady- 
 love. Miss Juliet Tretherne. I used to upbraid 
 Juliet about encouraging his advances, and I ex- 
 pressed my opinion of him in the plainest lan- 
 guage, at which she would smile in a preoccupied 
 way, and would sometimes draw me to her and 
 kiss me on the forehead. Once she said, "Mr. 
 Korner is a very noble gentleman ; you must not 
 dislike him." This had the effect of making me 
 hate him all the more. 
 
 One day I noticed an unusual commotion in 
 the house, and Juliet came down-stairs attired in 
 a lovely white dress, with a long veil, and fra- 
 grant flowers in her hair. She got into a car- 
 riage with my father and stepmother, and drove 
 away. I did not understand what it meant, and 
 no one told me. After they were gone I went 
 into the drawing-room, and, greatly to my sur- 
 prise, saw there a long table covered with a white 
 cloth and laid out with a profusion of good things 
 to eat and drink in sparkling dishes and decanters. 
 In the middle of the table was a great cake cov- 
 
MY FRIEND FAT ON. 
 
 179 
 
 ered with white frosting ; the butler was arrang- 
 ing some flowers round it. 
 
 " What is that cake for, Curtis ? " I asked. 
 
 " For the bride, to be sure," said Curtis, with- 
 out looking up 
 
 "The bride! who is she?" I demanded in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Your aunt Juliet, to be sure ! " said Curtis, 
 composedly, stepping back and contemplating 
 his floral arrangement with his head on one 
 side. 
 
 I asked no more, but betook myself with all 
 speed to my room, locked the door, flung myself 
 on the bed, and cried to heartbreaking with grief, 
 indignation, and mortification. After a very long 
 time some one tried the door, and a voice — the 
 voice of Juliet — called to me. I made no an- 
 swer. She began to plead with me; I resisted 
 as long as I could, but finally my affection got 
 the better of my resentment, and I arose and 
 opened the door, hiding my tear-stained face be- 
 hind my arm. Juliet caught me in her arms 
 and kissed me; tears were running down her 
 own cheeks. How lovely she looked ! My heart 
 melted, and I was just on the point of forgiving 
 
180 
 
 MY FRIEND FAT ON, 
 
 her when the voice of Korner became audible 
 from below, calling out " Mrs. Korner ! " I tore 
 myself away from her, and cried passionately. 
 You don't love me ! you love him ! go to him ! " 
 She looked at me for a moment with a pained 
 expression ; then she put her hand in the pocket 
 of her dress and drew out something done up in 
 white paper. '^See what I have brought you, 
 you unkind boy," said she. " What is it ? " I 
 demanded. " A piece of my wedding-cake," she 
 replied. " Give it me ! " said I. She put it in 
 my hand ; I ran forward to the head of the stairs, 
 which Korner was just ascending, dashed the cake 
 in his face, and then rushed back to my own 
 room, whence neither threats nor coaxing availed 
 to draw me forth for the rest of the day. 
 
 I never saw Juliet again. She and her hus- 
 band departed on their wedding- trip that after- 
 noon; it was to take them as far as Germany, 
 for Korner said that he wished to visit his father 
 and mother, who were still alive, before settling 
 down permanently in Liverpool. Whether they 
 really did so was never discovered. But, about 
 a fortnight later, a dreadful fact came to light. 
 Korner — the grave and reticent Korner, whom 
 
MY FRIEND PAT OK 
 
 181 
 
 everybody trusted and thought so highly of — was 
 a thief, and he had gone off with more than half 
 my father's property in his pocket. The blow 
 almost destroyed my father, and my stepmother, 
 too, for that matter, for at first it seemed as 
 though Juliet must have been privy to the crime. 
 This, however, turned out not to have been the 
 case. Her fate must have been all the more terri- 
 ble on that account; but no news of either of 
 them ever came back to us, and my father would 
 never take any measures to bring Korner to jus- 
 tice. It was several months before he recovered 
 from the shock sufficiently to take up business 
 again; and then the American Civil War came 
 and completed his ruin. He died, a poor and 
 broken-down man, a year later. My stepmother, 
 who was really an admirable woman, realized 
 whatever property remained to us, took a small 
 house, and sent me to an excellent school, where 
 I was educated for Cambridge. Meanwhile I 
 had been devoting all possible time to music ; for 
 I had determined to become a composer, and I 
 was looking forward, after taking my degree, to 
 completing my musical education abroad ; but my 
 mother's health was precarious, and, when the 
 
182 
 
 MY FRIEND FAT ON. 
 
 time came, she found herself nneqnal to making 
 the journey, and the change of habits and sur- 
 roundings that it implied. We lived very quietly 
 in Liverpool for three or four years; then she 
 died, and, after I had settled our affairs, I found 
 myself in possession of a small income and alone 
 in the world. Without loss of time I set out 
 for the Continent. 
 
 I went to a German city, where the best 
 musical training was to be had, and made my 
 arrangements to pass several years there. At the 
 banker's, when 1 went to provide for the regular 
 receipt of my remittances, I met a young Ameri- 
 can, by name Paton Jeffries. He was from New 
 England, and, I think, a native of the State of 
 Connecticut; his father, he told me, was a dis- 
 tinguished inventor, who had made and lost a 
 considerable fortune in devising a means of pro- 
 moting sleep by electricity. Paton was studying 
 to be an architect, which, he said, was the coming 
 profession in his country ; and it was evident, on 
 a short acquaintance, that he was a fellow of un- 
 usual talents — one of those men of whom you say 
 that, come what may, they are always sure to fall 
 on their feet. For my part, I have certainly 
 
MY FRIEND PAT ON, 
 
 183 
 
 never met witli so active and versatile a spirit. 
 He was a year or so older than I, rather tall than 
 short, lightly but strongly built, with a keen, 
 smiling, subtle face, a finely-developed forehead, 
 light wavy hair, and gray eyes, very penetrating 
 and bright. There was a pleasing kind of eager- 
 ness and volubility in his manner of talking, and 
 a slight imperfection, not amounting to a lisp, in 
 his utterance, which imparted a naive charm to 
 his speech. He used expressive and rapid gest- 
 ures with his hands and .arms, and there was a 
 magnetism, a fascination, about the whole man 
 that strongly impressed me. I was at that period 
 much more susceptible of impressions, and prone 
 to yield to them, than I am now. Paton's rat- 
 tling vivacity, his knowledge of the world, his 
 entertaining talk and stories, his curiosity, enter- 
 prise, and audacity, took me by storm ; he was 
 my opposite in temperament and character, and 
 it seemed to me that he had most of the advan- 
 tages on his side. JSTevertheless, he professed, and 
 I still believe he felt, a great liking for me, and 
 we speedily came to an agreement to seek a lodg- 
 ing together. On the second day of our searchj 
 we found just what we wanted. 
 
184 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT OK 
 
 It was an old house, on the outskirts of the 
 town, standing by itself, with a small garden be- 
 hind it. It had formerly been occupied by an 
 Austrian baron, and it was probably not less than 
 two hundred years old. The baron's family had 
 died out, or been dispersed, and now the vener- 
 able edifice was let, in the German fashion, in 
 separate floors or Stages^ communicating with a 
 central staircase. Some alterations rendered ne- 
 cessary by this modification had been made, but 
 substantially the house was unchanged. Our 
 apartment comprised four or five rooms on the 
 left of the landing and at the top of the house, 
 which consisted of three stories. The chief room 
 was the parlor, which looked down through a 
 square bow-window on the street. This room was 
 of irregular shape, one end being narrower than 
 the other, and nearly fitting the space at this end 
 was a kind of projecting shelf or mantelpiece 
 (only, of course, there was no fireplace under it, 
 open fireplaces being unknown in Germany), upon 
 which rested an old cracked looking-glass, made 
 in two compartments, the frame of which, black 
 with age and fly-spots, was fastened against the 
 wall. The shelf was supported by two pilasters ; 
 
MY FRIEND PAT ON. 
 
 185 
 
 but tlie object of the wbole structure was a mys- 
 tery ; so far as appeared, it served no purpose but 
 to support the looking-glass, which might just as 
 well have been suspended from a nail in the wall. 
 Paton, I remember, betrayed a great deal of curi- 
 osity about it ; and since the consideration of the 
 problem was more in his line of business than in 
 mine, I left it to him. At the opposite end of the 
 room stood a tall earthenware stove. The walls 
 were wainscoted five feet up from the dark pol- 
 ished floor, and were hung with several smoky old 
 paintings, of no great artistic value. The chairs 
 and tables were plain, but very heavy and solid, 
 and of a dark hue like the room. The window 
 was nearly as wide as it was high, and opened 
 laterally from the center on hinges. The other 
 rooms were of the same general appearance, but 
 smaller. We both liked the place, and soon made 
 ourselves very comfortable in it. I hired a piano, 
 and had it conveyed upstairs to the parlor ; while 
 Paton disposed his architectural paraphernalia on 
 and in the massive writing-table near the window. 
 Our cooking and other household duties were 
 done for us by the wife of \k\Q portier^ the official 
 corresponding to the French concierge^ who, in 
 
186 
 
 MY FRIEND FAT ON, 
 
 all German houses, attends at the common door, 
 and who, in this case, lived in a couple of musty 
 little closets opening into the lower hall, and 
 eked out his official salary by cobbling shoes. He 
 was an odd, grotesque humorist, of most ungainly 
 exterior, black haired and bearded, with a squint, 
 a squab nose, and a short but very powerful fig- 
 ure. Dirty he was beyond belief, and he was 
 abominably fragrant of vile tobacco. For my 
 part, I could not endure this fellow ; but Paton, 
 who had much more of what he called human na- 
 ture in him than I had, established friendly rela- 
 tions with him at once, and reported that he 
 found him very amusing. It was characteristic 
 of Paton that, though he knew much less about 
 the German language than I did, he could under- 
 stand and make himself understood in it much 
 better ; and, when we were in company, it was al- 
 ways he who did the talking. 
 
 It would never have occurred to me to won- 
 der, much less to inquire, who might be the oc- 
 cupants of the other etages ; but Paton was more 
 enterprising, and before we had been settled three 
 days in our new quarters, he had gathered from 
 his friend the portier, and from other sources, all 
 
MY FRIEND PAT ON. 
 
 187 
 
 the obtainable information on the subject. The 
 information was of no particular interest, how- 
 ever, except as regarded the persons who dwelt 
 on the floor immediately below us. They were 
 two — an old man and a young woman, supposed 
 to be his daughter. They had been living here 
 several years — from before the time, indeed, that 
 the portier had occupied his present position. In 
 all these years the old man was known to have 
 been out of his room only twice. He was cer- 
 tainly an eccentric person, and was said to be a 
 miser and extremely wealthy. The portier fur- 
 ther averred that his property — except such small 
 portion of it as was invested and on the income 
 of which he lived — was realized in the form of 
 diamonds and other precious stones, which, for 
 greater security, he always carried, waking or 
 sleeping, in a small leathern bag, fastened round 
 his neck by a fine steel chain. His daughter was 
 scarcely less a mystery than he, for, though she 
 went out as often as twice or thrice a week, she 
 was always closely veiled, and her figure was so 
 disguised by the long cloak she wore that it was 
 impossible to say whether she were graceful or de- 
 formed, beautiful or ugly. The balance of belief, 
 
188 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT ON. 
 
 however, was against her being attractive in any 
 respect. The name by which the old miser was 
 known was Kragendorf ; but, as the portier saga- 
 ciously remarked, there was no knowing, in such 
 cases, whether the name a man bore was his own 
 or somebody's else. 
 
 This Kragendorf mystery was another source 
 of apparently inexhaustible interest to Paton, who 
 was fertile in suggestions as to how it might be 
 explained or penetrated. I believe he and the 
 portier talked it over at great length, but, so far 
 as I am aware, without arriving at any solution. 
 I took little heed of the matter, being now fully 
 absorbed in my studies ; and it is to be hoped that 
 Herr Kragendorf was not of a nervous tempera- 
 ment, otherwise he must have inveighed pro- 
 fanely against the constant piano-practice that 
 went on over his head. I also had a violin, on 
 which I flattered myself I could perform with a 
 good deal of expression, and by and by, in the 
 long, still evenings — it was November, but the 
 temperature was still mild — I got into the habit 
 of strolling along the less frequented streets, with 
 my violin under my shoulder, drawing from it 
 whatever music my heart desired. Occasionally 
 
MY FRIEND PAT OK 
 
 189 
 
 I would pause at some convenient spot, lean 
 against a wall, and give myself up to improvisa- 
 tion. At such times a little cluster of auditors 
 would gradually collect in front of me, listening 
 for the most part silently, or occasionally giving 
 vent to low grunts and interjections of approval. 
 One evening, I remember, a young woman joined 
 the group, though keeping somewhat in the back- 
 ground ; she listened intently, and after a time 
 gradually turned her face toward me, uncon- 
 sciously as it were ; and the light of a street-lamp 
 at a little distance revealed a countenance youth- 
 ful, pale, sad, and exquisitely beautiful. It im- 
 pressed me as with a vague reminiscence of some- 
 thing I had seen or imagined — some pictured 
 face, perhaps, caught in a glance and never to be 
 identified. Her eyes finally met mine ; I stopped 
 playing. She started, gave me an alarmed look, 
 and, gliding swiftly away, disappeared. I could 
 not forget this incident ; it haunted me strangely 
 and persistently. Many a time thereafter I re- 
 visited the same spot, and drew together other au- 
 diences, but the delicate girl with the dark-blue 
 eyes and the tender, sensitive mouth, was never 
 again among them. 
 
190 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT OK 
 
 It was at this epoch, I think, that the inex- 
 haustible Paton made a discovery. From my 
 point of view it was not a discovery of any mo- 
 ment ; but, as usual, he took interest in it enough 
 for both of us. It appeared that, in attempting 
 to doctor the crack in the old looking-glass, a 
 large piece of the plate had got loose, and come 
 away in his hands; and in the space behind he 
 had detected a paper, carefully folded and tied 
 up with a piece of faded ribbon. Paton was 
 never in the habit of hampering himself with fine- 
 drawn scruples, and he had no hesitation in open- 
 ing the folded paper and spreading it out on the , 
 table. Judging from the glance I gave it, it 
 seemed to be a confused and abstruse mixture of 
 irregular geometrical figures and cramped Ger- 
 man chirography. But Paton set to work upon it 
 with as much concentration as if it had been a 
 recipe for the Philosopher's Stone ; he reproduced 
 the lines and angles on fresh paper, and labored 
 over the writing with a magnifying-glass and a 
 dictionary. At times he would mutter indistinct- 
 ly to himself, lift his eyebrows, nod or shake his 
 head, bite his lips, and rub his forehead, and anon 
 fall to work again with fresh vigor. At last ho 
 
MY FRIEND PAT ON, 
 
 191 
 
 leaned back in his chair, thumped his hand on the 
 table, and laughed. 
 
 " Got it ! " he exclaimed. " Say, John, old 
 boy, I've got it! and it's the most curious old 
 thing ever you saw in your life ! " 
 
 " Something in analytical geometry, isn't it ? " 
 said I, turning round on my piano-stool. 
 
 Analytical pudding's end ! It's a plan of a 
 house, my boy, and, what's more, of this very 
 house we're in ! That's a find, and no mistake ! 
 These are the descriptions and explanations — 
 these bits of writing. It's a perfect labyrinth of 
 Crete! TJdolpho was nothing to it!" 
 
 " Well, I suppose it isn't of much value except 
 as a curiosity ? " 
 
 "Don't be too sure of that, John, my boy! 
 Who knows but there's a treasure concealed some- 
 where in this house? or a skeleton in a secret 
 chamber ! This old paper may make our fortune 
 yet!" 
 
 "The treasure wouldn't belong to us if we 
 found it ; and, besides, we can't make explorations 
 beyond our own premises, and we know what's in 
 them already." 
 
 "Do we? Did we know what was behind 
 
192 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT ON, 
 
 the looking-glass ? Did you never hear of sliding 
 panels, and private passages, and concealed stair- 
 cases? "Where's your imagination, man? But 
 you don't need imagination— here it is in black 
 and white ! " 
 
 As he spoke, he pointed to a part of the plan ; 
 but, as I was stooping to examine it, he seemed 
 to change his mind. 
 
 " No matter," he exclaimed, suddenly folding 
 up the paper and rising from his chair. " You're 
 not an architect, and you can't be expected to go 
 in for these things. No ; there's no practical use 
 in it, of course. But secret passages were always 
 a hobby of mine. Well, what are you going to 
 do this evening? Come over to the cafe and 
 have a game of billiards!" 
 
 "No; I shall go to bed early to-night." 
 
 " You sleep too much," said Baton. " Every- 
 body does. If my father, instead of inventing a 
 way of promoting sleep, had invented a way of 
 doing without it, he'd have been the richest man 
 in America to-day. However, do as you hke. I 
 sha'n't be back till late." 
 
 He put on his hat and sallied forth with a 
 cigar in his mouth. Baton was of rather a con- 
 
MY FRIEND PAT ON. 
 
 193 
 
 vivial turn ; he liked to have a good time, as he 
 called it; and, indeed, he seemed to think that 
 the chief end of man was to get money enough 
 to have a good time continually, a sort of good 
 eternity. His head was strong, and he could 
 stand a great deal of liquor; and I have seen 
 him sip and savor a glass of raw brandy or 
 whisky as another man would a glass of Ma- 
 deira. In this, and the other phases of his 
 Hfe about town, I had no participation, being 
 constitutionally as well as by training averse 
 therefrom; and he, on the other hand, would 
 never have listened to my sage advice to modify 
 his loose habits. Our companionship was apart 
 from these things ; and, as I have said, I found 
 in him a good deal that I could sympathize with, 
 without approaching the moralities. 
 
 That night, after I had been for some time 
 asleep, I awoke and found myself listening to a 
 scratching and shoving noise that seemed quite 
 unaccountable. By-and-by it made me uneasy. 
 I got up and went toward the parlor, from which 
 the noise proceeded. On reaching the doorway, 
 I saw Paton on his knees before one of the 
 pilasters in the narrow end of the room ; a candle 
 
194 
 
 MY FRIEND PA TON. 
 
 was on the floor beside him, and he was busily at 
 work at something, though what it was I could 
 not make out. The creak of the threshold under 
 my foot caused him to look round. He started 
 violently, and sprang to his feet. 
 
 " Oh ! it's you, is it ? " he said, after a mo- 
 ment. "Great Scott! how you scared me! I 
 was — I dropped a bit of money hereabouts, and 
 I was scraping about to find it. No matter — it 
 wasn't much ! Sorry I disturbed you, old boy." 
 And, laughing, he picked up his candle and went 
 into his own room. 
 
 From this time there was a change vaguely 
 perceptible in our mutual relations ; we chatted 
 together less than before, and did not see so 
 much of each other. Paton was apt to be out 
 when I was at home, and generally sat up after 
 I was abed. He seemed to be busy about some- 
 thing — something connected with his profession, 
 I judged ; but, contrary to his former custom, he 
 made no attempt to interest me in it. To tell the 
 truth, I had begun to realize that our different 
 tastes and pursuits must lead us further and 
 further apart, and that our separation could be 
 only a question of time. Paton was a materialist. 
 
MY FRIEND PA TON. 
 
 195 
 
 and inclined to challenge all the laws and con- 
 victions that mankind has instituted and adopted ; 
 there was no limit to his radicalism. For ex- 
 ample, on coming in one day, I found him with 
 a curious antique poniard in his hands, which 
 he had probably bought in some old curiosity 
 shop. At first I fancied he meant to conceal it ; 
 but, if so, he changed his mind. 
 
 "What do you think of that?" he said, hold- 
 ing it out to me. " There's a solution of continu- 
 ity for you! Mind you don't prick yourself! 
 It's poisoned up to the hilt ! " 
 
 "What do you want of such a .thing?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Well, kilKng began with Cain, and isn't 
 likely to go out of fashion in our day. I might 
 find it convenient to give one of my friends — 
 you, for instance — a reminder of his mortality 
 some time. You'll say murder is immoral. 
 Bless you, man, we never could do without it! 
 No man dies before his time, and some one dies 
 every day that some one else may live." 
 
 This was said in a jocose way, and, of course, 
 Paton did not mean it. But it affected me un- 
 pleasantly nevertheless. 
 
196 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT ON. 
 
 As I was washing my hands in my room, I 
 happened to look out of my window, which com- 
 manded a view of the garden at the back of the 
 house. It was an hour after sunset, and the gar- 
 den was nearly dark ; but I caught a movement 
 of something below, and, looking more closely, I 
 recognized the ugly figure of the portier. He 
 seemed to be tying something to the end of a 
 long slender pole, like a gigantic fishing-rod ; and 
 presently he advanced beneath my window, and 
 raised the pole as high as it would go against the 
 wall of the house. The point he touched was the 
 sill of the window below mine — probably that of 
 the bedroom of Herr Kragendorf . At this junc- 
 ture the portier seemed to be startled at some- 
 thing — possibly he saw me at my window ; at all 
 events, he lowered his pole and disappeared in the 
 house. 
 
 The next day Paton made an announcement 
 that took me by surprise. He said he had made 
 up his mind to quit Germany, and that very 
 shortly. He mentioned having received letters 
 from home, and declared he had got, or should 
 soon have got, all he wanted out of this country. 
 "I'm going to stop paying money for instruc- 
 
MY FRIEND PA TON. 
 
 197 
 
 tion," tie said, '^and begin to earn it by work. 
 I shall stay another week, but then I'm off. Too 
 slow here for me ! I want to be in the midst of 
 things, using my time." 
 
 I did not attempt to dissuade him; in fact, 
 my first feeling was rather one of relief ; and this 
 Paton, with his quick preceptions, was probably 
 aware of. 
 
 " Own up, old boy ! " he said, laughing ; 
 " you'll be able to endure my absence. And yet 
 you needn't think of me as worse than anybody 
 else. If everybody were musicians and moralists, 
 it would be nice, no doubt ; but one might get 
 tired of it in time, and then what would you do ? 
 You must give the scamps and adventurers their 
 innings, after all ! They may not do much good, 
 but they give the other fellows occupation. I 
 was born without my leave being asked, and I 
 may act as suits me without asking anybody's 
 leave." 
 
 This was said on a certain bright morning 
 after our first fall of snow ; the tiled roofs of the 
 houses were whitened with it, it cushioned the 
 window-sills, and spread a sparkling blankness 
 over the garden. In the streets it was already 
 
198 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT OK 
 
 melting, and people were slipping and splashing 
 on the wet and glistening pavements. After gaz- 
 ing out at this scene for a while, in a mood of mi- 
 wonted thoughtfulness, Paton yawned, stretched 
 himself, and declared his intention of taking a 
 stroll before dinner. Accordingly he lit a cigar 
 and went forth. I watched him go down the 
 street and turn the corner. 
 
 An hour afterward, just when dinner was on 
 the table, I heard an unusual noise and shuffling 
 on the stairs, and a heavy knock on the door. I 
 opened it, and saw four men bearing on a pallet 
 the form of my friend Paton. A police officer 
 accompanied them. They brought Paton in, and 
 laid him on his bed. The officer told me briefly 
 what had happened, gave me certain directions, 
 and, saying that a surgeon would arrive immedi- 
 ately, he departed with the four men tramping 
 behind him. 
 
 Paton had slipped in going across the street, 
 and a tramway car had run over him. He was 
 not dead, though almost speechless ; but his in- 
 juries were such that it was impossible that he 
 should recover. He kept his eyes upon me; 
 they were as bright as ever, though his face was 
 
MY FRIEND PAT ON. 
 
 199 
 
 deadly pale. He seemed to be trying to read my 
 thoughts — to find out my feeling about him, and 
 my opinion of his condition. I was terribly 
 shocked and grieved, and my face no doubt 
 showed it. By-and-by I saw his lips move, and 
 bent down to listen. 
 
 " Confounded nuisance ! " he whispered faintly 
 in my ear. " It's all right, though ; I'm not go- 
 ing to die this time. I've got something to do, 
 and I'm going to do it — devil take me if I don't ! " 
 
 He was unable to say more, and soon after the 
 surgeon came in. He made an examination, and 
 it was evident that he had no hope. His shrug of 
 the shoulders was not lost upon Paton, who 
 frowned, and made a defiant movement of the lip. 
 But presently he said to me, still in the same 
 whisper, " John, if that old fool should be right — 
 he won't be, but in case of accidents — you must 
 take charge of my things — the papers, and all. 
 I'll make you heir of my expectations ! Write 
 out a declaration to that effect : I can sign my 
 name ; and he'll be witness." 
 
 I did as he directed, and having explained to 
 the surgeon the nature of the document, I put the 
 pen in Baton's hand; but was obliged to guide 
 
200 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT OK 
 
 his hand with my own in order to make an intel- 
 ligible signature. The surgeon signed below, and 
 Paton seemed satisfied. He closed his eyes ; his 
 sufferings appeared to be very slight. But, even 
 while I was looking at him, a change came over 
 his face — a deadly change. His eyes opened ; 
 they were no longer bright, but sunken and dull. 
 He gave me a dusky look — whether of rage, of 
 fear, or of entreaty, I could not tell. His lips 
 parted, and a voice made itself audible ; not like 
 his own voice, but husky and discordant. " I'm 
 going," it said. " But look out for me. . . . Do 
 it yourself!" 
 
 " Der Herr ist todt " (the man is dead), said 
 the surgeon the next minute. 
 
 It was true. Paton had gone out of this life 
 at an hour's warning. What purpose or desire 
 his last words indicated, there was nothing to 
 show. He was dead ; and yet I could hardly be- 
 lieve that it was so. He had been so much alive ; 
 so full of schemes and enterprises. Nothing now 
 was left but that crushed and haggard figure, stiff- 
 ening on the bed ; nothing, at least, that mortal 
 senses could take cognizance of. It was a strange 
 thought. 
 
MY FRIEND FAT ON. 
 
 201 
 
 Paton's funeral took place a few days after- 
 ward. I returned from the graveyard weary in 
 body and mind. At the door of the house stood 
 the portier, who nodded to me, and said, 
 
 " A very sad thing to happen, worthy sir ; but 
 so it is in the world. Of all the occupants of this 
 house, one would have said the one least likely to 
 be dead to-day was Herr Jeffries. Heh ! if I had 
 been the good Providence, I would have made 
 away with the old gentleman of the etage below, 
 who is of no use to anybody." 
 
 This, for lack of a better, was Paton's fu- 
 neral oration. I climbed the three flights of stairs 
 and let myself into our apartment — mine exclu- 
 sively now. The place was terribly lonely ; much 
 more so than if Paton had been alive anywhere in 
 the world. But he was dead ; and, if his own 
 philosophy were true, he was annihilated. Bat 
 it was not true ! How distinct and minute was 
 my recollection of him — his look, his gestures, 
 the tones of his voice. I could almost see him 
 before me; my memory of him dead seemed 
 clearer than when he was alive. In that invisible 
 world of the mind was he not living still, and per- 
 haps not far away? 
 
202 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT OK 
 
 I sat down at the table where he had been 
 wont to work, and nnlocked the drawers in which 
 he kept his papers. These, or some of them, I 
 took out and spread before me. But I found it 
 impossible, as yet, to concentrate my attention 
 upon them ; I pushed back my chair, and, rising, 
 went to the piano. Here I remained for perhaps 
 a couple of hours, striking the vague chords that 
 echo wandering thoughts. I was trying to banish 
 this haunting image of Paton from my mind, and 
 at length I partly succeeded. 
 
 All at once, however, the impression of him 
 (as I may call it) came back with a force and 
 vividness that startled me. I stopped playing, 
 and sat for a minute perfectly still. I felt that 
 Paton was in the room ; that if I looked round I 
 should see him. I however restrained myself 
 from looking round with all the strength of my 
 will — wherefore I know not. "What I felt was 
 not fear, but the conviction that I was on the 
 brink of a fearful and unprecedented experience 
 — an experience that would not leave me as it 
 found me. This strange struggle with myself 
 taxed all my powers; the sweat started out on 
 my forehead. At last the moment came when I 
 
MY FRIEND PAT ON, 
 
 203 
 
 could struggle no longer. I laid my hand on the 
 keyboard, and pushed myself round on the stool. 
 There was a momentary dazzle before my eyes, 
 and after that I saw plainly. My hand, striking 
 the keys, had produced a jarring discord; and 
 while this was yet tingling in my ears, Paton, 
 who was sitting in his old place at the table, 
 with his back toward me, faced about in his 
 chair, and his eyes met mine. I thought he 
 smiled. 
 
 My excitement was past, and was succeeded 
 by a dead calm. I examined him critically. His 
 appearance was much the same as when in life ; 
 nay, he was even more like himself than before. 
 The subtle or crafty expression which had always 
 been discernible in his features was now intensi- 
 fied, and there was something wild and covertly 
 fierce in the shining of his gray eyes, something 
 that his smile was unable to disguise. What was 
 human and genial in my former friend had passed 
 away, and what remained was evil — the kind of 
 evil that I now perceived to have been at the 
 base of his nature. It was a revelation of charac- 
 ter terrible in its naked completeness. I knew 
 at a glance that Paton must always have been a 
 
204 
 
 MY FRIEND FAT ON. 
 
 far more wicked man that I had ever imagined ; 
 and in his present state all the remains of good- 
 ness had been stripped away, and nothing but 
 wickedness was left. 
 
 I felt impelled, by an impulse for which I 
 could not account, to approach the table and 
 examine the papers once more ; and now it 
 entered into my mind to perceive a certain 
 method and meaning in them that had been 
 hidden from me before. It was as though I 
 were looking at them through Paton's intelli- 
 gence, and with his memory. He had in some way 
 ceased to be visible to me ; but I became aware 
 that he wished me to sit down in his chair, and 
 I did so. Under his guidance, and in obedience 
 to a will that seemed to be my own, and yet was 
 in direct opposition to my real will, I began a 
 systematic study of the papers. Paton, mean- 
 while, remained close to me, though I could no 
 longer see him ; but I felt the gaze of his fierce, 
 shining eyes, and his crafty, evil smile. I soon 
 obtained a tolerable insight into what the papers 
 meant, and what was the scheme in which Paton 
 had been so much absorbed at the time of his 
 death, and which he had been so loath to abandon. 
 
MY FRIEND PA TON. 
 
 205 
 
 It was a wicked and cruel scheme, worked out 
 to the smallest particular. But, though I under- 
 stood its hideousness intellectually, it aroused in 
 me no corresponding emotion; my sensitiveness 
 to right and wrong seemed stupefied or inopera- 
 tive. I could say, " This is wicked," but I could 
 not awaken in myself a horror of committing the 
 wickedness; and, moreover, I knew that, if the 
 influence Paton was able to exercise over me 
 continued, I must in due time commit it. 
 
 Presently I became aware, or, to speak more 
 accurately, I seemed to remember, that there was 
 something in Paton's room which it was incum- 
 bent on me to procure. I went thither, lifted up 
 a corner of the rug between the bed and the 
 stove, and beheld, in an aperture in the floor, of 
 the existence of which I had till now known 
 nothing, the antique poisoned dagger that Paton 
 had showed me a few weeks before, and which 
 I had not seen since then. I brought it back to 
 the sitting-room, put it in a drawer of the table, 
 and locked the drawer, at the same time making 
 a mental note to the effect that I should reopen 
 the drawer at a certain hour of the night and take 
 the dagger out. All this while Paton was close 
 
206 
 
 MY FRIENB FAT OK 
 
 at hand, though not visible to sight ; but I had a 
 sort of inner perception of his presence and move- 
 ments. All at once, at about the hour of sunset, 
 I saw him again ; he moved toward the looking- 
 glass at the narrow end of the room, laid his 
 hand upon one of the pilasters, glanced at me 
 over his shoulder, and immediately seemed to 
 stoop down. As I sat, the edge of the table hid 
 him from sight. I stood up and looked across. 
 He was not there ; and a kind of reaction of my 
 nerves informed me that he was gone absolutely, 
 for the time. 
 
 This reaction produced a lassitude impossible 
 to describe; it was overpowering, and I had no 
 choice but to yield to it. I dropped back in my 
 chair, leaned forward on the table, and instantly 
 fell into a heavy sleep, or stupor. 
 
 I awoke abruptly, with a sensation as if a hand 
 had been laid on my shoulder. It was night, and 
 I knew that the hour I had noted in my mind 
 was at hand. I opened the drawer and took out 
 the dagger, which I put in my pocket. The 
 house was quite silent. A shiver passed through 
 me. I was aware that Paton was standing at the 
 narrow end of the room, waiting for me : Yes— 
 
MY FRIEND PAT ON. 
 
 207 
 
 there he was, or the impression of him in my 
 brain — what did it matter ? I arose mechan- 
 ically and walked toward him. He had no 
 need to direct me : I knew all there was to do, 
 and how to do it. I knelt on the floor, laid 
 my shoulder against the pilaster, and pushed 
 it laterally. It moved aside on a pivot, disclosing 
 an iron ring let into the floor. I laid hold of this 
 ring, and lifted. A section of the floor came up, 
 and I saw a sort of ladder descending perpendicu- 
 larly into darkness. Down the ladder Paton went, 
 and I followed him. Arrived at the bottom, I 
 turned to the left, led by an instinct or a fascina- 
 tion ; passed along a passage barely wide enough to 
 admit me, until I came against a smooth, hard sur- 
 face. I passed my hand over it until I touched a 
 knob or catch, which I pressed, and the surface 
 gave way before me like a door. I stumbled for- 
 ward, and found myself in a room of what was 
 doubtless Herr Kragendorf 's apartment. A keen, 
 cold air smote against my face ; and with it came 
 a sudden influx of strength and self-possession. 
 I felt that, for a moment at least, the fatal influ- 
 ence of Paton upon me was broken. But what 
 was that sound of a struggle— those cries and 
 
208 
 
 MY FRIEND PA TON, 
 
 gasps, that seemed to come from an adjoining 
 room ? 
 
 I sprang forward, opened a door, and beheld a 
 tall old man, with white hair and beard, in the 
 grasp of a raflBan whom I at once recognized as 
 the portier. A broken window showed how he 
 had effected his entrance. One hand held the old 
 man by the throat; in the other was a knife, 
 which he was prevented from using by a young 
 woman, who had flung herself upon him in such 
 a way as to trammel his movements. In another 
 moment, however, he would have shaken her off. 
 
 But that moment was not allowed him. I 
 seized him with a strength that amazed myself — 
 a strength which never came upon me before 
 or since. The conflict lasted but a breath or two ; 
 I hurled him to the floor, and, as he fell, his right 
 arm was doubled under him, and the knife which 
 he held entered his back beneath the left shoulder- 
 blade. When I rose up from the whirl and fury 
 of the struggle, I saw the old man reclining ex- 
 hausted on the bosom of the girl. I knew him, 
 despite his white hair and beard. And the face 
 that bent so lovingly above him was the face that 
 had looked into mine that night on the street — 
 
MY FRIEND FAT ON, 
 
 209 
 
 the face of the blue-eyed maiden — of a younger 
 and a lovelier Juliet ! As I gazed, there came a 
 thundering summons at the door, and the police 
 entered. 
 
 My poor uncle Korner had not prospered after 
 his great stroke of roguery. His wife had died of 
 a broken heart, after giving birth to a daughter, 
 and his stolen riches had vanished almost as rap- 
 idly as they were acquired. He had at last set- 
 tled down with his daughter in this old house. 
 The treasure in the leathern bag, though a treas- 
 ure to him, was not of a nature to excite general 
 cupidity. It consisted, not of precious stones, but 
 of relics of his dead wife — her rings, a lock of her 
 hair, her letters, a miniature of her in a gold case. 
 These poor keepsakes, and his daughter, had been 
 the only solace of his lonely and remorseful life. 
 
 It was uncertain whether Paton and the por- 
 tier had planned the robbery together, or sepa- 
 rately, and in ignorance of each other's purpose. 
 Nor can I tell whether my disembodied visitor 
 came to me with good or with evil intent. 
 Wicked spirits, even when they seem to have 
 power to carry out their purposes, are perhaps 
 
210 
 
 MY FRIEND PAT ON, 
 
 only permitted to do so, so far as is consistent 
 with an overrnling good of which they know 
 nothing. Certainly, if I had not descended the 
 secret passage, Korner would have been killed, 
 and perhaps my Juliet likewise — the mother of 
 my children. But should I have been led on to 
 stab him myself, with the poisoned dagger, had 
 the portier not been there? Juliet smiles and 
 says No, and I am glad to agree with her. But I 
 have never since then found that anniversary upon 
 me, without a shudder of awe, and a dark thought 
 of Paton Jeffries. 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S 
 PATIENT. 
 I. 
 
 Doctor Oaeajo sat in his verandah, smoking a 
 cigar. His chair was a curious bamboo structure, 
 of Japanese manufacture ; and upon the carved 
 stone balustrade beside him stood a goblet of 
 Venetian glass half full of iced sherbet. The 
 Doctor sat in the clear shadow, and gazed out 
 meditatively upon a lovely prospect of semi- 
 tropical sea and shore. His house, built in the 
 Spanish style, stood on a height at the verge of 
 the antique town — a town of narrow, irregular 
 streets, and high-shouldered buildings, with pro- 
 jecting windows and arched doorways. It had 
 not altered in hundreds of years, save to grow 
 greyer, more indolent, and more venerable. Here 
 
212 DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT. 
 
 and there on the outskirts clusters of palm trees 
 supported their dark waving plumes on delicate 
 stems ; to the right a great river merged slumber- 
 ing into the sea. Across this scene the afternoon 
 sun flung a broad mellow radiance, and breathings 
 of delicious air came up with messages of coolness 
 from the ocean. 
 
 In this lovely and forgotten spot Doctor Carajo 
 had lived three years. Not every man could have 
 made himself part of such a community without 
 occasioning a good deal of excitement and remark : 
 a stranger was nowhere so much a stranger as in 
 that ancient town. But Doctor Carajo had 
 ventured into the still and immemorial life of the 
 place as quietly and unremarkably as a shadow of 
 the evening. Quiet and reserved he was of 
 manner, but he was in no sense an insignificant 
 man. His forehead was white and high, with a 
 peculiar fineness of modelling about the temples ; 
 thin black hair, slightly tinged with grey, grew 
 in short curls about his head. His brows were 
 heavy, his eyes deep set and black, with a clear, 
 calm gaze, which never kindled into wrath or 
 melted into tenderness. His nose was straight, 
 with sensitive nostrils ; his mouth and chin were 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT. 213 
 
 concealed by a heavy grey moustaclie and 
 imperial. In figure he was slight, somewhat 
 round-shouldered, and he had a grave, methodical 
 way of walking, not devoid of unconscious dignity. 
 In his bearing towards others he was courteous, 
 but wholly cold and unimpassioned. His smile 
 was rare, and slightly contemptuous. His voice 
 was musical and low, but somewhat metallic ; his 
 speech brief, unhurried, and careless. He seemed 
 not so much a man, with warm blood in his veins 
 and living interests in his heart, as a serene and 
 loveless abstraction of certain human qualities. 
 Thus he came among the people of the old town 
 unquestioned and, in a social sense, almost un- 
 observed. He brought no wife with him, nor 
 were there any female servants in his household. 
 He never was known to seek a woman's company, 
 nor to indicate by his demeanour any perception 
 of difference of sex in those he met. On the other 
 hand, as a man of learning, wealth, and great skill 
 in his profession, his reputation in the community 
 was unrivalled, and people consulted him as they 
 might have consulted some wise volume containing 
 infallible remedies for bodily ills. Doctor Carajo, 
 in brief, held the position of a kind of physical 
 
214 DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT, 
 
 Providence, little thougtit about until he was 
 needed, and then trusted implicitly. Pro- 
 fessionally, he was known to everyone ; personally, 
 to none. 
 
 II 
 
 As Doctor Carajo sat smoking in his chair that 
 sunny afternoon, the noise of a carriage proceeding 
 up the street attracted his attention^ Without 
 altering his position, he allowed his eyes to rest 
 upon the vehicle and its occupant. The latter 
 was a woman, dressed in white, with a black lace 
 mantilla thrown over her shoulders. She was in 
 the prime of her youth and beauty, but her anxious 
 and nervous manner showed evidences of acute 
 distress of mind. As Doctor Carajo looked upon 
 her, his eyes dilated and his face flushed ; then he 
 grew very pale. He leaned back in his chair as 
 if to conceal himself from view, and remained for 
 several moments motionless, save for his uneven 
 breathing, and the tremulous grasp of his hands 
 upon the arms of his chair. But when the wheels 
 stopped before his door, and the bell sounded in 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT. 215 
 
 the court below, Doctor Carajo drew a longer and 
 firmer breath, and sat erect. By the time the 
 servant arrived with the information that a lady 
 was below who desired to see him on a matter of 
 life and death, he appeared no less serene and 
 impressive than usual. 
 
 " Bring hither a chair for the lady," he said, 
 and say that I await her.'' 
 
 Having given these directions, the Doctor rose 
 from his chair and remained leaning negligently 
 against the stone balustrade of the balcony, with 
 his face towards the room which opened upon it. 
 A short time elapsed — short, that is, by the watch, 
 though how long it may have seemed to Doctor 
 Oarajo it is impossible to say. Then a rustle and 
 a whiteness advancing through the darkness of 
 the room announced the visitor's approach. As 
 she set foot on the balcony, the Doctor bowed his 
 head courteously. 
 
 " Doctor Carajo," she began, speaking abruptly 
 and impetuously, "I was told to come to 
 you — that no one but you could cure my 
 husband " 
 
 At that word, the Doctor raised his head, and 
 looked his visitor in the face, while a faint, 
 
216 DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT. 
 
 contemptuous smile quivered for an instant beneath 
 his grey moustache. 
 
 The lady stopped short, her beautiful lips apart, 
 and her great eyes fixed in a gaze of seeming 
 amazement or dismay. Presently she muttered 
 some unintelligible words, raised her hands across 
 her bosom with a gesture of fear or of repulsion, 
 and her face and neck crimsoned with a hot blush. 
 
 The Doctor contemplated her for a few moments, 
 and then said coldly, " Be seated, madam. Your 
 husband, you were about to say ? " 
 
 " I should not have come — they said Doctor 
 Carajo " 
 
 " You were rightly informed, madam. I am 
 Doctor Carajo, and I alone can cure your husband 
 — if he be curable. You may place every con- 
 fidence in me.*' 
 
 Oh, what shall I do ? " murmured the lady, 
 pressing her hands over her face. She stood 
 dizzily, and would have fallen, had not the Doctor, 
 by a light touch, guided her to a chair. She sank 
 down, a tremor passed through her body, and her 
 eyes closed. 
 
 " You appear yourself to be indisposed, madam," 
 observed the Doctor. " The heat outside is great, 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT, 217 
 
 and you have over-exerted yourself. This scent 
 will revive you ; " and as he spoke he held to her 
 nostrils a small phial containing a pungent 
 perfume. " You ask me what you should do," he 
 continued. " You should, in my opinion, lose no 
 time in telling me the circumstances to which I 
 owe your visit. If your husband's case is so 
 precarious, as I am given to understand, a delay 
 might prove fatal." 
 
 " Would you not be more fatal than any 
 delay ? " demanded the lady, fixing her eyes upon 
 him. 
 
 " You are scarcely complimentary," returned 
 the Doctor, with a smile. " I would do my best 
 for him, as for any other human creature entrusted 
 to my care. Nevertheless, if you deem it best to 
 seek assistance elsewhere — you should know me 
 enough to know that I leave you free to do what 
 you will." 
 
 " Yes, I know you in that speech," exclaimed 
 the lady, in a low but passionate tone. " You 
 would leave me free — too free. You say you 
 would do your best for any human creature left to 
 your care ; but the human soul entrusted to your 
 care you would leave free to fall into temptation 
 
218 DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT, 
 
 and be destroyed ! But, perhaps, Q-od will be 
 more merciful than you think." 
 
 " I will not say I am surprised at your attacking 
 me, madam," said the Doctor quietly ; " but I 
 cannot pretend that, under the circumstances, I 
 understand it." 
 
 A brief silence ensued ; then the lady leaned 
 forward, her hands clasped on her knees, and her 
 face raised towards Doctor Carajo, who still 
 remained leaning negligently against the balus- 
 trade of the balcony. 
 
 " I am at yom^ mercy," she said ; " and even 
 such a revenge as yours should be satisfied to see 
 me here imploring your help. I take all the 
 blame of what has been upon myself. But no 
 punishment you could inflict on me could be half 
 so humiliating as this which I inflict on myself. 
 I ask you to save him ! In asking it, I give my 
 life for his; for, after such a degradation, life 
 would be a burden and a shame. If you have 
 been waiting all these years for a chance to wreak 
 your hatred on me, your time is come. It will 
 never come again ! " 
 
 The wild and reckless emphasis of this appeal, 
 enhanced by the hushed voice in which it was 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT. 219 
 
 spoken, seemed to have some effect upon Doctor 
 Carajo. He stroked his grey moustache and 
 meditated a little. 
 
 "Do you love this — husband of yours, madam?" 
 he finally inquired. 
 
 " Enough to beg his life at your hands," she 
 answered, sinking on her knees. 
 
 " As a physician," continued Doctor Carajo, " I 
 have my professional customs. While always 
 ready to exercise my skill in behalf of human 
 suffering, I demand in return certain equivalents. 
 From some, one thing ; from some, another ; 
 money but seldom, for I am wealthy ; but I 
 compel my patients to feel that, when the cure is 
 effected, we are but quits. I have already told 
 you that it will give me pleasure to attempt the 
 relief of your husband ; but I omitted to mention 
 the equivalent. Are you prepared to give it ? " 
 
 " Anything — even my life ! " 
 
 " Not your life, by any means. I shall merely 
 require you, as soon as he is restored to health, to 
 leave this town, never to return. You will leave 
 it alone, concealing from your husband your route 
 and your destination. Never henceforth will you 
 either see him or hold any manner of communi- 
 cation with him. Do you agree ? " 
 
220 DOCTOR CAEAJO'S PATIENT. 
 
 The lady had risen to her feet, and was pressing 
 one hand over her heart. Her eyes searched 
 Doctor Carajo's countenance with terrible intensity. 
 
 Will you fulfil your part of the contract ? " she 
 demanded. 
 
 " I will," he replied. 
 
 Her bosom rose and fell rapidly, her face 
 quivered, and was now pale, now red. At last 
 she said with a gasp, as if the words tore her life 
 up by the roots, " Then I consent. Grod hear me, 
 and judge between us ! " 
 
 " Be it so," rejoined the Doctor gravely. "And 
 now, if you please, I will accompany you to your 
 husband. On the way, you will inform me as to 
 his ailment. He shall be brought to my house, 
 and you shall witness my treatment of him. 
 
 Afterwards " he made a significant gesture. 
 
 The lady moved her head in assent. But as they 
 left the balcony, a thought struck her, and she 
 turned again. 
 
 ''You will not let him know that you— 
 are ?" 
 
 " I will let him know that I am Doctor Carajo, 
 madam," said the other, bowing coldly, and making 
 way for her to pass* 
 
DOCTOR CAEAJO'S FATIENT. 221 
 
 III. 
 
 Doctor Cahajo's private room was as cool, as 
 quiet, and as secluded as the Doctor himself. The 
 floor was of fine Pompeian mosaic, partly covered 
 with rugs of delicately-woven Indian matting. 
 The lower part of the walls was of yellow marble, 
 relieved with black ; above were panels of rich 
 woods, highly polished. The ceiling was vaulted, 
 and contained a window of stained glass, in the 
 nature of a skylight. At one end of the room was 
 a deep alcove, across the entrance to which was 
 suspended a screen or veil of some soft silken fabric, 
 through which the interior of the room could be 
 seen, though the observer could himself be invisible. 
 Large-leaved plants stood here and there in marble 
 vases ; low chairs and tables were placed in con- 
 venient positions ; and in the centre of the chamber 
 was a broad couch or ottoman, cushioned, and 
 draped with the finest cambric. At the end 
 opposite the alcove was a small water- jet, playing 
 with a tinkling sound through the mouth of a 
 bronze lion's head into a marble basin attached to 
 
222 DOCTOR CAEAJO'S PATIENT, 
 
 the wall. A delicious coolness and fragrance 
 pervaded the apartment, which was entirely 
 removed from all outside noises and influences. 
 
 Three persons were present in this room — • 
 Doctor Carajo, the lady, and a man who lay at 
 full length upon the couch. He was tall and 
 powerfully formed, with broad shoulders and 
 massive limbs. His features expressed strength 
 and vigour ; too rugged to be called handsome, 
 but full of masculine pith and ability. A thick 
 brown beard covered the lo7^er part of his face ; 
 his eyes were closed, and he lay in an apparent 
 lethargy. Upon his forehead and on his arms, 
 which were bare, appeared a number of small 
 spots or blotches, of a purplish hue. But for a 
 slight intermittent movement of the chest, indicat- 
 ing a subdued respiration, the man might have 
 been supposed to be dead. 
 
 " The opiate will exhaust its effect in a few 
 minutes," observed Doctor Carajo, bending over 
 his patient and eyeing him critically. " From 
 this time the active phase of the case begins. 
 The poison has thus far made itself perceptible 
 only by a superficial heat and stinging. It 
 will now lay hold on the interior parts of tho 
 
DOCTOR CAEAJO'S PATIENT. 223 
 
 organism ; there will be little or no pain, but more 
 danger." 
 
 " How long will this last ? " asked the lady, 
 who had now assumed a demeanour outwardly as 
 quiet and self-possessed as the Doctor's own. 
 
 We may expect three separate stages," the 
 Doctor answered, " extending over several hours. 
 The patient will retain his faculties, but their 
 action will be modified in a peculiar manner in 
 each of the three stages. As the poison strikes 
 more and more deeply inward, you will notice a 
 
 corresponding alteration in ah ! he begins to 
 
 awake." 
 
 " Is there any hope ? " asked the lady. 
 The poison is one of the most insidious and 
 deadly known to science, and also one of the 
 rarest," the Doctor replied. " Probably few men 
 besides myself know how to deal with it at all. 
 The strong vital power of the patient is in his 
 favour ; on the other hand, too long a time 
 elapsed before the treatment began. I have an 
 antidote here which, had it been given immediately, 
 would have overcome the evil." 
 
 " And how, should you give it now ? " demanded 
 the lady. 
 
224 BOCTOR CAJRAJO'S PATIENT. 
 
 " It would still counteract the poison, but at the 
 expense of the patient's life. He has not now the 
 strength to undergo the necessary struggle." 
 
 " What shall you do ? " 
 
 " I shall administer drugs which will have the 
 double effect of increasing the vital power, and 
 weakening the action of the poison. Human skill 
 can do no more. Hush ! he will open his eyes in 
 another moment. He must not be aware of your 
 presence. Step into that alcove, and make no 
 sound. You can there see all that passes. Let 
 nothing that he may say induce you to discover 
 yourself, unless I give you the sign." 
 
 The lady moved to the side of the couch, bent 
 quickly, and kissed the forehead of the half- 
 conscious man, and then drew back and vanished 
 behind the curtain of the alcove. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The man drew a deep and quick breath, moved 
 slightly on his cushions, and opened his eyes. His 
 glance wandered round the room, and passed over 
 Doctor Carajo several times before seeming to take 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT, 226 
 
 note of him. When at length it centred upon 
 him, the man said, in a deep and resonant voice, 
 You are my physician, I suppose ? I feel better 
 — free from pain, and more strength ; thanks to 
 your skill, no doubt. How soon do you promise 
 to have me up again ? " 
 
 *'It is now six o'clock in the morning," said 
 Doctor Carajo. " By this noon, at furthest, the 
 crisis will have passed." 
 
 " The crisis ! Humph ! Then I'm not out of 
 danger yet ? Tell me the truth, Doctor ; I'm not 
 afraid to hear it. Death or life — which is it ? " 
 
 Since you have chosen to ask, I will reply," 
 said the Doctor, after a pause. " You may live ; 
 but it is more probable that you will die." 
 
 " Humph ! Well, such is life — and death ! I 
 have lived — I have been alive — as much as most 
 men. And this is to be the end ? The end ! a 
 strange idea, that ! " He was silent a moment or 
 two, and then said, " Where is Lenore ? " 
 
 A slight contraction overshadowed the Doctor's 
 brow, and passed away again. 
 
 I presume you refer to your wife ? " he said. 
 Certainly — the woman I love — my wife, if 
 there's any meaning in words. Where is she ? " 
 
226 DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT, 
 
 "It was indispensable, for her sake and your 
 own, that she should remain apart from you for 
 the present. She will be summoned as soon as 
 safety will allow — or as soon as hope vanishes." 
 
 Poor darling ! what would become of her 
 were I to go ! " muttered the patient, half to him- 
 self. " I must tighten my grip for her sake. 
 Not die ! no — no ! She gave herself to me, body 
 and soul, and I must stand by her to the end. 
 There, again — the end ! Is this it ? It isn't 
 what I expected. Me to die, and she to live on ? 
 it mustn't be ! my darling — my Lenore ! What 
 a life we have had these three years past ; what a 
 love ! Never a day's shadow ; never a regret. 
 Ha ! Doctor, you are there, aren't you ? — and I've 
 probably been thinking aloud, as my habit is. 
 Well, I like your face : you're a cold man, but an 
 honest one. You may hear whatever comes ; and 
 maybe 'twould be as well to make you my father- 
 confessor out and out ! You're as honest as any 
 jack-priest of 'em all — eh. Doctor ? " 
 
 " I have never betrayed the confidence of man 
 or woman," said Doctor Carajo, quietly. 
 
 " Humph ! Well, I am myself indifferently 
 honest, as the world goes, but I can't speak quite 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENl 227 
 
 SO fair of myself as that. But 'tis society saps our 
 principles. What law is so strong as the love of 
 a man for a woman ? and the strongest must win. 
 Sin and virtue are a matter of words — be the 
 responsibility his who utters them, and the suffer- 
 ing his who believes them. The wise man knows 
 he is free, and that life is short, and the fire of 
 youth burns but once. The treasure belongs to 
 him who can keep it ; vain to buy it with money, 
 or bind it with cords or with vows. It will go 
 where it belongs, and there 'tis safe." 
 
 " What, then, do you hold love to be ? " inquired 
 Doctor Carajo. 
 
 ^'I hold love to be — all that my blood and 
 marrow, my flesh and pulses, and my five senses, 
 tell me that it is : the delight of a man in what is 
 strange, yet familiar ; like, yet unlike ; man, yet 
 woman ; forbidden, yet allowed. Love is passion 
 — incarnate happiness ; a surrender that is victory ; 
 to receive by giving ; the generosity of selfishness ; 
 a fire that creates by consuming ; a madness that 
 is wisdom. It is the inarticulate language that 
 transcends all languages — the sweet speech of 
 flesh to flesh. There's a string of paradoxes for 
 you, Doctor, whereof you will comprehend nothing. 
 
228 DOCTOR CAEAJO'S PATIENT 
 
 Nor do I myself, for the matter of that ; I only 
 know that the look and touch of a certain woman 
 will take a certain man captive, body and hones ; 
 and that the more he is captive, the better he likes 
 it. That was my case. I found a treasure, made 
 for me to enjoy ; 'twas said another man owned 
 it, but I knew naught of him. If it were his, he 
 would have kept it. I have proved my right to 
 it; and if it were to take over again, I would 
 take it ! 
 
 " Love, therefore, is wholly a physical matter ? " 
 said Doctor Carajo, with a smile. 
 
 " Yes : and yet, by that inspiration man has 
 invented poetry, and the soul, and heaven, and all 
 manner of the like glorious hallucinations. Love 
 cannot die, we say ; no — nor will the sun ever cease 
 to warm the cold, or water to refresh the thirsty. 
 But neither sun, nor water, nor love itself will 
 animate the dead ; so what is one more than the 
 other ? " 
 
 " Surely a convincing argument," remarked 
 Doctor Carajo, still smiling, and with a glance 
 towards the curtained alcove. " And lovers parted 
 on earth are parted for ever. The only wonder is 
 that, for so slight a cause, a man {:"'iould compro- 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT, 229 
 
 mise himself so deeply. The world is wider than 
 a woman's arms ; and power, learning, and revenge 
 are sweeter than her kiss." 
 
 " I have not found them so," replied the other, 
 closing his eyes. 
 
 A long silence followed, during which Doctor 
 Carajo's patient seemed to lie in a half -waking 
 dream. The physician watched him carefully. 
 At times he sprinkled his face with a certain 
 volatile essence, fanning him the while with a 
 long-handled fan of white owl's feathers ; once or 
 twice he made him swallow a powder of a reddish 
 colour. The fountain plashed in its marble basin, 
 and the rainbow lights from the stained glass 
 window moved slowly along the walls and across 
 the floor, and the flowers in their vases gave out 
 their perfume. And all this time Doctor Carajo 
 kept his face averted from the alcove, whence 
 came no sound nor movement. 
 
 When, at length, the patient opened his eyes 
 once more, a change was manifest in his appear- 
 ance. His pallor was great, so that a white gleam 
 seemed to rest upon his face ; his features were 
 sharper ; blue veins showed through the skin of 
 his forehead, and his eyes were sunken and 
 
230 DOCTOR CAEAJO'S PATIENT. 
 
 brilliant. His voice had lost its depth and 
 strength, but was clearer and more penetrating 
 than before. The expression of his countenance 
 was composed and meditative. 
 " Where is Lenore ? " 
 
 ^*Her time has not yet come/' replied the Doctor. 
 
 " My mind beholds her clearly," rejoined the 
 other. " My thoughts dwell with her, and 
 commune with her own. In that sympathy of 
 mind all love consists. Without it, the blind 
 passion of the heart and the senses is misleading 
 and mischievous. They are the force, but intellect 
 is the guide ; and when their force is gone, the 
 intellect remains true to its choice. The delight 
 of love is in the perception of its harmonies ; and 
 age, sickness, or absence has no power to 
 obscure it." 
 
 " Then, were you to see Lenore no more, it 
 would not disturb you ? " asked the Doctor. 
 
 " Bodily presence is not without its uses,'' 
 answered the other calmly. " To be a king, you 
 must have a subject ; and the body is the subject 
 of the mind. By ruling it, the mind realizes and 
 confirms its aims and conclusions; and, on the 
 other hand, the body, by its suggestions and 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT. 231 
 
 limitations, sets the mind in motion and gives it 
 strength. Without the body, love would be a 
 dream ; as, without the mind, it would be but a 
 sensual and promiscuous instinct. Nevertheless, 
 love having once attained bodily incarnation, I 
 conceive that thenceforth the actual association 
 together of the lovers is of secondary importance ; 
 though, perhaps, the mind needs to be refreshed 
 occasionally by renewed intercourse with its mate, 
 providing it with fresh incidents and develop- 
 ments to consider and interpret." 
 
 "Your philosophy is certainly persuasive," 
 observed Doctor Oarajo. " But, from this point 
 of view, what think you of the so-called sanctity 
 of the marriage bond ? " 
 
 It is an ingenious device for the preservation 
 of outward social order," said the other, " but not 
 in itself worthy of an intellectual man's respect. 
 The laws of the mind are evidently above the 
 control of social laws. Were all men ruled, as 
 they ought to be, by the intellect, bonds of any 
 kind, marriage or other, would cease to be. 
 Households would still exist, and families would 
 be reared ; but the free intercourse of mind with 
 mind, with all that that implies, would be 
 
232 DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT. 
 
 admitted, and, as a consequence, the passion of 
 jealousy would vanish along with other relics of 
 barbarism. In other words, marriage based upon 
 intellectual sympathy would no longer be checked 
 by marriages of merely material convenience ; and 
 immorality would disappear with the artificial 
 morality which has created it. 
 
 " A desirable consummation, indeed," remarked 
 Doctor Carajo. *^And so you would, without 
 repugnance, behold Lenore in possession of 
 another of more sympathetic intellectual endow- 
 ments than yourself ? " 
 
 " The question seems a fair one/' returned the 
 other doubtfully ; " but I have, perhaps, omitted 
 some essential point in my analysis. Allowing 
 the possibility that such an intellect as you suppose 
 might exist, I still cannot conceive him as having 
 rights over Lenore. The fact that we have 
 belonged to each other has created between us 
 something that did not exist before, and which 
 cannot be removed ; something neither physical 
 nor intellectual, yet more substantial than either. 
 I confess it perplexes me, and my mind is weary. 
 I must rest awhile before considering it further." 
 
 And even as he spoke, he sank into a lethargy. 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT. 233 
 
 V. 
 
 The interval between this stage and the final one 
 lasted but a few minutes, but was marked by an 
 even greater change in the aspect of the patient. 
 The bodily substance of the man seemed in great 
 measure to have sunk away and become trans- 
 lucent ; he was not so much a physical object as 
 a spiritual presence. The light in his eyes had the 
 appearance of proceeding from some source beyond 
 matter, and to see things which material sight has 
 no cognizance of. At times a slight trembling 
 passed through him, as if his body were shaken 
 by the effort of some inward power to break away 
 from its imprisonment. His voice, reduced almost 
 to a whisper, nevertheless thrilled upon the ear 
 with a distinctness and force that outdid the 
 noisiness of the sturdiest lungs. 
 
 "Lenore!" he exclaimed commandingly, ^^come 
 to me!" 
 
 ''Hush!" said Doctor Carajo, with a frown. 
 " She is not here." 
 
234 DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT, 
 
 " She is behind that veil," returned the other ; 
 " let her come forth." 
 
 At first there was no response to this summons; 
 but by-and-by the curtain was grasped from 
 within and slowly drawn aside. In the opening 
 appeared the figure of Lenore, white in face and 
 figure, like a ghost obeying a ghostly mandate. 
 As her glance met that of Doctor Carajo s patient, 
 she faltered, and uttered a low cry. 
 
 " You are dying, my love ! " she said ; he has 
 killed you!" 
 
 ''By no means!" said Doctor Carajo sullenly. 
 " At this moment I would buy his life with my 
 own. Human skill has done its utmost." 
 
 "Do not come too near!" murmured Lenore's 
 lover, as she advanced towards him. " We have 
 no time to lose ! " 
 
 "Am I not yours? Do yon not love me?" she 
 cried, in a voice weighted with unshed tears, and 
 holding out her hands to him. 
 
 " There is a spiritual barrier between us," he 
 said. " Do not let your fleshly hand disregard it. 
 It seemed to me that I loved you; it seems so still 
 But there has never been a true union between 
 you and me. The license of the body, the arro- 
 
DOCTOR CAEAJO'S PATIENT. 235 
 
 gant insanity of the intellect — these parody love, 
 and banish it. Can happiness be founded on 
 murder? and we murdered marriage, Lenore !" 
 
 "But I never loved him — nor he me! " she said 
 passionately. And then, with a sweeping gesture 
 of the arm, she pointed to Doctor Carajo. "That 
 is the man ! Let him answer if what I say is not 
 true." 
 
 The Doctor shrugged his shoulders. "The 
 question is a futile one," he said. " Sin, like Grod, 
 is no respecter of persons. Take it, if you will, 
 that I was justly served; her responsibility towards 
 the covenant she broke is the same, and thereby 
 she is condemned. But I deprecate this discussion, 
 and the foolish revelation which occasioned it. If 
 I ever were the person she asserts, I have long 
 ceased to be so. His name and his heart — be it 
 good or evil — are mine no more. I am plain 
 Doctor Carajo, a man of science, and an 
 observer." 
 
 " Your heart is at least the same in its coldness 
 and revengefulness ! " said Lenore bitterly. 
 
 " Coldness ! I loved you ! " exclaimed Doctor 
 Carajo, with sudden and strange vehemence. " I 
 tried to win your love, but you withheld it. Mine 
 
236 DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT, 
 
 was no surface passion, to be expressed with a flow 
 of words and protestations ; and because I could not 
 speak, you thought me indifferent. Then, in my 
 absence, you met this man, and betrayed me. I 
 would not condescend to pursue you and supplicate 
 you, or to seek a vulgar vengeance. I left you to 
 the retribution of time and change. And this 
 hour rewards me." 
 
 " Can such love as ours be wrong ?" demanded 
 Lenore, turning to her lover. " Is it not its own 
 justification?" 
 
 " No, Lenore ; nor must we seek justification,'* 
 answered the dying man. " We have polluted 
 the sacred symbol which is the image of creation. 
 As light is married to heat, form to substance, and 
 truth to goodness, so is man married to woman. 
 The sanctity of that union is above and independ- 
 ent of individual conditions. For the sake of one 
 selfish pleasure, should we oppose and defy a law 
 in which are bound up the purity and welfare of 
 mankind? or should we say that, because this man 
 fails to be a worthy husband, we may violate the 
 warrant whereof he, whether worthy or not, is the 
 representative ?" 
 
 " If the love that, for these three years past, has 
 
DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATIENT. 237 
 
 been my life, be wickedness," said Lenore, " then 
 why sbould I desire truth and goodness 
 
 " The love which opposes love of humanity is, 
 in its essence, not love, but hatred," the dying man 
 answered. " It is with such love that we hereto- 
 fore loved each other; it is grounded in mortahty, 
 and must pass away. But there is something in 
 us that outlasts the strength of the body and the 
 pride of intellect — a soul which cannot die, and 
 whose love is real and immortal. My soul, which 
 until now I have never known or acknowledged, 
 is now awake, and fills the place of death: it is I!" 
 
 " And do you love me still ?" asked Lenore. 
 
 " Whether it be a new profanation or a promise, 
 I love you still," he murmured; ^'nay, I have 
 never truly loved you until this moment." 
 
 " We shall meet hereafter," she said. 
 
 "Let not your heart imagine it," he replied: 
 "the wages of sin is not immortal happiness. 
 Pray only that he whom we have chiefly wronged 
 be less a sufferer thereby than we ourselves." 
 
 " Let not that disturb you," said Doctor Oarajo 
 gloomily. " If what this dying man has said be 
 true — and it may be so, for aught I can tell — you 
 have injured each other more fatally than you have 
 
238 DOCTOR CARAJO'S PATTENT, 
 
 injured me. I ask no more. Heaven may promise 
 you what happiness it will; I shall not cross you 
 there.^^ 
 
 " Farewell, Lenore ! " said her lover, in a tone 
 whose solemnity overawed its tenderness. 
 
 Must I stay here alone ? " she cried out in 
 agony. " Let me go with you ! " 
 
 "Not so! Rejoice, rather, that your road of 
 retribution lies in this world. As for me, I go to 
 a strange country, whose ways and boundaries no 
 man knows." 
 
 There was a silence. " He is gone !" muttered 
 Doctor Carajo, turning away. 
 
 But Lenore pressed her hands over her heart. 
 
 " He is here ! " said she. 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 Some time ago I visited, in tlie interest of one of 
 our magazines, a remote district of New England. 
 It was early in October; the woods had just begun 
 their season of splendour. My business led me 
 beyond the immediate region of the railway; and 
 for several days I travelled amidst scenes which 
 the lapse of a generation or two have scarcely 
 altered. This was all the more agreeable to me, 
 inasmuch as I had spent the greater part of the 
 previous twelve years in Europe, where even the 
 wilder places have been so exhaustively handled 
 and examined as to convey the impression of a sort 
 of moral populousness in their very solitudes* 
 But New England, ancient though she be in the 
 annals of our Republic, has yet some spots almost 
 
240 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 virgin so far as tourists are concerned. They lie 
 outside of the main lines of travel, but this is 
 probably not the chief cause of their immunity. 
 It is rather to be sought in a certain outward 
 sternness and severity of contour. There are no 
 imposing mountains, no richly picturesque valleys, 
 no mighty cataracts or burnished lakes. The 
 grass, save for a month or two in the early summer, 
 is brown and dry; the hard bones of granite emerge 
 through the soil; the low hills are densely wooded 
 with pine, birch, and oak, save where the wood- 
 cutters have left rectangular clearings, diversified 
 with regular piles of corded timber. The farm- 
 houses are not the cottages of romance, but 
 square-framed houses, as plain as shingles and 
 clapboards can make them, and either painted 
 white, or wearing the cold grey livery bestowed 
 by sun and rain and snow. There are no green 
 lanes winding between hedges through fat pastures, 
 but sandy or clayey highways, dusty and muddy 
 by turns, stretching bare and barren between 
 fences of unhewn stone or chestnut rails. There 
 are no mossy milestones, inscribed with undecipher- 
 able figures, but at the intersection of the ways a 
 wooden post with two or more white arms radiating 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 241 
 
 from its top, bearing some such legend as " Pine- 
 field 5 m./' Waterbridge 12 m." In a word, 
 this is the characteristic scenery of bleak and 
 uncompromising New England, possessing the 
 external reserve and rudeness reflected in the 
 inhabitants, but, nevertheless, owning elements of 
 beauty and charm which appear when rightly 
 entreated. 
 
 I have incidentally mentioned Pinefield ; and, 
 in fact, it was by seeing that name upon one 
 of the sign-posts above described that I was 
 reminded of the village so designated. For some 
 reason or other, I had not before realized that I 
 was in its vicinity. It is true I had not been there 
 since my college days, some time during the Civil 
 War; and though I had become very familiar 
 with it at that epoch, and had not infrequently 
 recalled it since then, it had become invested in 
 my memory with a certain indistinct, traditionary 
 atmosphere, such as might be supposed to belong 
 to a place one had read of rather than lived in. 
 Now that I found myself within a few miles of it, 
 however, my recollections became more clear and 
 circumstantial; and it was not long before I made 
 up my mind to pay it a visit. It did not lie 
 
242 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 within the itinerary marked out for me; but 
 neither was it far out of the way ; and it may as 
 well be confessed that some faint traces of a senti- 
 mental reminiscence were not without their weight 
 in confirming my resolve. 
 
 But I perceive the necessity of explaining how 
 it happened that a youth engaged in cultivating 
 his mind and not allowing it to be ferocious at 
 Harvard University should have found himself in 
 a hamlet so far removed from the shadow of his 
 Alma Mater as Pinefield. Be it known, then, that 
 a desire on my part to investigate other branches 
 of knowledge and experience besides (and occasion- 
 ally, perhaps, instead of) those specified in the 
 college catalogue, had prompted the president and 
 faculty to suspend — as the phrase was — for a term 
 or two my personal relations with the college reci- 
 tation-rooms. In order to carry their decree into 
 effect, they troubled themselves to assign me a 
 place of residence considerably beyond a walking 
 distance from Cambridge ; and since the town of 
 Pinefield possessed, in addition to this recommen- 
 dation, a Unitarian minister who was an excellent 
 classical and mathematical scholar, and who was to 
 have charge of my intellectual prosperity, I was 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 243 
 
 considered to be very well disposed of. The Eev. 
 Josiah Willard was this good gentleman's name. 
 I am ashamed to remember that he soon familiar- 
 ized himself to my inner consciousness as Old Josh. 
 He was as good, as guileless, and as absent-minded 
 a little gentleman as ever I have met with, and 
 my affection for him (despite my irreverence) was 
 more cordial than he ever suspected. He taught 
 me much more and much better things than he 
 ever suspected, too ; but, if he imagined that he 
 taught me Greek and algebra, I fear he flattered 
 both himself and me. I learned from him how 
 kind and simple and self-abnegating and childlike 
 a learned Unitarian minister can be. But when 
 I came downstairs to recite my lessons (I boarded 
 in his house), and he had laid aside, with a friendly 
 smile and greeting, the book or the manuscript on 
 which he was engaged, it was his pupil's custom, 
 by some carefully-devised question or remark, to 
 launch him out upon one or other of the many 
 topics that had a more intimate interest for him 
 than schoolboys' tasks. Then he would fix the 
 bright gaze of his pleasant round eyes upon a certain 
 point of the ceiling, holding his head sidewise like 
 a bird ; cross one foot over his knee, and smooth 
 
244 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 down his instep with his hand, while his discourse 
 ran fluently and discursively on until the hour of 
 our collaboration had almost passed away. Then, 
 with an "Oh! oh! dear me! dear me !" he would 
 catch up the text-book, pull out his watch, and 
 exclaim, " Well, now, I suppose you must know 
 all about this — yes, yes, I see — it's very simple ; 
 didn't find any difficulty, did you ? Well, now 
 you see our time is about up; suppose you read up 
 to this paragraph to-morrow, and then we'll do a 
 bit of good hard work together." And so his 
 pupil would take his departure, assured that to- 
 morrow would be twin sister to to-day. He was 
 a little brown beaming man — brown eyes, brown 
 hair and beard, brown clothes, except on Sundays; 
 and very apt to fall into what I should call brown 
 studies, except that there was never anything 
 gloomy or morose about them. 
 
 The Reverend Josiah was a widower; but he 
 had a beloved daughter — Elsie. When I knew 
 her, Elsie could not have been more than fourteen 
 years old, but she seemed older to me ; not that 
 she was tall ; I think she was rather smaller than 
 the average, gracefully and neatly formed, and 
 tapering delicately off at the tip of her arch (not 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 245 
 
 arched) nose, and supple fingers and brisk slender 
 feet. If you asked her a question she would throw 
 up her head with something of that sidewise turn 
 that characterized her father, letting her laughing 
 dark eyes pass from yours to a point just beyond 
 and above you, and then she would draw in her 
 breath between her parted lips in a deliberative 
 sort of way, and seemed to ponder your inquiry 
 for a moment, and then, with a sudden bright 
 glance into your eyes, and, in nine cases out of 
 ten, a quick merry laugh, she would toss you a 
 roguish answer. This was hard enough to with- 
 stand ; but it was when she was serious that Elsie 
 was most formidable. Ah me ! what an expression 
 she could call up in those dark eyes of hers, as 
 perchance, she walked home with you from church 
 in the evening, with her little hand resting its 
 sensitive finger-tips on yoar arm. Such an 
 ingenuous expression as it was and so trusting, so 
 appreciating, so exploring — as if she could never 
 see or hear too much of you ! Of course you knew 
 that she would be laughing at you the next day 
 or the next minute, but that only involved matters 
 the more. Had Elsie been forty instead of four- 
 teen, she could not have been more completely the 
 
246 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 superior at all points of the unbaked college youth 
 who bamboozled her guileless father, and thought 
 himself wiser than the faculty. There was more 
 strength in my little finger than in Elsie's whole 
 body, but there was more sense in her little finger 
 — and what a very little finger it was ! — than in 
 a dozen such heads as mine. Nevertheless — or 
 therefore, of course — I never was her lover. She 
 had too much sense to desire it, and quite sense 
 enough to prevent it. She made me believe at the 
 time that it was my own reserve and pride that 
 were keeping me aloof, but I realized afterwards 
 that the true reason of my backwardness was much 
 less soothing to my self-esteem. Elsie's schemes 
 for her future never did include or could have 
 included me. Meanwhile we became in time — 
 and thanks to her tact — very good friends, as such 
 friendships go ; and if she remembered me a tenth 
 part so long as I remembered her I had no reason 
 to complain. 
 
 All this seemed very long ago as I drove along 
 the road to Pinefield, in the buggy which I had 
 hired for ten days at Plymouth, New Hampshire. 
 It was a pleasant drive, not only because the 
 yellow and crimson of the autumnal trees were so 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 247 
 
 acceptable to my unaccustomed eyes, but because 
 there was just enough of agreeable anticipation in 
 the visit that was before me — -just enough and not 
 too much. To see again places and people one 
 has not seen for twenty years — what better enter- 
 tainment can a meditative mind desire ? You see 
 not the place and people merely, but the old life 
 you lived with them, and your own youthful self 
 living it. The joys you felt at that time, which 
 then were so keen, do not wear the same sparkle 
 now ; and those poignant sorrows and despairs — 
 where are their gloom and blackness? But the 
 picture is all the more mellow and pleasing on 
 that account ; it has toned down, it has gained an 
 atmosphere, like the works of the Old Masters ; it 
 is not crude life itself, but the real objects before 
 you are as a medium through which you see the 
 softened vision of the life of long ago. As you 
 stroll about and gaze and pause and remember, 
 you are leading two existences at once, and each 
 bestows upon the other an imaginative charm of 
 unreality. 
 
 Such were my reflections as I drove leisurely 
 along the road towards Pinefield, and finally sur- 
 mounted the gradual, low acclivity from which, as 
 
248 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 I knew, the village would come into view. Tes, 
 there it was — the same cluster of white patches, 
 with the broad main street stretching between 
 them, and the white church steeple culminating in 
 the midst. There was the elm-tree at the entrance 
 of the town, shaped like an overflowing champagne 
 glass — one of the old-fashioned tall kind, such as 
 are not made now. There was the hotel, which 
 has certainly had a new coat of paint since I saw 
 it last ; but the same wooden Corinthian columns 
 as of yore dignify the portico, and the adjoining 
 horse-sheds look neither more nor less tumble-down 
 than ever. There is Moore's farm-house — but that 
 has had an addition built on it, and a covered 
 verandah across the front gives it a modern 
 aspect. There is Fielding's, too; but it looks 
 somewhat dingy; probably Tom has not got on in 
 the world quite so well as he expected. And there, 
 aye, there is the dwelling of the Eeverend Josiah 
 Willard; bless me how natural it looks! Even 
 the window of the room which used to be mine, 
 half open, as I generally had it. Is that old J osh 
 himself on the doorstep } No ; that is not his 
 brisk gait and bearing; it is some much older man. 
 And yet, now that I come to think of it, how old 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 249 
 
 must Josh be by this time? And — Elsie, can 
 twenty added to fourteen make thirty-four? 
 Impossible ! For if that were so, then instead of 
 
 a boy of eighteen, I should be ! — Away with 
 
 such thoughts ! 
 
 But, alas ! Time has a logic with which, every 
 now and again, one is obliged to reckon. It is 
 one thing to note the gentle passage of years upon 
 the face of nature ; another to behold their sad traces 
 upon the countenances of ourfriends. There aregrey 
 hairs in my own beard ; and, therefore, the boys 
 and girls whom I have been imagining unchanged 
 are grown-up people ; the slender girls are plump 
 matrons or bony old maids ; the mischievous boys 
 are hard-visaged men of business ; some of them 
 are select-men ; one is in the State Legislature ; 
 one, perhaps, in gaol. Moreover, those persons 
 who were middle-aged in my day are now, with- 
 out exception, white-haired and decrepit — those 
 of them, at least, who are not resting in yonder 
 burying-ground, which certainly is far more 
 populous than when I saw it last ; and there has 
 come into existence a whole new creation of young 
 people, who can no more remember what happened 
 here twenty years ago than I can remember 
 
250 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 whether it rained in London the day Warren 
 Hastings was acquitted. How hackneyed all 
 this vein of reflection is; and how strange and 
 pathetic — when it comes livingly home to your 
 own heart ! How complacently do we see funerals 
 passing us in the streets; nay, with what fortitude 
 do we, by practice, contrive to attend the funerals 
 of our friends ! But when it comes to seeing our 
 own wives and children nailed up in the coffin by 
 the deft undertaker — and when it comes to being 
 nailed up in it ourselves — then these familiar little 
 ceremonies have their revenge upon us. These 
 considerations, suddenly obtruding themselves 
 upon me, caused me to slacken the pace of my not 
 too impatient steed, and even to ask myself 
 whether it would not be wiser to turn round and 
 go back to that sign-board which had informed me 
 that Pinefield was five miles. But there is a moral 
 vis inertice which inclines us to consummate an 
 enterprise which is already on the verge of com- 
 pletion. It might be disappointing to go on ; 
 but, on the other hand, the road was downhill ; it 
 was an effort to change one's mind, and I was 
 conscious of a considerable curiosity to know what 
 had become of Elsie; how she had turned out — in 
 
A STRANGE FUIEND. 251 
 
 short, whom she had married, and how the union 
 had progressed. Sam Moore and Tom Fielding 
 had been the two most likely suitors, unless my 
 memory deceived me : and it was upon Tom — no, 
 upon second thoughts I believe it was upon Sam, 
 that fortune and Elsie had finally smiled. Mrs. 
 Samuel Moore ! Can I imagine little Elsie Wil- 
 lard as Mrs. Samuel Moore? I repeated the name 
 to myself ; I tried to think of her as a wife, as the 
 mistress of a household, as the mother of a little 
 tribe of Toms and Elsies. But I could bring no 
 recognizable image of such a person before my 
 mind. All I could see was the pretty, bewitching, 
 laughing, mocking, sentimental Elsie Willard of 
 twenty years ago, with her roguish nose, her 
 innocent lips, her perilous eye, her lightsome figure. 
 Age could have no effect upon such a creature ; 
 she was too much what she was ever to become 
 anything different. As for Sam Moore and Tom 
 Fielding, I had no difficulty in fancying the 
 changes that had come over them. Sam was now 
 a portly and prosperous farmer, like his father 
 before him; and Tom — well, Tom had a genius for 
 inventions, and was to-day, perhaps, an eminent 
 electrician, with an ofiice in New York and 
 
252 ^ STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 correspondents in London. Sam had a tHck red 
 beard, jflowing over his chest. Tom had reinforced 
 those handsome eyes of his with a pair of spec- 
 tacles, and was a little bald on the back of his head. 
 But Elsie must be Elsie for ever. 
 
 As I trundled down the hill, feeling more and 
 more at home every moment, I recalled my old 
 friends Sam and Tom very distinctly. They were 
 about my own age, and we had been pretty con- 
 stant companions in those days of rustication. As 
 a member — albeit in retirement — of the most 
 distinguished seat of learning in the United States, 
 I suppose I may have assumed some airs with 
 these young fellows ; they were country-bred, and 
 I dazzled them with the jargon of the college 
 yard, and with my talk of Boston, and Parker's, 
 and Morris Brothers, Pell and Trowbridge's 
 minstrelsy, and Maffit and Bartholomew's panto- 
 mime, and the crew, and the nine, and the hazing, 
 and the football match. But a boy is, at bottom, 
 only a boy after all, though his technical rank be 
 that of a sophomore, or even of a junior; and 
 after a while they got accustomed to my bragging, 
 and 1 dropped it, and we associated together upon 
 a less artificial and irksome footing. We went 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 253 
 
 fishing, shooting, and skating together; I gave 
 them some instruction in the manly art of self- 
 defence, and Sam, at least, gave me evidence that 
 my lessons had not been in vain. There was a 
 great contrast between the two boys. Sam was 
 bold, resolute, and acute; but his most obvious 
 trait was a disposition towards practical jokes, dry 
 humour, and general comicality. He could always 
 make you laugh, and he would laugh himself ; but 
 neither his laugh nor yours was apt to be a purely 
 good-natured or mirthful one. It was always at 
 the expense of somebody or something ; though 
 there was often genuine wit in his sayings and 
 doings, too. He so easily maintained superiority 
 over the majority of his fellows by his tongue and 
 his audacity that he seldom had to resort to any 
 more primitive and direct methods ; but he could 
 be fierce enough upon occasion. When he and I 
 and Tom were out shooting in the woods one 
 day, he got into a dispute with Tom about no lees 
 a personage than Miss Elsie Willard — with whom, 
 of course, both the boys were in love, as what 
 available young man was not ? Suddenly, and 
 quite unexpectedly, Sam passed from the ordinary 
 chaflE and taunts into a furious rage ; he actually 
 
254 ^ STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 levelled his gun at Tom, and, had I not got hold 
 of the weapon in time, I believe would have 
 emptied a charge of duck-shot into his body. 
 Being foiled so far, he rushed at him, threw him 
 down, and falling upon him, began to pummel him 
 in so vicious a manner that, had he not been 
 interfered with, poor Tom would have got some 
 serious harm. From rage, he put on a demeanour 
 of sullen and dumb moroseness, and stalked oif 
 homewards by himself in a most sinister manner. 
 The next day, however, he appeared much as 
 usual, and never made any allusion to his out- 
 break ; and Tom, who was the soul of good 
 nature, forgot and forgave it, I dare say, as soon 
 as his bones stopped aching. 
 
 Tom was much the more remarkable and likable 
 fellow of the two. There was a poetical look 
 about him ; he had light chestnut hair waving 
 over a broad white forehead, and great pre-occupied 
 brown eyes, with long eyelashes. Whether he 
 really wrote poetry I know not, and I never asked 
 Elsie ; but he was imaginative, and had a turn of 
 mind at once analytical and synthetical. He was 
 always pulling things to pieces, and contriving 
 some way of putting them together to better 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 255 
 
 advantage. People said he had a mechanical 
 genius, but I should rather call him a natural 
 inventor — having a mind that was averse to 
 accepting things as they are, and was prone to 
 introduce simplifications and improvements. An 
 inventor and a poet have many qualities in 
 common, but they work in different materials. 
 For the rest, Tom was often eccentric in his 
 behaviour — having an individual way of doing 
 things, not from affectation, but because his 
 mental processes did not move in the hackneyed 
 grooves, but had a course and action of their own. 
 He was, as I have said, sweet-tempered and 
 obliging, and singularly ingenuous and artless, 
 even for a country boy ; but he had a great love 
 of beauty, an inclination towards luxury and 
 splendour — his daydreams on such subjects had a 
 smack of Haroun Alraschid in them. It was in 
 this direction that Tom's failings were to be 
 sought ; he was frail on the side of the senses and 
 emotions ; there was no adamant in his com- 
 position, and, I fancy, not much constancy. But 
 what is a boy but a bundle of possibilities ? There 
 is no telling (and, so far as his companions are 
 concerned, no caring) how he may finally turn out 
 
256 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 Bewitching Elsie used to tell him he was a goose; 
 but she said it in a way that made being a goose 
 seem worth while. Sometimes I used to think she 
 cared for him much more than she pretended ; but 
 I by-and-by came to the conclusion that her 
 common-sensible little heart really preferred Sam, 
 who, no doubt, would make her more comfortable, 
 by keeping her under better subjection than Tom 
 could ; besides which, Sam was quite a match (as 
 beaux went in Pinefield) from a financial point of 
 view; whereas Tom's father, formerly a lumber 
 merchant, had lost a fabulous sum of money (ten 
 thousand dollars, I think) in a speculation, and 
 was now a not over-prosperous carpenter, and some- 
 times got drunk in a harmless and unobtrusive 
 manner. He was a man of some education, and fond 
 of reading ; and he had copies of all Fielding's 
 novels, the contents of which he knew almost by 
 heart ; for his own Christian name was Henry, 
 and, when he was a little mellow, he would 
 demonstrate at great length that he was a lineal 
 descendant of the famous novelist. 
 
 By this time I had entered the main street of 
 Pinefield, and was within a few rods of the hotel ; 
 but had, as yet, neither recognized nor been 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 257 
 
 recognized by any one. My plan was to leave my 
 horse and waggon at the hotel, and to engage a 
 room there, and then to go straight to old Josh's, 
 discover myself to him, receive his embraces, and 
 learn from his amiable garrulity all the news, 
 good and bad. I had no difficulty in carrying out 
 the first part of my programme, except, of course, 
 the initial difficulty of inducing the landlord to 
 reveal to me which (of the group of critical and 
 unconciliating gentlemen leaning and sitting about 
 in various attitudes in the bar-room) he was. A 
 hard-featured, dissatisfied person was this land- 
 lord, looking past you as he conversed with you, 
 first on one side, then on the other, as if you were 
 standing in the way of all that interested him in 
 life ; though there might be nothing behind you 
 but a spittoon or a three-legged chair. He was 
 very different from the landlord of my day, old 
 Mr. Wiper, who used to call everybody " dear 
 boy," and who kept the butt-end of a cigar per- 
 manently in the corner of his mouth, and never, 
 while I knew him, put on a coat. So I asked the 
 present incumbent none of the questions that were 
 on the end of my tongue; on the contrary, I 
 made haste to get out of his weary and irritated 
 
258 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 presence, lest it should come into his head to 
 inform me that poor old Wiper was no more. I 
 wished to begin, at least, my revisitation of 
 Pinefield at the cheerfuUest end of the story. 
 Accordingly I left the hotel, saying that I should 
 return in an hour or two, and turned up the street 
 towards the abode of the Rev. Josiah. The setting 
 sun shone level across the pleasant vista; the 
 yellow leaves of the elm-trees cast a golden 
 shadow ; there was Buttrick's grocery store on the 
 other side of the way, with the same old shop sign 
 over the door. Everything was the same, even 
 myself for the moment ; I felt as if I were going 
 up to recite my lesson, which I had learned, or 
 neglected to learn — was it twenty years ago, or 
 only last night ? I recognized the very slopes and 
 hollows of the side-walk beneath my feet. And 
 now, from this tree, it is just thirty-three paces to 
 Josiah's doorstep ; I know that, without raising 
 my eyes ; and to prove the accuracy of my 
 recollection, I will take thirty paces before looking 
 up. I did so, and paused almost within reach of 
 the door-knob. Then I lifted my head, pleased to 
 have remembered so well. 
 
 But my pleasure had a quick revulsion. Upon 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 259 
 
 the door-knob was fastened a rosette of black crape, 
 with two long streamers hanging down to the 
 threshold. All the blinds of the house were closed, 
 except those belonging to the room which used to 
 be mine. Some one had died in the house, and 
 the dead body was still within. Some one ; but 
 who? While I stood in hesitation, doubting 
 whether to go back or to proceed and know the 
 worst, a head appeared at the open window already 
 mentioned. I knew at once to whom it belonged, 
 though, perhaps, had I met him in other circum- 
 stances, I should have passed him unrecognizing. 
 He was sadly changed, indeed, but he could be no 
 one but old J osh. Willard. 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 This unmistakable evidence that Elsie was no 
 more quite quenched my enterprise ; I had not 
 the heart to knock at my old friend's door ; and it 
 was easy to see that he had not recognized me, if 
 he had even noticed my presence. So I turned 
 round and went slowly back to the hotel. A tall, 
 rather stout man was standing on the steps ; he 
 
260 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 wore a reddish moustache and close-out whiskers, 
 and was dressed in a roomy suit of black broad- 
 cloth. He looked hard at me as I passed him, 
 with a pair of keen impenetrable grey eyes ; there 
 was something in the look that impressed me 
 vaguely, though, preoccupied as I was, I noticed 
 it less than I might otherwise have done. I turned 
 into the hotel parlour, and sat down near the 
 window. I wondered why the girls death should 
 have affected me so much ; and, again, I wondered 
 that it did not affect me more. Had I been in 
 New York, say when the news reached me, I 
 should have uttered an exclamation, perhaps, and 
 thought no more of it; but here, in the very 
 village in which I had known her, it was different. 
 It was strange, too, that I should have happened 
 to come here just at this time. I had been present 
 at the opening of the drama of her life ; and now, 
 it seems, I was destined to witness its close. What 
 had passed in the meanwhile ? Had her life been 
 a sad or a happy one ? Was she really dead, after 
 all ? It was hard to conceive of that vivacious 
 little existence being extinguished — and she was 
 still a young woman. And but a day or two since 
 — perhaps this very morning — she had been alive ! 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 261 
 
 Was her death sudden or lingering ? These and 
 many other questions arose in my mind and de- 
 manded to be answered. But who should answer 
 them? 
 
 Excuse me," said a voice at my elbow, and I 
 looked round and saw the gentleman with the red 
 
 whiskers, "excuse me, but isn't this ?" and he 
 
 mentioned my name. 
 
 As soon as he spoke I knew him. His voice 
 had altered very little; it had the same rather 
 harsh and grating but jovial intonation as ever; a 
 cold, defiant sort of joviality proceeding from 
 determination rather than temperament. I got up 
 and took his hand. He shook mine once, hard, 
 and then dropped it. His smile was also as I 
 remembered it — a comical wrinkling of the eyes 
 and cheeks, soon over; but the face itself had 
 changed considerably. 
 
 " I'm glad to meet you again, Moore," I said ; 
 
 " though " I paused, reflecting that, if Elsie 
 
 had indeed been his wife, condolence was more in 
 order. 
 
 " Yes," he said, glancing me over; "we're both 
 here on the same errand, I suppose. Sad business. 
 Seen her father?" 
 
262 ^ STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 "You are the first I've spoken to. I came here 
 by accident ; all I know is that piece of crape on 
 the door-knob." 
 
 "She died night before last, I'm told," said 
 Moore, in his hard voice, drawing his fingers down 
 his jawbone. " Funeral to-morrow." 
 
 " You — then she was not married to you 
 
 He glanced at me again, with a surprise that 
 rapidly merged into a cold suspicion — as if he 
 fancied I were making game of him, or testing 
 him in some way. But he probably perceived 
 that I was innocent of any such intent, for he 
 presently grinned again more drily than before, 
 and said, turning partly away, " I never was a 
 marrying man, sir." 
 
 "We are speaking of Elsie — Willard — that 
 was ? " said I. 
 
 " Married Tom Fielding," returned Moore in a 
 brisk tone. He took a paper of chewing tobacco 
 from his pocket, and put a quid in his mouth. 
 
 " Oh ! Fielding, was it ? When I was here 
 last she seemed more — however, that was only my 
 inference. Is Tom in town ? " 
 
 " You re rather behind the times — the times 
 hereabouts, anyhow ; been abroad, haven't you ? " 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 263 
 
 Twelve years of it : long enough." 
 " Yes. Well, the world moves, yon know." 
 " And what about Tom ? " 
 " With his wife, I expect ; charitable to suppose 
 so, at any rate." 
 
 " You don't mean dead ? " 
 
 Moore nodded. " Five years ago," he added, 
 
 " Took after his father." 
 
 " Poor Elsie ! How long had they been 
 married?" 
 
 "Let's see. How long since you left? Twenty 
 years. Well, I guess she married him a couple of 
 years or so after that." 
 
 " And he drank himself to death ! She must 
 have had a sad life of it, poor girl! She was 
 bright enough when I knew her." 
 
 " Well, it got to be pretty bad all round/' said 
 Moore, rather callously, as it seemed to me ; but 
 whether the callousness was real, or a matter of 
 habit, or assumed to disguise a difierent feeling 
 underneath it, I will not be sure. I remember 
 that twenty years before it used to be said that 
 Moore had been terribly whipped by his father up 
 to the time when he was fifteen or sixteen ; and 
 that, when a boy s spirit is strong, is apt to harden 
 
264 ^ STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 and embitter him. But then, again, why should 
 Moore show any special sensibility on this occa- 
 sion ? Probably the memory of twenty years ago 
 was not nearly so vivid to him as it was to me, for 
 to him the intervening space was not a blank, as 
 to me it was, but was filled up with that gradual 
 daily and monthly and yearly accumulation of 
 little events, which lead us on insensibly to accept 
 the great events, which they constitute. He had 
 seen the successive stages by which Tom became 
 a drunkard; he had noted, and become accustomed 
 to, the slow darkening of Elsie's horizon ; in the 
 pressure of his own daily affairs he had even for- 
 gotten, almost, that he had ever loved her. Her 
 death had probably long been anticipated as 
 certain to occur ; perhaps the circumstances were 
 such that it had appeared a happy release. To me, 
 on the other hand, only the crude outline and 
 exaggerated perspective were visible; and the 
 freshness of the subject to my mind added to the 
 poignancy of the impression. Nevertheless, I 
 could not help thinking that Moore might have 
 spoken a little more tenderly. 
 
 "It was her father I saw at the window?" I 
 said, interrogatively. "He has aged terribly. 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 265 
 
 He can't be much over sixty, but lie looks 
 eighty." 
 
 "The fact is," said Moore, thrusting out his 
 chin and rasping his fingers across it, " there was 
 
 " He checked himself, and seemed to alter 
 
 his mind about something he had been going to 
 say. He ended by nodding his head and repeat- 
 ing his previous remark, " It got to be pretty bad 
 all round." 
 
 " Do you live in the village, here?" I enquired. 
 
 " Not much ! " he replied, wrinkling his face. 
 
 "I expected to find you a great raiser of 
 asparagus and grapes, and breeder of cattle." 
 
 "No, no, sir; that wasn't quite lively enough 
 for me. When the old man pegged out, I put the 
 place up at auction and cleared out. Went to the 
 law school, and put up my shingle in Waterbridge, 
 over yonder. I guess I shall go down to New 
 York and settle one of these days. I'm getting 
 sick of things hereabouts.'' 
 
 " I'm rather sorry I turned up here myself," I 
 observed. 
 
 Moore made no reply, though there was in his 
 manner something which made me fancy that he 
 had something to communicate, but could not make 
 
266 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 up his mind whether or not it was advisable to do so. 
 After standing about awhile, staring through the 
 window, and humming snatches of airs below his 
 breath, he muttered something about being expected 
 somewhere, and stalked off, leaving me in a very- 
 depressed frame of mind. I was not only sorry 
 that I had come, but I was half -minded to go away 
 again at once, and not wait for to-morrow's 
 ceremony. What should I gain by it, or what 
 good would my presence do anybody? There was 
 nothing but pain to anticipate ; not an arousing, 
 stimulating pain, either, but dreary and wearisome. 
 
 This Mrs. Fielding was not the Elsie I had 
 known; that fascinating little creature had 
 vanished years and years ago. ... I fell to specu- 
 lating idly as to the meaning of that remark of 
 Moore's : " It got to be pretty bad all round." 
 There had seemed to be more in it than met the 
 ear. But in what way ? Bad for whom ? Of 
 course, it was bad for Elsie that she married a 
 drunkard, and bad for poor old Mr. Willard to 
 have a drunkard for a son-in-law ; but had Moore 
 intended nothing more than that? Was it not 
 possible that Tom Fielding had stood accountant 
 for some other and worse sin than inebriety? 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 267 
 
 During the time of my acquaintance with him, he 
 had shown no leaning towards the bottle; that 
 was a vice which I should much sooner have 
 expected in Sam Moore. Therefore, was it not 
 possible that inebriety had simply been his expe- 
 dient to numb the strings of remorse for a backslid- 
 ing of a graver sort ? Having started this theory, I 
 tried to imagine some crime which, from my know- 
 ledge of Tom Fielding's character, I could suppose 
 him likely to commit. In this ingenious specu- 
 lation, however, I met with poor success ; and by- 
 and-by, realizing what I was about, I rated myself 
 for a curmudgeon, and tried to think of something 
 else. But my mind was so dull and out of tune 
 that I could concentrate it upon nothing ; and I 
 don't know what I should have done had not 
 some one entered and informed me that if I wanted 
 any dinner it was ready in the dining-room. 
 
 I did not care much for the dinner, but I was 
 greatly in need of the distraction, and therefore 
 betook myself to the banqueting-hall with alacrity. 
 It was a great barn-like place, with a long table 
 extending from one end to the other, at the hither 
 extremity of which a small dingy table-cloth was 
 spread, and upon it were set out a great round of 
 
268 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 boiled salt beef, vegetables, a pumpkin pie, and a 
 pitcher of ice- water. As I sat down I noticed that 
 a plate was laid at the opposite side of the table, 
 indicating that another guest was expected. I 
 took it for granted that this must be Moore ; but 
 the person who entered a few moments later, and 
 seated himself in the vacant chair, was in all respects 
 as unlike Moore as possible. 
 
 He was a man of lofty stature and vast frame, 
 but gaunt as a wolf; a thick white beard hung 
 down on his breast, and the hair that densely- 
 covered his head, and locks of which fell across his 
 forehead, was also white as snow. The cavernous 
 sockets of his eyes, overshadowed by heavy 
 eyebrows, were enough to render impressive a 
 countenance containing nothing else remarkable ; 
 but the eyes themselves had a lambent glow and 
 musing penetration which at once commanded the 
 attention ; while the nose was large and rugged, 
 and the forehead high, with a deep indentation 
 down the midst. At a little distance his aspect 
 was almost awe-inspiring ; but as he came near a 
 singular benignity and gentleness was discernible 
 in his expression, in the furrows of his cheeks and 
 the lines about his eyes. His broad shoulder.^ 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 269 
 
 stooped somewhat under the burden of years or 
 injfirrQity; for, as I contemplated this venerable 
 personage, I doubted whether he were really so 
 ancient as his snowy crown would imply. At all 
 events ihere was still a spirit of youthful vigour 
 and soundness within him — in his mind and soul — 
 which was distinct from the failure of the bodily 
 part, and would survive it. 
 
 Having taken his seat, this august prophet — a 
 kindlier Isaiah in modern garments — clasped his 
 hands upon the table before him, and uplifted his 
 face in an attitude of religious supplication. This 
 action did not take me unawares ; it was easy to 
 see that he lived in a world of his own, and had 
 strength and simplicity enough to do so without 
 affectation. The blessing which he invoked was not 
 spoken audibly, however ; and in a few moments 
 it was over. He then fixed the kindly glow of his 
 eyes upon me, and said, in a voice which was 
 pitched low, but which carried evidence of great 
 power and volume in reserve — 
 
 "I am glad of your company, sir. It is 
 unnatural to eat alone.'' 
 
 "1 thank you for the compliment and return 
 it," said I; "though I will qualify it by 
 
270 A. STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 adding that some company is worse than 
 solitude." 
 
 "How can that be," was his rejoinder, "since a 
 man is nothing in himself, but only as a member 
 of society ? The heavenly life is the social life ; 
 only in hell does a man pretend to stand for him- 
 self alone." 
 
 "As to that, I can presume to say nothing; 
 but I should suppose that a heavenly society was 
 a free society — where you meet only the people 
 you want to see." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said he slowly, and looking down 
 with a musing air. " Nevertheless, perhaps, there 
 may be this difference between society in heaven 
 and on earth — that here we most want to see those 
 to whom we can be most useful, whereas in heaven 
 we most require those who can be our most effective 
 partners in usefulness." 
 
 I did not feel sure that I comprehended the drift 
 of this remark; but I thought it in order to inquire 
 whether my instructor were not a clergyman. 
 
 His face changed a little, becoming more grave. 
 " The Lord has delivered me from that temptation," 
 was his unexpected reply. " No doubt I am by 
 nature full as apt as others to claim special relations 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 271 
 
 with Him ; but I am more readily able to detect 
 myself now than formerly. No ; if I must give 
 myself a title, possibly I might call myself a poet, 
 but a sort of poet that has never written verses." 
 
 "You carry poems in your head — or in your 
 heart, I should say?" 
 
 He shook his head. " No, it is the feeling only — 
 the direction of the inward sight; in higher moods; 
 I have not the faculty that you have to fix it 
 in writing.'* 
 
 "Is it possible," I began, feeling not a little 
 gratified, "that you have read- " 
 
 He interposed with a slight gesture of his long, 
 finely-shaped hand. "I owe you an explanation," 
 he said ; "I spoke without reflection. I know 
 nothing of your name or achievements ; I am not 
 in the way of knowing such things. But when I 
 entered the room I had an impression — books; 
 and a certain sort of books .... But I seem 
 intrusive." 
 
 " You interest me greatly," said I, apprehending 
 a quite stimulating peculiarity in this old gentle- 
 man, "and if it would not be unpardonably 
 intrusive on my side, I should like to ask by what 
 principle of divination you can be aware (ordinary 
 
272 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 inf onnation apart) that I am a writer, and a writer 
 of a certain sort of books ?" 
 
 "It is nothing, I am sure, extraordinary," 
 returned my companion, with a smile of slight 
 embarrassment or shyness ; "at most it is but a 
 development of a faculty common to all men — ^as 
 when you, for instance, find yourself friendly dis- 
 posed, or otherwise, towards any person whom you 
 meet for the first time. But such as it is, I assure 
 you that I hope I may cease to possess it the 
 moment I apply it to the purposes of idle curiosity 
 or inquisitiveness." 
 
 As this remark might be construed as an implicit 
 rebuke to myself, I hesitated to pursue the topic ; 
 and for a time I turned my attention to the dinner, 
 which was the proximate cause of this encounter. 
 My companion did the same, with the cheerful 
 simplicity and heartiness that belonged to him; 
 and meanwhile the conversation was limited to such 
 occasional utterances as the courtesy of the table 
 authorised. But all the while I felt as if my 
 acquaintance with the old gentleman was rapidly 
 increasing; I might even confess to a strong liking 
 for and confidence in him — the sort of confidence 
 that leads one to speak candidly and intimately. 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 273 
 
 His nature seemed almost childlike in its guile- 
 lessness and transparency; but one was aware, 
 also, of a depth beneath the transparency much too 
 profound for ordinary sounding. The quietness 
 of his demeanour, and a certain noble repose and 
 refinement of manner, argued him no country-bred 
 sage, but a man who had been familiar with the 
 best results of civilization; yet this tallied very 
 imperfectly with his present outward guise and 
 situation ; he was not of this village — not even, I 
 fancied, of this section of the country. As to his 
 apparent clairvoyance, I was inclined, of course, to 
 minimise its significance. After all, you may 
 pick out a blacksmith by his hands, an ostler by 
 his legs, and why not an author by his self-com- 
 placency, or, perhaps, by his aggrievedness? More- 
 over, it was quite conceivable that my venerable 
 friend might have chanced upon some evidence of 
 my identity without being exactly aware of it. 
 
 But I could not suppress a strong desire to know 
 who he was, and what his business in this out-of- 
 the-way region; and as I ate my corned beef 
 and my pumpkin pie, I inwardly cast about how 
 I might respectably get information on these 
 points. 
 
274 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 Probably, however, tbis not very admirable 
 longing of mine must have betrayed its presence 
 behind the veil of my countenance, for I was 
 startled and somewhat abashed when the old 
 gentleman laid down his knife and fork, and said, 
 with genial but subdued earnestness — 
 
 "I am really of no importance, sir; but lest 
 my silence should dispose you to think otherwise, 
 I ask your permission to put the chief facts of my 
 life before you.'' 
 
 " I don't know what to say ; but I'm afraid I 
 must have been very inconsiderate," was my dis- 
 composed reply. But in fact there could be no 
 question that my interlocutor was a person of 
 singular penetration. His rejoinder was curious. 
 
 "One cannot do more with a questionable 
 impulse than to restrain it," he said ; " for its 
 presence in the mind, not you, but the human 
 nature we both share, is answerable. Besides," 
 he added pleasantly, "I am sure that your impulse 
 is not half so questionable as I am. Well, I am 
 not an American, and this is my first visit to this 
 neighbourhood. I was born in England, and 
 have passed the greater part of my life on that 
 side of the water." 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 275 
 
 " Tou are determined to see the naked as well 
 as tlie clothed regions of civilization," I remarked, 
 as he paused for a moment. 
 
 " When I was a youth," he went on, " the army- 
 seemed to offer the best means of getting rid of 
 me, and I became a soldier accordingly. I went 
 to India; and circumstances placed me after a 
 while in a position of some authority there, which 
 I heartily misused. At length the great native 
 uprising took place, and I was naturally singled 
 out for special vengeance. But I held my own 
 successfully. High distinction — not inherited; 
 that would not have satisfied me; but achieved 
 by my own force and merit — was in my grasp. 
 I was as happy and complacent as one can conceive; 
 and no mortal obstacle lay before me, or has, to 
 this day." 
 
 He paused again, resting his forehead on his 
 hand, and looking down. He resumed in a lower 
 tone — 
 
 " One afternoon, as I sat in the shadow of the 
 bungalow, a great fear and horror came upon me, 
 and in a few moments I was a moral and spiritual 
 ruin. As a body decays and drops to pieces, so 
 did my soul, my character, my strength of will 
 
276 A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 and pride, appear to me suddenly to rot and fall 
 in fragments ; and I was left a form of shameful 
 and abject terror. It was only by a struggle that 
 threatened to burst my heart that I refrained 
 from leaping shrieking from my chair, and implor- 
 ing protection from my very servants. And yet 
 how could they protect me against the nameless 
 and invisible demon, redolent of loathsomeness 
 and destruction, who held me triumphantly in his 
 power, and before whom I cowered in helpless 
 imbecility ! 
 
 " So I remained in my chair during one hour of 
 that peaceful afternoon, and the horror increased 
 in me every moment. At last I could bear no 
 more. I arose and hurried to the back part of the 
 bungalow. There I found an old servant — one 
 whom I had often chastised and outraged. I 
 clung to him as a child chased by a mad dog 
 clings to its mother. I was clammy and pallid 
 with fear — strengthless, tremulous, whimpering. 
 In a frenzy I besought him to succour me — never 
 to leave me. 
 
 " For three years, with intervals sometimes of 
 hours, sometimes of weeks, the horror clave to 
 me ; and so did my servant likewise. I had left 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 277 
 
 the service; I liad hidden myself from my 
 countrymen and from my country; I lived 
 among the dregs of the native population, and 
 they despised me too much to slay me. My 
 servant was my master, my guide, and my 
 guardian. He taught me the ways of his people, 
 their language and their religion. And then, one 
 morning before dawn, I crawled on the roof of 
 our hut, feeling that I was alone in the world, 
 and wishing to see the sun arise on what I meant 
 should be my last day on earth. For my servant, 
 my protector, my master, lay dead inside the hut; 
 and the horror was upon me. But, as the sun 
 arose, and the light fell upon me, the horror 
 departed from me, and the demon loosed his grasp 
 upon my soul. In that hour, moreover, it was 
 revealed to me what the demon had been. Since 
 that hour I have had no fear, neither have I been 
 alone ; and many things have been open to me 
 that are closed to other eyes. 
 
 At this point my venerable friend ended his 
 story, which had impressed me more than I had 
 anticipated, or could altogether account for. I 
 fancied, too, that it had cost him not a little to 
 tell it ; for the experience, whether or not intrinsi- 
 
278 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 cally an illusion, had evidently been tlie turning- 
 point of his life. And what had his later life 
 been ? Had he become an adept in the mysticism 
 of India? Had he studied their science and 
 magic, and practised their asceticisms, until he 
 had acquired the power, which their wise men are 
 said to possess, over the obscure elements and 
 forces of nature ? Be that as it may, there was 
 nothing of the charlatan about him. A deep 
 religious conviction and reverence were manifest 
 in his every word and sentiment; and if he wielded 
 any special powers they seemed to afford him less 
 pleasure than solicitude. But, once more, by 
 what chance had such a man come to such a 
 place ? 
 
 Do you remain here long ? " I asked him, 
 breaking the rather long silence that had followed 
 his last words. 
 
 I think no longer than to-morrow," he 
 answered. " There was a voice calling me — the 
 sorrowful voice of one wrongfully oppressed ; and, 
 as I came across the hill beyond the pastureland 
 towards the south, the rest seemed to be borne in 
 on me. I shall know when the time comes. Tou 
 also will be there ! " He rose as he spoke, and with 
 
( 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 279 
 
 a kind glance of farewell at me, took up his broad- 
 brimmed felt hat and went out of the room. 
 
 " The man is crazy ! " said I to myself. But I 
 did not believe my own assertion. I lit a cigar, 
 and presently fell into a deep reverie. 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 I COULD not get my venerable acquaintance out of 
 my head, nor make up my mind whether he were 
 really a sort of human miracle, or whether accident 
 and my own imagination — and perhaps a little 
 self-delusion on his part — had not conspired to 
 make him appear so. The very matter-of-fact 
 surroundings amidst which our interview had 
 taken place enhanced by contrast its strange and 
 unexpected character. His concluding observa- 
 tions had been somewhat enigmatical. Apparently 
 he had suggested that we might meet again on the 
 morrow at some place whither both he and I were 
 bound. But of course he did not know that my 
 visit here was entirely accidental, or that the only 
 " place " at which there was any likelihood of my 
 being to-morrow was the funeral of Elsie. I had 
 
280 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 thonglits of applying to the hotel-keeper for some 
 practical information about the white-bearded sage, 
 but when I recollected what a distraught and dis- 
 satisfied hotel-keeper he was I decided not to trouble 
 him. Very likely he would declare that he knew 
 nothing of any such person. So, as evening came 
 on, and the weather was serene and clear, I left 
 the hotel, and once more sauntered up the village 
 street. In a minute or two I was again at the 
 Eeverend J oshua's door, and without stopping to 
 think about the proprieties or the responsibilities, I 
 knocked, and was admitted by Joshua himself. 
 
 I told him my name at once, and that I had 
 heard of his loss, and asked him whether it would 
 be inconvenient to him to talk with me. He 
 replied, " Oh, no ! oh, no ! " With something of 
 his old tone and manner, he invited me to enter, 
 but I saw that he did not recognize me. He was 
 much broken, and was evidently incapable for the 
 present of giving attention to more than one 
 subject — that of his daughter. As this, however, 
 happened to be the subject on which I wished him 
 to speak, there was no drawback. "We sat down 
 in the little study which was so familiar to me in 
 the old davs, and which still presented sub- 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 281 
 
 stantially the same appearance. But the tops of 
 the books were dusty, as if they had been long 
 unread ; and there was no writing-paper or manu- 
 script on the table. Besides the pictures that I 
 remembered (chiefly prints of Biblical subjects) 
 there was a large photograph of Elsie, taken, I 
 suppose, at about the time of her marriage. It 
 was a better likeness than most photographs are ; 
 the nose was unhackneyed ; she had probably 
 moved from the position in which the photographer 
 had placed her just before the lens was uncovered; 
 there was something very characteristic in the 
 bright, alert attitude. Mr. Willard did not look 
 towards the photograph ; indeed, his gaze was not 
 fixed upon anything mortal, but had an abstract 
 quality, as if earnestly studying some scene visible 
 only to himself. It was pathetic to see him. His 
 eyes, once so round and bright, were now weak 
 and dim, and blinked constantly in the lamplight. 
 His forehead was wrinkled upward with a plaintive, 
 forlorn expression ; he sat fumbling his fingers 
 together in a numb, aimless fashion, and 
 occasionally raised one hand and passed it tremu- 
 lously down the side of his face. When I 
 addressed him, he would begin to smile, by mere 
 
282 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 force of his innate amiable habit ; only now the 
 smile was not intelligent, but mechanical ; and 
 when he was fully aroused to what I was saying 
 it would vanish. Often, too, he would mutter to 
 himself, apparently repeating fragments of con- 
 versation, the recollection of which happened to be 
 drifting through his mind. By-and-by, however, 
 his extreme preoccupation began to abate ; his eyes 
 met mine with a more comprehending glance, and 
 he seemed ever and anon to recall my identity. 
 " It was very kind of you to think of coming," he 
 said at length. " You knew Elsie ? Yes, yes, you 
 knew her. But she is gone away from us now — 
 gone, gone away. It seems strange that I should 
 be here, and she be gone. But I would not have 
 kept her — no, no ; she could find no happiness." 
 
 " She lived with you here ever since her 
 husband's death ? 
 
 " Yes ; oh, yes, Elsie lived here. Where else 
 should she go ? They were unkind to her ; they 
 were unjust — they wronged her. And she had so 
 much to trouble her without that. They might 
 have believed her ; how could they have the heart 
 to doubt her ? I don't really see how any one 
 could have doubted my Elsie* But they did — oh. 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 283 
 
 yes ; they did. And it made her so unhappy that, 
 at last, she died." 
 
 " I can't imagine anyone thinking ill of Elsie. 
 What was there against her?" 
 
 "Oh, the same thing, you know — the same thing 
 all these years and years. One would think that 
 to have lost the child was enough ; but they were 
 like the Jews who shouted for Christ's blood — they 
 must have a victim. Think of my poor little girl 
 being made a victim ; and she was as innocent as 
 Christ was. But perhaps you judge as the world 
 did — perhaps you, too, judge by appearances ? " 
 
 " I don't know what you are speaking of, Mr. 
 Willard. I have heard nothing of Elsie since I 
 was your pupil here twenty years ago, and she was 
 a child of fourteen. But, if she has been suspected 
 of any crime, I am perfectly convinced beforehand 
 that she is innocent of it.'* 
 
 " Oh, yes, she is innocent ; but the innocent are 
 crushed, and the guilty — what is done to the 
 guilty ? Could the guilty be more unhappy than 
 she was ? " 
 
 By degrees I drew from her father the strange 
 story of Elsie's life. Indeed, as soon as he fairly 
 comprehended that it was all news to me, he 
 
284 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 needed no urging ; he overflowed with the narra- 
 tive, and could hardly have been more minute and 
 circumstantial. For many years past, no doubt, 
 he had lived it over and over in his mind and 
 heart, till all his own life, both mental and actual, 
 was tinged with it. He had entered so sympa- 
 thetically into her tragedy that it had become his 
 own, and he and she were one with regard to it. 
 Nay, it might well be that his loving sorrow for 
 her was more poignant and inveterate than hers 
 for herself ; for I am disposed to think that Elsie 
 died, at last, rather from sheer weariness and dis- 
 couragement at the emptiness and aimlessness of 
 her existence, than directly from the event that 
 first made shipwreck of her happiness. She was 
 sensitive, of course, to suspicion and unkindness ; 
 but her nature was perhaps hardly profound enough 
 to vibrate, during any considerable period, to the 
 blows of even so cruel a fate as that under which 
 she suff'ered. But the reader will follow me more 
 intelligently when he has heard what that fate 
 was. I shall not attempt to reproduce the words 
 or describe the manner in which Mr. Willard told 
 his story ; both the space and the skill are lack- 
 ing. And then, as I knew, the cofiin lay in the 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 285 
 
 adjoining room, with its silent occupant ; and yet 
 so vividly did the surroundings bring back the 
 past, it seemed as if, at any moment, Elsie might 
 open the door, and come laughing in upon us. . . 
 . . But no ; death is sincere, and never goes back 
 of his word. 
 
 Mr. Willard confirmed my impression that 
 Elsie had at first been engaged to Sam Moore. 
 But although he was, from the worldly point of 
 view, the better match of the two, or perhaps 
 (considering her wilful independence) partly for 
 that very reason, she finally forsook him and 
 turned to Tom Fielding. I fancy, moreover, that 
 Elsie may have repented of Sam the more readily, 
 because she found it impossible to control him. 
 That he loved her there seems no reason to doubt, 
 and the love of such a man partakes of the 
 thoroughness and stubbornness of his character, 
 though it may appear deficient in tenderness and 
 grace. But he was too proud and too narrow to 
 adopt the chivalrous attitude ; there was an element 
 of crude savagery in his nature which prompted 
 him to feel and assert his mastership. Now, Elsie 
 was as little likely as flame to submit to undisguised 
 oppression, and whoever attempted it must be 
 
286 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 prepared to scorch his fingers. At first, however, 
 Sam and she had got on together pretty well ; for 
 Sam was full of cleverness and a sort of quaint 
 humour, and could be very good company when 
 matters were going his way ; and Elsie, on her 
 side, enjoyed his vigorous and racy contact as long 
 as it was a novelty to her. Nor were their first 
 quarrels altogether deplorable ; they were lovers' 
 quarrels, made to be made up. The first serious 
 difficulty turned upon the question of personal 
 liberty. Elsie thought—or said she thought — 
 that she still had a right to flirt ; meaning, by 
 that term, flirting in the New England sense, 
 which is merely accepting civilities, more or less 
 tinged with gallantry, from other persons besides 
 one's future husband ; and the fun of which lies 
 in drawing the line between allowable and un- 
 allowable gallantry as fine as possible. Flirting 
 is pleasant at all times, but especially so when one 
 is engaged ; not only because the discrimination 
 as to the dividing line becomes more subtle and 
 exciting, but because the lady, by a sort of paradox, 
 can occasionally allow herself to be more fasci- 
 nating than she would otherwise venture to be, on 
 the following plea — that being engaged, miscon- 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 287 
 
 struction of her intentions is, of course, impossible. 
 But though this argument may serve with the 
 other men, it is not so apt to commend itself to the 
 one man in particular ; at all events, it was flatly 
 disallowed by Sam. " You belong to me," he said, 
 " as much now as ever you will ; and I won't 
 stand other fellows fooling round my property." 
 
 " The property, in this case, Mr. Moore, happens 
 to be not your pocket-book or your potato-patch, 
 but a young lady named Elsie Willard, who can 
 speak for herself." 
 
 " You don't speak for yourself in away to make 
 people respect you." 
 
 " Well, I'll reform so far, that I'll never speak 
 to one man again — and that's you ! " 
 
 " If I'm only to be one of a dozen, do as you 
 like." 
 
 " There's not one man in a dozen who would 
 dare to treat me as you do." 
 
 " No man would marry a girl who treats every- 
 body else as if she were engaged to them." 
 
 You'll find there are better men than you 
 who'd be glad to marry me on any terms." 
 
 " When you find such a man you r ry tell him 
 from me he's a fool." 
 
288 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 " If I were looking for a fool, IVe found him 
 already," said Elsie, witli scarlet cheeks and a toss 
 of her head ; and I never want to see him again ! " 
 
 These were hard words ; and though Elsie 
 might have forgotten and forgiven them, Sam 
 was of a less easy temper. He would not com- 
 promise. If a reconciliation were to be effected, 
 it must be on his terms. Perhaps he was rather 
 too sure of his game. He did not believe that 
 Elsie would actually jilt him. Elsie, on the other 
 hand, was aware in her secret heart that Sam's 
 objections were reasonable ; and the exhibition of 
 his jealousy, if made in a comfortable manner, 
 would by no means have displeased her. But 
 Sam's manner was not comfortable ; it was intoler- 
 able. He had behaved like a brute ; he was not 
 repentant, and if this were his style before 
 marriage, what would it be afterwards ? After 
 crying and fuming over the matter in private for 
 a week, she went to her father, and told him that 
 she hated Sam Moore, and would rather die than 
 marry him. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! Why ! why ! exclaimed the mild 
 little clergyman. " What has Sam done ? Dear 
 me ! I thought you were very fond of each other," 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 289 
 
 " He has been hateful ! " Elsie declarea, with a 
 sob, and I never really loved him. I only — took 
 pity on him ! And he doesn't deserve it !" 
 
 " Well I declare ! But couldn't you make it up 
 somehow ? You mustn't hate anybody ; and 
 Sam's a very good fellow. I'm sure he loves you 
 — he told me so himself; and he can make you 
 so comfortable." 
 
 " I should think you, at least, father, would 
 know me too well to suppose that I care about 
 being made comfortable ! " exclaimed the young 
 lady haughtily. " It isn't much that I ask — I 
 only ask for love, and nobility, and honour, and — 
 generosity ! I have been mistaken ; but it shall 
 be for the last time. I will never love any man 
 again." 
 
 Nevertheless, at that very moment (such are 
 the intricacies of the feminine heart) Elsie was 
 considering whether it were not within the bounds 
 of possibility that she might exchange a few words 
 with Tom Fielding on the way home from the 
 post-office that evening. Moreover, it so turned 
 out that this contingency came to pass ; and Tom, 
 on that and subsequent occasions, so improved his 
 opportunities that, in short, they were married ; 
 
290 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 and the late Mr. Praed, had he been alive, might 
 have found in the story the materials for a very 
 clever and ironical bit of vers de societe. But, in 
 reality, there was not much fun in the affair after 
 all. Poor Elsie liked Tom very well, and could 
 turn him round her little finger ; but it may be 
 doubted whether she would have been in such 
 haste to marry him, save for the necessity of 
 showing all the world — or at least that section of 
 it which abode in Pinefield — that she was not the 
 girl to wear the willow for Sam Moore or any- 
 body. I will not say that she regarded Tom as 
 nothing more than a stick to beat Sam with ; but 
 she did apply him to that purpose among others ; 
 and derived, let us hope, all the pleasure and 
 profit that could be expected from the operation. 
 
 As for Sam, his behaviour was dignified and 
 becoming. He did not affect a boisterous uncon- 
 cern, neither did he let himseK be overcome with 
 despair; he looked grave whenever Elsie was 
 mentioned in his presence, but never spoke bitterly 
 of her ; and it is said that, on meeting Tom for 
 the first time after the new engagement was 
 announced, he shook hands with him. Still, there 
 were some acute persons who declared their belief 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 291 
 
 that Sam was harder hit than other persons 
 imagined. Be that as it may, he was present at 
 the wedding, congratulated the bride (who looked 
 adorably lovely, and who was whimpering when he 
 took her by the hand), and retired with the respect 
 of the assembly ; and the general opinion was that 
 Elsie had made a goose of herself in discarding 
 him. Two or three months later his father died ; 
 and Sam sold the farm and lands at a good price, 
 and disappeared from Pinefield. For two or 
 three years nothing more was heard of him, though 
 there were occasional rumours that he was making 
 good progress studying law at Cambridge. Later, 
 he settled at Waterbridge, and had lived there 
 prosperously ever since. When Tom Fielding 
 died, it was prophesied by some sentimental sooth- 
 sayers that Elsie would now complete her destiny 
 by becoming Mrs. Moore ; but the prediction was 
 was not verified. Moore did, however, call upon 
 Mr. Willard, expressed friendly sentiments towards 
 him and his daughter, and intimated, as euphe- 
 mistically as he could, that in case Mrs. Fielding 
 should be in need of assistance of a substantial 
 nature he was well able and very willing to furnish it. 
 Now, the fact being that the deceased Mr. Tom 
 
292 A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 Fielding had left his wife entirely destitute of 
 means of support, and dependent therefore on her 
 father — that good old gentleman, in the guileless- 
 ness of his heart, took upon himself to say that he 
 thought the offer would be as acceptable as he was 
 sure it was kind. But when Elsie heard of it she 
 fiercely stamped her foot, and passionately affirmed 
 that, sooner than be beholden to Sam Moore for a 
 cent, she would work her fingers to the bone, or 
 starve in the streets. It is needless to remark that 
 she proceeded to neither of these extremes, but 
 lived with her father, in tolerable material comfort 
 at any rate. Perhaps, if she had accepted Sam's 
 money, he might have made her other offers ; and 
 so her career might have turned out very differently 
 But Sam seems to have been unfortunate as 
 regarded his relations with Elsie — not so much 
 that he intended ill, as that he did not attempt to 
 carry out his intentions quite in the right way. 
 They never came to an understanding. Yet there 
 could be no doubt about the sincerity of his 
 pecuniary proposition ; for he afterwards wrote to 
 Mr. Willard that he had placed a considerable sum 
 of money in the bank to Mrs. Fielding's account, 
 and that she was at liberty to draw on it whenever 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 293 
 
 she pleased — adding, that he had bequeathed the 
 said sum to her in his will, and that she would 
 receive it after his death in any case. But Elsie 
 would have nothing to do with it; her pride would 
 not suffer her to accept anything, unless she were 
 offered that and everything else into the bargain. 
 And Sam's pride would not suffer him to risk 
 offering everything unless something were accepted 
 to begin with. This is the way human beings 
 behave, in spite of history and experience. But 
 we are anticipating. The most important event of 
 Elsie's life occurred long before this — indeed, 
 within two years of the time of her marriage. 
 
 Almost from the first it had needed no clairvoy- 
 ance to perceive that the marriage was not made in 
 heaven ; at least, it did not maintain itself upon a 
 heavenly footing. Elsie had dismissed Sam because 
 he did not leave her free enough ; Tom, perforce, 
 left her free enough, for he had not the strength 
 to control her ; and still she was not happy. She 
 made no scruple of informing him that a man was 
 not a man unless he could make a woman fear him 
 as well as love him, and that he could not expect 
 to be loved unless he was feared. Tom knew how 
 to do many things, but to make himself terrible to 
 
294 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 Elsie was a feat beyond his powers. He could not 
 absolutely knock her down, and if he attempted to 
 scold her she turned the tables on him in a moment, 
 for she possessed in perfection that faculty of putting 
 her opponent in the wrong (no matter how bad her 
 own case), which is one of the most effective weapons 
 of civilization. The upshot of it was, that there was 
 little tranquillity in the Fielding household; Tom, 
 naturally one of the sweetest-tempered fellows 
 living, gradually became cowed and morose, and 
 took to keeping by himself in his little workroom, 
 where he was busy trying to solve the problem of 
 some invention upon which he had staked his 
 fortune. But in due time another invention came 
 into existence which, their friends hoped, might be 
 the means of healing the young couple's misunder- 
 standings. A baby was born to Elsie — a little 
 boy, wholesome and lovely enough, by all accounts, 
 to have come straight from Paradise. They called 
 him Tom ; and the name was taken as indicating 
 that the original Tom was to be forgiven for his 
 docility and want of violence, and that all was to 
 go well. 
 
 But alas for the optimists! Elsie certainly 
 seemed to love the child ; and there could be no 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 295 
 
 question about the father's affection; but apparently 
 they could not agree as to the best way of testify- 
 ing their parental solicitude. Before the innocent 
 little mortal could stand upright, much less take 
 part in the conversation, animated discussions had 
 arisen as to what educational advantages he should 
 enjoy, whether he should be brought up as a 
 Baptist or a Unitarian, whether his domestic 
 training should be strict or lenient, and as to 
 which one of a hundred other alternative courses 
 were the most advisable ; until it seemed likely 
 that, between so many conflicting schemes for his 
 exaltation, the poor little Thomas must come 
 emphatically to the ground. In fact, he had 
 been theoretically carried through his entire career, 
 mental, moral, and physical, from the cradle to 
 the grave, several times, before he had had time, 
 practically, to discriminate between fresh milk and 
 boiled, and but for his serene infantile unconscious- 
 ness of all the plans that were being devised for 
 his advancement, he would have been a sophisti- 
 cated and blase man of the world before he was 
 yet out of babydom. Meanwhile the elder Tom's 
 invention still hung fire, and there was a prospect 
 that, should no other obstacle impede the little 
 
296 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 Fielding's future progress, tie might come to a 
 standstill for want of food and clothing. The 
 father troubled himself but little on that score; 
 he had no idea of the value of money (as the 
 phrase is), and seemed to think, as his wiie told 
 him, that bread and butter came by nature, like 
 reading and writing. She, on the other hand, 
 perceived the perils of their financial situation 
 very clearly, and ascribed all the greater weight 
 to them on account of her husband's indifference. 
 She demonstrated to him time and again that 
 they were on the brink of ruin, if they had not 
 already tumbled over it; and when he replied, 
 " Oh, no, my dear ; it isn't so bad as that ! " or, 
 " Just wait a few months, EUy, and we'll have 
 more money than would fill this house," she 
 would ask him scornfully whether they were to 
 live on old pieces of wire and glass-plates in the 
 interim (Tom's invention was in the line of 
 electricity) ; or she would clasp her baby in her 
 arms, and exclaim that it was a sin to have brought 
 it into the world, and that it would be no crime, 
 under the circumstances, to hasten its departure 
 to a better one. " I walked into this trap with 
 my eyes open, and I suppose I deserve the conse- 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 297 
 
 qnences; but you, my poor little darling, have 
 come here all ignorant and trusting and helpless, 
 and the only reparation I can make to you would 
 be to kill you ! " " By Greorge, EUy, it breaks 
 my heart to hear you say such things, though I 
 know you're not in earnest," Tom would exclaim, 
 with tears in his eyes. And then Elsie would 
 answer, " Some day you will know whether I am 
 in earnest or not !" in a tone of such tragic import 
 that Tom would gaze at her bewildered, and 
 wonder whether he were out of his senses, or she. 
 But thereupon he would retire to his little work- 
 room, and there, poring over his invention, hope 
 and cheerfulness would revive in him ; he would 
 foresee a bright future in store for them all, and 
 would fall to whistling and humming over his 
 work, as if there were no misery in the world. 
 And Elsie, coming to the door with a remorseful 
 impulse, perhaps, meaning to ask his forgiveness 
 and tell him that she loved him in spite of all — 
 would hear these cheerful sounds, and stop and 
 ask herself with a sneer whether she were still 
 fool enough to believe that this man had a 
 heart ! 
 
 So things went on with temporary alleviations, 
 
298 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 but not growing decidedly better or worse, until 
 the baby was eleven months old. He was a 
 hearty and happy little fellow, could stand upright 
 with the help of a chair, though he had not turned 
 his attention to walking yet, could smile and point 
 his finger, and could utter a surprising variety of 
 vowel sounds, diversified by occasional gutturals 
 and linguals. He could also weep lustily when 
 the crisis seemed to demand it, and could fracture 
 objects which much older persons than he would 
 have hesitated to attack. Almost all these 
 accomplishments he had taught himself. One 
 day in the latter part of July his mother set forth 
 in quest of huckleberries, taking Tommy with her 
 in his little basket-waggon. The place she went 
 to was a short distance outside the town ; a tract 
 of elevated pasture land, diversified with masses 
 of rock and clumps of brush, and bordered upon 
 by a broad, wooded region. Arrived at her 
 destination, she took the child from his waggon 
 and seated him on the ground beneath the shade 
 of a large hickory, filling his lap with chips of 
 mica-covered rock by way of playthings. Then 
 she took her two-quart tin pail and began to pick 
 the berries. It was then about three o'clock in 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 299 
 
 the afternoon, and by the time her pail was nearly 
 full almost three hours had elapsed. 
 
 For these details, as well as for those which 
 follow, there is only her own account to go upon. 
 She said that, during the first hour or so, she 
 kept in Tommy's immediate neighbourhood ; and 
 though once in a while the bushes or the rocks 
 would shut him out from her view, she would soon 
 catch sight of him again, and always he was 
 serenely and contentedly at play. Once she went 
 up to him and gave him a handful of berries and 
 a kiss — the last kiss that he ever received from 
 his mother in this world. After that she wandered 
 farther away in search of berries, and may at one 
 time have been distant from him as much as two 
 himdred yards. At all events, when at length 
 she returned to the spot where she had left him, 
 he was no longer there. At first, she was scarcely 
 alarmed; she thought that the child must have 
 crawled away, and that he certainly could not 
 have gone beyond the reach of her voice. But no 
 answer came to her call. And when she began 
 to realize that her baby was actually lost, she was 
 beside herself with terror and anguish, and ran 
 hither and thither at haphazard, shrieking out his 
 
300 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 name and then stopping to listen, though the 
 beating of her heart so filled her ears that she 
 could hear nothing else. Sometimes the fluttering 
 of a leaf near the ground would make her think 
 she had found him, or the call of a bird would 
 seem to be his voice, and her soul would flame up 
 with wild joy, only to sink in worse despair the 
 
 next moment At last a new thought 
 
 came into her mind — a hope suggested by despair 
 itself. She relinquished her search, and ran 
 homeward with all the strength that was left in 
 her. 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 Elsie's hope was, according to her own asser- 
 tion, that her husband might have come to the 
 pasture, and either in joke, or for some reason, 
 have carried the child home. It was a most 
 improbable hypothesis, but it was not impossible. 
 He was not given to practical joking, least of all 
 to such a cruel kind of joking as this; but then, 
 she told herself, he might not have known that 
 she was at hand, or the child might have met 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 301 
 
 with some little accident that made it desirable he 
 should be taken to the house. So the distracted 
 mother ran across the fields to the village, and 
 reached home panting from exhaustion, and 
 trembling from head to foot — ^her dress torn, her 
 hands and face bleeding from thorns, and her hair 
 hanging on her shoulders. As she came up to the 
 door it was opened, and her husband met her on 
 the threshold. 
 
 " Why, Elsie," he said, " I didn't know what 
 was become of you. I was just going to look you 
 up — why, you're all torn, and — Elsie, what s the 
 matter ? Has anything happened ?" 
 
 " Oh, Tom, don't tell me you haven't seen him? 
 You brought him back, didn't you? Answer 
 me! — no — don't! Oh, Grod! I can't bear it! 
 Is he here ? " 
 
 " Is who here ? What do you mean ? Where 
 have you been ? " 
 
 " My baby ! my baby ! Tom, my husband, I 
 love you — I do love you ! Don't be cruel to me 
 — tell me! Our baby — -where is he? Haven't 
 you-" 
 
 "What, Tommy? Why I thought he was 
 asleep upstairs. Did you take him with youP" 
 
302 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 The husband and wife gazed into each other's 
 eyes in silent terror. At last Tom said : " Elsie, 
 what does this mean? What have you done? 
 What have you done with our child ?" He spoke 
 with difficulty, and with a sternness she had never 
 heard in his voice before. She could not answer 
 him. Strength, courage, and hope forsook her all 
 at once. She struck her clenched hands against 
 her face, uttered a broken cry, and stumbled 
 forwards across the doorstep. Her husband put 
 out his arm and partly broke her fall, and dragged 
 her into the house and shut the door, for several 
 persons had been attracted to the place, and were 
 trying to get a notion of what was happening. 
 
 For some time all was a blank to Elsie, but 
 when she came to herself, there sat her husband, 
 pale, grave, with his large eyes fixed upon her, 
 waiting for her to speak. There was something 
 in his aspect that puzzled her ; something unfami- 
 liar and repellent. She told her story as clearly 
 and promptly as she could; he listened closely, 
 occasionally putting a brief question, and watching 
 her face narrowly all the while. When she had 
 finished he got up, and said, " I'll get volunteers, 
 and we'll go out and look for him. If he's any- 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 303 
 
 where about 111 find him — alive or dead." He 
 said this quietly, even impassively; then he 
 suddenly stepped close to her, and bending for- 
 ward, added in a sharp, penetrating tone, " Have 
 you told me all you know 
 
 " I don't understand you," she faltered. " What 
 more can I know ?" 
 
 "Well, I thought you might have omitted 
 something," he replied heavily, turning away. 
 "You'll come with us, and show us the place 
 where you last saw him. I'll get a waggon. 
 Then you can drive yourself home. Of course, 
 the rest of us will be out all night, unless we find 
 — something — before. ' ' 
 
 Elsie rose up, unsteadily, and approached him. 
 " Tom, what is it ?" she said in a whisper. " You 
 are so strange. You speak to me so coldly — and 
 you almost act as if you didn't care." 
 
 "I don't know; I can't cry and faint, as a 
 woman can ; I only feel — as if I were about half 
 dead. Oh, I dare say it's all right. I'll get the 
 waggon, and be here again in ten minutes. Get 
 your dress in order and be ready to come along." 
 And with that he left her. 
 
 The volunteers were easily found; indeed, as 
 
304 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 soon as the news was made known, all that 
 was needed was to make a selection. The whole 
 village was on the alert, and discussing the 
 matter. It was just before su.nset when the 
 party set out armed with horns, shotguns, provi- 
 sions, and lanterns. The moon was in the second 
 quarter, and the night prbmised to be clear. The 
 general opinion was that the child would either 
 be found very soon, or not at all. It was impos- 
 sible that he should have gone far himself, since 
 he could not walk. He might have fallen down 
 some place and stunned himself, or worse ; or he 
 might have crawled under a bush and gone to 
 sleep ; or — somebody might have carried him off. 
 But this, which might seem the most probable 
 hypothesis, was generally discredited. Nobody 
 would take a child of that age, and a case of 
 kidnapping had not been known in that neigh- 
 bourhood for a hundred years. " We'll have him 
 before bedtime, dear boys, if he's in this living 
 world," said old Wiper, the hotel-keeper; and he 
 expressed the prevailing sentiment. 
 
 Under Elsie's guidance they were soon at the 
 pasture, and found the hickory tree and the baby- 
 Waggon standing beneath it. On the grass, 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 305 
 
 likewise, were the bits of mica with which the 
 child had been playing. The first passion of 
 Elsie's emotion had spent itself before she came 
 out and confronted her fellow-townpeople, inso- 
 much that some of them had remarked that she 
 looked rather cool about it ; but when she saw the 
 bits of mica lying there, the nerves of her face 
 seemed to contract or shrivel ; her eyes half closed, 
 and she pressed her hands over her bosom. At 
 that moment she felt that she had become old, 
 and would never be young again. 
 
 The searchers, having carefully examined the 
 place and the surroundings, settled the details of 
 their plan of operation, and departed, each man 
 by himself. Tom was the last to start ; and Elsie 
 had hoped that before going, he would come to 
 her for a farewell kiss and word. For, now that 
 her baby was gone, the harsh and complaining 
 demeanour which she had been accustomed to 
 adopt towards her husband, and which had been 
 more external than real, had fallen oil like a 
 mask, and she longed unspeakably for the tender- 
 ness and countenance of his affection. But, by 
 some fatality, as it seemed, which she could not 
 comprehend, this first time that she had needed 
 
306 A STRANGE FBIENB. 
 
 his love was also the first time that he had with- 
 held all expression of it. She had told herself, 
 however, that this apparent reticence was perhaps 
 due to the stunning effect of the shock he had 
 received — that it was involuntary or unconscious. 
 But now, surely — now, if ever — at this moment 
 of parting, he would say or do something to show 
 that he felt, as she did, that this great calamity 
 had swept away all their peevish disagreements, 
 and had drawn them closer together than any 
 good fortune could have done. 
 
 In truth, he half turned and looked at her, as 
 she sat in the waggon ; and there was an expres- 
 sion in his face of mingled wistf ulness, grief, and 
 doubt. She leaned forward, trembling and 
 piteously smiling; then all at once that dull, 
 repellent light came into his eyes again; he 
 turned his back on her, and tramped away through 
 the underbrush, and was out of sight in a few 
 moments. Elsie was alone. Mechanically she 
 gathered up the reins and drove back, jolting over 
 the ruts and stones, to the village. When she 
 got to the house, there was her father. He 
 helped her down from the seat, held her in his 
 arms and kissed her silently, and led her indoors. 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 307 
 
 Thank God for you, father!" she said, clinging 
 to him; "I have no one but you now." He 
 said very little, but she felt comfort in his 
 presence ; she knew he loved her. They stayed 
 together all that night, waiting for the news. 
 Sometimes, in the distance, they could hear a 
 gun fired or the faint echo of a horn. Each time 
 Elsie started and trembled. The dawn began 
 early ; Elsie saw it slowly whiten the eastern sky, 
 and advance through all its pure gradations of 
 loveliness and splendour Then she bent her 
 aching eyes towards the distant belt of woodland 
 from which she expected the returning searchers 
 to emerge. And then she gave a scream and 
 sprang to her feet; for there, just below the 
 window, as if he had risen up out of the earth, 
 stood her husband, haggard and dishevelled — and 
 alone. 
 
 Her father hastened downstairs, and the two 
 men spoke together for a few moments in low 
 tones, but what they said was indistinguishable to 
 Elsie. When they entered the room, Tom 
 dropped wearily into a chair, and ask if he could 
 have any brandy. He gulped down a few 
 mouthfuls, and leaned back with a sigh. Mr. 
 
308 A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 Willard inquired whether all the others had been 
 heard from ? 
 
 " There will be nothing worth hearing," Tom 
 replied. " By the way, Elsie," he added, keeping 
 his eyes averted from her, "have you got the 
 brooch you wear on your dress, that forget-me-not 
 brooch, you know, that I gave you before we were 
 married ?" 
 
 She put her hand to her throat. " I must 
 have dropped it somewhere," she said; "I have 
 missed it since yesterday." 
 
 "How far is Stony Pond from here, should 
 you think?" continued Tom, slowly looking 
 round at her. She thought he must be a little 
 out of his head, the question was so unexpected, 
 and apparently so idle. 
 
 " About two or three miles, I should say ," she 
 faltered. 
 
 " Haven't been there lately, have you ?" 
 
 "No, Tom. Won't you lie down, dear, and 
 get some rest ? '' 
 
 " You haven't been boating there, I suppose ? " 
 he went on doggedly. " I shall rest by-and-by — 
 all in good time. Well, are you going to tell me 
 what you did yesterday, or must I tell you? 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 309 
 
 Come, Elsie, it's no use. They are going to drag 
 the pond 
 
 Elsie sat rigid, with staring eyes, feeling all her 
 life running out of her. Mr. Willard interfered. 
 " My dear Tom," said he — and there was some- 
 thing almost like severity in his usually gentle 
 voice — your first duty now is to your wife. If 
 you bear ill news, let it come to her from you 
 tenderly. Is it not hard enough as it is ? " 
 
 " It's harder than you think, sir," Tom replied. 
 " But since she won't speak, I must. Stony Pond 
 is a little over two miles from the pasture on the 
 other side of the woods. We were beating up the 
 woods most of the night ; but about half an hour 
 before dawn, I and one or two others got to the 
 pond. It ain't very large ; but it's deep, and has 
 a soft mud bottom. We saw a boat out near the 
 middle. One of the men stripped and swam out 
 to it ; I don't know what he expected to find. He 
 got the boat ashore, but there was nothing in it — 
 nothing except this." And at this point Tom held 
 out his open palm towards his wife. In it lay the 
 forget-me-not brooch. 
 
 She looked at it, but without seeming to com- 
 prehend its significance. Her mind was pre- 
 
310 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 occupied in another direction. " I don't believe 
 it ! " she said, as if speaking to herself. " Drown 
 my baby ! no one would do that." 
 
 "How could the brooch be in the boat, since 
 Elsie herself says she only missed it yesterday ? " 
 It was Mr. Willard who put this question. 
 
 " You are not the only one who has been 
 puzzled by that," Tom replied. " And if Elsie 
 can't explain it, some of them will think she 
 dropped it there herself." 
 
 " But I told you I was not near the pond " — she 
 began ; but then she broke off, rose to her feet, 
 and, with her eyes fixed fearfully upon her 
 husband, tottered across to Mr. Willard, and 
 clutched him by the arm. " Father," she cried, 
 " don't you see — I understand him now — he thinks 
 I drowned my baby ! look at him — he believes it ! 
 Ha, ha, ha !— Oh!" 
 
 " If you are not a madman, or a scoundrel, Tom 
 Fielding," exclaimed the little clergyman, waxing 
 great and formidable in his indignation, " tell her 
 she is mistaken ! Face me, sir ! Dare you say my 
 daughter is a murderess ? " 
 
 " I shall say nothing but what I know," returned 
 Tom, " and you shall know it, too. You have not 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 311 
 
 heard what has been going on in this house for 
 two or three months past. If she has said it once 
 she has said it twenty times, that it was a sin to 
 bring a child into the world, if there was no chance 
 for him except to starve or be a beggar ; and that 
 it would be no crime to put it out of the world ; 
 and that the only way she could compensate it for 
 having become its mother would be to kill it. Aye, 
 those were her words, and she can't deny them. 
 And when I asked her not to talk so, even in jest, 
 she said, ' I am more in earnest than you think! ' 
 Well, I was used to her ways, and I didn't think 
 so much of it then. But yesterday, when she 
 came in, looking so wild and scared, and told me 
 the baby was lost — why, those threats she had 
 made came back to me like a stab. The child 
 couldn't have lost itself, and who was to steal 
 him ? And she had been away with him four 
 hours, and no one had seen them in that time. 
 She says she was picking berries in the pasture ; 
 but she might have travelled ten miles, baby and 
 all, in that time. I tell you the thought struck 
 me, ' She may have done it ! ' and I couldn't get 
 rid of it. It wasn't that I believed it ; I couldn't 
 actually believe it ; but the thought that it might 
 
312 STRANGE FRIEND 
 
 be took all the soul out of me ; I didn't feel half 
 alive ; and so I couldn't comfort her, or kiss her, 
 or say good-bye, even, until I could be sure that I 
 had wronged her. And I said to myself, then, 
 ' I'd sooner have killed the child myself, and have 
 killed myself afterwards, than know that its mother 
 did it.' Well, then, we came to the pond ; and 
 when I saw Buttrick swimming for the boat it 
 came over me that now we should find a clue. 
 And what we did find was the brooch. How did 
 it get there ? I saw it on her yesterday morning. 
 She was alone with Tommy all the afternoon. 
 This morning it was in the boat at Stony Pond, 
 and Tommy was lost. I don't know what to 
 believe, unless I believe either that she's guilty or 
 in a miracle. But it isn't what I think or believe 
 that counts ; the trouble is, the men who were with 
 me at the pond think the same, and by breakfast- 
 time everybody in Pinefield will be talking of it. 
 I tell you, what I most hope now is, they'll never 
 find that child's body ; for if they do, it will go 
 hard with Elsie, whether she's innocent or not." 
 
 " If you have finished, sir," said the little 
 clergyman, rising up in a stately manner, with his 
 arm round Elsie's waist, " my daughter and I will 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 313 
 
 go. This is no place for her. If it is your purpose 
 to send the officers of justice after us, you will find 
 us at my house. I will only add, that better men 
 than you or I have been saved before now, by 
 believing in what you call a miracle. But the true 
 miracle here is, that a man who has lived with my 
 daughter for two years as her husband, should 
 believe in the possibility of her guilt. May the 
 Lord give you repentance. Amen ! " 
 
 Tom sat in a sort of gloomy apathy, with his 
 head resting on his hand, and neither stirred nor 
 spoke in reply as the father and daughter moved 
 towards the door. But at the threshold Elsie 
 paused ; she began to breathe hurriedly, and her 
 cheeks to flush. She disengaged herself from her 
 father, ran back to Tom, and threw her arms round 
 his neck. 
 
 "I won't leave him, father," she said. "I'll 
 stay with him, whether he believes me innocent or 
 not. He shan't lose his wife and his child the 
 same day. And he shall not believe me guilty ! 
 Tom, my dear, poor boy, — look in your wife's eyes, 
 and say if you can think that of me! I have said 
 many wicked things, I know ; but it was partly 
 because I knew I could never have the heart to do 
 
314 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 them. And as for the broocli, dear, I think I can 
 tell how it may have come there." 
 
 " You'd make a new man of me if you can, 
 Elsie." 
 
 "Well, you know, I went to kiss him just before 
 
 '' here her voice quavered and failed, but she 
 
 struggled on after a moment — " just before I was 
 going to another part of the pasture, and he put 
 his little arms round my neck; and I think it must 
 have been then that the brooch came unpinned, 
 and fell into his lap. And then, I suppose, he used 
 it as a plaything, you know, instead of the mica. 
 So, you see, if he was carried away by any one, he 
 would have taken the brooch with him; and in 
 that way it might have been dropped in the boat. 
 And I don't believe he's drowned, Tom," she 
 added, laying her cheek against his; "I don't feel 
 as if he had died in any way; though, perhaps, he 
 may be dead as far as we are concerned. I mean, 
 that we may never see him again." 
 
 Tom sat with his head bent, and so still that one 
 might have thought him asleep. But suddenly 
 his unnatural apathy gave way, and he burst into 
 a passion of weeping, the tears streamed down his 
 cheeks, and he hugged his wife to his heart, and 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 315 
 
 sobbed out all bis misery and remorse, and prayers 
 to be forgiven. " I would trust you against my 
 own eyesigbt, Elsie," be said ; " and now I know 
 tbat I never did believe it ; for if I bad, I sbould 
 bave been at tbe bottom of tbat pond at tbis 
 moment. And now let tbem say wbat tbey dare 
 about you, no barm sball ever come near you, 
 darling, wbile I am alive ! " 
 
 At certain crises of our lives, wben we are 
 wrougbt up to a bigb pitcb of excitement and 
 exaltation, it seems as if we were stronger tban all 
 tbe world, and as if all wrong and misfortune must 
 give way before so lofty a mood, and only wbat is 
 good and noble bave power tbencefortb. But tben 
 tbe slow and beavy days and weeks and years begin 
 tbeir inevitable work again, and beap up over us 
 tbeir imperceptibly increasing burden of petty 
 fatigues and ignominious cares; and tbe weak 
 places of our nature are sougbt out an4 tried, and 
 perbaps give way at last; until in tbe end we find 
 ourselves sinking back again into tbe slougb out of 
 wbicb we fancied we bad escaped for ever. And 
 so it bappened witb poor Tom and Elsie. For a 
 time tbey struggled against tbe cbilling suspicion 
 wbicb encompassed tbem on all sides. Tbey told 
 
316 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 their story, and strove to bring the matter to some 
 final test. But, though no conclusive evidence was 
 ever found against Elsie; though Stony Pond was 
 drained and its foul bottom searched in vain; 
 though the whole country round about was roused 
 to find some traces of the missing child — all ended 
 in a cruel uncertainty, which left the doubters free 
 to doubt still, and made those who were more 
 charitably-minded timorous of avowing their 
 opinion. To live amidst such misgivings is a trial 
 to the strongest soul ; and Tom Fielding was not 
 one of the strongest. His courage gradually 
 weakened and gave out ; by way of cheering him- 
 self, he took to drinking, and in a few years he was 
 no better than an amiable sot, with no manliness 
 or ambition left. His wife clung to him faithfully; 
 but she could not save him, or greatly help him, 
 even ; she had no practical, persistent energy, or 
 knowledge of the world. Her temper, which had 
 never been imperturbable, deteriorated under the 
 pressure of mean and mortifying annoyances, and 
 she became chronically fretful and unhappy. They 
 fell at length into a very sordid and unlovely way of 
 life; she lost the beauty which had once been so bril- 
 liant and fascinating, and which, under happier 
 
A STRANGE FlilENl). 
 
 317 
 
 conditions, might have remained with her till old 
 age ; and as for Tom, he looked like the lazy and 
 worthless drunkard that he was. When he died 
 his best friend could not have felt other than 
 relieved. Since that time Elsie had lived in her 
 f ather s house. A new generation of young people 
 had sprung up in Pinefield, who had no personal 
 knowledge of the gloomy story of Elsie's youth ; 
 and she kept wholly away from society, nor was 
 her face often seen on the village streets. But 
 more than once, as she passed a group of children 
 on their way to school, or trooping homeward, she 
 would see them look askance at her, and hear them 
 \^ hispering among themselves, " Who is that 
 woman?" or, ''Don't you know? She's the 
 wicked woman that kiUed her baby ! " 
 
 When the Reverend Joshua Willard had finished 
 telling me his tale it was after midnight. I opened 
 the window and breathed the pure night air, coming 
 cool and fresh from across the high pasture land. 
 The stars sparkled peacefully in the silent abyss ; 
 and I was glad to think that Elsie had gone beyond 
 all earthly troubles. Tet it made me indignant to 
 remember that she had died under the blight of 
 that unrighteous suspicion. Oh for some cham- 
 
818 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 pion — some angel from heaven, if need be — to come 
 and vindicate her memory before the world, even 
 now when she had left it ! 
 
 I withdrew from the window, and saw in old 
 Joshua's face a certain expression which I com- 
 prehended without need of words. I followed 
 him into the little entry. He opened another 
 door, and we entered the chamber in which Elsie's 
 body lay. 
 
 The coffin rested upon a table in the centre of 
 the room. Some flowers were laid upon it. At 
 the top a part of the lid was turned back, showinr;' 
 the dead woman's face. It was with some hesita- 
 tion that I brought myself to look at it. I feared 
 to find the alteration too melancholy. But I 
 was pleasantly disappointed. The colourless 
 countenance, though thin almost to transparency, 
 had lost whatever lines of pain and sorrow time 
 may have drawn upon it. Her dark luxuriant 
 hair, with a few white threads in it, framed her 
 delicate cheeks and forehead ; her long, thick eye- 
 lashes lay heavily, as in sleep. Something like a 
 smile — the dream of one — touched her pale lips. 
 She seemed to be at rest. 
 
 Mr. Willard had been standing beside me ^^'ith 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 319 
 
 the lamp ; as he moved away I looked up and saw 
 on the other side of the coffin a tall, slightly 
 bowed figure, with snow-white hair and beard. 
 Tlie shadow on that side of the room made him 
 but indistinctly visible ; the outlines of his form 
 seemed blurred, and the shadow itself entered, as 
 it were, into his substance. He advanced with a 
 perfectly noiseless step until he bent over the 
 coffin; for several moments — while one might 
 count fifty, perhaps — he gazed earnestly and with 
 a most benign expression at the face upturned to 
 him ; then he raised his hand, which contained a 
 bunch of white roses, and laid them on her bosom. 
 Then he looked up, and for the first time his eyes 
 met mine. There could be no doubt as to his 
 identity ; he was my mysterious friend from 
 India. He made a gesture of his head toward 
 Mr. Willard : I turned and saw the clergyman in tlie 
 doorway, where he was arranging some hangings 
 that had becomed disturbed. In a moment I 
 looked round again ; but the venerable figure was 
 no longer there. 
 
 ^' Mr. Willard," I said, " come here a moment." 
 
 He came immediately, lamp in hand. 
 
 ''Where did those flowers come from?" I 
 21 
 
320 
 
 A STRANGE FRIENl). 
 
 asked, pointing to the bunch of roses on Elsie'a 
 bosom. 
 
 Oh ! oh ! how beautiful ! Why, I didn't see 
 them before. Dear me, they are the loveliest of 
 them all. Ah ! I see — they are yours ?" 
 " No, they are not mine," I replied. 
 They are no purer than she is," remarked the 
 old man. " How happy the dear child looks ! 
 Shall we go now ?" 
 
 At the door I turned to cast one more glance 
 round the room. It was empty. 
 
 Chapter V, 
 
 The funeral was held at the little church in 
 which the Reverend Joshua had for so many 
 years officiated; but the service was conducted 
 not by him, but by the present incumbent, a very 
 worthy and commonplace gentleman, who either- 
 did not appreciate the situation, or felt that it was 
 bej'ond his scope ; at any rate, I remember nothing 
 of his address, except his observing that " our- 
 sister " had led, " so far as was known," an honest 
 and upright life, and that we were to believe that 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 321 
 
 the Lord, in His infinite mercy, would order all 
 things for the best, and so on. He made no 
 allusion more direct than this to the tragedy of 
 Elsie's life; and I think that the congregation 
 (which was quite numerous, nearly filling the 
 church) were upon the whole content that their 
 parson, being the good limited creature that he 
 was, should not have attempted any loftier flight. 
 But, for my part, I wished again for that 
 miraculous champion, who should arise and see 
 justice done, and the innocent and helpless cleared 
 of unmerited reproach. 
 
 I occupied Mr. Willard's pew, which was 
 among those nearest to the pulpit, and therefore 
 to tlie coffin, which lay at the pulpit steps. Just 
 after the service commenced Moore entered the 
 church, and, coming down the aisle, seated him- 
 self beside me. He sat with folded arms during 
 the minister's address, and with an expression of 
 face as if he had locked it up for the occasion. 
 The address, like all tedious things, seemed to 
 last longer than it did ; and when it came to an 
 end there was a general rustle and movement 
 throughout the church, and for a moment every- 
 body hesitated, waiting to see whether or not any 
 
322 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 further formalities were to be observed. I turned 
 to Moore, intending to say something to him ; 
 but, before I could do so, my attention was 
 caught by a tall figure passing along the aisle — 
 a figure which was just then abreast of our pew. 
 He moved on, with a leisurely but dignified gait, 
 until he reached the place where the cofiin stood ; 
 then he faced quietly round, and confronted the 
 assembly. I need not say that he was my 
 venerable sage of the day before ; and I regarded 
 him with more interest on account of the halluci- 
 nation (for as such, upon reflection, I considered 
 it) of last night. He certainly appeared far 
 from wraith-like, as he stood there, one hand 
 holding his old wide-brimmed hat, while the 
 other rested on the cofiin's lid. He was a very 
 human and very real object ; and his countenance 
 had all the kindness and winning gravity of 
 yesterday, but kindled with a certain light of 
 power and authority which was new to me, 
 but which fitted the place and the occasion. 
 Indeed, his whole bearing showed that this was 
 far from being the first occasion of his facing 
 crowds and speaking to them, and, if need be, con- 
 trolling them. He possessed the mysterious and 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 323 
 
 irresistible gift of leadership — a man to make men 
 feel that he could show them the way to their own 
 best aims better than they could find it themselves. 
 His appearance at this juncture caused not so much 
 sm'prise as a sensation. Probably half the con- 
 gregation supposed that the other half knew who 
 he was, and wherefore he was come. As for the 
 minister in the pulpit, he may have taken him to 
 be some venerable brother-divine, who had ofiiciated 
 at the dead woman's christening ; and what Mr. 
 Willard thought, I know not; but he leaned 
 forward over the railing of the pew with a singular 
 brightness of expectation in his face, as if he 
 deemed that he and his were now about to be 
 compensated for a lifetime s unjust disgrace. For 
 my own part, I remembered my vague wish for a 
 champion, and awaited what should happen with 
 very genuine interest. 
 
 As the old man returned the gaze of the people 
 all their stir and restlessness ceased, and the church 
 became completely still. His voice entered this 
 stillness so quietly and melodiously that its first 
 tones seemed to have reached the mind before they 
 had been recognized by the external ear. There 
 was uo effort nor noise, but a clear, full, soft 
 
324 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 distinctness that won the heart while it aroused 
 the attention. The words that he spoke formed 
 themselves as pictures to the understanding ; yet, 
 in themselves, they were severely simple, and as 
 spontaneous as the voices of the woods and streams, 
 
 " It has been said," he began, *'that a murderer 
 will sometimes return to look at the corpse of his 
 victim, though, by so doing, he risks discovery and 
 arrest. It may be remorse that brings him, or 
 curiosity, or hate that follows even beyond the 
 grave. He may come, wishing that he could undo 
 his deed, or he may wish it were to do again. 13e 
 that as it will, it is not the victim, but the murderer, 
 who should have our pity then ! 
 
 " Is there any one in this church who is guilty 
 of the death of a fellow-creature ? — I do not say, 
 whose hands are stained with blood, but who has 
 taken from another that which gives life its sweet- 
 ness and honour; who has made another the butt of 
 public suspicion and contumely ; who has cut her 
 off from human sympathy and fellowship, and 
 condemned her to that most blighting solitude that 
 is peopled with the faces of those who were once 
 her companions and her friends Is the man who 
 has done this less a murderer than he who strikes in 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 325 
 
 liot blood, once and for all ? But so much the 
 more, if lie be among you to-day, does he claim 
 your charity and compassion : for she, his victim, 
 is but dead, and all her pain is over; while he lives, 
 and thinks, and remembers still, though he bears 
 in his heart the corpse of his own manhood, 
 which has lain festering there this many a day. 
 
 " But is there any one here who would draw back 
 from such a man, and make him, too, an outcast ? 
 Not so, my friends ; for if this dead woman was 
 murdered, you are the accomplices of her 
 murderer; he is not only your brother-mortal, but 
 you are his fellow-criminals ; he aimed the blow, 
 but you gave his arm force to strike ; if he con- 
 demned her to starve in solitude, you made the 
 solitude that starved her; and if suspicion and 
 contumely broke her heart, it was by you that she 
 was despised and suspected. Forsake him not, 
 therefore, but make his cause yours, for verily you 
 stand or fall together. Nay, his cause may have 
 more hope than yours; for he, perhaps, was sorely 
 tempted and provoked ; while you aided him only 
 that you might feed the evil seK-righteousness of 
 your hearts, which delights to say to your brother 
 t)r your sister, ' Get thee behind me, for I am 
 
326 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 holier than thou ! ' And again, he perhaps repents ; 
 while YOU glorify yourselves, and say in your 
 hearts, ' We have done well ! ' And lastly, he. 
 perhaps was betrayed by circumstances into worse 
 evil than he meant; but you were the circumstances 
 that so betrayed him. 
 
 " Yet, woe to him who raises his hand against a 
 mother, and strikes at her through her child ! As 
 nothing in our nature is more sacred than her love, 
 so he who outrages it has profaned the purest 
 region of his own soul. Nor shall it avail him 
 that she whom he smote had wronged him, and 
 that he but sought to make her feel his pain as 
 her own. He whose suffering has not taught him 
 to assuage the suffering of others has suffered only 
 as the beasts do, that have no souls; and shall 
 such an one lay his unclean hands upon the awful 
 sword of justice ? Justice has no part in him, for 
 justice is without fear, and he has so feared the 
 imputation of his own crime, that sooner than 
 accept it, he has stood by and watched this woman 
 languish and die for a crime of which she was 
 innocent — nay, which never was committed ! And 
 now he would see her put into a dishonoured grave 
 — this guiltless woman whom he professed to love 
 
A STBANGE FRIEND. 
 
 327 
 
 — for lack of the few honest words that v/ould 
 purify her memory. Does he think, because she 
 has gone whither earthly praise or blame can no 
 more reach her, that he is absolved from the debt 
 he owes her? Let him take heed lest the day 
 come when he shall read his condemnation in the 
 eyes of that same infant, now a man, whom he has 
 robbed of his mother, and who will require from 
 
 him the uttermost farthing " 
 
 But at this point the speaker was interrupted. 
 He had been followed from point to point of his, 
 extraordinary harangue with breathless attention 
 and a surprise that had no time to declare itself 
 save now and then by an involuntary murmur or 
 unconscious movement. I doubt whether many of 
 the hearers perceived the goal towards which each 
 successive sentence of the speaker was leading 
 them; but I, sitting as I did beside Moore, was 
 previously made aware that he was deeply wrought 
 upon. His arms, at first folded tightly across his 
 breast, gradually relaxed, until they dropped at 
 his sides ; and his face, which had in the beginning 
 resolutely confronted the venerable stranger, 
 flinched once or twice, and at length bowed down, 
 and was hidden. Then I turned away, unwilling 
 
328 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND, 
 
 to witness the struggle which is the sorest of all to 
 which human nature is liable. But all at once, 
 taking his breath between his teeth with a sort of 
 groan, Moore got to his feet, and stalked down the 
 aisle to the pulpit steps. There he turned round 
 upon us all — a ghastly figure. 
 
 " You see me, all of you, and that tells you wliy 
 I am here," said he, in a voice whose harsh 
 abruptness could not conceal the wail of anguish 
 beneath. " That old man, whoever he is, and 
 however he knew it, has told the truth. I took 
 the child. It was an impulse, not premeditated. 
 I had come, meaning to speak to her ; but no 
 matter ! I had not thought, either, that she would 
 be suspected ; and then I meant to give it back ; 
 but, somehow, I never did. When Fielding died 
 I tried to gain her good-will, and if she vvould 
 have married me I meant to bring her and the 
 child together so ; but all that fell through. All 
 I could do was to give the boy the best bringing- 
 up that was to be had ; and that I did ; and all 
 my money is his ; but I shall never look him in 
 the face again ; for I wanted her to care for me 
 because he was her son, and she would not ; . . . 
 but she did at first, though — didn't you, Elsie ? 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 329 
 
 Oil, my God! I have killed her, and I loved 
 her!" 
 
 A month or two after these events I happened 
 to be in Washington, and the friend at whose 
 house I was staying said, during dinner, that we 
 w^ere to meet that evening one of the most remark- 
 able Englishmen living. " I mean Lord M 
 
 he added. 
 
 I replied that I had of course heard of him, but 
 that, beyond the fact of his distinction, I knew very 
 little about him. 
 
 " I imagine nobody knows much about him," 
 mj^ friend answered, *'but a little about such a 
 man goes a long way. He is the most influential 
 man in India, for one thing ; it is said that, but 
 for him, there would have been another mutiny 
 last year. He is on the inside track of the natives, 
 and that sort of thing. Yet he will never accept 
 any sort of official authority ; his power, enormous 
 as it is, seems to be entirely moral and j)ersonal^ 
 He's one of the largest landowners in England, as 
 I suppose you know, and he must be frightfully 
 rich ; but he's as simple in his ways and talk as 
 one of our own presidential candidates. You can 
 see he's got it in him, though, the moment you 
 
330 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 clap eyes on him. There are no end of stories 
 about him, most of them apocryphal, I guess. 
 Hindoo enchantments and that sort of thing — 
 adepts, Kosicrucians — I don't know ! He's worth 
 looking at, anyhow, though he may not talk to 
 you much." 
 
 " Is he a married man ? " I enquired. 
 No. But, by the way, a young fellow has 
 lately turned up in his suite who is called his 
 private secretary, but some folks say he is an 
 adopted son. It seems rather odd ; and if his 
 lordship were any other man than he is, there 
 might be some gossip about it. The impression is 
 that it's the son of some friend of his who has 
 pegged out, or something of that sort." 
 
 " What is the young gentleman's name ? " 
 Some ordinary name — I don't know. He's a 
 good-looking chap, and has nice quiet manners. 
 However, we needn't bother about him. Are you 
 ready ? " 
 
 We reached the house at which the reception 
 was held in tolerable time, but the rooms were 
 ■already much crowded. I drifted aimlessly about 
 for a while, seeing ever and anon somebody that I 
 knew, but not attempting to reach them. At 
 
A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 331 
 
 lengtli I came upon a senator from New Hamp- 
 shire, with whom I was acquainted, talking to a 
 tall gentleman, whose back was turned towards me. 
 Near them stood a grave young fellow, scarcely 
 twenty years of age, with dark curly hair and 
 handsome blue eyes. He reminded me of some 
 one — I could not at the moment think of whom. 
 
 The senator caught sight of me. " Oh" he said, 
 
 ^' glad to see you. Lord M , I want to make 
 
 this gentleman known to you ; he's lived a number 
 of years in England, I believe — maybe you've met 
 there before." 
 
 Lord M wore plain evening dress, except for 
 
 a star that glittered on his left breast. His air 
 was lofty and commanding, in spite of a slight 
 stoop in the shoulders, and the dark glow of his 
 eyes was in marked contrast with his white hair 
 and beard. He took my hand with a grasp of 
 quiet cordiality, and said : 
 
 " We have met before, but it was not in 
 England." 
 
 " Your hand feels like flesh and blood," said I, 
 " but I hardly know what to think." , 
 
 We conversed for a few minutes on indifferent 
 subjects. At length his lordship said : " I heard 
 
332 
 
 A STRANGE FRIEND. 
 
 two weeks since that a friend of ours, the Rev. Mr. 
 Willard, had died. By the way — — " here he 
 turned to the young man with the blue eyes, 
 Fielding, let me introduce you. This gentleman 
 used to know your grandfather. 
 
 The young man came forward, and then I knew 
 who it was that he reminded me of. The boy was 
 his mother's son. " It all seems very strange," I 
 
 remarked to Lord M . 
 
 The really strange thing is human natiu^e/' he 
 returned. " I know of nothing that is not easy to 
 unriddle in comparison with that.'' 
 
 THE END 
 
 Henderson, Rait, & Spalding, Printers, o and 5, Marylebone Lane, W. 
 
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